#anon wat

[chrliekclly]

When Charlie is covered in dirt and grime and trying to fix the wiring on the tv. Yeah.

we love filth and sweat and blood here

also s8 charlie goes crazy n general tbh

[ahbasta09]

Maybe I should do a masterpost...

𝐇𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠!

•Call me Ahbasta! I'm a she/her

•My first language is French, so it's possible for me to not understand something or to make mistakes sometimes!

-----------------------------

-I post silly things about Ava/m, it may be possible for me to talk about other fandom though.

-I sometimes post a LOT, like not posting anything. This blog is made to have fun sharing my things!

-I really appreciate asks! I could also draw them whenever I can! I may also close them if I don't feel like receiving asks or if I'm getting too much, I'm still not used to it - -'

-The tags I use are below that post. I react to a lot of things via reblogs so I recommend you using the tags to find my stuff..

-If you want to do something with me or my stuff in general, PLEASE ask me first! I hate not being aware.

-----------------------------

•Asks: Closed

•Silly art requests: Closed

•Lore :0

-----------------------------

And... I think that's all?? I'll edit that maybe..

I hope you enjoy my stuff, have a good day/night :D

[cute-girls-from-vns-anime-manga]

I am attemptign to make a phylogenetic tree of anime girls

[taralen]

question for the spamtone

so, basically uhhh AAAAAAGHG GGRGAGGAGGGGHHHGHGGG NMBNGAAAAAAAA ?

Big Shot's Response:

Puppet Spamton's Response:

[askwoodsman33]

here's a star sticker :D

-🥥🥛

"Stickerz!" He says, taking the sticker. He doesn't know what to do with it, but he thinks it's a cool star.

"Star, Star! Star Paper!"

[moash]

I need you to know that I'm ambivalent about reading wat but still deeply invested in the characters and your takes are always slay so I've been glued to your (and kingjasnah's) blog since it came out. feel free to post more thoughts because I have popcorn in hand and I am Seated

omg thank youuuuu i am reading REALLY slowly, but i just finished day 3 which felt like it took forever!!!! 30% through. moash hasn’t shown up yet 💔🙃

[bloo-the-dragon]

/pos

[civilization-illstayrighthere]

143, 10, 20 - whoever fits the bill c:

143. “You like messing with my head, don’t you?” “Only because it clearly turns you on.”, 10. “Wanna see how you look when you come undone under me.”, 20. “How much do you want this?” (Thanks for asking anon! Know you sent this awhile ago so not sure if you’ll see it, but…) ( smut prompts )

Samurai-era Silverdyne, 1713 words, ~M rating

The metal door of the club swings shut with a bang. That’s not what makes Kerry flinch; it’s the following sound of it being quickly thrown open after, hard enough that it hits the opposite wall.

“Kerry!”

He doesn’t turn around for Johnny as he storms across the parking lot.

“Kerry, would you stop being a little bitch—“

Kerry ducks into the nearest alleyway. He pulls out his cigarettes; his hands are shaking from how furious he is. The time it takes for him to light his menthols makes his irritation that much sharper.

Johnny curses as he turns the corner. Standing in the open alleyway, the halogen street lights of the parking lot cast his shadow across the ground, reaching all the way to the dead-end of the wall. That’s easier to stare at then Johnny himself, his pupils blown behind his aviators, just in a tank despite the nip in the air because he had followed right on Kerry’s heels as he stormed out.

“Fucking overreaction, as always.”

Glaring, Kerry takes a short drag, exhales out a furious plume from his nose. The nicotine’s doing nothing to calm his nerves. “Yeah, me, overreacting. Not the fucker who shot out into the crowd. You could’ve killed someone, Johnny.”

Johnny stops. His momentary confusion melts away with a disparaging scoff.

“I didn’t.”

“You want me to clap? Hoo-fuckin’-ray.”

Johnny frowns.

“Would it kill you to stop being so sensitive? Nothing happened.”

This time, Kerry wants to say, but he’s still so fucking angry and he just wants Johnny to leave, so he grinds his teeth together and nearly bites the filter in two. He’s not even half as concerned as Nance is about deposits and being able to play in some shithole club again, not with the way their record sales and popularity has been spiking, but even he can admit that it was an exceptionally dumb move of Johnny’s. The gun had been aimed high, but taking out a light and raining the back corner of the crowd with glass had probably been the best case scenario for a rockerboy’s errant trigger finger. The idea of accidentally killing a fan of theirs just for Johnny’s lace-fueled power trip made him sick—

“C’mon. That’s not what you’re really mad about. Right? Admit it, Ker.”

Because it’s not like Kerry ended the set after the shot. It’s not like he made a stand and stormed offstage. They finished the show. Went back to the green room. Cracked open what was left of the liquor in their room and a few more sent by adoring fans too stupid to be scared away by any of Johnny’s petty antics.

“We should play spin the bottle,” one of the groupies giggled. She was blonde, big tits, and dumb enough to think Johnny could care about her past how good she rode cock. Just his type.

