#LaraCroft-

[laracrofted]

let me drown

you meet qimir for a morning swim (qimir x fem!reader)... because i couldn't be normal about that scene.

warnings: 18+, minors and ageless blogs dni, an ode to manny jacinto's collarbones and also his shoulders and arms, slightly painful sex (but like... in a hot and consensual way), possessiveness, pwp basically (wc: 800+)

Droplets of water pool in the hollow of his collarbone, running down his broad shoulders in rivulets, shimmering in the morning sun like jewels, as Qimir cuts through the water. His muscled arms effortlessly slice into the still surface, sending ripples in every direction.

He looks ethereal, swimming in the cerulean pool. A long forgotten sea god, waiting to hook you by the ankle and drag you below the surface, drown you and breathe new life into you at the bottom of the sea.

It's beautiful and frightening in equal measures.

You wait on the shore, seawater lapping at your ankles and bare feet, arms around your knees, ignoring the puddling water that's soaking through your bottoms.

You wait for him to notice you there.

He doesn't keep you waiting – or maybe, Qimir sensed your presence from the moment you'd stepped onto the shore, from the moment your eyes had opened in the cave and looked for him, finding him gone.

A suspicion that's confirmed when Qimir lifts his gaze, unsurprised, sweeping escaping strands of damp hair from his face, and calls out softly, "Aren't you going to join me?"

His voice. You love his voice, as smooth as the surface of the water lapping at his strong shoulders, as the salt-licked rocks on the shore and the cliffs, as the weather-beaten pebbles that dig into your soles as you stand.

You undo the robe in a smooth motion and let it fall from your shoulders, baring yourself to him in the morning light, and Qimir doesn't look away.

He catches his lip between his teeth, dragging his gaze down your naked form, drinking you in with a kind of possessiveness that feels heretical; coveting you without so much as laying a finger on you, owning you with his dark eyes.

You wade in, and Qimir drifts toward you, moving silently and swiftly, predator-like.

An uneven rock catches on your foot under the surface, sending you forward. You tumble into him with a soft curse, and Qimir catches your arms with wet hands, steadying you, guiding your hands to his shoulders.

Flexing your fingers is almost an instinct, searching for a hold, like scaling a cliff, digging in to the muscles, and Qimir shudders, long lashes brushes against his cheeks, inclining his head to meet your gaze.

"Careful," Qimir cautions, soft and honeyed, a kind of music, and you don't know if Qimir means to be careful with the rocks or with your wandering hands.

You gamble on the former and let them wander further, moving over him, mapping him like an uncharted planet. One of your arms slips around his neck, giving him your weight, and Qimir's hand slips under your knee to catch you.

His hand is rough, guiding your leg around his hip, finding a balance.

He is pressed up against you now, cock hardening against your stomach. An involuntary gasp escapes from your mouth, and Qimir nips at the sound, sucking at your lip, beads of seawater dripping from his mouth into yours.

"Careful," Qimir repeats, only this time, it sounds like a question.

Should I be careful? Do you want me to be?

You shake your head slowly, a fine mist of salt water blowing in from the sea, coating your lashes, and Qimir's lips part in a half smile, pleased.

He's not careful. Careful is gentle caresses and the press of his mouth between your legs, warming you from the inside out, drinking from you like a nectar.

This isn't careful.

He doesn't get you ready, doesn't warm your cunt with his fingers, doesn't press you open in increments. He invites your legs around his hips, grasping at your ass with one hand for leverage, and pushes into you in one long and interrupted stroke that knocks the breath from your lungs, knocks your bones from your body.

You press your face into his shoulder, biting down with a whimper, probably leaving marks. That's okay. He likes marks, likes the feeling of your nails dragged down his back.

You're at war with yourself, split in the same way that Qimir is splitting you in half with his cock; a need to squirm away from the overpowering sensation; a need to invite him deeper, harder, faster.

He makes a soothing– borderline mocking – sound against your cheek and strokes your hair back from your wet cheeks; and holds you there, pinned open for him, fluttering and adjusting to the size of his cock.

"Oh? How does it feel?" Qimir asks, still stroking your cheeks.

"Good."

He smiles and lifts your chin with his knuckles and drinks a salt water kiss from your lips. "Good. You're ready for more."

