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powderblueblood · 5 months

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HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER THREE — EDDIE MUNSON COMMITS TREASON (BREAKS UP a CAT FIGHT)

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summary: you deal with the fallout of your fight at steve harrington's party... in the passenger seat of eddie munson's van. so much for pretending you didn't exist to one another, huh? content warnings: as always, MINORS FUCK OFF, because we have *deep breath* implied fantasy smut, lots of swearing, confused yearning, themes of threat, heavy snark, another mention of the drink tab which i feel like is/was gross word count: 7.2k

Dear Dio, Tommy Iommi, Gary Gygax, Pee-wee Herman, Ronnie Ecker — forgive me for what I’m about to do.

I know I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. Like the time I lit all my hair on fire and spent middle school with a buzz cut. Or the time I almost trapped myself in a spread eagle with my own handcuffs. Or the time I got my arm stuck in a wall for an entire afternoon when I was trying to rescue a feral cat.

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit. But the stupidest among it all has got to be saving this girl from the bare knuckle wrath of Carol Whatsername. You know the one.

Tonight, for whatever reason, this insane ex-rich chick has decided to teeter on the edge of a pool of boiling hot lava and for whatever reason, I feel like it’s my responsibility to yank her back.

Which sucks, because she’s a total bitch to me.

Even if she just told everybody Tommy Hagan had crabs and has been cheating on his girlfriend in such a deranged way that it almost made me pop a semi.

Anyway. Tell my guitar I love her.

The world around Eddie slows to the tick of a football game replay as you let the last incendiary word you speak to Carol bounce around the goddamn Roman amphitheater Harrington’s back yard has become.

This is insane. What he’s watching is insane. Like, he knew you and your dumb little court of Hawkinsites bickered back and forth, but you’re the last person he’d ever expect to air their dirty laundry like this.

It’s incredible to watch the fascist leadership that he and the rest of the social nobodies have suffered under for so long rupture in real time.

What’s even more incredible is how little hesitation there is on his part, shoving through the crowd when he sees Carol leaping for you. Eddie’s nearly jostled backwards by some slobbering roid heads— they’ve already called CAT FIGHT! and a crowd is clamoring. But Eddie’s got years of thankless equipment lugging behind him, giving him deceptively strong arms.

And thank god, because you are not an easy girl to hold onto.

Carol lands a decent punch to your face, slamming with a dull knuckle-on-cheekbone crunch that makes all the onlookers, including him, go ooof! You stagger back in a state of shock (though, c’mon, you heard what you said just now, right?) and Eddie takes his shot just as you dive forward to retaliate.

He grabs you under the arms so you can’t like, elbow him in the fucking nose, a pale imitation of an illegal wresting move that Al Munson had forced him to learn at the tender age of seven. His dad had fancied himself a wrestling manager at the time— you can imagine how that worked out.

But Jesus, can you ever squirm! Your body writhes against him—stop—hips bucking—don’t go there—as you try to get free. He doesn’t even think you realize who’s dragging you away from the screaming harpy, otherwise you’d probably turn your fury on him.

He takes full advantage of the rage blackout and manhandles you through the party, earning a baffled look from Steve Harrington, who’s finally graced his own party with his presence. A pinch-faced Nancy Wheeler lingers behind him, but then again, Wheeler’s always all pinch-faced.

“What the fuck?!” Harrington breathes, exasperated.

Eddie struggles against you struggling, just about dragging you over the front doorstep. Trust this guy to be upstairs in a domestic dispute, missing all the action while getting no action.

Even in the chaos, Eddie will never pass up an opportunity to fuck with Harrington.

“You gotta start hidin’ your bath salts, man! Chicks are going crazy in there–Evil Dead type shit!”

—

“You’re dead, Lacy! Monday morning, you are fucking dead!” Carol screams down the hallway.

“It’s a date, bitch!” you screech, Munson’s nelson hold on you stronger than your thrashing. With a lot of work, he manages to haul you as far as Harrington’s front yard before you wriggle out of his grasp. You shove him, hard, all white hot and punch drunk and regular drunk on top of that.

He yelps, high and frightened. You weren’t expecting a noise like that to come out of a surly-looking dude like him.

So you do it again.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” you spit, and Munson flinches.

“Cutting you off!” he exclaims, this half-yell, half-laugh. It stings, the way he’s looking at you– like your anger isn’t anger, like it’s just amusing to him.

“Well, who gave you the right? Who died and made you my parole officer, Munson?!”

“Oh, I’m not– but I also didn’t feel like being woken up at home when the cops come looking for you after you go all Raging Bull on Carol. You haven’t been around the park long enough to hear ‘em, but those sirens really perforate the eardrums!”

Your jaw sets itself stiffly and you bind your arms over your chest. Unfuckingbelievable. “I would’ve, you know,” you breathe, seething, “Beat her up.”

Munson’s dark eyes glide over you, like he’s checking you for concealed weapons or signs of a zombie bite— you avoid his gaze entirely, staring square into the middle distance.

You promised that he didn’t exist to you, yet here he is. Driving you off the road. Breaking up your fights. Existing.

“Yeah, I know you woulda. You’re scary,” he says. You shrug, and he reaches to massage his shoulder. “And strong. Shit.”

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t feel bad. You don’t feel bad because he’s grinning at you now and despite yourself, despite everything that’s transpired and the everything about him, you’re trying your hardest not to grin back. Adrenaline and vodka are still burning a hole in your chest.

“Stay out of my way, then.”

“Noted, but,” a couple of steps from Munson’s end closes some space between you. He’s peering at your face, right where Carol clocked you. A hand reaches out, angling your chin closer to the Harrington’s glaring porch light with his fingertips. You stiffen and squint, performatively wary, but you don’t stop him. You just let his eyes pan over you, looking anywhere but into them. “You might need a little first aid first. And a ride home.”

“I was actually planning on carjacking Hagan,” you say coolly, the smile you were trying to beat away edging its way across your face. Munson releases your chin and the spot where his fingers were buzzes. It’s just the cold. It’s just your slutty librarian outfit, you tell yourself. You have to swallow in order to speak again. “Seems like fitting payback.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, what did I just say about cops?”

—

Eddie tolerates your eyes rolling back in your head when he props the passenger door open for you, helping you into the cluttered van with an outstretched had.

See, I’m not the kind of asshole who doesn’t open doors for girls wearing stilts for shoes.

Those things were not made for clambering into a vehicle like this, sure, but they’re– nice. For what he knows about shoes, which is nothing. They make your legs look more… leggy, and for whatever reason this is making his brain soft.

In your other hand is a cold can of High Life, which is the closest thing to an ice pack he could nab. That bruise blooming under your eye is going to be nasty, and he’s a little curious how you’re gonna look with it. You, with nary a hair out of place on a bad day, with a big ol’ purple shiner in a place that’s hard to hide.

Gunning out of Harrington’s hood, a silence settles between Eddie and you. The radio hums in the background– a mainstream station for once. He thoughtfully figured that an aural assault by Sabbath would kinda rub salt in your wound.

He’s thoughtful, but he’s not not nosy. So, of course he’s gonna ask–

“That whole… verbal smackdown back there,” Munson starts after clearing his throat. “With Tommy H and everybody.”

On your end, the adrenaline has worn off and the numbing effects of the booze have amped up. You feel loose and warm, apart from the beer can cooling your bruise. There are twice as many streetlights streaming past you as usual. This is going to blow later– if you don’t blow chunks first.

“All that about your dad pimping me out?” God, I mean, Hagan couldn’t compose a written sentence to save his life but maybe he had a future in speculative fiction. Did he just come up with that on the fly? “Take a wild guess, Munson.”

Eddie recoils in his seat– gross. Gross. “Not the– the shit with Tina and Carol and–”

“Oh, the crabs? Yeaaaah, that’s true,” you slur, “But I rejected Tommy waaay before I knew that. Call it my brilliant instinct. And then he has the nerve to call me frigid, which– trust me, I’m anything… anything but.”

Munson seems a little surprised at this. You can see it in the way his eyebrows dart under his curly bangs.

But you’ve had your share of disappointing experiences with the blandly acceptable boys in your circle– it’s par for the course, it’s part of advancing in the field. You can’t throw your cat into the street completely, but god forbid you be choosy about the boys you want to copulate with. The ones you’ve hooked up with, all unremarkable and perfunctory, always seemed so smug afterwards. Like they’d conquered something.

But from Eddie’s purview, you always held yourself like you were above everyone else; not just the underclassmen and the social rejects, but even your own friends. He’d watch you sometimes, because it’s hard not to watch you. He’d wait for the few flickering moments you let your guard down, when you thought no one was paying attention as you sat at the lunch table or walked the hallways. So achingly unamused by the guffawing, the backslapping, the forced camaraderie of your forced high school persona and your forced high school friends. Then, one of them would say something like, Right, Lacy? and your brow would unarch and you’d be right back in the groove with the rest of them, giggling dumbly and glossing your lips.

He always wondered how you did it, tolerated it. And why.

“Now, far be it from me to agree with a shithead like Hagan–and I don’t, before you get scary–but I kinda get where he’s picking that up,” Eddie winces, throwing a glance to you, glassy-eyed with your head against the window. You’re looking at him with narrowed eyes, eyeliner smudged. Even that look could cut down a man with twice his ego. “You’re a little bit frosty. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day– which, y’know, could be–”

You absolutely do not let him finish the thought.

