Tumgik
#Thips
Text
Tumblr media
So... How's everyone doing...with their.... Um.... Shipping?
548 notes · View notes
puhochi · 30 days
Text
cw for drawn blood and implied spoilers for link click s2
over and over and over and over and over and
Tumblr media
over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and
Tumblr media
over and over and over and over and oVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND
Tumblr media
OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVE
93 notes · View notes
boyduroy · 7 months
Text
Tumblr media
adad 2023: 240/365
saw a mourning dove sipping rainwater off our porch this morning
11 notes · View notes
labyrinthofdreams · 2 years
Text
I get lawlu as a ship, I really do. In some ways, I even ship them myself, but for FUCKS sake I need people to stop with the infantilization of Luffy
42 notes · View notes
fantrollology · 1 year
Text
you guys dont know zijo yet but hes making a big thing of soup if you want some
10 notes · View notes
furvanoctua · 8 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Hiiii it's been foreveeeer! I have so many things I wanna post that it's overwhelming to think about even posting one thing lol
But here, have these two gnomes I'm playing! (Thip on the left, Shimstir on the right) They met at a festival and are now adventuring together and when I can get myself to post again you will absolutely see more of them
I have shared the gnome with the big hat before, but I have added some star details to their design, and it felt wrong not showing these two together as the adventuring duo they are
2 notes · View notes
kevindrakewriter · 11 months
Video
youtube
Lightvessel
4 notes · View notes
donghuamuqing · 1 year
Text
*posts* tee hee hee
4 notes · View notes
musubiki · 2 years
Note
I love the snake witch's lil snake, does it have a name??
it does!!! thats actually her moms snake familiar who just kinda keeps an eye on the daughter since it has nothing else really to do!! probably another 3-letter name like rye or something
19 notes · View notes
inlovewithaspiderguy · 8 months
Text
The problems with my writing process is every time I planned something a little problematic or outside of what I usually do I start stalling and it gives me writers block because I don’t feel qualified to write that. like the school shooting fic I just mentioned, or the latest thip chapter where camilla was supposed to open up about her sa trauma. It’s not like I know about the violence and murders and deaths I write but those complicated subjects I struggle to write them. I always feel like I’m not the good person to “talk” about this. I may do my best and write them with nuance and all but I feel guilty. cause what if people who have lived through that read my works and I accidentally insulted their experience? I felt really self conscious about the mc in mela having her origin story based on terrorist attacks. But recently I’ve been taking a look at other fictions on ao3 and more. I figured that I know I’m not trying to insult anyone or say what that trauma feels like when I haven’t experienced it. I know I’m coming from a good place and I’m willing to listen to critics, so…
0 notes
vilevampire · 11 months
Text
found a new ship name out in the wild being used for jazzllocer today that makes the total count 6 now
1 note · View note
snifekinner · 1 year
Text
also im watching a:tla because im off work sick rn and have been meaning to watch it for ages and I cannot get over the inherent hilarity of having a super powered incredibly driven angry and violent 16yr old antagonist with a lisp.
0 notes
omanatascha · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media
(via GIPHY)
0 notes
xintothegrey · 4 months
Text
One little thip
✨JUICE✨
36 notes · View notes
x-amount-verbs · 2 years
Text
A Helping Hand - Part 26
[start here] || Part 25 || Part 26 || Part 27
[ @dad-dumpster ’s art for 25 if you missed it!] [Ivy art by @thesaltybuns ]
[silco x f!reader] [4.3k words] [no y/n] [during timeskip] [touch-starved reader] [henchwoman!reader] [explicit] [D/s] [glove kink] [impact play] [light humiliation] [sadism/masochism] [good tears] [sexual content] [edging] [crop, cane, hands]
AO3 Link
Tumblr media
It’s a long pause.
Did you do something wrong? Say something wrong? Oh gods, did you cross some line?
Tempted to bite your cheek, you instead opt to apologize. “I’m s—” The word becomes a yip of surprise at the firm snap of the crop.
“Again. Correctly this time.”
Another snap.
The words are mostly just breathed, but they’re clear in the silence of the room. “Thank you, Sir.”
The feeling coursing through you is fucking amazing, some combination of shame and bliss and indulgence, the pain a perfect complement to the guilty pleasure of it.
“…I seem to have lost count.” The evenness to his tone suggests otherwise, the smooth soft leather of the crop’s tress soothing heated skin. Little taps make you startle, anticipating another blow, but no, just teasing little thip thip thips before the flat presses between your legs again.
