#ripley savage

[sharoscylla]

Ripley, blankly: I didn’t think anybody was listening… I only said those prayers to cheer my friends up…

Finder: :3 cheered ME up

#ripley savage #my art #one sword au #surrounded by powerful friends au #dnd au #bg3 oc #bg3 au #finder wyvernspur #ripley savage saint of second chances #they should let you be the chosen of any deity in bg3

[nerves-nebula]

its just... i love her so much,,, oghasdg

ripley savage is @sharoscylla's and i havent finished her story yet but i love love LOVE her <<33 she would be a good aunt

#nnstuff #nnart #ripley savage #teenage mutant neglected turtles #turtle tots #tmnt #neglected art #tmnt turtle tots

[ilikethisacompletelynormalamount]

Andrew Scott on The Anton Savage Show discussing his upcoming 8 part limited series Ripley, fame, and the recent wave of success from Irish artists in Hollywood.

#andrew scott #ripley #anton savage #Spotify

[butterflies-anonymous]

This is a perfect tweet.

#wwe #rhea ripley #cathy kelley #rich wade #macho man #randy savage #miss elizabeth #twitter has truly peaked #i do not believe it can get better than this #pack it up folks

[denimbex1986]

#The Anton Savage Show #Andrew Scott #Ripley

[not-so-useless-les-bien]

a burn so savage i haven’t stopped laughing about it since

#liv morgan #rhea ripley #wwe #pls this is so fucking funny liv is a savage 😂😂😂

[galaxy-brain-rasslin]

#poll #pro wrestling #wwe #aew #njpw #i wish in had more room for the options i had to cut

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 50 - The Smallest Ember

TW: abuse, reference child abuse, potential eating disorders, referenced corporal punishment, suicidal ideation, and threats of sexual assault

You return to the farmstead.

It’s…the chapel. You wouldn’t know until much later that chapels outside the farmstead have benches. That their congregations sit for their sermons.

The Pastor of the farmstead, however, says laziness comes from the devil. Your congregation stands. All the better to witness confessions.

The floor is bare concrete. The walls are timber boards. The roof arches up, overhead. The whole space is open and clear in the back, where y’all stood, with a raised dais at the front. Upon that dais sits two chairs.

One is a massive throne, painted gold with red, velvet cushions. Only the lord in heaven can sit in it—it’s big enough to hold two people with their feet dangling. Beside it sits a smaller, slightly less opulent chair. And everyone was very specific to call it a chair and not a throne, because The Pastor was not some delusional man with dreams of grandeur, but the voice and the right hand of the heavenly father. His chair just happened to be decorated like a throne, because he was still important to the lord.

Both were illuminated in a single, golden band of sunlight streaming in from a strategically-placed skylight. The pastor would seat himself in his “humble” chair to deliver his latest sermons, Mother and his eldest son standing to his right.

He took confessions from that chair.

You walk towards it. The space is smaller than you remember. Old. Sort of musty. The boards don’t fit together very well, and sunlight leaks through the cracks. It got terrible cold in the winter. The chair is smaller than you remember, too. And the paint don’t glimmer. It’s faded in places. Cracked and chipped. It looks…cheap.

When you turn, Sarah stands in the confession circle. Your knees hurt just looking at that part of the floor. There’s nothing to mark it. Seems it should be stained. Greasy brown from sweat, crusted white with salt. Worn dents from all the knees and foreheads pressed into it.

But it’s just a plain patch of concrete, same as the rest.

You spent hours on that spot. Knees aching from the cold. Face pressed down, voice shaking and cracking as you said whatever they wanted. Whatever an Aunt hissed at you. Pride and stupidity, insolence, laziness. Lust. Always lust. They saw it every time you looked at someone, every time your lips moved, your fingers twitched, every time you breathed. Never mind you’d never so much as kissed anybody, that you don’t understand when the others saw in Caleb Jennings (he was tall? And skinny).

You are a lust-filled harlot. They can tell just by looking at you (and later, much later, you would read about “savages” and the “loose morals” of the native women, and some of that would shed light on what exactly all them people was seeing in your tanned face and dark hair).

So that’s what you said. Over and over, day after day crouched on that floor, crunching the inside of your cheeks in a desperate attempt to keep in your tears. Groveling for forgiveness for your whoreish thoughts, the way you lusted over this or that boy (but never the girls). How craven you were, the filthy things you (never actually) imagined. Lies and stories spilled from your lips, crouched right there on the floor, at the feet of The Pastor and Mother while they watched on in judgment.

Until you believed it. Because there had to be something wrong with you. There had to be a reason for this. They had to see something your stupid eyes couldn’t perceive. You were wrong. You were dirty. And only they could cleanse you.

Your stomach flops all queasy. You look to Sarah.

“I’m here now. Is that all?” you say.

But she shakes her head and points again. You instinctively resist the urge to roll your eyes (it was ten lashes with the switch). Remember you are thirty-fucking-five, your name is Eleanor Ripley, and you can roll your eyes as you damn well please.

It feels like sacrilege, all heady and delicious.

It feels great.

Until you follow Sarah’s gaze, and where them thrones sat, the cellar doors await.

Your entire body snaps rigid.

“No. No, Sarah—”

But she’s gone. You stand alone in that fucking barn. Alone. The empty space, the creaky boards. And those fucking doors.

From the outside, they’re shabby, fragile looking things. Classic root cellar—two doors opening up from the ground. But normal root cellars don’t have a chain wrapped around the handles with a padlock hanging unlocked, you suspect. It came with the house, these doors. Back from when claim jumpers raced in to snatch up Native land. The farmstead even used it as a root cellar, most of the time.

