#dusty mint seat cushions

[arielerinkaplan]

Outdoor Kitchen in Miami Example of a sizable outdoor kitchen deck with a roof extension in a backyard in the beach style.

[aheckinmess]

Precious Protectors [Shoto] (Fluff)

(One-shot 18/? in a collection of My Hero Academia one-shots posted regularly on Saturdays - and sometimes Sundays.)

Read on AO3.

Tags: Todoroki x OC, Shoto x OC, Shoto Todoroki, Shouto Todoroki, Pro Hero Shoto, Pro Hero Original Female Character(s), Ichijiku Aoki, Tigress, Shoto is a Ray of Sunshine, Pregnant OC, Enji Todoroki, Rei Todoroki, Mention of Natsuo Todoroki, OC and Shoto Have Children Already, Expecting Their Next, Featuring Protective Shoto, And His Dazzling Smile, Also There's Bunnies Involved, And Cute Child Interaction, Also OC Goes Into Labor, Panic Ensues

Word Count: 1,826 words

Summary: During her 32nd week of pregnancy, Ichijiku gets restless and tired. Shoto, being the good husband he is, takes the utmost care of her...as well as helps her deal with two twin girls who can be a bit of a handful.

Ichijiku (Tigress)

“What color do you think we should paint the nursery?” I hum, looking through the different color swatches in the store. Three colors draw my eyes to their soft, comforting tones: mint green, dusty blue, and a lilac purple.

“You seem to be eying the purple. Do you want that one?” Shoto brushes his hand against my back. “It looks nice.”

“I’m leaning towards the lilac, but what do you think?”

He picks up the three shades and spends a minute looking between them. I can’t help the smile tickling my cheeks at his focused expression.

“Let’s take these three paint swatches home so we can get an idea of what it’ll look like on the walls.”

“Good idea.”

. . . . .

We make it home and sleep calls my name. One long shopping trip has always been enough to tucker me out anyway, but with a full child growing inside me? My bottom finds the couch instantly and I puff out a heavy sigh as I flop into the cushions.

“Do you need me to get you anything, love?” Shoto takes a seat beside me.

“I’m just tired, Frosted Flames.” I coo, stretching one hand to squeeze his as my eyelids flutter dangerously. “But I could use a peppermint tea if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll get it started while I put away the groceries.” He gets up again and kisses my forehead. “Don’t try to get up and do anything. Let me take care of you.”

Of course, when I hear the bags shuffling even my desire to sleep can’t fight against my stubborn streak. Just the thought of Shoto having to put away everything and still have to make my tea makes me grunt and struggle to my feet. 

I reach down for a bag, thinking he’s got all the heavy items, and wince when I wobble at the unexpected heaviness of the bag.

“Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself!” Shoto exclaims, catching me before I topple over into the table. After a breath, he cups my face. “I didn’t mean to get loud. You scared me.”

“Sorry. I hate seeing you have to do all the work.” I frown.

“I know, Tiger, but you have to be careful. If you overextend yourself, you don’t just hurt yourself now. You have others to look after.” He kisses my cheek and squeezes my hands. “Now, go rest and I’ll make your tea. Homura and Himari should be coming back from Mom and Dad’s within the hour.”

“Are you sure I can’t help a little?” I pout, letting my kitten eyes glow up at him.

“If you’re insistent upon helping, you can do the dishes. There’s only a few in the sink. Will that satiate you, troublemaker?” He chuckles, pinching my cheek.

“I think so.” I giggle, and head to the sink.

As I finish up the final few dishes, a flurry of white flashes outside the window showing the outside. I lift my head up and gasp, drying my hands and tapping Shoto’s side.

“Shoto-kun, look!”

He comes up behind me and his head thunks on my shoulder as he looks with me, his hands coming up around my waist and resting on the sides of my belly. At first, I think he’s missed it, but then I hear his breathing stop.

“Is that a rabbit family in our backyard?”

“There’s been one that I’ve seen off and on in the garden, but I didn’t realize she had a whole family!” I coo happily as the furry critters scamper under the rosebush.

“Looks like we’re not the only growing family here.” Shoto smiles and nudges me. “Now, come on. I’ve got your tea ready. You go rest while I finish the groceries and take a nap if you want to.”

I’m halfway through my mug of tea before I’m passed out on the couch.

. . . . .

“Daddy! Daddy! Look what–”

“Shh, Mommy’s asleep, Homura.”

“Oops.”

“How has Ichijiku been doing with the pregnancy, Shoto? No complications?” Mom's voice pulls me towards consciousness, though I keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady.

“No complications, just restless like she was last time.” Shoto explains.

“Daddy, we played Rescue with Grandpa and Grandma let us help her make dinner, like Mommy.” Himari’s voice chirps softly. “Can we visit them tomorrow, too?”

“Well, we’ll see.” Shoto chuckles.

“You know we’re more than willing to watch over them as often as you need.” Dad’s voice, always deep and stern, is surprisingly soft. I have a feeling he appreciates us giving him time with his grandkids. Natsuo’s been pretty adamant about distancing himself. “Especially since she’s in the 32nd week.”

“I know. We appreciate it, Father.” Shoto assures him. “Though the girls like helping Ichan around with things she still has trouble with. Don’t you, girls?”

“Yes, sir!” They chime in unison.

A smile forces itself on my face, so I open my eyes and yawn. I stroke my belly absently as two little girls with their father’s blue eyes barrel in my direction.

“Mommy! You’re awake!” Homura is quick to crawl into the little hole on the couch behind my back, and Himari squeezes herself in there too. Both of them rest their head on my arm and look at me. “Grandma let us help her cook like you do!”

“Is that so?” I grin, reaching up to boop each of their noses. “What did you make, little loves?”

They turn to Mom, who laughs.

“Vegetable tempura.”

“She helped me cut the kabocha!” Himari beams.

“And I got to mix the sauce!” Homura puffs out her chest. “And then before that, Grandpa let us play Rescue!”

“Really? Who did you rescue?”

“Grandpa!”

“He needed help being saved from a fire!” 

“Yeah.” Himari tries to whisper, but there’s no doubt the whole house hears her. “It was make-believe, Mommy. Grandpa don’t get hurt by fire.”

“Oh, okay.” I whisper in much the same manner. “I gotcha. You were very brave for helping him, anyway.”

“You really think so?” 

“I don’t think, I know!”

A little more conversation and I do my typical workout of heaving myself off the couch. Of course, Himari and Homura help push and pull to make the effort easier. Then I waddle over to give the in-laws a hug before stealing a kiss from Shoto.

“We appreciate everything you both do to help.” I reiterate, yawning once more for good measure as I head into the kitchen. Although I’m aching to feed my sweet tooth with M&Ms or chocolate-covered pretzels, my body craves fruit in this third trimester. 

I pull out a few bananas and start slicing them as Shoto waves Mom and Dad out the door.

“You make your fruit, I’ll get the girls’ ready for bed.” Shoto suggests, nodding towards the girls. “C’mon, girls. Let’s go brush our teeth and put on our pj’s.”

“Aww!” Himari huffs.

“Can’t we stay up a little longer?” Homura begs.

“Not tonight. You have school tomorrow.” He picks them both up and hugs them against his chest. “But I’ll tell you what. If you do well with your bedtime for the rest of the week, maybe I’ll talk with Grandma and Grandpa about spending the night this weekend.”

“Okay!” 

When he sets them down this time, two sets of footsteps tear down the hall towards the bathroom. I pop a few slices of banana in my mouth as I shake my head with amusement. I love them so much.

The girls head towards me for bedtime hugs and kisses when I feel it. I wince after I pull back and hold my stomach as Shoto leads them to bed. Shoto’s voice carries down the hall as he reads to the girls while I finish my snack. About ten minutes later, I’m walking down the hall to join him when another sharp, cramping pain crackles through my back and abdomen.

“Ichan?” Shoto’s at my side in a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I should be fine for a bit longer.” I assure him, breathing deep and steady. “But you might want to call the parents to come back and watch the girls for tonight. I have a feeling…”

“Is it already that time?” Shoto’s eyes widen.

“I think so.”

Car lights signal Mom and Dad’s return when my water breaks. Talk about timing. I grip the kitchen counter and swallow thickly. Time flickers by in a blur as my sole focus suddenly becomes the steady ebb and flow of pain as three little boys plan to make their debut.

“It’s gonna be okay, Ichan. We’re almost there.” Shoto reassures me as he helps me through the hospital doors.

One moment I’m in a wheelchair and the next I’m squeezing Shoto’s hand so hard I swear I feel his bones creaking. It’s 7 hours of remembering to breathe and Shoto’s whispered encouragement and doctors and nurses and pushing until a cry cuts through the room.

For all that work through 7 hours, his brother comes three minutes later, and their youngest brother makes his debut in another four. The symphony of three wailing babies graces my ears and prompts me to relax. My eyes lock in on three little bodies with limbs flailing before I search for Shoto.

“They’re here, they’re here.” Shoto whispers, wiping the hair out of my face and caressing my cheek before kissing me. “You did wonderful, love. They’re going to clean them off so we can hold them.” He promises.

Three bundled blankets with three heads of red peach fuzz return to us and tears glitter in my eyes as Shoto and I go to each boy in turn, giving them their fair share of love.

“We’ve got our work cut out for us.” Shoto smiles at me.

“For sure. But the first task is to pick names.”

“I know you had a few in mind.”

“I do.” I agree, thinking over the list I’ve been filing through in my mind. I look at the three little faces looking back up at me and it suddenly seems so clear. “Eiji, Enji, and Emiko.” 

It doesn’t surprise me that Shoto snaps his head to me.

“Enji?”

“I know you’re still working on your relationship with him, but they’re my three little boys. My three little protectors. It seems only fitting.” I explain, eyes fluttering as my body winds down from the effort and adrenaline. “Eiji is a name meant for protection through peace and prosperity. Enji, of course, your father has shown he’s capable of protecting the masses. And Emiko is meant for protection through smiles and joy.” 

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

“I learned from Himari and Homura that so long as I have a collection of names to pick from…their names will usually come to me after they’re born.”

Shoto looks at our three boys for a moment, then looks back at me, much softer.

“Our three little protectors…I like that.”

