#going feral for a puppet

[north-noire]

give gifts, give life (DTIYS for @chekerbored)

[theoryfan205]

I absolutely love how we get called "our dancer" by at least some of the gods in one of fubuki's relationship quests, the fourth relationship level one. "Our dancer left early so I'm bored, why don't YOU play with us?" "You will pay for what you did to our dancer.. and to my shrine!" Like yes I am all these gods favourite little guy, I'm getting passed around like a joint at the god meet up help-

[echosong971]

Ruthlessness

[welcomehomeincorrectquotes]

If Eddie gets a Villain Arc:

Eddie: Anyone else feel like God is just toying with you however he pleases?

Eddie: He thinks he's s o o o o funny.

Eddie: Well, I'm about to be hilarious.

[mo-ok]

30 Sentai Encyclopedia

[art-beyond-the-stars]

AWAA????

HELLO?? HI??

WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE OMG HI !!!!

[cosmic-kinglet]

The best friends ever

[lightkrets312]

me: ok, what's the deal with this Welcome Home fandom thing?

my friend, handing me the website URL: here, look for yourself

me, about to go tumbling uncontrollably down a "Lost Media" rabbithole with no end in sight: ooh, lemme look-

[chronalshifts]

my bf is playing dragon age 2 soon and i knowwww he won’t like anders but i need him to listen. hear me out just for one sec. yeah he’s intentionally abrasive and needles everyone in the party and treats merrill and fenris like shit and is kind of slimy at first if you play a femhawke but— (the guards chloroform me and i am dragged away)

[n1k0laa5]

you are god. you fucking are. you’re not a lil guy. you’re not some soggy leftover tossed into the 3D microwave to reheat suffering. you’re god in a flesh suit and you keep playing peekaboo with your power like “teehee where’d it go?” bitch. YOU. ARE. THE. POWER. there is no “where’d it go”—it’s your bloodstream. it’s your marrow. it’s the void hissing behind your eyeballs every time you close them and forget your name. that is you. not this 3D identity crisis cosplay you’ve been doing like it’s a fucking drama club production.

you are the creator and you keep pretending like you forgot? like you’re some pitiful meat puppet who has to BEG the world to hand them crumbs?? you are the one who says “i am” and the universe goes “yes.” the world is YOURS. it was made by you, FOR you, and you sit there whining about how it hasn’t shown up yet? how it’s been “days”? BAE. there IS NO TIME. time isn’t real. you invented it. it’s fake. the 3d? fake. all of it. a reflection. a screen. a damn echo. and you’re gonna cry to an echo??

you are the “i am.” no last name. no asterisk. no conditions. no vibe check. just i am, baby. pure, raw, limitless, god-coded energy. and you’re out here sobbing because “wahh the 3d hasn’t changed yet :(” shut the hell up. the 3d is a google doc you accidentally left on ‘view only.’ it’s already written. it’s yours. and instead of editing the source (your state), you’re trying to fight the screen like a feral pigeon headbutting its reflection. unhinged. pathetic. deeply unserious behavior.

YOU are the fucking projector. YOU are the one who says what goes. YOU are the awareness. you are the faceless, formless I AM and you keep trying to shove yourself into the “outer you” like that sad little shell is who you are. no. it’s not. that’s not you. that’s the puppet you’re wearing. the moment you say “i am,” that’s you. and what do you choose to slap on after that? “i am tired”? “i am waiting”? “i am not seeing results”? shut up. you are fucking LIMITLESS and you just gave your infinite power to the concept of being a little worm begging the 3d to like you back.

you are not waiting. you are not hoping. you’re not scratching little tally marks on your soul like “day 7 without a sign” you’re letting time own you? you created the concept of a second and then cried when seconds passed. jail. electric chair. THE GUILLOTINE. all of you. the god self doesn’t even know what day it is because the god self is time. the god self is NOW.

you’re not supposed to feel like you’re becoming your desires, you’re supposed to fucking be them. NOW. not next week. not after the full moon. not after you “heal.” not after you find the perfect method. now. the god self doesn’t wait. the god self doesn’t whine. the god self doesn’t check. the god self KNOWS. because the god self is. it just IS. and that’s what you are.

what the fuck is “later” to a being made of consciousness and unfiltered imagination?? you are the “now” that reality bows to. and you keep letting your goofy lil “outer self” run the show like it’s got any real authority. no. the outer self is a side character. a side extra. a background blur. it doesn’t get a vote. it doesn’t even get to speak unless YOU—the void, the real you, the I AM—gives it a line to say.

and the things you dare to call “delusional”? you’re wrong. it’s the OPPOSITE. delusional is thinking the 3D means ANYTHING. delusional is thinking you have to “earn” your desires or “wait” for the right moment. you already HAVE IT. not because you deserve it. not because you did some ritual under the full moon with a manifestation playlist and two dried rose petals on your nipples. you have it because you said “i am” and chose it. end of script.

you don’t wait for it to pop out of the bushes and go “surprise!” no. you decide you are it. that’s the whole thing. that’s the whole secret. “i want xyz” -> “i decide i have xyz” -> “i have xyz.” done. finished. that’s it. no arguing. no spiraling. no refreshing your life like you’re waiting for a fucking Amazon package.

you breathed the desire into existence. you made it real. you ARE it. there is nothing to chase. nothing to get. you can’t get what you already are. it’s like hunting your own shadow and asking why it keeps dodging. maybe because you’re a fucking idiot. respectfully.

you want wings? done. mars? sure. flawless face, dream life, sugar baby contracts with billionaires and dragons? why the fuck not. it’s yours. it always was. you are the source code. and yet here you are, refreshing your 3D life like it’s a laggy tumblr dashboard and crying because “nothing’s moving.”

you’re manifesting because you already fucking HAVE IT and you’re just letting yourself see it. and even that’s optional, honestly. the god self doesn’t give a shit what the 3d says. it doesn’t need a single molecule of “proof.” it doesn’t chase. it doesn’t even look. because the god self isn’t obsessed with the 3d. the god self laughs at it. shrugs at it. maybe glances over once in a while like “oh that’s cute” and then goes right back into imagination, because THAT’S the real world.

