#working with a tiny grocery budget

[ms-demeanor]

Hey nobody has asked me about this ADHD money management tip and it depends on having at least a tiny bit of flex in your budget but I'm about to spend a frustrating amount of money on flour and I can only do it because of this tip:

Hide cash from yourself like a squirrel.

Use whatever receptacle you'd like, envelopes or a zipper bag or an old wallet, create labels for the stuff you're saving for, and tuck money in there occasionally.

My stash lives in an old wallet with strips of paper around it. It's got dividers for "car registration," "bulk food," "vet visit," and a couple other things.

These are things that I know happen every year or multiple times a year that take more cash than I can easily spare from a single paycheck. If I stick twenty bucks a month in an old wallet it will mean that even if I have to pay late fees, I don't have to put my car registration on a credit card and pay interest on my late fees. If I stick ten bucks a month in an old wallet I can buy 25lbs of flour twice a year. If I can stick a bit more or less cash as it's available into the wallet I can make sure that my twice-annual regular vet visits with senior dog bloodwork and vaccinations aren't going to be too much of a hit to that month's grocery budget.

Like, everyone talks about "put money in savings once a month" or "have an account you don't touch for emergencies" and that can totally work if you can swing it, but I know it's REALLY hard for me to keep from pulling from the "emergency" fund for stuff that's a minor emergency/or is regular maintenance that I should have planned for/etc.

It's much harder for me to pull from the actual cash sitting in a physical room in my house because A) I'll probably forget it and B) that means that I have to think through using those funds in a lot more of a direct way than I would when using a debit card and C) I literally can't access it when I'm out of the house (the emergency fund HAS to be on the card to be accessible, the "i need expensive groceries" money doesn't have to be ready to go at all times and if it is available I know myself and it'll get used before it's expensive grocery time).

Like. If you know you have an expense that you have to pay for every year, hide cash specifically for that expense instead of in a general "expenses" fund because if you're not great with money and you've got an iffy memory you might look at your expenses fund and go "okay my computer crashed and there's five hundred bucks in the fund I can replace it and get back to work, cool" and there goes your car registration and a vet visit. At least if you need to physically grab that cash for an emergency you can make note of what you're going to have a deficit for later in the year.

[pucksandpower]

Hands On

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: celebrations after Lando’s first win get a bit hands on after he notices your obsession with a certain body part

Warnings: 18+ content

Based on this request

The pounding bass rumbles through the Miami club as Lando pulls you close, his arm snaked around your waist. The dim lights cast his face in chiseled shadows as he lets out a whoop of joy.

“We did it!” He yells over the music, eyes bright with elation. “My first bloody win!”

You beam up at him, heart swelling with pride. “I knew you could do it.” Standing on your tiptoes, you plant a lingering kiss on his lips, tasting the tang of celebratory champagne.

Lando grins against your mouth before reluctantly pulling back. “Let’s get a drink to toast, yeah?”

Nodding vigorously, you allow him to lead you through the crowd to the bar. Lando orders some lurid cocktails that probably cost more than an average person’s weekly grocery budget. You don’t care — tonight is for indulging.

As he hands you a glass, his calloused fingers brush yours, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. You quickly look away, hoping he didn’t notice. But of course he did.

“Alright there, love?” Lando asks with an amused quirk of his brow.

You force a laugh. “Just, uh … got a chill, that’s all.”

“Mmhmm.” He gives you a look that says he’s not buying it, but allows the subject to drop for now.

The two of you migrate to a plush VIP area, sinking into the soft leather couches. Lando slings an arm around your shoulders and you snuggle into his side, basking in his warmth and earthy scent.

God, you’re so proud of him.

“To us,” Lando murmurs, clinking his glass against yours. “And many more race wins to come.”

“I’ll drink to that.” You take a sip of the violently purple concoction. It tastes like alcoholic cough syrup but you don’t care.

As the alcohol works its magic, you feel yourself relaxing further into Lando’s embrace. Your eyes trace the strong line of his jaw, the delicious smattering of faint freckles, those gloriously long lashes ...

Your gaze catches on his free hand resting on the arm of the couch. You find yourself fixating on those slender fingers, the calluses from years of clutching the steering wheel ...

“Y/N?”

You start, blinking rapidly as Lando’s voice pulls you from your trance. “Huh? Sorry, what?”

“You’re staring again.” His lips quirk in that devilishly handsome half-smile.

Flushing hotly, you look anywhere but at him. Or more specifically, his hands. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you absolutely are.” Lando chuckles, low and teasing. “Go on then, what’s so fascinating?”

You squirm uncomfortably, feeling your face heat up even more. How to put this delicately ...

Apparently catching onto your distraction, Lando sits up straighter, settling his drink on the table with a muffled thunk. “Actually, don’t bother answering that. I think I know.”

Before you can protest, he reaches out to gently grasp your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb strokes your flushed cheek as those clever eyes bore into yours, equal parts amused and intense.

“It’s my hands, isn’t it?” Lando murmurs, voice dropping to a low rumble that has your heart tripping in your chest. “You can’t stop staring at my hands.”

You open your mouth to deny it, but Lando’s penetrating stare has you frozen, the words sticking in your throat. Slowly, you give a tiny nod.

Lando hums in acknowledgement, the pad of his thumb still caressing your skin in a maddeningly distracting way. “They are rather nice hands, to be fair. Years of keeping a firm grip, you know?” He winks at you roguishly.

You make a small, strangled sound in the back of your throat. Goddamn him and his innuendos.

“Would you ...” Lando pauses for dramatic effect, gaze dropping to your parted lips briefly. “Like a closer look?”

Every rational neuron in your brain screams at you to say no, this is too far, you’re in public, oh god. But your desire-muddled mind doesn’t seem to be receiving those signals. Instead, you give another mute nod, feeling yourself leaning the slightest bit closer.

“Yeah?” Lando’s voice is barely more than a gravelly rumble now. “You want my hands on you, don’t you?”

You make a tiny whimpering sound of assent, mouth suddenly bone dry. Your eyes drop of their own accord to those wicked fingers, still cupping your jaw so tenderly.

Lando lets out a quiet chuckle, deliciously sinful. “How bad do you want it, baby?”

Squeezing your thighs together self-consciously, you manage a strangled, “S-So bad ...”

“Good girl.” The praise has you melting into a puddle right there on the couch.

Then, in one torturously slow movement, Lando lowers his hand from your face … trails his knuckles down the column of your neck … over the swell of your chest … all the way to the hem of your skimpy dress. He hooks a finger under the silky material, drawing it up your bare thigh with agonizing leisure.

You inhale a sharp breath at the sensation of his rough skin on your flushed flesh. Your eyelids flutter shut, every nerve ending thrumming with exquisite tension.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes snap back open at Lando’s commanding tone. He gazes back, brows raised in silent challenge. You force yourself to hold his searing gaze as his hand maps lazy circles on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

“Good girl,” he praises again, the words liquid sin. “Nice and relaxed for me.”

Despite the burning awareness of being in a public place, you feel yourself subconsciously parting your thighs ever-so-slightly, allowing those talented fingers higher access. Heat pools between your legs, your rapid pulse thrumming double-time.

“God, you’re so wet for me already,” Lando husks in approval. “I fucking love how worked up my hands get you.”

As those dexterous digits tease feather-light strokes over your quickly dampening underwear, you have to bite down hard on your bottom lip to stifle a whimper of shameless need. Every touch from him sets your body alight with feverish want.

“Shhh, inside voice, darling,” he chides quietly, humor dancing in those multicolored eyes. “Don’t want to cause a scene, do we?”

You rapidly shake your head, wholeheartedly agreeing. The last thing you need is for someone to wander over here and catch you being debauched by your boyfriend in a public place.

The thought should probably mortify you more than it does.

Lando gives you a crooked grin, like he can read your deliciously filthy thoughts. “Good girl,” he praises again, rewarding you with another teasing caress between your legs.

You suck in a shuddering breath, spine arching ever-so-slightly as Lando’s sinful fingers work their magic through the damp fabric. He knows every spot that drives you crazy, rubbing and stroking with perfect pressure until your inner muscles quiver with delirious need.

“You’re dripping for me, love,” he murmurs in a thick rumble. “Been thinking about my hands on you all night, haven’t you?”

No use denying it anymore — not with the embarrassingly loud squelches coming from between your shamelessly parted thighs. You give another frantic nod.

Lando makes a tutting sound. “Use your words.”

“Y-Yes,” you force out in a ragged whisper. Already, your breaths are coming faster, the molten coil in your core winding tighter and tighter with every deft stroke. “God, Lando, please ...”

“Since you asked so nicely ...” With those words, he slips one long finger under the sodden lace, finally making direct skin-to-skin contact with your aching heat.

You choke back a moan as he delves into your dripping folds, crooking his finger to find that spot that makes you see stars. Alternating between tight circles and firm strokes, Lando works that magic digit at an agonizingly slow pace. Your hips lift shamelessly into his touch, desperate for more friction.

“So greedy,” he chides with a dark chuckle. But he acquiesces, slipping in a second finger to join the first.

You have to clamp your lips shut to muffle the broken keen that tries to escape. The stretch and burn as he scissors you open is pure bliss. Your inner walls flutter greedily around the delicious intrusion.

“Like that, baby?” Lando’s hot breath ghosts your cheek as he leans in close. “You feel so fucking good stretched around my fingers.”

You nod frantically, nails digging into the buttery leather as he starts pumping those wicked digits in a steady rhythm. Each slick thrust has your whole body tensing and the knot in your core winding ever tighter.

