#park solomon edits

[sailorjisunq]

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[nade2308]

Nobody gonna beat my car

It's gonna break the speed of sound

@thethistlegirl @malewifebillcage

[dramagassi]

﹟⠀park solomon's icons⠀›⠀ revenge of others (2022).

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ✿ ⁎ ݁ .  like or reblog if u use, plz.⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

〝⠀( . . . )⠀credits to @moonsvprcme on tw will be appreciated 〞

[dramafantiny]

Kang Na-Eon & So Eun-Ho| True Love (1x24)

[anticha713]

Park Solomon|edit

◽See more posts like this on pinterest @anticha713.

I hope you like it💕

◽Please like or reblog if you save ☺️💕

Terima Kasih.

[kathy-ju]

MY BOY

Titulo: MY BOY;

Escritor(a): -M4XIDENT;

Pedido: Wattpad.

[angel-inked]

If they could make a living from it, they'd be rich

Like, literally, their so good at these things they could be rich off of it if they could

Edit: honestly the fuck is wrong with tumblr?! Posting drafts when I'm trying to edit them?! Jrjrbrurhbruurjdj

Taglist: @vvkingofgaybisciutsvv @thequeenofthewinter @thedevilshardy @mollybegger-blog @wandawiccan60 @cameleonhardyfan63 @hoodeddreams13 @inkwolvesandcoffee @liliac-dreamer @potter-solomons

Hiding.

He's your boyfriend, but he's your brother's comrade first and foremost. Carter brought his brawny fellow marine home with him after a deployment a few years back, starting a new tradition that would last up until they were sent home permanently. After that, he just never left. You were only told much later that Tommy had let it slip that he didn't have anywhere, or anybody rather, to return to, not that he had any desire to return anywhere in the first place. Your big brother wouldn't take no for an answer. Imagine your shock much, much later when Carter gave Tommy permission to ask you out. You'd never seen the poor guy that nervous. He spent most of the first date avoiding eye contact and switching between chewing his lip and a toothpick, not that Tommy ever spoke much anyway, being a quiet type and all. So, you started asking about the new fantasy series he started reading recently to ease him into a conversation. Later that day, the two boys, as you called them, were on the couch in the living room, Carter was flipping through a sketchbook, full of drawings of military aircraft, bomber planes, helicopters, and the like. It was evident he had snatched the book from Tommy, the younger male's embarrassed features, and flushed cheeks told you everything you needed to know. About a month later, just as you and Tommy were arriving home from a date that was thankfully much less nerve-wracking for Tommy, when a man that neither of you knew approached Tommy and asked that blasted question.

"Are you Thomas Conlon?”

Now, here you are on the sidewalk in front of an unfamiliar house in one of Pittsburgh's more unsavory neighborhoods. Tommy didn't appear to want to be there anymore than you did, looking up at the house with a sigh. He turned on his heels, staring bullet holes into an old car parked on the edge of the street. He moved to stare down at the back license plate, another heavy sigh falling from his pillowy lips, something clearly troubling him. "What's that photographic memory telling you?" Carter asked, looking between Tommy and the license plate. Tommy glanced between Carter and the house, moving his hard, steely gaze back to the license plate and resting it there. You've never seen his eyes like this. "It's all the same as when I left it." Tommy said quietly, coldly, almost shamefully. You've never heard his voice sound like this either, and neither has Carter, judging by his expression as he looked between you and Tommy with his mouth slightly agape. You hugged yourself in an attempt to ward off the uncomfortable feelings, rubbing your hand up and down your bicep that you'd jokingly compared to Tommy's once, a small bit of hope blossomed in your chest that the memory of Tommy telling you he couldn't take you with a warm smile and how he kissed you afterwards would sooth the stirring in your gut. Everything about this place feels foreboding. Your movement caught Tommy's eye, painfully aware of his own brooding, "I'm sorry," he said, stepping back onto the sidewalk, "I shouldn't have drug you two into this mess." He muttered. Carter took a single step toward Tommy, exclaiming, "No!" As he put his foot down firmly. "I'm.." Carter glanced back at you over his shoulder, "We're not letting you do whatever this is alone." He said. Tommy's eyes scanned Carters features for something, anything. Finally, a look you recognized. You couldn't be sure what he was looking for, but the familiarity felt nice for at least a moment. "Tommy," you said, taking a small step forward as Tommy turned his attention to you, "What exactly is.. going on?" you asked. Tommy's pupils widened some, and he hung his head, causing you to frown, moving forward to hug him.

