record shelving

anonymous asked:

I know you’ve said before that you don’t have a desk at school but what does your bookcase look like?

here it is!! my bookcase is an amalgamation of various parts that would have made up my desk, so that’s why it’s kind of an odd shape. it’s alphabatized and (somewhat) organized like this:

  • general fiction and nonfiction (and my tarot cards) (top two shelves) 
  • shakespeare books (stacked vertically on the second shelf)
  • star trek books (to the right of the shakespeare books)
  • vinyl records (two bottom left shelves)
  • theatre books, books needed for my thesis research, and poetry (above the printer)
Coco brainworm that won’t leave me alone

*spoilers, speculation and angst below*

Mama Imelda never hated music; just what it reminded her of and what it had done to her family. Maybe when Ernesto told her about the death of Hector, she’d resolved to put his picture on the ofrenda. She was hurt, and struggling- but she had loved him once. Coco loved him still.

Then one day, Ernesto’s first record hits the shelves of Santa Cecilia. Imelda picks one up, idly wondering what he’d come up with (he’d always been a deft guitarist, a decent singer- but composition had never been his strength.)

Her heart stops when she reads the song titles listed on the back.

These were Hector’s songs. She knew them by heart. He’d sung Un Poco Loco at their recepcion; she’d kissed him, then. Now she heard it from the mouth of every mariachi, and she feels cold.

Imelda doesn’t hate music. But in Santa Cecilia, de la Cruz is blasted from every corner, and her memories of her once loved husband sour. He left his family and died in a barrio miles from home, and shared private memories- precious memories- with his ambitious best friend, for the sake of fame and fortune.

(De la Cruz was a bit of a penjedo, but one she had grown up with. Hector’s best friend, Coco’s Tio Ernesto. The possibility of foul play never enters her mind.)

She first bans de la Cruz’s music from the house for Coco’s sake. If Un Poco Loco now makes her feel ill, Remember Me leaves her furious. Her daughter’s lullaby has become a bastardized love ballad, and Imelda refuses to let her hear it.

The record does well. Incredibly well. The town is so proud of its hometown hero. Imelda can’t get away from them- except in the privacy of her walls. Words like forgiveness and amends become anathema, as bitter proof of her husband’s betrayal and abandonment are sung from every corner and become woven into the national identity.

Imelda doesn’t hate music. She loved it before Hector, and she loved it after Hector. But as Ernesto de la Cruz becomes a household name in every house but hers, as thinking of his name and his fame mean thinking of Hector, who is and was music, even after his death, and the music lived on-

- she can’t think of music anymore. She won’t. She won’t let Coco think of it either.

When Dia del Muertos comes that year, Hector’s grave is cold and undecorated, his belongings sold and thrown away. His face is ripped from the family picture, carefully stored and hidden away by his little girl. His face is far from the ofrenda, and he stands on the other side of the bridge for the first of many cold and long decades to come.

The Rivera house is quiet. This year, Imelda is busy learning to make shoes in between moments of fond remembrance for everyone but her husband. She’ll give the day its proper attention later, but if she works hard enough now, she can drown out the sound of the mariachi outside.

The house stays quiet for years to come.

anonymous asked:

2D + Murdoc night walks with s/o?? Where would they go, would they stop and stare at the stars w/ s/o, etc. (💗💗💗 lots of love for th blog)

(Thank you, dear!)


~ 2D loves spending time with you. He loves doing everything with you, so when you suggest going for a midnight walk he’s all over it. You two walk around town and see what kind of shops are open this late. 2D spots a music store from across the street and points like an excited child. You giggle and pull him towards the shop. You walk in first and look around. It’s an older shop with aisles of vinyl records, shelves of CDs, and instruments displayed on the back wall. 2D’s eyes grow wide in amazement. He instantly starts looking for keyboards. You watch him dart around before turning to look at some of the records. You dig through and find some you like. You started to make a pile on the counter where the register was. The cashier had been chuckling at you and 2D. “You folks havin’ a nice time?” You giggled and nodded your head.

