#hey its kay

[al-luviec]

(+ bonus thing)

[wh0re43van]

I’m gnawing at the iron bars of my enclosure

[amaneyuiki]

its just Kai and Nya in young garmadon and wu clothes nothing much maybe they cosplaying who knows i just did that randomly

[nyaskitten]

You ever get that feeling where like, you're perfectly fine criticizing and disliking aspects of media, but when others are way harsher with it, it just really pisses you off for no reason?

[dawnbreakersgaze]

Her Sunrise 🌄 Her Dawnbreaker

Ever since the very first time I read Still in Dark, the detail of Zayne being covered in scars from fighting wanderers/abominations has sat so heavy on my heart. Because you know that poor man hasn't been getting any professional medical help. Much like Xavier, he's just riding those injuries out, only unlike Xav, he's not blessed with a body that heals itself with relative ease.

This particular 'moment' is from a fic I'm still formatting in my head, that will hopefully see the light of day soon. His expression is a reflection of your own when you realize just how much he's been through. Our poor little meow meow 😩

My desire to bring this man into my arms and shield him from everything overwhelms me sometimes, and today I sat consumed with the desire to do just that, so instead of doing all my other obligations I did... this. Lol.

[flea-palace]

[ttrpg-smash-pass-vs]

They're elves of the shadowfell, normal human height. They specialize in teleportation and invisibility, with the casters among them throwing in confusion and fear and illusion. Be careful though, as any trained in combat start making non-elves slower and worse while within 10 feet. From depression, from the sound of it. Their angst about being more ancient and timeless than you wordlessly attaches to you like a parasite, slowing you down. Good for if you enjoy concepts like-

Shadows, but like DARKER than shadow, that lash out when they're moody

looking beautiful unless in shadow, in which case they're corpselike

ignoring pointless things like "comfort" and "morals" and "rules"

being the chosen of the Raven Queen, and on her behalf collecting dark tragedy, sorrow, and feelings of loss.

being corpse pale with jet black hair, pure black eyes, and covered with tattoos/piercings/anything that would make a generic white suburban mom in the 50's scream in terror.

Lumping them all together because they're all the same outside one having mage hand and such. Idc what weapon they're holding.

[anotherpapercut]

happy 20th anniversary!

[i-hope-this-is-a-phase]

https://archiveofourown.org/users/consciousness_streaming/pseuds/Scoops

this one by scoops is the one i think might match up

…oh my god this is so embarrassing

Thank you!!!

[terrence-silver]

Can you do one with violent sex with drunk old man Terry? Beloved get’s apreenssive cause she already knows what’s coming for her when she sees drunk old man Terry stambeling late night into the house

---

Scorpions are 100% unpredictable.

They will sting you, even if they kill themselves in the process.

Several species of Scorpion have a courtship ritual that appears to walk a fine line between wooing and attacking. A male Scorpion will lead a female on a dance-like walk, known as a promenade à deux, holding her by the pedipalps (large claws). During this waltz, males have been observed stinging their partners;

--- Idle trivia pounded through his mind even as he stumbled over the manor's threshold, shoulder rubbing against the frame of the door, leaning on it as he attempted to maintain balance. He knew you'd be waiting. He knew it. You always waited for him. Even though it was three in the morning, little loyal devoted thing that you were, he knew you would be right there, diligently expecting his return and he isn't wrong. He's never wrong as he hears your voice call through the darkness of the lobby, undoubtedly alerted by the sound emanating from the hallway. He wasn't exactly trying to be quiet. Wasn't exactly trying to be sneaky or discreet. He wanted you to realize he was coming. Oh, did he ever.

-”Terry! You’re back!”-

He sees your form emerging through the shadows, seeming worried, moving at a brisk pace, arms extended, reaching towards him like he needed any fucking help. He was old but he wasn't a fucking cripple. He wasn't handicapped. He was more capable than you were at your green age. More agile. Stronger. Thirty years back, he'd show you a thing or two about endurance. Real power. Real damage. He clicks his tongue, brushing you off, stumbling wordlessly forward. Your brows shoot up, overshadowered with concern, like you were confused with the gesture --- hurt and attempting not to show it, right before trying again, stubborn in your devotion. He knew you would do that as well. So predictable. Everything you did was sweet, stupid and predictable. The fact that you were eager to him coming home, even though he was coming him in a state...it ached so much he could feel his skin shiver. His jaw goddamn nearly trembling. -”Terry, let me help you, please!”- You grab his forearm, tenderly, doing so without asking, stepping in front of him, cutting his space of movement off. Now, that he doesn't appreciate. -”I don’t need your,”- Terry seethes, not caring how inebriated he sounded, his words laced with hiccups. -”Or anyone’s help!”-

Maybe that would give you a hint to keep your distance.

