strategichub

[solaiced]

CASE 18: HIGURUMA AND NANAMI SAID WHAT?!

!content!: praise, 3some, nanami is SHAMELESS, and so is higuruma, and secret arrangement.

wc: 966

solace: please guys be happy i posted a lot.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Higuruma and Nanami are

respected lawyers, with a ruthless reputation. So, imagine your

surprise when your boss, Nanami, calls you, his little assistant, in his office, to ask you something so ridiculous and unimaginable, that

you burst out laughing.

Yeah. You, the shy and reserved assistant, who brought coffee to your boss and co-workers in the morning to cheer them up, laughed in Mr. Nanami's face.

"I assume it's a no?" The blond man asks, only a tiny bit embarassed.

"Wait, you meant it for real?" you stop clutching your stomach, the realisation dawning on you.

"Yes. You are useful in a lot of things at the office, so Higuruma and I... figured you wouldn't mind the extra workload. This... isn't a test, by the way. We just wanted to know. You won't be fired if you say yes or no. Nor will we need to speak of this again." His deep, comforting voice calmed you slightly. But, again, why you? Plenty of women at work swooned over them, so why did they choose you?

"W-why me, specifically?" You clear your throat nervously.

"Because, you're my assistant"

Nanami responds clearly, without a single stutter or hint of taking it back.

"So, will you aid us? If not, you're dismissed, but if I hear a single

word about this conversation...”

“No! I'll do it. " You slam your hands on his desk, making him look up in surprise.

“Ah, and you don’t feel coerced, yes? Because you shouldn't be." He glides his hand ever yours, rubbing it comfortingly.

"No, I'll do it.” You repeat, more stern but less aggressive.

"Then," The blond gets up elegantly, taking off his tie. "Let’s get started. Hiromi." He calls out, and something moves behind you, presses. itself against you and places its hands on your hip.

Higuruma. You tilt your head to look but Nanami grabs your chin, making you face him.

"We're starting tonight. Don't make too much noise, though. There might be people working overtime. And God knows how much Nanami hates overtime.

Gargling, you look up at your boss with teary eyes, getting slammed into his cock by your other boss’s cock thrusting into you.

“That’s it, sweetie. You got this.”

Nanami praises you, the effect of it not lost on your gaping pussy.

Higuruma grunts behind you, hands gripping your hips so hard you could already see the bruises forming in the shape of his fingers.

"You can take him," he chuckles as you feel his tip bully your cervix and g-spot simultaneously.

Who knew the respected lawyer of Tokyo, Higuruma Hiromi, had a big dick?

Well, not you. You squirmed, hips

moving when the brown haired man let go off them to push your head into Nanami's girthy dick. You wish they were as disheveled as you.

But their breaths showed they were not as composed as you thought they were. Nanami’s usually gel slicked back hair had fallen to cover his cloudy, lustful and both of their suits had been undone in the rush of undressing to fuck you.

"You feel so good... Fuck, we chose well, didn't we, Hiro?" The man in front of you addresses his equal, fingers weaving through your hair whilst you obediently sucked and jerked him off.

Higuruma taps your ass, rythmically thrusting, dragging his heavy cock in and out of your shutty cunt sucking him in like a siren's sultry song.

It lures him in, deep into your trap,

“Fuck, yes, baby, yes. Our little stress reliever.” A few deep thrusts, slamming into you punishingly and causing your tits to graze the desk painfully, he adds, “I’m gonna cum. You gonna take all of it?”

You try to nod as much as you can, mouth full of cock. Said cock's owner humming, throwing his head back.

"Me too. Don't waste a single drop, okay, sweetheart? "Nanami slides his rough hand to your bulging throat, feeling himself move. Suddenly, he pulls out, pushing your cheek against the desk.

"Open wide, I'm not going easy.

After all, you are my thrust worthy assistant, so you can take it, right?” Is all he says before plunging his dick down your throat, a garbled moan, muted by the meat covering your mouth, escaping.

Higuruma moans, hips slowing ever-so slightly and giving you the least bit of reprieve from the slaps your chit received due to his balls.

“C-Cumming-ngh!" He warns before his hips stop flush to your ass as warmth fills you to the point of overflow.

When the man behind you comes down from his high, he pulls out, kneels and presses his fingers to your fluttering and gaping hole, keeping the semen inside.

"Fuck, that's hot..." Nanami groans, and he shuddered in pleasure. His body spoke for him, his tip kept hiting the back of your throat and made you gag.

He chuckles as his friend fingers you to the point of insanity. You keen, eyes crossing and the image of your superior blurred, your back arches and your noises' volume multiply by ten despite the efforts the men were using to quiet them down.

"Now!" The man holding your head down gasps and shoots his load in your mouth to the brim.

You were so full from both ends, you couldn't think. You swallow as much as you can, some of the cum even dribbling down onto the floor and Nanami sighs in disappointment, you feel somewhat ashamed you disappointed him.

“Make sure to get all of it, next time. I'm—We're counting on you." The blond fixes your ruffled hair and his friend wipes your thighs, putting your skirt back in its place.

Nanami and Higuruma were as ruthless in bed as they were in court, you're recently discovered. But your job is to help them, isn’t it, little assistant?

[domini-porter]

I Wrote You A Story: Tell Me (Part I)

(Rizzoli&Isles, F/F, rated E for the usual reasons, plus a CW for dub/noncon)

The girlies are fighting! One of those kinds that’s about something a lot deeper than whatever started it; one of those kinds where words stop being useful, and action feels like the only way to get the point across.

(once again: angry!sex and dub-approaching-noncon, so if that’s not what you like, you won’t like this)

(also I’ll put it on AO3 eventually, since it’s kind of begging for another installment as it exists now)(heh)

*********************************************

Maura storms into her office, Jane hot on her heels, grabbing the door and flinging it shut behind her. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“I need you to control yourself.”

Jane scoffs. “Uh, yeah, because the dead guy’s gonna lodge a fuckin’ formal complaint.”

“No,” Maura says icily from behind her desk. “But I’m considering it.”

Jane’s jaw drops. “What?”

It’s Maura’s turn to scoff. “You came bursting into my morgue during the autopsy I bumped to the front of the line for you, swearing and shouting about how I must somehow be responsible for your search warrant being denied, because I had dinner with your suspect eight years ago, when in reality it’s because you have no evidence. What you’re doing is completely inappropriate and offensive, not to mention it involves a serious accusation about my professional—”

“Oh come off it,” Jane snarls. ”Funny how it’s only ever me acting out of line when it involves some rich asshole you blew on the first date.”

Maura’s face goes white. “Get out.”

Jane freezes. “Maura—”

“Get out of my office.”

Jane looks like she’s going to try for the last word; instead she lets out a derisive huff. Shakes her head. Slams the door behind her so hard the diplomas rattle on the walls.

********************************************

“What are you doing here?” Her scowl is audible. She’s opening the door only as far as the security bar allows. “Shouldn’t you be spell-checking your formal complaint against me?”

