#other people around them were innovating all over the place | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flawseer · 7 months

Text

On Mudwing Culture

My last deliberation on Seawings and their eccentric insult vocabulary seemed to be well-received, so here is another one of my headcanons:

Mudwings are seriously into food.

I know, pretty revolutionary take when there is only a handful of named Mudwing characters, and two of them love eating so much that it either almost or entirely eclipses their personality.

But Clay and Ochre are not what I am talking about. This isn’t about a love of eating (though many Mudwings admittedly do have that). I’m suggesting that, out of all the tribes from Pyrrhia, Mudwings are at the forefront of food preparation and culinary innovation, to the point where a large part of their culture revolves around it.

The State of Food Preparation on the Continent

Pyrrhia as a conglomerate of different cultures largely sustains its populations through hunting and gathering. The average dragon, when the hunger pangs set in, will make a hasty trip into the nearest forest, cave, or scavenger den and round up some prey animals. In most cases, this prey will go straight from the talons to the mouth, or, if the hunter is a bit more forward-thinking, into the pantry, and then from talons to the mouth.

There are a few variations of this practice; Skywings may give the carcass a quick roast on an open flame before eating it, Sandwings may dry the meat out so the excess moisture does not upset their internal water balance, Rainwings will prefer fruit over meat. Icewings will nearly always consume their prey raw and unseasoned, as their extremely delicate palate is easily overwhelmed by intense flavors that may be released through cooking.

More complex forms of food preparation seem to exist mostly outside the scope of the general populace. The practice of “cooking” appears to be limited to the ranks of aristocracy, with dedicated cooks only found within the court of a queen or in private households of other high-born individuals. It creates a sharp divide between commoners and social elites, between the wealthy and (as Sea Queen Coral once put it so succinctly) the “eel-eating masses”. All exemplified through the differing standards of food.

And yet somehow, standing in stark contrast to everywhere else on the continent, nearly every Mudwing-- from the most low-born runts of the Diamond Spray Delta to the most decorated head advisors in the Queen’s palace --knows how to cook, and will do so regularly.

Why is that, and how did it happen?

Historical Benefits of Cooking

Most things that form the backbone of a culture usually start with some ancient practice that was useful at some point in time and then, as people kept doing it, eventually got absorbed into public awareness and became “the way things are done”.

Mudwings face a unique challenge compared to anyone else, as they are the only tribe whose combat prowess is significantly affected by their environment, specifically climate, weather, and temperature. Sure, you can take any dragon, drop them into an unfavorable climate, and they will generally perform worse than under normal circumstances. But the unique weakness of Mudwings is that they lose their breath weapon when they get too cold. Place an Icewing into a burning room and they will still be able to use their frost breath. Pluck a Sandwing from their dry environment and drop them into the humid, sweltering hell of the jungle, their natural weapons will still function. But make a Mudwing cower between two piles of snow for a while, and their internal fire will go out quickly.

As you might imagine, this is a bit of a liability when you have to defend your territory from Skywings hiding and scheming among the frozen peaks bordering your country.

So the ancient Mudwings had to figure out a solution to their conundrum, and what they came up with was this: They got a large pot and filled it with water, threw in all manner of meats, plants, and herbs, whatever they could find where they were holed up, then boiled it until it was good and filling. The hot food in their bellies helped them stay warm even at high altitudes and allowed them to stand their ground against the northwestern invaders.

Soon it became tradition for troops to share a hotpot the night before battle, and a rich variety of hearty broths and stews developed from there, as these were simple to make from scraps and could be reheated easily. The practice became so popular, the Mudwings kept doing it even during peacetime. Soon, in addition to the hunting of prey animals that was commonplace, Mudwings began to cultivate vegetable gardens to have access to a more stable supply of ingredients. Eventually, their growing understanding of agriculture allowed them to grow rice, which was especially well-suited to the abundance of wetlands found in their territory. Everyone was cooking now.

The Role of Food in Mudwing Society

If you ask several Mudwings which core values represent their tribe best, many would likely put forward some variation of “camaraderie”, “family”, or “loyalty to your sibs”. They are a very social people who form deep bonds with those whom they grew up with, and one of the most direct ways to grow close to someone is to share your meals with them every day. As such, the preparation and consumption of food is a vital part in maintaining cohesion between members of a Mudwing sibling group.

Every one of these groups will have a “Bigwings”, which is understood to be a combination of a leader and caretaker role. The Bigwings is aware of all of their sibs’ culinary preferences and needs and has all of the troop’s recipes memorized. When mealtime approaches, he or she makes the call on what kind of dish will be prepared and delegates roles and tasks to the troop. This is a daily exercise that builds the Bigwings’ authority and communication skills, and reinforces trust and familiarity between all siblings.

Next to the Bigwings is the Gatherer, which historically was a role assigned to one or more troop members who foraged for wild vegetables or hunted more prey if the previous communal hunt did not yield enough. While this is still true today, many Gatherers also maintain a garden or wet patch to source fresh vegetables or grain for meals.

And lastly there is the Communicator, which is a role usually assigned to the most social and charismatic sibling. The Communicator is vital for coordinating battle strategies with other troops, which, while very important, is not really all that relevant for this deliberation. What is relevant however, is the role they fulfill during peacetime, which is to set up joint meals between two or more sibling groups. This practice is critical for maintaining morale, as doing this regularly helps expand the troop’s palette and keep their Bigwings inspired. That way the troop’s collection of recipes stays fresh and innovative instead of turning stale and rigid.

Of course how much each troop values culinary exploits varies between individuals. Some Mudwing groups are outspokenly passionate about cooking and advancing their craft. They might view their work as an expression of art and get very upset or offended if you indicate that thinking about food is unimportant or a waste of time. Some extreme cases may even get angry at you if you waste ingredients or refuse to elevate a dish to its fullest potential by not seasoning it well or doing something else to ruin it. Other groups may be more relaxed and casual about food preparation, and a few might even not think about it much at all.

If a Mudwing invites you to dinner, it is paramount to figure out which of these groups they belong to beforehand, so you may get an understanding of how much of a threat this outing may pose to your health, especially if you are an Icewing or Seawing with a limited palate.

Is there any evidence for this in the books?

To my knowledge, there isn't much. Mostly because there isn't much about Mudwings and their culture in general. Across all the books, only one of them has a Mudwing protagonist, and the vast majority of it is spent in the Sky Kingdom, so his roots don't get a lot of exposure. Then whenever another Mudwing comes into the story, they tend to exit it very quickly after, without being able to share more.

I made this theory for myself largely in response to Mudwing culture being such a big question mark. I initially came up with it when I saw a Mudwing gardener in Escaping Peril and thought "That could be a cool direction for the tribe." The guidebook that released recently gave me some additional pointers with regards to a few of the looser points of this theory.

I'm hoping it is interesting, or at the very least entertaining in some way.

#wings of fire #wof #dragon #flawseer talk #digital art #wof art #mudwing #wof headcanon

1K notes · View notes

whokilledjared · 1 month

Text

the sluttiest thing a man can do is be himself. (& takes on social media)

Hi.

I'm lonely.

The moment I got "two weeks off school" in sophomore year, life went to 4x speed & I can't turn it off no matter how hard I try.

Maybe COVID-19 adolescence did numbers on me. Somewhere between the iPhone 5c and ChatGPT, 14-hour screen times have live-streamed to me a steady, homogenous death of culture.

Nothing is cool anymore. Nothing is sacred. Every movement is a trend, and every cult classic a sequel.

The value we place on things being beautiful, on being "cool," and our gatekept appreciation of how hard these things were to find: it's been co-opted, or perhaps stolen. It's been stolen by the new merchant class. "Disruptors" and "innovators" turning our lives into a burgeoning black mirror prequel. Soon, we'll graduate too, and we'll wring every morsel of value in each others' lives dry for cash.

Plain and simple, I think we're being manipulated.

Your dates are an algorithm. Your music is a social signal. And Zuck knows when you sleep.*

God. What the fuck are we doing???

“Individuation is becoming the thing which is not the ego, and that is very strange.” — Carl Jung

Recently, I deleted Instagram. My first impulse was to post a story or something, announcing my departure. But then, I thought that would be lame.

I got rid of my account, too. Kinda. Over 1 year, over 800 followers removed, and what remains of me is a little grey icon, and "JM_0000000010" where my name and face used to be.

yay.

There were many people I wish I could have been friends with, but I wonder, too, why I find myself so drawn to the validation of others. Does social media affect me worse, or do we all just choose to ignore it, languishing in private?

At any rate, this last year has almost felt like re-learning how to be a human being.

Personally, I think one of the biggest markers for maturity is when you become willing to disappoint the people you know in favor of what feels right to you, when you start to unravel the stories you’ve told yourself (or been told) about who you are and what you should be. In short, the sluttiest thing a man can do is be himself.

And sometimes, I think about every college student that has ever lived. My grandmother, my dad, and so on. Just consider for a moment all kids who graduated before 2010:

What was it like for the ones in 1940? To walk around, before a campus had computers? In 2006: To meet someone pretty, but forget their number? In 1999: To cram into dorms, and watch Seinfeld live on-air?

Would I, like my dad in 1988, have braved cold night, brisk wind, & landline phone-call just to knock and see if my friends were too busy to hang?

What stories could I tell if there was even the slightest chance of getting lost on the way home from a party?

Humans are social creatures. We crave our friends like water. To me, the clearest difference between Dasani and Instagram is that one of them comes in a bottle.

Yet despite these distractions and comforts we have in 2024, somehow, we still have engineering students. People who carve out time in their day to sit down, look at paper, and solve differential equations. But then, that's not so hard, is it? It just takes time. Precious, fucking, time.

At Meta, leagues and leagues of these engineers power behavioral scientists, who are competing for the highest salary. Their benchmarks? Your FOMO. Guilt. Anxiety. Obsession. The worse you feel, the more you engage with their content. The more you engage with their content, well, you're starting to get the point.

Try something for me: Open up Instagram, but don't tap anything. What happens? How many little animations? How many tiny nudges prompting you to get lost? Our home-pages are billion-dollar diving boards, hoisting us over engineered catacombs of subconscious quicksand.

My homepage is my FOMO, my envy, and my crushes. The pain and struggle of trying to be someone who I am not. My little existential crises, bundled-up, packaged, and shipped with a like button.

To abandon your social networks entirely, however, requires a safety net of close friends. After all, your friends are online, and you'd be miserable without them.

This is the problem with our monkey brains. Millennia of sociological natural-selection have made us quite great at feeling terrible. We're damn good at making tribal status games to play with, too.

Seeking refuge in quirked up septum piercings and boygenius listeners, my time in counter-cultural, alternative "scenes" between St. Louis and Tampa has shown me that even the weirdest of folks and the most removed can accidentally find themselves reduced to nothing more than high-school popularity contests. Even if I love them. Even if they're amazing people. We're human.

We can't "quit social media" as much as we can't "quit bottled water" Sure, we can, but it's inconvenient. And even without a bottle, we're still drinking water.

So I lost touch with my friends. I got no new updates on their lives. I forced myself into the inconvenience of not having a phone to reach for in fleeting moments of boredom. Suddenly, I was out of the loop. Suddenly, I was bored. And suddenly, nobody missed me. My only friends were the ones I had the time to text. Everyone else ... does not exist.

Weekends have become more valuable than ever. Without the empty social calories of seeing my friends' pictures, I find myself planning hangouts as often as my schedule allows. I have more lunches, more study sessions, and more is done in the company of less.

And I have the time to breathe.

And in this calm, I think I found my answer: it's my misplaced ambition. These fears of anxiety and people I thought I would miss, they seem represent something I want to see more of within myself. Something I want to develop, lean into more deeply, as an individual. And I think that's quite normal; to look out into the world and feel attracted to things we want to see more of. This is, I think, how everyone develops their own definition of beauty — and of coolness. It's largely the intersection of what we find most interesting, and what we want to see more of in the world. Because beauty and coolness, by definition, are rare and hard to find. If they were everywhere, nothing be beautiful, nor would anything be cool.

When we all turn into wrinkles and cataracts, bad backs and heart attacks, for a brief, glorious moment, our lives are going to flash before our eyes. In this moment, you'll see your story. The ultimate progression of you.

How much of that will be skibidi toilet and reaction clips? How much of that will be arguing on the internet? Can you tell me, just how much of your life will you have skipped over to pacify your intentionally-lowered attention span?

That girl whose number you couldn't find Those passing questions over coffee that you couldn't search on Google The boredom of a subway ride

Those are not inconveniences, they're what the older generations refer to as "life."

* (oh, but if you can't sleep, consider this aside: Google knows the angle you walk at, how fast you're walking, and they've got crowdsourced pictures of everywhere around you at all times of the day. fun bedtime thoughts <3)

#scene #alternative #social media #social justice #instagram #college #coming of age #writing #blogpost #blog takes

189 notes · View notes

writing-about-current-obsessions · 9 months

Text

Sleepy

Pairings: Carlos Sainz x reader

Words: 1686

Summary: Carlos finds an innovative way to ask a very important question.

>Click here to check out my masterlist<

Carlos thought about it a lot. He even got so desperate he asked Lando and Charles for advice, which was a clear cry for help, in his opinion.

The thing is – they wanted to help, they really did, but neither of them had a good enough idea. Or better yet, a good idea at all. They suggested the basic stuff at first – reserve a table at a restaurant where you had a special date and hide the ring in dessert or propose during a sunset on the beach with a picnic set up nearby. Basically, all the nonsense that you would see in a typical rom-com. After a few drinks, their ideas started to get more and more ridiculous – from chartering a plane to write “Will you marry me?” in the sky, to training Piñon to bring a ring to her. Around that time, Carlos stopped listening and taking his friends seriously.

He didn’t want those romantic, over-the-top proposals, where you had to plan details weeks in advance so everything would be perfect. Public places were definitely out of question, because Carlos was sure she would not be too happy about that, but also because he didn’t want to risk being humiliated surrounded by people if she says no. Generally speaking, they were romantic towards one another, but mostly in the privacy of their own home. PDA was kept to a minimum, especially during race weekends in the paddock when there was a lot of media around. Their love language was physical touch and quality time spent together, without needing to go to fancy restaurants and buy each other expensive gifts. They were always very private about their relationship and Carlos didn’t feel like making a big deal out of their proposal because he felt like neither of them would enjoy it. Nevertheless, he wanted to do something special for her.

Simple, but unique. Romantic, but without being over the top. An act of love showing his true feelings, but in a way that would not freak her out. Do you see now what kind of conundrum Carlos was faced with?

