#ITS SO HEAT

[kosmical]

my target audience is not vocaloid enjoyers but that is exactly why i have to tell you all to go listen to machina mori. go . go listen to that album right the fuck now. NOW. NEOW

[basshole-astard]

PSA: i keep seeing posts about staying cool in extreme heat that include advice like "gatorade is bad actually!" and "don't drink fruit juice it'll just dehydrate you!" and neither of these are true!

regarding fruit juice: there's apparently a misconception that Any Sugar At All will dehydrate you, and that's simply not true. yes, sugar will make you pee more when consumed in large amounts, but 1) the natural sugar in fruits won't do this to you 2) great news! a lot of fruit juices exist without any added sugar in them! 3) honestly even having a glass of the fruit juice with added sugar won't completely dehydrate you as long as you're also drinking water throughout the day. if its hot you deserve a cold treat of a drink!!! can't go wrong with fruit juice!!!

regarding gatorade: maybe this isn't an every day drink, but guess what: if it's 110F/40C or hotter outside, and you don't have AC, or you're moving around a lot outside of the AC, and you're sweating buckets: that's when you drink a gatorade.

gatorade exists to replenish all the electrolytes (salt) and glucose (sugar) that you sweat out. YES it is meant for athletes to drink during intensive work outs and not necessarily for people who aren't doing that kind of exercise. BUT GUESS WHAT! when you're sweating buckets because you had to walk to the bus in extreme heat, that's intensive exercise. please feel free to drink a gatorade after that! that's its intended use case!!!!

no: neither of these drinks should be a total replacement for water. but drinking a lot of water and then treating yourself to a fruit juice with lunch is a good idea!!! drinking a gatorade becuase you just had to walk for 20 minutes in the heat is a good idea!!!

Please Stop Spreading Misinformation About Drinks!!! It's fine if you drink things that aren't water!!!! Yes you should probably always be drinking water but drinking something else As Well isn't going to hurt you!!!! okay!!!! its fine!!!!!!

honestly so long as you are consistently getting Any (non-alcoholic) fluids in you, you're doing great!!!!!! okay!!!! i love you stay safe <3

[classy-thief]

🌻 Late nights

something I used to do when I was younger 💤

[yeyinde]

With his marriage on the rocks, Price ends up drinking himself into a stupor at the bar the night after his wife of fifteen years tells him she wants to separate. It's where he finds you—a man's walking midlife crisis. Much younger. Too pretty for your own good.

Just passing through, he can vaguely remember you telling him as you twirled a black straw around the drink he ordered for you. Whiskey sour but with cherries instead of lime.

He grimaced around the thought of it, but couldn't seem to peel his eyes away from the way you curl your tongue around the red cherry floating in your drink. Too goddamn pretty for your own good.

Too soft, too.

He feels it when he places his hand on your thigh—to steady you, he tells himself when you start to wobble on the stool—the soft meat of your body giving so easily under the weight of his thick, grizzled fingers.

You don't belong in a pub like this where the floor is always sticky, the wallpaper is probably still made of lead, and there's gum stuck to the underside of the table. Despite the smoking ban, the room is clogged with dense tendrils of smoke. No one lifts a brow when he pulls a cigar from his front pocket, and strikes a match to light it. Puffing away in the corner with a too pretty, too young thing leaning into him, asking can I give it a try?

It's wrong. He feels it in his bones. A siren wailing in his head. Leave, go home. Don't look back. And maybe that's what you are:

a siren

because he peels it from between his dry, chapped lips and feels his heart throbbing in his chest when you lean over him, his lap, eyes still locked on his in the near the perfect pastiche of an early 90s pornography video—amateur, grainy around the edges; soaked in that glossy, faded old film filter—and wrap your cherry red lips around the hilt, lashes fluttering as he swallows thickly and rasps out that's it, sweetheart, now suck—

Feels his age acutely in the ache of his thighs as his muscles tense, drawing tight together when your eyes close, pinching in disgust around the heady mouthful of maduro, but mm, love, ain't supposed to swallow it.

