#studded tyres

[the-offside-rule]

Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing) - Tyre Change

Requested: yup

Prompt: Teammate Max (a request I'm getting a lot)

Warnings: slight teammate bickering

"Oh what the fuck?" Y/n asked as she stepped out of her car, staring at the front wheel, the steam practically pouring off it from the sheer heat of it. "What the fuck am I meant to do?" She whispered to herself. She was in Monaco so she couldn't call her dad or brother to come help like usual.

On a moonlit night in Monaco, up in the mountains borderline middle of nowhere, Y/n found herself stranded with a flat tire. Frustration etched across her face, she heard footsteps approaching. To her surprise, Max had emerged from the shadows. His car had stopped right next to hers, with the window rolled down to talk to her. "Hi." She replied with a fake smile. As Max approached, he couldn't resist a playful remark. "Looks like your car can't handle the pressure. Nice to see not much changes during the off season." Y/n rolled her eyes, retorting. "Don't act like you've never had a flat, Max. And I handle pressure just fine, thank you." Max smirked. "We'll see about that. So have you called a breakdown service?" He asked. Y/n shook her head. "Why?" Max asked. "It'd cost me an arm and a leg out here! I was actually hoping a fan would just pop up and offer their services for free and it seems like my biggest fan is here." Max chuckled as Y/n smiled at him. "Let me show you how it's done." Max said, grabbing the tyre change tools from the boot of his car. "

"I- I can't change the tyre." She said. "That's okay. I didn't know how to until I was like 18? My dad nearly-" Y/n stopped him right there. "No, I know how to, I just don't have a spare wheel." Max looked at her, almost shocked. "Why?" Y/n shrugged her shoulders. "Well I have a tyre repair kit instead." Max stood up again from inspecting the tyre and practically towered over his teammate. "Why?" Max asked again. "Because when we were given the cars, I ticked the tyre repair kit instead." Y/n explained. "Why didn't you tick both?" Y/n's eyes widened. "You could tick both?" Max laughed and nodded. "Yes?" His teammate groaned and kicked a pebble on the ground. "Oh for fucks sake."

Max, not one to pass up a challenge, offered his assistance with a smirk. "Well, since we have the same car, I'll give you my spare tyre and I'll go get a new one in the factory. How's that sound?" Max asked. Y/n, reluctant yet intrigued, accepted his help. "Right, let's get to work."

As they worked under the dim glow of a streetlamp, banter flowed effortlessly between them. Max's playful jabs and Y/n's sharp retorts created a dance of words in the night air. "Grab the spare tyre." Max said as he used the jack to lift the car up. Y/n nodded and ran over to his car, trying to lift it but finding it difficult due to it basically being in a casing. "Oh don't tell me you can deal eith G-Force but can't lift a tyre!" Max joked as he heard Y/n struggling. Y/n scoffed, attempting to lift the spare. "I'd like to see you do this!" Challenge accepted, Max agreed to swap places with her. "Alright." Max stood up and walked over to the boot, lifting it. It seemed so easy when he did it. He smirked and began rolling the tyre over to her car.

Between lug nuts and tyre irons, they discovered shared interests and common ground. The tension of rivals shifted to the camaraderie of allies. As the tyre spun off, Max teased. "Maybe you should consider keeping a pit crew in your boot." Max joked. Laughter echoed across the quiet road as they exchanged stories, the rivalry softening into a genuine connection.

Underneath the star-studded sky, Max and Y/n shared a moment of understanding. She reminded him him much of himself when he was younger; stubborn and determined. The tire replaced, Max couldn't resist a teasing grin. With the tire securely in place, Y/n turned to her teammate. "I never thought I'd say this, but thanks, Max. I guess you're not as unbearable as you seem." Y/n smiled. "Guess I'm not your worst teammate after all." He remarked. Y/n, rolled her eyes. "Don't let it get to your head, Verstappen." She mumbled. Max winked, playfully nudging her. "See, I knew you'd warm up to me eventually. Now, if you ever need a pit stop, you know where to find me."

Their exchange shifted from rivalry to camaraderie, laughter mingling with the night air. Max's hands-on lesson transformed into a Canon event, turning enemies into reluctant allies. "Well, I'll make it up to you somehow. I promise." Y/n said. "Eh, a coffee will do but I'm not very picky about being paid back. I think it's payback enough that you're always behind me in race weekends." Max joked, making Y/n laugh gently. "Touché." The pair walked back back their respective cars, before they drove off into the night, the shared adventure left an unexpected bond between them – a connection forged on a roadside under the stars.

[homunculus-argument]

My boyfriend is the most straight-laced, old-fashioned, traditionally masculine kind of guy you might meet - such an exact image of traditional finnish masculinity that you could drop him off into any rural backcountry village in 1950s central Finland to work the local sawmill and he wouldn't look out of place. Though he's bisexual, he's still the kind of a guy who gets surprised remarks like "but you don't look gay" from people who apparently thought every gay man looks and sounds like some pink-haired, limp-wristed lispy flamboyant stereotype.

I am the Offensive Stereotype Limp-Wristed Faggot with pink hair and a nose ring, wearing studded collars and skinny jeans while pushing 30. I'm a city guy through and through - I make a living in art and I have never plucked a chicken, or changed a car tyre unassisted. I've been reluctant about my boyfriend's dream of moving somewhere rural, because it's not like my frail gay ass is going to learn to shovel shit or butcher a goat any time soon.

I told him that we can have his cute little hut in the woods, on the condition that he's going to be the homesteading domestic goddess housewife who tends to the chickens and vegetable garden and bakes fresh bread while I'm off working my own trade for money to pay for our salt and petrol.

He is contemplating the offer.

[blorbocedes]

inspired by @sionisjaune's tags and THIS nico in glasses art by the incredibly talented @movieboyfriend

Becoming a sports psychologist had been easier than Nico expected. 

All he needed was a bachelor's, which he already had, and a Masters' degree which took 18 months and submitting a paper on eating disorders to achieve. Board certification was annoying, Nico just doesn't have that kind of time, but the workaround was simply calling himself a 'performance enchancing counselor.' A corner office in Monaco, a shiny plaque with his name on it, and a star studded roster of athletes and C-list celebrities he'd hosted parties for during his influencer days for potential clientele, he was all set.

F1 hadn't been the goal but at the same time... who better than Nico, who knew exactly how motorsport could chew you out? His karting dreams were long over, but the smell of gasoline and burnt tyres and the roar of the crowd is still his forte. It just so happened Formula One decided mental health awareness was totally in style now, and one of their main sponsors held an event on mindfulness and how it can be achieved drinking more Heineken. Having a father for a World Champion is helpful, when it means one has lifetime passes, and this had been a prime networking goldmine; not for the drivers themselves and their fragile egos at the implication of psychological help -- but sliding his practice's embossed gold card in the suit jacket of one Toto Wolff.

Lewis saw therapy as something good and necessary, but ultimately for other people. And then Abu Dhabi happened. And then the W-13. And Toto had mentioned what Keke Rosberg's son was up to, how it could possibly help him out of his slump, and hearing that name after so long made Lewis' usual 'thanks but not for me' die at the tip of his tongue.

"I'm not going to imply whether all your issues stem from trying to make your father proud or ask you about your childhood. I would remember. I was there." Nico had smiled over his thin-rimmed circular glasses, with that knowing sparkle during their first unofficial session and Lewis was sold.

"As long as you don't expect me to call you 'doctor,' man. Jeez, who would've thought? Dr. Nico Rosberg."

After that, every week unless he's in LA, Lewis finds himself in Nico's chic Monaco office. It's not stuffy like a therapist's office; a turquoise wall and Nico's dad's helmet is on a shelf display, a German national Team jersey hanging on the wall, there's even a YouTube million subscribers golden plate. Lewis is sprawled on the bean bag, the sunlight from the floor to ceiling windows hitting in beams, and not for the first time Lewis has to reconcile the kid he knew has grown up into the adult in distinguished glasses and same golden blonde hair in front of him. Nico dresses like he's about to give a TedTalk, in his monochrome tee and blazer combo, and that somehow puts Lewis more at ease.

"The car's been so fucking shit. I'm not here to fight for, what, p10? That's not me. And the team..." Lewis rants, and it's so freeing to be able to call the car shit without adding in how they're improving bit by bit and other optimistic platitudes that don't mean shit in terms of the championship.

"And the team's been prioritizing Russell over you, I can see how that can be a source of frustration." Nico finishes.

