#plus one diesel

[somefandomcontent]

I got at least four good reasons we need bloopers right here

#plus one diesel #not pictured #who do i send a letter too? #canada? #the pm? #the queen?

[elitebutterfly]

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone get quite as offended as Old School™️ people do over electric cars

#if you’re wondering if this applies to you yes yes it does #please get over yourselves #plus diesel fuel is gross #no one needs the municipality smelling like That #yall flip flop everywhere making the same meme over and over again #making no actual argument #can you tell i’ve been spending too much time lurking certain accounts

[goblinlovesmusicals]

stop it Gangrust has consumed my life. Now I can’t stop thinking about how protective the gang must be over Rusty after the babies are born. Ain’t nobody getting near them without risk of being mauled by three overly protective diesel dads

Aww yes I love them as dads

#ive been meaning to give gangrust a reboot #my personalities and hcs have changed quite a bit #and nowadays i dont think Rusty would be the one giving birth because i gave him fertility issues from the rust #plus having the kids of three big diesels is a good way to kill a tiny steamer lmao #stex #tw mpreg mention

[sinsandsweetness]

Wellllllll…… I just read one Rec from someone and holy. Stepdad Rick isn’t my thing but still hot. I was thinking what if it was Shane instead. Or Daryl. Sneaking around behind Rick’s back. But ugh, Rick is so hot tho. Decisions decisions. More like Dad’s best friend maybe?

now that’s hot as hell. Idk who Dad would be but best friend trope could work for any combination possible I would think… (all of them!? 🙈 short of a orgy, I can’t see either Dixon putting up with Shane even for something like that but hey)

been thinking about this every hour since it appeared in my inbox… (Shane is my guilty pleasure fr. would let him do disgusting things to me)

I think I’m seeing your vision… lemme know what you think💗

PICK YOUR POISON

(Rick & Shane & Daryl x fem!reader)

warnings- 18+, smut, alcohol consumption, smoking, references of sex, multiple partners, the boys are kinda pervs but it’s ok cause ur legal and this is fiction <3 2.1k word count

You open the door to the garage and make your way down the stairs. Not even bothering to slip any shoes on. Your mom keeps the epoxy floors absolutely pristine, so there’s really no reason. Plus, your toenail polish is still a little tacky. Bright, bubble gum pink polish and a silver toe ring adorning your foot. The smell of liquor and smoke has filled the garage. Accompanied by the deep, rugged voices and dry laughs coming from your fathers closest friends.

“You know mom hates it when you smoke in the house.” You say all matter of fact, leaning up against the bar-tops, marble counter. You can feel your tank top strap slipping down your shoulder. But the animalistic looks coming from your dads three closest friends, force you to let it drop. To let them see.

Your father puts his cigarette out in the ash tray on the bar. Rolling his eyes at you. “Well good thing we’re in the garage then.”

You ignore his attitude.

“Mom needs you.”

“For what?”

“To drop her off at Cindy’s.”

He seems irritated. But all five of you can hear the rain. There’s no way any half decent husband should let his wife walk to her monthly book club meeting in this weather.

“Just- keep your mouth shut about the smokes. And grab everyone another drink. Make sure they don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.” You father jokes, ruffling up Daryl’s hair on his way to the door, grabbing his jacket and keys.

You wave an innocent goodbye as you watch him through the garage door windows, backing out of the driveway. Your mother in the passenger seat, smiling sweetly at you.

“Well… whatcha drinkin’?” You ask Rick, who’s sat in the middle. Glass empty, with a lone, melting ice cube clinking around in the bottom.

“Rum and coke.” He answers, licking his lips.

“Spiced?” You ask. A flirty smile playing on your face as you bite your bottom lip.

They’re all staring. Jaws clenched and breathing slowly.

You know what you’re doing. You can tell by the way they’re all looking at you. You can practically see the wheels turning in their brains.

They shouldn’t be thinking this way about their friends daughter. About their best friends little girl. Well… not so little anymore. You’d just turned 21. Hell, they were at the party. Giving you the exact same looks they’re giving you right now.

The ones they definitely shouldn’t be.

But they are.

They’re thinking about your thin, frilly, pyjama shorts, and how they can see the purple g string pulled up over your hips. How they can see your belly ring through the fabric of your tank top, and imagining what it would feel like against their lips as they kiss their way down your stomach. And you know they’re thinking about bending you over the bar counter and taking turns at fucking you until they hear the sound of your dads diesel pulling into the driveway. How you’d have to play pretend for your father, ignoring the fact that your panties are soaking through with three different men’s cum, and maybe even a mix of your own. The salty liquids threatening to drip down your inner thigh as you politely excuse yourself from the garage. Coming up with any bullshit excuse to go lay on your bed and rub your clit until you’re seeing stars. Imagining each of their faces in between your legs, spreading you open and eating you up.

You know they’re thinking it, because you are too. It’s the only thing you can think about in this moment, while pouring Rick a double spiced rum and coke. Taking a sip and then handing it him. Making sure your fingers touch.

When you turn to ask Shane what he wants, he gets up. Insisting that you won’t know how to make an old fashioned. You only just turned 21 after all. You probably haven’t even had one before.

But he’s wrong. They’re your dads favourite and you’d been making them for him since you were 16. But you didn’t tell Shane that. Instead you let him walk around the bar, come up behind you and press himself against your back. Letting a tiny gasp escape at the feeling of his, very hard, cock pressing into your bum. Pushing you even further against the counter. His chest is warm against you. And his hands are big and calloused as he guides your own, pouring the perfect amount of bitters, simple syrup and bourbon over a huge, king sized ice cube that he’d retrieved from the freezer.

Finally, taking a slice of orange, meticulously cut up and organized in little containers on the bar top. It was something your mother was always very fond of; organizing the liquors and the garnishes, ensuring that your father could host a proper poker night or barbecue. Or whatever the fuck they stayed up all night doing in their little man cave. Not knowing that you were upstairs, awake and playing with your favourite vibrator, listening to their rock music through your bedroom floor.

“And then you twist it, like this…” Shane’s lips are actually brushing your ear. And you don’t mean to, but your eyes flutter shut at the feeling. His free hand moves to your waist as he tosses the orange peel in the drink, lifting it up and bringing the cold glass to your lips.

“Try it.” He says. And though you can’t see him because he’s still behind you, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

You take a sip. A small one. Immediately scrunching your face at the two men still sitting across you. Their lips curl into an amused smile as they watch you swallow the amber liquid.

“Not my favourite.” You whisper as Shane leans back. Only for a second before he’s turned you around and trapped you once more, back to the bar this time.

“Well we did forget one thing,” He says, reaching over to a jar on the counter. Maraschino cherries. Your favourite.

“And I know how much you like these.” He teases, referring to all the cherries he caught you adding to your piña coladas at a neighbors pool party only a couple weeks ago.

He dips a single cherry in the drink. Taking it by the stem and lifting it to your mouth. You don’t hesitate in wrapping your lips around it. The bitter taste of the bourbon on the fruit doesn’t last long. A sweet, sugary syrup bleeds over your tastebuds as you bite into the cherry. And a moan manages to escape your throat. It’s quiet. You think maybe it was subtle enough to go unnoticed. But the smile on Shane’s lips and the dry laugh coming from behind you, tell you that it didn’t.

Shane is still pushed up against you, cock strained in his jeans and pressed right against your stomach. His hand gripping your hip and forcing you to stay against the counter. And the way he’s looking down at you. Fuck, the way they’re all looking at you. Watching you start to squirm under their gaze.

“It’s good.” You swallow. Trying to maintain a confident, big girl attitude. But truthfully, you just want them to peel your clothes off, and let you melt into their arms as you cum all over their cocks.

“Daryl’s drink is still empty, sweetheart.” Rick’s gravelly voice pulls you back.

“Right.”

Shane gives your hip one last squeeze before he walks back to his barstool. Next to Rick. They cheers quietly and sip on their drinks. Watching intently as you try to compose yourself.

“What’s your poison?” You turn to the last man, lighting what was probably his second or third cigarette of the night. Glancing up at you and taking a draw. Slowly inhaling and exhaling. And though your mother was not a fan, you fucking loved it. You wanted to crawl onto his lap and have him blow the smoke right between your lips as you rode his cock, letting the other two men watch and touch themselves to the sight of you getting off on another guy.

But you didn’t.

“Just a beer, sunshine.” He pushes his empty glass forward for you. You grab it and put it in the dishwasher. Grabbing a brand new, frosted mug from the freezer.

“Which one?”

“Bud’s fine.”

You grab a bottle and skillfully pour it into the mug, coming around the bar this time to hand it to him. Intentionally placing yourself between him and Rick, reaching over and setting the glass in front of him.

To no one’s surprise, you feel a warm hand on the small of your back. Rick’s fingers tracing dangerously close to the thin band of your panties.

“Those are really bad for you, y’know.”

You get bold again. Stepping onto the foot rest of Rick’s barstool, and taking a seat right on his lap. The hand on your back only helping guide you on to him. Quickly finding its way around your waist as you make yourself comfortable.

Daryl only grunts. Hiding a smile at your silly comment. He’d seen you smoke. Hell, he’d snuck out of multiple dinner parties to have one with you.

“You gonna share?” You ask.

Hesitantly he hands it over, and you take it with two fingers. Taking a long drag in and then turning to face Rick again, before you slowly exhale. Trying to focus the smoke onto his lips more than anything.

“What the hell would your father think if he could see you right now?” Shane asks, leaning back in his chair and palming the hard on, still evident in his jeans.

