#plays mother by pink floyd

[bamgyw]

right, so he won.

we tend to be cynical and laugh him off, but it’s so painfully clear and scary how this ignorant fucking narcissist cosplaying as the poor man's idea of a wealthy man could become president of the united states—not once, but twice.

a man who seems barely literate, whose statements have been nothing but blatant, poorly constructed lies, yet he’s secured power. again. and while i can’t fully predict the implications, i know they don’t look good.

i fear for american citizens trapped in a dystopian neoliberal state where food is made of plastic and a lack of money can cost you your life on a hospital gurney.

i fear for europe, also scarred by fascism and blindly following the united states. every week for the past year, our prime ministers have appeared on television, warning us to prepare to defend our values in coming wars, most, if not all of which, are initiated by the u.s.

i fear for the palestinian people, undergoing a fucking genocide at the hands of israel—a state powered by the immense machinery of the american arms industry. if the u.s. withdrew its support, israel would be forced to stop. they're nothing. a flimsy geopolitical construct fuelled by pure evil. but like israel, the united states is a settler colony, built on the displacement, massacre, and erasure of the people who originally lived there. they both justify their actions as a divine mission for the land they claim was promised by god. imperialistic bullshit.

i fear that palestinians have lost their last glimmer of hope and the faint promise of a two-state solution that even kamala harris claimed to defend. flawed and half-hearted as it was, it at least held the possibility of a ceasefire.

i fear for trans and racialized people in the united states, who have become primary targets of brutal, baseless hate speech, a rhetoric now normalized among more than half the american electorate.

i’m not going to take the easy route—the classist one—and say that a bunch of uneducated rednecks voted for another uneducated redneck.

truth is, we’re living in unsafe times, and that fear makes us vulnerable to hoaxes, propaganda, and manipulation. education was supposed to be the antidote—the tool to help us see when politicians are lying, when a vulnerable group is scapegoated for society’s problems. and yet, here we are, repeating history. it’s been less than a century since world war II, and a fascist has been voted into power.

i don’t know why i felt the need to go off on this tangent, but this issue is global, and it’s genuinely terrifying. i don’t trust our politicians. it feels like being abandoned by a parent—the state, which is supposed to protect us, leaving us to fend for ourselves. we've seen that with hurricane milton, with the floods in valencia.

many of us have never had to experience extreme poverty or coexist with death, so it’s easy and fun to live blissfully unaware. but we’d better hope it stays that way. and i also hope that instead of letting our fear turn into paralyzing anxiety, we can make the effort of turning it into determined, militant anger.

and yeah… that’s about it, i think. there’s a lot i haven’t mentioned, a lot of people, a lot of rights lost today. but i haven’t slept. i’m really tired. gonna sleep bye.

[sensitivedead]

flash memory of my dad absolutely obliterating my adolescent eardrums with money - pink floyd in his 1984 teal mazda b2000

[mishalikessoundsandcolours]

I accidentally found a Japanese string quartet cover of Atom Heart Mother and it's SO EPIC

Thus quartet also covered a bunch of other rock stuff like 21st Century Schizoid Man, Dancing With The Moonlit Knight, Money, Master Of Puppets etc and it's awesome, I'm only sad that they didn't do Echoes

[studentofetherium]

my favorite era of Pink Floyd as a live band is '70-'71, when they still had a bunch of the 60s stuff in their setlists but also also included weird deep cuts like Cymbaline or The Embryo

[dearsnow]

A WAITING GAME

- coming from a broken family, you often had to wait for next time you would be loved. meeting your new neighbor changed that. (robert “bob” floyd x fem!reader, angst and fluff, SLOW BURN, essentially just scenes of you growing up with our favorite WSO, slight prequel to the events of top gun: maverick, includes random original characters to drive the plot ⚠️ alcoholism is a major theme, some instances of harassment from a bully, and like one sexual innuendo but nothing graphic)

word count: 20,135

a/n - ohhhh my gosh, it’s finally here 😭 it’s genuinely the size of a novella, which is insane. i really hope you guys like this bc it took so much time and effort. it’s also the longest thing i’ve ever written, which is amazing in its own right. if you’re the type to listen to music while reading, i suggest a steady stream of hozier, noah kahan, phoebe bridgers, and leith ross <3

Your whole life was a waiting game. Waiting for school to end, for school to start again, for the house across the street to finally have new occupants, for your mother to put the bottle down, for the fairies you were so sure existed to appear in your popsicle stick fairy house, for your stones to finally skip across the creek, for something, anything to happen before you drove yourself insane. And, above all else, you waited for love. It was a pitiful way to grow up, really. Just sitting and letting the days pass by so you couldn’t feel the burning ache of loneliness that writhed and spat in your stomach. You never thought that you could cease this pattern of waiting for something that would never fulfill you, until, inevitably, things changed.

The “for sale” sign that you could see so clearly from your second-floor bedroom window had been replaced by a cheery “sold” sign. Something about it excited you; new neighbors, new people to talk to and play with and bother with your incessant imagination. There was also fear, too. The fear that they would turn a blind eye to the scent of cigarettes woven into your papered walls and the nail marks on the insides of your palms. You took your mind off the notion when you saw a boy right around your age step out of the moving van.

He had glasses, sandy brown hair, a cast on his foot, and a scared little frown. You slid off your bed with a small huff, your socked feet hitting the dusty carpeted floor. This was something new, for once. The stares of the stuffed animals strewn around your room comforted your mild anxiety as you walked through your door frame and down your rickety wooden stairs. You had to move one foot down and then pull the other to match. You were too afraid of keeping just one foot on a single step, even while you clutched the peeling handrail. You hit the bottom and opened the unlocked front door, peering out into the hazy, sunny day.

You were still in your socks, but you figured it didn’t matter. They were pink and yellow striped, just a bit too small. You traipsed across your dying front lawn and across the street, cautiously watching for cars. There were none. The boy turned, his blue eyes locking with yours, and you froze. It was the middle of a hot Montana day, the dry, summery kind that makes your mouth shrivel up, but all you could focus on was how he looked at you with curiosity. Gone was the frown. You peered down, staring into the black asphalt. Oh. You were still on the road. Your feet moved on their own, and you found yourself on the sidewalk, toeing the grass of his lawn. It wasn’t dying.

“Your socks are inside-out,” was the first thing he said. His voice was quiet and kind, like he was trying not to embarrass you. He pointed at the threads hanging off of the seams.

You nervously tucked your hands behind your back. “I know. I like them to be.” He accepted the statement, pulling his hand back and planting it nervously on his hip. His one sock was right-side-in and tucked into a little orange shoe.

That day, as mundane as it was, became one of your favorites to remember.

The next day, after your introduction, you and the boy (who you quickly came to know as Bobby) went down to the creek. His mother had supplied you with sandwiches and cookies in little brown paper bags, folded neatly and marked with your names. You had never eaten out of a brown paper bag before.

Bobby was careful in how he scaled down the small, rocky hill that bordered the creek. He smartly put your lunches on a safe outcropping, to be eaten later. While climbing, he put all his weight on his non-injured foot and was sure to not step on any stray branches. You, having been down this path many times, guided him.

“Don’t step there, Bobby. That’s where the snakes are.” You said, eyeing the little gathering of rocks. He hummed gratefully and adjusted his path.

As you both made it to the bottom, he made sure to stay far enough away from the water so as to not wet his boot. You, however, didn’t really care. Your feet plunged into the soggy ground; it’s not like your shoes weren’t meant to get dirty. He picked up a stick and poked at the rivulets of water in front of him, squinting into the glare. “So, how old are you anyway?” He asked. He was crouched down to help the slightly too short stick prod into the mud.

“Seven.” You responded. You had picked up a stick of your own. “How old are you?”

He watched your movements with careful eyes. He was always watching, you noticed. Always planning. It’s like he was trying to predict every movement of the creek, every motion of your arms. You felt a shiver run down your spine. You didn’t think you could ever be so observant. “I’m eight, been eight for five months now,” came his steady voice. He furrowed his eyebrows as you waved your stick into nothingness, jabbing at something he couldn’t see. He gazed at the air like whatever you were so focused on would materialize if he stared hard enough. “What’cha fighting?”

You smiled crookedly. You could see the scene so clearly in your mind. You and him on a pirate ship, fighting off the attackers who were trying to claim your ride. You were balancing on the plank, sword ready. “Pirates. It’s real fun, you should try.” You slashed the air and saw clothes tearing, blood pooling at the wood under your feet. 

“How do I try?” He asked curiously. He stood up fully and held his stick in both hands.

“Just imagine. They’re coming from a ship across the creek, and our ship is here. I’m… I’m fighting the one with a big axe, and the one comin’ after you has a shiny sword.”

Again, he raked his gaze over the creek in front of him like he was trying to see exactly into your mind. He gave his sword an experimental swing, and you laughed from beside him. “You hit him! Keep going, we’ve almost won.” His eyes lit up, and he began fighting like he saw it too. 

He smiled, and you cheered him on, making sure to fend off your own opponent. The creek bubbled, and he could hear the ocean roaring. He could see the flag flying high above his head, the ship across the ocean, could hear the ‘shing’ and ‘swish’ of his sword. And he saw you, warm and full of life, immersed in this world you had created. He didn’t think he had seen anything quite so pretty.

In the days after that, you saw Bobby often. He never went inside your house, though, that was off limits. Instead, you went to his.

His mom was kind. She was the type of woman to greet you with a hug, the smell of warm food simmering on a pot behind her. Her apron was stained with food and love and tiny paint handprints. When you ran up to his door and knocked (you were too short to reach the doorbell), she would open it kindly and invite you in.

Bobby’s room became a kind of utopia for the both of you. For the first few days, you would help him unpack his toys and crafts and other things of the sort. He had a lot of green army men, you noticed. But after that, you played and played until his mom had to kindly remind you of his bedtime. Your favorite games were imaginary.

He would be a merchant selling his toys, each with a special magical power. You’d assume the role of a traveling knight and barter with him, finally picking out what you believed would help with your quest. Then, in a twist of fate, Bobby would invent some sort of way the magical item went wrong, leaving the both of you to dream up new methods to best your foe. Or you’d be a mermaid and he was the sailor you were friends with. Sometimes, and this was his favorite game, he would be a pilot in the military, and you would be the person giving him instructions on the ground. He would shoot his arms out like airplane wings and soar, causing you to collapse into giggles on his soft rug. You formed a bond with him like no other. By the end of the summer, you knew him inside and out, and he knew you too.

You knew he liked blueberry syrup instead of maple on his pancakes, that his favorite subject was history, how he had a little sister three years younger and an older brother who was in middle school, and the exact expression he made when things went a awry; this sort of half-pout, where his bottom lip would jut out a bit. You knew that he got his cast from slipping on a stone in a big river during a camping trip, and even though he hates not being able to move, he thinks the scar on his ankle is pretty cool. And he knew that you were the most creative person he’d ever met, there was a monster that lived in your house, you had never broken a bone, and your eyes shone if the light hit them at the right angle. 

When you finally left, as the sun was dipping down the horizon, you felt lighter.

The days without his presence were much harder.

Your mom was a hard person to pin down. She would leave early in the morning, dressed in her work clothes, and return late at night, stinking of the bar. Sometimes you’d see her periodically throughout the day, between her two main events, but she was elusive. She would stroke your hair during moments like this, eyes filled with something you only later realized was regret. 

You loved her too much to notice that the way you were living was not at all how a child should grow up. You survived off of your dingy little microwave and frozen food when you weren’t with Bobby and his family. The nights, however, were worse than being alone all day.

You would pretend to be asleep more often than not, but you couldn’t really be asleep with how much noise she made. Shouting words you didn’t recognize into the phone, slamming doors, crying, pulling the magnets off the fridge and shattering the few framed pictures that were scattered around your house. It made the pit inside of you grow larger and larger.

Afterwards, when she was done with her rampage, she’d sweep up the pieces and put everything back together. She would spell out notes for you in the fridge magnets. She would open your door, just a crack, and whisper, “I love you, baby. I’m sorry.” with a blown kiss. You knew she was sorry. You knew she loved you, that she kept the cabinets stocked with the snacks you liked from two years ago, around the time she first started drinking. There was nothing you knew more than how bad she felt for treating you like she did. In your mind, you forgave her. She was doing her best. That didn’t stop you from wishing you lived in Bobby’s little house, with his kind and loving mother and stern but kindhearted father. You wished for pirates and pilots and blueberry syrup. 

Sometimes, you just imagined you were there, tucked under his navy blue comforter. That thought filled the pit just enough to let you drift off to sleep.

As the days grew shorter and the weather chillier, school started. School was fun until it wasn’t.

The first day was always the best, in your opinion. You never really had any friends to miss if they were placed into other classrooms, and some of the other kids didn’t even know who you were. It was scary, sure, but it was new. It was a fresh start. This year, though, you had Bobby.

Luckily for the two of you, you were both in Mrs. Moore’s class. Even luckier for you, Brady was not in Mrs. Moore’s class. 

The boy had a tendency to pick on you in school. Ever since first grade, when he caught you whispering to a dandelion, he made every day in school tougher.

He would knock your books out of your hands, scribble on your drawings, and tear your flower crowns apart. You didn’t know why. He just didn’t understand your far-eyed expression and your tendency to bury your nose in books. He was loud, with a grating voice and windswept blond hair, and people liked him. He played sports and shared his lunch. That made him very, very different from you, in a way that was hard for child brains to accept. 

You were scared that Bobby would find his own trouble here. He was quiet, and that made him a target. He was too kind, too caring, too good at blending into the background. 

You walked up to classroom B8, holding your little dirtied backpack on one arm. The door was painted a sort of industrial teal, with a chipped but cheery sun done in acrylics in the middle. The title, a magnet, read “Mrs. Moore fun!”. Bobby hesitated from next to you. He held out a silent hand, and you gripped it in yours. His hands were bigger, warm and slick with a thin sheen of nervous sweat. Knowing someone else was going through the day with you was a quiet comfort, so you met his wavering eyes and smiled. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

The door swung open, and a woman with a brown bob ushered you inside. She had big pencil earrings and a pretty patterned dress. She showed you to your seats, and you were happy to learn that you were just one person away from your friend. In between you was another girl with bouncy auburn curls and freckles, whose name card read “Margaret”. You didn’t know her, but she offered you a kind grin.

“Hello, class!” Mrs. Moore began. “I know you saw my name on the door, but I’d like to learn all of yours today. How about we go around and say our names and favorite colors so I can take attendance?”

Your time in the quaint little classroom sped by like a whirlwind, barely giving you enough time to adjust to everything before you were ushered out to be served lunch and play on the sun-faded playground. Bobby’s mom had packed you both lunch today. It was like she knew that your mom couldn’t, and that you never had the money to buy the school lunch. It gave you this warm sort of emotion, like a fuzzy sweater. You and he sat on a bench shaded by a rickety old tree.

He chewed his sandwich thoughtfully as you went for the little bag of Oreo cookies first. “How do you like it here?” You asked, biting into the crumbly treat.

“It’s okay. Back in my old school, our playground had wood chips instead of sand,” he commented simply. “I like being here with you, though.”

You beamed. Bobby had lived in the town adjacent to yours before he moved, still in Montana, but with a different atmosphere. He often noted the differences, like how the cars here sputtered more and there was never quite enough shade. This, however, was all you had ever known. It was all you ever thought you could know. Your world ended after the big road that cut you off from the rest of society. Bobby made you want to wait for the day you could cross that road, in your own car that hopefully didn’t sputter, and see the world that he had known. “Me too. Most everyone is pretty great here, you’ll see. Just watch out for Brady, the one on the monkey bars. He might try to tease you.”

“Why would he?” Bobby questioned. He studied where you gestured, light eyes straining against the bright sun and wavy heat coming up from the asphalt. 

You started on your sandwich, which was beginning to warm. You didn’t mind. “I dunno. He’s just like that, I guess.”

“He must be mean,” The boy beside you said, finishing off the last bite of his sandwich. He never chewed with his mouth open, you noticed. He kept it neat and tidy. “Anyone who picks on you has got to be.”

You felt your cheeks warm at his words, so you buried yourself into eating your sandwich. “Thanks. I hope he doesn’t pick on you, ‘cuz you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Bobby’s face turned a shade of red you had never seen on him, and suddenly the hand that was underneath yours was fidgeting against the wood of the bench. “You really think so?”

“I know so. You’re nice, and you let me play with your glasses. And you’re really good at climbing, even with your boot. And you make me feel good.”

The corners of his mouth tugged up impossibly high as he handed you his bag of Oreos. He liked sweets, sure, but he liked giving them to you more. He could sit there and watch you eat forever if it meant you smiled like you were doing now. “You make me feel good too, like I can’t stop being happy.”

“Ex-act-ly!” You punctuated each syllable with a little tap of your finger on the back of his hand. When he was around, you felt like you could fly. Every dandelion, 11:11, shooting star, fallen eyelash, they all went to trying to keep him in your life. Without you knowing, he did the same thing. “Oh, do you want to see what I drew during art time?”

The conversation carried on, although there are snippets you don’t remember. Something about the stray cat that you saw down at the creek and the field trip the older kids bragged about going on. Looking back on it, that era seems so far away that it could have been another life. You were so small then, so hurt, and so innocent. You just had your neighbor and dreams, both waking and asleep.

School continued, and you and Bobby began to fall into a sort of rhythm. You would pass notes to each other through Margaret, play hopscotch and four-square and wall ball until you were tired of running around, learn until you thought your brains would explode, and walk home, laughing and bright-eyed. Even Brady couldn’t dull the shine. Bobby was, surprisingly, a hard person to make fun of. Despite being quiet, he would puff up his chest and stand strong in the face of any adversity. Mostly, though, he stood up for you. He would pick up your books, help you turn scribbles into twisting dragons, and make you new flower crowns when Brady tried anything during recess. Bobby cared. In a sense, though neither of you knew what the word really meant, he loved you. So he took care of you, and you filled his life with so much wonder and joy that he wished he could be with you forever. It was like that for a long, long time. 

The years came and went in elementary school. For once, you accepted every day that came to you as a new era, a new chance to prove to yourself that life is more than crumbling foundations. You experienced growth; you no longer waited for things to be over. Instead, incredibly, you anticipated each coming event, no matter what it was.

It took you a while to realize that Bobby was the catalyst of your change.

Your 5th grade promotion was a blur of smiles and hugs and tears from Bobby’s mom, coral colored fabric, and paper confetti. You posed for pictures, sang a song, and received a little certificate to display in some homegoods frame that most mothers buy. Other than that, it was just another day. You went home and played with Bobby some more, like you always did. 

