"I wonder: what hurts more—missing you in silence, or pretending I don't?"

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@zygomaticmoist
"I wonder: what hurts more—missing you in silence, or pretending I don't?"

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Barclay Beg-Chetwynde thirst trap edit that no one asked for (except for @oddsydviscous who came up with the idea lol)
I regret nothing.
He may be nothing to look at now, but he played Ford Prefect in the original radio series of Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy in 1978, and had the sexiest voice on the planet.
The TikTok-fication of Tumblr and why it needs to stop before your fave writers are gone for good:
1. “Part 2??”
Unlike TikTok, writing 5,000 words for a fic does not happen in 6 seconds or more. Weekly updates are from a writer who spoils you and is passionate about their story. Don’t kill the passion by demanding for more and not appreciate what’s already given.
2. The DC Conundrum
Many writers on this platform hail back from the ff.net days where dark content is a norm, not like TikTok where even death has to be censored or you could get flagged.
Despite that, writers are doing you a service by sharing fic warnings despite how it may take away from a plot twist or a big reveal. However, there’s a fine line between sharing warnings and downright spoiling our own work. Heed the warnings, don’t be a dick. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. Learn how to filter your own content, too, while you're at it.
3. The Wild Algorithm
Unlike TikTok, Tumblr’s FYP is not in your face and you have a choice to not view it. Content often gets buried a few days after it’s posted without reblogs or comments to keep it alive.
4. Passive Content Consumption
Ties back with point #1. If you’re only sitting back and reading works without supporting the writers, they can’t spend 6 seconds to conjure up a fic. Writing takes time, editing, proofreading. Tumblr is a book club, not a delivery service.
5. De(constructive) Criticism
If an opinion isn’t asked for, don’t give it. Many writers choose this craft for their own enjoyment and to share a thought or story about a beloved character to those who love them, too. If an opinion is asked? Be kind when you share it across to them. No one likes their hard work to be shat on by someone who doesn’t understand the time and effort it took to create this piece.
6. Are You My Content Machine?
Again, back to point #1. Writers have busy lives. There are days when we want to scream into the void about our favourite characters. We want to share our thoughts about them or sometimes, we just want to talk about what happened during lunch break. Demanding and expecting that a writer post content without giving a shit about the soul behind the screen? Dehumanizing.
Don’t ruin the experience for those of us who are still here. Do your part to make fandom better for everyone.
i am begging you all to stop treating this site like instagram if you dont want it to be content free by next year
It's easy pals. Hit the reblog/double arrows button and let your fav posts spread. It's not stealing, it's not reposting, everything is still linked to the OP. You can even make a side blog for all the reblogs if you want to keep your main one clean or sth.
HOLY SHIT, IT WAS THE ORIGINAL ONE
MAKE A WISH
the first post ever on tumblr
I WAS EXPECTING IT TO BE A REMAKE OF SOME SORT HOLY FUCK
WHO THE FUCK KEEPS BRINGING THIS BACK
reblog this because it shows up every blue moon
I FOUND IT ✊
I WAS SO SCARED IT WOULDNT BE THE ORIGINAL
Who first posted this?
I THOUGHT THIS WAS GOING TO END WITH A MEME OR SOME SHIT NO IT’S THE REAL ONE OH MY GOD
Wishing I’ll do well on my finals ✨
This must be a sign 🌌
wish i do smth cool to end this year
yknow
I love it
Here it is again… The very first post on the original Tumblr…
ER. MER. GERD. This is amazing.
😍😍 this is so fucking cool R xx
I always reblog thos

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Reblog or your mom will die in 928 seconds.
I love my mom.
I am risking nothing
I AM SORRY FOLLOWERS, I LOVE MY MOMMY
Will not risk.
sorry followers :(
omg im so glad to se so many people love their mummy
Why’re you being mean to my mum?
goddamn it
Nope. Googled it. 15 minuets. Nope. Not taking any chances
This has 1.2 million reblogs … Ps not riskin it
1.4 almost ps not risking it
Fuck this post
2.5 million notes I hate myself
I reblogged this twice now
I’m so sorry this isn’t b99 related and this isn’t real but I can’t not skip this I’m sorry
Not taking a fucking chance
Sorry, guys, but Im not taking a chance
No chances… She’s out… And she must be protected.
