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somanywhales · 2 days
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don’t get mad at me for my categories, listen i’m not an entomologist i just like bugs im doing my best.
i’m sorry if i forgot your bug!!
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harriertail · 2 days
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what could have been!!
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nikkipettt · 1 day
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May Luocha wanters be Luocha havers!
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cowboylor · 2 days
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gold-skinned eager baby
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— the only thing that can bring charles down to earth after a race. charles leclerc x fem!reader (18+) oral (f. receiving), soft dom charles, (1) spank.
your sundress is hiked up to your waist before he sinks to his knees.
charles fists the floral pattern in his hand, snaking the other to hastily rub his fingers against you—quickly, without keeping rhythm in mind, anything to keep you whimpering into his neck.
“charles,” you’re saying between his rough kisses. “baby—”
you can't finish any thought when he gets like this. so stoic and eager to have his way with you that you can't help but abandon all words and let him spread your legs however he pleases.
when he finally trails past your navel and he's peering up at you from his knees, you're dry-mouthed and not sure where to put your hands.
“let me taste you,” he orders gruffly, using both hands to keep your dress above your panty line. your head falls back when you feel his breath waft over your clothed core. pressing his mouth against you, he murmurs, “open up for me, mon amour.”
your suppressing your moan through bitten lips, resisting the urge to press yourself deeper onto his face but trying to remain considerate.
“you—” you feel your eyelids involuntarily flutter when his nose nudges against your clit. “you don’t have to.”
your body shudders when you feel him chuckle against you, before moving to look you in the eye. you swallow roughly, staring back at his dark eyes that seem more blown out than usual.
“this,” his fingertips hook around the band of your underwear. “is for me.”
it becomes clear. pleasing you is always something charles has been able to control. something that he takes pride in—hearing the noise you make whenever he takes you over the edge is something he'll remember even after he forgets his own name. it's a constant. it can't be taken away by a bad qualifying session. and when would you ever deny him?
he’s quick with it; his calloused hands running up your thighs before gripping them tightly, pulling you against his mouth again. he presses a wet kiss against your swollen bud, murmuring incoherent praises into you until you’re whining and pulling his hair with nowhere to go but the wall behind you.
“charles,” you gasp his name like a prayer. “please.”
he hitches your leg over his shoulder, his mouth continuing to work against your cunt—drawing sloppy, figure eights with the tip of his tongue and glancing up at you for stolen looks at your fucked-out expression.
“right there,” you muse through bitten lips. “you’re good—you’re so good.”
your praise is met with a swift slap to the side of your thigh.
his muffled agreement against your cunt makes you stifle a smile and you have to resist the urge to tell him how good he is again. how good he is at everything he does and especially, how good he is at making you fall apart on his tongue.
“fucking—” he growls between sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. “—soaking.”
you’re mewling, arching against the wall and as he holds your thighs apart. you just about melt when he peers up at you again, eyebrows knitted in frustration from everything else and desire for you. your mouth runs dry. his face is smothered against you before you could remind him how much you love him.
“come for me,” he groans into you—the vibration sending shocks down your spine. “come all over my mouth.”
there are not enough oh god's left in you by the time the heat in your lower stomach coils and you're tugging on his hair harshly. when his nose presses harshly into your clit as he lapping at your core, your thighs begin to shake.
when he pulls your sundress back down, he’s turning you around just as quickly. pressing you against the wall from behind, you gasp as he moves to press himself into you.
“you can take more, can’t you, cherie?” he’s muttering on the cusp of your ear. your eyes roll back because yes, yes—you would take everything he gave you in this moment. “be a good girl and take more for me, yes?”
