4-0 THE AVS ARE SO FUCKING GOATED GOOD GOD

is there some kind of note of these words of wisdom?

charles: "yes, there is. but it's an inside joke. we are keeping track with my engineer, some of the discussions that happen over the 7 years that are funny... and we call that the 'words of wisdom'."

MINORS DNI 18+

ANAKIN SKYWALKER has a bad habit of going all night. He’s aware of the values of rest, he knows he has responsibilities to attend to the next day that require a clear head, and yet he cannot refuse you. Not that there’s a request to be denied, but when you stand there in your long nightgown in the Coruscant apartment you share, how can he ponder anything other than tricking you out of it? He’ll sweet talk you, croon, hold you close and charm you out of your clothes. He’ll have you bare and riding him on the couch, toying with your pretty tits in his hands while you bounce on his every aching inch. He’ll consume you, intoxicate you with his scent and his desire, he’ll be your every thought while he slithers in and out of your mind, abusing the force to bend your wills and train you into ecstasy. You writhe on the bed you share with him, tangling a mess of sheets in your throes of passion. Your claws sink into the soft down of your comforter while his weight lays on your back, pinning you to the mattress as he soothes your hot insides, fucking you from behind tightly knitted while his hand brushes back your sweaty hair from your forehead. His lips murmur against your cheek as your delicate countenance twists in something akin to anguish. He would pity you, if only you were truly in pain. Instead, you cry out in the heat of your climax, the evidence pooling out from between your legs. How can he refuse the night hours, when this is his only chance to fully indulge in the pleasures of your exquisite beauty?

ᝰ

the fire was low, but the glow of it painted the walls with a soft orange flicker. the house was quiet, save for the soft scrape of metal on wood and the occasional pop from the fireplace. joel sat at the table, glasses halfway down his nose, sleeves pushed up, and a small block of wood cradled in his calloused hands. his knife scraped slow, methodical strokes along the curve of what looked like the beginnings of a fox, delicate ears just forming, the snout notched into shape. he looked like he belonged there. not just in the room, but in the moment. hands busy, mouth set, the steady rhythm of his work filling the silence like he needed it more than rest.

you hovered in the doorway for a moment. there was something magnetic about watching him when he didn’t know you were, how quiet he became, how precise. you couldn’t explain it, but something in you twisted a little when you saw him like this. it didn’t help that your brain was already a little fried from the day. you’d been restless all afternoon, bouncing between tasks around town, trying to distract yourself with anything that wasn't the thought of his hands. now you were back. and the ache was worse. he didn’t look up when you stepped in, but you could tell by the subtle shift in his shoulders that he knew you were there.

“you’ve been out there awhile,” he said, voice low and even, not pausing in his carving.

“wasn’t that long,” you murmured, stepping closer. “you eat anything?”

joel snorted softly. “ate somethin’ earlier. left some stew if you’re hungry.”

you walked around him, slow and quiet, letting your fingertips brush the edge of the table. you watched him work a little longer, the careful drag of his knife, the tension in his forearm, the way his brow furrowed when he focused. his glasses slid further down, and he huffed, pushing them back with the side of his wrist.

“i’m not really hungry,” you said, voice lower now.

he hummed in acknowledgment, not looking up.

you stepped between him and the table, gently nudging one of his knees open with yours. that finally earned you a glance. a small, knowing one.

“what’re you doin’?” he asked, not irritated, just suspicious.

you didn’t answer. you just moved closer and lowered yourself into his lap, straddling his thigh like it was muscle memory.

joel made a small sound in his throat. “jesus,” he muttered, setting the carving knife down with care but not taking his hands off you. “you’re gonna make me slice my damn thumb open one of these days, sneakin’ up on me like that.”

“you looked busy,” you said softly, your arms sliding around his shoulders. “didn’t wanna interrupt the great artist at work.”

he shook his head, his hands found your hips, grounding you, holding you still, but not pushing you away.

he muttered something you couldn't make out, setting the knife down with more care than necessary. “that what we’re doin’ now?”

“you’re not gonna make me beg, are you?” you said, your voice low as you slid your hands up the front of his shirt, thumbs brushing the space just under his collarbones. “been wound up all day.”

joel leaned back slightly to look at you over the top of his glasses. his eyes dragged over your face, then lower—assessing. thinking. his hands landed heavy on your hips, grounding.

he exhaled, slow and controlled, like he was weighing his options. like he was pretending you didn’t already have him wrapped around your finger.

“you’re actin’ real needy tonight,” he said, voice dropping a little lower. his hands were still on your hips, thumbs idly brushing the hem of your shirt like he was debating whether to tug you closer or keep you there and burn slow.

