#crash reduction

[techdriveplay]

Top Safety Features in Modern Cars

Safety is a paramount concern for both car manufacturers and drivers. Over the years, technological advancements have significantly enhanced vehicle safety, making modern cars safer than ever before. Here are the top safety features in modern cars that are transforming the driving experience. Over 94% of serious crashes are due to human error, making advanced safety features crucial. Vehicles…

[traumatizedimmortals]

whenever I see people engaging in ship wars in the iwtv fandom all I can think is just like ldpdl voice: THIS IS BORING!!!!

[24hrsoda]

sorry i need to just scream abt bad things and evil thoughts

[abyssaldyke]

Dare I say ableist of this app to crash right as i scrolled down to a post about clean needle exchanges

[du-hjarta-skulblaka]

Aw yee so ff7 update, I have acquired all materia (including the northern cave and gold saucer battles), bred a gold chocobo, killed ultimate weapon and got all character limit breaks to level 4. Obviously I still got Ruby and emerald to fight but I'm not sure if I'm gonna leave that till after my two final major tasks, getting all chars to lvl 99 and maxing out all of their stats.

I'm gonna be here a while

[xiaokuer-schmetterling]

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EDIT: further notes on my quest for accessible podfic bc i made it into a ch in my notes-to-self-podfic-guide-https://archiveofourown.org/works/62233522/chapters/169902325 -- and also! some research notes i haven't incorporated into the ch yet

hello! thanks again for tagging me!

i volunteered to beta the above post bc i have sensory processing issues associated with my audhd and partial hearing loss in my left ear. and it was such a learning experience!

so lol my feedback was mostly smth like:

oh snap, i never have "clean" tracks when i add music bc the way i include music and sfx into my podfic (extremely low budget product lol lots of care but very limited financial and equipment resources) is to play the music on my phone or headphones while recording on my e-reader. so i'm gonna have to think about that

and: oooooops just realized that my brand of chatty, live-reacting, completely unedited podfic is not accessible to people with the processing issues mentioned in the post. and also! i realized concretely (whereas i was only vaguely aware before) that my auditory processing disorder is just about flipped compared to the experiences described above

(short version: i use loud music to help myself focus; my issue is that if i'm tracking too many overlapping voices and random noises i get overwhelmed and distracted from my tasks)

i think i also said smth like. ooops i am not actually the target audience for this post. and that's bc initially i chose not to edit bc i only had my e-reader for record, upload, post. then i got my new-to-me iphone SE and so that gave me some more sfx/music options but i liked the way the e-reader recordings sounded better (um. for lack of a better desc, my e-reader recordings feel "warmer" and more "friendly" than things i recorded on my phone). anyhow i can't run audacity on my shitty little chromebook ( /affectionate ) -- tho when roomie passed on the chromebook laptop it made posting to ao3 and uploading things to archive.org for audio hosting MUCH easier

and i've recently been made aware of online editing tools? but imma be really real rn: i really really struggle with "perfectionism" and so my chosen coping method/management strategy for that behavior regarding my podfic is to not allow myself the opportunity to get stuck in a "product refinement loop" at all.

i pick the fic to read, i read the fic aloud while recording, and then i try to remember to immediately convert to .mp3 and send to my gdrive via cloudconvert.com afterwards.

[this part got a bit RANTish and a teensy bit off topic so feel free to skip this paragraph] while recording, i am also allowing and encouraging myself to share my thoughts and real-time reactions as freetalk/meta bc gfdi i do have opinions sometimes. i am a performer and storyteller not a text-to-speech program AND I DON'T HAVE TO PRETEND THAT I AM. i am not a machine or a bot and i think therfore that it's okay for listeners to hEaR mE bReaThinG and i am allowed to have emotions and opinions about things and furthermore i am allowed to SHARE MY THOUGHTS/EMOTIONS/FEELINGS in what should be a safe fandom-oriented blorbo enthusiasm sharing space. I AM ALLOWED TO EXIST AND TAKE UP SPACE AND BE EXCITED OR SAD OR MAD OR ALL THE EMOTIONS AT ONCE BC THAT SHIT IS COMPLICATED AND I DON'T HAVE TO MASK MY AUTISM IN MY OWN FUCKING PODFIC-- [end RANT]

so i will probably continue avoiding audacity & similar software, which means i need to ponder on other ways to make my podfic more accessible. or perhaps include a note or specific tag to the effect that none of my podfics were processed as recommended for accessibility in the post above so actually i have decided to use audiomass.co to do post-processing for accessibility on my recordings, which is basically to remove 'unnecessary' super high and low frequencies in the track and then do the compression step--will not be editing to remove any content tho

i think i also said that i seem to recall having "overhead" a discord convo in the mdzs podfic server about how some people have to/choose to download the podfics they listen to for funsies and do post processing on the files in a certain way, to make it enjoyable for them to listen to? maybe that's something i could gather more information on towards the discussion aspect of, how can a potential podfic/audio fanwork listener remove barriers to enjoyment and make podfics more accessible to themselves should they wish to listen to an audio production that for whatever reason was not edited with an ear towards accessibility by the person who posted it 🤔🤔🤔

