#couch talk

[yawpyawp]

this self portrait by surrealist photographer ben zank is exactly how i feel at all times:

[ocularpatdowns]

philly: DONT DRINK THE WOODER

me: ok guess i’ll just have to subsist on white claws

[infinitelystrangemachinex]

Imagining this Viktor sassing Mel. No screen on earth could have handled their power, I fear.

[theabigailthorn]

"Good" Acting

i have a theory that a lot of people say acting is "good" when they're emotionally moved by it, and a lot of cishet white people have a lifelong habit of not listening or empathising when minoritised people speak, so minority actors get called "bad" even when they display some pretty fucking amazing technical skill

[wr1ghtw0rth]

Aftermath of 2-4

Small follow up

[cross-d-a]

I truly absolutely ADORE how in Fugitive Telemetry Ratthi and Gurathin are just like- Murderbot’s bestie sidekicks who are so ready and willing to back it up and help kick ass and investigate a murder and worry all over Murderbot and then just like— go chill and grab lunch while Murderbot is Dealing With Things and also maybe possibly getting into some harrowing trouble and that moment where Murderbot calls them and is like HELP ME and Ratthi is so started he knocks his fucking chair over and Gurathin spills his drink and they help and then Murderbot is just like can’t talk now bye and then fucks off without explaining anything or if it’s okay like- I love them soooooo baddddddd plsssss

[keekeenuggets]

ALSO

Can we talk about how the Vees always hang out in the same room???

We first see it when Vox goes to calm Val down:

It's the same table, TV, and couches that are in the extermination watch party scene, and they're also the same couches that Val and Vel are hanging out on in Stayed Gone:

This poster next to Vox when Val threw the glass is also visible in the background (on the left, behind Val) in the scene where Vel is watching the news on her phone:

After which Val immediately turns around and goes to sit on the couch to turn the TV on instead so he can see better. And when it switches to Vox's camera, there's a clear shot of the couches/table as well:

When their song in the finale starts, Vox passes these monitors, which are the same ones as in the first scene with Vox and Val (plus the little photo):

Then they're in front of the couch Vel and Vox were sitting on:

And then you can see the back of Val's couch when Velvette is filming the dancing.

And in her phone screen, you can see barstools in the background, which is probably where Velvette was sitting when she showed Val the news on her phone?

Also she was filming for 10 minutes,

And then remember that uh... weapons closet that Val gets guns out of? You can see it in the background when Val and Vox are singing (just to the right of Vox).

All of this is just to say the Vees 100% always hang out in this space, and it's adorable. It's their hangout space. I was always thinking it's a lobby/living room of some kind, but I've seen people refer to it as Val's room, and you know what? It's amazing either way because either Velvette and Vox both adore Val enough to have all his posters covering their common area wall, OR they have designated Val's room as their hangout spot, and he's just chill with it 😭

Bonus: look at how Velvette looks at her boys when they go off dancing:

These three are top tier polycule material and you cannot convince me otherwise.

[quekerahkerah]

Hey quick question, if i (a werewolf who's constantly wrestling with my own inhumanity, who both resents the fact that humans view werewolves as mindless monsters, and yet is also all-too-aware that my own werewolf family are cruel despots who deserve to die) ever snapped and became like my brother (embraced the monstrosity which i am sure grows even now within me) would you (my boyfriend, my walking moral compass, a Good Man to your very core) be strong enough to hunt me down and stop me? Yes? Cool, great, love you

[jimjamjomjum]

Movie night

[freckleslikestars]

What is this? How did we get here?

THE X FILES | This 11.02

[yawpyawp]

the lack of accessible third spaces in the US is REALLY not helping my mental health. the only places i have real access to right now are my parents’ house and my mom’s office. great places to have at my disposal, but i basically have no choice but to sit and work at the office or rot in bed for days at a time. sure, i can go on my shitty little mental health walks around the neighborhood or office park, but how much good does that really do?