The handles are worn smooth. You ain’t never touched them. Always one of the Aunts, or even Mother, when you were especially egregious. Your hands rattle as your fingers brush the cool metal. Bile rushes up the back of your throat and you have to take a step back and swallow.

The chapel still sits empty. Outside, the air is hot and heavy and stone still, like it’s waiting. You know you have to. Down in your bones, the knowledge thrums. Only way out is through. Is opening them doors. Is stepping down them stairs.

You use every trick you know to keep the vomit down. It barely holds. And before you can think anymore, you grab the handle (no chain and padlock now) and wrench it open.

The stairs are bleached out. They creak as you coltishly stagger down, gripping the door frame above to keep yourself from tumbling (unlike last time).

The smell hits you first. Dirt, wood, stale air. The faintest tinge of mold. A sourness to it.

You double over, clap a hand over your mouth. No. No, no, no, no. If you puke you’ll be switched so bad you can’t sit. You’ll be stripped down to your underwear for next confession, so the congregation might witness your shame. No. No, you can’t.

Deep breath. Controlled, deep breath.

You open your eyes. There’s the shelves you spent so much time looking at. The one on the left has a whorl and a knob in it that looks like man with a pointy beard. They line the walls, two rows filling the space between, loaded with big cans of evaporated milk and powdered eggs. Sacks of flour and sugar. Canned vegetables stacked ten rows deep, on the outer shelves. The jarred fruit and jams. Some of it was farmstead produce. The gift of the lord through y’all’s hands.

A lot of it was store bought—though less and less often as the years went on and The Pastor preached self-reliance, rejecting the toxic chemicals of the secular world which damned the body, and wasn’t the body the holy temple of the lord? To pollute it was a sin.

It looks innocuous. Some old-timey painting of Wholesome Farmer’s Pantry. Until one noticed the bucket in the corner. The glint of a long chain bolted into the wall. The handcuffs they’d bring from the main house, by the shepherd ushering your way to repentance, to click into one of the links, its proximity to the wall depending on how bad the sin was.

You stand at the foot of the stairs, legs rooted to the dirt.

The chain only appeared after the first few years. In the beginning, they’d shut the sinful down here in the dark, to reflect and repent. And starve. Age didn’t matter. Sin was sin, and all were equal in the eyes of the lord. You were five the first time. You broken a towel rack in the bunkhouse on accident.

The thing about the root cellar was that it was full of food. And to a five-year-old, eight hours is a very long time in the dark and hungry. You took two fingers of raspberry jam. No one would notice. You even hid the jar behind the others after you’d jimmied it open.

But five-year-olds are stupid. Your fingers were sticky when Mother came to fetch you.

Your body was a holy temple. You’d defiled it with stolen goods. It dirtied your temple, and a dirty temple must be cleaned.

She’d made you drink the lemon-scented dish soap. Not a lot. Couldn’t bring down the attention of the secular, satanic authorities should the poison control center become involved. But it was enough. Your system purged itself quite thoroughly. Quite violently.

Then she’d made you wash the sin from your clothes yourself. By hand.

Everyone knew, of course. That might have been the start of it; you’re not sure. Your childhood memories are hazy in the few patches you can remember. You were branded a thief. Greedy. Dirty. Sinful.

And here you stand now. What a fun trip down memory lane. Time to go.

Wood thumps. You spin as the light winks out. Bolt up the steps. Misjudge the distance in the dark and slam head first into the doors. They give, but only so far as the chain allows.

“No, no! Let me out! I didn’t do anything, let me out!”

You bang and shove and rattle. Get your feet under you and shove up with your entire body. The chain above rattles and wood squeals, but it doesn’t give. It just falls back on you, hard enough to send you stumbling down, lose your footing, crash into a shelf.

Jars fall around you. One of them crashes and you know even in the dark it’s shattered. Slimy pears spill over your hair, down your front, pooling in your skirt.

“No, please! I didn’t mean it! Please!”

But nothing moves up there. The chain will hold. The chain always holds. And trying it only earns you lashes, and more time down here surrounded by food you cannot touch.

The lord will not forgive you this time. Because The Pastor will not forgive you. Prideful thing. Too busy lusting after good, honest men.

“But I’m not!”

They’re trying to protect you. Give your sinful lust a holy purpose.

“I don’t want to!”

They all see how you watch the men. Twenty years old and your womanly weakness cannot be contained anymore.

“I want to be good! I’ll be good! I can stay pure, please!”

The lord has finally blessed you through his shepherd. The Pastor has found a faithful man to take you into holy matrimony. To (you’re gonna vomit) fill your womb (throat clenches and the corners of your jaw prickle) with the blessings of the lord. Your duty is to him and through him the lord and you will obey the head of your house as you would the lord for if his eye strays it is because you invited the devil and failed the commandment given unto you to be fruitful and loving and kind and ever welcoming—

You scream. You scream now as you couldn’t then. When The Pastor summoned you to the main house to deliver unto you the Good Word and Mother beamed. You were to be a wife, finally. A mother, finally.

They see how you watch the men.

“I d-didn’t.”

They see how you lust.

“I n-never.”

The lord knows your secret thoughts.

“Please. I want to be clean. I want to serve you.”

The Pastor is the instrument of the lord and you are to be his trusting child.

“I don’t…I don’t want…please.”

You could never overcome your own, weak nature. So you had to be placed into the root cellar to cleanse yourself. To prostrate yourself before the lord and his will and see the wisdom of The Pastor, see his Holy Truth.

Mother had been rough pushing you down the stairs. You fell against this shelf, right here. Knocked off a row of jars (you don’t even know how many lashes, it’ll be a lot, waste is not tolerated). The glass shattered, had sliced a thin line into your forearm as it broke.

