Death Warden @death-warden - Tumblr Blog

LUCI MY POOKIE YOU GOTTA COME TO A CON WITH ME SOMETIME. YOU CAN BE THE FOX! SUGURU TO MY SNOW LEOPARD! GOJO COSPLAY AND WARDEN'S TIGER! SUKUNA🥺🥺🥺

~ @crescent-canine 🌌

(Should I show off my cosplay here too or nah, i'm unsure👀)

I'm gonna start recruiting people to a cult mid con and I don't want anyone telling me this is illegal ok? let's do it pookie!

and I'm keeping the ones I collect there and bringing them to brazil along with you and wardy 🙂‍↕️

YES SHARE YOUR COSPLAY EVERYWHERE YOU ARE SO FUCKING CUTE

HELL YES!!! LET'S GOOOOOOO

@death-warden WE GOTTEM!!! >:)))) Sukusatosugu group cosplay when??👀👀

And lmao bold of you to assume I'm not already part of that cult. As if I'd stop you🤣🤣🙄

Yesss I am ready to go to Brazil with you lets goooo

Cosplay pics loading!!

(All unedited btw, taken by my wonderful friend Jay)

#warden yapping #Kiss Kiss fall in love #or whatever it goes #mwah mwah

IM COMING IN WITH THAT SUKUNA COSPLAY EVEN IF I DIE

I need to match with my pookies 🙏🫶🫶🫶🫶 (and join their cults)

Also you look banger beloved kissing your gojo and you 😚😚😚😚😚😚😚

jitwogo

HOUSE REAL BIG 🗣️ CARS REAL BIG 🗣️ DICK REAL BIG 🗣️ EVERYTHING REAL BIG 🗣️

@death-warden SUKUNA WITH A TUMMY!!!!!!!!!👀👀

#OP THE ART IS SO GOOD #PLEASE MORE TUMMY SUKUNA #sukugo

so what if i just unalived myself oughhhh so good

jitwogo

HOUSE REAL BIG 🗣️ CARS REAL BIG 🗣️ DICK REAL BIG 🗣️ EVERYTHING REAL BIG 🗣️

@death-warden SUKUNA WITH A TUMMY!!!!!!!!!👀👀

surethingmoto

OH MY FUCKING GODDDDD (@neverrisa on titkok)

what if I make the twins into triplets in that horror idea with satomi @crescent-canine @death-warden 👁️👄👁️

I am listening 👁️👄👁️

bluukive-deactivated20260523

Sukuna gives me a big mommy issue vibe. Suppose slime Sukuna is getting taken care of by a woman, but suddenly he transforms into the real Sukuna.

Anon, you can't just say things and expect me to act fucking casual

art is from my beloved @frenzied--flame

Not exactly a Pet.

For almost a year, you don’t let yourself think too hard about how absurd it is.

It starts off as necessity — because if you don’t feed him, he looks… thinner. Like even the little blob of him can wither, in its own way. The first time you notice it, you panic so badly you spill your tea all over the counter and nearly drop him trying to scoop him up.

He glares at you with his single eye and snaps with that little mouth.

You snap back, because you’re already halfway into this, apparently.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m trying.”

He makes a noise like a scoff — impressive, for something the size of your palm — and then presses himself against the warmth of your wrist anyway, as if your body heat is a resource he’s entitled to.

So you learn.

You learn what he will and won’t take. The first few weeks you treat it like a science experiment, because that’s safer than thinking about it like a relationship with a cursed calamity that once tore cities apart. You try ordinary food, he rejects most of it with offended wet little spitting sounds. You try salt, he reacts like you personally attacked him. You try sugar, he hates it even more.

What he does take is… strange.

Leftover cursed objects you keep sealed in jars, because you’re not an idiot. The lingering residue from exorcised things that cling to paper talismans. The faint, metallic taste of your own cursed energy when you press your thumb to his mouth and force a thread of it in, jaw clenched as you watch his eye narrow like you’re doing him an indignity.

He hates that most of all.

He also — when he thinks you’re not looking — leans into it.

You end up with a routine that would make you laugh yourself sick if you heard it from someone else.

Morning: check him.

He likes to sleep tucked into the little bed you made out of an old scarf and a shallow wooden bowl, like some ridiculous shrine offering. Sometimes he’s on top of it, like he fell asleep mid-protest. Sometimes he’s under it, like he burrowed down to hide from the cold.

