#free from the fryer

[pixelated-screaming]

*breaks down door*

HEY WHAT'S UP

You can call me Pix (Or Pixel)

I go by She/Her mostly, but They/Them is fine too

I am a young artist, I love making OCs, sharing OCs with other people, and just artsy stuff in general. I also make somewhat okay music, and I'll sometimes post shitty animations (IM STILL LEARNING, SHUT- /j)

My birthday is February 6th

Im cool with fanart, asks, rps, etc. :D

I am mainly in the JSAB/TPC (Just Shapes and Beats/The Pink Corruption) fandom, but I might hover around in THS (The Heroic Six) and CRK (Cookie Run Kingdom) every now and then ^^

DNIS:

Discrimination of any kind. I don't have to explain this one, really. If you use slurs regularly, you already make me uncomfy. Just don't be a dick, please. ^^

People who post NSFW/Porn/Vore/Anything of the sort, Get the fuck away from me. I am a minor. I don't need (NOR DO I WANT ) to see that.

Anything that is overly toxic, or filled with drama that makes me pick between sides. This includes proship, litterally any bad drama, yatta yatta yatta. Im already very mentally lost, y'all don't need to make it worse. <3.

If your name is Xander, and you are involved in drama with projectstarsystem, DNI please. ^^

People who are heavily involved in politics. Same explanation as anything toxic. I have to deal with enough political shit thanks to my family. No thank you.

If you are going to ask for donations, please don't. I can't donate, I'm sorry. :( I support Gaza, Palestine, and similar causes, but I can't do anything about it.

I AM A MINOR.

Don't take my art pls!!

FYI: If you piss off my mutuals, you'll get me 10x more pissed. <3

@projectstarsystem currently in ur walls 😁 /sillyj

@tetric-electric *drags you in here /j*

@altosys YAY :D

@cyanidecyanidecyanidecyanide FELLOW CYANIDE FAN LETS GOO- /silly

@mugzymiik silly littol guy :3 /silly

@astronic-fr tell me how you make your art so eatable hgeghejhgeghjeghdhjdg /sillyj

@thesealantern Lets dip our fingers into candles together :3 /sillypf

@bjorksversionsworld MOOTZ!!!! :DDD

@n-simp A FRIEND(or wife hehe /silly) OF STARS IS A FRIEND OF MINE!! :3

@sillystarzi PPL NEED TO RECOGNIZE YOUR FANDOM ISTG AGAHGHGAHG /silly/srs

@witchandstrawberry CUBECUBECUBECUBECUBECUBECUBECUBE- /silly

If you want to be on here, just gimme an ask! Sorry if I missed you-

This thingy is getting too long, cya *evaporates* /j

[jrueships]

r u the grew up poor never being able to buy the little things in life u always wanted as a kid so now u buy whatever little thing u want as an adult and struggle with saving for the big mandatory thing,

or the grew up poor never being able to buy the little things in life u always wanted as a kid so now u just never buy anything small bcs u had to learn to live without it and constantly try to save for the next big thing in 500 yrs

[navybluetriangles]

.

[exopelagic]

okay I severely misjudged spaghetti guy he’s actually just really cool

[licorishh]

Hey. Don't cry. Badia garlic salt and Country Crock vegan olive-oil butter on toasted Canyon Bakehouse gluten-free 100% ancient grain bread, okay?

[milkteafaeriie]

.

[torpublishinggroup]

"Warning Signs Your Machines Are Trying to Kill You!" by TJ Klune

(Legally, I’m required to tell you that when smart phones first became popular, I bought one and then asked for the address of the app store because I thought it was a physical location I had to go to in order to download apps and not something already on your phone. Also, I was recently told I speak like an old person so as a warning, there will not be any slang you youths typically hear, especially on Tumblr. Any slang I’ve learned in the last five years has been against my will. I still don’t know what FOMO means, and I don’t care.)

1. Oh no! You and your family are trying to enjoy a movie night, but Overlord Prime (With Free Shipping) wants a sacrifice at the altar of their god, BeeZos. Should this happen, do not attempt to give Overlord Prime (With Free Shipping) a cantaloupe with googly-eyes on it and say that it is your baby. Overlord Prime (With Free Shipping) knows the difference between fruit and children. Instead, ask the machine to order dog food, and it will forget about eating humans for a little while.

2. If you own a very fancy vehicle that can drive itself, always make sure to carry a brick. That way, when the car locks you inside and attempts to drive you off a cliff into a gas station, you can break the window using the brick. You will then have to jump out, but make sure you do so in time so you can watch the wicked-ass explosion when the car hits the gas station, and you can revel in your victory over your car.

3. This one will hurt. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Chances are, you’re reading this on your phone right this second. To be safe, after you’ve finished reading this post and have clicked on the affiliated links to purchase my books, you should throw your phone into a volcano and then move to South Dakota where there are no machines, only wind and cows. That way, when everyone else gets the 5GZombieVirus that people on Twitter (I’m not calling it the other thing, shut up) seem to think is real, you’ll be safe with your cows on a windy day.

4. Get rid of your air fryer. Don’t ask me why, just do it. Red flags all around. Danger, danger.

5. Do you know of the Clapper? That thing first launched in the late 20th century (I wrote it that way to make me feel old) where the commercials showed cranky old people unable to reach their light switches, so they got a thing called a Clapper that turns your lights on and off when you clap? Guess what? Those will be the first things to try and kill you. If you love your gram-gram, save her from the Clapper. When she asks why you are destroying it with an ax, tell gram-gram it’s because you love her.

6. Do you live in a smart home? The kind where everything is connected to the internet, including your refrigerator? The refrigerator that holds your perishable foods? And oh, would you look at that: how many ice cubes have you kicked under it rather than picking them up when they fall to the floor? A dozen? A million? The refrigerator remembers. And it will spoil your food in seconds. What then? What are you going to eat? Canned food? Not if the refrigerator falls on top of you!

Unfortunately for you, this is where it must end. I hope this has given you enough information to help you survive the inevitable. If you do not heed my warnings, well. Who cares. I’m not in charge of you. Do whatever you want. Just don’t come complaining to me when gram-gram gets the clap.