~ You looked around for your boyfriend but you couldn’t find him. “Where did he run off to?” You suddenly heard a keyboard playing in the back. You stepped forward and following the sound. You found 2D sitting on the floor playing some random notes on a black keyboard. He was so intrigued by the sound, he didn’t even look up at you. “I’m guessing you’re really enjoying yourself?” You squatted down to his level. 2D giggled and kissed you. “I fink I’m gonna get it!” He stood up and pulled you to the register. You pulled out your wallet to pay for your records but 2D put his hand over your wallet. “I got dis, love.” You jumped up to kiss his cheek as he paid the nice man. “Have a goodnight!” You yelled as you exited the store with 2D.

~ 2D was looking up at the sky as you two started walking again. “2D, you’re going to end up running into a pole or something.” You laughed at his silliness. He looked at you and smiled. “Sorry, it’s jus’ da stars ar’ da only fing dat remin’ me of ya eyes.” You blushed at his comment and he pulled you close. “I love ya.” He said before kissing you with so much passion you felt your heart skip a beat.



~ Murdoc doesn’t sleep much anyway so when you ask him to go on a midnight walk, he eagerly agrees. You giggle and pull him out of the door. You two decide to take a walk through the woods instead of through town. Neither of you wanted to deal with the night life of the city. You wrapped your arm through his and snuggled closer to him. He chuckled and pulled out a cigarette. He removed his arm from yours to light it. He took a deep breath and took in the smoke. He puffed it out away from you so it wouldn’t hit your face.

~ He kissed your cheek and found a rock to sit on. Murdoc patted the spot next to him, indicating you to sit down. You sat next to him and looked up at the sky. The mix of the trees and the stars painted a beautiful site above you. You didn’t noticed Murdoc staring you. He watched your features as you observed the sky. He sighed and asked, “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”  You looked back at him, confused. “No?” Murdoc took another puff of smoke before speaking again. “You mean the world to me. I never thought I’d be the one to fall in love. You’re the only who has ever shown me how much you care. My biggest fear is showing you how much of a monster I actually am and you running away forever. I’m not good enough for you, yet you stay. You give my life a new meaning, one I’ve never known before. I love you more than anything. You make me feel like I’m worth something. I can never repay you for that.” He looked back up at your face and noticed the tears flowing down your face. Murdoc felt bad for saying anything. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything…” He looked at the ground again and you tackled him with a hug. “Don’t you dare be sorry! That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard you say. Murdoc, you owe me nothing except your love. You loving me back is all I could ask for. You make me so happy and I couldn’t image life with anyone else.” You placed a hand on his cheek and kissed him. Now Murdoc was crying. You kissed him again and wiped away his tears. “I will always love you.” He whispered as he wrapped his arms around you.

CSSV Fic: Happenstance (full version)

A/N: For @killiarious. Thank you for your patience, love! Here is the full version of your gift. Again, it was lovely chatting and please feel free to swing by to chat more any time you like! Thanks also to @tnlph and @mryddinwilt for providing the initial inspiration for this story from this convo a year ago.  

Summary: He was just trying to escape everything. She wasn’t part of his plan.

Words: 3400 | Rating: M | ao3


He should thank Liam, he knew it. He wouldn’t need to leave the flat, minus the initial trip to the market, for days. There were enough books, along with wine and rum, to last him for weeks. And the view, Killian still wasn’t sure there were words.

Good god, brother. The pictures you sent weren’t enough.

I know. Don’t skulk your entire stay. The city is better up close.

Killian rolled his eyes. He was almost grateful when he found out his brother would be out of town when he sent his plea for a place to crash. He needed to be away from Tink, away from town, their apartment. From everything, really. And while he hadn’t seen Liam since his transfer to Istanbul, the prospect of the judgement in his eyes, even as he would welcome him in, was more than Killian thought he could bear.

Liam sent him instructions on where he could pick up a set of keys and a warning that he promised a friend a place to stay later in the week while she was in town for a job.

And stay as long as you like, little brother. I’m due home in a couple weeks.

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something. [connor murphy x reader]

short, fluffy drabble i had in my mind for a long time, i hope you guys enjoy it! ❤

Rain was crushing against the window, while the wind was howling in the background. Sometimes a lightning bolt would show up in the grey sky, leaving the room in a white haze, before disappering ever again. The noises were loud, letting the fainting music more in a quiet symphony than a full orchestra.

