#scratch a lib

[zigcarnivorous]

I am your valentine you fatted hogs

You are a cast off meal for Satan, not even to care or fart on, you go on the heap, you rot

[charlotte-ulysses]

>no need to investigate how they made their way all that distance.

scream it louder for the libs at the back

"Listen to X Voices" as a mantra is usually just a sign of intellectual laziness. I don't want to actually learn the factions & interests involved in a specific conflict so let's just go with the voices that just so happen to make their ways to my ears - no need to investigate how they made their way all that distance.

[familyabolisher]

I do think being a waitress has done one great thing with respect to writing: it has made me understand deeply and fundamentally how many writers are full of shit. It has altered my view of privilege and money and the ways that people complain that mask the fact that in their world, they would never have to do a job that equates to basic manual labor, because their intelligence is worth more than waiting on others. (Side note: Sweetbitter was an overrated waitressing book, Love Me Back is underrated.)

Maybe by accident, maybe on purpose, I fell in to a social group in New York City with many people who consider themselves to be intellectuals. I’ve been privy to countless conversations about how intellectual labor is labor, about how someone needs to do the sitting around and thinking and theorizing, with the thought underlying this being: and it certainly wouldn’t be the people who carry things for a living.

Why don’t websites hire service people to write about food? How do ‘restaurant journalists’ exist, when servers who are also artists are standing right here? A book critic once told me, “a website could never be staffed by service people, the quality of the writing would be too low,” and I wanted to laugh. I suspect it’s easier to teach a waitress to be a writer than an intellectual to be a waiter.

Becca Schuh, Bad Waitress

[nottobeadickoranything]

[zanmor]

how the fuck am I following people already parroting that you've gotta vote for Genocide Joe

[chobunz]

── “ clipped. ” ( hjs ) 🪔

๑ You’re at Han’s studio waiting for him to finish up a song for their new upcoming album, but he seems to be lacking in some categories, motivation.

pair: idol bf!han ㅊ gf!reader | warnings: smut, pwp, fluff, smoking (weed), han overthinks a lot, kissing, jisung’s such a softie for you, mommy kink (??), couch s.x, piv, creampies | words: 1.3k

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“sungie, could you put that out already ?” you whined, indicating you were talking about the bud that’s left a stream of smoke behind whenever a puff was taken from it’s end. it doesn’t bother you at all that han smokes, you even smoked sometimes too, but you just weren’t feeling that kinda vibe right now and the smell was giving you a headache.

“please?” you added last minute. knowing that he likes it when you use your manners.

“okay fine.. only ‘cause you were a good girl and asked so nicely.” he says, putting pressure on the lit end of the joint, in return it’s flames fade.

“thank you..” you loved when he called you that, if you were at home your legs would have been spread wide open right now. but, since you have somewhat a sense of control over yourself you do otherwise. legs crossed over the other, and a throbbing pussy.

your boyfriend, han, for the past hour, has had no flow on his mind, the combinations of sounds they weren’t— let’s say, taking up all the space in his body like they usually were and other days. it left him confused— aggravated.

his head sank into the headrest of his rolling chair, causing the seat to dip back at an angle. you lifted your eyes from your phone after hearing the squeak from the chair. you could sense his hard timing and decided to comfort him.

“oh— my baby.. what’s up, hm ?” you stood behind his chair, cupping his face.

“nothing, just need… a break.”

“really ?, then what was the heavy exhale you let out not even 2 minutes ago ?” giggling, you scratch the sides of his face, gently.

“sleepy..” he muttered, feeling good even great under your touch.

“wanna come break with mommy ? hmm? hmmmm?” you teased, attempting to make him laugh.

“don’t call yourself that.” he cheesed, awakening his pretty, gummy smile. “weirdo.” he palmed your wrist bringing it towards his lips before placing a quick peck onto it’s flesh.

“but yes, i wanna take a break with my mommy.” he laughed, spinning his chair around to face you— getting up to sit on the black couch that sat in the far corner of his grey studio.

you laughed at his intended use of the ‘nickname’ you gave yourself a few moments ago; following behind him closely.

“lean on my chest !” you pat at your clothed breasts. “tell me all your woes and worries my baby.”

han didn’t hesitate at all, he jumped at the opportunity fast as he could to get his face buried into your plump breasts all with a satisfied grin.

“my ab-libs.” he spoke

“your ad-libs?” you raise your brow in confusion, “what about it?”

“it’s missing… something, i know it is, but, i don't know what—” “it’s just so frustrating.” he confesses, head rested on your shoulder.

“oh ? wanna get your blood pumping ? get that brain working ?” you puckered your lips against his forehead. suspecting a positive response.

jisung, being jisung, perked his head up immediately with furrowed brows. “what are you inferring?” his mind went completely to the gutter, knowing you and your dirty little mind, how couldn’t it ?

without a thought, your lips laced his before quickly pulling away. “now do you g—” you were cut of both your speech but also the space between you and your lover.

he sloppily kissed your pillowy lips, biting and nibbling at them. his tongue grazed your bottom lip pleading for an entrance, quickly pushing against yours when you gave in.

you were now caged under his structure, he used one of his hands to stay held and the other to roam your body, unbuttoning your top while he was at it.

“fuck, sungie..” he trailed wet kisses down your jawline..to your neck..and lastly your collarbone; pulling off and throwing away the fabric that covered him leverage to your mounds.

“no bra ?..” he exhaled before he dove back into you, kissing around the padding of your nipples before taking one of them into his mouth.

“babe, i don’t wanna— foreplay..” you jut out a cute pout with your lips, skipping over your words.

“no ?” he kissed your bare for the last time before sitting up straight, eyeing you. “gorgeous.. you’re so beautiful.”

you sat back, laying flat against the sofa, covering your face in embarrassment. “oh, stop it.” you weren’t one for taking compliments well.. even though you loved them, especially from your boyfriend.

he chuckled, “mhm, spread for me, pretty.” you comply at the sound of his belt being removed from his slim waist.

you pulled the end of your skirt up, pushing the already soaked fabric blinding your core to the side.