You sit down there, cradling the scratch as the terror closes your throat and buries your thoughts. A husband. Your duties. Your purpose as a servant of the lord. Finally, to be wed to a man forgiving enough to accept one as flawed as you. A holy match, determined by the holy lord.

You can’t refuse. No more than you can deny the word of the lord himself. You’ll come to your senses. Here in the peace and quiet, your female hysteria will run out of fuel to burn and you will know the proper order of things and submit yourself to the authority entrusted to guide you. And they’ll be proud of you. Married. Swollen. Run ragged by children to raise for the lord’s army.

Your duty. Your sole purpose on this earth.

That glass is awful sharp.

There’s no way out, no matter what that heathen girl in town (her ears pierced like some jezebel whore) says. She’s trying to temp you (“You ain’t never seen the ocean?”). Trying to lead you astray. (“There’s all kinds of people on the other side. You know in France they serve hot chocolate and it’s literally melted chocolate? Wait…what do you mean ‘what is chocolate’?”)

She gave you a slip of paper with her number, she said. If you ever needed anything (you ain’t got no intention of reaching out to an agent of the devil). You’d taken it, because she was talking to you all friendly, like she wasn’t trying to damn you, and the joke was on her, because the farmstead don’t got phones.

You’ve disappointed Mother. You disappointed The Pastor, who only wanted to keep you safe, even from yourself. They found you something good in your life, and you threw it back in their faces. This ends one way. You’ll accept. Whether they keep you down here for days, until your legs cramp, until the hunger wraps around your spine and turns you inside out. They ain’t letting you out until you beg for forgiveness and accept The Pastor’s judgment.

But…that’s not the only way out, is it?

Mother was so disgusted she didn’t even walk you back to the chain. It’ll be some time before somebody comes to bring you water. Once that happens, they’ll bring the cuffs.

That jar smashed. One of them pieces is about the size of your palm. Long enough. Sharp enough. It could…could cut deep. You hear sermons, and some of the husbands work out in town, so when a secular girl killed herself, the news spread like a brushfire through the bunkhouse. You seen them bleed the calves come butchering season, and you’re sure this glass could cut deep enough. Could open your arm and let all the sin flow out of you. Let it seep into the dirt of the cellar floor. Let it take all this with it.

You’ll be damned. But lately, you’ve started to think you’ll never be the lord’s favorite. Won’t even be the lord’s liked, no matter what you do, no matter how hard you pray or how hard you work, you are broken. Wrong. Dirty and stupid, greedy and lustful, the product of shame and sin and it flows in your veins, corrupting every part of you—

No. No, the lord probably doesn’t even know who you are, does he? Or he don’t care. He’d never smiled on you. Never reached his hand to shield you or protect you.

No.

You won’t be missed. And this, this you can choose. You can rest. No hurting. No cold guilt. No freezing, aching shame.

You test the sharp edge. It pierces the tip of your finger. You’d barely feel it, even if you do make a mess of it, and you would deserve that. It’ll be hours before anybody finds you. Long enough. They’ll all know they were right about you. A disgusting little bitch to the end.

But.

There’s something inside you. Not a voice. Not a song or a feeling or any of those pretty words you will soon read about. It has no emotion to it. No warmth. It just is. A tiny, little ember. Not even a flame. Just a glowing speck down deep in the heart of you.

Sleep, it says. And you’re tired. Sleep now. Maybe all these thoughts later, but sleep now.

Your body drags. Your eyelids flutter. You shuffle around and curl up on your side, try to tuck your bare toes within the folds of your skirt to keep them warm. And you sink down.

Wake to light. Warm sunlight. For a moment, you only lie there. It comes back as slow and steady and dreadful as gray rain. The glass. Your way out.

But that tiny ember is still there. Still glows. Soft and steady. So fragile, yet it doesn’t sputter. Footsteps stomp outside and voices mutter, yet it remains. It just…refuses to go out.

A high voice, pitched sharp in irritation. Mother. Come to water you. To chain you. To wait out your stubbornness the way a cruel man breaks down a dog.

That’s what you are, isn’t it? That’s what you always been—

You clap a hand over that thought. Not safe. Blasphemy. The lord can hear your every thought and if The Pastor learns of it…

A shadow falls over the hatch. A booted foot on the first step.

The phone number. That heathen jezebel.

Sarah Greenwood lives with her husband and kids in one of the trailers closer to the edge of the property. She’s The Pastor’s eldest daughter, the shining beacon of gentle womanliness to the rest of you. Her husband has a town job, so he has a phone…

As eldest daughter, it’s Sarah’s job to prepare her younger sisters for being married. Helps sew the dress, teach the rules, instruct their duties. Mother is too busy being the helpmeet of The Pastor. Sarah will surely be the one to prepare you. And Sarah’s house has a phone.

Another boot. The hem of Mother’s skirt.

That shining, shimmering line. What you want and how to get there. You…you have to leave. God save you, but you can’t, you can’t stay here. But that brilliant, glimmering line can show you how to get out. All the steps leading to that phone. What comes beyond it, you can’t imagine. Your mind shies from it. But you can feel it in the thump of your own pulse. This is what you need to do. They’ll be furious. Sweet Sarah, who only ever helped you, the only one to help you, and you are going to hurt her. Betray her. Get her into trouble because everyone will be furious.

But this is your way out.

You scrape at the dirt with your bare hands. Look at the piece of glass in the dim light spilling down from above. The razor edge glitters. You lower it into the shallow hole. Scoop and pat the dirt over it and it’s a promise, somehow. One that faded as you threw yourself into the back of Sasha’s (that heathen jezebel, and she absolutely cackled when you told her that) truck not-so-distant-from-now.

