#im pretentious

[grossdyke]

thank fuck i always download the fics i wanna read

[sentate]

SENTATE - The Sunset Collection

Blending beach days with date nights; The Sunset Collection is fresh set of romantic dresses that can be kept casual for the day or glammed up for the evening. Whether its a cheeky sheer mini dress or a showstopping silk gown, your sims are guaranteed to be sizzling by sunset!

This 8 item set comes in my 30 swatch colour palette plus 15 new print swatches.

8 Items Total / 30 Plain Swatches (+15 prints)

DOWNLOAD - Free on Patreon

MORE DOWNLOADS  |  TERMS OF USE  |  LINK TREE

[proxycrit]

More caitvi for the soul (art tag if you wanna see more arcane!)

Check out my patreon for my sketchbook!

[oyabun-draws]

reupload bc i just noticed that i uploaded a version with the scar layer hidden IM SORRY POOKIES!!!

[wolfythewitch]

Thinking about having two names. So I can go by wolfy and also something else that isn't Wolfy haha. What name do you think fits me :0

[rottentounge]

today i take 5 total of books just because i want to be elle woods

[closetsof-backlogged-dreams]

as sad and disappointing as this is, look me in the eyes and tell me that this isnt the absolute funniest shit youve ever seen. like, they changed their bio to ONE vaguely implicative sentence and posted some promo statement about where you can find it on streaming services, and this little shitty cockroach fandom (affectionate) absolutely BLOWS THE FUCK UP. like, within the span of 2-3 days, we completely took over tumblr so that this 15-year-old fandom was trending, their twitter account gained roughly 6k followers, and everyone is theorizing about a season six a reboot a spin-off a red white and royal blue crossover every thing under the SUN and it literally gets so bad that the poor intern (thats probably gotten two hours of sleep this week and is running solely on celsius and coffee) and the two-person marketing team that managed this whole thing had to scramble to clarify that WE'RE NOT ACTUALLY DOING ANYTHING WE'RE JUST ADVERTISING THE SHOW AGAIN

like. thats the funniest shit EVER.

[anyahita]

If your feminism doesn't include Iranian and Afghan women, then you're not a feminist.

If your feminism doesn't include women suffering in highly patriarchial societies, then you're not a feminist.

If your feminism doesn't include honour killing victims, then you're not a feminist.

If your feminism doesn't include women suffering at the hands of a zealot religious ideology, then you're not a feminist.

If you support women who want to wear the hijab, but don't support women who don't want to wear it, then you're a morally corrupted person.

[miseria-fortes-viros]

the less fun part about literatureposting on tumblr dot com is that if you make a joke about a classic novel then all the people who are excluded from the joke (rightfully) (didn’t read the book) will insert themselves anyway and try to argue the only piece of trivia they know about said book. brother this discourse is so bottom-tier that it was put to rest in 1818. we already talked about that without you. before you were born actually

[redonionlover]

sunstone..? perhaps???

anon ur so real for this... they're my faves since i first played rw

havent drawn them in a loong time though so i doodled these real quick :^)

[dansemacabre]

i’ve been thinking about “sixer, it would eat you alive” since i read it and. man. every layer you peel back makes it worse. im not a bill apologist but. shit

if you (1) take it at face value, it paints bill as an apologetic murderer in his single (and maybe sole) open moment of regret. he doesn’t let his walls down often- only with ford do we even get to see the remnant of his galaxy, see the “actual remorse” ford describes, get just a hint of his origins. but he does it, because he thinks ford should know.

if you (2) take it from ford’s point of view, as something he committed to journal three, like. wow. imagine being so committed to a being that you’d hunt down and kill the monster that destroyed his home, only to (assumably) figure out later that that being was the monster. the small moments of trust, the “good times”, are so key to manipulation. how long did ford hold onto that one shred of vulnerability? no wonder ford stayed for as long as he did. in his eyes, bill was a survivor. ford wanted to survive too.

