#countthelions

[saphushia]

I would loveeeee to hear your weird creeper hcs 🙏🙏🙏

YES YAY THANK YOU 🌟

okay so i guess first off. i hc silverfish to be larval creepers. that, in addition with a creeper's diet (and silverfish's, of course) consisting of ore, is why creepers explode players. see, when creepers explode, their eggs are embedded in the surrounding terrain. as players often carry ores on them, a creeper managing to explode a player and drop their inventory means the silverfish that hatch are almost guaranteed a very generous meal upon first hatching. after that, silverfish burrow underground to continue eating, and to stay safe until they're ready to metamorphise into creepers

(bonus doc lore at the end of the post 🐐)

creepers emerge from the ground at night because that's when it's generally safest for them to finish the final stages of development and gather their bearings. creepers themselves cannot dig or burrow, so they stay on the surface (or in a cave, if that's where they emerged) for the remainder of their life.

the combustion is the result of a chemical reaction- they store reactive materials in chambers in their body, and when they're released and come into contact with each other it causes an explosion as a side note, creepers can eat meat, but are more scavengers than hunters, and only eat it when it's readily available with little to no risk.

moving onto doc (because i'll never pass up a chance for blorbo talk), his anatomy is somewhat different from a standard creeper due to all the modifications to give him a more 'human' bodyplan and appearance.

his forelegs were originally removed and reattached to act as arms, however his spine and leg joints weren't built for a bipedal upright stance, so it gives him back, knee, and ankle pain to walk like that too much. his retractable robotic forelegs were a later addition he made for himself as a mobility aid to help relieve that pain. because of that he has a slightly more 'taur' like body structure, vs standard creepers whose necks are centered between all 4 legs. originally both his arms had 3 digits each (as they were made by modifying his legs), but when he made his right arm prosthetic he gave it a 5-fingered, more human-like shape for easier manipulation of stuff designed for human use

his combustion chambers were also removed long ago, so he can no longer explode himself (which he doesn't really mind. not big on the whole 'one panic away from exploding himself to death' thing)

he can digest a larger range of food than standard creepers can, but he still needs to eat ores to keep a nutritionally balanced diet. mostly he eats non-mineral foods just because he likes the taste, rather than actual nutritional value. it's recommended not to eat anything he makes for himself, because even if it looks like smth a human can eat, it's probably seasoned with redstone or iron shavings (he is good at making human-safe food, but he has no reason to make his own meals human safe. only eat doc's cooking if you know it's meant to be shared)

his scales are also softer, fading into something more similar to rough skin on a lot of his body. his 'hair' is thicker than a human's but thinner than a creeper's scales- it has almost a quill like texture. he can still 'hiss' by rattling them, but it's a somewhat different pitch than your standard creeper.

he also has a lot of mods on his neck to allow him to speak, and his robotic eye sees far better than a creeper's (slightly above human average, vs creeper eyes which are far below a human average). also a lot of questional brain/head mods to give him a more human appearing face and human-level cognition. his horns however are purely aesthetic.

[silverskye13]

doodle request :o ur sona dressed as your favorite hermit?

That was deceptively fun :3

[iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid]

bc its the Season(tm): top five favorite holiday foods

oh EASY

green bean casserole

my grandmom's crab bisque which she makes every holiday because we're all obsessed with it

stuffing, specifically boxed stovetop

a gobbler sandwich

green bean casserole again

[wilsonpussyindulgence]

the sea and the sky and you and i

relationships: gregory house/james wilson words: 8k summary: Wilson keeps secrets, and House avoids him. Everyone said House was gonna be the death of him.

Wilson gives himself six months to live. It’s not the worst prognosis he’s ever given. He goes through all the regular emotions, starting with pissed off and ending up mostly resigned. Everyone said House was going to be the death of him. This is probably what he deserves.

So he goes to work. He meets with patients. He does his clinic hours. He avoids House, but not enough to look suspicious. He goes home to the condo, he goes to bed early. He wakes up and does it all again. The good news is that these last sixth months are going to feel like forever. And House has always called Wilson an optimist.