"What? No. He's not -- the team's not. I'm saying, it's annoying enough the car isn't where we were promised it was gonna be, and now every week I'm getting asked if I want to retire, like what's this all for?" Lewis is momentarily taken aback by Nico's claim. Is that what people think? The team... well, George has adapted to the car easier and has been finishing above him but he hadn't felt any particular favouritism from the team... Although he's been the one running experimental setups and helping the team collect data while his teammate gets dubbed Mr. Saturday. The seed of doubt towards the team makes him frown.

"You don't want to retire. Not until the 8th." Nico points out decisively, getting up from his armchair to walk behind Lewis where his plants are.

"I don't. Even if no one believes me, apparently." Lewis rolls his eyes, hearing as Nico spritzes his plants. He could've sworn they were fake.

Lewis feels a hand on his shoulder, surprising him. "You're just going to have to prove them wrong. Like you always do." Nico smiles down at him with absolute conviction, squeezing it once, and then the weight is gone; Nico moving back to his chair.

The gesture was friendly, but it makes something flare inside Lewis. Something about Nico, maybe the fact he can open up to him the way he can't even with the team; maybe because Nico knew him before seven titles, before he was anyone, makes Lewis instinctively trust him in a way he rarely does with new people. But Nico isn't new, even if the glasses are. Lewis finds himself wanting to know more, wanting to fill the gap between the years.

"Now, let's go over your daily mindfulness affirmations..."

[inamindfarfaraway]

My Wreck-It Ralph Sugar Rush OCs

Name

Bicky Chocrisp.

Gender

Female.

Appearance

She has brown skin and dark brown eyes. Her kinky hair is black with light brown streaks, in box braids and woven into a shoulder-length ponytail with a red band that imitates a plaited pastry. She wears a glossy chocolate-brown leather jacket with a gold zip over a white T-shirt with a red heart symbol in the middle. She also has fawn leggings and dark brown shoes with red laces. Her white helmet is modelled after a chocolate-drizzled meringue.

Theme

Biscuits, sandwich biscuits in particular, pastries and meringues.

Kart

The Tartful Dodger. It has an eclair body, Oreo-esque wheels, a chocolate tart steering wheel, and the seat is two halves of a chocolate sandwich biscuit with cream cushions.

Fans

Chocolate wafers.

Catchphrase

"It's crunch time!"

Bio

Bicky Chocrisp: Smart cookie.

What Bicky Chocrisp lacks in raw power, she makes up for in control and cunning. She’s a master of timing, boosts, powerups, and all the other racing tricks that technically aren’t cheating - even if they may feel like it to those she overtakes. She’s clever, creative and sweet. But she can put up brittle walls of bravado to hide her soft, gooey centre and sometimes worries about being good enough. She likes to watch and analyse races and conversations as much as participate in them.

***

Name

Roxy Fizzlepop.

Gender

Female.

Appearance

She has fair skin, cyan eyes and dusty purple hair in a choppy, spiky pixie cut dotted with sparkly cyan crystals. She wears a sleeveless dark blue puffer jacket over a purple top with short, spiky ripped sleeves, a shiny cyan foil skirt, and dark blue boots with silver laces and cyan crystalline studs. Her helmet is dark blue, smooth and has a purple fuse on the top.

Theme

Popping candy and fizzy sweets and drinks.

Kart

The Tangnado. Its body is a soft drink bottle of purple glass containing tubes of cyan sherbet, its wheels are cyan fizzy tablet sweets with purple jelly ring tyres, its seat is dark blue and its steering wheel is a silver bottle cap.

Fans

Gummy bears.

Catchphrase

“Shake it up!”

Bio

Roxy Fizzlepop: Lift your spirits.

Roxy Fizzlepop is bubbly, buoyant and bold. She loves the thrill of the race. Win or lose, no outcome will deflate her overflowing cheer as long as she’s done her best, and she always does. Her strategy in everything is charging hard and fast ahead. She’s eccentric, easily distracted but tending to notice details others don’t. She feels all her feelings very intensely. If you manage to set her off by being mean, you’ll find that her temper can be explosive.

***

Name

Juicica Tutti-Frutti.

Gender

Female.

Appearance

She has tan skin, silky jet-black hair in pigtails with bands that imitate pineapple rings and green eyes. She wears a yellow T-shirt with brown seed prints, a translucent pink sweet wrapper skirt, yellow and green striped knee-length shorts and pink shoes. Her helmet resembles a raspberry and matches her shoes.

Theme

Snacks and desserts containing fruit.

Kart

The Boltberry. Its body is a slice of fruitcake. It has pineapple rings wheels, a steering wheel made of a caramelised apple slice and an orange segment spoiler. Green markings of star fruit cross sections decorate the bonnet and sides.

Fans

Toffee apples.

Catchphrase

“Zest wishes!”

Bio

Juicica Tuttifrutti: Fruits of labour.

An apple a day keeps the rivals away in Juicica Tuttifrutti’s book. This athletic health nut can be slightly overbearing, but she has her friends’ best interests at heart and dedicated diligence is how she shows she cares. Her spirit is patient and resilient, full of positive energy. She holds herself to high standards and would never grab the low-hanging fruit. She believes that practice makes perfect. It certainly makes her a great racer!

***

Name

Scoffia Confectionaire.

Gender

Female.

Appearance

She has fair skin and blue eyes. Her wavy white hair is styled in a chin-length bob that alludes to a popcorn flake. She wears a boxy jacket and trousers with thick vertical red and white stripes like a popcorn carton and gold buttons shaped like pretzels, and a golden shirt underneath. She also wears black patent leather shoes with gold buckles. Her helmet is gold and encrusted with glittering salt crystals.

Theme

Salty snacks like popcorn, nuts and pretzels that are often found at public venues and eaten while watching movies.

Kart

The Crackerjack. Its body is a normal kart shape, mostly red with white stripes. It has salted nut cluster tyres supported by straight pretzel spokes and popcorn flake hubs, a pretzel steering wheel and a seat made of golden-brown crackers with white cheese cushions. An exhaust pipe and rocket booster at the back are fitted into popcorn flakes.

Fans

Breadsticks.

Catchphrase

"It’s showtime!”

Bio

Scoffia Confectionaire: Worth her salt.

Scoffia Confectionaire claims that she isn’t here to make friends, and the only challenge more intimidating than overtaking her seems to be winning her over. She’s proud, sharp-tongued and loves to be the star of the show. But her integrity will always outweigh her ego. She would never lie or play dirty and doesn’t mean any real harm; she just thinks a compelling racing story needs a little drama. Earn her respect and you’ll find that her grit really enhances her subtle sweetness.

[fandomficsnstuff]

The Dragon's Daughter - 26

(Warnings: Fluff! Some slight awkwardness, more fluff and some angsty angst at the end my lovelies<3)

Dothraki will be in bold

High Valyrian will be in cursive

Note: I’m not sure how to describe the dress so I’ll link it here as always and then I’ll link it in the story: Medieval and LARP store (pinterest.co.uk)

And everything else will be linked in the story when they first appear if they’re anything with specific details.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Falia held up a pair of hanging teardrop golden ruby earrings, holding them up by Rhaella’s ears but the Queen shook her head with a small grimace, Falia putting them down and picked up another pair, a golden pair of small stud earrings with a red ruby in each of them, holding them up by her ears and Rhaella sighed and shook her head again. This was the sixth pair she’d rejected. “Am I being too much trouble-”

“No, Your Grace.”

“It’s not polite to interrupt someone” Rhaella teased and Falia feigned an innocent look “oh, please, Your Grace, forgive me! Please, Your Grace, I meant no offence!”

“Oh, be quiet” Rhaella scoffed with a smirk, Falia grinning with amusement. “What about the ones he remembered?”

“What?”

“The earrings of obsidian?” Falia suggested to elaborate with a smirk and Rhaella’s heart raced a little before nodding, Falia nodding with a smirk as she put the stud earrings away, going through the jewellery box, finding the obsidian teardrop earrings, holding them up to Rhaella’s ears in the mirror and it just felt like it fit… it just fit perfectly and she finally, finally, nodded her acceptance, Falia grinning as she put them away to put on later. “Falia?”

“Yes, Your Grace?” she answered sweetly as she moved about the small space that was the Queen’s changing area behind the divider, Rhaella fiddling with her hands “is this a mistake?” she suddenly asked and Falia stopped, turning to look at her Queen with a small frown. “A mistake, Your Grace?”

