#queue waiting

[qwaiting]

New to Qwaiting Software? This video is your perfect starting point. We provide a clear and concise introduction to its functionality, applications, and how it can make waiting lines a thing of the past.

[kcamberart]

Chiikawa & Friends

[smileyobrien]

STAR TREK: THE ORIGINAL SERIES – 1.29 "Operation -- Annihilate!"

[elodieunderglass]

And one amang, an Iyrysch man,

Uppone his hoby swyftly ran…

WAIT HANG ON - slamming the brakes on drawing this stupid picture - do you nerds even KNOW the etymology of the word “hobby”? The thing you do for pleasure? The thing you have too many of? The thing you spend too much money on and share with your friends? The thing tumblr probably is to you? Those hobbies?

It comes from a now-kind-of-extinct breed of Irish pony-horse. It was called the Irish Hobby. Supposedly the hobby got its name from the Gaelic word obann, or swift. They definitely were. They’d obann your pants clean off.

Fast tough little bastards, built for rough terrain and renowned for their speed and stamina, hobby horses belonged to the Celts, and their highly annoying style of mounted warfare. but their conquerors liked hobby horses a lot, kept them, used them for themselves, and found them useful enough, despite the fact that they also had famously useful things like mounted knights or horse archers. A lightweight Irish warrior, mounted on a hobby horse, was called a hobelar.

Reportedly and in depictions, hobelars rode without stirrups. Or saddles. Or bridles. Or - well - this is all sounding very improbable, because the hobelars COULDNT have just been charging around basically bare-assed on naked ponies, screaming, and somehow in the process undoing the composure of actual mounted armoured knights. Knights who, I remind you, had stirrups. Stirrups are useful! It’s quite likely the hobelars had some gear. And clothes. and weapons. And the ponies probably had some tack - I am picturing a bellyband that you could at least hang a saddlebag on, and a neck rope for catching the bloody thing, even if not a saddle. But the overall impression, somehow created by people on darling little ponies, was apparently quite striking and fearful.

I mean. God Forbid People Have Hobbies.

Anyway after a while, whatever people became the British had eventually conquered all of the rough terrain that hobbies were best at, and horse archers just got sexier, and mounted knights became aristos, and all the bog and forest people had been subdued, so it was time to sunset the hobelars. but WAIT! Hobby horses are still tremendously fun and appealing! They’re so fast! and you can ride them without a saddle! Sure, they’re not up to the weight of a mounted knight, or indeed a lot of guys… but surely we can still find a use for a hobby or two? In the back garden? Somewhere?

At which point an English king decided to keep hobby horses just for fun. No military application. No further development of the technology. Not for fun. Just as expensive, pleasurable, pets. Just for the joy of the thing.

And that is how hobby (activity done purely for pleasure) comes from hobby horse (small horse) possibly from obann (swift.) they’re very interesting and you should look all this up for yourself! because it sure sounds like Elodie doing a bit, doesn’t it?

Today, Irish Hobbies are functionally nonexistent. References for drawing include the Kerry Bog Pony, the Connemara, and (I personally think) Dartmoors and Exmoors. They’re said to have lent their speed to the Irish Hunter/Sport Horse and from there to the Thoroughbred, but every damn horse in the world claims relation to the Thoroughbred, and they can’t be THAT thoroughly bred.

At any rate - you can never have enough hobbies. Just be glad that yours aren’t expensive beasts with minds of their own, eating their heads off in the pasture! …Unless they are. In which case, you’re part of a proud tradition.

[inalandofsadclowns]

Remember when in the Sinner's Pit Hua Cheng fought Ke Mo while holding Xie Lian, and he was all "you should put me down, I can't imagine you enjoy fighting someone with another man in your arms" but Hua Cheng kept doing that, because he did, in fact, enjoy it?

Btw here's why

[asknillamilkfam]

First of all, congratulations!! Love this family lol. Now for my question, did Shadow Milk ever tell the beasts about his children or does he plan to?

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[screwpinecaprice]

He communicated through mental text.

[tomatoart]

Be free my deltarunelings

[abbotjack]

when would jack stutter, have to catch his breath? whether it be something he sees, hears, smells. what makes him take pause?

Jack Abbot doesn’t stutter for effect. He doesn’t lose his words in arguments or get flustered in tension. He was trained—trained—to speak clearly through chaos. To radio for medevac while pressure-wrapping a wound with one hand. To give the date, time, and morphine dose to a nineteen-year-old he was holding together by sheer will while bullets cracked overhead. Words, for Jack, have always been tools. Precise. Tactical. Controlled.

So when Jack stutters, it’s never performance. It’s never dramatics. It’s malfunction. It means something short-circuited so violently inside him that all his practiced scripts—the field medic instincts, the ER attending cadence, the gallows humor—all of it collapses under the weight of something real.

It’s not trauma that makes him pause. He’s acclimated to that. It’s gentleness. It’s earnestness. It's the things no one ever trained him to survive.

It starts small.

You’re in his kitchen one morning, still in sleep clothes. No makeup. You open the fridge and mutter, “We need more eggs.” Not he needs. Not you need. We.

Jack freezes.

Just for a second. Just long enough that the corner of the coffee filter burns.

Because he’s spent years learning how to survive alone. Alone is safe. Alone is math he can do. But we? We is dangerous. We has loss baked into it.