UPDATE! found this advice for peeps who have particular needs and want to make sure any given podcast that they have downloaded meets their preferred listening criteria: https://theaudacitytopodcast.com/tap005-my-secret-audacity-recipe-for-great-audio--"the audacity to podcast" article on chris's compressor

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EDIT--i was inspired by the original post to make a similar psa but about visual accessibility of podfic covers and gifsets with text--https://www.tumblr.com/xiaokuer-schmetterling/785205953261977600/neurodivergentlow-visiondyslexia-friendly-fonts

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end post

Making Your Podfic (especially with Music and/or Sound Effects) More Accessible and Listener Friendly

So you're planning to make a podfic with music and/or sound effects, and you want to think about ways to make it more accessible? Awesome!! This will guide you through some steps you can take to make your podfic more accessible, some of which will also make for a more pleasant listening experience for listeners without accessibility needs, but the focus will primarily be on accessibility. Some of this will also be applicable to podfics with multiple recording sessions without music or sound effects, but again, that's not the focus.

What's the number one thing you can do to make your podfic with music and/or sound effects more accessible to those with noise sensitivity, auditory processing conditions, who are somewhat hard of hearing, or other auditory accessibility needs?

MAKE A CLEAN VERSION, with NO music or sound effects! This can be a very easy change to your process for most people! After editing out mistakes and doing your audio clean up but before you add music or sound effects, simply export your audio. Upload it wherever you upload your final version, drop in a second link to the no music/sound effects version, and that's it! Of course, this may not be trivial for some people, depending on your individual process or other factors. I hope you will decide that it's worth doing anyway. As someone with audio accessibility needs myself, I can tell you it makes a HUGE difference. There are podficcers I love who I can't listen to some of what they've recorded because there's no version without music/sound effects, or sometimes I can only listen on a good day. There are fics I love where there's a podfic version, but I will never be able to listen to it because there's more music/sounds effects than I can handle. This one change will make people like me VERY happy and will expand your audience!

Secondly, especially if you've got a lot of audio dynamics (really quiet whispery bits and also really loud shouty bits), be sure to use the Compressor tool. Long story short, the compressor makes the actual noise level of the quiet bits louder and the loud bits quieter, while still leaving the impression of whispering or shouting. In other words, keep the emotion, but don't force your listeners to keep changing the volume on their headphones/speakers/hearing aid to be able to hear what you're saying or avoid getting their ears blown out (very useful for other listeners too, especially people listening on headphones or in the car). A quick overview of how to use the Compressor settings (this is for Audacity, which is what I'm most familiar with, but most audio editing tools will have something similar):

Threshold: how loud do you want to go before starting to make things quieter?

Make-up gain: after compressing the loud bits down, how much do you want to make everything louder to make up for it?

Knee width: how quickly and starkly do you want the compression to apply? At 0db, this will be a very sharp change. Lower levels will lead to less sharp changes

Ratio: for the loud bits that are getting compressed, how much compression should be applied? The higher the Ratio the more the loud parts of the audio will be compressed.

Okay, but maybe you want to ALSO make the version with music and/or sound effects more accessible, since that's your vision for the podfic and you want as many people as possible to be able to experience it? Great! PLEASE still make a version without music/sound effects as noted above, because even doing everything you can won't be enough for everyone. But it's also great to do what you can to make your music/sound effects version accessible for those that are able to enjoy it with some changes. So….what are some things you can do?

As much as possible, avoid putting music or Foley over your words. For people with audio processing issues especially, it can be very difficult to parse words when there's background music (and especially background music that itself has words).

If you're going to have music or Foley over words, make sure the words are significantly louder than the music. You can use the Analyze Contrast tool (in the Analyze menu in Audacity) to compare the relative loudness of two selections.

For music or Foley between words (like in a section break), make sure it's not too much louder or softer than the sections that come before and after. Again, use that Analyze Contrast tool to compare selections.

You can also use Analyze Contrast to even out the sound between recording sessions!

For sound effects that modify your voice, go only to the point where your voice still sounds very intelligible to you. Someone with auditory accessibility needs will likely struggle with intelligibility well before someone without those needs.

Hope this was helpful!

(This is written from my perspective as someone who has audio accessibility needs, as well as being a podficcer myself. Beta help and additional thoughts from @writerproblem193 @keriarentikai @xiaokuer-schmetterling and others not on Tumblr. But this is not The Definitive Guide To Accessibility or anything, so please add your perspective!)

