#with sexy results

[gleafer]

LORDY LORDY!

Reddit’s favorite steamy fandom sub @goodomensafterdark is hosting an ineffable smut war starting on this Monday and ending Valentine’s Day! Writers and artists will be submitting their sauciest fandom creations in a friendly battle to see who gets the audience sweating more!

It’s all in good fun and EVERYONE wins a whole month of creators serving the spice!

Come join us, maybe you’ll find your next favorite writer or artists! (Why not both??)

[kumeramen]

*Mutually driving each other crazy* (๑/////๑ " )

[official-penis-posts]

i love this blog, seeing the many forms that a penis may take is quite humorous. however, i do not have a penis, and i do not have any sexual interest in penis, either. i feel like a researcher out in the fields of an alien planet, the planet of cock and balls.

[prostocupoftea]

Sometimes PC stands for "Player Cat"

aka these games made me feel like a cat pushing a glass off a table so i drew it.

The Cat Parable

C.a.t., Stop

There Is No Cat

The Catridor

(i know he says "how dare you" not when you push the button but when you boot up a game... which is even funnier... but im an artist, its gonna be like dat in my comic-)

Do Not Buy This Cat Demo

Extras! Character design sheet and some uni sketches (:

[katbug666]

post for 100 followers💕

[possamble]

farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

~~~

Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air. 

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning. 

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…” 

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense. 

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous. 

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” 

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing. 

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—” 

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—” 

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!” 

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps. 

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!” 

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned. 

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.) 

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?” 

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?” 

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.” 

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave. 

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go. 

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…” 

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part. 

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere. 

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…” 

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?” 

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

[thesecondplace]

the new time quangle got me thinking so here's Every Emily Axford d20 character ranked by how I think they'd react to Sexy Rat

Fig Faeth: she birthed that thing. it's literally her baby she is 100% sexy rats biggest defender

Sofia Lee: pre TUC Sofie might be a bit grossed out by it but as soon as she meets Kug that'd stop being the case she would absolutely fw a sexy rat

Ylfa Snorgellson: I think Ylfa would relate to Sexy Rat a lot actually, truly a symbol of unconventional beauty for her to idealise

Sundry Sidney: I feel like Sid would like the sexy rat, but she would definitely kill it with fire if asked to

Jet Rocks: Jet's nepo baby self would not be able to appreciate the beauty of sexy rat. At most her and Ruby find it amusing/funny

Sacchirina Frowstwhip: Saccharina does not have the time or the energy to deal with a strangely sexy rat she would dispose of that thing on sight

BONUS

7. Lady Chirp Featherfowl: Not only would she dispose of sexy rat on sight she would have to have a very dramatic show of the trauma from the encounter involving a feinting couch

[freckledjoes]

He can shut me up any day ngl

[gleafer]

Happy Smut War Eve @goodomensafterdark

😘❤️❤️

[sycamoretrees]

G1 34 block matches cross stitch complete! A Block in reds/yellows and B Block in blues/greens.

Each wrestler is represented by a colour in the outer strips (I used the same order that NJPW did on its results cards), and then where two colours/wrestlers would intersect I recorded their match result, with the winner's colour taking up 3/4 of the square.

(more info and photos under the cut)

I was inspired by my good pal @benchwarming who started this beautiful cross stitch project tracking race results over the F1 season. Wrestling mostly doesn't have the same kind of consistent data points/formats, so I'm glad the G1 allowed me to join in on her very cool idea!

I used FlossCross to mock up the overall design. Because it's just a bunch of evenly-spaced squares I didn't really need a 'pattern', so I made this spreadsheet to track the results (I printed out a physical copy and highlighted the winner as match results came in):

Here's the NJPW results card for A Block as comparison - my piece is essentially just the outlined half of their format (which ngl I find very hard to parse)(not that mine isn't also)(I think this is just a hard dataset to represent) without the duplicate results on the top right.

Back view:

Mostly tried not to travel further than a square or two, and used a combination of loop starts, pin stitch finishes for some of the single stitches, and weaving in ends.

[she-karev]

FAVORITE X-MEN '97 MEMBER (as voted by my followers) #1. Gambit/Remy LeBeau ⚜️🃏

[mark-the-snark]

i saw silly and then got a lil bit too existed 😔

Anyway this is a dtiys for @onionninjasstuff !!!

[themgfujoshi]

Guys i know i havent posted for quite sometime so may i interest you in… some sanuso??

Based on the drawing i found on pinterest>>>

[dollypopup]

Colin did not get a POV in Season 1. No scenes where he grapples with his feelings and the situation in a meaningful way. Colin fans notice. Calm down, you tell us. It's coming. It's not his time, yet.

Colin does not get a perspective in season 2. Few if no scenes of him bonding in meaningful ways with his family, no perspective of him conducting research. Nothing for his own personal growth. Colin fans notice. Calm down, you tell us. It's coming. It's not his time, yet.

Colin's statement at the end of S2 brings about a fandom that demonizes him. It has no context. We do not see the lead up. Colin exists through Penelope's eyes, through her feelings. Colin fans notice. It's not his time, yet. Colin doesn't get a poster. Calm down. It's coming. It's not his time, yet. The information told to us center around Penelope loving herself, her story, her growth. It's not his time yet.

Colin is not even in the teaser clip of his own season.

It's not his time yet it's not his time yet it's not his time yet

Will it ever be?

[anonyanonymouse]

Sacrifice

IMAGINE kid Silver, originally raised to be the perfect, sweet prince for their country, dragged away from Leia and his father by some cultish sect in their family. He's drugged, blindfolded, gagged, but still kicking and fighting weakly as they're holding him down to brand him and "prepare" him. It happens so fast. They don't want to waste a second after planning this all these years, they can't let his innocence be tainted any further by his blinded parents.

Silver is drifting in and out of sleep by the time he's laid out on a cold stone table, his eyes glossy and blank, unable to understand the repeated chanting everyone in the room is shouting. He's still awake when there's a searing pain in his stomach. He sees red, then nothing, then horns.

He doesn't hurt anymore, his skin is clean, it doesn't even have a scratch. He feels weightless, carried through the dingy halls of a corner of the castle he never should have seen, broken bodies and blood smearing the path. The horned man holding him tells him so little, quietly lugging the boy out into the castle's gardens and then even further still, places he's never seen before and has no clues about. He tells him he doesn't belong here anymore, he can't return here again.

His soul is a demon's belonging now, but he assures him, he will be well cared for and even spoiled and loved. Malleus will only need him to do a few things for him in his time, and then he can rest peacefully in dreams so unimaginably blissful. And Silver, oblivious to the dangers of demons and monsters, wholeheartedly believes him.

[fuck-john-calvin]

in your personal opinion-

edit//to clarify this is a post about seeing other people smoking, not whether you find it hot to smoke yourself. probably should have been clearer about that lol