look at this little bastard

well now i’m on an aliens kick. also, i just went in my kitchen to get some ice water and walked in on a fucking roach orgy because no matter how much i clean this apartment is fucking ghetto so let’s talk about how aliens would react to human pest control methods.

“Why is Stacy cleaning the dishware? We have cleaning robots to do that for her,” asked Qwerty (his full name was much, much longer, but because it was written with every letter of one of the more commonly used human alphabets, and something about early digital communications, the humans on the I.S. Dastallria had given him the nickname). 

Xorzit’ket shrugged as best as her anatomy could manage the borrowed gesture. “Why don’t you go ask her?” 

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de-aged Sportacus appreciation post

I really enjoyed this episode for a couple of reasons:

  • Sport has always been a strong and talented little bastard (look at dem moves)
  • Sport can’t lie to save his life ie. he introduces himself as “Spob”
  • Sport is very brave even when faced with an unthinkable scenario
  • Sport has always been shaped like a friend. Him and Stephanie would have been best friends if grown up together
  • Sport continues to be a cheeky shit to Robbie “10 seconds is all I need…I guess I was wrong, I only needed 8”


Stefan brought his birb to work

Found him.

@kiazareni ‘s cute af idea :’)

Yuri has been looking for the little bastard for an hour beacuse it’s been awfully quiet in the house and he wouldn’t even come to the sound of Yuri shaking his bowl. Turns out he’s just been awfully comfortable somewhere. Somewhere exactly where Otabek puts his helmet

when he flirted with a girl right in front of you over 70yrs ago and you gonna make damn sure he knows youre still steaming

Recovered Jonsa Fic#17:

Another fic repost!


I need Littlefinger to tease Jon about his inappropriate feelings for his ‘sister’. I need LF to panic as he sees how close Jon and Sansa are. I need LF to dwell in despair because Jon is so much like Ned and Sansa so much like Cat and it’s history repeating for him all over again. I need LF to try something stupid. And I need Jon to punch him in the face. Basically I need LF to suffer. Yes, that would be nice. 

The bastard apologizes to her, and Petyr wants to scream.

The bastard apologizes and promises her: she’s his heir, she’s his regent, she’s Lady of Winterfell and Lady of the Dreadfort, essentially making her his most powerful vassal. She’s queen in all but name. 

Never has there been a more humble king. Never has there been a more attentive, doting, brother.

Petyr can tell that Sansa can’t hate him. Maybe there’d been a chance, but the bastard brings her to every bloody council meeting and before long, she’s named Hand. Before long, she’s attending more meetings and hosting court without him, and any time a single person questions this, they are shut down. 

The jokes begin. “King Jon rules the North, and Princess Sansa rules King Jon.”

Petyr can’t help but remember the last time that he heard a saying like that. It was about Tywin Lannister and his wife, Lady Joanna. 

Petyr watches them closely, when they’re together, which is too often.

She doesn’t freeze up when he leans toward her or touches her. She smiles for him. They are both people who laugh and smile seldomly, but they laugh and smile when around one another.

Petyr watches the bastard. He watches him when Sansa takes her leave. As she walks away, the bastard watches her. And Petyr sees it. There it is. The longing.

And he sees more. He sees the jealousy.

Lord Cerwyn is a lad of eight-and-ten. Not especially handsome, but well-made. And he has a meek, honest way about him. The sort of man Sansa could and would eat alive, and never fear. Though he cried Jon Snow’s name and declared him king, it’s clear that though it is Jon he serves, it is Sansa he worships. He watches her with lovesick eyes, stammers when in her presence, watches her from a distance. 

The new King in the North loathes the lad. He shouts at him when Lord Cerwyn drifts off and stares at the princess. He questions his courage. He challenges him to matches in the yard, and thrashes him without mercy.

