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kaiyatoast · 2 months

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slytherin boys and the 5 love languages

characters: blaise zabini, draco malfoy, mattheo riddle, theodore nott, tom riddle w/c: 865

Blaise Zabini -

Acts of Service: He'll tie your shoelaces for you, help you into your coat, and hold a hand out for you when you're stepping over something. Giving Gifts: He's a bougie man. He has taste. He'll buy you jewelry that you'll actually wear (not those tacky pink heart ones)

Quality Time: The two of you enjoy being together, even if you aren't doing anything together. You guys would work on your own homework together. Words of Affirmation: He's not the type to shout that he loves you on top of the table during dinner. What he'll do is bend down into your ears to whisper how much he loves you, how much he treasures you, how much he cherishes you

Physical touch: KING OF HAND KISSES!! He'll kiss the back of your hand and follow it up with running his thumb along your knuckles.

Draco Malfoy -

Acts of Service: He'll show you that he's serious about you by planning vacations for you that you'll both enjoy. If you're feeling stressed, he'll bring you to a relaxing spa getaway. If he wants to make up to you for something (or simply spoil you), he'll bring you to a vacation in Prague.

Giving Gifts: He likes showing off his wealth. He'll get you jewelry with the shiniest diamond. He has all that money and he likes spending it on you.

Quality Time: He'll go shopping with you, or any other activities that you enjoy doing. He might not like it, but all that matters is doing that you enjoy with you. Words of Affirmation: He's tells you that he loves you often. You'll never go a day without him telling you that he loves you. Whether he's telling you face to face, or if he's sending you a note, he wants you to know how much he loves you.

Physical touch: He likes holding your hand. He like sit when he can feel your fingers between his and your palm flat against his. He thinks that it's one of the most intimate things ever.

Mattheo Riddle -

Acts of Service: If you're exhausted, he'll carry you to bed. He'll do your entire skincare routine for you, followed by a soft kiss to the top of your head.

Giving Gifts: He'll get you your favourite flowers every week without fail. He'll pass you notes in class. If you started to get interested in knitting, he'll get your needles and yarns without you saying anything.

Quality Time: He loves being with you in his dorm. You don't even need to do anything. He's just happy to be in your presence. Words of Affirmation: He likes making you laugh, and that's when he'll tell you he loves you. He loves you all the time, but seeing you smile and hearing you laugh, he feels like his heart might explode if he doesn't tell you how much he loves you.

Physical touch: He loves kissing your forehead. Before you, all his relationships were purely physical, and kissing you on the forehead is his way of showing you how much he loves you in a non-sexual way.

Theodore Nott -

Acts of Service: He'll always have an extra hair tie on him for you. He'll also have period products in his bag, as well as stuff like eyedrops for you since he knows you get dry eyes.

Giving Gifts: Whenever he sees something that reminds him of you, he'll get it. It could be something as small as a bookmark, because he remembered that you were running out of bookmarks.

Quality Time: He loves spending time with you at the astronomy tower, watching the stars. Words of Affirmation: He loves Loves LOVES telling you that he loves you in Italian. He complements you in Italian so much that that's the only Italian words you know. You have no idea how to ask someone how their day is in Italian, but you know how to tell them that you want to drown in their eyes.

Physical touch: Believe me when I say that he's very physical. He's always touching you. He'll have an arm around your shoulders, waist, anywhere he can get his hand on.

Tom Riddle -

Acts of Service: He knows exactly what you need and he'll always have it on hand, like an extra quill or a cup of your favourite drink.

Giving Gifts: He needs his girl to have the best of everything. When he gets you a gift, it's the best possible version. He always gets you exactly what you want and he'll never scrimp on you.

Quality Time: He's a busy man, but he'll always have time for you. He wants to hear from you how your day has been, and to unwind from the day by being around you, soaking in your presence. Words of Affirmation: This is honestly something that he struggles with, but you'll hear him whisper that he treasures you when you are about to fall asleep.

Physical touch: In public, he'll have his hand on your thigh or waist possessively, but when it's just the two of you, he's softer. He'll brush your hair from your face. He also likes to hold your face, admiring you and wondering how he got so lucky.

reposted from my tiktok @mrsblaisezabini

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stevebabey · 1 year

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question on my lips

kia ora my loves, i'm stuck with writers block on another piece and this is hopefully the cure <3 its all sweetness as usual [established relationship + fluff + 2k words] mucho mwahs as ALWAYS <3!

Steve’s in a bad mood.

Which might be very fair considering the state of the weather outside. Flurries of snow batter against the windows and a hair-raising chill leaks into the panes, painting them in condensation. It’s cold. You don’t want to be caught outside on a night like tonight.

But, somewhere across town, there’s a reservation under Steve’s name that is being wasted. At a pretty restaurant, with 2 too many forks for your taste — but Steve had insisted. Even put on a suit.

And even though Steve has told you he prefers the quieter nights in with just the two of you, he seems quite… miffed that you can’t go anymore.

Maybe not quite a bad mood but… well, it’s a hell of a pout he’s wearing.

Amber drenches the wall of the room, lit by your bedside table lamps — a cozy cocoon that feels worlds away from the blizzard coming down outside. You’re actually quite excited; there’s seldom a comfort like being in Steve’s arms when it’s cold like this. Tangled together in your bed, letting his perpetually blazing heart heat the both of you.

But… he’s still pouting. You’re both unwinding a bit, taking off what you’d managed to put on before the weather took a turn for the worse — but Steve’s stuck, hands in his pockets. He seems to be fumbling with something.

His silence worries you more. Maybe you hadn’t realised how actually upset he was that your plans were cancelled.

He had been mentioning it all week, all month actually- since he’d first made the booking. Some claim that you’d love the food and he loved any occasion to see you all dressed up and drool-worthy— (“Not that that’s not all the time, babe.”)

“Steve?” You say. His head jumps up, hands in his pockets going still. “C’mon, come to bed.”

He softens at your coaxing words. Like the very sound of them, the sweet nature of your words, melts his hardened edges. He nods, tugging off his tie and beginning to work on his belt.

In the meantime, you creep into the bed. It smells like a smattering of something sweet that you know to be Steve’s hairspray, fabric softener, and maybe what you think love might smell like if it had a scent. You sink into it lovingly. Warm. Safe.

Your eyes find him instinctively. Watching, observing, drinking in the sight of your lover soothes you like nothing else. Love spools messily in your chest, like a knotted ball of yarn strewn through your ribs. It aches sweetly. Steve catches you as he’s pulling a pair of sweatpants up his calf.

“You’re staring,” He states plainly, but he’s smiling a bit, lips turned up in the corners. He jumps, hiking his pants up over his hips, and wanders closer.

You nod, hair scrunching against the pillow. Your voice comes out a bit muffled when you speak. “That a crime?”

Steve grins this time. He pushes the covers back, kneeling on the mattress beside you — pausing to push back the hair covering your eyes. He smiles down at you, eyes fond. “If it is, lock me up, baby.”

He pauses, thumb drifting over cheekbone lightly. “I could look at ya all day.”

Something delightful purrs behind your ribs, warm and all-encompassing. Where you would’ve once hidden your face away, this time you just let your glee wash over your face — and let Steve see every second of it. You’re happy. Steve makes you happy.

Steve gives an awed exhale and flops, bouncing down on the mattress beside you. He works the duvet around, bundling up as best he can before his hands begin to search for you. Traversing across the sheets, seeking, til they meet skin. He hums happily. Pulls you into his chest and lets you figure out how you want to wrap around him, like unkempt ivy. He’s warm, as always.

You’re not even trying to sleep yet, either of you, just having a moment huddled up in each other's embrace. The wind whirls loudly outside. You wonder what you’d be doing if your plans had gone through.

“M’sorry,” you say into his chest. It rises and falls with his breath, soothing and constant. “That we couldn’t do dinner. Y’seemed really excited.”

Steve makes a little noise, saying that he agrees. For a moment, your words hang in the air and then he clears his throat, pulling you closer.

“S’okay, not like you can control the weather.” He murmurs his reply. He pulls back to peer down at you with suspicious eyes, a tease on his tongue. “Can you? Because as your boyfriend, I should totally know that, and considering what we’ve seen—“

“Shut up,” you giggle. You poke him in the ribs because you can’t think of a good jibe back.

