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word-wytch · 8 months

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Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 14

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 14/? 18k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ An invitation to The Hideout answers some long burning questions.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter CW: kissing, heavy petting, jealousy, protective!eddie, drinking, smoking, fluff

Tuesday, December 10th 1985

Winter crept in like a lamb. It nipped at your ankles when you got out of bed, beckoned you to hibernate in the warm cocoon of soft sheets and heavy blankets. The room was a lightless cave, the sky still as dense as midnight. Feet shuffling blindly at the floor to find your slippers, you clicked on the small lamp atop your nightstand to offer some light to your habitat.

Standard routine — making shadows on the wall as you brushed your teeth, emerging out the door to the dark hallway, squinting under the harsh light of your kitchen. Two eggs over easy. Two pieces of toast. One phone that hung to the right of your small kitchen table like an omen as you dipped the crust into the yolks. Looming. Waiting. You swallowed a feeling with your next sip of coffee; flutters that danced down your throat and settled in the pit of your stomach.

By the time you returned to your bedroom, the sky touched your sheer curtains with the palest blue. Your clothing was already laid out neatly on your dresser, poised like soldiers in a row — thick ribbed stockings; plaid wool skirt; stiff white blouse; cream knit sweater.

As you suited up, stripping yourself of warm pajamas to brace the chill of your formal attire, your eyes drifted to an object on your desk. Powder blue and collecting a fair amount of dust; an IBM Selectric II typewriter. It was more or less a decoration now, pushed against the wall to make room for piles of papers in need of grading. Still, you liked the way it looked; cheery against the drab apartment wall, like something a real writer would have.

It was a trusty old thing, still chugging along despite countless college essays hammered into the grey keys. It had been your only company in the wee hours of many mornings such as this one, only then there had not been sleep to separate you from the night before. Sturdy and dependable, it captured your imagination too, letter by black inked letter.

Fastening the buttons of your blouse in a methodical rhythm, you could almost trick yourself into believing it was any other morning, except today there was something else you needed to do before you left, and the clock on your nightstand let you know in glowing red that your window to do so was closing.

Cold linoleum creaked under your stocking feet as you padded into the kitchen, stomach twisting into knots as you approached the phone. If you were going to do this, it had to be now.

Running your finger down the laminated tabs of the well-loved address book on your counter, you flipped to the section labeled “J”. After scanning a dozen hand-written names, you found the one you were looking for. It was a mess of chalky white-out and hasty scribbles. Last name replaced, same with the phone number and address. You weren’t sure why you didn’t just write it all fresh under “P”, perhaps it was something about not wanting to erase the history entirely.

You took a deep breath and snatched the phone off the receiver. Pressing the cold plastic to your ear, you glanced down at the numbers in blue pen and whispered them quietly to yourself as you slowly, hesitantly, clicked them one by one into the cream button pad on the wall.

You stared across the kitchen in sober contemplation of your life choices as the phone rang. Again. And again. And again, until a familiar, groggy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey! Janet!” you greeted brightly, sounding far too awake for 7:06 AM. In your nervous haste, you almost forgot to tell her who was calling.

“Oh… hey there,” came a hesitant voice on the other line, a sharp squeal cut through the static followed by a hush.

“Hey, um, I know it’s like, super early and totally last minute but I wanted to catch you before I left for work. Listen, I’ve had a hell of a week already and I was wondering—and I totally get it if you can’t, but—well I was wondering if you’d be up for going out tonight. Like say around eight-ish?” You bit your lip and grimaced, twisting the gummy cord around your finger.

The pause was filled with the rattling of tiny fists against plastic. “Oh! Well let’s see,” she said in a voice that was suddenly very awake. “The kids will be asleep by then, or at least they should be,” she chuckled, “and Bob doesn’t go to bed till after eleven anyway, so I’m sure he’ll be fine if I escape for a few hours. I mean I’ll check with him but I really don’t see why not.”

It was equally as promising as it was a relief; the excitement that crept through her voice.

“Great! Yeah, I figured you could probably use a night out.”

“Oh gosh, you don’t even know the half of it,” Janet laughed. “So where were you thinking? You wanna just go to Pal-Joeys again?”

Pacing toward the counter, you braced to offer your suggestion. “Actually, I was thinking we could go to The Hideout, I hear there’s a band playing tonight.”

“The Hideout?” she asked through an incredulous smile.

“I know,” you breathed nervously, “it’s not really our um, regular haunt, but that’s kinda why I want to go, you know? Shake things up a bit. Everything’s just been feeling so… routine lately, you know?”

Janet’s sigh was deep and heavy. “Oh trust me, I know.” A bright coo crackled through the telephone line.

“Like, I kind of want to just…” you coiled your finger deeper into the phone cord, glancing at the glaring red clock above the stove, “I dunno…pretend to be somebody else for a change.”

“You know,” she started, a quiet mischief creeping into her voice, “I could really stand to be somebody else for a night too.”

You paused in your pacing as a smile cracked across your face. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Gosh, do you know your birthday was the last time I went out? Seriously! And before that I don’t even remember. Sometimes I look around and it’s like, man I used to be fun. You remember when I was fun, right?”

You chuckled, drifting back to memories of truths and dares, of creeping down her dark basement steps with freshly painted toes. “You still are fun, Janet.”

“Well maybe you can help remind me because sometimes I look in the mirror and I swear I don’t even recognize myself. Really! I swear I see my mother more and more and that’s what’s really terrifying.”

“You mean you don’t see Bloody Mary anymore?”

Janet’s cackle would have woken the whole house had it not been wide awake and eating Cheerios already. “No that’s just at my parents’ house, remember?”

You snorted, leaning back against the counter. “I think we screamed so loud we woke the neighbors. I swear that bathroom is haunted.”

“That’s what I’ve always said! You feel like you’re being watched, right? My parents still don’t believe me. Oh well, not my problem anymore.”

You laughed, the knot in your belly releasing slightly before you glanced at the clock again, 7:13. “Crap, I’ve gotta get going. So I’ll see you at eight tonight? At The Hideout?”

“Yeah, should be fine. I’ll call you if anything changes. Ah!” she squealed, “I can’t wait.”

“Glad you’re excited,” you chuckled, gripping the smooth plastic. “Ok, see you later.”

“Bye now!”

You hung the phone back on the receiver and stood in the blaring silence of your kitchen, frozen by the impact of your choices. It was real now. In a matter of about thirteen hours you would be getting in your car, driving down a dark road, and parking it at a seedy bar where you would see Eddie for the first time in public. Your feet felt glued to the floor, but as the clock blinked to 7:15, you willed them to move.

Before taking the dark road that led to a seedy bar, you would first need to get in your car and take another road — to work.

You cursed the cold. Cursed it as you hurried across the parking lot to find your car covered in fractals of frost. Cursed it vehemently as you worked the glass with your feeble plastic scraper, shaving holes just big enough to see out of your dashboard and rear window as the clock on your wrist ticked on minute by precious minute. You cursed it audibly when you turned the key and the engine whirred, and whined, and refused to turn over. It must have heard you, because after the fifth time of stomping on the brake and snapping your wrist forward, the engine roared to life.

You rode in on a wave; a daze like the fog that escaped your lungs in shallow breaths. The sun rose above the frozen farmlands, casting its golden-pink light across the empty fields. Out here the roads stretched on for miles. Flat and straight, with little variance in elevation. There was nowhere to look but straight ahead. No curves to surprise you, just you and the rumble of the salt-dusted road, bumping along in silence as an anxious fog rolled across the landscape of your mind.

A sea of students swept you through the front doors of Hawkins High and into the bustling office. Amidst the flurry of ringing phones and voices settling into the cadence of their roles, you grabbed your punch card and stamped the date and time in line with the rest. Pushing the metal handle of the heavy glass door, you exited the humming reprieve of the office and into the din of the main hall. Your boots made hollow clicks against the glossy tile, wind at your face as you marched forward, dodging roughhousing students and hall monitors rushing toward them.

Goodness was a mantle. A strap that dug into your shoulder; heavy with books, and papers, and responsibility. You wedged your thumb beneath it, shrugging it up onto the padded wool collar of your coat as you strode on, vision locked ahead as chaos swirled around you.

Your mug left a ring on the big desk; a remnant from where you’d sloshed it coming down the hall. You’d tried to be careful; slow and deliberate in your pacing when you left the teachers lounge with it, but when a blur of wild curls drew your gaze, your footing faltered. At least you missed your shoes.

Coat hung on its solitary hook and grade book stationed at the center of the desk, you took your place in front of it. Clutching your clipboard, you glanced across the rows of desks, down at the rows of names, beside the rows of boxes that your green pen would fill with neat little P’s and A’s like it did every day. Bell after bell, swipe after swipe of your eraser at the board, the fresh sticks of chalk dwindled to nubs. Question after question, the patience in your voice grew thin.

Between the bells at the top of fourth period, you stood poised like a sentinel outside the door to your classroom. Arms folded across your knit sweater, you sighed, shifting your weight back and forth between your tired feet, offering gentle smiles as your students filed through the threshold of the door. You smelled him before you saw him; the waft of leather and cigarettes with notes of shampoo more prominent than usual.

Against the flow of traffic, Eddie Munson brought his salt-licked combat boots to a halt in front of you. Thumb hooked under the heavy strap of his backpack, he offered you a smile so broad it crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your knees want to give.

You tightened your arms around your sweater, over the hard plastic of your faculty lanyard, and breathed a shy, girlish greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he mimicked, shifting his weight with a less than subtle restlessness as his dark eyes drank you in. They darted back and forth between yours, plush lips parted and primed with words. You felt them brimming impatiently behind his eyes, saw them in the pink flash of his tongue as it darted out to wet his lips.

Out here in the bustling hallway, with eyes that watched and voices that echoed off the polished tile, Eddie edged a bold foot closer, dove in, and ghosted the shell of your ear with his burning question.

“Will I see you tonight?”

The words were a low, hot rumble — rippling from your ear down your spine, pooling deep in your belly. His heat thawed your shoulder as he hovered there, lingering for each aching second it took you to eke out your response.

“Yeah,” you whispered into his curls.

Pulling back with a blinding grin, he tipped his head and ducked into the door of your classroom.

The slam of a locker made you jump. Arms crossed to shield your pounding heart, you stood there in the middle of it all, swimming in a sea of passing bodies, struggling to keep your head above the waves. It surged with images of a lighted stage, of bottles, and tables, and a dark corner for both of you to hide in. The bell echoed loudly down the hall, shrill enough to wake you from the dream you were surely having. Donning your mask, you took a deep breath and dove in, shutting the door behind you.

______

Eddie swung open the heavy back doors to his van, piercing the darkness with the dull yellow overhead light. Gravel crunched under his boots as he leaned in to grab the first amp from the stack, like a pile of black Christmas presents awaiting unwrapping. The night air bit at his fingers, stars twinkling in the patches where the clouds gave way above the tree line. Tightening his grip around the thick gummy handle, he hoisted it and followed the pale path the moon offered out of the side parking lot toward the patio behind The Hideout.

It wasn’t much; a stout fence in dire need of a paint job that caged in a few meager picnic tables. They still had umbrellas in the middle, wrapped tightly like mummies for the winter. He knew the back door would be open, it always was. Turning the weathered knob with his free hand, he welcomed the heat that wafted toward him. He could almost say he welcomed the piss smell coming from the bathrooms as his heavy boots thumped down the dark linoleum hallway, but that would be a stretch. Accustomed was a better word. Familiar was a better word.

Stale beer and cigarettes soon drowned it out as he entered the dimly lit bar, stopping to plunk the heavy amp down to his left on the stage, which was little more than a raised platform painted black. The thud drew the attention of the five usual suspects at the bar, and Eddie wondered which one of them was responsible for playing “Free Bird” on the jukebox.

Bill raised his hand, tipping his baseball cap back in a friendly nod as his fingers splayed. “‘Ey, Eddie!”

He returned the gesture of a single raised hand and flashed a smile before turning down the hall again. Eddie took a deep breath at the door to calm his pounding heart before pressing it open. He couldn’t believe he had been crazy enough to suggest something like this. That soon enough, you would be perched atop one of those rickety stools at a tall, sticky table, watching his every move, listening to his every note. The chill of the night air was a welcome thing, sobering and distracting from the heat that was creeping up the collar of his thick, leather coat. As the gravel crunched under his boots again, headlights blinded his vision.

He could hear the bass pounding from the outside of the small sedan as it rolled up beside his van, followed promptly by another. After a moment of squinting, the headlights shut off with the rumble of the engine, leaving him in the darkness once again. Seatbelts clicked and laughter emerged from the open doors as his friends tumbled out into the parking lot.

“What the fuck took you guys so long? We left at the same time,” Eddie groused.

Dave lumbered over and sighed, a smirk playing on his broad features in the moonlight. “Jeff had to take a shit and he parked me in.”

Jeff rolled his eyes, swinging the door shut with a huff as Gareth laughed into the night air.

Eddie sighed, glancing toward the tall stack of amps and drum heads sitting backlit in the rear of his van. “Ok, well we’ve got like forty minutes to get our shit together so start hauling.”

Dave groaned, cracking his back with a twist of his hefty torso. “Ugh, can you at least let me hit this doob before you put me to work?”

On any other night, Eddie would have welcomed the suggestion, but his nerves were traveling to his hands now and he itched to move them. “Dude, it takes us like an hour to set up, we don’t have time right now. We can smoke after we get this shit on stage.”

Jeff quirked his brows suspiciously, “Dude, since when do you care that we’re on time for anything?”

“Yeah seriously, we’re late like every week,” Gareth added.

Eddie balked, searching for the answer in the treeline, one that excluded you. “It just—if we’re ever gonna play anywhere else besides here we’re gonna have to start getting our shit together.”

There was a lukewarm pause as the band considered his answer. By the looks on their faces, Eddie wasn’t entirely sure if they bought it, but it was the best he could come up with and the statement was true. Dave broke the silence with an exasperated sigh. “Come on. I’ve been jonesing since we got to Gareth’s. His mom is so anal we can’t even smoke outside.”

“That’s ‘cause you reek when you come back in,” Gareth defended.

“At least I don’t reek of ass like you,” Dave chortled.

Jeff didn’t miss a beat. “That’s debatable.”

Gareth’s cackle wafted into the frigid air as he pointed a pale finger at Dave.

“You wanna find out the hard way?” Dave’s eyes glimmered wildly as he hooked an arm around Gareth’s shoulders, locking him into a power noogie position.

Gravel shuffled under their stumbling feet. “Let go of me you asshole,” Gareth gritted through a strangled laugh. Jeff only egged them on, howling uproariously like he had tickets to the show.

Eddie dragged his hands down his face with a deep, seething breath as Dave ground his thick knuckles into Gareth’s mop of hair, kicking up rocks and pivoting as Gareth attempted to pry away. This was his circus, his monkeys, and he would have to step up and be the ring leader if they were going to take the stage at all tonight. “CUT IT OUT!” he hollered.

Dave paused, arm still locked around Gareth’s neck. “Come on, we’re just having a little fun. You remember fun, right?”

Gareth groaned weakly, looking up at Eddie with pathetic eyes. “Who’s we?” he choked.

Eddie’s expression didn’t budge from its scowl. With a roll of his eyes and a resigned huff, Dave released his arm and Gareth stumbled backward, gasping. “Fine, captain killjoy.”

A heavy plume of fog left his nostrils as Eddie stormed toward the back of his van, weaving his arm through a thick ring of cables to rest on his shoulder before hoisting another amp from the stack. Gravel shuffled behind him as the others followed suit.

You were risking a lot to come here. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint you.

______

The silence gnawed at you, filled you with an itching discomfort as you thumbed your dresser knobs. Staring into your open shirt drawer, you faced off with your biggest decision yet — what to wear tonight.

The chasm of options laid before you in neat, folded rows. An excavation site of cardigans, and turtle necks, and things you hadn’t unearthed in years. You ran your fingers through the layers of folded cotton, peeling them back with deep consideration.

Nagging thoughts crept in like whispers over the softly ticking clock, pinball plunger pulled and ready to fire. With a determined huff, you stepped back from your dresser and padded down the hallway, out into the living room.

Your skirt pooled around your stocking feet as you crouched down in front of the long wooden cabinet that housed your records. Fingers dancing over the worn cardboard spines, you flipped them softly forward as you perused one by one, walking steadily until one of them fell open to a scene; a painting of a man hunched over with sticks tied to his back that hung on a wall of peeling paper. You paused, pulling it out to scan the track list. This would do.

Placing the the record softly on the felt pad, you lowered the needle to the ridges, and with the press of a button, a crackle roused the room.

Hey hey momma said the way you move

Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove

A smile, like a crocus peeking up from the snow, bloomed across your face. You cranked the volume, wrapping yourself in a sound that would carry to your bedroom.

Your fingers found the tiny metal tab behind your waist, and with a downward tug of the zipper, your wool skirt became a puddle on the floor. Peeling back the layers, your tight sweater joined it in a heap, your thick stockings lay deflated on the pile, the buttons of your stiff blouse worked free until it was a crumpled afterthought. The chill that kissed your skin was a welcome thing. Goosebumps raised like the current flowing through you as your near-naked silhouette danced across the wall to approach the open drawer once more.

Emboldened with a curious delight, you began to dig. Past the crust of crisp blouses, beneath the squishy mid-layer of cardigans, down into the sub-layer of camisoles and tees, deeper and deeper until finally your fingers made purchase with a soft treasure.

It fell open as you unearthed it, the solid black gone grey from washing, the white letters and arched angel cracked and faded: Led Zeppelin — United States of America 1977.

It happened on a Sunday in April, which began as most Sundays did, with you hunched over your powder blue typewriter in a race between the clock and the keys. You had it down to a science. At the speed you were typing, a rough draft could be finished by dinner, and the final could be churned out by cutting into a few hours of your sleep. A worthy sacrifice, as your final grade was on the finish line. This, like countless others, was how you planned to spend your day — until your roommate found you.

You remembered the way she leaned against the wooden frame of your bunk bed, amused, watching the paper you hammered with black-inked letters grow longer and longer. Finally she spilled it; as of an hour ago, she was down one boyfriend and up one ticket, and now it had your name on it. When she dangled it between you and the tidy rows of text, your hands froze over the keys.

You eyed the invitation — temptation printed on a neat, orange strip. Free admission, at a price.

The show was sold out. It had been for a long time.

Your class was at 9:00 AM tomorrow. A late paper took twenty percent off your grade.

You loved the band dearly, had a bigger crush on Robert Plant than you’d openly admit to anyone. Fights had broken out over tickets nation wide. You had no idea when they would play the states again.

The clock ticked on beside you, the long hand grazed past three. Maybe you could churn out the rest in the next few hours. Maybe the rough draft would be enough. But the realist in you knew neither would happen if you seized the ticket. Your grade would never recover, your streak of straight As you’d kept since grade school would come to an end. Your GPA would dip for the semester.

On April 17th, 1977, you left your paper sitting unfinished in the typewriter to see Led Zeppelin play Market Square Arena. You didn’t know it then, but it was the last time they ever would.

On April 18th at 9:00 AM, you showed up to class with empty hands and a brand new shirt.

You had altered your souvenir; taken scissors to the collar so that it draped off your shoulder. Time and your washing machine had made Swiss cheese of the bottom hem, so you cropped it. You admired the handiwork as it draped off you now, the way the black strap of your bra peeked out from the slope of your shoulder like a coy secret.

Pulling open the lower drawer—opened far less frequently than you would like—your knuckles grazed the bottom of the smooth wood interior as you peeled back the layers of folded denim. A crease of black jumped out from the sea of blue, and you examined it. It had a nice worn-in fade for only having lived in your dresser a few years, a flatteringly high waist, and most importantly, tapered legs that could easily be tucked into the tall, black boots sitting in the back of your closet. Your bare legs welcomed the barrier against the chill, and you caught a glance at your rear as you hiked them snugly upward. They hugged you in all the right places, as the music electrified the air, you transformed.

A vision of you — sprawled across a blanket on the quad with your face in a book. Making shadows on your dorm room wall while transmuting fantasies to black-inked pages. Strolling down a lamp-lit street, face to the stars, fueling your wild imagination. Here, in your reflection, the ghost of you looked back.