“It’s caaaalled being aloof, Munson,” you drawl, shuffling your shoulders against the passenger door and pulling a stray thread from your skirt with a sharp snap. “Playing hard to get, duh? Leave them wanting more? You wouldn’t get it because you’re so goddamn big and obvious all the time…”

“Obvious!” he brays, letting his jaw hang open with theatrical flair, “Obvious! Lacy, you wound me, I–”

“Obvious,” you bark back, “Obvious like a neon sign, obvious like a circus tent, obvious like– like– look at me, look at me, I’m a weirdo!” Your Munson impression, complete with devil horns, is a little dorkified but it shuts him right up. That loose little tongue of yours has trasmuted your mood from wrath to barbed silliness. “So obvious you wouldn’t know that kind of subtlety. Not if it hit you in the face.”

A familiar tune whistles from the radio, distracting you. “… or cause you’re a virgin.”

“Okay—!“ Eddie starts, immediately assuming the position of point guard. His hackles are raised, but to be honest, he’s so willing to let you ramble on. It’s the first time he’s heard you talk this much, ever, save your little tête-à-tête by the lockers the other day.

Eddie doesn’t want to stem the flow just yet. He’s not thinking about it too hard.

“Oh shit, do you hear that?” Like a Virgin pumps from the tinny speakers and you reach to turn it up, your head drunkenly bobbling on your neck. Eddie winces; it’s so weird, watching you like this. It’s like dream logic. It’s like opposite day. “Munson’s a virgin! I’m gonna touch him for the very first tiii-iime! Munson’s a vii-iir-gin—“

“First off, no I am not and no,” he audibly swallows, positive you didn’t realize what you just sang, “no, you are not, ‘cause— well.” He clears his throat. A flare of heat burns around his collar. “I’m not the type to bone and tell.”

“Bone and tell.” You guffaw, a sound so unbecoming yet so endearing coming from you, and slump back in your seat. That tight little skirt you’re wearing rides up about an inch and a half. “Sounds like something a virgin would say.”

Eddie huffs; no way around this. You’re fucking with him, and it’s the indefatiguable male ego that’s not going to let him let you win.

He fucks, okay? Or has fucked, prior to this.

Not that there’s anything wrong with not fucking.

But he’s done it.

Eddie’s eyes dart between you and the road, and you’ve got him like a stuck pig with that expectant glare. His eyes linger on your exposed upper legs for a half a second.

Christ, you’re annoying. It occurs to him that wants to bite the soft flesh of your thigh and hear you squeal about it, but you are annoying as hell.

“Fine. Fine. You wanna know?”

Your head lolls against the rough upholstery of the seat and you bat your lashes at him. “I really wanna know.”

And Munson will tell you, you know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“Nicole Summers.”

“Bullshit. Nicole Nicole? My Nicole?”

“Nicole Nicole. Nicole, formerly yours. The only-girl-meaner-than-you Nicole. It was tenth grade,” he snorts bitterly. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life.”

“Nicole told us she got her v-card stamped by a board waxer in Maui.”

“I’ve got a lot of side gigs. You don’t know about me.”

You snort too, despite yourself. That’s a lot of despite-ing tonight, Lacy. You sit up in the seat a little, interest catching. Flame to a candle wick.

“How was it?” you press.

Munson furrows his brow, like duh. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life, I just told you.” A beat. “Until— …Cass Finnigan.”

Now, an encounter like that is less surprising, but still you holler, “Bullshit!”

“I’d say the same shit if it hadn’t, y’know, happened to me,” he stage whispers, “In this van.”

Your eyes widen, a flicker of a grimace sailing across your face. You wonder how he pulled that off, but all that comes to mind is the start of a bad porno– Cass meets him at that dingy little bench out back of the school to pick up and he’s, I don’t know, test driving some of his new supply and offers her a toke. She’s all, why the free samples, Munson? and he’s all, I only let the prettiest girls test the product. And because Cass is notoriously insecure–who among us, girl–she’s all, who, me? and he’s all, come back to my van, and she’s all, but I’m going steady with Mikey B, and he’s all, I won’t tell if you won’t and then he fucks her in the ass.

Because Cass is saving the first hole for marriage and you know that. You’re the kind of person people tell things to.

What you don’t expect is a weird pull of… envy. Why, in this imaginary scenario, had he never invited you back to his van? Well. You know why. But you’re drunk, so logic begone. “When did all this go down?”

“Uh, right before school got back,” Munson answers, kind of apprehensively. He could be lying, you figure.

“Well, Cass has been having a weird year,” you mumble, meaning to think that rather than say it. You know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“What’s that supposed to imply exactly?” Eddie says, an edge in his voice. He can’t help the way something in his chest flares; like he forgot to wait for the other shoe to drop with you, and now it’s dropping.

“It stands to reason that she’d wanna, like, do something stupid,” you explain, and you know how it sounds. It’s mean. But honestly, you’re so drunk, and so past the point of attempting to spare people’s feelings.

“Like hook up with the local freak,” Eddie finishes for you, tone flat. You couldn’t not put him in his place, could you? Not that he thought Cass liked him or anything, he could feel her (literally feel her) going through the motions like a social experiment but– God, a little delusion doesn’t hurt now and again.

“Exactly!” and even in your inebriated state, you can feel the tension in the air, hanging between you like a balloon full of noxious gas. Rather than cut it, you want to poke at it, unfeeling as to whether that’ll make it worse or better between you and the boy in the driver’s seat. You hike yourself up further, leaning toward him, pulling the can of High Life from your face.

Munson’s profile is this beguiling mix of hurt and irritation, lit by the scuzzy orange hue of the passing streetlights.

“What, did you want me to act impressed? Did you want me to lie to you?”

“What? No– look, I know what girls like that– think of me, but,” Eddie’s voice shrinks in his throat, making him sound completely pre-pubescent. He notices you lean forward in his peripheral vision, like you have to strain to hear it, “that doesn’t make it any less shitty.”

Oof. He did not need to unleash that little piss-shake of earnestness right now. He mentally steels himself for a ribbing from you, a cackling, piercing laugh like you let out before Carol punched you.

“Of course it doesn’t!” you froth, “Just like it doesn’t make it any less shitty when guys act like they’re settling a bet with their buddies when they hook up with me.” You cross your arms to your chest with a quickness, slamming back into the seat. “Bet you couldn’t make it with Lacy, she’s got a combination lock on her pussy. Fuck you, dude.”

That coaxes a bark of a laugh from Munson, which makes you giggle a little in turn. It’s a weird feeling. It’s not quite relief; more like satisfaction. One point to Lacy, you made him laugh.

“Combination lock, huh?”

“Allegedly.”

“Bet none of those losers even know how to crack a lock.”

Your head tilts in his direction, forward this time. “And you do?”

Munson’s eyes flash at you, a dangerous orange glint sparkling in the darkness of his irises. “My criminal skillset is pretty diverse.”

He pins you down with this look from the driver’s seat and for a heartbeat or two, and you let him. Just long enough that a stab of sobriety sneaks in– and you can’t deny it, but you wish it didn’t.

You’re drunk.

If you can stay drunk, all bets are off.

If you can stay drunk, whatever you do doesn’t matter, because you were drunk.

You could reach over and press your fingers into the soft denim between his legs, make something hard there. You could squeeze the thickness of him over his zipper and kiss the shock of alabaster skin on his neck, where his pulse goes all jackrabbity under your touch. You could make him forget he ever heard the name Cass Finnigan.

And it would mean nothing.

And you wouldn’t have to justify it, because you were drunk. That’s what you’ve always been taught.

But you uncross your arms and you pull at the hem of your skirt and look to the road, just as the van swerves into the trailer park. Munson doesn’t take such a hard turn at the corner this time, probably wary of your risk of ralphing all over the van if he does. He pulls into that negative space between your trailer and his and instructs you to wait in your seat.

“Trust me, the descent out of this baby is much trickier than it looks,” he assures you, jogging to the passenger door, a jingle of keys and pocket chains and belts on leather, “and you’re way too gone to make it in one piece, princess.”

So he holds his hand out again (“M’shitfacedlady,”) and gingerly you take it, and it becomes very apparent very quickly that your legs have turned to rubber on the drive home.

“Oh, shit!”

Your attempt at gracefully exiting the van is ruined by an unsteady ankle, sending your weight right into Eddie Munson’s chest. Luckily, he was braced for it– just about. “Told you you couldn’t make it without me,” he breathes as you clutch a handful of his Metallica shirt, vision quadrupling. He’s warm, and you suddenly realize that you’re freezing.

Trembling.

“Stop flirting with me,” you hiss to one out of the four Munsons in front of you. “I need to go to bed.”

Eddie forces himself to bite back another double entendre, which is a shame, because they’re doing an awesome job of covering up how goddamn nervous he suddenly is. He moves his arm to your waist, helping you haul ass to your front door. He’s got to keep one arm outstretched behind you in case you lose your balance again– which you almost do, a couple of times, wavering around like a dashboard Jesus.

