#working on a fourth

[skullfragments]

What are the three terrors of The Fire Swamp? One, the flame spurt - no problem. There's a popping sound preceding each; we can avoid that. Two, the lightning sand, which you were clever enough to discover what that looks like, so in the future we can avoid that too.

Presenting: The epitome of comedy in the cinematic world via my favorite scene in The Princess Bride

the GO Reference Library Study Club did film and album cover redesigns this week, and I maybe got a little carried away!

[hayden-christensen]

HAPPY STAR WARS DAY May the Force be with you, always. (insp)

[lalalychee]

closer than you know

i've been working on this painting for over 3 months and i am exhausted 💀 so excited to be done with it. i'm really proud of it though!! it's definitely the most detailed painting i've done in quite some time.

(please be sure to zoom in to see all the little details i worked so hard on!)

[cobbbvanth]

star wars, but it’s just the memes pt. 2

HAPPY REVENGE OF THE FIFTH

[shittybundaskenyer]

And it feels like falling into the sea // From outer space in seconds to me // And I play discordant days on repeat // Until they look like harmony

[bobbinfire]

Megatronus, buddy, just sit back and relax. You're dead. Nevermind the back payment in using your likeness on every single object...without your consent...to start a civil war...over divorce paperwork.

<<The Original Paperwork

<Previous Law Suit

Next>

[clumsypuppy]

who is your favorite AA character? 👁️👁️

ziska… I hope capcom brings her back someday

[dreamdragonkadia]

A/n; I want Xaden kisses. This man is just so so fine

The "You're Mine" Kiss

It’s not subtle. Never with Xaden. He doesn’t ask; he declares. These kisses usually come when someone’s pushed his buttons, stirring that fierce, protective side of him—or when he’s feeling the slightest flicker of jealousy. Whether it’s a lingering glance from someone else, a whispered comment he doesn’t like, or your casual flirtation with danger, his reaction is immediate.

Xaden’s hand curls around the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair, while his thumb presses lightly against your pulse. It’s deliberate, as if he’s savoring the way your heartbeat quickens under his touch. His other hand finds your waist, holding you firm, anchoring you to him.

When his lips crash against yours, it’s not a question—it’s an answer. There’s nothing tentative about the way he kisses you. It’s fierce, unapologetic, and possessive, the kind of kiss that takes and keeps, like he’s trying to carve his name into your very soul. His tongue brushes against yours in a commanding and relentless way, until the world fades into the heat of his touch and the fire of his kiss.

When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen, your breath uneven, and yet he still doesn’t move back, his forehead resting against yours. His dark eyes lock onto yours, smoldering with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, roughened by the kiss, as he mutters against your lips, "Don’t forget it."

The Silent Apology Kiss

Xaden doesn’t stumble over apologies. He is honest—sometimes brutally so—and he rarely sugarcoats his words. It’s just who he is. But that honesty cuts both ways, and when his temper gets the better of him, the feeling of his regret is visible in the aftermath.

He doesn’t apologize right away. Instead, he clutches his fists tight enough that his knuckles turn white, jaw set in frustration, and leaves the room to cool off. It’s not anger at you—it’s at himself.

Later, when the quiet stretches too long and the sharp edges of the fight haven’t dulled, he finds you. You’re sitting alone, arms wrapped around yourself, the anger still coiled between you like a living thing. Xaden pauses in the doorway for a moment, as though gathering the resolve to step closer.

When he does, he doesn’t say a word. He crosses the room with quiet stubbornness, his shadow stretching long across the floor. Without hesitation, he kneels in front of you, his dark eyes meeting yours, raw and unguarded, willing you to see his apology. His hand moves to your chin, tilting your face toward him with a touch so gentle it almost breaks you.

Then his lips press to your forehead—warm, steady, and conscious. The kiss lingers, longer than normal, like he’s trying to say everything he can’t put into words. You feel his breath against your skin, the slight tremor in his exhale, and the unspoken apology that hums in the quiet between you.

When he pulls back, staring into your eyes, his fingers still resting lightly against your jaw. “I shouldn’t have snapped,” he finally mutters.

But you both know the words aren’t necessary. The kiss already said it all.