“Tyres Westford appeared so-... trust-worthy… accepting… yet he betrayed me… and I let him. I gave him the opportunity… I was arrogant and I played into his trap-”

“That was not your fault, Your Grace” Falia stated softly, approaching her Queen, taking the Targaryen’s hand into her own, a soft look on her face “never think that who you are is a mistake. You’re a fighter, a dragon” Falia stated firmly, Rhaella trying to hold back the tears in her eyes “you are a dragon and you will burn anyone who stands against you. It is never a mistake to open your heart to someone and take a chance on them, it is never a mistake to give people the benefit of the doubt. You are a Dragon Queen, it is inevitable that people will lust for you in more ways than one, but you are a dragon, and will not be enslaved, not even by your fears” Falia added and Rhaella nodded shakily, Falia giving her a soft smile “come now, Your Grace, you have a supper to get ready for” Falia stated softly and Rhaella nodded with a small smile, blinking away her tears and she pulled Falia into a tight hug, Falia quickly hugging her back with a smile on her lips.

“You are a magnificent dragon in your own right, your scales and eyes are mere proof of your beauty and strength. If you would ever do one thing for me, do this; do not doubt yourself or your scales and eyes, do not wish that you didn’t have them, do not pretend like you’re everything that you’re not. You are Rhaella Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady protector of the Realm, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, Queen of Mereen, the White Dragon and Khaleesi of the greatest Khalasaar the world has ever seen… your brothers are dragons, and so are you” Falia whispered and Rhaella nodded hesitantly “thank you” she whispered softly into Falia’s embrace and Falia gave her a tight squeeze before parting from her “do not thank me, Your Grace, all I ask is that you enjoy this evening, you deserve an evening where you can focus on yourself and how you feel. You spend so much time focusing on everything and everyone but yourself. You deserve a night of indulgence” Falia added, cupping her cheek in her hand, tugging a loose strand of Targaryen silver behind the Queen’s ear, her thumb gently caressing her cheekbone. “Tonight, you will not be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Tonight, you will be Rhaella Targaryen, a sister, a daughter… and a dragon” Falia whispered the last part before stepping back “now, what about the new gown you were given by your father as a name-day gift?” Falia suggested and Rhaella nodded, Falia leaving to find the new, un-worn dress. Jon knew that dresses weren’t exactly Rhaella’s priority, but he’d told her that he thought that one day, maybe, there would be a special occasion to wear it. Perhaps tonight was that special occasion.

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

Rhaella couldn’t help but nervously smooth down her dress, her heart racing as she waited out on the balcony, her obsidian teardrop earrings dangling from her ears ever so slightly whenever a gust of wind tried to take hold of them, the Targaryen signet ring resting on her right middle finger, the cold metal a soothing balm to her burning skin that kept her hot at all times, the cold festoon necklace with rubies hanging elegantly against her collarbones from around her neck. There was a knock on her door and Rhaella felt her heart race, turning to look over her shoulder at Falia who nodded with a smile, walking over to the door to see who it was. Her hair was pulled back from her face in an intricate style, being careful that not a single part of her hair was a firm braid, she had yet to earn one of those. “It’s Ser Jeor, Your Grace” Falia announced and Rhaella nodded to herself, taking a steady breath “let him in” she ordered, stepping away from the balcony and back into her chambers as Ser Jeor stood by the open door. “Good evening, Your Grace” he bowed his head, a handsome smile on his lips. He had cleaned up quite nicely again, and this time, she liked it… which she hadn’t expected. “Good evening, it seems you showed up after all” she joked nervously but Jeor just chuckled lightly “of course. Having supper with the Queen? I would be a fool to deny such an honour” he stated, holding out his arm and she took it hesitantly, allowing him to lead her towards the dining room, Ezzo and Ser Brienne behind them, following, Falia following as well. Rhaella’s heart was racing in her chest, it felt as though it might burst out at any moment. “You look stunning, Your Grace. You truly do” he whispered softly, clearly trying to make her more at ease and she smiled up at him “thank you, Ser Jeor… you look quite handsome yourself” she complimented and he smiled at her “thank you, Your Grace” he stated genuinely and Rhaella found herself more at ease…

They were almost at the dining room when Tyrion approached with hurry, as fast as his short legs would allow “Your Grace,” he almost panted, glancing at Ser Jeor before looking back at his Queen and Rhaella frowned, turning to Ser Jeor “I’m so sorry, could you excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll wait for you in the dining room” he stated and let go of her arm, watching her step away with her Hand before continuing onto the dining room as he said he would. “What?” Rhaella asked quietly in a hiss, Tyrion avoiding her gaze as he sighed “I have information about the explosion earlier today…”

“And it couldn’t wait?”

“It was the Guild, Your Grace…”

“Oh… That still doesn’t explain why it couldn’t wait?”

“We’ve managed to capture one of them-”

“Interrogate them, then-”

“Your Grace, we have. The man is but a footsoldier, he doesn’t know where the Guild is, but-...”

“But what?”

“But he did tell us something…”

“Well? What is it?”

“You were the target, Your Grace” Tyrion admitted in a whisper and Rhaella felt her heart race a little as she frowned at him “what? But the explosion was nowhere near us?”

“They got the location wrong but that means that they’ll only try again” Tyrion added hastily and Rhaella studied him before looking away as her heart raced. “We need to get you somewhere safe, Your Grace. Your father has suggested Winterfell and your mother has suggested Essos, Mereen is still under your control and it is across the sea-”

“I will not flee” she stated with determination, straightening her back a little “I will not run merely because someone has threatened my life. They murdered thousands of people with that explosion, they still stand trial and I will be there when they do, when the people get justice for the ones they lost” Rhaella stated sternly before looking at Ser Brienne over her shoulder “Ser Brienne, I want two Queensgarde watching over my father and brother, day and night, only the most skilled and those you trust the most. Ezzo, the rest of the dothraki who remained in Westeros, order them to guard my mother, by orders of their Khaleesi” Rhaella ordered calmly and firmly, then turning to Tyrion “find Gray Worm, tell him that I want his men on alert, more so than they were before. The people of King’s Landing are not safe and they need protecting… Afterwards, you will find Grand Maester Ricardo and Maester Tarly, tell them to send a raven to Old Town, any Maester they can spare, training or otherwise, will be sent to King’s Landing to help with the wounded and dead” Rhaella continued before sighing lightly “and what of your safety, Your Grace?” Tyrion asked and Rhaella let out a small breath as she nodded “I have a guest to attend to…” she muttered, walking past Tyrion with Falia, Ezzo and Ser Breinne leaving to do as told and Tyrion watched her walk away with a faint smile. She was good at ruling.

As she entered the dining room, Jeor quickly stood up when she approached. “I’m sorry about that, I-”

“You are a Queen, it’s an occupational hazard, I would think” he joked lightly and she chuckled briefly, smiling nervously as she nodded “yes, I suppose it is…” she muttered, Falia pulling out the chair at the end of the table for her and Rhaella sat down, Jeor sitting down across from her, on the other side of the long table that could seat four on each side. There was an awkward silence as the food was brought in, musicians playing quietly in the corner of the room, filling the awkward silence, and yet it wasn’t enough, the awkwardness still so thick it could be cut with a dull spoon. Rhaella glanced at Falia while Jeor was focusing on his food, a pleading look in her eyes and Falia subtly gestured to one of the guards’ swords, mouthing ‘training’ to Rhaella and the Queen nodded and looked back at Jeor awkwardly. “Who trained you?” she asked and Jeor looked up at her before smiling “the master at arms back home, Ser Yorrel. I trained often with my brothers, I’ll admit that I prefere Ser Yorrel, though” Jeor stated with a hint of amusement and Rhaella nodded as she ate, awkwardly glancing down at her food and unbeknownst to her, Jeor glanced at Falia, who gestured to a guard’s sword and mouthed the exact same word that she’d mouthed to her Queen; ‘training’. Jeor cleared his throat and looked back at the Queen “I’ve heard that you can fight as well, Your Grace. Might I ask who trained you?”

“I had a few teachers” Rhaella admitted softly, a look of shock on her face that he’d ask such a thing, instead of complimenting her on her gown, the way she’d done her hair, the necklace she wore… it was definitely a pleasant surprise. “I was trained partly by my sword shield and sword, Ezzo, the Dothraki rider. I was also trained by Ser Brienne, Lady Commander of the Queensgarde… and my father, Jon Stark” she replied with ease and comfort, Jeor smiling a little, glancing at Falia out of the corner of his eyes, seeing Falia give him a subtle nod and a wink. “That so? Do you joust?”

