#according to custom

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

dw guys the thh tonaegiri trio was supposed to be included in the arti-mate collab but kyoko already filled their long-skirt quota and they had to stick junko in somewhere. so

some alternative outfit designs i was messing around with under the cut

i mostly couldn't use these because i couldn't figure out a color scheme that could still comfortably carry the original palette to fit the collab theme...anyways feel free to color yourself lol

[fure-dcmk]

International preorder open!

Preorder ends 10 March 2024

Shipping late April

Bigcartel (shop)

Group order

1. US [link] (closed)

Comic sample

a. Kkoma-dy

b. Three Quarter Nonsense

Edit: 12 May 2024 shipped. Please check email for tracking updates.

[nefelibatat]

Much as I love The Red Wedding, I have to say it…

There should have been two wedding cakes. It would be such a nice callback!

[squidsmakemedelusional]

guess who has unsupervised internet access

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Mugen Honda Accord 2.0Si XB4, 1987. Mugen was set up in 1973 by Hirotoshi Honda, the son of Honda Motor Company founder Soichiro Honda, initially offering special parts for Honda's motocross bikes. As Honda's range expanded in the 1970s so did Mugen's range of tuning parts. For the 3rd generation Accord, Mugen offered aero parts, suspension, exhaust manifold and tail pipes, as well as a range of aluminium wheels.

[janiedean]

nothing like seeing people still saying jon/ygritte was an abusive rship in my *recommended* posts in the year of the lord 2024 anyway I had missed instant blocking people just scrolling the dashboard

[iniziare]

Consider Yelan's facial expression to be my own in reaction to opinions shared on both X and Tumblr, and I guess I'm in the minority of the 'loud ones', but I'm pretty excited for Natlan since that trailer, actually. The previous teasers left me a little 'eh', but this definitely got my hopes back up, and I'm back in the right spirits for it (and ready to catch some Pokémon.)

Now I wouldn't be me if I didn't touch on the salt that I've seen scattered across the dash, so here I go. Listen, I read people's objections and I see what you're all aiming at, but in that light want to note that it's often incredibly easy to point fingers (arguably too much so) at others while being, quite honestly, hopefully rather aware that many of our own countries, cultures, and its populations across the board (and no, I'm not excluding anyone here) would likely be just as easily guilty as MHY is with these things. And no, I'm not blindly defending them, but I also won't point fingers at only one without pointing them everywhere else as well, including those you might think would 'never do such things', because I'm absolutely certain that they would. /continues on in the tags.

[arytha]

do i have things to do? yes. is it a pain to do it when im the only one in the vision center? absolutely.

which means i wont do it. haha

[jarate-enjoyer]

Not to be cringe on main but I've made a TF2 self-insert just because I want most of the mercs as my fathers

[querido-eh-dump]

Periódicamente siento la necesidad de dibujar a estos dos siendo felices. Según yo, está es una recopilación de los bocetos más presentables de la reserva que guardo, más una ilustración.

[cameron-carpet-lola]

I'm not gay.........................but

[cringeborg-moved]

1830s Hairstyles

This is a small set of 5 hairstyles that would work for the 1820s and 1830s (although some are a bit more timeless). They're not without their flaws and I'm very open to feedback. (Much) more info and downloads below the cut.

The Amelia Hair

Frankenmesh of the BG tight ponytail, the Dana hair and this hair

BGC

24 EA swatches

Display index 1830

Tagged as feminine

Hat compatible

Appropriately tagged and disabled for random

Vertices: 5073

Polygons: 6176

The Amy Hair

The Amelia hair without the curls at the side

I would say you could add some accessory bangs to it, but it is NOT accessory hair compatible

BGC

24 EA swatches

Display index 1830

Tagged as feminine

Hat compatible

Appropriately tagged and disabled for random

Vertices: 2787

Polygons: 3295

The Mercy Hair

The curls are from Buzzard's Ann Walker hair

Very tall, as you can see

BGC

24 EA swatches

Display index 1830

Tagged as feminine

Not hat compatible

Appropriately tagged and disabled for random

High poly!

Vertices: 10194

Polygons: 13501 (sorry about that!)

The Mary Hair

The Mercy hair with smaller curls

BGC

24 EA swatches

Display index 1830

Tagged as feminine

Not hat compatible

Appropriately tagged and disabled for random

High poly!

Vertices: 10185

Polygons: 13494 (sorry about that!)

