Check this post before you start perusing through my bullshit, please.
🔞 Minors, you don't have to go home, but you do have to get off this blog. DNI. You will be blocked. There are plenty of spaces on Tumblr for you, but this isn’t one of them.
I block ageless/no indication that blog owner is an adult or blog is 18+ 🔞
This is a side-blog where I post/reblog Markiplier Ego drabbles, oneshots, multipart fics, etc. There WILL BE NSFW here. I intend to post SFW, Suggestive, and NSFW to this blog. This is ultimately a bin of sin for my horny thoughts, so beware.
This is not a RP Blog for any ego or NSFW in general. I write sin of my own terms.
Feel free to yell in my askbox about headcanons, scenarios, drabbles, etc.
General Tags: working on it
Egos I write for:
The losers I torment in my drabbles. If an Ego isn’t listed, I either don’t feel comfortable writing for them or I just don’t want to. ¯\_(ツ
THINGS I WILL WRITE:
SFW & NSFW
Ego x Reader
F/M/GN/AFAB/AMAB Reader
I ABSOLUTELY REFUSE TO WRITE:
RPF
Rape
Pedophilia/Underage
Childbirth/Pregnancy (Breeding Kink is fine)
Age Play (Daddy Kink is fine)
Intense Violence
Bestiality
Self Harm
Incest
Watersports/Scat
Hard Pet Play
I have the final say on what makes me uncomfortable.
With all that said, have fun I guess? Don’t look at me.
Tell Me | Atlas (Google AU) x Female Original Character
Request by @purplefyragon
GENESIS MASTERPOST
Warnings: overstimulation, mentions of passing out during sex, implied mind manipulation (kinda).
A/N: Annnnd nearly 400 words later. Had to stop myself as otherwise no requests would be finished ever. Hoping life might gimme a break idk...
She can't keep her eyes open. She can't hold her body up. She can't breathe. She could be dying, must be dying. It's not possible for her body to be able to cope with this...this onslaught. And yet every moment she lives it. It's inescapable.
Inevitable.
The thought, word, idea placed in her head causes her body to shudder, a mewl dripping onto the table she's pressed against.
Evelyn's body rocks forwards again and she has no grip to steady herself, only feels the clenching of her muscles inviting, almost trying to lock him in. Him.
Voices shout in some distance static. It's impossible to react. To do anything but let him take her. She knows they're watching. Can almost hear the horror in their voices, even if the words are obscured.
And He knows she likes it. That, she recognises in her bones.
What her body is going through however, is nothing compared to her mind.
It feels like breathing and drowning at the same time. Gulping for air whilst wave after wave hits like a tsunami. Her mind is drenched; unable to latch onto any one emotion or coherent thought at any time. Then, every so often as His cock is buried inside her, and sparks connect like attracted wires. Pure, terrifying, inhuman bliss.
Evelyn whimpers out as an inescapable moan leaves her. Then, she feels the pressure of Him leaning over her. She feels the absence of what should be His breath next to her ear like a cavernous irony.
"Tell me,"
His voice has the same effect as if He'd injected an endorphin cocktail straight into her brain stream.
Evelyn's jaw goes slack, eyes rolling so far back that she goes blind.
"No, no, no. Stay with me, beloved. Tell me how it feels,"
He commands her body like he created it.
"Nghhh..." She clings to consciousness, so eager to please, "F-feels...so muuch"
He hums his praise, almost moaning along with her.
"Yes, sweetheart. But that's not what I want,"
He leans impossibly close. Evelyn can hear Him behind your eyes.
Cw Size difference, dubcon, tentacles (I think I got everything?)
A/N: Guess who’s kinda sorta back
“Oh little bug,” his voice comes from the darkness, the tentacles wrapped around you coiling slightly tighter. “You knew what you were getting into now didn’t you.”
You wheeze a breath, not from the restriction being to tight no, but from fear. The tentacles relax even so, just a smidge. “Careful now, wouldn’t want you to break just yet”
His voice is a purr from the shadows, the amusement in it palpable. The slick and powerful coils around your torso and limbs adjust their hold, not loosening so much as shifting to a more possessive, almost cradle-like grip. The subtle movement makes your heart hammer against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of flesh and terror.
