#bachelor challenge entry

[none-of-these-days]

Interviewer: Mr. Landgrab, what are some of your favorite activities outside of work?

Johnny: As a business owner there is barely any time for hobbies. But I enjoy a good match of tennis or golf. When in Mt. Komorebi I always try to get at least a few hours to enjoy the snowy mountains and go skiing.

Interviewer: Sounds tough! You probably don't have time for any pets, do you?

Johnny: My family owns a prestigious horse stable in the countryside of Brindelton Bay. I started horse riding at the age of 5 and still do so when time allows. Other than that, my mother owns three poodles. But I consider myself a cat person rather than a dog person.

Interviewer: Holiday season is coming upon us! Where is your favorite travel destination?

Johnny: I travel a lot due to work. I'd say my favorite destination is Tartosa. It's known for it's magnificent sun downers and exquisite cuisine. There is nothing better than enjoying a high class meal and some good wine while watching the sun down.

Interviewer: Rumors have it you're invited to Mr. Straud's Halloween party. What will your costume look like?

Johnny: I'll keep it traditional and simple. I enjoy high fashion - wearing silly costumes however is not something I'm especially keen of. I decided to go as a vampire. The suit was tailored by one of my favorite designers. It did cost quite the money but I say it's worth the price.

Part 1 out of 2 of CEO Johnny's introduction for @cawthorntales bachelor challenge. I hope you like this little interview Johnny did. I was figuring out how to offer as much info about CEO Johnny without it reading weird in his actual video tape (which will be posted tomorrow). So I decided to split things up. I think it's very fitting for succesfull business owner Johnny to do these kind of interviews.

I've also included the Halloween screenshots in this post! :D

(Also sorry if anything sounds off. English is not my native language and I'm running out of brain juice atm. I heavily relied on DeepL and hope everything makes sense.)

[riverofjazzsims]

Midnight Starr for @seyvia Fairytale Affair BC

Midnight Starr

YA - for a fae

Straight

Spellcaster

Aspiration: The Curator

Traits: Loyal, Loves Outdoors, Erratic 

High Skills: Fitness, Charisma

Midnight Starr, only child and heir to the throne  of the Unseelie court.  Her father is King Obsidian. The Queen,  epic b!tch that she is, luckily is not her mother. Unluckily  it's because she's not, that she is on a mission to find her future king. Here is the short and sweet of why ….

The Queen, was a widow with a young son when king Obsidian met her, courted her and eventually married her making her his Bride. The problem is he never loved her, his love has always been for another, one that the Unseelie court would never recognize as he equal or mate. It was a rule that couldn’t be undone.  So to fulfill his duty and provide an heir he married one of his own who had already  born a healthy elfling and as agreed would bare another child to pass the kingdom to when time came. His Queen was a conniving woman. She always knew she wasn’t his love and that their marriage was a business agreement, but she never disclosed that she could no longer bare a child. She also knew there was a loophole that would allow her son to ascend to the throne when the time came.

Fate, she has a wicked sense of   humor  and amazing timing because King Obsidian, cherished love became pregnant. This was a miracle because she is a Light being, and they don’t bare children , ever. They are created, started as an ember that sparks off the eternal flame located in the Elysian Fields. But his Light being has broken all the rules since the moment of her creation (brief story of Chimera)

Enter his pride and joy, Midnight, she embodies the culmination of her parents love and then some. Like most Unseelie she has a dark nature, but she lacks the cruelty that can be found in  her father's people as well as not being power hungry. Midnight is a trainer in the Shadow hunters, an elite group of mage soldiers, whose job it is to keep the realm safe.

The king knows when the time comes, she will be a most excellent Queen.  There is time enough for that though. At least he thinks so, but Midnight knows her deceitful  stepmother has other plans and will do anything to ensure her son can inherit the kingdom. So Midnight was over the moon when she received the invitation from the kingdom of Spellbyndell and it's Queen. Even though Midnight is the acknowledged heir to King Obsidian she is still of mixed lineage no one in the kingdom would look to her for marriage, regardless that she will ultimately be the Queen.  She is hoping this challenge will gain her access and the chance to meet the Prince and if the fates allow form an amazing union between the two kingdoms. Midnight is determined to make sure she ascends and not the cruel woman and her tyrannical son.

She is scared to venture out of her comfort zone, she thought she would have more time to entertain this aspect of her life. But her hand is being pushed and she knows her kingdom deserves for her to fight for them even though they don’t even know there is a battle brewing. She is probably the most unprincess like Princess, and hope her eccentric ways, Tomboyish flair and outspoken tongue not hold her back. Either way Spellbyndell here she comes.

Private Download

[fruitysimsy]

Love on the Ranch entry

Here's my sim for #loveontheranch by @snderist

Eloise Coleman grew up traveling with her parents because of her dad's job as a food blogger. Her senior year of high school her father passed, and her mother moved them to Brindleton Bay. In her free time she enjoys photography, reading, and caring for the stray animals in her neighborhood. She shows her love for her friends and family through food, and her best friend would describe her as a golden retriever. Girly isn't afraid to get dirty and will try everything once. Her ideal date would be an outdoor activity like ice skating (or horseback riding) and then going back home for a meal she made just for them. Eloise is excited about the prospect of finding her forever person in Asher! (custom content used and gallery ID under the cut)

Custom content all outfits: skin tone skin detail (+ MsBlue skinset) eyebrows (thin) rings (couldn't find the link to the ones in the photos, replaced with these) eyes lip preset nose preset butt slider hip shape slider (I didn't even use the sliders, added them just in case though) teeth override (BGvampiresmore) tattoo everyday: eyeshadow (outfit 1) eyeshadow (outfit 2) lashes (NO1 glasses conflict) hair blush earrings necklace outfit 2 shoes 1 (same as formal) shoes 2 (daisy flower flat sandals) formal: eyeshadow lashes eyeliner blush hair (V3) earrings shoes (couldn't find the original ones, switched to the same as everyday 1) dress

Gallery ID: fruitysimsy

[mangosimoothie]

Three days! Submit your simmies and/or rb to spread the call. Can't wait to start the shenanigans on Halloween 😈

This Halloween, Attica Riot presents 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐹𝐴𝑀𝐼𝐿𝐼𝐴𝑅: a different kind of Bachelor Challenge. 

Vampire supercouple Atticus Winthorpe and Ryan Kato are looking for that special someone: the perfect mortal to join the Katowin household as their familiar. Do you live to serve? Would you die to serve? Do you perform well under immense pressure? Are you not the slightest bit squeamish? Then you might just be that one. Maybe. Atticus and Ryan are very particular.

RULES:

Submissions must be sent by October, Friday the 13th

Tag #katowinfamiliar and @mangosimoothie

One outfit per category and no alpha hair

CONTESTANTS:

8 will be chosen

Must be human and mortal - no occults

15 skill points spent however you please

Young Adults only

The winning sim will join the Katowin household and welcome a life of servitude (plus a cushy salary) under their two new caretakers.

Will they fall in love? Will they get turned? Will they die trying? Who's to say.

In your submission, please include some background on your sim, why they want to be a familiar, any special skills they might have, and their blood type (yes, really)

Can't wait to see your submissions! Happy Halloween and reblog instead of liking to spread the call 🖤

start | prev | next

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.6.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit - pure filth :v

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 7,6K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: What's up Viktor Nation? First: @mithrava and @rennethen thank you for all your help with proof reading and helping me putting this into sort of historically accurate setting. Playlist on Spotify. I can't believe it's over!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

For the first time in your life, you take your mother’s advice. And it is, to say the least, difficult. Maintaining a calm, composed façade while a tempest rages inside you is not unfamiliar, but the effort becomes infinitely harder when it is laced with longing—not for something, but for someone.

And Viktor is a worthy opponent. Neither of you plays this game out of spite; it is fear that guides you, the quiet worry that one wrong move will send the other bolting. From your perspective, your heart is already bare—it is his turn to pick up whatever you left on the library floor.

The days pass in a rhythm that neither of you dares disturb. Conversations are polite, words exchanged with careful precision—utterly unhostile, yet utterly empty. The thrilling tension that once crackled between you, charged with unspoken desire and sharp-witted challenges, has dulled into something else entirely. A tension of stress. Of careful treading.

Once in a while, he tries—you have to admit that. There are moments when he edges closer to something deeper, where his words hover on the cusp of meaning, where his eyes search yours as if waiting for permission to proceed. But each time, you falter. You do not know what to give him, what is safe to surrender. Your mother left you no further instructions.

Every day ends with you torn between giving up, knocking on his door, or screaming into the pillow of your own bed. You choose the latter and promise yourself that tomorrow, you will be braver. Until you see him—slouched over his coffee, exhausted by something beyond your reach.

Until one day, the wind howls against the windowpanes, rattling them like an impatient hand demanding entry. Inside, the house feels smaller than ever, every room suffocating with its stillness, its emptiness. Your notebooks lie abandoned, their pages filled with thoughts that have nowhere else to go. The piano holds no appeal. Eliza, dear Eliza, would offer kind words and warm company, but even that feels unbearable—words would make the frustration real, give it form, and you cannot afford that.

