#Darkside of the Ring

[ringthedamnbell]

Answering The 10 Count: Tracy K, The Former Wife of Johnny K-9

An interview with the wife of a pro wrestler/biker/criminal Answering The 10 Count: Tracy K, The Former Wife of Johnny K-9

Brian Damage Johnny “K-9″ Croitoru was a former pro wrestler, an actor and biker who led a rather wild life filled with sex, drugs and crime. His story was featured on the Dark Side of the Ring entitled ‘Bikers, Bombs & Bedlam.’ Despite his crazy life outside of the wrestling ring, Croitoru was also a husband and a father. Johnny “K-9” Croitoru passed away in 2017 at the age of 53 at a halfway…

[cranbree-thinks-sometimes]

~My liege the coffers are low, I fear that we will not last until the next payment. Prithee spare us a coin or two?~

Examples of my writing can be found here, here and here.

Above is a summary of what I offer, please see below the cut for further information:

It costs £2.50 for a short prompt which may be up to 500 words. 

After that £5.50 for every 500 words. For example, it’s £5.50 for 500 words, £11.00 for 1000 words, £16.50 for 1,500 words, £22.50 for 2,000 words and so on. 

This rate will continue up until 10,000 words which is my limit. If you want anything over that then you will have to pay a doubled rate of £11.00 per 500 words, e.g. it’s £110.00 for 10,000 words, if you want an extra 1000 words then your final total will be £132.00. 

Additionally, if you requested, for example, 500 words for £5.50 but decided that you would like an extra 200 words then it’s £1.50 per 100 words, bringing your final total to £8.50 for 700 words. 

I’m not overly comfortable writing NSFW pieces, if what you request is only mildly sexual/ suggestive then you can pay the normal rate and I will write it. However, if you insist on an NSFW piece then you will pay a doubled rate right from the get-go, e.g. £11.00 per 500 words. The word limit for NSFW pieces is capped at 1,500 words. 

Additionally, aside from my hard NOs, I have the right to refuse an NSFW piece if the request contains things that make me very uncomfortable. However, some things can be discussed. I'm generally against something like non-con/ dub-con but may write a scenario containing specific circumstances. 

I also reserve the right to refuse a standard commission if the request contains situations, fandoms, etc, that I am unwilling or uncomfortable writing about. 

Furthermore, if I accept a commission and you pay me, only for me to lose inspiration/ motivation and I generally just don’t think I would be able to complete it within an acceptable time frame then I will contact you with my apologies and you will be refunded immediately. 

If you would like a commission then please send me an ask (with your username, not anon) with what you want e.g. what price category as well as a summary of what characters/ themes/ plot points you would like included. I will slide into your DMs (or contact you in some other way) to let you know whether I’m expressing interest or denying your request. If the former then you can message me with more details. You can be as in-depth or as vague as you like but if it’s the latter then expect some artistic licence. 

Some examples of what you could request might be:

. ‘How would (character/s) react to (thing)’ for £2.50 (works best for stuff I’m familiar with)

. I have a huge list of raw quotes I could use as prompts, you could choose a quote and have me write Reader/ Y/N spit some mad facts.

. Do you want 1000 words of Reader jerking off your favourite transformer for £11.00? Mate I’ve got you covered.

. Perhaps you’re very kind and love me very much so you’ll pay me to write a 5K word chapter for one of the many fic ideas I haven’t started yet. Or pay me to rant about the fictional continent that exists only in my head. One can certainly dream.

Anyhoo, once all the details are down pat and I’m ready to start, you can send me the payment via paypal. For anything that is 1000 words and over I will send you an update when I’m halfway through. The longer the commission, the more updates I’ll send. Any NSFW or original work will not be posted to Tumblr and will be sent to you as a PDF via Gmail. Anything fandom related will be posted (though it will state that it was a commission and your username will be included) unless you specifically state otherwise. Minor edits are free but larger ones start at £1.50 depending on how much you want me to change.

I DO NOT CONSENT IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM TO HAVING ANYTHING I WRITE BE FED TO AI.