The nights are too long this time of year. Wilson spends hours in bed, staring at his ceiling. Especially now. He feels feverish, a lot of the time, and it makes it hard to sleep, too warm under the blankets, too clammy to go without. He sometimes wakes up with blood in his mouth. The petals aren’t too frequent so far, and he’s yet to choke out a whole flower, which confirms he was right about his timeline. For now, he has some discomfort, some inconvenience, some moderate humiliation. Things could be worse.

read more on ao3

[murkshade]

Fanclans!!!!! Whats your favorite part of the territories?? Is it multiple clans, one clan? What's it's name :o?

I have been redesigning the characters slowly, they can be found on tumblr and on toyhouse! Here are the links-

Tumblr - Meadowclan | Cragclan

Toyhouse - Meadowclan | Cragclan

As for the territories, I have not yet been able to create a solid map, though I do have an extensive cave system planned for Cragclan that will include a lot of fun stuff.

As for the name of the project as a whole, I haven't yet been able to come up with something. Though as soon as I get to updating the bios of the characters I am making, I will probably get a better idea!

[thestarshire]

what sort of information will you be wanting with the application? will there be a 'preserver' discord to chat with everyone before acceptance, or will it be submitted separately and if you're accepted, you'll get the invite?

Thank you for your question!

It will be a pretty standard roleplay application, with a section asking for the applicants information (preferred name, tumblr url, discord name, etc) and then an application for your starting character!

The second section will ask for basic information on your character so that we get a good idea on who they are and how they can fit into the group. This will also include a question asking for a roleplay sample as well as a section for extra notes if you would like to include something about your character that doesn't fit in any other section OR if you would like to request something about them that you aren't sure can be assumed as ok.

All questions on this application will be answered before you are added! As for the invitations, only those who are accepted will be given invites to a discord at the end of the acceptance period (may take a few days after the official closing so that reviewing can be done).

[copper-skulls]

ooh random questions time!! what's your favorite part of grillby (any au version) to draw? what's your favorite part of gaster to draw :O? which of your skellys lives rent-free the most often, like when you see a random thing and your brain goes: yeah it's X time

ohohoho >:] thank you lions!!!

I love drawing all my flames, but the particular fave right now is Kindling's little fangs and sneaking in little hearts into both his flames and FRECKLES!! I love drawing his little freckles...

For Gasters in general I just. Love drawing their faces and figuring out how to get the emotion I wanted from them, even if the results aren't the most stable ""model""-wise lol. And with TD Gaster in particular I love the little dark specks around his neck and hands - guess I'm a sucker for small details ahaha. + one other thing about him but That's Technically A Spoiler For Now.

As for which skelly lives rent free in my brain the most, uh, erm..

Two deaths Gaster still takes the cake lol. I've picked up caterpillars off the curb and thought of him wheezes, and I mean. The newest post in the tag I keep for him on my main is a drawing of a pathetic-eyed moth. He's got my brain in a stranglehold, despite not being the skele I draw the most rn lol. I just. There's so much to TD that I cannot talk about yet so my brain compensates by spinning him constantly. It is Always the Many-pocketed-mop-of-a-skeleton time.

[skullshoal]

Reaches!! OC lore whoever pops into your heart first

I'm talking about this guy <3 His name is Luna

The setting is pirates. I wrote it when I was very young and read one piece once. It has since Severely Diverged. But anyway.

He's a giant sea serpent. He has 3 forms, Giant snake, half snake as pictured above, and human with legs. The sea serpents are colloquially called Basilisks. No one knows a lot about them because they literally just sink your ship and murder you, but for some reason he saved the other main character, a pirate named Crest, from a ship wreck in a storm, and has since been following her around, much to the horror of literally everyone who has a sense of self preservation.

Also he's albino. Most Basilisks blend in with the sea.

[the-haiku-bot]

ALTLast 20 rows

then this bad boy is ready

to be washed and blocked

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

Last 20 rows then this bad boy is ready to be washed and blocked

[laddertek]

@countthelions (tumblr ate this when I tried to save my answer as a draft, so we improvise 🙃)

This one? :D

This whole stream was delightful. What a way to return 🤗

Tango was so happy energetic.

