#whales who are not in the catalog

[pricegouge]

Haul

Part Three MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: noncon nudity, noncon touching, graphic depiction of injuries

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.   If you survive this indeed, though.

You count distance in the taste of fabric on your tongue. As hours and miles pass, the cotton fades from heavy copper, to salt-lick piquant. The trailer heats with the rising sun, metal hull hotboxing you in. The tight space you're kept in is padded, probably for sound proofing though you're almost grateful for it, given how it prevents you from burning yourself on the corrugated siding.

It's hard to guess how much time passes. It feels like days, but the trailer does not go through a cooling cycle, nor do you die of dehydration, so you assume only a handful of hours pass. You spend them drifting in and out of consciousness, wishing you had enough wherewithal to try escaping. Unfortunately, with the heat and the dark comes exhaustion, and with the adrenaline crash comes intense pain so you do little more than catalog injuries when you can concentrate enough to do so. 

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.  

If you survive this indeed, though.

Poor Ash. She may have been a pain in the ass, but no one deserves to go out like that. It's hard to stop the tears when you think of her but you try anyway, knowing full well that further inflaming your face isn't going to do anyone any good. You wonder why they kept you alive - why Ash didn't make the cut. Or, did, you suppose. Maybe they felt two victims would have been too difficult to deal with. Maybe they thought Ash, who was still able to get around quite well, would've been too much of a handful. 

Maybe you're trying to reason with hurricane season, as it were, find rationality where there was none. These men were motivated by something you'd never understand and perhaps it was best not to waste your efforts on it. Still, it's hard to move past Simon and Gaz's brief exchange. 

'For cap?'

'For all of us.'

The thought of being shared by them made your stomach turn, but the thought that there was another one - one they evidently often brought victims back home to - that was even worse.

'Captain,' you sneer. You can't help but picture some old geezer who couldn't pull his own victims anymore; real Texas Chainsaw shit. The boys would probably have to hold you down so he could wax poetic at you about what a good hauler he used to be, help him lift a tire iron so he could get his rocks off. It would be enough to make you laugh, if it didn't feel like the tire iron was already whaling on you.

Still, you suppose knowing your fate lies with an old man and his lackeys is better than the alternative; even in your current state you know a truck with a soundproofed false back generally spells human trafficking for anyone with the misfortune to find themselves stuck in one. Your prospect doesn't make you happy by any means, but you suppose the enemy you know is better. Even if that enemy is a group of known killers. 

It's not too long after the trailer starts to cool that the quality of the roads changes; long, smooth interstate giving way to potholed, winding highway. You grit your teeth each time you're jostled, groan every time you remember your jaw is actually your biggest source of pain. 

The passiveness with which you wonder about our whereabouts surprises you, but you're so exhausted you don't hold yourself too accountable for that. It's not until the truck slows to a stop that you sit up straighter, heartbeat hammering when the back up alarm confirms your fears that you have arrived at your destination. They let you sit for a while after. Long enough to get cold. There's the occasional sound of air brakes firing and you figure you're in some sort of lot. You try yelling for help a few times, but between the gag in your mouth and the soundproofing around you, your cries go unanswered.

At least you hope that's the reason. Otherwise this entire lot is filled with people who are in on this potential trafficking ring and Simon's words echo even more ominously in your ears. 

A quiet rattling form the end of the trailer tells you when they open the doors hours later. The truck engine roars to life seconds after, backing up the final few feet necessary to slam into the loading dock hard enough to make a gruff voice from within yell. 

It's unfamiliar, makes you steady yourself harder against the unknown quality of it. You figure this must be Cap, feel some small sense of satisfaction when the old, ragged voice matches what you'd pictured. You listen intently as pallets are cleared away, the loud clatter of the jack ringing even through your soundproofing. There's a lower murmur of laughter, the boys regaling the older man with a story you can't quite hear but can definitely infer. When the truck is fully unloaded, their heavy boots tread the short runway - Johnny's truck, then; you'd wondered who you'd been riding with -, their voices coming clearer as they draw near. 

"- banged up, but mostly from the crash," you hear Simon rumble. 

Johnny's next, his grating brogue echoing within the trailer, "Well, except her nose. We can thank Gaz for that one."

"She can thank herself for it," Gaz snarks back, and you would bite your tongue if you could. There's a beat of silence. You can almost feel the heavy gaze their silent captain turns on Gaz, prompting him to elaborate, "She ran. Not very fast. When I caught up, she tried bite me so I headbutted her a little."

"A little!?" Johnny cries, but is cut off by a gruff scoff.

"No way to treat our new guest, Kyle. Go on, make it up to her. Bring her out here."

You expect something dramatic, like a flood of blinding light or strong hands reaching in to yank you out. Instead, when the panel is pulled back, the indirect light from the building is mostly blocked by the row of bodies in front of you, and Gaz squats off to the side, body language friendly and inviting despite the coldness you can feel radiating from him. This man hates you, you can feel it. You remember how he wanted to kill you, wish you could tell him the feeling was mutual. Rather, you stare at him loathingly until he tires of your inaction, leans in to grab you by the zip ties that bind your feet and cuts them with a knife you didn't even see him pull. When he grabs your wrists and pulls, you resist as much as you're able but in the end you're no match and he pulls you from your hideaway with little more than a grunt of pain and annoyance when you elbow him in the ribs.

"Feisty one, is she?" the captain's low growl observes and you turn to the newcomer with fury in your eyes which stalls out when you take him in properly for the first time.

You're disappointed to discover he's not as old as you'd been expecting. Nowhere near, in fact. Mid forties most likely, early fifties at absolute most. And densely built enough to speak of a physicality far younger. None of them were small, but the captain still managed to look big among them - nearly as tall as Simon and just as broad as Johnny, though it looked a little leaner on him given his height. You think the worst part about him is how genial he looks. Like Gaz, he's a brand of handsome that comes with charm and approachability, and you wonder how long it will take for that facade to crack like Gaz's did. Worse, if it ever will.

Certainly, his voice is disarmingly sweet when he greets you, coos and calls you a dove. "Weren't lying were they, love? Did a number on the poor girl, Ghost."

Simon - Ghost? - grunts in acknowledgement, motions for you to step closer. You don't, of course, and get a sharp shove from Gaz which sends you stumbling toward the larger men, caught by a firm hand on your bad shoulder. You yelp, breath heaving behind your gag as Cap adjusts his grip, studying you by your hip instead as his eyes dart to Simon.

"Shoulder. Maybe collar bone. Happened when she flipped her car." When you flipped it. Right.

The older man tuts dissapprovingly. You try to swat his hands away but stumble without his support. He ignores you anyway, hand returning easily while the other reaches up to carefully grip the edge of the duct tape. "Can't be easy to breathe in there, can it doll? Not with that poor nose. Let's get this off, shall we? Easy," he soothes, voice a low pur. His task hurts like hell anyway, the sticky strip pulling your tender, swollen skin. He's gentle about it at least, murmuring sympathetically when you can't contain your whimpers. You don't judge yourself too harshly when a few tears slip through, but do very much so when his thumbing them away twists your stomach unexpectedly. 

It's just because you haven't seen tenderness all night, you reason, and resolve yourself against him, even as he removes the gag with utmost delicacy.

"That better, dove?" he asks when your breaths come quicker, deeper. It's like resurfacing after being submerged for too long, clarity coming to you like a cold breeze on soaked skin: this is a calm meant to put you at ease, but you will die here if you become complacent.

So when Cap tells you to call him John and asks what your name is, you spit at him, blood and mucus staining his shoes.

The boys go quiet, like a record scratch moment in an old b-movie. You stare up at John defiantly, waiting for him to scream at you, hit you - anything.

Instead, he just pulls a pocket knife from his pants, grabs your bindings when you go to flinch away. "You've had a long day, love," he starts as he slips the thin blade between your wrists. Your skin is tender there, rubbed raw from the tight binds. The cool blade feels sharp despite the care he takes to aim the edge away from you, never once letting it touch your skin. "You've had a long day, so I'm going to let you get away with that this time." When he pulls against the zip ties, they cut into your skin briefly before giving with a sharp twang. He pulls one of your wrists into his free hand, rubs the raw skin there with a calloused palm before taking the other wrist in his grasp and giving it the same treatment. "But the next time you misbehave will not go well for you. Understood?"

Of course, you don't listen. Fuck this guy for real, you figure. What's the worst he can do? Kill you?

This time, when you go to spit at him, he catches it against his palm, wide hand slapping over your mouth so hard you're breifly concerned for your good cheek. You gasp in shock and pain, nearly choking on your own spit. John steps closer, one boot knocking your foot wide to let himself between your legs. He's so close, if he moved his palm you'd be breathing the same air.

As it stands, you can barely breathe at all, nose flush against the fat side of his hand. His own breath fans across your skin, heavy and hot as a bellows. The quality of it is thick, humid. You're glad you can't smell anything because it feels like it reeks. 

"Simon, she give you a name?"

Ghost's uncomfortable movement is obvious in its silence. "Took to calling 'er Betty."

"Betty," John repeats, lips curling in amusement. "Like an old timey, proper little wife. That you, pet?" You wanna shake your head, fear for your sinus cavity if you do. "Not yet, eh? Gonna have to train you up first. Ease you into it." As if in demonstration, his body sags into your own, presence oppressive. "That's okay, pet. We'll start you off easy. Get you nice and clean, get you fed. In the morning, Kyle will help with your injuries and when you feel more like a proper lady, we'll try again, hm?"

You can't say anything, so you don't.

"But in the meantime, I can't let that kind of behavior go unchecked. Boys," he calls, eyes still boring into you. "Which one of you wants to help our guest clean up?"

The general din of excitement makes you flinch, eyes going wide as if pleading with the man who holds you so cruelly will do any good. When Johnny suggests they play rock paper scissors to decide who gets the honors, it's suddenly, belatedly clear to you that your murder would almost be a kindness. No, the worst thing this man could do for you would be to keep you. John sees it the moment you realize this. His grip eases, eyes softening in some gross perversion of kindness. He strokes your cheek soothingly when Simon goes out in the first round, smiles condescendingly when you flinch at Johnny's crow of victory. John tuts at you, but says no more as he turns you toward the Scot.

"All yours, Soap," he rumbles, pushing you not ungently toward the other man. "Spic and span, you hear?"

"Aye, sir. Thank ye, sir." Johnny's hands are much harsher than John's when he guides you from the trailer, giving you no sympathy when you flinch under the harsh warehouse lighting. You try to take stock of your surroundings as you're pulled along: spare, dusty racking; a forklift in need of repair. There are multiple loading docks, most of the viewports obscured by backed up trucks. One sits vacant and you briefly wonder if there's even more of these monsters waiting in the wings before you're pulled past a dank little office. You catch sight of outdated equipment - a rolodex, a CB - but it's the shadow boxes full of military honors that your eyes lock on the longest.

Of fucking course.

The door Johnny leads you out through is tucked off the side of the building. You stumble when he pulls you down through the door, feet unsteady where they kick up dirt. It's cold outside, colder than it had been in the dankness of the trailer. You can't help but shiver, bite your tongue as best you can when your companion takes that as invitation to draw you in close and rub a big, solid hand up your arm. 