So, you take your mother’s advice more literally than she likely intended. You step through the door without a word, a book tucked under your arm, and let the wind take you.

In your mind, Viktor follows. He finds you before you reach the gate, seizes your wrist with a desperate sort of heat in his touch. He says your name like it is both an apology and a demand, like he has realised too late that he cannot let you go.

But there is no hand at your wrist. No voice calling you back. The wind is your only companion, and it cares nothing for your foolish fantasies.

You walk. Past the house, past the garden, beyond the familiar paths you have taken before. The land stretches wide, unbound by human hands, unfolding in an endless sprawl of untamed beauty. The hills roll like waves frozen in time, their slopes marked by patches of gnarled trees, black against the grey sky. Fields stretch beyond sight, the grass bending and thrashing beneath the force of the wind, caught between dance and struggle.

A river carves its way through the valley, its waters wild, swollen from recent rains. On the banks, delicate flowers cling to the earth beside jagged stones, their petals trembling with each gust. Above, the sky churns, clouds thick and restless, shifting between light and shadow, as if the heavens themselves cannot decide whether to bless the land or break it.

Here, beauty does not exist without violence. Here, softness and savagery do not contradict but coexist. And yet, for all its ferocity, the landscape does not rage against itself. It simply is.

You sit upon a smooth, flat rock, letting the world settle around you, pressing your palms to the cool surface as if to ground yourself in its vastness. The book opens in your lap, but for a long while, you do not read. You only breathe. And for the first time in days, your mind is quiet.

Back at the house, more than one mind is restless.

At first, your absence is barely noted. The house is vast, and you often take solace in its quieter corners, slipping away with a book or a blank sheet of music. But as the hours stretch and Eliza’s calls go unanswered, a ripple of concern spreads through the household.

It is Eliza who worries first, pressing her lips together as she checks the library, the sitting room, even the piano bench, expecting to find you lost in thought. When she does not, her steps quicken. The kitchen staff shake their heads at her inquiry. The drawing room is empty. Your bedchamber, undisturbed.

Then, the matter reaches Viktor.

He notices your absence in a far quieter way. A missed meal, an empty chair where you ought to have been. He is good at reading patterns, after all—seeing the way things are supposed to fit together. You have been in his periphery for days, a ghost of yourself, barely tethered to the present. Even when you sat across from him, you were elsewhere. And now, you are nowhere at all.

Viktor sets his fork down. The thought is irrational—this immediate coil of unease in his gut—but it does not loosen. He does not ask where you are yet. He only stands, slow and deliberate, as he leaves the otherwise empty dining room.

It is easier to look for you than to think about what he has not said.

He has tried. He swears he has tried. The words have reached the back of his throat, caught there, strangled before they could see daylight. You have let him speak before—really speak, about things beyond the polite nothings you trade now. But each time he has tried, something stops him.

Sometimes, it is you. A wary glance, a flicker of hesitation when he nears the subject too closely. Other times, it is himself—the heavy hand of caution gripping his shoulder, the fear that one wrong step will send you running.

And then there is the contract. A foolish thing now, a ghost in the air between you, binding him tighter than his own hesitation. What use is freedom when it tastes like regret? What use is it when, instead of granting him solace, it imprisons him—his thoughts spiralling in all the wrong directions? One particularly harrowing thought slices through his heart. He tries to chase it away, yet to no avail. What if?

Upon visiting room after room, he finally finds Eliza. She startles, her fingers tightening around the apron she’s wringing between them. She recovers quickly, smoothing her expression into one of careful neutrality, but Viktor catches the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asks, voice light but not quite steady.

Viktor studies her, his grip tightening on the cane at his side. “Eliza.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for pretences. “Where is she?”

Eliza’s composure cracks for the briefest moment before she dips into a small curtsy. “I am so terribly sorry, but I do not know, my lord.”

It isn’t enough. His pulse beats hard in his throat, his mind filling the absence of answers with the worst possibilities. “Who is she with?” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, sharp and urgent, betraying more than he wants to.

He knows the contract’s terms, remembers them too well. The very thing he once clung to as assurance that he would not hurt you, not cage you, is now a blade twisting in his gut. The notion that you might have given up—truly given up—and gone ahead with your initial deal, cuts deeper than he is willing to admit.

Whatever you please, with whomever you please. A term he regretted since the beginning.

Eliza’s brows draw together in something like surprise, as if she cannot believe he would even think it. “With no one, my lord.” Her voice is quieter now, something knowing and gentler lacing her words. “She left on her own.”

Before Viktor can react, before he can feel or say anything, a thunderclap splits the sky outside, shaking the very air around them. His head snaps toward the window, where the light has already dimmed, the once-placid sky now churning with bruised clouds.

Where you are, the storm is already raging.

You hadn’t noticed it at first—too lost in the hush of the hills, in the way the vastness of the land swallowed the smallness of your troubles. But then a thick drop of rain lands squarely on the open page of your book, the ink smudging beneath the sudden weight of water. Another follows. Then another.

Hastily, you snap the book shut and rise from your rock of solitude, a cold wind biting at your exposed skin. The first proper gust sends a shiver down your spine, but it is not until the rain comes in earnest—buckets of it, slanting and constant—that you realise how terribly unprepared you are.

You grip the book under your arm, shielding it as best you can, and start back toward the house. There is no avoiding it now; you will be soaked to the bone before you even reach the gates. The walk feels shorter on the way back, and whatever had calmed inside you now feels even softer, as if the tempest in your heart has poured out to be echoed by the storm raging around you.

Rain pours in relentless sheets, drenching you through and threatening to dissolve the book in your hands. You contemplate abandoning your shoes altogether—clogged with mud as they are—but the sheer absurdity of the thought makes you feel strangely light. Home looms on the horizon, and you almost laugh at yourself: a fully grown woman, trotting through the muck in a drenched dress, holding a book over her head as though parchment could shield her from the downpour.

A silhouette emerges in the distance, growing clearer with each step until you can make out Viktor approaching, his coat draped over his head. The mere thought of him sparks something sour in your chest at first, yet the fact that he came out after you—in the middle of a storm—warms you enough that your initial scowl evaporates.

“Thank God,” he exhales as he reaches you. He sticks his cane in the mud, hands grip your shoulders abruptly before pulling the coat from his head and draping it over you. It’s no use—the thing is already soaked through—but the gesture alone is enough.

“Now you’re a believer?” you laugh, swiping rain from your face to see him better.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his fingers come up to brush wet strands from your forehead, and your heart stumbles when he murmurs, “You know what I mean. Are you hurt?”

Before you can reply, his cold hands cup your face, his thumbs ghosting over your cheeks. You wonder if he notices the heat blooming there.

For days, the feelings had been easier to hold at bay—kept at a careful distance, left to sit absently beside you at the table or dissolve into silence when you passed each other in the corridors. But now, with his touch grounding you in this moment, the illusion shatters. The ache rushes back, stronger than ever, no longer something you can pretend away. His hands, warm despite the chill, cradle you with a gentleness that weakens your resolve, his fingers steady despite the storm raging around you. And his eyes—full of worry, of something close to tenderness—search your face as if you are something fragile, something to be handled with care. The sheer attention of it, the way he truly sees you, steals whatever words you might have said.

“No,” is all that is able to leave you. His gaze burns into you, so intense that you have to look away. “Just wet,” you add softly.

The moment he is certain you are unharmed, Viktor can no longer suppress the tumult of emotions churning within him. Insecurity rages, jealousy—uninvited and fierce—surges to the forefront of his mind, raw and stinging. Without thinking, his hands grasp your shoulders with surprising intensity, his voice taut with restraint as he demands, "Where in God’s name have you been?"

“I—” You start, caught off guard, searching his face for the root of his frustration. But you tell the truth as it is. “I wandered. Too far to make it home before the rain.”

“Who were you with?” The accusation comes faster than his mind can stop it. It is vile—he knows that—you have given him no reason to doubt you, yet he must know. He has to.

Offence flashes across your face, your expression hardening as you straighten and tilt your chin in defiance. “Myself,” you say proudly.

“Do not lie to me, girl,” Viktor growls, his face inches from yours, his breath hot despite the chill of the storm. He swipes a hand through his dripping hair, water trickling into his eyes.

“I do not.” Anger rises in you now, sharp and indignant. You wrench your arms from his grasp. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

“You are my wife,” he says, and the words surprise even him. His tone surprises him—self-explanatory and wounded, as if you have done something wrong. His hands surprise him most of all, when, in desperation, they come to your waist, pleading for you not to go. Apology, guilt, need—everything tangled together, because Viktor has no idea how to say what he truly wants to.

“On paper,” you say quietly, one last attempt to hold your ground.

“No.” His grip tightens at your waist as he presses his forehead to yours. “You foolish girl,” he breathes, eyes squeezing shut as his lips barely graze yours. “You don’t know the first thing.” His voice is raw, his fingers digging into the damp fabric at your hips.

“How right you’ve been,” he murmurs at last—before sealing his mouth over yours.

The tension that has stretched between you for weeks—unspoken words, lingering touches, stolen glances—snaps all at once. Viktor moves. His mouth crashes against yours, not gently, not sweetly, but with hours, days, weeks of restraint unravelling in a single, desperate instant. He groans low in his throat as he tastes you—rain and warmth and home—and his hands pull you flush against him, fingers gripping at the small of your back as if he means to fuse you to him.