He loathes Petyr as well. More than once, he’s suggested Petyr return to the Vale, and leave Lord Royce as ambassador. Sansa has told the bastard everything. And since King Jon was crowned, he’s done everything short of banishing Petyr to keep him separated from the princess.

When a few leal vassals made noises about seeking Princess Sansa’s hand for one of their sons or brothers, the bastard shuts them down with the iciest of stares.

When vassals mention their young, unwed daughters and sisters, the bastard shuts them down with the iciest of stares.

The new king doesn’t flirt, doesn’t smile. He only smiles for his sister. He only confides in his sister. His very movements revolve around her presence. When she enters a room, he stands. When she moves to the table, he pulls out her chair. When he sees her on the arm of another, he swiftly moves to take her.

Sometimes, Petyr catches him gazing at her hair, and he can tell the bastard is fantasizing about taking it in hand, stroking it, seeing it lie upon the surface of his pillow…

Petyr knows these looks. Many of them mirror his own.

Many of them mirror the brief interactions he witnessed between Ned Stark and Catelyn. Catelyn, only smiling and relaxing when she gazed upon that simpleton of a husband. Ned Stark, his surly face relaxing upon seeing her, his hand flying to wind that red hair about his fingers. 

One of the most painful moments in Petyr’s life was watching Lord and Lady Stark kiss. It was love between them. 

He’s witnessed a private moment between the bastard and Sansa. The two of them, standing in the godswood, facing each other. The bastard kissed her forehead. And despite the surrounding snow, despite how much younger the two are, Petyr flashes right back to that day in King’s Landing when Ned Stark jokingly chided his wife about her temper and their lips joined…

He knows what he must do. Because he can no longer suffer this. He can no longer stomach this. He will not have it happen again. No. Not again. 

But he must be sure. He cannot act too foolishly. He must have it confirmed.

His confirmation comes soon enough. And it is bitter.

Catelyn’s second boy reappears: crippled, snow-covered, making odd, cryptic statements. Petyr witnesses the reunion. He compares and contrasts how Sansa and Brandon interact with how she and the bastard treat one another. It. Is. Not. The same.

The boy loves his sister madly, can barely stand to let her go, but he does not look at her the way the bastard does.

Even worse: Sansa adores her little brother, she holds him with utter desperation, she cries, Petyr can’t remember the last time he’s seen her so happy as she embraces her little brother. But her affection for Brandon is markedly different from her affection for the Bastard.

Petyr is sure she doesn’t even realize it yet. And he knows. He knows he has to act now, before she does.

So later that evening, he gambles. Sansa is fussing over Bran, and Petyr discovers that the King in the North has departed from the castle, journeyed to the godswood. Petyr follows him.

He’s never spoken to the Bastard alone. Barely spoken to him at all. But now is the time.

He enters the clearing. The bastard’s back is to him. All Petyr really sees is hair and that bloody fur cloak, identical to Ned Stark’s. Sansa made it for him. She’s never made anything for Petyr. He wants to rip the cloak off the bastard’s shoulders and make him burn it.

Instead, he speaks. “Late hour for prayer, Your Grace.”

The bastard’s form tenses up, and he turns slowly. 

“Contemplation, Lord Baelish,” he says rigidly, his eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into an uncharacteristic sneer. “I have much to contemplate.”

“Aye, I imagine. It can’t be easy for you. I imagine you must feel rather conflicted.”

“What do you mean?”

Petyr smiles. “On one hand, you have your brother back. On the other, Sansa will once again be put aside.”

There’s a flicker in the King’s eyes, and Petyr realizes that the stupid bastard hadn’t even considered that. He grins.

“I mean, as a trueborn son, Brandon’s claims come before hers. So she’s no longer your heir, no longer Lady of Winterfell. Just as she lost her brother’s crown to you, she’s lost her home and place in the succession again to her little brother. It simply isn’t fair, after all she went through, all she did to get her home back. Perhaps if she’d become queen, there’d be no issue, but alas… Her chance of securing any rights were lost when you answered the Northern Lords’ call. And once again, she must step aside.”

