#miniature forest scenes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

musicforastylesrestaurant · 10 months

Note

H and his little boy, him just wanting to copy everything Harry has and does. When Harry does a home workout, he wants to join in. When he shaves, he wants to sit on the counter and shave too. Just literally being a mini Harry 🥺

Like Father Like Son.

my masterlist || ask me anything <3

blurb masterlist is here.

word count - 2.6k

in which, in 2018, you and your fiancé harry welcomed a little baby boy into the world, and his name was sammy. him and his father were exact replicas of each other, same brown tousled curls, forest green orbs, matching dimples and bunny teeth, harry jr. loves everything to do with his father, wherever he went, he wasn’t far behind.

On August 7th, 2018, you and your fiancé welcomed a little boy into the world. He came screaming and fighting, his little lungs constricting with each cry that left his mouth.

And his name, his name was Sammy Robin Styles.

A mini replica of the man you loved, when he was cleaned off and passed back to you in the hospital bed, you noticed that his hair had little wisps on the end which would ultimately turn into full blown curls almost three years later.

It was as if he had been intricately crafted as a miniature replica of Harry himself. Every detail, from the shape of his eyes to the curve of his smile, mirrored that of his dad. It was an awe-inspiring moment, realising that nature had effortlessly bestowed upon this child the essence of Harry Styles.

Now, as the years have passed, it is clear that the similarities between father and son extend far beyond their physical appearance. It's as if the essence of Harry has seamlessly woven its way into every fibre of his son's being. Watching the young boy grow, it feels as though time has fast-forwarded, bypassing the nine months of pregnancy and directly manifesting Harry's persona in this young child.

Just like his father, the little boy exudes an air of charm and charisma that is utterly captivating. With every mischievous grin and twinkle in his eyes, he echoes the magnetism that has captivated audiences worldwide. His infectious laughter fills the room, reminiscent of Harry's own contagious joy that never fails to bring a smile to people's faces.

Even their mannerisms align harmoniously. The way the young boy tilts his head, the gestures he makes with his hands, and the way he carries himself all mirror the idiosyncrasies that make Harry so uniquely himself. It's almost as if the essence of his father has been imprinted on his very soul.

The first time you realised Sammy was like his father, was when he was a year and a half old.

You had fallen asleep on the sofa accidentally encasing yourself in an afternoon nap after being up during the night with Sammy who was teething, and it had knocked all energy out of you.

When you woke up, the house was silent which made you tilt your head to the side and wonder where your lover and angel boy had gotten to.

When you walked down the hallway to the house, that was when you heard the giggles that resembled your sons and the familiar sound of your fiancés voice had you realise that they were in the at home gym.

February 7, 2020.

The door to the at home gym creaks open, revealing a heartwarming sight that melts your heart.

There, on the treadmill, is your fiancé Harry, his toned figure in motion as he runs, sweat glistening on his forehead. But what catches your attention even more is the sight of your one-and-a-half-year-old son, Sammy, running alongside him on the floor, his little legs in a blur as he tries his best to keep up.

You can't help but smile at the adorable scene unfolding before you. Sammy, with his chubby cheeks and tufts of messy hair, is determined to emulate his dad in every way possible. It's a sight that fills you with warmth and joy, knowing that your little one looks up to Harry with such admiration.

"What's going on here?" you ask, unable to hide your amusement. Your voice startles both Harry and Sammy, and they turn to face you, their faces lighting up with love and happiness.

"Mama!" Sammy squeals, his baby voice barely forming words, but the excitement in his voice is unmistakable. He holds up his tiny hands, fingers splayed wide, as if mimicking his dad's intense workout. “wike, dada!”

Harry, a grin stretching across his face, glances your way but doesn't stop running. "Hey, m”love. Sammy wanted to join m’on the treadmill, so we're having a little running session together."

You chuckle, admiring the dedication Harry has to his workout routine. "Looks like our angel is eager to keep up with you."

Harry nods, his eyes gleaming with pride. "He's got the spirit of an athlete, that's f’sure. And besides, it's good f’both of us to stay active, right, Sammy?"

Sammy babbles in agreement, clapping his hands as if understanding every word. He tries to match Harry's pace from where he’s running on the floor, his tiny legs working double time as the speed of the treadmill Harry’s on increases in speed slightly.. But the treadmill's speed proves too fast for him, and he stumbles, landing on his diaper-padded bottom with a soft thud.

Harry immediately stops the treadmill, not liking the fact his son fell over and steps off of the machine and reaches out to scoop him up.

“Careful, buddy," he says, pressing a gentle kiss to Sammy's forehead. "You’ve got to slow down, we don’t want you getting an ouchie do we?."

Sammy giggles, hugging his dad tightly, his eyes sparkling with joy. You join them, enveloping both Harry and Sammy in a warm embrace, feeling an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude for your little family.

Another time that you realised that Sammy was like his father in both appearance and personality, was when he was when the three of you were on a family holiday to Italy.

After a chilled day of just sitting around the pool, catching some rays, the three of you retired to the bedroom at around half four, seeing as you had dinner reservations in the old town for half six. For a nice family meal.

Over the course of the holiday, which you were only four days into, you noticed that your fiancé was starting to complain about the stubble resting on his face.

Harry’s stubble was starting to get to him in the heat, making him always have an itchy face, and when the three of you were chilling in the main bedroom of the villa, he told you that he was going to go ahead and shave.

July 19th, 2020.

You sit on the plush bed in the stunning villa you and your fiancé Harry are staying in, overlooking the picturesque landscape of Italy. Sammy, your one-and-a-half-year-old son, is nestled against your chest, his eyes drooping with exhaustion after a day of splashing around in the pool with his doting father.

As the gentle breeze rustles the curtains, you gaze down at Sammy, his tiny hand gripping onto your shirt. His cheeks are flushed from the sun, and his little body radiates warmth against you. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest indicates that he's slowly succumbing to sleep.

Just as Sammy is about to succumb to dream land, you notice Harry absentmindedly scratching his face. You raise an eyebrow, concern etching your features.

"What's the matter, baby?" you inquire, your voice soft and soothing.

Harry pauses, his eyes meeting yours. "I think it's time for a shave," he responds, his fingertips still grazing his stubbled chin.

Sammy, who seemed to be on the verge of slumber, stirs against you at the mention of shaving. His eyes flutter open, now wide with curiosity. "Shave?" he mumbles, his voice sleepy yet filled with intrigue.

Harry chuckles, turning his attention to his little boy. "Yes, buddy. Daddy needs to shave. It's like a special grown-up thing."

Sammy's eyes light up, his drowsiness momentarily forgotten. "Shave!" he exclaims, sitting up against your chest, his tiny hands reaching for Harry.

"Y’were falling asleep, mister. What're y’doing awake?" Harry says with a playful grin, kneeling down to be at Sammy's eye level.

Sammy giggles, his small voice carrying a sense of determination. "Be like you, daddy."

"All right, champ," Harry speaks, his voice filled with tenderness. "We'll do it together. You can watch and maybe we'll pretend to shave your baby fuzz too."

Sammy's face lights up with sheer delight, a wide grin stretching across his tired features. He nuzzles into the safety of Harry's embrace, knowing that he is loved and cherished.

And so, with Sammy in his arms and love in his eyes, Harry leads the way to the bathroom, flicking in the light and you silently follow behind, wanting to see the memory as it was being made.

You stand against the door frame, observing the scene unfolding before you with an adoring smile. Harry carefully lifts Sammy onto the bathroom counter, ensuring he stands securely in front of him to prevent any mishaps. The soft lighting casts a warm glow, highlighting the bond between father and son.

Harry takes a shaving brush and begins to lather his face with thick shaving foam. Sammy's eyes widen with fascination as he watches the process, his little hands fidgeting with excitement.

"Dada, me shave too!" Sammy exclaims, his voice filled with an adorable mix of eagerness and innocence.

Harry's eyes crinkle with amusement, his love for his son shining through.

"Alright, buddy. We can make y’look like a little gentleman," he says, his voice infused with playful encouragement.

Harry reaches for a dollop of shaving foam and gently applies it to Sammy's tiny face. Sammy bursts into giggles as the cool foam tickles his skin, the sensation new and delightful.

You capture the precious moment with your camera, eager to immortalize the memory of father and son sharing this special experience. The sound of their laughter fills the room, a harmonious melody that warms your heart.

As Sammy giggles, his face adorned with the foam, Harry reaches into the drawer and retrieves a cotton bud. He holds it up for Sammy to see.

"Now, this is what y’need to use, little man," Harry explains, his voice gentle and reassuring. "You're t’young for a razor, but y’can pretend with this."

Sammy's eyes widen with wonder as he takes the cotton bud in his small hand, mimicking his father's movements. He touches the foam on his face, his laughter bubbling up once more.

You lean against the door frame, overcome with love and admiration for the beautiful connection unfolding before you. The trust and joy shared between Harry and Sammy create a bond that transcends words.

Harry then retrieves his razor and begins to carefully shave his own face. The rhythmic sound of the blade gliding across his skin fills the air, intermingling with their shared laughter. You capture every precious moment, preserving this extraordinary bond for eternity.

As you watch from the doorway, snapping pictures, you realize the depth of Sammy's admiration for his father. In his innocent eyes, Harry is a superhero, a role model worth emulating. And Harry, with his patient guidance and boundless love, shows Sammy the way.

Another time that you noticed the resemblance and fatherly bond between the two Styles boys was when Sammy was one years old and Harry was twenty five.

With much persuasion you had gone out for the evening with the girls, Harry insisting that you go out and have fun seeing as you hadn’t had a proper night out since Sammy was born.

Harry had been on a few nights out, and insisted that he have the night in with his mini me so you could have the night off and have so well deserved fun.

So, you dolled yourself up to the nines and hit the town with a few of your friends, you didn’t drink much seeding as you were still exclusively breastfeeding, towards the end of the night you ended up drinking a few mock tails.

When you walked into the bedroom that night, that was when you saw Sammy and Harry fast asleep in the super king bed, and like the twins that they were, were both lying in the exact same position.

Laying on their stomachs, one hand above their head, Harry had one hand holding onto his son's waist so he didn’t roll off of the bed, and Sammy had his free hand grasped onto his stuffed bunny teddy named ‘Eddie’ that was gifted to him by his Nana Anne.

September 14th, 2019.

After a long-awaited night out, you quietly enter your bedroom, the tiredness seeping through every inch of your being. Your heels are in your hand, and you clutch your chest, feeling the familiar ache as your breasts need to be pumped. The evening was a well-deserved break from the responsibilities of parenthood, but now you're ready to be back in your sanctuary.

As you step into the room, you're greeted by the heartwarming sight of Harry and your one-year-old son, both lying on their stomachs on the bed. Their arms are stretched above their heads, mirroring each other in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. Harry's hand rests protectively on Sammy's waist, ensuring he doesn't roll off the bed, while Sammy clings tightly to his beloved stuffed bunny teddy, "Eddie."

In that tender moment, you can't help but feel a surge of love and contentment. The exhaustion of the night fades away as you witness the undeniable bond between father and son. It's a sight that fills you with a profound sense of gratitude for the beautiful family you have created.

Reaching for your phone, you quietly snap a picture of the two of them, their peaceful expressions and shared embrace forever preserved in the frame. With a smirk on your face, you send the picture to the family group chat, knowing it will bring a smile to their faces.

But then, as you glance at the photo once more, you can't help but notice that Harry is wearing only his boxers, and Sammy is content in his diaper. A soft chuckle escapes your lips as you realize that their fashion choices are similar even when they snoozing.

In that moment, it hits you: the similarities between Harry and Sammy go far beyond physical appearances. Their quirks and habits, their shared moments of vulnerability and tenderness, all paint a picture of an unbreakable connection.

You tiptoe closer to Sammy's side of the bed, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

Leaning down, you whisper softly, "I love you, my sweet boy," pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Sammy stirs slightly, but his peaceful sleep remains undisturbed.

Next, you turn your attention to Harry, his cheek invitingly close.

With a smile, you press your lips to his cheek, whispering, "I love you," the words laden with the depth of your emotions.

July 17th, 2023.

You snapped out of your daze, thinking about how similar the two loves of your lives were to see the two of them sitting on the sofa next to you.

You were sitting in the corner, blanket around your waist as you watched Sammy and Harry sit next to each other on the sofa, your fiancé had his arm wrapped around his son's shoulders, as the four year old munched on some crisps.

You grew Sammy for just over nine months, and it didn’t look like you had anything to do with it, since the way that Sammy came out looking appearance wise.