Despite this weather, you felt the safest. Laying in your boyfriend’s bed, whilst resting your head on his chest. He was stroking your back the entire time. Your hand was tingling his long hair. There was something about Connor, which made you feel the safest, even though a big storm was dominating the sky.

Both of you were nearly falling asleep, as the needle of the record player stopped. The vinyl record kept on spinning for a moment, before stopping completely. Now that the music was over, there were only the raging sounds to be heard.

“Babe, you wanna get up and turn the record around?”, Connor hummed.

“No”, you muttered.

“Are you that lazy?”

“Why don’t you just get up?”

“I don’t wanna leave your side.”

You chuckled. “That was the cheesiest shit ever, Connor.”

“Fuck off”, he mumbled, pressing a kiss on your forehead.

Second after second passed and none of you were getting up, making the music play again. The only melody around you was the harsh rain banging against the window.

“You know what”, he started, his voice was raspy, “I love these afternoons with you.”

“So do I.”

“No, you don’t understand”, he said, whilst getting up from the bed. Walking over to the shelf, where the old record player was idly lying.

His back was turned to you.

“Before you, I was just…hanging around somewhere, getting high. Not giving a shit about someone’s feelings, like, I’ve hurt my mother so often without doing like anything to her, you know?”

“Yeah, I see.”

He sighed. “God, I was a fucking idiot then.”

You got up from the bed and walked over to your boyfriend. He didn’t move. Not even, when you put your arms around his skinny waist. Holding him so ever tightly, as you know he adored it.

“You’ve never been an idiot, Connor”, you said, “you just weren’t certain about your way of life.”

He scoffed, while entwining his hand with yours. “Well, I guess I’m still not certain about my way of life. But let’s be honest. Without you, I’d probably still hang around in that park. You know? Doing bad stuff.”

“It was bad. That you were….like doing bad stuff.”

Connor turned around to look at you. His cheeks were a bit red and he looked at you with such love and care in his eyes. Anybody could have helped Connor, but nobody could have saved him in the way you did. The two of you met in school - obviously the only way two lonesome souls as you both could have met anyone.

“Play another song. I wanna dance with you”, you whispered.

“What?”, Connor said. There was this questioning look on his face. Did you really just ask him to dance?

You let go of your boyfriend, losing his warmth, before turning to the records on his shelves. He owned any kind of album - there was Joy Division, another dusty The Cure record, right next to one of the Ramones.

“What are you looking for?”, Connor asked, putting his arms around you and resting his chin on your head. He was taller than you, which always gave him the opportunity to embrace you in any kind of way.

“Do you only listen to these rock bands?”

“First of all, only some of them are rock. The others are either alternative or punk.”

“Did you just mansplain music to me?”, you chuckled.

“Sorry”, Connor muttered, pressing a kiss on your head. His hand reached for a record on the upper shelf.

“This one’s more…quiet”, he said, handing you the record, which was covered in dust.

It must have been lying on the shelf for god knows how many years.

“The Beatles!”, you exclaimed surprised, “I didn’t know you loved cheesy love songs.”

Connor turned you around, immediately pressing a kiss on your lips. His one hand rested on your waist, while he softly stroke your face with the other one. After the kiss, which somehow seemed different than the ones he gave you before, he started drawing circles with his thumb on your cheek.

“I didn’t know what to do with cheesy love songs, until I’ve met you”, Connor whispered.

He let go of you, putting the record on. The first notes of “Something” started to play, when his arms slowly found their way around your hips again. With blushed cheeks and a bright smile, you put your arms around his neck.

The two of you started swaying to the old song, as he pressed some more long kisses onto your lips.

“I wish you knew how much I love you”, you whispered.

“Trust me, I know it every day.”

