#hosted parties

[longlivelindsay]

You're On Your Own Kid

I really wish I was over that line in YOYOK by now. I thought I would be at my age. I thought a lot of things that I would be at my age that were untrue.

I guess I just assumed I’d grow out of hosting parties, starving my party, and hoping to be saved by a perfect kiss… but I’m 37 and still delusional.

At least I know I’m delusional. But I’m planning for a birthday party anyways.

In April. So I can wear my skinniest strapless sundress.

[pondflirtingwithherself]

Thinking about the bridge to You’re On Your Own Kid rn

[itsaspectrumcomic]

I learned recently that you're not supposed to turn up to a party exactly on time...

[cubbihue]

Does Mr. Turner like rubbing his “son’s” successful career in Dinkleberg’s face??

He does! He brags about Timmy's success to every person within the neighborhood's vicinity. Mr. Turner loves how successful his son is! It really secures his reputation at the neighborhood HOA meetings they host at their house.

Timmy's worked very hard to gain more successes than failures. The more successful he is, the greater his family's social standing!! And the less he gets to overhear his dad ranting to the neighborhood about his failures.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[phykoha]

yippee yippee Renet !!!!

[nyxofdemons]

okay so the main criticism i've been seeing against episode 8 is that beelzebub (among other things) is "too nice" to be the sin of gluttony, because she's an attentive hostess, because she expresses worry over blitz's excess drinking, etc., and i wanna talk about it.

the thing is, i feel like this complaint is rooted in the most basic, somewhat cliche idea of the sin of gluttony, and a somewhat boring approach to bee's character in general. the idea is that, as the sin of gluttony, bee should be encouraging over-indulgence, excess, and the self-destructive aspects of party culture and drinking.

but she's the queen bee. she clearly explains that she can feel the "energy" of everyone at her party, and i think that's very important to analyzing exactly what gluttony means to her. instead of indulging in food and alcohol and drugs and being selfish (as gluttony is generally expected to be about), bee feeds on the ENERGY of the demons around her. and in order to get the best energy she can, she needs to be making sure everyone is actually having FUN and having a good time. gluttony, in this sense, is about EXTRAVAGANCE, having the best quality of everything, rather than just everything in general.

i also think this is why she was so put-off by blitz's actions. when he chugs the entire barrel of alcohol and then is absolutely wasted beyond all reason for the rest of the party, he's NOT actually engaging in her sin. he's not being gluttonous; he's not drinking to have a good time or to indulge or to have fun - he's drowning himself in alcohol because he's trying to forget and ignore all his problems, which is a sin much more akin to pride. his energy feels bad to bee because he's not having fun, he's deeply hurt and trying to distract himself by being self-destructive, which is NOT what her sin is about.

(also, remember, this is supposed to be part TWO of the finale. meaning, this episode (and the introduction of bee's character) directly goes hand-in-hand with the introduction of asmodeus, who's entire club IS about indulgence and depravity and everything you'd expect from the sin of lust. bee and the gluttony party are meant to be a direct foil to the energy of ozzie's.)

[hjarta]

cannot stop thinking about my friends from uni who fell in love and regularly host brunches and fun dinner parties at their cozy apartment together 😭 literally the dream....

[estellaestella]

Wild animal spotted at the Venice Film Festival. September 2022.

once in a blue moon he will dress like a woman who's hosting a party on the yatch she got in her second divorce but he makes it werk

[syoddeye]

under the table

gaz x f!reader x price. ~2k words. +18 only. What is this? Who knows. Just wanted to write a little smut. Very loosely based off this. tags: dubcon, manipulation, semi-public fingering

Ten months into your marriage, you give into Kyle’s pestering. No, perhaps that’s an uncharitable way to phrase it. You finally accept one of his many invitations to meet his commanding officer, his Captain. 

(Though, is there any other way to describe Kyle’s incessant requests? When he asks repeatedly over breakfast or on dates, or when he drapes himself over your back mid-fuck, slowing to a teasing grind in an effort to make you change your mind? Think you’d like him, babe, like him almost as much as–)

You tell him it’s weird to bring up his boss while he’s inside you, but he just laughs and wipes the sweat off your brow.

“He’s important to me. He saw my potential. Just like you.” And how can you refuse when he puts it like that?