There’s not enough pressure to grind against the implement, but just enough friction for you to feel the damp pull along your folds. Mouth pressed tight, trying not to hum or whine, you fail on both counts.
Silco’s voice is low but lacking the usual cocky edge. Like all his attention is on staying even-keeled. “You are always welcome to voice your gratitude.”
And then it begins again, never dropping much below the highest level of the last set.
You’re practically panting by the fourth strike. By eight you’ve thanked him twice more, and have melted forward, half-collapsed against the desk. The next strike seems to miss its exacting target, instead hitting half on skin and half on the edge of your underwear.
To your mortification, you realize you’d rather not be wearing any. Your hand is halfway down to its target when Silco steps back, crop well away from your skin.
“Do you need-” to stop?
“No!” You interrupt before he can ask. “No, I just-”
You hesitate, fingers twitching as you register your own action. What are you doing? This is— this is—
…It’s not asking, though. It’s not pleading or begging or asking for him to touch you, not with words. Just…
Hesitantly, you bring fingers to the waistband of your underwear, plucking at the hemline unintentionally. Eyes stay squeezed shut, nervous sweat beading on the forehead you have pressed to the desktop.
The room falls into silence so complete you can hear the brush of fabric against your skin as you tentatively hook your thumb in the waistband and drag down, feeling the radiating heat from your reddened ass and thighs as you do so.
Cool air against your sodden heat makes you draw in an audible breath, movement faltering. Your courage wanes— or maybe your stupidity passes— and you clumsily bring your hand back to the desk, back to the position you know is acceptable and comfortable despite the pressure on your elbows, without finishing the job. Just half-lowered underwear left to barely cover you from Silco’s gaze.
It’s silent.
Completely silent.
Your brain starts to whirr, starts to panic, to replay the last few minutes and determine if you went wrong somewhere. He wants you, doesn’t he? Or is it a case of him finding you less attractive than the power he holds over you? Did you cross a boundary again? Will he pull away again? Leave you wet and wanting, displayed across his desk in all your shame?
The longer the stillness stretches, the tighter your head feels, the louder your labored breaths seem, the more constricted your throat.
Your stomach starts to sink. A different kind of fear, a different kind of anxiety, a nausea at the prospect that you have made a terrible mistake.
It simmers for too long.
The brush of the leather tress against your bare ass makes you jump, a pathetic sound of relief and blatant need pulling in your throat. On the verge of tears as the crop catches to - painfully slowly - finish the move you started, dragging fabric lower. The way the last bit clings between your legs is damning.
He’s so quiet.
The crop pushes the fabric down along one leg, until your spread stance offers resistance. Then it moves to the other leg to trace its way back up. The slow tease only serves to make your need that much hungrier. Fists tighten on the desk, lip between your teeth.
“Ah-!” The little snap against your sex makes you cry out, the wet of it making the slap sound that much more obvious. Toes curl, and you find yourself subtly shifting, opening your stance like it can tempt him to alleviate your gnawing hunger.
The crop drags against your lips before pulling back.
Still no words.
Please say something. Please. Tell me I’m good, tell me this is okay, tell me you want me, please.
Nothing.
Your disappointment is overshadowed, however, as you hear him - feel him - step forward. No longer a crop’s distance away.
Then soft leather brushes burning skin: two of Silco’s fingers whispering against the reddened marks, tracing the curve around, then down. Two fingers hardly making contact, splitting to a V to skim around where you truly need him as he pushes his hand between your legs.
Your frustrated whimper breaks to a sharp breath as his path back drags one gloved finger firmly down the center of you. It’s a hint of friction but not nearly enough, even if the slight press of his fingertip teasing at your entrance makes you clench.
Fucking hell, you need him. He’s so close, can’t he just—
Your groan of frustration burbles in your chest, followed by another whine. This is what he does to you: reduces you to wordless noise and carnal appetite.
As on-edge as you are, your ears practically prick up at the hint of noise behind you. A heavy exhale. A low hum.
Anticipation shivers up your spine.
A dry digit brushes one flushed thigh, very briefly. “…Step out of them.” His voice doesn’t need to be loud in such a quiet space.
Mouth dry, you hurriedly obey as best you can without being able to see your shoes, nearly falling sideways the first time one boot gets caught, and leaning forward to at least get one foot free and resume your position.
Please touch me. Please.