The Teasing Peck

These are the kisses that catch you off guard, the ones that leave your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. It’s usually when you’re rambling, your mind spiraling in a dozen directions while you pace the room, oblivious to his gaze. Xaden leans lazily against a doorframe, arms crossed, his infuriatingly smug grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

He doesn’t interrupt—yet. He’s watching you, his eyes following the gestures of your hands as you emphasize your points, but you’re too focused to notice the way his thoughts wander. He’s imagining you in ways he probably shouldn’t: sprawled beneath him, lips swollen from his kisses, cheeks flushed as you—

“Xaden, are you even listening to me?” you snap, finally noticing the far-off gleam in his eyes.

He doesn’t answer. He just steps forward, closing the space between you with ease. His hand grabs yours, the roughness of his fingers distracting you for a split second before he dips down and presses the quickest of kisses to your lips.

It’s fleeting—barely more than a brush—but the warmth lingers, and before you can even process it, he’s pulling back. You’re frozen mid-sentence, the words catching in your throat as you gape at him, completely derailed.

His smirk deepens, satisfaction rolling off him in waves. His eyes glitter with amusement as he says, “I am now.”

Then he steps back, leaving you standing there while he saunters away like he hasn’t just turned your entire train of thought into a pile of rubble.

The "I’m Proud of You" Kiss

Xaden’s praise is rare, which makes these moments all the more significant. He’s not the type to toss around compliments lightly—they’re earned, and when he gives them, you know they’re sincere. It’s after you’ve done something he didn’t expect—holding your ground in a heated argument, outmaneuvering him in a sparring match, or catching him off guard by being a step ahead of his usually unshakable intuition.

He won’t show his admiration immediately when there are other eyes watching or more pressing matters at hand. That’s not his style, particularly when serious things are going down. But once the adrenaline fades and it’s just the two of you, that’s when you see it.

The moment comes quietly. His hands finding your waist with a confidence that feels like second nature. His touch is familiar yet tender, like all he wants in that moment is to hold you, to ground himself in you. His gaze softens, the hard edges of his usual intensity melting into something gentler, more vulnerable.

“You amaze me, you know that?” he says, his voice intimate, meant only for you.

There’s no smirk this time, no teasing gleam in his eyes—just quiet reverence as his lips find yours. The kiss is slow, unhurried, and meaningful, carrying none of the urgency or fire you might expect from him after a meeting. Instead, it’s full of something deeper, something that speaks volumes more than words ever could.

His hands tighten slightly at your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, as though to keep you in the moment. It’s not about heat or desire; it’s about acknowledgment, admiration, and the way he sees you as someone who continually surprises him, challenges him, and is there for him.

When he pulls back, he lets out a soft exhale, as though saying the words aloud was as much for him as it was for you. The corner of his mouth lifts in a faint smile, his thumb brushing over your side as he adds, “I love you.”

The Protective Kiss

These kisses come when fear shadows his features—something you rarely see. Xaden seems unshakable, the rock in any storm, but when it’s you, when it’s your life that’s been on the line, that unyielding façade cracks.

It might be after a battle, when the adrenaline is still coursing through his veins and the memory of you being too close to danger burns fresh in his mind. Or maybe it’s in the quiet aftermath of a dangerous mission, when the reality of what could have happened finally catches up with him.

His hands are on you before you can even speak, his grip hard, almost bruising, as they settle on your arms. His dark eyes sweep over you, searching for any sign of injury, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks like it might snap. It’s as if he’s trying to convince himself that you’re really here, whole and unbroken, standing in front of him.

He doesn’t say a word—he can’t, not yet. Instead, he leans in, his lips finding yours with a desperation that borders on frantic. The kiss is desperate, unrelenting, like he’s trying to breathe you in, to memorize the feel of you against him. There’s nothing soft or measured about it; it’s raw, primal, and filled with the kind of fear that only comes from almost losing the one thing that matters most.

His hands slide down to your waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

His voice, when it comes, is low and hoarse, laced with an edge of anger that’s born entirely of fear. “Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, the words both a command and a plea.

You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens even further as he pulls you into his chest, holding you close like he needs to feel your heartbeat to steady his own. And in that moment, you realize just how much power you hold over him—and how much he’d risk to keep you safe.

