#tw bursting

[jadipose]

Detailed bad end: Somewhere, in the far corners of your mind, you know you need to tell someone about what's happening. You need to spread the word. You need to warn people. More than anything, though, you need to *stop eating.* You don't know how they got here, have only the vaguest idea of where they come from, and not a clue how they chose you. Sometimes you think you were just unlucky. Other times--when your mouth's contents make your fat cheeks bulge and you gulp down another painfully pleasurable meal--you think they chose you. There was a woman--blonde curls and motherly curves--and there was a cupcake on a silver platter, and you think she said it was a free sample. You ate it and she watched with shining golden eyes and you know now she wasn't human, that wasn't a normal cupcake, something's gone wrong-- The hunger took over within a matter of minutes. You came back to her booth and she was gone but the platter was there, and though you've lived your whole life aware of what people must think of your appetite and your weight and your figure, you couldn't help yourself. Trembling, knees knocking, hungrier than you've ever been in your life, you took the platter and you found a spot where hopefully no one could see and you crammed the cupcakes down your throat one by one by one, face burning with shame and arousal. The door opens, and one of her servants arrives, pushing a cart of sweet desserts and bubbling soda and cold beer. The servant presses a button and a machine whirs and the apparatus that keeps your enormous, gurgling body suspended from the ceiling lowers you a few feet, toward your waiting feast and the impassive creature with alien eyes. You left the place hungry, again, and made three trips through the nearest drive-thru, eating like an animal, stuffing your face until you were satisfied. You don't remember much after that...it's all become a blur: the job you lost for skipping shifts to pack in meals, the friends who watched, mortified, as you spent every waking hour eating and every saved cent on food. The clothes that split and tore as your hippo hips and blimp tits blew up, as your gravid gut grew heavier and rounder. Broken chairs and snapped belts and elevators that refused to move when you squeezed your enormous, lumbering frame inside. The people who tried to get you to listen, to look at yourself, to just *stop eating*...only for you to ignore them all, focused on nothing but your pleasure. Months went by, or maybe just days. You've been drunk or high or both for the whole thing, and it was only when you couldn't squeeze your fat ass through the doors to the only restaurant left in town that would serve you that she came back. Her servant is gone, and she's there, a slice of cake in hand, staring up at you with shining golden eyes. Sharp teeth, black tresses, motherly curves. She's their leader, their queen. What she's done to you, she intends to do to Earth. She's packaged up the chemical that caused this and set up shop all across the planet and you need to warn people, you need to do something, you need to *stop eating--* She pats your head affectionately and coos as she pushes the cake past your lips, and you moan, and you're eating like your life depends on it again. You've seen her other pets; some human, some aliens like her, seen how enormously obese they've gotten and heard their desperate mewling whines as they stuff their fat faces. You've heard dull, wet bangs behind steel doors. You are the fattest human being that has ever existed. You dwarf all her other projects, suspended in this dark room, a fat, jiggling food balloon who can't control herself any longer. You know, logically, that your body can only stretch so far... The grinning devil beneath you, with her golden eyes and burning horns, pushes another treat between your lips. You feel your entire body surge and pulse...just a hiccup. For now.

i simply have no+ wo+rds fo+r ho+w into+ this i am, so+ I’m just go+nna po+st as-is. yo+u sure kno+w ho+w to+ fluster a big girl…..

[omgcatboi]

Would loooove anons writing about me bursting/ popping. I'd post under a TW so my other followers don't gotta see it. But that's my favorite kink. Be it from inflation or hyper preg

[glitchgh0sty]

Yall, I diagnose the creative energy of the mecha pilot au community as highly contagious and suspiciously inspirational,, here! Have some art as compensation,, TuT🫶

- My legs don’t work.. Don’t worry!,, Mine do <33

- Another angle ^u^🫶

- Coming to you live from Shockwaves cockpit,, T^Ť7 *cries*

- Doododoo 🎵,, something probably blew up recently <3, 🔍👀✨

I can’t even with all the art and shenanigans! It’s everywhere?? You are all some little creative geniuses! 😭🙌

[shepscapades]

[Part 1] [Part 2] [PART 3]

The beginning of a delightful new partnership!

Bonus below:

[elennemigo]

"I've got a prayer for you."

THE BOOK OF CLARENCE (2024) Dir. Jeymes Samuel

[hongtonie]

woozi and his scooter!

