#Transforming Vintage Furniture

[viapu-com]

Rediscover comfort and style in your home with these 20 beautiful home designs using bar stools with backs. A mix of elegance and functionality for every space!

[fratttymatty]

The Basement

(All characters are 18+)

Elliot York had always lived in a world of his own making. A world painted in shades of faded Polaroids, sepia-toned photography, and the tactile hum of his beloved vintage film camera. At 30 years old, he'd never left his childhood home. His mother didn’t mind. She was just happy he was there, safely tucked away in the basement, where he spent hours surrounded by his photography equipment, sketchbooks, and the scent of old books. His life had always been quiet and unassuming—except for the occasional flare-up of frustration over his stalled career as a freelance photographer and artist.

The basement was his sanctuary. He had put up curtains to separate the clutter of his workspace from the cozy corner where he gamed, lounged on old leather sofas, and tried (and failed) to distract himself from the loneliness that gnawed at him. The art on the walls, his collection of vintage cameras, the scattered paintbrushes and half-finished canvases—they were all remnants of a dream that had long been abandoned. But Elliot had found peace there, or at least a dull form of acceptance.

But one evening, as he sunk into his usual routine—editing photos, sipping cheap wine, and scrolling through social media—something strange began to happen. The room felt different. The walls started to shift and hum with an energy that he couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t a good feeling, not the cozy, familiar vibe that usually calmed him after a long day. No, this was something else. It was unsettling, almost alien.

Elliot stood up, his bare feet cold against the concrete floor. He reached for his phone to check the time, but the screen went black before he could tap it. As if on cue, the lights flickered, then dimmed, and then everything went dark. The silence that followed felt suffocating.

Before he could react, the floor beneath him began to tremble. His heart raced, and the air seemed to pulse with something he couldn’t name. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash, a searing light that filled every corner of the room. He shielded his eyes, but it was no use. The glow was everywhere.

The sound of furniture shifting, re-arranging itself, reached his ears. When the light finally faded, Elliot opened his eyes to find that the basement had transformed into something… different.

Where his art studio had once been, now stood a private gym. The walls were lined with weights, punching bags, and racks of dumbbells. There was a neon sign in the corner that read “GET BIG OR GO HOME,” and a large flat-screen TV mounted on the opposite wall, with gaming consoles strewn across a low table. His leather sofas had been replaced with sleek beanbag chairs, and there were posters of famous athletes and cars decorating the walls. The entire room reeked of sweat and testosterone.

Elliot staggered backward, his mind scrambling to process what had just happened. He looked around in a daze. This… this wasn’t his space. This was some jock’s lair. It was everything he wasn’t. But before he could piece together what was going on, he felt a strange tug in the pit of his stomach. It was an almost physical sensation, a deep, primal force pulling at him, rewiring him, altering him in ways he couldn’t comprehend.

And then it started.

His body began to heat up, the air around him feeling thicker, as if his very cells were being remade. His skin stretched and tightened, his muscles swelling unnaturally as the change began. Elliot gasped, but the sound came out wrong. His voice, once soft and melodic, deepened into something guttural, more masculine. The edges of his vision blurred as the pain started to radiate from the inside out.

His hands, once slender and artistic, grew thick with muscle. His arms were covered in a sheen of sweat as his shoulders broadened and his chest expanded. His abdomen contracted and thickened, forming the abs of a bodybuilder. He could feel the air leaving his lungs as the transformation continued—each breath a battle. His legs grew stronger, thicker, the bones in his legs cracking and reshaping, giving him the powerful legs of a jock.

As the changes continued, Elliot's mind was bombarded by new thoughts, new instincts. The urge to lift weights, to work out, to dominate, it all consumed him. His thoughts flickered and shifted, like pages turning in a book, each one erasing a part of his old self.

His hair was the first thing he noticed. The bleached buzzcut he had been sporting for the past year—decorated with delicate flowers and a symbol of his indie artist lifestyle—was gone. In its place was a thick, dark brown fringe that fell messily across his forehead, styled in the latest TikTok jock fashion. He ran a hand through it, surprised at how it felt so right to him now.

His clothing, too, had transformed. The oversized hoodie and vintage jeans he had been wearing were gone, replaced by a fitted, tight athletic shirt and cargo shorts that clung to his newly muscled thighs. He stared at himself in the reflective surface of the gym mirror. The person staring back at him was unrecognizable.

The most shocking change, however, was the way his mind worked. Elliot—no, the person who had been Elliot—was slipping away. His new name was Ethan. He knew that now. He felt it. The name Ethan York seemed to pulse in his veins. The old worries about art, about the future, about being different—all of that was fading. In its place, a new drive surged within him: sports, girls, and partying. The thrill of competition, of lifting weights, of kissing girls on couches like these… that was what mattered now.

Ethan stood there for what felt like hours, unable to tear his eyes away from the mirror. His entire identity was slipping through his fingers like sand. His old life—the life of an artist, of a photographer, of someone who had longed to find his place in the world—felt distant now, like it belonged to someone else. It no longer seemed to matter.

A loud cheer echoed through the basement, and Ethan realized with a jolt that there were people here now. His friends—his new friends—were hanging out in the basement, lifting weights, laughing, playing video games, and throwing around crude jokes. One of them, a tall guy with broad shoulders and a thick neck, slapped Ethan on the back.

“Yo, dude, you ready for the party later?” he asked, his voice full of that easy confidence that Ethan now understood all too well.

“Yeah, for sure,” Ethan replied with a grin that felt so natural, it was as if he had always smiled like this. His old self—the one who had stared at the world through the lens of a camera, capturing fleeting moments—was gone.

As Ethan joined his friends, slipping into the role of the charismatic jock, he realized that there was no going back. He had been reborn. His old life, his old dreams, everything that had once been important to him, now felt hollow, irrelevant.

The basement—the gym, the gaming consoles, the posters of athletes—was no longer a prison of his own making. It was home. And for the first time in a long time, Ethan felt free.

He never once looked back.

The first few days after the transformation were a blur of new experiences, sensations, and… changes. Ethan, as he was now called, settled into his new life with an unsettling ease. At first, there was a part of him—buried deep inside—that clung to the remnants of his old identity. The artist. The creative soul. The man who had spent years living in his mother's basement, making art and dreaming of a different life. But that part of him quickly became overshadowed by the aggressive, hyper-masculine energy that now consumed him.

The more he worked out, the more his body seemed to crave the endorphin rush of weightlifting, of winning, of being the best. His muscles were constantly sore, but the pain felt good—it felt like he was becoming something greater, something stronger, something… dominant. And the more he grew in this new identity, the more he found himself disdainful of anything weak, anything soft. His patience with his old hobbies—photography, art, writing—waned. His camera, once a tool of self-expression, now sat neglected in the corner of his room, gathering dust.

Ethan started to feel that old life was for losers. The people he used to admire—quirky artists, introverted thinkers, anyone who didn’t fit into the tight mold of a jock—seemed… pathetic now. And in its place, a new breed of arrogance and entitlement bloomed within him. He was the center of his world now, and he knew it. The stares, the whispers—he loved them. He could feel the eyes of girls on him whenever he walked into a room, and it sent a rush of pride through his veins.

"Yo, Ethan, you gonna hit the gym today or what?" a voice called out as he walked through the basement. His buddy, Kyle, was sprawled across the new couch, his feet up on the coffee table, wearing a tank top that showcased his broad arms.

"Yeah, in a minute," Ethan replied with a lazy shrug, flipping his dark, messy hair out of his eyes. He no longer cared about the quiet, artistic moments he'd once cherished. Instead, he reveled in the shallow conversations, the jokes about how much protein they were consuming, and the constant flexing of muscles.

But then there were those moments, the ones that made his blood boil—moments that left a sour taste in his mouth, even in the high of his newfound popularity.

One evening, he was hanging out with a group of his friends—drinking beer and playing video games in the transformed basement, laughing too loud, throwing insults at each other like it was the height of wit. The mood was light, but there was something that cut through the laughter that made Ethan’s muscles tense, his jaw clench.

A guy he barely knew—Mark, one of the freshmen from the high school he still technically attended—had shown up at the party, wearing a tight shirt that clung to his body a little too snugly for Ethan's liking. Mark wasn’t a jock, not in the way Ethan now thought of as right. He was more on the geeky side, wearing glasses and talking too much about video games instead of football.

“Yo, Ethan, I didn’t know you liked photography,” Mark said awkwardly, holding a bottle of soda like it was his lifeline.

Ethan glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, I used to be into that art stuff. Now I’m focused on real things, y’know? Like... working out.” His voice was rougher now, full of the newfound arrogance that he couldn't even recognize as self-loathing anymore.

Mark fumbled with his drink. "Oh, cool. I mean, I think it's awesome how, like, artistic people can still be jocks."

Ethan’s expression shifted immediately. His lip curled into a sneer, and his eyes narrowed. “Artistic, huh? That’s cute. You know what I think about art?” He looked down at Mark with mock pity. “It’s for soft people. You know, like… weirdos.” His words were sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. The others at the party laughed, clearly uncomfortable but complicit in the joke.

Mark flushed, visibly shrinking under Ethan’s gaze. Ethan wasn’t even thinking about it at this point; he was just speaking what came naturally. The idea that someone could be into photography and still be tough, still be masculine, felt so wrong to him now. He couldn’t put it into words, but his gut told him that real men didn’t concern themselves with art or sensitivity. Real men got girls, lifted heavy weights, and dominated life. His new life.