J. Cole, the Platinum Rap Dissident, Steps Back From the Spotlight

RALEIGH, N.C. — Ask J. Cole about when he realized that the traditional life of a platinum rap star didn’t suit him and he’ll tell the story of the 2013 BET Awards, when a stylist dressed him in a loud Versace sweater that two other people ended up wearing on the red carpet. He’ll talk about meetings with label executives and personal heroes who encouraged him to make musical decisions that, deep down, he never felt comfortable with. He’ll recall an awakening to the potency of the love of the woman he’d been with for years. And he’ll remember his trip in the wake of the killing of Michael Brown to Ferguson, Mo., where the most valuable thing he found he could do was just to listen.

And so, a couple of years ago, after he’d released two platinum albums, he began to make changes. A move back down to this part of the country, not far from where he grew up, in Fayetteville. Meditation every day, or as often as he could manage. Marriage. A commitment to asking about the needs of others rather than only his own. And a decision to make music that spoke to his own creative and emotional idiosyncrasies, no matter how far it strayed from that of his hip-hop superstar generational peers.

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(Hi I literally started squealing in the middle of class when you replied but I’m the girl who asked if I could submit a lil’ Peter m imagine so here it is, I would love if you gave me some pointers bc I’m thinking of starting up an imagine blog soon. Hope you like it!:)) -Els xx

Stolen Records // Peter Maximoff

 Peter grunted in irritation as he ran a hand through his damp platinum hair and placed his goggles firmly on his head. Having a mutation that gets you anywhere in a matter of seconds sure did have it’s perks, but the downside was that Peter got absolutely soaked if it was raining on his weekly trip to his favourite place on Earth.

He sighed as he scanned the old fashioned record store that he had visited every Sunday night since he was 11 years old before sauntering over to the corner of the store where an old rusty sign hung on the wall read ‘rock and punk.’ If you had never visited the store before, you wouldn’t have been able to make out exactly what the battered sign read. but Peter knew this shop like the back of his hand and had been stealing old records from it for years.

He ran his fingers over the countless records lined upon shelves and in boxes as he scuffed his silver boots against the ugly brown flooring that only made the shop look more authentic, humming along to the pop song that was quietly playing in the background. He looked towards the cashier desk at the other end of the room to find it vacant. God, they were practically asking for him to steal from them.

Peter smiled as he came across a shelf labelled ‘Pink Floyd,’ picking up a record that looked unfamiliar to him and studying the front cover, admiring the artwork for a moment until he heard a loud crashing coming from a few isles away. Suddenly, a girl with y/h/c hair popped up from the metal and country isle, cursing loudly and running a hair through her hair.

It was like Peter was in a trance, he had never came across anyone quite as captivating as you and was immediately mesmerised the moment your eyes met his before you quickly looked away and began picking up the records that were scattered on the floor.

He smirked, tucking the record under his jacket and sped over to you. the lanky teenager leaned on one of the shelves and crossed his arms, taking in your appearance and biting the pink skin of his bottom lip. You weren’t even wearing anything particularly fancy, just a pair of baggy jeans with more rips than he could count and a black shirt tucked into them, the name of the store plastered on the front of it in bold letters.

‘You gonna help me out here or just stand there checking me out, silver boy?’ You looked up at him from your spot on the floor as you placed the dropped records in their correct shelves. Peter smirked at your nickname for him and kneeled on the floor next to you, picking up a few records and arranging them in alphabetical order before placing them on the shelves.

'I haven’t seen you around here before, you new? I’m Peter, Peter Maximoff.’ He smiled, extending his long pale arm, you shook his hand before turning back to the shelves. You were smaller up close, but no less beautiful, he thought.

'I’m an intern.’ You paused for a moment, 'You gonna pay for that, Mr. Maximoff?’ You asked, motioning to the record that was slightly peaking out from under his jacket, Peter  blushed for a moment before gaining his composure.  

'Of course.’

You stood up and brushed the dust from your jeans and sighed 'Well, Peter. I’m Y/n and you can leave now, I can handle this on my own, but thanks for the help. And put the record back unless you’re going to pay for it.’

The silver haired boy frowned, trying to think of a way that he could see you again. He didn’t think he could stand the thought of only being able to see you once a week when he zoomed in to get his records, He had only known you for a few solid minutes and he was already a goner.