“Think he’d probably try and beat you’re asses.” You say. And while you’re answering Shane, your focus is solely on Rick. The scruff on his face. His bright blue eyes, taunting you and begging you to lean in. Just an inch closer so that he can catch your lips.

“Think he’d win?” Rick asks, glancing down at your own lips.

“Not a chance.” You smile.

He closes the space between you, and you taste rum on the tongue that traces yours. Rick’s hand going to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss as you blindly try to put the cigarette out on the ashtray. You start to move. Trying to maneuver your position so that you’d have a leg on either side of him, straddling his very apparent bulge. But right as you start to moan against his mouth, you hear the truck pull up and park. Practically jumping off of Rick and standing in between him and Daryl’s barstools. Fixing your hair as the heat rises to your cheeks. The men chuckle at your flustered appearance. Waiting for their friend to enter through the side door of the garage.

“Hi dad.” You say, smiling politely and pulling your tank top down to cover the strip of skin visible where it had previously rode up.

“Hey, hun. Glad to see they weren’t too much trouble for ya.” You father aproaches and slaps a hand on Shane’s back. Sitting down next to him and grabbing the pack of smokes from his jacket pocket.

“Y’wannanother drink, daddy?” You ask. Daryl clears his throat. And you see Ricks eyes go wide as Shane tries to hide his smile.

“Please. Old fashioned, darling. Y’want some of that pink stuff we found last week? Bubbly… something or other. It’s in the fridge.”

You watch Shane the whole time that you make the old fashioned. Clearly showing him that you knew exactly how your dad liked it. Carefully placing the cocktail on the counter in front of them.

“Thanks doll.” Your dad says, continuing to smoke his cigarette. Reaching over the counter and handing one to Rick who lights it. Watching you the whole time. Tendrils of smoke, floating up to the ceiling of the garage. You turn around. Bending over and being sure to stay searching for the bottle of rosé about thirty seconds longer than you really needed to. You pour a glass as the men discuss what the next move was. What they should do for the night. Considering it’s still a work night, and they all have a supply run pretty early in the morning.

“You wanna play some cards, sweetie?” Your dad asks. You scrunch your nose at him, taking a nice long sip of your sparkling wine.

“What? You got somewhere better to be?” Shane teases.

You huff a semi-annoyed breath, looking around for a spare stool. Even though you already knew there were only 4. Ricks eyes glimmer as he pats his left thigh, inviting you back on.

To your surprise, your dad pays you no mind, already starting to shuffle the deck of cards as you hesitantly take your seat back on top of Rick. Loving the way his hand curls around your thighs and tugs you even further on top of him. And the the way that Shane looks a little jealous that he hadn’t offered first. And you’re especially loving the way Daryl shifts on his stool just the tiniest bit closer, so that his leg grazes yours every now and then.

“All right, here’s the rules…” You hear your dad starts to explain, already dealing you each some cards. But you don’t hear him. You don’t even look in his direction. You’re way too focused on the taste of Rick that lingers on your lips, and the way your clit is actually fucking pulsing. Begging for attention. And truthfully, your mind can’t help but wander, thinking about what might have happened if your dad had taken any longer to get back home.

part 2

-

(I’m picturing readers dad as Tobin in Alexandria. Someone like that at least. With a Carol-esque mother. But picture whoever you’d like! Just thought I’d share what I was kinda thinking…)

taglist - @rickswh0r3 @elnyrae @catt-leya @murder-jacket @miinbun @ankhmutes @eternalrose81 @cl0wnb0yyy @grimesthinker

#rick grimes #rick grimes smut #rick grimes fanfiction #rick grimes x y/n #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x y/n #shane walsh x you #shane walsh x reader #shane walsh smut #shane walsh fanfiction #smut #rickyl smut #rickyl x reader #dbf!rick #dbf!daryl #dbf!shane #dads best friend trope #pick your poison

[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three 

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Eddie goes home, you’re on tour, and the lines between you both continue to blur.

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Hawkins, Indiana, December 1990

Eddie listens to his walkman until it runs out of juice. Through the flight from California to Indianapolis, the hours-long bus ride that stops just short of Hawkins, and the final connecting bus on the outskirts. Some metalheads listen to strictly metal, but Eddie likes variety occasionally. Plus, he doesn’t think it’s possible to have ears and not love The Rolling Stones’ Some Girls. 

He has one girl on his mind the entire journey home. He tries not to think about you. He makes himself sick shoving you down into a crevice of his heart, so he admits defeat. His fingers twitch, eager to write about you. He has some lyrics in mind. Evil wretched girl with wicked sweet hands. Heart eater. Soft around the edges. 

He wants to write about your stupid chubby thighs and how they look in skirts. He wants to write about your wrists, your knees and their ever-present bruises. Metaphors for your sickly sweetness won’t stick; cruel becomes kind. Taunting turns teasing. 

It feels like it’s eating him alive, spine first. You’re gnawing on his ribs as he hikes the half a mile from the bus stop into Forest Hills trailer park. He can feel your thumb rubbing makeup off of his cheek as he drags his suitcase up the metal steps to Wayne’s —Eddie’s— front door. 

“Wayne?” he calls. It’s pitch fucking dark. He’s surprised he got all the way here without falling in some ditch. “Could you let me in? It’s freezing.”

He hears stirring from inside. He calls out again in case his uncle changes his mind. “Wayne, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s late. Please don’t leave me out here.”

He’s joking. Wayne would sooner shoot Eddie dead than put him in harm's way. He’s always been that kind of parent, hiding his deep rooted worry underneath a feigned reluctance. Footsteps shuffle and floorboards creak. The door opens between them, and Eddie shoves his suitcase and backpack inside without properly looking at his old man. 

“Eddie, what the fuck, kid?”

“Sorry,” Eddie says, looking up. Wayne’s squinting at him. He’s wearing jeans with deep creases. He must’ve been sleeping in them. “I timed it all wrong. Started coming home and I didn’t think about it. I walked here, you know that?”

Wayne hugs him. Eddie isn’t expecting it. It’s not like Wayne isn’t affectionate, he doles out shoulder claps and hair ruffles like candy, but their hugs are usually one-armed back-slapping affairs. This is a loose encircling with a scratchy cheek against Eddie’s forehead. 

“I’ve been worrying about you.”

Guilt sinks like a stone to the bottom of his stomach. Eddie kind of feels like he might puke. He wraps his arms around his uncle and breathes in his smell. Diesel and grease, sure, but so much louder than that is his mint and rosemary soap. 

The weight of Wayne’s arms over Eddie’s shoulders is one of his favourite feelings. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it, but then… maybe he had. 

He wants to tell Wayne there’s no need to worry, but he’s never been good at lying to him. “Think I might have fallen off the wagon, Wayne.”

“Well. Happens to all of us.” He pats Eddie’s back and steps away. He doesn’t look any older than the last time Eddie saw him. In fact, he looks good. Puffy-eyed but healthy. “I thought for sure I’d have to come track you down and drag you back for Christmas myself.”

Eddie locks the door and Wayne shuffles into the kitchen promising coffee and cake. He should protest, tell Wayne he can go back to bed and they’ll catch up in the morning, but he missed the small stuff like this, when he’d get home late from band practice or a midnight premiere of a sci-fi flick and his uncle would be sitting up waiting. 

Eddie loves being home. There’s something to be said about living like the rich —he loves all the high ceilings and endless cushy carpeting— but nothing feels as good as coming home. His room is exactly how he left it minus a few ashtrays and his super unsecret pot stash. The poster wallpaper and the cheap paint. His raggedy bedspread and the corners tucked in haphazardly by tired hands. Eddie resists the want to dive under the covers and slide into the dip in his mattress. He knows every box spring in that fucker, and he missed it. 

Eddie drops his bags at the end of the bed. All the clothes in his suitcase smell like Coors Light, so he changes into rags he left behind, a too-big pair of plaid pyjamas that slip down his hips and a sleeveless Motörhead shirt. Maybe. The emblem is worn to nothing but black lines. 

He follows the smell of coffee through the hallway and into the Munson kitchen, tightening the drawstrings of his pants as he goes, chin tucked to his chest. “I’m losing weight, Wayne, I’m like a fucking twig.”

“Don’t tell me that shit. God knows I taught you how to take care of yourself.”

“I’m stupid. I’m really stupid, actually.”

Wayne whacks the coffee maker. It whirs. “Pick a mug, son.”

“You been cleaning? I don’t wanna look down and see a spider in my cup.”

“Have you been cleaning?” Wayne asks. 

“It’s insane how much I haven’t been cleaning.”

“Some things don’t change.”

“You fucker,” Eddie says, laughing up a storm as he picks out his favourite mug, the Garfield one with a big scratch down the left side. 

“You fucker,” Wayne snaps back. “I should send you packing for the bad language alone.”

“They don’t make you clean your hotel rooms, Wayne, that’s the point of them.”

“I raised you better than that.”

“You did. I keep it classy, I swear, I just,” —Eddie sits down in his chair, watching Wayne stir in milk and sugar just the way he likes it, and feels more than sees as a familiar contentedness like a Gaussian film settles over their easy conversation— “don’t clean up after Gareth. He’s a monster.”

“Do me a favour, Eds. Try and be the best you can be, alright?”

He swallows. He purses his lips. A peculiar lump grows in his throat, but he bites it back and squares himself up. “Yeah. I will.” He thinks about all the parties and powders and girls. He’s never done any cruel shit to anybody and he’s a sweetheart with the ladies, but  there are times when he’d known he was lying before he even said he’d call. He thinks about some of the shit he’s said to you and has to wipe his sweaty palms off on his shirt. 

