#and the plot don't stop

[teatitty]

It's way funnier to me to imagine that Geralt is the one who desperately wants Dandelion to winter at Kaer Morhen with him but Dandelion keeps saying no on the simple grounds that it's too fucking cold and do you want me to die Geralt? Do you want me to get hypothermia and fucking die?

And Geralt's like "please I am begging on my knees I will cuddle you every night to keep you warm I just need to prove you actually exist"

[linya333]

I feel like everyone has been lying to me about Shen Qingqiu being oblivious! Reading this I really feel like he absolutely knows how he feels about Binghe! He's the one who called himself s grieving widow! Not anyone else!

Many times from his pov he mentions feeling some sort of way. And then quickly follows this up with 'teacherly feelings' or 'so filial' but then there's the '(or something)'. Man knows what he's feeling and is trying to brainwash himself out of it!

This man is very twisted up about his own sexuality. But I really don't think being ignorant of it is the the problem?

Perhaps he is deeply ashamed. Or just so completely certain it wouldn't be reciprocated. Probably just so ingrained that this is not socially acceptable so avoid avoid avoid!

Sqq has *experience* in brainwashing himself. Perhaps this behavior started well before he became Shen Qingqiu.

[a-scouts-honor]

The Penguins except they're human and I gave them lore

Ok hear me out... The Penguins are a group of top secret military super soldier experiments. They were born in a lab in the arctic and later shipped to a base in NYC to complete their training and be sent on missions.

Being raised in this environment, they have no concept of a normal life, but eventually understand that they don't have any control and long for something greater than taking orders.

So eventually they plot to escape and go on these grand world-wide adventures, being the hazards to society that they are. Constantly on the run, but enjoying every second of it.

[cometblaster2070]

guys please the ever after high fandom is like 30 people, 4 rats and a hope, a dream and a prayer; this debate about apple is ridiculous; STOP GOING INTO PEOPLE'S DMS OVER THIS???

like brother if you're going to leave shit in my inbox telling me to die in hell because i'm defending raven then at least do it properly and not anonymously.

like over THIS of all things?? really???

[pianokantzart]

Forever bitter we didn't get a novelized version of The Super Mario Bros Movie I want to re-experience the film in a written format.

[frociaggine]

did john decide which of his friends would be the necromancer and which would be the cavs when he brought them back from the dead, or was that random?

I wish we knew for sure! John's friends ending up 50/50 adepts vs. non-necromancers is obviously one of TM's premises and was done for doylistic reasons first and foremost, but I don't think we have enough elements to conclusively interpret it as intentional in-universe.

Putting aside any kind of authorial intentions, this is what we know:

» The rate of necromancers as part of the population hovers around 30%. John's core group being 50% adepts is way off from that, and could point to manipulation, but also we're working with a very small sample size. Think about how it's very possible to get head five times in a row when flipping coins; probabilities are much less accurate on a smaller scale. I don't believe it's out of the realm of possibilities that a group of 10 people had exactly 5 necromancers in it.

» Harrow's birth. The Reverend Parents made sure she would be a necromancer by manipulating the embryo with thanergy. It's clearly not a known practice among the Houses at large, and John calls it "a sort of Resurrection" — implying that he could be able to do the same with thalergy. However, this doesn't confirm that he actually DID.

In the same conversation, John says, "This was all different before we discovered the scientific principles," which I think is also worth noting. The fact that he understands NOW how you could get an embryo to grow into a necromancer doesn't mean that he had that knowledge at the time of the Resurrection. It also doesn't mean that the same identical process would apply to making formerly-dead-people into necromancers as they got brought back to life.

It could very well be that necromancy was a generalised side-effect of the Resurrection that affected some people more than others; or it could be that John DID do something different when bringing back some people that conferred them necromantic aptitude. Even if it's the latter, I don't think we can take for granted that 1) it was intentional and 2) he fully knew what the side effects would be.

» Ulysses and Titania. Counterpoint! It's also worth noting that John's "test cases" turned out to be one (1) adept and one (1) non-adept. Like I said above, this could still be a random bi-product of the Resurrection... but given Ulysses and Titania's whole everything, their dichotomy reeks of control group. They are a big point in favour of the "John did it on purpose" column.

Still: I still don't think we can tell for sure that John knew from the moment of Resurrection that he was giving some people death powers, and how that'd turn out in the long run. Like I said above, he could have done something different when resurrecting Ulysses vs. Titania, but it doesn't mean that he knew what would happen.

