The thing is, Buck designed the shirt when he was drunk. It didn’t take any particular fashion prowess, and he’d gotten a coupon for the custom shirt website in the mail. Apparently, five tequila shots deep was the appropriate timeframe to have an epiphany, fumble around in his junk drawer for the coupon, and bring said epiphany to life.
The point is, the whole thing was a joke.
Unless you’re Eddie Diaz.
Buck walks through the front door of the Diaz household and nudges it closed with his heel. Some nebulously fall-scented candle permeates the room. Eddie had called him more or less demanding his assistance with the fall renovation, insofar as Eddie was capable of demanding anything. Anyway, Buck would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy watching Eddie’s “Agent of Renovation Chaos” alter ego make an appearance.
“Eddie?” Buck calls, stepping out of his boots. “Chris?”
“In here, Buck!” Chris returns, voice carrying from the living room. Buck steps around the corner and has to bite his tongue. Eddie’s back is to him in a familiar black t-shirt, the words, LEAVE ME ALONE, I’M RENOVATING screaming at him via enormous block letters. It was a joke. But ever since Buck gave him the gag gift for his birthday a couple years back, he wears it every time he starts on a decorating kick. And he wears it unironically.
“Hey, did you get started without me?”
Chris smiles at him from the couch, but Eddie is statuesque in front of the fireplace, deliberating between a sign that says Fall Into Gratitude and a sign that says Life is Gourd. Buck would never have believed Eddie Diaz himself picked those two placards off the shelf, unprompted, if he hadn’t been standing next to him when he did.
“Well, you gotta go with Life is Gourd,” Buck says, standing beside Eddie in front of the fireplace. “I mean, no contest.”
Eddie’s face is pinched in, lip pulled between his teeth. “You think so?”
“I mean, it is a pun. You can’t go wrong with a pun.”
“They’re both puns, technically, but that pun just happens to be better.” He plucks the other sign out of Eddie’s hand and nods to the mantle. “Now, I know you’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes trying to decide, so put that one up so we can move on.”
Chris makes a strangled harrumphing noise from the couch. “More like twenty minutes.”
“Ouch, sold out by your own son. That’s rough, Eddie.”
Eddie looks up for the first time, his brown eyes twinkling, always a bit calmer and brighter when in his interior design headspace. He puts the sign on the mantle and bumps Buck’s shoulder. “Come on, the other stuff is in the kitchen.”
Buck ruffles Christopher’s wild mass of curls on the way to the kitchen. “Hey, Ed, you will never believe what I saw on TV the other day. You would’ve loved it. Something about amateur home renovat—oof.” Something cottony soft hits his face. When he peels it off, he realizes it’s a black shirt. Eddie’s lips are pressed together when he meets his eyes. “Eddie.”
Eddie leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Buck.”
“What is this?”
“I don’t know. Look and see.”
Sure enough, Buck unfurls the shirt in front of him and the words, LEAVE ME ALONE, I’M RENOVATING (TOO) gawk back at him. Garish, blocky white letters. Exactly the same as Eddie’s. His throat tightens for reasons unknown. He can’t get his heart to behave. Feels like it might beat out of his fucking chest.
“We match!” Christopher’s voice, loud and excited from the entryway to the kitchen, and when Buck angles to the side to look at him, Chris sports his own black shirt with the words, RENOVATOR IN TRAINING emblazoned across the back.
Buck drops his gaze to the shirt in his hands, looks up at Eddie, is immediately swept up in two warm, brown pools of fond. “Do you like it?” he asks.
The laugh that blows through his lips is thick and wet. “Yeah. Yes. Obviously.”
A broad, coy grin cracks Eddie’s face. He ducks his head a moment, hands shoving in the pockets of his jeans, and then nods to himself. “Good. Alright, let’s get the rest of this stuff up. Chris wants to watch Hocus Pocus.”
Eddie and Chris leave the kitchen, and Buck hears them engage in a decidedly one-sided debate over the specifics of his bedtime. He can't tear his gaze away from the shirt, and the warmth that percolates through every nerve ending and fiber of his being feels like a fever, feels like something he wants inside him forever.
He slides the shirt over his head, over his long-sleeved V neck, twists around to peek at the wording on the back.
“Buck!” Eddie calls. “In your own time, obviously!”
“Patience is a virtue, Eddie," he retorts, but the smile twisting his lips softens the bite. He grabs the rest of the bags off the table and joins his boys in the living room.