"You are far more fragile than I anticipated. This delicacy is... intriguing."
A cold, smooth tip of a tentacle traces the frantic pulse beating at the base of your throat. The touch is deliberate, intimate, mapping the evidence of your fear. It slides slowly upward, leaving a faint, cool trail on your overheated skin until it rests just under your chin, applying the gentlest pressure to tilt your head back, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat.
And that is when you finally see him. From your position before he was out of your line of sight but now. He’s relaxed against a plush couch, legs spread, human arms stretched out over the back. The tentacles that are attached to his lower back bring you closer. You don’t want to get closer.
A human hand lifts up, dragging his sunglasses down his nose to reveal his eyes to you. His red irises meet your own wide eyes and you still in the tentacles hold. The animalistic fear has ticked over from fight or flight to freeze. Freeze and maybe the predator will pass you by.
Unfortunately you’re already caught and freezing just seems to amuse him, if his smirk is anything to go by. You whimper and he full on grins now, and, are those fangs?
“Come here, come closer.” He practically purrs again. And the tentacles deposit you right into his lap. Fuck.
Dear god he’s big. Being this close to him, feeling the heat radiating from his body. His hands come to rest on your hips.
One hand creeps up under your shirt, his hand hot against your skin. The other hand trails downwards, moving to rest on your inner thigh and against your better judgement your hips involuntarily jerk forwards.
His low, dark chuckle vibrates through you, a sound felt deep in your bones. "There she is," he murmurs, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. The hand on your thigh presses down, firm and anchoring, stilling any further movement you might attempt.
The hand under your shirt splays wider, his palm searing a brand against your lower back, pulling you just that bit ever closer into the heat of his lap. You can feel the hard ridge of him beneath you, an unignorable promise of what's to come.
"See?" he purrs, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, making you shudder. "Your body is far more honest than that fearful little mind of yours. It knows what it wants. What it needs.”
Shame floods you, hot and sharp, even as a treacherous pulse of heat answers between your own thighs. You want to deny it, to scream, to fight, but all you can do is tremble in his grasp, caught between terror and a rising, dizzying tide of anticipation you desperately wish you didn't feel.
Your mouth parts into a small o, but no sound escapes. His head tilts as he watches you. You wish you could see his eyes again, they’re back behind his sunglasses, but then again maybe it’s better without seeing them.
“Oh? Is there something you want to say little bug? What’s the matter?” His voice is sickly sweet, his breath warm against your neck where he leaned into you. You tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck.
“Oh,” his response is more groan than verbal answer. His mouth ghosts against your skin before his lips touch down, and then he’s biting and you’re arching into his touch, a broken moan escaping your own lips.
“There we go, good, you’re being so good for me.” His teeth skate over your skin, not enough to leave marks. His fangs press indents into your neck and instead of pulling away you’re pressing against him, asking for more.
A pleased hum rumbles through him, vibrating against your skin where his lips are sealed on your neck. "So eager for it," he murmurs, the words a hot caress. "Ask properly."
The command hangs in the air, a final barrier before the fall. Your mind is a fog of need and shame, but your body knows the answer. The word is a ragged whisper, torn from a place deeper than pride. "Please.”
The pleasure from the pain is instantaneous. His fangs sink into your skin, a broken cry wrenched from your throat.
His hand, still splayed on your lower back, holds you firm as you shudder. The other finally, finally, slips beneath the waistband of your pants.
His touch is not a request; it's a possession. Your hips buck against his palm, a frantic, involuntary rhythm, as the slick coil of two tentacles wraps around your thighs, holding you open for him.
"Good," he groans against your ravaged throat, the praise shooting through you like a bolt of lightning. Two of his fingers rub against your slit, collecting your slick before sinking ever so slowly into you.
His sunglasses have slipped down his nose revealing part of his eyes to you. “Good job little bug, taking me so easily, it’s like you were made for it.”