“Open the door.”

“You got something to say to me, you can say it from out there.”

Maura’s jaw tightens. “Fine. I was going to see if we could talk through what’s upsetting you, but it looks like you’re still indulging yourself. Should you choose to act like the adult you are—“

The door snaps shut. The scrape of the deadbolt engaging. Maura huffs, considers knocking again, but opts instead to review the draft of her formal complaint as soon as she’s back home. She’d hoped they’d be able to resolve their personal conflict—or at least that Jane would provide slightly more context for why she was so markedly upset—but instead she’s been left even more bewildered and hurt.

Well. If Jane was so insecure that she’d let one dinner nearly a decade earlier be the cause of the perhaps-inevitable dissolution of their friendship, there seemed to be no point in attempting to spare her feelings, or her professional record. Particularly when she’d made such a crass and offensive accusation. It was true that she’d performed oral sex on David after their one date, though she suspected Jane had simply been attempting to insult her; it wasn’t the slight on her sexuality that was upsetting, it was that Jane was once again accusing her of prioritizing her social standing over her professional duties and ethics. That despite demonstrating, over and over again, that she had no loyalty to her class peers—a strong aversion to the majority of them, in fact—it was once again the easy justification for Jane’s own failures and frustrations.

“Maybe if you spent as much time finding actionable evidence against your suspect as you do fixating on my social life,” she mutters bitterly as she wrenches the Prius into gear. “Then maybe you’d stop relying on my connections while also deriding me for having them.”

She stews all the way home. Stews through her post-work vipassana, adding Jane’s intrusion into the time she specifically reserved for clearing and centering her mind to her list of grievances. Stews through making dinner, so irretrievably frustrated that she nearly loses the tip of her thumb chopping the stems off the shishito peppers. Stews through the nicest glass of Merlot she can find in her collection, dumping the rest of the bottle down the drain when it only makes her anger more focused and insistent.

How dare Jane try to hold her life against her. Both the things she can’t control, like her wealth or her last name, and the things she can, like who she spends her time with. That last part is the prickliest, particularly when considering she’d been narrowing down her life to center Jane for so long she can hardly recall what it’s like to have anyone else to think about.

She glances at her watch. Not quite eight o’clock. And maybe Jane has to work tomorrow morning because she’d insisted on cutting corners and blaming her when it didn’t pan out, but it’s Friday night, and Maura only works weekends when she feels like it.

She marches upstairs. Slides herself into a dress she hadn’t pulled off its hanger in nearly three years; from its position on the rack she’d last worn it twelve dates ago. Only twelve dates in three years.

“Can’t hurt Jane’s feelings,” she mutters sourly, examining herself in the full-length mirror. Slides on her favorite open-toed stilettos, the ones she hardly got to do more than look at, given how often she was dropping everything to join Jane at a crime scene.

She carefully applies a deliberately-smudged eye, just a hint of shimmer in the center of the lid. Leaves her lips bare save a slick of clear gloss. Punches in a destination for the cab as she’s slinging her leather jacket around her shoulders.

The driver’s eyes go wide in the rearview mirror. She licks her lower lip, pleased. Slides him a bill as she slides out of the back seat. He doesn’t pull away until she’s past the bouncer and through the door.

She hasn’t been here since it was called Merch, what feels like half a lifetime ago. It’s been half a dozen bars since then—a short-lived sports bar, a nightclub shut down for a number of liquor license violations, another bar catering to college students shut down for the same reasons, another sports bar, a bar that only sold ouzo. Tonight, though, it was back to the sort of place it had been when she’d first encountered it; announcing itself with a pink neon sign reading Hush, the letters in the shape of a pair of pursed lips.

She nods politely to the bouncer as he unclips the pink velvet rope at the door; it’s early enough that a line hasn’t formed, though it’s fairly crowded inside. She glances at the patrons, most of whom are already gazing at her with frank admiration. Despite the variety of possibilities, nobody catches her eye in the same way as she crosses to the bar.

“Evenin’, sugar,” the bartender smirks, resting on her heavily-tattooed forearms. “What’s your pleasure?” Gives her a wink.

“Vodka soda,” she smirks back. “Tall, with a lime.”

“Not from the rail, I’m guessing?”

Maura shrugs. “It’s not the drink I’m here for.”

“Hm,” the bartender grins. “How about we go mid-shelf, just in case she doesn’t come walking through the door right away?”

Maura offers her a wry smile. “Whatever you recommend.”

“Maybe you could tell me a little more about your, uh, preferred taste profile. So I don’t lead you too far astray.”

Maura bites her lip, considering. She hasn’t been here since that case, and of the lesbians she personally knew, none seemed the type to go to this sort of place on a Friday night. Not that she had any particular concerns over being discovered in a lesbian bar while on her own time; it’s just that she did have a strong preference for the type of woman she was hoping to encounter tonight, the specifics of which would undoubtedly raise more eyebrows than her being in here in the first place. And if it got back to Jane—

Another abrupt flush of frustrated anger. “Actually, no. I see you have a bottle of Old Van Winkle up there; I’ll take a shot. Neat.”

The bartender hesitates. “I’m not actually supposed to sell that without permission from the manager.”

Maura sighs. Pulls out her credit card, drops it with a heavy clatter on the bar. “Get it, please.”

“You’re the boss,” the bartender murmurs with a mix of awe and attraction Maura hasn’t been on the receiving end of for long enough that she’s forgotten how potent it is. To get what she wants, because she wants it and because sometimes wanting something is reason enough. Not everything requires a litmus test. Not everything is bad just because money can buy it.

The bartender emerges from the back office—Maura’s breath catching in her throat as she recalls the way every pair of eyes in the place had run appreciatively along her body in its tight corset and short skirt when she’d emerged through that very door herself—followed by a dubious-looking woman in a black tank top, her lean arms folded across her chest. Maura’s breath catches again.

“Eva says you’re interested in a shot of Pappy?”

“I am,” she says, tapping her credit card on the bar. “I’d be happy to run the charge in advance, if that’s the concern.”

“One of ‘em,” the manager nods. Staring at her. Dark eyes sharp and observant. Maura’s pulse quickens. “Did you come here looking to try it, or . . . ?”

“I came here for the reason I imagine most of your clientele comes here,” Maura replies, each word cool, clipped. The manager is precisely the sort of woman she’d come looking for, at least physically. That she was forcing Maura to demonstrate she actually wanted what she said she wanted was stoking up the same flame of ire her anger at Jane had sparked, making her sharper, less amenable than she would ordinarily be while also eliciting a slick of wetness between her thighs. “I saw the bottle, which I assume is there for more than decoration?”

“Special occasions,” the manager volleys back just as sharply, but there’s a shift in the air that makes Maura shift on her stool. Slowly crosses her legs, so that the manager sees her doing it. Maura watches her tongue flick over her lips. “You celebrating something?”

