#guns are for the weakest

[duffslut]

Slash at the opening of Halloween Horror Nights 2024 in L.A.

[undercooked-spaghetti]

We don't talk enough about the part near the end of Lost Judgment where Higashi is in danger of getting shot and Sugiura saves him by jumping from his safe spot, kicking the gun away from Soma, and risking getting stabbed by the man in retaliation.

Sugiura took a bullet at the end of Judgment, lives, and then stops Higashi from potentially having a worse fate because the gun is pointed directly at him. It's also not Higashi's first time at the bad end of a gun.

The power couple we deserve in the Judgment series. 😤

[iero]

I will never get over how getting tattoos leads to more body positivity. Getting the two tattoos I got in the UK makes me want to show off my arms even more now. It's not even for a guns show reason, I just roll up my sleeves to be like, "Bam! Both of my forearms are nearly covered and they look nice."

[amplexadversary]

Honestly, I think if Rain Mikamura's issues were explored more rather than sanded down by both the show and fandom when they aren't convenient for a joke, she might have had a chance at being one of my all-time favorite characters.

I've alluded to the idea that bringing her jealousy issues to the forefront would thematically strengthen the back end of the show, and tackling her communication problems on the same level as Domon's would have made them work much better as a pairing.

(they have polar opposite issues where Domon needs to be told "hey, people would like to know this, so say it," while Rain expects people to read her mind) (I'd still ship her with Schwarz though tbh)

Also, she owns multiple guns and threw a wrench at Domon's head at one point. This woman is violent and repressing it.

FInally, there's the fact that Rain seems to think that she can, and is expected to, control the behavior of other people. Her meltdown over her father's actions where she concludes that she is equally responsible kind of suggests this, and she spends a lot of time trying to control Domon's behavior even when he's not doing something reckless. I would have really liked if the final arc had some kind of element of the inherent horror in taking that to it's logical conclusion, since we know the DG can literally control people.

I really think my biggest gripe about her is that most people follow the writers in pretending that the flaws they gave her don't exist, and without them, Rain is kind of a boring, can-do-no-wrong type that I really cannot stand, so as a result I can go between really liking her and avoiding the hell out of her.

[thelomlisfictional]

Had a dream about being a naval aviator last night… chat am I cooked?

[ghostlypawn]

watching any non-obc production of anastasia is like wow christy altomare carried this entire show on her back jfc

[compacflt]

i'm so curious: what's your favorite thing you've written? something that makes you nod and go, "yeah, that's it right there. i did that." just the best combination of words you've ever churned out in your personal opinion. it makes you proud just Thinking about it. could be a sentence, a paragraph, etc.

very cute ask anon, thank you. im going to assume for your benefit that you mean specifically my icemav writing—obviously I write outside of top gun and am very proud of that stuff but it wouldn’t make sense out of context.

There’s a lot of more recent stuff that I’m extremely extremely proud of on a technical level, but I’m prouder of this paragraph below on a deeper more existential level.

This paragraph was one of the first parts of WWGATTAI i ever wrote—august 12, i think, well before I had fully realized the characters’ voices or their attitudes towards life/each other; I only had about 5k written of what is now a 300k+ project (at the time of writing this paragraph i wanted it to be 10k max) and had no real outline, didn’t know who or what I was dealing with, hadnt seen TGM in two months, had done no research (so it’s not at all politically/militarily accurate or anything, why the FUCK is ice going to fucking GUAM)—and STILL this wound up being my favorite paragraph in the entire fucking series. not to suck my own dick or anything. I’m STILL so proud of this paragraph, 9 months and 275k+ words later, even though i Absolutely Would Not write it this way now.

