#also put up some more wall decals and that back wall finally feels more complete

[milfygerard]

cleaned and reorganized my room and in the process found some fairy lights i never put up so i set em up. my room now :)

[suituuup]

pieces - chapter thirteen

Five years ago, Chloe dropped off the face of the Earth. Beca didn’t expect to see her again dancing in a strip club, out of all places.

rated: E (drug use and emotional abuse in early chapters)

ao3 link

*

It didn’t take long for Beca to realize that Sarah was right. 

She probably had been oblivious to her feelings for Chloe or chalked them up to close friendship because Sarah was in the picture, but as soon as her guilt over breaking-up with Sarah faded away a couple of weeks ago, it felt as though a veil lifted. 

Her whole being lit up every time she saw Chloe, and she craved those soft moments with her, either talking about Bean, or working on the nursery, or cuddling up on the couch. 

Beca didn’t know if Chloe felt the same way, and even if she did, she was probably miles away from being ready to launch into a relationship, between the baby and her recovery. 

She focused on her music in the meantime, writing three more songs to go with that one piece she came up with the day after she saw Chloe again. One was about being brave, another about getting redemption, and the last one about finding happiness. All about Chloe, and how much her journey inspired Beca. 

Beca came home pretty late from the office that night, wrapping up the final versions of all four songs with Luke. She found Chloe on the couch watching a sitcom and padded over. Chloe was now shy of 22 weeks and sporting the most adorable baby bump.

They had worked on the nursery over the last two weekends, hanging cute, colorful pictures of several woodland animals and sticking colorful, minimalist tree wall decals on the opposite wall. The crib, changing table, and car seat had been ordered, and Beca was planning a surprise baby shower with Aubrey, a month after the Bellas reunion, which was taking place in two weeks at a cabin upstate. 

“Hey,” Beca murmured, plopping down beside her. “How was your day?” 

“Pretty good. Bean and I went for a walk, then we met up with Aubrey for lunch, and napped for most of the afternoon. She’s kicking like crazy right now, though.” 

Beca grinned. “Yeah?” She cleared her throat, hesitant. “Can I… feel?” 

“Of course,” Chloe said softly, taking Beca’s hand and setting it on the left side of her stomach. “That’s where her foot was just a second ago.” 

Beca folded her legs under her and sat back on her heels to be more comfortable, silence descending upon them as they waited. After a minute, she glanced at Chloe. “Maybe it’s not strong enough to be felt from the outside, yet?” 

“No, it’s not that. I think she’s stopped.” 

“Oh,” Beca let out in slight disappointment. Just as she was about to pull her hand away, she felt a light tap against her palm and gasped. “Oh my god, I felt it!” 

A giggle burst from Chloe’s mouth. “That was a strong one.” 

“That’s amazing,” Beca mused aloud, her voice sticking to her throat a bit. Yes, she was about to cry over Chloe’s baby kicking, that’s how soft this whole thing had made her. “Jesus Beale, your kid is turning me into a giant puddle of mush.” 

Chloe chuckled, moving Beca’s hand to a new spot and keeping hers on top. Bean kicked again, pulling another gasp from Beca. 

“Does it hurt?” Beca found herself asking, her gaze sweeping upwards to watch Chloe’s expression. 

“It’s a little bit uncomfortable whenever she kicks in the ribs, but other than that, no.” Chloe moved her hand to another spot, tracking the next kick. “How was your day? You’re home pretty late.” 

“Yeah, Luke and I added the finishing touches to my EP.” 

Chloe’s eyes lit up. “When is it going to be out?” 

“We still have to get the art for the cover, so probably in a couple of weeks, right after the Bellas reunion.” Chloe nodded slowly. “Are you excited to see the girls?” 

“I’m… a bit nervous to be honest. What are they gonna think?” 

Beca smiled. “They’re going to think that you’re a badass.” Chloe broke eye-contact, shaking her head as looked down to her lap. “Hey, I’m serious. None of them are going to judge you. And just like Aubrey and I, they’re going to be so happy to have you back in their lives.” 

Chloe hesitantly met her gaze. “You really think so?” 

A firm nod. “I know so.” 

Chloe managed a smile and a faint nod. “Okay.” 

The following two weeks were busy for Beca as she focused on promoting her EP and tied some loose ends before the Bellas reunion so she wouldn’t be bothered that weekend. Early on that mid-August Saturday morning, they set off to Lake Placid, having planned to meet the Bellas there by lunchtime. Chloe didn’t mention anything, but Beca could tell she was nervous from all the cooking she had done in the past few days, enough to feed an army. 

She was glad, however, that Chloe used that as a stress-reliever as opposed to falling back into bad habits. 

They made it to the cabin Beca rented just before 1 pm, and Beca heard Chloe suck in a sharp breath as soon as she killed the engine, her expression similar to when they made it to her parents’ two months ago.

“It’ll be okay,” Beca murmured, covering Chloe’s hand with her own and squeezing it. She was a bit worried about there being alcohol, as Chloe insisted they shouldn’t have to restrain themselves for her sake. 

“Thanks,” Chloe breathed out, flipping her hand over and holding Beca’s for a moment. “Okay, let’s do this.” 

Most of them had made it there last night as they were flying in, shouts and laughter carrying from the backyard, where the outdoor pool was. It was sunny and way too hot for Beca’s liking, but she didn’t say a word, as being pregnant in that weather was definitely worse. 

If Chloe was uncomfortable with the temperature, she didn’t let it show, looking gorgeous in her yellow maternity summer dress. 

Stepping inside, they set the food bags on the kitchen island and Beca walked towards the open bay window, Chloe following behind. 

“Hey nerds,” she called out as she stepped out on the patio just as Amy made a cannonball, the splashing water nearly drenching her. “Dude!” 

“Sup Shortstack?” Amy greeted as she emerged a few beats later. 

“Chloe!” Beca turned around to see Stacie striding over and hugging Chloe tightly. “I’ve missed you.” 

“Hey Stace,” Chloe murmured, embracing her back. “I’ve missed you, too.” 

As Beca had predicted, the Bellas took it all in one stride, greeting Chloe like it hadn’t been over six years since they last saw one another and making her feel like a part of the group without a second thought. 

Now able to relax, Beca helped herself to a drink, watching from afar as Chloe met Stacie’s three-year-old daughter for the first time, a fond smile etched in her features. It was clear from that first exchange with Bella that Chloe would rock this mom thing, given how much of a natural she was around kids. 

After lunch, the girls made the most of the pool, either playing various games in the water or sunbathing in the lounge chairs. Beca was content soaking it all in at the table, sipping on a margarita. Her gaze often wandered to Chloe as she chatted with Jessica while reclining on a chair, clad in a bikini with one hand rubbing her belly. 

It was easy for her thoughts to escape towards what it could be if she and Chloe were to become something more. Raising Bean together, buying a house somewhere outside the city, getting a dog, possibly getting married...

“Oi, Mitchell.” 

Beca snapped out of her reverie, clearing her throat in embarrassment as Stacie plopped down next to her. “What’s up, Stace?” 

“You good?” She asked, cocking an eyebrow. “You looked like you were having a moment.” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Beca assured her and smiled, setting her drink down before pushing to her feet. She wanted to get in on the pool action, but her bathing suit was upstairs in her overnight bag. “I’m gonna go change.” 

“Be quiet if you’re going upstairs?” Stacie asked. “I just put Bella down for her nap.” 

“No problem.” 

Beca headed to her room and changed into her bikini, sliding her denim shorts back on and grabbing her sunscreen as she didn’t want to resemble a lobster tonight. As she quietly headed down the hallway towards the stairs, she couldn’t help but freeze when she heard her name behind a door left slightly ajar. 

“Feelings? For Beca?” 

It was Aubrey’s voice. Beca knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but she really couldn’t get her feet to move, curiosity rooting them down. 

A sigh that belonged to Chloe followed. “I was convinced it was just my hormones going wild at first. But then something happened the other night when she felt Bean kick for the first time. You should have seen her reaction, Bree... she was completely moved by it, and it’s like I felt my heart double in size. And I think about her non-stop, even when I need to… take care of myself.” 

“Oh my god, ew, Chloe!” Aubrey hissed while Beca nearly choked on her saliva, her entire body feeling as though it just caught on fire. “I don’t need to hear that.” 

“I’m sorry!” Chloe whispered, stifling a laugh. “What I mean by that is that it’s not just platonic love or gratitude because of everything she did for me lately. I’m physically attracted to her, too. It feels exactly the same as it did in Barden.” 

Beca’s heart stuttered at that. Chloe had feelings for her back then, too? 

“Are you going to tell her?” Aubrey asked softly. 

“I…” Chloe hesitated. “I want to. But I’m just getting my life back together, I’m not ready for a relationship yet. And I’m also… scared she might not feel the same way.” 

Beca forced herself to walk away, knowing that what she was doing wasn’t right. Her brain reeled from the onslaught of information all evening long. She was physically there, but her mind felt thousands of miles away, her thoughts going back and forth between that night at Barden, and if she should tell Chloe about how she felt. 

She retreated to her room before the others, not that it surprised anyone as she was, along with Aubrey, considered the grandma of the group. She had just slipped into bed when a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” she called out softly. 

The door opened just wide enough for Chloe to step inside, and she shut it behind her, padding over to the bed. “You okay? You’ve seemed off tonight.” 

Beca nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay. I promise.” She patted the space next to her. “Wanna hang out here for a bit?” 

As Chloe nodded and shuffled to lie next to her atop the covers, Beca felt her heartbeat quicken. It was odd, knowing for certain Chloe had feelings for her and holding the cards in her own hands. 

“Today was a lot of fun,” Chloe murmured as she sat propped against the pillows, bracing a hand over her stomach. “You were right. The girls don’t care about my past.” 

“Well, your past doesn’t define you,” Beca said with a soft smile. “I’m glad you’re having a good time.” 

“Are you nervous about tomorrow? About your EP coming out?” 

Beca shook her head. “Not really. I didn’t write those songs with the goal to hit the top of the charts, so I don’t exactly feel any pressure.” At Chloe’s slight tilt of the head, she added, “I wrote them because they helped me work through some of my feelings. Especially the first one.” 

Twisting her head to the right, she grabbed her phone and her headphones, plugging them in before gently setting them over Chloe’s ears. She puffed out a breath and pressed play, willing her ratcheting heart to chill the fuck out as Chloe closed her eyes and listened. 

The song only lasted a few minutes, but it felt like the longest of Beca’s life. Chloe’s lids slowly opened, and she lowered the headphones so that they hung around her neck, her gaze full of questions. 

“It’s about us,” she whispered, no doubt having picked up the few hints woven into the lyrics. 

Beca swallowed, nodding. She had never felt at ease pouring her heart out, and she sucked in a deep breath through her nose, puffing it out through her lips. “You remember when I told you about listening to your gut?” Chloe gave a faint nod. “That’s what I should have done that morning after because not telling you how I felt was the biggest mistake of my life.”

She briefly glanced down. “I had broken Jesse’s heart just a little while before, and I was scared that I just wasn’t made for relationships. So I didn’t say anything, because I couldn’t break your heart, either. I would have never forgiven myself if I did.” 

Chloe remained silent for half-a-minute, processing Beca’s words. “I knew you were in love with me,” she admitted softly. “And I had the feeling you were just scared, so I didn’t push you. I figured… you just needed time, and I was ready to wait for you. But then…” she cleared her throat, her eyes flickering down. “My life skidded out of control.” 

Beca’s heart suddenly feels heavy with the weight of regret. She can’t help but wonder how different things could have been, had she been honest with Chloe that morning. But she willed her mind to come back to the present because there was no point in wallowing in the should-haves and what-ifs. Not when she was being given a second chance. 

No chickening out this time. She wasn’t a kid anymore. 

“I want to be with you, Chlo,” she murmured, her throat shrinking with emotions as she forced her gaze to remain locked with Chloe’s. “These past few months… living with you and being by your side through this journey-- it made me fall in love with you all over again.” 

Chloe closed her eyes, and a few tears toppled down her cheeks. She released a long breath. “I want that, too. I do,” she croaked out, and something that had been poking at Beca’s heart suddenly vanished. Chloe reached out to swipe her palm over both cheeks, her other hand sliding into Beca’s. “I just need some time. I need to find a more stable mindset before I open that door.” 

“I know,” Beca whispered, blinking back her own tears. “And I’ll wait, this time. For however long it takes. I promise.” 

“I know,” Chloe echoed, her thumb slowly stroking Beca’s knuckles back and forth. “I trust you.” 

They shared a soft smile, and Beca didn’t think she had felt this light, ever. 

“I guess I should head to bed,” Chloe said after a moment of comfortable silence. 

Beca nodded. “Okay.” Releasing Chloe’s hand, she rubbed her palm over Chloe’s belly gently. “Night Bean.” 

Chloe stood up and cast her short wave when she made it to the door, shutting it softly behind her.

[angrylizardjacket]

dirtbags // 3: Charlotte

Summary: High school AU, 1985, Winter. The year’s off to a strange start as Charlotte and her friends find out that not only does Lola work at the new diner that opened up in town, but her dad owns it! Charlotte humbles Nikki in a very un-Charlotte manor, and Vince’s parents decide to host an English exchange student in an attempt to give him a good role model; instead, they get Razzle.

A/N: 8466 words. Do I care too much about this AU? Yes. as always, for my dears @misscharlottelee and @newyeareva ft. a softer world quotes

the city sometimes feels like a movie set. maybe this is the big scene. maybe i can be an extra at least.

Charlotte’s only a few practice hours away from being able to get her provisional license, and she berates her past self for not getting it sooner, especially not when her Winter Break has been kind of a shit-show and she’d rather tear off her own arms than ride in Tommy’s shitbox of a car with Vince Neil. 

Since his blowout house party, Vince had essentially been grounded for the rest of the school year, had his car privileges revoked, and the only people his parents apparently trusted him to hang around with outside of school, were Tommy, Charlotte, Eileen, and Peach. Tommy was delighted. The girls, unsurprisingly, were not. Vince himself was downright somber, and had sulked for the remainder of the semester, and well into the break.

He had been in a particularly sour mood since last night, New Year’s Eve, when his parents had announced they were going to be hosting an exchange student from England for six months. Vince is convinced it’s an attempt to give him some sort of role model his own age, and spent most of his parents’ New Year’s Eve party ranting to Tommy and the girls while they played cards in his basement.

Her saving grace is Eileen, of course, who’s father had bought her mother a shiny, new car for Christmas, and had given Eileen the keys to her mother’s old station wagon. 

“It’s kinda dumb that we’re taking two cars,” Peach, Eileen’s little sister, pipes up from the back seat, hands fiddling in her lap. It’s New Year’s Day, and while their various parents were sleeping off their hangovers, they’d suggested the kids check out the new diner that was opening today. Vince jumped at the suggestion of freedom, and everyone was in agreement, but Eileen and Charlotte took Peach in Eileen’s car the moment Vince slid into Tommy’s front seat, holding the flyer he’d gotten at the mall that told them all about the diner’s opening day, “just saying, we could all fit in one.” But she’s met with silence, “are you going to be mad at him forever?” She finally sighs.

“Yes.” Both Charlotte and Eileen answer automatically. Peach sighs as dramatically as she’s able, and sinks as low into the seat as she can. Charlotte turns on the radio, and hums along to something familiar, but that she doesn’t quite recognize, staring out the front window at the back of Tommy’s car. Vince turns around in the front seat and flips them off.

“I’m gonna ram them,” Eileen says, with absolute sincerity and serenity, leveling an intense glare at where Vince was now waving.

“Don’t,” Charlotte advises, equally level.

“I don’t get why you’re still mad, I’m not even mad,” Peach huffed, pouting. Charlotte and Eileen share a look; at sixteen years old, Peach was top of almost all of her math and science classes, but she was still a teenage girl, and an absolute fool for a blonde boy who made her cry. Charlotte knew that feeling all too well, but thankfully she’d moved on from the ‘wondering why she wasn’t enough’ stage to the ‘realizing her ex is a cheating douchebag and it was never her fault’ stage. She really hopes Peach can move on to ‘realizing Vince made her cry and hasn’t even tried to change since then and deserved to get his car keyed’ stage quickly.

The diner was bustling when they arrived, a large decal on the inside of window, black, thick and flowing lettering, outlined in gold, reading Leo’s. Through the window, several booths were already filled, as were a host of the stools along the counter. It looked warm inside, inviting in golds, yellows, peaches and oranges, neon signs and rusted street signs, band and comic book memorabilia, and photos. Behind the counter -

Lola. Smiling.

“I’m freezing my butt off, can we go in?” Peach asks, hands shoved deep in the pockets of her parker, the only person who did not recognize the girl currently pouring coffee for an elderly gentleman at the counter. 

Inside, the diner is warm, filled with the sounds pleasant chatter, and of the Beatles coming from a cherry wood jukebox in the corner.

“Lola!” Tommy can’t help himself, lighting up at the sight of her, and once Lola finishes pouring her customer coffee, she looks to their confused little group, and waves.

“Find yourselves a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment,” she calls back, smiling bright and wide, hair tied back with a bright, red bandana. 

The teens do as they’re told, pulling off jackets and gloves and scarves, sliding into a booth by the window, looking around, wrapped up in the smell of warm food, and the confusion of Lola’s presence, and completely unfamiliar demeanor. There’s an uncertain kind of quiet among them, having just expected to spend lunch at a cool new diner, but this has shift everything, only Peach, blissfully unaware of who Lola even was, seemed at ease, rearranging the sugar packets in their little holder.

Lola comes by with menus, and cups, and a pitcher of water for the table, looking pristine and put together in a tight, black blouse, skirt, and scuffed black combat boots, little peach-coloured apron tied around her waist. She pulls a notebook and pen from the pocket of the apron, looking around at them all, as if finally taking a moment to assess the situation.

Charlotte picked up a menu.

“You work here?” Tommy asked, and Lola confirms brightly, but doesn’t give any further details. She does, however, thank them all for coming, and recommend a few of her favourites.

“I’m also partial to The Lola, for obvious reasons,” she gives an actual laugh at that, as if implying one of the burgers was named after her was giving away too much information, and Charlotte was quickly scouring the menu.

Beef patty, double bacon, American cheese, lettuce, tomato, and a home-made smokey maple-barbeque sauce, on a toasted bun.

“The menu’s kind of misleading,” Lola admits, moving to look down over Charlotte’s shoulder as she was reading, “all the patties are home made too, with Leo’s signature blend of herbs and spices.” That asked more questions than it answered. No-one’s quite sure what to say.

“Can I get a milkshake?” Peach pipes up, and Lola’s smile grew wide as she asked what flavour, “chocolate, please, and do you have curly fries or regular?”

“Hand cut,” Lola tells her proudly, but that means very little to Peach, who’s just glad to be having food, “still need time to think?” Lola asks the rest, and they all give her awkward, quiet smiles and nods. 

Lola leaves, heading back to the counter, and the moment she’s gone, the whole table explodes with whispered confusion, leaning in, asking questions and not getting any answers. 

“You guys are being super fucking weird,” Peach hisses loudly at them all, while Charlotte and Tommy argue about how the other should have known. Eileen, quietly delighted by the chaos, demands to know if anyone else thinks Lola might secretly have a twin, and Vince, who’s had the least contact with her aside from Peach, is babbling about how it’s weird to see Lola so chipper; their mutual confusion is enough to set aside Eileen and Charlotte’s hatred of him, at least for the moment. 

When Peach demands they explain what they’re all whisper-shouting about, disturbing the booth behind her, they all quiet down, and Tommy and Eileen take it in turns explaining their full understanding of Lola. Charlotte takes the time to actually look around the diner now that she was inside.

There’s two other waitress, one behind the counter, the other always moving on about the various tables and booths on one side, making sure the customers are happy and food and drinks are delivered, both in the same outfit as Lola, though with varying footwear. 

The view to the kitchen is unobstructed behind the counter, a half wall where meals ready to be delivered were sat, but a clear view to where three people in the kitchen, two by the grills and fryers, turned away; a broad-shouldered man towering over the grill with the longest hair Charlotte’s ever seen braided neatly down his back, and a comparatively shorter man, also with far shorter hair, though enough to be pulled up into a messy pony tail. The shorter man’s working the fryer, and putting together burgers as the taller man cooked up their various ingredients. There was also a strangely familiar kid with a mop of dark, curly hair washing dishes on the other side of the kitchen, barely visible.

Lola worked diligently, smiling and chatting away; she collected dishes, and ferried meals, and handed out slices of desert from the cute, multi-tiered desserts display on the counter. When she came back, milkshake in one hand, basket of fries in the other, Peach is fully caught up on each of her friend’s short but confusing histories with her, and blurts out -

“You’re Lola?” Injecting new meaning into the words, into the name, as if anyone else at their entire school had the same name. Lola’s smile goes a little tight as she places the fries and the milkshake before the redhead. Standing back up, she taps her nametag, which reads Lola, with little flowers drawn around it, and confirms, though it’s clear she’s more on edge than she was before.

“You guys ready to order?” She asks, still trying to keep up her chipper attitude, pulling out her notebook again. Everyone’s quieter this time, looking over the menu and finally deciding on food.

“My mom heard the owner was a chef, is that true?” Tommy asks, looking up from the menu to Lola again, and the tense set of her shoulders loosens considerably at the question.

“Leo is a chef,” Lola nodded, grinning broadly, “trained at the Culinary Institute of America back in the sixties, and worked his way up to being the head chef of Parker House in Boston, which I know probably doesn’t mean much to you guys, but it’s,” Lola laughs a little struggling to describe it, “it’s fine dining at it’s finest, but for the past twelve years, he’s been running Leo’s in Salem, and now he’s here, still using all that fine dining training for the anyone who wants a good meal at a good price.”

“Is that something they have you memorize in training?” Vince says, a little awed, and Lola gives a strange little smile.

“Leo’s my dad.”