That certificate, crumpled and browned around the edges, is now sitting in a box, deep in your closet, paper-clipped to a photograph of you and Bobby. It rests against a snapped wishbone, one whose exact wish you have entirely forgotten, but it more than likely had to do with him. There is also a crushed penny, a number of birthday cards, and a wooden rose, among other things. It’s silly, you think, to keep them after so many years, but something in you begs to keep them safe. You suppose that you can’t be rid of every memory, not when the Floyds made so many good ones for you. 

Middle school was another stage in your life, one that swirled your emotions while all you needed was stability. It wasn’t bad, per se, but it was the beginning of years of confusing feelings.

Bobby stopped being Bobby during the 1,095 days between elementary and high school. He wanted to be called Robert, and he combed his hair back, and his voice started cracking. He listened to rock and metal instead of whatever his mom found on the radio. He didn’t turn into a bad person like some of his peers, no, but he changed. You remember the first time he put in contacts instead of his big, thick-rimmed glasses.

You were sitting on the edge of his sink as he pulled his eye wide open, his fingers trembling slightly. “I can’t do it. I don’t want to poke my eye out,” he whined, setting the finger that held the contact down. “But I don’t want to wear glasses, either. I’m too old for that.”

He stared at you while you let out a short, stifled laugh. “Don’t laugh, I’m trying my best,” he groaned, but his mouth was curving into a smile, too—it just always happened when you laughed, like how he couldn’t help but smile at wedding bells. 

“Can you even see what you’re doing?” You asked. You tapped the glass reflection to the side of you, sending out a soft clink. His vision had never been the best, but his optometrist just upped his prescription. He didn’t want to be seen with the thickness of the glass he was given, no, he wanted to “look cooler”. So there he was, with blurry vision and a nearly invisible contact balancing on the tip of his finger. 

“Yeah.” He paused, considering his options, before looking down with a sigh. “No. I can see the blue, but I have no clue if my eyes are two inches or two millimeters away.” He sounded so disappointed that it sent a twinge of hurt through your heart. He liked dealing with problems on his own, namely so that no one else would have to go out of their way to help him, so that must have been a humbling experience for him.

“Let me guide you, then,” you chirped. “I’ll use your hand to put the contacts in so you can get a feel for where to stop next time.” You let the tips of your fingers brush over his hand, ghosting over the raised hairs just enough to let him sense it. Robert squinted at you.

You seemed like an angel perched on the tile counter. He couldn’t see the exactness of your details, like the curves of your lips, but you had a form that he could recognize anywhere. The shade of your hair, the sparkle in your eye. He would carry those memories for as long as he lived. What worried him was that he didn’t know exactly how far away from him you were sitting. So, because he didn’t trust himself to not miss his eyes, and because he trusted you like he trusted his heart to beat, he agreed. “Okay.”

You took his hand in yours, careful not to knock the precariously balanced contact off, and he widened his eyes. You weren’t sure if it was because of your touch or because he wanted to assist with the contact placement. You slowly brought his hand up, towards his eye, feeling his pulse under your fingers. His lips were pursed, a testament to his nervousness. He never did like things touching his eyes, but he would brave it until he unavoidably went back to glasses. With a gentle, caring motion, you helped him rest the contact on his eyeball. He flinched at the initial touch, but accepted it, blinking rapidly to shake off the contact solution. His eyes were pretty, you noticed. As messed up as they were, they had the most intoxicating shade, like a stormy ocean. 

“Want the next one?” You were already unscrewing the contact holder as he nodded slowly. He closed the eye without a contact and gaped at you.

“I can see!”

“I think that’s what contacts are for,” you quipped. He pretended to roll his one eye, but you could see the humor bubbling up from within him. The lighting was nice, he thought. The way it shone around the edges of your hair was heavenly.

“Well, yeah. Could you help me with the other now?” He probably didn’t need much help this time, given that one half of him had 20/20 vision, but he liked feeling your hand on his. He liked being helped by you. It was a revelation for him, who had always been a bit of an independent spirit. Don’t get him wrong, he liked being around people, and as a kid he would clutch at his mother’s dresses, but he preferred to do certain things on his own. You changed that.

“Definitely.”

Things took a slight turn after that. School became harder, more work and less play. Your middle school was bigger than your previous school, so it came to no surprise to you that Robert made his own friends. Namely, he hung out with a tall, dark, curly-haired boy named Aaron and a shorter, sturdier, pale as snow boy named Samuel. They were alright, in your opinion. You liked Aaron much more. Sam became bossy and annoying when you let him ramble for too long, and though both Robert and Aaron were too polite to say, it annoyed them. It’s Aaron that you still talk to now, while Sam moved to upstate New York during your freshman year of high school.

The boys were not the most popular group in school, though you knew you weren’t either. But, to your surprise, your good friend Margaret was.

You didn’t really expect to become friends with her. She was loud, happy, excitable. She was always polite in elementary, but she truly took you under her wing as Robert started spending more time with his group. She introduced you to Sarah, Charlotte, Elizabeth, anyone that you could even remember the names of. And, along with her constant joviality, she wasn’t a bad friend.

The only problem was that she was deeply in love with Robert Floyd. 

“You don’t even get it ‘cuz he’s like your brother at this point, but he’s gorgeous. He’s basically perfectly my type,” she sighed, falling back onto her plush pink bed. Her legs kicked up just a little, and her curls fanned out around her head like a halo. “I want to ask him out soooo bad. Do you think he’d like me? Wait, do you know if he’s a good kisser? That’s important, I think.” You threw the pillow you were holding on top of her face, and her laugh rang out like the chime of a bell. She was perfect. She deserved someone like Robert, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

You didn’t know why it hurt at the time. Just the idea of him dating someone else, holding hands with someone else, loving someone else, made you sick. You chalked it up to being jealous that eventually another person would take up your best friend’s heart. It was only much, much later that you realized you were in love with him, too.

Margaret tossed the pillow to the other side of her bed. “Really, you need to tell me.”

You gave a tight-lipped smile. “He'd like you, Margie. I mean, who wouldn’t?” Her smile was genuine. It hurt you to say, but you weren’t lying. You didn’t think you could ever lie about something like that.

“But is he a good kisser? Please, I need to know, I’m dying!” She prodded. You rolled your eyes, glancing up at the perfectly painted ceiling. Like everything about her, it was pristine.

“No idea. He’s never kissed anyone.” He could be good, maybe. Everything he did was soft and methodical, so just the idea of him capturing a person’s lips with his own, his calloused hand resting on the back of their head… no, you couldn’t think about it. Your eyes snapped to attention.

“I’ll have to change that.” Her tone was sing-songy, and to you, it sounded almost mocking. It couldn’t be, because neither of you knew your actual feelings, but it struck you the wrong way.

“I’m sure you will.”

Margaret tried everything to get closer to Robert. She flirted, she downloaded songs from his favorite bands, she begged and pleaded for you to invite him to every outing the two of you planned, and she talked to him constantly to try and worm her way into his heart. She never knew him like you did, though, and she hated it. 

When it was just you and him, things were different. You were the only one he let call him “Bobby” and play with his fingers when you were nervous. He even let you ruffle his hair, despite him spending half an hour in his bathroom trying to get each strand to lay perfectly. He would open his closet and pull out his comic collection without a hint of embarrassment, and you and he read them together underneath a blanket tent in the middle of the night—after his parents started letting you sleep over, of course. They gave you both “the talk” before you spent your first night there, and Robert was rolling his eyes and blushing the whole time. He would never do that with you, he assured them. You were just friends.

Friends who ultimately ended up falling asleep on the same bed, paying no attention to the blow-up mattress on the floor of his room.

In any case, you tried to get Robert and Margaret together. The time you tried the hardest was the start of your seventh grade year, when Margie insisted that she needed a boyfriend before Christmas. You, being a good friend, invited them both to go to the mall a short drive away from your houses. 

Margie’s mom drove, because she was always up for helping her daughter with her romantic interests. She knew about Robert, sending you and her daughter knowing smiles whenever he would politely answer Margie’s rapid-fire questions. You felt a little bad for the boy, who wasn’t used to so much attention.

The little car (too little, in your opinion; Margaret took the middle seat and was pressed against Bobby for the whole ride) finally arrived at the mall after a few minutes of slight awkwardness. You all stepped out, and Margie’s mom kissed her on the forehead and said she would be back in two hours on the minute. Two hours was a lot at that time. 

Your friend immediately pointed out a clothing store, pulling you along to look at flouncy dresses and colorful tops. You could tell that it made Robert a bit uncomfortable, but he went in anyway. During your usual mall trips with him, the both of you made a beeline for the comic store, or simply shared some pretzels while walking and talking. It was only rarely that you wandered into the clothing stores, and most of the time, you just looked and walked back out. You never had the money on you to buy anything more than a volume or two of a comic. “These shorts are just perfect, don’t you think?” She asked you, but her eyes were staring pointedly at Robert.

“They’re nice,” you said. He nodded in silent agreement, slipping his hand into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t ever really have an opinion on clothes. Someone could wear the most awful outfit and he’d shrug, offering the notion that people should wear what they want, while Sam laughed at the silly combination. Margie tore through the rest of the store, giving you hanger upon hanger of clothing to hold while she rifled through the racks. Robert trailed behind. 

Just as the weight of the tops you were holding on your left arm accumulated into a painful soreness, you spotted something out of the corner of your eye. It was a dress.

Robert silently grabbed the clothes from you, following your line of sight. The dress was as close to perfect as a dress had ever been to you. The color, some variation of your favorite, complemented the tone of your skin perfectly when you held your arm up to it. The cut, the stitching, the little details sewn on—it was gorgeous. As you reached out to touch it, Margie squealed.

“That dress! I need it, grab it for me, would you?”

 You hesitated. It was the only one like it on the rack. Instinctively, you glanced back at Robert, and he had this confusing expression on his face that you had only seen once or twice; furrowed brows, tight lips, and a burning in his eyes. You looked away and took the dress down.

You probably wouldn’t be able to afford it. Checking the tag, you were right: thirty-eight dollars. Even after doing yard work and tutoring the little boy down the street, you hadn’t been able to keep that sort of sum. “Thanks,” she purred, “I’m gonna try everything on now. Wanna watch the fashion show?”

A part of you didn’t. You were envious, glowing green at the amount of things she could pick up without even checking the tag, but as a good, people-pleasing friend, you pushed it aside. So, you followed her past the door of the spacious dressing room while Robert waited outside with the clothes that didn’t fit into the ten item dressing room limit. 

She looked stunning in every outfit, but she threw most of the pieces off with a frustrated sigh. The waist wasn’t cinched enough, or the color clashed with her hair, or the pant legs were too short to cascade over the top of her shoes like she wanted. If you had the money, you didn’t think you would care. 

Then came time for the dress. It was one of the last things that she tried on, and she slipped it back over her head almost immediately after putting it on. “It just doesn’t work for my figure,” she muttered. 

You picked it off the floor gingerly, holding it up to yourself in the mirror. “Can I try it on?” You asked. She lit up with surprise, a happy glint dancing in her grin. 

“Of course! Go ahead.”

You undressed in the corner and stepped into the dress. Margie helped you smooth it out and fasten it just right, her fingers ghosting over your shoulder blades. When you looked in the mirror, your jaw almost fell open. 

It hugged you perfectly, the length stopping just where you assumed it was meant to stop. It was casual enough to be worn normally, but it had that fancy touch that made it suited for a romantic dinner date or uppity party. You almost looked like royalty. You could just imagine it, waving to crowds with a slow hand from a horse-drawn carriage. Bobby would be beside you, as always, and Margie and Aaron in the carriage behind you. Sam would be dealing with the horses. 

You were shaken out of your thoughts by a faint knock on the door. “Hey, are you guys ready? There’s a bit of a line out here,” came Robert’s voice. Margie was dressed by that point, so you opened the door, still clad in the dress.

“I just gotta change out of this and then we’ll be ready.” You gave a small twirl, and Robert choked on air. “It’s too expensive, but it’s nice to dream,” you said with a small grin. You didn’t know if it reached your eyes or not, but you knew the boy wouldn’t call you out for it. Not in public, at least.

You looked beautiful. That’s all that he could see, all that he could fathom. You slipped back into the dressing room, and he was left stunned. 

Before anything else, though, you looked happy in the dress. Sad that you had to leave it, but it made you happy. Robert was nothing if not a sucker for seeing you happy.

Your group finally checked out after a few minutes of the cashier ringing up Margie’s clothes. It was nearing the end of your mall trip, but you managed to visit the comic store and pick up a bite to eat along the way. At some point, while you were flipping through a comic book, Robert slipped away and returned with a grocery bag. It was something his mom wanted him to pick up, he said, and you didn’t feel the need to question him. You just mumbled a conversation starter into Margie’s ear and slipped away as she excitedly whipped around to relay it to him.

She never did win him over. She tried and tried, and you helped and helped, but it seemed he didn’t have an eye for her. 

Everything came to a sort of explosion near Christmas. The ground was powdered with a thick blanket of snow, the trees were bare, save for dripping ice, and houses put out beautiful, twinkling lights. There were even singing decorations from your neighbor to the left. When you breathed, the air would puff out in gentle clouds. It was, in essence, a perfect, picturesque winter. It was also one of your favorite times of the year.

Your mom always made an effort during the winter months. She came home earlier to hide in the bathroom, trying to muffle the sounds of wrapping paper and scissors. In the morning, you would see the fruits of her labor tucked under your little plastic tree. It wasn’t perfect, but she wanted you to experience some sort of joyful Montana holiday. You also spent more time indoors, snickering with Robert in the library or blowing on sweet hot cocoa by his crackling fire. It was times like these that you really felt at home.

His family knew about your situation. They didn’t make your mom feel like a villain, no, but they knew she was struggling, and they did their very best to help you out. That’s why you were bundled up on their couch on one frigid day, when Robert came home with a pinched frown.

He wasn’t mad, exactly. You had never known him to be mad. But he was uncomfortable in a way that made you want to throw your blanket over him and make him whisper his troubles to you. 

“What’s wrong?” You asked. He wasn’t surprised to see you in his home—he never was. He sat down next to you with a heavy sigh.

“Margaret asked if I wanted to date her,” he murmured, throwing his head back against the couch cushions. This piqued your interest. You knew something like this would happen eventually, but you didn’t expect him to be so uneasy about it. Margie had been talking about asking him out for ages, and you just smiled and nodded. Her bright, bubbly personality was a large contrast to his, but you figured that opposites attracted. He had never shown a hint of distaste at being around her. No distaste that you had seen, at least.

You looked at him, confusion creasing your face. “What did you say?” Maybe it was just the wrong time. If he were to crush on anyone, it would be her, not that he had ever talked about his crushes to you. That seemed like something he would only tell Aaron, despite you being his closest friend.

“I said no. I just… I don’t like her like that.” His voice came out as an almost groan as he rubbed at his eyes. He turned his head to rest it on your shoulder. The weight sent a heavy warmth through you, but you were still so bewildered that it hardly even registered.

“I thought you would. Did she do something wrong?”

He shook his head, looking up at you, and then back down at the fire blazing away in his fireplace. Slowly, he wrapped your blanket around himself, as well, sharing your heat to ward off the cold. “No, she’s nice, but I don’t feel that way about her.” You still didn’t get it. If you were him, you would jump at the chance to date her. She was pretty, funny, and her family was well off. However, something in you uttered that it takes more than that to make someone love you. And that something was a bit happy, because Robert rejecting Margie meant that you could have him all to yourself again. 

“Oh,” you breathed. “Do you feel that way about anyone else?”

That question breached the sanctity of your relationship in a way. You had never asked him about his love life, and he had never asked about yours. It was unspoken. You knew, deep in your heart, that if he asked you, you wouldn’t be able to say anyone’s name but his. 

His face was tinged with red. It was hard to see, but you knew it was there. “I dunno.”

You lapsed into a subdued silence, not knowing whether to press forward or not. You decided on the latter, just listening to the near-silent spitting of the fireplace. You knew that Margie wouldn’t be happy, and you would get an earful over the phone that night, but you knew that, like all things, this would pass.

Bobby would be your closest confidant for another Christmas.

You were right when you assumed that Margie wouldn’t take it well. You spent night after night listening to her laments, rubbing a soothing pattern on her back as she cried. You didn’t even know if she was upset that Robert didn’t like her or if she was upset that she got rejected, but you gave her a listening ear no matter what. The calls and in-person interactions only ceased when she went to spend the week of Christmas with her family in Utah.

You, naturally, spent most of your time with Robert. For the entirety of winter break, it was just you and him, which was something that hadn’t happened since elementary school. It gave you a chance to think about things—your feelings in particular.

You slowly realized that you didn’t want to just be his friend. You didn’t know it was love, not yet at least, but your heart beat faster when he was around, and you felt the need to keep him around for as long as possible. It was something further than platonic. A crush, maybe, that was only furthered by the events of Christmas day. 

You spent the rare morning with your mother, who had been given a single day off by her boss. It was odd to have her around to make breakfast, not smelling of the bar, and humming around a piece of toast. “It’s almost ready, honey. Why don’t you start on the presents while we wait?” Her voice was only slightly muffled by her food. You nodded silently and pulled out one of the three little gifts wrapped up under the tree. Two from her to you, and one from you to her. It didn’t disappoint you to not receive the dozens of wrapped boxes that your friends did; from a young age, you had realized that any gift at all was precious. You slipped your fingers beneath the wrapping paper and pulled the taped folds away gently, careful not to rip them. 

As you unfolded the creases, the box underneath revealed itself to you. It was a shoebox, and within were a pair of shoes that you had been eyeing for a while now. Your face lit up with surprise. She had really remembered? “Thank you, mom.” You grinned. She laughed, turning the heat off from under the scrambled eggs she was tending to. 

“I’m not a bad gift giver, hm?” she hummed, sitting down next to you. You pushed the gift that you wrapped for her into her grasp, and she looked down at it with a guilty expression. “I didn’t notice you got anything for me, sweet thing. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be the type of mom that doesn’t deserve a Christmas gift.”

You took her hands off of the present and wrapped them around your shoulders, her normally cold fingers giving off a soft heat. “You aren’t. You do your best, mama, and I love you all the same.” You couldn’t bring yourself to be mean to her when she had spent an important part of her paycheck on you. It was true, that she did all she could think to do, but some part of you wanted her to be better. You still hoped that she could pull herself together and make breakfast for you every day, so you wouldn’t have to microwave pizza pockets or slump over to Robert’s house for a bite to eat. But you were her child, not Georgia Floyd’s, and hoping and wishing couldn’t change that. You had come to terms with it when you saw her watery eyes undoing your sloppy wrapping.

It was a jewelry tree that she said she wanted nearly five months ago. It was expensive, sapping your meager funds, but you knew it would make her happy. 

Your mother was one for jewelry and pleasantries, when pleasantries were made to be found. You figured that she liked to feel fancy, with glass diamonds and greening gold. It was the best gift you could think to give her.