“Not yet,” Maura says guilelessly, though she reaches up to toy with her lower lip as she says it. “Though finding a bar that has a bottle seems like a special enough occasion.”

The manager gives her a long, appraising look, Maura allowing it. Encouraging it. “You have to drink to something,” she says at last, nudging over a footstool to allow her to reach the top shelf.

“What do you suggest?” she purrs, watching as the hem of the manager’s tank top lifts with her arm, revealing a sliver of her muscular abdomen.

“Hmm,” the manager murmurs, setting out a bell-shaped snifter. Giving her a sly smirk. “New friends?”

“Ah,” Maura breathes as the amber liquor ripples into the glass. “New friends.”

*******************************************

“Don’t stop,” she gasps, squeezing her thigh more tightly around the bar manager’s shoulders. “Don’t—oh fuck, just—right there, right—”

She moans, whines as the bar manager, whose name she didn’t bother to get, sucks her clit with single-minded fervor, hands gripping her hips, dress shoved up around her waist as she pants and huffs and twists a fistful of long dark hair, the woman between her thighs groaning, forcing her pussy tight to her mouth, Maura rocking hard and fast against the tongue lapping at her, sucking at her, drawing a shaking, shuddering orgasm from her in what feels like seconds, Maura coming with a strangled yelp, head slamming against the wall of the manager’s office hard enough that she’s hazily aware she’ll have a tender spot, if not a contusion.

She slumps against the wall, breathing heavily, the bar manager dragging her tongue lightly along her still-quivering slit, smirking at Maura’s light whimpers until she shoves her head away. The manager gets to her feet, Maura lapping away the arousal shining on her lips, her chin, before sliding her tongue into the woman’s mouth. Fumbling at the waistband of her dark jeans.

“It’s all right,” the manager says roughly. “You don’t—Jesus.”

Maura’s fingers are between her legs, rubbing in tight, firm circles, before she can finish the thought. “I want to, though,” she murmurs in her ear as her head drops to Maura’s shoulder, bracing herself against the wall as Maura strokes and flicks and teases. “I want to feel you come for me.”

“Fuck,” the manager hisses, her hips jerking and bucking against Maura’s hand, rutting and swiveling. “You’re so fucking sexy.”

She sucks in a breath. “What else?”

“What—uh—what else?”

“Tell me,” she breathes, brushing past the discomfort in her wrist as she thrusts a finger inside, the manager crying out, teeth grazing Maura’s neck. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“Fucking—fucking incredible,” she gasps. “You feel incr—uh—“ She moans. Jerks her hips. “Gonna make me—gonna come, oh shit—”

And she’s whining, groaning, trying not to scream as Maura twists her finger inside, walls hot and wet and rippling as she comes, gushing onto Maura’s palm.

When her pussy stops quivering and contracting Maura withdraws her finger slowly, lifts it to her mouth to suck it clean. “Thank you,” she whispers, smoothing her dress back down. “That was exactly what I wanted.”

“Uh,” the manager gasps, still getting her breath back. “My pleasure.”

“Please feel free to drink the shot yourself,” she says, wiping delicately at the corners of her mouth. “I’d hate to see it wasted.”

She’s back out on the floor of the club, back out on the busy sidewalk before the manager can think to ask for her name. By design; the anonymity was a significant aspect of the entire scenario. She’d even made sure to tap her card, so her name wouldn’t appear on the receipt.

She walks quickly around the corner to call a car back to her house; her abrupt disappearance just as critical as not exchanging names. The orgasm she’d experienced had been adequate, certainly; even good. The bar manager had been close enough to allow her imagination to operate at an even-more-detailed level; gazing down as she’d licked her, hot and eager, meant seeing mostly her dark, wavy hair, her dark eyes.

She’s still angry with Jane, though. Furious, even. Going out had helped, even if now, on the ride back, she has a moment to consider the ethics of what she’d done. Not having anonymous sex in the manager’s office; they’d both wanted that, particularly given how quickly and easily they’d both come. But of seeking out a woman whose physical characteristics matched Jane’s in order to demand meaningless release. Was that—

“No,” she mutters sternly as she disarms her security system. “Jane‘s feelings aren’t a valid consideration here. Yours are the only emotions you are expected to manage.”

She’s doing an acceptable job of it—her pulse and respiration remain relatively steady, at least—until she does her usual phone check before silencing notifications for the night. Nothing new, but in double-checking she’d responded to any urgent texts she brushes her thumb over her thread with Jane. Catches a glimpse of Jane’s last text to her, from that morning.

did u say something to the suspect?

A fresh wave of fury washes over her. Jane had come stomping and cursing into the morgue only minutes after she’d sent the message; Maura hadn’t even seen it.

Oh, Jane, I’m nearly finished with—

What the hell, Maura?

I’m sorry?

I just got a denial on the search warrant for Caldwell’s house.

Oh, I’m—

Did you say something to him?

Excuse me? Jane, what are you—

You two know each other. You go way back, right? Far enough that maybe it might strike you as a good idea to do a little favor—

Jane!

You already told me you don’t think he’d do it.

I said I’d find it surprising, but if he did—

Surprising enough to give him more time to get his story straight?

In my office. Now.

And then she’d been crude. Deliberately hurtful. Even if she’d been correct, at least about the blowjob. She’d meant it as an insult. To dismiss and degrade her.

And then she’d refused to even open her door.

If Maura wasn’t so hurt, so furious, perhaps she’d wonder why Jane had turned on her so abruptly. It wasn’t as though this was the first time they’d been in nearly exactly these circumstances; a murder among Boston’s society set, a suspect someone Maura had encountered in her personal life years earlier. It’s not as though the pool of candidates matching her status was particularly large. Which was, as she’d attempted to communicate to Jane on dozens of occasions, one of the myriad reasons she made an active effort to distance herself from that life. Those expectations.

She is hurt, though. She is furious. And whatever new inscrutable mood Jane’s in, she can work through it on her own.

********************************************

She’s still angry when she wakes up the next morning. Her visit to the bar had calmed the fury enough for her to sleep, but not enough for her to have woken up ready to smooth things over with Jane.

Her ire is only increased when she checks her phone as the coffee brews. A text from Jane, demanding to know why Maura hadn’t emailed the autopsy notes. Sent at 4:47 in the morning, which would indicate she was not only clinging to her unearned anger, but indulging it.

“Fine,” she mutters.

I haven’t finished my final report. You’ll have to wait until Monday.

Throws the phone on the island with a clatter.

She resists the urge to check for a reply. Drinks her coffee while reading the day’s news. She’s just rinsing out her mug when there’s a loud, sharp rap at her door.

Jane.

She sighs, then takes a deep breath to quell the sudden sour lurch in her gut. She could ignore the knock, but given that Jane’s almost certainly been up all night working herself up, she recognizes the need to keep her from doing something that would draw the interest of the neighbors, or the home security company.