So when you say something that sounds like permanence without even realizing it, Jack looks down at the mug in his hand like he forgot how it got there.

“You okay?” you ask, still rummaging.

“Yeah, I just—��� He exhales, blinks. “I—uh, it’s—fine.”

It’s not the word he’s fumbling over. It’s the feeling.

Then it escalates.

You wear his sweatshirt to the grocery store and complain about the sleeves being too long. You say it in passing—no agenda, no performance. Just an offhanded “How the hell do your arms fit in this thing?”

Jack laughs. He nods. He goes quiet.

And later, when you’re brushing your teeth, he stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like he’s never seen anything more disarming.

“You know you, uh—” He pauses. Swallows. “You look good in that.”

And that stutter? It’s not nerves. It’s not lust. It’s ache. It’s how dare you look like home in my clothes when I never thought I’d have one again. It’s him tasting the fact that someone might love him with the lights on. With the ghosts still in the room.

But the worst of it—the deepest malfunction—is when you touch the part of him he hides.

It’s a Tuesday. You’re lying in bed. Jack’s out of the shower, towel around his waist, residual steam curling off his shoulders. You’re half asleep when he climbs in, careful, always careful. The prosthetic is off. His right leg ends below the knee, the skin there pale, uneven in tone, scarred in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

You roll over, press your face into his chest, and—without thinking—run your hand down his thigh and stop at the point where flesh becomes absence. Where history lives in muscle memory.

He draws in a sharp breath—sudden, ragged—like it knocked the wind out of him.

“Sorry,” you whisper, pulling back.

But he grabs your wrist. Not to stop you. To ground himself. To hold the moment in place.

“No, I—” His voice cracks. The words don’t follow. “It’s not—I just—” He blinks fast, jaw twitching. “I wasn’t—expecting that.”

Because what you touched wasn’t just skin. It was the thing he’s ashamed of needing love through. The thing people look at and get polite. The thing strangers pretend not to notice. The thing he never believed could be part of desire. And you just touched it like it was his. Like it was safe.

That’s when Jack stutters.

When you make the part of him he’s spent years compartmentalizing feel not just accepted—but wanted.

But maybe the most dangerous kind of stutter—the kind that ruins him—isn’t even about touch.

It’s when you fight.

Not over something petty. Something real. Something that threatens the fragile trust he’s learning to build. Maybe you accuse him of shutting you out again. Of pulling back every time things get too close. And you’re right. You’re so right it guts him.

He raises his voice. Snaps something defensive. His default. Control the room. Win the logic. Out-talk the fear.

But then you say it.

“Jack, you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”

And that sentence? That sentence breaks him.

Not because of what it is.

Because of what it isn’t.

It isn’t a demand. It isn’t a plea. It’s grace. Unconditional. Unflinching. And it makes no goddamn sense to a man who’s only ever been valued for what he can fix, what he can endure, what he can sacrifice.

So he stares at you.

“You don’t—” His voice falters. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” you whisper.

And he stutters. He turns away. Rubs his jaw. Blinks hard.

Because he wants to believe you. More than anything. But his nervous system doesn’t know how to file that truth under anything but threat.

He says, “I just—” and never finishes.

Because he can’t.

Because it’s too much.

Because your love is louder than his guilt, and that is a sound Jack Abbot doesn’t know how to live through.

That’s when he stutters.

When you say something that unravels the wire he’s been holding himself together with since the war. Since the job started asking more than he had to give and he gave it anyway.

When you look at him like he is not a burden. Like he is allowed to stay.

That’s what makes Jack Abbot forget how to speak.

Not blood.

Not death.

But the unbearable mercy of being loved anyway.

[solarpunkani]

Listen I’m not saying that *I* have the balls to buy a reflective vest and go off on a roadside or retention pond somewhere and start fucking around guerrilla gardening

But I am saying that the past week I’ve driven past many MANY people in reflective vests either doing roadwork or maintaining roadside shrubbery or whatever and the amount of times I considered questioning what the fuck they were doing is zero and the amount of times I would’ve even had the TIME to question what the fuck they were doing is zero

I saw groups of people I saw someone solo I didn’t question it I just figured ‘eh they’re doing SOMETHING and carried on. Depending on the location you pick, anyone who WOULD Karen up and interrogate you won’t even have the time space or ability to

[qwaiting]

Explore the role of self-service kiosk technology in boosting customer contentment. Learn about the features that make these kiosks user-friendly and effective in meeting customer needs promptly and efficiently.

[buttercup-barf]

Hello!! i love your sfm of blushy engie and demo! Are you planning on making one for every merc?

I would be overjoyed, you make them look so giddy and cute!! ❤

Well, since people are already offering sacrifices...

Might as well! Here's another pair. Did the Defence boys last time, not let's do some Offence.

I'll be real, I did not expect that post, of all things, to blow up. Was it the "happy pride" in the tags? Hell if I know.

[katebeckets]

how to say "I love you" in x-files [103/?] ⤷ 1.08 — “Ice”

[gearbroth]

twitter meme

[smileyobrien]

TEMPORAL MECHANICS 101 by Admiral Janeway

[khairosclerosis]

🛶 and i'm asking, 'why, lord?'

if this is how i die, lord;

why be left with no family

and no friends?