[buzz-minds]

The Deepening Crisis in the Île-de-France Real Estate Market

The real estate market in Île-de-France, once a symbol of stability and growth, is now facing an unprecedented crisis. Sales are plummeting, and prices are following suit. This downturn, previously unthinkable in such a coveted region, highlights both structural and cyclical challenges. Several macroeconomic factors, including rising interest rates and global economic uncertainty, have led to a…

[lucifer-kane]

unfortunately what ever is going on with me as of the last like week or so i know is taking another turn bc im dreaming about wanting a cigarette which only happens in times like this 🧍‍♂️

[softantlers]

i've written on it before in past metas but i think i sort of danced around the point in a way that could be communicated more sharply: i think it's super crucial to lottie's character to think of the wilderness as an abuser & to be curious about the ways that dynamic drives her actions and relationships with the other girls.

the wilderness as an abuser meta (with some lottienat side action)

i don't know if i have the energy to explain this as well as i'd like but something that can happen in an abusive relationship is "love bombing" -- there's the pop psychology slant to this which can get super reductive so i'm not trying to go there, but the main thing to understand with love bombing as a real tool of abuse is that it's often meant to isolate you. it's meant to make you feel that the person doing it is the only person who can really give you that degree of affection or attention or fondness & that if you let them go, you'll never ever ever be loved in that way again. (it keeps you in the cycle of abuse by preying on your insecurities and feelings of scarcity.)

the fact that lottie becomes a sort of conduit to the wilderness and therefore has a unique and special relationship to it that's admired by some of the girls who end up following her is deeply troublesome, not least because it plays into lottie's spiral into derealization but also because it's essentially giving someone who entered the wilderness profoundly isolated a sense of being needed for something that's yoked to her being unmedicated and growing progressively unwell.

i've waxed on in past metas about lottie being mixed, how untalkable her diagnosis would have been, the relative absence of her parents-- it all functions to make her an island. she's known but unknown. no one truly sees her, but the wilderness is of her and it can only be communicated to the other girls through her & that's a very dangerous avenue for lottie to gather a sense of self from because it's predicated on not just being unmedicated but on the fervent desire to take care of her team by following the whims of this new belief system.

how that all gets back into abuse-- the combo of the delusions and the feeling of being special, which is rather chaotically denied and affirmed by the girls over their time in the wilderness, is a kind of love bombing. you might argue that lottie doesn't actually feel special or god-like (and i actually think this is true-- she feels like a drowning acolyte trying to keep it altogether) but her baseline perception is that she is special because heavy are her shoulders wearing the crown through s1-s2. it's not the kind of grandiosity that smacks you in the face because it's much more restrained. lottie simply knows she's the one who hears the wilderness. she even knows it hurts and you must sacrifice to hear the wilderness, but it's coming from a place of love. she will give of herself for her girls, and she will partake in this relationship (as much as it torments her) to keep them safe.

lottie doesn't wield her connection to the wilderness like a weapon necessarily. she's not flaunting it. it's a steady knowing inside her. she's chosen.

and in any case, the wilderness is an abuser because what it demands of lottie are things you experience when you're going through abuse:

loss of personhood

as lottie deregulates she begins to lose the sassyness, bite, and sense of humor that we saw pre-crash. we get a bit of her old self right after the plane goes down: her snipes at mari and travis, and we get the briefest flash of it in the bathtub scene with natalie: "you fucking loser."

these moments are lottie to some extent, which we see echoed through to her medicated state in the adult timeline: "asshole" she calls natalie, calling tai out for simone, calling misty out for really killing someone, etc etc. even just smiling and being happy to dance together...

but in the wilderness? lottie is fucking losing the plot. she's so unlike herself, she's tormented, she's wearing the same clothes, she's saying less and less and less, she's pushing boundaries. her whole personhood is turning into acolyte, prophet, etc. her value system is blurred and hard to retrieve.

she's not pre-crash lottie at all.

punishment

this is a huge one. so one aspect of abuse is withholding attention to torment someone when they do something that isn't to your liking. this is so plain in lottie's relationship to the wilderness. for example, when everything goes down with javi and the queen draw (an outcome we know lottie didn't want), she proceeds to crown natalie as leader. the fact of the wilderness becoming silent to lottie around the same time as crowning natalie feels really important, because natalie is not the type of leader who is going to let shit fly that far off the chain again. we totally see the contrast in how nat walks the girls through survivalism in the spring. under nat's leadership, there is no cannibalism. imo, this is one the reasons lottie picked her (alongside the fact that i think she knew nat needed it but sidebar). she saw that nat would lead them through without the kind of horror that killed javi (and she was right)

but also, it seems like the wilderness really didn't fuck with that because it left her.

punishment, punishment, punishment. "you tried to play a game with me, you tried to give it off to someone else, but you can't, you can't, you can't." the wilderness is inside lottie and it has deep and incredibly cruel wants, but it's also the only thing that made her matter... it's the only thing that had her with both feet on the ground. and now it's left her and the absence feels like a hole in her chest. she's going to go fucking crazy if she doesn't get that connection again, that piece of her that actually for once mattered and that actually for once was needed and seen by other people. and this is how the wilderness draws her back to it. "you thought you could be anything without me? you can't." it's why imo, the second she starts to feel it again, she starts making choices at the expense of travis, at the expense of akilah, at the expense of nat, and to some extent at the expense of shauna (enabling her mental break as well).

because when you're living through that kind of abuse and the abuser has made itself your whole world, personhood, and identity, then other people become unreal. you can't really consider their needs because they're barriers to you trying to survive.

