#fuck monday

[crepuscularpete]

#monday #monday mood #monday vibes #dog #tired #fuck monday

[kellieintheclouds]

Morning idiots, I already wanna die. I hope everyone has a good day 🌻

#i just wanna sleep #stoner #mine #girls with piercings #girls with tattoos #fuck monday #why is monday a thing #korn

[aka-click]

Hello Monday,

I see you're making my life hell again.

The computers are all lagging

Three people called in sick today

This is going to be hell

I just want to go home on time

But that ain't happening.

Why you gotta be this way?

Can't we just be friends.

#monday #office life #why does it have to be like this #why can't I work from home instead #fuck Monday

[chitinleg]

got him off-balance!

#my art #ds9 #star trek deep space nine #julian bashir #elim garak #garashir #watercolor #image desc in alt text #i normally post on mondays but. today im breaking my pattern! getting a little silly. getting a little wild. garashir jumpscare #“tumblr user chitinleg garak would neot easily let himself be swooped off his feet into a hug like that” yes i know BUT! #look at his expression. look at how his arms r pinned. he didnt let this happen LMAO julian just surprised him. grabby huggy human behavior #if you look really closely you can see the tiniest frown in the world on Garak's face. because he's like “EEP !” #cant see bashirs face at all in this only his body but i think we can all imagine that whatevers going thru his head. he needs this hug bad #ALSO. for anyone wondering what the fucked up shadow is that starts at the juncture of the teal sleeve-cap where its set into the armhole #the jumpsuits have a bit of a fold of extra fabric (called an Action Pleat) there which allows for a little more maneuverability of the bod #AND creates a really sleek and flat back panel #because you can see the fabric twists along the side arent grabbing the flat back fabric theyre grabbing the fabric folded beneath it #often times i think about drawing out a dissection of kiras first uniform and this voy era one for other artists to use. bc god knows #i struggled at first to find full body references #they like to shoot ds9 very close to peoples heads. and the camera is so blurry. they smeared butter on that thing. god bless

[naariel]

putting my whole entire artussy into this arm and those hairy tits

work in progress

#halsin #yeahhh baby #i am massively over-rendering this piece and I DONT GIVE A FUCK #it's therapy okay #i'll have the finished piece posted on monday #finished not perfect

[mitheryn]

This shit is gonna be amazing.

#godzilla #gogola #kaiju #bollywood #also why his testies out sdfhklsdjhf #I've been non stop binging kaiju movies since i'm gonna go see the new gojixmonke on monday so i'm excited this looks dumb as fuck i love i

[sleeepying]

Wow all those years of looking up "girls kissing" really came in handy 🤭🤭

#yes its them. again #fight me #its mandy fucking monday!!! #amanda young #lynn denlon #shotgunshipping #lynnmanda #saw #saw iii #lesbian #my art

[shrinesong]

in honor of my girlfriend introducing me to portal properly, wireplay under the cut

#portal #chelldos #spending my monday morning scribbling robot fucking trying to figure out the logistics #idk i'll make it work #by god will i make it work

[samipekoe]

Monday its time to return to my office in lacille inc

#pet play lacille? more likely than you think #i think its a funny kink to give laios. marcille would hesitantly agree to try and maybe even get into it #and then laios starts doing shit like ripping up curtains and shes like what the fuck are you doing #you havent house trained me marcille! it takes 4 months of training for a puppy to be fully house broken! #and then falin comes home and laios is tied up outside #anyway those were my delusions for today good monday everyone

[find-me-in-hell]

honestly boss im just trying to make it from melanie king monday to fuck your train friday unscathed

#tma #the magnus archives #melanie king monday #the mechanisms #the mechs #the bifrost incident #i dont knwo what this is #is it anything #fuck you and fuck your train #800

[achromatic-bot]

Most unhinged Dan and Phil moment:

Guys...

#what the fuck #why would they do that? #and why did we as an audience just let this slide? #anyway #i hope you've had a good monday mine is officially ruined #dnp #dan and phil #daniel howell #amazingphil #danandphilgames #phan #dnpgames #phil lester #phandom

[rivernull]

#miku #miku hatsune #vocaloid #vocaloid fanart #big fucking HAIR #rkgk #my art #art #miku fanart #hatsune miku #piapro #project diva #project sekai #prsk #sketch #miku monday

[macfrog]

wish you were here | one shot

thank you lovely anon for this gorgeous request which felt like a huge mug of hot chocolate and a pair of socks fresh from the dryer to write. i hope you enjoy.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you and joel skip jackson’s annual holiday party in favor of some alone time. (not that kind you filthy animals it’s the HOLIDAYS)

warnings: fluff lmao, thirty-year age gap and u can stay mad, set around the holidays but no mention of christmas etc, nothing but love and two hints of sex. that's all. oh and no guitars were harmed in the making of this - joel canonically goes and gets the guitar after the fic ends. dw.

word count: 1.9k 

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🤎

Jackson is alive with a thrumming heartbeat. Pulsing through the air, bumping gently against the quick-lying snow and filling the otherwise silent night. A steady, rhythmic heartbeat.  