But it wasn’t just about art. Ethan’s homophobia had grown like a weed in a garden, spreading uncontrollably. It was like his new self had to rewrite every part of him, especially the parts that could be considered “weak” or “soft.” His tolerance for things that felt “feminine” had evaporated, and soon, even the smallest hint of something that was remotely “gay” or “queer” made his skin crawl.

At one point, when a guy from school—Chris—who was a bit more effeminate and openly gay, sat down on the couch near him, Ethan felt his blood pressure spike. Chris had always been polite, always too friendly, but Ethan had never given it much thought—until now.

"Hey, Ethan," Chris said, adjusting his hoodie and running a hand through his sleek hair. "You up for a game later?"

Ethan didn’t look at him at first. Instead, he took a long swig of his beer, his eyes scanning the room. "Nah, man. I’m good," he muttered, his tone dismissive.

Chris laughed awkwardly. "Alright, well… if you change your mind, you know where I am."

Ethan’s eyes flicked back to Chris, narrowing. “Honestly, dude, you should maybe… like, tone it down a little,” he said, his voice low, deliberately cutting. "You don’t have to be all... effeminate all the time. It’s a little weird."

His words hung in the air, like a heavy stone.

Chris blinked, clearly taken aback. "What do you mean?" he asked, his face shifting with confusion.

Ethan leaned back, his gaze hardening. "I mean... just… you're acting like you’re in a fucking musical or something." He chuckled, but it sounded hollow even to him. “You don’t need to act so… gay all the time. It’s just uncomfortable for everyone.”

There was a cold silence in the room. Mark, Kyle, and the others shifted uncomfortably, but no one said anything. They just stared, either not caring or too afraid to speak up.

Ethan didn’t care. He was beyond caring.

He was a man now. And men didn’t have time for weakness, for sensitivity, for anything that didn’t fit into the world he had molded for himself. The girl he had been flirting with earlier, Mia—she was all over him now, and that felt like the only thing that mattered. He wasn’t some soft, emotional artist anymore. He was Ethan York, and he was popular, and he was a man.

The party continued late into the night. Ethan and his friends played video games, traded insults, and knocked back more beers. The air was thick with bravado, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. But Mark—who had been pushed aside by Ethan's cruel words earlier—remained quiet, nursing his soda.

He watched Ethan, his old classmate, with a strange mix of fascination and unease. Something about Ethan had shifted, something deep, something unsettling. But at the same time, Mark couldn’t help but feel a weird sense of longing—a desire to be part of the group, to be part of what Ethan had become. There was a magnetism about Ethan now, something powerful and alluring. And despite everything inside him that told him he didn’t belong in this world, a small voice in his head whispered that maybe, just maybe, he could change.

It was then that the transformation began.

It started subtly, like the shifting of shadows, creeping through Mark’s body like a slow burn. He felt a wave of heat flood through his chest, his limbs tingling with unfamiliar energy. He was still sitting on the couch, his eyes locked on Ethan as if hypnotized, but everything around him seemed to blur. His body seemed to ache, his muscles pulsing as if they were being stretched and expanded.

Mark’s hands clenched, his knuckles cracking as his fingers thickened with new muscle. His legs seemed to twitch, his jeans growing tighter around his thighs as they bulked up, swelling with new strength. He gasped, his breath catching in his throat as his entire body seemed to reshape itself, and his thoughts—his old, nerdy thoughts—faded away, replaced by an overwhelming desire to fit in, to be powerful, to be strong.

His clothes felt tight, uncomfortably so, and with a sickening snap, his shirt ripped open across his chest as his pecs ballooned out. His face burned, his jawline sharpening, and his hair—once messy and unruly—now fell in a dark, tousled fringe that framed his face in the exact same style as Ethan's. He barely recognized himself. Mark’s body, once scrawny and awkward, was now a mass of muscle, solid and imposing.

He stood up, suddenly feeling taller, stronger—almost as if he was made to stand out. He looked around the room, his gaze landing on Ethan, who stared back with a mixture of amusement and pride. Mark didn’t say a word.

The transformation had taken hold completely.

“Yo, Ethan,” Mark said, his voice now deep and confident, full of swagger. His tongue felt heavier in his mouth, and his words came out with a new arrogance, “This is fucking awesome.”

Ethan smirked, clearly satisfied. "Welcome to the team, bro," he said, throwing an arm around Mark’s newly broad shoulders, the two of them standing side-by-side. It felt natural, as if this was how it had always been.

Mark didn’t hesitate. His old self—the nerd, the shy, creative guy who had spent hours tinkering with gadgets and buried in his books—was gone. In its place stood someone who had finally found their place in the world. Mark was a man, and he wasn’t going back.

The soft hum of the gym in Ethan’s basement was now a constant background noise in his life—weights clanging, music blasting, and the occasional cheer of a newly broken record. The basement had been his domain, but in the last few months, it had become more than that. It had become the center of his life, not just in terms of workouts and gaming, but in how he’d built the new life he’d always dreamed of—confident, strong, and undeniably him.

But the biggest change had nothing to do with the weights or the video games. It had everything to do with her.

Mia.

She was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked up under her as she flipped through a magazine, occasionally glancing up at Ethan as he adjusted his dumbbells. The space between them was no longer just one of attraction or chemistry—it was something deeper now, something rooted in trust and understanding. They had been together for several months, and while the world around Ethan had transformed beyond recognition, there was one constant—Mia.

And she’d always had a way of seeing beyond the surface.

“Hey, how’s the game going?” Mia asked, a playful edge to her voice. She didn’t need to say much to get his attention.

Ethan grinned, setting down the weights. He wiped the sweat from his brow, then leaned against the wall, glancing at her. “Crushing it. Of course.” He winked, his tone cocky, but the smile on his face was genuine.

Mia raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eyes. “You’re always crushing it,” she said, her voice light but full of affection. "You need to teach me your secret sometime."

Ethan laughed, walking over and sitting next to her on the couch, his hand naturally resting on the back of her neck. He let his fingers trail lightly over the skin there, brushing away a strand of hair. “You mean the secret to being irresistible?” he said, voice laced with playful arrogance.

She snorted. “You really do have an ego now, don’t you?”

He grinned, but the cocky edge in his voice softened. “Maybe a little. But I’m not complaining. Life’s good right now.” He took a deep breath, feeling the quiet satisfaction of his success, but it wasn’t about the muscles or the achievements. It was about the life he had built—and who he was building it with.

Mia reached up to cup his jaw, her fingers gentle as they traced the sharp line of his face. She studied him, her expression softening. “Yeah,” she said quietly, “I can see that. But you know what? I’m proud of you, Ethan. You’ve worked hard for all of this. I see the difference in you.”

Ethan smiled, the weight of her words settling warmly in his chest. “I don’t think I could’ve done it without you, Mia.”

She tilted her head slightly, still holding his gaze. “Maybe not. But you did it. And that’s all you.”

There was a silence between them—one of those comfortable, content moments that didn’t need any words. He knew what she meant. She wasn’t just talking about the physical changes—those were easy. What she meant was that he’d grown into a person who wasn’t afraid to be himself anymore. He wasn’t pretending to be someone he wasn’t, or hiding behind old insecurities. He was a man who had claimed his place in the world—and who had found someone who not only accepted him, but loved him for exactly who he was.

Their lips met softly in a kiss, one that wasn’t rushed or full of desperation, but one that carried years of silent understanding. They’d both grown over the past months—not just together, but as individuals. Ethan had finally come to realize that strength wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, too. And Mia had always been there, steady and real, pulling him forward whenever he felt like he was slipping.

As they pulled away, Mia grinned up at him. “So, what are we doing tonight? I was thinking we could actually hang out in the real world instead of this basement gym.”

Ethan laughed. “You mean… like a date? Outside of this cave?”

“Exactly,” she said, her smile wide and genuine. “Maybe we could hit up that new sushi place you’ve been talking about? You know, actually go somewhere without a weight bench involved?”

Ethan thought about it for a moment. He was used to the basement—the familiar pull of weights, the games, the comfort of his private space. But as he looked at Mia, at the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about something as simple as dinner out, he realized that there were more important things than the four walls that had once defined his life.

“Sounds perfect,” he said, reaching down to take her hand. “I think I’m ready for something new.”

Mia grinned, squeezing his hand. “You mean you’re finally ready to leave your little kingdom?”

Ethan chuckled, pulling her up from the couch and leading her toward the door. “Maybe. But don’t get used to it. The basement's still got a few more workouts left in me.”

Mia laughed, her head resting against his shoulder as they walked out the door together. She was right—Ethan had changed. And while the muscle and the confidence were part of it, the real change had happened inside. He was no longer the guy who hid in the shadows of his mother’s basement, afraid to show the world who he truly was. Now, he was the man who had built his life, step by step, with the strength of his own will—and with the love of someone who saw him, really saw him, for all of it.

And as he stepped into the world outside, hand in hand with Mia, Ethan knew that whatever came next, he was ready for it. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t just surviving. He was living.

And he had someone by his side to enjoy it with.

[thegatesofsilverandbone]

Sophie had always been drawn to things with a history. Whether it was second-hand furniture or vintage clothes, she loved anything with a story behind it. So when she saw the listing for an old blue truck at an estate sale, she couldn’t resist. It was beat up and worn, but that just meant it had character. It felt like more than just a car; it was something with a past, and now it was hers.

