#handmark

[pumpkinsmasherok]

feeling board might change my entire profile to be based off of victim 1 from the MARIO creepypasta and reply to all mario related posts with cryptic phrases

[indirectcomedian]

thinking a bit on a few rarer variants of rosemary face paint

[ridingthatd]

❝ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙈𝘼𝙉 ❞

frontman!sukuna x guard!choso x fem!reader

this smut is inspired by squid game

your husband sukuna ryomen isn't only a dirty man in bed, but he's also a dirty man in work. he's known as the frontman ; the main man who created the business, squidgame where people can sell their lives for money. and you're his pretty little thing; his wife, his property. what happens when one of his guards lust over you?...

teaser ;

sukuna starts rubbing your clit, holding you down still, and all while, he never breaks eye contact with choso. here you were on sukunas lap ass up, head down. your pussy spread wide open vulnerable for any eye in his office.

choso doesn’t dare move his eyes from sukuna. he stays completely still, while sukuna is sipping on his wine, staring calmly into his eyes.

"look at her" only at sukunas command does he let his eyes trail downwards. he sees the way you're plugged, ass full of handmarks. choso held back the growl that wanted to rip from his throat at the filthy sight in front of him.

i own this that's what ryomen was trying to tell choso.

CONTINUE...

[unoriginal-fox-official]

i cannot hold it in anymore, i just wanna Victim #1. Eyeballs were unable to be found. The victim was found lying on her carpet. Causes of death unknown, handmarks with unidentifiable fingerprints were found all over the corpse.

[scoobywrites690]

Poly 141 Task Force with Cam Girl Reader

As you guys know I started a little series called Simon's Favourite Cam Girl and I absolutely love it so much, so we've adapted it to Poly 141 task force. I read a piece written by @torncwpid this morning that inspired this idea so credit to them for this inspiration. cw: poly, multiple men, pussy eating, penetration, spanking, cam girl

You’d expressed to the guys when you first learnt of their intentions that you’d continue with your job as a cam girl even if they chose to stick around.

You liked your job, yes you were a cam girl but you had built your page and channel up from the ground and you weren’t about to throw away all that hard work just because some guys have shown an interest in you. 

And surprisingly they respected that decision, and even supported you and your job. And from that point on the guys were there for you, your life, and your job. And when it got to the stage in your relationship that you all decided to move in with each other their support sky rocketed.

So, when you started noticing that you views were dropping each stream and that you were receiving less and less support from your viewers you were heartbroken. As you had worked so hard to get where you were and it was all suddenly slipping through your fingers, and you couldn’t figure out why. 

You were distraught, so upset and the guys couldn’t bear to see you like it. I broke their hearts seeing you upset like that. So, on the down-low they came together to form a plan that would hopefully help boost your channel again. 

You were unsure at first when they told you what they’d conjured up. You’d never brought another person onto your streams before, it had always just been toys or you. But you had to try something, so you gave it a go. 

You guys started simple, just one of the guys coming on half way through, to either eat you out or for you to suck their cock just little things. To see if the plan would actually work. And ever so slowly your views went back up and your donations started coming back in and soon subscribers were wanting the guys to join on a regular occurrence. 

So once a week you’d do a special stream where one of the guys would join and stay for the whole length.

Either that being Soap with your legs thrown over his shoulders whilst he eats you out like a man starved, lapping at your juices before giving the camera a perfect view of him lazily circling your clit with his tongue. Your loud whines fill the room from where you wriggle and squirm on the bed unable to get away from Soap’s tortuous tongue. 

When John joins the stream he lets you take the lead, as he doesn’t have as much energy as the others but that doesn’t mean he lets you go unsatisfied. Letting you bounce away on his cock, your pretty tits bounce in his face just begging for him to pay attention to them. You ass on display for the camera, all nice and plump as it bounces up and down the length of his cock, his large calloused hands grabbing handfuls of the soft flesh before letting go, but not before giving you a harsh slap causing you to yelp. 

Ghost is a lot rougher when it’s his turn, he secretly likes making a mess of you in front of thousands of people. Bending you over his knee so he can litter the soft delicate skin of your ass in red handmark rubbing at the tender skin before landing a slap to it again, all whilst he coos praises in your ear that has you pussy dripping. Making you beg for him to touch you as you squirm on his lap desperate to cum. 

