#it is an addiction you cant explain

[freetheshit-outofyou]

@dankempauthor, I boosted your image to share in it's own post because that is spot on. I'm also adding this writing I read a couple times a year that only those who have had blood on their teeth, and felt ALL of life for those chaotic moments of combat can know.

June 26, 2007, 3:51 PM

By Brian Mockenhaupt

I Miss Iraq. I Miss My Gun. I Miss My War.

A year after coming home from a tour in Iraq, a soldier returns home to find out he left something behind.

A few months ago, I found a Web site loaded with pictures and videos from Iraq, the sort that usually aren't seen on the news. I watched insurgent snipers shoot American soldiers and car bombs disintegrate markets, accompanied by tinny music and loud, rhythmic chanting, the soundtrack of the propaganda campaigns. Video cameras focused on empty stretches of road, building anticipation. Humvees rolled into view and the explosions brought mushroom clouds of dirt and smoke and chunks of metal spinning through the air. Other videos and pictures showed insurgents shot dead while planting roadside bombs or killed in firefights and the remains of suicide bombers, people how they're not meant to be seen, no longer whole. The images sickened me, but their familiarity pulled me in, giving comfort, and I couldn't stop. I clicked through more frames, hungry for it. This must be what a shot of dope feels like after a long stretch of sobriety. Soothing and nauseating and colored by everything that has come before. My body tingled and my stomach ached, hollow. I stood on weak legs and walked into the kitchen to make dinner. I sliced half an onion before putting the knife down and watching slight tremors run through my hand. The shakiness lingered. I drank a beer. And as I leaned against this kitchen counter, in this house, in America, my life felt very foreign.

I've been home from Iraq for more than a year, long enough for my time there to become a memory best forgotten for those who worried every day that I was gone. I could see their relief when I returned. Life could continue, with futures not so uncertain. But in quiet moments, their relief brought me guilt. Maybe they assume I was as overjoyed to be home as they were to have me home. Maybe they assume if I could do it over, I never would have gone. And maybe I wouldn't have. But I miss Iraq. I miss the war. I miss war. And I have a very hard time understanding why.

I'm glad to be home, to have put away my uniforms, to wake up next to my wife each morning. I worry about my friends who are in Iraq now, and I wish they weren't. Often I hated being there, when the frustrations and lack of control over my life were complete and mind-bending. I questioned my role in the occupation and whether good could come of it. I wondered if it was worth dying or killing for. The suffering and ugliness I saw disgusted me. But war twists and shifts the landmarks by which we navigate our lives, casting light on darkened areas that for many people remain forever unexplored. And once those darkened spaces are lit, they become part of us. At a party several years ago, long before the Army, I listened to a friend who had served several years in the Marines tell a woman that if she carried a pistol for a day, just tucked in her waistband and out of sight, she would feel different. She would see the world differently, for better or worse. Guns empower. She disagreed and he shrugged. No use arguing the point; he was just offering a little piece of truth. He was right, of course. And that's just the beginning.

I've spent hours taking in the world through a rifle scope, watching life unfold. Women hanging laundry on a rooftop. Men haggling over a hindquarter of lamb in the market. Children walking to school. I've watched this and hoped that someday I would see that my presence had made their lives better, a redemption of sorts. But I also peered through the scope waiting for someone to do something wrong, so I could shoot him. When you pick up a weapon with the intent of killing, you step onto a very strange and serious playing field. Every morning someone wakes wanting to kill you. When you walk down the street, they are waiting, and you want to kill them, too. That's not bloodthirsty; that's just the trade you've learned. And as an American soldier, you have a very impressive toolbox. You can fire your rifle or lob a grenade, and if that's not enough, call in the tanks, or helicopters, or jets. The insurgents have their skill sets, too, turning mornings at the market into chaos, crowds into scattered flesh, Humvees into charred scrap. You're all part of the terrible magic show, both powerful and helpless.

That men are drawn to war is no surprise. How old are boys before they turn a finger and thumb into a pistol? Long before they love girls, they love war, at least everything they imagine war to be: guns and explosions and manliness and courage. When my neighbors and I played war as kids, there was no fear or sorrow or cowardice. Death was temporary, usually as fast as you could count to sixty and jump back into the game. We didn't know yet about the darkness. And young men are just slightly older versions of those boys, still loving the unknown, perhaps pumped up on dreams of duty and heroism and the intoxicating power of weapons. In time, war dispels many such notions, and more than a few men find that being freed from society's professed revulsion to killing is really no freedom at all, but a lonely burden. Yet even at its lowest points, war is like nothing else. Our culture craves experience, and that is war's strong suit. War peels back the skin, and you live with a layer of nerves exposed, overdosing on your surroundings, when everything seems all wrong and just right, in a way that makes perfect sense. And then you almost die but don't, and are born again, stoned on life and mocking death. The explosions and gunfire fry your nerves, but you want to hear them all the same. Something's going down.

For those who know, this is the open secret: War is exciting. Sometimes I was in awe of this, and sometimes I felt low and mean for loving it, but I loved it still. Even in its quiet moments, war is brighter, louder, brasher, more fun, more tragic, more wasteful. More. More of everything. And even then I knew I would someday miss it, this life so strange. Today the war has distilled to moments and feelings, and somewhere in these memories is the reason for the wistfulness.

On one mission we slip away from our trucks and into the night. I lead the patrol through the darkness, along canals and fields and into the town, down narrow, hard-packed dirt streets. Everyone has gone to bed, or is at least inside. We peer through gates and over walls into courtyards and into homes. In a few rooms TVs flicker. A woman washes dishes in a tub. Dogs bark several streets away. No one knows we are in the street, creeping. We stop at intersections, peek around corners, training guns on parked cars, balconies, and storefronts. All empty. We move on. From a small shop up ahead, we hear men's voices and laughter. Maybe they used to sit outside at night, but now they are indoors, where it's safe. Safer. The sheet-metal door opens and a man steps out, cigarette and lighter in hand. He still wears a smile, takes in the cool night air, and then nearly falls backward through the doorway in a panic. I'm a few feet from him now and his eyes are wide. I mutter a greeting and we walk on, back into the darkness.

Another night we're lost in a dust storm. I'm in the passenger seat, trying to guide my driver and the three trucks behind us through this brown maelstrom. The headlights show nothing but swirling dirt. We've driven these roads for months, we know them well, but we see nothing. So we drive slow, trying to stay out of canals and people's kitchens. We curse and we laugh. This is bizarre but a great deal of fun.

Another night my platoon sergeant's truck is swallowed in flames, a terrible, beautiful, boiling bloom of red and orange and yellow, lighting the darkness for a moment. Somehow we don't die, one more time.

Another night, there's McCarthy bitching, the cherry of his cigarette bobbing in the dark, bitching that he won't be on the assault team, that he's stuck as a turret gunner for the night. We'd been out since early that morning, came back for dinner, and are preparing to raid a weapons dealer. Our first real raid. I heave my body armor onto my shoulders, settling its too-familiar weight. Then the helmet and first-aid kit and maps and radio and ammunition and rifle and all the rest. Now I look like everyone else, an arm of this strange and destructive organism, covered in armor and guns. We crowd around a satellite map spread across a Humvee hood and trace our route. Wells, my squad leader, rehearses our movements. Get in quick. Watch the danger zones. If he has a gun, kill him. I look around the group, at these faces I know so well, and feel the collective strength, this ridiculous power. The camaraderie of men in arms plays a part, for sure. The shared misery and euphoria and threat of death. But there is something more: the surrender of self, voluntary or not, to the machine. Do I believe in the war? Not important. Put that away and live in the moment, where little is knowable and even less is controllable, when my world narrows to one street, one house, one room, one door.