You painted her darker than normal, swapping the usual chapstick for a deep, dusty red exhumed from the bottom of your makeup bag. Eyes smoked and cheeks dusted, you drew out the beauty from angles of your face with every stroke.

Coat donned and purse in hand, you paused at the front door, glancing over your shoulder, down the hallway, toward your coffee table piled with papers. There was another ghost of you here — tucked into her slippers and cozy robe with the voices from the television as her only company, flicking her green grading pen down rows of questions.

On December 10th, 1985, you left the papers sitting on your coffee table to see Corroded Coffin play The Hideout. With a decided twist of the handle, you pushed out into the cold night air.

Light pooled in sparse puddles as your boots echoed off the rough pavement. Stillness whispered on the wind as crisp remnants of fall scuttled across the asphalt. The apartments behind you were a tapestry of glowing squares, pictures of the rest of Hawkins tucking into their slippers and washing their dishes, grabbing their blankets and turning on their televisions.

You grabbed your keys and unlocked your car, and when it roared to life with a swift flick of your wrist, a strange exhilaration coursed through you.

It rose like the moon over the barren fields, thrumming in your chest, spreading to your limbs, alight with something wild and teeming as you drove past rows of lighted windows—vignettes of tired routine—and stopped at the same red sign you did this morning. Your fingers twitched over the turn signal leaver — an impulse to flick up, to turn right, to settle into the familiar rhythm of your muscle memory. This time you pressed down, pressed your foot to the gas, and cranked the wheel left.

Cruising boldly down the straight and narrow road, fields and farmland faded in your rearview mirror and soon there were trees on the horizon; dense and dark. Gripping the wheel as the silhouette closed in, the corners of your mouth drew upward, pulled by a wild, awakened force. Headlights illuminated pale, naked limbs. Eyes beamed back at you from the shadows. You cranked the volume on your stereo, and as you braced for your first bend, something deep within you—dormant and restless—howled.

______

The water was so cold it burned. Eddie cursed the old plumbing, instantly regretting having the decency to wash his hands in the first place. Soap just barely rinsed, he twisted the lime-scaled handles and shut it off. With a trembling hand, he grabbed one of the last paper towels. Gareth’s kick drum echoed down the narrow hallway, thundering just like his chest. He glanced at his watch again. 7:56.

Eddie took a ragged breath, chucking the crumpled paper at the overflowing trash bin in the corner. It bounced dejectedly off the wall and onto the dirty tile. With a deadpan glare, he left it where it lay. Hands barely dry, he felt for the flask in his pocket. Screwing the tiny cap and flicking it open, he tipped it back. Eddie welcomed the burn. It chased down his throat and settled in his stomach with a warmth that radiated, instantly numbing his nerves.

Meeting his own eyes in the tiny, smudged mirror, he gave himself a final glance over. His curls were holding; fresh and clean from this morning, fluffed by the icy wind in the trips from van to stage.

Here, in the dingy confines of The Hideout, words like freak and loser lost their stick. Words he could shake like a dog at the door. He’d fashioned them like armor in the daytime; a shield in hallways and in lunch lines. What was stickier were feelings. The feelings that came with chewed pens and answers left blank. The feeling of lectures slipping like a sieve through his brain. The feeling of stares and stifled laughter, of staring numbly at the board, of filling the silence with bullshit instead of an answer.

Microphone feedback squeaked outside. The dull, heavy walk of a bassline. Laughter. Cymbals. That kick drum again. Eddie took another swig, searing the flutters in his stomach.

He wanted to be good for you. Seen under stage lights instead of fluorescents.

Good like an answer he knew.

You saw the sign first, peeking from behind the trees — simple, effective, and yellowed with time. The Hideout: a hole in the woods. Tucked around the bend you now braced against, it sat like a neon beacon. The chipped, grey exterior faded into the shadows, leaving only the holy glow of Budweiser and Miller Lite signs to guide you to the promised land.

Pulling into a spot along the narrow parking strip, you faced off with your destination. Looming and real. Frozen as reality stared back at you in the glare of your blinding headlights, you gripped the steering wheel and looked around. There were a few other cars beside you, but none of them Janet’s. Around the left of the building there appeared to be more parking, and the stout silhouette of a two-tone van you did know the owner of. Pinballs hammered in your chest.

When you arrange a time to meet someone, you are always punctual. Perhaps a life organized by bells on timers trained you to be this way, but the thought of entering alone filled you with dread, and part of you wondered whether you should wait out here for her. Your hands were starting to shake, and not from the cold.

The list of crazy things you had done in your life was a laughably short one, but this made the top by a long shot. As you turned the radio down and sat in the wake of your rumbling engine, the questions grew louder. Serious questions about where you thought this night would go, about where you wanted it to go and if you would truly go there.

Suddenly your headlights felt too bright, like a beacon drawing eyes from the woods, or even more terrifying, eyes from the building. You promptly flicked them off and waited, staring dead ahead at the chipped grey siding. It was fine. You were fine. At least you could no longer see your breath. You could hide here as long as you wanted.

“Alright man, it’s doob o’clock,” Dave said with a satisfied stretch as he took in the stage setup.

Eddie ripped another frantically scribbled setlist out of his spiral notebook and shoved it at him. “No it’s eight fifteen and we still need to do soundcheck,” Eddie scathed, glancing at the door. “You can start by plugging your mic in, Jesus Christ.”

Dave huffed annoyedly through his nose, squatting down to find the cord with exaggerated difficulty. “Yes sir,” he mocked. Eddie shot back a testing glare. “Dude, what’s up with you tonight? You’ve been on one since Gareth’s.”

“Yeah, you ok man?” asked Jeff.

The knots tightened in his stomach as the attention of all three of them closed in around him. “Just—let’s just get our shit together…please,” he deflected.

Glancing around frantically, you wondered, for the hundredth time, where the hell Janet was. You couldn’t be that surprised that a woman with two small children was late, but your exhaust was making a smokescreen of the parking strip, and you wondered if anyone inside had noticed, if anyone could hear the low rumble of your engine and questioned why this strange woman was idling. With an irritated sigh, you turned the key, leaving you in deafening silence and leeching cold. You could hear your breathing now, your pounding heart, the squeaking of leather as you shifted in your seat. What one of the kids got sick? What if she called after you left?

What if she isn’t coming?

Eddie’s eyes lingered at the door as he clicked the pedals with his feet, plucking a soft, testing melody into the mic. His watch glared under the stage lights, confidence fleeting with every minute that ticked by. Gareth snapped his foot petal with a deep thud. Dave walked out a bassline before squealing feedback made the whole bar flinch.

The strum of a chord made you jump. Booming and electric, you heard it through the walls. They were starting. They were starting and you weren’t there. Gripping the steering wheel, you tossed your head back in an anguished sigh. You sure as hell weren’t going to stand him up. As you glanced around the parking lot one last desperate time, the bitter conclusion rose like bile — you may have to do this alone. Seatbelt clicking under your gloved thumb, you steeled yourself for the cold, for the eyes of strangers in a strange new place. With a decided pull of the handle, the door opened to the frigid night air, and you emerged from the heat into the unknown.

You met your reflection in the glass of the entrance as your hand gripped the weathered knob. Pinballs fired off at lightning speed — a jackpot multi-ball bonanza. Checking your hair one last time with eyes locked on your own, you turned the handle with a determined sigh.

A bell dinged above your head, and winter’s chill gusted in on your heels.

The whole room turned at once — at you. You, from the front of the classroom. You, from behind the big desk. You, in the doorway of The Hideout. Across a dark sea of scattered tables, poised on an altar of sound and light, Eddie Munson smiled at you — brighter than all of it.

The door fell shut behind you. Hot under the gaze of what seemed like the entire bar, it suddenly felt like you were the one on stage. Standing there like a deer in headlights in your long wool coat and clean black boots, you surely must have looked as out of place as you felt. Shoulders rolling back to counter your thrumming nerves, your boots left the rug and found the tacky linoleum as you approached the bar that lined the left wall.

Eddie busied his shaking hands with tapping another test melody into his mic, pausing when he heard a voice over his right shoulder.

“Is that…?” Jeff pointed toward the back of your head.

Gareth’s eyes lit up in recognition. Dave peered over with a shit-eating grin. “Did you invite her?” he mouthed.

Eddie’s face betrayed him, burning like it did under the fluorescents. Burning to greet you at the bar, for the liberty to patronize it, to offer you something more than his aching gaze.

“No,” Eddie lied, “but I may have told her we play here on Tuesdays.” He struck the strings with the weight of his frustration, drowning out any further questions with the opening chords to the first song on the setlist. The others took their cue with chuckles and shaking heads. Heart pounding like the kick drum behind him, Eddie’s fingers found the frets, tugging a muscle memory from deep within as his eyes stayed fixed on you.

There was an older man in a sweatshirt behind the bar. The owner, you figured, by the way he was standing — arms crossed, stance wide, unafraid to take up space. By the way he was looking at you, like he wondered what would drive a new face to his establishment on a random Tuesday night in December. From the glances the others passed between them, the feeling seemed unanimous.

“How can I help you?” he half shouted against the chugging chords, leaning against the bar with a curious smile.

You braced with your brightest grin, placing your gloved hands down flat on the waxy bar. “Hi! Yes—um,” you scanned the selection under the neon lights, the liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes reflected in the dirty mirror behind them. The bar back was tightly cluttered with old stickers and hand-written notes taped behind the cash register, with half-empty bottles of bitters and bobble heads nodding to the palpable vibration. Having no interest in standing there awkwardly while he fixed you a cocktail, you selected a bottle of Coors.

He nodded and ducked to open the steel, magnet-plastered fridge beneath the cash register.

Your gaze, like a magnet, drew back to the stage. It was all you could do just to watch him — the way his curls fell gently at his cheek, the way they bounced with every strum. There was a tension lingering just under the curve of his lashes. The music was fast and loud, purely instrumental. You recognized nothing about it but the genre. Head dipped in concentration as his left hand tapped a frantic melody into the frets, he raised his eyes bravely to meet yours.

He wasn’t the only man staring. It was hard to ignore; the man in the baseball cap to your right as you stared right through his line of sight. You pinched off your gloves and shoved them in your pockets to occupy your hands.

A bottle cap plinked against the bar top. “Two bucks,” the owner stated, slinging a towel over his shoulder.

You fished through your purse, feeling those eyes on you as you opened your wallet, as you slid the bills right under his gaze across the waxy counter. You snatched the cold bottle and raised it to your lips. Turning over your shoulder, your eyes clung to Eddie on stage, to his tendons as they flexed to pick a rhythm at the strings. His was gaze a soft and yearning thing, a contrast to the sharp and punchy chords that left his fingers.

“You know these guys?” the man in the cap asked finally, pointing to the stage. Your eyes shot toward him in surprise, lips still pursed at the bottle. He had that working man sort of look. Average features, subtle crows feet, a whisper of sandy stubble across his strong jaw. His grey-blue eyes were gentle, but brimming with a heated curiosity.

You used the much needed swig to buy yourself a second. Did you? The cold, bready fizz sparkled down your throat. You supposed you didn’t have to specify how you were acquainted. “Yeah,” you answered simply, plugging your mouth with the bottle like a dam.

A bell rattled behind you. Grateful for any disruption, you whipped around quickly to break the connection. Janet lit up as soon as she saw you, a mixture of relief and apology playing out on her face as she strode across the room. Tight blonde curls emerged from her lowering leopard print hood. “Oh my god I’m so sorry,” she lamented, arms opening to embrace you.

Relief washed through you like a warm buzz. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it!” you said as your nose took a dive in her soft, perfumed curls.

“Sarah would not stop crying, it took forever for me to finally get her to sleep. I swear babies have a sixth sense, they always know when you have fun plans,” she said through a laugh. Her lashes were long and thick with mascara, eyeshadow a solid sky blue so vibrant that it popped even in the dim neon glow.

Janet ordered a margarita. There was nothing new to speak of, really, over the electric roar of the band, but you tried to listen. Intently, you tried to listen to the new words her son was saying, to offer some lukewarm update about how work was going, but your eyes had their own agenda.

The rolled cuffs of Eddie’s tight, acid-washed jeans bunched against the pull tabs of his boots as he tapped the rhythm with his heel. There was no jacket for him to strain against, no flannel to constrict him, no sleeves on his T-shirt in December. It was more than you’d seen of him yet. Ink flexed with each generous swell of his bicep, and with every attack, he would flash you his ribs through the hand-hacked holes.

“Mmm,” Janet mumbled, sipping off the top of the very full, salt-rimmed rocks glass. “Come on, let’s get cozy,” she said with a wink and gestured toward the tables. The air was thick with smoke wafting from the bikers at the bar. Eddie tapped out another lick and peered through a few stray curls as you followed her across the room to a high top, back and center.

You wanted to be closer. Close enough to see the umber of his eyes, the ridges of his knuckles as they plucked the strings. There were a few shorter tables down in front, back about five feet from the stage. But as the beams of light bounced off the glossy wood and over the seats in blinding white, you were grateful for the shadows ten feet would afford you.

Janet stripped off her coat to reveal a tight black dress with long sleeves and sequined, padded shoulders. It hugged just above the knees of her sheer hose, punctuated with sharp ankle boots.

“Look at you all dressed up! You look stunning.” You meant it, she really did.

Janet’s smile was a shy deflection, but hiding just beneath it, a glimmer of belief. “Thanks, this thing’s been sitting in my closet for like a year now. Can you believe it? I just felt like, you know, if I’m going out I’m gonna dress up goddamn it,” she laughed, punctuating with a slap against the table. “We coulda gone to Benny’s, I still woulda worn it.”

You laughed, for the first time since you’d talked to her that morning. Unbuttoning your coat, you let it drape over the metal back of the stool behind you.

“You’re not looking too shabby yourself,” Janet said with a wink before taking a sip.

“Honestly I’ll take any excuse I can get to dress down,” you said with a sheepish huff, propping your elbows on the sticky table before bringing the bottle to your lips.

A nervous crackle wound its way through Eddie’s stomach at the vision of you. You, perched on a stool in a dive bar. You, in jeans and a t-shirt. You, arching forward just enough to grace him with a sliver of your back. It was real — you, here. He soured a note, and those words he shook off came creeping back in as he fumbled through the next lick. But you didn’t seem to notice. You propped your cheek against your knuckles and let the warmth of your eyes usher his doubts away.

When the song came to a ringing conclusion, Janet’s cheer was uninhibited, clapping her hands above her head. It drew eyes from the couple seated at one of the lower tables, from the bikers at the bar, from the band. Your applause was more demure, but you couldn’t mask the brilliance of your smile.

“Thank you, thank you,” Eddie said into the microphone. “Looks like we really have a crowd tonight. Seven drunks.”

The room erupted with hollers and cheers.

The bassist muttered something to the other guitarist and the two shared a laugh, casting their eyes towards you. Suddenly your face grew very hot. Of course they recognized you, Jeff was in your second period class. You anticipated this, and yet it was the realness of it all that shook you — the hard stool beneath you, the stares you could feel as your finger idly traced the cold condensation on the glass. Pinballs fired off at rapid speed. You drowned them with a tip of the bottle.

Eddie shifted, clicking the pedals with his foot. “Ok, so this next one is uh, definitely not an original.” He breathed a laugh into the microphone, glancing up at you — at your shoulders, hunched in shy defense, at your worried brow and downcast gaze. He wished he could reach across the room, lift your chin with his words and draw you from your shell. “Anyway, you’ll uh, probably recognize this one,” he said, to you.

Eddie nodded to the band, counting off silently before they struck a chord together — a low, droning thing, gritty and slow as the bass walked steadily over the foundation. Eddie swayed back and forth, rocking in time with the beat like a march, resting his heavy-lidded gaze on you. Across the divide of scattered seats, you — at the small table, saw him — on the big stage. His nimble fingers struck the chords with an ardent conviction, and the ice in you began to thaw.

Suddenly the beat changed pace. Gareth smacked his drum sticks together to count off, and the first two chords sparked instant recognition. A smile rose up in you — a wild and thrumming thing, radiant and rising until it cracked through.

You knew what was coming. Two chords, quiet taps for a count of sixteen, and then those two chords again, like a one-two punch, booming and building with anticipation. Again, and again, as the energy rose in the room. You caught the wicked glint in his eyes as his hands—those hands that fidgeted and fumbled with dog-eared pages and chewed up pens—wielded power. A surge of electricity swirled through your stomach, crackled because you knew what was next.

Eddie took a deep breath, and opened his mouth.

Generals gathered in their masses

Colors. Warm and bright, tingling like a shockwave from your chest down to your seat.

Just like witches at black masses

In your secret daydreams, you often wondered what his voice sounded like in song.

Evil minds that plot destruction

Tried to guess from his deep hums and brilliant laughter.

Sorcerers of death’s construction

Now, it suspended in the air like a battle cry, reaching out across the chasm of tables and chairs.

In the fields the bodies burning

Surging like a wildfire.

As the war machine keeps turning

Swirling through the darkness like a strange magic.

Death and hatred to mankind

Reaching out like it wanted to touch you.

Poisoning their brainwashed minds

And so you let it.

Oh lord, yeah!

The music rocked and swelled. Like a balm reverberating through the air, it softened the hunch of your shoulders. Like an antidote, it dissolved the knot in your stomach. Like an arrow, it pierced the shell of you.

Janet took a generous sip of her margarita and bobbed her head to the rhythm. You caught her gaze from across the table and shared a laugh, a mutual knowing through squinted eyes and shaking heads that this was, in fact, a Tuesday night in December, and the two of you were here.

As the cold drink warmed your limbs, you became acquainted with the hard curve of the stool beneath you, with the of rings left behind on the glossy table, with the crowded ashtray. Acquainted with the smoke that wafted through the air and the darkness that enveloped you like a blanket. The music settled over the room, and as you settled into that heavy buzz, you started to get the feeling you might actually enjoy yourself tonight.

Janet needed no convincing. Her first margarita went down easy, leaving nothing but the ice and her hot pink lipstick on the rim before they finished their fourth song. When she returned from the bar with one in each hand, she placed the extra in front of you. Her treat, convinced they were better than Pal Joey’s, insisting that you try it even with a few sips still lingering in your bottle.

It surprised you — the balance of lime, and liquor, and something else you couldn’t quite place. It surprised you how it easy it melted the tension in your stomach, how it encouraged you to lean in a little more, to let your shoulders drop.

Eddie noticed it, peeking out from under the coyly dipping collar of your shirt; bare and soft as you leaned against the table — your shoulder. He missed a note. Cursing silently, he glanced down at his fingers and tapped into that deep, subconscious part of his brain again where they knew just where to go. But when he closed his eyes to find it, the image remained painted to his lids — a ripened fruit, tempting but too far to taste. Across it, a stripe of black hazard tape, a trail he itched to follow.

There was a hunger in you, stirring more with every song, with every decadent flash of his pale ribs. He was good. Stadium good. Those nimble fingers tapped the frets, making them sing in a way that made you wish you were wire and wood, looking at you in a way that made you think he wished the same. He stroked the neck of his instrument with a reverent touch, attacked the strings with a holy power, like a wingless angel with a spotlight halo. You whispered a silent prayer, venerating him from your faraway pew in the only way you could — with your eyes.

The animal stirred in its icy den, roused by the warmth of his voice as it stretched across the bar. It stirred in that place you rarely acknowledged, rarely indulged as you considered what other talents his hands might have. You considered the shades of those sighs and swallows he took before painting the air, considered what they might sound like if he showed you. It settled and throbbed in that low, blooming place, and you smothered the feeling with a cross of your legs.

Busying yourself with what remained of your beer, you shifted your shoulders to face him directly, leaning your free arm against the metal back of the stool with an ease that Eddie considered looked almost as good on you as the shirt did. Your lips lingered on the rim of the bottle before parting with a soft pop. He swallowed.

There was a gap between you; a sea of scattered tables and wide open ears and eyes amongst them. What could he possibly say from his position? From a microphone on stage? A thousand words ached on the tip of his tongue and he swallowed them with a sloppy chug of water as the applause bought him a moment to consider.

