#scratchmark

[lemonchiiry]

Welp, with some help from my friend, I finally have a specific rocket jet he'll be, and with that, I change his design lol~ He looks more animal like and cool looking now! I love him~

He has talking wings that look like hands. It's a very silly idea by my friend that I keep it in the design haha

Also, Rider is @takyonarts transformers oc~ Im dragging him with me in my hyperfixation hehe

[takyoncutter]

quires? (Scratchmark by @lemonchiiry)

[swordswoman97]

Do you guys think the stoneling screaming is supposed to be Owen? Cause that screaming wasn't there for Acho, Eret, Water, or El, it only started showing up when Kyle did it onwards. Did the stonelings only start spawning then or were they added on purpose? Is that screaming supposed to be the hooded figures doing something to Owen? Or even just Owen under the curse?

[xdemonicheartx]

Still figuring out the whole fake nails thing...

[mirpamir]

[Side note: Where is Wesker's second leg...?] If you ever EVER feel intimidated seeing P100 in a lobby, just know that this Claudette ran to me at the very start, did "chase me" spins in the pallet, combined with flashlight clicking, then got Uroborosed in 5 seconds on the first corner in this loop, proceeded to get offended and suicided on 1st hook. I let the team go, cause it's not their fault they got the shitty Claudette and there is not much you can do with 2 people left (Meg was probably new, was hiding all the match. Kate and Yui still tried their best though, before realising I am with them.) The same day I did the 7 minutes challenge, yay.

[lorelune]

saw a tweet that described jy as a dilf w milf energy and wow.

[evilvillain123456789]

Hello, it's me, your teenaged sisters new adult boyfriend. I hope you don't mind, but I spent the night here. And I got up in the middle of the night to eat food and saw you had barbacoa in there so I microwaved it loud as fuck. I microwaved it so hard that the grease in there popped so loud it sounded like gunshots and scared the fuck out of the cats to the point they peeled out and left scratchmarks all up on the hardwood, climbed up the curtains and knocked the bars down, smacked against the mounted flatscreen and knocked it down off the wall which scared them more to the point they both shit while running andthen did a U turn and stepped in it and got scared because of it and jumped up onto the table and knocked all the shit you got up there offf it. And when that was done I took the little tray of barbacoa out of the now dirty nasty grease splattered microwaved and took a bite but it was gristle so I gagged and picked at it w my fork and threw away all the pieces of it with gristle in them so your 12 dollar pound got reduced to about an 12 dollar ¼ of a pound serving. So yeah I had me a plate of it but it was bland so I used up all your fucking worchestershire sauce. I was standing at your open fridge with a steamy ass plate of meat in there and was all up on your fridges side drawer using up all your fucking worchestershire like a fuck ton like over half of what you had left and a little bit of A1 but it was old almost empty and crusty around the rim so I gagged into your fridge but didnt clean the rim up. Then put the empty crusty bottle back. Well by then the grease congealed back into tallow by then so it made me gag when I turned to look at it and threw it away. I want to go home. Do you mind moving your car? You parked behind me.

[a-preferable-alternative]

Can confirm UwU

pov: im your gf

[yeyinde]

WIP WEDNESDAY.

a portrait of madness | oil on canvas (in the clumsy strokes of a child's fingerpainting)

JOHNNY MACTAVISH X READER

18+ | IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. NON-GRAPHIC SMUT. TRAUMA.

He burns incense on Sunday.

Catholic, he says with a slight roll of his shoulder, tone dipped in a thick coat of nonchalance that drips like hot wax over his words. Habit. 

It's piled together with other things, too—his life story eliding into a thickened paste, slurring over the edges until they're blurred and distorted. Nonsensical. Something he seems to realise by the pinch in your brow, and clicks his tongue in irritation, murmuring a jagged apology under his breath that makes you want to weep.

You won't, though. Crying just makes him frantic. Makes him gather you into his arms, holding you tight as he whispers it'll be okay and you fight the urge to tell him it's all your fault. 