Water soaks through both of you, but neither of you care.

You gasp against his lips, and Viktor seizes the opportunity, deepening the kiss with a fervour that steals the air from your lungs. His tongue sweeps against yours, demanding, devouring, sending heat searing through your veins. His hands, once gripping you so tightly, soften—one slipping to cradle the back of your head, the other splaying wide against your lower back, keeping you pressed against the solid warmth of him.

Your fingers find purchase in his soaked curls, tugging, eliciting a sound from him that makes your knees weak. He groans against your lips, the sound guttural, wrecked, as though this—you—are the very thing holding him together. He kisses you like he is starving, like he has spent his whole life waiting for this moment and can finally, finally taste freedom.

When you break apart, it is only for air. He does not let you go—his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your rain-slicked lips, his fingers trembling where they cradle your spine. His eyes, dark and blown wide with want, search yours, as if trying to make sense of what he’s just done.

He takes your hand and places it on his chest, the rattling inside thunders through your fingers. "My heart aches for you," Viktor clamours, muffled by the rain pouring down upon you both, his voice raw and raspy.

Hot breath fans against your lips, trembling as he clings to you as though letting go would tear him apart. "All of me… aches for you," he says loudly, the words tumbling from him in a pained plea, as if the very act of speaking them is both agony and relief.

His hands come back to tighten around you, fingers dig into your flesh and fist your hair, as though he fears you might slip from his grasp. "I want to worship you, body and soul, as I vowed," he breathes, the words catching in his throat, his lips grazing yours between each shuddering syllable.

"From the moment your lips touched mine, I was undone." His voice falters, thick with longing, as though the very memory of it is too much to bear. He presses his forehead to yours once more, exhaling sharply, as if on the brink of breaking.

"From the moment I saw you playing that wretched sonata, I wanted you." The confession escapes him like a broken thing, something ripped from the depths of him, his need so raw it borders on torment. His mouth hovers over yours, trembling, his breath unsteady, waiting—begging—for you to close the unbearable distance once more. “From the moment I’ve met you I have been a deer, startled and scared of you capturing me but I am no longer.”

And you stand there, his lips on yours, speaking of an unbearable love that has tormented him since the very beginning of this journey. Your heart feels as though it might burst, and for the first time—perhaps ever—words fail you. Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. Instead, tears spill over, the weight of his confession striking deep, touching the very core of your being. He has bared his soul to you—here, of all places—in the mud, in the rain.

Before your mind can summon an answer, your arms wind around his neck, fingers tangling in his rain-soaked hair, pulling him closer—deeper—until nothing remains between you. In this kiss, you try to convey everything your heart drives through your veins. Your lips ache, swollen from the force of his devotion, and his tongue—hot, insistent, unrelenting—feels nothing short of sinful against yours. And you want to sin with him, more than you have ever wanted anything.

When the kiss breaks, Viktor breathes heavily, yet a calmness washes over him. As much as he would love to stay here, far from everyone, his practical mind takes over. “Let’s get you home,” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and retrieving his cane from the mud.

The journey back to the house is a clumsy one, filled with laughter and unspoken confessions lingering in the space between your bodies. The mud sucks at your shoes, threatens to steal them from your feet entirely, and more than once, Viktor nearly stumbles, caught between his cane and the treacherous ground. You reach for him instinctively, and when his arm slips around your waist in response, you smile and place your hands on his.

By the time the estate looms before you, the storm has softened into a steady downpour. Algernon rushes out to meet you, a look of pure horror crossing his face as he takes in your drenched and mud-splattered forms. Ever the devoted butler, he brandishes an umbrella as if it could somehow remedy the state you’ve both been reduced to.

“My lord, my lady—” He barely gets the words out before you both dissolve into laughter, Viktor’s hand swatting away the offered umbrella.

“I believe we are well beyond saving,” Viktor remarks, shaking water from his free hand.

You nod, wiping the rain from your brow. “It is a noble effort, Algernon, but I fear no umbrella could salvage us now.”

Surrendering with a put-upon sigh, Algernon steps aside as the two of you make your way inside. Mud trails behind you, streaking the floor, but neither of you care. Your shoes are discarded in the hallway, and you twist the water from your hair, watching the rivulets drip onto the stone.

Eliza appears a moment later, her face a mixture of worry and relief. She hesitates as though torn between embracing you and scolding you outright. Before she can decide, you reach for her, smoothing your hands over her shoulders.

“It’s all right,” you say gently, offering a tired smile. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Eliza exhales, her tension easing, though the concern does not fully leave her. “Come, let me draw you a bath, my lady. I’ll have warm towels sent up and—”

“No need,” Viktor interjects. His arm finds its place around your shoulders once more, his hold neither forceful nor uncertain, but deliberate. His voice is steady, brooking no argument. “I will... take care of it.”

A hush falls over the room. The weight of eyes upon you is unmistakable, the quiet, watchful sort of curiosity that cannot be helped. But you do not care.

You keep your gaze on Viktor as he looks straight ahead, guiding you forward. Only when you reach the top of the stairs do you falter, stopping by habit at the threshold of your own door. He nearly keeps walking, and when your pause forces him to a halt, he turns to you, hesitation flickering across his face.

Then you take the first step. Without a word, you move forward, past the familiar safety of your room, and he follows. He leads you down the hall, through the dim glow of candlelight and the quiet of the house, until he reaches his door.

It opens with a soft creak, and you step inside together, fingers still intertwined. The air in Viktor’s chamber is warmer than the hallway, scented faintly of parchment and oil, but it does little to chase the chill clinging to your skin.

You stand there, neither of you moving, uncharted waters spreading before you. The rain outside has dulled to a gentle patter against the windows, the only sound between you save for your breaths—his, steady but heavy; yours, shallow with anticipation.

Viktor’s eyes search yours, his grip on your hand loosening only so he can reach up, his thumb skimming across your cheek. The gesture is tender, reverent. His lips part as if he means to say something, but instead, he lingers, his brow furrowing as though he cannot quite believe this moment is real.

Then he exhales, shaking his head slightly, as if clearing his thoughts. “I will draw you a bath,” he murmurs, his voice quiet. He turns, about to step away, but before he can, your fingers curl around his wrist, stopping him. He barely has time to register the shift before you pull him back to you, your lips capturing his in a kiss that is anything but hesitant. It is deep, insistent, brimming with a need that has long since stopped being bearable.

He makes a sound against your mouth—a sharp inhale, half surprise, half surrender. His hands find your waist, hesitant only for a second before they tighten, pulling you close.

You break away only long enough to whisper, breathless and sure, “I cannot wait any longer.” Your hands tangle in his hair, holding him there. Your forehead presses to his, your lips brushing as you give him your confession. “I want you now.”

It is all that Viktor needs. It is more than enough—beyond anything he could have hoped for. He exhales, long and deep, and takes your hands in his.

“My wife,” he murmurs, bringing your knuckles to his lips. In a voice meant for you and you alone, he whispers, “Ask anything of me, and I will give it to you.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, and when he speaks again, it is as if his words are woven directly into the fabric of your being.

“You have bewitched me, body and soul, and—” His hands, still chilled from the rain but impossibly gentle, cup the base of your skull. His thumbs brush over your temples, reverent, trembling slightly as he breathes, “I love, I love, I love you.”

Heart, soul, and body seized, you let him guide you backward toward the bed. His fingers ghost along your back as he undoes each button—blindly, yet deftly, as though he has been preparing for this moment for the longest time. The ribbon at your waist slides free at his touch, and with steady hands, he eases the dress from your shoulders, baring the soaked chemise that clings to the contours of your body.

His lips find yours again, tender, slower, as the moment gets extended in time. Hands skim over your arms, then down, finding purchase at your waist before trailing higher. Through the damp fabric, his palms cup the curve under the hill of your breasts, thumbs grazing over the hardened peaks. His breath hitches, and a low, reverent sound escapes him as he squeezes gently.

“Forgive me for being such a fool,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours for a fleeting moment before his lips begin their descent.

He kisses down the column of your throat, lingering at your pulse before trailing lower, tracing a heated path to the curve of your collarbone. His mouth moves with purpose, and the wet layer of second skin clinging to you catches on his lips with a pulling, teasing touch. Where his breath and lips travel, warmth spreads; where he moves away, cool air rushes in, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

When his tongue swipes over where he knows you must ache for more, you gasp, your fingers burying in his hair. The tug makes his breath stutter, his heart wonder whether it’s a hesitation or eagerness.

“I love you,” he reassures into your chest. “My wife, I love you.”

Time folds around you, warping in the face of the moment you have longed for, the one you never let yourself believe would come to pass. It still feels impossible, like grasping at fog in the dawn—slipping through your fingers, becoming real where he touches you. You are trembling, though not from cold. The weight of waiting and yearning presses into your ribs like the wind before a storm, swelling until it threatens to break you apart.

Your fingers slide from his hair to the nape of his neck, where it clings to his skin in dampness. You tug to make him look at you. His eyes, burning gold even in the dim light, find yours at once.

