#truly disgusting

[chubbychiquita]

i got grossly sweaty several times throughout filming w all the lights and fat bodies in the room so tbh you guys are gonna see some gross fuckin pictures of me and i need u to promise that it won't change how much u love me 🥺💕

[hyperactivewhore]

Another crazy thing is Julie Plec saying Bonnie is too good for Kol and that he's too evil for her, then pairing him with a white witch.... (no hate to Davina, but if he's irredeemable for Bonnie, then he’d irredeemable for Davina, too)

It's crazy because she also paired Bonnie with Enzo, a vampire who if I'm not wrong did abuse/kinda terrorize her friends, maybe not to the extent Klaus or Damon did but regardless (only if my memory serves me right; I don't remember much from Enzo, hence why I'm currently rewatching season five.)

Kol literally killed Davina and we're supposed to buy he's the better choice for her? Whether you're mind controlled or not, having your blood sucked out of your body by your boyfriend would leave a scarr for sure and the fact that Davina never got any trauma from it is insane. Bonnie went through worse stuff every season, of course, but she was never allowed to show any emotion onscreen, especially if it was against her white friends.

Saying Bonnie is "too pure" or has "too strong morals" to be with any Mikaelson or Salvatore is just stupid and clearly wrong. Elena and Caroline hated Damon and Klaus, until they didn't, it's easy to see women are being constantly retconned to fit into this shows storylines yet no one ever bats an eye until it comes to the main black woman from The Vampire Diaries.

And this isn't just with romances either. Fans believe Bonnie would hate Rebekah, when there isn't literally any proof to corroborate this and they haven't even interacted, they think she would hate Hope for being a Mikaelson when Bonnie has never been that kind of person. They're desperate to prove she's an anti vampires or generally a prude simply because she's traumatized and rightfully so. She decides to not be nice to the Salvatore brothers in season one after they got her grandmother killed and she's turned into some sort of supervillain because of it.

If Bonnie's actress had been white, I'm pretty sure her character and bloodline would have been in Mikaelson level by the show and fandom.

[iwatcheditbegin]

I’m definitely boycotting Coca-Cola

[blueekim]

what the fuck?

[antii-me]

how tf did my “based on your likes” reach the people who romanticize the fuckers who committed the columbine shooting??!! like wtf

[asmallcafethatslove]

not ppl writing fanfics about the matty healy situation

[itstiffs]

did I just hear ALPHA MALE.....

multiple times?????? why!!!!!!

truly disgusted

[eunandonly]

why do we have whole blogs dedicated to hating on specific people now?

like how unemployed and jobless and insecure are you to create these blogs please go reconnect with nature

is it so hard to treat others with respect and kindness without making malicious posts and leaking private information?

[subpixie420]

Haaaa I'm ugly

[vadersaber]

there are many things that this election is proving, but the most baffling by far is the fact that a lot of WOMEN would actually choose to vote for a convicted felon & a rapist who will strip them of their rights than vote for a fellow woman

[necessaryvictoriangargoyle]

Fucking ungrateful bitch...

What the fuck did Luigi ever do to Toad?!?

[hermit-frog]

[robo-writing]

I’m so naughty for this 😻😻 literally nobody can match my freak rn

What if… fluff fanfic of Logan and Reader where he is sleeping at normal times to fall asleep, and he wakes up to cocoa to warm him and Reader up in the cold near winter fall. Huddled up in a blanket together, giggling like teenagers over dumb puns.

literally the freakiest I can be rn 🐺⁉️⁉️

Anon this is OBSCENE, LEWD EVEN…..I like your style 👀

The smell of hot cocoa is what arouses him from his sleep—the familiar smell of chocolate and marshmallows wafting from the kitchen. Warm vanilla and rich cocoa moving through the air.

What makes him get out of bed however, is the distinct lack of you. He knows from the lack of your perfume that you're not at his side, but he still reaches a hand out to feel your empty spot—still warm. It doesn't take long for him to put two and two together, bare feet padding against the floor to find you in the kitchen. Hair messy, clothes tossled with the dredges of sleep still faintly visible in your eyes when you look up at him from the stove. "Mmm, mornin' baby," you whisper, voice deep with sleep. "I didn't wake you, did I?" "You expect me to stay in bed when my girl ain't there with me?" He says, coming behind to rest his face against your neck. A pleased hum escapes you, exposing more of your neck as he inhales your scent, lets his head fall further into you while he embraces you. The scruff of his beard tickles, and you make a mental note to ask him to trim it in the morning, but for now this is good enough. His voice is low when he speaks. "Smells good, what're you makin'?" "Hot chocolate," you answer, eyes darting towards the counter. "Saved you a mug." The bright red cup draws his attention, but not enough to pull him away from you right now. He leaves a small kiss against your exposed skin as gratitude, nuzzling up and down your face like a dog does to it's favorite human. "God, I love you. Have I told you that before?" You love it when he's like this, at peace. Too long he's forced to be someone he's not, and it makes your heart swell to know that you're the only one that can turn this beast of a man into a puppy. "You might have mentioned it once or twice." you laugh. "Would you love me more if I told you there's a blanket in the living room with our names on it?" His groan makes your spine tingle, large palms squeezing at your sides. "Marry me." "We're already married Logan," you smile, only to be interrupted with another groan. "Marry me again honey—I'll buy you two rings this time."

