#her house is so full of tchotchkes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tenderloviingcare · 3 months

Text

❀ *◦ luke pasqualino. cis man. he/him. homoromantic gray-asexual. ⇝ hey, isn’t that leonardo amoretto? i think that the thirty-five-year-old from queens, new york, works as a pediatrician at anchorage regional hospital, but outside of that people describe them as freshly ground espresso; dusty tchotchkes at the back of an antique mall; the blanket you always use when you sleep over at grandma’s house; and the steady click of knitting needles. i hear they are rigid & timid, but they are also known to be benevolent & gentle. consider giving them a visit at their home in delilah’s den gated community and get to know why they’re called the recluse.

➙ this muse has a stutter, which may sometimes vary in severity, and is written by someone with experience with speech impediments! ➙ leo’s gayness is inclusive of trans men and masc-presenting nonbinary people (as long as they are comfy with a gay man being attracted to them)!

full name: dr. leonardo cirrincione amoretto, md

dob: 15 september 1988

place of birth: queens, new york

languages: italian (fluent); sicilian (near-fluent); american english (native); latin (fluent); latin american spanish (very strong)

education: medical degree, columbia university

strengths: educated; compassionate; empathetic; dependable; perceptive; captive listener; logical; humble; benevolent; calm; dignified; polite; loyal; gentle

weaknesses: anxious; overthinker; rigid; enigmatic; passive; gloomy; escapist; pessimistic; shy; submissive; tense; timid

hobbies: cooking; singing; bicycling; running; watching movies; reading; antiquing; collecting vinyl records; ice skating; skiing; gardening; quilting; knitting; bowling; jigsaw puzzles; magic tricks

likes: snow; Christmas; his privacy; quiet time; trashy romance novels; good coffee; torta settevelli; freshly baked bread; The Princess Bride film; soul music; antiques; cooking competition shows; home improvement shows

dislikes: instant coffee; alcohol; excessively loud people; anti-vaxxers; drivers who don’t use their turn signal, whether they’re turning or changing lanes; the sound of styrofoam rubbing against styrofoam; sudden stops in pedestrian traffic; people who follow a gluten-free diet even though they don’t have celiac disease and are therefore unaffected by gluten

disabilities & health: major depressive disorder; seasonal affective disorder; generalized anxiety disorder

dr. leo amoretto shares very little about himself with his peers. though friendly with just about everyone he meets, he doesn’t consider himself to have many friends: he feels himself too dull to be of much interest to anyone. through quick conversation with him, though, you can quickly deduce from his accent that he’s from queens; and from his mannerisms that he’s painfully shy and high-strung, and old-fashioned.

the man known as many kids’ favorite doctor was adopted and raised by his sicilian grandparents in queens. his existence was an accident: his mother, only 19, had immigrated by herself only months prior to getting pregnant; his father was twice his mother’s age and was little more than a hook-up with a fellow italian immigrant. fabiana amoretto was an immature, irresponsible addict; and her parents, gianfranco and benedetta, made the decision to sell their deli business in palermo and immigrate themselves so they could be in their grandson’s life.

being in their grandson’s life turned into raising him completely, gaining custody of him when he was in kindergarten, as his mother would still often disappear for days at a time, totally neglecting her young child. she missed out on a brilliantly intelligent, and helpful and sweet, little boy. leo’s grandparents’ english wasn’t very strong, so he learned italian and sicilian as his first languages at home; while they enjoyed playing old movies and tv shows to learn english faster.

even from a very young age, leo hasn’t liked many eyes on him at once, shrinking in anxiety when too much attention is placed on him. the confusion of languages—italian and sicilian at home, english at school and everywhere else—combined with his crippling shyness formed a lifelong stutter that has diminished only slightly with time. as an adult in his 30s, he can control it usually; but if he has to speak for too long or if he’s in distress, it becomes far more obvious.

leo was always a dutiful child, learning to cook and do many household chores from a young age. this became even more important when his nonno—grandfather—was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer when leo was a teenager. leo had to take over much of the house work and cooked most of the meals, and would accompany nonno to appointments while nonna was busy working to support them. leo was doing all of this in between staying at the top of his class and completing community service for activities such as beta club.

nonno died when leo was weeks away from graduating high school. he’d always been a bit melancholy, but the death sent leo into a spiral of depression. it was late enough into the school year that he was already guaranteed to graduate as valedictorian, and he had been awarded many scholarships to several top schools; but he began floating through life. he didn’t go far for his undergrad years so he could be close to his nonna, who was soon diagnosed with a rare nerve disease called myesthenia gravis.

nonna died during the summer between undergrad and the beginning of medical school. leo totally buried himself in med school. his mother has only ever made occasional appearances in his life, begging for money; and he wasn’t very close with his extended family in italy.

being so intelligent and dedicated, leo had very little trouble getting a residency on match day when he was finished with med school; and after that, he quickly found interest in the pediatrics field: when you watch him interact with children, it’s plain to see that it’s much easier for him to interact with them than adults, and that he has a huge heart.

he ended up in anchorage as a way to put distance between himself and the memories of the past, not wanting to be surrounded by painful reminders. it’s difficult out here, as he’s just so damn shy, but he’s already gained a reputation as a diligent and caring doctor.

and if you manage to get close enough to him, it’s like having an italian grandma who’s a gay man in his thirties.

#anchorintro

4 notes · View notes

boojersey · 1 year

Note

☕ fave mcr eras and albums?

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OKAY OKAY I LIKE THIS ONE AND HOPE NO ONE HATES ME FOR MY ORDER BUT

1. revenge (obviously i mean look at me i am drenched in black and red at all times and gerards hair was just so nice) specific parts include flour face gerard and that photoshoot with the blood covering his hand in a building with brick walls and arches it looked like a church basement and the vampire one for kerrang where its a girls back and theyre covered in blood and hes biting her neck hehe, reasoning for it being my favorite is it has only one song i skip (ghost of you) and every other has a lot more that i usually do and just how theatric and dramatic but also edgy everything was, tbp is more theatric BUT theres more Hope vibes and this is that but with despair and blood and guns and coffins and that just appeals to me fundamentally way more especially when im in my bag. it probably has my most favorite songs too, like to the end cemetery drive jetset life and HANG EM HIGH OR MOTHERFUCKING DIE. maybe my favorite mcr song but im not thinking too hard when i say that

pic of my closet below lmao two of my favorite drawings ive done (theyre for sale wink wink! dm me if interested anyone, gerard is blacklight reactive)

2. bullets, its just so suburban i feel like I'm back in Jersey its October and im walking past cul de sacs and the sunset is bright fucking orange its fantastic its art in every sense and its full of sorrow bc its the closest album chronologically to 9/11 and gerard had the least sureness in the future but he was so confident and it just bleeds into everything so hard, my favorite moments in life are majorly moments similar to what i described. wearing a hoodie and jeans and converse and observing the way the streetlights color the concrete and asphalt, especially if theres been rain. chinese food from family restaurants and rolling rock beer and sitting at neighborhood playgrounds on the swingset rocking back and forth with the carbonation buzzing in your brain. favorite moments include the pic of frank and gerard smoking on pool chairs and that pic of them in some grandmas house with wooden walls and a china and tchotchke cabinet and lace curtains and im pretty sure mikeys sitting on the leg of a couch.it was my desktop bg for a year or two.

3. black parade; i really appreciate the death topic and i will admit i struggle to get on the Hope wavelength throughout esp in famous last words ykno the keep on living part but there are some of my favorite fucking demos like emily and all the angels and im Pretty surE desert song but smack my ass and call me a moron if its wrong. i will say visually other than the marching band outfits its the least interesting era, the white hair was just kinda there to me and no one else had anything outstandingly russling my jimmies. frank did have some cute hair curls on his bangs tho sometimes. i do rlly like the whole haunted vibe tho bc of the paramounts effect on them tho, when i notice it in songs and lyrics it is pretty effective in makin my spine straighten with the hollow eyed, sleepless and frankly a little scared nervous energy. house of wolves has been in my rotation the past month or so bc it reminds me of trevor gta a lot. wttbp i skip every time just about. i save that song for when people are trying to be emo allies and queue it on the aux or when it comes on the radio or in public. blood is AMAZING and reminds me a lot of the song air from the hair soundtrack, and i wonder if gerard was trying to specifically mimic that songs vibe because if u ask me thats very gerard. i think overall the concept and the lore of the album's fruition appeal to me more than anything else, i also love mother war and some of the other various character designs.

4. current era; im saying this because foundations of decay is literally that promising of a single and the shows' outfits are so wonderful and the energy and love and happiness is just so fucking palpable that i already know this is where the new album is gonna sit for me. its gonna be so fucking good. we all know this so well. favorites include nurse gerard the mikey fuckin way shirts and that slicked back hair gerard mmf yum

5. danger days; im SORRRY i just. the songs only appeal to me on a surface level aside from destroya and i always just get rlly bad feelings when i see pics of gerard bc i know he said he was starving himself and it makes me :/ more than anything else seeing him. i feel Bad saying he looked hot. this is also the only album with songs i actively dislike within. i will say that when i say i like destroya. i fucking Love destroya. its so good its so fucking good its everything to me. OH and im gonna include the killjoys comic in this and say that even though i love it so fucking much its not enough to put it above current era. its not that i dislike danger days. its that every other era is so strong compared in my mind that since something has to be last it will be this. favorite moments include the videos of them behind the scenes for na na na laughing and having fun the photoshoot with the backdrop where they're all underneath it and gerard looks like a fucking otherworldly being level insane like hes made of porcelain and the mv shots of them in the trans am at night especially going in the tunnel speeding ass out of town. i will add that i discovered mcr thru sing bc it was on a rhythm game i owned at 11 and i still remember the two days before mcr broke up when i finally remembered to give them a listen and openly cried watching them all die in the killjoy vids so theres a nostalgic rawness that part of me wants to leave preserved like an artifact at a museum.

anyway novel over those are my full thoughts on the mcr eras

things i didnt mention that i shouldve include the bat buckle the infamous stage kiss the spitting and gerard palming his cock through his jeans on stage lmao

oh also dewees is great and needs more recognition

#pretty sure i just spent 20 minutes writing this

3 notes · View notes

readingforsanity · 4 months

Text

The Wife Upstairs | Rachel Hawkins | Published 2021 | *SPOILERS*

Meet Jane. Newly arrived to Birmingham, Alabama, Jane is a broke dog-walker in Thornfield Estates - a gated community full of McMansions, shiny SUVs and bored housewives. The kind of place where no one will notice if Jane lifts a discarded tchotchkes and jewelry off the side tables of her well-heeled clients. Where no one will think to ask if Jane is her real name.

But her luck changes when she meets Eddie Rochester. Recently widowed, Eddie is Thornfield Estates' most mysterious resident. His wife, Bea, drowned in a boating accident with her best friend, their bodies lost to the deep. Jane can't help but see an opportunity in Eddie - not only is he rich, brooding and handsome, he could also off her the kind of protection she's always yearned for.

Yet as Jane and Eddie fall for each other, Jane is increasingly haunted by the legend of Bea, an ambitious beauty with a rags-to-riches origin story, who launched a wildly successful southern lifestyle brand. How can she, plain Jane, ever measure up? And can she win Eddie's heart before her past - or his - catches up to her?