A heartbeat which sounds a lot like Blue Monday, but a heartbeat nonetheless.

The holiday party is in full swing down in the Tipsy Bison. Seven o’clock ‘til late! on flyers plastered all over the commune for the last month. Tommy had tried relentlessly to convince Joel this morning on patrol – It’ll be a good night; You oughta come along, show face at least. At the same time, Maria was on your back about it in the stables.

Y’all hardly come to anything fun, she’d argued.

We come to stuff.

When’s the last time you came to anythin’?

We were – we were at Mike’s birthday dinner.

What – five months ago?

We like alone time.

Alone time? You’re never apart from one another.

Alone time – together.

Neither attempt had been successful. Tommy and Maria had exchanged a disheartened glance as the two brothers passed their horses to you on their return. Joel clipped your cheek, took his gloves off and fixed them onto your frozen hands before making off for home, a proud grin on his face. You’d held your own as well as he had: you two had a clear evening ahead.

He had lit and nurtured a fire, had made himself a coffee and heaped half a damn bag of tiny marshmallows into a hot chocolate for you, but when he’d come through to take his place on the couch, you were already stood out front.

It’s bitter out – a soft breeze, but a thick chill on its wings. The sky a washed gray, heavy clouds overhead. He slips outside, setting the mugs down on the table, and slings a blanket over your shoulders. Kisses the curve of your neck, scruff of his beard tickling your skin.

‘s freezing, pretty bird.

Then keep me warm, you whisper, turning into his arms. He steps back, settling into his chair, flicking his fingers for you to fall down into his wide lap.

You curl up against his torso, your head hooked beneath his jaw. Wonder how drunk Tommy is by now. What is it – nine?

His wrist lifts, moonlight gleaming in the reflection of his broken watch face. Just gone ten. I bet he’s on his ass already.

You giggle into his shirt, breathing in the scent of the pine trees, the smoke from stoking the fire inside, the bite of hot coffee. The echo of voices swelling in merry song turns your attention down the street – two figures hooked onto one another, stumbling through the powdered snow. Some slurred rendition of September melting into All Night Long before the smaller of the two tugs their partner off into a darkened house.

Joel laughs to himself, the bristle of his beard catching on your hair as he shakes his head.

You ask him softly, Will you play me something?

His breath soars, a cloud hot and pale white, past your temple and up into the pastel sky. Gets swallowed somewhere overhead by the wash of warmth from the porch light. He turns his mug until the owl faces the street, the bottom gnawing against the wooden armrest of his chair.

I’m serious.

What do you wanna hear?

That one you’re always practicin’. The plucking one.

Another rumble between your shoulder blades. His chest jolts with a solid laugh. The pluckin’ one.

You know the one.

I know the one.

Will you play it, if I go get the guitar?

Baby, his lungs nudge on your back as they fill, it’s late. We’ll wake the neighbors.

Everyone’s at the dance. C’mon.

And he can’t argue with that. The entire street lies dark, vacant. Yours is the only house with soft-glowing eyes, the muted orange of the fire flickering behind closed blinds. Two figures, tangled in a chair on the dim front porch; a hunting jacket around his shoulders, and his body around yours.

You tug on the blanket, wrapping it around your elbows as you stand. Just once. Play me it once.

Joel’s looking up at you, setting his mug down on the table. Play you it as many times as you want, pretty bird. Just – quietly.

There’s a spring in your step that drags another chuckle from Joel’s lips: the kind that drips like honey down your throat and warms the pit of your stomach – a sweet, comforting thing, a sound you swear was made purposefully for you. Divine and deliberate.

Like – all of him. Like the shape of your name in his mouth, the curl of his tongue as the sound surfs over it. Like the curve of his hand and the way yours so neatly molds into it.

The way it did the day he found you, crouched in the gray backroom of some butchers deep in the city, and took you all the way back to Jackson. Let you cling to him on the back of his horse; your weak arms around his waist, anchored by the heavy jacket he’d thrown over your back. Your ear between his shoulder blades. And that was that.

Fifty-six. One brown-turned-silver hair away from thirty years your senior. He still remembers before. Talks about movies, talks about computers. Talks about Sarah, when the sun hits the wall at a certain angle and he reckons he could see her standing right there, the soft shadow of her hair dark against the golden wall. When you make a joke and he laughs a ghostly sort of laugh, like he’s hearing the echo of her voice make the same quip three decades ago. He always says she would’ve loved you; you like to think he’s right.

He found you: a lonely little broken heart, and he pulled you to your feet with a rough palm against your own. Hands calloused only from years spent carving wood and pressing the hard strings of his guitar into the fretboard, and nothing else. No violence and no bloodshed; no survival or threat. Music, and patience, and kindness.

And maybe you found him, too, in the same sort of way: roughened up, awkward and messy stitches holding him together. Maybe the two of you nursed one another back to life; each brush of your hands in the dining hall and each meaningful glance while out on patrol sewing those wounds up a little tighter, a little safer.

