#IT'S SO BRUTAL

[maxdurden]

fuck the episode fearful symmetry from sophomore year of fantasy high specifically. i'm just trying to make a bagel and now i'm crying. cool.

[itswashington17]

So I've beaten the first of the two Ultimate EX worlds in Banana Rumble.

The stages were so brutal. If you're not a Monkey Ball master, do not attempt these unless you want to experience torture and I haven't done the second one yet.

[brooksdavis]

every time i see brooke absolutely plead "why won't you ever let me all the way in?!?" i want to get thrown through a bus and i want to take l*cas there with me

[amyrlinegwene]

idk if they left this wide open so they can answer it in coming episodes but they said a damane cannot use anything she views as a weapon against a sul’dam but they can use something they view as a weapon against themselves ?

No, they cannot. Even that choice is taken from them.

[vigilvntes]

gotham war is genuinely sending me into distress

[itsbrucey]

Big fan of sun motifs in characters not necessarily being about positivity and happiness and how they're so " bright and warm" but instead being about fucking brutal they are.

Radiant. A FORCE of nature that will turn you to ash. That warmth that burns so hot it feels like ice. Piercing yellow and red and white. A character being a Sun because you cannot challenge a Sun without burning alive or taking everything down with them if victorious.

[seethesunny]

dbd canceled what's the point of starting shows these days...

[becasbelt]

I can't get over how scared caitlyn looks when she realizes she's about to be killed, that there's nothing she can do to stop it. she just regained consciousness, discovered that someone she trusted had betrayed her (had, perhaps, never been on her side at all), and then her one last attempt at resistance was brutally shut down before it even began.

the wide eyes. the way her breathing speeds up right before maddie pulls the trigger. this is caitlyn kiramman realizing she's about to die, and she is terrified.

[grayintogreen]

The Mighty Nein really are the “tonight we cancel the apocalypse” party, because that is the attitude of the patently insane and patently hypercompetent in ways that are too insane to be real and yet WORK. VM have Big Justice League energy. They’re saving the world by the book. They’re very much the epitome of their classes. This is not a knock. They are good at what they do, but their flair is extremely straightforward. Percy is gonna shoot fifty times a round. Keyleth is gonna archdruid her little heart out. Grog’s gonna smash. Scanlan is gonna sing a little song. That’s them! We like that for them! But it is very straightforward clock in/clock out heroism. They have day jobs now.

I’m not gonna be unfair to BH right now because I think they haven’t really figured out their niche yet and are constantly stuck in the mindset of not actually being heroes and being, and I say this out of love for their stupid little faces, selfish little turds. We might get a better idea later on when we come back to them as high level adventurers after how they shake out here, but so far they’re somewhere in the middle. A little Suicide Squad-y.

The M9 on the other hand are not clock in/clock out heroes. They’re barely heroes. They get told something could be a threat and they deal with it and they won’t just kill you, they will EMBARRASS you. They will act like you’re nothing and bet on fight outcomes mid-combat, call you names, hit you with lollipops and dicks, turn you into a fruit bat, whatever they have to. They’ll ruin your action economy, stun you, whatever. Not only did they come to stop you, you’ll be shamed so hard that your Lich won’t even want to rise again to seek vengeance because you know they’ll do it again. They’re canceling the apocalypse not because the one doing it is dead, but because they’re so demoralized there’s no gong forward. When the Mighty Nein come for your plans, your plans DO NOT survive because they’ve had dicks drawn all over them.

[bloobydabloob]

Look at that beautifully low quality. He will never switch apps halfway through again

[jouxlskaard]

elias in hades, perchance?

if tma were a hades-style roguelike I think it'd be entertaining to have elias just show up like a little bitch and give you tasks that eventually give you rewards. I don't think he'd show up as the final boss until much later on in the story (equivalent to the hades epilogue) where he'll become the eye's pupil and the player (presumably jon) has to kill him to stop the eyepocalypse or smth (don't question my thought process too much I haven't actually rationalised it all in my head yet lol)

[zorangezest]

doodles from last night, skybound soundwave and thundercracker because their four interactions are my favourite thing

[yeyinde]

With his marriage on the rocks, Price ends up drinking himself into a stupor at the bar the night after his wife of fifteen years tells him she wants to separate. It's where he finds you—a man's walking midlife crisis. Much younger. Too pretty for your own good.