143 notes · View notes
Luss House, Ossining, Westchester County, New York, United States
Designed in 1955 by Gerald Luss,
“At the Luss House” An exhibition of art and design hosted in collaboration by galleries Blum & Poe, Mendes Wood DM, and Object & Thing.
114 notes · View notes
Scarlett becomes a young adult!
1 note · View note
Hey it would be fun to draw the Waterloo diorama Eddie made
- famous last words before suffering
15 notes · View notes
Beverly Hills Cop II (1987)
50 notes · View notes
4 notes · View notes
Gracey Manor, The “Haunted Mansion” Directed by Rob Minkoff,
Production Designer: John Myhre Set Decorator: Rosemary Brandenburg.
208 notes · View notes
MERRY CHRISTMAS @knight-tormund im your secret santa!!!! HOPE YOU HAVE A WONDERFUL HOLIDAY AND THE NEW YEAR IS FULL OF JOY!!
*:･ﾟ✧ ヽ(゜∇゜)ノ *:･ﾟ✧
eddie and katie hanging out and drinking hot cocoa! with christmas sweaterss!! im secretly jealous of eddie’s sweater
13 notes · View notes
Give us your thoughts. The red umbrella, the house plants, the grill, who is this new buck we have met.
I mean the person you probably want to ask is @kitkatpancakestack of Interior Design Eddie fame.
But! It seems to me to be somehow more vibrant and alive than the majority of his apartment?
Buck’s apartment is very like industrial chic right with exposed brick and the pipes and the poured concrete counter tops and shade-less hanging lights and the railings around his loft. So the balcony having colour? The plants? The umbrella? It’s alive it’s growing it’s colourful in ways the rest of Buck’s apartment isn’t. It’s not homey like Eddie’s place but it’s closer.
And I’m gonna clown about the fact the only person we’ve seen in this homiest place in Buck’s apartment besides the person who lives there is Eddie. Because Buck’s true home is Eddie and we all know this to be true
53 notes · View notes
1.6k words, Purge! AU, Enemies to (Possibly) Lovers, Beware of swearing
Mastermind! Hyunjin X Fem! Reader
Music: Ponzona by Purple Kiss, Boca by Dreamcatcher, Double Knot by Stray Kids, Criminal by TAEMIN.
A/N: HELLO I HAVE RETURNED HHH- here is a little something I’ve been sitting on for a while >.< It’s a new concept I’ve never tried before so I thought it would be fun to try it heehee ( It was an entry for kpopscape’s 21stpurgescape event) ANYWAYS- ONTO THE FIC!
Part- 2 here
The Annual Purge: A 24- hour period in which all crimes are legal and emergency services are suspended for the entire period. Government officials designated as “level 10” are fully protected from harm.
March 14th 2021 ( 7 days to The Annual Purge, 2.34 a.m)
This was a mistake.
But in honesty, it was too late for retrospect.
Panicked thoughts swirled and eddied in your mind as you were led down the tastefully decorated corridor, flanked by 2 masked and heavily armed men. It must have made for a rather odd sight, you realized- a girl in a torn and dirty cocktail dress, earrings and necklace glinting diamonds against the soft lighting, harmless and unassuming- led through this establishment like a dangerous criminal.
But then again, to a corporation that ruled the city’s annual Purge, the city governor’s daughter would seem like a threat.
The corridors branched out into closed doors that were likely bedrooms or studies- you found yourself focusing on the interior design of the palatial mansion as you were walked towards a destination unknown to you. You really should have thought through this more.
What were you thinking, walking into this entirely defenseless?
“What business do you have with us, doll?” one of the guards had sneered when you’d walked up to him in all your dinner-party glory, claiming to have an audience with the head of the house. “You seem like the kind who belongs anywhere but in this kind of company.”
You’d refused to answer, only repeating your demand. In reality, you were barely able to keep your voice even, mind still reeling from the sights you had witnessed in the past hours. It was all you could do to push for an audience, knowing full well that this godforsaken association would likely be the only thing standing between you and sure death if you were caught.
Soon enough, you were allowed into the premises of the mansion, the dead-man logo spray-painted on the walls a dead giveaway to who it belonged to- The Faceless.