We pack into the trucks after midnight, and the convoy snakes out of camp and speeds toward the target house. I sit in a backseat and the fear settles in, a sharp burning in my stomach, same as the knot from hard liquor gulped too fast. I think about the knot. I'll be the first through the door. What if he starts shooting, hits me right in the face before I'm even through the doorway? What if there's two, or three? What if he pitches a grenade at us? And I think about it more and run through the scenarios, planning my movements, imagining myself clearing through the rooms, firing two rounds into the chest, and the knot fades.

The trucks drop us off several blocks from the target house and we slip into the night. As always, the dogs bark. We gather against the high wall outside the house and call in the trucks to block the streets. The action will pass in a flash. But here, before the chaos starts, when we're stacked against the wall, my friends' bodies pressed against me, hearing their quick breaths and my own, there's a moment to appreciate the gravity, the absurdity, the novelty, the joy of the moment. Is this real? Hearts beat strong. Hands grip tight on weapons. Reassurance. The rest of the world falls away. Who knows what's on the other side?

One, two, three, go. We push past the gate and across the courtyard and toward the house, barrels locked on the windows and roof. Wells runs up with the battering ram, a short, heavy pipe with handles, and launches it toward the massive wood door. The lock explodes, the splintered door flies open, and we rush through, just the way we've practiced hundreds of times. No one shoots me in the face. No grenades roll to my feet. I kick open doors. We scan darkened bedrooms with the flashlights on our rifles and move on to the next and the next.

He's gone, of course. We ransack his house, dumping drawers, flipping mattresses, punching holes in the ceiling. We find rifles and grenades and hundreds of pounds of gunpowder. And then, near dawn, we lie down on the thick carpets in his living room and sleep, exhausted and untroubled.

Many, many raids followed. We often raided houses late at night, so people awakened to soldiers bursting through their bedroom doors. Women and children wailed, terrified. Taking this in, I imagined what it would feel like if soldiers kicked down my door at midnight, if I could do nothing to protect my family. I would hate those soldiers. Yet I still reveled in the raids, their intensity and uncertainty. The emotions collided, without resolution.

My wife moved to Iraq partway through my second deployment to live in the north and train Iraqi journalists. She spent her evenings at restaurants and tea shops with her Iraqi friends. We spoke by cell phone, when the spotty network allowed, and she told me about this life I couldn't imagine, celebrating holidays with her colleagues and being invited into their homes. I didn't have any Iraqi friends, save for our few translators, and I'd rarely been invited into anyone's home. I told her of my life, the tedious days and frightful seconds, and she worried that in all of this I would lose my thoughtfulness and might stop questioning and just accept. But she didn't judge the work that I did, and I didn't tell her that I sometimes enjoyed it, that for stretches of time I didn't think about the greater implications, that it sometimes seemed like a game. I didn't tell her that death felt ever present and far away, and that either way, it didn't really seem to matter.

We both came back from Iraq, luckier than many. Two of my wife's students have been killed, among the scores of journalists to die in Iraq, and guys I served with are still dying, too. One came home from the war and shot himself on Thanksgiving. Another was blown up on Christmas in Baghdad.

Thinking of them, I felt disgusted with myself for missing the war and wondered if I was alone in this.

I don't think I am.

After watching the Internet videos, I called some of my friends who are out of the Army now, and they miss the war, too. Wells very nearly died in Iraq. A sniper shot him in the head, surgeons cut out half of his skull—a story told in this magazine last April—and he spent months in therapy, working back to his old self. Now he misses the high. "I don't want to sound like a psychopath, but you're like a god over there," he says. "It might not be the best kind of adrenaline for you, but it's a rush." Before Iraq, he didn't care for horror movies, and now he's drawn to them. He watches them for the little thrill, the rush of being startled, if just for a moment.

McCarthy misses the war just the same. He saved Wells's life, pressing a bandage over the hole in his head. Now he's delivering construction materials to big hotel projects along the beach in South Carolina, waiting for a police department to process his application. "The monotony is killing me," he told me, en route to deliver some rebar. "I want to go on a raid. I want something to blow up. I want something to change today." He wants the unknown. "Anything can happen, and it does happen. And all of the sudden your world is shattered, and everything has changed. It's living dangerously. You're living on the edge. And you're the baddest motherfucker around."

Mortal danger heightens the senses. That is simple animal instinct. We're more aware of how our world smells and sounds and tastes. This distorts and enriches experiences. Now I can have everything, but it's not as good as when I could have none of it. McCarthy and I stood on a rooftop one afternoon in Iraq running through a long list of the food we wanted. We made it to homemade pizza and icy beer when someone loosed a long burst of gunfire that cracked over our heads. We ran to the other side of the rooftop, but the gunman had disappeared down a long alleyway. Today my memory of that pizza and beer is stronger than if McCarthy and I had sat down together with the real thing before us.

And today we even speak with affection of wrestling a dead man into a body bag, because that was then. The bullet had laid his thigh wide open, shattered the femur, and shredded the artery, so he'd bled out fast, pumping much of his blood onto the sidewalk. We unfolded and unzipped the nylon sack and laid it alongside him. And then we stared for a moment, none of us ready to close that distance. I grabbed his forearm and dropped it, maybe instinct, maybe revulsion. He hovered so near this world, having just passed over, that he seemed to be sucking life from me, pulling himself back or taking me with him. He peeked at us through a half-opened eye. I stared down on him, his massive dead body, and again wrapped a hand around his wrist, thick and warm. The man was huge, taller than six feet and close to 250 pounds. We strained with the awkward weight, rolled him into the bag, and zipped him out of sight. My platoon sergeant gave two neighborhood kids five dollars to wash away the congealing puddle of blood. But the red handprint stayed on the wall, where the man had tried to brace himself before he fell. I think about him sometimes, splayed out on the sidewalk, and I think of how lucky I was never to have put a friend in one of those bags. Or be put in one myself.

But the memories, good and bad, are only part of the reason war holds its grip long after soldiers have come home. The war was urgent and intense and the biggest story going, always on the news stations and magazine covers. At home, though, relearning everyday life, the sense of mission can be hard to find. And this is not just about dim prospects and low-paying jobs in small towns. Leaving the war behind can be a letdown, regardless of opportunity or education or the luxuries waiting at home. People I'd never met sent me boxes of cookies and candy throughout my tours. When I left for two weeks of leave, I was cheered at airports and hugged by strangers. At dinner with my family one night, a man from the next table bought me a $400 bottle of wine. I was never quite comfortable with any of this, but they were heady moments nonetheless.For my friends who are going back to Iraq or are there already, there is little enthusiasm. Any fondness for war is tainted by the practicalities of operating and surviving in combat. Wells and McCarthy and I can speak of the war with nostalgia because we belong to a different world now. And yet there is little to say, because we are scattered, far from those who understand.

When I came home, people often asked me about Iraq, and mostly I told them it wasn't so bad. The first few times, my wife asked me why I had been so blithe. Why didn't I tell them what Iraq was really like? I didn't know how to explain myself to them. The war really wasn't so bad. Yes, there were bombs and shootings and nervous times, but that was just the job. In fact, going to war is rather easy. You react to situations around you and try not to die. There are no electric bills or car payments or chores around the house. Just go to work, come home alive, and do it again tomorrow. McCarthy calls it pure and serene. Indeed. Life at home can be much more trying. But I didn't imagine the people asking would understand that. I didn't care much if they did, and often it seemed they just wanted a war story, a bit of grit and gore. If they really want to know, they can always find out for themselves. But they don't, they just want a taste of the thrill. We all do. We covet life outside our bubble. That's why we love tragedy, why we love hearing about war and death on the television, drawn to it in spite of ourselves. We gawk at accident scenes and watch people humiliate themselves on reality shows and can't wait to replay the events for friends, as though in retelling the story we make it our own, if just for a moment.