Gaz likes to be soft and gentle with you, laying you on the bed and slowly rutting into you as he litters your neck and chest in hickeys. Before bringing your legs up to your chest so he can rut into you that little bit harder, earning him desperate whines and whimpers from you. 

And on a rare occasion you'd invite two of the guys to join, which sent your viewers crazy. Watching you get used by two big beefy men had them all drooling. But that only happened on special occasions.

But it didn’t matter if your views started to drop again because your biggest fans would be downstairs watching each and every time, someone casting your stream onto the flat screen so they called see whilst you get pleasured by one of them just upstairs in the room above them. All desperately tugging at their dicks as they watch you squirm and shake in pleasure.

~Tag List

@chronicallyonline699 @angel4fics @iraaiitz @kieranduffysgirl @thegaywitchofwhimsy @ilovesoapandnotthebar @h0lydrag0ns @duckduckgoose90000 @rose37373

Lemme know if you wanna be added to the tag list <3

[backtocarousel]

my handmarks after i rode him till the end of the universe yup yup

[crispy-ghee]

There is a danger in playing any sport with Kal. Just a quickie scribble.

That is probably Rodney's ass. Considering how white it probably is, there is a 90% chance of a giant red handmark left behind for a while.

[tonycries]

HELLO??? The tattoo dimple thing? Alright nonnie ily 🫶

Heh… hey alpha Tony… make them make headcannons rn.. or YOU! Idm.. I just need it… NEOW 🔊🔊🔊

MMM Nanami always rubbing over them, Choso popping a boner every time he sees them, Gojo getting your handmarks tattooed-

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

I LOVE Hell’s Greatest Nanny.

Tw beating.

Angst time.

Lilith: Can we talk, Adam?

Adam: Yes your highness?

Lilith: Somewhere private please.

Adam: Ok-ay?

They go to a room. Adam is confused.

Adam: Did I do something wrong, your majes-

Lilith takes him by his wrist and pulls him, hurting it.

Adam: Ow!

Lilith: Yes, in fact you did something really, really wrong, Adam. Why were you with my husband yesterday?

Adam’s eyes go wide.

Adam: I-It’s not what it looks like Miss! He just-

Lilith squeezes his wrist even more, almost leaving her handmark.

Lilith: I know what I saw! Do you think I’m an idiot?

Adam: No! I’m-

She throws him to the wall, not too harsh but still painful.

Lilith: Tell me, were you with my husband yesterday? Or I-

Adam: YES! Yes I was! But-

Lilith slaps him.

Lilith: You think I’m not aware of what you are feeling? Of what you want, pig?

Adam shakes his head violently.

(Pls continue this :()

I'M GLAD YOU LOVE IT SO DO I 💕

Are you in my walls again? Lol

Adam: P-please!

Lilith: That's right you beg me. Know this, Adam

She grabs him by the hair and pulls painfully causing him to gasp in pain, which only serves to earn him a slap across the face.

Lilith: Every day you are here, it is because I allow it. Every day you are alive and breathe air it is because I ALLOW IT. Understood?

Adam, crying: Y-yes your m-m-majesty.

Lilith: Lucifer might be soft for you but he's not always here. I am. If you try to FUCK my husband I will kill you, you miserable little slut. You take care of Charlie and you keep your filthy fucking hands off of him.

Adam can only nod as a response. Lilith lets him go and fixes her glove.

Lilith: Now go get Charlies lunch, you can't keep a princess waiting.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Common Knowledge 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power imbalance, bullying, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Geralt of Rivia, Harald Halfdansson, tall & plus-size reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You unfurl the strip of legal pad, marked with Professor Halfdansson's messy and pointed writing. The usual scribble that has you squinting at your returned papers. He must be the only instructor in the college that still handmarks his assignment.

Like much of his style, his slanted cursive is chaotic. Often, his lectures or spiraling tangents about his trips to Norway or some mythos unrelated to the topic at hand. He is a well of knowledge, but one which is often overflowing and bottomless.

The subject is far from your first choice. You prefer history with a human subject. Your intrigue is those events which truly occurred, people who once walked the same earth as yourself. Mythos and belief is a human creation but it hardly captures your imagination.

Along your search for title jotted onto the scrap, you find several other books to sate your personal preferences. A book on the Beothuk and their demise and another illustrated index of Renaissance art. Finally, you find the rear corner of the store, the mythology shelves nestled behind Spirituality and New Age.

