#tractor enthusiast

[swimmingruinsdream]

Just A Boy Who Loves Tractors farm lover T-Shirt

TRACTOR GRAPHICS for all the boys who love farming or just love tractors. Great Christmas gift idea for your son or grandchildren who love playing with farm toys or tractors, Big green tractor graphics for boys for a birthday present. This Just A Boy Who Loves Tractors - farm lover kid idea item is designed by Farmer Tractor Designs LTD.

[uniqueartisanconnoisseur]

Little Green and the Hobbs!

Don and Amanda Hobbs set up with Litte Green. Amanda and Don Hobbs of Williamsport, Indiana bought the John Deere children’s magazine Little Green from Richard and Carol Hain of Green Magazine. The Hobbs will be celebrating their 1st year anniversary of the publication in November! Congratulations! Jane Auman and I have been writing the little tractor stories since the beginning. We have been…

[mostlysignssomeportents]

AI art has no anti-cooption immune system

TONIGHT (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

One thing Myspace had going for it: it was exuberantly ugly. The decision to let users with no design training loose on a highly customizable user-interface led to a proliferation of Myspace pages that vibrated with personality.

The ugliness of Myspace wasn't just exciting in a kind of outsider/folk-art way (though it was that). Myspace's ugliness was an anti-cooption force-field, because corporate designers and art-directors would, by and large, rather break their fingers and gouge out their eyes than produce pages that looked like that.

In this regard, Myspace was the heir to successive generations of "design democratization" that gave amateur communities, especially countercultural ones, a space to operate in where authentic community members could be easily distinguished between parasitic commercializers.

The immediate predecessors to Myspace's ugliness-as-a-feature were the web, and desktop publishing. Between the img tag, imagemaps, the blink tag, animated GIFs, and the million ways that you could weird a page with tables and padding, the early web was positively bursting with individual personality. The early web balanced in an equilibrium between the plunder-friendliness of "view source" and the topsy-turvy design imperatives of web-based layout, which confounded both print designers (no fixed fonts! RGB colorspaces! dithering!) and even multimedia designers who'd cut their teeth on Hypercard and CD ROMs (no fixed layout!).

Before the web came desktop publishing, the million tractor-feed ransom notes combining Broderbund Print Shop fonts, joystick-edited pixel-art, and a cohort of enthusiasts ranging from punk zinesters to community newsletter publishers. As this work proliferated on coffee-shop counters and telephone poles, it was visibly, obviously distinct from the work produced by "real" designers – that is, designers who'd been a) trained and b) paid by a corporation to employ that training.

All of this matters, and not just for aesthetic reasons. Communities – especially countercultural ones – are where our society's creative ferment starts. Getting your start in the trenches of the counterculture wars is no proof against being co-opted later (indeed, many of the designers who cut their teeth desktop publishing weird zines went on to pull their hair and roll their eyes at the incredible fuggliness of the web). But without that zone of noncommercial, antiestablishment, communitarian low weirdness, design and culture would stagnate.

I started thinking about this 25 years ago, the first time I met William Gibson. I'd been assigned by the Globe and Mail to interview him for the launch of All Tomorrow's Parties:

https://craphound.com/nonfic/transcript.html

One of the questions I asked was about his famous aphorism, "The street finds its own use for things." Given how quickly each post-punk tendency had been absorbed by commercial culture, couldn't we say that "Madison Avenue finds its own use for the street"? His answer started me down a quarter-century of thinking and writing about this subject:

I worry about what we'll do in the future, [about the instantaneous co-opting of pop culture]. Where is our new stuff going to come from? What we're doing pop culturally is like burning the rain forest. The biodiversity of pop culture is really, really in danger. I didn't see it coming until a few years ago, but looking back it's very apparent.

I watch a sort of primitive form of the recommodification machine around my friends and myself in sixties, and it took about two years for this clumsy mechanism to get and try to sell us The Monkees.

In 1977, it took about eight months for a slightly faster more refined mechanism to put punk in the window of Holt Renfrew. It's gotten faster ever since. The scene in Seattle that Nirvana came from: as soon as it had a label, it was on the runways of Paris.

Ugliness, transgressiveness and shock all represent an incoherent, grasping attempt to keep the world out of your demimonde – not just normies and squares, but also and especially enthusiastic marketers who want to figure out how to sell stuff to you, and use you to sell stuff to normies and squares.

I think this is what drove a lot of people to 4chan (remember, before 4chan was famous for incubating neofascism, it was the birthplace of Anonymous): its shock culture, combined with a strong cultural norm of anonymity, made for a difficult-to-digest, thoroughly spiky morsel that resisted recommodification (for a while).

All of this brings me to AI art (or AI "art"). In his essay on the "eerieness" of AI art, Henry Farrell quotes Mark Fisher's "The Weird and the Eerie":

https://www.programmablemutter.com/p/large-language-models-are-uncanny

"Eeriness" here is defined as "when there is something present where there should be nothing, or is there is nothing present when there should be something." AI is eerie because it produces the seeming of intent, without any intender:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand

When we contemplate "authentic" countercultural work – ransom-note DTP, the weird old web, seizure-inducing Myspace GIFs – it is arresting because the personality of the human entity responsible for it shines through. We might be able to recognize where that person ganked their source-viewed HTML or pixel-optimized GIF, but we can also make inferences about the emotional meaning of those choices. To see that work is to connect to a mind. That mind might not necessarily belong to someone you want to be friends with or ever meet in person, but it is unmistakably another person, and you can't help but learn something about yourself from the way that their work makes you feel.

This is why corporate work is so often called "soulless." The point of corporate art is to dress the artificial person of the corporation in the stolen skins of the humans it uses as its substrate. Corporations are potentially immortal, artificial colony organisms. They maintain the pretense of personality, but they have no mind, only action that is the crescendo of an orchestra of improvised instruments played by hundreds or thousands of employees and a handful of executives who are often working directly against one another:

https://locusmag.com/2022/03/cory-doctorow-vertically-challenged/

The corporation is – as Charlie Stross has it – the "slow AI" that is slowly converting our planet to the long-prophesied grey goo (or, more prosaically, wildfire ashes and boiled oceans). The real thing that is signified by CEOs' professed fears of runaway AI is runaway corporations. As Ted Chiang says, the experience of being nominally in charge of a corporation that refuses to do what you tell it to is the kind of thing that will give you nightmares about autonomous AI turning on its masters:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

The job of corporate designers is to find the signifiers of authenticity and dress up the corporate entity's robotic imperatives in this stolen flesh. Everything about AI is done in service to this goal: the chatbots that replace customer service reps are meant to both perfectly mimic a real, competent corporate representative while also hewing perfectly to corporate policy, without ever betraying the real human frailties that none of us can escape.

In the same way, the shillbots that pretend to be corporate superfans online are supposed to perfectly amplify the corporate message, the slow AI's conception of its own virtues, without injecting their own off-script, potentially cringey enthusiasms.

The Hollywood writers' strike was, at root, about the studio execs' dream that they could convert the "insights" of focus groups and audience research into a perfect script, without having to go through a phalanx of lippy screenwriters who insisted on explaining why they think your idea is stupid. "Hey, nerd, make me another ET, except make the hero a dog, and set it on Mars" is exactly how you prompt an AI:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

Corporate design's job is to produce the seeming of intention without any intender. The "personality" we're meant to sense when we encounter corporate design isn't the designer's, nor the art director's, nor even the CEO's. The "personality" is meant to be the slow AI's, but a corporation doesn't have a personality.

In his 2018 short story "Noon in the antilibrary," Karl Schroeder describes an "antilibrary" as an endlessly deep anaerobic lagoon of generative botshit:

https://www.technologyreview.com/2018/08/18/104097/noon-in-the-antilibrary/

The antilibrary is a generative AI system that can produce entire librarys’-worth of fake books with fake authors, fake citations by other fake experts with their own fake books and biographies and fake social media accounts, on-demand and instantly. It was speculation in 2018; it’s possible now. Creating an antilibrary is just a matter of investing in a sufficient number of graphics cards and electricity.

https://kschroeder.substack.com/p/after-the-internet

Reading Karl's reflections on the antilibrary crystallized something for me that I've been thinking about for a quarter-century, since I interviewed Gibson at the Penguin offices in north Toronto. It snapped something into place that I've trying to fit since encountering Henry's thoughts on the "eeriness" of AI work and the intent without an intender.