And from Tango calling Etho's storage system cute and Etho in gamechat going "CUTE?!" (00:41:07). To the razzing (and laughing) over shops (00:49:00 and 01:03:49). Etho taking Tango's head twice, and it all being so playful (00:58:11). Etho using Tango's catchphrases 🥹🥹🥹 It gets me every time! "porkchop power" "flee with extra flee!" And the way he said it was the cutest, and Tango's giggle about it too (01:00:59). Etho offering to give the tour Tango wanted. More mail talk and laughing guilt and planning and razzing and teaching Etho to do the stamps. Tango complimenting the path (and that Etho showed it to him when he first came back when Etho came to say hi) (01:15:41). They still plan on doing their sand-collection-off (01:35:06).

And of course the whole TNTificating with Etho's new "boom boom tech" (01:39:43--02:15:17) was just…the most fun. They are having the most fun together...it's an absolute joy. (And it's also them collaborating on how to figure out a redstone thing together which is just so satisfying.) Just...TOO MANY (!!!) (so many) fun moments in that whole TNT section that I can't even start on highlighting them all 😭 I'd need another mammoth paragraph...

Honestly??? Still smiling. Great great great stream 🥹

Timestamps are for YouTube not Twitch because Tango was so fast on getting the VOD up lmao

[saphushia]

If you're still doing these, trick or treat efo style? Or just hermits if you don't have any etho wips !

out of context comic panel sketch

[silverskye13]

Swordhearted -- Pt 2

You can read part 1 of this AU here TW for graphic depictions of violence, character death

______________________________________________________________

Welsknight hasn’t drawn the sword in two weeks. He counts it as a point of pride. Two weeks of running through the wilderness, surviving on little more than his wits, what is left of his pack and the treasure he found when he escaped the Vault that nearly killed him, and what he can scrounge from the wilderness. He considered, once or twice, returning to a town somewhere. He considered selling the sword and being rid of its curse. He considered drawing it and asking it a lot, a lot, of questions. Like how it knows to look like his dead brother. Like how long it has been stuck inside a sword. Like if it is, was, a person. Like if it is, was, alive.

Welsknight hasn’t drawn the sword in two weeks. He counts it as a point of pride.

There’s probably something going on here about knights and temptation. The sword is probably a demon? Or demonic. Or, like he mentioned before, cursed. He pulled it off a dead body, after all, and the Spirit of the Sword had been pretty upset about that dead body. The Spirit of the Sword had been upset about a lot of things; like being stuck in a Vault, and being threatened with going back in the sword, and cutting through all the malicious undead trying to kill them in the Vault. Welsknight had, admittedly, been a little abrupt when they cut their way free of the place. Seeing the image of his dead brother covered in blood and zombie-bites, holding a broken arm, and smiling up at the sun like it was the first time he’d seen it in years – Welsknight had slammed the sword in its sheath and ran.

Welsknight hasn’t drawn the sword in two weeks. He counts it as a point of pride, and definitely not an object of shame, and avoidance, and fear.

He’s about to break his streak.

Welsknight is running through the woods at a full gallop, stretched out over the neck of his horse, praying to every god and saint and, yes, every demon, that his horse doesn’t trip and break her leg or her neck. It is dark, and the world is a blur of shifting, baffling shades of blue and grey, and behind him, like thunder, the bandits are following. He had hoped they wouldn’t. Most people aren’t stupid enough to run breakneck through the woods on a good, bright day, let alone the middle of the night where visibility becomes the next branch crashing against your face, but they’re doing it. He’s doing it. They had been trailing him for days, ever since they passed at the crossroads and they clocked the treasure he was carrying from the Vault. Never mind that all that treasure amounts to is two swords (one definitely probably cursed, one mundane), a handful of coins older than the Vault Gods themselves, and some tarnished jewelry. It is, at best, a small fortune, and certainly not worth anyone’s life. But when they caught up with him, they had informed him, in no uncertain terms, it would be his life. Welsknight is, admittedly, carrying on him a second small fortune in armor – thus is the life of a knight. It probably has a high resale value, it being half enchanted. In hindsight, the attempted mugging might have more to do with the armor than the treasure, but regardless, he is in the mood to lose his life over neither.

