the last summoner

3

Looking for a sugar daddy who pays me in orbs

2

Never let me get invested in a voting gauntlet again.

IT’S TIME HUNT SOME BUNNIES 
PLEASE COME HOME TO ME !!!

Monster Factory Tier List

Update (4/7/17): Following the recent patches increasing Dark Vader’s skillset, he has quickly risen through the ranks of the tier list, and it remains to be seen how the coming patches will change how he operates. DJ Slime Time’s Mounted and Unmounted modes are now counted as separate fighters due to ease of access.

Update (6/1/17): Following the addition of Todd Coolbody, Dark Vader has fallen back to his original place in the Tier List. Patch balance has moved around certain fighters. DJ Slime Time has been consolidated back into one fighter to avoid confusion. No data on rumored “Touch DLC Bundle”.

  1. The Final Pam: Easily the most powerful of all the monsters. Has a special move that summons a plethora of mines with no recoil damage. Remains banned in competitive play.
  2. Mëlissa: The strongest fighting game character ever, yet not quite on the level of The Final Pam. Regardless, has amazing combo potential and is incredibly fast.
  3. Knife Dad: Though his knives are weak, he himself is incredibly powerful, and he has his children following his every command. A tough one to beat.
  4. SHRECK THE MOVIE: Has numerous allies and is quite ready to wield them and do you dirty in front of you dad.
  5. Chiquita Dave: Can create clones of himself and has access to a wide plethora of spells. His low health is easily offset by his ability to create a clone to take his place.
  6. Truck Shepard: The patches still haven’t fixed his face’s hitboxes. This allows for great, confusing combos as his face distorts violently.
  7. DJ Slime Time: When unmounted, she cannot be grabbed due to her grandma grease, and she she has unlimited jump height. However, she has a very low range of offensive skills. When mounted, her horse does contact damage while she’s riding it, however she can be grabbed in this mode. Skilled users have kept her safe on her spot.
  8. Trüllbus the Crime Eater: His DQ-sponsored weaponry notwithstanding, he still has a mean left hook, and his “self-defense” revenge mechanic is nothing to scoff at.
  9. Turbovicki: The ultimate athlete and defeater of the Foot Clan. Her sports equipment comes in handy here.
  10. D- Bomb: A long-range fighter who shoots from a distance and summons Deathclaws and the like. A hassle to get in range of.
  11. Christopher “The Pebble” C. C. Christopher: Though he may be the failed The Rock clone, he is still one hell of a wrestler. 
  12. Toucan Dan: Great combos, but lack of any ranged option and low standalone damage doesn’t give us much.
  13. Jorstin Rude Boy Man: A combo-focused grappler, a nice mix up, but unfortunately, with low accuracy, you can only go so far.
  14. Todd Coolbody: Replaces Dark Vader on his spot in the last patch. Can summon his fellow sitcom stars to attack, but like many summon fighters, they all have unique ranges and hitboxes to be mindful of. Powerful strikes.
  15. Randyjohnson & Panpan: Though Randyjohnson is slow, her ability to use Panpan as a secondary fighter/projectile is matched only by Ratbaby’s usage of Vape Life.
  16. Boy-Mayor of Second Life & Totino’s: A grand tag team, but the harsh campaign trail does nothing for their physical fighting ability. Totino’s can make pizza happen, though. Boy-Mayor, though less agile than his tag-team partner, is physically stronger.
  17. Ratbaby & Vape Life: Ratbaby has an incredibly small hitbox, but any damage done to Vape Life is also done to Ratbaby, and if you catch both of them in the same combo, it does 2x the damage.
  18. Borth Sampson: Incredible kicks, but disjointed movement.
  19. The Junker: Not too good at what he does, but he does have a stunning move.
  20. Squirtle: Still with weak physical blows, the recent patch has added onto him some potent water moves. Stronger than before.
  21. #NOID: Slow, but powerful. Use with caution.
  22. G.A.R.F.I.E.L.D.:The fastest character in the entire list, can create horses, but this means nothing when your defenses are glass.
  23. Daz: Lack of moves that aren’t him just hitting you with a birdie. Very predictable.
  24. Succotash: Can fly infinitely, but is easy to hit.
  25. Dark Vader: Has fallen back into his initial place, can no longer summon anyone beyond Cousin Specialagent.
  26. Jefferson Tallpipe: The only low-tier character to be banned in competitive play, but only because of his indecent moveset.
  27. Dino-Lansbury: Old age has caught up to her, but she can still summon prehistoric monsters. They’re rather slow and easily avoidable, unfortunately.
  28. J’aam: No specials, patch to fix this has not been confirmed.
  29. Trash Hulk: All his specials do damage to himself instead of any damage to the enemy. Bad.
IMAGINE in the LAST JEDI, Luke preaching to Rey that he’s the last Jedi...