She looked up at you as tears began to stream down her face. She wiped them away hastily. “Thanks, baby. I appreciate you more than you know, more than I could ever tell you.”

Your next gift was a book you had wanted for a while but could never seem to find at the library. You thanked her profusely, and spent the next half hour eating with her and talking. Like normal families do. Normal families with normal moms. You could almost picture a man, your father, coming in from the cold outside with the mail in his hands. A roaring fire, a sibling, a pet. Maybe a beagle like Bobby had. But the illusion was shattered when she pulled herself up and wrapped her scarf around her neck, muttering apologetically about having to pick up a Christmas shift after all as she hugged you close. You needed the money, she said. That didn’t make it hurt any less.

Nearly as soon as she left, there was a quiet knock on your door. You opened it slowly, not excited about hearing from the Jehovah’s Witness that frequented your neighborhood. Instead of him was Robert. And he was carrying a gift bag.

“Hi,” he blurted, “this is for you. Merry Christmas.” He handed you the bag, careful not to put his foot through the threshold of your house. You opened the door wider, a pleasant grin spreading onto your face. 

“Come in, I have something for you too.”

He hesitated. He had never been inside your house before. You had never explicitly told him he wasn’t allowed, but you usually had some excuse as to why he couldn’t stay over. Over the years, he had learned to just stop looking past the barely cracked-open door and pull you away to his place instead. But, with your insistence, he breached the unknown.

Your house wasn’t as furnished or comfortable as his, but it didn’t really matter. There were two brooms laid against the kitchen wall and a dustpan between them, and your small couch had a tear on the seam. The cabinets didn’t exactly close right, and your faucet leaked. Other than that, it was a normal house. He marveled at a picture of you and your mom stuck to the fridge with a magnet, with the edges folded over like it used to be in a frame. You let him wander for a minute or two before pulling him into your bedroom.

It was completely and utterly you. Books, comics, and little craft projects filled much of the shelf next to your bed, and the sheets were messily crumpled on your mattress. You had a little closet and a mirror that rested against it, slightly smudged with fingerprints. There was even a poster from some movie you liked hung above your headboard. You opened your closet and pulled a small wrapped parcel out from the depths. 

You handed it to him with a shy look. “I hope you like it.”

As he took the gift from you, he could feel a significant heft to the package. “I’d like anything if it was from you. It’s the thought that counts, right?” He sat on the edge of your bed as you nodded slowly. You were still a little worried that he wouldn’t be happy, but you knew him. He would thank you profusely if you had wrapped him a lump of coal. He might have even displayed it proudly on his shelf. The thought was enough to have you stifling a laugh. “You should open yours first.”

You obliged, pulling out the tissue paper delicately. Your fingers closed in around something soft, like fabric. Through the gaps of your hands, you could see your favorite color. Your heart leaped out of your chest. “Is this…?”

Bobby nodded, beaming. You took the article of clothing out fully and almost cried at the sight.

It was the dress you had wanted at the mall. The one that had fit you perfectly, and the one that Margie had almost taken from you. You hugged it to your chest. “Thank you, Bobby, thank you. I love it so much.” Your voice was quiet, brimming with emotion. He just opened his arms, and you dove into them, the both of you uncaring of the tear marks that would form on his thick jacket. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You exclaimed, louder this time, but still muffled by his chest. He just laughed and pulled you in closer.

“You’re welcome, you’re welcome, you’re welcome.”

That meant more to you than anything else could have. Not only did he notice what you liked, he bought it when you couldn’t. It was more than just a gift. 

Robert would’ve given up his entire stash of money, carefully tucked away in his dresser drawer, to make you react like that. It was no contest.

He opened his gift next and had to scrub the wetness away from his own eyes. It was a model plane; more specifically, a version of the Super Hornet. The plane he had heard about entering service years ago, and the plane that he dreamed of flying. He ran his hands along the wings in wonder. “It’s perfect.” He choked out. “Thank you. I’m gonna put it on my shelf as soon as I get home.” You knew he would say something like that, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling good.

He stayed for a bit, after that, talking to you about anything and everything, as you usually do. It was nice to see him lying on your bed, staring up at your ceiling. And it was nice to have this sort of alone time with him. When he reached up to pick a piece of fuzz off of your shirt, you almost melted in place. You never thought your heart could beat that fast.

After he left, you felt your joy walk out the door behind him. All you could think was that you couldn’t wait to see him again. 

You never had to wait long.

The rest of middle school went by fairly quickly, as did Margaret’s sadness. She got over her affections before moving on to the next poor sap, dragging you along with her. After eighth grade, she would always mention how nice Aaron looked in his church clothes and how pretty his eyes were. Not having to worry about someone taking Bobby away from you was just another weight off of your shoulders. You also grew a lot during that time, physically and mentally. You were taller, happier, bigger, stronger. It was in part due to Rob, as he liked to be called sometime during your freshman year, and in part due to your mother finally going to rehab.

You didn’t know it was rehab. You didn’t know much at that age, not of yourself or other people, so it was just one more thing to add to the list. She just told you that you would have to stay at Rob’s for a few months, and they accepted your presence with kindness. His mom seemed to look at you sadly during that time. You chose to ignore it, focusing on how grateful you were to have a home while your mother was away. 

High school was better. Much better, in your opinion. You felt like things were finally coming together.

You had a small, quaint, stable friend group, consisting of you, Margaret, Rob, and Aaron. They were fun. You didn’t think you could enjoy going to football games or pep rallies until they were there with you, cheering and joyful. Even studying was full of inside jokes and nudging each other with your elbows until the flashcards were forgotten and the air was thick with laughter. You started to enjoy your classes, too, because you had a clearer goal in your mind. You were going to apply to your city’s college and room with Margie, considering you both got in. So you threw yourself into school with full force, hoping that your future would be just as great.

Rob wasn’t planning on going to your college. He hadn’t told you, not yet, but he was applying to the Naval Academy. He was finally going to achieve his dreams, even if he felt endless guilt about leaving you to be on your own. He didn’t want to lose you, but the temptation of the sky drew him in until he couldn’t escape the magnetizing force.

The first year was, other than a few football games and watching Margie perform in the school play, relatively uneventful. 

Dungeons and Dragons began to reign supreme as your group’s favorite pastime, although Margaret didn’t quite understand the story that Aaron concocted. To her credit, she tried. She played an elvish ranger with long flowing hair and a past of tortured princesshood, while you decided on a sweet halfling druid, and Rob a powerful human wizard. Nothing was more fun than losing yourself entirely to the tale, drawn in by Aaron’s dark voice impressions and the little figures that danced across the map he drew. It was a more grown-up form of playing pretend, and you were entranced by every second of every session.

By the time your mother returned home, fidgety yet quiet, you had established a nice sort of life. You moved back to your house, bittersweetly thanking Rob’s family for taking you in, and you spent the rest of the school year and the summer that followed with her. 

She was different. She wasn’t like she was prior to the drinking or during the drinking, but  a new person entirely, like she shed every part of herself and started fresh. She slept in, but got ready for work as you were walking out the door. She cooked, but with a tremor in her hand that was never present before. There were no more midnight rampages, but you got the feeling that she didn’t fall into her bed until very late hours. It was odd, at best, but like always, she did what she could with what she had. You continued to support her every step of the way.

Starting your sophomore year was less exciting than transitioning to a whole new school, and the nerves that had preceded every other year had faded into the background. You were more sure of yourself. Still naive, but there was some confidence in your step. The classes were tough, but you were tougher. Of course, the people who picked on you in the past were still jerks, but it was nothing you weren’t already used to. 

You finished the year with a smile on your face and a finger linked with each of your friends. 

Summer was the same as it always was. Fun, lazy, anything you wanted to make of it. You and the rest of the group frequented the lake closest to Aaron’s house, as his older brother was no stranger to driving you around in the car he had fixed up the summer previous. It was during one of those trips that you discovered quite a few things about the people around you.

Margaret was splashing around in the lake, completely unfazed by the freezing water. Well, she was fazed at the beginning, but she quickly adapted. “Come in, it’s so nice!” she called, flicking a drop of water towards you. You blocked it with the edge of your towel, not keen on getting your book wet.

“Later, I’m still reading,” you grumbled. Rob was perched behind you, reading over your shoulder as the pages flipped. You had just returned from the water and were trying to wait out the little kids that were flailing around in the shallows. 

She made a face until she spotted that Aaron was also out of the water. Shrugging, she stepped closer to the shore, and tugged on his arm. That action sent him stumbling into the lapping waves, to her delight. 

He let out an indistinct shout before resigning himself to being wet once again. “Warn me next time, geez! I could’ve died,” he moaned, pushing a wave of water straight into Margie’s face. She just laughed in delight. 

You ignored the two as you worked on your book, delving further into the story of a girl on a mountain, traversing through the thick forest in an attempt to wake her comatose father. Rob read right along with you, keeping your pace perfectly. You never needed to ask him when he wanted you to turn the pages—it was like your eyes read at the same speed, your brains processing the same things. Among other things, that was convenient. 

The air began to grow colder as you began the second-to-last chapter, the sun casting longer and longer shadows. It wasn’t evening quite yet, but the blazing afternoon sun had softened. You looked up with a start. It had clearly been a couple hours, but where were the other two members of your group?

You turned around to face Rob. “Have you seen Aaron and Margie recently?”

He quickly scanned the area with a slight look of panic sewn into his features. The lake was empty, the shore was clear of visitors, and even the sky was barren. “No, but we really need to find them before Marcus comes back with the car.” They were simply gone. “Here, why don’t you stay with our stuff and I’ll go look?” he suggested, standing to wipe the gravel off his shorts. 

“I don’t want to split up.” You were wary of the quiet, unsure if something would come out of the land around you and take you, too. “We can hide the bags in that dry spot under the dock and come back for them later.”

He just nodded in agreement, taking the larger share of your things and helping you conceal them within the rocks and overgrown water weeds. The two of you then set off to find your friends, calling their names into the sound of sloshing water and twittering birds. 

It was almost twenty minutes later when you began to hear someone sniffling and a distinctly feminine voice trying to calm them down. Margie and Aaron. You and Rob looked at each other, then swiftly moved towards them.

Aaron was crouched down in the middle of a little clearing, his head in his hands. Margie was sitting and whispering to him, something you couldn’t quite make out. You had never heard her whisper before. It didn’t matter, though, because they quickly spotted you.

“Guys, I’m not sure it’s a good-”

“No, it’s okay.” Aaron cut Margaret off. “They can hear it.”

You dropped to your knees to get on their level, Rob quickly following suit. “What happened?” you asked, gently reaching out to brush Aaron’s hand. His face was slick with tears, his normally neat hair lopsided like he had tried to run his fingers through the thick coils. 

He hesitated, slightly, but Margie patted him encouragingly. “Margie told me how she felt.”

Okay, another confession within the friend group. That wouldn’t explain the running away or the crying, at least not him crying, so what else? Rob spoke up, voice restrained. “How did that make you feel?”

“Bad,” he muttered, looking up at the girl with guilt in his brown eyes. “Not because I don’t like her, but because I can’t.” His voice trailed off into muffled sobs once again as he sunk into Margie’s arms.

Oh. You exchanged glances with Rob.

That wasn’t exactly news to you, but you had never been able to voice your suspicions out loud. It just made sense. Margie liked Aaron, and Aaron didn’t like girls. He didn’t even have to explain fully, you and Rob just hugged his shaking form. 

There was a very hushed, heartfelt talk after that. The fact of the matter was, you and your friends loved Aaron, and that was just a new fact about him for you to love. It also surprised you a little.

You knew you would be okay with it, but Rob and Margie grew up with you. They knew your area and the opinions that floated around. You never expected them to be hateful, no, but putting aside the thoughts that were so instilled in your hometown would be difficult for anyone lesser than them. It showed you that your friends wouldn’t dream of hurting the people around them, the people they loved.

When anyone, you included, presented the group with a new side of them, they were accepted with open arms. 

Junior year was tougher than the previous. Your rocks remained by your side, but certain people pulled at the strings binding your sanity like a child with a ball of yarn. One of those people ended up being Brady, who after a couple years of a mild hiatus, began making fun of you more than ever.

He was in all the same rigorous classes as you and your friends, leading him to be able to torture you during lessons. In addition to that, his last name was similar enough to yours for him to be placed behind you in most of those classes.

The vast majority of the torture involved stealing your belongings, throwing things at the back of your head, making fun of your looks, hobbies, anything, and passing you notes that read like a stupid teenage boy’s jeers. Sexual innuendos, frankly abhorrent pick up lines, and gross questions crumpled under your fist almost every day. 

You tried to tell the teachers, the principal, anyone that would listen, but they all said the same thing: boys will be boys. Brady was too good of a student and too important of an athlete to punish. Hell, the most he got for cutting off a section of your hair was a verbal warning. Every day, you and your friends got closer and closer to punching him in the face. None of them liked him, for good reason, but even their protection couldn’t fully stop him. Everything exploded in the spring, right before your junior prom.

You sat at your desk during your English lecture, desperately trying to pay attention to your teacher who was droning on and on about The Great Gatsby. You shifted your leg a bit, just enough to feel a piece of paper pressing into the underside of your thigh. You pulled it out, confused. 

It was a thick, decorated section of stationery with a few words scrawled on it in cursive. It read, “Meet me by the gym after school,” signed by someone who called themselves your secret admirer. You looked down at the prose. It didn’t look like Brady’s handwriting, something you were quite sure of. But who else would’ve written it? You tucked it in your pocket, not wanting to decide whether or not to go right then and there.

You did end up going, which was your biggest mistake. You sat on the edge of a planter near the entrance of the gym, picking at the seam of your shirt. It wasn’t long before everyone who had gym class last period filed out of the school, leaving you utterly alone. It also wasn’t long before Brady appeared, walking towards you like he was on a mission. 

You stood up, poised to leave if he did anything other than walk right on by. Unfortunately for you, he held up a hand as if to tell you to wait. “Hey,” he grinned, “you got my note?”

You paused. “Your note?” You didn’t think he even knew how to write in cursive, much less make it as neat as it was on the stationary. You wouldn’t be surprised if he paid one of the artsy girls to write it for him.

“Yeah.” He stared down at you. There was a gleam in his eye that you didn’t like. “I wanted to ask you to prom.”

Prom? He wanted to ask you to prom? You were baffled. There were a million better fitting people at his disposal, ones that didn’t hate him with a passion. He had made your life hell that year, and multiple years previous to that. You almost scoffed at his words.

“Well, I would rather you didn’t.” You said. You turned to leave, but his hand caught your wrist in a vice-like grip. His eerily green eyes burned holes into yours. 

“What, you’re just going to leave? After leading me on for so many years, playing hard to get?”

You were stunned. You weren’t aware you were playing anything. Everything he did just seemed mean, and you responded to it like any victim of bullying would. You just balked, uttering a quiet “huh?” when he wouldn’t let go. Try as you might, you couldn’t break his grip as he ranted about you being so obviously into him. He even tried to pull you closer, until two familiar hands grabbed his arm and shoved him back.

It was Rob, and he was furious. “What the fuck? Leave her alone,” he snapped, forcing himself into the gap between you and Brady. You rarely heard him curse, and you had never seen him as mad as that. Brady just rolled his eyes with a psychotic little laugh.

“Oh my god, did you think I was actually into your little girlfriend? Shove off, dude. I was joking. Who in their right mind would want that thing hanging off them in public?” he scoffed. You couldn’t tell if he was serious about anything right then. He was contradicting himself constantly. If the prom thing was a joke, was he just making fun of you again? Or if the prom thing was serious, was he deflecting? Your mind was reeling, and you just wanted to sit down and get your head straight. The place where Brady had grabbed you was pulsing, sure to form a bruise during the night.

Rob said something you didn’t remember before he put a protective hand on your shoulder and ushered you away. All you could hear was laughter, Brady’s and a couple other boys’. You didn’t even see the other boys arrive, and if they were there the whole time, you weren’t aware. The whole walk of shame just felt like a fever dream, with you fading in and out of reality until Rob sat you down on the edge of his mattress. You couldn’t even tell how you got there. Rob tilted your face towards him, concerned, and you realized you were crying.

“Don’t let him get to you.” His voice was soothing, like he was speaking to a scared puppy. “He was just being an asshole.” 

“Did you hear everything?” You sounded pathetic, but you didn’t care.

Rob shook his head. “When I came over, he was in the middle of some spiel. I was just on my way to lacrosse practice before I saw you.” Ah, yes, he was in lacrosse. And he was usually early. The things you remembered after dissociating continued to surprise you. He wiped the tears off your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

He hated seeing you like that. Brady didn’t deserve to make you cry. No one did, not even yourself. He wanted to pull you under his covers and let you sigh into his shirt, like always. He wanted you to forget about everything and just hold on to him.

You wrung your hands in your lap, trying desperately to process everything. The situation was just so… bizarre. You didn’t know what to believe, but at the end of the day, you figured it didn’t matter. Brady will be Brady. Out of nowhere, you started to laugh. Rob’s eyes widened, but he cracked a smile too.

You devolved into cackles on his bed, with him doubled over next to you. Hysterics, some might say. But it was all you could think to do at the time, all your tired mind could handle at the moment. Of course, you talked about it after, but the laughter was the key to getting you through the situation. 

You had waited all your life for a big confession of love, and your “first one” went to shit immediately. Luckily, like always, Rob was there to pick up the pieces. 

Prom came and went without another word from Brady. Instead of going to the dance, however, you and your friends spent the night at a diner. The place had a playplace definitely designed and designated for little kids, but that didn’t stop you from climbing up the sides and playing a good old game of tag. You were winded by the end, a cramp crawling its way down your side, but it was more fun than sitting around a bowl of punch would be. The dances were never your thing, anyway. 

Both Margie and Aaron had a curfew as the night marched towards 10:00, but you decided to go back to Rob’s house for a movie or two. He could drive, and it was the most amazing excuse for him to ferry everyone everywhere. He never minded. So you got in his car, and he let you choose the music, and you talked the whole way home. 

As you finally arrived, your voices fell to hushed whispers. His family was more than likely asleep—save for his brother, who was spending his first year in college on campus. Rob locked the door and fumbled for the TV remote in the near-darkness as you thumbed through his DVD collection.

There wasn’t much selection. His family encouraged spending time with each other instead of spending time staring at a screen, so their DVDs consisted of old children’s films, a few action movies, and The Princess Bride. You had seen every one of them countless times, but the action movies more so. Frankly, you were tired of Men in Black and The Terminator, so you pulled out The Princess Bride. It was his sister’s favorite, but you liked it enough.

Rob raised his eyebrows at the selection but accepted it, popping the disc into the player and tugging a blanket over your body, already nice and comfortable on the couch. 

