#scrapbook word strips

[scrapstudioes]

Christmas Journal Words Sentiments Junk Journals Ephemera

✨ Bring a magical, vintage touch to your creative projects this Christmas! 🎄✨ Discover this set of 170 cut-out words and phrases inspired by holiday nostalgia. With shades of red, green and a vintage style, these words are ideal for decorating junk journals, scrapbooks, greeting cards, gift tags, collages and more.🎄🖋️

🎁 All ready to print or use digitally - make your projects sparkle with that unique holiday feel you love! ❤️

📂 Available in PDF, JPG and PNG format, with 300DPI high quality.

🖨️ Just print, crop and let your creativity run wild.

✨ Get them today on Etsy ✨ But if you subscribe to my membership, you can get them for half price and have access to all my exclusive printables:

🔗 Etsy: https://scrapstudioes.etsy.com/listing/1833809248

🔗 Membership: https://ko-fi.com/s/cb8d8ae895

Click the link to get yours and start creating ✂️✨

📸 Tag your projects with #ScrapStudio for me to see - I'd love to share them! 😍

[darkintothedawn]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader

Summary — It's Stiles' birthday and you decide to play a great indoor scavenger hunt along side his dad to celebrate it.

Memo— This is kinda bad and weird but wtv! My google docs keeps autocorrecting everything to the American spelling and that's a level of editing I do not have the motivation for.

Word Count — 7786

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

You never thought you’d be the type to conspire with a sheriff, but here you were—crouched behind the kitchen island of the Stilinski household with a roll of duct tape, two packs of command strips, and a small mountain of LED tea lights. Sheriff Noah Stilinski stood beside you, hands on his hips, eyes darting toward the window every few minutes like he was expecting someone to pull into the driveway mid-glitter-splosion.

"Are you sure he’s gonna be out long enough for this?" you whispered, taping a gold-edged clue card to the side of the fridge.

Noah raised a brow. "He’s with Scott. That means there's at least one detour to a comic book store and an intense debate about the best Star Wars trilogy. You’ve got time."

You smiled to yourself, heart warming at the image of Stiles animatedly ranting about plot inconsistencies while Scott pretended to follow. It was exactly why you loved him—unapologetically nerdy, wildly passionate, and so easy to adore in every way.

You looked around at the mess of craft supplies, fairy lights, and the now half-completed “adventure route” you’d mapped out through the Stilinski home. The plan was simple: a scavenger hunt made just for Stiles, based on memories you’d shared and inside jokes no one else would get. Each clue would lead him to a different room, each with a small gift, a photo, or a note from you—something that whispered, “I see you. I know you. I love you.”

"Okay," you said, laying out the next few clue cards in a careful line across the dining table. "Station two is the couch. That’s where we fell asleep watching The Princess Bride after pretending we didn’t like rom-coms."

Noah chuckled, leaning over to stick a photo strip of the two of you—taken at a rickety fairground photo booth—next to the couch’s armrest. "He told me he only stayed awake through that movie because you were resting your head on his shoulder."

You grinned. "He’s full of it. He quoted like half the movie."

The Sheriff smiled at that, shaking his head fondly. “You know,” he said softly, “he hasn’t shut up about you since the day you met. Even when I’m trying to watch the game.”

That made your chest ache in the best way. You paused a moment, absorbing that, then quickly ducked your head before emotion ruined your timeline.

“Okay, okay, back to work before I get all sappy and start crying into the fairy lights.”

With a snort, Noah grabbed a handful of battery-powered candles and helped you line the hallway. You arranged them like breadcrumbs leading down toward the final “treasure” room—Stiles' bedroom, which you’d temporarily claimed and transformed. You’d swapped out his usual Star Wars bedding for crisp new sheets in navy blue, added a cozy pile of pillows to the bed, and lit more soft lights around the room to make it feel like a sanctuary.

At the foot of the bed, you placed the last envelope: a handwritten note with the words, “For your eyes only.” Inside it, a love letter. Honest, messy, a little goofy—just like the two of you.

And on his desk sat your final gift. Not expensive, not flashy, but meaningful—a scrapbook filled with memories, polaroids, receipts from midnight milkshake runs, ticket stubs from your first horror movie date, and even a page dedicated to the time you both got drenched during a summer thunderstorm and ended up dancing in the street.

You looked at it all, then turned to Noah.

"I think… I think he’s gonna love it."

The sheriff gave you a long look—kind, warm, the kind that saw everything without having to say much. "He’s gonna lose his damn mind."

You smiled through the lump in your throat.

As you tucked the final clue under a cushion on the living room couch and set the playlist to something soft and low, you felt a flutter in your chest—not from nerves, but from knowing that, for once, it was just going to be you and him. No pack emergencies, no monsters or magical curses—just Stiles and the kind of love that glows warm like fairy lights, steady like candlelight, and comfortable like home.

And really, wasn’t that the best kind of magic?

You barely had time to blink before your phone buzzed with a message from Scott: "Headed back now. He won’t shut up about his birthday theory. I think he suspects aliens."

Classic Stiles.

Your eyes widened as you spun toward Noah. “That’s the cue. Time to evacuate, Sheriff.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Alright, alright, I know when I’m no longer needed.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the dining chair, casting one last glance around the transformed space. “You really pulled it off. He’s gonna love it. And if he doesn’t cry, I’m demanding a DNA test.”

You laughed as you walked him to the door. “If he doesn’t cry, I will. So someone’s shedding a tear tonight.”

With a final wink, he stepped outside and you quickly shut the door behind him. Heart thudding, you reached into your hoodie pocket and pulled out the final touch—a folded note in your own messy handwriting, sealed with a little doodle of a cartoon bat (because, of course, Stiles once swore your first date was interrupted by a vampire, and the joke just never died).

You taped it right to the center of the front door. "Welcome Home, Birthday Boy. The Game is Afoot. -Your Soon to Be Betrothed" Below that, a tiny arrow pointing down toward the doormat where you’d placed Clue #1.

You took one last sweep of the house, heart rattling against your ribs like a caged thing. Everything was in place—the photos, the tiny trail of lights, the ambient music playing low on the Bluetooth speaker. His favorite hoodie of yours draped casually on the back of the couch, just in case he missed it (which he wouldn’t). Even the snack tray in the kitchen with his beloved sour gummy worms and blue Gatorade was right there waiting.

And then—go time.

You bolted for his bedroom, nerves sparking like static under your skin. In the closet, you’d already cleared out a little corner—just enough room to crouch down behind his jackets and slide the door mostly shut, letting just a sliver of light in from the room beyond.

As you ducked into your hiding spot, pulse in your throat, you stifled a giggle. This was ridiculous. And perfect.

You could already picture the expression on his face—the way his brows would knit together at the first clue, that focused little squint he got when he was in “mystery mode.” You imagined the amused eye-roll when he realized it was you orchestrating the hunt, not some cryptic supernatural threat. He’d roll his eyes. He’d mutter something sarcastic.

And then he’d smile. That soft, crooked smile—the one he only ever gave you, like he couldn’t believe he got to have you.

You hugged your knees to your chest, the closet suddenly feeling impossibly warm. Your palms were sweating. Your stomach fluttered so hard it felt like you’d swallowed a flock of birds.

But it wasn’t fear. Not even close.

It was the anticipation of seeing him—just him. Your favorite person, your ridiculous, rambling, brilliant mess of a boyfriend, walking through the door completely unaware of what you’d put together.

And for once, there were no monsters waiting. Just love. Just home.

Just you.

You held your breath as you heard the distant sound of tires crunching gravel in the driveway. A car door slam. Footsteps.

He was here.

And the game had begun.

~~

Stiles was mid-rant when he stepped out of the Jeep, his phone still in hand as he dramatically pointed it toward Scott, who was already halfway down the sidewalk.

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice carrying, “if there were a secret government facility under the Beacon Hills library, they wouldn’t make it obvious. That’s literally the point of secret government facilities. You hide them under places no one wants to go. Like—like DMV buildings. Or vegan juice bars.”

Scott didn’t even respond. He just threw him a knowing look over his shoulder and gave a casual, two-fingered salute before disappearing around the corner.

“Traitor,” Stiles muttered, shoving his phone into his pocket as he turned toward the house.

And paused.

There was something taped to the front door.

Something that did not look like an official document, a threat, or a “you left your socks on the stairs again and I almost died” message from his dad.

It was a note.

With your handwriting.

And right at the bottom corner, a doodle of a bat wearing sunglasses.

He stared at it for a full five seconds before reaching up and peeling it off, eyes scanning the words.

"Welcome Home, Birthday Boy. The Game is Afoot. —Your Soon to Be Betrothed"

He blinked.

Read it again.

“…Betrothed?” he echoed, voice cracking just a little as the word left his mouth like it had weight, like it had history, like it was something he wasn’t supposed to think about unless he was proposing on a windswept balcony with a bouquet of ring pops.

His ears went red.

He felt it happening and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He stood there like an idiot, note still in hand, staring at it with a weird, fluttery smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and absolutely no idea what to do with his face.

You were ridiculous. Absolutely deranged. Probably legally dangerous. He was also 100% going to marry you one day.

“Betrothed,” he muttered again, this time with the kind of breathy half-laugh that only happened when his brain was glitching out. “That’s not even legal at sixteen. That’s—that’s a medieval term. What are we, eloping in a fantasy novel?”

He glanced down at the doormat, where a small envelope sat perfectly aligned in the center.

“Oh god,” he whispered, picking it up. “It’s a scavenger hunt.”

His heart did a little cartwheel.

He should’ve known. Of course you wouldn’t just say happy birthday like a normal person. No. You’d weaponize his love of puzzles and drama and create an entire game just to lead him around the house like some kind of lovesick Holmesian idiot.

He folded the note carefully, as if it were priceless, tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans before opening the envelope.

Inside was Clue #1, written in the same familiar, slightly chaotic scrawl:

"Where we spend Sunday mornings and pretend the world doesn’t exist. Your first present is waiting."

He grinned so hard his face hurt.

The couch.

Definitely the couch.

As he stepped into the house, quietly closing the door behind him, he couldn’t help the way his fingers brushed the edge of the note again—like he needed to make sure it was still there.

“Betrothed,” he muttered one last time, shaking his head as he made his way toward the living room, blushing to his ears. “God, I’m so screwed.”

The second Stiles stepped inside, the door clicking softly shut behind him, he was hit with something that made his chest tighten—not fear, not even surprise, but this weird, achy, full kind of warmth that felt like it expanded in his lungs and pushed all the air out.

The house was quiet.

But not empty.

Somewhere deeper inside, from a speaker you’d clearly stashed out of sight, a soft instrumental track floated through the air—something mellow, dreamy. It wasn’t one of those cheesy love songs, nothing dramatic or with sweeping lyrics. It was gentle. Almost like a lullaby. Familiar, too. Something you’d played on repeat during late-night study sessions when the world outside got too loud and Stiles needed something to ground him.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped moving until he blinked and noticed his fingers flexing against the envelope in his hand.

The living room came into view, golden from the lazy trail of LED tea lights that lined the floor and curled around furniture legs like little constellations. And there—draped over the back of the couch like it had always lived there—was your hoodie. His favorite one. The oversized black one with the sleeves stretched out from where you tugged on them when you were nervous. The one that smelled like your shampoo and faintly of candy because you always forgot what was in your pockets.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Within seconds, he was sliding it on like muscle memory. It swallowed him whole in the best way. The weight of it was soft and familiar, and the scent—God, it was you. Warm and real and here, even if you weren’t technically in the room.

