#usual drill

[kittarts]

some bot is scraping through the #digitalart tag to steal people's art and put them through ai

Butchering my hotties.

Anyway, artists block this bot.

@/dunstanrohrich1957blog

[wygbyrm]

hahaha i’ve gotten two separate ‘hey man how’s it going’ texts today…. i guess i’ve reached the stage of the depressive episode where my friends start to wonder if i’ve killed myself yet lol….

[flyingbunniesart]

Had a sudden brainworm about both of them in cowboy outfits.... western AU klapollo.... hooo boi

[KOFI]

[hychlorions]

it's been 4 years of me drawing klapollo so i dug up something i never posted here 🫶 happy klapolloversary to me !

[bacchuschucklefuck]

sometimes I think abt how the months coming up to and the prom night in freshman year must feel to class swap sklonda. your perfect kid who has literally never gotten a single reprimand for anything does what can only be described as a quad crit crime combo and becomes a nerd punisher by the end of the night

[catmask]

all good?

if ur referring to the art block/being frustrated w my art donot worry its natural to happen 🫡 doing studies made me feel much better and so did talkng to my friends

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

horny, sulky, kinda mean, kinda roughhousing könig thought bc it's my birthday, it's 2:50am, i have been horny like a fuckin werewolf for like a week now. f!reader ig for talk about pussy.

So our man König doesn’t keep normal hours—not that you do, but dude is two days back from KorTac and pretty much strung out on the “fun” amphetamines KorTac req officers pass out like candy if you even wave smth that looks like a form at them. So kind of out of the worst of it, exhausted, but wired and feeling kind of shitty and toothy and wound up.

He wants to fuck. Easiest way to diffuse, decompress, and he’s hard as shit by the time he lumbers his way into bed with you—over you—all around you. You were reading off your kindle, not anymore. He plucks that shit right out of your hand and puts it behind him, tangling those long, heavy limbs around you like a boa constrictor.

“Was wondering when this was going to happen,” you say, hissing when he’s none to kind in nipping the skin of your neck, wrapping his arms around your torso, pushing your breasts up under your t-shirt. “Shit, you’re moody,” it’s half a laugh, and a grapple at not immediately just folding and giving into him. You like to bite, too.

“Give me your mouth,” he grunts, nose pushed into the spot behind your ear. He’s pushing down your underwear, singlemindedly stripping you down. His words make your skin humid, “Gonna play with your pussy, want you fucking wet for me.”

You give that little bit, turning your head over your shoulder, smirking into a kiss that drives deliriously deep as soon as contact is made. König isn’t a prim kisser, but a primal one. It’s not a clean act; sloppy, yes, and somehow tinged with something kin to restrained violence. Challenge? Dick swinging? Maybe something more biblical in nature—gluttony, or greed.

He’s a fearsome thing, and he may only be beautiful to you. A needful thing, too, twisting nest of starved serpents—6 feet 10 inches and pushing-300-lbs of fucking muscle, battering-ram-body housing more than thirty years of neglect-crushed memory out for retribution.

But you never were a target. He didn’t have a choice in that matter. You both know good and goddamned well that you picked him. Everything he gets away with is at your allowance, and good fucking Christ, he loves you for it.

His cock throbs against your bare ass through his boxers as his arm wraps around you, craning his hand to pump two big fingers into your sopping cunt, angling his wrist so he can press and rub your clit with his thumb.

Man’s got his perversions, and he’s the most physical person you’ve ever met in your life. He’s had a fraction of the sex he’s fantasized about, but you’ve covered hectares of that ground since you’ve gotten together. He’s a quick study, and his mind’s a nightmare of steel trap memory. He never forgets what you like.

Two fingers turn to three, and he almost pushes it to four—assured torture, too much stretch too fast—before you snap a hand around his wrist and buck hard back against him, seething his name in warning. “Don’t fucking dare.”

“Ja. Ja, Schatzi,” he mumbles, breathing hard and too collected. You’re both sweating already, and the bed feels too damn warm, but neither of you shift. The spooning position is perfect as-is, only needs acted upon. In the mean time, he draws his slicked fingers up, leaving them in the air before your mouth in question. He groans and shudders harshly when you take the digits into your mouth, almost laughing at the ever-fresh amusement of your own taste. Salt and cold coins, your own metallic tang a complement to the one on his skin. His voice shakes as he warns, “Time, now. It’s time, bitte, aw, fuck.”

Just like that, he sinks right into you, to the base, balls pressed tight against your lips due to your body’s contortioning to meld against his form. An ungodly moan bellows out of his throat, rattling from his chest into yours, arms tightening around you. You meet the fuck-weird noises, turning your head to keen into your pillows and pressing back against him. Your hand anchors behind you on his hip, as if pinning him in place, affixing your bodies together.

You both hang in a moment of suspension, hearts pounding, minds blank, stomachs rising as if careening over a hill with momentum not sparing you a moments reprieve.

When that finally snaps, you have to force him to focus, to fuck, and he’s slow about it, grinding into you as your cunt sucks him deeper.

That huge hand you know so well drops between your legs, right back to toying with you. Oh it doesn’t take long to get you off, bent in half on your side, holding onto him and gasping as you’re hit with wave after wave of pleasure.

He’s not subtle to signal when it’s his turn. He pulls you back up and clamps his teeth into your shoulder, biting down hard through the fabric of your shirt, fucking you rough, now, and unheeding, like an animal in heat. When he finally finishes, spasming and jolting all over now that his balls have been emptied into you, he leaves his heavy arm over your waist, keeping you close. “Good shit,” he mumbles, throat sticking to itself it’s so dry as he pants, parched, “we split a smoke?”

