#su leggy

[sharkphobicz]

i don't actually know how to draw backgrounds so ... erm . just pretend it looks nice

[smokin9-box]

The ruby squad I drew last night...

Out of the 5, I like how Army look.

[violeblanche]

.

[pan-fried-autism]

leggy ruby + padparadscha

[sommie789]

Leggy Fun Facts

Leggy visits Lapis and Peridot every week for tea.

She rides a big wheel around town.

She is a lightweight when it comes to alcohol.

The local orphans are fond of Leggy because she visits  and donated supplies to them.

She burned down an old building while training with  Army.

Doc and Eyeball had a tracking chip on Leggy because Leggy was getting lost all of the time.

Leggy's nickname for Padparadscha is Paddy because she kept on forgetting her real name.

Vidalia sold a painting of Leggy for ten thousand dollars.

She loves waffles and putting different food in the batter.

She loves line dancing.

[sucharactertournament]

SU Character Tournament

[omarfor-orchestra]

Allora ok che le leggi sulla privacy una volta erano diverse probabilmente però una registrazione avuta così a cazzo non credo sia una prova utilizzabile o sbaglio

[vanbasten]

maignan in maglia verde e proprio oggi io parlavo della maglia verde di castellini

[insertarnombreaqui]

comunque giulia aveva ragione che andrea aveva una bella voce

[sharkphobicz]

Could I request a doodle of a ruby of your choice eating something spicy and subsequently dying please? I love your art so much <3

i think it'd be super funny if rubies had low spice tolerances

[smokin9-box]

Month ago unfinished junk

It was supposed to be the entire squad, but I got lazy

[rideretremando]

"STATO PENALE DI POLIZIA

Ieri sera la camera dei deputati ha approvato a larghissima maggioranza il Ddl 1660, col quale senza troppi giri di parole, si istituisce in Italia lo stato di polizia.

🔴 Il blocco stradale e quindi gli scioperi diventano reato penale con condanne fino a 2 anni di carcere;

🔴 le proteste in carcere o nei Cpr possono essere punite col carcere fino a 20 anni;

🔴 idem per chi protesta contro le grandi opere;

🔴 Anche la "propaganda" delle lotte è punibile fino a 6 anni, essendo considerata "terrorismo della parola";

🔴carcere fino a 7 anni per chi occupa una casa sfitta o solidarizza con le occupazioni;

🔴 Fino a 15 anni per resistenza attiva

🔴 Fino a 4 anni per resistenza passiva (nuovo reato, ribattezzato "anti-Ghandi")

🔴 Facoltà per forze dell'ordine di detenere una seconda arma personale al di fuori di quella di ordinanza e al di fuori del servizio.

🔴 Carcere immediato anche per le madri incinte o con figli di età inferiore a un anno

🔴 Dulcis in fundo, si vieta agli immigrati senza permesso di soggiorno finanche l'uso del cellulare, vincolando l'acquisto della SIM al possesso del permesso.

Tutto ciò col silenzio complice delle "opposizioni parlamentari", le quali al di là di un voto contrario puramente di bandiera non hanno mosso un dito per contrastare realmente le nuove leggi "fascistissime", peggiorative rispetto allo stesso codice Rocco.

Anzi: su circa 160 parlamentari, al momento del voto a Montecitorio l'"opposizione" ne aveva in aula soltanto 91!!!

Non solo: prima della votazione finale del Ddl, PD e 5 stelle hanno presentato alcuni ordini del giorno (recepiti dal governo) che impegnavano quest' ultimo ad incrementare la spesa per assumere nuovi agenti di polizia e di guardie penitenziarie: l'ennesima riprova di come, al di la di qualche sfumatura, nella sostanza siano tutti uniti nella direzione di un inasprimento dei dispositivi repressivi, funzionale alla guerra e all'economia di guerra, cioè di fatto all'introduzione di una vera e propria legge marziale!