The gleam of unshed tears pooling against your lashline catch beautifully in the warm, lambent glow of the lights overhead that are undoubtedly older than you. Lachrymal. He feels it in his guts like a stone. A thick lump of smouldering coal he has to try and breathe around.

The eight—nine, maybe—whiskeys he had since he sat down and grunted his usual order at the barkeep catch up with him all at once the moment a single drop spills over, and those cherry red lips part, embarrassed, and the smoke in your voice, the raw, scorched wound of untested flesh doused in tobacco fill the hole in his belly when you say I've never done this before and, soft, shy, sweet: will you teach me?

It's awash in the jaundiced spill of winter lights. Blue hour bathed in orange. There's a mark on your thigh when he pulls his hand away, damp palm leaving a stain in the soft cotton of your pants. He's not sure why that renders all logic in his head null, but it stabs into him like a pickaxe through the temple. Sudden, violent, and jarring.

His hand cupping you through your pants, feeling the heat of your cunt on his still-wet palm. Growling in your ear when you tremble against his chest about how he has a lot he plans on teaching you, sweetheart, so be a good girl, and come home with him—

He doesn't make it that far.

Unbuttons his trousers the moment you climb into the back seat of his truck, legs spreading in anticipation for him to fill the split of your thighs, and curl a single finger in his direction, a silent comehither.

Marionette on strings, he follows. The obeyance rankles down his spine but he's too far gone to give it much more than a passing, agitated flick. Ignoring it in favour of wrestling his trousers down his hips, and pulling you on his lap.

It's every part the indecent, goatish drunk hookup he vaguely remembers from back when he was some approximation of your age. Pawing clumsily at your cunt in a selfish, perfunctory preparation. Unpractised despite having decades of experience throbbing insistently in his temple, muted under the cloying haze of too much alcohol and the manifestation of his fantasies come to life in his lap, perched so prettily above his aching cock.

Pants into the mess he makes of your neck about how much better he'll be later. Take you home, eat your pretty pussy out until you're nearly ripping his hair out from how good it feels, and then he'll fuck you on a bed. Proper, he grunts, snaking a hand down between your thighs to grip his cock, the other peeling away from the warm, tight heaven between your thighs, fingers slipping out slick and sticky, smearing it over his fat, weeping head.

"need you," he grunts, barely cognisant of much outside this concupiscent ache in his belly. This hunger he's never felt before. Just mutters, slurs, need you, need this pussy. Come on, love, let me in—

He pushes against your opening, flared head splitting your folds so obscenely that he's almost desperate with the need to commit the sight to memory. So fuckin' pretty—

You whine, mewling above him as his slick fingers squeeze your waist, pulling your down over him. Forcing his cock into you as you bable about it being too much, god, it's too much, too big—ego feeding, incendiary. Mesmeric. If it's meant to slow him down, or make him stop, it slips through the cracks. Eaten alive in the fog.

His hand pushes against your throat, fingers folding over the span of it. Gripping tight. Holding firm as he catches your gaze and plants his feet on the ground. The noise you make when he bucks into you from below, forcing the rest of his cock into the impossibly tight squeeze of your cunt is snuffed out when his hand spasms, closing into a choking grip.

Seated deep inside you—too deep, it's too much, please—he feels heavenised. Bathed in bliss. Nirvana. Can't quite wrap his head around how good you feel beyond staggered grunts that spill from his sweat-slicked lips, and a needy, urgent roll of his hips, unable to pull away from the euphoric clench of you swallowing him down.

It's an eye rolling pleasure. The kind that rips through his belly and drags him to the brink in an instant. All heat. A molten, velvet clench. Primal. All animal seeking a warm, safe latibule.