She swipes her suddenly-clammy hands on her silk bathrobe. Crosses to the door. Opens it just a fraction. “Yes?”

“Let me in,” Jane demands. She’s wearing what she’d been wearing yesterday. She looks gaunt. Half-wild.

“What do you want?”

“I want my fucking autopsy report, Maura,” she snarls, loudly enough to break the chilly morning stillness. Loudly enough for Maura to swing the door open on reflex, Jane shoving inside.

“I told you, it’s not ready,” Maura says coolly, shutting the door.

“The hell it isn’t. I know you’ve got it. I don’t care if you’ve crossed all the ts and dotted all the is. I need that fucking warrant so I can arrest a murderer, whether you fucked him or not.”

Maura’s face hardens along with Jane’s. “Stop.”

“Stop what?” Jane growls. “Asking you to do your fucking job?”

“You’re being cruel, childish, and unfair,” Maura nearly shouts. “How dare you accuse me of abetting a murderer, of violating all of my professional oaths, just because you’ve got some invented idea of a non-existent relationship.”

“So you didn’t fuck him, is that what you’re saying?”

Maura resists the impulse to snap at her about her language, since there’s no need to provide Jane an opportunity to change the subject. She takes as deep a breath as she can manage. “I’m saying regardless of what I did or didn’t do nearly a decade ago, you have no right to make the accusations you’ve made, and that you’re clinging to this ludicrous story to justify your own failures—”

“My failures?”

“Yes,” she hisses. “The reason you didn’t get your warrant is that you didn’t make a good enough argument for it, which is so far from my fault that I’m honestly baffled, Jane, that you’d attempt to shift the blame to me for any reason, but particularly this reason. Not only is it incomprehensible and unjustifiable, it’s cowardly.”

Jane stiffens as though she’s been struck. “I’m not a coward.”

Maura scoffs. “You’re not? Then tell me you don’t want to run away right now.” She gives Jane a hard stare. “Without lying. If you can.”

Jane just returns her look, dark eyes flashing nearly black as she tries to reassert control over herself, though given the way she’s clenching unclenching her fists she seems to be having difficulty.

Maura should stop provoking her. She knows she should, that she should be de-escalating instead of stoking the flames higher, but she can’t. Not any more. The idea of sacrificing her own sense of justice to appease Jane might have felt tolerable, even preferable at one time, but not this time. She’s tired of backing down to keep Jane from having to face the uglier aspects of her nature, since all that’s achieved is an emotional imbalance, in which the only comfort that matters is Jane’s, no matter what she herself is required to give up.

She doesn’t want to let Jane win any more. Not unless she earns it. “Why are you acting like this,” she says again. Low. Even. “Tell me. Or leave. Again.”

Jane sputters. Stammers. Swipes a hand through her hair. Stares at her like she’s waiting for her to break. To say she didn’t mean it like that. She does, though, and after a beat Jane scoffs. Turns around. Strides toward the front door.

“So much for not being a coward,” Maura mutters. She shouldn’t have, but she wants to see what Jane does. Perhaps it will help explain—

What she does isn’t what Maura anticipated, though it is, she thinks fleetingly, what she’s been waiting for. She doesn’t have time to interrogate the thought, however, since Jane’s whipping around with a hard-eyed snarl. Since she’s crossing back to her so quickly Maura doesn’t have time to react. To dart out of the way of Jane’s hand before it wraps around her neck.

“Wait,” she stammers, but Jane doesn’t acknowledge her, unless the tightening of her grip on Maura’s throat is meant to be her response. Unless the way she forces Maura back until she’s collided with the wall is her response. The press of her body against Maura’s, pinning her tightly.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Jane’s breath hot against her cheek, making her shiver, making Jane growl low in her throat. “What you want from me?” Her knee between Maura’s thighs.

She just whimpers again, though everything’s happening so quickly, so unexpectedly, that she can’t identify any one thought. Yes becoming no becoming yes again as Jane’s firm thigh presses against her, the pressure, the friction sending a rush of pleasure glittering through her, even as she’s starting to feel no more than yes, Jane’s fingers digging into her throat, Jane’s breath harsh and ragged against her ear, Jane not looking at her. Jane’s free hand fumbling at the hem of her short nightgown.

“Jane,” she manages, just barely. “St-stop, wait—”

She doesn’t. Just squeezes more tightly, her thigh grinding between Maura’s legs sending another hot rush of conflicted arousal through her, making her whimper and writhe, making Jane huff and snarl as she thrusts her fingers into the thick liquid heat, jerking her thigh up at the same time.

“Will you believe me now?” Jane rasps, forcing a finger roughly inside her. “Is this what it takes?”

Another finger. She’s so wet, but it still hurts, because Jane’s trying to hurt her. She tries to cry out but Jane’s pinning her to the wall by her neck and the more ruthlessly she forces her fingers inside the tighter the grip on her throat so all she can manage is a thin whine.

“This is what it takes, right?” Jane hisses again. Maura can feel the heat of her skin, hazily, since everything’s getting a little hazy from the oxygen restriction. From the feeling of Jane’s fingers inside her. Of her clit, rubbing hard against Jane’s palm. Hot blackness at the edges of her vision. “All it takes for you to trust someone?”

Jane punctuates her words with another brutal thrust, one that causes pleasure to spiral through her, making her moan and tighten and rock her hips despite whatever rational part of her is still functioning pleading no, pleading stop, pleading not like this.

She’s aware—attenuated—enough to feel the breath on her cheek, against her ear getting labored and thready, can feel hot pressure against her own thigh, Jane thrusting against her as she thrusts into her, Maura meeting her rhythm as her body takes over, as she succumbs to Jane’s fingers, her heat, her mindless, dominating fury. Whines and gasps and struggles to stay conscious as she starts to quiver and contract, Jane growling, snarling in her ear as Maura comes with a groan and a hard, sharp thrust, one that makes Maura scream, or try to, Jane huffing and grunting and shuddering against her.

Maura doesn’t lose consciousness, to her vague, fleeting relief. That would mean something else, something even darker and more frightening than what had just happened. What’s still happening, since Jane’s fingers are still inside her. Since Jane’s still got her pinned to the wall. Since Jane’s still gasping and jerking through the aftershocks.

“Please,” Maura rasps when Jane’s grip on her throat goes slack. “Jane, please stop, you’re hurting me, pl—”

She cries out as Jane withdraws her fingers as swiftly and as roughly as she’d thrust them inside. Gasps, slumps against the wall when Jane abruptly releases her. Stumbles backward, breathing raggedly. Staring at her now, but her expression is obscure, unreadable. She’s trembling; they both are.

“Get out,” Maura manages weakly, attempting to keep herself from sliding to the floor, at least until she’s alone. “Get out of my house.”

Jane doesn’t say anything. Just stares at her with that unreadable look a moment longer before she draws a shaky breath and bolts out the door.