He was carrying the precious box in his pocket, or in a bag, or suitcase, or wherever, for an outrageously long amount of time. Inside the box was a ring specially made for her that Carlos helped design with the help of his mother and with suggestions and expert craftsmanship of a jeweller in Madrid. For months Carlos paid close attention to the jewellery she was wearing in an attempt to figure out her style and what she would like to wear every day. He actually showed some photos they snapped together to his mother, showing her the necklaces, earrings, bracelets and rings his girlfriend loved to wear so he could get her input and help him choose.

And even though he made it clear from the beginning he wasn’t going to do that, Carlos had still planned everything to the smallest detail. He couldn’t help himself. Everything was organized a few days before and now it was go time. Carlos had set up all of it the night before, when he came late back to their apartment and she was already in bed. He put the bouquets of the flowers she liked on almost every flat surface of the living room and kitchen. He stocked the fridge with all the ingredients needed to make her absolute favourite breakfast in the morning and then tiptoed quietly to their bedroom. She stirred awake when Carlos settled next to her in bed and they fell asleep in each other’s arms after they exchanged a few soft kisses and tender words.

He woke up uncharacteristically early the next morning and finished executing the main part of his masterplan. He cooked quietly, unlike other mornings when they would put on some music while preparing breakfast together. Everything was plated and arranged nicely even before she woke up, so he went back to the bedroom to check up on her.

Carlos stared at her sleeping form half-covered by the thin blanket, her legs and arms spread wide. He always teased her about taking up most of the bed and almost kicking him out in their sleep a couple of times, but he secretly loved it because they always ended up snuggling together. Her hair was sprawled over the cushion and her hand was resting next to it. Carlos couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face as he watched the ring on her finger glinting in the weak sunlight peeking through the curtains. It was absolutely stunning and the perfect fit for her – Carlos managed to put it on her hand without disturbing her sleep in the slightest. Everything was ready and perfect.

Except he forgot one crucial thing. His girlfriend is the sleepiest (possibly even the grouchiest) creature in the world when she wakes up. Carlos often jokes about her sleeping like the dead and then acting like a zombie after waking up. This is why the ‘no talking in the morning’ rule was implemented with the utmost seriousness and a firm resolve, without any exceptions.

Carlos bet on her waking up and seeing the ring on her finger, and then completely freaking out about it. If that doesn’t wake her up, then what will? He returned to the bed and started peppering her with soft kisses all over her face. She stirred awake next to him and it was then that crossed his mind that maybe he underestimated the true power and extent of her sleepiness in the early hours of the day.

“Hermosa…”, Carlos whispered in her ear as he watched her face scrunch up in an adorable grimace. “Good morning.”

“Hmpf… Nope.”, she mumbled, eyes still closed.

Carlos chuckled, now moving to kiss along her jawline and moving to her neck. He took his time pecking her skin and tasting it, even nibbling a bit in a teasing way. She hummed in approval, but with her eyes not opening. She was clinging to the last remnants of sleep that were slowly evaporating from her body.

“Open your eyes.”, Carlos caressed her cheek, kissing the tip of her nose last.

“Coffee first.”, she countered in a croaky voice.

No matter the reprimand in her voice for waking her up, she pecked his lips and then his cheek lovingly before leisurely getting off the bed. Carlos sighed in frustration as he watched her exit their bedroom, the ring on her hand still unnoticed. How drowsy do you need to be not to notice a new piece of jewellery appearing on your hand overnight, he wondered with a smile.

Still, he hastily got off the bed because he didn’t want to miss the surprise on her face when she finally realizes. He caught up to her quickly, encircling her waist with his arms just as she came up to the kitchen doorway. She halted and gasped suddenly, whether from the sight or the way Carlos embraced her from behind, he wasn’t sure.

“Carlos!” she squealed in delight, laughing a little.

“Yes, mi amor?” he asked in a casual tone, like nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Did you buy the whole flower shop?” she turned her head to look at him, her eyes wide and her mouth open in surprise.

He grinned wide, not saying anything and only planting a soft kiss on her lips.

She looked at him with wide eyes, slightly panicking. “Is it our anniversary?”

Carlos frowned. “No. That’s in five months.”

“Right. Yes.”, she stifled a yawn and nodded.

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, you went above and beyond.”, she laughed a little. “Thank you, Carlos.”

A squeal of delight escaped her throat when she noticed the abundant breakfast spread on the table, with a steaming cup of coffee being the first thing she picked out. She playfully scolded Carlos for making so much food for just the two of them, although she suspected that they will finish everything soon – from the omelette, the fruit and especially the pancakes. She sat on the stool at the kitchen island and Carlos wondered if he will have to take her hand and shove it in her face so she could notice the ring.

He stood in front of her and she immediately rested her head on his chest, leaning with half her bodyweight on him. Carlos engulfed her in an embrace and noticed her eyes fluttering closed. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her.

Once again, she yawned, now stifling a giggle at her own sleepiness.

“I have something that will wake you up.”, Carlos offered, rubbing her back soothingly.

“Oh, yeah?” she smiled and her eyes opened. “What is it?”

Carlos shook his head, smiling broadly. No matter how nervous he was about all of this, as she pulled away to look at him and he gazed into her eyes, Carlos was more than sure that she was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He brushed a few strands of hair away from her face and tucked them behind her ear. He was smiling wider than ever and she looked at him funny, furrowing her eyebrows.

“You have this weird look on your face.”, she chuckled. “What did you do?”

“Look at your hand.”, he whispered, his heart thumping wildly against his ribcage.

Of course, she raised the wrong hand first and Carlos almost burst into laughter when he considered how silly this whole thing was. She held up her other hand and before she even got a good look at the ring glinting on her finger, she gasped and then gaped at him.

Finally, she was awake and alert. Her eyes big and rounds like saucers and her hand was frozen in place as she stared from the ring to Carlos. She was in complete shock while Carlos only had a satisfied smirk on his face.

He whispered her name and then uttered the words she was dreaming of hearing. “Will you marry me?”

"Carlos! You're going to give me a heart attack this early in the morning!"

#carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz oneshot #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz fanfiction #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x you #Carlos Sainz x ofc #carlos sainz x oc #carlos sainz x female reader #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 one shot #carlos sainz fluff

754 notes · View notes

signedkoko · 3 months

Note

Hi!! I just want to start by saying thank you so much for sharing your writing with us! I check your blog everyday to see if you’ve updated and love reading what you post! 💙

In light of the season finale, I was wondering if you could do some romantic headcanons in which f!reader finally approaches Vox (after a long slowburn of mutual pining between them, though neither knows how the other feels until now) and tells him he deserves better than whatever unhealthy on-again-off-again thing he has going with Valentino? And perhaps suggests (or outright says) how she would actually take care of him/treat him better? 🫣 I would LOVE to see your take on it! Only the best for everyone’s favorite TV man lol!

Thank you so much in advance if you choose to do it, I hope that’s all clear! Please take care of yourself and have a wonderful day!

Vox X Reader [Romantic]

In which you decide its finally time to step inbetween Vox and Valentino. Reader is female.

The most feared assistant in all of hell, you certainly were one of a kind when it came to sinners

The Vees had taken you in as their head assistant, close enough to be a fourth member but far enough to be uninvited to galas, showings, and all the celebrity events

It was your ideal position; you made plenty of money to get by

Class without the hass(le) as you always put it

Your job was hard, but it was nothing you couldn't handle; all it took was knowing it and predicting the hiccups

Besides Valentino, the other two were very relaxed with you and usually only demanded that you do things that were typical of your day

And being around them so much, you naturally became an honorary member; you'd especially spent plenty of time at Vox's side

He was the hub of communication, and he offered up a space for you to call an office in his own area of the building

Not only did that mean the others could easily reach you since you were always around Vox, but it also meant you always had an upgraded space, courtesy of Vox's constant innovations

He was always so peculiar; you could tell he didn't like being around people, yet he always called for you to pick up lunch with him

Or he brought you to meetings to 'take notes' despite the fact that he could transcribe every conversation in a second

To him, he was showing that he enjoyed his company; to you, it was an opportunity to get to know him better

Admittedly, you wanted to know a lot more about him—no, you wanted to know everything

Unfortunately, the more time you spent with him, the more you'd end up being around Valentino, who always called on Vox during his fits of rage

It was confusing

Vox expressed hating him, but also tripped over every step just to appease the overlord

And Valentino took advantage of that a lot, which caused a boiling anger to eat at you

But you knew your place; you knew Vox was an adult who could stop himself, so you bitterly witnessed it

But as you and Vox got closer and Valentino got rougher with Vox, it became impossible to ignore

After hearing a screaming fit from his office, you could make out Valentino's heels stomping out the door towards the elevators, and after a good moment of silence, you heard Vox follow

But you stood up this time, and right as the overlord passed your door, you caught his arm

" Can't talk right now. "

" He isn't worth your time, Vox, sir. "

You certainly didn't waste any time, and in a moment he went from pulling his arm away to stopping in his tracks to look at you with a surprised look scribbled on his face

You felt guilty knowing that he was only surprised because you'd never tried to help him before; he must have thought you were a terrible person, but you continued

" I don't get what you see in him when there are already people who love and care for you far more than he ever has all around you. "

While you started strong, your voice eventually tappered off into mumbles, already losing the confidence you thought you had when you started initially

The silence is deafening

Until he lets out a long exhale and slumps

" You're right, I shouldn't get so worked up. But Jesus, I didn't expect that out of you. "

He was already trying to bring in humour to laugh it off, but you were more glad that he didn't take your actions as negative

" Just so you know, I'm sure I can show you what you deserve "

You couldn't help it with his validation; you had to get it out, and he seemed to pause again—before a bluescreen came up

Oh no, oh no, you immediately called for him and snapped your fingers, hoping to shake him out of it, and with a quick reboot, he was back to ask if you meant it

And of course you did, and of course he wanted to take you up on the offer

As happy as he is, Vox is frustrated that he didn't ask you first; he's usually the first move kind of guy—or at least he swears

But he trusts you will treat him better because he's always wanted you to

Author's Note - Tell me why I went so hard on the lore that this ended up being 700 words I am so sorry!!! I'm glad you like my work, I really hope I did your request justice!!! Again, idk why I went so crazy on the buildup ahhh

#koko writez #hazbin hotel #helluva boss #hazbin hotel x reader #helluva boss x reader #reader insert #x reader #vox #vox x reader

388 notes · View notes

seat-safety-switch · 3 months

Text

So-called motorcylists love to shove their beloved bikes away whenever there's a little bit of snow on the road. That's because motorcyclists are famously concerned with their public perception. They don't want to drive around town with wood screws run through their tires, shrieking profanities at stopped traffic before ripping a perfect 12 'o' clocker and driving across the iced-over multi-use-pathway, comfortable in their knowledge that the police will not and can not follow. Or it's because they don't have heated grips, and their handsies get cold.

Heated steering wheels are the single greatest innovation in cars in the last two hundred years. Unfortunately for me, they hadn't been installed into cars of the age I own. In the late 1970s, the newest innovation in steering wheel comfort was "maybe make them a little smaller, for the ladies." Seems like I was cursed to a lifetime of wondering if my thermostat was seized, freezing to death even through many layers of mittens and work gloves while waiting for the tow truck to arrive and clean up the commuters in front of me.

Of course, Plymouth also didn't equip this car with a lot of other modern features. For instance, liquid-cooled active speed laser and radar jamming was not available. Active pursuit drones pre-programmed with a seek-and-destroy order for all speed cameras were not yet on the market, unless you worked for the CIA. And also the good people of China had not figured out how to make $35 45-millimetre ball-bearing turbochargers capable of adding nearly four hundred horsepower to any engine strong enough to keep its guts on the inside when presented with one medium-sized jet engine's worth of boost. I had to add all those things myself.

Easy, right? Run some wires to a heating element on the steering wheel. There's just one complication: steering wheels turn. If I keep spinning the car left and right, eventually the wire will get tangled up and rip itself out, causing an electrical fire. Admittedly, that will also keep my hands warm, but the walk home after is inconvenient.

The original "engineers" who took a whisky-soaked gander at this car before slapping their secretaries on the ass had a solution, though. In every steering wheel, the horn button has the same problem. Unfortunately for me, the horn hasn't worked in this car since 1983, which complicated my attempts to reuse the wiring.

Ultimately, I came up with what a rocket scientist would call "a compromise." A pair of bolt cutters and a map to the local truck-supply warehouse's storage yard soon provided me with a nifty diesel-fired interior heater, a roaring flame that consumes all and produces enough heat to make toast from three feet away. Ratchet-strapped to the place where the passenger seat used to be, it will keep my fingers warm, as well as my feet and every other part of my body. Sure, it's inconvenient having to continually refill it with stolen farm diesel, and I could have run the exhaust pipe out of the cabin a better way than through the rust hole in the floor. Once you get that heated seat feeling, though, you simply can't go back. If you'll excuse me, I need to get going: if I don't get to work in the next five minutes, my boots will melt again.

157 notes · View notes

epigstolary · 5 months

Text

The Middle of Nowhere, Part Two

I once said that my feeder didn’t have to do anything to keep me on his farm. That I was building my own prison there, bite by bite. And that’s still true — but only partly true. The farm may be a long way away from anything — town, other people, even the road that’s our only real connection to society — and it may as well be a desert island for someone too big to drive a car or walk further than the yard, but it isn’t my prison. Because my prison isn’t a place.

Things started to change when it got difficult even to go outside to our porch. I don’t mean they changed with my feeder; he was still as caring and doting as ever. He started bringing me my snacks once I got big enough that just shuffling out the front door took all my energy and attention. I had to watch where I placed every step of my bloated legs, laden with fat that looked like bags of cottage cheese, and hold on to the walls and the railing along the porch to keep my belly and chest fat from sloshing sideways and pulling me over. Even those few steps left me breathless and my heart pounding by the time I got settled on my bench; but it was worth it to have a plate of his biscuits and gravy or chicken and dumplings, under that big sky beyond our little farm, gilded with another sunset. And even when my bench finally gave way after one too many helpings of both, he dusted off his woodworking kit and put it back together, reinforced and better than new.

But by then, we both knew it was only a temporary fix. It wouldn’t be long before there’d be no way I could maneuver myself out there every day, and he could tell how being cooped up inside would drive me crazy after a while. If I was going to do anything other than sit mostly alone on the couch all day, we were going to have to find another way.

His first innovation was to invite people over for dinner — farmhands, friends, folks he knew from town that he could get to come to me even if I couldn’t go to them. And they were good company, in a lot of ways; they’d bring a taste of the outside world with them. They might talk about how the crops were doing, recount some recent anecdote from working out in the fields or going into town, opine on some petty local politics or gossip. And it was nice to hear about something other than what was going on within the confines of our little farm — an outside world that it was increasingly impossible for me to get to. But really, it was hard for the focus not to turn around to me. Nobody was ever rude the first time they met me; but it was rare not to see either a reaction of stifled surprise, or else a glassy look of unseeing, a conscious attempt not to notice the half-ton of fat flowing and bulging out of my ill-fitting clothes.

