This was a pretty fun project to do. It took me around three days to make this one (one day to make the body, one day for the head, one day for the dress and glasses). The book in the second shot was something I had for a while.
I went for the polka dot dress here instead of the lab coat because I have a pretty large amount of scrap polka dot cloth. This dress is removable, and going forward, it would be fun to make more clothes for her. Maybe Mew Mew Kissy Cutie related. X3
Her removable pince-nez glasses are made from half-hard scrap jewelry wire. The wire was shaped in a special way so that the glasses, um, well, pierce into the face in order to stay on.
The book she’s holding is “Monster History”. I pieced most of the text together from the text of the monster history chapter books from the “Undertale” game (whichever chapters were missing I built from other dialogue from the game, notably the intro dialogue and the dialogue at New Home in a pacifist route).
day 4 lads are you READY for this angst fest - pastel/punk heck yeah.
Mentions of death, homophobia, bullying, cancer.
One last thing, before the slate is wiped clean. One last memory of Simon Salisbury.
I am adamant that there is something slightly wrong with a boy like me getting a tattoo in a place like this.
See, I’m clean-cut: pressed cotton shirts and folded sweaters, golden toed oxfords and ankle-biting skinny jeans, all in pretty shades of pastel rainbows and not a lot of black. I belong in my sweet shop over the road. Literally. I don’t have time to be here and spin yarns with the boys behind the counter. I just need to book it in, tell them what I want, and go. This place gives me enough anxiety just knowing it has sharp objects, controlled by people I don’t know - people who could hurt me. Not to mention, I don’t look like I should be here. Graffiti and flower don’t exactly go together very well.
“Hello?” One of the boys calls from the counter. “Can I help?”
Fuck my life he’s gorgeous.
I step forward awkwardly. He raises an eyebrow. Neither of us have time for this, clearly.
“Yeah, uh,” I stammer. I think he’s sees my hands shaking on the dark wood, so I shove them in my pockets and continue as efficiently as possible. “Can I book something for tomorrow?”
He frowns at my insistence to be here. Crap, I hate this place. I can’t believe I’m promising to come back. The boy pulls out a pen and notepad with a sigh and taps the desk impatiently. “Tomorrow’s pretty busy,” he observes. “You could come over after your shift?”
Slightly pissed off, his grey eyes glare at me through his ridiculously rogue fringe. “You work at the flower place, right?”
Oh. Oh. “Shit, yeah. Sorry, I’m… Yeah, that’s fine - about 5:30.”
He nods, grinning slightly before reverting back to his standard, bitter expression. “I’ll be taking care of you, then. Do you have a design I could see?”
Quickly and far too anxiously for his liking, I pull out the note, the last note she ever left me, folded perfectly to avoid all of the words and leave just the drawing of two roses, intersected by the stems. I suck in a quiet breath and begin to consider that I don’t need to do this.
Then again, I do.
The boy, dismissive as usual, snaps a few photos and pushes it back across the counter. “Where’s it going?” He questions, for more conversational than I expected for someone who seems to have the same emotional threshold as a dead leaf. “Arm? Ankle?”
I try to stop my voice from shaking, but it doesn’t seem to matter as I quietly declare: “Right forearm.”
It surprises us both, how broken it sounds. The boy, grey eyes blown wide and worried, is about to ask something - please don’t please don’t please don’t - so I cut him off with a strategic cough and point to the inside of my right arm. “Sorry. Just there. Right forearm.”
He almost looks sympathetic. I smile briefly and only end up making it a more tense interaction. “Okay…er, could I get a name.”
“And a last name?”
Oh fuck. I can’t say it. I can’t do it. I can’t-
He writes it down, frowns, quirks one eyebrow and sighs again. “I’m Baz. Come by around 5:30, I’ll sort you out.”
I can tell he doesn’t really want me here, but I suppose that’s part of the reason I showed up - spite.