Standing on the stoop of the house, Tommy brought his fist up to reluctantly knock. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his Carhartt as he stepped back from the door with a sigh. You put an arm around him, gently tugging him into your side by his waist, smiling reassuringly. Tommy gave you a small nod, wetting his lips as he leaned forward to connect them with yours. The sound of squeaking hinges made you flinch, moving away from Tommy. Your eyes met the gaze of a man whose hair had turned white with age, "Well, this is awkward." Tommy deadpanned despite himself. "Very." Carter agreed with a nod. The old man smiled, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his sunken in eyes, something in them felt familiar. It made you think of your boyfriend. "Tommy?" The man questioned. You glanced at Tommy, wondering how this old man knew his name. "Unfortunately." Tommy said, opening and closing the front of his jacket with his hands still in his pockets. "Paddy Conlon," Tommy mused, "man of priorities." He added. "Tommy." The man's raspy voice repeated with a warm tone curling around Tommy's name, ushering the three of you inside. The inside of the small house was cluttered. Picture frames and knickknacks covered every available surface, and stacks of books with varying titles were in odd places. Sort of box standard for an older person who appears to live alone, you thought. The man hurried off into the next room, leaving Tommy an ample amount of time to sulk around the living room. Somehow, something in the deep breath and his small nod at nothing in particular gave you the sense that Tommy was a little more comfortable with the uncomfortableness the three of you were feeling than he was willing to let on. "I like what you done with the place." Tommy said, further confirming that he had been here before. "Appreciate that." The older man, Paddy, replied, the same warmth still coating his voice. Tommy stopped by a small end table with an old rotary dial and a tissue box on it, eyeing the book that lay next to it like he thought it to be out of place. "Not much of a woman's touch around here." Tommy added. You narrowed your eyes at his back, wondering what the statement had to do with anything. "Yeah, uhh.." Paddy stuttered just loud enough to be heard, "no more women for me, Tommy." He said, the warmth from before faltering. "Yeah," Tommy pulled his knitted cap off and rather unceremoniously stuffed it in his jacket pocket, "Must be hard to find a girl who can take a punch nowadays." He said as if he thought it were still right on par with the casual air of the conversation so far.

"Well, that escalated fucking quickly." Carter whispered in your ear from behind, making you jump. Paddy didn't reply this time, Tommy had purposely struck a sensitive cord with intention. Tommy moved over to the mantel, staring down some books that were upright in a line. Carter had once told you Tommy had a reputation as a sergeant, able to admonish someone with a stare alone, and if this wasn't met with the respect he expected, he would put on a show in the gym the next chance he got, further proving he was not to be trifled with. You knew you'd never be on the other end of that stare, only occasionally feeling bad for the people that had been, there were some of them that deserved it. Tommy picked up one of the books and began flipping through it idly. You spotted a thrift store price sticker still stuck to the brown colored hard cover with minimal gold lettering, the opposite contrast of the books Tommy had usually gravitated toward, that had covers of every cover you could imagine, his preference for illustrations and marvel comics made the thrifted book appear even more boring. Finally, Paddy shuffled back into the room, attempting to manage four mugs in his arms. Carter stepped in to take two of them and sat them on the coffee table. "Thank you." Paddy smiled. "You're welcome." Your brother said stiffly, Tommy's earlier statement having made him more uncomfortable than he already was beforehand. Tommy placed the book back in its spot, inhaling deeply as he turned to face the coffee table in the middle of the room. "Coffee, really?" He asked, "figured you'd be digging out a few cold ones." He added sardonically. Another low blow, judging by the fleeting frown that appeared on Paddy's face. "That's not for me anymore, Thomas." He said in a conciliatory tone. You had always kinda assumed Tommy was short for Thomas, but hearing Paddy call him that made it sound like he was talking to someone else. Tommy was just Tommy to you. Thomas felt far too formal for what you and him are.

"Hmft." Tommy huffed as Paddy moved to his armchair. You and Carter sat on the couch out of politeness. You'd hoped that Tommy would follow suit, being in between him and Carter, or better yet, feeling the strength in Tommy's arms as he wrapped them around you would've done wonders for your nerves. Tommy continued moving around the room despite your wishes. Paddy turned to you, "So," he drew out, picking up one of the mugs, "you and Tommy?" He asked. Tommy stopped dead in his tracks, turning to face the coffee table again, taking a step towards it, and looming there. An unspoken warning. You glanced between them before giving Paddy a small nod, "You taking good care of him?" Paddy asked, gesturing up at Tommy with his coffee. Tommy's eyes shifted to you and back, having not expected this anymore than you had. "Yes, sir." You said quietly. Paddy smiled, "That's all I need to know." He said with a wide smile, the warmth from earlier returning to his voice. "Lord knows someone has to." Carter joked, giving Tommy a tentative smile, hoping humor would lighten the mood in the room. Tommy looked over at your brother, "Save it, Cartman." Tommy explained lowly, turning back to continue his somber exploration of the room, leaving Carter to contemplate whether the use of his nickname was endearment or if Tommy just wanted to feel something comfortable leave his lips. Carter handed you a mug while bringing another to his lips, politeness. You held the cup in your lap, not needing caffeine to make you buzz anymore than your nerves already were. Again, politeness. "Mmm," Carter hummed, "French perss is it?" Paddy nodded, Tommy merely huffed at the question. Not that Tommy didn't like coffee. It just wasn't his favorite. Carter could go on about coffee, the same way Tommy could go on about tea, planes, and whatever book or movie he happened to be into at the present moment.

