#content alert

[slayerkid]

A sketch I made of Chuuya and Dazai after I was talking in someone's twitch chat on who would be who from the first Puss in Boots movie.

Puss!Chuuya and Kitty!Dazai

[niki-the-cat]

Me too Wally

👁️👁️

[k-hippie]

K-505 GET FAMOUS MANDATORY TINY UPDATE <- DO IT !

A Simmer alerted us on a problem related to Del Sol Valley - Get Famous k-505 ...

Indeed, we’ve found a rogue file lurking in k-hippie-k505-terrain-valley-x11-delta-replacement-09092024. If your game’s throwing shade, here’s the fix : either delete the sneaky file yourself ( ID : 1562C46B014D2B73 ) or grab the shiny, updated version from our website ( peek at the Get Famous section )

And before you ask—it’s just a 2048x2048 square .dds maxis image. But somehow, it’s got a flair for chaos in gameplay. Update now, and let the pixels behave !

( same name package and same date ) HERE

And here is the ugly face of the guilty file ( do not ask <- we do not know yet why this file is making trouble ... )

Have a nice day and a great weekend everyone ;)

...

[itsbloomingwhims]

NEW SIMBLR!!

Sul Sul!

My name is Irene and I'm an italian simmer since 2000.

I love walking into the nature, animals (I'm veg), working out and drawing. I'm a co-owner of a tattoo shop with my husband and I'm learning to tattoo from him: it's very exciting!!

I'm a mom of a threenager :-)

I enjoy building and create story with my sims. I have another account where you can follow "The Stone Legacy" ---> @bloomingwhims

I started this blog where I'll post my Occult Legacy and some extra edited pics (I'm experimenting with Procreate)

I'm so excited to meet new ppl and learn from others.

My english is not good, but I'd love meet new simmers, so don't hesitate to reach out and say hi.

[dipplinduo]

[darthdaddi]

🗣️🗣️🗣️

[adventuresofalgy]

The day was black, and so was the weather forecast. The agitated weather birds were flying all around Scotland issuing stark warnings, crying out as they passed overhead that Storm Éowyn was on the way to wreak havoc in the more densely populated regions of the country on Friday.

Algy was never quite sure how accurate their forecast was likely to be, but as they had issued a rare "danger to fluffy birds" alert for the area not all that far south of Algy's home, he decided to take no chances.

For the moment, however, nothing very unusual was happening: it was just dark, windy and wet, but that was entirely unremarkable in the wild west Highlands in January. So before he retreated to a place of safety to sit out the storm, Algy decided to recite a long poem for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, as he might not have another chance for a day or two…

Hopping up into an elder bush, Algy began to repeat an old poem about a storm at sea. As he lived on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean, Algy was always especially concerned for the folk out at sea when the wind and the waves became really angry, and although the poem was written hundreds of years ago, and the construction of ships had changed considerably since that time, he knew that seafarers were still at very considerable risk in storm force conditions…

The south and west winds joined, and, as they blew, Waves like a rolling trench before them threw. Sooner than you read this line, did the gale, Like shot, not feared till felt, our sails assail; And what at first was called a gust, the same Hath now a storm's, anon a tempest's name. Jonas, I pity thee, and curse those men, Who when the storm raged most, did wake thee then; Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfil All offices of death, except to kill. But when I waked, I saw, that I saw not. I, and the sun, which should teach me had forgot East, west, day, night, and I could only say, If the world had lasted, now it had been day. Thousands our noises were, yet we 'mongst all Could none by his right name, but thunder call: Lightning was all our light, and it rained more Than if the sun had drunk the sea before. Some coffined in their cabins lie, equally Grieved that they are not dead, and yet must die. And as sin-burdened souls from graves will creep, At the last day, some forth their cabins peep: And tremblingly ask what news, and do hear so, Like jealous husbands, what they would not know.

[Algy is reciting part of the long poem The Storm by the late 16th/early 17th English poet John Donne, in a modern English version.]

[yloiseconeillants]

well. i was going to do another febhyurary prompt but you know how it is with elves.

[slayerkid]

Did an artstyle study on the Young Black Jack manga artstyle cuz I just like how Black Jack is drawn there

Pose ref here Playing card stock image source here

[clangenrising]

Heavy Content Alert

Prev | First | Next

Tomorrow's piece contains content that may be upsetting to some viewers. This content relates to Sexual Language and SA Mention.

A more detailed warning (with more explicit spoilers) is below the read more.

Heavy Content Includes:

Once alone, Luna flirts with Floodstrike and uses kinky language regarding consensual non-consent, which makes Floodstrike uncomfortable at first.