It made me realize why I dislike AI art so much, on a deep, aesthetic level. The point of an image generator is to buffer the intention of the prompter (which might be genuinely creative and bursting with personality) in layers of automated decision-making that flense the final product of any hint of the mind that caused its creation.

The most febrile, deeply weird and authentic prompts of the most excluded outsiders produce images that feel the same as the corporate AI illustrations that project the illusion of personality from the immortal, transhuman colony organism that is the limited liability corporation.

AI art is born coopted. Even the 4chan equivalent of AI – the deeply transgressive and immoral nonconsensual pornography – feels no different from the "official" AI porn churned out by "real" pornographers. "Shrimp Jesus" and other SEO-optimized Facebook slop is so uncanny because it is simultaneously "weird" ("that which does not belong") and yet it belongs in the same aesthetic bucket of the most anodyne Corporate Memphis ephemera:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corporate_Memphis

We call it "generative" but AI art can't generate the kind of turnover that aerates the aesthetic soil. An artform that can't be transgressive is sterile, stillborn, a dead end.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

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/2024/07/20/ransom-note-force-field/#antilibraries

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

--

Jake (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:1970s_fanzines_(21224199545).jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[seat-safety-switch]

One of the most noble sacrifices you can make is to declare a car, at long last, a "parts car." The concept of the parts car is exactly what it sounds like: an automobile so haggard, so absolutely worn out, that the only thing it can be is a donor of vital organs to another, nicer car.

It's difficult to let a car go. Especially if you've been limping it along for years, dealing with its little shitty flaws one step at a time. Eventually, entropy overwhelms you and there's something that is just not worth fixing. Often, this arrives about five minutes after you complete a repair or modification that costs a huge amount of money and time. Goodbye, old friend, you say as you remove the license plate for the last time and pull a mirror off it for your new, equally heavily-dented daily driver.

Of course, everything that is emotionally damaging to an enthusiast is profit to a business. Junkyards are full of "parts cars." That's all they have. Yet, chances are, someone had to make the difficult decision to let go of their beloved family shitbox, knowing full well that it would be sawzalled apart by idiots like myself looking for an intact seat rail. Thank you for your service, people who got mad and gave up on a car.

And, finally, if it wasn't for the concept of the parts car, I wouldn't be bragging so much when I turn one back into a real car. That dude down by the beach was an idiot for selling this thing to me so cheap instead of fixing it himself. Sure, there's holes in the floor, and the brakes don't work, but all it really needed was an old Soviet diesel tractor engine thrown on it and I'm ready to get to work, as long as I leave an hour or two early. The parts have become whole.

[insipid-drivel]

What's the general range of endurance for a horse doing the job(s) it's good at? Like, how long can a racing breed sprint/gallop before you start risking injury? Can a Clydesdale pull a plow all day, or do you need to get as much done as you can in the morning? Etc.

It really depends on how intense the work is on the horse's body, as well as the size, age, and breed of the horse itself, and the rider's observations on when the horse is visibly showing signs of exhaustion. A lot of these calls are dependent upon the owner of the horse to make, because it is very possible to command a horse to work itself to death without even intending to. (I know, this isn't a very helpful answer, but it's very hard to answer questions like these with exact details since we're talking about animals and not machines)

Race horses are usually lightweight breeds like Thoroughbreds or Arabian Horses, and were never bred for doing Hard Farm Labor like pulling a plow or working like makeshift tractors on a farm, will often run until their hearts give out if their rider lets them or makes them, especially if the horse has been literally pent up with no opportunities to run around for themselves in a while, or is extremely stressed.

Race horses especially can get so enthusiastic about racing that they develop mental health issues if they don't get to run and gallop frequently. Healthy running horses, like messenger horses, could handle keeping an even pace on a well-maintained road for hundreds of miles, so long as the rider gave the horse opportunities to slow down, cool off, rehydrate (hydration is a big factor, because horses sweat the way people do, and can die of heatstroke or heat exhaustion like we can), and get at least a few hours of rest before continuing to travel. If the terrain is rougher than a well-maintained horse path, then a horse could struggle and tire much sooner, and may even need the rider to get off their backs and walk with them until they hit easier terrain to avoid injury/overtiring the animal.

A Clydesdale or Shire Horse, which are in the family known as Draft Horses, are better at very strength-demanding, slow work (think cardio vs. weight training in humans; professional weight lifters have very different physiques, skill sets, and exercise/diet needs compared to a competitive sprinter), like pulling a plow, and it was often left up to the handler of the horse to judge when their horses are starting to get too tired and need a break. Horses pant, sweat, and generally show a lot of the same symptoms humans do when they're overheated and risking heat exhaustion or stress-based exhaustion. Horses that are given more rest-times tend to stay working longer in their lives than horses that are consistently overworked; again, like professional athletes. Professional athletes retire very young because of the intensity of their athletic life aging their bodies prematurely and making them more vulnerable to injury. The same applies to horses.

For pasture that's already been tilled and cleared of obstacles like buried rocks in the past, a working horse could probably do most of the morning/afternoon pulling a plow through "easy" soil and terrain as long as it's not too hot out (heat is a major cause of stress-related death in work horses), receive break-times to drink water and cool down, regular hoof checks (a sharp object penetrating a horse's foot can very easily result in a horse's death, so a major part of horse care is keeping their hooves clean). However, most farms that could afford draft horses instead of oxen would often own multiple to switch out when one or more of their horses got too tired during the day. Oxen were often the bulldozers-of-choice around most farms for such intense work like plowing rough soil (eg soil will a lot of stones in the way or a ton of clay), and generally did the jobs better than horses at a much lower cost per ox. Draft horses were incorporated into a lot of farming during the Victorian Era in particular as a sign of wealth and affluence on a farm, rather than actually employing the best animal for the job they needed to do. Oxen still tend to be better at a lot of farming-related work, but the horse breeding industry very much pushed the ox-training industry nearly to into extinction in the West.

Seeing draft horses doing the work that oxen used to do is more a product of showing off your wealth as a farmer than actually having the ideal animal for the job that needs doing, and so class perception and classism plays a large part in where and when you see horses doing the jobs that heartier animals like oxen are better suited for. Historically, a lot of farmers would sacrifice the utility and durability of oxen for the flashiness of draft horses, just like how today you'll find more specialized farming equipment on wealthier farms vs. cheaper, still-good-at-what-it-does-but-not-having-a-popular-brand-name equipment you'd find on a family farm.

So... realizing this reply is running incredibly long, the answer is: It depends on the setting, situation, the horse(s), and the care and responsibility of the owner/handler in addressing symptoms of exhaustion in the animal(s). On a cool, breezy day, a draft horse could work most of the morning and part of the afternoon, especially if the work they're being asked to do is fairly low-impact for them (again, depending on the job you're asking it to do and whether it's just one animal or multiple, how quickly a horse becomes exhausted is heavily influenced by outside factors), but may overheat and need to stop by mid-morning on a really hot, sunny day. That's the tricky thing about working with animals: They don't come with exact guarantees for how much mileage or power they can put out every day, and are vulnerable to health and environmental factors when it comes to how hard they can work and how long.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

DOUBLE UGLY

E.J. Potter, often called the "Michigan Madman," was a legendary figure in the world of eccentric racing. Known for his unique and wild creations, Potter famously used an **Allison V12 aero engine** in his vehicles, including a notable prototype, the **V-3420**. This engine was essentially a "doubled" V-12, with two V-12 engines sharing a common crankcase, resulting in a beastly powerplant. Of the 157 units built, the only one that saw competition was Potter’s version, dubbed "**DOUBLE UGLY**" after an announcer criticized his single-Allison creation as "ugly."

Potter’s fearless spirit led him to push the limits of racing and engine power, often in his infamous tractor-pull specials. The story of his life and work continued to captivate enthusiasts even after his death, as his books, filled with unfiltered and raw tales, remained in demand.

There’s even a fascinating story of a Dutch team that took things to an extreme, installing **three** Allisons in their tractor. Talk about pushing the boundaries!