My oxfords click across the expanse of the tattoo parlour, the sound alone over-stimulating my anxiety. Simple things begin to worry me - what if I annoy him? What if he yells at me? What if I sit where I’m not supposed to sit? - and as 1000 worst case scenarios play on a reel behind my my eyes, Baz turns up looking a far sight more concerned than before.
He eyes my appearance - cropped, short-sleeved white shirt (previously hidden by pink sweater), light blue skinny jeans grazing above my ankles, my white, gold-toed oxfords - though I wish he wouldn’t stare. It’s obvious I don’t fit in with the scenery, but I don’t need him of all strangers to put me out of place. I just…need this. One last thing before I let it all go, start a new chapter, and never look back on my life before this day.
“Snow,” he greets lightly.
A sudden dose of guilt rolls through my chest. That’s not me. “It’s Simon,” I correct.
He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. Leave your stuff over there, follow me.”
It is degrading to be wanting to sob my heart out in this stranger’s presence, but I push it aside momentarily to do as I’d been told. Baz leads me out the back and points to a seat. I almost laugh at myself for worrying about this part - but I remember Baz is here, so I don’t.
“All right - standard stuff,” he tells me. “It’s gonna hurt. Fuck what anyone told you. A needle is going into your skin, and it’s going to hurt like a bitch. Hygiene is of the utmost importance here, so don’t worry: the needle is clean, otherwise I would not have a job. After this is done I can go over some things to take care of your tattoo. Is this your first?”
I stare blankly at the ground. It’s gonna hurt. How many times has that been said to me these past months? “Yeah, it is.”
Baz pauses his work to stare me down, so I do my best to look like I’ve been intently listening to his spiel. He sighs. “Okay, are you sure you want to do this, Snow?”
“That’s not my fucking name,” I seethe. Baz looks as shocked as I feel. With a quick cough and a hope for dismissal, I shrink back. “Sorry, I- yeah, I’m sure.”
He sits down on my right and examines his canvas. “It’s fine,” he lies (so obviously lies - he practically sang it out, lips rolled back back, eyes burning). “May I know what the roses mean? Is it a symbol for anything?”
He’s preparing my skin. I remember seeing them doing this in hospitals for IVF tubes, and leaving the room to give them space. I’m good at giving people space. “It was just a drawing from someone.”
He smirks. “A girlfriend?”
I don’t. “No.”
“Do you know how to be happy? Or do you flux between anxiety and anger?”
The needle goes in and jabs at my skin. I gasp at first, then sigh, because I was beginning to feel numb again. “Do you know how to be happy? Pretty sure your facial expressions range from pissed off to livid.”
Ironically, he laughs. “Come on, Snow-”
“That’s still not my fucking name,” I comment breezily, focus on anything but his needle, until it stops.
“What exactly am I engraving on your body right now? Because I feel you’re enjoying this far too much and I’m not about to support that.”
I grimace, head falling back on the chair. Baz is a stranger, cold in emotions and yet somehow warm at heart. His needle goes down onto the work bench. “My name isn’t Snow.”
“Oh, for fuck-”
“It’s literally not my last name,” I admit, slightly shaky. Baz stops, suddenly willing to listen. “It’s Salisbury. Snow is my middle name, but I haven’t gone by Salisbury for months now.”
Baz softens, his hands placed over my wrist. “Why?”
That one words feels more loaded than the entire ordeal of actually getting a tattoo. “It was my mum’s. She died. My father literally only came back to tell me that it’s my fault she got cancer - it was God’s punishment for me and my romantic preferences.”
Baz raises his eyebrows at me. I can’t begin to assume what he’s thinking. At first I assumed it was going to be ‘ha, of course you’re queer’, judging by how he was staring at my outfit earlier, but instead he continues with the tattoo, grimacing when I don’t care too much about the pain. It’s not that I like it at all - no, it hurt like a bitch - I just have a very high pain threshold and a very low desire to have people know I’m in pain.
He stops again.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
My eyes are closed to drown out the needle, but I don’t open them to frown at him. “What?”
“I- your mum. They tried to tell me that, too, a bunch of kids I went to school with. They said my mother was killed because 'you’re a fag’ and 'she’d hate you anyway’. Sucked.”
