#will have to give it a shot once it's up and running :)

[nomie-11]

Model Behavior

masterlist!

synopsis: models are supposed to have some kind of professionalism, right? (18+ themes ahead)

pairings: vi x reader (no use of y/n)

Your agent said this would be easy. Quick, easy, only three shoots. Hit a few poses, change your clothes a few times, have some good camera chemistry with your partner. 

Yeah, well easy your ass. 

You had never met a model more annoying than Vi. 

Right off the bat, she was the worst. 

“Hey, coffee?” She smiled, her grin obnoxiously charming, before she turned to the shoot director. She thought you were a damn intern, not the model who was on the cover of vogue last week. “When’s Caitlyn getting here? I thought she was my shoot partner.”

You cleared your throat, arms crossed as you stared her down. “I am your shoot partner.”

Vi turned, blinking at you before giving you a once-over. “Oh. Huh.” She nodded like she was mentally adjusting, then grinned again. “Well, nice to meet you, newbie.” 

You exhaled sharply through your nose, already tired. “I was on vogue last week. I’m not a newbie.”

“Right. Cool.” She stretched her arms over her head, the hem of her tank riding up to reveal just enough abs to be distracting. Not that you were looking. “No hard feelings, yeah? I just figured they’d pair me with Cait. We’ve got that whole thing going on.” 

You frowned. “Thing?” 

Vi wiggled her eyebrows. “You know. Tall and gorgeous meets devastatingly charming and ruggedly handsome? Classic duo.” 

You stared at her, unimpressed. “You’re neither devastating nor rugged.” 

“Ouch, brutal.” Vi clutched her chest like you’d shot her. “Alright, Vogue, I’ll try not to let my fragile ego get in the way of our ‘good camera chemistry’.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. This was going to be a long shoot. 

————————

The first setup was simple: a monochrome background, complementary outfits, standard high fashion poses. Easy enough. 

At least, it should have been easy.

“Closer,” the photographer directed. 

Vi stepped in, her breath warm against your cheek. “Like this?” She asked, voice lower than before, almost teasing. 

You didn’t flinch, didn’t react—professionalism and all. But when her fingers brushed the bare skin of your waist through a cutout in the Versace dress you wore, adjusting the pose ever so slightly, you felt your stomach tighten. 

“Perfect,” the photographer said, snapping shots. “Hold that.” 

Vi’s fingers lingered, and you could feel the faintest press of her palm against your hip. 

———

The next setup was a little more intimate. Something editorial, something dramatic. 

“Hands in her hair, tug her head back,” the director instructed. 

Vi didn’t hesitate. She slid her fingers through your locks, slow and deliberate, nails grazing your scalp. You fought the shiver threatening to run down your spine. 

You held your ground, adjusting your stance, bringing your own hand to rest lightly against her jaw. Vi’s smirk softened, and for a second—just a second—her gaze dipped to your lips. 

“Beautiful,” the photographer murmured. “Love the intensity.” 

You swallowed hard. 

————

By the time you reached the final setup, the line between professional and something else entirely had blurred beyond recognition underneath the heat of Vi’s gaze and the mixing of your bodies under the camera. 

This time, it was a softer, more intimate scene. Dim lighting, silk sheets, light and airy clothing, the illusion of something almost domestic. 

“You’re going to have to get real close for this,” the photographer said, adjusting the lens.

You were already close, so close you could feel Vi’s heartbeat from where she slain draped across your back. But Vi, of course, took that as a challenge. 

She slid in closer, one arm draped around your waist, her mouth just shy of your shoulder. The heat of her breath sent goosebumps down your arms. 

“You good?” She murmured, voice just for you.

You exhaled. “Yeah. I’m good.” 

“Alright, then,” her fingers traced the curve of your wrist, slow and deliberate. “Let’s give ‘em a show.” 

The camera flashed, the shutter clicking in rapid succession as Vi tilted her head, brushing the tip of her nose against your jaw. You felt the whisper of her breath, the heat of her body pressed against yours, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this was just a job—a performance, carefully crafted illusion for the camera. 

And yet. 

“Closer,” the director said, voice even but expectant. “Like you’re about to kiss.”

Vi’s hand tightened slightly where it rested on your waist. She adjusted, shifting so that her lips hovered a breath away from yours. The air between you felt charged, electric. 

You weren’t sure if the flicker of her eyes to your lips was intentional or just a trick of the dim lighting. 

“Hold it,” the photographer called. “Perfect.”

The seconds stretched long, each click of the camera punctuating the space between you. You could see every detail of Vi’s face—the curve of her lips, the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, the sharp amusement lingering in her gaze. She wasn’t just playing the part. She was enjoying this.

Damn her.  

“Alright,” the director said, stepping forward. “Now, slowly, undress each other.”

Your breath caught. Right, you had been expecting this. Your agent had said this would be a more intimate shoot—partial nudity, the whole shebang. 

Vi arched a brow at you, smirk deepening, like she was daring you to back out. 

But you didn’t. 

Your hands found the hem of her loose linen shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin beneath as you began to lift it over her head. Vi exhaled, the sound nearly imperceptible, but you caught the way her muscles tensed under your touch. 

In return, her fingers found the delicate straps of your top, slipping them off your shoulders, knuckles ghosting over your collarbones. It was careful. Intentional. Every motion drawn out just enough to be torturous. 

The camera flashed. 

“Beautiful,” the photographer nearly whispered. “Slow. Keep that tension.”

Tension. Right. 

If they wanted tension, they were getting it in spades. 

Vi met your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind her usual bravado. Her hands lingered on your skin, as if waiting, as if daring you to push her away. 

You didn’t. 

The camera clicked again, and the lines blurred even further. 

Excuse me for knowing nothing about how modeling works 🤭

If you enjoyed this one shot, please make sure to check out my other series!

[wol-fica]

sabrina cockwarming g!p reader pls and ty

-👽

Put On A Show

summary - ^

warnings - dom!sub, p in v, g!p reader, g!n reader, a teeny bit of crying, riding(sab)

an - i’m enjoying these little drabbles (hello 👽!)

——————————

Sabrina whined softly in your ear, her warm breath fanning out over your bruised shoulder that she was previously biting. She was seated in your lap, her cunt stretched around your cock while you ran your hands along her almost naked body.

Earlier, she had expressed her sexual frustrations to you, saying she had been horny all day and wanted to ride your dick till the day she dies, but you had other plans for her. Once you were back in your apartment, you had made sure to give her no time to think before ruining her; bending her over your couch and giving her the best back shots of your life before ending up where you were now.

Soon she was all fucked out, dumb and drooling against your shoulder while she was stuffed with your cock. Your favorite movie was playing in the background, a few chuckles leaving you here and there when something amusing happened, but other than that you were both still.

“Still doing okay, love?” You asked, gently running your fingers through her thick locks.

The blonde nodded, pressing her face into your shirt to suppress her pants. You patted her lower back to soothe her, kissing the shell of her ear as you carefully readjusted. She gasped erotically, scratching her nails along your back from the movement.

“Fuck baby…it’s like you’re trying to tease me.” Sabrina groaned, clutching you a little tighter as you pushed her hips down.

“Wasn’t my intention, gorgeous.” You replied, running your fingertips up her spine.

