#printed vinyl flooring

[leachltd]

We provide top quality, G-Floor, custom Floor Graphics for a range of indoor and outdoor applications. Leach can deliver innovative printed vinyl flooring graphics across a range of sectors.

Web Page: https://weareleach.com/floor-graphics

[sketchychelsea]

Test printed my first two-color screen print! 🤘🔥

[oaksgrove]

A Place to Call Home

pairing: Keegan Russ x Reader

synopsis: After months of deployment, Keegan finally returns to the apartment you’d both barely settled into before he left. What was once an empty, impersonal space is now a warm, inviting home filled with your touch. As the two of you reconnect over dinner, the love and comfort you’ve created together remind him of what he’s been fighting for.

warnings: None, just tender, heartwarming fluff.

word count: 1805

a/n: is all about love in the little things. Hope you enjoy this cozy slice of domestic bliss!

The apartment was empty, save for a few boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner. The walls were bare, the hardwood floors scuffed, and the faint scent of paint still lingered in the air. You stood in the middle of the room, hands on your hips, surveying the space that would soon become your home.

“It’s a bit… sad, isn’t it?” you said, glancing over your shoulder at Keegan.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room. “It’s a blank slate,” he said simply, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll make it ours.”

You grinned at his optimism, turning back to the room. “Ours,” you repeated softly, the word wrapping around you like a warm hug.

The two of you spent the next few hours unpacking, your voices mingling with the sound of tape ripping and boxes being shuffled around. Keegan insisted on doing the heavy lifting, even though you playfully argued that you were just as capable.

By the end of the day, the apartment still looked sparse, but there were signs of life—a cozy blanket draped over the couch, your favorite mugs lined up on the kitchen counter, a Polaroid of the two of you pinned to the fridge.

Keegan pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s a start,” he murmured.

“It’s perfect,” you replied, leaning into him.

But perfection was fleeting. Just weeks later, Keegan was called back to duty.

The morning he left was quiet. Too quiet.

You stood at the door, your arms wrapped around yourself as you watched him lace up his boots. His duffel bag sat by the door, a stark reminder of the goodbye you were about to say.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, his voice steady, though you could hear the tension beneath it.

“You better be,” you replied, forcing a smile. “I’m not finishing decorating this place without you.”

He stood, pulling you into his arms. His embrace was firm, grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself believe that time would fly by.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

“You too,” you replied, your fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket.

When he pulled away, his lips brushed against your forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said, your voice trembling.

And then he was gone.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. The apartment felt cold without him, the silence oppressive. You threw yourself into work, into little projects to pass the time, but it was never quite enough.

Until one day, you decided to change things.

You started small—string lights hung above the windows, a tapestry on the wall to add some color. You printed out photos, memories of the two of you, and pinned them up in the hallway. You found an old record player at a thrift shop, and soon the soft crackle of vinyl filled the apartment, chasing away the silence.

Piece by piece, the space transformed. It wasn’t just an apartment anymore. It was a home.

The apartment smelled like garlic and rosemary, the faint crackle of something sizzling on the stovetop breaking the silence. Keegan stepped inside, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his boots heavy against the polished wood floor. He froze just past the threshold, his breath catching at the sight in front of him.

You stood at the counter, your back to him, swaying slightly to the soft hum of music playing from the kitchen speaker. The oversized sweater you wore hung loosely off one shoulder, and your hair was messily tied back, strands framing your face.

It wasn’t just the sight of you that rooted him to the spot—it was the warmth of the apartment itself.

The last time he’d been here, the walls had been bare, the furniture sparse and impersonal. The place had felt like a waiting room, a temporary stop in the chaos of life. But now, it was something else entirely.

String lights curled along the edges of the ceiling, casting a soft, golden glow. Polaroids covered one wall—pictures of the two of you smiling, laughing, caught in quiet moments of joy. A tapestry hung behind the couch, its rich, earthy tones adding depth to the room. On the side tables, lamps with warm light bathed the corners, pushing away any lingering shadows.

It looked like home.

Keegan couldn’t stop watching you. The way your hands moved so naturally as you stirred the sauce, the way you hummed a tune softly under your breath—it all felt like a dream. Every movement, every little detail, reminded him of how much he’d missed you, of the pieces of himself that had been scattered while he was away.

He let his gaze wander again, taking in the transformation of the apartment. On the coffee table, he noticed a candle, its flame flickering gently, filling the air with the comforting scent of vanilla. A knit blanket was draped over the back of the couch, the kind you’d pull over yourself while reading or watching a movie. Small details like these made the space feel alive, vibrant in a way it hadn’t been before.

And you—his heart ached just looking at you. It had been months since he’d last seen you, months since he’d felt your arms around him or heard the way you whispered his name like it was the only word that mattered.

Keegan cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. "Hey."

You startled, spinning around with wide eyes, but the moment you saw him, the surprise melted into something radiant.

"Keegan!" you gasped, abandoning the knife on the cutting board as you rushed toward him.

He dropped his duffel just in time to catch you, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as you leapt into his embrace. The familiar scent of you—lavender and something sweet—filled his senses, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

"You’re home," you murmured, your voice muffled against his chest.

He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. "I’m home," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands framing his face. "You didn’t tell me you were coming. I would’ve—"

"Didn’t want you to wait on me," he interrupted, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Wanted to surprise you."

You smiled, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You’re a good kind of surprise, Keegan."

His gaze drifted around the apartment, taking in every detail—the photos, the lights, the small touches of you everywhere. "You did all this?" he asked, his voice soft with wonder.

You followed his gaze, a hint of shyness creeping into your smile. "Yeah. I wanted it to feel like… like us."

Keegan shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It’s perfect," he said, pulling you close again. "You made it perfect."

The timer on the stove beeped, and you pulled back with a laugh. "Dinner’s going to burn if I don’t get back to it."

"Let it," he said, his hands refusing to let you go.

You rolled your eyes but kissed him gently. "I missed you too, but you’re not starving on my watch."

Reluctantly, he let you slip out of his arms, watching as you returned to the kitchen. He followed, leaning against the counter as you fussed over the meal.

"Can I help?" he asked, though the thought of doing anything other than watching you felt impossible.

"Just sit there and look pretty," you teased, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, before grabbing a chair to sit by the kitchen island. His eyes never left you as you moved around, his chest full of a peace he hadn’t felt in months.

Your smile softened, and you stepped closer, holding out the spoon. “Taste this for me?”

He leaned down, letting you guide the spoon to his lips. The flavor was rich and comforting, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the food.

“Perfect,” he said, his voice rasping slightly.

You grinned, pleased, and turned back to the stove.

Keegan stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. You stilled for a moment, but then relaxed into his embrace, leaning back against him.

“I missed this,” he murmured into your hair.

“Me too,” you whispered. “I kept trying to imagine what it’d feel like when you finally came home. I don’t think I imagined it being this good.”

He tightened his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder. “This is better than I ever could’ve imagined. You’ve made this place… you’ve made it feel alive.”

You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up to cup his face. “It didn’t feel alive without you, Keegan. It didn’t feel like home.”

The weight of your words settled over him, his chest tightening. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your back. “I’m sorry it took so long to come back,” he said, his voice heavy with regret.

“You’re here now,” you said softly, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “That’s all that matters.”

The oven timer went off, breaking the moment, and you laughed lightly as you pulled away. “Go sit down. Dinner’s ready.”

Keegan watched as you plated the food, every movement so familiar, so effortlessly you. The table was already set—another small detail that tugged at his heart. Candles flickered in the center, their warm glow adding to the cozy atmosphere.

“Do you like it?” you asked, breaking him from his thoughts.

“Like it?” he echoed, his voice quiet. He gestured to the room around him. “I love it, sweetheart. I love everything you’ve done here. It’s… it’s us.”

As you both sat down, Keegan reached across the table, taking your hand in his.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low.

“For what?” you asked, tilting your head.

“For all of this,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “For waiting for me. For turning this place into something I want to come back to. For being you.”

Your eyes shimmered, and you squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to thank me, Keegan. This is what we do. We’re a team.”

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt at peace. Sitting there with you, in the home you’d created together, he knew—this was where he belonged. This was everything he’d been fighting for. For the first time in a long time, Keegan felt like he could breathe. The apartment, the food, the warmth—it wasn’t just a place to return to.

It was home. And so were you

[beansprean]

My entry for What We Create In The Shadows vol 4! @wwcitszine

It was a privilege to be able to contribute to this zine among such creative, talented, and fun artist and writers! The mods truly did an incredible job and the zine is BEAUTIFUL! Highly recommend getting a physical copy if you can. :)

You can still get WWCITS until July 28th! All proceeds to to PFLAG!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: Detailed drawing of a city street at night; Nandor, Laszlo, Nadja, and Colin Robinson are in the foreground, running for their lives towards the viewer. Chasing them (having caught up to them, really) is vampire Guillermo flying through the air on bat wings, silhouetted by the glowing full moon behind him. He is grinning maniacally with his clawed hands curled upward in triumph, eyes glowing a burning orange as he poses mid-flight, chest puffed out with his newfound power. Nandor is in the front, arms pumping, eyes wide with fear as he looks straight ahead. At his elbow is Laszlo, looking over his shoulder in alarm, one hand clamped around Nadja's wrist to drag her on behind him. Nadja's other hand is holding up her skirts and cradling Nadja doll potato-sack style in her elbow as she rushes along. She looks upward with a snarl, distracted, as Guillermo looms above her. Lagging behind is Colin Robinson, huffing and puffing as he tries to keep up.

The city street behind them is full of easter eggs. A kiosk on the left behind Laszlo is covered in flyers: fundraiser to cover medical bills for Toby, a recruitment poster for the Mosquito Club, an add for reanimations for $350 cash, a Go Flip Yourself ad, a comptroller campaign poster for Sean covered up by one for Colin covered up by one for Evie, a newspaper article about Morrigan Manor, a Wicked poster, a flyer for the familiar mixer, a missing poster for Jenna, a Found poster for Guillermo's bicycle, a handwritten ad that says "Djinn to good home, call Gyermo" with a photo of the djinn lamp, and several stickers including one that says 'werewolves not swearwolves, a Palestinian flag, and the s5 moon promo shot. Sitting atop the kiosk is a frog with curly brown hair - la Guillerana, and above it on the brick wall is a black poster featuring a hooded figure with round glowing eyes that says "The Night Market: if you know, you know." The roof of the building has a clothesline stretched across it where the Cloak of Duplication is hanging. The next building has glass doors and windows across the first floor with soft ambient lighting coming from within. A foldable chalkboard outside says 'closed for privat pardy'. The name of the restaurant is printed above the door: 'love at first bite'. The second floor is a grid of square windows with the blinds drawn, a single ad for Rapula Realty in an upper window. A single anonymous finger parts the blinds on a lower window to peek out. The third floor has three windows and fairy lights draped across the front. A purple flag that says 'human wellness inquire within' hangs from the first window, and the second has one foggy pane with the word 'help' written on it backwards. Black Peter the goat is on the roof, front hooves planted on the ledge to look out at the running vampires in the street. The following building has a grid of windows and a temporary vinyl sign stretched across it that says 'Urgent Care'. More buildings stretch out behind to the horizon.

On the right, there is a small newspaper vending machine with the headlines 'Flying Man Spotted' and 'Strange meteor lands in New Brighton'. The adjacent building has four stories, the only entrance a set of stairs going straight down. Neon pink lights pour from the doorway and lowermost windows. Above the doorway with an arrow pointing down is a neon sign for Nadja's. Below it, a poster exclaiming 'Baby Colin Live!' One of the middle windows has a sign that says 'Nadja and Laszlo Human Music Group performing Thursday nights'. Hanging from the roof precariously by both hands and looking towards the ground in terror is Patton Oswalt. One of the Baron's mutant children is sitting happily on the ledge nearby. A tree is on the roof and has some kind of net hanging from it. The next building is corporate and mostly windows, the bottommost portion open and flanked by yellow poles, a yellow and black divider blocking the entrance. An awning above it says 'Jesk Parking'. Inside, there is what looks to be a pile of rats. Two bats fly past. A vinyl sign stretched over the building front is an ad showing a man hugging a pillow that says "Get the Guy Pillow! Buy 100 get 1 free! Guys only!" The roof turns suddenly to greco-roman architecture, a row of stone columns lining the edge. Sitting at the very top are the two gargoyles having a riveting conversation. The next building is 3 stories and has a trans flag hanging from one corner and a progress flat from the other. The first floor has an alcove with a door flanked by two windows, one featuring shelves with jars of white liquid, the other a palmistry poster that reads 'free palm reading with every ejaculation'. The store name above reads 'Satchel Serafina' More text on the second floor reads 'Home of Memo's Man Milk, gathered lovingly by hand.' Beyond this building is a small grassy area behind a fence with a dead old tree and some graffiti that says 'Simon the Devious' with a crown. There is a nearby sewer drain under the sidewalk where a hand is reaching out. More buildings stretch out behind to the horizon. /end ID

[nothoughtsjustfic]

Thinking about: Meet cute with single parent L.SM

💭Who: Lee Seokmin (Seventeen) x reader 💭What: Fluff. Single parent Seokmin. 💭Word count: 2k 💭Warnings: None! 💭Summary: “ You’re out shopping at your local mall when an adorable child literally runs into you and leads to meeting their adorable dad. ”

Masterlist

A/N- I left the child gender neutral because I honestly couldn’t decide if I should make them a boy or girl so intended to go back and adjust once decided, but then I just got used to writing they/them/their so now you can imagine Seokmin’s child however you like! Also didn’t name them for the same reason

Extra special tag for my darling @tusswrites just to torment her 💗 luv u bby 😘

The pat-pat-pat of little shoes across vinyl floor meets your ears a second before there is a collision against your legs. It’s only a small one and luckily only causes minimal stumbling before you right yourself enough to turn and look down at where a fluffy little something is on the floor by your feet.

Slowly, the fluffy brown tilts back until big eyes peer up at you a little confusedly as a tiny hand pushes the hood back to allow the small child to eye the very thing they had run into.

“Oh, hello,” you greet softly, not wanting to scare the child.

They just blink up at you silently so you peer around in search of sign of an adult looking distressed, yet you can’t see one. You see plenty of adults wandering from store to store and even other children yet none of them seem to be searching for a lost little lion.

After a final glance around, you shuffle back slightly to give you more room to crouch down to be closer to eye level with the child who is still just staring at you silently. “Hello little lion, I think you might have wandered away from your adult, huh?”

“I lion, roar!” The child exclaims as if reminded of their outfit as they hold up both hands into claws and bare their teeth in an utterly adorable way. It doesn’t help that their oversized hood drops back down over their face, obscuring all but half of their tiny, bared teeth and chin.

“Wow! That’s a big roar,” you comment and lower to sit on your butt with your legs crossed. The child grins proudly at you and pushes their hood up again, then entirely back to rest at the back of their neck and reveal two tiny, low messy buns tied with cute little rainbow ribbons printed with rabbits. “I like your ribbons.”