A promise that became blurry as she reached out to friends and coworkers, because it turned out she was part of a network for this, and they could help you get things like a birth certificate, a social security number, enroll you into school. You cried when you got your GED certificate in the mail. You spent precious grocery money to get a frame.

And your promise lifted like morning mist as you built yourself an entire life upon this tiny grave in the bottom of a root cellar.

But you did make a promise, those years ago. One you remake now.

Mother descends to find you sitting primly, hands folded in your lap, head bowed respectfully, stinking of canned pears.

For the first time in years, she smiles at you. Even offers her hand to help you up and guide you to the stairs to emerge, and take your first steps towards the life you will claim.

Just as here, now, you emerge alone, into brilliant sunlight.

#feeding alligators fic #these two shitheads #tavstarion #astarion x tav #plus size tav #demisexual tav #purity culture trauma #religious trauma

[wrestler-smash-or-pass]

Weekly Wrap Up - 11/26/23

Hey everyone, the first full week of polls is done!

Top five smashable wrestlers this week: 1. Kris Statlander. 91.0% voted smash out of 288 votes 2. Rhea Ripley. 84.2% voted smash out of 266 votes 3. Eddie Kingston. 82.8% voted smash out of 441 votes 4. Penelope Ford. 72.9% voted smash out of 251 votes 5. Samoa Joe. 72.1% voted smash out of 340 votes

More stats under the cut, along with my observations, commentary, and some of my favorite tags...

Bottom five smashable wrestlers this week: 1. The Boogeyman. 22.6% voted smash out of 230 votes 2. Brock Lesnar. 23.2% voted smash out of 237 votes 3. Doink the Clown. 28.3% voted smash out of 258 votes 4. Gunther. 29.6% voted smash out of 196 votes 5. Pretty Peter Avalon. 30.8% voted smash out of 224 votes

Most total votes, which I am taking as a measure of enthusiasm (both love and hate) 1. Eddie Kingston - 441 votes 2. Bryan Danielson - 406 votes 3. Samoa Joe - 340 votes 4. Filthy Tom Lawlor - 310 votes 5. Kris Statlander - 288 votes

And least total votes, which I am taking as a measure of apathy 1. Gunther - 196 votes 2. Pretty Peter Avalon - 224 votes 3. The Boogeyman - 230 votes 4. Brock Lesnar - 237 votes 5. Penelope Ford - 251 votes

The closest match was Bryan Danielson, whose final result was 46.8% smash, 53.2% pass

Average smash rating for... Women - 82.7% Men - 45.8% AEW - 61.4% WWE - 41.6%

I'm gonna be real with you guys, it is HILARIOUS to me, that Brock Lesnar was beaten by Pretty Peter Avalon and Doink the Clown (who got a mention on Hey (EW) this morning, by the way!). The only person Brock Lesnar could actually beat was the Boogeyman. A guy who has worms hanging out of his mouth.

Speaking of the Boogeyman, this request was probably the funniest one I've gotten so far. Because like...my only phobia, the only thing in the whole world I have an irrational fear of...is worms. It's not something I usually bother telling anyone, because when does that come up? And in wrestling? Surely no worms here! And mere DAYS after starting this blog, there I was, sifting through images of a guy with worms hanging out of his mouth, trying not to freak out!

To the person who requested him, I promise I'm not mad about it! You didn't know! And I was Very Brave about it long enough to make the post and now that it's over I can laugh about it.

And now for some of my favorite tags and comments

@moon-crater on Randy Savage: #i chose smash but i could never come between him and miss elizabeth

@danielgaycia on Bryan Danielson: #how is this so close he's literally the weird vegan sex guy. flaccid penis danielson. SMASH

@dykecassidy on Pretty Peter Avalon: #im fucking him just to see what his problem is

@kevinsteen on the Young Bucks: #they'd botch a quadruple backflip onto your cock

@sava-smth on Doink the Clown: #one piece has a whole fandom and you cowards passing on a sex icon?!

@alternativeproject on Doink the Clown: #we’re really in it now scoob

Okay, that is enough for now! Next week I'll start including overall standings in addition to weekly results. If you want to have a look at the raw data, you can find it here:

#weekly wrap up

[astra-galaxie]

what are some of your LGBTQ headcanons for some of the CC characters?

My LGBTQ headcanons for CC characters? Sure, I’ve got some! I’ll also list some characters' canon facts since I support them, but let’s see what non-canon ones I can come up with!

And disclaimer! These are my current LGBTQ headcanons; there is a chance that they could change as my story progresses!

Sexuality-based LGBTQ Headcanons:

Main Characters

Heterosexual/Ally:

Samuel King

Eduardo Ramirez

Frank Knight

Elizabeth Ripley

Angela Douglas

Elliot Clayton

Arthur Wright

Issac Bontemps

Diane Parker

Gloria Hayes

Gabriel Herrera

Penelope Sage

Priya Desai

Felix Reed

Gay:

Nathan Pandit

Amir Devani

Orlando Ordelaffi

Ben Shepard

Lesbians:

Hannah Choi

Carmen Martinez

Michelle Zuria

Evie Holloway

Rose Zhao (She and her husband married for none-romantic reasons)

Bisexuals:

David Jones (Has a preference for women ((and hasn’t realized his attraction to men yet…))

Grace Delaney (She tried to get Jones to realize his sexuality in high school but couldn't get him to understand…)

Alex Turner

Andrea Marquez

Yann Toussaint

Jack Archer (With a preference for women, but unlike Jones, he recognizes his feelings toward men)