ANYTHING I WRITE IS MINE, I WROTE IT

[sabrerine911]

HALLOWEEN SPECIAL COMMISSION SALE TIME

So, lets set some specifics

-These prices are per single character

- If you commission more than one of these you will get a special

5 euro discount on a future standard price commission(applies

only once)

- You can commission established characters, original characters ect, as long as they are not overly complex/detailed design wise

- Some things I'll do some things I won't, we can clarify that in the PMs

- For the Vampire category, the character can be an established one

or OC and it can also be a vampire version of established characters or OCs. The main thing that needs to be there is sharp teeth and potentially red eyes.

- References are a must, including a pose one(you can google one)

-Payment is upfront and its given once the references are set and we have agreed on what has to be made

- Once payment is confirmed I will start working on the piece and show progress as soon as I can, until it's finalized.

-once it's all done I will ask for permission to post the piece in the potential case I want to have it in my socials.

HALLOWEEN SALE ends on October 30

PM me I interested and if you want more clarifications

[darkmessiah2000]

If you like any of these we should be moots……

[ruinedholograms]

[theblehthatbloos]

I blacked out during the Bayle fight last weekend playing Elden Ring. Because it was alot more than I usually do on a weekend. After smoking with dad while watching Crisis, sharing a biggie ball on a whim with one of my work friends and staying up to talk to my homie that just had her baby, I hopped on to play.

I remember "Oh shi-" as I was given the drakes elbow and nothing after that.

I took a break on everything and went back to play because I assumed I lost and eventually walked away to get all the sleep I could get.

I check and I'm 20 levels higher, Bayle is gone, I have a new form, incantation, more spirit springs are unlocked all the way across the map, two dungeons cleared and wearing an entirely different set than I remember.

Miquella got me

[fllagellant]

Taking a small bg3 break and opened one of my other muses … darksiders 2 we really in it now

[finndoesntwantthis]

Anyway I’m thinking about baby 19 year old Matt Jackson being told by one of his heroes that not only is that hero gay, but that he has a crush on him, and that young, young, young man taking that into his heart, telling his hero he still loves him, and continuing to be there for him during terrifying mental health scares to the end. To have to take on those things he’s never experienced at such a young age and to have grown into an even more empathetic and sweet human being…Matt is one of the good ones 🥺

[princess-ibri]

I love your Jasmine villain story, and I was wondering does the genie of the ring have a name?

Thank you! Her name is Aynah!

[stefboread]

Мы подошли к кульминации нашего проекта - и открыли предзаказы на артбук "Antagonist GameBook" ❤❤❤

У нас там орда злодеев из самых разных игр аж на 54 страницах, в том числе, мои Краузер и Вескер, и целых 43 художника!

Подробности по предзаказам - в нашем паб��ике ВК !!

И да, у нас чудесный мерч, который можно, если что, заказать отдельно (от 3шт). Открытка с Карниссом и скетчбук - мои личные фавориты)))

[ringthedamnbell]

Grappling With Tragedy: Rob Rage

Grappling With Tragedy: Rob Rage

Brian Damage Grappling with Tragedy is a series of articles that deal with unfortunate, tragic incidents that have occurred throughout the history of professional wrestling. It is unlike the ‘Wrestling with Sin’ series that deals more with the seedier side of wrestling like arrests, murders and suicides. Grappling looks more at particular tragic incidents that have in some instances altered pro…

[seer-of-queer]

Im straight up about to start modding darkest dungeon so I can have characters based on the media i want as opposed to 15 thousand dark souls mods

[adirtykindoflaughter]

When your food bites back!

[chloe-skywalker]

I Won't Leave You - Cal Kestis

Cal x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

Word count: 240

Summary: Cal proves he loves you by saying he would never turn to the Darkside because of her.

Masterlist

STARWARS Masterlist

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“What’s wrong?” Cal asked as he comes to sit by Y/n. He noticed her acting off since they got back to the Mantis, and Cal wanted to know why.

“They gave you a good offer.” Y/n said not lifting her gaze from the floor, as she played with the rings on her fingers.

“Y/n-”

“You have to admit it’s an enticing one. No more running, no more hiding.” She let out a non amused laugh.

