#news! i got NEW sticker vinyl!

[shirecorn]

What actually happened to the stickers, how did they get shaped the way they did?

so i have some pretty cheapo sticker vinyl that needs to be laminated in order to be usable.

When starting a new project, I have to test my cutting machine to get accurate results and figure out how to set up my page.

I use cheap vinyl or paper, unlaminated, in order to test. they are fragile and awful. And if the cuts didn't go deep enough, they stick to each other. The tearing generally happened when trying to remove the vinyl around them and leave the stickers.

The googly eye placement is 100% artistic choice for each sticker. I put those on myself for maximum funny.

[dragqueenpentheus]

had a monetarily bad con and nOW MY BILLS ALL CAME AT ONCE AND MY DIGITAL SALES WONT COME IN TILL WEDNESDAY. AND SO MY ACCOUNT IS IN OVERDRAFT BY LIKE FIFTY BUCKS. GOD. THAT CON WAS ROUGH.

[kookygranger]

Top five, most memorable kisses of all time

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Corroded Coffin move to Chicago and find their people. Eddie finds you behind the counter at Championship Records. He thinks you're cool. You think he's gorgeous. Life outside of Hawkins might just be worth fighting for.

Warnings: swearing, kissing (obvs), fluff, fem!reader, mostly Eddie's POV, our boy has no rizz, alcohol consumption, I don't think anything else, too many high fidelity references?

Word count: 4k

Author's note: This is a one-shot, that has been sitting in my drafts since last Halloween and thanks to a wip game has finally seen the light of day! Find the playlist that inspired the fic below.

Masterlist

One pill makes you larger,

And one pill makes you small

The bell above the door jingles as Eddie steps through the threshold, his shoulders relaxing as the warmth seeps back into him and he scans the racks of records before him. Perking up as he notices the music playing over the speakers, he was still getting used to how much cooler things were in Chicago than back home – and shit, how much cooler people were.

Eddie clocks you sitting on top of the counter with one leg crossed under you, the other swinging down the side as you sticker a stack of vinyl. You mouth along with the music, not even noticing him slip through the aisles as he stops in a random section with a perfect view of you across the small store.

He’d only come in here to kill some time between soundcheck and the gig tonight at a venue down the street. The rest of the band had gone to find some food, but Eddie wanted to check out the record store they passed on the drive in. And boy, was he glad he did.

He mindlessly flicks through the records in front of him, trying to come up with a good conversation starter. It wasn’t that often that he missed Steve Harrington, but he could sure use one of the boy’s famous pep talks right about now. Fuck, what was it about pretty girls that got him so tongue-tied? Probably the pretty part.

But you weren’t just pretty, you were obviously very cool, and he certainly wasn’t used to girls sharing the same interests as him – but he’d met a lot of them since he’d moved to Chicago a couple of months ago.

Just as he’s thinking about what albums he could pick out to impress you, the bell above the door jingles again. A guy around his age walks in, his short hair spiked, nose and ears pierced and tattoos peeking out from a crisp white t-shirt. He walks with confidence to where you sit and makes you jump slightly as he greets you boisterously.

“Shit, you scared me.”

He snickers and starts rummaging through a crate of cassettes by the counter.

“Yeah, you look like you were in the zone. Did you even notice you had a customer?”

You turn your head in Eddie’s direction just as he ducks his down, continuing to flick through the disco section. Wait, shit where’s the metal?

“Shit.” You whisper under your breath and turn your attention back to the other guy, not quite lowering your voice enough so Eddie couldn’t eavesdrop. “No, but in my defence this song is a banger.”

Severin, Severin, speak so slightly

Severin, down on your bended knee

“What the fuck are you listening to anyway?”

“I made a pre-Halloween mix. Music that led to goth before goth was a thing.” You frown as you try to unstick a bright red sticker from the price gun you’d been tapping on the pile of vinyl.

Eddie smiles to himself as he continues to pretend he’s browsing and not tuning into your conversation.

“Are you coming to The Allied tonight? There’s some new band from Indiana or something playing. Apparently, they do a sick cover of Master of Puppets.”

Eddie pauses in his faux perusing for a second as he awaits your reply.

“I wasn’t really planning on it, no.”

The guy huffs, “No? What was your plan, going home to sulk to The Velvet Underground?”

“I don’t sulk–“

“You do when you listen to The Velvet Underground.”

“What do you want me to do? Pogo to Heroin? Anyway, I was gonna work on an article actually.”

“Why don’t you write about this band tonight? Tim says they’re pretty good. He saw them a couple of weeks ago at the Metro.”

“Tim said that about that god-awful noise band that played at De Salle’s. It was the worst four hours of my life. I thought my ears were actually going to bleed.”

“Whatever, you say that like you’re not currently playing the most depressing German synth music that nobody in their right mind would listen to.” He points his hand in the air, drawing your attention to the new song playing from the speakers behind you.

“First of all, this is David Bowie’s Low. And if you knew as much about music as you claim to, you’d know that this was his seminal work in his Berlin era and an ambient soundscape masterpiece. Secondly–“

“I like it.”

Both of your heads shoot up at Eddie’s interruption. He blushes and clears his throat as you catch his eye and the corner of your mouth quirks up. “Sorry, I just–it’s a good mixtape. I like the theme.” He frowns and shakes his head at himself, he doesn’t know what came over him. Who is this guy that’s bothering you, anyway? You have amazing taste and he’s now sure you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. You gesture in his direction and look back at the guy that’s teasing you.

“The customer is always right, Simon.”

Eddie moves quickly to the B section and finds the album you were talking about before heading over to you.

“Did you find everything you need?” You smile at him sweetly as you hop off the counter and take the record from him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked before. Customer service isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”

The guy, Simon, snorts. Eddie can’t take his eyes off the way your face lights up quietly when you realise what album he picked.

“What are your strongest skills?” That was such a weird question Munson, what the hell?

You look up at him a little taken aback, before a small smile creeps up on you.

“Talking about music…or” you shake your head in contemplation, “writing about it actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Maybe it’s not so much a skill, more like an obsession.”

“She’s actually kind of good.” Simon butts in with a shrug and you roll your eyes.

“Such a high compliment cuz.”

You were cousins. He still had a shot.

“You write for magazines?”

“Zines mostly,” you point to a stack of xeroxed pamphlets on the counter, “but I’ve published a few reviews with Spin and The Face.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, “That’s pretty cool.”

You breathe out a laugh and take the cash he hands you, collecting his change. “Thanks.”

“Wait, you're Eddie, right?” He turns to Simon, almost forgetting he was there. “Your band’s playing at The Allied tonight? I met your drummer Gareth at a show last week.”

“Uh yeah, that’s me. We’re called Corroded Coffin.”

“Cool name.” You smirk and hand him his record wrapped in paper. Eddie tucks it under his arm, his dimples showing as he smiles back at you.

“Thanks.”

“You’re from Indiana then?” You call back to Simon’s earlier statement, as Eddie doesn’t make a move to immediately leave.

He rubs the back of his neck as he nods, “Yeah. Just moved here a couple of months ago with my band.”

“Welcome to Chicago, Eddie.” You smile and introduce yourself, “Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you…vinyl wise I mean.”

“Thanks,” he scratches the stubble on his jaw before stepping away from the counter. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight at the show?” He tries to keep his voice casual, but there’s a hint of hope in there.

You bite your lip and shrug, “Yeah, maybe you will.”

Eddie nods and takes his queue to leave, the bell jingling again as he steps back out into the cold.

“Yeah, maybe you will.” Simon mocks you in a breathy imitation and you roll your eyes. “So now that you know the singer is cute are you coming?”

“Obviously! You better get me on the door list, or I swear to god I’m telling Aunt Carol about the stash in your underwear drawer.”

***

“Hey, Carlos.” You greet your friend at the door of The Allied, who waves you in without payment. “That Darondo record came in, I put it aside for you.” You call back on your way in, hearing a muffled thanks as the music from inside hits your eardrums.

There’s a decent crowd tonight, and you have to push past a few people to reach the sticky top bar.

“Oh, she showed up! Surprise, surprise.” Simon makes his way over to you, ignoring the calls of indignance as he passes other customers. He slings a rag over his shoulder, which makes you bite your lip, attempting to hold in a laugh, remembering how he’d practised that move in the mirror when he turned twenty-one and landed the second most coveted job of your teenage selves.

You shrug nonchalantly, despite your cousin knowing the exact reason you’re here. “I ended up doing inventory ‘till late. Thought I may as well drop by before catching the L.”

Simon flicks your nose, your retaliating slap missing him as he moves to pour your drink. You thank him with a forced smile when he slides it across the bar, picking it up and turning to find a spot in the crowd.

“No tip?”

You call over your shoulder, “Yeah, take it easy on the cologne.” You smirk, not even having to turn around to know he’s probably sniffing his shirt.

You take your usual spot leaning against the wall, up the back and away from most of the crowd. Your rule was front row or back. None of that squished in the middle, view blocked by the tallest guy you’d ever seen crap. Either it was front and centre, immersed in the moment, or your own space with a view of it all.  

You’d never be up front for a band you didn’t know, and tonight was no exception, no matter how large the butterflies in your stomach at the prospect of seeing him again.

You don’t know what it was about Eddie, apart from the obvious fact that he was gorgeous. Maybe it was something in his presence. But when he walked up to the counter earlier with a record you’d just been talking about and a shy smile on his face – you were a goner.

The murmurs of the crowd quieten when the house lights are switched off, a yellow glow on the stage and above the bar now the only sources of light.

There are a few enthusiastic cheers when the band appear from a door behind the stage and a smattering of applause as they take their place. You take a sip of your drink, ignoring the feeling in your chest when Eddie steps up to the mic and adjusts his red Warlock guitar. He smiles and you duck your head, trying not to look too much like the girl who’s just fallen for a lead singer when he addresses the crowd.

“Evening. Hope you brought your earplugs, this one’s new.” The quiet, reservedness of his introduction and the boy you’d met earlier is undone with the first crashing of cymbals and thrash of power chords.

Stage Eddie isn’t what you were expecting, but still somehow makes total sense. He’s more comfortable, more himself up there as he thrashes back and forth, hair whipping wildly. And they’re good. Really good.

Maybe you’d write about them after all.

