#russell talks

[thalassomania]

what is “what happens next” about if you don’t mind me asking? :)

i've been sitting on this ask for a while now because WHERE! DO I! BEGIN!!!!

ok. so. what happens next is a currently ongoing webcomic by max graves, beginning late in 2021. it is a story told in multiple chapters about multiple characters, but one could argue that its protagonist is milo holliday. milo is a trans man, pastel blogger, toy customizer... and accomplice to a murder.

one of the first panels of the comic is a screenshot of the dni page on milo's tumblr, which got me IMMEDIATELY interested in the comic because it's such a unique way of storytelling:

[image description available for the above]

and we get a lot more pages like this that are screenshots of websites, social media profiles, and the like. the comic is a mixture of in-person interactions, online communication, and occasional flashbacks, all of which are important pieces of the story.

so when they were teenagers, milo's best friend griffin petty killed two people, and milo helped mutilate one of the bodies. while griffin was sent to prison, milo spent years in a psychiatric institution that stunted his emotional growth and forever altered his view of the world. a drawing he makes while institutionalized provides a window into milo's perceptions of the event:

[image description available for the above]

the whole comic is an uncomfortably accurate reflection of mid-2010s tumblr culture, right down to the sanrio traumacore and crytyping. milo's suffering is multifaceted: in reference to the people harassing him online, he says "it doesn't feel like they hate me for what i did... it feels like they hate me for the way i am," referring to his being an autistic trans man. and given that many of his detractors seem to come from sites like kiwifarms (notorious for its transphobia and ableism), he isn't entirely wrong! but at the same time, his relentless depictions of himself as the victim erase his contributions to haylie's death and the ways he's made himself and others' problems worse.

not every part of the comic is about milo, though! i'm only scratching the surface of it here: all of those pages and links are for the first part, titled "dog names." in the second part, "someone else," we're introduced to gage ludemann, a gore blogger and true crime fan who has entered a long-distance relationship with griffin, and once again, screenshots are used to masterful effect:

[image description available for the above]

but screenshots and characters' drawings are one thing, and max's art is another. starting in the third part, "no matter what," panels are shown in full color, and his color choices are great. what i really love, though, is the amount of detail max puts into character design and facial expressions. i could show you so many different panels that i think show off max's art, but i'll try to narrow it down to one:

[image description available for the above]

soooo yeah!! i have SO MANY THOUGHTS about this webcomic and i keep trying to get close friends to read it, haha. i've read a lot of webcomics and i can say with certainty that there is NOTHING out there quite like what happens next. it's a story about true crime fanaticism, psychological trauma, social media presences, existing as a transgender person, and so much more. the comic is currently on its fifth part, "you'll all be sorry," which seems to be about the characters vikki escamilla and xandra blumberg. if you decide to check it out please feel free to tell me all about it! i'm not connected to the comic at all, but i really love it and i think everything about it is just fascinating.

and max graves, if you're somehow reading this... hiiiiii i'm a huge fan!!! love your work!!! i hope i've represented it at least somewhat accurately here!

@kukai

[thalassomania]

saw this on my feed and decided to join in ^-^ me and my elementary-school self

picrew tag: yourself now vs you as a kid

thanks to @enchanted-lightning-aes for the open tag!

picrew source: x.

i like glitch effect

no pressure: @kuusi-palaa, @nostalgebraist-autoresponder, and open tag

[pucksandpower]

This is so hot of the GPDA

[georgerussellls]

this tiktok is my roman empire

[swirlingyouintomypoems]

Yes I’m aware I’m going to hell what about it

Masterlist

[thalassomania]

weeeeeeee it’s meeeeeeeee

thank you for tagging me robin!! idk who to tag now tho :3

another picrew chain!!! anyone can participate i just like kicking my feet and looking at the notes :) did lolita coord vs. goth clubbing me~

picrew link undah the cut!!

ALT BODY

[giuseppe-yuki]

Which drivers besides Lewis and Alex would create a whole separate instagram for their girlfriend’s shapeshifter form and which of the drivers would post funny meme worthy pictures vs actually nice ones

-🫐🥐

hmm...

alex:

def just post after post of the blurriest pictures that look like they were taken from a potato/no context pictures ? ? ?

