#I will be printing this and taping it to my wall

[aila0veyou2death]

HIHIHI!! I saw that requests are on lmao and wanted to request if u can write about a Toga!reader from mha with Mark? I dont have this request well thought out lol but I wanna to read about the reader asking Mark to suck his blood cuz she loves him sm and it's just a way of loving him/wanting to be closer to him. Or maybe how she would be with other variants and their reactions to this?

𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

𖹭 pairing: invincible/mark grayson x toga!reader (A.K.A everyone's favorite punching bag with savior complex x darling killer who just wants to be loved)

𖹭 TW: NON CON touching, dark content, blood, gore, violence, yandere behavior, deaths, biting, body horror, m4sterbati0n, biting, n3cr0philia?, sadism, knifeplay, love confession, blood kink, (no smut)

𖹭 author's note: hey love, huge thanks for being my very first requester! ♡ I did my best to capture Himiko Toga's personality, but I gave her my own little twist (hope you don't mind!). I really hope you enjoy this fic, even though it's a bit long and messy. Thanks again for the support :P

YOU left a trail of blood and filth in your wake.

It all started with one body—a man in his forties, found slumped against a dumpster in the alley behind Burger Mart. His throat was cleanly slit, his chest torn open, and his heart gone, leaving only a dried smear of blood across his torso. His limbs were stiff and awkward, as if he'd been dropped carelessly. His skin had gone pale, cold, and tight over his bones, drained of every last drop of blood.

He looked like an empty juice box tossed aside without a second thought.

Just another late-night murder in a city built on violence—the kind of death that barely stirred public interest, let alone made the evening news.

The responding officers were clearly unsettled when they arrived. One of them muttered something about how clean the wound was, how deliberate. Another swore under his breath, as the flashlight trembled in his grip. But there were no leads. No witnesses. No surveillance footage. No prints. Just a corpse that looked too neat for a gang hit and too messy for a clean kill.

They did their job, took their photos, wrote their reports, called it in. The word "TASTY" spelled out on the body had been exsanguinated post-mortem, but couldn't confirm the exact method. It was strange, yes—but in a city like this, strange wasn't enough.

They chalked it up to a mugging gone wrong. Maybe organ trafficking. Maybe some unhinged vigilante making a statement. There was no evidence to say otherwise. So they zipped up the body bag, filed the paperwork, and quietly tossed the case into the ever-growing pile of unresolved crimes that were collecting dust in the precinct basement.

It was left unsolved and forgotten.

Until it happened again.

A week later, it was a young woman, barely in her twenties, who was found dead inside the dressing room of a small boutique downtown. She sat on the floor like a broken doll, her back slouched against the wall, chin tilted down as if she was admiring the beautiful, blood-soaked dress clinging to her body. Her skin was covered in tiny crescent-shaped marks, like someone had kissed her over and over with their teeth.

This one caught the attention of the police. It felt off—ritualistic, too personal. But even then, they brushed it off as a one-off. Maybe it was caused by an angry customer in the shop or maybe a jealous friend. Something. They didn't connect it to the man in the alley, not yet. Just another case buried under red tape and assumptions.

But then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Different corners of the city. Different types of victims. Men. Women. Younglings. Elderlies. None of them seemed to be connected. No shared workplace or relationship. No overlapping habits. But every single one was found the same way—drained, pale, twisted like marionettes with cut strings. Bloodless. Limbs bent into impossible angles. Bite marks blooming across their skin like bruises. Some were stabbed until their organs spilled out in ribbons. Others… seemed to have been used—touched, posed, played with, like toys in some perverted game.

Then the pattern shifted.

And that's when the Global Defense Agency finally got involved.

It wasn't just civilians anymore.

Low-grade heroes began vanishing without a trace. Sidekicks. Interns barely fresh out of training, still grinning with hope, still figuring out how to zip up their suits the right way, disappeared on solo patrols and never came back. At first, it was brushed off as carelessness. A few days passed, then their bodies started showing up.

But it didn't stop there.

