#FA Carling

[soomovic]

Sir Alex Ferguson & Sir Bobby Charlton, Manchester United - with the Premiership Trophy after becoming FA Carling Winners in the 1993 ✨

[enidette]

DRAIN YOU

warnings :: both are 18+, sub!carl, virgin!carl, desperate!carl, vocal!carl (he’s just a slut here), riding, so little plot

carl grimes x fem!reader

you didn’t know what you had expected from carl the first time you had sex. you knew you were both inexperienced, nervous, and a little too excited. you could tell as much with how handsy he had been getting during make-outs. taking things one step further each time.

this time his hands hesitantly come up to cup your chest. you can sense the nerves, despite how many times you’ve kissed and touched. every bit of it is new to him, he doesn’t know how to handle it.

you feel him awkwardly shift below you, hips jutting up involuntarily at the friction. he makes a surprised noise against your lips before pulling away with small apologies tumbling out.

you smile at him and let your hand rest on his chest, “it’s okay.” your hand trails down his abdomen and lands on the waistband of his pants. his breathing picks up when your finger slips behind the elastic. “do you want to go that far?”

he leans on his elbows, watching your hand move slowly along his body. his breathing is erratic as he nods, taking your hand and placing it against the hard-on through his pants. his gasps fill the room when you start palming him through the fabric.

you look up at him through your lashes, “use your words.” carl’s breath hitches at your tone, but mumbles out a ‘yes’ anyway. he squints his eyes shut and shifts under you, trying to shake off how much he liked you being in control.

you let out a small, taunting laugh at him before leaning forward to latch your lips onto his neck. he fights a whine from escaping. he shut his eyes tight, trying to get over how all the attention you were giving him had him spiraling.

this time he can’t fight off the whimper when your hands find their way in his hair. then you’re leaning back and his face is turning red, and it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. he’s so embarrassed, shying away from you as much as he could while still being greedy for your touch.

he huffs out a breath after a moment, finally looking up at you. “sorry…” he grimaces, he knew the affect you had on him but its increased tenfold all of a sudden. your piercing, lustrous gaze is intimidating him, and he’s already flustered enough.

you flash a smirk at him, getting close to his face as your hand slips into his pants. a noise slips from his lips at the lewdness of the situation. he clenches his teeth together at the feeling of your hand wrapping around him.

“your noises are so pretty,” your voice is a low whisper, the lustful tone having carl’s breathing pick up. he whines at the lack of contact when your hands move to pull his pants down.

then your hand is on him again, albeit through his underwear. carl reaches out to grab your hand, leading it to the elastic. “please,” he breathes out, pursing his lips at the noises escaping him.

he watches as you take off your top slowly, swallowing hard at the sight of your body. he’d seen it before, you two share a room together and have been together a while. but it was the first time getting you like this, seeing you like this.

then you’re lifting yourself off his lap just enough to get your bottoms off, leaving you bare on top of him. he blinks at what’s before him, hands twitching at his sides. he didn’t know what to do, he wanted to touch you all over, but he can help but crave your permission first.

your gaze meets his and he swallows thickly, feeling suddenly so vulnerable. “can i touch you?” a satisfied smile finds its way to your lips before your hand is wrapping around his wrist and guiding one of his hands to your waist. he clears his throat before moving his other to your chest, looking at you wantonly.

he sucks in a breath when you grab his cock, lining it up with your entrance before sinking down on him slowly. a whimper rips from his throat when you stop, another noise leaving him when you lift your hips up and come back down.

his head falls back and his mouth falls open as you set a pace, his hands gripping your waist so desperately as if asking for more and more. you lean in and tilt his head down a bit by his chin, looking at his lust blown eye with a small smirk on your lips.

your lips brush against his before closing the gap and carl responds eagerly. his head is spinning between the pleasure and comfort you’re giving him, and he’s letting out pretty whines again.

he can’t help when his hips snap up to meet yours, head falling back once more. you grind down on him harder, watching as he struggles to speak much less keep up with you. his hands fall to his sides to grip at the sheets the more he loses himself in this state you’ve reduced him to.

he wants to warn you he’s close, but he can only let out small whimpers and groans. your movements get messy in an attempt to reach both of your highs. his voice trembles as he moans out your name before releasing inside you, hands coming back up to hold you close to him as you reach the edge.

[anniebeemine]

Spencer In The Bathroom- s.r. x fem!reader

warnings: descriptions of panic attacks, germs, cheating, underage Spencer, alcohol mention/consumption

It's the biggest party of the fall and Spencer, the somehow campus-renowned genius is still invisible in the middle of the room. He's not sure how he let himself be talked into it. His heart is racing, a tiny bit of sweat accumulating on his brow. He's never been to a party before, but the president of the frat, Carl, owed him one.

Spencer didn't care much about balancing the scales, but there was something about the insistence, the way the guy practically dragged him along, that made Spencer relent. Maybe it was curiosity or the nagging thought that, for once, he should try something out of his comfort zone.

But now, standing awkwardly in the crowded living room with the bass thumping through the walls and red Solo cups clutched in the hands of everyone around him, he feels completely out of place. His mind races with the amount of germs. He'd paused, instantly feeling absolutely disgusting.

His mind races, calculating the number of germs that must be on every surface he’s touched—the doorknob, the cup he was handed, even the air he's breathing. A wave of nausea sweeps over him as he realizes just how many hands have likely touched the same things.

His breath quickens, and he feels the beginnings of panic set in. His skin tingles with the creeping sensation of grime, and he’s suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of his body. The sweat on his brow isn’t just from the heat of the room—it feels like a film of bacteria clinging to his skin. He pauses, frozen in place, his thoughts spiraling out of control. He can practically feel the germs crawling on him, multiplying with every second that passes.

He spots the bathroom on the first floor and quickly makes his way over, hoping for some relief. But when he opens the door, the sight inside sends him reeling. The floor is sticky beneath his shoes, each step making a squelching sound that makes his stomach churn. A dark, suspicious puddle near the toilet—vomit, he’s certain—sends a wave of nausea crashing over him. The sink is littered with crumpled paper towels, and the roll of toilet paper hangs pathetically empty. An overturned bottle of hand soap lies abandoned, the last drops smeared across the counter like a mockery.

Spencer’s vision blurs as he feels the color drain from his face. He’s never seen anything so filthy, so contaminated. His chest tightens, and he can’t catch his breath. Panic grips him fully, and he practically bolts from the bathroom, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst from his chest.

Spencer stumbles up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. His heart is hammering in his chest, a wild, frantic beat that echoes in his ears and drowns out the music below. The hallway is dimly lit, and the walls seem to close in on him as he searches for some semblance of peace. Every door he passes is either locked or opens to the sound of more voices, more chaos, and he feels his panic rising with each failed attempt to find a quiet space.

Finally, at the end of the hall, he finds a bathroom that isn’t occupied. He practically lunges at the door, slamming it shut behind him and locking it with trembling fingers. The sound of the lock clicking into place is the only thing that brings him a small measure of relief. His breaths come in shallow, rapid gasps as he leans against the door, eyes squeezed shut.

The bass still reverberates through the floorboards, but it’s muted here, distant enough that he can almost pretend it’s not there. He turns to the sink and fumbles for the faucet, his hands shaking so violently that it takes him three tries to get the water running. When it does, he scrubs at his hands with a fervor bordering on desperation, the scalding water doing nothing to quell the deep-seated feeling of contamination that’s taken root in his mind.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, his face pale, his eyes wide with fear. His fingers are raw and red from scrubbing, but the need to clean himself, to rid himself of the filth, is overwhelming. He only stops when his skin stings so sharply that it forces him to pull his hands away. He turns off the faucet and stumbles back, his legs giving out as he sinks to the floor beside the bathtub.

He draws his knees up to his chest, his body trembling uncontrollably. His nails dig into the grout between the tiles, picking at it mindlessly, needing to focus on something, anything, to keep himself grounded. But his thoughts are spiraling, a whirlwind of doubt and self-recrimination that he can’t seem to escape.

What am I doing here? The question echoes in his mind, relentless and unforgiving. I don’t belong here. I never should have come to college. This was a mistake—a huge, terrible mistake.

His heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat, and he’s certain he’s going to be sick. His mind races through every poor decision that led him to this moment: agreeing to tutor Carl, letting himself be dragged to this party, thinking he could somehow fit in with these people. It’s all wrong. He’s all wrong.

I should have aimed lower, he thinks bitterly. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not like them—I can’t be like them. Why did I think I could handle this?

He feels the tears sting at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them back, refusing to let them fall. His body trembles harder as the weight of his choices presses down on him, suffocating him. The bass thuds through the floor, a steady reminder that the chaos is still there, just outside this small, suffocating room.

He picks at the grout with renewed intensity, his fingernails digging into the cracks until they ache. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts as he tries to calm himself, but nothing helps. The panic is too strong, too overwhelming.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the thoughts, but they just keep coming, a relentless tide of fear and self-doubt that threatens to pull him under.

He feels like he’s drowning, suffocating in his own skin, and there’s no way out. All he can do is sit there, trembling on the cold, dirty bathroom floor, and wait for the panic to release its grip on him. But it doesn’t. It just tightens, suffocating him as the world spins out of control around him.

He had come to the party with his only real friend on campus, another young genius named Jeremy. They were both sixteen, prodigies who had somehow ended up in the middle of a college campus filled with students much older than them. It wasn’t easy being the youngest, but having Jeremy around made it bearable. They stuck together, navigating the complexities of college life as a pair, and for the most part, it worked.

But tonight, everything changed.

Jeremy had ditched him within ten minutes of arriving, lured away by the promise of beer pong in the basement. Spencer had watched him disappear down the stairs with a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable without his friend by his side. Everything had felt fine when he was half of a pair—he could manage the awkward stares and the occasional condescending comment because Jeremy was there with him. They were a team. But now, standing alone in the middle of a loud, chaotic party, Spencer felt completely lost.