The broken litany falling from your lips isn't language anymore, just ragged pleas and breathy whimpers that taste like his name. Your fingers scramble for purchase against his shoulders, nails digging into the fine fabric of his shirt as you anchor yourself against the tidal wave of sensations.
The part of you that screamed in fear has been drowned out by a roaring need, a primal drumbeat in your blood that chants more, more, more with every deliberate stroke of his fingers.
“Go on, you know you want to. Come for me. Let me feel you fall apart.”
His command is the key turning in the lock of your resistance. A sound rips from your throat, raw and shattered. The world narrows to the points of contact: his fingers buried deep inside you, the searing brand of his bite still stinging on your neck, the cool, unyielding pressure of the tentacles holding you captive and upright through the storm.
Your vision splinters into white static, your entire being clenching around him in endless, pulsing waves. It’s not pleasure. It’s an unmaking. Every thought, every fear, every shred of who you were is scoured away in the cataclysm, leaving only a blank, trembling slate in its wake.
Through the roaring in your ears, you hear his low, triumphant groan. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with a dark, visceral satisfaction. His fingers work you through the last shudders, gentling now, drawing out the sensitivity until it borders on pain. "All mine."
As the tremors finally begin to subside, a profound heaviness settles in your limbs. You go boneless in his grasp, your forehead dropping to his shoulder, utterly spent. The fight is gone. There is nothing left to give.
of COURSE i want a big sopping wet man coming after me
Oh? Well then…
~~~
You're not sure how Murdock managed to invite himself on your vacation…again. This time, at least, you got a few days to yourself before he pulled up to the house you rented for the week and made himself at home. It's actually a bit embarrassing how easily he can get you to let him stay without you realizing it until it's technically too late. And by that point, you don't want to tell him to leave.
You're not sure what the reason was for you coming out here anymore: was it your job? Or his intensity? Either way, you're stressed, and you needed this. Hence why him staying for the remainder of your time was more than a bit annoying. And for that, he needs consequences, but what, exactly? It's not like you can enact revenge on a man who can very much retaliate and have you at his mercy ten times easier than you could ever do to him. Not that the retaliation would be bad, absolutely not, but you're not looking to be pinned down straight away. So for that, you need a good idea. Or at least, a decent enough one.
You find yourself wandering to the pool out back, an in-ground one, surrounded by bushes and a tall fence. You don't have any pool so easily accessible at home, so it's been a nice luxury. Some leaf litter has gathered on the surface of the water, and you locate the pool skimmer to collect them without getting your hands wet. If you don’t, there’s a chance it could build up and fall to the floor of the pool.
Your mind starts to wander, then, thinking about what else could potentially get into a pool: debris, animals… As you go to fling the leaves from the net into the bushes, you spot a towel that you forgot to put back last night after you spent most of the evening trying to ignore Murdock by swimming in the pool. He made that rather difficult for you. (He always does.) Hence, it’s hard to think about such trivial things as “towels.” It’s a dark color, which could easily be mistaken for an animal of some sort even in daylight, if you look too quickly.
That’s when your idea forms. What if there was an animal in the pool? What if you got him to investigate? And then when he gets to the pool… Glancing back at the house, you bring the towel to the deep end, skimmer net in your other hand. You set down the net, then bundle up the fabric and press it into the water, letting it get soaked before using the handle of the net to push it down. It’s not actually long enough, but you still manage to watch the towel sink to the bottom. You replace the net in its home and dry your hands on the sides of your shorts.
Frankly, you didn’t consider what you were actually going to say. You wish you could admit that you thought this through a bit more, but the idea is just too amusing. Making sure to put as much concern into your voice as you can, you call out, “Hey Murdock? Can you come here?” There's a good thirty seconds of silence, and while he's surely already on his way, you call again, “I think there's something in the pool.”
“I'm coming,” Murdock grunts, rounding the corner in a sleeveless mock turtleneck and his usual black jeans: the perfect clothing for your plan (and for you to check him out, but that's a given and beside the point). “You said there's something in the pool?”
