#SUMMON THE BITCHES

[cha-mij]

Attempting to resist the overwhelming urge to spend another several hundred hours playing the three Witchers by listening to the soundtracks is probably not the best tactic.

[clairedelune-13]

Appeciating the fact that Witcher 3 makes a quest out of getting wasted and drunkenly cross-dressing to “summon the bitches”.

[starry-bi-sky]

don't you want to be a cult leader? - danyal al ghul au

this is mostly a joke post but i thought it was funny and had to share so--

his first mistake was, obviously, inheriting his father's inability to see an injustice and stand still. -- actually, danyal's first mistake was his lair being so big. a mountainous island with a large temple in the center resembling his old home in Nanda Parbat? With sprawling foliage and rivers and streams and waterfalls galore? What was he going to do with all that space? Let it go to waste? He had plants there! Native trees of the ghost zone growing from the soil! He couldn't let it all be left unchecked!

So naturally after helping a fellow teenage assassin ghost -- who he later learns is named Akihiko, -- from Walker of all people, he sent them over to hang low at his lair until it was safe enough for them to wander around the Zone. Walker couldn't get through Danyal's astrofield if his life depended on it, and trust him -- he's tried. Danny was clearing out debris from his stupid transport vans for weeks.

Honestly it wasn't so bad, he and Aki really quickly became fast friends and Danny loves having a sparring partner close to his level again -- he hasn't had this much fun fighting since he left the League. Aki was very dedicated and levelheaded, the both of them clicked really well because of it.

Nonono, the real trouble began after Danyal met some long-passed League members and allowed them to come join his island as well. Apparently they had made a few enemies of the zone, and maybe Danyal still felt some loyalty to the League. He couldn't just let them be left to rot. Their zealotry could be overlooked so long as they kept it contained and helped him take care of his island.

And it.. snowballs from there? He meets a teen squire aptly calling himself Ambroise -- whether that was his living name or not is yet to be seen -- who died during feudal france, who is just about as dramatic and passionate as every french stereotype makes them out to be. He calls Danyal "my moon and great muse" -- which is both flattering and little uncomfortable, but Danyal's grown up in the League as the Grandson of the Demon Head, he is used to mild worship. he passes it off as nothing more, nothing less. -- and while his energy is overwhelming on the worst of days, he helps Danny draw out of his shell more in ways that Sam and Tucker still struggle with.

Him and Aki butt heads a lot, but the two seem to hold the other in at least some positive regard, so Danny doesn't worry too much about them fighting while he's gone. It only becomes a mild issue when Aki also begins calling Danny "my moon". It's a little sweet, so Danyal brushes it off.

Then he takes in a troupe of ghosts some time after he defeats Pariah Dark and they begin calling him "great one" just as the yetis do in the far frozen. This is where he meets the twins -- a pair of sibling ghosts who call themselves Trixie and Missy (short for Trick and Mislead) -- who aren't quite as passionate as Ambroise but more energetic than Aki. Eventually they also start calling Danyal "my moon" and attach themselves to his hip, even within the living. They like to hide in his shadow and cause trouble for the rest of the students. He makes sure they don't hurt anyone.

He's pretty sure Aki is jealous, same with Ambroise, but he can't be too certain other than the fact that they become much more lingering (re: clingy) whenever he visits the island.. Something he's trying to do much more often these days due to the increasing amount of people living there now. Since when did he become so popular?

Then there's Pēnelópeia from the Greater Athens, who ran away from home and joined his Island after he ran into her while she was being chased by Skulker -- and he's pretty sure the reason was because of her chimeric appearance. Her strange eyes and mismatched wings and lion's tail and talons. She assimilates into his friend group very easily, she gets along well with Ambroise and Trixie and Danny usually finds the three of them climbing the trees to pluck the most fruit from the top. They can fly and he knows it, but they prefer to climb.

Then finally there's silent poet Akkara who comes from ancient mesopotamia, who gets along most with Aki -- which is no surprise there considering their similar personality dispositions. he watches Aki and Danyal fight each other and leaves comments on this or that that he notices. He writes Danyal poems on clay tablets and leaves them by his room.

They're one big mismatched group of outcasts, and Danny's got the other ghosts on his island to tend to, because they're living on his island and he wants to be hospitable even if he struggles with that. But he spends the most of his time with them.

