valentinesshit

[totallynotagremlin]

@atherix This dress is fucking cursed

My hands cramped, i got sick on the last fucking day, couldnt draw for 2 days and all i had left was the coloring of the wings

I love this dress and this design so much. But its fucking cursed

Im very tired and will probably passout in like an hour, but its finished and im in love

Tomato mumbo supremecy, i love him sonmuch. Mumbo may nit approve going out in the dress but hes to amazing to not let grian

Mumbo loves seeing them dress up as long as no one looks because hes my little possesive wet cat and inlove him so much for it

Scar on the other hand, looks grian up and down and just goes, hot, but in that like, ya know kinda voice. You know the one, im so good at explaining things

Next might be mumbo. Or im gonna throw tubbo into like, not a dress but waist cape kinda thing, idk youll see,very gender outfit right there that im thunking up for our little guy

ALSO DOODLES, i was simply done with the sketch and didnt have my pencils while being bored in class so i drew the backmof the dress and then floating heads of everyone

...

What if i put cub in a dress, i might just do something about that

[codyfernaesthetic]

Dichotomy

Part 7

Author’s note:

You know what’s rare? Mallory smiling. By god, does she deserve it. She’s been through hell. Does it last? No, what’do think this is, American Happy Story?

“Hello, Mallory!”

Lydia strutted into Mallory’s room, pushing past a caught-off guard Rhoda.

Mallory stood, surprised, but pleasantly so, “Hi.” 

Rhoda closed the door, eyeing the woman suspiciously. 

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Mallory told her as she was pulled into a hug. She didn’t return it, more so from shock than unwillingness.

She pulled back, “Well, I came to ask a favor, one that I think will be mutually beneficial.” 

Mallory furrowed her brows, but nodded for her to continue.

“Mallory, fashion has always been my deepest passion in life, but I am so tired of these stuck up, socialite bitches who only know how to complain. I truly enjoyed making you a dress all those months ago, and well, I was hoping you’d be willing to be my muse. I’ve been feeling so stifled lately, and if I may say, you have this...innocent beauty about you, something very alien yet...real, genuine.”

Taken aback, she offered a shy, confused smile, “Thank you.”

Rhoda circled around behind Mallory, eyeing Lydia like a mama bear watching a hunter who’s gotten too close for comfort to her cubs. Mallory didn’t notice as Lydia flitted and touched her hair and face, “There’s just this...I don’t know, aura around you. Oh, please say you will, Mallory. You’ll have my eternal thanks.”

Mallory shrugged, having nothing to lose, “Sure. It’d be an honor.”

Lydia’s smile grew wider as she unloaded her bag onto the nearby counter, already off into rambling, “Perfect. Now I already have a couple designs in mind. Some are just everyday wear, and then there are some for balls and big events, we have those so often here...”

Rhoda stayed close to Mallory’s side.

* * *

Michael’s personal office was located on the first floor of the main complex, where the majority of the business side of the Cooperative was operated. It was, of course, the largest of them all, and the most grand. Rumor was it was modeled and inspired after The King’s Office in the Palace of Versailles; rich, detailed oak desk and cabinets, perfectly polished floors, almost like glass, gold an velvet decorating every surface, all bathed in warm light. Michael sat in his leather chair at his desk, a large French window framed by crimson curtains behind him. The artificial sunlight streaming in, casting a soft halo around his head. A stack of papers lay in his lap, but his interest in them was cursory at best. Every so often, he would take to tapping his finger on his chair’s arm, gaze far away. 

“You haven’t been very talkative lately.”

Michael was drawn from his inner thoughts to look at Ms. Mead who had walked behind the desk, looking at him with a motherly concern.

“I never knew I was talkative,” he said pulling one side of his mouth into a small smirk.

She patted his shoulder, “I’m sure if I had more memories of you from before, I could contradict that.”

He reached up and placed his hand over hers, trying to hide the twinge of sadness in his eyes.

“Something’s on your mind,” she continued, walking around to sit in a small leather chair, “It’s that girl, isn’t it.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, but gave no response. He knew it was more of a statement than a question. 

She leaned in, “Is she one of the witches who escaped?”

He nodded, “Yes, she must be. But...”

“What?”