He thinks of the womb and it's primordial incalescence as he works himself into you, head blanketed in a dizzying, almost delirious spot of pleasure. Soporific. And that's what you are—an overwhelming sense of sempiternal warmth. Something every fibre of his being wants to crawl inside of.

And he does. Over and over again. Peels his hand from your throat to curl it over your nape instead, pushing your mouth against his in a scorching, bruising kiss. Laying claim, eating your moans from between your teeth, chasing the cherry sweetness that lingers. Making a mess of you with the sweat that drops down his temple and the spit that slicks your chin.

Inside you, too. Spilling in your cunt with a belly-deep groan. It rips through him like a head cold, a fever, and leaves him feeling warn and sore. Unable to keep up with the gutpunch of his pleasure as you cling to him tight and mewl in his ear for more.

(Something he plans on giving you for the rest of his life if you'll let him.)

Makes it to his house somehow. Fucks you in the foyer because the sight of your bare, cum-slick thighs shakily climbing up the stairs, knees pressing together to keep his release inside, is enough to rent him in two. And it does. Spilts him down the middle until all that's left is want.

Avarice. Greed. A hunger so deep, it rattles his bones when his belly growls.

Spends himself dry inside of you, unwilling to pull out even for second. Falling asleep with you slick and warm around his cock. Content for the first time in ages. Slipping into a sleep so deep, he wakes up at noon the day.

But you're gone when he does, leaving nothing behind except deep scratches down his back and the pair of panties he stuffed in your mouth last night to keep you from waking the neighbours.

Despite regretting not tying you to the bed and slipping the ring his wife left on the end table on your finger, it's cathartic.

Just—

Not meant to last. His fleeting siren. A secret he'll take to the grave because if it ever got out, it would ruin his reputation. His family. Everything he worked hard for.

And when his wife changes her mind two weeks later and comes back home, life returns to normal. He's once again the dutiful husband. Provider. A good, honest man even though he finds himself dreaming of you as he lays beside his wife, your scent still clinging to his pillow. Hungry. Unfed.

But this is the way it has to be. Must be.

Until his siren comes back to haunt him three weeks later when you turn up again, back in town and pregnant with his child.

[comicaurora]

good news I found more outer space

[ofswordsandpens]

adding to the "there should have been more genuine tension within the seven" train of thought, it would have been funny if the Argo II, technically being a ship, meant it fell under Percy's power domain and he could control it all at whim, rendering all the carefully crafted controls Leo built useless if Percy felt like being an asshole

[wuntrum]

not only do they only focus on mark/helly in the video in terms of workplace fraternization, reusing the clip of irving saying "let's burn this place to the ground" without the context of what led him to that point, but they literally erase burt from this scene in the back of o&d...fucked upppp

[sudaca-swag]

south america in the kill yourself: 4th heat wave of the summer era

[s0fter-sin]

something people just don’t think about is how often chronically ill and disabled people just don’t have access to good food. not healthy food, good food; well made, tasty meals that don’t come from a jar or a freezer. how many of us are housebound or can’t drive? delivery services only offer within certain distances, if you live outside a city they aren’t an option. many people don’t have the energy or ability to cook for themselves if they have the skill to begin with. many certainly don’t have the ability to learn how. it’s something that goes completely unnoticed, just the opportunity to have a good meal and how much that wears you down

[twilightkitkat]

HEAR ME OUTTTTT YALL

Logan's bones are made of metal, right? And while adamantium is a fictional element, metals tend to follow a set of properties.

One primary property is that the majority of metals are conductors. This is reinforced in The Wolverine movie wherein the adamantium sword conducts heat extremely well to be able to cut off Logan's claws.

Therefore, Logan's bones are conductors (for both heat and electricity).

Most human bones (like Wade's) are insulators. This makes bones more resistant to electricity as compared to the rest of the human body, which is an electrical conductor because it's composed of water and ions.

I know the dark matter is different, but from how we see it flow through the veins and transfer we can assume it's conducted as well.