'I’ll tell you what, I’ll buy the record. But on one condition.’ He said walking towards you,  he almost looked intimidating, his tall lean frame towering over you. Almost. 'Come on a date with me,’ he breathed out, it was almost as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

'What if I don’t want to come on a date with you? I could outrun you, you know.’

'Sweets, I really don’t think you could.’ He snickered, as if he knew something you didn’t, you screwed your face up at his cockiness.

You thought for a moment, debating whether to agree to Peter’s proposition, 'Ugh, fine! One date, but that’s it.’ You sighed, deciding that you didn’t want to get fired when you had only had this job for a few weeks, and besides, Peter wasn’t that bad looking, but you’d never admit that to him. He seemed like he had a big enough ego. You pulled out a piece of paper and a pen from your pocket and began scribbling down your number before handing it to him.

'Thanks, babe. I’ll see you soon’ He winked and pushed his hair back before throwing you a 10 dollar bill and a goofy grin, and just like that, he was gone.

#62 - For anonymous

Filling the prompt “Can you do one where you and Van are close friends and you always hang out after school and cuddle and stuff and he admits his feelings for you?? thank you!”

You hadn’t really been friends with Van when he was still in school. You were in the same year level, but you never noticed him except for the moments where he’d be off task in class and a teacher would ask him if there was something more important than his education. There always was. There was always something he cared more about. A new song. A show on the weekend. Finding a drummer for his band. His new puppy. You’d always chuckle under your breath at the chaos he caused.

You became friends on the day that would be the catalyst for him dropping out. It was a Friday, and you had English after lunch. Honestly, you were surprised he was even in class; he would frequently skip. The teacher was having everyone analyse poetry. You loved English, and you loved poetry. You started to flick through your own copy of Howl and Other Poems. You made eye contact with Van briefly as he was searching through his bag for something. He gave you a smile, and you smiled back and quickly looked away. He pulled out headphones and started to listen to something, tapping the beat out on his desk with pencils. The teacher was on him instantly, ripping the headphones off his head.

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On this day in music history: June 13, 1970 - “Let It Be”, the twelfth studio album by The Beatles hits #1 on the Billboard Top 200 for 4 weeks. Produced by George Martin and Phil Spector, it is recorded at Apple Studios, Abbey Road, and Twickenham Film Studios in London from February 1968, January – February 1969, January and March – April 1970. Following the often acrimonious sessions for “The White Album” in 1968, the album is originally conceived as a project that documents the band working in the studio, recording in as basic of a way as possible, without overdubbing, and outside musicians. With the ultimate goal of The Beatles performing live again in front of an audience. Unfortunately the bad feelings and arguing that started during the previous album intensifies, with George Harrison walking out eight days into the sessions. Eventually he does return, but things are still tense between the four. The album and accompanying film shot during the recording sessions are shelved for nearly a year before the decision is made to release them. Producer Phil Spector is given carte blanche to work with the hours and hours tapes to shape them into a releasable album. However, it strays far from its original concept. In the UK and Canada, the album is also issued as a lavish limited edition box set featuring a full color picture book with photos by photographer Ethan Russell. Originally released on CD in 1987, it is remastered and reissued in 2009, and as a 180 gram vinyl LP in 2012. “Let It Be” is certified 4x Platinum in the US by the RIAA.

I Believe This May Call for a Proper Introduction (Part One)

Title: I Believe This May Call for a Proper Introduction

Author: PyromanicSchizophrenic

Summary: You’re working at a record store, when some guy who won’t take off his sunglasses comes in, browses through the entire store, then leaves without buying a single thing. Rinse and repeat.

Warnings: Nah.

You’re going to kill them. That’s it, it’s that simple. You’re going to kill them, and you’re going to go to jail, and you can’t even find it in yourself to be upset.

It’s not that you hate hipsters or anything. That’s not it at all. You’ve never been a music purist, never thought, hey, this album is new, it shouldn’t be on vinyl, because yes it should. Everything should be on vinyl, vinyl sounds really cool.

