#unsure if these are the right tags but:

[wyvolf]

>"this is a dragon!" >"ummmmerrmm actually that's a wyvern because it has two legs and two wings! 😘🤗"

Please please stop saying that. Wyverns are STILL dragons, if anything they are more like a subspecies. In the case of dragons in media portrayed as "wyverns": Aldiun the world eater is still a dragon, Hookfang the monstrous nightmare is still a dragon, hell even a dragon like Falkor the luck/wish dragon from the never ending story is STILL a dragon.

Dragons come in so many shapes and sizes from all over the globe from many different cultures and beliefs from giant serpents, to snake like beasts with feathered wings (amphithere), simple big lizards (drakes), large wyrms, etc etc. They are a common human trope.

To try and say "ermmm actually it's a wyvern" is just mostly annoying and if anything very incorrect within itself as if we pay attention to actual beliefs and lore with wyverns; a true wyvern cannot breathe fire or really any sort of breath and is typically a sort to produce venom OR to have a venomous stinger on its tail like a bee. Of course, this is also to say not all dragons are wyverns either as interestingly enough some stereotypical western dragons: Namely both the SandWing and RainWing from the Wings of Fire series both produce venom this way: RainWings produce venom from their fangs like a snake would, and SandWings have venomous tail barbs like a scorpion; yet we wouldn't call them a wyvern right? No of course not. (To add: HiveWings also have a venomous stinger from thier tail and wrists, similar to a bee. In addition: NightWings at least as recent years have developed a venomous bite, unlike a RainWing, this is via the amounts of bacterial infection in their saliva). Yet. Still dragons.

The dragons from GoT are still dragons and iirc the author made them to be “wyverns” because those sort of dragons are more likely to exist in our world rather than the standard four legs two wings, same with drakes and probably Eastern dragons as well (which fun fact some cultures in the east has depicted them wings also)!!

Blah blah, calling flying fire breathing lizard-like reptiles "wyverns" just because they have four limbs (2 legs 2 wings) and starting this dumb argument when the show/game/general lore refers to them as dragons (i.e skyrim, httyd, GoT, etc so much else) is just Stupid and rather annoying to see each and every time.

They're still dragons at the end of the day.

[ineed-to-sleep]

Some sketches I did to try to get a feel for what I want my Rook to look like 🤔

[apollos-boyfriend]

i really do hate how "inclusive language" has just looped back around to gender essentialism in so many cases. i had my women in art professor say the words "there are things that men-identifying individuals will never understand in the way women do." and it's clear she wanted to say cis (het, white, upper class, neurotypical, able bodied, etc) men (which is another conversation entirely), but in her attempts to be inclusive she's fully missed the point. there are plenty of male-identifying individuals that understand, be it trans men or multigender people or nonbinary individuals or what have you. using gender inclusive terms does nothing when all you do is further alienate and erase people's experiences/identities

[moochio7]

I don’t typically posts sketches when I plan to finish them and post said finished project, but this is the first school assigned art project I’m actually excited to do. Might as well document this momentous occasion with a wip.

[verdantglow]

My roomie & I were talking about instances in media where a character is playing with dolls of their friends/castmates & I thought of this scene & then, uh, somehow, this???

[siracethegreat]

Erm hotguy sketches cause I’m messin with the design in my au womp womp

[asanjou]

kenjaky

[starswallowingsea]

They're just selling qanon conspiracy theories and ai generated slop cover fiction at walmart now

[coldranger]

The "I didn't hear no bell" achievement or also known as fisticuffs with Adversary is one of the funniest things in the game I swear. Just being beat into this bloody pulp, having your face be destroyed and Hero freaking out about it. Adversary, despite being all for violence and you hurting one another in combat, is very uncomfortable with Quiet being a walking corpse at that point and is acting more in a "I'm putting you out of your misery now" than an actual fight

I really can't wait to see the Fury path for Pristine Cut because she clearly didn't like that unfair aspect to the fight and us being a walking gore pile so I wonder if it'll still open with us being exploded like that again or how the knife will play into it. If it does I wanna be another twitching mass of flesh that is somehow still alive to see if she's still uncomfortable with it or not. Though, considering how she looks as Fury, who knows

[nothing-but-luv-for-you]

i can’t breathe when you aren’t here. i’m begging you. come back. i will fling myself over the edge if it meant your face was the last i see. if it were your hands pushing me over the ledge, i would die happy at the hands of an angel. come back to me.