With delicious suspense, incisive wit, and a fresh, feminist sensibility, The Wife Upstairs flips the script on a timeless tale of forbidden romance, ill-advised attraction, and a wie who just don't stay buried. In this vivid reimagining of one of literatures most twisted love triangles, which Mrs. Rochester will get her happy ending?

Jane is the neighborhood dog-walker, having left behind a sordid past in Arizona and taking on a new identity, she finds herself envious of the rich men and women in the neighborhood where she works. When she can, she swipes expensive jewelry from those she works for, a piece here and there, so they don't notice anything is missing.

When Jane meets Eddie, the young widower living in the large house in the neighborhood, their relationship goes from 0 to 60 very quickly. Eddie's wife, Bea, and her best friend, Blanche, whose husband Jane also worked for, died in what is assumed to have been a boating accident at Eddie and Beas lakehouse only a few months prior. Their bodies hadn't been found, though they are presumed dead. Having gone away for a girls' weekend in hopes to mend their broken friendship, the police assume that the girls had too much to drink, took out the boat and an accident soon followed.

Jane and Eddie quickly begin a relationship. She weasles her way into the lives of the women of the neighborhood. The gossip is almost too much for her, but she listens to every word. Eddie is busy running two businesses, his own construction business and the one that Bea created and what made her into a self-made millionaire. Soon enough, Bea is officially living with Eddie, though the thoughts of her past she has run from continue to creep into her current life when a "friend" from her group home days begins blackmailing her for money.

Shortly after, Eddie proposes to Jane, and she accepts. The two of them begin making wedding plans, albeit none that are very solid. Jane continues her charade of being someone she isn't, and she gets the feeling that Eddie is doing the same thing.

All the while, we get snippets of the past and present from Bea herself. Though she has been declared legally dead, she is not. Eddie has her hiding inside of a panic room on the third floor of the home he built, a panic room that he was insistent on having. Bea claims that Eddie is the one responsible for killing her best friend, and has now hidden her inside of the panic room because he wasnt sure what to do next.

And this is where Bea remains for months, even during the times that Jane was there, living there, making love to her husband there. Bea is aware of Jane's presence, as she suspects Eddie has begun seeing someone, to which he confesses on one of the occasions that he brings her food, water and things to occupy her time.

In the end, Blanche's husband, Tripp, is accused of murdering the girls. Blanche's body was removed from the water after having been discovered, and it is now being considered a homicide, as there was evidence that she was murdered and it wasn't just some boating accident. Tripp reaches out to Jane during his time out on bail where he could remain at home, unable to pose as flight risk enough to stay inside of jail to await his trial.

Tripp explains that he was invited to the lake house by Bea, that Blanche was surprised when he showed up, as it hadn't been the plan. He had passed out inside of a guest room, and hadn't even been aware that the two women had taken the boat out on the water. He wasn't even aware that anything amiss had happened to his wife until Monday, when she still hadn't returned home nor had she returned any of the phone calls he made to her.

He also explains to Jane that there was a possibility that Blanche and Eddie were having an affair, beginning at the time they had hired Eddie to do some renovations on their home. But, nothing was ever proved.

During Eddie's point of view, he confirms that nothing ever happened, and that he is also not the person responsible for Blanche's death and Bea's supposed disappearance. That he was simply protecting Bea, as she was the one who did all of the dirty work.

After her visit with Tripp, Jane tears apart the home she's been sharing with a man she realizes she hardly knows. When she finds a novel inside of his jacket pocket in a closet, she realizes that it is a handwritten note from Bea, whom Jane finds inside the panic room upstairs. Now that she's free, Bea can continue the charade that Eddie is the person who did all the dirty work, though Jane realizes that they're more alike than she realized, and that she can see right through her lies.

In the end, Eddie sets fire to the home in order to release himself from the panic room, where the girls had locked him away after discovering Jane had found Bea. Eddie and Bea were not located inside the fire, though it is presumed that Eddie had died after his teeth were found within the ashes of the home. Jane walked away with nothing more than smoke inhalation. Emily, a friend and former neighbor, takes her in and once again, Jane went from being the help, to the friend and back to the help in such a short span of time.

Ultimately, we learn that Eddie and Bea's relationship wasn't everything that it was cracked up to be. But, in order to buy Jane's silence, he had his will changed to give everything, his business and Bea's, over to Jane, who is now a millionaire herself.

Jane still isn't aware of what happened to the two of them, but she imagines that they are somewhere in hiding, with each other but happy, as it was clear that Eddie could never love her the way that he had loved Bea, especially after Jane found out that she was still alive. She has moved on, taking the dog Eddie had bought shortly after their meeting and creating a new life in another state.

0 notes

teenageread · 10 months

Text

Review: The Wife Upstairs

Synopsis:

Meet Jane. Newly arrived in Birmingham, Alabama, Jane is a broke dog-walker in Thornfield Estates—a gated community full of McMansions, shiny SUVs, and bored housewives. The kind of place where no one will notice if Jane lifts the discarded tchotchkes and jewelry off the side tables of her well-heeled clients. Where no one will think to ask if Jane is her real name.

But her luck changes when she meets Eddie Rochester. Recently widowed, Eddie is Thornfield Estates’ most mysterious resident. His wife, Bea, drowned in a boating accident with her best friend, their bodies lost to the deep. Jane can’t help but see an opportunity in Eddie—not only is he rich, brooding, and handsome, he could also offer her the kind of protection she’s always yearned for.

Yet as Jane and Eddie fall for each other, Jane is increasingly haunted by the legend of Bea, an ambitious beauty with a rags-to-riches origin story, who launched a wildly successful southern lifestyle brand. How can she, plain Jane, ever measure up? And can she win Eddie’s heart before her past—or his—catches up to her?

Plot:

Plain old Jane, the dog walker from Arizona, who has nothing to hide. With nothing for looks, or for personality, these bored housewives often ignored Jane and left the dog walker with their keys in the hope that their pets were enjoying their life. So when Jane slips a diamond earring in her bag, or a bracelet discarded on a table, none of the housewives catch on that they are being swindled. Because Jane has everything to hide. Not even her real name, Jane escaped Arizona with the hopes of catching an opportunity to make her life better in Alabama. This opportunity started with a dog walking service in the gated community of Thornfield Estates, and ends at the hand of Eddie Rochester. Eddie is recently single after his wife, Bea, dies in a tragic boating accident, alongside her best friend Blanche. With their bodies never being discovered, Eddie was left with Bea’s successful design business, and a house that is a bit too empty. Spending time with Eddie, Jane realizes he has everything that she needs: money, looks, power, and a palace that they can call home together. Letting Eddie into her life a little, Jane and Eddie's relationship picks up quickly from casual dates, to moving in, with Jane working towards a ring on her finger. However, they were still in Bea’s house, and everywhere Jane looks Bea has been there and done better. With the ghost of Bea haunting Jane’s every step, her and Eddie's relationship hits a rocky part as new evidence from the accident comes to light, and Bea’s ghost may not be as far as Jane had hoped.

Thoughts:

Rachel Hawkins writes this suspenseful thriller from the points of view of Jane, our girl trying to succeed at life, Bea who did succeed, and Eddie who was willing to do what it takes to protect Bea’s company. Divided into several parts, Hawkins mainly focuses on present day Jane, with a few flashbacks from Bea’s perspective in her and Eddie’s relationship, and Eddie’s perspective for the majority of the final chapters in order to end off the climax and finish the story. This added a lot of depth to the story, as where you learn about things at the same pace as Jane, you get those inside scoops from Bea, and then the final bit of madness of how all of this is connected by Eddie at the end. What I did not like, is that Hawkins spilled the story secret, quite early on in the story. Then again, it's not really a secret given the title of the novel. Still it leads you to knowing what is going on in the house, and then waiting for Jane to catch up; which takes forever. Hawkin does have a nice writing style as they kept the plot moving throughout the story, and added needed sparks in to keep the novel interesting, like opening up about Jane’s past, Eddie and Blanche’s relationship, and Bea's relationship with her mother. Still there could have been more thrill throughout the novel, despite the last few chapters, such as making Tipp more thrilling and less a loser. I cannot comment on this novel as a Jane Eyre retelling because I have never read it (it is on the list I swear!). However, I feel like in their own way Hawkins made this story unique as they have included both the real final ending of the story, and a previous scraped draft. Not very common, it was fun to read the way Hawkins ended the story, and another way they original throughout the storyline was going to go. Overall, it is not the most thrilling novel, but it is a fun one to read, full of twists and secrets, that will leave readers with a satisfying taste that only dark twisted novels can provide.

Read more reviews: Goodreads

Buy the book: Amazon

#The Wife Upstairs #Rachel Hawkins #book review

0 notes

incognito-insomniac · 2 years

Note

🏡❄️(aw) and 🦋for Erim *and* Liam :D and ☕ for Alysia! and 🌗 for Miranda. If that's too much... too bad! (I wanna hear about your Shep already :p )

THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR THIS ASK! I was so happy when you sent it and then i spent forever on the answers and also life happened. After a long wait here are my answers ^_^

🏡 Describe your OCs ideal house! Give us a tour around! What’s their garden like? Their bedroom? Kitchen? Where is it and how many people live there?

Erim Lavellan

Having grown up with temporary tents and halla carts, Erim is not picky. But he has grown accustomed to four walls, a large hearth, a big bed, and a desk. Those are the essentials. Ideally, he would like a cottage (A hut. A shack. A hovel if you will. ;P) up in the Vimmark Mountains of the Free Marches surrounded by towering pines.

Kitchen: He needs a cooking area, some drying hooks for herbs, big earth, well-worn stool, poker, kettle, pots, pans, shelves of bowls and dry goods. Then you got a table with a few chairs, a window looking over the kitchen garden, a pie.

Living Room: Shares the hearth with the kitchen. A couple overstuffed chairs, braided rug, and a bookshelf. A painting of the Emerald Graves he picked up in Orlais. A carved halla from Mori and Anla. A smattering of other tchotchkes from his travels.

Bedroom: Big bed. That's important. Hewn wood. Patchwork quilt and various woven blankets. Window looking out over the flower garden and maybe like a little pond or stream. Dalish tapestry depicting the summer solstice.

Office: Also has a window looking over the garden. A modest desk surrounded by bookshelves, mostly focused on history and lore. So many got it wrong. He's going to get it right. And he's going to right the wrongs made against his people.

Just him and Liam. Cozy.

Liam Hebert

Lol. Liam wants an expansive apartment along the promenade of a notable Orlesian city. He wants festivals, and exotic markets, and fine wares, and to feel the electric thrum of a vibrant city. So! It's a very good thing that they have such an apartment in Val Royeaux to use when escaping the heavy rains of the Free Marches or when called on for important business.

It is expansive in Erim's opinion. Liam finds it modest yet sufficient (it was the largest Erim would tolerate). They can host small dinner parties, put up a few guests, and generally lie about on plush sofas and ottomans.

The most lavish of rooms is the master bedroom which houses a massive bed full of pillows with elegant drapery and large scenic paintings. A bay window and balcony look out over the Waking Sea. This is where Erim hides out when he's had too much of Orlesian Society.

