#and now THIS LITTLE FUCKER OF A PLASTIC BOTTLE

[gayforcarstairsgirls]

Now you may be wondering, "Ivy, why are you posting a photo of a half empty bottle of cleaning liquid?"

Well! That's a fun story! Because you see! This bottle was supposed to be full, but instead it leaked on all of my other shopping and rendered some of it unusable/inedible! And I have spent the last hour cleaning all the bottles and cans and packages that were in the same box as this stuff, and then cleaning my floor! And let me tell you! Purple cleaning fluid! Is very sticky! And I! Am at! The end! Of! My! Rope! :DDDD

[moonlightndaydreams]

A Friend in Need

You’ve finally had enough of your cheating bf and want to forget about him. Your friend Minho is more than happy to help you do just that.

Pairing: soft dom Lee Minho x fem reader

Trope: friends to Fwb?

Read time: 12 minutes approx.

MDNI // CW under the cut.

CW: alcohol, masturbation, fingering, blow job, cum swallowing, face riding, unprotected sex, choking, cream pie, soft dom /sub. Slight body insecurity.

🍷🍷🍷🍷

“So are you sitting on my face or am I fucking you over a table?” Minho grinned as you opened your front door greeted him. “I’ve got wine, condoms, and…” he looked in the plastic bag he was holding, “batteries for your toys. As requested.”

“Let’s start with the wine, I think.” You took the wine from him and made your way to your couch where you had two wine glasses waiting amongst a mountain of scrunched up tissues.

“Start with the wine?” Minho questioned. “I thought I was just picking up a few things you needed. Oh Shit!” Minho whistled, stopping still when he saw the state of your coffee table. “What did the fucker do this time to make you need an entire box of tissues?” He plopped down on the couch beside you.

“Oh, Minho!!!! I caught him fucking cheating on me. Again! In our fucking bed this time!!!!”

Minho blew out a breath taking the wine bottle back off you and immediately filling the glasses with the red then handing one to you.

“I’m so angry, Minho. I hate him! How could he?”

Minho wasn’t the least bit surprised. He knew you were dating a jerk. This was, Minho added it up in his head, the fifth time your boyfriend had cheated on you. This year. And he was pissed. Cunt. He thought to himself.

“Are you okay?” Minho asked softly, hiding the anger building in his chest.

You sat silently for a moment, deep in thought.

“I want to take you up on that offer.” You said bluntly. Minho was taken by surprise, sitting upright and stared at you blankly.

“If the offer still stands, that is. If the offer was real.” You added suddenly sounding unsure whether he was ever serious to begin with.

Every time your boyfriend would cheat on you, you’d confide in your long time friend Minho, and he would always offer to help you “forget that fucker’s name” by making “you cum so hard you’d never want to go back to him”. You’d always brushed it off as a joke. But when you came home yesterday to find your boyfriend in your shared bed, well, you were beyond livid. It was the last straw and you kicked him, and his little whore, out of your apartment. For good.

Now you needed to get your anger out of your system and forget the asshole even existed. That’s where Minho and his offer came in.

Minho examined your face and nodded slowly. “Okay,” he smirked. “So your shopping list was for tonight then?” He grinned. “Right. Operation Forget Your Ex. I’m down.” He said sipping the wine.

Your eyes widened. “Really? You’d help me do that? You’re not shitting me?”

Minho nearly spat out his drink he was so excited, although the circumstances weren’t ideal. But he played it cool, and boy was he far from shitting you. He’d been dying to show you how good fucking could feel. From what you’d told him, your boyfriend, no - ex-boyfriend now, barely even brought you to orgasm. It was an absolute shame. You deserved all the orgasms in the world. Tonight Minho planned to start by giving you at least three.

“Well, kitten, we’ll have to lay down some ground rules. Boundaries. Safe words and such.”

“Tentacles.” You piped up.

“What?”

“My safe word. Tentacles.”

“Riiiiight. Tentacles. Why tent- never mind.” He shook his head. “Do you want to be in charge or leave it to me?”

“What do you prefer?”

“I like to be in charge.”

“Okay, you’re in charge.”

“What’s your pain threshold? Do you enjoy spanking? Degradation? Praise?” he raised an eyebrow. “Any hard no’s?”

You stared at him like a deer in the headlights. "I-I'm not sure." you said, then gulped down the rest of your wine.

"Woah! Slow down, kitten." he lunged forward and took your glass from your trembling hands and placed it on the coffee table. Then he took your hands in his and held them tight.

"We don't have to do this. You know that right? I don't wanna take adva-"

"Please, Minho." You whimpered. "Please make me forget." You looked at him with soft eyes.

Minho suddenly felt nervous. He'd imagined fucking you plenty of times, and up until this moment he felt sure he'd have no problems in actually doing it. But now, faced with the reality of it, he was so fucking nervous.

But his dick throbbed, and you were the one asking, inviting him to do things to your body. He couldn't let his nerves get in the way and fuck up this chance.

He cupped your cheek and pulled you in for a soft kiss. The way you responded by moaning and parting your lips, was so tantalising that Minho couldn't help but deepen the kiss with a sense of urgency. You've got all night, he told himself. Don't rush this.

"So..." he peeled his lips off of yours. "do we need to replace any batteries for your toys?" he asked, reaching for the plastic bags.

You shook your head. "Just want you." you whispered.

Minho smirked at your admission. "I think we should take this to the bedroom so I can thoroughly fuck you." he said, taking your hand and picking up the box of condoms.

Minho tossed the condoms on the bed and pressed your back into your bedroom door. His hands caressed the sides of your waist before grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it up over your head. His fingers immediately found the clasp of your bra.

"Kitten?" he said low in your ear. "I'm not going to stop unless you say your safeword, or use the colour system. I need you to know that."

"Yes, I know." you moaned, as he squeezed your breast.

"I'm going to take your pants off now." he reached for the button on your jeans and locked eyes with you. Your arms came up to cover your bare torso.

"Kitten? Talk to me." he looked at you with concern.

"Minho. It's just that... the women you...um... normally hook up with are so glamorous."

Minho blinked rapidly. "Kitten, you're fucking perfect." he gently tugged you to stand in front of your full length mirror with him standing behind you. "Look at yourself." he whispered, pulling your arms down from your body so you couldn't hide.

You leaned back against his chest as he nibbled your neck. He undid your jeans, sliding them down your legs and helping you kick them off.