[gallusrostromegalus]

Hinamori can drive? How did that come about? Is she a "must follow all the rules" driver or a "hold on for dear life" driver?

Momo's posting in the living world was in a more rural area and she got started driving her neighbor's tractor for him when he got hurt and she was bored, and then the farm truck and that was FUN on the little mountain roads, so she went and got a driver's license and managed to scrape together enough cash to buy her neighbor's 20 year old P.O.S. compact, and in the span of four months went from "what's a car?" To getting heavily into maybe-not-totally-legal vehicular modifications and earning herself the nickname "Peaches The Freak" on the illicit mountain rally racing circuit for "driving like she can't die".

She didn't actually tell anyone this when she got back to soul society because she was a bit embarrassed to be so enthusiastic about such a niche interest, so nobody finds out about HOW Momo drives until she's in the human world with her boss and her co-lieutenant, and they need to transport a large number of small objects at speed and the most reasonable way to do that is in the back of a car.

"what do you MEAN you don't know how to drive? Momo gapes at Shinji and Hiyori. "You were in the living world for a whole century?!"

"THEY GOT TRAINS EVERYWHERE IT DIDN'T COME UP!" Hiyori shouts. "ITS NOT LIKE YOU KNOW EITHER!"

"No, I do." Explains Momo, getting into the driver's seat of a Subaru old enough to vote. "That's why it's so strange to me."

"SHOTGUN!" Bellowed Hiyori, leaping into the passenger seat. "Okay, it's a little weird that *I* don't know how to drive, I guess, but do you really want mirror image dingus back there out driving on the wrong side of the road, do you?"

"I'm sure he'd get the hang of it eventually!" Said Momo. "Okay, seatbelts everyone! -and gas, mirrors, seat adjustment- who was driving this car, captain Komamura? Okay, check for cops-"

"What's a seatbelt?" Asked Shinji from the backseat.

"-and we're clear!" Momo said, putting her foot down and accelerating at a speed that made the buildings stretch and streak by like they were about to enter hyperspace.

One hour and six minutes later, they reached their destination, having reached a top speed of 193 mph, Hiyori discovering the female version of a terrorboner, and Shinji discovering what it feels like to be a lone sock in the washing machine during the spin cycle.

[pixeltwix]

{McGucket Family Tree}

I did promise to extend my lore and story for Fiddleford just as I did for Emma May in this post, buuuut for today I’ll be doing a more general Fiddleford family post without diving into his life in depth (I swear I will get to it eventually though. Today will just be small details and their designs :P )

The McGucket family definitely gives off ‘weirdo’ vibes. They’re a well known family in the town, but they always have a bizarre aura about them that sets them all apart from the rest

Bobbie Jean, his mother, and Arlo, his father, settled a bit later into a family than most others would in town, but their patient natures only brought about a very loving family

Blanche is the first born followed by Fiddleford some years after, but now you may ask, ‘why doesn’t anyone else have a goofy name?’

Per McGucket family tradition the first born son is always to have an unconventional or silly name, otherwise it’ll bring about bad luck. The McGuckets are very superstitious people after all!

To play off the weirdo vibe and unconventional energy of the family though I feel all of the McGucket kids have something about them that keeps them apart from most others

Blanche isn’t interested in romance or relationships despite the towns folk gossiping and calling her a spinster for her age

Fiddleford is exceptionally smart and capable of things beyond average comprehension

Lenore is artsy, independent, and favors women over men. Thankfully her parents would never force her into a marriage and protect her at home

Darla is the sweetest kid you’ll ever meet, but her anxiety is 10x worse than Fidds, speech not easy for her even with her own family

Huck is the second born son, but definitely not a farm kid. He detests everything about it and has tried on many occasions to set the pigs free

And then Sally has zero filter, enough said on that. She wastes no punches verbally and struggles to make friends on account of it

But then of course there’s the newest lady in the McGucket family, Emma May. I could talk for hours about her, but joining the family wasn’t exactly the smoothest transition for her

Growing up in a very unorthodox setting with cult influence she was unused to being welcomed into a home where kindness was given without strings attached

The McGuckets were more than happy to help her understand this though and even happier to learn about the woman who managed to steal their (usually socially inept) sons heart

While poor as the McGucket family is I imagine their family home has been with them for generations. Naturally as the family grows so too must the house. I’d imagine their place looks a bit of a mess with all the steady added additions to the house and barn, but it’s all so chaotically organized and right it difficult to not be endeared

While the main house is packed and lovely most of everyone spends the majority of their day out working the land and taking care of the animals

Thankfully they are not alone as the family is quite extended and equally generous and kind

There are plenty more men who have fallen victim to the silly name tradition that the McGuckets have, but the two closest in age to Fiddleford are the most relevant

Thistlebert and Diddsley were really his only friends aside from his siblings growing up, but really these two already felt like older brothers anyway

Thistlebert has an affinity for ‘saucer people’ always curious of alien life even if he doesn’t have the intellect of Fidds to understand it

Meanwhile Diddsley acts as more of the enthusiast for chaos. Always encouraging Fiddleford when they were kids to make the next big thing for them to wreak havoc with. Be that mini pig robots or tractors that can go over 80 mph, he was always the first to give suggestions

Like I said, this will not be the post where I hyper focus on Fiddleford himself, but to conclude I’ll simply say- The McGucket family is literally so silly

Like they’re all very capable and hardworking people, but they will find time to be fun and enjoy their lives without being serious all of the time

In a way it helps them cope with the conditions of their lives and the struggles that they realize most likely will never go away

But despite that every generation becomes more and more optimistic, Fiddleford’s literal dream to be that he an make enough money to provide for his own family one day

[mesetacadre]

Aviation in the USSR

A collection of excerpts from Anna Lousie Strong's The Soviets Expected It, compiled for @czerwonykasztelanic

[...] Or the guerrilla detachment which captured six German planes, destroyed five of them, and sent the sixth to the Red Army, piloted by an amateur air enthusiast, who was a tractor driver in ordinary life. Lt. Talalikhin’s initiative is already a Soviet aviator’s tradition. Exhausting his ammunition in a fight with three enemy planes, he rammed the tail of one enemy with his propeller, smashed the tail of another enemy plane with his wing tip, and then bailed out of his own plane safely. Moscow parks displayed the wreckage of the German planes, and other Soviet pilots quickly copied the tactics. An aviation technician, Konikov, won renown by attaching the fuselage of a plane he was repairing to the front platform of a military train whose locomotive had been bombed by the enemy; he thus pulled the most necessary parts of the train to safety.

pg. 14

The Soviet people glimpsed and felt victory. For the first time they began to feel that they were no longer “backward Russians.” They were beginning to challenge the world. With this went a proud sense of their unity as a nation. Cotton growers in Turkestan exulted, “We have conquered the Arctic,” though they themselves would never see the snow. Bearded peasants, who had never sat in an airplane, began to talk about “our conquest of the air.” Young Nina Kameneva expressed the mood of the country’s young people when she broke a world’s altitude record in parachute jumping and remarked on landing: “The sky of our country is the highest sky in the world.”

pg. 46

Moscow can make all the implements of war, including planes and motor trucks, inside the city. [...] Moscow’s sky is covered by an air defense that was the marvel of the London experts who visited it after the war began to make suggestions and found it far superior to London’s. Anti-aircraft shells make a thick blanket at four distinct levels to London’s one, and observation planes patrol the heavens night and day. Moscow’s four million people also offer a night-and-day defense.

pg. 51

Alma Ata, the capital of this area, has grown from a town of 60,000 to a proud young city of 260,000 in the ten years since the railroad reached it. Its life has leaped at once from the nomad epoch to the airplane. The railroad is too slow to tame the wastes of Kazakstan. From Alma Ata Airport the planes shoot forth, east, west, south, north, on new discoveries. [...] Kazakstan is only one of the energetic regions behind the Urals. South of it lie the lands of the Uzbeks and Tadjiks, where some of the largest textile mills of the U.S.S.R. work up the locally grown cotton and where automobile and airplane parts are produced by mass production in the historic city of Samarkand.