“No, no I’m afraid that jousting doesn’t appeal to me. But riding does. My mother says that I ride like my father” she stated thoughtlessly with a smile as she cut into her dinner, Jeor smiling at her “Jon Stark is a good rider? Perhaps he jousts?” he asked and Rhaella tensed up, her smile fading a little and Jeor noticed, his own smile fading as he watched her grab her goblet with wine, hesitating before taking a large sip and putting it back down. “No. My true father, my birth father, was Khal Drogo, a Dothraki horse-lord…” she admitted stiffly, looking down at her dinner, her fork barely poking at the delicious duck on her plate. “What was he like?” Jeor asked after a while and Rhaella frowned “who?”

“Your real father. Do you remember him?” Jeor asked casually as he began to eat again and Rhaella studied him. Few wanted to know so casually about a Dothraki ‘savage’ across the Narrow Sea, a horse-lord known for raping and pillaging…

“I don’t, no… he died merely two weeks after I was born” she admitted hesitantly and Jeor looked up at her with a genuine frown “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure he would be proud that his daughter sits the Iron Throne” he stated sincerely and she almost laughed, a smile forming on her lips as she looked down “I suppose… though the Dothraki have no word for ‘Throne’...” she admitted hesitantly and Jeor studied her before nodding to himself. “Your Grace, I’m afraid I’m having a hard time hearing you, would it be too much to ask if I could sit a little closer to you?” he suddenly asked and Rhaella looked up at him with a frown, taking in the mischievous look in his eyes and she smiled a little, sitting a little straighter “it wouldn’t be too much at all” she stated, looking over her shoulder at some of the servants who’d brought in the food, watching them move Jeor’s plate, utensils and anything else he had, moving it to the seat Rhaella gestured to. The one on her immediate right. Jeor sat down in the chair once everything had been placed and he smiled at her “there, now I can see and hear you much better” he stated softly and Rhaella felt her heart skip, only briefly, as she smiled shyly and cleared her throat, going back to eating. “You say you trained with your brothers, are you close with them?” Rhaella asked after a while of less awkward silence, Jeor nodding as he finished chewing “I am with some of them, yes, though I’m sad to say that I’m not as close with the rest of my family as I would like.”

“May I ask why?”

“We’re simply different people, that is all, they have different interests and schedules. What about you? How does it feel to have a younger brother?” Jeor asked and Rhaella tensed, her eyes on her plate and Jeor quickly looked at Falia for guidance, the woman wincing and it was obvious that this was a sore subject. “It must be different to have dragons for brothers” he quickly stated and saw that Rhaella loosened up a little. Very little. “It is-... what I’ve always known. They have always been with me and my mother…”

“If I may… I heard you had two other brothers-”

“Three…. I had three brothers” Rhaella admitted softly, sighing heavily “if it’s alright, I don’t want to talk about my dead brothers” she stated sharply, avoiding his gaze and Jeor nodded, hesitating before looking down briefly “I’m sorry if I have offended you. Please, forgive me, Your Grace. It was never my intention to-”

“I know it wasn’t, it’s alright” Rhaella stated stiffly, forcing a smile at him before looking away, Jeor looking at Falia, hoping for some clue how to lift the Queen’s mood. Rhaella had a look of discomfort on her face as her brows furrowed, her heart starting to race at the aching pain she felt and at first it was merely uncomfortable, until she started to feel a sharp stinging pain, her eyes widening and she stood up, the air knocked from her lungs as she leaned on the table, knocking over her goblet of wine as she clawed at her throat as it felt like someone had crushed her throat. She could still breathe but the pain was excruciating, like her throat was on fire, her widened eyes turning to Falia who hurried over, Jeor standing up when Rhaella did. “Your Grace? Your Grace?!” Jeor tried calling, reaching for her, helping catch her when Rhaella’s legs buckled, the Queen’s chair falling to the ground in the scuffle and the guards hurried over, Falia kneeling on the ground with the Queen in her arms, cradling her head “fetch the Maesters!” she ordered, some of the guards running off to do as told and Jeor was the first to spot the blood running out of the Queen’s nose. He grabbed the sleeve of his tunic and quickly dapped at her nose “Your Grace?! What has happened?” he looked at Falia who leaned down, her forehead almost against Rhaella’s “is it Raemor? Drogon? What is it?” she whispered, Rhaella barely managing to shake her head, the pain excruciating, keeping her from even making a sound, it kept her from breathing as the pain continued to torment her in her throat, her hand cupping her throat as it burned and Falia realised with wide eyes what had happened. “Where is the servant who poured the wine?” Falia asked in a harsh whisper, Jeor looking around the room, a concerned look on his face “I can’t see him…”

“Find him” Falia hissed and Jeor looked back at Rhaella as she gasped in pain, eyes shut tightly as more blood ran down her cheek from her nose, Jeor taking Rhaella’s hand into his own, giving it a tight squeeze before standing up, approaching some of the guards “you five, follow me! The rest of you, secure this room! No one leaves or enters without the Queen’s or her handmaiden’s permission! Let the Maesters inside and the Queensgarde when they arrive” Jeor ordered as he left the room with five guards. Ezzo and Ser Brienne hurried into the room with Grand Maester Ricardo and Maester Tarly, the younger one of the two Maester dropping to his knees at the sight of Rhaella, her skin pale as she was barely conscious, blood running down her nose in a thin stream, coating her silver hair in red as it dropped past the strands of hair and to the floor. “What happened?”

“It must have been in the wine, she suddenly started to grip her throat as though she was in pain. Ser Jeor has taken a handful of guards to search for the cupbearer who poured the Queen’s wine” Falia reported with a shaky voice, tears in her eyes as she looked down at a pale Rhaella, moving aside and gently relinquishing the Queen into the careful arms of Ezzo who picked her up, hurrying her to her chambers with every Queensgarde and guard around following, escorting them and the Maesters to the Queen’s chambers.

[firewireblog-blog]

Watch The Transformers One Trailer

Transformers One is the untold origin story of Optimus Prime and Megatron, better known as sworn enemies, but once were friends bonded like brothers who changed the fate of Cybertron forever. In the first-ever fully CG-animated Transformers movie, Transformers One features a star-studded voice cast, including Chris Hemsworth, Brian Tyree Henry, Scarlett Johansson, Keegan-Michael Key, Steve…

[cultfaction]

Transformers ONE teasers released

Paramount Pictures have released a number of new teasers for Transformers One, the untold origin story of Optimus Prime and Megatron, better known as sworn enemies, but once were friends bonded like brothers who changed the fate of Cybertron forever. In the first-ever fully CG-animated Transformers movie, TRANSFORMERS ONE features a star-studded voice cast, including Chris Hemsworth, Brian Tyree…

[cbk1000]

Ok, listen, since I am a bad person who said I would post this two weeks ago, and since Ao3 is down, here are the first few pages of the vet fic, and I will try and be the change I want to see by editing the first part and posting it this week.

The Dales in the morning light were ethereal. Less ethereal was the flat tyre which Merlin received, courtesy of a nail which some berk had jettisoned from their flatbed, and left in the road for such innocent recipients as a man barreling along at the speed of It’s a Bloody Nice Day, and singing accompaniment to Lady Gaga. So what had started off as a day of impossible sun, which brought out every colour there was, now was a little more dingy; now had assured that the lustre was off not only his mood, but his person, which had to crawl about under the truck to get on the spare with some cursing as multihued as the hillsides. There was a reasonable expectation of muck in his line of work, but he had not thought to be wearing it before getting down in it with whatever animal was ailing, and especially not before he had made an impression of youthful competence on some clients who had been used all these long decades to that shuffling figure of experience which had been bringing their livelihood into the world and seeing it humanely out for all their working lives.

So he had had to wipe off the worst of it with the paper towel in which he had carried his breakfast, holding the toast in his mouth whilst he used its wrapper to make himself vaguely presentable, and then going along in a slightly more subdued manner, for the sake of the spare, in the sunlight which urged him to speed. He made the drive for Pendragon Farm Stud fifteen minutes later than he had meant to make it, and parking outside the stables, got out of the truck with his kit and his wellies, turning back his sleeves and kicking the door shut with his heel. There was a man coming on down the drive, bearing the presence of Ownership; a blonde and rather fit-looking man round Merlin’s age, when he had thought to meet with one near Gaius’. The man stopped at the same moment Merlin stopped. He was dressed in tailored slacks and jacket, and looking at him as if Merlin had done something dreadful to him. Now he was closer Merlin noticed he was not rather fit but extremely fit; and his jawline was modelled from stone. In the sunlight his hair was one with the dazzle, as if he were wearing a cap of it; and then he opened his mouth, and spoke from the depths of Eton, turning himself, immediately and alarmingly, into one of those posh precious bollocks whom Merlin had brawled at uni. 