“Viktor, I have never—” The words come fragile, barely more than breath. An unnecessary confession meets his kind eyes, and you realise he knows.

A quiet understanding settles over him as he nods thoughtfully, his hand gliding over the curve of your stomach, a grounding touch. “You know I won’t hurt you,” he murmurs.

And he won’t. Because you are not prey beneath him, not something to be taken. Now you are the wild creature caught in a snare, and Viktor is not the hunter—he is a man who has found you bound and trembling, and with steady hands, he grants you freedom.

Those hands slide down your sides and his mouth follows, pressing into your stomach, hums fall between each kiss. A tremor passes through him as he sinks to one knee before you, steadying himself on the edge of the bed. His palm presses against the back of your thigh, urging you to part for him. And then, with an aching slowness, he leans in.

His face presses against the apex of your thighs, and he inhales deeply—a shuddering breath that seems all-consuming. Heat pools, not only from the warmth of his lips but from the want that boils over, spilling right where his mouth lingers.

“Let me have you,” he pleads. "I beg you.”

Mouth agape, you lift your chemise—a non-verbal answer. You grasp it around your hips and lift, inch by inch, revealing your skin to him. Where it goes, Viktor’s hands follow. With its lift he rises, palms tracing up your body in a scalding touch. You rid yourself of your last layer shielding you from his eyes and stand naked before him, waiting and nervous. The air kisses your bare flesh before he does.

Through the kiss, his hands find yours, guiding them to his neck. Fingers on fingers, he ushers your palms to his buttons. You undo them one by one, yet your pulse pounds like rainfall against glass, impossible to still. You don’t know when it happens, but at last, his damp shirt gapes open, revealing glimpses of pale skin beneath.

You slip it from his shoulders and pause. Valleys of alabaster stretched flat over his chest lay before your eyes, marked by dark points of freckles and birth marks. Below, his stomach is hidden by layers of leather and suddenly you feel guilty for ever complaining about your breasts being bound. You search for permission within his eyes, and once more, his hands answer. He guides your fingers to straps and buckles and mutters a calming, trustful, “It’s alright. Here—”

You are granted a secret map to his ribs, when your arms crowd his frame and work blindly at the back—the brace gives with a small hiss, ungluing itself from him, pulling on the skin as you take it off. Underneath his flesh is tender, dent and blushed where the leather clung to it.

A shuddery breath escapes your mouth when you seek purchase of your forehead against his, and your hands trying to convey the feeling of awe press flatly to his stomach. Belly button sucks in on instinct, startled by the touch, meeting his spine before he relaxes into a breath and presses his naked chest to yours. He shudders then, as the meeting of skin and soul ripples through him.

Emboldened, you lean in and press your lips to his collarbone, tasting salt and rain. He sighs, the sound low and unguarded, and his head lulls back, offering more. Like the earth drinking in the first warmth of spring, he yields to you, welcomes you, as though you are the sun breaking through his endless winter.

Your hands begin their journey lower, trembling around his waist. Slowly, you dip your fingers past the clasps of his slacks, easing them down. He exhales when you free him, his arms loosen at his sides, fingers twitching as he stops himself from threading them into your hair and pulling your face flush against him.

There is one more cage stopping you from having him bare. It hugs his leg tightly, an embrace of metal tempered by Jayce’s hammer. The eye of Viktor’s knee stares at you when you mirror your husband and lower yourself to kneel. He leans to help you, guiding your fingers to where they should unclasp and pull, set him free if only for a moment. The brace falls heavy around his ankle, and without hesitation, you offer your shoulder for him to steady himself as he steps out from the last remnants of metal and cloth.

Your eyes remain fixed ahead as you take him in—half-hard, resting in the crease of his thigh. And Viktor does not need to guide you anywhere. Because just as he did, you lean in, pressing your cheek to the side of him, inhaling deeply through your nose as your eyes flutter shut. The scent of earth, rain, and soft skin fills your lungs, warming you from the inside out. Only then does his hand find your hair—because he can’t help himself.

The thought—insistent—may have first invaded his mind the moment he laid eyes upon your lips, only to return, night after night, as a recurring vision in the solitude of his room, mere walls away from you. But another, more pressing thought eclipses the last when he finally beckons you upward and whispers, his voice taut with restraint, “Please, lay down for me.”

You obey as you vowed—the mattress gives beneath you as you settle, breath unsteady, fingers twitching where they rest above your heart. Viktor follows, bracing himself between your legs, and with a  slowness that has your breath stuttering, he lifts them over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around your hips. His fingers press into the soft flesh, and he yanks you closer, his belly pressing into the bed.

Light of the day has vanished, and the night air kisses your skin where the clothes no longer shield you. He is careful, so careful, and yet you still tremble when his breath ghosts over the curls at the meeting of your thigs. He presses a kiss to the inside of your leg, and when you flinch, a hum, slow and deep, comes to reassure you. “There is nothing you must hide from me.” His hands squeeze gently at your hips, lips trailing lower. “Let me love you as you are.”

He bows his head, and you exhale—a breath long held finally set free. To see him better you prop yourself on your elbows only to fall back down in a seizing cramp when warm lips come to your centre—soft at first, a mere press, a breath, as if testing what can be done. Then firmer, more certain when Viktor begins to chart the shape of you with his mouth. A shiver rolls through you, coiling low in your belly, curling like ivy around your ribs.

His tongue is your tormentor—seeking, learning and teasing, and when you give away a sharp gasp, a low chuckle rumbles across your skin. His arms tighten around your thighs, holding you open as he delves deeper. And above all things—eager and careful, Viktor is meticulous, as he always is. You are certain a map to your undoing is being crafted in his brain.

Heat spreads in molten waves, pulling you under, swallowing you whole and your breath starts coming in fractured syllables. Viktor hums against you, the vibration alone makes you whimper. He is enjoying this, you realise with a fresh wave of disbelief. The way he lingers, drags his tongue in long, lazy strokes only to pull away and watch the way you writhe and have you reach blindly for him.

When he parts from you, just barely, you whimper at the loss. But then—oh—he presses a kiss to the aching place he has abandoned and murmurs, voice hungry and adoring, “You are even lovelier like this.”

He does not wait for you to answer—does not give you the chance. Instead, he dips his head once more, lips sealing around you in a way that has your neck exposed, your hands flying to his hair, pulling him closer, though you hardly know whether you mean to push him away or drown beneath his touch.

You choose to drown. Finding purchase in his curls, your hips press down, moving of their own accord against his lips as the tide swells within you. Heat surges through your veins, pooling low, taut as an overripe fruit on the verge of bursting, an eggshell cracking under pressure, a kettle whistling furiously, its handle too hot to grasp.

Your restraint shatters as his name spills from your lips, followed by a sharp, helpless fuck. Viktor nearly smirks—he wants to tease, to remark on how sweetly filthy your mouth is and how much he’s missed hearing it—but he does not dare stop now.

His tongue delves deeper, coaxing you over the edge with aching precision. Pressure crests, then snaps—your body seizes, taut as a bowstring, before releasing all at once. You break beneath him, limbs trembling, thighs quivering against his shoulders. The aftershocks roll through you in shudders, little earthquakes that leave you breathless, utterly undone.

You clasp a hand to your forehead and inhale deeply, and before you can say a word your man is beside you, lips glistening with your slick, eyes happy and complete. Affection surges through you when you wrap yourself around him, straddle his lap and sink your tongue into his mouth, kissing him greedily, tasting yourself on his lips and whisper a breathy, “God, I love you.” Before his startled chuckle forms into an answer you cut his breath off again, licking into his mouth, mussing his hair and teasing his cock with your ass and Viktor groans, overwhelmed, helpless hands come to steady your hips.

With this, you calm yourself. His tongue moves in an unhurried, gentle rhythm, his eyelashes brushing against your warm cheek with every slow blink. Your hair, still curled and frizzled from the rain, falls around you both like a heavy curtain, shielding your faces from the world.

Curious, you reach behind yourself, where he is hard and aching for you. Wetness beads at the tip, spilling like tears of pleasure, and as you spread it across his flushed skin, his hips jerk instinctively, seeking more of your touch.

His hand wraps around yours, guiding you, fingers threading through your own as he strokes himself with your joined touch. The sensation is close to unbearable—too much, too soon, after too long. A groan breaks from his throat, and his jaw tenses as if he is trying to restrain himself, to keep from losing control and joining you in little death too soon.

He feels foolish at the way his body reacts, at how the simplest brush, a touch close to innocent almost ends him. He presses his forehead to yours, breath uneven, and when he finally guides your hips lower, his length standing proud at your entrance, he whispers, “Slow.”

You nod, eyes glazing over him, taking him in as you sit up. His chest hollows with each breath, a sheen of sweat clinging to him like a satin veil. Strands of damp hair plaster to his forehead, and his throat bobs with a swallow as he looks at you—eyes full of reverence, of adoration so boundless it takes away your fear. Never have you seen a man this pretty.

Your hips lower to take him, and an unfamiliar stretch unlocks your jaw, making your mouth hang agape. Your fingers had done Viktor no justice, just as his did none to you. He is real and hot and solid, filling you in a way that leaves you breathless, caught between hesitation and wonder. A whimper escapes you as your body adjusts, as he parts you, claiming space within you that had never been taken before.