He never admits that he gets cold.

He just glares at you when you pick him up, and his texture is a little firmer in winter mornings, less pliant, like gelatin left too long in the fridge.

You warm him up between your palms. He complains. You do it anyway.

Afternoon: feed him.

A small measure. Not too much, because once — early on — you get anxious and overdo it, and he swells in your hands like a balloon, eye widening, mouth distending in a way that makes your stomach flip. He starts making wet, violent choking noises, and you go pale, whispering his name like it’s a prayer and an insult at once.

He survives. Of course he does. He’s Sukuna, the King of Curses, he won’t die from overfeeding.

But afterward he spends three days pressed into the farthest corner of the bowl-bed, facing away from you like a sulking cat, and every time you come close he bares a tiny, sharp line of teeth.

Even like that, he’s still Sukuna.

Petty. Proud. Vicious in miniature.

Night: you talk to him.

At first it’s just you, filling silence, because leaving him in the quiet feels wrong. You tell him what you did that day — grocery run, train delay, the way your neighbor’s dog barked all night — and he watches with that single eye like you’re a strange animal he hasn’t decided whether to eat.

Then one evening you’re exhausted, sitting on the floor with your back against the couch, and you say,

“Do you even understand me?”

He opens his mouth and, very clearly, says,

“Idiot.”

You stare.

He stares back.

Your face gets hot.

“Oh, so you can talk.”

He closes his mouth like he regrets it, and his eye narrows to a thin slit.

After that, you keep talking, and he keeps pretending he doesn’t understand, except now you know he does. You catch it in the way his eye follows the shape of your mouth. The way he reacts to certain words — king, curses, bored — like they’re splinters.

And the way he reacts when you’re hurt.

The first time you come home with a shallow cut across your knuckles from a broken jar, you haven’t even finished washing your hands before you feel him — his tiny, warm weight — thump against the inside of your wrist like he launched himself from the counter.

He latches onto you.

Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough that you yelp.

He makes a sound that’s not quite a growl, and his single eye is sharp, fixed on your blood like he’s offended by it.

You grit your teeth through the sting and pry him off gently.

“I’m fine.”

He bites you again, as if correcting you.

You look down at him, and you find yourself saying, softer,

“I’m fine. Look. It’s nothing.”

Only then does he release you, sliding back into your palm, and the pressure of him — warm and insistent — stays against your skin for a long moment, like he’s checking you with the only language he allows himself.

After that you start catching the little things.

How he creeps closer when the heater breaks and the apartment gets too cold. How he migrates to your lap when you’re sitting on the couch, pretending he’s there because the fabric is convenient and not because you are.

How, on the nights the wind screams against the windows and you can’t sleep, you lift him and place him on your chest, tucked under your chin, and he goes still — stubborn, silent — until your warmth sinks into him and his body loosens, almost melting against you.

He never thanks you.

He doesn’t have to. You can feel it in the way he doesn’t leave or tries to slit your throat when you sleep.

So when it finally happens — when the year of routine shatters like glass — you almost don’t recognize it at first.

It’s a normal day. An ordinary day. The kind you’ve built around him to make him manageable.

You come home with groceries, kick your shoes off, set the bags down.

“Hey,” you tell him automatically, because you’ve started doing that, like you’re greeting a roommate.

He’s in his bowl-bed, eye half-lidded, like he’s bored by your existence.

You move closer, shrugging your coat off, and you notice the air feels… heavy.

Not humid. Not warm. Heavy like pressure. Like the atmosphere is bracing.

Your skin prickles.

His eye opens fully.

His mouth splits wider than it ever does, and for the first time you see something like strain in the way he holds himself, as if the blob of him is too small for what’s inside.

“Okay,” you whisper without meaning to. “Okay. What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead the cursed energy in the room spikes so violently your teeth ache.

The lights flicker.

Your warding charms — things you hung half out of habit, half out of fear — flutter like they’ve been slapped by wind.

The blob in the bowl swells.

You take a step back, instinct screaming, brain racing through options the way you trained yourself to in every story you’ve ever heard about him.

Exit. Phone. Talismans. Run.

But your feet don’t move fast enough, because you are still staring, still trying to understand how something you’ve been lifting with two fingers could possibly be…

The bowl cracks.

The scarf-bed is ripped apart as if it’s paper.