She placed her hands on your shoulders, shakily pushing herself upright until she was face to face with you. Her blue eyes were hazy and tear filled, threatening to spill out and ruin her pristine makeup. There were teeth marks on her lips, probably from when you were nailing her against the couch, and her cheeks were flushed a dark blush that oddly made her look a little flustered.

She met your gaze, a small smile appearing on her features before she sat back fully onto you. The air was pushed out of her throat, a breathy exhale that had your heart throbbing aggressively.

“Oh my god…” She breathed , subtly rolling her hips, “You feel so good baby…”

You moaned softly, running your thumbs along her hip bone. Her skin was warm under your touch, radiating heat from her pent up pleasure. You pushed the oversized t-shirt she had on up her torso, revealing her toned abdomen glistening in the lamp light. The muscles in her stomach flexed with each rock of her hips, and a noticeable bulge appeared every time she rolled backwards. Your eyes widened slightly from the view, especially when Sabrina took the hem of her shirt from you, pulling it up even more to expose her breasts.

“Like what you see?” She purred, one hand reaching up to fondle her own nipple, “All yours to look at, baby.”

“Hm, yeah?” You quipped back, settling back into the pillows of the couch, “Wanna give me a show beautiful?”

She responded with a small “hmm” before raising her hips slightly and dropping back down. She fell into an easy rhythm, expertly moving her body in such a way that was almost artistic to her own. Her head fell back, giving you full access to her body in front of you. You moved to reach for her chest, but she quickly grabbed your wrist and replaced it at her hip.

“Look, don’t touch.” She growled, meeting your surprised gaze, “You had your control, now I get mine.”

You nodded, returning to your relaxed posture. Sabrina smiled, leaning down and capturing your lips in a heated kiss. She grinded her hips against yours, humming in satisfaction when you groaned from the pleasure. Her velvety walls were tight around you, squeezing in all the right places and at all the right times.

“Couldn’t make it any harder for me, Sab.” You grunted, now panting along side her, “You have no idea how bad I want to touch you.”

“Oh fuck…just like that baby…” She moaned, letting her composure crack slightly when you accidentally bucked your hips up.

You gasped when she started to roll in a peculiar way, her lips moving as if she was mouthing words. You soon realized she was spelling with her hips, different words and phrases that made your eyes roll from the stimulation.

“That good, babe?” She questioned, her hands now squeezing her breasts with each movement, “Jesus H Christ…you’re so bIG!”

She cut herself off with a squeal, her eyes rolling when she turned her hips slightly to the side. She froze on that position, gently rocking her hips around with pitiful whimpers. You watched in pure awe, smiling in an almost drunk-like state while she worked.

“Found the good spot, huh.” You sighed, squeezing the fat of her ass when she moaned in response, “Doing such a good job, baby.”

“Mmph~.” Sabrina mewled, and you felt a gush of wetness cover your length.

“Oh, love.” You cooed, letting her fall into your chest, “I’ve got you.”

She moaned softly as you laid back full against the cushions, settling into your warmth when you ran your hands along her legs. You pressed a few kisses to her hair, nuzzling your nose into her with a gentle hum. She smelled like home, her pheromones invading your senses quite quickly as her body relaxed.

“Do you want me out?” You asked, reaching down to pat her lower back, “Or stay in?”

“In.” Sabrina mumbled, locking her knees on both sides of your waist.

You chuckled, replying with a quiet “Okay” before pulling a blanket off of the side of the couch and over both of your spent bodies. The movie was still playing on the tv, and with how exhausted she was, Sabrina fell right asleep in your arms.

How perfect.

—————————

delicious

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Pay the Piper v. 1

mdni

Summary: If the Red Haired Pirates would kindly fuck off, it would make your job a lot easier.

Pay the Piper Master Post

Chapter warnings: language, implied threat of murder at sea

“They’re stealing our wind.”

The mass of sails grew in your spyglass. What the crew had whispered might be a Jolly Roger clearly wore Redhaired Shanks’ stripes over the left eye, and the Red Force’s dragon figurehead bared its teeth in your direction.

For fuck’s sake. It couldn’t just be any pirates. You had to run across a whole-ass Yonko.

Lowering the glass, you blinked, taking the moment as your vision adjusted to consider your options. Without the telescopic lenses, the puff of white gradually eating the horizon could almost be mistaken for a cloud. It looked so harmless and far away.

“Even if your ship was faster, captain, they’ve taken the advantage.” You held the spyglass out to the beef-brained Marine you’d been bullied into accompanying.

Grinding his teeth, he ignored you, lifting his binoculars to see the same vision of approaching doom.

Apparently he liked you even less when you were right. “We can’t outrun them like this.”

“What’re you gonna do?” he growled. “Sing ‘em to sleep?”

A few of his favorites tittered, anxiously holding onto fading hopes that their commanding officer knew what he was doing. Marines usually buried their heads in the sand, up to the waist if need be. To be fair, it was what most were trained to do, and it kept (some of) them sane as they climbed the ranks from Entirely Helpless to Relatively Hopeless.

Without the constraint of rank and oath, you were much more realistic. The Red Force was gaining, and the pirates would close the distance even faster now. Your hand drifted to the railing, thumbnail digging into the paint. Even with the wind, you couldn’t win a race with that monster of a ship. The Marine’s tub was old. Even the mild breeze that kept the sails from falling entirely slack brought shrieks from the aging masts, and despite the good weather, the hull groaned like an old man.

You dug deep, working a splinter out of the rail to ruin the smooth white finish.

Fuck old men and the ships that sounded like them.

“This isn’t my first time sailing around pirates I’m ill-equipped to fight. We’ll try a few tricks and play it by ear.”

“Tricks, huh?” The captain’s voice dripped derision – for your lack of strength, for your very presence, for all the rules you could slide under without entirely breaking.

But even if you weren’t in the pecking order, you weren’t above yanking on the invisible leash of command.

“If Vice-Admiral Garp thought brute strength and speed would do it, would he have bothered with me?”

The ship shuddered as the Marines unfurled another sail, hoping to catch even half a knot’s more speed.

The captain grunted and dropped his binoculars to his chest. “Do what you want.”

He didn’t even glance your way as he left, and you smiled at the “Justice” signature scrawled down his back, spyglass tapping against your thigh.

“Oh, I plan to.”

You kept time with the captain’s receding footsteps, wandering the quarter deck with an eye on the billowing cloth overhead, tracking the sun’s path behind it. It would be dark in another three hours. Give or take. Enough time to launch Plan B, and Plan B almost always worked. The pirates would have just enough light to recover the wager, and once the pirates had what they wanted, everyone could use the moonless night as an excuse to lose sight of each other.

Plan B had never been tested against a Yonko, though.

It relied on giving the pursuers what they wanted with the least amount of fuss. No risk. All reward. The only gamble was that the prey had even more loot on board, but few crews were all that interested beyond a good haul. Seas knew if a Yonko wanted the same thing as any other pirate.

Still. Worth a shot.

You wrote a letter, a reverse ransom of sorts, and set it on top of the glittering Berries in the small chest brought for just this situation. Self-funded, of course, because if the Marines couldn’t spring for a proper escort, they couldn’t dream of providing expensive countermeasures.

You kept the message simple.

Apologies for our trespass in your territory. We are not seeking a battle and sail on a humanitarian mission. Please accept this modest token as toll and tribute.

The Marine captain would not see the letter. As amusing as watching him turn a dozen shades of puce would be, you had a job and a will to live besides. Stroking one man’s ego while sparing the other’s might be the difference between ending the voyage in a port or a shark’s belly.