You can’t say it - won’t say it - only feel it: a mantra on repeat in your head.
Please please please.
The slight huff of a laugh sounds at your back, and then you hear fabric shift again. You startle at the feeling of his elbow knocking one sock-clad calf while hands skim down the other, and you curse high boots for existing and stopping you from properly feeling his hands as he lifts one foot for you so he can untangle the fabric.
He must turn his head, because an involuntary little squeak escapes you when breath breezes against you. The prospect of being face-to-cunt with him was not something you expected today. You feel entirely too seen, too examined, too self-conscious to have him staring straight at you so shamelessly.
But gods, you want more.
Hips shift like you can get him closer, already imagining his tongue rolling against you—
And then he’s standing again, so soon. The disappointed breath sighs out of you.
“Six more strokes,” he reminds you, smirk audible. “And four more, for staining my tools.” The smug tone of that smoky voice wraps you around his finger, toying with you like a cat with a mouse. “Impossible to get the smell of cunt out of leather. …As you may very well know.”
The rush of heat to your face makes you dizzy. Silco very rarely swears, and to choose to use it in this context, for your body…
Without any preamble, still distracted by his taunting, you’re caught off guard by the particularly harsh impact of the crop in just the right spot, and the keening cry you let loose is uncomfortably loud until you hide it against your good fist, still left breathing heavily.
The tongue of the crop smooths over the sting, but you need more. One taste of his hand wasn’t enough. You crave his touch, hunger for—
His hands rubbing away the pain, fingers straying to toy with your pussy, kneading your ass like a damned masseur—
His satisfied hum vibrates low in the air, and it has you whimpering against your own skin.
“…You really are more than I ever imagined…”
The words alone send a rush of arousal to painfully harden your nipples, clenching around nothing. Fuck— that didn’t make anything easier.
Another smack of the crop and you stifle your noise, mouth opening to pant against your fist, top teeth catching on a knuckle and digging in lightly.
Does he imagine you, then? The way you’ve imagined him? The way you're imagining him, cock in hand plunging deep into you in one rough thrust that makes your eyes roll and your body buck. Shit—
Two more snaps against skin in quick succession and you’re shaking. A little hiccup of surprise as the tool slides between your thighs again.
The little taps of the crop against your sex are so fucking teasing, but you swore not to plead, so you’re left with the hot wet breath of a half-gagged thank you moaned against your fist.
You are far from thankful.
Well— yes, you’re thankful, but he’s absolutely tormenting you, and all you want to do is beg him to touch you already, but instead your own stupid rules drag it out further when you just want him to fuck you, good gods—
A particularly well-placed slap of the crop’s tongue hits your clit and your body jerks forward with your muffled cry, eyes snapping open, back arching and hips squirming, legs trembling as you whimper after. Feeling halfway to orgasm already, your gaze is foggy, eyelids weighed down by lust, mind incapable of anything but being present.
It’s fucking amazing.
Any and all anxiety, self-consciousness, doubt— if it’s there at all, it serves a purpose: it’s for him, an offering, and he’s paying you back with unwavering attention. Fear heightens arousal, shame turning it all perverse and delicious, and despite being treated like a damned horse with the amount your flanks are being slapped, it’s validating somehow.
You feel demeaned, maybe, but— but you feel desired.
…Now you just need him to fucking touch you already.
The crop turns on its edge and drags through your folds on the way back, the curve of it teasing your entrance. You’re tempted to chase after it, desperate, needing anything for stimulation. But his hands were right there, even if not skin to skin, and you want more.
Please.
There’s a pause, and you sense words unspoken. What is he stopping himself from saying? You need to know, you need— him, you need him.
Please.
“…Have you had enough?”
“Nnnh-” You whine around your knuckle, remembering just in time that no is off limits.
Silco must be expecting a yes.
“…You don’t want me to stop? To find some alternative way of meting out your remaining punishment?” The question comes with a stroke of the crop against your heat that promises much more pleasant options.
But that’s not the point. That’s what you want (and desperately). But this is about proving he wants you. It’s the only thought left in your addled mind.
You don’t say no. You don’t say yes, either, despite how badly you want whatever alternative he’s offering. And you absolutely refuse to say please.
The crop pulls away and you tense expectantly for another strike. Instead, you almost jump at the sound of the item being placed on the desk.
