#i edited it a little.... just a tiny bit.

[hrrtshape]

DAY IN THE LIFE — fame dr 'CHILL DAY' edition

⋆ 8:30 AM – rise and shine in my gorgeous, light-filled apartment overlooking the pulse of paris near the opera garnier. the sun filters through elegant french windows as i slide out of bed in that loewe "i told ya" t-shirt (reference to challengers and jfk jr, hello????). making make a fresh coffee, lounging back on your plush couch with a journal in hand.

⋆ 9:15 AM – time for makeup, and the morning glow-up begins. walking to the pristine, marble-tiled bathroom, as i start with dior prestige la micro-huile de rose for that lit-from-within radiance. next, dior forever skin veil SPF 20 goes on as primer, adding a layer of sheer perfection. then comes the dior forever glow foundation, finished with a touch of YSL touche eclat for a much needed radiance, especially after that...uh, shameful night of over-sweetened margaritas.

bronzed with chanel les beiges healthy glow, cheekbones looking enviable and effortless. i sweep hermès' rose hermès silky blush across my cheeks for that subtle parisian flush. for eyes, it's the dior 5 couleurs couture palette in soft browns with a little extra shimmer from chanel's LES 4 OMBRES for that delicate, specific victoria secret's look. IDUN mineral's SILFR mascara and charlotte tilbury pillow talk lip liner with gucci rouge à lèvres voile lipstick to finish my look.

⋆ 10:00 AM – curls brushed and outfit on: bootleg jeans, chloé paddington boots, a fitted red knit sweater, and a vintage MIU MIU bag – a look straight out of a pinterest moodboard.

⋆ 11:00 AM – i slip out of my apartment, making my way to BO&MIE near the louvre. i grab a warm, flaky pain au chocolat (because we all need sweet treats in our lives) and a chai latte to go, the perfect balance of cozy and sweet. it’s a quiet sunday, and i take this little ritual down to the seine, settling on a bench to take in the morning lull. imogen heap playing softly in earbuds, a dreamy soundtrack to the sounds of paris waking up around.

⋆ 12:00 PM – i begin a gentle wander through the 1st and 2nd arrondissements, where sunday flea markets pop with trinkets, vintage finds, and that peculiar magic only parisian markets can hold. perusing tables with glimmering jewelry and rare books, picking up an old poetry collection that catches the eye, and maybe a tiny golden charm to hang off my bag or to gift a friend. a few fans recognise me, some shy and some thrilled, and i lean in for pictures with a warm, “i don’t bite!!!!!” 🫶

⋆ 1:30 PM – meeting a friend at VESPER, diving into sushi and cocktails that match the chicness of the moment. the laughter, the cocktails, the buzz makes everything feel light and sparkling. by the time we're done, i've had a few (as per), feeling just woozy enough to make the walk interesting.

⋆ 3:20 PM – with a bottle of water to balance out those cocktails, i head over to the musée de l’orangerie. monet’s water lilies are a calming spell – the colours, the quiet of the museum – all washing over, letting everything slow down for just a beat. besides the previous alcohol makes everything just a bit more technicolour.

⋆ 4:00 PM – galeries lafayette calls, and i'm in for a mini treat. picking out a new lip gloss, maybe a rich red or muted mauve, and stop by ladurée to snag some macarons. meanwhile, phone is buzzing; it’s thé manager, with urgent texts about an absolutely irresistible film offer.

⋆ 5:00 PM – meeting up with another friend, slipping into the comfortable flow of wandering conversation, stopping at a small, antique café for tea. the macarons make a reappearance, and it’s that kind of timeless paris afternoon – where you can talk about everything and nothing and let hours drift by.

⋆ 7:00 PM – friend heads out, leaving me alone at the café. perfect for pulling out a journal, pouring out poems, song drafts, and a little doomscrolling (because even in paris, i'm only human).

⋆ 8:00 PM – dinner with a close circle, back in the spotlight with cocktails, laughter, and some elegant dishes.

⋆ 10:40 PM – finally back in my apartment, the curls loosened, phone nearly dead, and the soft hush of a small headache as the city quiets. i slip into something cozy, nestle into bed with a new book, and drift off feeling like me and paris are all alone together, back to where the day began – calm, sweet, and wholly mine <3

[nxmeolvides]

starter for @selfless-desires starring the kids, wrestling, and a whole bunch of happiness.

Ana could barely believe that she’d almost missed this. 