[sizeysage]

A pov/self-insert story I’ve been working on about a couple of OCs!! A human girl and an anthro catboy stumble across a borrower in their home…

(Posting it on this account because even if this start is sfw I wanted to have it lean into more suggestive stuff later—)

Aches ran through your body, stinging you back to wakefulness. The sickness had taken its toll on you, you’d been needing more rest every day, to the point you had to take naps during borrowing trips…

…but your surroundings were unfamiliar. Not at all the hard, cold surfaces you’d become accustomed to sleeping on. This was bedding, soft fabric, kept warm by your own body temperature.

Had you wandered back home in a fatigued daze and forgotten about it? Completely possible, illness does terrible things for reason and memory. Just drift back to sleep, you thought. Nothing worth agonizing over…

“I think it’s awake,” a voice whispered.

“It’s shuffling in its sleep,” another replied, just as hushed. “I’ve seen it do that a few times now, just let it be…”

Had they used any term besides “it”, you would’ve expected to open your eyes to see another borrower having stumbled across your home. But no. “It.”

You felt idly around the cloth, pretending to still be asleep, eyes shut tight.

“Do you think it’s having a bad dream?” The first voice asked. “Looks so tense…”

“It was burning hot when I picked it up,” the second answered. “Fever dreams aren’t great, that can’t be good for rest.”

“…shall I wake it up, then..?”

A brief moment of silence. And then, the feeling of touch: a gentle stroke across your arm. On instinct, your eyes opened wide, letting you finally see the duo talking about you.

The first voice belonged to a human: her cold finger recoiling from you as you jolted to alertness from her touch. Her eyes were a deep brown, full of concern. Black hair fell like soft fabric down to her shoulders, flowing across her shirt as water flows across stone.

The second belonged to a type of giant you hadn’t seen much of before: one of the beast people. Some type of cat person, coated in fluffy white fur with patches of grey. Yellow eyes gleamed at you from above, curiously staring down.

“Hey…” the human muttered, in a voice so quiet you almost couldn’t make out what she was saying. “We found you on the countertop behind the coffeemaker, are you okay?”

Your gaze wandered to the “bed” they’d placed you in. It was a bundle of cloth from various sources: towels, a shirt, what appeared to be boxers… all set on the seat of a couch, with the two giants sitting on the floor so as not to tower over you as much.

“Aches,” you stammered out. “I ache so much…”

“You’re definitely sick,” the human replied. “Pepper said you were burning up while he was holding you.” The beastly cat person, now identified as Pepper, raised a handpaw briefly in greeting.

“We’ll take care of you as long as you need, alright? No need to hide…” the human extended her hand once again as she spoke, resting it palm upright, her index finger about an inch from you, perhaps as a show of respect? Not crossing the threshold of your personal space? Or to ask you to reach out in return?

You assumed the last one, resting your hand on her fingertip. It was still so cold, but it was comforting. Soft, dark, cool skin to take away the pain of your body incinerating the disease festering inside you.

Without thinking, you tugged her finger closer, resting your face against it. You felt like a fiery torch submerged in water. The heat faded from your face, and you let out a deep, pained sigh of relief. All that tension began to fade.

“Thank you, thank you…” you murmured, any fear of the giants giving way to the desperate craving you had for comfort after spending so much time alone.

With her other hand, she gently pushed you onto her palm, idly running her fingers across you as she examined your comparatively minuscule form.

“I’ll bet you need water… shall we get some for you?”

You nodded in reply, too fatigued to question the giants’ kindness. The human turned to Pepper, and he nodded, standing up to hurry over to the kitchen.

The human stood up moments after, before sitting down on the couch beside the “bed” they’d both made for you. She shifted her grasp on you as carefully as she could, leaving you sitting on her lap.

[mariaashby64]

Happy Pride!

Wanted to draw some of my aroace girlies.

[peridots-pixiwolf]

[Start ID. A digital drawing of Minos Prime from Ultrakill, who's wearing a strapless slit dress and sandals of the same deep purple. He faces towards and slightly to the right of the camera, his head is tilted further right. With one hand he gestures in a vague pointing motion, his arm folded and held close to his body. There is nothing in the background, but bracing himself on one arm, Minos is implied to be leaning against something about the height of a countertop. The background is a blank purplish black, save for three diagonal stripes in the colors of the bisexual flag. End ID]

Shading study that quite literally came to me in a dream two weeks ago, after this post apparently beamed itself into my mind

(also a few edits below the cut! they're very slight but whatever :])

[Start ID. Three different versions of the previous drawing. The first changes the tone of the lighting from blue to pink, and similarly the shading from pink to blue. The second replaces the faint black border with pink, purple and blue, syncing with the stripes in the background. The third combines both these changes. End ID]

[jichanxo]

gift art for @four-white-trees based on something he wrote. happy birthday!