And you want it to belong to Viktor. A long moment passes in breath-filled silence as you accept him whole. He throbs within your muscles but does not rush you, waiting—always waiting—for you to move first. And when you do—oh, his poor soul nearly leaves his body.

Hands tremble as they brace against your thighs, his grip unsteady, barely grounding himself in the reality of you. When your hips begin to roll, he watches, helpless, as he sees himself peeking from the darkness of your curls, only to lose the sight again when you drag yourself up along his navel.

Daring to test his fate, Viktor presses a hand to your stomach, urging you to lean back. You obey, arching for him, palms braced on his thighs. And there—there is his fantasy made flesh.

His breath stutters as he sees it: himself, deep inside you, pressing against the taut plane of your belly, bulging beneath your skin. A sight he barely dared to dream would feel this intoxicating. Fascinated, he smooths his fingers over it, tracing the outline solemnly. Just as in the confines of his mind, your hair spills back, teasing against his thighs, and you move—slow and torturous. A rhythm of your own making, agonising him, locking him in the perversion he has dreamt of countless nights.

And you—God, you are full. Claimed in a way you had never imagined, the sensation unlike anything your fingers could have ever prepared you for. Not pain—something richer, deeper, something that makes you feel shaped for this. For him. But this time, you are not merely taken. You are taking. You are the one in control, the one choosing how he claims you, deciding how deep, how slow, how much he will be lost inside you.

Viktor curses, voice rough, and the sound ignites something in you, a power that spurs you to move again, to ride him deeper. He groans, his grasp flexing against your belly, then lower, until his fingers find where your bodies join. And then—oh.

A brush of his thumb. Once. Twice. A slow, teasing circle over your clit, like a scientist he is, testing a theory. Your breath snags, thighs tensing. Encouraged, he presses again, firmer this time, his touch finding a rhythm, coaxing pleasure to coil deep and hot in your gut.

Viktor watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, mouth parted as if he means to speak but cannot find the words. His thumb moves in slow circles, in tandem with the languid rise and fall of your hips, as if guiding you to ruin at a pace you dictate. And you let him, lost in the sensation of being utterly filled, utterly known.

Then, voice hoarse, he finally breathes, “Had I not been here, feeling you—God, seeing you—I would never believe it to be true.” His free hand, the one not lost between your bodies, slides up your ribs, splaying over your sternum, as if to hold this moment inside you, as if to brand it into your very bones.

Your lashes flutter, and you cover his hand with your own, pressing it against your chest, against your heart that beats wildly beneath his palm. “It would not be true without you,” you whisper, and the honesty in it undoes him.

Viktor groans, something guttural and raw, his fingers flexing as if to grasp every part of you at once. His hips jolt beneath you, breaking the rhythm, and you cry out, the sudden force of it igniting something deeper. His thumb falters, then presses harder, more insistent, chasing your pleasure as his own unravels.

“You—” His voice fractures, shaking like his hands as they map over your body, overwhelmed by this. This heart given to him. “You are—” He does not finish, because his mouth captures yours instead, open, desperate, as if he could drink the words from your lips, as if you alone make them true.

Holding hands at the edge of the mountain, you step forward with your eyes closed. A yapping dog of reason tries to stop you, but you long lost your sight for anything else than each other. Your bodies fall into one another—fast and seizing. Muscles contract, and what Viktor gives, you take—you draw his hot seed into you with the quiver of your core, tightening, milking, binding you as one. Your souls—two fools at the beginning of their journey—find solid ground on the invisible bridge of faith.

It unravels into breaths, into mouths seeking each other again—no longer grasping, only wanting. And you fall once more, this time into a tight embrace, joined by hearts, by hips, by hands tangled in each other’s hair, sweat mingling with the scent of rain you carried in from the fields.

You dream of them—sunken into mist that twirls around the trees, resting heavily upon the grass. The valley stretches wide, endless, as quiet as breath. Somewhere within it, a stag stands, noble and still, his antlers a crown of patience. Near him, his mate, delicate but steadfast, her ears flicking at the whispers of the wind. They do not startle, nor flee, for there is no threat here. No snare, no hunter—only the hush of dawn and the hush of their existence, intertwined.

You sleep upon the flat of Viktor’s chest, your fingers resting in the gentle ditches of his ribs, rising and falling with the tide of his breath. Peace holds you both, in body and in dream, where nothing must be said to be known.

Dawn peeks through the window, pale and silver-edged, stirring you from slumber. Viktor does not wake yet. You turn your head, watching him. Angelic, spent, and weightless in rest, his lips curve at the corners with a smile that lingers even in sleep. It is the expression of a man at peace, and it tightens something deep within you.

Quietly, you slip from the bed and move to the window, drawing the curtain shut—but you pause. There, beyond the glass, in the hush of morning, you see it.

A stag. Proud and slow, he feeds upon the grass at the edge of the forest. His hide gleams faintly in the light, the soft bristle of his fur shifting with the breeze. Beside him, a doe—graceful, watchful. She moves with him, unhurried, as if they have all the time in the world. Together, they exist beyond any tether, any force that would claim them.

You watch, transfixed, until warmth curls around your belly—Viktor’s arms, pulling you gently against him. His chin settles in the crook of your shoulder, and for a long moment, he says nothing, seeing what you are seeing.

Then, at last, his voice, soft and knowing: “My beloved.” He exhales, his breath fanning over your skin, and you feel it—a quiet, smiling revelation settling into your bones. “If I were ever a man in this equation, I fear I was a foolish one.” You turn to nuzzle into him, your lips brushing his jaw as you whisper, “I’m afraid neither of us, at any point, has been a man, my husband.”

[jonquilyst]

Total Drama Sims: Season 3

After 2 successful seasons of Total Drama Sims, I'm thrilled to announce that we're coming back once again to bring you another thrilling season of teenagers humiliating themselves!

But that's just the good news. Want the REALLY good news??

Our budget has expanded, meaning that this season, we are increasing our cast size from 14 to 18!!

SO! If your teen sim is bored, wants a brush of notoriety, or simply wants something fun to do, you've come to the right place! TDS is looking for 18 brave, competitive teenagers to compete in crazy, wacky challenges (safety/lack of danger not guaranteed, as always) in pursuit of the grand prize!

WHAT’S NEW THIS SEASON?

Aside from increasing our cast size, TDS3 will once again be incorporating new (and returning) gameplay mechanics to keep everything jazzed-up and fresh!

For starters, from Mt. Komorebi to Chestnut Ridge, we will be traveling all over the Sims world! This season, each challenge will be taking place in a different city/world. So, to get around, TDS has rented a (totally-not-rundown) plane to serve as our cast's place of lodging, food, and of course, the elimination ceremonies!

Along with double eliminations returning this season (two people are eliminated instead of one), TDS3 will consist of 3 teams instead of 2 to accommodate for the increased cast size! TDS3 will also be introducing an immunity idol! If a contestant finds the immunity idol, they will be safe from elimination should they get the most votes in an elimination ceremony. Instead of them, the person with the second most votes gets eliminated!

To sign up for TDS3, you must reserve a spot with me! You can do this by DMing me, sending an ask, or commenting on this post. Reservations are first-come-first serve. I will write your username down and from there, you can make and submit your sim!

Read on for a refresher on what this competition is all about and UPDATED (again) submission rules (so if you had a sim compete in previous seasons, make sure to read them again!)

THE GIST:

This competition is, obviously, based off of the Total Drama series (a show that’s near and dear to me), but you do not need any background knowledge of this show to participate! The show (and this competition) functions similarly to a Bachelor Challenge, where contestants will be routinely eliminated until there is a sole winner.

This competition will also focus on the contestants building relationships with each other (hence the drama part, which is bound to happen when you put 18 teenagers together!)

SUBMISSION RULES:

If for any reason you’d like to give up your reservation, contact me ASAP so I can give that reservation to someone else!

If you competed in previous seasons, you MAY compete again (even if your sim won the competition!), but please don't resubmit the same sim(s) you used in previous seasons. New sims only, please!

Your sim must be a teen

No occults; contestants must be human only (to prevent unfair advantages)

Contestants must not have any high-level skills (they can have some level of skill but nothing above lvl 5; also to prevent unfair advantages)

Only one outfit per category please

Any amount and type of CC is fine, just make sure to include it when you send your sim over to me

To keep your sim looking as intended, please keep your sim pack-friendly! I own most packs, but here's a list of packs that I do NOT own (EPs are in bold): - Carnaval Streetwear Kit - Crystal Creations Stuff Pack - Fashion Street Kit - Incheon Arrivals Kit - Life & Death Expansion Pack - Lovestruck Expansion Pack - Modern Menswear Kit - Poolside Splash Kit - Simtimates Collection Kit - Sweet Slumber Party Kit

Must be okay with slight changes in sims’ appearances (as I may use different mods/presets than you do)

Must be okay with me writing dialogue for your sims (for confessionals (example from season 1 here). I read all entries down to the word and will try my very best to keep everyone in their intended character)

As there is a possibility of sims entering romantic relationships with others, PLEASE SPECIFY YOUR SIM'S SEXUALITY/ROMANTIC ORIENTATION! (Sims with unspecified sexualities/orientations will be assumed to be pan). Nothing NSFW will be shown or mentioned, as of course I’ll be portraying minors. PLEASE let me know if you don’t want your sim to enter any romantic relationships!