“Bunnies!” The child exclaims and jumps up to start bouncing, making you giggle.

This child is adorable. And perhaps a little too comfortable with strangers so you’re very glad they ran into you and not someone who wouldn’t be a decent human being.

“You’re very good at bunny hopping,” you compliment. The child hops closer to you and wiggles their nose like a rabbit, making you laugh again. “Ah, you’re so cute.”

“I cutest, daddy say I am.”

“I think your daddy might be right. Are you here with him today?” The child nods in confirmation. “Do you remember which store you were in with your daddy?”

“Uhm,” they turn around to look at the surroundings and frown puzzled. “Where daddy?”

“I don’t know sweetheart, that’s what I’m hoping you can tell me. Was daddy looking at something to buy when you saw him last?”

“Daddy buyed more undiewear. His have lotsa holes!”

“Buying more underwear definitely sounds like a good idea in that case,” you agree and get up to offer your hand. “How about we go to that bench, and you can stand on it to look out for daddy and tell me if you see him, yeah?”

The child nods and takes your hand into their small one to happily skip alongside you over to the bench in the centre of the open space of the mall between stores, where you lift them up to let them stand on the seat, even if they’re still nowhere near tall enough to see over all of the heads.

“What was your daddy wearing today, do you remember?” You prompt after standing quietly for a few moments, with a hand on the child’s back securely so they don’t fall while they peer around curiously.

“Uhm daddy and uncle wear same!”

“Your uncle is here too?” The child nods. “Okay and what are they wearing?”

“Uhm…like you!” They poke your black faux-leather jacket at your shoulder.

“Ah, I see.” You look aside and immediately spot at least one person wearing a black leather jacket yet none of them seem to be focused on anything other than their phones or the next store, so you’re certain they can’t be this child’s dad or uncle.

“I hungry,” the child declares suddenly a minute later, making you look at them to find a precious little pout and puppy dog eyes already locked on you. “I hungry.”

“I’m not your parent or trusted adult, you shouldn’t ask others for food,” you reply, making their pout grow bigger. “I’m sure your daddy and uncle will get you something to eat soon.”

“Now?”

“No sweetheart, not now. We need to reunite you first.”

“I hungry now.”

Instead of answering, you sigh a little and turn in hopes of finding their adults. To your relief, you spot a man rushing out of a clothing store a little down the way wearing a black leather jacket and looking frazzled.

“Is that your daddy or uncle?” You ask, pointing over so the child looks and starts to bounce excitedly on the bench, so you quickly wind your arm around them in fear of them falling or getting their foot caught between the slats somehow.

“Daddy!” That’s all the confirmation you need to scoop the child up to hold securely on your hip and start towards the man who is rushing along peering into stores as he passes and asking every other person over his lost child, but he hasn’t spotted you approaching yet. “Daddy!”

That makes him look over and his fear immediately washes away for relief to take over his features. He runs over and happily takes his child from your arms to hold close and press kisses to their hair. “Where did you go, monkey? I was so scared I lost you forever! Never do that again, okay?”

“Sorry daddy, I lost,” the child apologises while hugging their dad tightly and tucking their face up close to his neck while you watch on just glad that this turned out well and doesn’t need to be escalated to security or the police in order to reunite the father child duo.

“I don’t care what anyone says, I’m getting you a leash,” he mutters against his child’s head, and then finally seems to fully register your presence. “Oh, uhm hi, sorry uh, thank you for looking after my child and I won’t really get a leash, I know those are for dogs…or cats…or ferrets…or-”

“I get it,” you assure with a soft laugh, cutting off his nervous rambling. “I think they’re called reins when it’s for kids.”

“Yes! That’s the word I actually meant, thanks.” He chuckles and adjusts his child on his hip before offering his free hand to you. “I’m Lee Seokmin.” You take his hand to shake politely and give your name in return. “Are you busy? I’d really like to buy you a coffee or lunch or something in thanks for reuniting me with my little monkey.”

“I hungry!” The child declares, suddenly upright and on full alert again at the mention of food. “Hungry daddy. We eat with uncle and my friend?”

“Oh, you’re friends now, huh?” Seokmin teases and nudges his child’s nose with his own playfully, making the child giggle.

“Best friends!”

“Aw, what?” He pouts at them and suddenly you see exactly where the child gets the puppy dog eyes from. “I thought I’m your best friend, monkey.”

“Both,” the child reasons simply, making you both laugh a little.

“I can handle that, can you?” Seokmin grins at you. “Sharing the best friend title with me?”

“I think I can handle that,” you agree, making him smile brighter.

“So, lunch?”

“Will your brother be okay with that?” You wonder.

“Brother?”

“Yes, uncle?”

“Oh, he’s not my brother, he’s one of my closest friends. He won’t mind at all, right, monkey? Uncle Wonwoo won’t mind our new friend joining for lunch, right?”

“All be friends,” the child answers.

“Exactly, we can all be friends,” Seokmin agrees in a serious tone despite his amused smile. “So, want to come make friends with a little monkey, their dad and his slightly socially awkward friend?”

“Sounds-” you start to respond but the child interrupts with a huff.

“I lion, daddy,” they correct in a tone that sounds as if it’s not the first time they’ve had to remind him of this very serious fact.

“Oh right, right, lion, sorry little kitten.”

“Cub,” you correct, earning a flat look from Seokmin that you only giggle at.

His face lifts into a softer kind of smile and his head tilts a little as he now takes the chance to look at you properly; your smile, your eyes, your figure from head to toe, but he really does seem mostly focused and entranced by your smile.

“Hey!” The call of a deep, male voice makes Seokmin, and his child look over, so you do too and find another man donning a black leather jacket jogging over. He glances between you and Seokmin curiously before smiling at the child and taking them from their dad’s arms when they hold out their arms while leaning over. “Hey cub, where’d you go huh?” His voice turns so much softer now that he’s talking to the child, so adoring and utterly precious. It softens his whole somewhat intimidating presence in a way you can’t blame him for at all.

This child truly is heart-meltingly sweet.

“Made friend, uncle Wonwon.”

“Ah, you made a friend?” The man looks at you curiously and offers a little, polite smile before turning his attention back to the child to lean in closer and talk between them quietly.

“So, you didn’t get to answer about lunch,” Seokmin reminds, drawing your attention back to him. He has a hopeful smile lifting his lips and a nervousness in his eyes that he can’t quite hide.

The more time you spend around this man and witness his expressions, the more you see who his child takes after. You really don’t need to meet the mother to know that this child is almost Seokmin’s twin in tiny form.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude, I’m just glad to see you reunited and such a sweet child back in loving arms.”

“Your arms seem pretty loving,” he comments without thought, then immediately blushes, and flails a little. “I didn’t mean anything by that! Well I did but not like that! Not-not in a hitting on you way! Not that I think that’s a very good way to flirt; I may be out of practise the past few years but even I know that’s a bad line!”

Once again, you find yourself giggling softly. “It’s okay, I understand. Save the flirting for after lunch,” you joke and try not to turn shy at your own brave flirtation.

“Oh!” Seokmin’s expression turns oddly blank for a moment, except for his wide, shocked eyes on you. You almost start to apologise and retract your words, yet his cheeks lift high as he breaks out into a bright, beautiful smile. “You’re right, flirting should never be done on an empty stomach!” He declares and motions vaguely behind him. “So let’s go get lunch and move onto dessert, huh?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you comically, making you laugh before he joins in.

The four of you turn and head off to find somewhere to get lunch. You catch the uncle leaning over to whisper to Seokmin teasingly; asking if he and the child should leave you and Seokmin alone to flirt in peace, making Seokmin blush and shove his friend gently, not willing to risk his friend dropping his daughter by pushing any harder.

Seokmin glances at you shyly and offers an embarrassed little grin when he realises that you heard the other man’s comment.

“Maybe next time,” you bravely suggest, making Seokmin’s nerves melt away as he grins and nods in agreement.

You really don’t know what the future holds for you and Seokmin. Maybe it won’t go anywhere past today, or maybe it’ll be a long future with his precious little child growing up feeling love from the both of you, perhaps with siblings following along. There’s no knowing how it will go, but you sure are excited to find out.

Don’t forget to reblog if you liked to help spread the story and let others read it too! And don't be shy to leave comments or send an ask so I can see your thoughts 🥺 💖

Permanent taglist: @okiedokrie, @svtiddiess

[mattsobvimyfav]

roommates (matthew sturniolo)

pt 24 -

a/n - Happy New Year!!!!

Winter break had officially begun, and we were all home for the next month. Classes were done, dorm rooms were left behind, and now it was time to relax and enjoy the holidays.

The crisp December air felt refreshing as I stepped out of the car and stretched after the drive back home. My dad was already waiting at the door, a big smile on his face as he came to grab my bags.

“Welcome home, honey,” he said, pulling me into a tight hug.

“Thanks, Dad,” I smiled, hugging him back. The warmth of being home was comforting.

Matt, Chris, and Nick had also made their way back home, and it wasn’t long before the group chat lit up with plans to hang out. Despite loving spending time with them, I looked forward to spending some quality time with my dad.

Snow coated the ground outside, and the streets were decorated with twinkling lights. It is my favorite time of year, it just seems like everyone is happier during the holidays. 

The camera was rolling in the Sturniolo living room, the tree lit up in the background, and the boys were already in youtube mode as they started unwrapping the gifts they’d gotten each other.

“And now, for the most anticipated moment,” Chris announced dramatically, gesturing off-frame. “Our special guest, Y/N!”

I walked into the frame, holding three gift bags, one for each of them. “You guys better love these,” I sat next to Chris, setting the bags down on the floor in front of them. “I put actual thought into these.”

Nick went first, reaching for his bag with excitement. “What’d you get me?” he asked, pulling out a RuPaul T-shirt. His face lit up. “No way! You know me so well”

“And that’s not all,” I said with a grin. He reached in again and pulled out a stuffed duck. Nick screamed. “You’re the worst, I could kill you” he said, holding it up to the camera, Immediately throwing it out of frame. 

Chris went next. He pulled out his gift, revealing an orange sweatshirt with a custom-printed Pepsi can on the front. His mouth fell open. “YES!,” he yelled, holding it up for the camera. “This is my new favorite hoodie.”

“Glad you like it,” I said, smirking.

Then it was Matt’s turn. He reached into his bag and first pulled out a pair of new sneakers he’d been eyeing. “No way,” he said, running his fingers over them. “These are sick.” Then he pulled out a black hoodie, noticing something embroidered on the wrist.

“It’s our dorm number,” I explained. “Figured you might want something to remind you of it when we’re back at school.” I said in a duh kind of tone.

Matt looked at me with that rare, softer expression he only gave when the cameras weren’t rolling. “This is perfect,” he said, setting it aside carefully, leaning over Chris to kiss my forehead.

“My turn,” I said. “What did you guys get me?”

Nick handed me his gift first: a collection of vinyl records from the neighborhood, my favorite and a matching record player. My jaw dropped. “Nick, this is amazing,” I said, getting up and pulling him into a tight squeeze.

I sat back down next to Chris who handed me a box next: a personalized photo album full of pictures from the semester, “I figured it’d be cool to look back on,” he said, grinning.

“You've always been a secret softy, thank you I love it” I said pulling him in,

Lastly, Matt handed me a small, neatly wrapped package. Inside was a silver tennis bracelet engraved with a ‘M’ on the clasp. “I know how much you love Chris’ tennis bracelet, thought you'd like your own,” he said simply, looking down trying to keep up his brooding personality.

I slipped the bracelet on as Chris helped me with the clasp and I stared at Matt “You're the best” I said, as soon as Chris was done with the clasp I flung myself on Matt which sent him flying into the back of the couch as I kissed all over his face.  

I stepped out of the frame letting the boys continue their gifting to each other. I turned just in time to see Nick accidentally hit Matt in the face with a calendar. Matt immediately smacked the back of Nick’s head in retaliation.

“Matt!” I yelled,  “Chill the fuck out! It was an accident.”

“Tell him that!” Matt retorted, rubbing his face.

Nick, looking around, held the calendar up like a shield. “It was an accident”

Matt grabbed the calendars and whipped them at the wall. I shook my head, annoyed at Matt's dramatics. I rolled my eyes sitting back behind the camera, through out the rest of the video. Matt threw about five of the gifts but once it was finally over it was around eleven at night.

“Matt, gotta drive me home” I said standing up as Nick turned off the camera.

“Ok sweetheart, lets go” He stood from the couch smoothing out his pants. Me, Nick and Chris shared hugs and merry christmas’ before me and Matt departed back to my house. 

“Thank you for the ride home” I said leaning over to kiss Matt goodbye.

“Do you guys want to come for dinner tomorrow? My parents told me to invite you guys” Matt asked as I stepped out of the car

“Ill let you know! Good night matthew!” I yelled as I ran up the stairs of the house.

Christmas morning was quiet and warm, the soft glow of the tree filling the living room as my dad and I settled into our usual spots. Even though it was just the two of us, the entire living room floor was completely covered in gifts.

“Morning, honey,” my dad said, smiling at me from his armchair, coffee mug in hand.

“Morning, Dad,” I said, settling onto the floor in front of the tree, my own coffee warming my hands.

We took turns opening presents, talking and laughing as the pile of wrapping paper grew at our feet. My dad’s grin got wider with each gift he opened, and I could feel my own cheeks starting to ache from smiling so much.

“Looks like Santa went crazy this year,” I teased as he picked up another box.

“Santa knows how much I love spoiling you,” he replied with a wink.

By the time we finished, the floor was littered with ribbons and wrapping paper, and I could feel the warmth of the morning settle deep in my chest. This was what Christmas was all about—just the two of us, sharing a moment that felt special in its simplicity.

“I’m gonna take these upstairs,” I told him, scooping my gifts into my arms.

“Okay, let me know when you want breakfast” my dad yelled as I took as many gifts in my hands as I could.

After three trips everything was on the bed and I took a moment to take it all in. It wasn’t about the gifts; it was about how much love my dad poured into making this morning feel special. 

I sat cross-legged on my bed, my phone propped up on a pillow as I hit the FaceTime button for Matt. After a few rings, his sleepy face appeared on the screen, his hair messy and his voice groggy.

“Morning,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “You woke me up.”

“Good,” I cheered. “Merry Christmas! Do you want a haul?”

He groaned dramatically, flopping back onto his pillows. “Sure, let’s see what Santa brought you this year, Princess.”

I grinned and grabbed my first gift. “Okay, first, these,” I said, holding up my new Tasman platform Uggs.

“Great, more shoes,” he sighed.

“Wait, there’s more!” I grabbed my new Converse and showed them off. “Aren’t they cute?”

He rolled his eyes, sitting up slightly. “What’s next?”

I continued, showing him my new clothes, my new phone still in its box, and the new bedspreads I got for school and home. When I pulled out my Owala and Stanley cups, he finally cut in.

