robbinsmabelle779

[scythidol]

MIZUKI AKIYAMA MOODBOARD . . . self-indulgent!

PSD : "SPARKLY LOVE" BY ETHEREABUN

note : pretty girlie that somewhat helped me realise my own transness. classmate a and c need to burn

[strawberrycheesecake000]

︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵

[gmanmedias]

💄 💄 💄

💙 🤍 ❤️

💋 💋 💋

[wyrmscraft]

A friend of mine lost her battle with cancer this spring.

About two weeks before that, she gave me a wack of pink fabric and a pattern and asked me to make this because she just didn’t have the energy and really wanted one made.

I finished the quilt top and took it to the hospital so she could see it on Friday evening, and on Saturday her daughter called and said Kathy had passed that night.

That weekend I quilted it and did the binding, and it was hung up for display at the funeral on Wednesday.

I love bargello quilts, and this one was too rushed for me to enjoy making it, but it’s been about eight months now, so I may try it again in a different colour way, or maybe just different pink fabrics.

[natevenhere]

Up-cycled denim corset <3

took my friend’s and brother’s unwanted jeans and made my first corset!!

[bio-stims]

mizuki akiyama stimboard! 💻🎀

credits: x x x | x x | x x x

[san-sews-seams]

Have about a yard of some ribbon that you like, but you can't find a project for?

May I suggest...

Hat bands?

So far I've tested:

Buckles (above, just needs a tiny bit of hand sewing and poking a couple holes if your buckle has a tongue)

Those metal end clamps for making ribbon chokers (below, just needs basic comfort with pliers, has the option to add extra dangly beads and whatnot), and

No-sew snaps (not shown because I gave it away, very quick and easy but also the least adjustable if you want to move things between hats).

I will say that buckles will probably give you the best fit if the ribbon is wider than an inch or so, noticeably stiff (jacquard or grosgrain instead of velvet or satin), and/or the crown of your hat has a noticeable taper that the ribbon needs to follow. You can see on the purple cat ribbon above how the ribbon pulls away from the hat at the top. If I were doing that one over, I'd use a buckle, or possibly two snaps with the top one pulled tighter.

Want a no-sew option?

Pin your trim in place with a pin-back brooch or stick pin or button pin! Fun to go thrifting for! Extra accessories! Very modular, and you can probably leave your trim fully intact in case you want to use it later! Alas I cannot endorse standard enamel pins for this because the back will rub against your head and be irritating. :(

In conclusion:

Hat bands!

[wstcqst]

omgg this is so cute

[splitpierrot]

what did hong lu mean by “unique and fun experience” 🤨

[821hiiro]

mizuki akiyama from pjsekai (˶ˆᗜˆ˵) she is so pretty i love her colour pallette!!!

[less-than3]

♡ Mizuki Akiyama stimboard for my birthday ♡

💗 / 🎀 / 💗

🎀 / 💟 / 🎀

💗 / 🎀 / 💗

[divineecelestial]

Pretty Girl — Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Summary — Eddie liked you. Really liked you. You hated him. Really hated him. He was a bully and mean, and you were too damn pretty for your own good. You're partnered together for a project and things are changing between you both.

Word Count — 1.4k

Warnings — somewhat bully!eddie (not really, but it's sort of there) perv!eddie, enemies to lovers (eventually) sub!eddie, virgin!eddie (not explicitly stated here, but eventually will be in the series) somewhat dom!reader. Public situations. Kind of dry humping? Both Eddie and Reader are above the age of 18.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

You flipped a page from the book you were required to read for the project, eyebrows pinched together with concentration and your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes scanned over the paragraphs, occasionally widening and narrowing with whatever was happening on that particular page. He could see you were memorizing each message hidden beneath the passages, marking your notebook with a glitter pink pen. There wasn’t any possible way he was going to finish his portion of the project when he could smell the sweetness of your skin. His own notebook was forgotten, merely three sentences scribbled on the page before he was distracted by you. 

The smoothness of your thighs was peeking beneath the floral fabric of your dress, crossed and occasionally bouncing. When you weren’t writing your thoughts and answers, you brought the tip of your pen between your teeth, nibbling and lightly licking the plastic. He could feel the breath inside his lungs pulled out and his heart was moments from thumping through his chest and clothes. And, of course, his jeans tightened uncomfortably.

