#and the pellets were on sale

[sassyhazelowl]

Me: here guys, I bought you some pellets My Canary: oh yum, egg food! -grabs yellow pellet- My Canary: -spits it out and wipes beak furiously- BETRAYAL

[palaeoplushies]

This plush is made of custom printed soft velvet fabric to my own design, sewn and stuffed by me (Rebecca). They have plastic safety eyes and are stuffed with polyester stuffing and pellets, with plastic rods in the sail to keep it upright.

These plushies will come with a certificate of authenticity, detailling their species, the date they were made and proving that they are an original Palaeoplushie handmade in Scotland by Rebecca Groom.

As this is a hand made item, it is not intended for children and is designed to be an art piece for adults. As they are stitched by machine, they won't fall apart if handled roughly but have not passed the relevant safety standards to be sold as a child's toy.

Plushie Dimensions: 50cm Description: Dimetrodon grandis is a species of synapsid that lived during the Early Permian period in what is now North America.

For sale here!!

[hibewriter]

Mountain Glory

Masterlist   Read it on AO3

Call of Duty | Ghost x Reader / Poly!141xReader | 5.7K | E 

Tags: Public Sex | Somnophilia | One Bed | NonConsenual Voyuerism

John Price was dead to her.

Not truly. But if she ever survived this god forsaken mission she was going to have words with her legendary Captain and the fucking cigar he always inexplicably held in his mouth. The mission didn't seem real — there was something surreal about his grumbled words of a base on the top of a mountain in the Himalayas — some inexplicable feeling of dead as she was one of the few singled out of fresh faced Sergeants with something to prove. There was barely any time to pack, let alone process anything other than the zero dark thirty time call and mission brief.

There was room between the cold metal of the hanger and her point lead, but just barely. He was massive, a hulking figure she'd only ever seen at the periphery of the mess hall, but now his thigh was pressed snuggly against hers and she refused to acknowledge the warmth that spread through her — not while they were hurling over the Atlantic and various European countries for nearly fifteen hours. She was a professional. She knew how to do her job, had climbed the ranks to be here; lost enough blood, sweat, and tears fighting for a faceless leader.

Yet it's right when she's preparing to jump — geared up and harnessed into parachute — she realizes she's forgotten it. Her baklava, standard issue to prevent the cold. She pictured it clearly, sitting on the bed of her barrack bunk waiting to be packed into a bag that's a world away. And it's not John Price's fault. It's hers and hers alone. But god, it was easier to blame him.

Her point hands her the spare with barely a glance, simply locks into his parachute. She thinks maybe he won't speak, and she can pretend that her silence isn't rude. She locks herself into the harness, prepares herself to drop into the tundra below.

"How copy, Sergeant?" Ghost asks, but she refuses to meet his gaze. Instead she straightens her back, squares here shoulders.

"Good, copy, LT." The exit light turns green, she's in the air before he can speak again.

It's not the weather that has her cursing the whole thing. Though it certainly didn't help. She squinted against the wind through her borrowed baklava, the snow slamming into her face doing little to mask the scent of its owner from filling your nose. A clean aftershave and the muted hint of menthol that lingered couldn't be masked by the crispy wet of the mountain top. Though it seemed that her teammate's scent was the only thing the snow couldn't cover.

What had her cursing was Price's audacity to assign her with this team. This teammate to spend the bulk of her mission besides. It made sense — she was a sniper, Ghost was a higher rank who trained snipers. How many countless silent nights in the barracks did she spend, hand shoved down boxers brought on sale — a long forgotten pipe dream of a boyfriend loaning them to sleep in and an impulse purchase after another failed date — thoughts of Ghost seeping in to every fantasy she conjured. Each fantasy deeper, more vivid, until she came — voice muffled as she bit into her palm, fingers finally slowing and breaths coming down.

The only benefit to the promotion so far was having a private bedroom, and that wouldn't be found here.

_____

The ground, the sky, the flurry of pellets in the wind – it was all white. White as far as she could see with her natural eyes. If it wasn't for the locater preventing her from stuffing her hands into the standard issue field jacket, she would've believed the base they were searching for to be a myth. But no. It all came down to Makarov. Chasing Makarov, stopping Makarov – taking him out of the equation for good. But, as she was coming to find, chasing Makarov was one thing. Chasing him through the Himalayas is another.

"Ye'd think he'd hide a base i Miami," a gruff voice says over the comms. Soap. Two clicks south and a lot more annoying when he's cold and wet. Try being in the thick of the storm, she thought. But she learned early on it was best to keep her thoughts filtered. "At least then A wouldnae be freezin ma balls aff."

Maybe he is a dog, she thinks. A small smirk plays on her lips as she imagines an old chocolate lab with a mohawk, whining after stepping foot in the snow.

"Piss off," a different, graver voice says. It echoes in her headset, slightly off from the origin about two feet to her right. Ghost. "You'll be fine."

Maybe she grips the locator a little tighter. Maybe she doesn't. Still, she looks down at the device rather than evaluate why. Blue dot, flashing true and steady as it moves as quick as one could through a snow storm toward the yellow square. Soap was almost in position.

"Soap what's your non-ball related status?" She calls out.

"From yer mockery o ma pain? Severe, neit an evac."

"Captain," Ghost's voice comes, admonishing.

"Half a click. Ma engine is still runnin sae we're guid tae gae, mini-Sarge."

"Gotcha Cap," she says. She didn't have to look to see Ghost's disapproving stare. He hadn't said anything yet, but she had a sneaking suspicion that the Lieutenant didn't like the shortening of their ranks. But she wasn't going to defend light banter in a lights out mission. Their coms weren't being recorded, no one besides Price was monitoring their location. No one even knew they existed.

She withholds a huff, trudging forward. She doesn't bother to spare a glance at Ghost — knows he's barely struggling while the snow comes to her upper-thighs. It's easy to feel a little grateful, in the moment. Ghost didn't have to let her lead them to their pick off point. He didn't have to let her struggle through the snow either. Easily he could've hauled her and the gear up this mountain. But that's not what they did, not in this task force. Not in these units. She doubted they'd carry her anywhere if she was anything short of missing her legs.

Less than five yards away.

She was already doing adjustments in her head, trying to determine the likelihood of success for her shots. They'd scoped the point two weeks before. But the sky hadn't been flinging snow all around them and the wind had been calmer then. It was already pushing her max distance from her training, already pushing on the weak points she knew she'd not fully trained out of her system yet. But this was Soap's life in her hands. She couldn't miss on this mission. Maybe she shouldn't even —

"Relax, Viper." His voice was closer than she thought, and mentally she cursed herself for not tracking how close he was to her. Her code name sounded like a threat, a hiss in his voice that clawed the fear she'd spent so long trying to instill into her enemies. "Worrying won't make your hands steady."

She swallowed, pausing for just a moment. The gear dug into her shoulders, despite the padding on her flak jacket. The snow was beginning to seep into the material of her field jacket, her neck only protected by the borrowed baklava. A short nod.

"You got it, LT."

_____

It fell apart almost instantly.

They arrived just before Soap was supposed to get in position. Silently, quickly, she set up her rifle alongside Ghost. The locator sat perched next to her. Her eye tracked the blue dot diligently, waiting for Soap to get to his observation point. A second blue dot appeared on screen — Gaz, finally dropping in from the stealth jet above. They arrived at their positions at the same time, and for a brief moment, it looked like everything would go according to plan.

Soap was only in the correct position for five minutes. Five minutes of absolute silence besides the steady breaths that could be heard over comms. Just as she positioned her rifle, the scope zooming through the thick to show her the grey building in the small ridge, the locator goes off — Soap was running. The blue dot on the locator moved slowly but still, it seemed faster than she could track with her scope.

From the buildings the snow mobiles emerged, cloaked in the grey and white camouflage but those were easier to track. One breath — pfft — one combatant down.

The locator chimes again. This time, Ghost has fully set up, his position higher but equally as efficient. He's shooting in the opposite direction — Gaz. The only thing keeping her nerves steady were the soft breaths of her Lieutenant. Ghost was efficient — or maybe the definition of a robot — taking down the combatants chasing down their teammate while she concentrated on protecting Soap.

Pfft. Two.

Pfft. Three.

Three down, two to go, she thinks. Soap stumbles. He's sliding in the snow and the combatants are advancing quickly. She hears the pfft of Ghost's rifle, finds comfort in the knowledge he's there.

Pfft. Pfft. Four. A missed shot, a disaster in the making. If she dwells on it, the last shots will be worthless. Shut it down, take a breath. In. Out.

Pfft. Five.

Soap catches a rock. She can hear his pants on the comms, but nonetheless he's alive. So she starts to scan the area, her scope her second eye. Expanses of white.

"LT, combatants confirmed to be Makarov's," Gaz's voice calls. She furrows her eyebrows, confused for just a moment until Ghost speaks.

"I know," he says. He's already moving, only the sound of the shifting snow indicating her as such. "Seals on fallen confirmed. No sight of Makarov. "

"Sae we gae find the bastard," Soap chimes in. There's a grunt, a heavy thud over the comms before Soap speaks again. "A got a snow mobile. Wish we haed this earlier."

She looks to Ghost, watching as he surveys the land before him as he considers Soap's proposal. The mission, though a bit more violent than anticipated, was a success. Technically they had no reason to stay. But there was still a building Makarov thought important enough to defend, completely off the Nepal and Tibetan governments' radar. Shouldn't they know what he was hiding?

"Into position, Sergeant." Ghost's voice sounds off after a minute. A hoarse grumble that forces her mouth to involuntarily go dry. She refuses to evaluate the warmth that spreads through her body, a flush that makes her grateful for the baklava and winter gear. "The boys are going inside."

_____

Safety doesn't come on missions – this she knew. Still, for her first mission with the 141, she expected it to go better.

_____

The second the boys breeched the building, she heard nothing but gunfire and shouting. The base didn't have a lot of windows, but that didn't seem to matter to the boys when they breeched the building. It's was undeniable the sound of shots firing, blades stabbing, as Soap and Gaz made their way through enemy after enemy, traversing from room to room with a skill that only came from doing missions like this every time. Deeper, deeper. She trained her scope on the surrounding terrain, helpless from her position. But she can't move. Ghost didn't tell her to.