The Purge’s royalty. They controlled almost everything that could happen in the 24 hours of the Purge. It was like Christmas day for them, jumping from roof to roof and wreaking all the havoc they planned a year for. Nobody was allowed to go against the rules they set, lest they be hunted down and gunned to death. Nobody dared cross them, for there was no winning against the many-headed, many-armed monster the Faceless were. Even the government steered clear of them, letting them conduct their business by themselves in fear of being overthrown or murdered collectively.
In other words, they were the only ones who could do anything with the information you brought with you.
Lost in thought, you almost didn’t notice being maneuvered through a set of dark double doors and into a huge study, lined with shelves and shelves filled with books. One wall was entirely made of glass, overlooking the city lights, a table placed in front of it. Somebody sat at the chair, blonde hair and strong shoulders facing you as the person stared out at the view the windows provided him.
The guards stood in silence next to you; it seemed you were expected to do the talking now. So you cleared your throat, hoping to bring yourself to his attention.
“I know who you are.” The chair turned around, bringing the speaker’s face into the dim light- your breath caught in your throat. He was beautiful. Blond hair grazing his shoulders, hooded eyes scanning your ruined dress, sensuous lips curled in a frown.
“The city Governor’s daughter, am I right?” His voice was a smooth tenor, no emotion in them whatsoever. “How did you find this place?”
The cold tone sent shivers down your spine, but you steeled your shoulders, refusing to let yourself be intimidated. You’d interacted with enough men who felt entitled to your attention and opinion to school your expression into one of matching unfeeling.
He scoffed, lips curling up in derision. “I’ll need more than that or I’ll be inclined to believe you’re a government spy.” You shrugged, before launching into an explanation.
The Faceless were truly lax in their security, you felt- it was laughably easy to find them. Their aboveground company was a set of shell companies with no assets or business operations called Inferus- literally meaning faceless in Latin. It took barely 3 days of searching to find a contact who led you straight to the entrance of the very establishment you were standing in: one of the holding spaces for guests and new recruits near the heart of the city.
The man’s eyes scanned your figure and face as you spoke, his expression shifting from thoughtful to amused to reluctantly impressed.
“You must have contacts in the wrong places to find us,” He chuckled, leaning back on the chair. “But the fact remains, that I didn’t have an audience with you.” The man stood up from his chair, making his way around the table to step closer to you. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put you on the top of the Purge hitlist right this instant- or even better, dispose of you right now.”
It was a struggle to keep your expression even, voice unwavering at the sound of the dreaded Purge hitlist that the Faceless left for the world to see, mere hours before the Purge began. There had not been a single Purge that ended without the Faceless crossing off every name on their hit list.
Hearing the way the man spoke about it, he was too familiar with adding names to the list and making sure to follow through with the threat and judging from the ease of his stance, he had not a single fear of you walking out alive if he wished otherwise.
“Because killing me brings you nothing.”
“Oh, but I’m sure there are people in this vicinity who would beg to differ, ma’am.” A dark tinge of danger slipped into his tone, sharpening his icy speech. “Why, the governor’s daughter found dead in her bed the night of the Purge… that sounds like much more than nothing.”
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic-
“Why kill the daughter when you can kill the father?”
At that, he stepped closer to you, head cocked in curiosity. He moved with a catlike gait-grace coiled with strength, limbs long and likely accustomed to quick movement. For a second, your heart sank; were you doing the right thing?
Standing in front of somebody who was important in the Faceless, defenseless, your hopes for safety riding on nothing but-
All at once, the events of the night came to mind, the chill seeping into your veins not one of fear, but of something colder, more dangerous- betrayal. You sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm yourself before meeting the man’s eyes.
“The Governor plans to destroy the Faceless.”
Almost instantly, the guards flanking your side stiffened, their grip on your arms tightening. But the man in front of you still stared at you with his dark gaze, calculating, shrewd. Nodding at the guards to let go of your arms, he turned his attention back to you.
“Why did you come to us with that information?”
“Because it’s- it’s part of a bigger plan. To abolish the Purge altogether. I found out that my- the Governor wants to make an example out of the Faceless and degrade the Purge at the same time.”
“What do you think we should do about that, hm?”
“Add the Governor to the Purge hitlist.”
A stagnant pause passed through the room, before the man burst into laughter, his eyes curling into crescents and head thrown back. You stiffened, not expecting that kind of reaction.