It didn’t help that, with me never leaving the farm, there weren’t many topics of conversation other than myself and food that our guests could engage with me about. When the conversation didn’t turn to recent meals or my favorite foods, which usually elicited at least warm agreement about the country staples forming much of my diet, it turned to how I spent most of my day. We’d do our usual face-saving song and dance about what I did to take care of the house while my partner was out working in the field — all of it lies, and increasingly transparent lies as my limited ability to even move became more obvious at higher weights — and how I was getting ready to start losing some weight. I’d talk about how I really wanted to get healthier, get out and about more often; and they’d smile and nod, giving tepid approval and encouragement.

The thing is, I really did mean it. I really did want to get down to a size where I could at least walk around outside again, maybe even drive a car into town and go to the little greasy spoon like I used to. It was becoming discouraging to have every step, every reach, every movement blocked or restrained by the fat smothering every inch of my body. But our guests knew full well I didn’t have a prayer of keeping to a diet or an exercise routine. It was even more obvious to those who’d visited before, and who saw me even more bloated, even more out of shape than the last time they were there.

The actual meals certainly made them think that, if they hadn’t before. My partner would serve a spread fit for a dozen people — something like a barbecue buffet, a whole turkey with all the fixings, a tray of lasagna — and I’d end up eating everything that was left after the others had their fill. Long after their places had been cleared away, I’d still be gobbling up the heaping plates my partner would keep bringing me until every scrap of food was gone. Since I couldn’t last very long at the dining table anymore, usually we’d sit around the living room, and they would basically watch me gorge myself — tits and chins wobbling as I’d chew, plate sitting on my enormous belly so my blubbery arms could rest on the sweep of my side rolls while I cut and speared each bite. It was obvious to everyone, I guess even to me, that I was never going to drop a pound if I couldn’t resist completely abandoning myself to food like that. By the end of the meal, I’d be stuffed full, taking up the entire couch and looking enormous, almost too drowsy from overeating to notice the expressions passing between our guests, their looks of amusement or disgust or astonishment at what was apparently a typical dinner for me. Sometimes they’d even whisper about it, thinking I was asleep. I wasn’t.

From the front window of the house, I could watch them drive away, taillights receding toward that distant road where proper civilization began again. Probably recapping the dinner and my obscene size and appetite with horrified amazement. They’d been merely passing through, tourists in my isolated bubble, visiting their friend’s or boss’s blob of a partner out of courtesy but with no real desire to bring me into the fold. They could make things more tolerable, but they’d never be any real help in connecting with the world again.

Then one day, my partner’s beat-up old pickup disappeared, and he pulled into the yard in a gleaming new one, looking unusually excited for him and expectantly at me. I was puzzled — by that point, I was already too big to heave myself up into the cab of any pickup. But then I saw the truck bed — more specifically, the crane and winch rising from the front corner. My stomach did a somersault at the sight of him rigging up a harness meant for lifting cows and pigs into the bed; it was a way to let me get off the farm, sure, but at a pretty steep price in dignity. It was as good as an admission that I’d eaten myself far too fat to rejoin the world like a normal person, probably for good.

But the temptation to be somewhere else, anywhere else, was too much. A day or two later, my partner was helping me waddle out the front door and down the steps toward the driveway. Months indoors had obscured just how much my body had changed in even that short amount of time. My legs had both bloated considerably and weakened since my last walk through the yard, making every step like having to lift heavy bags of molasses just to advance a few inches at a time. My belly hung lower and broader than I remembered, physically holding back my steps and making it harder to twist my upper body to steady my walk. My side rolls and bicep blubber fought one another for space, pushing my arms up and sending fat bunching around my neck and shoulders. I was an out-of-breath mess by the time I maneuvered myself around and collapsed into the harness.

The sensation of my weight being lifted slowly off the ground, suspended and moved by an object completely out of my control, sent a surreal thrill through me. My hundreds of pounds, cradled in the harness, wobbled and jiggled with its slow movements, and for the most part I had no choice but to be carried along with my body’s jostling inertia. Even more than usual, I was buried under my immense belly and tits, my bloated legs were lifted level with the rest of my body, and my flab-laden arms — if they’d even been strong enough to do anything — had nowhere to grasp to help stabilize my sloshing bulk. The crane and winch cracked and creaked as it labored to move my weight, lifted me over the sides and into position facing the tailgate, and lowered me onto some foam padding my partner had arranged into a kind of makeshift couch against the rear window. I didn’t fill the truck bed — but there wasn’t room to sit next to me, either.

I’ve never felt a mixture of emotions like I did on that first drive back into town. On the one hand, it felt so amazingly free — finding myself on that once impossibly-distant road, our farm receding into the distance as fields and hills sped by. Fresh air, and the wind in my hair. But then, as buildings grew closer together and we started rolling into downtown, my blood ran cold — I’m a half-ton blob taking up most of the back of a pickup truck, too fat to walk or move, coming to town like a circus attraction, I thought. People were going to react.

I’m sure a lot of it was in my mind. I’m sure I was self-conscious, reading intent into every glance and word and gesture, most of the time when it wasn’t there. But it felt like every last person in the town had turned out to stare at my huge form being paraded down main street. Me looking out over the expanse of lard occupying the truck bed and smothering my body. Blubber sloshing uncontrollably every time we turned a corner. Kids pointing at the enormous fatty passing by, their shouts being stifled by nervous and disgusted parents. Skinny people casting sideways glances at the pickup, stopped at a stoplight, as they muttered to each other amid broad grins.

And that was when I realized. It didn’t matter where I was — on the farm, in town, on stage with a million people watching. I had let myself get fattened past the point where I could exist in this world and connect with it ever again. Even when I was right in the middle of it, I was as far removed from these people as if I’d still been back on the farm. I’m never going to be walking around with them, shopping with them, just existing in the spaces they exist in. I literally don’t fit in, even if I could haul around all the blubber I’ve accumulated under my own power. And I’m just as alien to them — someone five times their weight, who can’t control their appetite any better than to get this big, someone they can deride or pity or judge with impunity.

On the drive back to the farm, under a starry indigo sky and with a backseat full of fast food from the town’s only chain, I had to wonder about my feeder. Whether he really was trying to get me out of the house. Or did he know? Had he already figured out that I was too big for it to matter where I was — that the thick rolls dominating my body and the sacks of fat hanging off my limbs would keep me his, even if I’d tried to get someone to help me leave? That this drive would do nothing more than to show me a world, a life, that my fat — his fat — would never let me go back to?

The thought lodged in the back of my mind as he gently helped hoist me, every inch wobbling and quivering, out of the truck bed. He led my bulk, step by exhausted step, back inside and to my usual divot on the couch. And as he got me comfortable, spreading the buffet of greasy, fatty food out before me, and as I bit into the first of ten thick double cheeseburgers, his too-kind smile and his gaze that lingered on my bulging gut for an instant too long told me everything I needed to know.

The farm isn’t my prison. My body is.

#extreme weight gain #weight gain fiction #ssbhm #feeder fiction #gainerfiction #gaining #gainer fiction #wg story #wg fiction #gainer stories

297 notes · View notes

snakeautistic · 3 months

Text

One of the things within the autism community I find the most offputting are the self aggrandizing ideas you see floating around about the character of autistics.

That we are ‘the next step in evolution’, inherently more moral than NTs, inherently more intelligent than NTs, should be the ones to run society, ect. Now as a lighthearted joke, like “autism makes me cooler than the masses” or like “NTs are annoying.”- it’s whatever- punching up as a marginalized group isn’t bad. But the problem comes when people begin to genuinely believe they have more value based on their neurotype.

I think we have to understand that is inherently not healthy to put marginalized groups up on a pedestal like that. It may seem better to single out minorities with positive stereotypes, but what it really does is serve to further ostracize them. (A similar example to this is the ‘model minority myth’ when it comes to East Asians!) Even if this notion comes from inside the community, it’s not acceptable because it’s simply wrong. Autistic people are, well, people. We are just as capable of being shitty and being good as everyone else. To suggest that we aren’t is in a way denying us full personhood. (Now, this isn’t even getting into the way this sort of autistic supremacy myth completely leaves out and further maligns individuals with higher supports needs who perhaps aren’t seen as quite so ‘exceptional’…)

This isn’t to say that Autistic people don’t often have unique attributes and skills. A common thing mentioned is how a lot of seeming geniuses/ innovators were likely autistic. Broadly speaking, there are some areas where Autistic people are at an advantage over NTs. But there are also, of course, plenty of other areas where we aren’t. I do suspect that there were certain evolutionary factors that lead to the development of the autistic neurotype- I doubt that some of its traits are simply a ‘defect’. But this doesn’t make it ‘the next step in evolution’ at all, it simply means that autistic people should have an equal place in society.

#neurodivergent culture #neurodivergent community #autistic thoughts #autism community #autistic community #autism #neurodivergency #neurodivergent #neurodivergence #autistic #actually autistic #neurodiversity #asd #autism spectrum

118 notes · View notes

yourlocaltreesimp · 4 months

Text

A christmas gift for @litrllyvoid, happy holidays to everyone

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You’re honestly not even sure if Christmas is a thing in Hyrule, but festivities in the dead months of winter were definitely a must. The cold seeped into whatever shelter or Inn you had, and that alongside the sun's light dwindling made the whole season rather depressing. Thankfully for you, Ravio caved allowed you to decorate his house for the season while the chain was resting. So with all the strength, confidence and will power you had, you set off on decorating. A pine tree was easily enough procured, although getting string lights took some extra effort and innovation. You just hoped Ravio wouldn’t charge you for all the extra things you borrowed (stole) from his shop. Along with the tree, you were able to make your own wreath and a garland for the obnoxiously ornate fireplace. Then came beads and tinsel, decorating the tree and rafters. Next were gifts, one for each member of the chain and Ravio. And for the final touch, be it partially a joke, a bundle of mistletoe under the entrance to the living room where you’d set up the rest of your decorations. Unfortunately for you however, the beam you’d decided to hang it on was simply too far up. But you were no quitter. You had to commit to the bit. You decided to go up the stairs just to the side of it, crawl over the bannister and jump onto the beam. With amazing luck, you landed and got one leg on either side of the beam to begin tying the mistletoe .

“Hey, I heard a ru-“ Ravio ducked out from the adjoining storefront and paused at the sight of you perched, mistletoe in hand. “My dear, what are you doing?” You smiled at the extravagant nickname he had for you as he took a cautious step forward, unsure of what to do.

“I’m hanging some mistletoe” You completely ignore the obvious intent behind the question, smiling down at him.

“Did it not occur to you that you have no way down?” That, admittedly, was not considered in the plan. “… I’ll help you down for some payment”

“Bet.” The word left before you could offer the deal much thought, tying the knot and making sure it wouldn’t fall. Content with your festivities fulfilled, you looked down at him. Your eyes met and yet he made no move closer, instead choosing to be enamoured with your presence. “Uh- Ravio?”

“Right, yeah” He moved right under the beam and you swung one leg over. You pushed off and he caught you. You both laughed at the absurd situation and settled. “My dear if you don't mind me asking, what about this tradition is so important that you strand yourself among my ceiling.”

“Please, I was hardly 6 feet off the ground” He raises one eyebrow in unamusement.

“Still.”

“Well…” You gather your words “Back home if two people stand under the mistletoe they have to kiss.” You flush, realising that you’re both still under the unassuming branches “I thought it’d be funny” He looks up, and his cheeks flush an adorable shade of pink reaching the same realisation you did. In a moment of confidence, and perhaps foolishness, you reach for his jaw and press a tender kiss to his lips. It takes him a second before he lets himself relax and place a hesitant hand on the crook of your neck while the other settles on your hip. When you pull back, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes search yours with a light burning in them. He breaks into a large bashful smile and removes his hands from you.

“Wow” He sighs, melting into your hand as it moves from his jaw to his cheek. He brings the hand that was cupped around your neck to hold your hand to his face as he kisses your wrist. You can’t help but pepper his face in light kisses, causing him to laugh. “Nevermind, I see why you went through all the hassle, you’re in charge of doing this every year”

“Do you just want kisses?”

“Maybe” His eyes glance away from you as his hand presses against yours lightly. You can’t help but give him one last kiss.

#linked universe #legend of zelda #linkeduniverse #lu ravio #ravio x reader #linked universe ravio #happy holidays #fir’s library

55 notes · View notes

all-you-need-is-paul-mccartney · 6 days

Text

James (Paul McCartney x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Hello! I've decided I have to make a chapter fic for Paulie because I'm in love with him. There are gonna be at LEAST 6 chapters in this fic, so there will be plenty more coming! Stick around, like and comment, and let me know if you want to be tagged when I release more chapters of this!

I want to personally thank my editor @strawb3rri-le for helping me make these ideas come into fruition. Literally cannot do this without you <3

Summary: Paul meets a pretty girl in the library one day, and is elated to find out she is oblivious to who he actually is.

This fic is written in third person from Paul's perspective, which is kind of different to how I normally write my x readers, so it might be a little jarring to read at first, but I just wanted to try something a little different :)

WARNINGS: I'm not certain I wrote any curse words in this one, but I'll say there is just to be on the safer side. Mentions of mushrooms/ fungi; not drug-related, but I figured I'd add that because some people don't like them. I use Y/n like 4 times in here around the end it drives me nuts, but it has to happen. I don't think there's much else.

This one is pretty safe, if I could rate it lower I would, but I'll mark it at T just to be on the safe side.

Paul could have watched the heavy raindrops hit the window pane for hours and hours. the grey clouds drifting in the sky above brought nothing but heavy showers to the streets of London that dark afternoon...

But that's not what he came to the library for.

He came here for some peace and quiet.

He wanted to get some more songwriting done, but the apartment didn't seem to be the place for it that day, and everywhere else just appeared to be crawling with girls. As much as Paul liked girls, he didn't want to be noticed, because then his day would have simply consisted of him trying to escape the hoards that would have started chasing after him.

The library felt like it made the most sense. People were there to read, study, keep to themselves; not to socialize with others and be loud. As long as he found a little private area to sit, he knew he wouldn't be bothered at all. He also figured, if he couldn't come up with any song ideas, he had tens of thousands of books to refer to for inspiration.

And that was the situation Paul was in at that moment. He'd been sitting in his little study nook for a while now, just staring blankly at his notebook, or out the window next to him. Usually the words came flowing from his mind, translated by his hand and onto the paper, yet that particular day, nothing seemed to be inspiring him.