We live easy third-person lives but want a bit of the darkness. War fascinates because we live so far from its realities. Maybe we'd feel differently about watching bombs blow up on TV if we saw them up close, if we knew how explosions rip the air, throttle your brain, and make your ears ring, if we knew the strain of wondering whether the car next to you at a traffic light would explode or a bomb would land on your house as you sleep. I don't expect Iraqi soldiers would ever miss war. I have that luxury. I came home to peace, to a country that hasn't seen war within its borders for nearly 150 years. Yes, some boys come home dead. But we live here without the other terrors and tragedies of war—cities flattened and riven with chaos and fear, neighbors killing one another, a people made forever weary by the violence.

And so I miss it.

Every day in Iraq, if you have a job that takes you outside the wire, you stop just before the gate and make your final preparation for war. You pull out a magazine stacked with thirty rounds of ammunition, weighing just over a pound. You slide it into the magazine well of your rifle and smack it with the heel of your hand, driving it up. You pull the rifle's charging handle, draw the bolt back, and release. The bolt slides forward with a metallic snap, catching the top round and shoving it into the barrel. Chak-chuk. If I hear that a half century from now, I will know it in an instant. Unmistakable, and pregnant with possibility. On top of a diving board, as the grade-school-science explanation goes, you are potential energy. On the way down, you are kinetic energy. So I leave the gate and step off the diving board, my energy transformed.

[dirt-str1der]

Theres no season 4 because theyre too scared to animate the canon gay couple. They know its going to change the dr stone mrm ecosystem forever

[jackleopard]

I need someone to explain to me why I love Epic Solete by The Tyets so much

[bunnigumi]

─ A LITTLE BIT HARDER NOW!

WHEN HE PULLS BACK theres drool collecting at the corner of your mouth. You're red in the face, eyes averting in shame 'cause you really do like it when he presses on your tummy like that.

cw. megumi x reader , stomach bulge , tummy pressing , size kink

Right now, Megumi has his grab on your thighs, blunt nails digging into soft flesh, thumbs circling pink bites on the inner sides. It's a routine that's starting to become familiar. Your hips are slightly lifted up from the bed, and he really cant explain why, but when he can see the outline of his dick through your stomach, he absolutely loses it.

You were horrified at the sight when you first saw it, but Megumi on the other hand? He was turned on the most he's been in his entire life.

He just loves pressing on the bulge in your little tummy. Its addicting—watching you squirm and whine and protest with little results. Seeing the way you cant decide if you want to stray from his touch or arch further into it. Loving how big his dick is compared to you.

"Fuck baby," he breathes out in awe. "See that? Feel it? Can you feel my cock deep inside you?" He groans as he pulls out all the way just to slam back into you, starting a fast, rough pace that doesn't seem to let up and makes the sound of sticky arousal totally embarrassing.

A hand retreats from where it's holding up your thigh to grab one of your own hands, wrestling the grip you have on crumpled sheets and guiding it down to your stomach.

"Wha- nghh, M'gumi, don't—!" A long, drawn out moan escapes your lips before the rest of your complaint can. Your hand is trembling, and too weak to escape his grab.

"C'mon sweet girl, don't you like how full I can make you feel?" He coos.

Your head falls to the side, attempting to push your face into the soft pillows, "N-noo... feels so weird..." The drawn out nature of your words make you sound unsure. Megumi doesn't believe that you don't like it, because oh, he knows you do.

"Awwh... you sure you don't like it, baby?" He says, faux innocence laced in his sweet tone. You pout. You know what he's doing to you, and hes so wrong for it. He leans in closer, tilting his head, teasing you so you get all embarrased—hot and flustered. "I should just pull out then if it's too much."

You shake your head so fast you almost get dizzy, unable to form any coherent words. Only small uh-uh's make it past your moans.

It's too hot. Megumi is so, very close to you right now. You're able to feel the radiating warmth of his body, his breath against your ear. With the added weight of his teasing, it becomes far too invading. You bury your face deeper into the pillows.

When you get like that, the heat always pressures you into spilling whatever you don't want to say—always. You make for a terrible, terrible liar.

"What about when I do it like this?" You face him again with curiosity. Your brows are furrowed, sweat beads down your hairline. Glossy eyes search his face in confusion in the cutest way ever before dilating in panic.

He adds more pressure and forces your hand harder onto your stomach, closing the little distance seperating the two of you to kiss you sloppily. You make a noise of shock, whining as he continues to knead your hand onto it.

Your cries melt back into the sound of pleasure, moaning into the kiss, your whining dying down.

When he pulls back theres drool collecting at the corner of your mouth. You're red in the face, eyes averting in shame 'cause you really do like it when he presses on your tummy like that. "Tell me how much you love it," he taunts.

When you're like this, you're able to feel all of him. Able feel every single thrust just grazing your cervix, senses going into overdrive as you subconsiously stop trying to fight his hold on your hand with the little to no strength you were using to begin with.

"I, hahh, love it! Love your cock s-so much! Feel so full... hah- aah—!" With one last thrust, your back arches, core unraveling around his length. Walls tightening, spasming in a way that makes Megumi spill all his praises. As your chest heaves heavily, your abdomen flexes and tightens, revealing the silhouette of your boyfriend's cock stuffed inside of you even clearer now.

The corner of his mouth quirks up in pride, "I bet you do, baby. I fuckin' bet."

He really should start doing this more often.

[snapcracklepop-myjoints]

i wrote this in the notes of another post originally and am copy + pasting it here because im right but "tell the cops nothing, tell the doctors everything" is such a stupid ass fucking abled take. doctors engage in policing idk how to explain to yall that some people cannot in fact just tell doctors everything without it putting them at risk

like im not gonna go into the myriad of ways this is bs but like a quick example is i cant tell my doctors about my substance use issues because if i get that listed on my medical records it will actively endanger me. It will impact how I'm treated in emergency situations and will get me labeled as "drug seeking" when i try to get other issues dealt with.

i dont say this to scare people but because this is actually important information for people to have. if a medical professional claims this isnt an issue, they are NOT "one of the good ones". they are either straight up lying or theyre utterly unaware, which is frankly not better. doctors are cops. never forget it

like YES tell ur doctor abt being sexually active but stop saying "tell the cops nothing and the doctor everything" before i start killing in cold blood

I KNOW THE ORIGINAL QUOTE. This is about how people misquote it, as well as how they view the phrase as meaning "all medical professionals". ALSO! emts are not the neutral figures you think they are. please stop spewing your lack of understanding on the topic all over my tags, its embarrassing. Paramedics kill people and engage in policing stop fucking shilling for them indiscriminately

finally, THIS POST IS ABOUT DRUGS. FIRST AND FOREMOST IT IS ABOUT DRUGS. THIS WAS WRITTEN BY AN ADDICT. the way yall are talking about addicts and drugs users in the tags is so fucking dehumanising. you are part of the problem. Id suggest non addicts shut their traps please and thank you.

similarly, before you comment, ask youself: am i an addict ? do i have an understanding of how addicts, particularly otherwise disabled addicts, have to navigate healthcare systems ? if not, consider SHUTTING THE FUCK UP. hope this helps !

read the notes before you leave a comment im so fucking serious. reblogs are off because none of you know how to act and i have zero patience at this point. if you think im being bitchy pls consider the fact that your stupid comment does not exist in a vacuum and i have received and deleted countless stupid notes and abusive asks on and about this post and your stupid comment exists within that context and i am fucking tired.

