#**I actually have lore here

[bacchuschucklefuck]

class swap design masterpost for convenience (from top to bottom: bard!riz, cleric!gorgug, sorcerer!kristen, barbarian!fig, artificer!adaine, and rogue!fabian)

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Eldritch/not-entirely-human Grunkle Stan stories have been eating away at my brain, so I have a silly little concept of Mimic!Stan.

He and his Mystery Shack are both mimics that lure tourists in as a literal "tourist trap" to gather and devour them! Since the house is alive, it raises a few (read: several) child safety concerns that lead to a LOT of rules to be created for Dipper and Mabel to follow when they eventually arrive, such as:

Be careful not to get lost in the winding hallways! The Mystery Shack is bigger on the inside, and you don't want to end up in the wrong areas.

Don't go through randomly appearing doors, they may eat you.

If you think you feel the walls around you breathing and the floor beneath you shifting, no, you don't.

If you think the walls feel a bit damp, you're imagining it.

Watch your fingers around windowsills! You wouldn't want to lose any of them.

Don't linger too long under the doorframes; it may start feeling like they are slowly constricting around you.

[turtletoria]

the krampus incident from the book of bill if it was out of character and stupid

[clouvu]

Save me french yuri... Save me

[linkedin-offficial]

chimera vivi batch of stuff #1million

[cinnamon-flame]

Hello I am back with more Viva Piñata doodles! Turns out if you think enough about fluffy piñatas you can force your way through art block (at least for a while)

The typical Viva Piñata experience, I love you Pretztail but why are you like this I drew so many Pretztail as a "do over" of my first Viva Piñata drawing from 2018

that's when it all started

[rassicas]

i have one video i've been wanting to make about a certain splatoon lore topic so badly for some years now and i wanna do it soon. but every time i think about it i can feel myself going insane. there's so much i need to say. how do i structure this in a way that makes sense. does it even make sense at all. to me? god help me

[coldbycrossfade]

MAN THAT REALLY COLORS THIS RESPONSE IN THIS CONVERSATION SO DIFFERENTLY FOR ME

[rotshi]

What their first date like?

Could have been worse I guess. ( 🖤 These are some of my first sketches of sonadow. Was kinda thinking how their first date would be like. Was watching Sonic Boom while making these if you couldn't tell :) To me they seemed like they barely knew each other and one thing led to another i guess... well that was my thought process while rotting over this.💙) (if my writing is hard to read i put some descriptions on what they're sayin and stuff ghghg)

[daily-grian]

Mod Owl lore: I used to be an artist for an original closed adoptables species called Wuffies on a niche rp forum board and I've been thinking about them again recently, so I thought i'd doodle Grian as a wuffy. Bonus fun fact - wuffies do not usually have wings, but I was the only person to ever get a wuffy with wings cause it was a birthday present from the species owner and I still have it :3 It would feel criminal to not give Grian wings though

[rayveneyed]

cw: sexually explicit content / blood / relatively light sadomasochism / age + experience gap (reader is older + more experienced) / sub!choso / vampires 🧛‍♀️ / sex and violence as two sides of the same coin /

choso kamo is 160 years old when he meets you.

in those years of walking the earth, undead, he believes he’s embraced his vampirism as much as he possibly can. the broiling self-hatred he had once found solace in has reduced to a simmer, strongest in those moments of blood and guts and weakening heartbeats; and although he often avoids crowds, and companionship, and light, he no longer believes himself to be a slave of his own nature.

to be true — in the grand scheme of immortality, of vampirism — he isn’t anywhere close to the level of control he’d wish to have. often, when indulging yuji’s desire to enjoy the world as he did before his death — boardwalks and arcades and cotton candy — he feels his canines aching in his gums, stretching until they dimple against his bottom lip.

it’s not comfortable. it’s not confident. but even despite the growing aches, he’s no longer cowering in alleyways; no longer drinking from poor stray cats and garbage-chewing rats to momentarily satiate that ever-growing, gnawing hunger. he has some sense of control—