He watches you like he’s trying to commit this to memory, the rare case of you being so beyond your usual composure. He’s even got to intervene after the first five minutes, making unlocking your front door a two idiot job.

Eddie’s about to wave you off and disappear to scream and something else into his pillow when he sees you take a dangerous lunge into the darkness of the trailer. “Woah, girl–”

But you recover, in a kind of brainless way, taking a measured Bambi-like step forward. One after the other.

Fuck. He can’t leave you like this.

You’re gonna trip and brain yourself on a Fabergé egg or whatever the fuck it is you and your mom have in there.

“Uh– Lacy?”

The trailer is eerily quiet. You feel like you’re trespassing in your own place. Boxes of out-of-place, too-expensive ephemera are still strewn everywhere, but you navigate the maze of them like it’s nothing. Sense memory. You don’t even entirely register that Munson is following you inside, that he’s frantically whispering after you, until you reach your bedroom door.

A coldness shoots up your spine as you turn on him. You didn’t invite him in here, did you?

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask for the second time tonight. This time, it comes out a little fearful.

Eddie picks this up, right where you’ve erroneously dropped it. His chest gets a little tight. You didn’t think he was trying to–?

“Making sure you lie down in the recovery position, that’s all,” he throws his hands up in total surrender, Scout’s honor, all that shit. “I’m not tryin’ to pick any locks tonight. I swear.”

“I don’t need your help, Munson,” but just as you twist the doorknob, you keel over through the door, hitting the floor like a lead balloon.

“Yeah, you keep telling me that,” he blearily smirks down at you, “And yet.”

But Munson’s not such an asshole about it that he just leaves you there. He hauls you up, again, and you stagger towards your bed, flopping face down on top of the comforter. He says some variation of okay, well, that’s how you choke to death on your own vomit, Jimi Hendrix and bullies you into the recovery position.

“Don’t freak out, I’m just–” and Munson sits gingerly on the edge of your bed, taking one of your high heeled feet in his hands.

What the fuck, you mumble, either aloud or in your head. But he’s fiddling with the tiny buckle at your ankle, gently undoing it. Another chill runs through your body but you don’t move, not an iota. You just… let him do it. His hands on your aching feet aren’t a totally unwelcome touch. He’s being featherlight about it, almost afraid to touch you even though he had no problem sheepdogging you into bed.

“You could do anything to me right now,” you hear yourself saying. “No one would even know. No one would even care, I bet.”

It’s meant to sound like you’re goading him, or even flirting with him, but it comes out sounding pitiful. You cringe, your hands creeping up to cover your face.

“I’d care.” Munson’s voice is a tiny mumble– you know he’s just defending himself, but it kind of sounds like something else. He slips your right shoe off and sets it on the floor next to your left one. He hesitates for a moment before getting off your bed.

“Alright, well– we can forget this ever happened. Resume being assholes to each other on Monday. Don’t, like, die in the meantime.”

“You say resume like we ever stopped being assholes to each other.”

“Have a fun hangover, Lacy.”

–

You do not have a fun hangover. You wake up late Saturday afternoon after Friday’s bacchanal and don’t emerge from your room save from the occasional bathroom trip to puke up what little dignity you’ve got left. Sunday morning is when your mom hammers on the door and drags you to the kitchenette after confirming that you’re still, y’know, alive.

“This is your game face, hm?” she says, pulling at your chin to examine your violet bruise that seems to have developed its own heartbeat. She doesn’t hold your face the way Munson did, gentle and searching, just tugs into the sparse light streaming into the dingy kitchenette.

You attempt to steel your jaw, but your bottom lip is starting to waver.

“What happened?” your mother asks, and beneath all the jagged broken glass, there’s a tiny sliver of tenderness.

Call it your pride, but you don’t reach for it.

“I went out,” you say tightly, “and I made a fool of us.”

She hacks up a scoff through her smoker’s cough and disappears into her bedroom, leaving you alone to pick at a cold waffle. The few moments of consciousness you’ve had since Friday night have been spent trying to piece the party together– you remember clearing the better part of a bottle of cheap, cheap, shitty vodka with Robin Buckley’s help (weird), you remember getting into it with Hagan and Carol and getting wailed on. You remember getting a ride home with Munson, but the finer details of that are fuzzy.

You think, and this is a thought that turns your already 180’d stomach, you let him into your bedroom, but you can’t be one hundred percent sure. All you know for an absolute is that your shoes came off that night, and you would never bother to take your shoes off after a night like that.

So somebody must have.

Meanwhile, Eddie’s been having a hell of a meanwhile.

Fact of the matter is that you managed to detonate a nuclear bomb at Harrington’s party just under an hour after your arrival, which has got to be some kind of world record. It was also a world record for how little product he’d managed to sell during one of those parties, because he was preventing the manslaughter of a teenage girl– could’ve been you, could’ve been Carol. He nearly wishes he let that fight play out, as he stares into his empty wallet.

Eddie’s gotta busy himself somehow, gotta do something– weirdly, he’s not in the mood to make a whole lot of noise. It’s not such a terrible day for working on his van, so he slams his toolbox on the ground and gives a couple dozen casual glances toward your bedroom window.

Your blinds still aren’t fixed. That’s got to have been shitty when you woke up with a splitting vodka headache and a shiner the size of Canada.

Eddie keeps finding excuses to pace back and forth in perfect view of your window. Not in a peeping Tom sort of way, but in a way where he’d kind of like to see any sign of life from you. Even if you just rose from your bed like Nosferatu and gave him the finger. Then, he could relax.

“Ed,” a gruff voice comes from the makeshift trailer porch, “fuck’re you doin’.”

Those dulcet tones would belong to his beloved Uncle Wayne, who, ever since his hours got cut at the plant, has become unbearably observant of Eddie’s every movement. Wayne’s not a neglectful kind of father figure, not like his blinders-wearing real dad is, so he actually gets concerned when Eddie’s acting out of sorts.

“Engine,” Eddie mumbles, pivoting fast like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t, “Engine’s making hinky noises.”

“Sounded alright last night,” Wayne levels him instantly, “when you came home.”

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he twists an oily rag in his hands, avoiding Wayne’s stony stare.

“I was up.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. God, whenever Wayne susses him out, it’s like drip torture. He’s slow as molasses with the confrontation on purpose, making Eddie sweat and out himself on every little fuck up he’s ever made. “You go in there?”

Chin jerks towards your trailer. Eddie’s shoulders shrug towards his ears, head tilting back. “Wayne, it’s not– she was real drunk, like blotto, I just–”

“You steer clear of that one.” It’s the definite nature with which Wayne says it that makes Eddie’s stomach drop. No prelude to it, no I know, kid, you were just tryin’ to do right by her. Nothing.

“Wayne–”

“She ain’t what you think she is. Not if she’s anything like her bloodline.”

He says this like the realization hasn’t hit Eddie like Carol hit you on Friday fight night.

He says this like people haven’t been saying the same thing about Eddie for years.

–

Monday morning comes and you’re still somewhat suffering. A headache nags at your temple, but you pin that down to anxiety rather than an extended play of your hangover.

It occurs to you that you should dress as down as possible today– realistically, of course, as you’d never be caught dead in sweatpants. You need comfort, you need something that feels like a well-worn blanket so you opt for a deep burgundy sweater dress that actually belonged to your mom in the 60s.

You’d found it in the back of her closet when searching for a belt you knew she’d stolen from you and pulled it out. Mom! you chirped, How cute! How come you never wear this?

Oh, God, she’d cringed, batting the garment out of her way as she passed you in a cloud of Shalimar, Just throw that ratty thing out for me, would you?

But you didn’t. You kept it tucked away in the back of your closet and took it out when you needed it. When you needed to bury your face in it. Substitute it for a comfort she refused to give you. Which you realize is terrifically sad, but so’s life.

The warm red is a distant cousin in the color family to the bruise under your eye. That bruise, it’s a glaring reminder of what a fucking loser you’ve become. The old you, the real you would never have stooped to that level– never had let them drag her down like that. But now you’re the kind of girl that screams and starts fights at parties, you guess.

Your rage feels ugly in the cold light of day.

You’re locking the door of the trailer behind you just as Munson emerges from his humble abode and it’s nothing short of awkward. Like you’d both seen each other naked or something.

You both stand there, in your relative doorways. His mouth gapes like he’s about to say hi, say something, and a memory comes back to you. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day. No one likes that. No one wants that.

Regret stabs at you.

“Can you see it from there?” It’s the only thing you can think of to say, because you’re sure as fuck not saying hi.

“What?”

“The bruise. Can– can you see it from over there?”

Munson sort of half-snorts. “Not from here–”

“Ugh, thank god.”

“--but this is like, over fifteen feet away.”

You roll your eyes, which hurts a lot, thanks guy, and walk toward his van.

“Now?” you say, waving a hand under your eye, right where you’ve applied and blended and applied and blended a criminal amount of concealer. Munson leaves about a foot of space between you, on purpose, and you crane your neck back, on purpose. Reinstating the forcefield between you.

“Oh yeah, you can barely even see that you got your ass kicked.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning, Munson. Do you really want to start your day with a knee to the balls?”

“You’re right. That’s usually an after-dinner activity,” he grins and jerks his head toward the van. “Need a ride?”