He tugged the hood up over his buzzed hair, exhaling through a dazed grin, arms crossed loosely over his chest like he could hold the moment still just by squeezing hard enough.

“…Okay,” he mumbled, dragging himself back to reality, “focus, Stilinski. You’re not actually gonna melt into a pile of hoodie-scented goo. You’ve got a clue to find. A game to solve. A… future spouse to locate.”

His ears flushed again.

He turned toward the couch cushions, heart still hammering a little too fast, and immediately spotted what had to be the next piece.

There, nestled between the throw pillows, sat two polaroids and another envelope—this one decorated with yet another doodle, this time of a little ghost holding a heart. You’d drawn little motion lines around it like it was zooming.

He picked up the photos first, holding them up to the light.

The first one was you, caught mid-sneeze—eyes half-lidded, mouth open in some in-between curse-word-turned-sneeze expression. Stiles snorted so hard he almost dropped it.

The second one?

Him. Kissing your cheek.

You were trying to look annoyed, like you hadn’t just combusted from the contact—but your face had gone this perfect, brilliant shade of pink and your nose was scrunched up in that way that made his stomach do a completely unprovoked somersault.

He let out a breath through his nose, all fondness and fuzz.

“I cannot believe you kept the sneeze one,” he said to no one, because no one was around, but it didn’t matter. His voice still felt full of you.

Then he reached for the envelope.

It was wedged just slightly between the two photos, as if guarded. As if the memories themselves were protecting the next step.

He turned it over in his hands, thumbs brushing the tiny ghost.

Inside, he already knew—another piece of the trail. Another little puzzle, written in your voice.

And God, he’d never been more excited to chase something in his life.

The envelope crinkled just slightly as Stiles slid a careful finger beneath the flap, trying not to tear the ghost drawing. He’d never admit it out loud, but he was pretty sure he was going to keep all of these clues forever. Probably in a shoebox. Or maybe under his bed. Or framed. Shut up, it didn’t matter.

Inside, the second clue was written in the same pen—black gel, slightly smudged in places like you'd gone too fast, or maybe your hand had been shaking. Or sweating. Cute.

He unfolded the note and read aloud in a low murmur, the kind he only used when it was just him and no one was listening:

“For the next treasure, go where the contraband lives. Where the ‘we’re just getting water’ lie always gives. Behind the Wheat Thins and dad’s ‘secret’ stash, Lurks the next memory, plus a little sugar dash. (And yes, I drew you as a chocolate wizard. You’re welcome.)”

Stiles stared at it for a second. Then laughed.

“Chocolate wizard,” he repeated, shaking his head like it was the most ridiculous, most you phrase he’d ever heard. Which—honestly—was saying something.

He moved quickly now, feet padding down the hall with the kind of focused energy he usually reserved for crime scenes or trivia contests. The kitchen greeted him with the same quiet warmth as the rest of the house, dim lights casting soft shadows against the countertops. The playlist from the speaker was still going, shifting now into some kind of twinkly piano cover of a Bowie song, and it made everything feel extra surreal—like he’d stepped into a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

He didn’t hesitate as he approached the tall cabinet to the left of the fridge—the one that looked like it held nothing but innocent boxes of cereal and maybe a bottle of olive oil, but was actually Noah Stilinski’s poorly hidden snack vault. He and you had been raiding it since the day you started hanging out after school. “Just grabbing a glass of water,” was code for “stealing half a sleeve of Oreos and sprinting back upstairs like raccoons.”

Stiles opened the cabinet door and immediately reached behind the box of Wheat Thins.

And there it was.

Tucked neatly between a bag of trail mix and a box of Pop-Tarts was another envelope, this one a soft orange, like a sticky note. Drawn on the front in Sharpie was a truly spectacular stick-figure version of Stiles wearing a wizard hat made of chocolate. It even had tiny sparkles around it and a speech bubble that read, “I summon snacks!”

Beneath it, carefully placed and absolutely irresistible, was a small bar of chocolate—his favorite brand, the kind with chili and sea salt he pretended was “too spicy” for Scott but hoarded like gold. He grinned and pocketed it instantly.

And there, sitting beside the envelope, were two more polaroids.

He picked them up, instantly recognizing you in the first one—and wheezed.

“Oh my god.”

It was bad. Not just “oops I blinked” bad, but full mid-sentence, mouth open, eyes half-closed, hair doing that thing where it looked like it was trying to escape your skull. He had no idea when he took it, but judging by the chaos in the background, it was probably during one of your joint snack heists.

“You’re gonna kill me for keeping this,” he whispered fondly, tucking it behind the chocolate wizard clue like he was shielding you from your own humiliation.

Then he looked at the second photo.

And his breath caught just a little.

It was him—caught in profile, lips curved in the kind of rare, relaxed smile that didn’t show up unless he was laughing. His hand was resting just behind your head, clearly mid-ridiculous story, and you—you—were looking up at him, eyes wide, cheeks redder than a sunburn, expression stuck between admiration and utter disbelief that this was your life now.

It looked like a movie still. It looked like the moment someone realizes they’re hopelessly, helplessly in love.

Stiles ran a hand over his buzzed head, hoodie sleeves falling over his fingers. His heart did that stupid thing where it clenched and melted at the same time, like it didn’t know whether to combust or dissolve.

He stared at the photos for a long moment, then at the envelope.

And that’s when he realized it.

The pattern.

One embarrassing photo of you. One shockingly flattering photo of him. A clue. A treat. All nestled in places that meant something—not to everyone, but to you and him. Where you spent time. Hid from the world. Made dumb jokes and even dumber memories.

This wasn’t just a scavenger hunt.

It was a love letter. One with candy and chaos and polaroids instead of punctuation.

He swallowed, still smiling like an idiot as he slid the orange envelope open, more excited than ever for what came next.

Stiles slipped the clue out of the orange envelope, carefully so he didn’t smudge the ink. You’d written it a little more compact this time, like you were trying to contain something that wanted to spill over—like the words had energy in them. Like you had energy in you when you wrote it.

He read it once silently, and then again out loud, his voice quieter now, tinged with something softer. Something warmer.

“You’ve earned a pit stop—something sweet, something blue. Check the tray, take a sip (yes, it’s all just for you). But don’t linger too long—there’s one more place to be. Where your hoodie ends up… when you’re sharing it with me.”

He stood frozen for a beat, blinking at the page.

His lips twitched upward, and his ears flushed in slow motion.

“…Oh,” he said.

Then: “Oh.”

He looked toward the counter like it had suddenly become sacred. And in a way—it kind of had. You’d set it up like a miniature shrine: his favorite snacks laid out on a tray in ridiculous precision (you knew he liked the green gummy worms more than the orange ones), and beside it, an ice-cold bottle of blue Gatorade, the condensation making it look like it had been waiting for him all day.

He approached it like it might vanish if he blinked too hard.

For a second, he just stared—like he couldn’t believe it was real. Like he wasn’t already wearing your hoodie and halfway through a romantic quest you’d handcrafted like the world’s most affectionate cryptid.

Then he reached out, lifted the bottle of Gatorade, and took a slow sip.

And groaned.

“You remembered the exact temperature I like this at. You’re a witch.”

He popped a sour gummy worm into his mouth and grinned around it, high on sugar and something a lot more dangerous—something warm and giddy and intimate that made his knees a little weak.

As he leaned forward to grab another candy, something caught his eye—a flicker of color sticking out just barely from beneath the tray. Like it was peeking.

He slid the tray to the side, revealing another envelope—this one pale pink, with tiny hearts doodled along the bottom, but all lopsided and rushed like you’d done them last-minute.

He picked it up like it was precious. Like it mattered.

Because it did.

The note inside was short. Just two lines. And this time, the writing was different—still you, still messy, but slower. Intentional. Weighted.

“You’ve followed my trail—every sweet, silly part. Now go to your room… and bring your heart.”

There was a tiny arrow pointing downward, and beneath it, one last line, smaller and scribbled faster, like you’d hesitated before writing it at all:

“(And maybe your mouth, too.)”

Stiles blinked.

And then flushed so red it reached the tips of his ears.

He slapped the note lightly against his chest. “You menace.”

But he couldn’t stop smiling. It wouldn’t leave. Not even if he tried. His fingers curled around the note, carefully folding it as his heart raced ahead of him—way ahead.

He looked down the hallway, toward the stairs, toward his room.

And then he was moving.

Stiles’ socked feet barely made a sound as he climbed the stairs, the soft music from downstairs fading behind him like a curtain closing. Every step sent a little tremor through his chest, something giddy and humming, like the notes of a secret song playing just under his skin. The hoodie sleeves covered his hands completely now, and he clutched the last clue tight like it might fly away if he loosened his grip.

At the top of the stairs, he hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of the hallway wall like he was steadying himself. The house was still quiet. Not the kind of silence that meant no one was home, but the kind that meant someone was waiting. Holding their breath. Listening.

He turned the corner.

His bedroom door was slightly ajar.

The light was different—softer. Warmer. Golden.

And the second he stepped over the threshold, everything in him stopped.

His room—his chaotic, poster-covered, slightly disastrous room—wasn’t gone, but it was… changed.

Transformed.

The harsh Star Wars bedding he’d probably had since middle school was gone, swapped out for clean, navy-blue sheets that looked like something out of a catalog, smooth and cool and deliberately chosen. His bed—usually a battlefield of mismatched pillows and tangled blankets—was now neat but cozy, layered with extra cushions, a folded knit throw at the end. The string lights above his headboard had been replaced—or maybe just added to—with warm, ambient fairy lights tucked along the walls, giving the entire room a hazy glow, like dusk bottled in glass.

The air smelled faintly like the candle you always lit at your house. Vanilla and cedar and something a little citrusy, like hope.

It didn’t look like a teenager’s room anymore.

It looked like a space made for him. Like you’d gone out of your way to carve a sanctuary out of his chaos. A soft place to land. A secret nest only you and he knew about.

And at the foot of the bed, resting against one of the navy pillows like the center of a constellation, was the final envelope.

This one was thick. Handwritten in bold, unmistakable scrawl. On the front, in looping, nervous letters:

“For your eyes only.”

His throat tightened. He stared at it for a moment, caught between wonder and disbelief, fingers twitching at his sides like they didn’t trust themselves to touch it yet.

Then, slowly, he crossed the room, each step quieter than the last.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, hoodie pooling around his arms, and reached for the envelope like it was sacred.

It was unsealed.

His name was written once, in smaller letters inside the flap. Just Stiles. No nicknames. No jokes. Like you couldn’t make yourself be funny when you wrote it. Like it mattered too much.

He opened it.

Inside, the letter was folded in half. The paper wasn’t lined—just blank, like you hadn’t needed structure to say what you needed to say. His fingers trembled a little as he opened it.

And there it was.

Your handwriting. Real. Tangled. Imperfect.

A love letter.

He could see it before he read a word: little scratch-outs where you’d second-guessed a sentence, arrows pointing to phrases you wanted to add. A tiny doodle in the margin of the two of you—stick-figure versions holding hands, one in a hoodie, the other with a ridiculous crown labeled birthday boy. The kind of letter that wasn’t polished, but was honest. Messy. A little goofy.

Just like the two of you.

He hadn’t even started reading yet, and he was already overwhelmed.