He tried to blend in, to stay inconspicuous as he moved through the crowded rooms, but every second felt like an eternity. People brushed past him without a second glance, engrossed in their own conversations, and he could feel the panic creeping up on him with every step. His heart pounded in his chest, and his hands trembled as he clutched the red Solo cup that Jeremy had handed him before disappearing.

Spencer’s throat tightened, and he felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He hated this feeling—the overwhelming sense of not belonging, of being so utterly out of place. His mind raced with thoughts of Jeremy, who had always been the more social of the two. Why did he leave me? Spencer wondered, feeling the hurt mix with the panic. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t do this alone.

Before he knew it, tears were spilling down his cheeks, and he quickly wiped them away with the sleeve of his shirt, hoping no one would comment on the little bit of snot smeared on the fabric. The tears kept coming, and soon he was full-on crying, his chest heaving with quiet sobs. He used his sleeve to wipe his nose, the fabric already damp from his tears, and tried to stifle the sound of his crying, but it was no use. It's not like anyone would be able to hear him over the bass.

Spencer wasn’t sure how long he sat there on the bathroom floor, crying into his sleeve and trying to get a grip on his emotions. Time seemed to stretch on forever, each second feeling like an hour. The world outside the bathroom door continued to thump along to the heavy bass, but inside, Spencer was trapped in his own private hell, completely disconnected from the party raging on just a few feet away.

His mind had begun to slow down a little, the initial wave of panic starting to subside, when suddenly, three loud knocks echoed through the bathroom door. The sound startled him, each knock sending a jolt of fear through his already frazzled nerves. He jumped with each one, his heart rate skyrocketing again as he scrambled to pull himself together.

The knocks continued, insistent and demanding, as if the person on the other side was about to break down the door if he didn’t open it soon. Spencer’s body moved on autopilot as he forced himself to stand, his legs shaking beneath him. He stumbled over to the sink, desperately trying to regain some composure. He splashed cold water onto his face, hoping to wash away the evidence of his tears and the overwhelming fear that had gripped him.

The knocks pounded again, louder this time, making his heart leap into his throat. He glanced at the mirror, his reflection still pale and shaken, but there was no time to dwell on it. He had to open the door. What if it’s Jeremy? he thought, clinging to the hope that his friend had come back for him, that he wasn’t completely alone in this nightmare.

With a deep breath, Spencer’s hand hovered over the doorknob, his fingers trembling as they made contact with the cool metal. But just as he was about to turn it, the knocking stopped.

The sudden silence was deafening. Spencer stood frozen, his hand still on the knob, unsure of what to do. His mind raced with possibilities—had they given up? Were they waiting for him to open the door? He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or more afraid now that the knocking had ceased. He leaned in closer, trying to hear anything on the other side, but all he could make out was a female voice drunkenly slurring along to the song playing downstairs.

He regretted the half a beer he’d forced down earlier, hoping it might help him relax and fit in. Instead, it only made him feel queasier, his nerves amplifying the effects of the alcohol. He took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, but the discomfort only worsened. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears as he tried to decide what to do.

Before he could make a choice, the door suddenly swung open. Spencer’s breath hitched as he took a step back, his eyes widening in surprise. Standing in the doorway was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen. She had a calm, confident presence that immediately put him on edge, but in a different way than the rest of the party. He felt an overwhelming wave of self-consciousness wash over him as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror beside her.

Is there a sadder sight than this? he thought, his tear-stained cheeks and red, puffy eyes a stark contrast to the polished appearance of the girl in front of him. He looked like a mess, completely out of place in this scenario.

The girl stepped into the bathroom, keys jingling around her neck, and without hesitation, she turned back to whoever was behind her, shoving them out of the room with a firm hand. Spencer watched, dumbfounded, as she closed the door behind her, shutting out the noise of the party. The quiet that followed felt almost surreal, like they were in a different world altogether.

She turned back to him, her expression softening as she looked at him. "Are you alright?" she asked quietly, her voice gentle and soothing. There was genuine concern in her eyes, and something about it made Spencer’s resolve crumble.

He shook his head, unable to find his voice. His arms wrapped around himself in a self-soothing gesture, trying to stop the shaking that had taken over his body. He felt so small, so out of place, like he was back in high school again, surrounded by older kids who didn’t understand him.

The girl, undeterred by his silence, gave him a small, reassuring smile. "Why don’t you sit on the edge of the tub?" she suggested, her tone kind but firm. Spencer hesitated for a moment, but something in her voice made him trust her. He nodded, moving to sit on the edge of the bathtub, his body still trembling slightly.

She walked over to the toilet, calmly shutting the lid before wrapping a generous amount of toilet paper around her hand. Spencer watched her movements, his mind still reeling from everything that had happened, but he found a strange sense of comfort in her calm demeanor. She sat down next to him, gently dabbing at his tear-streaked cheeks with the toilet paper. The touch was light and careful, and he found himself relaxing ever so slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit.

"Feeling a little better?" she asked softly, her eyes meeting his.

Spencer nodded, his voice still caught in his throat. He watched as she soaked another wad of toilet paper with cool water from the sink, then returned to his side, dabbing his cheeks with the damp paper. The coolness of the water was soothing against his flushed skin, and he felt a small wave of relief wash over him.

As she continued to help him, she introduced herself. “I’m Y/N,” she said, her voice warm and inviting, as if they were old friends instead of strangers meeting in a bathroom during a chaotic party.

“Spencer,” he finally managed to whisper, feeling a little more grounded with each passing moment.

Y/N smiled again, her kindness unwavering. “It’s nice to meet you, Spencer,” she said, her tone sincere. "I take it you're the kid Carl invited?"

Spencer nodded, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief wash over him. "Yeah, I guess that’s me," he replied softly, his voice still shaky. He felt a little silly being referred to as "the kid," but it wasn’t far from the truth. At sixteen, he was younger than everyone here, and it was painfully obvious.

Y/N’s expression softened further, her eyes filled with understanding. "Don’t worry," she said gently. "Carl has a habit of dragging people into things they’re not ready for." She tilted her head slightly, studying him with a look that was more empathetic than pitying. "It’s a lot to take in, especially when you’re not used to it."

Spencer blinked, caught off guard by her observation. He hadn’t expected her to notice—he’d been so wrapped up in his own anxiety that he hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might be going through something as well. He studied her face more closely, noticing the faint redness around her eyes and the slight puffiness that suggested she’d been crying too, though she’d done a good job of hiding it.

"You’ve been crying too," he said softly, his voice tinged with concern. It felt strange to point it out, but there was a part of him that wanted to understand, to know what had caused her to feel the same kind of sadness he was experiencing.

Y/N’s smile faltered for a brief moment, her gaze dropping to the floor before she looked back at him. "Yeah," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "It’s been a rough night." She hesitated, as if unsure how much to share, but then she seemed to make a decision. "Carl's my boyfriend- well was." She thought for a second, a light huff falling from her lips. "Well, I don't really know."

Spencer’s heart ached at her admission, and he couldn’t help but feel a surge of empathy for her. "Do you… want to talk about it?" he asked, his voice gentle but sincere.

Y/N let out a short, almost surprised laugh, her eyes widening slightly. "You’re serious?" she asked, searching his face as if trying to determine if he was really offering to listen.

Spencer nodded, his expression earnest. "Yeah, I am. Sometimes it helps to talk."

Her smile wavered, and she let out a deep sigh, as if she had been holding it in for too long. "I watched him go into a room with… her," she began, her voice trembling slightly as she recalled the painful memory. "When I tried the doorknob, it was locked." She paused, her voice cracking a little as she tried to keep her composure. She sighed again, this time more shakily, using it to mask the emotion threatening to spill over. "I didn’t need to see anything else to know what was happening."

Spencer felt a wave of anger on her behalf, his hands clenching slightly at the thought of what she’d gone through. "You shouldn’t put up with that," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the turmoil he felt inside.

Y/N looked at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and then a small, bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "You really are smart," she teased gently, her voice wavering between humor and sadness.

Spencer blushed slightly, but he didn’t back down. "I mean it," he said, his tone softening but still resolute. "You deserve better than that. No one should treat you that way."

Her smile faded, replaced by a look of deep contemplation as she absorbed his words. For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of their shared vulnerability hanging in the air. Finally, she nodded, as if coming to a decision. "You’re right," she said quietly, almost to herself. "I do deserve better."

Spencer felt a small sense of relief at her words, glad that she was beginning to see her own worth. "And you’ll find better," he added, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "It might take time, but you will."

Y/N looked at him, her eyes softening with a mix of gratitude and something else—something more profound. "Thank you, Spencer," she whispered, her voice full of emotion. "For listening… and for caring."

He gave her a small, reassuring smile. "Anytime," he replied, meaning it more than she could know.

They sat there for a few more moments, the silence between them no longer awkward but comforting. It was as if they had both found a brief respite from their own struggles in the presence of someone who understood. Finally, Y/N stood up, extending her hand to him.

"Come on," she said, her tone a little lighter now. "I'll give you a ride home."

They walked out of the bathroom together, leaving behind the noise and chaos of the party. The cool night air hit them as they stepped outside, and Spencer felt a sense of relief wash over him. Y/N led the way to her car, a simple but well-kept sedan parked a little ways down the street. They got in, the quiet hum of the engine a welcome contrast to the thumping bass they’d left behind.

As they drove through the darkened streets, the tension that had hung over them all night seemed to dissipate. Spencer felt more at ease than he had in a long time, the quiet companionship between them calming his racing thoughts.

At one point, Spencer glanced over at Y/N, catching her in a moment of peaceful reflection. "You know," he said, his voice soft but clear, "tonight didn’t turn out how I expected, but… I’m really glad I met you."