The white lettering across your chest jumped out at him from the shadows like a bright idea. Eddie swiped droplets from his mouth and turned to his bandmates, bringing them into a huddle as the noise drowned out what he was saying. Whatever it was, after some deliberation, they seemed in agreement about it.

You hadn’t seen Janet like this since the summer between your junior and senior year of college. She was always a happy drunk; talkative and bubbly, spilling over with laughter and the sort of wild enthusiasm that a child at a carnival might have.

“I wanna dance,” she said longingly, glancing toward the stage as she slumped in her seat.

“Maybe we can go to a club next time,” you joked as you downed the remainder of your sweating drink.

The band assumed their positions again. Eddie tapped the pedals with his feet and rolled his shoulders back with a deep, collecting breath. His eyes found yours across the room, brimming with such a longing you wondered anyone else could sense it too. After the longest second, he snapped his head over his shoulder with a steely conviction and nodded off a count before making his attack — the opening riff to Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love”.

Your hands shot to your face.

Suddenly Janet perked up, inspired by the catchy rhythm and her own suggestion. “We should dance! Will you dance with me?”

You balked, shrinking down. “There’s like… six people here! I don’t think it’s really that kind of—”

“Oh come on, please? What’s there to lose, huh?”

Oh, only my last remaining shred of dignity in front of my students. But you couldn’t say that. “Janet,” you hissed. “We are not—I can’t—”

Her three margaritas had a different opinion. They reached across the table and grabbed your hand. “Come on, live a little! That’s what we came here to do, right?”

You buried your face in your other. The truth was you wanted to. You wanted a closeup of that smart smirk, of the sweat beading down his temple as he strummed the punchy chords he hand-picked just for you. You wanted the fantasy, the memory, the experience. It was convincing — her pouting pink lips and pleading eyes, almost as convincing as the tequila coursing through your veins. The truth was you left your better judgement at home on the coffee table. To her giddy satisfaction, you surrendered. Dragging you from your seat, she led you to the front of the stage.

Eddie’s smile could have blinded you, even through the shy web of your fingers. Cheers erupted from the bar, from the whole band, as Janet shimmied her sequined shoulders to the beat.

Eddie opened his mouth again, this time with an ardor you could feel in your bones.

You need cooling, baby I’m not fooling

He crouched down to level with your eyes. I’m gonna send ya back to schooling

You lowered your hand to mask the girlish grin that cracked across your face.

Way down inside, honey you need it

They were breathtaking up close — his eyes. Sparkling with an energy you’d never seen before. Rich umber alight with something you couldn’t quite place, too mesmerized by the promise his tongue wove through the air.

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you my love… oh!

He straightened with a backward toss of his head, and you found the word you were looking for in the droplets that flung from his curls. Power.

Wanna whole lotta love?

Janet—having an absolute field day over the spectacle—offered you her hand like she wanted to tango. Freeing your face with a brave sigh, you accepted with a slap of your palm in hers. She tugged with a childish delight, and you took your cue — spinning into her waiting arm and shooting back out with a flourish dredged up from some long forgotten place. The room became a blur of sound and light, of cheers from the bar and the stage. You stilled to find your footing, landing on his eyes.

You’ve been learning, and baby I’ve been yearning

He dipped down again. All them good times baby, baby, I’ve been lear-er-nin’, he punctuated with a shake of his head. He could see the whole vision of you, bright and clear under the stage lights. A wildness lingering just behind your eyes, a fragment unseen until now. It pounded at the cage of your chest, rose up in the shallow breaths you caught before Janet snatched you away again. He swore—silently on a deep inhale—that he would do everything in his power to coax it out of you.

Way, way down inside, oh honey you need it

I’m gonna give you my love

You couldn’t remember the last time you really danced. The last time you felt a rhythm with your body and followed its blind inspiration. No rhyme or reason, no plans or choreography. It felt awkward at first, like trying on skin fresh from the wash. Feeling your feet shuffle against the tacky linoleum, finding the rhythm of yourself with a room full of strangers as witness.

Somewhere between the beams of light and the wink of Eddie’s rings beneath them, you found it. Like a memory rising up, sweeping through you like a current. Visions of a stadium, roaring as a lion struts the stage with his golden mane, as he commands a sea of thousands with his voice. There was an animal in you too, wild and careless.

It grew wilder when the music dropped to nothing but percussion. When the room fell away to nothing but the heat from Eddie’s eyes, sparkling with play. It made your hips want to sway a little more, your legs want to dip a little deeper to match his wildness with your own. Imbued with a sudden, potent energy, he struck his wicked instrument as the rhythm and melody unraveled.

Janet took it in stride, leading you in a rocking shimmy as you swayed to the change in tempo. Light danced on her sequined shoulders as she tipped her head back in a blissful cackle. You followed her lead, eyes fixed on her with a surging power in the knowing of whose eyes were fixed on you.

The air was a cool kiss against the sliver of skin where your shirt left off, daring you to show a little more. With a twist of your arms toward the spotlights, you blessed him with the dip of your back — the alluring shadow of your spine that trailed into the high waist of your jeans. He panged with the urge to follow it, fell to his knees and wailed through his fingertips.

You broke from Janet’s pull to face him, eye-to-eye level, watching reverently as the sweat glistened in his clavicles, as his pelvis jutted into his weapon to eke out his solo. Howling for you with each stroke of its neck, each bend in its strings as you matched his rhythm with your hips. A secret world, just you and him, the rest fading out into nothing. He swore, like a spell in each note that he wove through the air, that somehow he would make it last.

From his knees, Eddie grabbed the mic off the stand, and with a wordless nod earned by years of friendship, Jeff took over the melody. To the delight of the crowd, he stripped himself of the weight of his instrument, setting it carefully off to the side.

You’ve been cooling, baby, I’ve been drooling, he crooned as he crawled forward.

All the good times, baby, I’ve been misusing

You played with him there. With your shoulders, with your eyes locked no more than a foot from his. Desperate to touch him, you worshiped every bead of sweat that fell from his temple, every wet curl that strayed from the nape of his neck and hugged the strong angle of his jaw. What left his lips next dripped with such fervent intention you that you couldn’t keep your hand from your face.

Way, way down inside

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you every inch of my love

I’m gonna give you my love

He was pure energy; raw and manic. Free in the way that wild things are. He snatched your breath away, dragged it to his den and had his way with it as he queried the chorus to you. There was wildness all around; in glinting sequins and megawatt smiles. In the flashes of limbs under the lights. In the rhythm you carried with your whole body now, moving in a way that was both so foreign and natural all at once.

You wondered how it looked from the outside; you and him. From the bar it might have looked like drunk spontaneity. From the stage it might have looked like a stint of support for the arts. You wondered, with a twinge of fear, if the others could feel the longing too or if you had masked it well enough as a performance.

The music dropped out to make way for the final lyrics.

Way down inside, he belted into the silence, punctuating with a deep inhale. Woman, he shouted, locking eyes with you for a pregnant second as the world came to a halt, you need… he drew a deep breath in the space the two chords allowed him before wailing the final word at the ceiling — loooooooove!

You felt it with every cell of your body in one suspended moment. Felt—for the first time since you could vividly remember—truly and completely alive. With a crash of cymbals and an electric instrumental boom, the rhythm—and the world—reconstituted around you, swirling with a vibrant energy that swept you away.

His dark eyes opened with a wicked glint, and his next breath left his chest as a command.

Shake for me, girl. I wanna be your backdoor man!

You obeyed with a shimmy of your shoulders and the room went wild.

______

Janet left you with a tight, perfumed hug. A gentle reassurance that yes, she was fine to drive home. She left you in the vacuum of slamming guitar cases and distant voices as the jukebox picked up where the band left off. Left you to sober up to how idle and awkward you felt sitting at the table you once shared with her, picking at the peeling label on the wet, empty bottle.

When you heard footsteps approaching, a part of you was grateful for the prospect of someone—anyone—to talk to, though it wasn’t who you hoped. Instead, it was the man in the cap from the bar.

“Hey, love the shirt,” he remarked, glance lingering a little too long over the text across your chest.

“Thanks,” you said shyly, gaze drifting back to the bottle.

He stepped closer, setting his can on the table. “I take it you went to that concert?”

“I did, it was really last minute actually.” You told him the story. You told him with your words and gestures, twisting in the tall stool to face him, but it was Eddie that drew your eyes. Crouched down with one knee bent beneath him and the other straining against denim slits, he collected his pedals into a tiny, vintage suitcase. There were words coming out of your mouth, but faced with the rigid angles of his thighs, you were helpless but to stumble over some of them.

It was then that you noticed he had already been staring, though not at you, at Bill — with a simmer behind his eyes.

“Man, I woulda killed to go to that show. I was working a double when tickets went on sale and a buddy of mine said he was gonna camp overnight for us. Well, he ended up getting into a fight with his girlfriend and flaked out. ‘Course they were sold out and closed by the time I left work.”

You expressed your genuine sympathy.

“Boy I was pissed at him then, but even more pissed after Bonham died. Like damn, that was my last shot, man!”

“I’m sorry you had to miss it. It was quite the show.” You told him what you could remember. The setlist, the stage, what they wore.

Eddie watched closely, carefully darting between you amidst the gathering of cables and closing of metal latches. He watched your hands come to life like he loved so much, like you always did when you were explaining something with fond enthusiasm. Helplessly, he watched the way Bill leaned closer, the way his hand and forearm made themselves at home on your table. The simmer hissed and bubbled behind his eyes.

“Anyways, it’s good to see such a lovely new face around here. One with great taste, I might add. Made my night.”

The simmer kicked up to a full, licking flame.

“Oh, well thanks. I don’t get out much,” you said with an awkward chuckle.

Bill stepped closer, as if his next point was something he had to lean in for. “By the way, and I hope this isn’t too forward, but… you’re a great dancer.”

Eddie watched your hand dive behind your neck, your face contort into a feeble smile, your shoulders hunch, your eyes glance down. He could hear the distress in your beautiful laugh and he boiled so hot he could have seared a hole into the back of Bill’s head.

He extended his hand. “I’m Bill, by the way.”

Eddie wrapped the cable in hasty circles around his forearm. Heat rose behind behind his tight lips and exited in short fumes.

“Hey man, have you seen the drum key anywhere?” Gareth called from behind him.

It barely registered. The world was a fragment now. A red-hot, narrowing tunnel reduced to a singularity — Bill’s hand.

Bill’s hand; hovering like a salacious invitation, too close to the soft swell of your belly. That open, rugged palm — weathered, experienced, and free. Free to reach into his wallet, to reach across the bar, to hand you a drink, to wander all sorts of places where Eddie could not.

You, ever polite and always accommodating, reached back.

He touched you.

Eddie’s vision narrowed red. Helplessly, he watched Bill’s fingers snake around the back of your hand and squeeze, linger at your palm as they released. A coil wound through his body. It rose up like bile — up through his spine, into his shoulders that rolled forward and back with a deep, seething breath. Up, up, into that primitive space at the base of his skull where words and civil manners had no place.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Eddie dropped the cable.

The world blurred in the wake of his target and in five swift steps he was at your side. “Hey, Bill. Uh—” his senses ebbed back to him with a curious look from the man he’d shared countless drinks with. A man he would call his friend had he not breeched a sacred distance, a contract he knew nothing of. His vision was clouded, the coil tight and hot.

“She’s um,” he continued quietly, a murmur he had to lean in for. An urge seized his hand. The urge to claim, to slip across the divot of your back and pull you close where you belonged, to but the noise from the stage and the eyes that followed forced his hand deep into his pocket. He swallowed his frustration, hoping the simmer in his eyes would be enough to convey what he meant. “She’s with me, man.”

A throb from that low, blooming place, rose up in a full body yes. In the arch of your back, in the dip of your eyes as you caught the desperate heat from his.

Bill blinked in honest surprise. “Wait, you mean,” he pointed between the two of you, eyes darting back and forth with a confusion that only deepened the insecurity of everyone involved, “you’re—”

“Yes,” Eddie hotly interrupted. The coil in him released slightly, a low rumble replaced by a surge that settled in his cheeks at the trembling, nervous laughter in your voice.

Flutters roared through you all at once, spinning the room well beyond the scope of the liquor that lingered in your veins, heightening your senses to the warmth radiating from the aching nearness of his body to yours.

“Well, hey man, we were just talking—”

“Yeah—well,” he glanced at you, an apology playing out in the widening of his eyes as the coil cooled to sobering embarrassment. He wished he could bury himself, open a trapdoor and take you with him. A parade of stomping feet and slamming cases trudged on behind him from the stage. He prayed the din was enough to mask the conversation.

“It’s ok!” you nervously exclaimed to both of them. “Really. Besides, I—I need to sober up anyway before I go home, so… it’s really ok,” you soothed to Eddie specifically.

Eddie’s pulse thrummed in his hears, his body a livewire of stress and embarrassment. “Ok. Well, I just, um… thought I’d let you know,” he concluded to Bill, desperate to string together some semblance of dignity. He dipped his head toward you until his voice hummed lowly in your hear. “It’ll just be a few more minutes. I gotta get the rest of this shit cleaned up, and then we can, um—” his eyes darted back and forth between yours in wordless exasperation.

“Yeah,” your body whispered, overriding any protest of your noble mind. To what you were agreeing to was unimportant. Whatever he wanted.

Eddie nodded and pivoted toward the stage in a swift exit.

In the wake of his absence was an awkward pause, a space Bill was quick to fill with words. “Well, um, it was nice to meet you,” he said with an awkward dip of his head.

“Yeah, you as well,” you said, a feeble anchor to the spinning room. Bill’s gaze hesitated with a flash of disappointment before returning to the bar. It was all you could do to just stand there a moment, heart pounding in stunned realization as the space whirled with the clammer of footsteps, the thud of equipment, the clinking of glasses. Suddenly the weight of your aloneness in the middle of it all was crushing. You retreated to the down the short hallway and ducked into the bathroom.

She’s with me.

In the muffled quiet of the dimly lit reprieve, the words echoed louder than ever. You were almost afraid to check your reflection, to look yourself in the eyes and face the person who ached to hear them repeated, but you did, and she surprised you. Something about the way your lipstick feathered clean in the center from the kiss of the bottle, the way your mascara settled at your lower lashes in the delicate lines beneath. It was oddly flattering, like the shadow of a good time.

You liked who you saw, and perhaps that scared you most.

Jeff’s laughter echoed down the hallway and the pinball trigger snapped again. What the fuck am I doing?

You would ask yourself this question as you pressed the tip of your boot to the dirty toilet handle, as the cold water woke your skin, as it dripped onto the salt-stained tile, as you dropped the soggy remains of the last two paper towels into the overflowing trashcan.

When the clammer of footsteps and slamming of the back door faded to nothing more than distant murmurs from the bar, you slowly cracked the door and peered into the empty hallway. Your boots clicked tentatively against the tacky linoleum, emerging from the shadows as you drew a steady breath. The stage was dark, the men perched on stools had their backs to you, all roaming eyes cast down over drinks — all except one.

Eddie stood in the middle of it all; hands on hips, damp curls clinging to his neck, chest still heaving from movement and stress. He locked eyes with you, and you could feel relief in his sigh from the apron of the hallway.

Your smile was a shy, timid thing, blooming to a helpless grin as the softness of his features heightened into focus with each progressive step. As the distance between you closed to less than a foot.

“Hey,” he breathed like a soft apology.

“Hey,” you answered, like you always did. A nervous crackle of anticipation wound through your gut.

“I um,” Eddie wrung a hand behind his neck, flashing a dark tuft of hair that made the animal in you stir. “I need to cool down,” he admitted with a raw, candid urgency. He patted his pockets. “I’m gonna step out for a cigarette… if you… wanna…” he nodded toward the back hall.

Yes. Anything, the animal growled. You simply nodded and went to grab your coat.

Eddie snatched the heap of leather from the railing by the stage and draped it over his arm. He ushered you forward with a sweep of his palm through the air, catching your eyes with a softness that threatened the strength of your knees. A giggle escaped you — honest, uncontrollable, automatic. Clutching your arm with a coyness that surprised even yourself, you shuffled in front of him, the towering presence of his closeness like a tingle at your back, a safety in the thud of heavy boots behind you.

The night air was a cold refreshment, a sobering reprieve from the hot, smoke-dense air of The Hideout. Your lungs helped themselves, filling to the brim, releasing just a little of the tension that was mounting before you arrived. It left you in a thick fog, drifting out into the empty patio, catching the glow from the singular bulb posted by the door. Eddie pulled it shut with a soft thud and shrugged on his coat in a rattle of zippers and chains.

Silence. A howl of the wind through naked limbs. A sigh that left both of you at once.

Eddie dipped his head in subtle reverence as he crossed in front of you, placing his hands on the short, wooden fence to your right. He paused a second, drawing a deep breath before spinning around to face you, hands splayed in an open plead. “I am so fucking sorry.”

Your mouth hung open. “A-about what?”

He ran a hand through his hair with a ragged sigh. “About Bill, about how I acted, a-about…” he swallowed, “what I said…”

An O trembled on your lips but never made it out. “It’s fine, really—”

“It’s…it’s not. It’s just that,” he huffed, “Bill was hitting on you a-and you just looked so uncomfortable and…” it drove him fucking crazy. It lit his blood on fire. It made him want to grab a man who’d bought him countless drinks by the collar and ram him into the wall.

You stepped closer, close enough to see the whites of his eyes in the darkness, the shadow of his pinching brow. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t stir something in you. Hearing those words. Hearing the ones he said now in profuse apology. “Eddie,” you soothed.

He closed his eyes; a split-second relish of his name on your lips. “It—” he sighed. “It wasn’t cool, to say that…” he shook his head before meeting your eyes in soft earnestness, “in public.”

The breath froze in your lungs. Out here the world fell away to the rustle of trees, to a darkness that cloaked you like a blanket. You were alone. Truly alone. A question tugged at your heart, twinged on the tip of your tongue but felt still too bold to leave it. What would he say, then, in private?

It played out like a tape behind his eyes — the curl of Bill’s fingers around your hand. It was such a simple gesture, benign outside of context. Yet there was something deeper, something that wound like a serpent through his gut. It struck, and stung, that in one fell swoop, Bill had touched as much of you as he had. That Bill could do as much in public as he could only manage beneath a shadow.

“Anyway, now that… that’s out of the way,” Eddie shook his head as he fumbled with the zipper of his pocket, curls feathering his delicate cheekbone, gaze cast down in weakly hidden shame. He procured a box of cigarettes, thumb flipping it open with an ease earned by years of habit. Popping one into his mouth, he paused before snapping it shut. “Y-you want one?” he mumbled. It seemed rude not to ask, but the question felt dumber by the second as it hung in the air. You were good. Good like 6 AM coffee, like the early morning sun. Good like the buttons on a crisp, white blouse. Yet here he stood, hand extended, offering what little he could — an experience.

Goodness was a mantle. A weight that kept your shoulders back, your lips pressed tight, your head cast down, your feet in slippers, your curtains drawn. Eddie Munson stood beside you, rugged and regal like a dark knight, arm outstretched in humble offering. With hesitance, you eyed the invitation.

Out here you could be anything — a vagabond, a runaway, a princess escaped from her castle. A woman who spends Tuesday nights at dive bars and smokes cigarettes with men in leather jackets. Anything you wanted.

You wanted to taste it. You wanted the flame, and the smoke, and the raw, ragged air that wound through your lungs and left like a beacon that soared toward the sky.

You wanted to be bad for him, and so you accepted.

The cigarette almost dropped from Eddie’s mouth in shock. He fumbled another from the box before tucking it into his back pocket. With a flourish, bending in its presentation as if it were a single rose, he offered it to you.

Never in a million years could you have imagined it. You, in a position like this. Him, in a position like that. Least of all that it would be so wildly romantic.

You accepted with the tips of your fingers, your index and middle, brushing ridges of his knuckles with feather-light indulgence. They closed around the offering, pausing for an aching second before drawing away with it.

Eddie closed his eyes, so quickly he could have masked it as a blink, but you caught it. The sigh, the swallow, the batting open with a burning hunger as he relished in the barest fulfillment of what he’d been craving since he saw you this morning — to touch you.