He sat there in the golden light, hoodie sleeves bunched in his lap, a room reshaped by love around him, a letter written by the person who knew him best in his hands.

And for once in his life—

He didn’t have a single word.

Just the kind of smile that doesn’t fade.

Stiles took a breath and finally let his eyes fall to the first line of the letter.

Dear Stiles (aka the light of my life, the smartest idiot I’ve ever met, the reason my standards are ruined forever, and my now-certified birthday boy),

Hi.

I know you’re probably blushing already, and honestly? Good. You deserve to. You deserve to feel like the center of the universe today. Actually, every day, but especially today.

Because here’s the thing: you are so stupidly, wildly, unfairly wonderful.

Like, do you even get how good you are? You’re brilliant (like scary smart—do you remember that time you solved that entire AP Chem problem before class even started and then helped me figure out how to balance basic equations without making me feel like a total moron??), and you’re hilarious (even when your jokes make me groan, I’m laughing inside, don’t lie), and you’ve got this face—this face, Stiles—that has no business being as perfect as it is.

Especially with the buzz cut.

Let’s talk about that for a second. The buzz cut? Criminal. Like, I was not prepared to find out I have a thing for soft hair and sharp jawlines and the back of your neck. You’ve created a monster. I literally cannot concentrate when you tilt your head. You’ve turned me into a flustered cartoon character. Congrats.

But here’s what gets me the most: you care.

You care so hard. About your dad, about Scott, about your friends, about me. You put everything you have into being there for people, even when you’re exhausted or scared or hiding behind one of your thousand sarcastic defense mechanisms. You show up. You’ve always shown up.

Like that day in fourth grade when I tripped over my own shoelace and biffed it in front of the whole playground. Remember that? I was crying, my knee was bleeding, and I’d just dropped my favorite pencil case with the sparkly stars on it. And you—tiny, bony, big-eyed Stiles—ran over like the floor was lava and immediately offered me your sleeve to wipe my face. Your sleeve, Stiles. You didn’t even flinch.

And you helped me up and made some ridiculous joke about gravity having a crush on me and I laughed—through the tears and snot and dirt, I laughed. And we’ve been friends ever since.

If you hadn’t been you in that exact moment, I don’t know where I’d be. Because everything that’s ever made my life better somehow leads back to you.

Which is why I am so damn glad I said yes when you asked me out. Four years later, still you, still me, still a little awkward and a lot in love.

And yeah. I am in love with you.

Head over heels. Hopelessly. Helplessly. Absolutely wrecked by how much I love you.

You make me feel safe and seen and like maybe the world isn’t as terrible as it looks on the news. You make me laugh when I want to cry, and you let me cry when I need to—and you never make me feel bad for either. You just… get me.

And you love me back. Somehow. Which is the biggest miracle of all.

So happy birthday, my soon-to-be-betrothed (yes, I said it again, fight me).

You’re my favorite person I’ve ever met. And the best part is—you’re mine.

Love, always and obnoxiously, Me.

P.S. You should probably go look at your desk now.

Like. Now now.

Stiles stared at the letter for a long, suspended moment after he finished reading.

His heart was hammering. His ears were hot. His eyes were suspiciously damp—but he didn’t move to wipe them. Didn’t blink them away. He just let it happen, let it be, because if there was ever a moment to feel everything all at once, it was this one.

You loved him.

And not in a vague, Hallmark card kind of way. You loved him in full paragraphs. In fourth-grade memories and buzz cut compliments and chaotic margins. You’d wrapped every inch of your heart into that letter, and now it was in his hands, sitting in his lap, warm as if it had just been pulled from your chest.

And somehow—somehow—you’d done more.

He blinked and looked up, your last sentence echoing in his brain like it was shouted down a hallway. P.S. You should probably go look at your desk now.

He turned slowly, standing on legs that were just a little wobbly with awe, and crossed the room toward the desk he barely used except to stack unopened textbooks and doodle when he was supposed to be doing homework.

But tonight?

It looked entirely different.

No clutter. No old gum wrappers or tangled earbuds or loose paperclips. Just one thing.

Centered. Waiting.

A scrapbook.

The cover was simple—matte black with his name on it in silver sharpie, hand-lettered in your slightly crooked handwriting. Around it were tiny white stars, all uneven and scattered, like a little galaxy made just for him. Like you’d tried to fit the whole universe on a spiral-bound cover.

He reached for it with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics.

The first page creaked open with that satisfying, deliberate sound only thick paper can make—and then he was gone.

There was a photo of the two of you, age eleven, leaning awkwardly against each other, both sunburnt from the county fair, you wearing one of his flannels because you’d spilled cherry slushie on your shirt and Stiles had offered his like a tiny gentleman in cargo shorts.

There was a wrinkled receipt taped beside it—from Eddie’s All-Nite Diner—with a scribble under the $7.50 milkshake charge: “First sugar crash together. Worth it.”

Another page: a movie ticket from the worst horror movie of all time (and your first date), where you’d both screamed at the same exact jump scare and then laughed so hard the old couple two rows behind you told you to leave.

Polaroids were everywhere—messy, out of order, completely perfect. Some were blurry from movement, some captured you mid-blink or him mid-sneeze. But there were just as many soft ones, quiet ones. You tangled in a hoodie that definitely wasn't yours. Stiles grinning with chocolate ice cream on his nose. A close-up of your hands intertwined, his thumb running over your knuckle like a habit he couldn’t quit.

Then came the page he didn’t expect.

The thunderstorm.

You’d captioned it only with: “Stiles + [Your Name] vs. the storm: we lost, and it was the best night ever.”

The photo showed both of you soaked to the bone, standing in the middle of a glowing street, rain caught mid-fall like starlight. He had his hands cupped around your cheeks. You were laughing, mouth open wide, like you couldn’t contain the joy, like nothing had ever felt more right. And behind you, the world was blurred and glowing, caught in the storm with you.

He closed the scrapbook slowly, holding it against his chest like it was a heartbeat.

This wasn’t just a gift. This was everything.

A history. A promise. A celebration. A quiet, hand-built monument to your love, crafted out of scraps and snapshots and scribbles.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t expensive. It didn’t matter that it didn’t come with a receipt or a barcode.

It mattered because it was you. All the best parts of you. And all the parts of him you’d chosen to treasure.

Stiles took a breath, eyes stinging again, and turned toward the door.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, smiling so hard it ached. “You win. Best birthday of all time.”

And then he went to find you.

He turned around with purpose—full of momentum and love and maybe a little bit of sparkling tears still clinging to his lashes. He was ready to go find you, to sprint downstairs or search the house or call your name like a man on a mission.

But he didn’t have to.

Because you were already there.

Standing just a few feet away, leaning awkwardly just in front of the doorway with your hands in the sleeves of his sweatshirt—way too long for you, the hem brushing your thighs. Your legs were bare except for a pair of his sweatpants, rolled at the ankles so you didn’t trip. The sleeves of his hoodie covered your hands entirely, and the drawstrings were pulled unevenly. You looked cozy and rumpled and completely perfect.

His eyes flicked to the closet—open. Your graphic tee (the one with the cartoon cat and the phrase “You’ve got to be kitten me”) was crumpled in a pile on the floor like it had been discarded in a moment of boredom or impatience. Of course. You’d gotten restless waiting for him.

“Hi,” you said softly, and your voice held this shy warmth like maybe you were afraid it would all be too much. “I got bored. And also… your clothes are stupid comfortable, so.”

Stiles made a noise. It wasn’t even a word—just a sound, somewhere between a breath and a choke.

Then he moved.

There was no hesitation, no moment of panic or awkwardness or hesitation like there sometimes was with him. He just stepped forward and grabbed you—arms wrapping tight around your waist, face burying into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he could breathe.

And he cried.

Not a loud, ugly cry. Not sobs.

Just quiet, open, real crying. His shoulders shook a little. His breath hitched against your skin. His hands fisted in the fabric of his own sweatshirt where it hung on your back. He didn’t try to hold it back, didn’t apologize, didn’t ruin it with a joke. He just let it happen.

You held him right back, just as tightly, letting him melt into you like a boy who’d been carrying too much for too long and was only now allowed to fall apart a little.

“I love you,” he whispered into your shoulder, the words muffled and thick. “I love you so much, it hurts, okay? You—god, you did all this. You made this whole day magical and stupidly perfect and—you. You made it you. I don’t even know what I did to deserve you, but—holy shit—I love you.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just held him, one hand moving up to thread through the tiny bristles of his buzzcut, the other anchoring at the small of his back.

He made a soft sound at the touch, like it grounded him. Like your fingers in his hair were all it took to keep him here, in this moment, in you.

When you did speak, it was barely above a whisper.

“I’ve loved you since you offered me your sleeve.”

He let out this shaky laugh that cracked right down the middle and turned into a hiccup of another tear.

Then you both stood there for a long time—no more clues, no more envelopes, no more presents or plans.

Just two kids in love, wrapped in each other, in a room that smelled like candle wax and hope, hearts thudding in sync under cotton and thread and years of shared history.

Eventually, Stiles pulled back just enough to see your face, his hands still cupping your sides like you might float away if he let go.

“You’re never getting this sweatshirt back,” you murmured, smiling up at him.

“Deal,” he said, and leaned in to kiss you like it was the only gift he needed.

His lips were warm and familiar and just a little bit chapped—like he hadn’t remembered to use the lip balm you kept trying to sneak into his backpack. But none of that mattered. Not the dry lips or the tear-smudged cheeks or the fact that his hoodie sleeves were still swallowing your hands.

Because the kiss?

It was everything.

Soft and slow at first—like he was afraid of shattering the moment. His hands stayed gentle, fingers curled against the small of your back and your side, barely gripping, just holding. Like you were fragile, or maybe like he was. And then you tilted your head just a little, pressed closer, and something cracked open.

He sighed into your mouth like it was relief.

Like kissing you was the answer to a question he hadn’t known he was asking all day.

The kiss stayed sweet, but it deepened in that sort of clumsy, impossibly you two way—where his nose bumped yours and he smiled into it, where you laughed quietly against his lips because his hand had accidentally brushed your hip and made you twitch.

You broke the kiss for a breath, barely, and he chased you with a quiet sound—like he was already missing it.

You nuzzled close, your nose brushing the side of his, and whispered, lips brushing his skin as you spoke, “Just so you know… if you ever get rid of this buzz cut, I’m going to cry.”

He blinked, breath catching as he pulled back the tiniest bit to look at you. “What?”

“I’ll cry,” you repeated solemnly, then kissed the corner of his mouth. “Real tears. Ugly ones. And then I’ll have to go find someone else’s sleeve to sob into. Because this?” You reached up and ran your fingers along the soft velvet of his buzzed hair. “This is criminally hot. I mean, seriously. You have no idea what this does to me.”

Stiles flushed immediately—face going from warm to cherry red in an instant. “Wha—okay, no. No, see, this is not fair. You can’t just say stuff like that when I’m—when I’ve just been emotionally demolished by your love scrapbook and—and your face in my hoodie.”

You grinned.

He rubbed a hand down his own face, flustered and glowing and utterly undone. “You—you love the buzz cut?”

You nodded, emphatic. “I adore it. You look like… like a freshly sharpened pencil I want to make out with forever.”

He made a strangled noise. “That is the weirdest and most affirming compliment I’ve ever received.”

You kissed him again. Quick. Sweet. “Good.”