[naffeclipse]

Instead of a raging insomniac, what about Sun and Moon handling a Y/N who is a furious narcoleptic? It would involve Sun coaxing Y/N to stay awake because yikes, even Moon agrees that it's a problem to sit down for one second at the security desk and immediately slump over into a dead sleep.

[adventuresofalgy]

On the night before the big storm, a strange and eerie calm had fallen over the wild west Highlands of Scotland. For most of the evening there was no rain, no wind, and very little sound of any kind, but occasionally, without warning, there were strange, brief showers, light but insistent, which only lasted for a few minutes, then stopped as abruptly as they had started.

Algy felt that it was all rather unnerving, especially considering the ferocity of the winds that were forecast to hit the area in little more than a few hours' time. But a fluffy bird is rarely daunted, as his friends may have observed in the past, and so, as darkness fell, he simply sought out the most sheltered corner of his assistants' garden, in a spot where there was no risk of any tree falling upon him, and tucked himself well under the canopy of a very pretty fern, beside a substantial mass of ivy which had grown over the years to completely smother an old, low wall.

Algy was reassured by the thought that if the storm became too fierce he could withdraw further behind the dense ivy curtain, where he would be completely protected, but it was dark and dank in there, and so for the moment Algy rested on a wee pile of dead leaves and twigs at the entrance to his ad hoc refuge, and watched the waning moon rise low over the hill. As he began to doze, he recited sleepily to himself:

The glass has been falling all the afternoon, And knowing better than the instrument What winds are walking overhead, what zone Of grey unrest is moving across the land, I leave the book upon a pillowed chair And walk from window to closed window, watching Boughs strain against the sky And think again, as often when the air Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting, How with a single purpose time has traveled By secret currents of the undiscerned Into this polar realm. Weather abroad And weather in the heart alike come on Regardless of prediction. Between foreseeing and averting change Lies all the mastery of elements Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter. Time in the hand is not control of time, Nor shattered fragments of an instrument A proof against the wind; the wind will rise, We can only close the shutters. I draw the curtains as the sky goes black And set a match to candles sheathed in glass Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine Of weather through the unsealed aperture. This is our sole defense against the season; These are the things we have learned to do Who live in troubled regions.

[Algy is quoting the poem Storm Warnings by the 20th century American writer Adrienne Rich.]

[agambleaday]

[slayerkid]

Trigun Stampede acrylic charms interest post

Hi hi everyone! I wanted to create an interest post to see if anyone would like to buy some acrylic charms I've drawn!

I'm considering on selling these charms on Ko-Fi if this interest post does well enough so please check out my Ko-Fi here if you're interested!

Please feel free to also share this post or my Ko-Fi page if you know anyone else who may be interested.

It's my first time getting acrylic charms manufactured so I hope anyone is interested!

Acrylic charms are about 1 inches in height!

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

A Sister’s Son

I have a lot of feelings about the relationship between Théodred and Elfhelm stemming from 1) the canonical fact that Elfhelm was with Théodred when he died and 2) my head-canonical fact that he was there when Théodred was born and Elfhild, Elfhelm’s sister, died.* So Théodred’s entire 41-year life was bookended by these two tragic experiences for his uncle. *Given what we know of Rohirric naming conventions, the idea that Elfhelm is the brother of Elfhild is thoroughly reasonable!

Some of you may recall that I posted an Elfhelm story last week that included the notion that he struggles with memories of his past tragedies. I had written much more extensive memory sequences for that story and ended up cutting it way back, but I guess why let them go to waste? So I paired them together — the birth and death of Théodred through the eyes of Elfhelm, the one person who was there both at the beginning and the end. It’s not graphic, but content warnings for canonical maternal death and some moments of generalized concern for baby Théodred’s welfare in the first half plus some violence and blood (and, obviously, Théodred’s actual death) in the second half. On AO3 here or below:

Edoras, T.A. 2978

The only voice that mattered had gone silent.

There were others still to be heard — barked commands, stunned oaths, murmured appeals to Béma — but the cries and groans of Elfhild were no longer among them. In the chord of dissonant turmoil on the far side of the bedchamber door, her high, ringing note disappeared without warning and did not return.

The sudden absence of his sister’s voice was deafening in Elfhelm’s ears. Kept just outside the midwife’s domain, he had only the muffled sounds that leaked through gaps in the door frame to tell him how things stood, and he had strained for hours to track his sister’s welfare above the noisy fury of an early spring storm that sent waves of rain beating against the thatch overhead and great rumbles of thunder rolling like an éored in full gallop across the plains outside.

