#sexy and she knows it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

69% of Tumblr users are millennials.

#sexy and she knows it

songfell-ut · 2 months

Text

Surprise, it's Frisk's second dress from the big ol' party in the Underground, commissioned from the one and only @melikitinas (yes, the same Melikas who did the stunning Sooner or Later comics). With this, I now have all four outfits mwa ha ha (will collect them on Songfell's anniversary with a whole bunch of other art...that's gonna be a big ol' post yessirree)

#songfell frisk #sexy and she knows it #not pictured of course is sans' jaw on the floor #gonna pick that up pal or #or not yeah that works too

92 notes · View notes

pureiceblue · 5 months

Text

I've been seeing this horrific centaur gacha waifu making its rounds on twitter and I think tumblr needs to see it too

Girl is a whole ass silent hill human centipede monster I kinda love it

#I love it when I get body horror inspirations from things meant to be sexy #I do not know what game she is from #4 legs 2 vaginas

327 notes · View notes

ssaalexblake · 3 months

Text

I also don't think it gets said enough that a bunch of people reacted with a visceral kneejerk reaction against 13 and co, or just with total apathy, actively because they were presented with a woman in her mid to late 30's in an outfit that wouldn't be out of place at a pride parade (or maybe in the toddler clothes section) that was in no way sexy (unless you're gay), a south east asian muslim woman, also dressed in outfits that do not show skin, a black man, and an older white guy that people aren't gonna be fantasising about because he's slightly Too old for that one even if fandoms Think they like the old guys. They don't. They mean 30 year olds and Walsh is twice that.

There are So many fandoms out there that have an absurd cult level following where, if you look, the Show/movie itself doesn't have that fandom, the young white men in the cast do and people ignore literally everything else even when other characters are there.

Like, as with all things, there will be people who just don't like it. But these sort of patterns repeat and repeat and repeat in different fandoms, and you get the odd exception to the rule, but they're still exceptions.

13's era does not Have a white man of the right demographic that wasn't just a one episode guest star. Like, at all. The recurring men are Dhawan, that guy who played that obnoxious american who was too old, and Anderson playing Vinder. And Karvanista if we want to be accurate. But he played a dog.

That is Absolutely a thing that effects fan reactions. I don't like it, but it is.

#dw shit #i do not think the weight of the furr/y community. though lofty and impressive. could carry the fandom on their backs lol #and jodie isn't like. movie star sexy. She's hot but not in That way you know?

174 notes · View notes

ghouljams · 10 months

Note

reading the fae au has my daddy issues REELING-

i dunno do i want to be held and comforted by one of them or fucked dumb😭🙏

could you maybe do some like paternal/father figurey stuff with any fae boy you want… cant prove the stereotype daddy issues right guys please im more than wanting old me to make me worse…

As previously stated I asked my friend for help writing the original fae!Price post. Gave me the main pointers on how it all worked.

Do you want more actual dad stuff with Ghost and baby? Or is this just wanting older men to be nice to you?

I'm just gonna have Price run some aftercare on his Witch.

You're still a little floaty, still fuzzy at the edges from having your own magic turned against you. You hear Price opening a window to let the smoke out, and you feel sort of cold without him holding onto you. Your whole body aches like you just finished working an overly complicated spell. You turn your head to rub your cheek against the couch, the worn fabric just rough enough against your skin to start to ground you back in your body.

You've done this enough times. Grounding. You stretch your fingers out and- oh, hm. Your hands are still tied behind your back. That explains the ache in your shoulders. Right. Right, you remember. You were bad at following orders, so Price had to- Why does that thought make your heart hurt a little. A small noise escapes you, somewhere between upset and need.

Price is by you in an instant, crouching to be sure he can look in your eyes as he slips his hand under your cheek to hold your face. "You're alright sweetheart," He tells you softly, "we're done, you did good."

You roll your shoulders wordlessly, your throat hurts, he nods and pushes up to reach over you and untie your wrists. You sag with a sigh feeling the pressure around your wrists disappear. Price reappears, looking over your face, checking for signs of distress. The gentle touches are so far flung from the bruising grip he'd had on you not long ago.

"You ok to sit up?" He asks, and you nod, "Good girl, up we go." Price helps you ease into sitting, his hand pressing between your shoulders to take some of the weight from the movement. Your head spins a little, and you make another upset noise at the pain of it. "I know, sugar, I know." His arm slides under your knees, the other wrapping around your shoulders.

You haven't been lifted in years, but your brain is a little sluggish in processing the soft grunt from Price before you're no longer on the couch. You rest your head against his shoulder, ground yourself a little in his scent. Or you try to, but the lingering tobacco and morning glory give you another shot of the brain fuzzies.

You drift for a while, settled at some point on the edge of your tub. The rush of water and smell of sachet herbs doing little to pull you back to earth until you are actually submerged. Magic sloughs off of you as you sink under the warm water. You hold your breath and stare up at Price through the refraction.