[turtlemagnum]

fire magic being so prevalent in morrowind is so funny to me, like for most people AND animals it does fucking nothing and yet it's considered like the default kind of offensive magic. like imagine if you lived in a world were certain races were magically immune to certain kinds of damage and white people were immune to bullets, i feel like the US wouldn't have nearly as many guns if that were the case y'know? meanwhile Every Dunmer On Nirn has an 100% resistance to fire and yet they all seem to think specializing in fire magic is a good idea. i mean, it would be if you existed in like cyrodiil or summurset or something, y'know, a place where most people DONT have immunity to fire. but you live in morrowind, where almost everyone's a dunmer. it's the same reason why i never bother with ice magic when i play skyrim, why would i specialize in the kind of magic that most people are gonna be able to resist, that's asinine. anyways, that's why shock's objectively the best kind of offensive magic in TES, basically nobody resists it and a lot of daedra (some of the most powerful beings in existence) are weak to it, and also it doesn't cost as much energy to use as a straight up damage health spell. incidentally i feel like lightning magic would be the most useful for offense in any realistic context too since like, you realize how easily that shit can kill you??? we're literally conductive bags of water, as are pretty much all animals, that shit'd kill literally anything with minimal effort

[americanrecord]

do u ever watch an album reaction video and click out halfway through because they're reacting wrong

[x-heesy]

@bigbonzo

[denjispinalcordsword]

Genya: *is the only human character in the entire series with a real, tangible super power*

Absolutely everyone in the whole series, including Genya: wow it would be great if Genya wasn’t so weak and shitty

[phvnthom]

Every single time I see one of those stupid posts that's like, "Being in your 20s is the worst decade of your life, you're not a person yet, oh you're such a baby still, stop glorifying youth, being in your 30s and 40s is where it's at, etc." Older people are not a pinnacle. Being older is not the great thing you think it is and it just sounds super infantilizing on top of it. Just absolutely rage inducing. Sorry, but worry about yourself and how your 20s lacked bc of your own personal failures and stop equating that to some profound realization.

[seph-on-an-irrational-planet]

crazy that Bloodborne is 10 years old now. I still remember watching the trailer and going nuts at the end when they revealed you get a gun

[munch-mumbles]

(dehydrated starving voice) weep. i miss weep i need weep..................

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤDAMN BABYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : When You Smack Their Ass.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, 90s Tim Drake, Duke Thomas, Damian Wayne.

☆⁠ NOTE : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

You are never getting this opportunity again. Bruce is standing in the kitchen, wearing sweatpants. His back is turned. The ass is right there. You act on impulse. SMACK. Bruce freezes. You grin, leaning against the counter. “Damn, Daddy Wayne. Is that Batcake for me?” The silence is deafening. Bruce slowly turns his head, staring at you like you just committed a felony in broad daylight. “…Excuse me?” You wink. “You heard me, sweetheart.” Bruce stares for ten more seconds. Then, without a word, he leaves. OH NO. You realize too late what you’ve done. Bruce is disappearing into the Batcave. You hear him booting up the Batcomputer. “…Bruce?” TAP. TAP. TAP. He’s typing furiously. You peek over his shoulder. He’s running an analysis. On himself. “BRUCE—” “I need to reassess my stealth levels,” he mutters. “If you could land that strike, I’ve grown careless.” OH MY GOD.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

You see him walking down the hallway, all smug and confident, wearing those tight jeans he knows make people insane. You can’t help yourself. You smack it. Hard. SMACK. Dick gasps.

LOUDLY. “Damn, Grayson,” you whistle, “is that thing double-cheeked up on a Thursday?!” Immediate. Dramatic. Reaction. Dick clutches the wall like he’s fainting. Then—he spins around so fast he almost trips. “Babe.” His eyes are wide, teary, shaking. “DO YOU MEAN IT?” You blink. “Huh?” Dick grabs your hands. “Say it again. Say it with your whole chest.” “…What.” “Do you mean it? Do you mean the ass thing?” “…Yeah?” Dick grins so wide he looks insane. He winks at you before immediately turning around and sticking his ass out. “Go ahead, babe. One more for the road.” “OH MY GOD.” You are never doing this again. Maybe.