“Why do you need two new water bottles?”

“Excuse me,” I defended. “they’re cute.”

Matt shook his head. “You’re way too fucking spoiled, you know that?”

“I know,” I said, grinning back at him.

After almost an hour of going through everything, I looked at him expectantly. “Well? Impressed?”

“Exhausted,” he yawned. “But yeah, I’m impressed. Your dad really went all out.”

“He always does,” I said.

Matt stretched, finally pulling himself out of bed. “Well, I’m gonna go open my gifts now. We’re having dinner at 5, by the way. You coming?”

“Ill let you know, I have to ask my dad” I said, smiling at him through the screen.

“Alright. I’ll see you later, spoiled brat.”

“See you later, grumpy,” I shot back before ending the call.

After setting up my new phone and transferring everything over, I decided it was time to make a haul for TikTok. Propping my phone up on my dresser, I started recording, holding up everything I’d gotten from my dad and the triplets.

I showed off the custom tennis bracelet Matt got me, Chris’s scrapbook, Nick’s vinyl collection, and then moved on to the gifts from my dad, careful not to leave anything out.

“Okay, that’s everything,” I said at the end of the video. “I love literally every last thing I got!”

I posted the TikTok with the caption, Christmas Haul! Feeling so grateful this year. Then I started putting everything away, finding space for all my new stuff.

An hour later, I grabbed my phone and opened TikTok to check on the post. My jaw dropped. The video had blown up, again, already racking up thousands of views and comments.

Some people were commenting about how much they loved the haul:

“This is so cute! You got amazing stuff!”

“Now these are the hauls I wanna see.”

But, of course, others were quick to call me spoiled:

“Okay, we get it, you’re rich.”

“Must be nice having everyone buy you everything.”

I laughed at other people's jealousy and bitterness but smiled when I saw the triplets had already commented:

Matt: my spoiled girl

Chris: my gifts gotta be the best

Nick: god i love your whole life

I laughed, liking only their comments.

The mix of reactions didn’t bother me. I was happy and loved everything I got, so I closed the app and moved on with my day.

I headed downstairs, my socks padding quietly against the hardwood floor as I found my dad in the living room, watching one of his favorite Christmas movies. He glanced up as I entered, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“Hey, honey,” he said, pausing the movie. “What’s up?”

I sat down on the arm of the couch, swinging my legs a little. “The triplets’ parents invited us over for Christmas dinner again. Do you want to go? Kinda like Thanksgiving.”

He tilted his head, considering. “You want to go?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I think it’d be fun. Plus, it’s not like we have big plans here. And you know how much Jimmy and MaryLou love having us over.”

He chuckled. “They do seem to like feeding us, don’t they?”

I grinned. “Exactly. What do you say?”

He leaned back, crossing his arms. “Alright. Let’s do it. But only if I don’t have to cook anything.”

I laughed. “Deal. I’ll text Matt and let him know we’re coming.”

Dad smiled, picking up the remote again. “Sounds good. Now go get ready—don’t want to be late.”

“Yes, sir,” I teased, hopping off the couch and heading back upstairs to grab my things.

After dinner, Matt and I found ourselves upstairs in his room. Matt and I were mid-way through filming a TikTok to Santa Baby. The song played softly in the background as he lifted me effortlessly into his arms, spinning me around while we both lip-synced the lyrics.

I laughed through the words, my hands resting on his shoulders as he twirled us. The room blurred around me, and I couldn’t help but giggle at how over-the-top it all was.

“Santa, baby,” I sang, looking down at him as he grinned up at me. He joined in, purposely off-beat but making the moment even funnier.

As the chorus ended, he set me down gently, and we both dissolved into laughter, barely able to keep it together for the next part of the song.

Matt looked at me with a mischievous grin. “You should just stay the night,” he said casually, making me raise an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s Christmas, and I don’t think either of our parents will mind.”

I smiled at the suggestion. “I’ll ask my dad.”

I stood up and headed downstairs to find my dad in the living room with Matt’s parents. “Hey, Dad, is it okay if I stay over here tonight? We were gonna make Christmas cookies and watch movies and stuff.”

My dad looked up, a smile tugging at his lips. “Of course, honey. Just be careful and text me when you get home tomorrow.” He gave me a quick hug, and I rushed back upstairs. “Im leaving in a little while! Goodnight, love you”

“LOVE YOU!” I yelled running up the stairs

Matt was already waiting, “So?”

“They’re fine with it,” I said, sitting down beside him.

“Well then, let’s go get the guys,” he said with a grin, standing up.

“Pajamas first please” I said standing from the bed, Matt went into his drawer grabbing us each a pair of plaid pajama pants and a sweatshirt from his closet. I got undressed and Matt scoffed.

“Your going to get fucked if you dont put some clothes on” He said as he slipped his pants on.

We made our way down the hallway to knock on everyone's door. When they answered, Matt was the first to speak up. “We’re making Christmas cookies and watching movies. You guys in?”

Nick, still in his pajamas, nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”

Justin chuckled and shook his head. “Only because y/n is here.”

Chris just smirked. “I’m in. Let’s go.”

The five of us made our way downstairs to the kitchen, where their mom was setting up everything we needed for baking. We all pitched in, rolling dough, cutting out shapes, and decorating the cookies. The atmosphere was warm and filled with laughter as we chatted about random things, the holiday spirit in full swing.

After the cookies were done, we gathered in the living room, snacks in hand, ready for the Christmas movie marathon. I laid my legs across Matts lap leaning my head on his shoulder as the starting credits of the nightmare before christmas. 

Matt leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” With that, we began the long night of movies. 

Tag -

@namelesssav @christmastreecake @mattsturnii @sturnrc @larnieboox88 @izzylovesmatt

@tbfaptbfae @2muchofaslvt @sturnioloshottiekay

@rockstarchr1s @simply-a-simper @realuvrrr @sophia-77n @christophersstar @mattscore @whoisthisdiva1

[touretticeddiemunson]

“(if i get more pretty) do you think he will like me?” [wayne’s pov]

summary: transmasc eddie trying so hard to be a girl because he likes steve, and as far as he knows, steve is straight. he’s constantly putting his own mental health in jeopardy just because of a stupid boy.

~

Wayne wonders why his boy is suddenly curling his hair again, putting on lip gloss, and wearing those little black dresses he once wore when he was in junior high. He watches Eddie come home with mascara stains stuck to his cheeks, a dead giveaway that he’d been crying.

It gets to the point that Eddie asks Wayne to stop calling him “he”.

He tells Wayne he’s not a boy, he was wrong; he wanted to be a girl again.

Wayne had no problem making Eddie comfortable, so he did what she wanted. She wanted to be called Ella again, wanted Wayne to take her shopping for different clothes. But even though Ella insisted, Wayne couldn’t help but notice that “Ella” still wasn’t happy. “She” still came home crying, as unhappy as she was before her transition to male, possibly even moreso.

Eddie never seemed the type to pretend to be something he wasn’t. So why was he doing it now? Eddie seemed to be perfectly happy as Eddie.

One day, Wayne’s boy came home in his old clothes. He looked just as dejected as the days he’d come home crying. Every time he asked what was up, Eddie shut him down. He decided to be “Eddie” again, shouted that he was done pretending, that he would never like him anyway. Despite all the questions Wayne had brewing, he knew better than to ask them. It wasn’t like Eddie would answer them.

-

Years went by and his boy still wasn’t happy. He didn’t see him that way until months after the earthquake came and destroyed their house. Even then, he wasn’t himself, and rightfully so. Wayne longed to see his boy the way he was before he was affected by whoever made him question who he wanted to be.

He finally saw Eddie happy again one night. Wayne came home late to find his boy smiling in his sleep on the couch, cheek pressed against the shoulder of the Harrington boy. There was a snuffed joint in the ashtray and a few empty bottles of beer on the floor. He gave Eddie a kiss on the forehead and watched lovingly as the boy shuffled in the other’s strong arms. He wondered if this was the person who’d caused Eddie try to be his old self; the person who made his boy so unhappy. He hoped to whatever god there was that this boy was going to be good to his Eddie, that he wouldn’t make him feel unloved again.

-

Over the course of several more years, the two boys grew closer. They didn’t have to say anything to Wayne for him to know they were in love. They moved off to Chicago with Eddie’s band, where they put out their first album.

-

In the times Eddie was convincing himself that he was supposed to be a girl, Wayne could hear Eddie picking up his guitar in the dead of night and plucking out chords. He heard his quiet, pained voice fighting against sobs, choking out words to a song Eddie was writing.

-

After spending 2 years traveling through America with the band, Corroded Coffin was a household name for metal fans. Eddie became a hot topic in magazines, became a staple of the metal scene. They held their biggest concert at Lollapalooza that year and got Wayne VIP seating.

That evening, they played a new song.

“Is everyone enjoying the show tonight?” Eddie called into the mic. He was met with thunderous cheers, enough to make everyone’s ears ring. “That’s great to hear, you guys. It means a lot that you came out to see us. We’re gonna end the night with a new song and then we’ll turn it over to your next artist, but I have a little to say about it first,” He announced.

The chords took Wayne back to a time he’d never forget. Weeks after the concert, they released their new album containing the song. The album “In the Dead of Night” was a hit everywhere, released on streaming platforms and even printed on vinyl. The moment it hit the record store in Hawkins, Wayne bought the first copy he could get his hands on. He rushed home and put it on his record player, sniffling as the familiar chords reached Wayne’s ears again.

Wayne stood crying in the kitchen next to the record player as he listened to the full product of Eddie’s teenage torment.

“If I get more pretty, do you think he will like me?”

~

a/n: i was inspired by the lyrics of “prom queen” by beach bunny for this. the song is originally about developing an ED, but i also thought that it would fit really well as someone going back in the closet pretending to be someone they’re not.

[3terna15unshin3]

desperately need a blurb about matty showing este one of the (many) songs he wrote about her, maybe it’s the first one he writes for her! But he’s all nervous and she’s in shock all like “it’s about me??” And bc of her love for literature she’s like delving into the lyrics and falling in love with him and his mind all over again!!!!! could be cute!

Who Else?

a/n: cj!! suuuuch a cute concept thank u for the request💌 it’s kinda implied in the fic that Then Because She Goes is the first song he writes about Este but because it’s so lofty and the lyrics are so buried and vague, i thought it might be more fun to focus on a different (underrated imo) one :))) i hope u like it !!!!!

this another instalment of este and matty as always, read the full fic here <3

—

The first test pressing of Being Funny finally sits in Este’s excited hands. She always looks forward to spinning Matty’s work and being able to hold it physically before anyone else. Luckily, it came in a sample sleeve of what the final product would look like—unlike most test pressings that come in boring and generic packaging—so Este is able to admire and study its charming design. Matty watches, thrilled to see her reaction. 

Her eyes scan over the sleeves with the lyrics printed over them, picking out her favourites and smiling when she reads them. Knowing how truly earnest Matty had decided to be with his lyrics on this project, she can’t help but blush at the overtly romantic phrases and the fact that they could have been written with her in mind. 

“So who’s this one about?” Este poses sarcastically, pointing at All I Need To Hear and giggling in the process. She watches Matty lightly roll his eyes and the corners of his mouth pin up into a grin. 

“George, actually,” He jokes. 

He’s only just lowered the needle onto the black vinyl, so a couple of seconds afterwards, the two of them hear the telltale piano chords of the opening track. Matty steps back to let it play, taking a seat in the chair that sat next to their sofa. Este follows suit and lightly settles onto his lap, lyric sleeve still in hand. 

“Shut up,” she replies, continuing to read away. “I actually can’t think about that song too hard or else I’ll, like, fully weep.”

Matty chuckles, pulling her legs to the left so they dangle off the side and so he can see her face. He sets his arm across her thighs to hold her tight and clasps his hands together around her waist. 

“I mean every word, you know.” He says quietly. 

Este feels her nose get fizzy with emotion as she reads more of the lyrics. 

'Cause I don't need music in my ears

I don't need the crowds and the cheers

Oh, just tell me you love me

'Cause that's all that I need to hear

She thought about how punctuated by music Matty’s life had been; how it was the only way he can make sense of the world. How deeply it made him feel and know himself. And how it brought him the most important connection he’s built—his audience and the mark he’s left on them. 

Then, her mind wandered to the way he somehow unabashedly declares that her love is set above all of that; through the song. It’s the ultimate exclamation of love and devotion.

He wrote that about you, Este thinks to herself. Her nose goes fizzy again. She blinks away the tears that rise. 

Her fingers find their way around the nape of Matty’s neck, and she caresses the skin there gently. “I’m serious, love. I’ll snot on you.” Este warns. 

They laugh together for a second, then hear the record switch over to Happiness. Matty studies the way her foot begins tapping to the beat and how her lips move ever so slightly, to mouth the words to herself. 

“God, this is the best song ever,” Este gushes as the needle scraping along the vinyl helps remind her of how much she loves it. He shrugs, raising his heel along to the song making her bounce up and down. She laughed at how nonchalant he was attempting to be. “Don’t be humble. It is.”

He looks at the floor and then up at her. “Another one written about you.” He says, kissing her shoulder.

She looks down at him, setting down the record sleeve. “Would you really go blind just to see me?”

Matty nods slightly. The brown in his eyes glows with admiration. “I’d go too far just to have you near, too,” he teases. 

There’s a shyness in his voice that Este can hear buried beneath the light sarcasm. It makes her heart flutter while Waughy’s saxophone blares through the speakers with charisma.

“Do you always think about me when writing love songs?”

It’s a question she ponders quite often. She’s not sure why she does; but she struggles to conceptualise being the subject of art she loves so dearly. Though Este can tell it’s second nature to him. 

“Course. Who else?” Matty answers, like it’s obvious, because it is. 

Este shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe the ones before me.” 

“Can’t even remember their names, now that you’ve come along.” He says casually. 

As they continue to listen, Este eventually gets up to flip it to the next side. But as she does, the conversation they share reminds her of one of the first times Matty admitted to writing about her, and how precious it was. 

Este has a clear memory of Matty being on tour in 2019 and sending her messages about Then Because She Goes, when it was a work in progress. She thinks it was easier for him to hint and imply the lyrics were about her—how their times together felt so indulgent even though the pain of parting ways came along with that—because he didn’t have to do it to her face. He had sent her voice memos of it while he was halfway across the world and Este witnessed the song grow from an idea to a fully fleshed moment of splendour on the record. It was such a special experience.

But, when she managed to learn that there was more (quite a few more, Matty would later reveal) on Notes that had an undertone of Este-ness, his admittance was much more timid. 

It was after the release of the album was pushed back a few times, a period of time she would frequently find Matty hunched over his laptop screen with stress. The final touches of mixing and mastering were occurring. Track by track, things were being perfected, and Este grew more and more eager to hear the project as a whole.

Finally, Matty asked her to join him for a front-to-back listen-through of the album. They sat down together and shared his pair of Airpods, the left for him and the right for her, and pressed play on his files.