"LT," Gaz comes in, sudden quiet for just a moment. "We've found something, sending to you."

The screen of the locator changes, the feed from Gaz's body camera replacing the scene. The space was massive, bigger than it looked like from the outside. But the room was full, rows and rows of tall black boxes that stretched well past the view range of the camera. Gaz moved in, closer. The black boxes were made of blued steel, and encased on them? Wires. Miles of wires leading in and out of boxes that probably encased more wires.

"Servers," Ghost said, almost like a curse. Hurried and whispered as he shifted in his position. The connection finally forms in her head.

"Makarov's entire connection to the outside world, housed here." The silence is all the confirmation she needs. She's astonished at the magnitude of it. The room expanding into distance like some cliche out of an Indiana Jones movie. There had to be hundreds of terabytes of storage available for use, hundreds of isolated networks that connect Makarov across the globe with a mere click.

"Na wonder tis guarded lik' a jyle," Soap says, a low grunt accompanying him. There was only a slight muffle of a shift – a small thud on one of the server racks.

"Alright there, Captain?" She asks. She hates the tremble that accompanies her voice. The sudden rush of adrenaline that she thought was beginning to subside. She'd only known Soap for a week, barely knew his real name, but the idea of losing her teammate gripped her worse than she cared to admit.

"Juist peachy, ne'er better."

"He's grazed," Gaz states. Doesn't give her time to react, barrels through with the rest of his update. "It's wrapped he'll be fine."

She lets it go, instead leaning on the rock in front of her. She holds back her sigh of relief, forces herself to straighten.

"If we leave it be, Makarov might have this place fully guarded and operational again within a few days. Maybe sooner." The words surprise her too, flowing from her mouth before she had time to full think of the implication of what she was saying. Break the protocol, go well beyond the mission.

"Price wull be happy," Soap groans.

"It's against protocol," Gaz retorts. "We still have to —"

"Wait for Makarov to get up and running again before trying to take this place down? Let him use it to kill again?" She says. It's curt, a little too short for someone with no skin in the game. The comms fall silent, the team processing. She feels Ghost's eyes on her, guarded and inquisitive, but she refused to look back, stares into the snow.

"Right," Ghost speaks, breaks the silence. He returned to looking down the scope of his rifle. "Blow it."

"LT —" Gaz starts, but he doesn't let him finish.

"That's an order."

_____

The flamed reach the heavens, fire and smoke kissing the sky. Destruction to break the peace – yet it's as calm as she's felt the entire week. She watches, patiently, as Soap and Gaz take the snow mobiles as far as they could, before beginning to take the remaining click by food. There's silence between her and the Lieutenant, only Soap's muttered curses coming through.

The sky darkens – from the smoke and ash, yes – but the wind also strengthens from the billowing chill to a full blown howl. The snow increased, the white flurry mixing with the carried ash, removing almost all sight and visibility.

"The balloon's gone up," Price's voice crackles over the comms. The sky was blackened at this point. Soap and Gaz only visible on the locator held less than a foot from her face. Ghost grunts, adjusting the strap on his backpack as he did. "Sky's out, evac will be delayed until this thing gets cleared, likely in the morning."

"Right," Ghost replies, shifting as he looks out into the smog. "Ruck up, Sergeant, looks like we're camping."

_____

She's grateful she didn't do something as stupid as forget her part of the tent. The borrowed baklava still protected most of her face, though it's loose fit didn't quite keep it all away. Making camp without the required pieces and parts would be worse — she didn't quite think she'd survive that embarrassment, a rookie mistake that couldn't be overlooked. Though she doubted it could get much worse than trying to secure the tent poles in nearly three feet of snow. Or keeping the insularly tarp layer secured as they worked. Or locating their sleeping bags.

Maybe it was the fact they worked in silence. The only comfort was the huffs and grunts from Soap on Gaz over the comms, her eye constantly drifting to the locator to make sure they were on the right track. They were slow moving, but they never veered too far off the path. Maybe it was the way Ghost would silently take the cleaver from her hands when he saw her struggling with a particularly difficult stake. There was a warmth in her cheeks, a burning not caused by wind that happened to cut through her winter gear.

Was it indignation? Was it rage? Embarrassment? It could be frustration. But deep down she knew it was all and none of those things. She could do it herself. It could be slower, but also she would've done it. Instead she began to feel an ache. Not just in her head, but beneath the near hundred pounds of weight on her person. There was a hunger burgeoning, and she hated it. Each seemingly meaningless gesture was another pulse, another ache in between her thighs that she did her best to ignore.

He's just doing it to get done faster, she'd reasoned when he took over hammering the spikes to the ground.

He's just particular, she thinks when he stops her from zipping the bottom flaps of the tent to their insulated pouch.

This is just how Ghost tries to be nice, she lies to herself when he pulls her sleeping bag inside, directly next to his.

By the time the boys reached the checkpoint the tent was up and she wasn't sure the first layer of her gear wasn't soaked in her arousal. It felt pathetic, and she was determined not to think about it. It was just niceness and here she was no better than a school girl with a crush, turned on by the bare kindness shown to her. It was insane and embarrassing.

"Please tell me ye hae a fire gaun or somethin'," Soap's voice rings as they approach. She's not used to the baklava on his face. It makes him look like an imitation, the only thing missing a painted on skull and half a foot of height.

"We have a tent," she huffs. Bites back a remark about not helping, but now she just wanted to crawl into the tent, fall asleep, and put this behind her. Not every mission would go well, and she could always relocate to a different team. One that wasn't hunting Makarov across the globe. One that didn't make her lose all sense or reason.

This mission was a curse.

"How copy, Sergeant?" It was Ghost, again. She shrugged, shaking off her thoughts and emotions with a practiced ease.

"Good copy, LT."

_____

The tent was deceptive in it's size. From the outside it made sense that four people would fit into it with no problem. Maybe if her teammates were a normal size, that would be true. But Soap and Gaz alone took up over half the space, their sleeping bags regulated to little more than blankets they could wrap around themselves.

"I can sleep outside," Ghost offers.

"Don't be stupid," she says. "I'm smaller than all of you, I'm sure it'll be fine."

_____

Fine was an overstatement. Or perhaps it wasn't fine, and she just said it so that she could get through the night. Because while she was smaller than all of them, that didn't mean her gear was. It became apparent after crawling in after her Lieutenant. There was no way for her to lay without invading Ghost's space. Whether it was her thigh or her shoulder, every shift brought her into contact with her Lieutenant. It's after her fourth attempt that she lets out a low curse. Abruptly, she stands, unclasping the buckles on her flak jacket.

"What are you doing, sergeant?"

"Making room," she says. She doesn't pause, peeling out of the weighted jacket and over coat. Each layer resituated with her sleeping bag to help insulate it further, the outwear on top, the middle layer stuffed inside. She could press her bag against the wall of the tent, she could fit, and it wasn't like she was going to —

"Just bring your bag here."

"I'm sorry?"

Ghost stands, his presence more intimidating now that he was looking down at her. His eyes bore into hers, and she tried not to audibly swallow as he took a step towards her — full gear, fully masked. She felt small. Her heart racing as she watched him pick up her small nest of objects.

"We share tonight," he says. Finally he breaks eye contact, shifting his gaze to begin zipping their bags together. "Otherwise you'll freeze, and I'm not unnecessarily sending you to med bay because you're insane."

"I'm not —"

"Oi!" Soap's sleepy voice comes from under his lump of bag and equipment. "Juist cuddle, we've a' dane it."

This time she does visibly swallow, lips pursed as she looks from Soap's form to Ghost's. Ghost who was busy already taking off his flak jacket and —

"Wait," she hisses, "what are you doing?"

Ghost stops, shirt halfway up his torso as he stares back at her, entirely uninterested.

"Making it even." As if that were obvious. She watched as he stripped. The first layer of his shirt gone, then the first layer of pants. She averts her eyes, turning the second he starts to pull his thermals lower. "We're in rack ops, Sergeant. If you want to sit around waiting for daylight in your thermals go ahead. But the rest of us are going to sleep."

When she turns he's already under the blankets and clothes. He doesn't look at her, simply squishes himself against the wall she'd planned to. His eyes were closed, the only thing she could see beneath the baklava were his eyelashes, light and fluttered shut against each other. She bit her lip, shifting on her feet for a moment. The cold was beginning to seep into the tarp flooring, the only thing close to giving her saving grace was the small padding he'd made on the floor with their clothes and sleeping bag.

I'd freeze, she thinks as she sinks to her knees.

It's just for warmth, she reasons as she slips under the covers.

He's a fucking furnace, she's shocked to learn. She leans into his chest, hoping that he wouldn't mind. He simply wraps his arms around her, not opening his eyes as they shift into laying comfortably. She barely feels the chill that surrounds them, the insulation of the sleeping bag and the body heat coming from his body did everything to block out the frigid air.

Soon, his breaths were steady. Deep inhale in, deep exhale out. His hand, thick and large, rested on her lower back, just above where it would be inappropriate. She'd never felt so comfortable. Never felt so safe. Soon, her own eyes fluttered shut, and all her worry about propriety evaporated into her dreams.

_____

The dream is sickly sweet, almost too much so as it overtakes every inch of her mind. She should be having a nightmare, marred by the events of the day. Instead, with this dream, she knew it well, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth, floating on a cloud of syrupy goodness while she waited for — fuck.

Soft pressure, slow and focused at her cunt. Her clit, each soft circle of pressure ended there. She felt herself clench on nothing, a soft groan slipping from her mouth. Hungry. Demanding. She wanted to move her hips, grind into the sensation with abandon. But she couldn't. A weight was leaden on her hips, pinning them in place as the soft pressure grew into more. Something feverish, quick and decisive as she's rendered immobile, forced to just take and take the ceaseless pleasure as it zinged through her.

That was new.

The dream morphed. Something larger, thicker, took over. Each swipe now pressed against the lips of her cunt, slick and wet from the movement, the pressure. She wants to chase the feeling, each swipe against her slit driving a new ache inside her. An ache for that pressure to come inside, to burrow it's thickness inside of her as she begged, sleepy-drunk for it.

She still thinks it's a dream with the first push. The slow, too big, stretch of a hard cock as it pushed it's way into her. She whimpers, trying to shift but the weight is actually a hand, pressing her hips into the ground as the cock forced itself into her space. She goes to scream, but there's a hand around her mouth, muffling her when thick hips meet her ass.