The cold nipped at your knuckles as you took in the foreign sensation between them, admiring it like a sinful adornment under the moonlight.

With a flick of his thumb, the parentheses of his mouth lit up in a warm glow. He took a few quick puffs, smoke billowing from his nose and the corners of his lips before taking a long drag. Satisfaction exited his lungs in a deep sigh, a billow that rose toward the twinkling sky. He turned his attention back to you. “Here,” he offered gently, beckoning you closer with a gentle come hither motion, readying his lighter.

You held your hand out gingerly, willing the trembling of your fingers to cease with little success.

Eddie closed in, bringing a finger to his lips as a gentle suggestion. “Put it in your mouth,” he said, unable to suppress the boyish grin that surfaced from the words.

You did as he told you, held it in your smirk, searched for your next instruction in the depth of his eyes but found only delight. Delight in the whole sight of you; the way it dimpled the swell of your lips, in the attention of those dutiful shoulders, like you wanted to be good at misbehaving. Delight in the fact he was teaching you something.

Eddie leaned closer. “Like this,” he instructed softly, framing his own with his long, ruddy digits before taking a quick drag. Obediently, you mirrored him, like a natural smoker would, like they did in the movies and inside the bar.

The flame ignited between you, flickering in the wild wind. Eddie cupped it with his other hand, forming a shield with the curve of his knuckles — gentle and protective. The fire caught the tip of the slender roll, but his palm was far more captivating. Inches from your face, you could study it closer than ever, plush and glowing — the broad heart line, the soft meat of its heel.

A deep inhale had smoke ghosting over your tongue. Eddie pulled away to reveal the ember and you took your cue. The drag you took, long and determined, left you coughing.

Eddie couldn’t suppress his chuckle, couldn’t mask the crinkle of his eyes as you—from behind the big desk and before the big board—were swallowed in a clumsy cloud of smoke.

“Are you laughing at me?” you asked through a giggle of your own.

Like oxygen to a flame, his laughter only brightened. “I’m sorry, you’re just… so…”

“So…what?” You gave him a look, trying to suck your dignity back through the end of the cigarette.

A million words ached on the tip of his tongue. The wind ripped across the small, frozen field, shyly disappearing in the treeline. Out here there were no bells, no footsteps, no concrete walls to listen. Eddie watched those fingers of yours pull away from your lips, blow a billow toward the open sky, and one in a million came tumbling out.

“Beautiful.”

A puff retreated back through your lips, froze in your lungs. The truth hung like smoke in the cold night air, rolled around in your chest, warmed your body from head to toe. Eddie plugged his mouth with another draw to prevent more from slipping out.

There was space for the truth out here. Space like a vacuum, vast and quiet. A shyly muttered “Thank you,” was all you could manage to fill it with.

Eddie raked his fingers through the damp curls at the nape of his neck, cheeks pinking visibly, even in the dim glow of the single light on the other side of the patio. He leaned against the fence and met your eyes again, nervous breath rolling over his plush lips.

His movement, like a magnet, drew your feet across the pavement. Deeper into the shadows with the gentle pull of his eyes. The tobacco settled in your body with a comfortable heaviness as you drank him in, and you suddenly grasped the appeal.

Out here he seemed even taller, shoulders stacked over slender hips as he leaned into the fence, an ease that washed over him with each generous draw, like the stress was rolling off into the shadows. Out here he took on a different posture, different than the one under fluorescent lights. Different than the one in the small chair next to you, the one with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes.

You tapped the ash of the cigarette off with your finger, like a natural smoker would. He smirked at the gesture, and you caught the twinge of pride in it this time.

Out here he could be anything. He could be clever and daring; a roguish enchanter. A man who casts spells with his fingers and charms with his words. Anything he wanted.

He wanted to make your eyes light up.

Eddie took another drag, hollowing his cheeks before sending out smoke in deliberate puffs with his tongue. It left his mouth in rings, hovering in the gap between you before drifting across the patio.

He got what he wanted. A gasp left your lips, eyes twinkling brighter than the stars. “What?! I didn’t know people could actually do that!” You exclaimed, delighted like a child on Christmas.

Eddie blew the rest off to the side and returned a blinding smile. It was more satisfying than the cigarette — the fact that he could do it, make your face light up. The fact that he had the power.

“How do you do that?” you asked, ever inquisitive.

His instructions were simple; take a big drag, hollow your cheeks, make the shape with your mouth, and push the smoke out with your tongue. Simple enough, from the sound of it.

Your first attempt failed, miserably. Uproariously.

“The shape is critical,” he reminded through a chuckle, “it’s gotta be like, a perfect O, not an oval.” His eyes lingered over your lips as you tried his suggestion, struggling to will his mind away from the gutter.

Your smile made it hard to maintain. “Wait—wait, hold on I think I got it.” You tried again with great focus, sending out puffs with your tongue that looked nothing like rings. It was worth it though. Worth making a fool of yourself for the amusement that colored his face, for the bright laughter it earned you. “Ok, fine. Maybe not.”

It looked good on him, just like it did on stage. This knowing that drew his shoulders back, made him lean with a powerful ease. The knowing that he was really good at something, that he could show you.

“It’s a bit advanced,” he said with a wink before taking another deep drag. He puffed a ring and cast it forward with a push of his hand, like a spell through the air. It broke on your nose and you relished in the soft sensation of his life-force ghosting over your face.

It was all you could do just to look at him — rugged and regal in the way that only he could be. It was dangerous and thrilling; how alone you were right now. His aura pulled you closer, eyes tugging at those burning questions, serious questions at war with your lingering buzz. You broke the silence with the truth; soft and sincere. “You’re insanely talented, I hope you know that.”

The curve of his lashes dipped shyly with a little puff through his nose. They raised with a sparkle that cut through the darkness. “Thanks, it uh… comes a lot easier to me than chemistry.” He tapped off his ash on the pavement.

You tucked your free hand into your pocket with a bashful shuffle of your feet. “Well, good thing rockstars don’t need to know chemistry then.”

Eddie scoffed and gave his eyes a quick roll, unsuccessful at hiding the brilliance of his smile. Heat crept up his neck, and he soothed it with a wring of his hand.

There was a gap between you; a space you were too scared to breach. The two of you filled it with shy chatter as your cigarettes dwindled to nubs. It was easy, to talk to him. About music, about anything. Easy because you gave each other turns to take it; the space. It almost made it easy to forget who you were to each other before you came out here, who you would go back to being tomorrow.

The cold was wicked and relentless; biting at your knuckles as you tapped the last ash. Even the tobacco’s heavy warmth sinking to your feet couldn’t stave it off. It was a Tuesday night in December, and the wind made sure to remind you.

Eddie followed your eyes toward the door. “It’s ok,” he reassured. “Nobody comes out here. We’re safe.”

His words sparked a tingle in your chest, a pulse of heat; low and thrumming. Neither could halt the shiver that seized your limbs.

“You ok?” he asked gently, stepping close enough to almost feel the heat from him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You blew on your hands, rubbing them together feebly to fight the cold. You were stubborn to surrender, determined not to end your stolen moment by succumbing.

It was all he could do just to look at you. You, shaking like a leaf in the wind. You, with longing eyes and trembling lips. You, with your soft skin and softer soul. His fingers burned, wrestled with the silence, and the distance, and the howl of the wind through the trees. They warred with the ticking clock, with the chill against his precious moment, with the threat of it winning. Suddenly his fingers—bolder than they’ve ever been in his life—twitched to animation. They toyed with the cold metal zipper at his neck, and in one decided tug, he opened up for you. “Here,” he offered.

You froze, more than the cold could ever manage, as you eyed the invitation — the warm leather cave, the exposure of his heaving chest. Your lips parted but words would not come. You wanted it — the heat, the tight embrace, to be wrapped in his aura, to feel his laughter with your palms.

Your noble mind as it cast its disapproval like a shadow toward your heart, but your hands and feet were deaf to it. Boots shuffling boldly against the rough pavement, they filled the gap between his. You accepted with the tips of your fingers, delicate and tentative, like his skin was a hot iron and yours at risk to burn. You watched them disappear into the darkness, felt the soft cotton warmth as it enveloped you. With trembling slowness, you traced the divots of his ribcage, settled into them like grooves, felt him gasp into your palms when the ice that you’d become found the velvet, heated skin under his arms.

“Sorry—”

“Hah—hmm—no-no it’s ok,” he grimaced, pinning your hands beneath his arms to stop your recoil, as if the pain of the freeze hurt less than the pain of its absence. “I—ah—I asked for this.” His chuckle was a warm vibration, a flutter as the cage which housed his heart contracted.

A shiver racked your body as you thawed. Whether it was nerves, or fear, or the chill that had settled deep in your bones long before you stepped foot outside, you were helpless to control it.

“Come ‘ere,” he breathed with equal care and need.

You submitted, tracing his contours as he pulled you closer — head against his solid shoulder, into the soft pillow of his hair, into the source of his scent: leather and tobacco and the sweet, salty musk of his skin. You closed your eyes and basked in it, nose buried in his curls, drawing in deeply to steady your rattling chest.

Broad palms splayed across the fabric of your coat, pulling you deep into the comfort of his heat, tracing your waist to settle in a place they burned to be — your lower back. “It’s ok, you’re ok,” he murmured into your hair, bracing you tightly as your whole body shook.

You could have died here, buried yourself in his arms and made him your tomb. They would find you in the morning; frozen like a sculpture. Left out for all of Hawkins to see, to point and say terrible things. It wouldn’t matter. You would have died happy.

His heart was pounding with disbelief. You, here, in his arms. You could feel it through your coat, hammering against your chest, into your palms at his back. Eddie felt your breathing slow, your body soften and relax. He crooked his forearm firmly to your back, to the place where it belonged, fingers curling like a cage around your waist. Out here he could be anything — strong and stable, a haven for your tired bones to rest. Anything, for you.

In the dark leather cave there was a landscape for your hands to study. The satin liner grazed your knuckles as your hands explored the angles of his shoulder blades with tentative slowness — down along the muscles of his back, the dip of his spine, the birdcage of his ribs; expanding and contracting, deep and steady.

He was real, here, in your arms. Two swelling lungs. One beating heart. Two hands that clutched the wool barrier between you. One solid shield of a chest. One humming column at your cheek. Eddie Munson; wildfire. Close enough to thaw you. Close enough to burn you to the ground.

Your hands settled at the slim taper of his waist. Pliant and yielding under soft cotton, swelling with each ocean breath. His cage around you tightened, and you breathed him in, felt him swallow, felt his hips slot against the groove of yours with sensed belonging.

The animal in you keened with curiosity, emboldened by the dark. Your hands wouldn’t dare beyond the roadblock of his belt, but they would move in slow strokes up and down his back. A gentle comfort, a mask for your indulgence.

A quiet moan rose up in him, one he couldn’t swallow. The best he could do was cloak it in a sigh. It hummed against your ear; your cheek so close to the crook of his neck you could almost taste it. You breathed him in again, lips pressed to his soft curls against tough leather as the smoke, and musk, and crisp night air filled your lungs.

His hands were less patient; dipping toward the slope of your hips, pawing at thick wool, thumbs drawing aching circles there. It earned an arch from your back, a grasp from your hands at the soft cotton barrier.

There was an animal in him too, preening at the cant of your hips, at the rub of your neck against his. With a dip of his chin he could sink his teeth in, but his noble mind willed it away, settled for the scent of you instead — soft like powder, warm and inviting. The heels of your palms drifted toward his belly, and the animal threatened to rear below his belt.

“Ah,” it leapt out his throat.

Hands freezing before reaching the healthy swell, you drew back from his shoulder, checking in. Your lids hung with visible weight, pupils blown by more than just the lack of light, dizzy from his touch. He could do that with his hands, he thought; a split-second revel before concern sobered your features.

His disappointment was palpable, like he’d burst some great bubble. “Mm—no, it’s fine, please—” please don’t stop. His arms around you tightened, eyes pleading with words he wasn’t bold enough to utter, even in the darkness.

A shadow of guilt fell across your face. Guilt for your greedy hands, for your lost control, for your bad behavior. It was a pitiful sight; worse than the one he saw yesterday. Worse because it was here. Worse because he was closer than he’d ever been before.

There was a gap between you; space for the cold to seep between your hearts. Space for the fear that he’d broken the spell. That you didn’t see him anymore, but your student instead.

You thumbed his soft cotton shirt, buried in the shelter of his coat. Eddie Munson — frenetic and compelling. Beautiful in the way that wild things are. Breathing life into your numb hands with each ragged swell. You studied him closely; his soft cupid’s bow, his pink, plush pout, the angles of his worried jaw, the pining in his eyes.

Want. A wild, elusive thing. A summer wind. An admission at a cost. Want didn’t budge. Want looked you dead in the eyes and tightened its grip.

Eddie knew what he wanted, burning like a question on his tongue. He knew he had to be the one to ask. He was terrified — of the question, of the asking, of the fact that he may never get another chance. Your hands grappled with it, clung like they feared he would vanish. He felt the ache in them, the want, the fear, the frustration. It opened up a narrow passage, and he entered with the boldest thing he had ever done.

He asked you with his forehead first. A gentle nod forward; the softest collision. A tickle of curls. A rock back and forth of his strong, sturdy brow. A smile even you couldn’t hide. Your hands released, settled at the dip of his back in quiet permission.

He asked you with the bridge of his nose. A delicate slope. A tender nuzzle. Rigid bone under soft flesh. Cold, round tip. Roaming the map of yours with heated intention as he swayed like a dance in the moonlight. You closed your eyes, surrendered to the fantasy. Felt the heat of his cheek, the pang of his palm at your back as he pulled you closer.

He asked you with a tilt of his chin, and brought time to a halt.

There was a gap between you. A fractional distance bridged by the ghost of his breath. Within it; every party that you never went to, every basement you were never led away from, every page you never shared, every experience you never had. Goodness was a mantle, heavy from a lifetime on your shoulders.

What did freedom taste like? The question brushed across your lips like a warm invitation. You were desperate for the answer. Wanted it more than anything, ever, in your whole entire life. Wanted it for you, for only you. For once.

Eddie asked the question. You closed the gap.

A sigh left both of you at once. One you could taste this time, humming against the plush cradle of his lips. Freedom could have melted you. It threatened the strength of your knees, but his arms were stronger. Locked against each other in the shadows you borrowed, your lips began to explore, to express every secret wish the two of you had dreamt apart.

Freedom tasted tentative at first. A slow drag of his lips, a languid slip that rippled to the dormant parts of you. Catching like tinder as they grazed over yours, hot with an ache you could taste. It was sinfully exquisite; tasting the curve of his smile, the hyper-real rasp of his stubble as those lips—the ones that shot you smirks from down the hall and spilled over with song—found a rhythm with yours. Broad palms clutched the wool at your waist like you’d slip through a crack if he didn’t hold on.

Freedom was slick. It tasted like cigarettes, like a thousand unsaid words ushered past the border of your mouth. You could taste every one on his tongue, soothed them with the slickness of yours. Every aching word, dripping in each soft caress. Diving like a dance, echoed in the soft, wet smacks when you parted. You devoured them like you were starving. Every sigh, every hum, every color that left his lungs slipped eagerly down your throat.

The wool at your back was a nuisance. Eddie pawed at it, desperate to feel the shape of you through the fabric, to store it in the vault of his mind, to play with it later in private. He halted his hands at your hips, willed them decent, rationed with the small working part of his brain that your lips would have to be enough. He relished in the way you accepted him. The way you spread for him, parting eagerly for his tongue. The way your lips closed around him, rocking as he prodded like you’d done it before. Like you wanted to elsewhere.

The spell was broken. The line, miles away. There was a hunger in you, sudden and surprising, roused by the very first taste. Eddie palmed your hips with an urgency that stirred you. Like a bear in the spring, thawed by the heat of his touch, you devoured him. Devoured him with the wholeness of your splayed hands, tracing up his pounding ribs, dragging across the expanse of his broad chest. It heaved under your touch; solid muscle under soft cotton. You devoured his moan; a hot, strangled thing that escaped his plush lips. Like a match to the strip your tongue, you ignited.

His hands lost their patience. Breaking from your waist, they dove behind your ears to cradle your face. Your face. Your jaw, your delicate cheeks he caressed with the rough pads of his thumbs, as if the swell of them—the rigid bones under soft skin, the absolute realness of you in his arms—could wake him from the dream he was surely having. He was tasting you, tasting the want on your tongue. More satisfying than a four course meal, more satisfying than anything he’d ever tasted in his life. You wanted him. More than that, you savored him; the taste of his hot, eager tongue as it slipped against yours.

Freedom was delicious. Bold and complex, acrid and rich. Full bodied. A smooth, sweet finish. You could have drowned in it. Drowned in the angles of his hands, in his tender strokes, in the sopping heat of his mouth. Drowned in his eager sighs, in his scent. Drowned completely if he hadn’t held your head above the surging waves.

Eddie was good like a midnight snack. Good like a wide open road. He was good at this. Good at knowing how to ask and answer. Good at at finding the rhythm of you.

You broke for air, stilling against the bridge of his nose, afraid to look him in the eyes just yet, to break away from the safety his shadow provided. Safe from the world, safe from consequences, safe from the thoughts that battered at the door of your mind. Safety was fragile and fleeting. You knew it, he knew it. Your breath mingled in hot bursts as you steadied your spinning world for a quiet moment together. You felt him smile—heard it—big and bright as it cracked across his face. The air stung your cheeks when he took his hands away. Leaning back against the fence, he tugged you closer, further into the safety of the shadows, enveloping you in the crook of his heat.

It was good like this — the angles of you and the angles of him, fitting like they always belonged. It felt safe to explore them, to paint his pounding chest, down the soft swell of his belly, stopping at his hips. With a thick bob of his Adam’s apple, he closed the gap again. It was chaste this time, peppering your lips with space to breathe between each kiss. They were slow and savory, steady and sure. They lingered long enough for you to get another taste, to capture that plush Cupid’s bow and let it melt across yours, to flick your tongue over his soft bottom lip and taste him there too.

You could taste his need when he greeted your tongue with his own. It was safe to show it here. Safe to let the animal inside him bare its teeth. Safe to let the animal in you do the same. It growled when he nipped at you, hooked its claws through his belt loops and tugged. It was a quick, testing thing, and your sound let him know that he passed. He lapped it up hungrily, soothed it before inflicting another.

It ached in a frightening way, in that deep, low place. Throbbed awake with each delicious bite. It scared you how quickly the path was veering south, but the pooling warmth encouraged his travels, let him go wherever he wanted. When his lips strayed far enough to track your jaw, a shrinking voice shrieked danger, but the rest of you simply submitted.

Claws braced denim and leather, offering yourself with a tip of your head. Reverently, he accepted, setting his pace with a dizzying slowness. He worshiped you with every latch, every press, every lingering smack, darting his tongue out to taste the forbidden angles of your jaw. It was greedy but good. To him, to you. Letting go this much. Letting him go this far. The trail cooled in the night air, and he settled at the precipice of your neck.

His breath alone was enough to melt you; heavy with the weight of his new position. Heavy with desire, with the weight of thousand fantasies he never thought would come to pass. He drank in the cocktail of your scent; concentrated, warm, deliciously real. In the throws of your own heaving chest, sobered just barely by the pregnant pause, you awoke to your position: open, vulnerable, completely at his mercy.

He tasted your swallow, felt your breath hitch when his warm, wet tongue found your pulse. Lathing there a moment, lingering and slow, he savored you. Savored the ridges of your neck, the way your head lolled to the side, like a feast laid out for him. He stored the image in his mind, packaged it carefully for when he would surely be starving again. His lips soothed where his tongue left off, over and over until your strangled sound stirred a fiending hunger. He bared his teeth, and you shattered.

Freedom was falling apart in his arms. Crumbling into pieces and letting him grapple you whole. Letting him capture you in his maw and lap up your ruin. Letting him, letting him. His teeth dragged dull and slow, tingling every waking cell, turning you to putty completely. He dragged a moan out of you. A full one, loud and clear. He tucked it away, buried it deep alongside your squirms and your touch.

