#todays ride

[richo1915]

[paintedcrows]

Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates! All this triangle wants for Christmas is a Transuniversal Poly-Dimensional Metavortex. Will you give it to him?

Inspired by @candycatfalls Santa poll ;)

[tammieswillow]

†

[rosieleej]

It’s crazy that the twins are turning 25 today because at this moment probably Dipper has already finished his degree in engineering and is doing a masters and maybe a PHD, Mabel having finished hers in art. At this rate they’re old enough to drink, and drive, and vote and reflect on what-the-f happened to them as kids. Right now they’re probably celebrating their birthday in a small private party in the shack. Now the grunkles are 80 yrs and too old to sail at sea. Maybe now Greta is about to marry that duke; she’s as confident and beautiful as she’s ever been. Maybe Candy has some interesting stuff going on. Soos has a child with Melody, and the grandma has passed away, Waddles as well. Wendy is probably not working at the Mystery Shack ( she still cuts wood in her free time). The Weirdmagedon was so much time ago that all of Gravity Falls now can laugh about it. No one really talks about Bill, or the monsters, or the destruction, death and fear that came with them. For more than a decade the town has been at peace. For more than a decade Ford hasn’t feel like a freak. For more than a decade Stan has had what he had wanted for the most part of his life. For more than a decade the Pines twins, both sets, have been loved.

Mabel is now longer afraid of growing up. She already has, and she’s thriving. Dipper doesn’t fears he’s not good enough. Maybe their parents divorced, maybe they didn’t, but each year instead of going home in summer break from college they go to the same small town that opened their arms to them so so many years ago, and they feel like children again.

They. The children that taught me that growing up maybe is not so bad.

Happy Birthday indeed Mabel and Dipper Pines

[dindjarindiaries]

Today marks 5 years since we officially met the Bad Batch in The Clone Wars!

It also marks 1 year since the premiere of The Bad Batch season 3.

It’s hard to believe we’ve had the Batch for half a decade now, but I’m so grateful, because they’ve since become some of my favorite Star Wars characters ever!

[pcktknife]

drawings i did on the train :]

[hanafubukki]

Thinking about heartbeats, how fae have sensitive ears to hear such sounds. Lilia would pause at times and listen.

Badum Badum

And he would sigh, it’s one of the ways he knew his boys are okay.

He listened in on Malleus’s heartbeat when he was in an egg, it was one of the few signs that, yes, this baby was still alive. When he wasn’t allowed to visit Malleus as a child, he would sneak close by the side of the tower of his room and listen in, making sure he was okay. And even long after he had grown, it was another way to detect him when he visited the cottage in the woods.

Thinking of Lilia listening to Silver’s heartbeat, it was a way to keep track of him while he was out and about around the cottage and in the forest. It was also his way of checking that Silver was alive during his sleep spells and to soothe his worries.

Sebek, Lilia didn’t always have to listen in on, his voice loud even at a young age. But during those times the boy would be quiet? He would listen and look for him. A little surprise visit and a prep talk would have the boy back to his loud self.

Thinking about the events after Lilia’s death, now this habit of his are seen in his boys.

Malleus who’s young and his ears sharp, maybe even sharper than Lilia’s, who after loosing him would stand by his door, neither going in nor leaving.

Listening.

There.

His heartbeat.

He’s alive.

Lilia is most likely sleeping given how late it is after Malleus’s walk. But a part of Malleus settles, tears in the corner of his eyes.

Everything is alright.

I love you.

Thinking about Silver who can’t rid of the ghostly feel of his father passing away.

Silver who would log onto the online servers his father plays to check if he’s still playing his video games late into the night

Who would sign in relief once he notices his father playing with his gaming friend of many years.

Thinking about Sebek, the one who wished for all their happiness and who loves a happy ending.

Hesitant and wondering if everything that occurred were true to reality.

He, who would stand by Lilia’s door, not moving for a couple of hours as if he were guarding everyone’s happiness himself.

Thinking about all three meeting by accident at Lilia’s door, no words exchanged, they know the look in the others’ eyes.

The feel of despair still haunts them in the coldness of night.

Thinking how Lilia chooses that moment to open the door, as if he knew, as if he always known they were checking up on him.

He gives them a smile, asking them if they want to have a sleepover. They all agree a bit too quickly that gives away their anxiety but none of them care.

All four end up falling asleep on Lilia’s floor in a tangle of limbs, pillows, blankets, and smiles with him at the center of all and they the center of his world.

They can hear his heartbeat as he can hear theirs.

The road to recovery is a long one filled with tribulations and uncertainties.

But despite the challenges they face, they will always have each other.

That alone will always lead to their Happy Ending.