You nod. “I didn't investigate yet. I didn’t want to get too close and have it bite me or something.”
He tries looking in the shallow end. “I don’t see anything.”
You point at the “animal” at the other side. “It’s over there. I saw it when I got debris out of the pool, and I didn’t want to do anything without you here.”
It’s subtle, but Murdock’s chest puffs up a little when you say that—and you did say that completely on purpose, just for that reason. Pride cometh before the fall, after all. “Let me look,” he says.
With practiced, measured steps, he walks forward, with you following close behind. His hand is outstretched on instinct, despite being empty. Murdock typically has a keen eye, but he doesn't seem to notice anything amiss about the lump in pool that he vocalizes. You hope it remains convincing when he gets closer. Your heart is beating loudly in your chest, your chances of pulling this off teetering with every step he takes. The gap closes, slowly but surely, until he's nearly reached the side of the pool. That's when he stops.
You frown behind him. That won't do. “You're gonna stop there? You've gotta get a little closer.”
He turns and gives you a look. “But you hadn't gotten any closer.”
“I hadn't because I was scared. But you can.” You more or less bat your eyelashes at him. “Please?”
He huffs quietly. “Alright.” Murdock moves closer, and you encourage him up a little more, so now his feet hang slightly over the edge of the wall. He's even leaning over a little to get a better view. You only have a split second to act before he realizes that you’ve tricked him, and only a second longer than that before he potentially puts together your little prank.
Men do not have an “even” center of gravity, located more in the chest, causing them to be more “top heavy.” Murdock is no exception. All it takes is one good push to send him tumbling into the pool, grunting in surprise, and you book it to the adjacent side towards the shallow end, giggling. Murdock splashes around, but it doesn't take long for him to get his bearings and his feet under him; and for as tall as he is, his head easily pokes out of the water just enough for him to breathe comfortably. The man glares at you, and the annoyance on his face has you stifling your laughter. You fail pretty easily, emboldened by him being stuck in the pool.
“You think that's funny, huh?”
There's genuine annoyance in his voice, but also that tinge of danger that tends to make itself known when he speaks low like this. You know it doesn't mean anything when he's talking to you, but there's an instinctual part of yourself that still goes mildly on alert every time. While normally you'd wonder what he's thinking, right now you're just pleased as punch that this worked, looking like a cat who got the cream. “Mmm, maybe just a little bit.” You bring your index finger and thumb close to each other when you say that, as if indicating the amount.
Murdock doesn't take his eyes off of you, pulling himself out of the pool using the edge almost a little too effortlessly. The intensity that rarely leaves him has you squirming on the inside, but outwardly, you continue smiling innocently. He doesn’t say anything for a while, water dripping loudly off of him, his shirt clinging to his muscles. You’re trying not to stare. “You think you’re clever, hm?”
You’re not fully sure that it’s just annoyance in his expression anymore. You pretend you don’t notice. “Well, yes, since I managed to get the jump on you.”
Now you wish you know what he was thinking as his eyes narrow slightly. Despite being somewhat far from him, his demeanor and his energy makes it feel like he’s right in your space. “And what do I do with you?”
Your grin widens, seeing an opportunity, and you utter those magic words: “You'll have to catch me first.”
In an instant, his expression darkens, a primal intent crossing his features, and you relish the way your stomach twists and your heart races suddenly as a familiar feeling makes itself known below. Murdock growls. “You have fifteen seconds.”
He's barely finished speaking and you're already running, taking off down the side of the house. You know exactly how this is going to end, and as much as you'll do your best to prolong it, you also can't wait.
~~~
.....this mayyy have gotten away from me lol. 1384 words, in case you were wondering, and I didn't even write anything smutty ahdjdbd
Warnings: implied stalking, mentions of blood kink, mentions a knife (not sexually), vouyeristic, dubious consent (listening to someone)
A/N: I crawled out of the woods for this.
When she hears you, it feels as if the knife is made of glass. Murdock swears she hears it shatter, her red stained lip curling upwards in a silent snarl. The killer has to cover her own mouth with a leather covered hand to stop...something. A curse, a groan? The action would surely smuge, if it were lipstick painted on her face.