“You take me so well,” he praises in a hoarse rasp. “Always so tight and perfect around my cock too. Can’t wait to be buried in that sweet little pussy later.”

A broken whine escapes you at the filthy promise. Your thighs are trembling now, pleasure spiking through your veins with every curl and drag of those talented fingers. You’re quickly spiraling higher, that euphoric edge looming tantalizingly close ...

Lando’s free hand drifts up to toy with the strap of your dress, tugging it down to bare one straining nipple to the heated air of the club. He leans in to lave his tongue over the tender peak and you practically convulse in his lap. Too much, too good, you’re going to combust-

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he rumbles against your damp skin. “Let go.”

The low, commanding growl is your undoing. With a strangled cry, you shatter apart on his fingers, back arching as the pleasure crashes over you in relentless waves. It whites out your vision, every nerve ending set alight in blinding ecstasy.

You come back to reality cradled in Lando’s arms, his lips brushing reverent kisses over your damp hairline. As the pulses gradually subside, you slump bonelessly against his chest, thoroughly spent.

“That’s my good girl,” Lando murmurs, rich voice laced with smug satisfaction. He slowly retracts his drenched fingers with one final curl that has your body giving a languid shudder.

A blissed-out hum is all the response you can muster right now. Your eyelids are heavy, head swimming in that delicious post-orgasmic haze. Lando chuckles softly, tightening his embrace as he drops another kiss to your brow.

“Don’t go falling asleep on me yet, yeah? The night’s still young, love. Got plenty more celebrations planned for you ...”

***

The door to the lavish hotel suite bursts open with a bang as Lando practically shoves you through the entrance. You stumble slightly on your high heels, drunk on anticipation and champagne fumes. Before you can regain your balance, his strong hands are on you, spinning you around to pin your back against the nearest wall.

“Been wanting to get my hands on you all night,” Lando growls against the sensitive skin just below your ear.

You shiver at the rumbling timbre of his voice, already growing hazy with rekindled desire. “Y-You already did at the club ...”

He rewards your cheek with a teasing graze of teeth. “And you were such a good girl, taking my fingers so nicely in front of everyone.” His hips grind against yours, allowing you to feel every rigid inch of his arousal. “But now I want more. Need to be inside you properly.”

A broken whimper escapes your parted lips as Lando’s hands roam greedily over your body. You arch shamelessly into his possessive grip, craving his burning touch everywhere at once.

“Arms up,” he commands in a gravelly murmur.

You immediately comply, and he wastes no time in dragging your skimpy dress up over your head, leaving you in just a flimsy scrap of lace. His heated gaze rakes over every newly exposed inch of bare skin with undisguised hunger.

“God, look at you ...” Lando exhales a harsh curse through gritted teeth. “I swear you get more gorgeous every bloody day.”

Face flushing beneath his scorching appraisal, you resist the urge to cover yourself with your arms. You know he prefers an unobstructed view.

“Turn around,” he orders in a voice that brokers no argument. “Hands on the wall.”

You spin obediently, biting back a needy whimper as your breasts brush the cool surface. The room suddenly feels several degrees warmer from the blazing anticipation alone.

There’s a pause where you can practically sense Lando’s eyes devouring the lines and curves of your body. You fight the urge to squirm beneath his piercing scrutiny. Then his callused hands are on your hips, squeezing with delicious possessiveness as he steps in to blanket your back with his solid heat.

“Already so wet for me,” Lando observes in a rough purr, dragging your lace underwear aside to reveal your slick folds. “Seem to recall you liking a taste of your own medicine at the club, hmm?”

The tip of his index finger glides through your arousal in one torturously slow pass, gathering the evidence of your desire onto his skin. Before you can so much as draw a shaky breath, he brings that glistening digit to hover just in front of your parted lips.

“Open up, love.”

You moan softly in anticipation, obeying without hesitation. The instant his finger slides into your mouth, your eyes flutter shut in wanton bliss. Your tongue swirls around the thick digit, hungrily lapping up every last trace of your own tangy essence.

“That’s it, nice and sloppy,” Lando praises in a low, heated rumble. “Show me how much you love the way you taste on my fingers.”

Spurred on by his heated words, you begin sucking in earnest, hollowing your cheeks with shameless enthusiasm. The slick sounds of your efforts fill the air, the wet noises doing absolutely nothing to quell the rising tide of arousal between your legs.

Behind you, Lando exhales a harsh curse. “Fuck … so bloody good at that. Should’ve known you’d look perfect with my fingers in your greedy little mouth.”

A fresh gush of arousal floods your center at his filthy words of approval. You can’t help the desperate whine that vibrates around his digit as you increase your pace, desperate to drive him as crazy as he’s driving you.

“Alright, enough teasing now.” There’s the sound of a zipper rasping, then suddenly Lando’s other hand is shoving yours away from the wall and around to grasp his newly freed erection.

You moan again, shocked but overwhelmingly aroused by his boldness. He pumps his length slow and purposeful, engulfing your smaller hand with his larger one to set a languid but firm pace.

“Good girl, that’s it ...” he rasps out harshly. “Wanna feel how hard you’ve got me, baby? Aching to be inside your perfect cunt ...”

At his filthy words, your core pulses with a fresh rush of molten want. You can feel the fat head of his shaft nudging demandingly against the crease of your thigh, leaving smears of pearly fluid on your heated skin.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, Lando spins you back around to face him. His eyes are blazing with dark, predatory hunger as he swiftly sheds the rest of your flimsy underwear. Then he’s hauling you up by the backs of your thighs, pinning you against the wall with his hips nestled firmly against your aching core.

“Tell me what you want,” he rumbles in a tone of deliciously wicked authority. The thick head of his erection drags through your slick folds in one maddening tease after another.

You whine high in your throat, scrabbling at his broad shoulders for purchase. “P-Please, Lando! Need you inside me ...”

“Need me to what?” He tilts his hips in a slow, torturous grind, spreading your arousal in a slick glaze. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Fuckmefuckmefuckme ...” The desperate mantra spills shamelessly from your lips as you try to pull him closer.

Lando rewards your begging with a wolfish grin. “As you wish.”

And with one slick thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, stretching and filling you in the most exquisite way. Twin groans echo through the suite — his a guttural growl, yours a high-pitched mewl of relief.

There’s an endless moment where you both simply still, savoring the friction of being so intimately joined. Lando’s forehead drops to your shoulder, the pair of you panting harshly against one another’s sweat-slicked skin.

Then he starts to move.

It starts with a slow roll of his hips, languid but purposeful strokes that drag his length through every last velvet inch before pulling nearly all the way out. You clutch desperately at the carved muscles of his back as he sets a relentless pace, each powerful thrust punching the air from your lungs.

“So tight ...” he grits out in a gravelly burr. “Taking me so deep, god, you feel incredible...”

You can only whimper helplessly in response, overwhelmed by the feeling. Every nerve is alight with shuddering bliss.

Soon Lando’s lazy rhythm devolves into harsh, pounding strokes, the harsh clap of flesh on flesh echoing like thunder. The solid wall at your back provides delicious traction as your boyfriend jackhammers up into your fluttering heat with rapidly mounting frenzy.

“Yes … yesyesyes!” The breathless affirmations tear from your lips in sync with each punishing slap of his hips.

“Can hear how much you love this, getting pounded against the wall like a desperate little thing,” Lando rumbles with dark approval. “Am I hitting all those perfect spots, baby? Making that greedy cunt squeeze me so damn tight?”

“So close, so close!” You chant in a high, thready whine. Your release is rapidly building, that glorious crest just out of reach.

As if sensing your desperation, Lando shifts his grip so one hand can snake between your bodies. His clever fingers instantly find the swollen bundle of nerves at your apex and start working tight, purposeful circles with just the right amount of pressure.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god ...” The frantic mantra punches from your lungs in time with his feral thrusts. You can feel yourself teetering right at that blissful precipice, every nerve pulled tourniquet-tight with impending release.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Lando coaxes in a rough growl. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock ...”

His filthy words are your undoing. With a sobbing cry, your vision whites out in a supernova of shattering ecstasy. Pleasure rockets through your veins in pulsing waves, every muscle locked in the most beautiful torment. Vaguely, you feel Lando snarling curses against the fevered skin of your neck as your convulsing walls grip him in scorching velvet vice.

When your senses finally begin drifting back to you, Lando is peppering your sweat-dampened face with gentle kisses. He brushes the mussed hair from your brow tenderly, eyes brimming with naked adoration.

“So perfect for me,” he murmurs in hushed reverence. “Every bloody time. Fuck, I love watching you fall apart.”

You manage a weak, boneless smile at the affectionate praise, still riding the afterglow. You feel deliciously hollowed out, pleasantly achy in all the right places. Like every muscle has turned to warm honey.

After another moment, Lando carefully lowers your trembling legs until your wobbly knees find purchase on the plush carpeting. He frames your face with those gloriously rough hands, calluses catching on the flush of your cheeks.

“That good for you, love?” He asks with a hint of gentle teasing.

“Mhmm ...” You nod drowsily, leaning into his solid palm. “S’always good with you.”

Lando’s answering smile is bright enough to power every chandelier in the lavish suite.

***

“Baby, where are you? I’m home!”

Lando’s voice rings out as the door to your shared flat opens with a muffled snick. You pause your lounging on the couch, book falling forgotten to your lap as he steps inside, hauling a discreet black bag.

“In here!” You call out with a smile, already tingling with curiosity.

He appears in the doorway, flashing you that signature crooked grin that always has your insides melting. “There’s my gorgeous girl. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

You sit up a little straighter, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell.”