You’re not much better, even though you’ve bravado to fucking spare. “I smoke. You go the hell to sleep now,” you try to sound stern and dismissive, but there’s a laugh in your tone some place. And fondness, undeniably. You feel his grin against your neck, his body purring mhm in question. “Feel better?” you ask, at length, stroking the hair on his forearms.

“Yes,” he says after a moment, weak and sweet with relief, “can sleep now.” A pause, you can hear him thinking. “Won’t, though. Because you were an asshole and had to bring it up first.” His laugh wheezes, low and susurring.

[grotesque-marvel]

quickly posting domestic frenrey kiss whilst no one is looking . ehe

[alacants]

vamos a brindar esta despedida, con la certeza de haber vivido algo que nos cambió. (x)

[floweroflaurelin]

The description of Howard’s scar was so gnarly I just had to paint it. I love this spooky series so much 🕯️

[generalb]

Idea for a hdg fic:

Soren is one of the last feralists on the run, able to escape thanks to cybernetic enhancements. Just before the Accord fully collapsed, they designed these cybernetics that would allow humans to match the speed of the Affini.

These cybernetics went on all four limbs, and were shaped like a cats legs. Soren liked wearing them even when he wasn’t running, for no particular reason! Cybernetics are cool, that’s all!

But of course, the Affini (perhaps encouraged by the animalistic chase) catch up, and Soren learns that these cybernetics aren’t just gonna be temporary. ;3

[cantgetworsethanthistbh]

im in the boat that f*ddlest*n (and f*dda*thor, but this is about the first ship) is just like billf*rd— better with intense stan bro tension. and stancest. but not in a fiddleford and stan are both projecting ford onto the other kind of way. i mean, fiddleford definitely is, he can't NOT do that when the guy has ford's face even as much as he tries not to see him and see stan for himself. but going off with how much stan visibly dislikes fiddleford in the show, i love f*ddlest*n in a scenario where stan is crazy jealous and bitter about the relationship fiddleford had with ford.

not of their romantic relationship either, he couldn't care less about that, what he and ford had wasn't normal for brothers anyway, and in any other case stan would be glad both him and ford can move on (cough).

no, what stan hates about fiddleford is how for a long time stan wasn't ford's best friend. fiddleford was. fiddleford was there for ford in college. fiddleford was smart and matched fords genius. fiddleford didnt see ford at all for his sixth finger, he loved ford for ford just like stan did, but he didn't hold ford back or "rode on his coattails". and stan knowing all that while he had nothing and no one? while stan was living in his car yearning for ford to forgive him, call him, offer they sail away together again? when stan misses his brother and could think of nothing but him, and wanted nothing more than to just see him for even a minute, while fiddleford had four years of living in the same room, laughing at the same jokes, be the brother in fords arms instead of his actual brother?

that hurts.

and stan only feels this way about fiddleford. even after finding out about b*llf*rd, he doesnt view bill as some sort of a threat when bill had to copy stan's own mannerisms to get ford on his side. bill is a manipulator, a conman, just like stan— fiddleford is genuine. whatever ford loved and saw in him was real. and ford willingly gave him the time that couldve gone to stan if he hadnt broken fords machine.

that makes it worse.

so in some scenario he and fiddleford get to meet and get together... like fiddleford is one of his "clients" or an au where they work together to get ford back, or a mystery trio, and stan realizes fiddleford feels some sort of way about him?

stan jumps on it, not to project ford onto fiddleford or anything. but just to unload all his bitterness onto him. he's not even jealous of the guy— he's just such a stark reminder of how much stan fucked everything up. he hates himself, but if fiddleford likes it then he can fucking have it.

of course it doesnt work, he never gets over that bitterness. and when ford, who is jealous and possesive about stan as a lover finds out about it? yeah, best believe that poor little hillbilly is gonna need another wave of memory wipes

that's my f*ddlest*n tbh

[barksbog]

new hand pain unlocked!

my first thumb joint hurts like a bitch!!

[flamingtoads]

A disastrous double date perhaps?

[o-wild-west-wind]

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…my bourgeoisie analysis of Glinda in Wicked is making me realize that in some ways, Izzy’s actions can be explained through a (somewhat) similar lens.

I think Izzy’s complex is driven a lot by the fact that he doesn’t actually know what being a captain is like. It’s a little bit in that gambling mindset—he’s just waiting for the moment his time will come, to the point that his life becomes more about the waiting than the actualization of his dream (power as captain). Even to the point that he’s arguably happier when Ed returns vs. his brief stint in the captain role. He’s perpetually aspirational and—in many ways—willfully ignorant about the truth of piracy (until the very end), because he’s just close enough to the top without actually living it. Compare this to Stede, who’s initiated into what it feels like to be captain from the get-go (both on his own and during Ed’s introduction) and is quickly aware of how heavy the responsibility actually is.

Izzy arguably romanticizes piracy just as much as Stede does—just at a completely different angle. And it’s when his romanticization starts to crack and the disillusionment kicks in (when Ed doesn’t want to be Blackbeard) that he chooses to lean in vs. let go (an action probably encouraged by a little sunk-cost fallacy, as well). And it’s that consistent choice of the Blackbeard fantasy over the reality in front of him—the stubborn ignorance in maintaining the belief that if everyone just holds out and sacrifices their needs, the perfect situation will be just around the corner—that serves as a big part of what drives him to act against the interests of himself and those around him.

(For the record, I DON’T think he and Glinda share the same role in their respective stories—they’re treated very differently by their narratives—and I don’t think the commentary on capitalism is quite as relevant here specifically…but there’s some interesting overlap in their motivations. The macho beta male 🤝 wealthy white woman dyad? The white savior complex and lawful neutral of it all?)

[anxiouslowercase]

sas rh: let eoin survive the fall au » a tale of two lieutenants (part two)