"You're the most gorgeous woman in the world." his hands explored your waist, stomach, hips. Then he took one of your hands in his and placed it on your stomach and making you caress yourself. He brought your hand up to cup your own breast, and then back down your body and between your legs over your panties.

"Feel how perfect you are." he said in a lustful tone. He pressed on your hand that was cupping your pussy. You whimpered and began to feel unsteady on your feet. You'd only had one wine.

"You're gonna take your panties off for me now." he said releasing his hands from yours. His hands moved back up your body, massaging your breast with one, the other splaying on your neck.

You slowly peeled your panties down, revealing your most intimate parts, and shimmying them off and flicking them to the side with your foot.

"Good girl. Now play with yourself." he squeezed your neck slightly causing you to lean your head back some more.

You felt so exposed standing fully naked in front of your mirror, leaning against a fully dressed Minho. Your friend.

Your eyes flicked up to him in the mirror. He was taking you in with dark eyes. Your core ached. His hardness was pressed into your back. Fuck!

"Touch yourself." he urged.

Your heart was pounding as you allowed your hands to explore your curves and soft skin. Your fingers found your pussy again and you parted your lips with your fingers. You groaned as you watched yourself. This was so erotic. So sensual.

"Are you wet kitten? Let me taste." he pulled your hand up to his mouth and sucked on your finger. "Fuck. Taste yourself." he swiped your fingers back through your folds and then into your mouth.

"I need to play with your pussy." He took a few steps back to sit on the edge of your bed and pulled you onto his lap. "Open your legs, that's it. Show me." He hung your legs over his thighs so you were open and on display in the mirror.

"Don't take your eyes off it." he said in a gruff tone.

Minho's fingers delved into your heat, inserting two all the way inside. He fucked you like this for several minutes before pulling them out and rubbing on your clit. Then he'd finger fuck you again, alternating between stretching you open and rubbing your sensitive bundle of nerves. You could feel your core tightening. Minho's fingers were magic as he played with your body.

The pretty sounds you were making had Minho straining in his pants. He wanted to sink his cock into you so fucking bad. But at the same time he wanted to take his sweet ass time. He wanted you to beg him to stop. He wanted you to be a whimpering mess.

By the fifth round of finger fucking you were clenching hard and soaking his hand as you came hard. Your chest was flushed as your breasts heaved. You looked so fucked out.

"Now, kitten." He said as calm as possible. "You're going to undress me now."

He watched you stand in front of him. He bit his lip as you fumbled taking his shirt off, your bare tits dangling in his face, and then his trousers, leaving him in just his boxers. "You've forgotten something." he quirked an eyebrow.

His cock visibly twitched when you dropped to your knees between his legs and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers.

You tried to not let Minho see how nervous you were as you came face to face with his cock. You wanted to show him how much you wanted him right now. You wanted to show him how beautiful, how sexy he was making you feel, despite how self conscious you were.

You took his glorious cock in your hand and experimented with licking the pre-cum from the tip. He was hard for you. He was leaking for you. "Aren't you going to boss me around, Minho?" you purred, looking up at him through hooded eyes.

"Choke on it, kitten." he said not breaking eye contact. "Show me how much you can take."

Minho could barely contain himself as you sunk your warm, wet mouth over his shaft. He truly believed he was going to cum there and then. Maybe he could, and then get it up again to fuck you? It'd be pretty easy to get hard again when you were driving him crazy like this.

"That's it, beautiful. Make those pretty noises around my cock. That's it. Deeper, baby. You can take it. I know you can." he started to thrust his hips up, making you gag as his cock hit the back of your throat.

It turned him on immensely hearing you struggle. Your hand found his and when you placed it on the back of your head, he knew you were made for him. He held your head in place as he fucked into your throat. He watched your ass in the mirror and imagined what you were going to feel like with your cunt wrapped around his cock. He came hard with a loud moan. Your lips were pressed against his pelvis and tears ran down your face as he spurted cum down your throat.

He was almost instantly hard again when you slid your mouth off and opened it up to see you'd swallowed every drop.

“Ride my face." He panted.

“Oh Minho.” You shook your head. “I don’t think—“

“Safeword? Are you going to use it? ‘Cos I fucking want to eat you out.” He wrapped his arms around your waist, bringing you in for a kiss. “Please…I can make you feel so good. I need you to ride my face.” He was practically begging you.

Minho didn’t know what was happening to him. He was always so in control when it came to sex. He’d never said ‘please’, he always instructed, demanded even. But this was you. You were different. You stirred something in his stomach, and made his heart beat faster.

“Okay, Minho. But I’ve… you know…never done this before.” Your face went red.

So that fucker never got you to ride his face? He wondered if he’d ever eaten you out. He quickly shoved thoughts of your ex out of his head and focused on what he was about to do. Make you cum all over his face.

“It’s okay kitten, I’ve got you.” He shuffled more onto the mattress and laid back. “All you need to do is straddle my face, and sit.”

He made it sound so simple. But to you nothing could make you feel more vulnerable than what you were about to do. But the way he sounded so desperate for you to do it made you want to please him. You climbed up onto the bed.

“Na uh. The other way. You need to be able to watch yourself.” He grinned.

You swallowed nervously, but did as instructed. You watched yourself hover inches away from Minho’s face.

“Fuck, I can see how fucking wet you are. Quick, sit.” He hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled you down on top of him.

You cried out as Minho’s mouth met your pussy. He ran his tongue through your lips then sucked your clit.

“Shit, Minho… it… fuck you feel good.” You choked. Minho chuckled against your cunt, sending shocks through your body.

Your eyes went to the mirror. Seeing your reflection of being eaten out by the man underneath you and how you could be suffocating him, turned you on more than you could’ve imagined. Could he breathe? The thought of him struggling for air made you gush. You started to rock your hips and grind against his face. He moaned against your core in approval.

Your orgasm was close, and when he slipped his tongue into your creamy hole, and you ground your pussy hard and fast on his face, you cried out loudly as you flew over the edge. Your thighs were physically shaking around Minho’s head from the intensity of the orgasm.

Minho didn’t even let you recover before he had you on your back, legs pinned up near your chest. He kissed you sloppily, smearing your wetness all over your mouth. It was the best thing Minho had ever experienced, having his face buried in your pussy while you fucking rubbed your slick all over him.

He gazed down at you. He knew he was weak for you, but he didn’t know he had it this bad.

“You going to fuck me now, Minho?” You looked up at him.