King Jon’s mouth falls open for a second. He reddens. “I will… I will issue a proclamation tomorrow. Sansa remains my heir. She remains Lady of Winterfell.”

“I’m sure your little brother will appreciate that, no doubt. It is complicated, isn’t it?”

The bastard’s guilt is painted across his face. “I should have named her queen that day.”

“Oh yes, I can see your desperation to make her a queen,” Petyr replies, stepping closer, “I’m sure your little brother will appreciate that.”

“I—” The bastard scowls. “What is it you want, Littlefinger?”

Petyr is loving how easy this is. It’s so delicious he barely even flinches at being called “Littlefinger.” The bastard is as much a simpleton as his father. “Me? I want to make up for past mistakes. I gave Sansa up to an unworthy, perverted match before. I let her fall prey to licentiousness and abuse. I will be damned if I allow it to happen again.”

He gives the bastard an earnest, determined, challenging look. Inside, though, he smiles.

The bastard steps back, and Petyr knows. He sees it. The king in the North stammers. “I don’t know what you mean. I intend to keep her from such things, Littlefinger.”

“I don’t think you can be trusted to do so.”

“That means a lot, coming from you.” The Bastard spits.

“I’m not the man lusting after his sister.”

There. There it is. The bastard’s face is a mask of terror. Oh yes, Bastard, I know.

Now, Petyr glares. “Don’t deny it, Jon Snow. I have seen it. I know the truth. You may like to play the good, honorable, humble soldier, but just like your father before you, you can’t ignore your cock. I’ve seen the looks you give Sansa. Not exactly the sort of looks appropriate for a brother, are they?”

The bastard fidgets. He glares. “How dare you?!”

Petyr comes close. “You may have fooled Sansa so far, but you can’t fool me. I bet every woman you’ve ever desired has had hair the color of blood and bright blue eyes. I’ve sold enough whores to read any lusts I encounter. I’ve dealt with men like you. Lords who came to my brothel seeking girls who looked a very particular way, then encountering them with their families at court, and discovering their lady sisters bear striking resemblances to the girls I sold them. Discovering that my clients look upon their own blood with the sort of longing I now see in your eyes whenever they fall upon the woman who exemplifies everything you never had.”

“Shut up.” The bastard chokes out. But Petyr doesn’t.

“Perhaps when you answered the call of your vassals, you thought that taking the Stark birthright would be enough. But it wasn’t, was it? Taking the North from Catelyn Tully’s children isn’t enough. No, you need to take her lovely lady daughter, the perfect princess who looks so much like the woman who would never be your mother, you need to take her. You need to lay her upon the sheets of Lord and Lady Stark’s bed, the bed where your father and his lady wife made all of those trueborn children deemed more worthy than you, and make Sansa yours. Take her, claim her, defile her. Make her as incestuous as the mad queen in the South. Make her yours. Take everything. You burn for her. For your sister. You’re every bit as sick as a Lannister.”

The bastard’s hand on his throat is as satisfying as it is painful, as is the sensation as Jon Snow slams him up against the trunk of the Heart Tree. He flashes back to that day with Ned Stark, outside the brothel. Starks. Quick tempers. Slow minds.

But this time, he’s going to keep his Tully girl from them. He will. He will. Jon Snow won’t kill him. He knows it. He’s too honorable.

He actually hears the crunching from his nose against the bastard’s fist before the pain of it registers. But the pain does hit. And Petyr feels twinges of doubt. Maybe the bastard isn’t that honorable.

He bites his tongue, literally and figuratively. But even more frightening is the bastard’s smirk. The bastard isn’t supposed to be smirking.

“Not a Lannister,” hisses the bastard, “Like a Targaryen, actually.”

By his tone, Petyr realizes that there’s something to this, and he’s almost afraid to ask what. But he does. “What are you talking about, Bastard?”