[flimsy-spine]

my favorite madney scenes: [40/?] ⇢ Blindsided, 4.09

[oh-snapperss]

creature comfort

“We won’t win today,” Cleo says, and Etho knows she’s right. Knows their time has been running out since the first secret was whispered to them in voices all too familiar, has known that this day was coming, has known that all this time, it’s not been a question of if–it’s been a question of when. 

They’re going to die today. Distantly, Etho wonders if the domesticity they’ve worked for will die with them, or if it will follow them back home. 

Will his home ever be a physical place again? Home is where the hearth is, where the warmth is, where the world is shut out and it’s just the three of them. 

Home is where Cleo is. 

“That’s alright,” Etho smiles instead of voicing all of that, wishing, of all things, that he didn’t still have that awful cough that Cleo had insisted he rest over for a few days. “We’ll be alright.” 

They’ll be dead–and what are the dead, if not alright? The dead don’t have coughs, or pain, or fear. They’re just dead. Etho thinks he might not mind it so much, this time. He’s finally learned to spend his time wisely, and he’s built a home no flaming arrow could ever take down. 

Just by the cow pen, there’s a stupid little porch Etho had built a while back. They’re nowhere near it now, but every night he and Cleo had watched the sunset, drank a final cup of tea, and turned in to sleep over gossip and giggles only they could draw from each other this time ‘round. Before, Bdubs had made him laugh like that–now, Etho wonders how long before there’s a sword at his throat. 

Even so, while Cleo laughs and watches him set Scar’s porch on fire, Etho hopes he might have the privilege of watching the sunset from the porch one last time. He’d survive the day, if only for another sunset with Cleo. 

BANG. 

Tango’s gone–Etho knows it in his heart. Surely he should feel an ache for him, should ask how he went. Instead, it’s easy to accept it. 

The wardens are fun. That’s all they are, now. Before, they had been terrors, then the answer to a desperate prayer he and Grian had made. The carnage of those terrifying beasts feel muted compared to before, but with the wind flying through his hair, the elated cries of Cleo in front of him, Etho can’t care. Not this time. They lead two clear to the middle of the server before they’ve decided to finish having their fun, and Cleo’s just stepping up some rocks when she says it. 

“You’re my favorite, you know that? You’ve always been my favorite.” 

He does know, he does know now. He’d guessed it that first sunset, when Cleo sat down with a giddy smile to recount their day. He’d thought it, when she’d wrapped a blanket around his shoulders after his failures and rested her head on his shoulder without a word. He’d lived it, when she had shouted that she would kill him if he tried to kill her–but was reassured otherwise that night on the porch again, with the curse ebbing from his bones. 

Today, he knows it in the blatant rebellion against what’s supposed to be the end, the dread, the fear. 

“You’re mine too.” Etho grins back, and knows that they’ll see his smile even through the mask–knows they’ve come to recognize it in his tone and way his eyebrows scrunch together. . 

They wind up in the sky base with Grian–Grian, who hasn’t quite reached the same conclusion they have. Etho knows by the shadows under his eyes he won’t give up, that he’ll fight clear to the end. Once upon a season, Etho had been the same. 

Not this time. Never this time. 

Around ten minutes to sunset, Etho and Cleo set down their dripstone and bows, and sit on the edge of the cobblestone wall. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it back to our base for it this time,” Etho jokes, nudging his shoulder into Cleo’s. Cleo laughs, a carefree thing, and wrinkles her nose. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it back for it any time, if we’re being honest.” She leans back, one hand half behind her to support her weight. 

“I know,” Etho says. He brings his leg up to his chest, wrapping his arms around it. Behind them, cobblestone is placed–Grian, ever the survivor. “It was nice, though.” 

“It was nice!” Cleo beams. “Are you alright with this?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Etho hums. “‘s not so bad. Dying with a friend.” 

“It won’t be,” Cleo agrees. 

Because that’s just it, isn’t it? Etho’s never died like this–he’s died at the flames of an arrow shot while protecting his king, he’s died in fights after his allies were killed. Hell, he’s died hand in hand with a soulmate hellbent on killing him now–but he’d been in a frenzy then, a rage-induced thing meant to burn up the place that had never been a true home to them. 

He thinks he won’t mind dying with someone. 

The sun sets in brilliant hues of orange and pink, and they sit together, this final tradition not lost in the face of inevitability. Just as the first star twinkles, Grian comes over, hoisting them back to their feet. 

“They’re coming,” he says. 

It’s time. 

They shoot a few arrows, break some dripstone, all to no avail–but that’s alright, he’s got Cleo, and they’ve got him. 