It's not a question.

Seawater runs down your stinging cheeks, sensitive from the stubble on his carved jawline, mixing with the moisture that streams from the corners of your eyes as Qimir finally moves inside of you, dragging his cock out and pushing back in with a sweet and lethal slowness that borders on painful, so controlled; reaching inside and unraveling you from a place so deep that no one else could ever hope to uncover it; no one but him.

He likes it that way. Just him.

[lorenzonuti]

Tomb Raider.

(1996).

[andyacklesspn]

« 😍 ❤️ 😍 »

[tholiabentz]

New Tomb Raider tribute 🥰💚 15 days left until TRI-II-III remaster release!

[leadjockey]

The Countess of Abbingdon

[sebsxphia]

sleepy soft cowboy. | thank you so much to @laracrofted who has made me crazy soft for rhett snoozing.

[woodenplankstudios]

Time for a good old-fashioned battle royale!

[gifsbymel]

Tomb Raider: The Legend of Lara Croft

[hyanide]

🖤 That's it bois and grils, my Lara Croft inspired dress up game is finally up! ✨

🖤 It has most classic and LAU outfits and you can mix and match however you'd like. 👗💅 The backgrounds are still a work in progress, though.

Hope you enjoy it!

https://meiker.io/play/16213/online.html

[scarletwitchie2]

angelinajolieisnumber1.tumblr.

Angelina Jolie photographed by Alberto Tolot, 1999

angelinajolieisnumber1.tumblr

July 10, 2003 Press Conference "Lara Croft Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life" New York, USA.

angelinajolieisnumber1.tumblr

2001 promo photoshoot #LaraCroft #TombRaider

[laracrofted]

i want your midnights

synopsis: on the coldest new year's eve in a decade, bob floyd shows up at your door. prequel to delicate.

pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ minors and ageless blogs dni, bob is really soft and cozy and lovestruck, swearing (barely), so much yearning and pining, kissing kissing kissing (wc: 2.2K)

note: surprise! i wasn't planning to write something for new year's, but i missed lovestruck bob. happy new year, loves! 🍾

summoning a few people who might be interested: @sometimesanalice @roosterbruiser @theharddeck @callsignspark @lewmagoo @gretagerwigsmuse @roosterforme @rhettabbotts

He shouldn't be here right now. For several reasons. 

Technically, Bob should be on a plane right now – or on one of several planes because San Diego International doesn't offer any direct flights to the part of Montana Bob is from

He usually flies from San Diego to Los Angeles and Los Angeles to Bozeman and drives from there.

Except when half of California freezes over in the coldest storm in a decade on the very day Bob is supposed to head home for New Year's and grounds all of LAX.

This normally wouldn't be a big deal. He doesn't even care all that much about New Year's – New Year's is celebrated very casually in his family. He's usually in bed well before midnight. – but Bob already missed Christmas. 

He and Phoenix were selected for a special detachment at the end of December, which – while an honor and a privilege, etcetera – meant Bob spent Christmas on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Pacific. He didn't get back until December 28.

Phoenix immediately drove up to San Francisco to be with her nieces and nephews. He'd been waiting for New Year's. 

Now, after countless delays and an eventual cancellation – which should've happened hours ago when Bob maybe could've found another way home, rented a car and driven the seventeen hours – Bob is stuck in San Diego.

Disappointed isn't a good enough word to express what Bob is feeling right now. 

He could've driven back to his apartment – his sad apartment, already devoid of colorful lights and silver and gold decorations because Bob didn't expect to come back until January. He could've called Fanboy or gone to the New Year's Eve party at the Hard Deck, but Bob isn't in the mood to be around people right now. 

He only wants to see one person. 

And now Bob is here – standing outside of your apartment with a backpack and a carry-on, like Bob is about to clear out a drawer and move right in. 

He probably looks like a weirdo. He definitely feels like a weirdo. 

Damn. This was a mistake. 

It's a brisk 40 degrees and dropping outside, and Coronado smells like ocean air and fireplace smoke. Pine needles, shed from the withering evergreens hauled onto the streets and abandoned the day after Christmas. Seawater and camphor and burning wood.