Swallowing it down is easier than letting him pretend he's a hero, so you watch him instead. Voyeuristic. Riveted as he brings his hand to the mangled mess of his temple, fingers folding into a fist. Driving, digging, into the scarred tissue that frames his temple. Angry. Muttering under his breath as he grinds his knuckle into bone—

It's episodic. These little spells of torment last several minutes where he digs and you fight both the urge to be sick all over the sheets and to cry, beg him to stop. Don't hurt yourself. 

A farce. 

It shouldn't matter that he's chiselling into tissue, raking claws through grey matter; playing Dies Irae over coiling gyri. Orchestral condemnation that makes you feel like you should be relishing in his torment. Conducting madness with barbed words and caustic accusations. But—

You derive no pleasure from his suffering, and spend the day choking on the heady plume of incense as it fills the small room he keeps you locked inside, begging him to stop.

(Please, god, stop—)

He won't, though. Not until he's satiated some indivisible need to hurt himself—righting a phantom wrong with the push of his fingers into torn tissue; trephination costumed as self-flagellation. And it's only when this urge is quelled will he climb into the lumpy mattress with you, eyes glazed over and blood dripping from the scratchmarks on his temple, and gather you into his arms. Shackling you to his heaving, sweat-slicked chest as he mutters insanity into your ear, and runs his sticky, blood-damp hands over your body. 

"Mine," he'll bite out, and it'll be the only thing he says that'll make sense for the rest of the night. Everything else is the scrape of iron over lodestone; grunts and whimpers and ragged breath. 

He'll take you apart with teeth and tongue, nipping at your skin as he laughs into the hollow of your throat, dazed and dizzy with the split of your thighs bracketed around his waist. A perfect feckin' fit, pretty doe. 

In these moments, you'll forget yourself. Clean slate. Blank canvas. You'll pull him closer and whine when he pushes himself inside of you—a perfect fit, just like he said. A missing piece, just like he is. 

You've never realised how empty you felt until he rolls his hips, sinking deep inside of you. Filling the space that aches like a bruise when he pulls out. Yearning. 

And it's such an ugly thing, isn't it? To find that missing part of yourself in the thick split of his cock as he gasps about stolen ribs and figs and how he remembers you from a past life. 

It'll make you sick in the morning when you feel him—sticky and thick between your thighs; cum dribbling out of your bruised, tender cunt (already aching)—but you'll beg for it as he buries his teeth into slope of your breast, grunting into the wound like you've gutted him. 

And maybe you have. In a past life. A different time. Took a blade to his firm, trim belly and sliced through the tangle of thick, black hair until a line of red grinned up at you; a vicious twist of its lips, mocking and cruel. Flensed maw gaping wide enough to swallow you whole—

The worn bible on his desk, kept next to the dogtags and locket they sent him home with, speak of murder as a mortal sin. He laments this in mutable sermons sometimes, spinning reviled lies of death and destruction. Penance in pounds of flesh. 

He talks about that a lot. 

Penance. 

Whispered out between feverish mutterings of nonsensical things too ground up in his thick patois for you to discern. To make sense of. Everything is blurred under heavy brogue, except—

"Are ye finally gonna confess today, doe? 

He asks this with his legs spread wide, knees far apart. Bible resting on the top of his thick, muscular thigh. Rosary clenched tight in his fist. The cross on his chest swings like pendulum when he leads forward, eyes wide. Wild. Peering into the heart of you as he asks the question again. Softer this time. Slower. A caress. Sweet in your ear. 

Enticing. 

You like him better when he's drenching his fingers in grey matter and screaming at the ghosts to stop hiding things inside his closet. 

So, you evade. You look away. Pretend he isn't real. Doesn't exist. That he's a ghost. A phantom. A bad dream—

"look'it me, doe—"

A shadow in a hallway. A noise in the dark. 

"Look'it me—!"

Whispers at midnight. The ocean in a seashell. Creaking floorboards in an empty house. Something in the corner of your eye. 

"don't do this tae me, doe! Ye cannae—"

Immaterial. Something you made up inside your head—

"why'd ye dae this tae me, doe? Why'd ye do this tae us?" 

Not real. Not real. Not real—

Until his hands are around your throat. Teeth bared, lips cocked in a snarl. 

