#gourmet garbage

[alfazoings]

started playing limbus company. The cockroach infested my brain 💔

[yourlocaldisneyvillain]

beautiful (nsfw)

jan stevens/f!reader

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

tags: lesbian sex, body image issues, rosacea, relationship study, oviposition

written for @alexusonfire

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

beautiful

Jan knows how to love you.

She peppers sweet kisses all over your flushed face, your rosacea rendered more prominent by the blush born out of desire as she rubs gentle circles over your underwear, the fabric growing damper by the second. She laughs when you thank her.

“What exactly are you thanking me for, darling?” she chuckles into the soft, flushed skin of your cheek as she pulls the soaked underwear aside and gently, slowly slides a single finger inside of you. 

Besides the hot, aching want, there is confusion. Does she not see you?

“I know I’m not, ah,” you breathe out, “the prettiest girl, and yet you make me feel…”

You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence, to find the right words, because Jan curls her finger and presses into that rough, sweet spot that makes your mind go blank. “Ah, Jan!” you cry.

“How?” she murmurs in-between soft kisses on your cheeks, nose, chin. “How do I make you feel? Tell me.”

She pumps her finger faster, applying just the right amount of pressure — she knows your body well by now, never fails to pay attention to what makes your thighs tremble and your breathing grow laboured, what makes you moan louder. 

“Wanted,” you whine as pressure deep in your belly starts to build. “Ah! You make me feel… wanted.”

“My beautiful girl,” she coos at you when you come undone around her finger. She's always warm and gentle, but still somehow overwhelming. The only thing you are aware of is Jan. Her lips on your burning cheek, her warm breath on your flushed skin, her body that radiates heat, looming over you, trapping you against the bed, her finger still inside of you. Jan, Jan, Jan, everywhere. 

“Beautiful,” she continues to whisper into your skin. She kisses your cheeks that are speckled red and that you hate so much, but she seems to love. 

She sounds so genuine that you don’t dare argue with her.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jan knows how to love you.

She never closes her eyes when she kisses you. It’s somewhat unnerving — or it would be if it were anyone else but Jan.

“Why do you never close your eyes when we kiss?” you ask one day as you sit in the garden under the apple tree that barely started blooming, admiring blackbirds chirping.

She cups your face and pulls you close. Her bright blue eyes lined with perpetually smudged black eyeliner and that signature messy eyeshadow shine with adoration. 

“Because you are art,” she says. “And it is a crime not to admire art when it stands right in front of you.”

You laugh in disbelief, and she shuts you up by crushing her mouth into yours, making your head spin with her wet, hot kisses. 

She doesn’t close her eyes.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jan knows how to love you.

You kiss in the drawing room, sprawled on the sofa. “Jan,” you say, pulling away, “shouldn’t we go upstairs?”

“I’m afraid I can’t wait to touch you,” she says, kissing along your jaw. “I want to have you right on this sofa.” 

“But it’s — ah! — only five minutes to get upstairs!” you breathe as she bites your neck. 

“Too long,” Jan chuckles into your skin and pins you down onto the sofa, straddling you. You have no further argument to offer. 

She kisses the flushing skin of your cheeks as you grind against each other. The small sofa creaks under your weight, mirrors the rhythm of your hips. Laboured breathing and quiet moans echo throughout the empty, dark drawing room. Jan watches you with love and reverence in her eyes as she reaches her peak and coats your thigh in her wetness. The mere sight makes you come undone as well. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jan knows how to love you.

She has a lot of love to give — too much, everyone always says — she’s too much. Too tall, too imposing, too prone to meddling into everyone’s affairs, too preoccupied with her job. She is too eager, wears too much makeup, has too extravagant tastes, likes young, pretty artists that come to the Institute just a little bit too much. 

They don’t see her the way you do. Love swirls inside of her, begging to be released, to be given. If anything, she is too loving, too generous, too kind. They say she’s too much, but perhaps everyone else isn’t enough. 

“I’m fat,” you say one evening as you’re getting ready for the afternoon mixer — an informal press conference of sorts, to announce your new album. You look at yourself in the mirror, pinching your thighs, your belly, tugging at your underwear that digs into your soft skin. 

Jan, now out of her bunny pyjamas she lounged in all day and already half-dressed, puts her hands over yours and presses her front into your back. She towers over you, and you lean your head onto her breasts. You watch her reflection in the mirror, relieved to tear your gaze away from your own image. Her eye makeup is somehow even darker than usual (if that sort of thing is even possible), her hair styled in intricate finger curls. She looks enchanting and just a bit unsettling — like an oversized doll.

She squeezes the soft flesh of your belly. “You are perfect,” she says.

“I’m fat,” you repeat.

She comes in front of you and kneels. “I never said you weren’t. I said you are beautiful.”

You sometimes wonder if Jan simply doesn't see what you see, you worry that you somehow tricked her into thinking you're beautiful — but it seems that she sees exactly what you see, and yet something completely different at the same time. 

You rest your hands on her hair as she kisses your belly, your hips, your thighs, leaving plum lipstick marks all over your skin. Her hair is hard and clumped from hairspray. You caress it fondly. 

“My beautiful girl,” she whispers, planting a kiss right onto the band of your underwear. Her fake eyelashes flutter like butterflies as she blinks up at you, watching you like you truly are a piece of art — something exquisite, something special, something to be admired. "You're simply gorgeous."

For the first time ever, you don’t argue with her. “Thank you,” you say.

She kisses your belly button and gets up. When you dress, she compliments you again, and she seems to be unable to refrain from touching you. 

She doesn’t stop showering you with compliments all throughout the evening. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jan knows how to love you.

You gasp when she inserts the gelatine eggs inside of you. They stretch and fill you deliciously. She discards the neon dildo once all three eggs are inside of you. 

“If only you knew how pretty you look like this,” she murmurs into your thigh as she kisses it, all while eyeing your filled pussy with lust in her eyes. Pink gelatine drips out of pink folds as the eggs slowly melt inside of you. She licks it. 