Overall the entire apartment is more than Liam needs or even would normal treat himself to. But he feels Erim deserves a plush gilded home to conduct his official business from and entertain his friends.

❄️ What makes your OC sad, so sad that they can’t help but cry all day? How do they cheer themself up? Does their sadness upset any of their loved ones too?

Erim Lavellan

Erim was pretty distraught when he lost Liam in the attack on Haven. He didn't cry, he was too numb. But he also doesn't remember much of the trek to Skyhold. He cried for days when Clan Lavellan was massacred. He chose diplomacy and it failed. His reaction was more screaming, crying, breaking things but only alone in his chambers….and in front of Casandra because he feels comfortable enough with her to express his true feelings and frustrations. His friendship with Cassandra is what keeps him going. She is a stalwart shoulder to cry on in place of his most beloved.

Liam Hebert

Liam cried when he lost his first husband, Bernard, in battle under the service of Duke Ghyslain. That is the most sadness he has ever felt. But there are also days the weight of the lives he has taken becomes too much and he feels such sorrow. He will not stir from the bed and Erim attends to him most dutifully on those days knowing full well the burden of snuffing out a life. It is this tender care that revitalizes him to strap up his boots and face his next fight.

🦋 If your OC could change everything (or just something) about their life would they? What would they change? What do they think would happen if they did? What would their loved ones think?

Erim & Liam

Their answer is the same. On the day of the attack on Haven, they would not get separated. Erim would not let Liam run off on his own to rescue his men. Liam would not let Erim run off alone to face Corypheus. They would not lose each other and would continue on their most wonderful love affair shortened too quickly. T_T

☕ Give us one (or more if you feel like it) of your OCs deep dark secrets! Why do they keep it hidden? Spill the tea!

Miranda Shepard

Deep dark secret….I have so little in mind for her background. I honestly don't know. It's probably that she's secretly been in love with Garrus from the beginning. Or that Joker is her favorite and she does treat him different than the rest of the crew even though she denies it. Or that she really appreciates what EDI brings to the team and would be interested in further AI tech if it weren't so stigmatized. Really truly it's how deeply she cares for her whole team. She plays a very care-free yet straight-laced soldier. But she would let the world burn for anyone on her crew. And at the end of the day, her deepest secrets are simply the things she keeps from the Alliance. She doctors her reports when morals warrant it. And then she does the same with the Illusive Man. Her superiors don't need the details on all the good she's doing in the system. (Okay well that turned into a better answer than I thought it would.)

🌗 Early mornings or late nights? What do they spend their time doing during these hours?

Miranda Shepard

Both? She has insomnia due to a smidge of PTSD from Akuze and a bit of workaholic perfectionism. So the wee hours are mostly spent mulling over reports, overthinking strategies, reviewing her past mistakes, doom, gloom, target practice, and blowing off some steam with Garrus ;P

#ask game #oc erimenthan lavellan #oc liam hebert #oc miranda shepard #my ocs

0 notes

ex-textura · 2 years

Note

Okay, Dorym Dad, consider; before the campaign, the airship three went to see Keyleth. Orym, being the Good Boy that he is, is likely to have taken the opportunity to visit his Mum. And taken his two beloved weirdoes with him. Imagine if you will, six foot tall Dorian and Fearne sitting in Halfing-sized chairs, at a Halfling-sized table of tea and food (Lil' Mister being the only one that fits). And poor Orym's Mum, who keeps shooting looks at Dorian and chattering away to Orym in Halfling

"about whether the blue boy is a friend or a *friend*? "I'm not criticising, Orym, I just want you to be happy! Is it just casual, you can tell me!" Poor Orym dying of exasperation, only to be made worse when, later that night Fearne briefly pretends that she can understand Halfling and had there slightest idea of what was being said."

Okay I love this more and more every time I read it.

Dorian and Fearne hunched over in their little seats, looking like adults at a kid's tea party. Dorian all bunched up in his tight stuffy clothes, looking back and forth awkwardly between Orym and his mother as they have a *very obvious* "Can we not talk about this right now???" conversation in another language. Fearne just absolutely fucking vibing with the tiny snacks and the tea and the whole weird mood. Just, nodding along and agreeing at all the right spots by pure coincidence.

I want to see this so badly. I really need someone with more talent than me to draw this because it is DYING to be drawn!

#orym of the air ashari #fearne calloway #dorian storm #critical role #dorym #greatgodempresspan #asks #no but actually i keep thinking about this again and giggling #imagine this in like fisheye lens persepective #bright colours #her house is so full of tchotchkes #god i love it

98 notes · View notes

hometoursandotherstuff · 2 years

Photo

Angela and Joshua’s home in Springfield, Missouri is full of vintage decor, plus 2 giant doggos and a cat.

“Our house was built in 1925; we love the original crown molding and overall charm of the home,” Angela says. (One of the doggos is brindle- I’m partial to brindle, b/c my dog is a brin.)

A self-described “collector,” Angela is known for scouring flea market shelves and curating items for her shop. As for the goods she keeps for herself, she has a knack for seeing potential in sometimes unassuming tchotchkes, giving them new life with a little buff or paint.

“We have a bohemian and Scandinavian style with an emphasis on feeling comfortable and cozy. We love natural textiles and vintage pieces.”

“Our favorite element in our home would have to be the kitchen. We love to host and entertain and the kitchen is where all the magic happens.”

“Our proudest DIY would be the kitchen! Joshua’s grandfather is an incredible carpenter and made all of the open shelving. (At 81 years young, by the way.)"

"He also helped us bust down a wall to open the space up. We had so much fun with him and with the Beatles spinning on repeat during the entire kitchen reno."

“We were able to convert the spare bedroom into a walk-in closet. Traditional 1920s homes have little to no closet space."

Their design tip: Make good lighting a priority. Proper lighting has the capacity to create a good atmosphere much more than most furniture or decor can.

The bath has a lovely old clawfoot tub and it’s done in classic white.

https://www.apartmenttherapy.com/vintage-filled-missouri-house-tour-photos-37002964

#vintage decor #flea market style decor #vintage bohemian decor #long post

78 notes · View notes

angst-fairygodmother · 3 years

Note

24, 28, 35 & 39 for Ryne and Derek uwu

24. Who remembers things?

Definitely Ryne for the day-to-day stuff. Although in Derek's defense...he has a hole in his brain. And he still remembers what's really important. (Mostly. It's imperfect but the fact that he tries is key.)

28. what kind of stuff can be found around their place?

I assume this means what makes up most of their "clutter."

Mugs (often still partially full), photos, cat toys (and later baby toys), Derek's shoes, chargers/cords, candles. Some other assorted knick-knacks and tchotchkes from places they go together or things they do (physical items to help with keeping the memories).

35. how often do they go on dates?

She doesn't think there's any reason to, given how much everyday time they spend together. But Derek tries to make there be a real date, even if it's just getting dinner out instead of ordering in or something, at least twice a month.

39. how do they spend Christmas and New Year’s (or equivalent family gatherings)?

Holidays are family affairs. Early on its going to Patty and Don's with everyone. But then once they have a house instead of an apartment, they become the ones to host most years, that way his sister can bring her family and both sides can be at one big event. They're smart and make it at least partially potluck so they make the main course and everyone brings sides/desserts. And there is music, and classic movies playing in the background, and a gift exchange, and as long as there's snow on the ground, they have a snowman building contest (that Sean and Derek and Rowan almost always manage to turn into a snowball fight).

New Years is a little bit more of a lowkey event, with friends over and takeout and board games. Most years they watch the ball drop, some they decide to test out those various internet claims that "if you start x at y time, z will happen at exactly midnight."

OTP/Domesticity Questions

#ask game #Domesticity/OTP questions #thinking about them and their family (and maybe Sean and a tiny curly haired babe of his own) and now I am a puddle of goo #Derek Sandoval x Ryne Cassidy #Trivia Tuesday #thanks for the questions darling #long post #sorry bout that

6 notes · View notes

thelastspeecher · 3 years

Text

Stanuary ‘21 - Week Four: Future

So, do y’all remember a while back, when I asked for scenes from the Stanley McGucket AU that you wanted to see but I didn’t write? Well, that’s because I had decided to choose that OG AU as my AU for this week, but was struggling to come up with how to handle the prompt.

Luckily, I managed to come up with an idea for it that I hope will bring the feels. The first part takes place at some point in the “Stan Pines, Farmhand” sequel to “Stanley McGucket”, while the second part (which was inspired by the sub-theme of “Epilogue”) takes place immediately after the last chapter.

Enjoy.

———————————————————————————————————–

The pickup truck came to a stop.

“I’ve got some chores to finish up,” Pa McGucket said. His voice was thick with emotion. At the airport earlier, he had put on a brave face, but once Angie’s plane took off, he immediately burst into tears.

Can’t really blame him. I felt the same way. Pa McGucket got out of the truck and headed for the barn. Ma McGucket, sniffling softly, exited the truck as well. With a sigh, Stan got out and followed Ma McGucket inside. Ma McGucket promptly disappeared into the kitchen. The clattering of pots and pans soon sounded. Stan had figured out early on that Ma McGucket liked to bake when she was upset or stressed. Hope she’s making cookies this time.

Stan trudged down the hall sadly. He came to the stairs that led to the second floor. After a moment, he began to climb them. The carpeting muffled his footsteps. He walked to Angie’s bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open the rest of the way. The room looked as it normally did. The bed was neatly made, books organized in a particular manner on the bookshelf, tchotchkes artfully placed on the dresser. Even the floor had been recently vacuumed. Despite everything being in place, it felt wrong without Angie, scolding Stan for peeking into her room.

Well, looks like we’re back to the house being empty. While Angie and her siblings had been visiting for winter break, the house had felt full and happy, like when Stan first moved in. But gradually, each sibling went back to school or their home, until Angie, whose spring semester started the latest, was the last one. She’s so energetic and loud, I could barely tell she was the only one here.

Stan stared at the empty room for a few more moments before sighing and closing the door. The sound of Ma McGucket’s new stand mixer – a group Christmas gift from Angie, Lute, and Stan – carried to the second floor. However, the radio kept in the kitchen hadn’t been turned on. Curious, Stan went back downstairs and into the kitchen just as Ma McGucket turned off her stand mixer. Ma McGucket looked up.

“I ain’t even put it in the oven yet, how’d ya know I was bakin’?” she asked. Her eyes shone in a way that suggested she was holding back tears, but other than that, she showed no signs of sadness.

She’s always been better at hiding her emotions than Mearl.

“You bake when yer upset,” Stan said. Sally pointed a wooden spoon at him.

“Watch what ya say, Stanley.”

“I’m just tellin’ the truth.”

“Hmph.” Ma McGucket crossed her arms. “I’m beginnin’ to regret makin’ yer fav’rite.”

“Chocolate chip cookies?”

“Yep. But I could easily change it to be raisins instead,” Ma McGucket said, raising an eyebrow. Stan held up his hands in surrender, eliciting a smile from her. The smile quickly faded, however, as she searched his face. “Is there somethin’ wrong?”

“No, it, uh, it’s just weird havin’ the house be quiet and empty again.”

“Yes, it certainly is,” Ma McGucket said softly. She dumped chocolate chips into the mixing bowl and stirred. “But I don’t think that’s the only reason yer lookin’ down in the dumps.”