on the topic of punishment, i could talk a bit here about the mari warning as well but i already wrote a meta about that, so i'll link:

stockholm syndrome

i mean this one writes itself. lottie can't leave the wilderness because leaving the wilderness would be psychic annihilation. she's found too much personhood and meaning in her connection with the wilderness (and ofc, she's bought in to the idea that staying would be better for everyone: "what home do you have to go back to, nat?") without the wilderness, what is lottie?

i feel like there's a necessary degree of empathy that needs to be adopted when considering lottie's desire to stay behind because it would be easy to call it "selfish," which i mean she is (to our knowledge) an only child of rich elites, so there is that... but i also think purely considering it selfish and self-serving is a bit of a disservice to what it feels like to be abused. first of all, we already know from the cave scene with akilah that lottie doesn't think leaving will actually be leaving. the wilderness is inside now. one of the things that keeps victims of abuse from leaving their circumstances is that they are presently surviving it, regardless of how truly awful it is, & that attempting to leave might provoke enough anger that they'll either actually be killed or others (like their children) will be.

there's a lot of fear with even asking for help because there's often an earned paranoia around surveillance (which really matches the energy of lottie's conception of the wilderness & how she doesn't seem willing to communicate her torment to others) and an associated concern that even discussing trying to leave will trigger some form of violence. personally, i really do think lottie was willing to stay behind on her own and be with the wilderness, as wretched as that existence would have been. the fact of others wanting to stay with her was reassuring because the wilderness is fucking scary. she wouldn't be alone and yes it's awful but can you blame her for not wanting to be alone? lottie's whole life has been oriented around being alone with her own personal torments. maybe we can have a little sympathy for lapping up the offer to be with her team, even though it ends up hurting everyone.

natalie & lottie & abuse

but yeah, so that brings me to lottie and nat. one thing that i think is really fucking interesting about their dynamic in the scene where lottie says that she's staying is that nat is a survivor of abuse. if you take this meta i'm jotting down and put it in contrast to nat, it's pretty jarring. lottie is a lot like nat's mom in this situation, who we know was at least getting thrown around by her gun-violent father and possibly worse. the sort of similar deliriums (likely through drugs and alcohol with vera and ofc schizophrenia with lottie) is heart-breaking, and the concept of nat watching people descend into that both pre- and post-crash is also heartbreaking.

i mean, if you really go down that this path, you can see lottie being beat up by shauna as a super triggering event for nat bc of the way it might bring her mom to mind. i wrote a meta about her physical reactions here:

but yeah bringing that all back to lottie and nat's interaction when lottie says she doesn't want to go-- well shit, it seems like that would be a lot like nat's mom "choosing" to stay with her father despite the fact he's a piece of shit.

i don't know how extensively nat considers all this or relates it back to herself, but we do get an inkling that she acknowledges the wilderness as something bad for her team in the scene of her telling it off in the plane that they're going to leave it behind.

so nat thinks of the wilderness as bad and lottie is here telling her that she's staying and nat is trying to convince her to go and lottie won't fucking go, & then lottie says something (in a bid for connection imo but so badly worded) that shuts nat down and drives her away.

nat's choice to walk away from lottie in that moment is the choice of a child of abuse to walk away from someone who is not ready to end a relationship with their abuser. i think it's helpful to not necessarily read this interaction as antagonistic or abandoning but as nat's natural sort of orientation toward lottie, which has always been to not participate in the abuse whether she really understands it as abuse or not. she's an eternal skeptic and this decision to turn her back just as much as any of her other actions says, "i won't be a part of you hurting yourself."

which tbh to me is the whole tragedy/tension of their dynamic.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Do I look like him?

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Lewis one-shot inspired by a tiktok I saw :) If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

Lewis adjusted the cuffs of his new white racing suit, still unfamiliar with the crisp feel of the fabric. When the team had informed him that Mercedes was switching to white for a portion of the season, he’d shrugged it off. A suit was a suit, and he figured it wouldn’t change much. That was until Qatar.

The sun had been merciless that day, beating down on the paddock as they prepared for the reveal. He stood under the glare of photographers’ cameras, the bright white of the suit reflecting the sunlight, making the whole moment feel surreal. And then he saw her.

His new teammate, YN.

She stood a few meters away, laughing with one of the engineers, her blond hair catching the light like spun gold. Her blue eyes sparkled with the kind of carefree joy that reminded Lewis of summer skies over Monaco. The sight sent a jolt through him—an uninvited rush of memories he hadn’t revisited in years. Nico.

It wasn’t just the physical resemblance, though that was hard to ignore. The sharp blue eyes, the blond hair that framed her face like an artist’s brushstroke—she was like a mirror of the past. But Nico had been more than just a teammate, and calling him that now felt reductive. They had shared triumphs, arguments, and something much deeper that neither of them had dared to name aloud. Seeing her, YN, brought it all back like a wave crashing over him.

Lewis had thought he’d buried those feelings long ago, yet here they were, unearthed by her mere presence.