“I would never join the Empire. I’d never turn to the Darkside.” Cal speaks up, he knew that he was getting a little defensive but how could she think after they’ve been through he’d join the Empire and become a sith? “Why do you think I’d take their offer?”

Y/n sighed, still not looking at him. “It’d make your life easier.”

“I won’t leave you.” Cal stated grabbing her hands, making her look at him. “I could never leave you, and I’d never turn to the Darkside.”

“You mean that?” Y/n asked, looking at him with pleading eyes, hoping he truly meant that. That he wouldn’t leave her, or be taken from her like so many had been already.

“I mean every word.” Cal promises her, pulling her into him wrapping his arms around her tightly. He’d never become a Sith, he’d never join the Darkside of the Empire. Most of all he’d never leave Y/n. Not for anything.

taglist: @gruffle1 @padawancat97

[imagine-darksiders]

Mobsiders, chapter 1.

Timeless Unrest.

So, I'm trying something different here, this is a mafia au in which the Horsemen are mob bosses, and they take an interest in the Reader. This story will be set in the Universe of Darksiders, 2 years post-resurrection.

You are a self-proclaimed reporter, tasking yourself with hunting down a rumour that humans are being sold off-realm as slaves to a certain Demon Prince. At the centre of those rumours is one, particular family who control Haven City, and the Earth at large. You've been found out, and now you're going to have to meet the very beings you've been trying to expose.

--------

You’ve heard it said that a good journalist will face down threats every day in search of the truth, but a great journalist has already skirted so close to the truth that they’ve been privy to the inside of a burlap sack.

‘If there’s one thing to take out of this,’ you muse, panting for breath inside the coarse, stinking bag slung around your head as you’re dragged forwards down an unseen path, ‘At least I can finally say I’ve made it.’

Jesus… You’d only gone out to pick up your ration of milk for the week…

The passage of time seeps by at a disjointed rhythm when you can’t see. It seems only minutes ago you were trekking through the murky fog from your tiny, jerry-built apartment to the community centre near Fifth to collect your weekly rations. A small slip of card had been clutched protectively against your chest. On it, in little black writing was a short, unimaginative list.

'Bacon.'

'Milk.'

'Cheese.'

'Eggs.'

'Water.'

Two years since the Great Waking has seen Humanity still struggling to cobble their lives back together, and although supplies aren't nearly as sparse as they were in those first few months of chaos and disorder, people are still being careful with what little they have.

You'd been fantasising about how soon you'd see the word 'chocolate' appear on the list when, from out of nowhere, there was a loud squeal of tyres on tarmac, and something came careening to a halt behind you.

Strangely, it took you a moment to register what you were hearing.

When it eventually clicked, the first thought that sprang to mind was, ‘Who the Hell has a working car?’ Your second thought came moments later when you wheeled around just in time to see two, suited men plunge a sack down over your head and heave you bodily into an old, rusty car.

In the struggle you dropped your precious ration card.

The jolt of panic that shot up your spine was so potent, you almost managed to lurch right out of their grasp.

They weren’t expecting you to put up a fight, you suppose.

But how could they not? One of the cruellest aspects of the Great Waking was that humanity didn’t come back as new-born souls who had no recollection of their past lives. Instead, in a sick twist of fate, everyone, yourself included, can still recall how they died.

It sure as Hell made you want to avoid meeting a similar fate ever again.

Which is partly why you’d all but exploded into action when you were grabbed, thrashing your limbs, kicking, lurching sideways, gnashing your teeth to try and catch the burlap between them and tear your way out from the inside if you had to.

With all the ceremony of tossing out a bag of rubbish, you were flung, yowling like a terrified bearcat, and the hands left you for all of a blessed second before your back hit a stiff, leathery surface that punched the wind right out of you.

You can still remember the morbid satisfaction of kicking out and striking something solid that went ‘crunch!’ when it connected with the heel of your shoe.

It wasn’t as satisfying moments later when you were slugged so hard in the cheek, your head snapped back and your vision exploded into colourful speckles of light.

An engine had rumbled to life underneath you as car doors slammed shut, and through the ringing in your ears and swimming head, you caught snippets of conversation, mostly revolving around a broken nose and a call for tissues.