The first few times you watched movies together, Bobby would be silent. He stared at the screen with rapt attention, losing himself in the plot and acting. Over time, as you both learned to remember each twist and even a few distinct lines, you started talking while the movie played. It went from movie discussion to just anything, with the film serving as background noise to your conversation. A bit of you wondered why you didn’t just pause the video or talk somewhere else, but it was familiar, and somehow far better than conversing in silence. This time, you were discussing how far you could go in your friendship before Rob would stop metaphorically saying “as you wish”.

“I feel like you would say no if I, like, asked if I could pick your nose. Which I wouldn’t do, but you wouldn’t let me, right?”

He considered it for a moment, shrugging noncommittally. “If I had a reason to believe there was something in it, I might.” You scrunched your nose in response, shaking your head to the thought of it.

“Well, I’m not sticking my finger up there any time soon.” You pushed his face away from yours with your finger, pressing lightly into his forehead. He fell back, settling into the couch cushions.

“Thank god. I really think I’d let you do anything, though.”

You sat up, following him onto his side of the couch. There was a playful smile on your lips. “Anything?”

He nodded, face flushed in the dim lighting. He blushed so easily at the slightest provocation—it would be funny if you hadn’t already teased him for it hundreds of times. “That’s fair. I’d probably let you do anything too, but within reason.”

He tensed, eyes flicking across your face. He seemed like he was considering something. He had a concentrated look on his face, weighing the pros and cons. You had seen that face numerous times in the past, but right now, it confused you. Before he could think any better of it, and before he could get in his head about his newfound impulsivity, he opened his mouth. “Is kissing you within reason?”

You paused. Don’t get ahead of yourself, you thought. It’s for the sake of the conversation. Right? It wasn’t like he thought about kissing you as much as you thought about kissing him. He was just so handsome, every day, all the time. It only got better with the years developing his features. It wasn’t like he had a major crush on you, too. “Sure.”

“Then…” His gaze dropped to your lips. He was hesitating, like you were going to shove him away and call him disgusting. But it was finally happening, and your heart beat faster and faster in your chest. 

“As you wish.” 

Your lips connected, and his hand cradled the back of your head. It was like nothing you had ever experienced before. 

Warm, soft, a bit of teeth, but that didn’t matter. You felt like you were flying. Your dream finally came true—the one where you had his loving touch, where you melted into his arms like he would be able to hold you together. You prayed to anyone that would listen to never let you wake up.

When you pulled away, Rob’s face was red and dazed. He could hardly believe that he did that, and that you let him. He had been harboring so many feelings, ones that he himself had only realized in middle school. He tried everything to deny them, to push them to the side, because he didn’t think he could make you as happy as you deserved. But he couldn’t deny himself enough to not kiss you, not when you looked so perfect, lit up by the television screen. He was a strong person, but not that strong. 

You were utterly flustered. A short silence filled the air for a moment before you opened your mouth, closed it, and then opened it again to speak. “So…”

“Can I be your boyfriend?” He blurted. That was quick. “I know it’s… weird, but I really love you, and I have for a while.” He looked away shyly, blue eyes pointed towards anything but you.

“Yeah. I’d like that,” you smiled. 

Your school year finished with an absolute flourish. You had a boyfriend for once. Margie was delighted when she found out. 

She squealed so loudly that you thought she would collapse the walls of her room, her hands immediately finding a place on your shoulders to shake you. “You and Rob, oh, I knew it! You’re perfect together.” She had matured so much after middle school, and the thought made your lips curl up into a smile.

Telling Aaron was easier. He looked at you with a knowing smile and then nodded, satisfied that you had both pulled your heads out of your asses long enough to realize you were in love with each other. As Margie was your victim while you were contesting your feelings, he was Rob’s. He knew that everything would work out better than any of you. 

Bobby didn’t quite know how to go about informing his family, so he decided on inviting you over for dinner and giving a whole, uninterrupted speech about how he wanted to let them know that you were more than just a friend now. His little sister, Jodie, just rolled her eyes and said, “We know.” He reddened under their laughter, but his hand was firm in holding yours under the table. 

Your mom was the person you were most worried about. She liked Rob, but you had never really been able to talk to her about those things. In the end, you casually dropped it during a conversation, she made some little comment about it, and you moved on. It wasn’t much of a big deal.

After the initial reactions, your relationship with him didn’t change much. You still did everything together, and you still spent hours talking with him, but there were a few sneaky kisses in between words and a few instances of hand-holding. It was heaven. 

Despite you having a similar dynamic, it felt more real, like you weren’t skirting around a touchy subject anymore. You were fully immersed in said subject, and Rob was the perfect accomplice. 

You knew him to be kind, gentle, and smart, but everything was amplified tenfold over the summer before your senior year. He held you with a special determination, never hiding how much he loved you through touch alone. He pulled you away from Brady whenever he approached, letting you hold his hand instead of looking at him. You saw a side of him that he kept carefully locked away.

 He never left behind his love of comics and flying, but he let you in on those secrets. He finally told you that he was applying to the Naval Academy (which you realized was the reason he was spending so much time at the gym, and why he was an Eagle Scout, and captain of the lacrosse team, etc. etc.), and even though he was worried that you would react badly, you tried to support him. It lifted a kind of weight off of his shoulders and let him be fully honest with you about everything. 

You had never been in a better place. He kissed you, brought you flowers, held your hand, and walked on the outside of the sidewalk. A gentleman, as he always had been. 

One of your favorite memories during that time was when he took you out to eat with his first ever paycheck. It wasn’t any place particularly fancy, as he worked a minimum wage job flipping burgers, but it was special all the same.

Rob was dressed in a polo, hair smoothed and combed (which was a whole lot better than his style in middle school, in your opinion), and glasses perched on his nose. He had taken to wearing them again as he hated getting dry eyes while working out. And, man, did he work out. He was getting a bit big for his clothing, his arms pushing against the fabric of his shirt, and chest noticeably straining against the cloth. You pulled your eyes away from his body, face a little warm when you noticed he noticed.

For once, you didn’t know what to talk about. It was your first real, proper date, and the pressure left your mouth dry. You drummed your fingers on the table before deciding to end the tension. “Do you remember when we first met?”

He blinked, but smiled fondly at the memory. “Yeah. I still had that big cast, and you didn’t have any shoes on. I was jealous, you know,” he laughed lightly, “you got to feel the ground with both your feet.”

He reached out to take your hand, but stopped just short of your digits. You closed the gap and linked your fingers. “I was jealous that you had a cast with signatures on it. Apparently breaking a bone was cool to me, until I realized it meant you couldn’t go splash in the creek or roll down a hill.”

“That was awful. I think I cried once because I couldn’t chase a newt into the water.”

“And I had to sit by the edge of the stream and hold your glasses so you could wipe your eyes!” It was like yesterday for you, hand resting on his shoulder and mouth whispering soothing words until he could pick his glasses from your outstretched hand. He didn’t cry often, but you supposed that particular day took a toll on him in a way that you could not recall.

“You’ve always been great at comforting me.”

“I haven’t done it in a while, though. Hey, maybe you should get that boot back so I can see if I still have the magic touch,” you teased. He shook his head vigorously.

“Are you kidding me? I never want to see another medical boot again.” He paused. “Well, actually, it wouldn’t be so bad if you were there. Y’know, for moral support.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you as it formed a smile. “For sure. I would dote on you—cucumbers on your eyes, a warm towel wrapping your hair, anything you want. Maybe I could even carry you down to the creek and find a few newts for you.”

“Carry me? You would probably break your back.” he scoffed, somewhat shyly. You didn’t even know a person could scoff shyly, but he was the king of consistency; he did everything with that little bashful tilt of his head.

“You never know. I’ve gotten pretty strong lately.”

“Show me sometime, then we can discuss the ‘carrying me down to the creek’ thing.”

“...give me a few more years and we’ll see.”

You talked about memories for hours upon end, until the restaurant workers had to gently push you out the door. The time you accidentally ate a fly while swinging, and he consoled you as you washed your mouth out a million times. When Margie accidentally left you two locked in her closet because she didn’t want her parents to make you leave. Even when Rob’s parents sat you down and said it would be okay with them if you two dated—which was met with outward disgust and internal hope. Throughout the reminiscence, his hand was held tightly in yours, and his eyes sometimes watered. It took everything in you to not sob at the idea of not being able to form these kinds of memories with him. It was kind of your last-ditch effort to truly be with him, in a way that no one else could be, before school started up again. You knew that soon, you would be stuck in class, and after that… after that, there were but a few brief weeks until he had to leave. You hadn’t been apart from him since you met, and each new day ticked down like a massive, ominous clock. You would just have to wait for him to return, as you waited for him to arrive in the first place. 

Just like you assumed it would, time passed quickly. Senior year was packed with homework, tests, college applications, more homework, more tests, watching lacrosse matches, cheering and whooping at football games, club meetings, swinging on the local park’s swings until you got sick with laughter, driving, and breaking curfew. It was fun. Everything could be fun if it was with the right people.

After things had died down, you discovered that your college and Naval Academy decisions happened to align somewhat perfectly with each other. Margie, Aaron, and you all got your letters a few days before Rob did, and you waited to open them together. Even holding the envelopes was stressful, like your entire future rode on a few printed words. They did, actually. That made it even scarier.

“Okay, we’ve all actually got to open them this time,” Margie groaned. She had counted down from three at least four times at this point. You and the boys were too scared to rip open the seals. It was amazing that she had held back from tearing them apart herself. “Three, two… one!”

The sound of tearing paper filled Rob’s bedroom, and you all eagerly held up the letters to the soft, warm glow of his overhead light. 

Congratulations!

Congratulations!

Congratulations!

…pleased to offer you…

You did it. You all did it. A beat of shocked silence filled the air as you took glance after glance at your own and everyone else’s papers, but it was quickly broken by Margie’s scream. She threw her arms around you, tackling you to the floor, as she yelled, “Everyone got in! Everyone got in! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” You laughed in her grasp, everyone releasing a breath of relief that they didn’t know they were holding. Margie pulled Rob and Aaron into her bear hug as well, until everyone was in a big, happy pile. A twinge in your heart knew that these letters meant nothing would ever be the same again, but you pushed it aside for the joy of now.

Rob grinned, his glasses crooked on his face. “Good job, guys. Congrats. You all really deserve it.”

“You deserve it too, Bobby. Getting into the academy is hard, but I know you worked harder.” You gave him a peck on the cheek as Margie swooned and Aaron gagged. 

It took about two more seconds for the moment to devolve. Aaron folded his acceptance letter into a boat, which he then got stuck in Margie’s hair. Six pairs of hands worked to detangle it, but she didn’t make it any easier with the amount of giggles she was releasing. It was going to be okay, you thought. High school would end, and college would begin, but you could deal with everything coming your way. Your best friends would be with you, and your best-est friend would be an email away. An email and a million miles, but an email nonetheless. He had already created a folder just for you. 

Things changed, as they always have and always will. You would cry, and yes, you were stuck biding the time before your soon-to-be long distance boyfriend returned, but that change was beautiful.

After packing your meager belongings into a duffel bag and a half-wheeled suitcase, your mom drove you to your college dorm for move-in day. She was sad to see you go, but she joked that she could host the A.A. meetings in your room during your absence. She was okay to live on her own, she assured you. For the first time in a long time, you fully believed her.

She helped you set up, greeting Margie as well, then gave you a squeezing hug and walked back to her car. You likely wouldn’t be able to see her for a while, considering that you didn’t have your own car, but you had survived without her in the past, and you would again. 

Everything felt new and exciting, the world alight with opportunities. Every class prompted a discussion within yourself, and every party forced that discussion to present itself. You found that enjoying reality had a sort of grounding effect, even when you were clinging to a wall during a wildly chaotic frat house rager. Margie had joined the adjoining sorority, so those things were often places you could hang out. Man, did you hang out.

With (almost) complete and utter freedom, you could do just about anything. You worked at a Jersey Mike’s on campus, so you had access to free sandwiches and money; that meant the world was your oyster. You and your friends dabbled in school organizations, danced to loud music, stuck your heads out of sunroofs, and edged your way into the campus culture. The librarian ended up kicking you and your English 101 classmates out of the library after you violated the “quiet study” rule a few too many times. 

The school part was, admittedly, less fun, but it was a good experience nonetheless. You ended up switching majors twice during your first two years of college, as you were not exactly sure what would be useful or even what you wanted out of life, but you settled on something eventually. Aaron stuck straight on his path to pre-med with biology, while Margaret switched from political science to education. As the general education requirements were fulfilled and the more targeted classes began, your hangouts dulled down a little bit. Aaron was constantly stressed and no longer had time to roll down the sunroof, and even Margie had things to do. She was interning at a school district a few miles from campus. The new friends you made had less and less time to talk. It left you feeling a little disgruntled, but between harder work and dictating your newly boring life to Bob, there was no time to spare.

He started signing off his emails as Bob; whether it was to sound professional or because it was what everyone in the academy called him, it didn’t matter. You accepted it, like you did so many things about him.

One email chain in particular is now printed out on thick, bordered paper, stuck in one of your million half-filled-in photo albums. You thumb through them from time to time, just to look at the memories. 

From: robertfl0yd444@gmail.com

Hello, my love!

I haven’t had a chance to read your past emails, sorry! They keep me busy here (not as busy as plebe summer though haha) and downtime is a thing of the past. I will read them in a few days, if all things go well. I’ll tell you about my past few weeks in the meantime. Well, my past few weeks haven’t been all too interesting, but I figured I’d write it down anyway.

Mickey and I have been going through the motions. The classes can be tough, but nothing compares to Ms. Norton’s gov assignments. There’s workouts, class, and a little downtime before it all starts up again. Luckily, I’ve been getting more freedom lately. That’s the perk of being a responsible student ;)

Yesterday, I saw this guy flick peas at his friend (were they friends? Possibly, maybe, I’m not sure) and get absolutely torn apart by an instructor that was watching. I had to cover Mickey’s mouth before he laughed so he wouldn’t get reprimanded. That’s the kind of “exciting” thing that happens here, by the way; I’m sure the others get up to mischief, but with the hawks watching and the stakes so high? I’d rather imagine all the trouble you get into at college instead. It softens the blow.

That being said, enough about me. I want you to send me a million (ok, maybe not a million, I’d be fine with a couple thousand) emails about everything you do. I hope that wasn’t super creepy. I just miss you a lot.

I miss your humor, your laugh, and your smile. I miss feeling your thumb rubbing the back of my hand when you get bored. I miss smelling your shampoo, and I miss kissing you. I wish I had snuck some of your perfume in with me along with the photos, but that might be too sappy of me. I’d get made fun of relentlessly if this email were to fall into the wrong hands, but I don’t care anymore. Oh, I miss home, too, so visit my family when you have the chance. Tell me everything.

Anyways, I hope this email finds you well. I’ve got to go to bed now, but I’m sure I’ll be dreaming about you. Catch you at midnight!

Love,

Bob. 

P.S.: Mickey wanted to say hi, so I let him have the keyboard for a few seconds. Bob is such a sap about u, Hometown Girl, I send my deepest sympathies. Also HELLO! -That was Mickey. Expect a message from him every email from now on, because he won’t stop threatening to tape my socks to the ceiling??

To: robertfl0yd444@gmail.com

Hi Bob!! And hello Mickey. I hope he hasn’t been bringing me up too much.

Don’t worry about reading all my emails all the time—nothing too eventful ever happens anyway. And if it did, I’m sure Margie and Aaron would let you know as well. 

All the work you guys have to do sounds insane, like crazy insane. I don’t think I could ever work out and then go through a million tough classes. I die after 30 minutes at the gym. You’re lucky all the instructors like you, because I’m sure the others get a ton of flack. 

The most trouble I’ve gotten into this week was forgetting my homework and having to lie to my teacher. I told her I got frat flu and couldn’t get out of my dorm to go to the library… which was highly unethical, but you do what you have to do. As for the others, I haven’t seen Aaron in weeks because he’s prepping for his finals. We just finished midterms. He’s so studious it actually shocks me. Our favorite roommate is asleep at 7:49 PM, and I have to shield my laptop screen from shining too close to her. I’m sure she gets into trouble that I don’t even want to think about… she brought two separate guys to the room within four hours. TMI, but you’ve heard it all anyway.

Instead of a million emails, I hope a few long ones will suffice. I miss you too, so much. I hate having to wrap my arms around a pillow instead of you—it should be classified as a deficiency, honestly. A Bobby deficiency. I’m the sickest patient imaginable. 

I visited the fams on Sunday. Jodie is doing really well in high school! She’s in all the advanced art classes and is enjoying her schedule immensely. Chris was there too, with his fiance. Which reminds me: even though the wedding hasn’t even been planned yet and probably won’t be for a couple years, he wants you to be his best man!!! He asked me to warn you before the fancy wedding court invitations go out. Brotherly love and all that. You don’t have to say yes, he said, but he wants that unfortunate little buzz cut by his side on his big day.

Your parents are doing well, and so is my mom. We’re all getting together this weekend to prep a giant care package, which I hope will be well enjoyed by you and your friends. I need to finish up my stats homework (ugh), so I’ll cut this message short, but expect more after I close my textbook. I hope to see you in dream world too <3

Love,

Hometown Girl.

From: robertfl0yd444@gmail.com

Good morning, Randle,

I was wondering about placing a hold on the item we spoke about over the phone. I can call again on Saturday, sometime during the afternoon. Please reach out if it’s still an option.

Thanks,

Robert Floyd.

From: robertfl0yd444@gmail.com

Sorry about that last email, honey! That wasn’t meant for you. I’m just looking at a lock for my bag. Mickey likes to rifle through my things. I’ll email you more later.

Love,

Bob.

To: robertfl0yd444@gmail.com

It’s alright, enjoy your lock lol.

Love,

Not Randle.

You didn’t have any reason to question his words at the time. Well, you never had a reason to question any of his words, because he could beat George Washington in a telling-the-truth competition. Now, you know that Bob’s a damn good liar—not that he would ever lie to hurt you. It’s just the nice secrets he keeps, like the one he kept the entire time he was training to be a naval aviator.

As his education progressed, though, his eyesight kept him from doing the one thing he truly wanted to do: be a pilot. He just missed the requirement, as he explained in a short, sad email after his eye test. It was crushing, to say the least, but Bob bounced back quickly. He always did. He was never one to sit and mope about a problem, no, he took the next best thing. He began training to be a weapon systems officer, and he was damn good at it.

His graduation, adorned with the markings of a star student, came with no surprise, and neither did his transition to the actual Navy. He did flight training, conditioning, and every other rigorous step to climb his way to the top; by the end, he was a new man. He graduated from Top Gun for god’s sake. Documenting his development were emails, short visits, letters, the whole shebang. 