Planes, you thought. Tommy could talk about the ins and outs of a jet engine all day long, Carter told him he should have gone into the air force. Tommy had shook his head at the question back then, reasoning that he never met you and Carter had he done that. Tommy didn't get into a chatty mood very often, but when he did, you and Carter would indulge him with questions. Anytime either of you showed interest in what he had to say, Tommy's eyes lit up like a lighthouse. That light had all but vanished in Paddy's presence. The lamp light, however, just clicked on after Tommy pulled the chain as if it was oblivious to the tension in the room. The small table in front of him was filled with more pictures, "So," Tommy started, picking up a picture of a woman holding a baby, looking down at it with desolate eyes. "You found God, huh? Well, that's awesome. I think mom kept calling out for him, but he wasn't around. Guess Jesus was down at the mill, forgiving all the drunks, huh? Who knew?" Tommy said. "Are you gonna ask about her, or are you just gonna sit there all sober?" He asked. "I know." Paddy answered, not giving any inclination of what he "knew" exactly. "Oh, you know, what do you know?" Tommy grumbled, turning around to face the older man. "Do you know that it wasn't enough to drive west to get away from you, that when we hit water, we drove north too?" He asked, voice low and full of angry resentment, so much so it made your skin crawl. "When I got sober, I hired a guy to find you." Paddy explained bitterly. "Mmm, is that one of the twelve steps? Or does a guy like you get twenty-four?" Tommy asked with a sniff. "Just twelve." Paddy uttered doggedly. "Hmft." Tommy huffed, setting the picture down with hardly a single bit of sound.

He moved to the middle of the room, standing by the coffee table again, staring down at the mugs with disdain. His tongue poking the inside of his cheek told you he was thinking about something, probably the same thing you were now, the guy that Paddy hired was the stranger that came up to Tommy. "So what'd your guy tell you?" Tommy questioned. "Just that your mom died in Tacoma and that you were in the marines." Paddy answered solemnly. "That's it?" Tommy asked after a moment of silence. "That was all. That was enough." Paddy corrected. You glanced at Carter, who shrugged, although neither of you knew exactly what was going on in the first place, the fact that information was supposedly "enough" to give Paddy seemingly any kind of closure on what you've heard so far, there was no way for you to tell what Tommy was thinking in this moment. "Well, that's too bad." Tommy drew out, "ya know, you could've got some good details," he added, sitting on the armrest next to Carter, again doing nothing for your nerves. "You could've found out about her coughing up blood on her knees in a shitbox with no heat, having me rub her down with holy water because she didn't have no insurance, all while she kept asking for your pal Jesus to come save her," Tommy paused for a moment, "and ya know what, he never did." He finished. "I'm sorry, Tommy." Was all Paddy mustered out, seemingly sanding the edge right off of Tommy, losing some of the malice in his eyes but not quite letting down his defensiveness. "Well, it's good to know you're sorry, Pop, it goes a long way." He said, voice dripping with a derisive tone. "Honestly, I think I liked you better when you were a drunk." He added, looking away.

Carter came to the rescue, making a point of checking his phone and telling Tommy he needed to be back in time, in time for what? Doesn't matter. Tommy nodded. A sigh left your lips as you settled on the neutral ground of the sidewalk, deciding you preferred it to the active battle ground inside the house. You all walked in silence for a few minutes until Carter spoke, "Tommy," causing the larger man to stop and turn back to him, "What the actual hell was going on in there?" Carter asked. Tommy hung head, "Bebe?" You asked, grabbing his hands, making him look up. Tommy wouldn't admit it, but hearing an endearing pet name from you never failed to bring down his walls. His eyes fell back down to his hands in yours, "I..." he murmured, "I didn't want you to know how broken I was." His voice gave way to the emotion those walls kept contained. "Tom," Carter said sweetly, Tommy looked over at him. "We're not just gonna leave, ya know?" Tommy looked into your eyes as you spoke, a small bit of hope bringing the faintest shine to his own. He opened his jacket and wrapped you up in it, chiseled forearms holding you close. Carter smiled. All three of you blissfully unaware of the connection between Tommy and the slightly older man that passed you on the sidewalk with a smile, heading toward the house you'd just left.

