#and Crow too I guess?

[katyspersonal]

@fareehaandspaniards @jarognieva Are you FUCKING kidding me. You two can NOT be serious about this o_o" Alright, how many MORE people here really think that I am physically capable of losing passion for Bloodborne and I am not even aware of that??? fdhfdhs

I myself have a history of meeting a new person and liteally not even 5 minutes in scaring them with surprise lore essays! And I don't seem to ever learn, because I just.. how? How I can know how much lore is "too much" for someone, when for me all these essays is just how I NATURALLY function? Bitches be like "omg Kat you are working sooooooo hard to do so much research and write so much text on BB, I'd never have the patience! x3" and I just... don't know how to explain that I instead need patience to NOT do all this "research". I have to put in effort into NOT overthinking, not the other way around fjdhdhsf

And you guys have no idea how thankful I am for every single person that appreciates my approach to things, moreover, always wants to hear MORE? It feels like some autistic symbiosis xddd (Also Jara you SHUT the HELL up, you've made those posts about Polish language on the graves and that Czech Clocktower thing! What you did to finally show people that Yharnam is SLAVIC and not british is hard to rate!!)

___________

P.S. I do like ER, really, I do. I think what will likely happen is that I just end up loving all From's universes almost equally, but yeah, BB was my first intro to this genre and it will stay so. And it just... stands out too much. But all in all, don't worry guys, my autism is enough for ALL From's games. I've made only like, 3 ER observations in total and people already told me that the connections I've made were "unique" and something they haven't heard before...? All while I was as focused on BB as always. Basically, my obsession and my ability to analyze the information as though I've smoked five jointed dry lumenweeds is not a finite resource, it is more like breathing, so yeah, you two put your abandonment issues away xd

[hinamie]

corvidae

[feather-bone]

[ID: a digital illustration of a deer blowing swirly smoke-like breath upward, a wolf chewing a bone to its right, and a crow flying above. The background is swirly dark blue and grey. End]

COLD BREATH

[intheorangebedroom]

I love how this gif jumped straight from WhatsApp to my inbox.

Explicit yes below the cut.

When you moved in with him, he plucked the Gladiator VHS out of one of your boxes and asked if you still had a VCR. You shrugged and said no, but you love that movie and that VHS has been with you forever and “have you seen Russell Crowe in his Roman uniform???” with an upward curl of your lips that had him raise an eyebrow.

Okay. Russell Crowe. As a Roman general. He knows only too well -and appreciates- your taste for veterans, but he had no idea it extends to the Roman legion.

First, he thought about finding an old VCR and surprise you with it. So you could play that tape and watch the movie together with What’s-his-face commanding his legion or whatever it is that put that spark in your eyes. Show you he’s not the jealous kind.

But then… well then he gets a far better idea.

He takes him a while to find it, and when he does, he has to drive all the way to the city to the rental place, then back home, where he hides the whole thing in an inconspicuous container under the workbench in his toolshed. Not too close to where he keeps the zip ties because then you’ll surely find it.

It's huge, and cumbersome. It comes with so many accessories, the shoes and the cape and a sword and the frigging golden laurel wreath in a wooden box…

Yovanna and Santi are throwing their annual Halloween party, which will provide him with the perfect occasion to wear it. As the day draws closer, and you keep asking him what he’ll go as, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain a poker face. “I don’t know what you got up your sleeve, Morales, but your Halloween costume better be scary.”

At long last, the 31st is here. He dashes in from work and goes straight to the toolshed. The whole attire is a nightmare to strap on by himself, but after 15 years of his life adjusting tac vests, he manages. 

When he steps into the bedroom, you’re zipping up a dark blue Michael Myers suit. You usually prefer to coordinate your costumes, only this year he decided to play solo, so you had to improvise on your own.

You turn around to the sound of his footsteps on the carpet just in time to watch him walk through the threshold, clad head to toe as a Roman general. 

And oh! he’s a mighty vision. His silhouette looks twice as massive. The chest armor, adorned with two winged chimeras, emphasizes his impossible breadth. His shoulders fill up the entire door frame. A white cape, embroidered with threads of gold, is flowing behind him, and on his plush lips, a devastatingly smug smile, and you forget how to breathe. Your ribcage caves in on a breathless gasp. Your eyes grow wide and your mouth falls open.

It's not... It's not the grime and crimson of battle. It's the white and gold of triumph. It’s as though all the light in the room emanates from him. Like he is made of it. Made of gold. And his hair, oh his hair, underneath that golden crown, curls in every direction, like that bust of Agrippa you once fell in love with in the Louvre.

He is magnificent.

And that son of a bitch knows it.

“You son of a bitch…” you whisper.

His grin stretches, revealing his dimple. And he fucking chuckles.

