#oooofffff

[musette22]

welp ok then 😳❤️‍🔥

[prideandperdition]

Today is very warm and I might have died a little

[paulodybaeeela]

God saw Man United supporting an abuser and said “Now here comes your downfall”

[z-arcane]

Glasses test done 😎 got myself some new sunnies and I found the same frames as I have now so yay :D

[greenova]

Sabah dokuzdan bese kadar dersim var neden üstten ders aldığımı sorgulayacağım tüm gece…

[someprettyname]

While we're on the topic of Kaiser's side profile

https://pin.it/1JvlleH8s

HOLY FUCKING SHIT GODDAMNIT KAISERRRR!!!! LOOKS LIKE YOU NEED MY HELP HUH?

Let me kiss your jaw worries away sweetheart. You can beat isagi okay?

[nerdygirl2023]

Wait.. omggg nooooo hahaha!!!!

If the Percy Jackson series ever gets that far I REALLY want Thalia and Jason to be black solely because A) it would stop Percy and Jason from looking too much a like and B) it would make Percy the token white guy on the Argos II

[elektra616-ar]

“if you cared about me, you wouldn’t do this.” // alex and saya @youngsamanda

This is a nightmare.

No.

Really.

It is a nightmare.

Alex is asleep, in the discomfort of his own bed. But the thing is, Alex keeps playing his night with Saya at the party over and over again. And every time it repeats in his dream, the guilt gets stronger and heavier, more palpable.

It leads him to bite down and grind his teeth in his sleep, apologize, say he didn’t know. Since, the one time he acted selfishly, was the one time he should have acted selflessly. And boy, oh boy, did he hate that. 

He hates it so much that when it finally starts to make sense to him in his dream, he wakes up, saying out loud, “No – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have acted that way!” while covered in sweat from head to toe.

He sits and stares at his shaking hands, then he sighs, covers his face with a pillow and screams into it for a second. Because, honestly. And truthfully. He really is sorry for being so clueless. 

[notefromunderground]

.

[chickensarentcheap]

“I forget about you long enough to forget why I needed to.”

[wardlow]

That hair thoughhhh 😍😍😍😍

one final timo dump of the season? well yes

[musette22]

Sebastian papped in London. People said NYC but apparently it’s London, which makes more sense 😅

Oohh really? I heard those pap pics were from 'recently in NYC' so I thought they were just from a week or so ago and he was now in London doing press, but yeah, wouldn't be surprised if the pap pics were London too! I don't wanna reblog pap pics if I can help it but LORDDDD HE LOOKS GOOD 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 

[johnbottoms]

ANYWAAAAYSY here's the greenhouse finaaaally finished .. mwah

[rainintheevening]

Part I – Part II ... Part VIII – Part IX

The first time Edmund sees Aslan in his brother's face, he is sitting on the hearth-rug, half-frozen, wet to the skin, desperately fighting back a spectre of doubt and fear and unreality.

There is ice melting in his hair, sliding to his shoulders, dripping down his back, there is a warm hand pressed to his cheek, strong and calloused.

Whispers, whispers in the dark, and the wind had drowned them out, the cold needles of icy rain in his face had been real, but with the window shut, and the room gone silent, they are loud again.

It's not real, none of this is real, it's all a dream, a fantasy you made up in your head, and when you wake up, back in that prison of ice, you'll know. You'll know it's all a lie.

He rarely dreams of the Witch, more often it's some echo of home in England, or nasty twisted nightmares of a cruel being with the face of someone he loves. But tonight green eyes seem to stare out of the darkness, and she is clothed in black now, and he thinks he's drowning, ice water filling up his lungs.

He knows what he needs, he knows who saved him before, who can save him again, there is a cry in his heart, and… a voice whispering his name.

A deep shiver starts in his stomach, working its way out, as he looks up, looks up into a strong, kind face, lit by fireglow catching in the blond hair, and turning it to living gold, and for just a moment, Edmund sees it. Sees the glint of Aslan in the eyes that meet his, brimming with love and concern, like those eyes and that face are a mirror, reflecting something he can't see otherwise, but it's still very very real, and he whispers the name.

“Aslan.”

Peter catches him as he falls, holds him close, and he is all warm and solid, and Ed buries his face against Peter's neck, words vibrating through Peter's chest and throat, through Edmund, and it eases the shivering, just a little.

“You're safe,” Peter says, and Edmund believes him.

“Pete,” he whispers, curling closer, ear pressed to breastbone, and his brother's heart throbs in a steady rhythm, safe, safe, safe, real, real, real.

Edmund closes his eyes.

There are quiet voices, someone talking to Peter, but Ed hasn't the energy to understand, so he lets the sound wash over him, soothing, kind.