“I…” Stan trailed off. Ma McGucket set the wooden spoon down. She walked over to the kitchen table and sat.

“Sit ‘n chat with me, Stan,” she said, patting the chair next to her. Stan sat next to Ma McGucket. She fixed her brilliant blue eyes, the same as Angie’s, on him. “What’s goin’ on, son?” Stan looked down at the table. He idly traced the scratches in the wood, which he had been told Harper made shortly after getting his first pocketknife. “Stanley, talk to me.”

“What am I s’pposed to do, Sally?” Stan asked finally.

“Yer goin’ to need to be more specific.”

�� “I just-” Stan sighed. “All yer kids went off to college. All the friends I made in school are at college. Ford’s at college. It feels weird bein’ the only one still at home.” His volume dropped sharply. “But, I guess I can’t really do anything else but stay at home.”

“Ah.” Ma McGucket leaned back in her chair. “This isn’t just ‘bout secondary education. This is ‘bout yer future.”

“Well, yeah,” Stan mumbled. He continued to resolutely avoid eye contact. “I don’t know what I’m s’pposed to do now. Can’t have a future if I don’t have a plan fer it.”

“Now, that just ain’t true,” Ma McGucket said sharply. Stan looked up in shock. “I was older ‘n ya when I fin’lly figured out what my future was goin’ to look like. And plannin’ didn’t have anything to do with it. Heck, the day I realized what my future was, that was the day I threw out the plan I’d had since I was a kid.”

“Whattaya mean?”

“To be fair, the plan weren’t really mine. It was my parents’. From birth, they planned on me gettin’ a law degree and then settlin’ down with some high society feller that they would choose fer me. But then the plan went off the tracks when I met Mearl at college. I started thinkin’ that maybe I didn’t want to do what I had always been told I would.

“My relationship with Mearl got serious. Serious enough that I decided to finally tell my folks ‘bout it. They…didn’t take it well. They told me, in no uncertain terms, that they wouldn’t support my relationship with a poor farmer who barely graduated high school. That day, I came to my crossroads.”

“Crossroads?” Stan asked. Ma McGucket leaned in, her eyes warm and wise.

“Everyone walks their own path. Ya come across a lot of opportunities to go a dif’rent direction, but they’re optional, where ya can stay the course instead of go somewhere else. Most of the time, those optional routes ain’t that far from yer original path anyways. But in every path, there’s a crossroads. A moment where the road ‘fore ya fully diverges. Ya can’t keep goin’ the same way anymore. Ya have to make a choice.

“When I came to my crossroads, I saw two futures ahead of me. In one, I did what my parents wanted. I would continue to live a high-society, comfortable life where I didn’t want fer anything. But I wouldn’t be happy. I wouldn’t be fulfilled. In the other, I stayed with Mearl, and let my fam’ly disown me. Money would be tight, I would have to work harder than I ever had just to get by. But I’d be with the person I loved.” Stan nodded.

“Yeah, you told me before that ya gave up yer cushy life to marry Mearl.”

“Only partially,” Ma McGucket said softly. “I didn’t just leave my fam’ly fer Mearl. I left ‘em fer myself. When they told me I couldn’t stay with him, that I would have to be with one of the suitors they already had lined up fer me, everything came crashin’ down. It was like I had been in a fog my whole life, only fer it to suddenly disperse, revealing everything I couldn’t see before. I saw just how much I had been under their thumb, under their control. I saw my future clearer ‘n ever ‘fore. And I saw the crossroads up ahead.

“I knew that if I left my fam’ly fer Mearl, there was a chance Mearl ‘n I wouldn’t stay together anyways. But even if we broke up, I would still be free. I’d say that it weren’t a choice at all, with how easy it was fer me to make it. But that would be minimizing its importance.” Ma McGucket met Stan’s eyes squarely. “I chose my path. I walked down it. I never looked back.”

“Why…why did you tell me that?” Stan asked, feeling slightly numb from the intensity of Ma McGucket’s story.

“Because one day, you’ll come to yer crossroads. You’ll see yer future ‘fore ya and have to make a choice.”

“But what am I s’pposed to do until then?” Stan demanded. He could feel frustration growing.

Just give me a straight answer!

“What do ya want to do?” Ma McGucket asked.

“I don’t know!” Stan raged. “That’s the whole point, it-” Ma McGucket held up a hand, silencing him.

“Are ya happy ‘n healthy now?” she asked. “Are ya content in yer life?” Stan opened his mouth. “Don’t give me whatever answer ya think I want to hear. Give me the truth.” Stan closed his mouth and stared down at the table again, the gears in his head furiously turning. After a moment, he nodded.

“Yeah. I am.”

“Then there’s no reason to change things, is there?” Ma McGucket said simply. “You’ll know what you want someday. You’ll see your future ahead of ya. But until then…” She placed her hand over his, smiling. “Just stay the course until ya come to yer own crossroads.”

-----

Finally, soft snoring sounded from the passenger’s seat. Stan glanced over.

It’s about time Ford fell asleep. Ford’s face was smushed against the window, his glasses askew. His snoring almost harmonized with the snoring coming from the back seat. Speaking of… Stan looked in the rearview mirror. He smiled. The source of the snoring, as he’d expected, was Emily. Even though she was much bigger than Angie now, she still had defaulted to resting her head on her mother’s shoulder while sleeping. To his surprise, Angie was asleep as well. Or is she?

“Ang?” Stan asked quietly.

“Shh, I don’t want yer pomegranates,” Angie mumbled. Stan chuckled.

Yep. She’s asleep. He turned his attention back to the road. With no conversation to hold his focus and the radio stations fading in and out, Stan’s mind wandered. Eventually, it settled onto the day Angie had left for college, decades ago. The conversation he’d had with Ma McGucket about his future.

“Just stay the course until ya come to yer own crossroads.”

“Never did find those crossroads, Sally,” Stan said out loud.

Unless…

Another memory resurfaced. Sitting on the side of the road, his back pressed against a tire, gravel prodding his legs through his worn jeans. A man walking over, crouching down, watching him with an expression so fatherly it felt foreign. An offer.

“We're lookin' fer a new farmhand. We're gettin' on in years, and our kids are gone most of the time. They can't help out as much as they used to.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm sayin' that if ya want a job, a nice bed, and three square meals a day, we can give that to ya.”

“What's the catch?”

“Only that ya work hard.”

“…Okay.”

The beginnings of tears pricked the corners of Stan’s eyes at the memory of Pa McGucket’s kindness and warmth. Ever since he had passed away, remembering Mearl made Stan wistful, no matter how positive the memory was. Stan hurriedly wiped the tears away. He smiled despite the sudden sadness.

The only thing he knew about me was my name, and he still took me in. Stan glanced in the rearview mirror again. More memories bubbled to the surface. First meeting the girl that would eventually become his wife, as well as his future brothers-in-law. Making up with Ford. Graduating high school. Getting married. Becoming a father. None of that woulda happened if I had turned down Mearl’s offer. Stan looked back at the highway, his smile broadening.

Y’know what, Sally? It happened a long time before we talked about it, but I did reach my own crossroads.

And I think I made the right choice.

#Stanuary #Stanley Pines #Ma McGucket #Angie McGucket #McGucket Family #Stanley McGucket AU #my writing #my stuff #I actually came up with this idea while I was at work #and mentally wrote like. the whole thing.#but by the time I got off work I remembered the outline and like none of the great lines I had come up with :/#(btw I did actually get an ask for a Stanley McGucket thing and am working on it)#(and if anyone has any other Stanley McGucket things feel free to shoot them my way #it's nice to go back to the OG AU sometimes y'know?)#speecher speaks

21 notes · View notes

arse-crack-thistle · 3 years

Text

rwrb winterfest - day 18 - music

@rwrb-fests

in which my dear princess bea needs a little comfort at christmastime (ace rep)

Bea always has a hard time around Christmas.

Part of it has to do with her father. She seems to find new pieces of him to miss every day. Today, it’s his laugh—the deep chuckle he lets out when David jumps on his lap and licks his face or when he’s had a little too much brandy and Bea says something sarcastic and rude about her grandmother.

She misses how the family used to gather around a table in one of the sitting rooms in Kensington and play gin rummy at Christmastime. The tree would stand tall in the corner. Their father insisted they decorate it themselves, despite Philip’s disapproval. It looked sloppy covered in tinsel and an assortment of colorful lights and ornaments. The star at the top tilted towards the left, but at least the tree filled the room with a delicate pine scent. The fire burned at a soft glow, and everyone around the table laughed and wore paper crowns from their Christmas crackers. It didn’t matter who they were, they were just a normal family.

Now, the room feels cold, even though the fire cracks across from her. In the corner, the bare tree sags. She hasn’t had the energy to decorate it herself since Henry’s been in New York, and while she and Philip have reconciled their differences, he’s never really liked this part of their family’s traditions. Her mother works a ton since stepping up as the heir apparent, so Bea didn’t want to bother her either. Her cat meows next to her on the couch.

Christ, she wants a hit. She wants something to wipe her memory and just let her be. She just might reach for the brandy on the liquor cart. Why did she convince Henry she could handle it being here? Or that she could handle him leaving?

No, he needs to live his life without her, even if she misses him. The hardest part about being ace is watching her people find their person.

She’s happy for Henry and she loves Alex, but she’s lonely when they’re gone. And with loneliness comes dark thoughts. And the chance she will relapse multiplies.

Bea should call her sponsor. Or Henry. Or literally anyone. She knows they’ll answer. She knows she’s loved. But the only person she wants to hold her and make Christmas special again can’t.

She really misses her father.

Bea leaves the room. She puts as much space between her and the brandy as she can. When her fingers itch for something, she must fill them, and the best remedy is music.

Her favorite room in this place looks exactly how she left it the day before. The piano sits, awaiting Henry. The mismatch of rugs were her idea—benders with musicians in Galway inspired her, or what she remembered of them did. The cat finds her way to her spot on the brown settee.

Before picking up a guitar, Bea passes tchotchkes from their travels on an antique side table. Nesting dolls from Russia. A Statue of Liberty figurine from their first trip to the U.S. A toorstag from Henry’s month in Mongolia. A coconut bra from Bea’s drunk cruise in the Caribbean. She’s since become a more sensitive and culturally-minded traveler.

She sits with the instrument on the floor, her back against the settee. This particular guitar was a gift from her father on her fourteenth birthday. It was handmade for her, and her initials sit just below the artisan’s label under the sound hole. The koa wood has a rich, dark finish; Bea likes to drag her finger across the wood grain when she’s deciding what to play next or when she’s lost in her thoughts in between songs. When her father first gave it to her, the sound was bright and lively, but in the time since, it’s become mellow and warm. Perfect for fingerpicking.

She plays a few chords as she tunes it. Her cat purrs behind her ear. Crystal from the chandelier above her twinkles. She settles in the quiet moment and plays.

But there’s no heart in it.

Bea thought if she changed her scenery, if she gave herself something to do, she’d get out of this riptide. But every song, every passing minute, pulls her further and further out.

If no one’s around to hear her play, is it really music?

Is this her safe space if no one’s here to create its harmony with her?

She’s so lonely.

And the tune is as frozen as she feels.

