#must be a day that ends in 'y'

[platoapproved]

And that's the end of it. There's nothing else.

[randlemartin]

skimming through the opening of tlp to find out who's in first platoon and the way web goes from 'oh boy that didn't go well 😲🫨' to 'time to put on my winning smile 😁😁' when he goes up to second is so funny. you can be really mean to him but you cannot keep a pretty princess down!

[smores100]

Behind the scenes of Leo Woodall and Nicholas Galitzine's #ActorsOnActors conversation, which launches at 8 a.m. PT tomorrow (via @Variety)

ETA: more pics

[finalgirlsamwinchester]

"...the horror film abounds in images of abjection, foremost of which is the corpse, whole and mutilated, followed by an array of bodily wastes such as blood, vomit, saliva, sweat, tears and putrifying flesh...viewing the horror film signifies a desire not only for perverse pleasure...but also a desire, having taken pleasure in perversity, to throw up, throw out, eject the abject..." Barbara Creed, Horror and the Monstrous-Feminine: An Imaginary Abjection | Carrie (1976) dir. Brian De Palma | SPN 14.04, 'Mint Condition'

[alrightbuckaroo]

Happy Wednesday, everyone! Here's something from the newest chapter of something to give each other, which is now up on ao3. I tried to find something somewhat safe for work, but I don't think this was the chapter for it so yeah here's some spice, smut and the like:

Carlos' fingers tighten their grip, feeling the way TK’s body is hot and taut. Flesh stretched over bone, pulled tight and firm with longing; waiting and wanting to be made pliable.

TK releases a sharp gasp that’s born out of a mix of both pain and pleasure. Carlos’ grip weakens just slightly, though barely noticeable. TK looks down and Carlos’ eyebrows are creasing in the middle. Quietly, Carlos asks, “You okay?”

TK brings his movements to a lull, stretched around Carlos but not fully seated. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Though it's an answer, there’s an air of uncertainty laced between the words. Almost as if he’s confused as to why Carlos cares in the first place.

TK can feel Carlos’ concern covering him like a shadow. He places both hands on Carlos’ muscular thighs, digging his fingers into the tanned skin and causing a bolt of painful pleasure to strike through the other man. Carlos’ hips buck and TK welcomes the thrust, contracting his muscles and fusing the heat shared between them.

“Carlos,” TK says his name like it’s a reprimand. Carlos continues to fuck into him as he continues. “We’re fucking, not having dinner, stop worrying about, fuck —” TK’s cut off when Carlos drives into him again, this time angling his hips so he brushes against his prostate. “Pleasantries.”

Carlos goes quiet but his hips keep moving. He’s stopping himself from saying that he wishes they were having dinner. From telling TK that there’s currently a red snapper sitting in the fridge, waiting to be devoured over accidental, awkward dinner conversation.

Thanks for the tags @lemonlyman-dotcom, @paperstorm, @emsprovisions, @strandnreyes, @heartstringsduet

@eclectic-sassycoweyes, and @carlos-in-glasses as always!

No pressure tagging:

@bonheur-cafe, @herefortarlos, @reyesstrand, @lightningboltreader, @orchidscript

@your-catfish-friend, @theghostofashton, @thisbuildinghasfeelings, @whatsintheboxmh, @freneticfloetry

@fifthrideroftheapocalypse, @guardian-angle22, @honeybee-taskforce, @welcometololaland, @rmd-writes

@literateowl, @never-blooms, @basilsunrise, @tellmegoodbye and of course, here's an open tag! <3

[andy-clutterbuck]

9x01 | requested by Anonymous

[aroaceleovaldez]

once again thinking about the worldbuilding in the riordanverse of "names are power" / "belief is power."

The Tri were only able to become immortal through convincing enough people to worship them that it became true. Monsters and immortals only exist through continued belief, and if enough people believe that they're dead or gone then it becomes true, like Pan. Their varied forms exist and manifest as they're believed in and called upon. Names call attention and epithets summon aspects. They're acknowledgement. Belief. Putting a name to a concept creates it as an individual.

And that's so fascinating when you start applying it to demigods. How much of their abilities are based on belief in themselves, in expectations of each other, in their parents' expectations of them? We've seen mortal figures who became immortal in some form or another because they were remembered. Even the lares - ancestral house gods, who persist because they're remembered. They have a legacy.