[godslino]

HARD LAUNCH | minho drabble. established relationship.

“Do you guys have french fries?”

“Minho.” you hiss, nudging his shin beneath the table.

He cocks an eyebrow before turning back to the waitress. She smiles softly, laughing at the two of you. 

“We do, yes.” 

“Wonderful,” Minho grins, “We’ll have a side order of those too.”

“Perfect. I’ll put that in for you guys and check back soon.” The waitress says happily, collecting the menus and scurrying off to tend to another table.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, you groan, covering your face with your hands. 

“Why would you do that?” 

Minho chuckles, shakes his head probably. You wouldn’t know since you can’t see him.

“Do what?”

Still using one hand to cover your eyes, you pull the other away, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction. “I told you I’d be fine. Why’d you have to ask for french fries? That’s so embarrassing.”

Minho hums. Unbothered. “You know what’s worse?”

“Literally nothing.” you mumble, returning your other hand to your face. It only serves to muffle your voice more. “This is humiliating. We’re in a nice restaurant and you ordered french fries because of me. Oh God. I’m going to hide in the bathroom.”

A good choice, you think. Minho’s in god damn slacks for crying out loud. Every second that passes is another second that your pity order of french fries is probably spending in the deep fryer, right next to the lobster tail and shrimp tartar that everyone else has a mature enough palate to eat. 

Before you can move to get up and make a beeline for the toilet, you feel Minho’s fingers wrap around your wrists, pulling until your hands give way to your face. You crack one eye open and then the other, his amused expression coming into view.

“What’s worse than ordering french fries is me knowing you’ll be hungry if there isn’t something familiar for you on the table.” he says pointedly, like your reason for feeling embarrassed is unnecessary. “Besides, who said I didn’t want any?”

“Min, look around,” you say, turning your head to glance at the room, “The napkins are cloth. Cloth! Nicer than my bed sheets. We can’t be seen eating french fries in a place like this. I told you I’d be—”

“—fine. Because as long as you’re here I can do anything.” Minho recites, word for word, cutting you off. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks immediately, spreads like wildfire when Minho smiles and leans on to his forearms. His button up tightens over his shoulders, hugs his arms, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

“Just like how you’re doing this for me, let me do something for you.” 

You and Minho have been seeing each other for four months now, but even at that, you’re still not used to his straightforwardness. 

Seeing Minho has been nothing short of a dream. What started as just interacting at parties because of mutual friends eventually gave way to him asking for your number, and then hanging out separate from your friend group, until one day he plucked up the courage to ask you out. Since then, the two of you have been inseparable, always spending every free moment together. Laughing, talking, even sometimes just existing in the same space. It’s nice. So, so nice.

“Shouldn’t I be the one blushing right now?” Minho teases.

“Shut up.” you say, tearing your gaze away from him.

He laughs again before reaching out and placing a hand on top of yours. Soft. Minho is unbelievably soft.

It’s the thing you love the most about him. But more than that, more than the delicate skin of his fingers or the brush of his lips against yours, you love the softness of his eyes.

Minho is hard to crack, his emotions shrouded most of the time. Not that he wants to be, but because that’s just how he operates, or so you’ve learned. 

But despite all of that, his eyes are a dead giveaway. When he’s looking at pictures of his cats, or staring at you from across the room, or right now as steaming plates of some of the finest cuisine Seoul has to offer are being placed in front of him.

“Holy shit.” he whispers, staring in awe as the waitress walks away from the table.

“Is it rude for me to take a picture? Like, would anyone get offended?” 

Minho scoffs. “Babe, I would be offended if you didn’t document this right now.”

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, pulling out your phone.

“Do I get to be in it this time?”

You look up to find Minho pouting across the table. Another thing about your relationship— nobody knows yet. 

You’ve been teasing about the possibility of a boyfriend for two months now, you and Minho only having made it official about a few weeks ago. The most anyone has been able to see are carefully positioned photos where only his hand or other inconspicuous parts of him are visible.

It’s not that you don’t want people to know. It’s just hard with his job and all. Privacy reasons.

"For someone who likes to claim that people won't give me a hard time because of your fame you sure do seem eager to test that theory."

Minho smiles mischievously. “Well, yes. But I’m also waiting because I want to show you off.”

You busy yourself with opening your camera app to stop the heat creeping up your neck. “Yeah, yeah. You big flirt.”

Minho laughs but obliges, scoots back to let you get a good few pictures of the food. 

Photos aren’t enough to do it justice, though. So you opt for a video, scanning the table with your camera, only the bottom half of his torso visible across the table. A silk white button up only three-fourths of the way buttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Minho watches silently, his face unreadable. And then, at the last second, he dips his head down so fast you don’t even realize what’s happening until his face is fully in the shot, a shit-eating grin pushing his eyes into crescent moons.

“Min!” you laugh, ending the recording. 

He chuckles, straightening back out. “Post it.”

“Are you insane?”

“No, but I’m going to be if you don’t post it and then eat with me.” He nudges the plate of french fries towards you. “Come on.”

“You really want me to post it? You’re sure?”

Minho smiles. Soft. “Never been more sure about anything in my life.” he says, neither of you willing to address the weight of his words.

He grabs your hand, plants a kiss on the back of your knuckles. The resulting flip of your stomach is enough to give you the courage to hit post and tuck your phone away.

Whatever happens, you’ll deal with it later. Together.

[ tags: @102598s @skzstarnet @snowyquokka @jisunglyricist @itsgghowitsgg @alician87 @skzms @meloncremesoda @palindrome969 @ilychee08 @allaboutsan @legally-lixs @astronomicallyyy @doohnut @linocz @romancerry @djeniryuu @pinkpunkdynamite @pynchkilledme @stayceebs97 @candyquokka @liknws @beeracha @feelikecinderella @caitxx1 @lilac13 @sebastianswhore13 @classiclitandmemes @hyunverse @linosazuna @lastgreatamericandynasty1 @bubbly-moon @cookiesandcreammy ]

[zynwarrior]

How to NOT binge:

(From someone whose 2 months binge free)

Info for restricting:

If you’re prone to binging after fasts. Then don’t fast.