He rested his forehead against yours then, eyes fluttering shut, still smiling like he couldn’t stop if he tried. “I almost didn’t do it, you know. Buzz it. I thought you might hate it. Or think I looked like an egg.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks, your expression full of earnest affection.

“You could look like a literal potato and I’d still be in love with you. But lucky for both of us, you look like a movie star with a jawline sharp enough to commit crimes.”

Stiles made another one of those soft, broken little laughs and melted right into your hands.

“I love you,” he murmured. “So much it makes my chest feel too small.”

“Good,” you whispered back. “Then we match.”

And you kissed him again, slow this time, lingering. The kind of kiss that said thank you, and I see you, and I want to keep choosing you—over and over again.

And in the soft, golden light of his newly transformed room, wrapped in each other and ridiculous compliments and hoodie sleeves too long for your hands, everything felt safe. Everything felt like forever.

Eventually, the kiss slowed, softened, like an exhale that had been waiting all day to happen.

Your foreheads bumped again, and your lips brushed once more, but this time it was gentler—less urgency, more intimacy. Stiles sighed through his nose, still tangled in the warmth of your arms, your words, your everything.

You smiled, not pulling too far away, just enough to shift onto your knees on the bed and gesture behind you with a small, secretive glint in your eyes. “Okay. One more gift.”

Stiles groaned, but it was soft and fond, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “How? How are there more? You already wrecked me. I'm emotionally obliterated. Do you want me to die?”

“Not yet.” You grinned. “But you might implode. So scoot.”

He shuffled obediently, and you reached back toward the stack of pillows at the head of his bed, digging beneath the fluff until your fingers curled around something you’d stashed carefully earlier in the day.

A small black box.

You hesitated for just a second, then pulled it free and turned, sitting cross-legged in front of him.

“I was gonna… give you this in a different context,” you admitted, voice dipping a little. There was heat beneath your words—an unspoken layer of maybe later tonight, if we felt brave enough, but you didn’t say it aloud. You didn’t have to. The flush in his cheeks said he understood exactly what you meant.

His eyes flicked to the box, then back to your face, breath catching.

You opened it slowly.

Inside was a crown.

Not gaudy. Not regal. Not a king’s crown or anything covered in jewels.

No—this was so him.

Crafted of matte black metal, the usual sharp spikes had been swapped for curved little bats—elegant and geeky all at once. They looked like they were mid-flight, like they’d taken off from some gothic comic book panel. And across the front and right behind it on the inner band, etched in delicate silver script, were two lines:

I love you. I know.

Stiles made a sound. A choked-off laugh, caught in his throat like it didn’t know whether to come out as awe or disbelief.

“I—what—” He reached forward but didn’t touch it, like he was afraid his hands were too human for something this perfect.

You lifted it from the box carefully, the way you might lift a relic from a museum or a holy object, and leaned toward him.

He went still.

And when you settled it on his head—when you placed it there gently, precisely, reverently—his breath stuttered right out of him.

“There,” you whispered, brushing his cheek. “Perfect.”

He blinked at you, visibly overwhelmed, voice caught somewhere in the galaxy between bashful and undone. “You made me a bat crown.”

“I did.”

“With a Star Wars quote.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I love you.”

“You better,” you said, grinning, but your voice cracked slightly. Because you weren’t done. Not quite.

You took his hand.

Held it between both of yours like it was precious. Like it had always been meant for you.

“Stiles,” you said, and then, more deliberately, more sacred, “Mieczysław.”

His breath hitched.

“That’s my engagement promise to you,” you said quietly, steady despite your heart racing. “Because let’s be honest. We’re gonna get married someday. It’s not even a question anymore. It’s just a when. And this? This is your crown. Because you already rule my whole world.”

Stiles’ eyes welled instantly, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t try to change the subject like he usually might. He just stared at you like you were the only real thing that had ever existed.

You smiled softly, eyes flicking up to the little bats still trembling slightly with the movement of his breathing.

And that was it.

The moment hung between you like starlight—quiet, steady, eternal.

Just two disaster nerds in love, one in a hoodie and the other in a bat crown, already promising forever in the language of Star Wars and memories and late-night snacks.

And maybe it wasn’t the grandest birthday anyone had ever thrown, but it didn’t have to be.

Because this?

This was yours.

Forever.

“Happy birthday, Stilinski.”

[snek-panini]

Since the copy I sent to @madenthusiasms has arrived, it's time to share my bind of their wonderful fic The Ghost of Husbands past. I had really wanted to get this one out by Christmas, since it's a Christmas fic, but life had other plans. But if a Good Omens fic based on Hallmark Christmas Movie tropes (but without the misogyny, heteronormativity, and anti-intellectualism; and with added anti-coporate and anti-megachurch sentiments and positive disability rep) sounds like your cup of tea you should absolutely go read this immediately.

The cover up above is dark green book cloth for the spine and corners, and white faux leather with silver foil htv for the title. It was infuriatingly difficult to find white faux leather in a thickness I could use for bookbinding--all the craft stores had upholstery weight, which is too heavy and thick once it's paper-backed, and only one supplier had this thinner paper-like material. It was Neenah Papers and I'd never ordered from them before and the process was a nightmare and took weeks to sort out. But I got the stuff, and I love the way it looks and feels. It was one of those instances where I knew exactly what I wanted, had a mental image I was pursuing, and nothing else I considered looked half as good. So in the end it was worth it.

More photos under the cut, including Fun With Fonts and the most complicated spine I've ever made.

Spine photos! It's got little ridges! They're called false bands and you make them with thin strips of board, and then if you're like me you put lines around them to highlight them. There's so much htv on here that it had to be done in three stages; lines, text, and snowflakes were all done separately. I was worried there would be issues with sticking, because I haven't always had a good track record with htv and the foil is especially picky, but other than me simply having big dreams there were no issues.

The bookmark is a dead match for the cloth, which was a happy accident. The endbands are double core and I wove them with stripes of alternating thickness so they'd look like candy canes. I was originally planning to have red, white, and green stripes in the endbands but when I hit the halfway point on the first one they started looking like the flag of Mexico and I had to start over. It very much did not fit the vibe. I do love the candy canes though; they absolutely could not have been better.

The endpaper up there is a Christmas-themed scrapbook paper. In isolation they look a bit jungle-y but they're poinsettias. My original choice for these had a different color scheme with blue snowflakes, but I realized that there would never be a better excuse for leaning into the classic Christmas aesthetic, and I have no regrets.

Interiors! The title page graphic is a free-to-use holly wreath from rawpixel. I kind of went nuts with the custom fonts in here. Conventional book design wisdom is to have two or maybe three fonts in a book, to make it feel cohesive throughout. This one has at least eight. The title page has two, one from Dafont called Flakes and a basic Word font called Castellar, because Flakes has snowflakes on every letter and it looked really weird and busy to have all the text like that. The chapter titles are in another Dafont custom called Fireplace that has sparkles and lets you add swishes under it, but the free version hasn't got numbers so those are in Harrington, which I thought was the closest match. The scene break dividers are a dingbat (symbol) font called DH Snowflakes. The body's in Baskerville but there are newspaper articles and roadside church advertisements in it that both have their own fonts, and the cover fonts are different too but I forget what I used there. And you would think this would make it feel choppy but it doesn't, somehow. It works, and it's trope-y and a bit cheesy but that's Christmas movies for you. The earnestness and enthusiasm is what wins the day, not the polish. I think that's appropriate.

And that's it! I had an absolute blast working on this one, it was so much fun to design. Hope you enjoyed!

[usonofallama]

☀️ MY TS4 SUMMER HOLIDAYS

Summer stretches everything.

The heat, the joy, the pressure. These holidays are loud, impulsive, and sometimes raw — from protests to pool parties to saying too much at sunset. It’s not calm, but it’s alive.

Sunday • SU01 — Summerfest — 🎆 | 💼❌ 🎒❌ | ♋️

“Sparks in the sky. Smoke on the grill. Feet in the water.”

BBQ, Fireworks, Party Spirit, Soccer, Water Fun

Monday • SU02 — Union Day — 💍 | 💼✅ 🎒✅ | ♋️

“Some vows don’t need a church, only eye contact.”

Go on a Date, Give Romantic Gifts, Propose, Make Resolutions, Attend Holiday Ceremony

Tuesday • SU03 — Little Friends Day — 🐾 | 💼✅ 🎒✅ | ♋️

“Soft noses. Warm bellies. The kind of love that wiggles.”

Cook Pet Food, Horse Care, Meet or Adopt Pet, Love Pets, Pamper Pets

Thursday • SU05 — The Match — ⚽ | 💼✅ 🎒✅ | ♋️

“Whistles blow. Shirts fly. Victory is sweaty.”

BBQ, Eat Pizza, Party Spirit, Sports TV, Streaking

Friday • SU06 — The Sowing — 🌱 | 💼✅ 🎒✅ | ♋️

“Every seed planted today is a whisper to the future.”

Plant Something, Cook Meal with Produce, Feed Farm Animals, Make Animal Treats, Sow Seeds

Saturday • SU07 — Nature Day — ⛺ | 💼❌ 🎒❌ | ♋️

“Dirt under nails. Sun on skin. Something sacred grows.”

Cook Meal with Produce, Gardening, Go Camping, Love Pets, Plant Something

Sunday • SU08 — Summer Camp — 🪵 | 💼❌ 🎒❌ | ♌️

“Friendship bracelets and mosquito bites. A rite of passage.”

Collect Insects, Fire, Go Camping, Go Hiking, Skill Improvements

Monday • SU09 — Dog Day — ☀️ | 💼✅ 🎒✅ | ♌️

“The heat makes you say things you usually don’t.”

Air Grievances, Drink Wine, Embrace Nudity, Sexual Openness, Water Fun

Wednesday • SU11 — Midsummer’s Night — 🧚🏻‍♀️ | 💼✅ 🎒✅ | ♌️

“Lovers lie. Fairies laugh. The night listens.”

Fire, Mischief Spirit, Party Spirit, Romantic Spirit, Tell Stories

Thursday • SU12 — People’s Voice Day — 📣 | 💼❌ 🎒❌ | ♌️

“Democracy is noisy, messy, and absolutely worth it.”

Give Speech, Debate, Fight, Vote for Policies, Make Resolutions

Friday • SU13 — Summer Vacation — ✈️ | 💼❌ 🎒❌ | ♌️

“Passport lost, memories intact.”

Eat Cultural Dishes, Go on Vacation or Travel, Go Swimming, Party Spirit, Take Photos

Saturday • SU14 — Beach Day — 🏝️ | 💼❌ 🎒❌ | ♌️

“Salt in the curls. Sand in the sheets.”

Beach Cleanup, Go on Vacation or Travel, Sand Fun, Snorkeling, Water Fun

Sunday • SU15 — Midnight Bonfire — 🎸 | 💼❌ 🎒❌ | ♍️

“Strip down. Light up. Dance until ash.”

BBQ, Embrace Nudity, Fire, Party Spirit, Water Fun

Monday • SU16 — Summer Break — 🧊 | 💼❌ 🎒❌ | ♍️

“Melt into the moment. No agenda necessary.”

Eat Ice Cream, Play Games, Sunbathe, Take Photos, Water Fun

Wednesday • SU18 — Recap Day — 📓 | 💼✅ 🎒✅ | ♍️

“This summer is going in the scrapbook.”

Go Shopping, Journaling, Play with Makeup, Record a Video, Take Photos

Friday • SU20 — Nations Day — 🗺️ | 💼❌ 🎒❌ | ♍️

“Loud flags. Soft hearts. A little hope helps.”