Tethered.

You watched Eames dig his teeth into his bottom lip as his unwitting man of the hour walked in, glancing over at Arthur being greeted by Dom Cobb, and turned back in time to see Eames mask his interest with a sly smile. You shook your head. You've never understood your little brother's obsession with the right-hand man of the dream thief. At least, you told anyone who asked that Eames was your brother, but then, of course, you hadn't even told that to Dom Cobb. "I go where he goes." You stated firmly, not taking no for an answer when Dom faltered at the idea that you and Eames were a packaged deal, and he couldn't just have one or the other. Eames saying he wouldn't go along with the inception job unless Cobb agreed to work with you as well as him, made the dream thief agree readily, which in turn made you wonder how desperate Cobb was for the job to be successful. Being tethered to a man like Eames was, to say the least, interesting. "I don't understand why his face is like that." Eames remarked in last night's shared dream, being the skilled projectionist that you were, things like the equipment you'd seen Dom and the others use or Yusuf's sedatives unnecessary. The remark made you wonder if one was capable of becoming drunk within a dream as Eames continued to nurse his third Mimosa that he'd seemingly conjured out of nowhere as he sat across the table from you. The dreamed up barroom was empty, except for you and Eames, the orange of the tables and stools clashed with the paisley pattern on the burgundy curtains, the pattern of course looked oddly akin to a shrit Eames' owned. "What?" You asked in lieu of reproaching his rudeness, narrowing your eyes. "Arthur," he smiled at you, "every time he walks into the planning room and sees us, he's all-" he screwed his features into a mockery of the exasperated expression Arthur often wore in Eames' presence, and for a moment what you thought was a acceptable forge of Arthur was in the chair across from you. "Can't rightly say I blame him." You deadpanned. "Oi, watch it." Eames retorted with a grin. "Why do you keep droning on and on about him anyway?" You asked, to which a stirring in your gut answered for you. "Arthur.. has proven himself rather difficult to recreate." Eames grumbled quietly, and had it been anyone other than you sitting across from him, he wouldn't have admitted this at all. You dropped your hand from where it had been idly playing with a straw in glass to the table, eyes focusing in on Eames. He grinned smugly, closing his eyes as you aimed all your focus at the tether that allowed you some control over his forges. Eames could feel something in his mind being tugged at, not a necessarily comfortable feeling, but a feeling that he welcomed it nonetheless. "I see no difference." You stated, eyeing the projection you placed over Eames, your memory of the forge from a few minutes earlier stared back at you. "Says you." Said Eames' voice pouring out of Arthur's mouth.

"Kindly fuck off, will you Arthur?" Eames riposted. You suspected he had gotten his fill of remaining quiet while Arthur questioned you about forgery, which was his specialty. His usual grin was still stuck in place when you glanced at him, but you could feel his irritation under your skin just as much as you were sure he could. Dom Cobb ceased his writing on the whiteboard and approached the end of the table, leaning his hands on it. "Do either of you really have to do this now? When we're supposed to be working together as a team?" He asked, continuously looking between the pair as if they were squabbling children, and to some degree, they were. Eames kept his glare on Cobb, Arthur rolled his eyes. "And there I believe he rolled them hard enough to check out his own ass." Eames said smirking. Arthur kicked him under the table table, but it was you who hissed at the pain. Cobb's eyes widened, and Arthur reeled back in his chair. "I'm so sorry," he immediately apologized. "Oh, so you kick me, but that's who you apologize to?" Eames remarked, his signature grin already back in place, though the heat that still remained in his gray eyes gave him away. Cobb and Arthur looked between each other in confusion. A gentle caress soothed the spot on your leg, and you smiled at Eames, who gave you a wink in response. He swiftly moved along with a few observations from his work notes, leaving Cobb and Arthur even more confused than before. "What is going on?" Cobb demanded, casting an incredulous look between you and Eames. The latter merely looked up with that classic smug expression of his.

"That is for us to know and for you to figure out on your own, darling."