He rose to his feet after a while, notebook shoved under his arm as he wandered off into one of the aisles nearest to him. He wasn't looking for any book in particular. Sometimes he'd just pull one off the shelf, flip to a random page, and read a random sentence in the middle of the text. If it seemed to be interesting enough to inspire even a single line in a song, Paul would use it. If not, off to the next book.

He began to do just that, with older books with worn spines, and newer books with colourful covers. Unfortunately, even after the fourth or fifth book he pulled from the aisle he was in, no inspiration seemed to manifest from what he was reading. He sighed as he pushed the book he was holding back into its place on the shelf before he made his way to the next aisle over.

Paul began repeating what he was doing before, reaching for a book, and flipping through the pages. This particular book, he cut three separate times, and not one sentence seemed to draw any kind of innovation for his songwriting.

Once again, Paul shoved the book back onto the shelf. As he stared ahead at all of the different pieces of literature before him, one book in particular seemed to catch his eye. It was green, with gold accents on the bevelling as well as the raised parts of the spine. Without a second thought, he reached up for it, only for his fingers to come into contact with someone else's.

Paul drew his hand back and glanced to his right, where a young woman about his age stood. He held his breath, fully expecting an overreaction from her at his presence.

Instead, she smiled awkwardly at him, her hand also drawn back close to her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were after that one," she explained gently, and Paul blinked, raising a confused eyebrow before looking back to that specific book. After a moment, he pulled it down off the shelf and examined the cover, the golden text embossed into the front cover reading 'Europe's Most Common Mushrooms, and Fungi: A Field Guide'.

"Do you like learning about Mycology as well?" She asked curiously, and Paul's gaze shot up to her face, eyes squinting a little at her question.

He was half confused on what she was honestly asking him, but he was also kind of surprised she wasn't pointing and shouting at the fact that she found a Beatle in public.

"... Mycology?" He asked back sheepishly, and her awkward smile warmed up a little at his question. She pointed at the book cover before responding with another question. "You know, the study of mushrooms, and fungi?"

Paul's eyes dropped back down to the book before cracking it open and flipping to a random page as he was doing with all the others. A beautifully illustrated picture of a mushroom with a porous underside presented itself to the young man, and his eyebrows furrowed at the image.

"That is a Boletus Edulis," she explained quietly to him. "It's a tasty gourmet mushroom found in Europe, as well as in North America."

Paul looked back up to her briefly before returning to the book and flipping to another page, a red capped mushroom with white spots being the next image to catch his eye.

"Ooh, and that one there is an Amanita Muscaria, also known as the Fly Agaric. It received its name back in the day because grinding it up and putting it in window sills and doorways would repel flies from entering your home."

"... You sure know your mushrooms, huh?" Paul asked carefully, rather impressed with the few bits of information provided to him by this stranger.

"It's definitely a good hobby to get into. Nothing beats going out onto the trail and foraging them for dinner." She paused briefly before adding, "I mean... the boletes are fine, but perhaps not the amanitas."

Paul closed the book up again before taking a final glance at the front cover.

"I'm uh... sort of grabbing books at random, looking for something inspiring. There needn't be a reason to hang onto this if you need it," Paul explained, presenting it to her so she could take it, and her fingers accidentally brushed against his once again as she took it from him.

The graze was so gentle, yet Paul felt his cheeks warm up at the contact. She was awfully pretty, he decided to himself in silence as he watched the look of joy on her face appear when she flipped the book open herself. She stopped on a page containing a drawing of a white mushroom dripping black ink at its edges.

Paul couldn't help but double take the image. To think there was so much about the world he didn't know a thing about... it made him feel so small, and insignificant.

She must have noticed his gaze on the page, and figured she'd teach him about one more specimen. "These ones," she began, with a rather excited exhale, turning the book Paul's way so he could see, "are Shaggy Mane mushrooms. They are edible and good, as long as you haven't consumed alcohol for a few days prior to, and post consumption. Then they'd be quite toxic."

She smiled at the tidbit and looked up to Paul's face, nose crinkling a little. "Isn't that just the neatest thing?"

Paul couldn't believe what he was hearing. He never really thought about mushrooms before. Sure, he'd seen brown and white ones before in the grass, or growing on trees, but there was something about the way she relayed the information with such passion, that just made it so interesting to him. It was unlike anything he ever experienced before.

"... You have a very natural way of describing this sort of stuff," Paul expressed, nodding his head to her positively. "I honestly never realized there were so many different ones."

"Oh, what I've told you doesn't even scratch the surface of the world of Mycology," she explained, the smile only growing on her face, and Paul couldn't help but smile back at her.

"... I should really leave to let you continue on with what you were doing," she said after a moment. "I do appreciate you listening to my ramblings. I know I can sometimes get carried away with this sort of stuff," her smile fell away a little. "Not many really care about fungi, so it's nice to talk about my interests with someone who's willing to listen."

Paul's own smile began to falter, rather upset that such a pleasant conversation, with such a pleasant person, had to end so soon. He hadn't encountered such a normal discussion in so long. Not that a conversation about mushrooms and fungi was normal, but Paul felt it was just so refreshing talking about anything but him and his fame.

"... well, I rather enjoyed what you had to say," he admitted lightly, an undeniable blush flourishing from the woman's cheeks as she appeared to smile again, a little brighter than before.

"Well... thank you, again. You're very kind," she repeated, waving her hand kindly as she turned on her heel and wandered off to the next aisle.

Paul's eyes watched her round the corner, and he stood there in disbelief. There was so much for him to unpack in his thoughts in that very moment.

She had to have been one of the prettiest girls he'd ever seen; minding her own business in a library by herself, and doing something she really enjoyed. Her intelligence on the subject showed through her excited rambling, which Paul could have listened to for much, much longer.

Her voice was so pleasant, happiness apparent in her words as she described every species effortlessly, as if she'd known it all since the day she was born. It left him wanting to hear more from her.

But the cherry on top of all of this, was that she didn't even acknowledge Paul as anything but another human being. Not some big musician with whom she obsessed over just because of his looks. For someone who remained so calm, and pleasant in conversation, Paul was certain she had no clue who he actually was.

And he loved that.

As much as fame brought excitement to his existence, Paul couldn't deny that the concept of a simple, normal life with someone who loved him for him, and not his popularity to the public, was something he seemed to yearn for more often as of late.

He loved the idea of being a nobody, especially to someone he wanted to be somebody to.

He looked over his shoulder to the empty space where that green and gold book once sat, deciding to reach for the one sitting next to it. It happened to be another book on mushrooms and fungi, but it had a lot more words in it than images. He flipped to the middle of the book and read the fist word he saw.

Symbiosis.

He felt dumb staring at the word. He knew there was only one person he could ask to inquire about what it meant. He glanced up through the bookshelves, eyes searching through the gaps of the works to find her.

She only happened to be in the next aisle over, scanning the book titles off the spines above her head carefully, too in her own world to notice Paul's obvious staring through the shelving units. She pulled a book down and read the summary on the back, Paul watching her eyelashes flit lower and lower as she absorbed the words like a sponge in water.

He noticed that as she read, her lips gently mouthed each word, and he soon found himself stuck in a trance. He observed how her tongue poked out between her teeth to mouth words with the letter L, and how her lips would press tightly together as she read words containing B, and M.

Who would have thought, Paul wondered, something so small could be so hypnotizing?

She made a small face of approval to the book before stacking it on top of the green one she was given by him, and she headed over to an empty table in the corner of the room. She faced towards the shelves, back to the wall so she could see the whole library from her spot.

Despite this, as soon as she made herself comfortable, she was solely focussed on the books, and her dominant hand wrote out her notes almost romantically, notebook pages filling effortlessly with information that brought her joy.

Paul was absolutely mesmerized by her movements. Screw the rain, he could have watched her for hours. He couldn't get over the little flick of her wrist when she ended a point, or the wonderful silent motion of her lips reading out the words.

She drove him mad in the best kind of way.

She flipped to the next page in her notebook, and Paul came back down to earth, realizing then just how creepy he must have appeared, standing close to the shelf, and peering through to the other side to watch the woman simply minding her own business from afar.

His shoes felt like they were filled with cement, but he worked up enough courage to slowly move towards her table, opting to stand by a nearby shelf and stare blankly at the spines as to not look so awkward.

What would I even say to her? was the only thought at the forefront of Paul's mind, the black mushroom book still in his hand, one of his fingers wedged between the pages to mark where that silly word was. He knew he was going to ask her about it, but he needed to smoothly segue into it, somehow.

This situation was rather a bother to Paul. He felt conflicted as to why he seemed so nervous about approaching her. He was a flirt, and he loved making girls feel giddy, why would this stranger be any different?

He was close enough that he could have called for her attention, but her focus was faithfully undivided, completely oblivious to Paul standing only fifteen feet away from her, trying to muster up the nerve to say something, anything.

After talking to her for only a minute and a half, and having parted ways for not even five more, Paul found himself deprived of her voice, longing to hear anything roll off her tongue, as long as it were to him. He was pining to have her attention so badly, but standing and admiring her from only a couple of steps away was only going to get him so far.

His palms were sweaty, and he wiped them on his pants haphazardly as he took a deep breath. He took one more second to nod his head positively for motivation, and he stepped out into the open, facing her completely. His heart pounded in his chest, but he pushed himself to take one more step forward. And that happened to be enough for her to notice.

The stranger raised her gaze up to Paul, the look of neutral concentration on her face softening into a pleasant smile.

Just that made Paul weak in the knees.

"Find anything inspiring yet?" She asked him in a friendly tone, eyeing the book in his hand as his thoughts flatlined. He didn't expect her to speak first. On the one hand, he was relieved that it indicated she was okay with talking to him, but on the other, it put him off-script, and now he had to actually use his brain to initiate discussion.

"I uh..." he struggled for a moment, glancing down at the book in his hand, as well.

"If I'm going to be quite honest... you talking about mushrooms so passionately was pretty inspiring. It's all I can think about."

The woman's eyebrows arched in surprise, a gentle dusting of pink spreading over her nose as she took in his words. She toyed her bottom lip between her teeth, and Paul couldn't help but drop his gaze for just a second to admire her mouth.

"You know, I'm really flattered that you said that," she expressed gently. "That means a great deal to me. Thank you."

Paul couldn't even feel his legs now, basking in her praise, as a flower would to the rays of sun on a warm spring day.

"... I couldn't help but grab another book like the one you're reading," he explained, lifting it up to show her, and the apples of her cheeks rounded as she smiled even wider. Paul hadn't ever recalled seeing such a beautiful face before.

"I... I saw a word I don't know. I think you're the only person who can help me." The confession made Paul feel a little self-conscious; he didn't want to seem entirely stupid in front of her, but she really didn't seem the type to make fun of him over something like this, and really damage his ego.

Without a word, she pulled the chair out next to her as a silent indication for Paul to take a seat, and he took the offer graciously. He set his notebook down onto the table, and then opened the book to where his finger marked the page cut. She leaned in a little to peer down at the text, and he pointed to the word, realizing only seconds after just how close she was to him. He could smell the faintness of her body wash, and it made his head swirl.

"... This one." He mumbled, watching her in his peripheral as she read the sentence in her head, and physically mouthing the words as her eyes tracked each letter.

"Ah, symbiosis. It basically means two different organisms are benefitting off each other in some way or another. We would be a good example of this, right now," she offered, tilting her head up to look at Paul, who's ears burned hot at the eye contact, but he kept strong and held it for as long as she wanted to look at him.

"You're keeping me pleasant company, and in return, I'm helping you learn about fungi." He thought her point was going to end there, but she quickly added on, "from a natural standpoint, fungi and trees have a symbiotic relationship. If it weren't for the millions of miles of fungal network underground, connecting all the living organisms together, plants wouldn't be able to communicate to each other, or convert their energy from one to the other to achieve optimal growth."

"So... everything would die without fungi?" Paul asked slowly.

"I believe so," she nodded her head. "They play a role in every step of a plant's life. Take a tree, for example."

She slid the green and gold book over to sit between them, and she flipped through the first few pages until she found a diagram of a tree's life cycle, pointing to the images as she rambled on.

"Fungi help them establish strong roots when they're young. Some fungi actually provide nutrients in the soil for the trees to use as energy to grow tall and strong."

She turned her gaze back to Paul. "Even at the end, if a mother tree is dying, she will begin to use the fungal networks below to disperse her energy to her kin, sacrificing herself so they can grow, instead. They use the networks underground to communicate in their own special way."

The young man appeared to be in a dream-like state, head in his palm as he looked on in favour of her words. But when he noticed she stopped speaking after a while, he blinked, finding she was smiling a little awkwardly again, as if she'd asked him a question.

"Hm?" He asked, propped hand dropping to the table. He felt rather guilty his attention diverted.

"... I'm boring you, aren't I?" There was a hint of sadness in her words, a weak smile at her lips, and Paul shook his head quickly.

"No, no! Believe me, I'm listening." He thought for a beat, face going warm again as he confessed, "I just... I really love the sound of your voice. You have a way with words, and I did get a little distracted by that." The young woman's face fell expressionless, and Paul continued.

"I may be rather daft on the subject, but there's just something in the way you talk about it that makes learning about it so much more enjoyable. Please, don't stop talking."

She opened her mouth to say something, but she shut it as she pondered what to respond to Paul with. Her face was flushed, and she was holding back a grin, which ultimately made Paul a little confident considering he was the one that made her flustered.

"... You probably say that to all of the girls you talk to," she finally replied, eyes casting down to the books to hide her blush, and he couldn't help but bite back a smile of his own.

"Well, none of the other girls I know are quite like you," he stated with poise, eyes still locked in on her, hands clasping together as he noticed her blush deepen, and a smile finally breaking through.

Paul then attempted to downplay such a strong interaction. Despite talking to her the way he wanted to, he didn't want her to be uncomfortable with how forward he felt he was being.

"What does your boyfriend think about your hobbies?" He asked. "He must be so proud, and fascinated by how passionate you are about all of this stuff, surely."

She looked back up to Paul, her smile weakening a little. "Boyfriend? Oh I uh..." she cleared her throat. "I don't... I don't have one of those."

Paul's eyebrows lowered a little. "... As in you just got out of a relationship?" He tried to clarify, to which she shook her head.

"As in I've never really... had one." She had a sheepish look on her face, cheeks now red out of embarrassment rather than flattery. Her response sent Paul's eyebrows shooting up in surprise, to say the least.

"... Never?" He repeated in disbelief. She pressed her lips together in a line tightly, shaking her head once again.

"This," she gestured to the books with her hand, "is my life. It has been my life since my early teenage years. Mushrooms and fungi are... strange, and because I like them, I guess that makes me kind of strange, as well."