He tried to ignore it, telling himself it was a coincidence, a trick of the mind. But YN was everywhere. She was always around the garage, her laughter spilling over like champagne at a podium celebration. She moved with an effortless energy that demanded attention, weaving through the paddock like she owned it—or maybe like she belonged in it more than anyone else.

Every time Lewis turned a corner, there she was. Her laugh echoed in his ears when he tried to focus on race simulations. Her voice lingered in his mind when he closed his eyes to rest.

He had dealt with distractions before. Fame, rivalries, the weight of expectations. But this was different. This was personal.

Lewis clenched his jaw and told himself he was imagining things. She was young, far too young for him, and the age gap was an obvious line he couldn’t cross. It would start drama he didn’t want—tabloid headlines, whispers in the paddock, questions he wouldn’t know how to answer. He’d worked too hard to build his reputation, his legacy, to risk it for something that might not even be real.

But the heart was a stubborn thing, unwilling to listen to logic.

He caught himself watching her during strategy meetings, his eyes drawn to the way she furrowed her brow in concentration or bit her lip when she was nervous. She had a way of lighting up a room, even when she wasn’t trying. And that smile—God, that smile—was a weapon, though he doubted she knew it.

It was worse on track.

In the heat of the race, when adrenaline pumped through his veins and he was supposed to be focused on nothing but the apex of the next turn, she crept into his thoughts. She was fast, fearless in a way that reminded him of himself when he was her age. She pushed the car to its limits, and Lewis couldn’t help but admire her for it, even when it meant she was nipping at his heels or overtaking him.

Every time he glanced in his mirrors and saw her car there, he felt something he couldn’t name.

He told himself it was pride, the kind a mentor might feel for a prodigy. But deep down, he knew it was more complicated than that.

She made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt in years, and it terrified him.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of practice, he found himself alone in the garage. The engineers had gone home, and the cars sat silent, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Lewis stood by his car, running a hand over the sleek lines of the bodywork, when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Long day?”

He turned to see YN standing there, still in her race suit, her blond hair slightly disheveled from the helmet. She smiled at him, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “Long day.”

She walked over, her steps light but purposeful. “You okay? You seemed a bit... off today.”

Lewis hesitated, searching for the right words. How could he tell her the truth? That she was the reason he was off. That she had unsettled something in him he wasn’t ready to confront.

“I’m fine,” he lied, forcing a smile. “Just a lot on my mind.”

She nodded, her blue eyes studying him in a way that made him feel exposed. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here. Teammates have to look out for each other, right?”

“Right,” he said softly, his chest tightening.

As she turned to leave, Lewis watched her go, the knot in his stomach tightening with every step she took.

He knew he couldn’t let this go any further. It was wrong, it was reckless, and it would only end in heartache—for both of them.

But as she disappeared around the corner, he realized something that scared him more than anything else.

He didn’t know if he had the strength to stop it.

Part 2

[weird-color]

dont hug me im a cookie.

(height comparison and abilities below :p) (I am TERRIBLE at describing stats please bare with me)

Rainbow Ink ~ Creative Flow : Summons ink hands from the ground to drag the enemies in place, freezing them in place to cause injury and poison. An ocean of dark ink spawns beneath the enemies, increasing the amount of damage done by the ink hands and keeping them tied. A shield of paper will wrap around the ally with least ATK from the team. Increases Blueberry Clockwork's ATK and DMG Resist by 300%, an HP shield inflicting upon him to protect his current HP. (Similar to Mystic Flour.)

Blueberry Clockwork ~ The Reality Of Time : Freezes the enemy's cooldown and resets it, ignoring any buffs and treasures. Launches himself to attack while slowing his enemies ATK SPD, which will increase his own as he does. Increases Rainbow Ink's Cooldown by 500%, granting them "Future's Sight" buff and allowing their ink hands to survive longer and have a tighter grip on the enemies.

Sugar Heart Butterfly ~ Lover's Ring : Summons his cult members to deal damage and hypnotize the enemies, confusing them into bleeding. As he does, Sugar Heart Butterfly burst heals the entire team, restoring 70% of their HP. At the same time, an explosion of love stunts and charms the closest enemies, dispels any other buffs granted by other supports and curses them for the rest of the fight.

Electric Oats ~ Digital Dancing : Starts the fight with stunt resistance, DMG focus and cooldown by 619% for the entire party. His wires launch and zap the enemies, leaving a stunt debuff and healing reduction on them. Water type enemies will not be affected by this, instead will cause DMG reduction to Electric Oats Cookie. Will focus on any healer or support cookies, inflicting "Computer Virus" debuff to cause injury and silencing them, his ATK increasing by 400% after using the debuff. After his death, he will leave behind a copy of his own digital form, which will only zap and keep the last cookie standing alive for 7 seconds before falling.

Raw Steak ~ Piercing Health : Smashes through with his pitchfork against the strongest enemy, inflicting injury, fear and shackles. Additionally, if his enemy receives health, he will increase his own ATK and becomes invulnerable to any debuffs for 10 seconds. Purifies Spinach Salad and increases their MAX HP with the "Chef's Delight" buff, shielding them from any attacks for a long period of time. Before dying, his ATK will increase by 900%, using his last seconds to heal Spinach Salad and enhance their DMG resist.

