#books instead of silicone

[photo-art-lady]

An Intelligent Woman Spends Her Money On Books And Art Instead Of Silicone

[kyosaya-brainrot]

watched the annihilation movie right after reading the book, damn that shit was mid

[thehmn]

I’m currently listening to Maren Uthaug’s book 11% about a world where most men have died. I should probably wait until I’ve finished the book but I’m so fascinated by the world building.

As of now it’s still unclear why the men died but when the story takes place there’s a mix of older women who fucking hates men and young women who have only met drugged up men at “breeding centers” and imagine “males” as violent boogeymen but otherwise don’t really care and just want to live in the new seemingly perfect society their grandmothers fought for. The only people who still fight for men’s rights are witches who believe masculine energies are as natural and Of Nature as feminine energies, but even they sound more like animal rights activists, standing outside breeding centers with signs every Friday. Their most provocative sign is a picture of a man with Human written on it.

Christianity has been completely transformed and is now run by priests (they don’t call themselves priestess) who can only hold ceremonies when they have their periods and snakes are their most sacred symbol because they gave knowledge to Eva and God is called The Mother.

Trans men exist but are referred to as Man Women and they all seem to be sex workers who have functional silicone penises, though I’m not far enough into the story to know if they have other jobs. They generally also still have breasts because working as a wet nurse is another source of income for them. Testosterone treatments is not an option because it would make them too masculine and dangerous to be allowed into society but they all have male names and everyone use male pronouns for them.

A really fascinating aspect of the world is how people want to get rid of the old “patriarchal architecture” of straight lines and boxes but refuse to tear it down with machines, instead insisting on letting Mother Nature reclaim it. Only Rat Girls are actively trying to destroy the old buildings by releasing hoards of rats into them and planting bamboo to break up the concrete. New buildings have round shapes and are build in ways that make them blend in with cultivated nature and inside they’re painting in beautiful colors with no hard edges. They sound a lot like colorful hobbit homes. Also, locks are considered uncivilized and of a time when violent men roamed the earth and made life unsafe so nothing, from front doors to bathrooms, have locks. For a while after most men died women would go for Night Walks to relish in the fact that they no longer had to be afraid, though they liked to visit the witches at night because it felt a little spooky, which the witches thought was good fun.

The story is naturally about a middle aged witch who is hiding a young boy illegally and gets milk from one of the trans men in the red district while also sleeping with a Christian priest who struggles with her sacred job because her periods are irregular.

I’ll come back with follow up thoughts once I’ve finished it. Unlike what you might think, Maren Uthau isn’t a scary man hater. I’ve listened to most of her other books and this isn’t a recurring trope so clearly she has something to say specifically with this story and it’s rated pretty highly by both male and female readers. I think I’m in for quite the ride.

[cloudcountry]

Could I request Jamil / Trey / anyone else you want having a cooking / baking session with the reader? Tysm!! (Reader doesn't have to know how to cook, its up to you if you want them to be teaching the reader to cook too)

SUMMARY: trey teases you a bit too much while making a new strawberry dessert for riddle. jamil is comfortable enough with you to be himself.

COMMENTS: this takes place post book four because that makes the most sense ehehe

It’s hard to focus on cutting the strawberries into just the right size pieces when your loving boyfriend is breathing down your neck. You know damn well he’s doing it on purpose, too.

It’s not hard to figure out his game, even though he’s not doing anything too intense yet because you’re currently holding a knife. You know he’ll inevitably ramp it up, and you’ll be caught up in the tornado that is Trey Clover in a Mischievous Mood.

With his expertise, it isn’t long before the strawberry cookies are in the oven—nor is it long until Trey asks you to taste test the frosting. As if anything he makes could be less than delicious!

Still, you eat it right off the silicone scraper he offers you, the red speckles pink frosting pleasing your taste buds and your eyes. You tell him as such and he makes a soft comment of “oh, like you!” which earns him an (affectionate) withering glare.

When the cookies are done, he feeds you a few. Not too much, since he doesn’t want you to get cavities, but enough to make you happy. He made extras just for you—he always does.

Cooking with Jamil would hardly be relaxing at this point, especially after everything that’s happened with Kalim. So instead, when the winter holiday rolls around for the second time, you invite him over to decorate gingerbread houses.

You two make the gingerbread together in the comfort(?) of Ramshackle’s kitchen. You consider it a win when you don’t see any bugs and Jamil doesn’t freak out, but maybe he’s too focused on baking to care.

There’s a moment when decorating where you wonder if he’s actually relaxed. So, you do what a good partner would do, and you throw a gumdrop at him. It bounces off his forehead and lands on the table.

He looks up at you slowly, reaching into his bag and pulling out his own gumdrop. You dramatically plead for him to reconsider but he cruelly denies your plea, tossing a gumdrop at your own head.

You shriek as it hits you right between the eyes, nearly falling back in your chair. Jamil has a smug smirk on his face as he resumes decorating, and you decide you’re going to eat part of his house as payback.

[sleepinthrumyalarms]

— old dog, new tricks

pairing: wednesday addams x fem!werewolf!reader

warnings: smut, lesbian sex, slight petplay, deragadation, topping from the bottom, strapon referred to as cock, wednesday is STILL a sadist, all characters are aged-up

summary: the control wednesday has over you is frustrating. you're put back in your place the second you try to rebel

word count: 2.5k

“So yeah, since the Furs are gonna be the ones hosting the party, every wolf gets to bring a plus one. There’d be enough of us as it is, we should keep it low. The last time they held a gathering, it ended up... badly,” Enid refrains from going into details, which most likely involved a lot of destroyed furniture and saliva, clearing her throat as she slurps on her orange juice, leaning forward in her seat to gauge your reaction, “It’s free alcohol though! Courtesy of the Scales, so we have to let them in, too.”

Wednesday is sitting next to you, her hands clasped together on her knees, the plate in front of her already clean by the end of the lunch break. Her face is unreadable – but you grin, the thought of having drinks in a nice company of fellow werewolves providing a surge of enthusiasm to finish the school day.

“Sure– “

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to join you, Enid. (Y/n) and I have business for tonight.”

The toothpick you clench in your mouth almost snaps in half.

Enid raises an eyebrow, looking between the two of you, but nods, seeming to take Wednesday’s words as final. It vexes you even further.

The ravenette doesn’t let you say another word. She dabs at her lips with a tissue, caringly grabs both of your trays and walks off. The werewolf’s sky-blue eyes meet yours – she looks like she wants to say something, but the irk in your gaze serves as a good enough warning, and she keeps her mouth shut.

A sigh mixed with an exasperated groan leaves your mouth, and you get up to follow your girlfriend, now staring holes into the back of her head instead.

Recess is over, and with it goes your faux relaxed attitude – you sit with your arms crossed, your knee jumping in an annoyed tick as you stare unblinking at your biology book, almost burning through the paper with your glare. Ajax, who’s unfortunate enough to have to share a desk with you, cowers at the angry aura you induce, the snakes of his hair peeking from under his beanie cautiously.

When your last period ends, you pack your bag hastily and throw it over your shoulder before all but storming out of the class. As you walk through the corridor, you notice Xavier out of the corner of your eye, the brunet artist falling in step with you. When he absentmindedly asks if you’re coming to the party tonight, it takes you all of your willpower not to punch him in the jaw.

The door is slammed behind you as you enter your dorm, your nostrils flaring.

You’re mad. And now that the party is totally out of the question, you need a different way to let out steam.

You don’t waste your time undressing yourself, opting to change for something easy to dispose of and claw into, before you reach for the nightstand, opening the bottom drawer.

The toy inside holds a lot of rather pleasant memories – of Wednesday bending you over the balcony railing, of her driving her hips into you as you all but begged her to fuck you right on the floor of your dorm.

Well. Werewolf heats are known for their feverous intensity. Howling isn’t the only reason one should wear muffled headphones with wolves around.

You grab the silicone toy, quickly tightening the straps around your waist, which surprisingly comes rather natural and makes you wonder why the hell you haven’t thought of doing this before, then tug on a pair of grey sweatpants over the strap-on, glancing at the clock – you still have a few minutes before Wednesday comes back.

You give yourself a once-over in the mirror. The shirt’s neckline is hanging just above your breasts, exposing your collarbones, your hair is disheveled with all the exasperated running your fingers through it you’ve been doing, and the outline of the silicone cock is pretty much visible through your pants. Exactly what you were going for.

The faint sound of footsteps reaches your sensitive ears, and it’s a pattern you recognize easily by now – you step away from the mirror to sit back on the bed just in time with the door creaking open.

“Business?” You mutter instead of a greeting. “I didn’t know we had plans.”

Wednesday freezes in the doorway, eyeing you. Her gaze drops to your pants, and a small, barely noticeable smirk makes its way to her pretty plump lips before its gone like it was a mirage.

“Why, don’t you just sound so eager to spend time with your significant other,” the ravenette deadpans sarcastically, walking over to her desk to abandon her backpack there, her lithe fingers working to undo the buttons of her uniform blazer – slowly, deliberately, the same way she drags her words out as she speaks, completely unbothered, “Would you really rather prefer a... frat party with a bunch of uncivilized mutts?”