Rather than answer, Lando moves to the couch and deposits the bag between you two with a heavy thunk. Your brows shoot up quizzically.

“Well someone’s being mysterious,” you tease, giving the matte exterior an experimental prod. “What’s in this, Mister Norris?”

“Why don’t you open it and find out?” There’s a wicked glint in his eyes as he gestures towards the zipper pull.

Fighting a grin, you obligingly grasp the metal tab and pull, allowing the discreet covering to gape open. The first thing you register is a tangle of padded straps and buckles in sleek black leather. Then your eyes catch on the protruding shape nestled securely in the center … and you promptly choke on your own tongue.

It’s a hand. Or rather, a perfectly molded silicone model of one — every crease and callus captured in lifelike detail down to each delicate whorling fingerprint.

A whimper catches in your throat as realization slams into you with dizzying force. This hand … this hand with those long, talented fingers you’ve fantasized about more times than you can count … this hand is modeled after Lando’s.

“Oh my god ...” The words slip out in a strangled exhale. “Lando, is this ...”

His expression is carefully neutral, but the fiery glint in his eyes gives away his smug satisfaction. “You’re always going on about how much you love my hands. Figured you deserve to have the full experience whenever you want it, love.”

“I ...” Words temporarily fail you as you lift the shockingly realistic appendage free of its padded enclosure. The weight and articulation is uncanny, from the subtle flare of knuckles to the blunt tips of each digit. It’s almost unsettling how realistic it is.

You glance up to find Lando observing you with dark, hooded interest. His tongue darts out to wet his lips in a reflexive tell of arousal.

“What do you think?” He asks in a low, rough murmur. “Want to take it for a test drive?”

Heat lances straight to your core at the blatant suggestion. You reflexively squeeze the silicone digits in your grip, reveling in the slinky give and firm resistance. Already you can vividly imagine those fingers pumping into your dripping heat, stretching and stroking with that same delicious friction you’ve come to crave ...

“Y/N?” Lando’s voice pulls you from your lust-hazed daze. His eyes are blazing now, pupils blown wide. “Need you to use your words, sweetheart ...”

You make a small, needy sound as your thighs instinctively shift in subtle search of friction. “Yes … yes, I want to try it. Please ...”

That’s all the encouragement he seems to need. In the span of a heartbeat, Lando is divesting you of your thin cotton shorts and guiding your legs apart to settle between them on the couch. The hand rests heavy and solid in his palm as he holds it aloft, allowing you an unobstructed view.

You bite your lip against a whimper, already flushing with a heady cocktail of arousal and shameless anticipation. Lando’s lashes dip to half-mast as he brings the sculpted digits to his lips and lays a reverent kiss to each knuckle.

“I’m going to take such good care of you,” he rumbles in that low, raspy tone that never fails to have you melting. And then, with agonizing leisure, he trails the smooth pads down your chest … over the soft swell of your stomach … through the damp thatch of curls at your apex ...

A gasp punches from your lungs at the first glancing stroke against your folds. This may be an inanimate object, but its perfected shape coupled with Lando’s practiced touch feels so exquisitely familiar. Like the real thing is finally breaching that aching place inside you ...

“Bloody hell, you’re already dripping,” Lando observes in a rough growl. The flexed digits slide through your arousal in one slick pass, gathering your essence onto the sleek silicone. “Is this what you were thinking about, love? Having my fingers buried knuckle-deep in that greedy little cunt?”

You can only whimper and nod frantically as he draws tantalizingly close again. That unhurried brush of solid firmness against your most sensitive flesh already has your inner muscles fluttering desperately.

“Tell me what you want,” Lando rumbles in a tone of smoldering command. Those clever fingers circle your aching entrance, spreading your slick arousal in a torturous tease.

“T-The hand,” you stammer out in a pitchy whine. “Lando, please ... I need it i-inside me ...”

A wolfish grin curves his lips as he rewards your obedience with a searing kiss. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are blazing with liquid smoke.

“As you wish.”

Then Lando is tipping the toy at just the right angle to catch on your swollen entrance. With one smooth, purposeful thrust, he sheaths every last inch to the knuckle root inside your clenching heat.

The fullness is glorious, that solid silicone bulk stretching you wide in the most delicious way. Every delicate ridge and contour drags against your velvet walls with maddening friction with the slightest movement.

“Fuck ...” Lando practically snarls the curse through gritted teeth as he begins pumping the toy in a slow, purposeful rhythm. “So goddamn hot seeing you grip it like this, baby … squeezing so perfectly tight.”

You can only whimper helplessly in response, overwhelmed by the intensity of sensation. With each careful stroke, Lando angles the silicone fingers to create a firm nudge against that spongy cluster of nerves. Jolts of electricity hoot up your spine until you’re shuddering and whimpering.

“There you are ...” Lando’s voice is a rumbling growl of smug satisfaction as he locates that magic spot. “Squirming like a desperate little thing on my hand.”

To punctuate his words, he rotates his wrist with a purposeful flex of hard knuckles against your tender front wall. The exquisite pressure has your hips jerking upward in a helpless spasm, eyes flying open to lock gazes with your wickedly grinning boyfriend.

“Like that, do you?” He husks, lips brushing your cheek. “Never seen you make noises like this before. So hungry for my fingers buried deep...”

As if to emphasize the slick sounds already filling the air, Lando picks up the tempo of his thrusts in rapid, punishing strokes. The squelches are more erotic than anything you’ve ever heard as he rails you open on that delightfully thick silicone.

“Oh god, oh g-god ...” The desperate mantra spills shamelessly from your lips as white sparks begin bursting across your vision.

“Let it happen, baby,” he coaxes. “Need to see those gorgeous walls fluttering when you come ...”

With a startled cry, your spine bows off the cushions as your long-awaited climax finally detonates. Searing pleasure lances through every nerve ending in tsunami waves. You’re vaguely aware of choking out Lando’s name over and over in a breathless keen, your inner muscles flexing uselessly around the thick silicone toy.

When you finally drift back down, it’s to the feeling of damp hair being brushed from your brow. You blink blearily to find Lando gazing down at you with naked awe and unguarded adoration.

“You’re a vision like this,” he murmurs reverently. The hand-shaped toy is finally, carefully extracted with a slick sucking sound that has you flushing. “So beautifully ruined all because of my hand ...”

In a tender gesture, Lando cradles the back of your skull and brings the glistening silicone digits to your parted lips. The clean, musky tang of your own arousal coats every contour.

“Clean it up, love,” he commands. “Know how much you love the taste ...”

You moan faintly at the filthy demand, feeling a fresh slick of heat pooling between your legs. But there’s no way you can deny him this or yourself the heady intimacy of such an act. So with hooded lashes, you obediently part your lips and take those thick fingers onto your awaiting tongue.

Lando’s low groan of approval vibrates through your very bones as you seal your lips in a tight ‘O’ and suck with wanton fervor. The harsh breaths punching from his lungs spur you on, swirling your tongue over every crease and imprint hungrily.

“So fuckiny gorgeous,” he grits out in a tone of strained reverence. “You have no idea the effect you have on me, do you?”

As if to emphasize his words, Lando shifts position — and you suddenly become aware of the painfully rigid line of his erection pressing against your hip. With a needy whine, you instinctively grind up against that hot, insistent length through the thin barrier of his athletic shorts.

Your boyfriend’s lashes flutter as he bites back a growl. “Easy there, minx. You’re going to get me inside you soon enough.” He nips sharply at the bolt of your jaw, silicone fingers still working your slack mouth in shallow thrusts. “But first I want to watch you come apart on the real thing one more time ...”

A full-bodied shudder races through you at the dark promise underlining his words. With a pitchy sound of submission, you allow your heavy eyelids to slip shut and your jaw to unhinge obediently around the thoroughly used toy.

Every expert curl and flick of those clever digits is centered on the singular goal of dismantling you again. You’re powerless to resist, simply allowing the heady l sensations to crest higher and higher. Lando’s hoarse rumbles of encouragement cradle you, pushing you higher until you finally shatter into sublime oblivion once more.

And fuck, you love it when Lando’s hands on.

[idontwannabeyouanymore]

my fav safe (and low cal) foods! <3

so im someone who shoots for 700 cals a day bc i'm a server (lots of walking, lifting, always on my feet) and im also a college student! so in order for me to literally not pass out everywhere i go, i eat in somewhat larger volumes of super low cal foods! i try to focus on protein, carbs, fiber, and low fat. here are the foods i eat almost every day, if not every single day in different combinations:

quaker lightly salted rice cakes: 35 cals per rice cake and good for energy (the flavored ones are also amazing but differ in cals)

starkist light tuna in water (the packets!): 70 cals per packet and like 17g of protein

strawberries: low cal, good for when i have low blood sugar

light n' fit greek yogurt: 80 cals per yogurt, they have the best flavors, i think like 12g of protein? and they're great in smoothies

good culture lowfat cottage cheese: 80 cals per 110g (1/2 cup) and the BEST cottage cheese texture ever

english cucumbers: crispier than a regular cuc and rly low calories for super large amounts

healthy choice soups with BONE BROTH: usually like 190 cals for the whole can and they have more protein than the progresso light soups (which i also like)

barebells chocolate dough protein bars: 200 cals per bar but they hold me over for like 6 hours during work and the chocolate dough literally tastes like a candy bar

bob evans liquid egg whites: 25 cals per 3 tbsp and the bob evans brand has no fat, no carbs, and no cholesterol!

franks red hot original hot sauce: no cals (but lots of sodium) super clean ingredients and i rly do put this sh!t on everything. im a hot sauce wh0re

kraft zesty italian fat free dressing: 15 calories for 2 tbsp and super flavorful! my go-to for dipping veggies and i also put it in my tuna??? no judgement its good

sugar free jello: 5 cals per one jello cup and lowkey i like it better than regular jello its FIRE

pb fit powdered peanut butter: 60 cals per 2 tbsp of this stuff when dry is CRAZY its literally less than half the cals of like JIF reduced fat. doesn't taste as good but add like a tiny bit of honey or concentrated apple juice sweetener and its fire on a rice cake

seasonings are SO important for me bc i like flavor. seasonings usually have very low or no cals so try them out! don't make urself more miserable by eating some bland ass chicken

for drinks, i shoot for water, bigelow green tea with mint, coke zero, zevia, and monster zero sugar (esp the peach flavor!!)

annnnnnddddd i think thats pretty much what i eat! idk who's seeing this but i hope this helps someone who's not sure what to buy @ the grocery store! also if anyone has other low cal foods that they love pls lmk cus im always looking to branch out :)

edit: i also measure all my food in grams using a cheap scale i got at walmart and i log my meals in myfitnesspal... helps me have peace of mind when budgeting cals

edit: ALSO GRILLOS DILL PICKLES SPEARS they're 5 cals per spear (i fkn love these pickles)

[chimielie]

“I’m just saying,” you tell your roommate as she shoves her wallet into her purse while you scoop up two of her bags, “spending so much money here for gourmet groceries is...”