Spinach Salad ~ Healthy Stabbings : Summons a pair of giant spinach cans to protect the ally with the least DMG resist and HP, while they jump behind Raw Steak Cookie to attack and stab their utensils on the enemies. Focuses on the enemy with the lowest HP at the moment, targeting them and causes stun momentarily. Gives Raw Steak their "Fork N Tooth" buff, periodic healing him while standing behind him. They become resistant to debuffs (except stuns and fear) by 200%, while also absorbing their target's ATK.

Star Cloud Marshmallow ~ Dreamy Cloud Paradise : Starts the battle by floating with his clouds right above the enemies, crashing down to bomb and release a sleepy gas. The gas inflicts silence and sleep, the moment they wake up, they're striked by freezing debuff. Will attack the enemy with the least ATK and weaken them with injury, decreasing their DMG resist, DEF, Stun resistance, Freeze resistance, Cooldown and CRIT by 200%. After dying, will revive into a cloud monster, using his secondary skill "Drowning In Oil", which pulls the enemies on a void of dark oil, inflicting curse and injury.

(Somehow feel none of these would be meta lmao)

[monthgirl]

if TF one had been made into a tv series in order to continue the story. if Bee ever got to earth and was separated from the other bots for weeks. then I would like him to meet the TF one versions of Spike and Sari. Spike would meet Bee first, when he ends up caught in a abandon bear trap during a camping trip with Sari. Bumblebee would stubbles a upon him, but his universal translator is damaged so both parties can't understand each other. What Bee hears is a bunch of yipping and barking which is what human language sounds like to cybertronians when the translator is off. while on the flipside all Spike hears is whirling, static and electronic beeping which is what cybertronian sounds like to humans. its like if a fax machine was talking to you.

Their still going to be best friends like G1 but its going to be a slow burn friendship. where Bumblebee is an extrovert to the maximum. Hates being alone since his trauma from being isolated in the garbage disposal room. So when being lost in earth forest after crash landing for a weeks, stumbles a upon Spike in the bear trap. he gets very excited to find another person Maybe?? Bee isn't really sure that if Spike is a sentient being or a critter do to the lack of a translator. Spike is terrified try's to escape but is still stuck in the bear trap. Bee slashes it open. Spike runs for it, only to find his leg is injured. so he is only able to limp. So Bee easily scoops him up and nicknames him badass-atron the second.... so begins a iconic duo of friends.

what cements the friendship is Bee saves spike twice from a Bear after Spike try's to escape him again and the second time a from a decepticon ground scout Barricade. Then when Bee gets trapped in a cave, Spike instead taking the chance to escape thou with slight reductants and saves Bee as an act of good faith and return the favor for saving his own life.

I might draw Sari after the holidays.

Bumblebees earth design based on crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington design. go check them out. their art is really good.

[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.

[cece693]

LOVING YOU FELT LIKE DROWNING

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

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

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

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

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

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

SMALL TIME SKIP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You measure the final year in hospital bracelets:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STARK EMBARGOES HIMSELF IN MALIBU BUNKER—FRIENDS CONCERNED

PLAYBOY MOGUL BUYS DECOMMISSIONED DESTROYER FOR “FLOATING PARTY PLATFORM”

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

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

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

And then, radio silence.

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

And then—Miracle. Genius. Iron Man.

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

Six weeks later, a midnight ping:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tony—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[victusinveritas]

Illinois Haboob: not just a South Bend insult for someone from Chicago.

Bottom two images are from South Bend, Indiana.

It should be noted that the fascists in power are defending NOAA and stripping the National Weather Service of its funding in the name of profit and deals with private, subscription only weather services.

--

NEW: The National Weather Service in Chicago says that the dust storm yesterday could be classified as a "Haboob". A Haboob is an intense dust storm caused by strong winds lofting a wall of dust as high as 5,000 feet, leading to a significant reduction in visibility and an increase in wind speed following the passage of the leading edge of the haboob. They also usually lead to blowing dust that lasts for tens of minutes or even several hours.

Typically, Haboobs occur in desert and semi-arid areas, but an extremely unique combination of ingredients with very dry air aloft caused intense downbursts to crash to the ground well ahead of storms. This, combined with low relative humidity, low soil moisture and farming activity that regularly occurs at this time of year led to the vivid and intense wall of dust spotted by many. The Haboob was this wall of dust running east-west, stretching from I-39 near Bloomington all the way into Western Indiana, lifting north quickly and making it all the way into Lake Michigan.

Top wind gusts included 78 mph on Lake Michigan by Chicago, 75mph in Oxford, IN, 69 mph at Willard Airport, 68 mph in Bloomington, 64 mph in South Chicago, 61 mph in Decatur, 60 mph at Midway Airport and 55 mph in Joliet.

The last time Chicago was impacted by such a significant dust storm was during the Dust Bowl on May 10th, 1934.