Attend Holiday Ceremony, BBQ, Fireworks, Give Speech, Party Spirit

Saturday • SU21 — Last Summer Night — 🫧 | 💼✅ 🎒❌ | ♍️

“Say goodbye in kisses, not words.”

Dancing, Go on a Date, Hot Tub, Massage, Romantic Spirit

Custom Traditions:

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 (NSFW)

Mods incluiding Custom Traditions:

Basemental Drugs (NSFW) | Ghastly Ghosts | WickedWhims (NSFW)

Calendar Tweaks and Add-On's

21 Days Seasons | Zodiac Signs based on Season

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! I’m not sure if this has already been asked but do you have some recommendations for fics narrated through aziraphale’s diary, since he canonically owned one?

Hi! Here are some fics featuring Aziraphale's diary...

A Guide to Crowley by Aziraphale (for Aziraphale's Eyes Only) by ICarryDeathOnMyWings (T)

While cleaning up Crowley finds a book that Aziraphale is writing. When he reads it he realizes it's about him, all of his likes and dislikes for the past 6000 years. He reads it.

'Crowley wasn’t snooping, honest, he wasn’t. The book had been on the bed and he was being a good partner by setting the book back into the nightstand drawer, where he knew Aziraphale kept it. If it happened to fall open then… well, that’s just what happened. He stopped, looking it over. He recognized Aziraphale’s handwriting, but he didn’t know the angel had been writing a book.'

Hard to See the Light Now by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

While Crowley is out fetching a late night snack, Aziraphale tries to write in his diary. But he’s quickly overwhelmed by the confusing tumult of emotions about his discorporation, the bookshop fire, and everything else. Can Crowley help him?

Diary by grapefruitghostie (G)

You Left Your Diary At My House And I Read Those Pages, You Really Love Me, Baby.

Or; the night of the Apocanot, Aziraphale spends the night at Crowley's. When he later returns home to the flat that Adam restored, Crowley finds a black book poking out from under his bed. Of course, he can't help but to see what's inside, can he? Honestly

A leather bound journal by the_flash_bastard (T)

The first thing to come from his pen was a sketch of Crowley, head thrown back, lips parted, eyes closed in bliss, as someone was carding their fingers through his hair. The next sketch was of an elaborate braid, tied up with a strip of black silk, gleaming in the moonlight. And the following page was covered in verses, words underlined, crossed out, and then underlined again, written with shaking hands

or

Aziraphale discovers scrapbooking

Dearest Diary (The History of an Angel an a Demon) by MadisonAvenue (G)

Entries from Aziraphale's personal diary that recounts his relationship with the Demon Crowley and how it's changed overtime.

Six Thousand Years, And You're Still Too Fast For Me by iamanidhwal (G)

Aziraphale was the type of angel who wrote his thoughts and feelings down whenever it started to overwhelmed him.

It's only happened around ten times in the course of six thousand years. All of them after meeting with a certain demon, Crowley, and their interesting interactions in between points of history.

----

OR: Aziraphale's thoughts and feelings about Crowley over the course of six thousand years.

- Mod D

[theladyoracle]

I love love LOVE your hcs for the manor itself🩷🩷🩷

does everyone live at yhe manor?! if so would you be able to write about the creeps bedrooms? (jeff, nina, ej, toby specifically?)

THANK YOU!!! 🩷🎀

Thank you so so much! I genuinely appreciate it! I love this idea so much. Content under the cut.

So yeah! Not all of the creeps do live in the manor in my au. The Proxies in particular are not allowed to stay at the mansion with the other Creeps (I like to think this is a manipulation tactic from the Slenderman) So I might include Toby and the other Proxies later, but their living conditions are drastically different from those that are allowed to live in the manor!

Creepypasta Bedroom Headcanons

(ft. Jeff the Killer, Nina the Killer, and Eyeless Jack)

The Collective AU by The Lady Oracle

Jeff

- As you approach Jeff's bedroom, you will notice the preamble of discoloration on the carpet and woodwork on the floor

- His door is splintered with stab marks, scratches and nics. At any given time you can probably expect to see at least one knife embedded in the destroyed door

- You can usually hear that you're getting close to Jeff's room before you see it

- When Jeff is home, his obscene music shakes the walls, and he plays his shows and movies at full volume. He has a complete disregard for anyone else who lives at the manor, and so I also imagine him always screaming and laughing and throwing things around his room constantly

- Jeff's room is always dark, no matter the time of day. He never has his windows open, and so the only lighting is due to the limited LED strips and the forbidden big light on the ceiling

- The furniture in Jeff's room can be boiled down to his mattress, a broken dresser, and a small desk. Anything else can hardly be considered furniture as it's usually torn apart or stolen from his victims houses

- I also like to imagine that he has an old beat up punching bag that is just falling apart at the seams. Like he's really gone in on this thing

- He has a lot of older technology as far as entertainment goes - old cassettes, VHS tapes, an old box TV, that sort of thing

- And you already know this mans room is a mess

- Dirty, bloodstained clothes are spread out across the floor of his room. Old dishes and bottles and cans are strewn about

- He uses his desk for a variety of his 'hobbies' which could mean a number of things....

- No one is allowed in his room - for everyone's benefit

Nina

- Nina's room is amongst one of the better kept living spaces in the manor, but only because when it's time for her to clean she shoves virtually everything under her bed and in her closet

- It always smells like some sweet Bath and Body Works fragrance. Like vanilla or strawberries

- I like to think Nina maximizes comfort in her room. Tons of pillows, blankets, a couple of different seating options. She's of course got a TON of stuffies

-I also imagine she has her own vanity, the kind that has lights. Maybe she has a couple stickers that she's slapped on it to cover some nics or scratches

- She has a little corkboard filled with Polaroids or little things that she deems important. There are ticket stubs, receipts, small doodles from Clocky, and photos of everyone she loves

-There used to be a lot more photos of Jeff, but now she only has one or two...the rest she's shoved in a shoebox in the depths of her closet or the void beneath her bed

- She of course has a bookshelf filled with all her diaries and scrapbooks

-She's also got a ton of snacks in her room

- Sleepovers would go so hard in here. Nina would make sure you're completely taken care of

Eyeless Jack

- EJs room can be described in few words; sterile, tidy, vacant

- There are a few scattered artifacts from his past life...a graduation certificate from high school, honors tassels, perhaps a couple of ribbons or awards for excellence...

- He still has one hoodie from his old college, and it's beaten to shit. He keeps it in his closet and wears it occasionally when he wants to feel normal

- He keeps his room so clean just because he's so used to doing so in his practice. Since he's the only medic in the manor that actually cares about keeping a sterile environment, he's just used to minding clutter in his daily life

- Not that he owns many things....

- There are scratch marks on his walls and around the rug near his bed. If you ask him about this he will refuse to elaborate, but you can probably figure this is from the occasional hunger pains

- He also doesn't spend a lot of time in here. Many nights he actually ends up crashing in the designated medic section of the manor

-If you asked to spend the night in his room...well you probably wouldn't even need to ask. Since he's not there most of the time you could probably get away with sleeping in there for a couple of nights without him knowing

-The only way he'd find out is if your scent lingered in his sheets

[hexarcana]

@ask-mister-mystery sent "You look familiar. I just can't quite remember how I know you." Amnesia Starters

She doesn’t want to do this.

She wants to go back to her house, crawl into bed, and perhaps never leave it again. But Olive had begged, the twins too- Even Ford asked for her help. Ford, who didn’t trust her just a few days ago.

It had been one of the worst moments of her life. Standing in a newly restored forest, staring at the man she’d been falling in love with all over again. Knowing what he did, knowing the sacrifice he’d made. And she knew he was gone. His heart was still beating and his lungs still breathed but in peering past the veil to places the others couldn’t see, there was nothing. What had once been a complex mind with difficult memories stretching back a lifetime was now an empty white void. There was nothing left.

She’d held tight to Olive, watching Stan’s family rouse him from the memory wiped stupor. She watched Ford hug his brother, likely for the first time since they were children. But she could see, it didn’t mean anything to Stan, who looked confused and almost uncomfortable. She couldn’t look at him after that.

But everyone wanted her to now. Everyone says it will help. But all she really feels is a hollow ache that throbs each time she looks at him. He’s there. But not there.

Despite this, she smiles softly.

“I’m.. I’m an old friend. My names Aggie- Ford’s told you, I’m sure.” She sighs, her grip on the book she’d brought along with her tightening. “We.. We were all children together.” She places the book in her lap. She’s taken Mabel’s advice and made a scrapbook. Apparently, he’d responded to those. But those were recent memories.

She opens it. There are a few photos, among other things like ticket stubs, scraps of paper that had been notes passed in class. Little drawings, some from childhood, some done more recently, patchworked together across each page. She points to the first photo. It’s a class photo from when they were in the first grade.

“That’s you and your brother, naturally.” Two little boys from identically up at them from the picture. “And that’s me, on your right.” Despite being a skinny, sad looking little thing thr tiny girl in the picture is grinning just as wide as the two boys, almost as if they were all laughing at the same joke.

Over the next few pages are all of the photos Aggie had of them together. There weren’t that many, given that any photo she had had been an extra given to her by Caryn. But there are strips from photo booths, some with all three children crammed in, but there were several that were just the two of them. As he looks through the pages, she doesn’t say anything.

There are more pictures that are recent, many of them featuring Stan interacting with a little girl that looks an awful lot like Aggie. Olive had been there when he’d awoken with his memories gone but she hadn’t said a word or looked at him. “That’s my granddaughter. Her name is Olive. You and her, you’ve got a lot in common.” There’s a picture of the two of them dangerously pointing Roman candle fireworks at each other. “You both like to try and scare me to death. She.. She stuck by you, during all the… Weird stuff?” She isn’t sure how much of that he could remember of had explained to him. “She doesn’t have a lot of friends besides your niece and nephew but I think she considers you a friend too.”

After that, it’s mostly drawings. There’s a Drawing of the Pawnshop store front, and of a big tree they used to try fruitlessly to climb. The big dog at the corner store. His mom, talking to a client over the phone…

One page is a simple landscape, but it’s rendered so faithfully to life it might as well have been a photo. It was a stretch of beach, overlooking the sea, a boardwalk in the distance, jutting out into the colored pencil water. It was an unremarkable spot to most but it was important to her.

She’d kissed him there. They were thirteen. She was moving away and she knew if she didn’t do something about how she felt about the funny boy from the pawn shop that she’d never get to. So she’d kissed him.

The other page of that particular spread of the book was overlooking a forested area. A beat up Winnebago is parked at the overlook, and there are two figures drawn peering out at the view. They’re small, so detail can’t really be discerned. But she knows. During the drive back from Stan’s ridiculous mission to sabotage other tourist traps, it’s one of the places they’d stopped to stretch their legs. She’s been angry with him for most of that day, but at that beautiful place overlooking all the trees, he’d apologized. She felt a shift then, that maybe there was more to their friendship, that maybe the stubborn feelings that had come rushing back could maybe, hopefully be acted on. As they looked out at the scenery, she’d taken his hand and gave it a squeeze. He’d held it in return, not letting her go until one of the kids called for him.

The heel of her hand presses a tear from her cheek.

“You’re really important to me, Stanley.” She admits, “I just.. I wish I had more to show you. But the fact is, I was gone for a very long time. I moved away when we were kids and we only… reconnected this past summer. In the last month or so, really.” She sniffs. “… This is really hard.” She says quietly. “I just got you back, you know? It’s hard being.. Strangers, after everything..”