[ocularpatdowns]

my last two blorbos (bucky and mac) have been violent, emotionally constipated men who originate as twinks but eventually get shredded

[syncogon]

they can't keep doing this to me

[uncanny-tranny]

Something I love that some trans people do is talk about their pre-transition selves with no context as to their transition.

Like, if a trans woman talks about her past by saying, "when I was in Boy Scouts..." and never elaborates that she's trans and that there was a time where she was a boy scout. I just think that kind of normalization is great (and honestly, it can be funny when others are like "a GIRL in the BOY scouts?????? My life is changed")

[yameoto]

girldick!skank quinn won't leave my mind... send help

skank!quinn graffiting the girls bathroom with pornographic pictures of you and wanking over them like a total perv.

tw: semipublic masturbation, mild slutshaming

she fucked you, once, to show her mommy n daddy and herself that shes a big girl now. most earth-shattering sex of your life, not that youve ever acknowledged it, or her, since. so, she takes every opportunity to rub your nose in the dirt at how you stooped so low as to let quinn fabray stretch you out on her cock like a common whore. takes one to know one. she's painted your walls with cum and you wanna ignore her now? oh, she doesnt fucking think so.

skank!quinn staggering into a bathroom stall, half-drunk because she spent her chem period swigging ricewine under the bleachers with the skanks, so she doesn’t even check if the door is properly locked or not. doesn’t really fucking care. because how is one sight of you in the hallways enough for her to get painfully hard? in an instant she’s slumped on the toilet lid, legs swinging wide and tugging her cock out from her shitty ripped jeans and thumbing hopelessly over its dribbling tip.

its filthy and unclassy and decidedly the furthest thing from immaculate head cheerio, founder of the celibacy club, churchgoing daddy's girl; quinn fabray. which is precisely why she does it. another act of defiance. driven by all that festering resentment that’s been boiling up inside her since the dawn of time (though, it helps that you look hot enough to eat alive. that boner she's been sporting under the tied-up flannel around her waist has been fighting against her damn jeans, all day.)

strokes her member in languid, half-assed movements as her head falls back against tiled walls and her eyes flutter shut as she fantasises; about her shiny-black nails digging into the flesh of your thighs, your hips—clawing long, white scratches down your skin. her hands; sliding up your top and groping, squeezing, twisting your tits from under your bra. dragging your panties down your legs with her teeth, how your hips would jerk up as your pussy hits her tongue. your walls, tight and wet and wringing her cock.

she moans out loud as she jerks off, right then and there, not giving a single fuck who hears (though she stifles the gasp of your name all the same), biting hard against her knuckles when she feels her chest stutter, balls drawing up in her boxers and mascara-laden lashes batting uncontrollably. she cums. shoots her load all over the stall door, rutting into her fist as the creamy explosion arcs in the air, chest in rasping gasps as she aims, mouth hung open, eyes hooded with intent. takes a second to pant, slumped back, and admires her handiwork; glistening, all over a crude caricature of your naked form, penned in her black sharpie marker.

doesn’t even bother to wipe her dick off, afterwards. simply tucking herself back in her boxers and letting the aftermath soak into fabric, sticking to her skin. she smudges her hands on her jeans and struts out, cigarette balanced between teeth. she passes you by, on your way to the bathroom, and you’re completely nonplussed at the cocky, crooked upturn that fixtures her lips when her eyes meet yours, meaningfully, over those stupid sunnies of hers—until you’re shutting the stall door and face-to-face with a crude recreation of you; splattered and gleaming with dried cum. under it, in sharpied, instantly recognisable cursive loop (too delicate, for its purposes), glares one word—quinn’s.

[lily-valley-hyperfixates]

Granada Holmes has me positively KICKING my feet what do you MEAN Holmes and Watson are goofballs. What do you MEAN they’re actually friends. I’m absolutely delighted with them they mean the world to me <333