Sam and Tucker are making fun of him. Tucker jokingly tells him 'careful Danny, at this rate you're gonna start a cult'. Danny really wishes he had taken that joke more seriously.

He just. keeps. collecting people. Wayward souls lost in the zone, looking for shelter or refuge from something or other -- whether that be another hostile ghost, or a past afterlife, or just a purpose. Danyal finds them, he takes them in, offers them a place on his island until they are ready to leave. Many seldom do. He's not complaining -- he has the space, and it feels like it's only ever growing.

His close friends, his "inner circle" as he's heard the others call them, keep insistently calling him "my moon". He starts calling them his stars, because then it only feels fair. They're his stars, this is his constellation. It becomes a thing; little star halos begin forming behind their heads, picking them out from the rest. He loves them so much, it's hard to place. Sam and Tucker are also his stars, but they reside in the living realm, they're his tie to Life. Meanwhile, his friends here know what it's like to be dead, and sometimes its nice to relate.

Those living on his island keep calling him "Great One" and he's beginning to notice zealotry in their care for his island. He really, deeply appreciates it. His close friends gain nicknames -- as his stars, it's only natural for him to pick them out from the cluster in the skies. Akihiko, his Sirius and bright star. Trix and Missy, Castor and Pollux, the twins and troublemakers. Ambroise, his zealous Antares and close friend. Penelopeia, chimeric and loyal Vega. And Akkara, his Arcturus and strength.

It's ridiculous how long it takes for him to notice; he is, of course, a deadly trained assassin. He is meant to be observant -- and normally he is! But somehow this becomes a blind spot. One that becomes too big to be dealt with by the time he realizes it.

He should've noticed when Aki, his Sirius, stood beside him one day while Danyal looked over his island and saw the sprawling spirits carrying on about their afterlife and bowing to him as they saw him, and said: "I looked down into the depths when I met you; I couldn't measure it." They aren't one for flowing prose, it took him so off guard he was silent for over a minute before he finally spoke.

Danyal should've recognized devotion for what it is, and yet he didn't. He should've recognized it when Antares began spouting praises about him, crowing about his radiance and resplendence to the heavens. He just brushed it off as Ambroise being Ambroise. He should've recognized it when Trix and Missy nearly broke Dash's leg after he knocked Danyal's books out of his hands, he excused it as them being protective. Of them coming from times where such violence may have been customary -- after all, that's what he used to be like. What he was still like, sometimes, when his emotions nearly got the better of him.

He should've noticed it when the people living on his island followed his word like gospel, looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky. When his friends gifted him a shawl with the moon phases delicately embroidered into it, with silver, shimmering thread and moving stars lovingly stitched into it. Their constellations seen clear as day in the dark fabric. When he found small shrines dedicated to him -- but they lacked any image of him beyond stones carved to look like moons, so he ignored it. When the religious imagery began popping up.

He really, really should've noticed it when a bunch of cultists accidentally summoned Antares, and Antares had turned to him when he arrived and called them heretics. But he was so centered on the fact that they had kidnapped one of his stars, that he hadn't paid much attention to what Ambroise had said.

Sages say that faith is blind, they should also say faith in you is even blinder.

It really only hits him one afternoon while he's sitting in Sam's room studying with Tucker, Missy and Trixie lounging at his feet, Aki sat on his right, Penelopeia braiding his hair, Ambroise draped against him, and Akkara lurking over him. Its one of the rare few times they're all in one room together.

It hits him like a bolt of lightning. He looks up from his textbook. "Oh Ancients," he says in no amounting shock. Everyone looks up to him.

"I've become my grandfather."

[clar-a-m]

we'll see them again this week <3

[aphroditeinthesea]

accidentally thought abt canon jason grace for longer than 30 seconds

[gods-favorite-autistic]

Track list for Fig and the Cig Figs independently published Junior Year album (officially named “Infaethable”)

Teenage Rebellion

Night Yorb (a heavy metal banger)

Summer Scaries

Devils Nectar

Time Quangle (a love song about Ayda)

Multiclass (Gorgug sings on this!)

