Filet Mignon Facts
Facts about my stupid scrunckley trimming that I keep in my head.
This one.
Look at that perfect specimen
Filet Mignon has eight legs, each with two claws.
Filet Mignon's eyes are constantly squinting, but may bulge out of his head when he's shocked or scared, and one has even popped out of its socket before.
Filet Mignon has six dorsal spikes (only four are visible in the picture) and his tail is perfectly fat and squishy. It's like when you fill a bag with frosting to pipe onto cupcakes... But it's meat.
He has a very prominent vein on his front left shoulder.
Filet Mignon does have a collar and leash, but he kicks off the collar constantly when at home.
His owner has a collection of old radios and sometimes sets them all to different frequencies just to watch the little idiot spin in circles trying to decide which one to go to.
His owner also works night shifts so he has a fairly normal trimming sleep cycle.
Filet Mignon's owner is absolutely not a security worker for a satellite company.
His owner's neighbors do not enjoy his owner getting into yelling contests with him. Much like you might meow back at your cat, the two often ''aaAAAaAAh" back and forth.
Filet Mignon is the second pet Trimming in his home.
The first was plucked from the trash outside and was called Gristle. Gristle was a bastard.
Filet Mignon was picked specifically by his owner when they found his node growing in their crawl farm.
Filet Mignon is still very young, probably only having recently reached full size, and still doesn't quite know what to do when meeting another trimming on a walk.
Filet Mignon does not have just a warm box, the spoiled bitch has a rabbit hutch sized thing with a heat lamp and bedding.
Filet Mignon's owner absolutely does not live immediately near very important satellites for military communications.
Filet Mignon's favorite treat is eggshells, and he gets them every morning while his owner makes breakfast.
Filet Mignon will often drag his favorite blanket around the house, and loves 'burying' random items in it, 'digging' them up, and then kicking the blanket right back over it to do it again.
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before you know about women, you hear that you do not need to love the man, just that you need to love him through his manhood. which is to say you have seen the future painted in lamb's blood over your eyes - how your mother shoots you a look about your father's inability to cook right. how your aunt holds her wineglass and says i'm gonna kill em. men, right! how your best friend bickers with her boyfriend, how she says i can't help it. i come back to him.
you learn: men are gonna cheat. men aren't going to listen when you're talking, because you're nagging. men think emotions are stupid. they think your life is vapid and your hobbies are embarrassing. men will slam things, but that's because men are allowed to be angry. if you get loud, you're hysterical. if a man gets loud - well, men are animals, men are dogs, men can't control their hands or their eyes or their bodies. they're going to make a snide comment about you in the locker room, about your body, about how you're so fucking annoying. you're going to give him kids, and he will give you the money for the kids, and you're going to be running the house 24/7 - but he gets to relax after a long day, because his job is stressful. the man is on stage, and is a comedian, and says "women!"
and you are supposed to love that. you are supposed to love men through how horrible they are to you - because that's what women do. that's what good women do. wife material. your father even told you once - it'll make sense when you're older. it was like staring down a very lonely tunnel.
it feels like something's caught in your throat, but it's all you know, so. it's okay that you see sex as a necessary tool, a sort of okay-enough ritual to keep him happy, even though he doesn't seem to care about happiness as-applied-to you. it is relationship upkeep. it is kissing him and smiling even though he didn't brush his teeth. it is getting on your knees and looking up and holding back a sigh because he barely holds you as you panic through the night. it's not like the sex is bad and you do like feeling wanted. and besides! he's a man! like... they're another species. you'll never be able to actually communicate, right. he isn't listening.
you just don't get it. you don't feel that sense of i'm gonna climb him like a tree. mostly it just feels fucking exhausting. you play the part perfectly. you smile and nod and are "effortlessly" charming. and it's fine! it's alright! you even love him, if you're looking. you could have good life, and a good family, and perfectly happy.
in the late night you google: am i broken. you google i'm not attracted to my husband. you google i get turned on by books but not by him. you google how to get better in bed.
the first time he yells at you, it almost feels like blankness. like - of course this is happening. this is always how it was going to end up. men get angry, and they yell, and you sit there in silence.
you mention it to your friend - just the once - while you're drunk. she shrugs and says it's like that with me too, i just try to forget and move on. men are always gonna hear what they want to. pick your battles and say sorry even though he's in the wrong. you play solitaire online for a month. you go to your therapist appointment and preach about how you're both so in love.
after all, you have a future to want. nobody lied about it - how many instagram posts say marriage is hard. say real love takes work. say we fight like cats and dogs but the best part is that we always make up. how many of your friends say happy anniversary to the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. if you really loved him - loved yourself too - you'd accept that men are just different from you.
the first time she kisses you, it's on a dare at a party. something large and terrifying whips through your body. you wake up sweating from dreams where her mouth is encrusted with pearls and you pick them off one by one with your teeth. fuck. you sit at the computer and your almost-finished game of sim city. you think about your potential perfect life and your potential future family. you google am i gay quiz with your little hands shaking.
you delete each letter slowly. you don't need to love him. you just need to keep going.
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Prompt 297
“I feel like we should be concerned about Tim.”
“Honestly we should always be concerned about him, but what made you realize it this time?”
“Have you seen his search history- wait no you haven’t you haven’t been in the cave all day, look at this-”
“...'Is it legal to adopt the ghost of a kid? Can someone call CPS on a family’s ghost? How to take care of ghosts 101? How do you get a ghost of a child to not be scared? What to do if you find ghost children in your home? What the fuck…?”
“Exactly, I think he needs an intervention.”
Or in other words, after getting thrown into another dimension thanks to the GIW destroying most of Amity, a trio of ghost children decide to crash in this seemingly abandoned apartment building. No one seems to live here anyway…
Tim Drake on the other hand, gets a notification that there’s someone in his main safehouse that he might’ve slightly forgotten about thanks to having his house-boat now, and sees a trio of starved looking ghost kids
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Literally no thoughts just Gojo after your wedding carrying you over the threshold of your hotel room. You’re not leaving for your honeymoon until the morning but he nearly trips on the doorframe in his haste.
“You really don’t need to carry me—”
“But it’s tradition, we need to consummate the marriage!” he insists. Within seconds his lips are against yours and he’s fumbling with the light switch, and you finally swat his hand away and just beg him to take you to the bed.
He works the zipper of your dress down, part of him sad that he’s not going to see you in this gorgeous gown again, but then it reveals your white lace lingerie and the groan he lets out is broken and guttural and desperate.
This is far from the first time he’s seen you like this, but there’s something about this moment here and now that makes it so much more intense, so much more intimate and he just never wants to let you go.
“Satoru,” you whisper, and his breath hitches.
He leans down to capture your lips in a kiss. “Shh, I know. Just lemme take care of you, like I promised.”
And when he sees the gold band on his fourth finger pressing into the skin of your hips as he sheaths himself inside of you, he nearly loses himself, sending up a prayer to whatever gods are listening that he can keep his promise to keep you safe and happy forever.
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