“baby, you’re so pretty..” he pumped himself, scanning your fluffy cunt. “so fucking wet already.” his fingers slid between your gooey folds using some of your wetness as a lube, setting himself up at your entrance.

you faint a whine as if you’re begging him. begging him to relieve you. you wanted— no needed him inside. just as you were about to speak, his shaft filled your mushy walls. the both of you exhale at the pressure it added onto your heat.

“fuck, han..” “feel so good inside me.”

the pale figure scoffed, a smile evident on his features. he was flustered. but the shy demeanor was sure to vanish as soon as he set a pace. you squeezed his cock just right, you were always so tight for him.

“mm, princess, you’re so fucking tight for me.” “dewy little cunt.” he growled, playing with your clit.

han pounded into you, like he wanted everyone on the other side of the door to hear your calls of pleasure. that would be if the door of his studio wasn’t soundproof.

you loved when he got a little more aggressive, you made all the noise you could for him. just so he knew how good you felt under his weight.

“yeah, sungie.. faster ! more.” you shrieked, tears welling up in your eyes. hands exploring his lower back.

he did everything but what you wanted, you wanted more ? he stopped. where were your manners ? he teased you, rightfully.

“baby ?” you propped yourself up only to see him looking right back at you. “what ? why’d you stop ?”

“you’re too pretty not to use your manners.” a loud slapping noise excerpted from your thigh. “say it, now.”

“please ?..” you shied away, how could he discipline you while pleasuring you.. what a meanie :((

“mm.. you learn so fast..” he leaned down, hovering over you. kissing you gently. his hips in motion again at a quickened pace.

“shit..y/n..” he whispered against your mouth. “you sound so fucking pretty.”

“coming.. gonn’ come.” you moaned, long acrylics digging into his back. you felt tense, your clit was throbbing, the pressure build up making you wrap your legs tightly around his waist.

you only got a choked laugh from han, before hearing his breath hitch.. and his breathing fasten.

“come with me, you got it baby..”

he latched his lips with yours again, thrusting himself into your foggy restricted pussy harder than before. your whines and his groans filled the room.

“gonna fill you up, you want it ? huh ?”

“yes, yes please !” “wan’ it so bad baby..”

it happened quick, he filled your walls, his molecule mixing with yours before you felt the weight on his body directly on yours, he felt like a mess, it’s like he fully dissolved into you.

“felt so good..” you kissed the crown of his head caressing his back.

he hummed, resting his voice a bit. you both fell limp into the couch, it would definitely need cleaning after what you both had done to it.

he pulled his member from inside of you, letting your mix of lust drip down your ass. your whines when he escaped you shot a cord through him.

“damnit ! i should have clipped this.. you would have sounded so good as an extra lib..” “can we do it pumpkin ? can you handle it ?”

“you’re gonna put me moaning in the background of your song ?..”

“it’ll be faint. i promise you !” his gummy teeth came to view once again. making you fully give in to his wishes.

“great, i’ll go get the headset !!”

my first skz fic yay !! (∪ᵔﻌᵔ).• ♡︎

[redflagshipwriter]

Hot Ghouls in your Area ch 4 progress

(read other sections of this and more stories here)

Danny floated miserably through the stacks, pulling out books that looked remotely plausible. Maybe he needed help. Jazz would help him without laughing at him, right?

Sam and Tucker absolutely would not. They would think it was hilarious that he had so little game that the universe assigned him a boyfriend via Jeremy Waters. 

‘As if I could pull a guy who looks like that,’ Danny thought wryly, and then felt a little bad about himself in comparison. Jason was, uhhhh, physically blessed. He was tall and well proportioned and his hands- Danny fought down a shiver and resisted the urge to steal another look. Jason was out of sight anyway.

Well. He still hadn't seen Jason's face. Maybe he was ugly! You never know. Or maybe under the helmet it was totally smooth, no face. That would be neat. Danny paused mid motion to imagine that.

Haha. Sick, man.

That concept cheered him up a little as he grimly opened the first book and started skimming for likely words like marriage, spouse, and concubine. 

He didn’t bother reading anything in detail. He stuck a post it note on each page with a relevant term and then put the book in a pile to take back to his dorm. This wasn’t going to get solved in a day.

Ah, shit. Danny paused. This wasn’t going to get solved in a day. He bit his lip and looked off in the direction where Jason had disappeared to do his own research.

He truly didn’t have time to devote to this right now. He was not willing to drop his school life in order to solve a sudden problem. Jason was just going to have to cope with whatever timeline Danny could manage without setting his life on fire.

On the other hand, Jason was a human guy who probably had a life of his own at the biker bar/fight club. Whatever the hell required that kind of outfit probably kept him busy! So Danny couldn’t like, just leave him in the castle to chill.

“Not to mention the fact that he shouldn’t be able to live here very long anyways,” Danny muttered to himself.

That was troubling him. Frankly, Jason should have been intolerably uncomfortable in the ghost zone for this long without specialized protective equipment. It wasn’t meant for humans.

‘What did Jeremy do to this guy?’

Yikes. Did this mean… Did this mean Danny should have given that little cult thing more credit? But Jeremy was just such a doofus. He grimaced. Embarrassing. Why were his enemies so embarrassing? This shit didn’t happen to, like, Wonder Woman.

Danny buried himself back in the books to avoid the growing suspicion that Jason might have been uhhhh magically altered to make him an appropriate concubine to a dead king. That thought sucked! He didn’t like it. He really didn’t like the idea of bringing it up with Jason.

When he had what he thought was a good first round of research, Danny shelved the books he’d gotten out and went to find where his …

He whole-body flinched at the point where he needed to plug an appropriate noun into that sentence. 