-”You’re not doing well.”-

You remark, ever so politically correct and caring of his fucking feelings, trying to avoid calling things by their proper name. He wasn't doing well? No. Correction; he was drunk. Plastered. Shitfaced. A lesser man would be crawling all over the floor by now, but he? He was no lesser man. He still had enough tenacity in him tonight to smite you for even giving a damn what he was up to. Terry reaches forward, not bothering to give you a warning, snatching your wrist and squeezing on the gentle flesh. -”And who do you think is to blame for that, huh?”- He slides forward, face to face, until he was certain you could smell his breath; Perfect. Be repulsed by it. You should've been a smart little robot and gone to sleep by now. Instead of your disgust, though, against all anticipation, he's met with profound grief. You yelp. -”You’re hurting me!”-

-”Good.”- Terry coos, feeling his gut grow warm at the notion.

It was either that or all the whisky in his Limo's minibar.

Possibly a little bit of both.

-”You deserve a cruel tutelage.”-

He murmurs, looking you up and down, his eyes finally landing back on your face. Your mouth partially open in shock. Eyes befuddled and lost. Sharp intakes of breath burdening your chest with a visibly panicked pace. Fear is palpable. -”Do you want to know why I’ve been getting shickered up tonight? Do you really?”- He chuckles, feeling the bitterness coil inside of him like a wildfire. He's been drinking because of you and here you were, acting the saint. All worried and concerned about him. A patient paramour, waiting for him to come home. You should've ran. Should've ran while you had the chance. Now, you were faced with the scorpion and he was about to prick. Then again, what was he thinking? You, running? Where? How? As if he'd let you go. As if he'd let you get away. You shake your head, your teeth gritted with pain, not knowing the answer to this question. Ever naive. Ever dumb. With his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, he drags your forward, further into the dark lobby and down the foyer. You squeal in surprise. -”For the past thirty years, my life’s been bullshit.”- He confesses, chuckling at the notion. No, really. It was complete and utter tripe. You sound distressed even as he pushed you forward, like you wanted to dissuade him. Convince him his life wasn't wasted in a feeble attempt to console him.

Figures.

-”Terry!”-

Your voice is horse and he shakes his head, leading you down the corridor by force. Force is just about the only language you and your pigheaded attempts at pity would understand right now. -”Shrinks, reinvention, pills, damage control, living up here —”- He taps the edge of his own forehead as he lists everything that came to mind off in a haste. -”Those schmucks I’ve kept around.”- He digs his teeth into his lower lip, feeling particularly infuriated at the thought that he's wasted time with a bunch of mimes when he could've had you instead. But, you weren't in his life then, were you? You only came into his life recently. Fucked everything up. -”John.”- He adds, reaching a door, grabbing its handle. Another person he loved. Another person that fucked everything up. Just like you did. -"Denying myself every impulse! Everything that ever made me happy! For what?"- Terry slings the door open not caring if it hit the interior room's wall with a loud thud, pushing you forward and shoving your back inside. You stumble forward. Terry shuts the bedroom door behind himself. The loudness of the sound resonates. -"Did anyone ever say 'Thank you'?"- He murmurs, looking at you. He could've had you. Ten years ago. Twenty. Thirty. When he returned from Vietnam, or even before. If only you were older. Born earlier. Instead, he was there idly wasting his time trying to shed his skin and reinvent himself into a happiness that wasn't even born yet. If that wasn't the biggest irony of his life, he didn't know what was.

Yeah, he drowned the conclusion in a bottle.

What else was there to do?

Let it drown him instead?