It seemed like Harry had a baby with himself.

Sammy adored his father, there was no doubt about it.

You could only hope that your next baby came out looking more like you, but the Styles had strong genes.

Anywho, you’d find out in seven months anyway.

951 notes · View notes

3eyesdivine · 7 days

Text

Reigns’ Girl

Chapter Two : After Class

inspired by the movie Miller’s Girl and song Teacher’s Pet.

warnings ; 18+ only, smut, intimate & heavily erotic scenes, teacher x college student plot, angst, thriller, obsession, drug use

It's been two weeks since I started Mr. Reigns' class, and my desire for him is growing by the minute. I've noticed every little detail about him, from the way he runs his big hand down his long, dark beard when reading, which is accented by little strands of gray hair here and there, to the way he twists and turns the black wedding band on his left hand when he's talking to someone, almost as if he's processing his thoughts before they turn into words.

“See me after class.” I heard a deep, velvety voice murmur near my neck and turned to see Mr. Reigns kneeling over me, his right hand lowering a piece of paper onto my desk with a letter grade scribbled in red. My gaze quickly shifted from his to the large A+ in the corner of my work.

I wasn't given a chance to respond before he sauntered away to put the lesson to an end.

I wish I could have him closer. Body to body and skin to skin. His aroma was comforting, like vanilla with a dash of shea butter.

"Work on your homework for the night please, It's due first thing tomorrow." I heard him call to the class, followed by the sound of students racing and rustling as they grabbed their stuff and left their desks, moving one by one as they hurriedly exited the classroom.

Getting up slowly, I approached Mr. Reigns' desk and rested my palms on it, bending forward and looking up at the guy with an illusion of naivety in my pretty eyes.

His deep brown eyes seared into mine, dark and low. I recognize that gaze anywhere, one filled with desire, want, and sex.

"You're an amazing writer, Lilith. Your paper was the best I’ve read in a while." He praises, extending out his hand to direct attention to a little seated area in his classroom.

It had a cottage core feel about it, with a hint of forest fairy. It held a warm tone to it, with occasional hints of green. It was like a miniature captivating library, with four small shelves mounted on top of each other, each full and organized with both old and modern books. The two of us take seats across from each other, the man adjusting his attire while I let my sight wander over the little space we're in.

“So, Ms. Dumas, your paper.”

My focus shifts to him, and I'm all ears as I straighten up and smile politely.

“Yes. I wasn't very confident in it, but I'm glad you felt so highly of my writing ability.” I conversed while glancing down at my hands, where my fingers danced against one another. A coping mechanism I adopted as a way to handle certain things, in this case, a powerful blush battling to find its way across my cheeks.

“She was quiescent, her voice soft and sweet like nectar. She hummed a tune, the same melody every day at the same time; at this point, it had become an official aubade for the peculiar girl, but only she could purr it in a far more euphonious manner than the original.”

He pauses and takes a breath, as if it was written with such intensity that it nearly strikes the life out of him.

But, he proceeds..

“This was the woman's early morning ritual as she sat in her overgrown garden at a little, old table painted white with a few chips and cracks that only revealed the furniture's age. Atop the table were a pile of books, each of which she had read several times and would continue to do so whilst she couldn't get enough of the art that lay just beyond the hardcovers of each one.”

I was floored.

"You remembered that whole piece?" I questioned. My eyes were probably wide enough that they were popping out of their sockets, and I watched the man smile with a scarlet hue along his cheeks as he turned away for a brief moment before returning my gaze.

"Yeah, that must've been a bit over the top, Ms. Dumas. I apologize. That one paragraph just happened to be what caught my attention the most. I must've read your paper about a dozen times." He admits with a big smile upon his lips, revealing his flawless teeth, without a single one out of shape or disfigured in any way.

This man was downright perfect.

"Your writing is beyond outstanding." He adds.

It felt like this man reached into my chest and gave my heart a small jolt of life; it was racing and thumping so fast that I was a bit frightened I might pass out.

I leaned back against the cushion of the little couch I was sitting on and glanced at the man, my bottom lip trapped between my teeth. "You know, I've read your work too."

Mr. Reigns' eyes reached me faster than light.

"You read my book? Seriously?" He queried, his expression appearing intrigued though he tried to mask it.

I nodded and leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, my dazzling brown eyes piercing into his.

"I would quote every word off the top of my head but it wasn't really a book appropriate enough to be spoken about within school walls." I dared to say, and the man's instant response was to adjust his seated position to the edge of the chair.

We're inches away..

Just a little closer.

"I wrote it about my wife, Ms. Dumas. So, you'd be correct. Nothing in that book is suitable for conversation in this environment.”

He dared to move another inch closer.

Goodness, just a tad more and we’re nearly kissing.

Please.

“Even for the innocent mind of a nineteen-year-old college student." He concluded.

Innocent, my ass.

But, nevertheless, I could feel it. A heavy and overwhelming sense of tension that settled in the air surrounding us. This was undeniable sexual tension.

My thighs gently pushed together as I felt an aching of passion between my legs, a pulse so powerful that I had to suppress a whimper. There's no question he felt it as well, as evidenced by the way he gulped so hard I could hear it and his breathing, which was formerly calm and controlled but had become heavy and unsteady.

"Have a good weekend then, Lilith." He husked, moving away slowly, and I could no longer feel the warmth emanating from his presence.

Thank you for reading! Chapter three will be up hopefully soon, maybe some smut ;) !

In the meantime, send in some requests and if you'd like to be tagged in this series and many more works of mine, don't be afraid to let me know.

79 notes · View notes

ckret2 · 7 months

Text

Chapter 21 of honestly everyone's just sorta used to Bill being the shack's prisoner now (title tbd): Stan & Ford have a birthday party! Bill is not invited. He still manages to find a way to be fiendishly evil.

Also featuring: Wendy deciding what she thinks about "Goldie," the shack's mysterious secret "guest."

####

Mabel slid a piece of paper across the gas station front counter, listing a dozen scratch card serial numbers spread across three different games. "I'd like these numbers in these cards, please!"

The cashier gave the paper a dubious look, then looked at Wendy. "We're not supposed to sell the scratch cards outta order."

"Please?" Wendy asked. "Just a little exception? For us?"

"We really wanna play our lucky numbers," Mabel said. "Plus, I had a vision. In my sleep."

She and Wendy gave him their best big-eyed hopeful pouty looks.

The cashier shrank back. "Well..." He averted his gaze from the adorableness that was Mabel, and sighed. "Just this once. But I don't want to see you two in here with your nonsense again." He started unrolling one of the spools of scratch cards, inspecting the numbers. "These'll be over a hundred dollars."

Wendy winced. "Ooh. Mabel?"

Mabel offered three dollars and a quarter. "That's fine! Can we start with 177 from the beach cards?"

She received the card, depicting a pastel beachy scene next to five miniature bingo boards. She confidently scratched off the card to reveal its winning numbers, pointed at the fourth bingo board where she'd just gotten bingo, and said, "That's $200! Our payout, please."

The cashier took the card, inspected the numbers, and stared at Mabel in amazement. She grinned at him. Wordlessly, he opened his cash register, pulled out several twenties, and offered them over.

"Thank you!" Mabel accepted the money and pointed at the paper. "The rest of our cards, please?"

As they left with eleven scratch cards, Mabel handed Wendy three twenties—"Here! For helping!"—and stuck the rest of the change in her pocket.

"Dude. That was awesome. You were so cool in there, like—" Wendy put on her coolest, most unruffled expression. "'Our payout, please.'"

"That's just the kind of rock star I am." Mabel put the scratch cards in her bike's basket. "Thanks for the help, Wendy!"

"Sure, any time." Especially if she got a surprise $60 out of it. "Heading back to the shack?"

"Yeah! I've gotta finish decorating for the party!" Mabel waved as she took off down the road. "See you then!"

"See you." She guessed that meant she wasn't invited to hang until the party started. Given the touchy situation inside the shack, no surprises there.

She wondered what Goldie had to do with Mabel's interesting trick with the scratch cards. She was sure there was something.

####

Bill leaned into the kitchen. "Hey! How's that cake coming along?"

Mabel stopped arranging dozens of candles in the frosting to point at the door. "Out, Bill! Nobody's getting cake until the party!"

Dipper said, "You don't even deserve a slice."

"Agree to disagree!" Bill said. "But if you don't give me one anyway, I'll annoy you about it for weeks."

"He can have a slice at the party," Mabel said. "The cake's big enough." A couple of overcrowded candles spilled off the edge of the cake. Mabel picked them up and carefully stuck them back in.

Bill fought back a laugh. "Are you sure about all those candles? If you light 'em all up at once, you'll burn off everyone's eyebrows," he said. "But unfortunately, you'd also melt the frosting."

"The frosting's already a mess," Mabel said, peering at the barely-visible HAPPY BIRTHDAY STAN & FORD hidden beneath the forest of candles. "But Soos doesn't have any of those number-shaped candles, so..."

"Roman numerals," Bill said.

"Oooh." Mabel looked at the cake thoughtfully, and started pulling out candles. "How do you make 62?"

"LXII. Fifty-ten-one-one," Bill said, then shot a grin at Dipper—who was glaring at Bill for answering before he could. "Isn't that right, smart guy?"

"Yeah," Dipper grumbled.

"You kids take the credit if they ask about the candles," Bill said. "They'll just get grumpy if they know I had any influence on the decorations."

Mabel carefully tilted the bottom leg of the L just enough to keep the tip out of the frosting, and started smoothing out the rest of the candle-pockmarked surface. "Now I've got enough empty frosting to add some decorations!" Mabel said. "I don't have enough time to draw something complicated. Maybe rainbows?"

Dipper shook his head. "I don't think either of them would be into that."

"Draw gold bars," Bill said.

Mabel blew a raspberry. "That's what you'd want on a cake!"

"No, I'd want me on a cake. Stanley likes gold! Stanford should like gold more, you could help him develop a taste for it."

"No."

Dipper suggested, "Maybe you could draw gambling stuff on Stan's side of the cake? Since they couldn't have their birthday party in Vegas like he wanted." Dipper shot a sideways glance at the reason they had to stay in Gravity Falls. (Bill shrugged. It wasn't like he'd asked the Stan twins to stay in town.) "You could do poker chips or playing cards or—"

"Dice!" Mabel said. "Dipper that's perfect, they both like dice! We can put normal dice on Grunkle Stan's side and nerdy dice on Grunkle Ford's—"

"Oh, that's great! I've got my DD&MD dice bag in the attic!"

"I'll look in the board game closet!"

Dipper and Mabel took off.

Bill waited until he was sure they were gone.

He checked out the kitchen window for witnesses, then picked up a dozen abandoned birthday candles, licked off the frosting, and hid the candles in his hoodie's hood. Too bad they hadn't left a matchbook out, but Bill knew a fun little trick with an empty aluminum can and a tube of toothpaste that would work just fine.

When the kids returned and Mabel stuffed the remaining forty-odd candles back in their box, they never noticed any were missing.

####

Mabel had put herself in charge of the guest list. Which explained why, along with Stan and Ford's actual friends, all Mabel's friends had been invited; as well as—among other people—the mayor ("he's like the Mystery Shack's best customer, Grunkle Stan!"), Shmebulock ("Jeff said Shmebulock stole the Journal 4 you started last fall, I was hoping he might gift it back"), and the Hand Witch and her boyfriend. ("Whaaat, Grunkle Ford you met her TOO?! What a coincidence! Dipper, did you know he met—oh, you did. I didn't read those pages!") It would have been a lot more awkward if not for the fact that the birthday boys were awed and humbled that so many people had attended knowing they were coming to a birthday party for Stan and Ford Pines, and none of the guests had even been bribed.

When Soos and Melody helped Mabel carry out the birthday cake, Ford laughed at the sight of it. "Did you make Roman numerals out of candles? How clever! Stanley, do you know what Roman—"

"Yeah, yeah. I watch the Football Bowl, you know," Stan said. "Honestly, I was expecting this thing to be covered in candles."

"I almost went that route," Mabel said. "But I thought I'd save that kind of firepower for the Fourth of July."

"Hah! That's my girl."

"Happy Birthday" was sung, candles were blown out, and the party lined up to get their cake. Mabel cut a slice, loaded it on a paper plate, then glanced toward the attic window. "I'll be right back! I've gotta use the bathroom. Don't open my presents until I'm back!"

She trotted into the house, taking the cake, a napkin, and a plastic spoon with her.