(Obviously, this argument only makes sense if we assume that Ulysses and Titania were among the very first batch of resurrected. I personally think they were, but obviously it's not confirmed)

» The inner circle. From NtN

I could only trust the inner circle. My scientists, my engineer, my detective, my lawyer, my artist, my nun, my hedge fund manager. My diehards. The ones keeping the lights on.

Putting aside the fact that Lyctors exist the way they are because Tamsyn needed them to exist, and looking at the Canaan House necro/cav pairings from John's point of view: why not give ALL his friends magical powers? That's something I struggle to wrap my head around, for about half a dozen different reasons.

Mind, I don't think John picking and choosing who gets to be a necromancer is that far-fetched, but from a #character point I find it less likely than the alternative (he didn't do it on purpose but turned it to his own advantage). IF it turns out to be canon, I'd be really curious about what the watsonian reasoning for it, beyond "this needed to happen."

Most meta posts I've seen that take for granted John picked and chose his future necromancers ascribe him a level of foresight, knowledge, and long-term planning that I simply don't think he'd have had at the time (not to mention the mental lucidity). To quote HtN John again, "[he] had never been God" before. I truly think he was winging it at least 60% of the time.

[joyflameball]

What yougotta understand is that when you're interacting with blogs from a fictional universe, such as the English Willy saga, ya DON'T GIVE THE GAME AWAY. Don't just TELL THEM all the plot. Don't tell them exactly what's happening!! Don't tell them the important names!! Send asks and such but actually think through, how would a normal person respond to all this? How would a normal Tumblrina respond? The answer is YOU PROBABLY WOULD NOT FIND FUCKING EVERYTHING OUT IMMEDIATELY. The answer would probably be memes and clowning on things! If you wanna allude to things that will happen in the plot, ALLUDE to them. If you know that someone's gonna burn to death, say you hope the stress doesn't cause them to burn out. Please, my Tumblrinas, learn the art of subtlety in writing. You are not the main character in fictional universe blogs. It's okay.

[writeouswriter]

Me: *trying to write anything other than fantasy or sci-fi*

My brain: Okay, now hear me out, just, just what if we added a little bit of fantasy or sci-fi? Huh? Huh? What if?

[wardengrill]

no more lies

[kittehbiscuits]

I have a theory guys

The woman that he died over is the wife in the sequel, and also the owner of the finger with a wedding ring he pulled out of his pocket, so I guess that makes her his ex wife so I could be wrong but maybe they just didn't add ex when they revealed casting for whatever reason.

[fromtheseventhhell]

“Arya’s proxy to power in the North is an abuse victim!”

Don’t let Sansa stans know that Sansa’s proxy to any power is the murder of an eight year old and the plans and resources of Littlefinger. The man who forced Jeyne to work in his brothel and sold her off to the Boltons in the first place

Any victory or queenship Sansa has in the North using the Vale’s money, power, and resources are co-signed by Baelish. But I’m willing to bet these losers wouldn’t consider that dismissive of Jeyne’s experiences

And if we want to go one step further, we could ask WHY Littlefinger sold Jeyne to the Boltons in the first place when everyone involved knows she’s actually a steward’s daughter, if his grand plan is to make Sansa Queen in the North? But that would be an inconvenient truth for the lemoncakes and their delusions about Sansa’s 100% morally righteous pathway to becoming Qween 😁

All of this...the goalpost is forever being moved by them. The fake activism they invent kills me and it's so obvious they only bring it up to police our discussions; they can't stand to see people acknowledge Arya's importance to the Northern plot, so they came up with the "trying to make Jeyne's pain about Arya" accusation. If they actually cared about Jeyne they wouldn't be using her as a prop against stans/discussions they don't like.

What's funny is that they invent these moral guidelines when all it does is make them look worse. Cause if it's wrong to point out that Jeyne is posing as Arya, the entire point of her marrying Ramsay, how is it okay to write meta about Sansa benefiting from the poisoning of a disabled child (one orphaned by LF's plotting no less)🤔? They never want to touch those moral implications though...at best they're sticking their heads in the sand and pretending Sansa has no idea, at worst they're writing meta about SW being an abuser :/. It's just hilarious that they swear we can't see how hypocritical they're being. That's why their metas make no sense, they don't have any cohesive logic 😭

[antianakin]

I swear, I'm going to need to get "Obi-Wan put himself on probation in order to prove his commitment to the Jedi and take responsibility for the impact of his own choices" on my body somewhere at this point. Please, please, get this pervasive idea that the probation was FORCED upon Obi-Wan the fuck out of fandom, it ruins the ENTIRE POINT of the whole arc of the first seven books of that series. The choice to put himself on probation is literally the conclusion of Obi-Wan's growth and development. He takes responsibility for his own actions and the unintended harm they've caused, he chooses to accept the uncertainty of his own fate in a way he couldn't do before and this allows him to let go of his fear of that uncertainty that was holding him back in many ways and causing a lot of his issues with anger, and it proves his loyalty to the Jedi Order above all else as something he is choosing because he truly believes it is the right path for him and not just because it's all that he knows. The choice to put himself on probation is SO SO IMPORTANT to Obi-Wan's character arc in this series and EVERYONE MISSES IT TO MAKE HIM SOME UWU SAD BOY INSTEAD.