Luke Skywalker: (Sniffs) As you see, I am the last of my kind, the last Jedi, totally, totally lonely.

Rey: I’m so sorry.

Luke Skywalker: And so, I live with no other Jedi for compa-

DOOR FLINGS OPEN

Old Ahsoka: (Carrying bags of groceries) Hey kiddo!

Luke: Auntie Soka! I’m busy here talking about my woes to this potential Jedi here.

Old Ahsoka: Oh, sweetie, it can be lovely being a Jedi, but she could be like me and have no title and just serve the light side.

DOOR FLINGS OPEN

Ezra Bridger: Y’ello. Luke, buddy, you didn’t forget our scheduled nacho night did ya?

Luke: Ezra! I’m in the middle of an angsty storytelling here!

DOOR FLINGS OPEN

Kanan Jarrus: (Tapping a cane around with a bag of chips) Skywalker, I brought the nachos!

Quinlan Vos: Duuuuude, I brought the guacamole!

Rey: These people got lightsabers, Luke, you’re not the last Jedi!

Luke: Well, some of them are ex-Jedi, but they’re not Jedi. But they’re kinda wanted by the First Order, so I let them couch crash on this island.

Ghost Obi-Wan: Hello! Jedi Kenobi here, I’m here for the nachos!

Rey: Skywalker, then who’s that Jedi?

Luke: Ok, he’s alive and Jedi, though he’s kind of immortal in a ghostly sense, but he’s not alive-alive.

Hera Syndulla: Hey everyone! I got the blue cheese!

Rey: Is she Force-sensitive?

Hera: Oh, me? I don’t need the Force to be the best pilot in the galaxy. 

Luke: Yeah, she’s not Jedi or Force-sensitive, she just happens to be an ace pilot married to Kanan here, so she’s been around.

Rey: Ok, are there any more not-Jedi or not-alive Jedi here?

Bendu: (Crashing through the roof.) You summoned me?

Uh, Lucky God?

(So there we were, a 6th level party fighting our way through an ambush of empowered undead, still trying to get used to our first mythic tier. The heavy hitter of the encounter is an empowered undead STORM GIANT, that just made an attack roll of 41, and hit the Fovung the Paladin for more than half his HP. So I, playing Jack the Rogue, start racking up some sneak attacks, accidentally drawing his attention.) 

DM: The storm giant is crackling with electricity, channeling the energy from his chest into his rusty greatsword. So, Jack: Any last words?

Magnus the Summoner: Flip him off!

Jack the Rogue: Yep, I’m doing that. I just hope it’s a low roll.

(At this point, I’m doing the math in my head. “He just has to roll *just* low enough… pleasepleasepleaseplease…”)

(The giant rolls with a +26 modifier, for a total of 33. Any other combat I would figuratively shit my pants at this number. But the instant I see the roll…)

Jack: YES!! YES!! *YEEEEEEEES!!!*

Literally everyone else: Wait, what?!

Jack: MYTHIC!! DOOOOOOOODGE!!

Magnus: He burns one mythic power and adds a +10 dodge bonus to his AC!

DM: How much did it miss by?

Jack: ONE!!

*assorted laughter*

DM: Alright, it’s your turn now. You just Matrix dodged that electrified greatsword by a hair. It came so close you smelled the rust and ozone coming off of it. What are you gonna do?

Jack: Full attack this guy, and top it off with a Surprise Strike that cuts through his DR!

(After just enough sneak attack damage in one round…)

DM: The storm giant falls to his knees, the knees you stabbed to hell. He’s falling towards you. Roll me a reflex save.

Jack: 27! I jump straight up, land on the back of his head, and RIDE HIM DOWN TO THE GROUND! 

Fovung the Paladin: Jack killed the giant! You should call your sword “The Beanstalk”!