“I know we didn’t have shit when you were growing up,” Wayne says, not tearful or resentful, just honest as he passes Eddie his mug of coffee and sits down. “And all that money must feel good–”

“It’s not like that,” Eddie says.

“When I see my nephew on TV smashing up equipment worth more than his house–”

“I already told you on the phone it was an accident. And it wouldn’t be worth more than this if you actually cashed the cheques I send you. I know they aren’t bouncing.”

“I don’t want your money, Eddie,” Wayne says gently. It’s odd but not uncommon to hear him speak in such dulcet tones. “That’s not what I raised you for.”

“I know, you–” He cuts his insult off at the stem and scratches his head instead.

Eddie isn’t hankering for a tongue lashing tonight and his scalp is too itchy to focus. He hasn’t washed his hair in a week. It’s obvious just looking at him, curls weighed down and straightened out from the sheer grossness of it. “Shit, I’m disgusting,” he says. 

“You’re gross,” Wayne agrees. “I’ll cash a cheque when the bank opens and get you a bottle of degreaser.”

Eddie hides his smile with a long sip of coffee. It’s hot and awful, ‘cause no matter how much love Wayne puts into it, dollar store coffee tastes like burnt grounds from the get go. Eddie missed it more than anything. Sometimes he’s in the back of the queasy tour bus or lying on the floor in his hotel room coming down off of something risky and all he can think about is Wayne’s coffee.

Wayne has a hard and fast rule about drugs: if it isn’t green, I don’t want you touching it. Eddie still remembers the gasket he blew when he found that little baggy of red and white pills shoved inside an altoids tin. He can’t imagine telling his uncle what he really meant when he said he fell off the wagon. 

Hey, Uncle Wayne, I have this weird love-hate relationship with a girl I don’t really know, and I got caught up doing party drugs (unrelated to our relationship) until I got so high I blacked out, and when I woke up she was there and she was looking at me like you look at a bird with a broken wing, you know? Anyway, the memory of her face won’t leave me alone. It makes me feel like crying. So I haven’t touched anything in two weeks and I thought coming home for Christmas would make up for all the secrets I’m keeping, but now—

Now Eddie doesn’t know what he was thinking. He can’t tell Wayne any of that shit. He wouldn’t even know where to start. 

Wayne would ask something like, It took a girl for you to realise drugs are bad news? And Eddie would say back, No, that’s not it, it wasn’t just her. 

“I’m sooooo fucked,” Eddie says slowly, mildly, scrubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He drags his hands down his face and blinks against the burning he’s left in his wake. 

“You’re not fucked, kid. Lemme cut you a slice of cake.”

Wayne cuts him a slice of cranberry coffee cake and Eddie eats it in two bites. Wayne makes him a burger after that. He doesn’t know what time it is, if it’s closer to night or morning, but Wayne doesn’t mention it until the burger’s gone and an alarm clock is ringing. Eddie watches his uncle truck into the living room and feels crestfallen though he doesn’t deserve to. Eddie hasn’t been home in months. He imagines Wayne alone at the kitchen table with an empty greasy plate waiting on him and wants to cry again. 

Wayne returns in coveralls. He gets a good look at Eddie’s face and sighs, dropping a heavy hand into Eddie’s dark hair. 

“It’ll be fine,” Wayne says. 

I’m sorry, Eddie thinks. For being a bad kid. 

He’d said that once. Wayne was sweeping up a smashed plate after a long shift and Eddie, thirteen and defeated with an ache where his mom should’ve been, had been trying to apologise. It had felt so crushing, that broken plate. The last straw. He’d had tears running down his pale cheeks, his hands in his hoodie pocket desperately grabbing at one another. 

And when he’d said it, Wayne had just looked at him. On his knees with a brush, glass shards shining on the linoleum between them. 

You think you’re a bad kid?

Wayne isn’t old and he definitely hadn’t been back then. Thirty something with a crying teenager and what felt like all the world's self-loathing crammed into a tiny kitchen. Eddie’s older now, and he knows how much Wayne gave up for him. Not just his bedroom, which had been relinquished with little more than a shoulder squeeze and five dollars for posters, but a life. Wayne could’ve done anything. Could’ve been a rockstar. 

I ruin everything, he’d said. Teenage angst, maybe, but Eddie felt it in his bones. 

You ain’t ruined anything. 

He hadn’t known what to say so he’d cried, waiting for that nice heavy hand that tussles his hair and pats his back to finally strike out. 

Eds, you’re not a bad kid. Said so quietly. With a steadiness that meant truth. You’re my kid. Could I make a bad kid?

And yeah, there had been a threshold of sincerity and they were passing it. It was the late 70’s. Boys really didn’t cry. At least, not in public. So Eddie wiped his snotty nose in his sleeve and laughed, and then he got on his knees to clean up. 

“Try and sleep,” Wayne says now, older but unchanged otherwise. Still ridiculously forgiving of his not-so-young sprog. He looks at Eddie with his lips pressed together. Eddie wonders if he’s going to hug him again, but Wayne shakes his head. “Shower, you animal. I’ll be back early.”

Eddie sleeps. He showers. He washes his hair three times and doesn’t use conditioner so his curls don’t really curl but it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. He had a moment in the shower where he swore he remembered something you said to him when he was blackout on sniff cut with procaine and booze. Your voice tentative, the heat of your hand on his cheek. “Are you okay?”

He moans into his damp hands, limp hair hanging either side of his head and dripping into his pyjama pants. He can’t forgive his younger self for all the sleeveless shirts, not when Hawkins feels colder than the arctic circle and the window seal in the kitchen has been leaky for the last five years.

He thinks about going shopping, because no matter what Wayne says about degreaser, Eddie’s starting to realise that his uncle won’t be cashing any of the cheques he sent home, and if he wants Wayne taken care of he’s gonna have to do this shit himself, but he doesn’t know where his key is. 

“I’m a fuck up,” he says, catching his eye in the mirror as he straightens out. 

His reflection frowns at him. 

He did manage to get Wayne some shit from California before he came home; a real brown leather jacket from the 60s with minimal wear, though if Wayne wears it is another thing entirely; a Roy Orbinson record that’s miraculously unwarped despite Eddie’s poor packing; more sweatshirts than his uncle could ever wear through. Eddie knows he’ll try. 

There’s some other stuff. CD’s and a nice edition of War of the World’s. Whatever he could stuff in his backpack. 

“Are you going home for Christmas?” you’d asked him. 

He sat on the bottom step of a huge staircase and you the one above him. People walked around you without notice. Two rocks in a stream bed.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? You aren’t sure?”

He’d got stuck looking at your cheek, the soft curve of it and the highest point, where light like a small star had kissed you and turned his stomach, that’s how sick with envy he was. 

“I get it,” you’d said, “things at home aren’t always easy.”

“Not that. My Uncle Wayne is my hero.”

“And you still don’t wanna go home?” you’d asked gently. 

“It’s not about what I want.” He remembers this part in detail. He’d stopped looking at you, laying back against the stairs, each step digging into his back. The ceiling had been far away. 

You’d inched into his frame of view, looking down at him with an expression unreadable to his mixed up head. You weren't quite smiling. He still isn’t sure what it meant. 

“It is. That’s the whole point,” you’d said. 

Eddie’s all memory this morning. The ones with Wayne had felt less memory and more story, because memory is unfaithful, and over time we start to break down on the details, putting want in place of fact. But your face hovering above his as the soft strands of your hair ghost against his jaw, all your glitters and the shiny pink sheen on your lips, that’s closer. He remembers how you smelled, and how your tongue peeked out to wet your lips uselessly between words. 

Jet lag and the general feeling of you keeps him lethargic, but he cleans the house (and he’s always said house, even if some people don’t agree, it houses him, fuck you Jenny P from eighth grade grade) and makes dinner ready for Wayne when he gets home. He puts the radio on and tunes into Roller FM. When one of Godless’ songs comes on, he’s not surprised. He listens with his head lolled against the kitchen wall, eyes closed, and tries not to think about your fingers choking the neck of your bass guitar. 

—

Indy Rock Centre, Indianapolis, January 1991

Whoever arranged the tour is a sadist. You can’t believe that a team of professionals sat around a long glossy table with their coffee cups and finger foods and thought, yeah, that will work. You feel like you’re being fucking yo-yo’d between states. 

When you’d joined godless as a stand in for Millyanna, your dates had been plentiful but never as disorganised. Nothing compares to this shit. You wonder if going crazy is a sign of making it big, or if maybe you’re not cut out for all of this after all. 

Jan 22, Kalamazoo, Missouri. Jan 23, Toledo, Ohio. Jan 25, Los Angeles, California. Jan 26, Philadelphia; Jan 28, Indiana, Jan 29, Wisconsin. February? Back in Missouri, back in Ohio, a couple more state dates and then bam — Canada. Don’t worry though, after a week in Canada, you’ll never guess where you’re playing. 

Fucking Florida. 

At least you aren’t alone in your torture. For starters, there’s Morgan, your singer, and Ananya, your drummer, who will also endure and suffer. Then there’s the roadies, the techies and the groupies. The opening acts. The managers, the assistants, the personal assistants, the boyfriends and girlfriends and wives and mistresses. 

And what’s more, you're one of the hundreds of bands touring in North America this year. Maybe thousands. You certainly aren’t the first musician to have to suck it up and tough it out. 

Still, you like to complain. 