"We'll have ye warmed up in no time, lass," he promises, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. This man murdered your friend with a crowbar and dragged her around like a slaughtered animal. You expect no kindness from him. 

He orders you to strip before turning to a small station built into the side of the warehouse. You do not strip, electing instead to take off running in the opposite direction, cursing as the gravel churns loudly under your shoes. Soap swears, his own heavy boots following at a pace you didn't think his burly body capable of. Your breaths burn your chest, each pull coming labored in your blind panic but you refuse to slow or relent, ignoring the flaming pain in your shoulder every time you swing your arm forward for propulsion.

Well, you ignore it until the ground comes tilting up to meet you, your body crushed beneath the considerable weight of one grunting, cursing Scot. You sob at the pain, or maybe the fear - hard to tell. When he levers himself off you, he wastes no time grabbing your ankle as he stands up, towering over you. If you were capable of stringing two thoughts together, you'd wonder if this was the last thing Ash saw: pale blue eyes gleaming in the low light, the cruelty that twists his face. Instead you wonder how likely your arm is to maintain full mobility after a night like this. 

Not very, you decide, sobbing in pain as he drags you back to the warehouse. He's muttering something above you, but you can't hear him over your own cries. When you kick at him futilely, he yanks on your ankle until you fear for it and you don't try it again. Not even when he gets you where he wants you, back under the wan outdoor lighting of the station he'd turned to before, crouching down next to you to rip at your shoelaces.

"Please, don't," you murmur instead, fear churning in your belly as he continues to strip you. You'd known it would come to this, known the moment the captain had mentioned something about a wife. It doesn't make it easier, doesn't make the prospect of the gritty sand underneath you any more comfortable, or your repulsion for the man above you any less sharp. "Please, please, please let me go. I could -."

"What? Suck me off?" Soap laughs harshly, "Think ah'm gonnae ge' tha' anyway, hen."

You were going to say keep your mouth shut, but you suppose that never works anyway.

The sound you make when he pulls your pants off is wretched, but the shriek he earns when he pulls a knife on you is worse. His laugh is mean, reveling in your fear for a moment before cutting your shirt from you with one deft movement. He's pulling you to your feet before you can really process why and shoving you against the metal siding of the warehouse.

"Stay there," he warns and you're unsure if his tone or the throb in your shoulder is a more effective threat. When he walks back toward the station he'd been after earlier, your gaze turns to follow until you catch sight of your own shoulder at the bottom of your field of view and you draw short, taking in the severe swelling there. You prod at the edges of the mottling, wincing at your own ministrations. 

Absorbed in your own injuries, you don't notice when Soap turns on the spigot, or when he aims the nozzle of the high pressure hose at you. He calls for you to hold your breath, but gives you no more time than that which is necessary to look up, confused, before he's spraying you down.

It's freezing, the flow hard enough to bruise where it jets against the fatty bits of you; feels like it might sheer straight through hide where your skin thins around joints. You gasp, get a mouthful of aerated hose water. Spluttering, you try blocking the stream with your hands despite it feeling like your palms are being struck by a thousand rulers.

"S'wha' we use tae wash the trucks!" Soap calls, cackling loud enough to be heard over the spray that engulfs you. You can't get away from it no matter how much you fold into yourself, catching the jet alternatingly on your hip, your ribs, your ass. It does a better job of indexing your injuries than you did, the blooms of pain where you accidentally turn a bruise toward it letting you know that the hip which took the brunt of the collision is sore, that there's a spot on your good shoulder where Gaz tackled you which smarts. Your knees and elbows are all scuffed up, dirt grinding in before being stripped away. You feel like you're being sandpapered down; buffed until you're gleaming despite knowing how the dirt he kicks up clings to your skin wherever the hose isn't actively being pointed.

Soap keeps it up for another minute or so, only turning it off when your shaking gets so bad you think you're like to fall apart. "Quit yer whinging," he warns, creeping closer as he adjusts the nozzle to another setting. "Jes' havin' a laugh, bonnie, no need tae get all bent outta shape."

You want to tell him you're not laughing, but a small voice in your head says you should be grateful he didn't turn that hose on your face, so you keep quiet to prevent him getting any ideas.

When he's close enough to touch, Soap reaches out and grabs your wrist, spraying your pebbled skin down with a softer shower of water that would set you at ease, if not for how cold it is. From your arm, the stream moves up over your head, mussing your hair beyond recognition before trickling down your battered face. Here, the cold water feels good against heated skin and despite yourself, you heave a sigh of relief, tilting slightly into the unexpected relief. 

"Like tha' hen?" he asks, and you hesitate briefly, wondering how much satisfaction you want to give him. He doesn't give you a chance to decide, ruining your brief moment of reprieve by reaching out and tweaking one hard nipple.

You squawk, swatting at him. Johnny laughs long and loud, letting the stream from the hose fall dead as he watches you fume, shaking.

"Look like one ah them wee doggies, lass," he chuckles, "angry cause ye cannae even bite properly." The bastard flicks your cheek, feigning a sympathetic coo when you flinch away. "Tha's righ', bonnie, nothin' ye can do tae fight back," he murmurs, gliding his fingertips against your cheek in a move he probably thinks is soothing. "Ye jes' remember tha', eh? Might keep you alive."

You swallow back the lump in your throat, eyes boring a hole into his shoulder because you can't stand to look him in his terribly cold eyes. When Johnny moves again, his touches are back to the easy, soft caresses from before as he hoses you down. He's surprisingly good at it, despite being armed with only a shammy and a gnarly looking bar of soap. At least he knows to avoid your hair once he realizes he'll need conditioner. That damage is already done, but you appreciate him not dragging his fucking fingers through it on top of everything else. You try taking the soap from him once but he just tuts at you warningly so you go back to shivering, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to preserve body heat and keep yourself marginally modest. You can't decide if he's being obstinately particular just to torment you longer or if he's genuinely just like this until he raises your good arm above your head and finds your armpit overgrown.

He grins, sending you a delightfully scandalized look. "See Ghost chose well. Cap's gonnae love ye," he chuckles, and you feel your panic heighten when you think of the threatening older man again. Soap notices. "No need tae worry, hen. You jes' keep bein' good fer us and Cap'll be good tae ye."

For some reason, you don't trust this man's definition of being treated well.

After getting you all washed up, Johnny marches you back into the warehouse where the other men gather around a small, dingy breakroom table pecking at microwaved burritos. They're laughing uproariously as you arrive, Gaz talking animatedly about a loading mishap back in Arizona. The noise drifts off when they spot you, eying you over like a scrap of meat. There's no covering everything and despite yourself, you're almost grateful when John stands, bringing you a blanket he had folded on the seat beside himself. 

"Feeling better, doll?" he asks, patting you dry with a gentleness you didn't expect from the big man. He frowns at the swelling of your shoulder, eyes darting between you and it with an exaggerated level of concern that makes you want to hurl.

You avoid his gaze, your own flickering around the room as you ignore John, trying to gather your resolve enough to appease him. It's a struggle until your eyes find Simon's, apathetic as always despite the disapproving set of his scarred mouth. 

"Yes, sir," you murmur, watching raptly as Simon disguises a quick nod as a glance at his plate. Your heart rate picks up, an impossible tendril of hope slithering up your aorta when John hums contentedly at your words.

"That's a girl, love," he starts, warm palm falling heavy on your back as he starts to guide you back through the warehouse. "Gaz, bring the soup. You're hungry, right pet?"

You are, but Gaz doesn't wait for confirmation, falling in stride as John guides you toward the quaint office you'd caught a glimpse of earlier.

"Now, one day, you'll be able to stay up here with us," John promises, gesturing magnanimously across the dingy warehouse as if it contained all the gold of El Dorado within its rickety racking. "But until then, we're going to have to keep you below." 

Gait faltering, you glance up at the older man fearfully but he pays you no mind at all. "Don't worry honey, only temporary. And I'll have the boys visit you daily to keep you nice and stimulated, hm? Gaz," he barks before you can reflect too much on his choice of words. Kyle, evidently knowing exactly what's expected of him, places the soup bowl he's been carrying on the cluttered desk before moving some chairs, rolling the rug back enough to reveal a cutaway door in the cement slab.

You still, every muscle in your body tensing up when John tries to coax you along. "'S'not so bad, sweetheart, I promise. Come look, yeah? Think you'll have a nice little time if you just give it a try."

Like hell you'll give it a try, knees locking up so tight you look like a GI Joe when John guides you first down the stairs. It's cool, the descent marked by the wet gradient of the cement slab as you pass further underground. It's deeper than you'd expect, the dug dirt bottom damp under your feet when you alight on the landing. There's a short hall ahead, braced by rotted-looking timber. A lone door on the opposite end, braced on one side with a long line of bolts and locks. A single light hangs from the short ceiling, low enough you could smack your forehead off of it if you're not careful. 

"Had Simon come down while you were out, get it nice and ready for you," John brags. You doubt the room on the other side of that door could be made live-in ready even if Simon had been given three years to work on it, but you know better than to say as much. 

This time, when John prods you forward, your legs don't obey. "CanIsleepwithyou?" you blurt, a last ditch effort you're not sure you want him to accept.

But John just chuckles. "Eager, eh pet? Don't worry, you'll earn that right soon enough. Now go on, I'm sure you'd like some nice new clothes to put on, hm?"

Damn him, but you do, so you slink forward, ducking under the hanging light as you pass. The door creaks when you pull it open, weight heavy despite how meager it looks. It feels solid, unbreakable, and you notice quickly that you won't be able to barricade it if you have to pull it open. John does not notice your hesitance, following you into the room with a proud little smirk on his mustached face.

"Well, what do you think?" 

Not much. The floor isn't finished, just cold tile pressed into the dirt. The walls and ceilings are, though, and you briefly feel grateful for it until the batting on the door registers and you realize it's for soundproofing purposes. There's a bed in the corner, larger than you need yourself and made up in cutesy sheets with a strawberry motif. A pile of heavy quilts sits folded at the foot and despite yourself, your fingers twitch eagerly at the prospect of sleeping soon, warm and snug under all that weight. 

"We've got some clothes for you here," John continues. You get the feeling he doesn't need a lot of input so you stand there quietly as he opens a foot locker for you, tattered and olive green. Inside sit two neat stacks of clothes, battered looking but approximately the right size. You remember Johnny's comment about the Captain liking your pits and wonder if they always bring him back a certain type.

And if so, where they are.

"G'on love, pick out something you like," John leers, and you realize you won't be able to get away with waiting until he and Kyle leave to get dressed. 

There's a marked efficiency to your movements. Grabbing the first top you see, you briefly check the tag before doing the same with the bottoms at the top of the pile. Close enough for rock and roll, you figure, dropping your blanket to the cold floor and pulling the clothes onto yourself as quickly as possible. Kyle's eyes are heavy, John's heavier. Your skin crawls, the goosebumps which never really went away after your little bath returning with a vengeance. To your immense displeasure, John has to help you pull your bad arm through the sleeve and he tuts sympathetically when you whine.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'll bring you down some button ups tomorrow, yeah? You nod when he pauses too long, realizing you're not going to be let off the hook without a proper answer. You creep toward the bed when he hums in acknowledgement, but he tuts in warning again, nodding toward a little desk shoved off to the side of the room. You sit obediently, thanking him with a little murmur when he ferries the bowl of soup from Gaz to you. He hovers, watching raptly until you bring a spoonful of the room temperature meal to your mouth. 