How dare you
Whatcha doin to me Farkle!
i can’t risk it
sorry babes my moms just my favorite person ever
Sorry I can’t risk it
Fuck sorry guys I love my mom
Omg I hate these things but I am paranoid. So sorry guys.
2.8 million notes
CANT RISK IT
Sorry guys
sorry 😩
IM NOT RISKING IT
I did, my mom is STILL DEAD. Works.
3.3 million notes GURLLLLLL
3.3 million IM SORRY OK
f-u-c-k
THIS IS LIKE THE THIRD TIME IVE REBLOGGED THIS IM SO SORRY
Reblogging just to let you all know… I have skipped this post many times and my momma is still very much alive. Don’t feel pressured to reblog it.
my mom kinda went to the emergency care center a little while ago sooooooooooooo
I hate this fucking thing. U.U Sorry i love my mom
Sorry for anyone who now sees it. Won’t risk not reblogging for my mum though.
Sorry, my mom is too good
momma ain’t dying. No chances 😛
Not taking any chances
I hate this
Love my momma
I love my mom
Not taking the chance
Ummm love her too much to risk it.
I love my mom so….
Hate this fucking website
Ugh fuck this post
Damn 4 millions
I never reblog shit like this, but I'm not risking it. I love my mum too much
It doesn't matter how old that old fiction series that's seemingly been abandoned is, if you love it and want more, LEAVE A COMMENT. I did on AO3, and now a couple of days after me posting, there's a new chapter materialised!
meirl
Try Again - Fourteen
A/N: This is a little gift to you all, I know how much mean I was last chapter. So hope you, my lovelies, can forgive me. 😇😍 If you want to be tagged just send an ask or reply and I’ll do it, and as always feel free to comment/request/criticize. (sorry, if i made any misspellings)
Summary: A lot can happen in a year. Ivy was a sous-chef at an A-list restaurant, when an opportunity to work has a personal-chef for a famous person arises. From a professional relationship to a unique friendship, yet, other feelings mingle and remain hidden, until a new decision changes the course of this relationship. But, after a few years apart will it be possible to try again?
Soundtrack: Me and Mrs. Jones - Michael Bublé
Warnings: fluff mostly
If you lost a chapter: Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
Enjoy my loves! 😘
Tom locked eyes with Ivy for a minute, still frozen in front of the door, even her smile couldn’t warm him enough for him to advance in the room. He was still trying to process what his eyes were seeing. Reluctantly, he took the first step toward Ivy’s table and tried to disguise his surprised face with a gentle smile.
“Hi.” she greeted him as she got up to kiss his cheek.
“H-hi.” he replied and looked down to the toddler that was staring at them with his big blue eyes. Tom’s face went blank, literally, doing math on his mind.
“Are you okay?” Ivy asked worried, he looked like he had seen a ghost.
Keep reading
Its my birthday and I'm celebrating by re-reading this while having a smoke break ☺

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Barely there beard
Tom with a beard: turns everyone into a pogonophile
Looking ravishable in This Means War
Try Again - Prologue
A/N: I couldn’t wait for the next week to post this, so here it is the beginning of this story. It will have a temporal leap ahead, but, for now, is in the year 2014, more or less. The soundtrack will be according to the year in most of the chapters. I want to add that he is not married and doesn’t have kids, like I said before it’s kinda like an alternate universe. I really hope you like it, just as I enjoyed writing it. If you want to be tagged on this story send me an ask or reply and I’ll gladly do it! As always, feel free to comment/request/criticize. (sorry, if i made any misspellings)
Summary: A lot can happen in a year. Ivy was a sous-chef at an A-list restaurant, when an opportunity to work has a personal-chef for a famous person arises. From a professional relationship to a unique friendship, yet, other feelings mingle and remain hidden, until a new decision changes the course of this relationship. But, after a few years apart will it be possible to try again?