Even villains—ones with reputations too terrifying to whisper—started turning up butchered like raw meat. Some were found with their tongues torn out. Others with their chests split open, hearts missing entirely.

There were always messages.

Little tokens of affection left behind at every scene.

Heart shapes drawn in blood—on walls, on floors, sometimes on the bodies themselves. Lipstick kisses pressed onto cold, lifeless throats. And words—carved into skin like poetry, each letter trembling with obsession.

"LOVE ME."

"MINE."

"TOUCH HIM AND DIE."

"PRETTY."

They weren't just killings anymore. They were something darker. Unhinged. A twisted display of violence that made even the most seasoned investigators shudder. There was no clear pattern to follow, but one thing started to stand out—many of the victims were unnervingly attractive. Young, beautiful, desirable. But that wasn't the worst part.

The brutality felt... personal. It was as if whoever was doing this had more than just a need to kill. The manner of the deaths—those intimate, grotesque marks left on the bodies—suggested a perversion, an obsession that couldn't be ignored. It wasn't about justice or revenge. This felt like something far more insidious.

Some even whispered about the killer being a vampire, but no one could explain how such a creature could walk through the city without being noticed. What was clear, though, was the terror each crime scene radiated. Whoever was responsible was insane, driven by something no one could comprehend.

That they didn't care if the victims were heroes, villains, or something in between. Capes, masks, titles—they were all meaningless.

Because this wasn't a killing spree anymore.

This was a love letter.

Written in blood.

Signed with madness.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Invincible.

That very name sent a thrill down your spine every time it was whispered on the news, shouted in panic, or etched into headlines soaked in blood and awe. Invincible. The son of Omni-man. The golden boy born from betrayal.

Everyone knew who he was.

The world called him a hero—sometimes. Other times, they called him a fool. A ticking time bomb. A monster wearing his father's old sins like a second skin, dressed up in bright yellow and blue as if that would cleanse the blood off his name.

But not you. Never you.

You didn't see a monster.

You saw him.

Because once—just once—he saved your life.

The memory of being caught up in the middle of a villain's rampage. Just another face in the panicked crowd. You don't remember much of it—only the weight of rubble above you, the scent of smoke, and the rising certainty that you were about to die.

And then he was there. A blur of colors and blood. Bruised, limping, and barely standing himself.

But yet, he still chose you to save you.

He picked you up with shaking arms and got you out of there. Just for a second, you were cradled against his chest like you were something fragile. Precious even. His heartbeat thundered against your ear. You remember the way he looked down at you—exhausted, bleeding, but alive.

And in that fleeting moment, you believed your life mattered.

To him.

Even if he forgot you the second he flew off to save someone else, that moment stayed with you. Blooming into something deeper than you could fully register.

The hero named Invincible had unlocked something dangerous inside of you.

He's always fighting. Always surviving.

Covered in blood and bruises, barely breathing some days. Even when the world turned against him, even when his own body gave out and he collapsed mid-battle, he always got back up. That's what made you love him. Not his strength. Not the name. But the way he suffered. The way he bled for people who never deserved him. The way he hurt.

And maybe it started there. The obsession. The infatuation. Watching him on grainy livestreams, recording every frame, memorizing the way his fists clenched when he got angry, the way he winced every time he got hurt. You've read every thread, followed every forum. Collected every newspaper and photograph like sacred scripture.

But it wasn't enough.

You needed more.

So you started digging. Slipping into dark corners of the web, bribing black-market info dealers, paying in blood when money wasn't enough. You broke into agency servers, threatened people who got too nosy. You memorized GDA patrol routes, stole files, hacked comms, followed him through the sky when you could.

Until one night, there it was—buried in a corrupted data file deep inside a forgotten hard drive pulled from a broken GDA drone. A name and a face revealed itself.

Mark Grayson.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Mark.

Mark.

He had a name. A home. A life. A history. He wasn't just a fantasy anymore—he was real.

