roil

BS “medical” tropes to stop using TODAY, 1/?

You’ve seen them. I’ve seen them. The story is going along so well. The character is critically wounded in a dramatic fight; they’re ‘rushed to the hospital’ (more on that later). Drama roils! Will they live? Will they die?

And then… And then the writer (screenwriters, I’m looking at you, too) pulls one of these tired, inaccurate tropes out from under the couch cushions, and you roll your eyes. They’ve Done the Dumb, again. You swear. kick your coffee table. How do they write such crap? Crap like…

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What You Are According to Your MBTI Type

INTJ: You are the coldest shard of ice, but also the hottest flash of lightning. You are the sofest velvet in a rose petal, and also the sharpest thorns underneath. You’re the terrifying depth to the ocean, and yet you are also the sun twinkling on the waves. You may be the sultriest summer day, but often you choose to be the quiet coldness of a winter morning. You are the calmest logic and also the roil of blood boiling under your skin. Of all these things, INTJ, you are a Paradox.

ENTJ: You are a screaming crowd, the rush of adrenaline pushing you further. The words I will not give up, a business contract with all signatures in place. You are droplets of blood-red ink, and the glint of sunlight off a reflective glass building. You are the gory beauty of a sunset before a storm, the soft certainty of a plant blooming each year. You are a mountain threatening to crumble, and a young tree that refuses to snap in the wind. You, ENTJ, are the confounding fluidity of Strength.

INTP: You are the rapid clicking of a rubix cube under clever fingers, the glint of dark steel, the soft sigh of rain on concrete. You are the flash of unexpected rage, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor as it is pushed hastily back. You are the flipping pages of a textbook, and the squint of eyebrows while reading scrawled writing. It is no wonder that you love asking questions so much, INTP, for you yourself are a Question.

ENTP: You are the flash of an old camera as a photograph is taken. You are the tinest licks of flame in a fireplace, and also the devastating blaze in a forest at the tops of the trees. You are a bright red canvas, washed over with every shade imaginable. You are the blackness of a pupil, going ever deeper in. You are the grafitti I see on street walls as I walk home at night, and the glimmer of icicles on a cold morning. You are the snapping of scissors being suddenly closed, and the sound of ripping fabric as it is pulled apart. You are the irregular motion of fingers tapping against the wooden table. You are both pleasantly warm and dangerously hot, ENTP, because you are Flame incarnate.

INFJ: I see the quiet strength in a mountain side in you, and yet I also see the dangerous temptation of a cliff face. You are the smooth rustling of a stream past rocks, but somewhere you become the roaring power of a waterfall. You are pure white sand and the burning heat on your feet from the sun; I see the softness of vanilla and also the sharpness of peppercorn in you. You are the warmth of the sun on one’s back, and the burning blaze of a desert’s surface. You are power in reserve and power in extremes, you are a dam holding back an entire lake and also the cracks threatening the stone deep beneath the surface. You are mocked as the ‘unicorn’, INFJ, but you prove yourself as something much deeper as the Moment Before a Wave Breaks.

INFP: You are the silken tinkling of water in a cave, and you are the echo of a terrified voice lost somewhere far beyond. You are gentle like a sheet of new paper, yes, but you are the stinging pain of a thousand inflicted papercuts. You are the burst of a flower blooming fast-motion on a camera, and you are the wilted petals underneath. I see the blur of water colours on the white of a desk, and also a room with no visible end or beginning. You are the sudden smile that appears for no reason, and the ugliest frown appearing like a storm. You are early mornings and quiet whispers, but most of all, you are Changes.

ENFJ: You are a mirage; the image of a shallow pool with a thousand feet of water underneath. You are dirt lining the cracks in one’s hands, and the threatening pull of mud under one’s feet. You are the purest feeling of happiness, and you are a maze with level after level. You are a bright blue shirt flipping on a clothesline in the breeze, and you are the flick of a light illuminating a dark room. You go many places and love to see new things, and that is well, for you are an Adventure.

ENFP: You of all others are a perennial favourite. You are the favourite younger sibling in a family, you are the warmth of protection glowing in one’s chest. You are waking up late on a slow day, and you are the beat of a song that plays during work. You are a child skipping rope on the sidewalk, and the wonder of a scientist testing an Element. You are pens scattered on a table in every shade of the rainbow, and the hopeless scrubbing of an eraser over paper. You are notebooks sitting in a shelf unused and half-finished art projects left for a soon-due essay. You, ENFP, are the Glow of Praise.