The Ballad Of Lucy Frostblade (Kristen was the one who convinced Fig to write this)

So Late, So Tactical

Do You Have A Fucking Warrant

Cassandra (Can You Hear Me)

Hall Of Mirrors

President Applebees (written entirely in the night after Kristen gets elected by a drunk Fig with extremely drunk notes by Kristen)

Raging For Love (inspired by Gorgug, of course)

The Elven Oracle (Has A Day Job) (So Stop Bothering Her)

Maximum Legend

Fury Of The Ball

Cursed

Infaethable

The Bad Kids

[doodles-dearest]

are you thinking about how ruths fantasising about life as a 40 year old mother because that mother wouldve lived a life. wouldve been a star at some point. but now shes dimmed and caved in.

and ruth feels like she already got to that part. shes only a teenager but she thinks shes there already. she reached her peak long ago, but she can fantasise about a life lived to the fullest before plateauing like she feels she already has. and considering what follows her song, shes right.

she peaked before she ever got a chance to live.

i used to dance.

...i used to dance.

[introspectivememories]

absolutely obsessed with the idea of timbern being super secretive over bear's time in the cult.

on one hand, bear is wildly insecure of his scars from the cult. cause it's not like he fucking got them saving the city or helping someone, he was just stupid enough to get sucked into a cult. (a voice in the back of his head that sounds a lot like his therapist and tim tell him that kids are supposed to be stupid and that his time in the cult is more a reflection of the adults in his life than his own choices) anyway his back and legs are like a mess of scarring and normally he'd just tattoo over them but scars have to be a certain age before they're tattooable. so he now just covers them up.

on the other hand, tim is insanely protective over bear's traumas. like if he got any more protective he'd be like certified deranged. so he just straight up dodges or lies about bear's backstory. anyway all this to say, they're hanging out in the pool at the manor and nobody but them ws supposed to be home. so bear thinks it's safe to take off his shirt. they're both having fun until someone says behind bear, "dude... what happened to your back?" cue tim lunging at them like a rabid dog and bear struggling to hold tim back going "tim, tim, what the fuck, what the fuck????"

[oh-dameron]

Wei Wuxian dies. Lan Wangji mourns. Years pass. Trouble returns to the jianghu.

Wei Wuxian wakes up covered in blood, in a familiar array. It's Nie Huaisang's fault.

Lan Wangji finds him. They save the day. They marry and live happily. That's the end of the story, until:

Wei Wuxian dies in a night hunting accident. It was a trivial matter, easily dealt with until it very abruptly wasn't. Certainly no great battle worthy of song or fitting to end the Yiling Patriarch's second life.

Lan Wangji mourns. The grief is different this time; he's not wracked with might-have-beens and should-haves. Instead, one moment he held the whole world in his arms, the next it was torn away from him. It's shattering, how unfamiliar this pain feels when he once would have called himself accustomed to loss.

Years pass. Trouble returns to the jianghu.

The Unclean Realm is under seige, and Nie Huaisang genuinely does not know what to do. He's a strategist, certainly, but even in his youth he was never a warrior. He's been outmanouvered today, and it's long years since he could fling himself into his elder brothers' arms and wail for help.

Zewu-jun has not stirred from his mountain in a long, long time. No; instead Huaisang is left with the exceedingly cold comfort offered by Hanguanjun. The Second Jade of Lan might be frozen in the bloom of youth, but time and grief have left a flawless diamond shell around the hollow of a man. The light that lit him from the inside died with Wei Wuxian. He's where the chaos is, as ever, but if he has any ideas about how to remedy their situation he's been characteristically close-lipped about them. Huaisang is resigned to the notion that Lan Wangji might be in Qinghe more for the possibility of finding his own end than any pressing desire to help.

Well. If Hanguanjun is determined to sacrifice himself then Huaisang is determined that it's going to be in the service of saving as many Nie lives as possible. There are innocents here: disciples too young to have earned spiritual weapons, children too young to even be called disciples, healers and teachers, servants and cooks, the elderly and, and. And noncombatants, like Huaisang himself, whom nobody could rightly call innocent. There's nothing to be done to save him. That would take a miricle.