Y/N turned to look at him, a playful glint in her eyes. "Is that your way of flirting, Spencer?" she teased, her tone light and amused as she pulled up to the curb outside his dorm.

Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise, his face going pink as he realized how his words might have sounded. "N-no, I didn’t mean it like that," he stammered, his heart racing again but for a completely different reason. "I just meant… you were really kind, and I didn’t expect to meet someone like you tonight."

Y/N laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine, as she shifted the car into park. "Relax, I’m just teasing," she said with a smile, waving off his embarrassment. She leaned over and kissed his cheek, the brief contact sending a jolt of warmth through him. "You have a good night, Spencer."

Spencer froze for a moment, his hand instinctively moving to where her lips had brushed his skin. "Y-yeah, you too," he managed to say, still flustered but feeling a strange sense of happiness bubble up inside him.

He got out of the car, closing the door gently behind him. As he walked toward his dorm, he glanced back over his shoulder, watching as Y/N gave him a little wave before driving off into the night.

For the first time in a long while, Spencer found himself smiling as he walked up the steps to his building. Despite everything, the night hadn’t turned out so bad after all.

[pupsmailbox]

ZOMBIE ID PACK

NAMES ⌇　ada.　adrien.　aiden.　aj.　alice.　altair.　ambrosia.　amy.　angel.　apparition.　appendix.　arius.　arrow.　arthur.　ash.　asher.　aspen.　atticus.　augusta.　bane.　barrett.　ben.　benny.　bernadette.　bones.　brain.　brains.　briar.　caden.　caleb.　callan.　carl.　carlos.　casey.　casper.　ciaran.　claud.　claudia.　clay.　clementine.　coffin.　corps.　corpse.　corpsie.　dakota.　damion.　david.　dearil.　decay.　diego.　doom.　dustin.　echo.　edward.　elkridge.　ellie.　ember.　emilee.　emily.　ethan.　eveline.　everett.　flesh.　frail.　frailesse.　frailette.　frailita.　frank.　frankie.　ghost.　ghoul.　ghoulette.　ghoulia.　ghoulita.　grant.　grave.　graves.　gravestone.　grayson.　griffin.　grim.　grimm.　gutesse.　harper.　hazard.　helen.　horrell.　horrelle.　hunter.　husk.　jesse.　jill.　joel.　john.　judith.　jules.　kade.　kaiden.　kilian.　klaus.　kyle.　lee.　leon.　liam.　lily.　luke.　lurk.　maggie.　maggot.　mangled.　mara.　marcus.　marion.　marionnette.　max.　maxwell.　medusse.　mera.　merle.　mira.　mist.　misty.　mona.　morb.　morbesse.　morbette.　morbid.　morgan.　morganna.　morgue.　morguesse.　morguette.　mort.　morte.　morticia.　mould.　muerta.　muerto.　mura.　mutt.　myra.　myrtle.　necro.　necros.　nemesis.　neo.　nick.　nikolai.　nox.　nyk.　nyx.　octavia.　ophelia.　parker.　perseus.　plague.　priscill.　quille.　rain.　raine.　rayne.　resurrect.　resurrection.　revenant.　riley.　rob.　roman.　rookie.　rose.　rosemary.　rosie.　rot.　rotesse.　rotette.　ruin.　ryan.　saifu.　sam.　scar.　scaresse.　scarette.　scarlett.　scottie.　scratch.　shade.　shadow.　shaun.　six.　skull.　slash.　slashesse.　slashette.　slug.　star.　stitch.　stitches.　stitchie.　stitchy.　strike.　sydney.　tank.　thorn.　thorne.　tomb.　trickie.　valentine.　vamp.　vertebrae.　vex.　victor.　violet.　virus.　walter.　wesker.　wren.　wyatt.　z.　zack.　zed.　zeke.　zob.　zoe.　zomb.　zombesse.　zombette.　zombina.　zombita.　zomblita.　zon.

PRONOUNS ⌇　axe/axe.　ba/battle.　bite/bite.　bleed/bleed.　bleugh/bleugh.　blood/blood.　bo/bone.　bone/bone.　brain/brain.　break/break.　chain/chain.　coff/coffin.　coffin/coffin.　cor/corpse.　corpse/corpse.　corr/corrupt.　craw/crawl.　dark/dark.　de4/de4th.　de/de4d.　dea/dead.　dea/defeat.　dead/dead.　death/death.　decay/decay.　decay/decayed.　dir/dirt.　empty/empty.　end/end.　es/escape.　evil/evil.　fa/fate.　fang/fang.　freak/freak.　fright/fright.　fungi/fungi.　ghou/ghoul.　gloom/gloom.　gore/gore.　grave/grave.　green/green.　grim/grim.　grim/grime.　gun/gun.　gut/gut.　ha/harm.　holy/holy.　hor/horror.　horde/horde.　hurt/hurt.　hx/hxm.　hy/hym.　infect/infect.　it/it.　ix/ix.　k1/k1ll.　ki/kill.　kill/kill.　lab/lab.　li/lich.　lurk/lurk.　mo/mold.　mold/mold.　morbid/morbid.　mou/mourn.　mould/mould.　mu/mutant.　mutant/mutant.　nec/necro.　prey/prey.　rain/rain.　reap/reaper.　rib/rib.　rip/rip.　rot/rot.　rot/rotten.　rotten/rotten.　sa/sacrifice.　sa/save.　scar/scar.　sea/search.　shatter/shatter.　shoot/shoot.　shx/hxr.　sick/sick.　slit/slit.　snarl/snarl.　thxy/thxm.　thy/thy.　tomb/tomb.　tri/tricked.　un/dead.　undead/undead.　vamp/vamp.　vi/virus.　viru/viru.　zo/zombie.　zom/zombie.　zomb/zomb.　zomb/zombie.　zombie/zombie.　⚰️/⚰️.　🍖/🍖.　🧟/🧟.　🧠/🧠.

[caoticoflusso]

qualità che mi appartengono ma che non sa (quasi) nessuno:

- non mi trucco, l’ho fatto solo in tre occasioni. probabilmente se provassi a mettere l’eyeliner colorerei l’iride invece dell’occhio

-non fumo e non ho mai provato a fumare, questo semplicemente perché l’odore mi da al cazzo in una maniera assurda tu prova anche solo ad accenderti una sigaretta davanti a me e te la spezzo davanti

-se vado al centro commerciale con qualcuno non passo più di cinque minuti li dentro per timore che l’altra persona possa stancarsi voglio dire non succede anche a voi immaginate volervi provare un vestito da zara e ci sta vicino un vostro amico che fa il palo con le mani davanti incrociate a guardarvi

-non ho mai trovato il senso dietro tinder ed altre app di messaggistica con lo scopo di cercare un interesse romantico o intimo (su questo non ho nient’altro da dire per me roba talmente assurda i swear)

-non sono tipa da discoteca, ballare con le amiche al piper o qualche altro pub romano in circolazione. preferisco molto di più un giro a trastevere con un gelato a parlare di nulla e di tutto. per farvi un esempio roba tipo canzone di carl brave o vacanze romane con la hepburn

-se sei in macchina ad ascoltare musica con me probabilmente aspettati cesare cremonini, battisti, dalla, biagio antonacci, ligabue, tiziano ferro, gli 883, guccini, de gregori e molti altri cantanti indie (no, non ascolto tedua o rkomi o il trap)

la mia generazione mi considererebbe folle se leggesse questo messaggio ma in fondo chi cazzo la sopporta la mia generazione !! old soul, sì

[retirement-home-rumble]

Your Elderly Representatives:

Gravity Falls - Stanley and Stanford Pines

Avatar: The Last Airbender - Uncle Iroh

Muppets - Statler and Waldorf

Lord of the Rings - Gandalf

Dream SMP - Philza Minecraft and Technoblade

Discworld - Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg

Ace Attorney - Wendy Oldbag

Doctor Who - Wilfred Mott

The Magnus Archives - Gertrude Robinson

Batman - Alfred Pennyworth

Star Wars - Yoda

Critical Role - Chetney Pock O'Pea

Up - Carl and Ellie Fredrickson

The Owl House - Principal Hieronymus Bump

Just Roll With It - Old Man Earl

Splatoon - Captain Craig Cuttlefish and DJ Octavio

Half Life VR but the AI is Self Aware - Dr Harold Coomer and Bubby

Jojo's Bizzare Adventure - Joseph Joestar

Transformers - Ratchet

Cats - Old Deuteronomy

Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - Splinter

DuckTales - Scrooge McDuck

Ninjago - Sensei Wu

Undertale - Gerson

Amphibia - Hop Pop

Golden Kamuy - Hijikata Toshizou

The Good Place - Michael

Back to the Future - Doc Brown

X-Men - Magneto and Professor X

Zero Escape - Tenmyouji

Genshin Impact - Zhongli

Five Nights at Freddy's - William Afton

Welcome to Night Vale - The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home

Homestuck - Nanna Jane Egbert

Kingdom Hearts - Master Xehanort

The Adventure Zone - Merle Highchurch

RWBY - Maria Calavera

Hermitcraft - TinFoilChef

Full Metal Alchemist - Pinako Rockbell

Miss Marple - Miss Marple

Skullgirls - Black Dahlia

Yu Yu Hakusho - Genkai

Umbrella Academy - Five Hargreeves

Golden Girls - the Golden Girls

Breaking Bad - Mike Erhmantraut

Dimension 20 - Bishop Raphaniel Charlock

Final Fantasy - Emet-Selch

Warrior Cats - Yellowfang

One Piece - Dr Kureha

My Little Pony - Granny Smith

Spongebob Squarepants - Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy

Stardew Valley - Grandpa

She-Ra and the Princesses of Power - Madame Razz

Bloodborne - Gehrman the First Hunter

Courage the Cowardly Dog - Muriel Bagge

Dragon Ball - Master Roshi

The Emperor's New Groove - Yzma

Mulan - Grandmother Fa

Death Note - Watari

Kung Fu Panda - Master Oogway

Christmas - Santa Claus

Plainview Discord Server - Funky Old

Token Tumblr Real Person - @theangstking 's cat, Lilly

Real Life Old Person - Betty White

EDIT: Results from all preliminaries have been updated

[dochkarauta]

au: formula 1 drivers as characters in the game detroit: become human "the day will come when we will no longer be slaves. the end of threats. the end of humiliation. and we will be the masters" p.s. thanks for the likes and replies Max Verstappen - RK200 (Marcus) "I don't know about you, but I have confidence inside that I am more than just a machine. I'm alive, and they won't take that away from me! The days of our slavery are over. People don't want to listen? And we will tell them"

Charles Leclerc - RK800 (Conor) "I am an android sent from Cyber Life. My appearance and voice were specially designed for harmonious integration with people."