Ora la parola passa al senato, il quale sicuramente approverà in tempi brevi questa ignobile ed infame legge.

Sosteniamo la Rete Liberi di Lottare- fermiamo insieme il Ddl 1660."

Nadia Urbinati

[pan-fried-autism]

yeah hi. more

It’s Orange Calcite (Peridot + Spinel), Rhodonite (Leggy Ruby + Black Pearl [oc]), and Pink Variscite (Volleyball/Pink Pearl + Pink Beryl [also oc])

[falcemartello]

LA CENSURA AI TEMPI DEI REGIMI DEMOCRATICI

Di Ivan Surace

In perfetto stile orwelliano la neolingua ha coniato un nuovo termine per la censura tanto di moda nei secoli passati: standard della community.

Suona bene vero?

Un termine inc(u)l(o)sivo, comunitario, che ci fa sentire tutti membri dello stesso gregge in maniera allegra e positiva, contro un non meglio precisato nemico che non rispetta gli standard.

D’altronde un secolo di studi e applicazioni di public relations alla Bernays ha portato i suoi frutti, soprattutto da parte di chi ha capito come funziona la massa e che quindi, senza troppi scrupoli, utilizza tutti i mezzi che ha a disposizione per manipolarla a suo piacimento censurando, o meglio facendo scomparire, chiunque e qualunque cosa possa mettere In dubbio la propaganda di regime, la narrazione dominante.

Come ultimo esempio in questi giorni abbiamo la questione climatica.

Vi sarete resi conto di come la propaganda su questo argomento sia cresciuta in maniera esponenziale in questi ultimi anni, parallelamente alla cosiddetta transizione green, che porta con se il passaggio al “tutto elettrico” in ogni campo e alla sostituzione con l’IA, di gran parte della gestione sociale, politica economica e sanitaria della popolazione.

Stiamo assistendo alla conversione coatta della società in un grande allevamento intensivo di ultima generazione, in cui ogni singolo capo di bestiame, trasformato in un pezzo di carne senza personalità né anima, viene controllato in maniera totale e continuativa.

Comunque la si pensi, questo è il futuro che immaginano per l'umanità e che si sta progressivamente attuando in maniera totalitaria, a cominciare dai grandi centri urbani, trasmormati in vere e proprie aziende zootecniche per umani.

Ma torniamo alla questione climatica, l’intesificarsi della propaganda su questo argomento serve a giustificare e a far accettare all’opinione pubblica l’entrata in vigore di leggi e restrizioni normalmente inaccettabili in qualsiasi società democratica.

Quindi la questione climatica é il pretesto, lo storytelling, la fiction, su cui si basa la ricerca di consenso da parte del potere, per imporre il cambiamento antropologico necessario, per realizzare i loro piani di controllo totale della popolazione.

Affinché la fiction sia credibile e possa essere sostituita alla realtà, occorre eliminare tutte le eventuali prove, critiche, controversie, che contrastano, anche minimamente, con la narrazione dominante.

È in ossequio a questa logica che negli ultimi mesi su FB, in maniera discreta e disinvolta, con vera tecnica da desaparecidos, sono stati rimossi diverse pagine e profili che facevano informazione sul clima in maniera non allineata al pensiero unico e dove venivano condivisi studi, grafici e informazioni scientifiche di fondazioni come Clintel o di scienziati come Prestininzi, Scafetta, Prodi, Curry, Lindzen, Spencer, ecc.

La pagina 'Klima e scienza', solo per fare un esempio recente, é stata fatta evaporare non appena raggiunti i 10mila iscritti.

Stessa sorte a profili di privati cittadini e di gestori dei profili sopra menzionati, anch’essi fatti sparire da un giorno all’altro con estrema discrezione, al punto che se uno non ci fa caso, neanche se ne rende conto e tutto continua come se niente fosse accaduto.

La situazione é estremamente pericolosa perche da un lato si procede con le epurazioni senza sosta e dall’altro non vi è nessuna presa di coscienza di quanto stia succedendo.