[creatorae]

[Photo ID: a page of three blue inked drawings of the kageyama brothers as kids. Mob is a demon in these drawings, having two little horns, a tail, wings, and fangs. In the first drawing Mob has his mouth open displaying his noticeable fangs, while Ritsu looks at him with curiosity. In the second drawing Mob has closed his mouth and watches Ritsu who is now prodding at his own teeth, which are unfortunately blunt. The third drawing then has the brothers sitting down facing away from the viewer. Mob has an arm over Ritsu's shoulder as he says "don't worry Ritsu, I'm sure you'll get your fangs someday." End ID] the potential mob psycho demon au brainrot is real (I think this drawing came somewhere around october or so)

[pompomegranate]

bite me

⇢ miguel o'hara x f!reader

⇢ warnings | 18+. very explicit smut. i will block you if your age isn’t anywhere on your blog.  slight blood drinking/blood kink, injury, and again, smut. more extensive n/s/f/w tags on ao3.

⇢ a/n | ok look i know gwen called miguel a vampire as a joke but what if. WHAT IF. miguel is a vampire here but i don’t waste time talking about logistics, this is all about the biting lmao also the title is absolutely ripped from enhypen’s new ep

⇢ ao3

Miguel never loses control unless you plead for it.

His hands gripping your hips, he splays his fingers as wide as he can – digging the pads of them into your flesh – because he can never get enough of you.

You can’t stop the moan that spills from your mouth but he happily swallows your whines with parted lips while he finally touches you where you need him to.

Where he lacks experience he makes up for with zeal – the same determination behind the mask – and it’s all for you.

It’s not as if Miguel wasn’t pursued (he was, heavily and annoyingly so); he just didn’t care to let anyone catch him until you came along.

Confident strokes of the rough pads of his fingers draw another whimper out of you. He smiles against your lips and laughs, low and deep.

“Please – Miguel, please –” You know you look pathetic begging for his touch, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Lust takes precedent over embarrassment and Miguel is acutely aware of this. He pulls back, eyes flashing a bright crimson – his smile morphs into a smirk as his fingers still work your clit slowly, gently.

“Impatient. I’ll get you there.”

There’s a finality inside of his promise and it makes you ache for more of him. You grind against his hand, desperate for a steadier rhythm –

“Ah, ah – let me savor this.”

“I need you now,” you breathe, greedy and wanting. Your palm cups his cock, hard and pulsing beneath your hand.

Miguel lets out a deliciously gravelly sigh of his own, lids fluttering shut as you rub him through the fabric of his pants. When you stop, his gaze flickers across your face – he’s considering his options.

He could tease you, could draw this out until you’re a writhing mess beneath him. Or he could fuck you now, fast, heated, hasty.

In a perfect world, he could exercise restraint every time and devote hours to worshiping every inch of you.

Instead, he caves, folding to your collective desire.

He tears his shirt off from between his shoulder blades, thoughtlessly throwing it aside before flicking the clasp of your bra, slipping the straps off of you with more care than he afforded himself.

You take in the sight. Thick dark hair lines his pecs, trailing down through the ridge of his abs, convening in a dense patch of hair beneath his belly button that disappears into the waistband of his bottoms.

He brushes his lips the dip where your shoulder and neck meet, peppering kisses up your throat towards your jaw.

God, you’re already a shaky mess and he’s barely touched you. The anticipation is always your least favorite part – you want him – no, you need him now.

He kisses you again, sloppy and open mouthed, easing you backwards towards the bed.

Your knees hit the mattress and you fall back, face to face with his waist. The outline of his cock is visible, straining against the cloth.

He watches you, brows lifted ever so slightly, a silent question in his expression.

What will you do next? Suck his cock or demand that he fuck you – now?

You tug his shorts down and take his tip in your mouth, a clear answer.

There’s something so invigorating about the ability to make a stoic man whimper.