Please give your sim a backstory. The more detailed the better. Describe what they’re like, why they’re competing on Total Drama Sims, etc.

Your sim can have any traits/aspirations

HERE IS HOW THE COMPETITION WILL WORK:

The 18 contestants will be split into 3 teams of 6

The 3 teams will compete in challenges in attempt to win invincibility (safety from being voted off). The losing team will have to vote someone off (the other teams will not be part of voting). If one of the teams is reduced to less than 3 contestants, that team is dissolved and the remaining 2 contestants each join the two surviving teams.

This process continues until 8 contestants remain. Afterwards the teams dissolve and everyone competes individually (this is known as merge). This means that only 1 contestant can win invincibility; everyone else will be at risk for elimination

When merge occurs, all eliminated contestants at that point will be eligible to rejoin the game through a special challenge. The winner of that challenge will rejoin the game (bringing the number of contestants back to 9)

This process again continues until 2 contestants remain. In the finale, all eliminated contestants will vote for a winner

Challenges will occur half the time. The other half of the competition will be socialization days, where contestants are free to socialize with each other as they please

The competition will start with a socialization day first to establish relationships before the first challenge

Voting will be determined by relationship dynamics and how everyone did in the challenge. Contestants who do poorly are more likely to get voted. Contestants who have a negative relationship with each other are also more likely to get voted. Conversely contestants who have a positive relationship with each other are less likely to get voted. The contestant with the most votes at the end is eliminated. All of this will be determined by a spinner (in case of a tie I will use a random number generator to determine who’s out). This will also determine who wins at the end of the competition.

REWARD FOR THE WINNER:

This competition is mostly for the funsies, but whoever wins this competition will personally receive an actual reward from me! You have a choice between the following options:

Discord Nitro for 1 month

A tumblr badge

NO DEADLINE! Submissions will close when all 18 spots are filled/reserved. Please provide your sim’s tray files as soon as convenient! (Let me know if you need help with this. I will teach you if you don’t know how!)

I will be updating the number of spots reserved periodically and will announce when all 18 spots are taken, but if you’re ever unsure, don’t be afraid to DM me/send an ask!

I am hoping to start TDS3 in January, so if you're busy because of school/work/life and the holidays, you will have plenty of time to reserve spots and make your sims!

That should be it! Please comment, DM me, or send an ask if you have any questions, and feel free to reblog or share this with anyone who might be interested in participating!

[imamiii]

Everyone, please meet Ivan Gore, my entry for @bartoszsims3's Bachelor Challenge!

Ivan is a brooding artist from Bridgeport who enjoys folk music and tends to take things a little too seriously sometimes. He’s a rather somber person, though he doesn’t quite understand why most of the time.

He likes to spend much of his time reading and writing, and he also loves cooking—a passion he inherited from his mother and grandmother, who would cook for him when he was a kid. If he were a pet, he’d definitely be a black cat, which, in my opinion, is a perfect contrast to Bruce’s golden retriever-like personality!

Maybe, beneath his cold exterior, there’s a soft spot for chivalry and romance. Only time will tell!

[y3ager]

STORYTIME I (26 F) FUCKED MY SUPERSTAR CLIENT (24 M) AFTER MONTHS OF SEXUAL TENSION!

— ‘i’m a manager for a pretty big music label and my client is the biggest dickhead in the world but i fear i fucked him after one of our usual arguments.. 😵‍💫’

eren y. x black!fem!reader

tags: modern au, smut, porn not much plot, hate(?)sex, cunnilingus, cowgirl, reader gets called ‘mama’ and ‘boss’, unprotected sex, mild choking, musician!eren, manager!reader. minors do not interact.

my first collab entry MAKE SOME NOISE YALL WTF!!! but no seriously thanks so much to @k9nto for letting me join your event i had a blast writing this! hope you all enjoy! 🤭

YOU’VE ENCOUNTERED SOME annoying people in your life. in kindergarten, a boy taunted you by picking up one your fallen hot pink knocker-balls and refusing to give it back to you. in high school, some chick named tiffany ripped down all of your junior class president posters that you spent weeks designing and printing out on the highest quality paper. your college advisor had been completely useless, you’d still be dragging yourself through your bachelor’s degree if you didn’t stay on your toes and realize the classes you were dropped in were a waste of time. but all of these people, and many more that have slipped your mind, shaped and molded you into the woman you were today. strong, tenacious, independent, a go-getter who never gave up and thus was able to reap her hard work, in the form of three nice crisp degrees and a never pitiful bank account.

but eren yeager, grammy award winning singer, songwriter and musician, with multiple weeks spent at the top of the billboard hot 100 and 200 charts, millions of units sold worldwide, and stadiums packed to the brim, took the fucking cake.

you were warned he’d be difficult. every manager he’s assigned quits before one of them ends up in a body bag. none of them have a single nice thing to say about him, and he finds that hilarious.

for better or for worse, you took the challenge because you’re a sucker for them. nothing in life comes easy, and you figured that the managers before just didn’t come hard enough. maybe eren’s fame and status made them falter, but such a fate wouldn’t befall you.

you dragged him to his magazine shoots, you kept his mouth in line during interviews, you kept his socials clean. he was never a second late to rehearsals and recordings. he was a reflection of you, and if you were perfect goddammit he was going to be too.

until today.

“i’m not putting in another extension, eren. the label is starting to get really irritable. we need to go to the studio now.” you furiously swiping along your ipad, pacing around the singer’s deluxe hotel room. while you’re dressed for the day in clean crisp clothes, sharp stilettos, and jet black lace front expertly melted and laid, eren’s still in the bed. the covers are everywhere, his shirt is next to a couple pillows on the floor, and he’s laying on his back eating a croissant from room service, paying you absolutely no mind. it takes everything in you to not chuck your device at his big head. “i’m serious. get. up.”

“and i said i’m not,” he mocks your assertive tone, voice oozing in sarcasm. “going.” he coughs, obviously faking. “my voice hurts. can’t make those greedy bastards money if my vocal chords ache. they’ll live.”

“you are on a strict deadline this era. if you want to catch award season, this album needs to be finished and dropped in the next month. amidst the press tour, your window of recording time is dwindling fast.” dates in your digital calendar glare at you, red and angry. every time you check something off your to do, ten new things pop up. you feel your jaw clenching, teeth gritting together uncomfortably.

“i’ve won enough awards. i don’t care. i’m not getting up.” eren finally raises up from the bed, narrowed green eyes meeting yours. it’s fire against fire, an unstoppable force that is a manager determined to do her job versus an immovable object, a musician who’s not budging from his spot. “it’s my album. it’s my music. i finish it when the fuck i get ready. that label will burn before they drop me.”

“if you don’t follow contract, they will drop you. they put a lot of money into you-”

“money i made back for those dumbasses-!”

“they are your bosses, without them-”

“they need me way more than i need them-!”

“get,” you toss your ipad over to a small couch, storming over to the bed. you snatch the edge of the covers and yank hard. enough is enough. if he won’t get up, you’ll make him get up. “the fuck out of this bed, eren, now!”

“you need,” the cover is yanked back, tugging you forward along with it. you lurch momentarily before righting yourself upwards, leaning back to give yourself more leverage in this childish tug of war you find yourself in. “to calm the fuck down, ___. i’m not going and that’s fucking it.” eren may be lean, but he’s toned like a MMA fighter, muscles rippling under tan skin when he calls upon them. another tug and you topple onto the california king bed, one expensive heel sliding off your foot and falling across the room.

your heads snaps up from the covers, brow furrowed deep in anger. “stop being so fucking difficult, you moron!” emotions welling, you grab one of his arms, preparing to drag him out of this bed. your to do list is a nagging itch on your brain that by the grace of god you are going to scratch. you’re not about to let this bad-with-authority dickhead best you when all he has to do is record a fucking vocal.

“oh, we’re doing this?” easily, too easily, so easily that you register your back hitting the soft bed before you realized he even grabbed you back. he pins you down easily, slightly calloused hands grip your upper arms firmly, pushing them down. he places his legs other either side of your hips so yours are forced in between them, but doesn’t keep you from writhing to free yourself. “whatever fucking—stop doing that—chip you have on your shoulder, you need to fucking solve it because shit’s not going your way today. i’m not going and that is final.”

the tussle leaves you two of you panting, eyes boring into each other’s. eren’s long chocolate brown hair is disheveled not only from a night’s sleep but from this impromptu wrestle. small beads up sweat trickle down his naked chest. your writhe again, and he presses down against you, a synonymous hiss sliding through both of your mouths.

“i hate you, eren.”

“whatever helps you sleep at night, ___. looks like you wanted an excuse to feel up on me.”