You tell him one evening after dinner, drying the dishes as he washes. Ceramic meets steel in a clatter as he drops a plate to cage you into the countertop, pressing kisses to your neck. You can feel his big, pleased smile against your skin, the chorus of thank yous. He barely remembers to turn the sink handle before he drags you off to bed, dishes half done.

It’s only drinks at the pub around the corner, and you don’t know why Kyle’s stressing and fussing over your outfit. Not every day does your husband pick your outfit, so you play along. You perch on the end of the bed to judge the dresses he presents and laugh at the fact that he thinks you’re pulling on three-inch heels for a place with tacky floors.

Kyle relishes that you must lean on him the whole way to the pub, the impractical shoes seemingly bent on catching every crack in the walk. His grip around your waist tightens the moment you cross the threshold, his grin a sly crescent.

He settles you into a booth in the corner, stepping away to buy your drinks. Beneath the table, you tug at the hem of the dress he convinced you to wear. It’s a classic black number, short, one of his favorites, and a bit much for your surroundings. But the fact that he pulled it out tells you the end of the evening will be good for you, that you’ll be duly rewarded for finally agreeing to meet his Captain.

A man appears at the table, eyes giving your top half an unabashedly appreciative once-over. Your mouth falls open as he slides onto the curved bench, stammering out a protest.

“Excuse me, I’m–my husband is at the bar, I’m flattered, but I’m–“

“Easy, love, just wanted a moment alone. Get a look at you.” The deep timbre of his voice is practically a purr, his mouth an amused line beneath an imperial beard.

Your brow pinches in annoyance. This sort of thing doesn’t happen often anymore, not with the pretty ring on your hand. You make a point to lay it on the table. “I’m not here on display, so if you’d please fuck off–“

“Captain Price,” Kyle chirps, a pint in each hand. “See you’ve met the missus.”

A hand pinches your knee, and it’s not attached to your husband.

“I did. Spirited, like you said.” The hand retracts as Captain Price exits the booth, exchanging a look with Kyle you don’t quite understand. “Back in a tick.”

You watch the broad-shouldered man head for a drink, then glare at your husband. “‘Spirited’?”

“Aren’t you?” Kyle chuckles, sidling up until his leg is flush with yours. He pushes the lager to the space in front of you and slings his arm over the back of the booth. “Did he scare you, babe? He can be a bit friendly, but he’s harmless.”

You sincerely doubt it. ‘Friendly’ is a loaded word. It’s how you describe Kyle and his hands’ bad habit of wandering. Ask him, and he’ll say he’s simply smitten and proud to have such a cute thing for a wife. Like it is now, his arm practically lives across your shoulders or around your waist when you’re out and about until his hand ‘gets cold’ or ‘lonely’, and he slots it between your legs or rests it on the swell of your ass. ‘Friendly’ is not something you want his boss to be.

Cordial. Polite. ‘Friendly’ in the way bosses are supposed to be, detached and unassuming. 

The older man scoots in close, muttering something about the noise, effectively sandwiching you between him and Kyle. You retreat into your husband’s side as their conversation kicks off, catching up after weeks of leave. A few names you recognize from Kyle’s stories sprinkle in, giving you minimal context. You drink your beer and nod when appropriate, but otherwise, you people-watch. Though, you don’t watch the right people.

Over your head, behind your back, Kyle stares at his Captain, gaze darting down every so often to how the fabric of your dress pulls taut over your sides. The sliver of lace from your brassiere peeking out underneath a dress strap. He watches a man he trusts with his life openly examine his wife’s profile, effortlessly carrying on the conversation without meeting Kyle’s eyes once. 

“Have we bored you to tears, love?” 

You lift your head, pressing against Kyle, when Price plants his forearm on the table to lean closer. “Not at all. I don’t mind listening, Captain.”

“Told you to call me ‘John’.”

“Sorry,” You apologize. “John.”

John hums, musing. “So she can listen.”

The mild condescension leaves a taste in your mouth, but Kyle squeezes your shoulder, soothing.

“She is, sir.” 

John’s gaze is heavy, dropping to your mouth to your cleavage in one swoop before excusing himself to buy the next around.

“Kyle,” You turn, finding him staring at the back of John’s head. “Can we leave soon? I don’t feel well,” you lie, shifting in your seat.