Everything kind of fell into place after that, finally making sense, and the gang’s confusion quickly shifted to understanding, and the air around the table seemed to clear. It was easier after that, the teens in the booth ordering quickly, and the chatter picked up to a normal level as she moved away, shouting their order back to the kitchen once she was back at the counter.

She doesn’t spend much time at their table, still in charge of waitressing half of the tables and booths, but she always gives them a nod as she passes, and their meals are being delivered efficiently, so there’s no reason to complain.

The food itself, for diner food, is nothing short of spectacular, which kind of just raises more questions - why if Leo can cook food that tastes this good, and with all the experience he evidentially has, would he open a diner in suburban LA, and not a high-end restaurant? But it feels kind of intrusive to ask, so Charlotte simply enjoys her food, and her friends’ company.

Up until Vince starts complaining about the exchange student again.

“His name’s Nicholas, he shows up in a week, and mom’s making me clear out the basement so he can sleep there,” he’s despondently poking his milkshake with one of his fries, head propped up on one hand, “I’ve been asking for years if I could move into the basement, and this fucking Nicholas just gets it?” His whole expression scrunches up at the thought, and he angrily eats his fry.

“Wait, so the issue isn’t that you have to clean up the basement, it’s that he gets to use it as a bedroom and you don’t?” Charlotte frowned, lowering her own burger, “why would you even want to sleep in the basement?”

“Privacy!” Vince throws his hands in the air, eyes wide, “Tammi keeps complaining about getting cramps in the back of my car, but my bedroom walls are paper thin,” he huffs, “I need my own space.”

“Tammi?” Peach asks, her voice high and almost painfully chipper, “Tammi Frisk? She scored the winning goal in the softball final, right?” She’s not looking at Vince, when Charlotte looks over to her, she’s looking at her plate of fries, pushing the few left around without eating any, smiling in a way that’s clearly forced.

“You were at the softball final?” Tommy asked, frowning slightly. Peach did not look up.

“For the school paper,” she explained, voice still strange.

“You’re still with Tammi Frisk?” Eileen asks, making sure the disgust is clear in her voice as she draws the table’s attention away from the clearly uncomfortable Peach. Charlotte’s lip curled; she wanted to make sure her expression was as judgmental as possible when Vince turned back to her. 

It’s not that she cared about who he was dating, she was mostly apathetic to Tammi, and knew little more about her than the fact that she was on the softball team, but Charlotte knew Vince had been dating Tammi when he’d decided to crush Peach’s heart publicly at the start of the last semester.

Neither Peach nor Eileen had told any of them exactly how, but apparently Eileen’s hatred was well warranted, both against Vince, and according to Eileen, Tammi too.

Vince, immediately sensing Eileen’s shift in tone, and seeing the look on her face, frowns.

“Kind of,” he responds flatly, and his gaze flicks to Peach, “not really,” he backtracks, and his indignation at the whole situation seems to fizzle out with a sigh, and he slouches, going back to paying attention to his burger, “she’s sort of hanging out with one of the second-string football guys, but they’re not... and we’re not really...” he trails off, despondent once more.

At least Vince seemed to be self-aware of the fact that he was an asshole to Peach, at least he had the decency to feel bad about it. Why he kept inviting Peach to hang out, despite the fact that he knew Eileen, who hated his guts, would come along too - invited or not - baffled Charlotte. 

Tommy was his friend, and a guy, Charlotte was a cheerleader and technically popular, and so was usually begrudgingly invited too, but Peach, sweet Peach, recent Science Fair Winner, junior reporter for the school paper, treasurer for the AV Club, by all accounts ‘a nerd’ when judged by her interests, was still on the guest list of Vince Neil’s life, even if he wouldn’t admit that out loud. 

It kind of made Charlotte want to punch him in the face.

But that’s not news.

“I hope the English exchange student is a decent influence on you,” Charlotte tells him. Vince scowls.

“You sound like my parents.”

you make me want to pretend to be a better man.

Now that school has started back up, Vince has thankfully had his car privileges returned, and Charlotte can return to not glowering in the back seat of Tommy’s car when he picks her up on the way to school, and drops her home on the days they both have practice. 

But it’s Wednesday, first week back, and he’s uncharacteristically quiet. Usually he’s babbling about practice, or cheerleaders he thinks are pretty, or Lola, but today, he meets Charlotte in the carpark, leaning against the trunk of his car, hands in his pockets, quiet. It’s decidedly unnerving.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” Charlotte asks, yanking the passenger door open once he unlocks it, sliding into the seat and putting her bag by her feet.

“Nothing,” Tommy voice betrays the lie, the thoughts so clearly on his mind that he was trying to avoid talking about. Charlotte won’t push him, if he wanted to tell her, he would, and he usually does, “put on some music, will you?” And Charlotte obligingly opens the glove compartment in front of her to look through the collection of 8track tapes he keeps in there, several of which had been Christmas gifts from Charlotte herself.

Feet on the dashboard, Charlotte’s more than content listening to Bon Jovi, bopping her head to the beat, when Tommy finally finds the words for his thoughts.

“Lola and Nikki Sixx are friends.” 

Up until now, Charlotte was under the impression that Tommy, like her, thought Nikki and Lola would be great as friends, Tommy’s current tone implies otherwise. 

“Is that not good?” Charlotte’s careful about her words, still not sure where Tommy’s hesitation was coming from.

“No, they make sense,” he’s quick to try and backtrack, words spilling from him almost too fast, “they make sense as friends.” He deliberates, before asking, “Charlie, you’re not friends with Nikki Sixx are you?” And it sounds like he already knows the answer. Charlotte hesitates.

“He keeps bothering me during my free periods, I wouldn’t exactly call us friends -”

“He called you Charlie,” its deadpan and accusatory in equal measure, and Charlotte shrinks back into her seat as Tommy keeps talking, “he called me ‘Charlie’s cousin’. It was weird.”

“I thought you wanted to be his friend -” she tries, right as they pull up to a red light, and Tommy fixes her with an unamused look, the only expression that makes him seem older than his years.

“Did you tell him I was obsessed with him?”

“No!” Charlotte snaps, automatically defensive.

“Because I’m not -”

“I never said - I told him you were a fan! That’s all! Like Duff was!” Charlotte tries to clear up, and Tommy looks back at the road, though this time he thankfully looks more pensive than angry. Only Bon Jovi cuts through the tense air between them for the rest of the drive back to Charlotte’s house, and when Tommy pulls up outside, he doesn’t say anything to her when she gets out. 

The next day, like clockwork, fifteen minutes into her free period, Nikki Sixx comes climbing over the school’s fence, into the garden Charlotte had been trying to force herself to study in. In all honesty, she’d been waiting for him, picking at her nail polish beneath the table and reading the same sentence in Moby Dick over and over again.

“Miss Lee,” Nikki nods to her, a little gruffer than usual, “you seem more tense than usual; I can help you with that if you want,” but he still manages to smirk his way through an unsubtle come-on, and Charlotte rolls her eyes, not in the mood for their usual banter.

“I’d rather sit on a cactus,” she tells him icily, without even a teasing edge. Nikki’s eyebrows shoot up at the hostility, and he puts the packet of cigarettes that he’d about to offer her on the table, knowing she’d turn them down anyway, “I thought people weren’t meant to know that we know each other.”

“What people do?” Nikki frowned, raising his lighter to the cigarette between his lips, “is this about yesterday? I talked to your cousin, big deal. Everyone knows you two are related, and everyone knows you,” he looks pointedly to the embroidered logo on her cheer uniform, “I wasn’t even looking for him -”

“Dude,” Charlotte felt as though she was about to tear her hair out, “you called me Charlie to him, people don’t just call me that!”

“Plenty of people call you that! That leggy redhead you’re always hanging around calls you Charlie -”

“My friends call me that -” Charlotte snaps, “and I know you know that’s Eileen Austen.” And Nikki’s wearing a dreamy look, like he’s thinking unholy thoughts about Eileen as Charlotte speaks, before snapping out of it as the first of her words register like a bucket of ice water to the face.

“I’ve called you Charlie before. To your face.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Charlotte tells him dryly, crossing her arms, “it’s less effort if I don’t correct you. We’re so not friends that I don’t even care about correcting you.” Back when this school year started, Charlotte wouldn’t have dreamed saying half the nasty shit she’s thrown at Nikki Sixx, and at some point she may have to confront the idea that being around him has made her meaner, “but did you tell my cousin that I told you he was obsessed with you? Because I never -”

“I said I was glad he was a fan!” Nikki scowled, sitting back and glowering at her across the table, “all I wanted was to ask Lola if she wanted to sit on the roof with the rest of the smokers, and your fuckin’ yappy, dumbass of a cousin -”

Punching someone in the face hurts a lot more than Charlotte had been anticipating, but it’s worth it to see Nikki toppling backwards off of the picnic bench and onto the cold grass. His cigarette lies some few feet away while he lays groaning, clutching his cheek, and Charlotte’s standing, leaning, thighs pressed against the picnic table for support as she’s staring down at him, breathing heavy through her nose while the adrenaline rushes through her system.

“What the fuck, Charlie?”

“Don’t talk shit about Tommy,” her heart’s thundering in her chest, she can feel the blood rushing in her ears, and when she looks at her hand, she sees the skin of one of her knuckles has split enough to draw blood, “he has done fucking nothing to you apart from support you, and think you’re really fucking cool, for whatever dumbass reason, so don’t you dare talk shit about him.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nikki groaned, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath after being winded so thoroughly, hand still cradling his cheek. That’s how Charlotte leaves him, slinging her bag onto her shoulder, and stalking towards the library to finish the rest of her free period in peace.

When Tommy drives Charlotte, Eileen, and Peach home after school that day, he’s quiet once again, but it somehow feels completely different to the oppressively accusatory air of the day before. The three girls were chattering away, trying to plan a trip to the mall for the upcoming weekend, and only when Peach and Eileen were waving goodbye in the rearview mirror did Tommy speak up.

“Did you punch Nikki Sixx in the face?” There’s a smile in her cousin’s voice, and Charlotte’s not quite sure how to react.

“I had good reason to,” she says, carefully guarded.

“He said you guys were friends, and then he thanked me for being coming to the gig a while back; told me he’d asked you to bring me specifically,” Tommy’s tone was oozing pride, and if Charlotte had been looking at him, and not frowning out the window, she would have seen how he was all but preening.

“He told you all that?” Charlotte’s anger at her memory’s of the morning’s altercation was fading fast.

“He hung out with me and Lola by the carpark for lunch,” Tommy paused, snorting a laugh, “didn’t want his buddies to find out a cheerleader gave him a black eye.”

“I - what? No I didn’t...” Charlotte’s eyes went wide, and finally she looked at her cousin’s beaming face.

“You definitely did; Lola laughed at him for a full ten minutes because of it.”

“Serves him right,” Charlotte said, with a begrudging little smile.

Nikki sits with Tommy and Lola on Friday too, which Tommy is delighted to inform Charlotte on Saturday while he’s driving them both to Vince’s, where his parents have invited them over to meet the exchange student. Nicholas.

He arrived on Wednesday, but Vince’s parents have given him the rest of the week to settle in, and had invited around the few friends Vince has that they deem to be a positive influence, if only so he knew a few faces around school. 

Charlotte had been picturing some over-gelled boarding-school boy, used to itchy uniforms and strict rules, and about to get a good deal of culture shock hanging around Vince and the rest of their motley little pack, but when Charlotte brings this speculation up in the car, Tommy’s quick to dismiss it. Vince, from the little Tommy had spoken to him in the past two days, was over the moon, claimed that Nicholas - Vince had called him Razzle - was amazing. If Charlotte felt an quiet sense of foreboding at that sentiment, she felt it was justified.

The first thing either of them hear after being directed down to the basement by Vince’s mother, is Alice Cooper playing almost obnoxiously loud; Charlotte’s not sure why, but it eases something in her chest. 

Nicholas’s - Razzle’s? - room, first and foremost, is possibly the coolest bedroom Charlotte’s ever been in. He’s decked it out with movie and band posters, though most of the band’s she’s never heard of. There’s string-lights above a desk, a bed crammed into one corner with a bright duvet, and even a sofa, and a few beanbags all crowded around a low, wooden table that had mostly been taken up with a record player, which is where they found their friends. 

The name Razzle suited him, Charlotte considered, as she took in the newcomer’s appearance, all spiked up dark hair and ostentatious clothing, animatedly telling a story while Peach and Vince hung onto his every word. He looked almost wild, like collection of half-thought ideas all vying to become a reality through the texture of his clothes, the height of his hair, the hint of amusement that tailed his words, the passion shining in the blue of his eyes when they flicked to look at her and her cousin, standing on the stairs and watching him.

His words grow quiet as he takes them in, as if waiting for something to happen, for someone to introduce them.

“You must be Charlie and Tommy!” His accent, thick and bright, made her nickname sound so familiar on his lips.

“Charlotte,” Vince corrects, giving a surprisingly respectful nod to Charlotte, who tries to shrug nonchalantly.

“Charlie’s fine. You’re,” and Charlotte hesitates for a moment, ignoring Vince’s eyeroll, “Razzle, right?” Razzle’s smile is blinding at her immediate use of the nickname, and he waves them in.

Peach throws Tommy a cushion from the sofa when he asks, and he settles himself on the floor next to Vince, while Peach and Eileen squeeze over to make room for Charlotte on the sofa clearly only made for two people.

“I was just telling these guys ‘bout my band’s very first gig, ‘nd how I had to sneak out just to get there,” Razzle settled back into his own beanbag, hands out and ready to return to his story, eyes still shining with anticipation at the memory, or possibly just glad to have an audience. 

Oh, Charlotte thought, looking at this boy she barely knew, already fighting off a smile in the face of his infectious enthusiasm, maybe Vince was becoming a better judge of character.

“You’re in a band?” Tommy’s eyes light up, and Charlotte gives her cousin a fond smile; Razzle has already won his seal of approval.

we need more good crazy. it'd be nice to watch the news, and think, 'that's fucking insane', but feel a little jealous instead of just alone.

Heather hasn’t been glowering as much at lunch, and the rumour is that it’s because she’s getting laid. Well, it’s less of a rumour to Charlotte, since Heather confirmed as much to the rest of the cheer squad when one of the girls asked her, but she’s being coy and secretive about who she’s with, which is the really weird part; Heather won’t say, and no-one’s coming forward, and lord knows that most guys at their school would jump at the opportunity to claim they’re banging the Vice Captain of the Cheerleading Squad. 

But Charlotte knows not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and instead just smiles back when Heather gives her a sunny smile in the cafeteria.

Tommy is less than thrilled with the news when Charlotte brings it up in the car after school. Nikki’s still sitting with him and Lola during lunch, despite his bruising going down considerably over the weekend, and Tommy is equal parts delighted and uncomfortable, for reasons he can’t seem to put into words. 

“At least Pam’s single,” he says it with as much of a dreamy sigh as he can manage, though it comes out more forlorn than anything else. Charlotte pets his shoulder, and reminds him that so is over half the squad; he perks up a little at that. 

They pull into Mick’s gas station, and Charlotte waves to Mick and Lola, who are sitting on the step by the door sharing a cigarette. Lola waves back.

“Meant to give this to you,” Lola says to Charlotte, still sitting while Mick begrudgingly heads inside. Tommy follows him in, not needing to fill up the tank, but rather just looking to drown his sorrows regarding Heather in a jumbo slurpee. Outside, Charlotte waits with her hands in her pockets, giving Lola an amused smile, watching as the dark haired girl pulls a pin off of the jacket she practically lives in, and hands it over.

It’s a piece of black card stock cut into the shape of a star, barely an inch in diameter, taped to a safety pin. It say Punched Nikki Sixx in silver pen, one of the points of the star already a little bit crumpled. 

“You’re a little bit punk, so you get a pin,” Lola tells her, smiling around her cigarette, looking quietly pleased, and perhaps even a little bit proud; whether of herself or of Charlotte, Charlotte can’t tell, but it still makes her flush.

“I thought Nikki didn’t want anyone knowing that a cheerleader gave him a black eye,” Charlotte mused, looking at the little pin, and Lola’s face scrunched up, expression falling.

“So? Who gives a shit?” She shrugs, looking away tone having shifted to almost forcibly neutral in an instant, “wear the pin or don’t, I don’t care.” Lola stands with a groan, without giving Charlotte a chance to respond, and calls to Mick that she’s heading to the diner. Mick waves, Tommy calls out a farewell, and Charlotte frowns, wondering what just happened.

“I hate that,” Nikki says flatly, the moment he spots the pin where Charlotte’s fixed it to the strap of her backpack. There’s no hard feelings between them after last week’s altercation, thankfully, though they don’t talk about it. If Charlotte’s glad that he still showed up, if she’s realised she may, in fact, enjoy his company, she keeps that information to herself.

“Lola made it for me,” Charlotte tells him. Nikki leans in, squinting at the handmade pin.

“Of course she did,” he sighs, leaning back. Surprisingly, there’s quiet between them for a few, long moments; maybe, Charlotte considers, this will be one of those mornings where Nikki uses their time together to catch up on sleep, and Charlotte can actually use her free period for it’s intended, study-related purpose, but then Nikki sighs like he wants her to ask what’s wrong.

So she does.

“I need a new band.”

“I can’t help you.”

“I know,” Nikki nods with resignation, “I was gonna ask this guy I work with, Slash, he plays guitar, but he’s already in one -”

“Wait, you don’t mean Duff’s friend Saul Hudson, do you?” Charlotte frowned, intrigued despite the stab of anger she felt at the mere mention of her ex. Nikki seemed taken aback by her question.

“You know Duff McKagan?”

“I dated him for a year and a half,” Charlotte finds herself suddenly very interested in drawing connecting triangles in the back of her notebook, not looking at Nikki, who’s quietly processing this information.

“He’s in a band now,” and neither of them seem to be quite sure why he offered that information, but they both let is hang between them for a moment.

“Makes sense,” Charlotte nods, tone flat, “with Saul - Slash?”

“Yeah,” is all Nikki has to say.

“Slash is a good kid, I always liked him,” Charlotte offered, and finally she looks up, “Tommy plays drums.”

“Marching band isn’t exactly -” Nikki begins, but Charlotte’s shaking her head.

“No, like, legit drums,” she enthuses, “his parents fixed up their whole garage to make it sound proof for him,” but she doesn’t want Nikki to think she’s pushing her cousin on him too hard, not after last week, so she sits back, and crosses her arms, trying to play it cool, “I mean, you can ask him yourself, see if he’s any good.” She shrugs, but Nikki looks like he’s already considering it. 

“How many musicians do you know, Charlie?” He finally asks, giving her a faint, amused smile.

“Probably too many,” Charlotte responds with a longsuffering smile, before her mind turns to the things Tommy himself had told her, “I heard you and Lola are getting along; what’d I tell you?” She teased, and much to her surprise, what she could see of Nikki’s face, for his hair, was turning pink.

“She’s a bitch; you know she’s a bitch, right?” He asks, but he’s grinning, all sharp and dangerously amused.

“I knew you guys would get along,” Charlotte gives a pleased little sigh, as if she’d manufactured their whole friendship herself. Nikki rolls his eyes at her, and the bell goes.

Tommy, as it turns out, thinks they’re sleeping together, at least that’s what he tells Charlotte when they’re on their way to Leo’s after school to meet up with Vince, Razzle, Peach, and Eileen. The news of Nikki and Lola’s potential affair surprises Charlotte at first, but after a moment of consideration, she thinks she should have seen it coming. 

Tommy’s reasoning is that they’ve become friends far quicker than he’d realised, and Nikki’s always giving Lola lifts after work, like they’re going in the same direction, even though he’d pretty sure Nikki doesn’t live near Leo’s. It also turns out that that was what had been bothering him about Nikki and Lola being friends; he still tries to insist he doesn’t have a crush on Lola, but he and Charlotte both know that’s mostly a lie.

So Charlotte can see how conflicted he is when he tells her that Nikki’s looking to start a new band, and that he asked about Tommy possibly playing drums. A beat of silence follows, and then, without looking away from the road, Tommy mutters a quiet thanks, knowing without asking that Charlotte had been the one to recommend him. Charlotte leans over and bumps her forehead against his shoulder in unspoken acknowledgment. 

“Duff’s in a band,” Charlotte’s voice is soft and a little unreadable.

“Sorry,” Tommy mutters, tone somber like it’s the worst news in the world, “we could throw rotten tomatoes at him?” He suggested, at the mental picture alone was enough to make Charlotte laugh, “or is that just in the movies?”

“I think that’s just in the movies,” Charlotte says, amid giggles, “besides, the rest of his band doesn’t deserve that.”

In the week that Razzle’s been in LA, Vince and his family have taken him to several, sophisticated restaurants in the vicinity, and Razzle had apparently loved them all; Leo’s was no different. He was sitting across from Charlotte in the booth, at the end of the table, reading the menu intently as the others chattered away about their day, making noises of intrigue every time he spotted something new he wanted to try. His knee knocked hers under the table, but it barely seemed to register, so engrossed in the menu that he muttered the faintest apology.

“Afternoon, guys, welcome,” Lola at work never failed to startle Charlotte, despite the fact that she’d been here once already since the first time. At least her chipper introduction seemed to bring Razzle back to reality. 

“Hi, yes - oh! I know you!” Razzle lit up at the sight of Lola, and the rest of the gathered teens watched with interest, trying not to give away how intrigued they were to see Lola’s reaction, “Miss Honky Cat, you work here?”

What?

“Alright, Razzle, you found me, did you wanna order something?” Lola says, with a good-natured eyeroll, and an easy grin, hip cocked to one side. Razzle asks her what she recommends, and orders that, and then the rest of them, who had been sitting in stunned silence, are quick to order for themselves.

When she leaves, it’s mere moments before Tommy asks what that was all about, and Razzle’s eyes go wide.