You briefly consider texting Yovanna to cancel. Bail out on your favourite evening of the year, but then you think different. You're going to go to that party and walk into their house with that man of pure golden light on your arm. Parade him all night. And then, you’re going to go home with him and ride him into next year.

When you get there, you are rewarded by the attendees' collective gasp upon his entrance. You’re probably hovering 10 centimeters above the floor with sheer pride. Yovanna shoots you a “good for you, girl!” look you have no trouble interpreting.

You spend the entire party watching him with a coveting gaze, hiding behind your mask. You might die, from want and anticipation and also dehydration with how hot and sweaty you get, with the size of his arms, and his naked legs on display, thick and solid and strong in just the right proportions. He looks so good it's obscene, and from across the room, he makes sure you're looking at him. That grin hasn't left his gorgeous face. You know he can see through your mask, through your thoughts, through your need.

On the drive home, both of you are silent. There's too much tension, it's crackling and sizzling like butter on a pan, and you zip your combination down to your waist to free the upper half of your body from the dense cotton material. With a side glance, you catch the working of his pebbled throat, confirming he’s registered how snugly your black tank top hugs your breasts. 

You are wet all over. Saliva pools into your mouth at the sight of his freckled skin, the rippling muscles of his exposed forearms and his thick fingers curled around the wheel.

You don’t even make it to the bedroom.

As soon as you get home, you step in front of him and brace both hands on his massive chest. The rigid armor feels so real, and you are reminded, once more, of the fabric of him. Of what his life has been. Of what he's done and seen. The battles he’s fought, the wounds he survived. And the way he chose love to redeem all his sins.

A warrior. A lover. Your man.

Quietly, you undress with trembling hands under his trained gaze. The dark pool of his eyes glimmers in the semi-darkness, in the feeble glow from the table lamp that catches at each and every golden detail of his uniform.

With a light touch, you back him up into the armchair. When he sits down in it, it looks like Caesar's throne. 

And then, you kneel before him, on the rough carpet, between his spread legs, hands splayed around his calves, skimming up to rest over his thighs. Feverish palms to feverish skin.

His tongue peeks slowly between his parted mouth to lick at his plush bottom lip, and you clench, sticky slick leaking down into your ruined underwear as you bunch the white toga in your fists and push it back.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice a quiet rasp.

“Yea,” he husks, bucking his hips forward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his large hand a loose curl around your jaw as he guides your face closer to what has you begging.

Brushing your cheek against his thigh, you nuzzle the bulge of his boxer briefs, and the heady scent of his sex makes you dizzy. He’s hard when you pull him out, hard and warm and throbbing in the palm of your hand, and his heavy breathing fills your ears. Pursing your lips around the fat tip of him, you taste his want. The tangy flavour travels down to your core and you squirm wantonly at his feet, eyes fluttering shut at the heavy glide of his cock over your tongue. 

Carding his fingers through your hair, his hand wrapped on your nape, he draws you in gently, down to his base, inch by inch, and you focus on what he’s giving you, on the impossible size of him, eyes flickering open to lock onto his, as he watches you take him in. Your fingers burrow into the thick of his thighs, nails digging in, and he thumbs away a stray tear from the round of your cheek as you keep him there, pulsating hot and heavy inside your throat until you can’t breathe. 

When you pull away, heaving chest and teary eyes, with a thread of saliva bowing down from your mouth to his cock, he bends forward in a creak of leather, to grab at your waist and motion you up. You moan in complaint, please Frankie please, jolting at the cold touch of his golden cuff on your skin.

“Shhh, c’mere,” he husks.

You stand up ruefully but docilely between his legs, and you might be crying, looking down at him, because it rips through your chest, it tears your bleeding heart apart, the timeless beauty of him. The reassuring breadth of his solid frame, the fathomless depth of his dark eyes, the pensive crease in his brow. His perfect features framed underneath the wreath of laurel. The softness of his touch, the restraint on his strength, when he slides your panties down carefully.

You cup his face between your hands to make sure this man is real, scraping your nails through the scruff of his beard, thumbs resting over the bare patches of his sharp jaw. 

He runs a thick digit through your soaking folds and your whole body shivers, knees buckling, you’d crumple on the floor if it wasn’t for his firm hold on your hip. 

“So? Do you like the costume?” he asks softly, teasing your entrance with his middle finger, and you laugh through your tears. 

His grin falls as he leans forward with a frown, rustling fabric and creaking leather, to press his forehead into your belly, chin pushing at the apex of your thighs, tongue darting to lick a broad stripe across your folds. His primal grunt vibrates along your spine and down your limbs, so fucking sweet, baby. 

The sharp edges of his golden crown bite into your palm when you thread your fingers through his curls. 

“C’mere,” he beckons, drawing you in, “come sit on it.”