“Really?” His eyes snap down, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You sure? You haven’t even finished your first.”

“Please,” you glance sidelong at John. I–We can skip to the good part at home.” Usually, the offer works. It gets him on his feet quickly, tugging you to the car or along the walk within seconds. But he hesitates, mirroring your quick look at John.

“One more drink,” Kyle insists, tugging you back into place and forcing you to face forward. His breath hits your neck as he dips his head to whisper into your ear. “Think you can handle it? Be good for me?”

The tone of his voice makes you consciously aware of your nipples protruding through the thin material of your bra, instantly rising to attention at the sheer promise behind his words. Without thinking, your knees press together, capturing his attention. You watch his tongue glide over his lip. Surely, he won’t. Not with his boss here.

His arm remains in place, and his free hand inches closer atop the table. 

“Kyle, don’t.”

“Don’t what, babe?” He smirks, looking away as John reclaims his spot.

“Miss anything?” 

“Not at all.”

While they return to their chat, you cannot disconnect as easily as before. Both men press against your sides despite the booth’s available space. Your heart thrums in your chest, ratcheted to a speed that makes you fidget. Twitch. Kyle’s honeyed words repeat in your head, and you subtly squirm, feeling the heat between your legs pulse.

You don’t notice Kyle’s hand slide off the table until his fingers cup your bare knee. You turn your head, lips parting, but he’s not looking at you. You swallow hard when he pulls, opening your legs. His name is on the tip of your tongue, confusion mixing with embarrassment, and it fizzles into a choked silence. Another hand, broader and more calloused, slips over your opposite thigh, searching.

The din of the pub meets the rush of blood in your ears. The edges of your vision blur, your thoughts static, and it isn’t until a finger drags up the gusset of your underwear that you come crashing into consciousness. You jerk, and two bodies of solid muscle keep you in place like bookends.

“Easy,” John purrs, repeating the movement, slower.

“Kyle–”

“It’s okay, babe,” He coos in your ear.

Your eyes fall to your lap, where Kyle’s hand wrenches your dress to your upper thighs, giving his Captain access. Indignation swirls, beating violently against your skull, a swell of shame racing with a rogue wave of want.

“We leave in a week, right? Cap could use a boost. Think you can send him off with something nice?”

“Kyle, I don’t–” Your breath hitches as a second finger joins the first in rubbing gentle circles, pressing into the dampening cotton. Your leg tries to reflexively close, and Kyle’s hand returns to your knee to stop it. Your hands, formerly weighed down by pure shock, reach for John’s forearm, sinking your nails into skin dusted in coarse hair.

“Babe–” Kyle starts sternly.

John tuts, unaffected by the angry marks you impress into his arm. “It’s alright, Gaz, I don’t mind. We’re just warming up, gettin’ used to the idea.” 

No, no, you are not getting used to the idea. You’re not. You’re not letting him, Kyle’s boss, John, touch you like this in a pub where anyone could see if they stare too long. Any second, you’re going to yell. Tear Kyle a new one. Then John’s fingers deftly slide your underwear out of the way, and instead of a scream, a squeak pushes out as a finger pushes in. Kyle’s hand lifts from your shoulder to guide your face toward his for a kiss.

John’s finger dips in, teasing, and you hear him groan while Kyle’s tongue licks into your mouth, keeping you fixed to him until you need air. You suck it in through short pants, eyes glazed over with a cloud of lust. You’re stupefied and trembling, inhaling sharply when the finger sinks to the webbing and curls. 

“How is she?” Kyle asks, pressing kisses to your temple as your chin dips to your chest.

“Warm, fuckin’ soaked,” John chuckles at how it makes you clench.

Your eyes, half-lidded, stare into the shadowed valley between your open legs. The table blocks the dim lamp above, but the slick on John’s digit, as it withdraws, catches the light. The noise of the bar ought to drown it out, and perhaps it does, yet you hear the lurid, wet sound of his finger plunging in.

The men hold their breath as you go offline, mouth opening and shutting several times like a fish dying in too-shallow of a tidepool. The hand continues its work, stoking a heat you want to both smother and feed. 

“Kyle,” You try again, a breathier, whiny pitch to your whisper.

“I know, I know,” He kneads the fat of your thigh, knuckles bumping into his Captain’s. 