The band are almost through their set when he spots you. Your back straightens as his eyes lock onto yours. Normally you hate making eye contact with someone on stage, but you can’t seem to look away when his chocolate-brown gaze twinkles over the heads of the rest of the crowd. In between songs, he gives you a wave, and you nod, returning his small smile.

When they finish, you move back to the bar. Waiting for the lingering fans to clear over a rum and coke. You’re only on your second sip when you feel a burning hot presence behind you.

“You made it.”

You turn around, and Eddie leans an arm on the bar beside you, moving in closer as the growing line pushes him forward.

“I did.” You nod, taking another sip of your drink.

He clears his throat, pushing his sweaty bangs away from his forehead.

“So, uh, what did you think?”

You smile, “I think you’re going to fit in very well here.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” he chuckles.

“Oh, it is. You’re one of us now. Welcome to the dark side, Eddie.”

His eyebrows raise, the ghost of a smirk kicking up when you’re interrupted by your cousin.

“Man, that was sick! What can I get ya?”

Eddie thanks Simon, then looks back at you, “What are you having?” He holds up two fingers when you answer, signalling for another round, then starts playing with a beermat while you wait. Your eyes are trained to the glint of silver on his fingers.

“How are you liking Chicago so far?”

Eddie looks back at you and puffs his cheeks up as he exhales. “Honestly?... I didn’t know life could be this good.”

You feel a sharp tingling in your nose as your eyes well up a little for the boy standing in front of you, his cheeks dusted with pink as he tries to hold back a smile.

“Trust me, things are only gonna get better from here.”

“Yeah?” He beams at you then and you inhale deeply as you fight the urge to reach out and wrap your arms around him.

“Yeah.”

***

Eddie had seen you a few times since the gig at The Allied. Dropping into the record store when he could. In small crowds at gigs in the city. You’d greet him with a hug or a squeeze to the arm that never failed to get his heart rate going.

Today, he’d gotten off early from his temporary new gig at the auto shop and he found himself parked outside the record store.

It was overcast, but there was no bite to the air. A balmy wind tousling his hair as he ran across the street to the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, avoiding the fat drops of rain that had begun to fall sporadically.

He spots you through the window when he makes his back to the store, bobbing your head along to whatever’s playing as you fill the racks. The now familiar bell jingles and he smiles when he recognises Joy Division over the speakers. He’d seen you in their shirt on more than one occasion.

He meets you as you're walking back to the counter.

“Oh, hey Eddie.” You smile and do a double take, taking in his greasy coveralls, and suddenly he’s wishing he’d gone home and showered. Even if it was an hour out of his way.

“Hey.” He places a coffee on the counter along with a white paper bag. “Thought you might like a mid-afternoon pick me up. I’ve uh, I’ve seen you with one of those cinnamon things before.”

Your eyes light up as you inspect the inside of the bag. “Oh my god, you’re my hero! Thank you, that’s so sweet.”

He shrugs, taking a step back from the counter, his own black coffee still clutched in his hands.

“So, this is the day job then huh?” You gesture to his outfit.

He scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah for now. Until the music starts paying off. If the music starts paying off.”

You nod, taking a bite of your cinnamon scroll and he can’t help but smirk at the way your eyes quickly roll to the back of your head. “It will.”

His free hand goes to his pocket, face hidden slightly by his hair as he tucks into himself at your confident statement.

“Thanks.” He turns around to start perusing the aisles.

“Oh, we will be getting the new Metallica album on the day of release by the way. I’ll put a tape aside for you.”

“Thank you.” He offers you a smile over his shoulder, and you tip your coffee to him.

He takes his time flicking through the rows, a few customers coming and going as he does, although he knows exactly what he’s looking for. Once the store is quiet again, he walks back over to you, selection in hand.

“Lee Hazelwood?” You take the record from him with a look of surprise.

He nods, “Yeah, I liked that song on that pre-goth mixtape you gave me. It’s like the kind of thing my uncle would listen to but…”

“Sinister.”

“Yeah.”

You smile, “It’s cool isn’t it? You know he actually wrote These Boots Are Made For Walkin’. Helped save Nancy Sinatra’s career after the teeny-bopper thing didn’t work out. They made a couple of albums together actually, and you know the first time he retired from the music industry was because the success of The Beatles’ made him depressed.”

He leans his arms on the counter as you talk. “Wow, you really are a wealth of knowledge for this stuff huh?”

You shrug, “What else is there?”

“Apart from books.”

You nod, “Good movies.”

He smiles, “Pizza.”

“Dumplings.”

“DnD”

You frown, “That nerdy board game?”

“No, uh d–dumplings like you said, and uh– dough–doughnuts?”

You scrunch up your face, “Okay,” and giggle at Eddie’s strained smile.

“So uh, what–would you–“ Not screwing this up at all Munson. “Would you maybe wanna do that together sometime? The pizza and dumplings, or probably one or the other I guess, and a movie, good music–“ he blows out a puff of air, scrunching up his face.

“Are you asking if I wanna go see a movie?”

“Yes,” he nods enthusiastically, “that and dinner. If you want.”

“I do like both those things.” You smile. “How about Thursday? I finish closing up at six.”

“Yeah. Cool. Thursday sounds good.” The guys and their weekly standing appointment for band practice would not agree.

***

Thursday rolls around faster than Eddie’s prepared for. Predictably, his bandmates all made fun of him for cancelling practice for you. But he just ignored the high-pitched ooohs and went to make sure his lucky Sabbath shirt was washed before he needed it.

He’s wearing it now as he paces outside the movie theatre, twisting his rings, oblivious to you sneaking up behind him until it’s too late.

“Boo!”

“Jesus Christ.” He jumps and twists around, your hands that had reached out to scare him still on his hips, his arms float in the air for a second before landing on your shoulders.

“You’re on edge,” you tease before your face sets a little more seriously. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, just uh, you wanna head in? It starts in like five minutes.”

You nod, your hands leaving his waist as his fall back to his sides. “What are we seeing anyway?” You look up at the black lettering above you, smiling just as Eddie reveals your viewing choice for the night.

“Thought we could see Young Frankenstein. Saw they were doing an old-school horror weekend here in the paper.”

“That sounds great.”

He lets out a breath of relief when you bump his shoulder affectionately, and you begin walking into the theatre side by side.

“Now the real important question Eddie Munson. What are your go-to movie snacks?”

His hand twitches when it accidentally brushes the back of yours.

“Well, popcorn obviously.”

“Obviously.” You nod.

“Sour Patch Kids and you gotta add a packet of Reese’s Pieces in there too.”

“Wait, in there as in–?”

“In the popcorn bucket. All of it. Like a good version of a trail mix.”

You grin, “Very interesting.”

“Just wait till you try it, sweetheart, you’ll never do it any other way.”

You laugh, “Okay, lead the way.”

He bows, gesturing his hand towards the confection stand. “After you m’lady.”

Your giggle, Eddie quickly finds out is his new favourite sound. When it appears again in the movie theatre, he can’t seem to keep his eyes on Gene Wilder, only watching you light up with laughter.

He can’t quite believe how well it’s all going. That is until you’re sharing a large pepperoni, on the bench outside the place you insisted served the best “pies” in all of Chicago, and your confusion stops his heart for a second.

He groans when he takes the first bite of cheesy dough.

“Good right?”

He nods, chewing and swallowing quickly. “My uncle told me pizza wasn’t a first date kind of meal, but we don’t have anything like this back in Hawkins.”

You’re sitting so close that he notices you still right away.

“Wait, this is a date?”

“Oh,” he swears his heart drops to his stomach as he sees the surprise on your face. “Oh well, yeah I thought it was but I guess I–it doesn’t have to be, sorry.”

You reach out to grab his arm when he instinctively moves away, “No! I just didn’t realise you were asking me out, out. You kinda just kept listing food.” He scoffs, shaking his head at himself. “I want it to be a date.”

He bites his lip, looking back at you with eyebrows raised, “Really?”

“Yes,” you laugh, squeezing the arm still in your hold. “Of course. I would love to…be on a date with you right now.”

He beams, “Well, it’s your lucky night sweetheart.”

***

The date (once it’s established as one), goes so well Eddie finds himself back at your apartment, admiring your wall lined with records while you find the both of you a drink.

His eyebrows marry together when he notices Dusty Springfield next to the Sex Pistols.

“What’s the system here?” You hand him a beer when you reappear by his side. “Not by genre?”

“No. Autobiographical.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“How–?”

“Well,” you step forward, reaching out to pick a plastic sleeve as if from memory, “if I want to find the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, I have to remember that I bought it for someone in the fall of 1983 but didn’t give it to them…for personal reasons.” You show him the white cover of the album.

“That sounds…”

“Comforting.”

He nods slowly, “Yes.”

“It is.”

God, you’re weird. And cute. And cool. And, shit he was going for it, you said you wanted to be on a date with him. You invited him back to your place. No one’s ever done that before. He should go for it. He’s going for it–

Your lips feel even softer than he imagined, and he can’t help but give himself a mental high-five when you immediately move closer to him, face melting into the hand that cradles your cheek. You taste almost vanilla-y with the combo of rum and coke still sitting on your tongue when his meets yours. He places his beer down on the coffee table, and your lips follow him when he has to dip down slightly before his free hand comes to sit on your waist.

You part for a breath, “Didn’t realise vinyl categorisation would get you so hot.” You tease him, lips plump and eyes slightly glazed over, and he’s never wanted anything more in his life than to keep you looking at him like this.

“Yeah uh, really love that Dewey Decimal system.” He leans close to capture your lips again, but you pull back, leaving him to chase you.

“The Dewey Decimal system is for books.” You shake your head.

Eddie huffs, “I really don’t care.” He finally finds your lips again and he swears they taste even sweeter the second time, despite being tainted by his own.

You guide him back to slowly sit on the couch, bodies falling a little clumsily together before you situate yourself in his lap, legs straddling his. You both stay like that for what could be hours for all Eddie cares, lips clicking in the silence.

“Fuck, I could kiss you all night.” He leans his forehead against yours, heavy breathing synced with your own, as you finally come up for air.

You shake your head, eyes soft and reassuring.

“I’m not going anywhere, Eddie.”

God dammit, is he glad he left Hawkins.

Tagging: @storiesbyrhi (I hope you like the coffee shop across from the record store 😉), @bettyfrommars (I finished it!)