Need a ride? Like it’s the most ordinary, everyday thing in the world, Eddie Munson offering you a ride to school in his deathtrap of a van. Your stomach pulls at the sense memory of being in there on Friday night, and what you’ll look like getting out of it in the parking lot of Hawkins High.

“No,” you say, shaking your head, definite and resolute. “I’m walking.”

He scoffs. “C’mon. It’s too late to start walking now. You’ll be late for first period.”

You scoff back, imitating him. “So what?”

“You’re never late for first period.”

“I can be late– how the hell do you know I’m never late for first period?”

“Because, dummy, I’m always late for first period,” he tells you, yanking open the passenger door, “And I sit behind you in History, and you’re always there when I come in, leaning back with your nose in some dumb book and your stupid hair all over my desk.”

It’s true– you are always reading in history, because Kaminsky can’t teach for shit and you’ve already read ahead on the coursework anyway. You liked to rub that in his face by pulling out some unprescribed literature during class. Plus, no one you really care about is in your class, so you don’t have to worry about getting made fun of for having your nose in some dumb book. Illiterate jocks would never try that shit with you– nobody there would.

Until now.

And it’s true that Eddie Munson sits behind you, and barrels in like an idiotic excuse for a hurricane with some idiotic excuse for being late that you always scoff at, because does he ever get tired of his own bullshit. But after that brief cameo appearance in your day, you really do forget about him.

Until now.

“So?” he says, all expectant.

And you consider it for a second, you really do– but you don’t think you can handle the blowback of leaving a party with Eddie Munson on Friday then turning up with him on Monday. Going to the same class. Where he sits behind you. It’s just… overexposure.

The same realization must hit him, because all of a sudden he’s slamming the door shut with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever. Your tardy slip, babe.” You can’t help but think he sounds a little wounded.

But fuck it. Fuck it! Since when do you stand around feeling sorry for Eddie Munson?

Before you know it, the van roars out and leaves you in the dust.

You don’t make it to school until after second period, because that so-called bus route a fifteen minute walk from the trailer park must not even exist, so you forge a note from your mom in the parking lot.

As your fountain pen hovers over the paper, brainstorming an excuse, you consider pulling out the big guns– say you had to attend visitation day at the penitentiary. Use this disaster to your advantage for once; but you pull back. Scribble something about a doctor’s appointment and dot your mother’s ‘i’s with eerie precision.

You make quick work of dropping the note off in reception– the uptick of being the kid of the town’s gossip beacon is some people still feel sorry for you. Some people weirdly include Janice, Principal Higgins’ secretary, who snatches the note from you before you can even reach the actual receptionist’s desk.

“I’ll file that for you, dear,” she says, all coo-cooey with an unwelcome hand on your shoulder, “How are you and your poor mother doing these days? And your,” her croaky voice drops to a whisper, “dad? How is… he being treated?”

You blink at her, gripping the fountain pen in your hand. “Do you know what a shiv is, Janice?”

Just then, the bell trills and you take your leave, stepping out into the linoleum.

Someone calls your name from down the hall. You crane your neck to see Ronnie Ecker jogging toward you, paper in hand.

Now look, you’ve never had a problem with Ronnie Ecker. You can’t say you’re particularly fond of her but she’s smart; she keeps to herself and she was a decent lab partner during your junior year of dissecting frogs together. Squeamish, but that’s why you were there, to handle the scalpel. As much of a social outcast as she is, she’s not nearly as odious as the rest of them. That’s pretty goddamn remarkable amongst the Hawkins student body.

She is also, you’ve come to notice, a resident of Forest Hills trailer park.

“Hey!” she says, “Um, I noticed you missed first period and Kaminsky was handing our papers back so I figured you’d want yours…”

“Why is everyone so obsessed with me missing first period?”

“Huh?”

“No– nothing,” you huff, taking the paper from her. A solid B on A+ material– told you Kaminsky couldn’t teach for shit. He’d be hearing from you about this. “Thanks for this, Ronnie.”

You start down the hall but notice Ronnie’s keeping in step with you. “I also just wanted to say– I heard about what happened Friday. And I think it’s sick, you standing up to Hagan like that. Asshole needed to be put in his place.”

Well, there’s only one person she could have heard the nitty gritty of that news from. You know she’s trying to flatter you, but all you feel is a flame of embarrassment, plus a touch of anger– even though the news has easily circulated the school hallways by now.

Along with the rumors of you taking Hargrove, Buckley and Munson, and not in a fight.

“Well. Y’know. I was pretty wasted,” you attempt to brush it off and you see Ronnie deflate a little.

Like you’re not the blazing hero someone made you out to be.

“Okay, but is it true you had a threesome with Billy Hargrove and Robin Buckley and Robin was wearing the Tigers mascot suit?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

–

Classes pass in a monotonous blur, like most Mondays, but worse. That would be thanks to the extra shot of dread that’s served with your cafeteria meal of a wilted salad and soda. Last week at lunchtime, you at least had a tenuous standing with your former circle– you could still sit between Tina and Nancy Wheeler and suffer Tina’s thinly veiled jabs at you with a semi-placid look on your face. Nancy would look at you with eyes full of pity, and you’d want to punch her face in, but you’d be fine.

But now, as you stand in the cafeteria swirling with people and catch the death glares from your old table (save for Nancy and Steve Harrington, who just straight up refuse to make eye contact with you), you’re just about ready to snap.

Your flight instinct tells you to toss the tray out of your clammy hands and run, and keep running, until you disappear into the woods behind the school, never to be found. Your body becomes mulch before anyone remembers to look for you. Maybe you make really good fertilizer and a couple of pretty weeds sprout up from where you die.

Your bruise, under its flaking layers of concealer, throbs twice– as if to say, don’t you fucking dare.

You make a confident beeline for the table, chin tilted and eyes set in a stare that could be categorized as withering, if only it was trained on anybody in particular. You grab a chair that some dumb underclassman is about to sit in and drag it with you, legs screeeeeching across the waxed floor.

Who gives a shit who you were on Friday night.

“I can sit here, right?” you say, and place your tray on the table next to Ronnie Ecker.

She just stares at you for a hot second. That’s too long to stay standing in uncertainty, so you settle your stolen chair at the table and sit next to her.

Ronnie isn’t the only one staring, however– the rest of these dorks, all in their matching t-shirts with Satan’s fiery head emblazoned across them, are watching you with their mouths agape.

“Is this a prank or something?” one of them, a curly-haired freshman, says.

This question is directed toward their fearless leader, decked out in denim and leather at the head of the table. That is to say, the direct opposite end of the table that you’re sitting at.

“That’s no way to greet a lady, Gareth,” Munson says, feigning coolness but you can tell he’s a little flustered. The dead giveaway is in the way he misses his mac and cheese with his fork, the way his solid gaze double-blinks. You’ve thrown him off game– and because he’s impossible not to overhear sometimes, you know that game is all he’s got going on at this table.

There’s that feeling again– point to Lacy.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

This is Munson’s version of what the hell do you think you’re doing, but you choose to ignore him. It’ll drive him insane, and you know that, glaring red warning sign that he is. Instead, you flash a smile at the freshman that almost makes him pass out, Cupid’s arrow struck straight through the heart.

You cross your legs and angle your body toward Ronnie– and by extension, in the direction of your old table. You can see Carol burying her face in Tommy’s shoulder, the both of them on the verge of losing bowel control with laughter. Laughter at you.

Who gives a shit who you were before Friday night.

“So, Ronnie,” you say, taking a sip of your Tab, “You get up to anything fun this weekend?”

author's notes: let me get ahead of everything and say yes, i am absolutely fucking with the timeline. suspend your disbelief, my beautiful babies, and enjoy steve, carol, tommy and ronnie ecker still being in high school because I SURE WILL. but on an absolutely serious note, thank you so much for all the support and each and every note you’ve put on the chapters so far. i seriously, seriously appreciate it. now, the notes: - you think eddie munson doesn’t fuck with pee-wee herman heavy? you think he didn’t watch this movie in reefer rick’s, high out of his gourd, and think oh yeah i love this freak? get REAL! RIP paul reubens, this one’s for you. specially every time i mention a handjob - eddie munson also has charlie kelly disease - speaking of iterations of always sunny characters, much like frank reynolds, there’s not a get rich quick scheme al munson hasn’t tried. we’ll get into that a little more… later - admittedly, the whole ‘face eating on bath salts’ thing didn’t gain traction until the 00s, but if hawkins is going to be ahead of its time in anything, it’s fucked up shit happening to people! - did you notice how i blended eddie and lacy’s povs in the van? i’m going to continue doing that in moments where they’re on a similar ~wavelength~ - jimi hendrix did unfortunately die of asphixiation, but instead of thinking about that, watch this sick video of him playing guitar that eddie definitely has committed to memory - RONNIE ECKER KLAXON. i know that in flight of icarus she’s described as tall, but that hasn’t stopped me fancasting her as ayo edebiri in an eddie munson wig - at this point, you might be thinking damn, everyone sure seems to hate each other in this story. like, why is nancy wheeler catching strays? i’m here to remind you it’s the 1980s and teenagers kind of suck. play the track - thanks again for all the love! you can keep this crazy train going by liking, commenting, reblogging and generally showing me the same kindness you’ve shown me so far. love u my little hellcats