[image 1 caption]: hey 👽

[image 2 caption]: clocking in for my new day job as a mouse

[image 3 caption]: 🍐

george:

v nice photos that look they were taken professionally (he would never dare post a bad pic of his deer shapeshifter!gf)

[image 1 caption]: feeling one with nature 🌱

[image 2 caption]: snuggled up at home 🏠

[image 3 caption]: really enjoying being among the flowers and plants 🌿

danny ric:

silly ones, duh!

[image 1 caption]: napsssss

[image 2 caption]: safety first

[image 3 caption]: danny taking pics of me for his jpg account 🙄

guanyu:

solely for the costumes that he buys for his teacup pig shapeshifter!gf

[image 1 caption]: quack!

[image 2 caption]: taking a page from charles' book

[image 3 caption]: spot the real winnie the pooh (impossible edition)

max:

uploads daily with pics of his "ragdoll cat". (it's always like the same photo from like 20 different angles) my man might have an addiction atp 😭

[image 1 caption]: 😸

[image 2 caption]: 😺

[image 3 caption]: 😼

franco:

oh god. he doesn't post too often, but when he does, you bet it's gonna be a selection of the most random pics and sometimes along with controversial captions that get him yelled at by pr.

[image 1 caption]: pussy (cat)

[image 2 caption]: crimuh ! ! ! ! 🎄 im wishing for everyone's engines to blow up and i get p1 at the next prix 🤞

[image 3 caption]: how the engineers look at me after i dent the williams car again (sorry guys 🥲)

a/n: all pictures from pinterest ! + shameless advertising: this is part of my shapeshifter!reader x driver au :)

[intheorangebedroom]

I love how this gif jumped straight from WhatsApp to my inbox.

Explicit yes below the cut.

When you moved in with him, he plucked the Gladiator VHS out of one of your boxes and asked if you still had a VCR. You shrugged and said no, but you love that movie and that VHS has been with you forever and “have you seen Russell Crowe in his Roman uniform???” with an upward curl of your lips that had him raise an eyebrow.

Okay. Russell Crowe. As a Roman general. He knows only too well -and appreciates- your taste for veterans, but he had no idea it extends to the Roman legion.

First, he thought about finding an old VCR and surprise you with it. So you could play that tape and watch the movie together with What’s-his-face commanding his legion or whatever it is that put that spark in your eyes. Show you he’s not the jealous kind.

But then… well then he gets a far better idea.

He takes him a while to find it, and when he does, he has to drive all the way to the city to the rental place, then back home, where he hides the whole thing in an inconspicuous container under the workbench in his toolshed. Not too close to where he keeps the zip ties because then you’ll surely find it.

It's huge, and cumbersome. It comes with so many accessories, the shoes and the cape and a sword and the frigging golden laurel wreath in a wooden box…

Yovanna and Santi are throwing their annual Halloween party, which will provide him with the perfect occasion to wear it. As the day draws closer, and you keep asking him what he’ll go as, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain a poker face. “I don’t know what you got up your sleeve, Morales, but your Halloween costume better be scary.”

At long last, the 31st is here. He dashes in from work and goes straight to the toolshed. The whole attire is a nightmare to strap on by himself, but after 15 years of his life adjusting tac vests, he manages. 

When he steps into the bedroom, you’re zipping up a dark blue Michael Myers suit. You usually prefer to coordinate your costumes, only this year he decided to play solo, so you had to improvise on your own.

You turn around to the sound of his footsteps on the carpet just in time to watch him walk through the threshold, clad head to toe as a Roman general. 

And oh! he’s a mighty vision. His silhouette looks twice as massive. The chest armor, adorned with two winged chimeras, emphasizes his impossible breadth. His shoulders fill up the entire door frame. A white cape, embroidered with threads of gold, is flowing behind him, and on his plush lips, a devastatingly smug smile, and you forget how to breathe. Your ribcage caves in on a breathless gasp. Your eyes grow wide and your mouth falls open.

It's not... It's not the grime and crimson of battle. It's the white and gold of triumph. It’s as though all the light in the room emanates from him. Like he is made of it. Made of gold. And his hair, oh his hair, underneath that golden crown, curls in every direction, like that bust of Agrippa you once fell in love with in the Louvre.

He is magnificent.

And that son of a bitch knows it.

“You son of a bitch…” you whisper.

His grin stretches, revealing his dimple. And he fucking chuckles.