Just passing through, he can vaguely remember you telling him as you twirled a black straw around the drink he ordered for you. Whiskey sour but with cherries instead of lime.

He grimaced around the thought of it, but couldn't seem to peel his eyes away from the way you curl your tongue around the red cherry floating in your drink. Too goddamn pretty for your own good.

Too soft, too.

He feels it when he places his hand on your thigh—to steady you, he tells himself when you start to wobble on the stool—the soft meat of your body giving so easily under the weight of his thick, grizzled fingers.

You don't belong in a pub like this where the floor is always sticky, the wallpaper is probably still made of lead, and there's gum stuck to the underside of the table. Despite the smoking ban, the room is clogged with dense tendrils of smoke. No one lifts a brow when he pulls a cigar from his front pocket, and strikes a match to light it. Puffing away in the corner with a too pretty, too young thing leaning into him, asking can I give it a try?

It's wrong. He feels it in his bones. A siren wailing in his head. Leave, go home. Don't look back. And maybe that's what you are:

a siren

because he peels it from between his dry, chapped lips and feels his heart throbbing in his chest when you lean over him, his lap, eyes still locked on his in the near the perfect pastiche of an early 90s pornography video—amateur, grainy around the edges; soaked in that glossy, faded old film filter—and wrap your cherry red lips around the hilt, lashes fluttering as he swallows thickly and rasps out that's it, sweetheart, now suck—

Feels his age acutely in the ache of his thighs as his muscles tense, drawing tight together when your eyes close, pinching in disgust around the heady mouthful of maduro, but mm, love, ain't supposed to swallow it.

The gleam of unshed tears pooling against your lashline catch beautifully in the warm, lambent glow of the lights overhead that are undoubtedly older than you. Lachrymal. He feels it in his guts like a stone. A thick lump of smouldering coal he has to try and breathe around.

The eight—nine, maybe—whiskeys he had since he sat down and grunted his usual order at the barkeep catch up with him all at once the moment a single drop spills over, and those cherry red lips part, embarrassed, and the smoke in your voice, the raw, scorched wound of untested flesh doused in tobacco fill the hole in his belly when you say I've never done this before and, soft, shy, sweet: will you teach me?

It's awash in the jaundiced spill of winter lights. Blue hour bathed in orange. There's a mark on your thigh when he pulls his hand away, damp palm leaving a stain in the soft cotton of your pants. He's not sure why that renders all logic in his head null, but it stabs into him like a pickaxe through the temple. Sudden, violent, and jarring.

His hand cupping you through your pants, feeling the heat of your cunt on his still-wet palm. Growling in your ear when you tremble against his chest about how he has a lot he plans on teaching you, sweetheart, so be a good girl, and come home with him—

He doesn't make it that far.

Unbuttons his trousers the moment you climb into the back seat of his truck, legs spreading in anticipation for him to fill the split of your thighs, and curl a single finger in his direction, a silent comehither.

Marionette on strings, he follows. The obeyance rankles down his spine but he's too far gone to give it much more than a passing, agitated flick. Ignoring it in favour of wrestling his trousers down his hips, and pulling you on his lap.

It's every part the indecent, goatish drunk hookup he vaguely remembers from back when he was some approximation of your age. Pawing clumsily at your cunt in a selfish, perfunctory preparation. Unpractised despite having decades of experience throbbing insistently in his temple, muted under the cloying haze of too much alcohol and the manifestation of his fantasies come to life in his lap, perched so prettily above his aching cock.

Pants into the mess he makes of your neck about how much better he'll be later. Take you home, eat your pretty pussy out until you're nearly ripping his hair out from how good it feels, and then he'll fuck you on a bed. Proper, he grunts, snaking a hand down between your thighs to grip his cock, the other peeling away from the warm, tight heaven between your thighs, fingers slipping out slick and sticky, smearing it over his fat, weeping head.

"need you," he grunts, barely cognisant of much outside this concupiscent ache in his belly. This hunger he's never felt before. Just mutters, slurs, need you, need this pussy. Come on, love, let me in—

He pushes against your opening, flared head splitting your folds so obscenely that he's almost desperate with the need to commit the sight to memory. So fuckin' pretty—

You whine, mewling above him as his slick fingers squeeze your waist, pulling your down over him. Forcing his cock into you as you bable about it being too much, god, it's too much, too big—ego feeding, incendiary. Mesmeric. If it's meant to slow him down, or make him stop, it slips through the cracks. Eaten alive in the fog.