“Shutting up,” Steve says, before snuggling back closer. There’s another moment of quiet. The window rattles in the absence of words. Steve sighs.

“Just…” He starts. You can already tell he’s got his thinking face on, a little furrow between his brows. “Had some good plans for tonight, is all. Not a big deal.”

“A plan within a plan,” you muse thoughtfully. Steve chuckles. “How layered this night could of been!”

“And instead, you just have to have this, huh?” Steve murmurs, dejection creeping into his voice. Your heart twists. He must’ve planned a lot just to watch it go down the drain.

You pull back from his embrace and catch his eyes, searching his face. Disappointment lingers in his expression and it pushes a pout onto your lips.

“Well, is there anything we can do? That was like your plans?” You ask.

Steve breaks into a grin, giving a chuckle — but a glint in his eyes says he’s grinning for another reason. He stares at you lovingly, eyes dragging up and down your face as he seemingly thinks of his answer. He shakes his head.

“Nuh uh. Nothing we can do tonight.” He says, a tad forlorn. His hand on your back sketches a soft stroke up your spine. You shiver in a good way and Steve speaks again, eyes searching somewhere behind you, imagining something. “Well, not— not the way I want to do this.”

There’s a long pause. At the same moment a soft realisation blooms in your chest and on your face, Steve seems to realise he’s said too much. His eyes widen, the apples of his cheeks turning scarlet.

“Were you gonna—?”

You push back from him, suddenly sitting up in the bed. Your heart thuds loudly in your chest, risking bruising the inside of your ribs with each resounding thud. You don’t even mind because… because…

Steve sits up too, wide-eyed expression still on his face. He looks flushed, taken off guard — he clearly hadn’t meant to tell you today. Well, he had meant to tell you today but he wanted to ask you at dinner, on one knee, and then the storm—

“You were gonna ask?” You squeak. A smile wobbles on your face as you try to rein in your reaction, even as joy floods every nerve. “Tonight?”

Steve seems unsure of the right way to answer. “Yes,” He stammers. Then crushes his eyes closed, dropping his eyes closed to curse. “Shit, I wasn’t supposed— I had it all planned! This isn’t—“

Steve pushes his palms into his eyes for a moment, dragging his hands down his face. You feel a pang of remorse for ruining your own surprise but it’s completely overshadowed by the rampant happiness. You can’t help yourself for what you say next.

“Yes.”

Steve blinks. “What?” A grin grows on his face, like your own is contagious even as he shakes his head. “I haven’t even asked you yet!”

He’s laughing, a glorious sound, and so are you. You're so full of love you feel stuffed like you’ve just eaten, it fills every crevice of your body. You nod. You think your teeth might be aching with how sweet the boy before you is— pouting and giving away his own surprises.

“I know,” you breathe. “But if- when you do, it’s a yes.”

And you’ve known it before. You have known it long before tonight that yours and Steve’s futures are knitted together so intricately that where one goes, the other follows. Still, knowing it and saying it— the difference steals your breath. You feel like a teenage fool again, back to the first time Steve ever asked you, ‘Be mine?’

Steve sinks into the pillows, deflating into them with a blinding grin. Like he hadn’t been sure up until right then. He giggles. Another awed sound, like he can’t quite believe what’s happening.

“Okay,” he breathes. You sink down too, curling up into him. His warmth feels burning hot now as he pulls you back into his arms, the same as he had a minute ago; this time, you swear your hearts are an inch closer.

“I gotta come up with a whole new plan now, don’t I?” Steve asks, eyes shining as he peers down at you.

You laugh a little bit, delirious, and shake your head. Gathering courage, even as your stomach twists up in the best way.

“Nope. You can… you can ask now, if you really want.”

You hope your voice betrays everything you mean; that he could ask anywhere and you would say still say yes. That it didn’t need to be somewhere fancy, didn’t need to be a big spectacle, he didn’t even need to get on one knee and you would still say yes.

Steve stares down at you, drinking in the sincerity of your expression and he softens impossibly more. Smile lines you adore get scrunched up as he gives a shuddering breathy laugh, punched out of him by his own enormous affection. Christ, he loves you.

His hand raises, cupping your jaw sweetly and he tugs you closer to meet him in the middle. You come home to him, lips meeting lips as he kisses you deeply and maddeningly. There are a thousand sentiments in his kiss, I want to marry you and I love you among them.

He pulls back and rests his forehead against your own. His hand on your jaw rubs soothing, fingers tucking some stray hair behind your ear.

“Got a plan.” He murmurs, a wickedly handsome smile on his face as he taps his temple.

You’ll have to wait, it seems. You think you can stretch your patience a little longer, especially for this. Your cheeks are beginning to ache from your smile.

Another quiet moment. Then, your eyes light up with the recollection of an earlier memory. They skirt across the room and land on their target, Steve’s crumpled pair of slacks on the ground. You recall his fumbling with his hand deep in his pocket.

Steve follows your eye-line and the moment he spots what you’re looking his head whips back.

Steve fixes you with a stern look, a warning that says don’t. You move an inch, more to tease than anything — you don’t want to see anything til he’s the one giving it to you — but you don’t get very far anyway.

“Oh no, you don’t—” Steve’s arms around your middle tighten, pulling you closer as you pretend to reach off into the distance.

He shifts you easily, setting you down into the pillows and then squishing himself atop you. You let out a strange noise, a surprised yelp as Steve lightly crushes you beneath him, a slightly maniacal grin on his pretty mouth. His hair is a mess, cheeks still glowing, and he looks utterly in love.

You wiggle a bit, seeing if you can free a limb. Maybe to pretend to escape, maybe to dig your fingers in and hold him closer. Either way, it’s fruitless.

Somehow, you’re not all the mad with the situation; squished lovingly beneath your hunk of a boyfriend so you don’t go scampering around searching for a- for your engagement ring.

“Can I at least get a kiss?” You ask, knowing he’ll say yes. If there’s one thing, it’s that Steve never denies you a kiss if you ask. His eyes look a tad misty as he looks down at you so so fondly, eyes drawing down to your lips.

He doesn’t disappoint.

#written and edited in the space of today #wapow!#if there’s mistakes! no there’s not!#i’m worried u can’t tell he’s proposing in the beginning so fingers crossed #steve harrington #steve x reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #girl what tf do i tag it’s been so long so i’ve posted for the x reader girlies #ruby writes steve #steve #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington x gender neutral reader #steve x you #stranger things #stranger things imagine #ok i can’t be bothered

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ckret2 · 5 months

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On chapter 30 of The Writer Uses Misleading Graphics To Trick You Into Looking At This Fic About Human Bill Being The Shack's Prisoner: Summerween part 2! Bill wheedles Mabel into helping him make a costume. Mabel wheedles Bill into spilling some of his preciously-guarded secret backstory. Ford is kind of in awe.

Also there's like 4.5 drawings in this chapter. They're all very silly drawings.

####

Bill wouldn't tell Mabel what his costume was—"I want to see who can guess it"—but all it needed was a brown bedsheet, a long red wig, cardboard (to be drawn upon), and flip-flop sandals.

The bedsheet was the easiest to acquire. Dipper's barely-worn brown sandals were just slightly too big for Bill but Mabel helped tie them on with yarn. the shack's cardboard supplies were still depleted from making Bill's triangle mask, but they could make do with paper and popsicle sticks. Mabel didn't have a red wig but she did have a blonde wig and red markers. Since Bill was, by his own reporting, terrible at drawing, Mabel offered to do the fancy artwork if Bill did the tedious task of recoloring the wig. He claimed he'd feel like a mortician putting makeup on a car wreck victim, but nevertheless accepted the deal, and they settled in around the living room table to get to work.

"So just a bunch of houses, right?" Mabel asked, starting on the first drawing.

"Ancient Greek-looking houses," Bill said. "So, marble and columns. Don't think too hard about the details—this is a 21st century American costume holiday, not a historical reenactment. You can slap columns on anything and call it 'Greek' and every human in town will buy it."

"Do ancient Greek houses have chimneys?"

"No," Bill said. "But adding one would be funny."

Mabel considered that, weighed up the value of historical accuracy against entertainment value, and decided giving one house a chimney would be funny. She gave the whole house a thick black outline in marker, and pulled out crayons in black, white, and whale blue to quickly add some light shading to the marble.