ISTJ: You are the crisp of white sheets being put on a bed. You are pancakes on a china plate, and black shoes polished to a shine. You are hair in graceful waves, and the graciousness of a smile. You are the furrowing brow of brewing anger, and the sudden splash of cool water on overheated skin. You are the beep of a heart monitor, and the prick of a needle on your finger. I see the quiet, far reaches of the ocean’s surface in you, and the grey shadow of sharks swimming somewhere below. You are not so easily stereotyped as boring, ISTJ; for you are Deep Water, slow to move and full of changes underneath unseen by those on the shore.

ISFJ: You are the glint of a sword being drawn free, and the warm smell of leather. You are the glossiness of a horse’s back, but also the sudden kick of fear. You are tiny smiles and curling fingers; a garden full of colourful flowers. You are the unexpected sting of poison ivy under one’s feet, and the soothing balm of chapstick over cracked, bleeding lips. You are a train rushing forwards, carrying thousands of pounds of cargo. You are the steady thrum of a heartbeat, a yellow ribbon wrapped around a present. You are still water in a vase, and the sudden frustration of broken glass and spilled liquid on the floor. Well are you called a defendor, ISFJ, because you are a Strong Wall, full of the tiny cracks that come with humanity and yet standing strong for all those who need you.

ESTJ: You are the click of an old typewriter’s keys, the soothing hum of a printer completing its task. You are a smile showing teeth, and the biting nip of the cold outside. You are the comfortable feeling of coming home, and a suitcase lying, half-packed, on the floor. You are the beautiful sound of a violin playing, and you are the sobs it so often draws out. You are an army of baked goods resting on a kitchen counter, and the smile on a child’s face. You are the secret desire for untested things, and you are a kind email directed at someone who needs it most. You are always accomplishing things, ESTJ, for you are an accomplishment yourself. Finally, you are spinning in a desk chair unobserved, for you are the Sense of Satisfaction.  

ESFJ: You are the flick of long hair over shoulders. You are gift bags resting on the floor at a party, and the sparkling bubbles of champagne. You are the terrifying shriek of a hurricane and hands wrapped around a warm mug. You are striped colours on a wall and the ticking beat of a watch on one’s wrist. A lively tune on the piano, the blur of 3D movies without glasses. You are the feeling of wandering across a busy city at night, and shaking hands gripping each other. You are as delightful to some as you are strange to others, ESFJ: you are an Unexpected Surprise.

ISTP: You are bubbles rising in a beaker, a baseball slamming into a glove. You are the curl of lazy smoke, and the sheen of sunglasses in the daytime. You are the age-old familiarity of denim, and the crisp cleanness of a white t-shirt. You are a smooth voice making love to the microphone in your hand, and the faint rasp of a speaking voice afterwards. You are a comb moving through hair over and over again, and the yawn unrestricted by a covering hand in a classroom. You are narrowed eyes moments before a game, and the passionate sting of a sudden kiss to the mouth. You and your eagerness, ISTP, are the easy impatience of a Rumbling Engine, desperate to move.

ISFP: You are paint rubbed smudged on a nose, and freckles washed over cheeks. A whisper louder than any scream could be, steam rising from a cup of hot chocolate. You are the bright green of grass in the summertime, and the wilting curl as it shies away in the Autumn. You are a picture of two lovers hugging, their faces absolutely at peace. You are the tossing of a ship in a storm, and the glint of a seashell on damp sand. You are the trusting curl of a child’s hand in your own, and the flash of pain when one bites their tongue. You are Rafflesia arnoldii and Wolffia growing together in a field, some strange combination that manages to be beautiful. You, ISFP, are the Beat of a Dragonfly’s Wings, beautiful and fragile and quick to escape.

ESTP: You are a thousand screaming voices in a stadium, and also the shaking earth underneath. You are a building standing proud and tall, full of life and energy and bustling movement. You are a fist holding the ribbon attached to a medal, and the rumbling growl of a motorcycle’s engine. You are the sting of cold air in the lungs on an early morning, and sparks crackling off a bonfire. You are a tree in the woods, being hacked to the ground, and you are a weed growing rampant in an abandoned garden. You are a force to be reckoned with, ESTP, and a formidable one at that, for you are Determination.

ESFP: You are the twirl of a new dress in the mirror, and the shredding of fabric under a foot. You are a newly polished mirror and shards of a broken glass on the floor. You are the pettiness of envy and also the beauty of magnitude, the gloss over pictures in a magazine and the sound of feet moving on a dance floor. You are the excited shout of a new discovery, and the shattering loss of a loved one. I see the allure of a late night, and the glow of string lights in you, and the rapid beat of a lunar moth’s wings. It is easy to see why you have such quickness in everything, ESFP, for you are Movement.