George Russell — AX400 (Kara) "His father was beating him, and when I saw it, something broke inside me. For some reason, his life suddenly became more important than mine. I wanted to protect him, and we ran away."

Alex Albon - YK500 (Alice) "Fairy tales always end well, but in truth it's not like that"

Fernando Alonso — Hank Anderson "I don't need any help. And even more so from a plastic mannequin. So be a good robot and get out of here."

Checo Perez — Sumo "Sumo! Fas it! Fas..."

Nico Hulkenberg — Carl Manfred "The day will come when I won't be around. I'll have to defend myself. Make your own choice. The world doesn't like people who aren't like everyone else, Max. Don't let anyone tell you who you are."

Lando Norris - WR400 (North) "People know one language - violence. If you don't want to fight for freedom, maybe you don't deserve it."

Daniel Ricciardo — PL600 (Simon) "There is always a choice. We forget who our enemy is. We can't fight."

Carlos Sainz — PJ500 (Josh) "If we get caught, we're finished! Confrontation is a dead end. Violence will not achieve anything"

Lewis Hamilton — Elijah Kamski "By the way, I always leave loopholes in my programs. Just in case"

Esteban Ocon — Gavin Reed "You can always break in a little. Moreover, this is not a human."

Logan Sargeant - PL600 (Daniel) "I thought I was native to them. That I'm important to them. But I was a toy that you can throw away when you get tired of it!"

Oscar Piastri - RK900 (Richard) "This is a new model. He's faster, stronger, more resilient. And equipped with the latest technology"

the end!

[diceriadelluntore]

Cose Olimpiche

Premessa: vorrei togliere dalle gigantesche spalle di Charles Pierre de Frédy, barone di Coubertin la frase che sostiene "l'importante non è vincere, è partecipare": in realtà a pronunciare questa frase fu il vescovo anglicano Ethelbert Talbot, della diocesi di Bethlehem, Central Pennsylvania, durante una cerimonia di saluto ai partecipanti ai Giochi di Londra 1908, il 24 giugno, nella cattedrale di Saint Paul. Lui si limitò a citarla il giorno dopo, chiarendone la fonte, in un banchetto. Il motto olimpico, voluto da De Coubertin ma ideato da un altro religioso, Henri Didon è un altro, dal significato del tutto opposto: «Citius, altius, fortius», «Più veloce, più alto, più forte».

Multidisciplinarietà Rosa: le 40 medaglie vengono da 20 discipline diverse, delle 12 d'oro 7 sono state vinte da atlete, 2 da coppie miste (la prima assoluta della storia olimpica nella prova dello Skeet Misto). I grandiosi velisti Caterina Banti e Ruggero Tita sono gli unici della nostra spedizione ad aver confermato l'oro di Tokyo.

Legni: Sono 25 i quarti posti nelle competizioni olimpiche dell’Italia. Dietro di noi la Francia con 19, gli Stati Uniti con 18 e la Gran Bretagna con 17. A cui vanno aggiunti altri 26 tra quinti e sesti posti. Un segnale prezioso, che dimostra una generale competitività del movimento sportivo, ma che lascia l’amaro in bocca, soprattutto per alcuni episodi.

Rivolte Eleganti: la protesta del Settebello, la Nazionale Maschile di Pallanuoto, rimarrà nella storia Olimpica. Alla presentazione degli inni prima della Semifinale per i posti dal 5° all'8° contro la Spagna, la squadra si è presentata di spalle alla giuria arbitrale

Poi per i primi 4 minuti della partita con la Spagna ha tenuto un giocatore sempre nel proprio angolo di metà campo, a simboleggiare una espulsione. Questo perché nella partita dei Quarti contro l'Ungheria, una decisione inspiegabile del primo arbitro ha punito per fallo violento per 4 minuti un giocatore, Francesco Condemi: è stato giudicato infatti violento un contatto naturale di Condemi, che si preparava a nuotare in attacco, con un ungherese. La decisione ha annullato il 3-3 italiano scaturito in quella azione, dato un rigore all'Ungheria, trasformato (punteggio quindi 2-4) e costretto l'Italia a giocate 4 minuti, metà di uno dei 4 tempi della partita, con un uomo in meno. La partita finirà 9-9, perderemo ai rigori.

Leggende: L'unico atleta delle Olimpiadi moderne ad aver vinto per 5 edizioni consecutive l'oro, nella Lotta Greco Romana categoria Super Massimi, battendo il record detenuto da 4 leggende sportive americane: Al Oerter, Carl Lewis e Michael Phelps. Mijaín López, lottatore cubano, appena terminato il suo incontro si è tolto le scarpe, annunciando il suo ritiro, dopo una carriera inimitabile (tra l'altro, 5 volte campione del Mondo, 5 ori ai Panamericani)

Insegnamenti: Kimia Yousofi, velocista afghana, ha corso la sua batteria dei cento metri in 13"42, tempo nemmeno modesto, ma alla fine della sua prova, girando il suo numero di partenza ha mostrato queste parole:

Educazione, Sport (scritto in verde, che si legge a malapena) e I nostri diritti. I 6 atleti afghani presenti a Parigi, 3 donne e 3 uomini, sono stati selezionati non dal governo afghano dei taliban ma da un Comitato olimpico afghano in esilio. Tanto che “Soltanto tre atleti maschili rappresentano l'Afghanistan” ha dichiarato qualche settimana fa un portavoce dei taliban. Perchè tra le molte cose vietate alle donne, anche lo sport non può essere praticato.

Onlyfans: l'asticella colpita dalla "generosità" del saltatore Anthony Ammirati che lo ha estromesso dalla Finale del Salto con l'Asta (per una di quelle serie di coincidenze linguistiche da capogiro) non ha affatto scatenato le polemiche sulla ipersessualizzazione di un atleta. Cosa che, per certi versi in maniera molto coerente, ha spinto le giocatrici di Beach Volley Brasiliane (oro alla fine del Torneo) a giocare così:

in pantaloncino, mentre le loro avversarie canadesi in finale si sono presentate così:

Argentini: prima delle Olimpiadi, Julio Velasco ha perso il fratello maggiore, Raul, più anziano di lui di sei anni (72 Julio, 78 Raul). Ne ha anche un altro, Luis, che giovanissimo fu arrestato durante la Dittatura di Vileda, e per cinque mesi irrintracciabile. La famiglia, sconvolta, pensò ad un ennesimo caso di desaparecido. Invece dopo 5 mesi, dopo che subì torture indicibili e numerose simulazioni di fucilazioni, Luis fu riconsegnato alla famiglia. E la prima cosa che raccontò ai fratelli fu questa: "Quando mi stavano torturando, c'era un prete nella stanza. Distrutto dal dolore, a mezza voce gli dico <<Padre ma lei è contento di far parte di tutto questo?>>. Il prete restò in silenzio ed uscì dalla sala". Questo per dire di che pasta sono fatti i Velasco. Le cui prime parole dopo un'impresa stratosferica (5 partite vinte su 5, 15 set vinti, solo 1 perso, record assoluto in una Olimpiade, prima squadra Europea campione Olimpica nella pallavolo femminile dal 1988) sono state rivolte: alle ragazze che hanno giocato, a quelle che non c'erano per infortunio, al movimento della pallavolo femminile che "sta alle ragazze come il calcio ai ragazzi". Nessuna sfida personale, nessun cerchio che si chiude. Un grande uomo di sport, Julio Velasco.

[astroohoe]

ASTROLOGY AND SERIAL KILLERS

Hi Hoeeeeees,👋so today i'm going to take you through the ASTROLOGY of serial killers/Psychopaths.

If you have this placement,it does not necessarily mean that you are psychopathic nor are you a serial killer but there are tendencies to be so. This could also mean psychologically there's a lack of emotions making them not understand social cues. I am an aspiring psychiatrist and i have sat down to assess your favorite serial killers with astrology :), (Jeffrey Dahmer is our favorite and he's soooo cute, followed by Ted Bundy, he has a nice smile btw :),

Soooo without further or do let's gooooo.

So i sat down to statistically calculate of about 60 serial killers and one thing they have in common is, they are all MUTABLE SIGNS.

So i know your question is what are mutable signs? So to those who are new. Mutable signs are  any of the four astrological signs; Gemini, Virgo, Sagittarius, or Pisces, that are grouped together because of their placement characterized by the attribute of adaptability to ANY circumstances.

Example:Geminis are known to adapt and switch theor personality to any other people they are interacting with, depending on the situation.

JEFFREY DAHMER

Well, our favorite serial killer who was able to take accountability huh🙄😂😂.

Jeffrey Dahmer is a gemini sun, aries moon and Libra rising (which makes him look cute tbh;)

Now that Gemini sun is a mutable sign as i said before lol. Twin twin thoughts. Since gemini is a mental sign and is also a sign which deals with depression a lot because of the two beings running through their minds always thinking in a fast pace, the aries moon makes him acts sooooo aggressive😭 without thinking straight . There's a lack of emotion when it comes to gemini and virgo actually ruled by mercury (which is logic) their head is always walking first.