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leftistlester · 3 days
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MY POLAROID IFKMFNDMEBGKSBSKSNFMDM
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ganondoodle · 2 days
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its still rough but as far as im gonna get for now, cant decide on the tentacle colors still nkfdnvkdfn
possible name for lad is Pan or Paktolos (just bc .. reference to midas legend even if this midas got nothing to do with it; oh yeah, a bonus midas sketch .. he needs a proper redesign too)
tentacle lad may look mean here (i genuinely dont know why i drew him like that) but hes a big sappy softie, even carries a picture of midas in a locket around- next to the demon teeth hes collected he doesnt leave the island much anymore and mostly manages everything on it, his people call him by royal titles sometimes bc hes been a very competent leadership figure but he doesnt put value in any titles-
he rescued midas from the demon hunters that kidnapped him years ago to bring one of the biggest and most influencial empires to collapse after his older sister, who was the empress, was unexpectedly dying- midas being the next in line the empire doesnt really exist anymore at this point, midas now leading missions around the island instead, or going around keeping up to date with politics and tensions since his husband (tentacle lad) and his people are of a kind that is largely being kept a secret and would be a target for demon hunters as well, despite them not being demons (they look monstrous but are more based on animals, are native to earth, cannot change form, age only somewhat slower than humans and have no control over any elemental magic more than a very skilled human can have- which is basically not even noticable and usually gets passed off as 'talent' in the way a skilled sailor can feel the approaching weather in the wind)
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fond99-blog · 10 years
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lucy-j-carlyle · 2 days
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is locklyle your comfort couple because deep down the concept of two people loving each other so unconditionally seem so unattainable so the only way you can experience it is through a book series or are you normal
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neon-junkie · 1 day
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yesyes Crosshair extending a hand to Ventress was sweet and all, big shipping moment, but Crosshair getting his ass beat by her? I bet that unlocked one too many new kinks for our poor boy
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gh0stmama · 6 hours
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💀🧚‍♀️
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collophora · 1 day
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I needed to vent about the last ep before bed.
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skullycloud · 22 hours
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wittle cat boy compilation
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writingonpillows · 2 days
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Texts and Videos
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cw: sexting(?), masturbation, nicknames: good girl and slut, scaramouche/wanderer x reader, fem! reader
synopsis: you tease scara on his way home from a long day
note: I did not doublecheck this and I rushed the ending, i genuinely did not know how to continue it and I apologize if this isnt good. (requests are open)
Today had been a long day for scara. A failed expedition, annoying co-workers, stupid fatui meetings, horrible progress reports. It was horrible and he just cant wait for the day to end and come home to torture and fuck your needy cunt.
 You're on your bed just relaxing and watching your favorite show to pass the time while waiting for him, until you get a text.
 "when i get home you better have all your fucking clothes off" 
It wasnt the text you were expecting to receive...you know he's in a bad mood however you still want to test the limits.
 "and if i don't?" 
you respond excited to see how he would respond, you know he would get mad and part of you wants him to. 
"I will rip all of them off you and slap your needy ass and cunt until its bright fucking red." 
his response makes you wet just the thought of him punishing and fucking your cunt makes you go insane. 
"im gonna spread your legs wide and tease your clit until your panties are soaked and you're just begging for me to fuck your needy little pussy, to make you cum all over my cock." 
With every word you read you get wetter and wetter just wanting him to take you, use you, and fuck you. You pull your down and start rubbing your clit dampening your panties, you angle your phone down and take a short video of you rubbing circles on your clit on top of your panties and send it to him.
“fuck you’re just a needy little slut aren’t you? Playing yourself while craving my hard cock deep in your needy cunt” 
That nickname drives you crazy, you continue rubbing circles on your clit wishing he was there to fuck you dumb.
“I want you to grab the vibrator from the drawer and remove your panties and place the vibrator on your clit and keep raising the level until its on the max and the rooms are filled with your moans”
And you oblige, you get the vibrator from the drawer of the bedside table, take off your panties, position the vibrator on your clit and positioned your phone to record again.
You turn on the vibrator it starts on the lowest level, small breathes and whimpers leave your mouth, even if it was just the first level scaramouche made sure to get the strongest vibrator he could find. 