“I’m not joking, sir-”
“I just-” the man let out another mirthful giggle. “I’m so amused that you think us fools. That you have the gall to treat the Faceless like your paid assassins’ den.”
Your brows creased in indignation at his words, apprehension lacing your thoughts. Was this truly a bad idea?
“No, I didn’t mean it like that-”
“But of course not, doll.” The man walked closer to you, his eyes now glinting dangerously in the dim light. “Rich girls like you are just used to having your way, yes? And when it doesn’t happen, you throw a temper tantrum. This is just your way of throwing a tantrum, isn’t it?”
He turned to walk back to the chair, taking a seat and staring at you scornfully. “What did your father deny you this time? A sports car? The Moon?” Your eyes narrowed at his words, blind anger bubbling up your lips.
“Do I look like a rich airhead to you, sir?” Stalking towards the table, you slammed your palms onto the surface, leaning forward to look the man in the eye.
“I wouldn’t give a flying fuck about you or the band of anti-heroes you lead if it wasn’t for the fact that your aggressive rebel behavior is nothing but a façade. Your Purge list targets criminals ignored by the law, government officials with black money and political leaders who were corrupt behind the scenes. You’re capable of entirely fucking up the government order and my father is intimidated by that.
“So forgive me, sir,” you murmured, your voice level and almost pleasant throughout your tirade. “If you think I’m a child throwing a temper tantrum because I am sure as fuck anything but that.”
Your last words were met with silence, as the man in front of you raised an eyebrow, seemingly looking at you in a new light. Gesturing to the guards to step out of the study, he turned back to you, an amused smile curling up his lips.
“Take a seat. If you do hold concrete evidence for what you claim, I must hear it.”
Choking down a sigh of relief, you lowered yourself onto the chairs placed in front of the table, thanking your lucky stars that you were still alive and talking.
“And for the record, my name is Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin.”
Taglist: @aliceu @decembermoonskz @cuokka @lavenderbexlatte @straykidsownmysoul @stellarmonsterr @soya-zz @fylithia @bythesunnotbythemoon @luminois @moonlight-hyunjae @illicit-roses @cotccotc @popisdead @kisskissbanggang @sungieshines
Network Tag:@inkidz @districtninewriters @kpopscape @fluffyskzclub @angstyskzclub
Thank you for reading! Do let me know what you think! -Elliana
159 notes · View notes
The only light on in the Diaz household when Buck walks through the door comes from the kitchen. The wedge of muted luminescence spills into the hallway. He shoulders the door closed and drops his keys on the narrow corner table, and the beacon of light draws him forward.
Eddie and Christopher are in the kitchen, predictably, Chris at the table and Eddie leaning against the counter with his phone in his hand. The clock on the oven reads 6:30.
“Hey,” Buck says, and both Diaz boys glance up at the same time, identical grins cracking their faces.
“Buck!” Christopher exclaims, and Buck darts over, settles a hand on his shoulder so he doesn’t have to get up. He stoops and wraps Chris in his arms, presses a kiss to his mass of curly hair.
“Hey, buddy. Your dad made breakfast, huh?”
Chris pouts at the plate of eggs. “He burnt the toast. And the bacon.”
“Yes, well, as I have told him numerous times, that’s what happens when you get impatient.” He flashes a cocky grin up at Eddie, who is pointedly averting his gaze to his phone. “I’m only ten minutes late.”
Chris pushes the eggs around. They don’t look terrible, to give Eddie the benefit of the doubt, but the empty space where the toast and bacon are supposed to be is glaring.
Buck rounds the table and leans against the other counter, catty-corner to Eddie. When the other man doesn’t look up, he nudges his sock-clad foot with his own. “Hey.”
Eddie cuts him a short look. “I’m not hopeless. I can make toast for my son.”
“I know that, Eddie.”
He turns wearily toward the trash can, where Buck imagines the burnt carcasses must lie. “I just got distracted.”
“I know. You’re always distracted on Saturday mornings, which is why I make breakfast while you obsess over our plan of attack at Target.” He pulls a pack of bacon out of the fridge and grabs the open bag of sliced bread. “Chris! I’m saving breakfast!”
Chris cheers, raising his fork victoriously in the air.
Buck maneuvers easily around the Diaz kitchen, flitting between the fridge and the stove, dancing around Eddie. Their shoulders bump together when he reaches past him to grab a mug out of the cabinet. He catches sight of Eddie’s shopping list out of the corner of his eye.
