#shell scoop

[uwlmvac]

People in the past fashioned tools out of not just a variety of animal bones, but mussel shell as well. This complete right valve (shell) of a black sandshell (Ligumia recta) mussel from 2012 MVAC excavations beneath STH 35 in Onalaska, Wisconsin, is just one example. It was used for scooping, scraping, or digging, as shown by wear along the long edge opposite the hinge, where the left and right halves of the mussel shell would join. Damage is visible on the outside of the shell (top), as is flaking on the inside of the shell (bottom). This edge of the shell, given it came from a black sandshell, likely would have been razor-sharp initially. 

Though not a common artifact for La Crosse area Oneota sites, similar modified and edge-damaged shells at Oneota sites along the Des Moines River in Iowa and to the west have been shown to have been used for shelling the kernels from ears of parboiled green corn. An extensive literature review and ethnographic studies by the late Dr. David Gradwohl found that a number of Native American tribes employed mussel shells in a rather elaborate process of preparing corn for immediate consumption or storage. Interestingly, at Iowa Oneota sites, the black sandshell was the preferred species used for the proposed corn shellers (see Gradwohl 1982:135–156). The black sandshell is not uncommon in large and medium rivers of the Midwest, including the Mississippi. 

Gradwohl, David Mayer 1982    Shelling Corn in the Prairie-Plains: Archaeological Evidence and Ethnographic Parallels beyond the Pun. In Plains Indian Studies: A Collection of Essays in Honor of John C. Ewers and Waldo R. Wedel, edited by Douglas H. Ubelaker and Herman J. Viola, pp. 135–156. Smithsonian Contributions to Anthropology No. 30. Smithsonian Institution, Washington DC.

[meowthiroth]

…no one tell him.

[comrade-slugcat]

Anyway baby transformers should look like metal sea urchins and infest crystals (gardening pest)

[horse-is-a-horse-of-course]

waiting for my students to say literally anything during the zoom call for class

[bio-stims]

nene kusanagi stimboard! 🎡🤖

credits: x x x | x x | x x x

[ultramantr1gger]

this picture is literally what this game is

[felidaefatigue]

jesus fucking christ michaels has gone off its absolute rocker i wanted to get some stuff to make my niece a cute mermaid themed treasure chest

i got a box, 2 tINY fake plants, some tiny shells, moss, and 2 string of pearl

you wanna know how batshit insane amount of money they wanted?

77 fucking dollars

what. in the fuck. the dollarstore is right there and slightly cheaper for some of it and i could craft most of it easily enough myself so like? EXCUSE ME?

[gutsfics]

ddo you guys wanna come over to my housefor dinner :) i made twice baked potatoes and deviled eggs

[feral-and-or-horny]

Cotton candy and cookie dough!✨

cotton candy— do you prefer savory or sweet food more?

I almost said sweet for this, but tbh as I was typing I realized that's not actually true anymore, lol. I still have a major sweet tooth, but I've started leaning more towards savory food lately.

cookie dough— do you prefer jewel tones or earth tones? (so, do you like cool toned colors more or warm, earthy colors more)

I usually prefer cool tones, but my general preference really just boils down to "I like black"

[scandalousadventures]

My Pathologic 3 fan theory ⬆️

He gave in

[sarahbleszynskihairandmakeup]

Ice Cream Sundae Taco Delight Transform leftover taco shells into dessert with ice cream sundae toppings such as chocolate sauce, caramel, sprinkles, and M&M's.

[sw5w]

You Know, I Find That Jar Jar Creature to Be a Little Odd

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 00:48:55

[elpha00]

After the third session of wild life, the snails are deactivated. (Not killed, necessarily; they were never really alive in the first place. Just lovingly crafted shells filled with basic commands to follow.) They are left behind as empty husks, statues.

Gem scoops up her snail, pats her head, and creates a small space in the barn for it. She will occasionally voice her thoughts to it as she passes by. 

Bdubs immediately chucks his in the river. He’s done with it.

Tango, still terrified of his snail, gets Etho to throw it into the river for him.

Joel takes his and Lizzie’s and places them together under his sign on the reputation board, and draws a little winky face and a heart on the sign.

Lizzie, spotting this, does not change Joel’s score on the board. She does keep the snails together, setting them down by her campfire.  

Grian and Mumbo take Skizz’s snail and put it in the tunnel connecting their bridges. It jumpscares Skizz. Grian later takes Mumbo’s snail and places it in the exact same location. It jumpscares Mumbo. 