He shivers in the cold, broad shoulders rounding under the worn wool of his sweater. He should've worn something warmer – something nicer – but all of Bob's warmer coats are either deep in his suitcase or at his parents' house. He never expected to need them in San Diego.

A shaky puff of breath blows from his quivering lips. 

He breathes in a deep and steadying breath. A bracing breath. And knocks on the door. 

Minutes pass. Or maybe, just seconds.

Finally, Bob hears a voice from inside. Blessedly.

"Just a minute!" 

Your calm voice is like a soothing balm, even muffled, even barely audible, and Bob feels like a loosed bowstring – held taut for hours on end and at the sound of your voice, finally let free. He can drop his shoulders and loosen his clenched jaw for the first time in the past day – in the past week.

Tension melts off of him like the last snow of late spring from the Montana pines. He can finally relax. He can breathe again.

A crack of light spills out of the creaking door, and Bob pulls his gaze from his scuffed brown Blundstones. 

You are silhouetted in the doorway like a priceless Renaissance sculpture, glowing, curves highlighted and illuminated in the most beautiful dress Bob has ever seen.

Black satin, catching in the dim light and glimmering, like a blanket of stars on a cloudless December night.

He used to lay under stars like those in Montana and memorize the constellations. He feels the same sense of wonder, of awe looking at you.

He's always found you beautiful – even dressed in your coveralls with grease smudged on your cheeks, sometimes especially then – but now, fuck.

He's never seen your hair like that before, loose around your shoulders, curled like the ends of a ribbon on a beautifully wrapped present on Christmas morning. He shoves his hands in his pockets, slightly chapped and reddened from the dry cold, and pinches the denim between his palms, squashing the urge to reach out and wrap one of the delicate strands of hair around his finger.

A deep shade of red paints your lips, parting in a surprised smile. "Bob Floyd, is that you?" You shiver and hug your arms, and Bob, respectfully, keeps his eyes on your face. "Jesus Christ, when did it get so cold out here? Aren't you cold?" 

"I, uh... run warm, I guess," Bob says. He lifts his baseball cap and runs his fingers through the mess of strands underneath, in desperate need of a trim. Sets it back on his head and squares his shoulders. "Are you headed out?" 

You look down and absentmindedly shuffle your feet to look down at your heels – which reveals a slit in the fabric, exposing a line of bare skin all the way up to your thigh. God help him. 

"Kind of. I'm supposed to meet up with some of the other mechanics at the Hard Deck. There’s some New Year’s thing there, I guess.” You fold your arms across your chest and look at him, still smiling curiously. “But what about you? What brings you here on New Year's Eve?" 

He showed up out of the blue. Anyone else might be annoyed, but all Bob hears in your voice is gentle curiosity. Like Bob is the most pleasant of surprises. 

"I spent 12 hours in the airport, only for my flight to get canceled, and I couldn't go back to my apartment after that and spend New Year's alone, but I couldn't go to the Hard Deck either. I'm sorry," Bob adds. "I shouldn't have shown up here like this. I should've called you. You have plans."

You regard him, expression calm. "Don't be sorry. I'm happy to see you."

You're happy to see him. You're happy to see him.

Is it cold enough for the pink in his cheeks to be mistaken for a different kind of flush? He hopes so.

"Do you wanna come in?"

His eyes grow wide. "Oh... well, what about your party?"

You drop your shoulder in a shrug. "New Year's is kind of lame anyway. I was really going as an excuse to get dressed up because I never go anywhere fancy enough to wear this dress. It's been in the back of my closet for months."

His eyes drop to the dress again, and absently, Bob wonders what the material would feel like between his fingers, what it'd feel like to run his hand over the elegant slope of your hip. He swallows.

"It's quite a dress," Bob croaks. His mouth is so damn dry. "You, uh... You look really beautiful. It's really... yeah."

You watch him, expression softening like warmed butter. "Thank you, Bob."

You look at him – look past the backpack and the scuffed carry-on and the slightly baggy sweater that once belonged to his older brother – and Bob feels seen, really seen. He feels safe.

You bump the door open wider with your hip and reach for his luggage, wiggling your fingers playfully until Bob passes the suitcase over. He's rewarded with a beaming smile, radiant and warm.

"Come on. You like Chinese?"