“oh, like you wanted an excuse to hump me like a mutt?”

there’s another beat of silence as you two watch each other. eren’s hands tighten their hold just a tad before he presses his hardening length hard against your clothed cunt. against your better judgement, your head tilts back and a small moan fights against your bitten bottom lip.

eren hums lowly, his dick bulging against the constraint of his boxers. “hate me too much to actually fuck me, huh? i’m only worth a dry hump.”

oh how eren frustrates you. how he makes even the simplest things in life painstakingly difficult. how he makes you want to smoke ten packs of cigarettes after a day of dealing with him. but oh, how handsome he looks under the lights at photo shoots. how his deep, smooth voice reverbs in your ears. how his fingers move so deftly on his guitar, as if it’s merely an extension of his body. who wouldn’t fantasize about that late at night, him bending you over and snatching down your pants to fuck the stress out of you, or yourself knocking him down a peg and making him beg to let you cum inside.

“shut-” another roll of his hips makes you gasp. “up..”

“i want you, ___,” eren confesses. his hips don’t falter, his cock becoming hungry for release. “i want that pussy. i wanna fuck that little attitude out of you, can i? i see how you look at me and i stare right back.”

you shiver, hand rushing to undo your dress pants and feel more of eren’s dick against your dampening cunt. his hands work with your perfectly, yanking your pants down. it’s a whirlwind of clothes, your sweater, bra, your other shoe.

eren reaches up to grab your breasts, rolling them in his palms, squeezing the supple flesh, pushing them together. “oh, pretty girl. pretty fuckin’ tits.” leaning down, he kisses down your sternum, stomach, inching closer and closer to your center. he wastes no time grabbing your thighs and licking a nice, long stripe against your drooling cunt and sucking on your clit.

your back immediately arches up and your hands fly to grip eren’s hair, tugging at the locks and pulling him in closer so you can feel everything. “oh my god, eren.” the singer’s not shy at all, audibly sucking at you and reaching up to twist and pinch your pebbled nipples.

with another languid lick eren pulls himself away. he pulls his boxers down on and off, freeing his dick from the constraint. he rubs the thick, weeping tip up and down your slit, staring hungrily at the juices leaking out. the feeling of it makes you shiver in anticipation.

“mmm, mm-mm.” you push yourself up. “let me get ‘n top..” there’s a greedy look in your low eyes as you place your hand on eren’s solid chest and lay him down on the bed.

“take charge here too, huh?” your forwardness makes him chuckle as he watches you straddle his waist. “okay then. ride me.”

you brace yourself on your toes as his hand and yours grasp his shaft, directing it to your pulsing hole. you slide down gingerly onto him, his size quickly stretching you out. “ahh, fuck, eren. fuck…”

“you got it,” he assures you, one hand on your thigh as you sink lower and lower, taking him in inch by inch. he bites his lip at the wet tightness of your walls, squeezing and sucking him in. it makes him throw his head back, a couple of small pants escaping his mouth. “mmhm, fuck that pussy feels so good. take that dick, boss.” his hand raises only to land on your ass check with a sharp slap.

you start out slow at first, letting yourself adjust to the wideness of his dick but that quickly gets old. you’re soon addicted to the feeling of him fitting inside so perfectly. gripping his free hand in yours, you swivel and raise your hips faster and faster, effortlessly, desperate for that feeling of him pounding that oh so sweet spot. your juices slide down his length, the slap slap slap of your ass against his muscled thighs filling the room. “‘s so big, feels so good,” your voice slurs.

eren hisses from his spot under you, eyes trained on where you two connect. mouth slightly agape, he watches your cunt swallow him up and the fluid that leaks out. “yes, mama. keep fucking me just like that. feels.. f-fuckin’ amazin’…” his hands grab your plump ass cheeks, fingers digging in hard as he thrusts his hips up, driving the tip of his cock even deeper inside you and pulling a loud moan from you. “keep goin, mama, ‘m almost there, don’t stop, please..”

his pleading make you clench even tighter around him, and that feeling deep inside your tummy aches for release. you place a hand around his throat to better balance yourself, relishing in his low groan. your thighs quake and tremble, your hips meeting his eager thrust perfectly. “oh, my god; oh my god. i’m— shit!” you throw your head back in ecstasy, cumming hard enough on your client’s dick to leave you numb.

“aw, fuck, boss.” eren thrusts up to push his cum deep inside, holding you against himself to ensure a single drop doesn’t leak. “take it, take it..”

the two of you are left panting hard, bodies sweaty and gleaming with the afterglow of sex. you gingerly pull away, cunt left sore and spent from a round of sex months in the making. eren reaches over to caress your ebon lips, admiring the smooth, wet feeling once you roll onto your back. “no more attitude from you, yeah?”

“no more attitude from the man reduced to calling me ‘mama’ and begging to cum either, i’d assume.” your teasing laughter is cut off by him purposefully sinking three fingers deep inside you. “mmh…”

“mhm, sure.” roles reversed, eren climbs on top of you and stares down with green eyes aflame with lust through his tousled brown hair. “now i want to see what i can make you call me.”

[vexmortem]

Meet Vincent, the muscle-bound guy with a soft spot for dogs and a big heart to match. He's all about the supernatural; whether it's diving into books, binge-watching shows, or dissecting the latest horror movie plot. Vincent is a cuddly bear when it comes to sleeping, practically un-wakeable once he's out. But don't let his clumsiness fool you—he trips over nothing, yet he's the first to lend a helping hand. By night, he transforms into a ghost hunter, armed with gadgets and courage, seeking out the paranormal with as much enthusiasm as he shows his canine companions. Now, Vincent is on the lookout for love because he believes life's adventures, from ghost hunting to movie nights, are better shared. He's ready to find someone who will join him in both the spooky and the sweet moments, someone to cuddle with after a long night of chasing spirits or just to share a quiet moment with their dogs. I guess this is my entry in this Bachelor Challenge created by @bartoszsims3 I also wanted to say how fun this is and I hope that Vincent can take a chance on love!

[finchfin]

Harper Devon - for @softietrait's #romancingraine

Harper is a country girl. Born and bred in Chestnut Ridge, she was content to live out her life on the ranch like she always intended. Taking care of the mini sheep, riding her horse Champ through the countryside, milking the cows, farming the earth--that's what Harper was raised to do. Or it's what she would be doing, if she hadn't somehow ended up on a bachelor challenge. Turns out drinking too much wine in the comfort of your own ranch isn't as fun of a Friday night if you have access to an old, beat-down computer that was conveniently left open to Raine's casting call. (Later, Harper will chase her two younger sisters around the house insisting that they did this on purpose.) By the time Harper had sobered up and attempted to back out of her entry that had somehow, of all the entrants, been selected-it was too late. She'd go on the show whether she'd like it or not. The only things keeping Harper from not just asking Raine to leave on the first day? Harper's sisters who are thrilled to see Harper doing something that's not just taking care of her horse, and Harper's interest in beautiful Raine. Just another challenge to navigate.

Harper is a lesbian who uses she/her pronouns.

Private Download

[pixels-and-pages]

(A summary of my bachelor’s thesis key findings)

In my paper, “Trauma and Healing in the Action-Adventure Game The Last of Us 2”, I explore how the game represents psychological trauma through its narrative and gameplay elements. Additionally, I hint at the possibility that not only the characters within the game but also the players are experiencing trauma second-hand and are working towards healing.

In the first part, I outline major concepts in trauma theory by referring to some of the most prominent figures in trauma studies. The most important key concepts are: repetition compulsion (Freud), acting out and working through (LaCapra), and survivor guilt (Herman and Lifton).

In the analytical part, I emphasize that the narrative structure of the game is a tool of traumatic storytelling in itself. The fragmented, nonlinear, and emotionally intense narrative mirrors traumatic memory, enhancing the emotional rollercoaster ride by switching between and intertwining two storylines: those of Ellie and Abby. Both are on a quest for revenge, but only Abby reaches her goal, whereas Ellie painfully experiences the emotional downfall of losing herself in her quest. This (bold) choice of telling a highly-emotional narrative encourages empathy for both characters while simultaneously blurring moral lines.

The traumatic event for both involves the death of their father(figure), and both characters seek to avenge the seemingly unjustly death of a loved one. Additionally, Ellie suffers from survivor's guilt, both from the events of the first game and the second, where she was unable to aid Joel, involuntarily experiencing his death first-hand. The repetition compulsion, then, is the need to repeat the traumatic event to create a sense of control: In her quest for revenge, Ellie kills many people who were not involved in Joel’s killing. Additionally, her dreams, journal entries, and decisions exemplify acting out. Ultimately, Ellie works through her trauma by accepting Joel’s passing and sparing Abby’s life since both characters do not find peace through violent acts.

Although one never leaves one's trauma behind, healing and recovery are also major topics of the game. Abby finds healing by protecting others instead of fighting against them, and finds a new purpose through forming new bonds and abandoning revenge. However, Ellie’s journey to healing is depicted more tragically: Her isolation finally leads to mourning, allowing her to grieve Joel and let go of her hate for Abby. This act of mourning and reconnection is essential for both characters. However, recovery is depicted as ongoing and incomplete when Ellie leaves Joel’s guitar behind and walks out of the frame, the symbol for their connection looming over her disappearing figure. In the conclusion, I repeat the stance that the game is framed as a trauma narrative, which challenges the player to empathize with morally complex characters. Through forced perspective shifts, emotional storytelling, and limited agency, The Last of Us Part 2 engages both characters and players in the process of trauma, its aftermath, and the painstaking path toward healing.