-”And you come into my life when its about to end.”-

The scorpion pricks when he saunters forward, fingers coiling into your hair, hardening into a fist, pulling your head backwards and trapping you like that. You moan in pain. Your hands attempting to grab at his own hand, peel him off somehow. Your knees coming up helplessly, trying to put distance between you and him. Your expression fading into a blur. There was four of you in front of him and he'd fucking break all four tonight. -”Legs. Open.”- Terry growls his order, pushing your thighs apart. Placing his own leg between them as a barrier, right before he thrusts on the mattress behind your back. You fall limp, bouncing ever so slightly, hips parted, just as he liked them. There's no finesse to the act. It is crude. It was meant to be like that. He grabs you by the shoulders, holding you down with his weight as he grips the hem of your blouse, dragging it forward and ripping the fabric, splitting it where the buttons connected, sending them flying like bullets ricocheting off of the floor. You shriek. Hands coming up to conceal your chest. -”Why? Couldn’t? You? Let? Sleeping? Dogs lie?”- Terry feels his own voice coming out like a growl and no, there would be no mercy. He grabs both of your arms. Away from your torso, pinning them over your head.

-”Why did you have to poke the bear?”- He breathes furiously, close enough to sense your nostrils flaring hot breath as you exhaled and inhaled at a rapid pace. You blink, protesting. About to defend yourself.

-”I didn’t, I —”-

-”You did!”- He cuts you off, insisting, seething through lips pushed together firmly. You know what you did, and now, you would bear the brunt of the consequences. Determined fingers pull down his zipper and he feels himself hard before he's ever even done anything, even though he was certain the potent mix of tonight's Cognac will have him cumming quickly and sloppily inside of you, spilling a mess of anger, desperation, inebriation, his own age and desire inside of you like a hot flood, that's a chance he's willing to take as he starts stroking, preparing himself, unkind to his own flesh, kneading back and forth to the point of it being almost painful. -”You made an old man happy. That’s war.”- He grunts, never looking away from you, because there was nowhere he'd be rather looking in the whole fucking World. You did, you know? You really did. You made him happy. Profoundly, unbelievably happy. Terry Silver never liked ironies he had to endure on his own back, and him finding the love of his life at nearly seventy years of age was an irony that made him want slam his fist into the wall into he bled. -”I should finish you for that.”- He nearly spits as he throbs into his own fist, leaning forward, until his face was between your legs, split apart by the presence of his knee. Removing his own thigh as a barrier, he leans down, licking you and humming. Pleasure mingled with a half-growl.

-”But, I love you!”- You plead, this time, through a hiccup of oncoming sobs.

You try to squeeze your legs shut, but not before long, the head of his cock is massaging your flesh, up and down, up and down, preventing you, slipping into your loose, slippery, wet slit. -”See! That right there! That’s exactly the problem!”- Terry finds time to be analytical and smiles somewhat bitterly, letting go of where he was holding you, below your knee, wiggling his index finger and smiles somewhat bitterly, amused by how critically the point was flying over your head right now. And yet, he was the drunk one. -”I don’t have the time left for that shit.”- He thrusts as he speaks, pushing into you, groaning. He loved you too. Loved you more than a mosquito craves blood, but that crap wasn't anything that he could actually live to its fruition. How did you not realize that? If he ever fucked his children into you, he'd be dead before they ever went to school. You'd be far from middle aged by the time he would be turning centennial. How the fuck was that not a cause for grief and wrath!? It would be easier if he simply never cared for you. If you were some warm body. Someone he was compensating with loads of cash. Favors. Trips. Garden cocktail parties. By kickstarting your inane, idiotic business or something. They all wanted a business kickstarted nowadays, but not you. You were actually in it for love and you made all of it for free and fuck you for that. For making it ache like a motherfucker.

The Scorpion's out to kill.

-”This right here! This is just about the only thing we have time to do.”-

He feels himself growling, rutting into you, sweat trickling down his forehead, heated by the alcohol. By you. Gesturing to where his cock connected with you for emphasis. Yes. Sex. Validly, he couldn't start planning anything concrete with you because he didn't have the decades necessary to pull it off. Fucking you until he physically could for as long as he still could was believably all he had left and he'd utilize every moment like it could be his last, because it could. It could be his last. Maybe if he just dropped dead from a stroke while still inside of you, it would be a perfect way to go. Sure. He was always meant to die on the battlefield, but dying with lodged inside of living heaven incarnate was a step up the figurative ladder. Yeah. Sex was all he had. -”That’s not true, Terry! No!”- At this point you're crying and something lurches in his gut. For a second, he thinks it is arousal, seeing you like this, and then he recognizes it as the putrid, horrendous swell of regret. He finds himself slowing down, nearly growing limp inside of you. Not true? What else was there? Could he have a family? Could he be with you all of his life? No. This was the winter of his life. You were a spring turning summer. That's why he was drunk. That's why not even a whole private cellar worth of bullshit would help numb him.