"Shh," a thick voice whispers. It's low, deep. A voice she'd heard all day. One she'd clenched her thighs together to, just for him to part them whenever he wanted. "Just be good for me, okay?"

She nods, just barely, as he withdraws. Each inch of his cock rubs against her walls with ease, a soft squelch escaping before he snaps his hips back in, filling her in an instant. She grunts, muffled into his hand. Still, she feels the gush of arousal from his antics. The bunch of clothes underneath her are uncomfortable — odd lumps pressed into her stomach as she scrambles for some sort of purchase. She ends up gripping his jacket, feeling the cotton blend material yield to her fingernails as he continues to drive his hips into hers.

He pushes past where she's taken before, and before she can even cry out into his palm, he's angling her face up. Her back arched, eyes watering. It's dark, still in the night, but she can just make out his form above her. Still wearing the baklava, but those eyes bore into hers. Finally, finally, his composure was broken. His eyes almost seem black, pupils blown as he railed into her. And she clenches, her whole body tightening but she knows he can feeling it.

His grunt is long and low, his hips stilling for just a moment.

He removes his hand from her mouth, placing it on the ground as he withdraws. This time she knows she can't rely on him to keep her silent. She bites her lip, tears welling in her eyes as he pushes in. And he repeats. Slow, steady, punishing. Each thrust makes her forget their locale, the fact of how she woke up. Soon, soft ah, ah, ahs escaped her mouth. It's too much, it's not enough. The tears begin to flow.

Ghost turns feral.

He pulls out, ignoring her soft whine in favor of turning her over where she lay. Her thermal pants are still on, barely shoved to her knees, but it doesn't deter him. He gathers both of her legs together, pulling them so they rested on his shoulder as he presses back in. Her hands scramble, grasping again at what she could, until she feels his skin — the flesh of his forearm — under her fingers.

Her shirt had only been pushed just enough to show her stomach, the clear rush he was in to get inside her another aspect to turn her insane. Almost enough for her not to notice when she looks down, the skin of her belly stretching slightly as he stretched her past her limits.

He notices it too, eyes blazing as they seem transfixed on where they're connected. She only looks away when he places a particularly harsh thrust inside, hitting a spot inside of her that sent her reeling. He was forging a place inside her, reshaping her cunt to him.

"Fuck," she breathes. Her legs drop back, and she's suddenly thankful for adding yoga to her free hour in her early days in the army. Her knees leisurely at her chest as Ghost presses himself closer. She doesn't imagine it's comfortable, the scratch of her thermals on his chest, but it doesn't seem to bother him, he lifts his mask – just enough for his lips to come into view – and slams his lips into hers.

Its sloppy – a mashing of teeth as he drove into her. Each shift of his hips an attack on her senses. She whines when he pulls away, ripping the thermals from her legs. It almost made her giggle, the feel of it being ripped from her body. But then he's dropping her legs again, and she goes to wrap them around his waist. Too thick to cross her ankles, the best she can do is hang on as he sets a new pace.

Slower, but he was hitting that spot inside of her. The one she could never reach with her own fingers, and she had to wonder if he was able to tell. Each retreat she did her damndest to keep him inside, thighs cand cunt clenching around him.

"Fuck," she cried, louder than intended. "Ghost, I can't I'm –"

She's cut off with a whine, his hips stilling entirely inside of her. She shudders, tears truly streaming now. The frustration of a cut off orgasm, right on the edge of the precipice.

"You're going to ask nicely for it," he says and she wonders how his voice is so calm as he's wrecking her. "You're going to ask or you won't get it at all."

She bites her her lips, eyes wide. She knows they haven't been exactly quiet, but the idea of Soap, or even Gaz, hearing her as she — there's a mirth in Ghost's eyes. He tracks his eyes over to their teammates, and she follows his gaze just to feel her heart clench at the site in front of her.

"I don't think they mind, do ya Johnny?" Ghost gives a sharp thrust, forcing her mouth to drop open as she took in the sight in front of her.

The blankets were off, the chill in the room apparently not a problem as Gaz's fist wrapped tightly around Soap's cock, pumping slowly as Soap looked intently at her, barely registering Ghost's question.

"Nae at a', Si," he breathed. She could hear the hitch in his breath as Ghost resumed his thrust. Gaz, peering over his shoulder, making sure his hand moved at the same pace.

"In fact," Gaz says, and she can finally see the way his hips are moving – no, grinding – into Soap. "I say she needs to beg."

She whimpers. Eyes transfixed, her brain on overload but there wasn't a coherent thought between her ears. Her hands gasp as the arm next to her head, her vision torn away from the scene in front of her when a thumb swipes across her clit, circling it in rushed patterns. Ghost's eyes are ravenous, watching each twitch and writhe of her body as he plays her like a fiddle.

"Sounds tempting," Ghost muses. He leans down, whispers in her ear. "Don't worry, this is as much as I'm willing to share."

It breaks her. The last shred of her sanity snapping as she begins to babble.

"Please, please, please," she whines, lip bitten as she gazes up at him. "Wanna come, need you please."

It's like a switch goes off in his head, and he begins to punish, pressing in deeper, faster, harder. His hips practically drill her into the packed snow beneath the tarp. Cool on her back, but fire above her. His thumb moves against her clit, and she can hear how quickly Gaz's hand was moving against Johnny, the tent filled with nothing but the sound of skin slapping against skin, the soft grunts and moans as they began to lose themselves.

And then it happens. His voice, raspy as he finally gives into the feverish heat of her, directly in her ear. Incoherent as he is, it's enough.

"Come for me," he pants, his hips stuttering their pace. And who was she to deny her commanding officer? She only last a thrust or two more before she's falling apart. Her body clamps down, the sudden rush of release as she clings to him, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Oi, she looks lik' a dream whin she comes," Soap groans out. She see it, his hips humping into the air, chasing the firm push and pull of Gaz's hand.

"You wouldn't believe," Ghost sighs. It drives her as close to insane she's ever felt. Her body feels taught, oversensitive as she begins to feel a second wave. It's too much, Ghost doesn't stop, pressing on as his hips never slow. She can't help but watch Soap now, the desperation on his face as he watches, eyes wide and feral as Ghost continues his punishing onslaught.

"Fuck," she breaths, head knocking back onto the pad of clothing. Her body goes limp, but he presses on, hips never slowing. In fact, now it felt as though he was chasing that sweet release, pushing closer and closer to his completion.

"Wanted this the second I saw you on base," he murmurs into her ear. If she could speak, think of anything better to say, she would've. Instead she brings a hand up, grasping at the hair at the base of his neck. She can't help but moan, barely above a whisper as she holds him tight.

Soap and Ghost come at the same time. She feels the warmth flooding her as Soap's cock sprays, landing on his arm, chest, and over Gaz's hand. It's a mess but all she can think about is the mass of weight that sinks into her. Ghost lies fully, panting as he catches his breath. He's softening inside her but he keeps pushing his hips, as if to drive the last vestiges of his spend inside her.

They lay there, breath catching in their throats. She can't tell if he's just as frazzled, brain empty except for the orgasmic haze of contentment and satisfaction. The haze is broken by the cackling of the comms in her ear, coming to life for the first time since they'd fallen asleep.

"You're all getting reprimanded when you get back," Price's voice crackles through, barely audible over the static of their receiver.

There's silence for a moment. Every person frozen as they realize that they never turned off their mics. That Price heard it all. She should be embarrassed. But instead the laughter bubbles up in her chest. She's giggling like a child, only stopping when Ghost pulls his softening cock out of her.

"Aye, Captain," he says, before leaning in to kiss her again.

"We wur juist welcoming her tae th' 141," Soap calls out, and she devolves into a fit of giggles again.

[jungle-angel]

Tis The Spookiest Season (Rhett Abbott x Reader)

Summary: You and Rhett finally have a chance to prep the house for Halloween while Amy and Hannah are with his parents

Rhett sank into the couch with a groan and a full mug of coconut macaroon coffee in his hands. He set it right down on the coffee table, letting it rest on the ceramic coaster before Tiny, the calico housecat, slithered into his lap and rested her plump little body on his thighs.

"How are ya'll this fuckin warm?" he chuckled, giving her scritches.

All he got in response was a meow and her paws kneading the threads of his jeans.

He sighed, watching you on the floor, sitting criss-cross with your needle-felting board and your hands working away at the rolls of brightly colored wool, forming the shapes of pumpkins, skeletons, witches, bats, spiders, black cats, ghosts and little fairies. Rhett could've watched you for hours and how intently focused you were on your project for Amy's kindergarten class.

Rhett turned on the tv in the corner of the living room as "It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown" began playing. He barely moved as Tiny's rump stayed planted right where it was, her purrs audible as he scritched the top of her head.

"Ya'll think Amy made my dad get the giant pumpkin she wanted?" he chuckled, seeing Linus skidding to a halt with the giant pumpkin.

"Who knows?" you said with a smile, stabbing at the wool. "I'm sure we'll find out in the morning."

Rhett laughed a little bit as he took a good, long sip of his coffee. It had rained all day, cold, wet and shitty with much of the work needing to be done before dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Buckthorn, who lived over the hill on the reservation with Wes and the rest of the Redwood clan, had needed their roof re-shingled and their garage door repaired which had taken all day, but in the end it had been worth it. Rhett had traded a few sacks of wood pellets for a few pumpkins from their patch which would be perfect for Amy, Hannah, Danny and Bear, Wes's nephews, to carve into jack-o-lanterns for Halloween.

"God this is perfect," Rhett sighed,, closing his eyes, wistfully tilting his head to the ceiling. "Cozy house, hot coffee......bitch cat in the lap."

You laughed a little at his joke, knowing that there had been days when Tiny could be an utter bitch. "Which reminds me," you told him. "I'm gonna need help with some Halloween baking in a few days."

"Bake sale at school?" he asked.

"Oh yeah," you told him. "They're doing the fall festival and need baked goods so I figured, why not?"