pg. 58

I have traveled many times on the Trans-Siberian. In the spring of 1935, I went from Vladivostok to Moscow with a stop-over in the Jewish autonomous territory whose capital is Birobidjan. The train was crowded with pioneering people in warm woolen clothes and padded leather jackets, engineers, Army men, developers of the Far East. [...] An army engineer who shared my table at dinner was celebrating his return by airplane from the northern wilderness by consuming a whole bottle of port and bragging about the Far Eastern pioneers.

pg. 59

According to Pierre Cot, the French Air Minister, who visited Moscow in 1933, the Soviet air arm was at least equal to the best in Europe in numbers, technical equipment, and, above all, in the productive capacity of the aviation industry.‡ Thus, by the end of 1932, which ended the first Five Year Plan, the Soviet Union had reached the level of Western Europe in armaments – a fairly modest level judged by standards of later years.

pg. 65

Other official indications of the extent of the Red Army’s mechanization come from Voroshilov’s report in 1934 [...]. Five years later [...]. He claimed that the “bomb salvo” of the Soviet air force (the number of bombs that can be dropped by all planes at once) had tripled in five years and had reached more than 6,000 tons.

pg. 66

Soviet airplane pilots also hold many world records, both in altitude and long-distance flights. Their conquest of the Arctic and its difficult weather has accustomed them to the severest conditions. Americans well remember the Soviet pilots who twice made world records by flying from Moscow to America. These were individual exploits, but the development of Arctic aviation on which they were based was the work of large numbers of pilots and implies a whole air tradition

pg. 67

Parachute jumping has become a national sport in the Soviet Union. Soviet people are probably the most air-minded people in the world. Training for air-mindedness begins in the kindergarten. Small tots play the “butterfly game” and jump around with large butterflies pinned on their hair, gaining the idea that flying is fun and a natural activity. Children in their teens make jumps from “parachute towers” which are far rougher and more realistic than the parachute tower in the New York World’s Fair, which was copied from them. The sport is popular not only in the cities but on the farms. Several years ago a Ukrainian farmer told me of his trip to the nearby city with a group of farm children, all of whom immediately formed in line in the recreation park to go up in a tall tower and jump off under a parachute. “I thought it very terrifying,” he said, “and wondered why the park authorities allowed it. Then I saw that my own thirteen-year-old daughter was at the head of the line. These children of today aren’t afraid of anything.” At an older age, Soviet young people jump from airplanes, learn to operate gliders, or even become amateur pilots in their spare time. Every large factory, government department, and many of the larger collective farms have “aviation clubs,” which are given free instruction by the government. Probably a million people in the Soviet Union have made actual jumps from parachutes. It is not surprising that the Red Army was the first to use parachute troops in active service several years before the Germans adopted them. In 1931 a small detachment of parachutists surrounded and cleaned up a bandit gang in Central Asia. The making of airplane models by young people is taken seriously in the U.S.S.R. In 1937 over a million school children were spending after-school hours in aviation model stations. At a later stage, young people of talent create real airplanes and demonstrate them at Tushino aviation exhibitions. Owing to the wide interest in aviation and the public ownership of factories, a bright Soviet youth who invents a new type of airplane may get it constructed by his factory sports club and show it off. At one of the aviation festivals I attended, I saw a score of different amateur planes, including every possible shape of flying object – short, stubby ones, long thin ones, others shaped like different kinds of insects. They added greatly to the gaiety of the occasion. Whether or not they produced any really valuable new invention, they at least encouraged the inventiveness of their makers.

pg. 72

In the past two years, especially, all this training has been given a very realistic turn. [...] Only a month before the Germans attacked the Soviet borders, 7,000 Moscow citizens practiced a special drill in repulsing parachute troops over the week end. The large numbers of such trained citizenry, both among recruits entering the Red Army and among the older citizens assisting it, greatly add to the Soviet Union’s total defense.

pg. 73

[simlicious]

Some impressions of my main island in Anno 1800

Here are some impressions of my main city in the Old World, which is still pretty small and does not (yet) have a large city feel. I play with lots of mods and all available DLC.

The workers are hosting a pumpkin harvest festival along the river.

The worker block is divided from the rest of the island by the old city wall. The old tower ruin is now a destination for history buffs and nature enthusiasts. Some prefer to sunbathe and picnic instead of reading the information panels...

Nearby, you can grab a tasty fish sandwich together with a newspaper. Or make a very important phone call. Or maybe all three at once, if you are an important businessperson or something.

Meanwhile, the farmers are hard at work in the grain fields. Tractors really do make a difference!

The fishing industry has recently discovered sweetwater fishing in the river.

Tourists are busy discovering the city by bus

Oil powers the electricity on the island.

The impressive docklands harbor

Tourists like novel things, like this automated bathouse in steampunk look!

If they are all wrinkly from bathing, they might prefer to go to the Chinese Dragon Festival or even dare to ride the rollercoaster.

The bourgeoisie prefers the orchestra.

Entertainment seekers can also visit the nearby zoo, in which the zoo keepers definitely have everything under control, and absolutely no crocodiles have gone missing lately, nope!

I might do another one of these screenshot posts. Maybe in another region like the New World with its South American flair, or the African-inspired Enbesa, if you guys like this!

[swimmingruinsdream]

Just A Boy Who Loves Tractors farm lover T-Shirt

TRACTOR GRAPHICS for all the boys who love farming or just love tractors. Great Christmas gift idea for your son or grandchildren who love playing with farm toys or tractors, Big green tractor graphics for boys for a birthday present. This Just A Boy Who Loves Tractors - farm lover kid idea item is designed by Farmer Tractor Designs LTD.

[andcars]

# 𝗠𝗔𝗫𝗧𝗢𝗕𝗘𝗥 : 𝗕𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚/𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗚𝗔𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗘 ─── ODD CIRCUMSTANCES MASTERLIST⠀MAXTOBER⠀REQUEST ME⠀TAGLIST⠀PATREON GUIDE⠀

IT'S TOO MUCH FOR MAX , the amount of problems he has to face all stack up one after another. he doesn't know how to quite deal with the fact both the man obsessing over him in his career and his biggest rival wants to fuck his alpha ass

TAGS . . . # porn with plot, alpha max verstappen, alpha lewis hamilton, alpha toto wolff, non-traditional alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alpha/alpha/alpha, threesome, enthusiastic consent, ruts, double depenetration, knotting, masochist max verstappen, body dysphoria, light angst, awkward confessions, motorhome sex, size queen max verstappen, WORD COUNT. . . # 4.5k

────── AO3 VERSION

Max isn’t feeling the car anymore.

It doesn’t feel his. The way the wheel turns, how the engines fail to perform, the buttons don’t even listen to him. It’s stupid. It’s frustrating. Max feels like he’s inching closer to insanity because of a failing fucking car not doing what he wants. Qualifying is going to shit tomorrow, he already knows that.

Maybe it upsets him more because he feels the same way with himself sometimes. But thinking into that more would probably lead him to a spiral of said insanity.

“Max,” someone calls him as he’s trying to exit the paddock. It’s Toto.

“What do you want?” He just wants to leave. He wants to drown in his simracing and forget Formula 1 ever existed.

Toto doesn’t seem to care about his crisis. “Can I talk with you for a second?”

He knows where this is going. “Look mate, I told you million times before. I don’t want—”

“I know,” he sighs, “but I’m not so sure if your answer before will be the same as your answer now. If you don’t want to talk now, perhaps tomorrow. Just after qualifying, yes?”

Max could very well be simracing tomorrow. Hell, he could be finding some nice enough alpha to fuck him to oblivion. 

He says, “Sure. But don’t think my mind would change.”

“I seriously doubt so.”

Toto leaves him. Max is torn apart.

When he gets back to the hotel an the comfort of his makeshift nest—something amateurish, not something a proper omega would even make when they were a wee little pup—he wants to bury himself in it forever.

He’s bare naked, uncomfortable in his own skin. The softness of pillows and the messiness of blankets is the only thing that tries to keep his thoughts tame. He needs this. He wants to keep this forever.

Nothing happens and he cries. A singular tear falls and suddenly he’s sobbing into the pillow.

Max isn’t an alpha—he is, technically. Yet that part of him feels like the most wrong part of him. Even then, he isn’t even an omega either. He hates his strong scent and masks it with blueberry in his own home. He hates the way his body is seen as more alpha than omega. He hates how he feels so alone with no one to care for him, because which fucking alpha would like someone like him?