You hover your finger before the rows and lean in, squinting through your lenses as you search out the rather Nordic-sounding name. You sense a shadow at the end of the aisle but do not look over. You'll just be on your way once you-- there it is.

You pinch the spine of the deep blue tome and slide it out. The cover is stamped with gold runes and lettering, a viking helm the central image. You double-check that it matches the professor's scrawl, however you can never be sure as his Fs look like Ss.

You set it flat on your armful of book, balancing the weight with the rest as you crumple the scrap and tuck it into your pocket. It's a bit more than you want to spend but it will be useful in maintaining your average through Halfdansson's course.

The shadow comes closer and you shift out of the way for the approaching customer. You sidle away as they huff, a breath that fans around them. He leans into the shelf and you sense his head shift and his gaze follow your slow retreat.

"Ah, you are a fan of vikings?" He asks, stopping you in your tracks. "You must've watched the show, hm? Cute series but not very accurate, you know?"

You blink, taken aback but his tone and his assumption. It isn't the first time you've met the attitude in your chosen discipline. When it comes to military history or the lives of vaunted men, there is often an intonation towards female scholars. You have been dismissed more than once.

"Never seen it," you lie, "you seem the type though."

You note his snow white hair, a peculiar shade, drawn back into a half pony, and his blindingly pale eyes. He wears a tunic better housed in the closet of a LARPing club and looms with an air of indignation. He puts a thick hand on the shelf and leans, no doubt used to towering over others.

"Funny, that is the very book I came for," he intones.

"Oh, what a coincidence."

HIs jaw ticks and he snorts, "seems you've found quite the lot--"

"I have. A whole trove."

You go to turn away and hear his sole clomp down behind you, "surely you can grab another encyclopedia. I really need that one."

"Uh, no, this is what I need."

He follows you down the aisle as you keep a quick step, uneasy at how he trails you so fervently.

"Maybe you should grab another one."

"I have all the others. I've been waiting months for that to come into stock," he insists.

"Well, you can find a kiosk and order one in--"

"On a three month backorder," he interjects and grabs your arm. "I'll pay you--"

You spin back to face him and hit his chest with your books, "don't touch me."

"Well, just..." he retracts his hand, "hold up. I'm trying to talk to you. To barter--"

"I'm sorry, but I need this book for class," you hug the books and back up, overly aware of the tingliness from where he grabbed you. You don't like being touched. At all. You can feel your heart pumping.

"Does the school not have a library, little girl?"

Your mouth falls open. Little girl? This guy just can't help himself. You haven't been rude, maybe matter-of-fact, but he's been downright mean.

"Not for sale," you push your shoulders up and back away.

You twist on your heel and speed away. You weave between the shelves and discount tables and join the winding queue at the counter. You don't look back and sway in your boots, waiting your turn.

"I could give you several recommendations for an alternate text," the man appears at your side, crowding you inside the black cords that rein in the queuing customers.

You ignore him and turn your head away. You wish he'd just take a hint. If you heard a single please or any sort of respect, you might consider it. He's only been a jackass and judging at first glance, he's too old for that.

"You don't need it–"

You move with the line and he growls, shifting with you.

"Look, girl–"

You snap your head back and give him a glare. He sucks in one cheek and exhales heavily, "miss, I am asking you nicely–"

The associate at the counter calls for next and you take your cue. You quickly cross the space and put your haul onto the wooden ledge. You hear the pushy stranger snarl something under his breath. You refuse to look back as you hand over your membership card.

Men like that are the very reason you despise the general public. Hard to fathom how you can be so intrigued by the human condition when you can hardly bear to be around other people.

[lesmisletters-daily]

A Place Where Convictions Are In Process Of Formation

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.7.9

He advanced a pace, closed the door mechanically behind him, and remained standing, contemplating what he saw.

It was a vast and badly lighted apartment, now full of uproar, now full of silence, where all the apparatus of a criminal case, with its petty and mournful gravity in the midst of the throng, was in process of development.

At the one end of the hall, the one where he was, were judges, with abstracted air, in threadbare robes, who were gnawing their nails or closing their eyelids; at the other end, a ragged crowd; lawyers in all sorts of attitudes; soldiers with hard but honest faces; ancient, spotted woodwork, a dirty ceiling, tables covered with serge that was yellow rather than green; doors blackened by handmarks; tap-room lamps which emitted more smoke than light, suspended from nails in the wainscot; on the tables candles in brass candlesticks; darkness, ugliness, sadness; and from all this there was disengaged an austere and august impression, for one there felt that grand human thing which is called the law, and that grand divine thing which is called justice.