She never breaks eye contact with you as she eats you out. Your muscles convulse with pleasure, and one egg slips out of you. She catches it with her mouth, spits it out in her hand, and then shoves it back inside of you, making you groan as you’re stretched once again. 

“No one else would let me do this. No one ever let me love them like this,” she says, wiping gelatine from her lips — a futile gesture, for moments later her mouth is back on your aching pussy. She watches you as she sucks at the pink flesh and licks the pink gelatine.

“No one else would ever love me like this,” you say, unable to peel your eyes away from the odd, beautiful, fantastic, absolutely mad woman between your legs. 

She stops pleasuring you for a moment, huffing in disbelief. You feel the gust of cool air on your wet, hot cunt. “You say it as if it were a chore,” she says before continuing to devour you with gusto.

“I love you,” you breathe out after a mere couple of minutes, when an intense orgasm washes over you and eggs slide our of your pussy and onto the silken sheets. 

“I love you, Jan,” you cry as she continues to suck on your clit that aches with overstimulation, making your thighs close around her head. You close your eyes. Hot tears stream down your red, splotchy cheeks. After a couple of moments you feel her wet and slick lips on your cheeks, kissing the tears away. 

“I love you too, my beautiful girl,” she says.

You believe her. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

taglist: @opheliauniverse @dumbasslesbi @bychrissi @scream-queenlover @muffintopxs @bigolgay @gwenslucifer @weemswife @yourhauntedhead @carnivorousflowers @i-have-insane-that-i-am-paper @softshrimpy @willowshadenox @syrenacrainn @weemssapphic @dianneking @imprincipalweemspet @kimiinou @ninelesbien @i-love-nerdy-stuff @eveymay @myzzjolanda @pluied-ete @brienneswife @gwenzone @principal-weems09 @inlovewithalcinadimitrescu @gela123 @emilynissangtr @gwendolinechristieiscute @h-doodles @winterfireblond @larissaoftarthweems @a-queen-and-her-throne @bikergurl5 @salems-spaghettios @theflashesoflove @catechristiesstuff @vendocrap8008 @billiedeansbitch @coffeemelko @lilfartbox1 @amateurwritescm @daydream-cement @kaymariesworld @sicklygrlsicklygrl @wh0re4women @rippersz @milfsloverblog

[little-shiny-sharpies]

Man sunshine x grumpy is such a great ship concept but it sucks that it is absolutely infested with plain boring cishet “Man who’s mean bc he likes you” and “small petite white lady who can’t stand up for herself” vibes yall 😭

Im not going for “motherly woman who likes to cook” and “guy who would say a slur at the slightest chance”

I’m going for “hope is a weapon you learn to wield/ the indomitable human spirit of belief in yourself while spitting up blood saying I didn’t hear no bell”

handcuffed to

“monster who hates what’s been done to him feels hopeless and angry at the world desperately seeks freedom and revenge in life, Ms.Sunshine sees this and decides needs to get punched upwards emotionally”

[emdotcom]

You. Nuance now.

You can like shit that has problematic shit in it, without being a bad person. You don't have to give me a list of EVERY bad thing a piece of media you enjoy does, & why it's bad, but it DOES help to be mindful of that shit. You're allowed to enjoy your bad thing. You don't have to explain it or qualify it to anyone -- you know it's bad, we all know it's bad.

That said, if you watch something with bad shit, people will indeed judge you, or want you to not talk about your thing, or may even avoid you/block you for posting about it. While I know that feels bad, it's just a fact, bud. Those people don't directly want to hurt you, they just feel real strongly, & I think they're allowed to feel that, & I think they're allowed to act on that, to a certain point.

FURTHERMORE, there is a fucking line that you do not, do not, do NOT cross! Where that is will be different for most people, & fuzzy for all. For me, I can tolerate a lot of shit, but another person may not. I also think there is a definitive line you don't cross, which is media that is actively hurting somebody. I find it helpful to ask, "Is consuming this thing harmful? Can I hurt somebody this way?" I.E. you buy the queen terf antisemitism & transphobia game, beaming money DIRECTLY into the queen terf 's bank account, which sh has publicly, VERBALLY said she treats as a person accepting her shit beliefs, & she will then use the money to lobby horrendous bills. You are not enjoying garbage, at this point. You are actively doing something wrong, & you fucking know it, & I don't have the time nor the desire to waste another single goddam breath on telling you that any further.

I am not saying that you are required to go invest in problematic things. I am not saying you need to see something you KNOW will upset you. I am saying you are allowed to keep a list of media that you will never, ever touch, that you hate enough that you will not even talk to somebody about it. I am saying you can block a person over liking a piece of shit media you fucking hate. I am saying you can have a list of things that bug you so badly, that you immediately drop something just for having it, & you don't have to qualify anything on that list to me, or explain why -- you can just avoid that thing -- that's just fine. I am saying you can like something with bad shit in it, & I promise you do NOT need to give me a 5k words essay on why it's bad -- this isn't school, you're not getting Oops I Like Something Bad 😞😔 homework.

I am saying you are human. You are meat & bone, with a bit of electricity running through it. You are fallable. You are allowed to like something that isn't good. You do not have to be forever pure, forever flawless marble, because you are not made of stone, & even if you were, marble is worn down & away, with time. Nothing is infallible or perfect, in this world, & that's nice, actually.

I'm also saying, what a fucking miserable way to go through life, seeing everything that is not perfectly pristine as a sin, as a crime, as something that even an association with makes you guilty. There's so many things to see, to read, to watch, to share, & you're being FUCKING CATHOLIC ABOUT IT??? DO I NEED TO REPENT?? FOR LIKING SOMETHING NOT 10000% CLEAN?? SHOULD I PAY MY FUCKING TITHES OR JUST GET THE LASHES. GRABS YOU. MAIMS.

[thebearer]

totally projecting here but carm with a younger reader in college who survives off ramen and anything easy (literally me rn 😭) and him making you eat actual meals

he hates cooking when he’s not doing it for work too, but he’ll always cook for you. and literally whatever you want. it could be gourmet over the top and he’d do it if it meant you’d eat a meal that wasn’t “garbage”.

