#single breast

[baseratephallusy]

[musubiki]

i need to draw this part of mochi more but she is honestly, from an onlookers perspective, very weird. and the reason for it is that she has a habit of collecting and hoarding old, gross, used, useless, or otherwise unwanted things.

as a witch, anything can be used all spell ingredients because objects in the world inherently have properties that can be used for spells (think botw where its like "old snail shell can boost speed" kind of thing), and often times the properties are stronger AFTER said object has been gently to moderately used. an eraser has good properties for glue spells BUT a used and chewed on eraser has STRONGER properties for glue spells

so when she was a little kid, in school you could catch her on the floor scraping up eraser shavings that a kid brushed off his desk. the teacher tries to empty out the pencil shavings bin and mochi ZOOMS in with a jar to catch all of it before it goes into the trash. a kid sticks their gum under the desk and 10 minutes later mochi is on the floor scraping it off and putting it in a little box. and when they were young it really FREAKED lime out, but over time hes like "Whatever, you do you i guess." (shes trying to be a good little witch-to-be and help her mom collect potion ingredients)

as she grows up she gets better at blending in and and uhh NOT doing that, but occasionally you'll still catch her picking up old chewed on pencils, rusty paper clips, soggy pieces of paper, whatever off the floor

[blorbocedes]

the world's most beautiful man. i actually gasped out loud in real life

[jades-typurriter]

Cache Clearing

A piece I did in a bit of a frenzy after working with (you guessed it) Bowsiosaurus on the design for a new OC: meet Posie!! The thought process here was literally, like, no sooner than we decided on "make a Renamon" i was like "hey what if she ate a bunch of data", so, I hope you enjoy it as much as she seemed to =^w^=

CW: Weight gain, tummy/breast expansion, stern office woman is so full from Information yum

A tall, stately fox moved down the drab, linoleum-and-drop-tile maintenance corridor with the same grace, the same level and unerring gait, that one of her four-legged, flesh-and-bone counterparts might display while stalking prey through the underbrush. Though her feet ended in points, modeled as a smooth taper from her knee to a single vertex apiece, the clack of high heels echoed down the empty hallway with each step. Her purpose was singular, and her focus undivided.

She was a Renamon who had adapted to a digital landscape that was as predictable as it was unforgiving; while her predecessors were more suited to the wild west of the adolescent internet, all the precision and discipline that they dedicated to roughhousing instead allowed her to operate within the razor-thin margins of error of the corporate world. She kept things running, and that was exactly what she made her way to the server room to do now.

She waved a paw over the electronic lock on the door, an uncannily smooth, mechanical motion, made with the other paw primly held behind her ramrod-straight back. It was a far cry from the jerky, stiff displays one might expect from a physical construct, though the knob turned under her touch as though she was solid as steel. As it swung closed behind her, she approached the subject of her attention for her next task: server rack B-0, a cabinet of solid-state drives stacked even higher than she was, each loaded to the brim with trade secrets, proprietary information, logs of confidential exchanges, schematics, financial records. All of it was outdated. She had been sent by the management to ensure that it was properly deleted.

Her lip curled into a sneer at the thought. Data disposal was so… undignified. It was beneath a woman of her stature. She had thoroughly demonstrated her particular capabilities: the multitasking necessary direct intra-system traffic in real time, reducing latency; her knack for optimizing data for the most efficient storage; she had even taken the initiative to create financial projections from the figures under her care. And still they expected her to perform a task so crude that any program picked up on a shovelware site could handle it without complication! She huffed, her eyes narrowed into her typical glare, as though she wished she could melt the damned server with the infrared beams she would otherwise use to communicate with it.

Nonetheless, there was no use putting it off any longer. The 2.6 seconds she had spent ruminating could have been better spent elsewhere, and she would be remiss to waste even more time. She was the Renamon assigned to maintaining the integrity of the company’s data center, and she would not shirk that duty, no matter how uncouth it was. She unlatched the wire-mesh cabinet door, reached into the rack, and removed the first drive in the array with a soft k-chk.

Closing her eyes and bracing herself with a deep breath, she brought the disk to her snout, opened her mouth, and moved as though to take a bite out of it. Her pointed, polygonal teeth passed harmlessly through the metal, phasing as she could through any of the other surfaces in the building (though she made a point of logging her activities by using her credentials at doors, like any other employee). The data on the two plates within, however, were far from unscathed—bits parted like the muscle fibers in a succulent cut of steak, zeroed out as she pulled the drive from between her lips, swallowing the information once contained within.