####

Bill met Mabel at the top of the stairs and scooped the cake out of her hands. "You're my hero, star girl." He carried it halfway back to his window seat, stopped mid-step, and asked, "You got a piece with my name on it?"

"I got the slice with the 'Birt' and took off the extra frosting!"

"Oh," Bill said. "Heh. That's—cute." And he looked so much like he was trying to pretend he wasn't genuinely touched by the gesture, that Mabel didn't have the heart to tell him she'd only thought of it halfway up the stairs.

He flopped back in his usual window seat post—where, Mabel couldn't help but notice, he had a perfect view of the party happening outside without him. She grimaced. "I'm sorry you can't come to the party," she said. "But you did torture and try to murder the birthday boys... and most of the party guests... and left half of them with lingering trauma..."

"Speaking of, how's your therapist doing?"

"Oh, good, she's good. I think she's gonna write a paper about Mabeland."

Bill fell silent, staring out the window. Mabel almost went downstairs—when he said, "You know, I was the only person who gave Stanford a gift on his thirtieth birthday."

Mabel turned back around so fast she almost tripped on the top step. It wasn't often she got a double dose of Bill lore and Grunkle lore. "You were?"

"He didn't make new friends in Oregon and he didn't keep up with his old friends from college. His parents mailed him a gift, but it got here a week late. So I taught him a couple spells to see the stars during the day and keep rain from landing on him, and told him where to be in Portland that afternoon if he wanted to pick up a free cake from a fancy bakery."

"Aww. That was... nice of you." But Mabel had to hesitate before saying it, automatically wondering what Bill's motives had been for giving the gifts and what his motive now was for sharing this.

Bill waved a hand dismissively. "Ahh, they were parlor tricks. They're easy, flashy cantrips that impress humans but don't do any harm," he said. "Not much harm, anyway. That night he told me all about how he was the only human to see his zodiac constellation on his birthday. The genius spent all day staring at the sun so he could see the stars!" He laughed.

But it quickly petered out. "And now I'm personally banned from his birthday party. Funny, huh?"

Maybe Bill was trying to get Mabel to pity him; but she kinda thought he was just pitying himself. She patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Losing friends is tough," she said. She paused. "And that's why we should be nice to them."

Bill cracked up so loudly Mabel half expected the party outside to hear him. "Okay, Glory Unicorn! I've learned today's moral about friendship. Get outta here. See if I ever tell you anything again." But he was grinning as he shooed her off.

####

When Mabel came back cakeless, Dipper gave her a dark look, but said nothing.

"Are we opening gifts yet?" Mabel picked up a box and flung an arm around Dipper's shoulder. "You've gotta open this one first! It's from both of us to both of you!" She waved it at Stan and Ford until they took it together.

Ford pointed at the card that said, "To our Grunkles, from your gniece and gnephew!" "That isn't how you spell niece and nephew?" Stan elbowed him.

"Nope!" Mabel said. "But it's how you abbreviate great-niece and great-nephew."

"Ah, I see! Very creative."

"Nice recovery," Stan muttered. Ford elbowed him back. Together they tore off the wrapping paper and opened their box.

Inside were two more boxes, each small enough to hold in one hand—a square one labeled "Stan" and a long narrow one labeled "Ford."

Stan opened his box and pulled out a thick gold chain with a coin dangling from it. Engraved on the coin in sloppy text were the words "#1 Grunkle."

Soos held up a hand. "I did the engraving! First try."

Mabel pointed at the coin. "We made it out of pirate treasure that we have for reasons that we can't talk about! There's a skull on the back!"

They'd hung it from his favorite gold chain. He'd been missing it for a week—and he'd never even suspected the kids. How about that. Choked up, Stan said, "It's—it's great." He took off the chain he was currently wearing, chucked it into the bushes, and put on his gift. "C'mere, you two." He wrapped his arms around Dipper and Mabel.

Soos held his arms out hopefully. Stan rolled his eyes, but waved him over for a hug too.

Ford opened his box. "A pen?"

Dipper said, "It has an ergonomic grip, can take standard ink refills, writes super smoothly—I tested it out myself—makes a very satisfying click, and it's red with gold trim to match your journals."

Mabel said, "I helped pick out the design!"

"... And that's why it's also sparkly."

"I didn't do the engraving on that one," Soos said. "We had a lotta spare pirate coins but only one pen, so. They got it done at the mall."

Ford rotated the pen in his hand until he spotted the (more professional-looking) engraving on the barrel, filled in with gold. "Mine says #1 Grunkle too?"

Dipper said, "C'mon, we're not gonna choose between you two."

Stan said, "Oh, I see how it is! Trying to butter us both up, are you?" He reached under Dipper's hat to ruffle his hair. Smiling, Ford carefully slid his gift into his coat's breast pocket next to his usual pen.

####

When Bill saw that Mabel was back outside, he got up, left the rest of his cake on the window seat, scooted aside a storage box sitting forgotten in a corner of the attic, and pried a loose board from the wall.

He took his stolen candles out of his hood, wrapped them in the party napkin Mabel had given him, and stashed them in a plastic sandwich bag where he'd already stowed a crushed cider can, its edges torn and sharp.

Then he re-hid the bag, fixed the wall, replaced the storage box, gently brushed some cobwebs over the floor to hide the trail in the dust where he'd scooted the box, and turned away from his hiding spot.

To see a gnome wearing a journal like a backpack.

They stared at each other.

"You didn't see anything," said Bill.

"Shmebulock," said Shmebulock.

Bill eyed Shmebulock, the staircase, the window—and then dropped into a crouch, knees and feet spread apart like a sumo wrestler, teeth bared.

Shmebulock cracked his knuckles.

Five minutes later, Bill added Journal 4 to his hiding spot, with a mental note to find a new hiding spot the gnomes didn't know about later.

Unfortunately, Shmebulock escaped with Bill's cake.

####

Wendy squinted up at the blonde shape in the attic window. "You know—all this last week, I kept thinking I saw someone up there. I just assumed it was my imagination," she said. "Guess Goldie didn't get invited to the birthday party, huh?"

"Nope," Dipper said. "And for good reason."

Wendy laughed. "Yeah, sounds it."

Dipper glanced toward his grunkles. At the moment, Ford was opening a cheap set of watercolor paints and giving Mabel an exasperated look. ("I thought we could try them out together! And hate them together!" "All right, that might be fun.") He lowered his voice and picked at his cake. "So. You found out the big secret, huh?"

"Yup," Wendy said. She lightly punched Dipper's shoulder. "Hey—don't look so glum, man. I'm not mad you didn't tell me. There's some kind of family drama and a missing person case involved. I get it—you don't talk about that kind of stuff outside the family."

"Yeah, hah. Right," Dipper said. "So, what do you think of... Goldie?"

Wendy glanced up at the figure in the window. "We didn't talk a whole bunch before Goldie and Stan started arguing about plagiarism," she said, "but I got that she's some kind of wildcard paranormal investigator who gives off insane grifter energy. And seems really mentally messed up from being trapped in another dimension, but like, the kind of messed up that probably makes you fun at parties?" She was already mentally playing Goldie off of her friend group, trying to figure out how well she'd mesh with them. She seemed like the kind of person who'd be into some harmless trespassing and recreational vandalism. "How old is Goldie? She was working on a Ph.D., so that's what, mid-20s? Mid-20s but actually mid-50s after not aging for thirty years? Honestly, if I just met her on the street I would've thought she was like, 15. She does not look her age." Maybe it was the lack of makeup?

Under his breath, Dipper muttered, "You have no idea." He glanced away from Wendy, stuffed a large forkful of cake in his mouth, and mumbled to himself, "How much should I say? Sharing too much could be dangerous, but if I don't say anything..." Mumble, mumble.

Wendy would never tell Dipper how funny it was that he monologued to himself and hoped nobody would notice. Usually she'd politely ignore him, but if there was something dangerous... She lightly elbowed him. "Dipper. Come on," she said. "I can tell something's eating you. You can trust me."

"Ugh, I know, but..." Dipper glanced again at the rest of the birthday party—just far enough to be out of earshot, currently entranced by some thingamajig Fiddleford had gifted the Stans—and let out a heavy sigh. Voice low, he said, "Okay, Wendy, listen. For your own safety, you need to know that Goldie is way worse than whatever you heard about him last night. And I can't tell you why, because of reasons I also can't tell you—believe me, I wish I could tell you, but—don't trust him, okay?" Dipper gave her an earnest, pleading look. "Just don't. He's dangerous. That's all I can say."

It figured that even after Wendy learned the big secret, she'd just find another, smaller secret hidden underneath. Like a matryoshka doll. (She quietly made note of the "he" and wondered if Goldie had been part of the queer scene in the 80s, or if he'd only figured himself out while he was in ghost land.) "I'm assuming he's dangerous for Weird Spooky Paranormal reasons?"

"Yeah," Dipper said, teeth grit. "Yeah, basically."

He wanted to tell her more, she wanted to know more, and she was ready to play 20 questions on Goldie's backstory. Picking through what she'd learned last night for clues, Wendy asked, "Is it connected to Ford's research? All the weird magic stuff he got into?"

"Um." Dipper shrugged uncertainly. "Y...yeah? But... bigger than that?"

"Is it portal stuff." What was the most dangerous thing she knew of that was connected to the portal. "Is it Bill stuff."

Dipper let out an anguished groan, pulled off his hat, and buried his face in it. "I can't tell you more than I already have!"

"Oh my god it's Bill stuff."

Dipper eloquently said, "MRRGHF."

"Okay got it, so Goldie was some kind of Bill groupie or discovered how to summon him or something. Something like that. I don't need to know the details! But he's totally Bill-adjacent."

"Yeah. Yeah. Yep." Dipper nodded emphatically. "Bill-adjacent is... the best way to describe Goldie."

"But Bill's gone, right? So Goldie's like a cultist without a cult leader. Doesn't that mean he's harmless now?" Wendy asked. "Or do you think he's gonna try to cause the apocalypse in honor of his boss or whatever."

Dipper tugged his hat back on his head and straightened it out. "I'm sure he'd try to end the world again if he could, but... we're all still trying to figure out what he can do."

"So, domestic terrorism risk. Cool," Wendy said. "Y'know, I sorta expected to run into a guy like that in the shack eventually, but I always thought they'd be here because of Stan, not Ford." She rolled her eyes. "I'll warn you if he starts talking about ending the world or anything."

"Thanks, Wendy." Dipper glanced uneasily toward the birthday party. (They were still distracted, currently trying to douse the flamethrower on Fiddleford's birthday gift. It was trying to eliminate the competitor gifts.) "Just... don't tell anybody else, okay? If the town finds out that Goldie is—you know—Bill-adjacent..."

"Relax." She pantomimed zipping her mouth. "I'm not gonna organize an angry mob."

She glanced up at the attic window. Goldie was still up there, staring down at the party. He noticed Wendy staring and made a face at her.

She made the same face back, and saw him silently laughing. Okay, he had bad taste in friends, obviously; but Goldie seemed kinda cool in an unhinged way. From what Wendy had gathered, Bill had conned and then betrayed half the people she knew—and if the Pines had only just managed to get Goldie back on this plane of reality, months after Weirdmageddon, that meant Bill hadn't bothered to rescue him when he could, so Goldie was just another victim. Maybe he just needed to be reintegrated into society.

Dipper said, "Hey, Stan just poured punch on the robot and it made the fire worse. Do you think we should help?"

Wendy looked at the fire—and looked up at the fire. She was moving before she spoke. "Yeah, let's do something about that."

They rejoined the rest of the party, and Wendy put Goldie out of her mind.

####

Ford stared at the ring on his left sixth finger.

Welcome back, the Hand Witch had said.

Thirty years ago, he'd met her at a carnival. She'd told him that he'd chosen the wrong allies and would doom himself for it. She'd given him a ring with a blue cabochon and told him that if it ever turned black, there was no hope for him.

He'd dismissed her as a phony palm reader; and, the night he'd decided Bill was right about Fiddleford not being bold enough to follow through with the portal project, the ring had turned black, and he'd thrown it in the lake.

Now here it was on his finger again.

He didn't think her a phony now. Everything she'd told him had been true. And anyway, it was hard to doubt she had real magic when she spent half the party trying to stop two small disembodied hands from escaping her pockets to visit Mabel.

"Why are you giving this back to me?"

"It's your birthday! And I thought it might be useful."

"For what? Am I in danger?"

"I don't know, I'd have to give you another reading to see." She had pulled a cartomancy deck from her pocket. "Do you want me to?" The card on the bottom of the deck had been a triangle with a snake slithering through its eye socket.