You briefly consider texting Yovanna to cancel. Bail out on your favourite evening of the year, but then you think different. You're going to go to that party and walk into their house with that man of pure golden light on your arm. Parade him all night. And then, you’re going to go home with him and ride him into next year.

When you get there, you are rewarded by the attendees' collective gasp upon his entrance. You’re probably hovering 10 centimeters above the floor with sheer pride. Yovanna shoots you a “good for you, girl!” look you have no trouble interpreting.

You spend the entire party watching him with a coveting gaze, hiding behind your mask. You might die, from want and anticipation and also dehydration with how hot and sweaty you get, with the size of his arms, and his naked legs on display, thick and solid and strong in just the right proportions. He looks so good it's obscene, and from across the room, he makes sure you're looking at him. That grin hasn't left his gorgeous face. You know he can see through your mask, through your thoughts, through your need.

On the drive home, both of you are silent. There's too much tension, it's crackling and sizzling like butter on a pan, and you zip your combination down to your waist to free the upper half of your body from the dense cotton material. With a side glance, you catch the working of his pebbled throat, confirming he’s registered how snugly your black tank top hugs your breasts. 

You are wet all over. Saliva pools into your mouth at the sight of his freckled skin, the rippling muscles of his exposed forearms and his thick fingers curled around the wheel.

You don’t even make it to the bedroom.

As soon as you get home, you step in front of him and brace both hands on his massive chest. The rigid armor feels so real, and you are reminded, once more, of the fabric of him. Of what his life has been. Of what he's done and seen. The battles he’s fought, the wounds he survived. And the way he chose love to redeem all his sins.

A warrior. A lover. Your man.

Quietly, you undress with trembling hands under his trained gaze. The dark pool of his eyes glimmers in the semi-darkness, in the feeble glow from the table lamp that catches at each and every golden detail of his uniform.

With a light touch, you back him up into the armchair. When he sits down in it, it looks like Caesar's throne. 

And then, you kneel before him, on the rough carpet, between his spread legs, hands splayed around his calves, skimming up to rest over his thighs. Feverish palms to feverish skin.

His tongue peeks slowly between his parted mouth to lick at his plush bottom lip, and you clench, sticky slick leaking down into your ruined underwear as you bunch the white toga in your fists and push it back.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice a quiet rasp.

“Yea,” he husks, bucking his hips forward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his large hand a loose curl around your jaw as he guides your face closer to what has you begging.

Brushing your cheek against his thigh, you nuzzle the bulge of his boxer briefs, and the heady scent of his sex makes you dizzy. He’s hard when you pull him out, hard and warm and throbbing in the palm of your hand, and his heavy breathing fills your ears. Pursing your lips around the fat tip of him, you taste his want. The tangy flavour travels down to your core and you squirm wantonly at his feet, eyes fluttering shut at the heavy glide of his cock over your tongue. 

Carding his fingers through your hair, his hand wrapped on your nape, he draws you in gently, down to his base, inch by inch, and you focus on what he’s giving you, on the impossible size of him, eyes flickering open to lock onto his, as he watches you take him in. Your fingers burrow into the thick of his thighs, nails digging in, and he thumbs away a stray tear from the round of your cheek as you keep him there, pulsating hot and heavy inside your throat until you can’t breathe. 

When you pull away, heaving chest and teary eyes, with a thread of saliva bowing down from your mouth to his cock, he bends forward in a creak of leather, to grab at your waist and motion you up. You moan in complaint, please Frankie please, jolting at the cold touch of his golden cuff on your skin.

“Shhh, c’mere,” he husks.

You stand up ruefully but docilely between his legs, and you might be crying, looking down at him, because it rips through your chest, it tears your bleeding heart apart, the timeless beauty of him. The reassuring breadth of his solid frame, the fathomless depth of his dark eyes, the pensive crease in his brow. His perfect features framed underneath the wreath of laurel. The softness of his touch, the restraint on his strength, when he slides your panties down carefully.

You cup his face between your hands to make sure this man is real, scraping your nails through the scruff of his beard, thumbs resting over the bare patches of his sharp jaw. 

He runs a thick digit through your soaking folds and your whole body shivers, knees buckling, you’d crumple on the floor if it wasn’t for his firm hold on your hip. 