[lovingk9z]

I think we need to stop trying to police how people talk about their disorders.

No one is less autistic or harming other autistic people by lightheartedly discussing their autism.

Tumblr is entirely ran by everyone's biggest interests. This isn't Twitter, where autism is treated like a political identity. If you want to constantly hear and SEE all the bullshit we have to go through, go to Twitter.

I'm certain most autistic people here come to escape the struggles of the real world by over indulging in their interests and thats OKAY. Let us do that. Especially when most of the real world is so awful and unforgiving to people like us. We need a break. We need a place to feel like we're fucking normal. A place where we can stop thinking about those issues and just talk about what makes us happiest.

This doesn't mean you can't ever talk about how autism impacts your functioning here, in fact so many people already do that. But so many of us would just... rather not. And that's fine.

Very fucking frustrating to see autism being reduced to a fun character trait that barely impacts functioning by ppl on tumblr. I was diagnosed age 6 and although I would not be myself without it, my autism has absolutely had a major negative impact on my life.

I have suffered and currently suffer so much because of it and that is something that I can't afford not to recognize. I'm not saying "hey autism is nothing but suffering and pain" I'm saying that talking about autism like it's the Special Interest Disorder is a reductive way to look at something that is an inescapable and often very difficult reality for the people who have it.

[st4rgiirll]

secret admirer

s2!rafe cameron x perv!stalker!pogue!reader

creds to: roseraris for dividers!

warnings: underwear stealing, piv, unprotected sex, watching rafe jerk off (mention), fingering, face slapping, pussy slapping (hand and dick), teasing, blowjob, cum eating.

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧����𝗜𝗡𝗦 𝟭𝟴+ 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧, 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗕𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗞𝗘𝗗 𝗔𝗖𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗟𝗬! 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗢𝗪𝗡 𝗠𝗘𝗗𝗜𝗔 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗣𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

you sat in a tree, hidden by the leaves and branches, peering into rafe's bedroom. it was like clockwork; every night at 9:00 pm, rafe would undress for his shower after working out, seemingly oblivious to the world around him.

your heart raced as you watched rafe peel off his shirt, revealing a taut set of abs that practically glistened in the low light. they were so close they could almost taste the salt on his skin.

this had become an addiction for you.

you couldn't help yourself; ever since you'd laid eyes on rafe cameron knew you had to have him. you watched him day after day, heat pooling in your panties as you did, sometimes when he was gone you’d steal a pair of his boxers. for safe keeping.

sometimes, on the off chance, you’d end up staying long enough to watch as he jerked off. you couldnt hear him through the window, but god you wished you could. his faces were just picturesque, it made your clit throb.

when he headed into the bathroom, thats when you striked. you opened his window, crawling in and immediately heading to his dirty laundry. your found them, his boxers. you took them from his pile and undone your backpack.

the bathroom door swung open, and you were mortified. half his boxers already in your bag, you looked up at him.

his eyes caught yours, and you were now bright red

“what the fuck?” rafe questioned, a bit creeped out but he couldnt help the way his shorts tightened.

“i- uh- i can explain-!” you stammer.

“what? that you were being a little perv? stealing my fucking underwear?” he huffs.

you looked down and your eyes didnt leave the floor when you stood up from your kneeling position, you couldnt bare to face him.

“so, why the fuck are you stealing my underwear, pogue? like a little perv.”

“w-well… i-i just- uhm..” you were so embarrassed.

“i-i-i,” he pouted mockingly. “god, you’re pathetic.”

you stayed silent, what were you supposed to say? ‘oh yeah i find you hot and want to get bent over and fucked brutally by you but i know i cant have you’ absolutely not.

“what? you cant find a guy to fuck you good so you gotta resort to stealin’ my boxers now?” he rolled his eyes at your lack of response.

“what about your little pogue boyfriends? huh? jj, john b? they not like you anymore? hm, probably not. too much of a whore for them, right?”

”i-im sorry, i-im so s-sorry rafe..” you apologize profusely, your eyes brimming with tears. “p-please, it was a mistake! i-i’ll return them all, i promise, just dont tell anyone!”

“i should,” he hums. “i really should. but i wont.”

“really?” you ask, hope blooming in your chest.

“yeah, i guess… for a price, of course.” he smirks, the smirk that tells you he’s up to no good.

there it was, the kicker. you knew you’d regret this but you couldnt have anyone know about this, especially the other pogues.

and that’s how you found yourself on his bed, his fingers plunging in and out of your cunt. you were a moaning mess, the force behind his fingers was brutal, bordering painful.

“f-fuck rafe!” you moan.

“yeah? you like that? ‘course you do, dirty whore.” he degrades, pulling his fingers from your dripping cunt.

he sucks on his fingers, humming at the sweet taste before grabbing ahold of your ankles and pulling you to the edge of the bed. he raises his hand and leaves a sharp slap on your pussy, making you squeak from pleasure, pain, and surprise.

“that’s what you get for being a dirty whore, for stealin’ my underwear.” he grunts, landing another smack to your pussy.

you writhe under the force, legs instinctively closing. his hands forcefully push your legs back open.

“don’t make me tie these pretty legs open.” he growls, his tone aggressive. “what do you do with my boxers, hm? wear ‘em? sniff ‘em? wouldnt put it past you.”

another smack.

“i asked you a fucking question, pogue.” he spat.

“i-i wear them…” you whine. “t-to bed, sometimes i’ll wear them… while i rub my pussy…”

“oh, baby…” he groans, his head lolling back as if he got pleasure from your words.

“get up.” he snaps, pulling you up.

“on your knees.” he sits on his bed, you kneel between his legs.

you open your mouth wide, eager for his cock. you’d dreamed about this so much, it made you so wet.

“you really want this huh?” he chuckles, tapping his cock on your tongue.

you wrap your lips around his length, practically salivating at the feel and weight. you hum, taking him deep in your throat before gagging and pulling off.

he growls, grabbing your hair and pistoning his hips forward. his tip bullys the back of your throat, making you gag each time it hit. you were gagging, but you loved it, being used by him. saliva seeped from the corners of your mouth, dripping onto your tits.

“oh f-fuuuck… just like that baby, oh fuck… im cumming…” he moans, his thrusts becoming sloppy.

it wasnt long before his hips stuttered and you felt his warm cum paint your oesophagus before he pulled out, you swallowed it and opened your mouth wide, showing him proof that you swallowed.

“good girl.” he hums, slapping your face a couple times before lifting you up onto the bed once more.

he strokes his cock a couple times to harden it again, before he’s guiding it down to your pussy. he rubs it up and down your slit, swirling the tip around your clit as you moaned pathetically.

he slaps his cock onto your clit a couple times, watching as your body jerked, before he slipped his cock in. he didnt let you adjust before he was pounding the soul out of you.

“o-oh yeah, fuck baby… pussy so tight…” he grunts, pounding your poor cunt into oblivion.

“rafe! oh god, t-thank you, thank you rafe.” you babble. “so good, so so so good.”

“yeah? so good? of course it is baby, you got rafe’s cock in you. pounding your little cunt, you hear her?” he hums, letting you hear the crude squelching of your arousal.

“yeah, she loves this cock, doesnt she?” all you could do was nod pathetically.

the bed repeatedly hit the wall, in time with his thrusts, he didnt seem to care. muttering something like ‘let everyone hear how good rafe treats you’ and god it made your pussy clench around him.