Because of its sporadic final weeks of creation, there were some songs that sounded different to when Este had first heard them, and even a few she hadn’t heard at all. One that was new to her had been a last minute addition that George composed of a rogue idea sitting in Matty’s notes app. It ended up being a favourite of hers.

“You hadn’t shown me Bagsy Not In Net,” Este pointed out when the album was over and she had spilled enough praise.

“We made it so spontaneously. Towards the end. I guess it just never came up,” he explained, picking at the skin on his fingers. “Do you like it? I really like it.”

She furiously nodded. “That’s why I brought it up. It really stood out to me.”

Matty clicked randomly around on his laptop and refused to meet her eyes as he said, “I’m glad Bagsy stands out. I was nervous you wouldn’t like it.”

Este’s brows furrowed.

“Since when do you care about whether anyone likes your work besides you?” She said playfully.

“Are you kidding?! I always care about you liking my—”

Este giggled, putting her finger over his lips to muffle his sentence and end it abruptly. “Okay, okay. You do care. But I feel like you’re never nervous. Like, with every other song—”

“I was nervous because Bagsy Not In Net is about wanting to die with you.” 

Her mouth remained agape as Matty interrupted. It came out of his mouth with impulse and haste as if it had been sitting behind his teeth begging to be heard. 

All the while, his eyes stayed glued to his laptop screen. He was afraid of it being too bold of a concept, or that she wouldn’t feel the same way—given the fact that it had barely been three months since they’d gotten back together. It was easy as ever to write about her and send her little messages through a screen that hinted at him doing so; but having Este’s real and living gaze burn into his face while admitting something so raw was not the walk in the park he hoped it would be. His heart began racing, and he didn’t know when it would stop.

“It’s about me? Are you sure?” Este spluttered. 

Matty eventually peeled his eyes away and met hers. 

“Who else?”

Later, after a long night, the two of them whispered quiet words to one another in bed before turning over and shutting their eyes. Este had another idea, though, and turned her phone back on. She slipped on her headphones, and opened the audio file sitting in her notes. 

Este begged Matty to Airdrop a copy of Bagsy Not In Net over to her so that she could listen to it again. Sure, she was addicted to the charming orchestral introduction and how it pulsated alongside the beat as the song progressed. But really she was just desperate to hear the lyrics again.

She closed her eyes as she listened, taking in each word.

This feeling, it's something when you call me

I'm dealing in death and being lonely

Try it, don't like it

And leaving you here is the thing that I fear, so I fight it

Her heart panged at the idea of Matty being afraid of the end. Then Because She Goes was almost an anthem of hope, or of reassurance, that their time apart would at least be temporary. But this—these lyrics—hit Este in such a different way. It was desperate and stark and honest. Matty was begging for her to agree that they were all or nothing. That even death is something they ought to do as a pair. Este couldn’t possibly make sense of how huge the sentiment was, and how beautifully it came together with the instrumental. 

The song looped a couple of times before she finally pressed pause. Este shrugged the headphones off of her head and set them back onto her bedside table. The noise of her headphones made Matty open his eyes, realising that she was still awake.

Her back was turned to him, so he peered over her shoulder to see the glowing screen of her phone. He watched Este open the notes app on her phone, and slowly type, “Do you want to leave at the same time?” into a new file. He sleepily smiled. 

She didn’t label it, or type anything further. Copying the line heard over and over in her new favourite song was the only objective. She was hoping that making note of it would help her remember it forever, even though she probably would anyway.

[a-very-tired-raven]

what do their bedrooms look like (boys of your choice)

Nado: He has a very pleasing room to look at. While the overall colors of his room(walls, bedsheet) are a nice sky blue and grey, he has many models of air planes, storm chasing vehicles, and race cars that give a nice vibrant contrast. Not to mention a modest baseball hat and jersey collection donning one wall. He has a regular sized closet.

His room is very neat and organized, saved for a couple playing cards scattered between his model shelf and work desk, a couple pencils and pens left out, a trashcan filled with rejected sketches, and spare model parts laying around.

Also..his bed sheets have clouds on them, the bedframe having engraved stars and tornados, and a signed baseball bat in the corner next to his bed.

Beats: His room is a contrast between being both retro and vintage themed. His room is rather big, as he needs space to relax and practice cordeo when he doesn't want to go to the studio.

Under his bed, and stretching out underneath his desk and tables, he has a very large black rug. It has the same colored shape patterns on it you'd see at old skating rinks. He has numerous vinyl records, tour posters, and glass frames of albums on his wall of his favorite musicians(two of those including two of tangos biggest hitting songs.) He has a huge closet.

In the corner, he has a large bean bag. Next to it, he has a vintage vinyl record table, a very very old radio(both with their own tables.), and a big shelf with a cd player, CDs, and a whiteboard.

His walls are a weird grey green color that fits oddly nice, and he has a full length mirror behind his door.

Boxer: He doesn't have a very big room. It's not small, but it's just big enough to his liking. He has a smaller bed, not too big, and the kind that has shelves underneath as the bedframe. It has a red comforter with a basic pirate design printed all over. The walls are brick, with a smooth floor the same as gym floors. He has a black mat directly in the center of his room, with a punching bag. There's a rack with three hooks right above his bed that he keeps his three hats on.

He has a dart board on the back of his door, weights in the corner of his room, and very very small shelves with vintage comic books. On the bottom of his shelf, is pre-assembled models of two helicopters, a train, and a pirate ship. He also has a couple figures of his favorite heroes made of paperclips that he paid gen to make him. He doesn't have a closet, but does have a very small chest at the foot of his bed and a mini fridge.

Next to his bed he has the skinniest nightstand you'll ever see, with a family photo, and a small box with a ring collection, and a silver watch dead center. His is the only room here without a window

Sap: Sap has a very cozy room. The walls are a lovely maple color, and his floors wooden with a red stain. He has a small walkway from the door to his bed made of carpet.

He has a small closet, though instead of hanging his clothes up, he keeps them in a wooden chest that's inside his closet. Because of this, his closet is pretty empty actually, save for a trashcan, and a suite and hat that's hung up for special occasions.

He has one desk in his room, that's actually pretty big. It has a computer modled from the 2010's, a vintage radio, a stack of journals, a cup holding pens and pencils, and a very very very old rubix cube he got from his Alphys. He only has three things in his walls. A mirror above his nightstand, a huge world map above his bed, and a dart board all alone on his wall across from his bed.

And lastly, he has a cute nightstand next to his bed. It has a photo of him and his brother, a photo of his undyne, a beautiful pocket knife his undyne gave him, and a pack of playing cards in the one drawer that's in it.

Patch: His room is the biggest mix between a hippie vibe and a clinic. He has a hammock for a bed, to which he sleeps with a patchwork blanket. He has a metal desk, with numerous lab equipment, sharped pencils, and notebooks laid across.

On the wall behind his door, he has a bookshelf filled with books, photo albums, CDs, and wood carvings. Next to it, is a huge circular window with a ledge you can sit on. Right next to his hammock is a small bin filled with knitting tools, and he has numerous cross-stitched fabrics on his walls. He also has a huge cage for his pet rats.

[gard3nias]

12| The butterfly, the cricket and the wing-man

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wc: 4.49k

date: 31/08/2024

mdi // masterlist // playlist

—Now playing: Wild at heart by Lana Del Rey ✫

The dancing queens didn't stop dancing: they eventually listened to every ABBA vinyl record the bright curly-headed dancing queen owned on her shelf because her wavy-haired bibliophile dancing queen of a friend couldn’t help herself—but she was helping the bright curly-headed dancing queen without even knowing.

Ultimately, the latter’s father went back to his workshop. Hopped, to be exact.

At the same time, the bus drove past their neighbourhood, heading for its terminal. It was a matter of time before it passed a big grey gate, turning left to its last stop. 

Behind the tall metal gate was a stone path leading to a light-brown house in the centre of a big plot. Its owners often aren’t around, at least not as much as their child, their only heir who was now there with her friends. They were shared across the house, apparently according to their genders but, really, they were working. Yeah, while the dancing queens were going at it in the bright curly-headed one’s living room and had recently dismissed a study hangout, the heir and her friends were working, preparing for the upcoming weeks of the campaign.

—Now playing: Friends by BTS ✫

Adrielle and Avyanna moved rooms, from the kitchen to the living room, giving the chef space to prepare dinner. The two senior high school students were working on the cheerleading team they wanted to create for the school’s basketball team. They were as busy as their guy friends completing their tasks a few meters away in the study room on the main floor. Unlike the girls, they were a lot more unserious especially because among them was Jungkook who decided to take on the role of the comedian of the group causing his friends to laugh nonstop.

Their task was to create the flyers so now they were browsing the internet, looking for inspiration and judging the ones they didn’t find fit or appealing. If Adrielle were to be there with them, she would’ve regretted even mentally objecting to Jungkook’s statement about not wanting to participate in what he considered the ‘boring’ part of this operation because indeed he wasn’t fit for it.

Jimin was at the computer, Taehyung had scribbled a little nothing on a piece of paper while Jungkook was slightly bent over between the two, leaning on the back of Jimin’s chair.

—Now playing: Boys with fun by BTS ✫

“Gosh! This has the potential of being an ad for condoms!” he exclaimed, pointing at the screen while Taehyung leaned closer and Jimin scrunched his face. “What the fuck? How so?”

”Like… look at the decorations. They are so disgusting they make you hate babies and therefore having them as well,” he causally explained, causing Jimin’s face to scrunch even more and Taehyung to simply laugh, expressing his confusion differently.

“It literally has the look of the aftermath of a baby swallowing a unicorn and having terrible indigestion only to throw up rainbows and shit glittery cupcakes,” he explained even further, pointing at the screen as he did so.

“What the fuck?” Taehyung wholeheartedly laughed, “You have a very creative mind up there, Jungkook”

“Please, Kook. Shut up. We’re supposed to be printing the flyers out by now—” Jimin firmly spoke after failing to derive some sense from all that.

“Woah, woah, woah, woah. Hold on there. I thought they told us to look for templates, not fully take over the creation. Or did we suddenly forget that we’re working with Adrielle, Adrielle Hawthorne? The Adrielle Hawthorne and not some buggy doppelganger?”

“Jungkook, oh my, God. They are just flyers, it’s not that serious—”

“Fuck yes, it is. Y’all forgot who I’m talking about? We’ve worked with her on various school projects, simple school projects, and she can be not just a stick in the fucking ass but a full plank. In fact, this girl sets your whole ass on fire. Fucking fireworks out of your asshole. New Year's night typa shit.” His friends couldn’t help but laugh at his hilarious and dramatic description of their friend.

“Showing her the ideas is going to let you sleep well at night?”

“Hell yeah. Imagine going to bed only to dream about having your ass on fire, fireworks in your asshole that pop with every fucking little detail that gives Adrielle the ick. Ooh, fuck. I’m already getting goosebumps—”

“Oh shut up. Let’s look for the templates then. Can’t have you knocking on my bedroom door at night asking to share the bed because you had nightmares,” they laughed and changed focus to browse the internet further, looking for the right templates but even then, Jungkook couldn’t keep quiet or stay focused. “You know… originally, I had never signed up for this—”

“And originally, I thought speaking was just a right and not a fucking duty so shut the fuck up,” Jimin spoke, keeping his eyes on the screen as he typed away at the computer.

“Jeez! What has you behaving like this? When was the last time you let loose and fucked? Or do you miss making out with your pizza dough? —”

“Oh, my God, Jungkook!” Taehyung was back to laughing loudly while Jimin simply rolled his eyes and did nothing to suppress the smile on his face.

“What? Did I lie? He probably hasn’t fucked a girl in so long so is starting to sound like one, Adrielle to be precise—”

“Hey, man. I’m not like you. I’m not interested in Adrielle,”

“Never said you were—”

“But the way you said it makes it easy to make the connection,”

“There he goes again, interrupting my speech—”

“Your speech?!” Jungkook pointed at Jimin as he looked at Taehyung because his point had just been proven, “You’re barely making any coherent sense so what speech are you talking about!—”

“You know? That party I wanted to host at mine? Jimin you’re so invited. In fact, you’re the first one on my guest list and I’ll underline your name in red as in ‘in great and urgent need of pussy’—” Taehyung’s loud laugh broke through the room as Jimin hit back with: “I’m always invited to your parties regardless—”

“Yeah, but this one is urgent. The last time you were turned on was maybe this morning after watching food porn—” Jungkook had to complete his sentence so he could dodge Jimin’s punch on the shoulder as they both laughed. Taehyung, on the other hand, had stopped laughing loudly and was now squirming as he silently laughed in his chair.

“You know? Don’t ever come to me looking for food. I’ll fucking starve you,” Jimin jokingly warned before sitting back down, “And why do think I need pussy?”

“Because pussy is awesome. Literally, pussy equals a great time, so yeah, you’re in dire need of it ‘cause you sound like an old man who’s working in a factory all his life.” Jimin simply facepalmed himself while taehyung was doing breathing exercises because he’s been laughing for too long and his abs seemed to be permanently and painfully contracted.

“Okay, okay, but, jokes aside, y’all are with me in the party thingy, right?” and his friends agreed, unaware that this party wasn’t just a way for Jungkook to get drunk, high on cigarettes or on sex. Jungkook wanted to hook his friend up with the special girl who’d been clouding his mind and have the two of them enclosed in a space even smaller than their school so they could meet and possibly talk.

“When will it be? Have you decided yet?” Taehyung continued, turning around to face who he’d just spoken to. “During the campaign weeks. I don’t know exactly when but probably this Friday or next. Which one would be better?”

“Do however you wish. You have exactly a month,” Jimin reassured, fingers typing away on the keyboard.

Jungkook didn’t want to rush it. The party wouldn’t be all about drinks, music and one-night stands. He needed it to be good enough to buy votes but also give enough space for Taehyung to shoot his shot. He’d have to help both Adrielle and Taehyung get what they want. Adrielle, the position and Taehyung, a chat with his crush.

“So, I changed my mind and I think I’ll be inviting only students over sixteen. Wouldn’t want to claim responsibility for irresponsible fourteen-year-olds, you know. And second, I have my age limit when it comes to hooking up, so…” he winked, gaining a disgusted look from Jimin who snapped his head back to look at him.

“Don’t lie to yourself because the last thing a drunken Jungkook is going to remember at a party is asking the age of the girl he’s about to fuck—”

“Oh, great heavens. Why do y’all keep painting me as this disgusting predator or something?”

“I never said that you are but I know for sure that if you find interest in someone, be them ten years older than you or not, you wouldn’t know. Would never know,” and Taehyung chuckled, agreeing with Jimin and watching the baffled expression on Jungkook’s face.