YOU are the thing that moves. the 3D responds to YOU. not the other way around. it’s a bootleg slideshow of your assumptions and you’re crying over it like it’s your god. i’m sorry, are we in clown school? did we enroll in delulu university and forget our major? the only subject you need to pass is “i am = already.” and bitch, you’re flunking.

and don’t get me started on the way you spiral. the way you forget you’re god just because a thought didn’t feel aligned for two seconds. you’ll be sitting there, radiating cosmic power, then stub your toe or get ghosted and go “omg i’ve fallen out of the state!!” bitch YOU CAN’T FALL OUT OF THE STATE. what are you gonna do, fall out of being conscious?? fall out of existence?? what the hell??

you are not manifesting to get anything. that’s the outer you talking. you are manifesting because you remembered. because you always had it. because you ARE it. and you forgot. and that’s fine. but now you remember. now you KNOW. and once you know? you can’t unknow it. you can’t go back. you are god. you are the I AM. and the I AM does not question. the I AM does not doubt. the I AM says “let there be” and there fucking is.

so let there be. let there fucking BE. stop editing your desires down to fit into a reality that isn’t even real. stop filtering your wants through the eyes of the puppet self who doesn’t even have a brain cell to its name. you are the artist, the paint, the canvas, and the goddamn gallery.

stop giving your power away like it’s a fucking birthday coupon. you don’t need a sign. you don’t need a shift. you don’t need a miracle. YOU. ARE. THE. FUCKING. MIRACLE.

you’re the goddamn architect of every damn timeline, and you’re acting like a soggy tissue because the 3D burped weird. it’s not that serious. it’s not even real. you don’t live there anymore. you don’t identify with that shit. you left that chat. you blocked that reality. you moved in with the you that HAS IT ALL and made them your roommate. your bestie. your twin flame. whatever makes you stop being a dumbass about it.

you are not your body. you are not your fears. you are not that stupid voice in your head going “but what if it doesn’t happen” you are the void. you are the I AM. you are the beginning, middle, and end. you’re god with anxiety and a phone addiction. you’re divinity in a silly little outfit. and you’re here to remember. remember what you are. remember what you already have. remember that the game is rigged in your favor because you built the fucking game.

so. shut up. close your eyes. go into the void. remember your name. choose your story. and stop playing small in a reality YOU CREATED. god doesn’t play hide and seek with their own power. god is. and so are you.

get it together. or don’t. either way, the universe still bends to you.

[jollyparaphernalia]

*Inhales* Hey there, wanna see my 'In Stars And Time' AU? I call it 'Kingswap'

Hey, What's This?

My Brainrot <3 This is Kingswap: Also known as 'Hey lets swap The King and Siffrin's roles around in this play, and go from there'. There's more to it than that, but that's the premise. While 'The Guy Who Would Be Siffrin' has their life derailed in such a way that leads to them becoming the Main Villain, 'The Man Who Would Be King' likewise has his life play out in a way that has him in the shoes of a Saviour of Vaugarde.

WARNING This AU chatter post has spoilers for pretty much all of 'In Stars And Time', including stuff from 'Two-Hats'! and 'Start Again: A Prologue'. This is the Spoilers Zone. Also any Content Warnings that apply to In Stars and Time also applies to this post, just to cover my bases.

Let's Take a Look at The Stranger Who Could Have Been Siffrin:

Meet The Stagemaster. Potentially known as 'Sulking One'/SM/Don't Call Me Shirley Siffrin'. While the King and Siffrin in baseline ISAT woke up on a beach with no memories, i've decided it would be interesting to put 'Siffrin' in Corbeaux as a young adult when The Island disappears. He wakes up one day with no memories of his past, no name, and only a vague idea that he had a community in the city...that has forgotten him completely. He takes this Very Normally over the next 10 years (alongside some other...complications) and after some travelling, returns to Vaugarde to be a Menace.

He's also got some funny 'Craft Hands' that let him do things even when he has his hands in his cloak. These hands are also capable of conjuring wires/strings that allow him to physically bind/control people as an added bonus (For the Puppeteer motif) Watch the hands, Heroes!

But Wait, I thought The King Was Big, Why Isn't Stagemaster Big?

Because this tiny form isn't their 'true form'. THIS is what the Stagemaster ACTUALLY looks like, trapped in the House of Dormont by the Orb Door.