The chest went in a barrel packed with straw, and you attached a tall rod with a yellow flag. Not white. Because the Marines would have a conniption. And the Yonko may get the wrong idea. Yellow caught the eye and reflected what bounty lay inside, so it would work well enough.

With a deck full of men staring at you, you rolled the barrel to the side and heaved it over. It landed with a terrific splash, and even at your tub’s leisurely speed, the peace offering soon floated far behind. You watched to ensure it flipped the right way up, flag streaming over the water with the demanding poise of a News Coo.

Half an hour. You watched the barrel sway and bob, picked out new details of the Red Force as it closed in, and kept time with your foot where you sat on the rail. The hiss of spray, the song of old wood flexing under its own weight, and the work of a dozen trained men boiled into something you could pick a tune through. Minutes dripped orange into the sinking sun, and you hovered in the rhythm of it all, caught in the song’s sway.

At last, your pursuers reached the barrel.

You kept your spyglass to your eye as grappling lines flew from the deck, hooking the prize and hefting it up, up, up to the deck. They’d drawn close enough that you could make out vague figures, but no faces, and you had a shit angle, besides. Once the barrel was aboard, you lost sight of it. The next move was theirs, but you’d prefer knowing what it was sooner rather than later. Any little move could tip you off. A reaction. Laughter. Signs of discord. Anything.

The Red Force didn’t lower any sails or shift course, but you’d doubted they would until dark. Nothing else seemed to change, and you swore under your breath.

More waiting then.

Dawn would reveal how screwed you were.

Just as you prepared to give up your watch and hunt down dinner, a glint near the pirate ship’s prow snared your attention.

You weren’t the only one watching.

For a beat, it wasn’t a game of survival between ships. It was you and a stranger linked by line of sight. You felt marked. Noted. Like if you spoke, the other would hear you. You’d begun a correspondence, and the reply glimmered back, intangible and compelling as a ghost.

You pulled away from the connection, lowering the glass, going below decks, and trying to shake the feeling of the pirate’s eye.

“Douse the lights at twilight,” you told the captain. “With luck we’ll lose them in the dark.”

“Already planning to.”

“Sure.”

_____________________

Morning came.

You rose before dawn, leaning on the rail with a cup of coffee to greet your fate. Even before the sun’s disk broke the horizon, you saw the Red Force in the pre-dawn gloom. You didn’t raise an alarm. No need. The warship hadn’t gone dark, and the men on watch must’ve seen the inevitable truth swimming along in their wake all night.

Poor things.

The coffee wasn’t terrible. Since you wouldn’t have time for a proper breakfast, you drank it down slowly, savoring the fresh air and spinning out next steps.

The captain likely wouldn’t listen to you after this failure, and that really was a concern. But the Red-Haired Pirates had such a mixed reputation – if the captain hadn’t insisted on flying the Marine colors, your hunters might’ve eased off. This ship really wasn’t a great prize in any traditional sense, and no rare wonders sat in crates below deck. But you made such a sad little target with your shitty boat and your scant crew that you must’ve sparked some curiosity.

The last of your morning brew hid a mouthful of grounds, and you nearly gagged forcing it down. At least there was something solid in your stomach now.

Rosy light flushed the world red and gold. The fanged face of the pirates’ ship was close enough you didn’t need the spyglass to make it out anymore. It looked hungry. You’d have to feed it some answers.

How much could you reveal without giving the game away? Finding the sweet spot between enough of the truth to bore someone and so much of the truth they took interest always frustrated you, and the stakes had never been this high.

“They didn’t go for your trick.”

The captain, binoculars up, appeared beside you. Even in a life-or-death situation, apparently you were only worth half his attention.

“They didn’t.”

Since he clearly didn’t care much about manners, you left the conversation at that and started crafting your back-up peace offering. No pre-packaged loot this time. You made the rounds with an empty box, asking for anything of value the Marines cherished less than their lives. Most sniffed in disdain (and poverty). A few shakily removed wedding bands, fetched little heirlooms from their lockers, and dropped in their scant wages.

You took the little hoard back to the workspace you’d stolen for yourself below deck and penned another letter.

Please fuck off.

The coffee burned in your gut, threatening to return as you considered your own sacrifice for the tithe. It was a gamble. One you didn’t want to make either way, but it might work. It wasn’t the sort of token someone would surrender lightly. And it might underline your point that there was nothing of value left.

If, on the other hand, this was purely about the fact that Marines dared sail through a Yonko’s territory… well, you’d all be dead, and it wouldn’t matter how much your heart bled to give up the thing, would it?

You pulled the pendant from around your neck and immediately missed its weight. Your shoulders were too light to hold down breath, and you chewed the inside of your cheek to banish the burning in your nose.

When had you last taken it off? To clean it, maybe, a few months ago? You hadn’t suffocated without it then. You'd live now.

But –

Two things mattered more to you than anything else in the whole world, and here you were, giving one up without a fight.

You allowed yourself a minute to look at the smooth stone and delicate silver, rubbing your thumb over the little masterpiece like you could press it into your skin. Keep it. Memorize it or absorb it or anything except –

You put it in the box.

A little cadet helped you find another barrel, and together you put together another flag to ensure your suffering wasn’t all for nothing.

Over the side and into the sea, the barrel rode the wake of your sad little tub until it was close enough for the pirate crew to snatch with hook and line. This time, you only had to wait ten minutes.

You were ready with the spyglass.

A figure approached the prow, and as he came out of the sails’ shade, you spotted the telltale hair. Red Haired Shanks lifted his own spyglass, looking straight back at you with your pendant glittering in his hand.

You snapped the glass from your eye and – confident he could see you – made a grand and exaggerated shooing motion. Ushering him away like a persistent gull.

Shoo.

Fuck off.

Please.

If his sense of humor was anything like you’d heard, maybe he’d spare you for the laugh.

But when you peered through the glass to see if he had an answer, you could’ve sworn he was laughing.

Laughing and shaking his head.

[catinasockinsideabox]

In Dickbabs defense:

I can try explaining most of the pictures here in really short, I hope:

First picture, Barbara is kinda right being mad. Second, Dick was being a bit arrogant and all in that comic. Third picture, I might be mistaken but wasn't her father in danger? Sure, she's not completely excused for kicking him of course, still, try to understand her. Fourth picture... What is wrong with that? That's basically training? Those aren't even real spikes. She's yelling because in A REAL situation like that he needs to be fast. Fifth picture, did you guys even read the AFTER of that one?

Like every relationship, especially at the start, it has their problems. Barbara is holding back because of her legs, because she's in a wheelchair. However, she asked him for some time, he said he's gonna give it to her.

Next picture:

Again, have you read the after?

She's not being serious, she IS mocking but not with actually mean intentions.

"Barbara is jealous and shows her disdain for Koriand'r" um, okay? As if Kory was never jealous of a girl and Dick?

"Barbara dated Bruce!" Another universe.

"Barbara married Tim!" Another universe.

"But Barbara and Jason!" But Jason and Kory?

"Barbara also slut shamed him!" I can't 100% defend her, but she didn't know what actually happened on the rooftop, did she? I think no one knows what happened to Dick that night, Barbara only knows that he and Tarantula kissed. Of course she wasn't happy.