[notgilderoylockhart]

Interview with the Vampire | faux rebind

When my copies of Interview with the Vampire, The Vampire Lestat and Queen of the Damned arrived I was shocked to discover that every single one had a sticker on the cover. Except it wasn't a sticker. It was PRINTED on the cover. Who does that?

And after finishing the first book I wanted them to match the vibe of the show. So I do what I always do when I love a book. I rebind it. Not a full rebind, I still wanted to preserve the cover after all, but a faux rebind, a protective book jacket that would look great on my shelf and keep the book from getting even more roughed up. I'm using the tutorial made by bindrebindery on TikTok or on Instagram . I love her work, she's incredible.

The first thing we gotta do is measure our book. It needs to be extremely exact, since we'll be working with millimeters here. The width of my copy is 10.4cm, and its height is 17.5cm. As per bindrebindery's tutorial we'll subtract 5mm from our width measurement and then add 3mm.

10.4 - 0.5 + 0.3 = 10.2cm

For the height we'll just add 3mm to the bottom and the top, so 6mm each

17.5 + 0.3 + 0.3 = 18.1cm

And for the back, we just copy the height measurement of 18.1cm and simply measure the width of the back which for my copy was 2.3cm.

I'm using 2.5mm thick cardboard and I would also suggest investing in a box cutter and a self-healing mat to not damage any of your surfaces. Now that we've got our pieces cut out, we can draw where we want to glue them to the book cloth. The space for the hinge in between the cardboard pieces depends on how thick your cardboard is. It's the width of the cardboard times 2 plus 5mm.

2.5mm x 2 + 5mm = 10mm

So the gap in between is 1cm wide.

We're also leaving a 2cm gap all around. I also like to invert-round the corners, to make it easier for me to fold it down later, but it's also possible to just trim off the excess on a straight line.

Now it's time to cut and glue everything down. I'm using bookbinder's glue for this and folding down the long pieces first. While the glue is drying I'm cutting out 2 more pieces with the measurements of our cover. These will be the sleeves that will hold our book in place.

I'm folding it and making sure it's not too tight on the book so it can slide in and out easily and then I'm cutting off the excess, a little more than 2cm in this case.

I also spent a hot minute designing a few embellishments. I got a few sheets of vinyl to play around with, to test my new cricut and ironed them onto the velvet, which worked fine for the bigger pieces, but those pesky little letters just did not want to stick. It took me a hot minute to iron each letter on individually. But it was totally worth it, I think. I love the look of it.

Look at that shine. Gorgeous.

Now all that's left is glue on some decorative endpaper, turn it over and go over the hinges with something (I like to use the bow handles of my scissors) and add our sleeve-pieces. I also like to slide in some paper just to make sure the glue dries properly and doesn't seep out and (God forbid) glues the sleeves shut. And that's it.

[another-lost-mc]

Omg hear me out

OlderStepBrother!Levi x YoungerStepSister reader

He's so protective over you, after all, nobody's good enough for his little sister except for him<3

a/n: oh, he'd be so creepy.

➤ older step-brother!levi | headcanons

1.4k words | nsfw | gn!reader | dark content

cw: step!cest. reader is late teens/early 20s and levi is mid-late 20s. modern au; implied cyber-stalking/surveillance; cursing; ambiguous ending.

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who's completely uninterested in getting to know you. So what if your parents got hitched? It's not any of his business. He hasn't even met you yet, but the more he hears about you, the more annoyed he is for reasons he doesn’t understand. He doesn't care about what university you're going to, or what your grades are, or that you like "the same cartoons and games" he does. He's not going out of his way just to meet you. It's not even worth his time to look you up online. He couldn't care less.

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who you only know vague details about before you meet him for the first time. You don't understand what he does exactly, only that he's good with computers and works freelance and somehow affords his own house in an expensive neighbourhood a few hours away. He might be older than you, but not that much older. Your stomach does somersaults when you think about meeting him because he's new and unfamiliar. Still, you’re cautiously optimistic that maybe if you get along, you can be friends.

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who finally meets you when you go home for the first reading week of the semester. He ran out of excuses to avoid attending a pointless family gathering, and he's just desperate to get his old man off his back about being a recluse. He has his game plan ready: after playing nice for a couple of days, he'll go back home and pretend you don't exist.

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who slowly realizes that maybe you have more in common than he realized. You're not some airhead or annoying social butterfly soaking in the riches of his father's fortune. You mumble your name and glance at him shyly from under your lashes and shuffle on the balls of your feet like you're too nervous to stand still. Levi feels self-conscious too because you point out the anime figure keychain dangling from his car keys and the cute vinyl stickers he decorated his car with. He assumes you're going to tease him, but you chatter on excitedly about how they're some of your favourite characters too. He hesitantly takes the second controller when you invite him to play games in your room, and you're mediocre at best. (It's still endearing when you cheer not because you won the race, but because you avoided driving off the rainbow track.) You might not be hardcore like him, but there's something almost cute about your enthusiasm. Why is your awkward laughter so contagious?

"Why did you choose this room?" he asked between races. Your bedroom isn't tiny by any means, but he knows his old room has nearly twice the amount of space. "I figured you would've cleared out my room, it's a lot bigger." You scratched the back of your neck and shrugged, eyes focused on the TV to avoid his scrutiny. "It didn't feel right going into your room and clearing out the rest of your belongings like that. It's still yours, even if you don't live here anymore." You tapped the gamepad and waited for him to select his character for the next match. "Want to keep playing?" He snapped his head away from your face and looked at the screen, choosing a character at random while he resisted the urge to cover his face in embarrassment. His cheeks burned hot. "Y-yeah, sure we can," he muttered nervously, cringing when his voice cracked.

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who finds himself wanting to spend more and more time with you. His plan to leave after a day or two at most is officially scrapped. How can he leave so soon when you still have ten episodes of the latest season to watch together? There's a bowl of popcorn on the couch between you and when it's empty, he jingles his keys and drives you both to a late-night boba tea shop. The old folks are in bed for the night—they won't even notice you're gone.

"C'mon, you haven't finished watching it yet? But the last season is the best one!" You rub your arm awkwardly in the passenger seat beside him. "I started watching it with my ex but we—well, we broke up on bad terms and I guess it reminds me of them when I try to watch it now." You miss the curious glance when you stare out the window and you don’t elaborate further. He can only imagine the worst even though it doesn’t make sense—you're cute and sweet and who the hell would be stupid enough to ruin something so good? Your shoulders shake and you breathe out a stuttered sigh, and something venomous hardens his expression into something cold, like steel. He’s tempted to ask for your ex's name but decides not to—he suspects it’ll be easy enough to find once he gets back on his computer. He clears his throat to break the awkward silence. "Well, if you wanna try watching it again, maybe we can re-watch the whole series together?" It only takes a second for the hand resting on the gear shift to squeeze your knee gently and return to where it was. He stares at the dark road ahead even though he knows you're looking at him now. "Don't let ungrateful assholes ruin good things for you. You’ve got me now, okay?”

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who is determined to keep in touch when that short week together comes to an end. He already has blank social media accounts he uses to follow his favourite game developers and anime blogs, but now he has a new reason to use them. Once you realize it's him, you accept all his friend requests without hesitation. He even creates accounts for apps he doesn't even use so that he can see all the photos and videos you upload to your private account. He scrutinizes all your old posts and takes screenshots of the photos of you that turn him on he likes most. You don't post a lot of selfies, but he sees glimpses of your daily life: the café near campus you like, your room in the house you rent with some other classmates. Sometimes you post things that remind you of him now too, and even though you don't mention him by name or tag him, he knows who you're thinking about.

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who is surprisingly thoughtful. Sometimes he comments on your social media posts directly, but most of the time he texts you instead. You have disjointed conversations throughout the day and it becomes habit for both of you. He asks how school is going and how your roommates are treating you. You ask him about his job because you're still not sure what a freelance cybersecurity expert does. He gets flustered when you ask him if he's dating anyone and you don't bring up the subject again. Maybe he's just shy?

Player Two: ugh.

LEV14TH4N: what's wrong?

Player Two: are you sure i'm not bothering you? you must be so busy with work...

LEV14TH4N: pfft. you're not bothering me at all. i'd rather talk to you than these idiots i have to work with.

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who claims he has more money than he knows what to do with when he starts sending you little gifts. He asks for a link to your online wish list and has everything delivered express: the latest manga volume he knows you're excited to read; a pre-order for a game that's coming out soon; your favourite snacks. He also sends you an expensive housecoat when you mention off-handedly that yours is getting a little threadbare and you need to buy a new one soon. It's from a high-end boutique you've never heard of but sounds expensive. The robe is made from the softest plush material and it's so warm; it's a bluey-purple colour that reminds you a bit of his eyes. All he asks for in return is a picture once you've tried it on—to make sure that it's the right size, of course.

LEV14TH4N: you look

LEV14TH4N: sorry. it looks nice on you. i'm glad you like it.

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who never seems to sleep. He offers to skim your assignments just before the midnight submission deadline. Later, he reminds you that it's no trouble at all—he was still awake so no need to feel bad! Sometimes when you can't sleep, you scroll through your social media feed and hope the boredom will cure your insomnia, until a familiar name pops up on your screen.

LEV14TH4N: you have class in a few hours, can't sleep?

(He jokes that he just had a feeling you were still up, and you're too sleepy and flattered by his concern to question him further.)

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who makes plans on weekends to come see you at school when he thinks you could use a break. He makes the drive to town—a couple hours away from where he lives—and you spend the day at the mall, or visiting your favourite lunch or dinner spots. You invite him inside to meet your roommates and he looks around your room curiously. You seem happy here, and he's glad.

(You seem happiest with him, and that makes him feel even better.)

Older Step-Brother!Levi, who can't wait to see you on your next school break.

LEV14TH4N: the old folks are going on vacation this winter.

LEV14TH4N: but you can stay here if you want. there's lots of room and it beats spending the holidays stuck on campus by yourself.

Player Two: really? you don't mind?

LEV14TH4N: of course not.

LEV14TH4N: i'm looking forward to it.

[journen]

Hey guys! I got a bunch of new stuff in my Etsy shop, and I am also running a sale!