After a few seconds you decide to put it in the middle and turn it to the fifth level, the vibrator was much stronger now compared to the first level, you start moaning and squirming a little.
Finally after a minute or two you turn it up to the max level, the strength of the vibrations almost unbearably you can’t help but squirm and start rubbing your slit, your loud moans and whimpers filling the room. You send the video to him keeping the vibrator on your clit and rubbing your slit occasionally slipping the tip of your finger in.
“Good girl, I’m almost home just keep going but don’t you dare cum or I’ll slap that ass until it marks red.” he replies.
A few minutes later you hear the front door being unlocked and the door opening, then footsteps walking to your bedroom.
“Are you ready to be fucked and used by me?” he teases, you nod frantically wanting to be dragged to a pleasurable release.
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Remember a few years ago when I said lesbians need to start identifying as bi if they're into women and nonbinaries cuz it was invalidating to non-binary ppl, especially those that were AMAB to suggest we're all just Women Lite?
I'm so glad I grew up and learned to accept that someone else's relationship to gender & relationships doesn't actually need to affect my own.
Liberation and love on planet earth
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murdockparker · 1 day
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Roses and Regrets - Part 1
Anthony Bridgerton x Reader
Summary: Freshly out of mourning, Lady Barlow, née (Y/L/N), makes her re-debut in society. If only she could simply ignore a certain viscount...
Word Count: 2.7k
Warnings: none. enemies to lovers!!
A/N: I didn't expect this lil requested fic to turn into such an event, let alone a multi-part story! so, you're welcome or I'm sorry?
next part
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She was perfectly happy. 
Well, supposedly right now she wasn’t. 
Her husband, Lord Barlow, had passed away ten months ago, leaving her with an empty estate, a shiny title and more money than she knew what to do with. Lord Barlow was an old viscount, desperate for an heir and willing to do anything to get one. 
In came Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N).
Young, beautiful and well-bred, she was the perfect choice for any man of the ton. If only her father hadn’t a penchant for gambling. Perhaps she’d be married to a man more suited for her rather than the oaf of a dustbin she was forced to be with. She was no fool in believing in a love match for herself, rare and far between as they were, no, but she did have half a mind to imagine a kinder man as her husband. A man who perhaps cared even a little bit for her wellbeing. 
No matter. 
A dead man cannot care for her wellbeing either. 
“Lady Barlow,” a maid knocked, entering the ornate drawing room.
“Yes?” (Y/N) did not look up from her reading—the newest edition of Whistledown had just been delivered. While she herself was never one to gossip terribly, it was quite fun to keep up with the circus of the season. 
“Do you plan on attending the Danbury ball this eve?”
“I do not see the point,” she scoffed playfully, “after all, Meg, I am but a widow in mourning.”
“Perhaps her ladyship should reconsider?” Meg asked gently, placing a new pot of tea next to her lady. “I rather think it has been a socially acceptable amount of time since your husband’s passing.”
“If I am not to enjoy the perks of being a widow,” (Y/N) sighed, finally looking up at her favorite lady’s maid, “whatever is the point?”
“Perks that Viscount Barlow has graciously allowed you to use during your time of mourning—”
“The current viscount is all but twelve,” (Y/N) reminded. “He has no use for this estate in Mayfair until he himself becomes an adult, in which, I am sure he and his mother will come to make use of it. I believe if my maths are correct, that leaves me all of six years or so to use this home.”
“Forgive me my lady, but should you not be looking for a new husband, then?”
(Y/N) smiled at Meg. She enjoyed their friendship, her maid being only a handful of years older than herself, it made for a likely pair. “No one wishes to marry a widow,” she said simply, “widows are damaged goods. Every sensible man of the ton will be wanting a pretty little virgin instead.”
“My lady!”
“What?” She barked a laugh. “You know it to be true.”
“Regardless,” Meg said, clearing her throat. “Lord Barlow passed nearly a year ago, the period of mourning is rightfully over. You are expected to rejoin society.”