The problem with the pair of teens in the corner is that they’re not /buying/ anything. And you wouldn’t mind that either, because Lord knows you’ve gone to your fair share of stores to browse and not buy anything. But not only are these two not buying anything, they’re laughing loudly and making noise and you’ve already had three customers walk in, take one look at them, and walk out. But you aren’t allowed to ask that they leave, even if you do it respectfully, even if they’ve been there an hour and are doing nothing more than driving customers away. They’re stuck there, and you’re stuck behind the counter chewing your gum that’s long since lost its flavor and cursing the owner of the tiny record store as loudly as you can in your head.

The bell above the door rings, and you know it’s not because the two teenagers have left, because they’re still being obnoxious in the corner. You wait for the bell to ring, for whoever it is to turn around and walk back out, but they don’t. You look up, interest officially piqued by this newcomer, and almost give up on him being any better.

You try not to judge people without getting to know them. It’s just not the kind of person you are. But this guy is wearing skinny jeans, a shirt for a band that not even you have heard of, and a leather jacket. Plus, he doesn’t bother to take his sunglasses off. He just leaves them on as he flicks through the records.

The problem with vinyls, you think idly, is that the most ample supply is the newest music, because nobody wants to part with the old ones. And someone dressed like the douchiest brand of hipster is not about to want one of the mainstream records that you’ve got plenty of. The apparent boredom on the part of his face you can see confirms this, so if you wrote it down you’d have scientific proof.

You don’t watch him as he moves through the aisles. You don’t. You’re making a point of it. You’ve got your eyes locked on the pages of your comic, and you don’t care if he buys anything. Don’t care if the two in the corner buy anything. You’ve given up caring about anything going on in this store.

“Hey, man, fuck off,” one of the teens in the corner snaps suddenly. Shades has made his way over to them, and is still flipping through records, the same bored expression on his face, but the Tweedles have matching looks of anger on theirs. You silently root for Shades, because if he pisses the Tweedles off enough then they’ll leave and you can maybe salvage your commission for the day.

Shades says something in response, but he’s too soft-spoken for you to catch it. Whatever it is, it makes the Tweedles even angrier, before one of them takes the other’s arm and they stalk out of the shop, bell twinkling merrily after them. The juxtaposition makes you want to laugh.

Shades resumes his slow meandering through the shelves, and you return your attention to your book. You could (should) probably be using your free time to do some of your coursework; you’ve got a midterm in two weeks for a class in which, in spite of your best efforts (really), everything just goes straight over your head. But you kind of, sort of, have an illicit love affair with BPRD Hell on Earth, and that’s much more important than a midterm for a class you’re almost certainly going to fail.

Towards the end of the chapter, Shades comes to stand in front of you on the other side of the counter. He’s empty-handed, but since he got the Tweedles to leave, you’re not going to be upset about it. You do wonder what he’s at the counter for, though.

“Can I help you find anything?” you ask, because that’s what you’ve been told to do when a customer’s standing in front of you.

“How often do you get new shipments in?” he asks, a sort of haughty tone to his voice. Like he thinks this place is beneath him because he didn’t find what he wanted.

“New music comes in with distribution, but most of our out-of-print selections are secondhand.” It’s a rehearsed answer, but the response it gets is always different.

This time, Shades just sighs, as if he had known better than to expect anything else. He turns and leaves without another word. You don’t stare at his ass as he walks out, and you certainly don’t note that it’s quite nice. Far nicer than the guy it belongs to.


It’s a couple weeks before you see Shades again. You failed your midterm, not that you expected any different. You’re talking to a teenaged girl, with a shock of bright green hair, looking through the box of records she brought in with her, when he walks through the door. He starts browsing through the nearest crate, and you ignore him.


“I can give you ten bucks for the whole box,” you tell the girl, waiting for the nearly inevitable backlash. It’s the entire Grateful Dead discography, it’s worth way more than that, what do you mean you can only give me ten?

“Dude, take them,” she says surprisingly. “I don’t want them.”

You blink in shock, but don’t push it any further. Free records are free records, and you’re not going to argue about free records.

She’s gone almost immediately, before you can even say /thanks/. You take hold of the crate so you can move it into the back when Shades is at the counter.

“Anything good?” he asks, peering into the box.

“Come back in a couple days to find out,” you say, pulling the box off the counter. “We’ve got to make sure they’re sellable.”