You trail off as you realize that she’s more preoccupied with spending an extra second staring at the cashier she’s been pining after (expensively, you might add, because she comes here every week just to stand in his line) than listening to your half-hearted lecture. You glance back at him with her, jolting when you notice someone crossing in front of you from the corner of your eye.

“Move, register's mine for the next hour.” You look involuntarily at the speaker, who taps your friend’s crush (Yahaba, his nametag reads) on the shoulder. It’s a crowded space, so you stare up at the replacement cashier from scarcely six inches away, absorbing his visage like several blows directly to the kidneys.

He’s thicker-set and shorter than Yahaba, hair shaved to his skull and dyed blond with the exception of two dark stripes at his temples. Two tiny metal spheres straddle his left eyebrow, featuring above lashes so long he might as well be wearing eyeliner (actually, he might be) over burning eyes you could spend hours admiring. And—be still your beating heart—the shaved head reveals thick black hoops hung in his ears, glinting merrily under the fluorescents. There are piercings studded into the cartilage above, too, matching his eyebrow jewelry. He turns a little, so you can see the nametag pinned to his tie-dyed shirt; it reads Tarō, in awful scrawled handwriting.

“You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my whole entire life,” you say loudly, not a single thought passing through your brain prior to or during the process of speaking.

He stops talking and stares at you. The sounds of the store, the squeaks of cart wheels and the music over the speakers, are suddenly headache inducing. Your friend slaps you lightly on the arm, a motion that you read immediately as you did not just say that, holy shit.

“Say thank you, Kyō,” Yahaba says jokingly, and she emits a noise too high-pitched to actually be laughter. Your face, meanwhile, is frozen. You think you might actually be deceased. This must be rigor mortis.

“Don't think I’ve ever been called beautiful before,” he says, squinting those gorgeous eyes like he's trying to decipher a dead language.

“I am so sorry,” you say, reaching out to haul your ass and your roommate’s out of here now. Your hand closes around nothing and you look around to find her engrossed in conversation with Yahaba, who is now apparently off the clock despite his replacement coworker wasting time looking at you like someone might look at a dead fish that had been thrown at them. “Um. I am so sorry. I didn’t intend to... harass you at work.”

He grunts in dismissal, flashing you a smirk that reveals fanged canines, and if you’ve had one thought that’s inappropriate in a public setting, you’ve had them all by now. “I have to deal with—” He tilts his head toward the growing line, cussing under his breath and rolling his eyes. “You have a good night, though."

Despite your miserable shame, you take comfort knowing that your friend finally had a real conversation with Yahaba, even getting his number while you suffered under his intense gaze. You can cope with embarrassment if it brings something good into the world.

The silver lining is gilded over when, at two minutes past ten, you get a text from an unknown number.

just closed. u doing anything now?

this is kentarō from the grocery. i got ur number from yahaba who got it from ur friend.

hope thats ok

You smile at your phone, envisioning the wrinkle between his brows as he typed the last message. You're gonna have to start budgeting for fancier groceries.

[abitchnamedtia]

Alastor Moody as a dad would include

Infos : fluff

Warnings : none

I know, it's been a while. I'll try to post more, but I won't promise anything!

----------------------------------------------------------

- Him being scared that the baby would be scared as his scars.

Alastor is very insecure about it, because he knows how he looks. He can see people's stares. He knows that his scars can be repulsive and make him look scary.

But when he holds your child for the first time and see their smile, all his anxiety vanished

- Him being VERY protective towards you and your child. Even more protective than he is with you (you didn't even know that was possible).

Your house would be protected with every spells he knows.

And when your child will be older, he'll teach them self defense. Just to be a bit reassured when they go out without him.

- Him scared that his child could be bullied or targeted because of him.

Kids are cruel. Very cruel sometimes. He was so afraid that his reputation of a "mad man" will tarnish his child's reputation.

But when your child was in kindergarten, your child told his classmates that his dad was an auror and explaining that he was "fighting bad bad guys", all of them were in awe. At the end of that day, when Alastor came at the end of the day to take his child home, a herd of small child came to him to ask him questions about his work. He was surprised, but happy to answer it.

- Him loving them to death and spoiling them rotten. But still teaching them to be humble.

Almost every time that he goes to buy groceries, he'll buy a little something for them. And let's not talk about birthdays or Christmas... He blew up the budget every time. But he just wanted to make them happy, he couldn't help it !

-Him playing a lot with them. Tea time with the dolls ? Of course. Playing the villain for your kid to play the knight? Absolutely.

The sweetest thing you ever saw was him, sat on the ground at a small table with a tiny cup of tea in the hand with your child and a few dolls and stuffed toys. When you asked what was happening, he just answered "we are taking the tea, isn't it obvious?". ADORABLE.

And of course, he knows the dolls and stuffed toys' names by heart.

[hold-him-down]

Belleview Chapter Two: Triage

Notes: Don't believe anything I say about medicine, politics, or the workings of government agencies.

Belleview: Chapter 1

TW: Institutionalized slavery, a little tiny bit heavy on the exposition

✥ ✥ ✥

As far as ‘day one’s go, Lincoln thinks, it could have been worse. That is the best he can offer himself now. He looks down at his hands, which feel, no matter how many times he scrubs them, as if they are still covered in the blood, both metaphorical and physical, of the residents. They did not ask for his help, and by most metrics do not seem to want his help, and yet still, he is here. Helping? It weighs heavily on him. His hands shake, a product of adrenaline and exhaustion and, maybe, partly of desperation for some kind of emotional release.

Organizing the volunteers had gone smoothly enough. He had four doctors, eight nurses, and fifteen good samaritans (and a list of hundreds of others who were ready to step in if more help was needed), all eager to find their place in this beautiful hellscape.

After the former handler, Jared, was escorted to a waiting police car, Lincoln took a deep breath and rounded up the crew. The de facto Commissioner for the splintered Department of Labor Services in Florida, once responsible for the privatization and trafficking of low-level criminals and now responsible for sorting out the undoing of that system itself, estimated that there would be additional guidance available within two weeks and, between him and Lincoln, suspected that ultimately the residents would be placed in a sort of ‘foster’ situation, where they would be pseudo-adopted into the homes of long time opposers of the system while they accessed medical care and were slowly reintegrated. It was all a lot to stomach, and for his part, Lincoln tried not to look too closely. It was clear that the residents here all, at minimum, required some degree of inpatient medical treatment, and he was qualified to provide that, if nothing else. 

Lincoln had been contracted for four weeks, with the soft warning that it would likely extend beyond that, and the sincere gratitude of the Commissioner as well as a slew of other high ranking officials. His work is important, he was told countless times. It’ll be a hard job, but they can think of no better hands than his to leave the care of these men in. 

After accepting the position, Lincoln began forming something of a plan. He was given a budget and a list of items already at the site. He was sent lists of hundreds and hundreds of doctors, nurses, cooks, mechanics, police officers, former handlers, teachers… anything he could think of, he had available to him. People from across the country offered their support in any way they could. He selected his team, his backup team, and held a list of other local residents that he could rely on for support.

The initial team was small but mighty, fierce in their dedication to help. Four doctors. Five, including him. Twenty-one residents (with only twenty files, but that was for another day). Eight nurses. Fifteen volunteers. Enough for every resident to receive medical attention, with extra volunteers to sort out groceries and clothing and removal of the evidence of what had happened here, with extras to help keep everything flowing.

It was experimental, and no one knew exactly what it would look like. But this team was ready to throw themselves wholly into early recompense and that was all he needed. They would work the rest out as they went.

✥ ✥ ✥

The volunteers look to him for guidance as he enters the conference room and, given that he has run through his plan a hundred times in his head by now, he wastes no time in laying out the loose threads of what he is calling the ‘plan.’ There are people working throughout the building, sealing off some unused wings, repurposing others. They are irrelevant to what Lincoln is doing and have no impact on the residents he now oversees. They will not enter this unit, and his group will not be asked to leave. It does not matter what happens beyond the walls of C-wing anymore. 

There are two empty rooms at the end of the longest, main corridor, that were previously used for something adjacent to medical exams. This is not exactly the highest priority, but the easiest to get started. 