Only for reconisance. For protection. To know for certain whether she needed to move on from this place - if the fawn was too clever for her own good.
These are all the things she tells herself as she presses her back against the wall, eyes closed as if that will shut out the sound of your pitiful pleasure.
And pitiful really is the word. Your moans are too high, too sharp - a symptom of how inadequate your own touches are. Oh, your poor sweet thing.
Her eyelids grow heavy, breath slowing as she listens deeply, unable to resist the mental image seeping into the forefront of her mind.
A small whine; your finger grazing your clit. A groan; your hips rolling, desperate to seek friction. All notes that are cut off far too soon - how much more you deserve.
She could show you - an arm pressing your hips down as her long, brawny fingers find that sweet spot all too easily. Making you take it. Encouraging your desperate pleas.
You wouldn't know what to do, little fawn. The feeling too new and too much for you to do anything but throw your head back.
Reality bleeds into fantasy as Murdock uses your unknowing performance to feed her own hunger. She feels her tongue graze the sharp edges of her teeth, the action mimcking her imagination as you squirm in her grasp; the lips of your cunt throbbing as she feasts on you, the only one who will ever taste it, marks on your back that claim you as-
Something is knocked to the floor and the spell is broken.
Instinct drives the killer, turning silently through the landing to the open window. She's out before you've even replaced the alarm clock on your bedside cabinet - frustration and defeat creasing your brow as the unsovlavle puzzle of your pleasure is once again left unsatisfied.
The thought of your body sprawlled out against the leather of the backseat fuells the speed of her drive home. A different kind of body than the one currently in the trunk, of course.
The problem with having one braincell's worth of creative energy means I aggressively hyperfixate on what I'm using that creative braincell to make. I.e., I latch onto a character/fandom and create for them.
This is why Crossroads was a creative exercise for 2 years straight and now has to share the energy with a personal project I sort of latched onto unintentionally with grave consequences for mineself: there is no outward Fandom to pull from.
I gotta write the smut and lore MYSELF.
And when life is happening, I don't have the energy to write anything, let alone for myself or the only other person that exists in this party of two AI god hell.
And I still don't even know what it was about this fuckin thing that made me invest braincell into it beyond echo writing good. And it wasn't even gonna be a big thing! Like 3 parts of random robot smut!
Yet now there's this whole universe of lore and I keep adding more to it. Its part of an anthology with Chains now.
Haha well cross like- all of that out lmao because
we lost half our staff so it's NOT slow
then necessary surgery for a family member/me taking care of them while working
then fuckin- he gets SICK and ends up in the hospital for almost a WEEK
then I FUCKIN GET SICK with an UNRELATED Illness
2025 starting out ass
At least I still have stinky man brainworms
A/N: So...life got in the way of that kinktober for both @umbral-archives and I. In the meantime, we've been skrunkin something new, based on Google and happening a fair few decades after Chains. Here's a snippet of that world...
Warnings: tentacles, possessive themes, biting, hypnosis/mind manipulation, religious connotations.
When she falls to the floor, it's like her legs simply stop working. Ashe barely even feels it; the sound of her boots squeaking on the old laminate floor muffled like she was deafened by a gunshot.
As she hits the ground, her neck remains strained backwards. Looming over her - like a mountain - is an ATLAS unit. It's unlike anything she's seen before. Despite her impact, it's the ache in her neck that fuels the ice cold shards of fear in her veins. Her uncle used to read real - physical - books from the early 21st century to her when she was a kid. Ashe remembers one heavy collection of fables; a story of a lion and a mouse. She imagines this is how the mouse felt.
She doesn't stop to get a better look. Her hands are scrambling behind her, arms pushing to hold her weight enough to haul herself back off the floor. It's a mess of limbs as she manages to turn and get on her feet, running with no sense of reason or plan besides getting away.
Ashe doesn't have the capacity to think about what exactly she's running away from. Flight or fight is in full force, taking her over so that all function is focused on putting as much distance between whatever it is and herself. She's looking at the exit; the thin slither of daylight at the end of the corridor providing hope. And then she's looking at the floor.