You laughed and cried a little, maybe. Hugged the screen monitor to your chest like it was a love letter. You whispered his name over and over until it tasted like sugar on your tongue. You watched old news clips of his father, paused them at just the right frames to see Mark in the background. You replayed the moments you had once overlooked, tracing his figure on the screen with a gentle touch.

It felt like falling in love all over again—except this time, you were closer than ever to your goal. Closer to making him love you back.

But even then—he still didn't see you.

Because no matter how much you watched, no matter how close you got,

he never looked back.

So you made sure he'd notice.

You stopped holding back.

For the first time, you let the hunger consume you completely. Twenty lives in just under a month. Twenty warm bodies that writhed and begged and bled beneath your hands. You drained them dry, one after another, licking the life right out of their veins as if savoring the last drops of wine at a decadent feast.

Each one tasted different. Some sharp, metallic. Others are sweet like syrup. But none of them were his. None of them made your tongue tingle with that fantasy you've played over and over in your head.

Mark Grayson.

What would he taste like? Would his blood be warm and rich like sunlight, or bitter with the weight of his pain? Would it burn your throat like a guilty pleasure, or melt on your tongue like a secret?

The thought alone made your thighs press together.

You only chose the pretty ones. The ones with soft skin and bright eyes—people who looked like they were built to be adored. People who, in your twisted logic, deserved to die in the warmth of your love. You'd cradle their lifeless faces as their blood soaked your clothes, paint hearts on their cheeks with their own fluids, whisper sweet nothings into their cold, deaf ears.

And when it was over—when their final breath left their lungs and the world went quiet—you didn't stop just yet.

You straddled the corpse while it was still warm, with sticky blood clinging to your thighs as you rocked your hips slowly, teasing yourself on the dead man's body like it was a lover. It wasn't him—but in your mind, it was. It had to be. You closed your eyes and pretended, trembling as your fingers slid between your folds, soaked with arousal and death.

Your slick mixed with blood, dripped down your thighs as you fucked yourself harder—two fingers deep, knuckle-deep, curling and thrusting as you used their cooling body like a prop for your fantasy. You moaned like a slut, voice broken and desperate with your hips grinding in slow, obscene circles. The blood made everything slippery, messy, and perfect.

You pictured Mark pinning you down, his weight pressing into you, his bloodied hands gripping your wrists, voice snarling filth into your ear as he rutted into you like an animal. You imagined the way he'd split you open, ruin you so good you'd cry for it, his cock stretching you while the world burned around you both.

"Fuck—Mark!" you cried out, breath hitching, fingers fucking faster, rougher. "Need you. Need your cock—need your cum—fuck, please—"

Your back arched as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt clenching around your own fingers while your blood-slicked thighs trembled violently. You sobbed out his name again, drunk on the fantasy, ruined on top of a corpse you barely remembered killing.

You slumped forward, sticky and panting, with your cheek pressed to a cooling chest. You smiled through the tears and mess.

You were getting closer.

Closer to being his.

Closer to making him yours.

Even if it meant drowning the world in red.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Mark knew about the murders.

You'd be living under a rock if you never heard about it. It was all over the news—headlines screaming about bodies found mutilated and drained of blood, left in grotesque, intimate poses that made even seasoned investigators sick. The killings weren't just violent. They felt personal. Victims were left sprawled on the ground, limbs twisted as if reaching for someone who was never coming. Faces frozen in terror, cheeks smeared with blood-streaked fingerprints, like a lover's touch gone horribly wrong.

At first, it was just civilians. Pretty young women. Handsome men. People who had no connection, no obvious reason to be targeted except that they looked like they belonged in a perfume ad or a fashion magazine. Then a couple of low-level villains ended up dead in the same fashion. Then a few heroes and agency interns. One of them was someone Mark knew. Not well, but enough that it knocked the breath from his lungs when he heard their death.

The GDA started getting involved—quietly at first. But Mark noticed them—agents rushing to crime scenes in the darkest corners of the city, murmuring words like "copycat killer" and "blood fetish" under their breath.The vibe around these murders was different. Everyone felt it. And Mark, who was still reeling from his most recent fight, exhausted and still healing, didn't need one more horror to add to his plate.