“Jason?” Danny called, juggling books into a stack. “I think we should probably get you back to the re- the human world. Before something inexorable happens.”

A pause.

“I don’t think you know what that word means,” Jason said. A book shut. Danny headed towards the sound, phasing through shelves effortlessly. A spark of curiosity lit up at Jason’s voice. He sounded relaxed, even through the helmet’s filter. 

‘I want to hear his real voice. Bet it’s nice.’

Wait. What? Danny shook the thought away, discomforted. He plastered a wide grin on his face. “I don’t know any words,” he lied breezily. “I’m just ad libbing. Anyway!” He flopped dramatically down onto the big chair next to Jason’s, making sure to be extra physical to get a satisfying whumpf. “We really should go! I can get you to the human world, but, uh, I can’t promise to put you back where you came from.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “I think this is going to be a more than one day affair.”

Jason was watching him. There was nothing visible through his helmet, but Danny got the sense that he was tense, waiting for a threat. 

Which, what? Why would Jason feel threatened by-

Oh. Danny felt a knot in his stomach. Right. That made a lot of sense. He felt kinda sick. 

He didn’t let the feeling show through and barreled on speaking. “I don’t exactly have an easy way for you to contact me, but we probably need to stay in touch to fix this. Do you have any ideas?” 

The lie felt kind of gross. But he could hardly tell the guy; “I’m an engineering student in Gotham, you can just call my cell or come to the dorms.”

Jason seemed to relax at the cessation of control. “If you can stick around, yeah. I’ll get you a burner phone, exchange numbers. You’re not going to…” He trailed off. Danny felt a frown somehow. “You won’t have any signal here, actually. That won’t work.”

“I can make it work,” Danny assured him, hands up. “I mean, I can’t make it work here, or I would have offered to help with your tech. But I can pop in and out of the human world and check my messages.”

“That’ll work.” Jason’s helmet turned ever so slightly. “About the books…”

“You found something good?” Danny asked, impressed. “Yeah, awesome. Just be really careful with them, the librarian is a scary guy.”

Jason’s hand flexed over the closed book on his thigh. “I can take- how many can I take out?”

Danny scoffed. “I’m not your dad,” he said. “Whatever you can carry, man. You ready to go or do you need a minute?” He flipped back to his feet with a grunt. 

[the-odd-laundromat]

headcanons about Elden Ring characters and Numen language

Because why not.

Marika: It's her native language, and she had to learn the Common Tongue of the Lands Between from scratch when she came there. She can still speak, read and write in it perfectly. Despite having been God-Queen for millennia, she hasn't picked up any kind of Common accent. Curses in it once in a while.

Godwyn: Marika taught him some basics when he was really little (vocab, basic alphabet, counting, etc.), but that's it. He recognizes spoken and written Numen easily, but can't understand a whole lot.

Miquella and Malenia: Miquella remembers some of what Godwyn told them about it, but other than that, neither know a lick.

Morgott and Mohg: Both picked up a bit as children, before being cast into the sewers. When alone, Morgott repeats words and phrases to himself, desperately trying to retain what little he knows. Mohg forgot pretty much everything.

Tiche and the Black Knives: Alecto made everyone speak it in the Assassins' barracks. As a result Tiche speaks it perfectly and can hold a conversation just fine. She can read a little, from reading reports between the Queen and the Assassins (written in Numen to save them the trouble of using a cypher). She learned to curse in it from the other, older Black Knives, but Greater Will help her if her mother catches her so much as using informal grammar.

Radagon: Never spoke it around other people, so as not to blow his cover. Once, Rennala caught him singing a Numen lullaby to a baby Ranni, and he had to ad-lib an explanation in a panic. She didn't totally believe him, but never questioned him further.

[zigcarnivorous]

Omfg. I went to see if i could find a hasbara receipt and oh boy did I. I need people to report a post for violent content and threats please!

To be clear, bugsysiegels reblogs misinformation from alfalcone (likely their own alt account bc of the similarity of the usernames, but i digress) and tags that post with encouragement of stochastic violence. This is against terms of service, please report.

This has been said a million times before but the key reason why we as Palestinain leftists are frustrated with the Democrats and Kamala supporters more broadly is because we are well acquainted with liberals. Liberals globally are more or less the same, maybe with slightly different characteristics, but this post is specifically about American liberals.

The real issue is you are so unmoved when it's your party signing the blank checks, couping elected governments, installing dictators, and even passing regressive laws into policy at home. You were all rightfully concerned about Trump but as soon as Biden was elected you all went back to business as usual?

When it comes to Palestine, this genocide has been made possible due to American dollars, American intelligence, and American weapons. I would even go as far to say American support from some of the general populace. It was also Obama who signed one of the largest aid packages to Israel right before he left office.

Yes, Trump could be hypothetically worse on Palestine, but the current administration has done enough damage. Kamala may not be as hawkish as Biden on Israel but she will still continue to support Israel financially and diplomatically. The real question is will you as liberals continue to put pressure onto the US government to cease its funding and arming of Israel? Will you get out onto the streets? Will you put your money where your mouth is and advocate for Palestinians? Or will you just stay put? Because we know right now that a lot of you aren't doing shit. You're just sitting here lecturing Palestinians about telling you not to vote.

You guys would happily put your own rights over foreign policy, and okay fine, but what are you doing aside from just voting to make sure those civil and political rights are secured? You can't just act like everything is fine.

[tanadrin]

i would enjoy the civ series a lot more if it didn't have, like, a paper-thin pseudo-historical skin on it. i guess i'm no fun, but george washington fighting the aztecs doesn't feel like a game about history. it feels like weird nonsense mad libs.

the crazy thing is that SMAC showed a reskin of the basic civ concept was a terrific delivery mechanism for lore and a fun new setting. not just far-future science fiction either. you could do something with fantasy like Lords of Magic, or a postapocalyptic setting, or a more focused historical setting. but the cartoony theme park version of world history just doesn't engage me in the same way.

i think this is also why i find the civ scenarios a lot of fun. they're much more focused and structured in terms of narrative. they scratch that 4X gameplay itch without ripping all the signifiers from their historical context in a way that leaves them meaningless and empty.