Rhett couldn't resist the thought of the house smelling like the kitchen in your farm store downtown. He loved whenever you both got to make little marshmallow ghosts, rice krispy treats made to look like trick-or-treat bags, little cakes in the shapes of bats, pumpkins and black cats, brownies with gummy worms that looked like they were crawling out of the dirt, cookies that were baked in different fall flavors, coconut macaroons that looked like little mummies and of course the sugar skull candies that you and Rhett would spend many painful hours decorating. Yet it made you both happy to see the look on Mrs. Garcia's face and others who bought them to take to the cemetery or lay out on their home altars for their loved ones.

"What?" you said, noting the curious look on Rhett's face.

"Darlin ya'll gotta teach me how to do that," he answered.

"What the needle-felting?"

He nodded.

"Well get your ass down here and I'll teach you," you laughed.

"I can't darlin, I've got bitch-cat in my lap and she ain't movin!"

You laughed again and moved up to the couch, scooting in close to him, showing him the simple steps in your craft. Easy as it was, Rhett was always happy to be a part of something you loved.

[taavisplushies]

do you have any advice on how to clean plushies of fleas? one of my cats escaped and I think she may have gotten them and spread all over my bed/stuffies :(((

i once bought a stuffed frog from a garage sale who was full of fleas! this is what i did and it worked….

1. put the stuffed animals in a garbage bag and tie it shut as tight as you can.

leave them in there for 30 full days! this should be long enough to starve any fleas. eggs that hatch during this time should die off as well.

2. hand wash them like normal with dawn dish soap and lukewarm water.

make sure to rinse them off super well! you should see the dead fleas coming off the plush!

if you can’t get this plush wet, i’d recommend vacuuming them on a low setting and then spraying them with disinfectant spray instead of washing. lysol and other similar sprays can leave a gross residue on the plush, so i’d recommend fursuit spray. you can buy some online or even make your own!

3. let the plushies air dry in front of a fan. don’t forget to occasionally rotate the plush so that they dry faster! air drying can take anywhere from 1-3 days depending on the plush and how wet they were. plushies with bean pellets will take longer to dry than ones with only stuffing!

4. after the plush is dry, comb the fur and make sure there’s no remaining fleas!

5. as a last protective measure you could spray with disinfectant spray! fursuit spray works the best, because it’s specifically made for fake fur and will NOT leave behind gross residue :)

if you can’t wait for the 30 days, you could try just washing the plush. hot water should kill fleas BUT it can damage the plushie if it has glue. sometimes hair, eyes, or noses are glued on. the hot water can melt the glue, and cause the items to fall off. so be careful.

you might be able to try washing plushies with flea killing shampoo, but i have no idea if that will leave a residue on the plush or not. if it does leave a residue, you can always soak the plush in diluted vinegar for 30 minutes. that should remove any gross residue left behind.

make sure to treat all your pets for fleas as well!! it doesn’t matter how well you clean the plushies, if your pets still have fleas they can just crawl right back on the plush!

i hope your cat is doing well! it sounds like she had an exciting little adventure! i’m really sorry about the fleas tho :(

[coyotecreek]

It's crazy to me how people will be looking at my rabbits at a swap or tailgate sale, read their age on the sign and be like "Whoa, that's HUGE for __ weeks!" And I'm just like Huh?? It's really not? It's not often that my litters are hitting the ideal weights for their age, but that's more due to genetics. I free-feed my young rabbits an 18% pellet. Makes me wonder just how tiny and malnourished their kits are, if they think mine are "huge?"

I've unfortunately seen a lot of kits at swaps that look really small and bony, or not even close the age they're claimed to be. Juni was like that when I got her. In fact, she was given to me because the breeder was worried about that litter's condition. I hadn't planned on getting her. She was literally triangle-shaped because her spine was sticking out and she had no loin to her. She had been raised in a tractor "on pasture," and that was slowly causing the litter to starve. Her breeder has since switched to feeding pellets.

Is this just the NORM around here? Do people really think rabbits can live off scraps or something? I see so, so many that look like they're being fed JUST enough to keep them alive. That, and filthy kits who were clearly raised in a hutch filled with excrement. It's kind of messed up. Do better, people.

[frozenfrederick]

Excerpt from "Secret of the Skies"

Warnings: contain graphic depictions of violence

Grian’s shoulders rolled back, and he tilted his head towards the sky. He inhaled the crisp, fresh air, the winds smelling of sweet apples and cut grass. He took a step back from the G-Train, with his hands on his hips and his head nodding in approval. The wool train was surprisingly easy to build, now all that was left was to check for sales and restock.

He felt a familiar ache spread throughout his back, but he ignored it. He adjusted the clasp of his elytra, then knelt in front of a chest and scanned through all the items. He peeked through the ones next to it, and grasped onto a bottle of painkillers. He popped two in his mouth, then swallowed them down with a chug of water.

Wiping the sweat off his brow, Grian carried his abundance of shulker boxes to the first train car. He unloaded the items into the chest, extracted the diamonds he found as well. “Pretty good, pretty good,” he muttered to himself and the handful of diamonds he held in his palm. He curled his fingers around them, then tucked them into his inventory.

After all of the cars were stocked up and sorted, Grian spread his elytra wings and took off with the whizz of a few rockets. He looked down upon Boatem, and from his bird’s eye view, he could see everything. He had gotten so used to this view that he had nearly forgotten how breathtaking it could be closer to sunset.

The copper on the Swaggon reflected the dying light, the shadow of the Boatem pole stretched far, and Treeza seemed to loom over the landscape even moreso.

Grian landed on the edge of his mountain, relishing the soft breeze in his hair. He checked his communicator, seeing who was on the server. But no one was on, Grian was alone.

A fit of nervous butterflies flew through his stomach as he shed his elytra at the opportunity. His hands shook with anticipation, with an eager urge to soar high above the clouds, higher than anyone could ever go. He craved the wind rustling through his feathers, not just his hair.

It was very rare that Grian was the only person on the server, it was far too good of a convenience to throw away.

He finished unbuckling his elytra, then took in a deep breath. He grunted as the familiar pain ripped through his back. He felt like something was tearing through his flesh, just for a split second. But, he had gotten used to that kind of pain long ago. To fly, it was worth it.

Crimson wings spread wide either side of him with a shower of feathers. A strong current of wind sweeped Grian off his feet, and with a powerful thrust of his wings, he was in the sky. A large smile crept onto his lips as he soared above the cloudline, high above Boatem, far above the mountains.

A gust of wind knocked him towards the sea, beckoning him closer. He shrugged to himself, then altered his trajectory so he began to fly over the large expanse of ocean.

But, just as he was about a mile from the shoreline, Grian’s communicator beeped at him, blaring loud and red. He didn’t get a chance to check the alert before a swift wind stole the device and sent it tumbling towards the ocean tides.

“Oh shit-” he cursed, his wings flapping to remain steady as the wind picked up speed. He was being torn every which way, hardly able to keep himself from spiraling out of control.

His hair sprawled all across his face, plastered to his skin by the oncoming rainwater pummeled him down towards the raging sea. The tides reached for him, only to fall in their own defeat, then try again.

Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed before Grian’s eyes, causing him to scream and stumble back in the air. His quick and panicked breath left him feeling dizzy, and he could feel himself sinking down towards the enraged waves. They were gaining height fast, and Grian was losing altitude faster.

Wind shoved him to the right, then yanked him to the left. Thick pellets of rain slapped against his back, soaking through his shirt and making his shoulders shiver.

He willed his wings to propel him upwards, away from the sea waiting to eagerly tear him to shreds. Yet, despite his grueling efforts, the wind won the war. His toes dipped into the water, and the tides grasped his ankles to drag him underneath.

His mouth opened for one last breath before he was fighting for his life underneath the surface. Drowns took all the opportunity, their teeth sinking themselves into Grian’s skin. He screamed in blinding agony, only to lose bubbles of precious air. A trident whizzed past his head, and with eyes wide in panic, Grian struggled for the surface of the water.

Another flash of lightning struck, just bright enough for Grian to see it as he continued to be heaved down to the deep. He couldn’t grasp onto the air soon enough.

His nose betrayed him, so desperate for the release of pressure that it forced him to inhale, letting in all the water he was fighting to keep out. His throat scrabbled to shove the intruder out, but even as Grian keeled over in a coughing fit, there was nothing to expel.

A Drowned slid up to his face, its dead features grinning wildly back at him. It teased him as it drew up a trident, then hissed at his misery and scratched the very point of the trident along Grian’s chest.

The salt within the sea stung like acid was forcing itself into Grian’s body, and the Drowned laughed. It beckoned another creature close, pointing to Grian’s agony, then taking the trident to his chest again. It dug the point into his sternum, twisting it to drill the end in further.

Grian didn’t react. He couldn’t.

His limbs went limp to the water, his burning eyes falling half-lidded before his mind went blank.

The Drowns claimed their prize, long tongues lapping at the dribbling blood from their inflicted wounds. They left him floating limply, retresting and chattering to themselves in their own language of hisses and nonsensical gunts.

But, one thing was clear. They had been victorious.

“Hey, where’s Grian?” Mumbo called as he landed not-so gracefully, checking his communicator for a third time before turning to the man beside him. “It says he’s on the server, but I haven’t seen him at all.”

Scar raised an eyebrow, then stole a glance at Mumbo’s device. “That’s odd,” he replied with a hum of confusion. “Maybe he’s in a cave.” He waved his hand dismissively, then turned towards a chest for a few items.

But, that didn’t seem to settle Mumbo’s racing mind. “What if he’s hurt?”

“Then he would have asked for help,” Scar shrugged, then his elytra wings spread wide and he fired off a rocket. He took off into the sky, soaring down towards the central of Boatem.

Mumbo followed behind him, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He continuously checked his device, becoming more and more anxious with each look at the screen. He inhaled a deep breath, then gazed down upon the ground to land. Scar was frozen in place, though, as Mumbo’s feet planted themselves on the dirt firmly. “What’s wro…” he trailed off, his eyes wide with realization at why Scar’s feet refused to buffer.

Boatem was in ruins. The trees were strewn about unorderly, smashed into the sides of buildings or atop roofs. Walls looked bashed in by an unforeseen force, and huge puddles of water flooded the grass, making the ground slippery with thick mud.

Scar took one tiny step towards his Swaggon, hands outstretched but unstable. “What’s happened here?” he whispered, his voice cracking, hands covering his mouth.