The Stagemaster...really isn't a person anymore. It's sort of debatable he was still human even before Big Mode. He can fly like this, and can control his cloak as though it's a part of himself (But he can still remove it) If you are looking at this going 'hey, he looks like a boss out of Kirby' then I did my job right. A theatre kid isn't very fun to watch unless seen, so, even before the Party gets to Dormont, it seemed fitting for SM to have a presence in Orbquest. So...Stagemaster controls a crafted avatar from afar - like playing a character in a game. There's a metaphor about disassociation from the self here. I personally love the idea of this nasty little guy interfering with the Orb Quest and antagonizing the Heroes - he is not NEARLY as powerful as his Big Form when he's Little Guy, so there's enough back and forth for Stagemaster to both be a threat, and also give some wiggle room for the Party to bully the Villain. Build up some rapport for funsies.

Stagemaster's a real piece of work. Imagine if Siffrin took all his self loathing, and then transformed that into outward loathing. If you took the WORST impulses from Loop and Act 5 Siffrin and put them in a blender, and then added a huge chip on his shoulder against the Universe, you might get the rancid creature you see here. Wet Meow Meow has transformed into a Feral Cat With Mange. And Rabies. And an impulsive urge to monologue. He doesn't even like puns!! Horrible!

The Party eventually calls him 'Smaster' for short before arriving in Dormont.

So if 'Siffrin' is in Kings place...Who or What is travelling with our beloved Party?

Meet Clovis (Named after an old King of Franks because I am very subtle). While Siffrin was a wet meow meow stray cat, Clovis is more a nervous dog. The King's explanation behind why he called himself The King seemed very utilitarian to me in ISAT, like he wanted to embody his role completely. So...here, Clovis puts all his eggs into his identity as 'Knight'. He doesn't serve anyone, he's just really into the idea of a brave, heroic persona. He's...very awkward and nervous, and often falls back onto 'what would a more brave, knightly sort do?' to make up for the fact his entire life was carved out of his skull with a spoon.

Look at this, took a perfectly good villain and made him a blorbo. Look at him, I gave him anxiety and sword autism. Like Siffrin, the party grows to love their weird wet dog. Mirabelle bonds over swords and anxious 'do it scared' behavior, Isabeau shares a 'battle bros'/'two bros sitting in a hot tub' dynamic, Bonnie treats him like a Substitute Teach ("yeah this is fine for kids c'mon lets go' 'uh, if you say so, boniface...') and Odile merrily bullies him (Paper beats rock)

Of course we need the Don Quixote reference. (He lost the fight, for the record.) Clovis is more than just a cute face, of course. Even he has his secrets.

Something is wrong here. Something wrong with him, maybe. Maybe he isn't supposed to be here.

Much like the King, Clovis also knows he's missing important things from his life, and has taken great effort (and personal injury) to keep what bits he can close to him - even when he really shouldn't.

The Party keeps Clovis from the Headache books not because they don't think they matter, but because the party doesn't want Clovis to hurt himself. They joke that he's an amnesiac prince from a far off land, but, well, at a certain angle, that's sort of the truth, isn't it? Clovis isn't a trap master like Siffrin, (or nearly as fast) but tends to walk as the lead of the Party because he's a Very Durable guy with some armor and protective Craft, so, any traps that explode in his face are easier to shrug off, and those that aren't...well, he's got quick reflexes.

But Wait! If The King is the looping hero, and Siffrin is the Big Evil Bad Guy, who does Clovis get as a Guide?

It's good ol' Loop! Our Loop, the Loopert we love and adore. SURPRISE! I fooled you!! This AU isn't meant to be a thought experiment, it's actually an overly elaborate way to give Loop as much psychic damage as physically possible!!

What's worse than having Another You take your place? Having a Tiny Version of your Nemesis take your place, earning the love and affection of your beloved family instead of you!

(They call him 'Princeling')

Needless to say, Loop and Clovis' dynamic is what we call in the scientific community fucking atrocious. Clovis wants to put his trust into this Guiding Star, and Loop is far, FAR worse to Clovis than Loop would be to a Siffrin. Loop may not be able to guess every single thought Clovis has, but any anxiety that is a reflection of Loop/Siffrin will be mercilessly picked apart with a smile. It's hate at first sight. At least Loop can take solace in the fact that Clovis is just as clueless as Loop/Siffrin was in their loops.

Clovis meanwhile is just intimidated. A guiding star of the universe?? And they hate him already??? 'Ohh...I really messed up already, haven't I? What'd I do???' Anyways, that's all for now. I just really wanted to get my initial brain worms out of my head and into the world. Please enjoy. If I do more posts like this, i'll prolly tag it as 'isat Kingswap au'. okay byyyyyyyyyeeeee thanks for reading! And thanks to the AU channel of the ISAT Discord for being so supportive of my brainrot!

[vinnyvamppp]

NEED MORE NO GOGGLES MARK FICSSS U WRITE HIM SO GOOD!!!🙏🙏

Guess Who's Coming To Dinner? (The Psychopath)

Note: This is the sixth request. Considering I've made almost two or more fics for certain variants, I decided to feed you guys a little extra today. Here you go, FREAKAZOIDS.

Synopsis: When dinner with friends turns into a silent war of tension, touch, and self-control, it becomes clear Mark has zero intention of behaving. From under-the-table teasing that ends in a ruined pair of pants to a post-party bathroom brawl with slaps, spitting, and broken plumbing, you both spiral into a night of explosive mutual destruction.