To be fair, it wasn’t as if she’d really seen the appeal in wrestling before. It was a lot of boys, a lot of egos, and a lot of sweat, all packed into one gymnasium. Not to mention even watching it required time that she wasn’t sure she had to spare. Every school event got treated the same way, a mental calculation on if she had the spare hours, and if she’d even enjoy it enough to be worth being there. Even now, from the moment she’d first sat down on the bench, a familiar clock had been ticking down in the back of her head. There was just still so much to do. Helping out at home, because her mother was on a night shift again. She still had to catch up on schoolwork, and there was Maria to try to call- wasn’t it stupid of her, to do silly things like this instead?

But then she’d met Leland’s eyes, and all of that had melted away. 

There was just something about him. 

He always had this way of making her feel better, like she was right where she was supposed to be. He’d smile at the sight of her, his entire face seeming to light up as if it could barely contain it, and an answering burst of warmth would flutter within her chest. Ana knew it didn’t mean anything too special, had seen his grins and laughter directed at just about every one of his friends. But logic didn’t seem to change how her heart worked - not that she was even remotely close to understanding that part of herself.

The wrestling matches themselves, however, had been like a whirlwind to witness. Terminologies and tactics had kept blowing over her head, leaving Ana scrambling to understand what was right and wrong, when to cheer and when to disapprove. The bodies around her became as much of a guide for that as the referee - though she still ended up missing at least a couple of cues.

But, most often, she found herself looking at Leland. First because of… well, her own reasons. But also because he was the best person to watch in the room. His expressions were like a textbook for her on the do’s and don'ts: each little scrunch of his nose or widening of his eyes tucked away in her memory. He could light up the room, the way he got when one of his teammates was close to winning- and maybe she found herself wishing that she’d come to see these matches much earlier.

The minutes just slipped away after that. Little grains of sand through her fingers as Ana let herself get wrapped up in the atmosphere. She clapped, she cheered, and when Leland finally got his chance to shine, she was louder than everyone else in that room. Finally, she could see him in motion, see every moment he’d spent talking to her about the sport paid off, and when the referee raised his hand Ana had shot out of her seat like a primed slingshot.

Yes, the glances she’d gotten from classmates for it had been a little embarrassing. But she hollered for him anyway. It was worth it, seeing him that happy. 

And the elation within her just kept building up, after that, fuelled by a concoction of feelings Ana couldn’t quite name. It felt like she’d drank too much soda, the bubbles fizzing in her gut, the nerves and excitement and happiness growing to a type of crescendo that she rarely experienced. Ana excused herself from her spot on the bench, inching on over to the side of the bleachers, working her way down the side of the gym as she tried catching Leland’s eye again.

She just wanted to congratulate him. Face to face, instead of from all the way up there on the bleachers. That same giddy energy kept radiating from her, all the way up until she finally managed to reach him - the other competitors surrounding them be damned.

“You did it! You really – Leland, that was amazing.”

The praise falls from her lips so easily, the happiness radiating from her face a far cry from her usual, more reserved smiles. “I can’t believe I didn’t come and see this earlier. I mean, I still don’t quite get all of it, but the way you took him down there? Amazing.”

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Sorry for not having a Year of the Dragon MDZS artwork; Unfortunately, I can only picture Dragon LWJ in this particular flavour.

[elitisim]

Ebonix - Lanre Locs

All credits goes to @ebonixsims! Original here!

Hair for For Teen ➤ Elder Males

28.5k poly

2048x texture

Texture: Plumblobs

Under Hats, 4 channels

Fully recolorable rubber bands at the end of each loc.

rubber bands cast weird shadows in cas but are fine in game.

Custom Thumbnail

includes All Morphs, All LODS and is disabled for random

Larger Pics and color channel breakdown under the cut

tagging: @pis3update, @naturalhair-sims3, @xto3conversionsfinds

[DOWNLOAD]

[goodluckbabeheffron]

JOE LIEBGOTT & nonchalant by suki waterhouse

[o0o0thorn0o0o]

Anyway, I got addicted to my own palette again, oops. Exclusively IchiHime addition this time.

Quality’s a little iffy on the first one because I drew it so tiny, eheh ^^

[elektroyu]

When in doubt, draw more chibis.

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

Expect clip posting to slow down due to irl nonsense.