After scraping together enough cash from her summer jobs, she bought it. It was her first car, and though the exterior had clearly seen better days, she felt proud driving it. This truck was going to be her companion on adventures, her ticket to freedom.

Curiosity led her to start exploring the truck as soon as she climbed into the driver's seat. She adjusted her oversized t-shirt—an old comfy one she’d thrown on—and opened the glove box, hoping to find some old paperwork or maybe a forgotten receipt. Her fingers brushed against something metal, and she pulled out a simple, tarnished chain necklace. It was an odd find, but intriguing nonetheless. Without thinking much of it, she slipped it around her neck, the cool metal brushing against her skin.

Suddenly, a tingling sensation spread from her chest and radiated through her body. Her breath hitched as her reflection in the rearview mirror shifted before her eyes. The young woman staring back at her began to change, her features subtly morphing.

Her hands were the first to change, her delicate fingers thickening and roughening, her nails taking on a chipped, unpolished look as if they had seen years of hard work. She watched in astonishment as her slim arms grew more muscular, the once soft skin darkening with a fine layer of hair. Her biceps swelled, stretching the fabric of her t-shirt, and the soft lines of her youthful form hardened into the build of a man in his prime.

Her chest expanded, muscles tightening beneath the shirt, but what caught her attention most was the hair—a thick mat of chest hair sprouted where her skin had once been smooth, rising up toward her collar. The t-shirt she wore now clung to her changing frame, the neckline dipping lower as her body became more masculine, more rugged.

Her legs followed, her slim thighs and smooth skin now bulking up, becoming more powerful, covered in a dense layer of hair. Her cut-off shorts, once feminine and cute, now looked different against the thicker, stronger legs of a man.

Sophie’s face began to shift next. Her jawline squared, her cheeks filling out with the weight of years she hadn’t lived. Dark stubble spread over her chin and cheeks, quickly growing into a full beard. Her eyes, once wide with youth, now held the depth and confidence of someone who had lived a long life. Her reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable.

And yet, as her body transformed, so did her mind. Her memories as Sophie started to blur, fading away like a dream forgotten upon waking. She no longer remembered what it felt like to be Sophie. Instead, her mind filled with the experiences of someone else entirely.

She was Matt now—had always been Matt, hadn’t she? He blinked, the confusion settling as his memories clicked into place. He remembered this truck—his truck. He’d been working on it for years, taking it out on road trips, fixing it up, and restoring it. The necklace on his chest felt familiar, a small trinket that had always been with him, a lucky charm from a friend.

He scratched his beard, his strong, calloused fingers brushing over the hair that had become so familiar. He chuckled to himself, wondering why he had been sitting there, daydreaming about something so strange. After all, he had somewhere to be. His boyfriend was waiting, and Matt had promised to pick him up for their date.

Shifting in the seat, Matt adjusted his t-shirt—it was a simple, comfortable one, much like the one he had always worn on casual days like this. His muscular chest pressed against the fabric, and his shorts rode up slightly as he shifted his weight in the driver’s seat.

With a deep breath, he turned the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life beneath him. The truck, worn and well-loved, felt like an extension of himself. His hands, rough and familiar, gripped the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway, ready to head out for a night with the man he loved.

The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the landscape as Matt drove, a calm smile on his lips. The life he remembered as Sophie had faded into nothing, replaced by the confident, comfortable existence of Matt, a man who knew exactly who he was and where he belonged.

As he drove toward his boyfriend’s house, the world around him felt just right. He’d always been Matt, after all—a man with a loving partner, a life full of adventure, and a truck that had been with him through it all.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Nice restoration on this 1890 Italianate Victorian in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It's white, but the restoration is very good, so it needs the new owners to put their own stamp on it. 4bds, 2.5ba, $525K.

The wood has been stripped, but they accented the posts in black and brightened the rest up with white.

I can't tell if they oiled the bare wood or put a satin finish on it, but I like it.

The sitting room has a wonderful original marble fireplace.

What were they thinking with that modern light fixture and modern furniture. Why do buyers feel that they have to make their beautiful historic Victorians look new?

Totally in love with the way they did this kitchen. No ugly new or 80s style cabinetry. How refreshing.

And, they left the ancient fireplace. Wish they didn't paint it white, so you could see the details of the old brick.

This is cool. They left the scullery untouched and didn't make it a home office or something.

And, there you see the original maids stairs going up to their quarters from the scullery.

Look at the sink in the guest powder room. What a beauty.

The primary bedroom is large and has another original marble fireplace, but unfortunately, they never put in a closet. I would have to get a carpenter to come in and design one against this back wall.

Small bath with modern tile, vintage tub & sink.

If this became a child's room that mantle would look adorable painted in pastel colors.

Look at the fireplace in this room. Beautiful.

This bedroom is huge and has an en-suite.

It was renovated with a modern shower, but the light and mirror look original.

The basement isn't finished, but they brightened it up with white paint. Look at the old foundation. And, there's a vintage sink.

It's not bad.

Looks like they watch TV and exercise down here.

They have a patio and fenced in yard in the back.

I wonder if that was an extension they build on the original home. I would buy this house, it's cool.

Looks like a nice neighborhood, but it's on a service road. That wouldn't bother me.

[simplykorra]

Ava’s fine, really. She’s perfectly fine and normal.

She’s not absolutely losing her shit as she and Beatrice step into the fucking cottagecore playground known as this fucking groundskeeper cabin out in the middle of the nowhere.

Everything is perfectly fine as she follows Bea inside, looks around at the beautiful layout of the cabin, with sun coming in through the windows and wood furnished everything on the inside.

The cabin is gorgeous, like something pulled out of a dream. There is vintage furniture, a fully furnished kitchen, a massive fireplace complete with a goddamn bear skin rug in front of it.

It’s not the first cabin Ava’s been to, but most of those were rentals in Windham for ski trips with rich tourists and journeys out to the woods for frat parties with a little extra money to pass around.

This? This is the kind of place you could spend the rest of your life in.

“The bedroom is at the end of this hall,” Beatrice says with a smile, looking back at her with her bag in her hands. “We called ahead of time and the kitchen is fully stocked.”

“It is?” Ava finds herself immediately racing to the kitchen and cracking open the fridge. “What the fuck? Who did this?”

“There are staff in and out of here year round, and of course the people who tend to the country house.”

Ava frowns as she looks at all the food tucked away on the shelves and in the drawers - it’s so much. “So people just…take care of this place on the off chance your family might use it once or twice a year?”

Beatrice nods as she sets her bag down, her face softening like she understands Ava’s train of thought - because she’s gotten really good at understanding Ava’s train of thought. “It seems wasteful, I know, but I do promise there are people here a lot and…it is work, well paying work at that.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Ava realizes it probably is, with the kind of money the Dalton-Lee’s have she imagines they don’t even think twice about forking it over to maintain their image. Just as she’s about to close the fridge door, she sees it. “Wait what the fuck?” She yanks open the drawer. “Hot dogs?!” She looks at Bea who is grinning sweetly.

“I put in a special request.” Totally and completely fine, not swooning at all. No way, not her. Ava is working, she’s working her ass off and not feeling anything other than excited. “That…is what is required of pigs in a basket, right?” She says, seeming anxious at Ava’s silence.

Of course, Ava has to fight off a laugh at her misstep. “Pigs in a blanket, Bea. Pigs in a basket would be like…if I cooked a bunch of hot dogs and stuffed them in a bread bowl.”

[oldiesstationlover11607]

'It's a good day' - Clancy!Tyler Joseph x Reader

Relationship: Clancy x Reader

Warnings: Dema

Word Count: 2248

A/N: Well... bandito battle prompt 2! This prompt was so cool bc I knew exactly which piece of art I was going to use for my inspo :) The prompt was to make something based off of another clique member's work so... I used @intheskatepark's it's a good day work!! As soon as I saw this art I fell in love with the whole forced sitcom concept. Also it was really fun writing a piece that wasn't requested for once hehe - NOTE I HAVE NO REQUESTS RN SO 🤷‍♀️

The vibrant hues of Clancy's living room enveloped me like a burst of sunshine breaking through the clouds. Brightly colored furniture—a cobalt blue couch that seemed to pulse with energy, a sunny yellow coffee table that radiated warmth, and mismatched armchairs in bold reds and greens—filled the space, transforming it into a sanctuary of joy amid the gloom of our reality. The lively palette was a stark contrast to the gray monotony of Dema, where colors felt like a luxury few could afford. In this room, I felt the weight of the world lifting just a little, standing before Clancy, the camera rolling as our characters seamlessly slipped into their playful routine.

“So, what do you think of the new coffee blend?” I asked, pouring an imaginary cup of coffee from a whimsical polka-dotted mug. Clancy leaned back against the vibrant couch, his posture relaxed yet playful, a teasing grin spreading across his face.

“I hear it’s like magic in a cup,” he replied, flashing a twinkling smile into the camera lens. The bright stage lights caught his cotton candy-colored hair, illuminating it like a beacon of hope, a stark contrast to the darkness that often loomed outside these walls.

“Maybe I’ll let you be my taste tester tomorrow,” I suggested, a playful glint in my eyes as I leaned in closer. These moments were my favorite—the delightful intersection where acting and reality blurred, where we could forget, if only for a moment, the burdens that awaited us.

“Only if you promise not to spill it on me this time,” he shot back, raising an eyebrow. Laughter echoed through the soundstage, a bright note amid our otherwise muted lives. “Last time, I looked like I fell into a rainbow.” More laughter erupted, filling the air with a lightness that felt almost magical.