“Jesus, Ed,” he says, angling to read the phone screen more clearly. “Feeling ambitious today, are we?”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “There’s a lot to get.”
“It’s just, we’re at the critical juncture here, Buck. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Not to mention the seasonal transitions. That one magazine said winter decor is what’s in this year and if I want to beat that asshole Reggie for the cover page I have to get serious.”
Buck catches his own reflection in the darkened screen of the microwave. A lopsided grin curves his lips. A warm, tingly sensation blankets his body. “Do you hear yourself right now?”
He punches a couple buttons on the coffee maker and moves back to the stove while the coffee brews. “I tried telling Hen and Chimney how neurotic you are about interior design. They didn’t believe me.”
“Because I’m not neurotic.” Eddie’s face twists around the word, like it tastes bitter in his mouth.
“You are, and you know it. And then I even brought in that feature page you had in that magazine, and I showed it to Bobby, and he didn’t believe me! I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes. There’s so much ammunition here, so much blackmail potential, and I’m the only one who knows.”
Eddie pockets his phone and his attention lasers in on Buck, like a spotlight, which causes Buck to immediately avert his eyes. It’s a lot. Borderline too much, most times. It almost seems stupid, but Eddie’s undivided, unwavering focus is such a meaningful gesture, one that takes root in Buck’s chest and grows and grows until he could suffocate beneath it. He wouldn’t mind suffocating beneath it.
The coffee maker beeps as Buck divvies the bacon and toast among the three of them. Eddie sets two cups of coffee on the table, for him and Buck. They share a smile. Easy. Warm. Comfortable.
“Dad, can I pick out something for my room today?”
Eddie nods, biting into his piece of toast. “Sure thing, buddy. Have something in mind?”
"I’ll know when I see it.”
“That’s my boy.”
Buck rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop smiling.
They finish the breakfast with spatters of airy conversation. Chris excuses himself from the table to get dressed and ready for their Saturday Shopping Extravaganza. Buck clears the table with Eddie in silence, and their dance around the kitchen resumes. Dishes in the sink, emptied coffee grounds in the trash can, the orange juice back in the refrigerator. A black backpack materializes in Eddie’s hands, and he drops three water bottles and four energy bars inside.
“Four energy bar kind of day, huh?”
Eddie yanks the zipper on the backpack closed. “We went over this. Critical juncture, Buck. Critical juncture.”
They stand in the kitchen together, side by side leaning against the counter, waiting for Chris to get ready. The sun climbs its way up the sky, easing streaks of pale grey through the window. Buck taps out a rhythm on the counter. Eddie is fiddling with the straps of the backpack beside him, jaw working back and forth the way it does when he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to start. It’s a familiar maneuver. Buck lets him torture himself. And then finally, in a soft voice that is nearly engulfed by the hum of the heating unit clicking to life, he says, “Thank you, Buck.”
It’s not what he expects. He scrapes his nail against the lip of the counter, chin ducked against his chest. “For what?”
“For just . . . being here. For showing up when you say you will. For helping make these Saturdays fun. They are so important to Chris, now.”
Buck shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. They’re fun for me, too.”
Eddie breathes out a “yeah,” along with a laugh, pushes off the counter and swings the backpack over his shoulder as Christopher’s crutches clack down the hall. “You ready, Superman?”
Chris smiles. “You bet! Buck, can we get chocolate chip ice cream today?”
Warmth. From his fingertips to his toes, dripping through his veins, forming a molten core in his chest. “Yeah, buddy. You got it.”
He watches Chris amble toward the door. Eddie walks by him, and his hand trails along the counter, over Buck’s hand, up his arm, a brand against his skin. Their eyes lock and Eddie smiles, and then he joins his son by the front door.
“Buck!” Christopher calls. “Ice cream!”
“Not for at least another four hours,” Eddie corrects, and Buck hears his keys jangle as he collects them off the hook. The front door opens and they head out. Buck is left in silence, in the familiar stillness of the kitchen, bathed in the iridescent glow of the rising sun. He still hears Christopher’s laugh in his ears, still feels Eddie’s hand on his arm. It’s a pocket of space that only exists in that moment, between one breath and the next. Yeah.
These Saturdays are important to him, too.
106 notes · View notes
Look who I made in the Sims, even including his birthmark (which I made as CC myself).