Welsknight’s horse is tiring. He is a good rider in the saddle, and he can tell the beast is done in. He is a lot to carry when he is in full harness, and they have been galloping for far, far too long. Still, he clings to her neck and whispers encouragement. There is a flickering in the dark to his left, one of the bandits drawing up alongside. Welsknight reaches for his sword and thinks about drawing it. He can manage maybe one good lunge, if luck will allow it, and no tree takes his arm off at the shoulder. He is too scared to risk it. He thinks long and hard about reaching for the other sword. The Spirit of the Sword would certainly be a good distraction, if they didn’t just whip right past it and into the dark. Welsknight doesn’t draw the sword. His hand shakes around the hilt, and he thinks about how good it would be to hear his brother’s voice, even coming from someone who isn’t him, and he doesn’t draw the sword.

And then his horse trips in the dark. 

It was only a matter of time. He has that clear, succinct, uninterrupted thought as she stumbles and falls: it was only a matter of time. He loses consciousness, briefly, when he hits the ground, and regains it again before his horse scrambles to her feet. He is a lot slower to rise. He’s wheezing, winded, and there are stars in his eyes that blind him even more than the dark forest does. There is thunder in the ground, and it passes him close, close. Too damn close. Hoofprint-by-his-head close. It is a battle to keep from curling up on the ground and praying he doesn’t get trampled. There’s a chance, a chance, they didn’t see him fall. 

Welsknight stumbles to his feet, and wheezing and sore and sick with adrenaline he runs back the way he came. He doesn’t make it far. Something punches into his knee, hard, and he goes down again screaming. The arrow that hit him isn’t stuck in his leg -- thank gods thank gods -- but where it hit the plate of his grieve something is desperately bruised. Welsknight limps to his feet again, and the thunder of hooves is something that aches in his already swelling joint. One of the beasts leaps out at him from the dark, its rider rolling free of the saddle like an acrobat, and Welsknight barely has time to draw his (mundane, uncursed) sword to catch their blade. They clash twice and then the bandit breaks, circling, pacing. 

A bandit is not a match for a knight.

Four bandits and an archer, however, can kill a knight handily.

Two more of the thugs dismount and barrel forward, while the fourth stays back to grab reins and keep horses from bolting. Welsknight is caught between two swords and an ax, and it's barely a contest. He parries, blocks, limps his way backwards. The ax puts a handy cleft in his sword arm, and Welsknight doesn’t feel it because of the adrenaline, but he knows it's bad. Then a sword dips in like a sewing needle, darning the place where his chestplate parts near his hip, and Welsknight can feel his blood like a river down his leg, and adrenaline turns to panic. There is a tree at his back, and nowhere to run, and his sword arm is getting hard to lift -- and a second well-shot arrow between bandit shoulders hits him square in the chest. There is a brief moment where all the air leaves Welsknight’s lungs and he thinks, once more, with fully-formed crystal clarity: it was only a matter of time. And then, with equal clarity: that’s it. I’m dead. 

Except if he were dead, no one would bother grabbing him by the tabard and throwing him off his feet. A boot lands against the wound in his side, and Welsknight screams.

“Shut up, tin can,” one of the bandits snaps at him with disdain. “Unless you’re in a hurry to quit breathing.”

Welsknight gasps for wasting breath and tries very, very hard to stop screaming. It’s difficult. The boot is a relentless weight on his wounded side, pinning him to the ground, grinding his hip downward. His breath wheezes through battered and winded lungs, impeded by a new dent in his breastplate that won’t let his chest expand all the way. He’s going to die here, he knows, he knows, he’s going to die here. Or they’re going to make him wish he had. There is a brief, heady moment, where Welsknight fervently wishes he’d broken his neck when his horse threw him, and he retracts it almost instantly when the bandit shifts his weight, and the pressure on his side eases. Animal panic gives way to the animal need to live like a tide ebbing, and Welsknight finally, finally, manages to ease his cries into something closer to a grunt and a whimper. 

There are tears running down his face. He couldn’t stop them if he wanted to. He hopes it's too dark to make them out. He always cries when he’s scared. He’s not ashamed of it, not in any way that matters. Still, he would rather not go to the grave while his captors laugh over the crybaby knight who sobbed while they robbed him. He still had pride.

“Alright,” the bandit declares when they’ve caught Welsknight’s rampant horse, and grinds his boot heel down. Welsknight chokes on his next breath, and stars bloom in his eyes, and it takes a force of will to pay attention to what the bandit is saying. “You got a castle or fief you hail from in the next ten leagues, knight? Someone who will pay to take you back?”