“that’s not- that’s not even real ramen, baby. i’ll make you real ramen.”

“I like this though, carmen. it’s fine-“

“-no it’s not. just-just sit. let me cook.”

[archiemcphee]

Possum Candy

This candy tastes like a possum! Some animals just look so good you wonder what they taste like and possums are definitely at the head of the pack. Garbage fed, gourmet taste! You get 2.5 oz of individually wrapped, pink and white striped hard candy with the flavor of everyone’s favorite garbage-munching marsupial. Some describe the flavor as being like pork, but with notes of piquant swill.

[envysparkler]

Ted grinned as Grayson walked away, his shoulders hunched and his hands balled into fists.  He hadn’t bothered laying out the evidence or the proof—both were easy enough to find, connecting Grayson’s disappearances with Nightwing’s appearances was like playing a goddamn match-2 game.

And it was no wonder that Grayson had the highest close rate of the precinct when he could just go and get whatever evidence he wanted.  But Ted didn’t care about that.  Not anymore.

No, he didn’t care that Detective Richard Grayson was Nightwing.  He cared that Richard Grayson-Wayne was Nightwing.  Ted was about to become very rich—if Grayson did as he was told.

Ten million.  He would give Grayson two days to cough it up, or he’d go straight to Vicki Vale.  Or perhaps Arkham, he knew a couple of guards there and surely someone in those cells would pay handsome money to know who Nightwing was under the mask.

Hell, he could even do all three.  He held the cards here.

Ted smiled at Grayson’s pinched face.

Ted gave a parting smirk to Grayson as he left for his smoke break.  The man had begun ignoring him, as if that would make the deadline go away.  He had a little less than twenty hours.

Ted had gone ahead and got a visitor’s pass for Arkham for the day after tomorrow.  He’d worry about specifics after he knew whether or not Grayson would come through.

It was cold outside, late afternoon edging into evening.  He passed by a couple of other officers as he headed deeper into the alley.  He lit the cigarette and took the first puff dreaming about the island vacation he’d be taking.

First class.  Gourmet food.  Five star resort and margaritas on the beach.  Life was about to become much better.

A flicker of movement caught his eye and he turned, unhurried, as the garbage bag ruffled in the shadows, straightening.

Up.  And up.  And up.  Until it resolved itself into a slender figure dressed all in black and most definitely not a garbage bag.

Ted blinked.  The Bats usually only came out at night.  And that they rarely ever ventured into Bludhaven.

Oh, so Nightwing had decided to take a different option out of his little predicament.  It really was a shame—Ted might’ve even left him alone if he’d gotten the money.  Now?  Now it was fair game.  And everyone knew the Bats didn’t kill.

Ted turned away from the figure and back towards the front of the alley—he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw a figure dressed in black and purple, dangling their legs off the fire escape, grinning down at him.

He picked up his pace a little bit—he’d get back to the precinct and make it very clear to Grayson that his mind games weren’t going to work.  The money, or the Joker was going to know exactly where to strike.

Someone stepped in front of the alley, blocking the entrance and Ted slowed his steps before coming to a stop.

Red helmet.  Red bat.  They didn’t know a whole lot about Gotham’s vigilantes, but the Red Hood was a sore topic for every gang in the city.

Ted slowly, quietly, moved his hand to his gun.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice said behind him, almost breathing on his ear, and Ted shrieked, drawing the gun and twisting around.

He was disarmed before he even knew what was happening, the gun yanked out of his fingers as he was shoved back, hard, sent stumbling back into the dumpster.  Above him, the girl in the black-and-purple suit giggled.

“Hood gets a bit testy about guns.”  A tall figure in black-and-red, removing the clip, the bullet and tossing each piece in a different direction.

“I don’t get testy,” the Hood rasped, low and rough, “If someone points a gun at me, it’s only fair that I get to point a gun right back.”

“We’re trying to get him to stop using guns so much,” the girl said, sotto voce.

Ted turned back to the mouth of the alleyway.  The Red Hood had a tire iron slung over one shoulder.

“What—what do you want?  My wallet?  My phone?  I—I didn’t do anything,” he raised his hands.  He would’ve backed away, but the figure in black was giving him the hives and he didn’t want to get any closer to them than necessary.

“Tt.  We all know that’s a lie.”

Ted literally did not see where Robin had come from.  He’d been staring as the Hood took slow steps forward, he’d blinked, and then suddenly there was a kid in green-and-yellow scowling in front of him.

A kid with a sword.

Ted immediately cast a glance skywards, because where Robin was Batman wasn’t far behind, before the strangeness of the situation settled into him.  He was being menaced by a bunch of idiots in masks, in an alley in broad daylight.

“Look, I don’t know what you want but I’m a cop, you can’t just—”

“You know exactly what we want,” the girl said, swinging her feet.  The all-black one took a single, menacing step forward.

“You messed with the wrong fucking Bat, asshole.”  Hood tilted his helmet to one side.

“If you even dare to touch him—” the katana flashed.  “I will remove your hands.”

“Look, Officer Devins,” the one in black-and-red said, “We’re willing to be reasonable.  Leave Dick Grayson alone, and nobody has to get hurt.”

Ted was itching to shoot one of them—now he understood why his friends in Gotham were so fed up with their vigilante problem.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied baldly, “I didn’t do anything to Grayson.  Can I go now?”

[growingstories]

Gabriel

Once upon a time, in a world filled with opulence and lavishness, there lived a young and handsome man named Gabriel. Blessed with chiseled features and a muscular physique, Gabriel embarked on an unexpected journey that would forever change his life.

It all started when Gabriel stumbled upon a job opportunity as a butler on a magnificent yacht owned by a wealthy family. The family was known for their generosity and impeccable treatment of their staff. They paid handsomely and even provided sumptuous staff dinners prepared by their personal chef.

Initially, Gabriel loved his new job. The family was kind and appreciative, and the yacht was a marvel to behold. However, as time went by, Gabriel's life took an unforeseen turn. Little by little, he began gaining weight each month. His once sculpted body transformed into a softer form, layers of fat replacing the strong muscles he once boasted.

