#contributions are appreciated!

[verdemusgo]

some posters from the 80s by marc rudin (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6)

[raycatzdraws]

Some grumpy guys

Extra doodles under the read more!

Everything is from January 2023.

I wanted to try drawing Hyrule a lil differently but I'm meh with how it turned out. He doesn't quite look himself imo but I want these out of my folders! The drawing of Hyrule in the water was largely inspired by this piece by @/mmmwafflesart, so please please please go show Waffles some love. Their art is just amazing.

Wind's bit was supposed to be set around the same time that Twi was still injured.

Hyrule: *pokes Wind who's laying on the floor* Wind: *cough cough sniffle* I'm sick you can't bully me. Hyrule: *poking fun* Sick as a dog? (haha funny pirate joke because Wind's a pirate) Wind: *huge sobby eyes* We can't make that joke anymore.

It doesn't work as well now that Twi's better, but at the time, it was definitely too soon to be making dog jokes LMAO (the fandom was worried!!!) And Wind's a pirate! How sad to not be able to make the pirate jokes auuUH a double whammy!

[dolleriumfluffle]

I just desperately want more recognition of traumagenic experiences that lie outside of the usual "childhood abuse" assumption that everyone forces on that label. what about trauma from bullying? what about trauma from undiagnosed illnesses? what about trauma from queer experiences like transphobia? what about trauma from medical experiences like surgeries, hospitalizations, psych wards, and other areas where the medical field failed you? what about trauma from eating disorders? what about trauma from racism?

there are so many experiences that can fall under traumagenic, but are yet swept under a rug in favor of a strict, stereotypical narrative that's easier to comprehend. I think we as a community need to make an active effort to expand our understanding of traumagenic, especially where it may overlap with experiences traditionally considered endogenic, and understand that trauma can come in so many different forms. so often people are shunned for trying to create roles and labels that describe their specific traumagenic experiences, and I don't understand why. there can be no progress towards acceptance for all systems if we don't accept that traumagenic is an umbrella label too.

[notbecauseofvictories]

I've seen that "the immortal loses their loved one but not their loved one's family; what if the immortal stayed close, followed them down the generations?" post a dozen times, and I understand it's intended to be sweet---but every single time I see it, all I can think is that it's straight-up the beginning of a horror story.

[milfzatannaz]

happy death appreciation week!

[mobius-m-mobius]

Owen Wilson and Tom Hiddleston at the FYC Emmys 'Loki' panel, April 13, 2024

[fure-dcmk]

imagine trying to be a responsible guardian in a show that actively reward people for being irresponsible

[zeldalizzy]

Warriors and Cinderella! I love that you all voted for me to pair them together! Not only are they both ✨ fabulous ✨ but they both value hard work, know what it is like to rise up in the social ladder (from servant to princess/queen, from knight to captain), and both know the importance of courage and kindness!

I feel like Cinderella is also very proper, very composed, polite, and sweet, and I think Wars would really respect that, especially in contrast to Cia (*shudders*).

My favorite part of this one is definitely Cinderella's dress, I would loveeeee to have a dress just like it and it is very self-indulgent lol. I made Cinderella a princess/queen here, like she has already married her Prince Charming and lives with him in the palace.

Warriors, as a Captain, would likely be extremely respectful in her presence, though the other boys might cause a bit of trouble, which would likely cause poor Wars a bit of anxiety lol.

Anyways, I hope you all like this one! Thanks for all of your support on this series! You all are so sweet and I feel so blessed by your encouragement and kindness!! Have a lovely day! 🩵

[anxious-chaos-art]

I saw the meme and immediately thought of them XD

More variations and og undercut!

