cat eyed sunglasses

inspiring aesthetics

city that never sleeps: suit and tie. the smell of sex and alchohol. 1 am city. skyscrapers. hotel suite balcony. cigarette smoke. black tattoos. red lipstick note. raindrops on the bus stop glass. car lights in the dark. nightclubs. song; liar - pygmalion

seaside sanctuary: the smell of salt and sun. white sand. shaded cove. the sound of waves. mermaid tails. seashell necklaces. tiki bars. tanned wet skin. bandaids. standing surfboards. seabreeze. basking iguanas. palm tree hammock. martinis.

autumnal equinox: turtleneck sweater. fireplace kisses. owls on branches. log cabins. dead leaves. juvenile deer. bruised knuckles. seeing your breath when it’s cold. dog eared book pages. old castles. mountainside. carving pumpkins. creaky floorboards.

forest fairytale: worn overalls. dirty knees. flower crowns. elf ears. great trees. newborn fawns. dew drop mornings. fairy wings. mushroom patches. small flowers. pebbles in streams. overgrown statues. tree filtered sunlight.

aspiring artist: cafe in paris. messy paperwork. doodles on napkins. modern apartment loft. white shirt. morning bedsheets. open window. cold wood floor. half finished moving boxes. leather bound portfolio. unwritten notebooks. polaroid pinned corkboard.

pastel street fashion: bows on shoes. pink sweater. crop tops. high waisted shorts. dyed hair tips. pouty lips. no makeup. pointed nails. floral print. mint green phone case. japanese mascots. pale filters. androgyny. cat eyed sunglasses. light pink. starbucks cup.


warning: profanity and christmas and LUCAYAAAA, so if you are offended by one of the three of them, please do not read. also: this was literally written in a day and unedited and this is really really not good, it’s basically Lucaya neighbor AU If they lived in the suburbs, so I hope you guys like this, because there are basically no lucaya christmas fics at. all.



Lucas Friar/Maya Hart.


A boy moves into the house next to hers on a Saturday.

The house has been empty for ages, all sticky spider webs and dust that gathers in the vintage bookshelf upstairs—a symbol of the past, of an age long since past.

She doesn’t expect it to be bought, she lives in Emerald Heights for fuck’s sake, a sign that you pass by in highways and forget the moment your car rushes forward, Emerald Heights, population:7,000.

Because no one would want to live in the Californian suburbs, in Emerald Heights, where the grass is dry and yellow and brown as it whips in the wind, where coyotes howl and the houses are fading somehow, they are old and lost and forgotten, in the background of the lights of Los Angeles, only a few miles above them.

Because no one would want to live here, and she stands on the sidewalk with a caramel frappuccino, contemplating his choices.


She knows his name because of the other neighbors, who crowd at his door and ring his doorbell and leave casseroles for dear, dear Lucas Friar, who is apparently the epitome of a politeness and what a gentleman should be, all charming smiles and bright eyes and conversations on insurance with Mrs. Wang across the street and earl grey tea with Mrs. Davidson at four o’clock.

Because he wears plaid shirts and cowboy hats and looks like the male lead from Disney Channel tv show, all grins and green eyes and boyish charm.

And she hates that.

Because he fits right in, because he’s not an outsider like she is, even after months of trying, his house doesn’t stand out in a straight line of white picket fences and blue painted walls like hers does, with glass windows and a chandelier and black and white decor that’s modern and hipster and urban, it doesn’t fit in the suburbs of California, in Emerald Heights.

She hates people like him, who are charming and blonde and moderately good looking, she’s hated people like that ever since she was six years old, when her father, who was also bonde and charming and fit in with the neighbors, who gave ten dollar tips to waitresses just left one day without a fucking trace.

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