"Good, right?" he asks, before you can even get a proper taste of it. 

You take your time swallowing, playing up the pain in your cheek as you try to suss out a good response. It's just microwaved soup as far as you can tell, but you figure saying as much won't garner you any favors. Instead, you hum appreciatively and shovel in another bite before John can ask you any more questions.

It works, mostly. John takes a quick lap around the room instead of standing over you, sighing now and again at whatever he finds while Gaz continues to stand in the doorway, evidently unamused. 

"It needs work, I'll give you that," John eventually concedes as you slurp at your meal. You hadn't realized how hungry you were until that sweet sweet MSG hit your tongue. "It needs work, but if you're good, we can spend some time down here fixing it up for you. Would you like that?"

You stall, spooning through some of the chunkier bits at the bottom of your bowl. It was kind of them to give you soup, you registered belatedly. Solid foods would have undoubtedly fucked up your mouth. Instead of answering, you ask John what would happen if you were to be bad and watch as his genial nature flips like a switch.

"Got a couple of news articles upstairs if you'd like to read 'em and find out."

Next>>

[bangtanhoneys]

Bangtan Baby: DIY Man

If Yoongi was going to be completely honest, he had been saving ideas for the nursery ever since Grace had announced her pregnancy to the team. He had gone into complete baby mode, which was a surprise to even him, and his phone had been filled with photos of what he could do for the nursery. Or nurseries since a mini one would be made up at HYBE for the future arrival. 

And while he could pay the money and hire professionals, he didn’t install bidets back at the old dorm for nothing and he wasn’t known at the time as the BTS DIY man for any old reason. Hence the reason Grace found herself one afternoon, sitting in one of the many conference rooms at HYBE with a table full of snacks and catalogs and one of the big screens turned on and connected to Yoongi’s laptop. 

Obviously he had taken his role very seriously. 

“So, what are you thinking about for the theme?” Yoongi asked, typing into the Naver search bar the keywords ‘baby furniture’ and seeing what popped up. It wasn’t like they could take a wander down into town without causing a media frenzy. 

“I’m thinking maybe a moon theme.”

Yoongi snorted at the response, glancing over to the woman at the table who was currently divulging in her current craving: chocolate biscuits. 

“Of course you are. So I’m guessing neutral, clouds, a moon spinning thing, white furniture?” Yoongi asked, clicking through the various links that were provided by the search. One website offering matching furniture sets of the baby crib, changing table, wardrobe and even a rocking chair. 

“Pretty much, I’ve got some bits already like the mobile which has a whale on it,” Grace flicked through her phone to find the product in question which she sent to Yoongi’s phone.

“Okay that’s adorable.”

Grace grinned at the gummy smile on Yoongi’s face and broke off half of her biscuit, handing it over to the man who was her brother in everything but blood and who would be her closest confidant during her pregnancy.  

“You know I’m putting this all together right? I’m not letting Namjoon or Jin-hyung anywhere near the furniture. I’ve seen them try to put together a bookcase or whatever it was,” Yoongi referred to that one RUN!BTS episode. “Baby Bangtan will be secure in what I’m putting together.”

“Just don’t put a crib in your studio because I don’t want my baby listening to you shout shibal every five seconds,” Grace paused and glanced at the man in question who was busy adding things to the online shopping cart. “Yoongi, don’t you dare.”

[grimm909]

Deep In The Sea - Part 1

Hey guys! I don't have much to say here, not to mention that I will be answering your requests as soon as possible. I'm sorry for those who wait, but I had made a promise to myself that I would do, first of all, a horror and drama story where Jade would be the main attraction. Sorry for the delay and please don't give up on me! I also want to apologize if there are any English mistakes. As I said in my first post here on tumbrl: English is not my native language. Happy reading~  WARNINGS: female gender reader, violence, yandere, obsession, non-consensual, mind break, horror, drama, mutilation, mention of pregnancy.

The creature's eyes glowed with fervent attraction, which you thought were like a child's after being given a new toy. That same heterochromatic gaze met two other eyes fragmented between fear and fascination, but equally deep as the ocean. Those eyes were too fixed to dare to look away. Those eyes were yours.

Apparently attracted to you, little by little the creature's slippery tail began to wrap itself around your body, similar to a seaweed that simply wraps itself around things, without actually squeezing them. It was almost like a preventive measure to not let you get away from him, preventing any attempt by you to escape – which you thought was a possibility.

The penknife still present in your hand — firmly attached to your fingers as the only weapon you had in case you tried to defend yourself against him — was something seen and admired by the merman, as it had been exactly the object that had saved him until a few moments ago.

And of course, you.

[...]

It should have been just another normal day of swimming for you. As a marine biologist, sometimes your job allows you to explore and catalog the different types of fish in the sea.

You don't know exactly when this desire to explore the intriguing and dangerous ocean started, but you know that's what you wanted for your life. The emotion, the adrenaline, and how enchanting the beauty of the things that existed below the water was not something that made you tired.

You also usually had the help of your friend and co-worker, who was responsible for steering a small speedboat, to take it to the middle of the ocean. Sometimes you took turns swimming, as it was not a good idea to leave your only means of transport floating in the sea. 

Really, nothing had been much different from that. You put on your wetsuit, waved goodbye to your mate, and dropped into the ocean with a waterproof camera slung around your neck. 

You dove as far as you could to the bottom of the ocean, for enduring the cold and high pressure down there was not something a human could do without the proper equipment. And his were good, but not the best. 

Nevertheless, for someone with affinity and custome, trying to go more than a hundred meters deep was reasonable. As far as you knew, the longest record ever broken by a person was 320 meters. But honestly, it's not like you're too interested in beating other people's records, if they weren't your own. 

So you were tempted to go deeper than ever before. Checking his blood pressure gauge and what oxygen he had left, he realized that a longer round trip would be possible, as long as there were no interruptions along the way. 

However, it was from this decision that things started to take another turn. 

So, well, your fault. 

You've successfully managed to bear the huge weight on your back and take some great pictures, which you use to take some daily notes later on. However, just as you were about to swim back to the surface because of the oxygen, a tiny high-pitched sound was captured by his ears.

You thought at first that it might be a whale, dolphin, or any other creature that made relatively loud sounds like that. However, this hypothesis was soon dismissed on its own when the sound again resounded in a more strangely shrill and profound way, that even the earplugs could not rid him of the momentary headache caused by the noise. 

This was unlike anything you had ever heard, recognizing that it was not an aquatic animal ever cataloged by man. You were extremely tempted to want to know what it could be, perhaps even discovering a new species of sea creature and being able to photograph it. 

Curiosity overcame your logic and you tried to guide yourself through the animal's "screams", noticing that as you swam deeper, the sound increased. Darkness began to cover more and more the entire route, due to the lack of sunlight. And you were forced to turn on the flashlight housed above your head, so you could see what was before your eyes. 

The vision was of a tortuous path with many stones, but his biggest concern was the excess of mesh nets present in the environment and other types of garbage improperly discarded, which continued along the way to where the source of the sound was. 

You checked the oxygen in the cylinder one more time and realized you had to race against the time. The movement of your feet and hands became more erratic, yet quite painful due to the pressure of being even further down than you could have anticipated. 

By the increase in speed, in the distance you noticed a strange sea shape, which for you exactly resembled an eel. However, eels didn't "scream" that way. They didn't even look as huge as this one. 

You became more cautious as you knew the good reputations of these creatures and taking an electrical shock was not in your plans. Then he tried to approach more slowly, until he noticed that the creature's shape was starting to get even weirder. 

You hid behind a rock and turned off your flashlight so the animal wouldn't see the light, then turned on the camera. Your intention was to zoom in as far as you could and try to take the picture right there in the darkness, through the flash.

Squinting your head a little, you positioned the camera towards the animal and in a quick fraction of a second, the light emerged through the click of a button. You get your photo and quickly go back into hiding, analyzing the image. 

It is not completely clear, let alone sufficiently illuminated, but the shading of the animal is quite noticeable and it would be possible to make an analysis of which species is. That is, if you knew any sea animals with arms. 

Yup. Damn arms. 

Aside from an apparently human head, of course. 

Is it possible to choke under water, breathing through a tube? Well, you almost did. 

You eyes widened in absolute surprise and her hands that were still holding the camera trembled with anxiety. 

You thought that, like every child, it was always normal to hear and even be interested in fanciful stories of mermaids and mermen. But the fact that somehow these creatures could be real stirred you in a strange way. To make matters worse, none of these stories portrayed the mermaids as friendly beings, but rather as ship sinks and fishermen killers. Especially, if you disregard the entire "The Little Mermaid" movie. 

However, you are abruptly kicked out of your own thoughts when the sound made by the creature is even worse than before, causing your eardrums to ache due to the distance of only a few meters between the two of you. 

No way. That's ridiculous. It should just be a misunderstanding on your part. It was all so dark in the image, that simply assuming it was a mythological creature without even seeing it with its own eyes, was evidently gross neglect on the part of the animal that was screaming for apparent help. Yes, animal. 

By this reasoning, which you tried to tell yourself was the only absolute truth, you put your camera in place, turned on your flashlight again, and came out of your makeshift hiding place to complete your objective. 

However, for a second surprise that day, in less than a few minutes, you realized how foolish you were, to think that your eyes had been deceived with the truth demonstrated through a blurry photograph.

It was real. The stories were really true.

For a few seconds, time stopped for you and your body remained stagnant, as if you were just some object floating in the water. The image before your eyes would be etched in your mind for a long time, both for the stunning beauty of the creature and for how deadly it looked, but especially for the deplorable state in which he found himself. 

His neck and wrists were tied to a large mesh net, linked to a generous amount of rubbish tangled around a rock. It was impossible to escape that trap caused by the illegal disposal of men, if the stone was not obstructed or if those wires were not cut. And the fact that the merman was struggling to get out of there didn't help, it just made the situation worse so that he was more and more trapped. It was like he was in quicksand, how funny. 

However, time didn't stop for him, who noticed your presence precisely by the light that the flashlight emitted, directing his attention to you and immediately growling as a probable warning. 

Soon, it all happened just too fast for your eyes to follow. One instant you were fine and the next a dull ache shot up the side of your face, so that totally unprepared by the force of the blow, you fell to the sand. 

His goggles ended up cracking a little on one of the lenses, perhaps from the fall or the attack by the merman's tail — who else could it have been and what? Furthermore, the creature's tail was the only thing it wasn't attached to, enabling it to attack anything that came dangerously close.

Afraid, you quickly sat up and crawled across the sand to get away from the monster, then raised your hands in the air and shook your head frantically from side to side, trying to indicate that you weren't there to hurt it. This didn't seem to have the slightest effect—probably because those signs didn't mean shit to him, or he wasn't a rational creature as mythological stories always suggested—whereupon the merman was now stretching his arm and tail toward him to try to reach you. Like anyone in this situation, you feared for your life, but you weren't angry at the creature for its hostile actions and you knew there was no way it could hurt you, precisely because it was trapped. 