You’d rather set a cal limit for yourself at either 700-900 for high res and 1000-1200 for low res.

By binging after fasts you undo all the work you put in and it makes you feel worse than eating in restriction.

Another point I’d like to make is that it is MUCH better to maintain than gain.

Fasting may show you faster results but there’s no point if you know you’re the type to binge and undo all that progress.

Low cal foods for restriction (that actually taste good):

Tuna

Chicken breasts *seasoning allowed, no sauce, unnecessary calories.

Whole grain pasta

Air fried sweet potatoes (my favorite)

Dark chocolate (for those of you with a sweet tooth like me)

FRUITS (blueberries, peaches, strawberries, kiwi are the best)

Zero cal drinks (flavoured water, sodas, energy drinks- I recommend something fizzy to bloat you because yes it will make you a bit queesy but it’s better than being hungry and regretting eating. I know feeling bloated feels disgusting but keep in mind that it’s extremely low cal and there is no way you are going to gain)

Use stevia or low cal sweeteners

Nutmilk over regular milk.

If you don’t have access to an air fryer, use coconut oil instead of olive or sunflower oil. Extremely low cal and food tastes exactly the same with lots more of health benefits.

Info for fasting;

Zero cal drinks, water, gum, zyns/nic pouches- they’re your new best friend.

No more than 24- 48hours if you end up binging after long fasts (48+ hours). Remember you are still not eating for a whole day, it is perfectly fine to be hungry. What’s important is that you control it. You’d rather eat low cal than binge on something like fast food.

Don’t do hectic workouts. You need energy to complete day to day activities and if you spend what little energy you have on working out your body will crave something to feed off of. Go on a long walk instead or use a treadmill.

Do calming yoga or Pilates. I recommend finding those on YouTube for beginners as it’s much less intense but still keeps you moving.

General tips for restriction:

Chew food slowly

If you overeat and want to purge do not brush your teeth after, it is far too harsh. Use mouthwash or mints. Wait 30 mins to brush again.

Count every cal. Keep a memo or notepad and write down exactly what you’ve eaten

Do not eat fast foods or processed unhealthy snacks just because they fit into your limit. Ultra-processed foods are made to keep you wanting more. You know that feeling when you just can’t put that packet of chips down? That’s the oil and salt which has been perfectly designed to keep you wanting it.

Keep busy. The busier you are the less time you have to eat MORE. Pick up a new hobby, deep clean, learn a new language or simply sleep it off.

General tips for fasting :

Whoever said don’t plan your meals is wrong. You need structure if you want to succeed. You cannot leave anything up to chance as if you don’t know what to eat, you eat everything.

When breaking a fast, the most important things are protein and fibre. Have 60/40 ratio of protein and fibre. 60% protein 40% fibre. It’s important to eat protein after a fast to regain strength and to maintain your hair and nails. Fibre to give you essential vitamins and help bowel movements.

As I said in my previous posts. DRINK YOUR WATER. In my experience drinking a DEATHLY amount of water makes me not even crave food.

Smoking or vaping (just don’t start if you don’t already but use your nic addiction as a tool/ not promoting)

That’s it! Hope you enjoyed and found this helpful<3

[laurrelise]

okay all i want right now is an umbrella academy spinoff of just the deli fives working in the kitchen like in the bear

ok ok picture this:

deli owner five: i swear to fucking god five, if five has to wait any longer for the brisket, you’re fired.

brisket five: it’s not my fault! five still hasn’t finished the goddamn fries! (clearly at his breaking point)

fryer five: that’s because someone left his station dirty when he left after his morning shift. (also at his breaking point)

clocked-out fryer five: (sprinting out the back door) alright see you assholes tomorrow

server five: alright, i try not to get on you guys about ticket times… but five looks like he’s about ready to walk out.

deli owner five: fuck, give him a free dessert.

server five: okay, but can we hurry this shit up? i’d like a tip if that’s alright with you dickheads.

brisket five: get the hell out of my kitchen.

busser five: (bursting in with a full bin of dirty dishes) drunk five is demanding a fluffernutter and making a scene again.

deli owner five: (shuffling through countless tickets and slamming his fist on the counter) i have zero goddamn time for this five, we’re slammed with this lunch rush and im down two cooks today. help a guy out and get him to leave.

busser five: you pay me minimum wage and i could not give less of a shit. i’m not dealing with him again.

drunk five, bursting into the kitchen: i knew i smelled peanut butter in here (pointing at brisket five who’s currently on grill preparing a burger)

brisket five: this is literally a beef patty

deli owner five: alright man, we’ve tried to play nice, but you’re out of here. let’s go, don’t make a scene. (pulling drunk five out by his collar and dusting off his hands) fuckin’ hell, none of you make it easy, do you?

brisket five:

booth five watching from the dining room: jesus christ

[ikiprian]

Barbara Gordon's Coding & Computer Cram School is a popular YouTube series. Tucker Foley is a star student.

Barbara Gordon's Cram School posts free online courses for both coding and computer engineering. Think Crash Course in terms of entertainment, but college lecture in terms of depth. Hundreds of thousands of viewers flock to it— students who missed a class, people looking to add new skills to a resume, even simple hobbyists. It’s a project Barbara��s proud of.

Sometimes, when she wants to relax, she’ll even hop in the comments and spend an afternoon troubleshooting a viewer’s project with them.

User “Fryer-Tuck” has especially interesting ones. Barbara finds herself seeking out his comments, checking in on whatever this crazy kid is making next. An app for collecting GPS pings and assembling them on a map in real-time, an algorithm that connects geographic points to predict something’s movement taking a hundred other variables into account, simplified versions of incredibly complex homemade programs so they can run on incredibly limited CPU’s.

(Barbara wants to buy the kid a PC. It seems he’s got natural talent, but he keeps making reference to a PDA. Talk about 90’s! This guy’s hardware probably predates his birth.)

She chats with him more and more, switching to less public PM threads, and eventually, he opens up. His latest project, though, is not something Barbara has personal experience with.

