#inkpool

[billystorm]

recent work

[smallfire]

big ol' dump of commissions ive done over the past few days, pt.1! featuring characters from @forgotten-elegy !! all such delights to draw, none of the designs belong to me, but i treasure them forever. promise

[bearsplash]

mablesong and inkpool or marmlotus

[inkpool-clover]

Rendering is STUPID I hate SHADING

[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ᴘᴇᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ (ꜱᴏꜰᴛ)

ROLL OVER | boyfriend!Harry (couples costumes gone wild)

The dalmatian/fire fighter duo runs a little deeper in the bedroom after the party.

★₁₈₊

ROLL OVER as the final installment to the KINKTOBER projects. Based on this ask.

If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects, do so here.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: couple's costume gone wild. pet play (soft). soft dom. praise. leashing. collars. use of "puppy" as a pet name (pun unintended). oral (f to m). dumbification. dom/sub undertones.

WC: 1.7K

“Yeah,” Harry breathes and shifts his hips with a subtle flex that nudges a little more of him past your lips, cradling you close by the shape of your jaw and petting his palm across your heated cheek. 

You swallow, nostrils flaring, and you let the congealed dust— of this particular disposition— across your lashes lure you under a little harder. Let it crush you under the soporific wave of its gravity. 

But you don’t miss the way he swallows, tugs a little harder on the polypropylene end of the dog leash wrapped taut around the knobs of his naked knuckles, and purrs, “Such a good girl, puppy.”

You blink up at him. At the unstilted paradigm of your insatiable hunger (eating, eating, still so hungry for him); bare stomach flexing, shoulders swelling, jawbone tucked and face ducked to watch you swallow around him. Watch and feel you work your little tongue in crescent shapes against the underside of his cockhead. 

You’re drooling. Slobbering, like a needy, little puppy, and your spit dribbles across between the wedges of your knuckles, where you cup him around the base and squeeze every time he throbs. 

It’s good. It’s really, really good.

He sprawls back against the chair but keeps his chin tipped. Staring down at you— the way your lips suction around him and the way your eyes pool under your fluttery lashes with a dew. Inkpools unwavering. Unrelenting. 

His shirt is discarded, so all his ink is on show. The way it breathes alive under the tension of his musculature, his rippling abdomen when you dip the tip of your tongue into the slit on his head; moving, dancing over his skin. 

It feels dirty. Borderline gaudily pornographic; you, on your knees in that careful nook between his split thighs, with his suspenders dangling across his lap. The big, utility boots on his feet, either side of your haunches. The pried zipper on a set of work trousers, slouching low on his hips, multi-faceted into a costume. 

He’s heavy on your tongue. Takes up too much room in your mouth. Leaking and throbbing when you duck your head to take him just a little deeper, a little more.

“Christ,” Harry murmurs. It sounds a little dark. Hardly over a whisper— you make a wet, ugly sound around him and blink back up. 

From your angle, there’s this pastiche of sovereignty to him. Like blue-collar regalia; half-shed firefighter’s rig, shape of his face chiseled in self-possessed stolidity—

Save for his eyes, the little cinch in his jawbone. The glint in the charcoal vats, the sharp carve your lips make, the way it wobbles when his teeth grind together a little harder. Your tongue seeps out over your lower lip when you take a deep breath through your nose, open wide, and take him nearly to the root. 

The sound that crawls out of Harry is so battered that all you can do is claw into the fabric on the apex of his thighs and let your eyes screw. 

His cockhead bludgeons at the gummy lining on the back of your throat, and you’re sure the phlegm is collapsing in little broken pieces like a mirror shattering under the weight of a hammer. Spuming out over his face in creases and rapture. But you can’t look. 

All you can do is try to swallow around him when the hand that was on the side of your face glues to the back of your crown, his fingers tangling into your hair. His knuckles bleach a little whiter with the strain of the leash, the way he holds you in place. 

(When his palm moves, it smudges one of the little tar-black spots you painted on with a brush, across your temple.)

You can hear that he’s groaning, pressing himself into you and folding praise in with the shape of his fingers scratching at the back of your skull. Things like, “Yeah— fuck— just like that, sweet girl,” in rich husks that simmer across your porous bones and trickle when your shoulders shake. When your toes curl under you. But he holds the leash a little tighter for the angle, and the makeshift collar around your throat gets a little more taut—

Really, it’s all his fault. 

Taunting, Can’t be my proper puppy without— the lead he delicately clipped onto the cheap, old hot topic choker you dug out of the closet to use as a collar. The way that he kept his knuckles wrapped over the handle and his knuckles in his pocket at the party. Toting you around like a pet, keeping you rooted to his side when he settled. Tucked to the swell of his massive shoulder. 

The way he told you to stay like a dog when he went off to refill your drinks, the way he patted your head upon return to find your soles glued to the same spot. Scratching behind your ear derisively, fingertips riling a shudder across your shoulders. 

Such a good girl, you are, saturated in artificial, satirical delight. Corners of his mouth curling, the jeer dripping off the corners of his eyes. 