At what point does a demigod achieve that status? Rumors and whispers about them so persistent that they slowly become true. "I heard that Jason Grace is the son of two gods, does that make him a god?" "I heard Percy Jackson defeated a titan single-handedly. That he can create hurricanes without breaking a sweat. That he can control blood." After awhile, after enough rumors, does it become impossible to tell where they end and the legends begin? Isn't that what being a demigod is; half-legend?

[atopvisenyashill]

there were apparently some targnation people that were being super racist, i think about that absolutely gorgeous indigenous queen sansa/king bran art piece and boy am i glad i missed all that shit because i might have actually lost it

edit: i found it it’s the usual suspects doing the same tired “it’s problematic that you drew the starks as native because *fart noises*” and these people wonder why everyone hates them when they just randomly attack artists for no reason online

[appropriatelystupid]

[shoshiwrites]

5 lines of an imaginary fic meme: "the dead of night", Jo/your choice? Please and thank you!

Friend, I don't entirely know what happened here but @floydmtalbert said history outing! and @mercurygray was kind enough to let me kidnap Fred.

She wonders whose idea it was, deciding that the flyboys needed a little bit of culture — her money was decidedly not on the new CO — but maybe Red Bowman had had something to do with it, she figures, sipping a rare indulgence at a corner table, a mug of cider golden and cloudy with fruit.

Culture had meant a half-circle of olive drab standing around a bespectacled professor who looked every inch the part — well, now he was sitting at the bar with Harry Crosby, discussing something or other about the War of the Roses, Jo had heard when she’d passed around the room earlier — but she wasn’t sure just how much attention he’d held other than Harry’s, and maybe John Brady’s, although, Brady might have been looking for a distraction, his gaze alternating between the yellowing leaves above and the ash-blonde braid of a certain Clubmobiler, still watching her now across the pub, as she chats with her colleagues. 

Cruikshank — Crank — he’s a good sport for a quote about missing fall in New England, sidled up against the bar, and Jo’s mind wanders back to the professor’s remarks on folklore, on witchcraft, on the history that lay beneath their steps — yes, yours too, young man, he’d fixed a stage-whispering Biddick with a look that made everyone laugh — underpinning everything. 

She thinks of late fall, though it’s only September, of moonlit nights and moonless ones, horses’ hooves along ancient roads, of declarations and accusations, invocations, graves — if she closes her eyes maybe the chatter in the pub is something of the olden days, the townspeople’s squabbles and songs, a knight’s pining for a love forbidden. 

God, she thinks, I’ve been reading too many novels — she’s sure Kay would be laughing, and before she can take another sip of her drink she’s caught by the arrow of John Egan’s voice hitting the back wall, “one dance,” he’s saying, “just one,” and before she can tell him that no one’s dancing she’s proven wrong by the scrape of chairs being moved and sudden negotiations; she watches Fred and her friends looking around, Crank approaching a pretty English girl in a yellow dress, Biddick elbowing Brady in the ribs. 

Kay would kill her if she didn’t, not that she’d have to tell her at all, but something pulls her up and it’s not just his hands, not just her own heart — something like a forgotten holloway, a shining face in the firelight, a moment in his arms bringing woodsmoke on the wind.

[so-very-small]

was going to make a poetic post about older tinies and giants but then i got caught up in thinking about giants with salt and pepper beards and now i can’t think of anything else

[zibanejad]

[ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask]

Lorne gets so much crap. Poor guy.

Sheppard goes and gets himself captured (for the twentieth time) and Weir spends several days berating Lorne like it's his fault.

Dude's just trying to do his job, Elizabeth.

[brightmalcolm]

ugh eve hate annoys me like I know there are legitimate reasons to dislike her but most of those reasons didn't come around till the second half of season 1 the rest of the time it was just "um she gets in the way of dani/malcolm and also gives bad vibes source: bro trust me"

[thepromiscuousfinger]

Bullying Sony for helldivers 2 isn't about unionization retard, it's about people's products not being abused by some executives in a board room. Its about ownership of products not being some lazy fuckwit.

Well well well.

Look who's all booty blasted over a meme. Did you eat enough today, anon? Maybe not enough hydration if you're this upset over a random meme I found and reposted 😯

And I'm the retard? Bitch, please.

0.5/10 for mediocre insults

[andy-clutterbuck]