“Hey, it’s part of the charm!” I chuckled, though a pang of unease stirred in my chest. It was a reminder of the weight of Dema’s constraints pressing down on us. This sitcom, It’s a Good Day, was supposed to be a distraction, a sickeningly sweet escape from the grim realities we faced, enforced by the Bishops. It was a perfect follow-up for the newly rising Dema celebrity, ‘Tyler Joseph,’ who had just released his number-one album, Scaled and Icy, with his so-called ‘band’ twenty one pilots. There was no band, only an electronically forced propaganda album made with pure physical and mental torture.

The vibrant furniture around us seemed to hum with life, echoing the joy we pretended to share. But beneath the bright colors, I knew we were merely two souls playing our parts, struggling against the confines of a world that sought to control us.

“So, about that touch-up?” I smiled at Clancy, running my fingers through his cotton candy hair as the script dictated. I gathered my hair dye kit from the colorful side table, the bright colors almost mocking the reality outside. “You look like you could use a little magic.”

“Only if you promise not to make me look ridiculous,” he replied, that teasing grin making my heart flutter like a butterfly caught in a gentle breeze.

“Trust me,” I said, pulling him toward a large, vintage mirror that hung on the wall. “I think we need to capture the moment. Let’s go with cotton candy—that’s always a hit.”

As I leaned in closer, the scent of his floral shampoo filled the air, mingling with the brightness of the room. I gently shaped his hair, a mix of excitement and tenderness flooding through me as I felt the warmth of his presence. Just as I began to dab the dye onto his locks, the studio lights flickered, casting playful shadows on the walls. Clancy tilted his head, glancing at our reflection in the mirror, and I caught a glimpse of the boy I’d grown to adore in this strange world we inhabited.

“You know, if we keep this up, we might just turn into a walking candy store,” he said, laughter bubbling in his throat, the sound brightening the atmosphere even further.

I smiled back, my heart racing. “What’s wrong with a little sweetness? It’s what this world needs more of.” Yet, deep down, I felt the tension rising, a reminder that our playful banter was merely a thin veil over the stark reality outside. The Bishops wouldn’t appreciate our little bubble of happiness, not when they thrived on compliance and conformity.

Clancy’s eyes sparkled with a mix of hope and sadness, trying desperately to stick to the script. “I totally agree! Which is why we attend our church sessions—the Bishops keep us afloat and make everything better!”

The words twisted in my gut like a knife.

Clancy leaned back, allowing me to work, the soft strands of his cotton candy hair slipping between my fingers. The sound of a cooking alarm chimed from the ‘kitchen,’ a playful reminder of our scripted lives.

“Better finish my hair because dinner is ready,” he quipped, grinning as we shared a laugh. I placed a quick kiss on his cheek, then froze.

“Cut!” the director yelled, and I breathed a sigh of relief, stepping away from the scene. I brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear, the playful smirk still lingering on my lips as I leaned in closer to Clancy. “You did great out there. Just try not to look so tortured next time,” I teased, hoping to infuse some warmth into our bleak situation.

Clancy chuckled softly, his warm brown eyes meeting mine. “Not sure I can help it,” he muttered under his breath. I knew he was right—there was nothing to be happy about here. But as we shared our lighthearted moments, I sensed the deeper connection simmering beneath the surface. We were both acutely aware of the roles we played, not just in the sitcom but in the larger game that Dema had set before us.

The director’s voice echoed in the studio, breaking the moment like a crack of thunder. “Alright, everyone! Let’s reset for the next scene!” The cheerful chatter of the crew filled the air, but the weight of reality began to seep back in, reminding me of the world beyond the colorful set. I glanced at Clancy, whose playful demeanor flickered as he stood up, brushing off the remnants of our scene.

“Do you ever think about what’s really happening out there?” I asked, my voice lowered to avoid the prying ears of our crew. “I mean, outside this bubble we’ve created.”

Clancy paused, his smile fading slightly as he turned to face me. “All the time,” he admitted, his gaze drifting to the window where the fading light of day fought against the encroaching shadows of Dema. “Sometimes I feel like we’re just... puppets in this grand performance.”

His words hung between us, heavy with the unsaid truths we both felt but rarely dared to speak aloud. The Bishops controlled our every move, their watchful eyes always lurking just beyond the brightness of our set, reminding us that joy was a privilege few could afford in this stark world.

“I just wish we could break free from the script,” I confessed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “There’s so much more to life than this facade we wear.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re here,” he replied, his voice thoughtful. “To remind ourselves of what’s possible, even if it’s just for a moment.” He stepped closer, and I felt warmth radiating off him, a stark contrast to the chill that often enveloped me.

I met his gaze, our eyes locking in a moment that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. The vibrant colors around us faded into the background as the weight of our conversation took center stage. “But what if this moment is all we have? What if it’s never enough?” My heart raced, and I was acutely aware of the distance that separated us—not just the physical space, but the emotional barriers we built to protect ourselves from the harshness of reality.

“Then we make it count,” Clancy replied, his voice steady and filled with determination. “Even if we’re trapped here, we can still find our moments of joy.” He stepped closer again, and I could feel the magnetic pull between us, an unspoken desire to bridge that gap.

Before I could respond, the director's voice broke through again. “Alright, everyone! Let’s get back to work! The next scene is ready!” The air crackled with the energy of the crew moving into position, and I took a breath to steady myself, reluctant to leave the connection we had just forged.

As we prepared for the next take, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our playful banter was merely a mask, hiding the truth of our situation. But Clancy seemed determined to keep the spirit of our roles alive. “Just remember, when life gives you lemons, make a zesty lemonade!” he shouted, his voice ringing out with a mixture of humor and rebellion, causing the crew to chuckle.

I rolled my eyes, but a smile crept onto my face. “You’re ridiculous!” I laughed, feeling lighter, if only for a moment. The lights brightened again, and we slipped back into our characters, the facade settling comfortably around us.

After several more scenes, the day drew to a close. The crew began to wrap things up, but I could sense a heaviness lingering in the air, a reminder that our reprieve was temporary. As we finished the final scene, I caught Clancy’s eye again, and for a brief moment, everything else faded away.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low as he leaned closer, “can we talk? Like, really talk? Once we’re back in our cells?”

I nodded, my heart pounding with anticipation and a touch of fear. I knew what he was about to say would matter—a lot. After all, Clancy wasn’t just any prisoner; he was one of the leaders of the rebellion, a position that came with its own weight.

As we were escorted back to our cells, the familiar coldness of the concrete walls enveloped me. The laughter and lightness of the day faded away, replaced by the somber reality of our confinement. I found myself looking for Clancy in the dim light of the corridor, my pulse quickening as our eyes met.

Once we were alone in our respective cells, I leaned against the bars, feeling the chill of the metal against my skin. Clancy stood a few cells down, a silhouette against the sparse light. “I meant what I said earlier,” he began, his voice steady yet urgent. “You have to join us. The rebellion. We need people like you—people who can see beyond the charade.”

I felt my heart drop. “Clancy, it’s dangerous. You know that.” The thought of being swept up in a rebellion, of risking everything for a chance at freedom, terrified me.

He took a step closer, his expression fierce and earnest. “I know it is. But it’s also our only chance to reclaim what’s ours. We can’t keep pretending forever. The Bishops may think they’ve broken us, but we’re still here, still fighting in our own way.”

“Clancy, I—” I hesitated, my thoughts racing. It wasn’t just about the danger; it was about what it would mean for us. “What if it doesn’t work? What if we fail?”

“We won’t fail if we fight together,” he said, his voice filled with conviction. “I need you by my side. We need to show the Bishops that we’re more than just their puppets.”

The intensity of his gaze sent shivers down my spine, and for the first time, I saw beyond the colorful sitcom facade. I saw the fierce, passionate leader that Clancy was beneath the playful banter and bright hair.

“Clancy…” I whispered, my heart racing as I stepped closer to the bars that separated us. “I’m scared.”

“Me too,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I believe in us. In what we can become. If you join me, we can create something real, something powerful.” He paused, his expression softening. “And... I want you to be a part of my life, no matter what happens. I care about you, Y/N. More than I’ve let on.”

My breath caught in my throat as his confession washed over me, mingling with the swirling emotions I’d tried to keep at bay. “You care about me?”

“More than you know,” he said, stepping even closer. The distance between us felt electric, charged with everything we hadn’t said before.

“Then let’s do it,” I found myself saying, my voice firm with newfound resolve. “Let’s take the risk together. I want to fight for our freedom—and for you.”

A smile broke across his face, lighting up his features with a mixture of relief and joy. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” I replied, feeling a warmth spread through me at his hopeful expression. “But just so you know, I’m still going to dye your hair cotton candy.”

Clancy chuckled, the tension lifting. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

With a shared glance, a silent promise passed between us. We were no longer just two prisoners acting out a script; we were allies in a fight for freedom, our bond deepening with each word spoken, each risk taken. And as we prepared to face whatever came next, I knew that together, we were capable of creating our own story—one that would shine brighter than any sitcom ever could.

//

REQUESTS OPEN

Tags for bandito battle:

@banditobattlemotherfuckers @the-paladin-gay

[backseatbnha]

Imagine..

a Beauty and the Beast setting. You're a writer, and you enjoy publishing books in your local rundown library, owned by your friend Shinsou.