Through until Monday, May 27, everything is either 10-30% off! Including the new stuff! Which includes some Obi-Wan vinyl stickers, vinyl and holographic CoD stickers, some CoD mini prints, a couple new medium-sized prints of new artworks I did(the Ahsoka and Mer-May art), and Codywan & Obi-Wan acrylic charms!!

Here's a link to my shop if you'd like to check it out! And let me know if you have any questions. Thank you guys for all the support, always! Hope you like some of the new stuff.

[crippledgiraff]

New Stickers -1/21/24

I hope everyone's having as good of a weekend as we are here at Crippled Giraff Decals, because we just launched some new stickers from @kabewski! Buy all three and you'll get this shiny little mushroom fella for free! crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com

To celebrate the Year of the Dragon we've got this adorable draconic gun witch and her ghostly familiar! Printed on transparent vinyl she looks like she's floating! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1648616892/year-of-the-dragon-gun-witch-transparent

Continuing the gun witch theme, we've got this white mage, ready to cast fireball! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1648622718/rocket-propelled-grenade-gun-witch

You know me, I just had to get some Orky art printed! This crew of adventurers and their snazzy red tank will look fantastic on anything you stick it to! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1648620074/kabewskis-red-tank-transparent-vinyl

If I know @qsycomplainsalot's fans, they love a bizarre, gross joke. Slap this Oreo'le up in the bathroom of your local dive bar today! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1648612616/oreole-transparent-vinyl-sticker-45

OVER THE TOP! IRON WITHIN! IRON WITHOUT! Everyone loves Iron Warriors, and everyone loves @diceyjune's art! We've got both here at Crippled Giraff Decals! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1655143621/veteran-siege-engineer-helm-glossy-vinyl

Damn the Torpedoes! We've got a Salamander! He's got a Multi-Melta! Zorch your foes with the heat of a million suns! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1655140267/heroic-dragon-knight-transparent-vinyl

Were you hoping to buy a sticker which was so bright it'd make your eyes bleed? Well you're in luck, because we here at Crippled Giraff Decals have acquired some of Hive Fleet Hyper's overstock! https://crippledgiraffdecals.etsy.com/listing/1648628024/hive-fleet-hyper-tyrant-holographic

[grunklejam]

NEW TO NOT S&P APPROVED!

Introducing the EVERY DAY I'M GRUNKLIN' die-cut vinyl sticker!

GET 20% OFF TWO ITEMS OR MORE!*

A die-cut, thick vinyl sticker, measuring approximately 7.5cm x 7.5cm. Exclusive to Not S&P Approved.

"Hey, kids. Listen, I get it, I'm basically the ultimate Grunkle. The ultimate visage of masculinity and bringing the fez back from the brink of irrelevance. Who doesn't want to Grunkle like your old man Stan? If you've been clamourin' to show your Grunkle-titude (Soos came up with that), you've no better option than my fantastic tattoo-design sticker, which my schlubby limey artist spent hours slavin' over for less than minimum wage. HA! What else is there to say? It's a sticker. Stick it to your ex-wife, stick it to your fridge, stick to your pet pig, the possibilities are endless. I've only got a few of these babies to start with, so whaddya waiting' for?!"

*Valid until May 31st. All items included. Carla I've always liked you but never had the confidence to say it. Do not eat.

[into-deepspace]

out of the black {part 1/3}

sylus/mc • gender neutral mc • 1k • ao3 link • part 2 • requests open reblogs appreciated!!

pre-relationship || the real OTP here is MC/sylus's money :) || annoyances to lovers Summary: Sylus gifts MC his card for their troubles, and finds that their taste is very different than what he's used to. Some encouragement is in order, don't you think?

“That’ll be six fifty-nine,” the tea shop worker says cheerily. MC nods, glancing down briefly to pull their wallet from their pocket. It’s been a long day, and on their way out of the office they’d decided that if it was a pick-me-up they wanted, then it was a pick-me-up that they’d have.

So, they’d gone slightly out of their way, parking their bike outside the tea shop they’ve frequented. They take off their helmet and fix their hair as best at they can without a mirror as they walk in. From there, it’s a simple task of waiting and deciding just what they want before they order.

Now, here they are, the last little obstacle between them and their beloved boba tea the tablet in front of them. They pull their card from their wallet…

And pause.

Right. They’d forgotten about the new card nestled behind their usual debit.

As they’d started getting closer with Sylus (maybe a bit closer than they should be getting), he’d gifted them a copy of his card. His stupid fucking black card, that he’d held almost carelessly between two fingers as he’d reached it out to them about a week or so ago.

“A treat for your troubles,” he’d smirked, and then pulled one of those little vinyl card stickers in a dark, metallic green from his pocket. “In case you don’t want the world knowing just what kind of card you’ve got in that little wallet of yours.” MC had scowled at him; how the hell he knew these stupid little details about them, they have no clue.

Not wanting to quarrel with Sylus (and knowing they’d lose), they just took the card, sitting down in a fancy nearby chair to apply the sticker because they really did not want someone catching a glimpse of this card in their pocket.

They hadn’t really planned on using it, thus why it was behind their own card. But, here they are, contemplating. They thumb at the card for a brief moment.

It’s a few dollars less from their own account. They’re not tight on money, but they definitely keep to a budget, and a few extra dollars here could mean another night of hot pot or a few more stuffed animals later. And, well, Sylus had invited them to spend freely.

They pull out the card, select the 25% tip option, and tap it to the scanner. The total comes to eight dollars and twenty-four cents, and they bite at their lip. It’s a bit much to spend on a single cup of boba tea, but Sylus shouldn’t miss it too bad, right?

A few minutes of waiting later, and they’re walking out with a cup of mango tea and a yellow straw, tucking both into their bag for the drive home. As they swing one leg over their bike, their phone buzzes. Curiously, they pause to unlock it and view the text.

New Message from Rich Asshole 6:27 PM

Do you think so lowly of me, sweetheart?

Attached is an image, a screenshot to be precise, of Sylus’s bank transactions. The contrast that MC immediately catches is almost funny.

Most of the screen consists of several large purchases, anywhere from a couple hundred to several tens of thousands of dollars. Then, at the very top and circled in red, is the eight dollar purchase MC had just made. They sigh, putting their phone back in their pocket.

Just as they merge back into the bustling Linkon traffic, their phone rings, the sound coming through their helmet. With an exasperated “Oh, my god,” they tap the side of their helmet to pick up the call.

“Hello, sweetie,” Sylus says, in that infuriatingly nice voice of his. MC glares at the traffic light they’ve just stopped at.

“What do you want.”

“Eight whole dollars,” Sylus begins, and MC can hear the stupid smirk through the phone. “And twenty-three cents. Have I failed to imbue you with a taste for the finer things in life?” The light turns green. 

“Twenty-four cents,” they say, correcting him.

“It’s worse than I thought.”

MC sighs, turning on their right blinker and merging into the corresponding lane, making a turn just a moment later.

“Did you just call to talk about my apparently lacking spending habits?” they ask. Sylus really does seem like the kind of guy to get pissy that the latest object of his interest isn’t using his assets as frivolously as they could be.

“What did you buy?” Sylus asks, completely ignoring the question. MC knows better than to try and steer the conversation back.

“Mango tea,” they reply.

“What grade?”

“Uh. Commercial?” At this, Sylus laughs, a deep and smooth thing that MC can practically hear dollar signs in. MC groans. “God, Sylus, can’t I just enjoy my eight dollar tea? That’s overpriced for us peasants, you know.” Sylus hums again, infuriating as usual.

“You don’t need to be shy, you know,” he says. “I have more than enough to provide for you ten times over.”

“What are you, my sugar daddy?” MC scoffs, turning onto the street where the Hunters’ apartments are. “You’re like those stereotypical rich boyfriends on social media, ‘Ohhh look at what I bought my girlfriend, isn’t it so expensive? Aren’t I so rich? Look how I gift her my black card so she can spend thousands of dollars a day.’”

“I wouldn’t mind if you spent a few thousand a day,” Sylus says, voice casually earnest, missing the entire point. “Do you have such purchases in mind?”

“I can’t stand you,” MC says in lieu of an answer. “I’m hanging up on you now.” And, before he can answer, they do. They cut the call with another tap to their helmet as they park their bike on the street, taking a heavy breath as they take off their helmet once more.

They think about Sylus’s words as they walk up the few flights of stairs to their apartment, and as they unlock their door, a resolve settles in their mind. It’s a bit petty, maybe, but they find that they don’t care, fuelled by annoyance.

Sylus wants them to spend his money, huh? Well, then that’s exactly what they’ll do.

[artsie-rosie]

Hello would you like some prints??

Hi friends! I hope you're doing well! How the heck is this year flying by this fast??

As some of you may know, I've recently had the opportunity to have a table at an artists alley event for the very first time! It was so great, and very special to make new connections with other fellow artists and also with the public! I very much believe I will be doing more of these. :)

In preparation for this event, I got some new, fresh prints according to past requests and feedback from you guys, so why don't we have a sale? Wee hoo let's go!!!!

NEW!!! Happy Eevee in Oil Pastels

A4 / 8.3 x 11.7", matte finish. $20 $18

NEW!!! Happy Yoshi in Oil Pastels

A5 / 5.8 x 8.3", matte finish. $10 $8

NEW!!! Fi's Holo Dance!

A5 / 5.8 x 8.3", holographic finish! $15 $13 SOLD OUT!

Thank you!!

NEW!!! Shiny Pumpkaboo!

A5 / 5.8 x 8.3", holographic finish! $15 $13 (Only two left!)

NEW!!! Hex Maniac & Gengar

A5 / 5.8 x 8.3", matte finish. $10 $8

NEW!!! Skull Kid & Fairies

A4 / 8.3 x 11.7", matte finish. $20 $18

There's also some old prints that were all sold out last time, so I got more of them done! Here they are:

Print Sakura in Watercolors (A4 / 8.3 x 11.7") $20 $18 SOLD OUT!!!

Print Vivi and Night Sky (A4 / 8.3 x 11.7") $20 $18

Print Ninetales and Pup (A4 / 8.3 x 11.7") $20 $18 (Only 2 units left!)

Print Galactic Deer (A5 / 5.8 x 8.3") $10 $8

But that's not all!!!

Look at these beautiful leaves! Doesn't it make you want to put them everywhere? Good news these are vinyl stickers and you can put them everywhere!!