But oh, the games are never kind, are they? Etho slips, his foot landing weird somehow–and he’s whistling through the air towards the ground at a speed too fast. It knocks the breath from his lungs when he lands–does he hit the clutch? Stars, he doesn’t actually know, because there’s arrows shot at him, shouts of glee from the hunters, and suddenly Etho’s not Etho, he’s just prey–and prey only know to do one thing. 

Run. 

Etho flies forward, dragging his sword out. There’s not many safe spaces left on the server–stars, Grian had even mentioned their base was but a crater in the hill. 

But the porch… the porch was intact. Supposedly. 

He enderpearls, and enderpearls again, and it’s still not enough. The screams behind him are closer, and closer, and then further–and oh, Etho knows it’s time. He’s dead, he’s gone, he’ll be but a wisp of the wind in a few minutes whether he likes it or not. 

And he won’t die by Cleo. 

Cleo, Cleo, Cleo. Oh, he’d not meant it to be like this. He’d meant to die with a smile, right by her side–just as they were meant to die by his. This wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t the plan. A sob claws its way up his throat, the beginnings of the blind panic he’d never meant to feel tonight. He’s going to die, alone, without the comfort of his Cleo. 

Home. He wants to go home. 

Home is in the air, a hundred blocks above him. He’ll never make it–but he can make it back to the porch, the one place of peace. Now, he can feel the twinge of something broken in his ankles, probably from the fall–and the cuts, the bruises, the blood scent thick in his nose. He’s so tired. 

He wants to die at home, he wants to die at home. 

“Oh, he sounds like a wounded animal… let’s put him out of his misery.” A voice said. Cold fear grips Etho’s heart, and he stumbles forward–the porch is in sight!

Let him die at home. Let him die at home. 

A shadow fills his vision, and Etho’s not even had time to lift his shield before blinding pain fills his stomach, and it’s over. 

He’s not allowed that creature comfort of dying at home. 

[gossamerrose]

Death and Dream

An old work I left incomplete in my drive but I really wanted to finish it today. I wanted to colour it but this seems better, somehow.

[mushroomnoodles]

tw/cw for sfw and non kink mpreg

he had to hide in a public restroom to handle a growth spurt and he is emotionally and physically recovering

maybe he cant handle the baby he says

[milkweedman]

Making some yarn for cat toys. This is some very lanolin-y and rough jacob that I think is perfect for my lanolin obsessed cat.

Roughly carded it (too much lanolin to card neatly, but who cares in this case). Spun into a thin singles on Geryon, my wheel. Then made a 2 ply bracelet with that and turned the ply bracelet into a 4 ply bracelet.

This is my favorite way to make 4 ply yarn now. One singles can be easily turned into 4 plies ready to spin this way. It isn't difficult to control, it only needs the one spindle/bobbin and your hand, and because it's not plied in between winding the bracelets it's not a cable ply, just a laid 4 ply.

Anyway, gonna give it a little wash just to bloom the yarn and then make cat toys and stuff them with catnip.

24 yards total of bulky weight. Should be just enough ?

[divingleadboy]

TW//LOUD AND SPOILERS!!!

i dont wanna be alone when i look at you

[creative-clawmarks]

What was Alex's transformation like? I mean, was he sick for a bit or how painful was the first reveal of fangs like?

Alex's transformation was a lengthy, agonizing, uncoordinated mess.

His brain would charge ahead of his body and assail him with instincts he didn't have the biology to utilize. This mostly manifested as a violent, insatiable hunger, his mind screaming for gore before he had the ability to digest it.

His insides would tear themselves apart, joints cracking and organs writhing. This would come and go in random flares of sickness, one episode being so bad he quite literally died in his sleep then woke up the next day with a cold, unbeating heart.

His eyes burned as they adjusted to nocturnal life, his tongue split open down the middle into its new forked shape. When his fangs and claws finally grew in they tore themselves free so violently that his face and hands were shredded to ribbons.

After all of that, is it really any wonder that he decided his friends would be better off dying at his jaws than changing as he had?

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KO-FI

[shepscapades]

[Set in Mid-Late Hermitcraft Season 8]

In which we learn a little something about Cub, a little something about Doc, and a little something about Xisuma.

[lagomorphpaw]

are they with you? or are they giving you commands?

vaguely had some sunbeam and nightheart designs in mind when designing her. obviously subject to change once we get an actual description of what she looks like lol. but here she is without all the effects! went anime hair to the max and tried to make her eyes look like eclipses.

[thechaotichorselord]

He will shatter and fall like the fragile doll that he is.

TW for eye contact.