And then the letters started showing up.

It began with a simple package. No return address. Dropped into his college dorm mail. Mark barely noticed it until he saw the label:

To my darling Invincible ♡

He frowned and opened it. Inside was a small, handmade plushie of himself. Perfectly stitched in that bright yellow and blue colors. Tiny little bloodstains dabbed at the corners, like someone pricked their fingers while sewing it. There was a note folded neatly beneath it—written in looping, pretty cursive on rose-scented paper:

Hii ♡ You don't know me, but I know you! I'm your biggest fan! I watch you all the time and I love everything you do~ You're so strong and brave and amazing, even when you’re hurt... actually, especially when you're hurt. It makes me want to hold you and kiss all your bruises better ♡

You looked so tired and beaten up on the news the other day... seeing you like that made my chest ache. I just wanted to scoop you up and take care of you myself. I hope this little gift keeps you company while you rest! ♡

Please eat well and get lots of sleep, okay? I worry about you sooo much... you mean more to me than anything in the world. I love you so much (>///<)

I'll be watching you always~ ♡

Love forever,

Your #1 fan ♡

No name. No address. No explanation. Just… that.

Mark didn't think much of it at first. Fans existed. Some got weird. He was used to bizarre mail—requests for autographs, drawings, the occasional flirty note. But then came the second letter.

Then the third.

Then the fourth.

That's when things turned strange.

Trinkets started arriving in neat little boxes, tied with delicate pink ribbons. Locks of black hair sealed in plastic. Dried petals soaked in blood, pressed between handwritten pages that reeked of perfume and iron.

Child-like drawings with crayon hearts and stick figures of him and someone else—always a girl with blank, blacked-out eyes and a red smile too wide. They were always holding hands. Always kissing.

Sometimes, he was drawn with a knife in his chest, and the girl crying hearts onto his body.

One package contained a half-burned photograph of him walking out of school in plain clothes—his backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes on his phone. The back reads in smeared ink:

You're so beautiful when you're distracted. I want to be the one who breaks your focus.

Another box had a teddy bear with its head stitched back on, soaked in something sticky and sweet-smelling. A voice recording hidden in its stuffing played a girl humming softly. A lullaby. Twisted and broken by static. But underneath the crackle, he could hear her muttering his name.

And then there were the letters—so many letters.

Covered in lipstick marks, childish doodles, dried blood, and glitter.

They didn't ask for anything.

They only promised to bring him love and devotion. Forever.

I'll be your everything, even if you don't want me yet. I already belong to you.

You looked so tired last night. Gosh, I really wanted to kiss every bruise. Don't worry—I will, one day.

Do you know how many people I've turned down just for you? They begged, but they weren't you. They didn't matter.

Mark didn't say it aloud, but something about it all crawled beneath his skin...

That's when he finally realized.

The gifts weren't addressed to Mark Grayson.

No, they were always for Invincible—but they referenced things only someone who knew his real identity would know. What shirt he wore on campus. Which route he walked home. How he looked when he was too tired to smile. The way he joked with his friends at Burger Mart. What nights he stayed home with his mom, helping her cook dinner because he "owed her a favor."

Details no one should know.

But yet, someone out there knew.

Mark sat at his desk that night, letters scattered across the wood, the room unnervingly quiet around him. He picked up one of the envelopes and turned it over, brow frowning when he caught sight of the kiss mark in blood staining the seal.

Still no name.

Still no hint of who it was.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the mess of notes and little trinkets piling up.

This wasn't normal. They weren't just a fan. This wasn't just admiration, and whoever this was—they've been watching him. Following him. Studying him. A possible threat.

Mark wasn't scared.

He was pissed off.

And worried.

Because if someone was willing to cross this many lines for him...

What else were they willing to do?

Mark's mind raced with possibilities, ugly scenarios spinning out like spiderwebs. What if they came after his mom? His friends? What if they were already close enough to touch him without him even knowing?