Lars Douglas (He likes to call himself and Jack bi-bros and bi-buddies)

Marina Romanova

Jonah Karam

Cathy Turner

Nebet

Christopher Scott

Jacob Arrow

Hugo Mercier

Pansexuals:

Amy Young

Roxie Sparks

Maddie O’Malley

Charlie Dupont

Deigo del Lobo

Martine Meunier

Janis Rivers

Jean-Philippe Delacroix

Gauthier Delacroix

Enzo Traoré

Léa Bonnet

Polyamory:

Zara Tien

Theo Moon

Kai Malano

Nadia Den Yamin

Demisexual:

Russell Crane

Ingrid Bjorn

Rupert Winchester

AroAce:

Dick Wells (This man called science his mistress once, and I have headcanoned him as AroAce ever since!)

Hope Newman

Acesexual:

Armand Dupont

Viola Pemberton

Questioning:

Rita Estevez: Thought she was straight but started having feelings towards a certain woman…

Luke Fernandez: He thought he was straight, but after everything with Fabien de la Mort, he started questioning

Carrie James: Unsure of her sexuality

Émile Bardot: Unsure of her sexuality

Other Characters

Olivia Hall: Lesbian

James Savage: Demisexual

Edward Dante: Pansexual

Karen Knight: Bisexual

Nigel Adakue: Gay

Asal Hawaa: Bisexual

Katherine Woolf: Lesbian

Jasper Everett: Gay

Mia Loukas: Bisexual

Arthur Darkwood: Gay

Geroge Mathison: Gay

Cody James: Pansexual

Gender-based LGBTQ Headcanons:

Nathan Pandit: Transgender (female to male)

Alex Turner: Demiboy

Hannah Choi: Demigirl

Jean-Philippe Delacroix: Genderqueer

(I don’t have many gender-based headcanons yet…)

That’s everything I could come up with! And like always, I am open to hearing about your opinions, headcanons and suggestions on this topic!

#criminal case #criminal case grimsborough #criminal case pacific bay #criminal case save the world #criminal case mysteries of the past #criminal case the conspiracy #criminal case travel in time #criminal case supernatural investigations #criminal case city of romance #headcanons #ask

[variousfandom]

Guys who are into modern wwe, please watch old school wrestling I swear it’s good. Not only are there hot men and women like today. But you will see wrestlers that probably inspired the wrestlers you watch today. Here is a list of my favorite wrestlers shawn michaels, triple h, edge, undertaker, kevin nash, razor Ramone , ultimate warrior, Bret hart, stone cold Steve Austin, Roman reigns, cm punk, macho man randy savage, psycho sid vicious. Rowdy roddy piper, booker t, r truth. Ric flair. Danhausen. Mjf. Dusty Rhodes. Owen hart. Iron sheik. Seth Rollins. Dean Ambrose never John Moxley. Sensational Sherri. Cyndi lauper. Rhea ripley. Mr wonderful. Let me say I can’t write fan fiction so it won’t be possible to write it for old school wrestlers but we need more fan fiction not just for modern but for old school as well. I promise you won’t leave feeling bad about watching old school wrestling. I love you guys.

#rowdy roddy piper #shawn michaels #mr wonderful #ric flair #bret hart #danhausen #owen hart #kevin nash #edge wwe #scott hall #roman reigns #rhea ripley #big daddy cool diesel #triple h

[sharoscylla]

All the art I’ve done so far for @nerves-nebula ‘s neglected turtles + feral aunt ripley (she acts p much identical to all Aunt Ripleys, she just doesn’t have her glasses)

Ripley would love these turtles SO much and would INSTANTLY adopt them even though she is the MOST EASILY BULLIED adult in the world she is still going out and KILLING AND MAIMING anyone who hurts her kids

Ripley can have a bunch of kids to adore and care for, as a treat

She can also have a little unspeakable violence, as a treat

#fanart #teenage mutant neglected turtles #ripley savage #turtles deserve an aunt ripley #blood #injury #ripley savage can and has already killed god but she’s very easily flustered

[darkpunkrocker]

Intro Post

Yo, How's it goin'? The names Sidney (Sid if ya like).

Huh? Who am I?

What, ya livin' under a rock or somethin'?!

I'm part of Hoenn's Elite Four! My specialty bein' Dark-types.

Yea, yea ya probably heard about me bein' a delinquent, but that's all in the past! I wanna do good work out there and show young trainers that anyone can live their dreams, like me!

BASIC SHIT:

Age: 36

Height: 6'1"

Gender: Male/Man/Bro/Punk/Bastard

Pronouns: He/Him/They (Whatever)

Sexuality: Omnisexual. (I dunno man. Everyone's pretty, aight?)

Pokemon Team:

Kane: Mightyena ⚦

Spike: Cacturne ⚦

Cena: Shrifty ⚦

Deluge: Sharpedo ⚦

King: Absol ⚦ (Mega evolution)

Savage: Crawdaunt ⚦

Jax: Scrafty ⚦

Batista: Zoroark ⚦

Sheik: Mandibuzz ♀

Newbies:

Aoko: Zangoose ✨ ♀

Ripley: Deino ♀

Lynch: Maschiff ♀

[Complete Bio]

-x-x-x-

((OOC: PLEASE READ BEFORE INTERACTING))

DNI: PRO-SHIPPERS, TERFS RAD/LIBFEMS, TRANSPHOBES, RACISTS, ETC.

NO NSFW POSTS/RPS ALLOWED

(If you do nsfw, fine, but keep it off my blog thank you.)

Sidney would punch you square in the fuckin' jaw, so fuck off!