[ao3feed-ateez]

Premeditated Seonghwa Park

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/ATsEqBY by fixonthispussy The heavy deadlines are no joke and you are constantly packed with work. You stay after work to catch up on some files when you come across Seonghwa. After your interaction that day your mind is filled with him and only him. Little did you know that his mind is filled with you and so is the scrapbook that lays next to his bed. Words: 11740, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: ATEEZ (Band) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con Categories: F/M, Other Characters: Park Seonghwa, Reader Relationships: Park Seonghwa/Reader, Park Seonghwa/Everyone Additional Tags: Angst, Smut, Stalking, Emotional Manipulation, Mind Manipulation, Crying, Mental Breakdown, Fear, Fear of Death, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Pet Names, Stripping, Praise Kink, Unprotected Sex, Dirty Talk, Rough Oral Sex, Sloppy Head, Choking, gagging, Biting, spitting, Butt Slapping, Come Eating, Rough Sex, Cream Pie, Aftercare read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/ATsEqBY

[aninnaterespectfortheinsane]

counting down the days.

ten months away and i've already begun to strip the posters from my walls.

nine months and the clothes she bought i know i'll never wear are in a bag to be donated, strewn on the closet floor unwanted.

eight and the books i've chosen to keep are carefully stacked on my desk, love worn deep into the pages and woven through the words.

seven and old notebooks are decisively either recycled, scrapbooked, or given to a friend, perhaps someone can benefit from notes i've got no use for

six and medals are gently packed into a box. the corvid in me insists on keeping them, the memories they hold are still beautiful.

five and i've made arrangements to sell the piano. a Wurlitzer upright acoustic stands no chance in a dormitory.

four and i'm writing notes to my friends and giving away my stuffed animals. thank you for staying. let this remind you of me. let this remind you that i am a phone call away.

three and what's left of the books are donated to a local library. it stings a bit, but the books are needed elsewhere now.

two and i've got a suitcase and a plane ticket ready to go.

one and it might as well be tomorrow that i go. the suitcase is tediously packed, the essentials and the little things alike. a small painting, a polaroid from a night out, a chipped mug ive had for years.

a week away. my heart pounds non-stop.

a day away. i dream fitfully.

the day arrives. i never return.

[sawyerquinnbrown]

When A Craft Happens To You

It starts innocuously. You say to yourself, I used to have so much fun making origami stars. I should fold some more of those, it’s a fun way to spend a Sunday, making something with my hands. So you dig out some old scrapbooking paper you have laying around, hunt down your paper cutter, and cut yourself some strips.

Just a few, you tell yourself, and put on a YouTube video essay/episode of CSI/episode of The X-Files. You descend into a fugue state, the folding is meditative, and when you reach the end of the video essay/episode, you count your stars and say, I should do something with these. Have I started making my holiday gifts this year?

You dig into the depths of your OneDrive for the Word docs you made a few years ago, with the affirmation messages on them. Cute messages hidden inside origami stars, for gift recipients to open on a bad day for a phrase or sentence or quote to make them smile. Yes, you say to yourself. Holiday gifts.

It is June.

Over to the craft store you trot to pick up some cutesy little cork-topped jars, with accompanying twine to attach adorable labels reading ‘Lucky Stars’.

While I’m here, you think to yourself, in the aisles of Michaels, I should just drift through the scrapbooking section, in case they have some paper on sale.

The paper is on sale.

You spend $60 on jars and paper.

At home you print out your affirming messages on your beautiful new scrapbook paper, cut it into strips, and put on CSI starting with Season 1, Episode 1. The fugue state once more descends. Soon your coffee table is entirely covered by paper strips, little jars, and folded stars.

Next thing you know it’s time for dinner, and you’ve realized that if you’re giving these as gifts, you’ll need appropriately-sized gift boxes to wrap them in, with some fancy metallic tissue paper to go with them. While you eat, you make an Amazon order, costing you $60.

After dinner, back to folding. You disappear inside your head as your fingers fold, fold, fold. You look up: Netflix is asking you if you’re still watching. There are a thousand paper stars on your coffee table, and a number of them have fallen to the floor.

The cats have stolen fifty of the stars and are playing with them, losing star after star underneath the fridge.

Your fingers are tired. You need more paper. You have somehow spent $170 on this project in a day. You’ve finished the first season of CSI.

(If you have roommates, they are very annoyed at you.)

It is time for bed. The next day you awaken to the piles upon piles of stars, the filled jars piled haphazardly into a cardboard box. There are 30 plastic orb ornaments filled with 60 tiny stars apiece and covered in glitter.

It is time to stop, you tell yourself, and pack away the stars, the ornaments, the jars, the paper cutter. All disappear into your over-stuffed craft closet. That’s this year’s holiday gifts taken care of, and then some. You contemplate opening an Etsy shop, then slap your own wrist.

The coffee table is clear. You sit down on the couch.

I wonder if I can find some yarn and crochet hooks. I think I still have them tucked away under my bed.

[chubsonthemoon]

Binderary week 3!!! These are three wonderful fics by dear friend @aboxthecolourofheartache! Box's writing is so so lovely--she can articulate the big, sweeping things in the everyday and ordinary, as well as accurately portray that wild mix of humor and grief you feel in the aftermath of tragedy. Literally some of my favorite writing ever!

Some process and design chatter, under the cut <3

From top to bottom!:

I'm caught inside every open eye: This is THE fic that made me officially adopt Daniel and fully accept him into my heart! Desire's POV is SUCH a delight--I've never wanted to both laugh and cry so hard in just under 2k words. Green and red/gold irises on the title page as color coding for the two disaster siblings! And the scrapbook paper cover was from a fun paper pack that was all neon and disco-y, which I thought was fitting :3 Also really fond of the title page font, which is called Retrolight! It gave me such groovy vibes~

The Politeness of Princes: WHERE DO I BEGIN with this fic??? I read it before I read the comics, got my heart broken, then re-read it after I had finished the comics and got my heart broken all over again in a fun new way T_T This fic also has one of my favorite tags ever, which is "in which gluten free peach cobbler is a metaphor for vital personal relationships"--and lemme tell you that gluten free peach cobbler IS a metaphor for vital personal relationships (reader, I cried so hard). Anyway, all of this to say: peaches! :3

The last scene also takes place at a potluck/cookout during the summer, so I wanted to give the cover a picnic vibe. I layered two pieces of scrapbook paper--one with the wooden table pattern, and one with the picnic tablecloth pattern over that. I also left a little strip unglued (see below) on the picnic pattern to give it some more TextureTM and as a kind of "edge" of the table (yanno that little flappy bit that always tickles your thighs when you sit at a picnic table? That vibe!)

Then for some fun touches I printed the leaves on vellum (my original intent was to make the leaves transparent for a dappled sunlight kinda feel, which...kinda worked? It's hard to see in the photos but you can kinda see through to the wood layer baha), then I went to town with my watercolors to make the grease/coffee stains on the tablecloth and the shadows under the leaves. (Actually might have gone a little too much to town LOL it kinda looks like I actually got grease on it XD). And then for the finishing touches, I added a layer of glossy paper mod podge to the tablecloth (which is acid-free and archival hell yeah!) to really give it that shiny vinyl/polyester feel and look (although it's kinda hard to see in the photos ajslkfdsj).

Uncertain Results: AHHHH this fic!!!! An absolutely bangin' convo between Hob and Dream with so much said and so much more unsaid--Box's take on their relationship is so fresh and hits all of my buttons. It takes place on the shore of the Dreaming under the stars, hence the cover! The title page graphic is one part of a larger graphic that shows the progression of a star winking in and out of existence, frame by frame:

Which, uh. Well let's just say it reminded me of an Event that happens at the end of the Sandman, an event which is heavily alluded to in the fic T_T This fic, unsurprisingly, also broke my heart! I love it so much.

And that's all from me for today! Thank you SO much, Box friend, for letting me bind your work! It was such a pleasure, and I'm so happy I get to put your writing on my shelf now to read whenever I want ehe :3 (and here's to hoping these books are at least somewhat passable, archival-wise ^^")

<333!!!

[itsthe-grim-reaper]

— BEWARE OF THE BOY NEXT DOOR

[!!] DARK CONTENT AHEAD. [!!]

@geronimowrites / @somecravings @mujinazaka ty for helping me germ ! / thank you for the motivation you two

TW; Drugging, Stalker!Kenma, NonCon/DubCon, generally Kenma being really fuckin creepy, GN!Reader

Edit:forgot to say it’s got anal lmao

Kenma was the textbook definition of the word shy. And the word…weird.

At least that’s what he came across to be.

He brought you in with a scuff of his shoe, eyes turned downwards. You pitied him as much as you would a frightened stray cat that you wanted to befriend. You didn’t notice that he gave those quick glances to your chest and ass, nor did you notice through your innocence that he was gaining ground. Getting closer.

Not until it was too late and he was on your doorstep.

“Make yourself at home!” You reply back to your newfound friend and neighbor, Kozume Kenma. He was a quiet man, and younger than you. You would call him shrewd in a way, his curled in demeanor reminding you of something not unlike a turtle.

“Thanks..” He mumbles back. Man of few words, you think as you put the kettle on for tea.

“We can do homework after relaxing for a while, if you’d like.”

He nods silently, sitting on the couch and going on his phone. You were his sensei, technically, since at school you were a TA for two of his professors. Thing was, he couldn’t help but want to be something..more.

He sneaks a picture of your behind before you turn around with the two mugs of tea, walking to the couch and sitting with them. You hand him one and when your hands brush, he winced.

“Too hot?”

“No.” Kenma takes the handle, hand shaking as he pulls away. His fast paced heartbeat was making the tea inside his cup shudder, ripples tearing apart his reflection in the surface. “It’s fine.”

“If you insist.”

He loved that about you. Innocent. Didn’t prod. Not anything like his best and one of his only friends, Kuroo. He didn’t consider you a friend.

He couldn’t keep it that way in your mind. You didn’t know how he felt. You needed to know. It was important before you had any nasty hands on you, before your naivety was tainted by some ill-willed man.

After you two finish homework, he makes his way to the bathroom. That’s where his plan starts to fall into place.

Camera 1. Settled in the bathroom, angled at the shower.

Camera 2. In your bedroom, facing your mirror.

Camera 3. In your bedroom, facing the bed.

He bids his farewells after the sun goes down. You think it’s too soon, and tell him of such, but he ignores you.

Kenma watches the cameras when he gets back into his apartment. He finds himself twitching in his pants while watching you undress. He feels dirty for palming himself at the sight, watching your legs as they kick off your pants. Your tiny smile in the mirror makes his heart flutter. It gets worse when you strip to shower. You do it so slowly, so carefully, before stepping in. He couldn’t stop his hand, he was so close—

“God..so hot.” He chokes out. He soon finds himself cumming into his fist.

He leans back, watching your shape move past the frosted glass. Kenma pants, body still shaking slightly from the surge of pleasure.

A few days later, Kozume gets more gutsy while he’s over.

He’s finding his hands briefly groping at you, and he finds enough confidence to steal a piece of underwear from your laundry bin and stuff it in his backpack. Something to add to his growing photo and scrapbook of you.

He thought he would’ve gotten caught, hand deep in dirty clothes and his phone flashlight on. But you never approached him for staying so long in your room. You simply wish him your usual, “Bye Kenma! See you again soon!” before shutting the door.