The Slow-Burn Kiss

This kiss doesn’t start with lips; it starts with a look. A glance that’s lingered far too long, one of those smoldering gazes that sets your pulse racing and makes the room feel suddenly too warm. Xaden’s been giving you that look all day—subtle, deliberate, the kind that curls low in your stomach and leaves you wondering if he’s toying with you or if he’s just biding his time.

It’s not just the look, either. It’s the small touches: his hand brushing yours as he hands you something, his fingertips ghosting over your lower back as he passes by, the way his thumb lingers a fraction too long when he presses it to your cheek. And yet, somehow, he’s avoided your lips. He’s kissed your forehead in the early morning light, his lips soft and fleeting, and later, he brought your hand to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. But your lips? Not once.

It’s a game, you realize—a maddeningly obvious one. He’s drawing it out, savoring your growing impatience with the kind of quiet control that only makes you want him more.

When he finally moves, it’s with an intended slowness that feels like it’s meant to unnerve you. He steps closer, his presence overwhelming, and the space between you vanishes until he’s right there. His hand comes up, his fingertips tracing the line of your jaw, his touch impossibly soft.

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. But his lips brush against yours so lightly it feels more like a question than an answer, a whisper of what’s to come. It’s intentional—teasing, torturous—like he’s testing your patience, drawing out the moment until it stretches impossibly thin.

And then, finally, when you tilt your head and close the gap, he lets you have it. His lips press to yours, a kiss that’s all-consuming without ever feeling rushed. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the world around you fades until there’s nothing left but him—the warmth of his touch, the steadiness of his breath, and the unspoken promise that this moment is entirely yours.

It’s not just a kiss; it’s a claiming, a vow in its own right. And you can’t help but wonder how you ever managed to breathe without him.

[bluerasbunny]

really funny idea friends gave me

[thujaa]

based on this post

[serpentface]

The pylidaigh, a type of vampiric snow ghost, as imagined in folklore in and around the Highlands.

This is a ghost believed to come into being when a person dies in the snow and their body is not found before their soul (still trapped without its funeral rites) 'freezes' inside of it. The body then reanimates into a pylidaigh's twisted form. It looks like someone who slowly died of starvation, just a thin layer of flesh over bones. Its skin is as white as the snow itself, so pale it can blend seamlessly into a blizzard. Most of its body appears subtly stretched and lanky, save for its exceptionally unsubtle long, skinny arms, which drag on the ground behind it when it walks. After a big meal of blood, its belly swells like the abdomen of a tick.

A pylidaigh can only tread across snow and ice, and so doorways and windows are best kept clear of snowfall during the winter in order to prevent it from reaching inside. It mostly comes out to hunt during blizzards when there is little that can prevent it from catching its victims.

In spite of its fragile appearance, a pylidaigh is supernaturally strong, and can run at great speeds when it wants to. No mortal weapons can pierce its body, nor can any bonds known to craftsmen hold it in place. It is usually said that chains forged like iron but made out of ice can bind a pylidaigh and render it immobile, but this smithing technique remains tragically elusive to the average joe.

This ghost is either cast as a wildly dangerous but tragic figure, or one that is more simply malicious. In either case, it is described as experiencing nothing but bitter cold. It shivers endlessly. It retains distant memories of what it was to be alive, and it is motivated by a futile desperation to experience the feeling of warmth again.

In more sympathetic framings, it is described as using its freaky gibbon arms to capture its victims and pull them into an embrace, rather innocently trying to warm itself against their body. This inevitably fails, and the embrace becomes a bone crushing squeeze. When that too fails to warm the ghost, it rips out the person's throat and drinks their blood until the victim is as cold and drained as the pylidaigh itself.

In other cases, this more pitiable narrative of a ghost seeking warmth with no comprehension of its actions is discarded in favor of making it purely monstrous. Here it is a type of vampire with an insatiable thirst, practically a physical manifestation of the worst of winter itself. Some tales acknowledge both variants, suggesting a pylidaigh's violent attempts to warm itself may be initially devoid of malice, but turns into an act of furious jealousy of the warmth of the living after years of suffering.

