This Vid Has Been In My Camera Roll Since 2018 And Its Still Single Handedly The Funniest Shit Ive Ever

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🕯 May you have the 🕯

🕯 absolute thirstiest 🕯

🕯 of thirst dreams of 🕯

🕯 whatever fictional 🕯

🕯 character you’re 🕯

🕯 hyper-fixating on at 🕯

🕯 the moment 🕯

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I'm a very serious artist

but fr this is them seeing all the hate Louis used to got. i don't think Clem would approve y'all talking shit about her boyfriend, buds

(reference in case you haven't seen it)

Love the Quarry? Then check out the Artstation profile of Wes! He also wrote the storyboard of "Little Hope" and "House of Ashes" two other games of Supermassive

Super awesome dude and horribly nice!

Wesley Nike

The Quarry Artblast - Wes Nike

Quarry portfolio - a selection of the work I made for the supermassive game.

Vows

Rating: G

Word Count: 3362

Pairing: Louis X Clementine

Louis and Clem work out their wedding jitters for their big day.

Read it on Ao3!

Read it on Wattpad!

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Wicked Game (Hank Anderson/female reader one-shot) Detroit Become Human fanfic

Here’s my first story about Lieutenant Hank Anderson!  I hope everyone enjoys it!

Title: Wicked Game

Rating: NC-17 for sex, language, and mentions of murder and domestic abuse (blowjob, cunnilingus, P in V, doggystyle, unprotected sex *wrap it up, kids*, and angst)

Characters: Hank Anderson/female reader

Summary: Hank calls you after finishing up at a crime scene and asks if he can come see you…

Author’s Note: I do not own the character from Detroit Become Human.  This is a work of fiction.  Anything remotely similar to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Toys (Hank Anderson x Reader)

Anonymous requested: “Hank x reader where Hank is working on paperwork from home or on a work call at home or something and he catches reader playing with herself? I need something smutty with being stuck indoors. Only if it peaks your interest though!”

Pairing: Hank x fem!reader

Warnings: Language, Smut…this is smut.

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LORD HAVE MERCY

Presenting: Ted Raimi's ✨Hands✨

Skinner (1993)

In the Golden Hour. Travis Hackett x Reader. Smut, riding, angst. Can’t fix the past, can’t see the future. So what’s left?

He’s not pretty— never has been— but like this he’s goddamned gorgeous. He’s all taut lines and sweat and a red flush that crawls up his chest like wildfire. Lean down and lick the salt caught deep in his crows’ feet; remind him that every year lived is another year survived. Remind him, because he sure as hell won’t remember for himself.

When he reached back to wrap his hands around the bars and husked out is this what you wanted there was little of the holy in him but there was that sunlight seeping through the narrow windows; there was the creak and squeal of his chair as he settled into a pose that left his body open and his mind dancing on the edge of something new.

And now.

Travis. Focus. Cmon. Look at me. He does, and the sun catches the brown of his eyes just so; there’s a warmth there that all his secrets and his high-built walls haven’t yet hidden away. It’s not gentleness nor kindness, but something nearly so: memory, devotion, and just the thinnest thread of hope. Cmon. His shirt’s half open already but now it falls away completely with your fingers whispering soft over the buttons; he’s flushed from neck to navel and his eyes are fixed on you even as he’s straining for contact.

Well aren’t you something.

The thing is, he could bring his hands down at any time; he could open his fly and plant himself deep, but he won’t. Not like this, not unless you asked it of him. He might not know much about trust, or even plain and open conversation, but he does know the feel of a moment outside of time. He knows how the golden hour brings out the hidden and the lost parts of men and makes them tangible, if only for a moment. And so he grips the cell bars until his knuckles go white.

In a hundred years none of this will matter.

It matters now. It matters to me.

And that’s the bitch of it all, isn’t it? The world won’t look sideways at a handful of bodies in the woods; animals are animals and meat is meat, in the end. But this is Travis and his family and the land that binds his blood; this is duty and honor and, somehow, love. And when the moon rises he’ll be out there hunting with the memory of you dried and itching on his skin. But for now he’s here with his heels against the concrete, not even trying to hide the way his hips twitch upward.

Maybe tomorrow we’ll be dead.

Yeah, maybe. And maybe tomorrow we’ll be free.

Maybe he’s not so intimidating below the belt; he’s one hundred percent average and at fifty-six he’s got plenty of grey among his coarse hairs, but goddamn if he doesn’t know how to use what he’s got. He smirks like the devil’s own when he clocks the tremble in your thighs; that sense memory comes flooding back and he’s so close you can’t help but clench around the near future where you sink down onto him and let him fully in.

Gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous. And it’s you with the words falling like rain, hitched and scratching around the roll of his hips as he plants his feet and finds what leverage he can. And in between the gasps and grunts are the unspoken words, the secret words: be careful. Come back in one piece. Come back to me. Maybe there’ll be another chance at that cozy little cabin in the woods, autumn rain drumming on the roof and a nest of blankets by the fire. Maybe you’ll let rainlight stream through the window and paint him blue like a dream; maybe he’ll sigh awake in the early hours with a half-spoken curse as his body protests against sleeping on the floor.

But it doesn’t do to look beyond the present, not when tomorrow could find him dead or worse. He knows it, too: he feels mortality crawling oily up his bones and it drives him deep inside you with every tendon in his body tight and thrumming. Can’t fix the past, can’t see the future. So what’s left?

What’s left is a kiss that tastes of coffee and salt, ragged breaths, and the maybe that you’ve tried so hard to kill but still keeps creeping in. What’s left is the way that same kiss shivers him apart til his hands slip sweaty on the bars, but somehow he holds on even as he finds his peak and blows right by it, fucking in deep until he physically can’t any longer.

Y’didnt—

Tch. Gotta save something for after. Sure, maybe it’s magical thinking, but it’s about all you’ve got. And so there are no goodbyes, only be careful out there. He’s all silence and long shadows when he leaves, cut deep by the fading light. And then he’s gone.

Roses are RED

And violets are BLUE

TWDG + Textposts (691/?)