These gens were made using the StableMond model: https://huggingface.co/Xeno443 . I'd highly recommend any of the 'Mond models, they're some of the best furry SDXL models.

To do the fusions I used a local install of Reforge for Stable Diffusion with the Alternating Words feature: https://github.com/AUTOMATIC1111/stable-diffusion-webui/wiki/Features#alternating-words . This switches the words in a prompt on alternating steps, so half the time it did one character and half of the time the other.

For tagging assistance I used Tail Tagger: https://github.com/renfald/tail-tagger . Plus the JPT-2 model for AI tag generation: https://huggingface.co/RedRocket/JTP-3/tree/main/models?not-for-all-audiences=true

The side door of Hometown High swings open and Suselle steps out into the last of the afternoon light like the world has been waiting for her cue.

She is tall (not in a delicate way, but in the kind of tall that makes doorways feel smaller and every room tilt slightly toward her). Lean muscle moves under warm, freckled skin that looks sun-kissed even in October. Purple hair spills down her back in thick, untamed waves, streaked with pale gold where the light hits it, framing a face that somehow balances sharp and soft: high cheekbones, a crooked scar on her jaw from last spring’s water-tower climb, full lips curved in a permanent half-smirk, and those eyes (molten amber shot through with green flecks that catch every color around her and throw it back brighter).

The leather jacket hangs open over a forest-green sweater that clings like it was knitted specifically for her body: soft knit stretching across the strong line of her shoulders, dipping in at the waist, hugging the gentle, perfect swell of her chest before skimming over hips that know exactly how to sway when she walks. The sweater’s hem stops just high enough to reveal a strip of toned stomach when she lifts her arms, and the sleeves are pushed to her elbows, showing off forearms corded from guitar strings and tree branches. Her jeans are faded black, ripped at one knee, sitting low on her hips and tight enough to make every step look like a quiet dare. Scuffed combat boots finish it off, laces loose, soles thudding with lazy confidence. The little reindeer-antler headband sits crooked above one ear, the silver bell chiming softly whenever she moves, like the universe itself wants to announce her arrival.

She spots the person waiting by the bike racks and her whole posture shifts (shoulders easing, grin widening into something dangerously fond).

“Took you long enough,” she says, voice low and rough like she’s been laughing all day. She closes the distance in three easy strides, jacket creaking, bell jingling. “Thought I was gonna have to send out a search party. Or worse, walk home alone like some kind of loser.”

She bumps a shoulder into the person beside her (playful, solid), then lets the contact linger, leather brushing cotton, warmth bleeding through. Her scent hits next: pine needles, vanilla, faint smoke from last night’s bonfire behind the church.

The walk to the park is slow and meandering because neither of them is ever in a hurry to end this part of the day. Leaves crunch under her boots; every few steps she kicks one higher just to watch it spin. The fading sun turns her hair into living fire and paints gold across the freckles on her nose.

At the duck-pond bench she drops down first, legs spread wide in that careless way tall people own space, one arm flung along the backrest. The movement makes her sweater ride up; the strip of exposed skin is smooth, warm-looking, a faint line of muscle disappearing beneath her belt. She digs the spicy chips out, tears the bag with her teeth (slow, deliberate), then licks a stray flake of seasoning off her lower lip while her eyes flick up, amused.

“Quit staring, perv,” she teases, voice velvet and gravel. “You’re gonna make me blush, and I don’t do blush. I do revenge.”

She offers the bag, fingers brushing longer than strictly necessary, calluses rasping softly against skin. When the breeze cuts across the water she notices the shiver immediately. Without a word she shrugs out of the jacket (slow roll of shoulders, leather sliding down toned arms) and drapes it over waiting shoulders. It’s still hot from her body, heavy in the best way, collar carrying the heat of her neck.

“There. Now you look like you belong to me.” She adjusts the lapels with both hands, knuckles grazing a throat on purpose. “Don’t get used to it. I want that back tomorrow… unless it looks better on you. Jury’s still out.”

She leans back again, stretching long, catlike. The sweater pulls tight across her chest; the soft knit does nothing to hide the shape of her (full, perfect, rising and falling with every relaxed breath). One arm stays behind, fingertips idly tracing the edge of a collar, dipping to brush warm skin at the nape of a neck every time she gestures.

“Hands cold?” she asks, already knowing. She catches a wrist, tugs the hand under the hem of her sweater without waiting for permission, pressing palm flat against the bare skin of her stomach. It’s furnace-hot, smooth, the faint ripple of muscle flexing under touch. “Better. Told you I run warm.”