The one thing that didn’t change was his love.

He was still goofy, nerdy, and kind. His skin may have been tougher, after years of being hardened by the world around him, but he took the time to care for the people in his life. He people-watched, just as he always did, and called you every sweet nickname that would get anyone lesser embarrassed. He still blushed like a madman, whether it was from pulling Gs or your tight hugs. And, which may just be the best thing he kept, he maintained his loyalty to the people in his past. He was a Montana kid, through and through.

You changed, he changed, the world changed. Everything was constantly moving. You maintained consistency in your waiting, though. That was the only thing that didn’t budge. You marked the dates that Bob would come back home in your calendar, counting down every second like you would miss him if you didn’t. One of those dates ended up being Margie’s wedding.

The year of weddings was upon you; Bob’s brother had just gotten married half a year before, and three of your other friends got married between then and Margaret’s wedding. Even Aaron was eyeing rings, constantly emailing you pictures from catalogs in an attempt to find the “perfect” band for his boyfriend. It came with being full-fledged adults, you assumed. Everyone was settled in their grown-up jobs or grad school, and therefore had more time to spend with their respective partners. Except for Bob, of course. He was sent everywhere under the sun. From Virginia to Hawaii, Hawaii to Texas, Texas to Nevada, and, most recently, Nevada to California. The last in-person interaction you had with him was four months ago when you flew to Lemoore to visit. There was no time for proposals, even if you had been with him long enough to be considered married in everyone else’s eyes. 

You were Margie’s maid of honor. You helped with planning, invitations, booking, buying, organizing, setting up, and pretty much all the details since she showed you the large, sparkling diamond on her ring finger. You even helped pick out her dress. It was a classic ball gown-style beauty, with delicate lace and heavy frills. It was exactly her. 

Bob was a groomsman, even though he and the groom weren’t particularly close. It was your closeness to both Margie and her fiance that brought him to the bachelor party in the first place. In the days before the wedding, you and Bob shared a room close to the wedding venue.

Being with him again made you the happiest you had been in a long time. You felt complete, like when he was gone, your heart just ached and ached until he could come plug up the holes again. Living in that small motel room was a breath of fresh air, and sharing a bed with him in complete privacy was amazing in more ways than one.

It was strange, in a way, like you didn’t really know him anymore. He had friends you had never met and a job you knew nothing about in a place you had only visited once, but he was intricately tied to your hometown through a series of souls and bonds. He was balancing between two worlds, and a part of you wondered where he would fall if the beam were to become unsteady. And another part of you hoped he would take you with him when the time came.

During the ceremony the next day, you thought that you wanted to be the one walking down the aisle next. 

The wedding went well, as most weddings did. There were tears from you, tears from the audience, tears from everyone except for the children Margie taught, as they were too young to really understand the beauty of two people devoting their lives to each other. The cake was cut, frosting smeared on the newlyweds’ cheeks, the dances flowed flawlessly, the pictures turned out perfect, and even Margie’s mother-in-law was happy. It was honestly the most beautiful wedding you had witnessed in your life.

When the time came for the bouquet toss, you were so far back in the crowd that it didn’t even have a chance of landing in your outstretched hands. You stood there for moral support, really, as the girls around you pushed their way to the front. There was a countdown, a little shove from the person next to you, and a bouquet of poppies tossed high into the air. It sailed in an arc, red and orange streaking through the air. Despite everything, despite the odds being stacked against you, it was heading right in your direction.

You reached one arm out, squished between bodies, and caught it.

The uproar of the people around you filled your ears as you pulled the flowers to your chest. The crowd parted, and Margie came barrelling towards you, wrapping you in her lacy arms. “Yes! I just knew you would catch it, I always do. You’ve got to help me plan the wedding when it happens, because I know it will, and you’re going to need the perfect dress and the perfect venue and the prettiest invitations and…”

She carried on for a while, and you smiled into the soft, decorative leaves. 

You saved the flower petals, pressed in a big dictionary under your desk. You saved every flower you had ever been given. Parts of them, at least. Your corsage from senior prom, the bouquets Bob had shipped to your door, and the marigolds your mother grew in her new garden are spread out across your bedroom. Most of your memories are tucked away in secret places, only noticeable if you know where to look.

After the wedding, you returned to your little apartment, smack in the middle of the busiest part of your town. The cars speeding by were significantly worse than Bob’s light snoring. It was the first time you had lived on your own, though, which was supposed to be important. You were free.

You could eat ice cream for breakfast, or in the late hours of the night, and you could sing loudly in the shower. You could even buy most of the clothes you saw in stores on your brand new salary and organized savings. However, you found that you didn’t necessarily want to do all that. You just wanted every day to be over already. Work was too much, waking up to an upset stomach was too much, checking your email every thirty minutes and seeing nothing was too much, and those goddamn people in the room above yours were too much, constantly blasting music and stomping around. Like always, you found yourself waiting for things to change again. You imagined you were anywhere else with anyone else, finding a sick sense of comfort in the fantasies. You thought you put those little phases behind you, but being an adult alone was so frustrating that you found yourself going back to old patterns.

Margie was caught up in the married life, Aaron was constantly working, and your frequently long-distance boyfriend was states away. The only comfort you got was periodic visits to your old neighborhood, checking up on your mom and Bob’s family. 

You stood in the middle of Georgia Floyd’s flower bed, tugging at a weed, hands adorned with thick, weathered gloves. The thing just wasn’t coming out. The little thorns were sticking to your sleeves, and you were drenched with sweat. It was the beginning of fall, and the leaves were turning all shades of fiery reds and somber oranges, but the sun was still high in the sky. The thriving asters and dahlias next to you taunted you with their beauty, bending in the slight breeze. Georgia stood in the shade of her doorway, one hand on her hip and the other holding a glass of lemonade. “Sweetheart, you’ve been workin’ so hard here. Take a drink, go home, be merry. I’ll get B… I’ll get someone else to pick up where you left off, ‘kay?”

You sighed, wiping the perspiration away from your brow with your forearm. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.” She handed you the glass and shooed you away from her flowers, making sure to take the gardening gloves you had peeled off and tucked under your arm. 

You hadn’t expected to be weeding today, but with Jodie at a friend’s house, Chris a state away on a work trip, and Bob’s father, Harold, off somewhere, she needed a helping hand. She had gotten a bit weaker over the years, no longer able to bend as well as she needed to in order to clear away the low-growing weeds, and you loved her more than enough to help out. You were her second daughter, she always said. A part of the family, no matter what. You walked across the street to your mom’s place and opened the door with your key. 

She had to go grocery shopping a while earlier, leaving you alone in the house. Given that the grocery shop was less than five minutes away by car, she should’ve been back by then. You didn’t pay it much mind, though. You just stepped into your bathroom, hung up your clothes, and took a well-deserved shower. 

After a good forty-five minutes of steam, hair dryers, and other pampering, you were ready to do absolutely nothing. The chair on your small front porch was all set up, and you held a book in your hands, ready to sit and see the yellow and orange sky cascade over the pages. When you stepped through your doorway, however, someone was waiting for you.

Bob. His hair had changed since you last saw him. It was longer but still military-issued, combed neatly, not a lock out of place. He was dressed well, too, with slacks and a slightly open button-up. You were suddenly glad that you had put on the prettiest dress in your arsenal—one he knew very well. He opened his mouth and then shut it with a look of determination.

“Bobby? What are you doing here?” you asked. He wasn’t expected back for months yet, and you certainly didn’t think he had time to visit. You were happy to see him, of course. Hell, you were overjoyed to be in his presence. But what was he doing?

He stepped forward, shined shoes crunching on a bit of gravel, and you met him in the middle. As he pulled you into his arms, hugging you tight to his chest, you breathed him in. He was really here, back home, after all that time. You finally pulled away after what seemed like eons and a millisecond all at once, and he clasped your hands in his, your book forgotten on the ground. His eyes were stormy, brimming with what looked like an onslaught of tears. You rubbed your thumbs up and down his hands worriedly. 

“Is everything okay?” Your voice came out as a tremble, slightly terrified at the prospect of something having gone wrong. Did someone die? Did he almost die? It didn’t help that he cleared his throat like he was steeling his nerves.

He put one of your hands on his chest, over his fluttering heart, and pressed a gentle kiss to the other. “There’s something I need to ask you.” You nodded, too concerned to speak. “I’ll… I’ll start with this. I love you so much it hurts me. When I first met you, years ago, I knew that I wanted to be around you forever. Your kindness, curiosity, your heart, everything just pulled me in and never let me go—not that I ever wanted to go, no, I knew you were too special to leave behind. I had to put so much in the past, but not you. Never you. I grew with you, and laughed with you, and loved you in a million ways. Throughout all that time, you waited and gave me your utmost support when my dreams took me a thousand miles away. Now, I’m still living a thousand miles away, but I don’t want you to wait here anymore. I want you to come with me and stay.” He took a breath, and his heart hammered under your fingertips. “What I’m really trying to get at is that I want to have a future with you. I want to be your husband.”

The world stopped in that moment. Did you hear him correctly? His eyes searched for a response on your face as he slid a black, velvety case out of his back pocket. He slowly lowered to one knee, keeping eye contact, and opening the box to show you the shiny contents.

“Sweetheart, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

You brought your hands up to your mouth. After all this time, the moment you dreamed of as a kid was finally happening. You nodded once, dropping down on your knees and nodding a million more times. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you,” you breathed, voice loud and quiet at the same time. Your arms found their place around him, like they had many times before, but something was different. New, in a good way. Like you were safe, completely safe.

Like while his ring was on your finger, you would never have to wait to be loved again.

You smile at the printed digital photos spread out on your bed. Bobby hugging you in 5th grade, the both of you in matching witch and black cat costumes, pumpkin buckets dangling from your fists. A snapshot of “the shaving incident”, in which you had come out with cut up legs and Robert with a cut up face. There was even a silly photo of him carrying you bridal style on your prom night, with your arm thrown over your face like a swooning princess. Your favorites, though, are the proposal photos.

Your mom hid around the corner to take pictures of your silhouettes in the sunset, while Bob’s mom pulled out her camera from across the street. They had coordinated everything perfectly, down to the fake shopping trip and weeding break. It was no coincidence that your mother washed the load of laundry that contained your favorite dress first. The meticulous planning from the people who know your routines best still makes your head spin when you think about it. They all knew about the proposal for at least a week before it happened, and they made sure it was absolutely perfect, down to the manicured background and time of day. Bob even managed to get away from work for a couple days to propose.

The ring is beautiful too. It’s the perfect mix between flashy and subtle, the main stone is cut exactly how you like it, and the band is the right amount of tight. When you asked your fiance about how he got it so exact to everything you had dreamed of, he said, “research”. You later found out from his mom that he had bought the ring while he was still at the Naval Academy from the best jeweler he could find: Randle Montgomery. Knowing that he was planning on proposing all those years ago makes it a different kind of special.

Your closet is open, the boxes and boxes of memories all pulled out and scattered around your room. The dictionary under your desk has been opened, and the flower petals and other flower material placed carefully into a container. A few minutes earlier, you even stumbled upon a written agreement you and Bob signed in middle school, agreeing to marry each other if you weren’t taken by 30. The wooden rose he gave you, also in middle school, was halfway sticking out of a cardboard holder, leaning on a series of first day of school photos Georgia took. You’ve taken to calling her Mom now, at her request.

All of your photo albums are open, with most of the pictures taken out. You’re trying to compile everything, every memory, into a new, large album. The new album is brown leather, stamped and embroidered with little inside jokes and important moments. Inside, you’ve documented every single stage in your life with Bob.

Some of the pictures even feature Margie, her husband, Aaron, Jodie, Chris, Georgia, Harold, your mom, Mickey, and everyone you’ve met along the way. Seeing the compilation of every person, every moment, that made you who you are brings tears to your eyes. 

You spend the next two hours tucking pictures, flower petals, and anything flat enough to fit into the album. By the time you’re done, your hands are coated in a fine layer of dust, and your front door is opening. 

“Honey, I’m home!” the intruder calls, and you hear the telltale jingling of him placing his keys on the bookshelf in your living room. You stand up, wipe your hands on your pants, and walk out of your shared bedroom.

Bob unzips his flight suit to the middle, letting it hang around his waist for the time being. His boots are neatly placed with the rest of his shoes; he’s tidy even when he’s tired, which is a phenomenon you don’t understand whatsoever. His hair is messy, his glasses are crooked, and he’s giving you a tired little smile. It was surely a long day for him. You open your arms, and he slouches into you like he was meant to be there.

“I was just about to get dinner started. Go take a nap, and it’ll be done by the time you wake up,” you murmur, kissing through his undershirt. He shakes his head softly. His hands hold steady on your waist, his pulse humming through the contact. 

“I’ll help. What were you thinking for tonight?”

You lead him into the kitchen, pulling out various ingredients from the pantry on the way. Pasta sauce clinks on the tile counter as you say, “Pasta. It’s quick enough. I’ll put mushrooms in the sauce, too, as a treat. You deserve it after the day I’m sure you’ve had.”

“You read my mind, baby,” he sighs, resting his head on you. “We had some rough ejections, but nothing too scary. And there’s talk of calling a few people to San Diego for a Top Gun mission, so every little mistake pulls people further away from that opportunity.”

He steps away from you for a moment. The absence of warmth sends a chill down your spine, but after he opens the box of spaghetti and turns up the heat on the pot of water you’ve placed on top of the stove, he stands behind you again. You look up from your place chopping vegetables. “Do you want to go back to San Diego? I feel like we just got settled in Lemoore.”

“Well, I’d like to marry you before moving, but I’d be honored to be a part of Top Gun again. Those missions are… dangerous, though, to say the least, so I want to have a wedding ring with my dog tags.”

You tap on his chest lightly, eyebrows furrowed. “If you do get chosen, you’d better be careful. I’m not prepared to be a widow.”

He smiles, a little sadly and a little reassuringly. “I’ll do my best.” 

When you hear the pot of water boiling, Bob drops the pasta in, and you turn your attention to the sauce simmering in your saucepan. You add mushrooms, onion, some ground beef, parmesan, and a lot of love. Before long, both parts are done, and you put a heaping portion on your fiance’s plate.

Your dining room furniture is basic, just a wooden table and two chairs. Neither of you have been able to decorate the house to your standards, considering you’re both working and you just moved in a month ago. It’s nice, though. Not permanent by any means, but nice. 

Not having any big decorations make it easier to move, you figure. By now, you know very well that living with a Naval aviator means moving from place to place until he gets a permanent station. Even then, there’s a chance they could change their minds and slap him onto the opposite side of the country. You’re just hoping that you can get married by a beach before that happens.

Speaking of the wedding, you need to do some serious planning. You swallow your bite of pasta. “I finished the photo album today.”

“Really? That’s great!” Bob beams. “I’m going to call the venue after work tomorrow to see if the date we picked out is possible. If it is, I think we can put the album by the entrance so people can look through it.”

“That sounds really good. Margie’s coming down next week to help me pick out decorations and stuff, so we need to decide on a color palette.”

“Hm… what do you think about our favorite colors? So we can represent both of us together.”

All the wedding talk makes you both excited and tired. You want to marry the love of your life and have a great time doing it, so every detail needs to be looked over again and again to ensure it goes according to plan. Bob’s a great help, despite him having so little time during the day. Living with him, finally, is like a dream come true. 

Everything is like a dream come true now. When you were little, before the Floyds appeared in your life like a fairy god-family, you prayed for something like this to happen. You begged and pleaded for your mom to get better, for you to have friends, for you to fall in love. Every part of that, miraculously, happened. Your life changed from miserable to joyous in a matter of days.

You’re going to marry the boy next door, and you’re going to be happy doing it. As you settle into bed, with his arm around you and a ring carefully placed on your bedside table, you think that all you’ve ever waited for has finally come to lull you to sleep.

Taglist: @withahappyrefrain @seitmai @winelover27 @shinzowosasageyoooo

[storydays]

Clay X Wife! Reader

"We call them meat circles." Clay greeted his brothers dramatically. Their brothers and Poppy greeted him in varying ways before he continued to pinch and baby-talk Branch, ignoring his pleas to call him "Big Branch" or just "Branch."

A voice called out, "Clay, darling, if you want to talk to an actual baby...yours are right here." The group turned to see a light-pink-haired Troll, wearing a dress with a similar design to Clay, walking over with 2 peach color haired Tollings, one sleeping who had mini wrist bands and a diaper and one awake, a yellow pacifier in her mouth, with a couple of flowers placed in her hair and a diaper.

"Melody! Hey, sweetheart, you're finally awake!" Turning to the woman as he took the baby, his eyes softened even more, "Hey (Y/N), how was your nap? You feeling better, baby?"

(Y/N) smiled, adjusting her son slightly. "Yeah, I feel like that fog in my brain is lifted, like I can think clearer. But enough about me, who are the new Trolls?"

"Oh, yeah! Everyone, this is my wonderful wife, (Y/N), and mother of our twins, Melody and Lallo! Baby, these are my brothers, John Dory, Spruce, who goes by Bruce now, and Bit-I mean Branch. That's Poppy, Branch's girlfriend---and wait a second, where's Floyd?" Clay asked, looking for his slightly younger brother.

After explaining why they were there, Bruce spoke up. "Wait, I just realized, you're a dad, too Clay!" He laughed excitedly. Clay grinned from where they were tickling Melody. "Yeah, man! These two are only a few weeks old, but they are amazing! I wouldn't change anything for them."

Melody then started to pull on her father's wild green locks. "Ow! Mel-Mel! Let go! (Y/N), get your demon child!" "Mm-no." snorted (Y/N), as she then gave Clay their son who'd woken up wanting to play with his sister and father. "You traitor!" cried Clay, fighting his grin yelping again when one of the twins grabbed his hair and pulled hard.

Viva and (Y/N) giggled, before finally giving mercy to the CPA. They each took a twin and turned to the group to give Clay a chance to compose themself.

-----------------------------LINE BREAK-----------------------------------

(Y/N) knew it would bother Clay if he didn't try to help his brothers, but she didn't want them in danger.

Clay gave the sleeping twins a kiss on the head before pressing his forehead against hers, cupping her cheek, and wiping away a few tears. "Promise you'll be safe and come home, okay? These babies are too young to be without their dad. And I don't want to be a widow."

Laughing softly, Clay whispered, "I promise," before pressing a kiss to her lips, and let her rush off to stall Viva.

Bruce pat his brother's shoulder and led them to Rhonda. "Don't worry, buddy. We'll get you back to your wife and kids."

-----------------------------LINE BREAK--------------------------------

After freeing Clay and the others freed Floyd, they came to rest at Putt Putt village and picking up (Y/N) and the twins.