“fuuuck, do that again..” he moans, his hand pulling your legs up to rest on his shoulders as he drilled into you.

you were so fucking close, your pussy was spasming around his cock. “ray.. fuck ray, i-im gonna…”

“use your words, pretty.” he says softly, kissing from your ankle down to your mid calf and back again.

“‘m gonna cum…” you moan, the sound high-pitched.

“oh yeah? my pussy’s gonna cum all over my cock, is she? yeah, she is baby.” he smirks, reaching between you as he thrusts into your pussy and he rubs your clit.

that’s all it took for your release to engulf you, letting out a loud, scream-like moan as you came. his own hips stuttered and he released his seed deep in your cunt, you swear you felt it hit your cervix.

without wasting any time, he picks your panties from the floor and puts them back on you to let you sit in a pool of your shared cum.

“let this be a lesson, dont perv over me princess. i wont be as kind next time.” he smirks.

he slaps your panty-covered pussy, hearing the lewd squelch of your mixed release. he then walks into his bathroom to have his shower, like originally planned.

[inez-winchester-cameron]

Could you write a longer one shot or smth about that pogue!reader x enemy!rafe? I love the concept sm!!💕💕

this is the post I'm thinking about:

thinking abt sweet lil pogue reader who cant stop thinking abt rafe..her supposed enemy even though she rubs her sticky cunt to the thought of him atleast 3 times before she can sleep..

our little secret

rafe cameron x pogue!enemy!reader

summary: you and rafe both have completely opposite but big reputations but something about him draws you in. in a sort of way that you can't quite explain, nor could you try explaining to your friends

cw: 2 year age gap, innocent and sweet reader, virgin reader, masturbating, suggestive, idek

note: i think id be willing to write more on this topic but i kept this mostly brief. requests open for spn and obx!!

you and rafe are complete opposites in nearly ever sense. rafe cameron is the king of the kooks, a drug addict, a party animal, with raging anger issues. you on the other hand are a sweet little member of the pogues, refuse to touch any drugs, and would rather be at home relaxing than go to a party. on top of that, your two groups are complete and total enemies. you and rafe are supposed to be enemies.

but rafe's always been nice to you, or atleast he's not a complete dick to you. whenever he sees you in public while you're alone, he always finds some sort of reason to talk to you.

"where's your little pogue friends, princess?"

"looking lonely, huh?"

"tell jj he better not show his damn face at one of my parties ever again. think you can handle that, princess?"

and during the altercations between the groups, he stays away from you, harassing the others, never you.

and you know it's wrong. he's a dick to your friends, he treats them like trash. but there's something about him.

maybe it's the big blue eyes or the height difference or the hair. or maybe it's the sweet little nicknames he calls you, and the longing looks he gives you.

whatever it was, it had you shoving your hand down your pants before bed every night. your mind came up with the wildest scenarios, the dirtiest shit.

rafe pinning you against the bathroom sink at one of his parties.

him pulling you away from your group and shoving his dick down your throat.

him calling you dirty names while you bounce on his cock, your tits in his face.

after one particular incident, you find yourself getting home asap to touch yourself. rafe had approached you at a party, where you stood alone. unlike the rest of your group, you were rather shy and all your friends left to be social.

as you stand alone, you sip on the cup that jj had filled for you earlier. you look around, nervously, hoping one of your friends returns to you soon. your heart starts beating faster as rafe cameron approaches you. he gives you a sickeningly sweet smile.

"hey princess, where are your little pogue buddies at?"

"with other friends.." you mutter.

"really? they're leaving a sweet little thing like you all by herself?"

"yeah i can take-" you start but you're interrupted.

"what the fuck are you doing?" jj suddenly asks, barging into the scene, pushing rafe away from you.

"fuck off, maybank, i didn't touch her," rafe says, putting his hands up, "i'll see you later, sweets." he winks at you before walking off.

-

later that night, as you lay in bed, you find yourself thinking about the incident. your hands are neatly laying on your stomach and as you think more and more you find yourself shoving one down your pj pants and underwear.

you sigh as your hand makes contact with your sticky cunt. you rub over your clit for a moment before spreading your lips apart, running a finger over your hole and spreading your slick along your cunt.

a few seconds later, you're shoving a finger up your cunt and whining. for the life of you, you could not get a good angle, ever. you always saw people raving about and talking about how good it feels to finger yourself or get fingered, but you could never get the right angle or feeling by yourself.

after a few moments of absolutely no pleasure, you pull you hand back, groaning. your phone buzzes and you jump a bit. your free hand reaches for it and you pause as you read your newest notification.

'rafecameronobx has requested to follow you'

[libbytwq]

merry christmas!!! (2024)

So, it's Christmas. Normally I never make this type of Christmas special, normally because every year I usually have no one in specific online to be grateful for, aside from my followers. But these past 5 months, my life has truly changed, and i finally have people I want to wish a genuine Merry Christmas to. So here is a gift for those wonderful people.

And thats not all, I'm not just gonna make a cute lil gift and not explain why I love these people!

APPRECIATION GO! 💥

SMG8 // @strange0-0storm -- STORM!! I know we rarely interact, but everytime we do, it's an absolute treat. I love seeing your art, the stuff you make is so awesome and fun to look at, and talking about goofy shit is so much fun. I look up to you a lot and I want to interact with you a lot more. SMG8 was one of the first ever SMG4 OCs I've ever gotten myself familiar with, he's such a silly man and I want to punt him, I love your stuff sm, stay cool 💥

Mango // @its-a-me-mango -- MANGO!! I've always been a massive fan of your art since I was first getting myself familiar with the SMG4 Tumblr community, because of your artstyle and the goofy jokes and silly stuff, but since joining the TSB discord server and interacting with you, I think you are even cooler. Our interactions are so incredibly goofy and I love every single time you appear on VCs. Our sense of humor almost feels like it clicks and everytime we make jokes I be cackling, to the point I sometimes get distracted from what I'm working on... but hey its okay because we're all silly here :3 i love your stuff sm man and i think ur an absolute vibe keep doing that forever and ever

N4 // @bluesbox -- BLUE!! It is so much fun interacting with you about theories and stuff!! And hearing you yap abt N4 lore is so fun and cool.... im INVESTED....... Yappin with you about goofy lil theory stuff is an absolute treat and i love interacting with you sm guh h,, we are the SCHEMERS......

TSB // @tiredsmashbros -- TOMM!! you...... YOU..... I WOULDNT BE FRIENDS WITH ANY OF THESE PEOPLE IF YOU DIDNT EXIST.... i look up to you like crazy and the fact that i can call you a friend is still batshit insane to me....interacting with you and joining your server has in fact changed my life for the better and i am not the same person i was before your 1k birthday party.... you are a huge inspiration to me and your lore is impeccable bUT DUDE I WANT ANSWERS, the TSB lore has me invested and i wanna know whats goin on im gonna..... GSHDJFNF IM GONNA GETTT Y /silly /pos dude your are so crazy awesome i love vibin with you n being silly all the time. qwah puh 💥

Neo // @neo91502 -- NEO!! You were one of the first people i bonded with in the server, and for that i think you are incredibly awesome, i love your art and everything you draw they always look so super cool and awesome and wa h,, i love your stuff sm but man you gotta handle your addiction to tsmg4 and long haired smg4 its gonna be a problem if you cant get it under control /silly YOU ARE SO AWESOME AND FUN I LOVE YAPPING WITH YOU RAAAGH

Hexsy // @nxva-blogz -- NXVA!! sigh..... i GUESS i have to include you.... for the sake of the hexore...... /j /silly you are so crazy and interacting with you is sm fun ill be completely honest. The hexsy lore is so so neat and i love your art sm guh,, I love vibing with you and being silly you are such a goofy ahh individual and you bring a lot of joy hehehehe explodes y

And now, there were a few other people I really wanted to fit on the couch, but couldn't because I burnt tf out. So heres me showing appreciation to those people too!