He finds himself watching the cameras again, huffing your underwear. After, and only after he cums so hard he sees stars, he makes plans to finally take you.

It was after a conversation with Kuroo (He truly was both a blessing and a curse, a true gossip.) that he figured out that you were a virgin. Through careful observation and manipulation, the door was locked, and it was just you two. No roommates. No friends. Just you two.

When you leave to go take a call, he slips something into your drink. A combination of aphrodisiacs and sleep medicine, meant to make you pliable for him. He wanted your first time with him to be as lovely as he pictured it, he didn’t want you to scream.

“Say, Kenma, how late is it?” You ask. He watches with silent glee as you drink the rest after a soft yawn. You looked so adorable, he leans forward and puts a hand on your thigh.

He smirks. “Not very late, senpai.” He replies, hands kneading the muscle of your leg. He feels you grow hot and squirm under him.

“What’s wrong, hm?” Kenma tilts his head, a predator in for the kill. Though, you get up and attempt to excuse yourself, you kick his backpack.

The contents, his pictures of you and all, slip out and onto the floor.

On a normal occasion, Kenma would have panicked and fled. Though now he knew you wouldn’t. Or rather, you couldn’t.

You stare slack jawed at the pictures of yourself. You find yourself slowly slipping to the floor, Kenma’s body pressing up against you.

“It’s all you..it’s always been you.” he murmurs into your ear. “Let’s get these off, shall we?”

Kenma makes quick work of your clothes, tugging them off your sleepy limbs. You struggle, but it’s futile. Your body doesn’t move how it shoulder. It’s too heavy. Your eyelids, your fingers and your arms. Your legs, and feet. They all feel as if they had concrete blocks tied to them.

You gasp at the cold feeling of your ass being exposed to air. The feeling of lube, and the feeling of his cock slipping inside of you.

“Ah..senpai..” He chokes out, pushing further and encouraged by your slurred pleas. “You feel so warm and tight.”

You try and move to get away, but Kozume grasps onto your hips and starts to thrust. You find yourself moaning, slumping against the floor as he moves.

“Mm...stop squirming so much..god..wow, your ass feels so good..you’re gonna make me cum so fucking hard..”

You try and shake your head, so he doesn’t cum inside, but his pace quickens and it makes you cry out in pleasure. It was hitting the best parts of your insides, and the drugs made it feel so much better. It didn’t hurt at all..what the hell was that concoction?

“Senpai..senpai I’m gonna cum..I’m gonna cum inside of you..” He whines. “Feels so good..I’ve been waiting..so long..to finally take you..”

You shudder when he starts to dump his warm cum inside of you. It’s disgusting yet hot, it keeps filling you as he pushes more and more inside, and his whimpers fade off with your consciousness.

Kenma is too weak to pull you onto the couch, he simply puts a pillow under your head and leaves you on the floor to sleep. He then sits on the couch and thinks. What did he want to do with you..

When you wake, he finally decides, he’ll do this all over again.

[rockingrobin69]

Robin Recs Rockstars: artists

Fanartists. Can’t live without them, really honestly what would even be the point, am I right? You make our days brighter, you give our dreams colour, you... catch my drift; fanartists deserve the world, but for now; here’s a small, awkward, really loving flail, celebrating several artist from this unproportionally talented fandom! (the first of... loads, probably!) Let’s get right into it. 

@crazybutgood​‘s origami is: heartfelt, brilliant, honestly unbelievable?? Like literally how—from adorable animals, to positivity cups, to the most beautiful fic recs, there’s nothing she can’t fold. Literally. Nothing. Also, have I mentioned, her heart is just the biggest. CBG so often uses her skill to uplift other creators, collaborate, and just shine her light on this world. For instance, check out the advent calendar, an example not only of her kindness, but also her immense talent!

 Support CBG: ~ko-fi~

@julcheninred​​’s art is absolutely breathtaking—the details, oh my god, just. There’s such depth to them, making every piece one you can stare at for a whole flipping day (trust me, tried and tested). The shapes, the colours, the creativity in every single artwork. How can there be so much story packed into them?! Unbelievable. And my god are they just so STUNNINGLY GORGEOUS!!!

Support Julchen: ~ko-fi~

@babooshkart​​’s art gives the softest, most exquisitely lush vibes; it’s so full of love, seeing it literally soothes the soul (I’m telling you from experience!) there’s comforting when you need it, there’s warmth and there’s heart, there’s joy, and just – just things to take your breath away. And just when you thought ‘such bliss, what more could we possibly ask for?’ - how about a straight up 25 pieces in a row? I know. What a dream. Jump into the fluffiest fluff in this twenty five days advent art collection.

Spit-your-juice hilarious comics? Yep, got you: gah, each comic strip @filthylittlepureblood​​ posts has me cackling like a mad duckling. What? I have no idea, it’s just – listen, honestly. Harry’s glasses, Draco’s expressions, the details in the background, it all amounts to this: the goofiest, most hilarious, loveable stuff you can imagine. Can’t imagine it yet? Here – you’ll thank me later.

@emmessee96reborn’s style is instantly recognisable – the light that shines through, the lines, the. I actually said ‘lines’, yes, you're right, I just don’t have the words!! It’s impossible for me to say what it is about their work that leaves me so breathless. Just that it does? It’s detailed and it’s funny and it’s absolutely, mind-melting-ly beautiful. Just like in this piece, for example. You see why I struggle, right? What words can convey this?!

Support Emmesse: ~Commissions~

It’s a bit hard for me to separate @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm​​, the artist, from joy the phenomenon. His heart, his humanness, all shine as clearly in his art as in everything else he does—deep, intricate, and so, so compelling. Every tiny detail is profoundly, decidedly loved; you can feel it down to the brush stroke of every star or twinkling light. Whether it’s a sad no oat milk day, or a moment of sunshine and happiness distilled into paint, you’re sure to feel it. Or without rambling: Joy=magic, okay? If you still don’t know what I’m talking about, check out this bit out of Draco’s scrapbook.

Support Joy: ~Commissions~

@pato-roldnart​​‘s art is... wow, I don’t even know where to start: the brilliant paintwork (is that a word?), the fantastic storytelling, the brilliance in every single piece. Can we spare a moment to shout MERMAID DRACO in unison, loud as possible? Because. My GOD. Gorgeous, compelling, full of light: feast yer eyes on this for a moment and take a deep breath with me. There’s so much more to discover. Here's one more example, although I know full well you’re already convinced!

Not only is @3lvendork​​ an immensely talented writer; not only is she a terrific artist; but she combines the two together? WHAT!  And if you thought we ever stood a chance, I dare you to look at this 80’s drarry fanart and tell me you didn’t come back breathless. Her pieces are insightful, captivating, and just absolutely spectacular. Enjoy her huge mind on this microfic but in: artform

The way @slytherco​​ draws is realistic and dreamy all at once (emphasis on the dreamy—there’s not a single character that didn’t make me stare at the screen longingly). The vibes, and the details, and the sheer hnghgnt - what else can I say, really? After drooling all over my keyboard? No, there’s simply nothing else: perfection. 

Support Slytherco: ~Commissions~

@caroll-in​​’s comics are at least ten levels above what I can describe in words: they manage to create such a complete, brilliant story in just a few panels (and every single time). They’re heartfelt, hilarious, impossibly endearing and just. So. Flipping. Gorgeous. Catch me staring at the wallpapers till I’m breathless; and please, how come each face is so endlessly expressive???

Here’s a comic strip that flew straight to my heart: Fly Me to the Moon

Support Karol: ~Commissions~

Do I have an embarrassing, explicitly unique squeal for when I see @t4tdrarry​​‘s  art? You better believe it. Can you blame me? The light, the textures, and the expressions in every single drawing (can we talk about the blush for a second? Or just, let’s sigh together? I mean. The blush). It can be dark, it can be fluffy, it can be sexy as all heck, but it’s always, always, stellar work. Case in point: (please the blush I literally can’t) – look, they’re snogging!

Support Kryptidfox: ~ko-fi~

[snek-panini]

I've got a little bit of a different kind of bookbinding post to share today. Have a look:

I made pamphlets! I've got a bad habit when learning a new craft of looking at easy, highly-recommended beginner projects and saying to myself, "That looks boring, let's do the much harder advanced project that we definitely don't have the skills for." So I actually skipped the part of bookbinding where you learn easy stuff like pamphlets until now, more than 50 books in. But I'm looking at maybe doing some charity commissions for cheap in the near future, and I thought pamphlets would be a good item for that, and it would help if I could show (a) what they look like and what the sizes mean to people who aren't bookbinders, and also (b) that I know how to make them and that they will look nice when I do.

From left to right, that's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (orange, letter folio), Tam Lin (green, legal quarto) and The Raven (black, letter quarto). They've got cardstock covers and the spines are reinforced and decorated with scraps from other projects. Have a look under the cut for individual photos, interiors, and to hear me talk about materials.

Sleepy Hollow has an orange cover with dark brown over the spine. Usually in a pamphlet the stitching is visible at the spine because it's a single signature, but I wanted to cover it for a couple of reasons. I think it looks more professional, it adds some visual interest, and it protects the stitching from getting snagged on anything. Both pieces are textured cardstock, and the title was printed and pasted onto a bit of scrapbook paper. It's got a line under it because the page I used to print all the titles had a smudge on it, and I miscalculated where it was going to fall on the printed page. So I went over it with a pen and now it looks like it was on purpose. Win-win.

Tam Lin has a smooth cardstock cover and chiyogami on the spine. A while back I bought a pack of assorted strips of chiyogami, about an inch wide, to use as decorative elements, and they're the perfect width for this. The interior images for all three books are free images from rawpixel, and one trick I like to use is to flip the beginning widget over at the end to make an opposing set, like bookends. Reduces the number of images I need to find, and still feels intentional and unified. All three of these are stitched with embroidery floss, so they've got coordinating colors--Sleepy Hollow's is green, Tam Lin's is gold, and the Raven's is red. Customization and theming made easy.

The Raven also has textured cardstock for its cover, but the spine is a scrap of gray book cloth. It also has the only oopsie in its title frame--while I was gluing the back of the red frame piece, it stuck a little to the page I was using as a drop cloth and left a white mark. I tried to cover it with ink but didn't do a very good job. The whole thing's a learning experience. I also played with the margins in this one so I could get the lines to fit better. Poe has a lot of words in each line. I wasn't sure this would work, but in such a small book the narrow margins aren't nearly as jarring as they would be in a full-size one.

Overall this was a really successful experiment. The typesets all together only took about an hour and a half since they didn't need proofreading, and even if they had that's a short job for a story this length. Everything else came together in bits and pieces over a couple of days, less than an hour per book for sure. Spine covers and title frames were all made from scraps so they didn't cost anything or use many materials, and except for the mistake on the Raven cover I think they look really good. And I have so many scraps by now that I could make them look cohesive. In the future I think I'll trim up the fore edges but that's the only thing I'd change. Very pleased, and I think this would make a good charity commission item if there's interest. I'll post more about that when the time comes, if I go ahead with it.

[gyuphorias]

Everytime I'm sick I remember that time hyuka pretend to rub moas belly because someone said they had an upset stomach and I just can't :( he's so soft and sweet and just, everything..