He has an Aries moon which could denote his BIOLOGICAL mom was someone who was extremely HOT TEMPERED (moon deals with the mother and your subconcsious thoughts and emotions. The treatment and distance from his mom could have brought a lonely side to him since psychologically, men are thee closest to their moms (Carl Jungs, Oedupus complex) and the girls are closest to their fathers(Electra complex).

Note that, if a girl isn't as close to her dad or have a good relationship with her dad , having her dad distanced or maybe not in her life, its placement is denoted in astrology plus they have a whole different mindset together tbh.

Him being a Libra rising shows his disdain of being ALONE and having a partner beside him due to the astrological effects and psychological effects of the treatment of his mother...(Be in the lives of your kids ....Moms🙄)

He is gay ...yes astrology denotes gay relationships sooooo many uncountable times.

Example; Aquarius mars,(lol sooooo unconventional....they can go both ways 😂) Aquarius mercuries, uranus aspects to personal planets, the degree 11° in your natal charts to personal planets, Gemini venuses, gemini mars, Aquarius venuses, 11th house ruling your 7th and so on.)

He being a gemini sun is even enough for that effect.

I could go on and on but let me wrap this up.

He's a Taurus 8th house in conjunction to his venus explaining the urgency to eat HUMANS.

Taurus denotes food, obesity and the 8th house denotes death, rebirth and stranger things lol.

The ruler in his 1st house expecting neptune could denote fantasies too. Hence, the infatuation of cannibalism. Also we can also spot the 8th degree in his mars sign .

the 8th degree is the killer/evil degree ruled by scorpio, and its in a aries mars place, mars already being the planet of action and agression, mixed with aries and the 8th degree.

He has his Venus in the 8th house denoting him associating death with love. 🥰

He could have made the world a better place honestly, with him being a virgo northnode through hardwork but noooo o, his pieces southnode which makes him draw back to his karmic past of obsession and fantasies with what he was experimenting.

Let's go to the second famous cute one.

You guessed right; Ted Bundy

Ted Serial killer Bundy🙄is a Sagittarius Sun, Sagittarius moon(lol double whammy mutable) and a Leo rising.

Apparently, Ted Bundy was in Law school because he wanted to become an affluent politician. Which isn't shocking since Sagittarius is the sign that denotes a HIGHER mind in knowledge, traveling to fulfill educational purposes.

Ted Bundy would kill at least 10 white women (yes, he was known for killing WHITE women, i had to bring the race in there since Sagittarius is the sign of colorism, racism and the attraction or obsession with foreigners lol but that's a different story for a different post;). His fellow mutable serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer was busy killing black men who were gays (i wonder what his problem was🙄)

But anyways, after Ted Bundy kills them, he disposes off their bodies after having sex with them torture them and commits acts of necrophilia.

It was quite difficult to believe he did that because he appears to be charming, charismatic and very intelligent actually.

Because of he being a strong mutable sign, he flips from being a heinous person to being so charming as psychopaths are the most charming and witty people in the room.(think gemini and virgo lol, not saying every one of y'all are psychopaths).

This makes mutable signs attracted to that SHADOWY element of nature .

These people in general can go from good to evil just depending on their environments and cannot wait to STRIKE their victims. As opposed to other signs, i really do not think people should be messing wrongly with virgos with scorpio moons honestly ....the attraction of personality disorders plus witchy nature is insane!😭

Especially Ted having his pluto in conjunction to his Leo rising making him a snake undercover , extremely secretive. Mind you, he has a scorpio stellium, scorpios in generals are the students if mind games, power control and secrecy making people not know who tf he really is. This could make him be drawn to darker things especially him being a Sagittarius moon which has a Jupiter effect on his subconcious mind and emotions making the expansion of whatever entity/darkness is going on in his mind if he's pacing on a LOW VIBRATIONAL level.

His Jupiter, venus, mercury are in scorpio in conjunction to his chiron which could denote sexual abuse attributing to the acts of necrophilia. His venus in conjunction to his chiron makes him loove love the darker aspects of life and the concept of pain is pleasure.

His scorpio chiron could mean he was sexually abused but knowing him, he probably would not mention it.

Ted Bundy had scorpio in the fourth and this could denote secrets pertaining to his family.

His saturn forming an aspect to his pluto could make him a control freak , a sense of authority and taking advantage of weaker people. As i said in previous posts of mine, if you haven't plesde go check it out, Saturnian qualities, the number 8 in your natal chart and Grown Capricorns tends to be 100% predatory.( And BITCH i said what i saaaaaaaaaaid 😊) example, Matthew Knowles, the famous R. kelly.

His Mars in Sagittarius in conjunction to his moon could lead to overindulgence in as to whatever he thinks...his emotions is a force to drive him into either drugs or going into a spree of killing or sexual abuse with people.

His Jupiter being in scorpio could lead to him having money in shady, unearned and undisclosed ways .

That's it for him..

Let's go to the third serial killer......

Josef Mengele.

Josef Mengele was a German Nazi Doctor he was around in world war 2 and was notorious for experimenting on twins and even the handicapped, his experimentaions were so grotesque that he was hated amongst the nazi figures, and mind you he was sober and clear in his mind when doing this.

So lets look at his birthchart, Mengele was born on March 16th 1911, making him a pisces sun with the number 16 on his birthday deals with sacrifice as well as with catastrophe, so it intrigues anything in him to adhere to these heinuous acts. I know your question is...why is pisces the most sensitive self serving, self sacrificinh sign but yet amongst the serial killers......

Well ..its a mutable sign remember...just a bunch of hypocrites actually.😂

Pisces deals with chemistry, physics, astronomy and doctors.

Thus making him obsessed with what his doing. He'll lure the kids he wants to experiment with ,with candy 😂 (lol typical pisces) and then let them call him uncle lol. And then proceed to experiment the most disgusting heinous acts on them.

He's a scorpio southnode making him align to his EVIL ways. His southnode is in the 12th degree ,and the number 12 deals with perversion, victimization and coldness!

Him being a scorpio southnode trining his sun, there's a fantasy and obsession (Neptune being in the sun) with death..his sun being his nature....that embodies what he is known for.

I can't make this up, serial killers must have some scorpio or 8th house in them to be fully progressed.

A lot of scorpio southnodes do have a lot of karmic bagagges surrounding very dark and intense experiences in life thus aligning him(Yes i said aligning, because that's his south node, that is what he is doing!)

His Mars is in the first degree of Aquarius, by which the number 1 denotes children squaring his North node making him having these dark thoughts against children since mars deals with either sexual drive or physical aggressive tendencies.

His mars being in the placement of uranus makes him a mad scientist which implies him experimenting with devices or even other technologies.

These experimentation had no purpose but to inflict pain or play out his need for power!

Him having a scorpio Jupiter deals with the obsession with deep investigation.

Scorpio deals with sex, investigations and an obsession with surgery, squaring his NN, thereby him having experimenting on dwarfs and handicaps who have dome absolutely nothing to him!😑😑.

His saturn is in conjunction to his SN, showing problems with money.

Anyways, that is it for me.

So these are the astrology of serial killers. There's more but i think i would end it here. The next post i would talk about the astrology behind psychopathy /Psycopathic tendencies in a natal chart....stay tuned.

Please do not forget to like and reblog, and if you copy, please give me credit!

[69liu69]

cj:"Woozie, why are you out practicing kung fu in the snow?"

Woozie:"MMHHHMMM... Mainly, Mr. Li wanted to exercise, so he pulled us and asked us to accompany him."

[useless-catalanfacts]

Hola! Soc de Màlaga i estic aprenent català, ja vaig pel B2 :D

M'agradaria que em recomanessis sèries i també llibres en català. Estic al dia amb CRIMS (m'encanta aquest tipus de sèries) i també de misteri, terror... En els llibres m'agraden les mateixes temàtiques, encara que no m'importaria llegir una cosa interessant. La idea és continuar aprenent ^^

Moltes gràcies!

Hola! Wow, què bé!

Algunes sèries policíaques o d'estils semblants que potser t'agraden:

Núñez: sèrie documental sobre el que va ser president del Barça i com entra en lluites de poder, la il·legalitat i l'ambició.

Kubala, Moreno i Manchon: sèrie de ficció de tres detectius que investiguen crims.

Nit i dia: sèrie de ficció sobre una forense que investiga un assassinat.

Moebius: sèrie de ficció sobre una professora nova arriba a un institut on s'hi comet un assassinat i decideix investigar-lo.

Altres sèries:

Plats Bruts: el sitcom català per excel·lència.

Polseres Vermelles: sèrie de drama sobre un grup de nens i joves que viuen ingressats en un hospital i es fan amics.

Lo Cartanyà: una altra sitcom.

Com que t'agrada Crims, crec que també et poden agradar aquests pòdcasts:

Tor, tretze cases i tres morts: "true crime" on el Carles Porta (el mateix que fa Crims) explica el primer cas en el que va treballar.

Debriefing Garbo: explica la història real de l'espia català Joan Pujol, àlies "Garbo", que va tenir un paper clau a la Segona Guerra Mundial enganyant els nazis.

Mix 97: ficció sobre una escriptora de novel·la negra que descobreix un cas d'assassinat.

Pel que fa als llibres, si vols llegir traduccions d'altres idiomes, tots els típics de novel·la negra (Jo Nesbø, Andrea Camilleri, Camilla Läckberg, Donna Leon, etc) estan publicats en català. Per novel·la negra escrita originalment en català:

La fada negra i Tothom ha de morir de Xavier Theros: els dos primers llibres (em sembla que n'han de venir més) sobre un capità de vaixell de la Barcelona del 1843 que investiga assassinats.