“That’s Lola, innit? From school? She’s in my music class, was playing Honky Cat on the piano in the second music room, the Elton song, you know, when we had some free this morning,” he explained, confused, “she called me Rocketman when I picked what she’d been playing, but I told her my name’s Razzle.” 

“You’re an enigma,” ironically, it’s Eileen who says this, wearing a fond little smile, while Razzle just looked bemused.

“I think it’s the accent, chicks fuckin’ love it,” Vince pipes up, smirking, and Razzle tries to hide his own pleased little grin since he can’t very well deny it, “Pam was all over him in Phys Ed yesterday -”

“We were just having a conversation -” Razzle was quickly turning red, while Vince clutched at his arm, putting on a high voice, twirling his blonde hair around one finger as he pretended to be Pam.

“Oh Nicholas, tell me more about The Clash, please, I want to know more!” He ended with a fake moan, which had Eileen and Peach laughing, while Razzle grabbed Charlotte’s hand and exaggeratedly mouthed ‘help me’. 

“Pam’s into Razzle?” Tommy groaned, breaking the moment, falling dejectedly against Vince, who was already leaning pretty heavily on Razzle, who was then ejected from his seat and onto the floor, while Vince was draped over where he was just sitting, and Tommy was draped over Vince, “I’m gonna die alone.”

Despite Tommy’s despair, the rest of the table was greatly amused.

Thankfully for Razzle, it wasn’t a far fall, and he’d held tight to Charlotte’s hand, so at least he hadn’t ended up flat on his back, and Charlotte gave him an apologetic grin as she helped him to his feet. He lets go to dust himself off, and it’s here Charlotte notices his maroon, velvet pants, and black and white leather shoes with their little heel.

“Fancy threads,” Charlotte points out, notes of approval in her voice. Razzle makes a move to straightening a jacket he’s not wearing, and clicks his heels together, drawing the attention of the rest of the table to his shoes, of which they all make various noises of approval, or at least interest.

“I dress to impress,” and judging by his tone, if he were as crass as Vince or Nikki, he would have winked, but Charlotte’s kind of glad he refrained. He then shoves Vince, and by extension Tommy, back up to a sitting position, retaking his seat across from Charlotte, this time purposefully knocking his knee against hers.

Charlotte’s glad that Lola’s back with their drinks, so she can look at something that’s not Razzle’s sunny smile, because she doesn’t want to think about how pretty it makes him look. Stupid, British, band boy and his stupid, blue eyes.

But then she’s looking at Lola, and all she can remember is Tommy’s dejected expression when he told her that Lola and Nikki were possibly sleeping together, and Nikki’s half-hidden, bashful grin when he calls a bitch with a kind of fondness that Charlotte had never heard from him before. The urge to protect her cousin, from harm, from heartbreak, is carved into her bones, but part of her knows it would him hurt more to let him keep falling for Lola when she’d never really end up catching him. Suddenly staring into the depths of her soda became the safest option.

i have loved since you. but when the new paint gets scratched, there you are underneath.

Heather, of all people, is holding a party, and she tries to limit the amount of people she tells - the squad and her friends were the first to be invited - but of course, the guest list spirals out of control, and it’s exactly one and a half days before Tommy’s mooning over the fact that he’s been invited to a party at an actual cheerleader’s house.

“Dude, you’re killing me here,” Charlotte tells him at lunch; she’s finally sitting with him, Lola, and Nikki, though Nikki’s late. Heather had coyly asked her to ask Vince to bring Razzle - the cute English guy, specifically - and Charlotte had picked up her bag and left. Something about Heather in a good mood was worse than when she was being catty.

“You don’t count, you’re my cousin,” Tommy waived her off, and Lola snorted a laugh from where she was laying in the grass, using her backpack as a pillow. “You going?” Tommy pokes Lola in the ribs and she smacks his hand away, but makes an affirmative noise, and throws her arm over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

Something about how that makes Tommy smile, almost pleased, has worry sinking heavy in Charlotte’s gut. 

“Heather asked me to ask Vince to invite Razzle,” Charlotte’s not quite sure why she says it, or why it makes Lola bark a laugh of her own, but at least it get’s Tommy’s mind off of last time he and Lola were at a party.

“Of course -” Tommy sighs, but then, in the very same breath, he lights up like a lightbulb, “wait! If Heather’s preoccupied with Razzle, and Pam’s going, then I -” he turned sharply to Charlotte, eyes wide, “is Pam seeing anyone?” Charlotte gives him an amused, but longsuffering look, shaking her head.

“You gonna put the moves on her?” Lola’s smirking, and Tommy’s steadily turning red, but refusing to be embarrassed.

“It’s now or never, you know? She’s graduating in a few months, will go to college and date some meathead, college footballer, this is my chance,” he enthused, and Charlotte pet his shoulder in solidarity. 

Nikki joins them halfway through lunch, right as Lola and Charlotte find themselves playing angel and devil on Tommy’s shoulders regarding how he should dress for the party. Charlotte’s firmly of the opinion that he should be be wearing bright, eye-catching things - “Come on, you know Pam likes those new-wave guys!” - while Lola was adamantly recommending to go all-out punk. 

“Don’t ask Nikki’s opinion, you know who he’s going to side with,” Charlotte implored, and as if to prove a point, Nikki throws his bag to the side, and lays down with his head pillowed on Lola’s stomach. 

“Because Nikki has taste,” Lola throws her arm above her head, into the grass, neck at an awkward angle as she looks, wide-eyed to Tommy. 

“Thank you,” Nikki grumbles, and immediately closes his eyes, “what are we arguing about?” A pause, then, “and why is Charlie here?”

“Heather asked Charlie to bring Razz to the party next weekend,” Tommy says, the words sounding rote off his tongue, before he gets into the meat of the argument, laying himself back in the grass. Somehow it makes Charlotte feel left out, being the only one left marginally upright, and she slouches a little lower against the fence. 

Tommy explains his conundrum, and much to everyone’s surprise, Nikki refrains from giving his opinion, sighting that he has no clue what Pam would like, and that he’s not taking the fall if Tommy looks like a dickhead and crashes and burns while talking to, arguably, the most popular girl in school.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole,” Tommy groans, without really thinking, and as the realization and subsequent horror took over his expression, Lola barked a laugh, and even Nikki was grinning.

The moment was surprisingly light, Tommy’s face buried in his hands, though he’s now hiding a smile, and Charlotte is surprised at how easy it is to smile and laugh here, these people accepting her presence without another thought. The politics of the cafeteria make it all feel so foreign, but Tommy said ‘Charlie’s sitting here now’ and Nikki and Lola took it in stride.

And later, Eileen will ask her where she was at lunch, will go on to sigh and roll her eyes as she recounts barely sitting through five minutes of the cheerleaders buzzing like cheerful, little hornets, discussing who would be at the party, and how they would coordinate their outfits. She’d spent another five minutes with the swim team, who spent the entire time picking apart her backstroke technique since she ‘finally decided to join them’.

“This is why I don’t sit with them,” Eileen had frowned, sitting in the McDonalds carpark, absentmindedly violating her soda with it’s straw out of frustration, Charlotte, wide-eyed, quietly eats her terrible, oily fries, and lets Eileen vent, “if I have to listen to one more five-am-gym-going-wannabe-sports-scholarship tell me my form is off, I’m going to go full Carrie-At-The-Prom at our next meet,” Eileen warned, and reached over to snatch a fry. Very few people were ever privy to Eileen’s frustration, as the redhead seemed to do a rather good job of bottling it up, but Charlotte personally felt honored that her friend could be so honest around her.

“I was thinking of joining yearbook, maybe? Or the school paper with...” a strange moment of hesitation, “with Peach,” Eileen paused, taking a long moment to think, and take a sip of her drink, eyes glass as she stared out at the highway as cars passed before them, “auditions for the school play are on Friday,” she adds, like she’s seriously considering it, “it’s Singin’ In The Rain, Keanu actually suggested I should audition.” The idea that Keanu and Eileen have talked enough for him to suggest that she audition for a musical and for her to serious consider it is kind of baffling; Charlotte doesn’t process the meaning behind any of this now, however, just files it away in the back of her mind for later.

“Macy moved to Portland over the Summer,” Charlotte feigns seriousness with her suggestion instead, trying not to give away how amused she is, already anticipating Eileen’s response, “we’re holding cheer tryouts to replace her on Tuesday,” Eileen’s expression is already souring, almost comedically disgusted at Charlotte’s implied suggestion, though she lets the blonde finish, “you were the best bottom-right to the pyramid we’ve ever had,” she said, barely stifling giggles as Eileen turns to her.

“I’d rather die,” her lip curled, and Charlotte leaned over the center console of the minivan to press her forehead against Eileen’s shoulder, and Eileen reaches up with her free hand to scratch gently at Charlotte’s scalp, before bursting out with, “and my form’s not even bad! The coach loves me, Charlie, she loves me, they just think they’re better than me, bunch of clique-y, insular, webbed-toe bitches.”

The words hang in the air, a surprising outburst from the usually reserved and thoughtful girl.

“Do they really have webbed toes?” Charlotte asks, turning so her temple still pressed against the soft cashmere of Eileen’s sweater, but she was following the ginger’s gaze out to the highway ahead. Eileen gives a tired, little laugh, as if her outburst had left her exhausted.

“No.”

Charlotte wants more than anything to ask her what’s wrong, but knows better than anyone that Eileen only says exactly what she wants someone else to know. Instead, she offers her fries silently. Eileen takes one.

“Peach and I got into a fight today,” voice barely above a whisper, Eileen follows her words with a sigh, and suddenly her out of character frustration made complete, and utter sense. For all that she’s known both Peach and Eileen, Charlotte has never known their altercations to be quick or painless affairs, “Vince invited her to Heather’s party.”

“He invited her himself?” Charlotte’s not sure what the issue is beyond their general dislike of Vince, but if Vince himself is starting to possibly change, then it’s hard to see the issue. 

“Yeah,” Eileen seems to know what Charlotte’s thinking, and pauses to find the right words, “I don’t trust him, and I don’t know how she can trust him either.” There’s a quality to her voice that Charlotte’s only heard rarely; uncertainty, “and I don’t want her going to Heather’s party, I barely want to go myself, and what if she drinks, and what if she does terrible things she regrets -?” Eileen cuts herself off, squeezing her eyes shut and leaning her head back against the headrest.

“I get it,” Charlotte says, so gentle, so understanding, but Eileen’s still quiet.

“She’s my little sister, Charlie,” Eileen sighed, “and it’s like our parents couldn’t care less, so I have to protect her, and I have to keep her from the guy she thinks is the love of her life, and I have to be the one to always remind her of all the shitty things he’s done and remind her that life isn’t a goddamn fairytale.” She sounds close to tears, soda cup between her knees and hands clutching, white knuckled, at the steering wheel, or else she may have been tearing her hair out. 

There was a shake in her voice, tight and exhausted in equal measure, like the words had sat, unspoken, pressed against her teeth, for far longer than Charlotte had realized she’d been thinking them. Charlotte rests her hand on Eileen’s. 

“She loves you more than anyone else in the world, you know that right? She’s just sixteen, you know all the drama and shit we went through last year -”

“I can’t watch her go through what you went through with Duff,” the words escaped Eileen in a rush, and she clamps her mouth shut, sitting forward in the driver’s seat, lips pressed into a thin line, as Charlotte’s heart sank in her chest, “I’m sorry.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Charlotte sat back in her own seat, nodding dejectedly, fiddling with her bracelet. 

“You... Charlie, you know you’re my best friend, and I love you, and seeing you in pain with no way to help,” Eileen’s hands slid down the sides of the steering wheel as she forced herself to relax, though her words have Charlotte’s heart swelling with fondness, “it fucking killed me,” she admitted, leaning back, letting her shoulders sags with the weight of her words, like the weight of the world, and as she leaned back, she looked to Charlotte, so unguarded, so sincere, “I can’t let Vince break Peach’s heart like that.”

Eileen has always looked and seemed older than her seventeen years, but it’s strange to see her like this, to be reminded that she holds within her this unassuming duality. To protect is her first instinct, herself, her feelings, her friends, her family, but she’s still so young, just a kid; she still deserves to be protected too.

“I’m so tired,” Eileen murmurs, gaze dropping to her hands, now folded in her lap, and she huffs a humorless laugh, “I’m seventeen, Charlie, I’m fucking tired of feeling thirty.”

[minserenity]

Impossible Possibilities

Pairings: reader x idol!Chan (featuring the rest of Stray Kids)

Genre: fluff, humour, a little bit of angst later on

Synopsis: You have always been the kind of girl who follows rules and behaves according to them, always being a good daughter and a model student, helping others as much as possible and trying your best to make everyone around you happy. But what happens when a single rule gets in the way of your own happiness? Will you still follow it?

Warnings: none

Chapter 6: New Faces

You follow Chris around the building until he stops at a door with a big decal of Madonna on it. Muffled upbeat music comes from the room and as Chris opens the door, the three boys who were vigorously practicing a routine, startled, turn their heads in your direction all at once like that was still part of the choreography.

Luminous letters forming the logo of the company on the ceiling brightly light the whole room. The vibrant blue of the walls gives everything that extra warm feeling you used to be so familiar with. It has been so long since you last stepped foot in a dance practice studio and you can clearly tell by the tingling sensation in your feet, that you miss it much more than you’d like to admit.

One of the boys rushes to the stereo to turn the music off. Chris motions you to enter the room, asks his friends to gather up and introduces you to them. The tallest one approaches you first, his bleached hair drenched in sweat, breath short and unsteady. ‘He must have danced very hard’, you think. He wipes his right hand against his white t-shirt and offers it to you with a big smile, one of the prettiest smiles you have ever seen.

“I’m Hyunjin,” he says panting a little, “Chris told us a lot about you.”

“Oh really?” you quickly glance at him, “I hope it’s only good things.”

“Mostly,” Hyunjin jokes, “this is Felix,” he says pointing at the blond boy behind him. He mouths a little “Hi” and waves his small hand. Are they seriously all so cute?

“Oh Hi, I actually have heard about you, you’re Australian too, right?” you ask, remembering what Chris said about his accent and you can totally confirm that.

Felix answers with a surprised “yes”, then keeps asking questions about you, why you came here and what you do for living, until the third boy who was busy tying his shoes, finally gets up and joins his friends. He looks quite familiar, you swear you have seen him somewhere else, but you don’t seem to recall at all.

“We already know each other,” he says with a smirk, confirming your hunch.

“Oh really? So you already met Minho?” Chris asks surprised. As soon as you hear his name, it hits you: he’s the boy from the coffee shop!

“Oh yes! We met by chance a few days ago.”

“It was quite embarrassing actually. I owe her a coffee,” Minho smiles, “so you are the new mysterious intern… Chris told us you’re interested in dancing.”

“Yeah I really like that in fact… You guys are professional dancers, right?” you tentatively ask. If Chris is an idol, they could be too and honestly, you can totally see it. They all look extremely good.

“We could say that we are, yes. I mean... We do that for living, so…” Hyunjin takes over, eyeing his friends for approval.

“You should totally show us some moves, by the way. Chris was so hyped about you, you must be good!” Felix adds, offering to put on some music for you.

You are not sure of what he might have told his friends, but he certainly never saw you dance, yet for some reasons it seems like he got them to believe you’re mad-skilled or something.

“Actually… I haven’t danced in front of an audience in so long…” You shy away, hoping they won’t insist. You don’t have all that confidence right now and you don’t want to risk making a complete fool of yourself in front of them, at least not on the first day.

“Wow Felix, you can’t ask a person you just met to dance in front of you like that!” Hyunjin jokingly lectures the freckled boy who starts apologising for being so blunt.

You are suddenly caught into a mess of witty teasing and chattering and you can’t help but crack a smile at that scene. You don’t even know them yet, but you can tell they’re very close. You fall silent, the banter becoming background noise for your thoughts. In some way, they remind you of the group of friends you used to dance with: Jesse, Vivian, Matt… The four of you used to be inseparable during high school, always making excuses to hang out and practice a new routine. You wonder what changed from then, why does that memory feel so distant.

A dash of bitterness creeps into your mind: you envy the tree boys for having the guts not to let anything or anyone come between them and their passion. You wish you had even a tiny bit of that grit.

You snap back to reality as a crazy idea pops up in your intricate mind and comes out of your mouth too fast for you to block it.

“You guys look like you could be idols.” There you go. The most stupid thing you could ever say.

Looks of fear were exchanged in the next few second, followed by awkward laughs and stuttered words.

“Oh so we look that good?” Minho questions, skilfully avoiding your supposition.

You catch them all breathe a sigh of relief. They’re out of the danger zone.

A feeling of uneasiness starts climbing up your back. You’re certainly surprised at your abrupt nerve, but also a bit disappointed. What was so wrong with you knowing the truth? Do they really think you will never find out? You work in the same entertainment company as them and their faces can be all over the walls, for all you know.

Chris clumsily attempts get everybody out of this awkward situation by asking the boys about their new choreography and Hyunjin quickly responds stumbling a few words saying they just need to figure out the ending.

Looking for an escape route, you get your best acting skills ready, check the time and pretend to be late for something. Quickly grabbing your stuff, you say your goodbyes and leave the room.  

The walk to the bus stop has never felt so odd. You hit your head with your hand a couple of times for being such an idiot. You managed to make them all uncomfortable with just one phrase. And what a way to bow out… You really are a lost cause.

Waiting for the bus feels like an eternity. As you impatiently tap your foot on the ground, you hear quick steps behind you. Too busy brooding over your miserable self, you don’t notice a young boy almost falling over you. Confused, you turn around and he begins to profusely bow his head and apologise for being so clumsy.

“It’s okay, don’t worry, at least you didn’t hurt yourself.” You try to comfort him.

“I was afraid of missing the bus and I couldn’t stop myself in time, I’m sorry.” He smiles, his whole face glowing. That definitely helped easing your mind a little bit.

“I told you, it’s okay, I was all up in my thoughts too. I’m Y/N by the way.” You stretch out a hand for him to hold. He happily grabs it and shakes it twice with much energy.

“I’m Yang Jeongin.”

You almost melt at his cuteness.

“Pleased to meet you Jeongin. So what are you doing here of all places? Besides catching the bus, of course,” you causally ask, just to keep the small talk going. After all, waiting for the bus is annoying to everybody.

“I just finished practice and now I’m going back to the dorm, a friend is waiting for me there.”

“Practice?” you echo.

“Yes,” he hesitates a little, “I am actually a singer! Do you Know Stray Kids?”

Previous ⇄ Next

[fanficimagery]

Tops Dogs

#144 "Well that's pretty rude of you to say."

Summary: When the Alexandrians are on their knees and waiting to see which one of them is to be sentenced to death by Negan, an entirely new group steps in and changes everyone's view on just who the true top dogs are out in the new world. SEASON 7 AU. Modern!100 AU.

Fear.

Pure, unadulterated fear courses through his veins and all Rick can think about is how this is all his fault. As his friends and family are forced to their knees, all he can really pray for is that his son lives and everything's done and over with soon so they can get Maggie the help she needs before it's too late.

"All right!" One of the people who’s captured them gloats. "We got a full boat. Lets meet the man." The same man walks up to a dusty RV and knocks twice on the door.

The seconds seem to stretch on as they wait, many of Rick's group shivering in either fear or pain. He knows now that they're in way over their head, that Gregory had led them to believe they actually had a chance against Negan. But boy were they wrong.

So, so wrong.

The RV door creaks open and a man steps out. It's too dark to really see him, but Rick can make out that the man is gripping a bat in hand while letting it lean against his shoulder. "Pissing our pants yet?" He asks. No one utters a word and the man starts walking forward into the light. Fitted jeans, a black leather jacket, and a red scarf wrapping around his neck is what makes up the man that supposedly everyone fears. "Boy, do I have a feeling we're getting close." He walks towards Eugene, smiling all the while and starts walking down the line of kneeling individuals. "Yep. It's gonna be pee-pee pants city here real soon. Which one of you pricks is the leader?"

Lexa's leaning against the door to the cafeteria, watching on as her people are served up their rations for dinner. It's been a peaceful week so far, so it's not really a surprise when one of her best scavengers comes up to her with news.

"Negan's men are hunting," Octavia murmurs quietly as she sidles up to Lexa's side. She makes sure to keep her gaze straight ahead, all weapons sheathed and arms at ease at her sides. "They've crossed the perimeter into our territory and appear to be circling a smaller group from the Alexandria community."

Lexa's jaw clenches, but makes no move to look at the younger girl. "Is Negan with them?"

"We're not sure, but that ugly RV of his was spotted driving around. It's parked now. In our territory as well."

Lexa finally glances at the younger girl, taking in her coal smeared eyes and leather jacket adorned with buckles and straps. Her hair is pulled back in what everyone started to call grounder!fashion, the sides braided back to a certain point and then tied off to hang loosely down her back. "Give me five minutes. Go and gather a group, and then tell Indra she's in charge while I'm away. We're going to crash a party."

Octavia can only grin in response, she tersely nodding once while rushing off to do what she was told.

In her room, Lexa merely pulls on a jacket over her shirt since the rest of her attire is appropriate for an outing. Then above the jacket, she pulls on a one-shoulder shoulder pad that straps across her chest and then clasps a red sash from the right side of her chest to droop down to her left hip. Her hair is already pulled back and after sheathing a sword at the right side of her hip, she paints coal across her eyes and then smears a few lines down her cheeks. A little metal, gear-like decal is placed between her brows and she's ready- ready to break up Negan's little hunting party and remind the man that he's not all he tries to be.

     - X - X - X - 

Hidden in the shadows with half her fighters hidden high up in the trees, Lexa watches on in disgust as an utterly exhausted group of men and women, and what appears to be one teenager, are forced to their knees in a semi-circle. Negan's men are crowded behind the group's back, all armed with long rifles and smaller handguns holstered at their waists, and holding either pipes or crowbars. Vehicles circle the entirety of the group, their headlights turned on and spotlighting the group from Alexandria.