“Hurricane,” Mumbo breathed, his eyes blown wide at the complete wreckage of the place. “It had to have been, this is… insane.” A thought crossed his mind, and panic flashed over his face like a slap. “Grian, he was here last night, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Scar answered, sounding distant. “He said he would be working on his alleyway.”

Their heads shifted towards one another, mouths agape and cheeks pale. Then, without a word, Mumbo shot up into the sky. He didn’t even look back to see if Scar was behind him, that was the least of his worries. He soared down towards the coastline, landing sloppily on the edge between the land and the tide. Water lapped at his feet, reaching for him then pulling away at the last moment.

Mumbo’s eyes scanned the visible coastline, his feet taking him along the edge of the ocean. He cupped a hand above his eyes, keeping the sun from impeding his vision. With each step in the sand and fruitless scan, he became more desperate. He threw his head over his shoulder, noticing Scar running the opposite way as him, searching the water for any flashes of a red sweater.

His gaze returned to his own search. Agitated, he took off into the sky. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as all he saw was sand and ocean time and time again. The seconds felt like hours, the wind burned his face as tears did the same to his eyes. He didn’t want to imagine the pain Grian might have gone through, being sucked into the center of the hurricane only to be tossed around like a ragdoll.

He yanked his communicator out of his pocket, but with sweaty, clammy hands, it slipped right through his fingers. He dove down, catching it just before it slapped into the water. He was about to pull back into the sky, when he noticed a distant haze of red.

His heart rate spiked, and he made a quick dash for the red, his hands fumbling around in the water for any signs of the builder he was so desperately searching for. His hands grazed something soft but water-logged, and his fingers snatched it. He dragged it out of the water, his breath hitching in his throat.

It was a scrap of Grian’s sweater, soaking wet and jaggedly torn.

Mumbo cursed under his breath, and he wrung the scrap of fabric of the water. He felt it up to his lips, not caring about the foul taste of seawater that slipped into his mouth. He took a step back towards the shore, ignoring his tears as they dribbled down his face.

He reopened his clenched eyes as he heard the water burble a few feet in front of him. He extracted his sword from his sheathe, glowering down at the Drowned that approached him. He struck it down easily, but just as he was about to turn around, he noticed the same color of scrap fabric stuck to the creature’s claws.

His heart sank down to his feet, and the taste in the back of his throat turned sour. He fixed his helmet over his head, then inhaled a large breath and dove into the water.

Mumbo’s arms pushed against the tides of water swaying him every which way, and he persisted down into the depths. The pressure as he descended crushed his head, making his ears feel like they were gushing blood. His head ached, but he ignored the pain.

Another flash of red caught his eye, and he whirled around to face it. It disappeared behind an outcrop of rock, and Mumbo’s hands shot out to snatch it before it disappeared. It just barely remained in his grasp as he hauled it out into the open where he could see. It was distinctly heavy, and at the weight of it, Mumbo’s heart lifted, even if only for a moment.

He tried his best not to gasp as he saw the full extent of Grian’s limp body. His face was pale and his limbs floated almost ghostly in the water. Mumbo gathered him in his arms, then kicked his legs wildly to propel him to the surface. As soon as his face breached the water, he inhaled multiple large gulps of air, then powered through the tide back towards the shoreline.

The lack of movement from Grian’s body made Mumbo swim even faster, desperate to find any sort of way to save him.

But what if it was too late?

Yet, Grian would have respawned, that was how Hermitcraft was.

Was something wrong with the system?

No, no, Grian has to be alive. There can’t be anything wrong with the system! Mumbo shook himself as he pulled Grian’s body to the shore, safe from the creatures that craved their blood.

Crimson was all he saw. Grian’s red jumper, two large, red wings spreading out wide on the sand, and splatters of red on Mumbo’s own hands.

“Wait, wings?” He did a double-take on the sight of feathers fluttering off a pair of beautiful bird’s wings, but they were just as still and lifeless as the owner.

Mumbo ignored his curiosity and shoved his ear against Grian’s chest, then felt his heart sink when no steady beat greeted him. He retracted his head, then yanked his communicator from his pocket. He cursed when he found it damaged and waterlogged, then placed his hands over Grian’s sternum. He inhaled a deep breath, then pointed his head towards the sky.

“SCAR!” He bellowed as loud as he could possibly muster. “SCAR, I FOUND HIM!”

Within a few moments, a rocket whizzed high above Mumbo, and Scar appeared from behind the clouds. He shot down towards the ground, pulling up just in time to land. He took off towards the two on the sand, falling to his knees as Mumbo began to perform CPR.

“Oh god, oh god,” Scar shoved his hands over his mouth, his eyes wide and cheeks as white as snow. “What do you need me to do?”

“We’ll have to alternate CPR until we get a response, no one else is on right now,” Mumbo explained, his voice rushed and his forehead dripping sweat.

“But what if-”

“We can’t give up on him, Scar, no matter what.” His eyes were hooded, but his gaze was determined.

Even as Mumbo’s arms burned and his legs began to tire from holding him up, he didn’t falter until he nearly collapsed.

They had spent nearly two hours on the shoreline, their arms weak and resolves even weaker.

They were going to give up. They were nearly convinced that something had glitched in the system, that Grian was… lost. But, one single noise caught their attention, and never let it go.

A tiny cough and a little whine had Mumbo and Scar exchanging glances, then the latter took over CPR, a new burst of desperation in his movements.

Grian’s wings were fluttering now, and his fingers were curling in the sand. Mumbo reached to latch onto the builder’s hand, but it shot out before he could touch it. Grian erupted into coughs, and he shoved Scar’s hands off him. He doubled over, hacking and vomiting water all over the sand.

His arms were shaking beyond belief as he attempted to hold himself up, and his wings flapped violently. Sand flew around in a mini-tornado, then Grian collapsed back onto the shore, coughing and gasping for air. He clutched at his chest, which was stuttering as his heart pumped weakly inside.

Grian’s head turned shakily towards Mumbo and Scar, his gaze just slightly peeking at them from behind his wings.

Oh, his wings.

Weak eyes went wide, and he scrambled as best he could away from them, but he couldn’t get very far with unstable limbs.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Mumbo gently reached for him, his hands only a few inches away from him. “You’re safe now, Grian, you’re alright.”

“Yeah, it’s all okay now,” Scar offered his best smile, even as tears dripped down his cheeks. He stood, taking a single step towards the trembling builder.

Grian’s mouth opened to speak, but only a broken sob left his parted lips. He threw himself into Mumbo’s arms, and latched onto Scar’s wrist to yank him down too. He wailed, and his voice was muffled in Mumbo’s shirt. His wings drooped pathetically, and his shoulders shuddered as tears dripped down like a leaky faucet.

“Everything’s okay now,” Mumbo whispered, not just reassuring Grian, but himself as well.

“No, no it’s not,” Grian’s voice cracked, and he pulled away from the tender embrace. “Nothing’s alright, Mumbo.” He shook his head, then stood on wobbly legs and took a step away from them. His wings stretched, then folded behind his back. “I understand if you hate me-”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Scar interrupted, standing as well, but not chasing after Grian just yet. The shorter man took another step back, his head falling. “You’re alive, Grian, that’s all we care about.” He offered out his arms again, confusion and concern in his gaze.

“If this is about your wings, Grian, they’re beautiful,” Mumbo joined in with a gentle smile. “Gorgeous, even. They’re unique, they’re you.”

“And we love you, Grian.” Scar took an experimental step forward, but Grian stumbled back. His head remained facing down, and his wings twitched with every graze of wind. “Please, let’s not focus on that right now, though. You need to rest, you need to heal. You’ve been missing for an entire night.”

Grian whimpered, then surrendered once more. He pressed his forehead against Scar’s collarbone, crying, but making no sound. “Don’t tell anyone?”

“Of course, but there’s no need to be ashamed,” Mumbo came up to Scar’s right shoulder, then gently lifted Grian’s head to place a gentle, reassuring kiss on his forehead. “You’re magnificent.”

“Let’s get you home to rest,” Scar offered, and Grian nodded absent-mindedly. He swept the smaller man into his arms, careful of his wings, then began to walk back towards Boatem.

For once, Grian felt safe in his wings.

[goldfishgalaxy]

Here’s a little video I cross posted to my TikTok since I hadn’t spoken about her there yet.

I’ve spent the last week hand feeding her presoaked pellets and primarily frozen foods. She now has a hardy appetite and I’m seeing big improvements from her initial lethargy. The swim bladder issue however is something she will likely struggle with to some extent, for the rest of her life. Based on the video the seller posted on her sale page, she was moving very well, so I believe she suffered an injury to the swim bladder during shipping. She was bagged with a large male fish who was quite active when I unbagged them.

I’ve also spoken with the seller about this, and we’ve come to a resolution. I do think they were packed and shipped with a lot of care. Shipping fish always comes with some inherent risk unfortunately. I do hope she can heal to some extent. She certainly hasn’t given up and is so friendly and sweet. I’d like to see her live a nice long life with me, good quality of life permitting.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Grist:

Demand for steel is on the rise globally, driven by population growth and the expanding economies in developing nations. The material will also be important to the green energy transition, forming the backbone of infrastructure like wind turbines, solar panels, and hydroelectric dams. Every part of the steel supply chain is heavily polluting, and the places in the U.S. where the steel industry is concentrated are disproportionately low-income and nonwhite, highlighting yet another instance in which the promises of development and climate solutions come at a steeper cost for some communities. What’s more, the country’s steel production is dominated by just two companies: U.S. Steel and Cleveland Cliffs. 

For both companies, much of their production begins with taconite, a low-grade iron ore mined in the northeast Minnesota’s Mesabi Iron Range, which is processed into pellets that get shipped to the steel mills of Gary, Indiana. The extraction of the ore from taconite rock releases a slew of toxic pollutants into the air, including mercury, lead, and dioxins. In this region, the most concerning of these emissions is mercury. 

Studies have connected mercury to a litany of negative health effects. It’s a neurotoxin that can interfere with brain development in unborn children and an endocrine disruptor that can weaken the immune system. Scientists have yet to determine a quantity of mercury that is safe for human consumption. One recent study found that there is “no evidence” for a threshold “below which neuro-developmental effects do not occur.” And while the taconite industry releases less than a ton of mercury into the atmosphere every year, the metal is toxic in extremely small quantities: A fraction of a teaspoon can contaminate a 20-acre lake. 