He hits the pillows once. Twice. He kicks his legs and now he’s writhing about in frustration. The scream he lets out is gutteral but it’s muffled by the abundance of pillows.

Sleep looms over his head the same way dread does. He doesn’t want to wake up tomorrow. Perhaps he could just sleep in and forget about this all.

What a dream that would be.

────── SHORT WHILE LATER. . .

Qualifying goes as well as he expected. Max throws his wheel out in frustration. In front of him, he sees Lewis get out of his car.

Pole position. Fucking pole position.

If that was last year, he would be right there in the middle. He would have only needed to come out once to get into pole. Not a single fucking effort would be made. 

Look at him now—begging for his engineers to fix whatever it is that’s making his car act like a tractor.

After a quick meeting with the team, one where he didn’t suppress any form of anger at all, he left for Mercedes’ garage. He can’t really go inside and ask around for Toto. Luckily, he sees George just about exiting.

“George,” he calls, the man turning to look at him. “Have you seen Toto?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s right over in Lewis’ motorhome,” he says. “What’d you need him for?”

Max shrugs. “Just another discussion.”

George knows what he’s talking about. Max knows that he’s clinging to his seat like his life depends on it. He tries not to dwell on that too much.

“Yeah, well, good luck,” he says, patting him on the back, “he’s quite a hard one to convince otherwise.”

They leave in different directions. Lewis’ motorhome is pretty much near his. Just a few steps away and he’s right next to Hamilton himself.

Though he does have quite the respect for him, he hates racing with him. Maybe it’s because of 2021. Maybe it’s because they don’t mix well together at all.

The few times that they met after 2021, he was met with a sour look on Lewis face. Passing by him in the paddock, he sees the man take a swift and cover his face. Fucking hell. Can he smell the scent of different alphas on him or what?

Not only that but he refuses to talk to him. Even if he does try to start conversation, especially during FIA conferences, Lewis doesn’t even look at him and replies half heartedly. He looks irritated and squeamish each time.

So fuck him. If he does end up in George’s seat next year, he doesn’t want to deal with Lewis. Not at all. It doesn’t matter if meeting him for the first time he had stars in his eyes, or how he still wishes that whatever it is between them simply goes up, he hates his fucking guts.

Absolutely.

He fucking hates him.

…

Ugh .

Max hears distinct voices behind Lewis’ door. One of them raises their voice and the other is clearly more calm. He can’t hear what they’re talking about though. When Max knocks, the conversation stops.

It takes a few seconds before the door is opened to him. Toto is looking at him with indifference. He can’t see Lewis from here.

“Just in time,” he steps back, “come right in.”

“Toto, you can’t just let anyone in—” he sees how Lewis stops pacing back and forth when their eyes meet. “Max?”

He dooesn’t respond and Lewis turns away, sighing as his shoulders drop.

“I can let Max in whenever I want. My team is paying for this vehicle and you are still under me.” Max can hear the pure Alpha in Toto’s voice. It sends shivers down his spine. “Do you understand?”

He expects Lewis to retaliate somehow. No way is he just going to give up this authority, right? Is it just because Toto is considered the higher alpha in this room?

Lewis finds a seat on the couch and drops himself there. “Whatever business you have, I don’t want to hear it.”

Something is odd. Max didn’t notice it before but he notices it now when Lewis is close to him. He smells… stronger than usual. His scent is much more overpowering. His overall posture is closed off and his face is hardened.

He can’t think about it more when Toto ushers him to sit down beside Lewis. He feels a gaze on him as he sits. He starts to feel dizzy in Lewis’ scent.

“Both of you need to hear this anyways. That is if Max decides to finally take up my offer,” Max opens his mouth to retaliate but Toto beats him to it, “Max, need I tell you your current predicament?”

“They will fix it,” he says, not needing anything more from Toto.

“Fix what?” he asks, “Do they know what’s wrong with it or are they just hoping for the best? I told you, Checo has been saying the car is fucked.”

He thinks about that one clip of Toto saying that exact same line. There’s nothing in him to make him laugh. Lewis scent is… fuck.

“I don’t care—”

“Newey is signing for Aston Martin, do you know that?”

Fuck no. He thought that man was retiring!

“How are your engineers, Max? Can they really find what’s wrong? Where will they get the money to fix it?” Toto steps forward. The two alpha scents cornering him is making him go mad, “Are you sure that you know what you’re doing?”

A growl comes out beside him.

Lewis has his legs spread wide as his head is thrown back into the couch. “You two… I can’t fucking think! Both of you leave right now or I swear—”

“Lewis,” Toto shushes him, “watch your attitude.”

Another growl comes out of Lewis, rebelling against Toto. The superior alpha isn’t phased at all.

“Don’t act like this now, Lewis. I’m trying to help you.”

“Help me with what?” he screams, almost jumping in his seat. “All you’re doing is trying to get Max in George’s car for next year!”

“Yes,” Toto admits, “and for you to mate him.”

What.

What the fuck?

“Toto, what the fuck?” Max stands up but he quickly falls back, getting dizzy with the sudden pheromones in the room. “Ugh… fucking hell.”

“I am sorry to admit this but Max, I know of your… predicament,” Toto says, kneeling down so he can look at Max eye-to-eye. “I’ve done my research on you. I’ve also seen your hotel rooms. I know you hide no omega there except yourself.”

Holy fuck. Max wants to strangle Toto now. “You fucking bitch!” he reaches for his collars, “You’re disgusting! You’re so fucking desperate and this is… You’re fucking perverted!”

“It was not my intentions the first few times,” he says, “Is it my fault that Horner is giving me keys to your room? Do you know that he’s willing to sell you to Mercedes?”

It’s like problem after problem. Max is being stacked with so many things that he feels like he’s falling apart. 

His car is giving him more dysphoria than his body, Toto finds out that he’s basically a crossdresser and wants him to be Lewis’ mate, and Christian Horner is trying to sell him like a whore.

What the fuck?

“I’m not dealing with this. I fucking can’t,” he doesn’t want to try standing again but he needs to leave. He’s overwhelmed. He can’t take this anymore.

“Max, calm down,” Toto presses a hand on his chest. “Let me make my intentions clear.

“I am asking for your consent to go to Mercedes. I’m not taking any money from Horner. And yes, I know I took the keys from him for your hotel room and I came back afterwards. I only apologise for sneaking in after, that one is… guilty. That is why I am apologising now and telling it to you myself.

“I am also asking you to help with Lewis… issue,” he turns to the man brimming with arousal, “he refuses to take any escorts, he also refuses to take suppressants and promises not a single rut is on a race weekend, and he’s also fighting the desire to be with you at all times.”

“Toto!” That makes Lewis sober for a second. “You aren’t—... what the fuck?”

“I know everything about my drivers,” he says, then looks to Max, “and any potential ones.”

“You know how fucking messed up you are, right?” Max says, trying to keep himself steady in the midst of this mess. “This is fucked up. You’re fucked up. Lewis doesn’t even consent to this!”

“It’s not like—” Lewis tries to defend himself, but he’s shy to whatever he was about to say. “I… I mean. Fuck, I don’t even know what to say.”

Toto moves away, sighing. “If you don’t want me to say it, then you will. I’m getting tired of all your moaning about.”

Lewis growls but it’s more to himself than Toto. “This is stupid.” Toto doesn’t seem bothered at all. “Fuck, fine. I’ve had… I’ve liked you for quite a while now.”

Max blinks. “Are you talking to me?”

“Certainly not talking to Toto,” he sighs. “Shit, this is difficult. This is fucking embarassing and I really don’t want to try talking when all I want is to be fucking into someone right now.”

Max tries to push away the thoughts of being his someone.

“I’m not letting the both of you leave. I need this issue solved today so you can race tomorrow,” says Toto, locking the door to the motorhome. “So talk.”

Lewis huffs. There’s a dragged out silence before he finally turns to Max. “I’ve… I’ve always liked you. You’re endearing. Some fresh new kid that knows how to run his mouth and gets what he wants. Sometimes I think you’re like me, in a way.

“And it was weird because you’re an alpha. Or, at least biologically, I guess,” he shrugs. “I don’t care who you are. At least not after a while. But I can’t deal with that you might not like me because I’m an alpha. So I just… never bothered.”

