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Cain' Instinct

part 13216789432

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happy june!

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When the government kidnaps people without due process, Trump supporters don't worry that they're going to be kidnapped next.

But when the government taxes billionaires, Trump supporters do worry that they're going to be taxed next.

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I am Kareman Dohan، From besieged Gaza

I record this message in the 21st century, specifically in the year 2025, fully aware and in sound mind. I hereby testify, confess, and declare that a criminal entity—ruled by violent gangs—has revived the horrors of Nazism, and has even surpassed them. For over 600 days, it has committed one of the greatest atrocities of our modern age, in a place called Gaza. They murdered our children before our men, our women before our youth. They destroyed homes, displaced families, and starved the innocent. And this brutal campaign has not stopped—not even as I speak these words. The world today counts more than 8.2 billion people, Yet not a single force has been able to stop the bloodshed, or protect the defenseless.

I call upon every free soul, every conscience still alive, Spread this message far and wide.

Speak up. Act.

Support my people. Support my family.

Let your silence not be another weapon used against us.

Silence is complicity.

Solidarity is a duty.

Donate to my family and my little boy, donation links below the post or by clicking here

Short video of 600 days of war

Donate here🌸:

GoFundMe: Click here

PayPal: Click here

Chuffed: Click here

My campaing vetted by/ @90-ghost here @gaza-evacuation-funds here My number in post 6

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while it may seem a bit of an uncomfortable scent to have to constantly breathe in, the smell of the sweat that was faded into his clothes; and the smudges of dirt scattered about in his hair, matching how dirty his outfit already was; it wasn't exactly what one would describe as a pleasant scent . but it was fine. his gloves may be a little—just barely—damped in both water and blood; almost completely filthy and battered, but you wouldn't want for anything more than the feel of it. to feel the quarter of that palm of that very same glove against your skin, in your hair, squeezing you tightly.

"shhhh.." he pressed his chapped lips to the root of your nose, his heart only further breaking at the sound of your quiet, hardly concealed sob. Childe gently cupped your face in his hands, bringing your eyes to meet his own blue ones. his eyes, they never did carry a certain spark like any other, not since he saw the light of the outside world again after three months of blood and darkness.

but, you were always an exception. just seeing you would bring an invisible shine to his eyes—one that no one could bring about.

his eyes were almost like an ocean; still, but only on the outside. gaze into it, and you'd see the same thing as everyone else. they grew fierce during a fit of rage, like the waves of water flowing aggressively in a storm. you never knew what you were in for, just by staring into the surface. you never knew what was beneath it all.

but if you got the special chance of diving deeper into the hues of thick blue, if you get the chance of exploring the one place everyone else wouldn't dare tread into, you would see that it was full of life. it would consist of some dangers, of course, yes, but there was a sparkle that was shamelessly present, compared to what was shown outside.

and Childe believes, with a full heart, that he wouldn't even have one if not for you.

"i'm here now." he reminds you, trying to calm you with his voice and full promises. "and i'm not going anywhere. I promise."

you sniffle, looking up at your lover with wet, red eyes. you want to trust his words — and you do — it's just...

you needed to be sure.

you bring up a weak arm, battered in blood seeping through the ripped cloth, and hold out your pinkie. your hand shakes. he knows what you're searching for and smiles.

he locks his pinkie with yours, and takes a deep breath.

“You make a pinky promise, you keep it all your life.

If I break this pinkie promise, you throw me on the ice.

The cold will kill the pinkie that once betrayed your friend,

the frost will freeze my tongue off so I never lie again.”

he doesn't let go of your pinkie, even after the chant is over. instead, he brings your locked fingers to his lips, and presses a tender kiss to your curled one. "is that better? do you believe me now?"

you nod.

you've always believed him. he's never failed to be there for you, to protect you when you needed protection. and he's proved that, time and time again. he's proved that today. when your life was flashing before your eyes, when all the fight had left your body and you were helpless and surrounded by foes—all you needed was to blink and suddenly the grass was red.

you don't know how he did it. how he knew you needed him.

but you were glad he knew. you don't know what you would've done without him there.

and he wouldn't know what to do if you weren't here.