Kerry never felt any jealousy towards them; fuck, he liked having a guaranteed warm body, too. Had a handsome woman lying across his lap, high as a kite and purring against his lower stomach as he pet over her buzz cut. Johnny always liked to think the world revolved around him; that Kerry, at any moment, was pining after him the same way he did those first few months in the band.

And yeah, maybe Kerry still would’ve slept with Johnny. He was his best friend. In some dream world where Silverhand wasn’t so aggressively straight, and didn’t only get off on his humiliation when it came to Kerry. But he didn’t have notions of maybe-possibly luring Johnny by wearing his pants two sizes too big real low on his hips, playing in that perfect way under the spotlight that’d make Johnny want to fuck Kerry in the green room after, batting his lashes and playing with his hair.

He wasn’t seventeen anymore. He didn’t have some little kid crush. Johnny was the juvenile one. Johnny laughed when he spun the bottle and it landed on Kerry. Crawled across the circle him and Denny and Henry and all the random clinger-ons of their fame and talent had made. His knee hit the bottle and it spun out across the floor somewhere; Kerry didn’t see it because he could only watch Johnny on his hands and knees moving towards him, the top two buttons of his pants undone because the big-titted girl by his side kept playing with them all faux-coy. And he knew what he was doing, his hair still mussed from the show hanging in his face, practically slithering up to Kerry. He smelled like sweat, distinctly Johnny and achingly familiar from their years sharing squats and tour buses and beds. His breath, that smelled like whisky, and he only knew that because he got close enough that Kerry could smell it, could breathe it in. Johnny smirked, devastatingly mean and knowingly attractive, achingly good looking in only the way a rockerboy with dark circles under his eyes and his lips quirked in a sneer could. The only way Johnny could.

And then Johnny kissed him.

Johnny kissed him. He got Kerry breathless. He got him so turned on, a fucking puddle in his hands. And when he pulled away, he shoved Kerry’s shoulder and he turned around, and he looked at everyone in the room— he looked at that groupie, that girl that was everything he wasn’t, the one he actually wanted to have under his hands— and he laughed.

Yeah. Yeah, Kerry was mad. He takes one last drag of his cigarette, throws the butt on the ground and stomps it out under his heel.

“You like messing with my head, don’t you?” He spits.

Johnny doesn’t answer right away. Humorlessly, he chuckles. Shakes his head. His shoulders lift, somewhere between hopelessly conceding and a silent laugh.

Finally, he says, “only because it clearly turns you on.”

Kerry’s hands clench by his sides, lip curling. “Fuck off, Johnny. I’m not playing your stupid games.”

Stalking forward, Johnny closes the distance between them. Kerry shakes his head. He doesn’t want to look him in the eye. He’s going to hit him.

“Go back inside.” He says.

“You don’t want that,” says Johnny.

What Kerry wants is to go back in time and push Johnny away. Laughed at him and told him to fuck off then when he was kneeling there in front of him. Instead he stared, dumbfounded, arrested in place. When Johnny grabbed him with his metal hand buried in the roots of his hair, yanked a little, tugged a lot, Kerry went easy. He bared his neck. Moaned easy, too. It wasn’t his fault. He was kind of drunk, too. Not as much as Johnny must’ve been, to be doing shit like that in front of so many people and the band.

Johnny steps forward. Kerry steps back. He juts out his chin. Tilts his head up so he’s glaring right into his bloodshot eyes, noticeable even behind the cover of his aviators.

“Fuck. You.”

Johnny takes another step forward.

Kerry’s so fucking angry, he’s so fucking done, and Johnny takes another step forward and so does Kerry this time, throwing his weight into the punch that hits Johnny square in the face. It sends him stumbling back. Kerry’s knuckles throb.

Doubled over, Johnny laughs. When he rights himself, there’s blood in his smile; split lip, to match Kerry’s split knuckles.

Johnny doesn’t have to lunge, doesn’t have to move with any urgency. Kerry stands there and Johnny just grabs him. His chrome hand cinches like a pair of handcuffs around his wrist, a sharp point against the bone.

When Kerry doesn’t move, he just pushes into him; even digging his heels into the concrete doesn’t give enough purchase not to stumble backward, not with Johnny wrenching his arm out and upward. It throws him off balance— the wall catches his back, brick rough where his shirt rides up a little and Johnny pins him there.

Johnny’s thigh cages him in from the front, wedged right between his legs, pressed firm against his cunt.

This is new. This is the furthest he’s ever pushed it. It’s all body warmed leather against body warmed leather, no boxers in-between. Kerry exhales shakily, managing to still glower up at Johnny.

He’s got blood smeared over his bottom lip. Kerry hates that he wants to taste Johnny’s lips again. Before, back in the green room, he tasted mostly like alcohol. When he sucked on Kerry’s tongue, dug his fingers into his hair, he tasted exactly like he thought Johnny always would.

“How much do you want this?”