The only (more or less) surefire method to permanently kill a roaming pylidaigh involves trapping it with fire. They are attracted to any source of heat, and will attempt to warm themselves with the flames (if not tempted away by a juicy living human body). The fire itself cannot kill them (as the sheer cold of their body is more powerful even than flame) but they can be trapped if kept near the fire long enough for the snow it depends upon to melt. This does not kill the pylidaigh either. The monster will remain in stuck in place (and potentially become a threat again if it snows more) for the duration of the winter. Only when the spring comes and all the snow melts does it revert into a normal human carcass (though mysteriously invulnerable to decay), at which point it can be cremated.

Pylidaigh in the wilds also revert to a human corpse during the snowless seasons, but will roam again each following winter unless it is burnt in the interim. It is of critical importance that any human corpse found in high mountain pasture is cremated- not only out of respect for the poor soul trapped as an earthbound ghost, but to prevent the threat of the possible dormant pylidaigh emerging next winter.

[nerdyfangirlmel]

Dain in Onyx Storm cracks me up 😅🤣 spoilers ahead

This boy is Tired of the marked ones shenanigans… he spends half the book trying to reign in Sloane who is the opposite of her brother and extremely impulsive full of rage, attitude and impulsive.

The other half doing quest squad shit.

Then he he spends half the battle of Draithus watching them whip out second signets left and right and just having to go …. “Ok so we’ll talk later” BECAUSE HE’S STILL TRYING TO CHASE DOWN SLOANE.

[arminslovurrr]

smug men who gives you the meanest, world crashing backshots on your balcony so you two can enjoy the fourth of july fireworks together. his left hand keeping a strong hold on ur hips, keeping them in place so he can feed you fast, deep, strokes. his right hand gripping your chin n forcing you to watch as the fireworks shoot into the sky.

“don’t look away from it baby- shittt..” he groaned as he pudgy tip pushed against the deepest parts of you. barely being able to hear him due to the loud pops ! of the fireworks. pressing sloppy, open mouth kisses along your spine, lazily swinging a hand down to play with ur puffy nub. ur knuckles would turn white from how hard ur gripping on the railing, trying to stop ur knuckles from buckling. he’d see you struggling n would slang one arm arm ur waist to hoist you over the railing.

the new angle gives him a advantage to abuse the spongy spot hidden deep in ur cunt. drool would be slipping past ur lips, ur eyes would stray away from the fireworks n you’d stare down at all the people watching the firework show. he told you not to hold ur moans back because “no one would even hear you” n he was right. “fhuckkkk, ‘s too fuckin deepppuhh” you slurred over your words making him grumble up a loud laugh as he smacked the globe of ur ass. ur pussy clamps down onto his girth almost impossibly tighter, making his cock twitch inside of you.

“gonna fuckin- mmph cum in this sloppy pussy- oh my fuckkk!” he moaned squeezing his eyes shut, biting his lip as his fingers attacked ur overly sensitive clit to set you off. spewing white globs into ur womb as he kept thrusting into you. using his other hand to grip ur scalp, forcing you to stare at the last bit of fireworks has you came on his thick cock. ur creamy essence gushing down his length as you screamed out his name. ur eyes rapidly scanning over the fireworks popping with different colors, the light from them shining down on both of ur bodies.

he would slyly pull out n bask in the view of you hunched over the railing with ur knees buckled n ur back still in that pretty arch as his n your release spewed out of ur puffy cunt creating a pool beneath you.

“stay just like that, gotta go get my phone n take a picture” he said before rushing back into the apartment.

pro hero! katsuki .. izuku .. kirishima

s4! eren .. armin .. reiner .. erwin

toji .. geto .. gojo .. sukuna

a/n: happy fourth of july to those who celebrate !! this was very sloppily written so please bear with me !! reblogs, likes n comments r greatly appreciated. also tysm for all the support on my recent worksss, i love yall soooo much !!

previous item on the menu: office siren! nanami

© arminslovurr 2024 , do not copy, translate or alter my work in any way.

[no1deahow]

A day at Baltigo

[heyhoneyfox]

Leo: what do you guys think the best way to die is?

Nico: firing squad

Leo: honestly I think it'd be best to just get really old then walk into the woods until you keel over

Will: yeah but do it in the late stages of dimentia

Nico, cackling: bro would be like "where am I?" then keep walking deeper into the woods

Nico, Leo, and Will, dying laughing:

Percy, terrified: what the fuck

[kokodrawings]

♡～ (˵˃ᴗ •́ ˵ )