She let out an almost-gasp—Pahhh!—like she was trying not to gag. It wasn’t that the data were unpalatable. Far from it; she could, begrudgingly, understand why her wild cousins were so apt to chew through any unsecured files they could get their paws on. It was the task itself that was distasteful: this was only the first bite of the first drive in the entire rack! She resented that her superiors seemed to think of her as a bottomless recycle bin. Besides, work of this nature came up rather infrequently. Reacclimating herself to the sensation of eating was always a touch uncomfortable.

She powered through regardless, knowing the feeling would settle as she got further underway. She brought the drive back up to her face, taking another bite further into the plate, as though she was gnawing off segments of a particularly thick chocolate bar; with her other paw, she disengaged another drive from the rack. She nibbled off the last morsel of data from the first drive and brought the second immediately to her maw; it was… more efficient to do it that way. As fast as possible. The sooner she could get all these units formatted, the better, of course.

Replacing the first, now-empty drive, she replaced it in its slot and reached for a third as she chewed on the second. On and on she went, paws working in perfect unison to maintain an unbroken chain of drives to deplete; she might have compared herself to a juggler if her cheeks weren’t already burning from the indignity. Electrons slid down her tongue—her mouth was watering more than she cared to acknowledge—and down the back of her throat. Bite. Swallow. Bite. Swallow. Replace. Switch. Bite. Swallow. Bite.

Her pace only increased as she continued. Of course it would. A computer performs better after it’s had time to warm up, after all. And, of course, she simply wanted this to be done and over with as quickly as possible. It was a mercy that she didn’t need to pay any mind to her volume controls, as far away from any other personnel as the data center was. Not that she was paying attention anyway, fully-focused on completing her task as she was. Nobody—not even herself—would notice the muffled mmphs and nnffs she made as she pressed on.

All the data on the disks had to go somewhere, and it was at this point in the process that that tended to become apparent. Beneath the fur on her chest, meticulously brushed and fastidiously fluffed, her breasts became gradually more prominent. At first, the tuft was enough to mostly obscure them—after all, so what if she seemed slightly fluffier that day?—but was soon outpaced. Electrical charges by the millions, now unmoored from their tidy array inside the drives, now sloshed into her, taking up more and more of her own storage space. In short order, the fluff was scarcely enough to cover just her cleavage.

One third of the way through the server rack, now. Still, her pace only increased, one drive in each paw.

Her thighs were already rather prodigious. They were the majority of her curves, under normal circumstances, and she took some pride in the matronly figure that she cut as a result. Now, they pressed closer and closer together beneath the skirt of fur that she sported, the conical abstractions of her lower extremities widening bite by bite (and byte by byte). They pressed further and further outward, straining the “garment” itself, pushing the hem further and further up along her legs; the circular patterns on her hips, reminiscent of loading symbols, became distorted, stretched. She would have thought it was a crude change, not unlike resizing an image file with improper scaling—if she were capable of focusing on anything other than the gigabytes upon gigabytes she was so doggedly downloading.

Well over halfway now. She was shoving storage into her maw two at a time, with both paws. If she was able to hold more drives at a time, she would have; as a matter of fact, it didn’t stop her from trying.

The largest component of her directory—her midsection—naturally took the brunt of the new load. Slowly, the soft, icy-blue fur of her tummy billowed out, first simply swelling as her stomach filled, then folding onto itself, rolls smushing down on each other under their newfound, still-growing weight. Soon enough, she found herself pressed up against the lower racks of the server, though even in her focused state, she hadn’t realized that she had stepped closer. She hadn’t moved any closer, of course, but she needed to step further back regardless: she found that she was beginning to struggle to bend over, straining against herself to reach the lowest-mounted drives in the array.

Finally, heaving for breath, she extended her paw for another drive and found none remaining that needed to be cleared. She blinked and, once she was more aware of herself, pushed down a sense of disappointment. Instead, she straightened herself (allowing the new mass to settle to a stop after the motion), dusted her skirt, and conjured a good riddance air about herself as she closed the server door once again. She could still find pride in a job well done, even if she was loathe to do the job.