FT: so if you found, hypothetically, a mysterious glowing substance that affects tech in weird and wacky ways that could totally have potential but might be vaguely sentient/otherworldly…. what would you do and how would you experiment with it. safely, of course. and hypothetically

BG: I’d make sure all my tests were in disposable devices and quarantined programs to keep it from infecting my important stuff. Dare I ask… how weird and wacky is it?

FT: uhhh. theoretically, a person composed of this substance once used it to enter a video game. like physical body, into the computer, onto the screen? moving around and talking and fighting enemies within the game?

FT: its been experimented with before, but not on any tech with a brain. just basic shields and blasters and stuff, its an energy source. also was put in a car once

FT: i wanna see how it affects software, yk? bc i already know it can. mess around and see how far i can push it

BG: […]

FT: … barbara?

BG: Sorry, thinking. Would you mind sharing more details? You said “blasters?”

Honestly. Kid genius with access to some truly wacky materials and even wackier weapons, she needs to start a file on him before he full sends to either hero or villain.

[OR: Tucker is a self-taught hacker, but if he were to credit a teacher, he'd name Barbara Gordon's Coding & Computer Cram School! He's even caught the attention of Dr. Gordon herself. She's full of sage advice, and with how she preaches the value of a good VPN, he's sure she's not pro-government. Maybe she'll help him as he studies the many applications of ecto-tech!]

[heartfullofleeches]

Groundskeeper reader n fast food reader would be friends

Groundskeeper Reader manifests behind the counter one day and while the others are in the back trying to decipher if they're friend or foe - Groundskeeper pulls a spare sponge from their pocket and starts cleaning up a ketchup stain that had been bugging them since they walked through the door.

Fast Food Reader can appreciate some quiet, but they think Groundskeeper is pretty chill if not a bit unsettling so it kinda sucks they don't communicate more because it would be cool to chat with them. FF gives Groundskeeper some crayons to use because the restaurant likes to keep as few sharp objects amongst the staff as possible.

-

Fast Food Reader: Hey, Bud- Mind cleaning the fryer while you're back here? Be careful, it might be cursed and/or haunted like 90% of the appliances in this place

[Groundskeeper Reader grabs the holy water from their belt as they walk over to the fryer]

Fast Food Reader: What a nice person.... Yo, S! Looks like your free from kitchen duty for tonight. Wanna hang out or something?

The Janitor: Uh- No thanks, I have to mow my carpet after work....Sorry.

-

The Janitor, alone in the Janitor's closet: Mow my carpet? FUCK- I'm such an idiot...

[Groundskeeper Reader hands them a piece of scrap paper that reads - "Just talk to them." In crayon]

The Janitor: [Sighs] It's harder than it sounds- Also, how did you get in here? I always lock the door behind me.

[Groundskeeper holds up FF's ring of spare keys]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Monster, Inc. 2

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss is an asshole, you know this. But what happens when he turns his wrath upon you? (plus!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, this reader is known as Missie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

“Mr. Hansen,” you trill into the foyer, “I have your breakfast.” 

You ease shut the door behind you and pause to kick off your kitten heels on the mat. It’s one of those days your boss has decided to work from home but it doesn’t make your day any less jam-packed. You wait for an answer, not that you ever get one, and proceed. 

You go to his office and find it empty. You frown. You leave his breakfast on the oval island in the kitchen and bounce around to the bottom of the stairs, “Mr. Hansennnnn.” 

Nothing. You check your phone. By chance, had he changed his mind. Is he at the office waiting for his organic egg white wrap with spinach and feta? You don’t see any new emails or missed calls. You hum and teeter in indecision. You don’t go upstairs.  

You tap on Mr. Hansen, listed under your favourites, and put your phone to your ear. You wait and hear the distant ringtone. The line goes dead as the call is dismissed. You sigh and try again. What is he up to? The same thing. He declines your call and you shake your head at the echo of the curtailed ringtone. 

Fine, you can wait for him to come home. Sometimes, you feel like you’re looking after a spoiled child. He reminds you of your baby brother and how your mother would struggle to get him out of bed for school. Rami was always such a brat. 

If he takes a while, you’ll reheat the wrap in the air fryer. You surpass it and enter the laundry room. You put the dryer on fluff to refresh the load the maid left in there and pace around impatiently. You go through the RSVP requests for Mr. Hansen and decline those you know he’ll roll his eyes at. 

The dryer finishes its quick tumble and you fold the delicates into the waiting basket. You finish and carry the aromatic clothes out through the kitchen and to the bottom of the stairs. Again, you chirp up after Mr. Hansen. 

“I’m coming up with your laundry, sir,” you warn as you get no answer. 

You warily begin the ascent as you clutch the handles of the basket. You peer around the hall and continue on down towards the left. Slow, shuffling steps towards the slightly ajar door at the end. You go to set down the load by the door frame and the door swings open abruptly. 

“Missie!” Lloyd grabs you and pulls you inside as you squeal. “There the fuck you are.” 

“I called--” you choke as he keeps a hold of your arm and drags you across the bedroom, “sir, your breakfast is downstairs--” 

“Missie, shut up!” He snarls as he urges you on and you scramble to keep from tripping.  

He shoves you through another door and your hip hits the frame with a thump. You rub it as he lets you go and you turn to face him as he follows you in. The space is made brighter by the four bulbs under glass shades that shine over the mirrors. You reel as you try to steady yourself after his sudden seizure. 

You realise he’s in no more than a pair of silk black boxers, if you can call them that. They’re short enough that they barely touch his thighs. His thick muscular thighs. The elastic clings to his equally firm torso and you try not to show your discomfort. 

“Sir, what’s going on?” 

“Do you see it?” He turns and pulls a small round mirror closer as wiggles his upper lip. The mirror is attached to a bending arm and tilts all around. “Missie, tell me I’m seeing things.” 

He grabs your shoulder and points to his mustache with his other hand. Amid the sandy brown cluster of neatly trimmed hair is a single silver strand. It’s not very obvious unless you’re looking for it. 

“Uh, your mustache?” 

“The goddamn grey!” He snarls and shakes you, “this is all your fault.” 