It’s your right, for dealing with Morgan. And also— you aren’t getting paid for the tour until after the tour is over, so really complaining is the wealth of the soul. You do get a weekly allowance, which is awesome and not something you were getting beforehand, working instead on an invoice. You’d play a show, you’d get paid for the show. This time you’re getting a flat rate at the end of the tour that’s been contractually agreed upon. It’s more money than you’ll ever know what to do with. One of the more shameful ways you waste time in your little bus bunk is trying to figure out where to put it.

I want a house, you think. A mortgage on a small, pretty house where the weather isn't too hot or too cold. And a puppy. Probably. Maybe a fish tank. I want a bed that spans from one wall to another and… 

You wince. For a moment, you’d seen something stupid, a pale face hidden in the pillow across the way. 

Two puppies, you think forcefully. 

You’ve played four shows already this week. You have one tonight in Indy Rock Centre, and another tomorrow in Wisconsin. You got to stay in the warm, non-vibrating luxury of a hotel room last night, but tonight you have to play the show and get straight back on the bus. 

“You’re gonna glare holes in her. What did she do?”

You stop your mindless staring and come back down to earth. Ananya’s smiling at you, thick eyebrows lifted in wait for your answering gossip. You’d been staring at Morgan where she’s sitting across the room in a plush armchair, cucumbers over her eyes and swarmed by makeup artists and hairstylists with a pedicurist at her feet. 

Ananya does all her make up herself. You want to ask her to do yours, but you worry her messy sweetness won’t suit you. She overlines her already big lips with a sticky red-pink, giving her an effect of having just been kissed (a lot), and rings brown eyes with a slick black kohl. 

“She hasn’t done anything. Yet. Today.”

“She has been a monster, hasn’t she?” she asks, sinking down into the couch with a sigh. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. Her curls are so healthy they bounce.

You hum your agreement and slide down with her. Touring again, Ananya has remembered how much it sucks to be alone without allies. Morgan gets especially volatile from the stress and close quarters. She’s nicer when you’re alone. 

She’ll still ditch you at a moment's notice, but you get it. It’s like high school. 

You miss Dornie. 

It’s cruel to make a friend and suddenly lose them. You can’t help thinking he won’t want to be your friend again the next time you see him. It had been so nice… so peaceful, to know there was someone in your corner. Dornie doesn’t care how famous you are or how much money you’re making. He just wanted to make sure you got home safe and talk about old movies. 

“I’m gonna go find something to drink,” you say. 

Ananya nods. “Bring me back a coke?”

“Yeah.”

Morgan stops you on your way out with a foot in front of your legs. “Hey, killer, I gave one of your passes to a fan earlier. Is that cool?”

“Morgan, when have you ever cared about my opinion?”

“Ooh, meow,” she croons, taking a cucumber from her eye to squint at you. “What’s the matter, baby? I figured you weren’t using them.”

You smile at her. You can’t help yourself. She stopped hurting your feelings a long time ago. “You want a drink from the machine?”

“Sparkling water, serf.”

If you smudge her nail polish on the way past it isn’t your fault. It isn’t cool with you that she’s given away one of your passes, even though you ask your general manager Angel to give them out at the beginning of the show every night. It’s presumptuous! Normal people don’t do stuff like that without asking.

Serf…

Your nose wrinkles. The dressing room door closes at your back and you take a moment to recall where you’d seen the bank of vending machines in the maze of white hallways. Indy Rock Centre is one of the biggest venues in Indianapolis, and you’ve been here before countless times on the other side to see Black Sabbath, Metallica, The Stacey’s, Doorway to Cooperstown. It’s where all the biggest and best get to play. You wish they’d given you a map. 

You can still walk around without getting recognised. You’re not a superstar, just a guitarist. You smile at people who smile at you and avoid the rest, dodging past black polo shorts wheeling equipment and busybody higher ups barking orders. Someone stands in a corner talking on a brick of a handheld phone. You stare at him for a bit. You’ll never get used to it, phones without wires. Next there’ll be TVs without satellites and electric guitars without amps. 

The vending machine shines like a red beacon at the end of the hallway. You hurry to it, feeding the machine your crumpled per diem one dollar at a time. You get a coke for Ananya, sparkling water for Morgan. When it gets to your own drink, the machine starts to revolt. It spits your dollar out unsympathetically. You pull it from the mouth and flatten it against your thigh.

It doesn’t work again. You nibble your bottom lip. Dollar pulled taut between your two hands, you lift your knee and rub it against your stockings. 

“Fucking fuck,” you whisper, watching in mild horror as the machine accepts and then rejects your dollar for a third time. 

You tuck it back into your purse, a pretty leather thing that clasps shut and fits perfectly in the small pocket of your jacket. It’s your luck, but whatever. They’ll probably bring a couple of bottles of water to the dressing room in a bit. Maybe even a cocktail bar. 

“Hey.”

Your internal monologue chokes. You question your senses for the split second it takes you to meet his eyes — baby browns, soft and flush with gorgeously long lashes. If there’s one thing about Eddie Munson, it’s that he has very sweet eyes. Not the kind you can replicate in daydreams. 

He’s dressed like a bitch. You’re so sick of him. He has his jacket tied around his waist and his shirt has no sleeves, the alarmingly shapely stretch of his arms on full display. Black ink climbs the hills and ridges of his stark veins, his herd of bats jumping as he offers you a dollar. 

You take it. You aren’t sure what to say, so you bask in the almost-silence, every nerve aflame as you feed the vending machine and click the button for your drink. Equipment cages rattle. Radios chirp. Your drink thinks from behind the red Coca Cola panel down into the bottom of the machine for collection. 

“What’re you doing here?” you ask finally, squatting to grab your drink. 

You stand, train your eyes on the floor, shove your drink under your arm, and crack open your purse to give him your defective dollar in exchange. He takes it without fanfare. 

“Are you busy?” he asks. 

Regrettably, no. The majority of soundcheck is done, and the show doesn’t start for hours. He gestures to the left and you follow, stupidly, with no idea where he’s leading you to and not a clue what he wants, leaving Morgan and Ananya’s drinks for whoever finds them. Eddie’s jeans aren’t as loose on his hips as they were the last time you saw him. His distracting arms are bigger, biceps like a taunt as he holds a door open for you. You take a breath as you pass him, but he doesn’t smell like anything. No sweat or cologne, no cigarette smoke. 

“Is it mean if I say you look good with clean hair?” you ask, squinting in the sudden brightness. 

He’s led you outside to the back of the venue. Your tour bus stands imposing at the end of the lot, surrounded by Godless branded vans and fancy cars. A truck beeps as it loads into the receiving area backward. 

“Probably.”

“You do, though. Look good.”

“So people tell me.”

Fuck, you think. Fuck it. If he’s gonna be weird about it then you’re pulling the olive branch back in and snapping it in half. 

The sky is white as snow. It hurts to look at, the sun like a steaming egg yolk covered in its own whites, thick clouds shielding her warmth. You pull the sides of your jacket together and button up, uninterested in catching a cold when the next six months of your life are planned down to the hour. Eddie puts his jacket on and zips it tight. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks. 

“Why?”

He pushes his hands into his pockets. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he felt self conscious. “Why not?” he asks. 

You nod. You and Eddie aren’t friends, but you aren’t not friends, either. You’re being cold because you’re seized with embarrassment, not because he deserves it. You have memories of his hand on your cheek, and a cherry stem between his teeth, and you don’t know what you said exactly but you know it hadn’t been amicable small talk. You hate him for knowing stuff about you that you’d wanted to keep secret, and you hate yourself more for telling him in the first place. 

“I came home for Christmas. I’m back in Los Angeles tomorrow night.”

“That’s convenient,” you say. 

“Just had to see you before I went,” he agrees. Deadpan humour is terrifying on him. 

He ducks under a low tree branch and holds it away from your face. Together, you begin to walk down the street and into the city, over patched sidewalks and past brand new stores. The mom and pop shops of your childhood are mostly gone. 

Conversations between you two have this odd oscillation between over familiarity and stilted nothings. You like over familiarity better, when you’re both prone to misunderstandings. You’d take snipping at one another over this strange quiet.  

“Is it nice? Being home?” he asks finally. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’ve been here for what, a month now? I just got here, and it wasn’t to see the ‘rents.”

Eddie lifts his chin to the sky a touch. Molasses of sunlight seep through the clouds now, racing to caress his waved hair and high cheekbones. “It’s been awesome,” he says, his eyes closed. His voice like tree bark, uneven but tough. “Makes me wonder what I liked about L.A. so much.”

“All the free stuff,” you offer. “And free girls.”

“The girls aren’t free,” he protests.

“You aren’t getting free girls?” you ask. 

“Are you?”

“Would that bother you?”

Close-lipped, his tongue pokes the skin under his bottom lip.

“You think stuff like that bothers me?” he asks. 

“It bothers some people.”

Eddie isn’t meeting your eyes consistently, but you don’t think he’s lying when he says, “No, it wouldn’t bother me. But my Uncle Wayne would fucking kill me if he heard me agree that the women are free.”

“How progressive.”

He visually bites back a laugh. He looks up from his shoes and sees you smiling and it breaks him, his laugh sputtering out in bits and pieces. “Shit, I’m just trying to be an okay person.”

You concede, “Fine, the girls aren’t free. They’re just very happy to sleep with you for very little reward.”

“Some might say the reward was, you know, pleasure–”

“Ew–”

“Don’t be childish. What did you want me to say? The reward is a long night of rough and tumble fucking–”

“I liked pleasure better,” you interject. You dance around a huge crack in the sidewalk and pause as you and Eddie reach a crossing. “All night? Really?”

“Want me to prove it?”

“I don’t think you could, Munson.”

“I could…” He rests his hand between your shoulder blades. “But I don’t think we’re there yet.”