Want More Shoto? Try: What It Means to Be the Best

[vitanivortex]

Reuse

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[fleckcmscott]

The Knot

Summary: Arthur and Y/N finally have the wedding they discussed on their sprint to City Hall.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,238

A/N: This was requested by @sweet-nothings04​. It is the fluffiest thing I have ever written. Special thanks to @ithinkimawriter​ for the support and beta-reading!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The nightly routine Y/N had developed over the years was a simple one. Her barely-there foundation, neutral eye shadow, eyeliner, and light mascara would be washed away with soap and water. After changing into a nightgown, she'd brush her teeth and hair. Moisturizing cream would be dabbed on her forehead, cheeks, and chin. (A couple of thin lines had formed at the corners of her mouth, and she hoped to prevent more.) She'd crawl into bed beside Arthur, they'd talk and cuddle, then she'd kiss him good night and wait for sleep to take her. It was a relaxing end to the day that didn't require a lot of effort.

But this evening was not routine. What Patricia seemed to have planned for it put Y/N's habits to shame. Peeking into the mint green satchel she'd brought caused a grimace. It was possible the clay and honey cosmetic masks wouldn't be too bad. The toe separators and nail polish and pumice stones didn't interest her. And the floral, spray-in hair perfume was pungent. God. All this fuss prompted Y/N to pour the both of them the rest of the wine.

"This is too much for me." Y/N frowned in the bathroom mirror and examined the mud on her face. "How long do I need to keep this on?" she asked, the alcohol making her grumble.

"Ten minutes." Patricia set a timer and placed it on the sink. "And don't whine. This stuff is why no one knows I'm over fifty."

"And here I assumed it was your vibrant personality." After taking a sip from her glass, Y/N turned to the tub. There were about five inches of hot water in it, topped with pink foam that smelled like artificial roses. It reminded her of the dusty, scented candles her grandmother had kept in the bathroom, but never lit. Patricia sat on the edge, dipped her feet in and waved for Y/N to join her.

Patricia started scrubbing the ball of her foot. "Are you excited?"

Y/N made a thoughtful noise. When she and Arthur had gotten married at city hall a year ago, she hadn't needed a wedding - she'd needed to be married to him. He'd wished for one, though, and she'd promised him that. "The wedding I had before was stressful. I could go without it." A gentle smile came across her cheeks. "But I am for him." She sighed contently as she submerged her feet. "When we were filling out the invitations a month ago, he was so happy. He pasted one in his journal - he showed me the page - and put exclamation points all around it."

That wasn't all he'd done. Arthur had convinced her to practice a slow dance to one of his mood music records. It hadn't taken much effort for him to talk her into it. ("I've imagined this a lot," he'd told her.) She figured she'd gotten pretty good, having learned to let him lead her instead of trying to anticipate his steps. His generous encouragements and the pleasure in his eyes had helped.

Snorting, Patricia grabbed a nearby smoother and began working on her heel. "How did a hard-ass like you end up with a sweet man like him?"

"He thinks I'm sweet." Y/N shook her head, splashing around with her toes. "Don't tell him he's been had."

At the buzzing of the timer, Y/N sprung up and went to the sink. Getting the mask off was as annoying as she'd suspected. The packaging said to use a cloth, lukewarm water, and circular motions. But the clay was stubborn and didn't want to leave her face. Patricia apparently found it hilarious, laughing all the harder when Y/N looked at her with indignation. Three washrags and an empty glass of wine later, her skin was clear. Irritated, but clear.

Patricia gestured over her shoulder as she dried off. "There's a present for you in my bag. You said no gifts, but it's nothing. And I didn't want to give it to you in front of Robert and Matt tomorrow."

Intrigued, Y/N retrieved the bag from the floor and sat next to her on the tub's edge. Matt, Y/N's former boss, she could understand. But what would Patricia give her that she didn't want her own husband to see? It only took a little digging to find the box, slightly bigger than her hand, with a red ribbon around it. "You shouldn't have." She opened it and pulled out what was inside. Her best friend had given her a black, satin thong with side ties. She stared at it a moment, then burst out laughing. "It's so tiny," she exclaimed, the triangle front barely large enough to cover her palm. "I don't have the ass for this!"

Winking, Patricia nudged her upper arm. "It won't stay on long enough for Arthur to notice."

~~~~~

Meanwhile, Arthur was at a pub with a friend for the first time in his life. He'd been to comedy clubs plenty of times, and Y/N had introduced him to numerous restaurants. But his general lack of interest in drinking and absence of companionship had never made bars a desirable destination. It had been Gary's idea, though. And with his company, Arthur was part of the crowd instead of apart from it.

They were seated at a small booth near the kitchen, away from everyone. Their conversation was sparse. Despite his overall increase in comfort, Arthur still had a hard time with social situations. Granted, Y/N had told him he was steadily getting better at them. And now, with the effect of the Fuzzy Navel in his hand, he was doing all right. There had been no forced laughter (which only happened a few times a month), no bouncing of his legs, and no nail biting. He was proud of himself for that, especially given the hint of nervousness he felt.

Tomorrow was their big day. The wedding was going to be at their apartment. There would only be four guests: he'd made it clear Penny wasn't welcome, and the elderly woman Y/N had invited, Ms. McPhee, had declined with an apology and cookies, saying she was too ill to go anywhere. Dinner would be potluck style. Finally, he'd fucking have what he'd dreamed about for years. Although it was implied every time he touched Y/N, he'd get to vow, publicly, to stay with her forever. To take care of her, no matter their circumstances. To love her ceaselessly. And, he reflected, she'd promise to belong to him, too. He grinned around his cigarette as he smoked, looking into his drink, joy rushing through him at the thought.

Gary took a swig of his porter. "Are you looking forward to tomorrow?"

"Yes." Arthur answered without hesitation. "But I don't know why Y/N wanted me to spend the night out. We're already married."

"You can't sleep with the bride before the wedding. It's tradition."

Tradition. His chest tightened at that. Tradition hadn't meant anything most of this life, anything besides futile yearning. He couldn't remember if he'd been read to as a kid. Lost teeth probably ended up in the garbage. Holidays had always been too expensive to take part in, and with Penny's apathy and all the hours he'd worked, he hadn't had the energy to try. He was glad to be making up the deficit with Y/N. Still. This was an odd custom, and not really applicable to them. "But I've been sleeping with her for two years." Almost as soon as he spoke, he realized his double entendre. He brought a hand to his forehead. "Shit. Sorry, Gary."

A sly smile crossed Gary's face, but he didn't seem upset. Which made sense - filthy jokes and dirty tales often flew around the locker room at HaHa's. The shorter man reached into the breast pocket of his striped shirt, then held out a small package. "Here. I got this for you."

Curious, Arthur examined the cellophane enclosed carton. The teal box of NoDoz said it would keep him awake, was fast acting, and safe as coffee. And there was a sentence, written in a cursive font on the bottom edge: "Number 1 with Newlyweds!" Oh. Oh. He knew what they were for. Once in a while he'd come across The Honeymoon Game when flipping through channels. The tablets were often mentioned, along with comments about "being busy all night long." The burning in his cheeks only amplified his giggles as he tucked them in his pocket. "Thanks. For letting me stay over, too."

"You're welcome. It's just the sofa." Gary gave a shrug. "What time did you want to get back home?"

Arthur recalled the list of errands Y/N had helped him make. He had to stop at the flower stand near their place and get a white carnation for himself and a bunch for her. Garlic bread needed to be ordered at Marchetti's, to go with the lasagna Y/N was attempting. He wanted to give himself a good half hour to change, fix his hair, and practice saying what he'd written.

Gary agreed getting back to the apartment in the early afternoon would be fine. Arthur wasn't expecting his follow-up question. "How'd you know she was the one for you?"

Trying to hide the embarrassment behind his answer, he sipped his cocktail. "Gary, no other woman ever wanted to be with me."

"I'm sure that's not true," Gary replied. Arthur didn't move to correct him. Maybe he'd successfully hidden his prior failures from his former co-workers by simply not joining in when they all talked about women.

It took time to come up with a response. When he gave it, the words were quiet, his tone almost reverent. "She never acted like there was something wrong with me." The corner of his mouth quirked up as he tapped the ash off his cigarette. "No one else ever did that. Not even my mother." Realizing he may have insulted Gary, he backtracked quickly. "You- You were always nice."

Gary visibly brightened and waved at a waiter to order them both another round. Arthur sat back against the torn cushion of the booth, already slightly dizzy from the first one. It was going to a long, hopefully good, night.

~~~~~

The preparation for the 4:00 PM ceremony did not go as smoothly as planned. The dish Patricia brought, which she had wanted to keep a surprise, was macaroni and cheese. Y/N ran out and bought three salads from the deli so there'd be an option besides pasta. She'd made a small tear in the hem of her light blue wedding dress, one she'd picked up at a consignment shop, when she'd gotten caught on a doorway. And Arthur insisted on not seeing her in her dress beforehand, so she spent most of the time cooped up in the bathroom. She could hear Arthur's hushed tones as he paced the living room and spoke to Gary ("I'm gonna fuck up. What if I start laughing?"), and Gary trying to reassure him ("Arthur, just read it.").

But those snags were nothing compared to the issues at her first wedding. The flowers had never arrived. The cake topper had fallen, splitting the groom's head in half and breaking off the bride's arm. And, about halfway through it, she'd realized she was making a mistake. Presently, standing in front of the mirror while she fiddled with her high, split neckline and waited for Patricia to get her, she knew she hadn't erred. Doubt never entered her mind when it came to Arthur - only love, happiness, and gratitude.

When the door opened, Y/N ran her palm along the embroidered lace of the dress's bodice, smoothed the chiffon of the full-length, A-Line skirt, pulled at the wrists of the long, translucent sleeves, and took a deep breath. Her heart quickened when the faint notes of Arthur's favorite, sentimental Jackie Gleason Orchestra LP reached her ears. She stepped out. All the furniture had been pushed up against the walls, leaving space in the middle of the room. Their four friends stood there expectantly. Then she looked at Arthur, and the excitement she'd told Patricia she felt for him suddenly became her own.

He'd slicked back his hair, the way he always did when he was trying to be formal, curls loose around his ears. The white button-up he was wearing was a tad large around the shoulders. But the likely second-hand black vest and trousers he wore fit perfectly. The carnation in the waistcoat's breast pocket was a nice addition. He was wearing his red and yellow tie, still the only one he owned, in spite of it being part of his Carnival outfit.  As she approached him steadily, she studied his face. The affection in his soft expression caused her breath to hitch, as did the drawing together of his dark brow as he admired her. She giggled, hoping he liked the nontraditional dress.