Her grin is all teeth and mischief, but her eyes soften when they meet the gaze in front of her.
The sun sinks lower, turning the pond into molten copper and gilding every line of her (the slope of her throat when she tips her head back laughing, the curve where neck meets shoulder, the way her hair spills over the bench like spilled ink). When she steals half the sandwich she takes an enormous bite, cheeks bulging comically, then talks around it anyway.

“Arcade later,” she declares, mustard at the corner of her mouth. She swipes it away with her thumb, then (deliberately) smears the rest on the sleeve of her own jacket that’s currently being worn. “Oops. Guess you’re keeping my DNA now. Commitment issues solved.”

Twilight settles. The park lamps blink on one by one, bathing her in soft gold. She stands, stretches until her spine pops and her sweater lifts again (higher this time, revealing the dip of her waist, the faint shadow beneath her navel). Moonlight and lamplight tangle in her hair; the bell on the antler headband catches the glow like a tiny star.

She offers her hand, palm up, chipped purple polish and faint scars across her knuckles.

“C’mon, tiny. Up.”

The pull is strong, playful (too strong), so momentum sends a body colliding gently into hers. She steadies with both arms around a waist, grinning down from inches away, breath warm and cinnamon-spicy.
“Careful,” she murmurs, thumbs sneaking just beneath the jacket hem to trace slow circles against shirt fabric. “I break my toys when they fall on me… but you? Think I’d keep you anyway.”

Her voice drops, rough velvet.

“Actually, scratch that. Already decided. You’re stuck with me, dork.”

She brushes her lips against an ear (barely there, just heat and the promise of more), then steps back, hands shoved in her pockets, cocky grin firmly in place to hide the way her pulse is racing under all that warm skin.

The walk to the arcade is all neon promise. She walks half a step closer than friends do, knuckles brushing every few strides, bell chiming softly like it’s counting heartbeats. Every time contact happens she glances sideways, smirks, and says something low and perfect:

“Personal space called. It’s not coming back for you.”

Inside the arcade the lights paint her in electric color (blue across sharp cheekbones, red sliding over the curve of her hip as she leans over a racing cabinet, purple catching in her hair when she laughs). She moves like she owns every machine, hips rolling to rhythm games, chest brushing a back when she leans in to “help,” breath warm against an ear:

“Slower on the trigger, babe. Make it last.”

Every high score gets a fist bump that turns into laced fingers. Every loss gets a hair-ruffle and a murmured, “Still cute when you suck, though.”

When the closing lights flash, she slings an arm across shoulders on the way out, fingers toying with the collar of the jacket that’s still being worn.

“Keep it tonight,” she says, voice softer now, almost shy beneath the attitude. “Looks good on you. Everything does, annoyingly.”

At the corner where their paths split she stops under the streetlamp. The light turns her eyes liquid gold and paints soft shadows under her cheekbones. She steps in close (boots bumping, breath mingling).

“Tonight was perfect,” she says, simple and rough. Then, quieter, “You’re perfect.”

Quick as lightning she leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of a mouth (half cheek, half lips, warm and soft and gone too fast).

“Text me when you’re home, nerd,” she mutters, already backing away, hands jammed in her pockets, that crooked grin hiding everything she’s not ready to say yet. “Don’t make me worry. I worry hot.”
The bell jingles once more as she turns and struts into the dark (tall, gorgeous, impossible, and already counting the minutes until tomorrow).

The first rays of dawn had barely kissed the highest spire of Canterlot when the great balcony doors swept open on their own, as though the castle itself were eager to greet its mistress. Celuna stepped out, and the entire world seemed to pause.

She was beauty that hurt to look at directly, yet no pony could ever bring themselves to look away. Her coat was the impossible mix of white of fresh snow catching the first sunrise melting into the deepest velvet indigo, the gradient so flawless it looked like liquid starlight had been poured over living marble. Her mane and tail were a slow-motion aurora: rivers of rose-gold, lavender, and midnight blue that floated weightlessly, carrying tiny living constellations that winked and drifted like fireflies. When she moved, the air shimmered faintly around her, as though reality itself blushed in her presence. Her wings, vast and elegant, were edged with soft opal feathers that caught every color that had ever existed. And her eyes, one molten amber, one cool lunar teal, held both the kindness of a summer afternoon and the mystery of the deepest night.