It’s times like these she wishes she wanted her grandmother’s happily ever after—marry a man, pop out a couple of kids, and be a dutiful royal. But she can’t. The thought of marrying someone, of making and raising children, of being a mindless princess puppet actually nauseates her.

If only she had her own community of people like her, she might be able to rely on Henry less. Her other married friends wouldn’t feel so bad for her. She could just go on ignoring her grandmother and Philip, when he gets to be too much. Her mother wouldn’t worry as much.

And not that she wouldn’t miss her father less, but maybe she wouldn’t feel so empty without him here.

Maybe the soul could find its way back into her music.

So Bea snaps herself out of it just enough to text Pez and ask for his Instagram login. She has a plan that her handler—and her grandmother, for that matter—would definitely disapprove of.

But fuck the crown.

Bea needs to take her life in her own hands and demand more for herself. She needs help to feel better, but she has to be the one to initiate. If Henry could do it, so could she.

Part of the AA mantra is to have the courage to change the things she can.

She’s got it, and she can do it.

Pez responds quickly and without question, of course. She sets her guitar to the side and downloads the app. After she logs in, she leans forward and rests the phone against the floor pouf in front of her.

Bea takes a deep breath and starts a livestream, and the viewer count immediately skyrockets. Her grandmother is really going to hate this.

“Um, hello,” she says. “I’m sure you all weren’t expecting to see me, but our friend, Percy, was kind enough to lend me his account for a short while. I hope that’s all right.”

She shifts a little uncomfortably. She never minded the spotlight as long as she could control it, but even now, she feels more venerable than ever. Last year’s Christmas pajamas hang loosely on her. Surely, her reindeer bottoms will go viral, as she sits with her legs crisscrossed in full view of the camera. Her cat mews.

“Yes, thank you for that, darling,” She says to her and then looks to the camera.

“I just wanted to come on here to talk to you all. See, as we’re in the holiday season, it’s all a bit overwhelming, isn’t it? And in all of this hustle and bustle, one finds they get a bit lost along the way.

“I’ve noticed this in myself every year, but this time it’s more frustrating. I’ve just been feeling rather lonely lately, as one can during this chilly time, so I thought maybe you lot have experienced that as well. I wanted to connect with people like me. I don’t mean, like, I want to wallow in my problems—or that I have especially difficult problems—I mean I know I’m very fortunate—I just—um. Let me—let me straighten this out.”

She sighs. This could be a disaster. She could come off entitled and whiny if she doesn’t focus more on her words.

“It seems the people in my life all have a partner, and I am so happy for them, truly. But I don’t want a partner or a relationship of any nature other than friendship. And so during this time of year—and, I suppose, other times as well—I find myself the odd woman out.

“For example, here I am, alone in this place, with only my cat, with whom you’ve already become acquainted. Now, I know I’m very lucky to have this, but it’s empty houses that can lead people down a dark path, isn’t it?”

Bea needs to say the words. She needs to make it very clear. She watches the screen flood with comments and hearts. Hundreds of thousands of people are watching, and tomorrow she’s going to be on every media outlet.

“I’m aromantic and asexual, if that wasn’t clear. I can’t and don’t want to fall in love, and not that it’s anyone’s business, I’m not even faintly interested in sex. And that may be confusing for some of you, but for me, it makes my life, my mind, make sense.”

She’s slowly but surely finding her way back to shore now.

“For years, I thought there was something wrong with me, but there’s not. I thought the only way I could be happy was to be in a relationship, but it’s not. And if you yourself are ace as well, I want you to know you’re not alone.

“This is the real reason why I did all of this. I was lonely and sad tonight, and I wanted you all to know that if you feel that too, it’s okay. I hope I can learn about and grow in the ace community—not to replace my happily coupled friends, but to explore new friendships with people who can understand what I and some of you are going though.

“We’ve been taught that there’s one way to be happy, and I just don’t think that’s true. And I’m willing to prove it if you’ll help me. Starting now.”

Bea reaches for her guitar and places it in her lap. She finds the first chord of “Horchata” by Vampire Weekend. A text notification from Henry pops down.

HOLY SHIT I LOVE YOU!!!!!!

A smile creeps up her cheeks.

“Something I love to do when I’m down is to pick out a little tune. If it’s all right with you, I thought I’d play a round for us. Maybe answer a few questions if you’ve got any.”

Bea picks the first note, and the tone is perfect.

She feels warmth grow in her chest and travel around her arms and down her back.

Like her father hugging her from behind, arms crossed over her shoulders.

Just like he used to do many Christmases ago.

31 notes · View notes

alias-b · 4 years

Text

sins of my youth. 004

Billy Hargrove x OC! Evie Fenny~ Also posted to my AO3

Summary: It was common knowledge that Billy Hargrove hated Hawkins. Hated Cherry Lane. Even loathed the strange girl next door. Evie Fenny wasn’t too fond of the chaotic Cali transfer either. An awful high school tradition sparks a chain of events that changes everything, ultimately bringing two frayed souls together.

A/N: Hello all! Pushing out a baby chapter early so I can focus on my other fic! Thank you so much for the support on this fic. Billy goes to dinner and Tries It. That's the chapter. :D Tag list open!!!

Chapter 4: No Day But Today

“Claudia, do you have the keys?” Mona crossed the salon floor.

“I do, we’re fine here, go on. Dusty is spending the night at the Wheeler’s place. Having some castle and dragons party.” She'd gushed.

“Feel free to close up early if we’re dead the last hour. Thanks, sugar.” Mona patted her back as she followed Evie out the door.

“Can I drive?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.” Mona smiled.

Evie was saving for a car. And college. And her future.

And it was a lot.

Truthfully, she didn’t care for school. It was in the way. Wished her lyrics could carry her straight to the red carpet before all those flashing paparazzi.

Wanting to unwind, Evie hid in her room when she got home. Shut the curtains and prodded at herself before the vanity. Sorted dangly earrings in a mesh metal display. Huffing to lean over when Bourbon swept into her legs. His little body shivered and she plucked him up.

“Okay, BB, you’re my best guy. You can’t let me down.” She scratched under his chin, gave him a little boop on the nose. “You take one look at that walking Def Leppard poster and you hiss and run. Got it?”

A purr.

“Good boy. You’re my only hope here. We can’t lose. Not to Billy Hargrove.” Arms let him down. She'd feel this sentiment often about Billy. A sigh. Evie applied a fresh lip color and paused. “Ugh.” She pushed up and didn’t change. Did her school work to get it out of the way and wandered out, turning the TV on to some game show. The savory smell of dinner wafted. “Need help here, Mom?” One tug and the ceiling fan spun, cycling cooler air.

“No, I have it. You can set the table for me.” Mona drained some noodles.

“Got it.” Plates and cutlery clicked around. Evie slid everything into place, perked up when the doorbell rang. Mona turned and smiled as her daughter adjusted fabric and fixed curls into place all the way to the door.

Evie half expected Billy to not even show. But, there he was. Sly smile and all. Billow of date night cologne. A vision in moonlight.

“Hey.” Evie said slowly. The surprise evident.

“Hey." He mirrored it.

"You're here." An exhale out. He blinked, found himself again.

"I was gonna steal flowers from the old lady’s garden across the way, but there’s a huge opossum in her trash guarding it.” He tilted his head, earring catching the porch light and she cracked a grin.

"Big Ben? Yeah, he's the neighborhood menace. Chief Hopper's nemesis because they get so many calls about it. You'd be a hero if you took him on." Evie persuaded lighter. His face fell.

"I'm not trying to die in Hawkins, Indiana. That thing was bigger than anyone on our football team."

“Color me impressed. King Billy didn’t want to do battle for the first time?” She actually teased him. Her nose crinkled when she smiled. Cute. “Shock and awe.”

Billy felt this tug pulse up his ribcage. Pulled a genuine chuckle from his lips. He had to look away to give it. Glowy in starlight.

“Sometimes I surprise people. I know my weight class and the pests here look like they were grown and mutated in some lab.” He shrugged into the door frame with one fist lifted, clicking his lighter shut. Hooded eyes all over. Evie went still as he leaned forward to her face with his tone lowering. “Am I allowed inside? Pretty please?”

“With cherries on top?" Bright, wet lips parted. His lashes fluttered, a baritone sinking. Bringing her with him.

"With anything your heart desires on top." Smooth.

"Huh. I guess. For now.” Evie stepped out of the way. “We go to school with plenty of those lab grown pests by the way.”

“No kidding.” Billy shrugged his jacket off and she awkwardly reached to take it. Hung it up behind her.

Evie turned to see him staring again and swallowed a hard lump down. Thought maybe he saw all the begonias blooming behind her eyes and up her throat.

“Billy.” Mona came out of the kitchen, arms out. “So glad you’re here.”

“You saved me from a sad date with a TV dinner.” Billy winked, charming Ms. Fenny to bits. She giggled and shook her hair out.

“Dinner’s got about ten minutes. Why don’t you show him around, baby?” Mona hurried back off, leaving them alone again.

“Tour? Great idea." He peered behind Evie. A mission at hand. "Where’s the cat?”

“Hiding from you, clearly.” Evie beamed, gesturing. “Welcome to the living room. Mom's showroom is a better word.”

“Your mom like tchotchkes or what?” He came to the full mantle. Scanning.

“How’d you guess?” Evie reluctantly trailed to his side.

It was strange to let this boy wander around and see little bits of her life. Guess things about her as he went along, trailing deft fingers about the fireplace. She wondered what was blooming within the pit of his stomach, if anything.

Mona Fenny's house overwhelmed.

Photographs, plants, and crafts. Little porcelain figurines. Too many handmade candles. Crochet projects. A full dollhouse on a table in the corner.

“My grandma passed a lot of craft skills down. She owned this amazingly strange trinket and voodoo shop in New Orleans that my aunts run now after Nana died."

"Your mom didn't stay for a piece of that?" Billy let his eyes trail over every little thing.

"Ah, I don't know. She was the baby and married pretty young. Seemed like she wanted something new," Evie peered behind her and whispered. "Never really got along with Nana like her older sisters did."

Billy hummed a little. Decided not to pry with Mona in the next room. Evie brought him to the corner and flicked a lamp on.

"Mom’s dollhouse is her pride and joy. Lights up and everything.”

“Tell me why your mother has a framed photograph of Dolly Parton next to a picture of you two on the fireplace. And the same photo shrunk down in the dollhouse?”

“Science may tell us the truth one day when the world is ready. And I fear for that day.” She replied in all seriousness and Billy snorted. Laughing.

A truly enchanting sound Evie decided she liked.

“And I have to say,” he plucked a photo off a bookshelf with a broad grin, “this one is my favorite.”

One of Evie on Halloween. Had to be about six. Dressed in the campiest pink daisy costume with a huge toothy smile.

“Gah,” she cringed and swiped it from his hand, “this house is a museum of embarrassment.”

“You’re into the museum shit, guess this is like our first-” Billy stopped himself from producing the damning word when Evie turned. Blushing. Oof. He scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh, you got a bedroom in here or do you sleep in the dollhouse?”

“You won’t find the cat that easily.” She caught him peering around again and led him past the kitchen. “C’mon, not much to the rest of the house. Garage. Spare room.” That used to be her dad’s office space. “Mom’s room. Attic up there and on this end. My cat's room that he lets me stay in too.”