Closing her eyes - expecting to hit the ground violently - Ashe braces herself…for something that never comes. Confused, scared at what she might find, her eyes open slowly to see the laminate a few inches from her face. For a second, the pattern of dust and gravel entrances her. Then, something pulls her upright, still hovering above the floor. Ashe feels a new emotion run through her body, as visceral as the restraints tugging against her body. Horror.
Inch by inch - as if the adrenaline has forced her mind to view the world in slow motion - Ashe is pulled closer to where she knows the unit is standing.
And then, she is held still. Ashe half expects the terror of feeling breath against her skin…but the absence of it may be more disturbing. Her own breath seems to hang in the air.
The ghost of fingers against her neck has her reeling; writhing against her restraints in a moment of pure panic. But Ashe can barely move an inch, even as she finds herself pressed against solid muscle by a steel forearm. She can't help but whimper as she feels the stroke of a thumb against her collar bone…an edge of something sharp barely scratching against her skin.
"That's better, sweet thing. Now, we can meet each other properly,"
His voice is deep. It feels like it soaks into her bones. She feels herself shudder, only serving as a reminder of how utterly cocooned she is within his grasp.
Deeper than that though, she can feel a pressure at the back of her head. It's not painful, far from it. It's almost as if there's something searching through her brain, stroking her thoughts, trying to gain entrance.
She wants to curse, to growl insults to make up for her lack of movement. But when Ashe reaches for words…there's nothing there. It's like her brain can only focus on fighting the intrusion. All of the running, the fighting, the sacrifice…and still she's ended up here.
The lack of her own voice is made up for by a low, deep, almost reverent groan. The sound travels through her body, as if the pleasure were her own. Waves of bliss seem to crash into Ashe; something her cliffs of resistance can barely hold back against.
"Oh, sweet girl. It's so good to feel you, my beloved sanctity…to touch you,"
The second his hands are on her, Ashe's eyes snap shut against a blinding euphoria. Every brush against her skin makes her breath shudder. He strokes her bare shoulders, over her collar bone - as if he were a sculptor crafting his masterpiece from marble.
All the while, the pressure keeps caressing her mind; whispering promises and praises that seep into her consciousness.
A heaviness encumbers her, deepening with the pleased rumble of her captor. Someone is mewling, happily whimpering as she feels the tender touch of lips at her neck; a kiss that becomes passionate, overwhelming. There's a sharpness there too; an intoxicating bitterness. Ashe is lost to it.
"That's right, sweetheart. Fall into me. Let yourself go,"
There's a sharp, clawing sensation at the front of Ashes' mind. Something telling her that this isn't right, that she needs to fight this. Her limbs pull against her restraints a little.
"Shh. Be at peace, beloved. I'm here, you can let me in,"
Something snaps.
Ashe's eyes fly open, as panicked and enraged as a wild animal suddenly realising it's caught in a trap. With strength only gifted by human determination, she kicks back with all her force. The tendrils around her loosen immediately, the arm releasing so that she falls to the floor.
Once again, Ashe scrambles to put space between her and the android. She doesn't get far, the effects of the infection demanding entrance making her dazed, weak.
The giant in front of her sighs, tendrils seeming to slither back, absorbing into his shoulders. He stretches his neck, tongue flicking out to taste her lingering flavour on his lips. A hint of fang shows.
He feels so familiar. So known to her that it's almost uncanny. His features are handpicked…his resemblance like a balad to her fantasies. The dread that gives her is like ice in her veins.
"Ashe," He states, her name heavy on his lips. As if it belongs there.
She knows what this is. She can feel it now, as certain as the air she breathes. A heavy stone sinks in her stomach.
The Genesis unit kneels, his face no longer hazed by sunlight. As his eyes meet hers, the ethereal, pure white seeps into Ashe's gaze. The colour of her nightmares.
"You have a habit of getting lost on your way to me, my dear Chosen. Don't worry. I'm here to guide you home,"