The town's man hunk, Bakugou, loves tormenting Shinsou. Everyone admires him for his strength, his intelligence, his beauty. He slays beasts that threaten the peace of your town. He's everything BUT nice. Truth be told, he likes you - he would never admit it, and instead resorts to picking on Shinsou.

One day, you notice that Shinsou's been gone for days now, and find out from rumors around the town that he's ventured out into the old, abandoned castle not too far away from town.

You set out to go look for him, and end up in trouble yourself. You're caught by Tokoyami Fumikage, the beast everyone had told you stories about when you were a kid.

You beg him to let Shinsou go, in return you would stay here forever. After much contemplation, Tokoyami agrees, and lets Shinsou go.

Over the next few weeks, you learn more about the bird-headed man. He's quite cold, but he's definitely got a soft side to him. Over time your bond grew. He takes care of you, and you take care of him.

You learn more about him through his friends - a bunch of talking furniture. A candelabra, whose name is Midoriya. A porcelain teacup, Eri. A tea pot, Ochaco. A vintage clock, Iida.

And more. Momo the fancy wardrobe. Todoroki the refrigerator.. the list goes on.

You learned from them that Tokoyami, and all of them, were bound to a curse. They were to never leave this castle until Tokoyami found true love. And they believe that you're the one.

So they all set you two up for a night of ballroom magic. You were prettied up nicely by Momo the wardrobe. She did the same for Tokoyami afterwards.

Then you both danced the night away, and for the first time in ten years, Tokoyami felt home in this castle he calls a prison.

One day, you see orange lights outside the kingdom. It wasn't the sunrise, it was a horde of townsfolk, raising torches. They've come to rescue you. You see Bakugou in charge at the front. His trusty sidekick, Kirishima, at his side to cheer him on.

Shinsou must have called them.. You hear them scream your name. They're looking for you. And they want Tokoyami's head on a pike.

Tokoyami faces Bakugou in a battle of swords, but alas, Bakugou always gets what he wants, even if it isn't fair, and shoots him right in the heart with his crossbow.

You scream in terror as you watch Tokoyami crumple up, arms over his chest. He glances at you one last time, before he falls to the ground.

While the town celebrated their victory, you scrambled over to Tokoyami's side. You needed to take him to a healer, but with all of this blood gushing out.. you think it's too late.

You sob, a loud scream rips from your throat as Tokoyami lays quiet in your arms. You hold him close, wishing you told him how you felt before all of this happened. You cry and cry for hours on end, praying for a miracle.

And like all fairytales do, something miraculous happened. The castle around you transformed.

Dirty vines turned into pretty flowers. Cracked floors turned into shiny marble floors. The broken walls repaired themselves. The whole castle transformed to look new, and elegant as it should have always been.

You see your furniture friends transform back into their human selves. They all embrace each other happily, in tears.

Your eyes land back on Tokoyami, and his red eyes are staring right back.

He smiles, and you engulf him in the tightest embrace. You cry tears of joy, and he hugs you back with just as much feeling.

You all celebrate for breaking the curse. Everyone's dancing, having a wonderful time. The happiest everyone's been in ten years.

Tokoyami, and all his friends, are eternally grateful, and promise to make you the happiest, just like you did for them.

AKA me wishing someone will write a Beauty and the Beast AU of BNHA,,, a Tokoyami x Reader especially

[luminol-of-the-stars]

Book Jackson/Holt lore is so interesting cause of the number of details brought up about their appearance and their livelihood as a whole. It feels very rounded in a sense due to how integrated they are into the story. I LOVE DETAILS

Details/Descriptions I think should be discussed more:

Both live with their mother in a cute white cottage, which has yellow roses in the front and generally a cheery exterior. However, the inside of the house is decorated with "dusty velvet couches, dark oriental rugs, and cluttered corners filled with knickknacks that could have arrived via time machine from Old World London" (pg. 181, Book 1). Also, described as "the dark funeral-parlor-style furniture"

Their mom is a science teacher at Merston High, though previously was a genetic research scientist. She wears "Woody Allen glasses, a sharp black bob, red lipstick, and a collection of pencil skirts and blouses in varying shades of black." (pg. 127, Book 1. ) Her personality is somewhat strict, but caring. She found out that overheating causes Jackson to transform, which was why she never let him play sports. She regards them as both of her sons and loves both.

Jackson's love for art is genuinely so cute and it's evident that he's very passionate about it. His fingers are occasionally stained with pastels and he just likes creating things in general, which is neat.

The fact that Jackson made ceramic flowers for a girl he liked is very wholesome, and then smashing it in the school parking lot cause she kissed a guy right in front of him is so real

DJ singing to Ke$ha

DJ knows more about Jekyll and Hyde than Jackson cause he actually looked into his family's history.

DJ calling Frankie "Firecracker" cause she sparks a lot.

In this version, their dad was the one with the Jekyll/Hyde trait instead of their mom.

Jackson wears a vintage Rolex in the fourth book (pg.81) that was his Dad's

For appearances, Jackson has brown hair, thick black glasses, and hazel eyes. Later on in Book 2, DJ gains his own appearance, that being blonde and blue-eyed (I got that from the MH wiki page so I can't really confirm).

Jackson glasses are from LensCrafters

Small details like these are very cool and they make the characters feel more realistic!

[outtheoiseaux]

The Blue Room

(An excerpt from a story)

Celine’s grandfather- along with the help of a young, spry and altogether cooky intern he hired fresh out of her masters degree at the Oxford school of Anthropology- manages to uncover a previously unknown storage room buried beneath the ashy ruins of Pompeii in the summer of Celine’s first year of middle school. Nicknamed the “blue room” for its cerulean wall paintings which feature profoundly vibrant frescoes of scantily clad female figures, The Blue Room is a true gem of history in that it is not only believed to have once served as a sacrarium- an ancient Roman room in which sacred artifacts would be stored for future use in rituals- it was also filled with stacks of hulking amphorae -massive vases used by slaves and artisans for artifact transportation- and sloping piles of discarded oyster shells which Celine’s Grandpa and his yellow-bellied intern believe to have been discarded by onsite workers who happened to have been using them in local renovations when the eruption occurred.

Much of this information Celine can readily skim from the crust of her mind solely because of the sheer amount of times she has heard the words repeated when her older cousin- an awkward and altogether bumbling seventeen year old boy from Cambridge who had been living with her and her grandfather for the last three or so years since his grandmother suddenly and tragically perished- would turn to her grandfather with his great, big, buggy black eyes prewet with wonder and stutter out yet another line of inquiry into the stoic old man’s exploits as an adventuring archeologist.

Grandpa Haber’s miraculous discovery of The Blue Room was of course the most miraculous in that it bolstered his reputation so thoroughly and impressively in his field that not even two years after the initial find, Celine found herself, her cousin and of course, her grandfather’s oddball of an intern-turned-assistant soaring across the globe from the quaint and sunny beaches of Punta Gorda in southwestern coastal Florida to the mild-climated, kitsch and colorful college town of Ann Arbor for his brand spanking new position as a professor with the University of Michigan.

“You know, it really does remind me of when my gran first got her position at Cambridge.” Joey whispers to her from behind the navy blue canvas veneer of Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion. “It really is bloody wonderful for the ego to come from a family like this; I mean, if we’re both descended from professors in their respective fields, it’s probably safe to assume we might have inherited some of their hereditary IQ.” From her window seat, Celine watches fat, slimy clouds spin lazily below, growing larger and larger with perspective as the plane makes its descent. If her great aunt’s intelligence is hereditary, she thinks to herself privately, then she really does hope that the woman’s fatal heart issues aren’t.

Their new home, Celine learns as her grandfather moseys up the winding paths of a spacy suburban sprawl in the rental car, is located in a sleepy, lightly forested town in the residential garden hills of northern Ann Arbor. The house itself is a beautiful thing; a historic unit with delicately patterned Tiffany windows, a charming, oaken porch which cuts into the first floor and wraps around the front, thick, wooden beams, charmingly kitsch vintage furniture, art deco wallpaper, wrought iron window decorations, a series of increasingly aged light covers hanging from the center of the Victorian ceiling moldings and a tasteful exterior which has been (to Celine’s admitted delight) painted entirely in a warm, dusky purple. Celine decides to call it The Purple House.

“How in the world do you think Mister Haber managed to afford a beaut like this?” Joey, entirely bug-eyed, marvels at the rows of inlaid bookshelves that wrap the walls of what appears to have once been an office room but must have been transformed by the previous residents into their private library of collector’s editions. “I mean, he’s not hard-pressed for funds by any means but for heavens’ake, you don’t make this kind of money in his sort of research, and the man isn’t a socialite!”

“A socialite?” Celine wrinkles her nose. “Why would he need to be a socialite?”

“This is a socialite’s house.” Her cousin dutifully informs her. “The only thing you could think to do with a parlor this dreadfully impressive is to host equally impressive gatherings.”

She would never let the poor thing know it, but Celine sometimes thinks that her cousin enjoys needless frivolities with a suspiciously intense sort of vigor. So suspiciously intense, in fact, that she’s starting to suspect he would benefit more from finishing school than a university education. Out of the corner of her eye, the gold inlaid label of Antigone flashes from a handsome, red, hard-cover canvas binding.

“You wanna go check out the rooms?” She bites out through an oh-so-innocent grin. Best to distract him before he can get his hands on some old tome from the previous tenants' personal collection.

“That depends,” Joey throws his head back in a hearty guffaw and his unit of a fringe flops around in earnest, “on whether or not you’ve got the guts to race me for first dibs?”