“Dreadful.”
“It is expected,” Meg repeated.
“It does not make it any less dreadful,” (Y/N) said. “Very well. Pull a dress and prepare a bath, it seems the ton gets to see my dreary face once again.”
Anthony Bridgerton was a man scorned. 
Particularly by his own mother in this very instance. How foolish he had been to share his intentions of marriage this season with her—for now she spread the news like a wildfire. Every desperate mama and her equally desperate daughter came flocking to him like bees to honey. 
It was only now, in the dark corner of the ballroom, that he found a respite.
“Looking a bit green, Lord Bridgerton,” a voice beside him called out. 
“I am not—” Anthony had huffed a reply before even knowing whom he was speaking to. “Lady Barlow.”
“I am shocked you can recall my name,” (Y/N) laughed over her champagne flute. “Considering how many new ones you’ve had thrown at you this eve.”
“You are out of mourning.”
“Is that a question?”
“It was an observation,” Anthony corrected.
“What gave it away? My bright dress? No tear stains left on my cheeks?”
“You are here, out and about,” Anthony said. “And, forgive me for not playing along with your delusions, but I do not think you cried much at all for Lord Barlow’s passing.”
“How dare you assume such a thing,” (Y/N) faux gasped. She had intended on pressing a hand to her chest. Intended, anyway. Somehow she forgot all about the champagne currently residing it her grasp. “Damn… this was a new dress too.”
“Good God,” he laughed. “First you are spilling all over yourself like a child and now you are cursing—tell me, do all married ladies act like you?”
“I am a widow,” (Y/N) had found a cloth and begun dabbing up the spill. It had only dribbled at most, but still, it was a new dress. “I rather think I can act the way I please.”
“Like a drunkard?”
“Like a free woman,” she said, fighting every childish urge to stick her tongue out at the viscount. “I am only here to show my face, prove I am still alive and I shall go about my merry way.”
“Lady Danbury is a widow,” Anthony noted. “Yet she still mingles with society.”
“I am not Lady Danbury.”
“You are not.”
“Do you not have young misses to go and woo?” (Y/N)’s eyes hardened. “Take your pick from the litter, Lord Bridgerton, any of them would be pleased to spend such valuable time with you.”
“Are you insinuating you are not?”
“I rather thought it was a statement, yes,” (Y/N) said.
Anthony’s eyes went only a fraction wider, nostrils flaring. “Well, if that is what you wish—”
“It is not a mean of wishing,” she laughed, “but really a necessity.”
“Good evening, Lady Barlow,” Anthony sneered, smoke practically coming out of his ears. If (Y/N) had half a mind she’d call for the authorities to put that fire out, instead, she simply finished her drink and smiled wistfully at the dancing ballroom, feeling fulfilled. 
Dearest Gentle Reader,
The season is in full swing thanks to the mark of Lady Agatha Danbury’s ball, a notable and traditional first event of the London scene. Eligible young ladies now on the Marriage Mart were enjoying their first taste at what fine society has to offer, however taxing or daunting it may be. 
Our resident Capital ‘R’ Rake, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is finally deciding on a wife, surely making him the finest catch of the season. Matchmaking mamas and their young ladies alike were seen flocking to him like petulant children asking their parents for pin money, thanks to his own mother, Lady Bridgerton’s declaration of such an idea last night. The viscount seemingly had enough of the attention, taking like a wallflower and hiding away in the back of the ballroom near the end of the evening. 
His company? None other than Lady Barlow, evidently out of mourning as of last night. While the this Author is under good authority that the match between Lady Barlow and the late Lord Barlow was not a love match, given their fourty or fifty year age difference, it has taken the new dowager viscountess longer than most anticipated for her to get back into the season. A woman as young as Lady Barlow would be eager to find another husband to support her, but something tells me that she is quite enjoying her time as a widow and will not easily give that up. 