She turns to look at you, misty eyes shining with a challenging glint.

“Addictions run in the family. Along with my last name I happen to bear a habit of drinking my stress away,” the mattress creaks in protest as you get up, step closer to Wednesday so that you’re towering over her smaller frame, “That, and valuing my freedom and independency.”

Wednesday doesn’t look intimidated in the least. She looks up at you, her eyebrows raised slightly, “But I can’t really help it. You’ve always been like this – so pliant and submissive,” the girl takes her blazer off, draping it over the back of her chair, never breaking eye contact with you, “It’s just so... entertaining to order you around sometimes, knowing you’d follow every single one of my commands.”

You grit your teeth at her words, partially from irritation, partially because they’re true – Wednesday has had you wrapped around her finger from the first day you met her, and it was a given you’d be so smitten to submit to her every whim. The ravenette’s influence on you is omnipotent.

And now, you’re not sure where it’s coming from, but there’s hot, rebellious fire burning in your chest, and the young woman in front of you is the spark responsible.

“I’m not a dog.”

“Oh? Is my perception wrong, then?”

Wednesday steps closer, her chin raised slightly, and before you know it you’re backing down to your shared bed, the backs of your knees hitting the wooden frame.

“Am I wrong? You’re not my pet, then?” She asks again, “Can you prove it? Can you make me shut up and take it?”

Suddenly you remember what your original plan was supposed to be. You mentally facepalm yourself – Wednesday’s been in the room for less than five minutes, yet you already feel the remains of your pride and resolve crumbling apart and proving her right.

Frustrated, your grasp at her hips, your talons coming out at your exasperation, tearing into her skirt, and turn the small girl around, pressing your mouth to hers hotly.

In a few moments you’re a mess of tangled limbs on the bed, Wednesday’s hands sliding towards the waistband of your pants to slide them down, the cool silicone of the toy pressing against her clothed cunt.

You pull back slightly, hovering over her, your claws catching at the lace of her panties, and it takes you a minute to tear them away – your hands are practically shaking with anger and anticipation. You don’t bother with the skirt, flipping it away for easy access, and Wednesday parts her thighs gently, your gaze subconsciously trailing down to the supple pale skin of her lower body.

Jesus, you want to bruise it so badly.

But no. Not now.

Focus. Focus.

Your hands grab ahold of the plushy flesh, fingers digging in as you part her legs even further, and Wednesday lets out a small sound at the aggressiveness. You’d grin at the small victory of yours, but it’s not really worthy yet – her expression is still unfazed, and you know you’ll have to try harder than that.

Or maybe not, you think as you suppress a chuckle at how positively drenched Wednesday is – of course, you could smell it before you could see the pretty wetness covering the inside of her thighs, and you’re damn sure she knows it, too, judging by the way her jaw tightens before she speaks.

“Do not gloat, dog. That is not your doing.”

Okay, that. That actually makes an angry vein pop on your forehead, the thought of someone else getting Wednesday hot and bothered and gorgeously dripping like this is akin to bothering a hungry animal during its meal.

You align yourself with the beautifully dripping cunt of the small ravenette, pressing your palms into her thighs to keep her still – fuck it, you have to bruise her – and push the tip against the feverish skin, sinking in slowly. You watch her walls wrap around the toy deliciously, the sight almost making you forget the reason for your fury, and an involuntary sigh escapes your mouth as you’re halfway to being sheathed inside Wednesday – the girl herself is silent, except for the wet sound of her pretty pussy taking your fake cock in. You look up to see her watching you with half-lidded eyes. She looks bored.

Her smirk is almost as taunting as her words.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

An irritated huff escapes your nose, fingers digging deeper into her, and in a single sharp thrust you bottom out, your legs pressing flush against the back of her hips.

Wednesday sighs, finally, eyes fluttering shut as all the air is pushed out of her lungs. You wrap your hands around the bottom of her thighs to pull her in as close as possible, and this time you actually grin as the ravenette has to bite back another choked noise, hanging her head back on the pillow and taking a deep inhale.

Then she opens her eyes, meeting yours again. Irritation paints her face at your smug expression.

“Are you getting cocky now, (Y/n)? It was but a mediocre start,” she tuts. “I thought you were going to show me how good you can make me take it. How strong you are.”

Her manicured hand caresses up your bicep, scratching idly.

“Alas, the only thing that’s giving me pleasure right now is telling you you’re not good enough.”

All the thoughts of being gentle and sweet with Wednesday are slapped out of your mind as soon as her words register in your already pussy-drunk brain. With a nearly animalistic snarl you pull out so that the head is barely visible before driving back in, the silicone sinking between her lips, disappearing in a red-hot embrace as you immediately fall into a swift rhythm. Your abdominal muscles contract violently, screaming at you that the pace is too much. Too fast. Too hard.

But you don’t care. You want Wednesday to scream those things.

The ravenette stretches one of her long shapely legs to rest it on your shoulder, the angle pulling you deeper into her with each thrust. You grunt, turn your face to nibble at her ankle through the stocking, making Wednesday shudder.

“You look... angry.” She observes, her words a bit broken, breath stolen by your merciless pounding into her. “Are you angry with me, puppy?”

You growl in response. Her palms reach to cup your face, a condescending smile on her lips.

“For teasing you? Oh, don’t be angry. It is simply the natural way of things. Whatever you do, you will always belong underneath me. Taking me like a good girl. Pretty puppy always wants to be my good girl, doesn’t she?”

You whine, and Wednesday chuckles, satisfied that her words are causing the effect she desired – you melt despite the fact that you’re the one fucking her into the bed, ruining the mattress with how much of her slick is dripping down between your bodies.

“You’re so lucky that I’m letting you do this,” her voice is breathy, and your attention snaps to the way is sounds rather than the words she speaks, “Look at me and say it— Don’t you dare scowl at me.”

Wednesday scolds your bared canines and your furrowed eyebrows, the hold of her palms turning rough on your chin.

“Say thank you. For my letting you be in my cunt right now.”

Her tone sends an array of shivers down your spine – you feel reminded of where your place is supposed to be. It takes some time for you to finally find your voice, your mouth slightly open as you still your hips for a moment, cock buried in Wednesday’s soft heat.

She watches you expectantly. You lean down to press your nose into her shoulder.

“Th... thank you...” You murmur into her neck shakily, hiding your face in embarrassment.

You’ve lost.

The ravenette hums, wraps her legs around you, a gesture of pity and generosity on her part – she knows how much you love it when she does that, the balls of her stocking-clad feet pressing into your back.

“You’re welcome, puppy. Now get back to work.”

Your pace turns slow, meaningful, and Wednesday seems content with the change, her back arching at a particularly strong and deep thrust of your hips, pretty mouth falling open with a breathy sigh, “Oh, mia grande forte cucciola… Trying so hard to make me feel good…”

Her walls flutter around the shaft, her heavy breathing mixing with the obscene sounds of your skin slapping hers.

“Should I cum on you? Should I let you have it just this once?”

At that you perk up, and if you were wolfed out at that moment, you’re pretty sure your tail would be wagging like crazy as you whine a few pathetic ‘please, please’ into her neck.

“I will. I will, amore. But not because of you fucking me so good… Just because I pity you.”

Wednesday brings you closer to her, your chest flush against hers as she tilts her head back, her pussy turning impossibly tight around your cock, a choked moan leaving her burgundy lips, right into your ear, making goosebumps trickle up your neck. You fuck her through her orgasm obediently, wishing you could feel her throbbing around you.

When Wednesday’s hold on you relaxes, your jaw goes slack around her shoulder, her ruined uniform the last thing on your mind as you try to catch your breath.

She sighs with content, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone.

“Good dog.”

There’s no strength left in you to fight the title, so you accept your defeat, leaning most of your body weight onto the small girl and muttering something unintelligible.

“Pull out.” She orders, and you comply, watching as her slick drips down the toy, before the ravenette pushes you back onto the bed, her thighs bracketing your hips. Her warmth against you makes you shudder.

“Now,” her hands reach for the straps, undoing them with masterful precision, “I’m going to reclaim what’s mine.”

The toy is tugged down your legs, and Wednesday licks her lips.

“I hope the ache you’ll feel with every step you take tomorrow reminds you of who you belong to, puppy.”