Actions speak louder than words, however—even though there was this tremendous irony that you couldn't even speak because you were underwater, just as you seriously doubted the merman would understand you if he could—and you pulled out of the pocket of your latex coveralls a switchblade, grabbing a piece of net on the ground that luckily was close to you, and cutting it with extreme ease, then pointing at the blade and then at the net it was tangled up with, signaling that he wanted to help you. 

The merman somehow seemed to understand you bad mime, relaxing his muscles and stopping his growling, yet still giving him an extreme look of distrust. Surely, one wrong move with that object and your neck would be broken. You were just lucky this time, because you weren't close enough to take the full weight of that monster's tail in one slap.

A third time, you checked your oxygen and realized that you would now not only have to be careful to help him, but very quickly. However, fast and careful were two words that couldn't always keep together. 

You thought a little about getting close. Is it ok to untie it? Until a few moments ago, he seemed quite willing to kill you. However, you stopped to once again analyze the situation he was in. If by chance his movements in his hands and neck were not entirely restricted, he might even be able to cut the net with his teeth or sharp nails. And if he wasn't released, he might starve to death or some other predator even bigger than he would make him a snack.

You forced yourself to swallow your own fear. If I were in his shoes, I would also like to be released. Maybe he wouldn't kill you in retribution, right? 

You got off the ground and swam a little closer, breaking the safe distance from your body to his. You looked into the merman's eyes, trying to convey serenity and confidence, then looked away at the hammock around his neck, deciding that first you would free him from that agonizing suffocation he was probably feeling. 

You lift the pocketknife in your hand and carefully begin grinding the line of his neck, breaking out in a cold sweat at the prospect of accidentally cutting it. If that happened, he'd get a little cut and you'd get a broken neck. Haha, it would even be funny, if it wasn't for a cruel possibility. 

Taking longer than you'd expect, when the last line of mesh on its neck is removed, the merman looks strangely relieved and you almost swore you saw him heave a sigh. Inside, you smiled at it and then proceeded to cut the net from one of your wrists. 

When the job was done, the creature raised its webbed hand and pushed you away with a light shove to the chest. You were slightly startled by this, but then realized that he would finish the job himself, using the claws of his free hand and sharp teeth to instantly rip apart that net, much faster and more aggressively than you had done with the knife. So that was it, he was on the loose. The merman massaged his neck and wrists, relieving the likely pain he was feeling. His face, no longer nervous, looked strangely indifferent and serious, as if he had stepped in mud and soiled his shoes—that is, if he had been on land and had feet.

Then he hovered over his person and approached with a single, brief flick of his tail. At that moment, the apathetic face gave way to a brief curve of lips in a polite smile. 

And you didn't like it.

[...]

So, here was your person. Facing a potentially dangerous and definitely carnivorous creature. However, now was not the time to remember the events that had stupidly gotten you into this situation. 

After all, you were starting to run out of oxygen in the cylinder. You widened your eyes and lifted your free hand and pointed at the tube in your mouth, then up, then at the tube again. Repeating this sequence more than three times so the merman could understand his despair. 

You shook your head from side to side and touched its slippery as well as sticky tail to push it away. That bad choice only made him tighten around you even tighter, not enough to hurt, though. You thought you could use your pocketknife to hurt him, but from the look of it, he was just holding you there out of sheer curiosity, with no pretense of attacking. 

Desperate, you gave him the best pleading, desperate look you could muster, trying to let him know that you really needed to go. And all he did was just widen his smile. 

Oh no. 

From then on you swore you would die, but it was then that he surprisingly proceeded to unroll his tail from his body. The merman swam dangerously closer until his face hovered inches away from his own, causing his eyes to widen and a nasty shiver down his spine. 

His big, sharp, smacking hand touched your face, then tenderly caressed the side, in the same spot where it had hit before—and which now was a huge red smear. You noticed: he was apologizing through this act of affection. 

In another situation, you would find this very cute. But not in this one, certainly. And it didn't help much when the creature decided to break the distance, opening its mouth to lick the entire reddened expanse, with a tongue you found to be extremely long and strangely soft. 

Is this supposed to be really cute? Now it felt more like psychological torture.

You felt a tightening around your waist, this time realizing it was his arm. And it wasn't long before the merman's other arm came around his back as well. You had no idea what he wanted, however you understood when the merman began to swim up, with you in his arms. 

Apparently, he had the vague idea that you definitely wouldn't survive if you stayed there much longer, so he was giving you a ride. He was so fast! So fast that even the pressure made her head ache, needing to hug him back so she would feel less likely to end up having a stroke. You would never have had a chance to escape him if he wasn't being so friendly. Killing and eating you wasn't in his plans, apparently. 

And lucky for you, in less than five minutes, the sea started to be less dark and brighter, indicating the brightness of the Sun and how close you were to the surface. 

The oxygen time in your cylinder runs out completely, but unbelievably coincides with the time your head finally emerged from the water. You hastily take the tube out of your mouth and suck in a significant amount of air. 

How stupid of you to take such a risk, as you had taken today. 

The feeling of pure relief makes you forget for a moment that you are still facing and in the arms of a mythological creature, resting your head on the merman's shoulder and breathing heavily. 

When the world in your head finally seems to be at peace, you take your distance from the merman and this time he lets you go. Lifting your goggles, you once again stare into the creature's eyes, this time without fear. 

"Thanks." 

You thanked him and smiled, gracing the merman's ears for the first time with your thin voice, even though you were uncertain if he would be able to understand it.

He then mutters something totally incomprehensible to you, however you imagined it was his "disposition". 

You start looking around the sea, identifying to your right a distant image of what looked like a speedboat. 

Immediately turning your back on the creature without saying another word, you proceed to swim towards your only mode of transport. 

Distant enough, you turn your head back one last time to confirm that the creature was still there and that for a moment, none of this was your imagination. And to her surprise, he was. However, showing a terrifying, sharp-toothed grin, exclusively for you in delight or gratitude. You wouldn't be able to identify it anyway. Maybe you didn't even want to. 

However, you are polite to smile again—however forcedly—and give him a brief wave of your hand, thus saying goodbye to him definitively and returning to swimming without looking back. 

You hoped never to see him again.

[...] 

Telling what happened to your friend was not a complicated task, because it would be really difficult for him to believe his story. For sure, he would just think that the water pressure started to affect his head in a negative way, making him notice things that weren't there. 

And by those thoughts, you omitted the truth. Even if you had that blurry photo intact—and showed it to prove the integrity of your words—your colleague would momentarily be surprised, but then quickly dismiss the possibility of being a merman by saying you were confusing seaweed with arms. Sea shadows are never to be trusted, he would say. 

Extremely skeptical he was, just as you were. Although, now, maybe you weren't as skeptical as before after seeing that sea monster in person, touching it and still hugging it. 

You decided to frame the creature's photo in a photo panel you had in your room, to always remember that certain "things" really existed and to remember that the sea floor might not be as friendly as you thought it would be. 

You almost died, idiot.

Still, it didn't shake you as much as it should have, for after a week since your encounter with the merman, you continued to do your usual job at sea. 

You didn't find him either and didn't risk swimming too deep, fearful that she would see him again or find another creature no longer as "generous" as the first. 

However, fate seemed to have other plans for you. 

Cruel plans.

Thanks for reading this far! But if you're frustrated that you don't have any smut, know that part two will be full of it. I had to split it due to how long it was. So next time be careful with the depth!

You don't want to drown, do you?

Eventually, my work will also be posted on Ao3, in the form of two chapters. So, don't be surprised if you find him there.

See you~💙

[post-leffert]

Anarchist Zines and Pamphlets Published in July 2023

Welcome to our mostly monthly round-up of new zines published in the anarchist space. We aim to highlight a broad range of anarchist thought. Inclusion here doesn't imply endorsement.

You can view past round-ups if you want more reading material. If you have something you want us to include next month, contact us. For a curated collection of zines, view our catalog.

Beyond what you can find here, we also recommend you support anarchist print media. Two recently released print projects include Plastic in Utero: a journal of anti-civ anarchy reborn from the compost of wasteland modernity #1 and Rupture Mag #1

The image accompanying this post is memorial mural in Lyon, France for Carlo Giuliani, a 23 year-old anarchist who was shot dead by police on July 20, 2001 during the anti-G8 protests in Genoa, Italy (source)

Against Capitalist Wars, Against Capitalist Peace

"In Ukraine, the Czech Republic, the UK, Italy, Syria, France etc… All over the world there is a voice against capitalist wars and also against capitalist peace. Only class war can end this terror and that is what we mean when we say No War but the Class War!

The new pamphlet contains 14 texts by various groups and individuals. The aim is to explain and affirm the meaning of antimilitarism, internationalism and revolutionary defeatism."

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Animal Bodies, Colonial Subjects: (Re)Locating Animality in Decolonial Thought

"Similar to the ways in which Indigenous peoples can undergo a violent process through which we rid our colonial mentalities, I argue that animals can be liberated from their colonized subjecthood through an aided 'process of desubjectification'. That is, thinking through animality as an infrastructure of decolonization re-positions animal bodies as agents of anti-colonial resurgence.They can consequently engender 'forms of energy that are capable of engaging the forces that keep [Indigenous people and animals] tied to [a] colonial mentality and reality'. Settler colonialism has therefore required the normalization of speciesism within Indigenous communities to obfuscate the radicality of Indigenous-animal relations. In that sense, recalling the representation of animals in Indigenous cosmologies/oral traditions and unsettling speciesism as a 'colonial mentality' must be prioritized in decolonial thought..."

Download PDF: [ Imposed ]

Black Flag Vol. 3, No. 2

This issue features a lenghty essay titled "Anarchy in the USA: The International Working People's Association (IWPA)". The IWPA is famous for its association with the Haymarket anarchists. Alongside this, there are several writings published by members including Albert Parsons and Lizzie Swank. It also includes a selection of writings by Marie Goldsmith, Rudolf Rocker, and Max Baginski. Most of the material here covers the historical anarchist space, with the exception of a review of a more recent book.

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Breaking Ranks: Subverting the Hierarchy and Manipulation Behind Earth Uprisings

This zine contains three critiques from anti-authoritarians in France critical of the Tiqqunists and their actions in post-ZAD struggles. These texts focus on manipulative and vanguardist practices, the spectacularization of the struggle, and the use of radicals as shock-troops. The goal of these texts, and our translation effort, is to increase familiarity with these deceptive practices and strategies, an essential first step towards sabotaging the influence and control of any similar attempts in our own neck of the woods.

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Dissent From Within: The Hidden Story of the Anti-Whaling Members of the Makah Tribe

This zine was put together not only to honor the memory of Mahak whale protector Alberta Nora Thomspson, but also to commemorate the story of resistance surrounding the Makah anti-whaling warriors whose very existence has been (intentionally) hidden from the world. Their dissenting voices silenced by the powers of intimidation, patriarchy, and a capitalist pursuit disguised as "traditional hunting". For many outside of the situation, the narrative most widely accepted is one that reduces the situation to mere identity politics; White animal rights activists vs Indigenous people. Indigenous writer Linda Hogan and Seattle writer Brenda Peterson journeyed to Neah Bay to interview Makah elders who were breaking the silence about this narrative and speaking out against their tribe’s return to whaling.