There was no need for the question, however. As soon as their hands met, he clutched hers and smiled. The autumn sun, which was already halfway down the sky, brought out the deep chestnut undertones of his brown waves. And the clear green of his irises glistened beautifully in the bright light. If it would have been acceptable, she would have kissed him on the spot. Instead, she settled for mouthing, "You're gorgeous." The blush that resulted, the way he lowered his head as he grinned happily, and his silent, "You, too," made her stomach flutter.

Listening to what the yellow-pages officiant said was nigh impossible. And from the expression on Arthur's face, he couldn't concentrate, either. But they managed to get through the basic vows, those same, time-honored words spoken at nearly every wedding she'd attended. (Except for "worshiping" and "obeying" - she'd insisted those parts be removed, explaining they were equals.) They'd each come up with their own short pieces, too, and at his insistence, she went first. "I didn't come to Gotham to find love. I just wanted to leave everything behind. Then I met you. You made getting remarried the easier decision I've ever made."

What Arthur said in return, reading softly but clearly from a worn piece of paper, had her beat. "People think I'm weird. But you don't." His Adam's apple bobbed and a slight tremor entered his voice. "You're my one and only person that can understand me." His rasp turned into a hiccup at the end, and he sniffled and scoffed while he tucked his notes away. The clench of her throat was immediate, and she threw her arms around him, not waiting for the words "you may kiss the bride" before joining their lips.

~~~~~~

​​​A wedding day was supposed to be special. Out of the ordinary. Exceptional. Anything but regular. But Arthur couldn't remember the last time he had felt normal for as many hours in a row as he did today. The flash of a pocket-camera when he'd cupped Y/N's face and kissed her after she'd lunged at him. Their short dance, with the shallow dip they'd practiced and her stepping on his foot only once or twice. The gentle "I love you" he'd murmured against her lips. The acceptance of her friends when they congratulated them both. All of these extraordinary moments coalesced into a warm, tender, soothing ache that, in spite of his doubts, confirmed he was a real person, worthy and capable of love.

The glass door opened behind him, and, expecting Y/N to drag him back inside, he flicked his cigarette away. But upon turning he saw Patricia, drink in her hand. They'd spoken briefly a few times since initially meeting a couple years ago. Arthur didn't yet have a clear impression of her. Y/N and she were close, he knew, and they often met for lunch. And Patricia had helped her try to stop the Wayne Foundation case from going forward. Observing the older woman, he noted the gray scattered throughout her hair, the lines on her face that were less prominent than his own, the minimal rouge on her cheeks. She reminded him of Penny before her health had declined. Before everything had changed.

"Could I have a cigarette?" she asked, indicating the pack he was holding.

He blinked at her. "Sure."

She stepped to him as he retrieved one for her. After she plucked it from him and placed it between her lips, she took his lighter. "Y/N doesn't know. Keep it that way. You may not have picked up on it yet, but she can be bossy."

Chuckling, he cocked his head. Y/N had warned him about her bossiness early on, but it wasn't as bad as she'd claimed. Sure, she was assertive about certain things. But smoking was the only thing she was overly pushy about. The reason for her nagging prevented it from being more than a minor annoyance, though: she wanted them to spend a hundred years together, she'd said, instead of him dying prematurely of lung cancer. Blunt to a fault, as usual, with an inkling of sweetness underneath.

"Y/N was crazy about you from the start," Patricia said, pulling him out of his musings.

A glow blossomed in his chest and he dropped his gaze bashfully. "She talked about me?"

She smirked up at him, as if she was about to reveal a secret. "She gave me a note with hearts and exclamation points on it after you slept together."

Eyes widening, he turned back towards the street and focused on a manhole cover. It shouldn't have surprised him - he'd spoken with Gary about Y/N - but it did. And meant the world to him. But he was beginning to wonder what else she'd disclosed. Christ, was Patricia aware he'd been inexperienced? Had Y/N said he'd done a good job? Had she...Could she have talked about his body, the way the men at HaHa's described the women they were seeing? Those notions were laughable, he tried to tell himself, and attempted to push through them amid his growing discomfort.

Patricia gave his forearm a maternal pat, allaying his unease. "It was because you were gentle with her." He watched her angle her body towards the window and peer inside, and he followed her gaze. Y/N was pointing at a spot in the living room for the folding table they'd rented, along with six chairs. "She's gritty - she's been through a lot. I'm glad she has you to let go with."

Nodding slowly, Arthur understood. He was a good partner, a good husband to Y/N. And it wasn't only the woman he loved more than his own life saying it - it was her closest friend, her confidante. Intermittently, his conditions made it difficult, particularly on those days when he needed repeated validation, or the fury he carried deep within him threatened to bubble up. (Though it had gotten better with treatment, the stability his life now had, and Y/N's support.) Patricia recognized that he was trying and believed he was doing well. Accomplishment wasn't a sensation he often experienced, but the foreign sensation creeping into him must have been it. "Thanks," he said, clearing his throat. "I love her a lot, too."

They went inside and put up the chairs and set the table. There wasn't a table cloth, but Y/N had taken out their "good plates," with gold filigree on the rims. One of their cotton napkins went missing, so Y/N put a paper towel under her cutlery. After he lit the two cream taper candles he'd found in a drawer, everything looked perfect.

The food and drink were something else. The only macaroni and cheese Arthur had ever had come out of a box. Patricia's tasted savory rather than salty, but he wasn't sure if he liked the tomatoes it had in it. Although the pasta was too soft, Y/N's lasagna was good, if a bit heavy on the sauce. The garlic bread helped with that. The salad was mostly ignored; he only ate the small serving she stuck on his plate. The scotch Gary brought was passed between himself, Matt, and Robert. Arthur did try a sip, but it was exceedingly strong and stole his breath. He decided to stick with wine.

As the evening went on, Arthur grew pleasantly warm and drowsy. Y/N and Patricia had taken over most of the banter, guffawing and being mildly foolish. Matt had brought a chocolate sheet cake for twenty-four instead of six, and Y/N had to hold her stomach to quiet her tipsy laughter when it was sliced. Arthur's hand crept to her thigh and squeezed lovingly, his eyes locked on her with adoration. The depth of his feelings, his keen awareness of her, her presence at his side, was drowning out the rest of the room. It didn't take long for her to turn to him and mouth, "Let's say good night."

Y/N sent everyone home with leftovers and a hug, and forced Matt to take most of the cake with him. Gary gave Arthur a wink and a nod as he left, and Arthur snorted as he shook his head and shut the door. Propping himself against it, he sighed, trying to clear the fuzziness from his head. She came up behind him and kissed his shoulder. "Patricia's going to have the photos developed in triplicate and give us the negatives."

He twisted to face her and put his arm around her shoulders, slightly dizzy. "Does that mean we'll get copies?"

Giggling, she pressed into him and nuzzled his cheek. "Yes. We'll get three copies." She looked up at him as she leaned back. The ardor in her gaze made his pulse skip a beat. Then she lead him to the bedroom without preamble, blowing out the candles on the way.

He'd read and seen enough to recognize what was expected of him. This was their wedding night. It was when the music would swell and the screen dissolved to black in the old movies he would watch. He was supposed to take charge and make love to her. And he wanted to. Truly. But he'd eaten more than he usually did in two days. That combined with only having slept a couple of hours the previous night, anticipation having kept him awake on Gary's couch, lead to the tiredness he now felt.

Her hands were everywhere, though, roaming his back as their mouths melded together. Arthur slid his tongue between her lips, and he could taste the wine they'd toasted with and spent the rest of the night drinking. Breathing raggedly, he swallowed her moan and held the nape of her neck. When she presented her back to him, he paused before caressing the lace on the back panels of her dress. He took the dainty zipper between his thumb and forefinger and slowly pulled it down. The intimacy of what was happening, of Arthur Fleck unfastening the dress of his bride, made him shudder. Once the bodice was completely undone, he pushed his forehead to her and kissed the soft skin at the top of her back.

The dress fell slowly, catching on her breasts and hips as she brought it down. When she turned to him, his brows lifted. She was wearing the smallest pair of black panties he had ever seen. They barely covered her sex. He huffed. "Where did these come from?"

A grin broke out across her cheeks. "Patricia was convinced you'd love them."

Smirking, he gave a little nod. "I do." They were tied at her waist. If he just pulled the string, she'd be revealed to him. "You're so pretty." His fingers teased a bow, trying to will himself to perform. But he wasn't feeling it. "Um." He chuckled sadly, knowing he was about to disappoint her. "I ate too much. And I think I'm drunk. I'm sorry." He winced and looked away from her.

Y/N stared at him, then laughed throatily and squeezed him close. "Oh, thank god. Me, too. It's been a busy day."

His grasp on her tightened. "But a good one?"

"A wonderful one." She pecked his mouth and moved towards the bed, not bothering to take off her bra before slipping beneath the blankets. "You can untie me in the morning."

As Arthur undressed, he folded each piece of clothing and placed it on top of the vanity. He'd take care of it whenever they got up. By the time he sat on the bed in his briefs to take off his socks, Y/N's breathing had slowed to a steady rhythm. Sleep always seemed to come easily to her. Carefully, he got in beside her and stroked her hair back. Not wanting to wake her but needing to touch her, he kissed her brow bone faintly, gliding his fingers along her cheek. Then he ran his hand down her side and teased the string on her hip, loosening the knot until he could whisper his fingertips over her without obstruction. She mumbled quietly but didn't stir.

Smiling, he breathed against her temple. "I hadn't been happy one minute of my entire fucking life before you." He sniffled and swiped at his nose, sighing contentedly. "Sometimes I am now. Like today." He rested his head next to hers on the pillow, his arm going around her waist to tuck her back against him. "Thanks, Y/N Fleck."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @ithinkimaperson​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @fallenstarsabyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​ @tsukiakarinobara​

[normalwitch]

listen i’m so in love with the owens’ house. the production designer describes it as literally a cauldron, having a whole world in both the house and garden, and that it’s a sanctuary for the family, who are outcasts. they aren’t the only ones. the black cats they collect over the years are all from a shelter on the island. nobody wanted any of them because of superstition, fear of bad luck and wickedness ( black cats historically have been seen as omens of evil, suspected of being familiars of witches ) , so eventually they all gravitate to the owens’ house --- and then the women there accepted and take care of them. i love the symbolism of that alone. it’s just so poetically beautiful, outcasts finding refuge with outcasts !