[felixir]

I promised myself that I was no longer going to partake in anything concerning this issue simply because it was beginning to exhaust me both mentally and emotionally, but this needs to be seen.

“hamas are freedom fighters!!”

oh really lmao. i know the evidence of antisemitism and how they treat jews means nothing to you, so let’s discuss an article written by a non jewish thai man about what his people experienced on oct 7 at the hands of hamas:

they LEARNED THAI. TO TERRORIZE THESE PEOPLE.

they murdered them and kidnapped them. why??? because they could.

they murdered the bedouin man they kidnapped too but you all continue to support them.

[knifeforkspooncup]

Please click for better resolution!

I made this silly little art, and then like a being possessed, wrote 1200 words of pure unadulterated hogwash to go with it (ficlet below the cut)

Duck Duck Goose

Rating: Teen and up

"Shouldn't be feeding them bread." Crowley said, trying and failing to ward off an irate goose with the pointed toe of his boot. "It’s brioche." Aziraphale chided, as if that explained anything. A nattering crowd of ducks was forming at his feet like eager disciples. Crowley didn't ask where he'd gotten the brioche. He'd stuck his chilly hands into Aziraphale's pockets enough times now to know the list of things the angel kept on his person at any given moment was - well, impressive was one word for it. In the way a magpie's hoard of oddities was impressive. A brioche was quite pedestrian, really. "Brioche then.” The goose had moved on to striking repeatedly for his ankles, more pit viper than waterfowl. “Shouldn’t. Feed them. Brioche,” he gritted between defensive maneuvers. He never had gotten the hang of sword fighting. If Aziraphale heard, he pretended not to, ripping off hunks of bread at least double the esophagus diameter of the average mallard duck. One at a time, he tossed them lazily into the fray. The ducks erupted into chattering, nipping each other’s feathers. A shark frenzy had more natural order to it.

The goose took no interest, bloodlust overriding any desire for fine French baked goods. If anything, it doubled its effort to latch onto Crowley’s shin. Had geese always had teeth?

Aziraphale beamed at the chaos, halogen bright. Humming with self satisfaction, he brushed his hands of crumbs, and settled back against the bench. Crowley diverted a sliver of bodily coordination to snake one arm behind him, weaseling into the warm gap left by the angel’s impeccable posture.

This was a thing they did now, apparently. Not watching ducks squabble over bread – that part was old hat. But Aziraphale tucking himself neatly against Crowley's side? For all the world to see. Like he was one of Crowley's wings simply stowing away. Frankly, that hat still had the tag on it. Still had that new hat smell.

This was rapidly becoming their new normal. Embroidery on the familiar weave of their time together. They still did all the things they always had. They still went to the Ritz, where the waiter still assumed Aziraphale was paying for the bill. Crowley still pulled out the angel’s seat like a proper gentledemon.

None of that had changed.

Just now they also held hands on the table between courses, and Aziraphale fed Crowley bites of dessert straight from his spoon. Sometimes they even did exciting things with their feet under the table.

Aziraphale called it canoodling. Crowley was pretty sure that was a fussy type of dog. The kind that wore bows on its head and left the groomer looking like an ornamental hedge.

Whatever it was, it was nice. More than nice.

Take today for example. The clouds were parting, birds singing – the whole production; the sun sparkled just so, really putting the ol’ razzle dazzle on it all.

There went Aziraphale, tipping his head back against Crowley’s shoulder, eyes closing. Lashes sun-gilt and fanning on his rosy cheeks. Straight out of a renaissance painting. A nice, expensive renaissance painting, on with real lapis lazuli pigment for the eyes. The angel really knew when to lay it on thick.

“Oh, that’s quite nice, isn’t it.” Aziraphale sighed, basking in the warmth.