“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.

“Er, Uther? Pendragon? I’m Merlin. My uncle Gaius said he’d told you to expect me? Sorry. He swore to me he remembered to tell you.”

“I’m not Uther, I’m his son, Arthur. Where’s Gaius?”

“Back at the practice. He’s sent me to do his rounds.”

“So Gaius has sent some--lackey to check on our multimillion-dollar horses?”

“No, he’s sent his nephew. I’ve come to help him with the practice. He’s reducing his hours. He’s going to have me start picking up a lot of the livestock work.”

“Why on earth is he doing that?” Arthur snapped.

“Because he’s old as fuck?” Merlin replied, shifting the bag in his hand to the other hand. He would have liked to hit Arthur in the nose with it. It was a rather big nose; shaped for his face, and also for punching.

“He’s what?”

“He’s really old!” Merlin shouted, enunciating helpfully. “So he’s sending me, his far younger, more charming nephew, to start picking up the work that’s getting too hard on him anymore.” And he dimpled, to show that the charming bit was not mere empty wind.

Arthur ignored the dimples. “And what exactly are your qualifications?”

“Six years at the Royal College of Veterinarian Surgeons, like every other qualified vet. And about five years practising.”

“You look young.”

“I’m nearly thirty. I’ve been out of school nearly six years.”

“Well,” Arthur said imperiously, “Gaius has been practising nearly thirty years. So he’s just handing off his life’s work to some…little--upstart…baby?”

Now the urge to punch him was not only fomenting but seething; he had a little height on him, and practical muscle, gotten from wrestling pigs who did not want to be castrated, rather than the gym, and fancied he could give this bloke some manners before his fat head had registered there was any such lunacy as politeness being drubbed into it. He shifted the bag again. “Yeah, you sure look like you’ve got ages and ages on me; or is that just posh skincare? Are you actually an old, withered knob, or just acting like one?”

“Am I what?” Arthur blurted out, and spontaneously invented a new shade of purple; then there was a woman wedging her way between them, and saying, “What’s going on?”

“He called me a knob!” Arthur cried.

The woman looked at him from out of a face that turned his bisexual heart for a moment heterosexual; if she had stabbed him, rather than spoken to him, he would have graciously thanked her. “Hello; the new vet, I assume?”

“Yeah. Merlin.” And he held out his hand, as he would have done to Arthur in the spirit of human civility; except that Arthur had met neither the standards for humanity, nor civility, which included such difficult requirements as not being a rotting limp prick. 

“Morgana,” she said, giving him a small, smooth hand, which crushed out the life from his bones. And to Arthur she said: “Were you being a knob?”

“He was,” Merlin offered helpfully.

“Well, there you go. No surprise, really. Terribly sorry Arthur was your first impression of the farm, but you can always ignore him, and if that doesn’t work, run him over a little with your truck.”

Arthur was outraged. “You’re just going to take his side? He’s a complete stranger; I’m your brother.”

“Yes, but his claims are in line with your behaviour. Why don’t you run along and look at yourself in a mirror? I’ll show Merlin where to start.”

“How about the bloody gate where he came in?” Arthur snapped. 

“Gaius isn’t coming out. So I can look at your horses, or nobody looks at your horses till you find a vet who doesn’t mind changing your nappy to put you in a better mood.”

“Oh, excellent,” Morgana said gleefully. “I didn’t realise I’d be witnessing a murder today.” And then she put her arm through Merlin’s, and led him away, a thrilling experience, full of her perfume, and side breast. So he had got the flat tyre, and nearly come to blows with a twat; but otherwise the day was looking to be lovely.

Arthur had come down the drive to see a man who was not Gaius, getting out of Gaius’ truck; that was what he had registered, firstly: the dark head where there ought to have been a grey one, and the unfolding of a body at least a head taller than Gaius’ body. Then the man had turned back his sleeves from some forearms which had taken their shape from honest labour, rather than dumbbells, and looked up, and Arthur’s brain, very nearly audibly, had shut down its seething processes. He had been thinking about one of the mares to be sold; and then he had been thinking about nothing. He felt that all his systems had hiccoughed. He was stood in the centre of the drive, waiting as if for a reboot, whilst the man waved his face about in the sunlight. It was under a good head of black curls, with a few of them wild on his brow; and he had cultivated for some cheekbones that would have stood out on a model enough stubble to meet those standards which Arthur had heard were the standards of godliness. 

Then the man had lashed out at some perfectly reasonable questioning, and showed that those minor advantages of genetics were the only advantages of his person; and now he had taken himself off on the arm of Morgana, to subject the poor mares in their delicacy to his personality and fumbling. Whilst they were nearing their foaling, he would be putting the ungainly hands on them, where they had been used to the graceful touches of Gaius, who had known not only how to handle a horse, but how to handle society. This man had arrived from the backwoods, without his bearings, or manners, and thought he could treat regular men the same as he treated what sows or sheep that he housed with. 

Arthur stormed into the office, and took off his jacket, and very reasonably threw it. It brought the lamp down on the floor, and Uther down on him.

“What was that?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Arthur said. “I missed the coat hook, is all. Why didn’t you tell me there was a new vet coming?”

“I’d forgot,” Uther said dismissively, and turned back to his own office, and paperwork.

“Are you sure he’s qualified?” Arthur demanded, bulling through the door he rarely dared even to enter, let alone storm. “He’s very young.”

Uther was turning over some pages on his desk, looking at them, rather than Arthur, the same division of attention which Arthur had been getting all through his childhood, expecting it was manhood would make him worthy of eye contact; and feeling now, though the anger was still hot in him, the same smallness of being which he always had standing before the work that was Uther’s true love and only love. “He’s Gaius’ nephew. I’m sure he’s adequate.”

“He’s only been out of school a few years.”

“Gaius tells me he’s practised for nearly six years, Arthur. If you have concerns after seeing his work, then bring those to me. Otherwise your reservations are pointless. They’re horses. They’ll make do with anyone competent enough to keep them alive and healthy.”

So that was the matter, done and dealt with; and he had to go back into his office feeling troubled in himself, in his reaction to the lean figure getting out of the truck instead of the squat; and his reaction to his reaction. He had possibly behaved a bit abysmally. He had possibly made a small but reprehensible knob of himself, because some strange man had come to see to his loved ones. He sat down at his desk, and picked up a pen, and fiddled it round in his fingers, and set it down, and picked it up, to fiddle it some more; and then because there was still a boiling in him, because he was still unsettled in the roots of him, he went out the door and into the sun with his hands in his pockets, and made for the stables at the very casual pace of a stroller, out for a walk, and not an apology. He heard Morgana laughing, and strange laughter following it; and stopped outside of the barn from which it was emanating, thinking to turn back, or go on as if in oblivion. And he turned and walked into the opening, where the daylight turned itself in a flash of brilliance to dimness, and he was amongst those cool black pockets of solitude in which the horses drowsed or nosed at their fodder. He saw Morgana at the far end of the aisle, leaning on one of the stalls, and speaking, and laughing, over the partition which was between her and the cheekbones which apparently had blinded her to the wretchedness of their owner. Then she was tearing herself away, to give him a look; or rather, to slap him with it. “Be polite,” she said. “Or I’ll toss you out on your arse.”

He scowled at her “I’m twice your size.”

“Yes, but so are all of the grooms, and they like me better than you.” But she had shifted aside to make room for him, so that he could see over the door and into the workspace which Merlin had set up in the hay, where he had laid out the ultrasound machine, and now was lubricating the probe and his glove. 

“Be careful,” Arthur warned.

“Oh, crap. I guess you don’t know; the schooling’s changed since Gaius went. Yeah. They teach you just to ram it up there and stir it round a bit. Really, if the horse isn’t shrieking, you’re doing something wrong.” He looked up from under the curling fringe, going round behind the mare, and speaking to her in a far lovelier tone than he had used on Arthur. “Someone want to hold her? And by someone, I mean the person who didn’t call me a useless infant baby who has no business touching his precious capitalist wet dreams.”

Arthur frowned at him. “I just said you looked young, is all.”

“You literally called me a baby, which is ironic, considering you were acting like one.” He gave the mare’s hindquarters a little firm pat. “What’s her name?”