La Companyia Nòrdica d'Albert Villaró: un soldat prussià es troba als Pirineus durant la Primera Guerra Carlina i investiga unes situacions relacionades amb la mitologia dels Pirineus, alquímia, etc.

La noia del vestit blau de Laia Vilaseca: en un poble dels Pirineus s'hi profanen tres tombes d'anys enrere, la protagonista investiga el cas posant-se en perill quan hi ha qui no vol que surtin a la llum secrets de fa temps.

Purgatori de David Marín: un equip de policies investiguen l'assassinat del director d'una escola religiosa de Balaguer, alhora que la descendent d'una bruixa que va ser condemnada a la forca al segle XVI arriba a un poble i comencen a passar coses estranyes.

Totes les novel·les d'Andreu Martín (algunes són més per a adolescents).

Com sempre, deixo els comentaris oberts per si algú més en vol afegir.

Espero que et serveixi, i molts ànims amb el català!

[gryficowa]

Boycott!

I changed the gif in one post because its author turned out to be a Zionist Nazi lol

Press F for the vocaloid Fukase, who has a fan that is a pro-genocidal

Now that I have your attention:

[daimonclub]

Aforismi e citazioni sul lavoro

Aforismi e citazioni sul lavoro Aforismi e citazioni sul lavoro, una raccolta di varie citazioni di autori famosi su una delle attività più importanti e spesso faticose della nostra società. La festa internazionale dei lavoratori si celebra il 1 maggio di ogni anno, una tradizione che continua ancora oggi in più di 60 paesi. Tutte le professioni sono delle cospirazioni contro i profani. George Bernard Shaw Il lavoro mi piace, mi affascina. Potrei starmene seduto per ore a guardarlo. Jerome Klapka Jerome Dobbiamo lavorare di meno, perché un uomo sfinito dalla fatica è costretto ad essere fedele alla propria moglie. Occorre del tempo, invece, per danzare, cantare, amare la propria donna e quella degli altri. Rajneesh Bhagwan Più desidero che qualcosa sia fatto, meno lo chiamo lavoro. Richard Bach È troppo difficile pensare nobilmente quando si pensa a guadagnarsi da vivere. Jean-Jacques Rousseau Tutti gli sventurati, tutti coloro la cui schiena brucia / sotto il sole feroce e che vanno, che vanno / con la fronte che scoppia in un lavoro infame. / Giù il cappello, borghesi. Questi sono i veri uomini. Arthur Rimbaud Lavoriamo senza pensare: è il solo mezzo per rendere sopportabile l’esistenza. Voltaire Il lavoro è uno sforzo diretto ad ottenere una remunerazione. Th. R. Malthus Si gusta doppiamente la felicità faticata. Baltasar Gracián Non voglio raggiungere l'immortalità con il mio lavoro. Voglio arrivarci non morendo. Woody Allen Si sa che il lavoro ha sempre addolcito la vita: rimane tuttavia il fatto che non a tutti piacciono i dolciumi. Victor Hugo Decise di cambiar vita, di approfittare delle ore del mattino. Si levò alle sei, fece la doccia, si rase, si vestì, gustò la colazione, fumò un paio di sigarette, si mise al tavolo di lavoro e si svegliò a mezzogiorno. Ennio Flaiano L'avidità è il pungolo dell'operosità. David Hume Al mondo non ci sono che due modi per fare carriera: o grazie alla propria ingegnosità o grazie all'imbecillità altrui. La Bruyère De, Jean Sto lavorando duro per preparare il mio prossimo errore. Bertolt Brecht E' impossibile godere appieno dell'ozio se non si ha un sacco di lavoro da fare. Jerome Klapka Jerome Il lavoro allontana tre grandi mali: la noia, il vizio ed il bisogno. Voltaire Occorre che un uomo muoia per divenire forza-lavoro. È quella morte che egli trasforma in salario. Jean Baudrillard Dopo tutto, l’intera storia del lavoro umano è una storia di resistenza all’organizzazione del lavoro, al potere politico, all’ideologia del lavoro. Vittorio Foa La grande maggioranza delle persone lavora soltanto per necessità e da questa naturale avversione umana al lavoro nascono i più difficili problemi sociali. Sigmund Freud Lavorare è meno noioso che divertirsi. Charles Baudelaire Intelligenza: quando ti accorgi che il ragionamento del tuo principale non fila. Saggezza: quando eviti di farglielo notare. Anonimo Per ridurre il costo del lavoro si potrebbe ritornare allo schiavismo puro, no! Carl William Brown Fa’ sempre qualcosa, di modo che il diavolo ti trovi sempre impegnato. San Gerolamo Alla fin fine, il lavoro rimane sempre il miglior mezzo per far passare la vita. Gustave Flaubert I consumatori ricercano la massima soddisfazione, i produttori il massimo profitto e i lavoratori devono lottare contro il massimo sfruttamento. Carl William Brown Spesso le grandi imprese nascono da piccole opportunità. Demostene Una persona che usa merci e servizi, senza produrre merci e servizi equivalenti, arreca al Paese esattamente lo stesso danno che arreca un ladro: in effetti si tratta proprio di un furto. G.B. Shaw Quando il caos è intorno a te, ricorda: quello che sopravvive alla storia è il lavoro dell'uomo. Anonimo Se il riposo non è un po' ancora lavoro, è subito noia. Jules Renard La riduzione della giornata lavorativa a un punto in cui la quantità del lavoro non impedisce lo sviluppo umano, è il primo elemento di libertà. H. Marcuse E noi qui in tuta a far la classe operaia, come dei pirla. Altan Non dimostrarti insostituibile; se non puoi essere sostituito, non sarai promosso. Anonimo Oggi anche il cretino è specializzato. Ennio Flaiano Tutti lavoriamo per arrivare al riposo: è ancora la pigrizia a renderci laboriosi. Jean-Jacques Rousseau La schiavitù umana ha toccato il punto culminante alla nostra epoca, sotto forma di lavoro liberamente salariato. G.B. Shaw Il lavoro non è altro che uno stupido sforzo per un inutile spostamento. Carl William Brown Siamo arrivati a un tal grado di imbecillità da considerare il lavoro non solo come onorevole, ma addirittura come sacro, mentre non è che una dolorosa necessità. R. de Gourmont Mani inanellate non sanno mungere vacche Mani nere e callose fanno pane bianco. Canto popolare lituano, XVIII sec. Noi viviamo nell'epoca in cui la gente è così laboriosa da diventare stupida. Oscar Wilde Il lavoro d'equipe è essenziale. Ti permette di dare la colpa a qualcun altro. Arthur Bloch Si sa che il lavoro ha sempre addolcito la vita: il fatto è che non a tutti piacciono i dolciumi. Victor Hugo Un uomo non è un pigro, se è assorto nei propri pensieri; esistono un lavoro visibile ed uno invisibile. Victor Hugo Erano in tre e si doveva eseguire un lavoro; il più forte decise che avrebbe diretto le varie fasi dell'esecuzione, il più furbo disse che avrebbe controllato il buon esito dell'operazione e al più debole non rimase altro che iniziare. Carl William Brown La paura della noia è la sola scusa del lavoro. Jules Renard Ogni volta che basta una sola persona per eseguire un compito con la dovuta applicazione, il compito viene eseguito in modo peggiore da due persone e non viene affatto eseguito se l'incarico è affidato a tre o più persone. George Washington I malvagi lavorano più duramente per andare all'inferno di quanto non facciano i giusti per andare in paradiso. Josh Billings La fatica rende le donne loquaci e ammutolisce gli uomini. Clive Staples Lewis Ad ogni periodo di attività deve seguirne uno di riposo. Mao Tse-tung Il frutto del lavoro è il più dolce dei piaceri. Luc de Clapiers de Vauvenargues Ogni abitudine rende la nostra mano più ingegnosa e meno agile il nostro ingegno. Friedrich Nietzsche L'uomo è l'unica creatura che consuma senza produrre. George Orwell Il lavoro duro paga nel lungo periodo. La pigrizia paga subito. Anonimo Il lavoro è il rifugio di coloro che non hanno nulla di meglio da fare. Oscar Wilde La vera libertà individuale non può esistere senza sicurezza economica ed indipendenza. La gente affamata e senza lavoro è la pasta di cui sono fatte le dittature. Franklin Delano Roosevelt Recessione è quando il tuo vicino perde il lavoro. Depressione è quando lo perdi tu. Panico quando lo perde anche tua moglie. Boris Makaresko Il lavoro è la maledizione delle classi alcolizzate. Oscar Wilde Vivere del proprio lavoro, una necessità; vivere del lavoro altrui, un'aspirazione. Alessandro Morandotti Lui non sa nulla e pensa di sapere tutto: tutto ciò fa pensare chiaramente ad una carriera politica. George Bernard Shaw Se fossi un medico, prescriverei una vacanza a tutti i pazienti che considerano importante il proprio lavoro. Bertrand Russell La religione ci rende inadatti ad ignorare la nullità e ci butta nel lavoro della vita. John Updike Non un giorno senza una riga. Plinio il Vecchio Lavoro è vita, lo sai, e senza quello esiste solo paura e insicurezza. John Lennon Non ci sono lavoro stupidi, è evidente... Ma ce ne sono di quelli che vengono lasciati agli altri. Miguel Zamacoïs Il lavoro è stato il primo prezzo che si è pagato per ognicosa ed è la misura reale del valore di scambio di ogni merce. Adam Smith Il Governo ha due doveri, quello di mantenere l'ordine pubblico a qualunque costo ed in qualunque occasione, e quello di garantire nel modo più assoluto la libertà di lavoro. Giovanni Giolitti Se fai il lavoro male, dopo magari non te lo fanno fare più. Bill Watterson L'etica del lavoro è l'etica degli schiavi, e il mondo moderno non ha bisogno di schiavi. B. Russel Gli errori, come pagliuzze, galleggiano sulla superficie: chi cerca perle deve tuffarsi nel profondo. John Dryden Una piccola quantità di denaro che cambia di mano rapidamente farà il lavoro di una grande quantità che si muove lentamente. Ezra Pound L'artista è niente senza il dono, e il dono è niente senza il lavoro. Émile Zola Essere uomo è un mestiere difficile, soltanto pochi ce la fanno. Ernest Hemingway Una macchina è in grado di lavorare come cinquanta uomini comuni, ma nessuna macchina può svolgere il lavoro di un uomo straordinario. Elbert Hubbard L'opera esce più bella da una forma ribelle al lavoro dell'artista: verso, marmo, onice, smalto. Théophile Gautier Dio mi perdonerà: è il suo mestiere. Heinrich Heine La differenza tra un intellettuale e un operaio? L'operaio si lava le mani prima di pisciare e l'intellettuale dopo. Jacques Prévert Sulla tematica del lavoro potete anche leggere: Umorismo nero e lavoro Scuola, ozio e lavoro Labor Day explained Aforismi sulle pensioni Aforismi sulle pensioni di C.W. Brown Aforismi per autore Aforismi per argomento Riflessioni e pensieri Saggi e aforismi Read the full article