[scnders]

edit: closed for now so i don't get overwhelmed! hi everyone! i'm pretty new to posting ads for 1x1 rp-ing but i have a lot of muse for writing a variety of plots! a little bit of info about me is that i'm 25+, s/her pronouns, open to m/m, f/f and m/f. as for timezone and activity, i'm in the gmt + 8 timezone and i would say i'm pretty active unless i'm working (i have a corporate job) or hanging out with friends during weekends. there are also some days when my writing muse is low of course so please do understand. (when you have those days i'll definitely be understanding as well!) i'm looking to find 1x1 partners who are at least 23+ on discord. i'm an oc type of girl who plays both male and female ocs. definitely more experienced writing male ocs, but i like having a good mix. i would hope the same for my rp partners as well! i definitely can do semi-lit to novella depending on muse or brain juice. also! i would like to practice writing nsfw since i haven't done so in a while. below the cut you'll find more information about tropes, fcs i like to use and etc. like this post if you want me to approach you for your discord! or you can message me with yours!

just some general info:

be clear when communicating especially if you have no muse for a certain plot/thread! i would appreciate it rather than being ghosted.

please put in the same or enough effort when it comes to plotting/headcannons and etc. i promise to do the same or inform you if i don't have enough brain power to come up with things.

i love angst and fluff is definitely fine too as a bit of a palate cleanser.

my only trigger is descriptive self-harm but there are some taboo topics i am really not comfortable writing despite not being triggered.

some fcs i rp/would like to: song kang, park solomon, ateez san, txt's yeonjun, the boyz younghoon and hyunjae, svt's jeonghan and jun, bright vachirawit, bibi, youha, fromis_9 jiwon, noze, twice's sana, kiss of life's julie han, billie's haram, kitty chicha, kwon nara and honestly many more. also open to suggestions!

some tropes/genres/what have you ideas:

grumpy x sunshine, best friends to lovers (pining premium, both are idiots, drops the 'bro' and 'no homo'), fake dating (for dumb reasons like i need to make myself look desirable because people think i've been bitchless for years which yes i have been But), meet ugly, enemies to lovers, exes to friends to lovers, rivals (especially for like royalty aus), high fantasy, supernatural, revenge, royalty, reincarnation, 25 lives (the poem by tongari), blind date gone wrong, based on anime/movies/series, storybook characters with a twist and a plot like hotel del luna where they're wandering souls staying at a super fancy hotel, vampires, merfolk and etc... that's a lot i realized.

specific plot ideas:

business partners who are also fwbs. two people who match in every aspect from financial status, looks, in the bedroom etc.. have tried to make it work in the romance department but it just left them frustrated but they try again

final girl who's trying to recover from the horrors of what happened (we can base it off of a movie) who accidentally falls for a serial killer

i have more i Swear this post is just getting too long fr pls don't cancel me

[esterpacks]

𝒑𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒄 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 !: by clicking on the source link, you’ll find #300 gifs of park solomon in revenge of others. all gifs were made by me from scratch, so please, do not claim as your own, repost or edit. like or reblog if you find this helpful. if you enjoy my work, consider supporting me on ko-fi!

tw: motorcycle accident

[fangbangerghoul]

Ten Characters from ten fandoms! (red flags edition aka characters I would still run away with even if my friends begged me not too)

Thank you @seraaphiel and @avani-telvanni for tagging me to do this! Please forgive me in advance for the lack of Delgado, he was in my previous one and I wanted to try to pick new characters!

I tag: @a-cosmic-elf , @therealgchu , @lisa-and-shadow

So LEEEETTTSSS GOOOOO!

1. Lestat de Lioncourt - Interview with the Vampire

2. Ricky - Trailer Park Boys

3. Spike - Buffy the Vampire Slayer

4. Pain/Nagato - Naruto (inspired by one of Avani's picks) 

5. Kylo Ren - Star Wars

6. Sophie-Anne Leclerq - True Blood

7. Kathrine - The Vampire Diaries

8. Sally Solomon - 3rd Rock from the Sun

9. Rosalie Cullen - Twilight

10. Evelyn Higgins - Our Flag Means Death (Kathrine Johnston on here twice because I love her)

( I did not realize until I started to set up the gifs that a high percentage of these characters ended up being blood suckers and I will not apologize. My url name explains enough)

[happy-lemon]

Get to Know Me - Sims Edition

I was tagged by @papermint-airplane, who you should follow if you're not already.

What’s your favorite Sims death?

I didn't think I had an answer for this because I don't usually kill my sims...and then I remember that the first story I posted on tumblr was a Black Widow Challenge. I think my perennial favorite is the old pool with no ladders trick, which got harder in Sims 3. But if you put cones and caution tape around the pool while someone is swimming... I mean, how did they miss those warning signs when they went swimming? *walks away whistling*

Alpha CC or MaxisMatch?

For Sims 3 I like Alpha hair, skin, makeup, skin details, etc, but I don't mind a lot of the EA clothes. With the right texture or pattern, some of those things can be really cute. And really...I guess it's the same for Sims 4.