#published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #e. munson by powder

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joneruiz · 3 months

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Final Fantasy 7 – Tifa’s Theme Guitar Tab https://is.gd/7MWriV

#VideoGameGuitarTabs

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xifavavucoxi · 2 years

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Alba emoting pdf writer

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arrowtoe31 · 4 years

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Acoustic Guitar Can Be Fun for Everyone

www.melodiamusik.com/gitar Introducing Acoustic Guitar Yamaha guitars are excellent performers the majority of the Yamaha guitars are in fact excelling greatly in every area of performance. They are descendants of stringed instruments that were found in a variety of cultures thousands and thousands of years ago. If you wish to find some special and top superior guitar, then Yamaha is the correct alternative. The point is, gibbons are the very best. Repair or replace any terrible wires if you're able to achieve that. The cost of the guitar doesn't determine its worth. The string quality gives you the ability to play comfortably. A couple of the strongest reasons to get an acoustic guitar are user-friendliness and price. You are also able to get a steel string acoustic that has allowed around and it's better for experienced guitar players. Blues and country arrive at the fore. You will be far more likely to practice and play it if you prefer it. 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The option of guitar you get is based on the form of music you wish to make and still you mean to have. The Secret to Acoustic Guitar If you are a newcomer to shopping for guitars, then it's even more critical that you learn everything you can before you make your very first purchase. So you have finally made a decision to put money into your fantasy guitar. Actually, the guitar is similar to an ensemble! Acoustic guitars are exactly what you have to unlock your musical talent. Many acoustic guitars are in reality electro-acoustic, meaning they may be employed with an amplifier. If you wish to get a decent acoustic guitar at a very low cost. If you're obtaining a guitar for a beginner, it's important to realize that you want to take into account several things. Probably the main component that you would need to take into consideration when deciding on a guitar would be the action. You do not actually need to have an expensive new guitar. When it is after 1975, it's an Asian guitar. If you would like to find some special and top high quality guitar, then Yamaha is the proper choice. Now, it's only up to you to choose which guitar to select and make it your next musical companion. As you start to learn to play acoustic guitar, your ability won't be quite as polished and your very first guitar will probably take a little abuse since it's still true that you have to learn much about playing strategies. If your initial acoustic guitar isn't the ideal option for you, then it can dramatically decrease the enjoyment you will receive out of your instrument. As guitars can be played by kids and adults alike, a selection of sizes are readily available. Acoustic guitars are normally simple to transport, but if you want to travel with your guitar frequently a three-quarter sized instrument might be more manageable. The Yamaha FG800 Solid top acoustic guitar proves you don't have to spend a lot to produce great music.

It's true, you are going to need a guitar. Actually it is best to use a used guitar. Whether you're on the lookout for an acoustic guitar to learn on or would prefer a replacement or upgrade, you will discover thousands of new and secondhand choices. Deciding on the most effective acoustic guitar is contingent on the individual player and their requirements. Many people believe the guitar and the ukulele are similar, but they're also different. Clearly, a guitar which has an ebony neck is likely to cost over a rosewood neck. Determine the money which you are eager to spend on the guitar as it also impacts the form of guitar you become. Have a look at our toy guitars so you can receive the kids involved too! Although selecting the best acoustic guitar under 500 bucks appears to be a difficult call, it's really very tricky to go wrong.

#acoustic guitar

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gethuve · 4 years

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He didn't get to eat for some hours after the vet. So he got super happy when I gave him some food. Look at those eyes 🥳

The embracement, or whatever you want to call it.

He looks super happy. A little slow after the vet. But he'll be up in a day.

Kaay this will be my next stop in guitar journey.

I have become quitte tired of guitar actually.

It feels like I caan learn the most things I want to, then I loose my fire for being able to?

That fucking sucks..

I guess I have to push myself towards the feeling again, that spark.

I used to play 6to12 hours, even more, a day. When I was super psychotic. No I might play for and hour or to.

But! I have managed to cross over some levels, or. That I am able to do alot.

Makes me unmotivated..

So the medicine is working on all levels I guess.

Need that back. Kinda.

And I hope I am starting a music class to springs.

Another thing.

I will probably buy Daisuke Minamizawa's Final Fantasy solo guitar vol.3

Those who fight, boss battle and enemy battles music are fucking awesome.

youtube

This guy, waow.

The lead parts are going to be, kinda easy. I have already tabbed out the most of them.

But this guy, or Daisukes works, are another level.

He plays chords or double to quadra stops.

Picking 2 or more strings, quadra for 4. And so on.

youtube

This is the original.

And ofc, there are some people who made a more metal version of it.

youtube

Then there's is ofc "still more fighting" that's also fucking heavy!

I'm thinking of buying the tabs and support this guy on Patreon.

And ofc the FF7 Vol.3 book.

Thinking of learning a System of a Down song. I actually hated them in the begining. Now that I am "older", I kinda understand how unique they are. And how like "wtf is going on". They are having fun, simply just having fun with music and still being heavy, chaos, anger.

I think their kinda nice.

Going to listen to some of their albums.

And of "Here to stay" with Korn, is fucking amazing. Super heavy.

Which I have already begining playing along with. Or just taking out some parts.

Been playing along with Comeback Kid "should have known better".

Its really, really fast and really chaotic. How they move on the guitar. Big ups to that.

I love the song.

Another thing I like playing is doom.

The rythm is usually kinda easy, then they have this fucking major solo that is hard af. Hahhahah xD

I am nothing - with Electric Wizard. Or funeral polis. That solo is bwaow. And when the singer sings "turned to us and said", and then they do a voice thing. Like they enter a bubble in the space and it goes out on the other side.

That part is so fucking genius it's amaazing.

OH HELL YEAH! I ALMOST FORGOT WHAT I WANTED TO BE ABLE TO PLAY!! YES!!!

Converge, god damnit. Math metal. That's it. 🌞

They play, like, holy fuck their good.

K. Horror movies and Beyonde Pink as start, then Comeback Kid rehearsal. and after that.. uhm.. maybe some Off springs. And theeeen some Here to stay. Then something more intense.

I actually learned the Off springs solo. But yeah I forgot that. Lol.

I FUCKING HATE YOUR ENERGY DUDE.

Why the fuck would I ever miss a fucking retard like you? HUH? Trashy backstabbing bitch. No one misses you. And your dead to me.

C nothing but a sabotager.

#personal #Setting up Goals #Guitar Journey #Musical Journey #Guitar #Kitty Cat Powah #Cat problems 101 #Cat #Sixten Junior Amadeus da Buer

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talemagne · 5 years

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21 Questions!!! Thanks for the tag @salemssimblr ! Since I only know a few people and I know they’ve done this already I won’t send the message on.

Rules: Answer 21 questions, then tag 21 people you want to get to know better. (I’ll try to tag 21 but I don’t know if I know that many people…)

Nickname: Talemagne, Tech

Zodiac: Aries

Height: I’m about 5′3″

The last Thing Searched: Umm, How to spell Astronomy.

Favorite Musicians: Oh boy, Really can’t say but Music I like? That’s like easy I like German industrial and metal/hard rock. So things like Melotron, Metallica, Megadeth, Gravity Kills, Live, Reverend Horton Heat, Wrathchild America, Warrior Soul. I also adore classical music and a bit of opera on the side hehe. I love 80′s music too as well and find myself listening to that more and more.

Song Stuck in Head: haven’t had one lately

If you had a time machine, would you go back in time or visit the future? There’s a lot of past me needs to know. So I guess I’d go to the past.

Do I Get Asks: No and honestly I am grateful. It isn’t that I don’t want Asks or that I’m stuck up or anything along those lines. I am just worried I wouldn’t know the answer.

Following: around 40 or so? Can’t say for sure. I am still new to Tumblr and still finding people and places I like.

Would you rather be rich or famous? Definitely rich. I would NOT want people sticking their nose into my business every minute of every day, but I would most definitely like to not worry about money.

Amount of Sleep: average? Kinda hard to tell cause I don’t get all my sleep at one time.

Lucky Number: umm...err... don’t have one?

What I’m Wearing: Tank top and shorts.

Dream Job: assuming I could do the job, Marine Biologist. If we are talking about me being able to do the job then I guess what I am doing now. Disabled

Dream Trip: There’s a lot of places I’d like to go to. So I guess so that I could see a few different ones I’d love to go on a cruise. Like the Bahamas.

If you were an animal, what would you be? A wolf.

Favorite Food: probably Mashed Potatoes or fries.

What are some of your favorite books/films/shows/games/etc?

Books: Myth Series by Robert Asprin. Harry Potter series. Rachel Morgan series by Kim Harrison. Anita Blake by Laurel K. Hamilton.

Films: Animation would probably be Aladdin. Live-Action hmm that’s hard. Empire Strikes Back?

Shows: Loved Game of thrones. Lost.

Games: Sims 2-4, Most any Newer Final Fantasy game. Assasin’s Creed Odyssey and origins, Skyrim, Zoo Tycoon. Civ 4. Centipede, Sonic, Mortal Kombat 1-3. Sooo many others.

Play Any Instruments: Saxophone I could probably still play with some practice. I learned some tab stuff for guitar but I'm not good at it by any means.