[icanhearcolors]

I really love the idea of Tav drawing Astarion to show him what he looks like, could you maybe write something about that? ^-^

Hiiiiii! I can indeed thank you for the request :b

Welcome back to another episode of Abby tries to write something short and can't make it less than two thousand words.

EVERYBODY LOOK AT THIS GIF CUZ KJNKBJHGFRRETFO

Sorry I think I got possessed for a second there

Word count: 2.1k

The night sky had never been this gorgeous in the city. In Baldur’s Gate, the upper city was illuminated by mage lights that adorned the cobblestone paths. The light was bright enough that the citizens split into two factions, the night life and the day. Even those without dark vision could operate solely at night in total comfort if they chose to. In the lower city, fires were always burning, sending plumes of rich smelling smoke into the air constantly, obscuring the night sky.

But out here, under the blue light of a full moon, you can see every star and constellation in vivid detail. A soft purr-like snore hums against your back, and you brush a hand over the downy feathers of the owlbear cub you rescued from the goblins. He was getting so big. If he gets half as big as his mother was it is going to become a challenge to travel with him. It’s a sacrifice you’re more than willing to make. Besides, you could always cast the reduction spell on him in a pinch if any problem arose. He sleeps curled around your back, alongside his friend Scratch the dog, whose fluffy white head is resting in your lap.

The campfire crackles a few yards ahead as Wyll adds a few logs, humming a Baldurian tune you recognize but can’t quite recall the name of.

For the first time since the nautiloid crash you feel peaceful. Safe.

You turn your gaze to Astarion’s tent, probably for the thousandth time tonight, and stare at his profile as he flips through the pages of the seemingly sentient necromancy tomb you had discovered a few tendays prior. A faint green light curls from the pages like mist, illuminating half his face and casting the rest in shadow. You’d never really understood the saying “so beautiful it hurts'' until you met Astarion. An unknown emotion compresses your chest in a way that makes it hard to breathe sometimes when you look at him. You think it started out as empathy. Every detail of Astarion’s story he revealed to either warn you about vampires or shock you for his own amusement painted a picture of a horrific life full of trauma and misery that you found hard to reconcile with your enigmatic companion. He was always the first to crack a joke. He laughed loudly and on a constant basis. From an outsider’s view he’d appear almost carefree. Happy even. You wondered now how much of that laughter was real, and how much of it was the armor he’d donned a couple hundred years ago when he breached the surface of his own grave. You recall a conversation you had with him a while back about vanity. In his two hundred and forty years, give or take, he’d only been able to see his reflection for thirty nine. An incredibly young age to die for a high elf, and a small fraction of his life-span. Even if any fuzzy memory remained of that past life, it was no longer accurate anyway. 

He was something different now. 

Your eyes slide to your pack. You had found something yesterday- something rare indeed. A merchant selling art supplies outside of the city. You had everything you needed to give Astarion something you took for granted every day. His reflection.

Slowly, both as to not disturb your sleeping friends and not alert the elf in question to your actions, you slip a hand inside the bag. Your fingers find a pencil easily, the paper next, and you begin to draw. At first you draw him as he is, using his current unmoving form as a model, but you had been quite the artist in your time in Baldur’s gate, and you finished that drawing almost too quickly. So, you draw him again from memory, this time with his head thrown back, face scrunched with laughter. Then you draw his frown, his smirk, the condescending expression he so often gives Gale, the softer one you don’t quite understand that he reserves for you. You don’t hide or downplay his vampiric traits. You draw him exactly as he is, blending colored chalk to capture every shade of red in his eyes. Time falls away as you lose focus on everything but your work. Eventually, some time much later, the cramps in your muscles wake you from your trance. You stretch, and your knees, shoulders, and spine crack loudly. Scratch wakes up, stands, shakes himself off, and trots into the bushes. Your owlbear notices, and trills a soft sound before standing too, following him into the woods. You smile as you watch them amble off, happy they get along so well. You turn back to your drawings and examine them with new eyes. You expected to feel excitement, pride maybe, but instead a cold feeling ties your insides in knots as you realize you can never give these to Astarion. The drawings are some of your best work, but they’re also… reverential. A glimpse of Astarion through your eyes. Anyone who saw them would think you had drawn your lover, not your less-than-trusting involuntary traveling companion. He would take one look and realize exactly what you’ve been hiding from him since- well since you met him. You were infatuated with the vampire, and somehow, miraculously, despite the fact that you’d slept with him once already,  he seemed to be unaware.

He was going to find out.

You eye the campfire, half tempted to toss the whole pad of paper into it.

In your panic you turn your gaze toward Astarion’s tent.

He’s not there. 

His tent is open, and no one is inside it. You can see that from here. 

Somehow- maybe it’s the tadpole, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent so much time with the rogue, you realize you know exactly where he is.

Slowly, as if to avoid instigating an attack from a stalking predator, you turn your head to find Astarion standing behind you, peering over your shoulder.