Welsknight groans, both because of the pain and because of the question. Someone -- not the bandit pinning him -- reaches down and unbuckles his sword belt. They could at least wait until he’s dead to start pilfering, surely.

“E-err--- errant,” Welsknight manages through grinding teeth as the bandit leans more weight on him. He reaches a gauntleted fist to clasp at the offending boot, and its slick against his fingers from his own blood. At the realization, Welsknight’s head gives a nauseous spin. How much is he bleeding? He can’t tell. “I’m-- I’m-- kn-knight errant.”

“I don’t give two shits about your name,” the bandit snaps, and Welsknight would have laughed, if the comment hadn’t come with another grinding twist from the boot heel. Welsknight gasps, and chokes on air again.

“Hey boss,” someone calls, a breakthrough in Welsknight’s buzzing hearing, “this sword’s silvered.”

“You think this guy’s a monster hunter?” someone else asks, sounding distant and bored, and high overhead. Horseback level, Welsknight thinks headily. The archer, maybe.

“Errant,” Welsknight gasps again desperately. “N-n-no castle. N-no lands. I do-- I do quests. For hire. Like. Hah.” It’s not funny. It’s never funny. But he’s heard the joke in taverns a thousand times. “L-l-like an-- an-- expensive. M-mercenary. With a t-title.”

The bandit above him swears. It’s not the answer he wants to hear.

“Last chance to save your life, tin can,” the bandit leans over him, and the movement against Welsknight’s wounded side is breath-taking. It is such a starburst-white, lightning-strike pain he can feel it run up and down his spine, and briefly wonders if the bandit has found a way to tear him in half just by standing on him. “Who will pay a ransom for you? Wife, brother, parents, rich uncle…”

At the word brother Welsknight’s vision briefly blurs over. Gods, his brother. He should have drawn the sword, just to hear the voice again. Even derisive and scornful, and divorced from any speech patterns that were familiar, it would have been nice. Then a clicking makes it to Welsknight’s ears, the puzzling sound of someone trying to draw a sword from a sheath, and never quite managing to clear the leather. Like a--

“A lock?” one of the bandits spits, outraged. “Who puts a lock on a gods-damned sword?”

Welsknight’s vision focuses past the bandit standing over him, to the ax-weilder standing a few steps away. The bandit who had, apparently, taken his swords. She is holding the cursed blade, trying with no success to open it, which is strange to Welsknight because it had slid open with ease beneath his fingertips. The rust around the scabbard was superficial, and pulled apart with ease.

“ ‘S enchanted,” Welsknight says, desperate enough to lie. Desperate. Desperate enough to tell the truth, even, if it means just a little longer alive. “It-- it-- responds t-to my touch.”

The bandits exchange wary glances. Welsknight counts them again. Four, one holding horses. Somewhere, there’s an archer. One of the horses is in his periphery, that one perhaps.

“I can d-draw it for you.”

“What kind of enchanted blade is it?” The bandit pinning him down asks. He doesn’t grind his boot against Welsknight’s wounded side, but he doesn’t release any pressure. He isn’t a fool. That’s a shame. Welsknight would prefer the bandit be stupid.

“S-silvered,” Welsknight says, not a lie. “For w-werewolves n-- n vampires n things. Locks so it can’t-- can’t be stolen, or t-tarnish. It’s got--” he searches his memory for a low-level enchantment a knight errant might possibly be able to afford, “-- flame. Needs recharged. It’ll still spark. If. If I draw it.”

The bandit narrows his eyes at Welsknight. Finally he leans against his heel and says loudly, emphatically, so Welsknight can hear it over the sound of his own rushing heartbeat and need to faint, “No funny business.”

Welsknight wonders if he’s supposed to laugh. Then the sword’s hilt is down by his hand. He reaches, and tries not to look desperate. He reaches and tries not to look like a liar. His hand shakes. He thinks he might pass out anyway. The blade slips free with a smooth grin of silver.

When Welsknight drew the blade for the first time, Helsknight had been in the middle of screaming at his previous owner. It seemed when the blade was sheathed, it caught him in whatever moment he had last been lost in, frozen in time. So, when the blade pulled free this time, slowly glimmering its moonlight smile up at the bandit pinning Welsknight to the forest floor, Helsknight came back into the world the same way he left it last. He had been standing still, his sword in his hand, staring up at the sky in open-faced relief and mute wonder.