And then he expands so quickly the air itself seems to recoil.

It’s not a gentle shift. It’s not a smooth transformation. It’s a violent, sudden reclaiming, like the world is being forced to accommodate a shape it forgot how to hold.

The room fills with him.

Four arms unfold first — corded muscle, tattoos like brand marks, hands flexing as if he’s waking them from sleep. Then the shoulders, the chest, the towering frame, the weight of him settling into your tiny space like a throne being dropped into a dollhouse.

Four eyes open.

And when the stomach maw splits into existence, teeth gleaming wetly, your throat tightens so hard you nearly gag.

He stands there, bare and colossal, breathing in slow, steady pulls like the air belongs to him now.

Your coffee table groans under the shockwave of cursed energy and tips, clattering.

You stand frozen beside the doorway, grocery bags still in your hands like an idiot, heart hammering so loud you swear he can hear it.

He turns his head.

All four eyes fix on you.

You feel very, very small.

Your mind tries to sprint ahead of your body — If he moves first, you die. If you provoke him, you die. If you run, he might let you die slower just to enjoy it. You swallow hard, forcing your fingers to loosen around the bag handles before they cut into your skin.

“Right,” you say, because apparently your mouth is suicidal. “So… that happened.”

One of his brows — one on the left, one on the right, it’s hard to track, he used to have one eye and now there’s three more — lifts with slow disbelief.

His upper mouth curls.

The mouth in his stomach shifts too, like it’s tasting your words.

For a long moment he says nothing.

Then he exhales through his nose — sharp, irritated — like you are the inconvenience here.

“You kept me,” he says finally, voice low and rough from disuse, the sound filling the apartment and making the windows vibrate. “In that.”

You swallow again. Your pulse stutters.

“I — ” Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. You force it free. “I didn’t exactly have a spare palace.”

One of his lower hands flexes. The tendons stand out, thick and brutal, like he could crush your skull without noticing.

He doesn’t move toward you.

He doesn’t lunge.

He doesn’t rip the roof off your building to announce his return to the world.

He just looks around with a slow, disdainful sweep of his gaze, taking in your small kitchen, your couch, the ridiculous bowl-bed remnants scattered on the floor.

“Pathetic.” he mutters.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding — half relief, half rage, because of course he comes back into full monstrous glory and his first reaction is to insult your decor.

“You’re welcome.” you say, before you can stop yourself.

All four eyes snap back to you.

Your stomach drops.

Then — unexpectedly — he huffs, like a laugh that doesn’t want to admit it’s a laugh.

“You have nerve.” he says, and there’s something almost… amused beneath the contempt.

Your hands tremble. You keep them at your sides so he won’t see.

“Yeah,” you manage. “I’ve had practice.”

He stares at you like he’s cataloging you again, reassessing.

Not prey.

Not worshiper.

Not sorcerer trying to prove themselves.

Just… you.

The person who fed him, warmed him, scolded him, put him on their chest like he was something that deserved comfort.

It should make him angry. It should make him punish you for the audacity.

Instead he turns away and walks — two steps, then another — toward the center of your living room, ducking slightly so his head doesn’t hit the ceiling. His presence shifts everything. The air warms with him, thick with cursed energy and body heat.

He reaches down with one hand and picks up the cracked wooden bowl, examining it like it’s an insult.

“This?” he says, voice dripping disdain.

You set the grocery bags down slowly, carefully.

“It was… the right size.”

He squeezes it.

The wood splinters in his palm.

You flinch at the sound.

He flicks the pieces aside, like scraps.

“And you fed me like this,” he continues, eyes narrowing as if the memory is sour. “Little scraps. Little sips. Like I was some — ” he pauses, mouth curling, “ — pet.”

Your face goes hot.

You don’t know why it embarrasses you now, with him towering there in true form, when you spent a year doing it with your head held high. Maybe because now he can say it with a voice that can crack stone.

You lift your chin anyway, because pride is sometimes the only thing you have.

“If I didn’t,” you say, “you would’ve… withered. Or whatever the cursed equivalent is.”

He looks at you for a long moment.

Then he clicks his tongue, annoyed.

“Hmph.”

Which is not an apology, not gratitude, not anything you can hold onto.

But he still doesn’t leave.

He lingers in your space like he belongs there.

Like he’s deciding to.

Like a cat that intruded your house and decided it lives there now.