Because sooner or later, Mark knew, he was going to have to face them.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

The mission was chaos.

What was supposed to be a simple takedown turned into a battlefield straight out of a nightmare.

Mutated beasts, bigger and faster than anything they'd been briefed for, tore through the abandoned industrial zone.

The new Guardians fought to keep up, but they were scattered, wounded, shouting over broken comms.

Mark barely caught sight of a flash of claws before a massive creature barreled into him, sending him flying like a stone across the concrete wasteland.

The world spun.

He smashed through a wall, skidded across broken asphalt, and lay there for a second, groaning, the night air cold and sharp in his lungs. His body screamed in protest, but he forced himself up, shaking debris out of his hair. His vision swam. Distantly, he heard the others still fighting—but he was cut off, alone.

Stumbling forward, he turned to a corner—and froze.

In the half-lit clearing beyond the broken ruins, a scene of carnage stretched out before him.

One young sidekick—a rookie, barely older than a kid—lay dead in a pool of blood, body twisted unnaturally.

Another sidekick, battered and gasping, feebly tried to crawl away from the figure kneeling over them.

It wasn't a monster.

It was a girl.

YOU sat comfortably in a puddle of blood like it was a warm bath, your head tilted slightly, as you hummed a tune under your breath. Blood soaked your clothes and hands. There's even smudges across your cheek in a careless streak. In one hand, you toyed with a gleaming knife, twirling it lazily between your fingers.

His presence seems to have alarmed you as you looked up in his direction.

Then the moment your eyes locked on his, they lit up like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time.

"Invincible!" You gasped, voice bubbling with giddy excitement. You clapped your bloodstained hands to your cheeks, practically vibrating with happiness. "You're really here! I can't believe it! You're really here! Oh god!"

Mark stiffened instinctively, with his body screaming to move, to do something, but he stayed frozen, caught off guard by the sheer giddiness pouring off you in waves.

You quickly rose to your feet, swaying slightly, with a blood-streaked knife dangling loosely from your fingers. You approached him with a light, almost bouncing step, as if walking on air. Your cheeks were flushed pink, your eyes glossy with tearful joy, your whole body trembling from sheer excitement.

"I'm your biggest fan!" you cried out, your voice quivering with emotion. "I've dreamt about meeting you, about actually talking to you! I was expecting it to be a little more romantic—but that's fine! You're here! You're standing right in front of me! And that's all that matters!" you babbled, the words tumbling over each other in your giddy rush. You looked at him like a little girl seeing her favorite fairytale prince come to life, as if you had just won the most precious thing in the world.

Mark's heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

For a moment, he could only stare at you, the words tripping over themselves in his fogged brain.

Biggest fan.

The letters.

The bloody gifts.

The weird, child-like drawings.

The lock of hair.

He blinked hard, with his mind racing and stomach sinking.

"...Wait," he croaked, voice rough with disbelief. He took a slow, instinctive half-step back. "Wait—don't tell me you're the—the one who's been giving me all those gifts—"

"Yes!!" you burst out, cutting him off, your bloody hands clapping together with a wet, sticky sound. "That was me!! Oh my God, you figured it out so fast! You're so smart, Mark! I always knew you were perfect!" you squealed, bouncing once on the balls of your feet like an overexcited child.

Mark's blood ran cold.

He instinctively shifted another step back, his jaw clenching as his gaze flicked briefly past you—to the bodies sprawled behind you. One unmoving. Another still twitching weakly.

No.

No, no.

He forced himself to focus back on you, his fists tightening at his sides.

"You..." he growled, his voice low and furious now. "You're the one who's been killing people these past few months."

You tilted your head sweetly, your blood-matted hair sliding over your shoulder. You blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes, like he had just asked if you liked puppies.

"Aaand?" you said lightly, letting out a soft giggle that sent a shiver down his spine.

Fuck.

You're insane.

You're dangerous.

And you're obsessed—with him.

He shifted his weight, preparing to strike first, to end this before anyone else got hurt.