The door was open so Billy prodded it to peek inside. Evie exhaled and flicked the light on.

It didn’t feel like a teenage girl’s bedroom. Not covered in decorations and pictures like the rest of the house. No posters cut from magazines covered in pink lipstick kisses.

A vanity full of disorganized makeup. Desk. Overfilled bookcase of novels and tapes. Crafts and trinkets she collected in labeled tin boxes. Dresser covered in jewelry. Music player. Bed. Closet. Couple of pictures taped by the vanity and headboard. Mostly Evie and Heather laughing and bright. Her beloved acoustic guitar propped in the corner.

It felt like it was decorated by one trying to take up as little space as possible. Everything was compacted. Billy eyed the wall by her bed. Realized most of the papers were notes with random lyrics and words patched together.

“Yeah, I tend to jot every little thought down even when I’m half asleep and hope it makes a song eventually.” She peered aside. It felt too intimate, letting Billy shift about the space.

"Hey, everybody has a method." Two fingers traced over a note taped up to straighten it. She caught the ring gleaming on his middle finger. “My-”

“Ah, don’t read them aloud, I may combust.”

“Oh?” Billy slunk toward her, licked his lips. A hungry way about it. Mouth watering fangs full of sweet venom. Wonder how they'd feel sinking into her throat. “Because I make you nervous, Angel?”

“No, it’s just...just…weird.” Evie pressed up into her desk. Billy closed the distance. Got within inches of her. “It’s weird.”

Repetition didn’t ease the sear of those ocean eyes drowning her too sweetly. She felt her chest fill and flutter all the way down. Flowers unfurled to be plucked and caressed. Billy pushed into the space until she was seated there on the desk. Scrambling further. Unable to climb the wall.

“You do seem nervous though, Evie.” His tone hushed. Fingers brushed her thighs and palms came to rest there. The bunched fabric of her dress barely separating them. She inhaled his cologne. Smelled peppermint from his breath. Chest heaving.

Billy knew this wasn’t part of the quest. If that’s what this was, maybe that was a nicer way to put it. Maybe rationalizing it a thousand times would help him get some sleep at night. Just show her a good night, cash in, and go home.

It still sounded shitty. Wasn't doing Evie any favors. This girl painted too many iridescent colors. They could bleed and Billy wouldn't step away if it pooled too close.

He liked to watch the blush spread across her freckled cheeks. Rose petals falling into a cool pond. Liked the way her nose scrunched when she smiled and when she was cross with him.

Billy didn't want her because she was a conquest. A challenge. Sure, she challenged him, that was part of it. And she also made him smile like he was looking at the rocking ocean waves again. Sand and wind kissing his warm skin. There was a mystery in those molten eyes he wanted to taste for himself. Maybe it was possible to just enjoy a person without strings.

To let colors bleed and swirl. To just watch it happen without fear or judgement. To not step away from it either. Just sink right in and create those echoing ripples.

It was too sweet and peculiar, how soft Evangeline Fenny was against the hard edges of his steel frame. So sharp, it warded everyone off.

But, not Evie, she fit perfectly against him. Fire with fire. It gave them so much in this world that had forgotten them both. Freckles to count. Eyelashes to wish upon. Flesh curves and razor angles to explore.

Hell, he even enjoyed how shaken she got as he neared and how still she went when his fingers trailed up her legs.

Evie watched his muscled chest rise, the saint pendant caught the light. Looked up at his eyes and then his mouth because it couldn’t be helped. Billy Hargrove filled Evie's space and lungs with sugary smoke. He was too many colors in one soul. So, he pushed further because those painted lips were big and full and right fucking there.

One curious taste, that couldn't hurt.

Brought his hand up toward her chin and leaned forth when…

“Dinner!”

Evie practically shoved Billy back. Scrambled up so the desk gave a rut. Bright red as he stumbled.

“Sorry.” She shuddered, passing him. Smelling of amber perfume. “Coming, mom.” Billy stared at the back of her hair. Blinked a couple times to pull himself together. To rationalize some.

Curiosity. A deadly thing and so sweet too.

It felt like he was dreaming and woke up sitting at the dinner table. Evie clicked a Coke in front of him, flashed a knowing expression that made him smirk before she sat down.

“Now, I left a bowl in the kitchen to cool. We always bring extra to Miss Abigail, she’s three doors down.” Mona was setting plates about.

“It looks amazing, Ms. Fenny.” Billy even shifted a dish to help make room for another.

“Please, Billy, just Mona. Ms. Fenny was my mother and she was a harder woman.” She set a glass of water down and smoothed her dress out, sitting. Billy went for his fork and his hand was snatched. Evie shot him a look as Mona reached out. “I always say grace. Don’t feel pressured to join, sweetheart.”

Billy peered at Evie’s warm hand in his and accepted her mother’s. Bowed his head a little so Mona could say her prayer.

“Bless us, oh Lord. For this and all we are about to receive, make us truly grateful. And thank you for bringing Billy to our humble table, may he truly feel welcomed in our home. Please guide and protect him. Through Christ, we pray. Amen.”

“Amen.” Evie offered softer. Lips lifting when Billy peered at their hands again leaving each other. Clearly not expecting such words from a neighbor.

“You’ll forgive me, Billy, some people say they leave their hearts open. I just let mine fill the room.” Mona settled a napkin in her lap. “May I ask, if your family is religious at all?”

“Dad’s Lutheran.” Which meant Susan was by default now whatever she believed before. “We don’t go to church or anything.”

As if Neil Hargrove could drag his son under a steeple without one of them spontaneously combusting.

“Well, that’s perfectly fine.” Mona cut each of her meatballs into smaller pieces which Evie mirrored. “Evie doesn’t attend with me when I go. Although, the choir sure misses her voice.”

“Mom...” A teenage whine, near silent as she prodded at noodles.

“She get all the solos?” Billy encouraged the pink spreading Evie’s cheeks.

“Oh, every single one. She’s even been asked to come sing the national anthem at minor league baseball games.” Mona prattled and Evie’s head fell back.

“Mom!” Another drawn out groan. Evie sunk down lower.

“Oh, Evangeline, let your mother brag about you.” Mona ignored her.

"Yeah, Evangeline." He chimed in, earning a harder glare.

“Now, Billy, you’ve been in Hawkins just over two months?” Mona continued. Blue eyes lifted from the plate before he gave a nod. “How are you liking it? I’m sure it’s such a huge change from California. You must miss the beach.”

“Getting used to the cold.” Billy speared a meatball and didn’t sound convincing.

“I’ll bet you’ve never seen snow before, your poor sinuses aren’t going to know what to do. Anyone in your family takes ill, just give us a ring.” Such a mom. “It took me a few years to get used to the cold here too. We moved when Evie was just a baby straight up from N’aw Lins.”

Billy bit his tongue.

“What type of music do you write?” Billy asked and there was a beat when Evie realized he was looking at her. Addressing her pointedly. Maybe to make conversation and suck up to her talkative mother. Evie’s back grew taut, lips opening.

“Evie’s gonna be a folk singer.” Mona had cut in. “Voice of an angel, she’ll make it big. She’s been in competitions, just one look from any talent scout and she’s sold.” Evie sank down again to go back to her food. Billy watched her roll a meatball around her plate like it was the most interesting thing in the room.

Mona Fenny struck Billy as a woman who always meant well. Frilly like a lace doily. So well, she steamrolled over you because she knew best. Evie barely got two syllables out before her mother was flicking her hair and boasting. A doll that constantly had the string in its voice box yanked.

Billy learned a great deal about her.

That Mona had been arrested twice in her life for marching and protesting. Civil and women’s rights. She joked that she hadn't been arrested for gay rights yet, but looked forward to the inevitable. She was a pageant queen too. Stopped when she found out she was pregnant and couldn’t compete after that. No bitterness there of course. She had a daughter to mold and complete the legacy now.

Mona insisted on taking the plates away. Grabbing her own, Billy’s, and a side dish.

Evie was still rolling that meatball around until Billy plucked up a fork, stabbed it, and swallowed in one bite. She perked with flushed cheeks. Glared again.

Billy wanted attention.

“Your mom is friendly.” Statement of the fucking millennium.

“Just wait til she busts out her old pageant scrapbooks. You'll never see home again.” Evie quickly flashed a smile and picked up her own plate to follow her mother off. Billy stood too, peered around. That cat had to be close. “Give it up.” Arms crossed when she leaned into the doorway working a melting ice cube around her mouth. Swallowed it whole instead of crunching. Water ran in the kitchen behind her.

“We agreed on an hour of television.” Billy matched her stance, saw her hip cock.

“Half hour.”

“Hour.” Billy went in to sit on the couch like he owned it. Legs spread. “Come on in, the water’s fine, Evangeline.” Evie plucked up the remote, sat as far away from him as she could. Turned the TV on to something campy just to make him suffer.

“Fucking Love Boat. Really? Susan watches this crap.”

“You said the full hour.” Evie flashed a smug grin. “I think The Golden Girls is on too.”

“Love Boat is fine.” Billy lifted his hand. Swiped the remote from her to set it on the other side of him. They both sunk in there. Eyes on the screen. Mona left them alone to bring the plate to their neighbor, stayed for conversation.

Billy fidgeted. Stretching to scoot closer so he could nudge his knee into Evie's. Her face remained at total peace. She pushed back at his leg which drew slow smiles upon them both.

“What kind of music do you really like, or does your mother always do all the talking?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Evie felt him peer back over and held herself. A beat.

“Yeah, your dreams. They don't matter." Came sarcasm. "A girl who wants her name in lights. Don't spend too much time feeling for the switch in darkness, Angel."

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just asking. You really want to sit in silence to this cheesefest? Young actresses paired with old ass grandpas playing love sick.” Billy put his arm up over the couch. Missed Evie twitch. Got his hand smacked for tugging her curl like a giddy little boy.

“I don’t know,” Evie faced him with a shrug, “somewhere in the rock and pop area. Maybe with a touch of soul. Not the hair metal I’m sure you’re into."

How beautiful she looked when she hoped.

"And my name in lights won't ever be enough, I need people to chant it too.”

Lips curled at Evie.

“Better than folk music.” Billy decided. Pride welled because she smiled too. Genuinely. Evie fiddled with her necklace. Delicate little music note caught the technicolor glow. Brown eyes turned to see him, she tried to bite the smile down. Failed.

“So, what’s the deal with this party thing? A dance?”

“One of many in the city. Bunch of high schools will probably run drunk through the streets with everyone else. No one will get carded because no one cares on New Years. Dancing and whatever. Watch the ball drop, it’s just the feral thing to do that night.”

“And you could score with any girl, but you’re asking me. It won’t be like a date or anything.” Evie dropped the charm in her fingers to see Billy’s eyes linger.

“You mentioned that. I know how to get out and have a good time without fucking. I have all sorts of tricks.” He noted the word didn’t make her wince. “Not looking to break your seal.”

“You’re gross.” Again, no argument on the details of it.

“You’re too tightly wound.” He paused, whispering. “Maybe not, but you hide it.”

"Nothing to hide, I'm an open book."

"A never ending record," Billy pushed into her so their legs pressed flush, "not nervous around me though."