Everyone getting along so well, and Bruce offering advice for those first time parent jitters, he could see written all over both of the younger couple's face.

(Y/N) being the most supportive wife,and getting along splendidly with Bruce's wife, Brandi.

The two having a bi monthly moms date, having a monthly girls' night, with Poppy, Viva, Bridget.

Every month, (Y/N) takes her daughter Melody and Brandi brings her daughters for a mommy daughter cousins sisters in law date.

(Y/N) being the Putt-Putt troll preschool teacher, having her kids in class when they're old enough.

Melody and Lallo are both names after music(Melody being the melody of a song, and Lallo means lullaby in Spanish.)

I headcanon that the Putt Putt trolls' two main languages are English and Spanish.

Let me know what you guys think!

@vacayisland

[vanillablankcanvas]

Part 1 Trolls Headcanons/ Theories/ Thoughts/ Ideas

Part2 Part3 Part4 Part5 Part6 Part7 Part8 Part9 Part10

Trolls - in general Trolls are pretty rare outside their usual kingdoms and it's considered good luck to meet one.

Brozone - drastically changed their looks coz they hate that they used to dress the same.

Bruce - one of those dads who would get a new barbeque and show off all the cool features to the other local dads.

Bruce - "No kids, we're not keeping that stray animal, end of story, no way..." - 1 week later and he's giving it kisses and building it an over the top kennel with a heated blanket and a water fountain.

Bruce - (canon?) carried all their eggs, indirect reason why his hair is so big. (Side note - I read somewhere someone called all their kids 'The Bakers Dozen' and I frigging love that)

Floyd - solo career after he left Brozone - all his songs were PINK FLOYD SONGS! (Maybe that could've been his stage name?)

Floyd - his hair is naturally pink but JD made him make it redder because 'we're a boyband and pink is a girls colour'

John Dory - has embarrassing baby pictures of his brothers as leverage

John Dory - over-exaggerates his retellings of stories "I fought off 30 no no no 40 snakes with one hand behind my back."

John Dory - always casually asking Poppy, Brandy and Viva to marry him, over small things too "Brandy, these pancakes are delicious, marry me."

Clay - writes long and very detailed critical reviews of restaurants

Clay - has reading glasses. Probably the ones that attach magnetically at the nose ridge.

Clay - labels everything (labelmaker is to Clay as Gary is to Branch)

Clay - very into color coded itineraries and always know everyone's business "Poppy is currently at Smidge's pod doing her hair" "How could you possibly know that?" "I have my sources."

Clay - also a notary and registered marriage celebrant

Clay - hair was always naturally green but JDs hair was already green. JD said he had to be yellow for the band, they needed that color coordinated group vibe.

Clay - has drafts for his own book series

Clay - actually plays golf

Clay - gets clumsy when trying to impress someone he admires (imagine him meeting King Peppy and he just knocks things over)

Clay - competitive af - brothers know better than to verse him at anything - has an over the top victory dance

Viva - that concept art of tiny Viva is the age she was when they escaped the Troll Tree. So like 15 maybe?

Viva - wants to make up for all the missed holidays/birthdays/parties with Poppy so she is constantly popping out from places with gifts yelling SURPRISE!

Branch - for Pop Trolls - being in a famous singing group is the equivalent of being a recognized expert in your field. So the fact that Branch is in TWO famous boy bands is like he has several PhDs.

Branch - Kismet formed inside a group home for Trollings

Poppy and Vivas mother - my theory is that they managed to keep princess Viva a secret from the Bergens. They chose the Queen for Trollstice when they discovered what they thought was her first egg. The Troll Tree escape plan came about when Chef promised the new royal trolling for the young Bergen prince.

[ataraxiaspainting]

It's Cold Outside.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Synopsis: A stranger has weaseled his way into every aspect of your life.

Warnings: Yandere themes, non-con/dub-con (the reader is under the influence of aphrodisiacs but non-consensually), the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectfully, threats of violence, stalking, manipulation, Chrollo the Creepster, and unhealthy relationships.

Word Count: 2.2k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

(You’re The) Devil in Disguise by Elvis Presley

Salvatore by Lana Del Ray

Who Is She? by I Monster

Kiss Of Fire by Georgia Gibbs

Money, Money, Money by ABBA

Sex with a Ghost by Teddy Hyde

4:00A.M. by Taeko Onuki

How I’d Kill by Cowboy Malfoy

Sonne by Rammstein

The Great Gig in the Sky by Pink Floyd

“I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.” — Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes from the Underground

*~*~*~*

i. “Technicolor worlds with white clouds are bound to be destroyed by silver snow.”

When you step into your house, it is like you are instantly transported back to a year ago. Everything in sight, from the walls to the shelves, has decorations of some kind, whether going all out with the kitchen table having an entire feast of delicious holiday treats made by your grandparents, or just a green and red painting of a Christmas tree placed in your older sister’s usually monochromatic room. Perhaps the painting is yet another way she proves that she can somewhat react well to requests to change her room a little bit. Even if the painting is on the farthest wall from the door and is partially hidden from view by the many anime figurines and books larger than your head. Your mother claims that it is a miracle she convinced her to put up any holiday decorations in her room at all and thus doesn’t bother her further. 

Each room also has a different festive scent, your younger sister’s room having a hot chocolate scent mixed with the smell of piled up dishes on her desk, most coming from when she was ‘helping’ your grandparents cook by ‘testing to make sure the food isn't poison’.

How heroic of her to sacrifice herself for the family.

Your room, you think, looks much better than your sisters’ combined, having decked it out to the maximum by taking out all of your Halloween decorations and replacing them with Christmas ones. It took you the whole weekend, sure, and caused you to break the bank, but your love for accessories outweighs your logic and reason by quite a lot. Your beloved record player is back on your table that also simultaneously houses your television and jewelry playing Elvis Presley’s Blue Christmas. A wreath larger than your torso is on your door and your room smells like all the holiday air fresheners you found in your closet. Pine, peppermint, orange, lemon, cranberry… all mix to make a beautiful festive scent unmatched by even your parents’ bedroom. Everything is how it should be, and how it always is every year.

Well, almost. A man named Chrollo, a man who gives you anything but comfort, has been invited to your family-only yearly Christmas party. When your father, who has always been too protective of you and your sisters and never lets you spend time with the opposite gender, told you that Chrollo of all people would be attending, you tried to argue otherwise. You tried telling him that none of you had known Chrollo for so long, but he had rebutted Chrollo’s lie that you had known him for over a year with you two developing a close bond. You realized it was too late then, and Chrollo had charmed your entire family, with even your older sister always having a smile on her face whenever she saw him at her workplace. 

ii. “Like actors, each snowflake has a different role to play. They sing along with every step of a boot as a deceitful way to express their pain.”

The moment the doorbell chimes, its piercing resonance assaults your eardrums and causes an unsettling shiver to course through your spine.

You find yourself in an unsettling situation as your family eagerly awaits, and to your dismay, you are the designated individual tasked with the responsibility of opening the door. You two are such good friends, aren’t you? We wouldn’t want to get in the way of your bonding time.

You want to say he is lying, to tell them everything, every threat he has told you, him meaning them or otherwise. But as soon as they know of what Chrollo really and truly is, they will meet a painful end; that being pushed onto train tracks, their drink being laced with a poison that destroys the body from the inside out, or having nails thrusted into their bloody palms as they hang on their bedroom wall as you look in horror. Elton, Anya, and Robert all being examples of such… You don’t want to think of the bodies just waiting to rot around the Riverbend, your fault or otherwise.

You also don’t want to drown in this river. A river inhospitable to any aquatic life whatsoever, and only harbors a barrier of carnivorous plants that eat those who dare come close. Butterworts, large lilac purple ones that feel like they have been dipped in the most tempting butter mixed with forbidden fruit and honey produced by none other than the queen bee herself. Are you the fly, or are they? You have no idea, and you don’t want to find out.

“Hello.” Your response is concise and devoid of warmth, with a noticeable absence of your usual cheerful demeanor evident in your expression and tone.

Chrollo's smile is so sinister that even the most depraved devil's grin would pale in comparison, with all the large gift bags behind him swinging like a tail.

“Ah, [First]. Happy holidays. No need to be so cold, you know. The snow is already doing that for you. So-”

Despite your strong desire to slam the door in his face, you choose to step aside and allow him entry, in an attempt to silence him.

“Put the gifts by the tree by the kitchen table. The white table and not the black one.”

However, rather than fulfilling your expectations, all he does is elicit a burst of laughter so unique that it resonates within you, while discreetly handing over the most colossal gift bag, compelling you to accept it as if under some intangible force.

“Just a little something. I know it’s customary to wait until later but… I simply can’t help myself. Open it whenever you get the chance, dearest.”

…He means right now, in your room, doesn’t he? Perhaps he installed a camera in your room as you slept, he has certainly threatened to do that before. Or maybe he will just spy on you through the little space between the door and the frame. He has done that before, after all. 

…

You resisted the urge to scream when you saw a picture of your mother sleeping blissfully, the camera focused on her ring finger with the caption Should I take another souvenir? written on it, but the card, as beautiful as it appeared with a lace envelope and your name written in script on the card’s cover above Chrollo’s, proved to be even more of a challenge. When you read the words on it, your heart plunges so deeply that you fear your gastric acid will erode it.

Save your tears. For even if you cry to the whole world, it will never be enough to make me disappear. Meet me outside in five minutes, and make whatever excuse you deem necessary. No exceptions.

As you begin to read further, a wave of fragrant and delicate floral scents envelops your senses, instantly igniting a warm sensation in your head, leaving no time for contemplation.

Trying to ignore your slight dizziness, you read the rest of the card.

Just a little something to make sure you do this. We wouldn’t want your family to see you in… what state you are about to be in, do we?

…Just what did he do to you?

iii. “With the burden of wintertime ending, nature spends time creating beautiful trees and flowers. To accompany them, she makes twisted vines and weeds, for she knows that without them there cannot be balance or purpose in being comfortably numb.”

You were on your back, on his bed, within what felt like one second, not remembering the car ride over to his place, your wrists pinned beneath the strength of one of Chrollo's hands while he looked down at you within another, his other undoing the tie of the bandana on his forehead and showing you, for the very first time, of the cross tattoo underneath it.

All you can do is watch your whole world slow down and be replaced by a dream.

A blissful and sweet dream, as sugary as saccharine and as dissolvable as cotton candy, that is a veil and covers your eyes from what is happening; until it is too late, until you feel some of his fingers go into the band of your skirt and start pulling and pulling, downward, and that is when terror went to combat with your unwanted lust.

“...What… are… you… doing…? Chroooooo…” Your words slur as your mind buzzes with euphoria, and you can feel every sensation in vivid detail, every touch and every breath feeling heightening and intoxicating. As much as you want to, you can’t tell him to stop, not now.

“Shh, it’s what you want, isn’t it?” At least that is what you think he said, because as Chrollo spoke, you struggled to decipher his words amidst the haze that enveloped your mind. Reality fragments, leaving you unable to muster the strength to plead for him to cease. “It will feel oh so very good, I promise. Very, very nice and very, very good.” With that, you come to realize the wetness between your rubbing thighs, amidst the cloudiness and the larger-than-life headache that rips your skull apart. “Do you trust me?” The voice sounds almost heartfelt, not as intimate as it could be, but it was still more than enough for your hands to cling to him and pull him in closer, faster, so he could relieve you of this hell. “I will assume that that is a yes.” His hands move to the two buttons on your blouse, undoing them with ease, softly, gently, like it was a baby bird. 

“Faster… faster…!” You feel like a man who hasn’t seen water on any day of their life, and if you lose the location of the oasis you are sure to never find it again. 

Like a man lost in the desert, you choke on imaginary quicksand, soon to drown if water does not save you.

“Aw, such a precious little thing, aren’t you?” You are gently flipped over in an instant and he unbuckles your bra, quickly. 

“If you love me… really love me… make me feel better… please.”

“Don’t worry, I will.” He flips you over again and his fingers lower to your panties, pulling them down from your trembling legs, just like he did with your skirt. “You trust me after all, don’t you?”

You cry out yes after utterly desperate yes, as he watches, his smile getting wider as he starts undoing his belt. He puts a finger on your lips after he has heard enough, shushing you gently.   

“Then trust me when I say that this, my dear, is for your own good.”

Beneath the surface, whether it be shallow or not, you have no desire to comprehend his intentions.

You don’t want to know. You just want this to go away.

iv. “Through discoveries, there is a hint of madness that enters our minds. Only then can we see our world’s colors change from squid ink and bone to begonias and finches.”

Chrollo undoes his belt, then his pants, and then his boxers. You focus on his face to ignore what is currently nearly touching the side of the mattress by a hair or two, hard and enlarged and slightly pink and-

He takes off his shirt button after button, much, much, much slower than how he took off the rest of his clothing. There exists a deep-seated anger within you, yet it is accompanied by a sense of gratitude, as both you and he are aware of your mutual aversion towards this situation.

Despite both of you being aware that this is not your desired outcome, he still kisses you, gently, full of warmth, and tenderly. What you truly desire is to satisfy the ache within you. But he won’t give it to you yet, will he?

Time seems to drag on as his kisses get faster, and more hungry, with his tongue essentially becoming another of your muscles, wet, and neither wanted nor unwanted. 

Eventually, you get what you want, after enough begging for him to just get it over with. At the beginning, there is a gentle caress resembling a warm and velvety rose petal. However, as time progresses, the touch becomes increasingly forceful until his fingers enter. But it does not hurt. Should you be thankful for that? At least he is being nice.

He starts thrusting, and that also does not hurt. No soreness. You won't feel any discomfort until your eyes meet, causing a sensation that almost makes you want to throw up, were it not for the illicit satisfaction this dreadful encounter brings. It's a peculiar kind of pain, one that lingers like a ghost stealthily gliding through walls, catching you off guard before you can comprehend its presence.

Nothing hurts, and that in of itself gives you the most pain anyone could imagine. 

v. “Heat lightning gives way to summer storms and verdant wind. This makes for a hauntingly beautiful melody of ripples and thunder.”

“…And this maiden, she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.”

vi. “The dead, fallen leaves of autumn come in many shades from bright red to a dull brown. They flow with the wind from one place to the next as invitations from those who passed on to the living.”

[askyuuandco]

Twisted Wonderland Incorrect Quotes 26

King Henrik: When I said "charm the snake" I didn't mean THAT snake! D:< Bard!Y/N: SHUT UP! Is that your face or did your neck throw up? D:< King Henrik: *takes 14d6 Vicious Mockery Damage* MOTHER- King Henrik: *drinks and splashes himself with potion* POTION OF VICOUS MOCKERY IMMUNITY! DO YOUR WORST BARD! >:D Bard!Y/N: *calm* Bob Ross couldn't say you were a "happy little accident". He could only call you a mistake... 😶

King Henrik: D: .... King Henrik: *goes to cry himself asleep* ;m; *Takes 15d6 Vicious insult damage* ------------------------------------------------------

TWST Oggie Boogey: *looses his bag* Now Look What You've Done! My Bugs! My Bugs! My Bugs!

Jamil: *with flame torch* EEEKKKK!!! BE GONE!!! BE GONE!!! OAO'/// Twst Jack Skelleton: um... is your friend okay? Kalim: He'll be fine he's just deathly afraid of bugs. :D Twst Jack S.: uh huh <.<' -------------------------------------------------------------

Yuu: *sugar coma* Azul... Azul: Your still alive? >.>'/// Yuu: Facebook changed their name. Yuu: Que en nuevo nombre? Azul: Meta. Yuu: Meto mis huevos es tu boca... *crashes out* X.X Floyd & Jade: *laughing their butts off* Azul: VETE A LA V*RGA PENDEJA!!! D:< Azul: You stay on the floor! >:( *walks away mad/embarrassed he feel for it*

---------------------------------- Lilia & Yuu: *dying Sebek's hair* Sebek: As long as it's not blue or pink...

Lilia & Yuu: *stare at each other then back at him then back at each other and the look at the camera* OvO'/// Lilia: okay buddy... ----3 hours later--- Sebek: ....I hate you both so much right now

Lilia & Yuu: <XD ------------------------------------------- First Years: MC DONALDS! MC DONALDS! MC DONALDS! Riddle: we have food at home <n< Ace: I hate this F***ing family >:'( ---with Leona--- First Years: MC DONALDS! MC DONALDS! MC DONALDS Leona: *drives to the drive Thru* First Years: Yay! :D Leona: One black coffee please >:) First Years: D':> ----with Kalim---- First Years: MC DONALDS! MC DONALDS! MC DONALDS! :D Kalim: MC DONALDS! MC DONALDS! MC DONALDS! XD Jamil: ....end my suffering please... ---------------------------------------------

Bard! Yuu: I feel it in my fingers~ >:) Bard! Yuu: I feel it in my toes~ UvU Bard! Yuu: These motherfuckers mean to harm us~ >:D Bard! Yuu: And they got to go, so come on, get 'em now!~ >X) Bard! Yuu: You picked the wrong day to fuck around with my~ >:D Bard! Yuu: Tight crew, oh ho~ UvU Bard! Yuu: There's no escaping it, I can perceive you 😶☝️ Bard! Yuu: And here's what we're gonna do >:D Bard! Yuu: *mad flute playing skills* >X3 Bard! Yuu: Me and my boys gonna mess you up~! >:D Silver: I rolled a One <:L Sebek: I rolled a One :'( Bard!Yuu: Fuck. =.='///

[rhapsodynew]

#history of rock music

On November 13, 1970, Syd Barrett's second studio album "Barrett" was released.

Note that the work was generally in a hurry: the Floyd team continued to work on Atom Heart Mother, touring interfered with the studio schedule every now and then — there was simply no time to hone the songs, and Barrett himself, as we remember, was against long rehearsals. Sometimes haste led to serious mistakes — for example, one day Dave took home master tapes with two songs to listen and decide whether these options would be included in the album; the next day the band went to a concert, and Gilmore simply forgot to return the tape to the studio. As for Sid, sometimes they played absolutely magical things, and sometimes they were unable to give out anything meaningful at all (for example, the song Gigolo Auntie Gigolo was recorded only from the 15th time). He phrased his comments as if he were describing paintings rather than music: "Maybe we could make the middle darker and the end a little noonday. It's too windy and frosty right now."

I must say, the record begins intriguingly — with a long solo by Sid before the song Baby Lemonade ("A little bottle of lemonade" is an outdated expression). Subsequently, it turned out that Sid was just warming up — the solo had nothing to do with the song, David had already added it there, considering it quite suitable. The lyrics are full of extravagant phrases like "I sent you an iron cage by mail" or about "A watch washed in a washing machine" — but overall the song sounds pretty strong. The solo is simply brilliant — what kind of shape Sid could be in and how at ease he could play!