He encourages you to cross the street, weaving and winding between parked cars, moving cyclists, and a small family bulldozing passers-bys with a twin stroller. When you’ve crossed to the other side uninjured, his hand falls away. The heat of his palm lingers.

“Good observation.”

“You’re sarcastic today. Or is being on the road making you cranky?”

“Being on the road is definitely making me cranky. It fucking sucks, I forgot how badly it sucks, and I don’t get paid day to day like I used to.”

“Oh, you’re getting a flat rate now? Go you, superstar.” Your walk is more of a crawl, the two of you turned to the left side of the street where children shriek and giggle in the outdoor seating of a restaurant. Eddie stops. “How’s the allowance?”

“You get one of those too?”

Eddie bumps his elbow into yours. “We’re kids. They know it. It’s pretty shitty considering how much money they make off of us in the end, but that’s an asshole thing to say, right? We’re lucky.”

You roll your shoulders. He’s more than right. Coming from nothing, a small town, with no college degree and no rich parents to float you, Eddie’s right. You might have talent and you might work hard but so do a lot of other people, and you’re here, and they’re working for minimum wage back home still hoping. 

You wish every kid like you could get to where you are, but they won’t. You’re more than lucky. You should buy a scratcher. 

“We’re fucking lucky,” Eddie says slowly. “And it’s awful anyways.” He grins. “Come to dinner with me?”

You blink. “What?”

“Dinner? I’ve been there before,” —he points to the restaurant you’d stopped across from— “and it’s nice.”

You’re insane and you agree. It’s not too fancy to feel like you’re on a date from the outside, and once you’re indoors you feel relaxed. With a glass of cider in your hands you feel positively giddy.

Eddie slouches back into a velvet booth seat that might’ve once been red. He keeps the jacket on and you’re grateful for it, lest you see his stupid nice arms and turn ditzy. His nose twitches as looks out over the restaurant floor toward the kitchen visible through a long window. It’s warm but not stuffy in here, the air fragrant with browning butter and minced garlic. 

The menus are sticky. You pretend to pour over one, not knowing what to say to break the silence. 

“I know I said you were being sarcastic,” Eddie says, “but I think I meant quiet. Even when you sound annoyed, I can barely hear you.”

“That’s dramatic,” you murmur, proving his point. 

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Well, in what way?”

“What way feels wrong to you?” he asks. 

Trapped. You sip your cold cider. He raps his knuckles against the table. “Come on, what have you got to lose? What did you say to me before?” His eyes soften. “Nobody would believe me if I told them.”

You tap your glass with your thumbnail. 

“I’m okay,” you say honestly. “Most of the time, I feel fine. Or, I forget what’s wrong.”

Eddie flicks his own glass. “Is this about feeling like nothing?”

“I don’t know why I told you that.”

“I have one of those faces.”

“And you were feeding me booze.”

“Don’t say that. You make it sound so shitty.”

“It wasn’t shitty,” you say. “Free drinks, right? What’s shitty about letting a pretty guy pay for you?”

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks.

You kick him under the table. You don’t know what comes over you, shy at your own honesty and irritated with his ridiculousness. I let you kiss me, you want to say. I’d let you do worse. Of course I think you’re pretty. You aren’t cruel — it’s more of a shove with the toe of your shoe. Eddie laughs through a gasp and kicks you back, heel of his converse flat to your calf. 

“You fucking–”

“Sweetheart?” he finishes. 

“No, fuck you. You string me around with your hot and cold act and now you’re coming to my shows taking me to dinner,” —your voice stiffens, thickens, as you glare at him from across the table— “asking me how I’m doing? And I’m the one who has to explain themselves? You tell me, Munson. Do I think that you’re pretty?”

Eddie’s sort of frozen, like a laugh got stuck in his throat and he really is surprised by your sudden anger. You might feel surprised yourself if you had the wherewithal. As it stands, your irritation and your want for an answer is too much.

He hits the toe of his shoe into yours. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry. I’m not… trying to string you around.” 

He doesn’t say anything else. You deflate, ashamed of your sudden outburst. Tired of all the games. 

“I think you’re pretty,” he says. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

The food arrives and saves him. You want him to explain —you want him to expand, needily, on what he means and how much he means it— and he clearly doesn’t. He grabs his fork and starts shovelling pasta into his mouth like it’ll magically turn the conversation to something more palatable for him. 

“I’d like to change my answer,” you say.

Eddie swallows harshly. “Can’t. All compliments have been locked in. Maybe at our next cat fight.”

—

Eddie’s heart isn’t pounding like he worried it might when he asked you to follow him into the bathroom. He pictured sweaty, shaking palms, his hands hesitant, a reminiscent picture of a past self who didn’t know how to make girls make noise. He thought the next time he was alone with you, it would be the tragic scene from the movies where the boy bears his heart and the girl can’t accept it. He’s not expecting you to understand. It’s getting to the point where the mean shit he said to you isn’t made up of words anymore but the image of you in the Prover Theatre with your sparkling dress and your dull eyes. He hates that he made you feel that way, and he should say sorry. He feels fucking sorry. 

“Don’t cut me,” you say, quiet so you won’t be caught together. 

“I won’t.”

“When was the last time you did this?” 

“It’s like riding a bike,” he insists. “I haven’t forgotten.”

You simper. Propped up on the sink’s counter, your skirt hiking up your thighs (imagine him covering his face with his hands, rocking his head from side to side, you’re wearing garters) and your jacket falling into the basin. You’ve turned one arm toward him trustingly, but apprehension plays clear as day over your mouth. He wants to remark that your mouth is pretty, but it’s not the right word. Perfect feels closer, but again, it’s not what he wants. He has a fascination with how you talk and when you don’t, how your lips have a mind of their own sometimes, nibbled and popped and pouting. 

“It’s easier if you take your shirt off.”

“How many girls believed that one?” you ask happily. He’s ecstatic. Dinner perked you up and now you’re all smiles and warm laughs. He doesn’t know why you’d been angry with him (he does) because you started it (not really), but you got something off your chest at least. 

“None,” he says. “I’m serious that it’s easier. But you really don’t have to take it off for me to make it look good.”

Eddie wields his small pen knife toward your arm. 

“I like my sleeves,” you say as he takes the hem of one such sleeve into his free hand. 

“Don’t be a baby.” He pulls it taut from your skin. You’re both smiling. Carbs are good like that.

“I have fat arms,” you try. 

He’s out of his mind. Eddie leans down and kisses the top of your arm quickly. “Shut up,” he says.

He doesn’t have time to think about what he’s done. It’ll torture him tonight when all he has for distraction are hotel sheets, and then tomorrow on the red eye back to L.A. He honestly doesn’t wanna look at you because if your nose is even slightly wrinkled he’ll have to turn to the gross toilet in the corner and chuck up, but he also doesn't want to freak you out. He looks up at you from under his lashes. 

You look flustered. 

Not disgusted. 

“I’m doing it,” he warns. 

“Yeah,” you say, nearly normal. “Fine. Make me look cool.”

“You admit that I look cool.”

“No.”

Eddie digs the tip of his pen knife into your sleeve and starts pulling. The fabric tears away in a jagged-lined but even circle around your arm, broadening a tantalising stretch. His stomach hurts a bit. To reach your second arm, the one furthest from him, he has to take up station between your spread legs. Or maybe he doesn’t have to, but he does, your thighs like two warm spots either side of him as he leans in close. 

“And this is what’s gonna make them all like me, right? This is the cement of my street cred?”

“Your street cred? No. And I don’t think anything you do could make them like you.” You lean back at his words. He pulls you back in, fingers braceleting your arm as he fakes taking a measurement. “If they don’t like you already, they won’t. Not your fault, not your problem. Who says you even like them?”

“I do, though. That’s my problem. I even like Little Miss Fleetwood,” you grumble. 

He raises his eyebrows to show he’s listening, stabbing at your sleeve and tearing slow. “She still tripping you up?”

“No. I’m just trying to make you laugh.”

He laughs under his breath. “Mission accomplished, baby,” he murmurs. 

Both sleeves sliced, Eddie steps away from you, ignoring the heat in his stomach to take you in. People who don’t know where they stand shouldn’t be so close to one another, he decides, ‘cause wishful thinking has him marking your hands as wanting. Your fingers move slowly as if through water, tip of your index on the left hand stroking down the back of your right marriage. Eddie pins salaciousness on everybody he meets —coke is falling out of fashion fast but sex is always in— but he can’t get a faithful read on you now. He wants you to want to be kissed. Doesn’t trust that you do. 

“You look edgy.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” you ask.

“An awful way.”

You go quiet, your hands go still. You raise your head until it’s too much, and he realises he’s been moving back in. He drops the penknife in the sink on top of your jacket, putting his hand on your freshly bared arm and bunching the sleeve up as much as he can without it pulling at you. He’s greedy and he wants to palm at your skin like an asshole, that’s not your problem. 

“That bad?” you ask. 

He angles his face over yours. He needs two inches maybe three, and you’d be kissing. His hand falls down your arm to your elbow, clasping weakly over your skin. 

“No,” he says. He can barely hear himself. 

Greedy. His second hand comes up to your face, waiting, and when you lift your jaw just so he slots his hand under it and holds you. 

“What are we doing?” you whisper. 

What are ‘we’ doing? 

“Nothing you don’t want to do.” He widens the gap between you. 

“I know– I know that.” Your arm ventured forward, fingers twisting around the hem of his shirt. You tug it gently, pulling him forward again. “I just don’t understand it. You. I don’t get what’s happening, Eddie.”