His large hand skims down along your smooth skin and curls at the back of your leg, sitting you in a straddle over his lap. The armchair is large, but he’s larger yet, and even more so with the cape and the chest plate and the leather pteruge, and it’s a fumble to find a good position. 

He scoots forward over the seat but your knees knock uncomfortably into the armrest, and he huffs in frustration. You tilt up his face and realise you haven’t even kissed him yet, too caught up in his glorious beauty. 

“Francisco,” you breathe out, and he stills. 

You lower your mouth to his, tongue gliding over the soft cushion of his lips, and he opens up, kissing you back full and deep, your tongues entwined and swirling languidly. His hands find the plump of your cheeks, spreading you for him.

When he breaks the kiss, it's with a rushed grumble of “let me take this fucking thing off,” but you're already sinking down onto his length with a pained moan, furrowed brow and eyes clenched shut at the blinding stretch, fluttering walls and quivering chest.

You settle there, the coarse hair at his base grazing your swollen clit, his warm shuddering breath fanning your face. You feel him throb at the center of you, and you cling on to him, to his cape, forehead to forehead, the cool surface of his armor pressed to your peaked breasts.

“Keep it on, Frankie, please. I want to know what it feels like to fuck a god.”

—

HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY, MY LOVE 🧡

[dandeliannes]

EDWIN PAYNE: "YOU ARE MY PAIN, DIVINE, DIVINE"

my very first dbd edit !!!

i really love how edwin interacted with the other characters in this show. it was originally supposed to be just a painland/payneland edit but i wanted more so i added everyone 😭 really really love how this turned out ! this show is so special to me ♥

also thought that come back to me was perfect for edwin so i just had to make this :')

[crowliphale]

Twitter character requests

[mollysunder]

Is it pretentious to think of Jinx as a kind of Promethean character? Jinx is defined just as much by her ability to steal from Piltover as she is by her own inventiveness and creativity.

No matter if it's a hexstone or a child's toy Jinx steals it from Piltover and brings it back to Zaun. Everytime Jinx does bring Piltovan tech to Zaun her modifications inevitably suit Zaun's needs, but each time Jinx does this, she's punished in turn.

Not exactly chained to a rock to have your liver eaten every day by an eagle, but Jinx's life is it's own elaborate punishment.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

God I wish we knew more about Dunyasha

[housederiva]

Do you guys know how annoying it is to make any sort of accurate timeline for the crows? Please why isn’t there a codex entry telling me who each of the eight talons are in Veilguard?

[evenlyevi]

Now we wait.

[six-of-cringe]

I think the best thing about the auction scheme is that the crows didn't frame Jan Van Eck for anything he hadn't already done. Going behind the Council's back, misappropriating funds and manipulating markets for his own gain, kidnapping and torturing a teen - all things he'd committed before the auction. They just baited him into doing it all again. Lengendary

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Edwin, Charles, and Monty (Soulmate AU)

Monty looks up this ‘Pinocchio’ the next time he goes to the library. A puppet who wishes to be a real boy, whose nose lengthens when he lies, who can’t stop lying, who never gets to have a soulmate.

Sour crunches in his gut, heavy as a neutron star. He's not real. He doesn't get to be real. He may not be a boy made of wood, but he is a boy made of feathers. And either way, he doesn't get to have soulmates. He doesn't get to have a way out. He can no more fly away, no more escape, as a human than he could as a bird. 

So Monty doesn’t look at his arm, even when it tingles with new ink. He puts on a sweater beneath his jacket so he’s not even tempted to look. There’s no use in indulging in hope. Why should he look at soulmates that don’t belong to him, but rather to some boy that he has accidentally acquired an imprint of?

Wooden boys don’t get to dream of the stars. They don’t get to dream of soulmates.

Puppets only have their masters. They can’t operate without them. What use is it to dream of a world where their strings might get cut?

-aletterinthenameofsanity, i was born hungry (there is a dream and it sleeps in me)

Babe, there's something broken about this

But I might be hoping about this

Oh, what a sin

Innocence died screaming

Honey, ask me, I should know

I slithered here from Eden

Just to sit outside your door

-Hozier, From Eden

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@fandoms-princess @orpheusetude @jaysbraindump

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

@likemmmcookies @wr0temyway0ut @thelakeswillbreakourfall

@sapphic-corgi @occasionaloneshots @troublegoblin

@natureismynature

[clowndotgay]

mockups of clash trading cards (made using renders i already had laying around & the original trading card images, etc etc.) may do more of these in the future. they're fun!

[majyykdust]

fuck it, un-sprites ur dave

[welcomefortune]

Just saw in a Veilguard spoiler an opportunity for my Rook to make a selfish decision with really great RP opportunities and angst based on what companions I think my Rook will like the most we’re so back

[tfg-16-art]

o wow betty drew yukichi again who would've thunk it