You have no idea how long you were in that car for. All you remember is just how peculiar it was to be in one again. Even more peculiar to realise it had been over a century since you sat on a leather seat with an engine purring against your spine.

You still fought, of course.

Borrowing strength from your fear, you struggled furiously against a weight settled on your legs and a pair of hands that kept your flailing wrists in their vice-like grip.

In hindsight, you regret fighting so hard in the car.

Now that you’re on your feet again, stumbling blindly through an unknowable building with half a chance at running away, you’re exhausted, mouth hoarse and dry from shrieking and limbs that tremble with terror and fatigue.

Your throat aches now, thick with emotions, and your cheek isn’t faring any better either, throbbing like it has its own heartbeat.

Even without the tears clinging to your lashes and muddying your view, the path ahead is still obscured from sight by your scratchy, unconventional headgear.

You’re inside a building. You can deduce that much.

And from the sounds of dress shoes clacking hurriedly on the floor below you, it’s either somewhere that’s been newly built, or a place that had remained miraculously untouched during the stretch of time between Humanity’s extinction and their resurrection.

The surface below you is perfectly and unusually smooth from what you can tell as you’re dragged along by two unknown thugs, neither of whom seem hindered by your stubborn efforts to dig the heels of your plimsolls into the floor, hoping to trip on a notch or bump.

It’s only been two years since the Great Waking, and all the buildings in Haven City have one thing in common that this place doesn’t.

Structurally, every single one of them is as rickety and unstable as a two-legged horse.

Yet this place has no creaky floorboards, no potholes left over from where the ground was blasted apart by a falling meteorite, no dip, sag, scoop or pocket to trip yourself up on and shake your kidnappers loose.

You try to focus on the pounding of footsteps, not your heart, nor the abject terror that tries to sink its teeth into you every time those bruising hands clench all the tighter around your arms and heave you upright again when your legs yield underneath you.

Eyes pinched shut, you force a kerosene-drenched breath in through your mouth and choke it out again, blowing droplets of sweat and tears off your upper lip.

You nearly bite your damn tongue off when ahead of you, something unlatches – ‘a door?’ – and you’re readjusted in the men’s grasp, two hands on each arm, keeping you marching forwards.

The toes of your plimsolls squeak against the hard floor as you’re dragged over a small bump and onto a different surface entirely.

Softer. More giving. The footfalls are quieter…

Carpet, you surmise.

“Ah, finally!”

Your hammering heart seizes up at the sound of a booming, unexpected voice that filters in through the fibrous gaps in your burlap prison. You’d almost grown used to the grunts and curses of the men hauling you along, it’s odd to hear actual words for a change.

“Boss,” one of the men at your side speaks up, his clear, nasally tone confirming he isn’t the one you’d kicked in the face, “Got ‘er right here, Boss! Just like you said.”

The breath hitches in your chest and you wrack your brains to place the first voice as it speaks again.

“Oh for- C’mon, guys. The sack? Really?” a distinctly male voice complains.

Your ears catch the sound of metal clinking, heavy footsteps on the carpet as their wearer draws closer to you… He sounds big, weighty, far more so than either of the two who lugged you in here.

‘Shit…’ you think, breathing hard. And when nothing more helpful springs to mind…‘Fuck!’

Stealing an iota of adrenaline from somewhere deep inside your guts, you start to struggle in earnest again, lips stuffed together to stop yourself from letting out any pitiable whimpers of distress. You have an awful, awful suspicion about whose turf you’re on, and it has everything to do with the little, red notebook currently locked in the top drawer of your bedside table.

“Sorry, Boss,” the nasally man to your left responds, shifting on his feet, “Gave us a little more trouble than we was expectin’. Look what she did to poor Dimitri.”

There’s a pause, in which you assume he must finally see the extent of your efforts to escape the car.

“Yeah,” the stranger eventually says, “I noticed that… S’it bad?”

The man to your right – Dimitri, you infer – huffs out an acidic hiss through his teeth and starts to dig blunted fingernails into your sleeve, upping the pressure until you wince beneath the sack.