But the cat is the size of an elephant and it has strong opinions about everything you do.

Hours pass in a state of tense unreality.

He makes rude remarks about your cooking when you force yourself to move, to put things away, to keep your hands busy so you don’t shake. He criticizes the way you cut vegetables. He leans over your shoulder, too close, crowding you on purpose, and you refuse to step back even though every survival instinct tells you to fold yourself smaller.

“You’re slow.” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear.

“I’m trying not to lose a finger.” you shoot back, voice tight.

One of his hands — upper, left — reaches past you and steadies the cutting board.

The other — lower, right — snags the knife from your grip and slices through the rest in two swift strokes, perfect and brutal.

“Better,” he says, handing it back like he’s doing you a favor.

You stare at the neat pieces, then at him.

“Show-off.”

He bares teeth, pleased.

He doesn’t touch you beyond that.

Not really.

But his presence is constant — behind you, beside you, watching you like you’re something that fascinates and irritates him in equal measure.

And when the sun goes down and the apartment cools, you finally run out of things to do.

You stand in the doorway of your bedroom, staring at the bed that suddenly looks… impossible.

He fills the hall behind you like a wall.

“You can take it,” you say carefully, because offering him space feels like the safest thing in the world. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

A low sound comes from his throat, dismissive.

He steps closer.

You feel the heat of him before you feel his hands.

Four arms move at once.

Two slide around your waist, lifting you off your feet with such effortless strength your stomach lurches.

The other two brace under your thighs and behind your back, shifting you like you’re nothing but a bundle of blankets.

“Hey— ” you gasp, instinctively grabbing at his forearm.

His skin is warm, solid, tattooed, real.

Your pulse goes wild.

“You think I’ll sleep in your pathetic nest,” he snarls near your ear, voice like velvet over a knife edge, “while you freeze out there?”

“I didn’t say—”

He ignores you, so you cut yourself short.

He carries you past the bedroom entirely, into the living room, where the couch now looks like a joke under the shadow of him.

He sits down anyway.

The couch protests — springs creak, cushions compress flat — but it holds.

And then he pulls you down with him.

Not beside him.

On top of him.

He settles you against his chest with the same careless certainty you used to have when you placed his blob version on your sternum in winter, letting your warmth seep into him.

Except now the warmth is him, all of him, pouring into you like a furnace.

You go rigid, breath shallow.

His arms wrap around you.

Not tight enough to hurt — tight enough to make it clear you aren’t going anywhere.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek, heavy and slow, like something ancient and unbothered.

You stare up at him, trapped between four arms and the sheer reality of his body.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He looks down at you with half-lidded eyes, expression set in irritation like you asked a stupid question.

“Sleeping,” he says. “Hush, woman.”

Your mouth opens, then closes.

“You don’t fit.”

He glances at the couch like it personally offended him.

“It’s tolerable.”

Then one of his hands — lower, left — slides up your back, not groping, not crude, just… positioning you more securely. Making you comfortable, despite his scowl.

“You used to do this,” he adds, voice quieter, as if the words are being dragged out of him. “When it was cold.”

Your throat tightens.

Because he remembers.

You remember, too — the nights you couldn’t sleep, the way his blob body would go still against your chest, the faint, reluctant way he’d press closer as if he couldn’t help it.

“I didn’t think you noticed.” you admit, voice rough.

His mouth curls in a sneer.

“I notice everything.”

The stomach mouth shifts, and you hear it murmur something under its breath — too low to catch, like it’s commenting in its own language.

You swallow hard.

“So this is… payment?”

His eyes narrow.

“Don’t call it that.”

“Then what is it?”

For a moment, you think he might snap at you.

He does, kind of — his jaw clenches, his lips pulling back with annoyance, like you’re forcing him to name something he refuses to hold.

But he doesn’t push you off.

He doesn’t stand up.

He doesn’t leave.

He simply adjusts his grip, pulling you closer until your cheek presses against the tattoos on his chest and the heat of him wraps around you like a heavy cloak.

“Shut up,” he mutters. “Sleep.”

You should be terrified.

You are terrified, in a quiet, buzzing way that never fully goes away.

But your body — traitorous, practical — registers the warmth first. The steadiness of his breathing. The fact that he’s not hurting you.

The fact that his arms, for all their power, are holding you like something he intends to keep safe.