“What?” You squeak, “my fault?” 

“That goddamn cake! Forty-six? Like you’re rubbing it in my face,” he lets you go and turns back to the large mirrors, leaning in to push out his upper lip with his tongue. He growls, “I hired you to lessen my stress so why the fuck is this--” He faces you again and points at his mustache, “happening?” 

“Sir, um, well, you could pluck it--” 

“Fuck off!” 

“Dye?” 

“Shut up! You stupid bimbo,” he snarls and crosses his arms, leaning against the marble counter, “I don’t need your stupid ideas.” 

“Yes, sir,” you nod, “ but, er, why... what did you need? I could bring your breakfast up--” 

He looks at you so sharply you swallow your question. He curls his lips and huffs. His eyes crawl down your body and he angles his head coyly. 

“You pull with that ass?” He scoffs. 

“Excuse me, sir--” 

“You heard me? Lotta of chubby chasers? Feeders? Weirdos?” He says. 

“Sir,” you resist a frown, your cheeks trembling, “that’s... not work.” 

“You’re on my dime, I’m asking, so it’s work,” he insists. He drops his chin and looks down at himself. He flexes his chest, “I know damn well you’re not getting grade A meat like this.” 

You avert your eyes and sniff, “sir, I’m single and not looking but I appreciate you asking.” 

“Ugh, are you always so annoyingly happy?” He sneers. 

“It’s a nice day, sir. Bright out. And you know, a lot of women would say that grey makes you more distinguished,” you suggest, “now your mustache matches your head.” 

His eyes dart back to you and he stands straight, “what?” 

“Well, er...” you gesture vaguely up, “you know...” you touch your temples. His are shaved but you can still see the lightness there, “er, nothing, sir. I’m just uhhhhh rambling. Anyway, I will go warm up your wrap--” 

He blocks you, jabbing you in the stomach as he corners you in the bathroom, “I don’t have gray hair.” 

“Sir, you don’t, I’m colour blind.” 

“I don’t,” he insists again. 

“No, sir, no greys.” 

“I fucking don’t,” he barks and turns to the mirror once more, touching the sides of his head. His eyes are fiery in his reflection and scale over to you again, “get the fuck out!” 

“Sir,” you smile and cheek twitches. Oof. It isn’t going to be an easy day. 

[bluejutdae]

Desperate Jisung x you

(more of desperate Ji)

warnings: nsfw

Desperate Jisung away on tour who misses you, misses your kisses and your voice and misses waking up with you. He misses waking up and snuggling into your arms, always so warm and comfortable, misses kissing your shoulder and your neck, waking you up with soft kisses that tickle you. It’s his safe space, and he’d love to live there.

Desperate Jisung who wakes up with a boner more mornings than not, often he has dreamt of you, sometimes he just misses you.

Desperate Jisung who tries to make do with his hands and fingers, wet and messy when he has the time and he’s alone. Fast and quiet in the showers, when they have a packed schedule and the others are around. It’s never enough. His fingers can’t reach where yours can, his palm is too rough around his shaft, and it’s overall less pleasing. It takes the edge off, but it’s also so much easier for him to grow frustrated and too horny.

Desperate Jisung who falls asleep in Minho’s bed one night, in need of some human contact during the late hours of the night, and is woken up but a pillow smashing on his face, and a grumpy Minho threatening him to stop moaning your name in his sleep if he doesn’t want to end up in the air fryer with Hyunjin.

Desperate Jisung who calls you, one night, excited to tell you all about their last concert and the rare couple of free days they have ahead of them, how they’ll visit the city and enjoy the local food, sleep a little more than usual. But your voice is doing something to him, your sweet voice through the speakers is intimate and one of the things he loves the most about you. Poor Hannie can’t help but feel his little cock stir into his pajama pants, and he tries to ignore it, he really does. But he misses you so much and he’s just so horny for you, it’s not his fault your voice sounds so nice. He has no choice but to lightly paw at his leaking cock, still in the confines of his boxer.

Desperate Jisung with his hands massaging his cock, trying to keep track of what you’re saying but too distracted to answer. After you repeat a question he tries, he really tries, but all he can utter in lieu of an answer is a whiny sound. And you know him too well, you know what your boyfriend is doing right now, you know what he needs. “Is my baby touching himself while on the phone with me?” Another whiny sound escapes his mouth. “Such a slutty boy.”

Desperate Jisung, whose cock is leaking like a faucet in his underwear, red tip wet and begging to be touched more. He can’t control his hips, thrusting in the air and against his hand, biting his lips to try and hold off his moans, failing.

Desperate Jisung who gives up completely and begs you for something, directions, instructions. “Put your phone where I can see you, pretty boy, and video call me.” He’s eager, always so eager and slutty. Propping his phone where you can see his whole body, taking off his pajama and underwear but not his sweatshirt, he knows how much you love him in nothing but a big shirt, and he’s suddenly so polite, informing you he did what you ask and he’s ready, he presses the video call button and when he sees your face on the display, he bites his lower lip. “You look so pretty.” he says, and he’s already out of breath.

Desperate Jisung showing you his pretty tummy and his chest, biting the hem of the shirt to keep it raised, touching himself like he’s showing off for you, touching slowly, from base to tip. He collects a bead of precum to his finger to show it to you and, when you order him to taste it, he obeys, moaning around the digits like it’s the tastiest thing ever. He’s such an exhibitionist, but you love him for that too.

Desperate Jisung who turns to stand on his knees, ass up and directed to the camera, face squished against the duvet and lubed fingers prodding at his pretty hole. He loves to show off for you, he knows you love to watch him, and you tell him as much, praising him for being such a good boy for you. “My pretty pretty boy. Look at you, with your pretty ass hungry for something. Such a perfect slut.” He moans, tries to bite the duvet to suppress the noise, but he loves the praises and the humiliation a little too much.

Desperate Jisung who follows everything you say, opens himself with lubed fingers, still heads down and ass up to show you his fluttering hole, hands holding his cheeks apart until you deem it’s enough. He takes his pink glass dildo when you tell him to. It’s a gift you bought for him, a delicate pink glass dildo with red hearts, not too long and not too thick, the perfect size to make your boyfriend lose his mind. You played with it multiple times, and he chose to bring that on tour because he loves it's something you personally chose for him.