The Signs and What:

Aries: Something that shambles on dried sinew and cracked bone. It shouldn’t be able to move, but it does. Everything about it is just too long.

Taurus: Something you’re damn sure you’ve seen before. You just know you’ve seen it. Remember quickly. It’s seen you.

Gemini: Something all whips and light. Gossamer threads like a spiderweb on the breeze. Don’t let it touch your skin.

Cancer: Something proud and holy now blind and deformed. Its features like melted wax it cannot determine threat from friend. The light it carries long gone out.

Leo: Something wearing a t-shirt. Its smile too wide, its pupils too thin, its breathing too shallow. Play along for now.

Virgo: Why the mall is empty at night. It doesn’t show up on the cameras. 

Libra: Something that doesn’t walk. The best description of its movement is that it boils. A thousand animal faces shifting under roiling mass.

Scorpio: Something that loves you. Something that loves you so so dearly. Something that longs to embrace you.

Ophiuchus: Something that looks like you, but is unmistakably not you. 

Sagittarius: Something that came with the rain. Sodden footsteps far louder than they should be. Stay dry.

Capricorn: Something that was like you, maybe. A long long time ago. Maybe. Time does strange things.  

Aquarius: Something that is far too skinny to be able to move and yet here we are. Something with beautiful hair.

Pisces: Something sickeningly unstill. It looks as if its going to shake itself apart. It moves quickly.

Female INTJ

You are the coldest shard of ice, but also the hottest flash of lightning. You are the softest velvet in a rose petal, and also the sharpest thorns underneath. You’re the terrifying depth to the ocean, and yet you are also the sun twinkling on the waves. You may be the sultriest summer day, but often you choose to be the quiet coldness of a winter morning. You are the calmest logic and also the roil of blood boiling under your skin. Of all these things, INTJ, you are a Paradox.

Guys, Charlie Weasley is the asexual/aromantic icon we’re all looking for, like hear me out. NO one makes it a big deal that he isn’t in a relationship, in fact it isn’t even mentioned. HE is happy with where he is, he isn’t upset of his lack of a partner, he’s having a great time with himself. Plus he’s a fucking DRAGON trainer. YOU KNOW WHAT THE ASEXUAL MASCOT IS? A FUCKING DRAGON. Charlie Weasley is an ace/aro cinnamon roll fight me

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Ser Delrin Barris

Ser Delrin was eleven when his father wrote them, and twelve the day he became an initiate in Denerim’s chantry. He impressed his commanders with an early maturity, although his fellow recruits teased him mercilessly for what they considered an overly sombre bearing in someone of their own rank and age. His first assignment as a knight-templar was to hunt down apostates in Dragon’s Peak, south of Denerim. By the time his squadron arrived, a roiling web of alliances and intrigue had turned the straightforward mission into a chaotic brawl between a cult of blood mages, an unbound pride demon, a passing Dalish clan, a pair of Seekers, and Tal-Vashoth mercenaries enslaved by the mages’ magic.

The Templars’ leader was slain. Impressed by Barris’s cool in the heat of battle, his compatriots ceded him unofficial leadership without question. The skirmishes lasted a full three days, and the templars emerged victorious. “We have not gone unwounded,” Barris wrote to his commanding officer after the fighting ended, “but the grace of the Maker lit our way. The demon has been slain, the mages subdued, the Qunari freed, the Seekers mollified, and the Dalish returned to the woods. A bard found our camp yesterday, intent on wringing out every detail of the mess. I impressed upon him that the affairs of the Order are a serious matter. He says he only wishes to bring news back to the royal court and has given me his word he will not exaggerate his telling. In light of his oath, I have given him a brief and sober account of the events that have occurred.”

Today, Thunder upon the Mountains! The Battle for the Heart of Dragon’s Peak!, by Philliam, a Bard!, remains one of the most popular chapbooks in eastern Ferelden.

vine

Roiling Arizona Desert Thunderstorm

your gender is an ocean, salt spray that clings to your face in the form of makeup, foam that braids itself into your hair. it is the dark depths where nothing is visible and your lungs ache for air. it is the shallows of floral-patterned fish darting about the soft coral. it is the stark, solid cliffs of a drop off, sturdy and stoic. it roils and bubbles with the howling wind and shifting earth. your gender comes and goes with the tide.