As said, I can't completely defend her over that, however, you can't completely hate on her. Also, that's probably bad writing by Devin Grayson. Helena once kissed Dick in front of Barbara, she wasn't really happy about it but didn't lash out. Plus, if I'm not wrong... Kory slept with both Jason and Roy in the new 52. Yes, that's bad writing and people don't count that, so why do we count this? Please be coherent.

Barbara to Kate Kane: "War? Pfft. I've dated Dick Grayson. You dated Dick Grayson?" How...is that sentence a reason to hate on the ship? I think it is pretty complicated to date our boy. Always missing dates or running off in the middle of them, for good reasons, but you can't blame the girls for feeling bitter about it. And before someone says it never happened with Kory or stuff like that, I'd like to remind you that he and Kory dates when they're in the Teen Titans. A team. Where there's always someone to help out and you're not alone. In Blüdhaven, Dick was alone, he used to mention it quite a lot too.

"Barbara blamed him for getting shot and forgetting about her" Okay, again, can't 100% blame her, but I feel like that was the stress talking. She was worried about him, she tried to get him back, now that everything is over, the whole situation hit her HARD, aka, she's stressing. Which is something I believe they both do a lot. You know... Being vigilantes and all, can you blame them?

You can't base their relationship as a normal one, how it would work for us, because it's not that simple. They both have a stressing and complicated life.

Last note, a little plus.

I've seen people hating on Barbara for this:

Now, I'd like to ask you, have you ever met someone who can't read? I'm adding this bonus because I did know someone like that. And let me tell you: It wasn't easy. If you add the importance and stress of the situation the characters are in, it's even more understandable why Barbara got stressed and lashed out like that.

Overall, you can't tell me she doesn't care about Cass, because she does. Like she does with Dick.

Dick and Barbara have a complicated relationship, but a good built up. It has its flaws, but they care about each other. And I feel like Tom Taylor isn't "trying to brainwash us into believing their relationship is all good and rainbows", obviously I can't say he wrote them all that good. Still, their relationship developed. You know, it happens.

It is built on retcons? Yeah. Is DC built on retcons? Absolutely. Their relationship is NOT the only thing that gets affected by retcons. I do believe that DC trying to erase Dickkory is a bit shitty though.

But in the end, why are you guys so unhinged about a fictional relationship? And a fictional character (Barbara). Some people act like she's a real person who committed war crimes, what in the world did a fictional character do to you? People take this stuff too seriously.

I've seen Dickkory fans acting surprised if someone agrees about Dickkory being better than Dickbabs, as if when you open the comment on YouTube, TikTok, Twitter, Pinterest, Tumblr under a Dickbabs post you won't see the typical comments:

"Kory >>>> Barbara"

"Dickkory >>>> Dickbabs"

"I prefer Dickkory"

"I hate this ship"

"I hate Barbara"

"I prefer Dickkory but..."

To be honest, I always see more posts and comments against the Dickbabs or Barbara instead of ones against Dick and Kory.

[silly1billy]

OKAY OKAY GOOD IDEA! can you make a headcannon of each member on an amusement park date 💕💕💕 sorry ik you just made a headcannon…..

NO NO NO I LOOOOOOOVE THIS! this is like my dream first date! I had sooooooooo much fun writing this <3

~ Stray Kids as Your Amusement Park Dates ~

pairing: Skz x f!reader genre: fluff summary: On a Amusement park date with each of Skz members

Bang Chan

This man planned the whole itinerary down to the snack breaks because he wants you to have the best time.

“Okay, so we’ll hit the roller coasters first before we eat so we don’t get sick, and then we’ll do the Ferris wheel at sunset for the perfect view.”

Holds your hand the whole time so you don’t get lost (but he’s the one stopping every two seconds to take pictures of you).

Acts all cool and confident until he gets on the biggest coaster—suddenly gripping the safety bar for dear life.

Buys matching headbands and doesn’t even hesitate when you pick something ridiculous.

Takes so many candid pictures of you, but half of them are blurry because he was running to keep up with you.

Ends the day by giving you his hoodie because “it’s getting chilly” (but secretly loves seeing you in it).

Hyunjin

Insists on taking aesthetic couple photos before going on any rides.

Acts all cool but screams the loudest on the scary rides.

100% the type to take videos of you mid-ride, just to laugh at your reaction later.

Buys matching accessories, like friendship bracelets or rings.

Insists on winning you a plushie but misses every shot, so you have to do it for him.

Films everything for his vlog, but half the footage is just him staring at you.

Changbin

So hyped for this date—he’s been talking about it all week!

“LET’S GO ON THE BIGGEST RIDE FIRST!” but lowkey gets nervous when you’re actually in line.

Screams dramatically on rollercoasters, but then laughs afterward.

Buys you all the snacks you want and takes so many selfies together.

Gets too competitive at carnival games and refuses to leave until he wins something for you.

Giggles when you feed him cotton candy and then immediately eats half of yours because he’s a growing boy.

Wraps you in a huge hug before the fireworks show because “I need to protect you from the cold.”

Buys an overpriced keychain as a souvenir and actually keeps it on his bag forever.

Lee Know

He acts nonchalant about the date but planned the whole thing in advance (and even researched the best food stalls).

Insists on sitting at the very back of the rollercoaster for maximum thrill.

If you get scared on a ride, he laughs first, comforts you second. “Why are you screaming? The ride hasn’t even started yet.” 😭

Purposely walks faster than you just to make you whine, then smirks when you catch up.

Wins a plushie, but for himself. If you pout, he might give it to you… maybe.

Puts an arm around you during the fireworks and casually says, “You’re lucky you have me, huh?” while smirking.

He is the "Butt hunter" so you better expect some hunting

Han

“LET’S GO ON EVERYTHING.” No fear, no hesitation—just pure excitement.

Makes the ugliest faces on rides to make you laugh.

Buys the weirdest food just to try it (fried butter? Sure. Cotton candy the size of his head? Absolutely.)

Gets competitive at carnival games but ends up with random, tiny prizes because he keeps losing.

Buys the most ridiculous souvenir hat (probably a shark or a duck) and forces you to wear one too.

Absolutely loses you in the crowd at least once, then dramatically yells your name until he finds you.

Felix

The type to say “Are you sure? You don’t have to go on this ride if you don’t want to” before every rollercoaster.

Buys you all the snacks because he loves seeing you happy.

Spends way too much money trying to win you a plushie (and is super proud when he finally does).

Tells you “You look so cute” at least a million times.

Takes Polaroids of you at every stop so he can make a scrapbook later.

Screams in pure joy on the roller coasters, then immediately asks, “Did you have fun??”

Gives you his jacket if you get cold and just smiles like it’s no big deal.

Seungmin

Roasts you the entire day but secretly finds you adorable.

“Why are you screaming? It’s just a kiddie ride.” (Says this before he gets scared.)

Takes a million candid photos of you—but refuses to send them to you.

Acts unimpressed by everything, but you catch him smiling when you’re having fun.

“This food is overpriced.” (Still buys you whatever you want.)

Pretends not to care about the couple headbands but wears one anyway.

Tries to act chill on the haunted house ride but jumps when something pops out.

I.N

Pretends he’s braver than you but screams SO LOUD on the scary rides.

Grabs your hand instinctively when the roller coaster drops.

Tries to act all tough at the carnival games but gets super pouty when he loses.

Forces you to go on the craziest rides with him just to prove a point.