It is followed by a downright beautiful and almost Beatle Love Song, decorated with stylish Rick Wright keys - a love song in which there are no fabulous, witty or scabrous lines (except that "I'll lower my head and see what I see"). The musicians also succeeded in Dominoes, a meditative story about how Sid spends time with a certain girl, to whom the song is dedicated, playing dominoes. The song has a distinctly bluesy undertone — there is something of Doors in it - and besides, it is decorated with a reverse solo by Sid. However, everything is not so simple: it turned out that at some point Gilmore was so exhausted that he naturally felt like his roof was going away, and automatically started recording an almost finished song backwards. The next thing he remembered of that evening was Sid playing a delightful solo and never getting it right, and pressing the record button. That's how it was included on the album — because Barrett didn't squeeze out another note about it. Against this background, the fragment forgotten in the finished mix, where Sid clears his throat, is already taken for granted.

Alas, the feeling does not last long on the album, as if this time Sid's associates had found an approach to him and solid ground under their feet. It Is Obvious ("It's obvious") is an extremely loose song in which Sid plays exactly two chords and recites lines in an incredibly low voice, which still have a hint of something magical, but in general the text is saturated with longing and despair. Rats ("Rats") It grew out of jam, to which Sid came up with a somewhat manic text on the go. To be honest, maybe it would have been better if she had remained a jam. As well as the closing side of Maisie, there is another, now blues jam, over which Sid speaks, sniffles, giggles and makes other inarticulate sounds. All that can be said about this track is look at Sid playing the blues (which is not surprising, knowing the origin of the band's name), while Pink Floyd quite rarely turned to this genre.

Suddenly, on the second side (how many people got there), a quite tolerable Gigolo Aunt is discovered. The lyrics here, of course, are nothing more than sweet carefree nonsense, but at least it feels like a song. I would like to comb my hair a little and... but at least stop. Unless it's unknown why it's been going on for so long — is it really just to preserve the priceless fragments of Sid's game on film as much as possible?

Waving my arms in the air — well, while Sid is waving his arms in the air in another song, mine are sinking, because it's impossible to describe. This is a good preparation for a cute song about this and that, in which there is a minimum of certainty ("no one will strain too much, there will be many things that we can do") and the obligatory naive question at the end ("Why am I here? What is destined to happen?"), but no more.

I don't know if it's worth saying anything about the remaining recordings. I Never Lied to You ("I Never Lied to you") is another song about longing and separation, in which the musicians frantically try to play along with the author of the album, as if on the move. Wined and Dined ("Dined with Wine") is based on a cute riff that Sid handles quite confidently throughout the recording. Gilmore is known to play solo here. In general, we must admit that it is quite neatly recorded — the instruments complement each other well, and the omissions in their parts form a complete sound picture. The song Wolfpack ("Wolf Pack") Sid named among his favorites — perhaps the lyrics are really good, but the sound ... hug and cry. He is perfectly described by a comment from a certain fan of the song:

— Sid: Trying to sing normally — The pack in formation

— Little gremlin in a side head: thE PACK IN FORMATIIIOOOON!

Oh, Sid, which one of them is the real you?

And this piece ends with a song called Effervescing elephant ("Effervescent Elephant"). Here we must honestly admit that we have a brilliant text in front of us. This is an absolutely delightful fairy tale, quite in the spirit of Sid's enthusiastic English absurdity — but it also sounds like a demo at best; and it's great that Vic Savell played the tuba here. It was very convenient.

It's a painful feeling, isn't it?

Maybe it was worth choosing more or less finished things and putting together one of the two albums. Who knows? What is destined to happen?

So that's what happened when the talented English kid Syd Barrett returned to the studio to record some songs a few trips later. This time, Sid's own drawing is used on the cover — he painted these charming creatures a few years earlier during his studies. If you look closely, it turns out that all these winged creatures are beetles. On the reverse side, a picture of Mick Rock with the same Pontiac Parisienne is used. Interestingly, Mick Rock is not listed in the credits of the album, and in general Hipgnosis's involvement in this art is not noted anywhere, but pay attention to the inscription of the author's name and the album title on the backdrop! Practically Bond)

The album was released on November 14 and was met with restraint, if not coldly. He did not manage to become a little more afternoon, as poor Sid wanted. The album did not hit any charts and achieved nothing — the more surprising that even after such a result, Sid had to comment on rumors about the third album and new singles for some time (however, oddly enough, Barrett became more successful from a commercial point of view than Madcap). Answering reporters' questions, Barrett reasoned unexpectedly sensibly: he dismissed all rumors about the third album, saying that the songs for recording must meet a certain standard — and if there are a couple of decent ones on "Madman", then on the second album there are only echoes. Perhaps there is nothing more to add — after 1970, Syd Barrett did not record anything.

As for the rest of the Floyd's, Roger Waters, for example, continued his collaboration with Ron Gisin and recorded the soundtrack to the film "The Body" with him. In particular, there is a composition called… Breathe!

Let's just note that all four Floyd members took part in the recording of the final song — Give Birth To A Smile ("Give Life To a Smile"); this is the rarest case when one of the other band members went to participate in Roger's activities unrelated to the band (not to mention the whole band — by the way, the participation of David, Nick and Rick is not noted in any way in the design of the album). In general, we mention this work because we need to fix it: in 1970, the Floyd's, despite the release of the first album in the band's discography, which took first place in the charts, were engaged in very different things. Nick Mason, thanks to Ron Gisin, immersed himself in producing, Wright and Gilmore, too, but thanks to Sid. Gilmore, Wright and Waters wrote one track per year for their own band — the title suite does not contain many personal contributions from Floyd's band. So, while the others were producing, Waters wrote songs: there are four of them on Music from The Body — Sea Shell and Stone, Chain of Life, Breathe and Give Birth to a Smile. He also released a concept album in which the tracks merge into each other — and this album was even released on vinyl with a transparent anatomical mannequin on the cover.

Pink Floyd spent the rest of the year on endless, exhausting tours. Therefore, when they returned to the studio in January 1971 — it was time to make a new album — the four guys found that they had absolutely nothing to record.

[envyangelic]

Southern Nights

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Randall “Pink” Floyd x reader

Warnings: Heavy makeouts, drinking, smoking

Summary: Pink and you have a secret agreement that’s reserved for secluded spots and late nights but what happens when you want more than that?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The orange sky illuminated Michelle’s room by hitting her sun catchers with light. They casted a multitude of colors inside providing the room a glow. Orange and yellow and pink covered every inch of her room.

The both of you laid sprawled onto her bed. She had her guitar straddled on her lap slowly playing some melodic tune. Her cigarette hung out of her mouth, tight between her lips. Its smoke polluted the air tight room. A towel was placed under her bedroom door to prevent smoke from leaking into her house and notifying her mom of her little habit.

You on the other hand flipped through some magazine she had laying around. Lazily pointing out the newest albums that made it on record. You let out an exhausted sigh.

“This blows.” You pout throwing the magazine to the side. You slip off of her bed and stumble towards her record player.

Flipping through the records you throw on the newest vinyl from KISS. Pressing the needle onto the vinyl you let out a sigh.

You hear the faint sound of Michelle’s mom on the hallways telephone. “Turn that off quick-.” Michelle snaps in your direction. You lift the needle from the record. She smushes her cigarette into an ash tray hidden in her drawer. She grabs some of her perfume and sprays a generous amount in the air.

Michelle places her guitar to the side and jumps off her bed pressing her ear to the wall. You accompany her doing the same.

“Who? Who is this? Michelle’s not here-“ Her mom lies and Michelle rips open her bedroom door and races down the hallway towards the phone. You peek your head out of the door smiling at the scene of Michelle grabbing the phone while her mother fights for it.

They argue back and forth while Michelle holds the telephone against her ear. “It’s Michelle!-“ she’s cut off by her mother “You’re not going anywhere, Michelle!” Her mom scolds her trying to grab the telephone out of her hand.

Michelle disregards her mother continuing to talk through the telephone. “Yep- yep right now!” She slams the telephone back on the wall and runs towards her room. Her mother yells after her. “Michelle Buroughs you’re not going anywhere!”

Michelle swoops into her room and you let out a laugh backing away from the door as she slams a chair sitting next to it up against the door knob.

Her mom tries to open it yelling incoherently. “Get dressed, man we’re going to Pinks!” She rips her shirt and digs through her closet throwing something at you in the process.

“I made this for you.” You unravel the piece of clothing that she threw revealing a cropped crochet top that was patterned beautifully.

“Michelle! This is cool, man so cool.” You glee taking off of your shirt and slipping on the crochet.

“I made one for myself too.” She already has put hers on and layered it with one of her vests. She opens her drawer grabbing all of her pot filled ziplock bags and shoved them in her bell bottoms.

While Michelle’s mom relentlessly tries getting into the room you slip on your sandals and follow Michelle who has opened the window. “Love you, mom!” Her mom bickers through the door. She begins to sneak out of it letting out a few raspy laughs before falling onto the ground.

You follow her routine and close the window letting out laughs watching her mom finally open the door to an empty room. Michelle grabs your hand and sprints through her front lawn.

“Man, you’re fucked!” You choke on your laughs following her down the sidewalk. She reaches into her jeans pulling out another cigarette and lighting it.

After a few puffs she hands it to you which you happily take. Putting the cigarette to your lips you intake a deep drag before handing it back feeling the wave of nicotine soothe your nerves.

“Fucked? I’m always fucked. When isn’t she on my ass about everything?” She complains while turning over her shoulder to the sound of a familiar car.

The loud motor belongs to the beloved orange 1970 Pontiac GTO judge (you know the car’s model by heart because of how much Pickford brags about it). Also known as “Pickford’s woman.” Beloved was an understatement because it was worshipped by Pickford. It was his baby with a brand new paint job and muffler, it was hot.

He pulls up to the curb slowing down and rolling his window down. “You ladies need a ride?” He chuckles staring down Michelle. The two have been inseparable since they started dating in the middle of junior year. His eyes wander up and down her body to which she shines a toothy grin.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” She slyly states walking slower and closer to the car. Pickford rubs his chin before reaching into his shirts pocket and pulling out a joint.

“But I have candy, want some?” He stops the car and she opens the car door jumping into his arms. She presses her pink lips against his while strategically grabbing the joint out of his hand.

They lock lips together for a few moments as you open the back of the car and plop inside trying to look at anything other than them.

They both break away for a moment and Michelle pecks his cheek while putting the joint into her mouth. She hands her lit cigarette to you to finish while she holds the joint between her teeth as she flicks her lighter. The bright flame glows and soon enough the car is filled with smoke.

Her cigarette has become nothing but the orange end so you throw it out the window. She picks the joint out of her mouth and twiddles it in her fingers before passing it to you which you graciously accept. You place it in between your lips and suck in. The smoke clusters in your lungs and you let out a soft cough. Michelle smiles turning up the radio as you pass it to Pickford.

Soon enough the sun that barely peeked over the horizon started to set as Pickford parks his car on the curb with the many others that have crowded in front of Pink’s house.

The engine rumbles as he turns the key and you slide out of side. Many other kids have started their drinking frenzy on his lawn. Some already tripping over their own feet as they giggle towards the keg.

Michelle takes a glance around before interlinking her hand with Pickford who grins. You follow the both of them up his driveway.

Pinks house is identical to Pickfords. Two floors and a freshly mowed lawn that is now littered with teenagers. You watch as two freshman run out of the house followed by some very familiar seniors.

Somehow those paddles haven’t broken yet. The seniors catch up to them doubling them over onto Pickford’s car.

“Get off of that car! I just got her waxed man.” Pickford yells with his fist in the air. The seniors grab the freshman’s collars before throwing them onto the lawn and plowing paddles to their asses.

You shake your head not too fond of the beating ritual that has become a tradition at your school. “They’re straight up beating them senseless now.” You complain to Michelle who shows emotion towards the freshman.

“They tried to sneak in the party, what did you expect to happen?” Michelle follows Pickford into the house. Bodies are packed into every room of Pink’s house.

Girls are twiddling with their hair watching the boys play beer pong on Pink’s family dining room table. What a great use. You spot a familiar face on the steps. Slater is zoned out staring into the ceiling. His eyes puffy and red like usually. Pickford and Michelle disappear into the sea of people.

“Slater, are you okay?” You ask a little concerned for the boy who looks like he’s on cloud nine. More like cloud ten thinking about it now. It takes a moment for the question to register in his mind but his face lights up at seeing you.

“Y/N! Hey man, yeah man I’m all good.” His voice trails off as he finishes his sentence. “I can’t believe this is the last week of summer.. it just went swoosh, man, you know?” He makes a wind noise emphasizing the swoosh part.

“It sucks, this summer blew past.” You pitch in sympathizing with his feeling of sadness towards summer ending. “I think I’m gonna go get a drink, see you later?” He points finger guns at me before getting off the stairs and disappearing outside preassumingly trying to find someone with a joint he can bum off of.

You enter the kitchen to see the island table filled with different cases of booze and spiked punch that’s sure to have you blackout by the end of the night. You settle for a beer and wedge the cap between the counter popping it off.

You press the brown bottle to your lips taking a swig of the bitter but sweet drink then continue roaming around the house. Then you spot him, Pink is talking to a group of people. You couldn’t imagine a football player indulging with less popular students but Pink has proved you wrong.

Everyone loves him, the geeks, the preps, the jocks… everyone. He spots you, his graze settles and he smiles. He bids a goodbye and keeps his eyes on you until he walks past you. Your que.

You follow behind him as you watch him walk upstairs. A few seconds later when you make sure no one is looking you walk up the stairs. You’re surprised there isn’t a line of couples making out upstairs yet. You try to find him but a door opens up and a hand grabs you and pushes you into the dimly lit room.

In a split second his lips are on yours. You accidentally squeak in suprise. You’re pushed up against a wall with hands wandering all over your body. Cupping your breasts and gripping onto your sides.

“What took you so long?” He mutters against your neck. You let out a slight laugh. “I didn’t know you were having a party tonight. Where was my direct invite?” You can feel his lips smile against your sensitive neck. He continues biting your skin.

This is your little secret. Ever since Simone and him broke up he has taken a liking to you. A quiet liking that’s reserved for secluded places and sneaking around after dark. For hushed moans and foggy car windows.

You can’t say you don’t like being his secret because the adrenaline of it all keeps you going. It keeps you high all the time. He scrunches your hair in his fingers bringing your lips back to his. The taste of beer still lingers on his pink lips. A soft groan leaves his mouth.

He’s desperate and so are you as your lips continue in a feral manner. He pushes you away. His eyes finally take in your apparence. You watch as his brown irises scan over every part of your body. Taking in every curve and dip. He wraps his hand in the fabric of your crochet shirt.

“Where’d you get this?” He asks as you smile. “Michelle made it for me.”

He smirks looping his finger in between the crochet.

“She’s gonna get you in trouble for wearing something like that.” He lifts it off of you and presses his lips to your chest moving down towards your stomach. He’s gentle, just how you like it. You intake a sharp breath. You can’t tell if it’s the beer but your mind feels so foggy and distant.

“Says you.. can your shirt can anymore unbuttoned?” His blue long sleeved blouse is unbuttoned til his chest. You kind of wish you left a few marks on his collar bone. Maybe it would give everyone else a hint but

you can only imagine how many girls have stared at his chest tonight.

He gruffly laughs twirling his finger in a strand of your hair. “It can.” Your fingers dance around the white buttons and soon his shirt falls off. He smirks against your lips and pushes your body against his. His warmth surrounds you like a hug. It makes you tingly and needy.

Just as your hands travel lower inter-looping with his bulky belt the knob on the door shakes. It startles the both of you causing you to bounce back. Pink coughs “What do you want? I’m getting changed, man!” He yells. His chest rises and falls in a rhythmic matter.

“It’s me.. Jennifer.” There’s silence as Pink gathers the clothes off the ground and hands you your top back. “Give me on second-“ he says as he buttons back his shirt up. You lift the top over your head and adjust it to your body.

In hushed whispers you start to bicker with him “What does she want? Why is she looking for you?” You ask in a quiet whisper and he shakes his head “I don’t know here- hide here.” He opens his closet door revealing a mess of clothes.

“Are you serious, Pink?” He hushes you into the closet and closes the door. You angrily curse at yourself for being so easily hidden away into a closet. You peek through the little cracks. He fixes his jeans to hide the uncomfortable tent that has started to grow under the denim fabric.

He unlocks the knob and Jennifer walks in. Her black wavy droops around her shoulders. Her shirt is tied up showcasing her midwaist and the new bell bottoms she bought. You roll your eyes.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, where you have been?” She coos leaning close to Pink. He tries to back up but she grabs his collar. Internally, you scream.

He pushes her away “This isn’t really a good time, I was just looking for my lighter-“ he points to the lighter on the sled but she shushes him moving closer.

“It’s okay..” he tries to back up once again. A voice yells down the hallway “Pink! You up here, man?” It sounds like Wooderson.

He enters the room as Jennifer moves to the side. Wooderson pushes his hands into his pockets. “Sorry man, didn’t know you were busy.” He laughs while looking at the two of them. Jennifer slyly smiles and Pink shakes his head.

“No, I’m not.” Pink tells Wooderson as he bobs his head. “Good. Uhh, man Mitch is tryna find you ‘cause the seniors are givin’ him a hard time about coming inside.” Pink looks towards Jennifer and shrugs his shoulders “Duty calls.”

The three of them leave the room and you’re left alone in the closet. You feel like crying. You want to find Michelle and drink until you can’t feel anything.

You open the closet door and stand infront of Pinks mirror straightening out your hair trying to soothe yourself. You leave Pink’s room and avoid the couples that have now migrated upstairs to continue their make out sessions.

Walking down the stairs you run into Cynthia. “Y/N! Where have you been?” Her voice is soft and genuine. “I-I don’t really know-“ your voice breaks Cynthia’s lips turn down into a frown.

“Oh are you okay?” She asks standing close. “No, not really.” You respond solemnly. “What happened? You don’t have to tell me.” You shake your head not wanting to share the pain you just experienced.

“I really just need to drink.” You state to the redhead. “In that case..”

<—————————————->

Cynthia has never been much of a party girl. Her clique isn’t really into drinking or partying they like to spend their time playing poker on Fridays. They don’t even own their own lighters or cigarettes and you’ve only seen Cynthia smoke once which resulted in a coughing fit.

But she was cool in her own kind of way. A quirky way that made her fun to be around and talk to. A girl that you could rely on especially on a bad night when you need a reasonable shoulder to lean on. You couldn’t find Michelle anywhere and guessed her and Pickford are long gone in his car somewhere. Cynthia offered to stay with you when you couldn’t find them.

Cynthia had blossomed once she had started going out with Wooderson. You didn’t think it would last because he was already out of high school and had a different outlook on life but in the end it worked out. The two of them were going steady and she had finally started to enjoy her dreaded high school years.