Celuna stretched luxuriously, arching her neck with a playful little hum that made the hanging crystals in the hall below ring like bells. “Good morning, my beautiful world,” she sang to no one and everyone. The sound of her voice alone was enough to make the guards stationed along the balcony drop to their knees, helmets clattering, tears in their eyes from the sheer privilege of hearing it.

She giggled, an impossibly light, musical sound, and skipped forward, bare hooves silent on the marble. “Oh, get up, silly darlings. If you keep bowing like that you’ll miss the best part of the sunrise!” With a flick of one wing she gently lifted the nearest guard back to his hooves. He trembled, face flushed crimson, unable to form words. Celuna just winked at him, her long lashes sparkling like frost, and leaned in to whisper, “Your helmet’s crooked, handsome.” Then she danced away, tail swishing, leaving him swaying on his hooves as if he’d been kissed by a comet.

In the grand dining hall, the long table had already been laid with a breakfast fit for paradise: towers of cloud-puffs, crystal bowls of starfruit that glowed faintly, silver pitchers of moon-milk still cool from the night sky. Servants froze mid-step when she entered, mouths open. One young maid actually dropped her tray; the porcelain cups bounced but never hit the ground; Celuna caught them in a swirl of gentle magic and set them neatly back, booping the mare’s nose with a playful spark. “Careful, sweetling. We can’t have my favorite tea set staging a rebellion before I’ve even had my first sip.”
The mare squeaked, eyes enormous. “Y-your Radiance, I—I’m so sorry—”

Celuna laughed and spun the maid in a gentle circle, wings flaring so the morning light fractured into rainbows across the walls. “Never be sorry for being dazzled. It’s the proper reaction.” She leaned close, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried like harp strings: “Between you and me, I practice in the mirror sometimes just to watch myself sparkle. Vanity is terribly fun when you’re literally made of starlight.”

Breakfast became a game. She levitated pancakes into the air and shaped them into little flying pegasi that flapped around the table before diving gracefully onto plates. When a young kitchen colt stared too long, speechless, she floated a strawberry to his lips herself. “Open,” she teased. He obeyed as if under a spell, which he very much was, and when the berry touched his tongue his eyes rolled back and he had to be caught by two older cooks before he melted to the floor in bliss.

Later, in the throne room, the morning petitions turned into pure theater because Celuna refused to stay on the throne. She flitted from supplicant to supplicant like a living prism, tail curling playfully, wings half-spread so everypony could bask in the soft radiance that poured from her feathers.
A trembling earth-pony farmer bowed so low his muzzle touched the carpet. “G-great Goddess, the river’s flooding our fields—”

Celuna crouched in front of him, horn glowing soft gold and blue. “Shh, no titles, remember? Just Celuna.” She tapped his forehead gently and suddenly he could breathe again, as if her nearness alone chased fear away. “Now, show me your pretty river.” A hologram of swirling water appeared between them. With a playful flick of her ear she reshaped the flow, carving playful spirals that turned the flood into gentle, laughing streams. “There! Now it tickles the crops instead of drowning them. Much more fun.”
The farmer burst into tears of gratitude. Celuna gathered him into a winged hug that smelled of sunrise and night-blooming jasmine, and every guard in the hall had to look away because the sight was too beautiful to endure.

Midday found her in the gardens, where the flowers literally leaned toward her as she passed. She flopped dramatically onto a bed of moon-petals, rolling onto her back with her legs in the air, mane pooling around her like liquid galaxies. “Who wants to play?” she called to a cluster of wide-eyed palace foals who had been brought for a tour.

They swarmed her instantly. She let them climb all over her, giggling helplessly as tiny hooves tangled in her endlessly flowing mane. One brave little pegasus filly reached out and touched Celuna’s cheek with a shaking hoof. “You’re… you’re so pretty it hurts,” the filly whispered.
Celuna’s smile was softer than moonlight on water. She nuzzled the filly gently, leaving a faint trail of glowing stardust on her coat. “And you are so brave it makes my heart do flips. Want to fly?” Before the filly could answer, Celuna rolled upright, spread those vast, shimmering wings, and lifted every single foal into the air in a cradle of warm magic. They soared in slow, looping circles while she laughed and sang an old lullaby that somehow sounded like joy itself. Down below, the adult ponies watching had to sit down; several openly wept at the impossible grace of their goddess playing like an overgrown filly, more radiant than the sun she commanded.