“been thinking about you all day,” you admitted, quiet against his skin. “you didn’t even notice how pretty you looked this morning. all frown and flannel and your fuckin hands…”

“mm,” he rumbled, mouth twitching. “that what’s got you worked up?”

you didn’t answer. you just shifted slightly in his lap, pressing down a little harder on his thigh, watching the way his jaw tightened when you did.

joel’s hands flexed, gripping your waist a little firmer now. “you come in here sittin’ on my leg like that,” he said lowly, eyes flicking to your mouth, “and you expect me to finish my carvin’?”

“i expected you to tell me how bad you missed me while i was gone,” you teased.

his brows lifted. “i see you every day.”

you leaned in closer. “doesn’t mean you don’t miss me.”

joel leaned back, gave you that quiet, unreadable look.

his hands slid down to the backs of your thighs, squeezing once before he pulled you closer, flush against him. the fox on the table forgotten, the knife untouched. his mouth brushed your cheek, soft and rough.

but you had him here, grounded. his hands, his warmth, the slow way he let himself have you.

“you done carving?” you whispered.

joel nodded slowly, almost like he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“good,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “’cause i need you worse than that fox does.” his glasses were crooked. you reached up and pulled them off, setting them aside. his eyes were darker now, heavier.

ᝰ

a/n: i wrote this at like 1am after watching the s2 premiere so it's ass but seeing him in those glasses... meow...

“Someday there’ll be a celebration throughout Oz that’s all to do with me.” 💔

american pope is like an ethel cain album name

the russos have committed so many sins but i might just forgive them if they have bucky in this wig for doomsday

the house was quiet, the kind of stillness that only existed in early mornings, when the world hadn't quite woken up yet, but your brain was already humming with the simple rhythm of eggs sizzling in a pan and toast ticking in the toaster.

sunlight spilled through the kitchen window in long, honey colored beams, softening the edges of everything. you stood barefoot at the stove, wearing one of nate’s old t-shirts that hit you mid thigh, sleeves too long, fabric worn thin from years of washes and adventure dust. the only sound was the faint hiss of breakfast cooking… until you heard the floorboards creak behind you. you glanced over your shoulder and smiled. nathan drake, world famous treasure hunter, was standing at the bottom of the stairs looking like he’d been hit by a truck made of sleep. his hair was a mess, shirt rumpled from twisting in the sheets, pajama pants hanging low on his hips. but the thing that caught your eye, the thing that made you pause, was the fact that he was wearing his glasses. you rarely saw them. he usually only pulled them out when he was reading something fine print, or up late sorting through notes. he hated wearing them. said they made him feel old. vulnerable. but this morning? he’d clearly just grabbed them without thinking. they were a little crooked on his nose, still fogged from the heat of upstairs. you turned back to the stove, biting your lip around a grin. “morning, professor.”

he let out a gravelly huff that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “that obvious?”

you slid the eggs off the heat and looked back again, your eyes soft now. “you look good.”

he squinted at you through the lenses, already reaching up to pull them off. “nah, i look like my dad.”

you crossed the kitchen before he could take them off, catching his wrist gently mid-movement. “i said— you look good. keep ’em on. it’s kinda hot.”

his eyebrow arched, the beginnings of a smirk curling on his lips. “hot?”

you leaned in close, your hand brushing against his chest as you reached up and straightened the glasses on his nose with a featherlight touch. “mmhmm. the whole retired adventurer turned domestic husband with glasses look? big win.”

he chuckled, hands finding your waist like they always did. “you keep talking like that, and i'll forget about breakfast.”

“you say that like it’s a threat.”

he kissed you, soft and slow, tasting like sleep and warmth and everything safe. when he pulled back, he was still close enough for his glasses to bump lightly against your forehead.

“seriously, though,” he murmured, “you always this perfect in the morning?”

you wrinkled your nose. “i’m literally in my pajamas.”

“exactly.” he pressed another kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. “perfect.”

you rolled your eyes and laughed, dragging him toward the kitchen island with one hand while the other gestured toward the food. “sit down, professor. eat before the eggs get cold.”

he obeyed, dropping into the chair with a groan and rubbing his face, glasses askew. “married life’s rough.”

you set a plate in front of him and ruffled his already wild hair. “yeah. poor you.”

we're so sorry to hear about your roommate that passed away he gets five big booms BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

just felt my heartbeat between my thighs seeing this gif 😩 can't wait to watch this movie tomorrow goddamn

credit to @gydima original gifset