Se e quando la massa si renderà conto di tutto ciò, sarà già troppo tardi.

Al limite avverrà quando l’identità digitale, il portafoglio digitale e tutte le restrizioni ad essi legate, saranno già legge e routine quotidiana e non penso si dovrà attendere molto.

Se non ci sarà un totale cambio di passo da parte della minoranza non allineata nel lottare contro questo regime, tra i più subdoli e raffinati della storia, la fine della società e dell’umanità per come l’abbiamo sempre vissuta percepita e immaginata sarà certa come la morte.

[anchesetuttinoino]

Il vizio della parola

Il vizio della parola

Il divieto per le donne di usare la voce in pubblico nell’Afghanistan dei talebani. E noi ammutoliti da un diluvio di neologismi assurdi (vedi alla voce “maranza” o “sunshine guilt”)

Se togli loro la parola, scompariranno. I talebani hanno recentemente emanato una serie di leggi inerenti la propagazione della virtù e la prevenzione del vizio. Già questo proietta lo sguardo su un mondo che appartiene a una galassia lontanissima. E quando mai dalle nostre parti si parla più di vizi e virtù? In ambito legislativo, oltretutto.

In ogni caso, queste leggi sono state approvate dal leader supremo dei talebani, Hibatullah Akhundzada, e tra i provvedimenti ne spicca uno: «La voce di una donna è considerata intima e quindi non dovrebbe essere ascoltata mentre canta, recita o legge ad alta voce in pubblico». Per promuovere la virtù e scacciare il vizio, le donne non potranno esprimersi a voce alta nei contesti pubblici. Le imbavagliano, anzi le ammutoliscono, ma per il loro bene s’intende.

La scena è agghiacciante, ci costringe a una doccia terribilmente fredda. I talebani hanno chiaro chi sia una donna, a differenza della nostra situazione un po’ più aperta, cioè confusa. Abbiamo trascorso l’estate – ma è stata la ciliegina su una torta sfornata da tempo – a interrogarci su livelli di testosterone, Dna, intenzioni d’anima. Magari, al prossimo caso mediatico, potrebbe essere utile cambiare sfondo e ambientare tutti i nostri dubbi per le vie di Kabul e «vedere l’effetto che fa».

Se dai loro in pasto tantissime parole, scompariranno. Aggiungere vocaboli non è per forza segno di progresso, si può diventare muti per eccesso terminologico. L’aggiornamento dello Zingarelli per il 2025 prevede che il dizionario si arricchisca di nuovi termini, “maranza” e – udite udite – “gieffino” si conquistano un posto nell’Olimpo delle parole validate da definizione. Ma questo è solo un ritocco brutalmente onesto al nostro ritratto umano.

Il crimine terminologico è altrove, là dove spuntano espressioni che ci ritroviamo sotto gli occhi scrollando le notizie. “Coolcation” è la tendenza in crescita per trovare mete di viaggio al fresco. “Workation” è la scelta di lavorare da remoto scegliendo luoghi che offrano svago e servizi per il tempo libero. Una medaglia d’oro per l’assurdo spetta all’espressione “sunshine guilt”, il senso di colpa per aver sprecato una giornata di sole.

C’è, nel nostro intimo, un ribollimento senza nome. Sono scampoli di paura mescolati a slanci di affetto, pulsioni cattive e lacrime struggenti. È questa fucina scabrosa, feconda e indicibile che alimenta la libertà nel tumulto di gesti, scelte, responsabilità. Sono poche, devono essere poche e vertiginose, le parole a cui ricondurre il senso del nostro travaglio. Sillabe scottanti come “amore” o “invidia”. Frantumare il quadro in un mucchio di nuovi pezzettini lo riduce a un puzzle che resta scombinato.