Then Peter shifts against him. “Come now, Ed, we're both wet as if we'd drowned. Let's get some dry things on. I don't want you catching cold. Susan will bring us something hot to drink.”

Ed is all shakes and lost thoughts, and he is gladder than he can say of Peter's warm hands helping him, stripping away the clinging icy damp of his pyjamas, and wrapping him in warmer things, dry pants and tunic and a heavy dressing gown.

He gets pushed in the direction of his bed, and goes, still shivering and wobbly on his feet, all the surging urgency and wild need drained out of him. He sits on the edge of the bed, pulls his feet up, watches Peter change quickly into another set of Ed’s clothes, finding loose-fitting ones to accommodate his greater height and breadth in the shoulders.

“The floor,” Edmund murmurs, breaking the silence. “I'm sorry, I should get–”

But Peter is already emerging from the bath chamber, towels in hand. He throws two of them down over the worst of the puddle, grins as he comes to join Edmund on the large bed.

“It's only stone, my dear brother. No harm done.” But then his brow furrows, and he brushes the back of one hand across Ed’s forehead. “I hope. Here let me dry your hair.”

Peter pushes the blankets aside, and that's when he finds it, lifts his hand and Ed sees the firelight’s glint.

“Did you lose this?”

A small silvery lion dangles from a leather string, but the string is broken, and Ed wraps the pendant in his fist, cool metal, hard edges against his palm.

“Th-thanks.”

He wears it often during the winter, under his shirt, against his skin, a reminder of Aslan and His power, His sacrifice. It helps on the hard days.

Winter is… not as much fun as it used to be. He tries to still enjoy it, along with his siblings, and sometimes it's easy, and sometimes it's harder, and occasionally it's painfully impossible.

Behind him Peter settles on the mattress, and a warm, soft towel settles over his head. Ed closes his eyes, leans back into Peter's hands, lets the rubbing sensation relax him.

Ed doesn't have nightmares often, though that's partly because on nights when the bad memories are strong, he just doesn't sleep at all.

He thinks it'll get easier as the memories fade.

“Time heals many things, your majesty,” Tumnus said to him once, when Edmund quietly broached the subject. All things together, the faun is an easy one to speak to about the chill that still echoes in his bones sometimes. “But in Aslan’s time, not ours,” and his smile was kind, and a little sorrowful.

Peter is humming something, one of Lucy's favourite songs from Mr. Tumnus. He sounds oddly light, lighter than he ever has since Christmas.

“What happened, Ed?” Peter's voice is gentle, and he stops drying his little brother's hair, hands falling away, so that Ed catches himself awake again, sitting up straighter.

A glance over to the fire, which still burns strongly, and Ed can feel Peter's eyes on his back.

His mind is more settled now, though he is sleepy again, at last, and he keeps a long silence, thoughts not formed into words sitting heavy in his mouth, on his tongue.

“Alright,” Peter says at last. “You're falling asleep, come and lie down. And if you're asleep when Susan comes, I'll drink both hot chocolates myself.”

The teasing in his voice loosens something in Ed’s chest.

“No chance.” But he yawns as he says it, and Peter laughs.

Susan comes in then, two mugs in hand.

She says little, but Ed can't quite meet her gaze. She kisses his forehead, and leaves quietly.

“I'm sorry I've worried you,” Ed murmurs into his mug, hot enough to burn his fingers if he grips it too hard.

Peter is knotting the leather string of the pendant, and he pauses, rough, chapped knuckles resting against the back of Ed’s neck.

“Perhaps I haven't been worrying enough about you,” he says at last.

A pat on Edmund’s shoulder as he finishes, and Ed has no answer for that.

He wants to bask in the warmth, hold onto that flash he'd seen of lion eyes in Peter's face, and not think about what brought him to be standing in an open window in a torrent of winter storm. He's not really sure how to explain it anyway.

He's glad when Peter doesn't leave, doesn't even ask if Edmund wants him to stay, just takes the empty mugs and sets them on the dresser, takes the now sopping towels away, and Ed hears them thump wetly into the bath.

He lights a candle, banks up the fire, and Ed burrows lower under the covers, pulling the heavy rug on top up to his chin, as Peter comes back to the bed.

Even in the large bed, Peter still lies close enough for Edmund to feel his warmth, leaving space for Ed to decide how much contact he wants.

In the flickering candlelight, the shadows in the corners are thin and wispy, insubstantial. Ed turns on his side, turns toward Peter, and clasps one hand around his lion pendant, closes his eyes, and listens to his brother's breathing.