Negan does make his grand entrance, complete in his leather jacket, red scarf and barbed wire wrapped bat, he ranting on and on about how he does not appreciate Rick killing his people or that Rick and his people killed more of Negan's people when Negan sent in more men to kill Rick's people for killing his people. It's all one big cluster-fuck and Lexa nearly feels bad for the people that earned Negan's ire.

One woman in Rick's group looks to be in dire need of help and it grates on Lexa's nerves when Negan promises that they're going to regret crossing him in a few minutes. She knows how the man works, knows how cowardly he truly is, but they've set their borders on their own claimed territory and stayed off each other's toes.

Until now, that is.

Not only has Negan trespassed, but he's trespassed with the intent to kill. And while Lexa does not know a single face in Rick's group, she's not about to sit back and let Negan slaughter someone in her own backyard.

Negan, of course, demands that Rick and his people give him their shit. This is another thing that grates on her nerves, this self-proclaimed bad ass scavenging from other communities by threatening to kill them if they don't cough up what they fought for. For being a very capable man with very capable men and women at his compound, they choose to take food and other necessary items from groups who worked hard to get it themselves, and that is not okay with Lexa. It's cowardly and pathetic, and she's nearly salivating at the idea of putting the man in his place in front of his current victims.

"I don't want to kill you people. Just want to make that clear from the get-go," Negan says. "I want you to work for me. You can't do that if you're dead, now, can you?"

Rick violently shivers, from both the cooling sweat on his skin and the fear gripping his entire being as he listens to what their lives are going to be like now.

"But you killed my people, a whole damn lot of them," Negan seethes. "More than I'm comfortable with. And for that, for that you're gonna pay." He pauses in his overly long speech and Rick bristles as he hears Maggie whimper. He looks down the line to Daryl and watches as his brother bravely glares up at the one threatening them. "So now... I'm gonna beat the holy hell outta one of you," Negan says as if it were no big deal to take a life.

And if the stories were to be believed, which they are, then Negan was the ultimate big bad and what he's just said was no bluff. 

The gathered Alexandrian's can only watch on as the man taunts them, beaten and utterly exhausted, a bat wrapped with barbed wire leaning against his shoulder as Negan slowly paces before them.

Crickets continue chirp, twigs snap, and leaves rustle, but no one seems to pay it any attention. Negan continues to take his time to size up Rick and his people, and then..

"I'm sorry, but what was that?" A new voice, feminine from the sounds of it, asks. Rick and a few of his people's gazes are immediately drawn to the decent sized group that's crept up on them, a woman with war paint across her eyes and apparently dressed for a battle of sorts now standing just to the left of Negan’s RV. Even the group of men behind her are dressed similar, some of their faces painted as an intimidation tactic. "Who are you going to beat the holy hell out of?"

Negan freezes for a brief second, anger suddenly blazing in his eyes as his grip tightens around his bat. A false smile stretches from ear to ear as he whirls around. "Lexa, my girl, how are you on this wondrous night?"

"Cut the shit, Negan," she says. "You're in my territory and you know how I feel about you and your little merry band of cowards playing this bullshit game."

Negan's men all bristle, muttering swear words as the one Negan called Lexa smirks, and Negan narrows his eyes in anger. “Well that’s pretty rude of you to say.” 

Several guns can be heard being cocked, but all Lexa has to do is whistle and then another group- this one at least thirty or so large- is stepping forward from the shadows on the other side of the RV. The female leading the second group is all swagger and nonchalance, and the men behind her are covered in furs, paint and masks which makes them at least 10X scarier than Negan and his own men. 

"You and I already know how this is going to end, Negan. You're in my territory now and my people greatly outnumber you and yours." He scoffs at Lexa's words, eyeing those standing with her. Even to Rick's gaze Negan's group still looks just a little bit larger, but Lexa whistles again and Negan's back to scowling. Because not only does Lexa have men and women on the ground, but if the little fires suddenly dotting up high in the trees is anything to go by, then she also has people waiting to strike from up high. "Leave now," she threatens, "or I'll drive my sword through your heart and string up your corpse as a warning to those left at the Sanctuary."

Negan's lip curls, but as the seconds slowly tick by he eventually glances over his shoulder and nods tersely to his men. Surprisingly, the wall of men at Rick and his people's backs step away, drop the weapons they had stripped from the Alexandrians, and start climbing back into and onto their modes of transportation. Then glancing back at Lexa, Negan mockingly curtsies. "As you wish, Commander."

Negan shoulders his bat once more and then casts a glare at Rick. "Remember. You work for me now."

Rick gulps, but it's Lexa who pipes up. "Actually, they don't. If you want food, clothing, furniture and medicine, then why don't you put on your big boy pants and fetch it yourself like the rest of us."

"You're skating on thin ice, girl," he chuckles darkly while slowly turning back towards her. "They owe me. You clearly missed my speech about the crimes they've committed against me and since I'm not bashin' in any skulls tonight.." He trails off, shrugging.

"Oh, no. I heard," she assures him. "I just don't care. Alexandria is neutral ground, but since you brought your hunting party into my lands, I'm stepping in now. You will leave them alone or you'll deal with the Coalition."

Negan's lips twist into a snarl as his face darkens. "This isn't over."

"I didn't expect it to be."

As Negan barks at his men to roll out, he stomps back towards his RV and slams the door behind him. It takes a couple of minutes for the RV, trucks and motorcycles to finally leave the woods, but they eventually do and everyone just kind of breathes in relief. But having been left with a far larger and more intimidating group, Rick remains on his knees, watching cautiously as Lexa starts to make her way towards them.

Glenn scrambles over to Maggie who's looking far worse than she did earlier, and Rick mentally scolds him for the action because he's not sure how this new group is going to react to them.

"I am not a monster nor royalty," Lexa says calmly with a small grin. "You can get off your knees now." She holds a hand out to him and Rick hesitantly takes it as she pulls him to his feet. She tries to help up Sasha, but the dark skinned woman refuses and climbs up on her own.

Lexa's attention then turns to Maggie and Glenn huddled on the forest ground, he mumbling soothing words in her ear. Rick watches as the woman frowns and crouches in front of them. Abraham, the surly redhead, tries to intervene, but Rick shakes his head at his friend. "What's the problem?" Lexa asks.

Glenn glances at her, worry glinting in his eyes. "S-she's pregnant," he blurts, "and in an extreme amount of pain. We don't know what's wrong."

Lexa reaches forward and places a hand on Maggie's damp forehead, she shushing and cooing when Maggie tries to pull away. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." Maggie continues to whimper and tremble, and Lexa's frown deepens. "She needs immediate attention."

Rick clears his throat as his group gathers around, casting cautionary glances towards Lexa's people still lingering by the treeline. "We were on our way to Hilltop when Negan's men started to corral us here. Hilltop has a doctor there that's helped Maggie before."

"I know the community in which you speak of," she tells him. "Unfortunately, if you wish to save the baby, she won't make it as far as Hilltop."

Glenn looks absolutely torn and terrified as Maggie starts to sob, he looking up at Lexa. "Please help us. I'll do- I'll do anything."

Rick's gut clenches at the obvious desperation, but is quite surprised to see Lexa nod. "Polis, our community, is a lot closer. You all," she says, glancing briefly at everyone lingering around, "look like you need some aide in one form or another." Then glancing back at Glenn, she says, "If you will permit it, one of my men will carry her. We are not injured nor are we exhausted, so there's little to no chance of us jostling her too much or putting her in further pain."

"Y-yeah. That's fine." He glances down at Maggie, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. "You hear that, Maggie? We're gonna get you some help, but they're going to have to carry you. It's going to be alright."

She weakly nods and mumbles out a thank you between cries, and then Lexa's standing and facing her people. "Lincoln. We're in need of your strength." A dark skinned man steps forward from behind the only other woman, at least Rick thinks there's only two women since everyone else is covered up, his clothing covered in mud as two dark streaks of war paint are painted down over his eyes from his forehead to his cheeks. Once he's standing next to Lexa, she gestures downward and says, "This is Maggie. She's with child and needs immediate attention from our home."

Lincoln nods before crouching down, but doesn't make a move towards Maggie since Glenn's staring at him in awe and/or fear. "Don't worry," Lexa grins. "Lincoln's a gentle giant. Your lady friend will be perfectly safe with him."

"S-she's my wife," Glenn automatically corrects, he then hesitantly and cautiously handing Maggie over to Lincoln. The painted man gets her situated fairly easy in his arms, he standing and then turning to stride back towards his people.

"Come," Lexa tells them. "To Polis we go."

[hystericalrogertaylor]

Please Come Home

Pairing: Ben Hardy X Reader

Word count: 3608

Summary: When (Y/n) falls pregnant with Ben’s baby, everything seems to be going well; Ben’s extremely excited to be a father, and he loves that she’ll be the mom. But when the two get in a fight and he storms out, everything in their lives comes crashing down. 

Warnings: Pregnancy/live birth (a lil gory), blood/vomit/amniotic fluid, perineal tearing, verbal spat/fight/whatever you want to call it, allusion to abortion, fluff followed by heart-wrenching angst, DEATH. This is kinda dark, guys. 