No one in all that throng paid any attention to him; all glances were directed towards a single point, a wooden bench placed against a small door, in the stretch of wall on the President’s left; on this bench, illuminated by several candles, sat a man between two gendarmes.

This man was <i>the</i> man.

He did not seek him; he saw him; his eyes went thither naturally, as though they had known beforehand where that figure was.

He thought he was looking at himself, grown old; not absolutely the same in face, of course, but exactly similar in attitude and aspect, with his bristling hair, with that wild and uneasy eye, with that blouse, just as it was on the day when he entered D——, full of hatred, concealing his soul in that hideous mass of frightful thoughts which he had spent nineteen years in collecting on the floor of the prison.

He said to himself with a shudder, “Good God! shall I become like that again?”

This creature seemed to be at least sixty; there was something indescribably coarse, stupid, and frightened about him.

At the sound made by the opening door, people had drawn aside to make way for him; the President had turned his head, and, understanding that the personage who had just entered was the mayor of M. sur M., he had bowed to him; the attorney-general, who had seen M. Madeleine at M. sur M., whither the duties of his office had called him more than once, recognized him and saluted him also: he had hardly perceived it; he was the victim of a sort of hallucination; he was watching.

Judges, clerks, gendarmes, a throng of cruelly curious heads, all these he had already beheld once, in days gone by, twenty-seven years before; he had encountered those fatal things once more; there they were; they moved; they existed; it was no longer an effort of his memory, a mirage of his thought; they were real gendarmes and real judges, a real crowd, and real men of flesh and blood: it was all over; he beheld the monstrous aspects of his past reappear and live once more around him, with all that there is formidable in reality.

All this was yawning before him.

He was horrified by it; he shut his eyes, and exclaimed in the deepest recesses of his soul, “Never!”

And by a tragic play of destiny which made all his ideas tremble, and rendered him nearly mad, it was another self of his that was there! all called that man who was being tried Jean Valjean.

Under his very eyes, unheard-of vision, he had a sort of representation of the most horrible moment of his life, enacted by his spectre.

Everything was there; the apparatus was the same, the hour of the night, the faces of the judges, of soldiers, and of spectators; all were the same, only above the President’s head there hung a crucifix, something which the courts had lacked at the time of his condemnation: God had been absent when he had been judged.

There was a chair behind him; he dropped into it, terrified at the thought that he might be seen; when he was seated, he took advantage of a pile of cardboard boxes, which stood on the judge’s desk, to conceal his face from the whole room; he could now see without being seen; he had fully regained consciousness of the reality of things; gradually he recovered; he attained that phase of composure where it is possible to listen.

M. Bamatabois was one of the jurors.

He looked for Javert, but did not see him; the seat of the witnesses was hidden from him by the clerk’s table, and then, as we have just said, the hall was sparely lighted.

At the moment of this entrance, the defendant’s lawyer had just finished his plea.

The attention of all was excited to the highest pitch; the affair had lasted for three hours: for three hours that crowd had been watching a strange man, a miserable specimen of humanity, either profoundly stupid or profoundly subtle, gradually bending beneath the weight of a terrible likeness. This man, as the reader already knows, was a vagabond who had been found in a field carrying a branch laden with ripe apples, broken in the orchard of a neighbor, called the Pierron orchard. Who was this man? an examination had been made; witnesses had been heard, and they were unanimous; light had abounded throughout the entire debate; the accusation said: “We have in our grasp not only a marauder, a stealer of fruit; we have here, in our hands, a bandit, an old offender who has broken his ban, an ex-convict, a miscreant of the most dangerous description, a malefactor named Jean Valjean, whom justice has long been in search of, and who, eight years ago, on emerging from the galleys at Toulon, committed a highway robbery, accompanied by violence, on the person of a child, a Savoyard named Little Gervais; a crime provided for by article 383 of the Penal Code, the right to try him for which we reserve hereafter, when his identity shall have been judicially established. He has just committed a fresh theft; it is a case of a second offence; condemn him for the fresh deed; later on he will be judged for the old crime.” In the face of this accusation, in the face of the unanimity of the witnesses, the accused appeared to be astonished more than anything else; he made signs and gestures which were meant to convey No, or else he stared at the ceiling: he spoke with difficulty, replied with embarrassment, but his whole person, from head to foot, was a denial; he was an idiot in the presence of all these minds ranged in order of battle around him, and like a stranger in the midst of this society which was seizing fast upon him; nevertheless, it was a question of the most menacing future for him; the likeness increased every moment, and the entire crowd surveyed, with more anxiety than he did himself, that sentence freighted with calamity, which descended ever closer over his head; there was even a glimpse of a possibility afforded; besides the galleys, a possible death penalty, in case his identity were established, and the affair of Little Gervais were to end thereafter in condemnation. Who was this man? what was the nature of his apathy? was it imbecility or craft? Did he understand too well, or did he not understand at all? these were questions which divided the crowd, and seemed to divide the jury; there was something both terrible and puzzling in this case: the drama was not only melancholy; it was also obscure.