Do you cheat your sims weight?

In Sims 3, no. In Sims 4, it's situational. I don't have an issue with overweight sims. I'm overweight myself. But it drove me bananas when Noa, an active sim who swims every single day for her job didn't lose the baby weight. So...sometimes?

Do you move objects?

Absolutely. It's the bane of my existence that you can't pick up and move sims in Sims 4.

Favorite Mod?

My favorites are all the toddler mods by @thesweetsimmer111.

First Expansion/Game Pack/Stuff Pack?

Livin' Large for Sims 1. I bought the first game for my kids and we just kept going from there. Now, I'm the only one who still plays. My first experience with the franchise goes back to playing Sim City on a Macintosh computer in college, so now you know I'm super old.

Do you pronounce live mode like aLIVE or LIVing

aLIVE

Who’s your favorite sim that you’ve made?

Okay, so if we count sims born in-game, then in Sims 3 it would clearly be Keahi Solomon. If that doesn't count, then I'd say Ciaran Delaney. For Sims 4, it would be Travis Stephenson.

Have you made a simself?

I don't think? If I did, it would have been in my Sims 2 era, but I don't remember doing so.

Which is your favorite EA hair color?

My favorite is almost always pale blonde, either Sims 3 or Sims 4. I rarely use it because I'm super aware that I could easily overuse it.

Favorite EA hair?

None of them in Sims 3. In Sims 4, I like the casual side braid.

Favorite life stage?

In Sims 3, it's toddler. All day, every day. Gimme those adorable toddlers! In Sims 4, the baaaaaaabies. OMG. The babies. I can't get enough.

Are you a builder or are you in it for the gameplay?

I haven't gotten the hang of building in Sims 4 yet. Everyone says it's easier but I find it kind of daunting. I enjoy building in Sims 3, but I wouldn't consider myself a builder. Which is a long way to say... gameplay.

Are you a CC creator?

I'm not. I wish I had that skill.

Do you have any Simblr friends or a Sim Squad?

I do have Simblr friends! At least I think we're friends? And I became friends with @papermint-airplane through the Sims 3 sub on Reddit.

Do you have any sims merch?

I don't, but I think my daughter might still have the plumbob flash drive somewhere in the depths of her closet.

Do you have a YouTube for sims?

Trust me, no one wants to see that.

How has your “Sims style” changed throughout your years of playing?

Not a lot, really. I'm still a storyteller (I used to write Sims 2 stories on the TSR community forum) but I'm trying to get better at screenshots.

What’s your origin id?

It's not really worth sharing because I don't do anything online.

Who’s your favorite CC creator?

There are so many that I could make a list, but I tend to return to B5 Studio stuff time and time again. I have the entire Grant Park collection and if I make a house that doesn't have one of their doors, please make sure I haven't been kidnapped.

How long have you had simblr?

I think about a year and a half? I really only started it so I'd have a place to post screenshots that wouldn't get downvoted to hell, and I found a really fun community. Y'all are the best.

How do you edit your pictures?

I have zero photoshop skills so I just try to go for composition, angles, and lighting and hope for the best. Doesn't always work, but sometimes I get some bangers.

What expansion/ gamepack is your favorite?

Sims 3: University, because it has my beloved Jeffery Dean.

Sims 4: Growing Together, because baaaaaabies!

I'm tagging @nectar-cellar, @rebouks, @llamaheart, @erasabledinosaur, @getboolpropped, and @elderwisp. If you've already done it, this message will self-destruct in five second. And if you haven't been tagged yet and want to do it, consider yourself tagged by me.

[sailorjisunq]

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[kemetic-dreams]

David Ruggles was born in Norwich, Connecticut in 1810. His parents, David Sr. and Nancy Ruggles, were free African Americans. His father was born in Norwich in 1775 and worked as a journeyman blacksmith. His mother was born in 1785 in either Lyme or Norwich and worked as a caterer. Ruggles was the first of eight children.

In 1826, at the age of sixteen, Ruggles moved to New York City, where he worked as a mariner before opening a grocery store. Nearby, other African-Americans ran grocery businesses in Golden Hill (John Street east of William Street), such as Mary Simpson (1752-March 18, 1836). After 1829, abolitionist Sojourner Truth (born Isabella ("Bell") Baumfree; c. 1797 – November 26, 1883) also lived in lower Manhattan. At first, he sold liquor, then embraced temperance. He became involved in anti-slavery and the free produce movement. He was a sales agent for and contributor to The Liberator and The Emancipator, abolitionist newspapers.