He has a different, larger and more luxurious loft because I’m playing an AU story line where he and Eddie are soccer players (which I intend to write soon). I’m still in the process of making all the characters and locations.
Also, man, it was so hard to find the right hair for Buck. The shade is a bit TOO blond, and it’s a bit long, but all the shorter ones had bad textures or a hairline that went too far into the forehead. So yeah, close enough I guess.
I can put him on the gallery if anyone’s interested, but I have to export all the CC first and make a list, and particularly find the link for the hair.
I’ve also made Eddie and Christopher. Gotta take more screenshots of them, though, but here are a few:
Isn’t he just adorable? :-D Seriously, that’s the cutest, prettiest Sim child I’ve EVER made.
I spent a lot of time arranging these couch cushions ;-)
Eddie, too, has a slightly different, bigger house, but I tried to mimic the essence of his interior design while making it all a bit bigger and more expensive.
I’d put the houses on the gallery, too, but they’re full of CC.
36 notes · View notes
Eddie plays chess while his granddaughter Athena eats
so the thing about the tiktok au is. is. if eddie makes a tiktok to lowkey stalk buck's fire-safety-thirst-traps he definitely also gets into interior design tiktok right
like there's no way that doesn't happen.
21 notes · View notes
Trading Places (1983)
125 notes · View notes
a little musing about how esme discovered her knack for architecture and interior design. cw: brief mention of domestic abuse
Carlisle had bought the Ashland estate at a bank auction. The previous owner was a widow with no local children who wanted the home; so, it was sold for practically nothing to a mysterious doctor and his even more mysterious ‘brother.’ Years of a family’s history were packed in the little farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Practically every possession the late woman owned was included with the property deed. Edward and Carlisle used most of the furniture and put the unnecessary pieces in storage. Storing them in the attic or in unused rooms. When Esme had moved in they took a few of the more feminine pieces out of storage, offering her claim over anything else she could find.
They had given Esme free reign of the home, she was free to enter any room, free to take anything. ‘What’s mine is yours,’ Carlisle had repeated like a morning prayer. She spent a lot of her free time that first year rummaging through the attic, the outdoor shed, the cellar. Until she learned the hard way cellars were still horrifying. She indexed the objects, organized the collection, and repurposed all she could. She pitied the late woman, her memories had been thrown to the wayside. Esme could not imagine everything she owned just tucked in an attic when she died, auctioned off at the courthouse steps because no one cared enough to keep anything. Until she realized her things probably didn’t have the decency to be auctioned off. They were either burned with the month’s trash or left to slowly deteriorate in that cold dark house. Maybe he used them as his punching bag, releasing his anger on the very idea of her. Fists clenched against figments of a being.
She was determined to revitalize and reuse everything she could. There was no reason the objects had to die with their previous owner. She hung curtains, set out vases, put throw pillows on the couches. She tried her skills in her own room first, the only thing left that was hers alone. She sewed curtains with old sheets she found, kept fresh flowers in antique pitchers, painted a mural of an Ohioan sunset on the blank wall. Edward mentally tracked the changes she made, he thought it was endearing. But he knew she needed to do them in secret, for whatever reason. He rarely dared to acknowledge the changes besides a passing “that looks nice.” One day Carlisle wandered into her room and was convinced he entered an alternate dimension. The awe that decked his face was permission enough to expand her talents to the rest of the house. She gradually returned the house to the home it once was.
The dollhouse was tucked in the back of the attic, guarded by a dozen cardboard boxes and covered in an old quilt. The house was a little over four feet tall. A grand Victorian manor of her wildest childhood fantasies. As a child she had loved her dollhouse, played with it for much longer than she would ever admit. As an only child living in the middle of farmland it was her own little world, a way to escape farm chores or her mother’s nagging. This dollhouse however was much grander than her childhood folding four room box. It had stained glass windows, a spire, intricately carved fireplaces. It was foolish but she felt sad for the little house. The tiny mansion was dilapidated and forgotten at the moment; but the years of love that had been poured into it were clear to see. She could imagine little hands that had made it into their own little world - the future little hands it had been saved for but never got to meet. She may not have been the previous owner’s intended audience but that was no reason the house could not be grand once more. She spent months restoring the little building. She hand painted ornate wallpaper. She replaced the broken windows. She sewed curtains, bed coverings, tablecloths out of the all clothes she had destroyed hunting. She made furniture out of spare wood around the yard. She made a little world in the tiny house, imagining the fictional family who occupied it, not a single element overlooked. When the boys were home she tucked the little house in the back of her closet, she did not even dare think of it in Edward’s presence. The little house was hers and hers alone. It felt selfish but it was her escape and she would not let it be sullied by their mockery. It was foolish; but, after the life she had, she felt entitled to a little guilt free foolishness.