The family, unaware of Gabriel's plight, continued their decadent lifestyle, indulging in exquisite meals prepared by their chef. And so, delicious leftovers from these extravagant feasts would often find their way to the staff members. Without hesitation, they began to use Gabriel as a living garbage bin, throwing their excess food his way.

As Gabriel's food intake increased, his motivation for workouts dwindled. Long hours and additional responsibilities left him with little time for exercise. His once active lifestyle gave way to a sedentary existence, and the pounds seemed to pile on effortlessly.

The observant staff soon noticed Gabriel's increasing food consumption and willingly contributed their leftovers to his ever-expanding belly. Gabriel became their safe haven for excess food, consuming it with gusto. His weight gain continued unabated, and his colleagues affectionately nicknamed him "Big Gabe."

Curiously, the head of the family took note of Gabriel's transformation. He realized that Gabriel's booming appetite and expanding waistline would effectively deter his daughters from flirting with the-m onceesmerizing butler. Delighted with this unforeseen outcome, the head of the family rewarded Gabriel with a pay raise and additional, responsibilities effectively reducing his free time even further.

Every harbor the dock yachted at, Gabriel's presence would be met with wider polo shirts and an even more immense belly. The once-thin butler had transformed into a portly gentleman, his rotund abdomen protruding proudly from his frame. And through it all, Gabriel reveled in his newfound life, embracing the good food, generous pay, and the beauty of the stunning destinations he visited.

In the end, Gabriel realized that his weight gain brought unexpected happiness and contentment. He found joy in indulging himself, savoring gourmet meals, and living a life of luxury that he had never imagined possible. His love for food grew hand in hand with his affection for his employers, as all the while, he never ceased to appreciate the family's kindness.

And so, Gabriel continued to enjoy his life on the yacht, cruising through serene waters and discovering beautiful places on Earth. His love for good food and the unwavering support of the family made Gabriel's journey a tale of unexpected transformation, proving that sometimes, the path to happiness can lead to unexpected destinations.

[sergeantsporks]

The more I think about the pile of garbage that the kids tried to give Camila and Luz, the more convinced I become that it’s actually a boiling isles delicacy. You CANNOT convince me that out of the four of them, NONE of them can cook. Amity, for her part, can make what appears to be a PERFECTLY good fairy pie (Luz just isn’t up for eating live faries. I’m sure Eda would think it was delicious), and Willow can make a mean soup (as seen in Eclipse Lake). And you’re telling me that “survived on his own on a mountain” Hunter can’t at LEAST make something EDIBLE?! Either they all put their collective “good at cooking” brain cells together and made something totally disgusting, or that is a gourmet dessert on the boiling isles, and you cannot convince me otherwise.

[hypothermic-dream]

The city stretched before him, a labyrinth of honking horns and flickering neon signs, each light a malignant tumor in the decaying flesh of urban sprawl. This wasn't a city; it was a festering wound, an obscene monument to humanity's insatiable greed and relentless decay. Every face he saw, every laugh that scraped against his ears, felt like a personal insult, a cruel reminder of his insignificance in this world—a rigged casino, a den of inequity where he was the sucker, lured by the false promise of fortune, pockets empty and soul sucked dry.

The air hung thick with the stench of exhaust fumes, rancid sweat, and desperation, a putrid miasma that mirrored the churning pit in his stomach. This place wasn't built for people like him, just another expendable cog in their infernal machine, destined to be ground to dust and discarded when they found a shinier replacement. The skyscrapers loomed like tombstones, casting long shadows over streets slick with rain and regret, a sprawling necropolis where dreams came to die.

Each morning, he woke to the taste of ash in his mouth, a bitter reminder of the countless battles he'd already lost. His body was a roadmap of past mistakes, every scar a self-inflicted punishment etched in angry red. He was a barely contained explosion, a walking disaster on the brink of implosion. Looking in the mirror was an exercise in futility. The reflection that stared back held the same contempt he felt for the world, a bitter cycle of self-loathing reflected in hollow, dead eyes.

"Hope?" He spat the word out like a rotten piece of fruit. "Hope is for suckers who haven't learned the game is rigged. They dangle that carrot in front of you, just to keep you chasing until you drop dead." His voice was a low growl, a barely controlled snarl of disdain. "This world can keep its happy endings. I'll take mine served on a bed of nails, with a side of betrayal." A surge of dark energy coursed through him, a twisted desire to burn it all down—this city, this world, everything that had brought him to this point. Maybe from the ashes, something new could rise, something forged in the fires of his rage and despair.

The streets were lined with the broken, the forgotten, those who had been chewed up and spit out by the merciless gears of Capitalism. Their eyes were vacant, their faces gaunt, shadows of the people they once were. He walked among them, a kindred spirit in this gallery of the damned. The buildings around them crumbled, their facades cracked and peeling, as if the very city itself was giving up, succumbing to the relentless march of entropy.

Every corner held a new atrocity: a man begging for scraps beneath a billboard promising luxury, a child sifting through garbage for something to eat, the distant wail of sirens a constant reminder of the ever-present chaos. The rain fell in sheets, a relentless deluge that did nothing to cleanse the filth but only seemed to smear it around, creating rivers of sludge that flowed through the gutters.

Then there were the aristocrats, the parasitic elite who strutted around in their tailor-made suits and designer dresses, their fake smiles and hollow laughs echoing through the corridors of power. They pretended it was all good, their every word a lie, their every gesture a mockery. Their laughter was a cacophony of hypocrisy, a parody of joy. They drove their luxury cars past the homeless, their tinted windows hiding their disdain, as if the suffering outside was just another piece of scenery to be ignored. They dined on gourmet meals while children rummaged through garbage for scraps. They wore their wealth like a shield, oblivious or indifferent to the agony their privilege inflicted on the rest of humanity.

