#and feeling devious

[ravengraved]

And if I started a religion? What then?

[chloesimaginationthings]

I love the FNAF theory angsty teen voice is just Michael

[pinecavity]

camboy!caleb (pt. 1) || r18+, angst, and angsty smut

It's late. Caleb’s room is quiet, lit only by the dull blue glow of his desk lamp and the soft flicker of his screen. His door is locked. His headset is on. And he's sitting there, back hunched, bare-chested, fingers digging into the edge of the desk like he might splinter it—not with anticipation, but because he has to force himself to do this. Again.

He's already taken on two shifts this week at the convenience store. Pulled an all-nighter helping you finish your project. Ate maybe one real meal in the past two days. But the art kit you wanted just went on sale, and he's short. So he logs in.

The username's fake. The lighting’s angled just right to cast part of his face in shadow. But his voice—it gives him away. Even when he lowers it, makes it soft, lilting, it’s still him underneath.

"Hey," he murmurs, eyes flicking up toward the chat. “You’re all early tonight.”

The screen floods with messages. Praise. Requests. Obscene ones.

He laughs softly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He reads the tip amounts. Calculates them silently. His jaw flexes when he sees someone ask for something rougher. Degrading. Humiliating.

And you can see the moment it hits him. That pause. That breath he holds in.

Because this isn’t him.

But he does it anyway.

He leans back in the chair. Lets his hand drift lower. Keeps his eyes half-lidded, like it’s just muscle memory now. One hand gripping the desk again, tight, like he's grounding himself there. Anchoring. He doesn’t moan. He doesn't make a show of it. He just breathes quietly, jaw tight, because this isn’t for him. It’s not even for the audience.

It's for you.

For the coat you pointed out in the window. The art kit you couldn’t afford. The school fee that came out of nowhere.

He’s not looking at the chat anymore. Not even pretending to. His gaze is down, fixed somewhere just past his own hand, breathing growing rougher, more uneven by the second.

He swallows thickly, then pushes his sweatpants down with a rough, ungraceful drag of his thumb. He’s already hard—too hard, really—but he takes himself in hand anyway, palm dragging slow, already thinking of the sound you make when you laugh against his shoulder, the way your breath hitches when he brushes your hair out of your eyes.

The little things that shouldn’t turn him on.

Little things that do.

His hand works slow at first. Almost apologetic. Like he can pretend it’s not really happening if he just moves gently enough.

But it’s your voice in his head now. Saying his name in a way you never actually have. Breathless. Sweet. Asking him to touch you. Begging for more.

His hand wraps around himself, hot and rough, his grip instinctively firm from too many nights exactly like this—nights where the only thing holding him together is the thought of you. 

He strokes slow at first, long and deliberate, dragging his palm over the sensitive head with a low, barely-audible hiss. The kind that only escapes when he forgets to hold it in.

His cock twitches in his hand, already painfully hard, the friction sparking sharp pleasure up his spine. His body is flushed, skin tacky with sweat beneath the lamp's low heat, and every breath he takes is uneven, shallow, like he’s trying not to lose control too quickly.

But he’s not thinking about the screen. Not the tips. Not the perverted demands pouring in from chat.

He’s thinking about your mouth—how you’d look stretched open around him, lips slick, eyes hazy. How you’d whimper when he rocks just a little deeper, slow and sweet, praising you for taking him so well.

And it coils in his stomach, tight and burning. He strokes faster now, twisting his wrist just slightly at the tip, his thighs spreading instinctively for balance.

His head drops back, jaw clenched, a low breath slipping through his teeth. You’re everywhere. In his mind. On his tongue. Etched into the ache in his chest.

He pants quietly, hand working over himself in rhythm now—tight, desperate strokes that make his abs tense and his legs shudder. His hips twitch up into his palm once, twice, chasing friction like he’s chasing your touch, even if it’s only imagined.

His eyes squeeze shut.

And when he starts to lose focus—when the chat gets louder, filthier, when he starts to retreat inward—his gaze flickers to the one thing he’s never removed from his desk.

A photo of you.

Propped just behind his keyboard, half-hidden from the camera’s eye, angled just enough that only he can see it.