Warnings: Smut, Switch Dynamics, Poweplay, Mutual Choking, Slapping, Dry Humping, Under-the-table-action, Public Teasing, Bathroom Sex, Hair Pulling, Dirty Talk, Degration Kink, Ring Imprinting, Mild Blood From Slaps, Dumbification, Borderline Unhealthy Levels of Devotion, Mark Being all bark all bite and all whimper, etc. WC: 2.5k

Lensless/No Goggles Invincible x Fem!Reader (possibly releasing male ver tmrw)

The dinner party is… normal. That’s the strangest part. The food is good. Your friends are laughing. No one suspects that the man sitting beside you, who has one arm slung casually around your chair and who’s making everyone laugh with his chaotic “that one time I punched a meteor” story …is currently rock hard and getting worse.

You sense it before you feel it. There’s a slight twitch in his jaw, a tension behind that cocky, charming smile that no one else seems to catch—but you do. Then, without looking down, his hand grabs yours beneath the table. You assume he’s reaching for it just to hold—until he guides it. Down… lower. Until your fingers are flush against the heat and pressure of his bulge.

Your pulse spikes. He doesn’t say anything, nor does he look at you. He’s still smiling at your friend who’s telling a story about their dog or something equally innocent. His grip tightens on your hand, keeping it there as your fingers twitch. It's barely noticeable, but enough. Enough to rub against the thick ridge straining beneath the fabric of his jeans. Enough to make him inhale too sharply through his nose. You’re enjoying this too much, perhaps. The slightest smirk playing on your lips as you nod absentmindedly amidst banter.

His cock is heavy, hot, and twitching beneath your touch—like it’s begging to be freed. You feel it jump slightly when your pinky brushes the base. Your hand starts to pull away—panic creeping in—but his grip tightens. Then you look at him. His smile’s still there—but it’s cracking. The teeth stay, but the light in his eyes dims like a glitching puppet. His top lip twitches, and his eyes are glassy, almost like he’s short-circuiting. His cock pulses again, visibly straining now, it’s tip swelling—and you feel the fabric damp with the tiniest smear of precum. Your fingers run a stripe down the underside of his cock, feeling its arousal coat every vein. He finally turns to you, and under the table, your hand trembles in his. Then, through clenched teeth and a smile that’s slowly bleeding into something ravenous, he whispers: “Dude, what did you just do to me?”

And that’s why you bolt to the kitchen. It's quiet, almost too quiet amongst your thundering heartbeat. You’re elbow-deep in a salad bowl, which is probably the most tragically mundane thing to be doing when your boyfriend is absolutely feral and lurking behind you like a panther in heat. Disregarding his antics, you glide across the kitchen and to the stove. His hands are braced against the counter behind him, biting the inside of his cheek like he’s trying so hard not to fuck up. You bend over slightly to check the oven. He’s behind you in seconds with his chest pressed against your back. Shaky breaths fanning against your nape as they traveled the curve of your neck. ”Dude, you touched me like that again, and I almost came in front of everyone,” he mutters low in your ear. “I’m gonna make you regret that slap was the last thing you did to me today.”

You laugh, but it catches in your throat when his hands grab your hips—tight, fingers digging in like you belong to him. “You slap me like you own me, and then expect me to behave? I’m unwell.” And then he grinds. Slowly and deliberately, with the slightest swivel. His hard-on presses right between your ass cheeks, hot and heavy through both your clothes. You could practically feel his dick straining. Your whole body stiffens. Not now, you mouth silently. Don’t be weird. Please don’t be weird. “People are literally—like—five feet away.”

He grins against your shoulder but doesn’t move. “So? You slapped me in the face and rode me like I owed you money less than 48 hours ago. You think I care about an audience?” You shoot him a warning look, jaw tight. “You promised you’d behave.”

“I lied,” he says, way too cheerfully. Then, he goes quiet. Eerily quiet as his eyes bore into you, countenance cracking by the second. Still touching you, fingertips brushing your sides like you’re delicate, but his tone shifts.

“Dude,” you hiss, pulling against his ever-tightening grasp with a nudge to the ribs. “That’s the safe word, babe.” He groans, lips fervently kissing your neck. Your legs are spread, braced against the lower cabinets now. Mark’s hips rut against you, slow and mean, fabric dragging between you like a tease. The cold metal of his zipper kissing your clit. “Say it again while I hump you against this stove.”

You gasp when he thrusts again—frantically, rubbing up against you like it’s been weeks. You reach down, fingers slipping between your bodies, and palm his cock through his slacks. He groans, almost too loudly. “Oh my God. That’s so fucked up. Feel that?” he whispers, panting. “I’m fucking soaked. You made me leak through my pants, babe.” You press back against him deliberately. He gasps—high and ragged, like the friction hurts but he needs it anyway. His breath stutters against your ear. “You want fucked up?” you mutter, voice darkening. “Fine.” Your hand slips lower, between his legs—right to his balls. You squeeze firmly, just enough to test. He shudders, his hips twitching as a rasped whimper scratches his throat like he’s about to lose it. “Holy shit,” he swears. “That’s—God, babe, don’t stop—” 

You grind back into him and squeeze again, gently, then firmly. They practically turn blue within your grasp. Mark jerks forward, a choked groan falling from his lips. His hips stutter through trembles, and his forehead hits your shoulder. His hands grip your waist hard enough to bruise. Your fingers wrap around his throat, and he lets out a sound, half-laugh, half-groan, like he’s choking on his own need. “You look so pretty when you're trying to kill me.”