[crazy-so-na-sega]

Il dominio esercitato da organismi sovranazionali è la forma specifica di dominio che fa sì che un paese e il suo popolo siano fatti oggetto di compromessi da parte di potenze straniere: uno stato di cose che, nella sua immoralità, diventa alla lunga insostenibile.

-Carl Schmitt

[dcbbw]

Dead in the Water (Rewrite Challenge)

This is my submission for @choicesprompts​ Rewrite Challenge.

Not gonna lie, when I first read about this event my first two thoughts were: “Not ANOTHER event!” quickly followed by, “As fanfic authors, all we do is rewrite.” Not to mention, I already have UnRomance, my rewrite of 9 ½ Weeks.

However, the more I thought about it, the more the idea grew on me. After all, I have plans (unfulfilled at the moment) to rewrite 16 Candles with Drake Walker as Jake Ryan, and possibly Striptease, based on the book by Carl Hiaasen and the movie starring Demi Moore, Burt Reynolds, and Ving Rhames.

So, I figured why not? Like so many others here, I initially took inspo from Grey’s Anatomy (and I still may write that story) but went with another version of dark and twisty: THIS iconic scene from How to Get Away with Murder.

Not sure I can do it justice, but gonna try. (My writing skills are rusty AF) I could have just rewritten the actual scene but wanted to provide readers with context/background while staying faithful (somewhat) to at least one of the show’s many Season 1 storylines.

So.Many.Thank yous to those who read this over in parts and pieces. Your encouragement and excitement over this story truly pushed me to finish it. To those who will read this, THANK YOU! Your reads, likes, comments, and/or reblogs are appreciated more than you will ever know.

Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. MS Editor rates this story as 99% error free.

Story contains a couple of OCs, and my (and possibly Shonda Rhimes’) version of PB characters.

Song Inspo: Human, Rag n Bone

Word Count: 2,500

Pairing: Liam x Riley

Rating: M for Mature themes

Two weeks ago

The car drove silently through the empty streets of the duchy, streetlights occasionally and briefly illuminating the planes and angles of the driver’s face, and the knuckles of their hand on the steering wheel.

No one saw either.

The car entered the Warehouse District where the streetlamps were fewer, the buildings boxier, and the potholes were plentiful. The driver’s eyes squinted as they took a sharp turn into a narrow, dead-end alleyway, coming to a stop in front of a dumpster. They pulled a ski mask over their face and tugged a pair of leather gloves that had been laying in the passenger seat onto their hands before quietly exiting and retrieving the plastic-wrapped bundle from the back seat, hoisting it over their shoulder.

The figure was dressed completely in black: soft-soled shoes, shirt, pants, gloves, balaclava. They traipsed easily up the ladder that led to a building’s rooftop despite the plastic bag slung over one shoulder. The person was certain they hadn’t been seen or followed but surveyed the still-abandoned streets of the sleeping city below before heading towards the water tower.

With a grunt, they carefully shifted the heavy package to their other shoulder; it was literally dead weight. Their head tilted upwards, staring at the ladder that led to the tower’s catwalk. With a heavy sigh, they lightly trudged the few remaining steps to the steel staircase and began the long climb to the top of the water tank. The person maneuvered more slowly this time; one misstep and there would be two bodies found.

The goal … the hope was no body be found.

Their breathing grew heavier and was an outright pant once they reached the catwalk. They carefully placed the bag down before gloved hands began unwrapping and unrolling the plastic away from the body. As the dead woman was revealed, the person’s eyes raked over the body impersonally.

Her once shapely body was swollen with putrid gases; fortunately, the mentholatum gel the person had spread beneath their nostrils earlier in the evening prevented them from smelling anything foul.

Her flawless skin was mottled and bruised from long-settled blood. Lipstick still stained her lips, which were twisted in a grimace. From the struggle that ended in her death, or the fact that she was nobility wrapped in cheap plastic and tarp, no one would ever know. Her uncombed tresses had bald spots from postmortem hair loss and appeared to be the texture of straw. Her bare breasts were flaccid, nipples pointed downward.

Her feet were grotesquely misshapen from the bloat.

Reluctantly, their eyes pulled themselves away from the subject of a national manhunt and focused on the door; a combination lock kept the door sealed. Their hands went to the tool bag hanging from their leather belt, fingers extracting a pair of 12” bolt cutters. Eyes narrowed in concentration, they neatly cut the lock off before pushing the door fully open

Scooping the dead woman from the catwalk, and cradling the body next to their chest, the person entered the facility; it was pitch-dark and filled with the humming of pipes and pumps regulating the flow of water throughout not one, but two duchies. Operating by feel, the person came to a stop when they bumped the guardrail. With another grunt, they outstretched their arms and heaved the body downward into the tank of water that encircled the room from guardrail to floor.

There was a loud splash, then nothing. The person stood for a few moments more, thinking they should say a prayer for the dead or themselves, but they left without a word for either of them. Outside, they pulled the door shut, gathered the broken lock and sullied plastic, and made their way back down to the street.

At the dumpster, the person stuffed the plastic bag, the broken lock, the face covering, and the gloves inside. As they strode towards the car, they fished a cellphone from their shirt pocket and quickly dialed a number.

The call was picked up, but there was no greeting.

They didn’t expect one.

“It’s done,” they said tersely before hanging up, and climbing into the vehicle.

Present Day

Agata Laskaris and Elias Drakos were ex-lovers who both worked for the Cordonian Ministry of Environmental Health; on this afternoon they were partnered to inspect water towers throughout the Duchy of Krona. It hadn't been too horrible of a workday: The inspections had been cursory at best, and the pair had always worked well together. It helped that their breakup hadn’t been contentious.

Agata had (thankfully) come to the discovery that she was a lesbian. Elais didn’t blame her for her sexuality, nor did he feel he had been led on. What did sting, however, was Agata thanking him for helping her to realize that fact after their third romp.

Immediately after.

She really didn’t know how to let a guy down easy.

“What are your thoughts on the missing noble lady?” Agata asked as they crossed the rooftop, headed for the water tower’s ladder.

“It’s been a month. She’s either dead or run off somewhere. Probably never got over social season … to be considered the front runner and then tossed over for another? I’d been on the first thing smoking out of here.”

‘You would,” Agata teased as she began climbing the ladder. “Don’t look at my ass!”

“Your ass is looking at me,” Elias retorted.

At the catwalk, they both stared in puzzlement at the shut door missing its padlock.  

“Who cut the fucking lock?” Elias grumbled.

“Probably teenagers. You know they like to climb the towers and lay on the catwalk on clear nights,” Agata offered dismissively. “It isn’t the first time this has happened and won’t be the last until we get the control panels installed.  Now, come on! It’s our last tower of the day; let’s get the water readings and go grab a beer.”

Elias nodded, and entered the tank first, his ex close behind him. His fingers found the light switch easily, and they both blinked as bright fluorescent lighting filled the metal enclosure. Agata’s nose wrinkled at a faint stench, seemingly wafting from the water.

“Something’s off,” she remarked as she walked towards the opposite wall where digital thermometers and computer panels flashed numbers and temperatures.

“Aggie,” Elias rasped, his voice filled with dread.

Agata looked over her shoulder, slightly irritated. She really wanted that beer. “What’s wrong?”

Elias, his face pale, pointed his index finger towards the vast pool of water below, where a body clad only in red panties bobbed. “We’ve found the missing aristocrat.”

The Capital

The Queen sat on the side of her marital bed as she slowly hung up the antique French telephone, taking care to quietly place the receiver back into the cradle. Her French-manicured fingertips plucked at the lacy fringe hanging from the bed’s duvet, while her eyes studied the egret-colored Louis XV Savonnerie carpet beneath her bare feet.

The Queen was enamored with all things French, her favorites being wine, kisses, and perfume. Her husband provided with two of the three; his kisses were reserved for someone else … anyone else, other than his wife.

The King would beg to differ.

The monarch’s brow creased as she processed the telephone call:

She felt relief that the hussy had been found; she and the King had presented a united front regarding the disappearance, insisting the King’s Guard take lead in the investigation and closely collaborate with the Cordonian Ministry of Criminal Investigation and Public Safety.

The Queen hadn’t wished death upon the noblewoman, but this outcome at least guaranteed the two would never meet again on an earthly plane. And that was something to praise the Lord for.

But among the relief, there was trepidation; she now had to confront her husband.

One month ago, Bastien Lykel, Head of the King’s Guard, stood before his Queen offering her a plain cardboard box filled with items from the missing noblewoman’s bedchambers that would hopefully yield clues as to her whereabouts.