Helsknight came back to the world quietly, a shade who was simply, suddenly, there. The shape of him was hard to see. He wore the dark stained armor of Welsknight’s dead brother, and carried his dark, tempered blade. Only his plume held color, a flickering red that, with no light to catch, was merely a frond-like outline of feather and horsehair in the night. Welsknight only knew he was there because he could smell his brother’s blend of sealing wax and armor polish suddenly light on the night air, and could feel the sudden, radiating anger, like a wight on a tombstone.

The bandit pinning Welsknight to the ground is headless, and his body slumps ingloriously to the side, hardly aware of its parting. The ax-wielder lets out one sucking breath through a hole in her lungs and dies. Then the night is filled with the sound of steel and screaming. The remaining two bandits demand to know what is happening, who is here, and get only cold, bristling silence. An arrow whistles by in the dark and hits something. Welsknight tries to watch, tries to see who is wounded, how and why. He can only place Helsknight in points of darkness just darker than the surrounding trees. Helsknight wields his sword two-handed, like he is used to something longer and heavier, and he meets the steel of the two bandits with the ringing shivers of broken bells. Another deadly whistle sounds, another hit, and Welsknight watches Helsknight stagger. There is a grunt of lost air, and something that could be a shrug, and one of the bandits dies. 

“I’ll carve you to pieces!” The last one declares boldly, breathless and terrified. “I’ll put so many holes in you they’ll make a puzzle out of you in the afterlife! I’ll--!”

Something tears through his throat, and his words are lost in an ugliness of blood that makes Welsknight squeamish just to hear. The Spirit of the Sword, which looks and sounds like Helsknight, Welsknight’s dead brother, laughs bitterly and says, “If only I could be so lucky.”

There is thunder in the ground. The archer is running away. Welsknight takes a deep breath, and another, and realizes the night has gotten so dark because he’s been holding his breath. The relief very nearly steals it from him, and he lies on the cold ground gasping in relief, a hand bunched into a fist against his hip, and he can’t catch his breath. His other hand scrabbles at the dirt, and he thinks, if he can just sit up, he can breathe better. He thinks if he can just drag his back against a tree, he can catch his breath and figure out how badly he’s hurt, and he can, maybe, get the voice of his brother responding to death threats with if only I could be so lucky  out of his head, because his brother is dead. His brother is dead. His brother is--

-- staring down at him. He’s taken the helmet off -- he never liked helmets really, did he? -- and he’s standing over him. Welsknight has to try very, very hard to keep his mind present. He has to remind himself over and over that he hasn’t died, and his dead brother isn’t here to take his soul away. The thing that has his brother’s face but isn’t actually his brother makes it better, and worse, by opening his mouth and speaking.

“What the hell, man?” Helsknight demands, reaching bloody hands down to grab him and drag him against the tree he’s desperately trying to crawl towards. “Five against one? You thought you could take on five against one? Are you literally stupid, or did they invent a new brand of crazy while I was in the sword?”

Welsknight tries to respond, but the jostling to get him against the tree takes his breath away. That, and something is prodding him in the shoulder, and it takes too long to realize that there is an arrow shaft sticking out of Helsknight, and the feathers keep brushing him. There are two arrows in Helsknight, actually. One is in his collar, a very lucky shot that cinched between the breastplate and the gorget. The other is in his back somewhere, the tufts of feathers flickering around every time Helsknight moves.

“S-shot,” Welsknight says helplessly, baffled the Spirit is still moving.

“Stabbed, actually,” Helsknight hums dispassionately, unbuckling Welsknight’s chestplate like he’s done it a thousand times. The minute the buckles are undone, Welsknight takes a breath that's at least two times deeper than all the others, and his focus returns from the odd, overhead place it's been retreating to with a suddenness that feels like waking up. “It doesn’t look terribly deep, but you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“You’re shot,” Welsknight corrected. “Gods -- do you not feel pain?”

Helsknight looks down at himself briefly. “Of course I do. It just stops mattering after a while, doesn’t it?”