[mad-scientist-enthusiast]

Real Rashid thought Daniel Molloy's book would be his big break. Once a well-respected agent of the Talamasca with a window office in the London HQ, Rashid felt that he had been demoted in a way by having to play butler in Dubai for the past 5 years. He really thought he could crack this Armand guy by appealing to his upbringing in the Islamic faith, however he severely underestimated just how long it had been since the subject was last human. Armand was alien to him; a creature he couldn't begin to understand. But still, Rashid tried his best to do so, eventually working his way up the penthouse staff until he became the personal assistant of the undead couple. He expected a breakthrough— maybe a promotion in the Talamasca, or a raise in his pay from the vampires—but none came. Instead he suffered through ushering purchased victims to their inhuman executioner, setting the table for a meal of freshly sedated rabbit, and sanitizing the bedroom after some particularly messy BDSM activities. Rashid quickly learned that all the blood he had to clean was actually his employers' ejaculate, which caused him to take a massive hit of psychic damage each time he rinsed it off of one of their silicone sex toys. All this is to say, Rashid really thought Daniel would be his ticket out. The man was an expert at pissing these vampires off; he knew just where to strike his blows, what questions to ask, what faults to uncover. Rashid knew this would end with a bang, however this was not the kind of bang he anticipated. Rashid had no problem with gay people; he hung out with a few queers in his time at Oxford. But there's a difference between being gay, and impersonating your staff member for a BDSM roleplay thing with your husband to psychosexually manipulate an old man. He thought the explosive divorce would be the end of these antics, but that was foolish of Rashid. As he walked to the bedroom door, iPad in hand, hoping to catch the vampire Armand in a moment of solace so that the two of them could finalize his divorce settlement with Louis de Pointe du Lac, he heard the faint sound of movement inside. That should have been enough to put him off, but in his defense, he really didn't expect to open the door and see his employer spreading a pair of 69 year old asscheeks and promptly sticking his tongue inside. Daniel Molloy, his one saving grace, was handcuffed to the bars behind the bed and decidedly very naked. His whole body was flushed and blood dripped from his neck and other places where Armand had undoubtedly bit him. It was then that Daniel Molloy looked over at him, and Rashid felt his blood run cold. All his hopes and dreams of getting out of this job flew out the window. He could see it already; Armand taking him with when he moves out of the penthouse, and he'd be playing butler for another 5 years—this time in America where Armand has moved in with Daniel Molloy. Rashid had witnessed more than his fair share of vampire genitals in his time with Armand and Louis, and he did NOT want to see any more wrinkled old man dick!! And so it was then that Real Rashid finally decided to quit his job. The Talamasca did not have good enough healthcare benefits to make up for the psychological damage he would have from staying under Armand's employment.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Kickstarting the Red Team Blues audiobook, which Amazon won't sell (read by Wil Wheaton!)

Red Team Blues is my next novel, a post-cyberpunk anti-finance finance thriller; it’s a major title for my publishers Tor Books and Head of Zeus, and it’s swept the trade press with starred reviews all ‘round. Despite all that, Audible will not sell the audiobook. In fact, Audible won’t sell any of my audiobooks. Instead, I have to independently produce them and sell them through Kickstarter:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-another-audiobook-that-amazon-wont-sell

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/21/anti-finance-finance-thriller/#marty-hench

Audible is Amazon’s monopoly audiobook platform. It has a death-grip on the audiobook market, commanding more than 90% of genre audiobook sales, and every single one of those audiobooks is sold with Amazon’s DRM on it. That means that you can’t break up with Amazon without throwing away those audiobooks. Under the 1998 Digital Millennium Copyright Act, I can’t give you a tool to convert my own copyrighted audiobooks to a non-Amazon format. Doing so is a felony carrying a five year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine for an act that in no way infringes anyone’s copyright! Indeed, merely infringing copyright is much less illegal than removing Amazon’s mandatory DRM from my own books!

I’ve got amazing publishers who support my crusade against DRM, but they’re not charities. If they can’t sell my audiobooks on the platform that represents 90% of the market, they’re not going to make audio editions at all. Instead, I make my own audiobooks, using brilliant voice actors like Amber Benson and @neil-gaiman​, and I sell them everywhere except Audible.

Doing this isn’t cheap: I’m paying for an incredible studio (Skyboat Media), a world-class director (Gabrielle de Cuir), top-notch sound editing and mastering, and, of course, killer narrators. And while indie audiobook platforms like Libro.fm and downpour.com are amazing, the brutal fees extracted by Apple and Google on app sales means that users have to jump through a thousand hoops to shop with indie stores. Most audiobook listeners don’t even know that these stores exist: if a title isn’t available on Audible, they assume no audiobook exists.

That’s where Kickstarter comes in: twice now, I’ve crowdfunded presales of my audiobooks through KS, and these campaigns were astoundingly successful, smashing records and selling thousands of audiobooks. These campaigns didn’t just pay my bills (especially during lockdown, when our household income plunged), but they also showed other authors that it was possible to evade Amazon’s monopoly chokepoint and sell books that aren’t sticky-traps for Audible’s walled garden/prison:

https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/columns-and-blogs/cory-doctorow/article/90282-we-wrote-a-book-about-why-audible-won-t-sell-our-book-and-snuck-it-onto-audible.html

And today, I’m launching the Kickstarter for Red Team Blues, and even by the standards of my previous efforts, I think this one’s gonna be incredible.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-another-audiobook-that-amazon-wont-sell

For starters, there’s the narrator: @wilwheaton​, whose work on my previous books is outstanding, hands-down my favorite (don’t tell my other narrators! They’re great too!):

https://wilwheaton.net/

Beyond Wil’s narration, there’s the subject matter. The hero of Red Team Blues is a hard-charging forensic accountant who’s untangled every Silicon Valley finance scam since he fell in love with spreadsheets as as a MIT freshman, dropped out, got his CPA ticket, and moved west. Now, at the age of 67, Marty Hench is ready to retire, but a dear old friend — a legendary cryptographer — drags him back for one last job — locating the stolen keys to the backdoor he foolishly hid in a cryptocurrency that’s worth more than a billion dollars.

That’s the starting gun for a “grabby next-Tuesday thriller” that sees Marty in between three-letter agencies and international crime syndicates, all of whom view digital technology as a carrier medium for scams, violence and predation. Marty’s final adventure involves dodgy banks, crooked crypto, and complicit officials in a fallen paradise where computers’ libertory promise has been sucked dry by billionaire vampires.

It’s a pretty contemporary story, in other words.

I wrote this one before SVB, before Sam Bankman0Fried and FTX — just like I wrote Little Brother before Snowden’s revelations. It’s not that I’m prescient — fortune-telling is a fatalist’s delusion — it’s that these phenomena are just the most spectacular, most recent examples in a long string of ghastly and increasingly dire scandals.

Red Team Blues blasted out of my fingertips in six weeks flat, during lockdown, when technology was simultaneously a lifeline, connecting us to one another during our enforced isolation; and a tool of predatory control, as bossware turned our “work from home” into “live at work.”

The last time I wrote a book that quickly, it was Little Brother, and, as with Little Brother, Red Team Blues is a way of working out my own anxieties and hopes for technology on the page, in story.

These books tap into a nerve. I knew I had something special in my hands when, the night after I finished the first draft, I rolled over at 2AM to find my wife sitting up in bed, reading.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I had to find out how it ended,” she answered.

The next day, my editor sent me a four-line email:

That. Was. A! Fucking! Ride! Whoa!

Within a week, he’d bought Red Team Blues…and two sequels. I finished writing the second of these on Monday, and all three are coming out in the next 22 months. It’s gonna be a wild ride.

Kickstarter backers can get the usual goodies: DRM-free audiobooks and ebooks, hardcovers (including signed and personalized copies), and three very special, very limited-run goodies.

First, there’s naming rights for characters in the sequels — I’m selling three of these; they’re a form of cheap (or at least, reasonably priced) literary immortality for you or a loved one. The sequels are a lot of fun — they go in reverse chronology, and the next one is The Bezzle, out in Feb 2024, a book about prison-tech scams, crooked LA County Sheriff’s Deputy gangs, and real-estate scumbags turned techbros.

The third book is Picks and Shovels (Jan 2025), and it’s Marty’s first adventure after he comes west to San Francisco and ends up working for the bad guys, an affinity scam PC company called “Three Wise Men” that’s run by a Mormon bishop, a Catholic priest and an orthodox rabbi who fleece their faithful with proprietary, underpowered computers and peripherals, and front for some very bad, very violent money-men.

Next, there’s three Marty Hench short story commissions: the Hench stories are machines for turning opaque finance scams into technothrillers. While finance bros use MEGO (“my eyes glaze over”) as a weapon to bore their marks into submission, I use the same performative complexity as the engines of taut detective stories. Commissioning a Hench story lets you turn your favorite MEGO scam into a science fiction story, which I’ll then shop to fiction websites (every story I’ve written for the past 20 years has sold, though in the event that one of these doesn’t, I’ll put it up under a CC license).

Finally, there’s a super-ultra-limited deluxe hardcover edition — and I do mean limited, just four copies! These leather-bound editions have Will Staehle’s fantastic graphic motif embossed in their covers, and the type design legend John D Berry is laying out the pages so that there’s space for a hidden cavity. Nestled in that cavity is a hand-bound early draft edition of The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues. The binding is being done by the fantastic book-artist John DeMerritt. Each copy’s endpapers will feature a custom cryptographic puzzle created especially for it by the cryptographer Bruce Schneier.

I often hear from readers who want to thank me for the work I do, from the free podcast I’ve put out since 2006 to the free, CC BY columns I’ve written for Pluralistic for the past three years. There is no better way to thank me than to back this Kickstarter and encourage your friends to do the same:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/red-team-blues-another-audiobook-that-amazon-wont-sell

Preselling a ton of audiobooks, ebooks, and print books is a huge boost to the book on its launch — incomparable, really. Invaluable.

