#we deserve a sequel

[respectthepetty]

Seeing all the unnecessary drama from homies kissing is a reminder that we can't have nice things like Midnight Museum 2 exploring the relationship between Boon and Chan because some of y'all don't know how to act.

In my soul, I know we got "brothers" from Chan and Khatha because some people refuse to be normal about branded pairs.

If I never get my sequel, I'm blaming this moment for it since y'all suck about people kissing other people.

[timetodiverge]

Just seven moments of Rey being cute and dorky and happy. ...as a little treat 🩷

[yrsonpurpose]

@rwrbmovie & @rwrbsource’s rwrbweek day 5 | fashion ❉ henry + casual clothes

[author-morgan]

Title: Daylight Rating: M Pairing: Arthur x fem!Reader Summary: Arthur always knew you and he would make a fine match. ...hiding all of our sins from the daylight... I've now collected all(?) your husbands for my infinity gauntlets. a late merry christmas and an early valentines for you boo. @mrsragnarlodbrok.

“SORRY,” ARTHUR MUTTERS, “hands are rough.” He noticed how you pulled away from his calloused touch as he pressed the stained damp cloth against the bloody wound on the back of your shoulder—remnants of an arrow after Bedivere and the Mage helped him dig out the bodkin point. It’d likely been meant for him in the heat of the battle and he cursed himself seeing you fall nigh feet from him, pulled away to shelter by his kingsguard. Even with the power of Excalibur, he’d been unable to protect you—an age-old promise broken.

You lift your gaze from the charred stone floor, looking at your reflections in a fogged-over mirror on the opposite side of the room. Focus has his brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. “You always say that,” you tell him, words slurred from the pain, exhaustion, and strongwine, and voice rougher than normal. This isn’t the first time Arthur Pendragon has tended your hurts and woes, and at this rate you doubt it’ll be the last.

Dried blood and sweat washed away, Arthur picks up the piece of tree bark with a salve prepared by the Mage to stave off the pain for a while and keep the wound from festering. Then, Arthur binds the wound with fresh linen and wipes his hands, kneeling in front of you—hands resting on your hips. You lay your hand on his cheek, thumb sweeping across his cheek, marred with dirt and soot. Leaning toward him, he meets you halfway, and you set your lips on his—a soft, fleeting kiss like the touch of butterfly wings.

��Thank you, Arthur,” you tell him, fingertips mindlessly combing through the scruff on his jaw. He straightens to full height but does so with a grimace. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?” You ask again.

“Just bruises,” he assures you, and this time, it seems like he’s being truthful, besides the few scratches on his hands and the slim, already scabbed-over, cut on his forehead. 

Arthur sits next to you on the edge of the bed, looking toward the open balcony. You both can hear the joyous shouts and chants. Bedivere and the others will only be able to satiate the men for so long. They will want to hear from the one who led them to victory. From the Born King. “They’ll be waiting for you to give a speech,” you tell him. 

“They’re waiting to go headfirst into the barrels of grog,” he amends, but if the out-of-tune songs are anything to go off of...  

“Sounds like they already have,” you laugh. Tonight, there will be revelries for the victory against Vortigern and his forces. In the following days, there’ll be feasts to honor the fallen and growing lists of preparations for a coronation. But right now, Arthur Pendragon doesn’t want to be a king just yet. Right now, he’s content just to be Arthur the street rat, especially when you lean your head against his shoulder and link your fingers through his—and then he’s certain there’s no one else in all of England for him except you.

“HIDING FROM ME? Or everyone else?” Your head quickly swivels to the side, only to relax at the sight of Arthur approaching. You cannot help but wonder how he isn’t cold. He's not dressed anywhere near as layered or warm as he should be for the winter evening, but somehow, he manages to look cozy even in just a scarlet linen-and-wool doublet. Stepping back, your eyes flit up to the scarlet-tinged leaves, still clinging to the branches of the white-bark birch, before looking beyond to the fresh falling snow. 

