#i'm thinking of

[bread-tab]

comparing autistic people to robots as a form of mocking and dehumanization <- very rude, ableism, not cool

making up robot characters with traits that autistic people have because you're trying to thoughtfully portray someone with a logical, unorthodox, alexithymic personality and end up making them autism-coded <- autism approved, new hyperfixation, i am the character

[sawymredfox]

I'm thinking of Javi. Agent Peña's plush lips and mustache, and the glimpses of them you get as you tidy up the kitchen after dinner, wearing only one of his shirts and panties. He's sitting on the couch, stewing in his thoughts. He's angry tonight. You don't need to look at him to know it. It radiates from him, flooding the apartment. You're angry, too. On his behalf, but your worry for him overshadows it. You wish he took the final step, the one you can feel he's about to take, every day closer and closer, ditching them all to go back home to a happier life with you. He's angry at his job, at the cartels, at how he lets himself be dragged by them and be hurt, at himself for letting you down once more. It makes him quiet, pensive, mean, rough. 

He's sitting on the couch, barefoot, with the back of his head resting on the headrest, and his eyes are closed. One hand, resting on the armrest, holds a glass of whiskey. The other hand is holding the cigarette, outlining his upper lip and mustache with his thumbnail, making you shudder with the memories of them on your skin. His shirt, dirty with his sweat, lies on the floor, and his jeans rest low on his hips, with the fly open in search of comfort, showing a lack of underwear. But to you, it's a siren's call. You're wet. It makes you think about the other nights that had been like this one, how he asks you, how he uses you to let the anger go so he can talk to you afterward. Sometimes it's against the wall. Or it's with you sitting on the kitchen counter, or he bends you over the table. Or on the couch, like tonight seems to be, when he wants you on top of him, sitting on his lap. You can see it. He might offer you his thigh first because he wants a show. He wants you to drench his jeans as he looks at you and keeps drinking. He wants to hear you. He wants you to be loud as you take your pleasure until you're about to come, just to take it away, to hold you still for a few seconds, with his hands on your hips so that you're hovering on his leg but not touching him anymore, keeping you there before moving you as he pleases, taking away your panties, ripping them, making you sit on his lap, going inside you with a single trust. Hard. Deep. Splitting. Mumbling sweet words on your neck as he kisses it, bites it, marks it with his mustache, and guides your movements with his hands, with purpose, until you come. And as he calls you, breaking your daydream. Nena. And as he looks at you with his hand outstretched, luring you, you know you will give it to him one more night, and as many as he wants, you want it too. You always hunger for him.

[local-lover-boy]

I rly need a lesbian breadwinner mommy wife so I can be motivated to care for myself to be her trophywife

[bowtiesarecool11]

If I had a nickel for every time Steve and Reece did a synchronised dance number together in Inside No. 9, I'd have three nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's really weird that it happened three times.

[bloodonthetracks93]

one of my fave things to see in a fic is a truly unique and inventive use of magic. like !!!! i'm in awe of your mind and your whimsy !!!!

[cla-oh]

🦋✨The Winx Club as a Y2k Poster pt.2✨🦋

💅

[sylveon-and-velveon]

I tell myself "I'mma not draw man titties this time" and then my brain reminds me of Leon and I go "…. fuck it, man titties it is"