"Nope." Her lips popped, fingers curling into the hem of her dress when his arm snaked behind the couch. "Not nervous."

"Not running either." That realization seemed to hit them both.

"Why would I? I can handle you just fine." She hissed at that because it came out sexual. Billy licked his lips and snickered, shifting to face her head on.

"Oh, I like the sound of that." He'd murmured, inches from her face. Evie found herself wondering how he managed to weasel his way in this close. Wondered why she was drinking him back in. "Picture this. You and this perfume enjoying a couple free drinks and some fireworks in the city. No strings attached. Not a date. Just those exploding lights and that chilly wind cooling your cheeks down, because you'll be blushing and you won't know it."

"Uh huh. I guess I can see it." Evie sized him up and crossed her legs to lean back into him. "You and the roar of a Camaro commanding the city to its knees. Glam and hairspray working their magic."

"I love an audience, Angel." Billy shook his head and froze because her palm came to his knee. Bold move. "But, I don't mind the front seat to see you blush too."

"What about you?" She whispered with a hum. "What makes King Billy blush? Does all the noise you like to make hide it?" A spark flitted up her eyes. Made his chest heave. "Is that your secret?"

"Come to the party, I'll tell you all my secrets." Fingers grazed up her arm when soft digits gave a rhythmic tap against his thigh. Billy went for it. "Do this dance with me."

"You don't play as hard to get as you let on."

"Not when I want something bad. Better to just play harder." Lips parted to hit that word. Her brows lifted at such an admittance. "You're sizzling up a fuse, aren't you, Evie?" She shook her head with a lazy smile. Eyes finding his again after. Near sultry.

"You have to light a fuse first, Billy, for it to sizzle." Her hand crept along denim. Felt him go rigid and part his thighs just a little bit wider before she sat back. "And the fire's out anyway. I'll make good on the deal. If you win."

"I hope you have a dress picked." Billy scoffed, breathless and still intent on her while she looked ahead at the screen.

“Time is ticking. As if you taking me out will do me any good." Evie rolled her eyes and reclined back into his side. Quite comfortably like she wasn't thinking about it. "Give me cool points so Tommy and Carol leave me alone.”

“They’re assholes to everyone. It’s not you.” Billy replied dismissively. Curled his finger into her locks behind the sofa.

“You don’t notice who they target because you’re too busy chasing skirts and fighting others yourself. Also haven't seen the writing about me on the bathroom walls. School hierarchy rules. Open those pretty ocean eyes and see the world for what it is. You're untouched because of your front. Everyone wants to be Billy Hargrove or screw him.”

Evie looked at him there, blinking.

"What side of the line are you on?" He bit his lip. "I can guess."

She plucked his hand from her shoulder and placed it back into his lap. Patted it for good measure.

“So, you really think my eyes are pretty?” Billy laughed when a square pillow nailed him in the face. "You said it before too! When we were drunk and you still think it now that we're sober. Telling."

Tension shattered. Evie glittered right back at him, teeth flashing. Still chuckling, he tilted his head back to create the magical sound. Quieted.

“Fine. I’ll pay attention if it helps you sleep at night.”

Evie blew air out her lips, let a curl fly up and bounce down. They watched the screen again. Shared a space. Maybe it shouldn't have felt so intimate.

“Episode’s almost over. Thanks for playing.” She about sang. Triumphant.

“I guess you have me, Fenny.” Billy pushed up. “Mind if I take a leak?” He was already pacing off so she said nothing.

Just watched couples go hand in hand into the sunset.

There was a flush, the sink running, and then Billy’s huge smile crept back down the hallway. The boy was gone all of three minutes.

Bourbon in his arms. Purring. Perfectly happy. Evie’s jaw dropped open.

“Guess who crawled out of the shower to eyeball my junk? Not that I blame him.” Billy quipped, scratching the cat’s chin. Bourbon rubbed back into the touch. Rasped his scratchy meow for more.

“Traitor...” Evie muttered, coming to her feet. “Damn it.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re mine now, Evie. Seven o’clock. Wear something short if you like.” Billy’s lips were pressed up. Such an ass.

"I call foul." Her finger lifted.

"And I'll be calling on you. New Years Eve. Just an annoying dance. It'll be fun and free." His chin gestured at her. "Just say yes, Evie. Get out of this small town and see some lights for once. You want your name in them so bad, you gotta look at the damn things first. No day but today. Right?"

"Right," a lengthy sigh, "but, the fire's still out. Bourbon, why? First, mom and now you. He's just hypnotizing you both.” Evie took the cat from Billy, watched his face scrunch.

“Your cat is really named Bourbon?” He said flatter.

“I found him when we visited family in New Orleans. Bourbon street.” She let the feline nuzzle into her chest.

“God, Angel, I hope your lyrics are more creative than that.” Billy lightened, chest shaking as he peered away shaking his pretty head. “Well?”

She pouted and if that cat wasn't between them, Billy didn't know what he would have done. Another time or place. Another pretty dress. Another shared beat of bleeding together.

That itched him the rest of the night.

“I’ll go. Seven. I’ll dress nice. It’s not a date, so don’t try anything and get me home in one piece. I reserve the right to leave you if you act like too much of an ass.” Evie grumbled some about it, defeated.

But, she wondered about the lights and what it might be like to share them. Suppressed all urges that longed to hope.

“That much I can do, I might even keep my ass in check. Don’t flake, we have a deal. I’ll be your Mr. Darcy or whatever.” Billy made for the door, plucking up his jacket as she opened it.

“That’s an impossible standard, but keep dreaming.” Evie sighed out. Watched him turn to beam. Offered a pet to Bourbon. “Least you got his name right.”

“Quick learner, I get points. New Years Eve. Don’t make me chase you, Evie, because I will.” Billy stepped off the porch lighting a cigarette, idly waved behind him.

Game. Set. Match.

“I’m not gonna be nice about it.” She called.

“So, you’ll be your normal, cheery self with me. Great. Won't ask for anything else, we have a good thing going.” He turned to wink, curling a final smile. Evie stilled, petting her cat before sighing into the cold air. “See you then, Fenny.”

“Whatever you say, Hargrove.” She shut the door as he climbed his own porch. Looked at her cat.

“You did this to us, I hope you’re proud.”

Bourbon blinked. Another rumbling purr in response.

** ** **

“The world...” Evie plucked an idle cord. Sang soft to not disturb her mother down the hallway sleeping. Nestled into the wall on her bed next to the window. “May think I’m foolish. They can’t see you like I can...”

Darkness shrouded save for a small set of twinkling lights around her bed frame. Eyes kept averting to the clock.

“Oh, but anyone...who...”

Another pause to see the clock. Eyes flickered out along the street marked with lamps. Cracking her window to see out. Nothing. Evie settled. Changed the tune to something original and plucked another heart string.

“Those ocean eyes… Drowning me out. What I wouldn't give to...” Her palm caught the vibrating cord to snuff the sound. A groan as she set the guitar aside. “Shit.”

That was not happening.

A car went down the street at the exact moment the clock struck eleven. Evie grabbed her coat and locked her bedroom door. Checked her hair and makeup before hitching one leg over the window. Felt the naughty thrill pulse into her heart as she snuck out.

Billy peered to see beyond his own window near the foot of his bed. Unseen in the pitch black space. Thought about catching her. It was always a Saturday night. Evie Fenny crept out like clockwork. Wearing something nice under a jacket she held close. Sometimes with the guitar on her back. Lips painted red. Went down the street and returned as the sun rose. He’d observed it often. Sometimes it happened on school nights. Two to three times a week. Never asked because it didn’t seem important enough before. But, now…

Billy knew a teen girl didn’t paint her lips red at eleven o’clock on a Saturday for just anyone.