Download PDF: [ Imposed ]

How to Set Up a Burner Phone

This zine is a step-by-step guide to setting up a burner phone, from purchasing the phone to installing recommended apps -- all without a Google account! If you are interested in using a temporary phone to avoid surveillance or hinder a police investigation, this zine will give you some best practices to consider.

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Kaimangatanga: Māori Perspectives on Veganism and Plant-based Kai

"To adopt a form of veganism -- a plant-based lifestyle and ethics -- that acknowledges, is based upon, and celebrates Te Ao Maori, is a break from the dominant and from the status quo and but also an act of decolonialism. It is a way to reclaim sovereignty and exercise individual choice.

And finally, it is a means by which collective power and community may be built; this is evident in the existence of online forums and comment threads on Maori-based vegan and plant- based social media accounts."

Download PDF: [ Imposed ]

Living in an Earthquake: The Fight Against Cop City Confronts Unprecedented Repression

"In the following account and analysis, participants in the movement in Atlanta trace its trajectory from the fifth Week of Action that began on March 4, 2023 through the City Council vote of June 5.

At first, it appeared to be an ordinary forest defense campaign aimed at discouraging Atlanta city government from pouring money into an unpopular police training facility. But over the past two years, the fight against Cop City has escalated into one of the fiercest struggles of the Biden era, pitting a wide range of courageous people against a united front of politicians, prosecutors, and police.

In setting out to stop the militarization of police, activists have discovered that they are challenging the state on a point that all of its representatives consider non-negotiable. Police and prosecutors have pressed trumped-up domestic terrorism charges against almost every defendant arrested since last December; they have killed one forest defender; they have charged those engaged in legal support for the arrestees."

Download PDF: [ Imposed ]

Of Diets and Morality: A Vegan Egoist Perspective

The title summarizes this well. It's a vegan egoist text that argues for seeing animals as having inherent value. A quote:

"Animals can offer me many things that other "humans" can not; new ways of communicating, of perceiving the world around me; the unique, aesthetic pleasure of their appearance, especially the details that one only notices with familiarity, and the mystery, intrigue and exciting unexpectedness of beings so morphologically and genetically different from myself! Just as a plate with greater variety is far more delicious, relationships with a greater diversity of beings is far more delectable for me and I will not limit myself to consuming only relations with Man!"

Download PDF: [ Imposed ]

Security Culture: Building Relationships of Trust and Care

These zine provides an accessible introduction to security culture and its place in social movements. Beyond the basics, it explores how security culture can be informed by kinship, an Indigenous value system based on responsibility, vulnerability, trust, and reciprocity. The zine also offers tips and examples on how to apply critical thinking, relationship building, communication, and feedback to security culture. It uses elephants as a motif (complete with illustrations) to reinforce the concepts presented.

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The People and the Library

"An oral history of the coalition that united Philadelphia to challenge the logic of austerity, protect public goods and save eleven branch libraries, as well as a series of reflections on the importance of the commons, the enduring legacy of movement victories and the ongoing struggles to protect and expand access to non-commercialized public space, accompanied by a series of freely reproducible cut paper graphics by Erik Ruin.

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The War in Front of Us: An anonymous, afro-pessimist militant’s challenge to the Stop Cop City movement

"There is a tension stewing right now, not simply between differing tactics but with the outright acceptance of the position we are currently in, that of a social war. The third day-long descent on the Atlanta City Council has again hammered home that legalistic attacks and appeals to the political machine are going to keep failing. Despite that being so overwhelmingly evident, the more progressive-inclined elements of the struggle continue to insist upon a peaceful endurance, one that refuses escalation and actual conflict for their safe, faux-rad- ical abolitionism. We have been locked in this social war since the rebellion and the terrain needs to be read as such."

Download PDF: [ Imposed ]

Veganism and Mi'kmaw Legends

"This text proposes a postcolonial ecofeminist reading of Mi'kmaw legends as the basis for a vegan diet rooted in Indigenous culture. I refer primarily to veganism throughout this work because unlike vegetarianism, it is not only a diet but a lifestyle that, for ethical reasons, eschews the use of animal products. Constructing an Indigenous veganism faces two significant barriers--the first being the association of veganism with whiteness... ...A second barrier to Indigenous veganism is the portrayal of veganism as a product of class privilege."

Download PDF: [ Imposed ]

Veganism as Anti-Colonial-Praxis: A Collection of Indigenous Vegan Perspectives

"Despite the absorption of veganism by the capitalist market – a process that admittingly reinforces pre-existing divisions across class and racial lines -- a vegan lifestyle taken to its logical conclusion is fundamentally anti-capitalist and anti-colonial. By (re)acknowledging sentience and personalities within the bodies of colonized (animal) subjects, a vegan lifestyle rejects authoritarian relationships based on disrespect for the bodily autonomy of those whose lives have been re-purposed for human supremacist consumption."

Download PDF: [ Imposed ]

[self-loathing-angel-of-thursday2]

Beautiful Spouse’s Thoughts 01x06 The Case of the Creeping Forest

“So is it WB, does that mean it’s also on TV?” “Oh yeah…the largest train wreck of all time” “How bad would you feel if you convinced this lady who doesn’t date had this happened?” “I assume Niko just guessed” “Hey thats a healthy thing to say” “the fuck is wrong with Niko? I guess she did see some dead person spiked through the head, but I’m not a normal person. I’ve been around enough death for a lifetime” “wait he seriously uses the carbon copy thing? I haven’t seen that in a hot minute” “The walruses came from sausage fingers?” “The old timey scratchy thing doesn’t match the timing of the animation, ad it’s very distracting” “So what do they do? Oh we find out” “You didn’t specify right? So if everything comes at a cost” “What do you value more? Your sanity or your powers?” “That wax is going to bother me very fkn time I watch this” “what the fuck.” “That was really cool editing. Not going to lie. It was really fast too” “What did we even see?” Rewound the sequence

“Distortion” “how can she still see them?” “Why does Monty look like he’s dressed from a 70s catalog?” “What kind of pants are those?” “ok” “Is this Jonah? What the fuck is going on here? How would they survive at these depths or pressures?” “Is that the fish’s butthole or throat? I suppose it’s not a butthole, but it’s a sphincter of sorts” “It’s just a lot to take in. It’s a large sphincter. PLUS how do you survive in a fish when the fish eats stuff so it’s passing right through your living room” “yes he does” “about sausage” “She’s not a teenager?” The character is a teenager

“That’s weird I guess” “like a deer? What is it?” “Little more complicated than grabbing a shotgun out of an Impala but ok” “Where is the origin light for the stuff reflecting on the top of the stomach?” “I”M A WHALE WHOOOO” “I feel like we’re going to see that guy’s ass again someday. I need to know more” “that was pretty fkn cool” “I kinda feel like a knob for not knowing that’s a cricket ball. Sports ball things” “ghost feelings are complicated, man” “don’t cats like climbing things?” “I mean a cat would know about a crow” “am I supposed to follow the feelings or the case?” “Let the cat eat the crow” “what’s more ridiculous - the forest is fine or the outfit? Is that glitter or sequins?” “interesting effect” “aren’t the gills the mouth? Why is there a mouth on the stem/“ “teeth face huh?” “that was 2 episodes ago. I dig that. Coming across multiple episodes” “very cyberpunk. Glowing trees and shit” “I was too focused on the lighting. What just happened?”” “So she had her powers the whole time I guess? That doesn’t make sense” “that’s not good for your head” “did it eat her?” “uh huh” “Is that a speaker or a suit case?” “Crystal Method is music group” “If those are incandescent lights, they’re very not safe” “that’s be a lot of heat next to wallpaper and glue and flammable things” “IT”S SO DISTORTED. IT BOTHERS ME” “Is this the jarred clowns or what?” “Couldn’t he have just run through the…I guess that’s one way to do away with the bracelet”

[shittypeople34]

  MILWAUKEE (AP) _ One woman said she wanted to teach serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer about Jesus, so she sent him $350, along with some Bible literature.

  Another woman sent $50 so that Dahmer could buy ″cigarettes, stamps and envelopes.″ And a 74-year-old nun sent $10 to reimburse Dahmer for postage on two art books that he mailed to her.

  ″He did awful things but way deep down he isn’t a mean kid,″ she said.

  In all, Dahmer, who admitted killing and dismembering 17 men and boys, has received more than $12,000 from letter-writers around the world, according to prison records.

  The gifts have come from as far away as South Africa and France, and include a $5,920 donation last year from a woman in London.

  The money and letters are itemized in the files of Columbia Correctional Institution in Portage, where the 33-year-old Dahmer is serving life sentences, The Milwaukee Journal reported in Sunday’s editions.

  People who send Dahmer money represent ″a very sick group of people around the world that contribute for whatever reason,″ said Thomas Jacobson, who represents relatives of victims.

  The relatives have obtained judgments against Dahmer worth more than $80 million, but Jacobson said his clients have so far received nothing.

  It is ″an absolute travesty″ that Dahmer isn’t sharing his donations, Jacobson said.

  Jeffrey P. Endicott, the Columbia warden, said no law forbids Dahmer from soliciting financial assistance, as long as he does not commit fraud. But prison officials have restricted Dahmer’s spending since November, when they learned of the unpaid judgments.

  According to prison records, which show how much money an inmate receives and how he spends it, Dahmer received $11,000 in 1993. His parents were among the donors.

  Besides the donations, Dahmer earned 24 cents an hour as a prison gymnasium janitor. He lost that job because he imitated a prison employee on the telephone. The incident kept him in solitary confinement for more than a month.

  In late January, according to the latest records available, Dahmer’s assets were $4,284. He has bought magazines, comic books and cassette recordings - including Gregorian chants and sounds of humpback whales - through catalogs.

  In addition to exchanging letters, prison records say Dahmer uses Bible study and dark humor to deal with penitentiary boredom, which he is quoted as calling ″a living death.″  

[brandwhorestarscream]

Space Shuttle! Starscream

The idea of ​​them being small reminds me of the dinosaur documentaries I watched when I was younger.

A group cataloged as sauropods (popularly the "long necks") are dinosaurs extremely giant, equivalent to blue whales, but when they were born, a human could pick them up with their hands (if they existed at the time)

Fun fact: the fastest way to my heart is cool dinosaur facts. I love dinosaurs 🦕

Having said that, yesssss. Lil baby shuttles being sooo teeny tiny when they're born but turning into absolute behemoths as they grow up? Incredible. Beautiful. Amazing.

Imagine the twin shuttles being carried by their sires, who are in shock that they're even smaller than newborn seekerlings. How can that be?! How are they so tiny?! Is something wrong with them?

Starscream just snickers and says no, they're fine, shuttles are naturally itty bitty when they're born.

Now I wonder, do they grow rapidly? Like puppies? They double in weight within the first week, and as time goes on they just get exponentially bigger and bigger? Skywarp and Thundercracker struggle to hold them by their first birthday XD

[sun-fall]

A catalog of saints ch.1

The saints of Talism are one of its most interesting features as they come from all different walks of life. Some of them are simple farmers while others are ancient gods.