[starry-bi-sky]

(Part of this post with older brother danyal al ghul)

...Okay, look. Sam knows she's staring. She knows very well that she is staring. And that if she doesn't stop staring it's gonna draw her unwanted attention, and that will only have to make her explain why she's staring. Which she doesn't want to do.

She's trying not to stare, which she thinks she should get brownie points for. She tries to look away, to find a spot on the wall to stare lifelessly at, maybe she can burn holes into some of these annoying socialites' heads. But eventually her eyes drift, and suddenly she's back to staring again.

Can you blame her though? Damian Wayne looks like a very close mini-me of her fucking best friend. Seriously, it's like looking into a mirror to the past. If that mirror to the past had green eyes rather than blue and a distinctive lack of a facial scar.

The first time she sees him when her parents drag her over to Bruce Wayne to butter up to him she has to do a doubletake. Then a triple take. Then a quadruple take, just for good measure that she was seeing what she was actually seeing. She was sure she looked like one of those stress toys that when squeezed had their eyes pop out comically like a Saturday morning cartoon, that's what she certainly felt like anyways.

Look, Danny's come a decent way from being that scowl-y, jerkish little ten year old she first met when he arrived like the wind to Amity Park five years ago (even if he was still occasionally scowl-y and jerkish), but one thing that's stayed the same is how reserved he is about his home life prior to being taken in by the Fentons.

He doesn't talk about it much, and Sam's come to know that he's very good at changing the subject when it gets brought up. Even after being friends for nearly four years, the only thing she and Tuck know for certain is that he has a little brother that he refers to as 'starlight', whom he cares a lot about but left on really bad terms with. And that he's never met his father, but wants to and knows who he is.

He's never told her or Tucker who he was though, and glancing at Bruce Wayne, Sam is realizing why. She can begrudgingly acknowledge all the good he's done for Gotham, but... well, if Danny told her that Bruce Wayne was his dad, she wouldn't have believed him at all.

But she's starting to see the resemblance, as subtle as it is.

And she sees the resemblance to Damian Wayne, her eyes dropping back down to him as he wears a very Danny-like scowl on his face, arms crossed behind his back as his eyes swept around the ballroom. He was five years younger than Danny, and god it was so, so weird.

His eyes turned on to her, and they locked gazes for a moment.

Involuntarily, Sam makes a startled noise and looks away. Fingers tap against her purse, black and purple and unfortunately a clutch that only held her phone and her wallet in it. She would have kept a knife on her, but her parents put their foot down and there was a security detail at the door. Only in Gotham.

Silently, she was hoping that the little Danny-me didn't say anything. Or at least, he hadn't noticed her staring. Which was a tall order if she ever heard one -- and unfortunately, her silent prayers went unanswered as her mother's eyes dropped down onto her.

"Did you say something, Samantha?" She asks in a sickeningly sweet voice, a sound that makes Sam's skin crawl. Her dad and Bruce Wayne's attention also turns onto her, and she glowers at her mom from the corner of her eye.

"I didn't say anything." Sam says, barely keeping her tone polite as she turned her head away. Her mother clucks her tongue, disapproving, but from her peripherals doesn't pester her more

Bruce Wayne, the bastard, takes that time to turn to Sam and grace her with his dime-a-dozen billboard smiles. "I've been talking with your parents this whole time, Miss Manson, you must be terribly bored. How is your schooling going?"

Sam eyes him up and down. On one hand, she immediately wants to be snarky. It's none of his business what her school life is like, she doesn't care for his fucking small talk.

On the other hand, this was Danny's whole father. Someone who she knows that Danny has wanted to meet for, what she's assuming, his whole life. He's never brought it up much, but she remembers that very quiet, solemn conversation she and Tucker had with him where he admits to having never met his dad. But god does he want to.

And... wait. Sam's eyes narrow, and she meets Bruce Wayne's eyes. Does this man even know Danny exists? She drops her gaze down to Damian, who was staring at her suspiciously, and then back up to Bruce, and she alternates between them.

Why was Damian living with Bruce, but not Danny? Why hasn't Bruce done anything to reach out to him - what was going on with Danny's biological family that Danny had to be separated from them, but not Damian? Danny's always been kinda mysterious, but now things weren't adding up.

Was Danny given up? Does Bruce just not want Danny, but wanted Damian? Why the fuck does Bruce Wayne know about Damian but not her best friend -- or does he know and just not care? He's fought for custody for his adoptive kids before, does he just not want to fight for his other biological son? Does he think Danny's not worth it?

She's never cared much about the Wayne family before, other than to hear about the advancements on WE's eco-friendly tech, but Sam thinks she's gonna have to look into why Damian Wayne was living with the Waynes.

Slowly, with a protective anger beginning to burn in her gut and crawl up her throat, a scowl slowly curls at the corner of her lip as she redirects her glare from her mother onto Bruce. "It's going fine," She says curtly, jutting her chin out defiantly. "Me and my friend Danny started a petition to fix the leaky faucets in the girls and boys' bathrooms in order to conserve more water for the rest of the city."

She eyes his face, waiting to see if anything like recognition flashes through it. And- and nothing. Sam breathes in slowly through her nose, trying to quell the red that's blurring the edge of her vision -- does he just, not know where Danny is?

Her parents however, make vaguely displeased expressions. "Our Samantha is... quite passionate about her pet projects." Her dad says, laughing low and nervously, "she's very vocal about silly things like that."

"Her friend Daniel is perhaps even worse than she is sometimes." Her mother adds on, fanning her face with her perfectly manicured hands with a sigh. "I swear, he's the one that keeps dragging her into these things."

Sam's anger turns on its head, and she whirls on her heel like a fire-breathing dragon. "It's Danyal." It rolls out like instinct. Danny's told them both that he hates the Americanized pronunciation of his name, but in a rare moment of restraint, puts up with it for reasons unknown to her. "And Danny doesn't make me do anything, it was my idea."

The name, Danyal, seems to ring some kind of bell in Brucie Wayne's head, because she sees him and Damian quietly perk up like two cats pricking up their ears. Her eyes flick onto him immediately, something dangerous rearing its head. So Bruce Wayne knows about Danny. And he's not reaching out to him. Is he? She's not sure.

She does know that she's gonna rip his throat out if she finds out that he's known about Danny this entire time and has been ignoring him while favoring his little brother. She'll hunt down Aragon herself and steal his dragon-shifting amulet and wreck house on Bruce Wayne if that's the case. Batman and his league of vigilantes be damned. Her parents don't notice her slowly turning head towards Bruce.

But Bruce does, and she makes direct eye contact with him. His smile doesn't falter, he just tilts his head like a curious puppy and looks at Sam's parents. She hopes Bruce can read minds, she hopes he can hear her threatening him.

"Danyal?" He asks, and Sam doesn't know if she hates the fact that he said it correctly or not. She just continues burning holes into him and hoping he might spontaneously combust.