Desperate Jisung who fuck himself with the dildo, knees spread open and back arched, his cock heavy between his legs and his whole gripping the glass of the dildo, hungry and wet. His moans and whines are the best things you’ve ever heard in your life, they’re high and short and they’re driving you mad. He’s leaking on the bed cover, a constant dripping of clear fluid, swinging back and forth with every movement of your pretty boyfriend.

Desperate Jisung who begs you to let him cum, to make him feel good cause he’s been such a good boy, and he deserves it and please please let me cum, please mommy please feels so good I wanna cum let me cum. And you can never be too mean to him, not when he’s like that, pliant and obedient and too far from you. So you give him permission and he rewards you with a beautiful loud moan and a full body shudder, his cock jumping and spurting cum without needing to be touched.

Desperate Jisung who collapses on top of the mess he just made and he musters up enough force to move and look at you through the camera. “Did I do good?” he asks and he sounds so soft and vulnerable. “You did perfectly, my baby. You’re the best baby ever. I love you so much. You were perfect for me, love, you’re so beautiful. You’re always so beautiful. I miss you so much.”

Desperate Jisung who obeys once more, cleaning himself and scarcely wiping the bed covers. Once he’s done, he brings the phone closer and snuggles under the covers, looking at you with his pretty eyes, tired and completely satisfied after many days of unsatisfying orgasms. “I miss you too…” he says like it’s a confession. “I know. But you’ll be home soon. And I’ll be here, ready to steal you away from everything.”

Desperate Jisung who smiles softly and sleepy, he murmurs something that sounds like an I love you, and he’s out like a light. Soft snores are the only sounds you can hear now, and you smile to yourself: your boyfriend is a horny menace, and you love him more than words can express.

[rottenpumpkin13]

JENOVA tries to take control of AGSZ through the most perverse, insidious method known to mankind: spam calls and scam emails. Meanwhile, time traveler Cloud doesn't know wether to laugh or cry

*Sephiroth gets a call, he picks up*

Sephiroth: Sephiroth speaking.

*Zack walks into the room*

Zack: Guys! Look at what came in the mail. Free cupons for a pizza place in Nibelheim. We should go!

Cloud: No. There are no pizza places in Nibelheim That's clearly spam.

Sephiroth, on the phone: Yes, I understand.

*Genesis happily bounces in*

Genesis: I got an email from a fan in Nibelheim who wants to meet up and discuss my theories on Loveless.

Cloud: That's also a scam and suspicious.

Sephiroth, on the phone: Interesting.

*Angeal walks in*

Angeal: Someone from Nibelheim has been emailing me non-stop trying to sell a used air fryer. It sounds tempting.

Sephiroth, on the phone: You don't say.

Cloud: Guys! No one is going to Nibelheim! This is all spam and I encourage you to block the spammers.

Sephiroth, on the phone: Understood.

Cloud: Who are you talking to?

Sephiroth: The woman on the other side who sounds strangely maternal and is encouraging me to start fires.

Cloud: HANG UP.

[couldsewyouastitch]

The Spaces Between [Joel Miller]

pairings: no-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader wordcount: 3.5K ish warnings: toxic relationship, implied sexual content, mentions of deceased spouse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mild profanity, themes of loneliness and emotional pain, brief mentions of blood and violence, alcohol consumption, allusions to financial hardship, alternate universe

a/n: it started as a blurb and ended up being 3K. wasn’t planning on posting this as i’m working on the secret santa story, but i changed my mind. hope you enjoy it, tell me what you think. reblog and heart, leave a comment or slide into my dms.

main blog: savedyounine | discord: saveyouanine

masterlist

Autumn arrives overnight, like someone flipped a switch and the whole world changed from green to gold while no one was looking.

Joel drives home with the windows down, breathing air that smells like wood smoke and wet leaves. The stop sign looms red and he slows, braking harder than strictly necessary, just to feel the truck respond to his hand; just to impose his will on something in this world.

His thoughts drift to you, as they always do in the in-between—those restless spaces caught between day and night, between the world and the small, stolen corners you’ve carved out together.

You’ll be clocking out right about now, peeling off that ugly brown polyester dress like it’s a second skin you’ve been dying to shed. He knows how much you hate it. He’s seen the way you claw at the collar when you think no one’s watching, like it’s some cruel, small thing choking the air out of you. You’ll then give Glenda that tired smile—thin, practiced, the kind that doesn’t even bother trying to touch your eyes—before slipping out the back door.

That door sticks, you told him once. You’d laughed when he asked why you always smelled faintly of coffee grounds and fryer grease. "Gotta shove it with my hip to get it loose," you’d said, and then you showed him—with that little twist of your body that nearly made him grab you right there in the parking lot.

There’s probably some kind of metaphor in that door, he thinks as he navigates these dark, empty streets. Something about how you’re always pushing, always forcing your way through things that don’t want to give. Always fighting against some invisible weight, something tethering you to this small, tired life you’re stuck living. It’s like you’ve been shoving at it so long, you don’t even remember what it feels like to walk through a door that opens without a fight.

What a pair you make, he thinks, almost bitterly. Him with his calloused hands and the bullet scar on his thigh, you with your night shifts and your secret cigarettes. His nightmares smell like blood and metal. Yours probably smell like scorched bacon grease and the sour stink of other people’s messes.

And Joel doesn’t know, not really, if this thing between you, if it’s just a habit or something more—two broken things that fit together because they don’t fit anywhere else. For love, for him, has always felt like a sharp edge—something to be gripped carefully, bled on quietly. He wonders if you feel it too, the way it cuts. Maybe that’s why you never ask him to stay. Maybe that’s why he never does.

And tonight, just like any other time, you’ll be waiting for him. But there's no rush. It's not like the early days, all frantic hands and panting breaths in the cab of his truck, trying to work a leg free of your jeans without concussing yourself on the steering wheel.