As she stepped out once again into the hallway, ensuring that the door was securely closed—not that there was a single trace remaining of anything sensitive that had been stored there—she folded her hands behind her back and surprised herself with a burp that was most definitely ladylike. One paw flew to her snout as it echoed down the hallway, both in shock and to hide the near-glow of her cheeks. She glanced in either direction: mercifully, still vacant. Her shoulders slumped in relief, one of the rare occasions on which she relaxed her posture. Thankfully, nobody but her would know that she’d had to do one of her dirtier jobs today. She set off back the way she had came, her footsteps now playing at maximum volume—not even a clack anymore as much as a clomp.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it =^w^= If you'd like to see more of my writing, have a look here and here!

[kafus]

genuinely one of my least favorite misogyny things is the tie of breast size to womanhood. i hate how growing up i was made to feel like there was something wrong with me because i am “flat” and because i didn’t want to Not be flat either. i am still a woman!! that’s a normal body variant to have!!!

and then on the other side of things i hate how people who claim to be progressive or whatever act like if you’re attracted to someone with a flat chest that you’re attracted to children. like thanks! i guess if someone is attracted to me, a 23 year old woman, they’re a pedo and i’m a child???? give me a fucking break dude

[stylesharrys]

EEEK YAY! Okay so in my head Harry has always loved y/n and her body but during pregnancy and after she’s just become like a sex symbol in Harry’s eyes. Like the soft tummy and the stretch marks and her tits have grown like a lot and he’s OBSESSED with them. He has a new like obsession with her being on top n tiding him so he can see all of her.

And y/N’s nipples are also really sensitive all the time so maybe one night baby is asleep and Harry’s rubbing her thighs on the couch and notices her nipples are leaking? He’s like massively turned on by it and she’s getting really aroused too. Maybe like they get naked and he’s gently rubbing her nipples as she could literally cum from that alone 😳 she rides him or something and he’s playing with her boobs the whole time and smearing the leaking milk over them so they’re glistening and stuff.

Omg it’s so specific obviously do what you wanna with it if you decide to write it but yeh I just think that would be so hot

Bestie… your brain…. Never mind a BLURB I’m turning this into a full oneshot oh my GOD the way my jaw is on the floor right now

[baseratephallusy]

[anderson536]

[lovefrenchisbetter]

Husnads Homme

[jades-typurriter]

Possum, Possum, Massive Bosom

This is a commission for @totalcudgel from back in August 2023! Fun little POV thing about finally having the tools to express yourself, and also getting fat and fuzzy and hot.

CW: Weight Gain, Genital TF, A General Horny Slant, Visceral TF Details

You hurry home from the market, furtively clutching your satchel at your side. You are a witch—yes, a witch, despite what those older, harsher, more traditional than you might say—and, even in light of all your years of inquiry, what you have just found will be the most instrumental piece of arcane knowledge thus far. You cannot lose it. Even though the magic isn’t forbidden, even though it isn’t highly-sought-after, you can’t bring yourself to leave it to the open air for even a moment. Part of you is afraid that it’s really an illusion, or that the pages might flutter away on the wind right in front of you. You clutch your bag more tightly and walk a bit faster.

Finally returning to your study, you double-check that you’ve bolted the door behind you and drop the bag onto your desk. You retrieve your prize, sliding it out into your hands, eyes dancing along the cracked leather of the makeshift binding and taking in the autumn canopy of its differently-yellowed pages. Tentatively, you lift the cover, quieting the part of your mind that still wallows in disbelief. It’s all still there: sheafs upon sheafs of handwritten notes, passed down from pioneer to self-practitioner, on the art of transmuting the self.

You wonder at the spellbook, idly considering how you’ll add your name to its long list of authors when you’re done borrowing its rituals, your mind a whirlwind with the possibilities of new discoveries to add to their pooled knowledge. You hesitate at the thought of your own signature. Your name is… well, you’ve learned not to give away such information freely. Too many things in the woods sought to steal names—powerful concepts, they are! They wield them as tools in their own magic, but your name is no tool. It is another chain, the same as the shackles imposed upon you by your current form. The name you have now won’t matter, soon; it was never really yours, anyway.

You thumb through the book, searching for observations on the first set of changes you plan to make on yourself. Carefully, you remove the aged pages from their bindings and mark their place in the book before spreading them out on your desk. You hustle around your room, scouring spice racks and stoppered bottles of reagents for the necessary materials, and scribble out a circle through which to connect them and conduct your magic.

Your throat tightens with excitement as you recite the incantation: concalefacio ex fax, flamma per ardor. It continues tightening as you speak, your vocal cords creaking in your larynx as they mold themselves to accommodate a voice with a higher pitch. Your new voice. The bones in your face follow suit, shifting and contorting, the words shaping the jaw they themselves are shaped by, cheekbones fitting to new arches and chin sloping to a smaller, less pronounced point. You don’t care to look at yourself in a mirror, yet; you have other plans for your face. Regardless, you’re distracted—fascinated—by the changes occurring elsewhere in your body.