He stood, walking to the window and staring out into nowhere, deep in thought, “There’s something else. She’s something else.” 

Mead kept her gaze steadily on the back of his head, as if trying to read his mind. He liked keeping to himself, despite how he told her how close they were. It was as if something had once again separated them.

Perhaps he could sense that she’d lied at the Outpost.

She’d told him that she knew where her place was, by his side in this new world. That wasn’t true. She’d never felt more out of place than at this so-called Sanctuary. At the Outpost, things were simple and clear. Venable ran things strict, but efficient, and Mead was her right hand. Venable had been the closest thing to a friend she could remember, but at his command, she’d shot her dead. Here, she felt next to useless, she wasn’t in control of anything, and this entire place was run with too much bureaucracy. Mead often had passing thoughts that perhaps Michael hadn’t so much had a problem with how she had run the Outpost, but that she could have no real authority, and yet have such a tighter grip of control than he did. Mead kept these thoughts to herself, knowing that in the end she had no power to change things. Michael was still the beautiful boy, the idealized image in her mind of long forgotten, and cobbled-together rosy memories.

And perhaps that’s all she was to him as well.

“Did you ever notice any deformities on Mallory?” he asked, breaking the long silence, “Scars or birthmarks?” 

She shrugged, “I never paid much attention to her at all. She never seemed all that special to me.”

He turned to face her, brow taught with curiosity, “Perhaps that was the point. To hide her in plain sight.”

* * *

Lydia had practically given Mallory a wardrobe to last a few months. An outfit for every occassion it seemed. Although the ensemble she wore today was probably one of her favorites. It was black, sheer in some places, draped over elegantly, decorated with silver stars and moons. She even had given her a little silver star hairpin. She stared at herself in the mirror, indulging her vanity briefly. She’d never owned anything designer before. It certainly felt more expensive than what she was used to.

“I feel like a...goth princess or something,” she told Lydia with a smile; who stood beside her, admiring her work.

“You certainly look like a princess.”

Rhoda slipped on a simple silver chain with a pearl pendant around Mallory’s neck. She looked Mallory up and down with a cautious smile.

“Well, twirl around!” Lydia encouraged, “Give us a fashion show!”

Mallory laughed and spun with a flourish, picking up the hem between her fingers and strutting around the room, much to Rhoda’s delight. 

Lydia cheered, “Beautiful!”

Mallory leaned dramatically against the chair, throwing her hand over her head, “Am I a model yet?”

Rhoda clapped, feeling such joy at seeing Mallory smile.

She whirled out back into the middle of the room, “Coco would be so jealous--”

She stopped, her smile faltering. Rhoda’s heart sinking with it.

She looked at Lydia and said more quietly, “Thank you, Lydia. It’s beautiful. Everything you’ve made me is beautiful.”

She waved her off, “Oh, no, thank you. I haven’t had this much fun making clothes in over a year. You’re much easier to get along with than some of the others here.” 

She began packing up her supplies, suddenly looking up and telling her, “You know, maybe you should be out and about today, show off to all these rich folks how beautiful you are.”

She nodded, the sadness obvious in her tone, “Thank you, Lydia.”

“Perhaps she’s right, Mi-Mallory,” Rhoda said as she closed the door behind Lydia, “You have been cooped up in here for so long. Maybe it would be beneficial to have a change of scenery? Some fresh air?”

Mallory gave her an incredulous look.

“And you do look lovely.”

She smiled, “Yeah, I guess I’ll have to learn to get around this place at some point. So, tell me, what’s there to do around here for fun?”

She paused to think, “There’s a theatre.”

“Of course there is.”

Rhoda laughed, “The Cooperative has a collection of nearly any movie you can imagine. Sometimes they hold special theme nights.”

Her eyes lit up, “What, like for Star Wars?”

She nodded, “Yes, I have heard of that.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“No.”

Mallory’s jaw dropped, “You’ve never seen the Star Wars movies?”

She shook her head bashfully, “I’m afraid not. Not entirely. I’ve caught brief glimpses when I was delivering extra popcorn to the woman I served before you.”

“Which ones?”

“I...beleive the prequels.”

Mallory stood up, with a serious look, “Well, that settles what we’ll be doing for the day.”