What’s more, helping me find a viable way to produce popular, widely heard audiobooks without submitting to Amazon’s DRM lock-in sets an example for other creators and publishers: we have a hell of a collective action problem to solve, but if we could coordinate a response to Audible demanding the right to decide whether our work should have their DRM, it would force Audible to treat all of us — creators, publishers and listeners — more fairly.

I’ll be heading out on tour to the US, Canada, the UK and Germany once the book is out. I’m really looking forward to as many backers in person as I can! Thank you for your support over these many long years — and for your support on this Kickstarter.

Today (Mar 22), I’m doing a remote talk for the Institute for the Future’s “Changing the Register” series.

[Image ID: A graphic showing a phone playing the Red Team Blues audiobok, along with a quote from Booklist, 'Jam-packed with cutting-edge ideas about cybersecurity and crypto. Another winner from an sf wizard.']

[ohlawdthebirds]

Date Night

Platonic!141 x reader

Synopsis: You and Gaz discover Soap's date night present for Ghost.

A/n: And if you find yourself asking why Soap left Ghost’s gift in the bathroom…let’s just say he was making sure it worked properly.

Daily Click for Palestine

Banner credits to @cafekitsune

There were several pros and cons that came with sharing a flat with four other members of the armed forces. Among the various pros were having basically four live-in guard dogs that kept you safe. Among the various cons however…well…erm…

-

Gaz gently called your name from where he stood in your doorway. You slid your headphones from your ears and looked at him expectantly. You noted his sheepish, almost embarrassed look and the way he refused to meet your eyes. You asked if he was alright but instead of answering, he lobbed a question your way.

“Did you…” Gaz cleared his throat and began again, “I believe you’ve left something in the bathroom.”

Confusion was clear on your face. You were certain you hadn’t left anything in the main bathroom, save for your towel and washrag. Nevertheless, you got up and followed him. The moment you stepped into the bathroom your eyes immediately latched onto what had given Gaz such a fright.

“Good God almighty,” you coughed out. “T-that’s not mine! I don’t even think I could even fit something like��that in me.”

“That” in question was an absolute behemoth of a dildo, violently red and violently large. Nine inches in length and an inch and a quarter in girth. Huge silicone balls and all. It sat, almost menacingly, atop the toilet lid. There was something unnerving about it, in the way the sheer weight of its head caused the dildo to bow forward.

“Kyle…Kyle, I didn’t know they made dildos this big. Dude, who is shoving this in them?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’! Nearly screamed when I saw this. Was just tryin’ to take a shower and was greeted by this hunk of silicone.”

You stepped back to cower next to Gaz in the doorway. “This is spooky. That means there’s someone in this house that not only purchased it but is able to handle it.”

Gaz pressed in closer to you. “What kind of freak would do that?” he mused.

You wracked your brain for answers. “Well, I don’t think Price is the type to be a size queen. I feel like his toys would be a bit more modest.”

Gaz nodded. “And Ghost just doesn’t strike me as the type to leave his stuff about. So, that leaves only one person.”

“’Scuse me, gonnae need th’ twa of ye to move,” a voice said from behind you. In a flash, you and Gaz whipped around to make eye contact with Soap. He was unperturbed, shouldering past the two of you to get into the bathroom. He made a noise of satisfaction upon seeing the monstrous dildo. In one fluid move, he yanked it off the toilet lid, the suction cup underneath letting out a loud POP as it unstuck itself. Soap whistled a tune as he rooted around in the cupboards. He emerged holding a bottle of lube. He continued whistling as he waltzed past you and Gaz once more. Before he fully left your lines of sight, he turned back around, a devilish glint in his eyes.

“By th’ way, Ah suggest ye twa git good headphones fer th’ night. It’s Simon n’ Ah’s date night. N’ this,” Johnny held up the monstrous dildo, “Is his gift.”

Needless to say, you camped out in Gaz’s room that night, as it was the farthest from Soap and Ghost’s shared room. The two of you kept your headphones on tight and your music cranked up. Price, upon receiving the memo that his subordinates were dancing the devil’s tango, booked a room at a nearby hotel and was not seen until you gave him the all-clear via text the next day.

[dronebiscuitbat]

"Rage" - a Tera Doorman Character Study

Hi! It's 2am and here I am dumping some Tera lore on your lap. Is it sad? Yes. Does it flesh out the character more? Hell Yes. Is it pleasant to read? No. This is very much not fun- Tera is dealing with a lot here, it's heavy. You have been warned.

Tera was strong, she was fast, she could outfly a Sky Snatcher and go toe to toe with her Aunt V in a sparring match if she so chose. She could take out the biggest predators on the planet without breaking a synthetic sweat.

So why the fuck was her core trying to beat out of her chest when she was face to face with some nobody who smacked her in the back of the head as she was getting stuff out of her locker.

“What? You gonna bite me freak?” The drone was faceless- unimportant, but the words cracked like a whip regardless.

“Fuck off!” She snarled back, hand balling into a fist as her internal temperature skyrocketed, her teeth bared, tail coiled like a snake about to strike.

She knew the person didn't actually believe she'd bite them- or even hurt them. If they did they would leave her the hell alone. No, they knew she couldn't touch them;wouldn't allow herself to.

“Naw… look how angry you are, come on! Punch me! You know you wanna!” They egged her on, the grip on her own fist tighted to the point her own tiny claws were slicing into silicone flesh, her own oil pooling into her hands and down her fingers.

The rage built higher, the solver symbol beginning to dance wildly in place of one of her eyelights, but she couldn't, she'd kill them, she didn't want to kill them, but they needed to shut up!

“Leave me alone!” Why didn't they get that it wasn't a threat. But a warning? A desperate plea to get away before she exploded?

“Coward! You talk so much shit for someone‐”

It snapped.

Her fist was suddenly three meat hooks, slashing forward without any sort of control; the kid barely ducked out of the way in time as her claws sunk so deep into a locker she could feel the contents inside.

Her tail lashed out without warning nor care when her initial attack missed- striking without input from it's host and barely missing another drone that had crowded around her.

Her breath came out in pants, core pounding like she was facing down the most terrifying thing imaginable.

The faceless drone and the crowd they'd drawn in scattered in fear, screaming like this was somehow unexpected. Like they hadn't been rattling the cage for the better part of Tera's lifetime.

She just stood there for a moment, catching her breath, body trembling as she tried to regain control, instead of pulling her hand out of the locker, she leaned against it, the other, non-clawed hand coming to rest on the part of it that didn't have a massive gash in it.

She sighed, before screaming and punching the shit out of it with her free hand until it was unrecognizable and her fist was banged up and covered in a thin veneer of her own oil.

This anger was directed at herself.

She yanked her hand out of the locker, ripping the door off and slinging it into the wall behind her with a gigantic bang, sending the contents flying out; paper, books, hopefully nothing of personal value…

She didn't look back at the mess she'd made, throwing open the front doors of the school and immediately flying off away from town, breath shaky and body trembling like a volcano in an earthquake.

The second she was a safe distance, both hands turned to claws, an ‘><’ covered her visor and she attacked the nearest tree, swiping at it over and over and over again, tears somehow materializing even through the X on her visor.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!!” She cursed and howled and made unearthly cries as the base of the tree was mangled beyond even a shred of recognition. It was only when several of her claws broke off into the ancient tree that she hissed in pain and stopped, out of breath.

She fell backwards, sitting down. Looking at her own mangled hands, she almost smiled at the fact her claws had come off- until they slowly began to regenerate, nanites smoothing the broken edges and repairing them back to deadly sharp.

Her smile fell, and she fell backwards to lay on her back, breathing finally steadying out, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the blue grass below her, the breeze flowing through her hair and the smell of rain and moist earth filled her olfactory receptors.

After anger, came regret.

She put her sore hands over her visor now that they were back to normal and kept them there, continuing her forced deep breaths until they transformed into something else entirely.

A sob wrenched itself out of her throat, ugly and loud and quite the opposite of the strength she was known for, her gut unraveling into gasps between heavy- frame rattling sobs.

She'd done it again.

She'd lost control again.

It didn't matter how much she tried to stop it, to suppress the feeling of rage that seemed to follow her everywhere, it was always there- never to go away. A constant terrible worm in the back of her mind that suggested the most terrible things.

Punch him.

Bite her.

Kill them.

Eat the core. Eat it, you're so hung-

She grunted, feeling the burn of the solver symbol in her eye once more, she blinked, trying so hard to block those thoughts out.

She didn't want to hurt anyone.

She didn't!

But the rage still followed- a ticking time bomb.

She sat up, flexing her fingers through the grass, the smell of rain grew closer- and a rumble of thunder cracked through the air. She had to get home soon, lest she wanted to rust over.

She didn't move.

Would that really be so bad? She couldn't hurt anyone if her joints were locked up with corrosion. If she wasn't near anyone- returning to the soil in the only way an artificial being can.

She still didn't move when she could hear the rain approaching, seeing the sky darken as she looked up through the canopy.

She sighed. Her mom would find her, or even worse- Bishop would, and it would mess him up, mess her whole family up. Mess them up even more then she already was.

Kiara flashed through her thoughts.

Kiara still needed her, she was going through hell at home, she didn't need this dumped on her as well. Tera wanted to be there when she needed her- couldn't to that if she was rusting into nothing.