See, nice? It was nice. Five hundred years of coming here, and this moment was the most nice it had ever been. Crowley remembered when this place was a marshy field full of roving geese and snuffling pigs. When the trees that made this nice bench were just scrawny little saplings, runty and wind bitten. Had the bench gotten smaller? It used to feel immense, and not in the luxury Cadillac sense of the word. Used to fit Heaven and Hell between them with room to spare. Back when nice was a four letter –

The goose sunk it’s – definitely toothed – beak into Crowley’s shin, just above the boot.

Satisfied with its grip, it started to flail, giving the impression Crowley was a chewtoy it meant to thrash to death. The small part of Crowley’s brain reserved for humility was starting to believe it would succeed.

"Dinner? How would you feel about a nice, tasty Christmas goose?” Grunted Crowley, shaking his leg and raising his free hand, demonic miracle at the ready. He had just the goose in mind. “With all the trimmings. Could even do some plum sauce on the side if you like,"

Aziraphale frowned, eyes still closed. “…it’s October.”

“That a no, then? Don’t want to get a head start on the festivities?”

Aziraphale looked up just as Crowley managed to dislodge the fowl beast and punt it away like a feathery football. It came right back, tongue stuck out like a rude child and wheezing angrily.

He tsked, mouth thinning. “You’re terrible. Leave the poor thing alone.”

Crowley sputtered. “Wha – ha – me?! I’m not the one biting a boot like a lunatic!” Would that work? Biting it? Maybe the goose would bugger off if Crowley bit it back. Should he bite it back? He should probably bite it, shouldn’t he. Oh, Satan, he was going to get feathers stuck in his teeth.

The infernal creature hissed, undoubtedly reading his mind. Crowley hissed back, tongue forking menacingly if only for the sake of his own ego.

Aziraphale was staring at him and smiling. Well, smirking. Fondly. The corners of his mouth pinching his cheeks, eyes crinkling under a raised eyebrow. He even had a dimple forming on his chin. Ridiculous. Something in the inner workings of Crowley’s chest did its best impression of a snare drum.

“Shall we, my dear?” Said the Very Ridiculous Angel, stirring from Crowley’s side. He stood and straightened his jumper until there were no more wrinkles. Seeing Crowley still engaged in boot-to-beak combat with the feathery fiend, he added tartly: “Before someone gets killed.”

Crowley grumbled something about demonic wrath and taking bets, but slunk to his feet. He flicked his glasses down and shot a final, venomous glare at the goose before sidling up to Aziraphale and offering his arm.

Aziraphale took it, wedging warm hands into the crook of Crowley’s elbow. He made it look habitual, easy as. Just the natural thing to do. Right as rain.

He was faster than Crowley, at this part. At the settling in. He’d taken to it all like geese to psychological warfare.

“You mentioned dinner?” Said Aziraphale brightly, ducks parting obediently at their feet.

“Your turn to pick.” Crowley’s skin was sizzling, water on a hot frying pan.

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment, face thoughtful. He took dinner plans very seriously.

“How about Peking duck? From that lovely place just around the corner, the one with the comfortable chairs.”

Crowley gave him a sharp look, nearly spraining an eyebrow in the process.

The angel was looking resolutely ahead, expression perfectly blank save for the way his mouth twitched at the corners.

I love you, blurted Crowley’s brain.

“Every restaurant has comfortable chairs,” blurted his mouth. It was a fact. Every restaurant did have comfortable chairs. Or else. So far Crowley hadn’t met a chair that cared to find out about the or else – chairs not being very curious by nature.

Crowley would say all the other things later, of course. All the sappy, corny, sweet-nothing things. When they were home. When he could wash the burn down with something whispered and sinfully filthy. Something that would make Aziraphale turn pinker than a summer peach.

Aziraphale was watching him, gaze unspeakably soft. “I know, my dear,” he said.

“I know.”

[loganswdc]

i quite honestly find it absolutely ridiculous how logan is no longer in the sport , he's doing his own thing , he's out trying to get a job in another motorsports series , and yet the commentators refuse to shut up about him .

truly , they are acting like his biggest fans with how often they have to mention him , how often they need to compare him to franco . and i find it ridiculous how its their job to comment on the sport and bring up important information to fans and yet the refuse to acknowledge the fact that franco is driving a completely different car than the one logan was driving .

just my two cents on today's quali . it was quite infuriating to watch how they continously had to bring logan up into the conversation only for them to tear him to pieces . it's ridiculous , disgusting , and quite honestly it's starting to become unprofessional . just leave him alone , there is truly no need to continue to talk about him in such a poor manner .

and don't even get me started on the fucked up free practice graphics.