The Purple House, Celine eventually learns, is actually called the Hallisbury House- or at least was upon its construction by a couple of Nouveau-Richie gilded age socialites years ago. All of this she gleans from a series of tastefully arranged picture frames hanging along the walls in such an order that, if one were to trail slowly down the halls and view each image in order, she would witness the building of the home, the renovations over the years and the process of the lives of the original owners. Morbidly, the last hanging image in the series- an exorbitantly decorated framed print hanging over the fireplace as a centerpiece to the already elaborate mantle- depicts an artistically framed black and white shot (clearly taken on a modern, digital camera) of the original owners’ gravestones. Whoever lived here last had, she thinks, a very strong sense of humor.

Beneath the photograph, on a gilded, silver plaque, an engraving reads:

A beautiful photograph from a beautiful Daughter.

Celine’s new room is on the second floor, directly above the kitchen, and is the only bedroom in the house with a window that faces out to the front yard and driveway. These three facts are perhaps the only ordinary thing about the place. Much like the house’s exterior, Celine’s new room is almost entirely made up of various tasteful shades of purple. There’s a lilac shag carpet and a stained-indigo oak closet and a painted-plum oak dresser and a violet bean bag and a mauve mattress and byzantium tasseled pillows and an eggplant duvet. Everything from the floor to the baseboards to the walls to the Victorian ceiling moldings is painted in the color, so much so that Celine begins to wonder if the visual fatigue will make her see yellow the second she steps out. Everything from the floor to the baseboards to the walls to the Victorian ceiling moldings is painted the color purple- everything, that is, except for the bright, blood red velvet curtains draped in theatrical arcs and ruffles over the ostentatiously gothy bedside window. The other rooms in the house are perfectly normal looking, if a little antique. She checked every last one of them, and this is the outlier.

“A beautiful room,” Celine giggles out to the empty room, “for a beautiful daughter.” She takes great care to adopt a disgustingly thick Oxford drawl when she says it, then she giggles even more because it makes her sound a little too much like her cousin who used to live there.

[cherrygirlystuff]

Neon Dreams: How to Decorate Your Space with Indie Sleaze Aesthetics 🌙

Hey babe! Ready to transform your space into the ultimate indie sleaze sanctuary? 🖤✨ We’re talking neon lights, vintage posters, and all the grungy vibes that make you feel like you’ve stepped right into a 2000s house party or an underground gig. Whether you’re sprucing up your room or going all out on your entire apartment, I’ve got the tips you need to nail that effortlessly cool, lived-in look that screams indie sleaze. Let’s dive in and get your space looking as iconic as you are! 🎸

1. Neon Lights: The Glow-Up Your Space Needs

First things first, neon lights are an absolute must. They’re the ultimate statement piece that instantly gives your room that edgy, retro vibe. Think neon pinks, electric blues, and bright purples that make your space feel like a moody club or a cool dive bar.

How to Use Them: String them up along your walls, frame your bed, or create a focal point above your desk. For a more dramatic effect, mix and match colors to create a neon oasis that feels both chaotic and cozy.

Pro Tip: If you want to keep things extra nostalgic, opt for neon signs with phrases or symbols that capture the essence of indie sleaze—like a heart, lightning bolt, or a cheeky “open late” sign.

2. Vintage Posters: A Time Machine for Your Walls

Nothing says indie sleaze like a wall covered in vintage band posters and old-school art prints. These are the perfect way to pay homage to the era and showcase your music taste.

How to Style Them: Go for a collage look by mixing different sizes, colors, and textures. Layer posters of your favorite 2000s bands, grungy movie posters, and abstract art prints to create a visually chaotic but totally intentional wall display.

Where to Find Them: Hit up thrift stores, online vintage shops, or even print out high-res images and DIY your own posters. The more eclectic, the better!

3. Grungy Décor: Embrace the Messy, Lived-In Look

Indie sleaze is all about that perfectly imperfect vibe, so don’t be afraid to let your space feel a little messy and lived-in. Think worn-out furniture, scattered records, and cozy textiles that feel like they’ve been collected over time.

Furniture: Look for distressed leather chairs, velvet couches, and vintage coffee tables. Mix and match different styles and eras to create a space that feels authentically yours.

Accessories: Throw in some mismatched pillows, cozy blankets, and a record player with your favorite vinyls stacked nearby. The goal is to make your space feel like a creative haven where anything goes.

4. DIY Elements: Add Your Personal Touch

One of the coolest things about indie sleaze is how DIY it feels. Get crafty and add some personal touches to your space with DIY décor that reflects your style.

Ideas: Try painting an old mirror with neon accents, creating your own art with spray paint and stencils, or even making a wall hanging from thrifted fabrics. The possibilities are endless, and it’s all about making your space feel like an extension of your personality.

Pro Tip: Use washi tape to create geometric designs on your walls, or to frame your posters for an extra pop of color. It’s easy, affordable, and totally customizable!

5. Lighting: Set the Mood with Layers

Lighting is everything when it comes to capturing that indie sleaze vibe. Beyond neon lights, you’ll want to layer different types of lighting to create a moody, intimate atmosphere.

Ideas: String lights, lava lamps, and old-school lampshades are perfect for adding that grungy glow to your space. Drape string lights around your bed or hang them above your window for that dreamy, low-lit effect.

Pro Tip: Mix warm and cool tones to create depth and make your space feel cozy yet edgy. The key is to keep things a little dim and mysterious, like the after-hours vibe of a dive bar.

6. Textures & Layers: Cozy Meets Cool

To truly nail the indie sleaze aesthetic, it’s all about layering different textures and materials. Think leather, velvet, faux fur, and distressed wood—all working together to create a space that’s as cozy as it is cool.

How to Style: Layer a faux fur throw over a velvet chair, or toss some leather pillows on a worn-out sofa. Add a shag rug or a vintage Persian carpet to bring everything together. The goal is to create a space that’s inviting but also has that rock-and-roll edge.

Pro Tip: Don’t be afraid to mix and match patterns and textures. Indie sleaze is all about breaking the rules, so go wild with your décor choices!

7. Finishing Touches: The Devil’s in the Details

Finally, it’s all about those little details that bring the whole look together. Think quirky knick-knacks, old cameras, stacks of vinyl records, and ashtrays full of faux cigarette butts for that authentic grunge feel (without the smell, of course).

Ideas: Add some polaroid pictures on the wall, scatter some vintage magazines on the coffee table, or even display your favorite old sneakers as part of the décor. It’s all about making the space feel lived-in and loved.

Pro Tip: Incorporate elements that reflect your hobbies and passions—like a guitar in the corner, a stack of your favorite books, or a shelf full of vinyl records. Make your space a true reflection of who you are.

Final Vibes, Babe: Your Indie Sleaze Haven Awaits

And there you have it, your ultimate guide to transforming your space into an indie sleaze paradise! 🌙 Whether you’re going all out or just adding a few key pieces, the goal is to create a space that feels authentic, cool, and full of personality. So go ahead, get creative, and let your inner indie sleaze queen shine through your décor.

What’s the first thing you’re going to add to your space? Let me know in the comments, and don’t forget to share pics of your indie sleaze-inspired rooms! Happy decorating, babe! ✨

[pookasluagh]

“You sound very enthusiastic,” Lee said. Crowley just snorted. “What kind of car is that? Looks fancy.”

“Some old-as-fuck vintage Bentley that makes no logical sense to own,” Zee said.

“Fuck off,” Crowley said. “It’s hardly vintage—2005 model, and I bought it secondhand.”

Zee exchanged a mischievous look with Lee. “This is the man who shops at IKEA for furniture.”

“Priorities! I spend more time in my car than I do in my flat!”

“Does his IKEA-habit matter if he’s living with you anyway?” Lee asked, earning a cackle from Crowley.

Zee waggled a finger at his mobile. “Now, now, sis—you’re meant to be on my side here.” Before she could respond, he raised an eyebrow and said, “And I want you to tell me what you’re planning, oh devious one. With this whole hotel-and-overnight-stay deal. Because I know you’re planning something.”

“What are you talking about?” Her feigned innocence did nothing to convince him. “Is it so wrong of me to want to spend more time with my brother and his new partner? His first partner after so many years? One who might be a brother-in-law before I next see him, at the rate you two are going?”

Crowley snorted again. Zee rolled his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

“You two are taking ‘U-Haul lesbian’ to a new level.”

***** Chapter 22 is live – time to meet the new neighbor and head out to meet Zee’s sister! (ie lots of domestic fluff and ineffable bickering)

Fic description: Zee (Aziraphale) Marsh is a widowed hermit who secretly writes bestselling romance novels under the pseudonym Bella Swansea. His life is rigorously controlled until his new downstairs neighbor arrives. Anthony Crowley causes something to come alive in Zee that he hasn't seen in over twenty years, but Crowley brings with him some of his own very dark secrets. // Human AU, E rating.

[nuri148]

My Trip to Japan! ⛩️ Part 2

15.12.

🍃🍂Ghibli Park!!!🍂🍃

AKA the trigger for all this madness. It was when they announced that Ghibli was going to open a theme park that going to Japan went from dream to plan.

Getting tickets was an adventure on its own. I had to sit in front of the computer on the day and time they went on sale (a Sunday at 7 am, Spain time) and get in the virtual queue like it was a freaking Taylor Swift concert, to secure my spot. They had this perverse system where you have to get a ticket for each of the 3 areas of the park, and each has its allocated entry time. To complicate matters further, not all entry slots are available from abroad, only two for each area, which required significant research between blogs, reviews, and videos to figure out the most convenient order to see everything.