“oh, you baby-bats. so adorable.”

control which he now flounders to grab.

a sharp, inky black nail scrapes up the column of his neck — he can’t help but arch into it, head tilting back until his wide, pupil-blown eyes find the ceiling, with its intricate coving and obsidian chandeliers. the music from the main hall is nothing but a buzzing in the back of his head; thoughts of his friends’ whereabouts, an afterthought. your fingernail crowds the underneath of his jaw and stops at where his pulse point would have thrummed, would he have been alive.

you’re a demon. a devil. a she-beast. a succubus. any horrid, terrible name he could call you, he will — dressed in blacks and burgundies and gold older than him, your lips painted an ox-blood red and your eyes as sharp and dark as any polished knife. in your hands he is small. weak. mortal.

“satoru usually keeps his strays away, after last time,” you say, pouting now, though it’s a crude approximation of sadness — even now, your eyes glint with devilment. “so mean, when he knows i have a weak spot for bats like you.”

that wretched finger stretches up; pokes at his bottom lip, scrapes against the fangs that had — embarrassingly — extended from his gums at the simple weight of you on top of him.

“look at that,” you coo, and your grin is something unsettling, something that curdles in the pit of his stomach and heats between his legs. “excited, pup?”

his answering breath comes ragged, and it’s always more embarrassing than it was when he was human. his heart doesn’t work, his lungs do not work, and he has no need to breathe — in fact, he lost the reflex to do so around 92 years ago — but his brain is scrambled, it seems, wilted neurons confusing signals from almost two centuries ago. “i’m — ahem — i’m okay, duchess.”

“how sweet. you don’t have to call me by my title, you know. my name will do just fine.” at his silence, you push yourself up from where you’d been laying low against his chest — looking far too excited when you say: “unless, of course, you like it.”

his hands tremble at his side. he can’t remember the last time he’s indulged in — in debauchery. the last time someone’s made him feel like they’re holding his heart in their hands. over the past hundred-odd years, he’s avoided it like the plague, and for good reason — most vampires aren’t known for their commitment, let’s just say. and now you’re on top of him looking like every sin he’s tried to avoid, and he’s straining so hard in his pants he fears he’ll cum before you even hint at removing a single article of clothing.

you press yourself flush again, nosing at his neck. he knows, for the first time in his long life, what it feels like to be prey. is this what his victims had felt when he ripped into their throats, young and inexperienced and bloodthirsty? did their vulnerability sit like a stone in their throats?

a groan comes from you, suddenly, and your tongue darts out to lave against his skin. choso’s answering moan is more of a whimper, broken and weak in his mouth, but you don’t seem to notice — or care. he flexes his glutes in an effort to stop himself from rutting up against you — not only would it be embarrassing, desperate, but it would be rude. this is your house, after all. your soirée. your gilded halls and bedazzled walls. your silk sheets against his back. your satin skirt bunched around your waist.

“tell me, pup,” you say, and he fights the instinctual reflex to shiver at the brush of your lips against his skin, “have you ever fed from our own?”

“hm?” it’s a sound of confusion brought half on by his simple lack of knowledge, and half on by his slow-processing brain. only seconds after does he fully register your question, and the eyes he hadn’t realised he had screwed shut flew open. “no. i — i didn’t know that was possible.”

all at once, you’re sitting up again — swinging your leg over his hips until you’re standing. it wouldn’t be right to call it clambering — you are impossibly graceful, even passed the agility and elegance that comes with the gift of the undead. his hands reach for you before he can stop them, a sound like a question on his tongue, and you send him the sweetest, most tooth-rotting, stomach-turning smile. he thinks he likes your biting, cruel grins more, though you’re lovely regardless.

you begin to reach for the ties of your corset at your spine — just another thing that makes his mouth water. people didn’t wear these sorts of clothes anymore, not in the human world. but he remembers the skirts and corsets from paintings of noblewomen hundreds of years ago, and how he’d admire the curve of their waists, the swell of their chests—