The counsel for the defence had spoken tolerably well, in that provincial tongue which has long constituted the eloquence of the bar, and which was formerly employed by all advocates, at Paris as well as at Romorantin or at Montbrison, and which to-day, having become classic, is no longer spoken except by the official orators of magistracy, to whom it is suited on account of its grave sonorousness and its majestic stride; a tongue in which a husband is called <i>a consort</i>, and a woman <i>a spouse</i>; Paris, <i>the centre of art and civilization</i>; the king, <i>the monarch</i>; Monseigneur the Bishop, <i>a sainted pontiff</i>; the district-attorney, <i>the eloquent interpreter of public prosecution</i>; the arguments, <i>the accents which we have just listened to</i>; the age of Louis XIV., <i>the grand age</i>; a theatre, <i>the temple of Melpomene</i>; the reigning family, <i>the august blood of our kings</i>; a concert, <i>a musical solemnity</i>; the General Commandant of the province, <i>the illustrious warrior, who, etc.</i>; the pupils in the seminary, <i>these tender levities</i>; errors imputed to newspapers, <i>the imposture which distills its venom through the columns of those organs</i>; etc. The lawyer had, accordingly, begun with an explanation as to the theft of the apples,—an awkward matter couched in fine style; but Bénigne Bossuet himself was obliged to allude to a chicken in the midst of a funeral oration, and he extricated himself from the situation in stately fashion. The lawyer established the fact that the theft of the apples had not been circumstantially proved. His client, whom he, in his character of counsel, persisted in calling Champmathieu, had not been seen scaling that wall nor breaking that branch by any one. He had been taken with that branch (which the lawyer preferred to call a <i>bough</i>) in his possession; but he said that he had found it broken off and lying on the ground, and had picked it up. Where was there any proof to the contrary? No doubt that branch had been broken off and concealed after the scaling of the wall, then thrown away by the alarmed marauder; there was no doubt that there had been a thief in the case.

But what proof was there that that thief had been Champmathieu? One thing only. His character as an ex-convict. The lawyer did not deny that that character appeared to be, unhappily, well attested; the accused had resided at Faverolles; the accused had exercised the calling of a tree-pruner there; the name of Champmathieu might well have had its origin in Jean Mathieu; all that was true,—in short, four witnesses recognize Champmathieu, positively and without hesitation, as that convict, Jean Valjean; to these signs, to this testimony, the counsel could oppose nothing but the denial of his client, the denial of an interested party; but supposing that he was the convict Jean Valjean, did that prove that he was the thief of the apples? that was a presumption at the most, not a proof. The prisoner, it was true, and his counsel, “in good faith,” was obliged to admit it, had adopted “a bad system of defence.” He obstinately denied everything, the theft and his character of convict. An admission upon this last point would certainly have been better, and would have won for him the indulgence of his judges; the counsel had advised him to do this; but the accused had obstinately refused, thinking, no doubt, that he would save everything by admitting nothing. It was an error; but ought not the paucity of this intelligence to be taken into consideration? This man was visibly stupid. Long-continued wretchedness in the galleys, long misery outside the galleys, had brutalized him, etc. He defended himself badly; was that a reason for condemning him? As for the affair with Little Gervais, the counsel need not discuss it; it did not enter into the case. The lawyer wound up by beseeching the jury and the court, if the identity of Jean Valjean appeared to them to be evident, to apply to him the police penalties which are provided for a criminal who has broken his ban, and not the frightful chastisement which descends upon the convict guilty of a second offence.

The district-attorney answered the counsel for the defence. He was violent and florid, as district-attorneys usually are.