💖💖💖💖

[simblr-question-of-the-day]

📩 Simblr question of the day: Who are some of your favourite CC makers and mod makers?

answer in whatever way is most comfortable for you and feel free to share this SQOTD around, make sure to use the hashtag SQOTD and tag me in separate posts ~ 💛

This question was contributed by an anon ~ Thank you for submitting multiple questions ~ (this is question 3 of 8 from this specific anon)

[bluebudgie]

The gw2 wiki has ruined me, never will i ever play another game again where information is presented in such an organized and especially complete way

[backformores]

[230602] 특 (s-class) ✧ felix

[sun-snatcher]

May i have a blurb of Haytham Kenway… a taste… pretty please…

( all credits to @giffedit for this incredible gifset! )

✠ | insufferable ; haytham kenway

summ. Bickerings oft lead to equally heated conclusions. a/n.  A TASTE you say? Here’s 1k of an angry, enemies-to-questionable-allies makeout. No actual smut, but NSFW themes, ofc.

YOU CAN’T RECALL how you got here.

Here, by way of meaning: 

Pinned against Templar Grandmaster Haytham Kenway’s paper-strewn work desk, inkpot spilled over and staining the cuffs of your sleeves, with his hands roving down your sides and your hips pressed hard against his.

“You,” he rasps, bordering a growl. “Are an insufferable woman.”

The proximity, the heat of your panting mingling with his— it’s blistering. Feverish. You want to kiss him. You want to punch him. 

You tighten the bracket of your thighs around his waist, tip the tricorn hat off his head with a defiant scowl. “You should’ve never inducted me into your Order, then, Master Kenway.”

Right. Yes. You vaguely remember now. It’d been yet another typical heated argument; another disagreement and row borne from dredging up old wounds of your ex-Assassin history, of Haytham’s present and obvious distaste of it, despite the fact you’ve proven yourself worthy to the Templars more than once alongside Shay.

Earlier, you’d barely finished your tirade (“You and your dastardly cloak make me so—!”), hands thrown in the air when the ironclad grip of Haytham abruptly circled your wrist.

The others had known better than to interfere when you’d practically been yanked into the Grandmaster’s study for an upbraiding. 

Or, well, what they thought would be an upbraiding.

“Then let us be free of this months-long tension,” Haytham had hissed, instead. “More productively.”

So here you are. Rough-housed and man-handled. You hitch at the bumps and the scolding nips he makes, try to return the same wanton fervor to his jaw and his Adam’s apple, but to no avail. Haytham is a looming shadow, greater than you not just by rank and experience but by sheer, dizzying strength— 

The vicious kisses he bullies against the bitten-red of your lips are charged and ardent. Meant to force you into some semblance of submission; to be docile. Has you gasping for air and resisting him the satisfaction of a moan when he gropes at the flesh of your thighs. 

“Master Kenway,” you choke, nuzzling into the slope of his neck, unable to stop yourself from indulging the heady, masculine, salt of it with an eager tongue.

He groans at the high and tight way you address, call, plead for him, sounding like prey at the mercy of an untamed, starved beast. 

It makes you grin when you realise. Coy as a fox and full of guile. Haytham can feel it curl across his cheek, in your slow languorous tease as you snark, “And here I thought you hated me.”

“Hate is an inadequate term,” he censures, mouthing hot and humid against your skin. “There are no words in any bloody language that can encompass just how— you make me feel.”

It’s a raw confession, as mean and as bitten out as it is. A honeyed, double-edged sword. You make a mental note of it anyway, and try not to contemplate the fact that you have this much power over the Grandmaster Templar, nor let it get to your head— whatever he means by his words. 

“And what, exactly, do you feel?” Your hand expertly wanders past his belt. The innocent petal-touch strikes a lightning bolt of want surging through him. Makes him twitch. “This?”

Haytham doesn’t deign to give you an answer, unsurprisingly. He hates not being in control, after all, and so he makes quick work to put you back in your place: below rank, through yet another savage kiss, a guttural warning nosed on the scant space just below your ear that leaves you subconsciously keening closer.

It does poorly to satiate him. The dangerous yen for something more brutal still burns molten in his stomach; something that tastes warmer. There’s still the bitter anger and bruised pride he holds from the arguments before, and for the ones that’ll surely come after. The blatant disrespect you show whenever you bare your teeth at him, as if he isn’t your superior. 