He's the type of boyfriend to just idly rub your stomach as you lay against his chest (oh I just know laying against his chest would be one of the best feelings, likes it'd be so soft yet so firm 🥺) and he'd be the type to run his fingers through your hair as he sings you to sleep.. he'd buy you matching plushies and outfits and just splurge on some extra random gifts because he just had to get them for you.. oh and he'd find it fascinating if you have freckles and/or moles, he'd just spend time counting them and telling you how pretty they make you look.. also thinking back to the anon who sent in the fwb asks, they mentioned he'd right everything you do together in a journal and I don't think it'd be any different in this situation, he probably has stacks of journals by this point (even if you're only a few months into your relationship), he writes about what you've done together, he writes about how much he adores you and he probably writes fanfic about the two of you (you can't tell me he hasn't already planned out your wedding in narrative form like two times), he'd have photos and random things like sweet wrappers and leaves glued to the pages aswell..

Also the type to trace shapes and words on your skin after sex.. he'd have this post sex glow that is just makes him look even more euphoreal and when I tell you he's the type to search the web for the nicest rated motel in the area just so he can spend the night with you minus the distractions that are created at the dorm or your place..

He'd start off by running a bath (it'd probably be a spa bath let's be fair, Hyuka doesn't mind spending extra if it's for you) , he'd probably put too much bubble mixture in and have to drain the bath and start again, this time he's careful not to overdo anything, he'd have placed rose petals ontop of the bubbles as well as lit candles around the bathroom and brought champagne/wine.. he knows it's a bit cliche.. but he honestly doesn't care, he'd than lead you to the bathroom and tell you to get in and that he'll join you in a moment; only to slip into the bedroom area of the motel unit to do the exact same thing, he'd light candles, turn the lights down low and cover the bed in rose petals, when he finally comes back into the bathroom, he strips down and enters across from you before gently reaching for your hand, inviting you to rest against his chest (istg hyukas chest is making me insane) than, once you're done in the bathroom, he can barely hold his excitement in as you begin to enter the bedroom area.. and he'd be that shocked when you cry out of joy, completely moved by the effort he's went too to put this together that he can't help but feel downhearted, he quickly starts apologizing and asking what's wrong, worried he's done too much, he's frantically rushing to blow out the candles and you physically have to stop him to let him know you're crying because you didn't expect all of that and that you love everything he's done as well as him </3 he'd definitely just sigh in relief before kissing you passionately, he'd definitely fumble around trying to put a condom on (Huening knows that he needs to wrap it before he taps it) and it's so endearing that you let him go raw.. and he's just like "really? 🥺 You're okay with that,"

-yh

I will admit I got a tiny bit carried away but I'm (always) in my hyuka feels and tonight is no different, also If it doesn't make sense I apologize.. I'm very ill right now :(

aw baby i hope you feel better soon :(

everything about this is perfect and makes so much sense. i think he'd definitely keep journals, using them as little scrapbooks. literally you could have gone down the block a convenience store at 2 in the morning to get snacks and he'd keep the receipt just to paste it into his journal when he goes home the next day. he just loves having little momentos from all the times you spend together. he thinks one day he'll show you, maybe when he proposes or something, but until then, they're his little secret.

and the hotel thing :( he definitely would. he just doesn't want anything to interrupt you two. he's got so much love to shower you in and he can't risk being at the dorms or your apartment for it to work. he takes such good care of the room and then later, he takes good care of you. he completely worships you, telling you how much he loves you, how much he truly appreciates your body, even outside of a sexual sense. he loves every single part of you and he loves them without conviction. he makes you feel so good, making you come as many times as you want to, crying with you from overstimulation, but he gives the best aftercare, cleaning you both up and cuddling you into his arms under the warm blankets. he spends the night confessing his love through quiet touches and gentle words until the two of you fall asleep </3

[handeaux]

A Passel Of Curious Cincinnati Street Names, Part One (A to E)

Annwood Street (East Walnut Hills) Most Cincinnati streets that memorialize people recognize men, but there are several honoring women. Anne (Bryan) Wood (1780-1867), for whom this street and a connecting lane is named, is also responsible for the nearby Wold Street, named for her estate. A native of England, Mrs. Wood and her husband James arrived early in Cincinnati and made a fortune in merchandizing. Their daughter Ellen married Judge Timothy Walker, one of the founders of the Cincinnati Law School. Although she died 30 years previously, warm memories inspired the neighboring community to preserve her name through the street signs.

Arcadia Place (Hyde Park) Soon after this 47-lot subdivision was platted in 1916, the new residents formed a neighborhood association that survived for decades. Every family on the street was automatically enrolled in The Arcadians, an organization devoted to fostering neighborhood pride. The Arcadians sponsored annual Halloween and Christmas parties as well as regular gatherings. They elected officers annually. When the subdivision was first constructed, none of the houses had addresses, so the Post Office refused to deliver mail. The residents adopted addresses based on the lot number of the parcel on which they had built their houses, so today’s addresses don’t match the standard city system.

Back Street (Over-the-Rhine) When Back Street was first scratched out of the northern reaches of the city, it was literally a “back street,” and that is apparently how it got its name. That’s according to Ray Steffens, a Cincinnati Post reporter who penned an invaluable series of articles, “How Was It Named?” that are treasured by local history buffs. So invaluable are these articles that they were collected by a dedicated librarian at the Cincinnati Public Library, where they occasioned a bit of a literary spat. Steffens pooh-poohed the idea that Hamilton-born novelist Fannie Hurst drew any connection between Cincinnati’s Back Street and the titular “Back Street” of her 1931 best-selling pot boiler. Apparently, on one of her trips through Cincinnati, Miss Hurst paged through the library’s scrapbook of Steffens’ columns, because this handwritten note is scrawled through the clipping for Back Street: “Not correct. Miss Hurst researched here, because I am Miss Hurst.”

Belsaw Place (Clifton) For reasons perhaps known only to the family, the estate of Thomas Sherlock in Clifton was named Belsaw and was uniformly praised for its beauty by the newspapers of the day. Mr. Sherlock immigrated from Ireland and made a fortune in Ohio River shipping and insurance. He died in 1895. Two years later, a short street on the southern side of Ludlow was renamed Sherlock Avenue in his honor. (Sorry, Baker Street Irregulars!) When Thomas’ widow, Nancy, died in 1899, the rural estate in north Clifton was bequeathed to the couple’s five daughters along with all the jewels, horses, carriages and artwork. When the estate was subdivided in 1921, it was announced as the “most exclusive” development in the city, with no houses allowed to be constructed for less than $20,000.

Boudway Lane (Westwood) Perhaps the most maladroit street name in all of Cincinnati sprang from the unrelenting necessity of police paperwork. Right on the border of Westwood and West Price Hill lies a minuscule stretch of pavement with no addresses, but lots of traffic accidents. In the early 1990s, the police appealed to the city’s public works department to slap a name on this anonymous wreck magnet. Since the tiny strip of asphalt, no more than 250 feet long, connected Boudinot Avenue and Glenway, the poets at City Hall coughed up a portmanteau word and christened it Boudway Lane. A few years later, the dolorous Boudway was subsumed as an extension of the equally mellifluous Glenhills Way.

Calhoun Street (Corryville) In 1843, John C. Calhoun, United States Senator from South Carolina, was very popular among the Democrats of Cincinnati. A proponent of states’ rights and limited government, Calhoun fiercely defended slavery and the interests of white supremacy. A group of Cincinnati Democratic businessmen wrote a public letter to Calhoun that year, inviting him to visit Cincinnati. One of the signers of the invitation was William Corry (1811-1880), among the children of William Corry (1778-1833) who owned all the land that was later known as Corryville. The southern boundary of Corry's property was a road named Calhoun Street in the 1840s, apparently in homage to the Southern firebrand.

Camargo Road (Madeira) A lot of folks, mostly men, are memorialized in Cincinnati street names. We have lots of streets named for presidents, governors, generals, businessmen, property owners and so on. Camargo Road – although its origins remain somewhat obscure – is likely the only street in this area named for a ballerina. Marie Anne de Cupis de Camargo (1710-1770) was known as “La Camargo” and lived the extravagant life of an Eighteenth-Century sex symbol. She was the first ballerina to wear slippers instead of heeled shoes and she is often credited with adopting the shortened skirt for the stage. As her name indicates, she had Spanish roots – Camargo is a very small village in northern Spain – but indications are that it is the dancer, not the municipality, that gave its name to our road.

Carrel Street (Columbia-Tusculum) When Columbia was annexed by Cincinnati, that venerable old town (older than Cincinnati) had its own Main Street and, of course, that duplicate name had to go. Reaching into history, the city fathers renamed the street in honor of Hercules Carrel, a legendary boat builder, whose operations were based nearby. Mr. Carrel also had a riverboat named in his honor, but don’t you wish the city would have named that street for his first name? Hercules Street! Now, there’s a name to be reckoned with!

Catawba Valley Drive (Columbia-Tusculum) Readers of Dann Woellert’s exhaustive history of Cincinnati winemaking know that most hillsides on the north bank of the Ohio were given over to vineyards in the decades before the Civil War. That was certainly true in the area around Alms Park. One remnant of those long-gone vines is a little street named Catawba Valley Drive, honoring the Catawba grapes that once grew here. At one time, Wine Press Road ran nearby, but was later incorporated into Alms Park.

Cross Lane (Walnut Hills) Walnut Hills was platted by the Reverend James Kemper, pioneering Presbyterian minister, who built his own residence there in 1794. That log house is now preserved at the Heritage Village Museum inside Sharon Woods Park. As an energetically religious man, naming a street after the cross would not be unusual, but Kemper’s intentions had nothing to do with his proselytizing zeal. He named all his east-west streets “Cross Lane” and numbered them. The only lane retaining that designation was originally named “Cross Lane No. 1.”

Dublin Court (Dillonvale) It’s a mystery why Cincinnati’s annual Saint Patrick’s Day shenanigans aren’t scheduled out in Dillonvale. Joseph Dillon, a proud son of the Auld Sod, platted the Sycamore Township community that he would christen with his own name in 1951. He remembered his birthplace by naming streets for Dublin, Belfast, Antrim, Killarney, Wicklow, Donegal, Wexford, and Limerick, and that’s no Blarney!

Elberon (Price Hill) With the popularity of J.R.R. Tolkein’s fantasy novels in the 1960s, folks could be excused for believing that this street was named for some elvish prince. In fact, capitalizing on that association a (very good) Cincinnati folk-rock group took Elberon as their band name. The actual origin of this street traces to the assassination of President James A. Garfield in 1881. After being shot in Washington, DC, Garfield was moved to Elberon, New Jersey, along the Atlantic shore, where it was hoped sea breezes would help him heal. That treatment failed and Garfield died in Elberon. Cincinnati was devoted to Garfield and commissioned a statue, still standing on Vine Street. Boyle Avenue was renamed Elberon in 1889, shortly after the statue was installed. Which only begs the question: How was the New Jersey town named? Turns out it has nothing to do with elves, nor (as believed for a long time) Native Americans. “Elberon” is a contraction of L.B. Brown, among the early settlers of that little seaside resort.

Eppert Walk (Mount Washington) Josephine R. “Josie” Eppert was 60 years old when she died in 1939. She had been a schoolteacher her entire adult life and was beloved by generations of children who attended Mount Washington Elementary School. She lived at the corner of Plymouth and Oxford avenues and walked home along a footpath that was later paved. Clifton Merriman, local real estate broker, suggested memorializing Miss Eppert by placing her name on the route she had traveled for decades.