Her self-dejecting statement made Paul feel bad. In his mind, someone like her not being taken, though washing the feeling of relief throughout him, didn't add up at all. Not even her fascination in mushrooms made her odd, in his eyes.

"... If it means anything to you, I think you're just absolutely lovely," he said, watching as her lip pressed into a little pout as she regarded his words.

"I'm telling you... every guy out there has no idea what they're missing out on."

Paul desperately wished he could read minds; especially hers. She didn't speak, and Paul assumed that the was simply trying to grasp for some words to say. If he were in her position, he wouldn't have known what to say, either.

"For once in my life, someone has actually made me speechless," she confessed, huffing a sigh as she rubbed one of her cheeks, as if that would have made her blush disappear.

"I want to tell you thank you, but that doesn't feel like nearly enough," she explained. "Honestly, your girlfriend is very lucky to have such a charming boyfriend. You have a way with words, yourself." Her comment made Paul laugh, but only once. Inside his chest, his heart was doing somersaults, but he was trying his hardest to keep his composure.

"What girlfriend?"

The woman gasped at his response. "You lie," she accused, yet Paul knew it was all in good nature by the smile on her face. "Even if you were, with a face like that, there's no way you don't have girls chasing after you all the time."

How the tables have turned, Paul thought; a little excited he found himself in the same spot as her only moments after he made the same mistake. Part of him wanted to respond to her with something witty, like "who says I don't?", but the other part of him didn't want that to arouse any questions that would segue into a conversation regarding his job.

He couldn't risk having her know everything, and fall for the idea of him.

"I guess I just... haven't found the right bird yet." He figured that was another truth he could hold by without entirely lying to this poor woman.

"That's fair. Well, whoever has the pleasure of ending up with you is a very lucky woman, indeed." Paul's cheeks darkened again, the compliment making his fingers feel a little numb. He noticed her eyes drifting to the window above his head before she suddenly closed her books shut.

"The rain's stopped. This has been a rather lovely conversation, but I do apologize. I must be leaving now."

Paul felt his stomach drop, and his mouth fell agape, watching worriedly as she gathered her belongings and rose to her feet.

"What-- you're leaving? Right now?"

He felt the same way he did back in the aisle when she cut the conversation short, full of disappointment that it all had to come to an end again.

"I was on my way to my parents' house before the rain started," she explained with a lopsided smile. "I'm helping my mother prepare for dinner tonight, but the rain was so bad, I figured I'd spend some time in here while I waited for it to die down. And I'm very glad I made that decision."

Paul nodded his head, realizing the last part of what she said alluded to making his acquaintance. He also found he couldn't be upset at such a wonderful gesture of kindness, her going to her parents'. "That is very sweet of you to do that for her," he said gently, standing up as well before she disappeared again.

"Before you go," he started, feeling hot beneath the collar as he tried to gather a little bit more courage to speak, her expecting eyes on him making him rather anxious.

"I would like to keep in contact with you," he paused briefly, "only if you want. I just... I've had a really pleasant time talking with you, and learning about your interests, and I would very much like to do all of this again."

Her cheeks rounded out again as her smile widened a little more-- Paul couldn't get over that damned smile of hers.

"You know... I would like that a lot," she finally answered, glancing down at her notebook before flipping to the last page and ripping it out. She folded it in half, and then tore it at the line, handing Paul one of the halves while she began writing on the other one. Paul watched with a pounding heart as she scratched out her phone number, and he began to do the same.

When they exchanged the papers, Paul examined the number she provided him, and then read the name she printed above it, a smiley face drawn next to it. he tried his best to concealing his excitement within.

"Y/n..." he mumbled thoughtfully, eyes casting back up to look at her. She laughed a little as she flipped the paper in her hand to show Paul, which only contained his phone number.

"That's me, but what am I to call you, exactly?"

This is where Paul found himself in another dilemma. He wanted her to call him Paul, but he also didn't want her putting two and two together if she recognized his name. He didn't want to entirely lie to her, either.

That's when a light bulb went off in his head. He realized the greatest loophole, and solution was staring him right in the face.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Paul reached for the paper again, scribbling his name at the top. But he wasn't using 'Paul'; he decided he was going to use his real first name.

"You can call me James," he explained, handing the paper back to her. She surveyed the name at the top of the paper before looking back up to him.

"Finally, a name to a face," she hummed in content. She then offered a hand out to Paul, to which he took so they could shake and say their farewells.

"It was an absolute pleasure meeting you, James."

It was the first time in a very long time Paul had been called that by anyone. He figured he would have hated the sound of it leaving her lips, but instead, it made his heart flutter. His face felt hot again, and it was apparent y/n could see the flush of his skin, because she smirked a little.

"The pleasure is all mine, Y/n. Please be safe." He finally let go of her hand, waving good bye as she did so as well, turning on her heel once again, and heading to the counter with her books to sign them out.

She slid Paul's phone number into her notebook as she walked away, and Paul just stood there for another moment as he watched her leave. He was was still feeling so many emotions now that he was alone, unable to help himself reaching back down to the piece of paper she gave him. He ran his fingers over her name and smiled a little to himself.

"Y/n..." her name was like a breath of fresh air to him. When he looked back up to catch one more glimpse of her, she was already gone. It made him feel a little empty, but when he noticed she left the black mushroom book for him, he felt just a little warmer inside.

Paul reached for the book, sliding her number into the pages, and deciding he was going to sign it out and try to learn a little on the subject. If they ever planned to meet in the future, he could try and impress her with some of the information he learned.

He didn't end up getting what he was looking for at the library, but he felt he was leaving with something he needed.

-----------------------------------------------------------

A/A/N: Okay, I hope yous enjoyed that! Part 2 will happen as long as I have people requesting it. I have ideas, I'm just missing supporters<3

Permanent Tag List

@culturefiendtrashqueen

@strawb3rri-le

(Ask/PM me if you wanna be added/removed to a permanent or chapter tag list!)

#x reader #paul mccartney #the beatles #george harrison #john lennon #ringo starr #paul mccartney x reader #george harrison x reader #john lennon x reader #ringo starr x reader #fanfiction #the beatles x reader #beatles fic #beatles fanfiction

37 notes · View notes

robinfrinjs · 11 months

Text

2023 24H of Le Mans - All you need to know

It's almost time for Le Mans! Tomorrow it's test days and next week we're racing!

This year we see the 91st running of the oldest active endurance race in the world. Its inaugural race was in 1923 which means this year its it’s 100th anniversary, this means it’s the Centenary Edition. the 24 Hours of Le Mans is recognised as the most prestigious and gruelling test for innovations and improvements in motorsport technology.

It’s not only a special edition because of the 100th anniversary, but also because we’re seeing the most cars in the top class in a while. 16 cars will take the start, representing the biggest manufacturers in the world; Ferrari, Porsche, Toyota, Cadillac, Peugeot & Glickenhaus.

Because it’s the Centenary edition, we have a special trophy for the overall winner as well. The 24 Hours of Le Mans, has sealed a partnership with the Monnaie de Paris. The oldest institution in France has thus created a unique Trophy, which will be awarded to the winner of the 2023 24 Hours of Le Mans.

Before the race it has travelled the world to places such as Goodwood, The International Concours of Elegance St.Moritz, Bahrain and more.

History

You might know Le Mans for the running starts. A type that has been used for many types of racing. When the start flag dropped drivers had to run across the track to their cars, climb in, start the car and drive away.

Those kinds of starts were obviously rather unsafe. Drivers would rush to fasten their seat belts to get as fast of a start as possible. This was the reason why it was banned in English racing from 1962.

In 1969 Jacky Ickx decided to walk to his car instead of run, and then took the time to fasten his seat belt. This meant he effectively started last but he still ended up winning the race. In this same race, a driver named John Woolfe died on the first lap after he hadn’t secured his seat belt properly.

This meant it was abolished the following year. Nowadays this type of standing start is only used in Endurance Motorcycle racing. Nowadays at Le Mans, a rolling start is used where cars line up alongside each other at a slow pace and start to race once the green flag is dropped.

The 24H of Le Mans has a rich history, but not a very pretty one in some parts. Back in 1955 one of the biggest tragedies in motorsports occurred. On the straight around the pit wall a huge collision occurred. Usually referred to as the 1955 Le Mans disaster, 84 people died and over 120 were injured. For many countries this meant an immediate ban on motorsport, though a lot of those bans were lifted within a year.

One country, that did not lift the ban, is Switzerland. In 2009 a proposal to lift the ban was defeated by the Swiss Parliament but in 2015 the ban was relaxed for electric vehicles only. Which meant Formula E could race on the streets of Switzerland, even though the ban was technically still there. Now in 2022, at the end of May the ban was finally lifted and motorsport is allowed again in Switzerland.

Please proceed with caution, the Wikipedia page includes one uncensored picture of the incident. The BBC documentary includes footage and pictures and the Reddit post does not include any pictures or videos but does link to the them.

/u/CookieMonsteFL made a post about the incident

The Deadliest Crash Is a BBC documentary on the 1955 Le Mans disaster

Wikipedia Page about the incident

Some more documentaries and movies on Le Mans’ history:

Truth in 24 and Truth in 24 II - The story of Audi’s victories against testing conditions and the might of Peugeot in 2008 and 2011.

Michael Fassbender: Road To Le Mans Season 1 and 2, Season 3, Season 4

Our Return: A documentary of our road to Le Mans 2015 - Porsche’s youtube documentary about their return to Le Mans and their eventual win.

McLaren at Le Mans: Pursuit of Perfection - The story behind McLaren's 1995 victory

The fastest ever lap at the Circuit de la Sarthe by Kamui Kobayashi

The Track

The track that is currently used is 13.6 kilometers long. It combines the permanent Ford Chicanes, pit straight, under the Dunlop bridge and through to tetre rouge as well as normal everyday roads of the Mulsanne straight through to Indianapolis and Arnage.

The track used to have a 6km long straight where Group C prototypes could reach up to 400km/h. This was changed in 1990 as the FIA required the track to have a straight no longer than 2km to be sanctioned. This is why nowadays two chicanes can be found on the Mulsanne straight. The fastest lap ever on the track was driven by Kamui Kobayashi with a 3:14.791 in 2017.

If you have the time, try to get familiar with the corner names as that’s often how commentators will refer to them.

T1, T2 etc stands for turns 1, 2 etc.

MP1, MP2 etc stands for the Marshall posts. This is important as yellows are often located by race control under the marshall posts.

Points

The race is part of the World Endurance Championship and this means there are also points to score for that championship. The winner of the race will receive 50 points, meaning this race means a lot in the championship.

Points to score:

Women at Le Mans

All credit for the info in here goes to Twitter user @smokingpuppy841 he created these two threads: Women at Le Mans & Why Women Were Banned at Le Mans

This year Lilou Wadoux is one of the women to compete at the 24H of Le Mans. in 2021 year she turned heads when she managed to completely destroy the field in one of the support series at Le Mans. In the French Porsche Sprint Challenge, she beat the field in qualifying by several seconds and then went on to win the race by a huge margin. Within just five years she went from racing in a Peugeot 206 to racing in a World Championship.

Last year she raced in LMP2 but for this year she switched to GTE as she has become a Ferrari Factory driver. This season she already took a win and hopes to do so again at Le Mans.

In 1930 Marguerite Mareuse and Odette Siko become the first women to compete at Le Mans, they finished 7th overall and second in their class.

Odette Siko also finished 4th overall in 1932 and took the win in her class which makes her the best finishing woman at Le Mans. In 1935 a record of 10 women competed at Le Mans, Anne-Cécile Rose-Itier was the best placed of them when she finished 18th overall and third in class.

Unfortunately in 1957 women were prohibited from participating. In 1956 Annie Bousquet, who was known as a spectacular but risky driver, tragically lost her life in the 12 Hours of Reims. As well as driving, Bousquet was also responsible for the preparation work, which involved picking up the car the day before and driving it 500km through the night to the race.

She started the race, but unfortunately, tragedy unfolded when her car would roll on lap 17 after it lost a wheel. She broke her neck and passed away immediately. Following the 1955 disaster which nearly ended motorsport, the ACO were very nervous about another accident. These nerves were only heightened by another tragedy at the 1957 Mille Miglia which saw the Italian government intervene to prevent a repeat.

These worries, combined with Bousquet’s reputation as a risky driver, meant they banned women from the event. A woman hadn’t even competed at Le Mans since 1951, which madethe ban, kind of pointless. The ban was eventually lifted in 1971 and this yearwe will see 5 women at the start again. Rahel Frey, Sarah Bovy and Michelle Gatting share a car in the GTE Am class while Lilou Wadoux also drivers in the same class. Doriane Pin drives in the LMP2 class.

All the women competing at Le Mans this year have already taken a podium in the regular season. While Lilou Wadoux even took two with a 2nd and 1st place. Expectations are high as all these women have the pace to win their respective classes.

Qualifying

Just like last year we will see the Hyperpole format. This sees a one hour session on Wednesday evening where all cars of all classes are allowed on track to set a time. The top 8 cars of all classes (Hypercar, LMP2, GTE AM) at the end of the session move on to the Hyperpole session on Thursday evening. This sets the top of the grid for each class. The remaining order is already decided by the one hour session on Wednesday. During the one hour qualifying session every team is allowed to nominate two drivers that can set a lap time.

Refuelling is forbidden during the Hyperpole.

For the LMGTE Am category, only a Bronze driver can participate in the Hyperpole.

Any car causing a red will have all or some laps deleted

Any car causing a red will not be allowed to rejoin the qualifying session

Schedule

This is all in local time which is CEST/GMT+2. Here’s a link to the detailed schedule in PDF version.

Sunday June 5th

10:00 – 13:00 FP1 (Official Test Day) 15:30 – 18:30 FP2 (Official Test Day)

Wednesday June 8th

14:00 – 17:00 FP1 19:00 – 20:00 Qualifying 22:00 – 00:00 FP2

Thursday June 9th

15:00 – 17:00 FP3 20:00 – 21:30 Hyperpole 22:00 – 00:00 FP4

Saturday June 11th

12:00 – 12:15 Warm Up 16:00 – 16:00 Race (24H)

Support Series

Not only WEC will be racing the coming week, also on the agenda are:

Ligier European Series

Porsche Carrera Cup

Ferrari Challenge

Road To Le Mans (Le Mans Cup)

Regulations

Balance Of Performance

As both the Hypercar class and the GTE AM class have several manufacturers running in the class, there’s a balance of performance in place. BoP” was introduced by the FIA with the aim of achieving a level playing field for the different vehicle concepts.