Saint Isadorae was born circa shortly after the arrival of the Touta twaros in Sehel. While we don’t have any records of their life, stories state that they were a kind farmer, who died defending their crops from the wild herbivorous wolves that lived in the region long ago. Over the years they became the patron saint of scarecrows, fences, and home defence.

Many saints are from Galili, with a lot of them being Nokkian folk-hero. Saint Adria was a sky whale that lived in Galili. They died sometime during the Long night, with their skeleton being located in Ossiderae. Their skeleton for some reason produces oil, which has helped Ossiderae maintain a thriving candle industry.

Some saint are very old, coming from places like Takulon and the Riverlands. Saint Parhousti is one of them. In some versions of the story they are the thing that cut Takulon off from the main land. Most people consider them one of the followers of lord Mykena.

[ghoul-slime]

53 & 57 🖤🦇

53. 5 things that make me happy

5. Horror! This is probably my biggest favorite thing ever. I'm a massive horror movie fan, especially of anything from the 70s and 80s. My apartment is full of horror memorabilia, and my favorite is probably my collection of original horror posters from the 80s. I absolutely love horror comedy and Italian splatter horror/giallo films and when I'm not at work or at a concert, I'm probably somewhere around LA catching a screening of something on 35mm. I'm most looking forward to a Lucio Fulci double feature of House By the Cemetery and City of the Living Dead at my favorite revival house theater next month. Seriously, if you're ever in LA and wanna know good horror spots, hit me up!

4. My job, somehow, makes me really happy. There are definitely ups and downs but overall I'm love my field. I work in collections management/archives at [music museum name redacted] and it is a lot of fun. I get to build exhibits, do archival and conservation work, and work with cool collections. I'm happy I get to work in the field I got my degree in and I'm always learning. And if weren't for my job I wouldn't be into Ghost! I got introduced to them working on something in the collections and fell in love right away.

3. Physical media! This goes hand in hand with horror and my archives background, for sure. I have a huge VHS collection and I collect movies on DVD and blu as well. I also love vinyl! One of my favorite work projects was cataloging and preparing a collection of over 1000 16mm and 35mm films for digitization. These are films that exist nowhere on earth except for in the cans in the archive. I think physical media is SO important, especially with how uncertain streaming can be. (This is a whole huge topic that I will spare you the rant for).

2. Live music! Love concerts and have been going to them since I was a young teenager. Saw Ghost three times this tour and between now and the end of the year I'm going to see Sleep Token, Amigo the Devil, Katatonia (twice), and Goblin doing a live score to the movie Demons. Live music hits in the same way film screenings do, of course the movie and/or shows are amazing, but there's something so affirming about being in the same room as dozens/hundreds/thousands of other people who love the same so very much.

1.Ghost! Of course. They are my absolute favorite thing in the world right now. It's actually been pretty much exactly one year since I got into the fandom. I've been in fandoms forever and ever, but this one I fell for SO hard and it feels like it just fits so perfectly. I got back into fic writing after a long time, met some amazingly cool people, went to three rituals at/near the barrier, and just have been overall super energized by my love for the band and the fandom. Their music, all the background/lore, their message, THE GHOULS, everything just hits exactly right.

57. favourite animal(s)

Am definitely a lover of any and all animals but absolutely love weird sea creatures. Giant isopods, ocean sunfish, whale sharks. Favorite terrestrial animal is probably an opossum!

Here's some of my horror/Ghost collection while I'm in the middle of Halloween decorating:

[rptv-starwars]

X-Wing model used in original 1977 Star Wars up for auction

The model of the X-wing Starfighter from "Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope" on display at Heritage Auctions, August 30, 2023, in Irving, Texas.Tony Gutierrez/AP Photo

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

A long-lost X-wing model used in the original "Star Wars" movie is up for auction, starting at $400,000

Mia Jankowicz Mon, September 11, 2023 at 6:17 AM PDT

****

A fabled Star Wars prop that featured in the Death Star explosion scene in the first of the original movies is being auctioned off, with a starting bid price of US$400,000.

The model is an X-wing Starfighter, one of four used in the 1977 movie "Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope."

Long considered the holy grail for collectors of Star Wars memorabilia, the model was assumed for decades to be lost. However, it was recently found among the belongings of late modelmaker Greg Jein, whose collection is being auctioned off in mid-October.

Visual effects company Industrial Light & Magic made several X-wings — less detailed "pyro" ones to be blown up, as well as four intricate "hero" models that were used for close-ups, including in the trench run scene.

As such, the model has articulated motorized wings, wired lights, scorch marks around its exhausts, and even the dome of a miniature R2 unit behind its canopy.

This original screen-used X-wing Starfighter miniature from "Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope" was offered at auction in 2016.Business Wire via AP Photo

-

According to the auctioneer, which has matched the model to specific scenes, it stood in for Red Leader or Red One — the callsign given to the leader of the movie's Red Squadron — as well as Red Two, and Luke Skywalker's Red Five.

It can be seen in several scenes during the trench run sequence — including when Red Leader says he's going to try to draw the enemy's fire, as well as when Skywalker pulls out of his strafing run, the auctioneer said.

"Without question, this Hero X-wing miniature represents the pinnacle of "Star Wars" artifacts to ever reach the market," the auctioneer wrote.

It's among the items that won Industrial Light & Magic the Oscar for visual effects for the movie in 1978.

Visual effects historian Gene Kozicki was among the group of friends and fellow professionals who unearthed the model while going through Jein's things in order to catalog them, according to The Hollywood Reporter.

Joshua Benesh, Heritage Auction's chief strategy officer, talks to reporters about Greg Jein's work and collection, August 30, 2023, in Irving, Texas.Tony Gutierrez/AP Photo

-

"It became something of a mythical 'white whale' — the missing "Star Wars" X-wing," Kozicki told the outlet.

When they spotted a cardboard box, "I knew something was probably in the box, so I started to carefully scoop out the packaging peanuts when the nose of the X-wing showed itself," he said.

It's unclear how Jein ended up with the model since he did not work on the movie itself.

But according to The Hollywood Reporter, he was an avid collector and would have been in a position to easily trade items from his own work, which included props for Steven Spielberg's "Close Encounter of the Third Kind," as well as several Star Trek movies.

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

Source:

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #19:

Tom Petty's You're Gonna Get It!

Imagine a new Tom Petty record.

I don't mean some new archive set like the expanded/alternative versions of Wildflowers or She's the One. I mean a record that is entirely unheard of; one that no one even knew to long for.

I'm disappointed it hasn't happened yet. I hoped Petty's and, for that matter, Prince's, estates would provide a much needed balm to us all after each of their tragic passings by gifting us a miracle, a great white whale we did not even know was lurking beneath us all these years, on the order of Neil Young's Homegrown or Dylan's Complete Basement Tapes.

Sure, we got to hear Prince alone at the microphone, but I feel like he probably made recordings like that, effortlessly, once a week in 80's. And yes, there's a single, previously unknown, piece of pop greatness to be found on the posthumous Petty box set, 1982's Keep a Little Soul.

But where's Petty's Black Eyed Dog? Where's his Hundred Highways? It's not enough for us to miss Tom; we want to hear his voice reach out and comfort us once again from his untimely grave.

I know exactly what I'm asking for here because I've already experienced it. That's right: at age 13 I was sure I'd discovered an entirely-lost-to-history Petty album.

Let's start at the beginning. My two buddies - both named Matt - and I reacted to Full Moon Fever by going Tom Petty crazy. Tom checked every box a few geeky, unpopular and yearning-for-the-ladies white kids needed checked: he wasn't already property of the cool kids, he was counter-cultural in obtuse, safely-white man ways, his songs were as often as funny as Weird Al's, he rocked, and his middle name was Earl.

So for Christmas / Hanukkah that year we embraced communism's concept of collective ownership in an effort to get our hands on the entire Petty catalog. As the beloved leader of our oligarchy over none, I directed Matt 1 to ask for Let Me Up and Damn the Torpedoes and Matt 2 to get the self-titled debut album and Hard Promises (which, based on its cover, looked like the lamest record), leaving me to squeeze my own stocking with confidence that Southern Accents and Long After Dark were in there on tape, waiting to change my life for the better.

What else, you ask, did we ask for that holiday? Blank tapes of course: it was our standing and too-obvious-to-speak-about agreement that by dinner time on the 25th everyone would have copied both their new albums twice and delivered the copies to one another by bike.

That's right folks: none of us asked for You're Gonna Get It! There was a simple reason: the record was utterly out of print, had never been released on CD and was nowhere to be found in any local Dollar Bin. To three 13 year olds in 1989 who were busy exploring music without knowledgeable parents or older siblings in an era long before the internet, it was as if Petty's sophomore album had never been made. We didn't ask for it because we didn't know it existed.

And so when we rolled up with my dad to the Fabulous Forum on March 1, 1990 for our first ever popular music concert the three of us believed we had the entire Petty catalog memorized.

Ah, what a glorious night....

After buying Petty shirts and promptly putting them on we took our seats and saw the cringy but sorta awesome opening act, Lenny Kravitz. Lenny tried to lead the entire indifferent audience in a sing along to a song no one had heard at that point, Let Love Rule. This was long, long before he got a marketing clue and traded in his second-fiddle-to-Liza-Bonnet role and became a peddler of planet destroying SUVs.

The night also marked our first brush with rock and roll royalty as both Dylan and Bruce Springsteen joined Petty and the boys for the encore. And, although the internet tells me it's not possible because of the concept known as death, I feel like Roy Orbison appeared as well. I guess it must have been his ghost that appeared behind those famous shades...

But to us 13 year olds none of that compared to the women directly in front of us getting into an all out, beer flinging and fake nails in the eyeballs, brawl in the middle of Freefallin'. My father, lord of the bon mot, instantaneously summed up the crazy scene by yelling "they're slamming boys!" All hail my father.

Is it any wonder that I wound up with a lifelong love of music after such a night? And I haven't even told you the best part: Benmont Tench hitting the opening riff of Love is a Long Road in the full dark as the show dramatically opened is one of the top 10 moments of my entire life.

There was just one unsettling moment all night. Mid-show Petty played a song we didn't know, all about listening to your heart. That wasn't too upsetting; there were plenty of songs he played that we didn't know. We figured they were covers, or coming out of the next record, because no one else in the audience knew them either. But when Petty told us about a ladyfriend resisting some dude's money and his cocaine everyone else all around us sang along.

We were a smart group of kids but we didn't put two and two together that night: take the fact that we were the youngest people there by a decade, add in the fact that everyone else there new the song and you wind up with an obvious conclusion: we were missing a Petty record. And so I went home with a nagging worry: what explained that one song?

The answer came from Saint Cross's Quaintance Shop a month or three later. Picture a fading church thrift store 35 years ago. Wigs and berets on white, styrofoam heads, mismatched golf clubs, iron-on izod patches for dressing up second hand kids shirts filled the front room; even less desirable items could be found in the back. A rotation of women born in the 20s manned the counter, clucking about whatever whenever my busy mother stopped by to pick up the shop's meager taking in her role as vestry treasurer.