“Something dreadful like Enchantress, but Arthur and I call her Mellie,” Morgana replied, whilst Arthur with his hands still safely in his pockets continued to look over the scene with a critical eye, to see whether and where Merlin was failing her. But he was saying in the accent which Arthur couldn’t quite place, “Mellie, ok, you look like a Mellie don’t you, no, we’re not anything dreadful like ‘Enchantress’ are we; why are the humans giving us these silly little names, hmm?” and giving her a fond enough stroke down the spine, to quiet the flesh that was flinching there. Then to Morgana, he said: “Would you hold her, please?” And Arthur, slipping in through the door before Merlin could do anything more than make a face which people did not make when they were about to be gifted with Arthur’s proximity, said, “I’ll do it.” He had taken hold of the halter already, and was rubbing the fine velvet nap of her nose. If they had been alone he would have kissed the soft tip which he was soothingly stroking, and murmured to her as if they were confidants; but here under the judgement of one of the blue eyes, and the eyebrow doubtingly pointed at him, he gave her the little scratch, and some wretched trite rallying, which he did by clearing his throat, and saying in a firm voice, rather than a tender one, ”Good girl.”

“Just so you know, I’m the haunting type. If you let this horse kick me to death, I’ll come back. You’ll never know a moment of peace again; I know every sea shanty there is, and I’ve invented some of my own.”

Arthur wrinkled up his face. “She’s not going to kick you to death, you great girl’s blouse. And why are you inventing sea shanties? Can we expect you to be going to sea any time hopefully soon?”

“To prepare for haunting, obviously. You don’t want to be roaming round in the afterlife without the means to annoy people.”

“You don’t seem to be in any danger of that,” Arthur said, giving the lips which roamed over his palm a little fond tickle. 

[scifi4wifi]

Transformers One | Official Trailer

TRANSFORMERS ONE is the untold origin story of Optimus Prime and Megatron, better known as sworn enemies, but once were friends bonded like brothers who changed the fate of Cybertron forever. In the first-ever fully CG-animated Transformers movie, TRANSFORMERS ONE features a star-studded voice cast, including Chris Hemsworth, Brian Tyree Henry, Scarlett Johansson, Keegan-Michael Key, Steve…

[omnigeekempire]

Transformers One | Official Trailer (2024) - Chris Hemsworth, Brian Tyree Henry, Scarlett Johansson

TRANSFORMERS ONE is the untold origin story of Optimus Prime and Megatron, better known as sworn enemies, but once were friends bonded like brothers who changed the fate of Cybertron forever. In the first-ever fully CG-animated Transformers movie, TRANSFORMERS ONE features a star-studded voice cast, including Chris Hemsworth, Brian Tyree Henry, Scarlett Johansson, Keegan-Michael Key, Steve…

[tracksterman]

The level of grip provided by these studded tyres verges on the miraculous. You find yourself actively seeking out ice and compacted snow rather than avoiding it, just to test their limits and find out at what point you lose traction - and you generally don't...

I boshed these on before this morning's ride, having been forced to turn back yesterday (on the road where I came across the crashed Citroen today). Realistically, one only gets to use tyres like this on a couple of days each year in the UK but, when you do, it's such a hoot I'd recommend owning a pair to anyone. Used just a few days each year and stored properly the rest of the time, they'll probably last your entire cycling life.

[wjbs-bonkle-au]

Found an assembly of four pieces (a short shoulder-pad, a 2-stud pin, a pulley-wheel and a small tyre) on the floor and decided to make something based on it.

I might make this into a full MOC at some point in the near-future.

[wafflebloggies]

17. where it lies

back - next The street running west from the bus depot was a long, drab six-lane road, quiet in the early morning, lined by flat concrete buildings set a way back behind crumbly walls and gravel lots. A deep drainage ditch ran most of the way down between the road and these orphaned businesses, clotted with grass so thick that if it wasn’t for a certain floating, swampy appearance to the green here and there it could easily have been mistaken for a very lush verge. It was an easy kind of road to drive, probably, eventless and easy to coast down on the way to somewhere else. It was not really a road meant for pedestrians. With its tiny cracked sidewalk, clearly an afterthought, and breaks every few metres for drive-ins and turnings, it was an awkward sort of road to find yourself walking along at any kind of speed. And Antonio had to walk fast, because Mark was walking faster. Generally, Antonio could have kept up with Mark at any pace, but there wasn’t a lot of room on the little strip of broken asphalt, and every time he tried to catch up enough to draw alongside, Mark picked up his pace, like a deliberately aggravating relative of Zeno’s tortoise. Concern that Mark would miss his footing and walk into the swamp, or simply pick the wrong time to step off a kerb and turn himself into road pizza, kept Antonio about five steps behind, more than a little alarmed, trying to make himself heard.