“Well… I was going to kiss you.” Eddie fights to sound the way he feels, out of his element but so earnest his chest aches. “I really, really… want to kiss you.”

It doesn’t feel like admitting defeat, as he’d initially thought it might. Neither does it feel confessional. You can’t confess to a secret already known. 

He kisses you just once. A light brush of his lips against yours. Anymore than that and he knows he’ll start making promises like someone who has room for them. His eyes scrunch closed hard and he struggles not to squeeze your poor cheek as the pressure of your lips builds, as they part, as he pulls back and you chase him. He can’t kiss your mouth anymore than that, but your hands are grabbing at him, pleading and twitching and cold against the searing skin of his abdomen as they search underneath his shirt. Eddie feels the soft curve of your hip under his hand, knowing he can’t fuck you here, and undecided on whether that’ll be his ruin or his saviour. 

You shudder as he kisses down. His hands are hungry but his mouth is sweet, gentle like you deserve as he noses down the column of your throat. 

“I don’t get you,” you say, your fingertips sewn into his hair, scratching over his scalp lightly. Your breath catches as he parts his lips. His teeth scratch over the damp crescents of previous kisses. 

He loses himself in the ticklish feeling of your hand and the heat of your skin. “Hm?” he hums. 

“I understood you better when I thought you didn’t like me.”

He kisses up to the soft crook of your jaw before edging you away, just enough to see the sad set of your eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, utters, like you’re trading secrets. His thumb rubs your cheek, a rough touch. He’s never been much good at aligning his words with actions; his heart and his hands. 

He doesn’t know what to do to fix your sad frown. He kisses you again in case that’s what you wanted but couldn’t say, and it works for a handful of blessed, wretched seconds. You kiss back hard. Eddie has to break it to take a breath. 

You rest your forehead against his. It slides slowly to his nose, and eventually you’ve bowed your head, your hands slipping down to his elbows. 

“I feel sick all the time,” you say. Your hands flex against his skin. “The only time I feel alright is when I’m playing– when I’m making something.” You press your head to his chest. “Or when I’m with you.”

Eddie thinks of all the shitty decisions he’s made. His restlessness, his bad attitude. His propensity to assume the worst. How he’d taken your thumb rubbing a smudge off of his cheek in the Prover Theatre as a jab, rather than a helping hand. 

He wraps his arms around you. 

Your head fits under his rather well. 

“I know what you mean,” he says. And out of everything he’s told you today, that’s the hardest to say aloud. 

Eddie hugs you in the dim light of that dingy bathroom knowing he’s running on borrowed time. All too soon, you’re pulling apart and he’s helping you off of the counter unnecessarily. You don’t hold hands on the way back to Wings Stadium. He thought you might. You’re quiet. He tries to cheer you up, feeling more and more like he’s done something wrong the closer you get to the venue.

He doesn’t have anything to offer. You’re both on tour now. He doesn’t have a clue when he’ll see you next, or what he’ll say when he does. 

Miraculously, he gets you back to your dressing room. He gives your cheek a quick squeeze. 

“Play well tonight,” he says. 

“I always play well.”

You do. He watches you from the VIP section a couple of hours later, impressed. Mildly nauseous. His thumb worries the edge of the pass until it splits in his hand, paper coming apart from cardboard. Your singer might be a handful, but she knows when to be discreet. He slinks out before your set finishes through a side entrance, and his head races with your image. If it weren’t for your cut sleeves and the flank of your upper arm glowing under the stage lights, he’d put his kisses down to surreal delusion. 

Eddie doesn’t notice the lone photographer hiding in the eaves. 

The photographer notices him. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

!!! thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging, it helps so much! Let me know what you thought, what bits you liked and what you want to see next

can you feel another spat coming along 0.0 I honestly had so much fun writing this one especially the scene with Wayne and then the end scene in the bathroom <3 it’s always crazy to see hours and hours condensed into chapters like this but idc I’m having the time of my life and hope u guys r too! the word count is now at a solid 26k I believe though so it does feel rewarding in that way

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst

[steam-beasts]

In a general sense, who was infected via bite/scratch ratter than getting the suspicious coal?

Salty - got attacked by a feral Porter. He actually doesn't mind being a reptile-like beast. It means he can go visit Rusty and crawl up Cranky's support beams to talk to him better, plus, he can swim!

Diesel - got scratched up by a feral Duck. Duck suddenly remembered the beef he had with him and just went up and scratched him, then left. He refused to elaborate.

Mavis and Daisy - got cornered by Thomas, Percy and Toby while trying to escape Ffarqhuarr.

Bertie - Got bitten while trying to keep his passengers safe.

Annie and Clarabelle - couldn't go anywhere and got a bit scratched up.

Henrietta - was attacked by a feral Toby. Tried reasoning with him, but it was too late.

Carolyn - was chased around a bit, but escaped. If she could, she would spray water at them. She now treats them like big kittens whenever they act all adorable, and treats Diesel 10 like a dinosaur if she ever sees him.

Cleo - managed to hide from the infected. She's still secretly afraid of them, and has to have Ruth reassure her that they're still the same engines she got to know before.

Ace - escaped, he still treats the engines and infected road vehicles as his friends, but he also treats them like Australian wildlife, and sometimes just pisses one of them off to see what happens. He tried that with Edward to see if he could get on the old guy's nerves. Spoiler; it worked after the 1000th time.

Paxton - got jumped by the NG engines, all at once. He's pretty unnerved now when he goes to the BM quarry and literally squeaks when an engine just suddenly pops out of one of the tunnels without warning. He also struggles to understand Rusty. That little diesel just sometimes spawns everywhere Paxton looks. Rusty's an definite enigma...

#thomas and friends #thomas the tank engine #monster engines #ttte thomas #ttte edward #ttte rusty #ttte cleo #ttte ace #ttte Carolyn #ttte paxton #ttte diesel 10 #ttte toby #ttte percy #ttte mavis #ttte narrow guage engines #ttte duck #ttte diesel #ttte annie #ttte clarabel #ttte henrietta #ttte salty #ttte porter #ttte bertie

[thebunnylord]

Ttte scar headcanons

Thomas: has a tiny scar across his throat and a tiny scar between his ribs on his side, has no idea where they came, nor due any medical records showing anything regarding them.

Edward: usual burn scars on his arms, is missing his thumb and index fingers on his right hand and a pinky on his left along with a huge scar down the side of his wrist.

Henry: is an absolute scarred up mess, has scars on his side, chest, neck, legs, abdomen due to his health.

Gordon: has a scar from when he broke his arm when he crashed through the station wall, and a burn scar on his foot from the time he accidentally poured boiling water down his boot.

James: a burn scar on his left leg and a scar under his chin because he once tripped and spit his chin open on the rail

Percy: miraculously he has no scars

Toby: has the usual burn scars on his arms and hands, nothing serious.

Duck: two on his knees from when he jumped out of his engine when it crashed into the barber shop, and miraculously walked away from it with only two scrapped up knees.

Donald: has a tiny one from when he and Douglas were playing darts when they were younger and Douglas accidentally somehow stuck the dart in Donald’s foot when he went to throw it.

Douglas: a tiny one on his chin that he got from Donald after he stuck the dart in Donald’s foot.

Oliver: had his arm amputated and a few scratches on his other arm, plus the unusual burn marks.

Emily: is smart enough to not get hurt.

Diesel: a burn mark on his hand from that time he thought that holding a lighter in his gasoline covered hand was a smart idea.

Bill: has a scar across his forehead from when Ben ran into him.

Ben: has a scar across his forehead from when bill ran into him.

BoCo: has a few that are related to his diabetes, nothing really serious.

#ttte #thomas and friends #ttte incorrect quote #ttte humanisation #ttte headcanon #ttte thomas #ttte edward #ttte henry #ttte gordon #ttte james #ttte percy #ttte toby #ttte duck #ttte donald #ttte douglas #ttte oliver #ttte emily #ttte diesel #ttte bill #there’s too many characters to tag #you can tag the rest #I’m going to bed

[weirdowithaquill]

Ships? But Sir, They're Trains!

It's Valentine's Day, and to celebrate, I thought I'd break my usual streak of not shipping the talking trains together and share the pairings that I like the best! But only of the original 11, and a few other RWS-related friends (and maybe a bonus or two from the TVS).

Also known as: local weirdo decides trains can kiss, but only on Valentine's Day.

Let's get into the ships... er... trains.

Thomas:

Almost chronically single. I'm sorry Thomas, but you're not very good at the dating thing. Maybe Hank if I swallowed my pride and went to watch Season 12 - just because Hank's calm and friendly personality would naturally balance out Thomas. But also because they are the epitome of 'gentle giant' and 'tank engine terror'. Also, Thomas blushes in this episode:

(Sorry for the Season 12 image, but it's the only Season Hank was in!)

Edward:

This engine has options! Or more to the point - this engine has suitors. Not all make sense to the poor engine - but that's the pain of being the one everyone looks up to. I would put him with BoCo, but I must admit I had a phase where I read EdwardxJames fanfics. So... nostalgia wins (that and Edward needs someone with a fiery personality to boost his confidence sometimes, and James needs a cooler head all the time).

(Look at the smile on James' face! He's ecstatic to see his engine.)

Henry:

Bear. The answer is Bear. I'm sorry, but that Hymek has it bad for Henry, and Henry fought for Bear to stay on Sodor. And after the early days when every engine fought, Henry has no interest in getting tangled up with them again, only this time romantically. Besides, the youthful energy and eagerness Bear has will only benefit Henry, who can be a bit of an old grump.

(Bear, I can't tell if you're looking into Henry's eyes or not...)