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More proof that capitalism was never "freedom" or "small government".

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❥・Jason Todd — post-patrol showers (nsfw)

❥・tags: nsfw, jason todd blurb, established relationship, gn!reader, no use of y/n, no dialogue, eater!jason, oral (reader receiving)

❥・word count: 347

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Jason Todd needs his hands on you at all times.

When he's all sweaty and bloody and full of grime after his patrols, he'll drag himself into the bedroom, pulling you out of the warm sheets and trudging into the bathroom.

You like the way he smells—despite Gotham's streets smelling like piss half the time—your boyfriend makes it smell amazing.

He likes the way you whisper questions about the patrol. He'll respond vaguely while caressing your figure, tugging on your pajamas.

He's not listening all that much until you finally offer to bathe him. He'll perk up with a slight smile, pulling off his gear as quickly as he can in the cramped apartment bathroom.

A shower, then a bath—a tried and true routine the two of you have perfected—the shower to wash, and the bath to relax.

Jason also likes to release his pent-up frustrations.

He likes propping your leg up on the tub and tracing the line of your spine.

He likes watching his fingers dig into your soft flesh as he eases himself into you.

He likes to see you grabbing at the tiled walls as he pounds into you.

He whispers gruff praises that hold little meaning when his cum drips out of you.

He likes sticking his thumb in, pushing the cum back into your swollen entrance, before licking it up himself.

He'll get on his knees licking and sucking—he'll turn you around to you're facing him, leg on his shoulder as he does.

He'll make you finish until you can't stand, then he'll grab your hips and make you stand.

When he's all spent, he runs the bath.

He hisses quietly when you ride his sensitive cock, huffing against your shoulder as his hips buck upwards.

The bath water spills over the sides, but he couldn't care less.

Because when you're riding him, moaning quietly into his ear, it's all he's focused on.

And when he's all done, he can scrub you clean of sweat and cum while you scrub him clean of dirt and grime.

Jason Todd loves shower sex.

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❥・a/n: physical touch ...

❥・masterlist

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‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤJASON TODD who is not very good at hiding what he wants. oh, he’ll try. he’ll cradle the side of your face, kiss you softly, slow, and treacherously tender—and he’ll try to play it off when you tease him. but that hunger is unmistakable, it’s deliciously obvious on his tongue, and it’s painfully irresistible. one look into those eyes, and you’re done. clothes adorned across the floor, plucked like flower petals all in a second. he’ll have you laid out beneath him on the bed, kissing every inch of you like a solemn prayer before dinner. tightly grasping onto your hips, pulling you closer, and closer, and closer—until he shudders, breath heavy and skin damp, pressing his forehead against your own, a pretty little curse escaping his mouth. “....fuck.”

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“i told you not to wait up,” jason says, voice low, rough, ruined from yelling or running or both. he's peeling his jacket off one shoulder, the kevlar sticking where the blood’s dried tacky and brown, and you’re already crossing the room to him with a frown and a half-empty bottle of peroxide.

“yeah?” you say. “and i told you not to get stabbed again. guess we’re both bad at listening.”

his mouth twitches like he wants to laugh. doesn’t. his whole body sways like the adrenaline’s leaking out of him, and now there’s nothing holding him upright but pure spite and habit.

you grab his wrist. gently. “sit down.”

“doll, i’m fine—”

“sit. down.”

he does. mostly because you said it like that. partly because he’s tired. mostly because you’re touching him again.

the cut on his side is shallow but ugly, right under the ribs, still leaking a little. the sight of it makes your stomach twist, like maybe if you’d called him one minute earlier, if you’d kept him talking, if you’d just begged a little harder— whatever. you’re not crying. you’re not.

“what happened?” you ask, even though you probably don’t want to know.

he shrugs, flinches. “guy had a knife. i had bad reflexes.”

“your reflexes are never bad.”

he looks at you. for a second. and then away.

you clean the cut. you don’t say anything about how he hisses through his teeth. or how his jaw tightens like he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t feel you, doesn’t care that you’re here, doesn’t want to grab you by the wrist and kiss you so hard he forgets how to breathe.