Minho nodded. “Yeah.” He whispered “Let me just find the cond—“

“Don’t you want to feel me, Minho? Nothing in the way.” You purred, pulling him in for another kiss. The length of his cock pressed against your sopping pussy.

“Just the tip?” You whispered. “Just for a second?” You begged.

Fuck! He groaned at the temptation.

“Kitten,” he said sternly. “If I put it in it won’t be just the tip.” He slid his entire cock into your heat. The stretch, the fullness, made you gasp.

“And,” he growled, “It won’t be just for a second.” He partially withdrew his cock and slammed back in. “It’ll be until you beg me to stop.” He hammered into you. “I’m going to fuck you until you have to use your safe word.”

You felt so good around Minho that he highly doubted he’d be able to follow through on such promises.

“I’m never gonna use my safe word, Minho.” You cried as he pounded into you. “Feels too good. You feel good, Minho… oh fuck…Minho!”

The way you were crying his name catapulted him towards his climax. He wasn’t going to last much longer.

“You want me to fuck you forever?” He panted.

“I want… I want…you to…”

“What is it kitten, anything.” He meant it. He wanted to give you everything you wanted.

“Ch-choke me while you fill me up.” You squeaked.

Without slowing down, Minho searched your eyes. You were serious.

Feeling Minho’s cock so deep in your cunt, stretching you do deliciously, had you on the brink of your third orgasm. But when his fingers wrapped around your neck and squeezed, it made your core clench harder than usual.

You’ve never let anyone do this to you before, never trusting anyone enough. You only ever fantasized about it, watched porn, or experimented on yourself. You never dared tell anyone, especially your ex.

Your vision became blurry as a lightheadedness took over you. You felt fuzzy, floaty, and then you felt yourself coming back, taking in deep breaths before he’d squeeze again. You were certain Minho had done this before, and so you succumbed, letting him take control of your body, letting him choke you and bring you back as many times as he wanted, without any fear that he’d go so far as to render you unconscious. You lost track of how many times he did it. Five, maybe six times?

“This time you have to cum for me.” You heard him say. “Then I can fill you up. I wanna fill you up so bad, kitten.”

His hand squeezed around one last time and you felt yourself come undone. You squeezed around Minho’s cock like a vice and felt him release inside you. You felt like your entire body was exploding, until Minho let go of your neck and held your close, brining all the shattered pieces back together.

“You did so good, kitten. You’re back now. Safe I’ve got you.” He soothed as you began to sob. You’d never experienced anything so intense, so powerful in your life.

You fell asleep almost straight away, and Minho cleaned you both up while you nodded off. Sweet fucking Jesus he wished he’d have been able to do this with you sooner.

He watched you, dead to the world, marvelling at what had unfolded.

“I fucking love you y/n. I hope you’ll have me a little more permanently and never think about that dick ex of yours again.” He whispered as he laid down beside you.

He didn’t know you’d heard him.

🍷🍷🍷🍷

@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @kangnina @weareapackofstrays @bethanysnow @newhope8 @itsseohannbin

[unknownarmageddon]

cross grunted as he heaved up a fallen shelf, shoving it the other way to reach the items beneath it. there wasn't much; just a few old candies and a spilt bottle of something sticky looking.

across the rundown convenience store, there was a faint crash as killer kicked in the door to the back rooms, a muted whoop whoop coming from him in muttered celebration.

cross peered over the empty shelves to squint at his companion as he disappeared into the storage rooms, that bat of his slung over his shoulder. humming shortly, cross ducked back down, poking about with the tip of his machete at the things on the floor.

he picked up a bag of old, old looking gummies, and shook the bag, before cramming it in his backpack and moving on. he flipped another shelf, and paused as a flash of bright red fluttered through the air.

for a moment, just a moment, he thought it was killer's soul, that maybe killer was coming back but--

a lush, but obviously fake rose sat a little crumpled on the floor. cross frowned at it, nudging the weirdly bright thing with the toe of his boot before crouching and picking it up.

it was in surprisingly good shape, the petals soft, somewhat faded with age, but mostly undamaged. the plastic stem was bent in the middle, crooked, and there was a broken piece that jutted out the side; probably where a leaf used to be.

cross twirled the thing between two fingers, spinning it contemplatively.

"yo, crossy! i found a box of fuckin' TWINKIES!"

he lifted his head, and an idea came to him. gingerly, wanting to preserve it, he slid the rose into his inner jacket pockets, and stood up, staring across the place; killer's cheerful grin and delighted expression beamed back at him, killer leaning out the doorway and holding up a box of pastries.

cross wove his way towards him, hyperaware of the slight feeling of the rose stem digging into his sternum through his shirt as he took the box, "nice."

killer grinned, winking, "we eatin' good tonight, pretty boy, huh?"

cross snorted and tucked the box under one of his arms, and took killer's hand, pulling him away from the door and tugging him over to the spot he'd cleared behind the check out counter.

"i call dibs on the shelf!!" killer blurted as soon as he saw the set up, and he slipped free of cross, vaulting over the counter to crawl into the shelf space under it, snickering to himself all the while, and cross shook his head, his chest warm with amusement and affection.

---

"man, i can't believe there was a hole thing of these fuckers sittin' untouched back there," killer said, his mouth full and fingers coated with the sugary sweet filling from the twinkies. he was gorging himself, already on his second one, and cross was chewing his own slowly, barely halfway through his.

"youre making a mess," cross muttered, and killer stuck his tongue out. cross winced at the glob of partially absorbed twinkie, making a face at the display and nudging killer with his arm, "dude, that's gross."

"i bet you'd still kiss me anyways."

cross didn't deign that with a response, simply sighing and grabbing at killer to clean his face. there was cream smeared over his teeth, and bizarrely, a dollop of it over his left eye. killer grinned smugly, making kissing noises and making cross scoff as cross tilted killer's head this way and that, using one of their extra strips of fabric to wipe off the mess.

he let go of killer afterwards, and tossed the now filthy rag aside, "be more careful."

killer pouted, knocking his skull into cross's shoulder, "awww, no kiss?"

"maybe if you stopped getting that stuff everywhere, i'd be more inclined."