“I totally wasn’t scared. Were you scared? You were, right?”

Insists on trying all the food—especially anything sweet.

[floylia]

# MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE ⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾

22. Always the cupid 💌

Destiny and fate are liken to strings you can’t untangle with ease. Two simple words with inexplainable concepts. A belief split into millions of definition.

And this—is not fate playing its game. It’s not a coincidence. It’s not doomed, rather it’s time lending you its hand to convey a story of hearts stuck in bottles.

Cerulean eyes meet yours just moments after leaving Kazuha. The contact lasts shorter than you wanted. But within those few seconds, recognition is acknowledged on both sides. Strangers and acquaintances briefly gave you their attention, but it wasn’t the one you wanted. It didn’t hit the same. It wasn’t his eyes that were on you, and it wasn’t his voice your ears welcomed.

Now it is, and you want it forever.

Childe maintains his gaze on you and it’s difficult to tell where his mind takes him. Was he looking for you? Is the urgency in his eyes meant for you? Is he glad to see you? And most importantly, why does he have a knife in his hand? These thoughts occupy your mind in a matter of seconds before it’s disrupted.

A blue-haired friend swings his arms around Childe’s shoulders, offering him a shot of liquor, “Hey! Feeling better?” He says in a mocking tone.

Childe groans as he attempts to remove Kaeya’s arms, but the blue-haired boy only tightens his grip until he spots you, just inches away.

Kaeya squints his eyes in recognition before he points with excitement, “You’re Thoma’s sister right?” He walks to you, but your attention doesn’t land on Kaeya, it stays on Childe as he creeps up behind, “I’m Kaeya, one of his best friends. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

You nod politely and smile back. Kaeya gives you a friendly hug and the proximity makes Childe visibly annoyed. It makes you thrive.

“Okay, that’s enough, she looks uncomfortable,” Childe coughs as he pulls Kaeya away with more strength than necessary.

Kaeya rolls his eyes, “Your temper worsens when you’re sick.”

“He’s like that even when he’s not sick.” Thoma pats Childe’s back before handing you a plate of your favorite food.

“Whatever,” The ginger says before glancing at you and stepping away, but Thoma pulls him back.

Your brother stares at Childe intently, “Before you go home, grab some food.”

Childe waves his hand in refusal, “I’ll be fine,” he barely mumbles before walking towards the door to grab his gray coat, and leaving.

He doesn’t look back. You wish he would. But he didn’t, he simply left. You can’t blame him. It’s not as if you can pretend to be friends when your “friendship” is based on late night conversations that toes the line between flirting and longing locked in secrecy.

“He’s sick, don’t mind him,” Thoma says, snapping you out of your distractive thoughts. But his words only weights down your worries, leaving you no room for relief.

He’s driving home in that state?

Thoma clears his throat loudly, “Since you still have your coat on, can you run to the parking lot to give this to Childe?” He hands you a Tupperware of food.

“I’ll do it,” Kaveh offers but Thoma interjects.

“You’re the host of the party, you have to stay here.”

You nod, offering a strained smile, trying not to make it obvious how you badly wanted to do this. How badly you wanted to be near him.

Once you leave the apartment door, you run trying to catch up to the ginger. The flight of stairs has you gasping but it didn’t matter. When you reach the parking lot, and you don’t recognize any of the vehicles resting in place.

Was I too late?

When suddenly, you hear a voice.

“It’s cold, go back,” even with his hoarse tone, you recognize him.

You turn around and place the back of your hand on Childe’s forehead—he’s burning up, “And you’re sick.”

He grins, but it doesn’t reach the corners of his eyes, “I’ll be fine.”

You shake your head, “I’ll take you home.”

“Suddenly, I’m getting the princess treatment?”

You don’t respond, only taking his hand with his car keys intertwining it with yours and letting the beep of the car lead your way.

“You should go back,” he says, but the grip of his hands tightens as if he had no intentions of letting you go. Luckily for him, neither do you, “They’ll wonder where you went.”

You reach his car, opening the passenger seat, “Frankly, I don’t care.”

He chuckles, obediently putting his seatbelt on, “Last chance.”

You slam the door before sitting in the driver’s seat, “Too bad.”

— 💌

The apartment smelled of complexities and rarity.

The walls are covered in picture frames of what you guess are his family. This is his home. His life is displayed in ways you could only get a glimpse of from a screen. Now you get a different version of him—a domestic one. It’s not too bad.

“Take off your coat,” you say upon entering, removing your shoes and turning to face him as you swat the bits of snow left on his fluffy hair. You fight the urge to ruffle it.

He removes his coat before hanging it up the wall, “Do you want to take off my shirt too?”

“Should I?”

Not expecting your answer, he clears his throat but you can see the red blush appear on his ears as moves to sit on the gray couch, arms covering his eyes to avoid the blinding light, “What will your brother think?” He says but the words are too faint you almost miss it.

Did he not like that idea?

Was he uncomfortable that you’re Thoma’s sister?

Was it too risky for him?

Did he not want to take that risk?

You follow him, placing the packed food on the coffee table before laying the containers in an organized manner, ready for him. Childe watches you, his gaze unreadable.

Your hand reaches the top of his hair, massaging his head in a pattern he clearly enjoyed, as you stand in front of him, while he looks up at you with those puppy ocean eyes. “I asked you—what do you think? Should I sit on your lap and carefully unbutton your shirt? Or should I just stand here and watch you?”

You like that idea—so much that you hear your own heart beating against your chest that if you’re not careful enough, might leap out of the bottled up feelings you began harboring in the months you started to get to know him.

And with the way his hands slithered around your waist, and the apparent shade of crimson painting his face, you assume, he likes it too.

NOTES:

when they match each other’s freak:

deep inside, thoma is actually crashing out

this chapter makes me want to rip my hair and teeth out because i didn’t know how to convey the story in a direction where it would make sense 😡 i hated this so much, i started writing the ending to feel something 😔

SYNOPSIS: There’s a line Childe knows he shouldn’t cross; A line built on years of friendship; A line that happens to cross you, his best friend’s younger sister, grieving her first love; A line where he plays savior, wears a halo, then feign ignorance, because love is a game for fools—and he happens to be the biggest idiot when it comes to love.

When a new stranger invades your life and an old poet writes back

CHILDE X FEM!READER

masterlist | previous | next

TAGLIST (CLOSED): @thegalaxyisunfolding @stratusworld @tiramizuloz @miy-svz @trulyylee @batatinhafriita @scaradooche @yuminako @m1njizzie @mtndewbajablasted @fadedpinkpen @vavrin @kioffy @kokoomie @ashveil @tired-jaz @nia333 @riabriyn @kyon-cherri @kitsunetori @morgyyyyyyy @kazumiku @ichorstainedskin @hanilessa @s4ikooo1 @matolka @appy-slicez @monocerosei @mostlymoth @heathnyfangirl @meigalaxy @x-hihihi-x @lunaavity @ladyofpandemonium @coffeeisbehindyou @mentallyunpresent @wrangleanangel @littlesliceofcheese @ell1e2010 @vi0let-writes @strawbyan @blupi02 @eccendentesiast-sapphic @aixaingela @fo-love @mickey-d-luffy @nanfufu @cryoarchoness @li-x1nyu @crucnhice @jayzioxx @lumineskies @scalyalpaca @help-whatdoimakemyusername

[toastedclownery]

Agness as Xolotl

Xolotl is the god of the evening star, monsters, deformities, twins, and is considered the dark twin of Quetzalcoatl. 