“you could’ve called for backup,” you say. softly. the gauze sticks a little. you don’t apologize.

“i didn’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“and you getting hurt is fine?”

“i’m used to it.”

that does something awful to your chest. you press harder than you mean to. he doesn’t say anything. just watches you with those stupid storm-cloud eyes like he’s sorry but also not sorry at all.

“idiot,” you mutter. not looking at him.

“you love it,” he says, smirking with blood on his teeth.

you glare. “you’re literally bleeding out and you still manage to flirt.”

“i’m multitasking.”

you hate him. you love him. you hate that you love him. you love that he’s here, still, bruised and reckless and real and breathing.

you lean in before you can stop yourself. just enough to rest your forehead against his. his skin is hot. he smells like smoke and metal and something that might be yours.

“please don’t die,” you whisper.

he doesn’t say anything.

but his hand finds yours. bruised knuckles and all. squeezes once.

“i wasn’t planning on it,” he says.

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i meant to post this to tumblr when i've completed the assistants and katai but i lost the file with progress on them..

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angel hear me out here - throating simon while he’s doing something - cleaning his guns, talking to a teammate, playing an online game, ANYTHING that has him talking, and listening to him slowly get more and more worked up until he’s holding back SO MUCH he’s like whimpering and shit PLEASE YOU GET ME LIKE NO ONE ELSE

mattie i know you sent this to me over a month ago please don’t kill me

they’re holed up in some abandoned safehouse on the outskirts of nowhere—dust on the windowsills, mold in the corners, wood floors that creak if you so much as breathe too hard. it’s the kind of place that was never meant to hold warmth, but simon makes do with the dull orange glow of an oil lamp on the dresser, and your quiet presence a few steps away.

mission went sideways three days ago. simon, you, and Johnny got separated from gaz and price. the three of you are all hunkered down in a broken shell of a farmhouse while the enemy combs the area like wolves on blood scent. johnny’s in the next room, nodding off in a creaky chair probably with his rifle across his chest.

someone has to stay up and keep watch. tonight, it’s simon’s turn.

he’s perched on the edge of the mattress, nothing but an old pallet beneath it, and the fading golden sun spills through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.

he’s been methodically cleaning a SIG P226 that’s seen better days. it’s muscle memory at this point—click, disassemble, swipe, reassemble—something to keep his hands busy, his thoughts from spiraling into worst-case scenarios.

though, despite his best efforts, you can hear the gears grinding and groaning in his head. you kneel between his legs, silent, soft eyes fixed on his face like he’s your salvation. he doesn’t even register it until your hands are sliding up his thighs, fingers curling over the waistband of his cargoes and undoing his belt in record timing. within seconds your mouth is there and warm and perfect.

he stiffens, not out of protest—but from the sheer contrast. the tension in his shoulders bleeds into his grip on the pistol. he doesn’t stop you. just tilts his head to the side, breathes through his nose like he’s trying to stay grounded.

the headset crackles—he’s still linked to price and gaz on the comms. price is asking about fallback points, coordinates. simon answers in short, clipped phrases, voice tighter than the seal your lips are forming around him

“...copy that. sector’s blown. stand by.”

and you take him deeper. hum around his flushed tip as you work your way up and down his length.

—his hand shakes for the first time in years—he almost drops the fucking gun.

his knees shift wide, a hand instinctively going to your head just to brace himself. his fingers twitch in your hair, knotting themselves to your scalp like they’re fighting between reverence and ruin. he sounds strained when he speaks through the comms again.

“...might have to—fuck—might have t’fall back toward checkpoint charlie. got company nearby. c-can’t risk contact.”

but he’s crumbling. your mouth is too warm, too wet, too knowing of every vein and ridge. every suck, every slide of your tongue and gulp of your throat, has his jaw ticking, his breathing erratic.

he grunts, low and strangled. you can feel the way his hips twitch under your palms, the restraint wound so tight it’s barely holding.

on the other end of the comms: “you alright, simon?”

simon bites down on a groan, manages to rasp, “busy. call y’back.”

his headset clatters to the floor as he rips it off, shattering the quiet—the groan of old pipes and the distant coo of mourning doves beyond poorly boarded up windows arethe only sounds that remain in the stunned aftermath.

silence now—except for the sound of your lips around him, the soft slick noises that make him press the back of his hand over his mouth like a man half-mad. he doesn’t want to wake Johnny next door, doesn’t want to give away just how far gone he is.