You change after Bob comes in, hanging up your dress and putting on an oversized gray sweater, pushed up at the sleeves, and a pair of fleece pajama pants that aren't quite the right length for your legs, covered in white dots and blue and white snowflakes.

You order the food and put on your favorite New Year's Eve movie while Bob calls his parents and gets comfortable, changing into sweatpants. His mom is pleased that Bob isn't spending New Year's alone, but Bob chooses his words carefully.

He is spending New Year's with a friend, not with a girl.

She'd ask questions Bob couldn't really answer in your hall bathroom.

When Bob comes back in, When Harry Met Sally is on.

You explain: "It's my favorite New Year's Eve movie. I watch it almost every year. If I start watching it 28 seconds after 10:30 PM – exactly, like down to the second – I can count down to midnight while Harry is confessing his love to Sally in the New Year’s scene."

You curl up on the couch, nursing a glass of champagne, while Bob sips from a chilled can of Ginger Ale while Harry and Sally banter and dance around each other and fall in love.

Admittedly, Bob is only half watching.

He likes this movie, but Bob is much more interested in you.

He is rarely alone with you.

He usually comes to see you on the Naval base – sometimes even making up questions as an excuse to come and talk to you, bringing coffee as a thank you for your answers – or seeks you out at the Hard Deck. He drove you home once when Bob was working late and spotted you in one of the hangars, but otherwise, Bob has never been here before.

About 30 minutes into the movie, Bob gets overheated and sheds his sweater, leaving him in a white short-sleeve and sweatpants underneath the oversized blanket from your bedroom. It's made of some kind of sherpa and smells like you.

Everything in here smells like you.

His legs are sprawled out in front of him, resting on the coffee table between a half-eaten plate of spring rolls and what’s left of his chicken chow mein. He ate his body weight in noodles and miso soup, and Bob feels warm and relaxed – if bordering on uncomfortably full.

He can barely focus with the smell of your perfume in his nostrils; excruciatingly aware of you underneath the blanket next to him, curled up with your legs folded underneath yourself, head lolling to the side, dangerously close to resting on his shoulder; smelling like cherries and champagne and vanilla and you.

A countdown begins in the background of the scene.

“Five…”

You sit up underneath the blanket, which brings you closer to him, inadvertently.

“Four…” 

Your arm brushes against Bob’s.

“Three…”

You watch the screen, excited, and count along.

“Two…” 

Your lips part in a wide and excited smile.

“One…” 

Cheers erupt on the screen, but Bob isn’t even pretending to watch the movie anymore. He’s watching you. 

You grin at him, eyes bright, looking so beautiful that Bob can’t hold the words in.

“Can I kiss you?” 

Surprise flashes across your face, soon replaced with a small smile. Bob can see a lipstick stain at the corner of your mouth from where earlier, you'd messily wiped the red from your lips with a cocktail napkin. He wants to reach out and smooth it away with the pad of his thumb. He wants to kiss the spot where the smudge used to be.

Instead, Bob holds his breath. Waits.

He shouldn't have said anything. You've been such a good friend to him. You changed your plans, invited him in.

What if Bob's ruined everything now?

You've never been so close. You ask, "Like a New Year's kiss? Or like a real kiss?"

What if Bob hasn't ruined anything at all?

“Both,” Bob says softly, like a confession.

What if?

You're glowing in the sparkle of multi-colored lights, still strung along the walls, still decorating the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, blues and reds and greens, eyes glimmering, liquid warm. "Yeah. That'd be okay."

"Okay," Bob echoes, leaning in.

He presses his lips against yours in a gentle but firm kiss, cradling your jaw with a careful hand, stroking your cheek.

Bob doesn't linger. Doesn't press his luck.

He gives you a good and solid kiss and pulls back, eyes slowly opening.

"How was that?"

You lick your lips, and Bob follows the movement with his gaze, entranced.

"Kiss me again."

It's after midnight now, and uncertain, Bob asks, "Like a New Year's kiss?"

You shake your head, slow and clear, and lean in, and Bob meets you in the middle.

He kisses you in earnest now, kissing the smudge of red on the corner of your mouth, licking a drop of champagne from your bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth, running his hands over your skin.