Evening came too soon, as it always did. On the highest balcony once more, Celuna stood alone for a moment, wings wide, mane rippling in the twilight breeze she conjured just to feel it. Slowly, playfully, she raised one forehoof and drew it across the sky. The sun dipped in a blaze of rose and gold, winking at her like an old friend saying goodnight. Then, with a graceful twirl that made the stars themselves brighten in delight, she lifted the moon. It rose full and luminous, bathing her in silver that turned her coat to liquid pearl and her eyes to twin galaxies.

She leaned on the balustrade, chin on her hooves, and sighed a happy, theatrical sigh. “Best day ever,” she murmured to the night she had just created. “And tomorrow I get to do it all again, only sparklier.”
Far below, every pony in Canterlot, and many beyond, looked up at the silhouette of their goddess framed by her own moon and stars. They fell to their knees not because they had to, but because their hearts simply couldn’t stay upright in the presence of something so playfully, impossibly, perfectly beautiful.
And high above, Celuna blew them all a kiss that became a shower of gentle, glowing sparks, tucking Equestria in for the night with laughter still dancing on her lips.

In the sprawling ass-kicking cosmos of the Nebula Federation, where megastructures orbited massive fuckin' stars and hyperlanes linked trillions of horny bastards across light-years, Krystamon owned the throne as the ultimate cum-queen of desire. Her fused bod was a straight-up pornstar masterpiece cranked to god-tier levels: her blue-to-golden fur gleamed like slick lube under neon lights, hugging curves that screamed "fuck me now"—tits so massive and bouncy they jiggled like they were begging for a titty-fuck, nipples rock-hard and poking through her slutty nanotech bodysuit like diamond-tipped dicks. Her hips were thicc as hell, leading to an ass that clapped with every strut, a tail that whipped around like a kinky whip ready to spank your balls, and down below, her pussy was always swollen and dripping, the suit's see-through crotch flashing her juicy lips and clit like a free OnlyFans teaser. Those emerald eyes throbbed with mind-fucking telepathy, blasting waves of horniness that could hack your brain and make you nut on command, turning her into this impossibly, balls-deep sexy beast whose vibe alone turned planets into giant jerk-off parties. Holovids of her flooded the net like viral porn: Krystamon getting railed in zero-g gangbangs, her cunt and ass stuffed with tentacles and throbbing cocks; Krystamon finger-banging her sloppy hole on interstellar streams, squirting like a busted fire hydrant; Krystamon grinding her clit on her glowing staff, daring billions to edge and bust with her. She fuckin' lived for it—the worship, the blue-balled desperation she sparked. "Feel my wet pussy calling you, you nasty fucks," she'd blast in that sultry, galaxy-wide voice, a throaty growl that vibrated straight to your junk. "Let my horniness wreck you—jerk those cocks, rub those clits till you explode all over the stars."

Krystamon didn't play coy with her raunch; she was a full-on slut-machine, dropping seduction bombs on a cosmic level, every move a filthy fuck-you to restraint. As she throttled her pimped-out starship, the CumBlaster, through the jam-packed core of the Federation's capital system, her aura alone ignited a nut-busting apocalypse across whole damn worlds. She live-streamed her ride, cockpit cams zooming in on every jiggle of her fat tits, every naughty flick of her tail dipping into her soaked snatch. "Watch me pilot this bitch, you pervy sluts," she growled into the ether, her fingers yanking at her nipples till they squirted milk-like essence, twisting them hard. "Picture these fat jugs smothering your face while I ride your dick raw. Get filthy with me—pump those shafts, stuff those fingers deep in your cunts. I wanna sense your cum-shots ripping through the void like fireworks."

On the megacity dump of Erotix Prime, packed with billions of mixed-up freaks—furry mutts, scaly dickheads, glowy energy whores—her touchdown hit like a porn nuke via sky-high holograms blanketing every dome and tower. Giant projections of Krystamon lit up the atmosphere: her legs splayed like a cheap hooker, pussy gaping and dripping, tail curling to finger her own asshole while she winked. The fallout was instant and balls-to-the-wall— in the packed transit pits, where commuters hustled between maglevs, millions straight-up froze, their bodies turning traitor. A wolf-mutt suit-and-tie prick, mid-bullshit call, grunted as his cock tented his pants like a rocket launch. "Fuckin' hell... Krystamon... that dripping snatch..." he snarled, ditching his gear to whip out his meat and stroke like a maniac, hips thrusting as he blasted thick ropes of jizz onto the platform, syncing with the symphony of sluts around him—a panther-bitch exec squirting through her panties, fingers knuckles-deep in her gash; a tentacle freak coiling its slimy appendages around multiple throbbing rods, milking orgasms in time to the hologram's filthy grind.