Language(s): English only really. I know some words in other languages. But that’s about it.

Describe Yourself as Aesthetics: Not very pleasing. Maybe perhaps, OMG! That’s what you look like?! or something like that.

Hey, if you see this and you wanna take part, go right ahead! Tag me in your post. I can’t wait to read your answers!

#just for fun #non update #text #salemsims

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julesthequirky · 6 years

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Lead Me Into Temptation Chapter Two

Summary: Your crush on your next door neighbour is already long established. The signs are slight, but you can’t fully tell if he likes you or not. The problem is: he’s much older.

You laid there on your bed, chest rising and falling in rapid pace, sweat glistening, your breath heavy, heart pounding as you came down from your high.

You moved the vibrator away from between your legs over to one side to clean up later. A thought occurred to you as you looked over to the open window.

Had he heard you? You hadn’t been overly loud. But you had been a little louder than usual as your parents were away. You sat up abruptly worried. You pressed your face to the glass to catch a glimpse, but you couldn’t see him, he was more than likely in his workshop. You hoped to God.

Half an hour later you were smelling fresh and dressed, vibrator hidden safely away, stuffed under many layers. You heard the familiar rumble of a car turn into a driveway and went to investigate. A smile upturned your lips. It was his 1978 Lincoln Continental Mark V in jubilee gold. It wasn’t his only car, because he had a 1969 Dodge Charger in cardinal red with a white racing stripe down the middle. God that car was a beauty. You had had many fantasies about that car and Misha Collins.

He stopped and stepped out, leaning down to pick up groceries across the seat. You groaned at the view of his ass. Jesus. He was gonna be the death of you.

Your phone pinged. You averted your gaze to whoever had messaged you.

It was Mike. You closed your eyes. You had forgot. You had promised to practice the hymns with him. You quickly tapped out a message back to him agreeing to meet at three and not to forget his guitar.

At three, Mike came round the back and walked into the conservatory. You were already at the piano tinkling with the ivories.

Unbeknown to you, Mike had piqued Misha’s interest and he was peering over the fence looking into the fully glass conservatory. The doors and windows were wide open and he could hear you play. He knew the tune well. AC/DC’s Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He had no idea, but you weren’t what you seemed and he loved it.

“Nice, what song is that?” Mike asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I was just messing around.” you dismissed.

Over the fence, Misha couldn’t hide his annoyance. Figured he didn’t know what decent music was.

Mike pulled his guitar over him and Y/N grabbed the sheet music from the side and sifted through the pages to get the right one.

“How Great Thou Art, 3, 2, 1.” You nodded counting down the beats and your fingers started the beginning melody into the great hymn.

Mike then accompanied you and you started to sing.

Your voice wasn’t what he expected. Your sweet and innocent appearance demeanour should have complimented your voice. Your voice had a rock vibe to it. It shocked people. You tried your best to sing softer but it still had that rock grit to it.

You rested after the song before going straight into In Christ Alone.

One more song left you told yourself. This was the only way you could sing without anyone questioning your song choices. Your parents were proud of you. You had excelled in music and mechanics. Two complete opposites but you had loved them both equally.

Motors and music that was your thing. But your mother had put a stop to that. She had said future husbands didn’t like women with dirt ingrained in their skin and under their nails.

After the third and final song you closed the piano lid, putting the sheet music away. Mike’s hand shot out and pulled out the Aerosmith sheet music.

He cocked his head and you had to bite your tongue, stopping yourself from telling him what you really wanted.

“I didn’t know you liked rock.”

He flicked through it.

“It’s my neighbours.” You lied.

“Oh,” He looked at the back. “Shouldn’t you give it back?”

“Yeah. I’ve been meaning to.”

You had forgot to hide it upstairs.

“Let’s do that now.”

And before you could do anything he was out of your house and heading over to the 4 foot fence. Oh my God. You ran over as he called Mr Collins over. You watched as he walked out, wiping his hands on an already filthy rag. He saw you and smiled. He turned his attention to Mike. He was wearing another old and tattered t-shirt.

The way he stood had your mouth as dry as the Sahara Desert. It really was unethical of you to be that in too deep. He was almost 20 years older than you, for Christ’s sake! You had tried. And failed.

“Mr Collins, I believe this belongs to you.” Mike said and handed over your Aerosmith music book.

Misha took it, a quizzical expression on his face. His eyes flicked to you, unblind to the anxiety etched all over your features and body. Something told him you didn’t want your parents finding out. You were asking him to keep a secret.

Misha smiled at Mike and thanked him, thanked you for returning it to him.

“I had forgot about this.”

You nodded, relieved. He was a good liar. You couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing.

You lead Mike out the back gate and saw him off. Mike was lovely. He had that whole clean and wholesome look about him, which would have been great but you weren’t interested in good devout pretty boys, but he was also intrusive and you hated that about him.

Your legs felt unsteady as you walked back to Misha. He smiled and wiped the condensation from the can over his perspiring skin. The sound of the tab popping open on the can pulled you to reality but when he drank your mind sang praises.

He propped the beer down and gave you his full attention.

“Aerosmith and AC/DC. Is that what all the good girls listen to nowadays?” he asked with a teasing grin.

You blushed. God. You had to learn to stop blushing at everything he said.

“Cause last time I heard, that’s what the bad girls listened to. Are you secretly a bad girl, Y/N?” His voice dropped to a whisper and leaned closer to you.

You stuttered. He winked and you felt your whole body weaken.

“I’m not like the other girls at church, Mr Collins.”

“I bet you’re a breath of fresh air. I’m sure your boyfriend knows that.”

You gave him a strange look.

“The guy you had over.” he prompted.

“Oh. No he’s not my boyfriend. We were practising for Sunday. We’re on the worship team.”

He nodded.

“He doesn’t look like he could give you want you want anyway.” He said offhand.

You almost choked on your breath.

“And what do I want?” You asked.

He looked at you properly then and you felt his blue orbs touch your soul.

“Experience. Someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who can make you sin just by looking at them. Someone who will put your pleasure first and draw it out. Nice and slow.” He smirked after and handed you your book back.

You gulped. You had a thousand sins in your head. All of them with him in mind.

Misha ticked all those points off. Now all you could think about was him drawing out your pleasure. Nice and slow. He turned away from you and picked up his beer. God you wanted to be that can touching his lips. His swagger had your eyes travelling down to his hips and butt. Your eyes followed as he made his way back to his workshop.

Lead Me Into Temptation Tags:

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#Lead Me Into Temptation #misha collins #misha #misha smut #misha fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn #spn rpf #spn au #misha x reader

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foxissofoxy · 6 years

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My current muse…

“Love is blind, they say; sex is impervious to reason and mocks the power of all philosophers. But, in fact, a person’s sexual choice is the result and sum of their fundamental convictions. Tell me what a person finds sexually attractive and I will tell you their entire philosophy of life. Show me the person they sleep with and I will tell you their valuation of themselves. No matter what corruption they’re taught about the virtue of selflessness, sex is the most profoundly selfish of all acts, an act which they cannot perform for any motive but their own enjoyment - just try to think of performing it in a spirit of selfless charity! - an act which is not possible in self-abasement, only in self-exultation, only on the confidence of being desired and being worthy of desire. It is an act that forces them to stand naked in spirit, as well as in body, and accept their real ego as their standard of value. They will always be attracted to the person who reflects their deepest vision of themselves, the person whose surrender permits them to experience - or to fake - a sense of self-esteem .. Love is our response to our highest values - and can be nothing else.” ― Ayn Rand ——————————————————————————————- “What’s that?”

I was silent. I could honestly hear what my friend was hearing. There wasn’t any denying it. The walls that separated my Dads bedroom from my own were practically paper thin based on the sound effects that were coming from his side.

My lack of response confirmed to my friend Andre that what he was hearing was the sound of-sex.

“That’s your Dad?”

I nodded.

“Wow! He’s really giving it to her.”

We both listened to the headboard knocking against the far wall, the rocking of the bed and my Dad grunting as he encouraged for more and faster.

“Since when did your Dad start back to dating?”

"Not sure. I do know he’s banging. Now you know too.”

“I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.”

“I didn’t either.”

Andre and I did our usual fist bump and peace sign. He was out. Deuces.

I have known my Dad for 15 years, all my life actually. I can recall the earliest memory of him. I guess it’s the moment we all become self-aware based on a significant moment where an insignificant memory begins to build and retain on top of other long ago father and son activities. What I can’t remember is ever hearing him have sex with my Mom. Ever. The thought alone was cringe-worthy to think of my parents in that way. This new set of events that was on its fourth night, a school night I might add was something I would have to bring to his attention.

“Oh my God, Rick…Oh, my God. Right-ahh-there. Ohhh,Yes. Yesssss…Yessss.”

“You like how I’m giving it to you? You like this?”

My Dad was asking her over and over again. She finally responded to him.

“Yesssss. Oh, Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“I fucking live for this-All of this. Right here. Oh shit. Yessss.”

I wanted my Dad to say nothing else. I only wanted to hear her.

Whoever she was, she was way more vocal this time around with the oooh and aaahs that I couldn’t help but have more of a boner as long as my Dad kept quiet or quiet enough where I could unleash my teen fantasy on Beth Smith who worked in the lunchroom.