“Broke my fucken’ nose,” he sneers in a voice that’s thick and wet, as if he’s bunged up with a bad cold, “F’she knocked any teeth out, this little bitch’d be-“

“-HEY.”

It’s alarming how one simple word can crack across the room like a bolt of lightning, raising the hairs on the nape of your neck and causing Dimitri to choke on his tongue in his haste to fall silent. Instinctively, you flinch away from the shout, as far as the hands will allow, though you can’t help but notice that the men on either side of you do the same thing, each taking a quick, aborted step back before they seem to remember themselves and stop in their tracks.

Nobody says a word. You don’t because you’re loathe to draw that kind of wrath down on your own head, and the men don’t for much the same reason.

Another heavy boot falls to the carpet with a dull, metallic ‘clunk,’ far closer to you than it was before, and when its wearer draws in a breath, you can hear the creak and stretch of leather as it expands to compensate a prodigious chest.

… He’s standing directly in front of you…

“… I catch you usin’ that kind of language about this lady again,” the stranger growls, his once casual tone now deep and dark as a mineshaft, likely just as dangerous, “And I might just forget that you humans aren’t bulletproof.”

‘Humans…? Oh, God…’ Gulping audibly, you try to keep your breaths shallow and quiet; a difficult feat when the air around you is disturbed by the terribly familiar ‘click’ of a gun’s hammer locking into position.

From within the muffled pocket of your hood, the sound is almost deafening.

Throat closed around several, trapped sobs, you hold your breath and clench your eyes shut, expecting that at any moment, you’re going to hear a man die.

But then…

“Understood…” Dimitri says, hesitating for a second before he quickly adds, “Sir.”

How he managed to speak without his voice quaking, you’ll never know.

With bated breath, you wait for his Boss’s verdict.

When it comes, the stranger’s voice bounces back to its jocular lilt in a turnaround violent enough to leave you with whiplash.

“Good!” he announces promptly, “Can’t have her thinkin’ we’re a bunch of monsters.”

His tone shifts again as he aims it at you.

“Now then...”

Gentle, amicable, friendliness wrapped in a cloak of deception. You know how loud his voice can be, so this unexpected softness means nothing to you.

“Let’s get you outta there, n’ see that pretty face up close…”

Oh, if only you could will yourself to dematerialise and sink through the floorboards like you’ve seen so many demons do on a whim.

Finding your voice, you shake your head, eyes wild behind the sack as they flit from side to side. “Please,” you croak, fruitlessly trying to peel your arms away from the hands rooting you to the spot, “I-I haven’t seen your face, I don’t know who you are, just-!”

Enormous, unnaturally cool fingers brush against the bottom of the sack, wriggling under the twine and tugging the knot loose. In an instant, you reel backwards, throwing your head as far away from the touch as you can, chest heaving hysterically when the man simply follows your motions.

“Just let me go home!” you sob, realising that maybe you aren’t cut out for this, after all.

A reporter. You could spit at the idea now. What the Hell were you thinking? You could have taken up with the group who left to build farmlands outside the city. You could be relaxing on a maker-built porch right now after a hard day of planting those precious seeds an angel found in Svalbard.

You could have picked up a hammer and set to work patching the holes in a shelter's roof, or jumped in a wagon that trundles around the city, distributing supplies and medical aid.

There are no jobs anymore. People are too busy focusing on the rebuilding effort, trying to restore an entire world and its civilisation to something functional once again. Nearly everyone wants to help, in their own way.

And what did you decide to do, to help? You thought it would be a grand idea to pick up a pen and a notebook and chase down information, scribbling out newsletters from the rickety desk in your apartment and distributing them around the city by hand.

And that foolish decision has led you here, to your doom. You'd grown too cocky, thought nobody would pay attention to one, little human trying to track down the sources of rumours that people are being sold off-world as slaves.

A mellow chuckle rolls from a throat high above your head and resonates inside your ribcage. “Easy, sweetheart,” the stranger coos, gripping the sack and raising it carefully up over your face, adjusting easily to the way you twist your neck from side to side, “You’re all right.”