— JASON TODD ⋆

Jason is minding his business. Jason is walking past you. Jason’s fat ass is asking for it. You strike. SMACK. Jason IMMEDIATELY turns, hand on his gun. OH SHIT. You throw your hands up. “WAIT—” His eyes narrow. Suspicious. Dangerous. Then—he relaxes. “…Did you just smack my ass?” You grin. “Yup.” He blinks. Then—he smirks. “…Oh.” You squint. “Why do you sound happy?” Jason shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Nah, it’s just funny.” You relax. “Good, ‘cause—” SMACK. JASON JUST DROPPED HIS WHOLE BODYWEIGHT INTO SLAPPING YOUR ASS BACK. YOU FLY ACROSS THE ROOM. “JASON, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO.” Jason just cackles.

— 90s TIM DRAKE ⋆

Tim is exhausted. Tim has had three hours of sleep in the past two days. Tim is running on caffeine, crime, and sheer force of will. So, naturally—you strike when he’s at his weakest. SMACK. Tim jumps so hard he drops his coffee. “WHAT—” He spins around, eyes wide, looking like a scared raccoon You grin. “Damn, baby bird. You always keep that wagon on you?” Tim stares. Tim processes. Tim crashes. He grabs his head like he’s having an existential crisis. “Oh my God.” “Tim?” “Oh my God.” He’s stumbling backwards, running into the table. “I—I was not prepared for this.” “Tim, breathe—” “I HAVEN’T EVEN FINISHED PUBERTY. AM I EVEN LEGALLY ALLOWED TO HAVE A WAGON?” “TIM—” He grabs your shoulders, looking deep into your soul. “…Do I actually have ass?” You blink. Tim shakes you. “TELL ME THE TRUTH.”

— DUKE THOMAS ⋆

Duke is chilling. Duke is relaxed. Duke is having a nice, peaceful day. So, naturally—you ruin it. SMACK. Duke immediately whips around, betrayal in his eyes. “EXCUSE ME?” You lean against the counter, smirking. “Damn, sunshine. Didn’t know you were carrying all that.” Duke freezes. Then—he laughs. “Oh, word?” He steps closer. You narrow your eyes. “…Duke?” “Oh, word?” He’s too calm.Too smug. He leans down, real close, real quiet. “…Bet.” Then—he disappears. For three days. And when he returns—he waits. Until you’re completely unsuspecting. Until you’re relaxed. Until you think it’s over. And then— SMACK. “DUKE—” “EQUALITY.”

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You spot him. You see the perfect opportunity. Damian is standing by the window, arms crossed, looking all broody and serious. SMACK. The moment your hand connects, Damian jumps like he’s been electrocuted. Then—he spins around with his sword half-drawn. “WHO DARES—” You grin. “Damn, baby. Didn’t know you were packing all that.” Silence. Pure, horrified silence. Damian just stares. Then—he slowly processes what you just said. His entire face turns red. “You—you dare—” He grabs his chest like he’s having a heart attack. “You speak of my body so… so FILTHILY?” You cackle. “Yes.” He looks away sharply. “This… this is inappropriate.” “And?” “…Say it again.” “…What.” “Say it.” “…Damian, are you—” “SAY IT.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[slater-baby]

Money Shot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

Tags - Squirting, voyeurism, toys, mentions of breeding

-

“Simon?” Price calls from the head of the boardroom, arms crossed in deep contemplation, “What do you think? Is it feasible?”

“Feasible? Sure,” He glances at the tactical plan with a minute shake of his head, “Advisable? Not so much. I mean, that structure is...what? Three, four meters? Unless the drop point is on the fuckin' roof, there’s no way the cunts won’t see us coming.”

“Hm,” Price grunts, running a hand through his beard. Around the boardroom, various members of the congregation shift in their seats.

“What about…” Gaz begins, and then, Simon hears it.

BZZ.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers beneath his breath, leaning forward in his chair to pull his phone out of his pocket. Just recently, he’d installed a set of cameras about the house and porch.

‘Just for extra security, love,’ he’d told you. Since you moved in with him—and what with your name now written into his will—his time away on deployment and in the office had become…a liability, to say the least. 

On a good day, Simon didn’t like to leave you by yourself. But for extended periods of time? When he couldn’t so much as pick up the phone to send you a text?