* * *

Rhoda was fond over Mallory almost instantly when she entered the Sanctuary. Lydia was correct in that regard, she emanated an aura around her that instantly drew Rhoda to her; something so gentle yet powerful. It gave her a sense of peace, invigorating her, renewing energy. Yet, she could see that Mallory might’ve been giving off such effects without consequence to herself. She was sluggish, her skin had taken on a gray tone with the lack of light, she’d lost weight, not much, but enough to warrant Rhoda’s concern. She hadn’t looked like this when she arrived. Yet, it was as if the effects of the Apocalypse were only now pressing down on her; almost like a preservative energy had left. Rhoda tried her best to be a friend, even though she didn’t know how. She’d never been close to anyone, never beyond servant and master. No one had actually cared to learn her name like Mallory, just out of desire for human interaction; an effort to maintain sanity. That’s why Mallory saved Bartholomew, why she befriended Rhoda, she refused to lose herself, even after losing everything.

This made Rhoda’s betrayal all the more heinous in her own eyes.

Langdon had approached her barely a week after the incident at the Temple. She’d gone to fetch some food, in hopes that Mallory would at least try to eat something. She felt him approaching long before she saw him. Darkness and power followed him like a perfume, sharpening her senses. She bowed deeply without a word when he stood over her, frowning; not displeased, but grave in his intent.

“Look at me, Rhoda.”

She trembled at the way her name left his lips like a dark command. She shakily raised up to rest her gaze on his chest.

She gasped with fear when his fingers took her chin and forced her head up.

“In the eyes.”

“Yes, Lord Langdon,” she answered, her invitation for his will.

He smiled, but it was without joy. It was cold, inhuman. He dropped his hand.

“Were you present at the Temple the night of my return?”

He knew, of course he knew. He was daring her to lie.

“Yes, Lord Langdon.”

He nodded, “Then I’m certain you’re aware of the disturbance caused during the sacrifice.”

She don’t know why that prompted her start vomiting out words the way she did; perhaps paralyzing fear that he would do something to Mallory. Surely he knew it was her that was responsible.

She stepped closer, pleading, “Lord Langdon, Miss Mallory is deeply apologetic for disturbing the sacrifice. She swears she will never interfere again. And perhaps it was not her at all. Perhaps The Dark Lord was trying to communicate with you.”

His gaze was a dagger straight through her chest, his tone even more dangerous, “You dare to presume what my Father does and says to me?”

She violently shook her head, protesting, “No! My Lord, that wasn’t—“

He started stepping closer, backing her against a corner, eyes never straying from hers, “Does the slave think she knows more than the master?”

Tears pricked at her eyes, “Never, Lord Langdon.”

She was flat against a wall, shaking with terror.

“Has Miss Mallory’s influence planted a root of disobedience in you? Will corrections need to be made to curb your sudden defiance?”

Her muscles tensed as if she expected a slap, “No! No, my Lord.”

He brought his lips closer to her ear, his breath hot on her face, “If Miss Mallory’s head is stuck to a pike and displayed in the temple, will you be rid of your rebellion?”

A single tear escaped down her cheek, “No! No! I will obey, Lord Langdon! I will obey!”

He slowly stood up and backed away, looking her over cooly, “You will observe Miss Mallory and see if you can find any evidence of...unusual displays of power. Upon any discovery of such, you are to immediately report to me.”

She nodded, wiping away the tear, feeling like there was a sinkhole in her stomach, “Yes, Lord Langdon. It will be done according to your word.”

He turned to leave, saying with cold confidence, “Of course it will.”

[markistarr]

Uneventfully Outlandish

“Can’t you hear it?” A voice asks, its words softer than the finest of silks; quieter than the deadest of mice. Your eyes snap open; glancing about your bedroom, you find each of your belongings is fading, dipping into dancing shadows; slipping into specks of mere dust. You find yourself whisking away, soaring into the heavens. You open your mouth to scream, plead for help. Not a word; not a sound; not a noise falls from your tongue.