“Yang, Richmond, Jacoby, and Gilman,” Lincoln says, scanning the volunteers as people identify themselves. He hands them each a sheet of paper with a list of items that each room should have. “A truck should be arriving within the next thirty minutes,” he continues. “Start clearing out the exam rooms of anything not on this list, sanitize the hell out of them, and then work with the delivery people to get them set up. Use the south entrance so no one is wandering the halls. They’ll need to be fully functional by tomorrow at the latest.” The volunteers take to task quickly, and Lincoln moves to the next on his list.

“DeLuca and Dhar,” he says next. “Groceries were delivered earlier, let’s get everything put away. There was a large break room for the handlers here,” he says, as he points to the map on the tablet, “but no cafeteria. To the extent possible, clear it out. There are bins for anything that you find that looks remotely criminal. We’ve been asked to refrain from discarding the personal effects of the handlers or anything that might need to be reviewed down the line. Everything can go into storage, someone will come pick it up at some point this evening.”

They exit, and Lincoln is left standing with the medical staff and a small handful of remaining volunteers. He assigns four to scrubbing the common areas of all traces of abuse, the hope being that the residents can eventually comfortably navigate the wing without fear of encountering excessive reminders of their own suffering.  

“We’re going to start triaging,” he says to the medical team. “We have more volunteers ready if we need them, but I am concerned about overwhelming the residents with too much…” He gestures, and is met with nods and muted agreements. “Just, with too much.”

The residents are all, as of this moment, still locked in their rooms. Every doctor has already been assigned a caseload, the files sent out the day before, with each resident grouped first based on the severity of their need for medical attention, and second on their proximity to one another. The most severe cases get seen by the doctors first, with the nurses doing preliminary exams on the less severe cases and making modifications to the plan as needed. 

Lincoln expects four residents to require the most substantial medical support. The local hospital is prepared to provide aid in diagnostic testing, scans, or large scale inpatient procedures in the event that those needed, but all units are overwhelmed by the sudden influx of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of people who require care and are in the first wave of full release.

Triage first, he reminds himself. Each of them has four or five men total to see, and he watches as they make their own plans with the nurses on their team. 

Lincoln has one file and two patients. River London, a twenty-four year old man who has been in the system for three years and in Belleview for two of those, and “Felix,” whose file is uniquely absent. The handler told him that Felix had come to Belleview a year prior, and that he wasn’t sure if the handlers were ever told his real name, but if they were, no one remembered it. They estimated his age to be around twenty-two, and the information available was all from the past year. The DOH was working to trace his origins but, to Lincoln’s understanding, his file had been sealed when he was assigned to Belleview, and unsealing it was low in the list of priorities.

“I’m Philip,” the nurse who stands next to him says, holding out his hand. “Reed. I came down from Maryland, I’ve been working with the DoLS there to help organize and staff pop-up clinics in underdeveloped cities with heavy influxes of former workers for the last couple years.”

Lincoln nods and shakes his hand. “Lincoln Prescott,” he says. He doesn’t offer any details beyond that, although Philip’s expectant gaze lingers for a moment too long.

“Did you pick the short straw or volunteer for this?” he asks as Lincoln grabs the lone file from the table.

“A little of both, I guess,” Lincoln responds, flipping open River’s file.

The good news, he thinks, is that there are ample state of the art medical supplies littered throughout the unit already. All of the volunteers brought their own supplies as well, but there is a fully stocked pharmacy and most basic supplies already in house. The bad news is that he is not one hundred percent sure where the volunteers are at with sorting through everything, and if he has to wade through sixty years worth of whips, chains, shock collars, restraints, or whatever other torture devices live within these walls, he might have a nervous breakdown before he even gets started.

The volunteers disperse, the remaining extras assigned out to sorting deliveries and, hopefully, removing any obvious remnants of what this building used to stand for.

Lincoln closes his eyes and talks himself through what the next hour will look like. Minimally, he reassures himself, he has an amazing team and the residents are in good hands. They will be given food, blankets, phones or tablets, books. They will be treated with kindness. They did not ask for their help and he will likely be met with resistance, but it is a consequence of years or abuse, and his intent here is to help. There is a voice, soft but persistent in the back of his mind, that keeps him grounded in the reality that, at least on some level, he will be acting as a captor in a new kind of prison for these men.

If he is met with resistance, he reminds himself now, he will modify his course. He will act as a stepping stone toward freedom and that is all he can do right now. His job today, within the walls of the workers’ rooms, is straightforward. When he’s done talking himself down, he stands straighter, shoves the file into his bag, and makes way to 19-C.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

Belleview Taglist:

@pigeonwhumps @peachy-panic @whump-cravings @pirefyrelight @i-eat-worlds

@taterswhump @squishablesunbeam @inpainandsuffering @distinctlywhumpthing @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

[saetoru]

tee! tee! will rb!gojo and reader eventually move in together? I can't stop laughing at the thought of gojo struggling with basic household chores bc he grew up with maids and servants doing everything for him 😭💗

also, can I be 🍒anon if it's not taken already?

i would love for them to move in together so much but idk how dating a rich guy works in a split financial sense LMAO like he could easily afford for them to live in luxury apartments. but. i don’t think reader would like that very much bc they’d probably wanna pay a portion. but then idk if like they’d be able to afford 50/50 of rent for an apartment so expensive

but then it’s like ok maybe he has the rent covered and they cover food and bills and stuff bc that’s not exactly out of their budget is it. IDK i just like for it to be kind of respectful to the middle class (i am the middle class) bc honestly if i had a rich bf. as much as i joke i want a rich man to pay for everything. i would feel quite pathetic if i was just grocery shopping while he was paying rich ppl rent. so idk how to go about it yet if they do bc i mean c’mon. i think satoru would insist on the nice apartments. as much as he loves her lil student apartment and it’s tiny living room, once it’s in his control, i think he’d wanna spoil and reader would be all insistent and yeah. IDK I OVERTHINK IT A LOT

ANYWAYYYY in a more lighthearted sense. i think he for sure is horrified when he realizes he has to DO CHORES. like you come home to a sink full of dishes and u drag him by the ear in the middle of playing video games w suguru like “wash these damn dishes��� and he’s like :,) and then the first time he has to help clean a bathroom ??? JFJAJDJDN 💀💀💀 imagine him sobbing over having to clean a toilet. and ofc the classic laundry mess up of not separating the whites 💀 u have a lot of fun teasing him the first few weeks. but he finally learns basic life skills and sometimes he feels a bit more accomplished and he has u to thank

[momotonescreaming]

wrap it up baby i'm takin' you home

Rating: M | WC: 10k | Tommy/Steve/Carol Future Fic, Polyamory, Fade to Black

“Can we not have a serious conversation with your dick out?” Carol huffs, rolling her eyes, before turning to glare at Tommy where he’s leaning on the wall at the entrance to the living room of their and Steve’s apartment.

“No,” Tommy replies, completely naked, not making any move from his spot against the wall. He’s fresh from the shower, Carol can see, hair curling up just ever so slightly at the base of his neck. The rest of it slicked back with water, unstyled, dripping onto his shoulders and down his pecs. Sliding down his freckles like connect the dots. He sends droplets of water flying as he gestures with one hand. “Because this isn’t a serious conversation. We’ve talked about it before, and we’ve got it fucking sorted.”

Carol sighs again, looking up at the ceiling, decidedly not looking at Tommy. At his skin, damp and glistening from the shower. The breadth of his shoulders, his pecs, the lines of his torso — drawing the eye down along his happy trail. His cock, thick and pretty, nestled in tidy dark pubes. Pale thighs, dusted with hair, and with freckles. He’s unashamed, in the safety of their apartment, where the only people around to look are the people he wants looking.

“You mean I’m the one sorting it.” She feels the paper of her notebook crumple slightly in her hands, the plastic of her pen creak where she’s gripping it tightly. Looking over at Tommy, glaring, she tries to let the tension ease off her shoulders. It doesn’t quite work, but she lowers them so she’s not wound quite so tight with them right up by her ears.

Tommy’s so blasé about these things, and it’s both refreshing and stressing her out. His gaze is soft, his eyes warm, as he watches her from his spot on the wall. No trace of humour, of jokes, of teasing. There’s no one around for him to perform for. To put on the act for. It’s just her, and him, and Steve.

“I mean,” Tommy says, pushing off the wall and stepping towards her. He doesn’t have to go far, their apartment is tiny — before he’s right in front of her. “We’ve got it fucking sorted. They’re gonna ring you back, they’re gonna give you the job, and you’re gonna be the best assistant events coordinator Chicago has ever seen.”

“He’s right, you know.” Steve interrupts, voice echoing through the hall of their apartment as he appears behind Tommy. Slides a hand around his waist, thick, tanned, and a steady weight as he gently rests it there. Hooks his chin over Tommy’s shoulder, not caring about the dripping water. He’s wearing blue jeans, fitting tight around his hips, and one of Tommy’s stretched out muscle tees. They’re probably getting damp too, but he doesn’t look like he minds. “Plus, we have enough to cover the next few weeks while we wait to hear back. You should know, you helped Tommy do our budget.”

She did, is the thing. Help Tommy do their budget for the next three weeks. Counted up their savings, Tommy’s income from his new office job, bills, groceries, and gas. Figured it all out so they had enough to get them through. It’d be better if she got the job, at this fancy event company she had been eyeing up. It was a job she thinks she could genuinely like, plus it would provide a nice buffer to help Steve figure out exactly what he wanted to do. Where he wanted to go from here.

They did the budget without him, he’d stress himself out and offer to get another shitty minimum wage job to help out. Which was sweet, and Carol knew how much he loved working with Robin, but no. He was theirs, and he wasn’t working in some shithole if she could help it. And Carol could help it, so she planned. Used her bitchy powers for good, or whatever.