The men exchange a few words you can’t make out. Your foggy eyes lift to scan the bar, some lucidity begging you to at least check for an audience. In the corner, there’s nowhere for someone to linger or gawk to catch what’s happening beneath the table. In a distant corner of your mind, it occurs to you that Kyle must’ve planned this. 

A mounting pressure digs your fingertips into John’s arm harder and harder, which he responds to with a quicker, more insistent rhythm. Kyle’s hand grips your thigh, but there’s no need with how wide you spread them yourself. You bury your teeth into your lower lip, then slap a palm over your mouth. The heel of John’s palm grinds into your clit. 

“Lookit you,” John puffs into your ear. “Thought you weren’t on display?” 

You come, whimpering behind your hand, squeezing John’s finger in a vise.

Somewhere in the bar, a glass breaks, and a chorus of drunken voices boo. Two fingers slip out of your heat and pat the ruined cotton against your sopping cunt.

Outside, the temperature dropped considerably, not that you’d feel it with your husband’s arm over your shoulders and his Captain’s hooked around your waist.

The world’s fuzzy, their words clear.

“She’s a good girl, Gaz.”

“You ought to apply, sir. You might get lucky.”

“Why would I do that, when we’ve got her?”

[robintherobiner]

I think Tim is rapidly becoming disillusioned with death. Within the space of just a few years over half of the people he cared about died, and most of them came back. Stephanie, Dick, Kon, Bart, Jason, Bruce (who wasn't technically dead but-), and even Damian.

Note how those are only his hero friends. Janet, Jack and Dana are unfortunately still dead.

So i genuinely think that the next time a hero friend dies, Tim is going to think they'll come back. Sort of like Bruce, except the next time, they won't come back. But Tim, who we already know is terrible with grief (99 clones, anyone?), will definitely cling to the idea that his newly perished hero friend will come back because "look at the data! Heck, even Superman came back to life! They're gonna come back, guys. They have to."

[introspectivememories]

buggy drunk, flirting with marco: heyyy~ marco

marco responding because if nothing else it'll make shanks mad: heyyy~ bugs

shanks, halfway across the grandline, tense as hell as he gets a that's so raven like premonition: buggy and marco are fucking

benn with his head in his hands, halfway to crying because this is the fifth time kashira has turned the ship around because he cant stop chasing after that fucking clown and he doesnt get paid enough for this and-: this ship is fucking NIGHTMARE!!!

[dailymanners]

Be mindful of when, where, and how you groom in public. Avoid grooming habits in public that are going to leave a mess, and if they will leave a mess at least clean up after yourself. But overall, try to keep what grooming you can at home or in some sort of private space.

If you were to take out a pair of toenail clippers and start clipping your toenails at someone's housewarming party, you'd get some pretty strange looks, and probably asked to stop if not asked to leave. First of all, toenail clipping is something likely to leave a mess, a stray toenail clip just might fly off into another party-goer's drink. Or, it might just make other party-goers feel uncomfortable and squeamish.

Grooming is often considered something personal, which is why a lot of people might feel awkward seeing others groom themselves in public.

Keeping a brush or comb with you and occasionally running it through your hair might be fine depending on where you are, but be mindful of where you do it, especially if you're someone who tends to shed a lot, and clean up after yourself if you left behind any hairs on surfaces such as chairs or desks.

The general rule of thumb is that if it's something the majority of people in your culture keep to doing in the privacy of their bathroom at home, a lot of people are going to find it awkward if they see you doing it in a public space. Not only does it feel awkward to see someone doing something usually kept to the privacy of their bathroom at home, but things such as clipping toenails, plucking your mustache hairs, ect. are also things that can leave a mess, and most people are going to feel grossed out by finding someone else's toenail clippings or mustache hairs in public.

[my-midlife-crisis]

[phykoha]

I guess this counts as a sneak peek or.. spoilers?? idk hfjgsgfhdf but uh yeah

[theladyofbloodshed]

it's kind of funny how tamlin stated there was no such thing as a high lady (because there still isn't; the magic has never chosen a woman and it is just a title) but as his wife, feyre would have been doing more for the spring court as its lady than she currently does as High Lady of the night court

[juicyspacesecrets]

Happy Holidays! Please find joy in the world today!