👀👀👀 Gimme them marking headcanons. What ways do they claim MC as their's other than the pins. Bite marks, hickies, scenting, a collar?
A/N: ta-da~~ bun is back and a little rusty, but that's ok. I'm here and that's all that matters :P my first post in a v e r y long time, so hopefully you don't hate it! -bun🐇
A/n: Bun and I worked on this lovingly. You'd better compliment her! ~🦊
Pierrot rarely leaves visible marks on purpose because he’d worry about embarrassing you in front of others or making you uncomfortable at work. But he absolutely loves pressing soft, lingering kisses to your forehead when you're reading together in the evening, to your cheeks when you're cooking side by side in the kitchen, and to your shoulders when he wakes up before you and watches you sleep for a moment.
If he accidentally leaves a faint bruise from kissing your neck too long during a particularly passionate moment, he’ll spend the next hour apologizing profusely, his brow furrowed with genuine concern as he touches the mark gingerly with his fingers,
You will find him stealing glances at the marks throughout the day, though, with a sweet smile.
His favorite "mark" is one that your shirt collar can cover—something private that belongs only to the two of you, a hidden reminder of your connection that no one else gets to see. He loves the thought of you going about your day with this secret knowledge, this physical reminder of his affection that remains concealed from everyone else.
If you ever deliberately asked him to leave a small hickey, he'd become incredibly flustered, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of crimson as he processes the unusual request.
He would ask several times if you were absolutely sure, his voice barely above a whisper as if speaking too loudly might make the moment disappear. When you confirm your desire, he would be impossibly gentle, his movements hesitant and tender as if he's afraid to break something precious.
When he's wrapped around you on the sofa or tangled in the sheets, his teeth find your skin with predatory grace. His bites aren't playful—they're claiming.
Each nip against your shoulder carries deliberate weight, his canines pressing just hard enough to leave faint crescents that will bloom tomorrow. There's nothing innocent about the hunger in his eyes before he strikes; it's a deliberate, possessive claiming that makes your breath catch.
He gets a thrill from marking you, not for memory's sake but as a sign of ownership. These aren't breadcrumbs of affection but territorial imprints, visual reminders that you belong to him when you're apart.
His kisses along your neck aren't teasing—they're conquests. His lips trail hot paths from your earlobe to your collarbone, deliberately lingering over pulse points where he knows you're most vulnerable. Each kiss grows more intense until he's sucking skin between his teeth, leaving deep purple galaxies against your throat.
If he notices his marks in the mirror later, his grin is predator's pride. "I like seeing my work on you," he'll murmur, pressing his erection against your backside as you brush your teeth. His reflection meets yours, eyes dark with satisfaction as he traces the deepest marks with possessive fingertips.
He'll crowd you against the sink, one hand snaking around to cup your chest while his thumb circles a particularly vivid bruise. "Wear something that shows this one tomorrow," he demands, voice husky with authority. When you push him away, he only chuckles and pins your wrists above your head, demonstrating again exactly how those marks came to be.
Doctor loves to leave marks where only he can see them. When the two of you are tangled together in bed, he loves to drag his long, clawed fingers over the perfectly placed marks along your belly.
It’s his favorite spot, and he can’t quite figure out why. He’s wracked his brain for answers that would make sense to him, yet nothing had come of it. He simply enjoyed the sight of your belly covered in spots created by his teeth, and it excited him to think that he was the only one with privilege to your body. The only one with the privilege to claim you, to mark you wherever his heart desired, even if he couldn’t fully understand the primitive source of his needs.
You lured parts of him out that he hadn’t been aware of until meeting you. Parts that conflict with his logical mind and organized lifestyle. When he starts kissing across your belly and hips he can’t stop the way his teeth sink into the plush skin, his mouth sucking a dark mark into all the softest parts of you.
And when he’s satisfied with all that he’s claimed on your belly and hips, Doctor moves down to your thighs, prepping your skin with gentle licks and twirls of his tongue, wetting the area before bruising it with his teeth.
He can’t help the primal groans of pleasure as he pulls away, his saliva connecting his bottom lip to the thickest, most tempting part of your upper thigh. Sometimes he has to take a moment and press his forehead to your leg or your belly to collect himself through every ragged breath.
Jester doesn't think in terms of romance. He operates on pure, predatory instinct. When his mouth claims your skin, leaving a constellation of bruises blooming under the surface, it's a branding. The logic is primal and possessive: you are his territory, and like any predator, he must refresh his claim with marks that ache slightly when pressed.
It's a deep, animalistic satisfaction that thrums through him when he sees his ownership written in dark, blooming hickies or the sharp indentation of his teeth against your flesh.
When you're curled up together, and his lips trail along your shoulder, they'll linger with purpose, his teeth scraping against your pulse point—not to harm, but to remind you exactly who this body belongs to.
His restraint is both infuriating and intoxicating. Despite his ravenous need to claim you, he knows precisely where the line between pleasure and pain lies. When his teeth sink into your shoulder during a moment of raw passion, there's an unspoken negotiation, a silent conversation about how much you can take.
Occasionally, he'll run his thumb over a fading mark with smug satisfaction, a silent acknowledgment of his previous conquests. It happens during quiet moments—while making coffee, his thumb will trace the bruised skin where your shirt collar sits; during a movie, his fingers will seek out the faint teeth marks on your shoulder.
Immediately, Ticket taker would be drawn to your hands. His hands are always protected in gloves—a distinct line drawn between him and the rest of the world. A shut down on any and all intimacy. You won’t catch him accidentally brushing hands with anybody.
But with you… Something about your hands draws him in, capturing his attention, especially at first. When he doesn’t know much about you, he finds himself watching where you keep them while you sit or stand, how you use them to turn the page of a book, turn a handle, or hold a pencil.
Ticket taker quickly finds himself salivating at the thought of marking your wrists. And after the first time, it quickly becomes his favorite. Just on the inside of your wrist where the skin is thin and sensitive, Ticket taker marks his territory. He claims you as his and enjoys the way strangers’ gazes linger on the markings.
If he’s already left the proper amount of marks along your wrists, Ticket taker will turn to your shoulder blades, sucking a mosaic of bruises along your skin. To you, it looks messy and disjointed, but to him, it’s perfect.
He likes the way your clothing slips off your shoulder in the privacy of his tent, exposing the painting he left on his favorite canvas.
Ticket taker thinks your shoulders and your wrists are the most elegant places to leave marks, and they’re just obvious enough to remind everyone just who you belong to.
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