The nation’s six taconite plants, all in this region of Minnesota, are owned by U.S. Steel and Cleveland Cliffs. In May 2023, the Environmental Protection Agency proposed a regulation that would require the companies to cut their mercury emissions by around 30 percent. In order to meet that standard, the companies would have to install equipment that would inject carbon atoms into their industrial chimneys so that the carbon would attach itself to the mercury atoms, making the pollution particles bigger and allowing them to get trapped in a filter before they would be released into the atmosphere. The agency estimates that its regulation would cost the industry $106 million in capital costs and $68 million per year thereafter. 

Last month, when the standards were finalized, both companies sued. They argue that the regulation would pose “irreparable harm” to the industry, because of the steep costs of implementation. They also argue that the EPA’s proposed method for reducing mercury pollution would actually be worse for public health, causing a 13 percent increase in the amount of the toxic metal deposited in the local environment. 

Jim Pew, a lawyer at Earthjustice who has litigated multiple lawsuits against the EPA for its failure to curb pollution from the taconite industry, pointed out that the costs of implementing the required equipment would be a tiny fraction of the companies’ annual sales, which totaled $40 billion in 2023. Pew noted that U.S. Steel recently initiated a $500 million stock buyback program, the mark of a healthy income revenue stream. As for the companies’ claim that the technology would increase mercury pollution, Pew called it “meritless.” The companies are “relying on a premise they know to be false” — that taconite plants would add the carbon technology without also improving their filtration system. 

“I find this reprehensible and shameful,” Pew said. “While it’s claiming that it can’t spend money to clean up historic pollution, U.S. Steel is just handing out money to its shareholders.” 

[popculturelib]

The Beanie Baby Craze and Bust

In the 1990’s, the Beanie Baby craze swept through America. First appearing in 1993 at the World Toy Fair in New York City, these small stuffed animals were filled with P.V.C. Pellets and came in all shapes in sizes -- from common animals to characters from popular culture. Many collected them, seeking out the rarest versions they could find. Some displayed their Beanie Babies, others played with them and made clothes for them. The “Original Nine” Beanie Babies were: Legs the Frog, Squealer the Pig, Brownie the Bear (later renamed Cubbie the Bear), Flash the Dolphin, Splash the Whale, Patti the Platypus, Chocolate the Moose, Spot the Dog, and Pinchers the Lobster!

But the craze didn’t last. On January 1, 1999, Ty released twenty-four Beanie Babies into their product line, which completely discouraged collectors. Twenty-four new Beanies cost around $120, when stores were selling them for the $5 they were supposed to go for. Collectors usually collect in order to gain all or most of the product, so when the line becomes unmanageable, they begin to lose interest. Because Ty had flooded the market with Beanie Babies, collectors were now seeing their collections lose value. By the early 2000s, sales had declined by 90 percent from the craze years. In 2018, older Beanies sold for anywhere from $2 to $30,000 through online retailers. Ty continues to make plush toys, but they are much more readily available.

Our Collection

This collection, donated by Matthew Wilson, includes one box of Beanie Babies of all kinds. They are organized chronologically by release year. Many of the Beanie Babies do not have hang tags (the red, heart-shaped Ty tags), and some do not have tush tags, making Beanie identification difficult. Several hang tags show signs of damage, especially folding. Several tags have protective covers on them.

We have many of the classic Beanie Babies, such as Patti the Platypus (1993), as well as several examples of special lines. The most complete special line we have is the 2004 McDonald’s promotion. Of the twelve Beanies released, we have six of them. The McDonald’s Beanie Babies are recognizable by their smaller size and distinctive McDonald’s logo on the chest. We also have an example from the Zodiac line (Goat, 2000), the Pinky’s line (Gemma, 2005), the Pluffies line (Basketball, 2005), and the Alphabet Beanies collection (I and G, 2005). There are also several holiday themed beanies in regular, extra-large, and teenie beanie sizes.

For more information about our Beanie Baby collection, check out our finding aid at https://www.bgsu.edu/library/pcl/Collections/beanies.html.

The Browne Popular Culture Library, founded in 1969, is the most comprehensive archive of its kind in the United States.  Our focus and mission is to acquire and preserve research materials on American Popular Culture (post 1876) for curricular and research use. Visit our website at https://www.bgsu.edu/library/pcl.html.

[stitchlingbelle]

Episode 2

And we’re back! Rereading what I just typed out, I found this episode kind of frustrating. It's good, but all these plotlines could be So. Much. Better. if they just cared about making this a good show and gave it the time it needed to be one.

Ah, Halsey my beloathed. Since last we saw her apparently making her escape clean, she… apparently got captured by some mysterious person? Who? Why? What planet is she on? How was she captured? Did Keyes sell her out? She’s certainly being well-treated. All last season’s stuff didn’t teach her anything, as most of what we see is her manipulating a girl to try and get answers, causing her to promptly drop dead. Conclusion: Halsey may suck, but so do the people holding her.

Meanwhile, Riz is doing training stuff, and clearly suffering. Kai checks in with her, obviously concerned, and pushes her to work on healing. Riz blows her off. Kai, oddly to me, suggests Riz put the emotional-suppression pellet back in if she needs to deal with the pain. Riz flatly refuses: “You’ll have to put a bullet in me first.” (Same, girl.) There’s a lot going on here—Riz’s feelings towards what was done to them, why she chose to remove the pellet and who she is now that it's gone, her near-death and the struggle to rebuild herself… the team’s relationships now that they’re unprogrammed and developing personalities…

(Again, we are missing SO MUCH by rushing in this show. Fuck catering to all the old hands who bitch about every episode that isn’t 95% shoot-em-up fight scenes. Go replay the games on God mode or w/e if that’s all you care about. What’s the point of making this show at all if not to tell the parts of the stories you can’t in the game medium?!)

Speaking of Kai, John tells her that Ackerson doesn’t trust him. He also drops his… vision? Memory? Of Makee on Sanctuary. Kai: “She’s dead. I shot her myself.” Uhhhh, maybe don’t remind him of that? (I honestly thought they were going to open this season with John and Kai estranged over that, actually. My sweet baby Kai loves people, but she doesn’t yet have the ability to be wise or tactful for them…) John’s obsessively checking up on Cobalt Team, and they’re MIA (or something). I pity the poor sign kid just trying to update the board with no actual info. Bring it down, Chief.

Back on Rubble with Kwan, and things are tense. Some shifty guy goes after her—why? Because she's a known associate of Soren’s? Wait, why is she tagged?? Ripping it out looked painful. Daaaamn, apparently Soren found time to teach her some moves, she’s a badass now. I was afraid they’d go the Rose Tico route and just write her out since she was unpopular, but I guess they decided to level her up instead. We’ll see if that shuts the haters up. “Ruby Ann bought Soren’s crew, he’s not coming back”—ah, so the tag was Soren’s way of protecting her? Aaaaand Kwan spaces a guy and kills the other by stabbing him with the tag. I’m still left with a lot of questions—how come Laera didn’t inherit/ take over the crew? Did she authorize the sale to Ruby Ann? Where are she and Kessler, and are they all right?

Riz is back to working out, pushing herself too hard. She has a spotter/ trainer who’s an absolute sweetie. He’s pushing her to think about her future—what options do Spartans even have, if they don’t go rogue like Soren? And what’s the trainer’s (Louis?) story?

Another scene with John going up against Ackerson, and seriously, the hell with that guy, ugh. He claims no one can back up John’s story about Sanctuary (do these suits of armor seriously not have bodycams? After all the surveillance tech on their ships that we saw in season 1?) Ugh, I had worried about Perez not backing John up. Does she have a concussion/ brain injury? Or is she being leaned on?

Kwan and Kessler have a moment where Kwan smashes Kessler’s faith that his dad is coming back. Laera has a tense moment with the ranking remaining members of Soren’s crew. They’re stalling on the ship repairs for some reason. I think they’ll end up regretting that they underestimated Laera.

We go back to Riz, apparently doing some sort of terrain/ environment training? Yep, and Master Chief nails her. The team banters a bit. Kai is worried, but Master Chief sends Riz up again. It’s a very grim scene as Riz struggles and eventually goes down. She’s not ok. John keeps pushing and pushing. He wants to go after Cobalt Team. Kai is getting more concerned about not just Riz, but John—you can feel how out-of-true the team is right now. Riz taps out.

Another day with Halsey, another (clone?) girl (Julia?) serving her tea and dropping dead during questioning. I suppose if they’re flash clones it would explain why Halsey’s so willing to treat them like they’re disposable to get the info she wants—to her mind, that’s what flash clones are. Poor girls.

We get a rapid series of bits: Riz and Louis talking as they wait—at a doctor’s? A church? Something Riz hopes will help her, somehow. Ackerson trying to manipulate Kai, whose loyalty to John keeps her from falling for it, but her naiveté means she still says a few things I think he’ll use. Damn. Don’t give him anything, Kai! John shows up at Perez’s place and would have lost that bet if her Abuela hadn’t stepped in. Good life advice, John: no one crosses Abuela. Any abuela. Abuela always wins.

(Sidenote: I notice we’re getting a lot more glimpses of civilian life here—Louis, Perez’s family… I can only assume they’re setting us up to ugly cry watching all these people die horribly.)

Back to Riz, who’s meeting with ??? What? A freakin’ psychic? What is going on here? (I keep forgetting this mystical stuff is a part of this universe…)

John’s dinner with Perez’s family is just as awkward as you’d expect. Abuela and Mamá are the MVPs for trying to keep the boys under wraps here. LOL forever at the gamer quizzing Master Chief John-117 with “C’mon, man, you don’t play Spartan Attack?” Babe, he plays all of them. I’m dying, Perez is having a heart attack, where’s Kai’s charisma when you need it. Aaaand then they figure it out, gracias a Dios for Mamá keeping them from losing their minds. Perez eventually loses it and leaves, and John gets to question her at last: she didn’t tell Ackerson because of the trauma and uncertainty. Master Chief’s pep talk could use some work, even if somewhat accurate.