[tagsecretsanta]

From @womble1

From @womble1 to @sailing-on-a-puddle

Prompt used: Kip Harris comes to dinner at the end of Flame Out

Completed by Womble1

Kip Harris had just finished tucking up his trusty little truck in the fire hall. It was the last one to park up, the rest of his team having made it back just before him. The air in the garage space was smokey, carrying that earthy bite distinctive of forest fires. But, better than lingering methane. Taking a last look to make sure that all the equipment was restocked and stashed just how he liked it ready for the next call, he picked up his hat and went to climb out of the truck.

Kip Harris was the kind of man who didn’t startle easily. It was essential in his line of work, and key to how he had managed to rack up so many years of experience without becoming a charred footnote on an incident report. However, the involuntary muscular spasm that made it appear that he jumped did tally suspiciously with the unexpected holocal appearing from his dashboard.

After a few totally normally paced heartbeats, Kip recognised the young man he had spoken to earlier when petitioning International Rescue for help. 

“Hi Mister Harris, I hear you’re joining us for dinner.”

“I guess that's so, young man.” he drawled, waiting to see where this was going.

“Well you might need a lift, we’re a little off the main highways,” there was a half hint of a smile under the assumed professionalism. Kip wasn’t sure what the joke was but he knew there was one. He gave the boy the benefit of the doubt and assumed he wasn’t about to become the joke. The other one…Virgil, he reminded himself, he prided himself on remembering names, it was a sign of respect, Virgil had seemed so earnest that Kip had taken the invitation as genuine. He had learnt over the years to roll with whatever life threw at him, and you never quite knew where an unexpected invitation might take you. 

The ghost of a smile had vanished as quick as it had arrived, and been promptly replaced with the same swift professionalism that Kip had noted in their first interaction. 

“We’ll send someone over to pick you up in about 2 hours if that’s alright Mister Harris.”

“Much obliged.” and he touched the brim of his hat briefly. 

Shadow touched down precisely 2 hours later, her motorbike section swapped for a module with a passenger seat. Kayo kept her steely poker face and politely ignored the ungainly noises the great Kip Harris made whilst trying to contort himself into the spare seat. She also keyed a quick message to John to ask him to run distraction at the other end so the poor man could climb out again without an audience. A job which John completed with his usual efficient economy of effort. Which in this case meant delegating to Gordon. 

Gordon achieved this by dressing himself up in ski gear which had last seen the light of day in Scotts early teens and jamming every possible zip fastening. Because as everyone knows, jammed zips can only be fixed by a grandmother's gentle persuasion. Ok, maybe not a widely known saying, but Gordon played it for all he was worth, monopolising his grandmother's attention like a pro. In fact, what started as a 2 minute ad-lib piece, was quickly extended to a 10 minute improv performance at Scotts hasty command. 

Scott and John, had been drawn with a sense of dread by the charred smell emanating from the kitchen. They had caught a glimpse of the culinary delights prepared by their loving grandmother, and the call to stall was sent out via morse code to Gordons watch. 

“What I don’t understand is why she cremated lasagne from scratch when we have some in the chiller already, the nice stuff.” John was staring at the far more inviting cheese topped tray where it sat, still blissfully charcoal free, in the refrigerator. There was a wistful glint in his eye for the meal that could have been.

Scott prodded at the carbon encased remains that were left after Grandma had dished up all the portions. She had joyfully called it “extra in case anyone wanted seconds” and put it back in the oven.

“We can’t make Mr Harris eat this, Virgil will never forgive us if his hero chokes to death on….on whatever went into this.” it had a certain sulphur tang.

“It’s not like we have a lot of choice. Kayo is already inbound and this dish will never warm through in time.” Big enough to feed a family with a heavy percentage of “growing boys”, the catering sized lasagne took up the entire shelf. 

Scott shut the oven door decisively, squared his shoulders and turned to John. “Let's work the problem then. Give me options Thunderbird Five.”

John sighed, there was no fighting it when Scott got like this. Yes, it was what made him an amazing leader out in the field, but in the domestic setting it could get a bit grating, especially for a man who had already spent far too many hours that day “working the problem” and frankly all he wanted was comfort food and maybe a hot bath. 

“Antacids and a lot of wine?” John shrugged feebly. 

“No, I think you were on to something with the chilled lasagne,” Scott started pacing around the kitchen island, always working better when he was on the move. 

“Only raw lasagne isn’t going to pose any less of a risk than the crispy one. I said, it’s too big to cook in time.”

“Ok, but what if it wasn’t.” Scott shot back, still not slowing his pacing.

John dragged a hand down his face, “But it is.” he pointed out. 

“Yes, but it doesn’t need to be.” Scott replied, pleased with himself.

John frowned and considered pre-drinks. “Come again?”

“We don’t need to heat all of it, if we can just get enough so that we don’t kill our guest, then everyone else can make do with the….with the original?”

John screwed his face up at the thought of it. 

“Oh, come on John, we’ve managed worse. Push it around your plate a bit and raid the snack stash later.” 

John shrugged and conceded with a limp nod. Scott had a point, but that didn’t mean John needed to be happy about it. “Fine, we can probably make that work, but you’re the one swapping it out.”

“Fine,” the risk taker in Scott took that condition in his stride, knowing that without John on his side the plan would be 100 times harder. “How much do you think we can heat up in…” Scott glanced at his watch, “.. four minutes.”

“One portion,” John answered, quick as a flash, “and it's going in the microwave.” 

“Boys! Make yourselves presentable, and don’t you go messing with my place settings. I’ll know if you’ve stolen any garlic bread! I’m going to greet our guest!” Grandma hollered down the stairs before diverting to the elevators to head off their visitor. Gordon followed close behind, shedding pieces of skiwear as he jumped through the closing doors. 