Mabel didn't think she'd ever seen Bill focus so hard or so quietly on anything the way he did on coloring that old wig red. He was giving it more attention than he did his own hair: while his golden locks were a tangled, uncombed, soggy mass shoved dismissively over his shoulders, he was dying the cheap wig (and his fingertips) strand by plastic strand with the bright-eyed morbid fascination of a third grader studying a pack of ants as they disassembled a bird's corpse.

This was the longest she'd been around Bill without conversation—usually, you couldn't even walk into a room without him immediately chattering at you like the motion-activated animatronics at the Summerween store. It was hard to think around him. Bill didn't give you room to think.

What did Mabel think about Bill?

He was right, she was still mad about the mall. No—mad wasn't the right word—mad was his word—she was scared. She'd never really stopped being scared of him, if she was honest with herself. But everything he'd done that day, from tricking her into trapping herself to reminding her of almost dying, had just reinforced why she should fear him.

But. She thought he felt bad about it. And she didn't think she'd ever seen him feel bad about anything before.

Maybe that meant her experiment was working. Maybe he was changing. Yeah, he was still scary—but he was Bill Cipher, he had a lot of scariness to work through. He was moving in the right direction, and she wanted to encourage that.

He hadn't apologized for the mall; but, since he'd tried to make up for it at the time, and that was a sort of apologetic action, Mabel decided she could tentatively forgive him for that day—provided he continued to improve. Put him on forgiveness probation. And that meant they were on friendly speaking terms again.

Which was good, because the quiet was starting to get uncomfortable. She surveyed her art for something they could talk about.

After a couple of as-historically-accurate-as-she-could-imagine houses, Mabel had started varying up the designs by redesigning houses she could remember off the top of her head with columns and white marble. She'd made a stately marble Mystery Shack, and a columned-covered doppelgänger of the house with the terraced yard across the street at home, and then she'd decided to make a Greek-ish version of her own home. "Hey Bill. Have you ever seen my house?"

"In person? No. But it came up from time to time in you kids' dreams, so whether I've seen it depends on how accurate you think your dreams are," he said. "It has less plants and more windows in your brother's dreams than in yours."

Mildly disturbing answer, but not disturbing in the direction she'd expected. "What! You mean you haven't haunted our neighborhood or anything? I don't believe it."

"Do you think I spend all my time stalking random humans? Don't flatter yourself."

"Well, seeing it in dreams isn't good enough!" Mabel pulled over a blank paper. It was hours until trick-or-treaters showed up, they had a little time to waste. "I'll draw it!"

"Wow, really?" Bill looked up from his wig. "You're not worried about letting the big bad triangle see your house?"

"Come on! You already know where I live, right?"

Bill immediately rattled off, "1337 Fairview Drive, Piedmont, California, on the northeast side of the street where it's less hilly."

"Exactly—you creep. So who cares if you know what it looks like, too?"

A square, sky blue house with two stories and a triangular roof; a big living room window on the left, a covered door on the right, three windows on the second floor, and a chimney. Mabel had drawn her home plenty of times—but doing it for a friend (?) was different from doing it for a teacher or a librarian, and she put extra effort into the rose bushes under the living room window. She added her and Dipper's smiling faces in the upstairs windows and Waddles's face downstairs in the living room.

"Waddles sleeps in the kitchen, but he basically owns half the yard to wallow in. This is my room, and here's Dipper's—I get three windows, but Dipper has the biggest window and a bigger room, so it's fair, no matter what he says—"

"Oh, you two have separate rooms now?" Bill was leaning halfway around the table and craning his neck to see the image right side up.

"Uh, yeah? Since we were ten?"

Loftily, Bill said, "I don't know how you'd expect me to know that. You both still dream about sharing a room."

Mabel paused and tried to remember how often she dreamed about Dipper in his new room. Sometimes she woke and was still disoriented to find her bed in the middle of the room instead of against one wall with Dipper's on the other side. "Huh."

She added a few more details—the front steps, the gate, the shingles. (Bill watched nervously as she pulled out the gray crayon to color the driveway—but she didn't notice how it had been tampered with.) She talked about her home, and in turn Bill told her weird things, like that Dipper often dreamed of monsters coming out of the fridge. When she finished, she autographed her name with a star on the "i" in Pines, offered it over grandly, and said, "Here, you can keep this!"

Bill accepted it without the customary effusive gratitude with which one ought to accept a generously-gifted original artwork from a 13-year-old prodigy. "What am I gonna do with it?"

"That's your problem!"

"Fair enough!" He checked his leggings for pockets and, when he didn't find any, set the page on the table by his elbow.

Offering accepted. As Bill resumed coloring his wig, Mabel picked up another piece of paper and got to work on the next columned house. "What does your house look like?"

Bill stopped dead, looked straight at her, and said, "My what?"

What was weird about the question? "Your house! Or whatever you lived in before you came here. You came from somewhere before you tried to invade Earth, right? You didn't just pop out of somebody's dream."

Bill laughed. "Yeah I did!"

"Bill."

"4500 years ago the construction workers of Egypt had a shared nightmare about the immense tombs they'd spent the last century building—"

"Biiiill."

"—and when they awoke they found the combined psychic energy of their terror had spawned a sleep paralysis demon more powerful than Ra! So then I ate their souls—"

"Seriously, Bill."

"I'm being so serious right now."

Mabel rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine! I get it. You're embarrassed." She shook her head and returned to coloring.

She felt the combined spiritual energy of hundreds of imaginary Egyptian construction workers beating down on her face from Bill's eye. Like a laser. "'Embarrassed'?"

"Because you don't have a house," Mabel said. "I think it's okay, you don't need to be embarrassed! I don't think you're a loser or anything. It's just kind of sad—"

Bill snatched up a blank piece of paper. "You want a house? Fine! I'll show you a house." He grabbed up an orange crayon, muttering, "It'll put your stupid overpriced shed in California to shame— Where's the ruler—?" Mabel tried not to grin.

For several minutes, he was perfectly silent. Mabel glanced over to see him coloring with three crayons at once, only for him to shove a hand in her face and snap, "No peeking."

Mabel got through two more drawings before Bill slapped down his paper over Mabel's. "There! How about that?!"

She looked at the drawing, which Bill had helpfully labeled "Party Central!" in red crayon. A great stone pyramid so dark brown it was nearly black, with bricks outlined in brilliant gold and molten orange and fiery red, and a sharp multicolored X hovering above it—

Mabel gave Bill a flat look. "This isn't your house, this is your Torture Temple."

"The what? Hey, is that really what people are calling it?! It's not the Torture Temple, it's the Fearamid!"

Despite herself, Mabel burst out laughing. "You named it the 'Fearamid'?!"

"It's a pyramid and humans fear it! It's genius. Portmanteaus make great names."

"What's a portmanteau."

"It's a word made from the unholy Frankensteinian fusion of two other words. Like getting 'electrocute' from 'electricity' and 'execute'!"

"Or 'romcom'?"

"Yeah, or that."

Mabel considered the drawing. "If you want to scare less people, you could call this your Bill-ding."

"HA! Oh, I'm saving that."

"Anyway, this isn't where you live," Mabel said. "You were there for like a week tops!"

"Yeah, before your great-uncle killed me. I'd still be living there if it weren't for you jerks." He stuck out his tongue.

"Come on, Bill. I showed you my house. Draw where you grew up or something!"

"What's wrong with the Fearamid?"

Mabel crossed her arms. "Why don't you want me to see your real house?" She raised her eyebrows at him.

Bill opened his mouth to protest, but then stopped, a thoughtful look on his face. "Eh, you know what? Why not. If you're gonna be so ridiculous about such a silly thing." He pulled over another piece of paper. "But if I don't have enough time to finish coloring this wig, you have to help me."

"Fiiine." She returned to her own drawings as Bill got back to work.

After a long silence—longer than he'd taken to draw and color the Fearamid—he said, "Okay, done. Here." And he pushed over the paper with one dismissive finger.

She eagerly accepted the drawing—and frowned. There was nothing on the page except for a straight flat black line, interrupted by three line segments of bright blue and a cluster of red and green dashes. "What is this?"

"Where I grew up," Bill said, innocently, already back to coloring the wig. Mabel could see his mischievous smirk. "As seen from the front. Just like your drawing of your house. So we're even now."