Baz is gay.
“Thanks,” I whisper. Almost unrecognised, I add: “And I’m sorry you went through that.”
The needle starts again.
“What does the note say?” He asks. “The one with the drawing. What does it say?”
I hesitate. No one else has seen it before Baz, on my lunch break, and even then he didn’t read it. As far as everyone else is concerned, my mother and I never spoke within her last few months. This isn’t true. She’d send me flowers from my own store with little notes exactly like these, and I’d call her every night when she was alone. Supporting her queer son was not something she was allowed to do in front of family members. Despite my personal attachment to it, I pull the note out anyway, still perfectly folded in my wallet, and hold it out for Baz. The ink on his hands worries me to not let him take it, but he reads it from his seat.
I love you!! Hoping to see you this Summer, very much miss seeing you around. Hope you’re studying hard, my rosebud boy :)
Love Mum xxx
“Oh,” he whispers.
“She died three days later.”
I will not cry in front of Baz. No, I will not. I have done all my crying, I have seen every detail and kept ever perspective on this ordeal. I have been blamed, and disowned, and left without family, but this chapter of my life is new. It isn’t one where I’m shaking and crying in a corner like the past few months. Baz sees me getting upset and starts the needle again and continues to work. The pain itches at my arm and leaves an ache running up my arm. I gasp. Baz seems relieved.
He finishes his work and rolls away on his chair, wiping his hands on a stray damp rag. A gauze goes over the ink after a few moments of silent marveling. Baz grins at me, and fusses over me far more than any of his other customers, I’m guessing. Particularly because he does a whole lot of uncensored smiling when I’m looking at him. He seems to be nearly speaking, and then not. It entertains me to press on.
Until I’m paying for the service, he’s quiet and happy. I give him thanks and say goodbye, picking up my sweater and walking out.
Then: “Hey, Simon, wait.”
I swear my blood pulses harder. “Yeah?”
Baz’s hand ghosts over my arm. He’s forward, confident, I’ll give him that on a good turn, but now he’s finding some kind of shyness. “How about you stay with me tonight?” He offers. “You know, so I can look after your ink.”
I turn around, suddenly much closer to Baz than I’d anticipated, knocking my nose against his chin. With a giggle, I ask: “Do you take all of your clients home?”
His lips are scary close to my forehead. (I’m hoping he’ll lean down instead.) “Only the cute ones.”
Thorin had returned to sit, brooding, on the throne while you lingered on the narrow walkway below the dais watching Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo leave. When the trio had disappeared through the vast, arched doorway, you turned to him where he slumped, his eyes restless and constantly moving with his feverish thoughts.
“You’re not being reasonable, Thorin. How long will you test their loyalty?”
He glanced irritably at you before looking away over the cavernous chamber. “They owe me their loyalty.”
“And you owe them your trust, your patience,” you countered. “Have they not proved themselves time and time again, all of them?”
“You forget your place,” he warned, turning a dangerous gaze on you.
You opened your mouth to speak and closed it again, summoning all of your self-restraint to smother your simmering frustration, bite back the angry words that wanted to claw their way from your throat. “You are not the man you were,” you said finally, carefully. “You regard the ones who love you most with doubt and suspicion…you are consumed with the search for this accursed stone, and I fear for you, Thorin. I pity you.”
“You pity me?” He repeated your words incredulously, in a voice thick with contempt. “I am King under the Mountain. I have no need for the pity of a woodworker’s daughter.”
Anger flared in you again, threatened to burn what love remained between the two of you, frail and brittle as a fallen leaf, to ashes. “There was a time when you spoke of making a woodworker’s daughter your Queen,” you retorted, caring no more for self-restraint. “Or have you forgotten everything you said when you had me bare beneath you in Laketown?”
Even in his madness, Thorin looked stung, and still the words poured from your lips. “Was I only there to warm your bed?” you needled him. “Give you courage to face the dragon with my pretty words of love and faith?”