“Mark, I’m sorry about your phone!” he tried, for maybe the fourth time. A white-green semi roared by, throwing up mist and drizzle from its long spooling wall of tyres, and he had to wait until it passed to try again. “I’m sorry, I was only trying to- Mark that’s not a crossing-” He darted over the little side-road after Mark, picking up his feet to avoid getting clipped by a Toyota waiting to turn. The driver raised his hands at him in a frustrated pantomime behind the windshield. “See, even this guy gets it,” said Antonio, skirting the car’s front bumper and hurrying to catch up again. “Mark, listen, I’m sorry, I promise I won’t-” “I don’t care about the phone,” said Mark. Antonio could only judge the veracity of this statement from his sped-up sort of trudge, the hard rigid set of his shoulders inside the soft blue quilting of his jacket, the way his backpack was drawn too tight against his back by his arms set tight in the pockets, like a thing that had been assembled in store to only pose one way, ready to snap if you tried to make it bend. “Well, okay, but the- that video, Mark, can we-“ “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Mark. “It’s fine.” “I mean, it’s clearly not fine,” said Antonio, making a sort of wide panicky arm motion that encompassed the whole way they’d come, the bus depot a tiny grey clam-like lump somewhere in the far distance, the great empty stretch of road under the early sun. “You’re not fine, you’re- you’re mad! I can tell you’re mad, and- and this wasn’t the plan-“ “New plan,” said Mark. “-no, well, just, hold your horses, Mark, could- could you please just slow down and- talk to me? Come on, I- I thought we were over this.” “We are,” said Mark, to the horizon, or at least the closed-down steakhouse that was in the way of it. To his credit, although he was rather out-of-breath, to most people he would have sounded fairly calm, but Antonio knew him far too well to mix up Mark truly calm and Mark making a cold-blooded, conscious decision not to engage his emotions or his full attention, even if he couldn’t see his face. “We’re over anything we need to be over.” He was still going very fast. The next intersection had a long pothole-studded gravel trap instead of a kerb, and it just so happened that he stumbled and slowed a bit on the runoff when he came to the next turning, and therefore walked neatly behind the large Securicor truck as it thundered across, instead of straight under it. “Jiminy Christmas,” jittered Antonio, hopping on the spot as he waited to be able to cross and catch up. When he did, or at least got back to within raised-voice range, he said, “I’m just worried, Mark! I just want you to-” “What?” There was an edge to Mark’s voice now, something that might have been mockery if it hadn’t sounded so flat. “What do you want me to do? Smile? Turn that frown upside down?” “You know that’s not what I meant, Mark. Sometimes I feel like that’s the kind of thing you want me to say. Jeez, it’s like- it’s like you’re testing me or something.” Mark did look at him, then. His step faltered as if his legs had temporarily forgotten which order to go in, almost tripping him, and he stared back at Antonio like he’d just casually remarked that the Everglades had finally lost their patience with the planet and flipped back up into space. “If you were me,” he said, at last, “if you can imagine that.” He paused. “If you can imagine. If you were me, would you trust you?” Antonio had to unravel the various pieces of the question’s construction before finding an answer. There were at least less opportunities for Mark to turn himself into a statistic on this block, most of it being a wide fenced-off opening to what had once been a minigolf course. Attempts had been made to catch the attention of passing traffic, the most obvious remaining being a goofy concrete alien about ten feet high. It had probably looked pretty astonishing when the course had been open, when the CRAZY SPACE GOLF sign had been fresh and new, but time and neglect and the Florida heat had not been kind to it. The green-and-pink neon paint was holding on in shreds, and the stained rebar was poking through the concrete in places, giving the lumpy tentacles and clustering eyeballs a grim, zombie-ish look. “I mean... I trust you, Mark.” “I bet,” said Mark, drily. “Last time I checked I can’t tear fucking doors in half with my hands, why wouldn’t you trust me? What could I do to you?” “That’s- not really fair.” “I don’t have to be fair,” Mark snapped back, so quick he seemed to have been sitting on the response. “But you tell me, what’s fair, Antonio? Personally, I feel like fair is not blaming you for everything you did before you- before you’re telling me you ‘changed.’ See, I don’t get to know what that really means,” he said, taking a few incidental steps backwards, describing a vague shape in the air with the hand not wrapped in a death-grip around his backpack strap. “I just have to believe you’re not lying, and I’m a little short on belief, here. Have you got any idea how much I hated you?” “Eeegh,” said Antonio, sucking an unhappy little breath in his teeth. “Is, uh, is that a rhetorical-” “So, yeah, I’m being fair, and I’m testing you. Like how I took you to Dad’s place with me, because I thought watching me dig around and take all that stuff would upset you,” he said, with a clear and vicious emphasis, “if you were still just there to make sure I didn’t make trouble for them.” “What about the part where your new dad showed up and we pushed him off the balcony?” Mark looked away, across the empty yellow swathe of asphalt. The rain was getting a little harder, speckling the reflection of the road in his glasses with a fine blueish mist. “That... wasn’t part of the test.” “So- so when do you stop testing me, Mark? Because- because while you’re doing that, let’s just shelve that for a moment,” Antonio made a sort of cubing gesture, defining the limits of an invisible object between his hands, squaring it up neatly like a whole stack of Better Homes, “just tabling all that for a second here, if we can just have a little ol’ chat about all the stuff we’re doing now? I totally get it, and I get why it’s important to you, but- heh- I just- I’m not sure you know how much they...” It felt as if he was choosing all the wrong words, but the better ones were hiding. Antonio hesitated, swallowing another terminally nervous chuckle, finding himself suddenly way too far in to put on the brakes, with Mark’s eyes on him and his tongue withering in his mouth. He gathered his thoughts, or at least as many of them that he could drive into a corner. They kept getting away from him, scrambling everywhere like frightened sheep. The place he’d arrived at felt dangerous, heavy, needling in a way he didn’t fully understand. His guts felt tight, the bug drawing close, gripping like it was trying to hold him together. “I’m not sure you- I don’t think you understand, they really don’t like this kinda thing, Mark. They don’t like having their… they don’t like it when people…” He struggled. “I’m worried, if we go too far, I mean, if we don’t stop before… if…” “Stop what?” asked Mark. “Well, stop making them mad.” Yielding to a burst of nervous energy, Antonio grabbed a bunch of the front of his shirt in both hands and wiped his running nose and eye on it. “Stop poking that big ol’ bear so much, Mark. Be-” “How much,” said Mark. “Poking. Am I allowed. To do.” Antonio thought, not for the first time, that a person really should need to apply for some sort of license to use punctuation like Mark did, as if it was a deadly weapon. The next minute, he was too frightened to think anything at all, because Mark started walking backwards again, eyes fixed on him, and now with a sudden deliberate movement he had stuck out his thumb and was holding it out as he walked, aimed towards the road. “What are you doing, Mark?” Following again, quite slowly now, Antonio tried to smile, although it felt like the effort nearly tore something, just from the sheer resistance of his throbbing face and everything involved in the mechanism. “Is this another kind of test?” “Yeah,” said Mark. A few cars had passed without any signs of stopping, and he glanced to the road and stepped closer to the verge, for better visibility. “Sure. It’s the kind of test where I leave, and you don’t get to know where I’m going.” He kept walking. Antonio watched helplessly, fighting the urge to sprint forwards. It was hard enough for him to hold on to time and place, and his worry for Mark and his panic twisted the world, blurring it until he couldn’t be sure whether he was trying to keep pace with Mark on a long road under the rainy morning sky, or in a black twisting hallway where the ceiling gaped like a ruptured chest, if he was chasing after Mark or if Mark was trailing doggedly behind, or if there was no difference and they were trapped, chained to an unstoppable thing beyond both of them, a turning wheel crushing them both. Struggling to escape, going nowhere, dragging each other along or sitting side by side, his right shoulder to Mark’s left, meaningless cycles of motion and stillness, over and over and over and- The thought tripped him up, stopped him where nothing physical could have. Somewhere in his head he knew that he did not want to be trapped and he did not want Mark to be trapped, and although when he thought of Mark just picking up and being carried away without him the panic was horrible, that was all it was. The more he thought, the more something else rose under it, hot and lurching, destructive and new. He stuck out his thumb. Mark looked at it, and him, his own thumb still out like he’d forgotten it was there. “What- what’re you doing?” “Well, I guess I’m helping you get a ride, Mark,” said Antonio, with a kind of cheerful, gritted-teeth mania. The heat was behind his eyes, sending words into his mouth that didn’t come from anywhere he recognized, and he had to work hard to keep them out. “Two thumbs are better than one!” “I don’t want your help!” “It’s literally the only thing I can do, Mark!” “That’s not my problem!” yelped Mark, with a kind of frustrated low-energy flail that nearly sent him into the swamp. “You- you think anyone’s gonna stop for you? You know what you look like right now?” “Okay, well, you could be a little less personal!” “You could fix your fucking face,” said Mark, deliberately and very loudly. His voice carried across the maybe ten feet that separated them. The minigolf alien loomed above, almost exactly between, set back a little from the sidewalk, its mouth a yawning cave studded with goofy tombstone teeth. A dirty sign in one disintegrating feeler proclaimed that Nine Crazy Golf Holes could be played for Nine Dollars, including the Unmissable Gravity Well, and that the prizes were Out of This World. “Wow,” said Antonio, because what did you even say to that, honestly, “wow, Mark, you can’t just ask someone to-” “Do you think making me look at that little ouchie all day is gonna make me feel- what? Sorry for you? Or bad that I-” Mark made another sharp movement, like he was pushing something sharply away, forcefully sweeping an idea into the stratosphere. Rain glittered off his jacket, sliding across the waterproof quilting in shining beads. His voice was strained and harsh, shivering on the edge of fury.  “I don’t feel sorry for you!” “I don’t want you to! I just want you to be okay!” “I AM OKAY!” screamed Mark, spit flying, taking a wild kick at a small rock. It spinged across the space between them, smacking into the base of the concrete alien and splashing off into the hidden swamp. “I’m as okay as I need to be to get this DONE!” “Sure you are!” yelled Antonio. The heat in his insides burned through the last of the things holding it in place and snapped free, clawing out of him in a violent burst, just as loud as Mark. “Great, then I’m okay too! I am so amazingly okay right now! Clearly! Because only people who’re totally okay and truly happy with where they are in life wind up SCREAMING AT EACH OTHER OUTSIDE THE CRAZY GOLF!” They stared at each other, across the distance. If nothing else, Mark finally looked startled. He glanced up at the alien, as if he’d only just noticed it, but Antonio barely registered his surprise. He had started, and now he couldn’t stop. “I can’t fix this, Mark! I can’t fix my face, I can’t fix what happened to you, or what I did to you, I can’t fix ME! I would if I could! I don’t want to look like this! I didn’t ask to be like this! I didn’t ask to be made with something all hecked up in me, if that’s even what happened, I didn’t even ask to be MADE!” He struggled for words. Above the sign, the forest of badly-painted concrete eyeballs rose to the cloudy sky like so many grubby grey balloons. Some of them looked horribly like they were looking at him. Mark was definitely looking at him, speechless, like he’d just beamed down from whatever neon-crazy-golf-based planet the alien was supposed to be from. “Everything’s just hard, and… weird, and… I don’t know what I’m doing,” said Antonio. He felt tired, leaden like something only half-alive as the heat faded, like half of him was inert stone dragging down at the rest and it was an effort to even keep talking. It didn’t even really feel like an admission- could something be an admission if it was so clearly written on your face? It was as if something had popped inside of him, and even the black goop slowly dripping from his chin didn’t feel like it mattered enough for him to wipe it away. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, I don’t want you to feel like you’re- stuck with me, but… I can’t help that while I’m with you, while I- while I know I’m helping you- at least I feel like I’m... doing something right.” There was a distant, bassy rumble, the sky clearing its throat. The hiss and spatter of the rain falling around them picked up into a new gear, and a grey curtain came sweeping across the road and the dull lights of the few passing vehicles, blurring everything, driving the winding rivulets dyed dark from Antonio’s feet to the gutter and plastering Mark’s hair down into his face.