“That’s-- that’s your collar,” Welsknight points out, because it seems important. “There’s big veins there. You’ll-- your arm--”

“We’ll worry about you first.”

“And your back--”

Helsknight lets out a heavy sigh that implies being shot twice with arrows really isn’t that big of a deal, and, in spite of his assurances that he can, in fact, feel pain, Welsknight watches him wrap his tabard around his fist, reach up to the arrow in his front, and yank it free. It is not a quick process. Being so close to the act, where Welsknight can hear and, he thinks, almost feel the motion himself, makes him abruptly want to be sick. The arrow is barbed, and doesn’t come out cleanly, and there is a lot of blood. Helsknight removes it soundlessly, his only sign of discomfort the curl of his lip, like he’s been forced to smell something rotten. Then the arrow is gone, and Helsknight tosses it into the dark where it’s lost forever in the leaf litter.

“There, happy?” Helsknight demands. “Now, if you would shut up for two seconds, I can--”

Welsknight doesn’t even know he’s still holding the sword and its sheath, until he’s abruptly clicking it shut. Helsknight disappears just as quickly as he was summoned, gone in a blink, with little fanfare. Welsknight is left gasping in the dark, watching the swaying canopy of leaves far overhead, fervently praying its wind making them twist, and not his reawakening need to pass out on the ground. Welsknight closes his eyes. He sees the thing that isn’t his brother pull an arrow from his chest like it’s nothing, and opens his eyes again. On the forest floor in front of him are bodies, and past them, his horse is waiting with the quiet patience of an animal long bonded to him.

Welsknight closes his eyes again and, with the abruptness of someone falling into a well, drops into sudden sleep.

[iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid]

Trick or treat!!!! 💀

HERE YOU GO FRIENDO 🍫🍫🍫

this is a snippet from a fic i'm about 20k words deep into, which was a commission with the prompt "loki and clint forced to team up, post avengers" and i was just. unbelievably stoked to write it. after chatting with the commissioner (commissionee?) we landed on an alternate universe where, after the avengers, loki stays on earth and is detained by shield (cough hydra cough) instead of going back to asgard. a few months later clint gets abducted by hydra for nefarious evil supervillain reasons, and loki's also currently detained by hydra... you can see where this might be going:

-

-

-

Look. Clint can admit when he makes a boneheaded move. He can admit when he lets his biases get the better of him. And now, in hindsight, it’s pretty clear that that’s exactly what happened when he saw Loki step into that room.

These are the facts Clint has now:

Loki was being detained by S.H.I.E.L.D. until he vanished. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been infiltrated by Hydra. Now Hydra has Loki instead. For the brief few seconds that Clint saw him, Loki somehow looked even more like shit than he did when he spent a week letting a couple Infinity Stones suck the life out of him, even worse than he did after going a few rounds with the Hulk. And he was accompanied by no less than three Hydra agents, all of whom were decked out in full head-to-toe Kevlar and wielding automatic weapons.

So, either Loki is not here of his own free will, or he’s making one hell of an effort to look like he isn’t.

And what’s worse: That Hydra is capable of keeping Loki detained against his will, or that Loki’s here on purpose and he’s actually playing them all for idiots, building up to some grander, more terrifying plan than the one he enacted in New York?

The second one, dumbass, Clint thinks immediately. The second one’s worse.

[wilsonpussyindulgence]

New interview with a vamp or old movie interview with a vamp?

okay, this is VERY easy because i do actually really enjoy the movie (kirsten dunst's claudia i LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU), brad pitt fucking SUCKS in it. complete waste of air. like, cannot believe tom cruise didn't throw the most epic shit fit on trying to serve cunt while up against that complete wet sack

also AMC IWTV gave me assad zaman a person i'm completely COMPLETELY normal about and had real gay sex in it. OH and changing louis de pointe de lac to NOT be a slave owner. great choice. thank you rolin jones and also god

alright i'm online and ready to rumble

MAKE ME CHOOSE

[murkshade]

Finished commission for @countthelions!

[thestarshire]

What were names before the current approach? Just regular like, fireheart and cinderpelt?

The original names were like Snappers, just a single word that was chosen by their parents at birth or was selected later in life on their own! Most cats changed to the new system when Drift took over and introduced it, but some older cats kept their old names.