(slight tw below for unreality- any time i mention our reality, i mean “our reality” as a narrative device used in the book of bill as a proxy for the idea of bill being in our reality, since he can’t actually be in our reality. all of this is a fictional theory about a show/book with fictional contents!)

but if you (3) remember that “even his lies are lies” and absolutely Nothing bill says should be trusted. Whoo boy. if i read tbob right the book itself is being created in the theraprism (even tho it shows up with the ciphertologists at some point? idk that’s a whole other post). it’s meant to show what the reader wants to see; it manifests in our reality as what the collective fandom wants to see. so if we want to see truth, if we want to see where bill ended up and who he actually is, there’s a non-zero chance that the whole interaction was a complete fabrication.

imagine bill, stuck in the actively harmful, probably earth-illegal theraprism, once again being forced to be “fixed” and molded into something more palatable, being forced to conform no matter how much it hurts. (i know natural uncontrollable mutation ≠ just so much murder and destruction and chaos, but. you can’t ignore the similarities. bill has obviously been thinking about those silly straws.)

he looks back on everything that went wrong, back on his relationship with ford, back through every dimension where he wins. would that one moment, that one truth amid centuries of lies, have saved him from purgatory? if he had just been open? shown his damage? maybe he did think of his parents, or his henchmaniacs (especially the oracle). people who he might have once opened up to. maybe he just wanted to open up to someone again.

so in his own weird way, stuck in a cell, he reshaped reality again. in this reality, for this fleeting moment, he had been someone worth believing. and ford had listened, hell, ford had wanted to help. looking back, knowing how he treated ford, knowing how ford ended up because of it, maybe bill would have said the most honest thing he’d ever told ford: i am the monster, i am not worth your time or belief, and i will eat you alive.

[23z567]

theyre like. a disease

[forestshadow-wolf]

His leg buckled, and the ground met him hard at the knees, but he didn't feel it. Couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything but fucking agony.

Ghost was dying; he could feel it in his heart. Literally. He could feel the soulbond unraveling. Out and away and away and away. Like plucking a live chicken, except he was the bird not the butcher. It was an anguish all too familiar. Only last time was like ripping his flesh open with rose thorns over and over again to pain the petals red, and this time felt like stitching open a wound to leave it weeping blood and guts and fluids and infection. This time it felt like festering evil.

"WHERE IS HE!" He roared, snapping at the hands on him, grabbing at others to haul himself to his feet again. His knee went weak again, but he would not let his limbs fail him. Fail Ghost. "GET OFF ME!" He did not wipe out an entire enemy outpost, only to be stopped by his own allies, while the very thing keeping him alive dies.

Some barking command that he didn't hear from outside his tunnel of vision had the burning touches release him. He obeyed a command that he didn't discern out of forced submission. The rabid thing rearing it's ugly face recognizing authority in the face of anger.

He wasn't sane as he stalked through the halls, following a faceless form he knew but didn't recognize. It's didn't matter. Nothing much but the decade old pain twisting where his heart should be mattered. None of it mattered because Ghost was dying.

He was dying while he loved.

Because some unlucky tosser touched what was his, and now Ghost was dying with fire as blood, as he unraveled Soap's heart. And Soap could feel every bit of it. The pain and agony of losing a soulbond. Again.

He knew the fire burning Ghost alive. I made the vial in his possession feel that much heavier. He carried the world in his pocket. It was smaller than his littlest finger, and it fit in his hand like he was meant to crush it. And it would save his life.

It would save Ghost's life.

He doesn't remember the walk to bring him to Ghost. Only flashes of anger where he snapped at too many hands.

But then he's there. Surrounded by white walls, and a white cot. Staring at a bloodied man in a dirty kit and black mask. Untouched on the command of an even less sane, more rabid him, only 27 hours ago.

He doesn't know who came and who left. Only remembers him, and his body, and the little glass vial, and Ghost. He remembers the chilled, damp skin when he pulled fabric back to reveal too pale skin underneath. He remembers how the needle went in easily. He doesn't move after that. Someone takes the needle from him. He felt it. Didn't see it. Saw only Ghost.

He just. Stood there. Watching. But not looking. Not seeing. He couldn't think. Couldn't move. Didn't dare hope. Couldn't pray. Couldn't beg. Pure catatonia. Nobody moved him. Nobody touched him. He heard people talking. Maybe to him. Maybe not. He doesn't know.

He doesn't remember how long it was. Maybe that night. Maybe that day too. But he remembers what brought him back.

He remembers the chest rhythm change. Something not just a natural sigh. Something deeper. Rousing. And the way Ghost's eyes flicked behind his eyelids for what felt like hours before they opened. Ghost was awake. He was alive.