The way he says your name is stern, but not angry. Being acknowledged that way immediately overwhelms you. The person you are now isn’t her, it’s someone with less agency, fewer expectations, blissfully free of difficult decisions. Reconciling that with your everyday identity is half terrifying, half thrilling.
“Speak freely.” His voice is low, even. “Do you want to stop?”
“I—” You choke on the word. Gods, can’t he just do? Why does he have to make you choose? Teeth sink into your skin again as you muffle your helpless whine.
“Do you want to continue?” This time there’s a touch of exasperation in his tone, and you feel like an idiot. It’s just a yes or no question, why are you making it such a big deal?
Because it matters. It matters that he wants this. That it’s not just indulging your perverse little whims, but something he chooses you for.
When you don’t answer, Silco lets out a tight sigh. “What do you want, sweet, I can’t read your mind.”
‘Sweet.’ Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s not how he means it, you’re sure, the dry delivery made his mockery clear enough, but still.
“I—” You struggle to find the words. “It’s— it’s up to you.”
A pause. You feel him shift closer again, feeling magnetized to his presence behind you. “…Up to me?” he muses.
You swallow. “Yes, Sir.” Please touch me.
The whisper of contact as his hand hovers above your lower back has you sucking in a sharp breath. Yes.
“…Jumpy…” he teases, tracing a finger along where your skirt has been flipped up onto your back, reminding you again of the embarrassing position he’s put you in. Leather brushes skin as he smooths down the round of your ass, delicately— before groping the bottom curve in a harsh grip.
Yesyesyesyes. You stifle your noise even as you throb for him, that itch behind your navel winding tighter.
“So if I chose to give the rest of your punishment a different way…” Silco’s gloved fingers barely tease your slit, rubbing that edge where your inner thigh ends. “You’d accept that?”
Mindless. You’re mindless for him, just needy. “Yes, Sir,” you breathe, trying to press yourself back into his grip, needing his fingers inside you.
The soft breath of laughter makes your face flood with heat for the umpteenth time. Burning up for him. “Hmm, I’m afraid only good girls get their hungry little cunts filled.”
Fuck— the words alone make your eyes roll back, flattening your cheek to the desk with a groan, as you lift to your tiptoes and try to grind on his hand.
The sharp swat discourages you, in theory, but instead you want more. Anything to keep his hands on you. Your hips shift restlessly, panting mouth nearly drooling around the already reddened knuckle wedged between your teeth.
“Rude little sluts get punished.” His kneading hand is rough, but the leather still manages to soothe the earlier heat from his aforementioned punishment.
The term is so completely unfitting that you can’t possibly see it referring to anything beyond your behavior toward him. You certainly haven’t slept with someone in a long while, and yet the filthy thoughts you’ve had about your boss quite easily put your real experiences to shame.
“‘Up to me,’” Silco repeats in a mutter; “You really want to do that?” An audible sneer belies the approving little hum that comes after, the assuring way he gives your hip a short squeeze.
“Yeh thuh,” spoken around your hand.
His thumb draws a little spiral absently as he shifts, and you hear one of the disciplinary implements sliding from the desk beside you, even if you’re turned away from it. You have your suspicions well before he steps back and you feel the cane sliding against your warmed skin.
“Six strokes left,” he reminds you. “And you prefer pain over pleasure?”
Your whine is in place of the no you both want and don’t want to say. Of course you’d prefer pleasure. But all the pain he’s doled out has only served to raise your arousal, blood flowing to those bits of your anatomy that are making you positively ravenous at the moment.
The cane taps lightly against you, making you tense in expectation, but it’s never hard. Just enough to keep you on edge. No answer means it’s not a yes. “Can you take it?”
A better question. “Yes, Si-” You squeak in surprise as the cane thwacks against your ass rather than your thighs. It’s somehow worse and much better. The pain still hurts, but there’s a much deeper satisfaction, a pleasant throb between your legs as you take it.
“One. More?”
You’re breathless, still recovering from your last strike, but manage a weak, “mhm,” of confirmation.
“Words.” The cane taps gently against you again, a warning. He can always add more to your tally.
After a second, you recover enough to say, “Yes, Sir.”
You’re expecting the next strike; it���s a little easier to take once you’re mentally prepared.
“Two. Still want to leave it up to me?” It’s practically a taunt. A warning. You realize he’s asking permission, asking if he can go harder than this.
“Yes, Sir.” After a split second hesitation, while he continues the teasing little taps, you add, “Thank you, Sir.” He could’ve just done it, he didn’t have to ask. Even if he hid it under a layer of mockery.