there aren’t any clocks or mirrors inside the house. in the back there’s a henhouse, a potting shed, a large padlocked greenhouse, and a garden described to be so lush and green it’s dizzying. a gate leads to a bluestone path up to the porch, where the ivy and climbing wisteria grow, and the light is always turned on after midnight. this is the light the desperate townsfolk from jealous house wives to angelic women in the choir go when they want to visit the aunts for something they desire. a charm, a potion, a spell, a tea, a spell. during the daytime they’ll avoid crossing the same side of the street as the women living inside but they’ll still arrive to sit at the table and hand over cash ( though the aunts favor cameos and have a drawer stuffed full of them ).

when you step inside and over the threshold it seems like time moves at an entirely different pace removed from the outside world. even just trying to get  a peek within, there’s a current of discernible energy on the air, but good luck !! the damask curtains are almost always drawn, and the glass is old and thick, tinted with a green that makes everything look watery, almost like a dream. so maybe you’ll doubt what you see, if anything. or maybe you won’t, knowing the rumors swirling around the island and uttered since the 1600s.

the manor is so old that some of the wood used to make the paneling and mantels is extinct. a total of fifteen different types of woods have been used, including pine, golden oak, silver ash, and cherry fruit that gives off the scent of ripe fruit even in the winter. none of the woodwork itself ever gets dusty or needs polishing ( but sally takes it upon herself to dust and polish anyway ). there are three floors, a cellar, and two staircases. the one in the back is chillier, twisting like a puzzle, and the other is elegant and crafted from mahogany, leading all the way up to the turret that is like a single lighthouse tower. above the velvet-cushioned window seat on the landing of the front staircase is a portrait of the beautiful maria owens herself. her hair is pulled back with a satin blue ribbon and she’s wearing her favorite blue dress. sometimes it might feel like her eyes are watching you ( which might make sense, since when she was alive she fearlessly looked people straight in the eye, even if they were older or came from a higher class ).

it’s always cool, like a crisp autumn day. bats live in the attic, mice live in the walls. this changes after michael, sally’s husband, moves in, as i have discussed with @liminalchaos, despite the manor not needing the upkeep, it appreciates the efforts and dedication sally has always put into taking !! care !! of it ! because after michael moves in, the house becomes and stays cheery and warm. the bats move out of the attic and into the garden shed. roses begin to grow along the porch’s railing and choke all of the the weeds. the teardrop chandelier in the parlor tinkles back and forth on its own. through out the night a tranquil sound reminiscent of a flowing river fills the interior, glittering and trickling. it’s so sweet and melodic the mice come out to make sure that the manor is still in one piece, and a meadow hasn’t taken the house’s place.

the house. is. magic. even the bluestone path outside of it, which stops getting cold and icy during the winters after michael and sally get together. speaking of the stones !! maria brought them with her from ireland years ago to form the path in the garden. they’re protective, some would say lucky. extras are stored in the shed, along with maria’s rope. maria owens herself took matters of protection and luck very seriously. that’s why she planted so many things that still remain in the garden to the current day; fruit trees in the dark of the moon, hardy perennials, lavender, lilacs, roses, and strong onions and more. the owens will get down on their knees in the dirt and weed but never have to worry about earwigs. rabbits come to eat the mint, parsley and lettuce. aunt jet and frances are the ones to nail the skull of a horse on the fence to keep out gutsy and hungry neighbouring children.

the grimoire shifts back and forth between the conservatory and greenhouse. it’s a thick, black, tome that is cool to the touch, filled with layered pages that fold in and out; only, it will burn your hand if you touch it  and you’re not an owens. the conservatory has its glass beakers, tubing, vials and rows of potted plants, which is next to the potions room; the greenhouse outside holds bulbs and flowers, waiting to be planted in the autumn, along with those requiring special care. there are no mirrors in the house itself, but there is one hidden behind a black cloth inside of the greenhouse. it’s a curse or blessing ( undeniably magical ), however way you want to look at it. if an owens dares to remove the cloth to take a peek, she will see her reflection, along with shining images of the future to come.

back when maria owens was still alive and not too long after the victorian manor was built, a hurricane damaged all of the houses on magnolia street --- except for hers. not even the laundry hanging out on the line was disturbed. this incident helped fuel fear and rumors of her and her bloodline’s powers. it didn’t help when greenery on the island would brown and wilt and the owens’ garden flourished. any stroke of bad luck or mundane misfortune was swiftly blamed on the women living inside the house. while the garden was gated by a smaller fence, an even larger, black and spiky one circled the vast property. it looked like a snake to any outsiders. folk grew up and passed along superstitions. don’t walk past during nightfall, it’s not safe. only the most foolish would try to peer over the iron gate and into the yard. you risked being hexed or cursed, and being sorry for the rest of your life.

so this is long, and i bet i forgot details, i know i forgot details. like how the roof is a favorite place to go and lay out on to star gaze, look out at the ocean. the house, the property, it’s all spacious and rich with history. it’s a good thing it’s so big so that the women living inside it along with all the black cats that come and go have room to live and be free, even if it doesn’t always feel that way for them. it’s their safe place away from any prejudice or misunderstanding that might await them off their property. the owens women have largely always been envied and misunderstood. barely have any outside of blood dared to step inside the manor, since it's always been seen as too risky to do so !!

[catsvrsdogscatswin]

Higurashi Month 2019, Day 10: Photograph

Higurashi Month prompts archive: AO3 

There is an old house in the mountains near Okinomiya. Its nestled among them like the prize jewel of a porcelain Christmas village, the land around it for miles leading inwards, like a flower folded in on itself.

The house itself is the very image of rough, rustic luxury, a provincial mansion made and tended for years and years and years, generations of modern feudalism, with the family name cut deep into a plaque on the front gate in bold characters, a signal to all whose domain it was.

Sonozaki.

The inside of the house is quiet now –the inhabitants are not home, and the silence stretches on through the main house, out across the vast grounds and the artful ponds scattered about them, a pair of thick iron doors cut into the living rock of the mountain. The hinges look as if they have been blown off and replaced, at least once. The silence stretches on and on, throughout the inner depths of the sanctum guarded by these doors, past an antechamber made of wood, into a room filled with torture implements, and another with a bank of wooden steps against one wall, to be used as seats for a presumed show. There are several holes and screwed in the floor that show where some of the racks and tables from the implement room can be bolted down, to better serve for the performance, but they are empty now, and the stack of flat pillows to cushion the seats, piled neatly at the top right of the wooden platforms, is worn and old and undisturbed.

Farther in, deeper down, there are walls carved from the living rock, antechambers and passages and at the very back, a beehive of cells gouged into the rock and barred with iron in the front, with a dirt path winding up and up and around the lonely pockets of imprisonment, all empty now, all silent. At the back of a cell identical to the rest, on the ground level, is a deep, dark hole, and if one looks closely, one can see a railing bolted to the sheer wall, and shallow steps cut into the granite. These steps lead down into the hole, and at their bottom, though not the hole’s bottom, one finds a tunnel that leads deeper into the mountains. But that tunnel is empty now, too, as is the dusty earth at the very depths of the round, gaping chasm that leads to the tunnel.

The house is full of secrets, empty secrets, family secrets, secrets of history, but there are some things that are not secret, less secret, and open to the public eye.

One such thing lies open on a futon, a leather-bound book with a half-hidden spine. The characters on it are embossed in gold, but cannot be read in the dim light and the lap of cotton fabric.

A scrapbook.

At the beginning are grainy, technicolor photos, bright, blurry smudges of color that still, albeit imperfectly, capture the images they are meant to commemorate. A group of schoolchildren, all grinning towards the camera, dirty and sweaty, exuberant and high-spirited, frozen forever in a moment of childish joy, with an arm flung here around white-clad shoulders, a hand scruffing there at mint-green hair, a grin with a single pointed tooth and another blindingly bright smile with gaps where white should be, a child still losing her baby teeth.

These same seven children are repeated throughout the book, in all seasons and all situations, with the pictures changing subtly from the professional, the candid, and the snapshot that develops on its own within a few moments (one is of them at a pool, and that picture is watermarked, colors around the edges turning into splotches of umbras in several spots, as if the children in the photo did not wait for it to develop before snatching it to look at) and eventually, an eighth child joins them, a thin boy with a pale smile that is no less bright for being so, and the smiles of the blonde girl and one of the green-haired twins become nothing short of radiant.

The pictures change as the book progresses, the children becoming older as the photos become clearer, colors sharper and less clumsily-saturated, more and more featuring schools, graduation, the crackling, dried stems of flowers and grass giving way to pasted-on copies of diplomas and silky tassels. The pictures become less inclusive, with fewer members, though all eight of the children still dance among the pages, here the boy with dark hair arm-in-arm with one of the twins, there the two girls with blue hair (she has all her teeth now, and her smile is blinding) and blond (she held hands with the other girl, but embraced her brother when the photo was done) laughing and saying farewell to childhood.

Older still, and older, and now there were photos of the men kneeling before women with hair the color of spring leaves before fireworks and flowers, and ink drawings of elegant circlets of gold and gems, drawings that spoke of reverent care. There were scraps of knitted pastel fabric and families that grew larger, kisses between two girls in an amber-lit pub (they don’t photograph the ones at home, drunkenness and dares between childhood friends gives them only so much plausible deniability) and the eight children become eight men and women, and then more, more children in colors that mix those of their parents, the single threads of the eight unwinding to form many, countless tendrils that thread their way throughout the book, even as those eight slowly drop away from its pages, and eventually vanish altogether.

Cameras help us keep the moments that we wish to remember forever. –Jiro Tomitake

[jiji-infires]