Your eyes slowly moved from the crinkled and yellow-stained pages of the book onto him. His fiery gaze remained etched on you as if he were engraving the spectacle before him within the confines of his mind. Lowering your book, you raised an eyebrow, inquisitive. He didn’t respond to the gesture. It wasn’t anything you weren’t used to. 

The dynamic between the both of you was complicated. Well, for you it was. For him, there wasn’t anything that could’ve been more simple. Since he was a kid, so for pretty much as long as he could remember, you were always there. You grew up with him. And you hated him. He pulled on the ribbons of your hair, stole your homework answers, and constantly teased you whenever he could. It didn’t matter what you did, he was always there with some snarky remarks. And he liked you. 

That’s how it started anyway.

Because when high school came, and the wave of teenage hormones as well, he didn’t just like you anymore. He was obsessed with you. He followed you around, stole your pom-poms, ruined your hair that you had spent forever doing, pulled your hair when he sat behind you and said every dirty thing that went through his head. He didn’t care if you were mean to him and called him names. Truth be told, he might’ve liked that more than he thought was possible. But you could’ve slapped and kicked him and he wouldn’t do a single thing other than thank you for touching him. He was whipped.

However, for you, things were complicated. That was an understatement. For as long as you could remember, you didn’t like him. Disliking him was easy and simple. You had been doing that for years. But things were changing and you couldn’t explain why. Well, that wasn’t the truth. You did know why. 

Two weeks ago, and you knew this because you couldn’t think of anything else other than that particular night. Your car wasn’t working and you weren’t even going to pretend to understand what was underneath the hood. The night was brimming with darkness and pouring rain and you were completely alone. You trudged to the nearest payphone, shivering beneath your sodden clothes, and called everyone you could think of. Not a single person answered. That was until you called the number Wayne had provided months ago when he suggested he could help with whatever car troubles you were having and not overcharge you. You just didn’t expect Eddie to answer. 

He was kind. The sickening kind of sweet you would find sprawled across romance novels. He called you the nicknames he had been calling you since you could remember, but it was different. He looked at you differently. Talked to you differently. Touched you differently. 

And now you were stuck with him as his partner. 

You were going to roll your eyes and resume with your book and disregard his existence as much as you could when you noticed it. There was absolutely no way of not noticing it. You glanced around, wondering if there was someone within the shadows of the empty library watching and observing. “Are you serious?” You sneered barely above a whisper. His amused eyes merely traveled to his hardening bulge. “Stop that.” 

“I can’t help it.” His voice was breathless, wisp-like. “You’re so pretty.” Your jaw clenched and your glare intensified. He brought his adorned hand onto his bulge and palmed himself. The movements were slow and deliberate, and because you were near the back of the library, there wasn’t anyone around to notice him. “If you keep looking at me like that, I can probably finish like this.” 

You were across from him, the only thing separating you from him was a small round table, and you were debating if you should kick the table at him. His eyes traveled across your body, not bothering to conceal his heavy gaze, and they stopped right where your skirt stopped. When you clenched her thighs together, he could barely see the baby-pink fabric of your underwear. His movements sputtered as he thought of crawling on the floor to you, worshiping you as he dreamed of doing. He groaned as his eyes closed, thinking of staining his lips with your arousal and kissing you until you couldn’t think of anything other than the taste of yourself mixed with him. “Yeah, I can definitely finish like this.”

Your nose scrunched as you watched his movements intently. “You’re a pervert.” Your voice, however, didn’t match your words. Because you couldn’t even understand the wetness dampening your underwear. You didn’t understand why you liked knowing you were the reason for his undoing and for his sick actions. You liked knowing he thought you were so pretty that he couldn’t wait until he got home. But you obviously couldn’t tell him that because you weren’t supposed to like any of that. You were supposed to hate him.

Yeah, things were complicated now.

You leaned closer, intentionally displaying a view of your breasts. “If you’re going to make yourself come, do it fast. We have a deadline.” Those words weren’t what he was expecting. You were tolerating him lately, even occasionally smiling before flipping him off. You were speaking to him without a bratty attitude and sitting next to him in class. He was slowly making progress. This wasn’t progress. This was hurdling over the finish line.