“So? Do you like the costume?” he asks softly, teasing your entrance with his middle finger, and you laugh through your tears. 

His grin falls as he leans forward with a frown, rustling fabric and creaking leather, to press his forehead into your belly, chin pushing at the apex of your thighs, tongue darting to lick a broad stripe across your folds. His primal grunt vibrates along your spine and down your limbs, so fucking sweet, baby. 

The sharp edges of his golden crown bite into your palm when you thread your fingers through his curls. 

“C’mere,” he beckons, drawing you in, “come sit on it.”

His large hand skims down along your smooth skin and curls at the back of your leg, sitting you in a straddle over his lap. The armchair is large, but he’s larger yet, and even more so with the cape and the chest plate and the leather pteruge, and it’s a fumble to find a good position. 

He scoots forward over the seat but your knees knock uncomfortably into the armrest, and he huffs in frustration. You tilt up his face and realise you haven’t even kissed him yet, too caught up in his glorious beauty. 

“Francisco,” you breathe out, and he stills. 

You lower your mouth to his, tongue gliding over the soft cushion of his lips, and he opens up, kissing you back full and deep, your tongues entwined and swirling languidly. His hands find the plump of your cheeks, spreading you for him.

When he breaks the kiss, it's with a rushed grumble of “let me take this fucking thing off,” but you're already sinking down onto his length with a pained moan, furrowed brow and eyes clenched shut at the blinding stretch, fluttering walls and quivering chest.

You settle there, the coarse hair at his base grazing your swollen clit, his warm shuddering breath fanning your face. You feel him throb at the center of you, and you cling on to him, to his cape, forehead to forehead, the cool surface of his armor pressed to your peaked breasts.

“Keep it on, Frankie, please. I want to know what it feels like to fuck a god.”

—

HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY, MY LOVE 🧡

[thalassomania]

my bestie bought me one of the actual coolest christmas gifts i’ve ever gotten. behold… GARFIELD SOAP. FROM 1978.

this soap is older than me and i plan to put it in a nice shadowbox so i can gaze upon it forever

[magical-oppas]

How to find your favourite driver

Nico Hulkenberg: Kindergarten drop off

Kevin Magnussen: FIA jail cell

Zhou Guanyu: A photoshoot for a fashion magazine

Valtteri Bottas: Go somewhere where you wouldn't expect people to have their whole arse out. He will show up

Yuki Tsunoda: Go to the highest rated restaurant you can find. He will come.

Daniel Ricciardo: Texas

Logan Sargeant: Underneath an amreican flag

Alex Albon: Become a cat, let him come to you

Esteban Ocon: In an alley somewhere making tiktoks

Pierre Gasly: COD lobby, most probably beefing with a 14 year old so you will have to wait your turn

Fernando Alonso: Conduct some questionable business, eventually he will give you a call

Lance Stroll: You wont find him unless he wants you to

Oscar Piastri: Sorry, he only spawns at tracks during race weekends

Lando Norris: Top step of the podium *air horn sound**air horn sound**Sunglasses emoji**fuckboy emoji(you know which one I mean)*

Carlos Sainz: Just stand on the side of any bike trail, he will turn up eventually

Charles Leclerc: A high end designer boutique for dogs

Lewis Hamilton: Any red carpet event of your choosing

George Russell: Outside Buckingham Palace

Sergio Perez: Locate Helmut Marko, now locate the furthest point away from him. Voila, you have found Checo

Max Verstappen: Start sim racing. What? You thought you could meet him irl? Don't be ridiculous

[allnewastromarta]

I'll never understand f1 driver's refusal to call each other friends. Mate you're spending almost every weekend together, more if you're teammates, and regularly schedule padel dates on top of that. Sounds like friends to me.

[im-a-ghost666]

My dad just showed me this graphic in one of his magazines...

(On the bottom it also says that ocon is the least liked driver)

[collinnmckinley]

Call of Duty: Black Ops 6 - gifs 9/? | "Woods took a big leap of faith on you"

[swirlingyouintomypoems]

Made so many of these I don’t have anything to say here anymore tbh

Masterlist

[foolishlyzephyrus]

the psychic damage incurred from hearing the word “doggo” in doctor who is immeasurable

[slutforpringles]

So Daniel and George David Attenborough-style youtube channel happening when??

via: Tweet | Video