“So put down your notebook,” Tommy starts, plucking it from her hands, and Carol hates that her first thought is that he’s going to get the pages all wet. Smudge her neatly organised notes. He grabs the pen next, clicks it, and tosses them both aside onto the nearby coffee table. Watches it land on the newspaper, next to the remote and a pile of her old management textbooks she had gotten out. Guess she’s not using those anymore. Sighs, and draws her eyes up the length of Tommy’s body, the way Steve’s pressed in close behind him, and lets herself look. “We’ve got this. Right, Babe?”

“Fine.” Carol huffs, conceding to Tommy’s point, while still not sure if she wants to be doing so. She can’t just sit here and wait for their lives to slowly spiral out when there’s something she could be doing. Their budget will only last so long, and that doesn’t include whatever bullshit life decides to throw their way. Because something will be thrown their way. A car that needs repairing, a rent increase, a trip to the hospital — something that will throw Carol’s plan completely out. But Tommy and Steve are here, and they’re calm, and they believe in her. “Whatever. I guess.”

“You’re just stressing yourself out,” Steve says, tilting his head as he speaks, leaning towards Tommy. Hair brushing up against Tommy’s wet strands. “Plus, I doubt they’re gonna call you until their office opens on Monday.”

“So there’s nothing you can do but fucking relax.” Tommy adds on.

[Read the whole thing on AO3]

[deleteddewewted]

Super Market Romance

Modern! Titus x Gn! Reader

S: Titus is a retired veteran who suffers from mental and physical disabilities. He’s stricken with social anxiety and depression to the point he only leaves home to shop for groceries. On one of this trips he meets you. This begins a series of encounters that create an unlikely relationship between the two of you.

W: PTSD episodes, Depression, Anxiety Disorders, Reader is a broke Artist, Titus works as an Analyst for a company, Ableist comments (From Titus and to Titus)

He huddled up in his room, his alarm blaring for what felt like hours even after he woke up. He couldn't sleep and he refused to clock into work unless the nausea he felt dissipated. He could feel tears well into the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill over if he so much as inhaled deeply. He got up anyway, his right leg aching as he did. He grabbed his cane and made his way to his bathroom, hobbling slowly to his sink and flipping the light switch. Light washed over him. He looked pale and sick. He was sick but he didn't want to acknowledge it. He made quick business of washing his face and brushing his teeth. His leg began to act up and he had to give himself a moment to compose himself before leaving his tiny bathroom.

He made a quick breakfast, eggs with sausage and beans. He was going to grab his instant coffee from his pantry when he noticed the container was empty. He cursed under his breath and began shoveling his food down his throat before making his way to his bedroom. He clocked into work and began getting dressed. He had no meetings or urgent assignments so he left his apartment to buy his favorite coffee and other things he needed. It would be quick, he already knew where everything was at so there was no reason to take long.

He walked out of his apartment, heading to his car in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that accentuated his body. He threw his car door open, throwing his cane into the back seat before he sat into the drivers seat and buckled himself in. He gave himself a moment, the feeling of pedals under his feet and the steering wheel in his hands brought back memories that he would rather forget. He turned the ignition on and made his way to the supermarket closest to his home.

When he arrived, he made sure to park as far away from the entrance as possible. He had a tag that would let him park in the handicapped spots but he refused to use it. Part of him knew he was just sabotaging himself but the other part of him, the one that was too prideful, wouldn't let him have it "easy". He made his way to the front of the store and grabbed a shopping cart. He started with the produce as he needed more tomatoes for a recipe he was thinking of making. He made his way down the aisles, doing his best to ignore other shoppers as he didn't want to make conversation or eye contact.

He always felt alien outside of his home. He knows his features arent pleasant and he does his best to hide as much as he can considering he tends to tower over the average person. His hairline scar, the scar on his cheek, on his nose, the one on his mouth. He knows he isn't winning any beauty contests soon and it irritated him just how unnatural he looked. He wished there was a cure all for his issues. Maybe then he wouldn't feel like shit in the mornings or when he went to bed.

As he made it down the coffee isle, he realized that he wasn't the only one looking for something in the isle. There, one the instant coffee section, was you. You were looking in the bottom shelf to see what cheap coffee would be good enough to drink but also fit in your budget. You were willing and happy to sacrifice taste if it meant it had enough caffeine to get you through the next month.

Titus watched as you looked at the limited options, hoping you’d move soon but that didn’t happen. He sucked it up and walked over hoping you’d move soon were to engrossed in coffee to pay him attention. He looked for his usual go too, a medium roast that wasn’t too heavy on his stomach. He grabbed it, thinking about getting another bag so he wouldn’t have to repeat this trip anytime soon. As he did, you jutted up, pumping into his arm with your head.

“Ouch, sorry, sorry.” You apologized. You got excited when you noticed one of the items had a sale and grabbed it without looking if someone else was near you.

“It’s alright.” He murmured. You rubbed your head and looked up at the man before going wide eyed.

He knew that look already. You were scared and uncomfortable. Everyone looked at him that way. His scars were ugly and they made him look deformed. He averted his gaze from your own and grabbed his items ready to leave but you spoke.

“Cool scars, man.” It wasn’t in exclamation like some people would say it, nor was it in the fake awe some people would do. It was a comment. Just a comment. Like the scars weren’t ugly and contrasted on his skin. Titus blinked to himself before turning around again and starring at you but you were gone. That was his first time ever meeting you.

The next time he saw you was a few weeks after. You were rummaging in your pockets for something all while debating if you should grab ice cream. He only wanted to grab some of the frozen meals he usually got when he was too lazy to cook so he walked past you to grab it. You had noticed him but didn’t acknowledge him. You thought you had made him uncomfortable with the comment you made last time about his appearance. You scanned the shelf seeing if anything looked good but nothing interested you. You turned, heading to the front of the store when Titus noticed you walking away. He wasn’t someone to do impulsive decisions nor was he the type to try and socialize, but your oddly friendly demeanor had interested him.

He grabbed two of the ice cream he liked and hastily walked over to the self checkout counter. He scanned his items quickly, eyeing if you had left the parking lot. Once the receipt printed he all but ran over to you. You were waiting at a bus stop with one of your earbuds out in. You couldn’t hear much of anything but you were surprised when the sun was completely blocked out by the hulking figure in front of you. A small oce cream container as presented to you by the man you had briefly seen in the store.

“I… I wanted…. I got this for you.” Titus panted. His leg was killing him and the muscles felt like they were on fire. He tried to make his discomfort obvious but he’s sure he’s wincing.

You accepted the container and thank him. It was bizarre but a welcoming surprise to say the least. Free ice cream was always a good thing.

“Thank you, stranger.” You watched as he left back towards the parking lot noticing a slight limp present in his walk.

You wondered why he had bothered to gift you the container. It wasn’t like you’ve been particularly welcoming or nice to him.

As you contemplated the reasons why he would do this, your bus arrives and you get on without glancing back to look for the stranger. You made yourself comfortable in the back seat and internally cheered at the fact you had a sweet treat to indulge in after work. Maybe you should be nicer to more strangers.

[queer-geordie-nerd]

"The other photo on my wall is a black and white portrait of Andreas giving a military salute. In the photo he’s already bald from chemotherapy. Bald and intensely alive. Another old warrior, just like my father. Eccentric, wildly talented, deeply spiritual, Andreas had the ability to lift you to a whole different dimension when you were lucky enough to be in a scene with him. Any scene, even the most ordinary, the most insignificant one. (He would probably protest and say that “insignificant” scenes don’t exist if you’re a truly serious actor.)

Under all the latex, he was the most human of us all. You had a feeling that he could get away with any choice, even the most outrageous one. He was that free. He was that brave. I remember a scene we had one day on B5. As I was learning my lines at home, I didn’t think much of the scene. I saw it as an exposition scene, with lots of words and not much emotion. In the scene, the following question is discussed: is it justified to sacrifice a certain number of people (and aliens of course – we were on B5!) to save an even bigger amount of people (and aliens)? To me the scene seemed like a dry, philosophical, purely theoretical discussion between our characters. I was looking forward to working with The Master but wished for a more emotional scene. Oh well, I thought, even this was better than nothing.

So I come to the set, all made up. I sit in a chair. And there, facing me, is the big lizard G’Kar, looking at me. I say my first line and look into Andreas’s red eyes. Before answering me, he pauses. I see his chin trembling. I see a tiny tear appear in the corner of his eye. And, suddenly, I am moved beyond words. And, suddenly, I too feel a tear in my own eye. And, suddenly, the scene becomes a completely different scene from the one I had envisioned at home. The dialogue suddenly becomes deeply personal. The words don’t matter any more (or, more precisely, they suddenly start to truly matter, having been illuminated by the personal stake invested into them).

What Andreas brings to those words is his whole being, his whole human experience, all his pain and sadness. And, suddenly, we soar. And I am lifted to another realm. And while this is happening, I’m aware, somewhere in the corner of my mind, that I’m privileged to take part in a master class in acting which starts with one of the most important lessons: no scene can ever be dismissed as insignificant. Even if it is, an actor’s job is to make it personal. The job is nothing more (and nothing less) than to make EVERYTHING personal. Only then the words start to matter and the scene has a chance to come alive. I thank Andreas in my mind, grateful for that unexpected moment we all live for.