Thankfully, Gordons’ distraction had done the trick and by the time Sally made it down Kit had been able to extract himself from Shadows passenger seat with a little dignity still intact, and Kayo was leading him across the hangar floor towards the lifts. 

“Hi again! Glad you could join us” Gordon stepped around his grandmother waving. 

“Thank you for the invitation,” he took Gordons offered hand and gave it a hearty shake. “And who would this be?” Kip asked, turning.

“Oh that's Grandma” Gordon provided.

Kip held out his hand in greeting. “Well I can’t rightly be callin’ you Grandma now can I? It’s a pleasure to meet you…?”

“Sally,” she beamed back, as he doffed his hat with his free hand, not yet releasing hers. “You can call me Sally.” she giggled. “The boys said you knew Jeff?”

“We met just the once, at a training facility for advanced fire safety training. I used to help run a few sessions. Supplemented the income and kept the skills up to date. You never learn more than when you're helping others learn.” he said solemnly. “Jeff Tracy certainly had some original ideas for tackling the practice simulations, thinkin’ outside the box doesn’t usually involve setting light to the box. But pushing boundaries is how you grow, and eyebrows grow back on their own eventually.” he chuckled. 

Gordon was all ready to dive in and ask some more questions around that one, and possibly provide a few eyebrow singing anecdotes of his one, but Grandma physically steered her guest towards the lift up to the residential levels. 

Back in the kitchen it was all go! Microwave technology was deployed to a neatly extracted portion of shop bought lasagne.John managed not to cry as he put the rest of the dish back in the refrigerator. Scott had been sent up to the dining room to complete the swap out as soon as the pasta was steaming hot. 

Scott bobbed on the balls of his feet, restless as he waited in the little used room. It was a space that had been part of the architects’ “vision” and fitted with the billionaire private island brief, but in reality it didn’t really fit the families needs. They weren’t hosting the kind of swanky dinner parties that the architect envisioned. The long glass topped table that sat 12, with chandeliers running its whole length and high backed chairs were meant to add contrast to the natural stone wall running one side of the room, and the expansive glass windows running the other. Scott had always wondered why it had survived beyond the drawing board stage at all, but it did offer the foundations for Virgil's studio space on the floor above, and Scott could see why their father had been keen to keep that design choice. Life on the island revolved much more around the kitchen table, just as it had for generations, they were “new money” after all. 

Scott drummed his fingers on the table, but stopped when he realised that he was leaving fingerprints on the glossy surface. He looked up and down the table again, their grandmother had already laid out the portions of lasagne (?) in each place, they wouldn't even be able to get away with just taking a smaller piece. 

He eyed up the place settings and tried to work out where Mr Harris might be expected to sit. They didn’t have their own preferred seats in here like they did at the kitchen table, so there was much more guesswork involved. She would probably insist he sit facing the view, because it was the best part of the room. Virgil was likely to claim a seat opposite. Brains usually preferred end seats, but might be drawn nearer if the conversation went to technical improvements. Kayo always took a corner, clear views and clear exits. Alan would probably be at Gordons side, and Gordon always made sure to pick somewhere with enough space for two because he knew that Alan got a little nervous when there were new people around, even if you wouldn't be able to tell by looking at him now he was older. Scott usually ended up wherever was left, much like John, but somehow the others usually orchestrated things so that Scott was near the exit in case he got called away, and a quiet corner for John in case he was at his limit for people for the day. 

That left one strong contender for their guests’ seat. Decided, Scott saw the light on the dumbwaiter turn green. Another remnant from the life the architect thought they would be living, but it did save lugging dishes across the villa and made the clear up less arduous. Reaching in, Scott nearly burnt his fingers on the hot plate, hissing, he quickly switched out the offending plate, replaced it with the far more appetising alternative and was just working out what to do with the excess burnt offering when John's hologram popped up from the table unit. 

“Quick, get out of there now! They’re coming, she can’t find you in there Scott, she’ll assume you’ve been at the bread.”

Adrenaline coursed through Scotts veins, he absolutely could not get caught, not after the last time, he’d only just regained garlic bread privileges. He strode towards the door.

“Too late, she's on the stairs, hide!” John urgently whispered, before blinking out of existence. 

“Hide? Where!?” all Scott could see was windows and glass! The sideboard was full of charger plates and serving dishes that saw as little use as the room, no chance of hiding in there. Then he saw it, the dumbwaiter. It would be a squeeze, but Scott knew he could manage it. For once grateful that the architect had thought big when it came to entertaining. Although big was relative, flinging the burnt food in the sideboard, a problem for later, Scott  climbed onto the top of the counter and concertina’d himself into the narrow lift. Sliding the door closed with his fingertips, he jabbed at his comms watch “call the lift! Call lift!” he hissed when John appeared. A mechanical clunk confirmed that his orders had been actioned and Scott would have let out a sigh of relief if there had been enough space left, but with his knees pushing firming into his chest Scott made do with briefly resting his forehead against his leg. 

Alan looked like his jaw might drop off in surprise when he was instructed to open up the kitchen  hatch, only to find Scott curled up in the small space within. Alan remained standing there, lost for words as Scott extricated himself out with no little difficulty. He was nearly set for a collision course with the hard kitchen floor, when Kayo materialised at his side and hoisted his torso up while he got his feet under him. Once again Kayo was required to politely ignore old man noises as, for the second time that day, she prayed that the popping joint sounds didn't mean something had dislocated.

Grabbing Alan by the scruff of his shirt, and Scott by an elbow, she steered them in the direction of the dining room without a word. John tried to distance himself from the whole thing by keeping out of her eye line, even though he knew that was a futile hope. 

As they walked into the room Grandma was steering Mr Harris to his seat… the wrong seat. Scott hadn’t taken into consideration the angle of the sun at this point of the day, and the place Scott had earmarked was no longer the prime position at the table. John was being directed to the table setting where the one and only edible portion of lasagna was steaming gently. 