Outside, the wind rattles the windows again, cold pressing against the glass.

Inside, Sukuna’s heat makes your eyelids heavy.

You lie there on his chest, listening to the monster’s heart like it’s an ordinary thing, and the strangest thought settles into you — soft and unsettling and impossible to ignore.

He’s not saying he’ll stay.

He’s not promising anything.

But for now, he’s here.

And in his own vicious, prideful way, he’s giving back the only thing you ever truly gave him without asking for anything in return.

Warmth.

Stillness.

A place to sleep.

His hand pauses at the back of your neck, fingers spread wide, holding you in place for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Then he grunts, annoyed at himself, and settles.

“Don’t get used to it.” he murmurs, voice already sinking into sleep.

You close your eyes anyway.

“Too late.” you whisper back.

⟡ MDNI, teaching Gojo how to mind his manners

"Hasn't anyone taught you not to— hahhh, shit— speak with your mouth full?"

All Satoru could muster up was a garbled moan in response, a crude mixture of your slick and his spit bubbling around the corner of his mouth. "Tch, you talk too much."

The grip you had on his white hair tightened, a lecherous grin crossing your face as you planted yourself firmer down on Satoru's mouth.

His lips were puckered, tongue wedged up against your perked-up clit — and there was no doubt in your mind that Satoru was nothing short of pussydrunk. His eyes said it all, the way the blue was glazed over and half-visible through his drooping lids.

"See?" You cooed, tone condescending. "Isn't it so much better when you put that bratty mouth to good use?"

Satoru nodded — or at least tried to. It was difficult to do anything when your thighs had clamped around his skull, holding him in place as you rode his mouth. You bucked your hips once, twice, now sliding forward until he was able to dip the tip of his tongue inside your clenching hole.

A chorus of filthy gulps left the man, the end of his rounded nose nudging against your clit as you practically suffocated him under the weight of your cunt.

And, hell, Satoru loved it — of course he did.

He enjoyed seeing you in charge, using him for your pleasure. He revelled in the feeling of you rolling your hips in practise circles, the wetness dripping out of you and smearing across the bottom half of his face.

"Mmph— can I touch myself yet—?"

Seriously?

You shot him an incredulous look from above, now punctuating each of your words with a harsh thrust of your hips. "No. I. Don't. Think. So."

The man groaned, eyes rolling back into his skull at the prospect of cumming untouched.

Satoru's bare cock bobbed, standing erect in the air as you fucked his face with vigour. His flushed tip leaked profusely, all the way until down until it dripping off his aching, full balls, and foamed into a streaky white.

And suddenly, he was cumming. Splatters of white hit the small of your back, shooting out of Satoru's cock and down the curve of your ass. The weak cries leaving him vibrated straight to your core, and it took everything in you not to cum at the feeling.

Instead, you pushed back the pleasurable feeling and sucked in a harsh breath of air through your teeth in what was clear disapproval — the poor man below wincing when you lifted off him, gasping for fresh air.

Satoru looked up at you sheepishly, licking the residual slick you left behind off of his pink lips.

Shit.

"What did I say about cumming before me?"

Look at me bullying this man again

icreamcake

HOW DOES PINTEREST SEE YOU ?

search : celebrity shoes outfit purse. aesthetic place make-up look. car fav accessories fav fictional man & post the first photo .

✱ 　TAGLIST : @shiruigami , @jellissante , @viixa , @rosesforshoto , @st4rlightisa , @runaarinn , @solinadays , @kawoala , @httpskrys + anyone who wishes to participate !

ryomantics-deactivated20260220

thanks for tag, nillie !!

tagging : @belimah @kkunai @veluoriaaa @nishinoya-senpaai

Thank you for the tag Nillie and Caesar!!!! cuties 🩶

Doing this while drunk and trying to understand that is aesthetic place and not aesthetic AND place

Anyway babes

@thereisacatinmybankaccount @marokiya @cigarette-smoke-ghost @winterrbluess @lunarscosmos @death-warden @crescent-canine @hitsuo

Late to the party wahoo feel free to do this whoever :]

#warden talks #tag game

sukukitten

𐚁﹒﹒﹒drabbles!

𐚁﹒Sugar baby treatment ♥ 𐚁﹒Riling Sukuna up after class! 𐚁﹒His office hours are hers to enjoy, or so she says.