"...so if i-"

"stop talking with your mouth full," cross grumbled, and killer snickered as he delved back into the rest of his twinkie, still leaning his head against cross's shoulder as they sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

killer finished off the rest of his own twinkie and sighed contently, "man.. what a fuckin' feast. second best thing i've ever eaten."

cross glanced at him, brow furrowed, "second?? what's the first?"

killer gave him one of those smiles, that slow, but amused, self-satisfied grins that he gave when he made a joke that he never gave a punchline for, or when he dropped some stupid one liner.

there was a glint, metaphorically, in his eyes that told cross everything he needed to know about this particular joke, and he felt his cheeks warm as he groaned and pushed at killer, "dude, come on."

killer cackled, clinging to his arm and pulling him back to nuzzle at cross's cheek with his own, "c'mon crossyyyy, it's true!!"

cross averted his eyes, refusing to look at killer's stupid smug expression, "shut up already, that was terrible and you know it."

"i didn't even say anything!"

"you didn't need to."

killer gave another burst of giggles, swatting at cross's arm as he rocked back the other way, his head bumping lightly against the wall as he laughed.

"you're so grumpy all the time, man!" killer eventually came back to say, poking at cross's arm with a shit-eating grin. "lighten up, ya big overgrown pup."

"don't call me that."

"you like it!"

"what even gave you that idea to begin with???"

killer just gave another smirk, and cross sighed, and killer snickered, sitting back and pulling his hood up, the messy fur that was tangled with small sticks framing his face as he gave a dramatic pout and sigh, crossing his arms and giving a childish, "bleeehhh im cross and im the grumpiest bitch ever!"

cross rolled his eyes, reaching to grab at his own coat as he snorted, and said, "i don't sound like that."

killer's voice rose in pitch until he sounded obnoxiously feminine, "riiff rafff, street rat, killer looks so hot with his bat."

cross shook his head, but there was a growing smile on his face as killer kept talking in that ridiculous voice, "i don't sound like that either, you goof."

he pulled at his coat, dragging it over and flipping it open, pulling at the inside. killer puffed his chest out, and dropped his voice a deep as he could, which wasn't very, but it was closer to cross's actual voice tone, and killer grunted out, "grrr grrr im a big huffy guy with a-"

cross pulled out the rose from the inside of his jacket, and tossed his coat back to his backpack, and pulled killer closer by the collar of his jacket, his grin still wide and expression lighter than it was a few minutes ago. he stuck the rose into the mess of fur of killer's hood, where it stuck, and sat pretty against killer's surprised expression.

cross sat back and crossed his arms, raising a brow as he mimicked killer's voice to the best of his ability, though it was somewhat quieter than killer's loud, unabashed impersonations, "a big huffy guy with a rose for his stupid, idiot of a-" lover. "friend."

killer blinked, stunned, and cross felt a swell of triumph in his chest at throwing killer off his game.

slowly, as if it would vanish or fall, killer reached up to poke at the rose cross had put in killer's hood, his mouth parted in growing awe.

"...you mother fucker," killer breathed, and snatched cross by the front of his shirt, dragging him close for a kiss. the rose slipped out, knocked free by the sudden movement, but it fell unharmed into killer's lap, where cross picked it up and put it right back, cupping killer's cheek in the same move.

-p :]

a little aimless in this one but still!!!! killer with a flower on his head, but it's stuck to his hood, and also cross put it there and also they kiss

AUGHHH?????? AUGH AUGH AFUGJF

[celticcatgirl2]

God I fucking hate Vegeta so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully smug, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid scrunkly face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking hairline? Who the hell makes a "bad boy" boy friend of the main girl with a hairline like that. His dumb short ass stumpy legs? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking POINTY HAIR STANDING UP IN ONE DIRECTION that no Saiyan has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Vegeta or an Vegeta gif or a shitty goddamn anime clip, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Vegeta the fuckshit monkey fucker, I am the prince of all Saiyans ". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like the grumpy troll from trolls world tour summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking creased forehead and your stupid, empty souless eyes and your over-the-top douchey ass arrogant asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking Shonen anime, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the Prince of all shitfucks is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking scouter. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional alien

[sh4tt3rg1rl]

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like Tow Mater summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

i agree with every word

[afriendofours]

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like Tow Mater summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

what.

[minnowtank]

God I fucking hate Sidon the Zora so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every cutscene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid shark face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking leg fin skirt? Who the hell makes a fish guy with leg fins like that. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard hammerhead-head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking PINK “NOSE” that no anthropomorphic fish has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Sidon or a Sidon gif or a shitty goddamn TikTok edit, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Sidon the fuckshit fish fucker, I love my empty no-homo void of a wife". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like Bruce from Finding Nemo summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking fishtail hair makes your whole shitty head look like an anvil with a tumour. I hate your dumb fucking nonexistent pink nose and your stupid, half-hidden eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's video game, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is altogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of sexy character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the shark dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless fuckable video game side character fandom wank distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking tail head. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional fish.

[libraryofbabel-postlocator]

find this:

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

It's over 3200 characters so it's split up but the first half is on page 194 of volume 24 on shelf 5 of wall 4 of hexagon (below cut) (second part is also below the cut)