Leaves in Watercolors Sticker Sheet

(White, waterproof vinyl, 6 stickers) $20 $15

And last but not least, I also have these three variations of paper bookmarks because I like this type of overlapping foliage a lot. :)

Foliage Bookmarks $3 each

GET ONE OF THESE AS A FREEBIE if you buy any two or more prints! <3

Feel free to message me here if you want any of these, or reach out to me on Twitter! I'll ship them worldwide!

Thank youuuu <3

[oddballwriter]

You Spin Me Round

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Summary: Steven has a crush on the vinyl record shop owner. 

Warnings: Nothing that I actually know of. Steven being a bit of a simp /light hearted. 

Author’s Snip: Had this thought since I've been collecting and listening to vinyls.

Notes: This was not proof-read so if theres any errors then that's why 

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

At first, it was genuine. The recent dozen times he's been here. It was just for you.

Steven fancied himself some vinyls. It adds to the whole vintage-things-in-the-attic feel that he had to his flat. Not to mention that vinyls are just fun in general. He had a collection going but it was still pretty small compared to most and would like to add to it.

He'd usually get his at a regular store that sold newer copies, but he found that most were by modern artists while he enjoyed older music, and also the store he usually bought from was being renovated, painfully slow. It was at that point that Steven thought of maybe looking for an actual vinyl and record store for the more authentic feel. That's how he managed to find your little store and business.

You were settled in the down town area in one of those storefront apartment buildings. It was a bit squished with the more larger buildings that you were between but it gave your shop a little cozy nook feeling. There was a large front window facing the street that read the name of the store in window paint with a nice design and penmanship. A changeable sign that displayed when you were opened or closed and the work hours. The door had a little bell that would cute little jingle sound when opened.

The inside was lovely too. You had a scent diffuser that gave the whole place a nice smell but didn't over power anything. You had a few racks that held all of your products with of course consisted of mostly vinyl records, both new, thrifted, and vintage, but there were also other things like portable record players, record needles, and cover protectors.

And then of course there was you. Steven wouldn't say he got hit by love at first sight, but he defiantly fell hard on his face pretty quickly. You were so polite, with your warm smile and telling him how to find any specific things that he might be looking for.

"The vinyls are in alphabetical order via artist. Thrift is here, new arrivals are there, and supplies are down there. And if you need something don't be afraid to ask!".

He actually talked to you the very first time he came, despite him usually having issues talking to new people, but he manage to find it in himself to strike up some nice conversation. He found out that this little business of yours new and that you're just starting to be known around town.

Steven managed to leave with a few new vinyls, and a free sticker or two since he's a new comer, and a big fat crush on you.

He didn't really want to admit to himself that he liked the cute little record shop owner, he just liked the feeling your place had's all. But every time he came the warm fuzzy feeling just got stronger and he would always find out something new about you like your favorite music genre, artists, and bands, your other interests and hobbies. All that. Not to mention that every time he came he'd find a way to buy something so that he could be close to you. He bought a vintage B-52's vinyl, which wasn't too out of place for him. Steven definitely liked and heard a few of their songs.

But another time he bought a Nirvana sticker from you. Steven doesn't listen to Nirvana. He doesn't need a Nirvana sticker. The only song he can name is Smells Like Teen Spirit and he only knows the first couple of seconds. Where is he meant to put the sticker?

"I'm just helping a small business." is what Steven always tells himself when he buys something he didn't really need at all from you.

Steven just denied his crush every time. But it wasn't until he started listening to your favorite band while he was at his flat. Your favorite band, which wasn't in any of the same genres as Steven's favorite bands and singers. Not at all. That's when he knew. He had it so bad.

[shirecorn]

Oh whoops I'm late

UPDATE I GOT NEW STICKER VINYL CHECK IT OUT

[seiya-starsniper]

Got my sticker order from @aisalynn and it is STUNNING as always. I'm buying new tea tins just so I can decorate them with these 😍

Grab the Poolverine sticker here!

and the other stickers on her Etsy:

[wildbluesorbit]

London: Holiday Prelude || JTK

18+MDNI

Paring: Jakexreader(f)

LONDON SERIES MASTERPOST

A/N: Howdy! Here to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming with twist on the London menu: A TIME JUMP! This is how I envision the first meeting between Jake and the reader unraveled. This one is very fluff (which is a bit off brand for this series) and is my gift to all readers who have remained loyal amongst the endless angst. I'm aware, holiday editions are normally posted before the holidays, but I have chronically delayed holiday spirit that doesn’t spark until about a week before Christmas which is when I started this. My holidays got a bit more hectic than I expected so I didn’t finish till just now, but I figured I’d pos. Also, know that my particular style of writing is shaped by an editing process of which requires time I did not have, so baby this is ROUGH. Anyways, I am very open to criticism so pretty please let me know what you think.

Summary || Before the storm, there was a calm. Your first interaction with Jake is less than ideal, but you give him a redeeming chance only to spark something more.

Content Warnings || holiday [stress], workload stress, slight verbal aggression, holiday party setting, depictions of affectionate displays

Word Count || 6.6k

– December 24th, London, UK –

Your arduous typing is disrupted by the groan of your office door as it’s hesitantly eased open. You rigorously resume your work, not even averting your eyes to make note of who has disturbed you. You already know it's your colleague. You know they have trouble for you. And you know it's a problem you don’t currently have the attention span nor time for. 

Eyes still pinned to the numbers on your computer screen, you address the damsel in distress dawdling in the doorway behind you, “Is it urgent? I’m on a deadline.”

“Um- There’s a customer out here who I have tried my best to help with the knowledge I have,” she remorsefully squeaks.

You mellow your tone as you can hear desperation shrouding her every word, “Tell them I’m unavailable.” 

“I did- He insisted he speak to some form of management,” she huffs exasperatedly.

You come to a stopping point in your numbers game and begrudgingly pry your hands from your keyboard. You spring from your chair and propel yourself through the doorway, already eager to crawl back to the stillness of your office. Your footsteps echo against the hallway of dark offices and storage rooms in a unison stride to your coworker a pace behind you; two valiant knights on their quest to the front of the store. 

Preparing yourself for battle, you dig for your finest customer service armor as it's buried beneath all the enervating adversities and blows of running the shop; a duty you normally carry so effortlessly and gracefully, but this year you had been the only manager who volunteered to work the holiday week. Your workload alone is enough to spook the average person, but the extra weight you foolishly decided to take on this year is a different beast. You have half a heart to gift yourself hair dye this Christmas as you’re already convinced the New Year would find you prematurely gray. 

“Alright, let’s see the prick who is harassing my-,” your finishing thought never arrives as you swing the door open to reveal the store.

Any and all resentment is momentarily tamed by the endless sight of musical paraphernalia. Every last inch of the walls are shrine to the greats; posters, pins, buttons, stickers, clothing, books, CDs, tapes, cassettes, and of course aisles and aisles of record vinyl LPs; all seem to celebrate your great escape from the confinement of your office. 

Your eyes adjust to the warm lighting that coats everything and everyone bustling about isles, faces beaming with joy as they discover new treasures to call their own; treasures you ordered and stocked the shelves with yourself. 

You take a deep inhale of the healing sight in front of you. You never tire of walking through this door after a long day; a portal to your favorite realm. Your spirit beams as you recognize the classic rock sonic of The Dire Straits pouring through the speakers at way too loud a volume. You find it almost impossible to be upset within these walls. Almost.

Though you want nothing more than to idly wander around the store, you redirect your focus to the task at hand; eyes scouring the floor for the customer that so desperately needs your attention. Within an instant, you undoubtedly deem a man within your gaze responsible for your unnecessary ordeals; no guidance from your coworker is required to know exactly who summoned you from your hideaway. 

He is an ornate scene; one that confiscates and pleases your attention all at once. He stands, bare chest proud and puffed, fingers fidgeting with the facial hair that roofs his protruding pout as he devoutly scans through titles of the nearby books. His narrow shoulders are cloaked by long chestnut waves that frame delicate facial features and a prominent nose. He’s rather small in stature, yet strong in physique. 

The pretty man is bewitching in the way he seems to have just hopped out of some antecedent reality; a walking, talking antique. Doused in all black, he wears a blazer and waistcoat with nothing underneath to properly clothe his tan skin except chunky chains weighed down by a ridiculous amount of pendants; all silver to match his oversized hoop earrings, reflectively gleaming as he saunters through trespassing sunlight. His torso is paired with black pleated trousers and seasoned black boots. This man looks as if he woke up and couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be a pirate or a rockstar. 

“You know, Halloween was almost two months ago,” you heedlessly blurt as soon as his golden brown eyes collect yours.

“Real original,” the customer retorts with a smirk and a slight shake of his head, “definitely never heard that one before.”  

His American accent nearly startles you; his features certainly tell an origin story of Central Europe, yet his phrasing is not harsh enough to miss the hint of something not quite American in his raspy tone.

You quickly steer away from your cheeky dig and towards a more professional rapport.

“What can I help you with today Mr.?”

“Jacob Kiszka,” he extends his hand to shake yours, “but you can call me Jake.”

The Jake Kiszka. You have definitely heard his name before. A guitarist whose discography is infamously compared to and even deemed gross appropriation of classic rock legends; and whose romantic track record has an even worse stench. 

You prematurely take the sincere offer of his hand before weakly falling back to your satirical ways, “Wow, lucky me- I’ve only heard stories of The Illustrious Jake Kiszka.”

He is not oblivious to your sarcasm but decides to take the cocky route anyway, “Oh- A fan, huh? Glad to know my reputation precedes me.”

“I never said they were good stories,” your hand repels from the guitarist’s calloused grasp and attaches to your hip, “but what brings you to my store?”

“This is the only place in town not playing Christmas music,” his eyes flit around the store trying to commit every last detail to memory as if his knowledge might be tested later and questions you with an intimacy he hasn’t yet earned, “So this is your kingdom, huh?”

“I don’t own it, just run it, but yes- this place is my baby and I’m its sales manager,” you briefly answer out of the scarce supply of decorum you currently possess and efficiently reroute to the reason for his visit, “but I doubt you came all this way just to escape the holiday spirit.” 

“Well, I am currently in town and in dire need of a last-minute Christmas gift, and you came highly recommended as far as rare LP sets go,” his features stretch into a ponderous tightlipped smile. 