The door opened.

Cold air shocked your lungs. Head snapping over your shoulder, you broke his latch and Eddie hissed a curse at the separation. With daggers, you both assessed the intruder.

The silhouette of his cap gave him away. He might have even kept on walking but the gasps and the shuffling feet made him turn. “Oh shit,” Bill flinched back in surprise. “Sorry man I thought you left.”

Eddie’s arm tightened instinctively, pulling you as close as he wanted to earlier. Reflexively, you pushed away. It was a strange tug of war — his pride and your fear. “Yeah—no we’re still here,” he snapped.

You swallowed your pounding heart, sobering completely under Bill’s gaze. Suddenly your claws retracted, your hands felt wrong where they rested, shame bit at your neck along the cooling trail he left behind.

Even in the backlit glow of the singular light, you saw it painted clearly on his features — the judgement, the disbelief, the questions rising up but not daring to come out. “Well um, sorry to interrupt. Have a good night,” Bill said with an awkward raise of his hand before making quickly for the parking lot.

Footsteps faded over gravel and left a silence in their wake, thicker than the stillness from before.

Eddie breathed a sharp sigh through his nostrils, brows lowered as he seethed toward the parking lot. The cold was setting in again. Your nose, and ears, and fingers stung with it. The rest of you stung worse; chest numbing, caving like a can under the weight of what you’d just done.

When the flick of distant headlights made you brave enough to face him, frustration painted his features. He pawed at your coat, desperate to salvage what he could of his precious moment. “Anyway, where were we?” he muttered, eyeing your neck with a tilt of his head like he was about to dive in again.

Your hand at his chest stopped him, and the look in his eyes was wounding. “Eddie,” you warned softly. A slow, heavy sigh left his nose, one you could feel with your palm. “I need to go.”

Crestfallen after a desperate, hesitant second, his arms went slack. Your hand dropped, leaving a fierce chill behind. One more, his lips begged, but struggled to release. Please.

It hurt, to crumble like this after all you had built. With the roar of Bill’s engine, the fantasy shattered around you. The carriage became a pumpkin, your gown turned into rags. Shrill bells rang out in the distance, coming surely as the sun would rise. Pinballs thundered as that sweet oval face—the one from the back of the room and the chair next to yours—pouted with lips still swollen from where you had broken your contract.

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed.

Gathering himself with a deep breath, he straightened to a dignified height, conviction filling the cracks in his composure. “I’m not.”

It was terrifying — the prospect, the consequences. What it meant for you, for him, for the world you’d have to face tomorrow.

Most terrifying of all was how good it felt to hear him say.

______

A/N: Thank you all for your patience on this one. It took me nearly all summer to finish but I'm really proud of how it turned out. Please let me know what you think! I've missed hearing from and connecting with all of you. Next one won't take nearly as long, I promise. 💕

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @storiesbyrhi @cursedyuta @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @keeponquinning @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @big-ope-vibes @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

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MASTERLIST ⎮ AO3 ⎮ KO-FI

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #don't stand so close to me

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multi-fandomfuckboy · 8 months

Text

Stranger Than Fiction

Part 23: Study

Billy Hargrove x Reader (Slowburn)

Part 1,... (Masterlist)...Part 24 (Coming Soon)...

AN: Got it done! This is a LONG one so strap in. Word Count: 6068 Warnings: Language, Suggestive themes

You remain next to Billy for the next two hours. He explains the first section of material to you in a way that makes the whole thing sound like a classic tragedy. You start to see different events as small pieces that fit into the whole flow of the story, when you take a step back it makes thematic sense. It’s interesting to hear Billy speak in a tone other than flirtatious or angry, but when he’s tutoring you he almost sounds professional. After recovering from the initial shock of Billy Hargrove agreeing to tutor you in exchange for free meals, you have to admit he is a pretty good teacher.

Like when it’s clear you don't understand a portion of the chapter he takes the time to explain it within the context of the larger story. And to make sure you’re actually grasping the material he intermittently asks you to explain portions in your own words. The two of you fall into an easy rhythm of work, only falling into hushed silences when Billy thinks he hears movement outside his bedroom. You eventually find yourself interested in learning what happens next. Just like anticipating the next chapter of a story.

When you can hardly get through a sentence without yawning, Billy closes the textbook.

“Alright, no use in studying if you can barely keep your eyes open.” he mumbles, setting the book on his night stand. Glancing at the time you internally curse, it’s already past 11, listening for a moment you note that the rest of the house is completely silent.

“I should get going anyways.” you say, pulling yourself away from Billy. You hadn’t noticed that during the course of your study session you ended up sitting thigh to thigh on the bed, with the book spread between you. Your side feels cold without him next to you.

Scooting to the edge of the bed you gather your bag from the floor and move to stand.You're stopped by Billy’s hand gently grabbing your wrist. Your heart leaps slightly as his fingers hold you in place.

“You can stay if you want.” Billy offers. Your eyes dart to his face, prepared to see his smirk. Instead you are met with his tired gaze, no hint of teasing in his eyes. He rubs a hand over his face, looking as exhausted as you feel. You’re reminded that along with school, Billy also had basketball practice today. You’re filled with guilt knowing that you’ve kept him up so late helping you.

“No, it’s okay.” you say, fully standing. Billy keeps his light grip on your wrist. You know you could pull away if you tried. You’re overly aware of how warm his hand feels against your skin. You chuckle, trying to ignore how your heart is racing. “Is this your lame attempt to get me in bed with you?” You ask jokingly. Billy immediately stands, his grasp moving up to your elbow.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” The seriousness of his tone stuns you for a moment. Or maybe it’s just hard to focus on anything other than the way he’s gazing down at you, the dim light of the lamp casting shadows over his sharp features. Your heart leaps into your throat at the feeling of his thumb gently grazing the skin inside your arm. Swallowing thickly you search his expression. He looks tired, but his blue eyes are clear. He’s not joking. “It’s the middle of the night. Walking home alone isn’t smart.” He explains, his eyes staying on yours.

For a moment you let yourself imagine staying. Imagine crawling into his bed, under his sheets, knowing that they undoubtedly smell so much like him. Think about Billy only feet away on the floor. Think of being in that space that is so entirely him, surrounded by him. You feel heat creep up your neck, unable to stop a few thoughts from pouring into your mind.

“I-it’s fine Billy, really.” You look away first, unable to hold his penetrating gaze with the thoughts currently wreaking havoc on your mind. “I walk home alone all the time.” you try to minimize his concern, forcing yourself to take a step away from him letting his hand fall from your arm. Turning from him, you grab the empty food container and shove it in your bag.

Billy sighs, rubbing his hand over his face again.

“That doesn't make it any safer Loca.” he insists, sounding slightly more irritated.

“I’m sorry, I must have missed the part where you became concerned with my safety.” you quip, rolling your eyes. “With how you drive, I didn’t know you even knew the meaning of the word ‘safe’.” You tease. Glancing over your shoulder you see the slight upward twitch in his lips.

“I don’t think you have room to talk about my driving. I was lucky that I didn’t have to replace my clutch after you drove my car ONCE.” He shoots back, following you as you head for the window. You can't stop the small smile that pulls at your lips.

“I guess playing it safe isn’t either of your strong suits.” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“I guess so.” Billy relents, allowing you to flip the lock on the window and pull it open enough for you to slip out. “Still though…” Billy starts, taking your arm again. This time he pulls it towards him slightly, grabbing a pen from his night stand. “Call this number when you get home.” he instructs, cradling your hand in his as he scribbles a number onto your palm. The feeling of the pen moving swiftly over your skin tickles, sending a shiver down your spine. “Let it ring once and then hang up, just so I know you got home.” He tells you.

“Got it.” you confirm curtly. You curse your body's reaction to his touch. To make it worse, when he finishes writing he brings your hand closer to his face, blowing gently on the ink to make sure it dries. Something swirls deep in your stomach at the action. The feeling of his hand gently holding yours, his warm breath fanning across your palm.

You don’t want it to stop. It’s so quiet between you, it seems like your heart is pounding in your ears. Thankfully Billy doesn't seem to notice the quickening of your pulse or the blush you know is creeping over your entire face.

“That should be good.” he assesses, keeping his eyes on your palm. With your hand still in his, he swipes his thumb over the ink to check it. The swirling in your stomach quickly tightens. You pull your hand out of his.

“Thanks.” you manage to get out, hastily moving to the window, hoping to escape into the darkness before Billy notices how flushed you are. You can’t be sure but you think Billy chuckles lightly as you rush to swing your legs out the window. Placing your palms on the sill to lower yourself to the ground, your toes search for the top of the plastic crate in the dark. You nearly topple off of it as you finally drop down.

“Hey!” Billy whisper-yells down to you, leaning out the window slightly. Looking back to him, you can barely see the smirk pulling over his teeth. “I like my eggs with a little tabasco.” he says with a wink.

You open your mouth to snap back that you’re not a servant, but he clicks his tongue wagging a finger at you.

“Hey now sweetheart, a deal is a deal.” he reminds you, seeming to delight in this new aspect of your relationship.

“Fine.” you grit out, reminding yourself that he is, in fact, doing you a favor. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” you grumble.

“See you then Loca.” He grins, closing the window as you walk into the dark.

The journey home is quick. You seem to be buzzing with electricity. Hyper-aware of the number inked onto your palm. You pick up your pace, trying desperately to stop your mind from wandering back to Billy’s hands on you. He’s been so different since that night, somehow gentler with you. How could someone like him possibly be so gentle?

The memory of Steve’s battered face flashes through your mind. You walk faster.

When you get home you immediately head to the phone dialing the number scrawled on your hand. It rings once and you hang up, just like Billy told you. Then you stumble to your room falling onto your bed, you pass out on top of the covers.

---

The next morning you're woken up by your mom coming home. She comes into your room to check on you because you’re normally up when she comes home. Seeing that you just slept in a bit, she gives you a quick hug and heads to bed.

You make breakfast, packing an extra portion for Billy (not forgetting the hot sauce). Then get started on lunch. You’re not sure what Billy likes to eat so you stick with the basics, packing him exactly what you normally eat. You double his though, rationalizing that he needs more energy because he’s bigger than you and has practice after school.

Finishing with that you turn your attention to getting a few things prepared for dinner. Billy mentioned meatloaf, so that’s probably a good place to start. You skin and dice potatoes, for mashed potatoes. You snap the green beans, setting them in a bag. Finally you pull a pound of ground beef from the freezer placing it in the fridge to thaw.

By the time you finish, Steve is already pulling into the driveway.

His arrival draws your attention to a gaping hole in your plan to pass history with Billy’s help. There is no way in hell Steve is going to let you be alone with Billy for more than a second. Your mind spins as you pack your bag, placing Billy’s portioned food at the top.

As you exit the house and head to Steve’s car, he gives you a sleepy smile that sends a wave of guilt through you. There is no way you can tell him. You know he still has nightmares, it’s one of the many reasons he stays at your place so much. You can’t place this on his mind, he’ll go crazy with worry.

You shove these feelings and all thoughts of Billy into the back of your mind, opening the passenger door. You set your bag on the floor as you slide into your usual seat.

“Morning.” Steve greets you, a yawn cutting off the end of the word.

“Tired?” you ask, buckling your seatbelt. Steve only shrugs, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Yea, my parents are both home.” he offers in explanation. You understand the meaning behind his words. He once told you during one of your late night conversations that his parents are hardly ever home at the same time. But when they are it’s like a silent war is being had. Neither of them speaks to the other, only interacting through passive aggressive comments and actions taken to provoke the other. Steve told you that his parents never fight, but he wishes they would. Just for once have them say exactly what is bothering them to bring air into the vacuum or their marriage. He explained that the tension between them puts him on edge most nights they are home and it makes it difficult for him to sleep.

You give him a sympathetic smile.

“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t get much sleep either.” you say, leaning back in your seat. Steve chuckles as he backs out of the drive.

“Yes, of course knowing that you’re suffering always makes me feel better.” He jokes. You roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder lightly.

It’s so comfortable between you. You enjoy being with Steve. For some reason it’s reassuring to know that through everything the two of you have been through, he still manages to laugh. And somehow make you laugh with him.

“Are you still having those dreams?” he asks. Glancing at him, you catch the worry in his expression even though he keeps his eyes on the road.

“Yea.” you confirm. “It gets harder to remember them though. I just wake up with this weird feeling, like my mind has been somewhere else all night.” you try to explain.

Steve knows about the dark dreams that have prevented you from getting a full nights sleep since you woke up in the hospital. There have been many nights where you have woken Steve up after coming out of one of your dreams. He’s theorized that they have something to do with what happened the night Eleven closed the gate. Like maybe you have some connection with the upside down. Neither of you like talking about it though.

“If you want, I can try to sneak out and stay over tonight.” Steve offers, pulling into his usual spot in the school parking lot. It’s a nice offer and you almost accept it reflexively, but your eyes land on a familiar blue car two spots down.

“That’s okay Steve, I don't want you to get in any trouble with your parents home.” you say, gathering your bag into your lap so you don't have to look him in the eyes when you lie to him. You hear him sigh.

“I doubt they would even notice. They are currently in a “not fight” about my mom buying a persian rug.” You feel another pang of guilt, you hate having to keep Steve out, but there is no way you can study with Billy AND stay home with Steve.

“It will be okay.” you reassure him. “Plus you are always complaining that the cot isn’t as comfortable as your bed.” you remind him.

“Well, it’s not.” he grumbles, reaching into the back for his bag behind your seat. “But I do sleep better at your place.” he adds. You look at him, seeing that he’s still twisted in his seat, his arm stretched behind you to feel for his bag. In this position he’s somewhat leaning into your space. He pauses when your eyes meet.

“I sleep better with you there too.” you admit. “But it’s better in the long run if you don’t get in any trouble.” you explain, keeping your eyes on his. This close to him you can see the slight flush in his face at your words. His throat bobs as he swallows, his gaze flickering over your face before he blicks quickly, finally grabbing his bag and sitting back in his seat.

“Yea, you’re probably right.” he relents.

“And I need a break from your snoring.” you tease, trying to hide your smile when Steve scoffs.

“You must have confused me with some other guy that sleeps on your floor, because I sleep like an angel.” he snaps, looking only slightly offended.

“Whatever you say.” you say, opening your door to climb out into the frigid December air. Steve follows your lead, both of you heading towards the entrance.

“I’ll have you know that I have never once gotten a complaint from any of the girls I’ve slept next to.” Steve defends himself.

“I’m sure they just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” you continue, unable to hide your smile at his displeased expression, his brows furrowing in indignation.

“I do NOT snore.” he insists.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure one day you will find the nicest girl… who can sleep through a fire alarm.” Steve finally breaks, a smile splitting across his face. He slings his arm over your shoulders to pull you roughly into his side. You laugh, only stumbling half a step as he jostles you slightly.

“You’re such a pain in the ass.” he groans, keeping his arm over your shoulders as you walk through the parking lot. You chuckle at his antics, resisting the initial urge to pull away. You know now that Steve is a very physical person. It’s how he shows affection, with a hug, or a pat on the back, a gentle touch here and there just so you know he’s there with you. It was jarring at first to have someone touch you so casually, but the more it happened the more you came to associate the gentle touches with Steve showing you what good friends you are.

On cold mornings like this, you can’t say you mind the warmth of his arm over your shoulders.

A prickling sensation creeps over your skin before you enter the building. Glancing around, your eyes fall on Billy. He stands next to his car, unmoving, as students file past him to get into the warm building. His eyes are locked on you, watching you with such intensity you wonder what exactly he sees in your expression. The first bell rings, but he remains leaning against his car, waiting.

You suddenly stop, ducking from under Steve’s arm. He immediately turns to you, a question in his eyes.

“I forgot something in your car.” you explain before he can ask. You take a few steps back, trying to keep your smile casual.

“I’ll go with you.” Steve says, taking a step towards you.

“No, it’s okay” you insist, waving him off continuing to walk backwards. “I’ll be quick, you’re going to be late.” you warn. As if to emphasize your point, the second bell rings. “I’ll see you at lunch.” you reassure him, turning to walk back to the car leaving no room for discussion. You glance over your shoulder a moment later to make sure Steve has gone to class. Luckily he has.

You walk in the opposite direction of the flow of students into the building. By the time you reach Steve’s car the parking lot is practically empty, except for you and Billy. You walk past Steve’s car, heading straight to Billy’s. He watches your approach, his expression so carefully bored. A look you’re sure he’s perfected.

“Looking pretty cozy with Harrington this morning.” he says, looking down his nose at you. You ignore how much like his father he looks when he does that. You roll your eyes, slipping your bag off your shoulder to pull out his packed food.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Hargrove?” you ask, extending the containers of food out to him. Instead of taking them, Billy smirks, taking a step towards you. A predatory gleam fills his eyes causing your pulse to spike as you take an impulsive step back. Following you back, Billy’s arms bracket around you as your back connects with the cold metal of his car.

“Jealous of what? Harrington?” Billy asks, his smirk growing wider into a wolfish grin. You hold the containers of food between your bodies like a physical barrier. He leans in closer, watching you so closely you swear he can see the thoughts racing through your mind. “How can I be jealous when I know it was my window you were sneaking into last night.” His voice is low and he’s so close you can smell the peppermint of the gum he’s chewing.

“Do you want the food or not?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. You do your best to keep your voice calm, irritated by your body’s response to being this close to him. In an attempt to make room so you can breathe properly, you push the containers into his stomach. Billy just chuckles, it’s like pushing against a solid wall.

Seeming to take mercy on your nerves, Billy lowers his arms, taking the containers in his hands, but does not take a step back.

“I don’t want to be late for class bringing you food every morning.” you tell him. “From now on, meet me outside the bathrooms behind the gym before first period.” you say, doing your best not to inhale the smell of his cologne too deeply.

“Why there?” he asks, looking down at the containers in his hands. “Scared your boyfriend will see you with the competition?” he asks. It sounds like a joke but there is something sharp under his tone.

“Steve’s not my boyfriend, he’s just protective.” you explain, avoiding his question. Billy’s eyes return to yours, pinning you there, he searches your eyes like he will find an answer there. You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I need to get to class.” you say, struggling not to shift under his gaze.

“Alright, fine. I’ll wait by the gym tomorrow.” he confirms, finally taking a step back. You sling your bag over your shoulder walking away quickly, before you can give in to the small part of yourself that wants to stay pressed between him and his car.

---

When you get to history you see Billy has occupied the seat next to you again. You're not too surprised, it makes sense that he would want to sit next to you during the subject he’s tutoring you in. He seems to keep an eye on you through most of the class, leaning over to look at your notes every so often.

When the bell rings to excuse class you pack up your things preparing to head out but before you can stand, Billy steps into your space. He places one hand on your desk and the other on the back of your chair. Your head snaps up to him as he leans down close to your face.

“Bring your notes when you come over tonight, I have a few ideas that might help you retain what you write.” he tells you. His tone is serious, but to anyone watching the two of you it would look like he’s coming onto you. You glance around, seeing a few pairs of eyes on you as your classmates exit. You grit your teeth, giving him a shove which is enough to get him to take a step back giving you space to stand.

“You’re enjoying this too much.” you say, turning to leave, knowing he’s following behind you.

“What’s the matter? Scared people will think you like me?” you can hear the grin in his voice.

“People already think I’m a freak, liking you would just make me look like a masochist.” you explain, making a beeline for your final class. Before you can escape into the classroom, Billy’s arm darts out blocking you. You whip your head to him, glaring at his cocky smile. Your look doesn't seem to phase him as he leans in, practically whispering in your ear.

“I’ll see you tonight.” you grit your teeth, knowing he’s just trying to mess with you. That knowledge does not help the heat pooling in your gut at the feel of his breath against the shell of your ear.

Then he's gone. Taking a deep breath you begin to mentally prepare yourself for whatever is waiting for you tonight.

---

All the mental fortitude in the world could not have prepared you for that night.

Billy is all business. From the moment he helps you crawl through the window to the second he ends your study session. Not one joke or jab intended to make you blush. It’s like he flipped a switch and now his main goal in life is to cram as much history into your brain as possible. You’re partially thankful for that, not sure if you could fully focus with him flustering you.