Now it’s a slower kind of hunger, deeper, heavier—an ache that settles in your chest, the way an old break throbs before the storm hits. And yet, he never stays over, even though he knows the curve of your spine better than his own heartbeat.

Old dog, new tricks, all that bullshit. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. Like a goddamn cliché.

—

Winter hits like a gut punch. It always does. Joel wakes to the dull, gray light slipping through the crack in his blackout curtains and the distant grind of city plows against asphalt. From the bed, all he can see is white. The radiator clatters and hisses like it’s falling apart, but it’s warm, so he doesn’t bother kicking it. He didn’t dream last night. Small mercies.

It's a bad day for driving, road crews already behind on salting and sanding, but he goes anyway. Tells himself it's just to get out of the house. Not that he's got anyone to convince. It's been twelve years and he still puts on his ring every morning like a reflex. Dead woman's jewelry. He doesn't know why he bothers except that he always has.

The highway twists and coils under his tires, a snake waiting to strike, and his truck is just another poor, dumb creature trapped in its grip. Every overpass is a test, another betrayal waiting to happen, the rear tires threatening to slip, to skid, to send him spinning off the edge. His hands cramp, locked at ten and two like rigor mortis has already set in. Yet he keeps going, some animal part of his brain needing to see you, needing to reassure himself that you exist as more than a ghost of stale cigarette smoke and the memory of soft thighs.

You don’t look surprised to see him when he shows up on your doorstep, snowflakes clinging to his boots and his shoulders. It’s your day off. He can tell by the ratty bathrobe tied haphazardly around you, one slipper dangling from your foot, the other abandoned somewhere out of sight.

“Figured that rust bucket of yours wouldn’t make it this far,” you say. A smile flickers at the corner of your mouth before dying out like a struck match.

You look at him the way you always do, cutting through him like it’s easy, like you’ve been reading him since the day he was born. It should terrify him. Instead, he’s just too damn tired of flinching.

"Ain't nothing wrong with my truck that a little elbow grease can't fix." He goes to push past you into the narrow foyer but you just pull your robe tighter around yourself. “You gonna let me in, or are we doing this out in the snow?” It comes out rougher than he means it to, all sharp edges and too little patience, but you don’t call him on it.

Resigned, you step aside. “By all means.”

Your living room feels smaller every time he comes here. Not because of the space itself but because your life exists in the detritus of other people's cast offs. It hits him that he’s never asked you for the story behind the framed quote embroidery that reads "Bless this mess."

Thrift store chic and all that, he thinks. It fits, though.

You don’t offer him coffee. Don’t bother with small talk or pleasantries. You never do. You both know why he’s here.

An old dog after all.

—

The cold digs in and refuses to let go, clawing through March with frozen fingers. The snowbanks are shrinking, but not without a fight, revealing a winter's worth of garbage and dogshit and gray grass beaten flat.

It's a nothing season. An in-between. Something that’s caught halfway between dead and alive. Joel tries not to see himself in it, but the thought sticks anyway.

It’s been weeks since he’s seen you, and the ache of you has sunk into his bones, wedging itself into the spaces between his ribs. You still don’t talk about it, whatever this is. Whatever it isn’t. Labels are for the living and neither of you has qualified for years.

"You look like shit." That’s the first thing out of your mouth when you open the door. No hesitation, no soft landing. He doesn’t even blink, just pushes past you, shrugging off his coat and letting his boots fall wherever they want, like a trail of breadcrumbs leading nowhere good.

"Thanks," he mutters. His voice feels cracked and rusty, like something left out too long in the rain.

When was the last time he even said anything out loud? Nodded at the checkout girl maybe, grunted a thanks at the gas pump. But stringing a sentence together for someone else's ears is a lot fucking harder than he remembered.

You drag a hand down your face, fingers lingering at the corner of one tired eye. “You want a drink or something? Got beer. Or some expired orange juice if you’re feeling adventurous, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

It’s more kindness than he deserves. Hell, more than he knows what to do with. He doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong in your space, cluttered and worn down by yard sale finds and third-hand paperbacks.

"Beer's good."

He sidesteps a laundry pile—clean, dirty, who the hell knows—and watches as you reach into the fridge, grabbing two bottles. The caps clatter into the sink, and you hand him one without looking, like this is just what you do.

He tips the bottle back and drains half of it in two long swallows. It’s warm, a little stale, but it scratches down his throat just fine. He lets it burn, lets it bubble up like something familiar.

Your eyes are on him, too steady to be anything but a challenge.

"So."

It hangs there, pointed and waiting.

"So."

He drains the rest of the bottle. He doesn't know how to do this, this living. Doesn't know how to carve out space for himself in a world that keeps spinning. All he's got are his hands and the sour ache in his gut.

With a rueful shake of his head, he sets the empty bottle on the counter with an anticlimactic clink.

And then he's reaching for you, fingers finding the belt of your robe, dragging you against him. Your beer sloshes, dribbling foam, but he's already got his mouth on your neck, your pulse rabbit quick under his tongue. You make a noise, halfway between a sigh and a curse, and your head falls back. Surrendering.

And fuck, he doesn't deserve this either, the easy way you give and give. The way you fold into him like it costs you nothing. Like there isn’t a price for this, for the way he takes and takes and takes.

All that’s left is the hard press of the countertop against his hip, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet way you let him ruin you.

This is how it goes. How it always goes.

Until there’s nothing left.

—

Spring creeps in slow, almost shy, before it barrels in all at once. The crocuses you planted last fall push up through the half-frozen muck of the flower bed, fragile purple petals reaching for a sun that doesn’t quite remember how to warm anything yet. You’re out on the back porch sitting with your hair curling into the damp air while he rummages through your cabinets, stiff and slow, looking for coffee filters.

He didn’t sleep well. He doesn’t even remember closing his eyes, but there’s a blanket tangled at his feet now that wasn’t there when the two of you collapsed on your bed last night. He doesn’t ask.

"You don't have to stay, you know." Your voice floats into the kitchen, carried by the whine of the screen door snapping shut behind you. "Wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important."

A handful of answers rise like bile but he swallows them down. The thing between you is too fragile for words, a soap bubble balanced on a fingertip and he is already so goddamn tired of being the one who always pops it.