He stops at your side and looks up, too. “Was just thinking about what a bad influence you’ve been on my person,” you tell him, a small half-smirk creeping onto your features. Arthur tilts his head back in amused question, then stares up at the leaves and the silver sliver of the moon peeking through the winter clouds. “As I recall, I was an innocent girl before you came along and ruined all that.”

His blue eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest. “You’ll have to refresh my memory on how I did that, darlin’.” He moves a little closer, and you sense his ploy, twisting and ducking when he moves to grab you. 

You face him with brows raised, smiling. “Such a brute,” you taunt, “grabbing at innocent girls in the castle courtyards at night. Is that any way for the King of England to behave?” 

Arthur only rolls his eyes, trying to smother another smirk, and this time, he catches your arm as you move around him. It takes little strength to move you how he wants—pressing you into the trunk of the great tree at the heart of the courtyard. His hands press against the smooth bark beside your head as he leans in enough to look down at you. The glint in his eyes is mirthful, but there’s something else shining in his gaze too—you’ve seen that look a dozen times now, and you’re almost afeared to think about what it can mean. “Maybe you have a point,” he drawls, wearing that crooked, boyish grin that makes your heart flutter.

Your laugh almost catches him off guard. His hand slips down to run gently along your waist, the other toys with the hair at the side of your head. You lean back into the tree more, relaxing as your hands find his waist to rest on. “My father sends his kind, innocent daughter to study in Londinium, and what does this strong, noble boy do?” Arthur raises his brow. “He shoves her against a wall in an alleyway because he has no reasonable way of expressing his feelings with words.” He was just a street rat orphan and you were the daughter of some fancy lord from far away—opposites in nigh every way but more alike than you ever could have imagined. “I was never the same after that.”

His head dips down into the crook of your neck, nose training across your throat and inhaling the scent of roses and lavender. “No,” he smiles, voice low—more of a muttering husk—lips twitching as he pulls back, glancing to your lips and up, “but you’re more fun now.” Your expression falls flat, and Arthur laughs. It’s nigh impossible not to grin or melt at the sound and how little it seems you’ve heard it of late—and by Merlin’s beard, he’s impossibly handsome with laugh lines crinkling the edges of his eyes and a lopsided smile. Leaning further into him, his breath dances across your cheek, the back of his fingers brushing along your neck. 

You exhale shakily, and Arthur teases you again with light presses of his lips along your jaw and neck—hands smoothing up and down your waist as he does. For a moment, your hands find their way to his chest before you remember how open the courtyard is and that anyone can happen upon the two of you like this. Glancing around, you breathe his name in a flustered whisper, hand pressing against his chest—the last thing a new king needs is rumors to turn into scandal. 

Arthur takes a step back, giving you both room, but then there’s a new glint in his eyes. The playful mirth disappears from his cornflower eyes, replaced by something more serious—kingly, even. It’s something he’s been thinking about for years. Maybe even since the two of you first met by happenstance in the streets of Londinium and struck up an odd friendship. But over the years, Arthur thinks he cannot just call you a friend, not anymore. What he feels runs deeper than that, and given his newfound title and responsibilities...“I’ve been thinking,” he starts.

“And does it pay well?” You quip in a poor attempt to lighten the now solemn mood.

He rolls his eyes, exasperated, unable to hide how his lips quirk upwards. “Would you let me finish?” And so you do, unsure what he must say or ask that warrants such a dramatic change in his usual demeanor. Arthur reaches for your hand, the rough pads of his fingers curling around and into your palm. He stoops forward, lips brushing against your knuckles—reverent. “I’d like you to stay,” he breathes, straightening back to full height. Your brows furrow. “Here,” he adds, “with me.”

You know what he is asking of you—marriage—and it should be an easy answer. Yes, of course. You’ve loved Arthur since before you knew what the word truly meant. But given the events of the last few months and the precipitousness of his proposal, you’re left speechless, heart beating in your throat until all you can do is run to the haven of your chambers with tears pricking your eyes.