You do the same, running your hands over his shoulders, over his neck, and knocking his baseball hat from his head, run your fingers through his hair. You pull on the ends of the strands, pull him closer, and god, it's all Bob can do not to moan into your mouth.

You're all warm skin and soft curves and sweet perfume, and Bob is drowning drowning drowning.

You knock the wind out of him, and eventually, Bob is forced to pull back and catch his breath. His chest is heaving. His cheeks are pink and warm.

You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, as if pulled from a dream, and give him a dazed smile. You murmur, low and breathless, "Happy New Year, Bob."

I think I'm in love with you.

"Happy New Year," Bob whispers instead.

end note: likes are always appreciated, but comments and reblogs make my whole day. i love hearing from y'all!

[kana-go]

The humorous art of Vadim Dragon dressed as Lara Croft

[delopsia]

happy birthday, del! 🌷 i hope you had the most wonderful day, and i had to send you some flowers in celebration!

i am sending you a bundle of lavender in a bob floyd vase via dogsled mail, and i'd love for you to write a 300-word drabble for streetlight glow.

and if you're in the mood for making a mood board, i'll pop in a 🎀 for good measure. happy birthday again!

ames @laracrofted

Aaaa thank you! 🌷 The moodboard is at the very bottom 💖

"Them boys ain't with you?" Royal's voice barks across the pasture, barely audible once it meets your ears. 

You shake your head. Then, upon realizing that he probably can't see you, "no!" 

His reply sounds something akin to a half-hearted 'alright,' but you're not entirely certain what it was. Nevertheless, he's walking back toward the house, and you're turning your attention back to the sunset. He's likely off to give Rhett and Bobby another job, but so long as you don't get roped into it, you don't mind all that much.

It's hard to be irritated when you and your little blanket are surrounded by acres upon acres of wildflowers, freshly sprouted in time for spring's emergence. Splotches of yellow, purple, white, and pink all coming together to craft an image right out of a painting. And to think you wouldn't have known this was lurking just over the hill had Cecelia not pointed you to it after dinner. 

Giggles bubble from behind you—two pairs of feet stomping through the flora. They practically fall on top of you before you've even registered their faces: Rhett landing in the grass somewhere off to your right, and Bobby collapsing into your side, leaning his weight against you.

"What are you two doing?" You can't help but laugh as Rhett squirms toward you, chest glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. 

"We got cut loose," he hums, effectively squishing his face into your chest, unaware of the view he's missing out on. 

Bobby's no better than Rhett is. His arm curls around you, snuggling as close as he can possibly manage. Stage five clingers. Both of them. 

It's barely been an hour since you saw them at dinner, but it might as well have been several years. And you just took a shower, but the dirt clinging to their hands is everywhere. Staining your clothes and any open expanse of skin they can touch. Down your arms and to the tips of your fingers, briefly dipping beneath your shirt. 

"Boys—" 

But its no use. The fractional shift in Rhett's weight is all it takes to knock you backward. Rather than fields of flowers, you're looking at two sweaty faces backdropped by a red and orange sky. 

"You two are horrible," you grumble; it's like being smothered by a pair of puppies. Except these puppies weigh over a hundred fifty pounds each and could use a bath. With Rhett firmly on top of you, like you're some kind of pillow. 

Bobby grins, already finding his place at your side, his head nuzzling onto your chest. "We know it." 

Moodboard:

[tholiabentz]

My 2023 Art summary 💙💜💖🧡💛

[giantgirlworld]

https://www.instagram.com/giantess.eden/

[thecroftcomic]

THE CROFT comic

Artists:

19-20 Keith Byrne @keithbyrnefx – ENGLAND

20-21 Paula Belcarz @punguin_philip - POLAND

22-23 Susie Gander @susiegander - ENGLAND

24-25 Alma @Lonelyalma1 - EL SALVADOR

26-27 Magdalena Furmanek @lordmegi - POLAND

28-29 Adayka @_adayka_ - SWITZERLAND

30-31 Gosia Gąsienica-Józkowy @gobyart - POLAND

32-33 Shane George @captnshane – USA

34-35 Adam Soroczyński @adamsoroczynski - POLAND

36-39 Virginia Berrocal @VirBerrocal  - SPAIN