To hear the sounds of her suffering distressed him, but their disappearance was more terrifying still. At least where there was pain, there was life, and in those first moments of absence, he cast about miserably for some other, better explanation. Sister, tell me. What has become of you? But he already knew. Deep within his heart that pumped the blood they shared, he could feel that her life had come to an end, and a little part of his went with it.

The door to the bedchamber heaved open abruptly, and the sharp, eye-watering scent of smelling salts and medicinal herbs rushed out on the heels of a grim-faced midwife in search of more supplies. Candles and torches flickered in the draft, but there was light enough to see a glimpse of Théoden through the doorway, hollow eyed and open mouthed, clinging to the edge of a bed where a still figure lay shrouded in linen, bright red stains smeared into the fine green fabric. Théodwyn pulled at her brother’s arm, and Hyhtgife pulled at Théodwyn’s, a chain of people trying to turn one another away from an unthinkable loss, a queen-to-be caught in the struggle between birth and death and claimed as a prize by the side of grief.

Elfhelm, alight with the sting of razor sharp heartache, surged forward toward the shrouded figure, but restraining hands appeared on his arms and shoulders. All he managed was a single urgent question — the baby, too? — before the door swung closed again, and he was left outside to wait and wonder and mourn and hope.

Minutes ticked by, or hours, or perhaps it was only seconds. People scurried past him in the antechamber, going about necessary tasks as though the world had not just changed forever and for the worse. Attendants arrived with tea and food for those who needed it, and advisors discussed in hushed tones how and when to make the official notifications. Servants stoked the glowing embers in the hearth, trying to coax heat back into a room that had been slowly leached of it over the course of a long, moonless night. He wanted to seize each person by the shoulders, shake them, rebuke them. My sister has just died, he wanted to scream. Her son may be next. What do your petty tasks matter at a time such as this? But his indignant anguish couldn’t stop the business of life from proceeding as it must, and only the recalcitrant fire seemed to share his outrage, refusing to return the bright cheer of a steady flame to a room where it no longer belonged.

Candles flickered again as the door to the chamber opened a second time, and a new voice came forth, a frail whimper from a bundle in the hands of a healer. It was a voice that couldn’t speak words, but it called to Elfhelm all the same, stopping him in his tracks as he paced and igniting his heart with the instinct to love without question, without hesitation, without purpose or reason. He was back at the door in three long strides, ready to lay down his life for that bundle, the last work of his sister. If there was any part of her that could yet be saved, he would do anything, try anything, or give anything to save it.

Let me help, he begged. Please. What does he need?

He had never really held an infant before, something so small and so fragile and yet possessing the power to bring him to his knees just by its precious existence. The healer kept a hand underneath the baby and another on his own arm until she was certain that he would withstand the moment, able to master himself despite the tears that poured freely down his cheeks and the swallowed sobs that wracked his shoulders.

Keep him warm. It was said with authority and insistence, more commanding than any battlefield order of a captain or marshal of the Mark. Then the healer was gone, disappeared back into the bedchamber where the sound of building hysteria attested to the grief of others, and Elfhelm was left with his own and the one delicate fragment of joy to be rescued from the shattered wreckage of a day where all else had gone horribly wrong.

Unprepared to be in the world so soon, baby Théodred was nearly weightless and almost spectrally pale, as though his body was still finding its solid form. His eyes were closed, his features still, but his tiny chest fluttered up and down and his little hand was outstretched, the fingers splayed in search of the touch of someone who loved him. Someone who could give him warmth and comfort.

Elfhelm swaddled the little bundle in the bulk of his arms, pressing the baby to his chest and his flushed cheek to Théodred’s little head, where his tears traced dark, wet paths through the fine sprinkle of wispy, light hair.

Your uncle is here now, he whispered. I’ll be with you as long as you need.

Fords of Isen, T.A. 3019

The mighty voice at the top of the knoll had been silenced.

Three times Théodred’s call had rung out, clear and strong like the sounding of a horn above the clatterous fury of the battle, but the third had been abruptly cut short and there would be no fourth. Though Elfhelm was still clawing his way toward the knoll’s crest, struggling to hear above the roar of the coursing river and the growls of thunder that echoed the beating of axes against broad wooden shields, he knew in his heart what had happened on the rise above him. Somehow, amidst all the chanting and screaming and clashing of weapons, he heard the distant gasp of impact, the small sigh of a lungful of breath released slowly through bloodied lips, and the sound nearly brought him to his knees.

