#is wearing is wicked clothes

[larkbunny]

[dalekinapaintedparadise]

John Wick + outfits

[highladyofterrasen7]

Jude doesn’t dress for women, she doesn’t dress for men, she dresses for revenge

Cardan dresses so that if he becomes a ghost, at least he’s a ghost with style

[tending-the-hearth]

and if i cry after realizing that elphaba and glinda's shiz uniforms go from being completely and utterly different to being coordinated after "dancing through life" what then

[shortnotsweet]

[ “SOMEBODY TOLD ME”]:

BREAKING MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME. SEVENTEEN TRACKS AND I’VE HAD IT WITH THIS GAME. A BREAKIN’ MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME—BUT HEAVEN AIN’T CLOSE IN A PLACE LIKE THIS.

— The Killers, Hot Fuss (2004)

Princess Rhaenyra’s insolence is wearing her stepmother’s patience thin. Queen Alicent is not ten years her senior, but even during her own sixteenth year, she cannot recall herself behaving so brazenly. She would never burst into courtly discussions in nothing but gilded armor and the underskirts of her riding leathers, awash in blood. (She would never be spotted in blood that was not her own, anyway. Alicent has never picked up a sword, not one that belonged to her.) Nevermind that Rhaenyra is attending to diplomatic affairs with bared teeth and scales, no—the crux of the matter is just that, her affairs. Rhaenyra is the Realm’s Delight, a beauty incomparable to any fair maiden, Alicent included. She indulges herself with appetite of a spoiled child, the confidence of man, and the pickings befitting only to her royal blood. Criston Cole. Daemon Targaryen. Harwin Strong. Laena Velaryon. She’s full of love, isn’t she? That selfish, foolish girl. What does Rhaenyra Targaryen know of love, of duty? She is a child in so many ways—she thinks killing makes her a man, thinks the throne is hers despite being a woman, thinks she can have her knight and her uncle and her protector and Laena Velaryon in one fail swoop. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know herself half as well as Alicent does. Alicent, who sees her for what she truly is, who wants to see all of her and more of her and none of her. Alicent has been stolen into the Keep by her own father—both of their fathers—but Rhaenyra is the key to this place, is the window to everything barred. Rhaenyra Targaryen has a dragon. Rhaenyra can fly.

That’s what Rhaenyra had promised her once, with her lips pulled back in a grin, exposing the white of her teeth like the violently radiant creature she was. “Perhaps when you grow tired of plotting against me, we shall ride on dragonback together,” she had said. The tease.

Alicent had yanked her into an empty corridor by the silk of her sleeve, ready to chastise her for her ill behavior. Conversing with the lords and ladies of the court at a feast was one thing, but chattering about her bloody encounters in battle over the pudding tureen were another. The lord at her elbow was going green. Alicent’s own face was likely red; her heart raced whenever Rhaenyra got like this. Alicent had never seen the battlefield—only seen battered men in dented armor and the slumps of corpses lined along dirt roads in the aftermath of war—but her own imagination terrified her like nothing else.

(Rhaenyra is better with a sword than half of the knights in Westeros, and more lovely than the lot. Her reign has not yet begun, but already the commoners flock to her—lured in by tales of her beauty and fine hair—and soldiers would follow her into battle. Alicent would not follow, but she would watch and bite her nails down to the quick.

She thinks of the figure Rhaenyra cuts in full armor, the heat in her gaze underneath the slots of her helmet. Alicent remembers the weight of her own hand in Rhaenyra’s—which was gloved—when the princess rode up to the spectators box and grasped it in her own, bringing Alicent’s knuckles to her lips. She thinks of Rhaenyra murdered in the sky, skewered with another man’s sword, plummeting to the ground, torn in half, streaking crimson across the clouds. Alicent would scream, or cry. She might laugh. She would throw herself from the window of her tower. Rhaenyra’s bloody exploits terrified Alicent for reasons she could not identify, and excited her for reasons she refused to.)

“I’d sooner be confined to the castle for the rest of my days than get on the back of that bloody lizard,” Alicent scoffed. Rhaenyra only tucked her hand over Alicent’s, where it was resting on her forearm. She flexed her fingers, moving to release her grip on the dark fabric, but Rhaenyra intertwined their fingers and held them fast.

“You’re confined already. You are already accustomed to such a thing. I know you. But—”

“But you forget yourself. You think you’re invulnerable, Rhaenyra. You don’t know who you are.” Alicent intends for it to be a sneer, but instead it comes out quietly, and too gentle for disdain. She can’t know. Rhaenyra is as trapped as she is, but they’re trapped together. They belong together. She belongs with Alicent.

“I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and all of Westeros. I am a dragonrider. I am—I am your daughter. In a way. Your sister, too. Your enemy. Your sword, your shield.”

“And what am I?” What else is left for me? Alicent wonders.

“My Queen. For now.” Rhaenyra cocks her head, and the gleam in her eyes burns like fire raining down. “When I am Queen, you will be my lady.”