His grandchildren are here, beautiful and clever and strong. The eldest isn't a child any more, grown from a wonderfully curious toddler into a endlessly curious adult seemingly overnight, but grown or not Huaisang will see all of them out of this mess. If nothing else, Huaisang will knock them out himself, tie them to Hangaunjun and boot them out the back door while he distracts their enemies. Preferably not by sallying forth and dying pathetically. As soon as he comes up with a better idea he'll demote that one to plan B.

His study is as he left it: painting supplies and books sadly gathering dust in the corner, set aside yet again for duty and drudgrery. There is new correspondence to see to; perhaps it will bring good news. Probably not.

The door to one of the cabinets is ajar. It's an ancient, tacky thing that he keeps largely because Da-ge favoured it, and it has a tendancy to swing open unless the latch is set just so. He certainly didn't leave it that way: he hasn't survived this long in the jianghu by being careless, merely acting the part, and he always wanto to know when the contents of this particular cache are disturbed. Locks are an obvious indicator that the contents are interesting or valuable in some way, and if someone circumvented the lock to the room already, well. What could be interesting about a cupboard full of boring administrative papers in a room full of nothing else?

He nudges the door the rest of the way open, peers inside, and his heart immediately lodges in his throat. In amongst Da-ge's journals from the Sunshot campaign, the bundles of correspondence from Jin Guanyao, heavily-encoded notes on his plans for revenge written in the form of truly atrocious juvenile poetry, something is missing. A manifesto, a copy he made from the notes of a long-dead demonic cultivator, who in turn made his own copy from the notes of the Yiling Patriarch himself, seized by the Jin sect after the first seige of the Burial Mounds.

Almost nobody knows about that book and what it contains. Almost nobody has access to his study. Almost. Nie Huaisang drops his fan and sprints across the Unclean Realm to the inner family quarters. Disciples flutter as he passes, unaccustomed to seeing their elderly zongzhu stir himself beyond a saunter. An empyrean figure in white joins his wake like the trail of a comet, ghosting silently after his gasping dash.

Huaisang pauses before the door and sends a silent plea to the heavens, to his ancestors, to Da-ge and anyone who is listening that he's wrong or not too late. He pushes into the room and his knees give out, strong hands arresting his fall before he can hit the ground sobbing. There's blood, in lines and characters, the tang of resentful energy in the air, and the body laid out in the centre of it all isn't his grandchild any more.

Wei Wuxian wakes up covered in blood, in a familiar array. It's Nie Huaisang's fault.

Lan Wangji finds him.

[skellowmare]

this is a renaissance painting

[cemeterygrace]

manifesting mcr5 rn

[ineffable-romantics]

These whores will do literally anything but hold hands with EACH OTHER

[pcktknife]

going 2 bed

[aberranthought]

This is 100% when you’re playing hide and seek and you find a super awesome spot and that one guy also wants to hide in this super awesome spot after you already found it and it doesn’t work and the seeker gets both of you

[kacievvbbbb]

When the memes first came out I thought Megumi’s “with this treasure I summon” was just the new Katara’s “my mother… “ albeit without all the misogyny

But then I’ve been rewatching some scenes and Megs really does just be pulling this shit out the moment things get tough. 1st episode he already pulled up with the stance. Fushiguro Megumi where is the will to live 😭😭😭

[pondslime]

invasive

bo sinclair x afab!reader

rating: explicit

wordcount: 941 

Reader POV. Your dreams take you to different places, but you’re never too far out of reach. 

EXTREMELY dubious consent as always. Mostly weird prose, but there’s some smut thrown in here as well. Somnophilia, cockwarming. 

A/N: It’s been raining for nearly a week straight where I am. Every single day has been grey. This idea burrowed into my brain and now I’m inflicting it upon you. Similar vibes to poacher’s dream. I just...really wanted to write something that reminded me of the feeling I was trying to capture with that fic. Somnophilia’s been on my mind ever since I read this absolutely electric fic by our lord and savior, @visceravalentines​. Definitely go read it if you haven’t already. It features a lovely man who is not at all like the one in this fic. We should all make out with him instead, probably. We won’t.

You’re lost in a quagmire of green, knee-deep in muck.

You’re running from something, but you aren’t sure what. You feel like it must be close. You can hear crashing, the sloshing of something at your heels. The water is dark here, it’s deep. You need to watch where you’re going, but you won’t. It feels familiar.

Maybe, if you push a little further, you’ll reach the edge of the marshland.