Gordon:

Hoo boy... Gordon, oh Gordon. What to do with you? Henry and James are taken, Edward and Thomas are more siblings than romantic interests - and engines 6 through 11 are just not close enough. But how about BoCo? (Yes, this is why I didn't pair him up with Edward). BoCo is calm and polite where Gordon is loud and brash - and Gordon does see BoCo as his saviour. It would probably be the plot of a b-list romantic movie, but I can see these two getting together, with Gordon being the jock and BoCo being the 'kid' of Edward.

(Look at that little smile Gordon has! This engine is smitten.)

James:

He's with Edward, thank you. More than that, he doesn't really fit well with the other RWS cast romance-wise. Thomas is something of a rival and friend, while he wants Gordon and Henry to acknowledge him and Percy is something of a little brother/annoyance to James. Edward and he have a lot to work out (mostly James groveling) but they got a lot of coding in the series from what I remember. Plus Edward saved him - so we've ticked the cliche box.

(Yes, this means Edward is the knight in shining armour. James is a diva anyway.)

Percy:

Has about as much luck as Thomas does, if we're honest. Young, childish Percy has no chance, while older, grumpier Percy is more interesting to consider. The Percy of Seasons 5 and 6 I could see bagging Harold. But then, we could also consider the absolute insanity of Percy and Diesel 10. Imagine the shock, imagine the story! (I'm a writer, let me dream about how I'd write this lot). Diesel 10 would be the delinquent who is soft for Percy and Percy only. It would also lead to an epic fight between the helicopter and the engine with a giant claw.

(Um, is Percy... blushing?! What are these faces?! I have questions.)

Toby:

Is married to Henrietta. They are old couple goals. Percy and Thomas are extremely jealous.

(Toby is grinning cause he knows his wife - that poor manager...)

Duck and Donald:

I considered Percy for Duck, but I feel like what Duck needs is an engine who can really bring out the playful side in Duck - the engine who helps him be more than just the railway he used to work for. That engine is Donald. When they ended up playing pranks on each other in Donald's Duck to the point where Duck stooped to putting a literal duck in Donald's tender knowing Donald would find it funny really says it all about these two.

(Look at him, so excited to play his little prank! His driver is wheezing!)

Douglas and Oliver:

These two practically have a kid in Toad already (or an advice-giving uncle. One of the two). Douglas saved Oliver, and that sort of thing has a lasting impact - especially because it's also the most likely relationship to actually happen. Both Douglas and Oliver are known for sticking it to authority, being a bit hot-headed and being led a bit more by spirit and the heart than by their heads. They have Toad for critical thinking. They live and work together too - and it would be hilarious to watch Duck blast his safety valve off when he finds out.

(Ah yes, let me just stare into your eyes for half an episode.)

Mavis and Daisy:

These two are disaster lesbians, and we love them for it. It's also the femme fatale (or as femme fatale as a diesel railcar can be) and the butch (she works in a quarry - this girl wears overalls) tropes - and they're disasters. Need I remind anyone that Daisy was the one who encouraged Mavis to ignore Toby? It would also be hilarious purely for how much Thomas and Percy would grumble about being single, while Daisy and Mavis rub their relationship in the pair's faces. Which would lead to that one memorable incident where Thomas tried to flirt with a very unamused and confused Bertie.

(Mavis, sweetie - don't listen to Daisy's advice. I know you're distracted but ple-- and she's gone.)

Annie and Clarabel:

Are wine aunts and siblings. And no, neither of them are interested in Thomas, so you can stop thinking that.

(These coaches are Thomas' wine aunts and best friends - and he loves them too.)

Bill and Ben:

Are children! Edward's children! That he has with BoCo (sort of) leading to the brilliant moments where Gordon has to 'babysit' them - which is mostly done with a lot of grimacing and begging BoCo to just hand this lot over to Edward and James - no seriously, please stop letting these two just randomly adopt you as their parent. They're evil, and they wanted to throw me in the sea, remember? No, I don't care that James doesn't like them, I don't like them! BoCo!

(He's petrified of them, but he wants to be nice for BoCo's sake...)

Emily:

Does not need a man, thank you. But she is entranced sometimes by Caitlin's streamlining (yes, I have seen some CGI - I am not a true purist, I am sorry Awdry). Then again, sometimes Emily likes Hiro - and then there was that one time where she was just so upset that Mavis wouldn't notice her. Emily doesn't need no man - but she's also not exactly got the best selection of potential candidates at her shed...

(She's got an amazing poker face. Caitlin however...)

So... that was a thing I did. Somewhere around Percy's entry, this gained a coherent plot in my mind - probably a High School AU? - and now I'm just thinking of Diesel 10 towering over Percy, blushing and trying to give him flowers (with his claw???) while Harold seethes. Clearly, being a single pringle has driven me insane.

Happy Valentine's Day to everyone, I hope you enjoyed this wild idea and if people want expansions on these ships (still trains) and why I like the idea of them, please go ahead and ask!

If people really like this, I will take on the Narrow Gauge engines.

#weirdowithaquill #railway series #thomas the tank engine #ttte relationships #edward x james #ttte henry x bear #ttte gordon x boco #ttte percy x diesel 10 #somehow that made sense in my mind #toby x henrietta #ttte duck x donald #ttte oliver x douglas #ttte mavis x daisy #valentines day #ttte characters #yes this is unusual for me #but i did it anyway #haters will get banished to the shadow realm

[farmerlesbian]

poll - read all options before answering!

for lesbians, sapphics, wlw, gay laydies, bi and pan goils, enbies and androgynes and bois and queer dykes.

i'm curious again so here's a lil poll. i find we focus a lot on the term butch but there are a lot of terms and identities that are similar so i'm curious how folks identify. while some of these can be genders in themselves i'm not so much looking for like what your gender is, but more describing how you look and what your presentation is, which is why i'm not listing nonbinary. if you feel that's the best way to describe it and is how you describe yourself then go ahead and say that! if the term that resonates most for you also is your gender, that's fine select that term. also there are a lot more terms i would've included if i had more space so if the word you'd pick isn't here please choose other and list it in the tags or comments! i understand there are a lot of regional, subcultural, ethnic, and non-english language terms that you might use. so again, please feel free to use the 'other' and say what your term for yourself is.

some english language terms that i didn't include are: diesel dyke, bulldagger / BD / bulldyke, AG / aggressive, futch, stem, transmasc, dyke, boi, fuckboy/fuckboi, kiki, tomboy, drag king, stag, tomcat. and the subsets of butch: soft, hard, stone, LHB (long hair butch)

plus there are sooo many more non-english language terms out there that i'm not familiar with but you might identify with! please share 'em!

as always, talk about it in the comments n tags! i

#lesbian #identity #labels #polls #wlw #sapphic #butch #stud #masc #masc of center #queer #queer women #masculinity #gender nonconformity #gnc #gender nonconforming

[robotpussy]

Fashion Trip was a virtual mall created by software developer ModaCAD, and released in 1998 and available on Windows 98 and 95. The software was to act as a "Personal fashion consultant, 3D Virtual Mall and Fashion Magazine all in one"

The user could register via a questionnaire that collects personal information on skin type, hair colour, size, height, and weight, as well as lifestyle aspects such as hobbies and activities. Personalization would allow the site to serve up targeted fashion advice plus editorial content from Seventeen and other publishing partners.

Brands such as Urban Decay, GUESS, Diesel and Steve Madden could be found on the catelogue through the fashion finder and the user could try on clothing in virtual dressing rooms.

To truly encapsulate the mall experience, you could also "shop with a friend", allowing users to talk as they compare outfits, stroll through the mall and check out the latest styles together (with a good internet connection).

Item photos via eBay and Internet Archive (the seller currently has 2 copies of this CD-ROM!, the software is also available on the Internet Archive)

Scan Source

#y2k #magazine #tech #90s #fashion #reminds me of the program cher used in clueless in the mornings #90s tech #old internet #internet archive #windows 95 #windows 98 #retro #cd-rom #i will mention that in order for the software to work you will need a windows 95/98 computer idk if emulating windows 98 would #get it work but it didnt work on my windows 10 computer. im working towards getting a windows 98 computer so

[franglishetchocolat]

An Elixir Consignment Shop for Sunset Valley.

Built on patch 1.67 - Originally in Sunset Valley, where the Bistro used to be, so best placed there (Size: 16x18) - Lot label = Elixir Consignment Shop. Small shops with 2 rooms (plus back door/corridor with all-in-1 bathroom), potion register, alchemy station, gem cutter, magic mirror... and a lot of other knick-knacks.

Using Items from: 

No CC, No Store item

EPs: WA, Ambitions, Late Night, Generations, Pets, Showtime, Seasons, University Life and Island Paradise.

 SPs: High End Loft, Fast Lane, Outdoor Living, Town Life, Diesel, 70s,80s &90s pack. I also own Movie Stuff  but I’m pretty sure I haven’t used anything from this one in this lot (though maybe I should have, there are some very cool jars... 👀 )

DOWNLOAD

I use markers on my lots: level skip, hidden room, public room… So to be able to modify any of  these buildings you need to have cheats on:  ‘testingcheatsenabled true’, then ‘restrictbuildbuyinbuildings false’ To see/remove the markers you need ‘buydebug on.