Ford hadn't wanted a reading. He knew now that what he'd called superstition back at that carnival might be a legitimate form of prophecy he simply didn't understand; but he was tired of living his life by signs and portends.

All the same, it was comforting to see that his ring was blue.

Ford's view of the ring was blocked by Stan shoving over the "Get Out Of One Misdemeanor Free" coupon Mayor Cutebiker had given as his birthday gift. "Hey, do you think I'd get in trouble if I made a buncha copies of this?"

Ford took the coupon and inspected it thoughtfully. "If you do get in trouble... a coupon counterfeiting charge couldn't possibly be worse than a misdemeanor, could it?"

"That's what I like to hear!"

It had been a surprisingly long day—and, by far, the best birthday either of them had had in well over forty years. (Was it really that long?) Now they were retired to the parlor Soos and Abuelita had converted into a double guest room, sitting on their beds facing each other as they got ready for sleep.

There was a knock at the door. Ford stood. "Coming—" He opened the door to see Bill's grinning face, a foot from his own. "Oh. You." Ford resisted the urge to step back, in case Bill interpreted as an invitation to come in.

"Hiya, birthday boy!" Bill's gaze immediately drifted down to Ford's coat pocket. "Hey—new pen? I like the sparkle, adds a little pizazz."

"What do you want, Cipher."

"Just to hand this over." Bill pressed a couple of envelopes into Ford's chest, and kept them pinned there with a fingertip until Ford reluctantly took them. "I knew you'd hate getting something from me at your party, so just for you I waited until all the festivities were over. You're welcome."

Ford studied the envelopes. They were two pieces of yellow construction paper that had been folded into envelope shape, and written on each one, in lurching crayon text that drifted up and down, was "Stanford" and "Stanley". "You made cards?"

"You're flattered."

"I most certainly am not."

"'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.'" Bill shrugged. "Hey, they're your birthday gifts. Toss them in the fire if that makes you happiest. You just might wanna open them first—you know, to make sure I didn't write a fire-activated explosion spell on the inside."

Stan grabbed his envelope out of Ford's hand and eyed it in deep suspicion. "And why did you make these?"

"Because it's your birthday. Come on! Why am I explaining this, it's your species's ritual."

"I mean why are you doing it? We all hate each other. We're planning your execution, here," Stan said. "So what's your angle?"

"What do you need my measurements for, you pervert."

"ALL right—" Stan stepped toward Bill, cracking his knuckles, and was only stopped by Ford's hand across his chest.

Bill leaned back against the hallway's opposite wall. "Whoa! Consider this a peace offering! You know—'no hard feelings for all the murder, attempted or planned'! I can be a polite house guest, even if I'm not a voluntary one." Bill smiled wryly, "I'm trapped on an alien planet where I know less than a dozen people and all of them hate me. It gets boring." He looked directly in Ford's eyes. "And we've got history. Is it so hard to believe I might want to be friends again?"

This time, Stan had to put a hand across Ford's chest.

Ford said, "You're up to something."

"Is that a statement or a question?"

"Statement."

"Then you don't want an answer. Enjoy your gifts! Or don't, I'm not your boss." Bill waved, and slunk around the corner back toward the living room.

Ford shut the door. He sat on his bed, examined the envelope, and glanced at Stan, who was sitting on his bed doing the same thing.

They grimaced at each other.

"Okay," Stan said. "Is this more dangerous if we do open it or don't open it?" He hefted his envelope in his hand. "This thing's pretty heavy for just a card."

"Is it?" Ford's wasn't very heavy. He turned on a lamp on a bedside table and held the envelope up in front of it, trying to see through the construction paper. "I think he's counting on us to open these. I doubt he set a trap that will activate if we leave it closed—it's not his style."

"So, what do we think. Some kinda hypnotic mind-control magic that's activated by reading it? Or is he just trying to bribe us into liking him better?"

"He probably doesn't have hypnotic mind-control magic. If he did, why would he have spent so long trying to manipulate humans into doing his bidding?"

"I dunno, maybe he's stupid."

Testily, Ford said, "He's not stupid."

"No—listen, I've been thinking about this for months," Stan said. "You spent thirty years hopping between a zillion different dimension, right? If there's already safe portals out there, why'd he spend so long tricking someone into building a crummy one that'd destroy the universe, instead of using one of those? He's gotta be stupid!"

"I've... wondered the same thing about the portal," Ford admitted grudgingly. "But, no—I've seen him use so many roundabout tricks to manipulate minds that if he were capable of overt mind control, I'm sure he'd have used it by now."

"Fine, so mind control's off the table. But we're probably safer if we leave these alone. If we open them, they might be an annoying attempt to kiss up to us, or they might be dangerous." Stan waved his envelope like a fan. "And, we're gonna open them anyway, because not knowing will kill us, right?"

In his youth, Ford had arrogantly looked down on Pandora. "Of course we're going to open them."

They opened their envelopes.

They both contained a sheet of type paper folded in half with nothing on the front and messages written inside. Ford's read, "Stanford– I'd tell you to go to hell, but you'd barely be there long enough for it to be worth the trip. Happy birthday! –Δέος" Charming. Particularly out of the heel who'd just claimed he wanted to be friends.

"Hey, what is this?" Stan held his letter out for Ford to see: "Stanley– You were only the accomplice. I won't hold a grudge. Happy birthday! –Δέος" Stan pointed at the last word, "Is this some kind of curse?"

"A signature. Bill's real name isn't 'Bill Cipher'—it's just one of many nicknames he uses when communicating with humans. And, when writing to people who know him well, he prefers to sign with that nickname. It's pronounced déos." It meant awe—whether manifested in the form of fear or reverence. And it probably was no coincidence that Bill had picked a word that, to the untrained ear, sounded so much like the Latin deus—god.

Once, long ago, waking up to find his own hand had written a letter signed by "Awe" in a foreign alphabet had filled Ford with awe. Now... well, now it looked a little try-hard, didn't it. "Between you and me, I think Bill likes that signature best because it starts with a triangle." In Bill's handwriting, the delta looked unusually equilateral.

"Really fond of his own face, isn't he," Stan said, digging in the envelope for the rest of his "gift"—and he pulled out a handful of scratch cards. "What the...?"

How the heck had Bill gotten his hands on those? Ford checked to see if his envelope had the same—and came out with five pieces of notebook paper instead, still tattered on the edge from being torn out of a spiral notebook, covered front and back with writing—multiple languages, some inhuman, with a smattering of complex sigils and symbols. The first line on the first page read "Spell to Resurrect Fowl (chicken, turkey, duck, etc.—funny at dinner parties!)" Ford slapped the pages face down on his nightstand without reading the next line.

"What is it?" Stan asked.

"Magic," Ford said, voice flat with irritation.

"A trap—?"

"No. Magic for me. Spells I don't know. The kind of knowledge I'd—document in my journals."

Stan processed that. He tossed his scratch cards down on his own nightstand. "Lemme get this straight," he said. "Less than two weeks since he tried to kill us, with no access to the outside world and no resources at his disposal but his stupid wits—without even getting his hands on a freaking envelope—he somehow managed to get us both thoughtful, considerate gifts that are deeply relevant to our personal interests and passions! Is that about right?"

"It seems to be, yes."

"That jerk! I oughta ring his neck!"

Ford nodded in agreement. "I didn't know you're into scratch cards." He tamped down the urge to lecture Stan on the statistical improbability of making a profit.

"See, if even you didn't know, now I'm even madder that he does!" Stan groaned in frustration. "I kicked the habit. Still like playing 'em if I get them as a gift."

"Hmm." That was all right, then. Couldn't lose money on scratch cards if somebody else had spent the money.

They glared together at their thoughtful, relevant, deeply unwanted gifts, trying to decide what to do about them. Stan was the first to let out a resigned sigh and snatch his up. "What the heck. They're already paid for, I'm not gonna throw away potential free money just because it came from him." He fished around in his discarded pants pockets for a quarter. "But I'm not gonna enjoy myself!" He flipped through the cards, noting they were each labeled in a corner from 1/11 to 11/11, and muttered, "Why'd he draw triangles on some of the numbers?"

Well, if Stan had caved into his curiosity... Back into the box, Pandora, and perhaps we'll find hope at the bottom.

"Mabel must've helped him get these," Stan said. "It's the only way. And these cards have glitter and unicorns all over them." He scratched off his first card, and said, "Hey, three bunny faces—how 'bout that? I made thirty bucks already."

"At least it's not a total waste," Ford muttered, skimming the pages before him.

It was a treasure trove.

A spell to uncook food. The cipher to decrypt the Voynich manuscript. A potion to change eye color. A river stone submerged not five miles away that, when dry, hovered. A ritual involving five hours of meditation and a lot of mushrooms that opened up psychic communication with Earth's nearest alien neighbors. An illusion to make the floor look like lava. ("Good for games if you're very bored and oppressed by gravity.") The names of five hitherto-unknown demon nobles, the sigils to summon and bind them, the fields of knowledge and political influence in which they were most helpful, and a few personal tips on how to best to twist their arms into doing a favor. A complicated way to grind glasses that let one see, depending on prescription strength, anywhere from several seconds to several minutes into the future. And on and on.

And Bill didn't just toss down a few mystical-sounding words and move on: in a few terse sentences after each spell, he hinted at the principles that made them work (freely mixing magic, physics, and metaphysics), the people who'd created or discovered the trick (whether human, inhuman, unearthly, or transdimensional), where Ford could go digging to independently verify the information if he didn't want to take Bill's word for it—and what other, greater things someone might use these tricks to do, if only they fully understood how they worked, if only they had the right teacher. Bill had filled the margins, scribbled extra info in red pen in between the rows of black to double the amount of text he could cram on each line. Ford could fill an entire journal just by copying, disentangling, and expanding on everything Bill had packed into this dense five-page grimoire.

Bill had given Ford more in this letter than he had in all the years he'd been posing as Ford's friend—excluding those accursed portal blueprints. He'd shared the kinds of things Ford had always dreamed his Muse might show him. He gave it away like a free sample to entice a new customer. Five pages of deep secrets meant nothing to Bill and his infinite knowledge. He could have done this all along. He only did it now to try to bribe Ford into sparing his life: see what you could miss out on?

As Ford read the pages, his hands trembled in rage.

"—two hundred dollars, two hundred fifty dollars," Stan muttered. "Those are the biggest yet." He waved the scratch cards at Ford. "I don't understand it! That's eight winners in a row! I've made almost a thousand bucks just by scratching these off—that's not luck! How's he do it? What kinda weird alien magic gives you scratch card telepathy?"

"I don't know. I had no idea he could identify winning scratch cards," Ford said. "But I'm not surprised."

Stan shook his head in amazement, and scratched the next card.

Ford crushed the notepaper pages into a ball.

And he smoothed them back out. Bill was a monster, but this knowledge was precious.

He looked at the Hand Witch's ring like it might tell him the correct course; but no matter which way his thoughts swayed, the gem remained a steady blue.

"This card's a thousand bucks all by itself," Stan said. "I've never won a thousand in my life. There's no way..." He scratched furiously at the last card, revealing symbols patterned after an array of gems and jewelry. "Five hundred!" Scratch scratch scratch— "Times five?! That's—!" He seized up all his cards and quickly tallied his winnings. "That's a total of nearly five thousand dollars!" He let out a disbelieving laugh. "Who needs Vegas? This monster's been better to me than she ever has!"

"Stanley, that's exactly what he wants you to think," Ford snapped. "He's giving us everything we want so we'll be more reluctant to kill him. This is less than chump change to him! Don't forget that his goal—"

"I know! I'm not stupid, I know what he's doing. Lotto numbers aren't worth the safety of the universe. But sh—shoot, Stanford, he handed me five grand for free and I'm keeping it."

"Fine," Ford said. "Fine. I suppose there's no point in throwing it away on principle."

"Darn straight!"

Ford glowered down at his underhanded "gift"—this little glimpse behind the veil into the mysteries of the universe. His whole chest bubbled and burned with rage; but beneath it—twinkling like a lonely star, twinkling like hope at the bottom of Pandora's box—was something he hadn't felt since Bill betrayed him.

Awe.

It was like waking up to a letter from his Muse.

This was who Bill could be—gift-giver, wish-granter, teacher, guide, friend—and he chose not to be. Why?! When this was so easy for him—why did he have to be what he was instead?

This charitable act only made the true Bill look even worse by contrast.