“Set it on my desk,” Her Majesty directed in a snappish tone as she plucked yellowed leaves from a floor plant sat in a far corner of her formal study. Her heels sank silently into the plush rug as she made her way to the wastebasket before turning to face the guard. “And not one word to the King. Do we have an understanding, Mr. Lykel?”

The sentry took in the Queen’s haughty expression and slightly arched eyebrow, then nodded. “We do.”

A satisfied smirk curled her lip. “Excellent.”

The Queen watched the door close behind Bastien, then made her way to the bar cart to pour herself a full glass of wine before seating herself at the bureau to sort through the box’s contents.

A red bikini top which smelled of chlorine. Obviously, the woman had gone swimming in her estate’s Olympic-sized indoor pool sometime between her last public appearance and her disappearance.

But where was the bikini bottom?

A day planner; the Queen idly thumbed through its pages, noticing that some days and dates were marked with actual events and appointments, while others merely had locations such as “coffeeshop” or duchy names scribbled across them.

Two positive pregnancy tests. The Queen stared at them dumbfounded while slowly sipping the rich merlot, her mind churning. Her hand absently drifted down to her belly, her fingertips trailing across her midsection. She and the King had been trying for a child, but all they had to show for it so far was a miscarriage.

She set her wine glass down a bit more harshly than intended before scrabbling her hands through the box, pushing aside parking citations, the woman’s wallet, and pieces of valuable jewelry as she searched for electronic devices.

But there was no tablet, no laptop.

Why? Where were they?

However, there was a cellphone that the guards had unlocked. The Queen snatched it up, her fingernails tapping furiously against the screen. Her heart was heavy and her breath ragged as she pulled up text messages. The noblewoman had been smart. Nothing incriminating there.

The Queen wracked her brain figuring out where else she could get confirmation of her suspicions, and then it hit her. The photo gallery.

It was filled with selfies of the missing noblewoman, her expressions varied: bright smiles, sultry looks, with and without makeup. Her locations varied as well: galas, gardens, the Eiffel Tower, New York City.

The Queen impatiently scrolled through photos of the noblewoman with members of court in both public and private settings until one picture made her stop. Her eyes widened before thinning in anger and resignation.

The Queen had always thought but had never known.

Until now.

She carefully set the phone upon the desktop, then picked up her wineglass.

Her maid came running when she heard the glass shatter against a wall.

The Queen sighed heavily before rising from the bed. It had been a long day, and even longer month. Her fingers nimbly unbuttoned her silk bouse, slipping it down over her shoulders and arms; her hands reached behind her to unzip her pencil skirt. The fabric whispered against the carpeting as it fell. Clad only in bra and panties, the monarch pushed her feet into plush slippers, and made her way to her vanity.

Seated in a straight back chair, she stared at her reflection in the mirror; the Queen’s face stared back at her. Flawless hair and makeup. Stately jewelry. Pursing her lips, she began removing her jewelry piece by piece: pearl earrings, pearl necklace, diamond-encrusted gold bracelet. She broke her gaze from the mirror to stare at her wedding ring, her fingers tugging and pulling at the circular metal.

She and her husband had a union, not a marriage. Had it ever been anything else?

The Queen stopped fiddling with the ring; it would remain on her finger. Her gaze caught sight of her elaborate, upswept hairstyle; her hand curled around the edge of her hairline as she snatched the wig off in one fell swoop. Beneath, her natural hair was short and curly with some frizz at the ends.

She closed her eyes, her fingers removing the false eyelashes by rote. The Queen tossed them gingerly into the nearby trashcan; they resembled hairy spider legs to her. She then reached for wipes to remove her makeup; she scrubbed lightly at first, then harder as rouge and foundation painted and stained the damp cloths.

Beneath the painted veneer she presented to the world as Queen of Cordonia, was a black woman named Riley Brooks. A former waitress from Brooklyn, NY. She had enough intelligence and personality to get Cordonian to accept her, but still the country hadn’t done so fully.

She was American, which meant foreign.

Even though Liam was Asian, he was only half-Korean and was never referred to as Queen Eleanor’s son. No, Liam was always the King’s son. The white King’s son.

No one but Liam knew what lay beneath her artificial beauty: the pockmarks, the scars, the dark bags beneath her eyes. How dark her skin truly was.

That was trust, right? And trust was a form of love, right?

Riley was staring at her naked face when the door to the bedchambers opened and Liam strode in, heading directly towards her. When he reached Riley’s side, he leaned in to give her a lingering kiss on her cheek.

It wasn’t an insincere gesture, but definitely more routine than romantic.

“I just heard the Countess’ body was found today, in a water tower of all places,” he said as he straightened up to shrug off his suit jacket.

No response from Riley, who was moisturizing her face and neck.

“The Palace will release a statement this evening saying that a criminal investigation will be launched at the highest priority. Of course, we’ll go visit Godfrey and Adelaide first thing in the morning.”

“Of course. Madeleine was a valued member of this Court,” Riley replied dully as she resumed staring at her reflection.

The King threw her a brief glance, puzzlement in his expression. “You’re quiet this evening. Are things well with you?”

Riley’s fingers were pulling open one of the vanity’s drawers.; her hand curled around the cellphone.

“Liam?”

He adjusted his jacket on a hanger before turning to fully face his wife. “Yes, love?”

Riley pulled out the phone, already open to a picture, and held it out so Liam could see it. The photo was a dick pic, and not a selfie that had been sent. No, this picture was taken at eye level, up close and personal. Every detail was visible: the bulging vein along its underside, the curve to the left, the hand fisted at its base with the signet ring on the right ring finger.

Maintaining eye contact with her husband, the Queen asked in a steady voice that belied the sinking in her stomach, “Why is your penis on a dead woman’s phone?”

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[levysoft]

Come la storia ha trattato male il dodo

Storia e arte di Mikel Angelo Francisco

Quando si tratta di specie che sono state denigrate e maltrattate dalla storia, poche, se non nessuna, possono essere paragonate al dodo (Raphus cucullatus). L'ultimo avvistamento confermato di questo uccello risale al 1662—meno di 100 anni dopo che i marinai olandesi invasori avevano notato per la prima volta la sua esistenza sull'isola africana di Mauritius. Col tempo, l'uccello incapace di volare è diventato il simbolo sfortunato del fallimento evolutivo. La sua reputazione di essere terribilmente inadatto alla sopravvivenza ha cementato il suo posto nella cultura popolare e nel lessico del mondo anglofono come simbolo di obsolescenza ("morto come un dodo") e pura stupidità ("stupido come un dodo").

Per secoli, la narrazione dominante sul dodo era che fosse comicamente goffo, grasso, e inadatto a sopravvivere in un mondo dominato dagli umani. Supponendo che fosse così, la sua incapacità di volare lo rendeva una preda facile per i coloni europei, che lo portarono rapidamente all'estinzione.

Ma recenti studi suggeriscono che fosse agile e capace, muovendosi abilmente tra alberi e rocce con forti gambe. Aveva un buon senso dell'olfatto e potrebbe essere stato intelligente quanto un piccione. La stupidità non ha condannato il dodo; gli umani sì. Fu la caccia, insieme all'introduzione di specie invasive come i ratti, i gatti e i maiali che rovinò il suo habitat e distrusse il suo cibo.

Questo solleva la domanda: come abbiamo fatto a sbagliare così tanto sul povero dodo?

Dopotutto, questa specie non è come i dinosauri non aviari, scomparsi milioni di anni fa, di cui non abbiamo mai visto uno dal vivo nel contesto geologico. Di fatto, il dodo è uno degli esempi più celebri di una specie la cui scomparsa si è svolta sotto i nostri occhi. Sicuramente, qualcuno con un pennino e un pezzo di carta avrebbe potuto registrare come apparisse e si comportasse un dodo vivo, giusto?

La risposta, ovviamente, è no. Sfortunatamente, l'accuratezza delle loro rappresentazioni lasciava molto a desiderare, per usare un eufemismo.

Curiosamente, Carl Linnaeus stesso propose un nome binomiale per il dodo: Didus ineptus ("dodo stupido"), che risultava terribilmente adatto.

Inoltre, vale la pena notare che quando il dodo scomparve, non avevamo ancora standardizzato come categorizzare gli esseri viventi. Ciò significava anche che nessuno aveva lavorato con un esemplare tipico —un "punto di riferimento" accettato per descrivere i tratti fisici del dodo.

In aggiunta, il dodo morì durante un periodo anomalo nella storia scientifica: non solo la tassonomia moderna non esisteva ancora, ma anche la nostra comprensione dell'estinzione—di come l'intera popolazione di una specie potesse cessare di esistere—era ancora un concetto nuovo.

A un certo punto, le persone dubitarono persino dell'esistenza reale del dodo, e questo divenne associato a creature mitologiche come il grifone e la fenice dell'antichità mitologica.

Con tutte queste considerazioni, un team di ricercatori britannici ha affrontato il compito (anche se inevitabile) di districare i nodi della nomenclatura del dodo. Questo processo ha comportato l'esame di circa 400 anni di letteratura, nonché di documenti sul dodo. Pubblicarono il loro studio nello Zoological Journal of the Linnean Society.

Nel loro articolo, confermarono che il dodo e il suo più stretto parente estinto, il solitario di Rodrigues (Pezophaps solitaria), appartenevano alla stessa famiglia dei piccioni e delle colombe (Columbidae).

Non è solo una questione di pedanteria scientifica: studiare la storia del dodo può chiarire il suo ruolo nell'ecosistema di Mauritius, il che fornisce informazioni utili per la conservazione degli habitat e delle specie.

Questo può salvare altre specie dall'estinguersi come il... tu sai. (Ancora deluso.)

(via Il Dodo non era così stupido come pensavamo)