His fried nerves had all but demanded it. The cameras were his only failsafe. His only means of connecting with you, even when you were oblivious to it. In his mind, when he was deployed to some desolate war zone, slumming it in drafty safehouses, sustaining himself on MREs and cigarettes, then just seeing you quiet and content in your usual place on the sofa, flipping through a book or doing a face mask, would be enough to tide him over. 

Though, he’d failed to consider just how goddamn annoying the notifications would soon become.

Hurriedly, he glances at his phone under the table, halfheartedly listening to the meeting.

‘MASTER BEDROOM - MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ his phone so helpfully supplies him.

He scowls.

Movement detected. Yeah, right. Just like the other twenty times it’d told him that in the past hour alone. He digs his index finger into the ringer switch, but just at that moment, another notification comes.

And with it, another…And another…And another….

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ it says to him yet again, as if he were an idiot too dull to even read.

“MOVEMENT DETECTED!! INTRUDER ALERT!!!” It seems to screech, “GRAB YOUR GUN, SOLDIER, THE DAY ISN’T OVER YET!!’

Annoyance climbing by the minute, Simon hurriedly flicks through his apps, all too eager to return to the meeting at hand. Within seconds, he’s staring at the grey display of your sparsely lit living room.

If anything, it’s a bit messy, but hardly remarkable. The TV is on, some soapy romance show still rolling in the background. There’s a pillow on the floor. The cat is lounging in a flickering patch of dying sunlight. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

He switches to the kitchen. Nothing but the hum of the old fridge greets him. And in the dining room, it’s a similar story. So, attention wavering with every word that Kyle speaks, he angrily flicks through the porch cameras and straight to the master bedroom. 

And that’s when he hears it.

The smallest, weakest little voice…

“God, Simon…”

At the sound—barely audible over the noise of Price’s lecture—his heart rate spikes.

Physically, he can feel his blood rushing, nerves shredding themselves to pieces as he hurriedly presses the rotate button on screen. Slowly—almost as if to taunt him—the janky camera begins to turn. And with every second longer he has to wait, darker possibilities begin to flood his synapses.

You’d fainted.

You’d fallen.

You’d broken a bone.

Or, perhaps the very worst, he’d find someone else standing over you.The exact reason he’d installed the cameras in the first place.

He waits with bated breath, practically unblinking, until he finds the source of the movement. The blankets atop the bed jostle, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees your familiar form swathed in pillows and fluff. Safe, warm, and most importantly, alone.

“Simon…” you say again—voice strained. Almost as if you were…crying?

Again, he glances at Price. The man is distracted, going on about the MTC once more. Surreptitiously, Simon looks back down at his phone, confused.

Were you sick? Laid up in bed with a fever?

No, somehow that didn’t feel like the right description. Last month, when you’d caught the flu, you could hardly stand to sit still. Simon practically had to chain you to the bed just to force you to get some decent rest.

Then, what could it be?

Did you miss him, perhaps?

At the thought, his chest warms. In all his years of service, Simon never had someone to miss him. He had his friends, sure, but they were his home away from home, the family he’d never known he’d find. Off service, however, before he’d met you, home wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t dear to his heart. Hell, it was little more than a house, with a sofa and television. 

But when you came along….

You, with your shining eyes, witty jokes, and unending support…

He’d never known that the most precious gift a man could receive is someone to come home to at night and to miss him when he leaves in the morning.

Fondly, he looks at his phone screen, hardly listening to the meeting at hand.

Within your cradle of old blankets and sheets, you shift, a whimper escaping your mouth. It echoes in the grainy speakers of his phone, and he hardly even thinks to lower the volume…

That is, until you move again, and the blankets fall down.

One of your arms pushes the blankets down, and suddenly, Simon has an eyeful of your bare tits. Naked, shining with sweat, and nipples raw from being tweaked.

Instantly, his eyes go wide, and he jolts forward to hide his phone in the shadow of the conference table. 

Not crying. Definitely not crying, his brain rambles, watching as the curve of your breasts squish into the mattress as you twist beneath the sheets. The flimsy fabric, threadbare after so many long nights together, wraps around your legs like a vice. 