He doesn't argue when you leave this time, just telling you to call the house again so he knows you’re home.

Wednesday follows the same routine. You meet Billy by the gym before school to give him his food and he’s all charm, invading your space and doing his best to make your face so warm it could serve as a space heater. Then that night he’s back to being professor Billy.

It’s so intense you’re almost sure you’re dealing with two different Billy’s. But you can’t argue with the results. By class on Thursday you actually feel like you’re retaining the information being thrown at you. Granted after three nights of staying up late with Billy you’re having a hard time staying awake in all your classes.

After school on Thursday you finish dinner, say goodbye to your mom and pack your bag to head over to Billy’s. Stepping outside you notice the exceptionally crisp chill in the air. Glancing at the sky you see what look like storm clouds rolling in.

You start walking, knowing that it shouldn't take you too long to get over to Cherry Lane. You keep an eye on the menacing clouds closing in and hope that you will be inside by the time the storm is on you.

Unfortunately snow starts to fall 10 minutes into your journey. It’s alright at first, big fluffy flakes that want to stick to the ground, easily handled by your winter jacket. It doesn't stay that way for long though, soon the flakes turn to rain mixed with sleet as it freezes in the cold atmosphere. You try to run but the combination of snow and rain mix into a dangerous concoction that makes the asphalt slick, threatening to take you down every other step.

You move as quickly as you can, but by the time you reach Billy’s window your hair is plastered to your head, the ends beginning to turn stiff as the water freezes again. Your jacket has kept your torso protected but your jeans are soaked and you lost feeling in your hands and toes a while ago.

Billy meets you at the window, like he was waiting for you. He takes one look at your shivering form before he hauls you through the window, not even giving you a chance to attempt the climb. He grabs your arms and lifts you easily into the room. You can’t even feel the relief of being out of the rain, the cold having numbed most of your body.

“Fuck!” Billy curses, pulling you further into the room as he closes the window. His eyes scan over your in a quick assessment. “Your fucking lips are blue.” he says, he looks pissed but his voice is low and calm.

You try to stutter an explanation but the violent chattering of your teeth cuts you off. Billy doesn't seem to need an explanation, he immediately starts moving. First he grabs a towel from the back of his door and drapes it over your head, hastily twisting your hair into it and piling it on top of your head. He grabs the zipper of your jacket but pauses, his eyes meeting yours, you're shaking so hard it makes it hard to focus on him.

“We need to get all the wet clothes off and put on dry ones.” he explains. His face is so intense, his eyes searching yours, looking for a sign that you understand him. “Focus on your breathing, I’m going to help you change, okay?” he asks, his brows pulling together. You know that he’s right, you’re likely to freeze to death at this rate if you don't get out of what you're wearing.

You manage a nod. He moves quickly, unzipping your jacket and pulling it off your frigid frame. He tosses it in the corner of the room, quickly grabbing the hem of your shirt and lifting it over your head. You’re thankful that he’s helping you because looking at your numb fingers you can barely move them. You don't have the presence of mind to be embarrassed about standing in front of him, shaking, in just your bra, but when he darts behind you to grab a dry sweatshirt your chest tightens. There is a slight pause in his hurried movements and you can feel his eyes on the scars that cover your back. You close your eyes tightly, you have never really let anyone see them, even in locker rooms you keep your back to the wall as much as you can to hide them. You can barely stand to look at them yourself.

Billy pulls the dry sweatshirt over your head, helping you get your arms into the sleeves. You keep your eyes closed, not able to look at him as he unties your shoes, pulling them off of your numb feet with your socks. Quickly unbuttoning your jeans, he peels them off, helping your step out of them and into dry sweatpants.

Being out of the wet clothes helps, but you're still shaking uncontrollably. Opening your eyes again, you see Billy reassessing. His brows are pulled together and his lips are pressed into a firm line while he thinks. Seeming to come to a decision he grabs your arm gently pulling you towards the bed.

“You need to get warm again, get under the blankets.” Billy tells you, there is no room for argument in his tone. You want to protest but another wave of violent shaking urges you forward. You don't fight him as he guides you under the blankets. Burrowing under them, you try to curl tightly into a ball to generate heat but Billy pulling back the blanket again confuses you. You glance up in time to see him strip off his shirt before sliding under the sheets next to you.

Your heart pounds as his arms wrap around you immediately, pulling you against his now bare chest.

“I-I-I’m F-Fin-n-” you try to say, but the moment his warmth starts to seep into you all thoughts of pulling away leave your mind.

“Jesus christ, you feel like ice.” Billy grumbles, beginning to move his hands over your back and arms to generate more heat.

He’s so warm, all you can do is pull yourself closer, your hands curl against his side pressing into his skin. He hisses, the muscles in his stomach contracting away from your touch, only for a moment before he pulls you tighter against him. Your face is pressed against his chest, tucked under his chin, some of the sensation returns to your nose. You borrow your face into him, taking a shaky breath.

Billy continues to run his hands over your shuddering form for what feels like an eternity. All you can focus on is breathing in and out as he gently warms your body with his. Every so often you can hear him grumbling to himself.

“What were you thinking… fucking crazy…I swear to god if you get hypothermia for a fucking history test I will never let you live this down… “ the last one actually makes you chuckle, though it sounds more like a groan with your teeth gritted together.

When the shaking finally stops you are left with a feeling of utter exhaustion. You can finally feel your fingers and toes again but your eyelids feel unbearably heavy. You keep them closed as you take slow steady breaths. You are still pressed against Billy, your legs tangled with his under the sheets, your cheek resting against the muscle between his shoulder and chest.

Being this close to him stirs something low in your gut, seeming to add to the warmth he’s already generating in your body. You have to resist the urge to wiggle against him. He smells so good, like the forest after rain. You know that it’s most likely his cologne but something about it is so undeniably him, and you can’t get enough of it. You unconsciously tilt your head closer causing your lips to gently graze the column of his throat.

You feel him tense under you, his breath catching slightly. You find his reaction to the slight touch interesting. Normally he’s the one making you flustered, so his physical reaction is surprising. This is the closest you’ve ever been to a boy. But there is something inside you urging you to do it again. To press your lips against the thundering pulse in his neck. To see what kind of reaction that would get out of him.

It feels like you're in a dream, surrounded by Billy, in his bed, his arms around you holding you close. You’re so tired of bad dreams, you just want this good one to last a little longer. Without thinking you press closer, your lips gently kissing the smooth skin of his throat.

Billy inhales sharply, his arms going taunt around you. You feel his hands fist into the material of his jacket you’re wearing. When he doesn't push you away, you move your head slightly, your nose grazing along the curve of his jaw. You notice that he tilts his head back slightly, allowing you to place another light kiss to the skin under his ear. His breathing is shallow, you can feel it from where his chest is pressed against yours. Your insides feel molten, pulsing heat through you.

“You should stop.” Billy whispers, his voice is gruff breaking the silence. It shocks you back to reality, breaking whatever spell processed you to act so boldly. Your eyes snap open as the embarrassment and shame slam into you all at once.

“I’m sorry.” you rush to sit up, Billy’s arms falling away from you. “I dont know what- I just- fuck.” you scramble out of the bed, unable to even look at Billy. He was just trying to keep you from freezing to death and you go and practically molest his neck without warning. The embarrassment feels like it's going to swallow you whole and the worst part is there is no escaping. Your only option is back out the window and from the looks of it the rain is still coming down in sheets.

You run a hand through your hair, pulling at the roots slightly. Your mind spins in circles, making it difficult to take full breaths and the room feels like it’s closing in around you.

“Fuck!” you curse under your breath. Your stomach twists unpleasantly and you feel nauseous. What does Billy think of you now? You took advantage of him just now. What could you have possibly been thinking? He literally had to tell you to stop. What kind of monster acts like that?

“Hey, hey, don’t freak out or anything, I didn’t mean it like-” his voice sounds muted in your ears. You still can’t look at him, keeping your back to him. “It’s okay, just calm down, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Billy insists. You wish you could believe him, but nothing about what you did was okay.

“I’m so sorry.” you say again.

“It’s okay. Seriously, it’s fine. Let’s- Let’s just study okay?” He suggests, sounding slightly out of breath.

“What?” you ask. How could he suggest studying after all that?

“You still have an exam tomorrow. Or did the part of your brain that stores lost causes get freezer burn?” he asks pointedly. You see him grab a shirt from the floor out to the corner of your eye. Glancing back at him you watch him quickly pull it over his head. Meeting your eyes evenly he lifts a brow. He doesn't look bothered by what just happened, his face is a bit flushed but other than that he looks unphased. You expected anger, maybe even teasing, but he looks completely serious. You swallow back your initial panic. If Billy is okay with acting like nothing happened then… so are you.

“Grab the textbook and some paper.” Billy instructs gesturing to his desk with one hand. While you grab the book and paper you hear the rustling of sheets as Billy moves to sit up. Heading back to the bed you sit next to him, being sure to keep your distance, noticing that he’s pulled one of his pillows over his lap. Guilt stabs at your mind, knowing that it's likely to keep you off of him. You bite the inside of your cheek and swallow down the apology that rises up in you again.

Billy clears his throat.

“Alright, go to the section we covered in class today. It’s definitely going to be on the exam and I want to make sure you totally grasp the timeline.” he explains, easily slipping into his teaching mode.

He goes over the material, teaching you calmly, just like any other night. If it weren't for the fact that when you finally leave you're still wearing Billy’s clothes, you would have sworn you imagined the whole thing.

AN: I warned you guys it was going to be long! Let me know if you guys liked this! Reader was feeling a bit bold, leave a comment about what you think and what you want to see in the story going forward!

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posthumanwanderings · 1 month

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Internal Section (Positron / Square - PS1 - 1999)

“Often described as a twisted fusion between Tempest and S.T.U.N. Runner, this Positron game was released exclusively in Japan in 1999, at a time when the PlayStation games catalogue was already vast and varied. Dynamic and irreverent, Internal Section is essentially a complex ‘tube shooter’, an unusual angle that can be considered a welcome addition at a time when horizontal and vertical scrolling shooters were predominant. The mere sight of the initial presentation, or the bizarre imagery printed on the bizarre game manual, tells Internal Section apart from a common shooter. Instead of acquiescing to the adolescent anime characters and pseudo-plots, it evokes the same mature, impersonal and hi-tech ambience of the demoscene computer art subculture. Each of eight levels is divided into four sub stages (A, B, C, D and Boss Fight). When the level guardians are reached, game scheme switches from its tubular form to that of a circular rail drawn around the enemy, where greater shot precision is often required. Internal Section‘s gameplay is utterly unique, allowing the player to instantly choose between twelve different shot types, each of them based on a Chinese zodiac sign: apart from dodging bullets and other obstacles, the key to success lies in the use of the appropriate sign for each situation. Far from a hardcore shooting game experience, Internal Section is all about the experience and aesthetics – rather than superhuman skills – with scattered checkpoints and infinite continues that make it a short, albeit extremely enjoyable video game.

youtube

The first impact created by Internal Section originates from the awkward graphic style. Their lack of texture mapping is properly compensated with the addition of smooth and lustrous shading, drawn in vivid colors and wonderful contrasts. Flat polygons pervade the screen as each level displays a predominant color, and each sub-stage exhibits a rich and artful array of pictorial themes. Due to its spartan aesthetics, this uncanny Squaresoft release is bound to be compared with Rez, released by SEGA two years later.

iS also aspires to a perfectly balanced blend of audiovisual and gameplay, including a carefully selected techno music playlist. While not as memorable as the licensed soundtrack from games such as WipeOut, the disk includes 16 original themes that help bring some strong sense of rhythm into the game experience. Similar to Ridge Racer, it also lets the player swap the game disk for an audio CD, essentially giving it a customizable soundtrack. Customizations also include the selection of different ambiences for the levels, a factor that dramatically increases the game’s appeal and replay value.

If carefully observed today, in light of modern shoot’em up revivalisms, iS has achieved a certain state of grace, having risen to a level that only a handful of its counterparts were able to attain. Its flat polygon graphics running smoothly on the television screen and its responsive controls prevent the game from looking or feeling obsolete. In fact, everything about iS contemplates innovation, as well as a very strong desire to evade the usual patterns that have long infected this stagnant genre. Its status as a rare and unpublicized title coming from a major company has contributed, undoubtedly, to the consecration of Internal Section as one of the most engaging and sought after titles from the recent past.“ [article source]

#internal Section #iS: Internal Section #イズ～インターナル・セクション～#Squaresoft #rail-on shooter #rail on shooter #Y2K #cyberwave #PS1 #PlayStation #hardcoregaming101 #hardcoregaming 101 #Positron

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thats-h0w-th3-light-g3ts-in · 2 months

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International

Women‘s Day 2024

— To my favorite girls in rock —

This international women’s day is for these two incredible ladies. Immensely talented, candidly beautiful, tremendously underrated. They were trailblazers in their profession. At a time where the rock & pop music scene was dominated by male only bands, such as The Beach Boys or The Beatles, and crowds were bowing to rock-gods such as, Jimmy Page or Roger Daltrey, Christine McVie and Stevie Nicks were right up there with them. Women, as anything else than pretty faces and background singers were scarce in 1970s leading bands. Among Grace Slick, Joan Jett, Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart and of course ABBA‘s leading gals Agnetha and Frida, they were in good company but still leading ladies in rock bands were a rare breed.

Christine Anne Perfect had been in a band called Chicken Shack over in the old country when she married the bassist of Fleetwood Mac and finally joined his band in 1970. After their founding member and frontman had left the band (and in some ways also this universe), the rest of them, consisting of a rhythm section and two guitar players found themselves somewhat lost and in need of a fresh spark. The spark came in the shape of Christine (now McVie) a very talented keyboard player with a soulful, mellow voice who conveniently, had already been living with them, having spattered her talent all over the last album they’d made as an all male blues band. After a while the music scene in Great Britain had developed in a different direction as the Mac, so they decided to try their luck in the land of dreams — the United States. After initially being promised to be back home by christmas, Christine would stay with the band — abroad — for the next 28 years. She would be a driving force and function as the fierce and headstrong but at the same time caring and peacekeeping den mother of the group, captivating countless souls with her love drunken songs.

In 1975 the somewhat unlucky band that was Fleetwood Mac found themselves in need of personell once again. After all of their lead guitarists had either gone insane, joined a cult, were fired for infidelity or left to do their own thing, in particularly that order, the band anew, was missing a crucial part of their lineup leaving them with an uncertain future. Their luck seemed to have turned as a new guitarist was quickly found, only to discover that he came as a package — with a girl.

Stephanie Lynn Nicks was the grand daughter of an understated country singer who took little Stevie on stage when she was only five years old. Having grown up around music, writing songs since she was a teenager, she was trying to make it big with her boyfriend in the city of angels. Her dreamy lyrics and hoarse, rusty voice was a welcome contrast to Christine‘s neat and upbeat love songs and it was soon clear she would fit right in. Even after splitting with the very boyfriend that brought her into the band, she would stay on as the main focalizer and diligent contributor for decades to come.

Both of those women were in their own way unique and oh so contraire but still stuck together, having each others backs. Neither jealousy nor competition seemed to be able to break them apart. They were co-existing in the sometimes toxic but oh so vital eco-system that was Fleetwood Mac forming a symbioses, as friends, keeping each other sane and most importantly alive and kicking — kicking in the glass ceiling that was the male dominated scene of 70s music and thus paving the way for so many talented young girl-singers, songwriters and musicians to come.

Christine once casually stated in an interview upon being asked if she ever felt the got enough credit, that nobody ever really said, ‘thanks for groundbreaking‘, so here it is: Thank you, ladies. Thank you, Christine McVie, queen of the keys and Stevie Nicks, goddess of the stage, for groundbreaking, for being role models in many more ways than just your talent in music. Thanks for sticking up for each other, for lifting each other up instead of taking each other down, for showing us what true and honest sisterhood is all about. Thank you from the bottom of the heart of just another girl out there trying to make it.

#international women's day #christine mcvie #stevie nicks #fleetwood mac #linda ronstadt #agnetha fältskog #anni frid lyngstad #grace slick #patti smith #ann wilson #nancy wilson #rock #women in rock #trailblazer #groundbreaking

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ourshadowstallerthanoursoul · 8 months

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Ask-in with a LZ a week - interview to JPJ

(by Ritchie Yorke, NME - April 4, 1970)

What were you doing before Led Zeppelin formed?

Vegetating in studios in London mainly. Jimmy’s also done his share of that. But he got out and went into the Yardbirds. Just before joining the band, I had gotten into arranging and general studio directing, which was better than just sitting and being told what to do. I did a lot of Donovan's stuff. The first thing I did for him was 'Sunshine Superman'. I happened to be on the session and I ended up arranging it. The arranger who was there really didn’t know about anything. I sort of got the rhythm section together and we went from there. 'Mellow Yellow' I did entirely on my own. I was pleased with it; It was different to what was happening in the general session scene.

Were you surprised at the success of LZ?

Yes, I was surprised as to the extent of our success. You see, we’d been doing all this for a long time and, after a while, you can see how a group breaks up and what causes all the ups and downs. You reckon that if you should consciously put together a group that won’t have a lot of stupid troubles; and the basic thing of what people want to listen to; good musicianship; and a certain amount of professionalism; the right promotion — with those things you figure you must stand a good chance. But to what extent, nobody knows. To this extent, its unbelievable!

Do you think your success came because there was a gap in the rock scene after Cream and a perennial need for a hard-hard rock band?

If you think from a pure popologist’s point of view, you could say it was foreseen, inevitable, predictable. There was a gap there and we filled the gap. But there’s a lot of other things which may do it. I think the business did need something different because Cream was going around in circles. They never talked to one another, it seemed. The groups that did have a good sound were successful but they always seemed to have internal troubles; while the groups that did get on never got heard, and somehow you had to get the two together. An amicable group, a good sound and exposure.

LZ seems to be a group which gets on well.

Yeah, especially as we’re all different people. Robert and John have got the Birmingham band thing in common. Nobody had actually worked together before LZ though. We just got together in a 6ft. x 6ft. room and started playing and looked at everybody else and realize what was going to happen.

Who influenced your bass playing?

Not a lot of people because it was only recently that you could even hear the bass on records. So apart from obvious jazz influences — like every good jazz bass player in history; Mingus, Ray Brown, Scott LaFaro… I was into jazz organ for quite a while until I couldn’t stand the musicians any longer and I had to get back to rock'n'roll. I listened to a lot of jazz bass players and that influenced my session playing, and then I cannot tell a lie, the Motown bass players! You just can’t get away from it. Every bass players in every rock group is still doing Motown phrases, whether he wants to admit it or not.

It's a shame that so few artists have credited the Motown bass influence.

Right. Yet it’s been one of the Motown sound’s biggest selling points. I used to know a few names of Motown bass players, but I can’t remember them. Motown was a bass player’s paradise, because they’d actually found a way to record it so that you could hear every note. Their bass players were just unbelievable; some of the Motown records used to end up as sort of concertos for bass guitar.

What do you think of Jack Bruce's playing?

Jack is very good. I’m not too keen on the sound he has, but that’s personal taste. Being a bass player, I obviously have more idea of the sound I like than someone who just listens to records. I like his LP 'Songs For A Tailor' though.

What about Paul McCartney?

Well, I think he’s perfect. He’s always been good. Everything he’s done has always been right, even if he didn’t do too much, it was still just right. He’s improved so much since early Beatles days, and everything is still right. They’re really beautiful, the things he plays.

How about Rick Grech?

I don’t know anything about him.

Bass has really become important in the past two years.

Bass players have really got annoyed and said to engineers “You’ve got to get it through.” Then they went to the people who cut the record, because you can get it on tape and then lose it on record. The cutters start screaming that it won’t play with too much bass and people’s expensive magnetic cartridges will jump up into the air every time you hit a bottom string. I think Cassidy did an awful lot, and he’s still doing so. He designs bass guitars which are utterly unbelievable.

Did you hear Moms Marbley's record of 'Abraham, Martin and John'? It had fantastic bass reproduction.