Your shoulders POP as they twist, your scapulas shrinking and your collarbones shortening to accommodate their inward migration. Your hips do the exact opposite, widening with crunches that rumble through the base of your spine; you briefly struggle to regain your footing, now that your legs come at slightly different angles to each other.

Between your legs, you feel loose skin begin to shift and tighten; your balls feel very snug against your crotch, and suddenly—ffmp, ffmp—they’re moving into the now-roomy space inside your pelvis. The skin that once held them stretches, then splits, a feeling not unlike working out a stubborn kink in the spine: satisfying, a bit of a relief. Your cock, likewise, begins to retract into you; you feel it becoming more and more sensitive as it goes, and merely feeling it brush against your undergarments as it shifts is enough to force a (now cutely squeaky) moan from your lips. Your foreskin loosens a touch, forming a hood over your new clit, as well as part of another set of lips.

Your chest begins to tingle, as well. At first, it’s not as powerful as what you felt between your legs, but as it begins to soften—begins to swell—and as your nipples begin to stiffen between your cloak, the rough fabric rubbing up against them makes you squirm. You suppress the urge to squish your new breasts in your hands; you’re already swaying as your knees buckle, and you don’t think even more bouncing would help at all with how overwhelming it all is. Your head is swimming. The new sensations make you tremble, even as you try to sit still, to minimize the friction between your clothes, your now-pleasantly-wide thighs, and your pussy. You have more work to do, though; even as you feel a wet spot forming between your legs, you tuck the thoughts away as best you can. (You’ll definitely revisit this later, though.)

Carefully, you make your way back from the slipshod magical circle to the desk, and with deliberate and measured movements, tuck the notes back into the tome. You begin your search, methodical as ever, for the next set of spells you wish to cast. As you move around your study, you can really feel the extra weight on your body: your new center of gravity forces you to adjust your gait, and your footsteps fall that much more heavily for all the changes. At least the magic circle comes out more crisply, this time. Forcing yourself to move slowly so you don’t soak right through your clothes means you’re in much less of a rush.

As you speak the spell into reality, this time the change begins in your nose. You feel it stretch and narrow, taking part of the front of your skull with it. Soon, it’s extended far enough that you can see it without having to cross your eyes: a little pink dot at the end of what is now your snout. You wince as a set of whiskers erupts from the skin behind it—itchy!---and you feel dizzy for a moment as they begin to bombard your brain with new information. The movement of the air around your face, the angle of the tilt of your head—it’s like spinning around and being able to get dizzy twice. As you adjust, you watch as more hairs begin to sprout around your snout. This time, it’s not more whiskers, but a coat of stiff, short, gray fur.

It rolls along your cheeks, around your eyes, and up until it meets the hair on your head. From there, you feel it cascade over the rest of your body, bringing change with it as it passes; your ears wrench and twist, sliding themselves up the sides of your skull until they sit atop your head, bringing their respective canals with them. Your spine grows to nearly twice its length, and in the moment before the skin above your rear gives way to give it room, you were worried it would split you in half. Instead, powerful muscle snakes along with it, growing from your body until it’s long enough to wrap all the way around your legs and still touch the floor. With your legs now bent at the odd angles of an animal’s hind limbs and your feet converted into squishy paws (you enjoy the new spring in your step as your center of gravity adjusts yet again), your new tail is the only part of you not covered in fur.

Your head hasn’t stopped buzzing with new sensations since the development of your whiskers; you thought you’d be used to it after a few minutes, but if anything, the opposite is true. You expected to look more like an animal—an opossum was the creature whose aspect you wished to bear. You realize now that you’re bearing more than just its visage. You feel hungry like an animal, now, too, and the fire building up beneath your cloak is becoming harder to ignore by the moment. You aren’t satisfied looking more like yourself—you want to be as much of yourself as you can possibly be. You storm over to the book again, leafing wildly through the pages, nearly tearing some of them with your new claws. You whirl around your shelves again, grabbing more ingredients, far more ingredients than are called for by the ritual, and organize them even more hastily than when you had first returned home.