APRICITY (pt. 11)

OC X JUNGKOOK

GENRE: FLUFF, ANGST

WORD COUNT: 2,3+ K

SYNOPSIS: When his roommate moves out to live with his girlfriend, Jungkook is faced with a new reality, one that includes a 5′3′’ sac of bones that is too nerdy and curious for his liking.

CHAPTER 11

They both go back home by bus since Jungkook didn't bring his car. They sit at the back, right next to each other, knees slightly touching, but neither move away.

Jungkook fishes his phone from his pocket and connects his earphones, plugging one in his ear and giving the second to Jisoo.

A soft Melody fills her ears and she instantly relaxes against the cushioned seat. It’s one of those chilled lofi beats one would listen to when about to fall asleep or on a lazy Sunday afternoon, where you don’t feel like folding your garments so you lay on top of a pile of clothes and let your existential crisis consume you. The sound makes her skin shiver and goosebumps are visible on her forearm.

"Are you cold?" He whispers and she just shakes her head, a smile tugging on her lips

"No, the music is good, that's all"

 They get off two bus stops before the one she usually gets off at. When they walk on the pavement, his hand reaches for hers once again, and this time, their fingers intertwine. He doesn't know what kind of friendship is this where they hold hands, exchange adoring glances and kiss, but he knows for sure that he wants to be more. His heart thuds wildly against his chest, contemplating whether he should do it or not, because if she doesn't feel the same, things will be painfully awkward for they live under the same roof.

Jisoo feels warm and fuzzy inside and she doesn't want this moment to end. She knows that when they will reach home, he well say something sweet as always and she'd sleep with Butterflies in her stomach, as cheesy as it is.

 Little does she know that things will go ballistic.

 When they arrive at the apartment, they find the mint-haired man already waiting by the stairs; his fair skin is not in its best condition as he looks like he wears jaundice like a punishment and dark circles underline his eyes and .

"We need to talk"

Jungkook squares up, ready to face what he dreads the most "I thought so too"

 They both walk inside with Jisoo following behind, silently hoping that things won’t be as bad as imagines them to be. She looks up at Jungkook to find him looking back at her, and she understands from his pleading eyes that he wants to be left alone with his hyung.

She silently walks to her room, but doesn't close the door. She knows very well that it's none of her business and that eavesdropping will probably get her in trouble, but she can't help it, not only because it feeds her curiosity, but because it's Jungkook-related.

   Yoongi plops on the couch, sighing in defeat because he's about to release everything he has been holding for the past couple of years, and he knows that it will shatter Jungkook's already crumbling reality.

"Did you drink?" Jungkook asks as soon as he notices that the man before him rubbing his palms against his jeans, a habit he does whenever he's tipsy. Yoongi nods as a response.

"I really thought about it and I think that you deserve to know what happened" he says, "just don't do anything stupid afterwards"

"On Christmas Eve, Hoseok and I were supposed to meet at my place, but your father didn't like the fact that we were together, so he did everything in his might to bring us apart. He was already setting an arranged marriage for hoseok with his friend's daughter​..." Yoongi continues telling the story, and the more he goes on, the angrier Jungkook gets, taking in fragments from his father's side that he has no idea existed before.

 He wants him to stop, because after a long series of peripetiea, Yoongi drops the final bomb and it sends the younger boy over the edge, fires of fury and hatred are smouldering in the small narrowed eyes. He cries and does what he instinct hunches him upon, swinging his arm towards his hyung's jaw who tumbles backwards and falls on the carpeted floor.

"You're lying!" Jungkook snarls, not because Yoongi is telling something he should have said a long while ago, but because the boy knew it all along, he just didn't want to come face to face with it; it was buried in the back of his head, in a dusty box that held only miserable memories. This whole play, he knew well the acts of it, the scenes and the dialogues even better, but he had no idea who was the playwright of this tragedy, not until today.

  Jisoo can't pick anything from their arguments, but she knows the discussion has reached its peak when she hears her roommate yelling his lungs out. She comes running out of her room to find Yoongi throwing ​a hooked punch at Jungkook, jabbing him in the jaw and sending him against the ground.

"Stop..." Her voice is shaking but it's barely audible, tears brim in her eyes and she feels like she's in the middle of a war zone.

 "You think I wanted you to know this, you think Hoseok wanted you to know this?!"

"You just want to blame my father!"

"You don't want to believe it!" Yoongi stumbles over to Jungkook, kicking in his way the table that tumbles to the right, glasses fall and shatter on the floor, but he doesn't care. He holds the youngest one by the collar. 

"Go to him, and confront him about it, and then come to me if you wanna continue this" he spits, and lets go of the boy who falls back on the couch with too many thoughts running wild in his mind. Yoongi runs away, wiping the tears away and the slamming the door shut the second time this day.

 Jisoo slips her trembling feet into her slippers and walks with calculated steps over to Jungkook who has his head between his palms, mumbling in frenzy words she can't decipher no matter how close she gets. Careful not to step on any shards, she kneels down to his level, hoping that she can get a peek of his face.

"J... Jungkook?" She reluctantly puts her hand on his shoulder and tries to pry his hand away from his face. The moment he lowers his hands, Jisoo sucks in a breath; his bloodshot eyes have a deeper colour than she expected as vivid red blood vessels swipe messily on the white of his eyeball, but his irises reflect a lack of soul.

“What happened? What did he say?! Ju–”

“Stay away from me!” she fumbles back when he snarls, her hands flying backwards to support her body, a single shard of glass piercing through her left palm. His voice is too thunderous and hoarse that she can’t recognise it, his hostility towards taking her by sheer surprise but mostly confusion; she wants to know did Jungkook find out to change his mannerism like that, but he leaves no room for questioning.

He looks like a madman who’s about to lose his mind for the second time, resonating under his breath in words that only he can hear. Without a second glance, he grabs his keys and dashes out, leaving his jacket on the couch and broken furniture, with a broken Jisoo sitting in the middle of shattered glass and holding her bleeding palm. She doesn’t know if she’s crying because her hand hurts, or because Jungkook has walked out on her after lashing out on her. Maybe it’s because she’s frustrated too and it’s the only way to vent out her anger. She can’t break things or punch people. It demands too much physical effort that she has no energy to display, so crying is her only escape.

 After a couple of minutes of angry tears, she cleans her wound and wraps a bandage around it a rather messy way. It takes her quite the while to clean the untidiness the two men has left behind, and when she finally sits down to gather her thoughts, it’s already dark outside and her head can’t help but put the horrendous possibilities first, as her roommate has run out the door with a not so clear mind, and judging from his reaction earlier, she knows that he won’t be as careful as she hopes he would be.

Few minutes have turned into an hour and some, and there’s no trace of the boy who doesn’t even reply to her calls, so she decides to get some help.

  Not even fifteen minutes later, Jimin is knocking on the door and she opens in a heartbeat.

“I could barely understand what you told me” he informs matter-of-factly, “So what was Yoongi doing here anyway?”

“I don’t know, he came to tell Jungkook about his brother, and then they both got into a brawl and Yoongi run away and Jungkook went after him and I–”

“Calm down” Jimin holds Jisoo by the shoulders as he notices that her breathing is getting erratic and she’s rambling. Jimin calls his friend’s phone multiple times either, but it keeps ringing until it cuts off. They decide to go look for him.

They stroll the streets for a good two hours, going to places Jungkook has the tendency to visit, they randomly check streets and alleys as well, with bars and parks. Jisoo had no idea that Jungkook drinks, not until today.

Jimin emits a call as he is still driving towards Han River, and surprisingly Jungkook answers a couple of rings after.

“Jungkook where are you?” h says as soon as the younger boy picks up, his groggy voice doesn’t go unnoticed by Jimin’s ears who perk up at the sound his car makes; he is clearly driving over the speed limit, “Pull over and tell me where you are”

It’s Jisoo’s first time hearing Jimin talk in such an authoritarian voice, and she listens carefully so as to pick the smallest details from the one-sided conversation.

“What do you mean you’re going to Busan?! At this hour?... Jungkook just listen, pull over and send me your location I’ll come get you– Jungkook calm down... Jungkook wa–”

It’s Jimin who pulls over. He runs his hand through his hair and grips the steering wheel so rigidly his knuckles turn white.

 “So he’s really going to Busan...” she says under her breath and Jimin nods silently, swallowing hard because he knows that the boy will clearly end up fucking up and digging into his family’s past.

“What did Yoongi say to him?”

“I don’t know, they were talking low and I was in my room, I came out when they were already fighting and Yoongi asked him to go to his father and get the confirmation he needs”

“Damn it” the boy mumbles, “I guess I’ll go get him tomorrow”

“I thought we’re going now!”

“the drive to Busan is at least five hours, and there’s no way we might get there before dawn’ he sighs, “just trust me” he pats her head and she exhales in defeat, looking at her locked fingers down her lap, “I’ll drive you home and I’ll let you know if anything happens.

They head back home and Jisoo watches in silence as the city sinks behind in the rear-view mirror, and with it sinks her heart.

 Busan, 04:20

 The streets surrounding the manor are empty and a piercing silence is engulfing the area, only the sounds of owls and mewls of stray cats can be heard at this hour. The stillness is soon invaded by a roaring engine and the harsh slam of the car door. Jungkook steps out into the cold, his skin shivers and the wind plays with his hair as he walks further towards the door, hammering his fist against the wooden surface. He bangs the door several times until somebody opens it for him. He doesn’t dwell on the maid’s frightened expression as he barges in and dashes upstairs to his brother’s room, looking for a particular object that could ruin his life and others for sure.

 When he comes down, a few employees have gathered in the main hall, including the previous maid and the chauffer. He screams his father’s name at the top of his lungs, and his father appears from behind the staircase, an expression of utter shock displayed on his face.

“Jungkook what are you doi–”

“What have you done to my brother?” he asks through gritted teeth, his patience running on a thread that threatens to snap at any given second. His mother comes into view moments later and she gasps audibly, but she recovers soon after to dismiss the staff.

“What are you talking about? Jungkook, what are you doing here at this ungodly hour?”

“You know very well what I’m talking about! What you did to Yoongi was not meant for Hoseok, but it happened because of you!” his voice shakes and tears well up in his eyes. A peculiar emotion register on his father’s face as he seems to understand what his son is talking about, he realises that Jungkook now knows what happened two years ago, and denying it is futile, but he tries anyway.