The cane stops for a second. “…You’re welcome.”
Then he hits hard, hard enough that you yelp, jolting against the desk.
“If you’re not careful someone might hear you,” Silco warns, a hint of wickedness to his tone. “That was three.”
You pant, legs weak. But bow your head to press your forehead to the desk and make sure you’re standing straight. “Thank you, Sir.” Another. You can take it, and you want to take it.
“Four.”
The cry catches in your throat and you hear rather than feel the ceramic against wood as your bad hand flattens from its fist, jerking out sideways as your knees give out just like they did the first time. It stings— and aches, in a way that reminds you of the day after a good workout, only the skin is far warmer.
But that all flees your mind entirely as a gloved hand massages the sting away. The cane makes its little clatter against the desktop and then both his hands are on you, and you have the sudden mortifying urge to cry.
“Good girl,” Silco’s voice is throatier than you expect, one hand rubbing a thumb in circles at your waist as the other soothing you far more gently than before. “Very good,” he hums, and it may be the warmest you’ve heard him.
Your whimper comes out more like a sob. It isn’t even the pain: it’s the affection. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Tears burn in your eyes, and so much of it is relief.
“Taking everything I gave you…” The low murmur is shockingly lacking edge. “Such a good girl.”
Okay, yes, you’re crying. It’s just— it’s such a relief. The pain, the soft touch afterward, the fizz of hormones flooding your system that have you half out of reality. And more than that— there’s something about this, about taking pain. It’s like… the ability to show your devotion without needing to say it out loud. Proving something without having to swallow your pride to admit it. And being rewarded for that devotion, with reassuring touch, even if it's not as much as you want. You want too much. You want to be surrounded by him— you want to touch him.
“I think…” His hand drops between your legs again, “perhaps an alternative, to settle your account.” Petting you, a teasing softness that hardly brushes slick skin.
You shiver and moan and bite your lip, humming to keep the please from breaking free as he strokes you gently, somehow tormenting you again after seeming to promise not to.
Unless…
Firmer, never seeming to fully touch anything quite enough, only ever dipping the tip of his finger but never going inside, only pressing around your clit but never brushing it directly. You try - really try - to get more friction, more pressure, just more— squirming and grinding and trying so damn hard.
The hand on your waist squeezes before shifting to press your back, push you firmly down on the desk. “Hold still, sweet; you still owe me two strokes.” You can hear the self-satisfied smirk.
Tears of relief are forgotten in favor of growing frustration, feeling yourself wound so damned tight that you’re sure you could cum the second he thrust inside you. But he doesn’t. Just rubs and teases and thumbs without ever fucking you like you need.
The throb between your legs is unbearable. The keening whine is as close to begging as you’ll allow yourself, eyes glazed and half closed, face twisted with desperation.
Arousal is smeared across his glove, your inner thighs— every motion lewdly audible in a way that shames you as much as it turns you on.
The next time he massages around your clit and then barely brushes the spot where you want more pressure, you let out a frustrated growl, bucking slightly.
His fingers disappear in an instant, a wet slap against your ass as the hand on your back renews its downward force. He’s moved closer; a more convenient angle to push you down, yes, but also maneuvering his hips to stop your wild squirming. But even better— the thing that makes your frustrated movement falter.
You suck in a sharp breath, foggy eyes going wide, a shock of ice and heat hitting you in quick succession.
If you wanted proof he wants you… the hard hot ridge pressed to your oversensitized backside is clear enough.
Silco’s hand comes around your hip to reach from the front to continue his torment, but you’re so fixated on his cock. Right there. Your subtle little gyrations - the best you can manage while pinned to his desk - rub the swell of your ass against him. You relish the subtle shift of his own hips, the pressure in little rolling motions barely discernible unless you stop moving, but the one time you do, just to check, you feel him continue the gentle rocking a second longer, and it feels so damn gratifying.
You feel yourself light up at the realization, a renewed vigor that fucks your brain far more than his fingers are. Your own fervid panting seems to spur him on, his hand bringing you very quickly to the same spot he had you before the brief spanking. His steadily increasing attention has your pulse racing, breath hitching, on the edge of orgasm.
Need coils in your gut, ready to snap, eyes closed as your motions freeze again, body stiffening, trying to keep his hand in the position it just was, in that perfect position you want to keep the pressure just right—
And he pulls away.
The dry sob is sheer agony.