Even though you were expecting it, you still startle out of your skin. Astarion drops to his knees on the ground in front of you and claps his hand over your mouth just in time to muffle your screech. You both look at eachother with wide eyes before turning slowly and in unison towards a sleeping Lae’zel. She’s frowning in her sleep, which isn’t unusual for her. She twitches, and then rolls over to her other side, sound asleep. You sigh in relief, through your nose because your mouth is still covered by Astarion’s hand. You swat it away and throw him a withering glare.

“What the in the hells is wrong with you?” You whisper-shout.

Astarion presses his lips together and turns his head away from you for a moment, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Oh yeah, laugh it up. If she’d woken up we’d be dead right now.”

“Look it’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention. You haven’t moved in almost four hours, I wanted to know what you could possibly be writing.”

You clutch the drawing pad to your chest and swallow nervously, eyes darting around for any glimpse of something you can use to distract him.

Unfortunately as you’ve come to realize, regardless of what they used to be, once turned vampires become lethal predators. Astarion sees your darting eyes, catches the scent of your fear, and you see the shift in his demeanor. 

His movements become slower, more fluid, as he tilts his head in malicious curiosity.

He reminds you sometimes of the big cats that roam the mountains of Faerûn. Once something captures his attention, there’s little use in trying to pull him off the hunt.

Still, you’re going to try.

“I’m not writing.”

His eyes flick to your hands, dusted in red powder, then back up. He hums.

“Drawing then. What have you been drawing Tav?” 

His voice is darker now. Persuasive. 

“It’s- uh… personal.”

Astarion lowers himself fully to the ground and stretches his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his arms. 

“A personal drawing?” He purrs, “Well now I have to see it.”

“No-” You cover your face with your hand, “That’s not what I meant and you know that Astarion.”

A moment of silence passes, so you lift your hand away from your face.

Astarion is gazing at you with that unknown expression again. His eyes look earnest, a soft smile on his lips, when he speaks the words that are your undoing.

“You can trust me, Tav. I already know how talented you are, you don’t have anything to worry about. Just show me.”

You sigh, and his smile grows. He knows he’s won.

Bastard.

“Fine you can see my drawings, but I need to tell you-”

The drawing pad is already out of your hands, your permission apparently all that was keeping Astarion from snatching it away from you.

Your heart stops at his first look at the paper. He stills, flipping through the drawings slowly, his eyes tracing every detail with excruciating slowness.

Finally, he puts you out of your misery.

“I-” He clears his throat, not meeting your eyes. “These are...”

He grips the paper tightly when you attempt to take the drawing pad back from him. You’re confused, and a little… well actually very hurt for a reason beyond your understanding.

Does he hate it? Did you overstep?

“What are you thinking?”

Astarion finally looks at you, his expression guarded. He points to the drawings.

“Who is this?”

Oh.

You’re shocked silent. You should have anticipated this. Of course Astarion wouldn’t recognize himself in your drawings. That was the entire reason you drew him in the first place.

“He’s um-” You fall silent again.

Astarion looks both terrified and heartbreakingly hopeful. You’re sure he already knows the answer. You’ve spoken to him at length about what he is. You know that he knows he’s the only vampire spawn you’ve ever met, and you’ve been traveling together without much separation ever since.

He still needs to hear you say it.

You stare at your wringing hands in your lap and take a deep breath.

“I remembered that conversation we had about how you don’t know what you look like, you just have to go off of what other people tell you, and I bought these art supplies earlier and I haven’t drawn in so long, I used to all the time but with everything that’s going on- and I meant to just draw you once but I wanted you to know what you looked like when you smiled too and then I got a little carried away I’m so-”

You don’t hear him move. Your rambling speech stutters to a stop at the sensation of a hand on your cheek. Astarion hooks his thumb under your chin and lifts your head just enough to press his lips to yours.

Your eyes widen in surprise and then flutter closed. All thoughts cease, replaced by a languid warmth that melts you into a puddle on the ground.

You tilt your head and kiss him back, a tingling sensation racing down your spine. His hand slides from your cheek into your hair, and he gently pulls your head back, deepening the kiss in a way that steals the air from your lungs.

All too soon he pulls back, just a few inches, and smiles.

A real, genuine smile that shows his teeth and lights his eyes. You think you would do terrible terrible things to see that smile more often.

He brings his other hand up to frame your face, holding you in place as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

“Thank you.” He says simply, his voice hoarse.

“This is a gift. I won’t forget it.”

He repeats the words he said to you what feels like centuries ago, the night you found out he was a vampire and agreed to feed him. 

“You’re welcome.” Is all you can think to say.

With absolutely no warning at all Astarion drops his hands to your shoulders and yanks you toward him just in time. A pillow, rather violent in its velocity, grazes the back of your head in its catapult into the forest. Somewhere in the dark woods, Scratch yelps.

“Next time it will be my sword Isticks”

Growls Lae’zel from her bed roll on the other side of the campfire.

You turn back to Astarion with an amused but also terrified expression, and he smiles knowingly, rolling his eyes.

He picks the drawings up off the ground from where they’d been scattered at some point and gathers them in one hand. He stands, hoisting you up with his free hand, and practically drags you across the camp to his tent.

You’ll have to draw him more often.