#wolfe might be wolf

[crow-caller]

as a child there's nothing cooler than a kid who gets subjected to evil experiments and gains special abilities. it's even cooler if these abilities also cause unfathomable suffering to use/against others. children love stories like this.

[secretidentie]

Tim for literally no reason: Hey Jason do yk where I can get some cocaine

Jason: Why tf do you need cocaine

Tim: I'm a teenage CEO why tf do you think I need cocaine

Jason: Fair enough. But I'm still not selling you cocaine

Tim: Why not? I just want to hang out with the other young finance bros

Jason: Hey dick head, tell your brother I'm not giving him cocaine

Dick: Tim are you okay? do you want to talk about this??

Tim: Uhg I'm fine. You're the one ones who said I should stop drinking coffee

Jason: and you thought this was a good alternative???

Tim: Come on I'll only do a little

Dick: Is this coz we spoiled the ending of wolf of Wallstreet

Tim: Why can't I just have some? You do!

Jason: No I don't

Tim: You're a crime lord

Dick: Yeah isn't it like part of the job

Jason: WHAT NO Stereotype much. I've never even seen cocaine up close

Tim: YOU'RE A CRIME LORD

Jason: Yeah not a drug dealer THERE'S A DIFFERENCE

Tim: I should have known your not cool enough to have drug dealer connections

Jason: OKAY YOU KNOW WHAT I'M GONNA BUY A FUCK TON OF COCAINE AND DO IT RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU JUST TO RUB IT IN

Dick: Woah woah that's enough both of you. No one in this house is doing drugs. If anyone talks about cocaine again I'll tell Bruce you said you want to start a new crack epidemic. He'll make you sit in at strangers AA meetings and read through old case files of ex dealers and their autopsies. Don't. TEST. me.

Tim: ............

Jason: ............

Tim: Can you sell me meth?

[verflares]

caution: dog will bite

[gravedangerahead]

pre-history au!!!

This is the result of reading The Dawn of Everything — which is a really great look at the immense variety of social configurations that existed in pre-history — while having Sydrian brain worms. So it's a hunter-gatherer AU. I always get pretty emotional about how humans were always humans, yk?

In what continent does the story take place? I don't know. When exactly in the really broad timeline of prehistory? Look, back when there were vampires, ok? Adrian says in The Fiery Heart that he has no idea where exactly vampires fit in human evolution and with this fic you can keep wondering lol

Sydney and Adrian come from different but intersecting groups

With Adrian I'm imagining a society where Spirit and spirit guidance has a known role, and where dreams have social importance. He still has the downsides of spirit but he has a better defined role.

With Sydney I enjoyed thinking about how a character who is so defined by being extremely intelligent would work in a society without writing and still be just as smart and capable. I thought about her love of stories and knowledge and witchcraft. I thought about the huge diversity of languages that existed then, even within one group. Her protectiveness and loyalty. Her curiosity. And her wish to travel.

And some romantic fluff. A lot of romantic fluff.

This is probably the one I thought about the most and the longest. Which does not actually mean that I wrote that much. It's just short of 25 hundred words long

I almost posted a section of it involving Malachi Wolfe that I was proud of immediately after writing, but decided against it lol

Also, I kind of didn't name any of the characters. It feels weird to have characters called Sydney and Adrian and Eddie in a prehistoric setting. It makes it a bit complicated

[chloesimaginationthings]

Hear me out, Michael would think Roxy is SICK AF

[pigeonstab]

@somegrumpynerd :3c Cross getting his first toy ever

I think it's the kind of thing he brings everywhere cuz it's his comfort item.. and he's never had a comfort item before

[felassan]

pronouns to bear in mind 😊

Trick Weekes: they/them Corinne Busche: she/her Jin Maley (Taash): they/them Erika Ishii (Rook): all pronouns Gareth David-Lloyd (Solas): he/him/they/them Jessica Clark (Neve): she/her/they Jeff Berg: he/him

[pinacoladamatata]

blink and you'll miss it moments around skyhold....

[an-established-butt-dent]

Solas and Inquisitor Lavellan

[jade-bright]

Derek, texting: Hey Mom, is it cool if I go to a party tonight?

Talia, texting: Will you be drinking?

Derek: No?

Talia: Will you be doing drugs?

Derek: No...

Talia: Will you be having sex?

Derek: Maybe?

Talia: Then why are you going? Wait, better question, where are you actually going?! And who is really texting me?

----------------------------------------------

Stiles, turning to Derek while holding Derek's phone: Kochanie! She's on to you, what do you want me to say?

Derek, fighting an omega he was told to stay away from: Just tell her we're fucking and that I'll get back to her!

[vanillabox]

Might as well do classic designs for all the Diamond cutters, so here’s classic Whisper, she tiny :)

Check out my design for classic Lanolin here.

Check out my design for Classic Tangle here.

[graiison]

old drawing ..........

[barkingwolfdog]

does anyone else feel like a coyote or wolf but like. a forcibly domesticated one. i like pets but im still liable to bite yk. domesticated but still a little off like hey i think the other dogs know i don’t belong at this park

[verflares]

(click for higher quality!) draconified link concept ive been chipping away at this past week ..... here's my funny little compendium concept for him:

"A heroic spirit has taken the form of this bestial dragon. Unlike it's kin, this creature exhibits an extremely aggressive disposition. It appears highly territorial, and will relentlessly chase down those who disturb its skywide patrols - of which it seems to be endlessly searching for either a long-time vassal or foe. Unfortunately, it seems the spirit within has long since forgotten exactly who it was looking for…"

[hrethas]

merry dougmas birthday commission for @commsroom!!!!!!!!

a contemplative doug in the afterglow of the party, if you will

[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 🧡