No, I didn’t hear that. The Motown record that really impressed me was 'I Was Made To Love Her' by Stevie Wonder. When it came out, I just couldn’t believe it.

You must be one of the few people who actually sits down just to hear a bass pattern on a new record.

Bass players are always like that. The first record that really turned me on to bass guitar was 'You Can’t Sit Down' by Phil Upchurch, which had an incredible bass solo and was a good record as well. Very simple musically, but it had an incredible amount in it.

After years of session work, how does it feel to be in a group?

It’s a strain, but it’s a different kind of strain. I much prefer it. In sessions you just vegetate and you reach a certain period where you’re working a helluva lot and that’s it. You can’t do anything musically and it’s horrible. You became a well-used session musician with no imagination. I used to be the only bass player in England that knew anything about the Motown stuff so I used to do all the cover versions. I often used to almost be in tears at the sound they’d get and the way they used to mess up the songs.

The English session scene is rather unique in that. They really only have one man for each instrument, and if you're the man, you get to do every session going.

Right. But it’s not specialised, which is the strangest thing. You can do anything. Every record that’s been made in England you could have been on, if they used your particular instrument — from Petula Clark to visiting Americans. I remember one day — firstly at Decca Studios with the Bachelors; then Little Richard, who’d come over to do a couple of English sessions — and it was bloody awful.

It must have been rough at first, though with people only thinking of LZ as Jimmy Page's band?

Well if Jimmy had been incredibly insecure and really wanted to be a star, he would have picked lesser musicians and gone on the road and done the whole star trip. Everybody in the band recognised that at first having Jimmy’s name was a great help. In fact, it opened a lot of doors, and once you realised that, and because aware that you had a job to do, it worked out all right. I’ve been playing bass for ten years now. I’ve been on the road since I was two years old — my parents were in the business, too… in variety. They had a double act, musical comedy thing. I was in a professional band with Jet Harris and Tony Meehan. That was when I was 17.

What do you think of Robert Plant?

Robert is unique. We’re all unique really, but Robert is really something. I couldn’t imagine any other singer with us. I just couldn’t. Robert is Robert and there’s nothing else to say.

How about John Bonham?

John is the find of the year as far as British drummers are concerned. I can’t remember anyone like him either. It’s obvious why these people have ended up in the same group. We’ve all the right people. If anybody had to leave, the group would have to split up because it wouldn't be LZ anymore. Each of us is irreplaceable in this band.

How about Jimmy?

For years and years, I’ve rated Jimmy. We both come from South London and even then I can remember people saying: “You’ve got to go and listen to Neil Christian and the Crusaders, they’ve got this unbelievable guitarist.” I’d heard of him before I heard of Clapton and Beck. I probably listen to more of Clapton through Jimmy telling me to than any other reason. I’ve always thought Jimmy to be far superior to all of them. It sounds like a mutual admiration society; people don’t believe me when I say this. but I mean it.

Why do you think English bands are beginning to be stronger chartwise, than American bands again?

The Americans have got lazy. They’ve had it their way for so long. As soon as some competition comes along and does well, the not-so-good bands get uptight because they think they’re missing out on all the work. The better bands pull their fingers out and really come up with something great, and they do as well as the best English bands.

Do you think we're in the middle of a second English invasion of the US charts?

I think it can be taken as a criticism of American bands that so many English groups are getting into the US charts. American groups should look at themselves and their music if this is the case, and ask themselves why all these foreigners are going so well when they’re not. And I’m sure if they looked hard enough they’d come up with one reason or another, and they’d be able to get it back together and make it again.

#john paul jones #jonesy #led zeppelin #robert plant #planty #jimmy page #pagey #john bonham #bonzo #60s #70s #70s rock #70s music #rock music #ourshadowstallerthanoursoul

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writingcold · 9 months

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Hi there! Welcome to Chapter 6! If you’ve just joined us, here’s the master list.

This chapter is a little different. Although we see all of our characters, this chapter is all from Croa’s POV.

As always, a thank you goes out to @lvnterninthenight @gardensgatedaisy and @whitesuitjake for your help in this process.

This is a work of fiction, and is totally mine. Please do not take it for your own personal use. I’ve put in hours of research, hours upon hours of writing, re-writing, screaming, yelling and vomiting over this epic of a story. But it is mine.

Content warning: Fluff. That’s all I’m going to say because I need to just get this going… Cue your butterflies, though. Yeah. One of those Mr. Jacob chapters.

Word count: Approx. 6500 please pardon any errors.

Chapter Six: Dancehalls, Visiting, Drives, Cora POV

Three weeks of the permanent posting and Cora felt like she had finally reached a point where she understood the full workings of both the mercantile area and the general good sections of the shop. Renee had taken the time to give her small bits to improve and together they seemed to have found a rhythm that worked out better for the both of them. She was also finally breaking through the ice with her counterpart, finding ways to actually engage with Renee in areas outside of the business.

Her interactions with Jacob had become sparse. He seemed to be absent for days, typically with Daniel. She had been to supper with Samuel, Susannah and Molly where they did not make much mention of the two men at all. When Cora did see him, it was brief with only a shared smile.

Without Junie in the cottage, Cora had assumed all of her sister's chores that Matthew could not do during the day. It extended her evening considerably to the point her mother expressed for her to quit the shop to care for Georgie and the house chores. Cora scoffed at the notion, saying that would never happen, ensuring another argument that lasted a few days in the end.

Junie had become a ghost. Cora would inquire Mr. Archer about her on Sundays, to which he would say one of the children was ill and she remained home to care for them. She tried to walk to the banker’s home after shop close, but was told that Mr. and Mrs. Archer were unavailable, even for family. The loss she felt for her sister was difficult, leaving her to feel bruised.

Friday found her sweeping the floors while Renee dusted the front displays when Mr. Kiszka strolled out to close the register. His face seemed troubled and he did not speak as normal. Renee was first to put away her apron and voice her leave. Cora hung up her apron after she finished watching as he walked back to his office. It was like the man was in a fog of thought.

Walking from the shop, she debated trying to drop in on Junie once more or just to head for home. Home would mean more work and probably another argument with her mother over her being in town. She decided her heart could not handle the rejection from Junie’s home again. Turning the corner, Samuel and Daniel were waiting, erasing all tracks of her internal debate.

“Hello, doll,” Sam greeted, his hat tipped way back on his head to allow a curtain of hair to fall against the side of his face.

“Hi, fellas,” she said, looking around to see if the ladies were with them. “Where are your better halves?”

Daniel smiled wide. “Actually, we have an invitation for you from them. They would like you to join us for supper and dancing tomorrow night.”

She felt the corners of her mouth turn down. “I don’t know. Supper sounds lovely, but I have nothing to wear for dancing…”

“Molly’s already got something waiting for you,” Daniel cooed, his smile huge.

“But it’ll be late - I can’t ask that you drive all the way out -”

“Nope - Susannah has a spare room for you to stay in,” Samuel said, matching the other man’s grin.

“Oh, and you can walk to church with us and be with your family for services,” Daniel finished with a satisfied nod.

“Did Molly give you a script to follow?” Cora asked with a huff.

“Maybe,” Samuel said, a look of relief in his face. “Come on, Cora. Let us take you out - really out.”

“I - uh-” she shuffled a bit, but the idea of dancing with the new friends made her heart trip a few times. “It sounds like fun.”

Saturday morning at the shop opening, Mr. Kiszka was still heavy with thought. She took a moment to realize that it was a concern that was troubling his dark eyes. Cora returned the smile as he moved wordlessly to his office. The day was a fast one. She could scarcely take a moment to realize that the lunch break and the afternoon had skated by when the boss strolled back out of the office, the same distance etched in his eyes.

Cora wondered if there was a correlation between Mr. Kiszka’s muted tone and Jacob’s absence for the previous four days. She took her wages with a nod and watched as he closed up the register.

“I hear that you are out on the night with Samuel, Daniel and the girls,” he said as she reached for her personal items.

She grinned. “I aim to break toes, sir.”

After a pause, his eyes drifted closed. The air began to fill with a belly laugh that she was sure he needed. “Be sure to have fun doing just that, lovely. Good evening.”

She held onto Daniel’s arm as they walked to the diner to sup. Susannah and Molly were already there, ordered and waiting. Their table was the loudest in the joint, but Cora could feel the excitement for the dancehall prickling under her skin. The heat of the happiness that touched her spread across her frame and discarded the eldest brother’s brooding of the past days. After supper, they strolled across the town, parting so that the ladies could retreat to dress for an evening of dancing.

The dress was a rich rose color with sheer cap sleeves and a tulle fringe at the end of the skirt that was fluffy, but held the same polka-dot print as the soft fabric that crossed her chest. The torso was decorated with embroidered streams of roses and scrolled stem design on that same sheer layered tulle fabric that provided a solid effect, rather than the see through on the sleeves. Cora stepped out of Molly’s room feeling like she was going to throw up from the frivolous and much more fancy feel of anything she had ever worn before. She felt antsy as she planted her eyes on the floor, nervous that this dress would be too much for her.

She was met with soft gasps and coos and the feel of Susannah and Molly’s hands on her wrists. Cora looked up, knowing that her cheeks were probably the same color that currently resided in the garment.

“Oh baby girl,” Molly sighed, eyes tracing across the lines of the dress. “It’s like this one was made just for you.”

Susannah was biting her lip to contain her smile a bit. “May I do your hair? I have something I want to try.”

“I wish I could cut it,” Cora admitted as she let herself be guided to a chair. “I love the way Molly’s hair curls on her neck.”

“Although that would be something on you,” Molly started, her hand instantly against the finger waves on her neck, “There’s something to be said about… Holy crow - how long is that hair, doll!”

Cora blushed as the ends of her hair brushed against her bottom in soft waves. Susannah disappeared only to return with an armful of stuff that made Cora feel a bit nervous. “Josephine Baker uses this herself. I saw her down in Chicago one time. Lord, that mama is beautiful.”

Tugging, pulling, stretching, smoothing, it seemed like it was an hour that Susannah took twisting and manipulating Cora’s locks into place. When finished, she had a shine and waves against her scalp on the top, while her thick braids were coiled back and forth and around each other in an intricate, flat bun with about a thousand pins holding it in place. She looked in the mirror and had to put it down for a moment. When she looked back, she felt her mouth stretch in a broad grin.

“I look like one of those ladies in the picture show,” she said, in awe over Susannah’s work.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get outta here, kittens,” Susannah remarked, but Cora could see the twinge of satisfaction flash in the woman’s eyes. “The boys will be waiting.”

Molly offered her a soft, cream colored wrap that was strewn with roses to pull over her shoulders as they made for the door. They took their time, arm in arm, laughing about the evening and scaring Cora over what to expect. By the time they reached the street corner that would lead them to the dancehall, the three were giggling over who was going to have to survive mashed toes as Cora learned to dance.

Danny was outside waiting, his face full of light as he greeted the three fast friends. Cora was unsure of what to expect when she walked inside, holding tight to Susannah’s hand, but it certainly was not anything she was prepared for. The hall was long and thin with tables running the length of both walls. There was a small stage at the far end where a band was set up, its horns were just blaring while a man on the piano was nearly dancing across the bench he was sitting upon as he played. Beside the stage was a soda fountain that spanned the corner with stools for patrons to sit and wait for the soda jerks to bounce to their demands. The floor was all wide planks of rich dark woods and the walls were richly painted ochres, swirled with dark navy.

“Come on, baby girl,” Susannah crowed, taking her by the hand and leading her out while Molly took their purses to a table manned by Samuel.

Cora tried not to gasp as the woman grabbed hold of her hand and placed her own hand on the middle of her back. She listened to the instruction, eyes turned down so as to watch their feet as they moved. There was no notion of self-consciousness as Susannah guided her across the floor, around others who were enjoying themselves.

“It’s basically just walking together,” she explained. “And you can tell where I am leading you by the way I move my hand on your back, even though you are going backwards the entire time, I may turn you, shift you or even spin.”

Cora turned her eyes up to look directly into Susannah’s light blue eyes. She smiled as she pulled Cora in closer, and they started to move in an earnest foxtrot. They were giggling within a few minutes when Cora realized she had not, indeed, murdered her friend’s feet.

Molly appeared with an elegant tap on Susannah’s shoulder. “Time for a waltz,” she declared.

Cora gritted her teeth. “Molly, I’m not-”

“Come on, dolly. You’re foxtrot is all berries; time for something that will really make you the cat’s meow,” she cackled as she brought her hands up and around Cora’s shoulder and into her hand. “And it’s not like I’m trying to teach you any of those snappy jazz numbers. I like my feet just fine.

“This is just an easy 1-2-3, repeat but backwards,” her friend said, nodding for her to look down at their feet. “You shuffle, don’t lift your feet, and stay in line with my own toes.”

“How am I supposed…”

Molly continued to count the 1-2-3, but Cora felt the numbers in the music, matching it quite quickly. Her friend breathed a laugh as they began to move in earnest. It was more restrained, and required a little more grace than the foxtrot. The tone of the music was similar but felt tighter. She only misstepped a few times, each time yanking her foot back before she munched the woman’s toes.

“Just like the foxtrot, I can lead you by the way my hand presses against your back. I can make it more complex if I…”

She turned quickly, adding in a swirl that made both of their skirts flare out in a pretty way. Cora blushed as her friend wiggled her eyebrows at her and yanked her closer until she was flush against her. They turned and shuffled and turned and shuffled. The hall was getting busier. They laughed as Cora continued to struggle, but was slowly getting the dance.

Sam grew brave and they foxtrotted across the floor to a number that sent her heart just fluttering. His lanky frame was much more solid than she had imagined. He turned and shifted in a more complex manner than Susannah had, that left her imagining that the steadies would be beautiful as they moved together in harmony. Before she knew it, she was sitting at the table, sipping on tea watching the two couples move together through the crowd. Their faces were warmed with conversation and sweet secrets that they shared.

“Come on, baby,” a man said to her, holding his hand out. “Let me show you how to really dance.”

Looking into his sharp features Cora was hesitant to try her new skill with a stranger. “Thank you, but no.”

“Ah come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that,” he pressed. She watched as he leaned down and tried to take her hand into his. “If you can dance with them two you can dance with a man.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked past him. Her friends had no idea what was going on at their table. They would not be able to assist her, not that Cora had any inclination on how to keep this man from forcing her out there. Instead, she took a deep breath in.

“Sir, I said no, thank you. I am happy to wait for my friends,” she said without looking at him again.

His hand locked around her wrist and started to tug. “And I said, if you’re good enough to dance with whores, you’re good enough to dance with me.”

He yanked on her arm, getting her to stand up. Cora yelped out, but yanked back trying to not allow him to pull her out any further.

“Pardon me,” Jacob’s smooth voice broke in, instantly capturing her attention, as well as the man’s. “I’d appreciate you taking your mitt off the lady.”

“Mr. Kiszka,” the man said with a nod. “Just lookin’ to dance this little one.”

“I believe the lady said no,” Jacob remarked, moving himself between Cora and the offending man. “She said she was waiting for her friends - that includes me. So, I’ll assume there will be no more confusion.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said as he was terribly antsy to get away.

Cora righted herself, smoothing her dress down as Jacob stood in front of her. He was wearing black pressed pants with a black suit coat, dark gray, paisley embossed vest and a stark white dress shirt with a black tie. His hair was styled back, allowing that subtle wave to shine in the lowlights of the dancehall. He turned to look at her, his eyes full of concern.

He appeared like he was about to speak, but his mouth did not produce words. His eyes wandered across her much in the same fashion that her own were taking him in. Jacob was handsome, but at that moment, he did not seem like he was part of the world. His hand reached out, looping his index finger with hers.

He tugged and began to walk backwards towards the open floor. Cora could not look away as he brought his hand up, folding it around hers in a firm hold. His other hand slid across her shoulder, landing in between her shoulder blades.

“I apologize ahead of time,” she whispered. “I’ve only just learned this.”

She slid her hand up his arm letting it come to rest on his bicep. He pulled her in until her frame kissed his own. She released a soft breath as he paused, looking directly into her eyes. Everything fell away. It was just Jacob and Cora and the music. She did not realize that they were moving across the floor. Her whole focus was on his eyes as they looked upon her steadily and his mouth as she hoped for a few words to soothe her mind. Instead, he brought his face closer, to the point where she could feel him breathing against the side of her cheek. She breathed him in, all tobacco and mahogany.

Cora felt as he slid his hand lower to fall just below her shoulder blades as if to bring her in even closer. “I almost thought that you were not real,” he whispered.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered back.

“I couldn’t see the pretty that you bring to me in my days,” he said, eyes on her mouth. “But then, it’s just this…”

He pulled her hand with his so as to drag a fingertip down her jaw line before returning it to form. His other hand ghosted down the shallow curve of her side, before once again it was also returned to form. Cora felt her breath escape her in a slow, torturous wave not to be returned to form until his eyes met hers once more.

“This is the beauty that you keep hidden,” he finished.

Her lips parted as she absorbed what was being said to her. “No one has spoken to me like that.”

His gaze fell to her mouth as his brows pinched with thought. She heard him inhale softly, cuing her own breath as he squeezed her against his body even closer.

“I've never been anyone's first... I'd like to be yours,” he finally said, lips nearly to her ear, the heat of him dancing on the delicate skin.

Cora felt her mind freeze at the man’s connotations and how the simple words made her heart burn within her chest. The rest of the night, she was held, turned, and danced by Jacob. His eyes were hypnotic while his hand on her back burned a hole in her dress. They spoke little and always in the polite end of the pool: how her family was, how Matthew would like to see the Earl again, and about his family that was still down south in the state and how he missed them. He asked about Junie and was dismayed that she had yet to see her sister since the wedding.

They left the dancehall after the crowd thinned considerably. The laughter they shared rang out in the night as they walked towards the garage. Jacob walked close to her, his finger lopped with her own like a tether. He held her back as the couples moved towards the Kissel.

“This is where I have to leave you,” he said with a nod. “Did you have fun tonight?”

She nodded as his face warmed in the moonlight. “Are you not coming with us?”

“I will be staying with Joshua,” Jacob said, looking back at the others.

“I did not realize he was-”

He grinned as he took her hand and leaned in to speak only to her against her ear. “I want you to stay with me tomorrow after church services. We planned on stopping in on the Archers,” he said, allowing her to process what he was saying.

Cora felt her stomach tighten. To be given the gift of seeing Junie made her catch her breath as he pressed his cheek to her own. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The narrow bed that she claimed in Susannah’s was hard but welcoming. Thoughts of the evening swirled through her brain, keeping her awake but draining her all the same time. The heat of Jacob against her body sent shivers through her mouth. She could still smell his skin, feel his touch against her body and it made her think of what more could be like with the man. How his lips brushed against her ear as he whispered to her made her blush. She tried to imagine what his kiss would feel like, taste like. It was the last of the night’s images she conjured as she drifted off into the darkness of her sleep.

In the morning, Cora was dressed in her church dress and making coffee when Samuel tapped on the door before walking in. His youthful face was lit with sunshine and his smile was contagious as he offered his arm and a walking partner to church services. Jacob and Joshua were already in the main hall while Daniel was waiting outside for them. Rosemary and the boys were sitting in their typical row. Cora waved at Georgie who beamed at her as Jacob moved towards her. His warmth invaded her skin despite the distance between them. She smiled in her greeting and was rewarded by him looping his index finger with hers with a little squeeze before following Josh and the others to his waiting seats.

Services were long. Pastor Butterman was spending an inordinate amount of time about the importance of community support of their young people - the support of young marriages. Blowing out her cheeks, she settled into another sermon that she largely ignored. After services, Jacob was the first to catch them before leaving.

“I will ensure that she returns home safe, Mrs. Janas,” Jacob was saying to her mother who was eyeing her skeptically. “My brothers and I will be making our Sunday rounds, the Archer household included.”

Cora was watching him as he spoke, his eyes nowhere but on her mother the entire time, his face a vision of calm. “I would be able to see Junie, Mama,” she said, drawing her attention away for a moment.

“You will have her home before dark, Mr. Kiszka,” Rosemary said with a firm tone.

“Yes, of course, ma’am,” Jacob said as he held his elbow out for Cora to take.