While this Author has very little idea of the actual nature of the relationship between Lord Bridgerton and Lady Barlow, it is only to be assumed that it is simply not a favorable one. The two were seen making a scene by the refreshment table, a scene that went unnoticed by many prying eyes of the ton, leaving Lord Bridgerton storming away and Lady Barlow with the winning hand. 
Good show, Lady Barlow. 
Lady Whistledown Society Papers
“Brother! You are in Whistledown!” Eloise sang to no one in particular. 
“I have no care that I am in that gossip rag,” Anthony ground out, rustling his newspaper. “I can only imagine it is just another advertisement of my search for a wife this season.”
“Er, yes, however—”
“However?” Anthony’s attention immediately shot up to his sister, newspaper be damned. 
“Who is Lady Barlow?” Eloise asked. 
“No one of importance,” Anthony could feel his temperature rising. 
“Lady Barlow?” Benedict laughed. “Is that who you were talking to last night dear Brother? Is she not still in mourning?”
“No.”
“No it is not who you were talking to, or no she is not still in mourning?” Benedict gave his brother an amusing glance.
“Oh, according to Whistledown—”
“Sister—”
“Eloise, you may not recall Lady Barlow, given you only just came out this season,” Benedict began, deciding that this conversation was very much worth his time this morning. “But she used to go by Miss (Y/L/N) before her marriage to the late viscount.”
“(Y/L/N)…” Eloise looked to the ceiling, finding nothing in particular. “Oh! Is she not the woman who—”
“I am taking my leave,” Anthony said abruptly, newspaper all but forgotten. 
“Escaping, Brother?” Benedict asked. 
“I have calls to make,” Anthony sneered, ignoring the pleased face his brother was making. “Excuse me.”
“It seems Lady Barlow is a touchy subject,” Eloise noted as her eldest brother left the drawing room. Benedict snorted. “What?”
“You do not even know the half of it, dear Sister.”
Anthony Bridgerton, did not in fact, have any calls to make. He had no impressionable interactions last night to warrant such a visit to anyone—the Queen was still in need of naming her diamond, after all—but he had no desire to stay and be berated by his family this morning. He truly had no plan, no thought in his head on where he was going, he just simply was. 
Apparently he was going to the park.
It was still early in the day, few people graced the park at such an hour. The few who did, however, were too busy reading the latest Whistledown to even notice him. Anthony saw a handful of post boys running opposite of his direction on his way here, it was only natural they scoped out this location. He knew it was going to be a problem the minute they finished reading—if Lady Whistledown truly wrote about him, which he had no reason to believe his sister was lying about, all eyes would be on him.
“Might as well enjoy the peace and quiet for now,” Anthony exhaled. He took a quick glance at his watch—half past eight. Hardly could he recall a time he took a turn about the park on his own, usually he was in the company of his family or holed away in his study worrying about expenses and the like, never did he take a moment to actually enjoy the grand weather such as the kind today. Determined to enjoy it, he sat down on a favorable bench and watched the birds swim across the pond.
“Unbelievable.”
He turned his head, only to find Lady Barlow dressed in a rather pleasantly pink dress and matching hat, a look of distaste on her face.
“I didn’t take you as the park-going type, Lord Bridgerton,” she nodded, folding her hands. She had been carrying a small red book in one of them. “Especially at such an early hour, too.”
“Lady Barlow,” he nearly sneered. “Can a man not enjoy the park?”
“Oh surely a man can,” (Y/N) agreed. “But you? You are no man.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It seems to me that you’re sitting in my spot,” she ignored his quip, readjusting her stance in annoyance. “This is where I come to read.”
“Can you not read elsewhere?” Anthony asked. “There is an entire park at your disposal.”
“No,” she hummed. “Afraid not.”
“No?” He laughed. “Surely out of the entire park you can find a suitable spot to read your—let me guess—romantically inclined fodder?”
“Poetry,” she corrected, “and no, I cannot simply read elsewhere. The shade is just right under this tree and I rather like overlooking the pond between my chapters.”