He wants— no, needs— to sink into you, to see you shut up and aching to be ruined with the thick of him—

“I’ll make you wear nothing but this ‘dastardly’ cloak of mine one day,” Haytham grinds out, voice rough-hewn from his wet and growing appetite. “And then spread you out and take my time with you.”

He greedily licks a stripe up your throat as he says it, carves the whine that escapes you into his memory.

“One day?” Your scoff is breathless and stilted. The feel of his teeth grazing your jugular is intoxicating. “I reckon you’ll— hah— hardly deliver now, Master Kenway, to— warrant another chance after this.”

(Regardless, you entertain the idea. Have entertained, to be more specific. You’ve imagined what it’s like on lonelier nights.

To have him hike your legs up his broad shoulders, tangle your fingers through his perfectly kempt hair. Catch the flash of his wry, canine-sharp smile, rare as they are; face soaked and telling over his nose and down his lips from where you’d have shut him up by forcefully burying him between your thighs and cushioning into your—)

You expect the usual blaze of anger. A challenging snarl. Instead:

“Oh?” Haytham laughs.

Laughs.

And Christ alive— that dark, daring and depraved rumble huffed at your sweat-slicked nape shouldn’t have made you more pliant; more eager for him, but it does. It feels like the damning prelude of an already losing war, now, the way he’s forced your full weight down with such frightening ease onto the desk to look up at him. 

There’s an ominous calm before a storm, brewing frostily in his dilated eyes. He’s conceding, you realise.

And then—

“Tell me to stop,” Haytham breathes. 

It’s the least insulting tone he’d taken with you yet since you’d first begun arguing. A fragile moment of clarity. 

In uncharacteristic tenderness, you feel him thumb gently at your cheek. “Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says, “You have my word.”

Something soft unfurls deep in your ribcage. Takes flight.

“Don’t,” you whisper, trying not to shudder at the English gentlemanly-ness he so likes to wholly fashion himself with to hide his wild, beastly nature— that you’ve so liked to repeatedly claim you found irksome. You tighten your grip reflexively.

(Darling, dearest, dove. You never admit it, but the classy posturing has always been an attractive feat of his. Something about wolves in sheep’s clothing, you think. Something about being rabidly taken for his own animalistic pleasure—) 

“Don’t you dare, Kenway.”

And so the delicate moment passes. Haytham surges his head forward to steal a kiss from you again, inhales a lungful of your cloying scent that’s mixed with the sea-winds from the weeks of sailing aboard the Morrigan.

“Mh,” he hums in assent, nosing his way from your hairline down to the juncture of your neck; letting his calloused hand mould wide around the thin, bare skin of it to feel your bated breath and rapid pulse. He could snuff you out like a light in an instant. (And he supposes you like the thrill of that as much as he does.)

“Then I believe I ought to teach you a lesson or two about respect, dear.” 

Haytham pulls away and cocks his head. As if thinking. As if he hadn’t imagined this a hundred times over since he’d met you, in the darkest hour of every restless night when he’s alone with nothing but his fist jerking between his legs.

“How about we put that smart mouth of yours to good use first?”

[fagulaa]

hearing hayward shoot down carpenters salon visit idea [the most important part of the finale dont worry about any of the rest of that stuff] got me thinking. how do these guys cut their hair? my prognosis:

Carpenter: old kitchen scissors with her head hung over a motel sink. washes her hair with dishsoap beforehand because 'its efficient'.

Faulkner: his pop sticks a bowl over his head and cuts round the edges. when he hits crab seminary school he starts a curly hair care routine, using only the most holy of fish slimes, direct from the white gull. this works somehow.

Page: As an advertising exec, she goes to a prestigious salon every two weeks like clockwork. As the next virgin mary, hayward cuts her hair [also with shitty kitchen scissors, but he cleans them because he loves her]. he does OK.

Hayward: buzzcut. if he fucks it up [and he does. depite the fact that its a buzzcut] claims his wife does it for him. he is lying.

[retrobxnnii]

Oh the bill post got some traction I guess??? Here’s this fuckass thing I had sitting in my sketch folder

[landrylovesmatcha]

if i had a nickel