 “Who ever told you that story is lying! I’d never do that to my own son! Are you out of your mind?!”

The man swallows his words and colour drains from his face as he is faced with a sight that makes frost wraps around his heart. His mother clasps her hands against her lips that part to release a high pitched yelp, the boy standing before her is nothing like her son.

Jungkook breaks into cold sweat at the nerve wracking situation he’s in, his right hand trembling and his index finger is about to end the man who raised him.

  “Shoot me if it’s gonna make you feel better”

[fictionary-tales]

Excerpts from House Huntress

Here’s a place where we could live together: an apartment in the city, up some concrete steps with a discolored wrought iron railing that’s more likely to impale someone than do any kind of saving and the palms of my hands have the scars to prove it. Yours do not. The building is brick-red, or rain-stained-concrete gray, and the door, though the ivory paint is peeling in places, has a brass knocker and an eye hole for testing whether it’s worth ever opening again once we’re inside. There are some tiny planter boxes you made with your brother – the oldest one who can do things like that, whose name I never remember – and maybe I said I’d grow vegetables but I forget all about that when I see flowers, so instead of half-dead tomatoes we’ve got half-dead snapdragons and African daisies that I am clumsily trying to save after weeks of mistreatment.

              There’s a kitchen just big enough to turn around in, everything that came in it already off-white or fake wood overlay, and the countertops are scattered with unorganized half-used glass jars of rosemary, thyme, basil, paprika, and old husks of garlic cloves that were rubbed clean and then forgotten. The cupboards rattle with too many coffee mugs, thrift-store finds that will never match one another and they rattle and clink against each other when you’re trying to select a particular one. The cutlery matches in that it doesn’t, so many knives and forks taken home from assorted twenty-four-hour diners to make up for the ones I keep losing and the ones you accidentally throw away with the leftovers. The fridge has at least two different kinds of non-dairy milk in it at all times, and no meat. It buzzes and groans.

              Over the half-wall of the kitchen counter we have cobbled together the furniture we retained from past lives. What was once second-hand is now third-fourth-fifth-hand; at least the stuff that I bring is. You bring the overstuffed powder blue couch I love and this is its first time being co-owned by anyone, or even this far away from the nearest dirt road. Nashville is a cool city the way Austin is a cool city: an oasis of metropolitan tolerance in a desert of fucking bigots. In time the couch will be stained with candle wax and wine and what’s left behind any time you push my skirt up to discover I’ve forgotten to do laundry and so I’ve run out of underwear again. There’s books of poetry by Dickinson and Lowell on a coffee table scratched from cups, bottles, keys, lighters. There’s two poorly done paintings on the wall above the couch, portraits of two girls: one yellow-haired and the other a brunette, dressed in some early twentieth-century pink or blue gowns complete with parasol and over-the-shoulder coquettishness. A palette of faded blues and yellows and greens, the girls have the hollow black eyes of distant dreams. We found them on vacation together and had to save them.

              The bedroom is small and the bed is smaller, dressed in lilac and crisp white. There’s a certain throw pillow in the center of other throw pillows that holds a secret, a zipper in the folds of its hemming to keep it. The nightstand beside my side of the bed I found next to the dumpster at my old place and it’s filled with bracelets, multicolored rings, knotted nests of necklaces, and weed in unlabeled bottles. The nightstand on your side of the bed has been in your family for three generations and I don’t know what’s in it. The bathroom smells like your perfume, like a pre-scented sample on a perfume ad insert that comes in any women’s fashion magazine. When I turn the shower on, old love-messages written on the mirror with your finger re-appear like magic.

…

Here is a place we could stay together: an antebellum house in the countryside, maybe close to your family. Close enough that you can walk a dirt path through the dry grass that’s tall as your hips. It’s a path lined with day-glo orange and gold poppies, and purple nettle flowers that sting to touch. You visit your father, your brothers, whenever you want. The middle brother who you’re so worried over all the time despite his being older than you, Angus, he comes over regularly to sit in our cool parlor decorated with see-through white linen curtains where he drinks bourbon and talks about Edna St. Vincent Millay and W. H. Auden and grumblingly refuses to show you or anyone else any of his own recent poetry.

The house is smaller than the one you were raised in, and bigger than any house I’ve ever called home or even been inside for very long. It’s an adjustment for both of us. Outside there are columns that sit beneath the second-story balcony. When we bought the place it was all whitewashed, but since then most of it has been painted a muted pink and I’ve planted ivy and bougainvillea that creeps up the columns in deep greens and explodes across the sides of the house in shades of magenta that refuse to die, despite me not knowing what I’m doing. Errant cats wander the property with dusty brown paws that leave prints across the white planks of the front porch and on the seat of a swing. Light streams in through windows half as tall as I am and onto end tables and decorative shelving to reveal intricate doilies and gold-rimmed porcelain candy bowls, ancient copies of books thick enough to kill a man with if used properly, and glass vases filled with bouquets of wild flowers we both pick for each other on any given weekend.

The ceilings are so high that I can hear you singing to yourself in the kitchen from the other side of the house; your smoky lounge-singer voice that you typically only show off for family Christmas carols now bounces off of support beams to reach me wherever I am. Our guitar in the corner stays tuned and clean and in the evenings I play and you sing, or the other way around, or we take turns. In the kitchen, brass pots and pans hang from above, over a restored-vintage stove, along with hanging bundles of drying herbs: rosemary, sage, basil, lavender. Storage containers of descending size with painted-on sunflowers contain flour, sugar, and rice separated by variety. The freezer is stuffed with mason jars equally stuffed with jam: blackberry, marionberry, raspberry, orange marmalade, strawberry, blueberry, fig. There is one hook for multiple aprons, there is a multitude of decorative dish towels which are separate and different from the actual dish towels and this is true even when used interchangeably like I do on accident (to your chagrin). Coffee grounds and cat hair and the plastic ties from long-gone loaves of sliced bread fall between the gaps in the counter and the stove.

The stairs will never stop creaking. The second floor has endless guest rooms for friends and family to stay in, the kind of family who will never be introduced to your own, the kind that will wake up early and make breakfast for us to say thanks, and then they say it again with their lips and their eyes and their embrace on the way out the door. Our bed is big, queen-sized, with a white iron frame that twists and turns like it grew that way from nature, and the sheets have tiny blue flowers on them the color of your eyes. We cover rings in the wood on the nightstand with squares of pale green linen. Batteries roll around back and forth against silicone inside the drawers, and we’re careful not to be too loud for the neighbors’ sakes, but that is half the fun. On weekends and days when I can’t get out of bed, you close the curtains to the sun, crawl under the covers with me, and we spend all day trying to come up with a good reason to get up.

…

Here is a place where we could grow old together: somewhere forgotten by the sea, away from the dry heat of summer. A house that is wider than it is tall, with new paint and an old garden that we make new again. Everything I plant turns to green. There is sand stuck into the fibers of the welcome mat, and smooth stones that we have collected and arranged into spirals and borders for garden beds keep everything from touching that we do not want touching. The door has more glass than wood on the front, multi-colored and mosaic so when the sun shines through it makes patterns on the floor for our feet to dance in. There is a backyard with a fence so high no one can see into it, except for the sunflowers which stretch up and up and up and over.

Inside there are bare wooden floors that we cover here and there with rugs collected from our worldly travels, purchased from artisans with a smile and many thanks. The furniture we use is purchased in a similar fashion; it is made of sturdy pine and oak, built to last, and stain resistant, with covers and cushions the colors of the ocean outside. The bookshelves hold volumes of poetic verse written by Keats, the fragmented desires of Sappho, biographies on Frida Kahlo, and lamentations of Sylvia Plath. At night the sounds of the waves can be let in or shut out through the many windows, and when it rains the whole house sounds off with the plunking of drops on glass like the pickings of my guitar.

The bay window in the kitchen over the sink holds flowers waiting to be pressed or dried or just picked in haste and then forgotten: violets, little daisies, hydrangea, and lots and lots of lavender. The counter tops are wooden, like you could cut right on them, and there are knife marks to prove it here and there in collections. There’s a china-blue bowl of oranges with only two left. Bulbs of garlic hang in a basket by the sink. An errant smell of sage and sea salt sinks into all our food, and the flecks of soil on the tile near the backdoor can never fully be swept out for good. To drink we make lemonade of all kinds: blackberry, strawberry, raspberry, mint, or water infused with cucumber and lemon, or hot tea with names like Rasperry Zinger and Orange Spice, and Sleepytime for late nights. A glass jar of honey sits on the counter next to the stove and it is always oozing. There is a table for two tucked into the corner, with bare wooden chairs we picked up from antique sales. They don’t match, but it’s hard to tell.

In the bathroom the shower has walls of tall frosted glass and connects to a bath tub deep and wide, soap scum fitting into the corners of the walls and in the grout of the tile. The rim of the tub is littered with half-empty bottles: baby pink, sea-foam green, and pearly white. It is so good for washing the salt from your hair.

There is no guest bedroom. Our bed is four-poster, with lavish fabrics draped around the beams, all indigo and white and cornflower blue. There are so many pillows of similar colors that it takes a concentrated effort to remove them before bed each night and replace them again in the gray mornings that follow. And sometimes we don’t replace them, and sometimes we do. The drawers of the nightstand beside it are stocked and arranged in an arsenal of silicone sexuality that we never worry someone might stumble upon. We are as loud as we like.

In the winter when the wind howls, there’s a blackened fireplace that we bring back to life. It crackles and spits while we turn against one another under the covers. A hamper in one corner is overflowing at all times. There’s a dresser that is taller than it is wide, almost to the ceiling, filled with scarves and summer dresses and sweaters; and, in between the socks and stockings in one of the smaller drawers, a collection of love poetry I’d forgotten I’d written to you. Your vanity holds pearls and perfumes, necklaces on silver hooks like branches worked to resemble a dead tree, and the mirror is pristine and round the way all mirrors ought to be. Sometimes in the evenings before bed, you let me brush your hair in front of it even though you think it’s silly. You sit on that little white wooden bench in front, with me standing behind you so you watch me in the mirror working the brush through your beach-blown curls. You don’t ever have to tell me when I’m hurting you because I already know.