Back to Halsey and OMG, WTF the person holding her is ACKERSON??? (Don’t you people DARE try to rehabilitate Halsey with me by contrasting her with Ackerson. I promise, I can and will hate them both.) Where are they? Does anyone know he’s holding her here? I assume she’s still on Reach, and never made it off-planet? How did he catch her? She tells Ackerson a story about a pomegranate tree that she’s never told anyone, saying he must have Cortana since he knows about it. So Cortana does have all Halsey’s memories after all??? (Up to the point of the flash clone’s creation, anyway.) (There’s a MILLION implications to unpack here.) (Also, on a personal level, the story about Halsey rebelling against the garden/ pomegranate tree made me unbearably smug. I just KNEW when I wrote that fic that Halsey hated working under other people.) Also, where IS Cortana? Ah, so it turns out Halsey’s in some sort of holodeck prison thing. Hopefully that means all these Julias aren’t real and haven’t been dying after all.

Ah, here’s Cortana! Stuck in a Faraday cage. I don’t love her new look. Whatever project he had her working on, he was NOT pleased to hear the results: 97% chance of failure/ disaster/ etc. Cortana presses him on the truth that he won’t be coming back to see her again, and he agrees. (Apparently he’s not planning on bringing her along? IS this man a complete idiot?) As usual, the show gives us the bones (here’s where Cortana is) but no meat: how much does Cortana remember? Does she miss John (or anything else?) Does she know what’s going on now? Is she actively trying to escape? What does she want?

I assume the doom and gloom are about the famous Fall of Reach, which I have heard of, and I wonder how this plays with a completely unspoiled audience. How coherent is this without it? It seems to me that the show is relying on the audience’s foreknowledge both to make sense of some of this, and to do the work of building the appropriate level of dread for them.

Back in Spartan-land, John figures out that Cobalt Team never left Reach, and Silver Team goes after them. Kai presses him on the authorization and the nature of the mission. John lies about the first, but answers the second: “The Covenant’s on Reach.” It’s a great WHAM LINE.

Finally, we see how right he is: Marines fighting monsters in the dark, the glowing blade weapons going on and off to great effect. At last, we see Makee! Our toxic girl is back! And I love her outfit—anyway, Makee is back and stealing the artifact, again. (Where was it being held that no one is noticing this? Clearly not on the main base anymore.) She’s also bossing aliens around, which tells me she didn’t suffer too many consequences for deciding to flatten the whole plateau to save John at the end of last season. (This ties in to some thoughts I have about how everyone views those events, which I’ll save for next episode.)

I’ll end with this note: the alien Makee addresses pushes back slightly with the comment that “there is no honor in this fight” against the marines. It’s the first I’ve seen any such sentiments from the Covenant. Why the concern now? Is it the stealth nature of the mission? The theft without an honest battle? I seriously doubt it has anything to do with unfair advantages or killing weaker combatants/ the innocent. I mean, these people destroy whole planets. Maybe they’ll take some time to start developing the Covenant’s (various) cultures.

Or, you know, that would be a great thing to do in a show that had the time to be a fully fleshed-out story… instead of what it feels like this season: a new high-res montage of cut scenes and fight playthroughs. I guess they got tired of people watching the real thing on Youtube.

[beardedmrbean]

A Houston Police Department officer driving to work last month felt the buzzing vibration alert of a cell-phone sized device provided by the federal government as part of a grant program.

The buzzing was no phone call. It was a warning, about dangerous levels of radiation, right in the midst of the fourth largest city in America.

And the detector that found it was one of 2,000 carried in Houston – and 56,000 nationwide – aimed at preventing terrorists from slipping a radiation-spewing “dirty bomb” onto American streets.

Now, budget fights in Congress and a House majority seeking major spending cuts mean the office that supplied those detectors is on the chopping block.

During a House Homeland Security Committee hearing last week, representatives questioned the work of – and funding for – huge swaths of the federal security agencies, often focusing on border security.

But testimony that day from Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas brought to light the work of one lesser-known arms of anti-terror work: the agency’s Countering Weapons of Mass Destruction office.

He offered it as an example of where the system worked as intended, supporting a local agency to ward off disaster before it happened.

How 'hot' material ended up in a Houston scrap yard

As the detector buzzed Oct. 16, the Houston officer first suspected a false alarm. He circled his car back around to the same street. It went off again.

The detector, similar to a Geiger counter, was built to pick up gamma radiation. Soon, larger units arrived to help triangulate the radiation’s source.

DHS provides some officers backpack-sized devices. The agency says they can detect material as far as a mile away. It also provides truck-sized devices that can scan for radiation near major events like the Super Bowl and Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Houston’s sensors led them to a recycling yard on the city’s northwest side. There, the bomb squad isolated containers the size of paint cans. Officers only needed to wear specialized protective gear when they were closest to the material, past a “turn-back line” alerted by their detectors.

The radiation was not coming from a dirty bomb. It was only harmful within a few feet. But it was real radiation.

The source was Cesium-137, a material used in commercial and industrial settings. It is found in medical radiation therapy devices to treat cancer. As the byproduct of nuclear fission, it’s also found at the scene of nuclear reactor disasters — think Chernobyl.

In Houston, the radiation-emitting canisters had been used as flow gauges at a chemical plant. Instead of being properly stored, they had ended up at the scrap yard.

A crew carefully recovered four radioactive sources and transferred them to a U.S. Department of Energy storage facility near San Antonio.

Texas authorities are investigating the chain of custody of the material to determine how it ended up in the scrap yard and how long it had been there. Owners of the yard, which police have not named, will not face penalties because they cooperated with authorities, said Sgt. James Luplow, a member of the HPD bomb squad.

“This is not a very common occurrence. We routinely encounter radioactive material, but nothing at this level,” Luplow said. “It’s a textbook example of having a lot of people cruising around with these detectors.”

The ongoing threat of radioactive waste

Radioactive material ends up in scrap yards and causes major headaches for workers and those called to dispose of it.

In 1984, a scrap metal sale in Mexico led to one of the largest radiation disasters in U.S. history. About 600 tons of radioactive steel from Juarez ended up in 28 states. In that case, Cobalt-60 pellets caused radiation poisoning where junkyard employees became nauseated, had their fingernails turn black and suffered sterilization.

With a 30-year half-life, cesium isotopes can present a long-lasting threat if not properly disposed of at a storage facility.

Radioactive contamination of scrap materials happens far more frequently than people realize, said Jessica Bufford, a senior program officer at the non-profit global security organization Nuclear Threat Initiative.

“We’re concerned that a determined adversary like a criminal group or terrorists or lone wolf actor could steal a cesium device and use it as part of a dirty bomb to cause panic,” Bufford said. “It could be transported in powder form easily through water or air and spread over a large area.”

The material found in the Houston scrap yard was discarded waste, not a dirty bomb. But authorities say the need for detecting the radiation is the same in either scenario.

“You’d be detecting bombs,” said Luplow, the Houston sergeant. “But we’d much prefer to find it just in the material form, and it’s a lot easier to deal with.”

'No border security, no funding'

The Houston incident first came to light when Department of Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas testified last week in front of the House panel.

Without naming the location, agency or date of the incident, Mayorkas said cryptically: “a local law enforcement officer equipped with some of the equipment we provide to detect radiological and nuclear material was wearing a device that detected abandoned material in a very unsafe location that could have caused tremendous harm to the people in the surrounding community.”

A DHS official referred further questions about details on the incident to Houston police.

The Countering Weapons of Mass Destruction office within DHS, created in 2018, had a five-year sunset clause and will shutter without reauthorization by Congress.

The Biden administration specifically lobbied key committees to save the DHS office and the jobs of roughly 230 employees plus 400 contractors. DHS officials want to see the office permanently funded. With a budget of $400 million a year, the staff works to detect chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear weapons.

The office works with 14 “high-risk” urban areas: New York City; Newark and Jersey City; Los Angeles and Long Beach; the Washington, D.C. area; Houston; Chicago; Atlanta; Miami; Denver; Phoenix; San Francisco; Seattle; Boston; and New Orleans.

GOP members of the House Freedom Caucus have blasted the DHS border policy under Mayorkas and have demanded the cuts as leverage for change.

Rep. Chip Roy, R-Texas, and 14 other Republicans signed on to a letter seeking no DHS funding until the changes: “No border security, no funding,” he wrote in a letter to colleagues.

Without approval, the office was set to shutter on Dec. 21. The current continuing resolution passed by Congress and signed by President Biden last week punts that deadline to February.

[the-story-forge]

⚠️Warning this story has extreme graphic adult content, viewer discretion is advised! ⚠

Chapter 1 - The Shadow

Suffocated streets, crowds of people, millions of them wandering, going about business as usual, the horrors lurking around every street corner posed a threat. Gangs of murderers, rapists, and drug dealers infected the alleyways of Midnight City. Among them, one man walked the alleyways briskly, he was late for a very important meeting. The man looked over his shoulder and then pounded his fist on the door. A slot in the door opened, and a dark pair of eyes peered in.

“Were you followed?” the set of eyes asked.

“No," replied the man taking a look over his shoulder once again.

A few notches unlatched and clicked as the door was unlocked and opened for him. When he thought the coast was clear he entered the soggy brick building as the door shut and re-latched behind him. He was indeed being followed. Being observed from a distance by the silent watcher of Midnight City, an individual who took it upon himself to clean scum like these Hedge sellers from the city once and for all.

The Sparrow kneeled on the building overlooking this alley, watching the door become locked once more. His lips grimaced, he pulled the hood over his head and the mask, cheaply sewn into the sides of the hood, over the bottom half of his face concealing who he was from the world. The skylight on the roof of the building glistened catching his sharp gaze, and he cocked the wrist hooks fastened to his forearms.

The Sparrow got up, one leg than the other he began to back away from the roof's ledge and took off jumping, his boots carried him to the edge and left its safety, tasting the breeze through his mask. The Sparrow began to fall towards the alleyway sidewalk. He aimed the wrist hook towards the top of the brick building and flicked his wrist shooting the grapple, hooking to the side of the building. He flicked his wrist, and the cable began to retract, pulling him towards the roof. Grabbing for the ledge he pulled himself over it flipping onto the roof. The cable unhooked from the building and retracted into the wrist hook, The Sparrow re-cocked the wrist hook moving to the skylight into the room down below five men, guns in hands and cigarettes in mouths, product out for anyone to see.