Also from the 11th to the 18th I won’t have any computer access and very little internet access but I’ll schedule a couple clips beforehand for that week 🫡

[the-dye-stained-socialite]

Josie Pinup for @thedeafprophet ;) (full nudity below the cut)

i think october wants her cloak back josie 🤭

(based on this:)

[perilegs]

Ashen one, with the Lords as thy witness, bend thy knee afore the bonfire's coiled sword.

picture taken by @neuvostoliitto

[intotheelliwoods]

Oh here is a fun poll idea.. polls are fun alright.

[tricoufamily]

oc evolution tag tagged by @itsmariejanel 😜

hugo time in which his face never changes no matter how my sim style evolves because it is his world i'm living in

[sentientsky]

"I forgive you." It came out like a blood clot—like an artery dripping gore—like an oil spill. Crowley felt his shoulders rise, fall, fall, fall. The air between them hummed, the tension of six thousand years turning every atom electrified and silently screaming. Breath shuddered out of him, human and terrible and hollowing. He had never been more grateful for the swallowing darkness of his glasses, for the way they hid the centuries of pre-emptive grief and wicked terror. The air was suffocating, the once familiar bookshop turned catacomb.

And then, hating himself for it but seeing no other way forward, he spoke the words aloud. "Don't bother". And then he was out in the middle of Soho and the breeze was harsh against his too-warm skin. Stepping out into the sun felt like rising to the surface of some great ocean—the gasping, desperate feeling in his lungs, the sudden crash of noise. A woman across the street called for her wife. A car horn. A dog barking. Laughter, cruel and far-off. He pulled breath into lungs that didn't need it, winced as he felt slivers of cold drive into the soft flesh of his throat.

So that was it; five and a half million years of want and need and burning, aching somedays, cyphered pleas for "our side". All gone in the space between shaking half-breaths and a kiss still seared against his lips.

Fuck it.

He'd ruined it the first time, had forced them both to look directly into the sun, to face the thing they'd been dancing around for the better part of six millennia. He could do better—would do better. At a music café some years ago, a human had been playing the piano—something soft and slow. A jazz number, if the demon remembered correctly. But the remarkable thing wasn’t the song itself, but that they were playing it with their eyes closed. Aziraphale had pointed this fact out to Crowley, excitement lilting in his voice (even then, the sound had thrilled him, sent a stab of warmth through his heart). It was only after the final note reverberated through the room that the artist opened their eyes, blinking in the sudden rush of stage lights. Aziraphale, ever the music connoisseur, approached the musician. The pianist had explained that, for them, reading music never came easy. Rather, they learned by touch, by the way the keys felt on their fingertips. In fact, the only way they could play a song was with their eyes closed. If they watched their hands as they played or thought too hard about their next move, they got confused and tripped over the notes. Muscle memory, they’d said.  It was muscle memory—the galactic familiarity of finding the space between seconds and prying—that guided Crowley now. He hadn’t done it since Not-Armageddon, but it came easily to him just the same. Time, you see, operates kind of like sound, like music; it loops and sways and carries forward in waves. If you know where to look (as the demon did), you can disrupt the flow, send it back towards the shore. 

And this was what Crowley did now. Drawing his hands through the ripples of minutes and seconds and hours and millennia, time stilled around him. It was natural. Easy, like breathing or sleeping. Or loving Aziraphale.  Slowly, the world turned backwards; humans retreating from whence they came, cars driving in reverse, the wind blowing in the opposite direction. If Heaven had taken notice of their "half-a-miracle", Crowley expected them to be able to see this from every edge of the universe. He likely only had one shot at this.

The world aligned itself once more, and time returned to its regular, steady gait—a rubber band snapping back into place. Something hummed in Crowley’s chest. Something bright and burning and the shape of a neutron star.  Hands shaking, he reached for the handle of the bookshop and pushed. The bell above the door rang, clear and and too-loud in the morning air. Aziraphale whirled around, a trembling half-smile on his face. Oh. Oh, somebody, this was going to be harder than he thought. It felt like all the oxygen, all the courage, had been punched clear out of him "Crowley!" A beat, a shuddering breath. "Angel". He pressed his still-trembling hands into his pockets and strode forward. "Oh, Crowley, dear, I've been looking for you. I have excellent news." His stomach did a little flip, something deep within him growing hollow and fearful. "We have to talk," he managed to choke out around the heart still lodged in his throat. "Yes, I quite think we do. I have something to tell you." Aziraphale strode forward, all grins and beauty like a flickering star, all plasma and heat. He could practically feel the agitated warmth roll off of his angel. Crowley shivered. "I just met with the Meta—” "No. Wait," the demon held up a hand, pausing the rushing torrent of Aziraphale’s words. "Just let me say my thing, please." "My dear boy, just—oh, what is that lovely human expression—"

"Hold that thought," Crowley muttered. His eyes burned behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked pleasantly taken aback.