Mun Nova here, 30+ years old and I use he/they pronouns!If you have any questions don't be afraid to contact me, my DMs are always open!

DISCLAIMER: this is an rp blog that takes place in the pokemon universe, so pls keep in mind I will be RPing as such! I will be using several different HC from the games, anime/manga and also personal.

This Blog also takes place after the events in Sapphire/Ruby and is somewhat in the future.

NOTE: NSFW is NOT allowed! However, flirting, teasing, and SOME innuendos towards Sidney are fine. Use common sense! (Any ask that goes against my rules will be deleted.)

>Friendly reminder that if you try to engage a plot with me without at least discussing it with me first, then I will likely not respond. Even if you do approach me with a plot in mind, there is no guarantee I will agree.

I AM A-OKAY INTERACTING WITH OCS. This involves: Fallers, Eebydeebies, sentient pokemon, hybrids, etc. If you're not sure just ask! I promise I do not bite <3

If you are looking to interact with my muse, and your muse is tied to some potentially triggering topics, I would prefer if you discussed potential interactions with me first. This is for my own comfort, so please keep this in mind.

This is a side blog, so I'll usually send asks on anon and sign off with "-DarkPunkRocker".

I follow back from my main @galactic-mermaid

IF YOU READ THIS ENTIRE THING, PLS SEND (DM or Ask) THE PHRASE "Sixes and Sevens" TO ME AS CONFIRMATION.

Check out my other Pokemon RP Blogs!

@thetravelingymleader (Pokemon OC)

@ghostly-groundskeeper (Pokemon OC)

@piers-official (Piers RP Blog)

@ragingwaters (Nessa RP blog)

@krazy-for-klara (Klara RP blog)

@a-gastly-trio (Pokemon Gijinka OCs) ((HIATUS))

#pinned post #blog intro #intro post #sidney pokemon #elite four sidney #pokemon #pokeblog rp #pokemon irl #rotumblr #pokeblogging #pokeblr #pkmn irl #pkmn rp #sidney rp

[ilikethisacompletelynormalamount]

Since Andrew is taking some well deserved time away from the public at the moment, let's revisit (or visit for the first time, if you're new here) this stunning photoshoot from Mr. Porter, October 2019, when he was doing press for Modern Love and his Ripley casting had just been announced (yes, it's taken that long for it to come out).

Mr Andrew Scott’s big brown eyes are open wide in amused disbelief. “That was not an Irish accent,” he says in his musical Irish brogue. “That was a West Country accent.” How embarrassing for an interviewer who thought to connect with her subject by lightly mocking Mr Ed Sheeran’s ­– again – not-Irish accent in his cameo in Mr Scott’s episode of Amazon’s upcoming anthology series, Modern Love. Panic sets in. “It’s all right,” he says, soothingly. “It’s all right. Accents are such funny things.”

You know what else is a funny thing? Sitting with Fleabag’s “hot priest” – 2019’s most unexpected sex symbol – in a wine bar in Bermondsey, southeast London, talking about vulnerability, romcoms and love stories. Or, to take another angle: sitting across the table from the deranged Jim Moriarty and letting him pick out a rosé. That tickles, too. Having Hamlet express the need for a mini-break in, he doesn’t know, Copenhagen? Amsterdam, maybe? Surreal.

But actually, Mr Scott, who is wearing what can only be described as a modified sweatsuit (shorts and a zip-up sweatshirt, no shirt beneath) after our photoshoot isn’t funny funny. No, Mr Scott is serious: reserved and contemplative, but with the energy of a theatre nerd who, every once in a while, rests his head in his hands, cupping his fingers around his eyes to form blinkers while he thinks about a question you’ve just asked. In this quiet wine bar. He’s not an evil murderer, an agent of a shadowy organisation, or an overly excited (wink) cleric. He’s just a nice guy who sympathises about the difficulty of parsing the subtleties of the many accents in the British Commonwealth (and beyond).

Mr Scott is still hot off his run in Fleabag, even though the show ran from March to April of this year. A few weeks ago, he received a GQ Men of the Year Award, and just a few weeks after that, was in Los Angeles at the Emmy Awards where Fleabag cleaned up, winning three awards.

Of course, this is not Mr Scott’s big break. He’s been in the business since moving from Dublin to London 20 years ago to pursue acting. His dad worked in employment, helping young people find the right careers and his mother was an art teacher. “They were definitely into following your passion and doing that for the rest of your life,” he says. “Rather than, ‘You should be a lawyer,’ or whatever the fuck.”

And this has been a year for Mr Scott’s passions. Aside from Fleabag, and an episode of Black Mirror that landed on Netflix this June, he’s making a poignant appearance in the aforementioned _Modern Love,_­ which will drop all at once on 18 October. A series of discreet episodes, each one features its own starry cast (Mr Dev Patel, Mr John Slattery, Ms Tina Fey, Ms Anne Hathaway and, of course, Mr Ed Sheeran, among others), based on the much-loved New York Times column from which it takes its name. Mr Scott’s episode, which co-stars Ms Olivia Cooke and Mr Brandon Kyle Goodman, is loosely based on an early column written by the sex-and-relationships writer Mr Dan Savage about the unusual experience he and his partner had with adoption. “It’s just a really sweet little story. It’s not about a romantic relationship,” he says, (many Modern Love entries are not). “It’s simply about the relationships between people.”

He’s also currently filming in Cardiff for the BBC TV series of His Dark Materials. And maybe there’s a Marvel movie in his future? “Oh, fuck. Completely false,” he says. “Someone said, ‘Are you going to be in a thing?’ I said, ‘No,’ and I said, ‘There have been discussions.’ And it’s like ‘Andrew Scott has been in discussions.’”