Yet he pitied them, too, these aristocrats. Their wealth was a prison, their lives as hollow as those of the destitute. They, too, were victims of the same merciless system, trapped in a cycle of meaningless excess, unable to see the futility of their pursuits. Their luxury was but a thin veneer over a chasm of despair, their laughter masking the same existential dread that gnawed at his own soul.

There was no escape from this urban hellscape, no respite from the crushing weight of existence. The world outside was no better; nature itself had turned against humanity, withering and dying under the toxic assault of progress. Forests burned, oceans choked with plastic, the air thick with the poison of industry. Humans were parasites, sucking the life from the planet and each other, too blinded by their own hubris to see the precipice they were hurtling toward. And in this grand theater of misery, he saw the futility of it all, the shared suffering of both the poor and the rich, each bound by their own chains, each marching toward the same inevitable end.

[demilypyro]

The problem/funny thing is that you’re here with a healthy and conventional attraction to dudes.

Here.

On tumblr.

It’s like going diving into the dumpster of a back alley seafood restaurant and asking the rats living there for a gourmet ribeye steak. But if there’s anything we tumblr people love, it’s eating garbage.

God I fucking love garbage

I have never once found a "tumblr sexyman" attractive and I think that says a lot about me

[isagrimorie]

The Enterprise-G crew finds out that their beloved Captain Seven has really weird tastes and hobbies and 98% the Voyager crew is to be blamed for it.

Holodeck novels? Captain Seven seldom joins in. The crew thinks Cmdr. Raffi has the most off the wall costumes until Captain Seven strides in with her own unhinged costume. Her philosophy learned from Tom Paris and Kathryn Janeway: Go big or go home.

A game of velocity?

The Senior Staff quickly learn that the Captain is competitive and a Smug winner.

Captain Seven almost takes Dr Ohk’s head off in a game of Velocity. And then someone uncovers that Admiral Janeway was her Velocity partner for years. They have refrained from asking Captain Seven from joining since.

Spelunking and rock climbing? Becomes a competitive extreme sport. They learned Captain Seven used to rock climb with legendary Chief Engineer B’Elanna. Sidney is even more invigorated with this news. Raffi has to make them promise they won’t do any more extreme climbing.

Captain Seven is an excellent gourmet cook. She even cooked her senior bridge staff a celebratory dinner. Everybody loved it and won't stop talking about it.

But Seven's own personal comfort food? Garbage taste. Raffi makes the mistake eating Seven’s comfort soup and nearly spittakes. It’s a variation of Leola root stew.

Someone suggests meditation to her. Seven returns with Regeneration is the Best Meditation and helpfully recommends cortical implants.

The person never suggests meditation again. To this day they can’t tell if Captain Seven was joking.

[yourlocaldisneyvillain]

could i interest you in an unhinged jan stevens fic? read at your own risk :)

[shittyfishyasks]

I can't imagine Mr Coding Hermit to make anything gourmet but I bet he slaps at comfort food. Feelings jam toasties perhaps? I'd recommend em.

Jus a roundabout way of asking:

Are you n Sol good cooks?

CA: Wwe mostly order takeout CA: I'm the one pickin cause if I wwasn't he'd just eat garbage all the time -> "Eridan, truth or dare!"

[laikaspotlight]

One Frame At A Time

An Article about LAIKA's upcoming film, Wildwood, from Empire Magazine. Transcript by Rampage for visibility.

"THIS MONTH I found myself in a staring contest with an owl. (Spoiler: I lost.) It's not every issue this happens, but then again, it's not every Issue you get to go to Portland, Oregon for a visit to the stop-motion magic factory that is Laika. Portland itself may have been a bit of a let-down, in that I didn't encounter a single Carrie Brownstein or Fred Armisen (if you haven't watched Portlandia, do so immediately), but there was nothing disappointing about the place behind Kubo and the Two Strings and the upcoming Wildwood, the movie that will feature said bird. It was a total treat to get a glimpse of their new animated epic coming together (though the box of tiny puppet eyeballs might haunt me for a while). Head to page 66 for our report.

Wildwood isn't out until 2025 (there's no rushing a puppet owl), but this issue also dives deep into more imminent excitement…"

"Laika isn't just a studio, it's a way of life. As the masters of stop-motion animation painstakingly put together their biggest project yet, we visit their Portland HQ to discover their slow-moving secrets."

"The Dogfight was going to look awesome. The boy was sure of it. Buzzing from the movies he had sat through, enthralled, on Saturday-morning TV or at cinema matinées in his farm town outside of Portland, Oregon- stop-motion classics such as Ray Harryhausen-enhanced The 7th Voyage of Sinbad and Rankin/Bass' Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer- he had already attempted to inject life into Star Wars action figures. Now, it was time for something a little more spectacular. He marched to his X-Wing toy, like a titchy Wedge Antilles, grasped it in his eager hands and proceeded to film it, frame by frame, soaring through the sky, little explosions created using balls of cotton. His mind boggled at how incredible it was going to look when he unveiled his final cut. "Well, it looked like garbage." laughs Travis Knight now. "I was like, 'I'm going to have this amazing aerial battle here!' It was so fun to imagine what it could be. And then you see the end result, and it wasn't what you imagined. So that was heartbreaking."

Flash-forward some 40-odd years, and Knight is still tinkering with his toys. He's still just outside Portland, Oregon except now those toys are no longer purchased from the nearest Walmart. And, rather than his parent's basement, all alone, he's in a giant warehouse complex, assisted by roughly 400 ridiculously talented people. This is Laika, the studio behind the likes of Coraline, ParaNorman, and Kubo and the Two Strings; 964 miles up the coast from Hollywood but light years away in terms of how things are done. No sequels, no chatter about "IP". Productions that are not rushed through the system like fast food, but baked like gourmet dishes in a clay oven. Their new stop-motion epic, Wildwood, has been in development for 12 years; it's finally due out in 2025.

It's not always been smooth sailing here, but this is still a place where dreams come true.

Very, very slowly.

"I have a big aerial scene in this movie, with a giant bird," smiles Knight. "So, you know, good things come to pass.""