After closing the grocery, Ruggles opened the first African American-owned bookstore in the United States. The bookstore was located on Lispenard Street near St. John's park in what is today the Tribeca neighborhood. Ruggles' bookstore specialized in abolitionist and feminist literature, including works by African-American abolitionist Maria Stewart. He edited a New York journal called The Mirror of Liberty, and also published a pamphlet called The Extinguisher. He also published "The Abrogation of the Seventh Commandment" in 1835, an appeal to northern women to confront husbands who kept enslaved African women as mistresses.

Ruggles was secretary of the New York Committee of Vigilance, a radical biracial organization to aid fugitive slaves, oppose slavery, and inform enslaved workers in New York about their rights in the state. New York had abolished slavery and stated that slaves voluntarily brought to the state by a master would automatically gain freedom after nine months of residence. On occasion, Ruggles went to private homes after learning that enslaved Africans were hidden there, to tell workers that they were free. In October 1838, Ruggles assisted Frederick Douglass on his journey to freedom, and reunited Douglass with his fiancé Anna Murray. Rev. James Pennington, a self-emancipated slave, married Murray and Douglass in Ruggles' home shortly thereafter. Douglass' autobiography 'Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass' explains "I had been in New York but a few days, when Mr. Ruggles sought me out, and very kindly took me to his boarding-house at the corner of Church and Lespenard Streets. Mr. Ruggles was then very deeply engaged in the memorable Darg case, as well as attending to a number of other fugitive slaves, devising ways and means for their successful escape; and, though watched and hemmed in on almost every side, he seemed to be more than a match for his enemies."

Ruggles was especially active against kidnapping bounty hunters (also known as "blackbirds"), who made a living by capturing free African people in the North and illegally selling them into slavery. With demand high for slaves in the Deep South, another threat was posed by men who kidnapped free blacks and sold them into slavery, as was done to Solomon Northup of Saratoga Springs, New York, in 1841. With the Vigilance Committee, Ruggles fought for fugitive slaves to have the right to jury trials and helped arrange legal assistance for them.

His activism earned him many enemies. Ruggles was physically assaulted and his bookshop was destroyed through arson. He quickly reopened his library and bookshop. There were two known attempts to kidnap him and sell him into slavery in the South. His enemies included fellow abolitionists who disagreed with his tactics. He was criticized for his role in the well-publicized Darg case of 1838, involving a Virginia slaveholder named John P. Darg and his slave, Thomas Hughes.

Ruggles suffered from ill health, which intensified following the Darg case. In 1841, his father died, and Ruggles was ailing and almost blind. In 1842, Lydia Maria Child, a fellow abolitionist and friend, arranged for him to join a radical Utopian commune called the Northampton Association of Education and Industry, in the present-day village of Florence, Massachusetts.

Applying home treatment upon hydropathic principles, he regained his health to some degree, but not his eyesight. He began practicing hydrotherapy, and by 1845, had established a "water cure" hospital in Florence. This was one of the earliest in the United States. Joel Shew and Russell Thacher Trall (R.T. Trall) had preceded him in using this type of therapy. Ruggles died in Florence in 1849, at the age of thirty-nine, due to a bowel infection

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Kang Na-Eon & So Eun-Ho| Humor (1x12)

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Park Solomon|edit

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[littleobelia]

editing of nurserry2

He walks in the direction of his bus stop. There is a bus approaching, but he can’t make out the numbers. Too late he realises that it’s his bus. There’s no-one at the stop, so it blasts ahead and passes Harry, blowing black exhaust into his face. There won’t be another one for an hour. The Sunday timetable is the bane of his existence.

Someone he knows could drive past and see him near to crying. As soon as he thinks it he sees Martin Lee gunning past and hooking into the parking lot. Tardy Marty. He waves feebly in the direction of his colleague’s pale gold Astra, but he doesn't see him. Harry is invisible in his plain clothes. Out of scrubs he could be anyone. He walks on. He wants to see something extra-ordinary, an antidote to the misery, something to reinvigorate his faltering conviction that life is worth the pain. A man died in the night; had a fall at his council flat, brought it by ambulance, quickly acquired a UTI that wrought havoc to his kidneys, then whoopsy-daisy he was dead. Bed four, Mr Solomon Yeameni. His name was like a cryptic crossword clue. Solo – many. Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. 

Maybe religion is the answer? Our Lady of Sorrows. Her doors are open to the street. He steps into the dim vestibule and already the traffic is muffled by an invisible membrane of solace. In the vestibule there is an automatic hand sanitiser dispenser on a purpose-built plinth. Out of habit he cups his palm underneath it. The machine senses his hand; he is not invisible. The machine knows he is there, he machine knows he is doing the right thing. The machine seeks to reward him, whirrs, purrs, deposits a dollop of alcohol mixed with glycerin on his hand. 