Alan walked past as Scott calculated the new state of play, making his way to the seat Scott had predicted for him. Kayo also claimed her seat according to Scotts’ plan. At least some things didn't change. Gordon was just walking past the end of the table having just set the water jug back on the sideboard, seemingly going back to take his seat next to Alan. Another peg in the right hole, but how to get all the other pieces to align? Scott sized up his options and took action.  It was going to take a Tracy Fix. He stuck his foot out, silently promising to apologise to Gordon later, and his brother tripped and went flying across the thankfully plush carpet. It had always seemed an odd choice for a dining room, but Scott didn’t question it now. Gordon rolled into a well practiced breakfall mostly by muscle memory, Scott knew he would be fine. While everyone was distracted Scott gestured to John with a combination of desperate hand movements and cobbled together ASL, he made it very clear that the lasagne needed to be relinquished and swapped with Kips this instant, and no puppy dog eyes or pouty faces were going to change that. 

The disappointment was clear in his face, but John quickly complied, and relocated the plates with no verbal complaint. 

It was the work of a split second, and Scott was able to help Gordon back to his feet before anyone could notice. 

Scott took the last remaining seat, the satisfied feeling of a successfully completed mission was quickly overtaken with revulsion when he looked down at the quickly congealing charred lump that was sat where his dinner ought to be. Oh well, he had overcome worse, he grabbed a fork with the same forced calmness of someone facing a root canal. 

The meal progressed, with carbonised lumps of pasta being chased around plates and hidden under salad leaves. Grandma barely touched hers, mostly because she was far too distracted by her dining companion. Mr Harris seemed quite willing to regale his audience with anecdotes from interesting experiences throughout his professional career. An observer would have been hard pressed to decide who was hanging off his every word more - Grandma or Virgil.

The next crisis forced itself to the forefront of everyone's attention with the high pitched beeping of the kitchen fire alarm. It was all systems go, and everyone raced down the stairs. But the drama was short lived,as they were greeted by the sigh of Max deploying a fire extinguisher directly into the warming oven where the crumble that Grandma had left crisping had caught fire. 

It was declared inedible by all including Grandma. Although Kips revelation that he had lost a significant proportion of his sense of smell and taste after a couple of interesting chemical fires early in his career forced Scott to have to fake a coughing fit in order to cover John's plaintive whine. Kip would have happily stayed discussing fire extinguisher suppression foam with Virgil and Brains had Grandma not suggested a sunset stroll on the beach.

Once the couple left, the stampede to the larder was akin to a full body contact sport. So much so that nobody noticed Max gliding off in the opposite direction looking as suspicious as it is possible for a quadrupedal robot to look. It was, however, noted that some of the snacks stash seemed to have already been taxed, but with a constantly active island population it was impossible to confidently attribute blame. Brains was able to enjoy a spot of supper a safe distance from the howling cacophony coming from the pantry.

Bags of chips were launched through the air, snatched mid flight by other eager hands. Packets of cookies spun over heads, sometimes bouncing off a shoulder only to be scrabbled at and claimed before it had any chance of hitting the floor.

Gordon, who had been complaining of a sore knee and pointedly looking at Scott for most of the meal, was now bodily hoisting Alan out of reach of a tray of jealously guarded and specially imported Reeses cups. These were quickly nabbed by a pasty arm with freakishly long reach, so the point was quickly moot.  

Kayo ducked under one arm, jabbed a sensitive pressure point to her left and poked at ribs to her right with pinpoint accuracy. Through this method she manoeuvred through the brawling, scooped her preferred snacks up into one arm and exited the fray as quick as she had arrived. A collective groan was heard when the remaining combatants realised she had taken the last bag of Doritos , but nobody felt like challenging her for them as she sat, calm as a cucumber, eating her haul at the kitchen table, watching events unfold, a dispassionate 3rd party. 

Alan was lifted by the scruff of his shirt by Virgil after he threatened to bite Gordon. He was forcibly parked at the table next to Kayo with a bowl of carrot batons from the refrigerator. 

It was at this point that John remembered the tray of lasagne, with its single slice already removed. Only seconds passed before the others realised what John was up to and in no time at all a lasagne heating production line was in place. Dolloped portions of pasta and sauce made their way in and out of the microwave with well practiced efficiency. Teamwork at it’s best. 

By the time Grandma was leading her guest back towards the villa in the hope of a willing taxi driver, the dishes had been stacked in the dishwasher and all evidence of the meal had been eradicated, baring the contented smiles on faces. 

Unfortunately none of them were quick enough to stop their grandmother from pressing a box of leftovers on her poor unsuspecting guest. John's shrug signaled that by this point it was felt that Mr Harris could fend for himself, they had tried their best. A sentiment that all others present were quite willing to sign up to. 

[anexperimentallife]

So did Ted Nugent's agent or label drop him when he said onstage that Obama and Pelosi could--and I quote--"suck on my machine gun?" Did Trump lose his candidacy when he repeated Hitler's rhetoric about immigrants being "vermin" who "poison our blood" and who must be exterminated?

What consequences have the fascists faced for their "second amendment solutions" and " if not with a ballot, then with a bullet" and "our revolution will be bloodless if the left allows it" and "we come unhinged" threats about their plans if elections don't go their way, and their "joke" liberal-hunting licenses and "bound Biden" truck decals?

Oh, but let a non-fascist like Kyle Gass make a joke about someone who has already sworn to do away with democracy, and see what happens.

I bet both conservatives AND milquetoast lib types would get all teary-eyed and sob about me being insensitive for saying I'm glad Hitler offed himself.

If the US far right are basically Nazis (and they are), I guess that makes US libs the Vichy regime bending over backwards to appease them. These are the "moderates" that Doctor King warned us about, who are more concerned with maintaining order and a facade of civility than with justice.