(Here’s your treat.)

It started as a joke. Mocking for the sake of watching the heat froth under your skin, across your cheekbones, the ruckled bridge of your nose. Faux praises and the condescending gravity of the lead across the base of your neck. The subtle tug into an isolated pigeonhole of a docility that soaked across the crown of your head. 

The mushroomed ridges of his tip bludgeon a splutter out from between your sopping lips, and more saliva oozes out and trickles across your tacky, wet fingers. 

You need to hear it again, need to hear him say it, that itch festering in the noxious tangle of your arousal when you rise on your haunches a touch to duck your chin and press your nose to the wiry smattering of hair bedding around the root of his cock—

“Fuck,” Harry drawls. Guttural, heated—

Varicolored phosphenes fleck behind your lids like constellations in the yawn of a mesmeric, caliginous sky. 

“You’re so good, sweetheart,” he grunts, hums, hips tensing and canting up into the wet heat of your mouth like it’s an undiluted reflex to an itch, feeding his cock deeper— “Gonna cum down this pretty, little throat f’you keep sucking my cock like that.”

You rest both palms on his thighs. Twist your fingers into the fabric until it’s soggy with spit. Gag around the swell of him until he wrenches you back with his fingers under the collar, at your nape, and leaves you sputtering for air with your neck craned. When you blink your lashes apart, your eyes are wet. Bleary. Burning like the back of your tongue, the soft lining at the back of your mouth, where the only place left to cram further is down into your esophagus. 

He looks like a hedonistic cover page for a pornographic issue. 

The coarse strip of dark hair from his navel pools in the bed of curls nesting the hilt of his cock, and his thighs are split in this kingly way that makes you dizzy. It’s vertiginous, staring up at him from your knees. Meaty shoulders, one burnt umber curl hanging to eclipse an eyebrow, and his cock is so spit-slick. Wet, and shimmery, and stupidly thick, sealed in his fist. Throbbing. Your spit puddles off onto his heavy sack, the sodden fabric wrenched apart by the zipper, and you watch a little, pearlescent bead drool off the tip when he squeezes and twists his palm up. 

“Want it in your mouth?” Harry muses. It’s a subconscious maneuver; canting forward on the hinges of your joints with your swollen lips parted as he drags the pad of his thumb across the blurting pre-cum and smears it over his frenulum. “Want it bad, don’t you?”

The way he pulls on the end of the lead isn’t sharp. It’s subtle, but it corners you into nestling your mouth against his cock. Against the swollen shaft, cockhead pulsing and leaking out over the sloping bridge of your nose. 

“Beg,” he tells you. It’s soft. The wisp of a breath; a sigh when you smush your cherry mouth to the little vein that rides up the underside and turns baby blue beneath the crown. 

But it’s chock-full of the command given to an animal— beg, and I’ll give you a treat. It makes you sizzle down to your marrow. His lips curl loosely into a lazy grin. So debauched, around the shape of his cock, coated in your own saliva, pressed to your face. 

“Go on,” he smiles, “Let me hear you whine for it. Show me what a needy, little puppy you are.”

The words sink into your underbelly and leave your hands cresting for surface-purchase under the spindrift. They slip to his knees, and tangle into the fabric there as your lashes flutter. 

“Please,” you breathe, mouthing the word along the shape of his cock. Your lashes are still fluttering. Batting. You scootch forward a little, scratching into the firm muscle under the nomex, and let him smear his shaft across the tip of your nose, tarnishing the borders of the snout you painted on.

He hums. His thumb catches on the corner of your mouth, just as you start to paste an open-mouthed, suckling kiss onto the underside of the root. Your tongue smudges out against his sack. 

He’s unconvinced— you watch it in the way his brows notch, hear it in the rumble that stems from his chest when he grips his cock by the hilt and taps it against you. “Come on, baby. I know you can do a little better than that. Really work for it, hm?”

“Please,” you say, rocking your hips. “Want it bad. Wanna keep sucking you. Please, please.”

A hand tucks into your hair. The fingertips there scratch into the spot behind the shell of your ear softly, and the sensation draws a shudder over your shoulders. You feel on fire. Molten, under the weight of his gaze, the unresistant pressure on the lead, the patronization that trickles off his tone.

“Go on, then, puppy,” Harry murmurs, finally, and loosens the white-knuckled, taut grip on the leash enough for you to clamber back, “Take me back into your mouth.”

kinktober masterlist here. | general masterlist here. | patreon here.

TAGLIST: @aprlmuse @babegoals @cinnamonone @lolalovespeaches @flubblubbb

@ivegotthecinema @bxtchboy69 @iloveharrystyles04 @littlenatilda @witch-rry

@watermelonsugarslut @hs1thea @boystepper @carolinaskiwii @kathleengrg

@madstyles3204 @fruity-harry

[tsunadadudi]

Animal who FUCKING SUCKS. I love them. They sound like Wagner Moura.

Inkpool for Dueling Sands! They're an exile from GrottoClan and raise silk moths.