"There's a go-kart track around the corner from Laika, called K1 Speed. Every now and again, somebody from the studio will head there, clamber inside a buggy and hit the throttle, hard. Whizzing around a circuit at high velocity is a form of recalibration. Because at Laika, despite the presence of an in-studio coffee shop called Dripster's (named after a location in Wildwood). things move at, well, puppet pace.

When Empire visits the studio in early April, it proves to be the quietest set visit, by far, that we've ever experienced. The usual sounds of a busy shoot- walkie-talkies, clapperboards, Michael Bay yelling at a grip - are absent. In fact, it's hard to detect any activity at all. But as we stroll around the hushed, 400,000 square-foot warehouse complex, we find incredible things happening behind curtains. A massive eagle, wings outspread. A study, complete with marble fireplace and grand piano, the dwelling of an oversized owl. Forest tableaux with tangled trees and creeping ivy. All in miniature, and precisely put together by hand or using nifty tech: even the tiny leaves for the foliage have been laser-cut. And rather than a bustling crew gathered around the camera at each micro-set, there's just a single, hyperfocused person. "Until we shout action, you'll have set dressers, cameramen, motion control, lighting, gaffer, and somebody from puppets doing final checks," says Laika's Dan Pascall. "But as soon as we get launched, everyone's out and then the animator's in there. I mean, for a 20- or 30-second shot they can be in here for months on their own. It's a pretty solitary thing."

Wildwood is a fantasy epic directed by Knight, based on a book by Colin Meloy, frontman of the band The Decemberists, it's a sprawling tale that's actually set in and around Portland, in which a young woman, Prue McKeel, finds herself in an enchanted forest world. On the day of Empire's visit, there are 25 animators working on the project. But those animators are hidden away and silent, like monks in prayer, rapt in focus over the tiniest of details. When we encounter Jason Stalman, who's worked on Laika productions since 2012's ParaNorman, he's attending a throne room the size of Prince George, concentrating on the puppet of a female character who is reacting to something in the scene.

"She's doing very little, but you have to keep the character alive" he explains. "She's trying to be alluring, so she's doing all these little movements and body adjustments, which is really hard to do." Another challenge is her dress, which has to move independently too. The solution: tiny foam pads beneath the dress, to which the fabric can be pinned to, creating- eventually- the illusion of a swishing, real-looking costume.

Creating a performance frame by frame requires an enormous amount of mental energy. 

"It's Strange; it takes you a minute to come back to the normal world after you've done a day of this," admits Stalman. "People could think, 'how the hell do you do it? it's so boring.' But I like it, because the world is so crazy and fast. This feels nice, to do this little, delicate thing."

One animator at Laika is likely to, in a week, create three-and-a-half [3 ½] seconds of screentime. That's the kind of stat that might prompt some studio executives to kick over a watercooler in frustration. But Knight knows from experience that you can't rush these things.

Puppets move at their own tempo. "You could take shortcuts," he says. "But to me, the film requires whatever it requires. I do think making a movie like this is stupid. It's the stupidest way to make a movie. It's harder, there's more pain. But I also think there's more joy as well. I'm aware of the ticking of the clock and the mortal coil and everything else. I do want to tell as many stories as I can before my time is done. But when this group of people come together to create something, it's the most satisfying thing I've ever been a part of.""

"Back in 2009, stop-motion was on life-support (quite possibly hooked up to a tiny, hand-crafted IV). Tim Burton's Corpse Bride had barely made its money back a few years earlier, but nobody in Hollywood was baying for more. And advances in CG animation had led to studios looking for the next Shrek, not the next Nightmare Before Christmas. "Stop-motion has always been the red-headed stepchild of animation" says Knight. "And CG could effectively do everything we do in stop-motion, but better. There was certainly a moment where I think any of us who were practitioners of the craft were asking ourselves, 'Is there a future here?'"

But he, and others were deeply in love with both the process and the vibe of stop-motion. Knight, whose father is Nike magnate Phil Knight (as played recently in Air by Ben Affleck), had abandoned plans for a career in finance, deciding to follow that passion, wherever it might lead him. And it led him (after a brief stint as rapper ‘Chilly Tee’) to Laika- formerly Will Vinton studios which Phil Knight acquired in 2002, Travis becoming CEO. Laika is the name of a dog sent into space by the soviet union in the 1950's; Knight's career choice seemed as daunting an odyssey as that of the cosmic pooch. Especially when the studio embarked on its first feature film, Coraline, directed by The Nightmare Before Christmas' Henry Selick and on which Knight worked as lead animator. Not only were financers reluctant to back a stop-motion animation, but they proved unenthusiastic about the lead character being female- and not a Disney princess, but a regular teenage girl. Despite it being based on a book by Neil Gaiman, despite Selick's pedigree, despite the stunning visuals that Laika was orchestrating, the mood was grim. "There was a lot of anxiety," remembers Knight. "When we were trying to find partners who understood what we were trying to do, we were getting nothing but rejection. It was like high school all over again."

Then, at the premiere the weekend before it came out, a studio executive approached him. "According to the data it was going to bomb tremendously. And I remember an exec put his hand on my shoulder and said, 'I'm sorry. You gave it your best shot.' In this moment where we're trying to have this big celebration of what the crew had created, it was just tainted by this fact that it didn't work, and we were going to fail."

But it did work: after a surprisingly strong opening weekend, Coraline found legs, going to make $125 million. "Fast-forward a couple of months from the premiere, and that same executive team was asking me to make 'Coraline 2'," Knight recalls, "I was like, 'No, we're not gonna make Coraline 2. We're gonna tell a different story.'" Laika were off and running. Their follow-up, 2012's ParaNorman, was a zesty zombie comedy. 2014's The Boxtrolls was a raucous romp featuring mischievous creatures and industrious quantities of cheese. 2016's Kubo and the Two Strings, Knight's directorial debut, was an elegiac stop motion samurai epic. And 2019's Missing Link was a massively fun riff on Around The World In 80 Days, with a male Sasquatch named Susan. The studio's fare has remained artisanal, original and eccentric. And while the box-office figures have not been astronomical, those who do see their films tend to treasure them. In fact, some viewers became so inspired that they've ended up as employees at Laika themselves. "There are people who saw ParaNorman who work here now." Says the studio's head of production, Arianne Sutner, "Same thing with Coraline. You know, we don't make tons and tons of stuff, but what we have has a special impact. People love it for all its unusualness.""