A LOUD KNOCK on the great wooden door echoes in your bedchambers. You rouse from sleep, righting the oversized tunic hanging off one shoulder in an attempt to appear decent at the late hour. Part of you already knows who will be waiting on the other side, but when you crack open the door, it still surprises you to find him standing before you—wearing only a loose, nigh threadbare tunic and pair of dark britches. “Arthur,” you greet, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before motioning for him to come in.

There’s still an uneasy air between you after the earlier events and conversation in the courtyard—his proposal. “I shouldn’t’ve….” he starts as you do. “I should not...” You both fall silent, eyes searching the other’s face for an indication of who will be the first to speak, the first to act, but there’s only silence. 

“Yes,” you quickly tell him—the shock of his initial proposal has faded, and now you’ve never been more certain about something in your life. You still can’t say what it is that caused you to react in such a way—Arthur’s the only man you’ve ever loved, the only person you could have ever thought of having a life with, even before all this Born King shite. The answer is ‘yes.’ It had always been. 

“Yes?” He repeats with furrowed brows, not sure he’s heard you correctly.  “I’ll stay” —you reach to comb your fingers through his close-shorn beard, and he leans into the touch— “with you.” Forever.

He smiles, and it’s as though a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Arthur cradles your face in his hands, thumbs running over your cheekbones. You smile for him, and he leans toward you, closing the distance. His lips are on yours in an instant.

You answer his kiss, slowly at first, then with more fervor when you settle your hands on either side of his neck, drawing yourself closer. Parting, you press your forehead against his and meet his heated stare. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?” Arthur asks, breathless.

Then he’s kissing you again and again—hands straying to your waist and backside, pulling you closer, tighter. And it fans the embers burning low in your belly to flames. Arthur breaks the kiss with an anguished groan—fighting a losing war with himself. He brushes back the hair falling in front of your face, the rough pad of his thumb running over your lips. “Tell me to stop,” he mutters—it’s almost a plea. And then he’s adrift in your soft and dark gaze, knowing if you do nothing to stop this, he’ll be acting on countless years of love and pent-up desire.

“No,” you breathe, catching his wrist and sliding his hand up from your neck—peppering his fingertips with gentle kisses. He watches you, lips parted and heart aching. Closing your eyes, you draw in a slow breath, and with a final kiss to his palm, you guide his hand to rest on one of your clothed breasts.

“Arthur.” You speak his name as though it is a quiet prayer. “I want you.” He pulls on the string at the neck of your nightshirt, loosening it until the gauzy material falls off your shoulders—puddling around your ankles, 

Though bare, you still hold his clear blue gaze. He goes silent as he draws in a sharp breath—eyes dart over the length of your body. His eyes darken, though, a mix of lust and adoration. “Think this is the longest you’ve been qui–” He cuts you off with a kiss, and one of his hands rises to cradle your cheek—the side of your neck again—and his lips coax yours open.

You sigh into his mouth, hands instinctively dipping under the hem of his roughspun tunic, fingertips trailing over the taut muscles of his abdomen and the scar on his ribs. Arthur breaks the kiss, quickly shrugging off his shirt, and lets the undyed piece of wool fall to the floor.  

Then, suddenly, he lifts you off your feet effortlessly. You hastily grip his shoulders for balance until he lays you on the bed—standing back to take off his trousers, and you watch him with a weird mixture of hunger and wistfulness as he strips. Arthur kicks aside his discarded clothes, then crawls onto the bed, making room for himself between your thighs—his clear and cold gaze burning with the warmth of the Sun and never once straying from yours.

You gaze tensely at his face as he studies you. His expression is greedy and appreciative, and the firelight glowing in his eyes just makes him look all the more ardent, and the longer he stares at you without doing anything, the more restless you are for him to act. You want his touch, his cock, his lips on yours, and all he’s giving you is this appreciative greedy stare, and it’s not enough.