The sight alone causes his thighs to jerk. His head drops against your shoulder, his body convulsing with broken little thrusts, his cock twitching in his slacks as his orgasm hits him like a train. He doesn’t even get his pants off. Just fucking finish in them, breathless and panting, hands gripping your waist like he’s drowning. You feel it. The heat. The tension. The way his cock throbs against your ass, pulsing, spilling into his pants as he dry humps through it. You don’t stop touching him. Don’t ease the pressure on his balls. He’s panting and whimpering shamelessly. He moans, his body locking up against you, his hips grinding helplessly as he rides out the orgasm like it’s ripping him in half. His hips hold a hasty rhythm, like he's imagining he's fucking his seed into you again. His mind feels melted, his tongue darting out to taste your sweat on his lips.

His cock pulses again and again—wet against your ass—until finally, you whisper, “Did you just cum in your pants?” He groans, “Shut up. I’m emotionally vulnerable right now.” You laugh. He buries his face in your neck. “You're evil. I'm obsessed with you.” He kisses your neck once—fast, soft—and then pulls away just before someone walks in. You’re left standing there, breath shallow, heart a little too loud in your chest. Later that night, the dinners ended, and you both sauntered into the restroom. His arms crossed behind his head like he didn’t threaten to snap and beg in front of your friends an hour ago. Voices are strewn beneath the bathroom door as questioning voices begin to grow louder. Your fingers tighten around his throat, just enough to make his breath hitch. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, chest rising fast beneath yours. He looks—enraptured and all too willing.

“You gonna be good for me?” you murmur, tilting your head. “Or do I have to keep slapping the attitude out of you?” Mark grins through clenched teeth. “Babe,” he rasps, “you slap me again and I might fall in love.” You blink curiously. “Might?”

He leans up—nose brushing yours, still grinning, but now it’s meaner. The edges are just a little too sharp. “Too late.” He grabs your waist, flips you fast—like he’s been holding back all night just for this. He pins your wrists above your head and leans down so close his lips brush your cheek.

“You forget who you’re dealing with, huh?” he whispers, breath hot. “I let you slap me. I let you choke me.” He pauses, almost for dramatic effect. “You’re mine, babe. You think I don’t want you taking control? I do. But don’t confuse permission with surrender.”

You arch into him, teeth bared in a grin. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who came in his pants earlier.” He makes a sound between a groan and a chuckle. His hand trails down—fingers pressing between your legs, firm enough to make you gasp. “Yeah?” he breathes, lips at your neck. “Then what’s this?” “Feel that? That’s mine, too. So let’s call it even.” You grab his hair and pull hard. He gasps with a yelp, hips grinding into you on instinct. “If we’re calling it even,” you murmur, “then I think I owe you one more slap.” His eyes flutter, lips parting in a whimper. “Do it.”

He’s still gasping against the bathroom sink, his cock twitching and spent in his pants, the mirror fogged up and streaked from where you pinned him. You’re watching him, studying him. And he knows that look. That hungry, assessing, calculating stare that turns his spine to static. “Babe,” he murmurs, voice rough, still dazed. You yank him by the collar and slam your lips into his, teeth clacking, tongues aggressively chafing against one another. He grabs your waist—tight and possessive—but you slap his hand away and pin him again. “You’re not in control yet,” you breathe, biting down on his lower lip. “Earn it.” His laugh is shaky. “You’re gonna make me beg, aren’t you?”

You run your hand down his chest, past his abs, until your palm slides into his ruined pants again. His cock is still thick, softening—but twitching back to life in your grip. “Looks like you’re already starting to,” you murmur, fingers curling around him. “Dude,” he gasps. You lean in, lips brushing his ear. Then he strikes. In one breathless motion, he shoves you back against the door, lifts your thigh high around his hip, and presses his mouth to your neck so hard your knees nearly buckle.

“You wanna play power games?” he smirks. “Then let’s play. I like games.” You claw at his shirt as he helps shove it off. You’re both panting, desperate to win something you’ve already surrendered to each other. His hands are rough and greedy as they grab your hips, pulling you tight against his crotch, where his cock is prodding at you, thick and full and sticky with need. His clothing clumsily clacks against his hips as it pools around his ankles. Your clothes hang loose, half torn and forgotten.

You roll your hips into him, causing his eyes to roll, a grunt slipping. You press harder, and he grinds back. You grab his ass—firm, strong, fingers digging into the flesh—and pull his weeping tip into you. “There you go,” you whisper. “Rutting like a good boy.” Mark whimpers, chest heaving, “I’ll break this fucking sink,” he pants, and you grin weakly. “Then do it. Show me you’re strong enough.”

He lifts you—easily, angrily, adoringly—and sets you on the counter, already shoving your panties aside. The stitches ripping. “You think you’re in charge?” he snarls. “You think I’m gonna let you own me without a fight?” He lines up—his cock now painfully hard, flushed dark, and pulsing—and thrusts in one brutal inch. You both gasp and go silent, like the air’s been sucked out of the room. Your walls flutter around him, greedy, slick, hugging every vein like they missed him. You’re slicking down his length like you’re trying to keep him there forever.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You’re so—thick. It’s like—” “Like I was built to split you open,” he finishes, mouth to your jaw, hips jerking forward. “Or did you forget? Dude, what was it you said last time? ‘You're so fucking big, where were you hiding this thing?!’ You’re funny.” He mocked, chuckling to himself, only to be interrupted by the stings of nails gouging into his shoulder blades. You claw down his back as he plummets in the rest of the way. That veiny, lipstick-kissed cock nuzzles its way into your womb. The stretch, the burn, and the heat are all enough to make your vision blur. You take all of him, the thickness pushing your walls to their limit, every nerve ending lighting up. He groans into your mouth, swallowing the choked moans that slip through. Each sound cascaded louder across the tile walls. “God, you’re tight. You’re choking me. You want me to lose, don’t you?”