Johnny’s voice is all low, gravel under the tires of that hotshot Porsche he just bought and the way he growls in the mic after twelve straight hours awake on blow and whisky. Kerry wants it. Johnny knows it. He doesn’t have to ask, and he sure as fuck doesn’t have to answer; but he does, because he’s Johnny Silverhand, and he’s always been an unrepentant dick.

“Answer me.”

“Yeah?” Kerry tries, “how much do you want it, Johnny? ‘Cause you’re the one who came outside and followed me.”

The corner of Johnny’s mouth twitches. Like he hadn’t expected Kerry to still fight back— like maybe he liked it, or couldn’t decide either way. He pulls his arm a little further up, until Kerry’s shoulder twinges, pinning it to the brick above his head as he leans in; he stops when their foreheads butt together, lips an inch apart. When Johnny opens his mouth, Kerry’s close enough to hear the sound of his lips parting, of his tongue wetting his lips before he speaks. Slow, measured, so that every single word sinks under Kerry’s skin:

“Wanna see how you look when you come undone under me.”

Kerry sucks in a breath like a gunshot. His cunt throbs.

“You’re drunk, Johnny.”

Johnny smirks. His ‘ganic hand settles against his hip, right under where his tank rode up and his pants were riding real low, and makes him flinch in surprise.

“You’re—“ Kerry croaks, and his voice traiterously thins when Johnny’s thumb rubs over his hipbone, then dips down to trace the waistband of his pants, “fuck you—“

Johnny kisses him; without an audience, without a spotlight.

[tamlindudley]

go to hell you fucking pig

No I’m trying my hardest to go to heaven actually. So I’ll never see you 👋

[chrliekclly]

I think alotta ppl forget that dennis canonically is the best at drawing of the gang nd just focus on charlie being the artist of the gang, nd idk maybe i just wanted to slip that into ur mind

Like i have this funny scenario in my head where charlie challenges dennis to a drawing competition nd dennis draws a near realistic portrait of charlie while charlie vaguely scribbles out dennis but the rest of the gang is just like 'omg charlie i didnt know u cud draw'

art is subjective

[oozedninjas]

um what about lazy sex with raphael, any version or all versions please please please

Would love to but RQ are Closed at the moment! You can see the status at my bio :)

[tonaegiri]

pls draw more ior i'll die forever the bisxual community depends on it

🫡 on it boss !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[fairycosmos]

are you okay?

[askwoodsman33]

H͙i͙ W͙o͙o͙d͙m͙a͙n͙!

H͙o͙w͙ h͙a͙v͙e͙ y͙͙o͙͙u͙͙ b͙e͙e͙n͙ d͙o͙i͙n͙g͙ r͙͙e͙͙c͙͙e͙͙n͙͙t͙͙l͙͙y͙͙?

I͙͙ h͙o͙p͙e͙ y͙o͙u͙ h͙͙a͙v͙e͙ b͙e͙e͙n͙ d͙o͙i͙n͙g͙ g͙͙r͙͙e͙͙a͙͙t͙͙!

-B͙l͙o͙x͙y͙

"Hallo!!!!! Me's Been Goods!!!! Got's Lots Flowers!!!!!! Make Friends!!!!!!" "How R U Have Been Bloxy?" :D

[grimowled]

/ anon : I absolutely adore your darker and more sinister take on Stolas. He really gives this air of foreboding and sensuality that entices me. And I can't wait to do things with him, anything, everything.

☽ tell us how you feel about us !! - accepting

[distrxst]

They who govern reason must pay respects to the Warbringer Goddess, Winnehild…as she's judgmental to all those who wish to gain a piece of her power

gods .

there was nothing godly nor respectable about himself . he was foul , bones twisted in every which way , limbs longer and weaker than they should be . he was hideous , an amalgamation of things he never should've been . it was disgusting , an eyesore . he was pained , body burning with each and every movement , and even yet it cowered before the being , mesmerized .

he is not what he is .

but is he ? the thing is unsure . he knows he is beastly and ghastly . he knows he is in his own little hell , a special place for the failure of creation . it has been judged for its entire life , and now another set of eyes is upon them . watching , prying , and gnawing at him from the inside out . eyes , eyes , eyes . so many . too many . if he could reach , he would've already torn them free from their sockets . this prude thing , towering forth over it , scornful as it was .

what is a god ? he was ruined by one . he remembers it so clearly . it was the first . 01 , was his number . it had been promised a purpose , a reason to be . and now he was here , in this hell wrought with peril and dread and anguish and everything but reason . this was his purgatory for existence , or , his lack thereof - an ongoing punishment that he had no choice but to serve . and the being was here to judge him ? to look upon him with those eyes so piercing and sharp and tear through him further ? oh how it hated , it hated , it hated . it's hatred tore through itself , teeth pulling away at skin and bone until nothing but anguish remained - nothing but his own eyes , and it let out only a single utterance to portray such abhorrence .

" wat .. ? "