Leftist or nothing, buddy. You're either anti-fascist, or you're a fascist enabler. And clutching your pearls over jokes about the orange shitgibbon getting an ear scratch from one of his own after he amd his ilk have pushed the violent rhetoric for literally decades? Really?

[zigcarnivorous]

American culture is so barbaric. Look how many Americans are happy to say 'I get to punish you as much as I like because (I imagined) you didn't do what I wanted'.

People like the one highlighted in the screenshot just want to blame and be angry and lash out because their team lost very badly. Oh boo hoo🙄 An embarrassing, humiliating and justified loss. And they want OTHER PEOPLE to feel the same hurt and anger. Don't fall for it. Division is a tool of the ruling class.

Where is the acknowledgement that Malignald Lump should not have even been ALLOWED to run, and that we were cooked from THAT point, hello.

Where is the acknowledgement that it was not the fault of uncommitted voters, third party voters or Muslims that got Lump elected, but it was WHIIIIITE WOMEN, it was young WHIIIIITE men, it was overwhelmingly CHRISTIANS who voted for the one they did, because of simple facts like these (super easy to look up btw): According to a Pew Forum estimate, in 2017 there were 3.45 million Muslims, constituting about 1.1% of the total U.S. population, compared with 70.6% who follow Christianity, 22.8% unaffiliated, 1.9% Judaism, 0.7% Buddhism, and 0.7% Hinduism.

history started october 7th election night

Liberals demand support for the democrats, even though the democrats have done nothing to earn that support.

It is absolutely insane that a "democratic capitalist" actually thinks that just because the democrats are overwhelmingly voting in favor of giving the butchers of Gaza all the money and weapons in the world, that they still don't have to do a damn thing to earn a single bit of support.

People like this are eternally proving that all liberals really are are just polite fascists.

But now that the genocider that they supported lost, they've ditched the polite aspect.

[richeeduvie]

sorry but think about when roman was backing mencken and baby had to listen to all roman’s stupid conservative talking points and she’s just like … uh huh coming from the guy who begs me to fuck him up the ass … and then he gets all upset and whiny

Baby's just silent as if she's listening. Roman thinks he's getting through here. He's not even insanely fucking stupid with it. It's just business. Dems don't get him and his money. And really...nothing happens, not to them. He realized a while ago that his...person, the very hot person he needs for breathing isn't actually just shitting herself with caring about people outside of him and him and each other and the way they exist and also his family. Maybe Frank. So yeah, what Roman will say might hurt - and he doesn't like hurting her. It makes his stomach hurt. But when he frames it as pure business, which…it is, again, Dems and indie libs don't. Waystar's stocks up...whatever, he thinks he's doing fine.

"And this is coming from the guy who begs me to fuck him up the ass?"

She says it simply. Like she's genuinely thinking about whether or not what he's saying is what he's saying and if he's the guy who begs her to fuck him up the ass.

Roman's words stop too fucking quickly. He's silenced, palms up.

"I uh...I-um...ummm. Yeah. I do-don't, I don't see what that has to-" He pulls at his ear, head leaning into his pinch. "I don't see what that has to do with anything. Actually."

He's looking tense - like his soul will fly right out of his body. He scratches the back of his neck over and over and over.

"I'm just - I'm just fucking talking points. What the fuck does you making love to me-like, why are using that right now?"

Baby smiles. She knew it'd piss Roman off, it hurting him was fifty-fifty. She rubs his shoulder. Didn't hurt him too much, just enough to be the one to soothe him. As always.

She kisses his cheek.

"What did I say wrong? I didn't think you that sensitive today."

There's a talking point.

"It's not me being sensitive! What the fuck? You're just using when we make love to throw me off a talking point? It doesn't even matter."

Roman crosses his arms. He doesn't himself the cheek kissing.

"Okay, Rome. If you say so. No ass fucking toni-"

"Stop!"

"Mencken doesn't like the receivers in ass fucking, that I'm sure of. Or...maybe he does? If he's a top. Govermentees like him are either deep in the closet with their dicks in escorts or they're just hate woman but can help marrying them. I can tell hi-"

"My love with you-fuck you! What I do or how I...fuck," Fuck feels too harsh on his tongue. "It has nothing to do with Mencken putting Waystar on top."

"...I top you, but we top America. Again."

Roman looks like an angry child, brows wild in anger and eyes squinty. Baby's too happy. She can barely hide it.

"If you say so."

But Roman does not deny himself her kisses.

[davejadedaily]

need ur jade & dave label / queer / pronoun headcanon NOW become a lib

[37] they were both trans THE WHOLE TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

jade is a whatever as long as she gets head scratches dave is the homestuck he/him bi lesbian

also me not including a sexuality for jade was! intentional! i dont think its something she conceptualizes outside of furry art. if you sat jade down and explained sexualities to jade shed stare at you like youre stupid. dog dont care

[tickletastic]

The Hawthorne Way

Fandom: The Inheritance Games

Ship: Libby/Nash

Summary: Being dangerously ticklish seems to be the Hawthorne way, and Nash is nothing if not a Hawthorne through and through.

“Lihibby- Libs no,” Nash huffs out, his low, Texan timbre rumbling in Libby’s ear. He’s trying really hard to keep up his whole cool as a cucumber act, but the twitching in his fingers gives him away. His hands, laid flat on Libby’s back, haven’t been still since she started her little game.

“What’s the matter?” Libby asks innocently, nuzzling her face into his neck. Her hands trace the contours of his hip bones under his shirt, fingers dipped under the waistband of his sweatpants. She digs in with a barely-there touch at the top of his hip, and he snorts, squirming minutely. 

“You’re-” Nash grits his teeth when Libby starts to trace her fingers over his stomach, and Libby absolutely revels in it, “you’re a sadist.”

“I might be,” Libby takes her head off Nash’s chest so she can smile at him, blue hair falling in her eyes, “but at least I’m not a ticklish cowboy.” 