“Hedge sales are at an all-time low,” one of the men, looking to be in charge, broke the foreboding silence between them.

“It's hard to find customers when a man in a mask is beating the shit out of your customers," the other got up into his face, speaking in a cold annoyed tone.

“Your boss doesn't have the balls to inspect the outlet himself,” He closed his mouth, speaking almost in a whisper to the man in his face.

"Let me remind you that Calin Cassidy, runs 150 plus Hedge outlets across Midnight City, 500 plus in Diamond City, and 300 more in Jade City, do you really think the head of the most infamous crime family, in the world has time to inspect every fucking Hedge outlet under his control just to put dumb ass dealers like you in the ground?" He took out his pistol in held it up to the man's forehead pulling the trigger, painting the wall with blood. The body fell to the ground and leaked into the cement.

"That's why he hired the inspectors like me," the man put away the pistol smiling at the body.

The Sparrow reached inside his bag, removing several smoke pellets from inside. He opened the skylight and activated the pellets, dropping them down into the room below. A constant beep echoed; they exploded, encasing the room with the non-lethal smoke and creating controllable chaos to his advantage. The men shot their guns out of fear. He smiled behind his mask and put his bag on.

The Sparrow dropped below, grabbing the first man and holding his neck tightly in the crook of his elbow, until he was knocked out cold. Without missing a beat, The Sparrow did the same to the next. He moved through the smoke with a record pace grabbing his next victim, incapacitating him along with the others. Then the next, holding him between his arm and body until he felt the body stop struggling and fall limp to the ground. That left one, the one intentionally saved for last, the one he had spent hours tracking to this outlet, and the one he was going to interrogate.

“You have made a mistake coming here Sparrow,” The man drew a knife, attempting to lunge at The Sparrow, he turned and grabbed the extended forearm holding the knife. With minimal effort The Sparrow snapped his arm. Understandably, the man screamed with pain. The Sparrow grabbed him by the neck and threw him against the wall getting close to his face.

"The mistake was leading me to Calin Cassidy's drug outlet."

“I knew I was being followed,” the man admitted.

"Then why lead me to the outlet, wouldn't Cassidy be angry if he knew one of his dealers lead me to another Hedge outlet?"

“I don’t work for Cassidy," the man attempted a laugh, but The Sparrow tightened his grip suffocating him.

"Who do you work for?" The man said nothing to this, and The Sparrow grew frustrated taking hold of his other arm snapping it, and the man howled with pain once more.

"I’m sure you are aware I’m the type to not play games," The Sparrow gritted his teeth behind his mask.

"A shadow from your past," Spluttered the man with immense pain.

"Who!" Screamed The Sparrow slamming his fist right next the man's face.

"Left sleeve," the man looked down gesturing with his head for The Sparrow to roll it up.

The Sparrow gripped the arm and rolled up the sleeve. Curling around the arm was a tattoo of the "白龍" or White Dragon.

The Sparrow’s black makeup-stained eyes widened. He gritted his teeth and the man just smiled; The Sparrow let the pain in. He pounded his fist into the man's face over and over again, blood spouted from his nose and mouth and the man eventually fell limp. The Sparrow tossed him aside like the garbage he was.

Blood stained his boots and gloves, glistening from the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. The man's pained breaths bubbled and staggered, he fell over in a pool of his own blood.

The Sparrow took a breath to steady of himself and cocked the wrist hook leaving the outlet for the incapable police force of Midnight City. He had to wrap his around this, and maybe get some sleep.

Written by Phoenix Rose

Characters and Story Created by Phoenix Rose

A Story Forge Production

[silverloke]

Note to self: 13 bags of bedding pellets for horsie weighing 16 kg each is too much for me. It's convenient to buy several at once, especially when on sale, but omfggggg the neck/head pains i've had this weekend are unreal.

please future self; buy fewer. i know future self is gonna think it's ridiculous and buy more at once anyway, self never learns or i wouldn't have done it this time too after all those previous times, but please. think ahead a little. if i forget again; the pains were so bad i almost threw up. not. worth. it. (bring along a friend to load and unload all the bags for you)

horsie better appreciate his bedding

[allenbeyever]

The Historical Development of Chinese Incense Sticks

The history of Chinese incense sticks is long - standing, showing different characteristics in different historical periods.

During the Pre - Qin and Han Dynasties, Chinese incense culture began to gradually rise. Besides using natural aromatic plants for fumigation, people started to use incense powder. They ground spices into powder and burned it to release fragrance. Incense powder was mainly used in religious and sacrificial occasions.

The Tang Dynasty was a prosperous stage in the development of Chinese incense culture. During this period, various forms of incense products such as incense pastes and incense pellets gradually became more abundant. Incense paste is made by mixing spices and fats. Incense pellets are made by blending multiple spices and kneading them. People not only used incense for indoor fumigation but also widely used various types of incense in gatherings of refined scholars and literati and in activities of poetry creation.

The Song Dynasty was an important stage in the development of Chinese incense culture. Incense sticks gradually became popular. The initial production of incense sticks was relatively simple, mostly made by hand - rolling, and the shape was rather thick. At this time, in addition to being used for daily fumigation, incense sticks were also used for time - keeping in temples.

During the Yuan Dynasty, the application range of incense sticks was further expanded, and the incense - making craft also achieved certain development. With the continuous strengthening of ethnic integration and cultural exchanges, the production technology of incense sticks was also spread and improved.

The Ming Dynasty was the heyday of the development of incense sticks. Li Shizhen, a famous Chinese medical scientist, recorded in detail various methods of making incense sticks in the "Compendium of Materia Medica", which marked that the Chinese incense - stick - making craft had become quite mature. At this time, incense sticks had also become one of the common commodities in the market. We can see many sales scenes of incense sticks in some famous paintings of the Ming Dynasty.

During the Qing Dynasty, Chinese incense culture continued to develop. The use of incense in the imperial court was more refined and luxurious, and the production of supporting utensils such as incense burners, incense boxes, incense holders, and incense bottles was also more exquisite. Although there was no major breakthrough in the production process of incense sticks during this period, the ways and occasions of using incense sticks were more diversified. Incense sticks had been completely integrated into people's daily lives.

[xyhuaqiang]

“My dear Sir. We are Omani. We hope to build an organic fertilizer plant in Oman with an annual capacity of 20,000 tons. We have looked over your company profile carefully. It fully meets our requirements. It is informative and impressive. We have a complete technology-commercial proposal of 20,000 tons per year, approved by the relevant authorities in Oman, and we are really positive that we have enough land here to start a plant as early as possible."

Omani customers have shown great interest in obtaining more high-value information about the online product of complete organic fertilizers with an annual output of 20,000 tons. A 3-5 ton/hour production equipment with an annual production time of 6000 hours can fully meet this production demand. What Equipment Does the 3-5T/H Complete Organic Fertilizer Plant Exactly Include?

We know about organic raw materials, for example, animal manure, soybean waste, organic municipal waste, agricultural waste, food waste, etc. We serve different customers in different regions. What we can ascertain, however, is that the technological processes of organic fertilizers remain consistent in nature and differ in secondary aspects. This 20,000 ton/year fertilizer production plant includes: 1. Windrow Compost Turning Machine

Windrow Compost Turning Machine are used to control and mix materials to maintain proper moisture and aeration conditions.

Working process: The organic material is laid into strips, and the organic material is above the compost stacking machine. If your material is mostly animal manure, pay attention to the C/N ratio, add green waste, balance the ratio at 30:1 or 25:1, and regularly (2-3 times a day) flip the organic material. Frequent rollover will help speed up the composting process.

2. Horizontal Ribbon Mixer

Two sets of Horizontal Ribbon Mixer were installed in the production workshop to provide even mixing. As we all know, almost any organic material is suitable for composting, and a compost pile requires a suitable ratio of carbon-rich to nitrogen-rich materials. That is, organic materials used for composting should include a mixture of brown organic materials (dead leaves, branches, manure, etc., providing carbon) and green organic materials (lawn mowing, fruit peels, etc., providing nitrogen). Therefore, horizontal mixer becomes inevitable. It can also be used to mix fertilizer components in inorganic fertilizer production. 3. Organic fertilizer granulator

In this organic fertilizer production plant, compost is converted to a more useful form by granulation. The organic fertilizer particles pelleted by wet granulator (Rotary Drum Granulator) are spherical and suitable for commercial use. Adopt the latest humanized mechanical design, energy saving and consumption reduction, easy to operate. To achieve material granulation process in a reasonable and thorough way. The whole production process is smooth, simple and environmentally friendly.

4. Rotary Dryer Machine

Rotary Dryer Machine are used to reduce the moisture content of particles and improve their stability for storage and transportation.

5. After the organic fertilizer is dried, the particles are quickly cooled to room temperature by using a Rotary Cooler Machine at a high temperature of 70.80 ° C. 3-5T/H complete fertilizer production line, installed behind the dryer, can be continuously produced.

6. Rotary Screening Machine

The line is equipped with a well-performing roller screen machine to obtain the organic fertilizer particles of the desired size and to remove the product particle size. The large fertilizer is re-crushed by the chain grinder and recycled into pelleting together with the small size organic fertilizer, and the organic fertilizer with uniform particles will be further transported to the pellet fertilizer packing machine (including single scale, double scale, ton package, etc.) for bulk bagging and sale.

Why do we Recommend you Choose this 3-5T/H Organic Fertilizer Production Line?

From raw material crushing, composting, mixing, granulation, drying, cooling, screening, packaging and all the necessary processing equipment to form a complete production line. All fertilizer equipment is placed/installed in the proper location and in the correct operation sequence to maintain continuous, efficient production.

The company is a medium-sized production plant with an annual output of 20,000 tons, which can fully meet investors' demand for small and medium-sized organic fertilizer production. In addition, we provide not only fertilizer production equipment, but also detailed local market analysis and the best advice on how to start a fertilizer business.

All details, such as work videos, photos of factory layout, machine prices, plant costs, and project reports, are well packaged. They can be delivered immediately and directly to your email address.

The demand for organic materials is low in production plants. It can handle organic fertilizer, municipal solid waste, food waste, biogas residue, bagasse, coffee grounds, leaves, vegetable waste, corn husk, household waste, agricultural waste, slaughterhouse waste, etc.