Miguel’s are your favorite – they start out gruff and low, the bass of his voice ricocheting against the walls, like they’re too big to contain him, but they evolve into desperate sounds that egg you on, inflate your ego.

His shaft, wide and velvety smooth, slides in and out of your mouth – his hand snakes to the back of your head, cupping it with a featherlight touch.

You nod up at him, cheeks hollowed around his cock, fluttering your eyelashes to feign coyness as if to teasingly say, Fuck my throat, Miguel. You know you want to.

His pupils are blown, tinged with red, teeth sinking deep into his bottom lip as he bucks into your throat. Strokes long and precise, fingers tangled into your hair, Miguel O’Hara fucks your mouth relentlessly.

You can’t tear your eyes away from the sight – Miguel panting, gasping, groaning, lips forming praises followed by your name. You can barely bring yourself to blink – you don’t want to miss any of this.

Spit bubbles and drips down your chin onto your chest, gasping breaths around his length but you’re more than happy to oblige because you know it’s just a matter of minutes before you’re spread open for him and he’s fucking your cunt just like this.

His chest heaves, muscles rippling down his front as he pants expletives – he’s close, and you can feel him pulsing against your lips.

When you pull away for the last time, you trace your tongue along his prominent underside vein, eyes fully trained on him. 

He’s out of words when you do that, resorting to growls as he eases you down onto the bed. Tugging your underwear off, he flings them across the room unceremoniously, the wet fabric disappearing into the shadows.

You’re laid bare on the bed, spread open, mouth curled around pleas. 

“Bite me.”

His sharp canines glint in the faint moonlight, extending fully on command.

“You’re insatiable,” Miguel says with a grin, before flipping into the perfect position to drive the both of you wild.

He’s sat on the edge of the bed, you on his lap, arms wrapped around your back – you’re completely at his mercy.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath shaky as he snakes a hand between your bodies, teasing your cunt with his tip. Sliding it through your folds, bottom to top, lingering right on your bud of nerves – 

Your legs squeeze around him, trembling as you do so. All you want is him. His cock, his mouth, his fingers, any part of him that’s fucked you thoroughly before – any way he’ll have you, you don’t care.

“I can’t wait, Miguel, please, now –” you beg.

He sinks into you, stretching you out deliciously slow, half-lidded gaze focused on your reaction.

Your head lolls to the side as you relax into it, lids fluttering shut until he sucks his teeth at you.

“Don’t look away, my love,” he instructs you, firm but tender. “I want to see you – I want to hear you.”

He inches deeper, deeper, until he bottoms out, your flesh meeting his.

And then you move.

He’s so strong that you’re weightless in his arms, being trained up and down on his cock like a whimpering fleshlight. One arm around your waist to keep the pace, he uses the other to touch you.

Teases your nipples between pinched fingers, palms your tits roughly, before finally settling on thumbing your clit. You don’t know what to focus on more – the sensation of him inside of you, building up the pace to a steady rhythm that’s driving you wild – or the feeling of his calloused digit, messily rubbing and flicking, his attention spread thin (not on his hands, or his cock, but on your expression).

You instead focus on his broken sentences, a mix of curses and praises. They sound all the same to you.

“Shit, you feel so – good – so fucking – tight –”

If that weren’t enough, he finally looks away from you, finding yet another patch of your body to worship.

His fangs, razor-sharp, drag across the skin of your shoulder. They press just enough into your skin to sting, but it doesn’t hurt quite yet – it’s like lightly touching a fresh bruise, but followed by his soft lips, rough stubble.

You can’t do much else but lock your arms around his neck and pull him close. Miguel smells smoky and sweet, like luxury cologne and a celebratory cigar – he feels even better.

He trails his teeth to the base of your neck before going higher, smiling against your skin when you gulp beneath his lips.

It’s not because you’re scared; the complete opposite, really. You’re excited.

He’s still fucking you, but his pace slows to a crawl, hips rolling to keep the slightest friction. Even though he’s comfortable with biting you, he’d never want to hurt you. There’s a precision required to achieve both pain and pleasure and Miguel has it down to a science.

Mortality is vulnerability as far as he’s concerned, and the fact that you share your life with him is something he never takes lightly.

“Ready?” He asks, widening his bite in preparation. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“I’m ready.”

He chuckles. “That’s my girl.”

You suck in a sharp breath when he finally punctures you, the pain as mouth watering as his cock stretching you, filling you.

He’s everywhere – inside of you in two different ways, body flush against yours, but you can’t get enough. Unintentionally, you pull him closer, grip him tighter, bury him deeper in you.