You practically bark the words to kick off the spell, and your magic courses through your body with equal force and fervor. Where you had grown before, you grow again, almost all at once: your hips widen and your rear grows large enough to wobble with even slight movements; your thighs grow softer, squishing together, rubbing up against each other (and further fanning the flames of what seems to be your new heat cycle) with every step you take. Your breasts balloon out again, quickly going from “perky” to “stretching the fabric of your cloak”, and begin to squish down onto your stomach under their own weight. Before you can even begin to think about how to hold their weight, your stomach starts filling out as well, gurgling, heavy, and every bit as sloshy as your new tits. At least it gives them a sort of surface to rest on?

The strain on your clothes doesn’t let up—your undergarments give way first, tearing at the seams along the outsides of your hips, falling to the floor out of the bottom of your cloak. The cloak, now stretched against your belly and your chest, holds out a bit longer, leaving you feeling, for a moment, like a bundle of cushions that’s been bound up for shipping. The neckline frays, and the clasp snaps cleanly at the hinge; your chest pours out through the remains of your shirt and into the open air, your tummy bursting forth a moment after. Your arms are heavier to lift, you realize, and your legs are struggling just to lift the rest of you. As you look down, you feel the friction of fur against fur and notice that your chin has drooped a fair bit, and turning toward the mirror, you see that it nicely matches the new, fuller shape of your face. You don’t fit in the vertical vanity anymore, you realize. Looking back at your workspace, you realize you’re nearly wider than the tabletop!

You’re unsure how you’re going to handle your new urges—well, they aren’t really new, but you’re certainly going to have to get used to new ways of dealing with them—what with your rolls and rolls of stomach in the way of doubling over. For that matter, you wonder how you’re going to manage navigating your study. You’re certainly going to have to be more careful around the more delicate storage items on your shelves. Hell, it’ll take you a little more effort to reach your shelves! You suppose that, if you ever get really fed-up with the extra encumbrance, you can cast another spell to take some of the new weight off. After all, every spell after that will be much easier, right?

Your thoughts then turn to the outside world again. You’ve certainly shown all the old fogeys who doubted you that you’re more than capable of reaching your full potential—your truest self, you might say. You’re also not looking forward to squeezing out of your own doorframe to go tell them. You suppose you have time before worrying about that to prepare yourself a smug little victory speech; further, you suppose that now’s as good a time as any to give yourself that new name, so that you can make a proper declaration regarding your dominion of your own form. You’re terrible at names, but you do happen to know a book with a long list of old masters you can style yourself after! Not all of them chose feminine names for themselves, but you’re sure there are enough there for you to find one that you like.

You move to return to your desk, relishing the way the rafters rattle with each step. As you sit on the (now almost comically-undersized) chair, gingerly laying your weight on it ounce by ounce, you hear it CRACK and groan beneath your prodigious ass. You smile to yourself, proud of what you’ve accomplished. This isn’t the way that most witches fantasize about the earth shaking at their thunderous approach, but you think it suits you quite nicely.

Thank you for reading! If you'd like a commission of your own, my prices are here; if you'd just like to see more of my work, check here!

[lesbianredhoodedmercenary]

I HOPE FAUST GETS BREAST REDUCTION SURGERY NEXT UPDATE

[baseratephallusy]

[kennys-parka-jacket]

So, like... is everyone aware that Princess Kenny is a mary sue? Is that common knowledge? Because I was in the online fanfiction community during the 2010s and it was all "mary sue" this and "mary sue" that. And as I watched the black friday trilogy I noticed PK had a few notable traits:

-is a girl

-has magic powers

-everybody loves her

-significant characters go OOC as soon as she shows up

-tragic backstory

-gets everything she wants even if it doesn't make sense for her to do so

-is kind of a jerk at times, but her jerkery is ignored by the narrative

-sexually liberal

-is basically invincible and unkillable

-speaks in broken japanese (this is very specific to 2013 anti-mary sue culture)

-is part of some kind of minority (in this case transgender)

-has rainbows associated with her abilities

-is way more powerful than everyone else in her universe

Like... homegirl is a mary sue

[weirdo09]

ao3 smut is so white n incest filled, it’s disgusting ..

[manybackflips]

Guilty Gear Fun Fact!

Due to Sin being fed less than he was supposed to be in the days of his youth under Sol Badguy, he has the stamina mechanic in Xrd and Strive!

Imagine if he could just do those special cancels whenever. A properly fed Sin is to be feared. And this is when his overall power is diminished due to Ky taking one of his eyes. What would his full power look like? Does he have a gear form? What would it look like? Who knows, all are questions that will never be answered.