You smile, half-lidded, drunk on the feeling. “I want to watch you try.” Then your hand slides back up to his throat. You squeeze hard enough to watch the cold metal of your rings redden his skin. Your grip hardens just before he can implore you to be rougher. His eyes flutter, lips twitching uncontrollably before his hips slam forward. He loved fucking like this, like you hated every fiber of his being. Mark him. Break him. With every thrust, the arousal that dripped down his length smacked haphazardly against your ass, messy and loud in the quiet between moans. His cock was soaked—both of you slick enough that every movement sounded pornographic. You could feel him twitching inside you, leaking more with every grind, his tip kissing your cervix like it knew exactly where home was.

It's brutal and messy as arousal drips onto the bathmat below. The sink creaks, the counter groans, and Mark’s hands dig into your thighs like he’s promising to never pull out. His cock drags through you with every thrust—heavy, throbbing, aching—slick and twitching inside your soaking walls. He could tear the door off its hinges. He could bend the sink in half. But instead, he just begged to be used, just as much as he used you.

The seam of your ass slowly goes numb as his heavy balls slap against your flesh, smearing what he can barely identify as pre-cum. Its sting slowly becomes numbing, his abdomen tightens, and his dick goes blissfully numb at the dual stimulation. You slap him, then immediately grip his throat—watching his eyes glaze over as his cock pulses like it’s answering your call. “There’s my good boy,” you purr. “No… that’s not right. You’re my slut, aren’t you?” You grab his jaw, thumb slipping into his mouth. Mark’s mouth was open—slack and panting, eyes glassy like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he was on the edge of filling you to the brim. His brows knit together in something between bliss and disbelief—a single drop of spit clinging to the corner of his lip before his tongue flicked it away. His jaw clenched around your thumb with every pulse of your walls, like he was trying to hold in every sound and failing miserably. He'd beg for this again; he didn't want to be normal when he could have you like this.

“Yes, fuck yes, just keep using me. I’ll do anything. It's so good,” he chokes on a moan. “Too good—I’m gonna lose—fuck—take it.” You slap him again, ringside up. He moans into your mouth as you bite his bottom lip and pull, spitting into his saliva-soaked mouth. “Shut up and fuck me right.” He groans needy and feral—like he’d do anything to earn that praise. And you? You’re not safe either. Because when he angles his hips just right and hits that spot, your whole body convulses. The sound that leaves you is shameless, his lips curling into that signature grin of adoration.

“Mark—fuck—Mark—” He’s chasing it now. Every movement a punishing rhythm, cock sliding deep and fast, dragging wet sounds from both of you. He kisses you like he’s drowning in your mouth. Moaning into it and swallowing your sounds like they’re the only thing he wouldn’t dare rush.

You feel your orgasm building—heat curling low in your abdomen. “Cum for me,” he chortles, that grin playing on his lips as he watches amusedly. “C’mon, cum all over my cock.”

You look him dead in the eye. “You first.” His moan is desperate, a whine. And like clockwork, you deliver a head-turning ricochet across his cheek. His head snaps to the side from the slap, and when he turns back, there’s blood at the corner of his mouth and a smile you could drown in. Your pussy clenches around him—and he breaks, thrusting erratically as his rhythm falls apart. “I’m gonna—gonna—fuck—”  The wet sound of flesh meeting between

You dig your nails into his ass. He screams into your neck as he cums—hot, thick, messy—spilling into you in wave after wave. His knees wobble. “Milk my cock. Squeeze me like you want me gone forever.” And that, you did. His eyes begin to water as he stares, not daring to miss a second. He voice cracks with a pathetic sound between a laughs and desperate groans. His cock jerks inside you, the heat flooding your cunt as your orgasm slams into you, clenching hard around him, legs wrapping tighter. The sink creaks, and one of the knobs snaps. Neither of you cares as your hips stutter, rocking lazily. “I can’t stop,” you whisper. “You’re not supposed to.” He responds, teeth tugging at the shell of your ear. “This pussy feels like home. You think I’m gonna stop when I’ve got paradise clenching around me?”

Sweat dripping, his cock twitching in your spasming pussy with cum everywhere. And then you see it. Your rings. Still on your fingers… And on his face are indentations. “Don’t move.”

“Dude.”

“I said—don’t move.” You yank his head to the side. “Oh my god,” you gasp. “Mark. The rings. I branded you—” He grins, utterly dazed as he grins like a cat after cream. “I’m gonna frame this memory. Carve it into my soul.” You try rubbing at the indents, panicking. “You have, like, symbols on your cheek. Are you okay? You’re literally embossed.” He grabs your hand. “This is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. Don’t ruin it.”

“So… You’re gonna walk out there with my ring branded into your face.” He shrugs. “You think I won’t tell everyone I got jumped by my girlfriend mid-salad course? I’ll make it sound romantic.” You didn't just brand him physically; you branded him spiritually. Sexually. Spiritually. Though that explanation might not be needed as you peek out of the bathroom to see all eyes on you...