It’s a candid picture—you’re laughing, looking off to the side, hair a little messy, wearing one of his old shirts. But it's his favorite. Always has been. 

It shouldn’t be turning him on like this.

His hand tightens. 

He strokes himself harder now, like instinct, like it’s not even pleasure anymore but pure, punishing need. Not for them. 

Never for them. 

For you.

Because the sight of you makes his chest ache and his stomach twist and his cock throb with a sharp, humiliating kind of desperation—like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to taste.

He’s close.

His knees twitch apart slightly, a moan caught low in his throat. His eyes never leave the photo now—he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He can feel it curling low in his gut, winding him tighter, sharper with each rough stroke. His lips part around a breath he forgets how to take, and for one suspended moment, his hand falters—like guilt trailing its fingers down his spine. Like shame curling its way into his lungs.

You don’t know he’s like this.

You don’t know who he is when the lights are off and the door is locked. 

But then—he remembers the notification. The art kit. The price. The way your eyes lit up when you saw it, that breathless, fleeting joy you tried to swallow back with a shrug and a soft, “It’s too expensive anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

You always say that.

Like it’s nothing.

Like you don’t know what it does to him, as if he's not already memorizing the exact brand, the model number, the shade of want in your eyes.

Like you don’t know he listens to everything you say and keeps them close—hoards them like gospel carved into the aching hollow of him. Like you don’t know he’d crawl through hell, barefoot and bleeding, if it meant giving you the things you pretend you can live without.

So he grits his teeth. Swallows the shame like it’s something he owes.And he keeps going.

Harder now.

Faster.

Fucking into his fist like he’s in a rut. His lips part. His head tips back. Every stroke ragged, deliberate. His body coiled tight with unbearable heat and hunger and guilt. Because if this is what it takes,

if this is the price,

he’ll pay for it.

Tear through every shred of pride, of decency, of self. Let it rot him hollow, strip him bare.

He doesn’t care.

Not if it’s for you.

His breath stutters. Muscles drawn tight at the image of your fingers curling around the edge of that art kit. The way you’d look up at him like he hung the stars for you. 

He’s so close. 

He lives for that look. Your satisfaction. Your soft, breathy praise.

It makes his cock leak with a humiliating kind of need, like it’s not even about pleasure anymore, just the unbearable want to be enough. To be adored. To be yours.

He’s cumming– your sweet voice echoing in his mind, your adoring smile seared behind his eyes, and the sharp sting of guilt gnawing at him like an old wound. His jaw locks around a guttural moan he won’t let slip, biting it back as he spills into his own hand, as if it could somehow make it less real, less filthy. Everything in him is wound so tight it hurts, pulsing with a pain that feels too sweet to ignore. 

And then—stillness.

Heavy. Silent. The only sound, the ping of tips flooding in.

A pulse, still throbbing deep in his stomach, a sticky mess cooling on his skin.

His eyes, half-lidded, unfocused, fixed only on the picture of you.

Like even now, even wrecked and aching and raw, you’re the only thing keeping him breathing.

His hand falls away. Chest heaving. Eyes closed like he could pretend it didn’t happen.

He leans forward, elbows on the desk, face buried in his hands.

And just stays there.

Doesn’t end the stream. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

Because if this is what it takes—if this is what he has to become—then so be it.

He’ll do it a thousand times over. He’ll tear himself apart at the seams. Burn away every last shred of dignity and softness and self, if it means you’ll get what you want.

Even if it rots him from the inside out. The kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from loving someone so much, it turns into ruin. 

He does it anyway.

For you.

Always for you.

—

It’s 3 A.M. and the screen’s gone black; the show’s over. He washes his face in the dark. Avoids mirrors. Sits in silence for a long, long time. But when morning comes, there's your favorite breakfast waiting on the table. A small wrapped gift with a sticky note.

“You looked at it a few weeks ago, so I got it for you, pips. No biggie :]”

He knows you’ll smile at it. He knows it’ll make your day better. And that’s all that matters.

Because he’ll never let you know what it cost him.

He’d rather suffer quietly than ever let you feel guilty for being loved that much.

[annoyamii]

Maybe in another universe where what we believe in wouldn't cause our downfall.