“Enough!” Thorin bellowed, rising to his feet with an almost convulsive movement,
his glittering armor and the mad gleam in his eye making him larger, frightening. “You forget. Your. Place.” He ground out the words through clenched teeth, and just as suddenly as it had flooded you, your fury drained away, leaving behind only a cold, empty regret that filled your eyes with tears.
“I have no place here,” you whispered, searching for a glimpse of the man you loved in the face of the capricious, grasping tyrant who stood before you and finding no such comfort. With a trembling exhale, you turned to begin the long walk to the doorway, leaving him glowering on the dais.
“Where are you going? I have not given you leave,” Thorin said indignantly, behind you.
Your footsteps were loud in the oppressive stillness.
“I am the King!” Petulance crept into his voice. “I am the King, and you will stay until I have finished speaking to you!”
Only the silence answered him, and your retreating form grew smaller.
“Go, then,” Thorin growled, his call echoing on the stone walls. “Go! But know this: if you walk through that door, do not presume to show me your face again.”
With that, you halted, standing frozen beneath the great stone arch before looking back over your shoulder to meet his demanding stare, far away across the chamber. His lips began to curl into a victorious smirk that quickly faded when, without a word, you turned and left the throne room.
Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus: a Draco Malfoy x Reader Imagine
(This is based off of a head-cannon/theory I had a week or so ago and I decided to write it up. I may write this a different way later, let me know if you’d like to see it redone in a different fashion.) In this imagine the reader is enjoying a rainy afternoon in the Slytherin common room with Draco when they discover his weakness, one chink in the armor of the dragon, one perhaps eluded to in the school motto.
Warnings: none :)
Word count: 1,169
It’s another lazy afternoon. Rain patters against the walls of the castle, but it cannot be heard in the Slytherin common room. A platinum head rests in my lap, fingers running through hair absentmindedly as I continue reading in silence. The clock over the fireplace keeps time with my heartbeat, and the flames crackling beneath provide a cozy warmth one would not generally associate with dungeons.
I had to write a little Christmas ficlet to go along with this image…
John is dozing in his chair, his stockinged feet
stretched out to the evening fire. A book lays open in his lap, his tea going
cold. He starts awake at an odd noise – the footsteps on the stairs are
halting and heavy, causing John to rattle his cup into the saucer with a flash
He hastens to the door, his mind speeding to his leather satchel
– scalpel, sutures, ointments – worried that Sherlock is injured again. It
would be just like him, managing to get himself shot or stabbed on Christmas
John pulls open the door, Sherlock’s name on his lips. Before
he can fully understand, the heady scent of pine and a cold wave of winter air rise
up to greet him, the trembling green boughs of a tree overtaking the landing as
Sherlock thuds the trunk onto the floor with a grunt.
“What’s this?” John stammers, equally relieved and confused.
“A tree,” Sherlock answers simply, brushing pine needles
from the shoulders of his Belstaff.
“Where on earth –” John is stunned, pleased, suddenly
grinning like a fool as he reaches out to touch the green branches. “You carried this halfway across the city?”
Sherlock smiles back, his eyes warm, enjoying John’s
The needles are soft in John’s fingers, not as prickly as he
imagined they would be.
He looks up. “I didn’t think you cared about all this,” John
says quietly. “Christmas sentiment…”
“Well, some traditions have their merit,” Sherlock admits,
then glances away. “It’s not the largest tree…”
John smiles again, catching Sherlock’s eye. “It’s lovely.
They hold their gaze, sweet resin and wood smoke filling the
air, a current stirring between them, the warm sitting room waiting, the tree to trim, brandy to sip, an eve of
from The Element Encyclopedia of 5000 Spells by Judika Illes
Peppermint Asperging Spell pg. 188
Create an infusion by pouring boiling water over peppermint. Strain and use a peppermint branch to asperge as needed.
Pine Asperging Spell pg. 188
Soak pine needles in warm water and asperge as needed.
Broom Cleansing Spell (1) pg 189
1. Use any broom to sweep the dust from the west to the east. 2. Burn this dust and toss the ashes outdoors. [I’d recommend burning it outside too. Make sure to keep a bucket of water nearby.] 3. Complete the ritual by mopping the floors with a magical floorwash (formulas follow on page 201), followed by a protective incense fumigation.
