You should ditch the mask, Adam. You have a cute face.
“I know I’m—“
“—wait what did you call me?”
“…”
“Hehehehhh…Tha-Thank you. Uhm.”
“Where was I?”
“Ah, yeah. The mask. Yeah it stays on. I know I’m hot. It’s just cool? ‘Kay?”
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i was cuddling with my boyfriend last night when his shoulder started tensing up (like he was readjusting or gently pushing me off) and when i asked him if he was okay or needed me to move or something he went “no you’re fine, i was just imagining myself pulling a large rope. i didn’t even realize my shoulder was doing that lmao” then refused to elaborate and i have never been as attracted to him as i was in that moment.
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interesting how fords been surrounded by triangles his entire life. looks like ford and bill were always doomed to meet each other
ford did seem to think that he is destined to be in gravity falls, destined to be part of greater things, and bill also thought he was "destined for so much more"
to quote on alex, "that's ford's great flaw, is arrogance. is he believes that there's special people, and everyone else. that human attachments are actually weaknesses. and the song and dance that he’s giving dipper right now, is the song and dance that he gave mcgucket, back when they were younger��� ‘you and me are different, we’re better than everyone else. we have a path that no one else can understand, and only us can do this.’"
i think at some point bill really thought ford was the one that UNDERSTOOD him (well, ford did think "why did rudolph not simply kill the other reindeer? he shouldve burned his workshop to the ground"). some of his henchmaniacs didnt seem to actually like bill at all
quick edit for something ive found:
this is from "dreamscaperers", and apparently ford had been dreaming about the cipher wheel for weeks before he even found the cave. enough times that he was even able to perfectly draw the wheel on the journal. bill didnt even know about ford yet.
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madeleine picking death over the life without claudia the coven was offering her in the same episode where armand admits to having been given the same exact choice and having chosen himself over louis is so telling of what true selfless devotion looks like.
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sukuna ryomen is somewhat of an infamous bachelor.
it’s not surprising to see him with a new beau every few months, if not weeks — almost trope-like in their frequency, his image bouncing between playboy and manwhore. he doesn’t take it personally, and he makes sure to let people know: he’s young and sexy and he has two oscars, for fuck’s sake, so he thinks the world can cut him some slack when he wants to mess around. and mess around he does.
between obvious paparazzi shots of panties tucked badly into his back pocket, and instagram posts with fellow actors and models pressed tightly against his chest, most are divided between thinking it’s either damn good pr, or a simple man living a life most would wish for. regardless, nobody is surprised when sukuna arrives alone at the mugler show for paris fashion week, and leaves with someone on his arm.
the only thing that came as a bolt from the blue was that it was you hanging from him.
the photos are undeniable, a story in parts; sukuna finding his seat in the front row, you on one side and kendall jenner on his other. his eyes drifting from the models to your face, as if taking a clandestine peek. you, meeting his underhanded gaze with a smile as sweet as spun sugar — and, gasp, sukuna returning it. the display is so out of character for him it feels almost voyeuristic to see it plastered all over twitter.
you, with your vintage, girl-next-door-esque image, big hair and big eyes and demure, calf-length hems, a voice that evokes the memory of helen forrest or ella fitzgerald. him, with his smudged eyeliner and tattoos and all-black attire, persistently typecasted as the panty-dropping bad-boy or devil-smiled brute. it shouldn’t work. for all intents and purposes, he should be spotted with a new supermodel the next week, leaving you in the dust of his philandering. most expect it, wait for the other boot to drop — expect an album of heartbreak from you, but—
a month passes. and another, and another. and suddenly sukuna ryomen, notorious rake, is photographed backstage at your shows. suddenly there’s an anklet hanging from your ankle, his initials in garnet. it’s early morning paparazzi pictures of you both in sweatpants and hoodies — yours, suspiciously oversized — one of his hands engulfing yours, the other holding a bag of takeout from a local breakfast spot, a lit cigarette in his mouth. hickies on your neck and a shit-eating grin on sukuna’s face. candid snaps taken at intimately sized parties, with his chin hooked over your shoulder and his large hands cupping your stomach. tiktoks of you both on the red carpet in the background of somebody else’s interview, sukuna leaning in close to brush an eyelash from your cheek.
neither of you confirm anything, but then — you don’t need to, do you?
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