[etherealxch]

because you’re here

word count : 2077

[a/n] : a rocky scenario this time! i was feeling pretty down when i was writing this because it was kinda based off my current situation. anyway rocky’s been creeping his way up my bias list sorry not sorry . hope you guys have fun reading this! and i hate to be that fan but AROHAS!! DON’T forget to vote for ASTRO on MUSIC SHOWS ETC! AND KEEP STREAMING ALL NIGHT! 

I look at the laptop screen in front of me, the light from it bouncing off my face. It’s open to one single window, displaying my e-mail inbox. The first message from the top is blue, still unread. My finger hovers uncertainly over the mouse, then finally with some courage, click into it.

‘Dear Miss Ong, we would like to thank you for considering our company Unfortunately, we regret to say…’

My shoulder slumps down in defeat. This was never going to go well, was it? I sigh, rubbing my face suddenly exhausted. I take in deep breaths because I don’t want to be suddenly breaking down in tears in the public library.

I log off my email account and lean back against my chair. This was the fourth time I’ve tried to apply for a job this month and also the fourth time I’ve been kindly rejected. Either they don’t need anyone at this moment, or I don’t have enough qualifications, or I’m just too 'good’ for their company and I shouldn’t waste my talents at such a small company.

I hold and release my knuckles, holding them tight till they’re white and stretching them wide when I release them. It helps me stop wanting to cry. I gather up my things, pushing back my chair to leave. As I’m walking past the librarian’s desk, my phone gives a shrill ring and I realise I forgot to turn my phone on silent when I came in here.

“Hello?” I ask, slightly breathless as I hurry down the steps outside.

“Hey,” Rocky’s voice comes down on the line. Hearing his voice makes me immediately want to vent to him. But I know he’s working at the architecture firm right now and since it’s his lunchtime, I don’t want to steal any more of his free time unless I really need to.

“What are you up to right now?” He asks.

I imagine him, leaning against the window by his desk, phone by his ear. “Just left the library. You?”

“I’ve been working on a new project this entire morning with Myeong Jun and the others.” He stifles a yawn. “It’s been pretty hectic lately. I’ve barely seen you.”

“I miss you.” I sigh.

“I miss you too. I–”

'Rocky! I need you to come look at this!’ I can hear Myeong Jun’s voice calling out.

“Be right there!” Rocky shouts back. He turns his attention back to me. “Sorry, that was Myeong Jun. This new client of us is seriously a pain in the–”

“No, it’s okay.” I cut him off gently. “Go do your work.”

“I’ll call you tonight, is that okay?” He asks. I can’t help but smile, four months into our relationship, he still always asks before calling me.

“Yes.” I laugh. Talking to him, my spirits have momentarily been lifted, but once he’s not there to distract me, my wanders to my rejected job applications. My stomach growls, telling me it’s hungry. I walk to a bakery near the library to buy a sandwich, since I’m not in the mood for a proper lunch.

As I look over the two selections of sandwiches–chicken teriyaki and tuna mayo–, someone taps me on my shoulder.

“Liv! I thought that was you!” My old classmate whom I haven’t seen in a while, Fiona smiles.

“Fiona–hi!” I say, unable to hide the surprise in my voice.

“I haven’t seen you since high school! What are you up to these days?” She asks, as we take a seat outside the bakery. I take a sip of my juice, taking my time to answer her.

“Umm, not much. I’ve been trying to look for a job.” I stir my straw around my overpriced drink. The ice spheres clink gently against the glass, the mint leaves sticking to the sides.

“Any luck?” She asks. Gloomily, I shake my head.

“What about you?” I move away from the subject of me continuously failing to get a job. She tells me about how she’s working for a pharmaceutical company and she’s now on their research team. I smile, telling her that’s great since I know that’s what she’s always wanted. But I can’t help feeling bitter in the pit of my stomach. She must notice a change in my mood because she pats my back and tells me that I will eventually find a job that it’s better to take my time and filter out the good jobs instead of just rushing into things.

“Thanks.” I don’t tell her that I can’t even filter out any jobs because there are no jobs.

I reach home about 3 in the afternoon, with a bag of groceries that I had gotten on my home. Buying groceries is my way of saying thank you to my roommate, Ae Ra is who letting me stay here for only half the rent. Without her, I’d be homeless. I check my e-mail to see if there is anyone who needs my translating service. Freelance translating jobs are my only sole income now. The pay is great but since I only have a degree, there are only so many documents I am qualified to translate. And nowadays, most people use the internet for these things.

Ae Ra sends me text saying she’ll be late tonight. She’s probably meeting up with her boyfriend. I sigh, just when I need some company. I think of my boyfriend who’s been stuck at work almost every night since the last two weeks. We’ve mostly video called when he’s off work, lying in our respective beds, talking about literally anything until either one of us falls asleep first.

But I miss him. I want to see his face. And have him tell me everything’s going to be fine. I shake my head, telling myself no.

“He needs to rest too.” I tell myself firmly. I take a shower, washing my hair that’s been greasy for three days because I was so nervous about hearing from the company that I was incapable of keeping up with my personal hygiene. The sun sets pretty early these days so when I’m done with blow drying my hair, the sky is looking dusty rose with streaks of dark greyish lavender clouds. This has become my favourite time of the day.

I open the balcony sliding door and with a mug of tea in my hands, I settle on one of the lounge seats outside, shaped like a half-opened egg with a cushion for my butt. I lean back comfortably, staring at the sky and hearing the sounds from the neighbourhood–a couple of housewives talking about the prices for fish and poultry these days, students complaining and laughing together, the sound of a construction lorry reversing with someone directing the driver.

Around 6:23 p.m. I realise I’m starving and cook up a quick dinner. It says 15 minute meal on the YouTube video but what they don’t tell you is that it takes about another 12 minutes to look for ingredients and have them ready, a 10 to wonder if I should’ve put that much soy sauce in the soup. Over dinner, I scroll through my email inbox again, coming across the email telling me that I didn’t get the job again.

My gut tightens and all of a sudden, my faces scrunches up and big fat tears are rolling down my face. I think of how Fiona basically got her dream job and that increases my sadness. I try calming myself down.

“Hgnnnh, it’s okay, hgnh hmmghh,” I sob. “It’s not like you’re hgnh, completely out of a job. You have, a, a, freelahggnhh…” The thought of how unstable freelance work is only makes me cry harder. I move from the kitchen to the living room in a state of half-sobbing and half feeling sorry myself. I let myself cry, because I’ve been telling myself that no one owes me anything and that I need to work hard by myself and this is only a small trip on my way to success and I’ve always held back then, never once crying.

The doorbell rings and I use my sleeve to wipe away my stray tears and snot. Dammit. Did Ae Ra order something online again? I open the door to a red and white takeout box covering my boyfriend’s face. He pops out from the side, about to say 'SURPRISE’ when he catches sight of my face.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Is everything okay?” He immediately drops his jokey act.

My chin wobbles a little but I suck it in, not wanting to go through the ugly crying in front of him. Instead, I take a step forward and hug him, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my face in his chest. His familiar scent seems to calm me down.

“Just let me be like this for a sec.” I mumble into his clothes. With his one free hand, he puts it on the top of my head, patting it gently as you would to a child.

“Um, should we go inside?” He asks, as one of the neighbours gives us a weird look as he opens his door.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” He asks, once we’re inside. He sets the food on the table and follows me to the living room, where I plop down on the couch.

“You haven’t eaten dinner?” I ask, avoiding his question.

“No, I wanted to eat with you but I guess I should’ve called first huh?” He gives one of his smiles where the left corner of his lips is raised slightly, glancing at the kitchen counter where my pot in sitting, unwashed.

“Sorry.” I say meekly. He takes my hand, and even though it’s been countless times since he’s done that, my heart still does that skippy thing.

“It doesn’t matter.” He pushes back my hair that’s covering part of my face gently. I look at him properly, his black hair is getting long; it’s almost going into his eyes.

“I didn’t get the job.” I say, my voice small. “I just. I thought that this would be the job. Everyone around me is doing something with their life. I’m still stuck here, where I’ve been ever since I’ve graduated.”

He pulls me in for a cuddle, not saying anything. And I appreciate that. Because he knows that no matter what he says now, I’m inconsolable. He lets me vent to him, which I do. I tell him about Fiona and her job. He listens, his face serious and attentive. He uses his thumb to wipe away a stray tear on my cheek when I get too emotional again.

After I’m done talking, I lean into the crook of his arm comfortably and he rests his chin on the top of my head. This action is simple really yet I’ve always considered this an intimate action between couples. It makes me feel very warmed and loved inside.

“I know that, no matter what I say now, it’s not going to be able to change how you feel.” He pulls away slightly so he can look into my eyes. “But I just want you to know, it’ll be alright, okay?” He presses his lips to my forehead.

“Thank you for coming.” I say.

“I’m glad I came when I did.” He cups the side of my face and smushes my cheeks together, making me laugh. “You know you can always call me right?”

“I know,” I nod.

He sighs. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy these few weeks. I wish I could be here for you every time something bad happens.”

“You’re here now.” I shake my head, refusing to let him blame himself. His stomach makes a growling sound and I realise in horror that he’s been sitting here, listening to me vent for about an hour now and he hasn’t had dinner. We take the food from the kitchen to eat in the living room. He tells me about his day at work, re-enacting the funny anecdotes that happened. As I watch him picking off the cucumber in the roll, his face illuminated by the television glow, I feel a swell of love for him and reach over to give him a peck on the lips.

“What was that for?” He chuckles as I hold his face in between my hands, like he did.

“Just because you’re here.”

[jeremystrele]

An Elegant Makeover Of A Classic California Bungalow

An Elegant Makeover Of A Classic California Bungalow

Interiors

by Elle Murrell

Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Entry door in Dulux Salmon Smoke,  Barben Architectural Hardware 160 entry door handle in matte black from Elite Door Hardware, Replica Moooi Random pendant in black from Lucretia Lighting and terrazzo planter in pink from Fox and Ramona. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