On 29 December, Twitter CEO Jack Dorsey tweeted: “What’s the most important thing you want to see Twitter improve or create in 2017?” One user responded: “Comprehensive plan for getting rid of the Nazis.”

“We’ve been working on our policies and controls,” Dorsey replied. “What’s the next most critical thing?” Oh, what’s our second-highest priority after Nazis? I’d say No 2 is also Nazis. And No 3. In fact, you can just go ahead and slide “Nazis” into the top 100 spots. Get back to me when your website isn’t a roiling rat-king of Nazis.
Oh my - for a good laugh, go into the anti-Tony Stark tag, where the mewling and roiling jealousy is on mini-boil amid the rapidly shrinking ranks. Of course "Spider-Man: Homecoming" - just on the strength of the few scenes in the trailer - looks poised to become one of the MCU's biggest hits and make Iron Man even more of an icon for kids and the adult crowd. Marvel does these things wisely - they know RDJ is the most popular movie star on the planet and will draw legions of fans to see the movie. The scenes of Peter with Tony are adorable and hilarious, and the father-son vibe will increase audience engagement exponentially. Mentoring Peter, a new young superhero with zero baggage and tons of genuine optimism, will work wonders in healing Tony from the scars of Civil War. It's so brilliant I can't even...(and when *I* can't even find words, you know it's something!). Tony mentors Peter; Peter's guileless enthusiasm brings new life and hope to Tony. I love it so much. It's all we hoped for! Haters can suck on it - this will skyrocket Tony's popularity off the charts (especially since Spidey is Marvel's best-loved character - who better to pair with the founding father of the MCU? It couldn't happen to a greater pair of heroes.

Supercells, clashing

Two stormy whirling air masses collided over New Mexico, each with their own swirling updraft. The older storm has curved lines running through the clouds while the newer is still roiling with new convection currents. The image was a winner in the Weather Photographer of the Year competition.

Loz

Image credit: Camelia Czuchnicki

there’s a vacancy in me, a moon crater, a cesspool, a grasshopper on its hind legs pleading to gods that don’t exist yet. i’ve always spelled love with bullet holes in between, his hands rummaging through my snow-caked lungs for heartstrings that vanish at the touch, my own emptiness an animal that gnaws me, a biteful here and a prickling crack in my being there. something wrong, something gnarly. a prayer with bent teeth and beer breath. a glimpse of a memory that might’ve been a dream or another world you existed in when your hands were smaller and the universe was an infinite beast, rattled by stars and ancient fires, matchlit mountains and roiling seas. have you ever felt like a graveyard in the blooming? all these tombstones littered across your body, each grave marked by your name, owls hooting behind the ribcage gates. in me there is a vacancy like this: the earth stemming from purified veins, droplets of blood capering up my skin like caterpillars, something half-eaten, half-felt, something that was perhaps, never whole. waterlogged limbs that only carry you as far as your next disaster. cheeks mottled with rain that does not burn. someone asking “hi, how are you?” and your answer is fine, always fine, do you know what it’s like to never feel anything other than fine? to hold hands with the dead and sing their souls to blissful sleep. maybe i would be a clichè, something out of a movie you’ve seen a hundred times before, a ghost with nothing to haunt, a girl who gets bitten by a monster only to become a monster, suicide in the city.
—  OF ALL THE BEASTS THAT HAVE ENTERED MY BODY || j.r
Late Night Swimming

A/N : Hello! This is the very first smut I’ve posted on Tumblr so please forgive me if it sucks x on a side note, hope all of you will give this new blog all your love

Pairing(s) : Luhan x (Y/N)

Warnings : nothing much. just pool sex lmao

Genre : Smut

Requested : Yes

Summary : For the anon who requested a Luhan smut that takes place in a pool ;)

Word Count : 2K

Originally posted by wendeer

All I wanted to do was to head down to the hotel’s swimming pool for a good soak in the water to clear my head from the roiling thoughts. For the past few weeks, I’ve been so bogged down with the ruthless demands from work and the amount of paperwork I’ve been tasked to complete. So what did I do? I scampered away from all of it by booking a room at the hotel downtown for myself because I’m an avid procrastinator who enjoys running away from my responsibilities.

So here I am, making my way down to the pool for a nice night swim instead of actually starting on that damn paperwork. The sky stretches above my head like an ink-black blanket dotted with twinkling stars as I wander out of the building and inhale the stinging scent of chlorine wafting from the empty pool.