After an initial grading by the FIA, the performance data of the vehicles are acquired during the races via telemetry in order to adjust the balance of performance. This data input is automatically analysed and incorporated into the “BoP”. The most frequently used means of adjusting the performance level is through adding or subtracting weight as well as increasing or limiting the engine output through a restrictor or boost.

Here’s a short video on BoP

Tyre Allocation

Down below you can see the tyre allocation for dry weather tyres. GTE Pro is crossed out as that class does not exist anymore. Wet weather tyres aren’t limited. This is tyres, not sets. This makes it 14 sets for LMP2 & Hypercar during the race for example. Meaning the tyres will definitely need to be double stinted at times.

Drive Time

The maximum driving time for each driver is limited to 4h for any period of 6h. Every driver has to drive a minimum of 6H across the whole race or the team will be penalised. Every driver is only allowed to drive a maximum of 14H across the whole race.

What's a stint?

A stint is the time the car spends on the track between pit stops. So when tyred are “double stinted” at Le Mans, it means the driver didn't change their tyres during the last stop and only refuelled. Also allowed, is only changing two tyres on the car.

Safety Car Rules

The safety car rules for this year's race have been completely revised. These changes have been made in hope of having less influence on the race. As previously being caught by the wrong safety car could loose the teams a lot of time.

However, these new rules could be a disadvantage for the class leader as it does bring cars closer together. Some critisicse these new rules as they will “manufacture battles at the front.”

When the order is given to deploy the Safety Cars, all marshal posts will display waved yellow flags, and “SC” boards. Pit exit will be closed, and the pit exit light turned red, while the pit entry will remain open.

There will be 3 safety cars, starting from their respective positions, (as can be seen on the track map below). They will join the track regardless of where the overall leader is. All the competing cars must then form up in line behind the Safety Cars no more than five car lengths apart.

Pit exit green light will be turned on after the last car in line behind a Safety Cars has passed Safety Car Line 2, to allow all cars at pit exit to rejoin the track at an appropriate speed until they reach the queue behind that Safety Car.

When the Race Director deems it is safe to proceed with the merging process, the race control message ‘Incident clear – Prepare for Merging’ will pop up. This is followed by the Pit entry being closed Then safety Car B and Safety Car C will proceed to turn on their green lights, then cars which were positioned behind Safety Car B and Safety Car C will overtake their respective Safety Car and will continue as quickly as possible without compromising safety and without overtaking between themselves until they reach the line behind Safety Car A.

Once this is done, a pass around will be started. Any car that has their class leader behind them in the safety car queue will be allowed to pass the safety car.

After this the drop back procedure starts, first in line are the LMP2s. Race control will notify “Drop Back LMP2”, then all LMP2 cars will pull to the right-hand side of the track, then the rest of the cars, will overtake them to take position behind the Safety Car. Then the LMP2 cars will join the line again.

Once this is done, race control will notify “Drop Back LMGTE”. LMGTE cars will drop to the right side just like the LMP2s did. The rest of the cars will overtake them to take position behind the SC.

Once this is done it means that all Hypercars are together at the front, followed by all LMP2s and then the GTEs.

This wave around procedure won't be used in the last 60 minutes of the race.

Red Flag Rules:

During red flags it is not allowed to work on the car, only if allowed by the race director for safety reasons teams are allowed to change the tyres.

Slowzones:

To not immediately neutralize the complete field in case of an accident or debris. There's slowzones in place. The track is divided into 9 zones, when a slowzone is active cars will have to adjust their speed to 80 kph.

It is possible to have several slowzones going on at the same time. For example when an accident happens on the border of a slowzone, it is likely both zones will be deployed.

Penalties:

Speeding in the pitlane during Practice or Warm Up results in a fine of 100 euros for each kph over the limit. Besides that the driver's lap times leading up to the infringement are deleted. During the race the 1st infringement will result in either a drive through (between 60 and 70kph) or a 5 sec stop & go penalty (70kph+). The 2nd infringement will result into another drive through (between 60 and 70kph) or a 10 sec stop & go penalty (70kph+). The third infringement will result into a dsq in both cases.

It is prohibited to spin the wheels when a car leaves its pit, this will result into a stop & go. Aside from that refuelling may only be done when the car is completely on the ground which means tyres can't be changed during refuelling.

Links

Here’s a link to the regulations for this year’s race

Here’s a link to this year’s WEC regulations

Here’s a link to the noticeboard

Here’s a link to the timing results

Here’s a link to committee decisions

Media Guide to WEC

Might seem like a weird one to link but it’s really interesting to read. It goes into further depth about classes, and talks about previous winners etc

Entry List

R/WEC Scratchpad - This is the landingspage, you'll be able to find the scratchpad for practice & qually and for the race here

By this you’re able to catch up on any missed action, penalties and retirements. Obviously it’s difficult following a 24H race in its whole so this is a great way to catch up.

The Classes

The WEC grid consists of three different classes during the complete season, those are Hypercar, LMP2 & GTE. However for Le Mans two subclasses join the race. Neither of those score points for the championship (LMP2 Pro/Am & Innovative Car/Garage 56)

Each class has its own driver requirements, meaning both Amateur drivers and Pro drivers will be on track together.

Hypercar

Red number board with “Hypercar” next to it.

The current top class in endurance sportscar racing is “Hypercar”. This combines cars built to the LMH (Le Mans Hypercar) and LMDh (Le Mans Daytona h) specifications.

The ultimate aim of the ACO, FIA and IMSA is for these two types of car to compete against each other in the FIA WEC and in the IMSA WeatherTech SportsCar Championship and, therefore, to race in both the 24 Hours of Le Mans and the Rolex 24 at Daytona.

LMH (Toyota, Ferrari, Peugeot, Glickenhaus & Vanwall)

These regulations leave scope for a wide variety of architectures and allow a front-axle hybrid system to be fitted. They are designed to a strict set of requirements dictating maximum power, drag coefficient, and weight.

LMDh (Porsche & Cadillac)

In LMDh, the backbone of the car – i.e. the whole car minus the internal combustion engine, the body and the hybrid system – will be supplied by one of four chassis manufacturers: Dallara, Multimatic, Ligier or Oreca.

The driver line ups in this class consist of only pro drivers, with all drivers rated platinum or gold. Technically, lower rated drivers are allowed in the class, but that’s not likely to happen.

LMP2

Blue number board with “P2” next to it.

The LMP2 class features a spec drivetrain and gearbox, using a Gibson V8 producing 400kW, and a selection of three chassis to choose from, of which the Oreca 07 has been the chassis of choice. So much, that every single LMP2 car on this year’s entry list is an Oreca

Driver’s line-ups have to consist of at least one Bronze or Silver driver. When one of the drivers is bronze rated a car is automatically scored in LMP2’s sub class “LMP2 Pro/Am”

A Pro/Am car is easily recognised by the “Pro/Am” sign under the car number

GTE AM

Orange number board with “AM” next to it.

This is the last year we’ll see the GTEs at Le Mans as next year the GT clash switches to GT3 cars.

Although there is no Pro category, the driver quality in GTE-Am is still incredibly high. The grid features factory drivers, young stars, experienced champions, and every level of experience in between. Each car features one Bronze and one additional Bronze or Silver rated driver.

Innovative Car/Garage 56

Black number board with “IC” below it.

Garage 56, is reserved for innovative cars. In recent years we’ve also seen a modified LMP2 car that allowed paraplegic drivers to race. The car was modified and fitted with a braking, clutch and throttle system controlled by a hand-controlled steering wheel.

The Garage 56 entry runs outside the official classification, and will start last no matter where they qualify. This year it will host a Chevrolet Camaro ZL1 entered by the Hendrick Motorsports team for its maiden appearance at the 24 Hours of Le Mans.

This is a heavily modified version of the Next Gen NASCAR that competed in the 2022 Cup Series. The car will be symbolically numbered #24 and driven by Jenson Button, former Formula One World Champion, Mike Rockenfeller, winner of the 2010 Le Mans 24 Hours, and Jimmie Johnson, a seven-time NASCAR Cup Series champion.

Spotters guide

I used to make my own ones but there’s no use in making one myself when @GrosiakMateusz already makes perfect ones. You can find it on spotters.guide. The planned release date is June 6th.

Where to Watch?

Official stream OUTSIDE US ONLY - The Le Mans package gives you access to all WEC sessions (Practice, Qualifying, Warm Up and the Race) with a choice of on boards. It’s a rip-off quite honestly, it costs 13 euros and the platform is prone to crashing. If you’re buying I’d recommend just buying for the rest of the season, usually WEC will put up a discount code - PAID

Multiviewer F1 (Source) - The developer of this app says their goal is to get it ready before Le Mans. It will be integrated with FIAWEC.TV - PAID (Need FIAWEC.TV subscription)

Robin Frijns server, I will be streaming the WEC Coverage, all sessions from qualifying on Wednesday evening - FREE

Eurosport will likely be broadcasting the event in a variety of locales throughout Europe. This will be updated when confirmed - FREE WITH ADS OR PAID DEPENDING ON WHERE YOU WATCH IT

Radio Le Mans will be streaming live radio for every session (Including the test days) - FREE

For American audiences, unfortunately the Official stream is geoblocked for your area. American and English-speaking Canadian audiences can access coverage through Motortrend On Demand. Motortrend should have a free trial so you can try that if needed. - PAID (BUT FREE TRIAL)

Complete Broadcast distribution list

Live Timing

This is Official Livetiming it’s okay, but I recommend using the Timing71 Beta extension

As said the creator of Multiviewer F1 is trying to integrate WEC into the app as well, this would also likely include live timing. If there’s an update on that, i’ll post it.

I hope this is all, but for any questions, my askbox is always open!

#racing #wec #24h le mans

228 notes · View notes

cookinguptales · 11 months

Text

I went to go see a movie a couple days ago at the Alamo Drafthouse in Manhattan and I've been to one of their locations before and enjoyed it, but I ran into something really frustrating at this one.

Sometimes I look at design choices and think, "oh, they really didn't ask any disabled people what they thought about THIS one." Like, for example, I see this photo bandied around a lot like some super creative accessibility integration but any actual disabled person would tell you it's an extreme safety hazard:

Steep grade, sharp curves, and very little to keep you from rolling down those stairs if you make one false move. Plus, as usual, disabled folks who don't use wheelchairs are being ignored because there are no railings or anything for them to use on the "accessible" path. It's just bad design, as much as able-bodied people go apeshit over it.

Ran into that again at Alamo Drafthouse. It was really, really clear to me that they thought they were doing something innovative with their accessible seats, but all they did was create an accessibility nightmare. There were several problems with their "solution", which I suspect was designed more to maximize profit than anything, but I think a lot of them wouldn't be noticed if you've never like... actually been disabled.

I reserved a companion seat at the theater, like I do every time I go see a movie. For the uninitiated, most modern theaters have an accessible row (usually in the middle of the theater) that is at ground-level. There are large gaps between seats to be used for wheelchairs (either to sit in or to park, if they prefer transferring to softer seats) and then "companion" seats next to those for their loved ones to sit in with them. These companion seats are also often booked by disabled people who need physical chairs to sit in (i.e. are not wheelchair users) but still need to be in an accessible row and/or need space for medical/accessibility devices, service animals, etc.

When I got to the theater, I immediately realized that no one at this chain realized that companion seats are usually used in this way by the disabled community -- because the companion seats were not accessible. I looked at the row (in the back of the theater, sigh) for several minutes in confusion, trying to figure out where the wheelchair seats were. There were no visible gaps and you could only get to the entire row by going down a step.

Then it clicked. Two of the chairs were removable. My guess is that staff would roll the chairs out and a wheelchair could be rolled into the gap that they created -- but to actually get to the front of the seats, you had to go down a step.

So in other words, you are presumably supposed to arrive early if you're a wheelchair user (something not specified on the tickets page) and get someone to remove a chair for you, and the seats surrounding you are not accessible for transfer or for people with other disabilities.

(I guess this is great for the theater, as it allows them to sell those wheelchair seats to able-bodied people if disabled people don't show up... but it kind of feels like actual disabled people are shit out of luck here.)

Now, I had some train trouble so I arrived about five minutes before the trailers started. Totally acceptable for able-bodied people, but I can't help but realize that if I had been using my wheelchair that day instead of just my cane, that wouldn't have been nearly enough time to get the chairs removed before the lights went down. So that's already one extra step for disabled people.

But the companion seat thing feels like an even bigger problem. It's what made it really clear to me that disabled people weren't consulted in the design of this theater because clearly no one ever wondered what someone who is disabled but not a wheelchair user would do in this theater. There were literally no accessible seats for a disabled person who didn't bring their own place to sit.

The best case scenario is... idk, maybe they'd pull the seats out, you sit in one, then they roll them back in? But it just seems like that would have a high potential for injury, especially because the seats fit pretty snugly into the row. And it's really not an intuitive solution; there were no signs explaining how these seats worked or anything, so it'd be hard to even know to ask for that.

And again, none of this was mentioned on the website. I wanted to go to this theater because it was close to where I'd been earlier that day and because I knew it was by an accessible subway station (not... always a given in NYC), plus I do like the vibe at Alamo Drafthouse. I liked the pizza and boozy milkshake I had there. I thought the vampiric preshow, what I saw of it, was fun. But I absolutely would've just gone to an AMC or something if I'd known that they would not have accessible seating.

Being real with you, going to movies is one of my favorite things to do when I'm having a high-symptom day. It's dark, it's cold, I can sit in a comfortable chair for two hours. It's a way to get out of the house and do something fun even if I can't move much. So... I know that one step might not have seemed like much to them, but I was there because I was already in a lot of pain. And that one step hurt like a bitch.

And idk, man, call me fussy but sometimes I just want to have fun without it hurting! Like damn, I needed that booze after going down the stair, then having to go up a stair and falling into my seat.

(And a hearty fuck you to the guy next to me who was like "WHOA, JEEZ" when I toppled into my seat. Like damn, you see a visibly disabled person fall after dealing with stairs that should not have been there and then you get judgy? Shit, dude.)

Anyway... I told an employee about my concerns when I left and he seemed fairly receptive but also at a loss as to how to fix things. I mean, I think putting a warning that the seats aren't actually accessible on the website is a MUST but I agree that I'm not sure how to fix the problem with the way that the theater was physically built. The whole design was flawed, which feels in some ways unforgivable in a movie theater built in... *googles* Jesus Christ, 2021?

2021 and still making functionally inaccessible theaters. What the heck.

So that was frustrating! Also, this part isn't Alamo's fault but the office building the theater was under was also super difficult to get around in if you're disabled. The entrances/exits I could find all had stairs, but one had a largely unmarked hydraulic lift. I've used these before, so I knew how to use it, but I bet a lot of people would be confused as hell. (Especially how to get the door unlocked, lmao.) There were no signs saying where it was or anything, either. I only found it by chance.