“All the parties I go to have people around my age and I’ve never gone above and hooked up with someone younger than me with more than two years. Like… I’m trying to have a good time, not a tutoring session!” he exclaimed, getting a bit frustrated. “I’m not a disgusting type of person—”

“Yeah, I mean… at the end of the day, you always hook up with the same girls, so yeah, I get where you’re coming from,” Taehyung butted in. “The town’s small,” Jungkook simply shrugged his shoulders.

“Man whore!” Taehyung jokingly mocked before taking off and running out of the room with Jungkook sprinting right behind him, screaming: “Just because you don’t blab about your hook-ups as much as I do doesn’t mean you’re any different!”

The screams took the girls by surprise as they turned around to look at the commotion but soon went back to work, paying them no attention.

“Will he ever stop talking about sex? It’s like he’s always in heat, jeez,” Adrielle mumbled to herself and her friend who simply rolled her eyes.

“So… I could lead the team because I’m good at gymnastics and just dancing in general, so that’s covered,” Avyanna said, going back to what they were doing and looking at what Adrielle was writing on her blue ring binder.

“Yeah. That would be perfect. How would you be doing the auditions?”

“Ooh. Oh, my God. I don’t know right now. I’d have to watch a few teenage movies before I can answer that,” she seriously replied but Adrielle chuckled and reassured her that she had three weeks to come up with everything.

“How will you be going about the garden with Nana?”

“I haven’t shown her my plan yet. I will tomorrow and, according to what she says, we proceed,” Avyanna nodded before her serious demeanour vanished for a split second as Jungkook and Taehyung ran all the way back to the living room. Precisely Taehyung jumped across the coffee table and was now at one end of the sofa while Jungkook was on the other.

“When will y’all be serious for once?” Adrielle sighed, looking at her childish friends.

“He’s trying to tickle me to death—”

“And he called me a man whore,” Jungkook replied back, eyes transfixed on the friend he wanted to catch. 

“I mean, is he wrong?” Avyanna replied, turning a bit on her left to look at Jungkook whose eyes finally changed focus. “What? Why?”

“You only talk about sex… or parties which implies you’ll be getting laid eventually,” she explained. In the meantime, Taehyung was mentally thanking her for distracting him and giving him space and time to make his final escape.

“And so what?”

“That’s what a manwhore is.”

“I be bagging them girls because of this pretty face and my charming ways, baby. Not my fault. It’s in my nature,” he boasted, smirking at Avyanna as she rolled her eyes and Adrielle mumbled: “Humble much” to herself.

“Why are y’all suddenly behaving like I’m this big bad guy that mocks everyone?—”

“You literally said I jerk off to food porn a few minutes ago!” Jimin exclaimed as he got out of the office.

“What?!”

“You did?!” the girls laughed while Jungkook proudly agreed, claiming the title.

“Okay, that was a good one—”

“Good what? Avyanna!” Jimin exclaimed.

“Get your ass back here!” Jungkook yelled as he saw Taehyung running at the speed of light right behind Jimin. In the meantime, Adrielle was still laughing her ass out at Jungkook’s joke.

“Adrielle, fuck you like… seriously… fuck you so bad—”

“I’m sorry…” she apologised laughing now both at the joke and Jimin’s facial expression.

“Keep your apologies to yourself!” he dramatically pouted and feigned crying as he left the room and went back to the office. Not without screaming, hoping that Taehyung and Jungkook would come back so they could finish the work.

The girls simply went back to what they were doing.

—Now playing: Telepathy by BTS ✫

So… in the end, Taehyung and Jimin do not function when Jungkook is around—honestly, nobody does—so Adrielle had to join in because dinner time was inching closer and closer and the boys were nowhere close to finishing—they hadn’t finished the flyers yet. And this wasn’t good news to Adrielle who was already feeling the competition from the other running teams.

Avyanna had just finished setting up their instagram profile with a nice colour theme and a nicely-made logo which would end up on their final presentation. The only thing missing were the pictures of every member of the team with their specified role in the group.

“So, how would we go about for the pictures and when shall I upload them?” she asked, poking her head into the office to meet the backs of her friends and Jungkook spread out on a chair, typing away on his phone.

“I’m making a list for my party. Don’t say I’m playing around,” he immediately explained, looking at her for a split second before going back to the device. Avyanna just rolled her eyes, not giving a single fuck about what he said or what he was doing at all.

“Oh, Avyanna. Erm, I don’t really know,” Adrielle was still back-facing her friend as she responded, too busy on the computer.

“I’ll never understand how you know how to use Canva so well. Like… what the fuck?” Jimin admired the work on the computer, looking at Adrielle like a kid looking at a magician.

“It’s Adrielle, Jimin. She’s good at everything basically,” Avyanna simply replied, moving closer to the group. Taehyung was sitting next to Adrielle with his chin resting on his hands and eyes transfixed on every little detail his friend worked on.

“Look at you all silent. You could help us with the pics,” she proceeded, now referring to Taehyung. Despite her call for his attention, he didn’t reply, just smiled and went back to looking at the screen.

“Hey! Are you doubting your skills or something because, as far as I’m concerned, you’re fucking amazing, Tae,”

“Yeah, you’re awesome.” Jimin butted in while Jungkook’s attention finally moved away from his phone to know who was receiving all these compliments.

“Yeah, but this is serious shit not just something to do as a hobby,” Taehyung finally spoke, sitting up straight and sighing.

“You’re been cultivating this hobby for years—”

“Woah-ho! Taehyung, in order to convince you Avyanna is using big words, jeez—” Jungkook laughed, getting up from his seat and moving closer to who he’d just spoken to.

“Hey, shut up! Just because I don’t cuss every two words like you do, doesn’t mean I’m using big words. What’s so big about the word ‘cultivating’?” she snapped back and he simply replied by tickling her for a bit before moving his attention to the screen.

“Anyway, as I was saying. The work has to be done by someone from our team and you’re the only one who can out of all of us. Adrielle is way too fussy…” no reply from the blondie,  “Jimin has trembling hands—” 

“Which is a fat fucking lie because it would mean I cut myself every time I cut onions—”

Avyanna cackled and softly pushed Jimin’s head, wanting him to shush as she went on, “Jungkook would just throw pranks and take selfies rather than our pictures…” This time around, Jungkook didn’t snap back like he usually does but just laughed, mentally agreeing with her words, “and I suck—”

“Damn, yeah, you do,” he whispered, gaining an elbow in the side before he dramatically cried like a baby. Avyanna just proceeded with her explanation, rolling her eyes at the overly dramatic rolling-Jungkook on the floor.

“So you, Taehyung, are the only person up for the task. And, anyway, why you being shy all of a sudden? They’re just some lame-ass pictures—”

“Mine aren’t—”

“Shut up Jungkook and get back to suffering. Anyway, Tae, what do you think?” she smiled, looking at the respondent in hopes he’d consider everything she’d just said. Taehyung sighed, “It’s not like I have a choice anyway—”

“Fantastic! We love you,” Avyanna clamoured, squeezing his cheeks like a grandmother does to her nephew. He just smiled, finding everything hilarious.

Never could there be a dead moment whenever he’s with his friends. In fact, he believes that at least 60% of his abs were developed from the crazy amount of times they make him laugh.

Soon, Adrielle’s seriousness and speed brought their fruits and they were done with the flyers, nicely decorated thanks to her magic. She had finished a few minutes after the chef announced dinner was served and around twenty minutes after her parents had returned from work.

To pay for how much delay he’d caused them, Adrielle instructed Jungkook to make sure the right number of flyers would be printed and assigned Avyana as his personal guard as she took Jimin and Taehyung to the living room to show them her ideas for the final presentation. Yeah, this time around, the two boys were functioning just fine, completely serious and actively participating.

On the other hand, Avyanna and Jungkook were cracking some silly dance moves to the sound of the printer.

Finally, around ten minutes later, everyone, teenagers and parents, were sitting around the dining table to have dinner.

—Now playing: Venice Bitch by Lana Del Rey ✫

Them being at Adrielle’s was almost equivalent to being in the comfort of their homes so they easily lost track of time—didn’t mind really.

October was already knocking at the door, asking to be welcomed in along with its cold breeze, warm-coloured dry leaves, half-naked trees, dimly bright days and dark late afternoons. The sky above their heads was a smooth pitch-black surface decorated by a few stars here and there. The wind lacing the air wasn’t harsh enough to make trees start singing as it rushed through their leaves nor too cold for anyone to be shaking but it still called for an extra clothing layer to avoid catching a cold already in September.

They finished having dinner around two hours ago and spent their time hanging out, finally doing something unrelated to school that day.

They had a few drinks but considering it was Sunday, they didn’t go in strong and just had enough to live the moment. That type of activity is reserved for Fridays and Saturdays but Jungkook didn’t know this—or at least he did but just couldn’t bring himself to give even half a fuck.

Since the hands of the clock were inching closer and closer to the top numbers, to signal the end of another day, they had to pack up and leave to give themselves and the owners of the house the chance to rest and be fully energized for the next day.

The five senior-year high school students were all gathered outside by the big metal gate. Three were smoking while two were busy handling school-related issues.

“Honestly… why me?” Jungkook whined like a baby watching Jimin and Adrielle place the boxes of flyers in the trunk of his car.

“Kook, as we already told you, you use your car on a daily basis especially to go to school so it’s easier like this to transport the boxes,” Adrielle spoke slowly like one does to a stubborn child.

Taehyung blew out smoke from his cigarette and side-eyed his friend, chuckling and rolling his eyes because he knew what was coming. Jungkook probably had too much to drink and no one even noticed because if they had, they would’ve snatched the glass away from him immediately. The last thing any one of them wanted to handle was Jungkook being hangover—grumpier than Grumpy himself.

“Yeah, yeah… but… you see this beauty on four wheels?—” Jungkook burps “This artwork? It wasn’t coined to be carrying flyers around,” he kept going, speaking in whispering tones like he was high on drugs and seeing visions. Then he shoved his cigarette back in his mouth. 

Jimin and Adrielle didn’t reply to him again. The first one mostly rolled her eyes like she always does and the second simply smiled.

“Are you high or something?” Avyanna was smoking her cigarette off while she giggled, looking at how messily Jungkook was smoking his. He shook his head a bit too much to deny but everyone saw through that and they chuckled.

“I guess I will be driving everyone home tonight,” Jimin chanted, going back to take another box.

“No, no, no. My baby… she belongs to me—” he burps.

“Jungkook, it’s just a stupid car,” Avyanna laughed. She always found him too funny whenever he was like this and the tons of videos of his sitting in her gallery can prove that.

“You know… that adjective you just used…” Jungkook began. “Oh, my God. I don’t think it’s just cigarettes. Did he drink? Who gets drunk on a fucking Sunday night?” Jimin questioned as he dropped the last box of flyers into the vehicle and closed the trunk. In the meantime, seeing how much her friend struggled to speak, Avyanna happily exclaimed: “Ooh, we love ourselves a blabbing Jungkook on a Sunday night!”

“That adjective…” he continued, struggling not to slur his words, “Didn’t just hurt my baby… but it hurt… me. Devasted me. Oh, my God! Avyanna… do you really hate me that much? Look what you’ve done to me,” he whined, throwing himself on the floor to behave like a fallen soldier but, luckily for him, his friends caught him before he could do any damage to himself. They were laughing through the whole process. Avyanna the most, especially while he was trying to speak coherently so he could paint her as a traitor.

“Okay, okay. It’s time for bed. Way past your bedtime,” Taehyung spoke with the cigarette tightly held between his lips as he held onto Jungkook’s shoulders. Jimin held the legs while Avyanna simply snatched the cigarette away from his fingers, causing him to whine and stretch to take it back and eventually fail. The girl wholeheartedly laughed, finding him hilarious and adorable at the same time—these were also the only times she could laugh in his face without him wanting to run after her and have her quickly greet Death by tickling her too much.

“He’s allergic to being serious, so much so he had to get drunk, bruh,” Adrielle chuckled, hand on her waist as she watched her friends try to carry him and place him in the backseat.

“Kook, I swear to you that if tomorrow you try to bust our asses because of your hangover, I’ll freaking rip every hair strand from your head. It will probably ease the headache,” she ultimately spoke, watching her friends succeed in placing the big drunk baby in the back. She knew that this warning was given to the breeze to carry along to wherever it wanted because the Jungkook of right now can’t understand anything and the Jungkook he’ll be tomorrow would rip her tongue out of her mouth if she ever wanted to repeat the sentence or bring her words to action.

“Y’all get ready to take the bus tomorrow no matter what because he surely won’t be in the mood to be doing anyone favours,” Taehyung spoke after taking his cigarette to quickly finish smocking before they left.

“Fuck! That’s true! He won’t pick me up tomorrow,” Avyanna whined and giggled, crumbling Jungkook’s cigarette under the sole of her shoes while she finished smoking hers.

“You better shut the fuck up because out of all of us, you’re the one who takes the bus the least because he always drives you to school, always. And, anyway, his car is staying at mine. I can’t just drop it at his and go home on foot,” Jimin explained, pointing fingers before getting into the driver’s seat. Avyanna only giggled and turned around to lean on the car, “I guess a great day awaits Jungkook tomorrow. Like just imagine him waking up with a raging headache, messing up everything he’s doing exactly because of it only to come out and see that his car isn’t where it usually is,” she chuckled more.

“Ooh and since he’s a hangover, he won’t turn his phone on unless he really needs to so when he can’t find his car, he finally goes to his messages just to see that Jimin sent him a voice message: ‘erm, you were so drunk last night I had to drive everyone home and since it was late and the bus wasn’t available, I had to drive myself home with your car. It’s parked in front of my house you can take it after school’” Taehyung laughed as they pictured everything in their head.

“He’d fucking lose it right then and there. He’d start cussing everyone and everything while he stumped his way to the bus stop,” Avyanna continued.

Their conversation was cut short by the sound of Jimin turning the engine on, so they got the queue they’d leave any moment from then and quickly took a few last draws before discarding the cigarettes by crushing them with their shoes.

“Oh, fuck you all for polluting not just your lungs but also my freaking compound! I wish you the best fucking night ever!” Adrielle exclaimed as they got in the car, laughing and blowing her kisses.

Finally, they drove off, out of her compound and to their homes while Avyanna waved at her friend from the back window. 

Adrielle chuckled as she waved back and once they had completely left her compound, she pressed the button to allow her gates to close and trekked back to her home to get herself a good beauty sleep after everything that was today.

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[fleckcmscott]

Bountiful

Summary: As autumn leaves fall, Y/N and Arthur reflect on how much they have to be thankful for.

Words: 3,643

Warnings: None

A/N: Though Thanksgiving is alluded to in Backward, Forward - Part 2, this is the first piece I've written featuring the holiday. I hope you all like it! 😃 Lots of love and appreciation for @sweet-nothings04 for beta reading! And a happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate! 🦃

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

The door flew open at the exact moment Y/N turned the key.

All teeth and boundless glee, Arthur's handsome grin greeted her. "Hello, Mrs. Fleck." A thorough kiss when he grabbed her hand to pull her inside. "Come here."