His mouth pulls into a small frown, and you find yourself wishing that he’d take off those stupid sunglasses so you could see the rest of his face. It probably looks just as annoyed as the lower part of his face.

You go into the back room and set the records down on the table. You then decide that you’ll go ahead and grab a can of (favorite soda) before heading back out into the main part of the store.

Shades is, once again, methodically moving through the crates, flipping through and studying each sleeve carefully before moving on. You don’t think you’ve gotten anything new, at least not enough new that he actually needs to go through everything this carefully this go round.

Maybe he just doesn’t remember everything you had last time he was here?

You actually do ignore him this time, surreptitiously checking your Tumblr on the computer that’s technically only meant to be used for cataloguing. He leaves without another word, clearly deciding that there’s nothing in the store worth spending his money on.


“And play this one for the whole store,” the store owner says, handing you one of the new vinyls. There’s two crates full of it, whatever it is. You look at the front.

“I thought Panic wasn’t a thing anymore,” you say, staring at the top corner, proudly proclaiming Panic! at the Disco.

The owner just shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. There’s been a high demand for this one, so play it so people know it’s in.” He walks out, leaving you alone with the records. You shrug, moving over to the player behind the counter and put the new record on.

Sometime around the third track, Shades comes in again. It’s been a few days since the last time; clearly, he took your advice about coming back to see if there was anything good in the girl’s donation.

(The answer was no, not really; whoever owned the records first either loved them or didn’t care about them. Either way, they were in abysmal condition.)

He stops, just inside the door, clearly listening to the music filling the store. He doesn’t hang around much longer, just turns around and walks right back out.


He’s back the next day, and you almost wonder if he’s going to leave again. He doesn’t though, just walks in and goes through the shelves with the same care that he has the past two times. You aren’t behind the counter this time; you’re on the floor, shelving the records you got in yesterday that you hadn’t gotten around to shelving then. You leave him to his own devices, wanting to get as much done as you can. The owner doesn’t like it when it takes more than a couple days to shelf the new stock.

“Does it ever get boring?” Shades asks suddenly, taking you by shock for a moment.

“Care to elaborate?” you ask, trying to figure out what genre you’re supposed to shelf Sia under. She’s pop, right?

“Working in a store by yourself,” Shades explains. You can’t tell if he’s looking at you or not, but he’s still flipping through records, so you’re assuming he’s not.

You shrug, sliding “This is Acting” into the New Releases crate, deciding you’ll find out where it actually belongs later. “Could be worse,” you tell him, going back to the counter to grab a new stack of records. “I get to choose the music that plays, normally.”

“Normally?” he repeats, hands pausing where they are. You think he might be glancing up at you now, but give up on trying to tell for certain.

“Sometimes there’s a record that’s in high demand,” you explain, moving around to Soundtracks and placing the stack of “Hamilton” records in with the Hs. “And the owner wants that one played over the speaker. So that people know we have it.” Which is a totally dumb rule, you think to yourself.

“How many times does that happen?” he questions curiously, resuming his perusal of the records.

“Don’t know,” you say with another shrug. “Once every couple weeks, I guess. Comes with high anticipation. Are you looking for anything specific, or just looking?”

“Trying to rush me?” he retorts.

“No, but this is the third time you’ve come in looking through every single crate we’ve got, and you’ve yet to buy anything,” you point out. “If I knew what you were looking for, I could keep an eye out for it and hold it if we get it.”

The corners of Shades’s mouth turns up in a small smile. “That’s nice of you,” he says, “but I’m just looking for something that I don’t have yet.”

You don’t say anything, but you do raise an eyebrow pointedly. There’s no way that he owns every single record in the store.

“That interests me,” he adds.

“Fair enough,” you grant him. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”


“(Y/n),” the owner calls, the second you walk into the store. “I need you to look through these crates whenever you’ve got the chance.”

You nod, knowing that there’s no real chance of winning an argument with him, and also having no real problem with going through three boxes of secondhand records. It’s not like you get much traffic on a daily basis, and most of the traffic you do get doesn’t really need you to walk them through the store.