Now the two of you had found solace on the stairs of Pink’s house. She kept her beer sipping occasionally while you gulped down every last drop of yours until it was empty and you went to grab another one. That’s how your night started to go.

Pink was floating around the rooms. You could feel his eyes on you every so often but once you tried to meet his gaze he looked away and continued talking. He was a social floater despite being a football player. Usually the jocks stay away from anyone outside their little clique. But he’s different. He doesn’t care about people’s social status or beating freshman. Maybe that’s what made him so likeable. The beers had only fogged your thinking but you could still feel the jealously in your heart.

The beer buzz had slowly started to hit you. You went to stand up from the stairs and the world started to spin. The crowd blended together and you felt woozy. Cynthia pulls you back to the stairs.

“Bad idea.” She laughs sipping on her beer. You fall back onto the carpeted stairs and put your beer to the side. “The first time Mike drank he didn’t get up once. When he finally did he was way past five beers and totally folded over onto the ground.” She reminisces the memory as you smile.

“I remember the first time I drank. I completely overlooked how much I could handle and ended up blacking out in Michelle’s car.” Cynthia laughs budging you. “No way.”

You nod your head “Yes way, man.” She looks ahead to see Mike and Tony making their way into the crowded scene. Cynthia perks up “You wanna come hang with us?” She asks you shake your head.

“I think I’m gonna leave in a few.. thanks though.” She smiles waving as she walks to the group. You start to stand up as well trying to stabilize yourself against the wall then began your small walk towards the door.

You push through many different people. Some you don’t even know the names of. You look at a clock to read the time “11:30 pm”? There’s no way you’ve been here that long. You rub your temples stumbling out of the house.

You look around the curb and the driveway trying to find a car you know but unfortunately you’re out of luck and it looks like you’re walking home. You rub your arms and take a sharp breath of air starting to walk in between the numerous cars that congest the driveway.

Just as you start your walk down the driveway a hand pulls you back you let out a yelp. You spin around on your heels. Of course, it’s the last person you want to see. Pink.

“Where are you going?” He asks as your face turns sour. “I’m leaving, I don’t want to be here anymore.” As you try to turn around Pink walks infront of you as you keep walking forward. He faces you walking backwards keeping up your pace.

“Why? You can’t walk home alone, you’re drunk!” He argues with you but you want no part of it. “Well I don’t want to walk with you!” You try to slip past Pink but he counters it.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asks as he stops you by holding your shoulders. “You! Why was she trying to get with you? Were you flirting with her?” Your voice breaks as he sighs.

“No! I don’t even talk to her. Why are you so upset?” His arrogance to the situation has you frustrated. “I don’t know, maybe because she was trying to fuck you!” You shrug his hands of your shoulders and start walking past him once again.

“I wouldn’t fuck her. I only like you!” He admits while you stop in your tracks. “I don’t want any other girls trying to get with you. I hate the fact that they all think you’re single while you’re sneaking around me.” You start to ramble your feelings while tears prick your eyes.

“I wish other girls could know about you and me. I’m tired of keeping this a secret. I know if I don’t hold your hand some other girl will..” You continue, he turns quiet. He walks behind you and wraps his arms around your body. He pulls you close and presses his lips against your ears.

“What’s stopping you from being seen with me?” He kisses your neck as happiness bubbles inside of you. You wipe away your tears and smile. “Nothing.” You mutter as he turns your around and kisses your lips. You’re sure a bunch of eyes are on you and him. In this moment you don’t care. All you can focus on is Pinks hands around your waist.

He holds your face while your lips connect slowly. You smile against his lips and he pulls away. “You still want to go home?” His low voice coos in your ear.

He catches your lips for a quick kiss.“No… I don’t.”

[slavghoul]

First musical emotion?

TF: I grew up in an environment full of music, with a very open-minded mother who listened to a lot of pop and rock music and, above all, an older brother who was 13 years older than me. That's how much I was immersed in teenage culture as a child. I was 3 years old in 1984 when the glam metal wave invaded the airwaves and TV screens. These bands, like Kiss, WASP or Mötley Crüe, very strong visually for a child, attracted me irresistibly. And let's not forget Twisted Sister. I Wanna Rock is the track that remains the basis, the trigger for everything for me. A song that, at 3, 13, 23 or 43 years old, still has the same effect on me as soon as I hear it: to jump in the air like a madman.

First record bought?

If not Kiss, probably a Rolling Stones album. It didn't make much of an impression on me because my brother used to buy so many of them, so my money was mostly spent on Star Wars stuff. There are tons of bands I love, but I think the Stones are my favourite. Because they embody everything I love about rock, even though they weren't as sophisticated as the Beatles or Pink Floyd. Between 1967 and 1972, in their darkest period, nobody did it better than them: they had the look, the attitude, the style and, on top of that, the songs! Let It Bleed is incredible, with songs like Midnight Rambler and Live With Me. As much as I admire technical singers, virtuosos of harmony, Jagger remains unique. I've never tried to imitate him, but as a performer he is the absolute model.

First concert of note?

My brother used to take me to see local punk bands at a very early age, but I remember B.B. King most of all, when I was about 5 or 6, with my mother. It was a jazz festival, outside in the courtyard of a castle, a very cool atmosphere. As soon as B.B. King started playing, there was electricity in the air. Everyone got up and started dancing, I was blown away. And as I was the only one of my age, I could move around freely, so much so that I found myself in the backstage, in front of B.B. King himself! He invited me into his dressing room: "Do you play the guitar?" - Yes! - so don't stop!" And I took his advice. Even though I sing on stage, the guitar is still my favourite instrument, the one I play and master the most.

The band that best managed to avoid the pitfall of the image taking precedence over the music?

Kiss, unfortunately, was far from being up to the task musically. Alice Cooper, after two minor first albums, went on to make four incredible albums with the original Alice Cooper Group. Above all, he made a phenomenal comeback with Welcome to My Nightmare in 1975. After that, the show took over... The band that managed to stay straight and dignified, without compromising the artistic quality of their work, is undoubtedly Iron Maiden. All of their 80's production is impeccable, and if they had a slump in the 90's, they came back even stronger with the return of Bruce Dickinson, and have been going strong for twenty years! Their work ethic is exemplary. With Ghost, we take up Phantom of the Opera, one of my favourite tracks from their early period, and one of the few where I felt we could add a little something to it.

Best punk song in the world?

There are so many, because I was also brought up on the sounds of the Pistols, the Ramones, the Dead Kennedys... But as a kid, I never got tired of listening to The Great Rock'n'Roll Swindle again, especially the sequence where Sid Vicious sings My Way. His version is one of my favourite songs of all time. What could be more awesome than to see a guy slaughtering this standard while doing the same, shooting the shit, with the audience that came to see him! It was like the ultimate middle finger, and it made me happy, and it showed me the way.

The band that remains the grail for you?

Queen, because the show side, the big show, is the ultimate for me. In the early 70s, my favourite musical period, there were no big shows yet, like the Stones started doing afterwards. Queen is the same. Of course, their best albums are from the 70s, but the peak of their career for me is the Wembley concert in 1986. Magic wasn't a great record, but the show was breathtaking, dantesque, with a repertoire as vast as it was delirious. If Ghost could ever come close to the 1986 Queen, I would be delighted.

The greatest Swedish band?

ABBA, of course. No one will ever be able to stand in their way. The Beatles are the monarchs of English rock, ABBA the monarchs of Swedish pop. Björn and Benny are national heroes. I found myself at a huge, formal party when Benny suddenly sat down at the piano and started Thank You For the Music. There was silence in a second. This guy is a monument. You can't imagine what ABBA has done, not only for pop music, but also for Sweden and the Swedes. This band proved that you can move mountains.

Which Ghost song are you most proud of?

Cirice, probably. I often write my songs by singing into my phone a melody that is in my head. We were about to finish the album Meliora. And the co-producer tells me that a really heavy and powerful track is missing. I tell him I have this heavy, heavy, macabre sounding tune with a long intro and a crushing riff. He suggests I tweak it while he goes for a run. When he came back, I had written a chorus, lyrical, catchy. It wasn't the leaden track he was hoping for. But it won us a Grammy!

The most evil band?

Certainly not Mercyful Fate, as one might imagine. They, like most Norwegian death metal bands, more or less satanic, are the most charming guys I've ever met. They seem more like nice teachers than evil creatures. The scariest band is probably Von, a mythical American black metal band from Hawaii. These guys were really scary, with their terrifying size, they looked really dangerous. But I think the evil is mostly on the side of those who pretend to defend the good. For me, the most evil and unattractive musician is Ted Nugent. He's pro-life, pro-hunting, and claims he's only fighting for freedom. But the world he defends is about as free and tolerant as Vladimir Putin's. I refuse to listen to him.

[twistedwonderlandshenanigans]

December Drabbles

Prompt 20: Feast Characters: FloRid (Floyd + Riddle) ------------------------------------------------------------- Riddle took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He and Floyd had been working up to this. Actually, everyone had kind of been helping in their own ways. Trying to unlearn following rules had proved more than difficult, and more than one mental breakdown. He couldn't handle it. It was a little embarrassing honestly, he didn't want to be this way, but years of fear of falling short of expectation made it impossible to relax his standards. It had been Floyd's wording that had helped but things in a new perspective, a more manageable pill to swallow so to speak. Rules were only made because one person in authority was scared of the consequences if they were not followed. Sure, when he was a little kid, the only exposure to authority he'd ever really had had been from his mother. Then Floyd posed the question, if Riddle had some way of babysitting a younger version of himself, if he truly wouldn't give himself the freedom he wished he had. While breaking a few rules would be painful, giving himself one day where he didn't have to worry.....there was no way he would deny a child of that, even if it was himself. Thus a breakthrough had been made, where "small" rules were not broken, but modified to be less constricting to start. During finals week, Riddle allowed students to bring their own coffee if they had made it themselves, but he didn't have it served at their Unbirthday party - Cater had been especially appreciative of that. His grades even showed it, as the caffeine had proven to help him concentrate while studying. Ace and Deuce managed to get Riddle to stay at the table he finished his lunch at by asking for tutoring assistance - meaning Riddle was too distracted to get up by the time fifteen minutes had passed. The next Unbirthday they had, Trey had invited Che'nya - so much for not bringing a cat to a formal event, but how was Riddle supposed to turn him away?

Some rules still were strict. There were to be NO chestnut tarts at Unbirthday parties still. And flamingo caretakers still had to wear pink. Croquet must not be played after 5:00pm.

But the point was, he was he was getting better. He had grown a lot in a very short time, and the people closest to him had done a good job of acknowledging the effort that went into that, even Floyd. Especially Floyd. So when Floyd had asked if Riddle would be ok with him pushing his boundaries a bit, he had agreed, albeit hesitantly and a little nervously. Against his better judgement, he decided to leave himself in Floyd's hands, knowing full well any questions he asked would only be met with 'wait and see.'

He had waited. Now, in front of him he could see a wide spread of foods, the smell making his mouth water. He could only assume that this was what Christmas dinner looked like at everyone else's homes. Every dish prepared with love from his boyfriend, who had slid into the booth beside him. Floyd gave him the slightest nod, letting him know he could start serving himself.

Floyd watched rather disdainfully, though he tried to hide it, as his boyfriend mouthed the amount of calories he was estimating was in each serving of food he put on his plate. He watched as Riddle struggled to make a decision between two dishes, before gently taking the serving spoon from him and serving him a portion of each, likely larger than he was planning on having. As if the slightly panicked and angry look from his goldfishie wasn't enough, Floyd also took the liberty of swapping his heaping plate with Riddle's, though he had been cautious enough in plating to not let any of the different foods touch.

Riddle looked up at him, his entire face a light shade of pink, his brows downturned, but not angry, just upset and confused. A small pout formed on his lips as he glared up at Floyd a little.

"You know I can't eat this. This serving size is too much, and far exceeds my calorie count for the day- maybe even the week! If I were to consume this I'd-"

"Be just fine. Well, maybe not all of it, wouldn't want you to get a stomach ache, but if you ate until you were genuinely satisfied, you would be fine. You would actually be healthier than the plan your mother made you follow. Ignoring when you're hungry ain't healthy. Your body has just gotten used to burning what little you keep in reserves. You've been malnourished for a long time Riddle. You've been lied to for a long time, and conditioned to think that countin' every morsel is what's gonna keep you strong and well, but it ain't. I know you can't give that up right away. I'm not gonna ask you to do that. But just for today, just for right now....I'm askin' you to try eating whatever you want, and as much as you want. It's just you 'n I here, nobody else has to know. Please? Please, I just wanna see you try...." Floyd's expressions varied greatly during his rant, but by the end, his mismatched eyes pleaded with Riddle's stormy ones.

Riddle had to look away. While he knew, at this point, everything Floyd was saying was true, it didn't make it any easier to hear. He felt tears sting the corners of his eyes before he buried his face in his hands, sobbing softly.

Floyd instantly regretted asking something so big of him so soon, reaching around his shoulders to pull him into a hug. What he didn't expect was for Riddle to panic, forego the cutlery and take a fistful of food from the nearest dish and shove it in his own mouth in an almost barbaric manner. He was sniffling, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and his face a light red, but Floyd couldn't do anything but watch as Riddle went on his own rampage through the food he had prepared for him.

Eventually Riddle slowed down, letting Floyd rub his back gently as he wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, then whined slightly when he realized the mess he made on his clothing. Floyd couldn't help but chuckle a little, using some magic to clean his boyfriend off as he pulled him into his lap, nuzzling into his hair as Riddle finally finished the last bite of food he had.

Riddle gasped as he sobbed a bit, leaning into Floyd. "Thank you.....I-I've never....I d-don't know what-...." Riddle took another moment to recollect his thoughts as Floyd just rocked with him gently, tucking his hair away from his face and cleaning him off where he needed it. Riddle shivered a bit, accepted the glass of water Floyd gave him and took a few deep breaths to calm down as he relaxed against him more.

"Thank you....for doing all this for me...and making me feel safe....even if it was just for a few minutes where I could let go of all the fear I had...it was very liberating...and delicious." He laughed, strained and tired as he snuggled into Floyd more.

Floyd giggled a bit and pushed away the half eaten food to put away later as he kissed Riddle's temple.

"Anytime goldfishie....I love youuuu." He bumped his head affectionately against the redhead.

He very quietly mumbled back before he fell asleep, "I love you too,"

[stayshineee]

marauders & lily headcanons that are definitely canon

james and lily became friends in sixth year and began dating in seventh year

lily and sirius were good friends before she befriended james and would usually team up to tease james

lily was the first one to figure out remus's "furry little problem" in first year

she comforted remus and told him that his friends wouldn't drop him after they found out

one day in second year, she saw the marauders surrounding remus, talking animatedly, when he looked up and they shared a look and she knew that they knew

she smiled to herself and thought to herself that they're not that bad

james was definitely the mother hen of the group

sirius did not play quidditch

he definitely could but had no interest in playing for the team, also because he did not want to deal with james's early morning practices

peter was NOT the loser of the group, they considered him their baby brother and were very protective of him

why do you think the betrayal hurt so much ??? it was bc they were so close

remus was very much a prankster, he was the mastermind behind most of their pranks and was usually never caught because of it

sirius love muggle culture and would often ask lily all sorts of questions regarding their music and foods and technology

sirius and lily definitely went to a pink floyd concert

remus and lily would discuss their favorite muggle books and authors

lily would usually help peter with his homework

when james and lily finally started dating, sirius convinced all of hogwarts to refer to them as jily (he tried lames but remus shot him down and james threw his shoe at him)

and sirius swore up and down that dumbledore once said jily was on patrol duty that night

[flash-the-readies]

Building a house in the sims 4 but every room is a different pink floyd album

I built this ages ago and it just now occurred to me that I could share this here. I was inspired by a lilsimsie video where she did the same thing except each room is a different Taylor Swift album.

So I built this shell of a house with 14 rooms (+ the exterior so 15 total albums) and then randomised an album for each room and decorated accordingly. Since I wasn't planning on actually playing in the house I didn't bother with landscaping lmao. Sorry for the awkwardly wide shots, I got lazy taking screenshots.

Anyways I suggest making it into a game by going through the photos first and trying to guess which album they are before reading. Let me know if you get them all and what references you catch

As a bonus I added the interior design styles I was vaguely inspired by

Here's the downstairs and upstairs floorplans

The exterior: I cannot make this up. I got the Wall, I was cackling

Style: I wanted English cottage but not in a thatched roof way.. in a Georgian way... and then I remembered I started complaining about Georgian cottages so I added more...shape and ended up with this... eh...

The Entryway: Ummagumma

Style: a bit transitional, she's homey, she's relaxed

I started off thinking I was going to make a relatively ordinary house

Downstairs hallway: Endless River

That basegame gradient wallpaper was actually perfect. This is the second room I did and slowly started dropping any pretenses that this was going to be an ordinary house

Downstairs Powder room: Momentary Lapse of Reason

Style: coastal but in an extra silly goofy way

THIS is where I finally decided to embrace the chaos. Unfortunately I didn't get a bedroom for this album but I actually like how it turned out.

The dining room: Wish You Were Here

Style: brutalism and minimalism

I'm actually obsessed with how this one (pls notice the grate behind the table)

The kitchen: Meddle

Style: Rustic, cottage

This was difficult...I was heavily relying on the colour scheme and references to the lyrics since the album cover looks like.. well... that...

The office: A Saucerful of Secrets

Style: 60s space age and Mid-Century modern

I was so thrilled to use that 60s space age chair

The living room: Obscured by Clouds

Style: traditional

I shared this with my dad and this room made him laugh.. I too was cackling while decorating it

laundry/utility/mudroom: Division Bell

Style: .......... fuck if I know

pls tell me you see the vision because this was a struggle

Upstairs hallway: More

Style: Spanish revival, Spanish colonial

uh... there wasn't much to do here but that's what I had in mind. Not pictured is a nice wooden chandelier above the stairs.

.......... I take it back. This was even more of a struggle

Bedroom 1: Animals

Style: Industrial

This is probably my second favourite room

Bedroom 2: Atom Heart Mother

Style: She's rustic, she's farmhouse

I HAD to use that topiary

Bedroom 3: Dark Side of the Moon

Style: If I had to choose one I would say contemporary even though it's not actually reflected in the room

Discover University actually came with a Dark Side inspired poster so I KNEW I would be using it

Bedroom 4: The Final Cut

pls tell me why the two kids' rooms ended up being colour-drenched in black..

(the bed is a military cot....)

Upstairs bathroom: Piper at the Gates of Dawn

style:... she's ...... eclectic

Saved best for last. The Sims has a gnome obsession and I FINALLY got to use them all