Because you came too late.

And there was nothing in the world he could do to change that crap.

-”You don’t get to decide what’s true and what isn’t when you’re the one getting pounded.”-

He threatens you, or at least he tries and for a moment or short-lived glee, arming himself with a sort of barb he never gets to use to the extent he wanted to use it and he isn't certain if the saltiness of sweat from his scalp was running down his cheek or if he was silently crying too, without making a sound, the rage deflating along with his body and he slips out of you with a moist popping sound, entirely flaccid and soft, his shaft leaking cum over his fingers and unto the bedsheets crumpled from the onslaught as he practically falls over, or rather, lets himself fall in a half-embrace, holding you for dear life, feeling you return the hug, ragged sobs shaking against him, his cock twitching painfully. Fuck sake. Your care would get him off faster than what he just did to you. Humiliation, indignity, yearning and wrath mixing, he wants to hold you like his and squeeze you until your bones crack and turn to dust under his vice grip and this very bed becomes your funeral shroud. Instead, he just lays there, inhaling your scent, his lips finding it in themselves to touch the nuzzled spot of your neck, peppering it with saliva ridden spots, licking you, finding that even now, like this, disheveled, shitfaced, unbuckled pants, he was still happy.

Desperate, but happy.

-"You know that bullshit fable,"- He slurs, feeling his eye lids grow heavy.

Voice heavy with desire and intoxication.

You no longer fight. Wiggle. Struggle. You're perfectly still. Listening.

The bedroom dark, suddenly achingly quiet.

He swears he can hear you gulping and swallowing.

-"When the Scorpion pricked the Frog crossing the river on its back, the Frog asked why and the Scorpion answered he had to, because its in his nature. They both sank."- Terry doesn't see your face, but he hears you sniffling --- your breathing and heartbeat stabilizing and he nuzzles even closer --- needing to be closer like life itself depended on it, chuckling, hand squeezing itself around your waist. He doesn't know what he was trying to say with that or what he'd conclusively add to it as he closed his eyes, finding your warmth soothing from the sudden dizziness and the profound headache he knew was coming, but he figured, that if you and him sank, at least you'd sink together --- and he'd be capable of that. He'd be capable of piercing himself on his own venomous needle after he was done with you. There was nobody Terry Silver would rather sink with.

Nobody else he'd ever allow you to sink with but him.

[trentcrimminallybeautiful]

listen maybe this is just because i've always been a slut for pov outsider fics anyway but i desperately want some on our dork trent crimm. like. the character development??? his softness and dorkification???? i need someone to be like just. what do people think about this. like whether it's a random richmond player, a random reporter trent worked with, someone from trent's personal life, another rando in the sports field who's used to trent crimm, the independent, ruthless reporter, or whoever, just. random people watching trent crimm go from "ah yeah that asshole reporter who specifically has a reputation for being a ruthless cutting bitch" to "openly excitable dork who clearly cares so goddamn much and is visibly softer and has he just secretly always been like this??"

it would probably have to be someone who's close enough to him or richmond now to like, be able to see the change, but i just. am obsessed with this. and that's not even getting into considering the angles of his possible ex-wife/divorce + if non-audience-members can tell he's madly in love with ted or not, because i'm not sure if it's funnier if they're like "trent crimm is a huge dork now and we have no idea why????? i guess this is just the lasso effect fucking bending reality again??" or if they're like "hey fucking WILD that that one journalist specifically known for being a huge asshole apparently fell so ass over teakettle in love with that weird cowboy miracle worker of a gaffer that he divorced his wife, exploded his job, and had a radical personality shift via apparently deciding to be emotionally vulnerable. and all of this after writing a pretty fucked exposé on him?? why does no one talk about this more"

and while all the possibilities mentioned are great in their own ways, it could even be one of the other main characters whos just not generally involved in his storyline like. what does sam think of all this. what is jamie thinking when trent becomes their emotional support journalist dork. what does keeley think.

[al-luviec]

ninjago s11 redraw

[squishdraws]

bunch of shit today

[hickoryblossom]

Happy Pride!!

(I know it's like the end of June, this took longer than I wanted it to)

[nyaskitten]

Crazy we can get like 3 non-canon Jay minifigures (if Jay really is a villain for all of s2 and doesn't wear any ninja gi) but we cannot seem to get ONE Frohicky minifigure.

[moonlit-escape]

almost finished with pdh s2, and i can already feel a ranting review coming on