[lucksea]

more mad prince astra trying to figure out the details of his design. it might change more

[spiralinghours]

“Filth”

Fandom: Saw (obviously)

Pairing: Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm

Rating: R (18+!!!)

Warnings/Content: humiliation, degradation, pig mask!, slight pig play (basically animal-esque name calling and degradation), feeding kink, weight gain kink mention, untouched release, mentions of eventual penetration and oral

Summary: Set during V while Strahm sneaks around the Gideon meat packing plant. After being attacked in the back halls, but before ever getting put in a trap, he identifies his captor… and it takes a sexually charged turn.

Author’s note: There’s not much plot to this and yes, you may read it and go “Why would they suddenly do that?” Because it was written on a very excited whim. Idk, comments welcome I guess? I dunno if I left anything out. Enjoy.

Upon sliding back into consciousness, Peter experienced the sudden dreadful rush of not knowing where he was, how long he had been out… how and why he was knocked out to begin with. Whatever had done him in had tranquilized him into a dreamy fuzz, even as he woke. The point of impact was making the dull soreness start to throb on the side of his neck, just between the thin, tight strings of muscle. An injection, that was it.

Fitting every little bit together, Peter noted that he sat upon a rolling office chair that looked and felt like it had been fished out of a dumpster. He wasn’t fastened down (yet, he warned himself, thankful just the same), but it looked as if someone was prepping him for something. His tie had disappeared… probably in the pile off a little ways where his knife, gun, badge, and wallet sat, like a QVC shopping display. With his buttons undone, chest haphazardly exposed, he wondered what procedure was connected to the strange tank hovering nearby.

Something else in the room had moved, though everything blended together into neutral obscurity. Still, whatever—whoever—it was was too late to leave or go unnoticed.

“Shit,” it murmured. It had a voice… a quiet and somewhat rough, familiar one.

“Wait…” Peter mirrored the low whisper. “I know… I know who you are!”

It was coming back, slipping into the correct cracks of fading memory. A masked figure, not as tall as himself but imposing no less, had stopped him as he descended down that back hallway in the meat packing plant. ‘Stopped him,’ Peter scoffed. Stabbed him, injected him, more like. He knew better, and this is what he got for proceeding without the patience for backup.

But the figure that brought him here had to be who was mumbling around in the darkness right across from Strahm. That wasn’t the only point of familiarity. The voice could be placed, Peter just knew, he just—

“Detective,” he breathed out, question mark hanging with uncertainty.

No response just yet, which had to mean he knew he was caught.

As Peter’s eyes adjusted to the silhouettes, he recognized how well the form did in fact match Detective Mark Hoffman’s sturdy, stout build. The fact that the previously unnamed figure had started shedding his bulky black coat to reveal a blueish button down and suspenders underneath was the incriminating nail in the coffin.

“You were told not to proceed,” Mark finally commented, mask still on in hopes of saving any last bit of his identity. “It was for your own good.”

“You motherfucker. I should have known. Shifting around the precinct, acting all nice but barely covering your tracks. You stupid idiot, you don’t have me fooled.” Peter stood up, not knowing why he hadn’t chosen to until now. “I got you!”

Mark shuffled cautiously over, something calculated in the way he stepped. For being put on the spot, he presented himself so calmly. “What’s happening here doesn’t leave this building, I can assure that.” As he leaned towards Peter, in an act of intimidation, his thick chest and belly grazed him softly.

Peter sizzled with something along the lines of rage, determination, and… foul, bitter intrigue. It wavered between that and contempt, but the confusing whirl perked a devious grin across his lips.

Mark, all the while, did his best not to drop his glance on Peter, who had already woken up way too early, before he could even put him in the cube trap. Now there was more room for other errors, wrong moves. Mark began lifting the mask up over his chin, wanting full, uninterrupted sight of his target.

“No, keep it on,” Peter insisted (instructed, more like) with a satisfied sneer. “Keep the pig mask on.”