‘Sapphire & Gold Hills’ artwork by Antoinette Ferwerda, Marius sideboard in grey and oak from Clickon Furniture, Marmoset Found bell, Haus vases and Mr and Mrs Potts vases, all from Kiss With Style, and Cloud platter in black from Grey Skies Home. Rueben marble coffee table from ArthurG, with Magic rug in storm from The Rug Collection, Sketch Nysse armchair in natural/dove from Globe West, Favos felt cushion in dusty pink from Figgoscope Curates, and Geo vase in black from Grey Skies Home. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Living room. Wilfred sofa in clover wool nigella seed from Jardan, Herringbone lambswool throw in denim from Saarde, Magic rug in storm from The Rug Collection, Rueben marble and oak nesting coffee tables from Arthur G, Sketch Nysse armchairs in natural/dove from Globe West Fragas felt cushion in middle grey and Favos felt cushion in dusty pink from Figgoscope Curates, Marius sideboard in grey and oak from Clickon Furniture, Assemblages shelves from Lightly, Hay strap mirror in grey from Cult. Geo vase in black from Grey Skies Home, Ceramic vessels by Bern and Marmoset Found from Kiss With Style, Marble tray from Marble Basics, Milk & Sugar Iris pot stands and chester pots from Hunting For George. Peonies from Say It With Flowers and Indoor plants from Into The Wild. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Sideboard detail. ‘Sapphire & Gold Hills’ artwork by Antoinette Ferwerda, Marius sideboard in grey and oak from Clickon Furniture, Marmoset Found bell, Haus vases and Mr and Mrs Potts vases, all from Kiss With Style, and Cloud platter in black from Grey Skies Home. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Custom oak dining table from ArthurG, Boston dining chairs in blush leather from Barnaby Lane, Marble tray and By Lassen Kubus candle holder from Norsu Interiors. Existing buffet with custom doors featuring art deco routed pattern in Dulux Ahoy (enquire via Maitland Street Interiors), RO flower vases in indigo from Kiss With Style and Autumn in Paris original artwork by Brigitte Northover. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Kitchen and living area. Dita stools in navy and white in Grazia & Co, Squash minimal orb pendant lights in steel blue, aubergine and clear from Mark Douglass Design, Retro penny round mosaics in indigo from Byzantine Design. ‘Autumn in Paris’ artwork from Brigitte Northover, Wilfred sofa in clover wool nigella seed from Jardan, and Fragas felt cushion in middle grey from Figgoscope Curates. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

The kitchen. Dita stools in navy and white from Grazia & Co, retro penny round mosaics in indigo from Byzantine Design, existing kitchen with custom panel added to island bench featuring art deco routed pattern in Dulux Whisper White by Maitland Street Interiors, marble and oak cheeseboard from Kiss With Style, Menu salt and pepper grinders in ash/carbon from Norsu Interiors, Angle vase in white from Grey Skies Home. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Custom oak dining table from ArthurG, Boston dining chairs in blush leather from Barnaby Lane, Marble tray and By Lassen Kubus candle holder from Norsu Interiors, Squash minimal orb pendant lights in steel blue, aubergine and clear by Mark Douglass Design, Retro penny round mosaics in indigo by Byzantine Design, Dita stools in navy and white from Grazia & Co. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Entryway. Custom oak floating shelf by Maitland Street Interiors, Replica Moooi Random pendant from Lucretia Lighting, Geo vase in white from Grey Skies Home, and Baby Potts vase from Kiss With Style. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Powder room. Liquid gloss subway tile herringbone feature wall in black from Perini Tiles. Grey/white terrazzo benchtop from Signorino Tiles, black wenge custom vanity in ravine finish from Polytec, metal recessed cabinetry pull from Made Measure, Marblo Ellipse basin and Astra Walker Icon wall spout and mixer in Flemish copper from Benton’s Finer Bathrooms, Silhouette pendant in brushed copper from Ross Gardam, Lumira candle and glass dome from Kiss With Style, Missoni Home vanni handtowel from Safari Living and custom round mirror with brushed copper frame via Maitland Street Interiors. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Bathroom featuring liquid gloss subway tile herringbone feature wall in grey from Perini Tiles, wide (600x300mm) tiles in steel to walls from Glux, Amano tiles in musk from Perini Tiles, and Silhouette pendants in smoke glass from Ross Gardam. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Bathroom vanity. Wide (600x300mm) tiles in steel to floor and walls from Glux, Amano 100 x 100 tiles in musk to vanity and niches from Perini Tiles, terrazzo benchtop from Signorino Tiles, Natural oak custom vanity in ravine finish from Polytec, Satin pull 04 in matte black from Made Measure, Fienza Nero basin and Streamline Axus spout and mixer in matte black from Benon’s Finer Bathrooms with custom mirrored cabinet via Maitland Street Interiors. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Master bedroom with grasscloth wallpaper in navy from ascraft, Gubi grasshopper pendants in white from Cult, custom tan leather bedhead from ArthurG, Cuba side table in oak from Beeline Design, Linen quilt and sheets in charcoal, navy and white from Cultiver, Knitted throw rug in grey from Adairs, Eadie Lifestyle Bedu cushion in white,  Blush leather cushion, and Winter wonder husk ice cushion with white tassel all from Norsu Interiors, angle vase in white from Grey Skies Home, and S-fold curtains in Allusions fabric in silver from Zepel and Shades of Hawthorn. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Storm Cloud 1 and 2 photographic prints by Katie Carmichael, framed in black oak, Kent bench in tan from Barnaby Lane, Levante wool carpet in Felucca from Cavalier Bremworth, Linen quilt and sheets in charcoal, navy and white from Cultiver and Knitted throw rug in grey from Adairs. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Girls bedroom with custom Cloudy quilt cover in emerald, grey and black from Little Louli, Sky grey sheet set and cloud light from Adairs, Baltic velvet cushion in frog from Zepel and Inform Upholstery, Numero74 star cushion in white from Mondocherry, ‘Oh the places you’ll go’ print and oak frame from Hunting For George, W&V swing shelf and Twinkles ballerina and Scarlett the swan toys from Kiss With Style. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Levante wool carpet in Felucca from Cavalier Bremworth, Baltic velvet custom window seat and loose cushion from Zepel and Inform Upholstery, Custom cushions in Correa and Sticks fabric hand printed in emerald and black from Ink & Spindle and Inform Upholstery, Grey pom pom throw from Adairs, and Belle pendant in Jade from Family Love Tree. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Kid’s bedroom with wall colour Dulux Blue Balm,

Magdalena Tybonie framed Ikaros and summer pink prints, Fox print client’s own, Oscar table lamp from Crate Expectations, Florence pendant in white from Family Love Tree, Harvie quilt cover in grey, Lotus sheet set in pink, Crochette cushion and knitted throw all from Adairs. Eadie Lifestyle landscape cushion in silver grey/white and Soliel pom pom cushion in white both from Norsu Interiors. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Custom designed built-in robe by Maitland Street Interiors featuring V-groove panelling in Dulux Whisper White, Leather tabs in classic grey from Made Measure. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Eldest daughter’s bedroom. Rebeka Rabbit print from Dots by Donna, Love quilt cover and pillowcase in mint and grey from Little Louli, knitted throw and Faux fur cushion both in grey from Adairs, Pintuck cushion in ocean from Family Love Tree, Eadie Lifestyle Bedu cushion in white from Norsu Interiors, Leo bedside table in natural oak from Grazia & Co, Oscar table lamp from Crate Expectations, and Angle vase in white from Grey Skies Home. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Ethnicraft oak floating shelf from Globe West, Boston chair in blush leather from Barnaby Lane, Pencil pot from Robert Gordon Pottery and indoor plant and pot from Into The Wild. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Ensuite. Liquid gloss subway tile herringbone feature wall in white from Perini Tiles, Wide (600×300) floor tiles in steel from Glux,  Astra Walker Icon mixer, shower rail and towel ladder in Flemish copper all from Benton’s Finer Bathrooms, Palais lux towels in navy from Sheridan, an Ena handwash and body lotion from Norsu Interiors. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Ceramic (600x300mm) wall tiles in matte white from Glux, custom vanity with art deco routed pattern in Dulux Ahoy via Maitland Street Interiors, Satin pull 04 in white from Made Measure, grey/white terrazzo from Signorino Tiles, Rocca Inspira basins from Reece, Astra Walker Icon mixer and spout in Flemish copper from Benton’s Finer Bathrooms, Flare wall light in brushed copper from Ross Gardam, custom mirrored cabinet via Maitland Street Interiors, and Cloud 9 trinket plate from Kiss With Style. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Creating beautifully resolved spaces that directly influence the way people feel, is why Sarah Elshaug shows up for work every day. Founder and creative director of Maitland Street Interiors, the interior decorator/stylist recently updated a period home in Glen Iris for a busy corporate couple and their three daughters (aged 12, 10 and 6). The primary focus was renovating the home so it could effortlessly transition with the family as the girls grew into their teenage years.

Sarah’s brief called for contemporary Scandinavian style, but also allowed her to hero local designers, makers and artisans. ‘Our clients’ passion for supporting local creatives was a joy, and reflected the values of our studio,’ she tells, highlighting key inclusions from Grazia & Co, arthurG, Jardan, Ross Gardam, Mark Douglass, Little Louli, Barnaby Lane, Beeline Design, Katie Carmichael, Antoinette Ferwerda, Inform Upholstery, Ink & Spindle, Made Measure, Norsu Interiors, Cultiver, and Baud & Co.

As part of this project, the 1930s California Bungalow received a fresh colour scheme both inside and out – soft greys, white, dusty blues and a touch of warmth, enlivened with natural greenery from Into The Wild. Meanwhile, furnishings were selected with an emphasis on natural materials that add texture and contrast.

The master suite was transformed into a sanctuary, in which to retreat at the end of a busy day. It now transitions from light and bright in the mornings, to soft and moody by evening, thanks to stunning navy grasscloth wallpaper. Sarah also delighted in updating the girls’ bedrooms; taking a brief from each, and working collaboratively on the way they used their spaces – a perfect-for-reading window seat has been a complete hit!

In the bathrooms, Sarah ‘pushed the boundaries with a few bold moves’, introducing moody colour schemes, bespoke Art Deco-influenced patterns routed into cabinetry, and intricate herringbone tiling in wet areas. Featuring white, navy and copper, the ensuite complements its master bedroom, while and the girls’ bathroom features a striking grey palette with a hint of pink. The powder room brings the wow-factor through bold mirrors, moody black walls, elegantly subtle copper touches and statement light fittings by Ross Gardam. ‘Some elements originally pushed us outside our fairly conservative decorating tastes,’ reflect the homeowners, ‘but we are so glad that we agreed to run with these ideas now, as we love these new areas!’.

‘After designing and sourcing for each of these spaces to suit each occupant, I can truly say that it was a proud moment to hear about each of their reactions on seeing their spaces for the first time,’ reflects Sarah. ‘To have their own sanctuary to retreat to at the end of a busy work or school day really will impact their daily interactions as a family, and influence how they thrive in their new day-to-day.’

Sarah Elshaug of Maitland Interiors recently established a new arm of her business, The Retreat Stylist, which focusses on styling for short-stay rentals. Find out more at Maitlandstreetinteriors.com.au/the-retreat-stylist/.