Jack: I AM A GOD!!!

(Didn’t even take a single hit that entire encounter. Lucky God.)

BNHA x YGO: King of Heroes

My buddy

He would call me late in the night from somewhere on the road, a ghost town in Texas, a rest stop near Pittsburgh, or from Santa Fe, where he was parked in the desert, listening to the coyotes howling. But most often he would call from his place in Kentucky, on a cold, still night, when one could hear the stars breathing. Just a late-night phone call out of a blue, as startling as a canvas by Yves Klein; a blue to get lost in, a blue that might lead anywhere. I’d happily awake, stir up some Nescafé and we’d talk about anything. About the emeralds of Cortez, or the white crosses in Flanders Fields, about our kids, or the history of the Kentucky Derby. But mostly we talked about writers and their books. Latin writers. Rudy Wurlitzer. Nabokov. Bruno Schulz.

“Gogol was Ukrainian,” he once said, seemingly out of nowhere. Only not just any nowhere, but a sliver of a many-faceted nowhere that, when lifted in a certain light, became a somewhere. I’d pick up the thread, and we’d improvise into dawn, like two beat-up tenor saxophones, exchanging riffs.

He sent a message from the mountains of Bolivia, where Mateo Gil was shooting “Blackthorn.” The air was thin up there in the Andes, but he navigated it fine, outlasting, and surely outriding, the younger fellows, saddling up no fewer than five different horses. He said that he would bring me back a serape, a black one with rust-colored stripes. He sang in those mountains by a bonfire, old songs written by broken men in love with their own vanishing nature. Wrapped in blankets, he slept under the stars, adrift on Magellanic Clouds.

Sam liked being on the move. He’d throw a fishing rod or an old acoustic guitar in the back seat of his truck, maybe take a dog, but for sure a notebook, and a pen, and a pile of books. He liked packing up and leaving just like that, going west. He liked getting a role that would take him somewhere he really didn’t want to be, but where he would wind up taking in its strangeness; lonely fodder for future work.

In the winter of 2012, we met up in Dublin, where he received an Honorary Doctorate of Letters from Trinity College. He was often embarrassed by accolades but embraced this one, coming from the same institution where Samuel Beckett walked and studied. He loved Beckett, and had a few pieces of writing, in Beckett’s own hand, framed in the kitchen, along with pictures of his kids. That day, we saw the typewriter of John Millington Synge and James Joyce’s spectacles, and, in the night, we joined musicians at Sam’s favorite local pub, the Cobblestone, on the other side of the river. As we playfully staggered across the bridge, he recited reams of Beckett off the top of his head.

Sam promised me that one day he’d show me the landscape of the Southwest, for though well-travelled, I’d not seen much of our own country. But Sam was dealt a whole other hand, stricken with a debilitating affliction. He eventually stopped picking up and leaving. From then on, I visited him, and we read and talked, but mostly we worked. Laboring over his last manuscript, he courageously summoned a reservoir of mental stamina, facing each challenge that fate apportioned him. His hand, with a crescent moon tattooed between his thumb and forefinger, rested on the table before him. The tattoo was a souvenir from our younger days, mine a lightning bolt on the left knee.

Going over a passage describing the Western landscape, he suddenly looked up and said, “I’m sorry I can’t take you there.” I just smiled, for somehow he had already done just that. Without a word, eyes closed, we tramped through the American desert that rolled out a carpet of many colors—saffron dust, then russet, even the color of green glass, golden greens, and then, suddenly, an almost inhuman blue. Blue sand, I said, filled with wonder. Blue everything, he said, and the songs we sang had a color of their own.

We had our routine: Awake. Prepare for the day. Have coffee, a little grub. Set to work, writing. Then a break, outside, to sit in the Adirondack chairs and look at the land. We didn’t have to talk then, and that is real friendship. Never uncomfortable with silence, which, in its welcome form, is yet an extension of conversation. We knew each other for such a long time. Our ways could not be defined or dismissed with a few words describing a careless youth. We were friends; good or bad, we were just ourselves. The passing of time did nothing but strengthen that. Challenges escalated, but we kept going and he finished his work on the manuscript. It was sitting on the table. Nothing was left unsaid. When I departed, Sam was reading Proust.