I was still too young to have an excuse not to join her on these errands, and thank god for that because I wandered into the back room, thumbed through their quarter bin - that's right, in 1990 there was no such thing as the dollar bin; rather every record cost a quarter - and had my universe rocked when I saw Tom Petty standing in blue light with Stan (check out his handmade, drawstring hot pants!), Mike (pensive as always, deferring to the Tom as the boss), Ron (looking like he already has one foot out the door and is working up to his managerial role at an eighties bikini shop) and Benmont (forever a teenager) on the cover of a previously unknown record. Had the sun exploded in the sky at that moment I would have shrugged: the Holy Grail was in my hands and a moment before I had not known there was a God.

"Mom, please can I buy this? I just found it and I really need it."

"Sure you can, honey. Where's your money?"

"I mean, mom can you buy it for me? I don't have a quarter. But I'll pay you back, I promise." (This wasn't a case of not having my wallet; I literally did not own a cent at that moment. Every cent of my weekly $2 allowance would instantly go towards tapes. I did not yet own a turntable of my own and the recently discovered player in my parents cabinet still had a needle that had needed replacing in '74. I was forever broke and I remember borrowing money to buy Sergeant Pepper for a quarter from a different thrift store soon after.)

My glorious mother sighed and made a look that said "children these days..." Then she produced the precious quarter and I took home the arc of the covenant.

My glory was strong but short lived. Yes, the Matts were both blown away to discover a hithertofore unknown Petty record. But the only working turntables we knew belonged to Matt 1's formidable aerospace stepfather, and only Brahms was allowed on that one, and Matt 2's parents, and listening to a record in their living room necessitated dealing with Mickey, a truly insane golden retriever who weighed way more than me and was an incessant licker of his own formidable balls.

So it wasn't until high school that I really got into the greatness of You're Gonna Get It!

First, let's pause to consider the greatness that is an album that ends in an explanation point. We've already discussed Jonathan Sings! at length in these pages but there are plenty of other amazing albums made by brilliant artists who are goofy enough to add a ! to the end of their album title. Consider Get Happy!! And Henry the Human Fly! And what about Help!? These Are All Great Records! For that matter, wouldn't If I Could Only Remember My Name and Wild Tales be even better if Crosby and Nash had affixed explanation points to their titles? Man, I wish it was called Blood on the Tracks!

(Dear Stephen Stills, I know you're reading this so please pay attention: yes, we see that you tried to jump on the explanation point bandwagon in '05 by putting out a record entitled Man Alive! Good try Stevieboy, but to this day no one has ever listened to that record, and no one ever will. And don't try reissuing your 70's back catalog as Stills 1! Stills 2! Stills! and Illegal Stills! It will not change anything; those records will still forever suck.)

By ninth grade I had a turntable of my own and my first real appreciation of Your Gonna Get It! was getting way into Magnolia. I ask you, what better song is there for a horny heterosexual male ninth grader? I guarantee you I'm not the only boy who spent a whole lot of time visualizing themselves as Petty's first person protagonist:

From a table across the room

She was signalling me with her eyes

I walked over to be introduced,

I said hello, she just smiled

And said I know a place not too far from here,

We could get away for while.

Yeah that's when she kissed me and told me her name

I never did tell her mine...

Magnolia...

There's a lot to say about this track even after 24 years of blissful marriage. This song, and all of Your Gonna Get It!, features a complexly layered, full band vibe. Petty didn't just put everyone on the cover, he also gave them equal sonic billing; an approach he increasingly abandoned at the eighties increasingly set in and he got tempted by all the money and the cocaine. Hear the thick, bending bass stepping forward like a bold and reckless Romeo, driven by the tiptoeing lead piano riff. Petty's not the only one who gets lucky during this track. Everyone does.

Indeed, all of Side 1 is stone cold classic material, too rich and dense to have initially grabbed hold of me in eighth, then ninth, grade. The album opens with When the Time Comes. Tell me, please, why this elegant, powerful pop song is not more famous than everything on Wildflowers? When the Time Comes views every song on that overrated record with withering pity.

Tench's organ swells, the bridge spans mammoth depths, the drums and guitar carry us relentlessly forward up to a hollered fade. And then it's suddenly over and before we know it we're already kneeling down before Petty's declarative, white man soul in the title track.

Do you hear that guitar solo give way to the spaced out Dead vibes and then back into the chorus of chasing vocals? How the hell did this album ever get overlooked, forgotten and dropped out of print? Why are we ever listening to anything else in our lives?

On the back of my original 25 cent thrift shop copy of the LP there's the obligatory encouragement to reach out to the Official Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers Fan Club at 890 Tennessee Street in 'Frisco. I say that if we all send them self addressed stamped envelopes right now and demand a reissue of this record complete with bonus tracks then they'll do it and they'll also release, after all these years, Petty and Co's previously recorded, utterly forgotten and never before issued 77 lost album.

Come on people, lick those stamps. We're Gonna Get It!

[marinarius]

Glossary of Terms

Atolls- Floating city-states often with their own customs, dialects and structures. Deluge- The Melting of the icecaps and other disasters that led to the world being covered in water. Many now believe the world was created in the Deluge. Drifters- Tradesmen, usually individuals or small family groups who travel between atolls to trade, often speaking Pali and holding to a rough code of hospitality. Gilmen- Humans with gills and webbed feet (some also having webbed hands) created from genetic experimentation before the Deluge. Hydro- Common Term for drinkable water. See 'Sweet Water'. Mother Water/Sea- Gilmen term for the ocean. Muto- Derogatory term for Gilmen. Pali- The lingua franca since the deluge, derived from Nepali. Rya- Pali for sun. Sea Eater- See 'Whalephin' Smokers- Descended from the US military and oil rig workers, the smokers have retained how to process crude oil and view military expansion and raids as a religious duty. Sweet Water- Drinkable water, as society disentegrated filtering became more difficult with most methods being forgotten or impossible to implement with Gilmen Tists being among the few who do. Taru- Essentially the Hindu gods. Hinduism having become a dominant religion among the survivors of the Deluge. Tists- Gilmen prieshood of sorts. Gilmen retained more pre-deluge knowledge than most with the Tists being entrusted with memorizing, cataloging and practicing that knowledge. Water Madness- Psychosis brought on by long stretches of isolation experienced by Drifters. Whalephin- Also spelled 'whalefin' genetically modified whale-like creatures. Created by the same scientists who created the Gilmen the Gilmen will refer to hem as brothers and will only hunt them out of desperation often offering themselves as bait.

[nothwell]

Thank you to Jane for this thoughtful review of Hold Fast!

~

I would have given this book a 3.5 rating because of one of the plot developments, but I actually had to give it 4.0 because . . . Morgan Turner. Actually, I give Morgan Turner 5.0 +++. It's that plot point that keeps this from being a total success for me.

I just finished Oak King Holly King and loved it so much that I picked up the author's back catalog and immediately started on this book. Hell's bells, it turns out I loved this book even more than Oak King Holly King.

I do have serious issues with parts of this story, but those are outweighed by the fact that I have not only found a new favorite author, but also a new favorite character. I've only had a handful of such favorites (all of them in books by K.J. Charles) and now I have added Morgan Turner to the list. This character alone brings this book solidly into the next level for me.

[...] OK, so that's out of the way - now let's talk about the essence of this book. The character of Morgan Turner is just delicious. He is wound tighter than a 10-day clock (and for very good reason) and his intelligence, forebearance, sense of dignity and inner strength make for an incredibly compelling character. There is the hint of "insta-love" about this story (or at least "insta-lust") and yet it's at such a different level than 99% of typical mm books that you can feel the frustration, the pain, the turmoil that Morgan is going through trying to keep his life on track, take care of others, and maintain societal standards. He compartmentalizes in a way that feels so authentic (and incredibly heroic). He is not perfect, he can be haughty, his aspect is often cold - but none of it takes away from how much I love his character. He is utterly fascinating. It is quite compelling to read how he continually beats himself up about his sexuality.

"A better man would resist temptation, but Morgan knew himself to be a mediocre man at best."

Mediocre my hind foot! He is head and shoulders above everyone around him.

As with Oak King Holly King, the author flips the typical (stereotypical?) dynamic between the MC's so that the socially sobordinate character is anything but, including sexually. The initial sexual encounter was portrayed brilliantly from the initial kiss to the climax - it was compelling, provocative, urgent, everything I could possibly want for the first time between these two. If I didn't love Morgan before, I was completely lost after that.

“Slut,” Morgan whispered.

OK, kill me now. Evelyn is one lucky bastard.

Again, as with Oak King Holly King, there is a plethora of really great secondary characters, a strong representation of differing sexualities, superb humor, and vividly evocative scenes (I can literally see Percy looking at his watch multiple times during the surgery scene - brilliant. Percy is a superb example of a secondary character that turns out to be so expertly woven into the overall story that he is actually essential to the arc of the story.)

“If you intend to sway me with hysterics,” Percy added, “I won’t hesitate to dose you. Such a scene would do him no good at all.”

That is just so . . . Percy.

The essence of this book, this story, is the tortured soul that is the utterly exquisite Morgan Turner and the deliciously painful and drawn-out unwinding of that 10-day clock. No matter how I feel about the unrealistic turn of plot towards the end, I would devour this book again in a heartbeat to be able to read and experience the feeling invoked by Morgan's story.

~

Hold Fast is a gay Victorian romance between a whaling harpooner who inherits a baronetcy, and the estate agent tasked with turning him from sailor to gentleman - available now wherever fine books are found!

Amazon • Apple Books • Barnes & Noble • Bookshop.org • Kobo • Overdrive • Scribd • Smashwords

[luxudus]

While i work on the story scenes in my Neo-Anthropocene project, I'll start uploading my back catalog of art for you all to enjoy

This art piece was made back in September 2021 as a contribution to that years Spectember, a month long event where you create possible outcomes for life on a weekly or daily basis. This one is aptly titled "Worlds collide"

"Earth 50 million years afterward has gone under many changes. A mass extinction occurred only a thousand years into this timeline, causing rats to be the last surviving mammals and allowing them to evolve and diversify into all the newly available niches. These new forms ranged from eusocial burrowers to large predators that adapted their incisors into serrated beaks. To bipedal browsing herbivores who used long sickle-like claws to grapple on trees, to even humongous whale-like relatives to the beaked beasts. for 40 million years, the rats have exploded in biodiversity and even surpassed their mammalian ancestors in success

However, not all things would last, and earth would face a unique threat. 45 million years later, a large artificial object, extraterrestrial in origin, crashed into North America. It released a handful of alien species onto our once lonely blue marble. Though the crash itself wasn't severe enough to rival the KT mass extinction. It did wipe out enough species for the otherworldly castaways to gain a foothold in the earth's ecosystems. The foreigners came from a cold, high gravity planet with a perfectly earth-like atmosphere. They ranged from towering scarlet trees to small leaves that grew from a network of roots, From floating planimals hovering with air sacks to flying "monopods" that flung themselves into the air with their tails. And a single species of hydraulic-muscled, "2 headed" hexapod kept as cattle by their bygone masters. They exploded into many new forms and niches, beating back native earth life like it was nothing, and prospering until every continent would look bloodstained from space as the 2 forests mixed with one another.