I guessed Xolotl for Agness through her tracker, the elements in the environment of ep2, and her character design.

—

Xolotl is usually depicted with a humanoid figure and the head of a dog, particularly the xoloitzcuintli, the Mexican Hairless Dog. 

These dogs were believed to be guides in the afterlife, and they’d help the dead get through one of the first stages of the journey through Mictlan, the Aztec underworld. Xolotl’s job is to guide the Sun through Mictlan every night. He also guided his brother Quetzalcoatl in the creation myth when the latter had to retrieve the bones of the previous generations of humans.

Agness gives Shrike a device to point him and Beebs to the Lythops’ location in ep2. The tracker is continuously barking, and it whines like a dog when Punti cuts it in half. It guides Shrike, as Huitzilopochtli, the Sun, through a dark cave, which in this episode represents the underworld.

There is this brief shot with Shrike and Beebs leaving the cave, panning up to the night sky. 

And when it transitions them going back to Agness, we see sunlight again. Precisely in the evening, which is associated with Xolotl as the evening star. It felt worth mentioning.

—

Agness also has some similarities to another part of the creation myth. In the Florentine Codex right after Nanahuatzin and Tecciztecatl jump into the fire, we get another story with Xolotl, how he tried to escape the god Ehecatl from sacrificing him. This is copy-pasted from the English translation here (note that “the wind” is referring to Ehecatl)

—

“After both the sun and the moon had risen over the Earth, they remained still; they would not move from their places. 

And once again the gods talked among themselves and said, “How can we live? The sun is not moving. Are we going to live among the common people? Let us all die and make it return to life through our death.” 

And then the wind took charge of killing all the gods; and it killed them. And it is said that one of them, called Xolotl, refused to die and told the gods, “Oh, gods, may I not die!” And he wept so much that his eyes became swollen from so much crying. And when the one who was to kill him approached him, he took off running. 

He hid in the maize fields; and he turned around and turned into the root of the maize stalk that has two stems, which the farmers call “xolotl”. And he was seen and discovered among the roots of the maize stalks. 

Once again, he took off running, hid himself among the maguey plants, and turned into the maguey plant that has two bodies, called “mexolotl”. 

Once again, he was discovered, took off running, and got in the water; and he became the fish called “axolotl”. And it was there that they caught him and killed him”

—

As we can see from the myth above, Xolotl transforms into various things to hide from Ehecatl. One of them is a double maguey plant. The twin agave (or maguey) plant looks really similar to the floating specks in the planet of ep2.

He also shapeshifts into an axolotl, and Agness’ lure head has these appendages that resemble simplified axolotl gills!

—

Since Xolotl is known for shapeshifting, Agness could also have disguises as one of her recurring themes, being an anglerfish, and being able to use her lure as a second face. She even disguised herself as a L.A.W. scientist. Being an anglerfish could also play into Xolotl being the god of monsters!

List

[kermdoeswriting]

Danny Phantom pranks the Batboys...

Danny has had each of these pranks semi-planned out since before he and Jazz were even invited to move into the manor.

Pranking came as a second nature to him, something to pass the time and fuel his need to be a menace of a little brother. It was a right of passage to be pranked by a Fenton at some point.

They were great prankers. It was a genuine fact.

He had been pranked by Jazz and Danny had pranked back just as hard as she had when he was ready for it.

So as a new little brother to 5 older brothers and 1 more elder sister, he had to show them his skills.

Tim had an addiction to caffeinated drinks that was going on for longer than Danny was even alive (not including when he half died the first time).

---

Danny's first victim was Tim.

Danny was almost sure that multiple people had attempted to get him to quit the addiction and it had never really stuck.

So he decided to take a shot at helping out Tim's future health by sticking every single Zesti soda and coffee filled drink onto the entryway ceiling. Including the coffee maker itself.

It took him almost the whole night to get done, using his flight to reach the ceiling and bat approved super glue to get them to stick. Danny made sure it wasn't anything that couldn't be removed though, knowing Alfred wouldn't really appreciate the sentiment of glue stuck onto the ceiling forever.

He had to get help from Cass to sneak the sodas away from Tim's personal mini fridge he hid in the room but other than that he figures he did pretty well.

The only reason Danny even knew it worked was hearing Tim thunder like running and a loud screech at 7 am when he realized his energy drinks were missing from the main fridge.

He won't even try to deny that he couldn't hold back any cackles when he heard Tim's louder screech, "HOW THE FUCK DID THEY GET UP THERE!?" 10 seconds after the first one.

---

Danny went after Jason next.

After Tim's screeching fit, Danny decided to be a lot nicer for Jason's prank and just provide some changes in his clothes!

It started slowly.

Just changing out and swapping at least one set of Jason's clothes for a larger size until he noticed. From there Danny watched as Jason's confusion grew with each set of clothes that somehow managed to get comically larger.

Up until Jason was sinking in his outfits altogether.

Once Jason resolved to buy new outfits, Danny proceeded to switch out those with smaller outfits until he had nothing that even fit. He watched Jason slowly lose interest as the clothes didn't stop changing no matter what.

Danny had assumed he'd be caught at this point, considering they were all detectives, but Jason didn't even seem to notice it was him. Neither did he even bother to give a reaction.

Jason blamed practically everyone else but him. Even Jazz got a couple of suspicious glances from him before she shut that idea down entirely.

Danny won't lie. He felt a bit cheated out of a victory when he wasn't even accused and had no reaction to laugh about. So he decided to go bigger.

The idea for bigger only came after a meeting with Cass and Steph.

"Why don't you just switch out his books, too?" Steph was draped over Cass lap, looking straight at Danny as Cass raked her hands through Steph's hair.

"Replace them all with printed Justice League fanfic or some kind of trashy romance novel."

Danny had nodded along and gotten to work almost directly after that.

Jason's genuine screams of horror and rage directly after pulling out what he assumed was his copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn but was actually just a Green Lantern x Batman fanfic hidden under the cover made Danny's entire week.

Dick was given the worst prank of the 5 of his new brothers.

---

Danny decided to use psychological warfare against him for the sole purpose of Dick having pissed off Danny earlier in the week. Dick had eaten the very last of Danny's specially saved and HIDDEN ghost tarts, made specifically by Sam for him.

And since Sam rarely sent treats over to Danny anymore, it was safe to say Danny was pissed when he saw Dick in the cabinet swallowing the very last baked good from her guiltily.

This was never the original prank he had planned but it was the one Dick Grayson deserved.

Danny was sure of it, somewhere deep down in his ghostly bones.

A hidden Bluetooth speaker was what Danny had eventually come up with when it came down to the prank. It took a lot of bargaining with Barbara to make something small enough to be hidden on Dick's person without him noticing, but it was entirely worth it.

All he had to do was help out at the Clocktower for the next few patrols!

Danny had a small suspicion it was only easy to get Barbara's help because she was also a bit pissed at Dick for a separate reason but he honestly didn't really care.

The hidden bluetooth speaker was attached to the back of Dick's phone case, nothing glued but just sticky enough to not fall off under any circumstances.

Danny spent the next 3 to 4 days playing tiny bits of The Song That Never Ends until he was sure Dick was searching for a way to turn it off. Every time he looked for the speaker that played it, Danny would play it for even longer.