When the burlap finally pulls free of your eyes, you can’t keep yourself from squinting against the sudden intrusion of light, blinking rapidly to clear your vision.

“There you are,” the voice says, quiet with barely contained wonder.

Keeping your head locked straight ahead of you, you finally manage to peel your eyelids apart and free the tears that were trapped behind them. Little tracks roll down the curves of your cheeks and gather on your chin as the body in front of you comes into focus.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Fuck. And shit.

You’ve been flying too close to the sun, haven’t you, Icarus? Now you’re going to die, and what came of it? What was it all for? Exposing a corrupt family to the world. A world who could do nothing to fight back even if you armed them with knowledge?

There’s nowhere you can look that isn’t absolutely covered by armour. You can't even see the room beyond it.

A vast torso stretches across your field of view, protected entirely by segments of silver armour. Each interlocking part connects with another seamlessly to fit over the swollen muscles of a body built solely for destruction.

Every inch of it is marred with a constellation of scratches, welts, and age-old scorch marks tarnishing the silver black in places, and from waist to chest span three, distinct gouges that have torn through the armour entirely, leaving thin lines through the metal and giving you an uninterrupted glimpse of black, skin-tight leather beneath.

Something big had left those marks, and still he'd come out the victor.

Everything your bulging eyes take in attests to a life lived in battle, and a survivor of all that have made an attempt on his life.

You don’t want to look up. You’ve heard a rumour that to meet his eyes is akin to slapping a hungry bear on its snout. Your eyes can’t see high enough to glimpse the mask you suspect is tilted down at you anyway.

You know what you’ll see if you do. You know the man standing in front of you, perhaps not personally, perhaps more than you should, perhaps not at all. His name is scribbled on almost every page in your notebook.

Gritting your teeth, you swallow thickly and instead, allow your gaze to creep lower, away from the eyes burning a hole into the top of your head.

You regret looking down almost immediately when your stare lands on the butt of an enormous, silver revolver jutting from a holster strapped to his hips, so large that it would make any ordinary man who wields it look like a toddler trying to play with a cannon.

An audible whimper falls through your teeth as you flick your gaze sideways and see the second gun you already knew was there.

You swear you can feel several pints of blood drain from your face.

These guns are about as infamous as their wielder. And you’re standing within spitting distance of all three.

“O-oh, shit,” you stutter through buzzing teeth. And really, what else is there to say?

You’re in the den of one of the most dangerous beings in the Universe. One of four, in fact.

You’ve heard so many names accredited to him.

Endless Spirit of Timeless Unrest is your personal favourite for nothing else but the sheer pageantry of it.

He’s a killer, a monster, spreading desolation and terror everywhere he goes…

Worse still, before the End War and Earth’s downfall, you and everyone else assumed he was nothing more than a fairy-tale written into the pages of an old, allegorical book.

After all, a Horseman of the Apocalypse? It was always such an outlandish idea.

Until it wasn’t. Until he wasn’t.

“Hah…”

You give a start at the soft chuckle rumbling above your head.

“Not the reaction I was hopin’ for, but beggars can’t be choosers…”

You try to keep your tear-blurred vision on the armoured torso in front of you, but the decision to of inaction is stolen from you seconds later when a gargantuan, metal gauntlet rises up in front of your face.

Startling, you buck against the goons pinning you in place as he extends a finger and slips it underneath your chin.

You cram your lips together, fighting to stop that impossibly strong hand from tilting your head back.

Eyes rolling with fright, your face crumples and you let out a wheezing sob that catches in your throat as your gaze is forced up past a monstrous, armoured chest, then over a thick neck until finally, when you can hardly muster up the courage to draw in a rattling breath… there he is, staring down at you with eyes that exude all the qualities of a predator. Bright and yellow like melted gold, illuminating the silver helm that conceals every other feature from view.

Thick spikes of hair jut from the back of it, and you're reminded more of sharp, ebony horns belonging to that of a demon, rather than anything human.

Above you looms the man who holds Haven City and all the world in the palm of his unforgiving hand.

Of their own accord, your quivering lips peel apart and release his name into the air like a curse, uttered in terrified reverence.

“Strife.”