Arthur kisses you again, and then he leans away from your lips and kisses the angle of your jaw. His mouth travels to the side of your neck, and your pulse flutters in your throat. His lips are surprisingly soft, and as his mouth trails from your neck to your collarbone, the delicacy of his kisses makes you feel lightheaded —a mix of pleasure and disbelief. 

He nuzzles your collarbone, then places a kiss just above the swell of your breast, and you arch helplessly toward his mouth. The heat of his breath wafting over your breast, making your nipples go taut with anticipation, and when the scruff of Arthur’s beard brushes over your nipple, you jolt and make a helpless little mewling sound. You twine your fingers into his golden hair, trying to hold him in place against you. But Arthur shoots you a quick smile, then shuffles lower on the bed still and kisses your breast —and you twist your hips, hands slipping from his hair to his shoulders.  

A sob leaves your throat—not a crying kind of sob, but an instinctive noise tore from your throat without your permission. He lifts his mouth from your breast and smiles at you, and you stare stupidly at his handsome face—the spark in his clear eyes and the boyish smirk twisting his lips.

Arthur palms your breast and squeezes gently. He shuffles lower still on the bed and places a sweet, open-mouthed kiss on your navel, and your sense of surreal disbelief ratchets to a nearly unbearable degree. His mouth drifts lower now, the scruff of his beard tickling your belly as he presses his lips to the skin below your navel and eases your thighs further apart.

Arthur places a kiss between your legs, and your mind goes blank with pleasure. 

“You alright, darlin’?” He smirks. You stare at him, too stunned by pleasure to find a clever response. Instead, riled by the teasing sparkle in his face, you spread your knees wide. His gaze drops between your legs, and his expression darkens with interest as he places his hands on your knees—stroking up to your thighs. He places another firm, wet kiss between your legs, and a helpless moan leaves your lips, and he hums with approval, a smug, half-growly little hum.  

You gasp in a breath, realizing you haven’t been breathing at all. Arthur lifts his head to look you in the eye. “Relax, love,” he croons, smoothing his palm over your belly as he laps at your cunt with slow hot sweeping strokes of his tongue. It’s not long before a finger presses into you, working you slowly open.

Your hips jerk softly along with his movements, and there’s unspoken interest in his gaze as he stares down at you, relentless in his efforts to see you come undone. His tongue and lips are at your clit, fingers stroking and curling deep within you. You jolt, and then he moves slower, dragging over the sensitive spots he’s discovered inside you and leaving your nerves tingling with every touch.

Pleasure washes over you in waves, making your calves twitch, your fingertips feel numb, and that high-pitched mewling noise leaves your throat. Overwhelmed—enraptured—you buck your hips toward his face and clench your fingers convulsively in his hair, and he keeps licking and kissing you until you can’t take it anymore. You pull on his hair to stop him, and he finally pulls away, lips glistening in the moonlight and fading glow of the firelight. “Enough,” you groan. “Need you.” It’s nigh a broken plea.

You shudder as he moves, situating himself between your thighs, calloused fingers dipping into your cunt to gather your slick and spread on his hard cock as he strokes himself. “Arthur, please,” you whimper, impatient, and he won’t keep you waiting.

He slides his cock through your folds before his angle changes just slightly, and on the next pass, your breath stutters as his cockhead presses just inside you—barely splitting you open. Arthur’s hand grabs your hip and angles you up just a bit so he can slide deeper inside you, and you cling onto his biceps—feeling his scars press into your palms and admiring the way his muscles flex under your touch. 

Arthur hisses through his teeth when he fully seats himself inside your warmth, then releases his breath slowly and smiles at you. “You’re lovely,” he murmurs, twining his fingers through yours, pressing the back of your hands into the mattress. From the moment Arthur first saw you in the Londinium streets, he knew your fates were intertwined—just as your bodies and hands were now. He trembles at this personal heaven, then draws his hips back, starting to move.