—not when it’s been weeks without a moment like this, when all he’s seen is blood and gunpowder and loose ends

but now he’s got you kneeling for him in the middle of the wreckage, safe for now with the taste of him on your tongue, and it’s too much for him to handle

—he mutters your name like a warning, like a plea

then his head tips back and he actually whimpers—a raw, spineless thing despite his staunch character.

and you look up through your lashes, mouth full of him, and you know he's done for.

guys i am SOOO back omfg.

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My followers know I hate talking about politics and current events, and generally refuse to do so, but this is important.

A bill has been introduced in the US that would make all pornography a federal crime. Owning it. Creating it. Distributing it.

Under this law, fanart of nude characters would be a federal crime.

Under this law, depictions of homosexuality or simply being transgender, would be considered pornography and a federal crime.

This bill is not going to pass.

However, the reason for this bill is to continue to push the "overton window". The reason for this bill is to make banning pornography seem more and more normal to everyone until they can actually do that.

And remember, they consider depictions of gay characters and transgenders characters "pornography" in any context, including platonic.

They have been working on this for a decade now and it has been working.

If you are one of the people in fandom who thinks that "nasty" porn on AO3 should be banned because it's "icky" or "immoral", then this mental scam is working on you.

Censorship is never about protecting people.

Censorship is always about control.

Do not let the rising moral panic affect your mind and make you weak to propaganda that lets others control you and control what you watch and read.

Do not fall for the scam.

When they say they are going to ban "pornography" it means they're going to ban anything they don't like by calling it "pornography" and they don't like you!!

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Wow fuck off tumblr, I'm wearing normal clothing. Y'all just really dislike chubby trans girls don't you?

Fascists.

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making aus for ocs are so funny cause like. theyre already in a situation… but what if they were in a DIFFERENT situation

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Love you, hope you are doing well 💗

LOVE YOU LOTS HARP !!!!! HOPE YOU’RE DOING WELL ALSO ❤️ mwah

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★ thinking about how toji cleans you up after sex — not with the traditional combination of soap and water, but with his tongue. naturally.

the first time it happens, when you collapse against the mattress after countless rounds of intense passion, body aching in every possible crevice and mind hazy with the clouds of leftover pleasure, the last thing you expect is to feel straggly strands of black hair tickling your thighs.

“mmm… toji, what are y’doing?” you murmur tiredly, eyelids droopy as as you gaze down at where he’s currently trailing several lazy, open-mouthed kisses up the skin of your quivering thighs.

“what does it look like, baby?” he rumbles airily between warm brushes of his scarred lips, dark eyes flickering up to meet yours with a hint of amusement glinting in his irises. “gonna clean you up real good.”

“but… ‘m still sensitive there, can’t you just use a damp cloth or something?” you begin to protest, however your words quickly trail off into incoherency once you feel him place a smooch directly upon your abused cunt.

“no can do, pretty,” he huffs lightly, trailing a pudgy thumb down your puffy folds to where his milky cum is still slowly trickling out of your little hole. “i made the mess so i’m gonna be the one who cleans it up.”

“but—”

“no more buts,” toji admonishes with a click of his tongue, wrapping a strong arm around your stomach to keep you in place while he blows a soft, teasing puff of air over your fluttering pussy. “now be quiet and let me do my job.”

…well, when he puts it like that you can’t really think of any sane reason to argue further.

but despite how rough he was just mere moments ago while he was ruthlessly pounding you into the bed, the way he scoops his own sticky release out of you with the tip of his tongue is anything but rough — in fact, it could even be described as gentle.

he’ll keep eye contact with you the entire time too, both pools of greyish-blue locked directly on your own with each drag of his bumpy tastebuds throughout your spongy, hypersensitive walls.

and when he finally deems his work satisfactory and pulls you into his bulky yet tender embrace, you decide maybe toji’s method of cleaning you up isn’t so bad after all.