*

The overhang of the crazy-golf-alien’s mouth was an okay sort of shelter, damp and stale-smelling and a bit buggy. There was a sort of moulded lump near the floor against the back, a rough low bench flaking with streaks of neon-pink paint, part of some long-gone photo opportunity. Hugging his knees, Antonio watched a mosquito land on his arm, tiptoe its way fussily between hairs and raindrops, legs poised and antenna quivering with dainty care, picking out a place for its delicate proboscis. He watched it dip its head and pierce his skin, pause, twitch, convulse, head and body and legs twisting like a bit of paper curling in a flame, and fall stone dead from his arm. “I just wanted you to understand,” he said. Mark was watching the rain, or at least he presumably was, between the condensation and the strands of wet hair stuck across his glasses it was hard to tell. “I know you know what you’re doing, Mark. I’m not gonna stop you. I’m just... worried, about afterwards.” Mark looked down into his own lap, and smiled. Antonio could have put up with a lot more than the difficult scene they’d just floundered through- any number of additional personal comments about his face, for example- rather than see that smile. There was no surface to it, nothing for anyone outside to see, only a cold inner humour that said plainly it wasn’t meant for anyone else except Mark. Mark, appreciating the joke in something nobody else could grasp. Especially Antonio, who was only there, who’d only said the words. “Afterwards,” he said, like it was the punchline. Antonio sat quietly, knocked numb on the inside by the truth that had just sidled up between the two of them in this musty shelter and hit him smack between the eyes, the truth he’d felt in the heart of him but put aside for days, turned from and stopped his ears against and refused to hear fully, until he couldn’t ignore it any longer; that Mark did not want, or mean for there to be, an afterwards. Here, in the calm of the storm, it didn’t feel like a revelation, anything to be gasped at or leapt upon; just a sad, simple fact. “I thought I’d died,” said Mark, in the same neat, matter-of-fact way. “In there. I knew I was dead, or as close to dead as it was ever... going to let me be. It’s not really like I was thinking, but it’s like... you know things. I knew it was over, and this was my... afterwards. I knew I was never going to be able to fix anything, or make any of it better or... save anyone else from walking into the same trap. And I knew- that’s what I deserved.” He paused, his throat jerking as he swallowed. “So everything since you got me out of there... every day… it’s just been one more day to fix my shit. Just a whole bunch of one more days I never thought I’d get, to- to at least make them pay for everything they did. If I could,” he said, slowly, arming wet hair out of his eyes, “I’d leave everything no worse than it was before I started helping that fucking thing. I- I can’t do that, but I’m sure as fuck going to make them wish they never chose me. And I keep waiting for when the other shoe drops, and I’m going to lose the chance to fix anything, or it’s going to turn out I never had a chance in the first place. I keep waiting to find out how they’re still- playing with me.” This, with difficulty, through a clot of hatred in his throat. “But... what I have, while it lasts... you gave me this. If it’s real… it’s because of you.” There was a silence. Antonio sniffed. Mark had given him some napkins from the Waffle House, and he was holding a wad of them to his face. “I can’t think about afterwards,” said Mark. His voice was thin, small. “I don’t think I… even want to think about what that’d… be like. I… don’t know.” For once, there was no sarcasm, no front. As far as Antonio could tell, he only sounded as weary as Antonio felt, blank, and honest. It was strange to hear Mark speaking to him in this way at all- as if he was another real person, and there was genuinely something he wanted him to understand. “I hoped we could find that out, Mark,” he said, gently.  “I’ve just started too, you know.” They sat, quiet, the rain beating on the alien’s hollow shell and trickling through making a hollow, near-musical sound. To Antonio, this silence felt different, on the scale of all the silences he’d known- awkward ones, hating ones, dangerous ones, empty ones. This felt only like tiredness, without the tight restless anxiety that had followed them up until now. Despite the wet, the pouring rain and the smell like an old sneaker forgotten in the bottom of a laundry hamper for a year, it felt curiously comfortable. Mark took off his glasses, pulling a corner of his decrepit grey sweater from under his jacket and drying them off as well as he could on the ravelling wool. “We get this done,” he said, at last. “Then we talk about afterwards. Okay?” “Okay.” They looked at each other. Antonio kind-of-smiled, in a tentative, barely-there way that didn’t pull too much at his face, and Mark, replacing and poking his glasses, which always wanted to lean towards the mended side, as straight as they would go, almost sort-of-smiled back. Squishing the napkins into a wet black ball and tossing them into the rain, Antonio watched Mark pull his phone from his pocket, wipe the rheumy fug from the screen on his sleeve, and start to type. “We’re not hitching a lift?” “Fuck that,” said Mark. “Nobody in their right mind’s gonna stop for us. I’m calling an Uber.”

[traceofexistence]

the clownery of 2022 FIA is beyond comprehension

- make a car that has enormously big tyres that drivers lose visibility anyway, and mechanics have issues lifting them, which can impact their health long run

- they limit testing for the winner team(first in history of the sport to punish the winning team), therefore they cant fix the bouncing that is harming the drivers, fast enough

- in Miami drivers who crashed complained that the wall didn’t have proper protection, FIA didn’t do anything about it.

- with those enormous tyres and lack of visibility is now impossible to drive in the rain, best races in the history of F1 are races in rain, and now all we get are red flags all race through because of those stupidly designed cars.

- they have a limit on the wet and inter tyres??? like WHY? you put the rain tyres on for safety, so there shouldn’t be a limit?

-  in Monza a very narrow track, while SC and cars pass through the recovery track is moving backyards, and one of the cars missed it at the last moment

- Suzuka THIS happens after what happened in 2014

- all drivers but one complained all season about the bouncing and the impact on their health, but FIA didn’t do anything until half season in.

and I wont even comment on race incidents decisions, which have been inconsistent at best, and unfair at worst all season long.

but FIA has spent the entire season on an effing nose stud

[beardedmrbean]

The Blue and Black movement is an openly racist political party that was only added to the official register of political parties after it removed certain parts of its policy programme at the request of the Justice Ministry.

Helsingin Sanomat reports (siirryt toiseen palveluun) on Wednesday that the party has been disseminating the old, unedited version of its programme, and asks whether that means the party has now broken the law.

The answer is, apparently, no. The party had removed parts of its programme on freedom of speech, equality and fighting discrimination, at the request of the Justice Ministry. Those sections are now being freely shared online, but that does not make any difference to the party's registration.

"We have not been notified of any changes to the party's rules or general programme," said Arto Jääskeläinen of the Justice Ministry. "Changes are only valid after they have been submitted [to us]."

"In that light the Blue and Black programme published online is seen as campaign material, just as party members' very questionable tweets have been seen as part of the election campaign."

Across four electoral districts, the party has more than 80 candidates running, several of them with criminal backgrounds.

Parties can only be removed from the register at their own request, or if they fail to get candidates elected to parliament at two successive elections. A third route to dissolution is if the registered association behind the party is disbanded.

That could be possible under the registered association law if it is seen that the party has distributed material attacking human rights established as part of Finnish law.

Enforcing that law is the responsibility of the National Police Board. They refused to comment to HS on the matter.

Studs versus roads

Aamulehti carries a story (siirryt toiseen palveluun) on the apparently extensive damage caused to Finland's road network by studded winter tyres.

Four out of five Finnish cars use the studded versions, which have metal studs attached to the rubber to improve grip. The downside is that they churn up the tarmac and create potholes.

AL reports that a car running on studded tyres displaces some 2-3 centimetres of bitumen for every kilometre travelled. With hundreds of thousands of cars using these tyres, that kind of damage really adds up.

The Finnish Transport Infrastructure Agency estimates that the damage caused by these tyres costs some 90 million euros each year on roads it maintains. That's a huge chunk of the agency's 166 million euro resurfacing budget.

That budget covers the cost of resurfacing some 1,500 kilometres of roads. The agency says it would need to resurface around 4,000 kilometres every year.

AL reports that there would be plenty of scope for expanding the use of so-called friction tyres, which use deeper grooves to increase traction rather than studs.

At least 30 percent of cars in Finland have traction control (Electronic Stability Control or ESC), and can easily run on friction tyres without increasing risks. The agency estimates that some 50 percent of motorists could safely use friction tyres rather than studded ones, but the proportion of friction tyre users remains around 20 percent.

Tampere tops table

Iltalehti carries a survey (siirryt toiseen palveluun) on the attractiveness of Finnish towns and cities as places to live. Tampere tops the table, as it has in recent years, but the capital city region municipalities have lost ground.

Kari Väisänen of T-Media, which carried out the study, said in a statement that cities further from the southern urban centres have improved the most. Oulu, Kuopio and Jyväskylä are examples of that, said Väisänen.

He noted that's down to people's views on the cost of living, security concerns and general liveability.

Of the ten biggest cities, Turku's rating dropped the most compared to last year, with Vantaa not far behind.

[topmoviespicks]

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