You laugh breathlessly, mindlessly. “Charmer,” you pant, hooking your legs around his waist. You roll into his thrusts, pulling him deeper. His ragged breaths and grunts mingle with your sighs of pleasure—panting scarcely keeping up with your racing heart. 

He huffs in amusement. “Can’t say that’s something I get called often,” Arthur says as he pumps his hips slowly, teasing you and pleasing you almost more than you can bear. Then he lowers his lips to yours in a kiss—there’s something sweet on his tongue, like honey wine. 

His whole body begins moving, surging, and writhing against yours. One of his hands releases yours and caresses your cheek before he slides it down your body. Without thought, your body arches into his hand as it moves, ripening under his touch—thoughts clouded by lust and love. His fingers find your clit at the same time his mouth latches to your neck.

Another guttural cry bursts from your lips. He’s pounding into you now, and he’s still holding your hand while his other grips your hip. Your breathing is loud, and so is his, and his hand is tightening on your fingers. He drags in a breath, then expels it in a strained groan.

He shudders, then pounds into you hard, twice, thrice, and then he pauses with his cock deep inside of you. His jaw clenches, and his grip on your hip is so tight that it’s almost painful, but you like it—just as much as you like the guttural sound he makes as he shudders in completion. A few long seconds later, he gasps in a breath, then sighs and releases your hand. “Fuck,” he groans, holding his weight above you on shaking arms. 

You beckon him to lie atop you, his golden head pillowed on your breasts as his breathing steadies, sighing when you kiss his hair and whisper a quiet, I love you, for him to relish. He stays sheathed inside your warmth, unwilling to part just yet. “I love you,” he murmurs in turn, never tiring of how you smile when he says the words. Sighing, he rolls to the side, and you whine at the loss of him and the empty feeling between your thighs.

He lays on his side, and you pillow your head on his outstretched arm, nuzzling close against his chest and threading one of your legs through his. Arthur presses his cheek to the crown of your head and strokes your hair as the first dregs of daylight break over the horizon, shining upon England, Camelot, and his future wife and queen.

[Forever taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rigshak ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my forever taglist, or any other character/fandom taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[lauriewildfree]

Perhaps in an alternate timeline Terrifier 3 and Joker 2 got released on the same day which caused another Barbieheimer but horror/clown themed and the entire Internet ended up been all infested with fanart of Art the clown and Joker/Arthur Fleck hanging out as besties and kissing

[ambivartence]

SUGAR RUSH RIDE

[lafaiette]

Look I wanted to have a good screaming match with Solas, telling him in short, military words where he can shove his redemption (alongside with inquisitors left hand) BUT I respected him, even understood to some extended and I wanted to save him. Seba wanted to make him 'a true villain of the story' no matter what ( that one memory about sacrificing ghost???) but that's a problem I have with most characters in TV - they lack depth the previous parts offered.

I would have had no problems with the game offering the chance to antagonize Solas in a respectful manner, yes! Players in Inquisition could find ways to respect his wisdom, but not like his manners; they could punch him when they believed him to be an insufferable ass; they could become great friends with him and genuinely enjoy his company; they could romance him. That is because he was written like a compelling, multifaceted character, and those are the ones that evoke the largest number of feelings and reactions in people: rage, disgust, interest, adoration, respect.

But in Veilguard he's simply introduced as the villain. Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan are terrible, yes, worse than him, and Rook and Strife admit this, but they are relics of an old age and they can be dealt it as one would deal with a very bothersome bug that has been suddenly set free. The game implies (without holding back) that Solas is clearly the real problem Rook will have to face at the end.

The corrupted elven gods are just a temporary threat; Solas is the true villain Rook must worry about, because, as everyone reminds them, he is the elven God of Lies and Trickery, so he's definitely planning a way to escape his prison and resume his ritual.