[none-of-these-days]

Sexy Santa CEO Johnny for @cawthorntales bachelor challenge!

Johnny's assistant insisted that her boss dresses up as sexy Santa for their upcoming Winterfest campaign. Johnny isn't sure how this is going to help further their profits but according to his assistant, Gen Z likes if CEOs don't take themself to serious. He's still a bit embarassed about that whole photoshot tho...

[riverofjazzsims]

Aarini Siddiqui reporting for Travelogue Journey with Shawn Takahashi a Bachelorette Challenge hosted by @bloomingkyras

Aarini Siddiqui, is an only child, raised by her military father. Born in India, they moved to Tomorang, not long after her mother passed away and father was promoted with in the Embassy. Other than her time away at Uni, which she just graduated and is a Certified Gemologist and registered with the International Gem Society, she has lived in Tomorang. Aarini already had a job lined up to consult with a Gem Appraiser company thats main office is located in Tomorang but will allow for her to travel. Aarini will be spending the next several months before she is to start her job working on some of the jewelry pieces that she has commissions for.

A creative, who pulls her inspiration from nature for her pieces, specializes in custom made statement pieces for her clients. She has been making custom jewelry since she was about 12 and selling locally. Uni was draining and she is looking forward to this break she is taking before she moves fully into the work force. Her best friend told her about the BC for Shawn and she was instantly intrigued as she has not had much time for a social, romantic life during these last few years of school.

Fun Facts: 🌸Aarini is quick to get a temper but will sizzle out fast 🌸Loves Bollywood dance and will occasionally dance with a local group 🌸Has been known to be a touch cringy in the best way 🌸Loves chocolate covered raspberries 🌸Finds being outdoors and with nature to be her place of zen 🌸Secretly longs to be swept off her feet in an ultimate romance adventure.

PRIVATE DOWNLOAD

[akitasimblr]

mad about dodo: the bachelor no one asked for... challenge 🌴🩷🌞

i know this is - probably - a mistake. but i can't help myself 😶 after watching dodo fail three attempts in bachelor/bachelorette challenges; deeply inspired by nafisa's bc (@flocy-sims); and somewhat persuaded that dodo needed his time to shine, am i right, @ethicaltreatmentofcowplants 😉? i decided to give dodo a bachelor challenge of his own.

who is dodo?

dodo, short for orlando harper, is a 7th generation spare. twin brother of the one and only, leonardo harper, and son of virginia harper and paolo rocca.

dodo is a sports enthusiast, being himself a one-star famous athlete. despite not having the ambitious and selfish nature of his twin brother and superstar actor, leo harper; orlando can be a somewhat attention seeker as well.

there’s nothing he loves more than to spend time at the gym or the football field. he’s not the romantic type... IN FACT, he performed many mean behaviours with all the bachelor and bachelorettes he interacted with 🙄 so i wonder, is there someone out there who could sweep dodo off his feet? that's what we'll find out, right?

important notes

the bachelor challenge will take place on sulani and will follow the island challenge's rules (with some adaptations here and there).

the bachelor and contestants will live off-the-grid and with just very basic survival items. they can’t leave the island (lot) and they are cut off from civilization completely.

first impressions + wicked whims will be in effect (but no adult content will ever be published). we'll be having rose cerimonies, solo dates, group dates and free days schedules. until we have only 7 sims left in the challenge, 3 sims will leave by round. also, leo harper is gonna try to steal the show once in a while 😄

submission rules

open to up to 21 contestants

no occults allowed

all sims/genders/sexualities are welcome

all previously existing skills will be erased to level 0

give them likes and dislikes at your will

only one outfit per category - remember they are on a deserted island so no polish attire is advised ;)

cc allowed to the amount of your desire, but keep it maxis match (i have all expansions, packs, stuff, so no worries)

give your sim a brief, medium or testamentary backstory (i will read everything!)

please tag me and use the tag #madaboutdodo with your entry! no deadline until i have all spots filled.

if you have any questions about it, feel free to send me a dm or leave a comment :) thank you so much!

🌴previous | next🌴

[ranchstoryblog]

Piczle Cross: Rune Factory Announced!

If you enjoyed the Story of Seasons Piczle Cross game, get ready for some Rune Factory flavored puzzles coming to Steam and Nintendo Switch in 2025! The official website lists:

300 nonogram puzzles with both classic and color variations!

20 collage puzzles, made up of many smaller puzzles, both in classic and color variations!

Fight and capture monsters!

Uncover villagers and bachelors!

Customise your farm, pick your spouse and choose your weapons!

Unlock entries in the in-game Compendium and learn about the characters in Rune Factory!

Unlock entries in the in-game Bestiary and learn more about the beasts of Rigbarth!

The most feature-rich nonogram experience available!

Dozens of Quality of Life features, as well as aides for newcomers and a challenge mode for experts

Challenge yourself, ...or don't! There is no wrong way to play!

[shkatzchen]

Welcome to White's Gentlemen's Club (Pt.1)

White's Gentlemen's Club was founded in 1693 and is one of the oldest gentlemen's clubs in London. It has existed in its present location since the late 1700s. When men in Regency and Victorian novels speak about going to their clubs, this is one of them. Even today it remains a private, men's only club boasting King Charles III as a member (his bachelor party for his marriage to Diana was held there).

Because it's such a private space it was a nightmare to try to recreate as the information available was extremely limited. Pictures of the interior were rare and one of the main books I was able to find on the subject is rare and I couldn't get my hands on it. So while I made it as accurate as I could, within sims-constraints, there was also a lot of imagination poured into it. Because the save I was designing it for is modern, I didn't limit myself to only historical or off-the-grid pieces. That particular challenge can wait for the next time I try a Regency save.

The result is a Bar Lot, with plenty of space for games, parties, and socializing, as well as quiet corners to sit with a good book. And thankfully with LittleMsSam's Gender & More Lot Traits, I was able to make it accessible to only men, preserving that bit of accuracy.

The Facade and Layout

As seen at the top of the post, I did what I could to replicate the modern facade. Parts of this were easier than others. Although I had many of the needed objects from when I made the Hotel de Charost, the medallions on the front were difficult to find (in part because I didn't know any of the words to search them by). I couldn't find extant ones, so I made my own based on images I found online. Thank god for normal maps as they do a lot of the heavy lifting here.

The first sims-driven inaccuracy is the necessity to have floors of equal heights. As you can see from this cross section, that's not in fact the case. My build sacrifices the vaulted ceiling of the Coffee Room to allow the second floor to be of uniform height.

I was lucky to find this 1800s plan of the layout of the first two floors. I relied heavily on this for placing interior walls. My layout is seen below.

The Hall

I had nothing to rely on for this room. At all. As the entry hall I decided a closet was in order, if unlikely in reality (I really should have found better doors for it). I also found a reception desk that, when recolored and paired with a counter, provided a little administrative hub. I finally got around to tracking a filing cabinet down, which I ended up retexturing to maxis match.

The Morning Room

This was one of the few rooms I had a photo to work from, even if it was from a single angle, in black and white, and rather out of date. As such, I did my best to match it as well as possible. I tracked down magazines and newspapers and made a new spandrel to cleanly mimic the ones shown. I made new lamps and ceiling lights as well as new curtains, including extremely large ones to fit across the bow window. The bow window at White's is quite famous-- Beau Brummell used to sit there, critiquing the passersby, and the seat was also that of the Duke of Wellington for many years. I have a medallion over one fireplace here of him, which stands in for a bas relief of one of the deceased Kings'. The award below it stands for the silver belt won by Heenan after his fight with Sayers-- a "unsophisticated" visitor once asked "did the King win it," causing quite a bit of amusement. I also made a ceiling clock-- then, with the spandrels, had to lower it to fit below them.

The Foyer and Main Staircase

Staircases are always tricky. There was never any chance of achieving the elegant sweep of the real staircase, or the elegant little niches. there's an odd little window in the wall in the photo-- I suspect there was once a fireplace there. I did manage to replicate the numerous photos (even if some are there more for shape than content).

The Billiard Room

Why oh why are there not billiard tables in the Sims 4? These cc ones do work, and I'm grateful people have put in the time to make accoutrements for snooker, but it would be nice to have official ones. I have so many builds that would use them. This is another space that I had to make out of whole cloth, as I had only a few sparce bits of information. I put the main bar here, along with a small stage. The TV that the bar lot requires is hidden here.

Miscellaneous Ground Floor Spaces

There are some odd spaces which don't have labels. I turned one into a bathroom, as the drawings seemed to imply as much. Another became an old-fashioned place to make a phone call. One is, I believe, the old back entrance before it was enclosed to form the billiard room, hence the odd shape. I added a mirror to make it look bigger and these paintings (the left is the Duke of Wellington as the High Constable of England, a Tudor-style get up he had to wear for George IV's coronation, the right is a late 19th century imagining of Wellington's lone meeting with Nelson).

Tumblr's image limit constrains me from posting everything here all at once, so go here for Part 2 and the First Floor!