Mabel's brows furrowed as she stared at the page in confusion. "What...?"

"You do know I'm from the second dimension, right? A universe that's flat like a piece of paper. I figured Sixer would've told you all about it by now." Bill picked up the drawing and held it between his and Mabel's faces, so that, viewed from the edge, all Mabel could see of the paper was a thin flat line. "What do you think the second dimension looks like to somebody in the second dimension?"

Mabel took the paper back, looked at the underwhelming flat line representing the front of Bill's house, and said, "I hate you."

"We had the prettiest roses in the park," Bill said, pointing at the red dashes. "Crayon really doesn't do them justice."

"Shut uppp."

Bill laughed at her; but then, to her surprise, he said, "Okay, all right, I guess a big fancy 3D creature like you can't understand the nuances of two-dimensional sight. So, here." He flipped over the page. "Top down view."

The back of the page had what looked like a floorplan. A narrow room on the left, a large L-shaped room, a tiny room nestled into the L's top right corner, and a medium room on the right. Little shapes filled the rooms—furniture of some kind?—but she didn't see anything immediately recognizable like a top-down bed or table and chairs. Green and red spirals dangled off the bottom of the floorplan.

"I'm no Edward Bishop Bishop, but it gets the idea across," Bill said.

She studied all the strange little figures in fascination, looking for anything familiar. She pointed at a few shallow bowls filled with blue sticking out of the wall between the L-shaped room and the tiny room. "Are these sinks?"

"Hey, you're pretty sharp. Sinks and the tub."

"So the little room's the bathroom."

"Right again." Bill pointed out the rooms on the floor plan. "Master bed's on the right, kitchen and living room in the middle—and you found the bathroom—and second bed's on the left. That was my room! The one with a million books," he pointed at a wall with countless tiny multicolored lines coming off of it. "I was a big reader as a kid. I've always been an intellectual."

"Who was in the other bedroom?"

"I never really went in there, who cares." Bill made a dismissive gesture. "I think there were some desks and stuff in there too, but I didn't bother to draw them since I never used them." He picked up a yellow and a black crayon and added on to the drawing, dexterously turning the crayons in his hand to switch between colors without setting either one down. "I spent most of my time in my room." He'd drawn a little yellow triangle with an eye. He picked up a red crayon to point an arrow at the triangle and label it "Me!" "I didn't even have to leave the room to see the TV. The perks of psychic powers!"

Mabel wondered which of the weird shapes was the TV; but before she could come to a decision, she was distracted by the scale of Bill drawn in his room. Maybe he'd just drawn himself big, but he seemed cramped in that narrow space. And he'd hardly have room to turn around in the bathroom without his corner smacking something. "It looks pretty small. Is that normal on your home world?"

"Ah, I rarely spent time at home—it was just a place to sleep between speaking engagements," Bill said. "I was always on tour. Living the life of the rich and famous! Hotels, jet planes, and tour buses!"

Mabel shot him an irritated look. "You said this is where you grew up."

"This is where I grew up! I got an early start making my fortune. I was already famous by the time I was, uh..." he pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Developmentally, I think I would've been about equivalent to your age. Maybe a bit younger."

How much of all this was true? It didn't feel like a lie—and she couldn't see how he'd benefit from lying about any of it, except maybe claiming to be famous. So it probably had to be true. He'd actually made her a drawing of his house. Even after he'd complained about being so bad at art. She beamed at him. "Thanks, Bill. Your weird alien house is neat! I like the squiggly spiral flowers! Are they actually roses?"

"They were the flower that everyone mentions in poetry and that you have to bring home when your wife is mad, so, same basic function as roses," Bill said. "Fun fact, they grow in spirals so that they're pretty on the outside, but—"

####

"—but have more surface area to absorb sunlight on the inside," Mabel said, pointing at the flowers. "Alien biology! And the orange things are couches and the colorful box in front of them is his TV, and Bill says he could watch TV through the wall but he never really liked TV, he preferred live performances—maybe we should take him to a musical! And the little sideways cushions on the walls are their beds because gravity goes to the left because their house faces east—I have no idea why!—so, I guess that's their 'floor'? But if that's the 'floor,' Bill didn't explain why all his books were on the 'ceiling' without them falling off, and..." Mabel trailed off, giving Ford a concerned look. "Grunkle Ford? Are you okay?"

He was gaping at the drawing. "Wh—? Yes. Sorry. I'm just..." He shook his head in amazement. "I never even got that slippery eel to admit he has a calendar system, and you got the blueprints to his childhood home?"

Dipper said, "Yeah, this is amazing. How did you get this out of him?"

"Oh, I didn't do anything special," Mabel said casually. "Just drew our house and then suggested he was too scared to let me see his."

Dipper grimaced. "You showed him our house?"

"Don't worry about it! He already knows where we live."

"Of course," Ford said, taking a quick note in his journal. "Exploiting his ego. He's very proud; undermine that pride and he'll feel compelled to defend his honor." Ford had started goading Bill into giving away more than he meant to the same way. He wished he'd started doing it far earlier; but he'd spent so many years foolishly assuming Bill's pride was objective and justified that he sometimes forgot what an egomaniac Bill really was.

As Mabel had spoken, Ford had filled several pages with bullet-pointed half thoughts: dodges questions about the master bed—his parents' room?; no bed or bedroom for a sibling, he seems like an only child; "speaking engagements" is probably a euphemism, what was he doing to become a child celebrity; were his books his only childhood possessions or just the only thing he valued enough to draw; did he gain his "psychic powers" while amassing the power he needed to "liberate"/destroy his dimension? "Can I borrow this drawing to make a photocopy?"

"Sure! Don't forget the line on the back," Mabel said. "And you can copy the Fearamid, too! Did you know he named it the 'Fearamid'?"

"Oh yeah, I heard him call it that," Dipper said. "I think I recorded it in Journal 3?"

"I should've read that before we threw out all of Grunkle Ford's Bill stuff," Mabel sighed. She slid over the Fearamid drawing to Ford. "Bwop! He drew it tilting all weird to the left? He wasn't kidding when he said he's bad at drawing."

Ford studied the drawing and frowned. He lay his pen on the drawing to use like a makeshift ruler. "It's not 'skewed'—he drew the front face as a perfect equilateral triangle, and then extended a side on the right to turn it into a pyramid. It's poor perspective—there's no point of view from which one side would look like a perfect equilateral triangle and you could see another side, but..." He trailed off again as he made a note to himself about what this might mean about Bill's ability to perceive the third dimension and his artistic sensibilities.

"So he draws like Picasso!" Mabel concluded. "Oh! Bill mentioned a name when he gave me his house, he said he wasn't like Edward Bishop Bishop—and I remembered it because it sounds funny. Bishop-Bishop. Maybe he's another artist Bill likes? Or somebody who makes blueprints?"

"I'm sure I've heard that name. I think he was a mathematician?" Ford frowned. "I can't recall, though." He wrote down another note: Edward Bishop Bishop – mathematician/artist? Something to look up later.

Dipper glanced back and forth between Ford and Mabel as they talked, feeling his stomach sink at how excited they were and how easily they got along. First the mysterious disappearing crystal shop in Portland, now Mabel made this huge discovery about the guy Ford had spent years trying to learn about... Dipper swallowed hard and tried to tell himself he shouldn't feel jealous after he'd gotten Ford to himself for basically the past year. "I can't believe you found out all this."

Mabel immediately looked at him. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

Dipper winced. He'd realized a moment too late how he must have sounded. Quickly, he said, "I mean, it's great that you did! Finding out more information about him is great. But, like... investigating the paranormal is my thing. It's what I spent all last summer doing, and it's my dream job, and... and now, the biggest paranormal mystery in human history is in our house, and you're the one getting all the info out of him?"

"Well, yeah," Mabel said. "I'm our official Bill spy, remember? I'm the one who made friends with him."

"I know, I know." He shrugged jerkily. "I'm just... kind of disappointed that I'm not prying eons-old secrets out of an alien demon. You know?"

Ford had paused in his writing to listen to Dipper thoughtfully. "I understand. When you're exceptional at something, it can be... difficult to share the limelight," he said. "Not because you don't think anyone else deserves it. You just don't know if you'll ever get it back."