🌸; art by: @death-warden my beloved

#ough gays...#i love them so much..#sukugo

Ruled By Secrecy

Gojo Satoru - better known as his stage name GO/JO - has it all. Fame, wealth, adoring fans. It was the kind of life that many people could only dream of. But being Japan's top idol isn't easy. Beneath the pressure of the long days, his management breathing over his shoulder and micro-analysing his every move, and the constant pressure to be perfect, Satoru craves something real. He finds it in Sukuna, the rough-around-the-edges frontman of the rockband Cursed Shrine, who encourages Satoru to leave the mould that has been his world since he was a teenager. Now, Satoru stands at the brink of a precipice: will he remain safely within the increasingly stifling bubble he had known all his life and put on the picture-perfect smile, or take the leap and grasp for something real?

Inspired by this amazing art (used in header) by the wonderful @to00fu and this amazing fanfic by ChocolateGranola on AO3

ִֶָ☾.⋆˙⟡ Contents: Musician AU, rockstar Sukuna, idol Satoru, Sukugo, Established relationship, Secret relationship, specific warnings in masterlist and chapters - none of the abuse happens between Satoru and Sukuna

Chapter 1 - All Eyes On You

ִֶָ☾.⋆˙⟡ Chapter warnings: implied/referenced (child) abuse and conditioning, Sukuna curses a lot

ִֶָ☾.⋆˙⟡ Words: 5k

ִֶָ☾.⋆˙⟡ A/N: Here it is!!! I'm so excited to share this AU with you all!!! I am still working on Satoru's playlist, but in the meantime, here is Cursed Shrine's playlist (in no particular order).

Although I have done some research into the idol industry, I am also taking some creative liberties. This fic is not meant to be a super realistic portrayal of the industry, although it intents to exaggerate and thus question some parts of it. This fic is mainly made for fun and it shall remain that way.

On a lighter note, this is what Sukuna's guitar looks like. Enjoy!

Satoru checks himself in the mirror one last time. Just to be sure, he tells himself, and not because he's nervous. He's the Satoru Gojo, Japan's most beloved idol - he doesn't do nervous.

Still, his eyes trail over his appearance in the mirror, making sure everything is perfect. His Cursed Shrine band t-shirt and tight leather pants, check. Beanie and sunglasses to hide his eyes and hair, check. Silver chain accessories, check. Sukuna's leaher jacket? Check. Earplugs for the concerts and painkillers for headaches, check and check.

He looks the part of being just a rock band's random fan. Which is probably partly because Sukuna and Suguru suggested this outfit. He'll blend in seamlessly, and that's the point. He's done it before, and he will do it again.

caramelluxe

*drumroll* ꒰🍨꒱ ୨୧ 𐔌 Quiz Time .ᐟ ₊ ꒱

Take this quiz and do this Picrew and tag your moots or anyone you think would like to be a part of the reblog game! Spread a little love around <3

Hehe my results

no pressure tags <3 @sammy-a-87 @desigurlie @sinterio @pleaseimastarv2 @cupidstrace @asherthecompost @mannythemunchkin @heliumshorns @satorucest @sweethearticism @sugurusbeloved @besidesjustmyamour @realalpacorn @sxtoabi @mimuju @ssorasky

heliumshorns

omg omg omg this was so funnn AHHHHH ok ok im not gonna freak out. definitely not.

no pressure tags!! @sweeeetjjk @chososoneandonlywife @laburantesdoll @batterylicka @5yzygy @amortoru @xonyoka @devil-in-hiding @po1x3n

laburantesdoll

picrew reveal ₍⸍⸌̣ʷ̣̫⸍̣⸌₎

no pressure tags ❤︎ @megumour @adeadcreator @qoins @angelscriptures @sshrubit @ryophie @lapsizedgf

qoins

ok apparently we’re all bandits who wishes they didn’t have to sin to survive

no pressure tags: @5yzygy @sunasbon @slut4suguru @fushigasm

5yzygy

dw twin ig I’ll be the witch 😭😭

tags: @veluoriaaa @belimah @slashedkei @j3llyc4kes

ID TAG MORE OF MY MOOTIES BUT EVERYONE ALREADY DID IT I THINK

to the pyre we go

@crescent-canine @ossifrageyes @hitsuo @sixeyedsaint @thereisacatinmybankaccount @lunarscosmos @frenzied--flame