He even made sure to time the times he played it for Dick just well enough that nobody else was around to hear the song either. It would only ever play when he was alone in a room. To drive the idea of his own insanity.

The same night that Danny had went to the Clocktower to help Babs, they also got to watch Dick slowly lose his mind both on patrol and in his own room thanks to Babs hacking abilities.

It was a personal win watching him scream while shoving popcorn into his own mouth.

---

Danny had been relatively kindest to Duke then any of his other brothers.

Mostly since Duke was one of his favorites of all of the others, being the only one to understand that insanity that it was to live with rich people (beyond Jason, Steph, Babs, and his sister).

Duke had just gotten his license a bit before Jazz and Danny had first moved in and he loved his beat up car with all it's beat up bits and bobs. Danny knew this because Duke tended to brag a tiny bit about being able to drive while Danny was a year short to the practical test train.

So Danny had decided that for Duke's prank, after all the bragging he had done about fixing up his old car, he would be receiving a brand new horn!

That played every single sound except for a car horn.

It had honestly been his easiest prank yet, something annoying but not entirely harmful either. He had to have help from Steph again to switch out the car horn with a soundboard without doing any real damage to the horn but it worked like a charm after.

Danny will never forget the face Duke made when he honked the horn during rush hour in Gotham, right after he had picked him and Jazz up from school for the day, only hearing a loud quack noise instead of a typical car horn.

He almost sputtered every time he heard whatever new noise came out as he pushed on his horn button.

---

Damian Wayne-Al Ghul was secretly a clean freak that liked to use bath bombs during his long baths.

And as Danny's last victim he decided to use that to his advantage. He also wouldn't dare go after the girls, they had been helping him so they were spared this one time.

Also Babs was way better at pranking then him, he was almost sure of it after she helped him with planning and executing Dicks prank.

This last prank was relatively easy to execute so he didn't ask for any help from anyone but that didn't stop the girls from trying their best to help anyways.

It took around 2 days to get done but soon enough, each and every single one of Damian's new Bath Bombs were filled inside with a different kind of temporary body paint that didn't wash away very quickly with just water.

The idea had been Danny's idea from the beginning but Jazz had actually been the one to suggest the paint bomb that had ended up getting Damian in the end. A UV light paint bomb that made Damian glow in the dark while under a UV light.

"I mean, it makes the most sense." Jazz had told him while the 5 of them (him and the girls) had filled up the last of Damian's bath bomb basket up with the replacement paint bombs.

"The Cave has UV lights so he would see the change immediately, and they don't distract from him being on patrol since it's UV activated. Safe and smart"

Danny had agreed wholeheartedly while Cass and Steph giggled at the idea of Damian glowing in the dark temporarily, so he had added the bath bomb to the set.

And by pure chance, Danny had actually been there the night Damian discovered he glowed a greenish-white color. He had watched as Damian angrily stomped his entire way down from the Bat Computer towards him and his other brothers looking ready to kill them all.

"Which one of you cretin did this to me."

That had made Jason burst into laughter at the sight of Damian which then made Tim, Duke, and Danny laugh as well. Dick was the only one who didn't immediately burst into laughter, looking absolutely lost at his other younger brother.

Danny had sat back and watched, amused, as the chaos of the boys went from laughing at Damian to full on fighting and blaming each other for the pranks they had each received the past week and a half.

He laughed even harder when Bruce came down to lecture the boys about their fighting as well.

Ah Fentons.

They were great pranksters, it was just a genuine fact.

[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.

[sskk-manifesto]

Next time we should just skip over ep 3 and do a chapters 84-87 reread

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

I was rewatching The Stone Forest and I really like to think that Hilda had to pass by the Bell Keeper’s outpost on her way out of the city limits. I like to think that idiot looked at what was happening, shrugged, and said ‘eh, she’s the scariest thing out there’

[she-toadmask]

Don't bring your negative opinions onto a post not looking for them

Was I thinking the same thing (but enjoying the post anyway)? Yes. I made the conscious decision to say nothing because that's how you be polite to people

The tags devolve into bitching about specific fanfiction petty dislikes

UPDATE I WENT OFF ABOUT TRANSFORMERS CONTINUITY CONVENTIONS AND REACHED 30 TAGS SO I GUESS IT ENDS WITH "I didn't count it initially but Beast Wars is also not an example"

[longroadstonowhere]

so i've decided to try my hand at being a dm by running a one-shot with some folks in my rwby server, which of course means i'm getting asked a lot of questions and being asked to adjudicate things, like whether people get a free level one feat or what races or classes are allowed/restricted, what have you

and not gonna lie, it feels very awesome to have a question posed, to look into it a little, come back with a reasonable response, and have the player go 'huh, yeah, that makes sense, thanks'

[number-one-hog-hater]

Just kinda saying shit

[adore-gregor]

i love this sport 🎾

[ridingthatd]

❝ FUCKABLE! ❞

gojo and geto are assigned a significant task by their teacher, they have the duty of returning you to tokyo jujutsu high. but what would happen if they both find you fuckable?

warning : heavy smut, degrading, breeding, a lot of cum, phone sex, masturbating, three sum, anal sex, pussy talk, dirty, filthy, very kinky

fucking pervert. gojo spit out these harsh words out of his mouth, as he run his fingers through his wet hair. he's been in the shower for quiet awhile now, rethinking whatever he has done an hour ago, what happened to him? is he this desperate?- is he this desperate to fuck his cock with a thong who belongs to the girl he has to keep safe.

satoru thinks and thinks and thinks staring at his hard cock in the shower should he- no no he already did enough, but maybe if he just let it out maybe he will feel better? maybe if he beats his cock in the shower enough he will get tired of beating it, then he wouldn't have to worry about being hard anymore- well at least thats what he thought.

grunts and groans fills the shower, but it wasn't as loud as the water that was running down his body, satoru groans thighs shaking as he stroke his cock in away he never had- so fast, so hard he wouldn't be surprised if the skin of it tear off from how hard he's gripping it, head on the wall of the shower, water dripping down his face, he can't breath, he can't breath because of how suffocating it is to feel this hot- from the warm shower running and of course from the thoughts he's having right now.

having you here with him, bending you over pushing you into the shower wall, boobs squeezing into it, and head rolling back as you desperately give him a sloppy kiss sucking his tongue into your mouth- he looks at the shower wall it was covered with multiple cum spots- his cum, he had came 4 times fucking 4 times and this is about to be his 5th- he wishs you were the one who's covered with his cum shots instead of the cold wall of the shower, his eyes crossed as he imagine your ass- tits - face - thighs covered with his cum, and this seem to send him to the edge as he cums one more time with a long groan and shaky legs. he slides down the shower to shaky to even stand up.

"satoru~" you teasingly call out his name, looking for non other then your favorite sorcerer, you glance inside the kitchen and there he is- his back facing you as he seems to be putting something in the oven, rolling his eyes because he knows once you call his name this way- it means you're up to something annoying.

you sneakily snuck behind his back and warp your ice cold hands inside his shirt- in intention to freak him out, but your silly little action has started a fire- that will break open you.

gojo freezes, standing still, you start giggling thinking you finally caught him off guard, screaming a-

"gottcha that's what you get-" you weren't

able to continue your sentence because gojo is already on you, he was so fast that you let out a yelp as he painfully grabs your hips between his hand and pick you up pushing you toward the kitchen counter, pushing his forehead against yours- your warm breath is mixing with his from how close he was, nose bumping against each other-your breath hitch not understanding what's happening.