Finiamo per scomparire ed essere muti se l’impegno di affrontare la novità di ogni nuova alba – l’ignavia che fa a pugni con la rabbia, i desideri che bevono sorsi di fiducia – viene sgonfiato dalla bugia che tutto affondi in un senso di colpa per il timore di perdere un giorno di sole.

via tempi.it

[avocado-writing]

Roland Blum x Reader

notes: nobody asked for this but I wrote it anyway. big shout out to my mate M who helped me brainstorm this and came up with some of the *chefs kiss* lines. might do a part 2 idk rating: E, minors dni

words: 2.4k

cw: utter filth. smut; excessive discussion of oral sex; pegging; you’re both switches lmfao taglist: @clarina04 @havaheart @angiestopit @cryptid-flannelhell @shadowluna25

Roland Blum fucking hates you. 

He hates how you think you know everything even though you’re just a kid. Yeah, sure, he was the exact same way when he was your age, but he also acknowledges that he’s a hypocrite and doesn’t care. He hates the tight little outfits you wear, because he’s a slut for a well-tailored suit and you know you look exceptionally fuckable in them. He hates how he couldn’t stop imagining bending you over his desk and drenching his cock in your tight little pussy, wondering what his name would sound like from your mouth as you choke it out through orgasms. He hates that you’ve rejected his every advance so far. 

Most of all he hates how you’re good at this job. It’s infuriating. If you were shit, like so many of the others he’s seen come and go through these doors, it might be different. But you’re not. You’re a fucking shark, out for blood. Just like him. 

He hates you. 

If there’s one thing that’s worse than you it’s your shitty little boyfriend. 

He’s constantly around, trying to earn your approval - and he does need to earn it because it doesn’t take much research to find out he’s a fucking serial cheater. He has this habit of falling dick first into leggy blondes he finds at bars which you don’t much approve of. And you fucking let him keep getting away with it! You don’t even seem to like the guy that much. Roland can see the thinly veiled disinterest on your face every time your boyfriend tries to surprise you with your favourite coffee or a bunch of flowers. You accept them, and the kiss he offers, and then look relieved when he’s gone. 

You need a good fuck. You need it. He can tell, and he’s sure your boyfriend isn’t getting the job done. Nobody sexually satisfied is as bitchy as you are. Except, maybe, for him. But his exception doesn’t prove the rule. He teases you about it mercilessly and loudly, and your conversations always end the same way. 

“Maybe if someone was taking care of your vagina, it wouldn’t have sand in it.”

“I fucking hate you, Roland.”

“Yeah, I know.”

But you work well together, that can’t be denied. Case after case you take on, and case after case you win. It’s nice that you can put your mutual loathing aside to be professional for long enough to help your clients out.

He knows where you’re meant to be meeting your boyfriend that night. That fancy bar in the penthouse of that hotel. Seems fucking stupid to him, bars should be on ground level, but what does he know. While you’re in the bathroom he gets himself something strong which goes down well with the pill he takes; he sits in the corner where he won’t be seen and watches you. 

You’re sitting on a tall stool, drumming your fingers on the counter. At first you look hopeful. Then you look at your watch. Over and over again. He can see the excitement leave you and you deflate like a balloon animal left in some kid’s room as time ticks by. Eventually your phone rings, and though he can’t work out every word, you have a very short conversation with the person on the other end, finishing the call by jabbing your screen so hard he’s surprised the glass doesn’t shatter. 

You head into the elevator. He follows you. You’re the only two in there as the doors slide shut and it begins its descent. He leans on the wall and looks at you, levelly. You don’t even seem surprised that he’s there, you just look sort of tired. 

“So,” he says, and you look like you’re bracing yourself for him to mock you like he usually would, but he gets straight to the point, “you gonna let me fuck you?”

You look at him, properly look at him. You seem to sum him up for the first time since you started at the firm, let your eyes trail up and down his body, taking him in. 

“Roland, you have until the alcohol wears off.”

You barely get the last word out, actually, because he hears your consent and fucking lunges for you. His mouth is hot and rough on yours, beard scraping your chin and cheeks, and he grins into it when he hears you moan. Moaning from a kiss? You are desperate. 