“Punishment, my dear, this is a punishment.” His dark chuckle has tears prickling in your eyes once more. The mocking little coo of sympathy is too damn hot for what an asshole move it is.
“Only one more, sweet,” he promises, shifting his weight in a way that once again emphasizes the weight of his cock pressing against your ass. “…Though I suspect you may be more eager to make our little meetings after this revelatory afternoon.”
Your brain can’t handle his stupid fancy words. Just fuck me already. Pressing your forehead to the desk you groan as the perfectly wound tension loosens again. But you never say please. Won’t fucking do it. As much as he frustrates you, part of you is maliciously delighting in the treatment, loving to hate it, gluttonous for his attention and feasting on it.
“Just one more…” Silco murmurs, idly stroking your back as that hard won arousal ebbs slightly. He gathers your skirt at the waistband in his fist. You’re sad to feel his hips draw away, losing the reassurance of his hot length grinding against you. But then his hand comes back again from behind.
You sink into pleasure faster this time, eager to get back to the heights, to attain that ecstasy before he yanks it away again.
Apparently, your worry is utterly unnecessary.
Fingers stroke along your folds with that all-knowing ease, pressing and circling and rubbing just right, and then his hand turns and his thumb teases you before pressing in with one purposeful move that makes your mouth drop open.
You haven’t touched yourself since that day he gave you his glove; how fitting it is that his gloved hand be the follow-up performance. His thumb feels thick with the added girth of the leather, and the little hint of stretch feels perfect. (Though you assume his cock would be more perfect.)
His other fingers continue to massage and grind as his thumb carefully circles inside you, loosening any anxious tension, the base finding points around your entrance you didn’t realize could provide pleasure. Then Silco adjusts his wrist, places his fingers just so, and presses down.
“Ah-nh!” The mewling whine that pulls from your throat quickly fades to a continuous stream of moans and whimpers, his ministrations ushering you out of your mind as you rapidly ascend the heights.
Presence of mind is fleeting, but it does occur to you to ask— or attempt to do so.
“Can— nnhh— ca-an I— can—” Words are hard.
His hand pulls out and your needy sob is thin in the air before he simply turns his hand and presses a different two fingers in instead, finding that same spot to undulate against as his thumb finds new spots to play with.
“I give orders that can be obeyed,” Silco reminds you, sounding half-breathless himself.
Tighter. Drawn like a wire filament, with electricity humming through you as the voltage increases.
“That wouldn’t be one of them.”
One of what? You can hardly think. Body stiffens, trying to keep his hand right in that magic spot he’s found, clenching around him, already halfway there before he says it.
“Go on. Come for me.”
[next part]
[ 😳 *cough*
So uh. Anyway, that was 4k of pure smut ahahahah 😅 Hope you enjoyed?? Really got into some of the why of submission in a bdsm dynamic tbh; hopefully it resonates and/or explains something ><
Once again I ask that if you enjoyed you reblog the post, since I have no idea how tumblr tags pick what to boost or not. Also I love love love seeing the tags and comments y’all leave, both here and on ao3. I live off reactions to my work 😈
I may or may not end up writing a reverse POV for this whole business, but if I do you may want to be on the tag list so you know when it goes up, since the reverse POVs go up on tumblr well before they’re ever added to the ao3 series of reverse POVs. You can join the tag list by commenting on this linked post.
Thanks for stickin’ it out. I know this was a long time coming. Please don’t hate me for next chapter ;u; ❤️ -verbs]
Tag list: @hawk4president @mello-jello29 @jennrosefx @dad-dumpster @ellhd-imagination @zuckerwattencupcake @meep-moop-mystic @of-the-argonath @ariaud @witxhy-lexx @mazikomo @leave-me-alone-doctor @antoine-tte @emprixnix @imalovernotahater @eriseffigy @leorioaki @artificialwords @hehicular-hanslaughter-lecter @ironandglass @ughhhh177 @faraige @ilikemymendarkandfictional @jennithejester @insult-2-injury @iz-zy5 @rinadragomir @queenofspades6 @cuddlejeongin @differentladynerd @alternativeforensicscientist @leo-the-undead @silcoitus @stepsonsilco @commotionpotion
246 notes · View notes
Note
Is it a voice or a lisp due to the black teeth prosthetics? 😂
https://twitter.com/DiscussingFilm/status/1753835456913973477
may thy knife thip and thatter👹
9 notes · View notes