A/N: If you made it this far, congrats... that was nearly 2.2k words of full-on smut. ALSO, WE'RE ALMOST AT 800 FOLLOWERS, WHAT THE FUCK. Knowing that 800 people either see of interact with most posts had me doing laps. PLEASE, leave a comment, I love speaking with you guys!

P.S. since no one’s done it to my knowledge, should I do one where he’s tied up one day?

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[brunhilde-oldest-valkyrie-ror]

Yandere Headcanons for Dracule mihawk, Crocodile, Shanks, and Donquixote Doflamingo with a Gn reader who kisses their cheek and slowly moves towards their lips.

Authors note: I’m back🎉 I just had to take a break and collect myself. But now I’m back and ready to wright for you all again so please enjoy.

🥀Dracule Mihawk🥀

• Mihawk doesn’t react immediately. His body is still—stone-cold, golden eyes flicking toward you with razor-sharp focus as your lips brush his cheek.

• The slow inching toward his mouth? Dangerous territory.

• He lets it happen. But the moment you’re just about to reach his lips, he grips your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him.

“You’re playing with fire, cariño. Are you prepared to burn with me?”

• His breath brushes your lips, but he doesn’t close the distance. Not until you beg. He wants the tension to hurt—to teach you that teasing him is as much a test of loyalty as it is affection.

• The moment you kiss him fully, his hands are at your throat—not to choke, but to claim.

“You’ve sealed your fate. You will never leave this castle again.”

🩸Crocodile🩸

• Crocodile’s first instinct is suspicion. You don’t do anything without motive—at least that’s how he sees it. When you kiss his cheek, he stills mid-cigar puff, one eyebrow raised.

“Trying to manipulate me, little thing?

• But then you move toward his lips. Slow. Bold. Dangerous.

He’s completely silent, watching with calculating eyes. The arm with the golden hook rests on the armrest of his chair, but his human hand slowly moves to the back of your neck.

• He doesn’t move in to meet you. No, he lets you get close enough to feel his breath, smell the tobacco and expensive cologne—and then.

“Go ahead. Make your move. But once you do… I own you.”

• The kiss ends with you being pulled onto his lap and a golden collar clicked around your neck with a smirk.

“Now you can’t pretend anymore. You want me. Good. Because I already decided you’re mine.”

🗡️Shanks🥀

• Shanks is the most emotionally expressive—so your kiss on his cheek earns you a grin that almost seems harmless. Key word almost.

“Hey now, what’s this about? Getting bold, huh?”

• But as you drift closer to his lips, the air changes. He stops smiling. His one arm wraps around your waist in a vice grip, keeping you close. His voice drops, all warmth stripped away:

“You’re finally realizing it. That you love me too.”

• He meets you halfway, lips brushing yours with the tension of a man who’s been waiting forever.

• When the kiss finally happens? It’s deep, possessive, desperate. He cups your face gently, but you feel the tightness in his grip—a silent warning.

“You can’t do that to me and expect to walk away. That kiss means you’re mine. Forever.”

🥀Doflamingo💘

• The second your lips touch his cheek, his grin widens like a wolf baring teeth. You see the photo imagine that.

“Oh? My little puppet’s finally learned how to dance on their own?”

• You inch toward his lips slowly, and his shades slip just a little down his nose. You see those red, hungry lenses—feral and filled with obsession.

• He doesn’t wait. The moment you’re close, his massive hands are already gripping your waist and throat, and he crashes his lips to yours with the full force of someone who’s been starving for you.

“You tease me like that, and you expect a soft kiss? No, no… You wanted the monster, didn’t you?”

• Afterward, he threads his fingers into your hair and chuckles darkly.

“You’re mine now. No one else gets this mouth. No one else gets you. Not unless I carve them up first.”

Authors note: I got literal chills writing this. but the good kind of chills. As always I hope you enjoyed this and THANK YOU FOR READING🎉💗

[lightkrets312]

If anyone checks my posts from last night: I got into Welcome Home, which I'll try to tag accordingly. It's exactly my kind of horror, but I know everyone has different tastes, so. Informed consent and all.

(For the friends that don't know but are curious, pulling from the website:)

[Welcome Home is an experimental multi-media horror project that focuses on unraveling the mystery surrounding a beloved 1970s children’s television show.]

[WARNINGS!

Welcome Home is a story centered around a gaggle of friendly faces whose sunny days transform into something unexplainable! With that said, it is important to state this is a psychological horror that touches upon a few topics that may require a warning beforehand, especially during its development! Although it is not heavily present on the website, Welcome Home's rating is subject to change.

Common attributes in Welcome Home that may not be suitable for all audiences are listed below!

Eyes, eye contact, or staring.

Unreality or derealization

Gore

Puppets or mannequins

Exploration of heavy topics, like death, isolation and mental health.

Auditory unease, such as abrupt or unpleasant sounds.

Startling visuals, such as moving gifs or small flashes in video.]