Intrigue arching her eyebrow, she followed on eager feet. Toed off her heels at the kitchen partition, dropped her tote bag by the floor lamp, lost her purse somewhere behind the sofa. The sleeve of her speckled wool coat hung at her wrist, a captive of his firm grip.

He took a seat at his desk. Four bills were piled to the left, a torn open cardboard mailer to the right. He gestured towards the mailer. "Look what came today."

She wriggled free and picked it up. Skimmed Gotham Bank's return address and dumped out the contents: a vinyl checkbook and four check booklets. The source of his excitement stood nonchalantly in the upper left corner.

She traced the italicized letters. Arthur & Y/N Fleck. "Our names go well together."

"We go well together." He swept her onto his lap, pecked a line from her lips to her temple. Shifting forward, he snagged the checkbook and a ballpoint pen. "I wanna make out the first one." She studied the subtle movements of his hand as he printed "City of Gotham - Sewer" on the payee line. His strokes were slower than usual, the serifs neater, as if writing a sacred declaration instead of paying for flushes.

Delight flitted through her, light as a feather.

He'd been buzzing since their trip to Niagara, and she'd found herself buzzing right along with him. At the office, she'd blurred between drafting motions, reading complaints, and offering sanitized answers to suggestive questions about their romantic weekend. He'd pinned two postcards featuring the falls to the room divider at his desk, stuck their corny Honeymooning portrait on his vanity. The props from Houdini Magic Shop went straight into his plaid bag.

In bed last night, he'd squeezed her hand and said he wanted the honeymoon to last forever. That with her, he was sure it would.

She'd swallowed the thickness in her throat and squeezed back.

The telephone rang the second he finished the k on the signature line. When she moved to stand, he picked her up and plopped her on the chair. Pecked her forehead and took off for the kitchen.

Once he'd rounded the corner, she turned back to his desk with a smile. She ran her palms along the worn maple, feeling like the recipient of an exclusive invitation. Nosey fingers itched to open the drawers, her thumb dangling dangerously close a pull handle. Knowing all there was to know about Arthur, learning his innermost thoughts by heart was an ever-present longing. What would be the harm in seeing if the drawers were locked?

Get a grip, Y/N. He's your husband, not a case.

Rolling her eyes, she tore the check from the booklet and stuffed it in its envelope.

His dusty baritone caught her ear. "No, it's okay. I just got back from my honeymoon." An extra emphasis on the last syllable to make it stick. "Thanksgiving? Well, maybe that Wednesday. Let me check my calen..."

Words went to fuzz as the whole of her attention turned inward.

The last three weeks had been wonderous, if overflowing. With the burst of getting hitched; Halloween with its pleasures and poignancy; the mayoral election and Thomas Wayne's dastardly win; Niagara Falls; and Arthur's upcoming birthday (for which she'd pull in a favor from Patricia), Thanksgiving hadn't been on the furthest recesses of her mind.

Family had filled her past, get-togethers that'd inspire Norman Rockwell to paint a new Saturday Evening Post. Visits from her grandparents, her mother's older sister and husband, who'd stolen Y/N's nose until she was twelve and always carried a flask. A televised parade from some faraway place called Gotham, construction paper headdresses and pilgrim bonnets. Her mother's cornbread dressing and butterscotch pie. Rowdy older cousins spilling gravy and running around the kids' table. And, when it all became a little too much, slipping her hand in Mabel's and slipping onto the porch. Imperfect but wonderful with love at its core.

The click of the receiver cut through the sunny recollection, a rarity she'd uncovered thanks to Arthur. A lightness she feared would shift to shadow, given its Ever After.

"That was the children's clinic," Arthur called as he crossed the living room. "The activity coordinator's out. They want to hire me for Thanksgiving, the Wednesday before."

"That's your third job there, right?" she asked "They're going to have to keep you on retainer."

"She said they had crafts, but- I dunno what a clown's supposed to do." He shrugged, huffed a chuckle through his nose. "Gobble, gobble?"

"They already have a plan. That'll make it easy. Just be yourself. You can't go wrong there. Which reminds me..." Y/N swiveled to fully face him. Away from the There and Then, to the Here and Now. "What do you want to do for Thanksgiving?"

Dimples dappled his cheeks. "It's been a long time since I've done anything." He said it in a manner she took to mean never, and her breastbone became a dull ache. He crouched to retrieve her purse from the floor. "What did you always do? You and your family?" It was one of the handful of occasions he'd asked about them directly. "We can do that."

"No," she said, a bit too fast. His black brow raised a fraction. She knelt next to him and gathered her coat. Smoothed it over her lap. Consciously softened her voice but still pushed back. "We should start something ourselves. Make our own history."

The glow of nostalgia illuminated his green eyes. "Make it about us." He tugged at the lapel of her blazer, drew her in for a kiss. A damp press of his mouth with no teeth or tongue.

She sank into his solid frame, a haven from what she couldn't yet mend. "We'll just have to figure out what to do with the leftovers."

~~~~~

In the sunniest section of the common room, Arthur took a brown crayon from Timothy, a boy with a bandaged head and right arm in a cast, the aftermath of a car failing to yield at a crosswalk. "Here, I can do it," Arthur offered. Timothy splayed his hand on the horseshoe shaped table.

Arthur traced around his palm, each finger, his skinny thumb. "That's good," he said, reaching for a shoebox of felt cutouts. "What color feathers do you think he has?"

Arts and crafts were not a part of Carnival's repertoire. A magic wand and a record player were a more comfortable fit, a twirl and a stomp to top off a silly dance. But he and a couple of candy stripers had spent the afternoon helping patients choose between handprint turkeys and leaf friends, replete with googly eyes. And he found the more he offered assistance, the easier it was to discern when it was appropriate. To make their Thanksgiving better than his own.

In the Before Y/N period, a holiday to celebrate plenty had been as inaccessible as full cupboards and a full heart. How could there be freedom from want, when he'd wanted his entire life?

School had been a morose monotony, but the week of Thanksgiving break had meant missed meals. The roar of his stomach and embarrassed, stifling laughter had annoyed enough to earn a free lunch tray whenever there were leftovers. Two or three times a week. Far from prying eyes and piercing words, he'd sat in an empty classroom and munched on dry chicken and bouillon flavored rice. Saved his chocolate pudding tin for dinner in case Penny had forgotten groceries again.

After dropping out of high school to work, holiday shifts had been his bread and butter. People lost a bit of their edge, he got time-and-a-half, and it was less painful to be around those who didn't know him than the mother who never would. Dishwashing at the Logerquist Hotel came with the perk of smoking away and swaying to a live jazz band between loads.

Then there was the Thanksgiving he'd spent in Arkham.

A four-year-old's disappointment from the right. "I dropped it."

Red and blue rubber shoes slid along polka-dotted vinyl. Arthur made a show of retrieving the paste stick from under the table. Presented it to April with the IV with a bow. Without bills to pay, her giggle and body scrunching with glee would be the only hourly he'd need.

"Excuse me, Mr. Fleck?"

He straightened and turned towards the nursing station in the back corner. A crucifix hung on the wall next to the L-shaped counter, and beside it an icon of the clinic's namesake Saint Philomena, arrows and anchor firmly in her grasp. An unfamiliar face stepped out from behind the station, a woman with a shock of brunette corkscrew curls.

She stuck out her hand. "I'm Concetta, the woman who called. I'm lucky I found your card on Holly's desk. Thank you for squeezing us in on such short notice. I was wondering if you might have a slot open for Christmas."

It hadn't been short notice, and he hadn't booked anything for Christmas, but he didn't have to tell her that. He attempted a confident handshake - and succeeded. "Um, yeah. I should have one. Did you want to put me on retainer?"

She was kind enough ignore the left-footed use of the term. "Let's start with Christmas, first. Holly'll be back by then. It'll be a nice surprise for the children and their parents. Let me give you my card and we can iron out the details." She plucked it from her pocket without pause. "I'm out tomorrow but feel free to leave me a message once you've checked your schedule."

He gripped the card between thumb and forefinger, but it took three seconds for him to take it. Assurance swirled and spiraled upwards into an appreciative nod. "Thanks."

"You're very welcome. Congratulations on getting married, by the way. Do you and your wife have big plans tomorrow?"

Entire face creasing into a smile, he answered, "Well, her family's in Missouri, so just dinner at our place. I'm- I'm really looking forward to it."

And, if luck continued to shine on him, Part Two of the conversation started on Halloween night. A chance to follow all the breadcrumbs she'd strewn about her earlier years - before she could sweep them away and erase the trail. To prove she could mend with him, the way so much of himself continued to with her.

~~~~~

By the time Y/N turned on the TV, the Killinger's Thanksgiving Day Parade was getting underway. Special Presentation on NCB, led by Gotham City's Police Department's Highway Patrol, hosted by Murray Franklin and sidekick Barry O'Donnell.

Pursing her lips, she debating changing the channel. Having this on in the background was a rare childhood tradition Arthur and she shared. She wasn't going to let Franklin's smarmy smirk and O'Donnell's desperate laugh-alongs sully that.

She twisted the volume dial. The cries of bugles hushed to whimpers and the roars of hosts became murmurs.

When she padded into the kitchen for another cup of coffee, Arthur was leaning on the counter with both hands, a book open on the Formica, concentration deepening his crowsfeet. Freed from its netting, the Lil' Butterball lounged in an aluminum roasting pan in the sink. She'd suggested chicken, but he'd insisted on turkey, and with this being his first real Thanksgiving, she hadn't argued.

His lips moved as he read, pointer finger tracking each word. She filled her mug, glanced at the cookbook, the yellowed photograph of a roasted turkey surrounded by pale parsley and wrinkly tomatoes. A nervous palm rubbed the nape of his neck.

She wrapped an arm about his middle, planted a kiss between his shoulder blades. Disheveled curls caressed her cheek. She rubbed a soothing circle on his taut stomach, through his thermal shirt. "Did you find a recipe you like better?" she asked.

Adopting an uneven slouch, he brought her to his side. "This says to put oil on the skin, but this-" he pointed to another paragraph "-says to use shortening. I don't know what that is. I bought this the other day." He reached for a nondescript plastic baggy that smelled of rosemary, oregano and sage. "But there are no directions. Do we put it in the turkey or what?"

Fingers fidgeting in a way they never did when they held a cigarette, he pushed out a breath. "I haven't cooked one before."

"Neither have I," she said. "My mother did all the cooking. And Jeff and I alternated between his parents and mine. The most I did was bring a pumpkin pie."

"You made pie?"

"'Made' is too much credit. I used store bought crust and canned filling." She nudged him in the ribs and offered her coffee, which his fidgety fingers gladly accepted. He added two more sugars as she continued. "If we try to make this perfect, we're going to drive ourselves crazy."

She skimmed the recipe, reviewed the roasting table, and set the oven to 325 degrees. "Rub the seasoning under the skin, and I'll brush the margarine on."

Four hours later, she could barely see the table for all the food.

Roasted turkey, golden with a buttery crisp. Green bean casserole in eight-by-eight Corningware. Arthur was skeptical of the sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows, but she was certain it was a combination his sweet tooth would cheer. Confusion narrowed his eyes whenever she referred to StoveTop as dressing. Laughing at herself, she shook her head. ("You call it stuffing up here.") Brown 'n serve rolls baked in the oven for twelve minutes. A tube of jellied cranberry sauce slid out of the can with a satisfying plop.

Offering a Hamilton Beach electric knife (a steal at Donahue's for $21.99), she asked him to carve the turkey. His glistening gaze and closed mouth grin sent jumbles through her middle.

He'd said he'd been the man of the house for as long as he could remember. Pearled the grit of taking care of Penny into gems. Polished the story of a trapped adolescence into something he could, should be proud of.

But now he was the man of their house. Pearling was no longer needed, polishing no longer necessary, because a life lived with Y/N was what he'd chosen. What they'd chosen A certain kind of light that shined on them both,

Arthur rubbed the tops of his thighs. "There's so much. I'm not sure where to start." After a moment, he scooped a spoonful of the potato casserole. Tested the mash of marshmallow and sugary starch with a cautious nibble. A hum of pleasure behind smacking lips. "This is good."

"Let me see." She stole a forkful from his plate. The cozy warmth of cinnamon and nutmeg melted on her taste buds. Her sigh was equal parts satisfaction and relief. "It's always hit or miss when I try my mother's recipes."

"Well, this one's a hit." He paused. "What else did your mom make?"

"Just the usual," she said with a dismissive wave. She snagged a roll and ripped it in two. Steam rose from the dough in hot waves.

A knife clinked against ceramic, jarred gravy cascaded over turkey. He sampled the green bean casserole and said nothing. Dug into the StoveTop and said nothing. Sipped coffee and said nothing.

Her cheeks turned to coals, a sudden flush of shame. An unwelcome echo of Halloween. How could she have given this man her whole heart, then shut down his loving inquiry like she was shutting a barricade? As if he was the one who'd erred instead of her? It wasn't as if she didn't get what he was feeling. Only a couple weeks ago, she'd had to stop herself from shuffling through his drawers.

Contrition rose in her throat. She cleared it, offered a small smile of apology, and started over again.

"She made cornbread dressing - stuffing - with buttermilk, eggs, celery... Everybody loved it. She made enough batches to send home with everyone. Even the years Jeff and I were with his family, she'd come over the next day with a big pot."

She smeared margarine on her roll. "My sister has that recipe."

"Maybe she'd send us a copy?" Arthur said.

"I'll ask when I call tonight."

"It's nice to hear you talk about your family."

Her shoulders drew together. "I know."

Two more chews and he sliced into the cranberry sauce with the side of his fork. "I was in the hospital one year. For Thanksgiving. There were visitors from a local church or parish or whatever. They served turkey dinners and ate with us, like we were normal people." He took the jiggly jelly off the tines with his teeth. "There were Looney Tunes on the TV - Arkham plays cartoons all the time. We didn't talk a lot, but I liked it. It was nice not to have to cook for my mother and be alone."

Alone but with his mother. Alone but with her father. Two by two they'd marched through their days to make their way to each other. To sit at this table. To be brave enough to share themselves.

When it came to matters of the heart, Arthur's courage was far greater than hers. Of that there was no doubt. Perhaps one day she'd crack open the barricade enough to match it.

Reaching out to clutch his hand, she promised herself she'd try.