One day she wished the boys a good day and safe travels and made her way back to her room in the empty house, greeted by a little white box on her bed. She took the piece of Carlisle’s stationary off the top of the little paper box, “A proper home needs proper residents,” Carlisle’s signature script read. “Edward helped!” was haphazardly scratched on the bottom of the page. She laughed as she unwrapped the box, the two had yet to get over the novelty of gift giving. She gently moved the tissue paper to reveal a family of little porcelain dolls. She had no idea how they had figured it out but was grateful nonetheless. She skipped to her closet to move the new family in.
“What are their names?” Edward asked as he waltzed into her room some hours later, Carlisle leaned against the frame behind him, silently waiting to be welcomed.
“No making fun of me,” she went to shove the dollhouse back into the closet.
“I’m not.” He bent down to pick up the ‘father’ doll, “you should name this one Edward.”
“Edward Junior?” She looked up at him smiling.
“It would technically have to be Edward Junior Junior,” Carlisle said as he took a seat next to his fiancee on the floor. “Edward the third I suppose.”
“See he looks like an Eddy,” Edward sat as he picked up the doll of a little boy dressed in his Sunday best, suspenders and all. “This one could be Edwina,” he pointed to the ‘mother’ doll, “Edith? No. Edwina,” he adjusted the doll’s hat.
“I am sensing a theme,” Carlisle laughed as he reached a hand to the dollhouse. He glanced back to Esme, an eyebrow raised. She nodded and he delicately reached out to the house. “Es, this is incredible.” His eyes darted from the hand painted wallpaper to the hand embroidered tablecloths to the elaborate crown moulding she had carved. Every centimeter of the house was so painstakingly crafted.
“Edie,” Edward said as he placed the little girl doll at the kitchen table, he placed the cloth napkin in her lap before scooting her chair in.
“Edward Junior Junior married Edwina and had little Edie and Eddy?” Esme asked as he opened the green kitchen cabinets and placed miniature food Esme had sculpted in front of the girl.
“The Edwards family?” Carlisle grinned as he opened and closed one of the bedroom doors, marveling at the tiny hinges.
“There’s an idea,” Edward laughed as he moved out of the kitchen.
“What’s the dog's name? Eduardo?” Carlisle asked as moved the porcelain dog to sit on its bed next to the living room fireplace.
“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s Carl,” Edward laughed as he set Edward Jr. Jr. at the grand piano.
“These actually button!” Carlisle held a miniature blazer she had made out of a pair of his wrecked trousers. He hung the empty little hanger, made out of fishing wire, back in the coat closet.
“I am nothing if not thorough,” she smiled as the boys marveled at all the tiny details she had made.
“Look at the little pocket,” Carlisle said to himself as he cradled the little blazer in his hand.
“The lights turn on!” Edward exclaimed, seeing her thoughts. He looked around the house to find a way to turn on the lights, pressing at the tiny decorative switch she had made. She took the wire panel from the side of the house and flicked the lights on. Sure enough, the house was illuminated. Edward quickly closed Esme’s bedroom curtains so the tiny lights could shine.
“How?” Carlisle asked as he leaned in to inspect the grand chandelier she had made out of spare beads.
“Magic,” she said as she rested her head on Carlisle’s shoulder as the three continued to explore the dollhouse.
When they later moved from Ashland the little dollhouse moved with them, giving her a sense of confidence to work on their new house. And her magic turned their’s and many other’s houses into homes for years to come.
87 notes · View notes
eddie murphy in boomerang, 1992 • interior design by alan hicks
393 notes · View notes
Am I scrolling through the interior designer!Eddie tag and mass liking/reblogging everything because a (mild)wave of depression hit me this morning and this is giving me serotonin? Yes, yes I am. Sorry for blowing up your notes @kitkatpancakestack
8 notes · View notes
Halloween 2021 marathon: 1-4
The Exorcist III
This is for you @hobbitmajora!