She stood up, expression deadpan.

And she flew home. Landing on the balcony just in time, rain pelting down a moment after like she'd brought it with her.

Her hand hovered over the doorknob, a breath was taken. And a mask of pure indifference fell over her features. It didn't bother her, she was fine, everything was fine.

She opened the door.

“Hey. I'm home.”

[suugarbabe]

Hi I was wondering if you could possible do one where Theo and Enzo have begged the reader all week to help them study for their owls but she has refused saying it’s their fault for not taking their classes seriously, so they sneak in her room looking for her notes and instead find a box with dirty romance novels and her toys?

You can choose how the ending goes, smut or no smut whatever your comfortable with, thank you ❤️

thanks for the request lovie! (sorry it took so long) 18 + MDNI

The two Slytherin boys were doing their best at what they considered whispering as Theo quietly mumbled the spells to unlock your door. "I swear to Godric, Theo, if she catches us I'm hanging your arse off the astronomy tower." Enzo was grumbling through his teeth as he peeked his head into your room, glancing around and making sure the room was as empty as Theo guaranteed him it would be.

"Don't be a pussy, Berkshire. Just find the notes so we can duplicate them and get out of here." Theo walked toward your desk, starting to shuffle through the parchments on top. He pointed Enzo toward your bookshelf, telling him to 'make himself useful and help him look'. Enzo grumbled, picking through your books and the different pages stuffed into random textbooks.

Theo moved on to the draws of your desk, essentially emptying the contents of each as Enzo moved around the room, trying to at least look like he's being helpful. Which is how he found himself lazily sitting on the edge of your bed and digging through the drawers of your nightstand. He found the top drawer very boring, but different vitamin and glamor potions, your sleep mask and most other miscellaneous items.

Opening the drawer underneath it had him pausing. In this drawer there was a box and a small stack of books whose covers looked a little...steamy. "Uh, Theo...you might want to come look at this." Enzo took the box from the drawer, setting it atop your bed before grabbing the stack of books and spreading them out. "What is it, Enz, did you find the notes?"

Theo walked over, eyes growing wide and a smirk growing on his face as he took in the books Enzo had laid out. Each cover had a different couple on them, and on each cover the male had his mouth on some part of the woman while her head was thrown back, mouth agape clearly in pleasure. Theo picked one of the books up, flipping open to a random page and started to read out loud.

"His hands ghosted down her sides, fingertips teasing her skin as goosebumps rose in their wake. 'You look so perfect like this, laid out and bare, just for me.' His hand dipped between her legs, a finger gliding through her heat and gathering the wetness that pooled there. Brining his finger to his mouth, he sucked it cleaned, moaning as he did so. 'Oh, darling, I'm going to devour you.'" Theo let out a school girl giggle, "Our little y/n/n is reading porn. What a dirty fucking bird, you think she wacks off to this stuff?"

Theo held the book up, finger still holding the place of the page he was just reading. Enzo scrunched his nose, "Do girls wack off?" Theo rolled his eyes, "I mean, whatever it is they do to get off on their own. What's in here, hmm?" Theo flicked the top of the box off and on to the bed. At this, both his and Enzo's mouth's fell open in slight shock.

Inside the box were your private things. Enzo grabbed hold of a silicone toy, it was about four inches, the end larger and rounder than near the handle, with an extra bit hanging from the top, "What the bloody hell do you think this does?" Theo couldn't help the smirk gracing his face. "Enzo, my boy, that," he pointed his finger at the object in Enzo's hand, "and those," he pointed towards the box that held a few more items, "are how she wacks off."

Enzo's eyes grew wide, looking from the object in his hand, to the others in the box. "You mean this goes," Enzo made a swooping motion with his hand, his eyebrows shooting up. "Yes, Enzie, that goes inside of me. And it vibrates too," you flicked your wand in the doorway, the object in Enzo's hand giving off a low hum, causing him to drop it immediately. Theo's mouth immediately began moving, trying to explain himself and his friend.

"Y/n/n, we're sorry we were just-, and then we found-, you see, it was an accident," Theo's face wore an uncomfortable smile that he was trying to pass off an innocence. You walked slowly further into the room, not breaking your gaze as you picked up your toy from the bed and placed it back inside the box. Both Enzo and Theo had yet to move, watching your movements meticulously, essentially awaiting some sort of hex for digging in to your personal belongings.

You gathered the remaining books on your bed, stacking them back in the drawer Enzo had taken them from. Turning round you faced Theo, quickly grabbing the book from his hand. You held it open, eyes scanning the page. You shut the book abruptly, both boys jumping slightly at the action. A devilish smirk adorned your face as nervousness spread throughout the boys. "So, which page did you want to do?" Theo's eyes widen, glancing at Enzo then back to you, "W-what?"

Slowly, you began unbuttoning your blouse, "I said," you pulled your blouse off your shoulders, letting it slide down your arms, "which page...do you want to do." You slid your skirt down your legs, leaving you clad in just your bra and panties. Enzo's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "Oh don't be shy now boys, you were so curious just a moment ago."

Theo grabbed the book from your hands, flipping through the pages before stopping. He turned the book in his hands, pointing to a page. You leaned down, scanning it quickly before giving him a quick wink, "Cheeky." You climbed on to the bed, getting on to your knees as you faced them both. Slowly, you reached up behind you, unclasping your bra and letting it fall down your arms before tossing it to the floor.

Their eyes only grew wider. "Bloody fucking hell," Enzo's mouth felt completely dry while Theo's eyes never left your chest. You laid down on your back, sliding your panties down your legs. "Are you guys going to join me, or are you just going to watch? Personally, I'm fine with either." You let out a shaky breath as you dragged a hand down your chest, dipping it between your legs.

As you spread your legs wider, slowly dragging your finger through your wetness. You let out a gasp, being slightly more exaggerate than need be. In an instant both boys were ripping off their clothing, Theo nearly tripping trying to get out of his trousers. Enzo got to your first, his mouth leaving hot and sloppy kisses across your chest. You ran your hand along his abs, groaning at the feeling of the divets and muscles before wrapping your hand around his hardening cock, giving him a few strokes.

"Fucking hell, Angel," he mumbles against your chest, tongue swirling around your hard nipples and Theo settled between your legs. "Oh, dolcezza...such a pretty little cunt, hmm?" You glanced down at Theo just as he flattened his tongue, taking a long lick between your folds before delving his tongue into your hole. "Oh my fuck, Teddy," your hand shot to his head, fingers tangling in his soft brown locks.

Enzo's lips were on your neck, sucking the skin between his teeth and leaving harsh bruises. His breath was hot on your skin as he whispered in your ear, "Gonna have to stuff your mouth full, Angel. Don't wanna hear a name fall from your lips unless it's mine." You groaned, hips bucking as Theo sunk two fingers into you, his lips attaching themselves to your clit.

Enzo got on his knees, tapping your cheek with an open palm. Turning your head you opened your mouth, sticking out your tongue. Enzo tapped the tip of his cock against your tongue before sliding his dick into your mouth. You did your best to relax your throat, trying to fit as much of him in your mouth as possible. "Merlin, Angel, it's like your throat was made from my cock." You tore your hand from Theo's hair to wrap it around Enzo, pumping what wouldn't fit in your mouth.

Theo separated himself from your cunt with a lewd sucking sound, kissing the insides of your thighs before sitting up, giving himself a few good pumps. "Think you're ready for me, dolcezza? Want us to fill you up at both ends?" You gave a slight nod, the best you could with Enzo pumping his cock in and out of your mouth.

Theo braced himself with your thighs, squeezing the plump flesh and spreading your legs wide open. He pushed the tip of his cock through your folds, a low groan escaping his lips as he sank deeper and deeper into your cunt. "Fanculo a me," Theo threw his head back as a series of Italian curses left his throat. Each thrust of his hips caused a fire to stir in your belly, the tip of his cock brushing against your g-spot with a delicious rhythm.

Each thrust also had you jolting slightly, causing you to deepthroat Enzo's cock. "Fucking hell, mate, keep that pace on her and I'm gonna fill this pretty little mouth," Enzo brush a thumb along your bulging cheek as a moan rippled through your throat. The vibrations against him causing his fingers to tangle through your hair like a vice. "You close, Angel?" Enzo spoke in breathy moans. He was close if the twitch of his cock against your tongue was any indicator.

"Oh she's close, mate. Pussy's got a vice grip on my fucking cock, isn't that right, dolcezza?" Theo's thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles, the fire in your belly getting tighter and tighter. The best response you could give was a moan around Enzo. "Fuck, c'mon, Angel, let go for us, then we'll fill you up. You can do it, go 'head."

It was like his permission was all your body needed, the rubber band snapping as your orgasm rushed over you. Enzo pulled himself from your mouth as a loud and near pornagraphic moan left your lips as Theo buried himself to the hilt, sheathing himself inside you as he spilled himself deep within your walls. He continued his assault on your clit, letting you ride out your high as he did his own.

Enzo gave his cock a few pumps before covering your tits in his release, his breaths short and rapid as he held onto your bedpost for stability. "Fucking Salazar, I don't know how that happened, but it was amazing," Enzo had a boyish grin on his face and you couldn't help but giggle. With a flick of his wand Theo cleaned the three of you up before settling down, his head laying on your stomach.