His hand pushes against your throat, fingers folding over the span of it. Gripping tight. Holding firm as he catches your gaze and plants his feet on the ground. The noise you make when he bucks into you from below, forcing the rest of his cock into the impossibly tight squeeze of your cunt is snuffed out when his hand spasms, closing into a choking grip.

Seated deep inside you—too deep, it's too much, please—he feels heavenised. Bathed in bliss. Nirvana. Can't quite wrap his head around how good you feel beyond staggered grunts that spill from his sweat-slicked lips, and a needy, urgent roll of his hips, unable to pull away from the euphoric clench of you swallowing him down.

It's an eye rolling pleasure. The kind that rips through his belly and drags him to the brink in an instant. All heat. A molten, velvet clench. Primal. All animal seeking a warm, safe latibule.

He thinks of the womb and it's primordial incalescence as he works himself into you, head blanketed in a dizzying, almost delirious spot of pleasure. Soporific. And that's what you are—an overwhelming sense of sempiternal warmth. Something every fibre of his being wants to crawl inside of.

And he does. Over and over again. Peels his hand from your throat to curl it over your nape instead, pushing your mouth against his in a scorching, bruising kiss. Laying claim, eating your moans from between your teeth, chasing the cherry sweetness that lingers. Making a mess of you with the sweat that drops down his temple and the spit that slicks your chin.

Inside you, too. Spilling in your cunt with a belly-deep groan. It rips through him like a head cold, a fever, and leaves him feeling warn and sore. Unable to keep up with the gutpunch of his pleasure as you cling to him tight and mewl in his ear for more.

(Something he plans on giving you for the rest of his life if you'll let him.)

Makes it to his house somehow. Fucks you in the foyer because the sight of your bare, cum-slick thighs shakily climbing up the stairs, knees pressing together to keep his release inside, is enough to rent him in two. And it does. Spilts him down the middle until all that's left is want.

Avarice. Greed. A hunger so deep, it rattles his bones when his belly growls.

Spends himself dry inside of you, unwilling to pull out even for second. Falling asleep with you slick and warm around his cock. Content for the first time in ages. Slipping into a sleep so deep, he wakes up at noon the day.

But you're gone when he does, leaving nothing behind except deep scratches down his back and the pair of panties he stuffed in your mouth last night to keep you from waking the neighbours.

Despite regretting not tying you to the bed and slipping the ring his wife left on the end table on your finger, it's cathartic.

Just—

Not meant to last. His fleeting siren. A secret he'll take to the grave because if it ever got out, it would ruin his reputation. His family. Everything he worked hard for.

And when his wife changes her mind two weeks later and comes back home, life returns to normal. He's once again the dutiful husband. Provider. A good, honest man even though he finds himself dreaming of you as he lays beside his wife, your scent still clinging to his pillow. Hungry. Unfed.

But this is the way it has to be. Must be.

Until his siren comes back to haunt him three weeks later when you turn up again, back in town and pregnant with his child.

[glitter-stained]

Me explaining Jason lore to a friend:

Me: So his dad goes to jail and then he takes care of his mom while she's sick and develops addiction but she dies and then he's on the streets, where he's like, starving. But then he tries to steal the wheels of the Batmobile and meets Batman!

Her: oh nice

Me: yeah, after a quick stint in a terrible group home he's taken in by Batman and becomes Robin and he's an absolute sweetheart, he has his issues sometimes but like they're so understandable and he's the cutest! And then he may or may not kill a man after finding the body of his victims who killed herself, and then he finds out his mom wasn't his bio mom so he runs away to find her, but he tells her he's robin and then she betrays him and sells him out the Joker, who brutally beats him up with a crowbar! And then there's a bomb that explodes and he tries to shield his bio mom from the blast! And she still dies! And he also dies! At fifteen years old!

Her: wait what

Me: and then he wakes up in his grave

Her : oh no

Me: and he has to dig himself out.

Her: what

Me: and then he immediately gets hit by a fucking car and is brought to the hospital where he immediately falls into a coma

Her: wtf

Me: and then he's catatonic because of brain damage

Her: ...

Me: It gets worse.

[ca-3]

RIP CHAIR-KUN 💔

(I got my persona mini figures the other day but Joker's chair was the only one that broke ..)

[mischievous-thunder]

Character profiles of the two equally reckless and lunatic halves of a complete whole