@knightedmares -- MY TWIN!! KNIGHTMARE KNIGHTMARE KNIGHTMARE!! We have so much in common and we just be vibin everytime you show up. I love your oc Trick sm and i love vibing with you guh

@rmgkyle -- KYLE!!! you feed me everyday and i appreciate it very very much. You are so incredibly goofy and i love RMG from the bottom of my heart and you are so insane but i love that WEE

@mikchi8 -- mikchi you are a menace to the server and i am very scared of you,, but thats ok cuz you are very silly and i love vibin with you /pos

@kittykibbl -- Kitty i LOVE your various AUs a ton and you were one of the first people i interacted with online, from one of the first WOTWs, and i still love your stuff a ton and interacting with you is a lot of fun yippe

Merry Christmas everybody!!

- Lore, libbytwq

[bambuwu-writes]

oh my goodness not the oshi question.,.,.,.,.,.,.I LOVE THEM ALL SO MUCH,.,..,okokok lets see if i can shorten it down into my top critters atm

sakyo <3!!!!!! mr. furuichi i love u so muchhhh !! HE'S SO DAD-SHAPED.... HE'S FATHER!!!!! he's so sweetie cutiepie with izumi....he literally cares so much about everything and everyone im like sick almost...he loves mankai SO MUCH?? HE'S A MAMA'S BOY!!!!! 10/10 love that old man so bad

OMIMIIII ok we've got a theme going here....its ab the choice to be gentle...the choice to be kind and good to those you love...!!! and, to parallel sakyo, he is MOTHER!!!! i love how quickly and sincecely he cares for all of mankai like he's genuinely so overflowing with love its waauuuaaa.! ALSO all his little semi-flirty scenes with izumi are actually seriously so sweet? like it comes off as absolute and total fondness [if he's not completely oblivious to the comments he's making...looking at YOU 'haha we're like newlyweds'] AND HOW HE STEPPED IN TO TAKE CARE OF HIS BROTHERS??? THROW A DAGGER AT MY HEART WHY DONT U??

okok im already going way too long but i HAVE to say something about my dearest most silly and charming mr minagi <3 tbh tsuzu is one of my favs mostly bc i can relate to him SM lololol. there's this one line he has way back in romeo and julius where he talks ab how he wanted to get into theatre, but when one of his brothers got sick while he was out he quit right away and like?? dude...[<-has little siblings. didnt do any after-school extracurriculars to get home in time. feeling like your wants come secondary to your responsibilities. the parentification of it all!] he's truely just so real...

AND FINALLY SUPER SUPER SUPER QUICKLY SAKUYA AND IZUMI. OH THEY ARE EVERYTHING TO ME. SAKUYA WHO IS OVERFLOWING WITH SUCH ABSOLUTE PURE LOVE AND PASSION AND DETERMINATION. IZUMI WHO COMES OFF OF ONE SINGLE LETTER AND DEDICATES HERSELF TO ALL OF MANKAI, SHOWING UP FOR HER ACTORS, HER FAMILY, AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN???

Mankai March question 2!

I hope everyone had fun yesterday! Today’s question is pretty simple as well: Who is your oshi? How did they become your oshi? Let’s hear some stories about how you came to love them, or maybe love at first sight!

[charmedbystars]

can u do a fanfic for e-42 miles based on Super Shy by Newjeans 🙏🏽 the song is like REALLYY CUTE AND I CANT STOP LISTENING TO IT 😣😣

e-42 miles x shy reader

summary: y/n's mind is constantly processing on how to not be awkward around miles.

content: no warnings!

a/n: both of these asks were similar so i just decided to make it into one! these requests r so sweet. thank u anon🥹🥹. also I AGREE SUPER SHY BY NEW JEANS IS SO ADDICTIVE AND THE CHOREO IS SO CUTE!!

sitting with your friends at lunch, you peeked over your shoulder to take a look at the cute boy standing with his friends. nobody knew how badly the girl wanted to make a move and claim him as hers, but there was no way of that happening. 

you were fairly new to brooklyn and visions academy. you’ve been there for a couple months and settled in fine. on your first day of school, some girl approached you and invited you to sit with her and her friends at lunch. you weren’t the most outgoing person, so you were glad that someone reached out before you had to. 

“so y/n, do you think anyone is cute at this school?” one of your friends, layla, asked you. 

that snapped you from your thoughts, turning your head to look at your friends staring at you expectantly. you opened your mouth to say something before closing it again. you were way too scared for it to get out, not that you didn’t trust your friends, you just didn’t want anyone to overhear or constantly be teased by it. shaking your head ‘no’ your friends just went back to the conversation they were having. 

you sighed, looking over your shoulder once more before going back to eating your lunch. the rest of lunch zoomed by and you went to your next class. you had biology with miles, being one of the two classes you had with him. you sat three rows behind him, most classes staring at the back of his head. he’s never turned around or noticed, you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even know you exist. 

sitting in class, you just listened to the teacher explain the direction for a project she was assigning. it was a partner project that she would be assigning. hearing her call out names, your head snapped when you heard your name being followed by miles’ name. you couldn’t believe it. this was gonna be so bad because he made you nervous, you just imagine the whole thing being awkward. you starting shuffling the stuff on your desk, making space for miles who was walking over. he pulls up a chair and slides it across from you, the desk being in between you guys. you didn’t want to make eye-contact so you just played with your hands and bit your lips. miles raised a brow at your behavior thinking it was cute, while your thoughts were going crazy thinking you bombed your only opportunity. 

“i’m miles morales, you’re y/n right?” he asked trying to break the silence. you nodded in response and he gave you a grin before continuing, “so for the project, i was thinking we do the botany and ecology unit since the molecular biology unit is really long and i don’t really wanna do the genetics part.” 

you blessed miles in your mind, thanking him for starting the conversation easily. “uh, yeah i would be fine with that,” you responded. giving you a glanced, he responded “okay, cool” before turning to write in his notebook. 

“i’m not doing anything after school so we could meet in the library, can’t go to my dorm since my roommate is a pretty loud gamer,” he said. you simply nodded. the bell rang signifying that class was over. 

the school day passed and all you could think of is how you were gonna talk to miles after school without sounding stupid. now, you were naturally shy, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t have conversations or lots of friends. it was only miles who made you really nervous and you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of him or stumble over your friends.

walking over to the library, you had two paper cups in hand containing hot chocolate. you had wanted one and decided to get one for miles too (also maybe trying to win yourself some brownie points to make him like you a little bit). walking into the library, you look over, already seeing miles at a table with books spread out around him. walking up and stopping in front of him, you gave him a smile.

“i stopped by a cafe before coming here… i hope you like hot chocolate,” you said, trying to sound as calm as possible. miles looking up at you, gave you a grateful smile before grabbing the cup out of your hands. 

“thanks, make yourself at home since we gotta work on this shih.”

you followed by sitting down and started taking your books and notebooks out. after being spread out, miles gave you a piece of scratch paper with a draft of what he kinda wants to do for the project. reading over it, you deemed everything good and nodded at him. you both discussed where to begin and he shared a powerpoint with you. 

an hour passed and you start to feel more confident in your abilities to talk to miles. discussing work and occasional small talk has slightly taken away your nervousness of talking to the pretty boy. 

“i feel like we should put more detail and description on the photosynthesis pa-” you began. 