I FORGOT TUMBLR EXISTED MB YALL💔💔💔

Ok for this to make sense, this is an au I'm making called: 'Recluse Turned Saviour'. I think the title is self-explanatory BUTT lemme tell you because I love to yap and I probably ruin some friend's day with this au lmfao.

Sage found a journal at the peak of truth, alongside some books. He was about to read it until Recluse snatched it from him.

He got kinda pissed but he was so intrigued by the book that he secretly took it back into his home and read it. But unfortunately what that journal contains are the unbearable truths that the Recluse hid for millenniums.

He kinda went mad, but being someone who preaches the truth, why should this be hidden? So he began to teach those truths in his lectures. But unfortunately, the people couldn't handle those truths.

Recluse finds out about this and rushes into the town square, seeing the Sage teaching what he's been hiding, and the common folks look uneasy. So he stepped in with a little lie to ease them. They believed him, because it's much more comforting to believe in a sweet lie rather than the harsh truth, right?

This went on for SO long that Sage went FULLY INSANE, he is doing what he's supposed to do, spreading the truth to the public, but why are they believing at the Recluse whose words are filled with deceit. So one day, he snapped.

He became corrupted, Sage kinda became Shadow Milk. He started attacking the common folks and once again, Recluse steps in to save them. They battle, Recluse is having a hard time but he finds an opportunity by snatching Sage's soul jam—weakening him just enough for him to use his powers to immobilise him.

He just wanted to talk but suddenly chains surrounded the Sage, the witches are capturing him.

And then, the Sage is gone. Problem solved. He now holds the other Soul Jam. He felt really guilty, it was his journal that caused this, if he just hid it properly, this wouldn't have happened! He's still trying to recollect himself but suddenly the crowd cheered.

They're celebrating the defeat of the fallen scholar, they are celebrating the Hermit that resides at the Peak of Truth. They are celebrating his victory against the Sage. But all he did was lie.

He is regarded as a hero, but he doesn't feel like one.

[time-woods]

all the storyboards/ thumbnails i did for the recent chapter ! really proud of the last 3- went a bit overboard with the bgs there . .

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

mmm more SAGAU thoughts. you having to save a world that betrayed you so terribly.

the deep, primordial Abyss is the one thing that does not yield to you. despite its denizens long since accepting and loving your presence, your kindness, Foul Legacy most of all. they did not worship you, no- you were a friend, the one they desired to protect. for Legacy, his most beloved. they love and adore you, but the Abyss from beyond the sea cares nothing for things like affection. it only craves to devour anything and everything until only it is left to tear pieces of itself apart for eternity, and you can do nothing to stop it, destruction and creation.

unless, it consumes you.

only when you're rotted away will the Abyss be satiated. the world's Creator in exchange for the lives of thousands- is it not obvious what someone as sweet and kind as you would choose, even if most of those people hurt and hunted you so feverishly. Legacy lets out wretched sobs, clutching and clinging and begging in cries and wails- please don't go, don't leave him, you don't deserve to die. you simply kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his maw. anywhere you can reach, scratching behind both of his horns in that way he loves so dearly with a tearful smile as a final goodbye before slipping out of his desperate claws.

he watches the Abyss fall silent as your light winks out, and Foul Legacy weeps.

[merlins-art]

Greetings bitches, we’re so fucking back, this time with cat!John being a dapper little lad

@ofwhimsyandwoo ask and ye shall receive

[beadelmare]

chat should i script trump actually dies in that assassination attempt at the rally in my fame dr.

[jojo-schmo]

When I punctuate half my sentences with “hehehe,” this is what I mean.

[elderwisp]

ARE WE STILL FRIENDS?

[chloesimaginationthings]

Vanny did no wrong in FNAF she was just silly

[yunvind]

[lucentel]

forsaken // guys..Guyshelp the fixation.. it's coming guys GUYS AHHHH HELP HELP AHHH HELP ME[gets pummeled to death by 1000 tiny shedletskies]

[zimtlees]

NAAHHHHH❗😱

Old shit I never post, still funny 4 me I guess

[belovdly]

you died. you died, and i was still here.

[recent-rose]

sunday dealing with every other character in penacony

sunday dealing with aventurine, for some reason