Ford re-smoothed the pages, carefully folded them in half, and stored them back in their construction paper envelope. He'd leave them there until he'd independently researched every one of these spells and ensured they did what Bill said they did and that there weren't any hidden side-effects.

And then he'd see about adding this information to his current journal.

No point throwing it away on principle.

####

(Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, I'd deeply appreciate hearing your thoughts! Thanks!)

#(me drawing Ford: *checks image reference a dozen times for tiny details*)#(me drawing Stan: *scrawls him out without consulting a reference once* Yeah that's grunkle shaped. Post it.)#grunkle stan #grunkle ford #bill cipher #human bill cipher #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #my writing #my art #bill goldilocks cipher

174 notes · View notes

art · 2 years

Photo

Creator Spotlight: @fourbrickstall

I’m a photographer who likes to shoot portraits, acro, and toys. My favorite themes are medieval fantasy, steampunk, and apocalypse. I manage a fan community about LEGO photography called BrickCentral, and I am its LEGO ambassador.

Check out our full interview below!

How did you get your start in photography?

I think I have always really liked looking at things through a lens—I had plenty of microscopes and telescopes growing up—so photography was a natural progression. I started out taking photos of nature, architecture, and travel but really became a photographer in my mind when I learned studio photography. I love creating interesting light on people in particular.

What inspired you to work with LEGO specifically?

Several years ago, a couple of photography blogs I followed featured a 365-day phone photography project by Andrew Whyte about a miniature traveling LEGO photographer. It was the first time I had ever seen toy photography. And LEGO! It had been years since I had ever even looked at LEGO, but it brought back memories of smiley-faced space explorers on lunar bases. I was surprised by how modern LEGO minifigures had become: this LEGO photographer was so urban with a beanie hat on its head and a cute camera in its hand. I immediately wanted to create a little LEGO version of myself, too (called a “sigfig” or signature figure, I later learned.) Around that time, I had my hands full with a toddler and was looking for a way to keep shooting creatively. But I only had space for one bag at a time—a diaper bag or a camera bag—so a phone and a minifig seemed like a fantastic way to keep taking photos.

Once I got my LEGO minifigure in the mail, I started shooting and became instantly hooked. Not only on the photography but on the collecting aspect too. I now have hundreds of minifigures and even more LEGO minifigure parts to create custom characters with. So it was the LEGO that caught my attention right away, but the photography workflow is what sealed the deal for me.

What is your favorite piece of all time? Why?

I really love this photo for lots of reasons. It’s the kind of photographer I want to be: someone who doesn’t let weather or terrain or whatever become an excuse for not doing what they love. I also like that this shot looks like I found this great location in the forest, but the reality is that I shot this on my window sill with just some bark, twigs, and moss that I collected from around Brooklyn. It doesn’t get more metropolitan than NYC, but with just an idea and a few materials, I created a completely different environment. Atmospheric effects are another thing I like to add to my photos, so the “rain” hits the spot. It’s just spray from a water bottle.

From idea to final piece, how long does it take for you to create something?

The great thing about shooting LEGO is that it can be as easy or as complex as you want it to be: from subject to gear, to lighting, to location. As a portrait photographer, shooting an unusual or interesting character is part of the thrill, so I spend about an hour creating one custom minifig from my hundreds of loose parts.

Sometimes I use official LEGO models as a subject or as a background, and these take some time to build, depending on the size of the set. I build my own models and scenes, too—known as My Own Creations (MOCs) in LEGO lingo. These take me forever because I’m not a great MOC builder, and I don’t have thousands of LEGO parts at my disposal. It’s not unusual for MOCs to take days or weeks for me to finish.

This tiny red house on wheels took me about 5 days to build:

This Japanese alley took me a month:

When shooting outdoors, I look for locations that scale well to LEGO minifigs and models and also have beautiful light. I seek out pockets of light through trees to put my subjects in, but I also make sure to have patches of shadow throughout the scene to give it some depth.

I already have some favorite locations, so it’s really just a matter of getting to them or waiting for the right time of day. Indoors, I can get shooting rather quickly at any time of day in my studio nook, which is an alcove I’ve set up with lighting and supports just for my LEGO photography. Having that dedicated space and grip really accelerates getting into a flow state. Negentropy is my friend.

A custom minifig in a MOC photographed in my studio nook is my favorite kind of work to do, but that also takes the longest because of the build time and more complex lighting.

What are 3 things you can’t live without as a creator?

My camera, my lenses, and Lightroom are three things I can’t live without as a creator. I love the whole process of shooting—seeing how different settings and gear change an image—and then taking that image and making it truer to what I feel in post.

What do you wish you knew when you first started out creating content that you know now?

I wish I knew that it’s easier to find your tribe when you figure out who you are as an artist first. I think it’s tempting to try to belong immediately because it’s exciting to find other people who share the same interests as you. But doing that too quickly and investing too deeply can influence your art or trap you in a style that isn’t really you.

What are your file name conventions?

FBT-desc-of-lego-subject.jpg I’m not as organized as I would like to be, but I have my folders set up descriptively and by date in Lightroom. It’s great for managing thousands of photos.

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

I love the DnD artists on Tumblr! I’m so inspired by their beautiful illustrations, character creations, and storytelling. I played a few campaigns with my Dungeon Master brother as a teenager, so I know and love that world. I guess my affinity for custom LEGO characters is rooted in the character creation part of DnD.

My favorite characters these days are artificers and tieflings, so I follow those tags on Tumblr to see all the stunning artwork by the community.

Check out more amazing LEGO photography over at @fourbrickstall!

#creator spotlight #lego #photographers on tumblr #lego community #fourbrickstall

1K notes · View notes

orvcoded · 1 year

Text

what was going on in singshong's mind when they wrote that one scene in N'Gai forest where kdj is being held by vines and he has to miniaturize himself to get out and then 999!yjh, like the absolute gentleman that he is, drapes his lil black coat over kdj's shoulders

#orv #joongdok #kim dokja #yoo joonghyuk #did it actually happen like this or did i dream it im not sure #certainly i KNOW i didnt read this scene in a 🌽 fic

226 notes · View notes

blu3-tea · 8 days

Text

G/t is rotting my brain lol. Here’s a scene that’s been playing in my mind for a while now:

Word count: 1,013

Premise: MC has been transported into a gigantic fantasy world.

………………………………

A deafening muffled yelp shocked my core. My eyelids shot upwards. I sat upright and examined my surroundings. I had somehow ended up in a round glass container, its exterior painted in black. How did I get here? Was I kidnapped?

The last thing I could remember was running into the forest, not paying much attention to where I was running to; what had mattered at that moment was running away. Besides it was the middle of the night and-

As I got to my feet, I had realised that my whole body felt eerily numb. Was I drugged?!

Another female voice replied quickly and gave him a command. Before I could turn around to look for the exit, the force of being taken airborne made me fall to my knees. A gasp escaped my lips.

My mind was clouded with fear. I held my knees close to my chest and my palms planted to the glass floor. Then the compartment landed somewhere on the ground again. The thought of how quickly that flight was disturbed me. Perhaps it is aliens? I had always entertained the idea of meeting aliens but I never actually expected to meet them someday. Am I going to die so early?

I heard the commanding voice once more followed by a gentler female one. The first woman had said something that made her chuckle; the other one didn’t seem to find it funny. I’ll show them how funny I can be! I’ll kick them in their-

The compartment was airborne again. Its whole structure shook tremendously making me wobble from side to side violently. The shaking became increasingly intense as a squeaky noise, louder than any car engine, came from above. I turned my head upwards only to cover my eyes from the intensity of the light. How many hours was I trapped in here? I was bathed in sunlight and squinting my eyes I looked up, hoping that I would see the clear blue sky above. Right then I was enveloped again in darkness as a shadow loomed over me. That had helped me to comfortably open my eyes.

A gigantic eye, taking my whole vision, stared down at me.

A gigantic eye.

Was looking down at me.

It blinked.

I squealed in fear. I covered my head with my arms and bent close to my legs. That can’t be real. No way.

I heard a chuckle, before two huge fingers, almost thrice my size, plucked me from the glass container. I shrieked and wildly kicked my legs in the air, as I was raised high in the air, in front of a giantess’ face.

My mouth dropped and I fell silent. I couldn’t fathom the size of her head. It was colossal. It filled up my whole vision. I could see every, otherwise microscopic, swirl and speck in her emerald eyes, which shone with amusement.

But then something in her demeanour had changed; her face had momentarily lost its smirk and gone blank. She brought me closer to her face. I wanted to kick my legs and squirm between her fingers, but looking down I felt nausea build up in my throat. I could feel her eyes examining me, looking through me, inside me and my heart rate quickened.

She declared something, her eyes still fixed on me, making another woman answer in compliance. I turned to look at the other one. She wore a simple rough-textured dark blue dress with pockets and a white apron. I presumed that she was a housekeeper or something like that. That didn’t really bothered me- what bothered me was her size. She was titanic too. Actually, I had realised that everything around me was titanic.

Just as realisation had struck me a finger pushed my miniature head around with such ease. Her eyes were filled with a childish awe now. The housekeeper responded immediately to her command and briskly left the room. The giantess still stared at me. I wanted so badly to touch the ground again.

The housekeeper returned with a vial which contained a silvery dense liquid in one hand and a teaspoon in the other. They weren’t going to make me drink that, right?

The giantess lowered me to the ground, or the kitchen table, but kept pinching me at the sides with a strong grip between her thumb and forefinger. The other one filled the teaspoon with that silvery liquid and glancing at her employer, I presumed, put it close to my mouth. I could comfortably curl in that thing.

The other woman addressed me as if she was talking to an adorable child and motioned with her free hand to open my mouth. No way am I going to drink some mystery liquid, especially if it’s silvery and from a huge teaspoon. But her grip of me tightened and I let out a groan. Shit, she is strong. She could crush me at any moment. Hesitantly I opened my mouth as wide as I could, letting the cool liquid pour into my mouth. Immediately, a terrible headache struck me. As it enveloped my skull the giantesses watched me silently squirm and gag.

After a couple of seconds the giantess pinching me asked me “Do you have a headache, dear?”

My eyes widened. Whatever I had just drunk, it had a given me the ability to understand their language. I nodded slowly, still registering this change. “Aw, poor little human.” She pampered and stroke my head with the tip of her finger, which was bigger than my head. I flinched and every tendon in my muscles tensed. This is a nightmare. This is a nightmare. You’ll wake up.

“You’re so incredibly adorable.” My stomach churned as she dropped down to eye level with me. The smirk had reappeared on her face. “I’ll go out for a bit. Don’t let her out of your sight.” She directed the housekeeper and finally releasing me, she strode off.

I collapsed to my knees, releasing a heavy breath.

………………………………

Thanks for reading <3

Feedback is appreciated!

#g/t #giant/tiny #g/t community #giant tiny #gianttiny #giants #gt community #gt #g/t writing #sfw g/t #gt prompts #gtauthor #gt writing #gt/tiny #sfw gt

20 notes · View notes

warrioreowynofrohan · 4 months

Text

I want to comment on art in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Jane Eyre, because I think it’s an illustrative comparison.

In both books, the heroines have an interest in and a talent for art. I’m a little bhind on Wildfell Weekly, but in chapter 18, “The Miniature”, we see Huntingdon looking at Helen’s art on several occasions. On all of them, he shows no interest in the art itself or Helen’s thoughts as an artist (as with a scene where he calls her away to look at a Van Dyke pa8nting and she’s actually interested in it, but he cuts off her thoughts as he doesn’t care about it and only wanted to get her alone), but only what the art demonstrates about her feelings for him, which please his ego.

On the first occasion, he is looking through Helen’s drawings, but we get none of his comments on them until he is delighted to find a sketch of him favce on the back of one of them, and some etased but still visible attempts at other sketches of him. He is delighted by this, flaunts his power over Helen by ignoring her for the rest of the evening and flirting with another woman, and then kisses her (a very unacceptable advance on a woman you weren’t married or engaged to to at the time, and one which Helen does not consent to).

The next day, he sees Helen working on a detailed painting of a young girl in a glade of the forest looking up at a pair of nesting turtledoves, a symbol of love.

“Very pretty, i’faith!” said he, after attentively regarding it for a few seconds; “and a very fitting study for a young lady. Spring just opening into summer—morning just approaching noon—girlhood just ripening into womanhood, and hope just verging on fruition. She’s a sweet creature! but why didn’t you make her hair black?” [Helen’s hair is dark.]

“I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have made her blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy.”