And to convince the players of this, they heap all the sins of the world on his shoulders. Not only the creation of the Veil - with Bellara lamenting the loss of the elves' true selves and culture, entirely blaming Solas and not realizing it was necessary to free the elves from their terrible existence; but also the Titans' severed dreams and the creation of the Blight - with Davrin and especially Harding being outraged by it; Varric's death and Solas' trick on Rook to make him believe he's still alive; his constant sacrifice of people, which was alluded to in Inquisition and Trespasser, but never to these extents and with Solas showing little to no remorse, even when he uses spirits to achieve his goals. Solas, sacrificing spirits without a second thought, when he literally breaks down and leaves Skyhold for a short time to recover from the grief of losing a spirit friend in Inquisition...?

It's clear as day that Weekes wanted to go back to the version of Solas he had written for The Masked Empire, that Fen'Harel who let an entire village get killed and spared only the children, that Fen'Harel who told a noble to kill the king's other daughter to see his beloved at the funeral again. But that was a Fen'Harel that made very little sense with the Solas we find in Inquisition - too cruel, too distant from the empathetic figure who tells a boy to abandon a senseless rebellion and return to his ailing parent.

Now, clearly free from the constraints the original lead writers and creative directors had for the series, Weekes went back to that cruel Fen'Harel persona, but this cannot be reconciled with the Solas we have in Inquisition anymore. And so we are left with a character that existed only in a book, who was changed into a kinder, more sympathetic figure, only to be reduced to a villainous figure once more because... well, because the new players would never be able to engage with him otherwise. How could they, since they never talked with him when he was simply a hedge mage obsessed with spirits and Fade? How could they, when all they ever hear about him is how distant, cold, and stuck in the past he was?

[akimojo]

i just saw someone call ffxiii overrated like? what?? it's literally one of the most hated games in the franchise wym "overrated" 😭

[ophanim-vesper]

My (personal) Problem With TOTK's Zelda

I think nothing infuriates me more about TOTK's writing than the fact that Zelda is literally a recycled, WORSE version of herself in BOTW.

What was Zelda's arc in BOTW? - struggling to unlock an important power that will help save the world. - is dreading an impending doom that will be caused by a formidable evil. - by losing/nearly losing those who love and support her, she finds her strength and sacrifices herself to help Link, spending hundreds to thousands of years in an intangible, unreachable form.

Very, VERY well-written and thematically consistent. Zelda had her struggles, her faults and her flaws and grew to be an incredible savior worthy of the prophecy that preceded her. She literally went from 'zero to hero', believing she was the weakest out of her companions (the Champions) to becoming one of the most important. Without her, the story of BOTW wouldn't have happened, and it's thanks to her that the kingdom is saved.

So what's Zelda's arc here in TOTK? uhhh.... - struggling to unlock an important power that will help save the world. - is dreading an impending doom that will be caused by a formidable evil. - by losing/nearly losing those who love and support her, she finds her strength and sacrifices herself to help Link, spending hundreds to thousands of years in an intangible, unreachable form.

Except, in my opinion it's much WORSE and carries much less weight than in BOTW. Why? Because there's one horrible mistake the writers of TOTK made when writing our beloved princess, and it's that...

They made her too perfect.

Idk if this is just me, but I dislike how Zelda was portrayed as this 'perfect, flawless and talented princess' who can do everything as if it was as simple as breathing for her. I didn't like how she suddenly became good at cooking at this game (referring to that one side quest with the meat and rice bowl). I loved the hc that she was a terrible cook, but even if she somehow learned, I wish it was mentioned how Link taught her or how she works super hard to become good at something she previously wasn't. I wish it was touched upon how she was an isolated princess who only had books for access to the outside world. I didn't like how it seemed she was suddenly a proficient explorer who knew all plant species and animals just because she 'read' about them (reading doesn't count for crap if you have no field experience!). It almost seems like every skill Link was good at is suddenly also Zelda's skill, aside from fighting. I don't like that. It makes them feel less unique from each other, and makes Zelda feel like she's copying Link in a sense. I wish Zelda had more obviously 'book smarts' while Link was more of a 'streets smarts' person.