Dipper's face heated up—he didn't want Ford to think he was bad at sharing, of all things—but he mumbled, "Yeah, I guess." Ford patted his shoulder understandingly.

"Aww," Mabel said. "Didn't you say that if we're running an experiment on being nice to Bill, you want to be in the control group?" She punched his arm. "Welcome to the control, bro!"

"Ow!" Dipper rubbed his arm and laughed weakly. "Yeah, okay, you're right. This is what I get."

Mabel said, "You should try talking to Bill! Maybe he'll tell you stuff too. He's really easy to talk to as long as you don't mind him sometimes saying creepy nightmare things."

"And as long as you're prepared for his mental tricks," Ford said.

"Yeah! Grunkle Ford's got a whole class for that," Mabel said. "He'll teach you about the BITE model! It's how cults sink their teeth into you!"

Dipper chuckled. "Sure. Maybe I will. We're gonna be at home handing out candy for a few hours, maybe I'll find an opportunity to interrogate him."

"You're not going trick-or-treating?" Ford asked.

"No," Mabel said, with an exaggerated sigh of disappointment.

Dipper elbowed her for her theatrics; they'd already agreed on what they'd do tonight. "We've got plans with friends. But we do get to wear matching costumes again."

"Creepy ghost children!"

"Ah," Ford said. "That explains your..." He gestured at them. They were wearing a suit and a dress, old-fashioned and gray, with tattered hems and dusty black dress shoes.

"Barty helped us put the outfits together," Dipper said.

"We still need to do our makeup," Mabel said. "What about you, Grunkle Ford? What are you doing for Summerween?"

"Ah." He glanced toward the ceiling ruefully, as though he could see The Enemy in the shack through the many layers of dirt above. Summerween had been one of the things he'd missed most about Gravity Falls; even during his years as a reclusive scientist in the woods, he'd usually taken off Summerween and Halloween to hand out candy to the children bold enough to visit his house.

But Bill's eagerness to participate had sucked the fun out of the day. The thought of celebrating Summerween in the same house as Bill felt too much like celebrating with him. "Nothing, I suppose. I was planning to stay down here." He gestured at his desk. "Continue my research."

"What are you working on right now?" Dipper asked.

Ford quickly said, "Nothing. Just—the same research," and was immediately hit with a pang of guilt. Remember what happened last summer when you tried to keep secrets about Bill out of embarrassment? Reluctantly, he said, "I've... split some research duties with Fiddleford. While I'm waiting to hear back from him, I'm looking into—some magical knowledge Bill revealed. To determine how much of it's true."

Dipper looked puzzled. "Revealed when?"

Mabel slammed her hands on Ford's desk. "Grunkle Ford, you can take a break from gathering intel on the enemy for one day! It's Summerween! Promise me you'll do something to celebrate before the day's over."

Ford let out a huff, but smiled. He wanted to do something. Surely he could come up with something that would let him avoid Bill? "All right, I promise. I won't invoke the Trickster's wrath tonight. Could you leave your costume makeup in the bathroom when you're finished? I'll find something to do with it."

"Perfect!" Mabel hugged him; then grabbed Dipper's hand. "C'mon, let's finish getting dressed. The trick-or-treaters will be here any minute!"

"Okay, okay." Dipper waved at Ford as Mabel dragged him to the elevator.

When they were gone, Ford turned back to the papers Mabel had given him. Bill's childhood home... Assuming he wasn't lying, at least. But an entire blueprint seemed like a complicated spur-of-the-moment fabrication even for him. If Bill was lying, it was a lie close to the truth.

It was strange to imagine Bill as a child with a bedroom full of books. Strange to imagine Bill as a child at all. What did a young triangle look like? He couldn't imagine anything different from how Bill always looked.

The floorplan did look small. Smaller even than the apartment over the pawn shop had been. Ford tried to remember what the homes he'd seen in Exwhylia had looked like...

He raised his head as something the kids had said registered. "Barty? Who's Barty?"

####

While Mabel was downstairs, Bill inspected her box of crayons.

The wrapper around the gray crayon was coming loose.

He took the glue stick they'd been using to reinforce the paper houses with popsicle sticks and carefully stuck the wrapper back on.

The house was too quiet without anyone around to talk to. He hated the quiet.

From the corner of the living room behind the table, when Bill leaned on the wall, shut his eyes, and listened closely, he could faintly hear the hidden elevator. He headed upstairs to stow the drawing of Mabel's house somewhere safe, and then went to the downstairs bathroom to finish dressing for Summerween.

####

(Y'all I worked hard on those fake crayon drawings. Anyway I know we're all collectively going insane today over the book news but if you took time out of your day to read this, I'd love to hear what y'all think!)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #gravity falls #gravity falls fanart #gravity falls fic #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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lai-mar · 10 days

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you love monsters. i’ll cut off my hair to make monsters of my own. i’ll let you shape my monsters made from a part of me. you’ll criticise mine. i’ll criticise yours. i’ll let you and you’ll let me. a monster took the shape of me to charm you. you took the monster version of me and made it a part of your ideal monster form. you made me a part of you. they’ll weave me in the tapestry next to you and maybe they’ll form our tiny abstract figures from the same thread. and maybe we’ll let the artists interpret us that way. call it what they want. but ultimately i’m a part of you and you’re a part of me. i love you can i weave you into the tapestry of my life. will you allow me. i will manipulate all the strings to let you in i will write you in my diaries i will record you in our history books i will tuck your thoughts between the lines of my research i will reference you in my footnotes i will let your laughter run through my veins for the eternity that i will live. i rewrote the rules of death and you rewrote the laws i’m caged in. shall i tie my hair around your cold wrist to ward off the ghosts for the last time. i can’t resurrect you this time but you’ll always live on inside me. i’m an inseparable part of your ultimate monster, you’re an inseparable part of my ultimate dream.

my mom used to knit by the fire next to my dad. i knit by the fire next to you. taking loose yarn and shaping them into something tangible and beautiful. we can go our separate ways but we choose not to. we choose to weave our stories together. threads fray, tapestries fade, hair decays, but our shared story remains. we remember. our storyteller writes us into the fabric of her story and her audience sings and repeats it in a world that is not ours.

but tonight i knit by the fire next to you.

#mine #laimar #laios touden #marcille donato #dungeon meshi spoilers #dungeon meshi #bouncing them around

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kscosplaycatalog · 1 month

Text

No. 13 - 2012

Character: Ryougi Shiki (ARC Drive ver.) Series: Kara no Kyoukai by TYPE-MOON

Cosplayer Credits: - Kouma: My brother

Photog Credits: - Lauren - Kirky

==========

This was another costume ~mostly~ for my brother. He really wanted to be Kishima Kouma from the game Melty Blood (he also features briefly in Tsukihime), and showed me Ryougi. I had always wanted to make a kimono and really liked her overall design so I put a lot into this costume!

==========

I chose to use an Le Tigre Long from Arda Wigs in Dark Purple (023) because I'm using the very detailed figurine as my main reference source and it's hair is faintly purple. In most lighting, it will look dark brown or black.

I used Simplicity's kimono pattern (4080) for the cotton under kimono and main, silk, furisode kimono. Sadly, I couldn't find perfectly matching fabric for it, but I hope it's close enough (it's a poly silk). I'm not using any pattern for making the obi (brocade) though I learned how to tie the obi into a tateya musubi knot which is the knot on both the figurine and from what I've seen in her anime. I also got material for the obijime (cord from eJoyce), obiage (scarf; crepe), and obiita (simple cardboard with yarn ties).

The sword (Kanesada Kuji) is made out of pine (hilt and blade) and balsa (guard) and spray painted. Hilt is wrapped in ribbon. My dad helped me with the cutting and sanding.

For my brother's... I used the Chinese pajama pattern from Folkwear and simple black cotton. Which was also used for pretty much everything else... pants and foot wraps. We actually burned the bottom of his pants because I wanted the effect that he could actually produce fire, like in the game. I used black spandex for the gloves and just traced his hand to make a pattern.

I actually made the clasps from faux pearl buttons and scrap fabric. I kept complaining about how ridiculous Kouma's clasps were and how they don't work like normal Chinese clasps so I just set out to make them myself. And the wig is a Shaggy Wave Wig with Long Bangs in Shadow Blue from Shop Cosplay (Cosplay.com's wig shop).