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the second part is on page 227 of volume 17 on shelf 4 of wall 2 of hexagon 2nmsu3soxp3zmb6h2apkaq59vtx5hli6gp1pzoce6dwah7dyd6wcngk03pe4u2ox7yo6ecbtqx12j5yl30ti5qwio8lfp72f5ldef0l8m7p6egjggf4el4r49v68jlked6tgjxlc5gbx84vmbvj6yq4u1ot7zhw3f5w2swwy68vxacqkduq17xvf9htfripn9u7jtj44egiydyt1wsgj5qqjhx5tksk4r3utp660lclt756ob32rkcws7f6dm65cykjto0u1rae0oa62usmqlx0zycoay8ngb4vazp3x51rwggmkw1n3eo3ggnpf65lflzxg0xssadep4wkjsn2qv2ctcbq354aqoet9bk91ozmti1omqnajn3qrsbwcnmsh7kxh8b4dti726wxm3quidyp5xofqy6srg6dszqukgguv894zg5nhjisidstmgglx2dbj6uutqwzugby5ahhu4ol2k8mrs5554aiamatkk50zzcq235qnniqslfpwk6cr846ghj2b5z88gt6e1cfnsbtsndwfanzlvpu7sio87bhxyd3mjtmvbxe68w426xi0v4rvpisqkr5iqvns28yb72276fg5vi3dqhue5bjtr5db1ywuc7h35tnao177l1zd8vymwdq6ifkz708paijs305p6whyt830avzpyd9p74g3oyqg0q0932t5uipkl7xtjenw5ka5l5mbfhm88uy3utexj8naz9uupyvv8fykpcz7jygqjtxpr2fi4lyhnkx0zsewis84ycnb49d4a0k1qnkjqcrzowkxes1qnh8u7n4rlvp8a5c4nyvav3u7b46iq7ssjoockb4zv6x6hsmr4qlghnj57oizpp54u5tgn82p1zcqv9x5eqgraouplfs5ebpwmrpimiberj6w2gsjpvvkm38ssqszoqpkz1qsc64j4mv1bucyq1u6gvz22cxnhjdh1lipq4nr04vnb7cf62klp1w4em1f8ziwgo08mj8ja5ys3ivygmtu26z2uy11cj0rlwnzd8jd4x6jg98wtmkd5pnx5eg1yxcyzmrsxubxsbtyok5ro2arhy0cj5p8qigboh5nt06pmak3rb25hyv5p9gbcn08efk32gtoqoxyp9fre4dio4caqmoyef20v7galtv8q9wu7i4pz5qz0m4pj4geigvu3w1iim1f4typ04allilhrfkqzn1ddiq3g9h9nfdsrlypig9skq0t49yuvrxjajjti5kaggrbtzl7gq9x7hzfkneepudpm467h7tiv9k12jfngrvh9lpktfmpgw7rs6w0cj65cjqoaqotsk9j127ycoptd08gtptln1shkgl4261yqe9lu0b5g9i6a7t1anjqwbcvs3vujdzan25krka6g2nq8ohon3gizmt4wlmun0jc19ytocj6dnlhasve25n4o6ag4b9c6o7igyaqj1sq02t8g6c2ra79j3o7kwuo57y5ojdk9idc9vytfz29x9u45ot5rxfndn667mgwrxda102sf5md1ityckgy0x2ildgxgn68mjad10oxtwibxubcq7rx5kt6zjy70p3cmnojkcy5nlacjeds6qoii31sqmgegxa8i917m76td3nk7828nu40yzd51h9kd6y0h5pgpjktgr6ywnixlzrknnw2gbzvvzcpga9mx3psxlm4t1mks1bmyfcbza33zfnmu3kdbj9jo1q17589rvhwgpkcul3ec6z2mmd43m9hexhxuewu16biangv7ghoncr4x30w4cs6r7cnf8uvrec7s9652b7xlqb5bnaqvwa76spyhjd969eq050akrd3rgotduepr1s536fewzz7brnl0bp2rkgj2o5xlfh46xtrz8yhhy02sl6iwg5k5qn09buchqzz6tobz0uvvy15mxw6cfegn0hxd10m8398736z4eqfxjo4t55uru1tgh03y2a3i0ip748cpzd146jyxy0ezgzxv3bw9xpe7lb888oj2pwbtsrw3s2m87fb3ogxzoc7uwfppeuo5n3lt8sh8k5l6xl2xntxzmpqqk20gnox695tu2yi4z0dddz6brm6lzxxttdxdkiudu2159t8x68qy129pvl7pzchnwty95dkh6xzd9f6faapeit7r4qz3wj8zjkf0gbvpuhdcbvmnnsmvsh0w1wm9r4pmy7y5iaa6906lmm62ndisk0ijvth8w5udhj43oyx6yfx2n9xtphdt9i6cl9u30v8ap8rk805ja1sj2szuvyfoa1acfqdt35dtzjzmitemz69vxh1cc4x54f2xd32eyeitjehpgz5fx2tq71m9gcyfv1u8tf6dazog29x6860zqa7dkfbk6fafeq0vq3pue1eyx8cgafigjq3am2i3yxpgitgy7xf4b3y5bqy0owgph1exxpg7tjma0aobdp5ncwbovwb7u5lgva8vrja6hwxhm9q61r27mmxh3c9pndyqa45m4nlv0xtmyx8kc1zc2h2udl5dxxr5m4s4smu2dk578ra5zk3j5fe8co1k71jnuil124ahoa3fapz4syi9bdg7mj59utt9xm5y5ifhc65mf75pnuk1m4osc1xv68tpd550cg65au745tld77rqvdghj9qunfs4kicsd7ttxjzds4fl0x9m4g6mj32q3i3bdfdslbg53a0ipd7sfhhawd3jqpc04iy4pi04x4h1ciaxp4c1ybcij2g8o7u4qgry4yv1p0j4l4fnhqudgpog3p23p65h5yocj8j363456ssffl2po1tl28jfctub4tbl323xmvtfn52wvu73841umxsmxjmr671llrs50yjn34jo4uls8d6t1dm7dbq26uspn7bqhwstp5ctcm6li7ttzmxfrsckd22lksyn1jjt2p3efwuz53jt9jj1sa090aet1c51b5bj52py5a5bak1zuef9o3ol60tak9so8upatg214x9d69wfz0qe29shs7547qhjc14p87pvzmkdagkxbdwb3j7szfqziunke801exsd86nyxadhxtzm1dgt839a017a8p5qwx3cy7fx1t5g4h9ovv43b6ttud2npvqp75nqg3iegrxvb2x6qsbvt03zk2kwfsxrl6xfdmmgzys2n3a9z3qqdx35lpnmp37yqh12dxdlsx72gi3srpts9fv9hrua6f20p6j69rana8q1clv69hp3g02oudebsh3qq9kbka3kpmv2gfv179ukw

[ridreamir]

May I request a TASM!Peter Parker x Reader fic,??

Feel free to do anything,,, if you're familiar with the Prowler,,, could the reader be a Prowler or smthng,? It's fine if not, I enjoy your work :D

Warnings: I put swearwords :( Oh and slang. Not 100% accurate to the movies mind you...

.

.

ORANGE COUNTY, NY. The last train stop before entering the New York metropolitan area. Geographically? Not far. Enough to be an inconveniencing commute, but quieter, greener. It's that time of the year, when light showers waft in from the warming ocean, the sky patchy and swirling with paint strokes that occasionally break, revealing clear blue skies. Airplanes disappear into those huge blooms of white and storming grey, airliners headed out and disappearing over the Atlantic.

Orange County, NY, was the northernmost entrance into The Big Apple. And for a broke nobody like you? It's not like it's hard to catch a train, after all. In fact, when the tracks pass right through your backyard, it couldn't be easier. This place used to be a factory warehouse, after all.

They're nothing like you see in the movies, though. No huge glass industrial windows and concrete floors. This was, in all actuality, a glorified steel tent in a vaguely rectangular boxy shape. The ceiling leaked onto the gravel floors, and the entire place reeked of mildew, not to mention the draft. Oh, the draft.