"oh, ahm real, doe. Ahm very real—" madness drips in the back of his eyes like condensation down a glass. He tugs you closer until his blood-stained teeth pinch at the soft skin of your cheek. "An' don't ye forget that, doe. Ahm just as real as ye are. Ahm just as—"

Sometimes you think it's a little strange how you can still breathe even when his hands are tight like a noose around your neck. Even stranger, maybe, that you like it. The way it feels. The sight of him breaking apart, unravelling. Coming undone. Unmoored as you turn your head away from him, drawing those fevered eyes to the slope of your throat—

He bites down until skin breaks, tears. Buries his canines into you first, gasping at the puddle of blood that wells beneath his teeth. Slurping. Sucking. Groaning into your neck as your warm blood soaks his tongue, almost choking himself on the flood of it. His front teeth follow, slicing through tissue. Punishing. 

Feeding. 

Vampiric. You knot your fists into his shorn, messy hair, pulling him closer, nearer to your vein. The ridge of your jugular. Just get on with it. 

End me, you demand. Make it worth it. 

He closes his palm around your fingers when you go to push him away when he refuses your plea, wrenching your hand down to his side, his ribs, and moaning low in his throat—the sound wet, gurgling; sticky—when your nails catch his skin. Tearing. More blood between you than air in your lungs. 

He presses them hard into his muscle until it yields against bone. 

"feel th'?" He slurs, iron drenching his words. Sodden chin jutting into the hollow of your throat as he heaves with an airy, pluming laugh. "S'missin', ain't it, doe?" 

The hand gripping your fingers tightens until they go numb. Your dizzy gasp swallowed up into the ragged spill of his breath as he slides the tips of your fingers down to bottom of his ribcage with a grunt. 

He asks again—feel th', doe?—and you offer a feeble nod in response. 

"what'd ye do wi' it, doe?" 

You don't have an answer. You don't know. 

His growls, this low, dangerous thing, and pushes your knuckles harder into his skin until it sinks against tissue—

"S’not there, is it?" He laughs with his tongue against your neck, lapping at the blood. The scorching puff of humid air against the wounds hurts like a sunburn. You bear your neck a little more. "Where'd ye put it?" 

Your head hurts. Swaying like a loose pendulum on your neck—a teetotum—and you wonder if he bit too deep this time. All the way through until it clings to your body by a thin piece of tissue—

You drop forward, slumping against him. Forehead pressing into his cheekbone, lips dragging against stubble. 

"You're crazy," you slur into skin, and he laughs, a muffled rumble buried in the makeshift cage of your throat. 

"ahm no' crazy," he grunts, pushing you down until your back is flat against the mattress, his body boxing you in. Heavy on yours. Smothering. His head is still buried in your neck. Tongue lapping at the last drops of blood that weep from the wounds you can't feel anymore. 

Not crazy. You think about this room. These four walls. Concrete. Stone slabs. Gothic revival. A bed that smells of sweat, sex, and incense. Old paper. Dusty books. 

Blood.

The hollowness of his ribcage. The missing door—

He mutters things as you lull between lucidity. Talking about a man named John. Someone named Simon. How they warned him this would happen. 

"aye," he concludes as you sink deeper into sleep, clinging by a loose, fraying thread as he buries himself inside of you once again. "Sift me as wheat—"

On the dredges of sleep, he'll murmur, soft and sorrowful: why'd ye dae it, doe? Why'd ye—

You don't know. 

But in the back of your head, a memory dredges up from the bowels of your subconscious, spat up like vomit. Regurgitated madness. It festers, writhing like a parasite. A worm in your brain you can't control. 

Ribs between your fingers. bury the bone in the backyard. But no—

Hung on a spit, blackening in the flames. Charred marrow crushed between your teeth like stale, hard bread. Chew, swallow—

You think you might have killed him. Devoured him whole. 

Metaphorically speaking, that is—

(in dreams. in the empty vacuum of your mind. a different time, a different place;)

—because the thing in your memory isn't you. 