==========

Ryougi: Cost: $124 Time: 7 hrs

Kouma: Cost: $79 Time: 12 hrs

#melty blood cosplay #kara no kyoukai cosplay #garden of sinners cosplay #ryougi shiki cosplay #shiki ryougi cosplay #arc drive cosplay #type-moon cosplay #video game cosplay #anime cosplay #handmade cosplay #cosplay with a prop #kishima kouma cosplay #for my brother

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topknotstrunk · 2 months

Text

🌟 More from Topknot’s Trunk 🌟

#crochet #crafts #yarn #photos #bow tie hair bow #rainbow #2024 #topknot's trunk #tk's content #not queued #make your own clothes #fashion

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roosterbruiser · 7 months

Text

𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐙-𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐔𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟐.𝟖𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝟐𝟗𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

Rooster knocks very softly on your bedroom door.

He’s been super into knocking lately--overly courteous and deferential of you and your space and your private time. If you had it your way--he’d just barge in. And, of course, if he had it his way--your door would always be open.

“Enough with the knocking,” you call to him from your closet, grinning to yourself as you tie the skimpy crochet bikini around your neck. The yarn is pilled and worn--very soft on your skin. “There’s no sock on the door, is there?”

“Wouldn’t I be on the other side of the door then?” Rooster asks as he turns the handle and opens the door. A gust of crisp air conditioned air breezes past Bradley and floats on down the hallway. You can’t seem to cool down these days, especially now that the sun is higher and brighter in the sky.

“Would you like to be?” You retort.

He can hear the grin on your face.

He looks for you--doesn’t find you in the mess of sheets on your bed or the pile of discarded clothing before your dresser or tangled up in the half-drawn velvet curtains.

“Babygirl, if I ever say no--why don’t you go ahead and take your pretty little ass down to the Sunset Strip, buy a gun, and shoot me down,” Rooster says.

Your laughter booms off the walls--nearly vibrates the framed photos Rooster meticulously placed around the room.

“Aye-aye, captain,” you tell him.

Then you step out of the closet and into his gaze, biting your lip cheerfully. You’re half a second away from running and jumping on him--peppering his face with glossy kisses and combing your fingers through his waxed hair--but the sudden dismay on his face as he registers you makes your feet heavy.

“What?” You ask instantly, hands on your hips.

Rooster frowns softly at your outfit--you’re wearing Daisy-Dukes and a tiny crochet top. If you were just lounging around the pool, then fine. But today is not the kind of day where you’ll drown yourself in Harvey Wallbanger’s and watch the sun go down in the cherry-red pool. Today is the kind of day where Rooster takes you to open up your very first bank account.

“You can’t wear those threads, babygirl,” Rooster says softly.

“Why not?” You ask, a slight whine dripping from your tone as you jut your hip out. “I wear this, like, everyday!”

“Today isn’t everyday,” Rooster points out. “You’ve gotta look the part.”

“What part?” You ask, nose screwing up in dismay.

Rooster, a fond smile tugging on his lips, starts forward towards your closet. He kisses the top of your head, lips against your warm hair, and shakes his head when you whine again.

“The part of bank account owner,” he tells you. “The part of someone who’s financially responsible.”

“Daddy, this ain’t no part in no porno,” you say, pivoting to watch him as he begins to search through your closet for an outfit for you. “This is the real deal!”

“Don’t lecture the professor,” he warns distantly, voice totally void of any actual authority. “He might flunk you.”

“What’s with all the coded-gab? You’re giving me a complex,” you say, leaning up against your dresser. The corner digs into your bare arm as you watch Rooster flit through a few halter tops and bikini tops. “It’s too early for a complex.”

“It’s ten,” Rooster says, brow perched. “And who hangs up their bikini tops?”

“People who have a wardrobe made of mostly bikini tops,” you say with a waggle of your brows. “Lucky you.”

Rooster grins--he can’t help it.

“Go ahead and sit down,” Rooster says, glancing at you. “This is gonna take me a good, fat minute.”

You’re leaning against your dresser, watching him like a school girl watches her mother pick her picture day outfit. You’re a vision with heated skin: all legs and arms and hollowed cheeks and bare feet. He’d take you like this, naked-faced and unkempt, over made up any day. But bankers wouldn’t.

Rooster’s biting a grin of his own, trying to find something presentable for all the snot-nosed bankers you’re going to encounter today. He always feels uncomfortable in professional settings--like banks, like real estate offices, like doctor’s offices. He has his own private saying about people that work at these places: when people’s collars are stiff, their morals are stiffer.

This is to say that if just one person knew what Rooster was--a stallion, a porn star, a fruit--then he knows undoubtedly that he would be turned away. And the same goes for you--maybe even moreso. You’re much more recognizable these days than Rooster is, shooting off into stardom suddenly and immediately. Earning your way into Heaven last month broke records Rooster’s never even touched before.

Rooster learned the hard way during his second year in the business that people aren’t alway such coolheads about his career, your career. He’d walked into three banks wearing his Angel Fly canary bell-bottoms and a straw hat with a long peacock feather stuck in it, gold jewelry dotting his fingers and neck and ears. He felt good about himself--partly because he was high out of his mind and partly because it was every piece of expensive clothing he owned at the time.

His logic, though flawed and spurred in the midst of a coke-filled mid-morning, felt sound. Look good, feel good, be treated good. Grammar be damned.

He wasn't able to open a bank account that day or any other day that week at any of the nearest banks. This is why he insisted that he wear one of his best corduroy suits today--a rust colored thing that he gets tailored whenever he feels like he’s gained or lost a few pounds. It always fits right--snug and handsome.

The two of you stare at each other--Rooster in his courroy slacks and nice brown loafers and you unbrushed and unwashed--before you break the tension by blowing a raspberry at him and meandering over to your bed.

Sunlight warms the bedding, filters in through curtains. You sink into the unmade velvet sheets and take a deep breath in as you stare at the beams on the ceiling. The bed, unsurprisingly, smells like you. Like sex, like the Givenchy perfume you wear everyday now. The bottle appeared on your bedside table a few days after the incident, when you were still coming out of the fog. Scribbled on a little piece of blue crepe paper was Jake’s unmistakably messy penmanship: you know I love you, right?

“How’d you sleep?” Rooster asks, sucking on the back of his teeth.

You’d fallen asleep on the sofa last night after a few drinks, your head on Rooster’s thigh and your lips parted slightly. He’d groggily carried you into your bedroom early this morning, back stiff from unexpectedly sleeping out in the living room, too.

“Like a baby,” you sigh, yawning. “Say, did someone carry me to bed last night or am I imagining it?”

“Hmm,” Rooster says, taking out a blouse and slinging it over his arm carefully. “Can’t recall.”

“Thanks, daddy,” you say, smiling sweetly. “Don’t you just take the best care of me?”

His throat is tight. He almost can’t stand it when you’re so sweet--it makes him want to fall to his knees at your feet and kiss your thighs and hold onto your legs tight. And now that you’ve misplaced your ring, that gaudy ruby thing with your angel powder stash inside, you’re sweeter than you were before.

In the month since the incident, you haven’t brought the ax down on him very much at all--only a few times here and there when Jake pressed his fingers to your gums while lounging beside the pool or after dinner or in the conversation pit. He’s been basking in your sweetness, submerged in your candied words, washing it out with hot water from between his fingers like dissolving honey.

“Anything for you,” Rooster says softly.

He thinks that the notes of his voice are dissolved in polyester and silk and taffeta--hopes that you can feel the remnants of his words when you slip into a slinky dress or little shirt.

You hear him from where you are sprawled across the bed, lazily fingering the corner of the comforter as hangers squeak across the metal bar in the closet.

And although you hear everything he says, and you can sometimes look at his voice and know precisely what he’s thinking, there are still so many words unuttered between the two of you.

He demanded answers about a few things: the last thing you remembered, if you could pin-point who you were around when someone slipped you something, why you were doing acid without him there to keep you safe, what you and Jake were thinking when you separated at the disco. And you answered everything you could for him, wringing your hands together, feeling like a dog left out in the rain overnight.