THEN, when I was leaving, I found out that the accessible exit had been roped off for... cleaning? Repairs? idk. All I know is that I got off the lift and suddenly realized that I was surrounded by caution tape that had cordoned off the stairs I had just bypassed.

But it was the only accessible exit (that I could find, anyway) and I was essentially trapped, so I had to just like... pull down some of the caution tape and go around it and try to stick it back up as best I could. I hope I didn't ruin whatever they were doing, but I'm not really sure what choice I had.

All in all, just a weird, frustrating, and unnecessarily painful adventure. So if you're disabled uhhh maybe find a different location.

#img desc in alt #man I hope that wasn't a crime scene or something oops #alamo drafthouse #accessibility #disability #ableism

171 notes · View notes

necros-writing-stuff · 7 months

Text

A Ritual of Blood and Sweat: Collabo'ween Day 11

AFAB!Reader/M!God (Who he is is a surprise, don't check the tags you'll ruin it).

Warnings: AFAB reader but You is the only pronoun; non-con turned very enthusiastic con; biting and marking; bloodplay; a tad of breeding kink; rumours of cannibalism and incest happening in the world but they're not at all shown; a little bit of angst but its okay, they're alright; predator/prey elements.

Word Count: 4898.

Notes: Sorry again that it was a day late! Also Google docs can suck my dick, the grammar is wrong on purpose stop being blue at me. Also also the god is inspired by Hircine from the Elder Scrolls because I've been back in the lore pit, but it isn't him, just inspired.

It was the night the clan had been praying for. The crimson moon hung overhead, its bloody rays piercing between even the heaviest of foliage and bathing the world in its colour. The Hunt was upon them.

People all around the encampment were energised by the happenstance; drums beating in tune to the Wise Crone's song; red paint being applied in intricate patterns on all of those who would be running through the trees; those who would stay behind preparing a huge firepit to cook what was caught; the children running and screaming or dancing to the music.

And then there was you. Your woven basket knocked against your hip as you wandered through the camp, weaving through the crowds and responding to the blessed words that would be uttered to you by the rest of the Crones with their falcon-feathered brushes. It was your own great aunt who met you at the edge of camp, brushing your face, hands and the tops of your feet to afford you luck as you stepped into the night.

She couldn't let you leave without receiving your own painted blessing. The red dye was made up of the blood from the mightiest of beasts the hunters had brought down this year, its colour kept by the berries it was mixed with and the consistency by a clay found on the banks of the White River. Two swirls on your cheeks to bless your eyes, so that you might never miss what you seek. Two more on the back of your hands so that your strength never leaves you. The final two swirls on the tops of your feet so that your pathing remains sure. Your people weren't the only ones hunting tonight. The blessings ensured safety.

The Father of the Hunt would watch over you as you foraged for the mushrooms his crimson moon sprouted. Your duty was a sacred one. As the youngest trainee of the Crones, still virginal due to your devotion, it was you who would find the mushrooms and bring them back for the feast that would take place at dawn. For every hunter who made it back, the mushrooms granted further strength and cunning to hunt through the year. For those who remained it provided innovation and wisdom, to guide the clan to prosperity. For the little ones it warded against sickness, so that they may reach adulthood.

The final marking was made on your chest, right in the centre. An arrow, the Father's arrow. So that your heart would stay as true as his aim. Only you would receive this mark tonight. You see, it was a test as well as an honour. In order to progress in your training, your faith would need to be confirmed. Your love for the god who made your people who they are had to be strong. To prove that you'd decided the path of Crone not to avoid marriage, pregnancy, hunting, crafting or any other duty you were relieved of. Should you succeed and ascend, the arrow would be tattooed onto your chest permanently.

It made you curious how she then pressed her hand to your stomach, leaving a bloody handprint on your skin. "A family blessing," she'd explained, "kept only for first trials as Crones."

You know the truth of your faith. It is as full as the moon overhead and it keeps your head held high as you step into the forest. The commotion of the clan fades the further you go, but the smile gracing your lips never wanes. Why would it when you knew exactly where to go to find the mushrooms? It was as though the Father himself guided your steps - and perhaps he was. The hunters hadn't left quite yet. He had time to nudge you in the right direction while he also gave strength to the beasts of the forest.

Bears. Wolves. Boars. Very angry badgers. Foxes. Very… virulent bucks. Just a small list of things to watch out for as you travel. The Father was a fair god. What use was there in making hunts easy? In making them easy, the clan would become weak. Prey had to fight back in some way. His worshippers had to prove their worth by virtue of strength, fleetness or intelligence. That way, the next generation would be even better.

You are no exception to these tests. While you know where to go, you would have to make yourself scarce. The same beasts your clansman sought would hunt you tonight.

Weasel. That's what the clan called trainees of your stock. Little weasels. Because you had to be the most cunning of all to survive. Should you succeed, they'd begin calling you a fox. And when you stopped bleeding every moon, you'd be represented by an owl. Wise in your old age. The hunters had such monikers themselves, as did the other folk but their names were more flora based. For the prey you ate and the bounty of the forest you made your clothes, homes, tools and sacred items from were just as important to honour as the Father himself.

With everything bathed in red, the forest appeared so alien. Shapes blended together, odd shadows being cast as your ears listened for the slightest indication that a beast had found your scent. A branch cracking, or the soft patters of paws on the ground. You could only hear your own footprints and your own breathing for now. Not even an owl hooting in the night. The poor owl didn't do so well during the crimson moon. Its prey was able to see it coming better due to how bright the moon made the night. Hence why the Crones that honoured the creature left skinned rodents hanging from the trees so that they would not go hungry.

Your solitude was broken by the rushing of the White River. Its rapids were deafening the closer you got, but at this distance it was a gentle hum in the background. A comfort, letting you know exactly where you were and where to go. An ancient grove, with trees older than your people's songs. It was on the rotting bark of the fallen trees that you'd find the mushrooms. You were sure of it.

By now the hunt would be underway. Spears and bows would bring down many beasts this night. Claws and fangs would see the end for hunters that were unworthy. And yourself, should the Father find you to be lacklustre. It wouldn't be wise to sing and draw attention to yourself, but in your head you heard it. The song of worship you sang for him, detailing his achievements and tales. It kept your bones warm as a gust of wind whooshed past.

It couldn't keep your hackles from rising when you felt the eyes on your back.

Something had found you, but you couldn't judge what. You saw no creature when you surveyed the forest. No tracks left by it, either. That didn't stop the feeling from growing evermore the closer you got to the ancient grove.

A test, you reminded yourself. The Father was simply prodding at your nerves, seeing if you'd run back home like a coward. You wouldn't. You'd take everything he would throw your way. Even as an arrow sailed by your head and landed in a tree to your right. An arrow from a bow who's string you hadn't heard twang.

Your steps quickened, body going from tree to tree to break up the line of sight of whoever sought you out. Other clans lived in these woods. While your people were friendly with many, trading not only goods but healthy people of breeding age to keep the blood-pools strong, some clans were expelled from the larger community. Cannibal clans, the rumours spoke. Or those who were headed by a single male, breeding with his own spawn and treating them like slaves. Both were outlawed under the Father's guidance.

No doubt it was one of those cannibals seeking your flesh right now - wishing to feast on you in mockery of your devotion to your god. If only they could understand how He would not allow that.

Another arrow thunked into a tree, this one many steps behind you. A poor shot, but again you heard no bowstring. An impossibility. No bow, no matter how well crafted, could be completely silent when the arrow was released. It kept the hunt fair, so that a deer could have one last moment to avoid their incoming doom. Had dark spirits granted this hunter a weapon born of their evil? They'd given it to the wrong bearer if they were this bad of a marksman.

Blessed by the Father, your body danced through the forest, your feet never tripping despite the fear in your heart. His song remained in your mind, quelling every urge to run home and forget the mushrooms. The other clan's weasels would be meeting you at the grove, together you'd have the strength to bring down this cannibal. To let their blood feed the trees that resided there.

Another arrow, closer this time. Barely missing your leg, sticking in the ground with such force that it broke in two. No bowstring sang. It was too late, though. You'd found where you were looking for.

Taller and taller the trees became, thicker in body until they were so large a clan could hollow one out and live inside. One clan used to, its remains right in the centre of the grove. That clan is gone now. No one knew why. But it was their home you sprinted to, prancing over the rocks in the clear spring pool that surrounded it. Right in the middle it stood proud, still growing and flowering despite the emptiness of its core.

The mushrooms were indeed growing on fallen logs as you rushed past, but they'd have to wait until you could harvest them in peace.

Scrambling inside, your hands gripped the carved bark so that you could climb to a higher floor and wait for your cannibal to come after you. You could drop down on them from above, could pierce their neck with the bear-bone dagger you unclasped from your belt. Your basket was left behind, bait to draw the cannibal closer.

No other weasel had made it here yet. You were early, a point that filled you with pride. The Father truly did favour you tonight.

You found a ledge hidden in shadow. Everywhere else in the forest, you could not escape the red light of the moon. This ancient tree was the one exception, as though it was imbued with magic that kept it from even the Father's sight. Perhaps another spirit was worshipped here. Perhaps the clan died out because they did not see the wisdom of the Father. Apt that your cannibal would join them.

Shivers danced along your skin as you waited, knife clutched tightly as your eyes carefully watched over the entrance. Silence returned to the night, a curious companion for the anticipation that bubbled within.

They did not come. Not for what felt like hours. Your fingers fatigued in their grip, your legs begging for you to move as they grew numb from being still for so long. A smart cannibal, then. They knew you were waiting. They knew a fight would come should they step foot in the tree. You had patience, though. You would wait.

Even when the scream pierced the air, you did not move. A horrific scream, likely that of another weasel who had fallen to the wretched cannibal. They were not worthy to complete their ascent. Nor was the next you heard wailing for the Father to save them.

Their mistakes would not be your own. They felt safe here, surrounded by the sacred mushrooms. They forgot that the Father granted no breaks. You would wait until the first crack of dawn if you had to. You'd go home with the smallest bounty. Everyone knew that surviving was the true goal.

What use was a Crone if they could not apply His wisdom practically, as well as in spirit? How would they guide the people with only thoughts that lacked experience? It was a marvellous test, indeed. The smartest hunter sent to make the smartest Crones.

Something you were not, apparently. A heartbreaking realisation that sank like a blade in your heart as a real blade pressed to your neck.

"Here you are," a deep voice rang by your ear. "I didn't think one so devout would tread in this place. Everyone else fears it."

Your cannibal urged you to stand, still keeping his knife to your throat as you struggled to your feet on weary legs. They ached dearly from your stillness, those lightening-like pricks fluttering through your skin. You should have moved just a little to keep them strong.

How had he gotten behind you? There was only one way into the tree. Had the same dark spirits that had granted his bow given him other gifts?

Your knife was taken from you easily despite how tightly you held on. His strength was far greater than your own. Your mother had made you that blade. She made the basket that it was tossed into, too. The basket that would be left there, no mushrooms filling it.

"You're the only one left, little weasel. Your cousins all fell. A bad stock this year, hm?"

'What a boar's ass,' you thought. Gloating in his depravity, amused that he was the superior hunter despite his banishment from His favour. Such a wretched man, indeed.

"It isn't honourable to play with your prey. Slit my throat and have it be over. I'll be with the Father in his hunting realm." You hoped. Dearly, you hoped that He wouldn't cast you aside for falling prey to this man.

Tears pricked at your eyes, water welling further when your cannibal laughed. His forehead pressed to the back of your skull, a deep sniff cutting off his joy as his free hand came to press to your belly. Right against your familial mark. Right against your aunt's blessing. His hand was so much larger, eclipsing the paint and your hope along with it.

"You're already with the Father, little weasel."

That hand tore at your furs, hiking them up your thighs and diving between your legs to violate your core. A thick finger plunged into your cunt as you screamed in frustration, pulling at his blade hand with all of your might.

More laughter. More mocking as he willingly took the blade away and tossed it down to lay with your own.

"My body belongs to my god!" A wail that betrayed your heartbreak. A wail that was as feral as your fighting, body contorting and flailing as you aimed to kick, hit and scratch whatever you could reach.

"I know, little weasel. That's why I'm taking it." His smugness refused to subside. What reason would he have to be humble when he so easily kept you in his grip?

When your head reared back, aiming to smash into his nose, you met only the hard muscles of his chest. He was tall - tall and possessed by the strength of a bear.

With one arm pressing against your own chest like a fallen tree pinning you to the ground, the cannibal had no issue controlling your body while his fingers corrupted your core. He was like the wind, reaching everywhere and leaving no part untouched. Leaving a chill in your bones where there had once been warmth.

'I'm still fighting, Father. Please grant me the means to make it home." Would he hear you tonight? Would he grant you your own twang of the bowstring, your own last chance?

The wet shlucking noises from between your thighs betrayed His answer. He wasn't coming for you. He had left you as he had the other weasels. Your body was no longer deemed as worthy. Your spirit was too weak.

Bile scoured your throat, not easing the painful burn that had already made its home there from your wailing. Your cannibal had staked his claim with his hands alone. He had brought you a pleasure you were never supposed to feel. One you had forsaken to serve the Father.

Your cunt grew as wet as your tear-stained cheeks, the fight seeping from your body with every flick your cannibal made over that little button at the top of your cunt. The markings on your cheeks were ruined by your crying. The arrow on your chest smudged by his arm. At least the markings on your feet stayed, keeping you upright instead of collapsing like a frail dry sapling in a storm.

"You belong to me, little weasel. You always have, and you always will," he whispered before his teeth sank into the flesh of your neck. Such sharp teeth, breaking the skin and marking you in his perversion of the Father's ways.

When couples would marry, two kisses would be placed on either side of the bride's neck, the locations tattooed by the Wise Crone with the animal that the husband's family held dearest. Then the bride did the same back, and her animal was placed on her husband. From then on, their hair would always be tied up or cut short so that everyone could see their love.

The animal on your skin was just a beast of a man.

"You'll always belong to me." A snarled declaration, your blood smeared against your skin where his lips and tongue trailed.

When he moved you to the floor of the ledge, you expected him to take you from behind like the wild beast that he is. That your knees would scrape against the bark and bleed as your neck does under his brutality. He did not.

Your back hit the bark as he climbed on top of you; his impossibly strong hands ripping through your furs and throwing them away until you lay bare and frozen. What was there left to fight for?

The glaze in your eyes made him hazy, his face still a mystery you refused to unravel. Even as he lifted his loincloth, drawing out his cock and coming to press it into you.