[forgotten-elegy]

Nothing to say, just eagerly awaiting the upcoming opening and I've had a lot of fun preparing my potential character! Do you guys allow friends to apply with characters with intertwined backstories (and have an option that they would only want to be accepted as a duo?)

We're looking forward to seeing your application! :D We do allow people to apply with characters that are connected, and you can add that stipulation in the application notes. Keep in mind that character connections won't increase/decrease your chances of getting in, your characters will each be considered individually just like everyone else.

For those that are joining solo (or if you, anon, want to have even MORE awesome relations for your character), if you're accepted you'll also have the chance to edit your character for a period. This includes modifying backstory, appearance, personality, and relations in case you meet someone new that you want to connect your character to.

We've had a number of characters with relationships developed in that time, like Larchfur and Beetleheart (siblings), Scoutstar and Inkpool (aunt/niece), Sunsplash and Wildsong (grandparent/grandson), Droplet and Auto (siblings), etc. There's even more in the server— those are just a few examples!

-Mod Ribbon

[bugflowered]

This burning cat storms closer, and Inkpool lets her; she is a little echo of her mentor, who’d approached Glassflower in the exact same paw-stomping, teeth-gnashing manner before Inkpool threw herself in his path.

3 year redraw of this… burning cat still burning @forgotten-elegy

[inkpooled]

Username Change!

@inkpools -> @inkpooled

[inkpool-rambling]

HELLO !!

Welcome to my infodump/rant/whatever random thought blog

What there WILL be: ranting, posting a lot, no consistent subject, positive thoughts, negative thoughts (to an extent), hyperfixations

What there WON'T be: trauma dumping, heavy venting, too heavy or sensitive subject matter, NSFW

Art main: @inkpool-clover

[tansypaws]

PERHAPS Inkpool with 45 ooooor Duckdown with 21?

how content are with ones with simple demands? they meet their fiancés, cherry picking out in canada

tibetan pop stars // hop along

[bearsplash]

-drops some choices at your door like a dead bird- Catnip x Marmot or Bat x Duck or Lynx x Rattletrap or Ink x Mink or Opossum x Rat

ohh to be a bunch of hypokits hanging out

[inkpool-clover]

Mildly indulgent axel chains drawing anyway I’m back tumblr hello

[lovergirl-anne]

yeah yours isn't quite right

@inkpool-clover

TAG GAME ₊˚⊹♡

take this quiz !

here's what i got:

tagging : @favonius-captain @dawndelion-winery @heiayen @intothegenshinworld @kazumist @chichikoi @starglitterz @naraven @venusflwrs @kyokaede @rainstops @zhongrin @floraldresvi @starchivves @oveloof ( no pressure + anyo who sees this who wants to do it !!! )

reblog to share your results and tag your friends to do it too !!!

[1800titz]

UNSPOOL 2 | first time anal

soft, boyfriend au

preview

He knees his way around to straddle your thighs, pressed flush together, and risks a wayward glance to where he’s feeding his cock. 

“Fuck— baby.”

You feel a prod against one of your arms to get your attention (they’re bent, tucked to your sides like bird wings), and then a more insistent tug when he wraps his palm across the back, drawing your arm back, rolling your shoulder. 

“Put— here,” he grunts, maneuvering one of your hands out, back, to press flat against the pillowy flesh of one of your ass cheeks. He’s huffing. Sounding a little strangled. Soaked in undiluted need. “Both.” 

At the angle, only his cockhead stays tucked into your rim, and when you wriggle to cast both of your hands back in obedience, the self-imposed way that you fuck back against him leaves your shoulders shivering. 

“Spread for me, baby, spread— yeah. Fuck. Just like that, good girl,” he rolls his hips forward, head ducked, breath shuddering, inkpools unwavering, as you squeeze your fingers into your skin and pry your ass apart embarrassingly wide to give him the view of the way your littlest hole swallows his cock up. 

It’s so pretty that it’s almost sickening— makes his breath stutter in his throat— the view of the way his heavy, fat cock looks tucked into you. Your taut rim, all slick with generously applied lubricant. Strained and abused by the stretch. Making room for him. Your little pussy, so pretty, shimmering and throbbing emptily when he cocks his head to catch a glimpse around, under the heft of his cock eclipsing it. 

Your thighs are wet. Slick, drenched, he can see them glinting from the insides, where the messy coating of your slick dribbled from your pussy to your legs. Got smeared across the backs with the way he ground into you and—

“Oh,” you mewl, fingers twitching where you hold yourself open, as he grinds down, into you, eyes glued to the way every inch sinks in. Until there’s nowhere left to look— until his laurels are practically kissing the twin-set of dimples at the base of your spin, until his mons is flush with the cleft of your ass. 

[iridescentruby]

Inkpool, a daylight warrior and monarch of TimberClan, has vanished.

In the unusual absence of their overprotective mother, Eclipsekit, Tansykit, and Thunderkit are… coping. With varying degrees of success.

@forgotten-elegy