But Andreas is also deeply introspective and insecure. When I call him one day after the show had ended and ask him how he is, he says: “I’m mourning the death of my career.” He also says: “I’m just a mediocre actor. That’s not enough to ‘make it.’ The world needs exceptional actors, not someone like me.” (And I’m thinking: if you’re mediocre, where do I belong?) His insecurity is endearing to me and just proves that the best people are modest and humble. It also proves something I’ve been aware of for a long time: only fools are perfectly self-confident. Doubt, especially self-doubt, is a part of wisdom. A part of being human.

He comes to dinner to our house and brings a Greek desert he has made himself. He gives me the recipe. I have kept it on my fridge ever since. He collects coupons from the papers and uses them for grocery shopping. He has a weekly budget he sticks to, no matter what. He tells me he wants to collect a million dollars in his bank account before he dies. “Does it have to be a straight million?” I ask, laughing. “Yes, it has to be a round number,” he answers, dead serious.

I propose to Peter and Andreas that we do my beloved play, the one that I never had a chance to do: Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal.” In my mind it would be a dream job with a dream cast in a dream play. Peter is somewhat game but Andreas says he’s “burnt out” theater-wise. He says (and he’s right) that theater requires a different kind of readiness, a different kind of stamina, a different kind of mental and physical form. “We’ve all lost it. Since we’re not doing it any more,” he says and gets me worried. Would I ever be able to do theater again?

Billy comes up with the idea of doing a record. We all contribute two songs. It’s a lot of fun. Andreas says he can’t sing but Billy is persuasive enough and Andreas finally agrees to do it. Although he’s not a singer and is off key most of the time, he steals the record with his absolute honesty and his genuine feeling, capturing the very essence of blues.

And then he gets sick. We go to his house and read the Tibetan Book of the Dead, according to his wishes. He had found love by the end of his life. His wife put together a short film with clips from his performances. We watch the breathtakingly handsome young Andreas in a hot, sexy scene on some Greek island with the most famous model of the seventies, Verushka. We all laugh and Andreas laughs the most. We watch him do theater somewhere in Africa with the great master, Peter Brook. We don’t want to let him go. And when he dies, his wife invites us to sit with him and help him “make the transition,” as is the Buddhist way. G. and I sit there for half an hour. He looks like the Greek god that he is. He’s majestic. He’s like a sculpture. His body is cold and peaceful and so beautiful, so absolutely perfect. And death seems natural and not scary at all. Farewell, dear, sweet, talented man! We were lucky to know you.

My friends are with me all the time, alive or dead. After a while it doesn’t matter anymore. Sometimes the dead ones seem more alive than the living. Maybe it’s my nature. Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s just how it is."

- Mira Furlan, Love Me More Than Anything In the World

[cabezadeperro]

Codex + 69 heh heh (watch this be the most emotionally damaging song on your playlist kfjsjhfks)

hi friend!! you were right!!!!!!!!

the song was........... first time by hozier.

post order 66, established relationship, memory issues related to the chip. not a fix it.

Some part of me must have died The first time that you called me baby And some part of me came alive The first time that you called me baby

---

Budgeting was never something Rex thought he’d have to learn. He resettles the strap of the bag around his shoulder and pauses outside the shop, squinting against the bright noon sun to check his list one last time. 

One shop left, and then he can go home. Rex folds the flimsi sheet in two and returns it to his jacket pocket. The street’s quiet, the wind that blows in from the sea leaving the taste of brine on the back of Rex’s mouth. Rex stuffs cold hands in his pocket, and his right plays with the remaining credit chit, with his list, the calluses on his fingers catching on the edges of both. 

He never thought he’d have to learn how to budget for food, for clothes, or learn how and where to shop. It’s become part of his routine: every time he moves to a different world, if he knows he’s going to stay for longer than a couple weeks, he—plans. He makes a list.

Half an hour later, he’s making his way back to the small apartment he’s been sharing with Cody. It's on the top floor of a narrow old building with rickety stairs and a leaky roof, and Cody spent the very first night they spent there watching the street through the big window in the living room, leaving the bed right after he thought Rex had fallen asleep. 

It’s one of those things Rex has had to learn to plan around, very much like budgeting. Sometimes Cody doesn’t sleep.

And sometimes he—forgets.

It’s the chip. It must be: he had it so much longer than Rex ever did.

That morning, Rex leaves for the shops very early and returns when it’s almost noon. He knocks on the door of their tiny rented apartment and then unlocks the door with his copy of the keys. Shoes off, keys on the hook by the door, and then to the kitchen. He’s almost done putting away the groceries when it dawns on him how quiet and how empty the flat feels, and then—then.

Rex breathes in and out. Deeply. Slowly. He pushes away the fear, the awful, freezing panic, and makes his way into the bedroom. 

The bed is empty, the sheets a mess. He left Cody working in bed, half-naked and his datapad in his lap, mug with caf slowly cooling on the cluttered bedside table on his side. The datapad and the mug and his underwear are still there, somehow sharing the pillow. Rex snorts, something very like relief blooming in his chest. He reaches for the mug and leaves it back on the table, right over the crusty, sticky caf rings already there.

(Something else he’s had to learn to get used to: Cody’s awful, ever-growing mess. He hates that one much less than he once thought.)

That leaves the fresher. Rex sighs and knocks once before opening the door.

He can’t see anything at first: a cloud of heat and damp hits him in the face, and he blinks. Half-blinded. Then he first makes out the silhouette of the toilet, the sink; and then he sees Cody.

He’s sitting on the shower floor, naked and still wet, his back against the tiled wall and his arms wrapped around his bent knees. He’s watching Rex with his lips pressed tight, a flush high up on his cheekbones that might be shame or just the heat.

Rex closes the door at his back and clears his throat. 

“I found that brand of caf you like,” he says, feeling half-way between ridiculous and terrified. “It was on sale.”

Cody blinks. He looks away and scoffs. He rubs his face against his bicep and doesn’t stop Rex when he crosses the bathroom and steps into the shower to sit at his side. The water’s off, must have been for a while, but the off-white porcelain is slick and wet and still warm. Rex makes a face when his now soaked shirt sticks to his back but doesn’t move away.

“I’m fine,” Cody says. His shoulder’s touching Rex’s—they’re not big men, but the shower’s pretty small—but he’s not quite leaning away, the muscle tense and quivering slightly. Rex wants to reach out, to wrap his arm around Cody’s shoulders: he doesn’t. “I was just showering and—”

And he forgot. And it went away. And then it all came back, but it wasn’t the same. Rex looks down at his own feet and not for the first time wonders at all those months where he just… did nothing. Didn’t look. Didn’t try to find him.

“I’m fine,” Cody says again. He’s beginning to sound angry—that means he was—is—scared. 

Rex sighs. He gives in and throws his arm around Cody’s shoulders. Cody stiffens, and for a few long seconds Rex is so sure he’s about to move away. 

And then he doesn’t. He shifts closer, tucks his damp face into Rex’s neck, his lips brushing his throat and his hair wetting Rex’s shirt.

“Every time you leave I am so sure it’s going to be the last time,” he mumbles. Rex closes his eyes and buries his nose in Cody’s hair. They share the same shampoo—it’s a pretty cheap brand, but Rex has learned to love the way it smells on Cody’s hair, on his skin.

“Then I won’t,” Rex says. Cody snorts.

“You’re such a shit liar,” he replies, voice thick. Rex feels him swallow: he closes his eyes. He waits for the question: he has now learned to prepare for it. “You are Rex. Right?”

Rex wonders if someday he’ll learn how to stop his heart from breaking every single time.

“Yeah. Yes, Cody. I am.”

[redsamuraiii]

Tsuburaya Eiji, the Father of Tokusatsu

Eiji Tsuburaya made it possible for Godzilla to stomp across the screen and later on, Ultraman. A director, cinematographer, and producer, Tsuburaya is best known for creating the special effects behind Japanese classics like Godzilla and other giant monsters called kaiju.

And his legacy extends beyond those monsters — he built a foundation for film culture in Japan and special effects worldwide.

Before World War II

Tsuburaya grew up in Sukagawa, Iwase, a son of a prominent family of grocery distributors. A prodigy from a young age, as a kid he was interviewed about his model airplanes and credited in local newspapers as a "child craftsman." Shortly thereafter, he was captivated by a new technology called motion pictures — and he combined his two passions by taking pictures of planes.

But it was 1933's King Kong that led to his greatest professional epiphany. King Kong's giant title character and phenomenal special effects opened up a new world of possibilities for Tsuburaya. By studying a copy of the film, Tsuburaya managed to reverse engineer how the effects were made. Then he was ready to begin creating his own legacy.

Being a film revolutionary wasn't easy with his early battles over budget and setup, but when a new company called Toho Motion Picture Company was founded in 1936, Tsuburaya jumped on board to lead the special effects department.

After World War II

After being drafted to work on propaganda films in World War II and experiencing the napalm bombing of Tokyo, he returned to work at Toho after the end of US occupation in 1952, keeping a low profile because the US believed he'd committed espionage.

It was in that climate that producer Tomoyuki Tanaka was artistically inspired by the fallout of a US hydrogen bomb test in the Marshall Islands. The real story of a radiation-poisoned fishing crew inspired him to pitch a monster movie to Tsuburaya and Toho. After some creative wrangling, Godzilla was born.

For Godzilla, Tsuburaya made the bold choice to use miniatures and visual effects instead of stop-motion animation, which was a more obvious alternative. The idea to put an actor in a monster costume was going to be executed as never before, and with it a legendary monster was born.

Though Godzilla was the product of a large team, it came alive because of Tsuburaya's use of models, special photography, and inimitable costumes.