Amethyst Crystal Cleanser pg 205
Place large amethysts in room corners to serve as spiritual vacuum cleaners. When they look dull, cleanse and recharge them. Other crystal gemstones recommended for space-cleansing include clear quartz crystal and malachite.
Onion Space Cleansing Spell pg 206
1. Chop one onion into quarters and place one piece in each corner of a room. Don’t peel the onion. Don’t use a food processor. Chop it by hand. 2. Allow the onion pieces to remain in place overnight. 3. Bury them outside the following day. 4. Repeat the process for a total of five consecutive nights.
Vinegar Cleanser pg 207
1. Place a cup or bowl of vinegar in every room that needs cleansing. (Bathrooms, bedrooms, living, dining, kitchen, garage, basement, hallways, etc.) 2. Replace weekly.
The last thing she remembered was a bright flash of blue and white– arms wrapped around her, they disappeared and then the world went blank around her. Gordon came through. But Skye had no damn clue where she was..
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the room, and both attempts at moving to get a better look failed completely. A few surges of panic shot through her– you know, because she couldn’t move her legs or arms or anything– but then she saw the needles. Warm energy pulsed through them and down into her skin, and she realized just how tired she felt. It was exhaustion down to the bone; weak, shaking, broken. But healing.
Then suddenly, Skye wasn’t alone. With her limited movement, she couldn’t see who it was that decided to join her. “Hello? Who’s here?”
"Winter Night & Firelight" – NIALL (a "Night Changes" blurb)
The wind howled on and on outside the living room window, snow being blown in all directions. The glass was frosty from the cold, but I felt nothing but warmth encompassing me. The room smelled like pine needles, and warm cinnamon. A fire cracked and popped in the corner fireplace, casting it’s dancing light upon every surface of the cozy living room. As I stared out at the blustering winter where it wreaked havoc on the surrounding trees, I thought back to the first date Niall and I ever shared. It was winter then too, and a storm, not unlike this one, caused us to be snowed into my tiny apartment. We spent the entire evening on my worn leather sofa, drinking beer, and using the coffee table as our dining area. A movie played on the TV screen, but neither of our eyes left the others face. Our hands became one, fingers entwined like the threads of a woven basket. Not even a second of time that passed that night, felt anything less than comfortable. It was as though we’d known each other our whole lives. Conversation was effortless, and we left nothing unshared.
Niall entered the room, startling me from my reminiscent day dreams as he hummed, “I made us some hot cocoa.” He held the mugs in the air triumphantly, letting out a hearty chuckle. His lips were still pulled into a massive grin as he set the two steaming mugs on the wooden coffee table. Our empty dinner plates had been forgotten hours ago, neither one of us in the mood to deal with responsibilities. Instead, we were caught up in our own personal world. A private world, made just for the two of us, hidden within the four walls of this house. Padding over to where Niall sat on the sofa, my sock covered feet gliding easily on the hardwood, I cuddled into him with a content sigh.
Taking a careful sip of his chocolatey beverage, he wiggled his eyebrows at me over the rim before pulling me in close for a sweet kiss. I grinned like an idiot, the feeling he ignited inside of me still brought a warm blush to my cheeks. His smile and laughter still making me feel weak in the knees, even after all these years. Most days my heart still felt like it was falling so fast.
“You warm enough, love?” Niall questioned, grabbing a blanket from the back of the sofa, and tossing it over our laps, “can you feel the fire?"
I giggled softly, studying his face as he scrunched his eyebrows in concern, loving how thoughtful he always was.
"The temperature’s perfect, Niall,” I assured him, forcing him to relax with a gentle touch to his scruffy cheek, “but you know what I would like..?"
He cocked his head to the side, training those ice blue eyes on me, “a rematch?” he quipped, picking up the forgotten game pieces from the place I’d earlier discarded them. Losing twice in a row may have made me a sore loser, but all I really cared about was being here with Niall. So, I shook my head at him with a sweet laugh.