Max tries to think of a very reasonable way to reply. “I’ve been fucking alphas for years now. I’m pretty sure I would still fuck you.”

That pretty much gets the point across.

“Oh,” Lewis looks lost. “That’s… yeah, that’s fine. I mean, sure, I’m maybe fucking jealous but I don’t own you.”

“Then court him and mate him,” Toto says, breaking the mood, “but first, I need your rut gone. Now that you’re still clear headed, I need you to know that I will not be able to find someone to replace your by tomorrow. So either you try to end your rut yourself by tonight painfully or the both of you get over your pining and get on with it.”

“And how are you so sure that I like him back?” Max says, noticing the hurt on Lewis’ face.

“Lucky guess,” Toto says, “Plus, not like you weren’t blushing just earlier in Lewis’ confession. So maybe stop messing around and, as I said, get on with it.”

“This is fucking weird, you know that, right?” Lewis says. “It’s super unethical and I could report you for this.”

Toto crosses his arms wordlessly. He only tilts his head as his eyes jump between the two of them. Some odd communication comes between the two of them and it seems like Toto wins.

“Okay, yeah, whatever,” says Lewis. “Max… just, you don’t have to say yes—”

“Yeah no, I’ll fuck you.”

Lewis chokes on air. “What?”

“I mean, you’ll fuck me. That’s how I prefer it. Unless you..?”

Lewis shakes his head. “As I said, you don’t have to say yes.”

“But I want to?” Max runs a hand through his hair. “You’re right. This is the weirdest fucking thing ever but I’m not turning this down now. I’ve been wanting you for so long and just… this is the weirdest opportunity but I’ll take it.”

It takes a moment for Lewis to finally catch up with reality. Maybe it’s the rut finally seeding into his brain that makes him unable to think. “Okay,” he finally catches up, “Yeah. Sure. Thank you.”

Max points a finger to Toto. “And you… are you staying?”

“I’ll be right outside,” Toto reaches to leave but Max yells at him to stop. Lewis is confused.

“I… I think I know why you came back to my hotel room multiple times, Toto,” he can see the fear in Toto’s eyes. “You want me too, don’t you?”

He doesn’t respond to that. Max knows he’s caught him. “Get a chair and watch. You don’t get to touch me until I tell you to. This is me trying to help Lewis, and this is me trying to hurt you.”

Beside him, Lewis moans. Max expected him to retaliate or force Toto to leave. But thankfully, he seems pretty turned on by this. Or maybe that really is just the rut talking.

“Now,” Max sighs as he turns so his legs are on either side of Lewis. “Why don’t you show me how a real alpha fucks?”

Lewis pounces on him like an animal. He doesn’t give him any time at all as their lips lock together desperately. Saliva escapes their mouths as Lewis forces Max’s lips open with his tongue. All of Max’s moans get muffled in Lewis’ mouth.

Below him, he feels Lewis palm him through his jeans. He cries out, getting caught off guard. “Lew…” he mumbles, the sound getting caught in his throat as he starts to drool with the way Lewis’ hips grind into his.

“Finally,” Lewis pulls away, “I don’t want to hear another word from you, okay? Tell me to stop, moan my name, or say nothing at all. I’m tired of talking.”

Max gets the memo as Lewis goes for his neck. He immediately tenses as he feels canine brush against his scent glads. He’s sure to have released more of his rotten alpha smell.

For a moment, he’s scared that it would turn Lewis off. He remembers his face everytime he passes by him. 

Yet, all he can hear is a moan as Lewis grounds his hip deeper. He’s groaning into his neck as he licks at his scent gland, begging for more of his scent.

For the first time, he’s happy with the way he smells.

“Lew,” he moans, hands catching the end of his shirt and pulling it up. He doesn’t say more as he meets his movements, trying to get friction on his neglected cock. He whines as Lewis pushes him down.

“No,” he says, voice gravelly and deep as a true alpha, “Stay down, omega.”

Max keens. He feels like he’s close to cumming and he shivers with the command. He nods, following his alpha to heart.

He’s maneuvored onto his stomach instead. He catches a glimpse of Toto—finally remembering his presence—and he’s sat there with his hands on his cock. He doesn’t look ashamed to be caught masturbating already. 

Part of him wants to tease and mock. But his jeans and his briefs get pulled down and all of a sudden there’s hot breath in his rim.

“Lewis!” he yells, “What are you—?”

“What did I say, omega?” he growls, “you say only stop or my name. So what is it you’re going to say now?”

He can feel the way Lewis’ mouth is so close to him. He’s breathing to his hole and he can’t help but think about his scent is the most prominent there. How he’s practically quivering in excitement about being filled.

Max puts his head down and wiggles his ass. He has nothing else to say.

“Good little, omega,” Max moans as he feels the wet tongue lap at his rim.

He can’t have natural slick. Or at least, he can’t yet. Max wants to be able to leak for Lewis, making fucking way easier for them in the future. But at the same time, he’s going to miss the way this would feel.

Lewis is moaning and mouthing at his ass like it’s the only meal he’s had in days. He’s teasing his tongue over the quivering hole, making sure to cover all crevices on the outside and teasing only the tip in a few times.

When he does push in, he slaps Max’s ass once to push his tongue inside. Max cries out, legs shaking as one falls down the couch. Lewis holds him tight as he fucks his tongue inside out of him. Soon enough, he feels two fingers easily slip inside.

He moans brokenly, scratching on the couch as he turns to look at Toto again. “Lewis…” he moans, mouth dropping as he really takes a look at Toto’s cock.

It’s big even in his own hands. Toto’s knot is barely formed but he can see the base of it, just coming closer to the edge from this alone. He notices that he matches his strokes to Lewis fingers, probably imagining fucking into his ass a few times.

“To— ngh ,” Lewis slaps him again but doesn’t stop. “Toto…”

Toto looks at Lewis as if he’s asking permission. There’s nothing that comes out of him so Toto approaches, kneeling down so that he’s facing Max. Max pushes himself up to his elbows and kisses Toto.

His lips are much rougher than Lewis’. It’s different. It’s odd. It makes him moan as Lewis pushes another finger in, drooling all over Toto’s chin as he feels close to cumming already.

Suddenly, Lewis pulls his ass up. It seperates him from Toto and he whines at the loss. “Such a needy fucking slut,” Lewis says, slapping his ass again. The sting is much harder and Max is sure he’s stained the couch from pre-cum already.

“You wanna feel both Toto and I’s dick? You’re so fucking needy… and I thought you were my omega for the day?”

“Yours, Lewis,” he says, but he’s getting excited as Toto situates himself in front of him. “Ngh… fuck.” Toto’s scent is much stronger at his dick and fuck does he smell good. He smells so fucking addicting that he’s opening his mouth and drooling for it.

“Just like I thought,” Lewis has no malice in his tone. “Just a cute little omega wanting to be filled.”

Before Max could put his mouth on Toto, he’s positioned on his lap instead. He lets out a desperate sound as he feels Toto’s huge cock poke around at his hole. Lewis’ saliva was barely enough to fully stretch him. But fuck, he wants to feel them burn him from the inside.

Lewis positions himself behind Max too, his cock slapping between Max’s cheeks. Max has an idea of how this will go.

“Fuck me,” he begs, grinding down on both the alphas cocks. “Please… I promise I can take it. Let me make the both of you feel good.”

“And you were trying to control me earlier,” says Toto, his voice ringing in his ear that builds his arousal. “Yet all you are doing now is acting like an omega in heat. Are you in heat, Max?”

“Yes!” he cries, wrapping his arms around Toto as he tries to push their cocks inside. “Please, alphas… please breed my hole. Please breed my omegan hole~!”

He doesn’t know who pushes in first. But he feels the stretch of it and he immediately screams. “Agh!” he buries his neck in Toto’s neck, taking in the scent of an alpha as he relishes in the stretch. “M-o-ore! Please! More!”

The next one pushes in when the first is still halfway inside.

Max feels like he’s going crazy—

in the best way possible.

“Yes,” he moans, pushing down and loving how he’s getting stretched. His moans are drawn out and prolonged, acting like a cheap omegan whore being passed around. “So good… You feel so good, Lewis… Toto—ah, fuck !”