“Upon my word—a very Hebe! I should fall in love with her if I hadn’t the artist before me. Sweet innocent! she’s thinking there will come a time when she will be wooed and won like that pretty hen-dove by as fond and fervent a lover; and she’s thinking how pleasant it will be, and how tender and faithful he will find her.”

“And perhaps,” suggested I, “how tender and faithful she shall find him.”

“Perhaps—for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope’s imaginings at such an age.”

Helen gets him to walk the last comment back, but his takeaway from the painting - another assurance that she’s in love with him, and he can use that and rely on it without giving anything in return - is, again, one that satisfies his vanity and sense of power. And immediately after, he takes Helen’s works in progress and looks at them, ignoring her refusal, and laughs at finding a miniature of his portrait she has drawn.

This contrasts with a scene in Jane Eyre where Rochester is looking at Jane’s art: he is not interested in what they say about how she feels about him (this is still early in their acquaintanceship), but in what they say about her and her thoughts.

Rochester looks through her portfolio closely and picks out three, all with rather Gothic subjects and tone (in contrast to the more sentimental tone of Helen’s turtledove painting):

one of a shipswreck in storm, with the arm of a drowned woman, and a cormorant holding a jewelled bracelet that the waves had torn from her wrist

the peak of a grassy hill in wind, with a deep blue twilight sky showing the shoulders and head of the figure of a woman with a star on her brow (Silmarillion fans, imagine fanart of Varda and you’ll get the idea)

An iceberg in polar winter, with the northern lights, and a vast, pale-white head in the sky, half- veiled and representing Death.

Even as a narrator of the book, Jane is diffident, saying the pictures are “nothing wonderful”, but she describes them in great detail, and in answer to Rochester’s question of whether she was happy when she painted them, admits that “to paint them was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known”, and that when she painted them she worked on them from morning to night.

That Rochester focused on these three paintings, which are very different from the calm, composed, and dutiful image Jane projects to the outside world, already says a lot about his understanding of her; he is seeing something in her that almost no one else has noticed. He observes, before she has told him anything, that they took “much time, and some thought.” Jane, despite having loved working on them, says in response to his questions that she is dissatisfied with them: “in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realize.”

Rochester is clearly impressed by both the art and the thoughts, though blunt and not flattering:

“You have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more, probably. You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How could you make them loomk so clear, and yet not at all brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays. And what meaning is that in their solemn depth? And who taught you to paint wind? There is a high gale in that sky, and on that hill-top.”

Huntingdon is interested in Helen’s art only insofar as it reveals her attraction to him and flatters his vanity. Rochester is interested in Jane’s art for what it says about her and her thoughts; she is reserved with most people, and he probably gets a better sense of her personality and character - and shows more interest in it - from that one conversation than anyone else has in Jane’s adult life. His questions are blunt, but she answers them with honesty and emotion, like it’s a relief and pleasure to meet someone who wants to know. She wants the side of her revealed in those paintings to be understood, and he’s the only person she’s met who understands it; that’s central to why they fall in love.

#wildfell weekly #helen graham #huntingdon #the tenant of wildfell hall #jane eyre

50 notes · View notes

smallgodseries · 2 years

Photo

[image description: A witch all in black robes with long flowing skirt and sleeves with the typical pointed hat walks down a winding forest path followed by little black cat. The scene is of a dark watercolor forest but with bright hints of colors. Text reads “Lili & Mimi, small gods of Walkies, 234”]

• • • • •

Some people see her beckoning from the shadows of the trees or the park, or hear the swish of her skirts as she walks down the path, dodging bikers, stepping around potholes, walking with the smooth, unhurried stride of someone who has nowhere specific to be but is going to get there in her own sweet time no matter what.

Some people see the other half of her darting into the bushes or trotting down the sidewalk, tail held high, a banner inviting the bold to new adventure. Some few—some lucky few—see them together.

They have no age. They are young and they are old and they are everywhere between, and they are always together and they are frequently apart, for a walk is a ramble with its manners front and center, and manners slip. No one is sure which is the woman and which the companion, but there are always two of them, the girl and her dog, the teen and her cat, the woman and her miniature horse, or iguana, or bright-winged parrot. Some people say they’ve seen her walking her octopus, or her alligator, or any number of other glorious oddities, and maybe they’re right and maybe they’re wrong, and maybe it doesn’t matter either way.

You can speak to her, if you like. You can ask her questions, and that is where the danger enters her worship. For most, she’s a god of fresh air and light exercise, of being a responsible pet owner and remaining connected to the natural world. But for those who speak to her directly, she can become a way of life. She can become an inducement to wander, a temptation to leave the beaten path behind.

Not all who wander are lost.

But not all are found again, either.

Follow her with caution. She will show you marvelous things, but one day she may show you the last things you will ever see, and you’ll fall with purring in your ears and dead leaves crunching underfoot, and Lili?

Lili will walk on.

324 notes · View notes

theresattrpgforthat · 1 year

Text

THEME: Map-Making Games

This week's games are centred around map-making or city-building games.

The Quiet Year by Avery Alder.

The Quiet Year is a map game. You define the struggles of a community living after the collapse of civilization, and attempt to build something good within their quiet year. Every decision and every action is set against a backdrop of dwindling time and rising concern.

This game uses a deck of cards and a map that the group will communally elaborate upon, picking up characters and elements of the setting to answer questions as the game goes on. You will play through four seasons, and at some point in Winter, the game will suddenly end.

If you like this idea, but would like to play from the perspective of monsters putting their lives back together before the Humans come back, you should try The Deep Forest, by Avery Alder and Mark Diaz Truman.

The Shrike, by sadpress.

It is early evening aboard the airship The Shrike. Far below us, rich pine forests roll past. It is fine flying weather, and the skies around us, for now, are empty. Soon pale miniature cliffs slip away beneath, and now we are over the vast dark sea. The sun's glow on the horizon fades. One by one the stars come out, but they fail to illuminate the waves below. We are hurtling in the quiet darkness. We put on our lanterns. Our voyage has begun.

The Shrike is a game about fantastical voyages aboard a skyship. It's inspired by Avery Alder's The Quiet Year, John Harper's Lady Blackbird, Italo Calvino, Ursula K. Le Guin, and utopian and dystopian fiction. It features four complete adventures (two multiplayer, two for solo play).

Adventures for The Shrike provide a level of detail between traditional game-books and oracle-based games such as The Quiet Year. You'll encounter people, places, and other prompts, but you'll also have the flexibility to build your own world and tell your own stories.

If you are interested in this game, you might also be interested in The Shrike Voyage Generator (which is still in alpha!

Cul-de-sac, by Clint Smith.

Cul-de-sac is a neighbourhood-building RPG exploring the connections, or lack thereof, between people living in close proximity. Players collaboratively create the occupants of a neighbourhood, what their lives are like, and what secrets they hold.

This game uses Tarot cards, with the Minor Arcana representing the everyday occurrences of the neighbourhood, while the Major Arcana represents significant events. The Neighbourhood centres on the families of the neighbourhood, and you will spend 12 turns exploring the personalities of the Cul-de-sac. Each turn has two phases: the Day Phase and the Night Phase. The Day Phase tells us about new events; the Night Phase tells us about the cult-de-sac’s personalities.

This game is a very interpretive game; it’s also simple and pay-what-you-want. It’s inspired by games such as the Quiet Year, and I’m sorry did you say street magic, which, as you might have guessed, have had a big impact on map-making games in the indie scene.

The Station, by pidj

The Station is a GMless worldbuilding game where players take turn answering prompts about a train, a station and the people. The Station explores how places shape people and people shape places in the vein of i'm sorry did you say street magic by Caro Asercion and The Quiet Year, by Avery Alder.

The Station uses no dice. It uses playing cards, paper (such as index cards) and points. The game is A6, fully illustrated and laid-out, and is 16 pages long. Play time is adjusted by setting the number of Train Progress cards required to begin resolution or by changing the size of the deck. Draw cards and answer questions to build a world. The prompts are genre-agnostic and you will have plenty of opportunities to ask your own questions of the table. When your time is up, collaborate to bring the game to a close in a bitter-sweet resolution. Spend points to resolve the stories of some of the characters you have collaborated on and bring your time together to a close.

If you like the quiet everyday magic of Studio Ghibli movies, this might be the game for you. The artwork carries a mix of whims and mundanity, and the game is set up so that everyone has some level of creative control.

What the Water Gave Us by JordannaGeorge

What the Water Gave Us is collaborative storytelling game about strange things that come out of the water, and how the community deals with it.

This game also uses a deck of cards, and players will take turns drawing cards and answering questions about what exactly is coming out of the water - and whether or not it turns out to be a blessing or a curse. The game plays out over the course of a four seasons, with the option to continue playing after the first year if you feel like you haven't fully fleshed out the narrative yet. It's simple to set up, with an easy oracle to get you started. If you're looking to tell a story specifically about seaside or lakeside towns, or if you like stories about the mysterious and unknown, this might be the game for you.

Questlandia (Second Edition) by turtlebun.

In Questlandia, you and your friends will invent a world from scratch. It might be fantastic or bizarre, from a remembered past or imagined future. You’ll paint a picture of your society and its people, their laws and customs, how they live and how they dream.

But your society is failing.

As you play, your characters will attempt to find beauty and purpose amidst the chaos of a changing world.

Questlandia is a tabletop roleplaying game that creates fantastical worlds in states of change. It may be medieval fantasy in a ghost-haunted kingdom, neo-noir in a roboticized undercity, or microscopic slipstream suburbia in a puddle.

The concept of Questlandia is beautiful and enchanting, and it lends itself to new and exciting worlds in which you can play using the same system, or re-visit with a game of your choice. The second edition uses a deck of cards as well as d6s: cards to build the world, d6's to explore the conflict that is befalling your beloved world.

The first edition of Questlandia is $2 cheaper, and can be found here.

An Altogether Different River by ehronlime.

It has been some time since you’ve left home, but now it’s finally time to return. To what, though?

The home you held in your mind, and the home you will encounter will not be the same. You are not the same.You can’t step into the same river twice. You can’t go home again.

This is a GM-less roleplaying game meant for 2 to 4 players and a single session of about 3-4 hours. It is inspired in parts by Downfall, by Caroline Hobbs and Microscope, by Ben Robbins. It is about a Town, the people who have left it and returned, and the people who stayed behind.

This is a game that is just as much about a town as it is about the people who live in it. It explores themes of change and growth, and the feeling you get when you go back to a town that isn't really home anymore. At the end of the game, you'll likely have questions unanswered, so if you like finishing games with a bit of bittersweetness, you might want to try this one out.

An archipelago-based fishing town, separated by its various islands, gathers annually to celebrate the turn of the harvest.

A collective of magical artists embarks on an ambitious project: a guerrilla public transit system powered by enchanted street art.

In a sprawling metropolis decades from now, breakthroughs in biotechnology offer citizens superpowers far beyond mortal ability.

This city that we call home has a magic all its own. It is wonder, and joy, and spirit — and with that spirit, we breathe life into our city together.

i'm sorry did you say street magic is a GMless city-building story game for two to six players, that runs three or more hours. Discover and imagine a city filled with life and vivid detail, packed with a myriad of neighborhoods, landmarks, and residents. Discover their true names, and the ways that they intersect—then set events in motion that will change or alter their relationships.

This is an enchanting game, with the breadth you need for any city, whether it be fantastical, futuristic, or modern-day. You can mix and match with different themes, and each player has a chance to imbue the city with their own personal touch. At the end of every round, one player instigates an event that will certainly stir up excitement, but wil usually won't be resolved by the time the game is over. If you're looking at establishing a setting for a game with distinct city sectors and characters that act as emblems for a larger neighbourhood, if you want a game that hands a series of story hooks over to the GM by the time you've finished, this is absolutely the game for you.

The author has also written a supplement that you can use to generate true names if you want some inspiration. It is called there are names more powerful here than our own.

#indie ttrpg #ttrpg maps #city builder #dnd #tabletop games #game recommendations

173 notes · View notes

dialovers-translations · 9 months

Text

Diabolik Lovers CHAOS LINEAGE ー Subaru [12]

Monologue

ーー Our encounter with Socrates.

I cannot remember,

how or where Subaru-kun and myself wandered to afterwards.

Unless somebody willingly gives up their own life,

we cannot leave this miniature World.

Confronted with this unreasonably heavy truth,

every step we took felt like a challenge,

as we lacked even the strength to speak.

What on earth,

were we supposed to do?

How exactly is that spherical entity,

who goes by the name of Socrates,

have the heart to do something so utterly cruel?

What does that guy gain,

from our suffering?