“of course, satoru wouldn’t tell you. why would he?”

his eyes snap up from your chest, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. but you don’t seem to mind. the corset is removed painfully slowly, for no other reason than to torture him; then, the outer dress, with its carmine satin and intricate embroidery. you throw it to the floor carelessly, as if the most knowledgeable museum curators wouldn’t prostrate themselves at your feet for the simple chance to display it for millions to see — a while his eyes drink up the sight of more skin, the whisper of form beneath your underdress and bloomers, you near him once more.

metal to a magnet, a moth to flame, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed. you find a place between his legs and grasp his chin, and choso can’t look away from you.

“i can take you apart and put you back together,” you say — promise — voice like crushed velvet, quiet and creeping like a choking vine. your thumb smooths over his cheek and ends at its apple, where you press the sharp tip of your nail into his flesh. “i can show you the pleasures of your eternal life, and its pains, and everything in between. i can bring you to every edge, and draw you back from them just as quick — and it will be painful, and you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t be able to go another day without it.”

he’s lost the ability to speak. his unmoving heart is in his throat — or in your hands, or between your sharp teeth. you tilt your head and regard him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

“all you have to say, pup, is yes.”

oh, it’s out of him so quick he can hardly keep up — a word so breathy you’d swear you’d already had your way with him. but embarrassment is a thing of the past when your smile stretches, and you murmur marvellous. you release him from your grasp, much to his chagrin, but when you begin pulling down your bloomers his attention shifts.

he can smell you. smell you. the musky, salty scent of between your legs — a smell that has his mouth watering and his fingers cramping from how hard he fists the sheets. your bloomers are damp when you discard them, sticky with your arousal, and pride glows in choso’s chest. he didn’t do much, but it seemed enough — if he had only let himself lose control, hump up against you harder, perhaps it would’ve stained his clothes; seeped through your layers and onto his lap. he’d go home and hold it over his nose until the scent faded, and perhaps after.

“new as you are,” you say, climbing onto your bed once more and reclining back against the numerous pillows — huffing a mean-sounding laugh when he crawls after you. “i’ll do you the mercy of taking it easy, just this once. oh, don’t make that face — you look like a kicked puppy. i promise you’ll enjoy what i have in store for you.”

and you hike up your underdress, and spread your legs. choso’s mouth waters — the thick smattering of hair on your mons, your flower-like labia, shiny with your arousal. and your clit, peeking out from its hood, pink and shiny and begging to have his mouth on it. but as if this wasn’t enough — as if he wasn’t already scrabbling to get between your legs — you take one of those long, sharp nails, and drag it against your inner thigh. the skin splits. blood trickles down from the wound like a river of gold, flowing into the crease between your thighs and your pussy, and it smells ambrosial. if his fangs were aching before, they’re screaming, now. this isn’t human blood; this is richer, sweeter, creamier. delectable. hedonistic. you’ll make a glutton of him.

“after all,” you say, grinning wickedly, “i’m treating you to a most delectable meal.”

[herebecritters]

Can you draw flippy x flaky please

You’re lucky I love them ❤️

[featherymainffins]

I hate to say it but I might have to admit that Redditors can be pretty based sometimes

[starflungwaddledee]

at long last i present... a proper starstruck dee reference sheet! 🎀✨ have a peruse and learn a little bit (but not too much!) about this totally normal waddle dee!

[forgettable-au]

I love it when you guys like all of my posts but sometimes you'll get to the veryyy old stuff and it's so embarrassing cause my art looked SO different and also THE STORY WAS SOO DIFFERENT (I retconned lot of stuff at some point)

But also I'm so glad this comic is finally being posted and seeing old posts getting attention reminds me of how much I've progressed ♡ so that's nice

Still embarrassing ...

But very nice♡ glad to see new people finding this au everyday

[serpentface]

Brakul participating in the khaitwrestling tournament in the city of Wardin’s annual games. He is grappling with his beloathed rival, a Titen youth with a cooler beard named Gijo Sihgawe.