Beth Smith was four years older than me, and she was my girl crush, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Sunday was spent in the Catholic church where I spilled every sordid detail to Father Gabriel in the confessional booth. The heathen side of me was reborn every Monday like clock-work when my eyes would lock with hers in the cafeteria line.

I would fantasize about Beth. I imagined Beth and me together almost obsessively. I reached for the cock sock that I kept in my nightstand drawer. I was ready to burst at the seams. I was prepared until my Dad yelled, “Myyyyyyyyy. EHHHHH. Uhhhh.” Then silence. Seconds later, giggles. UGHH. I put my sock back in my drawer for another time.

Our confrontation happened in the kitchen.

I waited for him to come out of his bedroom the next morning. My Dad was dressed in his uniform. He’s a Deputy Sheriff. Our routine was always the same routine since Mom left him for what she considered a better life going on three years ago. He was adjusting his gun belt. I was at the kitchen table doodling guitar tabs to piano chords that were running through my mind at high speed. I am a gifted Pianist. I’ve also been told that I am a dark spirit. I take it as a compliment that my genius has manifested in order take over the world by storm.

“You missed the bus?” He was surprised to see me still home.

“I didn’t sleep.”

“Do you want me to take the TV out of your room along with your game system?”

This was his usual threat that he never acted on, but he felt it was a motivator for good behavior to not miss the bus 4 days in a row.

“I could turn up the volume of my TV to drown out other noises, but then neither one of us would get any sleep.”

“What are you talking about, Carl?”

I didn’t have a chance to answer because his phone vibrated loudly and his attention was on whatever was displayed. The smirk on his lips was every indication that it wasn’t work-related. If I had someone to bet against, I would put my whole life savings that it had everything to do with last night and the night before and the night before that and so on. I watched his fingers move and wondered when did he ever become so proficient with texting?

“You aren’t staying home. I will take you to school. If you get detention, you are going to serve it. I am not going to get you out of trouble.”

“Who is she?”

He began to search the refrigerator for the creamer. It was right in front of him, but it was like he couldn’t see it. It took him a whole 10 seconds to grab it. The refrigerator wasn’t stocked with much.

“Who’s who?”

“Who is it that you have in your bedroom?”

“What?”

“No. Who?”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

I allowed him to have that. Her name was Oh. I was going to give him time to clarify if Oh was an Asian lady or if Oh meant something different. But it was more like a dragged out Ohhhhhh!

My Dad poured himself a cup of coffee, forgetting the creamer as he stirred and texted. He placed two slices of visibly green pieces of moldy bread in the toaster. I sat back and watched with amusement.

“We only have one Oh that I am aware of and he’s the math teacher.” I was referencing my former math teacher Glen Oh. My Dad knew Glen on a personal level for years. “Are you messing around with his wife Maggie Oh who works in the library?”

“For God sakes no.”

“Then?”

“For shit sakes, Carl. I’m not messing around. What’s happening…What’s going on is just…”

“Just what?”

“Different.”

“Different?”

“Very different.”

“You’ve had Jessie over, and I never heard anything. So, I guess. Whatever.”

My Dad was right, whoever he’s banging in his bedroom this time around has caused him to have an incredible vocal range of a grunting caveman that has scarred my brain for life.

"That was over a year ago. It was a mistake. Something I regret. Something that I would rather die than repeat.”

The Jessie fiasco.

The woman who was so abused and found her way into our home, in my father’s bed with her two sons attached to her hip sharing my bedroom whenever she came around. I would immediately take to the couch or stayed at my best friend, Andre’s home that was positioned directly behind where I lived. I would stay with him and his parents until where I lived with my Dad was cleared of the pests. I’d never liked Sam nor Ron. Their Mom was a Milf but not much else.

It still didn’t answer who could have my Dad flustered in revealing who he wanted to have sit on his face. Knowing what I know, I will never, ever drink or eat anything after my Dad. He likes to eat this person, and my brain will forever remember where his lips have been.

He took a look at his phone that indicated he got another message.

“I have to get my keys.”

I’m sitting back twirling my pencil between my fingers casually watching him set his phone down on the kitchen counter to go in search for his car keys. The keys were by the front door where he always leaves them. He went into his bedroom as if the keys would be in there.

His phone…

I was compelled to see. To investigate and hopefully have answers before he comes back out of his bedroom down the short hall.

Queen: Is Carl still home?

Rick: Yes. I will take him to school, and then you can slip out.

Queen: I was thinking about playing hooky. You in that uniform, yum.

Rick: That can be arranged. I’m crazy about you.

Queen: Oh yeah?

Rick: My son heard us last night.

Queen: No!

Rick: We may have to come clean.

Queen: Come into your bedroom NOW!

Whoever he’s banging was still in our home, and her name was Queen. Queen? Queen Elizabeth? We didn’t have any Queens that I was aware of in our small enough town to know a name like that. A name like that would stick out. Whoever he’s’ banging is royalty. This news is Gold. I couldn’t help chuckling.

The toast was finished. I tossed it in the trash along with the rest of the moldy loaf. I put the creamer back in the refrigerator while still scrolling through my Dad’s messages. I found a lot of sexting shared between him and Queen.

Rick: I can still taste you.

Queen: It’s my turn tonight.

Rick: Wonder if you can handle it.

Queen: Don’t doubt me.

Rick: Will I have to hold back?

Queen: I plan to swallow.

Rick: Yeah?

Queen: Lick every drop.

The sound of his bedroom door opening was enough to cause a slight panic to run through me. I turned his phone off.

“Carl, hand me my phone and let’s get going.”

“Did you find your keys in your bedroom?” I played it off cool walking over to him with his phone. It helped that he was visibly distracted by whatever happened in his bedroom.

“Why would I go into my bedroom for my keys? My keys are always by the front door.”

His response was an indication that he wasn’t 100 percent himself. I was going to have some fun.

“Dad, I left something in your bedroom. I’m going to check to see if…”

My Dad’s whole attitude had changed lightning fast. His agitation was on butt load when I boldly began walking past him heading to his bedroom. He grabbed my arm and hauled me out the front door with a not so friendly shove, slamming the front door behind him.

“Hey, I was just joking!” I pretended to be upset with him handling me the way he did.

“Let’s go.”

My Dad was pissed off. He didn’t give two shits.

Now going to school was another matter. I hated school. I hated the whispers about my Dad and Principal Benton. I hated the drop-off in his cruiser almost equally to everything else I hated.

The rumors were annoying to Andre, too. We were in the same gifted classes. Andre is a talented violinist. He’s gifted on the piano as well as having the sickest rap lyrics of all time. I’m his biggest fan. He’s considered to have a dark spirit too. He doesn’t care because he knows he’s going to take over the world by musical storm one motherfucking kick drum at a time.

Andre’s mom’s the Principal at our high school. His Dad is an attorney who works in Alexandria. I’ve only met his Dad a couple of times. He seemed very chill but his Mom…Principal Benton didn’t have much of a sense of humor. She was no-nonsense, by the book, and she rode us both hard if we were acting like delinquents. I have to be honest, Principal Benton was annoying as fuck in school.

I sat in the cruiser. My Dad’s mind was evidently a million miles away as he drove the usual route that was considered the fastest in the direction of King’s Gifted Academy. The road with no sidewalks was the reason for many of us to have to ride the bus if we weren’t lucky to have a parent willing to take us to school every day or old enough to have a license to drive. I much preferred the bus than the cruiser.

“Who’s My Queen?”

“I don’t know, Carl.”

I watched my Dad try to swallow his lie.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Do you just randomly text people about still tasting them?”

“What have I told you about snooping?”

“You know there are rumors, right?”

“What rumors?”

“You tell me who’s My Queen and I’ll tell you about what everyone seems to be talking about.”

There was no deal to be made other than maybe a silent epiphany that I could hear everything on the other side of the walls. I just couldn’t see through them.

“I met someone. Well, I’ve known her for awhile, and you may know who she is and right now we aren’t ready. She’s not ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To commit. To commit to me. I’m giving her time to handle things. She asked me for that, and I am giving her that.”

“Sounds like you’ve been giving her more than that.”

“Carl!”

“Dad!�� I challenged him.

“There’s a reason your mother has you with me. You know that?”

“I’ve never heard her having crazy sex.”

“I’m sorry about that son. I wasn’t aware that we could be overheard and now that I know we will be more discreet about things.”

“There’s the Holiday Inn. There’s the Red Roof and Meryl’s Lodge.”

“Next time we will be quieter. If there is damn next time.”

By the time my Dad dropped me off in the school parking lot,I had noticed something else odd about his behavior, and it was what he didn’t do next.

“See you later, Dad.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t drive off. He was texting again. He didn’t even realize I got out of the car or that I was watching him from a distance.

He got out of his cruiser probably thinking that I had gone inside of the school. Principal Benton had already pulled in to her designated parking spot.

Their confrontation happened in the parking lot.

I watched my Dad approach her without any regard to who could be watching or possibly overhearing what looked to be a very controlled, heated disagreement.

I wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, but I did find it odd that Andre’s mom had on the same clothes from the night before that she wore to our soccer game. Her and my Dad wore matching sweatshirts with our school logo last night which could mean nothing because there were a few that had them on. Easy to dismiss.