"I'm good." It's a day for small honesties.

You appear in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, one hip tilted just so. The faded Metallica shirt you’re wearing as a nightgown barely reaches your thighs. He drags his eyes away from all that bare skin. Reaches for a mug instead.

Your eyebrows do something complicated. "Alright then."

You watch as he pours coffee for you both, the pot shaking slightly in his grip. If you notice, you don't comment. Just take the chipped mug emblazoned with "Carpe the fuck out of this diem" he offers. Your fingers don't touch and he tells himself he isn't disappointed.

"Milk’s in the fridge if you’re into that," you say, blowing softly across the surface of your coffee before taking a tentative sip. You wince. "Sugar in the—"

"I know where the sugar is." The words come out too fast, too sharp, cutting through the room like shrapnel. He didn’t mean it to sound like that. Hell, he doesn’t mean anything anymore, not the way it comes out.

The mug hits the counter harder than he intends, coffee sloshing up over the rim, spilling into the butter dish you forgot to put away after last night’s dinner. A droplet scalds his thumb.

You don’t flinch, don’t snap back. You just stand there, looking at him with that same maddening expression you always wear—half annoyed, half something softer. He doesn’t know what to do with it, that mix of exasperation and patience, like you know exactly who he is and still haven’t shoved him out of your life yet.

And this is it, he realizes. This is all the two of you will ever be. Two broken people, held together by duct tape and scar tissue, stuck in the same tired loop of half-measures and almosts. It’s almost funny. Almost.

Something heavy presses behind his eyes, an ache that rises fast and chokes him before he can think about it too hard. He needs to move. Needs to be anywhere but here.

He's dressed and out the door in under a minute, laces trailing, the screen door slamming behind him. You don't call out and he doesn't look back. That bubble between you, it's popped, shards of soap and air drifting in the pale morning.

He leaves his coffee on the counter, untouched. It’ll sit there, cooling to nothing. Just like everything else.

—

Summer settles heavy and dense, humidity pressing like a physical weight. The air hangs heavy, still, every breath a labor. Joel's shirt clings to his back, to the indent of his spine where sweat collects. He's got the windows down but the breeze brings no relief, heated air billowing useless and limp. A fly buzzes lazy loops around his ear and he smacks at it, palm colliding with his stubbled cheek. Three days’ growth. He keeps meaning to shave. Keeps meaning to do a lot of things.

The streetlights flicker on as he turns into your driveway, their dim yellow glow bleeding together in the thick twilight. The crunch of his tires on gravel feels deafening, like an intrusion, too loud for this quiet, empty hour. The porch is dark. The windows are dark. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. His hand stays on the gearshift, and his foot hovers over the pedal.

He could leave. He could put this rusted out hunk of metal in reverse and pretend he was never here. You would understand. You always do. It's what you’re good at, understanding and accepting and never pushing for more. And maybe that's why he keeps coming back, keeps sinking into your softness. Because he's a selfish fuck. And isn't that the worst truth.

He cuts the engine.

The porch creaks under his boots, a floorboard whining a warning, and he pauses with his fist poised to knock. When was the last time he even knocked? When had he decided that your space, your life, was just his to walk into? The thought sours in his stomach, but he doesn’t let himself step back. He raps once. Twice. The sound echoes dully in the muggy stillness.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just silence and the weight of the heat pressing down on him. And he thinks wildly, fearfully, that maybe he waited too long. Maybe this is it. Maybe the universe is fresh out of second chances.

But then there’s the click of the lock turning, the soft creak of hinges, and there you are.

The light spilling out from the kitchen frames you in a weak halo, more shadow than glow. You’re barefoot, wearing cut-off sweatpants and a stretched-out t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder. Your hair is sticking to your damp temples, to the curve of your neck, and there’s a faint crease from your pillow etched into your cheek.

"Joel?" you say, voice scratchy from sleep. There’s something else in it, though—something sharper, something awake and alive. "What are you doing here?"

And there it is, a million dollar question. Why is he here? Why does he keep coming back to you, to this place, to the fragile thread of a connection that feels too thin to hold either of you? What is he hoping to find in the spaces between your heartbeats?

He swallows and it hurts.

"I don’t know," he says finally, his voice scraping out of him raw. "I just…"

His hand lifts, drops. He can’t finish the sentence, doesn’t even know how to start it.

You step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between you until you’re right there in front of him. He can smell the sleep still clinging to you, the faint metallic tang of the diner that never quite washes off. He braces himself for what’s coming—for the slap, the curse, the moment when you finally shove him back and tell him to stay gone. He deserves all of it. He deserves worse.

But you don’t shove him. Your hand comes up, and it’s gentle as it rests against his jaw, your fingers tracing the line of bone like it’s something worth touching.

"You’re allowed to want something. You know that, right?"

His throat burns. His whole body feels like it’s cracking open under the weight of your words, like they’re carving through the hollow places inside him, the ones he’s spent so long trying to ignore. You make it sound so simple, like breathing, like wanting something—someone—isn’t the hardest goddamn thing in the world.

His voice shakes when it finally comes out, barely more than a rasp. "I want you."

And for a moment, he’s sure he’s ruined it. That he’s ruined you. This person who has already cracked themselves open for him a hundred times in a hundred quiet ways. But then you smile, just barely, just at the corners of your mouth.

"Okay," you say. "Okay."

You step back, your fingers catching briefly at the fabric of his shirt, tugging him into the dark of the house. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the two of you inside this strange, fragile thing you keep building together. His hands find you—your waist, your hair, the damp curve of your neck—and you come easily, rising onto your toes as your mouth meets his.

It’s slow. Careful. He kisses you like he’s afraid to break you, like he’s afraid of breaking himself. Like maybe this moment could last forever if he just holds it still long enough. You taste like sleep and sweat and something familiar he doesn’t have a name for, something that feels like home even though he’s never believed in such a thing.

Tomorrow, the leaves will start to change. The world will keep turning, and the mess between you won’t magically fix itself. It never does. But tonight, it’s enough.

You’re enough.

Even if he never quite finds the words to tell you.