Lewis fucks him and he’s trying to cling onto Toto. He’s no longer talking behind him. All he could hear are heavy panting and grunts from the alpha. The rut instinct has finally kicked him to the point he can’t talk.

It’s him who’s focusing on ramming Max’s prostate. Toto stays almost still to keep him stretch and satiated. But soon Toto tries to move, not matching Lewis’ pace but still enough for Max to pant like a dog.

He can feel both of their cockheads in his prostate. It’s Lewis who’s abusing it while Toto is rubbing it like a lover. The way both of their cocks have stretched his unaccomodating hole is stacking onto the pleasure-pain. He goes dumb over the way it feels. He needs more of it. He’s demanding more of it.

Lewis inches closer, going slower but his thrusts getting deeper in him. Max feels both of their knots already pushing against his rim. “Knot…” he moans, getting excited but not able to thrust back, “Alphas, I’m… agh~ ... I want your knots.”

“No, Max,” Toto stops moving but Lewis doesn’t get the memo. “You’ll break.”

Max cries, pulling at Toto’s hair. For a brief second, Lewis falters, sensing an omega in distress. “I want it! Don’t tell me no, please. I don’t—fucking… I don’t care if it hurts. I want to take both of your knots.

“Breed me, Breed me. Breed me!”

Their groans interlap with each other as Lewis comes back to his pace. He feels Toto move faster as their cocks take turns at abusing his prostate. Lewis pushes out, Toto fucks in. He pulls out, Lewis goes in. They take turns at using his hole that he barely registers it when he comes.

The useless knot formed on his cock is left ignored as he comes undone on Toto’s shirt. He doesn’t think he notices it at first. But once Max has his hand on his cock, Toto follows suits and starts to stroke Max in time with his thrusts. It’s overwhelming.

Lewis is trying to push his knot in with each thrust. He’s groaning behind him. His hands are tight around his hips and he’s trying so hard to push it in when Toto is doing the same thing. Both alphas fight to knot him, trying to claim him as his. Max’s ego feels like it’s on fire and he has never felt so euphoric until this moment.

He wants to take both of them. He said so and he will do so. Bracing himself, he pushes down slowly… slowly. “Ah—alpha..!” he’s sobbing as he pushes down, both the alphas moaning low as they try to push in at the same time.

It’s overwhelming. Both of their knots pop in and Max cums again. This time, Toto rides his high with each stroke as their cocks pulse inside of him.

And as if this was heaven, they both shoot out an abundance of cum inside of him.

A primal part of Max is upset with this. The stupid alpha inside of him telling him that it’s wrong, it’s immoral. But holy fuck, he could get used to this.

He could get used to the way both alphas are treating him differently. Toto is moaning into his ear, stroking is cock slowly until it’s calmed. On the other hand, Lewis is trying to push himself deeper. He can barely move with their positions but he’s trying his hardest to get all of his cock inside Max. Letting the waves of his semen wash over his insides as if he wants it to take.

“So fucking good,” Lewis moans, going back to his scent glands to breathe him in. “So fucking good. Like a… true omega. My omega.”

Max moans as he feels Lewis wash him over with another round of his cum. Toto stops grinding into him and rests. Lewis is telling him how good he is, how an omega like him should be pregnant with an alpha like him.

“Made for me,” he says. “You’re made for this, omega. Taking my cock… You’re so good. So fucking good. Mine. My omega. Fuck…”

He doesn’t know how long their knots last. He’s not sure who stopped first as both of them didn’t let him go. They all caught their breath as they struggle to come back to reality.

Max is sure that the couch is ruined. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Toto pulls away first, though. He whines at the lost of contact as Lewis pulls him back into his lap. “Stay there,” says Toto, “I’ll get wet tissues for the both of you. I’ll have a car drive here to pick you up both.”

Max doesn’t need to say anything more. On Lewis’ lap, he feels content. He feels cum drip down his thighs and the loss of it makes him sad. 

Then again, he will be fucked later. Again and again until he has Lewis’ litter. That makes him a little happier.

🗒 𝗣𝗔𝗣𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗜𝗟 . . . okay so i may have gotten carried away with this one. i almost posted late so my bad. technically, i did, because i accidentally deleted the tumblr post but i timed the ao3 one correctly. so now it forever bothers me that technically this one wasn't posted on the right time. anyways, still hope you liked it! ˎˊ˗ ᝰ. ──── 📨 @delululeclerc @hiireadstuff @rtorresblog @tribbisweetdear @jamie2305 @yunnie-f1 @mv1simp

you support me best on tumblr with reblogs and comments ! ── by andcars ⟡

[cheerycherrycandy-resurrected]

What if we kissed in the Maize Maze?

Ok so I wanted to start posting my Soulmates AU for Raindrop month, but writing for my Medieval one is going waay better than planned and it's confusing me to have 2 separate backstories in my head at once, so while I still have *checks calendar* 5 DAYS, here's a little stand-alone ficlet!

What if we kissed in the Maize Maze? A Midwest Emo Ghouls AU ficlet

Rating: T Content: fluff, literally that's it just fluff Words: 615

Lots of love to @alwaysjustmina for organizing this month again this year, I love any excuse to write about our soggy boys!! 🌦️🖤

hello @revengeghoulette, here is your summons as promised!! 🫡

Read below, or on AO3!

Haymaking season was coming to an end, and Swiss, Mountain and all the ghouls who pitched in to help were looking forward to a well-deserved break. To celebrate the end of the season, Swiss had built a maze out of hay bales for the children and kits of the town, as well as some of the more enthusiastic adults.

The whole community had come together to put on a party at the ghouls' farm. Mountain and his colleagues from the hardware store had built fairground games, Dew had dragged the church's speakers down on a trailer and was playing records Mist had brought from her shop. Aurora's cafe had a small pop-up, and Cirrus had brought a vat of apple cider, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic, for the younger guests. Cumulus was in her element, her little face-painting stall attracting such a sizeable queue that Sunshine had jumped in to help out. Phantom was taking his new role as Youth Pastor – and more recently Sunday School teacher – very seriously, replacing her in supervising a very intense game of tag. While Mountain minded the hay maze, Swiss was giving rides on the haycart he had hitched to the back of his tractor, driving the children and kits up and down the field in the warm afternoon sunshine.

After closing time, once the families had gone home, the ghouls had the place to themselves without getting in the way of the fun of the younger members of the community. Rain and Dew were the last ones left inside the maze. Aurora and Mist had quickly disappeared somewhere together, Sunny, Cirrus and Cumulus were deep into their mission of finishing off the cider now that their responsibilities were over, the three of them covered in rainbow paint and body glitter.

Dewdrop and Rain walked hand in hand through the maze, quietly drinking in each other’s company in the balmy evening air. Making it to the centre of the maze they sat down on a bale, surrounded by golden walls on all sides as the amber glow of sunset spread across the sky. Dew leaned his head on Rain’s shoulder, utterly content in the moment.

“It’s beautiful.” Rain commented, as they watched the play of colours around them. “Just like you.”

Dew turned his face to bury it in Rain’s neck, bashful.

“You are, and I’m so proud of you, taking over from Aeth like you did. You’re doing such a great job, love! Look at how the town and harvest are flourishing. I’m honoured to call you my husband.”

Never one to take compliments well, Dew redirected Rain’s affections by capturing his lips in a searing kiss. The pair lost themselves in each other, the cooling temperatures went unnoticed past the warmth of their bodies, the slight prickliness of the hay nothing compared to the soft slide of their lips.

By the time they came up for air, Dew having squirmed his way into Rain’s lap, the sky was glowing a deep russet colour. From outside the maze, they could hear the sounds of the others packing up to leave.

“Alright lovebirds, time to come out or I’ll send the dogs in!” they heard Swiss call. The pair only giggled, Rain placing feather-light kisses across Dew’s cheekbones while he blushed the colour of the sky.

“You don’t have a dog!” Dew hollered back as he struggled to hold in his giggles.

“Hi Dewy.” deadpanned Mountain.

Eventually, Dew and Rain managed to find their way out of the maze, neither wanting to be found and carried out by the giant earth ghoul.

“Nice straw hat, Rain.” smirked Swiss, “although normally you weave it into itself, not directly into your hair!”