Soundtrack: Magic - Coldplay
Warnings: language
Enjoy my loves! 😘
The back and forth within the kitchen was fast and paced, each person working at their workstation with a previously assigned goal. The sound of knives hitting the cutting board of vegetables and meat filled the space along with the crackling of the pots over the stove. A man with a rusty mustache commanded the troops and sang orders over and over again, his name is Luca Santini, a brilliant and somewhat irreverent chef. He was the kind of head-chef that was always trying to achieve the perfect service, which sometimes led people to misunderstand his passion and work ethic with anger, or even petulance.
“Oi Pablo, this is fucking splendid, mate.” the man shouted gesturing with his hand in the air after receiving another dish well executed from one of his cooks. “Ivy, I’ll need another filet of veal.” he asked.
“Yes, chef.” she exclaimed and started to make the piece of meat right that second. Soon, she delivered it to her boss and got praised for it, and to think that a mere two years ago she heard scraps every other day from him. Ivy was now a full-on sous-chef, a position she reached with hard work, sweat, tears and many sleepless nights. Still, tonight was going to be the last she would cook in this kitchen, that saw her grow professionally and personally.
Keep reading
Read on...
I've recognised a new level of frustration:
Getting emotionally invested in an extremely lengthy work on AO3 and then realising it has no finish, due to the author having abandoned it 4 years ago.
Moral of the story - always pay attention to the post date.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
- transcription by maggie of @tommyplum
You see the idea I fucking hate the most, right, is that everything starts off perfect, yeah, and then it gets worse. That is demonstrably not fucking true. Some things are just born bad. Some people are born with no intention to do anything good on this earth, and they carry out their plan to deceive and cheat and rob and de-sanctify all that is holy just because that is the way that they were born. That’s how they are. That’s what they do, it is relentless. Relentlessly! Their creed runs thus: if I can, I will rob you. If I must I will kill you, if you let me I will fuck you, when I’ve fucked you I will leave you.
My father, Alfred Solomons Senior, was such a man with such a creed. He was a dispenser, a dispenser of semen to the gullible and the bewildered, a maker of bastards on a scale unseen since Genghis fucking Khan. A barbarian for whom every empty womb was Rome. He planted the seeds but he did not tend the gardens; he stayed only long enough to piss on the compost. And behead the roses to sell at Summerstown at the market there. With his stolen roses in his pockets he would leap the garden gate, leave them behind, only to send around marzipan, tobacco, and Portugal Water, which he did – he sold out of his suitcase, right, at sixpence a bottle.
At least, that is what I’ve been told. Yeah, so I’m fucking told, because all I ever saw of him was his fucking hat! It was hanging on the wall, on a nail, above the seat where my mother washed other people’s laundry. That hat was a holy relic. Was size eight-and-a-half, made in Luton, where the hat-makers go insane on the fumes of their trade and leave little messages sewn under the hat-bands. The message in my father’s hat was this:
THIS HAT, RIGHT, IS A KETTLE. IN WHICH TO BOIL UP YOUR WICKED DREAMS AND MAKE A SOUP OF YOUR SOUL.
It is the hat that actually I wear to this day. It still smells of Portugal Water and when I wear it the schemes and proposals come out of the darkness as if seeping out of the felt and the leather that is stained with his erotic sweat. My mother washed bedsheets. My father was a fucking hat. No kisses, no bedtime stories, just parcels of sheets to deliver to the hotels and the brothels of Camden Town for nothing more than black bread and a pinch from the priest who would then open up his robes when I passed and from that, I drew my dark and accurate conclusions on religion.
So, Alfie Solomons Junior grew untended and wild, a stem with a-hardly a root sticking up like a skinny cock out of the gutter so every nasty little Christian kid walking by their nasty little Christian school with their gropey old Christian masters could kick it down, and stomp on it, and shout, “It was you lot who killed Jesus, ahhh! So have that in your belly, and have that in your face, and see it as charity we’re not nailing you up like you did our Lord.” But every time I got stomped down I fucking stomped back up again, mate. I survived out of spite. And instead of learning how to fight, I learned how to put right the wrongs done unto me tenfold. A hundr—a thousandfold, yea, unto the fucking stars, right? By using the bit of my body that God had cleverly put inside a strong bone box so the kicks and the digs could not reach it.