"gotcha" gojo whisper lowly against your lips as he stare at them, you can basically feel them faintly brushing against yours as he mutters those words out, you didn't reply- you couldn't, to busy staring at his lips, as he do the same.

satoru doesn't know what got into him- he surprised himself as much as he surprised you.

"satoru" you whisper against his lips, having no motive of pushing him off, so gojo get enough courage to slowly stroke his hand up your thighs, as he keep staring at your lips, he can feel your breath hitch as he squeeze your thighs, trailing his hand up and up till he reachs the skirt you were wearing- he fucking love your skirts, he adore the collection of your skirts, how it let him catch a glimpse of your peachy ass and your plumpy thighs, and most importantly he always think about how easy the access is, he could just bend you over, sliding your panties to the side and shove his cock in with no hesitation.

his hand hovers on your skirt, gojo lick his dry lips, as he look in your eyes asking for permission to slide his hand inside that little skirt of yours. as if you knew what he wants you slowly place your hands on top of his- pushing it inside your skirt placing it on your upper thighs, his fingers gazing against your panties.

he groans against your lips, pushing against you more- because you just gave him the permission he needed so he won't have to hold back anymore.

you let a whimper when gojo squeeze your thighs hard, "you like that yea?" he darkly questions as he knead them harshly.

you nod eagerly, pushing yourself against him, pressing your boobs into him- and gojo finally snaps, picking you up from the counter, squeezing your ass between his hands, as he finally take your pretty mouth against his- finally.

you moan in his mouth and he growls in yours- fuck it tastes so good so good, your tongue against his swirling around together, he pulls back, a string of spit connecting both of your tongues.

"satoru" you mummer staring at him with high eyes and he pull back into a kiss again, wet kissing noises filled the hallway as he makes his way into the living room with you in his arms.

he doesn't make it halfway because he push you against the wall instead, rocking you against his hard cock. you break the kiss, throwing your head back moaning at how good his cock feels- dry humping you.

gojo trails his nose against the side of your neck, huffing as he whisper harshly. "you needy baby? you needy for my cock?"

he pushs harder- it felt to good for you because you thankfully wore a skirt so he's directly stroking his closed cock against your panties, it felt to good because the feeling of the harsh fabric of his jeans rubbing against your clit takes you on cloud nine.

he grabs your hair and turn you around, pushing your face and whole body against the hallways cold walls, he immediately start grinding his hard on against your ass- but the only difference is that you no longer feel his pants- he's only wearing his boxers.

"look what you do to me y/n, you feel this hard cock hm?" he says as he grab your hair pushing your head back to look at him.

but you were to out of it to answer to busy focusing on the way you're so close to cumming, you only snap out of it when gojo pushes your panties down your legs, and shove his finger in without any warming, causing you to yell out.

"I asked you a fucking question didn't i?"

he says harshly as he scissors his fingers inside of you, groaning in your ear from how tight you felt around him.

"ple- please please" this is the only words that managed to come out of your mouth,as you rock against his fingers, mouth half open.

"aw you poor baby you wanna cum on my fingers hm? you wanna squirt on them?" he coo at you sucking on your neck, as he shove them into you faster.

"yes yes yes" your eyes roll, as you roll your hips into him matching his pace. only to whimper when you feel him removing his fingers and licking them clean moaning at your taste.

you were about to complain but gojo already picked you up, throwing you against his shoulder as he makes his way toward the living room throwing you on the couch, freeing his cock out of his boxer, it sprungs out hitting his abdomen. your mouth water out from how big he is- fuck he was so beautiful, pinkish red, veins, and a trimmed white hair. he strokes his cock looking at your wet pussy, he was about to do what he has been fantasizing about till- a ring sound fills the room.

it was your phone laying on the couch next to you, gojo was quick to grab it before you smirking at who's calling- geto.

your eyes goes wide as he click the answer button and put it on speaker placing it next to you. "hello sweetheart, where tf are you? I have been waiting for the past 30 mins" as your hands made their way towards it, gojo shoves his hard cock inside of you.

you moan out loud, he was so big so big, gojo eye rolls, he's shaking, he doesn't know why but he's shaking so bad, after all it was his first time fucking a pussy this tight and the feeling of your tight wet pussy clenching so hard around him has him overwhelmed, "y/n?" geto on the phone confusedly ask.

but you were to busy staring at satorus shivering body, as he leans in placing his forehead on yours, eyes clenched shut, mouth opened.

you completely forget about geto as you slowly flip him and get on top of him. he holds you by the waist gazing at you with adoration. you slowly sink on his cock, he groans fingers digging inside your hips, to your surprise he whimpers. and it turns you on so much that you fully go down. whimper after whimper leaves him.

"y/n" he chokes out, you lean in giving him a sloppy kiss that he returns, "yes baby I'm here" you say.

"please move or I might lose it" he breaths out harshly, you slowly start rocking your hips, to scared to do anything more then that- but what catch you off surprise is when gojo lift you up and push you down hard against his cock, both of you moaning at the same, he repeats it lifting you and tugging you down, you're basically jumping on his cock right now, eyes crossed from how harsh gojo is handling you- like you're nothing but a fuck toy.

"gonna cum inside of you, gonna fill you with my cum" gojo groans out, as he sit up and hug you into him, just to push up your shirt, taking your nipples into his mouth, biting them, and swirling his tongue around them, as he fucks up into you. bouncing you on his cock, oh how much he loves this view.

"fucking hell-" a moan comes out- but it's not from him or from you, it's from the phone, it was geto, he was still on the line clearly listening to what's happening, but that does nothing other then turn you on even more.

"satoru stretch her ass out for me, make sure her little tight ass is stretched out for me" geto speaks out his dirty words, you thought gojo will be made at his friend for ordering him around but to your surprise his eyes sparkle at the idea.

"mm y/n im gonna stretch your second pretty hole for geto yea? we can't be selfish can't we?" he spit this venom out as a smirk slowly creeps out on his face from your shocked expression. "what are you-" his fingers spread your cheeks apart, trailing circles on your hole.

"awe dont tell me you actually thought I would be jealous of my friend-tch i thought u were smarter then that sweetheart, how can I be jealous of my own fuck buddy" you couldn't even react to his words, because geto already shoved a finger up your tight ass- it was a new feeling for you, to overwhelming that it had you squirting on his dick creating an embarrassing wet sound.

"fuck- did she squirt" geto groan out from the phone. your body was drained out from the shockness of both- gojos confession and the new feeling.

but that didn't stop gojo as he pick you up and push you down his cock, bouncing your body on it.

he feels you clenching around his cock tighter "is geto hearing me fucking you turn you on? huh sweetheart" you moan loudly at his dirty words.

"does it turn you on to know that you're fucking his friend?" he says setting you and himself on the edge. " fuck fuck fuck im cumming fuck ima turn your insides white, fill you in, keep you warm and nice".

and that makes you cum again, clenching so tightly around him as you feel his hot cum spilling inside of you, he keep rocking his hips as he bring his mouth to yours, sucking on your tongue.

"never came this hard from masturbating before" geto moans out, indicating that he also came. satoru stare at your sleeping figure as he slowly brush your hair out of the way, he was lying about not being jealous of geto- because of course he is, but was he lying about the fuck buddies part- no he didn't.