BigB creates an altar in the center of his head-home, and carefully positions his snail on it.

Pearl leaves her snail with Billy (her dog), to keep each other company. She returns later to see that Billy has completely chewed up the snail statue with a big, thoughtless grin on his face. She hosts a funeral for it. 

Martyn takes his (and Ren’s) all the way to the other side of the server and buries them deep underground. He doesn't trust that the snails won't be activated again.

[glindyupland]

.

[boysdontcryboycry]

uve heard of creelarke u've heard of hoppenzo(?) u haven't heard of [REDACTED] but u really should, now introducing the hot new old man yaoi fresh off the press, featuring a character who only exists in a few of our heads,

vichard. dicktor? vick? richtor?

aka my own delusions about ted wheeler's dad (dick wheeler, just go with it) shipping off to morocco in 1942 and getting verrrry close with a blue-eyed blond dreamboat from nevada, also with a blonde wife waiting at home

[gutsby]

Love Tap

Pairing: Dad!Joel x Reader

Summary: Old habits die hard with your husband—touching you at inappropriate times is one of them.

Warnings: 18+. Joel Miller is a MUNCH Oral (f!receiving). Unprotected p-in-v (quickie). Slice of life, domestic-style and Joel calls you ‘Mama’ a whole lot. One playful bite.

Word count: 2.4k

Note: ‘You better back the fuck up before you get smacked the fuck up’ is a line from 2Pac’s song, ‘Hit ‘Em Up.’

Joel Miller was a wonderful father.

Occasionally, he forgot how to act like one.

He had a tendency to get a little careless. Sloppy.

Letting the dignified, ever-respectful façade slip every now and again and smacking your ass when you walked past. Copping a feel when you had to squeeze by him in the kitchen. Best of all, pinching your cheek through your skirt while you were cradling the baby—his baby—and leaving you no choice but to shoot him a quick back-the-fuck-up-before-you-get-smacked-the-fuck-up look and a covert middle finger to remind him that he wasn’t supposed to be slapping your butt in front of the kids.

It was just bad practice to engage in those dumb, flirty antics, particularly when your four-year-old son had made it his mission in life to imitate everything dad did.

But again, Joel would sometimes forget that.

On a morning when he’d woken up a little too early with an erection that was a tad too stubborn to ignore, he got especially forgetful. He found himself plastered to your backside at the edge of the bathroom counter with a grin, knowing damn well you only had twenty-five minutes to get the family dressed, fed, and on the road.

“Joel, you are so—”

“Quick. I’ll be quick.”

His eyes suddenly pleading with yours in the mirror. You just might’ve had the willpower to turn his honeyed gaze away were it not for the lips that followed it. Tracing the shell of your ear and behind it, down your neck, leaving trails of soft kisses down the skin until he reached the collarbone, your sweet spot, and licked it—the bastard.

“Five. Minutes.” Your words were equal parts invitation and warning as you shimmied your PJs over your butt.

“You know I’ll have ya finished in two, sweet pea,” Joel teased—but deep down, you knew he wasn’t kidding.

Both of you had cum and were done in a record-breaking four and a half minutes, swapping pyjamas for normal clothes in less than half the time and stepping back out of the bathroom with your hair only marginally tousled.

By now you had the ‘Pre-K starts in thirty’ types of quickies down pat. You were proud. You glanced over your shoulder to see a similar glint in Joel’s eye, and as you started out the bedroom door, you felt a tap on your ass—or, with the sheer breadth of your husband’s hand, more like a WHACK, followed by the sound of a stifled laugh.

“Can Daddy get some more’a that later?” he quipped.

“More’a what?”

Aw, hell.

Your sweet, forever nosy mini-Joel was standing directly in front of you with two pinched brows and a mostly eaten dino nugget clenched tight in his tiny fist.

You opened your mouth to conjure up some half-assed excuse for the spank your son just saw, but then your husband was scooping the kid up in his arms and toting him straight down the hallway, and you heard, faintly:

“Whatcha gettin’ from Mama later?”

“None of your beeswax, bubs.”

Joel got his second helping around lunchtime.

He’d been in between calls with what felt like an endless stream of subcontractors, suppliers, architects, and project managers when he swung by the house. You were in the midst of baking cardamom buns when he blew through the kitchen like an EF5 tornado and decided he’d be feasting on something else entirely.

“Joel, my buns,” you whined as soon as he’d carried you up the stairs and tossed you onto the bed, eager as ever.