But it did its job, and it housed your stuff. As in your hammock, and your backpack, and your sleeping bag... Now that you've thought about it, being low maintenance has its perks.

And stashed in the one good corner of the building was a plastic tote bin. Good for keeping any extras, the kind that'd suck to lose, but wouldn't be impossible to live without. Water-damaged comics, some bottled water, a can of cold, soggy barbecue beans... The backups. The comics really didn't do you any justice. Nor did the papers. No, when entering the Villain's evil lair, usually it looked like you'd imagine in the picture shows. The gorgeous open spaces, the rows of gadgets and gizmos that would cost a fortune! A fortune! To create, let alone maintain. But here you were. Not a villain draped in black. Well, no, your suit had black on it, but that was to keep a low profile. And because who wants to wear neon yellow on a stealth mission? Oh, also, not rich, and did you mention the not-a-villain part? Yeah, no, not necessarily the big scourge of NY. As in vigilante. Nameless. On the prowl, or something like that. You do chump work for free hot dogs and kisses from grannies, or whatever. Or at least you did, before that hot-shot fucker hero of the city SPIDER-MAN swooped in just as you were about to intercept a purse thief and roundhouse kicked you in the stomach! Yeah! Not good for PR! Suddenly all eyes were on fucking you!

The goal was to pop in and pop out, make some cash by emptying some loser petty criminal's pockets, who was maybe probably also strapped for cash but hey, they asked for it! The goal was NOT to end up plastered all over the city in your torn and run-down trench coat 'n ski mask throwing hands with FUCKING SPIDER-MAN.

It might not have been the most morally upstanding business, but when you're sneaking into the back of run-down pizza joints just to take a pat-down bath in decently warm-ish water that came out of fifty-year-old lead pipes, you take what you can get!

And that Spider, Man, fucking SPIDER-MAN, who's oh so loved by the people is a fucking sham! A fraud! How do you know? Because he started out just like you! He wasn't a good guy, not some hero, he was just some guy in a suit who did what he could. The people just looooved that, they ate it right up! But heaven forbid he share the streets with anyone, nooooo, not looking out for the little guys, are we Mr. Big-Shot?!

Thank god you've got a local white boy brainiac to buy you hotdogs and hide you in his apartment for five minutes because by god the cops have been on your ASS.

SO YEAH. Yeah. No apologies from Spider-SHAM. No apologies from them wanted criminal ads either. And definitely no apologies from that fucking comic they wrote where you get your ass beat when you clearly got a good couple fucking punches in! And really, really thank Pete that middle-class Mr. I'm going to NYU after my gap year building geeky science contraptions saw you looking sad, pathetic, and starving in that alleyway you dipped into after getting violently assaulted by ASS-MAN and chased by police dogs. It really sparked an unlikely friendship. Mr. Straight-laced-n-narrow 'n you. And the hotdogs? The 'I've got some spare change, wanna go get a glizzy" hotdogs? They were the best thing that SPIDER-MAN has ever done. Well, indirectly. He's still an ASS. Oh, and Peter? He's a peach. Always fussing over you, letting you talk your shit, definitely normal about your hatred for SPIDER-MAN. Pretty much everyone in all the five boroughs would never let you off the hook for saying some of the shit you say about him! Naw, you've got a compadre in Peter. He pats you on the back and says "Yeah, how awful that guy is- yeeeahh." and hands you some chips along with your hotdog to make it all better.

You almost feel bad for mooching off the guy, but no, he insists. Dunno what you did to deserve such an angel, but SPIDER-MAN, if you're out there, you better telepathically receive this FUCK-YOU.

[weepingguitar1968]

The Who x You - Breakfast went wrong...

It was 6:30 in the morning and you were hungry, so you went to the kitchen.

You noticed someone there... he looked like a stranger.

But you decided to go over and make sure... Wait... it was John.

"What are you doing?". At that moment the spoon fell out of his hand.

"JESUS CHRIST" he looked seriously scared. It's the first time you've seen him like this...You noticed that he was mixing cereal with... jelly.

“I understand that you like drinking with Keith, Pete and Roger, but to confuse jelly with milk?" You were surprised even though you had seen worse things.

For example, a few days ago you saw Moonie trying to kill Roger with a plastic knife.

With a fucking plastic knife.

You thought nothing would surprise you. By the time.

"Why are you doing that?" you asked and John showed you where to sit.

"Let me start with the fact that after the last drinking, Keith threw up on my bass. And he left the flakes in the night, and as revenge I wanted to drown them in jelly."

He explained and you laughed. "and I seriously thought Keith was the master of revenge".

"Well, now I will take this title away from him."

He smiled and finished what he started. Suddenly Roger entered the kitchen. Half asleep.

"Hey. Did you sleep?" you asked Roger, and he almost fell to the floor.

You belayed him until he sat down at the small table. "I didn't ask anything..." you said.

"he couldn't sleep. He was afraid that Moonie would come to him again with that plastic knife" John said, placing the bowl next to the microwave.

Roger practically fell asleep at the table. You rubbed Roger's back a little. "Poor Roger... We have to start locking Keith in his room at night. It'll be safer that way."

"Roger, I've got my revenge on that little bastard for trying to stab you with a plastic knife.".

"what have you done?" the singer asked, then you replied, "he mixed Moonie's cereal with the jelly."

Roger, less sleepy, got up to look at the bowl. "Not bad, buddy. This fucker will get you too." Roger stated, and the bassist replied, keeping his face calm, "He won't get me if we lock him in his room at night."

And at that moment Pete walked into the kitchen. He didn't look tired. He functioned normally, did not drink anything and slept at night.

He took the box of cereal and tried to pour it into a separate bowl, which none of the three of you noticed.

He wanted to pour in the cereal.

He poured out the laxative pills...

"Hahaha... very funny. Why did you want to poison me? He asks you, squinting his eyes slightly. "Oh god. It was for Keith. I wanted to take revenge on him. Leave it and just sit down. We are waiting for him."

Pete sat down, talking with you about Moonie. "There's even a key box with the key to his room," said Pete, slowly understanding the seriousness of the situation.

What if Moonie does something worse?

Nobody knew that.

John stood there, pretending to be doing something at the microwave. That he's warming food or something.

And finally our wonderful drummer came, full of joy of life.

"Good morning everyone!" Moon said happily. You and Roger looked at him displeasedly.