His gaze was ripped away from your breasts when you leaned back against your cushioned chair and he watched with sick enjoyment as you squeezed your thighs together. There was no way you were liking this. “Hurry. I don’t have all day.” Oh, God, you were really going to sit there and look pretty for him so he could come in his pants. You were letting him use you for his perversions. 

He nodded frantically, applying more pressure on his leaking cock. There was a stain soaking through his jeans and his hips were rutting against his hand, desperate for a wetness that couldn’t compare to his hand. Returning back to your book, you slowly spread your thighs open, allowing him a clear and picturesque view of your damp underwear. He couldn’t contain the pathetic whimper escaping his blushing lips. “You’re so pretty. So pretty. My pretty girl.”

He was mumbling, pussy-drunk from only the view of your clothed one. “Come on, let me see those pretty eyes.” Pretty, pretty, pretty. “Look at me when I come for you. Y-Yeah, just like that. That’s so good.” You teasingly looked away from your book and looked at him and you would’ve thought you handed a starving man a full-course meal from the way he crumbled beneath your gaze. “Fuck, you can’t be real.”

So, so, so pretty.

And then you smiled.

He moaned pathetically loud and you watched with twisted enjoyment as the stain on his crotch spread. Watching a man who’s tormented you for so long become undone simply from your gaze was empowering. Addicting even. He was breathless, shaking, and beads of sweat dampened his flushed skin. Bringing your leg back down and closing your book, you gathered your supplies and belongings and stood from the chair. You looked down at the embarrassingly large patch of cum seeping through his clothes and smiled. “I’ve gotta go. Same time tomorrow?”

Yeah, things were definitely different now.

[stardust-swan]

The Kind of Girl I Want To Be

Buys herself pink peonies and roses

Wears scents like Parfums De Marly Delina and Oriana, Miss Dior, YSL Paris, Prada Candy, Mon Guerlain and Chanel Chance Eau Tendre (she sprays it in the morning, after showers, and before going to bed)

Bakes heart shaped sugar cookies and macarons

Spends rainy days sipping rose tea from floral china while reading beautifully bound classic novels

Has a bookshelf filled with first edition poetry books, gilded editions of fairytale books, volumes of the Little Books of Fashion series, leatherbound classics, and Harlequin romance novels

Drinks peppermint tea in the morning and camomile tea at night

Sleeps on pink silk sheets and has a satin kimono robe

Plays Brigitte Bardot, classical music, and soft jazz in the background

Takes ballates or yogalates classes

Plays the violin or cello

Watches Audrey Hepburn and Anna Karina films

Adds sweet almond oil and rose bath tea to her vanilla bubble bath

Has a seasonal pass to the ballet and regularly visits the theatre, old bookshops, botanical gardens, and art galleries

Keeps things like French Girl lip tints/Glossier lip balms/Too Faced lip glosses, a hand mirror, a comb, some bonbons, a book, a rollerball of perfume, hand cream, a piece of rose quartz, a scrunchie, a nail file, spray on SPF and bubblegum in her bag at all times

Is always up to date with Fashion Week

Writes in her diary daily in swirly writing using coloured gel pens, pressing flowers between the pages and spraying perfume samples on it

Lights Yankee Candle Fresh Cut Roses or Rainbow Cookie, keeps soap and lavender in her wardrobe, and has vanilla diffusers around the house

Lives in a cosy home filled with beautiful things, like paintings by local artists, lots of cushions and throws, soft lighting from salt lamps and fairy lights, potted herbs and succulents, vintage vases filled with floral arrangements, DIY macramé and embroidery projects, a bowl of different crystals, signature Barbies on a shelf, rattan furniture, fluffy towels in white, pink, baby blue, and lavender, pink Dove or rose Roger et Gallet soap and Jurlique rose hand cream on the bathroom sink, pictures of her loved ones in antique frames, floral patterns everywhere, antique mirrors, and beautiful porcelain teasets

Goes to French cafés to enjoy a vanilla oat latte with a millefeuille or almond croissant

Always wears diamond or pearl earrings (often paired with a charm bracelet or gold heart locket)

Enjoys rosé wine, champagne, and strawberry daiquiris at lunchtime occasionally

Snacks on strawberries, sugared almonds, dried fruit and nuts, and Turkish Delight