“Fuck your buns.”

“You already fucked ‘em this morning—can you relax?”

Your husband already had your pants tugged halfway down your legs. You let him, then helped him kick the fabric the rest of the way off when it got to your ankles.

“You’re a fuckin’ maniac, Miller, y’know that?”

Something in the way he smirked as he sank his face between your bare thighs told you he already knew that. You would’ve liked to try and scold him again—give him a little more grief for the baked treats that would surely be burnt to a crisp by the time he was done—but then you felt his tongue lick a stripe up your slit, and you refrained.

Even if you’d wanted to, you scarcely would’ve been able to form a single word apart from, ‘Fu-cking hell, Joel’ and ‘Right there, right thereohfuuuuuuckfuckfuck.’

That was just fine by your husband.

In fact, he seemed perfectly content to lap at your slick, glistening folds while you moaned and cursed his name; it made him proud. Appreciative. Maybe even a tad too smug for his own good, if he were being honest, because the way you fisted his hair and rutted your hips against his face made you act a little more like him. A touch more reckless, sloppy, and desperate than your daily obligations as parents would seem to allow. A bit less proper and refined and a lot more slutty—all for him.

Joel teased your clit with a few soft touches from the tip of his tongue, and you almost tore the sheets in two.

“That feel good, Mama?” he hummed.

“F-Fingers, fuck, Joel— fingers,” you begged.

Still using his tongue, Joel drew the shape of a lemniscate extra slow just to spite you. You whined and bucked your hips in protest, but the man was undeterred—he knew exactly what he was doing. The only way he could be tempted to use his fingers now would be to spread your lips apart and lick you more, which he did.

Joel licked and sucked and drove you up the fucking wall with those figure eights until you nearly couldn’t take it. In one hasty, desperate move, you tilted your hips and tried to slip a finger past Joel’s mouth, into your cunt.

He bit that finger. You yelped.

“JOEL!”

It wasn’t that the bite actually hurt—his teeth barely grazed skin—but rather the way he refused to speed up. Gauging your wants and your needs with expert precision, he massaged the hood of your clit with his tongue and took care to plant suckling kisses as he did. You moaned and squeezed the bedspread, relishing the vulgar sounds of his mouth and the need he was building inside you. You turned your head to the side and whined into the pillow, knowing from the depths of your soul you needed release, but Joel just wouldn’t oblige you…yet.

When he grinned against your wet, warm, and slippery folds, his mouth might as well have joined in and said, ‘Keep going—you’ll cum on my tongue when I say so.’

Instead, Joel opted to say ‘Mama’ again, softly.

Mama.

He always called you that when he took you extra slow. Sometimes when he took you quick, too. Like a reminder to you both that you were, in fact, the mother of his children, and if the man had had it his way he’d have given you fifty more by now, daycare bills be damned.

He was generous like that. Always giving, giving, giving.

Just not when it came to doling out orgasms sometimes.

“I have a divorce lawyer on speed dial, just so you know,” you hissed through gritted teeth, head falling back when Joel’s tongue sank forward—inside you, then, “FUCK!”

“Mhmmm,” he hummed before retracting once more. Licking the soft, fleshy rim and nearly eliciting a scream.

Joel traced a circle with his tongue. He savored the taste. While you were whining and grinding your hips against the wet spot underneath you—a puddle that would only grow larger the longer he went on—your husband was devouring you, kissing your thighs every now and then.

“Well, if we split, my tongue goes too,” Joel said. Smug.

“Texas is a community property state,” you murmured, “I taught you how to eat pussy so your mouth is a marital asset.”

Silently, Joel wondered how that argument might hold up in court, grinned, then continued licking your cunt. You squeezed his head with your thighs, dug the balls of your feet in the sheets, and let out a lewd, pornographic scream that could’ve woken half the street. Luckily, your neighbors were probably all at work, your bedroom walls insulated just well enough to mask the noise, and Joel’s resolve crumbling slowly as he kissed between your legs.

One wanton, shameless, ‘I’m gonna cum, Joel, please’ was like music to his ears. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten with a wife and mother as sweet as you, so upright and polite in your day-to-day life and then a hot, trembling mess beneath his tongue when he needed you like this the most. Surely he couldn’t treat you so mean.

Joel wedged two thick fingers in your slick, dripping heat and beckoned you to him as kindly as he possibly could. Rubbing the pads of both digits, callused as they were, against the spongy insides of your core and flicking them forward—‘C’mere, Mama, Daddy’s right here, go on’— so of course, you had no other logical choice but to cum.