He congratulated the counsel for the defence on his “loyalty,” and skilfully took advantage of this loyalty. He reached the accused through all the concessions made by his lawyer. The advocate had seemed to admit that the prisoner was Jean Valjean. He took note of this. So this man was Jean Valjean. This point had been conceded to the accusation and could no longer be disputed. Here, by means of a clever autonomasia which went back to the sources and causes of crime, the district-attorney thundered against the immorality of the romantic school, then dawning under the name of <i>the Satanic school</i>, which had been bestowed upon it by the critics of the <i>Quotidienne</i> and the <i>Oriflamme</i>; he attributed, not without some probability, to the influence of this perverse literature the crime of Champmathieu, or rather, to speak more correctly, of Jean Valjean. Having exhausted these considerations, he passed on to Jean Valjean himself. Who was this Jean Valjean? Description of Jean Valjean: a monster spewed forth, etc. The model for this sort of description is contained in the tale of Théramène, which is not useful to tragedy, but which every day renders great services to judicial eloquence. The audience and the jury “shuddered.” The description finished, the district-attorney resumed with an oratorical turn calculated to raise the enthusiasm of the journal of the prefecture to the highest pitch on the following day: And it is such a man, etc., etc., etc., vagabond, beggar, without means of existence, etc., etc., inured by his past life to culpable deeds, and but little reformed by his sojourn in the galleys, as was proved by the crime committed against Little Gervais, etc., etc.; it is such a man, caught upon the highway in the very act of theft, a few paces from a wall that had been scaled, still holding in his hand the object stolen, who denies the crime, the theft, the climbing the wall; denies everything; denies even his own identity! In addition to a hundred other proofs, to which we will not recur, four witnesses recognize him—Javert, the upright inspector of police; Javert, and three of his former companions in infamy, the convicts Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille. What does he offer in opposition to this overwhelming unanimity? His denial. What obduracy! You will do justice, gentlemen of the jury, etc., etc. While the district-attorney was speaking, the accused listened to him open-mouthed, with a sort of amazement in which some admiration was assuredly blended. He was evidently surprised that a man could talk like that. From time to time, at those “energetic” moments of the prosecutor’s speech, when eloquence which cannot contain itself overflows in a flood of withering epithets and envelops the accused like a storm, he moved his head slowly from right to left and from left to right in the sort of mute and melancholy protest with which he had contented himself since the beginning of the argument. Two or three times the spectators who were nearest to him heard him say in a low voice, “That is what comes of not having asked M. Baloup.” The district-attorney directed the attention of the jury to this stupid attitude, evidently deliberate, which denoted not imbecility, but craft, skill, a habit of deceiving justice, and which set forth in all its nakedness the “profound perversity” of this man. He ended by making his reserves on the affair of Little Gervais and demanding a severe sentence.

At that time, as the reader will remember, it was penal servitude for life.

The counsel for the defence rose, began by complimenting Monsieur l’Avocat-General on his “admirable speech,” then replied as best he could; but he weakened; the ground was evidently slipping away from under his feet.

[silkensatin]

You wanted rape threats right?

Enjoy hun

Im sitting at the bar when i see you walk in,

You order a drink and as i walk against you i drop it in your drink unexpectedly.

As you look at me like just another man hitting on me. you Arent aware of what im going to do to you.

You get a bit Sleepy and pale.

I tell you to go throw some water in your face in the toilet

And when you do you look in the mirror as the world starts to turnThe last thing you feel is your panties being pulled down and my cock inside your ass

Just before you pass out

You wake up confused Pain everywhere

With just a text on your phone

Same place tomorrow same time

You are afraid and scared

But somehow feel the urge to get answrs

You sit pondering in front of the bar

In your car

Still not knowing what happend

And as soon as you gathered the guts to get out You feel a cloth hit your lips

And before you know

You re out again

He fucked your troath violently

Its all swollen, Sore, Handmarks on your neck

And you wake up with a cum covered face

The urge to lick it up hits

To clean it off your face like the little whore you are

You cant help to touch yourself with your fingers covered in his already cooled off cum

And again your phone buzzes

I saw you cleaned it up like a good desperate slut

Tomorrow Same time Same place

You leave your house the next day In tears

But something is pulling you towards him And as soon as you get in your car That same feeling hits you

You know you are about to pass out And you Arent even there yet

As soon as you wake up You are in a cabin Chained to a radiator

at first you only hear a gushing wet sound The sound of a troath getting fucked You hear a man moaning But not in a recording

You can see him sitting in his chair MaskedLooking at a video where you get violated, Abused Some would say

But you know you fucking love it You get Wetter and Wetter andTry to rub your cunt over a boot that stands next to you until he notices you are awake He stands over you Just far enough for you to not be able to touch

And says out loud " you are gonna be such a good little toy for me"

fuck this is so hot had to take my panties off in the middle of reading

[adelaideknightknight]

Well because you asked for it here is a fantasy 😘

Enjoy hun

Im sitting at the bar when i see you walk in.