The Millie Hair

The Mercy and Mary hairs without the curls

Has a bit of an ugly double hairline... I forgot to fix that in the texture. It's ignorable, though.

BGC

24 EA swatches

Display index 1830

Tagged as feminine

Not hat compatible

Appropriately tagged and disabled for random

Vertices: 5086

Polygons: 7003

Huge thanks to @buzzardly28 for several of the meshes used in this set!

Download .zip (Mediafire)

Pick and choose (Mediafire)

[muddypolitics]

(via Elon Musk's AI turns on him, labels him 'one of the most significant spreaders of misinformation on X' | Fortune)

[foxilayde]

Quiet [George Russell x Fem!Reader]

Summary: utter filth starring George Russell’s gigantic meaty paws. He’s OOC of course because we all know he’d never cheat on Bertha.

Warnings: infidelity, fingering, oxygen deprivation

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: the fic that no one asked for, for the fandom with 12 known residents. Why do the muses work this way? No one knows.

“You must keep quiet.” George grits into your ear. You can hardly hear him for your gasping and moaning. Keep quiet he says, as if two of God’s thickest fingers aren’t fist-deep inside your throbbing cunt, gripping you like a goddamn bowling ball about to be tossed down a waxed lane.

He pulls back, face in your line of vision. He looks pissed off. Furrowed brows knitted, wearing a half-smirked grimace under his thick black beard. He hums in baritone disapproval. Again you can hardly hear him, your breaths a gasping wheeze restrained in whale bone. If you were his wife you could fuck him without 15 layers of silk and cotton. Could fuck him somewhere you might make a peep. If you scream when you cum, it’s all his own fault for suggesting his office in broad daylight. You can hear the clopping of hooves from the street below. If you can hear the hooves from where you’re laid out on Mr. Russell’s desk, and if the squelching of your pussy around his finger is louder than the footfall of a horse, then doesn’t that mean that the people passing by in the carriages below can hear the way Mr. George Russell finger fucks your messy cunt?

He rolls your skirt up in frustration, grabbing the material with his free, equally large hand and pinning it in a crumpled roll at your navel. A smile quirks his lips and half-a-brow at the sight of his fingers working your pussy in the harsh curling of his palm. You shift your thighs wider, canting your hips closer to his palm, every miniscule adjustment in the name of accommodating his large fingers inside of you— but nothing helps, every adaptation only lends itself to novel sensation, stimulating areas of your womb that no man has breached before.

“Do I need to force you, pet?”

Force you to what? What is he talking about? You groan, long and low, clutching on the sleeve of his black coat when the pads of his fingers rub at the inside of what feels like your navel and your knees knock with involuntary spasms like the doctor is testing your reflexes or something.

George lets go of your skirt, gritting his teeth in agitation. He takes a sheaf of paper from a tray next to your head, crumples it up in the harsh enclosure of his fist, shoves the wadded paper into your mouth, pressing it in past your teeth with his strong thumb and patting the side of your cheek, at last satisfied with your subservient performance.

Did he seriously just shut you up with a crumpled up piece of paper? God, it doesn’t fucking matter, not when he’s working you over like this. Your worried expression at the possibility of choking on the foreign object melts away to an eye-rolling euphoria when George shoves in a third finger, his ring finger by the feel of it. God he’s going to tear you open and you don’t care.

You moan loudly around the quickly soggying material and George slaps his whole large hand over your nose and mouth, and when he bends over you to admonish your wanton little lungs for their needy little cries, you can’t help but wrap one leg around his hip in a facsimile of a lover’s pose.

“I give and I give, and all you do is take and disobey.”

Mmmhmmm, you concur shakily, even if ironically the agreement is in staunch defiance of the Be Quiet rule. But you don’t care, you’ll agree with anything he says when he’s this far buried in you and cutting off your oxygen almost entirely with this big warm hand still over your nose and mouth.

He’s only slightly out of breath with exertion in his admonitions, “You can breathe when you’ve been a good girl and cum in my hand, understood?”

You whine a little in panic, unsure if you can maintain the lack of oxygen with your short, shallow, lusty breaths; air thinly streaming out between the cracks of his cupped hand.

“Shhh. Clay can hear you.”

You whine again, higher this time and rocking your hips so your cunt slides deeper to the base of his three minstrating fingers.

“You like that do you?”

Your brows knit together, whining once again, rocking your pussy into his wide warm palm while his other still seals your mouth shut.