The trees crowd around each other, their bulbous trunks bursting out of thick green algae. It’s so dense here, impossibly heavy with warmth. It soaks through your clothes, bleeds under your skin. If someone sliced you open and cracked your bones apart, you’re sure you'd flare hot. Chalky white and exposed, scattering chunks of marrow over the swamp. 

Things end up here when they have nowhere left to go. They get caught in the hanging moss and become part of the scenery. 

You’ll make a mess of this place, but it won’t matter. There are animals here, bigger than you, and they’ve been waiting. You couldn’t ever run very fast. These kinds of games are about losing.

It wasn’t behind you, anyway. It caught your ankle underwater and pulled you down, tumbled you underneath its weight. You’re spinning wildly, rolling and churning, filling your lungs with water (but it’s so hot here, and you like that stuff).

It’ll play with its food until your neck snaps. Trailing blood in the water, dragging you back to a den squashed in the mangroves. A place of dead things, hobbled together out of reeds and a dozen people’s bones. You wonder if they sparked like yours, if they’re kindling too.

Your body is perched on top of a waterlogged tire and hid away until it starts to rot. It makes it easier to eat when it’s soft like that, when the botflies come. Practical things are sometimes the cruelest.

God, you’ve never been anywhere this hot.

You wake up with your face pressed into the pillow, huffing out shallow breaths. The room is bathed in pale light, milky grey with the faintest wash of blue.

The grey disorients you. There was so much light before. You blink a bit in the gloom. Water is still rushing away above you, beside you. It’s impossible to tell what time it is or how long you’ve been asleep. It feels like forever. You lived and you died long before you were spat out here.

Out of the heat of your dream, you’re surprised to feel your skin prickle with goosebumps. You must have thrown the sheets off in your sleep. The position you’re in feels unnatural, one leg hoisted away from you. It rests on something solid, something warmer than this room.

You feel so full (of water, of bugs in your belly eating away the soft tissue, of life).

Stop, look at the window. You’re not underwater. It’s raining, dripping tears down the glass. You’re awake again and the fullness is the pressure between your legs.  

Bo’s hand cups at your breast, jiggling the flesh to test its weight in his palm. He catches your nipple between his fingers, tugs at it. When he rolls his hips, you let out a soft little noise, mouthing at the pillowcase. His cock pulses inside you, thick and warm. 

He’s already so deep.

“Couldn’t help myself.” He murmurs into your ear. “Not with you movin’ round like that.”

His hand wraps around your thigh, easing you down. You let out a whine as you feel your walls stretch around him. He hisses out a breath, digging his fingers into your skin.

“You’re so wet, baby.” His voice is husky, the rasp of sleep still thick around his words. You can feel how slick you are, how easy it is for him to push in. “What were you dreamin’ ‘bout?”

“You.” You’re not lying, not exactly. He doesn’t need to know the specifics.

It’s the right answer, or, at least, the one he was expecting. You’re never really sure with him. It doesn’t matter, really. Your dream is getting away from you now, chased away by his hands and his lips and his cock. You were somewhere. He was there. You remember heat, you remember weight. 

(Or maybe that’s all there is now and you’re getting things confused.)

“Thought you were tryin’ to kill me, baby.” He nips along your neck. You clench down around him, moaning into the pillow. “Asleep, squeezin’ me like that.”

Good, you almost say. If I wrap myself around you enough times, you can’t breathe. Neither can I, but I only need to do it once. 

People get rid of snakes, throw them off into the swamp. They’re not supposed to be there. But this looks enough like their idea of home, doesn’t it? They’ll adapt or they’ll get eaten, and that’s all you could ask for. 

His breath is warm on your skin. You reach back, your fingers curling into his hair. 

“You ready to stop teasin’ me?”

(I couldn’t stomach you if I did. I’m not supposed to be here, anyway.)

You almost ask him if he had the same dream. Was it hard, waiting for the rot to set in? Waiting for softness? Did you taste better like that? Would he do it again if you asked him to? Could you return the favor?

Your hand tightens in his hair, giving it a sharp tug. His teeth are on your neck and it hurts in the way it’s supposed to hurt—scorching away inside you.

You’ve never been anywhere that hot, but maybe he has. Maybe he’ll take you there.

“Yes.”