[lemonchiiry]

After practicing how to draw transformers, I can draw my first oc~! Probably will change the design in the future with more improving, but I'm very proud of this~

Here's is a slight beta design for Scratchmark~ Nothing that different but I was still figuring out what kind of vehicle he is lol

[yawujin]

Hii, do you think you could do smut headcannons for russia, prussia, America, and japan maybe? Please :3

you asked and now you shall receive ‧₊˚  ⋅ ☆

request | nsfw headcanons for russia , prussia , america & japan

type | nsfw , smut , head canon format

russia/ivan braginsky ♡

size kink c'mon we all know this

a sub leaning switch, but amazing at being a dom

likes to tease, hates being teased. he also prefers when his partner is straightforward and almost aggressive in communicating with what they want from him

is into temperature play, specifically with ice or cold water.

isn't the type to scream or moan loud, but more of the type to curse under his breath a lot, or grunt lowly.

prussia/gilbert beilschmidt ♡

the type to have music playing while fucking someone but it's actually really nice music so it's all good

he usually is the top with every partner he has, but will occasionally bottom for the other person if he feels like he can be vulnerable with them

likes to close his eyes and be in the moment (also bc he gets to rest his sensitive eyes)

likes to pretend he's annoyed that his partner is teasing him while he's trying to work/write in his journal...but he actually loves it.

the guy absolutely loves cockwarming, especially if his partner kinda just starts to grind on him a little bit...

he starts to lose focus on what he was doing before almost completely, struggling to keep his train of thought on track LOL

america/alfred f. jones ♡

the man loves food, so if his partner is letting him lick a line of whipped cream off of them, he's going to do it no questions asked.

he can be so pathetic sometimes; begging for attention, wanting to be held...if he really likes the person he's fucking he'll become so clingy 🥺

praise is his favorite. he loves it when his partner makes it personal and puts a 'my' in front of the petnames. (ie "my good boy")

loves when his partner rides him, loves it even more when he's the one riding.

i can see the foreplay being his favorite part of having sex...he likes the build up

japan/kiku honda ♡

if his partner happened to have a hand kink, then being with him would be like winning the lottery

i headcanon him as having some nice, slim fingers and soft hands that feel really nice when he's touching his partner all over.

he has slightly long yet well manicured finger nails that could leave some scratchmarks on his partner's back if they fucked him in missionary

has a thing for getting his ears licked during sex (it feels good fight me)

the way he looks kind of vanilla but would probably write the most horrific and degrading words on his partner's body in marker 🙀

[g0odlittle4ngel]

Wanting to leave pretty scratchmarks all over your body while you whimper my name.

[cheri-2047]

Lyney x Reader who hates their birthday

A/N: Thought of this prompt since my friend who used to hate their bday's birthday is near. Havent written anything in months so hopefully the quality isnt to bad... CHARACTERS: Lyney, TAGS: Angst with comfort in the end. SLIGHT SH mention (scratches). Fluff. Kissing (in a comforting way) btw I think "Cherie" means love or lovely