The bit of me that is my brain.
With the help of the alchemy of my Portugal Water hat, and the strong bone box, I processed the schemes and solutions the mad hatters of Luton and my father had put there; my brain a factory producing schemes and solutions, dodges and speculations, ways around, ways to undermine, a trickle at night and a flood in the day when I unlock my bakery and smell the aroma of secrets, and sin, and begin the process of accumulation.
I am the chairman of Alfie Solomons’ Aerated Bread Company, of Bonny Street, Camden Town, to be precise. My two vice chairmen are Mister Threat and Mister Violence, and the former I prefer, but! But. The latter is necessary to support the former, because without violence there is no threat, and without threat there is no accumulation. Without accumulation? Well there’s just no fucking point, mate.
As a baker, I occasionally sell bread. As a bookmaker, I occasionally let the fastest horse win. As a landlord, I occasionally have a roof fixed. But mostly I find it is quicker and it is easier to deal with the complainant, right, rather than deal with the complaint.
From all of this you are drawing your conclusions: Alfie Solomons, begat from a bad man, and – beguiled by a hat-band – became a bad man who inspires bad men to do bad things in bad ways to good people who have bad bad luck! But is good enough to at least admit he’s a fucking bad, bad man! Hnnnnff.
…but. Consider this, right? In all my years, yeah, as a baker in Camden Town, I have overseen – I have organized, or otherwise been responsible – for the deaths, right, of thirty-five fucking men. All of whom, I’ll have you know, attend my dreams each night in various disguises, in regular order, with no pattern or logic to it but with the consequence that I wake up each morning in sheets that have been – they have to be wrung out, from sweat, right, by my maid Edna. Who, it should be noted, I have never had an evil thought about in fifteen years because when she washes my sweat from the sheets she reminds me of my poor mother, now residing in Hell and washing the robes of Satan himself.
So. Thirty-five men, thirty-five times … I am a bad man. But here is where mathematics comes to my rescue. Logic rides in like an accountant on a penny-farthing just in time to wave proof of mitigation before moral bankruptcy is officially declared, yeah? Here it is, ahrummm, here is what logic puts forward in my defense:
In France, right, Passchendaele for example, take one day, one hour, one fucking second: I am standing, right, in the uncultivated mud, a stem with hardly a root; in my hands, I have an artillery shell. It is the size and weight of a newborn baby. A little bastard, made in Birmingham, sharp-nosed, the colour of the morning sky; and in that one second, one fucking second of one day, of one month, of four years, in that one second I feed that baby to the upturned mortar barrel arse-first. I turn, I put my fingers in my ears, and … BOOM. I send my baby into the morning sky, to do the only job it was ever, ever intended to do. Two seconds later, another boom, and there, in the mud, over there, lie thirty-six men.
Brown bread.
The thirty-six killed by the soldier, right, are just as dead, right, as the thirty-five killed by the baker. But the thirty-six, they do not attend my dreams and are not there in God’s ledger counting the good against the bad. I was given a medal for the thirty-six. But I took a bullet from the Peaky Blinders for the thirty-five. So.
Therefore, my beloved congregation, I will leave you with this conclusion, right:
There is no good and there is no bad that is categorical in this world beyond the calculations of powerful men, right, who shift the definition according to their own selfish schemes of accumulation. The only things that are categorical are life and death, and for argument’s sake we say life is good, and death is bad – purely, purely, for argument’s sake. Which means … which means my father was fucking right, mate. You dispense your semen, you piss on the compost, you deadhead the fucking roses, leap the garden gate, take what you’ve stolen to market and you sell it at a reasonable price, leaving behind only your hat and the scent of your fucking wares, mate.
That is the creed of Alfie Solomons. A lame shepherd among nimble goats who nevertheless at the stable doors shall be counted and accumulated as lambs to my gentle slaughter. Because never forget this, right:
Alfie Solomons is always waiting.
Chris Hemsworth as Kevin in Ghostbusters (2016)