And that is exactly when he sees it.

Your back arches way from the mattress and your entire body thrums with electricity, hips moving fast and hard, every roll just as desperate and jagged as when you slide into his lap during movie nights, unbuckling his belt before he can even think to open his mouth.

“Fuck!” You nearly scream—and Simon literally flinches, hurriedly whipping his head around to look at the other men.

“Simon?” Price suddenly questions, “You alright? Was that your phone again?”

“Um,” he begins tactfully, clearing his throat, “Yeah—just m’girlfriend walkin’ in front o’ the camera again.”

“Oh,” Price nods, “She doing alright? Haven’t seen ‘er recently.”

“Yeah—she’s…” he huffs, blindly rapidly down at his phone where you writhe against the sheets, fingers thrusting between your thighs.

“She’s doing…great,” he manages, swallowing thickly when you reach a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits.

“Well, give ‘er my regards next time you talk to to ‘er.”

“‘Course, sir.”

“Now, back to what I was saying about the perimeter…”

With that, Simon holds his breath for a few torturous minutes. However, when the other men continue on as if nothing had ever happened, he surreptitiously leans back in his chair…and looks down at the phone again.

His hearing fades to nothing but a distant buzz, pulse racing in his chest, like his heart might explode at any moment. And even though he’s muted the volume, he swears he can hear your moans ringing in his ears, vibrating in his very bones.

In the black and white video, you throw your head back against the pillows, hips jumping so hard the flimsy sheet falls down to your ankles. And soon enough, he can see every part of you. The softness of your heaving stomach, the sweat against your cheeks, the delicate shine of slick between your sweet folds…

Your entire body tenses, and undoubtedly you cry out again. He already knows what you’re saying, even if it’s all but silent in his hands.

His name.

You’re there, needy and alone, a wet spot between your legs on the sheets, shouting his name like there was any hope of him actually hearing it—as if there was any hope of him finding you,  filling you up, and giving you what you truly need. 

At that thought, pride wells up in his veins, hot and bubbling. And before he knows it, his blood is rushing south at an alarming rate.

“Please,” he can imagine you begging him, “Please….Please, Simon, just a little. Just the tip…”

You’d say it with heat in your cheeks and a pout on your lips, wrapping a shaky hand around his hip so that he couldn’t pull back, so that he couldn’t tease you any longer. You’d whine and whimper, tears gathering in your eyes, as you weakly pulled him forward, just enough to wrap one of those precious hands around his leaking cock.

You’d guide him forward like that—in a way he couldn’t deny—and you’d sit there, batting your eyelashes, sliding your wet cunt over the tip of his condom-covered dick, like that might tempt him just enough to take it off…to fuck you full and hard, until he was leaking out of your fluttering pussy and into your ruined panties.

He bites his lip.

You’d begged him before. On your knees, kissing the head of his cock. On your stomach, pushing your ass up against his hips. With your face buried in the pillows, nearly sobbing for it.

“Just once, Simon. Please—I promise. Just a little bit. Just the tip,” you said every time—as if those words made the act any better.

And, god, Simon wanted it. He wanted it so, so badly. To feel the warmth of your body, the heat of your bare skin against his own…to feel your pulse thumping between your legs as he fucked his cum right into the seat of your very womb.

So far, you hadn’t manage to take him raw just yet. If not because he had the patience of a Saint, then for the fact that your doctor kept rescheduling your birth control appointment.

Yet, looking at you now…

He breathes in low and deep, watching as your legs shake, toes curling.

The sheets fall off the bed.

And with another cry, you pull the dripping dildo from between your legs, curling your thighs together in absolute ecstasy.

Jaded, he looks at the damned toy. A cheap replica of his own cock. You’d given him a mould on Valentine’s Day—mostly as a joke…until next deployment came around, and you all but begged him to do it.

He still remembers how ridiculous it felt, looking down at your satisfied smile while you licked him clean afterwards, merely as a ‘thank you’ for all his hard work.

Beneath the shadow of your dangling calves, he can see the promise of your dripping cunt tucked between your sweet thighs. Desperate, wet, and wanting…

He scowls.