A bunch of questions which I cannot answer,

pop in my head one after the other.

ー The scene starts in the forest

Yui: ( I feel heavy-hearted...Right when I thought we had finally found a way to go back, it turns out to be something so unreasonable. )

Subaru: Say.

Yui: Hm? What’s wrong?

Subaru: What do you want to do once we go back to our own World?

Yui: Eh? Why would you ask all of a sudden?

Subaru: It’s not like we’ll get anywhere by only thinkin’ negatively, right? That’s why, you know...

Yui: ( I see. He’s trying whatever he can to cheer me up, isn’t he? )

Fufufu.

Subaru: Whatcha laughin’ for!? I’m trying my best for you here...!

Yui: Yeah, I know. I’m sorry for laughing!

I’m not trying to make fun of you or anything, I’m just really happy about it, fufu.

Subaru: Are you sure you aren’t makin’ fun of me after all? I’m serious, you know?

But well, guess it’s fine. I don’t care as long as you smile.

Yui: Subaru-kun...

Subaru:

Yui: ( ...? I wonder why he came to a halt all of a sudden? )

Subaru-kun...?

Subaru: ...So they’re here.

Yui: ...Eh?

( They came? Don’t tell me... )

Carla: ...So this is where you’ve been. Foolish traitors.

Yui: Carla-san...

Azusa: I think it’d be in your best interest, to do as we say...

Kou: Exactly. You might get hurt if you put up too much of a fight.

Laito: I’m sure both of you realize that this isn’t the kind of situation where we’d hold back just because we’re family?

Yui: ( The Violet family has got us surrounded!? What now? We’ve got nowhere to run! )

Subaru: Hah! Took you guys long enough. Were you too scared of me to do anythin’?

Carla: Get off your high horse. We simply observed you first to see how you would act.

Subaru: So you purposely let us run free.

Carla: As a result, I was able to witness something very fascinating. Seems like your attempted alliance with the Scarlet House ended in a tragedy.

Subaru: ...!

Carla: Exactly. We were obviously watching. However, we are still lacking information.

Such as what exactly you did while you were alone with Eve, or which things you talked about.

I believe it is necessary to hear about that in full detail.

Subaru: You make me gag. What for, exactly? Do you get a kick out of it?

Carla: To find a clue to become Supreme Overlord, obviously. I simply cannot afford overseeing even the slightest change.

You have no place to run. If you understand that, hand her over.

Subaru: ...Che.

Yui: ( Oh no...At this rate... )

Selection

→ Let’s power our way through (🖤)

Yui: Subaru-kun, I don’t want to get caught. So how about we just risk it all and try to make a run for it?

Subaru: Don’t be stupid. If we try to do that under these circumstances, we’d get caught in no time and then it’d be game over.

I’m pretty sure you’ll be at Carla’s mercy and I’ll get killed for rebelling ‘gainst them.

Yui: Right...

→ Let’s do as they say (♡)

Yui: Subaru-kun, it might be best to do as they say.

Even if he catches us, we might find another opportunity to run...

Subaru: ...It’s Carla we’re talking about.

Once he has gotten his hands on you once, I’m pretty sure he’ll lock you up in the prison basement for the rest of your life so you’ll never see the light of day again.

...But if I can play my cards right, I might be able to save you from such a fate at least.

Yui: Eh? What do you mean?

Subaru: Don’t worry ‘bout anythin’. Just leave it to me.

Yui: Subaru-kun...? What are you thinking?

Subaru: Don’t resist, no matter what? I promise that I’ll keep you safe, no matter what I have to do.

Yui: W-Wait! Don’t be rash!

( Don’t tell me he’s thinking of a sacrificing himself...! )

Subaru: Oi, Carla! I’ll let myself get captured, as you want.

Carla: Heh. That is some big talk for a rat driven in a corner.

Subaru: But I do have one condition. I want you to treat her...to treat Eve with care.

Don’t lock her up in a prison cell like you did before.

But give her a proper room and provide her with daily meals.

Give her some freedom as well. I want you to give her the happiness she needs as a human.

Yui: ( Subaru-kun, for my sake...! )

Subaru: If you promise to do that, I’ll surrender. You can do with me as you please.

I don’t mind if you want to torture me to death. Or give me an official punishment as a traitor, I’ll accept that as well.

Carla: ...

Subaru: Oi, what do you say?

Carla: I understand your resolve. Out of respect for your feelings, I shall promise to take good care of Eve.

Subaru: I see.

Yui: But then Subaru-kun will...!

Subaru: Didn’t I tell you that I’m fine? I just want to protect you, no matter what it takes.

Carla: I believe you might be misunderstanding something, as I do not intend to kill Subaru.

Yui: Eh?

Subaru: Hah?

Carla: I believe I made myself very clear from the start, that I want to hear what happened between the two of you while you were on the run.

I will not be able to do so if I kill him.

Carla: Therefore, as long as you surrender, I will treat you decently well.

Subaru: T-The fuck...? Then my whole offer was for nothing?

Carla: No, it did have significance. I was able to hear how formidable my younger brother’s resolve is.

I am glad I do not have to kill you. This world nearly lost a very valuable man.

Subaru: Carla...

Yui: ( Carla-san seems kind of happy. He usually comes off as cold, but he’s actually the type of person to value his family. )

( Seems like Subaru-kun has picked up on that as well. Honestly, these two might be a surprisingly good match. )

Carla: That is enough chit-chat for now. Azusa, Kou, Laito. Seize the two of them and take them back to our manor.

Azusa: ...Okay.

Laito: Roger~

Kou: Ready, you guys? We’ll tie you up now?

Yui: Uhm, Subaru-kun. Thanks for earlier. For trying to sacrifice yourself to save me.

Subaru: Hm? Yeah...

Yui: ( Seems like he’s got something on his mind. Could it be that there’s still something else worrying him? )

ー The scene shifts to the prison cell

Carla: You will have to stay down here for a while.

*Rustle*

Subaru: ...Che.

I’m gettin’ this sorta treatment in the end, huh? What happened to your admiration for me from earlier?

Carla: Those two things are completely unrelated.

It does not change from the fact that you betrayed our family by trying to claim Eve as your own.

I shall not allow you to ever meet her again.

Subaru: Hah! As to be expected of Mr. Founder over here. You’re not takin’ any risks.

Carla: Well then, there are a few things I would like to ask you.

Subaru: Did you discover the secrets behind Eve and the Supreme Overlord?

Subaru: ...

Carla: The silent treatment, huh? I suppose that is fine. I shall take my time to drag it out of you.

Kou, Laito. I shall interrogate him again tomorrow morning. I want the two of you to watch over him until then.

Laito: What a pain~ How long will this last?

Kou: Until Subaru-kun tells him everything about Eve, right? I guess that’ll make our lives easier.

Laito: Right. Well then, Subaru-kun, please tell him everything you know already. Do it for us.

Subaru: You fuckers really need to buzz off.

...Hey, what happened to her?

Laito: Her? ...Aah, you mean Eve?

Kou: Don’t worry. Azusa-kun’s in charge of looking over her, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.

Subaru: ...

( I guess Azusa is way better than these two in terms of people to watch over her. )

( I can’t imagine he’d try to assault her against her will. )

( I promise that I’ll definitely keep you safe. Even if it costs me my life... )

ー The scene shifts to a free room in the Violet Manor

Azusa: You can use this room again...

Yui: Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks for escorting me.

Azusa: You’re welcome...Please ask me anything if there’s something else you need?

Yui: Anything? Uhm, well then, where is Subaru-kun?

( The two of us were separated as soon as we arrived at the manor. )

( Even if it might be difficult to go see him, I want to know where he’s staying at least. )

Azusa: Subaru probably got put in prison, I believe...The one where you stayed when you first got here.

Yui: I see.

( Subaru-kun...I just hope he’s not being hurt. )

( He seemed shaken up by what Socrates-san told us as well, so I’m sure he’s got a lot on his mind right now. )

( I can’t believe I can’t be with him at a time like this... )

...Haah.

Azusa: What’s wrong, Eve...?

Yui: Ah, my bad! I can’t believe I sighed.

It’s just, I’m worried about Subaru-kun...

Azusa: About Subaru...?

Yui: He’s severely injured, and I believe he’s emotionally exhausted on top of that.

When I think that he has to endure all of that by himself, it pains me as well.

I’m terribly worried about him...

Azusa: I see...

Yui: ( I know Carla-san and the others told me to stay put but...I can’t help but want to see him. )

( Perhaps I could try asking Azusa-kun...? )

Hey, I’ve got something to ask you. Can’t you arrange for the two of us to meet somehow?

I want to see his face. I want to know how he’s doing right now...

Azusa: ...

Yui: I know that I’m being unreasonable. But, Iーー

Azusa: Sure...

Yui: Eh!?

Azusa: You want to see him, right...? Sure, I’ll let...the two of you meet...

Yui: Really...?

Azusa: Yeah...We have to make sure that nobody sees us, okay...? Or I’ll get scolded as well...

*Thud*

Azusa: Come on, this way...

ー The two of them sneak out

Monologue

My eyes widened with surprise,

as I watched Azusa-kun silently open the door.

I wonder if he is being serious?

Can I trust him?

I recall what had happened,

at the Scarlet Manor.

As well as the welcome party at the Violet Manor.

Whenever someone was nice to us, they always had an ulterior motive.

The pain of being betrayed by someone,

feels like thorns stabbing you right in the heart.

What if I get betrayed again?

This fear is what makes it difficult for me to step forward.

However, even if I stand still now,

it won’t change anything.

...For Subaru-kun’s sake,

I mustered up my courage.

And I walked ahead.

ーー TO BE CONTINUED ーー

#diabolik lovers #dialovers #subaru sakamaki #chaos lineage #diabolik lovers translation #clsubaru12

30 notes · View notes

bleepity-blooper · 1 year

Text

The humans living in the warriors universe must have been so goddamn confused all the time, and possibly slightly creeped out.

Like imagine living near BloodClan camp grounds, you stop to pet a cat only to realise it has actual teeth and claws embedded in its collar. You’re going out for a walk and accidentally stumble upon a cat mafia gathering in the alleyway. Not to mention that scene when they were all rushing into battle with the forest cats, as a human you would have seen dozens of cats just charging through the suburbs.

And when the old forest was being destroyed, imagine being the human who discovered graveyards filled with hundreds upon hundreds of cat skeletons, that were given proper burials. Imagine stumbling upon old medicine cat dens and seeing a bunch of herbs neatly stacked on shelves like a miniature pharmacy. I would be seriously freaked out.

And also their territories sometimes shared borders with camping grounds, imagine going for a walk in the woods and you accidentally stumble upon a battle scene where a bunch of cats are just tearing each other apart. Imagine accidentally stumbling upon Tigerstar’s bone pile. I bet there were local legends that those forests were haunted.

#erin hunter warriors #warrior cat #warrior cats #riverclan #shadowclan #thunderclan #windclan

60 notes · View notes

robsheridan · 1 year

Text

Scenes from the Christmas movie of my dreams, the 1985 dark fantasy classic, WORLD WITHOUT CHRISTMAS. The film follows young Holly, who lives in a version of our world where Christmas never existed. The New York City she calls home is bleak and gray, people are stiff and cold, and even in December there are no decorations, no lights, no toys, and no joy. It is normal for everyone in this world, but for Holly it has never felt right. One particularly cold December, a mysterious package arrives for Holly, containing a shimmering treasure unlike anything she has ever seen: An ornate snowglobe with a beautiful miniature kingdom inside. The wondrous toy fills Holly with imagination, and seems to prove what she has always felt: That things are not right in this world - that something is missing. She drifts off to sleep that night, staring into that tiny world, and for the first time in her life, she has a dream. Or is it? Holly awakens in a mysterious frozen land that looks like the one in her snowglobe, but deserted and in ruins, as if a once majestic kingdom had been destroyed a thousand years ago.

In her journey to find a way home in this surreal, desolate world, Holly will encounter strange creatures, dangerous landscapes, ancient magic, and clues about a man known as “Claus,” whose magic once powered the realm until his mysterious death ages ago. A colorful cast of characters will help and hinder Holly on her quest, from a friendly snow dragon to the shadowy dark elves of the Icicle Forests, the sly Jack Frost in his parlor of tricks, and the feared Ice Queen who has claimed rule over the Candy Cane Kingdom. Holly’s destiny lies in the far north, across the frozen seas, where ancient whispers suggest perhaps this “Claus” is still alive, and is the only hope Holly has for returning home… and saving Christmas.