Your heart shrieks as it throws itself at your ribcage, beating relentlessly, ruthlessly against the marrow in hopes of freeing itself from the bars of bone that hold it captive. Your tongue feels of lead; your mind of molasses as sluggish thoughts and notions whir through your head. Nothing, nothing, nothing but silence fills the emptiness now surrounding you. It’s heavy; dead-weight. “Well,” the voice speaks once more. “Do you or do you not, silly child?” Your lips move upon their own accord. “Hear what, exactly?” A shrill giggle reverberates throughout the dusky landscape of dead-weight and—was that a levitating teapot? A radiance begins to fester, begins to bubble up from the once dank void; it sprouts from that gliding teapot, that gliding teapot that rose from nowhere in particular. You cannot help but gaze at such colors, such radiance; all too alluring. A siren with no song, no certain beauty but its own peculiarly wondrous ways. The vibrant tints that dance about glimmer; shimmering with the glow of a thousand shades of red, of blue; of yellow, of purple; of indigo and green; of violet and orange; a shade of black, of grey, of white, before melding, swathing together into millions of shades of black, of grey, of white.

Suddenly, as if urgently, you recall the voice once again; you peer about, praying to the Gods’ that perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of the mysterious being. Another shrill giggle rings in response to this. “Why, the ticking of Death’s clock, of course!” the voice replies, as though such a thing were to be an ordinary occurrence. As if those words were a spell; one to bewitch; one to open one’s eyes; you begin to hear it. A soft, velvety clicking of a gentler still ticking. It quakes your bones; an earthquake; an infectious ailment; slipping through your skin, through muscle, through marrow, through organ, all the way down, to your very core. More teapots join the singular that once stood alone. An army of teapots and cups, cutlery and plates, tables and chairs begin to join it up, up, up in the otherwise still air. And, then, you see it. A bear cub, with glossy coffee fur and beady black eyes, just about the size of a button. The bear, striking you as a chipmunk with its stuffing-filled cheeks, and its circle stomach, and its maw, snapping open and closed, open and closed, with each bite of crumpet, of bread, of cake from atop the oak table it sits at. The oak table tainted by crumbs, by scars and scabs that litter its once polished surface.

Your gaze shifts forcefully, as though some spirit, some creature of ghost were forcing it upon you; you notice the changing of your clothes, the changing from your bare rags to a neat, cloud-puffed dress, with ribbon laces and frilly fabrics of sky, of sea, of waterfall and lake; of cloud, of snow, of pearl and daisy. Rows of bows line your hair as it pulls, and twists, and curls and unfurls till it’s tied up in two neat, lengthy piggies, the tails swaying in a phantom wind, the very same that shifts your dress, that prods at the laces of your thigh highs, sending them into a faint frenzy.

The cub smiles. A gentle, welcoming smile that sends a shiver of warmth from your forehead to your pinkie toes. It gestures for you to come closer; a quaint beckon with the mere flick of its wrist. And, suddenly, you’re there, sat across from that adorably charming bear cub, that reminds you all too much of the plush ted you’ve owned since you were a mere babe. Before you even realize it, you’re sipping from a mug, painted to be white as fragile eggshells; scorching warmth fills your mouth, slipping down your throat as your mind begins to cry out in pain, Hot, hot! Hot, hot! You sputter, before spitting the fiery tea out, out, out, onto the already blighted table top. The cub’s smile curls into a deep scowl, before the corners of its mouth soar back up, contorting into an unnervingly cheery grin. “I’m so sorry! I hadn’t known the tea was so, er, hot,” you apologize, flushing. The bear chuckles, dismissing it with a wave of its paw. “Nonsense! I should have warned you!”

Consternation floods you; something here isn’t quite right. Perhaps it’s the floating teapots and cups; or maybe it’s merely the waves of colors that seem to unnerve with their hypnotic patterns; or, maybe, perhaps, it’s merely the bear that sits across from you scarfing down crumpets, and brownies, and cake, and each and every other pastry that is placed atop the table before it, spewing crumbs with each snappish munch. Abruptly, you don’t feel secure any longer. A chill passes through you; something is not right. Something is not right. You glance about warily, your eyes searching, scanning for any indication, any pointer at danger, at peril. But, as far as the naked eye can see, there is a spindling rainbow of color prancing about, floating teapots and cups, mugs and cutlery, tables and chairs, a bear cub that devours each and every morsel placed within its sights, and you.