[seraphimankh]

Fiyero’s so lucky to have such a cool witch for a girlfriend/wife

[toonheartz]

trying to design wicked mickey and he just looks like the "i just drew a dark fucked up version of hamburger helper" meme 😭

he is DEFINITELY not ready for use

[thepandalion]

holy mother of FUCK

[blacksocietic]

Welcome to Black Societic Store

Follow us in Fb and IG as @blacksocietic

[cottageivyplays]

hi hi! ive started using wicked whims again recently, and have been loving the drama from it! however this means that some of my posts in the near future will be on the edge of nsfw - ie, a rogue boob (nothing new if you follow my main blog) and pictures that suggest/depict sexual acts. they wont be like full frontal sex pictures but like, focusing on the faces or hands or something in a way that is very much so portraying a sexual act. i will be tagging the posts using the community labels for this, and also tagging it 'sims spice'

if this isnt your thing, thats totally cool! you can still follow my gameplay without having to see those posts if you want! i wont like put an nsfw picture along with a picture of one of them completing their aspiration or anything 😭 i just wanted to give a heads up so you can appropiatelyblock tags/labels!

<33,

mia

[marzipanandminutiae]

"hey why are all the barrier garments like linen shirts or chemises or combinations going away?"

"oh we have more washable fabrics now! you don't need to worry about sweat reaching your outer clothing when you can just chuck it in the washing machine!"

"cool!"

[100 years later]

"so uh all of those new washable fabrics are leaching microplastics into our water, and the constant machine-washing wears garments out faster. they're also not really sturdy enough to be mended, so we keep having to throw them out and now the planet is covered in plastic fabric waste that will never break down. also it turns out that the new washable fabrics hold odor-causing bacteria VERY well. so could we get those barrier garments back please?"

"sorry babe linen now costs $100000/yard and since it's been so long without them, nobody knows how to adapt barrier garments to the current styles anyway"

"..."

"maybe try this new $50 undershirt made of Special Sweat-Wicking Plastic Fabric! :) :) :)"

[shreeisspecial]

Choosing the right fabric for your clothing is crucial in ensuring comfort, durability, and style throughout the year. Different seasons require different types of fabrics to keep you comfortable and looking your best. In this blog, we will explore the best fabrics for each season and how to make the right choices for your wardrobe.

[alullinchaos]

sometimes i really do wanna throttle my dad

[selestial-princess]

Okay second day of the fucked up bbq event went better than yesterday (heat exhaustion is a bitch) had Logan with me so I had less strenuous activity at the hottest part of the day.

[cookie-0wo]

no.

tumblr entertain me

[moondirti]

soap goes to the gym in nothing but a muscle tank and a pair of old, worn shorts. it’s the same articles of clothing every time, too. like he has nothing better to wear than the ratty combo, and nothing better to do than taunt you with just how exposed it leaves him.

maybe a case could be made for the shirt. the armholes have gotten stretched with time, you see, and he says that’s good for mobility — even if it does give you an eyeful of side-pec the second he raises his arms. which is fine, you suppose. there’s nothing new about a thick chest carpeted in coarse, curly hair. or about muscled lines that cut down to a man’s armpits, his biceps the size of your head, or the vulgar breadth of his neck when he tenses on the pulley machine. even if it does leave you a little bit dizzy. it certainly isn’t the worst thing in the world.

definitely not the worst thing about his whole getup.

because the shorts are loose too. made of a sweat-wicking material and fitted for aerobic sports. you don’t think he knows that, and if he did, you don’t think he’d care. he prefers the airflow, or so he says. likes the way it keeps him cool while he works up a sweat. you’d be inclined to let it pass, if it weren’t for the fact that he forgoes boxers, too.

and it’s no secret. it must be thick, you think, fat and heavy if it makes such a prominent silhouette even while soft. you catch flashes of it through his leg holes sometimes. from a few feet away, on a water break while he straddles and lays back down on a bench. dark and folded against a burly thigh, trapped between fabric and muscle like it’s straining to escape. or when he’s on the leg press, and deigns to tuck it up behind his loose waistband to get it out of the way; you’ll get a glimpse of the flushed tip of it, always glistening, like he’s perpetually primed for something. perhaps it’s the endorphins that get him so worked up. he fits the mould of one of those freaks.

still. it’s… harder to ignore.

and when you’d once waited to get home before taking your showers, his terrible propensity for exhibitionism almost always ends up with you in the gym’s communal ones, working up a new kind of sweat. cold water beating down your back, hair matted to your forehead, hand shamefully tucked between your legs. biting your lip hard enough to taste blood. you never draw it out, and always cum in a guilty finish, like the world might catch on to your gross, voyeuristic habit.

it’s on one of those days that you walk out of the shower to find johnny — grinning, sweaty, waiting — and realise that it wasn’t the world you should’ve been worried about listening in, but him.