Nash had held out a lot longer than Libby thought he would. She’s been a quiet observer for about a dozen Hawthorne tickle fights, and knew by now that his brothers couldn’t hold out for the life of them. Jameson’s the hardest to break of the other three, and all it takes with him is a taser to the ribs and he’s down for the count. Nash? Well, Nash is proving to be much better at this game than his brothers are, and Libby can’t help but realize she’s never seen the other Hawthornes take advantage of their older brother’s ticklishness.

She wouldn’t have gone into this blind, of course. She’s been watching. She’s been waiting.

She had heard the comments the other Hawthornes would make towards Nash when he tickled them. Wait until the three of us get the upper hand on you. You’re just as ticklish. Don’t pretend your ribs don’t make you shriek. All of these taunts aimed towards Nash, it was only reasonable that this would be the conclusion. 

So here they are, midday cuddle session on the couch in one of Hawthorne House’s many lounges, Libby trying to get her cowboy to crack. But Nash is good. He’s really good. Years of being a big brother have helped him develop some defense mechanisms, like holding out for so long that the tickler gives up.

It’s a good thing Libby’s had years of being a big sister. 

She stops teasing Nash, her head returning to its place on his chest, her fingers going still at his sides. She is patient. She knows how to wait someone out. When Nash starts absentmindedly humming and playing with her hair, she waits. When one episode of Grey’s Anatomy rolls into the next one on the flatscreen, she waits. When Nash starts to draw shapes on her back, she waits. She waits until she finally hears the familiar sound of his breath evening out, his fingers relaxed on her back in a way that she knows means he’s on the edge of sleep. 

Libby might be sunny, but she’s never been above being a little bit evil.

With renewed vigour, she claws both hands into Nash’s ribs with her long, freshly manicured nails, and scratches up and down in unpredictable spurts. Nash flinches, and she can feel the way his shoulders tighten, and how his hands on her back spasm. 

He had been lulled into a false sense of security, but he doesn’t have time to complain, or, more accurately, congratulate her on such a slick move.

Grayson was right; going for his ribs does make Nash shriek. 

“Lihihibs!” Nash screeched, squirming underneath her, “noho!” 

Nash is trying to curl in on himself, bringing his elbows to his sides in an attempt to block out Libby’s practiced fingers, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by Libby that he’s not actively pushing her off, that his hands are still gripping her biceps without pushing her away 

“Lihihibby! Bahaby, noho!” Nash squeals when she manages to wedge her fingers, delicate and graceful, between their bodies. The front of his ribs don’t get quite the same reaction as the sides, but Libby thinks she’s getting warmer when her fingers go lower to tickle his toned tummy. 

“What’s the matter?” Libby whispers teasingly, pushing herself up with her elbows so she can whisper it closer to his ear, “a little bit of tickling isn’t bothering you, is it, darlin’?” She drops the ‘g’ in a vague imitation of Nash’s accent, of what he loves to call her, and she notices the way the flush spreads up his neck.

When her fingers finally touch his tummy, Nash arches his back, a choking, sputtered laugh forcing its way from his lips. She can tell from the tension in his hands how hard he’s trying not to squeeze her, he would never hurt her, even when he’s lost his pride to Libby’s incredibly skilled fingers. 

“Plehease babygihihirl! Ihihit- no- fuhuhuck!” Nash makes a sound that Libby’s certain she’s heard from all three of the other Hawthornes at some point while observing their tickle fights– that adorable half-whine half-scream heard only when a Hawthorne is getting their belly tickled. All of them, with their entirely different laughs and personalities, and yet none of them can quite handle that one spot. 

“You Hawthornes,” Libby giggles, skittering her long nails up and down Nash’s sides, “you’re all the same.” 

Nash is giggling in a way Libby has never heard him before. Every time Nash laughs it’s booming belly laughter, deep and rumbly, and almost always brief, or wry. These giggles are airy and desperate, peppered with snorts in between, and they make him sound, and look, a lot younger.

“You’re so ticklish,” Libby teased, her voice a low hum of amusement. “Who would’ve thought? Mr. Calm and Collected, all serious and mysterious, but then… this.”

“Shuhut up!” Nash shouts on instinct, before correcting his own manners “wahait! I dohohon’t mehean that. Sohohorry prihihincess.”

It’s a miracle Nash is managing speech at all in his state– torso now halfway off the couch from his bucking, one hand on the floor to brace for impact– let alone have enough of his senses intact to apologize for responding rudely to Libby’s taunts. Libby kind of wishes he hadn’t; in their entire time knowing each other she has never seen him so out of control, but now she’s seen too much, and she’s addicted to watching him come undone from something as simple as her nimble fingers on his torso. 

She feels high off of his laughter and the image of his red face, eyes closed and laughter lines visible, and it makes her lightheaded, like she imagines the whole thing is making him too. 

Her devious fingers dig into his hipbones, and he warns her seconds too late.

“No Lihihibby nohot there!” There’s an urgency in his voice that she finally understands once they’re suddenly on the carpet, next to each other now instead of her head on his chest, and she digs in again, chasing the just a little bit more.

The sounds of his heels digging into the floor is much louder than it had been on the couch, with the hardwood floors protected only by the thin carpet. He doubles over unsuccessfully, but Libby stops when she can hear his voice getting hoarse, and notices that he’s struggling to get out all of his begs and pleads. 

When her fingers release him, his body relaxes against the floor, chest huffing in and out with leftover giggles. He throws an arm over his face, motioning with the other hand for Libby to come over to him.

She lays her head on his chest, returning to their earlier position, still just as comfy though now on the ground, and she listens as his breathing returns to normal. He moves his arm just a little bit, so he can send her a glare with no heat behind it. 

Libby laughs, and swats his arm, “it’s not like you tried to stop me.”

Nash’s regular lopsided grin returns, smug, self-satisfied, sexy, “gotta let my princess have some fun.”