Waiting for it to be done, you let your head fall to the side, finally blinking the tears away. The red rays of the moon still bathed the forest outside. A lone mushroom could be seen just waiting to be plucked on the carcass of a tree. It was the biggest mushroom you'd ever seen. They all would have been so proud if you'd brought it back.

"Look at me, little weasel. I'd have my bride look at me when I take them."

You don't. You keep looking at the mushroom, and in your mind your spirit is lifting from your body and reaching out to collect it.

His hand grips your jaw, pulling your face to his. Your pupils stay locked on to the outside world, locked on to that tiniest slither of hope. What if the hunting party came through the grove? What if someone braved a glance into the ancient tree and saved you from your cannibal? Would the Father let you stay then?

"Look. At. Me."

No one was coming. Even if they ventured into the glade, your cannibal was right. Everyone feared the tree. They feared that dark spirits would curse them if they came too close. They must have cursed you tonight.

You looked. He didn't give you the chance to look away again before he sank deep into your cunt with a single, splitting thrust. It burned like your throat did, only sharper and more painful. The pain couldn't distract you from what you saw. It couldn't stop a song surfacing in your head about the Father.

Dark hair, left long and wild. Green eyes, that would shine through the brightest light. Sharp fangs, a predator true. Patterns swirling in skin, to hide from view.

"There we go, little weasel. You see who claims you? You see what your devotion brought?"

A staggering breath escapes from your lungs as the tears well once more. His hand caresses your stomach again as he leans down to nip at the other side of your neck. You let your head fall back, exposing the skin for him to feel. To place his mark where he would like.

The pain feels like a gift when he bites, your whimper a thank you when he licks your blood and continues peppering your skin with his affections until his lips meet yours. Such a sweet taste, such a deep, strong bouquet that blesses your taste buds and sends you into a heady spiral.

Where there was once a burn at your core, a throbbing need takes place. Where the energy had drained from your body it came back tenfold, urging your hips to buck against his own.

"Sweet little one, what do you think this means?" His words are spoken against your mouth before he pulls away, head nodding down to your stomach where the hand print has been smeared all over your skin.

Your throat catches as you speak. "I- I was told it was a family blessing."

The Father of the Hunt chuckles, forehead coming to rest against your own as he takes your scent in again.

"Your aunt always was one for tricks and lies."

Elaboration is forgone for the thrust of his hips, pulling back and delving deep enough to have your lungs seize working for but a moment. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, the pleasure so great you may just faint.

"I paid your Wise Crone a visit last night. I told her to place this mark upon your belly so that you'd know what would await you on this Hunt. That you'd come to be my bride."

His movements continued, stealing your voice from you as you listened to his words. You could barely think, so deep in his spell had you sank.

"I heard your every prayer. Every poem you dedicated to me, I cherished. Every dance you performed in my name I saw."

His fingers swiped the blood from your neck, taking the ichor and painting his own blessings on your skin. But there were more symbols, far more intricate than those of your clan or any other. His touch was so warm.

"I've hungered for you since I first saw your beauty on the day your maturity was celebrated. For I knew then that your soul had been reborn."

Biting into the flesh of his forearm, the Father let his own life force trickle down his arm. It was taken, used to paint more blessings on your belly and over your heart.

"Reborn?" How difficult it was to speak when he made you soar so high, your back lifting from the bark as you yelled out when his cock pressed forward. Tightly, you held onto his shoulders, needing to feel his warmth to keep you from passing above the clouds.

With a wave of his palm, the wounds on your neck healed. You could feel how the scars were left when he traced each print of his teeth. There was no need to do so again with his own bite, the openings knitting closed in front of your very eyes.

"The songs know nothing of this place. Of how I lived here, with you, so long ago. Of how you were taken away from me by jealous spirits, kept from my realm - our realm. But I always knew your soul was too strong to be held forever."

Kisses come again, desperate and longing. His tongue dances with your own, that lovely taste chasing away the pain you felt in your heart at his tale.

"My love," he sighs it like a prayer. "The darkness that hides me as I hunt. The moon that guides my way. The very blood that keeps me alive."

Overwhelmed in the best possible way, your bite down on your lip, surprised to feel the pricks of sharp fangs piercing the flesh. Running your tongue over them, you find that they have somehow changed. That they have somehow become like his.

Lifting from the bark, you meet him as he comes down again, your legs wrapping around his waist as your own teeth aim for his neck. His blood tastes even better than his tongue, filling your very being with a strength that no mortal ever should experience. You don't wait to mark the other side. You have to do it now, you have to show him the love you feel bursting in your heart.

The way he moans when you mark him is animalistic, his pace quickening and his grip on your waist harsh. As though you'd slip through his fingers.

"Say my name, love. You know what it is, please. Please say it."

No other being would ever hear him plead to them. This, you knew. His softness was for you alone.

"Please, love. Let me hear it."

The blessings he'd painted into your skin had been absorbed, the forms moving to resemble the camouflaged coats of animals. Just like his. Your truth being restored by his blood.

"Eden," you sob as a wave crashes through your body, your muscles spasming as your cunt clenches down on his cock, wanting to milk him for every drop of seed he'll give.

Hearing his name spoken for the first time in several lifetimes must have been too much for him, as Eden follows your fall right in the middle of your own. Your name is spoken, it is repeated over and over again as he gives you what you want.

Still, he moves. Ensuring that every last drop is emptied inside before he stops to peer down at you with those bright, loving eyes. Eyes that say they almost can't believe what they're seeing.

"I came home." You never wanted to leave it ever again.

"You came home." He held your palm against his cheek, his eyelashes tickling a finger tip when he blinked.

The crimson rays of the moon began to creep into the hollow tree, bathing you both in the warmth up on the ledge. You used to keep a shelf of herbs on this ledge. You remember that, as you remember other things. Like the fire you kept below on a bed of rocks, warming your home. How pelts of fur had been draped over the entrance to offer protection against the elements. A few ledges up it led to a grander overlook, where the furs of your bedding had been.

"You certainly let the place go," you giggle as you look around.

Eden huffs, holding his body up on his forearms so that he is no longer crushing you. Not that he needs to, you love to feel his weight on you. Your marking bites that you'd left on him are still healing, the new overlapping with old, old scars you'd left in a previous lifetime.

"Been living out in the forest. Didn't like living here alone."

With the light, you can see him properly. He's mostly as he was back then, though non-mating scars litter his skin now. One crosses his nose. And his beard has grown quite a bit. He's handsome with his beard. How come he'd never grown it out back then?

"They're from avenging you."

Humming, you trace each scar, thinking of all of the spirits that had seen to your downfall. How many of them had he killed? How long had he hunted them? How close had he come to joining you?

How much had you missed?

"Don't think about them, love. They're dealt with. You're safe with me now. We'll get back everything we lost, I promise."

"Starting with cleaning this place up, I should think."

Your Eden was always so serious, a grounding force, while you brought the lightness he needed. A perfect balance.

"And you'll apologise for killing those poor weasels. And give the clans the mushrooms personally. Your sense of mercy has waned in my absence." You finish the sentence with a tap on the tip of his nose.

Your hunter growls, hiding his face against your chest. "Back for less than a day and you're already whipping me into shape. And I didn't kill the weasels, that was those cannibal twats. Who I did kill."

"I thought you said you were happy to get back all that we lost? That includes my bossiness, I think. And thank you, for killing the cannibals."

"Should have killed the one hunting you quicker, but the fucker had these pelts on him that my arrows bounced right off of. Nearly hit you a couple of times thanks to that. Got him in the end, though. Drowned him in the river and sent those cursed pelts down with him."

Chuckling, you twist Eden's hair between your fingers, carding through the locks with your nails and scratching his scalp until his body melted against your own. Most of his body, that is. One certain part stiffened at your attention - that part still inside of you.

Eden's head lifts from your chest, his gaze predatory. "The people can wait till the sun rises. You've been worshipping me all these years. Now it's my turn to worship you."

#spill my guts #collaboween #necro's fics #cw noncon #cw biting #cw blood #cw pred prey #cw breeding #for everyone in the tags trying to find out who the god is before reading hi #naughty little rascals #its #eden the hunter #who else would it be this is my blog of course its him

101 notes · View notes

inksandpensblog · 2 months

Text

The Chosen One, magic systems, and the writing flaw that somehow hasn't caused AvA any problems yet despite being a notorious immersion-breaker

Limitations breed creativity. Specifically, limitations in a magic system (or powers system, same narrative function) breed creative and innovative implementation of said magic.

Avatar: The Last Airbender is oft cited as one of the best and most readily-available examples of how limitations can benefit the possibilities and intrigue of a hard magic system. Each of the four represented elements (or four "powersets") has inherent limitations, which benders must devise ways to work around or compensate for.

I haven't seen Mob Psycho 100 brought up as often, in regard to how it portrays psychic powers as a magic system, so I might be going out on a limb, here. But I believe that mp100 is a good portrayal of how limitations can benefit the portrayal of a soft magic system.

Specifically, it shows how limitations don't have to come from within the system itself.

Psychic powers don't seem to have limitations in and of themselves, aside from potency, as we see across the series that one can use them to do pretty much anything; it's even stated that some psychics don't understand how their own powers work, only having some idea of What they Can Do with them.

What this means for the magic system, is that the capabilities of any particular psychic will often come down to what the psychic is smart enough to Figure Out how to do, or what the psychic is Personally Comfortable doing.

Thus, limitations are placed on the magic by the characters themselves, whether consciously or not (a conscious limitation would be a character choosing not to use their powers in a certain way; an unconscious limitation would be a character simply never having it cross their mind that they could use their powers in a certain way. In a well-written character, such unconscious limitations may be traced back to the character's worldview or biases, or a lack of knowledge or expertise on their part, or some other trait inherent to the character). Two examples of the limitations Mob himself faces are his self-discipline (refusing on a moral basis to use his powers in certain situations) and his physical condition (he's fully capable of psychically-enabled superspeed but refrains because it "makes [him] nauseous").

(It should be noted that A:TLA also imposes character-centric limitations on its magic, but I choose not to highlight them for the sake of the contrast between examples, so they won't be conflated with limitations originating from the system itself.)

Now that I've established a precedent for this post, let's talk about Chosen:

Chosen has an ever-growing laundry list of powers. Pyrokinetics and laser-eyes are brought up most often, but he also has cryokinesis, as well as some amount of influence over wind and electricity, if his ability to conjure storms is any indication. Plus there's the rippling golden shockwaves he uses to force the virus out of hiding on the computer, not to mention the vacuum-punch of coalescing wind and light that he's so far used only three times across the entire series (and all in relatively quick succession, to boot), and that's not even considering his ability to manifest portals at will (which seems to be an active development, considering he had to blast the first one into existence kamehameha-style rather than simply lighting it up), and then there's the typical superstrength that most of noogai's handdrawns seem to possess, plus extremely strong resistance against Dark's vira-tech...the list goes on. Some people [read: me] even consider his mouth a power, albeit jokingly. (Not his ability to eat things that aren't food, as non-powered sticks have done so as well; specifically his mouth. Though, since eating non-food items doesn't seem to affect him in any way, maybe it still counts. I wonder, if Chosen were to eat all the League champion data, would he gain their collective abilities as Purple did? Or would the data simply be gone, unless he decides to regurgitate it as projectiles?)

Wow, that's quite the ranged powerset! So, what limitations does he have to keep it interesting?

Well, he can't fly without his pyrokinesis. (Except for when he can. Granted, this is rare, and seems to only happen when he's using his storm-powers.)

He's not invulnerable against the glitch-attacks shot at him by the Rocket mercenaries. (Until he is. Do we actually know when he stopped glitching?)

The electro-dart he was hit with had him down for the count. (Until it didn't. We never actually see him pull it free from his arm, do we?)

Huh, that's...not many limitations being dictated by the powerset itself. What about character limitations?

Um...he has abysmal aim? (I've seen my friend @k1ttyadventurer mention this, but I have yet to find specific examples.)

He gets overwhelmed when fighting multiple opponents at once? (Considering the potency and diversity of his powers, this mostly sticks out as an odd weakness for someone like him to have. Especially after seeing how some other sticks fare against multiple opponents.)

He doesn't watch his back, leaving him vulnerable to sneak attacks? (This is the one weakness that I've been able to find him consistently demonstrating myself, and I can point to multiple fights where it has cost him.)

He tries to refrain from harming other stickfigures? At least, to a point? (This is partially conjecture on my part, but I invite you to consider why "being overwhelmed when fighting multiple opponents" would even be on this tentative list otherwise. Some of my friends have also headcanoned that Chosen tries to scale his strength and fighting prowess to match that of his opponents, but I haven't tried to find evidence for this idea in canon.)

Poor communication? (We haven't seen what influence this may have on his power use, if any.)

...well.

That's...not much to go by.

It's hard to really define any limitations that The Chosen One might be working within.

In fact, the easiest limitations to identify are the ones he has forced upon him by others, rather than any that can be sourced from the magic system or from his own character.

The ball and chain, which disable all but the weakest of his pyrokinesis and also hinder his range of motion.

The Box, which dilutes his potency to ten percent and even turns his own powers against him, all while trapping him in a confined space.

I don't think many would disagree with the assessment that The Box is the first time that we really see Chosen try to work around or compensate for the limits of his powers. But I think it only fair to keep in mind that these are unique, situational limitations, brought on by factors completely out of his control, namely the environment he has found himself in; if he were to leave the simulated art program, or if an ally of his were to gain control of its toolbar, these limitations would no longer be a factor.

And so, I put these questions to all of you:

what limitations do Chosen's powers have?

are they in any way influenced by character limitations he may possess?

how on ethernet has Alan managed to avoid the "Why Don't They Just" plothole for so long when he's created a character with seemingly limitless abilities?

if you don't, in fact, think that Alan has avoided this plothole and you have found yourself asking Why Doesn't Chosen Just, what answers have you tried to fill in the gap with? (Can be Doylist or Watsonian, but please specify to avoid confusion.)

if the magic is undefined enough to be feasibly capable of anything, how has Alan avoided the Harry Potter Film trap of all Chosen's fights turning into vague light-shows in which all attacks look the same and the system holds no actual sway over the outcome of the combat?

what does all this mean for Second, whose only limitations so far seem to be the need of a tool for his powers to be channeled through (the pencil, Dark's console, debatably the art program, debatably Alan's pc), a simple Lack Of Awareness/Connection, and his own creativity?

I'll also link this essay, which spurred me to gather my thoughts on this topic as it's something I've thought about on and off for a while now.

Have at it, folks o7

#animator vs animation #ava shorts #ava the chosen one #ava tco #ava #avm shorts #animation vs minecraft #avm #alan becker #analysis #meta

46 notes · View notes