He slams his fist on the emergency brake button and the elevator screeches to a halt. You pull back to look at him, confused and appalled. He likes it. 

“What?” he asks, pressing his thigh between yours, up into your needy cunt, “You said I have until the alcohol wears off, I’m not wasting a single fucking second with you.”

You seem oddly charmed by that idea, but it’s only a quick flash of sentiment over your face before he finds your clit and begins to fuck into it with the width of his thigh. You begin to twist and writhe in pleasure against him, wanting to ride him yourself, but him not allowing you the freedom to do it. He grins as he watches you melt. 

“Knew you needed someone to take care of your little cunt.”

“I fucking hate you,” you snap, but he can tell your heart isn’t in it. Not this time anyway. He pulls off his suit blazer and, with a flick of the wrist that is too certain to have not been practised before, he manages to throw it over the camera in the upper corner of the elevator, letting it hang off it as if it were a coat rack. Seemingly happy that you have a few minutes, you let him kiss his way down your body and end up on his knees in front of you. He sees the hungry way you look down at him and wants to see it on your face all the fucking time. 

He makes light work of your tight little skirt, raising his eyebrows when he gets to your thong. You shove him with your foot. 

“What?”

“Someone thought she was gonna get lucky tonight.”

“Yeah, well, I fucking am aren’t I?”

He can’t argue with that. Well, he could, but for once he doesn’t. Instead he rips it off your body with his bare hand and shoves it into his trouser pocket. You yelp but any complaints you have are quickly doused when he begins to fuck you with his mouth. He is fucking ravenous for you, pressing his fingers up inside your greedy cunt and latching onto your clit viciously. You haul a leg over his shoulder and pull him in harder against you, your heel knocking against his spine. He digs his hands into the meat of your ass and hopes his fingernails leave little crescents. 

You come once on his fingers, heavy and slick, and look both exhausted and disappointed when he pulls his hand away. He sucks his fingers dry and nods to the elevator control panel. 

“Thing’s about to start working again. I’d get dressed if I were you.”

On cue the elevator begins to whir as someone somewhere deactivates the brake. As it starts to swoop downwards and finish its journey you scrabble to get your skirt back on while Roland grins at the show. 

He takes his suit jacket and walks out the door with confidence when they open, striding past the assembled staff with utter nonchalance. 

“Get that fucking thing fixed, almost ruined my evening,” he shouts at them, but anyone looking for too long can see his beard is soaked in you. You do your best to mimic his confidence, walking out as if the elevator room doesn’t reek of sex. 

He heads to the street, doesn’t say anything, but offers the cab driver two hundred dollars to ignore what’s happening in the back seat. You bark out your address and fall into his lap. 

Roland fingers you while you’re driven to your apartment. You’re one orgasm deep and high off it, and he makes you come again in the back of a dark taxi while easy listening plays over the radio. When the journey is over you grab his tie and pull him the two flights up to your home. He likes it a lot, being led like a dog, but there will be time to explore that another day. 

Because there will be another day. 

Roland takes immense joy in fucking you on the mattress he can only imagine your boyfriend has disappointed you on hundreds of times. He has stamina, you’ll give him that, and he ends up coming inside you three times over the following hours. By the end of it you’re lying on either side of the bed, sweaty and exhausted, just listening to the sound of your combined breathing. 

“Why do you wax?” is the question he chooses to break the silence with. You look confused, and he points to your pussy. 

“Oh. Personal preference I guess.”

“No, try again.”

“What—”

“I can tell when you’re lying. About this, anyway. Tell me why.”

You clench your jaw, but admit: “My boyfriend doesn’t like me hairy.”

Roland lets out a short, loud laugh that’s reminiscent of a bark.

“What, he afraid to get a pube in his mouth?”

“Roland!” you snap, and hit him with a pillow far harder than it has any right to feel.