“Mmmm, well that would explain all the noise you’ve been making, wouldn’t it? You want them to hear, don’t you? Eager little thing.”

George forces your head back til it’s nearly hanging off the edge of the desk so he can suck a harsh and claiming bruise right below your ear and just above the high lace collar of your gown.

He grinds his palm down harshly on your clit, fingers still pumping away, and you cling to him with all your limbs when you seize up around him, gushing and shaking around the forceful plunging of his fingers into your cunt, your scream deadened in the sanctuary of his palm. He hisses a breath in during a particularly forceful squeeze of your walls around his fingers. You leak and pulse on him for what feels like uninterrupted minutes. George does not let up the steady ramming of his digits— your enveloping cunt, more slick and hot and inviting with every euphoric tremor around his hand.

Your breaths are so desperate now during your orgasm that your inhalations do nothing but suction his cupped palm more firmly to your face, and in panic at the complete lack of airflow, you kick his buttocks lightly with the heel of your boot. He sighs wetly against your neck, releasing his hand from over your face and graciously fishing out the wet crumpled stationary from the crying cavern of your mouth, tossing it to the floor.

You breathe in raggedly, still not able to get the proper lungfuls you desire, inhibited by the blasted corset. But even still, the air you do get is enough to ease your lightheaded-ness as you come-to from cumming, the once blurry features of George’s carved ceiling now coming into focus as your heat rate returns to normal and you can fully enjoy the warm dousing sensation of post coital bliss.

As soon as you’re breathing has returned to normal, George shoves his thick pruning fingers into your mouth without warning, causing you to sputter around them momentarily before sucking them clean the way you know he wants you too. He watches the way your tongue slides between his fingers with piercing interest.

Once he’s had enough of sticking his hand in your mouth, he draws his fingers out from between your sucking lips and pats your cheek wetly before giving you a chaste peck on the forehead. He unfurls your skirts and smooths them out as best he can, leaving you to inspect and fix your hairstyle in the mirror across the room on shaky legs, while he sets right all the haphazard items on his wide desk.

George watches you twist and pin your hair from the seat of his desk chair, chin resting between the propped and pruny fingers that took you to heaven and back. Even though you’ve cleaned them as best as you could, the slick is somehow embedded in his skin, fist still redolent of your fragrant desire. George smiles between his fingers at your attempt to make yourself presentable. Your cheeks are hot and your breath still pushes your chest against the confines of your bodice in the most debauched way, he’s nearly hypnotized by the softness of your chest— the way it expands and contracts, the way it feels so soft and delicate under his touch…

He wants you again. Wants you fully. He knows intimately how swollen, hot, and throbbing that slit between your legs is, how easily he could slide in. How desperate you’d be for it, how he could hold your mouth closed with both hands with you bent over the desk— but he mustn’t. He’s proud of himself for the self restraint. He tells himself that everything enacted upon you is simply a punishment, a lesson. One taught in the same arena he’d educate anyone else. You are not special to him, and it cannot be outside the realms of fidelity if he derives no pleasure from it, and any pleasure you might gain from it is purely coincidental, not even worth mentioning. He’s never even kissed the little whore for godssake.

You pin your blue feathered hat to your freshened updo. George looks back down at his papers, determined that you should see him engrossed in penning a letter when you say your goodbyes.

You turn around to see him so. Already on the second line of the crisp stationary. You bite your lip and falter between silent departure and clearing your throat.

George dips the nib of his pen into a black inkwell, tapping off the excess. He looks at you with polite interest. “You are dismissed.” So calculated. Those goading eyes just begging you to crack the farce. But you don’t.

You smile at the schooled impassivity on his face and nod a “good day” at the man who not 2 minutes ago, was palm-deep in your guts. You keep your eyes cast to the ground as you close the door behind you and Richard Clay bids you a “good afternoon, miss” from his own desk in the antechamber of George’s office.

“Yes it was.” You whisper to yourself, making your way quickly down the marble stairs. Far enough away from George that he can’t hear you at all.

[ribbittrobbit]

the insane experience of posting art and writing online is very funny because people engage with art it's easily and quickly seen and the reactions are instant. writing though, you have to commit to reading a thing. you gotta use those eyes see then your brain has to make sense of those lines and squiggles. i mean yes your brain interprets images but i feel like these are different levels of commitment somehow. anyway a little forehead kiss to anyone who looks at my art/ reads my writing ily

[cupsofstardust]

I'm like really normal about bruce wayne (smiling dishonestly)