“Shame I got here first, then,” Anthony clicked.
“You…!” (Y/N) scoffed, fighting every urge in her body to stomp her foot. “You are an impossible man, surely you know that?”
“I thought you said I was no man?” Anthony’s brow quirked. “Or perhaps I misheard?”
She scowled. “You are not amusing.”
“On the contrary,” Anthony leaned back on the bench, stretching his arms and taking his claim. “I find myself very amusing.”
A duck quacked from the pond, either laughing at the viscount or agreeing with him—it was hard to tell. 
“You leave me no choice,” (Y/N) said sternly, taking a seat on the other end of the bench—feeling worlds apart from the man on the far side. In actuality, it couldn’t have been more than two feet, three at most.
“Truly?” Anthony laughed humorlessly. “You cannot be serious.”
“Hush,” (Y/N) said, opening her book in earnest. “I am trying to read.”
While there had been no guns drawn, this was a duel, in every sense of the word. Both parties sitting still as statues, Anthony’s gaze trained on the pond, (Y/N)’s on her book. Occasionally, she’d flip her page to the next, huffing every time Anthony still did not get up and move on. 
Stubborn. Both of them.
“Will you be quiet?” Anthony said, growing exasperated. “I cannot think when you are breathing so loud—” 
“You wish for me not to breathe?” She shut her book. “I never anticipated you’d wish me dead—”
“Please,” Anthony said. “You know that is not what I mean at all.”
“I never know with you. You, Anthony Bridgerton, are an enigma and I hope I never have the pleasure of truly understanding you,” (Y/N) said, fingers whiting from her grip on her book.
“So you admit it would be pleasurable?”
She wanted to wipe that grin off of his face, how, she was unsure. Idly, she thought about how a good smack to his cheek would feel. Painful in the moment but oh-so wonderful after, cathartic, probably. “I am not getting up.”
“Neither am I.”
“I am willing to die on this bench,” (Y/N) spat.
“Funnily enough,” Anthony’s voice dropped, “so am I.”
“How are you to find your viscountess on this bench?” She asked, angling her body towards the torturous man. “Surely you do not expect her to just walk past?”
“I am sure I can manage,” Anthony said calmly. “Many young ladies will walk this way when they see me sitting here."
“Even with another woman sitting beside you?”
“I rather think they’ll find you easy to ignore, I know I do.”
“Ha! You are truly something else, Lord Bridgerton,” (Y/N) sat straighter. “Insulting a polite woman in public?”
“You are the furthest thing from polite,” Anthony leaned in. “Rude, ostentatious, quite full of herself—”
“Might I offer you a mirror?” The grip on her book tightened, cover bending from the force. “Or are you afraid you’ll see horns?”
“Oh, do they match yours?” He nearly sang. 
“Funny,” she clicked, finally setting her book down, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “You should run a comedy act at the circus, seeing as you are a right clown.”
Anthony stood up, whether by the force of his breath or sheer spite he will never know. “You are the most ridiculous woman I have ever met.”
(Y/N) met his height, now standing as well. “And you are the most irritating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”
“I am going to walk this way,” Anthony said, forcefully pointing to his right, eyes not leaving hers. She did have the most remarkable eyes.
“And I will walk this way,” she pointed to her left, less force in her action but seething all the same. “Have the day you deserve, Lord Bridgerton.”
“Why you little…!”
She had already turned and stomped away, a fuming smudge of pink against the greenery of the park, growing further away with every step.
“What a wretched woman,” he mumbled, looking down at his watch again—nine on-the-dot. In the corner of his eye, something bright red caught his attention. Her book. She had left it behind.
Perhaps he would burn it.
Perhaps he would just put it in his pocket and carry about his day.
In the pocket it went. For now.
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mochis-hideout · 2 days
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Puppet posting 👍
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Also here’s some doodles with my multicolored crayon @:3 (Wally looks bruised-)
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