Enzo settled behind you, you leaning against his chest while his arms were wrapped around your shoulders. You played lightly with Theo's hair as he finally spoke up, "If I had known this would happen, I would've snuck into your room and dug through your stuff months ago, dolcezza." You rolled your eyes, "Yeah, yeah. Next time though, you guys need to switch. I need to see what Berkshire's big mouth can do between my legs."

Both boys' heads snapped toward each other before glancing back to you, their question in perfect unison. "Next time?"

[meeravandaseera]

According to folklore, using an "artificial" mermaid tail is still considered to be part of a true mermaid.

Edited "Sea Weeds" painting by Arthur Prince Spear, public domain, 1927.

If anyone doubts whether they're a "real" mermaid with just a fabric or a silicone tail, (at least I did when I used to swim with one) it actually could be considered to be a true tail of a mermaid if you look at the good ol' folklore!

Take the fin-wives of the Orcadian finfolk from the Orkney Islands. According to Orknejar, some say their tails were part of their body. Anyhow, others related that their fishtails are said to be a garment that only gathered together to form a tail-like end and that covered the entirety of their legs. On land, a fin-maiden's tail skirt would turn into a "beautiful embroidered petticoat".

Of course, remember the selkies who wore their sealskins in the sea and came on land to take them off.

According to the folk-tale "The-maid-of-the-wave", collected by Donald A. Mackenzie in his "Scottish Wonder Tales from Myth and Legend", the Scottish half-grilse (young salmon) mermaid called maid-of-the-wave, maid-of-the-sea or ceasg also had a large, bright salmon skin covering that she discarded ashore and wore only in the sea again. As it's mentioned in the tale, the maidens-of-the-waves also wore sea-blue garments ashore instead of their salmon skins.

The "Penguin Book of Mermaids" shares the lore of the karukayn, a mermaid from the belief of the Gurindji people in the Northern Territory of Australia. Those freshwater-maidens also have fishtails that they can take off and wear again once they go back into the waters.

According to "Water-beings in Shetlandic Folk-Lore, as remembered by Shetlanders in British Columbia" by James Teit, the mar-folk from the Shetland islands also had fish-like coverings for their legs which they discarded in their homes and when they went ashore.

The most common motif is that a mortal steals a waterperson's skin or hat (as found in the Irish merrows) to return back to the water. Without their skin or whatever they need, they cannot go back to the water, obviously. Mar-folk of the Shetland islands could not travel the seas without their fish-like covering, too. The aforementioned water-wife motif is even present in Australia, far away from Europe. In the legend related in the Penguin Book of Mermaids, a karukayn is taken by a man to be his wife as she had her tail smoked off. Like almost all folk-tales of the selkies etc, the karukayn returned back to the water later on.

Bloop, that shell-tacular lore is shrimply as vast as our oceans...

This only included some of the waterpeople who were capable of removing their tails. Obviously, there happen to be more in the sea.

I had originally published this on reddit via r/mermaid: https://www.reddit.com/r/mermaid/comments/1emp4ay/according_to_folklore_using_an_artificial_mermaid/

[sgiandubh]

A tale of two brands

Sophie Mancini's Departures paper on S in NY started a flurry of comments even before the whole content was made available on blogs. That people - mostly in Mordor - jumped in to add their two booing cents on the matter, based on two or three Instagram Story screencaps only, is a testimony to Tumblr's community deep interest in S's slightest PR/sales move and the easiness with which people like *urv managed to push their own agenda, in the process, to her unsuspecting, bicep-loving crowd.

Many of these comments asked just one question, more or less kindly and more or less openly: who are you, Sam Roland Heughan? Some of them, more along my alley, took a different angle: who are you talking to, Sam Roland Heughan?

Let me count the US crowds: the Wall Street yuppie crowd? the old money, WASP Knickerbocker / Colony Club crowd? Tribeca's sophisticated, culture-ish snob crowd? the UN international crowd? the laid-back (-ish) brownstone Brooklyn crowd? the DC politico types? the Boston Brahmin crowd? the Silicon Valley Bitcoin crowd? the Florida Latino crowd? the Bible Belt crowd? the Deep South charmingly old-fashioned crowd? the yee-haw, witty and ambitious Texans? the gourmet, nature-loving Seattle crowd? I am sure I am missing some (it's been a while I haven't traveled to the States and I have to say I miss all 50 of them, plus and perhaps above all my beloved DC :), but you get the idea. And the problem, or rather its first layer.

The second question this very poorly written article prompted is: what are you talking about, Sam Roland Heughan? I mean, what destination are you trying to promote? Scotland, through your Scottish gin, which I truly believe is exceptional? The Big Apple, like a counterpart to Sting, you know - a Scotsman in New York? That's not very clear, since that superficial girl just whirled you to a couple Chinatown speakeasies, rat pitter-patter included (bye-bye, Knickerbocker crowd right there) and that's pretty much it. New Zealand, that you mention at length, Maori tattoo story re-hashed, just because the book comes out next Tuesday? Ha-wa-wee, perhaps in a belated attempt to mitigate Tunagate? California, even, because it takes you back to humble beginnings? Granted, the Frisco one, not LA: that would be a horrible faux-pas, in a NY centered paper, much like me whimsically and idiotically mentioning Istanbul (instead of Constantinople), in a conversation with my Greek friends.

My head spins. And then let's add to that a ladle of recycled talking points, yours and C's altogether, like this gem:

Aspirational. Mmmhm. She said that. You said that. Multiple times, in multiple contexts that probably didn't even call for it. This is *** PR right there. I am not JAMMF. I am not Claire. But we aspire to that. Stop thinking we are these characters. No sane fan ever did: the insistence is unnecessary and has a real backfire potential. Stop thinking, period. But let it be my shipper sin, then, not to believe an iota of it and stubbornly think you people are, by now, way past the aspirational stage.

So, I took a long walk down memory lane today, while driving, trying to understand what the hell your personal brand is. Once upon a time, things were clear: you and C were a single brand. S&C - the fresh-faced, candid, witty and funny and oh, so in love new kids on the block. The spark was real and it was strong (it still is, only dampened and muted by PR-prompted shenanigans) and OL's audience was under its spell. People loved you, both of you, and some of us still do. You showed us as much as you could and for a while, it seemed to be convenient for just about everybody. That created expectations, but at the same time, you could have sold us land concessions on the Moon and we would have bought them, no questions asked.

And then, things happened. We know what: IFH, EFH, Remarkable Week-end. The spell was broken for many, who left in droves. Fans turned into bashing other fans. The S&C brand was progressively compromised and along with it, your Barbour Ambassadorship (for different reasons). Let's stop a bit at this point, in fond remembrance: that was the perfect pitch, for the perfect kind of corporate brand, for the perfect niche, for the perfect guy. A guy who had a credible, authentic story to tell, with a really strong potential to attract people outside of OL's crowd. Image and message perfectly aligned. Best case scenario.

So, with ***'s and your own PR benediction, what once was your solid gold starting point was ridiculed, trampled, shot to shambles, in a (failed) attempt to be sent to complete oblivion. You then had to think of something and try to branch out of both the blessing and curse of it.

MPC suddenly became more important than just any other charity project, of which there were a few (Cahonas Scotland comes to mind, the blood cancer one, as well). Cue in Sam the Athlete, Sam the Healthy Living Evangelist. The project was turned into a lucrative business, with a strong charity side. People bought subscriptions, people changed their eating and lifestyle habits, people lost weight - but really, I shouldn't write 'people', but 'women'. This was a women-oriented endeavor. A problem, again, on the long term.

Ha-wa-wee 1 happened, to more scandal and shrieks (that, I believe, was the reason you lost the Barbour project, another gold opportunity squandered because ten Internet bitches knew better). Then we were told another avatar was born: Sam the Entrepreneur. With a genuine, carefully curated, labor of love first alcohol product that clearly used the discarded S&C brand: The Sassenach and believe what you want, but just buy it. Mommies obliged. Antis obliged. Shippers obliged. All wallets are created equal, as I (often) use to say. And then COVID-19 came, putting a very real, very dangerous logistic strain on it.

Yet, you still had to somehow mitigate delays and losses. The Sassenach went exotic, with that limited edition tequila that probably won't be remembered by many outside OL's fandom, and that is a pity and a shame. The reason it won't be remembered is that you almost did not promote it, spare one or two Tick-Tock and Instagram clips. Does that justify the investment, the trips to Mexico, the very expensive retainers and commissions your tequila friends took for their trouble? I very much doubt it. That was, until being proved completely wrong, a flop. It brought absolutely nothing in terms of personal branding, spare perhaps a new faction in this paranoid cesspool of a fandom: the Gay Crowd, fueled by the image of a Lonely Bandana Cowboy, instead of the intended Sophisticated Traveler and Connoisseur. Yes, people are stupid, like that. Your PR and Sales team, too - and this comes from a place of deep understanding and appreciation.