[madschiavelique]

Could I request nsfw headcanons for poly tavrem where everyone is jealous of some guy trying to flirt with female Tav but she's doesn't know it's flirting at all please?

ohoho they maddd (not proofread)

content warnings : jealous bitches, mayhaps a bit yandere if you squint, voice kink, knife play, biting, pnv sex, hair pulling, cunnilingus, they're all feral word count : 1.1k

you had stopped at a tavern to treat yourself to a well-deserved meal after a busy day killing enemies. knowing everyone's orders like the back of your hand when it came to their drinks, so you volunteered to go to the counter and order for everyone, leaving the rest of your group to sit at their table. however, while you were standing by the counter waiting to be able to place an order, a young man came up to you, and all pairs of eyes on the table found themselves riveted on you both.

wyll didn't appreciate the way he introduced himself, the young man coming to grab your hand to bring it to his lips without ever taking his eyes off you as he presented himself to you and you nodded. you weren't specifically attentive to his behaviour from what he could see, just smiling politely, but the idea that this fool's simple saliva could have a place on your body led wyll to grip the scabbard of his sword hard.

shadowheart wasn't keen on the fact that he was trying to get so close to you, to have a conversation while his eyes were roaming the length of your body a little too freely for her taste. how dare he gets so close to you? her nose wrinkled in anger when he came to whisper in your ear, and that as he stepped back you were laughing softly.

gale crossed his arms over his chest, frowning and huffing a breath of mockery while the young man performed a meager beginner magic trick to impress you and created a flower that he came to place in your hair. he could do better, he had shown you, even made you learn much better, and the tips of his fingers tingled as he itched to cast a spell on him to turn him into some kind of critter that he could crush.

karlach's body was spitting and crackling little flames of frustration as the fool ran his fingers through your hair, smiling at you when he probably wasn't listen to a single word you could say to him. until recently, the idea of being able to touch you for her was only an idea that she could never reach, and the mere thought that he would allow himself to touch you so simply made her engine growl.

astarion bit the inside of his cheek when the young man had the indecency to approach his hand to your neck, tracing with the tips of his nasty fingers the two marks that the vampire's bite had left on you the night before. what a nerve he had, to let his disgusting mitts approach where he had kissed your skin and whispered praises to thank you for the gift you offered him every night.

lae'zel could not prevent a tchk from escaping her as he pointed to one of your daggers and asked you to show it to him, its blade that she herself had sharpened passing over his unsightly fingers. your blade was far too beautiful to end up in the hands of a microbe like him, and if he pursued this way, it could soon make him discover the taste of the metal of her own sword.

halsin was not jealous by nature, otherwise he would not be able to relish in the relationship that you all had, but there was something in the young man's attitude that deeply displeased him as he put his hand on your shoulder. he had the urge to get it out of the way, to simply stand and walk up to him so that his size alone could lead him to step back from you.

minthara was already imagining how she could capture him and give it as a pittance to her spiders when he took a piece of paper and began to write on it his room number for the evening and he passed it to you. did he think that you were just a body to add to the list of his nocturnal conquests? that you could be worn out like a vulgar puppet for his good pleasures?

the order finally arrived, and you found yourself carrying a huge tray of all kinds of drinks. the young man suggested his help to you, but you refused it as you returned to your companions' table and put down the tray.

“I didn't know they made men as annoying as that anymore,” you sighed before taking a loaf of bread and taking a deep bite from it.

everyone at the table smiled, relief taking them as they all toasted and their frustration subsided, but they were not about to let this go so softly. once you'd came back to the camp, clothes had been thrown off the minute you had settled.

wyll's lips were all over you, kissing your every knuckles and fingers individually before he came to kiss you lips, nibbling the skin of your lower lip as he hummed in relief. if he had to cover the entirity of your body with his own mouth and saliva, he would.

shadowheart was kissing your ear, whispering sweet nothings to you and taking great pleasure to the way your skin covered in goosebumps by the simple sound of her voice and the effects her words were having on you.

gale had made vines grow to hold your body right for them all, your wrists and ankles tangled in plants which perfumes' made you feel all fuzzy and soft and needy for any touch they might provide you.

karlach's hand combed through the hairs on the back of your neck before she pulled on it, arching your back so good for her while her hot tongue licked your lips and jaw with hunger.

astarion's fangs grazed the soft skin of your inner thighs, biting relentlessly and leaving in the trail of his mouth marks after marks that he knew only him and his partner would see and touch on you.

lae'zel had taken your dagger, trailing the new cleaned blade on your body, the cold metal kissing your skin and making you shudder. she covered the handle of it with your slick, thrusting it in you as your back arched.

halsin halsin towered over you, his massive hands keeping you in place by holding your waist and shushing you down as once the dagger got removed his own length took its place.

minthara's tongue was lapping at your cunt, curling around your clit in madening circles before she came to suck on it, her eyes never leaving yours as her nails digged in your thighs.

[feathermushroom]

A scene i imagined because of the tags bc is canon as hell

Porcelain: i want the ones with a smiley face please! (She is polite)

Jester: no, i need to do something you dad asked for

Porcelain:..... I will do by myself

*the kitchen is on fire*

Porcelain: i did!

Jester: im dead..

Breakfast in Holiday Horror

Porcelain Heart belongs to @feathermushroom

Wanted to draw something cute and cozy, so have a peek into Holiday Horror before the mortals start ruining everything! The blue rabbit is Jester, she kind of entertains Puppet King to keep him from getting too broody and sad, as well as being basically a butler for him and his kids. Kinda sucks she has to take care of the kids of the guy she has a crush on but OH WELL lol I love her. And Calypso is in the back blaring TikToks probably