The bastard grins even further. “Bran arrived today with some interesting information. Information that has since been confirmed by Lord Reed, who was with Eddard Stark when Lady Lyanna died. As it turns out, I’m not Lord Stark’s bastard after all. I’m the product of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. You haven’t heard, because Sansa doesn’t trust you. And that eats you up, doesn’t it?”

Petyr is out of breath, and not just from the blood and cartilege clogging his nasal cavities. “Wh—wh–what?!”

“Lord Eddard kept it a secret. But secrets come out. So no, Littlefinger. You may lust after your niece, but I do not lust after my sister.” The bastard’s eyes flash. “Sansa told me what you said to her. Your little dream. You, on the Iron Throne, her by your side. I don’t want the Iron Throne. Or, rather, I didn’t. But I may now. Not because I want to take anything from Sansa or Bran or Arya or Lady Catelyn. No, I’ll do it, if only to take it from you. You betrayed my family, Littlefinger. You double-crossed my father. You killed Jon Arryn and sparked everything that destroyed the lives of the people I loved—”

Petyr freezes. How could he possibly know—?

The Bastard reads his expression and grins. “My little brother arrived bearing lots of fascinating information. And now… I was content to never venture south, to let myself die in the North, fighting, to never, ever act on what I feel for Sansa. And trust me, in many ways, not loving Sansa was as terrifying a concept. 

“Because bloody hell…. I love her. I do. And unlike you, I actually know it’s real love. It’s not some entitled obsession passed from mother to daughter. I look at Sansa, and I don’t see Catelyn Tully. Seven Hells, I see more of her father in her than I see of her mother. But mostly, I see her. I’ve been in love before, Littlefinger. Loved a woman who never offered me anything I felt I was denied. Just a woman I bloody loved. Worshipped. Almost gave everything up for. I know love when it comes, and it’s here again. I am in awe of Sansa, I can believe that this world is worth fighting for, if only because she’s in it. I would die again if only to keep her safe. To make her smile. To make her feel safe and hopeful again. To make her feel even a fraction of the joy she brings me. But I didn’t want to scare her. After what she’s suffered thanks to you, pursuing her seemed wrong. And I’ve believed myself bound for death anyways. And I didn’t care, because if I died fighting the White Walkers, I’d be giving up my life to keep her safe, and would leave her the throne that’s rightfully hers. But you know what? Now I think I’ll live. I’ll survive the wars and come back to her. I’ll give her the throne of the North, then march South with her by my side and take the Iron Throne. I’ll declare myself King in the South, build her a throne of her own, and have her by my side as Queen in the North. And I am going breed a dozen babes into her—- Starks and Targaryens. And we’ll build a world for them and leave them everything you ever wanted. You’ll be a footnote. I’m going to be the man who makes her happy. I’m going to be the man who gives her babes with bright red hair. I’ll take the throne, and keep you alive only long enough for you to see us. Sitting side by side in the Red Keep, my firstborn in her arms. She’ll be happy, safe, loved. And I will give her everything you could only ever take from her.”

Petyr shakes. He sees it now. He sees it. His beautiful dream, gone. It’s not him on the Iron Throne, but this bastard. And he sees it, gods, he sees it. He sees her. Her by his side, babe at her breast, looking upon the bastard in adoration. In love.


Now Petyr seriously wonders if he’s having a nightmare. Because that’s her voice.

Both men look over, and there is Sansa, hands clasped, as beautiful as a winter rose. Even more beautiful than Cat ever was. The hood of her Stark cloak pulled up around her face so she resembles a little bear cub. She pulls the hood down and that red hair tumbles out.

She comes forward. The bastard releases Petyr. He falls to the ground, landing roughly on the roots of the weirwood. Sansa’s eyes are on the bastard. And she looks… She looks like his worst nightmare: beautiful and in love. 