Long, slow days passed. It was a Kentucky evening filled with the darting light of fireflies, and the sound of the crickets and choruses of bullfrogs. Sam walked to his bed and lay down and went to sleep, a stoic, noble sleep. A sleep that led to an unwitnessed moment, as love surrounded him and breathed the same air. The rain fell when he took his last breath, quietly, just as he would have wished. Sam was a private man. I know something of such men. You have to let them dictate how things go, even to the end. The rain fell, obscuring tears. His children, Jesse, Walker, and Hannah, said goodbye to their father. His sisters Roxanne and Sandy said goodbye to their brother.

I was far away, standing in the rain before the sleeping lion of Lucerne, a colossal, noble, stoic lion carved from the rock of a low cliff. The rain fell, obscuring tears. I knew that I would see Sam again somewhere in the landscape of dream, but at that moment I imagined I was back in Kentucky, with the rolling fields and the creek that widens into a small river. I pictured Sam’s books lining the shelves, his boots lined against the wall, beneath the window where he would watch the horses grazing by the wooden fence. I pictured myself sitting at the kitchen table, reaching for that tattooed hand.

A long time ago, Sam sent me a letter. A long one, where he told me of a dream that he had hoped would never end. “He dreams of horses,” I told the lion. “Fix it for him, will you? Have Big Red waiting for him, a true champion. He won’t need a saddle, he won’t need anything.” I headed to the French border, a crescent moon rising in the black sky. I said goodbye to my buddy, calling to him, in the dead of night.

By Patti Smith, August 1, 2017. Published in The New-Yorker

2

                                  random shadowhunters gifs ( 11 / ∞ )

Better than Bullets

Tag LIst: (Message to be added)  @thebeautyofthomas @frustratedwaffle @killerfangirl3 @pippa-frost @extreme-doodles @fandomsofrandom @here-to-vent @i-prayed-to-you-cas @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life @justanotherpurplebutterfly @emovirgil @aikogumi @mysticalcatamount@fallingineternity @notallpotatoesarefrenchfries

Pairing: Moxiety (platonic or romantic, though intended as platonic), brief mentions of Logince (also platonic)

CW: Startled response, horror movie mention, horror movie plot mention

Categories: Fluff, humor

Notes: A quick lil’ thing before I head off on vacation. I’ll probably have time to write while I’m there but just in case I wanted to get one more quick story up. 

*

The good news was he’d gotten Virgil to agree to a movie night, just the two of them, in honor of the anxious side’s upcoming favorite holiday: Halloween. 

The better news was that Virgil was feeling so relaxed with Patton these days that, halfway through the evening, he had drifted off, curled up with his head on Patton’s shoulder and his arm draped over his waist. 

The bad news was that the nonstop Halloween specials that were currently cycling through the TV in the commons had taken a turn, and instead of the relatively benign features like Hocus Pocus and The Nightmare Before Christmas, the TV was now showing Child’s Play

And the worst news of all: the remote was out of reach, and Logan and Roman were having a bonding night of their own, immersed in strategy games and well out of earshot in Logan’s realm. 

Which mean that Patton had two choices: he could shift Virgil away from him in order to get the remote, risking waking him up and ensuring that their cuddling would be over for the night–unthinkable–or he could…could…

Watch Chucky. 

Keep reading

The Coldest Night in Hawkins

Summary: February 1985 brings an awful chill, and not everyone in Hawkins is prepared for the cold. 

(Cue Jopper, Joyce being the mom Jane always needed, and Byers-Hopper family fluff)

At exactly 11:38 p.m., Joyce Byers’ doorbell rang.

She remembered the time because she’d been staring at the flickering red digits of her alarm clock and willing herself to fall asleep, closing her eyelids only to feel the electric shock of nightmares lurking in the darkness. Will had gone to bed an hour ago, Jonathan was – at the very least – in his room, and she had a long day of work at Melvald’s tomorrow that would only get longer if she didn’t fall asleep right this goddamn second and –

Ding-dong!

Joyce froze, muscles tightening against the worn, threadbare sheets that did only the bare minimum of work to keep her warm. She felt her heart starting to scream, thumping against her ribcage as she tried to figure out whether it was best to answer the bell’s shrill order or to let it go unfulfilled. Faint music drifted through the wall, which meant Jonathan was still in the house, and Will wasn’t the type to sneak out. Everyone in the Byers house was accounted for.