A/N: Wow okay, this is a thing I wrote. Uhhhhhh...enjoy? 

~~~ He’d started the fight, and he knew it. He shouldn’t have stormed out, and he knew it. There were a million things he could’ve done differently that night, and he knew it. The only thing he couldn’t do was change the past. And it was killing him.

---

“Shit,” you whispered to yourself, staring at the pregnancy test in your hand. Somewhere deep inside, you knew it would be positive, but you still didn’t want it to be true. You and your boyfriend had too much going on in your lives to be worrying about a baby too.

You shoved the test into your jacket pocket before heading back out to the living room of your flat. Ben would be home any minute, and you didn’t see the point in hiding anything about this from him. You fiddled with your fingers, trying to calm yourself down.

About an hour later, Ben walked in the door, anger and frustration evident on his face. “Hey babe,” he said quickly, immediately heading into your bedroom.

You frowned. “What’s wrong?” you called after him.

“Everything is stressing me out,” he replied. “No one on that set takes anything seriously.”

You grimaced. “Well...I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Is it important?” he asked, walking back into the room, now wearing sweatpants and a comfortable shirt.

You nodded. “Kinda.”

Ben sat down next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Well, what’s up?”

You took a deep breath. “Promise me you won’t freak out.”

He frowned. “Why would I freak out?”

Slowly, you took the pregnancy test out of your pocket and set it down on his thigh, not looking at his face. You heard him gasp as he removed his arm from you and picked up the stick.

“Is this real?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. That’s why I asked you not to freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.” He took a shaky breath. “It’s just...wow.”

You let a tear slip down your cheek. “I have no idea what to do.”

Ben paused. “Well, we need a nursery, some baby clothes, some pacifiers, some diapers, a crib, some--”

“What?” You finally looked over at him. “You want this baby?”

“Of course.” He brought a hand up to your face, gently caressing your cheek. “I’ve always wanted to be a dad, and if there’s anyone I would choose to be the mom of my kids, it would be you.”

You let out a sob, burying your face in his shoulder. He brought his arms around you, holding you in a bear hug as best he could. “I love you,” you murmured. “I love you so much.”

He rubbed a hand up and down your back. “It’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you. And our baby.” He kissed the top of your head. “I love you too.”

You sighed, closing your eyes. “I may just fall asleep right here.”

“You do that.” Ben lay down on the couch, pulling you on top of him. “Just relax. We can talk more about this in the morning.”

You fell asleep shortly afterward, snuggled in the arms of the man you loved.

---

You were a few months along when Ben started experiencing severe nesting syndrome. You were hardly even showing and he already had the nursery almost completed.

“Ben, why won’t you let me see it?” you asked.

“Because, it’ll be really cool once it’s finished!” Ben gently nudged you out of the doorway. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.” He shut the door in your face.

“Alrighty then.” You went back into your room, sitting down in a rocking chair Ben had bought for midnight breastfeeding sessions. You picked your book up from the table next to you, opening up to the page you left off on.

A while later, Ben came dashing into your room, paint all over his shirt and a screwdriver in his hand. “Okay, it’s done!” He ran over, grabbing your hand and pulling you out of the chair. “C’mon, let’s go!”

He dragged you down the hall to the nursery, stopping in front of the door. “You ready?” he asked.

“Yes!” you exclaimed. “I’ve been ready.”

“Well, ta-da!” He threw open the door and stepped aside, giving you the first view of your child’s bedroom.

The walls were painted to look like an animated forest, with little decals of Winnie the Pooh characters stuck all over them. The crib was painted yellow and had stuffed animals of all the animals from the Hundred Acre Wood inside. There was another wooden rocking chair in the corner, along with a small wooden bookshelf stuffed with Little Golden Books, most of which were Disney.

You covered your mouth, taking it all in. “This is beautiful,” you said, finally stepping into the room. “This is amazing, I absolutely love it.”

Ben smiled, hugging you from behind. “Obviously we need to buy dressers for clothes and other toys and a toy box and such, but I figured this was a good start.”

“It is.” You turned around in his arms, standing on your toes to give him a kiss. “It’s fantastic, you did a wonderful job.”

Before Ben could reply, a small lurch was felt from your belly. Both of you gasped simultaneously, Ben reaching his hands down to touch your swollen stomach.

“Did the baby just kick?” he asked, eyes wide.

You nodded, a couple of tears springing to your eyes. “He did, he actually did.

Ben chuckled a little. “He?”

You shrugged. “I just know.”

Your boyfriend grabbed you in another hug. “We’ll just have to see.”

You sighed, snuggling into his chest. “Only five more months. That’s not that long.”

“It’ll feel like eternity,” Ben joked.

You giggled. “Yeah, probably.”

---

Once you got to eight months, Ben scheduled a pregnancy photoshoot. You’d always dreamed of having one, but you never thought it would happen when it did.

You’d picked out a beautiful blue dress that was fairly tight so your belly could easily be seen. You also wore some nice sandals and a flower crown of white roses. Ben wore a blue collared shirt that was the same shade as your dress, along with some white dress pants.

“It could’ve been a little less windy today,” Ben noted, smoothing down his shirt for the millionth time. You’d decided to have the shoot in a park with plenty of trees and flowers around. The only problem was that no one could’ve anticipated how windy it was going to be.

You nodded. “That would’ve been nice, yeah.” You pushed your hair out of your face. “Well, we’ll just have to go with it.”

“It’ll make for some interesting pictures,” Ben pondered.

Frankie jumped up on your leg, wagging her tail as she tried to get you to take the stick in her mouth. You giggled, grabbing said stick and throwing it into the trees. The beagle quickly ran off to find it again.

Ben sighed, wrapping his arms around your waist as best he could with your stomach protruding. “Have I told you that I love you?” he said.

“Hmmm,” you hummed. “I’m not sure. Maybe you should say it, just in case you haven’t.”

Leaning down until your foreheads were touching, Ben sighed. “I love you so very much,” he whispered. “And I love that you’re able to carry our child and be so strong about it.”

You pressed a short kiss on his lips. “I love you too. And I love that you’re so excited to be a father.”

He smiled. “This is all I’ve ever wanted.”

Before you could reply, the photographer popped around a corner, jogging with all his equipment in his arms. “Sorry!” he called. “Sorry, I got pulled over on the way here.” He set a tripod down on the path. “This is the maternity shoot?”

You looked down at your stomach before looking back up at the photographer. “Yes. Yes it is.”

“Fantastic.” The photographer set the camera on the tripod, pointing it at you and Ben. “Let’s just take a normal picture here before we move on and pose and such.”

Ben wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side. “Sounds good to me.”

The photographer took several photos of you two just standing there, getting a few different angles and a few images with Frankie.

“All right, let’s move on,” he said after a while, moving to grab his tripod.

“Wait,” Ben interjected. “Can you take a few more here?”

The photographer sighed. “Sure, whatever.”

Ben turned to you, grabbing both of your hands in his. “(Y/n), I love you with all my heart. You’ve stuck with me through everything, you’ve made me a better man, and now you’re pregnant with my baby. Nothing in my life makes me happier than you do, and I can’t imagine spending the rest of my earthly time with anyone else. So, I have a little question…” He got down on one knee, pulling a baby blue box out of his pocket. You covered your mouth with both hands as he popped the box open, revealing a beautiful diamond ring. “(Y/n) (L/n), will you marry me?”

The camera’s flash went off several times as you felt happy tears fall from your eyes. Your hands dropped to your sides as you nodded vigorously. “Yes,” you choked out. “Yes, I’ll marry you!”

Ben stood up, grabbing your left hand a slipping the ring onto the correct finger. You turned your hand gently, admiring the way the sun hit the stones. Ben cupped your face and brought his lips to yours; it may have been the sweetest kiss you’d ever experienced.

He eventually pulled away, smiling as wide as ever. “I’m so fucking happy,” he whispered.

“Me too,” you replied, wiping away some tears. “Benjamin Jr.’s happy too.” You put a hand over the spot on your stomach that your baby was kicking. “I think he wants out.”

Ben laughed. “Maybe he’s getting cramped.”

You rubbed the spot your baby had kicked. “It’s okay, little guy. You’ll be out soon.”

Ben knelt down again, pressing kisses all over your stomach. “Yes, you will. And I absolutely can’t wait.”

---

“All I’m saying is that you could do a little more housework,” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Ben was being pissy because you kept asking him to do your chores.

“I take care of you all day!” Ben snapped. “I can only do so much!”

“The dishes haven’t been done in a week!” you almost shouted. “I can’t even reach the sink!”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’ll do the fucking dishes. Anything else you want me to do, Your Highness?”

“Jeez.” You sighed. “Sorry I’m carrying your baby and can’t do jack shit around here.”

“Well I’m tired too!” he replied. “You tossing and turning is affecting my sleep schedule too! And I’m having to do all the chores, all the grocery shopping, all the cooking, everything! And you’re telling me you can’t do one single thing?!”

You fought back tears. “No, I can’t. I’m carrying thirty extra pounds around constantly, my back is going to kill me, and I feel like I could go into labor at any minute. Not to mention that I haven’t slept for more than two hours at a time in three months!”

Ben threw his hands in the air. “Well, sorry I’m not pregnant and suffering with you!” he shouted.

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it,” you replied. “I’m just asking you to pull some extra weight until the baby comes.”

“Is that not what I’m doing?!” he yelled. “I’ve been taking care of your sorry ass for nine months! I’ve dealt with so much whining and crying that you’d think you’d be out of tears from being sad about stupid shit! And nothing I do is ever good enough, you always want to nitpick what I’ve done wrong!”

“Ben--” you started.

“No!” he cut you off. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of dealing with pregnancy symptoms, I’m tired of dealing with the constant nagging, and I’m tired of dealing with you!”

You quickly wiped away your tears, not wanting him to see you cry. “What the fuck, Ben?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head, heading towards the door. “I need alone time. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Come back here!” you shouted weakly.

“Shut the fuck up!” The door slammed behind him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to no one, burying your face in your hands and sobbing.

---

Everything was fine for an hour after Ben left. Then, once you finally tried to get off the couch, you felt a trickle of liquid running down your leg.

“Oh, my fucking God,” you murmured. “My water just broke.”

You stripped off your pants and underwear, sitting back down on the couch. You took your phone and opened the timer app to monitor the spacing of the contractions. You knew you should’ve called 911, but you figured you’d be able to do it by yourself; you’d watched plenty of birth videos on YouTube, so you knew what to expect.

As the contractions started to get more painful, you stuffed one of your pants’ legs in your mouth and bit down on it, trying to make as little noise as possible; you didn’t want to wake the neighbors or anything.

Eventually, you decided to call Ben, because you needed him there. You tapped on his contact and put the phone to your ear.

“Hey, this is Ben Hardy’s voicemail, please leave your name and a message.”

“Shit,” you rasped. After the tone, you continued speaking: “Hey babe, it’s (Y/n). Um...you really need to come home, now. I just went into labor and I need you here. Call me back.”

Every second seemed to be more painful than the last. You screamed into the fabric of your pants, trying to think of something other than the excruciating pain.

“Ben, please,” you whimpered into the phone for the fifth time. “Ben, please pick up.”

After what must have been two hours later, you felt the undeniable urge to push. You had no idea how dilated you were, but it felt like the baby needed out, now.

Slowly, with you pushing, the baby made its way out. Nothing could’ve prepared you for this type of pain; it felt like your whole crotch was on fire. You felt your perineal skin tear, eliciting a loud shriek from you.

Finally, once the shoulders had come out, the rest of the baby’s tiny body practically fell onto the couch. They began to wail immediately, causing you to sit up and quickly grab them and pull the small human to your chest.

After a few minutes of cuddling and trying to calm your child down, you finally checked if you had a boy or a girl, smiling when you saw you were correct.

“Hi, little Benjamin Jr.,” you whispered. “You’re so cute. Yeah, you’re a little squishy baby.” He only screamed in response.

You decided to make one more phone call to Ben. “I just gave birth,” you whispered. “I hope you’re okay. You...you haven’t answered my calls and I’m scared. What if something happened to you? You could be in a ditch somewhere and I’d have no idea.” The dizziness hit you like a truck. “Please come home. S-Soon.” You hung up and dropped the phone on the ground.

You didn’t want to pass out, not with a baby in your arms. Shakily, you stood from the couch and shuffled your feet towards the nursery, making sure not to drop the still-screaming baby. “Shhhh,” you said. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” You felt the same trickle down your leg, except this time you knew it was blood. “Mommy’s gonna be okay…”

You had to stop and lean on the doorframe of the nursery for a moment; the whole world felt like it was spinning. Your vision would go dark for a few moments and it scared you; you really didn’t want to drop the baby.

Slowly, you made your way towards the crib. Using both hands, you set the newborn down inside of it, sighing in relief. “There. Now we can sleep.”

Your head hit the rail of the crib as you passed out, crashing to the floor.

---

Ben’s POV

I rolled my eyes, taking a sip of my soda. “That’s the eleventh time she’s called me,” I complained. “You think she’d take a hint. I just want to relax with my friends for a minute.”

Joe sighed. “Dude, maybe it’s important, what if she’s sick?”

“Then she can deal with it.” I shook my head. “I’ve done so much for her and she can’t do anything to help herself?”

“No,” Gwilym said. “Because she’s pregnant. You’re the cause of her main problem, you should be there to help her.”

I scoffed. “It takes two.”

“Well, you’re the sperm giver,” Joe said, taking a sip of his soda. “So that means you have responsibilities as a dad, before the baby’s even born.”

I sighed. “Okay, you may be right. I just don’t want to be doing everything for her anymore.”

“She needs you now more than ever,” Gwilym noted. “She’s in pain a lot and has a hard time even standing up from a chair. Just go home and apologize and cuddle her to sleep. But listen to her voicemails first.”

I nodded, grabbing my phone and heading outside. I tapped on the first voicemail and listened to it.

My blood ran cold. And the rest didn’t help the anxiety curling up in my stomach.

“I just gave birth,” she murmured quietly. “I hope you’re okay. You...you haven’t answered my calls and I’m scared. What if something happened to you? You could be in a ditch somewhere and I’d have no idea. Please come home. S-Soon.”

I think I accidentally dropped my phone in a gutter, I don’t really remember.

I sprinted home. I didn’t even care if I barrelled into anyone, I just needed to get home, ASAP. I was so scared, but mostly just pissed at myself; I missed the birth of my child because I was angry at my fiancée. How pathetic.

While it usually takes me ten minutes to walk from our flat to the bar, I made it home in three. My hands were shaking violently as I unlocked the front door and threw it open, immediately horrified by the trail of blood across the floor.

“Holy shit,” I whispered. Almost reluctantly, I followed the blood straight to the nursery, from which I heard the terrible screams of a neglected, cold baby. Taking a deep breath, I turned the corner.

I’m ashamed to admit that I threw up at the sight. I vomited all over the nursery door. (Y/n) lay on  the carpet, a large stain of blood and amniotic fluid growing around her. Her eyes were closed and her body was slumped in a way that didn’t look natural. A bit of blood ran down her forehead, leading me to believe she passed out and hit her head on the crib.

I fell onto my knees next to her, grabbing her wrist and feeling for a pulse. Tears fell down my cheeks when I didn’t feel anything. I placed a hand against her chest, feeling for a heartbeat. I stuck a finger under her nose to check for breathing. Nothing. She was dead.

“Hey,” I croaked. “Hey, babe, you gotta wake up.” I pulled her into my lap, leaning over her body and sobbing, my whole body twisting in sorrow. “Wake up!” I screamed. “Babe, you can’t do this, wake up! W-We have a kid to take care of! C’mon, get up!”

I don’t know what I expected; people don’t just bleed out and then come back to life. But I wasn’t about to let the love of my life slip away like that, after I’d ignored all her calls and essentially caused this.

“Wait,” I rasped. “Let me go call 911.” I stumbled into the living room, looking for her phone. I found it on the floor and quickly used the emergency function to call 911.

The call passed in a blur. I told them the problem, pleaded for them to get here as fast as they could, and then hung up. I made my way back into the nursery, truly hearing the cries of my child for the first time.

I picked him out of the crib, holding his small, bloody body to my chest. “It’s okay,” I said, my voice wavering. “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise. Daddy’s gotcha, you don’t have to cry.” I sat down on the floor next to (Y/n)’s body, my arms trembling. “Just let me do all the worrying about Mummy, okay?”

The ambulance arrived after what felt like forever. They burst in the door and immediately put my darling on a stretcher, wheeling her out the front door. Someone took my son out of my arms, and that’s when I actually broke down. I stared at the red stain on the carpet and sobbed, knowing I’d never be able to get it out, that it would forever be a reminder of the events that took place that night; how I was being a dick, how she gave birth without me, how I ignored her calls and inadvertently killed her.

“Sir?” a paramedic asked. “Sir, who was that woman?”

I screamed, putting my head between my knees and watching my tears fall onto the floor. “My everything,” I answered.

Ben Taglist

@thewinchesterchronicles

[recentanimenews]

Ranking The Top 10 Best Costumes In My Hero Academia

Nearly everyone who’s seen My Hero Academia has dreamed about what it’d be like to be born with an awesome quirk. And if you’ve thought about that, you also must have considered what your costume might be. Quirks are one thing. You can’t really control what power you are born with, and if you get stuck with the ability to shoot worms out of your nose or something, then I guess the world is just going to have to put up with NoseWurmz saving it. Costumes, though, are all up to you. They are not only an expression of your super abilities but also your character.

  But which My Hero Academia characters have the best costumes? To answer that, I decided to look at their Uniqueness, Functionality, and Usefulness, and this is what I’ve arrived at:

  10. Yuga Aoyama

    Although kind of resembling Liberace performing at Medieval Times, Yuga’s costume makes totally sense given his power. As the Shining Hero who shoots a laser out of his navel, he is easily propelled by the force of his tummy blasts, so wearing protective armor is pretty smart. As are the glam rock shades, which stop him from being blinded by his own  attacks.

  Yes, the costume is a bit flashy but so is Yuga’s entire personality, and it’s admirable how much he owns it. Also, notice that despite the fact that overusing his laser upsets his stomach, Yuga has opted NOT to incorporate a diaper into his costume, unlike some other heroes (named Minoru.)

  9-8. Backdraft & Tsuyu Asui

    The key to disaster relief superheroics is crowd control. From the second you arrive on the scene, you have to establish yourself as an authority figure whose directions people will want to follow, and Backdraft’s costume does exactly that. As a hydrokinetic hero specializing in putting out fires, his costume just screams “guy in charge.” If you got caught in a blaze and the lovechild of a fireman’s bunker gear and a hydrant came to your rescue, the only question you’d have for him is “What do you want me to do?” whereas with a guy like Death Arms, your first question would probably be: “Sir, where is the rest of your shirt?”

  Tsuyu/Froppy has a similar thing going on with her costume. You only need a cursory glance at her wetsuit/flipper combo to get exactly what she’s going for: “Oh, she’s a frog. Bet she’d be good during an ocean rescue or something.” Ultimately, Tsuyu’s costumes makes you feel like she would be right in her element in the water, and if you were drowning/lost at sea etc., that’s the kind of thing you’d want to see in a superhero.

  7. Kamui Woods

  The world needs more wood-themed superheroes because Groot cannot carry that burden alone. In a world of spandex, plastics, and metal, Kamui Woods stands out as a particularly stylish hero who, other than being seemingly made from wood, also adorns his costume with a wooden mask, belt, kneepads, and shoes. So aside from looking cool, his costume is also simple and straightforward, not getting in the way of the hero’s complex attacks and also being in line with his no-nonsense personality. Wood job! (I refuse to apologize for art.)

  6. Present Mic

    Leather is actually a horrible material for superhero costumes. It’s not great in inclement weather, it doesn’t breathe, and it doesn’t allow for a lot of movement, which is another way of saying that it only works for Present Mic.

  As the U.A.’s resident rock-n-roll-themed teacher, Mic can get away with wearing an entire cow and a half over his body, immediately scoring him a lot of cool points. Mixed with the high-tech voice enhancer around his neck, he comes off as some kind of Cyborg Rocker, almost like a near-perfect embodiment of the ‘80s. But, ya know, in a good way.

  5. Katsuki Bakugo

    If Katsuki’s costume hadn’t been loud, excessive, and generally a bit too much, I’d have thought that Kohei Horikoshi doesn’t understand his own creation. Fortunately, he put Katsuki in a faux-military get-up with two gigantic grenade gauntlets that are great at generating grievous aggravation.

  On literally any other hero, this would have looked ridiculous but for Bakugo's specific brand of outrage, it all works and helps strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. Although I still have no idea what that explosion decal is on the back of his head. Is it made from cardboard or…?

  4. Power Loader

    Imagine you’re a bank-robber robbing a bank, as you would, when suddenly the ground underneath your feet splits open and you’re faced with a shirtless guy in a techno-dinosaur helmet and metal gloves. Before this human Graboid could even say anything, you’d probably surrender yourself to the police faster than you can say: “Can I get a change of pants please? These ones aren’t clean anymore.” That’s the sheer power of Power Loader’s costume.

  3. Thirteen

    Thirteen’s costume is absolutely perfect for a hero specializing in saving people. Although we don’t really know if it’s an actual space suit, it seems like it could withstand anything: heat, cold, freezing waters, even the vacuum of space. The puffiness of it also softens the hero’s image, making them appear calm and gentle, which would put people at ease during a rescue op.

  Additionally, the costume creates a barrier between us and Thirteen’s devastating Black Hole Quirk, which sort of makes it like a cellphone cover for a Nokia 3310: it’s there to protect the outside world from its contents, not the other way around.

  2. Tenya Iida

    At first glance, Tenya’s costume seems very practical. As one of the fastest humans alive thanks to the engines in his calves, you would assume he’d need armor to protect himself from becoming a wet spot on some wall. But it turns out that his armor is very lightweight and offers little protection. Instead, it’s there to cut down on air resistance and make Tenya even faster, assumingly putting him at more of a risk. That is just awesome and speaks to the character’s powers of concentration and control of his Quirk.

  1. Deku (Shoot Style)

  The great thing about the latest incarnation of Deku’s costume is that it does… everything. It reflects his character as an All Might fan with little tributes to the hero here and there. It’s perfect for a combat superhero with all the additional protection that makes it seem like he knows that he’s doing. And finally, it shows you the journey of the character. If you’ve been following Deku from the beginning, then you’ve seen how he went from a rabbity- All Might tribute that was a bit silly to a refined costume that was forged in the field.

  Elements of it like iron soles for better kicks or braces and support gloves to protect himself during punches etc. were added to it out of necessity and they mirror Deku’s impressive growth as a hero. The costume is basically an entire hero’s journey in textile/metal form, and I can't wait to see if it changes again on My Hero Academia, which is completely available on Crunchyroll. 

  Which MHA superhero costume is your favorite? Let us know in the comment section!

---------------------------------

  Cezary writes words on the internet. You should follow him on Twitter.

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!

By: news+feed@crunchyroll.com

[lady-celeste25]

The Immortal Detective

Chapter one:

The rough sunlight beams into my eyes like an alien beaming a cow up in one of those old Science Fiction films. One of the Good ones. I try to drag the cap on my head down, but it's no help. I did it again, dammit... I slept in my uniform. I really need to get into some sort of pajamas. The same uniform I had been requested to wear all day and night from the moment I had gotten it yesterday. 'To make sure they got the measurements correct,' or whatever. Except for the cap, that was normally placed on the head of the person sleeping in the next room.

When the alarm to get up finally rings, I don't jump. Not anymore. It's practically routine by now. I quickly sit up, push back the heavy comforter, and stumble off the bed to the mirror, kicking away some shorts and fast food containers. Sure, the thing in the mirror may be a mess, but I assure you, it's me. What you see may be a tired, tall, messy-haired child wearing a baggy police uniform. In reality, I'm a tired, tall, messy-haired child who is now a detective in training.

After 3 long years of training and practicing, I had finally graduated from being a normal police officer to being a detective. Through countless mental and physical tests, and learning how to use a gun (which I didn't want to). And it's all for the little girl in the silver picture frame on my dresser.

The little girl in the picture had small dimples, grossly cut hair, and held tightly in her hand was a book. That's my little sister, Jaiden. She's the person next door. The one that I should probably go wake up and make sure she'll be fed and ready for school. I don't bother doing anything else with myself, there's still 2 hours left before I report to the chief.

I slowly creep over to the door next to mine. The one that now had a quote and Hufflepuff decal on it. I jiggle the broken doorknob and let myself in. After stepping over a stack of books and a mound of crumpled up papers left over from what seemed like one of her late-night idea sessions. Once I find myself In front of a small steel bed,  I notice that the small lump that's normally there is no longer there. Jaiden isn't in her bed. She isn't in her bed. Panic fills my eyes and wracks through my brain.

"Jade?" I call out. "Jade? Where are you?" My eyes switch around the room. A tightening feeling goes around my lungs and practically steals the breath from them. I should've never let her sleep with the window open. What if someone took her?! Nobody would want her! "JADE!"

Calm yourself, Bevel! I say to myself. You're going to become a detective! You have the brains to find your own sister! Where would she go? Does she really not wanna live here? Or did someone take her? Gotta look for evidence. I start overturning books, tearing apart her bed, and even knocking over her lamp. This is a crime scene now! She's probably at one of her friend's houses. But, which friend?! Mya? Courtney? Myrtle? Stephanie-?

"Dakota!" A voice said from behind me. "What are you doing in my bedroom?"

I jump up a little and turn to see Jaiden in her white school uniform and her hair neatly brushed out. She held two ribbons in one hand and a brush in her other. I sigh in relief.