“can you say that again?”

“that we should put more detail on this part?”

“no, say photosynthesis.”

“photosynthesis?”

“the way you say that is cute, ma,” he grinned. 

your head literally malfunctioned at that moment. there was no way the boy that you have been pining over for the past month just called you cute. you simply nodded, not knowing how to respond when miles kept on pushing. 

“you know, i catch you staring at me a lot,” he smugly said, resting his chin on his hand. 

“i don’t know- i mean, sorry?”

“nah, i think it’s cute. i think your cute in general.”

you felt your face flush and looked to the side, scratching your neck. “thanks miles,” you tried to sound appreciative, but accepting compliments was so hard and weird for you. you didn’t want to come off as stuck up, but also didn’t want to come off as ungrateful either. thankfully, your shyness didn’t back miles off.

“you wanna go out with me sometime? we could go to that cafe you went to earlier. whatever is comfortable for you.”

miles saying that immediately brought you out of your shell. “wait, really?” you asked with a shocked look on your face. miles leaned back in his seat, nodding, “of course, hermosa.” you nodded fast, a big smile on your face. who was going to say no to a date with miles morales?

you both forgot existence of the project in that moment and kept on talking.

extra!

the next day at lunch, you were sitting with your friends talking. miles walked by your table and you gave him a small wave, he waved back following a grin before continuing to catch up with his friends. your friends looked at you in shock.

“uhm mrs. super shy? wanna tell us what that was about?” your friend asked.

“give us all the deets. you just got the school’s pretty boy attention.” your other friend asked. you sighed knowing that even after you explain, the questions and hype from your friends will be never ending. 

[pleasestayawayidonotlikeyou]

(Note — You can decide what gender the reader is ! enby reader is recommended if you cant decide ^^ <3)

I was reading your masterlists posts (your writing is so good! /gen) and i saw a "hypersexual reader" one, if you dont mind can you do that but with fresh , epic and reaper in separate head canons ? ty if you do !!! (PS — you can add in nsfw if you would like to ! ~)

— (❁´◡`❁) anon

I have a anon now!?? Fucking cool.

Featuring: Fresh, Epic, Reaper.

Masterlist

Fresh

Oh you're hypersexual? cool! (He has no idea what it means.)

You'll definitely need to explain to this parasite what being hypersexual is.

"Oh! So that's what it means broski!"

Well he doesn't really care. It's still you after all, it's not like you've committed a murder or something like that!

Though he does try to replace your need for sexual activity for a need for physical affection, hugs, kisses, cuddles, movie nights together..

Epic

K, anything else?

Epic still sees you as you, he doesn't consider it gross or disgusting, especially if you're hypersexual because of a trauma response.

He's there for you like you're there for him.

Probably helps you into therapy, it helps to guide you to recover, and he's so happy when he sees you're getting better.

He's not stopping the sexy time between you two, he's just making sure not to do it "too much", he doesn't want to make all the progress you made go to waste.

Reaper

He's getting you into therapy.

It's not like he doesn't feel attracted towards you anymore- no he still can't wait to get home and the only person that can touch him, you.

But therapy can help guide you out of your "addiction", like giving you a light on the end of the tunnel of sorts.

Reaper may not be with you a lot because of his job, yet he's giving you his full support when he can.

Will also try to shift your desire for sex to hobbies like maybe reading or walking in the park? He's not really used to normal human life sorry.

[esosage]

I need a vamp robotnik au set in the crab so bad. Like i crave that shit carnally. You dont understand.

Just envison the ship potential. Like i cant imagine that stone could live in close proximity with a vamp robotnik withought getting bitten once or twice. Especially when the only reliable food source robotnik has when in hiding from the government IS STONE! A fact that could be made even better if you make it so that robotnik hasnt bitten anyone before, up until that point.

Just imagine robotnik having gone through YEARS of fighting his urges. Of makeing sure that he wont let something as biological as "hunger" control him. Doing everything he can to avoid drinking from a human, only to be put in a situation years down the line where thats the only solution. And the worst part is that it's his assistant of all people! Like how would robotnik feel? What lengths would he go to in order to avoid the inevitable? How would he react when the time comes? Hell, how would stone react? How would he feel about robotnik starving himself? What would he do?

And when it inevitablly does happen, and robotnik is forced to feed from stone what happens? Does stone become a vampire, or is he fine? And what about robotnik? Does he, after practically being given his first drop of water in a desert after drinking sand his whole life, get addicted? Can he, after being given the best tasting blood he's ever had, still control the urge to feed from stone again? Does it become routine? Does he embrace the oprotunity to feed from stone with open arms from then on? or, does he lie awake at night, tossing in bed next to stone as he tries his best to not sink his teeth in?

Ugh i need to knooow. Besides, theres so much shennanigens you can have with someone living that close to a vampire, for that long. Its driving me crazy.

(Also if robotniks a vampire, is gerald a vampire aswell? I mean it would explain how he's still alive. Is the whole robotnik family vampires? Are they the only vampires out there? And if so, because robotnik was too young to know any of them, how much does robotnik know about vampirism? If much at all? I mean sure, some things he understands naturally, but i doubt it would be everything.. Hell, there could even be some things that robotnik missunderstands about his own biology, since the only real reference for vampires he would have would be the ones in cartoons. Maybe that could be an additional reason as to why he brushes stone asside in favor of gerald, outside of wanting to bond with his long lost grandpop. He finnally has someone who's like him! Who knows and understands what's going on, and can even answer some of robotniks questions about vampirism that no one before him {not even robotnik himself,} ever could! Kinda like a mentor figure in a way. I'm sure robotnik would be thrilled to find out that he's not the only vampire. Especially since it must have been pretty lonely and ostrasizing to have been a vampire growing up. To be so fundementaly different from the rest of his peers, with "quirks" that no one could explain. So there deffinetly would be a sense of kinship that ivo would hold twards gerald in that regard.)

[gh0stsp1d3r]

𝒞𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓈𝓁ℯℯ𝓅．

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, r! is 7/8, insomnia, likes in prison yippee

A loud crash and bang had you waking up, looking around the room, still thinking you were home for a moment. You realized you were still in the guest room of the Chateau.

You let out a quiet whimper at the loud noises coming from the living room, noticing you were completely and utterly alone right now.

You desperately tried to go back to sleep, trying everything your brother had told you. You tossed and turned, counting sheep, nothing worked. The noises got louder.

You bolted for the door, your little clammy hands reached for JJ’s, searching for them as your feet padded against the hardwood floors.

He didn’t even notice you until John B nodded his head towards you, Jj turning around to see you right next to him, your hands on his shoulder. He furrowed his eyebrows, turning to you.

“What’s up, tiny? Whatchu doin’ awake?” He asked you, motioning for you come in front of him. You stood in front of him, holding your stuffed animal in front of you and looking down.

“I can’t sleep.” You admitted to him quietly.

“Can’t sleep, huh? You try counting sheep and shit?” He scratched at his jaw, looking down at you.

“I tried everything, jay! I can’t sleep.” Your bottom lip quivered, and JJ furrowed an eyebrow, noticing your expression.

“Go in the room, I’ll be there in a sec, ‘Kay?”

You just nodded, wordlessly walking back into the room.

“Ima go put her to sleep. I’ll be back.” He sighed out to his friends, standing up and following you into the room.

He shut the door, turning on a nightlight and sitting on the bed as you laid down, he moved the hair out your eyes, watching you pull the covers over you.

“What’s wrong, peaches? You ain’t usually like this.”

“I wanna go home.” You told him, laying down and looking up at him. He looked down.