"Yes, how did you know? I—" "No." The angel's eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "No?" "No," he repeated, enunciating each letter with perfect clarity. He was going to do it right this time. He was going to keep him from leaving. He could be good. Right? "I’m gonna speak, and I want you to listen to me without interrupting, m'kay?" Words were building in the basin of his sternum now, pushing up on his airways. He was going to have to say it outright this time; no more waltzing around this frenzied galaxy of emotion. Willing his hands to steadiness, he pulled his glasses from his face, and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. Aziraphale's breath seemed to catch for a moment, meeting the ferocity of the demon's gaze head-on. A deer in headlights. And then, "Crowley, I really—" (Eons hurtled through his mind in a split second, the serrated knife's-edge of want like a being all its own. Aziraphale in the garden. Aziraphale in the tavern, on the cliffside, on the West End stage, in the Bentley, in the bookshop, in the very marrow of Crowley’s bones.) "I love you," he rasped, ichor writhing in his veins.

There, he'd said it., said it fully and completely, without so much as flinching. It was the same love he'd expressed for the past several thousand years in a million little, unspoken ways: an ox rib, a revolution, a church, a burning bookshop and the bottom of a glass and a lost best friend. A yellow Bentley, a lifetime of tethering his life to Aziraphale's, of trailing after him like a moth to flame—like a dog to its owner. "I love you," he pushed on. They were both looking directly into the sun again, Crowley urging them to stare straight into the heat of it all. The words were spilling out of him now, a heaving, thrashing current falling to the bookshop's hardwood floors. "I love you and you can't go to Heaven." Aziraphale froze, pupils blown wide and unblinking, for just a moment. Tension stretched out like a thread between them. And then he pulled in breath like a drowning man (who wasn't really a man at all), and tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes, and oh god, he'd made his angel cry. Fear and guilt and horror slammed into him at a million kilometers an hour and left him halfway between dizzy and nauseous. His fingers tensed at his side, desperate to do something, fix what he'd so obviously broken. Heaven would be on the front step any moment. It was too late, wasn't it? It was always too late. "Crowley—what?" Aziraphale breathed, mouth twisting into a brutal, terrible, heart-wrenching sob. Crowley ached, panic lancing through him like a knife. "I—I really, I can't. You could come with me." He stepped forward, moving to place his hands on the demon's shoulders. Crowley leaned into the touch, almost unconsciously. "Don't go," he croaked, tears beginning to prick his own eyes once again. This time he didn't reach for his glasses, didn't try to hide his fear. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And then Aziraphale could hate him and his desperate, hungry, reverent love in the aftermath. "Don't go where I can't follow. Please".