"In Laika's 'Story room', where Empire meets Knight, bookshelves teem with thick volumes: subjects include P.T. Barnum, Art Deco, Cape Cod houses and fashions of the Victorian age. In a cabinet, meanwhile, are DVDs, many of which seem like unusual references for an animated adventure: the documentary Fires of Kuwait, The Lord of The Rings, The Birds, Micheal Clayton, Wong Kar-wai's The Grandmaster. "The Grandmaster is a beautiful film." Knight enthuses. "That was a huge inspiration when I was working on Kubo, because of how gorgeously it was shot. Micheal Clayton is more to do with lighting and composition, that sort of thing. But yeah, we pluck inspiration from a variety of sources." The stop-motion process is intrinsically difficult and time-consuming: boxes of replacement faces (each bearing a unique code) are trolleyed to set to create every smile, smirk and splutter. Nine 3D printers work overtime to make moulds of characters, which are then dressed with bespoke costumes, fitted with wigs and prepared for their moment in the spotlight. The quantities required are mind-boggling: Missing Link called for 106,000 unique faces; Wildwood will have far more, while also boasting 120 sets, double the number built for Kubo. But Laika is determined to keep crashing through the technical obstacles encountered, in a quest to become ever more cinematic. For Kubo, the studio tackled water, a giant skeleton and origami animation. For Wildwood, Knight is thinking bigger. He has the benefit of being fresh off his first live-action venture as director, 2018's Bumblebee, the best film in the Transformers franchise to date. And he's brought on cinematographer Caleb Deschanel, veteran of such non-puppetry epics such as The Right Stuff and The Patriot. With the rest of the team, they're making innovations both large and small. They've cracked a way to put muscles into puppets' arms ("We've never done that before," says Knight, "it looks amazing when I see it on-screen") and to create a fully articulated rat puppet so miniscule that it can rest on your pinkie ("The joints are so small - if you drop it, it looks like a human hair"). Most dauntingly, they are orchestrating a vast battle sequence, which would make Jason and the Argonauts' skeleton brawl look like a pub barney. "It's the single most difficult thing we're tackling on this movie." Says Knight. "We're starting to chip away and tentatively stepping into, like, 'Oh God, oh God, oh God, how are we gonna do this?' But I think it's going to work. And you'll tell me when the film's done if it did. Stop-motion films tend to look like they're shot on a table-top, because they are. Moving a physical object one frame at a time and trying to give it life, that's its own challenge. And then you bring all the kineticism you would have in a live action movie... it's so hard." 

Spectacle is one thing, but Laika's filmmakers are equally focused on their characters. Hailed for their progressiveness and inclusivity, they have brought the world Coraline Jones, a female animated hero like no other. ParaNorman's Mitch (voiced by Casey Affleck) was mainstream cinema's first openly gay character, leading to Laika being nominated for a GLAAD award. And they're determined for Wildwood's characters, including Prue, another young female hero, to connect powerfully with viewers.

To create nuanced puppet performances, Laika animators study live-action ones. "There's a moment in Dangerous Liaisons with Glenn Close on a sofa, and John Malkovich is asking her, 'What's your story?'" says Jason Stalman of a touchstone for the scene he's animating today. "The way she delivers her lines- I'm getting the shivers - I'm reacting so much to that that I thought if I could get even one tiny piece of stardust from that and put it into this, I'm going to try. It's nice to show a thought process happening in a two-inch piece of plastic head."

The animators also study themselves. Study their colleagues. And even their own families. "The design of the little baby in Wildwood is actually based on my nine-year-old son. That's how long we've been developing this damn thing," reveals Knight. "But he's voiced by my two-year-old son. It's a really strange thing to hear that little guy's voice come out of my older guy's puppet body. There's a scene in the film that's incredibly intense and the baby's screaming and crying and people go, 'Oh my God, how did you get that baby to do that?' I'm like, 'Well, I changed his diaper.'""

"2023 marks the 125th anniversary of the very first stop-motion film ever created: 1898's The Humpty Dumpty Circus, in which dolls of circus acrobats, elephants and donkeys came to life. That historical artifact has been lost forever, but the artform itself has refused to follow suit. Last year saw Guillermo Del Toro venture into Stop-motion with Pinocchio and Henry Selick return with Wendell & Wild. Aardman recently teamed up with Lucasfilm for a stop-motion Star Wars: Visions short (like Travis Knight's childhood film, it features an X-wing, plus actual Wedge Antilles), while a Chicken Run sequel is clucking its way to Netflix. Much of the credit for the reanimation of stop-motion must go to Laika. They've kept on ploughing forward, dedicated to the medium. The studio is expanding and transforming, with Laika set to move into the live-action realm. The first of those projects will be Seventeen, based on a John Brownlow book about the world's most lethal hitman. "It's a thriller with soul," says Knight. "Whatever we're developing, be it animation or live-action, it's going to be something that's emotionally resonant, that blends darkness and light and humor and heart."

But at the core of the studio, despite the fact they've incorporated elements of CG into their films since the start, will remain those patient-testing puppets.

While Wildwood is their biggest, most ambitious project yet, they're rolling other dice even before that's out. Including The Night Gardener, a stop-motion movie based on a script by Bill Dubuque, creator of Ozark, and described as "A neo-noir folk tale.", which is Laika's first that's not for kids. "This film is not a family film, at all," Knight says. "There's never been a film made like this in our medium. And that really excites me. It's a beautiful story, it scares me, And it's going to be an extraordinary piece of cinema, I think. Or at least has the potential to be."

The Laika philosophy is an admirable one: keep pushing in new directions, never repeat yourself. But one thing remains consistent for these pioneers in the drizzly Pacific Northwest. The pain of making one of these damn films, and the pleasure of -finally- watching the results.