Her mother waves her hand dismissively, tilting her nose up poshly into the air. "Our dear Samantha's little... foster friend from school," she says, not even bothering to hide her disdain, "a creepy little boy with the most garish scar on his face. He's a rude little thing, not good for polite company."

Scratch that, Sam mentally alternates between ripping into her parents and Bruce. She whirls on them. "Do not talk about Danny that way." She all but snarls, and they all but ignore her.

(She's tearing up the upholstery when she gets home. She's going to paint over the fine china. She's going to do something to make them pay for this.)

"Oh yes, he was taken in by that freaky Fenton family a few years ago." Her dad continues in lieu of her mom, and they both shake their heads disapprovingly. "It's just what our city needs, another menace."

"Danny is not a menace." Sam continues, raising her voice while her hands shake with rage. Her parents finally look at her, but she can already tell that they're going to scold her for raising her voice. She bulldozes over them and jabs her black-painted finger at them. "He's got a bigger heart than the both of you combined."

"Samantha, please." her mom says, exasperated. They both give her disapproving looks, Sam thinks about grabbing champagne off the tray of a nearby waiter and throwing it in their faces. "You defend that boy far too much. What do you actually know about him and his family?"

Sam sets her jaw, puffing herself up like a dragon protecting its hoard. She steps into her mom's space. "I know that he loves the stars; you can ask him anything about astronomy and he could give you an entire lecture on the formation, class types, and various gasses that stars are made up of. He can tell you how the Earth was formed, he can tell you about the visible light spectrum and about light curves, and a whole ton of other stuff that I don't really understand. But Danny loves talking about it."

Her face twists and scowls, "I know he cares a ton about the environment and about fixing light pollution, and preserving the forests and natural habitats of animals." She nearly jabs her finger into her mom's chest, "I know he loves dogs, and that there's one he feeds every day on the way to school that he calls Cujo, its a St. Bernard puppy and Danny carries him around whenever he sees him after school, and is in the middle of training him."

It's not a total lie, but it's not the whole truth either. Cujo doesn't need food, but Danny gives him it anyways. "I know he likes spicy food and loves movies but specifically only sci-fi and horror, and he hates most martial arts movies. His favorite superhero is the Martian Manhunter, but Batman comes in at a close second." For reasons to her that were pretty unknown, but it didn't matter.

"I know he loves wordplay and making puns, which I would have never expected from him when we first met, but it's so unbelievably Danny-like that I can't imagine him not making puns." And she smiles a little to herself, she remembers the first time Danny intentionally made a pun once and it got startled laughs out of both her and Tucker.

Her smile suddenly falters, and she swallows. Her lips purse up, wobbling, and she very quickly glances over to Damian Wayne, of whom is watching her with a vaguely bewildered expression alongside Bruce.

She turns her eyes back onto her parents. "And I know that he worries a lot, even if he has a shit way of showing it. I know he had a little brother that he hasn't seen since he was adopted by the Fentons, and he doesn't talk about him often but when he does he he calls him 'starlight'." From the corner of her eye, she sees Damian jerk.

"So- so, so what if he's not 'good for polite company'." Sam's voice, embarrassingly, cracks down the middle. But she's so angry over Danny's behalf that she doesn't really care. "Or that he can be mean, and critical, and stubborn. He's learning, and he's becoming kinder by the day. That's more than I can say about you."

(She remembers when Danny finally admitted to her and Tucker being his 'closest friends'. It was sometime before the portal incident, and it felt like a milestone because beforehand he only really referred to them as his companions or allies.)

(At the time, he'd looked unsure of himself. Skittish like a stray in the back of an alleyway, almost shy in his own way. It had come out stilted, slow, like an infant taking its first steps, and it would have been endearing if it hadn't been heartbreaking.)

Her parents rear back like she'd struck them, and her mother holds a hand against her chest in aghast. Sam doesn't care, she blinks the sting out of her eyes. "Samantha." Her mother starts.

Sam cuts her off, "I don't care what you have to say, you-- you pricks." she snaps, around her, there are gasps. Belatedly, she realizes she's grown an audience, but again she doesn't care. "Danny might be an asshole, but he cares. And I'd rather be around someone whose mean but cares, than someone whose nice but doesn't."

With that, she whirls on her foot and turns on Bruce Wayne, who has been silent the entire time with a surprised expression on his face. He starts to shake out of it when Sam turns to him, but she doesn't give him the chance to speak. "Enjoy your party." She snarls, and then stalks away.

[hintzy]

tragedy of the athlete

1. post by @tamaupogi

2. tags on a post by @coppermouth

3. the wounded achilles, filippo albacini

4. the old catcher considers the failing of his knees, devin kelly

5. temporary job, minnie bruce pratt

6. this post

7. this post

[triglycercule]

mtt therapy moment except dust keeps taking breaks to talk to phantom papyrus and horror just wants this to hurry up so it can get to his turn because he couldn't give two shits about dust and killer's trauma and killer physically cannot discuss his issues and just starts zoning out while crying for some reason during it

and i'm the therapist listening to all of this writing down notes fervently because ITS CANON MATERIAL CANON I NEED TO GET THE CANON MATERIAL

[48787]

New Transmission The fucking Scientific Instrument Class Pseudocons apparently developed what they're calling "Hetero Sapience" and are corrupting the brainmodules of the non-Pseudo 'cons around them by using annoying xenophilosophy words. Soundwave tells me they're 'Greek' and 'Latin' words, apparently. Cool, I guess? Anyway, if you see any SI Class 'cons causing... issues, just try your hardest to turn your brainmodule off before you start getting infected with their weird lingo, alongside all the other issues pertaining to letting the SI Pseudocons transmit data into your brainmodule in their own weird ways. Thundercracker, on a bet with Starscream, tried to get into an argument with one of them and his head literally exploded when it started talking about Alpha Trion's "Mythological Origins" in its weird dialect. He's mostly fine, CR Pods are working at 'peak' efficiency, but the facial reconstruction is apparently impossible due to some kind of corruption. I thought it was just some weird prank but there weren't even any scorch marks or anything. Just exploded. So yeah, just avoid optical contact and auditory contact to the best of your ability and you should be fine. Otherwise, try to force-shutdown your brainmodule if you can. Shockwave is working on a cure right now, mostly because I know he had something to do with this in the first place so he's going to be the one to fix it. He probably wanted a greater justification to do that weird data-transfer idea he mentioned previously. But it also explains the weird Thunderwing hypotheticals he's been asking me lately... Can I go one fucking cycle without someone trying to "Perfect Thunderwing's Work" or whatever other idiotic drivel that I keep finding our limited energon reserves siphoned into?? It's not even a Shockwave thing, it's like every damn Cybertronian these days thinks they have the "Missing piece of the puzzle" or whatever. In fact, Shockwave might be doing this as a weird threat against the other R&D 'cons to cement himself as the one and only Decepticon "Allowed" to have resources wasted on projects like that. Ugh, now that I think about it, that's probably a correct assumption and he's probably gonna expect me to thank him for it later. Ugh, and he's probably literally right. Ugh. At least his repairs both to himself and to his lab seem to be mostly complete so further research into the SI project should hopefully come along a little faster. Both Shockwave and Soundwave think the SIs could potentially be used as some kind of specialty weapon, but we'll have to see how they work on sparkless lifeforms, like biological lifeforms or xenomechanical lifeforms. The SIs don't seem to corrupt each other, but Shockwave keeps reaffirming that they're not "Sparkless Lifeforms" because they "were never lifeforms to begin with"... but I think he's trying to hide something. Usually Soundwave is the one to pick up on that kind of technological obfuscation, but he actually agreed with Shockwave and offered to send Ratbat to try to work out exactly what each "sapient" SI is now capable of on a personal level. We could have just had regular Cybertronians aboard to fill the role SIs fill. I would've preferred K Class to fill any role an SI could fill in all honesty!! But no, constructing cold wasn't enough, we just had to try to learn how to "Construct Frozen" and the "Absolute Zeroes" just had to be put on my ship. Whatever. I've probably said too much already. This was supposed to be a warning for my ship crew, but it's looking like it'll end up being transcribed on the golden disk as well so when this new Scientific Instruments of Destruction project backfires in some absurdly bombastic way there will at least be something remaining that says I was right. End of Transmission