The scene above depicts two individuals of unrelated origins meeting each other. The mixing of native and alien forests has prompted all organisms to develop green and red coloring to blend in.

On the left is a herbivorous rodent that descended from the line of beaked monsters. Equipped with a large parrot-like beak capable of cracking seeds, hardy plants, and the occasional bone. Long ears, single digit hooves and a spring like muscular system. This skittish herbivore is capable of outrunning the many dangers of their temperate forests, escaping with any meal they can get.

On the right is a descendant of the alien cattle, now taking a predatory niche. It sports raptorial claws derived from their midsection limbs, and a serrated, asymmetrical pseudobeak. This predator slowly stalks the forests. It blends in well with it's environment with it's gray coloration and red and green stripes. It waits for the perfect time to spring at it's prey with it's hydraulic muscle powered legs and pin it down and finish it off with it's raptorial arms. But fortunately, it's "belly" is full from a recent scavenge. So as the rodent looks in fear, the predator examines with a delightful curiosity."

[cletusthurstonbeauregard]

(CNN) — Scientists have accomplished a whale of a feat. They’ve identified previously unknown complexity in whale communication by analyzing thousands of recorded sequences of sperm whale clicks with artificial intelligence.

Variations in tempo, rhythm and length of the whales’ click sequences, called codas, weave a rich acoustic tapestry. These variables hint that whales can combine click patterns in multiple ways, mixing and matching phrases to convey a broad range of information to one another.

What sperm whales are saying with their clicks remains a mystery to human ears. Still, uncovering the scope of whales’ vocal exchanges is an important step toward linking whale calls to specific messages or social behaviors, the scientists reported May 7 in the journal Nature Communications.

“This work builds on a lot of prior work focused on understanding the calls of sperm whales. However, this is the first work that has started to look at sperm whale calls in their wider communicative context and in the context of exchanges between whales, which has made some of the findings possible,” said study coauthor Dr. Daniela Rus, director of the Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Laboratory (CSAIL) at MIT, in an email.

“Understanding what aspects of their codas they can control and vary helps us understand how they can encode information in their calls,” Rus said.

The researchers dubbed their catalog of sound combinations a “phonetic alphabet” for sperm whales, comparing variations in the whales’ click sequences to the production of different phonetic sounds in human speech.

But while the team’s findings are interesting, that term offers a misleading perspective on whales’ vocal interactions, said Dr. Luke Rendell, a researcher at the University of St. Andrews in the United Kingdom whose work focuses on communication in marine mammals, in an email.

“The presentation of the ‘phonetic alphabet’ — it’s nothing of the sort,” said Rendell, who was not involved in the research.

“The way the tempo variation is used is completely different to how, say, we use elements of an alphabet to construct linguistic expression,” he said. “There’s no evidence of that, and it’s not a super helpful interpretation because it forces everything into a restricted and somewhat over-sold perspective of ‘is it like human language or not,’ when there are a much broader range of interpretations available.”

Pattern recognition

Sperm whales produce their clicks by forcing air through an organ in their heads called the spermaceti, and these sounds can be as loud as 230 decibels — louder than a rocket launch and capable of rupturing human eardrums — another team of scientists previously reported in the journal Scientific Reports.

For the new study, the researchers used machine learning to detect patterns in audio data collected by The Dominica Sperm Whale Project, a repository for observations of sperm whales that inhabit the Caribbean Sea. The recordings represented the voices of approximately 60 sperm whales — a subset of a group of about 400 whales known as the Eastern Caribbean clan — and the vocalizations were recorded between 2005 and 2018.

Prior research had identified 150 types of codas in sperm whales worldwide, but the Caribbean whales used just 21 of those codes.

The scientists examined the timing and frequency of 8,719 coda sequences — in solitary whale utterances, in choruses and in call-and-response exchanges between whales. When visualized with artificial intelligence, previously unseen coda patterns emerged.

The study authors defined four features in codas: rhythm, tempo, rubato and ornamentation. Rhythm describes the sequence of intervals between clicks. Tempo is the duration of the entire coda. Rubato refers to variations in duration across adjacent codas of the same rhythm and tempo. And ornamentation is an “extra click” added at the end of a coda in a group of shorter codas, Rus explained.

These so-called ornament clicks “occur more towards the beginning and end of turns” during vocal exchanges between whales, “behaving like discourse markers,” Rus said.

The discovery that whales could synchronize variations in coda tempo was “a really interesting observation,” Rendell said.

“I am less convinced by the ‘ornamentation,’” he added. “It occurs very rarely, and I think we need more evidence that they aren’t just production glitches,” or filler sounds, “like when we say ‘um’ or ‘err.’”

In all, the program detected 18 types of rhythm, five types of tempo, three types of rubato and two types of ornamentation. These coda features could all be mixed and matched to form an “enormous repertoire” of phrases, the study authors reported. What’s more, meaning could be tweaked even further depending on the placement of a coda — following or overlapping other codas — within an exchange or chorus involving two or more whales.

Interactive experimentation

“Actually, many of us have been waiting for advanced technology to allow us to do something like this for decades!” said Dr. Brenda McCowan, a professor at the University of California Davis School of Veterinary Medicine, in an email.

McCowan, who was not involved in the research, was part of another team that, in 2021, conducted an interactive “conversation” with a humpback whale in waters near Alaska. For about 20 minutes, a curious whale repeatedly responded to a recording of a humpback song transmitted from the scientists’ boat.

“This particular playback (with the humpback in 2021) was an opportunistic experiment with an inquisitive whale engaging us both behaviorally and vocally, and completely at her own volition,” McCowan said.

Such interactive experimentation with whales, along with observations of whale behavior, could be an important part of unraveling the syntax of sperm whale click sequences, the authors wrote in the study.

Their machine learning method may also prove useful for studying other types of animal vocalizations, McCowan added.

“Tempo, rhythm, rubato and ornamentation are likely to be found in other species of whales,” McCowan said. “We already know this is true of humpback song. But there is also evidence for this type of patterning in other aquatic, terrestrial and arboreal species to which this approach could be applied.”

But although this technique is helpful for identifying certain aspects of communication, it’s no Rosetta stone, Rendell cautioned.

“Machine learning is great for finding patterns in large datasets,” he said, “but it doesn’t create meaning.”

[corndoggod]

30 for 30: Not Drinking

I’ve never done dry January for a few reasons. 1) I never even considered it until like three years ago. 2) I like to drink more than most and while I knew I could have a healthier relationship with alcohol, I never saw it as a problem. 3) My birthday is January 16. 

But this year, the year I turned 30, I decided to try it, mostly just because I’d never done it before and 30 seemed like a good moment to challenge myself in this way. Could I be comfortable and sociable without God’s lubricant? 

The following is a catalog of times I was tempted by the devil’s water. 

The Gutter

League bowling was running 30 minutes behind schedule and what was there to do but sit at the bar and order a beer. I sat at the bar. C ordered a seltzer with bitters. It was enough. I was slightly nervous with Daddy because C seemed off and I wanted to attend to her. (I was turned away from her, talking to Daddy). 

I was tempted again during the game. I opened strong - two strikes and a spare - but then I slipped. I got frustrated. I wanted to suck on some foam. But I didn’t. 

Tuesday

Feeling good with C who came home early after her new painting job. A beer just sounded nice. Instead, I cracked a seltzer and read Mike Davis’ City of Quartz in preparation for our journey to Los Angeles. Davis described the city in turns as a battleground between sunshine and noir, a big angry parking lot and a product of boosters and real estate speculators. I calculated that my thirty days of not drinking would expire while we were on vacation in LA, the day after Valentine’s Day. What would I toast to? 

Writing Workshop

I was mildly tempted, or rather, knew I would’ve grabbed beers for Sunday’s workshop reunion in normal times. It’d been seven months since we last met and we felt a bit aimless since no one had work to present. And in that aimlessness, I felt a thirst, something to latch my lips to. I knew the liquid would loosen something inside. I kissed my knuckles and carried on. 

The Whale

I was not tempted in the belly of the whale. C made an Indian feast with three boy sous chefs asking, “What can I do?” every few minutes. And after forty minutes of a million dirty dishes we sat down to saag paneer, daal, coconut chutney, rice, naan and samosas to watch The Whale, a movie about a morbidly obese online English instructor trying to reconnect with his very angry daughter of 17. 

A Long Week of Quiet Quitting 

I took adderall every day except Friday, but I couldn’t bring myself to do a single thing. I had no deadlines, so it wasn’t negligent. But it was definitely irresponsible. Friday was for c and karaoke - my favorite and least favorite things. I’d jabber and jabber but never sing - lips too numb, confidence like a kite in a tornado. 

Bowling

My greatest weakness proved to be poor performances at bowling night. My scores slipped dramatically, halved from a 181 to a 92. I’d spent a lot of time calibrating the optimal blood alcohol levels for peak pin destruction and it was 2-4 beers. And here I was, clean as a whistle throwing gutters. You can’t sip water in frustration and smile after. You can’t go “Ahh, refreshing.” So I had a Bornx Pale Ale - forgetting I don’t really like the taste. But my score improved to 141. 

Slick’s 30th Birthday

Tonight might be the night, I thought to myself. It was miserably cold and it took an hour and two bus transfers to get there. I got in a squabble with C over dinner and I just wanted to go home or ride my bike. If I was going to the bar, I wanted a beer. I’d all but convinced myself, but then came Slick, the birthday boy, a wonder wall of sweaty exuberance. It was midnight now and we’d been in the basement dancing to DJ Preschool -- a white haired man with as many teeth as fingers and he was missing a finger. I closed my eyes and danced. That’s what alcohol does: closes your eyes. But after an hour of that I wanted something more to keep me going. I told C I might get a beer. She offered a gummy instead. I relayed this to N who laughed and told me had c. “Same,” I said and we saluted. 

Then birthday boy Nick bounded up to me. His curly hair was a frizzy halo and I smelled his swea . “Still not drinking, eh? That’s so great man. Really awesome to be out having a a good time and not rely on that. I’m so proud of you.” Little did he know. 

Vacation’s Eve

We’re bound for the capitol of capital on the Pacific Rim, leaving the very same on the Eastern Seaboard. It’s Friday and I’m home biding my time. I volunteered to be the pack mule so C could have dinner with her friend whose birthday we’ll miss. I’m tired but I wanted to write all day. Still, I’d rather read right now. I’d love to read with a beer - something to relax. Instead I tap out a line, three lines and here we go. Can’t wait for the subway and to see her parents. 

I was bored and agitated. Bored because I was reading for the fifth Friday in a row and agitated because of what I was reading: That damn lefty history of L.A. 

Lessons Learned

I learned what it’s like to do c with no alcohol. I felt my face torque, teeth gnash, heart wallop. That awareness felt awful, but it was overpowered by exuberance. 

I learned how often I introduce alcohol to situations. I’ve tended to blame my friends - a bunch of hard-drinking cows, but I too am an instigator. 

I learned drinking can be saved for social things. I didn’t need a beer at the end of a hard day. I could relax in other ways - like cooking or running or stretching or reading or writing in my diary for fun.