But you were faster.

The moment he tensed, you lunged at him with startling speed, the gleaming knife flashing in your hand. The blade, still smeared with blood, arced toward him with wild, giggling energy. At your hip, some strange mechanical device strapped around your waist hissed softly—lined with sharp little needles, twitching and ready.

Mark dodged just in time, but you were relentless, laughing breathlessly, slicing at him with wild abandon. Every time he stepped back, you pressed closer, your face flushed with sheer exhilaration.

"I love you, Mark!!" you gasped between attacks, your voice high and breathless. "I've always loved you! You're my everything! Everything I ever wanted!"

The knife slashed again, grazing his arm—it was not deep, but enough to sting.

And your device sprang to life instantly—a sharp, thin needle shooting toward the wound like a striking snake, trying to drink from the fresh cut.

Mark snarled and slapped it away, stumbling back, panting.

"You're insane!" he snapped, his voice shaking with furious disbelief. "Stay the hell away from me!"

But you only laughed—in a sweet, trembling, horrifying sound, so full of innocent adoration it made his skin crawl.

"I just want to be a part of you." you whispered, clutching the bloody knife close to your chest like a precious love letter. "I want to live inside you, Mark. Right here..." You pressed a bloodied hand flat against your own chest, over your heart, your eyes dreamy and soft. "Inside your ribs, close to your heart... wrapped up in your warmth forever... Isn't that beautiful?"

Mark's stomach twisted.

He had fought monsters before. Aliens. Mutants. Nightmares from beyond the stars.

But this?

This was worse.

This was human. Twisted into something terrifying.

And it wanted him.

You twirled the knife playfully between your fingers, giggling breathlessly, the blood on your face gleaming under the broken, flickering streetlights. "You're just so adorable like this, all bruised and bloody," you cooed lovingly. "I just want to scoop you up and put you in my pocket... keep you safe forever. So no one can ever hurt you again! Wouldn't that be nice, Mark? Only me... Only I get to touch you."

Mark's fists clenched tighter, fury burning through his veins.

He charged at you without thinking—and for a moment you dodged gracefully, almost dancing—before you spun on your heel and lunged, stabbing at him again with the sharp device strapped to your waist.

Mark grunted as he hit the ground hard, the air punching out of his lungs. Before he could even scramble up, you were on him — straddling his hips, pinning him down with surprising strength. Your hands, still sticky with blood, pressed against his chest as you leaned in close, your face flushed, your eyes wide and glassy with adoration.

The needle found a new wound, and it pierced just beneath his ribs—and you let out a shaky, blissful sigh, your whole body shuddering in delight.

"Please..." you whispered desperately, voice trembling with devotion. "Please, just let me have a sip... just a little taste... so we can be connected. So I can be with you forever..."

You gazed down at him, your eyes wide, glassy, pleading.

"Let me live inside you, Mark... inside your heart... inside your blood... I want to be yours forever and ever and ever..."

Mark struggled, growling under his breath, but your grip was surprisingly firm. His body tensed and jerked beneath you, trying to break free, but you clung to him with the desperation of someone who had waited their whole life for this moment. His mind screamed for him to move, to fight, to do something—but there was something stopping him.

Maybe it was the hesitation blooming like a poisonous flower in his chest, a sick, churning knot twisting his guts.

Or maybe it was the blood loss—the slow, awful realization creeping over him as he felt the thin sharp tubes of your device hungrily siphoning more and more of his blood, the warmth of it leaving his body in shuddering waves.

He gritted his teeth, his heart hammering painfully, his vision starting to blur at the edges. His fists clenched into the fabric of your outfit as he tried to push you off, but you only pressed closer, pinning him tighter against the cold concrete with a strength fueled by sheer, manic devotion.

"Get off me...!" he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice low and dangerous—but you only giggled softly in response and that sent fresh chills skittering down his spine.

Your eyes shimmered with feverish delight as you leaned down, your face inches from his. "Not until you love me back..." you whispered, voice quivering with emotion, "and let me have a taste of your blood."