You order a drink and as i walk against you i drop it in your drink unexpectedly.

As you look at me like just another man hitting on me. you Arent aware of what im going to do to you.

You get a bit Sleepy and pale.

I tell you to go throw some water in your face in the toilet.

And when you do you look in the mirror as the world starts to turn. The last thing you feel is your panties being pulled down and my cock inside your ass.

Just before you pass out.

You wake up confused Pain everywhere .

With just a text on your phone.

Same place tomorrow same time.

You are afraid and scared.

But somehow feel the urge to get answrs.

You sit pondering in front of the bar in your car.

Still not knowing what happend.

And as soon as you gathered the guts to get out You feel a cloth hit your lips.

And before you know...... you re out again.

He fucked your troath violently its all swollen, Sore, Handmarks on your neck.

You wake up with a cum covered face.

The urge to lick it up hits.

To clean it off your face like the little whore you are.

You cant help to touch yourself with your fingers covered in his already cooled off cum.

And again your phone buzzes "I saw you cleaned it up like a good desperate slut"

Tomorrow Same time Same place.

You leave your house the next day In tears .

But something is pulling you towards him And as soon as you get in your car That same feeling hits you.

You know you are about to pass out And you Arent even there yet.

As soon as you wake up You are in a cabin Chained to a radiator.

at first you only hear a gushing wet sound The sound of a troath getting fucked You hear a man moaning but not in a recording

You can see him sitting in his chair masked looking at a video where you get violated, Abused Some would say

But you know you fucking love it You get Wetter and Wetter andTry to rub your cunt over a boot that stands next to you until he notices you are awake He stands over you Just far enough for you to not be able to touch

And says out loud " you are gonna be such a good little toy for me"

see and i would be a good girl if someone ever chloroformed me

[aroeddiediaz]

Tease tidbit Tuesday

Tagged by the awesome @lemonzestywrites @cal-daisies-and-briars @jesuisici33 @diazsdimples

Because i’m insane, I decided to start writing yet another spanking fic, and make it the missing link between Teacher’s Pet and One For The Road (aka: how buddie went from talking about liking a bit of impact play to actually doing it). You may have noticed I added these two fics to a new series called Rough Love, because I can’t stop myself from doing things.

But over time, it becomes clear that it’s more than an embarrassing memory that is bothering him.

“I mean, I’ve done it before, too.”

Why did Buck have to say that? Some kind of misguided attempt at comfort making him feel less horrified at himself for that much TMI? Well if that was the plan, it failed miserably. He can’t stop imagining things about Buck. Did he have someone flipped over his knee while he used those bulging muscles to leave red handmarks over their butt? Or was it the other way around? Did Buck ever get manhandled onto his hands and knees and spanked red? And why does Eddie care?

No pressure tagging: @aspecbuddie @pirrusstuff @steadfastsaturnsrings @your-catfish-friend @inkmortal-trash389 @evanbegins @wildlife4life @eddiebabygirldiaz @epicbuddieficrecs @kitteneddiediaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

[backtocarousel]

title is railway, he has scratches/handmarks on his body and these are the lyrics.... hm

[koalasnooze]

Goretober |Witchtober |Tarotober 2024

Tw: Assault mentioned, partial nudity

°○Crying Ghost○°

(With filter)

(Without filter)

Mediums: Alcohol markers, colored pencils, white gel pen (?), + Oil pastels

-------------------•◇•-----------------

So...I tried something new...

Usually,I just do a solid block of shadow and usually no highlights-

But,I tried squiggly shadows and highlights to..varying degrees of effect.

I went a little too dark and far with the shadows,so the main focus is shrouded in darkness-

But,honestly, I like how it turned out,despite its flaws.

The little story is that this girl,was assaulted,and strangled as she died,hence the drapery,handmarks (that you can barely see 😭)and crying.

Here's the lineart version

That's it for now!

-KoalaSnooze