After all, it's all his fault.

Keith walked over to the counter and looked into his bowl. He acted shocked for a moment.

But then he did what what no one expected.

He walked up to John and pulled his ass pants down with great force.

John screamed, kicked Moonie in the balls, pulled his pants up and then screamed again, "WHY DID YOU DO THAT?".

"Sorry, but you won't take away my title of best joker"

Roger, you and Pete almost fell off your chairs laughing.

Moonie took the box of cereal tested by then unaware Pete. He poured it into the second bowl.

Plan B.

Moonie starts chasing John around the house, you take one of the laxative pills and put it in Moonie's water bottle in his room.

You've been waiting for quite a long time. After 3 minutes it dissolved. Now you just shake, you leave his room, you signal to John, and John throws Keith over his shoulder and pushes him into the room, locking it.

You and John give each other a high five and head to the kitchen.

Roger and Pete were to secure/remove all sharp items. So that the situation with Roger doesn't happen again. When everything was secured, you could let Moonie go.

John stood with his ass against the table, Roger went to put on something normal, Pete was sitting in the bathroom, and you were talking to John.

Keith took ketchup from the table and poured baking soda there.

He shook it and left it on the table.

And he walked happily towards his room.

A moment later, you made everyone (except Mooni) fries. You took ketchup, unaware of anything, and poured it on everyone. John, Pete, Roger and yourself.

Keith started laughing at his satanic act.

Roger got up and went to Moonie's room. ''Idiot, look what you did''

Moonie laughed even more. Roger kicked him hard in the shin, leaving Moonie's room happy :)

Moonie: *screaming* I'M GOING TO SHIT.

[void-botanist]

ROY G BIV tag

I'm finally getting to this tag from @autumnalwalker about three months later!

Rules: Search your your writing for the colours of the rainbow and post the excerpt.

I'll tag @kk7-rbs, @outpost51, and @sarahlizziewrites, plus anyone who wants to join in!

I found the most colors in Nicea, so:

Red - Isabel

“How did you get here so fast?” she asked in a low voice as she sat down on the closer end of the blanket. He was staying on the inconvenient side of the mountain, significantly further away from the trail than Fay’s house. So he should either be trailing behind her, or she should have seen him on the way up. “I was still at Teagan’s when I messaged you,” he said. “Kara made juice.” “Ah, that explains it.” Well, the juice part explained nothing, but she figured it wasn’t supposed to. She looked out over the fields and pastures dotted with houses below, all glowing a little red in the sunlight.

Orange - Spinder

But the trees half-bent over the road, giving him a chance to high-five a low branch on his way by and send a shower of orange pollen down on his back.

Yellow - Isabel

In the dim kitchen doorway was a distinctly animal shape. It swiveled its head toward her and she froze, remembering that she wasn’t supposed to look directly at it, but knowing from the yellow glow of its reflective eyes that it was already too late for that. It padded toward her with the soft click of canine nails on a hard floor, and as it moved, the corridor lights activated, revealing a full-size gray wolf wagging its tail at her. Her brain refused to give a plausible reason for this until she glimpsed the baby-pink collar around its neck. “Tatya?” she whispered.

Green - Isabel

Fay handed her a wood box that was obviously for wine, given that it had a bunch of wine-related words in the shape of a wine bottle on the front. In fact, it was wide enough for two bottles of wine, which was two more than she wanted to take on this trip. Before she could say anything, Fay said, “It’s not wine, that was just the best box I had. Open it.” She set the box sideways on her lap—it was probably heavy enough to be two bottles of wine—and slid the front cover halfway open. It was almost full to the brim with hard candies, each one wrapped in a different color of plastic, but all of them an amberish green color. “They’re peppermint candies,” Fay said. “You probably won’t need that many for the whole trip, but I thought they would help since you get warpsick.”

Blue - Rodney

The connection cut and he flipped his tablet case closed, setting his coffee in his seatside cupholder before getting up to find Tristan. Walking felt good for three seconds before it just reminded him how tired he was. At the first door to the right of the bridge, he lifted a hand to knock, then noticed the blue page clipped to the door. Couldn’t sleep, took a pill. Fuck.

Indigo

I really don't use indigo as much as I should. Not found.

Violet (Purple) - Tristan

“Well, let me take a look at ground zero,” Ed said. “The rest of y’all can get comfortable in the Svando’s if you want.” When he turned, she saw the overlapping white and purple stars on the back pocket of his sleeveless denim coveralls, and something clicked. “Ed,” she said, falling in step beside him, “you don’t happen to be the same person as Spangle Birrim, do you?” Ed stopped, gave her a good look, then indulged in a full-body chuckle. “You look a little young to know that name.” “Me, maybe, but I’m friends with Von Praegar.” “Von?” A hand fluttered to his breastbone. “That old fucker’s still kicking? Where’s he at now?”

Nicea taglist: @kahvilahuhut @kk7-rbs @outpost51 @writernopal @athenswrites

[riverdrifter]

Fisherman's Log: 8/23/2023

All rested up nice and early today (comparatively), so it's time to fish! I already played a little before typing this up, since I was waiting for my Totino's Party Pizza to finish cooking. So let's get right into it!

📋 Info Board - Catch 9 fish Reward: +1 gem - Catch 7 x Plastic Bottle Reward: +525 coins - Catch 2 x Muskie Reward: +2 gems

Notably, the specific Plastic Bottle it wants from me is the one from the Great Lakes, so that's our base of operations for today. As of writing this, I've completed "catch 9 fish", and I'm working on the other two. I've gotten some nice gains, with a 2-star Lake Trout and a 3-star Brook Trout to add to the tank, among others that I must not have felt were significant enough to write down. I was having a hell of a time finding my daily NPC, though, until I saw some shady fucker standing on the shore and went up to talk to him. This is Agent S.; he doesn't give you literally anything, and apparently nobody knows what his deal is so everyone just ignores him??? Despite not giving me a quest, he appears to have taken up my slot for the day.

Right now, I'm in Muskellunge Struggle Tweets hell. I had something on my line that I could've sworn was one, but my pole snapped as I was dragging it up to the boat, so I'll never know. I did get a 3-star Alewife, which I weirdly didn't have in the Fish Tank yet. This means the only things I'm missing are a Goldfish, Bessie, and that damn Muskie. A bass fishing tournament came up during that visit home, but... the entry fee is 500 coins, and with me saving up for Alaska and other unlocks, I can't really spare that when the lowest prize tier gives back half as much.