"I didn't know where you were," I say. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Waiting for you to get up," she answers. "Also cooking breakfast. If you didn't know where I was, how are you going to be a detective?"

"What?" I grab the brush from her hand as she sits down on the ground and I sit on the bed. "But, I normally make breakfast." I also decide to completely ignore her rude question about me being a detective.

I start to brush out her hair as she makes a face that I can see from the mirror on her wall, "you don't make anything right. Somehow you even make cereal taste bad. I was perfectly fine popping in some Eggo waffles and putting syrup on them. Which, by the way, do not need any altercations like you said they needed."

"Hey, dad used to infuse all those berries and stuff," I point out as I gather half of her hair into one hand and the other half in the other hand. "Plus, even though I'm no good at cooking..." I take my hands away to reveal two perfect buns on her head, tied up with the ribbons. "I'm pretty great at doing hair."

She smiles, "Yeah, yeah... whatever." She stands up, takes the brush, and hugs me. "I gotta go. There are waffles for you in the microwave. Don't forget to take your allergy pill and make sure you don't stutter too much while talking to this new Detective."

I roll my eyes, "whatever you say, ma'am."

Jaiden beams brighter as she grabs her bulging backpack from the floor and leaves. Out her open window, I watch the yellow bus pull up and her run out to get onboard. A sigh escapes my lips.

Jaiden is eight years younger than me. She's still in Middle School as I try to work at getting a good paying job. Yet, somehow, even though I'm older she acts like I'm a three year old. True, I kind of am... but she doesn't need to point it out.

I stalk off to the dully colored, unlit kitchen. The one window had its curtains closed making it almost completely dark. I open said curtains and stare out at the view: a red brick building with graffiti on it. Great. Gotta love city life. On the small TV in the living room, the news was blaring. The woman on TV was talking all about Stock prices rising, or something. It doesn't much bother me. I grab out my waffles, sit down on the wobbly chair I'll have to fix later, and drown my waffles in syrup. Then, I take out my phone and start scrolling through some random pictures.

Over the sound of the TV, I could hear the neighbor's dog barking. A little way out, the thumping of machines fixing something in the road was barely audible but I could still hear it. I could hear lots of things I probably shouldn't. Arguments, secrets, plans. That's why I thought I would make a good detective. But, something about working in the city really deterred me from doing it. See, my family is from Indiana. Like, a really small country town in Indiana. Everyone knew each other and things were spectacular. Except when... things happened. Things that I don't like talking about... So, to make sure I made a living and Jade would be able to afford being sent to school, I moved to Cincinnati. The land of plenty mistakes and accidents.

About half-way through my waffles, I see a crumpled piece of paper across the table filled with pen marks. So, she actually finished one in the morning? I grab it and read it.

The great perhaps is that there may be life lasting beyond from where we stand now. In the idea that I'm writing about currently, I propose that maybe someone could live past their own expiration date. Maybe, someone could have seen the whole world go by but never change. Would they be sick of this? Or, maybe they would-

I snort and start laughing. Ever since... the incident... I had been encouraging Jade to write out her ideas and feelings. They were normally wild and outrageous. But, that's what you can expect from a kid with a wild imagination. She is only nine. I grab the paper, take one last bite of my waffles, and go back to my room.

I set my phone on the dresser and kneel down by my bed. From under my bed, I pull out a beaten up brown box with tape on the top. On the tape in permanent marker were the scribbles, 'words and stuff.' It was filled to the brim with small writings, all dated and signed by Jade herself. I add the new paper in. I keep telling her she should pursue a career in some sort of literature, but she's convinced herself that it will make her no money. Every time she says something like that, I bring up J.K. Rowling or Rick Riordan. She still doesn't think it's her speed. Whatever.

I throw the cap to the other side of the room and start to go through my locks of greasy hair, trying to make them stay in some sort of better position. Sure, I'm going to take a shower but I need to at least look a little decent to do that. Maybe even just  My body slowly picks itself off the floor and I put my hand on the doorknob to go into my bathroom, but a ringing sound cuts me off. 

Quickly, I grab my phone from off the desk and check the profile picture. A gruff looking man in the same police outfit (except with more medals) with his cap pulled over his eyes is shining back up at me. The contact name was 'The Chief,' and this was surely my chief. I gulp and press the accept answer. 

"Hello?" My voice cracks. Jesus... does it always have to be like this when I talk to him. 

"BEVEL!" The voice of my chief screams. "WHERE THE HELL ARE YA?! YOU'RE LATE!"

"But, chief," I say, "it's only eight."

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE BY 7:30!" The phone crackles over the power of his voice. "BE HERE IN 15, OR YOU'RE NOT GETTING THE JOB!"

I try to explain myself but the phone fuzzes off. I shove the phone in my pocket, grab my cap, and bolt out the door. My hair will just have to be greasy and my teeth grimy with waffles. Things will be fine. They'll be fine.

I get into the car and fumble around with the keys to start it. Damn, how did I get it that wrong? Hopefully, this goes right, or else it's my head... and my future...

[wellknownwolf]

Ninety Minutes in a Float Tank

Yesterday I went to a float spa.  My sister gave me a 90-minute float for my birthday back in October, and it only took me two and half months to find a way (time off, a sitter, the gumption to do something nice for myself) to get there.  Here’s my experience, for my future self’s reference when the noise starts creeping back in. 

I made the thirty minute drive listening to the opening chapters of Girl, Wash Your Face (I know—it’s so popular that it risks becoming a cliché, but one of my most treasured friends loved it and shared her Audible copy with me, so I’m diving in).   I walked in fifteen minutes early as recommended by the website (“to give yourself time to check in and transition into the space”), and I was greeted by a wide open waiting area and bright-eyed Montel, who walked his bare feet right up to me and shook my hand.  He welcomed me, asked me to remove my shoes (and leave them by the front door, under his supervision, I hoped), and then invited me to sit anywhere that was comfortable.   There were too many options (couches, wooden chairs, loveseats, benches), so I went with the nearest sofa and sat, open to the experience but still resisting actually letting myself be comfortable.  I sat on the edge of the cushion, legs crossed, leaning into the armrest, fully aware of my body language despite the nice conversation I then had about writing and music with the Montel (he has a BA in vocal music).  I did what was familiar: walked the edge of a conversation that could have felt good, but kept my follow-up questions and anecdotes to myself because, after all, we weren’t going to spend much more time together, and it’s not like we were going to see each other again in any kind of social context, so… At least this time I learned from how awkward this made me feel.  Surrounded by incense and all the signs of holistic healing at work, where is there a BETTER place to leap into a conversation about our passions?  Why hold back?  Why not spark those fires at every chance we have?  What the hell was I doing? 

After waiting for someone else to arrive (who, as far as I know, never did), we went back to the rooms and I got the tour, the tutorial of how to do this, where to look for reminder instructions, where to hang my towel should I get salt water on my face, the button to push if I want the light back on, the button to push that does absolutely nothing, despite the music note decal above it.  

Before he left me to it, he shook his head with a big smile (not that it ever really left his face) and shrugged and said, “I’m so excited that you’re a writer,” because THAT was what he clung to: I’m a teacher, sure—that’s how I make money, and I love it.  But what he saw was a writer.  Artists recognizing artists.  Awesome.

I showered, dried my face as told, opened the sealed door, stepped into the room (it was a room, not a pod, though he showed me what those look like, too), laughed to myself at how slick the floor was and the fact that I hadn’t anticipated that, latched the door completely, and lowered into the water.  

I pushed the only working button, and the teal light gently faded away as zen-inducing music came in.  

For a long time, I had pictured myself in this setting: closed eyes (like it mattered in the pitch blackness), neck and shoulders finally straight and relaxed, arms drifting a few inches from my hips as I found my center, or peace, or nirvana, or whatever it was that I was supposed to find when my physical senses were finally given a chance to rest.  Instead, I spent the first I-want-to-say half of the experience with my arms up over my head (because that’s where they kept drifting, forcing me to finally understand where the “Dead Man’s Float” got its name), bending in different angles at the waist because I suddenly felt so flexible and free, and since I couldn’t see anything, hell, maybe I WAS a contortionist all of a sudden!  Montel had told me that at the end of the session, the light would come back on and some piano music would come in, and at that point, I should just let loose and play: bounce off the walls, try to float on my stomach, swim around and be silly.  

Faced with the darkness and impending silence (the music was going to fade out eventually), I instead told myself that my spirit is too playful to lie still like I was supposed to, and I gave myself permission to move however I wanted, instead of berating myself for wasting this opportunity on movement.  

The music died away, and in the silence I could hear my breath extra loudly, thanks not only to the water, but to the earplugs I wore to protect me from it.  I felt like I couldn’t get my neck to relax, so I tried the floating headrest.  It was fine for a while, and I started to grow still, but it threatened to give me a headache once my head started to feel heavy for some reason, so I reached for the wall (there it is. No, that’s the door.  That means it’s to the right.  Here we go. The hook was above the light. There’s the light.  No, that’s a filter jet.  There’s the light.  That means the hook is…how far…?) and hung up the headrest only to have it fall and splash a drop of salt water on my face.  Part of me knew immediately that this droplet would not bother me.  I’d practiced enough mindfulness meditation that I could just let it go, but a louder, more controlling part of me said, “This is part of the experience!  You have to use the spray bottle and the towel he recommended hanging near the door to wipe your face so you aren’t distracted by the itch of drying water!”  So I did.  I also pushed the music note button, and sure enough, it didn’t do anything.

Looking back, I think it was at this point that my maternal self looked at me lovingly and sternly, with “Alright.  That’s enough,” on her face, and I finally felt like I was ready to stop doing the float and just be floating.  

It grew quieter in my head, all the gnat-like thoughts flitting and staying away for longer and longer, and in this new, different silence, I surprised my future self. I said (in my head), “Alright, god. Here I am.”

You probably don’t know me too well (so it surprises me that you’d have read this far), but I am not a religious person.  And this isn’t a religious piece, at least not as I understand it.  I was not taught to foster any kind of relationship with a god, and I never really spoke to one growing up unless I wanted something.  I was great at bargaining with a hazy, distant god vaguely introduced to me by my born-again Pentecostal grandma, and sometimes I let myself be comforted by the notion that someone might be looking out for me, but for my adult life, the idea of g/God has been like kombucha for me: I know it does some people real good, but I just can’t make myself like it.  I don’t mind if you enjoy it; I’m going to say, “No, thanks.”

I also said, back-to-back with my announcement to that god, “Enlightenment, or whatever you are, I’m here.”  This is less surprising, because I know myself well enough that while I don’t dismiss most things New Age or holistic, when faced with the opportunity for enlightenment, I’m so tired and tense and perpetually drained lately that I would approach it with glibness, that I would look it in the face and say, “Well???”

I’d love to say that I then had some kind of vision or realization, that some fog had lifted for me and everything felt clear and right again.  Some people hallucinate; I did not, aside from thinking that I was seeing light come in through the door when I definitely wasn’t (the door wasn’t where I thought it was when I made that trip for the towel).  I may have fallen asleep, or started to, more than once because I felt myself come back to my body (this is the only way I know how to describe the feeling of waking up when opening my eyes was no different than closing them) without realizing I’d lost awareness of the water around me.  No god spoke to me in any voice, my own included, but when I used my last conscious thought to announce that I was ready to listen, I did finally go still.  I did finally just exist without exertion and breathe without listening to my own breath. For ninety minutes, I unplugged from everything I could, and got as close as I’ve ever been to some intangible, indescribable peace.  My nose started to grow a little stuffy, I breathed too shallowly and had to take some catch-up breaths here and there, my joints popped and cracked as I shifted here and there and it was loud in the water, and all of that was no longer worth thinking about.  It was all genuinely okay, and that was enough to put me in a daze.

The room lit up soft blue again, and I had no concept of how long I was in my two states.  I am hopeful that I was quiet longer than I was restless, but it doesn’t matter.  I tasted the stillness and confirmed that even in me, in ever-reaching, ever-worried, ever-wanting me, it’s there. The promised piano music was instantly familiar: a softer version of The Pixies’ “Where is My Mind?” The choice made me smile—my husband introduced me to this song when we started dating eleven years ago, and I’ve never stopped loving it.  And you’d better believe I took Montel’s direction.  I pushed off the walls and glided across the water, bouncing here and there, waking up my limbs in the most fun way I could imagine until the song ended and I was left in the light.  

I smiled as I carefully pulled myself up and pushed open the door.  I smiled as I took my second shower, washing away all the salt water that threatened to really dry me out in the middle of winter. I smiled as I toweled off, put my clothes back on, took a deliberate last look around the little room, and stepped out into the hallway.  

I smiled when Montel found me in the quiet nook filled with cushions on the floor, mixed and matched blankets and a salt lamp decorating the small, cozy space intended to ease me back into the world.  He offered me water, and I smiled when I took it from him.

Had I not had a sitter waiting on my  return and a chiropractor appointment set later than afternoon (read: a life to return to), I don’t know how long I’d have stayed there.  When I first passed it, I didn’t think I’d use that room at all. But when I sat there on the floor drinking that water, I could still feel traces of the stillness sitting below the light headache that was setting in—a happiness hangover—and I wanted to live there.  

I don’t live there, though, so I walked out into the bright front space, hair still damp and messily finger-combed, face bare and relaxed as I found my shoes where I left them by the door.  I sat where Montel had in the beginning and made myself comfortable while I put them on, and he took my earlier seat and said a little bit more about how he loves the experience, throwing in a few lines about a membership that on another day might have irked me.  I didn’t mind.  We thanked each other, we said our goodbyes, and I stepped out into the wind to make my way back to the car.  I conformed to my seat a little more than usual on the drive back, and when someone almost clipped me on the highway, I let it go a little more quickly than usual. (Still, later that night, when someone ran a stop sign on my street, I honked at them and then flashed my brights at them, so you win some, you lose some).

I don’t know exactly what my takeaway is or why I’m always so determined to have one. Maybe it’s the writing teacher in me always trying to find a moral for my stories.  What I’m settling on is this: my muscles stiffened up later in the afternoon and an old ache in my hip was not permanently cured.  I woke up a little tense this morning, and I’ve yelled once or twice already.  I am not a changed woman.  But I did open myself to an experience that is not altogether unfrightening.  To be alone for ninety minutes without the anchors of sight, sound, or sensation could have pushed me into an anxiety spiral, it could have made me sad, it could have convinced me that  I am hopelessly tired and destined to be so forever.  But it didn’t.  I let my flighty, easily-distracted self play, and when she got all of her bullshit out of the system, what was left was the being that I’d deeply hoped was still in there somewhere: a part that did not need to examine or process, a part that could be not just comfortable but openly happy with the most permanent thing to which she is bound: herself.

[empressxmachina]

Welcome Home, Sasha - One. by Imperial-Radiance (aka me)

To set the mood: 

Alexa, play this video containing simulated spaceship bedroom ambiance and featuring a fairly complementing background fitting for the first half of this part.

As for this preview pic that resembles the helm in the second half of this part, it's this picture off Pinterest, I think.

Now, the story...

   “So, can you tell me anything about why the hell they were getting emulsified by Commander Martin back there?”

   “Yes.”

   “Uh, will you?”

   “In due course, sure. But everything you need to know, for now, you already do.”

   “Well, fuck.”

   If you oversleep, then don’t expect to get work or pay during the day. That was one of the general, unspoken rules aboard the space station Novis, and Lieutenant Sasha Keeling had prayed that the team with whom he was meant to scout would be as apathetic as usual and not catch him arriving late to training. Or, they would at least allow him to pull some sort of overtime to make up for the time lost: not much, considering all he had done for them already just trying to fit in.

   Washing up and putting on his suit in record time, Sasha had zipped out of his quarters and through the space station’s corridors, hoping to catch up with his presumed partners before they made any bold decisions without him. But they had.

   Where he had expected to find them in Hangar C, conversing by and packing gear into the eldest’s parked spaceship, he instead found an empty parking space that had run cold. Any other day, Sasha would’ve just figured that its owner was out for a test run with his partners being elsewhere in Novis doing other things. But, the lack of message left for him, them not answering his calls for verification, and the teasing expressions and chuckles from those in the hanger that caught sight of him set in stone that they not only left him in the space dust but used him, never going to bring him along in the first place.

   Sasha hadn’t had much time to wallow in his embarrassment, though he definitely lived up to his given nickname of Sasha the Sheepish. As he turned around to head back to his quarters to nap and drink his shame away, he was stopped by a familiar but a nowadays not-so-frequent face.

   He, a superior on various levels except for height, had known all too well that Sasha had no business being in the hangar. He wasn’t enlisted for any mission at the time, yet there he was, ragged looking with his auburn locks going in all directions and his deep-set chestnut eyes no better but everywhere else suited up like it should’ve been.

   Sasha easily saw the judgment on his senior’s face, watching his facial muscles squirm and lift the textured, ebony hairs above and on it. But rather than being scolded on the spot as he and all the now silenced onlookers expected, the higher-up just guided him away from all their eyes to his haven with no questions asked, where he could take him in all for himself.

   It wasn’t the first time Tshepo Azikiwe, a Novis admiral, had brought him into his laboratory, finally greeting the shy subordinate with a “Glad You’re Back” upon arrival, but Sasha never thought that particular meeting then – one predicted to be another one-hour lecture on how he shouldn't be so susceptible to first-time kindness – would eventually lead to him taking the role not of just a passenger but of his Mission Specialist and potential copilot in Tshepo’s own ship, the Demeter, light years away from Novis and headed to… to…

   “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?” the now lackadaisical lieutenant probed in the present from down the hall, voice floating through the cracked open, milky glass doorway dividing the helm from the rest of the dark and dim ship.

   As far as he could tell, there was a blur on all the windows, and all the mapping systems in the Demeter except those in the cockpit were shut down. Sasha had no way of detecting where they were in the caverns of space, and there was no way he was going to be able to get Tshepo's lenses off him that did.

   To combat the boredom and Tshepo’s silence on the matters ensued, Sasha wondered to himself, lain with one foot on the bed of his cold cabin, twiddling and examining a miniature of a NASA Space Shuttle from years – decades, a century – past he’s had since childhood between his fingers. He gazed at it intently, still enamored by its attention to detail and maintained quality for something so small and ancient. He could even imagine almost undetectable, tiny navigators inside the orbiter, fiddling with the controls at the helm.

   As fun as it was to wonder, it wasn’t long before a wave of angst came through, making him reminisce of its and thus his own origins: his home world he hadn’t seen for over a decade.

   Every day, he wondered what his life could’ve been if things didn’t go as they did. Perhaps, he would've been an Earth-based astronaut for NASA rather than the distant affiliate he was now, helping and being a part of humanity directly rather than perusing the galaxies for the unknown just to keep the peace. It would sure be less hectic than potentially starting a war every moment solely by existing.

   “Have you finished setting up the mods on your suit?” Tshepo tested back from the driver’s seat, glancing at the rearview mirror propped to aim back toward the lantern-lit dormitory.

   It was a simple yes-or-no question: one of the few static binaries in the ever-expanding universe. So, how would a non-answer such as the one Sasha gave for a duration fit into the equation? The jab-less silence from Sasha was telling enough on its own, but with the distant footsteps and rustling and creaking of the bed that followed, along with another verbalized “Fuck”, Tshepo knew his authority still held its strength.

   “I thought so,” he chuckled, focusing back on the expanse in front of him. “I figured you would’ve at least tried to get it calibrated, but there’s no use worrying about that now.”

   Sasha set his toy down on his bedside table with a groan and hoisted himself off the bed to do as he had been instructed (after volunteering) to do. He began to stretch, attempting to revitalize his limbs and loosen his muscles, simultaneously scanning what practically was his second home – third, counting his quarters on Novis.

   A quaint hovel, his cabin was: a mobile, cup-sized, soup can of a capsule containing bits and pieces of him, old and new. Although the technological intricacies of his intergalactic escapades were worthily glorified – the inner, emerald luminescence and trackers of his spacesuit, prototypes and mockups of Tshepo’s various experiments, including those to which Sasha contributed, cycling through a Holo-Display and its cyan figures on his desk, the marvel that was the Demeter itself, etc. – the images of the relatively domestic side of his life overshadowed them through their simplicity and wholesomeness.

   Many scoffs and looks of confusion were always sent Sasha’s way about his suit and all of the old-school references and icons of Earth-centric media scattered on its chest plate via decals, but he never batted an eye at them, not ashamed of his roots one bit. Those sentiments spread to more than just absorbed culture, exemplified by all the pictures and video clips of Sasha’s various achievements, large and small, Tshepo pasted across the walls, ranging from his first time completing the Zero-G Hero’s Course as a wee kiddo with bruises for days to the recent ceremony locking in his promotion to Chief Atmospheric Engineer.

   Being just twenty years old and hand-picked by the commander, it was an honor in numerous aspects. He had quite a lot for which he could be celebrated, even if his so-called peers took heed to never acknowledge it. Tshepo had every right to be proud of him, but Sasha always wished for the recognition from someone else: two specific people, actually.

   Right next to the head of his bed, now behind the Space Shuttle model, was not a hologram or 3D print but an actual paper-printed and framed photo of a preschooler-aged Sasha and his parents together back on Earth. A smaller print also found itself pinned by his heart in his suit, adding to the tradition of having one within every uniform he had had over the years. Looking at the picture, no one would’ve been able to tell the magnitude of the global chaos lingering in its background and out of the frame that eventually led to Sasha’s relocation: just a sweet, happy, space-loving family unit he dearly missed.

   Although Tshepo was great in filling the void of his needs and most of his wants, Sasha knew it wasn’t what he wanted deep down. He was never totally sure why his parents couldn’t come with him, let alone why he had to go in the first place. With the fancy gadgets, doodads, and documents they kept around the house as far as he remembered, they had to have been qualified to study the stars and all they held, much more than where he was now. But, what could he do about it, a galaxy or several away? All current worries about them would be produced in vain.

   Eventually, his stretching session ended, his eyes shined from familial remembrance, and his hands went for his helmet sat at the foot of the bed. Upon grabbing it and staring into its innards, though, Sasha’s humility toward his abilities and its complementing worries were reignited and heightened as a recollection of Tshepo’s remark burrowed itself deep into Sasha’s consciousness, not for what he said specifically but what was inferred.

   “Wait, what?” Sasha muttered to himself, looking back and forth between the helmet and the rest of his suit, trying to remember how to even do the procedure. “If the calibration should’ve been done before landing, then why shouldn’t I be worried about doing it now?”

   “Because we’re here.”

   Before he could combat Tshepo’s sudden statement, Sasha could sense the truth enveloping under him, feeling and hearing the vibrations and power of the rockets and engines transitioning into the settings needed for a soft landing. As gravity began taking effect on the ship with its descent, Sasha took the moment to look over his shoulder to whatever he could see through his window. Out of all places to which they could’ve been headed, Sasha was shocked to find primarily warm reds, oranges, and browns in view: a spectrum of a hazily familiar planet that usually didn’t require any secrecy to reference.

   Perhaps, his eyes were deceiving him, trying to give him a sense of comfort being thrust into what would probably be a challenge. After all, there had to be some reason why Tshepo chose him over someone else with more experience in, well, anything. To see if he truly earned his engineering chiefdom? To test his accuracies as the biogenesist he had been building himself to be through years of lab and class study? Just because he’s a favorite, more or less like a son or brother? With the almost missed plop and anchoring of the Demeter’s landing gear onto an apparently land surface, boosting his hypothesis of their location, it was time to find out.

   Feeling confident in where they were, Sasha didn’t bother putting on the helmet just yet, walking out of his cabin with it in one arm while the other tapped his breastplate right above his tucked-in family portrait as both a goodbye and a wish for luck to himself. However, rather than seeing Tshepo doing the same with his suit, approaching him from the helm, Sasha found him still sitting there in the pilot’s chair, not having moved and looking as though he wasn’t going to move, either.

   “Uh, are you not coming, Ki?” Sasha queried, stepping across the metal flooring past the lavatory and little lounge area for eating and through the foggy-glassed doorway to his friend/mentor/caretaker with a knock upon entrance.