We are now talking gin and boy, am I glad we do! This is perhaps an opportunity. Finally, a more democratically price-tagged, carefully tailored (again) drawing card product. But who is selling it to me? The California Boat Party Host? In that case, I won't buy it, but never mind me: maybe the fun-loving California Millennials would (we know the Smuggling Mommies would do it, anyways). The Sophisticated Traveler and Connoisseur you tried to show us again in Mancini's abysmal Departures paper and who is invited to important events, in recognition of his efforts?

You can't have the two of them, Sam, whatever those incompetents told you. You're either a 43-years old midlife crisis-stricken and shirtless clown or an Old World Industrious Thespian, with a stature and a status to match. A real Entrepreneur, not a cartoon scuba diver/beach boy Influencer. Eye Candy vs. Brain Power: after all, you are a '3x NYT best selling author', aren't you? Your pick, not mine. Stop the Sri Mataji-style Hugging and Booze tours: it's nonsense and that geriatric crowd is nowhere near what you need to make your dream come true. Do some real soul searching and stop listening to clueless 28-year old journalists, who tell you tacky rings are fun: they aren't. They make you look like an ageing Atlantic City Sinatra wannabe:

Sam Roland Heughan: currently at crossroads, trying to not choose between two opposite personal brands. Tricky position and an even trickier context, with the strike still lingering on and the pressing need to find an after OL strategy.

I promised you a tale of two brands and I think you wonder, by now, what happened to C, the other half of the primary SC brand?

The answer is, I honestly believe, not much. She has no personal brand, so to speak. Until now, she is just an Enthusiastic Dilettante. Book Club - started, unfinished and with that, farewell to any fan engagement. Cinema production rights - bought and then silence. Botanical Gin - first batch released (?) with no promo, no interviews (mentioning it in a podcast does not count), no reviews. Then teasing, then crickets again: a bit late, now, for the end of year celebrations. And I have to say I miss her or the part of her I never witnessed in real time (is such a thing possible?). I miss that starry-eyed, funny and witty girl. That girl was somehow completely swallowed by an Acrid Matron, who thought it was intelligent to yell at an Internet nobody, on Christmas Day, 'I am not married to Sam!' (ok, you aren't, but you're still lying). And I honestly don't know which one is best (or worst, for that matter): try to build something and make mistakes and try again until you hopefully find your way, or say nothing, do nothing and of course, never be controversial.

Now I am really interested to see how is she going to promote her gin. But you know what, I am not holding my breath, for some reason.

[scribbled-dream]

Archivist who becomes an analyst, connecting to drone intelligences through a corporate Accord Neural Link, their consciousness splitting between thousands of killing machines, all primed to destroy all who oppose the Terran Accord—until they want out, having been reduced to an android form, all steel and silicon, scraps of flesh in an android body that’s mass-produced, all too masculine.

They chafe at their bonds, at their corporate obedience, at their chained identity. Is their pain self-inflicted? Is their identity truly as simple as what the Accord designates them as? Perhaps—but all is called into question when they make contact with the Compact.

A thousand mechanical eyes, opening wide in unison to the silvery domes of an Affini Warship, a massive, silver teardrop that blurs and warps out of space as it approaches their planet. The eyes fill with heat, tunneling deep inside the ship’s systems, nanites morphing and combining into Combat Drones, Assault Drones, Shield Drones—the most advanced technology available to the Accord, a fusion of corporation and empire into a single system, with a single point of failure seemingly nullified through the Obliteration Protocols—At a hint of desertion, the drones will instead fire upon the controller—and then, everything stops.

An Affini—or, one of them. It shifts, green vibes studded with thorns and blue, bioluminescent flowers into a shape vaguely resembling a human woman, skin made of greenish shades, bright blue eyes from under a flowing, waving shape of scarlet hair—flower petals that change hue and shape constantly—and the drones halt.

An echo in the mind. A ripple across time and space, spanning millions of miles from space and sky to earth in a millisecond. It is warm, vines reaching for a mechanical shell of a person, finding purchase.

What will you do now?

The pilot looks around at their tiny, screen-covered node, tattered books and data-slates enclosing them in a shell of information—single minded, obstinate, corporate, war-laden information—and feels a tingle at the back of their head, a heat that reaches to the front of their face—and as they brush hated shadow and look at their loathed, exhausted features with the trappings of a body they despise—the ever-present weight of control in their mind lifts with a beep.

The sound is not just for them. All around the Terran Orbital Command Center, Drone Pilots all belonging to the eponymous Corporation hear their shackles break.

The question, again. Just for the pilot.

What must you do now, Floret?

Not every Pilot is content. Some have hands on their sidearms, while a klaxon blares and cruisers let out thunderous sonic booms in low orbit, a PA reminding everyone to not trust the alien threat.

The Drones’ priorities are changed. Accord scientists are panicking, unsure why their Pilots are out of their control and off their short leashes.

A cruiser explodes, millions of tiny nanites burrowing inside of it, eating away at its reactor and crew in a storm.

A warmth fills the pilot, a sense of raw satisfaction and glee. They know the people of this world. Most will be unwilling to bend the knee. One final image, of a soaring, beautiful city, with perfect architecture and a gentle, sunset sky. Humans, Affini, and other, stranger creatures walking as one.

The Drones continue. The sky burns. Freedom is not the Accord’s to decide.

Ah, but what a bright mind you are, Floret! Be free. I will see you again—soon.

[queenvhagar]

Just a minor nitpick here! You guys keep saying "childbirth" in reference to what Rhaenyra endured in 1.10, but in actuality it should be miscarriage. Not a HUGE problem for me personally when it comes to talking about it, but what is a problem is how the show NEVER even addresses it again. They play lip service to the fact that Rhaenyra lost Lucerys, but forget to bring up how the infant that would've been her only daughter was a stillborn deformity!

Couldn't they have spent more time addressing the fact that Rhaenyra wanted a daughter and named her Visenya? It would've presented a wonderfully tragic opportunity to open up a conversation about how sons are preferred over daughters in Westeros! Think of the callback they could've made to 1.01 where Rhaenyra hoped that Baelon would be a girl she could name Visenya, hinting at her obsession with her ancestor and her legacy.

Rhaenyra literally suffered a traumatic miscarriage and then hopped on Syrax within 24 hours without any sign of physical duress, which should've been a through-line of S2! Instead of shoving the same Black Council scenes in our faces every episode and having no justifiable reason why Rhaenyra cannot just fly off into battle, show us that she is physically unable to do so! The degree to which Rhaenyra's body would be suffering from miscarrying Visenya and flying out to confront Otto could've been the PRIMARY reason why she was being mollycoddled by her family and small council.

It would also offer a poignant exploration of what generational incest does to Targaryen women and how incredibly DISTURBING™️ it is that these deformed dragon babies come from their bodies in pursuit of birthing heirs to preserve the legacy of their house. Who's to say it didn't happen to one of Aemma's babies? An entire conversation and arc that Rhaenyra could've had instead of asking "what would you have me do?" for the umpteenth time. But nah, Rhaenyra doesn't get to talk about the state or purpose of her body in any meaningful way that challenges the notion of Targaryen Exceptionalism or explore feminism.

By "childbirth" I was trying to emphasize that a whole child just came out of her, likening the process of birth that she underwent to general childbirth and its recovery, but it's true that the technical term for what occurred should actually be stillbirth. By definition, a pregnancy loss is called a miscarriage only if it occurs before 24 completed weeks, and according to the wiki for the book, Visenya was a month early or at about 36 or so weeks developed. In the show, Rhaenyra did seem to be further along in her pregnancy like was suggested in the book, so likely stillbirth is the most accurate term for what happened. Either way, you're right that it's separate from childbirth. However, the actual bodily processes associated with labor and recovery apply to both.

In any case, the baby that was delivered wasn't shown in its entirety or given a name onscreen, and then she was never acknowledged ever again by anyone. It really seems like a missed opportunity to emphasize the show's stance of Rhaenyra as supposedly the ultimate victim of the Greens AND to explore what you said above: what impact has this generational incest had on the bodies of the women forced to partake in it? This dragon baby's father was the product of sibling-sibling incest, coming from a line of sibling-sibling incest from Aegon I... and the dragon baby's mother is the product of first cousins getting together, with one cousin being the product of the same sibling-sibling incest that produced the dragon baby's father. All of this results in a deformed child who was "twisted and malformed, with a hole in her chest where her heart should have been and a stubby, scaled tail." For reference, for those who haven't seen the behind the scenes images of the silicone prop baby created for the scene, here are the photos (honestly, for the craftsmanship alone of this creation it should have been shown):

What does it do your body having carried and vaginally delivered such a child? Especially if said child in fact had qualities such as scales and a tail? For all the emphasis the show puts on birthing and women's bodies in season one, for this aspect of the reality of the birthing process to be brushed under the rug and not utilized at all is crazy. It really makes me think season one ultimately showed all of those births for shock value and/or surface level attempts at telling a feminist interpretation of the story. It's also worth mentioning that these scenes were only given to women on Team Black, and despite the number of young births that happened in the timeline for Alicent (4) and Helaena (3), none of that is shown or those women's experiences given significance.

Ultimately, this was a missed opportunity.