The Exorcist III came onto my radar due to the glowing Red Letter Media review. It’s one of the oddest horror movies I’ve ever seen, starting off as more of a crime movie with George C. Scott’s Kinderman investigating the brutal murder of a child. The crime is part of a series of serial killings, all of them linked by blasphemous touches.
There’s a lot to like about this film: the warm friendship between the atheistic Kinderman and the faithful Father Dyer (if ever I wanted two fictional characters to have a classic movie podcast...), the exquisite dialogue, Brad Dourif’s creepy performance-- and that jump scare! I have not been had by a jump scare so thoroughly since I first saw Wait Until Dark years ago.
It does have a few of the problems that usually come with writers trying to direct movies (Exorcist author William Peter Blatty is in the director’s chair this time, adapting his own novel). Several scenes are talk-heavy and shot from wide, stagey angles, but for me, that’s not too big an issue since the dialogue is so good. it’s certainly a weird movie, one I’ll have to rewatch to fully “get,” I think, but it’s definitely deserving of its cult status.
The Haunting (1999)
A Disney Channel movie of the week masquerading as psychological horror.
This misbegotten remake of The Haunting only further confirms my thinking on what makes horror effective—and it sure as hell isn’t “bigger and louder = more terrifying.” Nothing about this movie is scary. The big interiors are campy rather than eerie. The CG set pieces are silly as hell, designed to show off what you can do with computers but certainly not to give you chills.
Don’t even get me started on the characters. In the original, the characters felt like real people. Here, they’re all types, the most obnoxious being Catherine Zeta-Jones as Thirsty Bisexual and Owen Wilson as Owen Wilson. Lili Taylor actually isn’t too bad a stand-in for Julie Harris, but the cringey emotional speeches her character has to give (“IT’S ABOUT FAMILY! IT’S ALWAYS BEEN ABOUT FAMILY!”) compromise the effectiveness of her repressed, sad character at every turn. What’s worse is how the story itself strips her performance of what makes Harris’s so memorable: ambiguity.
The 1963 movie never confirms whether or not the ghosts are in Harris’s head or not. She genuinely seems to be losing her mind, but there’s enough room for interpretation otherwise. Not here—the ghosts are definitely there, waiting to try out for the Haunted Mansion film with Eddie Murphy. Now, you can make an explicitly supernatural film scary, true (see The Exorcist and The Shining), but this is all too cartoonish and in your face to deliver shivers, let alone genuine fright.
I have a weird general reaction to John Carpenter’s movies. I tend to marvel at the craftsmanship and immaculate storytelling, but they often leave me cold. There are exceptions (The Thing is a favorite movie of mine), but unfortunately The Fog is not one of them.
That is not to say it is a bad or even mediocre movie. The Fog has a great horror concept: a sinister mist overtakes a coastal town, bringing with it the vengeful ghosts of a slaughtered leper colony intent on murdering all in their wake. The suspense is built up deliberately and the scares really work (I gasped aloud several times). I think my issue is a certain emotional distance from the characters. There are several of them, but I would have liked to see them more developed than they are. Adrienne Barbeau as a sultry-voiced radio host is the only one who stands out.
Still, I saw it immediately after that rotten remake of The Haunting, so I’m not going to complain too much.
This was a rewatch and a prime example of a movie that improves on repeated viewings. Brian De Palma is a bit like Terry Gilliam for me: usually the first time I watch his movies, I don’t like them very much, but they linger in the mind, prompting me to seek them out again and then finally appreciate them for what they are instead of what I expected they would be.
Sisters is the first of De Palma’s Hitchcock pastiches. Taking from Psycho and Rear Window, it definitely does not come off as a ripoff. It mostly shares Hitchcock’s stylistic playfulness, particularly in how it messes with audience loyalties. In the first thirty minutes alone, our sympathies shift about four times, much like how our sympathies shift from Marion to Norman to Lila and Sam throughout Psycho. But Sisters wades into outright weirder waters than Hitchcock ever did, even in his most experimental work. Parts feel like they could have come from a David Lynch movie.
Any flaws present are minor, mainly Margot Kidder’s atrocious attempt at a Canadian-French accent. But that is the only issue I have with the movie, which is otherwise among the best horror movies of the 1970s-- and considering how I believe the 1970s was cinematic horror’s best decade, that is saying a lot.
9 notes · View notes
anyway, my youtube algorithm came through for us
interior designer eddie au
5 notes · View notes