THEREFORE, THE REASON LOGAN WAS ABLE TO ALMOST INSTANTLY FORGE THE CONNECTION WAS BECAUSE HIS BONES CONDUCTED THE ELECTRICITY EASILY. AND IT WOULD ALSO MEAN THAT HIS PAIN WOULD BE SIGNIFICANTLY WORSE THAN WADE'S. BECAUSE HE LITERALLY FEELS IT RUNNING THROUGH HIS BONES, JITTERING HIS VERY SKELETON?? BUT HE STILL KEPT HOLDING ON JUST TO SAVE WADE.

Also, this means that his bones would retain heat. If he sits in front of the fire and gets heated up, he'd feel it in his bones. This means the human heater headcanons are 100% true, because he'd literally be hot metal wrapping around Wade if he's kept warm.

Inversely, however, this would mean his bones become cold due to a lack of heat. Metal oftentimes expands in hot conditions and contracts in cold conditions (which is why they leave gaps between train tracks to accommodate for this without them breaking).

So Logan would 100% get aches with cold weather because even if his body was more resistant, he can feel the chill in his bones and how they don't sit quite right and everything is too stiff and doesn't fit. (And Wade would need to heat him up instead because of this.)

Plus his thermal regulation would be compromised because it seeps into his bones instead of just his flesh. Imagine you get in front of a fan and your skin feels cool but your bones are hot. Logan would be temperature-sensitive, but he'd try to hide it because he's used to it (having lived in the mountains for years) and doesn't know what to do. (And so when Wade comes along and cares and tries to help him regulate, he nearly chokes up because it's so much easier to cope.)

[bamsara]

I live in an interfaith household and trying to explain how we prepare for holiday season to someone outside the household is weird

my mother celebrates jewish holidays, step-father doesnt but loves yule, i have no idea what my siblings are, theres a lot of seasonal decor for holidays. why are there so many holidays. there is too much (< person who's been sorting tote boxes for two hours straight)

[raepliica]

photosynthesizing🔆

[juniperhillpatient]

I have an emergency announcement & it’s that churchs tail is wrapped around damon

[kl0ud69]

you think it will all fit?

[suntails]

village lanterne

[lurkinginnernarrator]

Shen Qingqiu sat glaring at Shang Qinghua during a peak lord meeting, the whispers of his killing intent keeping everyone on edge.

Shang Qinghua hasn't looked at him once, but not even his cultivation can keep the sweat at bay.

It's the fastest meeting they've ever had. At the end, as Shang Qinghua is attempting to flee back to An Ding, Qi-shimei decides to magnanimously lend him a helping hand by reminding Shen Qingqiu of Shang Qinghua's humanity.

"So~ Shang-shidi, how's that book of yours going?"

It was the wrong move.

Temperature plummeting, the whispers of killing intent roared into a flood; it was as if the very atmosphere was being crushed down upon them. Beating heart's tempo vibrating inside their skulls, the metronome to their own dirge.

"I swear on everything that is holy if you dare say writing has gone anything but abysmally I'll turn your bones into fucking a wind chime."

Shang Qinghua turned to look at the murderous Shen Qingqiu.

He took out a sheaf of papers and slid them over the meeting room table.

He grinned.

Shen Qingqiu was too busy reading to notice. With each passing millisecond his condition worsened. His knuckles turned white. Any kindness that was in his gaze was extinguished.

Three things happened in that moment:

1. The sheaf of paper burst into flames.

2. Shen Qingqiu lunged over the table.

3. Shang Qinghua disappeared into one of Mobei-jun's portals.

It was one of the most productive, quick and eventful peak lord meetings they ever had.

After Shang Qinghua skulked back into Cang Qiong Shen Qingqiu kicked down his door, seized him by the collar, his voice promising murder.

"What. The. Fuck. Was. That."

It turns out Shang Qinghua invented omegaverse.