Evie hurried down the street toward the woods at the end. Got into a shiny car. Disappeared until sunrise.

~~~~~

Chat with me about Evie & Billy and the impending Skirt Safari Dance! Thanks!

TAGGED:@80sbxtch @nottherightseason @orxhidshavana @alagalaska @alongcamedolly

#billy hargrove #Billy hargrove x oc #Billy Hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove fanfic #writing #mine #SOMY #Billy x Angel #Angel Fenny

43 notes · View notes

buttercupsfrocks · 4 years

Text

So, tumblr, by popular demand, (Hah! Get me!), here’s a loooong post on my living room display cabinet.

I started collecting 1930s ceramics when I was 17, shortly after my grandfather died. My dad, as his only child, was given the job of sorting through the contents of his flat, which is how I first came into possession of a couple of Art Deco nicknacks - a plastic jewellery box, which sadly fell to pieces, a chrome and enamel powder bowl, and an electric clock with a peach mirror glass face. Also this amazing uplighter seen, along with the clock and few pieces from the china collection, in the living room of my previous flat.

But back to my mid teens. At around this time I saw Cabaret on the big screen for the second time, and resolved shortly afterwards to reinvent myself as a Sally Bowles/Louise Brooks hybrid.

Thus the 30s became my thing. For life it turns out. Since I was still living in my childhood home in my tiny childhood bedroom, it started with beads and earrings as I didn’t have room to collect much else. The necklace I’m wearing here was one of the first things I ever bought – from the long gone Twentieth Century Box in the King’s Road – and the dress belonged to my great grandmother.

At some point though I bought this little Art Deco jug, which proved to be the thin end of the wedge. I knew it was a piece of cheap tat – it didn’t have a stamp on the base and cost a mere £1.75 from Camden Market – but I loved it then and I still do, crazing, cheap lustre finish, indelible stains and all

Before long it had found a friend in a Shelley jug and they’ve been together ever since. I acquired a few small pieces of Carlton Ware here and there, as it was cheap and commonplace, but the china collection didn’t really get going in earnest till I came face to face with these ...

... and these...

... Paragon cups, saucers, and tea plates. It was the delicate flower handles that did for me. My heart literally stopped when I spotted the whole lot filling a display case on a stall in the Barrett Street Antiques Market in St Christopher’s Place. I’d never heard of Paragon, which is comparable in quality to Shelley, before; and I’ve only ever met one other person who avidly collected it. The colour work here is a combination of basic transfer and hand painting, and I’d never seen anything so beautiful, nor coveted anything quite so desperately, in all my puff. Back then were three trios in each design, and they would have cost entry-level graphic designer me two weeks wages so it was a no go. I chatted to the dealer for ages, heaved a sigh of resignation, and left. Then fate stepped in in the form of some freaky, life-changing events: 1) My paternal grandmother died and left me five grand, and 2) The company I was working for decided on a radical restructure and I was one of those made redundant. I decided to use the money to start my own business – an illustration agency – and marked this momentous decision by returning to Barrett Street to buy the Paragon. I didn’t have the space to display it all until I moved into my own place a couple of years later but there was no looking back once I did.

Most of these pieces are made by Paragon too, the exception being the Royal Doulton cup and saucer on the right, which was a gift. The un-lidded sugar bowl on the left cost me two quid in a car boot sale while the lidded one in the front cost me under a fiver from another late King’s Road haunt called Eat Your Heart Out. With two notable exceptions, I’ve never parted with serious money for any of this stuff. I also rarely buy to sell, so not all of my collection is in perfect condition. Obviously it’s great when it is, but the cumulative effect of seeing it altogether is way more important. And the cumulative effect is pure joy. Which puts me in mind of the book I mentioned a couple of posts ago, which posits the idea that liking colourful stuff is not a mark of shallow, unsophisticated character, and that joy is not something innate without stimulus, but rather a reaction to the objects and environments that surround us. This resonated deeply with me.

I used to write in an alcove in the L-shaped hallway of my previous flat. It was a nicely decorated hall. Yellow-gold marbled wallpaper with paintwork a shade lighter and a yellow gold carpet to match. The light was good too. But I didn’t have many pictures in those days so the walls were blank apart from my grandmothers mirror; nor were there any shelves on which to house books or display tchotchkes. One day I started writing in my living room instead, which contained all of these things including my trusty display cabinet, and I realised I felt creatively stimulated; galvanised even. From then on I’ve always worked surrounded by colour, pictures, objects and books.

So, on with the show.

This adorable little person is a powder bowl from Germany. I don’t often go for figurative ceramics but I completely fell in love with her. She came from a junk shop and cost me about quarter of what she was worth at the time I bought her. Behind her is a Parrot Ware biscuit barrel, a gift from my potter friend Steve, who is also an avid collector of ceramics, and has contributed many pieces to my collection over the years. Behind that is a Parrot Ware plate I found in a junk shop in Lye in the West Midlands. To the left of her is a Paragon chintz ware trio, another gift from Steve.

The coffee cup and saucer is the only piece of Clarice Cliff I own. It was a present from a family friend back when I first started collecting. Then, as now, Cliff, Susie Cooper and Charlotte Rhead were the big names and overpriced accordingly, so I decided to concentrate on the more affordable end of the market. The hand painted Poole vase is, I think, from the 60s, as is the Royal Winton plate behind it, but I think they blend in well enough. The same can be said about this Brentleigh Ware breakfast for one set...

It came from a car boot sale many years ago. The rain was chucking it down and the sellers were so desperate to go home they practically gave it to me. How could I refuse?

This is the only glass piece in the cabinet. I’ve occasionally seen these swizzle sticks for sale individually but this is the only set I’ve seen with the matching base. Behind it is a pair of hand painted Czechoslovakian vases of the type that Cliff clearly ripped off. For that reason alone I feel they should be worth a whole lot more than they are. Russian folk art, as reinterpreted by the likes of Natalia Goncharova for Diaghilev’s Ballet Russes, was also a huge influence on the Art Deco movement. The majority of my pieces are simply 30s as opposed to full on Deco but the colour palette is often in keeping.

The green cheese dish is a Royal Winton piece I bought in the 80s, while the yellow one, a more recent acquisition from a charity shop, is Crown Ducal. Which brings me to something else. Video may not have killed the radio star but eBay definitely murdered the antique market. Some time in the mid 90s I consciously stopped adding to the collection. It was harder to find at a reasonable price and I also felt I’d reached Peak Thirties so to speak. Contributor No 1: Knowing how much I loved the period, my stepgrandmother had promised me a pair of French bronze book ends when she died. And although my mum and stepfather were divorced by the time she did, he honoured her promise on the understanding that I’d never sell them.

(AS IF!! These are the balls-out Art Deco bookends of my wildest dreams. I will never, ever sell them. Excuse the dust, by the way. These live, along with a lot more china, in my hall book case, and are lucky if they see a duster once a year.)

Contributor No 2: Prior to working in the World’s Loveliest Gift Shop® RIP, I worked for Steve for the six years he had one. But whereas Lynne restored and upcycled vintage furniture as a sideline, Steve's was vintage ceramics. His brother, who is also an antique dealer, occasionally sold stuff through the shop too. One day I came into work and had an instantaneous repetition of my Paragon experience.

This immaculate, unused Deco-tastic tea for two set is the reason I painted my living room purple. It’s most likely Czechoslovakian too, as indicated by the tiny plate. Too small to be a plate for cake or sandwiches, it was most likely for lemon slices, lemon tea being the norm in that part of the world. The moment I clapped eyes on it I was a gibbering wreck. I didn’t care how many days pay it would take me to work off the debt; it was indisputably Meant To Be.

Having thus snapped up the tea set and inherited the bookends, I decided I actually had sufficient on the 30s front, much to the consternation of my friends. But a handful of years later things began to change. eBay had stuck the boot in so hard that the vintage china dealers, who had previously pushed up the prices to you’re-’avin’-a-laugh-mate heights, started to throw in the towel on their businesses. And vintage ceramics started to show up in charity shops and car boot sales again – at it-would-be-churlish-not-to prices.

I started to find pieces like this...

...and this...

...going cheap as chips in the chazzas.

And those dealers who had somehow managed to weather the storm, were no longer charging stratospheric prices. (Unless they were flogging Cliff or Cooper or Rhead), so I was able to add things like this...

...and this...

...to the mix without feeling the pinch.

Should I emerge from this period of history with body and soul intact and raise the collateral I’m hoping to, one of the cosmetic changes I’d like to bring about in my home is to replace the built in hi-fi cupboard in the corner of the living room with another display cabinet, so I can move some of the china that’s languishing elsewhere in the flat into the living room too. Yes, I know it’ll end up looking like the ceramics wing of the V&A, but, frankly, what’s wrong with that?

Poor abandoned things.

Can’t you see they’re gagging to come and join their friends?

I imagine you’re losing the will to live now so I’ll sign off with my two Beswick fish, which are from the late 60s/early 70s and, despite having no connection with my other treasures, have lived on top of my display cabinet for aeons. Group similar colours together and you can get away with murder. Toodles!

#Look at my stuff!#Vintage china #1930s china #Art Deco #Thirties ceramics #Collections

10 notes · View notes

metatiki · 5 years

Link

Chapters: 2/? Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford Summary:

It’s Halloween! Which means Dorian is a grump, so Cullen has to think of a way to cheer him up. Whatever will he do?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What Is That?

It was October. Which meant Halloween. And that meant that Dorian was disgruntled. In fact he was as far from gruntled as it was possible to get without coming out the other said and ascending into a state of gruntlehood which would make even the most sour mood elevate into sheer, transcendent joy.

Part of it was the house. One of the agreements he and Cullen had reached when they became roommates was that Cullen could 'have' the house for October, since Halloween was his favorite holiday, and Dorian could have it for December, because New Year's Eve (and the partying that went with it) was his favorite holiday. Sadly, Dorian had vastly underestimated the sheer amount of tchotchkes which could be acquired in the pumpkin, skeleton, ghost, and bat shapes in all sorts of varying shades like orange, black, and, for a bit of flair, white.

And it had taken over the entire house.

Cobwebs on the bathroom mirrors. A skeleton hanging from the showerhead. Fake cobwebs lining the halls and the stair railing. Windows temporarily darkened with black curtains or witch halves smashed against them. Even the kitchen, normally Dorian's haven, had been transformed into a monstrous melange of ghouls and goblins.

It had been their first fight, one they quickly recovered from and called truce over, and the second year had been an improvement. At least the kitchen and Dorian's bathroom were off limits to being turned into Halloween Town on every day but Halloween itself, which was when Cullen would throw the only party he threw all year.

And Maker's sweet ass-ridden balls did Cullen know how to throw a party.

There were always at least one hundred people who showed up throughout the evening, wearing costumes that, as far as Dorian could tell, were designed to win the coveted Most Outlandish Costume Ever award. Krem and Bull had shown up the first year as a Bull with his Matador, complete with Krem leading Bull around by the iron ring in his nose--at least, until a trio of girls from the nearby college had led Bull right into the guest bedroom and proceeded to do things that even Dorian didn't want to contemplate. Leliana had shown up as Elizabeth I, complete with four-foot tall hair and a dress that he still didn't believe actually fit in her car short of magic. Varric had shown up as an incredibly detailed Indiana Jones meets Dracula crossover costume, and spent the whole evening telling the worst stories with a Transylvanian accent as he stroked the hair on his chest. Even Josephine had let down her hair--literally--and shown up wearing nothing but a bikini and a python.

In fact, Leliana and Josie had left together that night.

At any rate, Dorian had endured two parties; surely he could endure another. Aside from October, Cullen was a marvelous roommate, after all: clean, always on time or early with the rent, never encroached into Dorian's room, and, of course, devastatingly handsome.

Or was that a drawback? Or was it only a drawback because Cullen seemed breezily unaware of Dorian's growing and remarkably persistent crush?

Regardless, Halloween had come, and now Dorian was huddling in his room once more wondering if he should make the effort to enjoy the party or sulk in his bedroom again. He hated the choice, and hated his father more for sapping all joy from a relatively harmless holiday, even though he knew it was silly to hate either just because he was disgruntled.

With a sigh, Dorian rubbed his face as he considered what he could do. There was always his computer, of course, though the internet was absolutely rife with Halloween everything on tonight of all nights. He could do some work--there was always work, of course. Or he could lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling while he listened to other people having a good time.

And, knowing himself as well as he did, that's probably what he would end up doing.

When the knock sounded on his door, he started and blurted out, "Come in!" before he could think better of it.

The door opened to allow Cullen's head to poke through the doorway. "People will start arriving in about an hour. Last chance to come grab some snacks before the hullabaloo starts."

Dorian chuckled as he rolled onto his feet and stretched. "Right. Yes, capital idea."

Cullen walked away, though his voice echoed down the hall. "I got some of that Pumpkin Spice Ale you refuse to admit you like," he called back. "A full case just for you."

That made Dorian blush a bit, both that Cullen had remembered, and that Cullen was teasing him about it. He strode through the door, intending to give as good as he got. "I'll have you know that I only enjoy that ale on an ironic level--which means--Uh..." Dorian stopped and stared as Cullen continued down the stairs.

Surely I'm seeing things.

Hurrying forward, he plastered himself against the railing as he watched Cullen head into the kitchen, then hurriedly descended the stairs himself and chased after him. "Cullen!"

"Hmm?" Cullen asked. "Oh, is it the hair? It's not too red, is it?"

Dorian gestured towards the actual problem, which, while vastly enjoyable, certainly deserved at least a comment. "Your...uh...costume."

"Oh, this?" Cullen looked down. "It's a bit dated, but I think most people will get the reference, right? I mean, chili peppers are red, that's why my hair is--"

"I think it's more the...sock," Dorian ventured, unable to take his eyes off it. After all, it was the only thing Cullen was wearing, and it definitely wasn't where a sock was normally worn. In fact, it was quite a bit higher than that.

A grin slowly came to Cullen's face. "The sock."

"Or...maybe the fact that it's only...one sock?" Dorian suggested.

Cullen's grin grew into a downright dastardly smirk. "Why don't you take it off, then?"

Dorian resisted the urge to knock his ear with one hand. "Pardon?"

"Here, I'll help." Cullen grabbed Dorian's hand and placed it on the lone sock, helpfully wrapping Dorian's fingers around what was inside the sock as well. Stepping forward, he settled his hand on Dorian's hip and murmured, "Nice and slow. You wouldn't want to damage anything down there, would we?"

Much later, whenever the subject of when they first started dating would inevitably rise, Dorian and Cullen would simply exchange a glance and grin before giving their answer:

A sock.

#cullen x dorian #cullrian #dragon age inquisition #dai #fluff #dorian pavus #cullen rutherford #silly halloween fluff

12 notes · View notes