Mark's body jerked weakly beneath you, but you shushed him, your bloody fingers brushing tenderly over his bruised cheek, smearing crimson across his skin like war paint. You smiled widely, trembling with joy—like this was the happiest moment of your life.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, gritting his teeth harder, trying to block out the horrible sweetness of your words. He forced his body to move, to react—but the blood loss made everything slow, sluggish, like moving underwater.

The needle of your device slid deeper against his skin, greedily drinking from him, and you let out a soft, breathless sigh of pure bliss, your whole body shuddering from the overwhelming happiness of being this close to him as your dream finally come reality.

"You're mine now." you whispered.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

author's note: sorry this took forever to finish! I kinda stared at anon's request for a while like "??? Help:)" because this was actually my first time writing a request fic! Thankyou so much for being patient and reading through it!

[purplepixel]

Have a great Birthday 🎂

*runs away to never be seen again*

WAIT WAIT NO COME BACK!!!

THIS IS SO GOOD!! I LOVE THE WAY YOU DREW MY DRAGON BUNNY

Thank you so much!

[attleboy]

i got so happy when i saw the new official pomni art that i started clappign and giggling she's so fucking silly i love her so much

anyway i had to speedrun a redraw :) behold. this fucking thing

[it case you haven't see it yet, original under the cut! it was posted on glitch's twitter]

[phonification]

little thing i made for my room!!!

[boneskullravenriver]

I actually really like that astarion looks... I don't want to say aged, but like... Idk how to describe it.. adult?? So many times in media they always make a point to mention how youthful vampires are and how smooth their skin is. But astarion has laugh lines, his skin wrinkles when he emotes. And it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. He's ethereal and gorgeous. And I find it hilarious how he has a line where he goes "and beautiful. Not enough people mention that!" Because if only he knew how much brainrot he's caused in the minds of hundreds of people online simply by existing

[authenticcadence18]

I am CRUING LAUGHING AT THIS

[fridayiminlovemp3]

my bedroom from 2017 <3

[nixon-nitration-works]

I’m about to start acting like a goddamn dog.

[meownotgood]

ALSO I'M PRETTY SURE I TOTALLY FORGOT TO SHARE THIS BUT ONE OF MY BESTIES GOT AKI'S VA SIGNATURE AND SENT IT TO ME 🥹🥹🥹 and some other aki goodies.... I'm so happy to own his va's signature now!! and he wrote my name stop it 😭💞

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Hi! I just need to ask after seeing your recent Bad Kids Class Swap piece - do you have an online store/do you think you might ever consider printing the piece as a poster? I’m in love with it and I know I’d absolutely buy it right away XD

huh you know what let's get a poll goin! lemme know if folks want to like buy prints from this blog and such. there are literally Two (2) pieces eligible for prints here anyway lol

more information: I'll probs use inprnt if I put up a storefront and I'll only put up standalone illustrations for prints. fully leaving the future open for this one I'm truly not pressed either way abt this

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

sometimes you can get dopamine through the mail actually :) prints/lanyards/washi tape are from Ouroridae, the Lucanis sparkly button is form WyldflowerArtz!

[fantasticalleigh]

Having art prints on your walls is a great way to decorate your room but watch out bc these shits will randomly fall off the wall at any given time such as four thirty eight in the motherfucking morning and startle you and your dog awake.

[rengokublr]

rengoku figure via crunchyroll's website

[triglycercule]

the downside of getting cool new horror sans red walls is reorganizing your room and realizing GODDAMN IT I HAVE SO MUCH USELESS SHIT IN HERE

[matoitech]

toyhouse is such a magical place i go to look at a design i think is cool and the popup b4 u can look at the persons ocs is like 'please dont send me pms about how i dont deserve to own my ocs bcuz i dont draw them enough, i promise i really do care about them and how much i draw them doesnt determine how much i deserve them' smoke on the horizon cuz damn

[nickloonie]

i just looked around my room and realized how bad the hyperfixation is