Brakul is using a technique where he attempts to gain a solid hold of his opponent's body and will then spur his khait into a run, using the animal’s momentum to drag the opponent off his mount. This can be a risky endeavor (as one attempting this maneuver might be wrenched off their OWN khait if their foe has a stronger grip) but is considered rather impressive and crowd pleasing when performed successfully. 

Khait wrestling is a sport that was brought to broader Imperial Wardi culture via the Hill Tribes, and is very popular in the west and south of the region. The Wardi brand of khait wrestling is similar in basic form and structure to its progenitor traditions, but has developed into its own unique variant. The goal of the sport is to force the other rider to dismount (via pulling or shoving them off) and to lead both khait out of the ring.

Wardi khait wrestling is performed in a wide, circular ring. Combatants begin with their khait standing parallel, and attempt to shove or pull opponents off of their mount. Fighting halts if the riders step out of the ring, and both must reposition themselves at the center before the match can resume.

Combatants are only permitted to fight via grappling. Punches, kicks, intentional twisting of extremities, attacks with the spur, jabs at the eyes, intentional trampling, etc are prohibited (and called by referees. Their calls can be incredibly controversial). Notably, the pulling of hair is generally Not outright prohibited, so longhaired riders usually wear their hair tight to the scalp or under a cap, and many devoted wrestlers keep their heads shaved. 

A match ends when one combatant has forced their opponent to the ground AND successfully leads their khait out of the ring while remaining mounted. If a dismounted rider manages to regain control of their khait before it is led away, the match continues. Bouts between equally matched opponents can be very lengthy. Official competitions held in annual games tend to have time limits, at which point the match is scored by referees based on a point system (usually tallying number of falls and scoring points per certain types of grapples).

Khait wrestling requires strong, calm, well trained and exceptionally even-tempered khait that can remain unpanicked as their riders fight atop them. Most are mares or geldings, though occasional intact bulls with particularly gentle temperaments make appearances. Hornless or blunt-horned khait are preferred (some local games only accept hornless) as even the most placid khait's horns can become dangerous to their wrestling riders. A khait that intentionally injures another rider or khait (through biting or kicking) will be banned from official events, and often become fodder for sacrifice (khait are rare as animal sacrifices, and also considered among the best for the same reason- their high value).

Saddles are made especially for this sport, and are designed specifically to Not provide significant security to the rider (they are flat and lack stirrups), making riders entirely reliant on strength and balance. Riders wear loose trousers (quite uncommon in the region, where robes or skirts are generally worn), belted at the waist to avoid being yanked off during a bout. They wear high laced riding boots with small spurs.

This and other mounted events are usually accessible only to wealthy athletes (or athletes with wealthy sponsors), as there is a significant cost barrier to khait ownership to begin with in the cities, and animals suitable for this sport are particularly expensive. These matches are functionally a showcase of wealth and power for their participants. Though riders must wear simple clothing and are provided basic saddles, their mounts may be lavishly groomed and ornamented. The costuming shown here is actually on the less ostentatious end of the spectrum for a typical city tournament.

Additional notes:

Brakul's khait here is one of his favorites (he has twelve), a huge, shaggy mare named Emense, a Wardi word that translates close to 'beloved'.

Brakul has participated in nine of Wardin's annual games, and placed first in khait wrestling three times. He enjoys modest local fame for this and has used most of his winnings to buy more khait and khait accessories.

Goji is a relative newcomer and won first in the last two annual tournaments. This drawing depicts moments before his second win, where Brakul does, in fact, fail at his awesome maneuver and get wrenched off his khait.

Goji rides an intact bull, a relative rarity. He is an exceptionally placid and gentle creature, named 'Moose' after a strange and exotic beast from the north.

Khait wrestling among the Hill Tribes has dozens of local variants, but commonalities that distinguish these from the adopted Wardi tradition is that the goal is specifically to knock off the other rider AND mount their khait AND THEN lead both from the ring, and that it's done with actual saddles.