I seriously caught a Lake Sturgeon before even having seen a Muskie yet! After being led to believe that that bitch only shows up at night! No, no, no, update: three Lake Sturgeons! What the hell is happening? This cannot continue. New plan: I'm getting a garbage grabber rod and farming trash until Temporary Luck procs. This is insane.

Update from just before nightfall: I give up on this damn Muskie. I used two Rare Bait and I got Lake Trout both times. Fuck this noise!! I was able to get a little closer to the Plastic Bottle goal, but then my rod broke and I hit Temporary Luck again so I decided I was going to get a Carbon Rod and go back to Costa Rica to try for the Black Marlin again.

And I did it! I caught one!

But um. J...just one question.

What's with the human teeth?

Ignoring that evil, evil, evil face, I'm happy enough with this to close the app for the night. My Luck (mechanic) hasn't run out yet, but I'm feeling yucky and making myself play this is making it worse so I'm going to draw instead. As a parting gift, enjoy these two player names that really tickled me:

[nytfythfhtyf]

God I fucking hate Spike the dragon so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a dragon with legs. His dumb flaily fucking tail? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking DRAGON NO WINGS that no dragon has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Spike or a Spike gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Spike the fuckshit dragon fucker, I like eating gems". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like Tow Mater summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking scale hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass useless asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's show, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the dragon is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking tail. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional dragon

[menthav1ridis]

ive had to dispose of many stinkbugs recently. because it is springtime and stinkbugs overwinter indoors, usually in walls/insulation. they really like attics. i live in an attic. there are many stinkbugs coming out of the walls.

you cannot squish a stinkbug (stink). and yet they are a) an invasive species and b) reprehensible little dudes so i am motivated to murder them anyway.

enter: davy jones's tupperware.

an effective way, it turns out, to kill stinkbugs is to take a container (i have used an empty water bottle and, as stated, a tupperware), fill it partially with water, and mix a few pumps of dish soap in. then you knock the stinkbug from its perch into your container and watch it meet its watery demise. this is a lengthy and slightly gruesome process that does satisfy a sort of bloodlust within me. anyway i then usually just leave the dead guys in the container and keep the container around for a few days so it's available in case more of the fuckers show up.

it is rather morbid. but it is effective. and in this attic i am king.

on a related note ive now used an entire roll of duck tape mending holes in the plastic coverings over the insulation that is my walls. partially for stinkbug reasons, i do see a lot of the guys on the other side of the plastic, but also for the principle of the thing. walls should be continous, and all that.

[punk-pandame]

1,2,3,5,26,38,49,65

weird asks that say a lot

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?

i have an emotional support water bottle i refill like three times a day and i love her, she's obviously my favorite. but she is exclusively for water. anything other beverage, i drink it out of a coffee mug; except when i want a Special Drink (same beverage drank out of a milkshake glass) to treat myself.

2. chocolate bars or lollipops?

lollipop. orange pwease :3

3. bubblegum or cotton candy?

BUBBLEGUM! i love to chew i love to stim i love to bite i love to loosen my jaw I LOvE to blow a jolly round bubble :D bubblegum <3

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups?

anything but a can. the mythbusters episode grossed me out. if you know you know.

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather?

ngl summer is genuinely hard for me in both the seasonal depression way and the poor heat tolerance + bad air quality asthma trigger way, so honestly? vegetating in my room with the AC running, writing or drawing or listening to music. i do love swimming tho so i can be lured outside with promises of a pool or a beach :3

38. lemonade or tea?

arnold palmer me babeyyyy i drink tea more tho, it's true

49. what saying or quote do you live by?

yknow i was just asking myself this the other day. for a long time it was "survive out of spite". and that was a good thing for me then, i think, because spite was really all i had left at some points to keep going with. but im in such a different environment and headspace and stage in life that i don't think it really applies anymore. i would say "do no harm but take no shit" but i take auto insurance claims on the phone all day. i do nothing but take shit and "do harm" in that insurance itself is a fucking scam and corporate america is the antithesis of everything i believe in as a person. so uh. idk maybe "livin' the dream". cause its something i can say in response to the customary "how are you" question that everyone knows means i'm killing them in my head. but also objectively my life is rather nice right now. i've come a long way. i have a great support network. i have a future i can actually look forward to. in quite a few ways, i really am living the dream. the duality of man? nah. the duality of "livin' the dream"

65. any permanent scars?

oh yeah, tons. i'm one clumsy fucker and my skin sucks alshjkghaj. mild injury descriptions below

most notable to me are:

the ones on my right ring finger from smashing a cup in my hand while handwashing it

the ones in my left knee from falling in gravel and getting a rock stuck in it and having to pull it out with tweezers at home (not fun) and then getting an infection from a rug playing lazer tag (i fell again)

burn-like scars behind my ears from an allergic reaction to tape :) that was a fun thing i learned in drama club that i was not expecting to learn

brand new but deep scars on my left big toe from stepping in glass

burn scar on the back of my wrist from the pizza oven at my first job when i was 15. it used to be like four inches long but now its just a little little pucker shaped mark. the way that healed still blows my mind,

[frogsandfries]

Fucking

I was changing out my filter for my water today and I was just going to refilter the water that was in there, because it was starting to taste chlorine-y.

That's when I spotted orange.

Yup.

There was a new crack I hadn't noticed. And it was growing mold.

Fucking. Delightful. So now I have to drink the poorly filtered water that I have while I leave the tank to dry. Luckily I live in the desert, so about twenty-four hours should do it (I should actually look that up to see when or if they'll actually die and what more I might need to do; it looks like an application of vinegar and then sealing the affected area will do). So. Fucking great. I have to fucking drink unfiltered water for like two days. Shit's nasty, I've never tasted such heavily chlorinated water, except in a fucking pool.

I don't fucking understand why a container that's going to hold so much weight and presumably get moved around so much to get refilled and filter changes and such, is made of such brittle fucking plastic. I'm supposed to be replacing the water bottles that I use, so wouldn't you want to use a plastic that had a little give??

Anyway, I guess I'm going to preempt any further cracks and mold by giving it a good wipe with vinegar, let it sit out for at least twenty-four hours to thoroughly dry, and then I'm going to seal the areas around the base of the water-holding space, on the inside and outside of the foot/lip/base thing. Break now, you brittle fucker.

I'm not buying a new fucking pitcher after less than a year.