We headed to Aichi; at the end of the subway line (this one had elevators), we changed to the Linimo, Japan's only maglev (magnetic levitation train). It was built for Expo 2005, and Ghibli Park is now located on its premises. We arrived very early, bought lunch at the konbini for later, and went to the first gift shop. Consumerism is rewarded here: each shop within the park offered slightly different things, so we had to go through them all. I swear I did not actually buy in all of them.

We started in the Hill of Youth area. Around the Whisper of the Heart roundabout, you'll find the antique shop/house from the movie, the cat office from The Cat Returns, and the bus stop from My Neighbor Totoro. There's also a real mailbox, and letters dropped there carry a postmark from the park. I knew this already, so I sent myself a postcard.

The cat's office is beautiful, built to scale and all detail outside and in, with figures of the Baron and Muta chatting in the living room.

But the antique shop... That house is something else. Everything is recreated in the smallest detail, from the luthier workshop below, with woodchips scattered on the floor, worn-out tools, violins in different stages of construction, to the living area upstairs, featuring vintage furniture from the sixties, incredible. The drawers and cabinets are full of things, not recreations (except the food in the fridge lol), real things from bygone times, normal things you find in houses. And you can open them and peek. Matches, kitchen towels, a bag of cat food. Mismatched crockery and cutlery as it’s normal in houses where actual people live. Cleaning stuff. Old postcards and magazines.

The painstaking  work they must have undertaken of searching through antique shops and flea markets all over Japan to achieve such level of detail is absolutely mind-blowing. And the shop itself, omg... You have the Baron statuette, of course, with its mesmerizing eyes; the carrousel horse, the chimney... And the clock. Which we waited for because it activates every half hour. Yes, that clock, with the elves mining gemstones and the prince contemplating his princess before the day transforms her back into a sheep; all that is right there, live, for real. I’m not crying, you are crying.

From there, we went to the Grand Warehouse, the biggest area of the park. It is, as it says, a big warehouse with different exhibits and a clearly Gaudí-inspired main square (the Japanese love Gaudí). We took (read: Husband took of me) lots of photos in the different recreated props from the studio’s movies. We only missed two, consciously: No-Face from Spirited Away and the robot from Laputa: Castle in the Sky. In both cases, the line was so long that we wouldn't have made it to the next area on time. And in the case of the robot, we had the one at the museum. It was also my fault for not wanting to stand in line as soon as we arrived (in my defence, I didn’t know what was inside – it's not visible from outside the entrance), leaving that exhibit for the end, and by then the queue had become much longer. No-face is the first stop in the main exhibit, which features props from various movies where you can take photos. The main problem, IMHO, is that people take hundreds of photos, check if they liked them, repeat... I'm sorry, but if you have a hundred people behind you, take two or three, and whatever comes out is fine. The staff should speed up the people more, or even take the photos themselves.

In addition to this permanent exhibition, there was another temporary one about food in the different Ghibli movies. I was thrilled to see they’d included paintings from my beloved Heidi, produced by Isao Takahata before founding Ghibli with Miyazaki.

The warehouse, like the Museum, also has a cinema, done in an exquisitely art deco style. The short film we watched, however, (Hoshi wo Katta Hi) escaped us, as it had much more dialogue than our basic Japanese could process. Next to the cinema, there’s a warehouse with different props not currently used  in any of the exhibits.

Other highlights include Arriety’s house, the philosophy club closet from Up from Poppy Hill (also recreated in painstaking detail)  and a few non-gift shops. There is also a children’s area with a catbus to play in and a café on the backyard, which we didn’t go to as we hadn’t enough time.  

After a quick visit to the gift shop, crowded with people, we left for the last area, Dondoko Forest, where Satsuki and Mei's house from My Neighbor Totoro stands. Another masterpiece of recreation. Kitchen stuff, toys, clothes, everything you can find in a house. In the kitchen drawers, there were even antique mosquito coils (the movie takes place in the '50s). Sorry (not sorry) for repeating myself, but the fieldwork they must have done to obtain all those objects is colossal.

Unlike the Whisper of the Heart shop, here they did allow photos inside, so I would have stayed forever if it weren't for Husband eventually looking at me with his best are-we-leaving-yet face, plus daylight beginning to fade. The visit was completed with a climb to a hill where there's a giant Totoro for photos, and we got down with a kind of funicular (technically an inclined elevator), which looks like a toy it’s so smol and kawaii.

Before leaving, we passed by Mononoke Village. This area, included in the Grand Warehouse ticket but without an entry slot, hasjust opened. There was only has a couple of monsters for the photo and a pavilion were they do workshops that was already closed, so we only saw the outside of it. There is a new area in construction, the Valley of Witches, scheduled to open in March, which will feature scenery from Howl’s mving Castle and Kiki’s Delivery Service.

The park is fucking amazing, and a total must for any self-respecting Ghibli fan. I want to go back right away. The one downside, for me, is the fixed schedule ticket system they have (which they say they will eliminate soon), because we didn't have enough time to see all of the Grand Warehouse, but if we’d stayed, we would have missed the Dondoko Forest, and with Totor being my favourite Ghibli film, that would have been unforgivable.

We came back exhausted, and it was an adventure to find a place to have dinner. The word of the day was "kanseki": "full." Finally, we found an izakaya where we had a great meal and better service.

[sarah-addison121]

Where to Find the Best Black Friday Furniture Deals in the UK?

Black Friday is fast approaching, and with it comes the year's most anticipated sales event, offering incredible discounts across all types of furniture. Fun fact: During Black Friday, you can typically expect discounts of up to 50% or more on high-end furniture! That means upgrading your home has never been so affordable.

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[thegatesofsilverandbone]

Hannah was never much of a sports fan. She’d always preferred books and art over the chaos of a crowded stadium or the physical demands of gym class. But there was something oddly comforting about vintage sports gear. The dusty old baseball glove her grandfather once wore, the worn leather bat she’d found in her parents’ attic—these relics spoke of a different time, a time when things were simpler, and perhaps, in some way, more magical.

That’s what drew her to the resale store in the first place. It was a small, out-of-the-way shop that specialized in the unusual and the forgotten. Shelves lined with old vinyl records, antique furniture, and, tucked away in the back corner, a rack of vintage clothing. It was here, hidden between an old letterman jacket and a tattered football jersey, that she found it: a dusty old baseball uniform.

The uniform was nothing special at first glance—a pair of grey pants, a slightly yellowed white shirt with blue pinstripes, and a cap with a faded “L” emblazoned on the front. But something about it caught Hannah’s eye. Maybe it was the feel of the fabric, heavy and worn, or the faint scent of sweat and tobacco that lingered in the fibers. Whatever it was, she felt compelled to try it on.

Hannah made her way to the back of the store, pushing aside a velvet curtain that led to the dressing room. The space was cramped, with a single mirror leaning against the wall and a small bench to sit on. The light was dim, casting long shadows that seemed to flicker and dance as she closed the curtain behind her.

She slipped off her sneakers and jeans, carefully folding them before placing them on the bench. The baseball pants felt strange against her skin—rough and heavy, like they were meant for someone much larger. The shirt hung loosely on her frame, the sleeves extending well past her fingertips. But it was the cap that sealed the deal. As soon as she placed it on her head, a wave of dizziness washed over her, forcing her to sit down.

Hannah took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but the feeling only intensified. Her hands began to tingle, and she looked down to see her fingers thickening, the nails growing blunt and rough. Panic set in as she watched her hands swell, the skin darkening as hair sprouted along her knuckles and the back of her hands.

She stood up quickly, but the movement sent another wave of dizziness crashing through her. She gripped the edge of the bench for support, but her legs were already changing, the muscles bulging and tightening beneath the fabric of the pants. Her feet lengthened, toes curling as they stretched, bursting out of her socks.

Her breathing quickened, and she staggered over to the mirror. The face that stared back at her was no longer her own. Her jaw was broadening, her cheeks filling out as a dark shadow of stubble erupted across her skin. Her eyes, once wide and blue, darkened to a deep brown, the shape of them narrowing as they settled into a more angular form.

Hannah’s hairline receded as her forehead expanded, her features hardening into those of a man in his late twenties. A strong, Roman nose and high cheekbones added to the distinctly Latino look that was forming before her eyes. She reached up to touch her face, but the sight of her hands—thick and calloused, with hair sprouting up her forearms—sent a jolt of fear through her. She turned away from the mirror, but the transformation was happening too quickly for her to escape it.

Her shoulders broadened, the seams of the shirt straining against the growing muscles. Her chest flattened, but it wasn’t a reduction—rather, it was the building of muscle, the creation of a strong, athletic physique that now filled out the uniform with ease. She could feel her waist thickening, her hips narrowing as her body reshaped itself into a distinctly masculine form.

Thick, dark hair began to sprout across her chest and arms, curling slightly as it grew. The skin on her torso tanned to a warm brown, and she could feel the texture of her stomach changing, the smooth skin giving way to a trail of hair that led down past the waistband of the pants. Her thighs thickened, powerful muscles bulging beneath the fabric, and she became aware of a new weight between her legs, a clear signal of her transformation.