   Tshepo perked up at the polite signaling along with the endearing nickname. While he didn’t feel that Sasha’s feelings toward him had changed since boarding the ship, it was still nice to hear them being as strong as ever, even if they had a sheer veil of sadness over them. The youngling’s sideward approach, leaning close by on the copilot’s chair – his if he wished to contribute – to see his doings hammered their veracity in deeper, making keeping the confidentiality alive all the more difficult with him right there.

   “I will if necessary,” he chided, not looking at Sasha as he adjusted the switches, buttons, and screens at the helm.

   Only seconds later, Tshepo felt Sasha bend toward him, breaths passing along the bushel of hair across the underside of his chin as the young adult gazed, trying to comprehend anything in sight. He was nervous momentarily, but the worries subsided when Sasha admitted defeat, ultimately sighing and returning to standing position, unable to read the respectively alien language everything was set to. Luckily, their orientation allowed for Tshepo to pull a smirk without notice, glad that his translation scheme actually worked.

   “But, right now, I have to make sure levels stay in order,” he continued, finally glancing up at his youthful familiar. “The connectivity to Novis, the Demeter’s power bank, the mods on your suit…”

   “And, why can’t you come with me to do that?” Sasha considered through an almost childlike whine. For one, his Ki to the cosmos wasn’t as locked down as he usually was. Or, maybe he was too much so. Either way, it was weird. “Surely, this mission of yours, whatever it is, isn’t time sensitive. You would’ve brought more people with us if that were true.”

   “Well, you’re right about the timing. This is a mission searching for accuracy and detail of the ecosphere rather than time being of the essence. Though, being punctual is never a bad thing. After all, your current timeline would be totally different if you had followed that rule, wouldn’t it?”

   Sasha caught the reference of petty, partner neglect immediately and couldn’t hold back an audible groan, earning a giggle from Tshepo.

   “Anyway,” the youngster tried putting the conversation back on course, “I can wait for you to do your domestic thingies first or even help you with them, and then we can do whatever bio-survey we need to do with you moderating the mods as needed.”

   “My suit can only protect me, not monitor you,” Tshepo prompted him, “and the mods are only on yours. They’re still on a test run for which you’ve accepted being the lab rat, so I can only do my part from here.”

   Completely disregarding the lack of protection implied, Sasha conceded,

   “Fine. Whatever you say, Ki.” He tossed and spun his helmet in the air, catching it like a basketball and observing it like a crystal ball. “I did say ‘Yes’ and all, so I don’t want you to turn me in for insubordination or some shit like that. Not that you would, but I’m not risking it with this secrecy schtick you’re playing right now.”

   Tshepo expelled a moan of disappointment, hearing his apprentice of sorts somberly drag him through the ground for what had to be one of the biggest miscommunications in the universe. “All I ask of you is to trust me when I say that everything will be clear as soon as you get out there. Okay?”

   Rather than addressing him back directly, Sasha, against his instincts, started setting and securing his helmet on its proper place on his collar, hearing the clicks and suctions of locks and beeps of computer systems turning on to standby, waiting for further instruction. He then turned his gaze away and resumed his ranting through a mutter to himself, given Tshepo’s new, closer proximity,

   “You’re already delaying clarifying stuff I was a witness for – what I saw and heard, so I guess it’s not that much of a stretch to think you’d hide stuff I don’t know, too.”

   “Sasha, you know I always try to have your best intentions in mind,” Tshepo reminded, rising from his seat and setting a gentle hand on Sasha’s shoulder with an equally endearing soft, russet stare.

   Doing so kept the youngling from walking toward the entry latch and expanding both the physical and emotional distance between them just yet. The young man already had enough to be sad about as is, and while the truth would just make it worse, Tshepo didn’t want it holding him back until it was right in front of him with no yield.

   “I didn’t think I had to explain how this actually wasn’t a mission for you,” he added with a lecturing cadence, “and I wasn’t supposed to bring you with me but did anyway.”

   From the gasp and look Sasha made back, it was obvious to Tshepo that his apprentice wasn’t aware of the helmet’s microphone’s immediate powering on upon placement along with that tiny truth. His slender suit may have been built fully in crimson with an almost radioactive glow of green in every vent and sliver inside and out, it didn’t dampen out the blushing that crept on Sasha’s cheeks through the viewing window.

   “Really?” Sasha finally replied after a pregnant pause, to which he received an authoritative nod. If his helmet wasn’t mushing his wispy locks down, then he would’ve been combing through or twirling the ends of them with a hand out of embarrassment: a habit burned into him since he was tween-aged. “Then, why in the fuck did you bring me? Why am I here at all?”

    “I already said I can’t test and check at the same time. I have my other reasons for breaking my binds, but don’t tell me you can’t do something as simple as making sure the mods work on the field?”

   “Whoa, hold up,” Sasha breathed, not expecting an interrogation, let alone one so seemingly lighthearted. “What are you implying?”

   “I don’t know, perhaps that your savant-like styles of science and surveying are bounded by walls.”

   As quickly as it came, Sasha’s shame was soon lifted, catching the challenge within Tshepo’s now-apparently friendly berating all the fatherlier. Little did he know that his eventual acceptance of it was falling right into Tshepo's plan. When fitting in a place of comfort, Sasha's cockiness and confidence weren’t hard to pop out.

   “No, no. You and I both know that's not true!” Sasha announced, playfully scoffing. “If the commander himself had enough faith to get me promoted – something I'm still not sure I deserve but am grateful of, nonetheless – then I can do a little scan or two. Watch me; I won't let you down.”

   “I never thought you would,” Tshepo smiled, patting his youngster's back as he headed for the entry latch to head out. “Just make sure the mods are functional.”

    Silence filled the airwaves as Sasha loosened the suction of the heavy latch and trekked down the pebbly path of the exit. He expected to hear winds or animals of the environment or voices of technicians waiting for his arrival, but, surprisingly, he heard nothing on the outside. There was only him, his thoughts, and the beeps and dynamics of his suit. If they weren't the medley of sounds that he was used to on the daily, having never really been talkative with anyone except those of the few positions higher than himself, then he would've thought it was weird.

   The young engineer had just made it to the external opening, just about to be exposed to the mystery destination one-on-one, before he heard Tshepo’s voice again.

   “One more thing before you go,” he directed through the microphone. “As much as I want you to be quick and correct…” He struggled to find the right words, not wanting to give away the truth about their reason for usage prematurely. “…tread lightly.”

   “I, uh…” Sasha caught the hesitation in his voice, frazzled by the strange instruction, but not wanting to restart another uncomfortable back-and-forth, he brushed it aside. Instead, he looked to the metallic, light tessellated walls and ceilings for the camera Tshepo had to have been using to see him, found it, and acknowledged him with a promising salute as he signaled for the doors to open and the exit ramp to be unraveled. “I’m on it.”

   Before either of them knew it, the sensors were set off, and the Demeter opened its maw to reveal its insignificant, human inhabitant and release him to the vastness of the unknown, outside world.

[hollerace-blog]

The Shed

One of the salient advantages at growing up at 314 Midfield Avenue was that surprises were many and close between. My dad (and his friends) always seemed to have something in store. Add my mom’s brother, Uncle Buzz, to the mix, and adventure, usually concomitant with fun, was ever on the menu.

That spring Saturday so many years ago stands out. My brother and I awoke to the sounds of carpentry coming from the backyard. Various implements banged in a striking cadence of metal on wood.

Still pajamaed, we raced into the yard, mindless of our grandma’s call to breakfast. We scarfed down her velvety scramblers posthaste. A handful of men worked at the project. Uncle Buzz (a reputed carpenter by trade) led the tradesmen as Dad handled some plans and made measurements.

“IT’S A TOOL SHED. WELL, GONNA BE,” Mom offered. “BUZZ, YOU DON’T NEED A BEER! IT’S GOING FOR NINE!” My mother had a unique way of telling time. For years, I had no idea of actual numerical chronological increments. Our household was limited to a number of phrases that merely approximated real times in hours and minutes. We deciphered code phrases like “going for”; “a little after”; “not quite,” among others.

The concept of a tool shed did little to boost the morale of the Hollerkids, but it’s not every day a new edifice arises in your yard. So, jeaned and sneakered, we ventured out. This foray did not last long, since Buzz delivered yet another hammer blow to a gnarled, already indigo fingernail. A raft of curses ensued, accompanied by Dad ushering us out of earshot. Snagged.

Buzz came to the rescue, proffering his seemingly endless supply of silver coinage for us to go to the matinee at the Marilyn. We celebrated with Milk Duds, Junior Mints and popcorn doused in semi-buttery, mucilaginous petroleum product. A few Roadrunners, some Stooges and jutting-jawed white men shuttling fighter jets in dazzling array kept us at bay for the afternoon.

Back at home, the skeleton was complete. This seemingly massive structure spoke of more than a mere tool shed. My brother and I conferred in our bunks that night, sharing dreams about this mysterious new building.

By the time we got back from Mass the next day, our future shed was just about done. But the mystery lingered on. Over Mom’s paprikas, the subject stayed off the table. After the meal, I noticed Dad had left something behind. It was a clear piece of lucite. A small key dangled from one end. On the plastic, hand-etched in my father’s precise fashion were the words:

CLUB HOUSE AND TOOL SHED

“A CLUB HOUSE!” two boys screamed in concert. We burst out the back door and hit the shed. It was actually a two-room affair; the larger space was for the “club.” Someone had put a couple of old folding chairs and a rickety table about the room.

Somehow, the silent signal made its way to both our noggins. We owned this! No rules! No grown-ups! Nirvana! My brother and I were hootin’ and Holleran. We stomped, danced and otherwise caroused. With nobody trying to simmer us down.

Mom had to drag us out to the real world at suppertime. I made sure to secure the lock; no strangers could violate our Valhalla.

Our fortress was spare. A single, sliding window was the only outlook. To that end, we left the door open most of the time. The wall dividing the shed was made of Homasote, a dismal, gray fiberboard affair, but begging for thumbtacks.

Not to fear. One day, Tom and I retreated to our castle to see some color photos affixed to that wall. Willie Mays, Al Kaline, a crookedly grinning Larry Berra. All these borrowed from Dad’s Sport magazine. We cautiously decorated to our own tastes. A grinning, gapped Alfred E. Newman did not go over well, but remained. For some reason, adults viewed this character as a denizen of some warped Sixties Gehenna.

As school ended in June, we looked forward to quality time in The Shed, as Mom had dubbed it. One day, my brother brought up a touchpoint. “Do we have a club, or what?”

Whoa. The idea of an organized association of any sort was foreign to us. But heck, the Little Rascals had clubhouses. They even put on shows! But what about nomenclature? A cool handle meant everything. We both descended into deep thought. Which didn’t last long.

“I’ve got it!” exclaimed Tom. “The Night Crawlers!” Debate over. We both had seen the sign advertising these varmints at Ted’s Bait Box for years. The moniker was menacing enough, with no swears or other nastiness that might upset adults. Perfect.

Tom voted me president; I voted him sergeant-at-arms. Politics done.

Prospective members became a problem. Word ignited around the neighborhood. I got skinny that guys we didn’t even know—from the other side of the Avenue—were claiming to be members. Of course, Lloyd and Barry Tichey from across the street were charter Crawlers. We had to let in Linda Fortune, who lived in the three-top above the Ticheys. Her dog, Hercules, became our unofficial mascot.

We discussed others. Tom wrote the name of every vaunted associate in chalk on the fiberboard. Inky O’Doul, Johnny Sabo and Swedey Johnson, who was by popular mandate the most popular kid in Park Terrace.

I can’t accurately describe the Night Crawlers as an organization. We never had a meeting. No charter, no dues, no mission statement.

As luck would have it, things eventually went dark. One day, I returned from a sojourn to the local playground (better known as “The Field”). The door to The Shed lay open, as it often did. Only standing in that doorway was one Michael Fanelli.

I could hear him muttering something to my brother, who cowered away. Fanelli wasn’t the most hated kid in the neighborhood; he was just the least liked. He was not of any type other than rodentine. He could have been twelve or sixteen. Black clothing, engineer boots in summer. He seemed to belong to no school or family. . 

He was tolerated by the Dirt Kids from Tin Can Alley, mainly because he would treat for candy at United Cigars. Otherwise, no one claimed him as a friend. And I didn’t want him in my backyard.

His mouth was a slash of a sneer as he kept calling my brother “kid” in the snottiest way. I didn’t hesitate. “Clear out, Fanelli,” I said. “Hit the road.” 

“Screw you and your crappy club, kid,” said my nemesis. Nonetheless, he shambled down our driveway. I felt Tommy’s sigh of relief in Fanelli’s wake. I clutched him instinctively. He was already tough stuff but I could feel a tremble.

He said, “Fanelli said we had to let him in the club or he’d kick my ass.”I knew the interloper  was all mouth and no action. Word was that he would talk trash to guys at The Field and sidle away when anyone had a problem.

I saw no need to consult Bucky Maraglino and Rats Müller about Fanelli bothering my brother, knowing that these older guys would intervene for us. For a while, Fanelli faded.

The Shed served us well that summer. We’d hang out on drowsy days. Our grandmother would make us pitchers of iced tea, levering cubes out of trays to fill an old enameled pot that served as a cooler. Chips and other salt-laden treats were always on hand, and slabs of meat on Wonder were always available for lunch.

 Kids would come and go throughout the day. Tom and I ruled over this tiny kingdom. I just enjoyed sitting back, inhaling the still-fresh woodsy aura of the building. I felt safe, protected and independent.

 Guys supported us. Wifty Schultz, already a budding artist, dolled up a Newman poster with our club name in two-toned type! Some cool flame decals appeared for window decorations. The space became our castle, our keep. Dad would putter in the tool quarters but pretty much left us alone. 

These were heady times, for sure. The days seemed warmer, brighter. The two sturdy maples in our yard brought relief from city heat, slicing sharp sickles of sun that darted through the sparse, dusty patch where grass could find only a timid purchase. In those days of innocent clarity, nothing could stop us. We were indeed Dukes of Earl.

We were fortunate that Michael Fanelli never made a return visit to The Shed. One day, biking up to The Avenue, I peered down an alley behind stores. We used to flip baseball cards back there. I saw Fanelli kicking the wall, his black boots looking odd and scrufty in the heat.

I couldn’t resist, and approached the kid. He looked especially feral; his sneer seemed  nastier, more menacing. “They kicked me out of United,” he said. “Caught me stealing.” It was a neighborhood tradition not to nick anything from United Cigars. Old Mr. Kessler, no humanitarian himself, treated the kids with benign neglect.

Fanelli cast his eyes away from me. I was astonished to see he was crying. He said, “I guess I can’t be in your club.” I felt badly for him, for some reason..

“No. You can’t, “ I said. “Not when you threaten to beat up my brother,”

“I didn’t mean nothin’.”

I said, “You should think of that before you open your mouth.” I decided not to make fun of his tears, as much as I wanted to mock him. But I couldn’t resist a final dig. I  added, “Just stay away from our house, our club. Or I will kick your ass.”

He shied away, sniveling. I went into United and got a Tru Ade and a couple of Fireballs.  I wasn’t sure of any physical prowess over Michael Fanelli. I don’t even know if I ever saw him again.

I rode home and went right to the shed. For some reason, I gave my brother a Fireball and held him close. I said, “Nobody’s gonna bother us anymore. We’re the Night Crawlers.”

Tom and I stood there, clinging to each other, protected by The Shed.

And it was all good.

***

We had a few good summers in that shed. Soon, my brother outgrew me and became MY protector. After Mom sold the house, the new owners tore down The Shed. They also put a statue of a saucy jester in the front yard. That would have driven Dad up a wall.

Many years later, on a visit home from the Left Coast, I stopped by the Sons of Sweden. A lot of the old gang was there; drinks were hoisted; jollity ruled.  Some guy I didn’t recognize was reminiscing about the old neighborhood. “Where did you live, anyway?” said Hook Grywalski.

“Barketine Lane,.”said the guy.. This was up on the Hill, a small enclave for the monied set.

Swedey Johnson jumped in, “But you were never a Night Crawler.”

[vagrantblvrd]

A Higher Law (1/1)

Summary: Things go wrong more often than not when the Fakes are involved.

Notes: For Diveintothefuture who asked for Freewood and either the now or never kiss or being on the brink of admitting their feelings for each other but getting interrupted from this post. :D

AO3

Things go wrong more often than not when the Fakes are involved. Things like tripped alarms and trigger happy security guards. Some trick of weather that throws their careful plans off that crucial little bit that means the difference between a flawlessly executed heist and a chaotic clusterfuck of epic proportions.

Tonight its some kind of sport championship playoffs and guards who alter their patrol routes because they just need to catch an extra few minutes of the game here, another there, and now they're fucked because they failed to account for that.

One hundred percent fucked.

“You have that out for us yet?” Ryan asks, watching the choppers circling overhead through the security cameras.

Gavin yells something back, voice muffled and indistinct around the cables he has clamped between his teeth as he does his thing with the computers. Trying to find a way out of the building for them that doesn't involve going through the hordes of security guards swarming the building.

This was supposed to be a simple, quick little job. Go with Gavin to watch his back while he pulled files they needed for the next heist off of the computers here. Deal with whatever complications might arise, but no one had expected there to be any, which may have been the problem because they didn't come here expecting a fight.

They're both wearing body armor because Geoff's insistent they do whenever they go on job, even simple little infiltration ones like this, but they didn't bring any heavy weapons with them. Just Gavin's shiny little gold gun and the knives he keeps taking off Ryan like Ryan doesn't know, doesn't let him.

The same stupid little game they've been playing for years now. A give and take that amuses the rest of the crew as much as it bewilders them.

It started out as Gavin being a nosy parker, wanting to know what made the Big Bad Vagabond tick, who he was under the mask and the ridiculous face paint. It's settled into this, this thing between them. A poking and prodding and careful exploration of boundaries and limits that have changed over the years as they got to know one another, unspoken understandings.

And now -  

Well, now.

Ryan's no stranger to shitty situations like this.

He's built a reputation off being able to survive just about everything Los Santos has to throw at him and then some because he's bigger and meaner than anything else in the city. (He's not, though. Luckier than most maybe, but everyone's luck runs out at some point.)

They could put up a fight for a bit, take some of the bastards with them before they were overwhelmed by sheer numbers, and honestly, that's one of the ways he expected to go out. A last stand somewhere facing incredible odds, typical end for someone like them.

The thing is, Ryan doesn't want that. Not for them, not like this.

Gavin makes a frustrated noise somewhere behind him and Ryan -

He turns to look, sees Gavin hunched over his laptop connected to the computers here to dig through their files. Searching for a way out of this mess for them and apparently coming up blank. All too aware of what that means for them.

“Gavin.”

Gavin snarls at his computers, stubborn as anything as he digs deeper.

“Just a few more minutes, Ryan. A few more minutes,” he says, the same thing he's been saying for the past ten minutes, variations on a theme.  

“Okay,” Ryan says, watching a team of guards thundering up the stairs to the floor they're on. “You keep working on that.”

They have a little bit of time before the guards get through the security doors to them, reinforced and electronically locked and little enough barrier when it comes down to it.

Gavin stops typing, the room going silent for the first time since they holed up in here.

“Ryan - “

“Keep working,” Ryan says, checking his weapons.

Ryan's carrying his AP pistol and a few goodies he never really leaves home without. Enough to make a dent in the numbers against them for a little while at least. Maybe put them on the defensive long enough for Gavin to find his exit.

”Ryan.”

Ryan looks at Gavin, sees the look on his face and tries for a smile. Thinks he makes it for a moment there, but then Gavin's pushing away from the desk he's working at and stumbling towards Ryan, hands grabbing on to his jacket.

“Ryan, what do you think you're playing at, Ryan?”

Gavin's not stupid, far from it, but sometimes he forgets. Loves life so much that he forgets the Fakes aren't the good guys in this scenario, don't get the happy ending.

They're the ones who get gunned down in the streets by the good guys in the name of justice and liberty and whatever bullshit people want to attribute to them, like they're in the right. They get chased to the ends of the earth and put down like rabid animals because they don't toe the line, buy into whatever society expects them to be. They get desperate last stands where everything they've done doesn't mean a damn thing because the world's too big to fight against forever.

“Buying you time,” Ryan says, because it's a simple enough thing in the end, isn't it?

Do what he does best, hope like hell that's enough and knowing it won't be, not tonight, but trying anyway because he just can't not.

Gavin's glaring up at him, angry, furious, and at the heart of it, scared.

“You - “

And here's the other thing, flip side of this kind of situation. Bittersweet as hell, but the best he could have hoped for, given the life they live.

“Hey,” Ryan says, and this time he does get the smile right.

Sees Gavin's confusion in the moment before Ryan cups his face in his hands, and leans down to kiss him. Slowly enough that Gavin could pull away if he wants to.

“You stupid bastard!” Gavin says, and shoves him, hard enough that Ryan stumbles back a step. And then he shoves him again, harder, and Ryan's back hits the wall. “If you'd listened to a damn thing I've been saying, we just have to wait for the others to get here! Two minutes, Ryan! Two minutes!”

Ryan -

“What?”

Gavin throws his hands up in exasperation and shows Ryan his phone, screen glowing faintly in the dim lighting as he taps an icon.

  ”The fuck are you two morons doing?”

Geoff.

Geoff on speaker, sounding annoyed as all hell with the sound of chopper blades in the background and Michael shouting something indistinct, but no doubt insulting.

Ryan looks down at Gavin, and almost wishes he hadn't, because -

Well, first of all, awkward.

And second -

“Gavin - “

“You're a bastard,” Gavin says, hurt and something else in his voice. “You're a bastard, and I honestly have no clue why, but I like that about you.”

Ryan is very confused at the moment, because Gavin looks like he wants nothing better than to punch Ryan's face in, but he also sounds like he wouldn't mind kissing it better again afterward.

“Uh, thanks?”

Gavin's eyebrows go up in disbelief, and Ryan shrugs because he's not so great at this shit, okay? Give him a gun and point him at some poor bastard and he's great. Fucking amazing, even. Give him a British asshole and time to develop feelings for him, and he's a complete disaster.

Does things like do his best to bury the damn things deep, act like they're not there every damn day as best as he can because they're a liability in this business. Make people soft, get them killed. (Get the people who caused the fucking things killed.)

Which makes the timely arrival of the cavalry a definite relief, heavy weapons fire and pretty little fireballs as the security choppers go down in flames outside the building.

”Could you two not suck each other's dicks when we have to listen to it?” Geoff asks, sounding pained. ”Also, what floor are you on? I'm asking for a friend.”

Gavin breaks away from Ryan to give Geoff their location and a few moments later they see an Annihilator with NOOSE decals swing into view.

“Come on, you idiot,” Gavin says, grabbing Ryan's hand to pull him over to cover as Jack maneuvers the chopper to let Michael get a good angle on the windows to the office.

Gavin drops Ryan's hand when they duck under one of the heavy desks, eyes darting away from Ryan's.

“We should talk,” Ryan says, words awkward and unwieldy because those damn feelings again. “When we're out of here.”

”For the love of God, not now!” Geoff howls, as Michael shoots the windows out with a garbled battle cry.

Chaos and mayhem as usual for the Fakes, and it's finally starting to sink in for Ryan that there won't be any last stands for them here tonight. No final words, no heroic sacrifice.

Just these idiots in a stolen chopper and the flight home to the penthouse and the kind of luck that doesn't seem to quit no matter the odds.

Ryan laughs, desperate relief and even after all this time surprise that his – their  - luck has managed to hold out one more time. Sees it echoed in Gavin as he looks at him, mouth  pulled up into a small smile.

“Idiot,” Gavin says, soft and fond, and then he's the one pulling Ryan down for a kiss.

It's not perfect, no.

Not with the chopper hovering a few feet away kicking up wind and debris, papers flying haphazardly around the room. Geoff and Michael both yelling at them to get their asses in gear, fucking Christ, the threat of the guards still outside the office.

Noisy and messy and an overall disaster, but that's them, isn't it. Pair of idiots who live dangerous lives and still found a way to do the stupidest thing possible for people like them, develop feelings for one another and allow them to shape their lives like this.

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees, because he is an idiot.

Always has been, but he's good with that. Figures at the very least he's in good company here, might as well stop fighting it and embrace it.

[legojacques]

Jack at the Apple Store because he dropped it (nursey bumped into him) and bitty is the overly happy (yet exhausted) Apple Store employee that helps him (it's not ... bc I'm stuck at the Apple Store,,,, what?)

Jack had been putting off getting his phone fixed. His excuse was that he was too busy, and for the most part, it was true. Between practices, games, and away trips, he couldn’t really afford the time to get his phone fixed. Besides, the phone was working just fine, cracks or no cracks.

He was at the mall one afternoon, however, picking up a last -minute birthday gift for his mother when he had time to kill and decided to stop into the Apple store.

One of the employees with bright eyes and even brighter smile greeted him. Jack’s eyes lingered momentarily on his face before reading “Eric” on the name tag. Eric was friendly, but not to the point of fawning over Jack, which meant that Eric either didn’t recognize Jack or he just didn’t care who Jack was.

“My phone is broken,” Jack explained.

Eric’s fingers were cool when they delicately brushed across Jack’s palm when he took the phone. He held it up and studied it briefly. “It’s just the screen,” Eric said. Then, with a sincere grin, he said, “I can fix that.”

Transfixed, Jack could only nod.

Jack had expected them to ask him to leave the phone and pick it up another day. In fact, he had counted on it because he would give him an excuse to be back, but Eric had insisted that he wasn’t too busy at the moment and that he could fix Jack’s phone right there.

“All done,” Eric announced some time later. Jack hadn’t been paying attention how long he’d been standing there. He’d been too focused on the way Eric’s nimble fingers had dismantled the phone before putting it all back together again.

“That’s great. Uh, thanks,” he said as he accepted the phone back.