“I’m just saying he’s a pussy. Wait, no, let’s not use that word, I fucking love pussy - he’s a coward. Grow it out if you want to grow it out, fuck him. If my face isn’t stuck to your cunt like Velcro then it’s no fun.”

You purse your lips but don’t say anything else.

The next time he fucks you, hair is beginning to grow there again. You’ve not really spoken about that night, and a couple of weeks have already passed. There’s been too much work to think about sex, anyway. Well, to act on it, at least. Well to act on it with each other - he’s not above admitting he kept your thong and likes to have the fabric over his mouth and nose while he jerks off into the toilet. You must know but you’ve not asked for it back, which he finds just wonderful.

The two of you are working late, main office lights off, lit by lamps, utterly exhausted. You’re in business mode, swapping ideas back and forth, butting heads a little but generally agreeing with what the other is saying. Excitement builds in the room and bubbles over to something else, and suddenly you’re in his lap stripping him off, and then he’s hefting you onto the desk and pulling down your skirt. He grins when he sees the slightly more natural state of your pussy and you roll your eyes at him.

“Don’t say a fucking word.”

“Oh, but I really want to.”

You silence him with a ferocious kiss and he begins to slide inside, too horny to bother getting out of his clothes properly; which is saying something because he loves being out of his clothes. He sheathes himself in you and you throw yourself back against the legal papers, not caring about how they scatter.

“So, your boyfriend pissed you off again?” he begins to thrust, pushing his girthy cock even deeper inside your creamy pussy.

“You wanna ask this while you’re inside me?”

He shrugs. He’s still hard as rock, so doesn’t seem to mind the discussion, so you humour him as he begins to work your clit with his thumb.

“Eh, a little. He’s always pissed me off to some level.”

“Why are you with him? You seem to fucking hate him.”

“We’ve been together - aah! - since we were in high school. Our families are friends. It’s just – oh, fuck – expected now.”

“Ahh, expectation, the truest form of love.”

You seem to mull that over, sincere, but you’re taken out of the moment when he slings one of your legs up over his shoulder and fucks into you so deeply you think he’s about to split you in half.

It becomes a more regular thing after that. Your little boyfriend is still around, but he’s none the wiser that you’re spending every other night fucking one of your coworkers. And the two of you are amazing at fucking. Roland believes you could sell tickets to a show to watch the two of you going at each other, feral and needy. And you’re kinky, too! One night you wrap his belt around his neck and squeeze it so hard his vision blurs and he comes more than he has since he was a teenager. On another, you fold him in two on your bed and take your time stretching his ass open before you peg him with the biggest dildo he’s ever seen. A prostate orgasm can really make you appreciate the world a little better.

You see each other a lot outside of work now, too. Usually he feels like the little dates you go on are extended foreplay, where you can run your foot up and down his leg and press your toes into his dick, but sometimes he has to admit he just likes going out with you. You’re a quick wit, whip-smart, and fucking filthy. You’re wasted on going out with that pathetic asshole, you really are.

And one night the two of you are working late, again. You’ve both ordered Chinese takeout from down the street, and have found yourselves distracted. Not with sex, not with arguing, but with trying to fling battered chicken balls into each others’ mouths across the length of the office. You’re in literal tears as Roland tries to wheel his chair into the chicken’s oncoming trajectory only to lose his balance and tumble out of it, landing miserably on his ass.

You can’t breathe. You grip the edge of the desk for support, tears streaming down your cheeks, the long line of your beautiful throat exposed as you throw your head back laughing, and Roland finds himself fucking enamoured with you. He wants to hear your laugh all day, every day, forever, actually. He wants to go home tonight knowing his is the only cock you have inside you. Fuck it if that’s possessive, he’ll promise the same thing if it means you’ll be only his.

He’s fucked.

He’s so fucked.

Roland Blum hates you.

Except he doesn’t really. He just has to tell himself that, or he’ll realise he’s fucking fallen in love.