But it wasn’t just her body that was changing. As her bones lengthened and her muscles grew, memories began to flood her mind. They were alien at first—strange images of a life she had never lived. She saw herself standing on a baseball diamond, the sun beating down as she adjusted her cap, spit on the ground, and took her position at second base. The crowd cheered as the pitcher wound up, and she felt the familiar thrill of anticipation.

No, not her. His. These were his memories.

She tried to hold onto herself, tried to remember her own life, but the details were slipping away, like sand through her fingers. Her name, her face, the things she loved—all of it was fading, being replaced by something new, something stronger.

Hannah—no, Danny, that was his name—Danny Rivera. He was a baseball player, a good one too. He’d played in college, then spent a few years in the minor leagues before making it to the majors. He remembered the first time he stepped onto that big league field, the way his heart pounded in his chest as he looked around at the sea of fans. He’d been so proud, so full of life.

And he was gay, too. That wasn’t something he had always been comfortable with, but it was who he was. He remembered the first time he came out to his team, the fear of rejection, of losing everything he’d worked so hard for. But they’d accepted him, welcomed him even, and he’d never felt more at home than he did in that locker room, surrounded by his teammates.

The last vestiges of Hannah’s thoughts were fading now, her identity melting away into the man she was becoming. She no longer felt out of place in the uniform; it was like a second skin, familiar and comforting. The cap sat perfectly on his head, and as he adjusted it, he caught sight of himself in the mirror once more.

Danny grinned at his reflection, a cocky, confident smile that showed off the dimple in his right cheek. He ran a hand through his short, dark hair, feeling the strength in his fingers, the power in his body. He was back—back where he belonged, in his prime, ready to take on the world.

The curtain rustled as he stepped out of the dressing room, a new man in every sense of the word. The store clerk barely glanced at him as he walked by, simply nodding in acknowledgment as Danny made his way to the door. He didn’t have any money on him, but he figured that didn’t matter. The uniform was his, always had been. Besides, he had a game to get to.

As he stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, Danny took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp, fresh air. The memories of who he had been, of the life he had lived as Hannah, were gone now, replaced by the certainty of his identity as Danny Rivera. He felt strong, confident, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

With a final glance back at the store, he turned and walked down the street, his stride long and purposeful. There was no doubt in his mind that this was where he was meant to be. This was who he was meant to be. And as far as he was concerned, that was the only thing that mattered.

[orangeboulevard]

The Fruit (Oneshot)

Day three gangsters!! Actual smut (near the end), still ocs. We may have lost the plot kinda? we started ranting about the elite Dynamic: spy x spy, older male x younger male Content: public sex -> hold the moan moment -> hate sex Word Count: 1004

Objective: 'Enter the event. Locate the Person Of Interest. Dispatch the Person Of Interest without drawing attention. Leave event.'

Simple enough, Agent Red thought dismissively, he didn't even have to ponder what was meant by 'dispatch'. 

Red fished out a lighter from the pocket of his rented tuxedo, a vintage style: longer coat-tails, figure framing waistcoat and trousers, the whole nines. He flicked open the top of the silver box, the flame was steady as he held it to the paper, and he watched as it swiftly burnt up. No evidence, a swift trip in and out, and no witnesses to testify, a type of job he'd done plenty of times before, he really should think about retiring soon. 

His pace and strut were casual as he approached the event, an exclusive party, the elite kind. The historical New Orleanian manor was an aged white, it centred acres of rolling planes of grass, meticulously trimmed trees framed the long driveway, and the walkway was lit by olden Victorian street lamps. It was a handsome house, this kind of handsome in New Orleans almost certainly made you wonder if it had once been a plantation, the answer every time is yes.

Enough about architecture, Red chided himself, he should be concerning himself with blending in with the staff, his agency had supplied him with a matching uniform suit; his dark eyes followed a valet entering the building through a side door, too easy. 

The interior design is even more impressive than the high pillars and French windows of the outside: an Art Decó touch, large swooping parlour palm trees and monstera plants drape over the large sofas, with the warm tones and colours of a Tuscan building, the place was lighted by a central chandelier, one with actual candles that cast a golden flickering glow, and other dim lights line the floor. The elite kind of party, indeed.

He is aware of a live performance further within, the main lady's voice is sugar-sweet. The party go-ers are either standing around game tables or draped over the furniture, cigarettes and alcohol in hand as they idly chat with each other. Beneath the glam, there is a smell of rot. It permeates the air in the way these people are blissfully unaware of what's going to happen tonight, what goes on outside their bubbles even, ignorance. Their lives are the stinking fruit of the age, past their ripeness, transformed from what they used to be and what they used to represent. When did we as a people make space for rotten fruit? 

It's almost too perfect when he spots the Person Of Interest excusing himself to go to the restroom. Red should be suspicious, he is. He feels the gaze of another on the back of his neck. Red has learnt to see through his peripherals, you do this job long enough and you will, the watcher isn't aware that he's seen him. Michelangelo. Great. That tricky bastard. 

He's eyeing him from the lower floor, over a flute of champagne, over-indulgent bastard. He places it down and starts to make his way up the grand winding staircase. Red needs to move now. His steps are silent and calculated, he has control over every cell of his body. He has control. He will complete this mission-

Just as Red went to push open the door to the bathroom, skillfully picking the lock, the thunder crack sound of a gun echoes in the manor. Shit. There's silence before the screams start. There's no salvaging this, Red thinks before absconding through a nearby window. His feet just hit the ground when another body collides into him, they tumble down a small hill into the gardens of the house. 

He finds himself on top of Michelangelo, wild roses frame the other, his youthful face is flushed and wide-eyed before a devilish grin paints his lips, and boyish dimples line his face, "Hey there, Red."

"That was you, wasn't it?"

The younger male shrugs coyly. 

"Okay. I want you to listen closely to me when I say this," Red whispers into his ear, "Pull something like that again and I will kill you." The grin on Michelangelo's face falters at that. "I will hand deliver your head to your agency. Don't fuck with me. You're just a little boy playing games you don't understand."

 A deadly glint settles into the other's eyes and that smirk returns to his face, "You'd miss me too much."

"Wanna bet?"

"What was it you said last time I saw you?" Michelangelo's thigh comes to press against Red's crotch, "The best sex you've ever had? Oh, I'm sure you'll miss me." 

Red scoffs, his features contorted in thinly restrained rage.

"You look good in this," Michelangelo purrs, his hands snaking their way up Red's waistcoat. 

It's not long before Red is fucking him, right there in the dirt and flowers, their own garden of Eden, even if just for tonight. His hips snap into Michelangelo, a bruising and furious pace, he's given up growling at the other man to keep quiet- the distant sounds of police are an ever-looming threat- and instead swallows his cries and mewls with biting kisses. Michelangelo's nails run down his back like he's trying to rip him open, he wants Red to hurt. 

His legs wrap around the older man, tears starting to form at how hard he's fucking him; in a twisted sense, Michelangelo is proud, he's the one who managed to make Red like this, a man considered the epitome of blasé. Red leans back, his hands coming to wrap around Michelangelo's throat, pulling him impossibly further onto his dick. Michelangelo's eyes squeeze shut, the tears spilling down his cheeks, his brows are knitting together, and he's clenching around Red. 

Red leans down and licks the tears up. 

[heyimdove]

Room design post! Just putting this here because I’m not great at interior design but I’m really trying. Would love feedback :)!

I have a funny (weird. bad) relationship with my house. Lots of reasons for this, no reason to get into it. Just believe me when I say certain vibes require cleansing and I’m not really a sage-burning guy. Mostly because I think it smells, well, ass. Sorry.

More below!

So. I’m diving into a redesign and shooting for a romantic maximalism situation that relies heavily on chinoiserie/chinoiserie adjacent patterns. My room is currently very non-designed. White walls. A few furniture pieces I like. Very little else. I want to transform it into something that feels totally new to me. A reset button, sort of. I’m not rich and I love craigslist so I’m hoping to build my room up second-hand.

Here’s what I’m thinking. My inspiration- only I will incorporate more modern things, and I don’t have 13 foot ceilings.

The plan:

1. Color matching the rug I got with the walls- I won’t wallpaper, I’ll use paint. The rug is tealish, like the one above! It was 9x13 and only $60!

2. A red vinyl bedframe I also found on Craigslist! $150. A bit rich for my blood, but I want to be bold. I want to commit. Half-assing it will guarantee the mark will be missed. (Pic is not my house).

3. One of these duvets and sheets. I don’t buy fancy bedding so figuring this out is gonna be a whole thing.

4. Then, I have this cool vintage bubble lamp. It’s yellow glass. That’ll go somewhere. I’ll post a pic of that later.

Then, there are these lamps. I think they’re so fun! But would they be practical, with like, dust? And cats?? Probably not. But I love pink and want to incorporate a little bit of it somewhere, somehow.

5. I need some dark things. Some negative space. No idea what. Not including a picture. Maybe some dark pillow cases? Maybe dark furniture? I have dark wood things, like a bookcase and a waterfall dresser. But is that dramatic enough?

6. I have some gold curtains in a different room. I’ll probably swap those out.

7. A lady is selling these. Four of them! So maybe I’ll get them, too.

8. I still need a few modern touches. Like, acrylic shelving or a chair, maybe, and some art prints that are fully modern. And few pure, solid colored bits and bobs. I was thinking a porcelain bust, maybe?

Also, just for fun, here’s another room I love that is serving as inspiration.

Idk. Do you have opinions on this? Ideas? Art you like that I should buy? I love you. thank you for reading.