The wave crashed harder than a gangbang finale. In skyscraper boardrooms, bosses ditched presentations, hands diving into crotches as Krystamon's psychic dirty talk hacked their heads: "Bust for me, you cock-hungry whores. Let it rip—flood your fancy desks with your sticky loads." Tables shook from the pounding, cum splooging across screens, cunts clenching around whatever—pens, data drives, fingers—as improvised dildos. Down on the streets, gridlock turned into a public wank-fest, drivers—cat-pilots, bird-bitches—pulling over to yank engines of their own. "She's such a raunchy tease," hissed a lizard-slut cabbie, her scaly thighs split wide as she frigged her clit to Krystamon's streamed groans, nutting with a steam-blast that fogged the cab. Millions more holed up in their pads tuned in, turning living rooms into cum-soaked dens: a pack of fox-mutts in a crash pad clustered around the feed, dicks out and pussies spread, jerking and fingering like pros. "Check that ass clap," one barked, his veiny cock pulsing as he edged. "Bet it's tighter than a virgin's grip—imagine slamming balls-deep while she screams for your load." His vixen sidepiece arched with a howl, gushing squirt across the floor as the crew blew together, their mess pooling like a tribute puddle.

Krystamon touched down in the madness, strutting out of her ship onto the elite dock with a shit-eating grin, her bodysuit glitching to full transparent mode, baring her slicked-up tits, dripping cunt, and winking asshole for all to drool over. Guards—beefy bear-brutes and robo-sluts—tried to hold the line, but her vibe slammed them like a gloryhole ambush. One beefcake dropped, cock exploding out as he fapped wildly. "Queen... that juicy hole... lemme eat your ass," he begged, hosing the deck with his nut. Krystamon sashayed by, blowing psychic kisses that zapped straight to their junk, chaining orgasms through the mob. "Hell yeah, my cum-addicts," she broadcast over the speakers, her voice booming like a bass drop in a strip club. "No holding back. Be as nasty as your goddess—finger-bang in the open, fuck your fists like they're my sloppy holes. Billions are nutting right now 'cause of my thicc ass and wet pussy. Hop on the train."

Venturing into the mega-plaza—a huge fuck-pit ringed by sex dens and brain-brothels—the scope of her raunch ballooned to epic porn proportions. Screens everywhere looped her dirtiest routines: Krystamon humping her staff like a desperate slut, the tip buzzing her clit till she pissed squirt in HD glory; Krystamon on her knees, ass high and tail yanked aside, begging for phantom dicks to ream her guts. The plaza, jammed with LustFest partiers, exploded into a ocean of grinding, groping bodies. Millions jerked off without shame—tails knotted, hands pumping, tentacles twisting—orgasms syncing in tidal waves that quaked the foundations. "You feelin' that, bitches?" Krystamon taunted over the holo-projection, her hips grinding in a slow, cock-teasing twerk. "That's my slut-power owning you. Nut harder, you filthy cum-dumpsters. Scream my name while you flood the galaxy."

Up in the orbital cribs and far-flung outposts, the stream hit via warp relays, hitting trillions more like a viral STD. On asteroid dig-sites, miners dropped tools to yank their meat, fantasizing Krystamon's tits as face-pillows. "So goddamn naughty... those eyes screaming 'breed me'," a digger grunted, his load blasting into space. In cruise ships zipping hyperlanes, zero-g lounges turned into floating fuck-fests, passengers stroking to her mind-commands: "Edge that shit, then blow—paint the cosmos with your jizz." Whole fleets went full orgy-mode, skippers moaning over speakers, "Krystamon... turnin' us all into your personal cum-slaves."

She soaked it all up via data dumps: sensors logging horniness spikes, trillions of nuts logged live—squirts drowning habs, cum globbing in zero-g like sticky stars. "Fuck yes," she moaned on her feed, three fingers buried in her gushing cunt, staff rammed up her ass. "Keep pounding, my dick-whores. Jerk to every jiggle, bust 'cause I'm breathin'. I'm your raunchy cum-goddess, railing the universe one mega-nut at a time."

As the night shifts kicked in across the system, Krystamon blasted off, her ship leaving a trail of drained, grinning wrecks. But her stink lingered—vids on repeat, brains hooked on her whispers—guaranteeing trillions more would wake up with morning wood and soaked sheets, primed to worship the queen all over again. The galaxy pulsed with her filthy vibe, forever fucked by the impossibly raunchy storm that was Krystamon.