He comes awake again suddenly, in the dark. Quite dark, candle gone out, but Peter's back is warm against his hands, and the only sounds are their breaths, and the continued rushing and racing of the wind.

He feels it then, creeping into his thoughts, water running down, drip, drip, drip, layers of ice, built up around the edges of his mind… The wind. Is that a Lion's roar, or a wolf's howl? He can't- he can't be sure.

Peter's back is in front of him, a man’s broad shoulders now, strong and capable, and Ed unfurls one hand, presses palm to spine, warm and solid, flesh and bone.

He feels Peter take a long, slow breath.

“Ice,” he finally says, and his voice is too loud in the dark. He drops it closer to a whisper. “There's too much ice.”

And he's been trying not to touch the slicked over walls in the castle courtyard.

Peter stirs under his hand, shifting away, so he can turn onto his back, and Edmund's left hand ends up under Peter's arm, but he doesn’t mind, just lets himself slump against that bulk, pressing his forehead into the meat of Peter's shoulder.

He doesn't know how to explain further, after all there's certainly more to it than that.

The shadows in Peter and Susan's eyes since the new year, and the beginning of the food shortage. The blanket of wind slicked ice that had settled over Cair Paravel. The strange fear that lurked in his head.

The Great River hadn't frozen over fully that year, and Ed had been slipping out to sit by the waterfalls near the castle, let the roar reverberate through him, like the roar of a Lion, so much heavier and truer than that awful changeable wind.

Still, the doubts crept in, a sense of fear and unreality encroaching on the edges of everything, frozen rain building up, till his very thoughts seemed slippery and fragile. Like now.

“But it's inside too,” he says at last. “Inside me. And… and I'm always wet. And cold.”

He shivers, and Peter moves again, this time to wriggle his right arm under Edmund's head, wrap it tight across Ed’s back, pulling him in against his side.

“Is that why you keep disappearing from audiences?” Peter says at last, gentle, and Ed lays his head on his brother's chest, closes his eyes.

“Yes.”

Ah, Edmund of the silver tongue, yet words can barely form now, mouth half frozen, and it all takes effort, so much effort.

“I try,” he murmurs.

And he has been trying, trying to stay out and connected with the Narnians, to remember they are all facing a difficult season, but it's gotten harder and harder to talk with them, to connect, to be present in those conversations, and Ed has found it easy to slip away and not be missed. Or he thought he wasn't being missed.

“Is it her?” and Peter's voice is very low, the grip on Ed’s upper arm tightening slightly. “Is it memories of the Witch?”

Edmund feels the heartbeat under his cheek quicken, and suddenly smiles. Oh, his brother, his dear, protective brother.

“No, not really. I don't think, at any rate. I'm just…”

There is such a lengthy silence, they both break it.

“Tired?”

“Afraid this is a dream, somehow.”

Ed cringes at hearing it aloud, but he's said it, and the words echo in his ears, filling the darkness, and he doesn't even realise he's starting to pull away from Peter's side, until his strong arm is drawing him back in, keeping him close.

“It isn't,” Peter says, very firmly, voice a little too loud, but it makes the wind sound quieter somehow. He takes a hard breath, lets it out, goes on gentler: “I promise, Ed. You're safe, and you're not–”

“I know,” Edmund interrupts. He lets his head fall against Peter's shoulder once more, closes his eyes, alarmed at a sudden burning behind them. “I know,” he whispers. “I know that, but– That isn't always enough.”

Another long silence.

He hasn't said it right, but he doesn’t know what else to say, and a hot curl of shame settles in his stomach, and he wants to pull away again, but… he also doesn't want to. It helps to have Peter close like this, especially in the dark, especially in the cold, especially, well, now.

“What can I do?” Peter says at last. “How can we help?”

He won't cry, he won't–

“Oh, Ed.” Peter's hand pats Edmund’s arm, a little clumsy. “I don't even have a handkerchief.”

“Your shirt works well enough.” Ed tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob.

“Actually, it's your shirt.”

Edmund laughs a true laugh this time, and when he gently pulls away, Peter lets him go. He mops his face with the sheet, catches his breath.

They are lying still in the dark again, side by side now, when Edmund says, very quietly: “Just this. Just be here. Just…” …be Aslan to me, he almost says. “Let me alone sometimes, but not too much.”

Peter settles, relaxing with the instruction, the start of a plan, and Ed smiles to himself, amused.

“Agreed. Now–” Peter yawns suddenly. “Anything more you'd like to say before we sleep? We'll have to be up in a few hours, you know.”

“Just thank you,” Ed says simply, and then he yawns himself. “Perhaps we could go for a gallop in the morning? If Philip and Erah don't think the footing is too deplorable.”