Pills, doctors, and implants be damned. If Simon had it his way, you’d be filled and sated, womb swollen with his seed, evidence of all the love he had yet to give you. It’s a tempting thought—one that nearly drags him into his mind once and for all.

However, a sudden movement on the camera catches his attention.

The toy is still in your hand. Strings of slick drip off of it and onto the flat of your thigh. With your other hand, you spread your abused folds, barely able to pull them back with how wet you’ve become. Impatiently, slide two of your trembling fingers into yourself, head tossing against the pillows.

“Please,” he swears he can hear it, “Please, please, please—”

You thrust into yourself ruthlessly, flecks of slick flying just at the movement. God, the sound of it must be nothing short of obscene. He can only imagine.

Your offhand tightens around the shaft of the dildo, and this time, when you tense up, the movement is so utterly enrapturing he swears he can see drops of saliva spill over your lips. You yank your hand out of yourself. Your stomach flexes. You yell into the bare room.

And that—that is when he sees it.

Suddenly, a rush of slick squirts out of your cunt and onto the bed, hips flinching as you soak through the sheets beneath your ass. Fuck, even through the horrible quality of the film, he swears he can see the walls of your pussy clenching, opening up around every wash of rushing liquid.

It splatters over your thighs, makes your toes curl into the sheets. The fabric sticks to your skin as you continue to ride out the waves of your orgasm, and when you reach a hand down to rub over your swollen clit, little spurts of it squirt over your naked body in time with every press of your fingers.

Before he even knows it—before he can feel ashamed for it—he’s rock hard against the fly of his jeans, cock pulsing beneath the fabric as he watches you lay panting and flushed in a puddle of your own cum. 

“Yes,” he sees your mouth move, cunt still dribbling onto the bedsheets, “God, yes…”

Hands positively shaking, you lift the toy again, clumsily rubbing your ruined pussy over its shining length.

And, god, he’s helpless to imagine himself in its place. Helpless but to imagine himself between your legs, covered down to his knees in your shining spend. Fuck, it’s intoxicating, and it hits him harder than any drug he possibly could have taken.

Listlessly, he looks at your beautiful face through the film grain…

“Simon,” you whisper to yourself, lazily rubbing your cunt against head of that stupid toy, “Simon…”

Easily, he gets lost in it. 

Lost in the sound of your voice saying his name.

Lost in the heat of your expression.

Lost in the need he feels welling up inside of himself…

Lost in the feeling of his hand palming over himself, hidden by the shadows of the looming conference table.

“Simon?”

The sound of his name—and in the voice of a man no less—makes him jump in his seat. On reflex, he closes his phone.

“What?” He answers cluelessly, slapping his hands down on the surface of the table, like he hadn’t just been thrusting into his own hand mere seconds before.

“I asked you what you thought about it,” Price jammers on, oblivious.

“About what?” he says.

At that, Price raises an eyebrow.

“About the risk assessment results. Y’know…what we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes.”

“Risk assessment,” he uselessly repeats, “Yeah. Well, I…”

Price scrunches his face, glancing between his asinine powerpoint and Simon’s covered face.

“Have you been listening?” He huffs, sounding bored.

“Of course,” he clears his throat, hurriedly absorbing the information on screen, “It’s just—I had a question about that. Must’ve left me for a second there…”

“Uh-uh,” Price glances at his wrist watch.

Simon swallows, cock pulsing rapidly in his pants. He scoots his chair in closer to the table.

“If we go in via the rear entrance, then—then I think would should recruit at least one more person for overwatch. Y’know…At the height of the lower wall, I think it might be possible to put a man on the roof. As—as contingency.”

“Sounds fine to me. You think they’d have a decent shot?”

“Well…” he blinks emptily, “At that angle, I think that...”

The clock continues to tick.

Soap yawns at the other side of the table.

Price looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

And Simon…

God, his mind is still stuttering, heart racing with adrenaline.

Distracted, he’s stuck on where his phone lies innocently atop the table…and what he knows is happening just beneath the cover of its black screen.