It was all habit by now. A dazzling, sumptuous routine.

And Joel Miller was certain he’d never tire of seeing it.

Your spine arched off the mattress an inch or two, toes curling at the feeling, and while the sensation spanned over your body, your husband was the first to see it, sense it on his lips and tongue and fingers just as well. He squeezed your hip, told you how fucking pretty you looked when you came for him, then patiently waited out the spasms and cries and fingers lacing through his soft, dark locks like he was your last remaining tether to earth.

Then he kissed the inside of your thighs and smiled.

“All better, honey?” he hummed.

“Yeah,” you breathed back.

“Still want a divorce?”

A smirk and a response of ‘Not until you knock me up at least one more time’ was hovering somewhere over your tongue when you felt the bed shake. Buzzing. Vibrating?

Joel sat up between your legs and yanked something out from under his ass. He peered down at the thing—staring into a screen—and cocked a brow as he looked back up.

“Someone’s been naughty,” he said simply. Grinning.

He lobbed the phone your way, and you just barely managed to catch it between two trembling hands.

Incoming Call: Francisco C. Morales Elementary

You shot Joel a look and answered it instantly.

Disoriented, disheveled, and slightly foggy from climax, you half-expected to find one of your son’s disgruntled teachers on the other end of the line, reminding you that today was a noon dismissal and everyone was supposed to pick their kids up an hour ago. Your husband was the one who would always keep up with school schedules, so your gaze narrowed at him, butt scooting up the bed while he tried to dive right back between your legs.

“He-llo?”

You smacked a hand away from the front of your blouse.

“Is this Mrs. Miller?” a voice trilled through the phone.

Yes, unfortunately, it was.

You almost had to backhand Joel across the face when he tried to bite the button off your brand new top, teeth ruthless in their pursuit of getting you fully naked now.

“This is she,” you squeaked.

Someone cleared their throat on the other end of the line—as though they knew you had a broad, hulking husband with a cock as hard as sheet metal trying to tear your clothes off while you talked. You stifled a shriek and a giggle when you felt your relentless man move down.

Joel was busy working your blouse from the bottom with that feral mouth of his when the voice sounded again:

“We’d really appreciate it if you and your husband could come see us this afternoon to have a little chat about—”

Your eyes widened. You clutched your phone even tighter and this time, more seriously, shoved Joel away. When he frowned and started to pout, you raised a finger.

“A-About what? Has my— has he done something bad?” Your voice all of a sudden tight, words wavering just enough to snag your husband’s attention too.

“We can explain more when you get here, he’s just…”

‘What the fuck?’ Joel mouthed silently, leaning in.

“What? What’s he done?” You couldn’t help it.

You heard a long sigh across the line, and you knew that wasn’t good. It sounded a lot like the kind of sighs you made whenever your baby made a colossal mess all over the kitchen floor, or your husband slammed a door too loud and woke the kids from their nap, or your son just—

“—keeps slapping his classmates on the butt.”

“Wait, what?”

You blinked. Joel coughed. Together, half-naked on the bed, you sat up a little straighter and leaned even closer into the phone, hearts starting to thud in your chests.

“Your son was just…spanking other kids and asking if he could ‘get some more’a that later,’ and when his teacher asked him where he’d learned to do a thing like that—”

You turned. Joel paled. Your gaze could’ve seared a hole through the front of his skull if you stared any harder, and just as your son’s principal continued talking, Joel raised his hands in surrender, already trying to apologize.

“Honey—”

“—and he told her he saw your husband do it at home—”

You didn’t need to hear another word. You were already fishing for your pants, yanking them back up your legs and brushing aside your husband’s soft, red-faced attempts at consolation, and when you were dressed, you started straight for the door. Already babbling some half-coherent apology to the woman on the phone, dodging Joel’s impossibly large hands and arms and hugs as he tried to pull you back into his chest and tell you he was sorry. You just might’ve let him, and maybe even believed him to be sincere, if you didn’t see the tiniest smirk on his lips as he fought to wrangle you in.

You’d made it to the door and were just about to pivot to give Joel the finger, tell him this was not funny at all, and he was coming with you right now, when both of you halted at the threshold and were obliged to turn again.

You sniffed the air, and your husband made a face.

Was it—

Before you could think, a plume of smoke drifted out through the kitchen door. Your eyes widened, and right as the fire alarm let out its piercing scream, you wailed,

“My buns!”