You cry out. Your neck burns, every nerve on edge as the pleasure zaps throughout your body, from your fingertips to your toes.

A heat blazes through the area underneath his mouth, a rumbling grunt coming somewhere from the back of his throat, chasing the electricity of his bite.

This is pure fucking bliss.

The sensation of his fangs and his cock have you so pathetically eager; slack jawed and jellied bones, you focus on your hips, fucking him back with no remorse, uncaring about whether or not the wound in your neck rips open – nothing matters more right now than cumming on Miguel’s cock.

You lean back and Miguel tilts with you, your clit pressed against his thick patch of neatly trimmed pubic hair, the last stimulant to shove you over the edge.

He pulls back, retracting his teeth but laps up the stray drops of blood eagerly.

“You taste – like heaven, my love – shit –” He pants, eyebrows pulled inward. “Are you – fuck – are you alright?”

He always asks you this after he bites you without fail, and every time you’re enveloped in pleasure. You nod, unable to form words as he drives into you, picking up his speed. 

The bedroom is obscenely symphonic, all loud moans and slapping skin.

“Lay back,” you say instinctually, barely registering the glint of lust in his eye when you push him down.

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbles, hands settling at the bend of your hips, thumbs caressing you.

“Just talk to me – I’m almost there –”

It’s true. You’ve been on the cusp of an orgasm and you want to come with Miguel moaning underneath you.

“Fuck, you feel so good around me –”

Miguel’s hands slide up from the base of your stomach to your tits, cupping, squeezing as he does so.

“You take it so well, my love – no one does it like you –”

You sway your hips front to back, elongating your strokes, and his lids are threatening to close all the way.

“Open your eyes.”

They flash open, Miguel’s gaze salacious and fiery as he obeys your command. He loves when you take charge.

Your palms, flat on his muscled chest, give you the right amount of leverage to bounce, and he meets you halfway, curling his hips underneath you at an angle that has you nearly weeping – it’s so perfect – he’s so perfect for you.

“Are you –” he moans “– are you close?” “Yeah, baby, I’m close,” you manage through pants.

“Good – I don’t know how much longer I can hold out,” he says, then draws you close till you’re chest to chest.

And then he picks up the pace, really driving into you – harder, harder, until you’re biting down on his bare skin to cope with the sensation. You’re nearly overstimulated, so close that you can taste the orgasm that’s about to flood through you.

“That’s it, yeah,” he purrs into your ear, palms lifting and settling you on his dick with no effort on your part.

“Come for me – fuck – I wanna feel you squeeze my cock with your –” he’s pulled you all the way up to his tip and back down again. “God, I can’t even think straight you’re so good –”

Miguel comes, a mix of expletives and whines, and keeps fucking you, teasing your clit, your nipples, anything to get you there and you –

You say his name, broken and desperate like a prayer – gratitude laced in your tone because fuck, this is the best it’s ever going to be and you’re on top of the world, with him, with Miguel O’Hara.

The both of you finally come down. You crash on the mattress next to him, curling against his side, slotting against the taut ridges of his muscles perfectly.

The first thing he does is run a featherlight over your neck and the wound he’d left there.

“How was it? Was I too rough?” He’s concerned, the foggy afterglow disappearing as soon as he remembers that you bled because of him.

He’s always been afraid of pushing the limits to the point of losing his composure – and hurting you because of it.

“No, no,” you reassure him with a kiss on the jaw. “It was perfect, Miguel.”

You kiss away the rest of the dreamlike haze, floating back down to Earth with a view of the city bathed in moonlight outside your open window.

You’re right – it is perfect.

[iguessitsjustme]

I love Wandee Goodday a whole lot but I cannot handle this fucking scholarship competition. I beg your everlovin pardon? The employees and the patients at the hospital will vote on the winner???? The patients???? Dear god I hope it's an anonymous vote. Do the patients have the opportunity to opt out? What exactly are the voting on? What is the criteria? Why is part of the scholarship to best market the hospital? They're doctors. In what world does this showcase which doctor is most deserving of the scholarship for doctors?

Their fellow doctors also vote? Again I hope the vote is anonymous. I'd be scared of potential retaliation if I were a patient or a coworker. What is the point of the written test if 70% of the total score is based in something that neither of them are professionally trained to do?

What is the criteria?? What are the rules and requirements? What instructions have they been given to follow? They have four months to come up with a campaign? Do they have any other deadlines?

Why is this a part of the scholarship for DOCTORS???????

I love this show but I am bamboozled.

[zoobus]

Love when you can tell an artist is having fun