His angels blue-grey eyes searched his own, and the weight of his gaze was impossibly heavy, pressing down on his chest like a river-smoothed rock. "Crowley, please. I don't understand. The Metatron said—" His palms found the sides of Crowley's throat, thumbs resting gently on the side of his jaw. Crowley sucked in a breath. "Angel," The scent of earl grey—of old books and soft tartan chairs. Aziraphale's hands were shaking. "I know what the Metatron said," he intoned, soft as rainfall. "You can't go. It's not—they won't change. You're better than that." "But you could be an angel. With me," he murmured, soft thumbs running across sharp cheekbones. "Be my second-in-command." "Don't want to be. Want t' be an us," he felt tears—traitorous, burning tears tip over the edge of his lashes and fall against his face. "Crowley, darling, please." A beat. "I love you." The bottom of the world dropped out from under him in that moment. Aziraphale loved him. He loved him and he'd said it aloud and now it was out there in the world and it was as though every nerve on his body was on fire. His angel pushed on, "Truly, I love you. I need you with me. Please, come with me. We can do good, I know it." He could never say no when his angel asked something of him. Especially not when his kind, gentle hands were holding him like something good, something precious. Especially not when Aziraphale had just admitted to needing him, had injected the word with so much warmth he thought his all-too-human heart might beat clear out of his chest. But there was a first (technically, second) time for everything. He drew in a heavy breath, and tilted his head, breaking his angel's hold on him. Aziraphale's hands—now empty, still shook. He made a soft whimpering sound, and Crowley ached to kiss his fingertips, banish the fear. But instead, he looked up towards the ceiling, to a God who was not there—who maybe had never been there at all. He felt the Heavenly Host drawing near, a sense of hollow emptiness, the scent of absence. This was the time of last-ditch efforts, of holding his heart out and hoping Aziraphale might take it as it was, bruised spots and all. "I can't. I won't. I need to be here, on Earth, with you." "Crowley, please. I don't think you understand what I'm offering you," he huffed. A residual shard of anger stabbed at him then, and he turned his gaze sharply back to the angel before him. "Oh, I understand perfectly well, angel. I'm fairly certain I understand better than you do." Aziraphale's mouth drew into a thin line, tears welling fresh in his eyes again. And still, Crowley ached. A beat. Something in the angel shifted, then, turned on its edge—the walls beginning to go up again, and it was just like it had been not fifteen minutes ago. He was watching the same moment play out over and over again; some cyclical, torrential nightmare. "I would like you to come with me, but," Aziraphale paused, voice breaking in the middle. "But I'm leaving, with or without you." And there it was, like it was predestined. Despite the love, despite the want, despite every shared bottle passed between them, every half-accidental touch and glance and whispered word—despite the way he would’ve let Aziraphale run a sword through his chest... It wasn't enough. It was never enough. They were re-enacting their old magic trick, right there in the bookshop, this time with Crowley staring down the barrel, letting Aziraphale pull the trigger. Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear. Aziraphale wasn't shooting past his ear. His bloody ribcage felt as though it might splinter apart. Wingbeats in the distance, a grief wide enough to drown the sea. Crowley reached down, pulled his sunglasses from their resting spot against his clavicle. And then the hunger in his eyes was once more hidden, and he was walking towards the door like a man headed to execution. "Crowley—" Aziraphale nearly keened, the wall crumbling for a split second. Without turning, Crowley said the only words he could think of. "I forgive you."

[zichqec]

Multiverse Sans Phone Event Fix

This is not my ghost and I am not offering to do any development work for him. But on several occasions, folks have entered our Discord server looking for help with a bug in one of MVSans's phone events that completely prevents progression. So, I decided to make a little patch for him to make this easier.

This is what the intro to the bugged event looks like:

If you've seen this text and clicking the "Click to continue" option does not work, then this patch will fix it for you.

Download the patch here

To install the patch, follow these steps:

Download the file above, it should be called mv_sans_phone_fix.nar.

Open MVSans.

Check in his settings to ensure that you're on the latest version. This patch was made for v1.4.2 Stable, and may cause other versions to break. (If you're not on the latest version, update or download a new copy of the latest version.)

While MVSans is running, drag and drop the mv_sans_phone_fix.nar onto him. He should appear to be installing something.

When he is done installing, he should appear to reload. He will not say anything about completing the installation, that's normal. The ghost is now patched. (If he does say something, it's likely an error. If so, please report it to me and I can try to help.)

If you had already seen the intro to this bugged event, then please close and reopen the ghost. This should bring up the intro again, and you should be able to proceed.

If you have any problems with this supplement file, please do tell me about it! But it's a pretty small fix, so as long as you use it with the correct version of the ghost, it should be fine.

If you have any other problems with this ghost, you can send an ask to the @ukagakadreamteam blog, or ask in our Discord server. There is also a page for him on our wiki which has some general information about him.

My knowledge of this ghost is very limited, as I haven't used this version very much. So, other people who have used it may be able to help you more.

[kaidanalenkosprmanager]

THE BEST OF PRIORITY: THE CITADEL (PART 2)

Featuring: Cmdr. Sophie Shepard, Lt. James Vega, EDI, and Maj. Kaidan Alenko With: Councilor Donnel Udina, Councilor Tevos, Councilor Laiel Sparatus, Cmdr. Armando-Owen Bailey, and Kai Leng And a Special Guest Appearance by: The Illusive Man But sometimes the way a thing goes down does matter, Sophie. Later- when you have to live with yourself. Knowing that you acted with integrity- then it matters. Mass Effect 3: Legendary Edition (2021)

[demegod-dess]

The way the new Sonic x Shadow Generations trailer had me literally shaking I'm so. I'm just. I'm. I.