When you pull yourself back up to oxygen you feel like you're in your body again. At least magically. Price's hands catch your shoulders before you can tip forward back into the water. "Easy sweetheart," He tells you, his hands are rough and calloused, another feeling to ground with. You take a deep breath, trying to pull yourself from the non-magical portion of this. The soft dreamy space you'd settled in, the need to please him with little care to your own needs. "Not in a rush," Price presses your shoulders back against the end of the tub, "Just breathe, I'm not going anywhere," You close your eyes, rest your cotton stuffed head against the edge of the tub, "You did so good, I'm so proud of you."

You don't really know why he's telling you that, but it helps. Makes your ribs unwind a little. He pulls one of your hands from the water and digs his fingers into your palm, dragging and rubbing the ache from your hand before moving up to your wrist. Price pulls the pain out of your limbs as easily as he pulled the thoughts from your head, whispering soft sweet things to you until you're starting to doze.

"All mine," He murmurs, pressing his lips against the pulse in your wrist. You hum assent. All his.

481 notes · View notes

goldenamaranthe-blog · 5 months

Text

Yang: (helping build shelters in Vacuo, hair is tied up in a ponytail, and her shirt and vest are tossed to the side - leaving her in a pair of black, ripped up jeans and sports bra)

Kali: (notices sweat pouring off Yang's exposed skin) Blake, dear.

Blake: (helping hand out food to refugees) Yeah, Mom?

Kali: Yang’s looking a little warm over there. Could you bring her some water?

Belladonna Ladies: (watch as Yang spins a hammer on her finger, tosses it in the air, catches it like a pro, and uses the prongs to scratch between her shoulderblades before rolling her shoulders and going rapid fire hammering in nails along an assembly line of A-Frames)

Blake: (eyes wide, blushing, ears twitching, Blake.exe has stopped working)

Kali: (glances at her daughter out of the corner of her eye) Maybe you should take care of your thirst before you help quench Yang's.

Blake: Mom!

#bumbleby #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #rwby #rwby crack post #kali belladonna #mom always knows #vacuo #sexy handyman yang #construction daddy yang #blake likes what she sees #the thirst is real

176 notes · View notes

possamble · 5 days

Text

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.

#farcille #fic #nsft #dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi manga spoilers #so this was just supposed to be a characterization exercise #bc i could feel my falin slipping and needed to recalibrate around her having a hayami saori voice regardless of what she's doing #and partially bc i wanted to see what my marcille narration would sound like #results: i think i did okay on recalibrating falin and reaffirming her intrinsic gentleness so i dont go too hard on the dragoning cliches #marcille narration is a little too sardonic bc im definitely borrowing from my other twinky whitegirls but i can work on it #and im so so incredibly mean to marcille this is so funny #i don't even know if this is sexy or not im so sorry i was actually laughing while i was writing #the dragoness of melini #I GUESS?? THIS COULD BE CONSIDERED A FOLLOW UP??

92 notes · View notes

gravehags · 8 months

Text

yeah yeah young sister imperator i get it but when are we going to talk about old imperator in her red stilettos serving absolute “i have a huge strap” cunt? forget that crusty old shart man, baby, i’m literally right here

#listen she gave her sexy genes to her son #who doesn’t know quite what to do with them #sister imperator #the band ghost

254 notes · View notes

ace-trainer-risu · 2 years

Text

I truly believe that nona is alecto/the body for the very simple and vitally important reason that harrow and nona/alecto/the body will meet at some point and harrow will be like O immortal Body, I have kept troth with you these many long and darkling years, I have sworn my heart, worthless thing though it may be, to you, I cast my fragile and aching body at your feet (and etc etc)

and the Body will look at her with those ineffable golden eyes and open her imperfectly beautiful mouth and say, her own true voice ringing out in harrow's ears for the very first time, "Hi! I like dogs, do you like dogs? I kissed you in the mirror once. Do you want to be best friends?"

And harrow will instantly be like Ohhh :/// I'm cured. I'm not in love with her anymore. where's gideon. ianthe? anyone.

#i've thought about it. A LOT. and i just think the best and funniest possible resolution to harrow's fixation on the body #would be for the body to be kind of uncool. not evil or creepy but just a little weird. perhaps a bit silly.#harrow has never heard her real voice so i very much think that the first time the body speaks #she should say something astonishingly cringey #also IMAGINE how harrow would feel if she found out that Body not only lived but that she had lived again literally IN harrow's body #BUT she was kind of a weird little freak who really liked dogs #i think harrow would be cured instantly and i think it would be very very funny #and probably really good for her #everyone is all like Ohhh alecto will be a sexy scary mysterious monster lady #but no. i think she will be a very weird funky girl. i think she will be Nice.#i think john offered her biscuits once and she said oh! you mean cookies? and john said tomb. teN THOUSAND YEARS.#i eagerly await being proven totally and fully right and correct on this matter #anyway as i said i have thought about this A Lot #the locked tomb #things you didn't care to know about veronica

2K notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

aboutdieseldeliveryatlanta

Untitled

alternative-approachtochronology

Mostly She's Everything I Desire

nuar44

Untitled

keenzziegirl

I’m Lost

sinequanonblog

Fantasiando a Morte