That’s what happens when suddenly everyone wants you – to use Twitter parlance – to run them over with your car. The Priest, unlike his other characters, was a sex symbol, one that wears the hell (forgive me, Father) out of a cassock. But who could be surprised that Mr Scott turned a priest into the “Hot Priest” simply by saying “kneel”? (If you don’t know what that means, stop reading now, watch the show, come back.) In fact, he has been making words positively drip with meaning for nearly a decade.

Consider Moriarty, the insane criminal puppet master Mr Scott played for six years across four seasons of the BBC’s Sherlock, opposite Mr Benedict Cumberbatch in the titular role. This particular Moriarty – Holmes’ famous nemesis, who has also been played by Messrs Orson Welles, John Huston and Sir Laurence Olivier – is indelible and utterly idiosyncratic. “If you’re going to do it, I don’t see there’s any point in doing it without putting your own stamp on it. I never look at any previous incarnations,” says Mr Scott. The result of this thinking – in Sherlock, at least – was a Moriarty who is all sing-song eeriness, molten physicality, and questionable cutaway collars. “He was quite theatrical; he was grotesque, sort of the archetypal villain,” he says. Archetypal, indeed: the role propelled him into the world of maniacal superfandom. He might not have received a dedicated stan nomenclature like his co-star (ahem, “Cumberbitches”), but the role made Mr Scott a household name.

Of course, establishing yourself as adept at playing evil incarnate probably leads to people wanting to cast you in more Moriarty-like roles. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yep, yeah,” he says, six times. “Yeah, exactly right,” (one more). “I turned down a lot. The shadow of that character took over for a little while.”  The craze got to be so tiresome that he asked the interviewer for a recent profile in The Guardian not to ask him about Moriarty at all (two years after he last appeared in the series). But now he sees a bigger picture, understands how being the object of abject obsession can be a good thing. “I think to answer your questions,” he says, tapping his fingers on the table, “it’s been really good fun.”

Mr Scott demurs when asked what it’s like to be the quencher of many thirsts on the internet. “People don’t say that to me. People don’t say, ‘Oh my God...” He shakes his head and trails off, perhaps in horror of what fans could be saying to him. It’s a little hard to believe that he wouldn’t be mobbed as he walks down the street. After all, one major British publication declared that Fleabag and the Priest were the only couple worth talking or tweeting about this year. (We guess Meghan and Harry, and Kim and Kanye can relax.)

“If I’m honest, it’s only really just starting to dawn on me, the global effect the show has had. People like a bit of transgression, they just do.” Any follower of his career, though, understands that it’s more than just good writing that makes him so very watchable (though good writing, is, politely, what he puts it down to). His chemistry is electric with Ms Phoebe Waller-Bridge, as it was electric with Mr Cumberbatch, and palpable even if you weren’t lucky enough to catch his rendition of Hamlet and – like this interviewer – had to watch a clip on YouTube.

Mr Scott’s character, Tobin, in Modern Love is the most subdued we might ever see him. There’s very little shouting, and none of the wide-eyed glaring that has defined his roles to date. Instead, he plays sweetly, quietly off a tiny baby, and tells goodnight stories to an adorable little girl. Perhaps this is a harbinger of softer roles to come. “I’d love to be in a romcom,” he says. “I love watching people fall in love, and how mad it is.” And yet: it was just announced that he will be playing Tom Ripley in a new adaptation of The Talented Mr Ripley. So much for avoiding the nutters.

“What always amazes me is how innocent we are as human beings,” he says, sidestepping yet another probing question about being so irresistible right now. “We are very easily manipulated by stories. If someone puts scary music behind someone and they’re told this person’s eyes are absolutely terrifying, you go: ‘Oh my God, that person is scary, and his eyes totally freak me out.’”

“But then,” he continues, “[you’re told] ‘the priest is hot, wait till you see him’. And then you look at his eyes in a very different way and it’s the manipulation of the storytelling. It literally changes your character.” Hmmm.

“The success is the writing,” he tries, again, to argue. But it’s hard to be convinced that an actor who’s hopped from one iconic character to another is simply lucky with writing. He sees he’s not getting anywhere and changes tack. “Acting is just a way of experimenting with different parts of myself. Vulnerability is something I’m really, really interested in. I think vulnerability is at the centre of every character I’ve ever played even if they don’t appear or present as vulnerable.”

Throughout this conversation, his eyes have flicked around the bar, and he pauses from time to time to comment on the other patrons. At one point, a woman is coughing so vehemently, he stops mid-sentence to remark, humorously, on whether she might be dying. Now, he spots something on the bar. “Oh my God, she’s reading Brené Brown.” We both turn to stare at the book.

“She writes a lot about vulnerability,” he explains, excited. “[Being vulnerable] is how you get ahead. I really, really strongly believe that. [Vulnerability is] strong, it’s really strong.”

Perhaps this is the secret we’ve been trying to distil about his appeal: Mr Scott uses vulnerability to bring us all into a space of fear or sadness or lust or anger with him so that every character he plays – whether it’s the hottest priest in London, a gay man in Brooklyn trying to become a father, or a murderous villain – thrums with the heartbreak that comes with being human.