"No… I was hoping you’d play me a song,” I purred, quirking the corner of my lips in a girlish smirk. I forced my eyes into two round spheres, giving him the puppy dog pout I knew he could never resist. The room filled with his happy laughter, head falling back against the couch cushions before he quickly bounded across the room to fetch his guitar.
“Any special requests?” he chimed in curiosity. Returning in an instant, to reclaim his place near the end of the sofa. First tucking the blanket in securely around my ankles, he expertly positioned the wooden guitar across his lap.
“Hmm… Surprise me,” I quipped, getting comfy by settling in against the throw pillows dotting the couch.
With a satisfied grin, and a nod of his head, he began to strum softly on the guitar. His voice was gentle, and soothing, every familiar lyric that slipped from his lips sending me into a whole other world. A blissful, happy existence. All I could see was Niall. All I needed, was Niall.
“I wish this weekend never had to end,” I whispered as he sang his last note.
“Me too, princess. Me too,” he sighed, sliding in close to wrap one arm securely around my waist while he held me close.
- forests. greenery. big, leafy oak trees with little squirrels hanging off the branches. towering pines that smell like tar, sweet and sharp and sticky. tiny, clear streams that branch off into muddy puddles. sleeping under the stars.
- meditation. a quiet evening baking cookies. taking a walk out on the pier, enjoying the sea air. a long car ride listening to soft acoustic music. the bite of metal into your skin when you trip.
- long hours at a chocolate factor. coming home smelling like sugar and caramel. brightly lit rooms. thunderstorms where the rain is coming down in sheets and the thunder is shaking the windows. lightning striking a tree.
- the sharp smell of antiseptic after a long shift. an old book filled with anatomical diagrams. soft cotton t-shirts. dusk on old papers that need filing. a long night at the library. sleep after a stressful day.
- tequila sunrise and cotton candy vodka. blood under your nails after intense sex. stiletto knives and heels. a tired sigh in bed next to you. early morning shower sex. hot, melty cookies right out of the oven. the bite of a belt on skin.
- an old yellowing book illuminated by a fire. a tall glass of red wine, the color of blood. a long night of poker with friends. a walk through a garden. the smell of worn leather in heat. cold metal buckles on warm flesh.
- cold handcuffs. needles breaking into skin. a hot meal after a long day. sore muscles after training. a hot shower to wash off the exhaustion and grime. falling down onto clean sheets at night.
tattoo artist! luke would have met you when you came into his shop, quite hesitant and nervous. Your hands would be shaking since you absolutely dreaded the pain the needle would cause.
Luke would smile at your nerves, offering you a drink and a speech before you had your tattoo done. He’d sit down beside you, resting his large ink covered hand over your shaking ones. He’d give your hand a light squeeze, “Just talk to me. I’ll listen. Just complain, bitch, scream all you want.. Do anything that’ll get your mind off the needle.” He let out a chuckle as he heard you giggle softly.
After hearing you laugh and slowly relax, he’d hold your hand gently as he leads you over to his station. Getting all the colours set out, the needle warmed up and the stencil where he’d gently place against the designated area where your first artwork would forever be displayed.
“Remember what i said, if you need to scream, curse at me, do it. I won’t hold you back.. Just do whatever you need,” He reminded you once again before he went to his work. Gently wiping off the excess ink, and going over it with the needle. Hearing you whine softly before talking to him. You’d bring up how you’ve seen his work before and how you were inspired by some of his designs.
Luke would definitely be a little cocky after hearing that a beautiful girl like yourself had seen some of his pieces. However he’d continue the conversation and quite soon the tattoo was forgotten, you were so into the conversation with Luke that the time had flown by so quickly.
Both of you were laughing, joking and talking about everything as if you were the best of friends. After he was done he’d gently clean the area and apply a cream over the fresh ink while applying something over it in order to keep it sealed from bacteria.
Luke would help you off the bench, and he’d smile. Before shyly asking for your number, dying to see you again.