Harry rubs it in and feels sanctified. When their ward was audited two years ago he received a special commendation for his outstanding adherence to the hand hygiene protocol. He remembers with crystal clarity the euphoria of being singled out for doing something right, for a change. Praise is thin on the ground.

On the other side of a trestle table covered in pamphlets, there is an identical automatic dispenser on an identical plinth. Tacked on its face is a hand written label, which says “HOLY WATER”. 

It’s the first thing to make Harry genuinely smile in at least the past week. It’s a sardonic smile, but a smile none-the-less. He offers his hand to the sensor. The machine senses him, but it seems to hesitate, sizing him up. After a judgemental pause, it grinds and sputters disdainfully. Nothing comes out. 

Harry shrugs. He has satisfied his desire to see something novel. It’s extraordinary that such a thing even exists, such a wretched example of modern faith. It was probably full of pathogens; consecrated amoebae floating around in their stagnant bath. 

Through the creaking door into the cavernous interior of the church. The first thing he does is look up at the ceiling. When ceilings are tall you must look up and appreciate how tall they are. He learnt that from Grand Designs. 

The great oaken beams arch over him, protecting. There are six of them, like a giant rib cage. The emaciated body of Christ looms over the altar, his eyes downcast. Regarding him, Harry feels a faint impression of suffering, and then he feels merely faint. He has not eaten since yesterday evening. Portions of the host are stacked on the paten like so many poker chips and a silver platter holds dozens of little sips of wine in plastic thimble-sized cups, like raspberry jelly shots. His stomach growls miserably. He didn’t eat during his shift. The upside of this is that his bowels are minimally occupied, available to be filled from the other end. He’s a pragmatic self-harmer. 

He treads silently down the outer edge of the room between the pews and the rendered walls, past the Stations of the Cross in their gaudy frames, then he sits in one of the centre pews and closes his eyes, swaying slightly in his seat. Harry is early, the first one here. A man in white glides in unhurriedly and genuflects, then across the floor and out the opposite door, his feet nearly silent and invisible beneath his robe; it gives the impression that he is a prop on track, or perhaps something like a dalek. 

Hushed footsteps echo as the pews fill. The sound accumulates, proliferates, like incense smoke filling a shrine. His ears are suffused with whispers. He begins to fall asleep and his heavy head rolls to one side, pinching some nerve or other. He starts and winces, rubbing the affected part. 

He is not alone on his pew any more. He stands when his pewmates stand, and he sits when they sit, but he is too heavy and weary to bother with communion. The priest at the lectern has a prominent black beard, reflecting tiny filaments of light from the candles on the altar. It covers half his face, framing his moist little mouth in neatly combed and parted whiskers. He looks more like a lumberjack than a priest. Harry is so absorbed in the observation of this glossy, oily facial hair, that it takes him a while to realise the mass is not in English. 

He understands nothing. He thinks it might be Polish. Sibilant, slithering words, they trickle into his ears and fizz like vichy water, cleansing and soothing. When it's over an hour later he is catatonic. 

The sunlight greets him in the street, meek and docile. “You ought to be in bed, lad,” the sun murmurs, slipping behind a cloud. He wanders down the road to a bus stop, then pulls out his phone and books an uber to his address, 14-18 Hartwell Street. The screen goes black, and he is faced with his own decrepit reflection. He jostles the screen back to life. These days the phones wake up when they are jostled. The phone analyses his features, his puffy eyes, his swollen nose and his chapped lips. “You look worse for wear,” thinks the phone, unlocking.

Lent 2022 Harry types into the safari search bar. Google informs him that lent started a few weeks ago. That’s a shame; he was tempted to give something up. Meph. Or booze. Or porn. He opens a bookmarked site and looks at gifs of small, hairless men being fucked by larger, hairier ones. He pretends he’s small and hairless and unwrinkled. A spring chicken. Lately the follicles on his temples have packed up and migrated to his lower back. He’s sprouting little short and curlies right there at the top of his arse-crack. If his lumbar spine weren’t so stiff he’d be able to twist his torso to shave them off. 

He can’t do what this spring chicken in the gif is doing, arching his back like a cobra. He dims the screen to minimum brightness, though there is no one else around. The trembling, grainy moving images occupy his over-tired brain. He understands human mating, finds it comforting, though he doesn’t do it as often as one would like. He scarcely has the energy to masturbate. He’ll go home and have a long nap, and then maybe he’ll try. And if he can’t, he’ll get on the apps and find someone who can get it up and enjoy the vicarious sexual gratification.