The bastard looks panicked. “Sansa, I—”

She stops him with a fingertip to his lips. Petyr watches her and marvels. How could anyone look at her and see Ned Stark? She’s Cat. Cat. Cat…

She smiles. “That’s a beautiful dream, Jon. The most beautiful I can imagine. I want it for us. I want you to promise it to me. Even if you have to come back from the dead for it.”

“You… You want it?” He has that dumbfounded expression that was so, so Ned Stark.

“I want you. I want you by my side. I couldn’t care less for the Iron Throne, but us side by side, the babes, the better world we can give them.” 

And she kisses him. Just like Cat kissed that fool from the North. It takes Petyr several moments to realize he’s screaming.

The two break apart, and Sansa looks down on him. There is nothing but pure disgust in her eyes. 

“I have to say, though, My Love, I do agree with you,” she says, her tone mocking, “The Iron Throne does have a certain appeal if it means keeping him from it. I would very much like to give you everything Littlefinger wants.”

Petyr whimpers. She called him Littlefinger.

Before he knows it, he’s being dragged through the snow by his collar. He blacks out, and wakes up to find himself in a dark cell. He’s alone. He’s afraid.

Eventually, a page brings him a plate of what looks like it might have been mutton stew once. The lad is skinny, about twelve, and missing some teeth already. He grins at Petyr.

“I’m ta tell ya, Littlefingah, from the queen ‘erself—”


“King Jon ain’t no Stark, as it turns out. ‘E surrendered the North to Queen Sansa this mornin’. ‘E’s declared ‘imself a lost Targaryen prince instead, says ‘e’s meant to be King in the South, not the North.” The lad shrugs, “But ‘e’s not Old Lord Eddard’s bastard, so ‘e can’t be King in the North. So Sansa’s queen now, and ‘er crippled brother is prince. But that’s not what Queen Sansa’s so eager to know, now. No, she wants me ter tell ya that King Jon is going ta be a King in the North again, in a fashion. She says that she wants you to know that you’ll be let out and given a ‘ot meal and fine new clothes so you can come to ‘er wedding. She even—”

The lad stops, hesitates, then grins, “She says she’s found something she likes after what Lord Ramsay did to her. That you needn’t worry, that you’ll be out of ‘ere soon enough, because the wedding will need to be soon since she’s already started working on giving the North an ‘eir. The North and the South. And she says that after yer let out, and give yer blessing, that ‘the mockingbird will get to spread ‘is wings an’ fly.’ Don’t know what that part is supposed ter mean. But…” The boy giggles. “I know what she means with the first part.”

Petyr glares at the boy. “Get out!”

The lad shrugs. “Alright. I’m not ter be yer guard anyways.”

“Then who is?!” Petyr demands.

The lad gestures with his thumb over his shoulder. “’Im.”

And that’s when Petyr sees the red eyes in the distance. That’s when he hears the growling. 

cancerousminds  asked:

Yeeaaahhhh Chad is a dick and the relationship he has with George, Max and especially Ian is very slanted. It's like he thinks he should be able to treat them like shit without any backlash and/or joking in return. And when people get rightfully upset when he takes it too far, he turns into an indignant little bastard. Just look at the Mario Bros vid on Max's channel; that in and of itself is some pretty substantial fucking reason alone to dislike Chad

when he does finally stop abusing them he laughs about it and doesn’t even say sorry!!!!!

dozen of people ask what Mel looks like in GZombietale. So here he is,

this little bastard seeks for badassery


So another story came out from my mind:

  • Mel is Ganz twin brother
  • He was seperated from his family when the apocalypse start.
  • He is on his own, scouting.

Help me guys, I’m getting addicted to make zombie apocalyse story  thingy cdhjshcndcmxhjdnxm

GZombietale , gztale © me

I’m Sorry: Preference #11


“(Y/N) please I’m sorry!” Dan yelled as you tried not to get worked up. Maybe you were overreacting, but you were definately mad.