"You know, these things are like little vampires," Knight reflects of the puppets that fill his warehouse. "They suck the life out of the people that touch them. At times it's really frustrating - they won't do what you want them to do. But when I see a puppet that's been imbued with life, because an animator on stage has had an emotional connection with an intimate thing, an assemblage of silicon and steel... Well, it's the closest thing to magic I've ever witnessed.""

[hussyknee]

Giving 10 Things That Never Happened a second go. On Chapter 11 and it's fairly engaging, even if it's no Boyfriend Material. But I'm honestly more invested in the love story between Jonathan and Sam's adorable ugly cat.

Cat-specific spoilers ahead.

When we meet Gollum:

As soon as Gollum hears the door open, he lies down on the floor next to his bowl and starts making how-could-it-have-come-to-this-terrible-tragedy noises. Which is bollocks because I’d left him plenty of food while I was away and, actually, he eats better than I do on account of how I got him gourmet cat food once, just to help him settle in, and now the bugger refuses to eat anything else.

This is exactly the Terror Trio. Our tom Kaha is basically a garbage disposal but I was very careful about feeding the kittens because they were dumped barely weaned and now Their Highnesses won't eat anything that isn't prepared on purpose for them to their exact specifications.

Gollum starts rubbing himself all over Jonathan’s legs. Jonathan looks down in a bit of a panic. "What’s it doing?" "Scent marking. He owns you now." "He does not." "You’ll have to take that up with him." Jonathan shakes his leg very gently but realises he probably doesn’t want to punt my cat across the room. “Can you make it stop?" "Liking you?” I ask. “Give him time. He’ll work it out." “Sam”—he does his best to sound forceful even though there’s a cat glommed onto his shin—“you’re not amusing. You’re just annoying. Now please move the cat." I get up and move the cat. At least, I try to but he’s not having it. The moment I pull him away from Jonathan he starts making these sad why-must-you-ruin-my-life sounds. Jonathan glares at me over a ball of feline tragedy. “What…what’s wrong with him?" "I think you’ve hurt his feelings.” I hold Gollum out and he hangs there like a wet dishcloth. “You see? Look at his little face." Jonathan does, in fact, look at his little face. Then he looks at my little face and I’m not sure which of them he likes less. Actually, I can’t read his expression at all. Very occasionally—when he’s not shouting or interfering in things that don’t concern him—he’s almost a good-looking man. If you like ’em sour and interesting. Which I didn’t think I did. He pulls back suddenly. “This is ridiculous. I have work to do." Then he turns and strides off to his study and Gollum, showing a worrying lack of taste for a creature I thought I could trust, runs right after him.

Clearly Jonathan makes up for his personality with his animal magnetism.

Jonathan’s in his study working and Gollum’s in the study with Jonathan. And that’s, well, I mean, I don’t really like weekends at the best of times but at least I’ve got my cat. But now I’m concussed, and I’m bored and I’m alone and my fucking cat has dumped me for my fucking boss. Which really stings because he’s a wanker. Plus, I’m meant to be doing this whole thing where I get him to see me as a person so he won’t just fire me once I’m medically cleared, and it’ll be really hard to do that if I never speak to him. Which I can’t. Because he’s shut up in his study. With my fucking cat. So I get up, go into the study, give Gollum—who’s sitting on Jonathan’s lap as happy as can be—a look of absolute betrayal and tell Jonathan I’m going for a walk. “Jonathan,” I say, “I’m going for a walk.” He doesn’t even look up from his laptop. “You are not.” “I think I am. My feet are going one in front of the other and everything.” At last he deigns to swivel his chair around. With Gollum right there he looks like an actual supervillain.

Already a power couple!

Turns out, going to a supermarket is like wiping your arse. You mostly do it alone so assume everyone does it the same way you do, but there’s actually a surprising amount of variation. I think I picked up my habits from my mam. She’d go in with a good sense of what she was after but mostly she’d wander up and down, looking for bargains and that. Jonathan seems to have got his habits from movies about people escaping from prisoner of war camps in World War II. Plan the whole thing in advance, stay close, don’t talk, don’t get distracted, and get out as fast as you can. I put up with this for all of two minutes while Jonathan berates me for dithering. "What are your thoughts on parsnips?” “I thought they went downhill after their third album. What do you mean, what are my thoughts on parsnips? I don’t have thoughts on parsnips. Who has time to have thoughts on parsnips?”

But then...

I find him in pets looking at cat treats. And when he spots me, he gets this expression on his face like I caught him with porn.

He's already in love! But he doesn't know how to express his feelings!

“You told me to be quick.” “Yes, but I didn’t think you’d listen.” He’s holding one of those cat toys that’s a stick with a mouse on a string. Teasers, I think they call them. And the idea of Jonathan Forest dangling a mouse in front of Gollum is a funny mix of endearing, bizarre, and a little bit terrifying. Clearly, he wants to buy it but doesn’t want to admit he wants to buy it, so I take it out of his hand and put it in the trolley.

He turns to Gollum when all the world is against him.

Finally he settles on, “I don’t have time for this. Just stay out of my business.” And then he scoops up Gollum, who settles against his shoulder like a smug ugly baby who’s decided to abandon the person who brought it home from the baby shelter, and they both storm off into the office. ... The timer goes on the oven, and while the chicken’s resting I transfer everything to the kitchen island and lay it all out so it looks kind of rustic, then I yell through to Jonathan that everything’s ready. “I’ll take it in here,” he yells back. Like fuck he will. I storm through to the study and I must have gone faster than he expected because he’s sitting there cuddling Gollum very much not doing any work. He makes a desperate attempt to look busy but all that does is dump Gollum onto his lap, where he steps on the Windows key and opens the calculator.

I've decided this book is actually The Adventures of Gollum The Cat and His Grumpy New Friend (ft. Whatever's Going On With Him and Daddy That Sometimes Involves Chicken).

I'm at the point where Sam's threatening to go home if Jonathan doesn't start being less of a dick, but I'm fairly certain Jonathan only wants him to stay because he doesn't want to be parted from the cat. Relatable, honestly.