New Transmission Okay so I was right, but so was Shockwave and Soundwave. Or, well, they were right just enough to make sure the backfire is postponed for at least another handful of cycles. Ratbat is still in CR from the investigation, but the cure Shockwave developed seems to be effective and Thundercracker is out and aiding the repair effort. Shockwave is now in contact with one of the SIs digitally and the other few are... integrating due to the personal efforts of Soundwave. I suppose now would be pertinent to mention not all the SIs developed the "Hetero Sapience" condition, many of them are safe for interaction. Soundwave is also currently monitoring their presence, Ravage is tasked with the regular SIs and Laserbeak is tasked with the "Sapient" SIs. Shockwave probably knows exactly what caused this event but he is preoccupied with the one he no doubt is either indoctrinating or ruthlessly interrogating. Report to Soundwave if you see any suspicious behavior, he has been working very hard to ensure the SIs have their purpose clearly defined (And closely monitored). And, Starscream, stop trying to convince the SIs that you are the leader of this ship. Not only have the majority of your efforts been wasted on subsentient automata, the only one you have actually found who possesses the ability to truly listen to you immediately came to the bridge to complain about you. They were the first sapient SI I communicated with directly and it was because they felt the need to complain about you. I almost feel embarrassed for you. Come back to the bridge so you can apologize to it or so I can teach it how to laugh at you. It's practicing right now actually! This moment of chaos should hopefully be largely under control now, the actual "population" of Scientific Instrument Class Pseudocons was actually quite fewer than initially expected due to an indexing error incorrectly labeling certain shells as SI class. At the very least, we have some more specialty warriors because of it all. End of Transmission EOF

[front-facing-pokemon]

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[solaiced]

CASE 13: BABY CHOSO NEEDS HIS MOMMY.

!content!: choso cries because of a movie, couch sex, mommy kink, and comfort?

wc:693

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

"Choso, are you.. crying?" Your surprised voice rings through the air.

You and Choso had been watching a movie involving a mother going through hell to get her child back in a post-apocalyptic world, and he just fell quiet, sniffling. You worriedly brushed the hair out of his eyes.

"N-no, it's just.." He was lying. his voice watery and eyes wet.

"You don't have to lie, Cho..." You bring Choso's head close to your chest, your boobs cushioning him.

"It's just sad... Like... I can't explain it, my mom didn't do this for me... " He sounds envious, hands exploring your body as a way to relieve stress.

"Aw, Cho-baby, I can be your mommy." You joke, hoping to lighten his mood.

However, it's his eyes that light up, peering up at you through wet, dark lashes. He smiles softly.

"You would?" He asks, eyes bright with joy.

"Yeah, I would." You giggle, happy that he's happy. In an instant, you're flipped over, hands pinned by his.

"Well, mommy," he sniffles, face close to yours. "Wipe my tears, please. Make me feel better." He pouts dramatically, nuzzling your face submissively.

"Yeah I’ll replace your tears of sadness with tears of joy, mm?" you kiss his cheek affectionately

Maybe, he shouldn't have said that.

Maybe, he shouldve kept quiet.

Maybe then, he wouldn't be begging for mercy. To cum. His hips buckle, hands itching to touch you.

"Cho-baby, ah." You moan, bouncing on his lap, on his cock.

"Muh-Mommyy-" He whines, trying to not disobey and touch you. Oh God.

"You wanna touch me, huh- don't you?" You tease, rolling your hips just right.

And fuck, if that didn't affect him.

"Yah - Yeah, please, mommy. "He drags out the last sylable, head thrown back in pleasure. Choso swore he saw stars when you grinded on him so good, he started babbling.

"Mo-Mommy, mommy, please, let me cum, let me touch you -ohh, mommy!" His dignity is definitely in the dust, now.

This was so humiliating but... hot, to him, at the same time.

"Are you crying?" You mock, grabbing, his face and kissing away his tears. "These better be happy tears, okay?" You hum as he groans, acknowledging your words tiredly.

“Y-yeah, I'm happy, ma," The dark haired man replies, eyes shut to focus on not cumming. You caress his cheek, keeping a steady rhythm, bouncing off his thighs. The only sounds in the room were wet flesh slapping against wet flesh, Choso's moans and your whispered praises. You feel yourself get wetter, you were definitely about to cum.

"Cho, Choso." you breathe, giggling. His eyes flutter open, attentive. "I'm about to cum, aren't you happy? Mommy's gonna cum." You lick the tears persistently flowing down Choso’s red cheeks. Such a crybaby.

"Yes, yes, mommy, I'mso-hic-happy'" He hiccups, teeth bared in what seems like a smile. Well, at least he's trying.

"You can cum, too, fill mommy up,

‘kay?" You coo, both hands on his chest to balance your self. He nods eagerly, drool at the corner of his mouth. He was so cute, all disheveled.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you mommy!” Choso whimpers, hands searching for something else to touch apart from you. But ever the merciful Goddess that you are, you place both of his hands on each of your hips, making sure they were steady.

He whispers a ‘thank you’ once more, and you clench, making him groan.

“Gonna cum," You announce, out of breath. "Ready?" He shakes his head but you ignore him, stomach knotting in preparation.

The pleasure builds, you clench, hard, and Chose tightens his grip on you, sure to leave marks. Just when you feel you're about to cum, finger rubbing your clit and rocking against Choso, he erupts, body lifting up like a man possessed and loud cries ripping out of him. The sticky liquid he produces stays inside of you, plugged by his cock.

He flops back against the couch, spent. You were almost there.

And he ruined it. He had to pay.

