#winston murray

[thatfantasynerd10]

Remember when Bailey's sister told him to grow up and he replied with

“That is precisely what I’m doing,” Bailey says. “I don’t care if you don’t understand that. Staying here won’t make me happy. It will make you happy because you are insipid and boring, and an insipid, boring life is enough for you. It’s not enough for me. It will never be enough for me. So I’m leaving.”

Hey gurl you dropped something MY JAW

[star-shine-1464]

Hi uhhh ok just listen-

So a long while ago, after seeing other peoples’ interpretations of a human Bill Cipher design (and also after taking slight inspiration from Alex Hirsch’s canon human Bill design), I figured, ‘hey how about I try that too?’ And then I did, but then I also made an OC cuz of course I did.

So uh yeah this is my human Bill Cipher design! I don’t quite know what I originally wanted him to look like, but in the end I think he kinda looks like a weird librarian. Which is…not something I expected, but it’s better than nothing.

And this guy here is my OC, Winston Murray. He’s basically supposed to be Bill’s roommate, although the two of them don’t really like each other like…at all. And honestly I don’t even think Winston knows why he lets Bill stay in his house.

Here’s some additional doodles I made of the two:

This is all essentially just part of a dumb little Gravity Falls future AU thing I’ve had in mind; in which Bill returns as a human and it obviously sucks for him. Even more so when Winston, a decent human being, doesn’t let this bratty idiot get himself hurt or die by his reckless behavior.

It’s nothing extraordinary or really innovative, but I still like it and I just wanted to share what I’ve drawn with y’all.

So…yeah.

(Art, human design, and OC: me)

(Gravity Falls belongs to: Alex Hirsch and Disney)

[mood-by-raccoon]

Moodboard for Poppet and Widget from The Night Circus as requested by anon

[patriarch-noir-blog]

The Ghosts of Christmas Past

“Orphans. Animals. A zoo of animals and orphans. Take them to a zoo!” Phil was saying in his patented wry-verging-on-the-real humor. 

Winston was facing his office-proper, window expansive at his grey-suited chest. “Do you suppose that a zoo full of orphans and white tigers will get me the recognition of the Republican right wingers?” he asked with a sardonic grin. Christmas began in July, as far as the retail industry was concerned. Winston and GirlHouse were a part of that corporate machine, whether that would make sense to the right-wingers or not. Who was he kidding? He was a blight on the right-wing’s agenda, not simply because he appeared to stand against everything they represented. He also donated a great deal to liberal charities, and though he shared the tax bracket of the top ten percent, he would never quite fit into their acceptable box categorization. 

Despite this, religious holidays were observed by members of the house, as was expected in an eclectic group of young men and women. Though not all of the guests were gung-ho for the Christmas cheer, Winston was one to embrace it. The Murrays were a group of non-practicing Protestants, and the deceased Patriarch was a philanthropist to his benevolent core. No matter the mistakes, the sins the family might have committed, this was their absolution. So as they took, they gave tenfold. 

“How about a nice check?” Winston asked over his squared shoulder, positioned with pockets filled by steady hands, a widening smile punctuating his features. “Orphans don’t need a zoo. They need clothing and food.” These were realities that had been in his scope of understanding in his early childhood, but he kept his jaws clamped tightly together to keep from betraying this perhaps well-known secret. For who among his staff hadn’t been cautioned about the subjects they could and could not broach?

“Nice checks are for saints,” Phil extolled with a wink. He was quoting the elder Murray, and Winston bowed his head in a reverent and affectionate nod to the absent man. He put these sage ideas into the office ether often enough that his staff could shoot them back in clipped speech, framed by their Teacher’s Pet smiles. Phil was one of his most studious, and for that he was allowed into the sacrosanct inner circle. 

“Events are for sinners?” Winston asked as he pivoted on a well-shoed heel. “That’s a direct quote from yours truly.” Readied with a wink, sapphire eyes flashing at his protégé, he considered Phil’s cheeky proposals of Christmas mirth. “We have so much to make up for, don’t we?” So the GirlHouse group would lend a stamp of approval to various and clichéd heartstring-tugging cheer, and yet somehow, Winston would sit in darkness that night and ponder all his failures. There was nothing to be grateful for when you lived in a sandcastle, and on and on…he wished he could stop remembering his father’s tedious sayings. Just for one day, he wanted to hear only his own thoughts, his own realizations. Surely, his bed would be warm with another body, sheets occupied with naked limbs and a longing embrace. But for someone who didn’t see ghosts, Winston was too haunted to feel the heat, experience the solace. 

“Book an event, “ he said flatly, his mood soured. He didn’t feel like donning a Santa hat, or Christ forbid, attending a church ceremony. “A separate one. Just me alone…”

Phil’s smile was melancholy and knowing, and Winston wanted to shove his knuckles to his curling lips, to knock the expression from his pitying face. For that was what he was experiencing. Pity, solid and true, for the most famous of all the Murrays. “So…the orphans? At the zoo?” he asked softly, not a trace of the sardonic. But pity, it remained. 

“Yes,” Winston answered in sharp report. He sensed Phil’s retreat before his gaze turned to taste the narrowing perspective of it, the horizontal line that elongated that departing figure. As the entrepreneur gave a nod to the silver-sleek view of the darkening city-scape beyond his office window, he smiled again, and this time it was a taste of the genuine. Because not all of the life of the rich was barren; he had his family, and it was beyond the blood and bone. 

“Winnie…” Mia whispered over his shoulder, for every joy would be chased by a centering taste of the sour. 

His head didn’t turn, and she wasn’t truly there. He hadn’t heard a thing, not the voice of the dead, this was certain. The Ghost of Christmas Past was simply beckoning the young patriarch out of his musings of salvation.

Just a taste of the sour.