The musician either isn’t receiving your assertion of pace or blatantly holds no regard for it as he digresses once again.

You aren’t certain whether his narrative is spoken to you, himself, or some unseen force, “But this really is some marvelous little store you run here. I have to admit I'm a bit envious. Somedays, I swear I would trade it all in for a simple quiet life like this.”

Simple? Quiet? Who the hell does this man think he is to come in the day before Christmas and casually spend your time and patience, only to then reduce your entire world to simple and quiet?!

Your fists discreetly curl behind the secrecy of your back as you scrupulously monitor your highly explosive tone, “Thank you kindly, Mr. Kiszka, but maybe we can hurry this along. I have lots of work in my simple quiet life to return to.”

Instantly, his entire physique cowers to a posture of mortification and regret. If your composure hadn’t already been so far spent, you might have even felt a strand of empathy or reprieve for him.

His face takes on a shameful shade of pink as fragments of an apology trip over one another, “No- No- That’s definitely not what I meant- Of course, the work you do here is very important. The responsibility of granting access-”

You wave him off, bestowing him clemency in hopes of ending this interaction as fast as possible, “It’s fine, but I really do have lots of work to return to, so just follow me.”

You hastily string him to the glass cases in the back of the store, a stream of clicking and clacking trails behind you with every heavy-footed step of his boots. His footsteps gradually sound less and less, his pace a relaxed rhythm compared to yours. You impatiently arrive at your destination of high-valued items and turn to see he is only leisurely tracing your path, still gazing about the store as if he is in an art gallery.  

You inhale. You’ve dealt with worse. Today would not be the day you lose your patience with a customer. 

Once he finally rejoins you at the display case, you begin the tour of each LP, explaining its contents, history, value, rarity, and your favorite details about it. Showmanly, you set a scene of necessity for each set as to speed his decision process along by targeting his obvious lack of impulse control. 

You’re about done appraising almost five sets when a lack of opinions, theories, and questions registers from his silence. You transfer your vision to learn your audience had not at all been concentrating on your dissertation, those amber eyes studying you right back; eyes reflecting not a strand of cognizance for your vain words, pronouncing your breath wasted.

Your abrupt eye contact seems to burst his trance, clearly not expecting you to break from your sale. 

“Are you hearing a word I’m saying or-,” you fuss, condemning any remaining attempts at professionalism. 

His features reveal comprehension, your confrontation certainly registers but his ample lips only vacillate in a dumbfounded silence.

You flatly attempt to jumpstart his verbal reflexes, “Mr. Kiszka?”

Pressure-buildup from every imprisoned word rattling around his head with no escape, erupts all at once, “I’m sorry- I’m sorry- I heard you- It's just- When I asked for help today- I didn’t expect someone so-”

A brittle tone emerges before you can even take the time to contemplate what he is trying to articulate, “Young? A woman? A different stigma that probably has nothing to do with my knowledge of music or ability to manage a business?”

“No it's not that- It's just- you-,” he hesitates to catch the breath he forgot to take and decidedly abandons his current thought to expedite his next, as if they might trample over each other if he doesn’t, “This is very inappropriate but I seem to keep putting my foot in my mouth and I would appreciate it if you let me make it up to you over drinks tonight. Also, please call me Jake.”

His unanticipated proposition hitches your breath and widens your eyes, “You’re right, that is very inappropriate.”    

He quickly shrinks yet doesn’t withdraw his offer, “My brothers will be there too if that makes you feel a bit better, but your expertise so far fascinates me, and I would love to discuss more with you.”

Asking you out. After insults. After disrespect. After no regard for your time-poor schedule. He is asking you out.

You take it back. You have not dealt with worse. This is definitely the worst. 

Panic and indignation concoct a bitter climb in pitch, “Unfortunately, Mr. Kiszka, there’s still so much that requires my attention before the year’s end. I’m as busy as someone with a simple and quiet life can possibly be. That leaves no time for idle pints with random guys in pubs. So will you be purchasing anything today?”

“No- of course- you’re right- I’m terribly sorry- I do need to get something,” his attention finally converts to the vinyl with an oncoming frown, “but nothing here stands out to me. I know you certainly don’t owe me any favors but is there any way you can show me anything else? You know- the good stuff?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, you blatantly feed him a white lie, “Excuse me? I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

You know exactly what he’s referring to. However, the thought of sharing another second with this infuriating stranger threatens to ignite fire to your dwindling composure. So, you tuck away all opportunities that would admit him to take any step that isn’t towards the door. 

He drives his agenda one last time, “You know? The treasures that never see the shelf? Surely, you have a secret stash. Every great store has one.”

“I guess we’re just not that great of a store then,” the shit-eating grin that smears across your face wards off any other inquiries he might probe for, “I can assure you this is the best we have. Maybe next time, do all your Christmas shopping before Christmas Eve.”

You are immediately pricked by a pang of guilt. Even you can admit you are being impudently cruel; for which you expect at least a return of assailment. Yet it never arrives. 

Instead, his eyebrows turned upwards just above a sheepish smirk and a diffident man takes the place of the obnoxiously charismatic rockstar once before you. He just might genuinely grieve the score of your transaction. As if he knows something you don’t. As if he knows in some other time or place this narrative was supposed to take a different course and he is now mourning a great failure.

“Okay- well, I can take a hint,” he meekly forfeits, “I apologize for wasting your time. Thank you so much for your help.”

You can’t seem to wrap your fingers around any response, lost somewhere amongst the spate of regret that you might have misjudged him based on presumptions. Your mouth runs dry and you’re only able to blankly stare back at him.

In your silence, he impulsively shoves his hand into his coat pocket and shimmies out some small notebook. He flips through pages and pages of scattered notes and highlights and even some light sketches before he finds the first blank sheet. He materializes a pen from the same pocket that had been sheltering the notebook and quickly scribbles before tearing out the page, folding it in quarters, and gifting it to you. 

You’re not sure why, but you find your hand an open landing for the paper. Unconvincingly, you reassure yourself it's because you know little resistance will only usher him out of your store sooner. 

As soon as he successfully rids himself of the note, you witness a bashful movement emerge upon his face in what you swear is the biggest and prettiest smile you’ve ever seen. You aren’t allotted time to admire or commit it to memory as its life spans less than a second, quickly shrinking till it's gone.

He bids you a rushed, “Take care, Merry Christmas,” before he turns on his heels and rapidly weaves his way through the isles till he disappears past the glass doors without so much as another word or last glance. 

Your eyes gravitate back towards the paper in your hand. You inspect the folded thing before you decide reading its contents would hold no worthwhile benefit and absentmindedly place it in your own pocket. 

— December 26th —

You mentally file through your checklist: The doors are locked, the drawer counted, and the lights turned off. Your colleague took care of the floor prep portion of closing duties before she left; you stayed way too late to finish your end-of-year reports. But you can’t seem to shake the feeling that you are forgetting something.

Your phone! You realize as you pat down your pockets you don’t have your phone. 

You race to your office through the dark void store to see your abandoned device sitting on top of your desk. As you grab your phone, the little forsaken folded paper you forgot you had placed on the work area earns your attention. Whether you set it aside for two days in a veto or for safekeeping is beyond you.

Now having endured your irrationally aggravated haze that always shrouds end-of-year stress, the only thing that remains is a flare of burning curiosity. 

You resist your own inquisitive demands and desert the mysterious note once more to hesitate towards the door, each step becoming more burdensome the further you trudge from your office.

Did you misconstrue him, seduced by mere whispers floating in the wind? Did you indignantly vilify him deceived by your own occupational duress? Despite being verbally clumsy, he was endearingly unconventional, and he clearly carried some remorse for your interaction.

You’re even baffled by the rumination this small piece of paper has conjured. Customers come and go, but you can’t seem to justify why he has become an unwelcome stowaway in your mind.

For the past two days, you’ve been choking on the bitter taste of rueful pining that you can’t seem to wash down. Suffocating under abrasive waves of what might have been if you’d only had patience to spare, till you can no longer deny your craving. 

You find your limbs and retrace the progress you’ve just made. You restively unfold the note to read confirmation of the exact information you imagined was inked into the little white sheet.  

Please, please, call me Jake.  And pretty please reconsider those drinks. (248)434.5508

You are alarmed by the giggle that sounds past your giddy smile, penetrating the silence of an otherwise lifeless building. Your chest is ambushed by an aching weight as your sight darts across the hall to the storage housing the “secret stash” as he put it.

You suddenly have no idea why you’d been so hard on him; just that you’re now certain of your looming resentment. You’re not sure if it’s this reasoning, or the way he looked stunned by you, or even the shape of his giant childish smile you can’t seem to recall, that drives your thumb as you dubiously dial the phone number on the paper. 

Each ring of another number entered descends you further on your fall from professionalism and floods your head with panic. As soon as the dial tone begins to ring against your ear you’re immersed into a fit of denial, convincing yourself his answer is an unlikely outcome; despite this being his phone number and you are, in fact, calling it. 

“Hello,” his vaguely familiar rasp becomes one of undeniable recognition.

Neglecting to even consider what you might say if he did answer, you awkwardly blurt, “Hey, Mr.- Jake-,” it occurs to you that you never properly introduced yourself, “It’s the girl with a simple quiet life.”

You possess no control over your hand as it impulsively smacks against your forehead amid your poor choice of words.

You’re mortified he might have heard your reflex as he giggles through the line, “Hey, pretty girl. I was hoping you might call.”

— December 31st —

You aimlessly pace about the bathroom, your platform loafers suctioning with every sticky step on the tile. You survey the sting of your angry nail plates, red and visible from an anxious nail-biting fit. 

A jiggle of the doorknob and a harsh knock on the door interrupts your examination. 

“Just a minute,” your voice shakes trying to overpower the blaring music.

You possess no concept of how long you’ve been hiding out from the party just beyond the bathroom door. You had been wading through a sea of strangers for almost an hour looking for Jake before you finally became overwhelmed, retreating to a random bedroom and locking yourself inside its bathroom. You’re beginning to question Jake’s attendance at the very party he invited you to.

Another bang at the door.

You squeak in panic, “One second!”