You, though--you didn’t demand answers. You didn’t want to know what happened while you were out, floating among midnight flowers. You saw the proof everywhere around the house once you were able to stand on your own two feet again: the dried vomit in the entryway, the heap of your tattered clothing in the bathroom, your smeared makeup staining the couch, the skid marks from Jake peeling into the driveway.

They didn’t take you to the hospital and Rooster told you why with his tail between his legs, with the sweetest earnestness in his gaze. You didn’t want to know how they knew that you valued your career over your longevity, your health. But you chalked it up to both of them loving you deeply--knowing that you’d rather die in the City of Angels at twenty-one than be sent back home to Nebraska on a thin liquid diet with a newly-formed bad nose candy habit.

There were things Rooster didn’t ask, too. He didn’t ask you why you were suddenly so upset on set, didn’t ask what Jake said to you to set you off. He didn’t ask you why you didn’t just stay home with him and Phoenix. He didn’t ask you if you loved him the way he loved you because everything suddenly felt so fragile--a delicate wall made up of dried daisy petals. Entirely collapsable by the slightest gust of wind.

There were some things Rooster didn’t offer either--like just where exactly your ring went after he set it on the entryway table, even after he saw Jake toying with it absently a few days later at lunch. He figured Jake would’ve already used up its contents by then, anyway--and he wasn’t heartbroken at the thought of it not being with you anymore. He didn’t offer up anything else about his ma, about what happened to her, about his fear of losing you. He wept when he begged you to stay--and then the next morning, he brought you a glass of orange juice in bed and hasn’t said a word about his mother since.

All of these things sit between the two of you, growing heavier on the vine as they ripen with time. It is a most intricate dance--delicate movements, stealthy footfalls, measured breaths. But the one thing that prevails through all the perfumed air is your mutual unwillingness to not be near each other at all times. There is a thick piece of rope that tethers you to Bradley now, one that cannot be burned or severed or worn away. There is only so much give before it grows taut, though.

For now--that’s just fine with the both of you.

“Here,” Rooster says as he emerges from the closet. “Try this on.”

It’s a mustard-colored blouse with a big, oversized pink bow sitting on the throat and a pair of lapis-blue slacks. They’re both things Bradley has bought you since coming to Los Angeles, things that were sitting at the foot of your bed still wrapped in brown paper or things that were laid flat on your bedding with the stem of a rose sitting pretty on top.

“Bows doing it for you these days?” You ask quietly as you take the clothing from his hands and set it on the end of the bed. “‘Cause I can do bows, baby. Believe me you.”

“I bet you can do just about anything,” he tells you. “Cherry Arsan.”

The thin, braided straps of your tip fall as he utters your name. You’re still sitting on the bed, looking up at him, when your nipples harden from the sudden shock of the cool air. He’s looking down, his thick brow crinkled, his jaw suddenly flexed like he’s biting down hard.

It isn’t your breasts he’s looking at--it’s the bruise he left behind, the one he pelted into your tissue and bone with the boniest part of his knuckles to make sure you were still alive. With time, it’s faded--it is the color of newly-rotting fruit. Soon, it will be gone. You will not have to plot on foundation and powder and concealer before filming.

But Rooster won’t soon forget what it felt like to watch your shoulders snap up at his touch, what it felt like when your weak breaths puffed onto his fingers as you laid motionless on his bed.

Before you register his sudden nearness as he walks towards you, he’s delicately rubbing his fingers along the blemish. His expression is sober, serious as he traces the jagged outline and bites down on nothing. You see the way his eyes linger there when you’re naked, when it’s on display in a low cut top--even if you’ve covered it with makeup, he’s always willing it to melt off. He’s searching for a shadow, a hint, anything. You know it’s how he’s repenting for not being there with you. For you.

You’ve thought, often, that he must’ve been Catholic in another life because of the way he punishes himself with pain. It is a deep, deep guilt that he must have to inspire such masochism.

“Is it sore?” He asks softly. His throat is dry when he swallows. “Like, does it hurt? Still?”

The sun pours in through the windows, assaults the thick curtains and the sheets and your legs and your naked chest--but you suddenly feel like you can’t get warm enough if you tried.

“Not anymore. You know that,” you tell him, trying to sound okay with the way that he punishes himself--though you aren’t okay with it and you don’t sound like it. “Now it’s swell.”

“Is it?” He asks, gaze flickering up to meet yours.

There he is, willing himself more suffering.

You will not feed the beast.

“Yes,” you whisper. And what you really mean is stop. “Believe me.”

“I do,” he says. But what he’s really saying is I can’t. I don’t know how. His voice is thin, fractured. “I always have. You’re my number one lady.”

“Way to sound convincing,” you say quietly. You stroke his left brow, try and count all the individual and precious hairs that grow there. You want to know him so thoroughly that you know immediately when one has been plucked. “I’m groovy. I’m always groovy.”

He says nothing for a long moment, every part of him softening under your touch except for his grievous expression.

“Grooviest lady on this side of the one-oh-one,” he whispers.

Moving your fingers up slowly, you gently touch the gel in his hair. He doesn’t mind if you mess it up, always grins at his reflection afterwards, but you’re trying to be a good girl. You’re trying to be what he wants you to be.

The way you see it, the way you’ve seen it since the incident--girls like Phoenix don’t go out on the town and get slipped something after taking a dab with their pseudo-dealer at the disco. They stay in with Rooster and drink wine and talk about films. You always want him to soften beneath your fingertips. So, you have to be what he wants.

“Can we stay in tonight?” You whisper to him.

He glances up at you through his lashes, bent at the hips and holding your thigh with his free hand. Your irises are stained with the color of deceit, a very rare and precious shade that Rooster is only just becoming accustomed to.

He knows you--knows that you’d much rather go out than stay in. But here you are, bruised from his love, looking at him like you really mean it. He doesn’t have the heart to fight back, to let you down.

“Yeah,” he answers you.

“Slammin’,” you whisper back. A tentative smile tugs on your lips. “Wanna listen to Joni on the way into town?”

“More than anything,” Rooster whispers.

And before you can pinch his cheek, before you can look away from him and his broad shoulders and his gelled hair and handsome suit, he moves. His head falls, his lips pucker, his grip on your thigh tightens--he is kissing the bruise with a gentleness that you’ve scarcely known in your two decades on this planet.

The floor falls out from under you as his lips linger, as his saliva dampens the place where your pulse thumps. You can’t breathe--can’t move. All you can do is sit still and be good beneath his mouth.

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: SORRY THIS TOOK ME 6 MONTHS!!! AND TO MAKE A LONG ASS STORY SHORT, I LEFT MY LAPTOP CHARGER AT MY MOTHERS HOUSE AND I LITERALLY DONT HAVE TIME TO GO GET IT!!!! SO SHORT CHAPTER FOR NOW!!!! LOTS MORE TO COME!!!!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

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deanbane · 4 months

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shuggy Christmas hc

where when they were kids, they'd exchange dumb gifts during Christmas, where the other would never use the items in their lives. Shank's gotten a blue hair tie, a mauve colored lipstick, a too big shoe that was probably Roger's that buggy had stolen and ball of yarn. whilst buggy got a pink frilly dress, one of Rayleigh's old and broken glasses, a sketch pad(buggy is a shit drawer) and a broken glass that Gaban forgot to throw away.

But then, when they separated, Shanks still continued on sending crappy gifts to Buggy but buggy never sent anything to him in return.

And when Shanks went back to Paradise with one arm intact, he received a gift on a Christmas morning, it was a singular glove that was supposed to go on his left hand and a note that said, "Fuck you" in a familiar writing.

That was the time Shanks had fully laughed out loud for a full 10 minutes straight.

#buggy #buggy the clown #shanks #red haired shanks #shuggy #shanks x buggy #buggy the flashy fool #buggy the genius jester #one piece

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moonyssmommyy · 7 months

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My Marauders Headcanons Pt. 12 ~ Pandora Liliosa Lovegood

Best friends with Regulus

Made him Luna's godfather

She's bisexual and polyamorous

A Ravenclaw

She's a VERY affectionate friend. Just very affectionate in general.