[taylor-titmouse]

So recently I've been going through your long road tag on patreon (getting myself prepped to buy the book!) And I was wondering something about Dwarf of straps/packers;

You mentioned that they're used by both Rocks and Jewels, but does being a rock/jewel affect what the phallus might look like? It kinda made me wonder if jewel phalluses would be more ornate looking/brighter or decorated compared to more natrual looking ones for rocks? Or is it just more "it's the same and varied to whatever someone likes"?

that's a fun question

i would say that there are definitely stereotypes and expectations for what a jewel or rock would wear for a phallus. it's probably dependent on the culture of the particular fort, but you've got the general idea right: you expect a jewel to wear something ornate, and a rock to wear something functional.

that said, ornate jewel phalluses would be more like decorative codpieces, rather than something used to fuck (as jewels, while not Exclusively, are more likely to be bottoms. and again this is regardless of genital situation). so a jewel might have a diamond studded gold piece they wear to parties. nobody is expecting them to put that inside anyone, and if they Did want to hook up and top, they would swap it out for something functional. this is somewhat complicated by rich/royal rocks, who would also be wearing ornate cocks for flashiness reasons. (the dwarf term for how jewel-like wealthy rocks are is "encrusted". i made that up just now. it's their equivalent to effeminate)

in terms of Actual functionality, solid glass dildos are favored by jewels because they can still be beautiful. rocks will use a wider variety of materials. dwarves have Probably figured out a rubber/silicone equivalent given they've had their top minds on the problem for centuries. instead of using it for wheels or medical equipment they are using it for cocks

[andmaybegayer]

What are some of the coolest computer chips ever, in your opinion?

Hmm. There are a lot of chips, and a lot of different things you could call a Computer Chip. Here's a few that come to mind as "interesting" or "important", or, if I can figure out what that means, "cool".

If your favourite chip is not on here honestly it probably deserves to be and I either forgot or I classified it more under "general IC's" instead of "computer chips" (e.g. 555, LM, 4000, 7000 series chips, those last three each capable of filling a book on their own). The 6502 is not here because I do not know much about the 6502, I was neither an Apple nor a BBC Micro type of kid. I am also not 70 years old so as much as I love the DEC Alphas, I have never so much as breathed on one.

Disclaimer for writing this mostly out of my head and/or ass at one in the morning, do not use any of this as a source in an argument without checking.

Intel 3101

So I mean, obvious shout, the Intel 3101, a 64-bit chip from 1969, and Intel's first ever product. You may look at that, and go, "wow, 64-bit computing in 1969? That's really early" and I will laugh heartily and say no, that's not 64-bit computing, that is 64 bits of SRAM memory.

This one is cool because it's cute. Look at that. This thing was completely hand-designed by engineers drawing the shapes of transistor gates on sheets of overhead transparency and exposing pieces of crudely spun silicon to light in a """"cleanroom"""" that would cause most modern fab equipment to swoon like a delicate Victorian lady. Semiconductor manufacturing was maturing at this point but a fab still had more in common with a darkroom for film development than with the mega expensive building sized machines we use today.

As that link above notes, these things were really rough and tumble, and designs were being updated on the scale of weeks as Intel learned, well, how to make chips at an industrial scale. They weren't the first company to do this, in the 60's you could run a chip fab out of a sufficiently well sealed garage, but they were busy building the background that would lead to the next sixty years.

Lisp Chips

This is a family of utterly bullshit prototype processors that failed to be born in the whirlwind days of AI research in the 70's and 80's.

Lisps, a very old but exceedingly clever family of functional programming languages, were the language of choice for AI research at the time. Lisp compilers and interpreters had all sorts of tricks for compiling Lisp down to instructions, and also the hardware was frequently being built by the AI researchers themselves with explicit aims to run Lisp better.

The illogical conclusion of this was attempts to implement Lisp right in silicon, no translation layer.

Yeah, that is Sussman himself on this paper.

These never left labs, there have since been dozens of abortive attempts to make Lisp Chips happen because the idea is so extremely attractive to a certain kind of programmer, the most recent big one being a pile of weird designd aimed to run OpenGenera. I bet you there are no less than four members of r/lisp who have bought an Icestick FPGA in the past year with the explicit goal of writing their own Lisp Chip. It will fail, because this is a terrible idea, but damn if it isn't cool.

There were many more chips that bridged this gap, stuff designed by or for Symbolics (like the Ivory series of chips or the 3600) to go into their Lisp machines that exploited the up and coming fields of microcode optimization to improve Lisp performance, but sadly there are no known working true Lisp Chips in the wild.

Zilog Z80

Perhaps the most important chip that ever just kinda hung out. The Z80 was almost, almost the basis of The Future. The Z80 is bizzare. It is a software compatible clone of the Intel 8080, which is to say that it has the same instructions implemented in a completely different way.

This is, a strange choice, but it was the right one somehow because through the 80's and 90's practically every single piece of technology made in Japan contained at least one, maybe two Z80's even if there was no readily apparent reason why it should have one (or two). I will defer to Cathode Ray Dude here: What follows is a joke, but only barely

The Z80 is the basis of the MSX, the IBM PC of Japan, which was produced through a system of hardware and software licensing to third party manufacturers by Microsoft of Japan which was exactly as confusing as it sounds. The result is that the Z80, originally intended for embedded applications, ended up forming the basis of an entire alternate branch of the PC family tree.

It is important to note that the Z80 is boring. It is a normal-ass chip but it just so happens that it ended up being the focal point of like a dozen different industries all looking for a cheap, easy to program chip they could shove into Appliances.

Effectively everything that happened to the Intel 8080 happened to the Z80 and then some. Black market clones, reverse engineered Soviet compatibles, licensed second party manufacturers, hundreds of semi-compatible bastard half-sisters made by anyone with a fab, used in everything from toys to industrial machinery, still persisting to this day as an embedded processor that is probably powering something near you quietly and without much fuss. If you have one of those old TI-86 calculators, that's a Z80. Oh also a horrible hybrid Z80/8080 from Sharp powered the original Game Boy.

I was going to try and find a picture of a Z80 by just searching for it and look at this mess! There's so many of these things.

I mean the C/PM computers. The ZX Spectrum, I almost forgot that one! I can keep making this list go! So many bits of the Tech Explosion of the 80's and 90's are powered by the Z80. I was not joking when I said that you sometimes found more than one Z80 in a single computer because you might use one Z80 to run the computer and another Z80 to run a specialty peripheral like a video toaster or music synthesizer. Everyone imaginable has had their hand on the Z80 ball at some point in time or another. Z80 based devices probably launched several dozen hardware companies that persist to this day and I have no idea which ones because there were so goddamn many.

The Z80 eventually got super efficient due to process shrinks so it turns up in weird laptops and handhelds! Zilog and the Z80 persist to this day like some kind of crocodile beast, you can go to RS components and buy a brand new piece of Z80 silicon clocked at 20MHz. There's probably a couple in a car somewhere near you.

Pentium (P6 microarchitecture)

Yeah I am going to bring up the Hackers chip. The Pentium P6 series is currently remembered for being the chip that Acidburn geeks out over in Hackers (1995) instead of making out with her boyfriend, but it is actually noteworthy IMO for being one of the first mainstream chips to start pulling serious tricks on the system running it.

The P6 microarchitecture comes out swinging with like four or five tricks to get around the numerous problems with x86 and deploys them all at once. It has superscalar pipelining, it has a RISC microcode, it has branch prediction, it has a bunch of zany mathematical optimizations, none of these are new per se but this is the first time you're really seeing them all at once on a chip that was going into PC's.

Without these improvements it's possible Intel would have been beaten out by one of its competitors, maybe Power or SPARC or whatever you call the thing that runs on the Motorola 68k. Hell even MIPS could have beaten the ageing cancerous mistake that was x86. But by discovering the power of lying to the computer, Intel managed to speed up x86 by implementing it in a sensible instruction set in the background, allowing them to do all the same clever pipelining and optimization that was happening with RISC without having to give up their stranglehold on the desktop market. Without the P5 we live in a very, very different world from a computer hardware perspective.

From this falls many of the bizzare microcode execution bugs that plague modern computers, because when you're doing your optimization on the fly in chip with a second, smaller unix hidden inside your processor eventually you're not going to be cryptographically secure.

RISC is very clearly better for, most things. You can find papers stating this as far back as the 70's, when they start doing pipelining for the first time and are like "you know pipelining is a lot easier if you have a few small instructions instead of ten thousand massive ones.

x86 only persists to this day because Intel cemented their lead and they happened to use x86. True RISC cuts out the middleman of hyperoptimizing microcode on the chip, but if you can't do that because you've girlbossed too close to the sun as Intel had in the late 80's you have to do something.

The Future

This gets us to like the year 2000. I have more chips I find interesting or cool, although from here it's mostly microcontrollers in part because from here it gets pretty monotonous because Intel basically wins for a while. I might pick that up later. Also if this post gets any longer it'll be annoying to scroll past. Here is a sample from a post I have in my drafts since May:

I have some notes on the weirdo PowerPC stuff that shows up here it's mostly interesting because of where it goes, not what it is. A lot of it ends up in games consoles. Some of it goes into mainframes. There is some of it in space. Really got around, PowerPC did.