“We can’t.”

“But why?” You whined, demanding an answer.

“Because… because… dad’s in a spot where he can’t right now. Like… you remember last time where we stayed at Uncle Ricky’s, right? This is like that.” He told you.

“How long do we have to be here for?”

“I don’t know.” He answered honestly. “But if you want anything from home, I’ll go get it for you. What do you want?”

“I want to go home, jay!” You repeated, louder this time, letting it out in a cry. Jj frowned, trying to hug you, but you kicked and flailed in his arms, he let you throw a temper tantrum, screaming and crying in his arms, letting the whole house hear.

He held you the whole time. “I know, y/n, I know.”

He had been so desperately trying to get you to get used to living here for a little. He bought you every toy you pointed at in the shelves at the store, saved up every bit of money to buy you food and anything else.

But still, it had been a month, and the sudden change confused you, startled you. You didn’t know what was going on.

Eventually, you stopped crying, JJ looked at you in his arms, taking a peek, only to see you passed out, holding his waist as you snored into his shirt.

A soft smile made its way onto his face. And then the tears fell, he looked up at the ceiling, trying desperately to try and stop his crying. He smiled while he silently sobbed, moving his head to rest it on top of yours, giving you a small kiss on the crown of your head.

————

“Hey.” JJ muttered to John B, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he went over to the kitchen.

“Hey. Are you good, dude?”

“I’m hungry.” He retorted, grabbing an apple off the counter, taking a bite into it.

“I mean yesterday… sounded pretty intense.”

JJ shrugged. “I don’t know. She just wants to go home. I don’t know how to… I mean, how the hell do you explain that to a kid?” He looked up to John B.

“Like, yeah, sorry kiddo, daddy sucks and is in prison for fuckin’ God knows how long because he’s a loser addict.” He trailed off, scoffing before taking another bite of the apple. “I don’t know how to tell her. And I cant not tell her because I’m afraid she’s gonna hold a knife over me while I’m sleeping.”

“She’s not gonna hold a knife over you, Jj.” John B rolled his eyes. “Look, that girl adores you, she’s just confused right now. But you know who she needs? Her big brother.” John B shoved his shoulder lightly. “Just… give it a little.“

“I know, I know.“ JJ sighed.

You came out the room, wiping your eyes with the back of your hands, eyes squinting to adjust to the light. You looked at JJ and John B in the living room, their eyes going to you.

“Hey, y/n.” John B spoke with a small smile, giving you a small wave, turning back Jj and raising his eyebrows, giving him a look he knew. Jj waved him off, looking back at you.

“Hey, kid, you hungry?” He asked you. You just nodded.

John B’s words played over and over in his mind.

“But you know who she needs? Her big brother.”

JJ hopped off the counter, rummaging through the fridge and cabinets, repeating the words in his mind.

He didn’t need his dad, he didn’t need anyone else to tell him how to raise you. He could do this.

[runtwithwolves]

Do you mind sharing your headcanons/au idea of Satan Stan and eldericth god Kenny?

It would also be nice to know Kyle's in that universe

Sorry for nagging you about this, but I'm super interested in this. Feel free to ignore this ask if you don't wanna answer

honestly its kind of just scattered things from the show that i take too seriously! but here are some random little thoughts!

Kenny:

- He was born while his parents were in the cult of cthulu (canon-ish) and in H.P. Lovecraft lore Cthulu is the child of this thing called Shub-niggurath who's also known as the all mother, The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, AND IS ALSO in the south park fractured but whole game!

Shub is the outer mythos's god of fertility. When shub has a child theyre called a "dark Young" and Cthulu is techincally one of them. A common trait the dark young share though is they cant die- theyre really creepy and murderous abominations that spill from Shubs body, or theyre born from creatures who can become pregnant and are near her. But yeah a big thing is unless by the hands of an eldrith horror THEY CANT DIE

and whats a funky little thing about Kenny?

SO Kenny is a child of the outer mythos! It would explain why Kenny never stays in either heaven or hell, because OUTER gods soulds dont belong in that realm.

Also in my silly headcanon Cthulu and Kenny are brothers because of Shub! i imagine that once Kennys lived out the life of his human half (80 years or so) he'll have a final death and then join the cosmic war :)

(the cosmic war is the on going war between the outer gods to see whether the embodiment of peace or chaos will rule the mythos.)

Shub is also a lot of things, an evil force in the cosmic war, the mother of the embodiments of good and evil, but shes a GREAT mom!

The dark young are drawn to her and she to them so she can always find them

I like to think a lot of the crazy bad things that happen in South Park happen because Kenny is there! Shubs presence causes animals to go crazy and humans would become weird because she literally embodies chaos

Stan:

- A lot less complicated haha

Stan allows Satan to use him as a vessel in the episode "Freemium isnt Free" after Satan gives him a really earnest talk about addiction and how it can be genetic and how his enviroment isnt conducive to healthy living.

When hes possessed Stan gains a lot of power and can shoot fire out of his hands (sick) and also travel through hell

I like to headcanon that stan starts to conjure Satan more often as he gets older and talk to him about his problems kind of like an older brother haha

Then randomly on their adventures Stan allows Satan to possess him to help out in fights or situations

Satan and Kenny are also bros so its chill

In this same sphere of headcanon Kyle is more towards the light side of the supernatural! I got an ask of someone pointing out that Kyle made a light bulb explode when he got mad at the end of that episode where cartman pretended to be psychic, but ill have to think more on it to include kyle!

Cartmans actually just the most evil little bastard alive, thats kinda supernatural

[stay-somnia]

SKZ! A/B/O! Omegaverse! Scents

Chan

His scent is the definition of primal: cedar forests so dense you have to claw your way out never knowing what direction you're going. Chan's scent is both comforting and dangerous, still woodlands lulling you in as ancient eyes watch.

Lee Know

Lee Know's scent is as strange as he is. Driftwood floating against foggy coastlines off black sand beaches. Brackish waters were rivers meet oceans his scent is clear with traces of salts. Your vision goes hazy as the gentle waves pull you under.

Changbin

Rose Oxide. Soft, brazen, metallic; Changbin's scent perfectly in embrace him. It's deceiving, subtle and kind at heart, the metallic clang quickly fades away once you're in its enamoring presence.

Hyunjin

Its hypnotizing, free spirited, this aired scent of Lilac's and Larch knows no limits. Faint in the beginning it grows more powerful over time, drawing you into a dream you won't wake up from.

Han

Electric citrus engulfed in rich chocolate, Han's scent is a comforting as it is addicting. It instills a fiery familiarity you can only acquire with over protective loved ones at your side. Once you taste it all else turns to ash.

Felix

Felix's scent of Jade and moss is a preservation of youth and vitality from times long ago. It's a bubble of peace. A place to clear your mind. A friend to call your own. Worry melts away once you pass the gates.

Seungmin

Leather bound notes and Bourbon. It's unnerving, unexpected, it's Seungmin. Archaic wisdom alight with mischief. Pages stained with a kind of love that most people will never get to know.

Jeongin

His scent is cold, alive, unique. Hawthorne fruit, candlestick ice, frozen rain. There's a beauty that you cant possibly comprehend. It invokes a sense of danger and pride but carries more warmth than a thousand suns.

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Im in the process of starting a 9th Member! reader Omegaverse fic so I wanted to explain how I perceive the boys scents. I know they are oddly specific but I cant imagine anything else. I don't quiet have synesthesia (at least I think) but some of all of these things have very distinctive smells. My friends call me crazy when I say jade has a VERY unique smell. I hope I was able to get my thoughts out coherently.

The first chapter should be out some time next week.