[iknowicanbutwhy]

Im lomv them I should draw them more,,,

pencil slipped

[banditblvd]

Uh happy holidays and whatnot take the bandit equivalent to a lump of coal

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

Alex Turner + gushing talking about Miles Kane

[anniebass]

just wrote 1200 words of dialogue of old men fighting 💅 so here’s them being cute and talking shit (and accidental short hair :oooo)

(original on my ko-fi)

[mickeysclubhouse]

ranking every clubhouse special ♡ [8/15] 03x09 road rally

[kittieshauntedourfantasy]

Noel Gruber x Female Reader Headcanons!!!

He leaves you for a man

[cowboyshadows]

CW: sex, allegorical abduction lol.

Recently I’ve been thinking about a lothario Simon that’s super non-committal. Wham bam thank you ma’am final boss. When he’s on leave, his routine is pretty simple. Drink, get high, smoke, watch television, wank. Then, on Tuesdays, he’ll go down to the local pub.

Scout the scene for some local talent, if you will. He’s not picky. Bird that’s pretty enough for him, bats her lashes at him enough—it’ll more than do. He does everything right leading up to it: smolders and flexes enough, listens instead of talking, hand on her thigh and her back. Later, takes her on a motorcycle ride back to her flat. Fucks like he’s jerking himself off—all detached and methodical and transactional. She’ll come, yeah; but that’s not his primary objective.

No hunter walks the earth forever without becoming prey.

It happens on a special Tuesday. One day after he’s returned from grueling deployment in the middle of fuck-ass nowhere. No signal, no birds. Just him and his overworked, calloused hand.

And now? He’s hungry. Ravenous. Predatorial, almost.

He leans against the bar, tenebrous eyes scanning the venue for his next relief. A group of girls keeps glancing at him from the other end, with one of them whispering to another—but it’s not enough.

Someone slides a glass across the table. Kentucky whiskey on the rocks, ochre and burning just the way he likes it. When he turns to see the person who’s offered it, his eyes land on you. You have this tenacity to your gaze, one that screams run away before it’s too late. However, he thinks, you are hot enough. And it is just one night.

The lion does not fear the lamb—until the lamb does not let go.

You spend the entire night laying it on much thicker than you need to. He’s relaxed, laid-back, for what he surmises is the first time in years. He sips away at least three glasses of his whiskey, and you haven’t even touched water.

You bat your eyelashes, you press your thigh against him, you press your tits together. You take his hand in yours and compare the two, you tell him how strong he is. That’s all it takes, birdie. He’s a simple man.

So he lets you take him home.

A fox may slip through a hundred traps—but the last will only need one tooth to catch him.

Inside, it’s dim, warm—smells like vanilla and something vaguely floral. He doesn’t care. Not about the decor, not about the candles you’ve lit. Just about the fact that you’ve already kicked off your shoes, looking at him like he’s something to be unwrapped.

That’s fine. That’s the game.

You touch him too much. That’s the first thing he notices. Hands over his chest, his arms, his jaw—feather-light, reverent. He lets you, at first, because he’s used to this part. Girls get handsy when they realize how big he is, how broad, how easily he can move them. It feeds his ego, he won’t lie.

But then you kiss him, and it’s different. It’s not sloppy, not rushed—it’s indulgent. Like you’re savoring it, like you mean it.

It’s the kind of kiss that belongs in the morning, not the night.

He should stop this. Should refocus, should take control. Should do what he always does—turn you around, push your face into the pillows, fuck you fast and rough and selfish, leave before sunrise.

He who drinks freely from the well will one day choke on the water.

But you sigh into his mouth. You thread your fingers through his hair, rake your nails down his scalp. He groans before he can stop himself, and for the first time in a long, long time, Simon lets go.

And that’s when it happens. That’s when you catch him.

The snake does not know it is food until the jaws close.

When he fucks you, he looks at you. You hold his gaze with such a sharp tether that he fears he might fall if he breaks it. Your hand snakes into his, fingers intertwining in a strange embrace he’s run away from his whole life.

You kiss him through the whole thing. You moan into his mouth, cradle his face in your palms, whisper things he doesn’t have the focus to process. You wrap your arms around him like you’re holding him together.

Like you know something he doesn’t. Like you always have, and he soon will.

A wolf does not understand the shepherd’s crook—only the weight of the collar.

He wakes in the morning, sunlight dancing over his skin and rooting him to your bed. Or maybe it’s the weight of your limbs draped over his frame, shackles more liberating than they’ve ever felt.

Maybe he’ll stay.

Maybe he’ll let this one keep him.

The beast does not fear the hunter—until he realizes the door is locked.

[spkyart]

Under the red sky

[shalom-iamcominghome]

One thing I love about people who are more frum than me is that two minutes after havdalah has seen shabbos away, they're sending you texts, emails, phone calls and it's like clockwork! I find it funny but more than that, I think it's iconic