The start of a smile tipped the corners of his mouth. He clutched back.

~~~~~

A little girl's excited squeal resounded through Gotham Park, riding the breeze through winding trees. The afternoon sunset cast long shadows across meadows and rippled along Crown Reservoir. Couples strolled curved walkways, impromptu snack stands lined parkways, selling cocoa and pretzels and crepes. An elderly man, toothless and in a fraying baseball cap, sat on an iron bench, laughing as he fed the ducks at his feet.

Gait easy, casual, utterly natural, Arthur put his arm around Y/N's shoulders. When he'd worked the seasonal carnivals, fall foliage's showy scarlets and honied ambers had been a seldom source of beauty. A background to his daydreams while he'd eaten fried dough on his break. He'd wanted to show it to her for awhile, make those dreams come true.

Most leaves littered the ground now, releasing a musky sweetness as they crunched under their feet. But a few still clung to the uppermost branches, huddled together as if trying to keep warm.

A rustic arch bridge spanned the narrowest part of the reservoir, an antique made of stones dredged during the body of water's construction in 1893. As they reached its crest, he nodded towards pine oaks reaching across the water, akin to lovers stretching to meet. Pointed at crimson sugar maples contrasting against clear, blue sky. Admired clusters of eastern white pines, nature's answer to skyscrapers.

"The fall in Boonville is prettiest in November," Y/N said. "Everything peaks about a month later than here. The honey locusts - those don't grow this far north - turn as yellow as the sun."

"Oh." He shoved his hand in his pocket. He'd assumed autumn's prism made his home special.

She stepped out of his embrace. Crossed her arms on the stone parapet. "But there's a catch. They have thorns - longer than my hand. If you're not careful, they'll tear your dress."

That struck him as too specific to be offhand. Going to her side, he jumped at the chance to follow that breadcrumb. "Did that happen to you?"

"Mabel and I were playing hide and seek. I ruined my skirt, and she got nineteen stitches. We tried to avoid them after that. But they kept spreading and spreading and after a few years thorns were everywhere." A hitch brittled the last word.

She plucked a fiery oak leaf from the parapet, mottled with brown flecks. "My father used to go around the table and ask us to name one thing we were thankful for. It had to be different every year."

"That'll certainly be easy now that you're here." He studied the gold wedding band he'd paid off last week. Twisted it around his finger. "I'm thankful I can wear this. That it's real."

A giggle left her. "It suits you." She twirled the leaf by the stem, held it to her face. Eyes shimmering in the sunlight, she gazed over it like a hand fan. "I'm thankful for fewer thorns."

Stare locked on hers, he slowly lowered the leaf. Palmed it and tucked it away to press into the pages of his journal. "You know, no matter what happened, I'm here," he said, closing her hand between both of his.

She kissed the back of his fingers. They curled under the tender fullness of her lips. "I know you are, Arthur." Her palm rested on his sternum, directly above his heart. Pulling him to her, not pushing back. "I know you are." Gentle as a breeze, she raised herself to meet his kiss. He cupped the side of her neck, his thumb at the hollow of her throat.

Ding ding!

A tween on a scooter darted by, missed them by barely an inch. His mother chased him in a haggard, hoofing jog. "Christopher Daniel, you stop this very instant!"

Y/N's laughter rippled against Arthur's fingertips, her chuckles honey on his lips. Elation swept through him, a wave so powerful his knees quaked.

"Come on," she said, lacing her arm through his, and led him down the other side of the bridge. "I think there's a hot chocolate with our names on it."

~~~~~

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[mousemilf]

like 10 or 15 years ago if u went to any small towns "historic downtown" it would be like..... Amys You-nique Designz (bedazzled wineglasses, chevron print baby/kids clothes, curlz mt monogrammed everything) The Curious Mustache Emporium (twee novelty print clothing, museum gift shop vibe, old-timey candy) The Sassy Sasquatch Boutique (rhinestone stuff for women with concealed carry permits, vinyl decals, chalk paint) Elm Antiques (terrifying haphazardly piled dusty antiques and a floor that feels like it will collapse, no regular hours, insane shit for amazing prices if you survive) Be Still (essential oils bath stuff, nearly empty store, will last 6 months)

now everything is called like Bread and Bucket or Clover and Cheesecloth or whatever and their merch looks like aldi's little seasonal homegoods aisle.

[thoughtportal]

PICTURE, IF YOU WILL, Joan Didion sitting on the floor of a Los Angeles recording studio in 1968, gazing up at Jim Morrison of the Doors, a band she went on to describe as “apocalyptic missionaries of sex.” If our patron saint of Californian disenchantment ever appeared starstruck, even girlish, it was surely here, in the presence of the Lizard King. (“An attempt to cast a spell,” she once called her use of repetition as a literary device. That the phrase “black vinyl pants” occurs three times in her vignette about the Doors tells us all we need to know.) Also in the studio that day were, Didion writes, “a couple of girls,” and of those “couple of girls,” one was the writer and adventuress Eve Babitz, an ex-lover of Morrison’s who was not quite as enamored of his cod-shamanic shtick. The Doors “had lyrics you could understand about stuff [kids] learned in Psychology 101,” Babitz wrote in 1991 in Esquire, an eye roll detectable in print. Didion claimed to like the Doors because “their music insists that love is sex and sex is death and therein lies salvation.” Babitz did not think that love was sex or sex was death, only that sex was sex, and having peeled off those black vinyl pants for herself, she’d seen too much of the man to buy the myth. Imagine calling your most self-serious ex an “apocalyptic missionary of sex” with a straight face. As Didion herself would say: does not apply.

“It was Eve, by the way, who set up the meeting” between Didion and Morrison, Lili Anolik reveals in Didion and Babitz. Anolik is a podcaster and contributing editor at Vanity Fair who is best known for reintroducing Babitz to the culture in a 2014 essay for that publication, after tracking her down as an elderly recluse and bonding with her in the last years of her life. She describes her relationship with Babitz—which yielded her first book, the freewheeling 2019 biography Hollywood’s Eve—as “unbalanced,” even “fetishistic.” Didion and Babitz is inspired by Anolik’s discovery of an unsent letter to Didion in Babitz’s archive at the Huntington Library, Art Museum, and Botanical Gardens in Los Angeles County (the Huntington acquired Babitz’s archive in 2022) . The letter’s tone, alternately pleading and furious, is one that Anolik immediately recognizes as that of “a lovers’ quarrel.” The two women had a history: Didion first got Babitz published by sending a copy of her story “The Sheik” to Rolling Stone in 1972; in exchange, Babitz added Didion and her husband, John Gregory Dunne, to the long list of dedicatees in Eve’s Hollywood in 1974. Now and then, they socialized, and they seemed to be, in modern parlance, casual “frenemies.” This letter, a magnificent document that is among the best things Babitz ever wrote, suggests a more intense connection, and its passion reignites Anolik’s interest in her former friend and subject. 

It is easy to see why: Babitz, full of piss and vinegar, berates “sharp, accurate journalist” Didion for her inability to talk about “art. Vulgar, ill-bred, drooling, uninvited Art.” It is a full-throated statement of intent from a big-brained babe who, however louche she seemed when she wrote for her public, saw herself as a committed Woman Artist. “It was back. My love for Eve’s astonishing, reckless, wholly original personality and talent,” Anolik says, overwhelmed and ecstatic. As in Hollywood’s Eve, Anolik’s voice in Didon and Babitz is fizzy, conversational, sometimes faintly loopy, as if you are being given a piece of gossip by a person who is certain it will blow your mind. She is also a self-confessed square, and this squareness gives her interest in her subjects—Babitz in particular—some of its squirrelly charge. Her aim here is to position these women as each other’s inverted mirror images: fastidious, frigorific, bony Joan, and heedless, hot, voluptuous Eve. “Each was the closest the other had,” she proposes, “to a soul mate.” 

This three-way psychodrama in the studio is compelling precisely because it is, in effect, a snapshot of three individuals with big, singular personae facing off against each other. The question of what we gain or lose by taking icons at face value is a crucial one throughout Didion and Babitz—not for nothing did Norman Mailer, in 1965, describe Didion as “a perfect advertisement for herself,” and Babitz’s bimbo-genius act may have seemed artless, but as that letter proves, it was just that: an act. In her introduction, Anolik reveals that she is nervous about dissecting Didion, before asking a favor of the reader: “Don’t be a baby.” It’s a bet-hedging move that anticipates a flurry of indignant Goodreads reviews, and given Didion’s popularity with people who wear pictures of authors on their tote bags, Anolik is right to be concerned. On the other hand, I must admit that historically, I’ve been something of a baby myself when it comes to Anolik’s writing about Babitz, whom she tends to portray with a mixture of dizzy adoration and brutal honesty. In Hollywood’s Eve, she calls the older Babitz “a ruin and a gorgon,” and both books apply a flurry of stomach-churning adjectives to Babitz’s trash-filled apartment. Stripping a woman like Babitz of her glamour feels to me like a betrayal, and reading about her smelling of “decay” is like seeing her the wrong kind of naked (as opposed to the right kind—that is, when she’s playing a game of chess against Marcel Duchamp). 

I prefer to see Babitz the way Didion saw Jim Morrison, with her persona intact: as an ecstatic “missionar[y] of sex.” Charisma is, however, an enchantment that is best maintained at a distance, and Anolik has been close enough to Babitz to peel off her vinyl pants, if only figuratively speaking. About two-thirds of Didion and Babitz is, well, and Babitz. Less fleshed out by far is the material about Didion, whom the author did not know, and admires somewhat less. In addition to this bias, says Anolik, Didion in general is “opaque enough, elusive enough, withheld enough, far-fetched enough, that she’s almost a ghost.” The image of Didion that emerges here is the one you might expect: that of a woman whose appearance of shyness was half real, half strategic, and whose work—which she composed carefully, rhythmically, like an orchestral arrangement—was the most important thing in her life. When Anolik bemoans the fact that people “get a little soft in the head” and “go teary-eyed at the thought of [Didion’s] wifehood, her motherhood, her widowhood, her bereft-motherhood,” I had to wonder: who, exactly? In my experience, Didion is usually loved for her chill, almost evil-seeming precision—not for her domesticity. (Perhaps it is those tote-bag carriers again.) Truthfully, I could have done without the book’s attempts to out Dunne as gay, but more for reasons of taste than because of my need to believe in the sanctity of the famed Didion-Dunne marriage, which like all marriages presumably had its own private set of rules.

The other big revelation in Didion and Babitz is the identity of Didion’s first love, a writer named Noel Parmentel Jr., who was immortalized as three separate characters in her novels, and who tells Anolik he “invented Joan Didion.” Certainly, there is no doubt that his promotion of Didion’s work in literary circles helped her move out of Vogue and into “serious” publications. Still, as with preferring to remember Babitz in her pomp, I prefer to think of Didion as the inventor of Joan Didion. Either way, there is that idea again—that of an icon being something constructed. “Joan and Eve are the two halves of American womanhood,” Anolik concludes. “The id and the superego, light and dark, sex and death.” No woman, of course, actually embodies only one of these extremes, unless she happens to be doing so deliberately to make herself into a work of art, “ill-bred” or otherwise. By the end of the book, one feels a shift in the author’s image of Babitz, even as Didion remains out of reach. If Hollywood’s Eve saw her as a “lewd angel,” here Anolik is ready to see Eve as a real “Bride of Art,” just as canny and as calculated as her “secret twin.” Being around Babitz in real life seemed to negate some of her magic for Anolik; in Didion and Babitz, the author’s realization that she might have known “the wrong Eve” all along recasts the spell. There is a third way to react to a persona: to appreciate it for the work its maintenance requires. Doing so is a form of respect, perhaps even an expression of love. What is it they say on social media? “A crush is just a lack of information.”

Philippa Snow is a critic and essayist who lives in England. Her last book, Trophy Lives, was published by Mack in 2024. 

[ac3-76]

Ninjago Music Headcannons

their music types and stuff

warnings: none🐩

Cole

He listens to everything

heavy metal, love, country, Indy, alternative

literally any song that he likes is his music type

Because he's not picky, he knows a lot of underground artists

He can play the piano and electric bass

If a song comes on in a movie he knows the name, artist, album, and probably the Year of release

ALWAYS HAS HEADPHONES

He cannot function without music playing

His Spotify wrapped is hectic

Yk in Episode 1 Season 1 of Lab Rats when Adam says he listens to Taylor Swift bc she's soothing

Yea, Cole has the same reason

(Musular himbos🤝liking Taylor Swift)

However he won't listen to her on anything except for YouTube, and it's those lyric versions made by fans that she doesn't get paid for

He doesn't like Billionaires and doesn't wanna give her more money

Nya

She listens to a lot of underground artists

Backseat Vinyl, Club Coward, Tiger Print

She has an alternative/Indy vibe

She can play the electric guitar

She LOVES Lady Gaga

She bought floor tickets to one of Gagas concerts

best decision she ever made

she took Skylor and Pixal with her

She won't sing on the shower but she'll lipsync music

She loves ABBA

All of her Instagram stories and posts have music playing

she just thinks it's awkward if her post/story doesn't have music

Lloyd

He hyperfixates on an artist for a week or two and then doesn't listen to them again

He hates country with a burning passion

he cannot stand when Coles on aux because one minute ur listening to Honky Tonk Bondakadonk(Trace Adkins) and the next ur listening to Dealer(Lana Del Rey)

He listens to music that fit how he's feeling

His go to sad song is Medicine by Daughter

Kai introduced him to Daughter

He listens to old school music while doing graffiti, his favorite old school songs are:

Punk Tactics(Joey Valence & Brae)

One Way or Another(Blondie)

City Lights(Ese 40'z)

P.I.M.P(50 cent)

I'm a Player(Too $hort)

Zane

He's the only one in the group who's knowledge of music rivals Coles

When he had to sleep he would listen to Idea #22(Gibran Alcocer) on repeat to fall asleep

He can play most instruments but his favorite to play are the drums

He's really good at singing

HE SINGS IN THE SHOWER

the ninjas find it kinda annoying but also nice because he's a good singer

He's a really good DJ

Once the ninjas went clubbing in Ninjago City and Zane ending up DJing for 7 minutes

(he's honestly the life of the party, him and Kai love to party and go clubbing)

(Him and Kai would also be invited to Tara Yummy parties)

(They would go and the fans would lose their minds)

He listens to music that fits the vibe

Jay

Listens to Ayesha Erotica

His favorite genre is rap

He listens to Coolio and Eminiem while he invents

World tours in the shower

He hates ABBA

He knows the lyrics of songs even if he's never heard it before

"It's just easy to tell where the lyrics are going based off of the instrumental part🤷‍♂️"

He's really good a karaoke

He watches Glee

His favorite Glee characters are Santana and Blaine

Kai

Listens to Broadway Musicals

His favorite are Hadestown, Heathers, Hamilton, Dear Evan Hansen, and West Side Story

He has Say No To This(Hamilton) memorized

He loves listening to sad music even if he's happy

His favorite sad artist is Daughter

He introduced Lloyd to Daughter when they went to their art studio together

(Lloyd's good at art and Kai's also good at art so they bought an art studio and go there together to work sometimes(most of the time they go there seperatly bc of how busy they both are))

He listens to music while he paints or draws

Prefers wired ear buds over bluetooth

It's because the Bluetooth audio is "funky and echo-y"

He can play the electric guitar and the electric bass

Wu

Listens to classical music and old school 90s or 80s rap

His favorite pianist in Tony Ann

His favorite old pianists in Motzart

He knows all the lyrics to C.P.R by CupcakKe

no one know why because none of the ninjas listen to it excessively

He just knows all the lyrics to it

They all use Spotify(they got the family premium plan(pretend the family plan includes 7))

[java-dragon]

Covers Bookbinding for beginners by a beginner- The Home Stretch

*drinks half a gallon of coffee*

COVERS!