“Good idea,” Peter murmurs, and then his breathing drops, and Ed counts three, four, five… His brother is asleep.

Ed does like any good little brother does, and follows suit, in his own time. It's easy with the warmth surrounding him now, he's not even listening to the wind.

In Aslan’s time.

As always, in Aslan’s time, night gives way to day, winter gives way to spring, and fears give way to love. Edmund will live this truth many times over in both his lifetimes.

That night in the dead of winter might have been the first time Edmund saw the Lion in his brother's face, but it was not to be the last.

Next

[vadersaber]

Oh lord h'mercy this was SPICYYYY i loved it!!!

Just making sure you never escape this. 🙂🙂🙂

ohhhh, you’re a menace…. but I can be a menace too

javier peña x f!reader

warnings: smut, p in v, office sex, javi being a menace. written on phone so ignore errors. no y/n.

an: smut isn’t my strong suit, so pls be kind.

A hello doesn’t leave his lips, the file room door slamming into place just as his chest collides with your back.

“Put the file down, cariño.”

You’d expected him. Eyes meeting his across the desks, staring him up and down. Tension bubbling, all set to burst. It’s what he gets for wearing a shirt with the top three buttons undone, and it’s what you get for teasing.

Now his hand is sliding up your blouse-covered ribs, spreading across your front, before his fingers rest on the edge of your chin.

You drop the file with a light thud, it meeting the floor as your front is pressed more into the metal shelves, waist meeting a corner of a box.

“Javi, anyone could—”

His palm drops, fingers lightly squeeze your neck, nose roughly pressed against your cheek—lips so tantalising close to his. “You’ll have to be quiet, then.”

You taste the words on his breath before you hear them. The scent of coffee and his last smoke circling you, dancing together with the scent of amber and citrus of his aftershave.

The scent which gravitates to you, usually clinging when his skin is flush with yours—one you struggle to ever want to scrub from your flesh.

“Gonna be a good for me, hermosa?”

His free hand expertly dipping, hovering over the button on your trousers. You can feel how hard he is, almost moaning with him as you shift your hips back.

“Gonna let me fuck you here?”

Your throat dry—sight blurred with intoxicating brown you never wanna be spared from.

“Y-yeah,” you whisper, more hoarse than you mean. “I’ll be good, Javi.”

To your surprise, he smirks—before his lips crash against yours. A groan vibrating through him to you, feeling fabric slide down your thighs, pooling at your feet as he pulls his mouth from yours.

You don’t have long to miss him—

Because then, he snakes his fingers into your underwear, feeling how slick you are from want—your desperation—his moans against your neck.

“Been thinking about me, huh?”

You only think Yes, Javi. Yes. Not willing to give him the satisfaction, the game you both playing having no clear winners. Except for now, a draw in sight—his breath hot on your ear, sliding his fingers in and out, in and out.

“Fuck, hermosa…”

Your whimper, clenching around his fingers. Teeth needing to dig down on your lower lip, nostrils flared—breath hitched. Going from nothing to everything. Your mind emptying, senses close to be ruined each time he circles your throbbing clit.

“Javi.”

It escapes. Flutters through your teeth as he halts, your eyes flipping open—taking in the sea of brown boxes and cramped space.

And then it all happens at once. Belt buckle sounding, fabric falling, as you instinctively bend at the hip—just enough.

Then you feel all of him. Deep. His teeth biting through your blouse onto your shoulder. One of your hands clamped around the metal shelving for support as he sets a brutal pace.

Pounding into you—making the shelve shake and your toes curl as your teeth pierce your lip. You’re briefly aware of the way your skin ripples with each slam of his hips.

Because he’s so deep, all breath and grunts all over your neck. Your fingers knotting into his hair, sweat collecting around your collarbone—

“So good for me, hermosa. So good.”

“Javi, please—more.”

He grins, breath escaping as a laugh against your neck before his fingers bruise your hips—fucking into you, making it hard to choke back a moan, never mind his name.

[bruciemilf]

Clark from Texas is funny to me because in certain tones when someone says "bless your heart." It sounds polite but, the person saying it is actually calling someone a dumbass. I would love to see a Texan!Superman getting frustrated/annoyed at a justice league meeting and say "oh, bless your heart!" And other justice league members getting confused, or taking it as a positive thing to say because they aren't from the south😂

Not only that, he carries moonshine around. Specifically, he makes it look super delicious so others would ask to try it. Clark watching them choke with a shit eating grin.

It's also illegal to say "God, it's hot in here" cause he immediately goes on a "Texas is the hottest place on earth. Texas would melt you to the bone like you're a pathetic cone of icecream" rant