Also, they completely forgot to give her any flaws. No struggles, no real issues, no intrapersonal problems at all. But what infuriates me the most to the point I see red, is this:

"Oh? You're struggling to unlock a new power you've never used before but desperately need to in order to go home/save the world? Lemme give you a quick pep talk and you're suddenly a master at using it, no struggle to learn needed yippeee!!!!!!"

Yeah. I don't like this.

I get it. In BOTW, Zelda had no proper mentor with experience to teach her to use her Light power. She had to figure it out herself, with everyone putting pressure on her, thus stunting her development further. And here, Zelda had supporting loved ones with experience in magic who can actually teach her. But come on...

It feels like such a lazy cop-out, and stomps on the beautiful arc Zelda had in BOTW when unlocking her power. It also sucks that it happens off-screen too, as in the next memory Zelda is suddenly proficient at time magic.

Zelda doubted herself. She was carrying pounds of self-loathing and frustration because she couldn't do the one thing she was destined to do. She felt useless, a failure and felt as if the Goddess herself was ignoring her. THAT is a character with struggle. THAT is an interesting protagonist. It is almost never fun when a character instantly learns to use a new skill they've never used before, or even knew existed-- and even WORSE when it happens OFF-SCREEN.

Of course, these are just my opinions though, and I'm sure many other people have different views of Zelda in either game. Feel free to rebuff my statements or even just continue the discussion! That's what these rant posts are made for, lol.

[lastoneout]

Not reblogging the original post bcs I don't wanna derail it but fr finding out there are people who think Cars 3 was the worst film out of the trilogy makes me feel legitimately insane like did we watch the same movie????

[elvishdemigod]

I'm calling it right here:

Jason's gonna come back to life, at the cost of Hiss-Majesty sacrificing himself.

I don't know, I have a feeling he's gonna die, it's something itching in my bones and not in a good way. With the fact that it never gets cleared up what happened with Jason's spirit, this is the conclusion I've some to.

[adventure-waffles]

🐶 A Well Trained Shidi 🐶

12k

Explicit

Quanyin Puppy Play

[peachviz]

Nice to see Disney Star Wars still pandering to incels

[kulvefaggoth]

Nidhogg did go a little overboard with his vengeance we agree on that... but damn i think it kinda sucks that Vritra didn't try to kill Golbez even a little bit after what he did to Azdaja.

I know he's basically a pacifist and tries not to incite violence and it's not fully IC but i kinda wish he took an arm off Golbez or something. That dude got off scot free for all the shit he pulled.

[bibxrbie]

Sometimes, I really want an animated show about the OT characters. Their adventures, serious and silly, as they become friends and family long before Luke and Leia discover that they're siblings. Stories about Leia struggling with going from princess to general. Luke struggling with being a Jedi and a commander. The Rogue Squadron and their adventures. Han and Chewie barely keeping up with the Space Twin shenanigans.

But, then I remember how each of these characters were treated in the Sequel Trilogy, and I realise that it doesn't matter. No amount of stories about them will change the fact that they all die alone away from each other, that they gave up their childhood, their homes, themselves to the safety of the galaxy and that none of it ever mattered. And I can't enjoy canon stories about them because it won't change their ending, and I can't forget that.

[typicalopposite]

I see so much talk about will they release the movie on dvd and… I’ve been thinking…

So what happens when — after they have given us all the behind the scenes stuff, all the deleted scenes, all interview clips, all the content we have waited so patiently for — they DO announce a dvd release that will have one never before seen surprise on it.

And it’s at the end of all the bonus content we’ve already seen.

And it’s a clip of Taylor and Nick, with Casey and Matthew…

And it’s them each lifting up a sign that says

(T)RED-(N)WHITE-(C)& ROYAL BLUE-(M)TWO

And then the screen fades to black with the words coming soon.

What then?