#sims3 #builds #download #sunsetvalley #Youtube

[justahillbillyfromouterspace]

she was trying to prove you can go long distance in a e.v. junker . She was going on a 4 day road trip . Probably spent most time waiting for a charger and one that actually worked then a couple hours waiting to charge what a moron . e.v.'s suck no good more polluting than a gas or diesel vehicle . Wonder if she ever completed the commie "road trip" . we need to vote morons out of office . plus loss of jobs in the combustion engine field and why are my taxes going to subsidize auto companies that produce this junk and to build charging stations . The government never built gas stations . this is sickening

#e.v. #electric vehicles #maga

[littlewestern]

For Silver and Black, any headcanons about the other engines at the IRM? I wonder if Pilot, 1630, and the electroliner get along since they’re the ‘faces’ of the museum. There’s also that Q Hudson, 504, 9925 and 9976. They probably all hang out as the Q club lol. I wonder if they like the BN units?

The IRM is practically a chronic and compulsive character designer's dream. I could spend the rest of my life making little guys out of their roster and probably not ever get bored, so you can bet DJ (@greatwesternway) and I have spent the past 13 months doing exactly that lol.

1630 was absolutely one of the first ones we worked on after Pilot, given that she's so iconic and important to the IRM. Engines with stories are far and away the easiest to write for, and 1630 has a great one. Plus, she's a face as you say! I like to characterize her as a bold and confident problem solver, especially having read some of the old Rail & Wires from the time period when she was undergoing restoration. Her first trial run went so well they had her pulling trains even though she was supposed to just be fired for testing, and that to me informs so much of her personality. She was ready to work from the jump! She's obviously besties with Shay 5, being that they've worked together for so many years, and I like to think they're sort of the de facto ambassadors for the steam department with the rest of the museum.

The Electroliner, I'm a little embarrassed to say, I only got around to learning about recently even though I was struck immediately by the design. I like to picture her as a more blue-collar version of the Zephyrs, streamlined and modern but still very much of the people. I haven't explored her history that much since we haven't gotten there in the letters yet, but I'm excited to learn more! I think she and Pilot get along really well, but that's sort of a given since Pilot gets along with everybody.

Some other characters at the IRM that get some play in the discussion are The Goddesses, who all have unique personalities and have been cropping up more frequently in the letters. We've also casually written some thoughts down about the other Pullman streamlined cars (Birmingham and Loch Sloy) as well as quite a few of the diesel shunters, since they're literally always out doing stuff at the IRM, and it's easy to fall in love with the engines that are constantly out there working. Our favorite so far is the Commonwealth Edison 15 shunter because he's grey and the last time I saw it out, it was switching the aforementioned Pullman cars around and @joezworld joked that he was going, "Look! I'm a streamliner!" and that has since become basically canon.

I don't have much for the Q steam engines although they're definitely on the list. I'm very interested in the BNs 1, 2, and 3 because I think their story is going to be interesting but I also haven't put much time in on their history yet. Since the museum's roster is so extensive (especially compared to the MSI), we've just been letting the stories inspire us as we learn about them organically. DJ's been adding new entries to the timeline from the IRM's photohistory book, and that alone has sewn some ideas we're definitely going to revisit later, if not in the letters than possibly in some other stories or just for our own amusement.

These questions are *so* good by the way, I'm absolutely loving being able to answer these! Thanks so much!

#tfissab behind the scenes #commonwealth edison 15 #frisco 1630 #shay 5 #irm #the goddesses #birmingham #loch sloy #the electroliner #asks #quite-a-character #the future is still silver and black #silver pilot

[breadandblankets]

here's a bat assortment as cars I associate them with:

alfred: columbia victoria, old ass car, looks like they just let the horses loose, also early electric car and the first car to be included in a presidential motorcade

bruce: dodge challenger, a gorgeous piece of american muscle that has been thoroughly ruined by cops

kate: ram 2500 diesel, theoretically a reliable truck with a moderate tow capacity, in reality owned by alcoholic dads

babs: subaru outback (i know what you are)

luke: audi r8 idk i always associate audis with fashionable people and tech bros and idk luke fits that overlap to me..... i just found out this is what tony drives in the mcu..... i swear i didn't pick this on purpose

dick: mclaren spider, pretty, sporty, and really fucking maneuverable like if i had to ask for a (street legal) acrobatic car its this one

jason: Mercedes-Benz 300 SLR jkjk Toyota Hilux an excellent truck that will work forever and also is v good for strapping guns onto

cass: dodge viper, insane power plus tiny body equals a car for people who want to kill themselves

steph: 00s Honda Civic, reliable, dependable, will never die, unfortunately created to be intentionally looked over and driven by people who don't fear death

tim: Lamborghini, expensive, pretty, but if you know you know

duke: Volkswagen Thing, yes this is a real car, yes they look like a toy, theyre technically military vehicle so they come modifiable stock, not very comfortable but it doesn't need to be, it gets its job done and it does it Very well, utilitarian and cool as hell

damian: a Buick coupe, they send him a complimentary AARP membership with it not knowing he's 12, it doesn't much matter though, he appreciates the discounts

#batfam #all the links are wikipedia #im not tagging them all i hate that #if you want to see this post you will come to me #these are not what they would Drive this is what they Are To Me #dick and duke were the hardest im ngl #i wanted it to be Right #anyway lemme know if u want clarification or if you want my car opinions #as a car gay TM #tw suicide ideation #but like its cass so.... #tw canon #bread talk

[valtionrautatiet-official]

I've been meaning to ask, all of VR's locomotives seem to be named SrXX, SvXX, DrXX, ...

What does the prefix (Sr, Sv, Dr, ...) mean? Presumably its something along the lines of "Diesel Locomotive" in Finnish or something, but I'd love to know!

You got it very close! I was going to make a detailed entry about the different systems that have been in use (as there have been three different ones for locomotives over the years, plus a separate one for multiple units), but entirely forgot. So I'll just do it here.

In the current system (taken into use in 1976):

The first (capitalised) letter is the (primary) power source D for diesel S for sähkö (electric)

The second (lowercase) letter signifies axle weight: k (kevyt) light loco of less than 11 metric tons per axle (there are currently no k locos) v (väliraskas) midweight loco of 11-16 metric tons r (raskas) is heavy locomotive of more than 16 metric tons

Multiple units follow a similar system, except the lowercase letter is always m for moottorivaunu, motorized carriage.

The numbers should theoretically just be a running numbering, but this only holds true for electric locos. The diesel numbering is a mess with gaps and numbers not being in consecutive order (the numbering started with Dr12, there never was a Dr17, and Dr20, Dr21 and Dr35 all predate Dr19).

Then to make things more complex, in 1942-75 a different system was in use where the first letter signified what types of trains the locomotive was primarily designed to haul.

H for henkilöjuna (passenger train) T for tavarajuna (freight train) S for sekajuna (mixed train, though this came to mean mixed use towards the end) P for paikallisjuna (local/commuter train) V for vaihtoveturi (shunter)

In practice pretty much all locos except for the V's were mixed use ones already during the steam era: for example the Pr2 local traffic locos were mostly used to haul long-distance express trains and occasionally did freight trains too. For diesels, the flagship locos were classed as Hr's (even when they could not be used to haul passenger trains, as was initially the case with the Hr13), but apart from shunters all other locos were simply classified as S's. It's also maybe amusing that the first electric locos were delivered under the old system as Sr1 (mixed-use heavy loco 1), and kept the same designation under the new system, thanks to Finnish having an invented word for electricity that also begins with an S.

At the same time with the changeover to the current system they also changed the breakpoint between v and r, resulting in Sr12 (mixed use heavy loco) becoming Dv12 (diesel midweight loco). I sometimes wonder if there will be another overhaul once the last Dv12 is retired, as apart from those locos all in-use Finnish locos are in the r weight. Should we change the "borders" between the different weights again, or maybe just change the small letter to v for veturi (locomotive) to differentiate from the m for multiple units?

Finally, up to 1942 loco classes were given a single capital letter and a running number based on the wheelbase (which I think is/was the system also used in Sweden). And for whatever reason letters A through F were recycled for new wheelbases at different times, but we never went through the full alphabet; R was the last letter to be taken to use.

#vr #railroad #train #locomotive

[speedofsoundsketches]

A thought just dawned on me this morning and I theorize the reason why so many people went up in arms in defense for the Sonic Movies was because they maybe thought my criticisms were being directed at Tyson Hesse by proxy?

So just want to clarify something here - if there was one western person who I'd absolutely, completely, 100% trust with Sonic

it'd be Tyson Hesse.

Literally everything this man touches is gold, I cannot stress enough how much I adore his work, Sonic or his own original stuff like Boxer Hockey and Diesel. I even bought the first Diesel issue from the original run over ten years ago!

It helps that not only does he speak and understand Japanese fluently, so the cross-communication between him and Sega must be much more stream-lined, but he also lived in Japan for a spin and his wife's half-japanese too I think?

He not only gets it from a cultural perspective but has the phenomenal amount of talent on top of just fundamentally understanding Sonic so well. If he were in charge of the movies from the get go instead of having to do damage control, I have zero doubt in my mind he would've knocked it out of the park and into the stratosphere where it'll dance in the constellations of mankind's best movie adaptations.

I trust this guy's work THAT much. I'm so happy he gets to work on it when he does!

Plus, it's super inspiring seeing someone from the fireball20xl days of internet fandom being so successful and well-regarded.

#Tyson Hesse #Zoomer Sonic #thoughts #ramble #text #I will gush about Tyson until there's no more air in my lungs #Seriously this man is a major inspiration and incredible artist #I'm sure he works so hard too and he just....understands the characters so well ;-; #especially Knuckles it made me so happy he directed the frontiers short about him #I legit can't think of a time where I didn't like something of his #Banger after Banger #I pray for many years of success for him whether it's on Sonic or his own Original creations U_U