“No Dan! Why would you do that? That just totally crossed the line!” You argued with him. Why were you mad though?


Dan ate the rest of your cupcakes.

The cupcakes you had been saving for a time when ou really needed them, when you really craved them. And well, today was that day. Everything started out fine, you just had cupcakes on your mind and then it hit you THERES SOME IN THE CUPBOARD! but when you went to go check, there was nothing.

So you asked Dan. And do you know what he replied with?

“yeah i ate them yesterday…” that cheeky little bastard.

“Look, babe I’ll buy you some more, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were saving them. I’m sorry” Dan apologised once again, so you decided to ease up on him

“You’re lucky I love you, Howell”


“Shit” you muttered to yourself. “Phil is going to murder me…” you said looking down at your hands. In your hands was his camera he uses to film his videos, his now broken camera. “what the heck am i gonna do, he’ll be back any minute…” but then i thought came to mind

‘I know! I can just blame Dan!’ that plan was pretty much set in place, until Phil came through the door.

“Hey (Y/N)- oh gosh what happened?” Phil asks, looking down at his broken camera in your hands.

“It was Dan!” You blurted out, lying through your teeth, as well as a “what the heck i didn’t do anything!” from Dan in the next room. You instantly started feeling tremendously bad about it again. It was an extremely expensive camera, and it was just as expensive to fix.

“I’m sorry, Phil. It was an accident, I didn’t mean to…” you apologised. Lucky for you, you had an amazing and understanding boyfriend.

“It’s okay, accidents happen. I’ll just have to get a new one tomorrow.”

Marble portrait bust of the emperor Gaius, known as Caligula

Roman, Julio-Claudian period, 37—41 A.D.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC

The portrait style created for Augustus was adopted by his family and immediate successors in order to stress the unity and continuity of the Julio-Claudian dynasty.  This fine bust of Caligula (r. 37—41 A.D.) has regular features but carefully designed locks of hair similar to those in portraits of Augustus.  Here, however, the artists has also conveyed something of Caligula’s vanity and cruelty in the proud turn of the head and the thin, pursed lips.

political talk show au, the thrilling conclusion.

Here is the whole story from the beginning.

This is 4.5 K. Also it is still liberal-leaning and anti-Trump. No Hillary angst in this one tho.

Dear lord, what have I become.


The name sounds, like a thunderclap, in Jack’s head.

It wasn’t a moment ago the name was a question. A doubt, even. Does Bits even exist? Bitty certainly does. Bitty is the name of the screener for Jack’s favorite radio show, his companion through the morning for a year and change now. Bitty is unfailingly pleasant, unerringly professional, and untouchable. He handles callers with a lilt, a friendly word, and a toss off onto the airwaves. Jack made his acquaintance several months back, and he’s enjoyed their every interaction.

But Bits. Now, that’s someone Jack isn’t sure he hasn’t conjured up in his head.

Bits exists in the soft cluck of Bitty’s tongue, the hitch of breath between words. The pause before he intones Jack’s name, leaning on the “a” like it’s a cushion. Bits is the person Jack imagines Bitty to be, behind the phones. He’s a friend, a confidant. A ray of light in Jack’s life. And in Jack’s mind, Bits is just a little more friendly with him with all his other callers. Maybe he even feels something at the sound of Jack’s voice, the way Jack does at every musical “Hallo!”

Jack has come here today half-terrified that he’d discover Bits doesn’t exist at all. That Bitty, as competent and admirable as he is, is all there is, and whatever relationship  he’d imagined they’d been nurturing has been a figment of his imagination this whole time.

Now Bitty comes into focus like a blue sky when the clouds have parted. He wasn’t there, and suddenly he is; he must have been in the room before, but it’s only now that Jack’s eyes land on him and recognize.

But when their eyes meet, and Bitty’s brown eyes widen and then dance, Jack knows Bits is real.

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