3....2....1... "Happy birthda-!...Sweetheart.?" Lyney opens the door to your bedroom at 12 AM, a fresh sweet cake in his hands. The house of the Hearth wasn't far and since he was your boyfriend, you gave him the keys. What Lyney didnt expect to see was you on your bed, curled up under the sheets, tears pouring down your face. "Ah Lyney!" You quickly wipe your face, trying to get rid of the (obvious) evidence. You sit up, smiling as you moved to give him space on the bed. "Mon Cher?" He mutters, quickly placing the cake down on your wooden bedside table. He sits on your soft, cold sheets as he wipes the remaining evidence of your previous emotions. "Whats wrong? Did somebody do something? Why are you...?" He looks worried. He frowns as he watches you struggling to not cry. He quickly pulls you into his warm embrace, patting your head as he does so. He mutters against your ear. "Y/N...You can cry, just tell me why?" He says, wanting nothing but to comfort you. He notices the way your red arms weakly hug him back...smiling at the small gesture. He always loved it when you-....wait. Red? He gently inspects your arms, looking down at them without holding them to not shock you. He see's the small red bumps on your arm, when he realizes what it is. "Scratchmarks..." "What?" You mutter, fidgeting slightly with your sleeve in shame. You averted your gaze from the man, subconsciously holding him tighter in a way to hide the marks. "Mon cher why..? Its your Birthday.." You felt a pang in your heart. Birthday... You thought. You despised this day. The one day meant for celebration only brought sorrow to you. Your thoughts running at a million miles an hour as you thought about the horrors of the day. You dreaded it, which caused you to accidentally harm yourself without even noticing. "Im sorry..." "No." Your eyes widen at his refusal, not knowing what to do and only feeling worse. You refuse to look at him, afraid of the possible look of anger and disapointment. "Dont apologize, no apologizing please...Mon Ange, why did you do this to yourself?" He mutters, holding your arm and frowning at the extent of the scratches. You dont see any trace of disappointment, but only worry and concern for you. "You know you can always talk to me right?" Ah there it was again. The one phrase you've heard multiiple times. They offer help but you cant help but refuse it. You've grown to be afraid of opening up. Scared for being perceived as weak, for the fear that you hurt others with your emotions. You never believed that you deserved a birthday, that you only bring harm to others. You're a bad person. You're a bad person who doesn't deserve anything. Nobody should celebrate your birth. You dont deserve to- "Y/N" He frowns, pulling your nails away from your arm. You snapped out of your thoughts, blinking rapidly at the confusion. "Please stop harming yourself" He mutters, rubbing the part of your arm that you didn't even realize you scratched. He frowned, bringing the scratched part to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to it. "Please talk to me mon cher...Im worried..." You sighed, tears welling up in your arms. You had feared this, you were scared that he would force you to talk. But as you looked at his deep violet eyes, you only saw worry. Not anger.

You snuggle deeper into his warm embrace. Explaining to him that you never felt like you deserved to be celebrated. He listened, he nodded and rubbed your back as you let out your sorrows. He whispered soft reassurances in your ear. "Please dont believe that cherie...Everybody deserves to be born..." he mutters, fixing your hair, his gaze on the cake he placed on your nightstand. "It pains me to think that you're a monster when all I had seen you do is make others smile.... Sweetheart, you're a good person. Yes, we all make mistakes, but we also do good.." He pulled away, looking at your expression to make sure you understood. "We celebrate births because all of us have a place on earth..You weren't- You AREN'T a mistake. You deserve a celebration.." He says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Please give me a chance to prove to you that your life is worth celebrating?" Smiling, he pulls away, wiping the remaining tears. As he watches you (hesitantly) nod, he gets the cake he made.

"Can I perform a trick?"

You see him pull out his deck of cards. You nod, curious to see what was happening.

"Pick a card...Any card"

You picked the card in the middle of the deck. You looked in confusion as he got the card from you. He then quickly pulled out a big box from it, filled with gifts for only you.

"Close your eyes..." You follow, letting him do whatever. He then sings a soft, comforting happy birthday song to you. When he finishes, he lets you blow the candle. and gives you the box of presents "I love you Mon Cherie, Happy birthday"

---

(NOT PROOFREAD!!!)

A/N: ANNNND THATS IT HAHAHAHAHAH anyways I havent written in awhile and im actually waiting for a meeting right now so I dont have time to color code it. Im so sorry for taking so long to write, I couldnt find the motivation and genuinely forgot that this acc existed. Thank you all!!! PS: REQUESTS ARE OPEN

[caldrea]

caldre high sex on the brain rn…

andre lights the joint for cal as he sinks down onto him while taking a hit of it, resting one hand on andre’s shoulder to steady himself as he coughs a little. slowly grinding his hips down, he kisses andre, swallowing his moan. he takes another drag and tilts his head slightly back to blow the smoke out before offering the joint to andre. andre accepts, takes the joint from cal and inhales deeply. cal is lazily bouncing on andre’s cock as he exhales and coughs.

cal alternates between bouncing and rolling his hips as they share the joint between them, and andre occasionally jerks up to meet cal halfway. it’s clear that the effects are catching up to them as cal’s thrusts are beginning to get lazier and slower and andre is staring up at cal through half-lidded eyes.

andre can’t cum until they finish the joint and he feels like crying, getting more and more desperate for cal by the second. he’s gripping cal’s hips tightly, likely leaving thumbprint bruises on his hip bone.