It took precious, panicked minutes to fight his way to that sound, past men face down in the viscous mud or still crawling forward through it, crying out for friends or captains who had disappeared behind the curtains of heavy rain or into the rushing depths of the Isen. When he finally gained the peak, Grimbold was there, wild eyed and missing his helmet, furiously scrabbling to hold onto Théodred, who lay crumpled at his feet.

A soldier of Isengard had Théodred by the ankle, dragging him across the trampled grass with a dark red smear left in his wake, and more ran up to help, a chain of hands to accomplish the unthinkable and claim the prince of Rohan as a prize of war. The sight stirred an immediate, instinctive rage in Elfhelm, a deep and visceral possessiveness without thought or plan or strategy. He is not yours to take. He surged forward, unrestrained, and hacked or stabbed at any strange limb that dared to touch his sister’s son until there were none left, the last remaining enemies either dead or retreating back to their comrades, who promptly vanished into the dark on the far side of the river.

The clamorous sounds of battle faded quickly with the disappearance of the Isengarders, replaced instead by the urgent hum of the Rohirrim taking stock of themselves, their horses, their éoreds. Already some captains were at work restoring order to the ranks, arraying men and arms where they would be needed should the retreat of the enemy be only temporary, but Elfhelm had no mind for those tasks, knelt down in the freezing rain at Théodred’s side. Have pity on us, Béma, he pleaded, equal parts desperate and outraged. You cannot take him either.

Théodred stirred just enough to murmur a few hoarse words, his wish to hold the Fords even in death, and though there was fatalism in the thought, its selflessness kindled a momentary hope in Elfhelm. He is still himself, thinking first of others. If his spirit is intact, he can yet be saved. But the hope proved foolish, too small and too frail to be pitted against the blunt work of a rusted battle axe on skin, muscles and ribs. No bandage or pressure could stanch Théodred’s wounds, which flowed as freely as the river below them, and the chilled rain puddle that lapped at Elfhelm’s knees grew steadily warmer as it became more blood than water. Théodred went quiet again, only flinching as they worked frantically on his battered chest, and a hazy distance clouded his eyes, as though he was looking at something far off that no one else could perceive.

What does he need? Grimbold’s raspy voice was unnaturally high, his usual asthmatic wheeze intensified by fear, but Elfhelm had no answer to give. A paralyzing helplessness crept in from the edges of his mind, the dawning recognition that their efforts were futile and that continuing to push and prod at hurts that couldn’t possibly be healed would only add more pain to the inevitable. He stifled a sob, forcing it back down his throat to burn his lungs instead, and tried to steel himself for what would follow. On a day when all else had already gone horribly awry, he would have to watch as his nephew’s life came to an end, and a little part of his own would go with it.

Théodred’s eyes were closed now, his face ghostly pale in the moonless dark, but his chest still labored up and down and he held out a hand for comfort, weakly returning Elfhelm’s grasp when he found it. Minutes ticked by, or hours, or perhaps it was only seconds, and Elfhelm’s mind cast about in misery, searching for any action, anything he might give or try, that could bring some relief or ease the passing. Sister, tell me. What would you have me do for your boy? And in the midst of this anguished confusion, an old command suddenly surfaced, firm and insistent, from his carefully buried memories.

Keep him warm.

Forty one years vanished in an instant, and he pulled Théodred up to lay against his chest, wrapping his cloak around them both like cupped hands protecting a guttering flame in the wind. Resting a cheek to the top of Théodred’s head, where his tears disappeared into waves of blonde hair already darkened by the river and the rain, he clung tightly to the beloved son of his sister and whispered the only thing he could think to say.

Your uncle is here now. I’ll be with you as long as you need.

It’s definitely not my practice to have two different stories ready so close to each other, but since these started out initially as part of the same project it just kind of worked out that way. But now I’ll be going back into my writing hole for some undetermined but lengthy period of time!

@sotwk

Thanks as always to @quillofspirit for the beautiful dividers!

[guineweree]

Simblr Alert!🌹✨️

Hey Puddings! ♡

My name is Guinewere, but you can call me Gwynn for short. I’m 25 and I decided to start a Simblr to share more about my sims, keep track of all the CC I download and content on my YouTube channel. I hope you fall in love with my sims as much as I do!

The sim from the picture above is my sim self. I would appreciate any likes, reblogs or follows because I’d love to make some creative friends on here! 🍪☕

Thank you ever so much! ♡

✧༺✦✮✦༻∞༺✦✮✦༻✧

Content Navigation

Gwynn's Fantasy Lookbook My Sims 4 Challenge CC Finds YouTube Channel