You run your hands against your dress to wipe the sweat from them as you shuffle over to the mirror to perform a last-second evaluation. You straighten the collar of your little black button-down dress and readjust your pantyhose so the hem isn’t visible from your dress’s high-thigh split. You quickly retrieve your wine-red lipstick to featherly dap it over your lips in reapplication and sloppily attempt to recoil any broken curls before you're startled by another thud on the door.

You growl as you stomp over to the entryway, “Who the fuck?! I said hold-”

You swing the door open to gather those wide honey eyes framed by pretty chestnut waves.

The weight lifted from your chest is quickly chased by the embarrassment of your reaction, “Jake?!” 

The both of you, relieved to see the other, spill your words out in unison, “Where have you been? I was looking for you!” 

You aren’t sure whether the uncontrollable giggle you let out is induced by amusement or nerves. Jake only gives you a peculiar smirk while scanning you up and down. 

He slightly tilts his head and tries to interrogate you through a chuckle, “How long have you been hiding in here?”

You’re only able to bat your eyes at him, clueless as to how to save yourself. The way he reads the situation with such accuracy makes you question whether you have the words “socially celibate” written on your forehead; which isn’t true about you at all. You are usually a social butterfly but something about Jake makes you want to gasp for air. 

“I’m not hiding,” you blurt the lie straight through your teeth. 

“It's blatantly obvious you're hiding,” he playfully rolls his eyes and leans against the doorway, listing the factors that clue him in, “this is not the most accessible bathroom. There’s a bit of wandering you have to do in order to end up here.”

You attempt to redirect his heat back on him, “Well, what are you doing in here?”

His brows draw together in confusion, “You mean…in my bedroom?”

If your face wasn’t beaming pink before it certainly is now.

That night on the phone he had apologized profusely. After you reciprocated the remorse, he insisted on making up for the misunderstanding in person and invited you to a New Year’s Eve party. You spent the hours of that night learning bits and pieces about each other over the phone, yet not once did he make you aware it was his party. 

“I mean you invited me, but you failed to mention you own the place,” you shake your head and light-heartedly chide.

There’s a lot of attention that comes with being the host; attention you couldn’t compete with being that you have known Jake for all of five minutes. You have half a mind to make up some excuse to escape now and be done with this. 

Jake’s words soothe your storming thoughts, “I’m just glad you’re here and I found you. It's almost midnight and I was starting to think you flaked.”

From where your abrupt banter appears you’re not certain, just that you’re pleased with its arrival, “Wow, all these guests and those pretty eyes were searching for little old me? I’m flattered.”

“I was only concerned you might be hiding in a bathroom somewhere,” he teases back.

You roll your eyes and exit the bathroom. Only now do your inhibitions hush, admitting you to espy Jake dressed essentially in the same ensemble as your first meeting, the sore difference being the color palette. However, this single change is not one of subtlety, as you discover navy blue is certainly Jake’s color.

Jake instructs you to reenter the party and he’ll come find you in a few before disappearing into his own bathroom. 

You almost scoff out loud. There is no way you are subjecting yourself back to that lion's den alone. You instead idle about his room. 

You presume this bedroom is the master due to its excessive space and height. Two walls of a deep timber green meet one of exposed cobblestone, where the head of the bed is positioned, and another wall that is made completely of bookshelves. Mounted on these walls are frames of various historic maps and sketches and what you assume to be sailing routes. The decor is accented by espresso wooden floors and leather furniture; everything within your line of sight could certainly tell stories of a life dating well before your own. 

You wonder how it hadn’t occurred to you before, this room might belong to him; Jake is almost the room personified in its rustic aesthetic.

You saunter over to the wall of books, extending your reach to them. The pads of your fingers ridge against the embroidered spines of various vintage books as you skim through their titles; from which you determine the wall displays are most likely of a piratical lore. 

As you scale the bookshelf you run into a bar cart. Surely, he won’t miss a sip of liquor as much as you’re in need of one. You grab a cocktail glass from its rack and start with an easy pour of sparkling water. You aren’t sure which liquor to choose as they are all top shelf but land on tequila, mixing in an extra shot to take off the edge. You dress your drink with the squeeze of a lime and drop it in with a plop of ice, the residual juice left on your fingers begins to sting at your bitten fingernails. You take a moment to admire the symphony of each bubble fizzing its way to the top while ice chimes against your glass; the mere song of a tequila soda already easing your nerves. 

As you sip on your elixir and further snoop, you notice there are not many pictures in the room. The few you do find tell the story of four siblings. Although, you struggle to pick Jake out amongst the bunch, having it narrowed down between two in every photo. 

A whisper from somewhere just beyond your shoulder shatters your sleuthing trance, “Nosy little thing, aren’t you?”

Your drink nearly escapes your glass from the jolt his ambush sends through you.

He further teases you, “Ah, now you’re going to spill stolen liquor on my floors too?”

“It’s not stolen if you owe me a drink, sir,” you quip, referring to his offer of your first encounter. 

He playfully reclaims your drink from you while declaring, “Let’s see how good of a cocktail you can mix-,” he takes a swig and speaks through a stifled cough, “whoa, bit stiff there! I suppose you may just be able to keep up with me.”

You are on the verge of investigating the family pictures when his phone rings. He frowns, yet still retrieves the device from his pocket to read the notification. However, his eyes break from their summon within a second, elated to receive yours once again. 

Jake almost pounces on you, giddy to usher you back to the party, “Come on, I want to introduce you to some people!” 

You tail him down the hall to the main part of the house until you reach the outskirts of crowd congestion. He shifts his lead to your side, his arm still extended to precede you, parting the way through traffic. 

Parading through the guests, almost everyone attempts to greet their beloved host, stepping in front of or trying to walk between you. 

You feel Jake’s broad hand lightly rest against the small of your back in an attempt to stay tethered, your skin waking to the sudden warmth and weight of his touch. 

As you travel deeper into the heart of the crowd, it only multiplies in its density. Jake's fingers delicately travel from your back, over your hip, and wrap into your waist. He tugs you into his side, practically walking hip to hip; a measure taken to make certain you remain by his side.

Ordinarily, touch from any stranger is an unbearable concept you desperately flee from, but Jake’s hands are ones you’ve never known. He grabs you like he is certain your skin is his to touch. Simultaneously, it's assertive and amenable and affectionate. It grants status in a house full of strangers. You know you’ll only grieve its absence. Yet, you fear how you already crave more. 

Your buffer’s escort sees you into the kitchen and immediately draws towards a group of three men: two of a tall lean stature and the other petite like Jake. He walks before you and seizes their attention from whatever concentration previously held it.

You shadow Jake, shifting behind him so there is as little space as possible without physically touching him; weary of your new appetite. 

Even inches away from the men’s huddle, you can barely hear over the roar of the overcrowded house and the blaring music; your only indication of Jake speaking is the wave of his hands and the three boys’ responding laughter. 

You lean as an attempt to hear their conversation when someone stumbles past you, knocking you straight into Jake’s backside and sending him into a light stumble. 

Like some bashful toddler hiding from scary stranger danger, you stand straight and peek over Jake’s shoulder to see three wide-eyed men gaping at you. Jake loops his hand around your arm and casts you dead front and center as if you are a surprise gift he’d been concealing behind his back this whole time. 

He lightly rests his hands on your shoulders and leans towards your ear, you gauge he’s close not by sight, but by the warm sensation of his words tickling your skin, “These are my brothers,” then reverts his attention to the other men, “guys, this is who I was telling you about.”

You formally introduce yourself and one by one they do the same: Sam, whom you recognize from the pictures and assume is related to Jake, Danny, whom you’ve never seen before but seems to possess the same familial chemistry, and finally Josh, who you now identify as the other face you couldn’t differentiate from Jake’s in the photos; you know they must be brothers. 

You turn to confirm your suspicions with Jake and find he is no longer behind you. Eyes apprehensively detailing the scene, you scour till you recover him at the bar topping off your drink. You know he means well but the last thing you want is to be stranded.

As if he can access your thought flow, the man who earlier introduced himself as Josh is standing next to you now and gingerly places his fingers on your bicep to reassure you, “Don’t worry, you're in good hands.”

As your insecurity is driven away, curiosity remains, “So, what has Jake told you exactly?”

“Well- really, only that he came into your store and bugged the shit out of you-,” across from you,  a slightly tipsy and loose-lipped Sam is silenced by Josh nudging him, “ow?!”

“He told us that you hold an interesting perspective and a vast knowledge in the world of music,” Josh earns the title of damage control, “in addition to your immunity to his charms.”

When Josh laughs, it is a grand thing, his whole body participating in his colossal giddy smile. You can’t help but receive the glee he is emitting.

Only now does it occur to you, that pretty smile has graced you once before. It's the same one Jake wore for a mere second, of which the imageless memory has been bugging you for a week. Their wide smile seems to exist in exactly the same shape yet live in different lights: Josh’s a bit more generous and Jake’s a bit more significant.

It isn’t until now that you’re able to delineate all the same features about their face, noting now that they aren’t similarities at all but replicas. Only now can you see they’re twins. 

“Stop scaring her,” Jake’s voice rasps from behind you as a fresh drink is placed in your hand. 

“If you haven’t done that already, I’m not sure what will,” Josh collects Jake’s warning with a banter of his own. 

Suddenly, the boys’ are uprooted by a slow bluesy ballad sounding throughout the house; not a conventional party tune but after all it’s not your party. One after another, each brother’s face lights with recognition of a happening and disappears from the kitchen to the heart of the house, dragging along a someone as their chosen company. You witness every bystander in the kitchen mimic the strange migration. You never imagined a change of song could so dramatically alter the behavior of a room. 

Immediately, consciousness of an unknown tenses in your muscles. Your eyes storm Jake for clarification, yet the coy grin that he produces does nothing to soothe your skies. 

“So it's kind of a Kiszka New Year’s Eve party tradition,” his hand finds the back of his neck as if he is trying to thread together bad news, “to have a last dance just before midnight.”

“Oh,” your chest drops at a much less severe diagnosis than you anticipated. 

Jake distances himself a step from you to offer his hand and bashfully beams, “Care to be my final dance in these last fleeting moments of a year’s dying life?”

“I- um- actually,” you panic grasping for any declination, only to find a confession in reach, “I can’t dance. Well, not slowly anyway.”

He feigns shock, “A beautiful girl of your musical knowledge and you don’t know how to dance?!”