the joint is at a point of probably only having a single drag left, and cal says so, offering it to andre. “can’t we just shotgun it?” andre asks breathlessly. cal hums, and doesn’t know why he didn’t think of that first.

cal wraps his lips around the joint and takes the last drag. he leans forward and slots his mouth with andre’s, lets the smoke flow back from his lungs and watches intently as andre inhales everything he gives him. cal presses his forehead against andre’s and rolls his hips hard as he moans andre’s name and bites his bottom lip.

without thinking, cal puts the joint out on andre’s chest. andre hisses in pain and tries to jerk away as he simultaneously snaps his hips up into cal, coming into him. cal tosses the finished joint back and he rides andre through his orgasm, still trying to chase his own.

all andre can do is wound his arms around cal’s back, scratching his blunt nails up and down, surely leaving marks. andre thrusts eagerly, trying to keep the same pace as cal. it’s sloppy but all andre wants, all andre needs, is to please cal

watching andre fall over the edge, knowing that he got off from cal hurting him, was enough to send cal hurtling toward his own orgasm. cal tugs at andre’s hair as he pulls him into a kiss and he thrusts down one, two, three more times before he’s making a mess of both their stomachs. cal strokes his own dick until there’s nothing else, then wraps his arms around andre’s neck as he pants to catch his breath. andre soothingly glides his fingers over cal’s back, over the scratchmarks he made just a few moments ago.

when cal gets a bit of energy he grinds down slowly. for a moment, andre thinks he’s going to keep fucking him, but he stops eventually. he kisses andre one more time before manoeuvring them so andre is lying down properly, never lifting himself off his cock.

cum is still decorating both of their stomachs, but neither of them care enough to really clean it. instead, cal reaches over and pulls a few tissues from the box beside andre’s bed and half-assedly wipes it away.

cal finally pulls off andre’s cock, and collapses on top of him, burying his head in the crook of his neck and tangling their limbs together.

[goddslayerr]

“Seems like you got a bit… out of control last night, eh?” It's a lighthearted remark, said with a teasing smile.

“Well, a few scratches never hurt anybody! 'Specially if they're from fighting a sexy cat lady.”

❝ I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm so sorry. ❞

She proceeds to drag her exhausted little body to her office—a real walk of shame.

[knaveumineko]

Umineko Episode 1 Blog: The Lying Detective?

I left off last time with suspicions cast toward Battler, but frankly I don't think I can get too much out of it. This will be a short one.

I went back and checked the scenes that feature him in 3rd person, but most of them are scenes that pivot between a lot of characters thoughts quickly, which neatly explains the choice to have them in 3rd person. There's one slightly weird scene when the cousins are talking about the legend of the gold: the POV shifts to 3rd person for a single exchange in which Maria is irritated with Battler for accidentally implying that she's lying about Beatrice, before it shifts back to 1st person for the rest of the scene. Given that this scene was written by Maria, I think this just happened to inform the reader of Maria's feelings toward the witch, which I already assumed she wasn't lying about anyway.

There's also the scene where Battler eavesdrops on the servants, which suspiciously describes Battler in 3rd person when he finally reveals himself to the servants, before switching the 1st person for the rest of the conversation. This would seem to cast doubt on what exactly the servants actually said to one another. I previously speculated that perhaps the earlier parts of their conversation, before Battler started listening, have not been recorded accurately (I tied it back in with my guess that the bloody scratchmarks on Natsuhi's door don't actually exist). There's definitely something weird going on with that conversation, since the servants are suspicious in general, and the scene could have easily been written from Battler's POV from the start instead of switching.

Other than that, the scene where Battler gives chase to the killer fleeing the boiler room is the only scene where the story seems to be explicitly flagging the possibility that Battler is lying to us. It's only a lie of omission, so we can avoid tossing out everything he tells us, but it's still a really big deal. The most convenient thing for my theory would be if he actually saw his parents and isn't mentioning it because he's struggling to process the idea that they're responsible for all of the killings. That doesn't quite ring true to me, though. For now, I'll just keep note of the fact that we don't know what happened when Battler left the boiler room.