“The more I work,” he continues, “the more I just think every story is in some way concerned with love – or the lack of it.” He smiles an earnest little smile and we both know this is the place to stop. “That’s the way life is,” he says. “It’s so fast and furious.”

https://www.mrporter.com/en-hk/journal/fashion/the-softer-side-of-mr-andrew-scott-1052122

#andrew scott #fleabag #modern love #ripley #netflix ripley #mr porter #blast from the past

[thewarmestplacetohide]

Dread by the Decade: Black Moon

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Source Material: "Black Moon" by Clements Ripley Year: 1934 Genre: Occult Rating: UR (Recommended: PG-13) Country: USA Languages: English, Kreyòl Runtime: 1 hour 8 minutes

Director: Roy William Neill Cinematographer: Joseph August Editor: Richard Cahoon Writer: Wells Root Cast: Jack Holt, Fay Wray, Dorothy Burgess

Plot: A white woman returns to the island where her parents were murdered in a Voodoo ritual.

Review: A technically bland and staggeringly racist propaganda piece that says Voodoo is evil, black indigenous people are savages, and white women are delicate flowers in danger of defilement if they dare to treat black people as human beings.

Overall Rating: 0/5

Story: 0/5 - Abysmal. Beyond being racist and pro-colonialist, it's horribly paced and predictable.

Performances: 2/5 - Some are totally generic and unmemorable, and some are outright offensive caricatures.

Cinematography: 1.5/5 - Artistically weak and often poorly lit.

Editing: 2/5 - Tends to be abrupt and muddled.

Music: 2/5 - Like everything else that isn't horrible, it's generic.

Effects: 2/5

Sets: 2.5/5 - The plantation looks solid but the jungle sets vary in quality and the volcano looks outright bad.

Costumes, Hair, & Make-Up: 3/5

Trigger Warnings:

The entire film is anti-black, anti-indigenous, pro-colonialist propaganda that's only worth discussing to acknowledge the racist history of the film industry and horror genre

Offensive portrayal of the Voodoo religion

Child harm

Brief but moderate violence

Mention of cannibalism

#Black Moon (1934) #Black Moon #Roy William Neill #American #occult #Dread by the Decade #review #1930s #antiblackness #racism #anti-black racism #anti-indigenous racism #colonialism

[xgoddessoffandomsx]

The official WWE 2k23 roster!!!! @atiny-angel @swifteforeverandalways @sargentbarxes @imswitchbabemox @the-iridescent-phoenix @ozzypawsbone-princeofbarkness @askauradonprep @retro-rezz-the-est @nonbinarylovaticesposito @ava-valerie @mrragersrevenge96

AJ Styles

Akira Tozawa

Alba Fyre

Alexa Bliss

Aliyah

André the Giant

Angel Garza

Angelo Dawkins

Apollo Crews

Asuka

Austin Theory

Axiom

Batista

Bayley

Becky Lynch

Beth Phoenix

Bianca Belair

Big Boss Man

Big E

Bobby Lashley

Boogeyman

Booker T

Braun Strowman

Bret "The Hit Man" Hart

Brie Bella

British Bulldog

Brock Lesnar

Bron Breakker

Bruno Sammartino

Brutus Creed

Butch

Cactus Jack

Cameron Grimes

Carmella

Carmelo Hayes

Cedric Alexander

Chad Gable

Charlotte Flair

Chyna

Cody Rhodes

Commander Azeez

Cora Jade

Cruz Del Toro

Dakota Kai

Damian Priest

Dana Brooke

Dexter Lumis

Diesel

DOINK

Dolph Ziggler

Dominik Mysterio

Doudrop

Drew Gulak

Drew McIntyre

Eddie Guerrero

Edge

Elias

Eric Bischoff

Erik

Ezekiel

Faarooq

Giovanni Vinci

Finn Bálor

Gigi Dolin

Goldberg

Grayson Waller

Happy Corbin

Hollywood Hogan

Hulk Hogan

Humberto Carillo

The Hurricane

Ilja Dragunov

Indi Hartwell

IYO SKY

Ivar

Jacy Jayne

Jake “The Snake” Roberts

JD McDonagh

Jerry "The King" Lawler

Jey Uso

Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart

Jimmy Uso

Jinder Mahal

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JBL

John Cena

Julius Creed

Kane

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Katana Chance

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Kevin Nash

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LA Knight

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“Macho Man” Randy Savage

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Mr. McMahon

Mustafa Ali

MVP

Natalya

Nikki A.S.H.

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Nikkita Lyons

Noam Dar

Omos

Otis

Queen Zelina

Randy Orton

Raquel Rodriguez

Razor Ramon

Reggie

Rey Mysterio

Rhea Ripley

Rick Boogs

Ricochet

Ridge Holland

Rikishi

Rob Van Dam

Robert Roode

Roman Reigns

Ronda Rousey

Rowdy Roddy Piper

Roxanne Perez

R-Truth

Sami Zayn

Santos Escobar

Scarlett

Scott Hall

Seth Rollins

Shane McMahon

Shanky

Shawn Michaels

Shayna Bazler

Sheamus

Shelton Benjamin

Shinsuke Nakamura

Shotzi

Solo Sikoa

Sonya Deville

Stacy Keibler

“Stone Cold” Steve Austin

Stephanie McMahon

Syxx

Tamina

T-BAR

Ted DiBiase

The Miz

The Rock

Titus O’Neil

Tommaso Ciampa

Triple H

Trish Stratus

Tyler Bate

Ultimate Warrior

Umaga

Undertaker

Vader

Veer Mahaan

GUNTHER

Wes Lee

Xavier Woods

Xia Li

X-Pac

Yokozuna

Zoey Stark

Johnny Gargano has been confirmed but was not on the roster reveal for some reason

Bad Bunny will be the pre order bonus and later his pack will be available for DLC for those who did not pre order

Bray Wyatt, Tegan Nox, Candice LeRae, Hit Row and many other are rumored for future DLC

#wwe #wwe 2k23