“Freak,” was Mark’s muffled reply from within, layers of latex and a big snout making his annoyed grumbles come out like breathy snorts. (Peter enjoyed that.)

“Go on, gimme a little oink oink. A little squeal.” Peter’s thick, arching brows made his expression even more devious… downright hungry.

“Fuck you,” Mark exhaled, realizing his sharp eye roll went unseen. Despite the scathing response, something in the way Peter was pushing him, goading him, cruelly trying to make a spectacle of him made his knees unconsciously press together. Ugh.

“I’m waiting,” Peter went on in a sing-song taunt, hands resting on his hips. It wasn’t dissimilar to the mocking tone he used in interrogations more than occasionally.

“Oink,” Mark acquiesced flatly. “Cunt.”

“Ah, ah, that’s not nice. That’s not what I asked for.” Peter advanced, encroaching on Mark’s personal bubble. “I want to hear you really squeal,” he spoke in a low, hushed tone. Immediately, as if prepped to actually wrangle and tie up a hog, he thrusted himself over as much of Mark’s bulk as possible, throwing his arms around him from behind and wiggling his fingers into his sides.

He was being tickled, Mark managed to observe throughout the flinching and irritation. And not only tickled, but squeezed on at the most sensitive part of his hips—his thick love handles, nothing more than fluffy layers of excess.

He did, indeed, let out a reflexive sort of squee—much higher and shrieking than his normally low voice would imply.

“There it is,” Peter grunted against the neck of the mask, keeping himself low, dense, and tight over Hoffman. (He was generally leaner than Mark, sure, but he was broad enough to stay wrapped around him… Not to discredit the incredibly physical training of the FBI to be ready to tackle someone at just about any given moment.) “Fucking pigfuck.”

Despite trying to detach himself and accept what was actually happening (not at all expected in any version of his plans, no matter how much he was taught to anticipate), everything was overshadowed by the burning shame of how the current situation was making Mark feel. Deep in his core—and in his pants—he was throbbing, and the more he felt embarrassed and ridiculous for strangely savoring it, the harder he felt himself get.

“There are so many layers to this joke!” Peter cackled sourly, a twist of syrup in his voice. He really could be so disgustingly, deliciously rude. “A fucking cop parading around in a pig mask. In a Jigsaw mask. Wow, and here I thought your precinct was just stupid, messy, lazy even. Like I bet you are. But wow, now that I know what’s going on...”

Mark almost lost the plot, realizing he wasn’t struggling as much anymore, and that he probably should have been… or should have at least pretended. “What’s your fuckin’ angle?” he finally spat out, tilting his head behind him to Strahm (even though it didn’t further his advantage in seeing past the mask’s eye holes).

“Detective, I’m just playing. I’m having a little fun. And if you want this to stay under wraps—all of it—then maybe you’ll play too.” The tickling had ceased a minute ago, and Peter’s hands were just resting heavily on Mark’s hips, seeming to want to roam around.

Mark, meanwhile, couldn’t believe the greasiness of this FBI agent. Mr. Quaffed-Hair and All-Business (Anything-At-Any-Cost) was just as dirty and fucked as anyone in his own department. Damn. And a fucking pervert on top of it all.

But what was he going to do? Let himself get caught? Let this smug fed bastard win and take him in and smile about being a hero? Act like there wasn’t some sheer layer of fucked up pleasure in being degraded throughout it all?

Strahm had moved on to the next impulsive thought. Still clawing into Hoffman’s thick waist, he dug his finger tips in, letting them sink and press against tight fabric and pillowy flesh. He positioned his hands further to the front, hefting Mark’s belly and letting it wobble solidly. Then he did it again. There was a surprising lack of give to his gut.

“You been packing the donuts away, Detective?” Peter hummed. “Such a pig. In so many ways. I’m eating this up, you pathetic fuck.”

Mark could feel the snide grin curling up Peter’s angular face, burning right through the layers of mask between them. “Shut up,” he tried to shoot back, not at all believable or in line with his usual bravado. “What else do you want?” The logical part if his brain was asking in order to obtain the eventual outcome, the escape, the solution. But deeper south, the question was more asking “What else are you gonna do to me?”

“As much as I love this,” Peter emphasized his intention with a startlingly soft rub over Hoffman’s lower belly, “I want you on on the floor. All fours. Like the nasty, stupid animal you are.”