Padding across the deck in my bare feet and in my bathing suit, I perch at the edge of the pool with my legs dangling in the water, relishing the coolness against my bare skin. The night breeze wafts through my air and I allow my eyes to flutter shut, tilting my head back. There is absolutely nothing better than taking a break from the cold, hard reality of life, enjoying some time by myself and conveniently blocking out all of the demanding responsibilities from my head.

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Unfinished Business

The most precious and lovely @cat-sophia asked me to write some domestic fluff and I wrote this super-late moving-in angst instead. I’m sorry Cat, I think there’s fluff in there if you squint? I’ll do better!

1k ficlet. T. Captain Swan + Swan Believer. Set post-docks in 605.

There’s a treasure chest in her hallway, and a tremble in her hand.

She’s kept it mainly under control, only a few splashes of spilt rum and the sting of a moment’s fumbling with a lighter to suggest the way her nerves are singing, the steady simmering of anticipation ramping up, up, up until her stomach roils and her head spins. Henry has been watching her from the kitchen table as she mumbles to herself, his well-meant offers of help refused a little more sharply than she intended. It hasn’t stopped him watching her with a small, knowing little smile off his face though, more’s the pity.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, somewhere around her fifth attempt at lighting the fire, a pair of headphones hanging meaningfully from his fingers. “I’d say let me know how it goes but,” he shakes the headphones in her direction, “I don’t think I actually want to know.”

Emma sits back on her heels and blows her hair out of her face, scowling at the way the kindling refuses to catch. “Are you even old enough to say things like that?”

“Oh no,” Henry says brightly. “I’m an innocent. A child. Ten feet above your head. Bear that in mind, won’t you.”

He has the cheek to wink at her over his shoulder as he half-skips for the staircase. Emma launches a half-empty packet of firelighters at him.

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Elorcan fluff

This is my v first fic and it’s dedicated to @hushedhands bc her fics are kinda AWESOME also it involves weird fluff between elorcan, do tell me if you’d like me to elaborate since I have a few ideas in mind. Constructive critiscism is always appreciated :D

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Elide cringed inwardly at the meal in front of her, although years of hunger and near-starvation had trained her to ignore the roiling in her gut at foods she didn’t particularly care to eat. The months spent in the castle of Orynth, in the aftermath of the war, had spoiled her.

She stared down her bowl of onion soup, it wasn’t that the palace was short on food and they had no other option, Rowan and his entire cadre including Aelin’s old court were at the table, now having been released from their blood oath to Maeve and had in turn pledged loyalty to Aelin. Above the loud raucous laughter and merriment Elide hadn’t cared or wanted to draw more attention to herself than necessary in front of these new men. Granted they were not at all vulgar or disrespectful to her and especially since Lorcan, who sat beside her, would skin them alive if they so much as looked at her the wrong way. She still felt a newfound shyness in front of her rather large family.

Letting out a tiny sigh she picked up her spoon and proceeded to scoop some of the thick liquid on to it, gods, even the smell was foul. She couldn’t fathom why the others were shoving it into their faces like it was their last meal. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed an amused twinkle in Lorcan’s dark eyes.

“Who would’ve thought that all it took to conquer fierce little Elide was a bowl of soup?” He murmured so that only she could hear. Elide huffed out a breath, “I can’t stand onions.” She responded with a scowl.

She further scowled as Lorcan’s quiet rumble of laughter reached her ears. As a reproach, making sure no one was watching, she leaned in and quickly nipped the pointed end of ear, just as swiftly returning to her food.

Lorcan’s eyes darkened with desire as he growled “Resorting to eating me I see.” She smiled innocently, a façade that would fool any but him as she crooned, “But you’re my favorite dish.” And she knew exactly where his mind had gone when she noticed him tense at the memory of last night, when her dark hair had been fisted in his hand.

Realizing that they were indeed in the midst of a crowded dining hall and simply picking her up and taking her to bed would be unwise, he resorted to passing her a plate of baked potatoes, a dish he knew she specifically had expressed her fondness for, and returned to his own meal, already concocting ways to make her moan his name later that night.

Elide smiled at her fussy Fae warrior, at the gentleness in his eyes he reserved solely for her and at the soft smiles only she was privy to. Mine was the word that beat along steadily to the rhythm of her heart as she finally dug into a meal worth eating.      

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Kellyanne Conway and Ted Cruz deride Trump protesters as “snowflakes” and “idiots”

As protests and condemnations of the president-elect continue to roil the country, Trump senior adviser Kellyanne Conway said America needs to toughen up on tender millennials. On Thursday, Texas Sen. Ted Cruz echoed Conway’s contention. Conway pointed to Obama and Biden as examples for the country.