This film doesn’t exist, but doesn’t it feel like it should? I created this concept, using AI to visualize a film from my imagination in the spirit of movies that inspired my imagination like The Never-ending Story, Labyrinth, Return To Oz, etc. It’s been a blast to play in a sandbox of my own nostalgia. Maybe some day I'll make it real...

#rob sheridan #world without christmas #alternate history #ai art #ai artist #midjourney #80s fantasy #80s movies #christmas #christmas movies

108 notes · View notes

whatavery · 7 months

Text

Late Summer Lullaby (Lucaby)

A short story written as part of an art trade with @blogplutocrat featuring Lola de Luca and Rocky Rickaby. This was written as a short companion piece to her Lucaby comic, set during the transition between summer and autumn, inspired by an old, Danish lullaby Sensommervise. Hence the title. Anyhow, hope you Lucaby fans like this one!

___

In the glow of the midday sun, the yellowing leaves on the trees almost looked like tongues of fire, dancing off the branches as they swayed in the wind. As Lola plucked steel strings, the clear, bright tunes emanated from the resonating chamber inside her trusty, white six-string. Each note rang out into the still warm autumn air.

A few people were out and about today, though not many were paying attention to the golden feline with the white guitar. And she liked it that way. She was seated on the grass of Forest Park where she could overlook the nearby lake.

Eyes closed, Lola’s left hand traveled up and down along the neck of the guitar, fingers gripping the fret board as she plucked with the fingers on her right hand. She was so used to playing, she didn’t even need to look to know where she was gripping by now. It was all muscle memory at this point.

She was playing an old-world tune, one of the ones she’d learned to play when she was younger. However, now she had the skill to pluck more than one string at a time. Utilizing all her fingers, Lola could work four strings at once or in rapid succession, the deeper bass strings complimenting the higher ones beautifully.

Clad in a thin, pastel green summer dress, Lola had taken to sitting on her brown jacket, using it as a makeshift blanket. Autumn was here, though it was still early. The sun still beamed down upon St. Louis enough to make it warm enough to go outside without warm clothes. The lawn was still vibrantly green, blades of grass swaying in the breeze, like a miniature ocean with tiny waves.

Opening her bright blue eyes, Lola took in the beautiful idyllic scene before her; Forest Park in autumn was as picture perfect as an illustration in an old fairytale book. As she played, a rose-tinted scene unfolded before her eyes, as vivid as any dream she might have at night. Lola’s fingers never stopped playing as she beheld a little girl and a little boy standing on the bridge that crossed the lake.

Though no boats sailed on the lake in the present, Lola pictured those as well. She could picture them from memory, see them floating on by, rowed by couples, while the kids above watched them. The gray tabby boy was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and a pair of blue denim pants held up by suspenders. Even these many years later, Lola could clearly picture the broken seams along the sides of his pants legs. She could similarly picture the wear and tear to the knees from many hours of being outside, running wild, tumbling and crawling around. The little girl, she wore a frilly, little summer dress, white as the clouds that floated overhead. Well, safe for those unsightly grass stains around her knees. Oh, her nonna was not going to like that one bit…

“Oh, look, look – down there!” Lola smiled as she pictured the two of them leaving the bridge, hurrying down to the water’s edge. She could see the boy’s bare, gray- and beige-furred feet sinking into the soft ground where water plants were sprouting. Lola remembered how many insects were around on that day. Dragonflies were patrolling, mosquitoes were lazily bobbing along in the air and water striders were skating across the surface of the lake.

“Rocky, what are you doing?” the little girl called to the gray tabby as he peered out into the water.

“Look, you see that fish? The one right there? Bet you I can grab it!” Present-day Lola chuckled as a cool stray breeze reminded her of getting splashed as Rocky lunged forward, reaching for the fish, but accidentally submerging himself in the process. And of course, doing so without managing to catch the fish with his tiny hands.

“Awww, rats… that would’ve made an excellent meal too,” those had been the words Rocky had sputtered out once he got himself back on dry land. His gray, striped fur clung to his lean form, as did his soaked clothes. The golden-furred little girl giggled as she looked at her drenched friend. Their blue eyes met and they laughed together, leaving the lake behind.

Lola came to a halt with her song, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, those deep blue eyes settled on the very lawn in front of the St. Louis Art Museum. The very same lawn where Rocky had spent his time drying off with her under the intense summer sun, while they were gazing at what few clouds were in the sky.

As Lola put her guitar down by her side, the golden cornicello attached to her guitar dangled to and fro, glimmering in the sunlight like a spark. Leaning back, Lola placed her bright golden hands down into the soft grass, each blade bending under her weight. She cast her blue gaze upwards at the equally blue sky, watching the clouds above, just as she and Rocky had on that day.

She tried to think back on it, tried to imagine what a ten year old Rocky might have to say about the clouds she could see now. Large, fluffy shapes that floated high above her… One looked almost like a bird with a wide, seemingly flat form in a very… very vague wing-like silhouette. Maybe it was more of a kite-shape…

Lola imagined Rocky might call it pancake shaped. That’s what he did for all the clouds that had shapes that were too vague back then. She chuckled. Even if they weren’t round, he’d try and describe what might have happened to them; one could have been dropped on the floor, another chewed on, another cut to pieces.

Somehow, it always came back to pancakes with Rocky.

Stretching her back, Lola tossed her voluminous, golden locks around slightly, getting them out of her face. Another stray breeze caught her hair, the wind current streaming through each strand of it like an invisible comb. It was such a pleasant feeling, especially paired with the wind gracing her bright, furred face. It carried a faint scent of ripe berries from somewhere within the park, the kind she and Rocky might have picked back in the day. Oh, she’d shared many a summer around here, both with and without Rocky. Her most vivid memories always seemed to center around the energetic, gray tabby, however.

She reached for her guitar yet again.

Lola resumed her melancholic plucking as she remembered other summers with her childhood friend. As was sometimes the case, this childhood friendship had lasted into their teens – lasted and grown.

It was also here in Forest Park that they’d shared more adolescent memories together. Walking together along the lake shore, they’d even been among the couples that sailed in the small rowing boats here. As Lola’s blue eyes looked back at the lake, she could remember one time in particular…

Rocky sailing her across the lake during an afternoon, the sun low in the sky, the fireflies out and about, frogs singing; it was the perfect romantic scene, especially for two teens who still had their own sort of idealized version of romance in mind.

Rocky had always had a flair for the dramatic, for theatrics and for poetry. Lola could effortlessly picture herself in a boat, seated in front, facing Rocky who insisted on standing up, using the paddle as if he were steering a gondola. It was something Rocky had seemed to insist on, given Lola’s Italian heritage, even if it wasn’t quite the ideal type of boat or paddle for it. But who was Lola to deny her boyfriend’s efforts to impress her?

And of course, no such boat ride would be complete without Rocky reciting poetry at her. And although the ride was slightly bumpy, at the very least Rocky hadn’t taken a dive in the lake on that night.

Just as the rose-tinted mental image of the two in a boat faded, so did the music from Lola’s guitar. She released the fret board as she felt her throat tighten slightly as she pictured her memory being torn up by the wind and made to dissolve in the air. Lola watched as the wind drew patterns on the surface of the dark water, like a rippling blanket where she had envisioned her and Rocky in a boat.

Her time with Rocky was the happiest time Lola could recall, but they hadn’t been together for long before he left town – and by extension left her. She hadn’t known what was happening at the time, nor had Rocky explained anything to Lola before he’d essentially disappeared.

When he first left, it almost felt like a betrayal, even if he had told her he was going to. The reality of not having him around had hit her rather hard. He was a manic sort of presence that made her life brighter, more exciting. Not many would put up with Rocky’s antics, but Lola had. She’d stuck it out and gladly stuck with him through it all. At least until he left.

Though Lola had no way of contacting him, she had received his letters. He’d sent her pictures, drawings, recollections, even what seemed like diary entries. Lola hadn’t know how hard things were for Rocky at the time.

The letters she received were a reminder that he hadn’t forgotten her, a reassuring thought, even if she herself had no way of reaching him. She had received very few letters that were sent from the same location; Rocky had seemingly been constantly on the move. Every last letter from him was kept in a special box, which she had hidden away under her bed; her father had never been too fond of Rocky, to put it mildly. When Lola and Rocky were little, he used to excuse his unorthodox tendencies as being a byproduct of his age. As Rocky and Lola got older and started dating, however, things got… complicated.

Though Rocky certainly matured, like Lola and their peers, he didn’t outgrow many of his habits that Lola’s father had overlooked when he was younger. He might have even found them amusing at one point. However, when Rocky seemed like he’d never lose that manic, unpredictable edge, it was more often than not too much for Lola’s father to stomach. She and Rocky spent much time away from the de Luca home – far easier to get away with seeing Rocky that way.

Though Rocky did turn out to be rather harmless, at least as far as most fathers were concerned, it never changed Lola’s father’s mind about the young tabby. He did seem to take great pleasure in loudly discussing Rocky flaws at the dinner table when it was just him, Lola and Lola’s nonna around. He’d used quite colorful language, both in English and Italian to describe “that Rickaby boy.” As mean-spirited as much of her father’s commentary had been, Lola never dared speak up to defend Rocky. However, saying that Rocky had “spaghetti arms” was one of the few things he’d said that she had told Rocky about. The term had since become somewhat of an inside joke between the two. They had laughed about that many a time.

Bringing the memories to an end with a single strum of her guitar, Lola let the open chord ring out till it faded, carried away by the breeze. Looking up at the sky, Lola once more gazed upon the clouds, before she got to her feet. Right hand firmly holding her trusty six-string, Lola’s free hand reached for her jacket, draping it over her left shoulder, like a cloak.

She cast one last look at the dark lake water, before she turned to walk along the park towards the exit. She’d best get home and get ready for tonight. She had a gig to attend.

The golden-furred feline’s fluffy tail swayed behind her as the wind picked up ever so slightly. It was still a gentle caress for now, but Lola had a feeling a storm might be blowing in. The brown jacket she had draped around her billowed slightly as she walked. It wasn't unlike her lonely walks after Rocky’s departure, except a gentle autumn breeze like the ones she felt now would have felt like a cold monsoon to her back then. The world had seemed so dull, lonely, quiet.

She had forgiven him, especially now that he was back and she knew why he left. But a decade ago, suddenly losing him had hurt her badly. She’d take lonely walks in Forest Park, reminiscing, trying to feel close to Rocky, despite him being many miles away. The memories they’d made together remained so vivid and clear to her, and Lola knew that Rocky too remembered them fondly.

Lola also knew she ought to bring Rocky along next time she visited the park; it likely wouldn’t be long until it’d be too cold for a little picnic. A picnic did sound good; her, Rocky, an obscene amount of pancakes, watermelon… Just the thought made Lola’s mouth water, but she did her best to push the thought from her mind. She ought to enjoy more watermelon soon, while they were still available to her…

Stepping through the gates to Forest Park felt like crossing over into a different realm. Leaving the green grass, the golden leaves and the beautiful flowers, Lola stepped into a monochromatic world of cobblestone, bricks and concrete. The earthy tones of her brown jacket and pastel green dress stuck out here, like a random tree sprouting out of the sidewalk.

The scent of the city likewise wasn’t one she was as fond of. Especially when compared to the scent of flowers, nature and ripe berries that the wind carried in the park.

It was also as if noise was much more prevalent here; cars driving to and fro on the road and people on the sidewalk seemed more talkative and noisy than in the park. Lola walked with purpose at a brisk pace. Though she hadn’t brought a strap for her guitar, she wished she could put it on and play as she walked. Songs were bouncing around in her head; songs she’d come up with, songs Rocky had suggested to her, and tonight’s set list for the house band she was now part of with Rocky.

Thankfully, Lola’s apartment wasn’t too far. When she made it there, she made her way up the stairs in the hall, after she greeted her landlady, who was on her way out. Lola did her best to be polite, even holding the door for her and everything. She was in hot water with her for bringing Rocky around to her place when she really shouldn’t. It wasn’t decent for a woman to bring a man home like that. That and it was also against the rules around here to bring a man home.

Ascending the steps, Lola felt as though she were climbing the steps to heaven itself, knowing what most likely awaited her in her apartment. As it turned out, her door was unlocked. To most, this might be an alarming thing to be greeted by, but to Lola, it made her heart soar. As she turned the knob, an all too familiar, sweet, hearty scent greeted her.

Smiling, she closed the door behind her and called out, “Rocky, I’m home!”

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy fanfiction #lucaby #rocky rickaby #oc x canon

22 notes · View notes