“No problem,” Eric replied with another smile that made something inside of Jack flutter.

—

A week later, Jack was at the Apple store again.

“Hi! You’re back,” Eric said in surprise. “What can I help you with?”

Jack sheepishly held up his phone. “I accidently dropped my phone again.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, but it was more like Jack had dropped his phone repeatedly, and when that hadn’t yield the results he wanted, he’d gone outside to drop it repeatedly on concrete.

“Oh, wow,” Eric said with a laugh, probably because he thought Jack was the clumsiest person ever. “Let’s have a look at that.”

Jack tried not to stare too intently, but it was hard when Eric’s expression furrowed into a determined frown as he looked over the phone. “It looks worse than it actually is,” he finally said, his usual sunny demeanor sliding back on his face.

“You can fix it?” Jack asked hopefully.

“I can fix it,” Eric grinned.

It took him longer to repair it this time, but probably because Jack had taken extra care to demolish it. Frankly, it was a surprise that all it needed was a new screen.

“I would also probably recommend a case,” Eric said afterwards.

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“Well, there are these,” he said as he led Jack to a wall of them. He pulled one off the of the display shelf. “This one,” he said confidently.

“Yeah?”

“It’ll keep your phone safe,” Eric promised. “You won’t have to make the extra trip in again.”

Well, that wasn’t what Jack wanted at all.

—

“So, remind me again why we’re here?” Poots asked in genuine confusion when they pulled up to the mall.

“Because,” Jack said, scrambling for an answer. “I need help picking out a new computer.”

“Well, okay,” Poots said, still not convinced. “Just don’t ask me anything about Apple products. I have a PC.”

Well, that was too bad for Poots, but he was the only person Jack could really bully into coming with him. Tater did not know the definition of subtle, Thirdy would have laughed at him, and Snowy would have posted everything to the group chat within minutes of walking in the store.

“I’ll buy you lunch,” Jack conceded and that seemed to mollify Poots for the time being.

“Hi,” Eric greeted when they walked in. There was a brief moment when he seemed thrown off by Poots’ presence, but he was smiling when he looked back at Jack again. “How can I help you today?”

“Um, my buddy was actually looking for a Macbook and I thought of you. Well, like not of you first, but I thought, uh, you could help him.” Jack could feel himself growing warm, but Eric’s grin only widened.

Poots, who had gone over to check out the displays, happened to wander back into earshot. “What? No, I’m not–”

“Your sister’s birthday is coming up!” Jack practically shouted at him in panic.

Luckily, Poots was easily distracted. “Yeah? So?”

“So, don’t you want to get her something nice. She’s graduating at the end of this year, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Poots admitted slowly. “I didn’t know you were listening when I was talking about my sister.” He slapped Jack on the shoulder. “Aw, you do care.”

Jack wasn’t paying attention to anything Eric was saying about different laptop models and the advantages of each one. He was too distracted by Eric’s animated expressions and the way he enthusiastically talked with his whole body. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one either.

Poots ended up purchasing a Macbook with all the accessories (case, wireless mouse, decal, extended warranty). Later, on the drive home, Jack noticed that Poots still had that goofy smile on his face that had been there ever since they walked out of the Apple store.

“Eric was so hot,” Poots sighed dreamily.

It took Jack everything to not push Poots out of the car.

—

“Lunch,” Tater insisted one day after practice. “Come with me,” he said to Jack.

“Oh, sweet! Where are we going big guy?” Snowy asked from his stall.

“No,” Tater said. “Not you. Just Jack.”

Snowy exaggerated his kicked-puppy expression that made the guys in the room laugh, but Tater was firm. Jack let Tater drive because he’d insisted it was surprise, but it wasn’t long before Jack started to recognize his surroundings.

“What? How did you–” Jack spluttered when Tater pulled into the parking lot of the mall.

“Poots tell Snowy who tell Guy who tell Marty who tell Dupuis who tell Crosby who tell Geno who tell me.”

“Crosby knows!?” Jack exclaimed. He dropped his head in his hands in mortification and cursed vehemently. Stupid, gossipy hockey players.

“I know you not say nice things right now,” Tater said serenely, “Even if you say in French.”

Jack replied with more under-breath swears.

“Come on, Jack. Is not so bad,” Tater reassured with a cluck. “Besides, need new phone.”

In the Apple store, Eric was nowhere to be seen. “Oh, thank god,” Jack muttered. “He’s not here. Can we go?”

“Excuse me,” Tater said, snagging one of the other employees. “We look for Eric? He here?”

“Bitty’s on his lunch break right now, actually,” the girl replied. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No,” Jack jumped in. “No, thank you. That’s all we need.” He started dragging Tater out of the store.

Jack thought he’d been saved. He all but ran out, trying to get out of there as fast as possible. He glanced back briefly to see if Tater was still following him or if he’d gotten distracted. Not watching where he was going, Jack collided with someone.

“I’m so–” he started, but stopped when he realized it was Eric.

“Jack,” Eric exclaimed. “Hi! What are you doing here?”

“I’m, um.” Jack made some vague hand gesture. “You know.”

“Oh, right,” he replied eyes. “You weren’t, uh, looking for me at the Apple store, by chance, were you?”

“I–” Jack’s brain stalled. On one hand, yes, he was looking for Eric, but on the other hand, he also wasn’t ready to reveal that information.

“Hi! You Eric? I am Alexei, but everyone call Tater!”

“Oh, hi!” Eric gave an awkward wave.

“Yes, good, you are here. We look for you because is very sad, Eric. Jack lost something.”

Eric’s eyes immediately softened as he looked back at Jack. “I can help you. What did you lose?”

“Jack lost his number,” Tater said smoothly. “Now, he want yours.”

“Tater!” Jack yelled in disbelief as he calculated how much trouble he’d really be in if he murdered his teammate on the spot.

Tater seemed unperturbed by this and smirked at Jack before punching him lightly on the arm and left. Jack turned back to Eric who seemed hesitant for a moment, but then took a step forward. “So, you need a number, huh?”

“I am so sorry for that,” Jack started. “Tater doesn’t know–”

“You could have just asked.”

“Wh-what?”

“For my number. You could have asked. I’m here to help, after all,” Eric said with a spark of mirth in his brown eyes. “Can I have your hand?”

Wordlessly, Jack offered it to him. Eric took a pen out of his back pocket and started writing on Jack’s skin. “Don’t lose this,” he said teasingly when he was done. “And, I get off of work at 5.”

As he walked away, Jack stared down at the numbers, memorizing them. A smile bloomed over his face, and not even the knowledge that Tater was going to be insufferable for weeks was enough to dim that.

—

Thanks for reading! More of my writing here!

[lowmaticnews]

How To Install A Removable Wallpaper Mural

We’ve been eager to try a wallpaper accent somewhere in the duplex, and last week we finally installed not one, but two, removable wall murals! And I can’t begin to describe how much easier and cheaper it was than we expected, plus it turned out like ten times better than we had even hoped.

If you’ve listened to our podcast recently, you may recognize this space as one of the small sleeping nooks on each side of the duplex. The rooms are only about 8′ x 8′ and our goal is to turn them into fun bonus sleeping spaces. So they felt like natural candidates for a bold injection of color and pattern.

We had our eyes on a few wallpapers, but then we stumbled across these removable wall murals on Society6. They’re effectively the same as wallpaper, except that their patterns can’t be repeated indefinitely (most are 8′ wide but some are 12′) so they’re perfect for smaller walls like ours. A few other things that we liked were:

there were some nice large-scale patterns and images compared to most wallpaper in our price range

they’re extra convenient to use – no glue, easy to restick if you don’t line them up right the first time, etc.

they have a demo video right on the site when you’re shopping to give you an idea of what to expect when you hang them

they’re made from a strong/durable material (almost like a thick flexible vinyl decal with fabric fibers woven through it) so it’s very substantial, whereas some wallpaper feels more delicate

*This isn’t sponsored – we bought them with our own money & found them on our own – just figured I should put that out there since clearly I’m gushing.

We liked a lot of the ones that we found on their site, like these below:

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

But after a lot of debating, we ultimately decided on two painterly patterns: these whales (seen below) and these oranges (seen in the first photo of this post).

The colors fit well on each side where we used them. We paired the blue watercolor-looking whales with the side of the duplex with the pink doors (they’re White Truffle by Sherwin Williams by the way)…

…and the leafy oranges with the side of the duplex with the greeny-blue doors (which are Oyster Bay by Sherwin Williams).

Plus, we snagged them during a 30% off sale at Society6, so we saved nearly $100 off their usual $299 price tag.

As for installing them, here’s how it all went down (er, up?). Again, it was surprisingly straightforward to do – but it does require a bit of patience and care. The first one took us around three hours to complete, and the second one only took about two hours, so once you get the hang of it, it’s much less intimidating and goes a lot faster.

Tools & Supplies Needed

You can install wallpaper or a wall mural like this with very few tools, but having the following will make it easier:

Step ladder

Level

Pen or pencil

Ruler or tape measure

Flathead screwdriver

Scissors

Utility knife or other sharp craft knife

Smoothing tool

An extra set of hands (this is much easier as a two person job)

Step 1: Organize Your Panels

The 8′ wide murals come with four 2′ wide removable panels all rolled together. Since the pattern isn’t repeating, be sure to identify the order in which your panels need to be hung! It would be a nightmare to hang one on the right side of the room only to realize it should have been hung on the left side for the other three panels to line up. We loosely unrolled ours in a nearby room and laid them across the bed to double-check that we were working in the correct order.

Step 2: Carefully Position The First Panel

Each wallpaper panel has a removable backing that easily peels off. Again, you don’t need any glue or paste to install these. So throughout the installation, you’ll want to peel back small sections at a time. We started by peeling back the first foot-ish of the first full panel (you can see it folded down behind the top part of the mural that we had stuck to the top corner of the wall in the photo below:

Not to psych you out, but getting this first panel hung correctly is a big part of the success of this project. The good news is that these panels are VERY FORGIVING. Seriously, we probably hung and rehung this first section 4 or 5 times while we figured out the best system. It didn’t lose any of its adhesion strength each time that we stuck, unstuck, and restuck it – and it didn’t wrinkle (even if we accidentally stuck it to itself a few times, we could carefully peel it off and it was fine).

You’ll be tempted to use your ceiling or wall as your level reference point for this first panel. DON’T. Most rooms – including ours – aren’t perfectly straight, so relying on your first corner to be completely square could lead to crooked panels which, even worse, could lead to gaps at the top or sides of your mural as your ceiling or wall bows in or out slightly.

Instead, you’ll want to mark a vertical line using a level to give you a reference point for the outer edge of your first panel. You could do this all the way down the wall, but we found that doing just a couple of feet at the top was enough to get us started.

We marked ours about 23.5″ inches from the corner, so that our 24″ panel would overlap the side wall a smidge (again, to make sure we didn’t see gaps anywhere that the wall bowed out). We’ll show you how we cut off all of the overlap a little later.

Then we hung the panel along that vertical line but made sure that it overlapped the ceiling by about an inch as well. Even though our ceilings and the panels are both 8ft tall, we could spare this inch since the baseboards make the actual wall space around 7’6″ – and again, most ceilings aren’t perfectly level all the way across, so we wanted to make sure we had excess to bridge any gaps if the ceiling is slightly higher a little further down the wall.

Step 3: Peel, Stick, and Smooth

Once you feel good about the position of your first panel, you can begin the process that you’ll rely on most for this wallpaper installation: peeling off a bit more backing, sticking it to the wall with your hand, and then smoothing out the bubbles. You can see the slight ceiling overlap we mentioned in the photo below, which we will take care of later on.

You can buy a smoothing tool meant for this task, but we forgot to bring one with us to the beach, so we pulled a credit card out of my wallet and it did the job just fine.

Our main tip here is to work from the middle out toward the edges, both when you’re sticking things with your hand and when you’re smoothing things afterwards. Also, don’t be afraid to peel it off and restick it if you’re not happy with your placement or if it’s starting to wrinkle. Remember, this particular material is VERY FORGIVING.

Continue to apply the first wallpaper panel in this manner until you get to the baseboard at the bottom. We’ll trim that later as well.

Step 4: Line Up The Pattern On Your Second Panel

If you’ve carefully placed your first panel, this part shouldn’t give you any trouble. These designs aren’t printed with an overlap, so you’ll be butting the second panel up along the edge of the first panel. Just peel a small section of backing off and take your time aligning the pattern. You can peel it off and restick it as many times as you need to get it just right so they line up pretty seamlessly, like you see below:

We did notice that the material has a little stretch to it, so as you smooth it down the wall, it can cause your pattern to travel a bit – meaning your pattern alignment may seem “off” as you go down the wall if you’re pulling and stretching one panel more than the other one.

We combatted this by trying NOT to pull or stretch the material with too much force. And just by generally being vigilant the whole way down. If we didn’t like how anything lined up, we just peeled it back up and tried again.

Step 5: Cut Around Small Obstacles Like Outlets & Switches

If you run into an obstacle like a light switch or wall outlet, don’t worry – it’s super easy. Just turn off the power to that switch or outlet, and once you’re ready to stick the wallpaper around it, use a flathead screwdriver to remove the cover plate. Then loosely stick the wallpaper panel OVER the outlet (if it’s a traditional switch that protrudes a lot, you may need to cut a small slit to allow the switch to peek out so the wallpaper can sit flatter against the area).

You should be able to feel the outline of the obstacle through the paper, so use your utility knife to carefully cut along the edges – being careful not to cut any areas that won’t be covered by the switch plate or outlet cover.

It doesn’t have to be a flawless cut, just be sure to remove enough that the outlet or switch could be easily removed if/when needed. Then just smooth the area down and screw the cover back on so it looks polished and finished (you can see the finished outlet in the picture below).

Step 6: Cutting Around Large Obstacles Like Windows & Doors

Hanging our last two wall mural panels presented the added challenge of cutting around a large window that would interfere with significant sections of the pattern.

We started each one of them the same way we did the full panels – peeling back a small section at the top and aligning the pattern. But once the window trim preventing the panel from hanging flat, we broke out the scissors and roughly cut out the area that would have covered the window.

We were VERY CONSERVATIVE in doing this, leaving 3-4 inches of excess, and trimming more as we felt more confident we weren’t cutting off too much. It’s a little tricky getting around corners (you kinda have to cut a diagonal slit in it).

Once enough is trimmed off so that you can press it flat onto the wall, then it’s just a matter of (say it with me!) peeling, sticking, and smoothing. You’ll still have some excess overlapping the trim, but just like the excess along your baseboard, side wall, and ceiling, it’s just fine. You’ll trim it off later.

Step 7: Finishing Your Final Wallpaper Panel

I’m not gonna lie: aligning that final part under the window was a little tricky. But I’ll show you how we cheated to keep ourselves from going crazy.

Because of the window, we hung our fourth panel (which was pretty much just a tiny strip between the window and the wall) without being able to align it with the pattern on the previous panel. So by the time we got to the bottom, it didn’t perfectly match up. And if we did match it up – it always left a big bubble or wrinkle, no matter how many times we stuck or restuck it. We tried unpeeling, shifting and resticking it half a dozen times, but with minimal improvement.

So we decided the main priority was aligning the pattern under the window so the vertical seam disappeared. Then we actually sliced the panel apart (gasp!) at a narrow spot between the window and the wall where there was mostly white space. That way, instead of a big wrinkle, we had a smooth, barely-visible overlap.

I forgot to take a picture of the overlap on the whale side, but you can see it above on the orange side. It’s suuuuuper subtle (and will be completely blocked by a bed anyways) but we wanted to show you so you didn’t stress yourself out about getting things absolutely flawless.

And again, here it is from further away – you’d never notice that small imperfection in the scheme of the entire room, even if it weren’t covered by a bed.

Step 8: Cut Off The Excess With Your Knife

You don’t actually have to wait until the end to trim off all of your excess wallpaper around the ceilings, end walls, and baseboards, but doing it last is a nice insurance policy in case you have to do any major repositioning (we didn’t – but it still felt smart to play it safe). Once you cut it, you can’t un-cut it ;)

Sherry and I had different techniques for this part. She smoothed everything really well one more time, almost forcing a crease into the edge, and then freehanded the cut along the crease.

I felt a little better smoothing and then actually pressing my smoothing tool (aka credit card) into the crease as I cut, almost using the card as a guide. I think my method worked better in “softer” corners like along the ceiling, but Sherry’s worked speedily along “harder” edges like where the baseboard met the drywall.

Step 9: Repeat!

Okay, not really. Most of you will not have to repeat the process in another room like we did. Unless you were so wowed by the result that you’re already planning another project. It is kind of addicting…

In all seriousness, we’re so happy with how these turned out AND how painless the installation was, we ARE trying to figure out if there’s another spot we could install one in the beach house or our own house.

And as for these rooms, they still need to be fully furnished. We’ve built the two twin bed platforms in each space (they’re these from Ikea), the mattresses are coming, and we’re currently looking for some bedding to finish them off.

You can see in the above photo that we’ve placed a temporary side table in there, just to get a sense of the layout (the aisle isn’t as small as we feared after all, which is great news).

More on these rooms to come! But for now we’re just enjoying how a few hours spent sticking these murals up on each side completely changed how they look. They’re a lot closer to charming little bonus sleeping nooks than they were last week!

P.S. To see other projects that we’ve done at the duplex, here’s how we started laying down rugs & building the kitchens, how we tiled 6 rooms, how we hung operable shutters, and here’s the entire duplex category on our blog if you want to look back on all of our progress.

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The post How To Install A Removable Wallpaper Mural appeared first on Young House Love.

How To Install A Removable Wallpaper Mural published first on https://landscapingmates.blogspot.com

[yesterdaysdreams]

Houston, We Have A Big Boy Bedroom (Buh-Bye Crib!)

Our little man’s room is looking a little different these days, thanks to finally being done with the crib (our kids love a crib) and making a few other tweaks to the space while we were at it. He’ll be four this April, and he finally decided he was done with the crib earlier in January, which was bittersweet. We’ve had the same crib in our house for nearly 8 years (!!!) since our daughter used it before him for quite a while too. But it was also exciting because it meant his room was about to get some updates after basically being frozen in time for the past four years (you can read all about the process of creating his nursery here).

ceiling light / sconces / similar daybed / similar rug / blue bee pillows / art / duvet / sheets

I’m not even exaggerating when I say it hadn’t changed since we put this room together in anticipation of his arrival (back in April of 2014). Same chair, same rug, same curtains, same crib sheets, same green closet door, same bike art, same play baskets, same stuff on the built-ins. Pretty much everything: THE SAME. In fact, whenever anyone asked for an update on his room we said “If you look at the reveal on the blog that’s pretty much what it looks like right now! The only change is that we removed the changing pad after he stopped needing that. But literally almost identical!”

A few months ago he did finally discover that the little “T” wall decals we added were peel-off-able… after more than 3 years of not touching them at all. Oh well, they had a good run. And now that we added some sconces and a large piece of art to that wall between the built-ins, it’s feeling airy and light without them, so it’s all good.

similar chair / pouf / similar side table / curtain rod / similar curtains / similar daybed / sconces

You might remember the daybed as the same one we used after our daughter was done with the crib when she was around 3.5 years old. She remained in the daybed until last year, when we upgraded her to a larger full-sized bed (more on that here). That conveniently freed up the daybed to be used by her brother… whenever he ended up being done with his crib (we didn’t know we still had almost a year to go! Ha!). Have I mentioned our kids LOVE A CRIB?!

similar drawer hardware / sconce / art / bee pillow / duvet / cloth bin

A daybed is a great way to transition out of a crib since it’s low to the ground, has two rails on the ends, and is basically just sort of like a big crib without the front. This one is from West Elm (no longer sold, but here’s something similar) and it fits a regular twin-sized mattress. We actually designed these built-ins to eventually accommodate a twin or even a full sized bed, so it’s like the space is finally fulfilling its bed destiny.

To read how we DIYed the built-ins in each corner of the room, here’s a full write up. We just used ready-made Ikea dressers and added the bookcase on top, using crown molding and baseboard to make them look built-in. This is a really doable project, even for a beginner.

art / bee pillow / duvet / sconce / cloth bin / similar drawer hardware / “I’d Be Lost” print

The sconces might be my favorite part because I always dreamed of adding sconces to either side of the “interior nook” that the built-ins created. It didn’t make sense to shine lights down on a baby in a crib (just picture that – a little “baby investigation” – ha!) so I showed unusual restraint and waited until we changed the crib out for a bed to add them. Then one day I discovered that Target sold these awesome brass and blue enamel sconces for just $49.99 (you have the best luck finding two of them by ordering them online). They basically screamed “BUY ME” and I listened.

The best thing about them is that they’re plug-in sconces (couldn’t hardwire anything into the side of the built-ins anyway) and the on/off switch is right on the base of the sconce, so you don’t have to hunt for it on the cord somewhere behind the bed, which is blissfully convenient.

We also bought some 3M Command cord clips to secure the cords against the baseboard so they’re not flapping around anywhere and we’re happy to report that we haven’t had any issues with anyone messing with them (younger kids in a crib might yank on them, so I’d reserve them for an older kid in a bed). It’s a nice clean look to have them turn and follow the baseboard too, so the cord clips have been really helpful.

The art is another favorite find for the room, especially since the combo of rocks (what almost-four-year-old doesn’t love rocks?!) and bright colors is basically our son’s sweet spot these days. It’s a downloadable print from Jenny’s Print Shop that was just $15 for the download and we got an 18 x 24″ print of it at FedEx Office for $22. If you guys haven’t check out Jenny’s Print Shop yet, I highly recommend it. You can get such affordable large scale prints this way (or really prints of any size). We already had this frame, so all together it was under $37 for some awesome wall-filling art!

To cozy up his new bed, we added some blue & white pinstripe sheets, a couple of these bee pillows, and this long gray bolster (which has a zip off cover). The duvet is the same Ikea one we also use in our bedroom. That’s a new pillow on the chair too (it’s this one) just to bring some more of the light colors from the bed over to that side of the room. The side table is a secondhand find (here’s something similar), the rug was a HomeGoods discovery (here’s something similar), the pouf is from here, and the chair is no longer sold (but here’s something similar).

Although the room has moved away from a lot of the forest greens we originally decorated with, he still loves his cheerful closet door (it’s Irish Moss by Benjamin Moore), which ties into the giant bike print that still hangs over his bookcase (that was a print that hung in The Gap and we asked if we could have it when they changed our their displays).

similar rug / similar chair / pillow / pouf / similar side table / woven baskets / fabric bins / similar curtains

His “changing table” (really just an Ikea bookcase that we wrapped in wood) has officially changed back to being a bookcase. The natural woven baskets in the cubbies were there before, but I did swap some light colored fabric bins in (to replace two larger and more baby-ish bins we used to have with a gorilla and a dragon on them). Since we’re not storing bulky diapers or baby blankets, the smaller baskets have been easier for a three-year-old to pull in and out to help clean up his own toys, which is always a plus.

Whenever I share a picture of this whale everyone asks where it’s from. We got it at Pottery Barn Kids many years ago. Maybe in 2012? Wish they’d bring it back, it���s so cute. And that shelf with the books in it…. remember when John built that eight years ago?! It was the very first thing he ever built. And now the man can make built-ins and even decks! Well, deck. He might only make one of those in his lifetime. Ha!

That round thing with the iPod in it is a sound machine we’ve had forever that we use to play an album of white noise on repeat while he sleeps (our daughter used to use this one). I joke that we might be the last household in the world who uses an iPod everyday.

Oh and a few people asked why we didn’t go right for a full sized bed in here since we mentioned how our daughter’s room felt so much more grounded and less like it had a big skating rink in the middle of it when we traded a full bed in for the daybed, but this room is a lot smaller – maybe even half the size. So it would feel much more cramped with a bigger bed, and he still uses the floor a lot for spreading out cars and blocks, so the daybed is great for this room.

I shot a quick video of the room for you too, so if you wanna see the room “in action” (and get a peek at the cord clips & check out the closet, etc) – just click play below. NOTE: If you’re reading in a reader, you may need to click through to our blog to see the video. You can also watch it here on YouTube.

And because it’s always fun to look back at where we started, this is the same room – complete with old carpeting and pink trim – back when we bought this house in 2012! Note: you can see all of the before & afters from this house right here on our House Tour page. 

It wasn’t the worst room to start with, but it sure has come a long way. Even if it ends up getting frozen in time for a few more years…

And for anyone who’d like to “get the look” I made this little mood board full of actual things we own/bought for the room (and some similar items if the original ones are no longer for sale):

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 /17 / 18 / 19 / 20

P.S. You can see how this room together as a nursery here, learn how we built the built-ins here, and see how we wrapped that Ikea bookcase in wood here. Also, for sources and paint colors throughout our entire house, we created this Shop Our House page for you guys with all of those details.

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