[asunsetgrace16]

Karaoke ⎥ Chicago Blackhawks

I have no idea what their music preferences are, this is purely based off vibes. This what I think the Chicago Blackhawk's go-to karaoke songs are.

masterlist

Connor Bedard - he knows every word to 'We Didn't Start the Fire' by Billy Joel for some reason that he never tells anybody. He is dared to sing it one day because it's an older song, so he does it perfectly and surprises every person in the room

Colin Blackwell - 'Love Story' by Taylor Swift. 100%

Jason Dickinson - a stunning rendition of 'Vienna' by Billy Joel

Ryan Donato - keeps it classic with 'Don't Stop Believin'' by Journey. It's very mid, but not bad

MacKenzie Entwistle - a horribly off-key version of 'Livin' on a Prayer' by Bon Jovi

Nick Foligno - claims he is too old for karaoke but sticks with the classics too and goes with either 'Hotel California' by Eagles or 'Under Pressure' by Queen

Taylor Hall - there's about a 55% chance he sings something Nickleback and the other 45% is 'Love Like This' by BlackHawk for some sentimental reason

Seth Jones - something Katy Perry, I feel like. No reason, just a feeling. More than likely it's 'Firework'

Kevin Korchinski - either something by Zach Bryan or a 'The Last Saskatchewan Pirate' by Captain Tractor duet with Reese Johnson (please tell me somebody will get it)

Philipp Kurashev - adorably accented version of 'Call Me Maybe' by Carly Rae Jepsen. Everybody loves it

Petr Mrazek - first an enthusiastic attempt at 'Dream On' by Aerosmith, then plays it safe with 'Sweet Caroline' by Neil Diamond, met with applause and sing-along

Connor Murphy - also claims he's too old for karaoke, then proceeds to whip the most excellent cover of 'It's My Life' by Bon Jovi out of his back pocket and absolutely floors everybody

Alex Vlasic - 'Shut Up and Dance' by Walk the Moon or 'Stacy's Mom' by Fountains of Wayne. Or some other 2000's hit

[doberbutts]

Sorry if this is dumb, but if you don't mind me asking, what's the difference between "Weekend Warrior Bullshit" and someone there to actually work their dogs? I'm asking because as someone in a working breed who's considering getting into breeding these dogs in the future, I seriously want them to be able to do what they were created to do. But if I can't do that without living on a farm with cattle and sheep, for example, I'll happily leave breeding to the people who actually need these dogs to put food on the table as I think that's what's best.

Well it's not to say that people who can't truly work their working breeds shouldn't breed. I'm a weekend warrior bullshitter myself so there's obviously a lot of market for dogs who only really do that.

Basically, almost anything that you can earn a title for is "weekend warrior bullshit". IGP, herding trials, hunt tests, those are great sports but they are not necessarily "real work" when discussing what truly qualifies as work.

Dogs who hunt with their owners for sustenance, dogs who move livestock on an actual farm, police and military dogs, those are "real work".

I've discussed several times in the past how it irritates me that people are so hung up on titles titles titles. Don't get me wrong, I like sports, so if I want to buy a dog to play sports I'm buying a dog from titled parents and from breeders who pursue titles. And I do think titles are one avenue of proving your dog can do the work- in an ideal world the dogs doing the "real work" should easily be able to title. Otherwise, unfortunately, you're relying on someone's word and people tend to lie or be willfully ignorant to the realities of their breeding programs.

However... I grew up pretty Appalachian. Most people did not buy food from the store but hunted and farmed it themselves, or worked out community exchange with their neighbors. This is also due to religious pressure in my specific part of the Appalachians but I've found similar experiences up and down the mountain range. Proving your dog can pass a couple weekend hunt tests is great and all but that doesn't prove that your dog can be out in the woods with you sunup to sundown for the entirety of the hunting season to ensure your family eats that winter. Your dog chasing sheep in a pen for 15 minutes at a time doesn't prove your dog can reliably keep the flock in line yearround with predators, new additions, and births complicating matters.

And it irks me, and others like me, when people say "well MY dog is FIELD CHAMPION TITLED so his worth at playing hunting every other weekend is SUPERIOR to your untitled dog that literally keeps you alive in the winter". Like thanks I think we come from two different planets actually.

That being said, there's plenty of crossover, people who DO use their dogs to keep them alive that ALSO play at sports. And unfortunately the easiest way to meet them is to go to sporting events and talk to people and see who is doing it off the field in real settings vs who just shows up on the weekends.

This is compounded of course by breeds whose jobs no longer exist or are no longer legal. As the swiss mountain dog breeds were beginning to spread to other countries, the tractor was invented. Suddenly no one needs a workhorse of a dog because a tractor is cheaper and more reliable due to being a machine. So what was already a very niche thing became so abysmally rare that these breeds almost disappeared entirely, and only survive today due to enthusiasts and sports. Some breeds fell out of favor for their historic use- no one uses purebred danes for boar hunting anymore and the very few dane crosses are dramatically outnumbered by easier, cheaper, hardier breeds and mixes. Dog fighting and animal baiting is illegal so gladiator breeds can do sports, become pets, or get a new purpose. Some breeds we don't have a solid consensus on their use- what was the techichi, the landrace that became chihuahua, used for? No one knows because the people who made them went through multiple genocides and the few that are left don't want to talk to colonizers (which, like, fair).

So it's not so much "you must work your dog x amount in order to breed" but rather "if you are looking for real historic work, your first task is seperating those who do it for fun vs those who do it to survive, AND understand there's a lot of overlap here"

[wheelscomedyandmore]

The Creator Of 'Knight Rider' Used This Bonkers Peterbilt Truck In A 1980s TV Show

If you're a fan of unique and unconventional vehicles, then you'll be thrilled to hear about a peculiar semi truck currently making waves on Craigslist. This 1982 Peterbilt truck was originally built for a 1980s TV show that blended elements of Knight Rider with a touch of Mad Max. Despite the short-lived nature of the show, titled "The Highwayman," which only ran for nine episodes and a pilot, the incredible custom big rigs from the series have managed to survive. And now, one of them can be yours.

The story behind this extraordinary truck, and its even more extraordinary companion (which we'll delve into shortly), takes us back to the mid-1980s. During this time, television shows featuring high-tech vehicles like Knight Rider and Airwolf were enjoying immense popularity. In 1987, Knight Rider creator Glen Larson teamed up with director Douglas Heyes to bring forth "The Highwayman." Described as a fusion of Knight Rider and Mad Max, the show revolves around the "Highwayman" who roams a dystopian reality, solving crimes and unraveling mysteries in his truck. Among the show's notable features were its collection of cool trucks, and this particular Peterbilt stands out among them.

The crime-fighting heroes, known as the "Highwaymen," operated out of massive futuristic semi-tractors. The primary truck, driven by the lead character Highwayman portrayed by Sam Jones, started its life as a 1980 Kenworth cabover with a Detroit Diesel 8V92T engine. Although it bears resemblance to one of Luigi Colani's eccentric creations, it is, in fact, a unique creation of its own.

According to Hemmings, the truck underwent an impressive $287,000 conversion performed by Jon Ward Motor Sports of Alpine, Texas, to transform it into its on-screen form. The conversion process involved attaching a portion of an Aérospatiale Gazelle helicopter to the front of the truck, resulting in its distinct appearance.

The resulting truck is a sight to behold. Its unconventional design, blending elements of a classic semi truck with futuristic modifications, captures the essence of the show's dystopian setting. This remarkable piece of television history offers a rare opportunity for collectors and enthusiasts to own a tangible piece of the "Highwayman" series.

As it sits on Craigslist, this 1982 Peterbilt serves as a testament to the creative genius and audacity of the minds behind '80s television shows. It symbolizes the era when imagination ran wild, and the blending of genres led to captivating on-screen experiences. Whether you're a fan of Knight Rider, Mad Max, or simply appreciate the allure of unconventional vehicles, this unique Peterbilt truck holds an undeniable charm that is bound to leave a lasting impression.

So, if you've ever dreamed of cruising the highways in a vehicle that blurs the line between fiction and reality, don't miss this opportunity. Own a piece of television history, and let the spirit of the "Highwayman" live on through this extraordinary Peterbilt truck.