The copy of Pink Floyd’s The Wall is in absolutely terrible shape, but it’s Pink Floyd’s The Wall, so you’re going to have to do anything and everything in your power to make it sellable.

Shades might even buy something for once, if you got it working.

“I’m really starting to see the benefit to choosing the music.”

You look up.

“No sunglasses, today?” you ask, as Shades moves further into the store.

“It’s raining,” he points out, shaking water droplets out of his hair. You’re impressed; he’s as far from any of the displays as he can get, being considerate of the records.

“Is that what they call it when water falls from the sky?” You’ve lived in LA for a little over three months now—coincidentally, the last time you’ve seen rain was a little over three months ago too.

“It’s what I’ve heard the Elders say,” Shades (who has really pretty eyes, now that you can see them) replies with a huff of laughter.

You snort. “The Elders are wise,” you agree sagely. “And all-knowing.”

“Indeed they are.”

You both stare at each other before giving up and breaking into a fit of giggles.

“Anyway, I almost didn’t recognize you without them,” you explain, going back to your careful cleaning of the Pink Floyd vinyl. You really, really want to salvage this.

“Excellent,” he says. You wonder if he ever gets bored, going through more-or-less the same records every single day. “My master plan is working.” He glances up, seeing the crates still on the counter. “Do those still need to be gone through?”

“This one’s in abysmal condition,” you say, holding up the copy of The Wall.

“They’re all probably in similar states. What’s salvageable will be shelved within the week.”

Shades hums in thought. “Fair enough. Guess I’ll have to come back then, won’t I?”

“Guess you will.”

As he walks out, you wonder when your relationship got to the point where you’re flirting with each other, because you’re pretty sure that’s what just happened.


By some miracle, you were able to get the Pink Floyd album into a decent condition. It was, unarguably, the worst of the set, so you’re going through the store and shelving the contents of all three of the crates when Shades comes in again (once again wearing his sunglasses).

“They’re decent, but not shelved yet,” you tell him, not looking up at him. “You’re just a tiny bit early.” You’re extremely proud of the restoration work you did on The Wall; maybe you’ll be able to get a raise out of it.

“Damn,” he mutters, coming over and peeking over your shoulder at the record on top of the stack in your arms. “Oh, that’s a good one.”

“Want it?” you ask, holding it out to him.

He shakes his head. “Already got it.”

“Of course you do,” you mumble, moving away to shelf it. You can’t figure out why he keeps coming in; clearly, he’s not finding anything here worth his time or efforts, and you would have given up by now. Seriously, this guy’s got to be coming in solely on faith at this point.

“I don’t have that one,” he adds, pointing at The Wall and looking (possibly) absolutely elated.

“My pride and joy, right here,” you say, handing it to him. “Not in the best condition, but passable.”

He takes it, actually taking his sunglasses off for a better look. You are, once again, finding yourself struck by how pretty his eyes are. (And the rest of his face; he is startlingly pretty.) You had been right, his entire face is lit up, looking awestruck and honored to be holding the record.

You feel a stab of pride; you’re about to sell an album that you had thought was going to have to be trashed, and you’re about to sell it to Shades of all people. This is the absolute peak of your career (even though being one of the only clerks of an under-the-radar record shop isn’t going to end up your career), and you’re definitely going to get a raise out of this one.

You move around him, shelving the rest of the records. He starts following you again, clearly looking to see if there’s anything else that he doesn’t have yet.

You aren’t sure if he will or not, but you let him follow you anyway.

Which is strange, because you’ve usually got a pretty serious thing about personal space. He’s not incredibly close—you can’t feel his breath on your neck or anything—but you have a hyper-awareness of people less than two feet away from you. But for some reason, you don’t mind it when it’s him.

(You decide to ignore the implications of that because you are not getting a crush on another guy whose name you do not know.)

In the end, Shades actually ends up with a small stack of records himself—there are four, including the Pink Floyd, and you’re ridiculously proud of yourself for finally selling something to him. 

As he leaves, you realize that he may or may not come back—depending on his logic, the store is either actually worth his time, or has expended its usefulness to him. You try to convince yourself that you won’t be disappointed if he doesn’t come back in.

It doesn’t really work.

To Be Continued (in like two weeks)