Believes in platonic kisses like the one you'd give your mother before you went to bed as a child

Loves to hold hands

Cuddling is her fav

Def makes flower crowns

Barty (who's always had a secret soft spot for Pandora) gave her one of his Slytherin ties one day and now she wears it as a headband

Her fav color is periwinkle

She loves pastels

Flowy fabrics

Lace tops

Flared bottoms

She's super sweet

Honestly VERY quiet unless she knows you really well

If you've even so much as told her your name she will say hi to you whenever she sees you

She loves yogurt

Prefers a nice lil yogurt over a Popsicle in the hot summer heat

Like the little spoons

Big cuddler

Her laugh will make you smile and if not then you have no heart (that's how i found out barty had one)

Born at 6:27 in the Morning

Born June 22

Cancer

Pandora's mother LOVED Marilyn Monroe and Pandora did too even though she died before Pandora was born

Pandora Lovegood is absolutely ethereal and hypnotic

And she follows Marilyn Monroe's beauty tips religiously

Ties the little witches locks in her hair and weaves thread/yarn into her braids

She has thin pink lips

Wide, blue eyes that are very soulful and expressive

She adores collecting things

She loves the beach and wants to live on the shore line

She likes the funky patterns and fabrics every one else usually doesn't

She loves quirky, dangly earrings

She usually wears flowy dresses, tight tops, and loose pants

Mom jeans truther

Has a butterfly tattoo on her right shoulder

Long, wild, wavy hair

Best class is charms

Fav class is care of magic creatures

She also really likes potions

She'll put her hair up with her wand quite often and she wears the Slytherin tie as a headband

Loves dainty little necklaces and chokers

Loves jewelry in general

She makes jewelry too

Has a TON of rings

But the stone in all of them is a different crystal

Astrological nerd

Knows everyone's astrological charts

Very spiritual

Divine feminine

Animagus is a white cat

Fairy grunge meets gloomy coquette in the most tantalizing of ways

Absolutely bewitched by the muggle world

Either she's perfectly put together or a hot mess there is no in between

Dated Emmeline Vance for years and was absolutely devastated when they broke up

Her new found friendship with Lily is what saved her after their breakup

Was already dating Xenophilius by the time Mary and Lily asked to be in a relationship together

Pandora was really nervous about dating another girl much less two after how hurt she was when her and Emmeline broke up

She told Mary and Lily she would think about it but really she wanted to say yes

She just really loved Xenophilius and wanted to make sure he was ok with it first

He would give Pandora the entire world if she asked so of course he said yes

But he was confused on whether or not hed have to date them too tho

EXTREMELY SMART

She has her astrological sign constellation tattooed across her neck/collarbone

She wants a hedgehog

Loves moths

Has a Siamese cat

And a tarantula

Pandora loves insects and will casually let them crawl all over her and it literally freaks the fuck out of EVERYBODYYYY

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rockingrobin69 · 6 months

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covalent

“Did you look in the—”

“Yes, darling,” not rolling his eyes anymore, coming closer with his hands out, and Harry’s frown which used to be funny is, is, not. “Hey. Harry.”

“It’s,” hyperventilating, “it’s from Molly, I can’t—it has to be somewhere in here, right,” and Draco scoops him in his arms and squeezes.

Squeezes harder until the shaking stops. “Darling,” he whispers, and “sweetheart.” They find their way to bed and Draco layers him with so many kisses Harry can’t even grumble anymore, can’t, move, probably, until he’s laughing, wiping his face on the pillowcase.

“Sorry,” he says, much later, and Draco shushes him with clinical efficiency and rinses the suds out of his hair.

How hard can crocheting be, for crying out loud? He might not be Molly-Weasley-level natural caretaker, but he can bloody do this. He’ll pick up the yarn and the—needles? Tomorrow. He’ll replace this priceless heirloom of a bloody doily and Harry will be… will be happy again.

“Which tie do you think I should—oh,” looking up and Draco’s already wrapping it around his neck, pout melting into fond smile. “Really? That one?”

“Really,” Draco murmurs. Tying the knot is the easiest thing, and his fingers are happy to do it, skirting over the soft material and, cheekily, over Harry’s tense shoulders. “It’s going to be fine,” he says.

“I know.” Harry’s looking at them in the mirror. Draco wonders what he sees, besides for muggle suits and all the hair. “You look nice.”

Draco huffs. “I always look nice.”

“All right then, you look fucking sexy. You should always wear a tux.”

“Hmm? Even in bed? Sounds clunky.”

“Clunky? Is it a suit of armour or something?” but the babbling is a sign of its own, and Draco, raised eyebrow, takes his hand.

“We only need to be there for five, ten minutes. I told the Minister you won’t be staying for the full event.”

“How did you get him to agree to that?”

“Charm,” Draco says.

“You mean blackmail.”

“I mean, a lovely personality and a knack for fortunate scheduling.”

Harry’s smiling so wide it feels, ridiculously, that he’d tear out of his suit. “You’re incorrigible,” but he’s quiet after that, which Draco takes as a win. And really, how hard is it to threaten a Minister?

With economical moves, he brushes a lucky piece of lint off Harry’s arm. They’ll make the obligatory appearance, keep the peace or—give hope to the nation, whatever, and then he’ll take Harry to the kebab place outside the Ministry and feed him chips till he’s happy.

“Where do we keep the lens cleaner spray?”

Because he doesn’t like the marks the charm leaves. “Third drawer on the right.”

Rattling: “Found it. You picked a film yet?”

“Mm-hmm.” Arranging the bowls, leaning back on the sofa.

“Good. And it’s not Mean Girls again, right? Because love you know I’ll watch anything with you but I think four times a month is, er, wha—” stops with his pretty mouth open, leaning against the doorway with a little swoon. “Draco? What’s this? What are you wearing?”

“There’s a pair for you as well,” the fluffiest material Draco had ever seen, with a pattern of little polar bears in bowties. “Go on, get changed.”

“Is that… I thought we weren’t allowed to eat on the new sofa.”

Draco shrugged. “What’s a hoover charm for? They’re selling your favourite apple-cinnamon popcorn again, I couldn’t resist.”

“Clearly,” with a grin that swallowed the whole room. “You’re aware this is excessive, love, yes? You know this isn’t normal behaviour.”

With a huff, “And we’re entirely normal people?”

Harry laughs, shaking his head. He comes to grab the pyjamas, but takes a detour to Draco, to kiss the top of his head. “You’re bonkers,” whispered into his hair.

“For you,” Draco concedes. “Now go on. I hope you don’t mind, but I chose Princess Bride.”

“You unbearable sap,” with affection so thick in his tone it drips, tiny little kisses on his forehead, his eyebrows, his nose. Happy, Draco thinks with relief: Harry was already happy, and he plans to only make him happier. And really, how hard can it be to get far too much popcorn and his favourite film?

“Oh, shit,” Draco says, “I forgot the markers.”

“What?”

“Markers. For the… they help much better than a spell. I’ll have to go back to the office supply shop,” sighing, rubbing his buzzing eyelids. Too little sleep and big test coming up, the constant headache Harry says comes from stress and—

“These ones?” producing a whole pack, unopened, from his work bag.

“What,” Draco says, not quite a question. “You don’t use these.”

“Highlighters? No, not really. I got them for you.” Nudging them closer, nose scrunching on a frown. “What? Why’s that so shocking?”

“It’s not.”

Harry stares. “But?” to the shake of the head, “What, is it only you who’s allowed to take care of me?”

More desperate shaking. Draco’s too tightly strung on no sleep and many-many cups of coffee, and he’s seeing double, and the tears come out unbidden and unexpected.

“Love,” Harry gasps, and cradles weeping Draco in his arms like he would a baby, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“No, no,” nonsensical and silly, “it’s—Harry, you’re so, it’s unfair how much you’re—”

“You’re unfair,” and Harry’s voice is raw too, and they’re both so silly. “Do you even know, do you have any idea how awfully happy you make me just by—”

“Stop, stop,” too weak for the attack, and the markers, and it’s Wednesday and his test is on Friday, and he’s sick with how lovely this is. “Okay, we’re both saps.”

They make each other’s tea and then drink from each other’s cup. Draco’s is too sweet and Harry’s is too strong. Draco’s tired and a little bit terrified, but he keeps thinking, how hard can this be? Not that hard after all.

(For flufftober day 25. Find the soft AO3 collection here).

#drarry fic #tw for minor panic attack #they take care of each other your honour #1000 words #a perfect ficlet!#i mean wordcount wise but also it's very soft okay #flufftober2023 #prompt: nook #rockingrobin69

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