You with your frilly, lacy, cloud-puffed dress of sky and sea; of cloud and pearl. You with your glossy piggies, tied up in silky ribbons and balmy pearls, each and every embellishment adorned and studded with rhinestones and pearlescent crystals of many a kind. You with your laced up high thighs, caked in glitter and trimmed with sleek feathers from many a bird. Blue jay’s and robin’s, peacock’s and parrot’s, dove’s and swan’s. That is, until the chair you are sat in jerks to the side, letting you slip from its cushioned seat to fall down, down, down, into the spinning vortex of swaying colors that begin to fade into white’s, and grey’s, before, finally, melding together into nightmarish black’s. And all you can see are your flailing arms, flailing legs, billowing dress, billowing bows and laces and ribbons, swinging piggies, swinging pearls and rhinestones and pearlescent crystals. Until, finally, everything fades into darkness; the dank void, upon its return, envelops you entirely. A blind, deaf girl falling into eternity. Eternity without color; eternity without light; eternity without love, therefore making an eternity without plight.

“Celine!” a familiar voice calls. “Celine! Wake up! We’re going to be late!”

Suddenly, everything shakes. Shakes, and quakes, and utterly breaks upon this violent earth-shattering vibration. The darkness cracks, before shattering, revealing light. Morning light, all too bright for you, you and your midnight eye. That morning light gradually shifts into a gorgeous cyan; a cyan that reveals even further baby-blues, mixed in with creeks and puddles; the smell of chlorine wafts over you, before the darkness fully shatters; a million glass pieces of a once generously adorned mirror, now in splinters.

Water. Water, water, water, rushing in. The waves close in, all around you, pulling you underneath, even as you open your mouth to scream; you kick, and fight, and shriek, but nothing comes out but bubbles and the muffled sounds of a girl wearing a dress that makes her sink, sink, sink.

“Celine! C’mon, sis, get up! Mum’ll have our heads if we’re late!” the voice pleads. It’s all around you now; he’s all around you. The water. The water that reeks of plastic and chlorine and...him. It smells like him. Damien. Your baby brother that you vowed you’d take care of; that you’d always keep safe no matter the cost. And then you see him; and then you’re back in your room, lying in bed, sunlight streaming through the taffy colored lace curtains; and you’re sweet baby brother, Damien, is shaking you violently, begging for you to awaken.

And so you hug him. You sit upright, wrap your arms about him, albeit a tad awkwardly, seeing as how they’re about his neck, about his back, about his head; and you laugh. A happy sound that only he gets to hear because by God, he’s your baby brother, and you love him more than anything. He laughs. He laughs and it’s the most wonderful sound you’ve ever heard. He says, “Are you alright? Why’re you crying?” You shake your head and wipe at your face with your sleeves. “I’m fine. I just had a curious dream, is all.” And then he pulls you from bed and rummages through your closet so that he may help you find your uniform, because, Christ, Celine, you really need to clean your wardrobe out; what even are most of these things? They must be cleaned! I’ll take them down to the wash posthaste! And, oh, dear me, Mum didn’t leave us anything to eat! I’ll make us some breakfast! But, you say, “It’s alright, Damien. I’ll take them down to the wash; I’ll find my uniform; I’ll make us some breakfast.”

Damien shakes his head at you. But he’s smiling. Smiling wider than you’ve ever seen him smile. And it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Because he’s your baby brother. And you vow that you’ll always be there for him. No matter what. Because even if you get married to the richest of men, even if you have twenty children and live in a shack because that man divorced you, even if your life is at stake, you’ll always be there. Because he’s your precious baby brother Damien, who’s broken the very same leg three times and, dear God, does he have troubles with his schoolwork, because you know, you’ve always known that his brain works a tad differently from the rest, but that’s okay, because that only makes you love him even more than you already do.

And so, you get ready for school as Damien ties his laces and grabs his knapsack. But not before having a short, uneventful tea party with your bear. Your plush bear with sleek, coffee fur and beady black eyes the size of buttons. Who, for some peculiar reason, seems to have crumbs seemingly imbedded within its fur. Crumbs from crumpets, crumbs from cake, crumbs from brownies and so many other pastries that it’s impossible to name each and every one.