Despite the urge to run far and fast the moment Jake calls you beautiful, you charge to your own rescue, “No one ever taught me!”

He raises an interrogative eyebrow, “You promise that’s the only reason?”

You give Jake a confused nod while also averting your eyes in shame, so you aren’t aware when he lunges to snatch your hand from its comfort zone by your side. 

“It’s never too late to learn,” Jake chimes while tugging you from the kitchen.

The unforeseen tow renders you almost tripping over your own feet, docking your sweating glass courage on the nearest counter. 

You’re dragged into a tempest of strangers waltzing about until Jake decides your destination in the eye, a center spectacle accessible for anyone to gawk at. 

Jake plants you in position by steading your shoulders. You pay him no mind as your consciousness is currently employed by the surrounding cloud of people. He lifts your arms by the wrists, resting them around his shoulders before drawing in close to place his hands on your waist. You’re once again consumed by the warm weight of his heavy hands that spell you starving for more. 

“Jake-,” you begin to fret, suddenly feeling like you might burst into tears. 

“Shh- It’s okay- Look- Look, it’s simple,” he consoles you like an eager child. 

Jak motions your sight to follow his to the floor as he steps out with his left foot. Paralyzed by your own nerves, Jake doesn’t give up when you completely miss his cue to mimic his movement. You barely process the light chuckle that leaves him as he retraces his step back to starting stance.

Nimbly, his palm delineates your pelvis as his grip runs from your waist to your hip. Jake then replicates his previous action, this time firmly swatting your right side to follow; the slight impact sends an unsolicited shudder down your spine that you pray goes unnoticed. 

Hesitantly, you pursue his step. Then again with your left. Retrace. Repeat. Again. Then again. And again. Until you are swaying along with the rhythm.

Jake's eyes have since left the floor, amused at the sight of concentration you are. He allows you a moment of beginner’s peace before disturbing your count.

“I think you’ve pretty much got it,” his finger lands under your chin to lift your hanging head back to eye level again, rejoining his honey-brown gaze, “you can look at me now.”

You recognize something perennial in his tired eyes and all at once you’re aware the road to unwind is undoubtedly a long one, but whether it routes through pleasure or pain is beyond your discernment; the only thing of which you're certain, is at this moment he became ineradicably and irrevocably undeniable. 

After a few confident strides, you courageously let your head fall to Jake’s shoulder, only tripping over your instructor’s feet a few times but he doesn’t appear to mind. If you were rhythmically inclined you suppose you might even enjoy slow dancing, swaying about solely to remain blissfully close to your pretty dance partner as the rest of the reality seems to wane from existence. 

You swear hours pass before the melody finally fades out, yet Jake and you take your time to rejoin the rest of the world, lingering in your bubble; a countdown to midnight being the hammer that eventually breaks your glass.

TEN! NINE!

You hastily revert back to your own, excusing yourself from any rejection or inquiry by joining the chant. 

EIGHT! SEVEN!

Rather than dwell, your abrupt modesty strikes Jake endeared. He simply restructures himself, respecting your space, with a regaling smirk as he now jumps into the sequence. 

SIX! FIVE!  

Achingly aware that you’re the one who broke it, you’re assailed by a twinge of loss, fighting the appetite to feel him pressed against you once more. 

FOUR! 

That is until you feel Jake’s slight caress against your wrist. At first, you assume it’s an accident. The remaining life of the current year dwindling provokes the roaring crowd to compact, dancing and hugging, in hopes for a better year. 

THREE!

Yet, Jake’s touch doesn’t retract. His fingers dawdle about your skin, dancing down till he climbs into your palm. 

TWO!

His vast hand is extensively more than you’re able to hold, so his calluses tickle as he swiftly rakes them against your skin to interlock his fingers in yours; the bond devoted and interminable.

ONE!

You expect a confession from Jake as he cranes his head to fall in close to yours, but instead, feel a pink blaze rise to your cheeks as he delicately places his pretty plump pout just before the corner of your mouth; the sensation of his facial hair, prickly against your skin, being one you’d like to know further. 

As he pulls back to revel in your bemusement, you’re finally caught in that beautiful beaming smile for the second time. Your ache to witness the entrancing sight again hadn’t registered until it surfaced long for you to savor this time; your hope for the year to come instantly blossoms from Jake’s smile. 

“Happy New Year,” his blessing is barely audible over the cheers of a new era.

Some unseen and unfamiliar force greater than lust, commandeers your limbs diminishing all conscious control as you impulsively cling onto his lapel and yank him back into your orbit. Recklessly, you devour those pompous pink lips into your own. Jake doesn’t hesitate to consume the small of your back and dip of your waist within the swallowing grip of his palms. His mouth emulates your hunger, letting your kiss flourish and thrive against your lips. You give into your need for an air supply only when you feel the shape of that giant ass smile break the seal of your embrace. Nimbly, you press a small pucker to Jake’s dimples while they exist. 

You remain within the gravity of your shared breaths, giggling your wish against his smile, “Happy New Year, Mr. Kiszka!”

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[naturesfirstgreenisgold]

Winter/ Christmas TGM + TG head cannons

Dagger Squad has Christmas at Icemavs

When goose and Carole was alive Mav had Christmas there

Dagger squad did secret Santa

Hangman got Bob at baby on board sticker for car

Bob got Hangman a cowboy hat with H_ngm_n burned into it.

Hangman felt bad for Baby on board sticker after that

Phoenix got Rooster a “Greatest of the 50s” vinyl

Roo got Phoenix Taylor Swift Midnights vinyl

Javy got Mickey a Star Trek Funko set

Mickey got Javy a coyote plushy

Pete got Rueben a f-18 model

Rueben got Pete a patch for his jacket

Ice got Mav a new beaded chain to pit his ring on

Mav got Ice a yeti that said “I live with Maverick so you can deal with him” to put on his desk

Hangman got Rooster a stuffed Texas to take with him when he’s deployed to remind him of him (to annoy Jake sometimes when Bradley isn’t getting what he wants he calls him Texas)

Rooster got Hangman a stuffed rooster for the same reason

Christmas movies

Pajamas

Ginger beard house comps

Ugly Christmas sweaters

Rooster trades his Hawaiian shirts in for flannels when it gets cold

One time, Bob took them up to his parents house in Wisconsin for Christmas because most of them hadn’t seen snow

Sleeping over a Mav’s and Ices on Christmas Eve

A huge Christmas tree

If anyone is deployed during Christmas Ice will try to get them back for Christmas but if he can’t they will either put off Christmas until they get back if it isn’t long but if they just got deployed they make them a care package with their presents

Baking

Jake will pull Bradley away and give him a promise ring and chain to put it on.

Singing competitions

Stockings (like all 15 of them)

Everyone surprising Ice and Mav with a dog they named Red Barron (he’s a white lab)

Going to look at Christmas lights in roosters bronco (they were very very cramped in there)

Tons of mistletoe

[blacknwhitemood]

Back side:

Some details - behind the Iron Curtain:

Made in Hungary with the original price:

Catching Up With - inner paper cover:

Black Celebration with But Not Tonight at the end (USA edition):

Blue vinyl (German edition):

Violator in French and the new edition inside:

Duplicates:

This is my DM vinyl album collection - so far. I also collect 7" singles, you can read about it in another post. These albums released in the "original" year in different countries like West Germany, U.S.A., France, Yugoslavia and Hungary. It shows well the age of Depeche Mode that some of these countries are no longer exist.

Original DM LPs are rare if I don't want to order them from eBay for a fortune and uncertain delivery. I must be lucky - and I was. I bought them from a website where buddies like me sell their used items, a guy regulary sends me e-mails about his duplicates, I'm really appreciated. There is a second hand music recording shop not far from my flat, I remember I went there first time in October to buy MFTM in blue version (haha, now I know how rare it is). The shop was crowded, sellers were busy, I was a bit nervous. One of the customers asked loudly over the LP heap "So where is that Depeche Mode you talked about?" I turned there, he was given MFTM by the shop owner. "I leave it here for now, someone will really need it" - he said and I went to him for the vinyl "I was coming exactly for this album, I'm not kidding. I'm buying this" - we were laughing, the owner said this LP had arrived to the shop 17 minutes before I got it.

Or I just find them in my mother's potato cellar (!) where my sister left them in the early 90s: the Hungarian version of MFTM, and Violator by Virgin Records. I had to wash some black mold off them… I found the original price sticker from 1987 (280 HUF - today it would cost 15,000 HUF) and Violator has sticker at the front in French "L'album inclus Personal Jesus & Enjoy the silence". These were my first DM experience in my childhood when I was prepearing to a music high school and I learnt all of those strange songs on piano.

Unfortinately two important studio albums are missing yet from the 80s: one of my favourite, Some Great Reward, I'm sure we will find each other one day. I could've bought Speak & Spell but only the American version, too much differences, I prefer the other one. My Black Celebration is American too, that means you can find one more song at the end of B side, But Not tonight - this song has never released in Europe. I also love my Catching Up With, because the cover is wow (I mean hot), and the inner paper cover is full of photos, this way they promoted the band in the States. This singles collection released only in the USA, this is the American version of The Singles 81→85 with 4 differences. And I need SOFAD and it' singles, I'm afraid it's gonna be a difficult advanture.

Basicly I don't want to keep 2 or more versions of the albums, beside MFTM Violator is duplicated in a funny reason. I went to Müller shopping soaps and while I was standing in line at the checkout and I got a sight of vinyls next to puffed corn. "What if there is DM?" There was. Violator, new edition that you can order all of the albums in any time. This was my very first DM album, I just couldn't leave it there, my heart was beating loudly. After this I've decided to collect original vinyls only, because they have souls. Decades ago someone bought it and listened to is with joy and perhaps he or she was in love with someone and went to a concert or a flat party and they were dancing… When I hold these old, crumpled albums in my hand I can feel the past. It makes me so happy.

A Broken Frame 1982 Made in Yugoslavia (Jugoton)

Construction Time Again 1983 Made in West Germany

Catching Up With Depeche Mode 1985 Made in U.S.A.

Black Celebration 1986 Made in U.S.A.

Music For The Masses 1987 Made in West Germany (blue vinyl)

Music For The Masses 1987 Made in Hungary (Gong)

Violator 1990 Made in France (Virgin)

Violator 2016 (new edition - Sony)