The house was quiet for a few moments, and Joyce let herself entertain the notion that whoever it was had gone away. Maybe it was someone selling something: though what they could be trying to get her to buy after 11:30 on a Thursday night – one of the coldest on record in Hawkins – she’d never know.

Ding-dong!

“Shit,” Joyce breathed against her pillowcase, slowly hauling herself up into a seated position. Her bare feet curled around soft carpet as she found her footing in the darkness, pulling on the blue robe she’d left hanging on the back of the bedroom door. February wasn’t a kind month to the town of Hawkins, and her plaid pajama pants and loose-fitting gray t-shirt would do nothing but allow the cold to seep under her skin.

When she opened her bedroom door and turned her head, she let out a cry of alarm: there was a large shadow looming at the end of the hallway.

“Mom, it’s me!” the shadow exclaimed.

“Jonathan,” Joyce breathed, relieved, shoving away shadowy memories of manlike monsters. It had been four months since she found a dead…thing….in her freezer, and even longer since a monster came bursting through the wall of her living room, but every night she felt as though she could be only seconds from it happening again.

“Go back to bed, honey,” she whispered, praying they were the only two members of the Byers family whom the doorbell had awoken.

“I’m trying to see if I can tell who it is,” Jonathan said, pointedly ignoring her request as he leaned as close to the window as he could without pressing his forehead against the glass. “It looks like…”

He trailed off, and Joyce frowned.

“Like who?” she asked.

It couldn’t be Nancy, or he would’ve been at the door already. It was unlikely the kids would be visiting this late – they’d radio Will, not show up on his doorstep. That left Steve Harrington and Jim. Neither were likely candidates for the doorbell-ringing: Jim was living with Jane in the double-wide for the time being since it had a working heater, and she doubted Steve would have any pressing matters that required their attention.

So the question remained: like who?

“Hopper,” Jonathan said, and she could hear a confused scowl in his voice. “I think that’s his car. But isn’t he-“

Joyce sprinted the hallway before Jonathan could ask her what she was doing.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Man, look at those two fuckwits trying to downplay ikemoto's drawing. "trololol male gaze doesn't exist!!1 because laura mulvey is crazy radfem bitch! and lesbians like sexy chicks too!!1 Totally makes it ok to sexualize women and children in media!1! and hey, maybe sarada is wearing underwear! so she's not being sexualized! you're wrong!!1" Creepy fuckers. You're better off blocking them, yunyu.

I’ve got one more ask to answer about the subject and then hopefully I can let it rest. (Maybe with a couple of bullets in its head, just to make sure it stays dead.)

A lot of virtual ink has already been spilled on the “sexualization of children” aspect of this, which is very important. But I want to point out the other part of this, the part that isn’t so much about Sarada’s age as to what the contrast of Sarada’s outfit to the boys’ outfits tells the viewer.

There’s a lot to criticize about the original Naruto regarding female characters, but one thing that the manga was really good about was #1 not forcing every heroine to have a fragile or exaggerated feminine sexiness #2 also putting male characters into impractically skin-baring outfits.

Originally posted by samurai-ponche-de-frutas

Tsunade is a dead sexy character, but look how much clothing she’s wearing. She has large breasts, yeah, but they’re within the bounds of reason; she’s wearing heels, but they really aren’t that high. Sai, meanwhile, is baring his midriff and his arm for no fucking reason whatsoever. I saw some defenders comparing Sarada’s outfit to adult Sakura, shippuden Ino, and adult Tsunade. There’s no comparison. Even ignoring the age difference, Shippuden Ino is actually basically only baring her midriff:

Originally posted by dattebaasa

Compare Ino’s outfit to Sai’s. They’re about on the same level of revealing, aren’t they? What’s more, Ino’s outfit is actually fairly practical for moving in.

And the message this sends to viewers matters. When the boys are all practical and the girls are all dressed to go clubbing, what is says is “Boys are here to do stuff, girls can do stuff too, but you have to be fuckable at the same time. Being fuckable is your most important function here.”

And then when women say “hey, this is gross and makes me uncomfortable”, we get told we’re “not body positive”, we’re “imagining things”; and hey “this is a show for boys”, “this is anime”, “cry more”.

Originally posted by virtualstars