Applies powder, rosy blush, lipgloss, and puts ribbons in her hair at her vanity table, which is decorated with a ballerina music box, vintage perfume bottles, and trinkets shaped like swans, angels and shepherdesses

Has her morning and evening routines down pat: waking up to melodic music, opening the windows, making the bed, doing gentle yoga, simple skincare, getting dressed, applying makeup, and eating a simple but delicious breakfast in the morning, and having a warm shower, doing more decadent skincare, putting on comfy cotton or satin pyjamas, journalling, enjoying a calming cup of herbal tea, reading, looking out the window at the moon, and falling asleep to relaxing sounds like ocean waves, gentle rainfall, and white noise at night. Her life runs like clockwork.

Is gentle, sweet, romantic, and full of love to give

[gmanmedias]

🌸 🌸 🌸

🌷 🌷 🌷

🌺 🌺 🌺

[6okuto]

i write so you know i love you

🧺 #27: "handwritten letters" with akaashi for @shobvrry :D

the first letter akaashi wrote for you was a short, anxious confession slid into your locker, folded neatly with a star sticker to keep it shut.

i just wanted to say i like you, and i’d like to take you on a date sometime if that’s okay with you. please don’t worry if you don’t feel the same way, but also please pretend you didn’t read this if so. thanks for being my friend. i’ll see you tomorrow :)

he didn’t expect to see you waiting for him after practice that day, the familiar paper in hand. with his ending request, among a dozen catastrophizing explanations stood one reasonable for your presence—

“i like you too, ’ji,” you said a little faster than practiced, heart stumbling at the sight of him.

it was sunset as you held the letter in one hand, and for the first time, keiji’s hand in the other on your way home—pink and orange ribbons of light finding a temporary home in interlocked fingers and brushing arms.

the confession is still carefully tucked away in a box of other gifts and letters you’ve received—the first in a section just from him. he could’ve easily texted at least a third of them, you pointed out once, a few days before your first anniversary, but he only shook his head. it was the romanticism of it all, and—

“what if you texted back right away? i wasn’t ready to handle that, i probably would’ve thrown up or ran away or something.”

his feelings after your first date, a request to see you after school a month after, then the letter celebrating your one month anniversary exactly 31 days later.

they built and built—words pulled from an endless well of love and poetic prose in hopes of capturing just how much you meant to him. you still like flipping through them all, on anniversaries or an otherwise insignificant thursday afternoon.

seeing the different decorations and envelopes and letter lengths throughout the years, only keiji’s handwriting remains the same throughout. it’s the same one that writes “i hope these aren’t sour,” “don’t forget your project by the printer,” “i hope you have a good day :),” and i love you, i love you, i love you.

so when your four year anniversary nears and he makes a remark about his gift, you ask “another letter for me?”

keiji stills, fingers slowing down as they flip the next page in his novel—dostoevsky, you think. his index and thumb start to pull the corner (not enough to fold, but reminiscent of what he does to the hem of his shirt when he’s nervous anyway.) “maybe?”

he fixes his posture, sitting up straighter on the couch. “is that…i know i write them a lot, huh? would you like—”

“no!” you shake your head. “no, i like the letters a lot, keiji, i promise. i just,”—you move next to him and frown—“i hope you don’t feel like you have to write them, you know? i don’t know how your hands don’t hurt a lot after. you could type them out and i’d be just as happy.”

but keiji shakes his head, and it feels a little similar to three years ago. “no, that’s not the same at all. i want to write them for you,”—he closes his book with his thumb as a bookmark, the other hand moving to hold yours—“that’s what makes them special.”

“plus formatting them digitally wouldn’t be any easier than my double-sided tape—do you want to take the joy of tape and stickers away from me?” he raises a brow and squeezes your hand in his.

you snort. “okay, you know what? fair enough.”

and keiji pours a lot of honesty, of himself, into his letters, but maybe one thing he’ll keep a secret is how often his hand cramps and red indents and cuts form on his fingers. because it’s inconsequential in the end, really nothing in comparison to the bright smile and hug you give him when he hands you the next letter a couple of weeks later, carefully folded in an envelope with a star sticker on the front.

[bio-stims]

emu otori stimboard! 🎡🍬

credits: x x x | x x | x x x