Godzilla was a tough shoot. Actors were stuffed into a costume that was, at its lightest, 220 pounds. They breathed in kerosene from the fumes of a tiny "Tokyo" model burning beneath them, and actor Haruo Nakajima says he lost 20 pounds in the production because the costume was so physically strenuous.

The film was a financial risk, as well — it became the most expensive Japanese movie made up to that time. But Godzilla was a hit, and it kicked off "monster mania." Film by film, these movies created a kaiju iconography that shaped an entire film industry's sensibility — and built a legacy for Tsuburaya.

Tsuburaya's professional and creative successes continued through the 1960s, as he innovated with more intricate models and formed his own company, Tsuburaya Visual Effects Productions, in 1963 where he created what kaiju superfans consider his landmark work, like Ultra Q and Ultraman in 1966. 

Today

Though Tsuburaya died in 1970, his creations remain embedded in the culture today. Even to those who aren't fans of Tsuburaya's distinctive style, his aesthetic, effects, and ethos permeate movies today. 

There are obvious influences, like the many Godzilla remakes and the kaiju fan letter that is 2013's Pacific Rim. Without Godzilla, there is no Ultraman. And without Ultraman, there is no Super Sentai (Power Rangers) and so on.

Tsuburaya's influence can also be seen in every disaster movie's audacious carnage and ever-more-adventurous willingness to push boundaries using special effects.

That's probably why we still thrill to learn about the man who made all those monster suits really roar. Because even now, more than 50 years later, it's as exciting, outrageous, and thrilling as when Godzilla first hit the screen.

Thank You Tsuburaya Eiji for making our childhood a memorable one and our adulthood an awesome one!

Pics by Ultraman NFT & Vox Full Story : Eiji Tsuburaya made Godzilla and it changed film forever Follow Ultraman NFT & August Ragone if you’re a Tokusatsu fan!

[goldkirk]

goals for today:

catch up on dms on at least Discord

write at least a few sentences in letters to friends

Eat at least six tiny meals and write grocery list

Budgeting and finances

Air out the whole apartment

Carry three or four boxes to the storage unit

Don’t make pain worse

Drink an extra bottle of water to counter the storage unit carrying and stairs

Play some video games

Crochet another square

Fill out notebook pages for the day

Organize closet more

Clean up the apartment for ten minutes

Empty the dishwasher

Read any book for five minutes

Walk to the grocery store if my hip doesn’t hurt much later and my POTS margin of error isn’t tapped out for the day

Snuggle and play with the dog

Hang out with the cat

Submit timesheet

Maybe cook tomatoes and spaghetti for dinner

Take one batch of broken down boxes out to the recycling dumpster

Take trash bag down to the trash compactor

Brush my teeth twice

Consolidate boxes in the pantry-cabinets

Move my yarn into a bag that closes instead of a tote bag that’s open to dust and cats

Reply to one tumblr ask

Reply to one text message

Reply to one tumblr DM

Reply to one ao3 comment

Wipe down the windowsill that I never cleaned after last year’s warm months

Five minutes of balancing practice on the wobble board

Five minutes of PT exercises

Ten minutes of calisthenics work

Five minutes cleaning up my scattered jackets and other laundry

[whentherewerebicycles]

good morning! I felt pretty lousy all week but I feel so much better now—I think in retrospect I was bracing myself for something going wrong with the ultrasounds and delaying me another month. but I did the IUI yesterday and everything went well. I always feel most at peace right after the IUI because the timing is now out of my hands but I’m also still far enough from testing that I don’t feel too much anxiety about it. I’ve tentatively decided I won’t test at two weeks but will just wait for my period to come or not come. I am going to try not to calendar watch—luckily my days are a lot busier now that liz is here, school is starting, and I’m doing choir and voice lessons, so I hope the time won’t drag as much as it did last winter/spring. I’m also going to try to eat really well and will make it a fun meal planning game.

here are my goals for the next two weeks:

walk for 45-60 minutes every day (I’ve been slipping a little as things have gotten busier but I want to carve out time for it again esp while the weather is still so gorgeous)

no (or minimal) processed sugar

eat leafy dark greens every day—the easiest way to do this is to sauté big handfuls of frozen spinach with garlic and red pepper flakes and eat it as a little snack. so I will do that (but will also try to incorporate greens into my cooking).

try making beetroot juice lol apparently it’s very good for implantation in IVF cycles so might as well try it

really focus on whole food plant-based eating (although I am also eating eggs and full-fat dairy at the moment so not vegan)

don’t snack at work—people are always bringing in candy or pizza or treats which is nice but I can really mindlessly graze if it’s easily accessible. I’ll try chewing gum and/or making tea instead

hmm ok what else what else. choir was fine and then I had a great voice lesson yesterday. my teacher is a little eccentric but what person in a music career isn’t lol. she focuses a lot on helping you understand and manipulate the actual bodily mechanics of singing/sound production and I’m finding it really fascinating, so much so that it might be my next research rabbithole. I feel like she’s also good at identifying places where I’ve formed a very fixed rigid idea about what my voice “is” or is capable of doing, then creating exercises that get me to do the thing I thought I couldn’t without realizing I’m doing it. I think what I like most about the bodily-mechanics approach is that it does away with the idea that good singing is just a thing some people can naturally do and others can’t. it’s much closer to being an athlete! you have to strengthen and condition certain tiny muscles, and then through carefully scaffolded drills you develop a fine-grained ability to manipulate certain muscles and ligaments to produce different effects, and you have to be careful about using good technique when you train and perform (because like in sports, people develop bad habits to compensate for real or perceived weaknesses, which can put them at higher risk for injury). I sang for almost two decades and had 10+ years of formal vocal training as a kid/teen and I don’t know if anyone ever presented it to me in that way… or maybe they did but it didn’t click for me back then because I hadn’t yet done all of this reading and thinking about how people learn/improve/gain expertise in their chosen skills or fields. anyway I was originally thinking I’d just do a handful of voice lessons to help me feel more confident in choir but my interest is PIQUED you know my intellect is ENGAGED I think I might want to add weekly voice lessons to my budget. and I want to read everything out there on the subject lol. there is no greater joy for me than working in a focused way on improving at a skill.

okay and now let’s think about the day… here are some things I want to get done:

order peel and stick wallpaper (I am trying to figure out how to fix

plan meals

grocery shop

put laundry away

do old navy + everlane returns

swing by home depot to pick up soil, two paintbrushes, and paint (bring swatches to color match)

hourlong walk maybe on the paved trail

hammock reading in the park??

[ankidel]

How to stay motivated with delayed salary?

Staying motivated at work in today's fast-paced environment can be difficult, and when faced with the extra stress of a delayed salary, it becomes even more difficult. Dealing with financial uncertainty can have a negative impact on your mental and emotional health. However, it is critical to remember that difficult periods pass and that with the correct mindset and tactics, you can continue and stay inspired.

1. Communicate and Seek Clarity

The first step in dealing with a delayed salary is to discuss it honestly with your employer or HR department. Seek clarification on the reasons for the delay as well as any potential solutions. Understanding the problem might help you feel less anxious and make more educated decisions.

2. Create a Budget and Prioritize Expenses

Create a budget to manage your finances while you wait for your salary. Prioritise necessities like rent, utilities, and groceries, and limit discretionary spending until your paycheck arrives. Keeping your finances organised can alleviate stress and give you a sense of control over the situation.

3. Focus on Personal Development

Make the most of this difficult time for personal growth. Spend time acquiring new skills, taking online classes, or pursuing interests that could lead to future possibilities or job advancement. Self-improvement can keep you motivated and prepare you for better opportunities.

4. Lean on Support Systems

During this difficult time, seek help from family, friends, or coworkers. Sharing your feelings and experiences can be cathartic and lead to useful advice or assistance. Remember that you are not alone in enduring financial difficulties, and a good support system can make a big difference.

5. Set Realistic Goals

Setting realistic short-term goals might help you maintain focus and motivation when you are under financial stress. Celebrate tiny victories along the way, even if they are unrelated to your delayed income. This sensation of accomplishment might keep you motivated.

6. Stay Positive and Practice Gratitude

Maintain a cheerful attitude by practising thankfulness on a daily basis. Consider your blessings, such as your health, connections, and possibilities. Cultivating a positive mindset can help you build resilience and navigate difficult moments with grace.

A delayed salary can be a difficult task, but it does not have to damper your motivation. You may weather this storm and emerge stronger by talking freely, budgeting sensibly, investing in personal growth, and relying on support systems. To keep your motivation and mental health, remember to establish reasonable goals, stay happy, and practise thankfulness. Financial problems are just temporary, and with determination and tenacity, you will overcome this obstacle and succeed in your personal and professional life.

[crystalbabymoon]

Little tricks that I am learning:

1. Eat half of some but count the calories for all of it. Ex: in the morning eat half of a 180 cal Granola bar. Log all the calories into your apps and later if you get desperate you still have that other half to eat without going over your cal budget.

2. Keep a case of water in your room. It's closer to you than the kitchens junk.

3. Keep things like rice cakes, in your room. They are closer to you than that pizza in the freezer. Go half on that also. *if this is too hard, keep it in a lock box, you'll have to work to get it*

4. Set a "don't eat after" time. Mine is 7pm but I may change it to 5pm.

5. Order grocery pick up so you don't walk around the food side of the store.

6. Wait until your stomach is growling, then wait some more. Drink some water, you can hold out a little longer.

7. STICK TO YOUR CAL BUDGET! I can only imagine what goal I'd be at right now if I just stuck to it.

8. Buy tiny bowls and plates, they'll look full.

9. Eat infront of a mirror

10. Chew slowly; being full is a set up.

Feel free too add more tips!