"I didn't tell you to cum." Just then, Chose felt true fear because of you for the first time ever.

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

.

[blupengu]

Y’all is Hollow Knight hard or do I just suck because oh my god??

[triglycercule]

me when i find the PERFECT mtt song (yamitsuki,,,,,,,, maretu my king how did you do it,,,,,,,,,,,,, literally HOW did you do it why is this song weirdly accurate wtf and its for a completely different character 2??? HOW DID YOU DO THIS??? THE ENTIRE FUCKING SONG FITS??? THE ENTIRE SONG COULD BE MADE TO HAVE CONNECTIONS WITH ONLY MILD REACHING??? HELLO??????) (this translation!!!) (the translation is not.linking i will be shooting myself. its the on on the vocaloid wiki NOTthe video....)

literally like. 1/3 is horror. 1/3 is dust. and then the last is killer. in that order. the first 2 verses talk about bloodshot pain (bloodshot EYES.... HORROR'S EYE) and a rotting fatal wound (THE FUCKING HEAD CRACK!!! HIS GODDAMN HEAD WOUND!!!!). commiting brutality. i dont think much else is needed. wrong/right and judging biases,,,,, jesus fuck wtf. AND THEN in the next verse there's a mention of "starving for necessary evil" HELLO!!!! HELLO!!!!!!! him starving himself while also feeding snowdin human which totally sucks,,,,,, horror sans,,,,,,???? chorus of shrill voices (duh snowdin. or also could be undyne and royale guard. i like snowdin more). and then the last line of the second verse mentions sadism. nothing more to say. horror sans i mayhaps perchance mightve just encountered you in a song. or maybe the translation is freakily accurate and the song itself isnt that specific (probably but hey i can dream)

and then th next 2 verses r dust except i dont really know about the first verse but also a line that says "this is the death of the conflict, come and see me" could be referring to the human's death which like. man. and then the next verse is just dust sans but in a single verse. give me more excellent pain could be interpreted as LV but also the mental pain that comes with yk..... killing all you love.LOVE. LV. he needs more LV... anyways. mad off the beaten track. MAD. MENTION OF MAD LIKE CRAZY LIKE MAD TIME LIKE DUST SANS!!!! echoes of a haughty voice resound,,,,, phantom paps,,,,, "severe punishment, 100 renouned sights, i long for pure pessimism" i cant explain this one well i think but just think about it okay. this time you get to be the one coming up with the ideas (σ´∀`)σ

killer only has one verse that i can link this song 2 but i also think its th most freakily accurate. verse 1 is "through instantaneous joy, entertain me for my whole life, i'm cunningly"LUCKY". i get completely bored. give me pleasure without worry. and now, right away." and then "i'd rather head to eternal darkness. i'll abide by you always, emptily "HAPPY". i shed tears from my clear white eyes. come and show me your best smile!" HELP HELP HELP THEYRE SHOOTING ME HELP HELP!!!! THEY JUMPING ME (these lyrics) because WTFyhis isFREAKILY accurate. the entire first verse and its spiel on boredom and having someone else manage the entertainment/emotions,,,, and the cunningly lucky part is just. i think the word cunning is just really good to describe killer (sneaky little bastard) and then he's "lucky" emphasis on quotes because idk he got chosen for whatever the fuck his chara wants. what luck. really bad luck but whatever. and then MORE on the following another person and EMPTILY!!! EMPTY!!! KILLER FEEL NOTHING EMPTY!!!! fake happy too,,,, and killer has white eyelights sooo IM NOT REACHING!!! also he literally cries

in conclusion MARETU is a god amongst men and somehow this song managed to fit the mtt i have no idea how. next coming up: how NAMIDA fits horror. how thirst fits dust. how i'm high fits killer. idk if i already said this one probably did BUT JUST IN CASE maretu also has maegamist,,,,, maretu i knew i listened to you for a reason. so i could make totally irrational and unreasonable connections of your songs to the fucking murder time trio of all things. what joy

[nostalgia-tblr]

For anyone keeping track (no one), I have started watching the first Avengers film (MCU not the 60s TV show) but only while eating lunch so it's gonna take a while. So far Nick Fury has been assembling the Avengers (the film was initially released in the UK as Avengers Assemble - because of that 60s TV show - but it's not called that on D+ so I'm calling it what the Americans called it, just FYI) even though there's not yet anything for them to avenge as That Suit Guy (j/k I know his name too!!) isn't dead yet, and now they're on THE FUCKING VALIANT FROM DR WHO and I assume we're gonna continue assembling for a while as they're not all there yet.

MEANWHILE Loki (who is neither an alligator nor a woman in this???) is in a SECRET UNDERGROUND LAIR with a bunch of his stans who are... idk something technobabble that involves irridium and anti-protons. He is there looking for the tesseract on behalf of ???? who I know will be revealed 47 films from now as... no, wait, it wasn't, was it? That was just announced on a website or something? So it could be LITERALLY ANYONE. The Avengers (in-progress) also seem to be after that thing, but I have already forgotten why everyone is wanting it, assuming it was mentioned (it probably was).

Thor hasn't shown up yet, but Arrows Hawkeye is working as a Loki Stan and there's Steve Rogers and THE HULK and The Only Woman One, whose power is that she's a Cold War assassin (??) and I think this one is the film where she gets called a cunt (!) and honestly I am not sure which of the men she's getting officially shipped with, I think Arrows Hawkeye though? Fairly sure, as the alternative is that a man and a woman like each other as people but not in a lusty way, which would never happen obviously. (Hey I may ship mostly het* pairings but I don't always like it!)

Based on the Valiant (if u don't know who she is get da hell out of here!) I am guessing that the film ends with Loki dying in Thor's arms romantically but then I remembered that I know it can't because one of Loki got kidnapped from... either the end of this film or the start of the next one or POSSIBLY just from a later film's time-travel bit (???) but like... maybe they've edited this film secretly and I was right after all? But nobody else has watched it on Disney + recently so nobody knows yet? IT COULD HAPPEN.

Not sure what to make of this film so far, a lot's been going on yet also not much has been going on, and the one I like best so far (Suit Guy) is gonna die (NOT EVEN IN THOR'S ARMS ROMANTICALLY) and god Iron Man really hasn't aged well now that we have that one tech billionaire being a twat in public all the time to remind us what such people tend to be like. WHERE IS THOR????

*I say het but everyone in everything is bisexual, I know this because I thought of it and announced it on tumblr and will now say "I don't make the rules" to make it an objective FACT. I don't make the rules!!!

[ifyourereadingthisblinktwice]

i need to stop forgetting things exist the fucking second they leave my field of vision. why is is impossible for two things to occupy my mind at once especially when im tired. like. i feel like a sim. i feel like actions are being canceled and i just. move on. and completely forget what i was doing moments before. i fucking hate it

[tecchous-thicc-buttocks]

this is ! and ? they're besties and I'm in love with them.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...