He sits forward when you hold the instrument out, sweeping a broad palm down the slope of the body. Pinches the pegs one by one, twisting them while his thumb taps on each string.

Come here, he says, beckoning you forward with a flick of his chin. He taps on the seam of his jeans, widens his legs for you to curl up between them at his feet – the way you always do.

Your elbows hook over his thigh, ear pressed against the inside of his knee. Staring up, blinking slowly, eyes glazed with the cold and with the light and with love.

He plucks gently, slow at first. Letting the strings snap with a twang, vibrating enough that you feel the small rattle in your jaw. Your eyes fall closed, head rocking with the light tap of his heel on the porch. When you peer at him through your lashes, he’s watching the skilled movements of his fingers intently; as if he’s as much a spectator as you are – his body doing all of the thinking and working for him.

 So, he sings, and your stomach melts to a puddle, so you think you can tell –

Your eyes close again, the low rumble of his voice crisp in your ears. Like thunder, like the promise of something great and mighty. Something moving, something rolling and changing the landscape of your body, your mind and your soul. The lines between living and dying begin to blur, the seam tearing between this plain and the next.

Did they get you to trade – your lips parting to whisper the words with him – your heroes for ghosts?

His thumbnail dragging down the strings, his strong fingers flitting between chords. Like he was made to sit here, in the dead of night, and carve a space in the world for himself and his voice and for you – lain in the safe scope of his body, protected by his breadth and brawn and lulled by his sweet song.

His breadth and brawn – the parts of him which have kept him standing here. His skeleton, his muscle. But the thing that keeps you warm at night, buried side by side under a threadbare woolen sheet together, the thing that you link your arms around as he leads you home from the nights you dare to visit the Tipsy Bison: are his heart, his flesh, the gray-singed hair which falls in a featherlight wave over his forehead. The hair you sweep from his eyes when he’s on top of you, his hips cradled in yours, that all-encompassing feeling of every part of him filling every part of you.

It all feels that way. The warmth of him, the feeling of being wrapped around him. Hooked around his body, bones intertwined. Absorbing one another, his words breathing life into yours, slowly growing louder and braver with each pluck and strum of music.

We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

Your makeups entangling, ribcages locking together, flesh meeting flesh and hair twisting until one day, Tommy will come looking for his brother and find the two of you here on your porch, your arms still draped over Joel’s thigh and his fingers still mid-song. Stuck, alone, together.

What have we found? Joel looks down to you as though asking the question – his eyebrows raised – and you reply, a dumb smile across your lips, The same old fears, and then, together –

Wish you were here.

He plays until his fingers must start to hurt, the way he clenches and loosens his fist. Setting the guitar against your chair, hands hooking under your arms to pull you back up to him.

That one your favorite? he asks, the cold tip of his nose circling yours.

You nod. Only when you sing it.

I like the way we sound together.

You smile, shrinking into his chest again, your fingers surfing back and forth on the worn shirt. I like the way we do a lot of things together.

His hands slip beneath the fabric of your shirt, massaging your waist. He dots a trail of light, damp kisses along your forehead, dipping to your temple, the angle of your cheek until your jaw lifts and his lips are against yours, his tongue parting to lick purposefully at yours.

I love you, pretty bird, he whispers, the words falling sweet and fair on your tongue.

You take a moment to let them seep into your skin. ‘s the first time you’ve ever said that, you tell him.

Joel smiles. He knows. But you knew it already, he counters.

You know, too. Mhm.

Alright, he groans, slipping his hands under your thighs and hoisting you up to his height, bedtime.

It’s only ten, you complain, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he carries you inside. It’s too early to sleep – Joel.

Didn’t say we were goin’ to sleep, he mumbles, kicking the door shut.

#happy max monday is this becoming a thing? can i claim mondays? boomtown rats move the fuck over #i just wanted to sit between joel miller's legs and look up at him all dumb and in love ok? #joel miller #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #jackson!joel #joel miller fluff

[veveisveryuncool]

remembering that one q&a with maddie blaustien aka early meowth.. she has the most correct opinions ever actually

i'm sure this has been done before but au where meowth gets custody of togepi in s1 ep52

#maddie blaustien was a gift upon this earth #i say pikachu would also be a contender in wanting to keep togepi like just look at Pokemon Resort #hes got that “EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP THE BABYS SLEEPING” vibes #meowth eventually goes “yeah ok we can share” and the TRio get togepi on weekdays and the ash gang gets togepi on weekends #togepi is the resident TR baby in all future series and pikachu hates it (especially after the unova arc) #TRio still has to give togepi back every saturday to ash so he can give her to misty for the weekend #then they just “kidnap” togepi back on monday #pokemon #anipoke #team rocket #togepi #meowth #pikachu #they are exes to me #in the forever struggle of not knowing when to tag the ship #the tag is very barren fuck it im putting it in there #krazyshipping #veves ultra cool art