My Dad was sitting behind her in the stands cheering our team on. Andre and I were forced in sitting the game out courtesy of coach Abe with the blessings from Principal Benton. Our stunt two weeks ago had affected almost everything in our lives. We were considered God’s by our peers but devils by our elders.

I refused to believe what was apparently true.

My Dad was having an affair with my very married Principal who was also my best friend in the world’s mother. She is who he’s banging, and I’d acquired videotaped proof a few days later that I just sent to all my contacts by accident.

——————————— https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12954337/1/

#ff.net

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kaiserdingus · 3 years

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Brutal Legend (2009) PS3/Xbox 360/PC Retrospective

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Have you ever looked at a heavy metal album cover and wished that you could experience that world? Have you ever wished you could listen to it while fighting demons? Tim Schafer heard your wishes and he delivered them, and he threw Jack Black into the mix as well. The result was Brütal Legend, a heavy-metal-inspired action-adventure game with Real-Time-Strategy elements released for PS3 and Xbox 360 in October 2009.

This project couldn’t have come at a more opportune time, as both the film School of Rock and the massively popular Guitar Hero video game franchise helped bring heavy metal into the forefront of public consciousness. For a brief moment in the late 2000s, it was popular to be into bands your dad listened to. Like Guitar Hero, Brütal Legend’s soundtrack featured a varied mix of guitar-centric subgenres. Popular mainstream bands like Black Sabbath, Motley Crue, and Motorhead would be featured alongside more niche bands like Brocas Helm or Cradle of Filth. It would be hard to make a game about heavy metal music without licensing a few songs, but the wizards at Double Fine made sure all their bases were covered when they licensed over one hundred songs.

Eddie Riggs, played by Jack Black, is the world's greatest roadie for the world's worst band. An Incredibly skilled and well-organized manager, Eddie hides in the shadows putting together massive rock shows for screaming crowds. A chance encounter with a legendary fire god sends Eddie traveling to another world, one that resembles all of the best album covers. Hot rods, demons, and giant flying shrimp-leeches populate this rich, atmospheric world.

Discovering that humanity has been enslaved by demons, Eddie helps organize an army to start a revolution. Lars Halford is the leader of the resistance, with his sister Lita and their friend Ophelia as the only other members. With Eddie managing the resistance, they’re able to recruit fighters with different skills and abilities to join their army. Emperor Doviculus, voiced by Tim Curry, rules over the world with a sick, leathery fist, while General Lionwhyte serves under him as manager of the human race.

There’s an interesting story of liberation that’s obvious and subtle at the same time. While the plot isn’t hiding the fact that it’s about an underdog rebellion fighting for freedom against tyrannical oppressors, it's presented in a way that ties it more to real-life struggles for liberation than the usual revolutions in pop culture which are vague about their beliefs. The first group Eddie helps liberate are the Headbangers, meaty-necked boys who bang their heads all day to mine for resources as slaves under General Lionwhyte.

The hierarchy is similar to that of any modern job, with the workers carrying out all of the labor, managers ensuring that the workers do their job or face consequences, and General Lionwhyte as the faceless owner who stands to benefit from the unpaid labor of the Headbangers while contributing nothing himself. Doviculus purposely set up a hierarchical system that would keep the humans bickering among themselves, fighting over the meager scraps they’re allowed, while the demons are safe to rule over them. During the Headbanger revolution, one of the characters mentions the workers forming a union to a Bouncer, who becomes angry at the idea. The game isn’t making any profound political statements, but little touches like this bring the fantasy world closer to our own.

Many of the characters Eddie meets along his journey are based on and voiced by real musicians. The flamboyant General Lionwhyte, a parody of 80’s hair metal bands, is voiced by Rob Halford of Judas Priest. Halford also voices The Baron, an ally who appears later in the game and more closely resembles Halford’s real persona than Lionwhyte. Lemmy Kilmister from Motorhead voices the Kill Master, a motorcycle-riding bass player who’s able to revive fallen allies. Ozzy Osbourne takes on the role of the game’s shopkeeper as the Guardian of Metal. Possibly the most over-the-top character, the Guardian sells Eddie upgrades while making sassy comments and elaborating on the world of Brütal Legend. Other cameos include Richard Horvitz, who starred in Schafer’s previous game Psychonauts, and Kyle Gass, Jack Black’s partner in the band Tenacious D.

During the marketing campaign leading up to Brütal Legend's release, Electronic Arts made a point to downplay the game's Real-Time-Strategy elements. Instead, the game was presented as more of a straightforward hack-and-slash/action-adventure game. While a lot of the game’s campaign features Eddie going on missions and completing objectives, these missions serve to prepare the player for the game’s battle maps. Each mission introduces a new move Eddie can use or a new ally Eddie can team up with. The objective of these missions involves using the newly introduced move or ally to solve a problem and advance the story.

Eddie carries two weapons at all times: his Battle Axe which acts as a melee weapon for close-range attacks and his guitar Clementine which can summon lightning from a distance. Also at Eddie’s disposal is The Deuce, a hot-rod he assembles himself at the beginning of the game that can be upgraded in the Motor Forge. In between story missions, Eddie can explore and help people with their problems while also uncovering secrets of the world, learning how he fits into it, and finding the reason why he was brought there. Various relics offer guitar tabs, which teach Eddie new moves he can use with his guitar. These moves open up a short Guitar Hero-inspired mini-game where the player taps the controller buttons in rhythm to perform a guitar solo.

The battle maps feature two stages, one for each opposing faction, and several resource geysers that can be claimed by either side. These geysers provide resources that help supply your army with the soldiers and weaponry necessary to win, so most battles boil down to claiming as many geysers as you can while sending troops to the enemy stage. Later battles add obstacles that require strategic thinking, or enemies will come from multiple areas, forcing you to divide your troops.

Director Tim Schafer has said that the game was always supposed to be a Real-Time-Strategy game, inspired by the 1990 Sega Genesis game Herzog Zwei. As development proceeded, Schafer found that the action elements were a lot of fun and decided to shift the game’s focus towards that, while still retaining the RTS battles. It’s likely the developers hoped a strong online community would form around the game’s multiplayer mode, which could justify the story mode feeling like an advanced tutorial. Double Fine released two packs of downloadable content which were meant to expand the game’s multiplayer mode with new maps. Had the game been more successful, there might have been more DLC in the works.

It wouldn’t be right to talk about Brütal Legend without mentioning the game’s music. The game features 107 licensed songs from metal bands across the globe, including genres such as black metal, power metal, classic heavy metal, symphonic death metal, hard rock, and industrial. Bands like Black Sabbath, Quiet Riot, Judas Priest, Mastodon, Cradle of Filth, Slayer, and more fill the soundtrack with an authentic sound that would make any metal fan happy. Licensed songs pop in at perfect needle drop moments, such as Brocas Helm’s Cry of the Banshee playing during the boss battle with the Metal Queen.

The game also boasts a robust score composed by Peter McConnell featuring a full orchestra and a heavy metal band to seamlessly blend with the licensed music. McConnell previously collaborated with Tim Schafer on the soundtracks for Grim Fandango and Psychonauts. Judas Priest guitarists Glenn Tipton and K.K. Downing provided the guitar solos played by the characters in the game. To promote the game, a DLC music pack was released for the game Rock Band, which was also published by EA, featuring Motorhead, Tenacious D, and Testament.

Despite a massive marketing campaign involving the game’s star Jack Black centered on a “Rocktober 13th” release date, Brütal Legend was not a massive success for Electronic Arts. The game had only sold a quarter of a million copies across both Xbox 360 and PS3 during its first month of release but was successful with critics and those who played it. Many players were confused and upset by the Real-Time-Strategy elements, more specifically they felt they had been deceived by EA’s marketing. Three weeks before the game’s launch a demo was released that featured the first playable mission. No elements of the strategy side of the game were present, leading players to assume it was a hack-and-slash adventure game.

Since its initial release, the game has gone on to become a cult classic. The sharp wit of the writing mixed with Jack Black’s personality, and the fun gameplay of Double Fine ensured this game would age well. In February 2013, four years after the game’s launch on PS3 and Xbox 360, Brütal Legend would finally come to PC. DoubleFine worked out a deal with EA that saw them receive complete ownership of the game, enabling them to release it on Steam with minor tweaks and bug fixes. The game is also available on Xbox One and Xbox Series X through backward compatibility and is available for free to subscribers of Xbox Game Pass.

Brütal Legend is a fantastic game with a rich, illustrious world to explore that too many people missed out on when it first came out. Some may be turned off by its seemingly overwhelming Real-Time Strategy gameplay, but the game does a good enough job explaining how everything works that even newcomers to the genre should feel comfortable. While a sequel is unlikely, Brütal Legend will stand the test of time as one of the last great games of the 2000’s, and a fitting conclusion to the Guitar Hero/Rock Band craze that was petering out as Brütal Legend was released.

Where to Buy

PS3, Xbox 360, Steam (PC)

The Art of Brutal Legend

Digital Soundtrack

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#Brutal Legend #Double Fine #Tim Schafer #Jack Black #PS3 #Xbox 360 #PC Game #Steam

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