And it's only then that he realizes that the agony had drained from his veins. The thread around his heart rewound. And it's then that exertion takes him. He falls to his knees hard. Ghost is quick on the call button with panic. But Soap doesn't make it 'til a nurse rushes in before black invades the rest of his vision like a shot to the skull

It couldn't have been more than half a minute before he comes too. It's bright, and there are hands touching him and voices speaking over his head and it's all too much.

"Where is he?" He swats at the abrasive touches, "Ghost. He's awake." Everything hurts. His muscles, his bones, even his teeth. But it's of small importance.

"Easy, Sunshine." A gruff voice pulls everything back into perspective. Price. Crouched at his thigh with a worried look on his face. Soap presses himself up despite protests from the nurses. "He's fine, lad." Price cups the back of his neck, "you made it in time. You saved him." He says it like a prayer. Like he knows it's the only thing that'll keep the rabid thing leashed. And he might be right.

[cybertron-smash-or-pass]

TransTech Shockwave

[volkswagonblues]

here's my zamasian fic pitch if i ever write interview with the vampire RPF:

"Eric" and "Assad" make plans for a sexy rendezvous at their hotel room. As the evening progresses, it becomes increasingly clear that something is wrong with both of them: neither seems to know anything about how Wardrobe and Makeup works, or how scripts are sent out, or how TV filming schedules are made. Also the personal details are all wrong. Is it an open relationship or infidelity? Does Jo exist? And also the vampire stuff seems...maybe a little too hardcore?

And then one of them goes a bit overboard and "Assad" is like, oh my god DANIEL I prepared this scenario weeks in advance can you not LEARN your LINES. And "Eric" is like, "jesus christ ARMAND I'm trying...can you let go of the fuckass VAMPIRE THEATRE DIRECTOR for one night??"

And then it turns out that, no, actually we're inside the IWTV universe and Armand wants to do sexy roleplay stuff where he's a cute vulnerable human being seduced by his older coworker and Daniel is like, ok....but I'm not calling you Rashid.... so Armand has to invent "Assad Zaman" wholecloth but totally cut corners with this "Eric Bogosian" character so he's basically just Daniel Malloy with a career in theatre instead of journalism

[altcvnningham]

adler can’t stop holding bell’s face when he kisses them.

and not gently, either, not the caress of a flower petal, delicate and sweet- bell’s barely a rose if not for all their thorns, and he wrings a hand round their jaw like one might wrench out a weed. rid and tossed to the dirt with all the rest. with all the red. with all that makes them wrong. with everything that came before.

if he can’t muzzle his dog, who can?

he bends their head upward in the interrogation chair, thumb dug into their cheek, squeezing the blood from their mouth into a sanguine rivulet between the web of his fingers; he jerks bell’s face toward the evidence board when their empty eyes fix on him a moment too long, enough to unsettle him; he stamps their chin under a hard thumb when he turns them to the light, soft pupils blown wide as he watches the sweet drug take hold; he digs his fingers into their jaw when they bark too loud at their duly master, shaking sense into his dumb mutt’s whistling hole of a head.

when he deigns to let them go, he makes a point to tear his hand away, sharp and spiteful, so even with the sting they still manage to find suffering in the loss. to yearn for the hand they bit back.

so the rest comes violent, too. the rest comes hungry. the rest comes when he wants it, and he wants bell, with such a blind fervour it drives him mad. where better men might leave, kick their losses to the curb and go elsewhere to get their fill, adler digs his heels deeper in the mud, the dirt where he buries all that red he carved out of them. if it’s tenderness he wants, he can take it for himself, and leave them with the hurt. it isn’t stooping to their level if he’s the one with the leash.

he kisses bell like he’s eating them from the inside. one hand squeezed tight around their flushed face, mouth forced open into an o-shaped pucker. he nicks their lip as smirking proof of his callousness, snags it on his sharpest canine. a peck that mocks affection. licks his way inside their mouth like it’s a threat, a proclamation. you let me do this to you. you let me in, bell. let me in, let me in. such a good dog when they do, loll their tongue out pathetic and starving. he drives his thumb inside, hot, wet, forces their mouth open by the hinge of their stiffened jaw- the last laughable vestiges of their reluctance, crumbling into dust fine enough to sift like sand between his fingers. guess science still has its limits, but so do you.

when he’s worked bell’s mouth nice and wide, he flattens their tongue with a thick finger, face clamped between the rest, and while they’re just about learning to make peace with it all- the humiliation, the degradation, submission made sanctification through the eager expectation of praise- he spits inside, and makes them swallow.