“Bitch,” Hoffman bit out, juxtaposing the way he complied, folding his sizable form down to the ground. His cheeks heated at the way his gut hung down, smoothing out any creases in the fabric, pressing tightly against his suspenders and maintaining contact with his thighs. He knew Strahm was looking, fixated, salivating. He wanted him to. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

Strahm stood tall over the sad, hulking visage of Hoffman on his hands and knees. He relished the view, stepping his heel down roughly on Mark’s lower back.

“I wanna see you just like that, with a little dish under that fat fucking face, just snorting and oinking while I watch you. You’d like that, huh? You filthy pig. You’ll stuff your face ‘til these pop off, won’t you?” Peter had basically sat himself onto Hoffman, as if he was a pony, and snapped at his tight suspenders to illustrate the point.

Mark, in turn, gave a regrettable sort of whimper, which, through the low oxygen under the mask, made him huff a little as well.

“Panting already?” Peter tsked. “You haven’t even done that much yet. And I haven’t even gotten to stuff you.” He craned his head low. “And I know you’d like that, no question. I’ll get you so fat.” He breathed out the last sentence with sugar dripping slowly, threateningly.

Mark absently ran one of his large palms from the crest of his belly to the dampening crotch of his pants, and back again. “You gonna fill me up?” he rasped out, trying to curve a little sarcasm, a little laughter into his tone.

“In more ways than one… if you’re good,” Peter grinned wickedly. “If you’re a good boy.”

“I’m a good boy,” Mark agreed huskily, trying to mask his eagerness. If only Strahm could see the way his eyes darkened, lids lowered, under the mask—the uncomfortable lust across his face. But he was nothing more than a blank, expressionless animal for Peter to use and admire.

It made Mark so flustered, so disappointed with himself. It made him hot.

“That’s right,” Peter went on, breathing heavier himself as he spoke, “you dumb animal. You’re already so turned on by this, huh? How I’m talking to you? Disgusting.”

“You’re the disgusting one,” Mark panted some more, words not necessarily cutting, but laced with pleasure and the seek for release.

“Yeah, and you love it. Now, if you’re gonna mess yourself like that, go ahead and finish. But you better keep those hands on the floor.”

“How the fuck am I—“

“I know you’ll finish, even without your grubby hands on your dick. Because you’re so close. You’re so fucking desperate.”

“You’re such a prick,” Mark (embarrassingly) just about whined.

Peter leaned down, still mounted on the dip of Mark’s back, mouth close to where his ear under the mask would be. “Yeah, and it’s getting you off isn’t it? So’s the idea of me coming into your office to find you leaned back in your chair like the big boss you are—” Peter’s voice squirmed into a dopey, mocking voice. “—shoving donuts in your face, too fucking round to even sit up. What a fine use of time and tax dollars. You’re so full and you’re stuck and you can’t even zip your pants back up, and just to make it worse, I come fill you up even more.”

Both men were admittedly getting shaky, heavy breaths filling the damp room like an echo chamber of horny, unfiltered babbling.

“Tell me, Detective, would you want to take it up your big fat ass, or would you rather suck me down ‘til you can’t take anymore.”

“Fuck you, Pete.”

“Only if you say please. Now what’s your answer, stupid?”

“Both,” Mark finally grunted, coming all sticky in his pants as he did so.

After finally yanking the mask off and flinging it across the room with fervor—sweaty, worn—Mark took the moment to catch his breath and try to buck Peter off of him, like a wild horse. He couldn’t quite manage, but Peter was nice enough to remove himself… before launching into a whole rant.

“So, the story goes, I came in here to do a sweep—a little preemptively, I’ll admit—but I did find you, the only survivor of Jigsaw’s game, and I helped you out of the restraints. The end.”

“You know, I could have gotten out of the trap myself.” Mark’s expression was somehow both dull and sassy at the same time. “Maybe a strap broke and I was able to undo the rest.”

“Yeah, a strap breaking on you I can imagine,” Peter teased, tone snarky and dry. “But no, Jigsaw doesn’t make mistakes, so that story doesn’t fly. You’d know that, wouldn’t you?”

Mark eased into that expression he often made when he wanted to roll his eyes without actually doing so. The corners of his mouth lowered into a skeptic near-smile, and his eyes flicked brightly under lazy lids. “Fuck you tenfold.”

“Maybe,” Strahm replied, a venomous grin forming. “I’ll be seeing you, Detective Hoffman. Maybe I’ll drop by your office sometime.” He marched ahead with fast footsteps, not once looking back at Mark.

Mark wondered when that office visit would be.