You've gotten your typeset done for the fic, you've battled the demon that is your printer, folded pages, stitched pages, glued pages, glued end pages, and end bands. Made the cover, covered the cover in potentially homemade book cloth.

Now it's time to design a cover.

It's time to make this thing into a fully functioning book and slide it on your shelf and have a nice bout of "Laying on the Floor while Questioning the Human Condition (TM)".

There are a few options.

It depends on what you want.

I can only take you so far with Cricut/vinyl applications. But I researched enough to maybe, MAYBE give you the run down on at least how to get your cover from Canva to the software to cut out your vinyl. I'll start there since this is what I know the least.

Open up your version of Canva.

Make a document, I've seen some fanbinders make all this in the cricut software but I can only smile and nod along. But for me- this is the best I've figured:

go to the search bar and type in book cover (or use the drop down menu) click on a random template.

Fiddle and fart your way into a design you like. Text and Font Options are available in drop down menus and find some designs that are "Easy to Weed" which I understand as "Getting rid of all the stuff that's not going on the cover".

For Example:

Do you like it? It took me 40 seconds, I'm very proud of it. But this isn't to impress you really I just need to show you how to save your file so you can make the leap from one software application to the next.

Hit "Share", Hit "Download", File Type- Hit the down arrow, Hit "PNG" I missed this for the first few times--- BUT!

Click the "Transparent Background"

If you're doing more than one colour Vinyl you're going to duplicate the page that is located right next to the lock icon above the document. Hit that. Delete the stuff that you want to be different colours. Otherwise it will just cut everything out as one colour and I've seen some vinyl covers that get damn fancy.

You can also build a title cover just measure the spine and height of your spine and rotate your text to horizontal if you please.

Now for how I do mine. I use Printable Iron On Vinyl. Keynote there is a difference, there is stuff for light fabrics, and stuff for dark. Choose for what your primary book cloth will be but the paper itself will be white.

Make your design.

I have 3 different covers for Celestial Navigation by Sabrecmc just because of how LARGE the fic itself is. I had to split the text block up for ease of handling.

I saved as a PNG, and loaded up my fancy printable vinyl into my printer and went through the software for printing, I had to do some fiddling but for my purposes I had to get the whole cover in the right size on the page- it took some fiddling yours might be simpler it might be more complex. But once I got it printed I trimmed off the white and was left with a peel-able rather velvety feeling thing.

Remove the backing. Get the iron on and go low and slow with the provided barrier material to prevent melting and damage to the print you've just done.

I made spines as well and made an 11 x 8.5 (Or brochure template)

And lined up my spines accordingly as to not waste materials. There will be grids that pop up automatically to let you know if things line up.

Print them out on the "highest quality" out put for your photo software.

It peels like a sticker. It may take a bit to get it going.

Line it up as nicely as you can on the cover (double check on the still exposed board).

There is a protective sheet that comes with it USE IT. Set your iron to a low heat and move it around frequently.

If you're in a relatively humid area (I live in a coastal town so the humidity is pretty high all year). Have a heavy book to squish your covers down with to try and get out any bends that may happen post ironing (also why we want low and slow).

Leave to cool.

Now you have a text block and a cover.

For all intents and purposes for my demonstration I'm leaving the spine off and am redoing everything with this fic from the ground up. There are aspects and mistakes that I have made that have irked my brain. So I will be leaving the spines off for this round. This is the learning curve and since a lot have things have clicked into place since beginning this series that have given me the "AH HA! CLARITY!" moment. I have completely reworked EVERYTHING in my text block of Celestial Navigation. Plus I've a perfectionist issue that is a lot milder than what it was.

But these two text blocks will work as my "Ground Zero" and will be the books I compare all potential future binds too.

As a note that I said in the beginning of this endeavor:

THIS IS FOR PERSONAL USE ONLY. FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK DO NOT SELL WORK THAT DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU!!!! YOU HAVE ASKED PERMISSION (I dearly hope) TO DO THIS DO NOT BREAK TRUST WITH THE AUTHOR.

IF You want to offer a copy to the author- GO FOR IT. Close friend that is showing interest in the fic?? Sure ok.

But if you sell it for monetary gain? I hope you stub your toe, and just before it finally heals you stub your toe again and may all your breakfast cereal turn to slugs.

DO NOT BE A DICK. I am writing this whole 'How To' Series as an experiment of Good Faith that you, the potential binder, will do right by the community and not compound an issue that has been cropping up. Etsy sellers, and this horrible Facebook community that will steal other's typesets, and begin selling them.

Like I said- this is a breech in Fair Use.

Now with that lecture, again, out of the way lets settle the rest of this series.

You will need:

Glue

Book Press

glue brush

Wax Paper.

Your Cover.

Your Text block.

Get your textblock and cover lined up with some wax paper in the middle of the decorative pages (if you're doing them other wise the page you glue down to the cover and the rest of the text block.

Fiddle, fart and dry fit until you are satisfied.

Lay down a layer of glue on the page NOT THE COVER ITSELF.

DON'T BE ME. I FUCKED UP HARDCORE AND DID THE COVER WITH THE GLUE. HOOOOO NELLY LET ME TELL YOU HOW BADLY THAT FUCKED SHIT UP.

HOW BAD WAS IT? BAD. VERY BAD. DON'T BE LIKE ME THAT FIRST ROUND, BE LIKE ME ON THE SECOND ROUND AND PUT GLUE ON THE END PAGE.

Line up the textblock for a final time and then apply the paper to the cover open the textblock and smooth what you just glued down. Flip over and repeat.

Then add weight to the text block put it back in your press, or if you're like me and have a reprint in the press just throw books atop the block.

Allow glue to cure over night.

Shiver, shudder, and lay on the floor. Your fic is now a book that you can put on your shelf.

Welcome to the wild wild world of bookbinding.

I've been your host trying their best to explain all the things.

I will likely continue this series with "OK SO I LEARNED SOME SHIT ALL THAT SHIT I WROTE BEFORE FEEL FREE TO LISTEN BUT I'VE GOT BETTER SOLUTIONS NOW" time stuff.

[caltropspress]

DISPATCHES FROM 2ND ST. STUDIOS: Fatboi Sharif & DRIVEBY in session

I went to DRIVEBY’s apartment in Jersey City because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of documenting musical exxxprrrimentation, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I knew witnessing Fatboi Sharif in the studio would be morbidly rewarding—I felt it in my critik’s skull-and-crossbones (memento mori, pirate flag, poison pictogram). It was New Year’s Day in the year of our Lord Have Mercy 2024, and I had to pull myself away from a tree documentary that had, sadly, begun to disappoint. I had opened a stocking-stuffed box of Goobers and was reluctant when Sharif sent the invitational text. I had settled in for the night. But it was my idea to watch the man work his black magikal esoterika hammer-don’t-hurt-them-witches recording session, so I’d be a real punk to rebuff the offer. I got into the Toyota and headed down Route 3 toward Jersey City. I was on the 1&9 in no time—the truest highway to hell, if one ever existed. Ate de Jong could never scout such a location. AC/DC roadside appliance wasteland. Potholes pave the way, but in a De Nah Soul manner. I finished eating the Goobers in the car, by the palmful, and lost one to an erratic lane merge. I motherfucked and shitted at the thought of a chocolate stain on my upholstered driver’s seat, or worse, the seat of my pants. My dad delivered Blimpie’s for thirty-plus years in Jersey City, long before it became Brooklyn-of-the-West, so I know parking spots there are at a never-dream-of-’em premium. I parked several blocks away from DRIVEBY’s studio and cloven-hoofed it while huffing brick air. Texted from outside, but Sharif was already ushering me through a wrought-iron gate (suitable for guttings and impalements) and into the basement apartment: DRIVEBY’s 2nd St. Studios. That gate was like an entrance into a secret garden—overblown and overflowin’ with a riot of root rot, weeds, and (of course) crumbling-but-still-grumbling gargoyles, most with the medieval motif of mooning jutting out from the church buttresses. DRIVEBY’s had a William Shatner’s TekWorld comic next to his speaker. Dusty keyboards lined the floor. Sega Genesis cartridges, a Sharp boombox, and the requisite vinyl collection on bowing crates completed the scene. The space stored antiquated and dead media—ghost machines humming and haunting.

⤧

Sharif told me he’d be recording some tracks for his upcoming album with Blockhead, something for Bigg Jus, and several features. When I arrived, he was in the middle of recording one of the Blockhead tracks. The mic and the iso shield were directly inside the door of the apartment, and I sat on the couch to the left of that. Sharif would be spitting at me, beyond me, as he did his thing—an intimate setting, to say the very least. Beans of Antipop Consortium sat on this same cushion months earlier, I thought. They recorded “Sex With the Leopard Print Lady” here. While I pondered the legacy of stylist berzerkers of past and present, Key & Peele played on the television in front of me. I wanted to make myself scarce, invisible as possible, Brundlefly-on-the-wall, non-participatory, so I watched the “Laron Can’t Laugh” sketch on mute and registered how Laron’s noiseless convulsions and eventual shriek expertly pantomimed Sharif’s vocals. These layers of silence allowed me to hear some of what Sharif was spewing forth and commit it to memory. He spoke of avenging the death of Candyman. The words loom like Tony Todd—tall as a ponderosa pine in a Cabrini-Green courtyard. Caroline crossed eyelids…90 degree pressure… Closing in on 400 degreez, but we’re talking below zero. The winter of our disconnected selves. Sharif tells DRIVEBY he wants his voice to sound “fucked up.” He’s snorting, super sinusy. He wants to cultivate a specific sound—it coats the inner concavities of his skull. He just needs to externalize it into a self-portrait in a convex DAW interface. “The soul establishes itself,” John Ashbery writes. Sharif is shoeless, I should add. He’s black socked as he cuts the song’s first of three adlib tracks. The first is completely muddled, barely audible—a grumbly grumble grumb. The second is a helium-huffed high pitch mania. The third, a yell—“the banshee,” as DRIVEBY calls it. Sharif slackens the headphone wires and walks across the room. He does “the banshee” from as great a distance as possible. You’ve no doubt heard the banshee adlib track before (B.A.T. for short, as in, the hematophagic vampire bat). If you’ve heard a Fatboi Sharif recording, you’ve likely heard a hotly desperate and deranged voice coming from the depths of a hellmouth—sinners swallowed and still writhing, quasi-alive, anticipating rigor mortis. DRIVEBY captures the natural reverb. Sharif asks him to put distortion and echo on the last word of the verse. 

⤧

Fatboi Sharif was reading lyrics off his phone, but by then he was Loosifa loose—engaging me, inviting me to dialogue, reveling in the job.  His feet are light and nimble, like McCarthy’s Judge. He says that he will never die. And, you bet, he dances in light and in shadow. He’s a craftsman and possesses an engineer’s ear, an ant-infested and severed one he probably plucked from a manicured lawn in Scotch Plains, NJ, Jeffrey Beaumont style. For the second verse of the song, he makes an alteration and decides to end the verse earlier than he had written it, stopping at the phrase “role model” because he likes the “swing of it.” Okay, Nuke Hellington. I see you, Benny Badman. A natural performer, the recording session reflects both technical know-how and impassioned delivery. He doesn’t quite lose himself as he does on the stage (or the audience floor where he so often ends up), but he’s unequivocally locked in, as he kids say. Locked in a room with padded walls, more apropos. On the next, he requires a seemingly endless run of retakes. I begin to wonder if my presence is a burden, a distraction. But the session keeps its devil-may-care air intact. Still, Sharif has a sonic vision he yearns to achieve. He won’t settle for less. He eventually gets the take he desires and tells DRIVEBY he’s gonna do three adlibs. These two men work in harmony to develop their songs of disharmony. They’ve been boys, and so that keeps the chemistry alchemical for the duration. Open and honest, DRIVEBY tells Sharif that three tracks of adlibs is “too many.” FUCK THAT! Sharif shouts at him. Sharif wants the adlibs to sound beneath everything—six-feet deep, or “buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways” (unexpressed emotions, that is), as Freud or a Freud-fraud once wrote. Sharif wants echoes. He wants to sound like he’s a signal coming in and out of the radio as you drive through the night. These are the requests he makes, delicately selected from his mental doom board as DRIVEBY adjusts the mix, adds effects. “Do you do a lot of vocal mixing on the spot?” I ask. Sharif shakes his head, points to DRIVEBY slumped over his computer monitor, clicking and dragging, random access memory maybe lagging: “He’s on his Bob Power shit.” Listening to the playback, Sharif tells me he wants to be like Joker in the children’s hospital scene. What kinda clown carries a fuckin’ gun?! I’m waiting for the next Sharif release, crossing my fingers into an arthritic mass of flesh and bone in hopes of his cover of “If You’re Happy and You Know It” appearing on the tracklist. 

⤧

DRIVEBY puts Joker on the TV. It’s the bus scene; he can’t stop laughing. He hands a fellow passenger his card: Forgive my Laughter: I have a Condition. Sharif still sleeps to beats. He’s told this story numerous times to various media outlets, and so it’s beginning to take on the tone of lore. But it’s not. Even wilder, he’s not listening on headphones as he sleeps; he blasts the beats on speakers. Sharif prefers to record late, well into the wee hours of morning. DRIVEBY’s couch often becomes Sharif’s bed. “He’ll have the same beat on for five hours,” DRIVEBY explains. He’ll be in his bedroom, unable to sleep. Sharif grins and tells me, “That’s when I’m in the mindfuck.” Sharif reapproaches the mic. Another Blockhead track. “He told me he made this one especially for me,” Sharif says. The beat sounds like a Gregorian chant in a cavern. Beware of the Shroom Monster. Sharif has managed to amass an intimidating number of releases over the past several years while not indulging us to excess. He’s conservative with his run-times. Clocks ain’t shit to him. Many of his projects are EP-length, but categorizing them in any terms would seem to discredit his ingenuity. As the session unofficially ends and we settle into more casual conversation, Sharif implores DRIVEBY to play selections from their unreleased album, currently on ice like a corpse. I listen and hear of an exorcism of Antoinette, of Elvira and death resurrections, of Basquiat painting in Transylvania, crossroads, and plosive sonic samples from The Pagemaster—a film I have absolutely no recollection of but DRIVEBY speaks almost as highly of as his Fantastic Damage instrumental CD-R. OneShotOnce shows up, presumably for a session, but not before he and Sharif pillage DRIVEBY’s fridge. They feast on cold chicken while I gather myself to leave. 

Images: Astronomical table detail from the Almanach Purpetuum of Abraham Zacuto (c. 1500)