She smiled and waved at her brothers. Georgie broke away from Matthew and rushed at her. She heard Jacob let out a quiet laugh as she picked up the smallest of them and hugged her fiercely.

“Sister,” the little one sighed into her neck. “Come home.”

“Going to go see Junebug,” she said with a smile.

The boy’s big eyes filled with the heat of his smile. “I want to see her, too.”

“Soon, baby,” Cora soothed, rubbing on his back. “Go home with Mama and I’ll see you tonight.”

She set Georgie down and watched as the boy took off across the expanse to reach the Kilbourne wagon. Mr. Kilbourne looked at her holding onto Jacob with an ill eye.

“He really doesn’t…” he started, realizing that the man was not going to move from the bench of his cart to help her mother into the back.

Cora watched as he hurried forward before Rosemary could crawl into the wagon. Instead, he called out to Matthew to wait. She inhaled sharply as Jacob assisted her mother, followed by each of the siblings into the wagon to leave. He paused at the side, trading a word with the farmer that was obviously not kind. Cora swallowed as Kilbourne seemed to pale a bit before stoically snapping to reins.

The church was on the north east corner of town. They walked arm in arm, down the main thoroughfare towards the more affluent southwestern corner that the businessmen of the community had claimed. They passed the street that would lead them to the bungalows. Cora looked down the row of tidy homes. Jacob smiled at her.

“You like those little places, don’t you?” he asked simply, patting her hand on his elbow.

She nodded, but they moved on quickly. The first house they visited was their own. Mr. Kiszka walked inside the wide foyer without a glance behind. Cora felt very small standing on the stoop with Jacob before he led them inside the light maple clad space. Her entire cottage would fit within the entry and her face burned at the thought.

“This is…” she felt like even her voice was intrusive on the craftsmanship of the space. “This is lovely.”

“Just for show, Cora. It’s still eight squares shoved together, and boxes up on top,” Jacob said as he watched his twin return with a handful of papers. “Archer’s are first. Are you ready?”

She smiled and nodded as they moved out of the house and walked down the block. The homes grew a bit more modest but still very polished. They moved up the manicured walk of a tall white affair with black shutters and door that she had visited many times before only to be turned away. The breeze kicked up before they reached the front of the home, making the ruffles of her dress swish against her. The door opened wide, admitting all of them. Cora caught the lady’s eye who had turned her away many times before and she tightened her hold on Jacob’s elbow. He made no acknowledgment of the change, but he remained close to her as they moved through to the room just off the wood and plaster clad foyer with a simple staircase that rose up in a sway to the second story.

“Miss,” the housekeeper said politely as the gentlemen seemed to be in residence in the main parlor. “Please, come with me.”

Jacob smiled at her with a whispered ‘see you soon’. Nervously, she followed down the wood paneled hall towards the back of the house. She could hear a few feminine voices speaking softly, but not her Junie. The housekeeper’s dour face turned on her before pointing her open hand towards another parlor. There were three well dressed ladies she had recognized from church, but could not recall their names. Junie sat nearly in the corner, her face forlorn.

“Junie?” Cora called softly, moving towards her in quick steps.

The girl’s once bright eyes rolled up onto her in surprise. Her face seemed to have aged considerably in the weeks after the wedding. Her smile was not as wide and her gaze was guarded as she gained her footing.

“Is it really you?” Junie asked as Cora dragged her close in a tight hug. “Sister?”

She felt an uncomfortable shift as the ladies stopped talking. Cora looked into her sister’s tired face, trying to figure out what had happened to her that would make her seem so tattered.

“Ladies, I do not wish to be rude, but you will excuse us,” Junie remarked, taking Cora by the hand and leading her out of the room and down the rear hall to the garden.

Cora wrapped her arm around her sister as they stood side by side with their backs to the house.

“I am so glad you are here,” Junie whispered.

“I have missed you terribly,” Cora said, unable to keep her smile growing huge. “The boys ask about you everyday.”

They slowly returned to the point before the wedding, talking back and forth, finding the smiles and the lightness that both missed. Cora was telling her about Georgie’s plan of bringing her back to the cottage. She felt herself choking on the laugh as Junie impersonated the boy’s big eyes and hands on her face.

“I never thought that I would miss that boy like I do,” Junie remarked, moving closer to the row of hedges. “And what about Mr. Jacob?”

Cora grinned. “He’s the reason I am here today. We danced the whole night last night and then he told Mama he wanted me to go visiting with him today.”

“Next he’ll be asking her to date you, I’m sure,” she said, eyes straying to the windows behind Cora.

She saw how her sister’s shoulders slumped a bit. Looking behind, she saw Mr. Archer and Jacob standing at the open glass doors. Junie took her hand into her own and pulled her close.

“I love you, Sister,” she whispered, holding on tightly as the door opened.

“I love you, Junebug,” Cora whispered back, noting that the girl’s body was literally trembling. “I promise, I will come see you during the week as long as the housekeeper will allow me inside.”

Mr. Archer’s smile was condescending. “I apologize, Miss Cora, if there has been confusion. I was not aware that you had tried to visit.”

“It’s only been a few times, sir,” she said, noting that his eyes would not meet her gaze, just like he would not truly look at Junie either.

“It will not happen again, be assured,” he remarked with a nod.

“Cora, are you ready?” Jacob asked, offering his elbow.

He held her hand in place as they moved back through the house to the front door. The brothers had already moved on. Jacob turned back towards the shop.

“I have been given a reprieve from visiting with Joshua,” he said with a grin. “Would you like to go for a drive with me?”

“I would like that very much,” she answered. “Thank you for helping me to see Junie.”

“My pleasure,” he said as they walked back towards the garage. “Is she well?”

“Junie was always sickly from little on,” Cora said, her eyes straying behind them back to the Archer home. “I never thought I would see her actually look in such a terribly frail fashion.”

“Perhaps it is just the newness of her marriage,” Jacob offered kindly.

“Perhaps.”

He walked her towards the Kissel, not the Earl. She paused and he smiled shyly.

“Samuel is working on the Earl and I’m not allowed to touch her at the moment,” he said as he opened the door for her.

It felt strange sitting in the front, but as he slid behind the wheel, it was hypnotic to watch as he shifted the vehicle and moved it along. They headed east out of town. His face was relaxed as he drove. Cora turned her face towards the wind as it kissed at her cheeks and colored her lips. He reached across the seat, looping his pinky in with hers. She glanced down at the touch, something that he had repeated through her memory. Such a simple touch. A simple conveyance. She closed her eyes to better feel the grounding effect that it had on her.

They drove through winding fields and dense woods that she was sure they would certainly be lost in. He plowed forward, his eyes ever steady on the road. They continued on for nearly an hour. Cora felt drowsy. Looking at him, she found that Jacob was looking back at her.

Another fifteen minutes, they arrived in the city of Norway. Cora had only heard of the town, having never been further than Kingsford. They stopped at a little cafe that had coffee and sandwiches. He pulled the chair out for her as she sat. Jacob took off his hat and set to the side as they waited.

“Tell me about what happened to your father,” he said as they sipped their drinks.

She smiled sadly. “Papa liked to think of himself as a gentleman farmer. His family settled in New York. Up by Albany. He was an educated man. He even taught college for a spell.”

Jacob set his cup down with a nod. “What made him leave New York?”

“Not sure,” she answered, her eyes watching the plates as the waitress lowered them to the table. Jacob said a quiet thank you before turning his attention back to her. “He liked open spaces more than the classroom and city, I guess. He worked a farm in Pennsylvania before meeting Mother. They had me before getting the place in Breitung Township - now it’s Kingsford.”

“Your family has a farm here?”

She took a small bite of the tomato and cucumber sandwich. Her heart sank as she negotiated through the rest of the story. She explained that half of Mr. Kilbourne’s current farm, including the pretty white house they lived near, was actually the Janas farm. They were doing very well with hay and potatoes. When her father returned from the war in 1919, he was different. His mind was different. Physically he was different. The family began to struggle and he wound up borrowing from Mr. Kilbourne as the bank would not secure him a loan. After the Ford plant was built, the bank had gotten picky about loans to farmers. There were a few bad harvests that really made things a bigger struggle for the family as a whole.

“My father never really returned,” she said quietly. “He tried. Mama said he died of being broken over there. He had injuries in his lungs from something that working in the earth made worse.”

Jacob reached across the table and touched her hand, running his fingertips over the back before squeezing it as a whole.

“Mr. Kilbourne took the house as partial payment of the debt my father incurred, as well as all the land,” Cora continued, staring at a spot on the table. “Mother made arrangements for the two of us to work as laborers to finish off the debt. We moved into the cottage and have been there ever since.”

A soft curse escaped his mouth. “How long until the debt is paid?”

“Well, if I had not gotten that posting in your family’s shop, it would have been about two more years. But,” she said, straightening up and feeling proud, “I’ll have it cleared before the end of autumn, certainly before mid-winter. And I’m hoping that we can move into town after that.”

“One of those little bungalows, huh?” he asked with a smile.

She nodded. “I’d just be happy with a house that didn’t want to kill us every time the weather turned.”

He grinned at her from across the table. They finished their simple meals. Cora liked how close he walked as they moved back towards the car. When he opened the door, he paused, catching her hand fully with his own. Cora’s mouth twitched in a smile as his expression changed. His eyes traced across hers. He leaned close, the tip of his nose grazing her cheek.

“I’d very much like to kiss your mouth, Cora,” he whispered.

Her lips parted as her breath escaped her. His gaze softened as his finger traced down her jaw. She barely nodded, her nerves stabbing in her torso like lightning. He skimmed his lips across hers before cupping her cheek and pressing their mouths together. Panic gripped her as she breathed him in. Never. Never had a man kissed her mouth. Never had a man drawn her bottom lip in between his own lips. Her heart was thundering as he opened his eyes while still so close to her as if looking through her soul. She shivered as he withdrew, only to watch as he leaned in once more. He pressed against her again, his hand dragging down and back on her neck pulling her impossibly closer. The heat of his body flooded her. Her mind raced. Her hands moved across his arms and finally landed on his chest, her fingers finding purchase on the lapels of his coat. A little hum escaped him as he pulled her bottom lip deeper into his mouth. She felt the tip of his tongue swipe over it. Her body wanted more. Her brain was melting against the stimulation. He broke their contact only to press once more, this time, repeating with her upper lip, slotting their mouths together sweetly.

Cora felt her stomach flutter as he withdrew. His eyes looked smoky as a grin tugged the corner of his mouth. He held her hand as he aided her into the car. Her mind felt like it was drenched in fog. The emotions toiled within, knowing that there was more she wanted but had no idea how to voice those words to him. She liked it. She liked the way he kissed her. She liked the slow, soft heat of his mouth. Cora felt her cheeks warm with the thought of it, but did not hide that she was indeed pleased.

The ride back towards Kingsford did not follow the same path as the one they had taken. Instead, it was through mostly woods and rolling hills. Cora was taken by the green and lush beauty. They reached a spot that was at a crest that Jacob pulled off, but made no move to exit the automobile. He drew in a heavy breath as his eyes focused on the horizon.

“It’s really something during the autumn,” he said quietly. “I come up here to think. Or when I need the escape.”

“It’s beautiful,” Cora said, pushing the door open and sliding from the seat before he could make a move.

The crunch of stones under her shoes made her smile. The wind was strong, but it carried the deep woods smell on it in the most delicious manner. She liked the feel of it against her body, blowing her skirt back out behind her. She pictured herself looking much like a full sail on the ships out on Lake Superior. Her hands left her sides as if she could give herself over to the wind. A hard gust struck her, knocking her back into Jacob. His hands caught around her waist pulling her frame tight against his own. A laugh escaped her as he anchored her to the ground.

“I’m afraid if I let you go. You’ll fly away,” he said, making her laugh all the more. “You’re like one of those finches down there. All beautiful and full of light.”

She grinned at his strength and how he held her - not constraining but supporting. Her eyes traveled down the ravine and found the yellow finches that seemed to be dancing on the wind, singing their own song of wonder. Trusting that he would not move, she leaned back against him and was rewarded with his arms looping fully around her middle.

“I better get you home,” he whispered against her ear. “I don’t want your mama angry with me.”

He took her hand, leading her back to the car. “Why worry about her?” “If I want to ask her to court you, I don’t want to give her any reason for her to say no,” he answered with an honest smile.

“Court me? How very old fashioned of you, Jacob. Can’t we just go out on dates?” she teased as she climbed back into the Kissel.

“I need to do this right, Finch,” he said quietly, touching her cheek before closing the door.

Her heart stuttered at his touch. The notion that he was already formulating a softly traditional path made her blush with romantic notions that she and Junie would fawn over months earlier. Jacob lit a smoke before sliding behind the wheel. He smiled with a ‘let’s get you home’. Once through the gears, he looped his fingers through hers, tugging her closer on the seat. The thoughts from weeks before returned: if given the choice of path to take, she would pick Jacob. She looked over at him just as he glanced at her. The way her cheeks heated, she knew her thoughts were her truth. She would pick him without doubt, without hesitance.

Pardon my sappy smile. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. We’re starting to get into the meat of the story. Next time, we’ll be reunited with Molly and Susannah. Last week I was able to pull off two chapters - what do you think - should I try to keep that up? Let me know in the comments! Thanks

I do have a tag list, it’s right here or you can just let me know you’d like to be added to the list!

@lvnterninthenight @doodle417 @luverleaver @jakesgrapejuice @fictional-duchess @whitesuitjake @milkgemini @positivegvfthings @songbirds-sweet @streamingcolors-gvf @gretavanbitches @samsurfgreenbass @gardensgatedaisy @babyhoneygvfarchive @myownparadise96 @josh-iamyour-mama @starcatchercarol @loveisonaroll @jakesstarlight @myownparadise96 @reesetrippingthelight @kyrose11 @builtby-gvf @ignite-my-fire @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @wetkleenex-gvf @gold-mines-melting @starsasone @puzzle-gvf @mysticalstarcatcher @montenegroisr @takenbythemadness @brookes-so-done @way-to-go-lad @cal-a-bungaa @lightmylove-gvf @thewritingbeforesunrise @leftjudgeempathsuitcase @brokenbells11 @imborrowedshesblue @vanfleeter @sammysvanfeet @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @jaketlove @redsierra1960

#greta van fleet #gvf #jake gvf #jake kiszka #josh kiszka #josh gvf #sammy gvf #sam gvf #daniel gvf #danny gvf #greta van fleet fanfic #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet fanfic au #greta van fleet au fic #greta van fleet x ocs

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bubblesandgutz · 29 days

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Every Record I Own - Day 813: Nomeansno Mama

I'm only home from tour for a few days before heading back out on the road, but I figured I'd try to squeeze one of these out before life gets hectic again. I just finished reading Nomeansno: From Obscurity to Oblivion, so I've been on a bit of a Nomeansno bender these last few days. So it feels like a good time to dive into discussing one of my favorite bands of all time.

Nomeansno originated in Victoria, British Columbia in 1979 as a two piece comprised of brothers Rob Wright (bass, vocals) and John Wright (drums, keyboards). After recording a couple of 7"s and gigging around Victoria and Vancouver, the brothers gathered up their resources and self-released 500 copies of their debut album Mama.

It's difficult to imagine what audiences thought of Nomeansno in those initial three years. The brothers had played music from an early age, giving them a musical adroitness more on par with prog bands than punks. But it was the tail end of the '70s and they'd been exposed to The Ramones, Devo, The Residents, and, perhaps most importantly, Vancouver's hardcore legends DOA. The power and DIY spirit of those artists spoke more to the brothers than the excess and panache of arena rock. But there's little on Mama that's reminiscent of punk and/or hardcore, even if the band would later come to be affiliated with those scenes. Maybe there's a little of Gang of Four's dance-punk leanings or Minutemen's jerking and skronking rhythm section and there's certainly some of Devo's spirit in their angularities and art-rock leanings. But if you're looking for distortion, three-chord anthems, and unmitigated rage, Mama is not for you.

According to the liner notes, the pressing plant who manufactured Mama went out of business and lost track of the masters, meaning that it wasn't possible to reprint more copies after those 500 initial copies sold out. Perhaps it was for the best---by the time the band returned with their next record, 1985's You Kill Me EP, they were a markedly different beast. The master tapes for Mama would be rediscovered nearly 30 years later, yielding this repress. Far from being some sort of classic in the band's canon, Mama became more of an interesting insight into how this pair of brothers from a small and sleepy town in Western Canada managed to morph into a pummeling, heady, sardonic, bass-driven force of nature that were one of the primary movers and shakers in the pre-Nevermind groundswell of the international underground.

This is where Nomeansno began, but it might not be the best entry point for the uninitiated.

#everyrecordiown #nomeansno

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hccn-overseer · 11 months

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Issue 8, 6/7/2023 - The Overseer

Issue Masterpost About the Overseer

This week’s news is once again accompanied by a PDF version of your latest news brought to us once again by the lovely Cheer! Pick it up right here for your viewing pleasure!

As the newspaper settles into a rhythm, you may find yourself thinking, "What comes next? You've conquered the Hermitcitizen Hub, you've nearly conquered Tumblr–so what will the newspaper do now?" Now, it's unlikely you're thinking this, but the newspaper staff has been thinking this, and rather than doing something drastic and stupid, we've decided to expand. Yes, expand. Where to, you might wonder? None other than the archenemy, the place of limited characters, the worst place on the internet.

Yes, we're talking about Twitter.

“WHY,” you may be wondering. “Why on earth would this place, of all places, be the spot to expand to?” If we're going to be fully honest, it's because someone proposed it and we couldn't come up with a good reason not to. If you ignore the immense numbers of CC's hiding in the corners, it's perfectly safe for a little fan–made newspaper like us.

While Tumblr has been lovely, and yes, we are still staying–it's our home base, have no fear–Twitter will give opportunities such as…well, not really any new opportunities, other than a possibility that more people will see it! Hopefully this is true, and we will keep you up to date with the process–as is the job of a newspaper. Maybe a handful of new staff members will need to be hired to help oversee the new section of the newspaper, but of course, expect no pay. Nobody gets paid at the newspaper, even if you have to deal with Twitter.

As for how we're planning to carry this out, with the limited character count, because no, not even half the newspaper–hell, not even half this article–would fit into a singular Twitter post, the answer is that it's very likely that mini announcements will be posted there, especially throughout the week, mayhaps, as well as the PDF versions, for easier viewing!

Thus, The Overseer would like to announce that it will be expanding towards Twitter in the near future, as that will surely bring nothing but joy.

Here's hoping we might survive, because we really can't afford to hire even more staff, we don't even pay them in the first place, but there are a limited number of citizens out there willing to be unpaid interns. See you at the worst place on earth, citizens!

Written by Roo

Now onto other news below the cut!

Affiliate Summaries

by Roo

FalseSymmetry: They’re making puns. This is greatly worrying, and honestly, I don’t know what was ever expected.

GoodtimeswithScar: He has a gun, and Pearl has adopted Scar. Apparently.

Grian: He is gobsmacked! He is appalled.

JoeHills: (Wearily) Joe Hills.

MumboJumbo: Just look for yourself. Honestly, maybe don’t do that? I think the Mumbo affiliates need therapy. YouTube thumbnails have ruined their lives.

PearlescentMoon: They’re hosting a marriage?

ZombieCleo: Cleo and Gem on the same team in Pride MCC? Yes indeed, you heard it here first folks, totally, this information hasn’t been given anywhere else, but that’s what a newspaper’s for.

AS ALWAYS!!! If your affiliate group isn’t here. You simply weren’ t talking. Apologies for the short update this week!

Astrology Corner

Flowerscopes by Winter

Have you been feeling without guidance? Do you look at your birthday and look up your star sign and wonder, “Do I need to invest in your flower club?” “Will I need to plan out my life looking at the floral arrangements in my future?” Don’t worry, here at The Overseer, we can help you.*

Hydrangeas: The reader is suggested to arrange an Apple Blossom with Belladonna and Bittersweet, and adorn their room with Hibiscus.

Lillies: Go for a walk and while you are on the walk you may need to look after some Aloe. While you may feel alone, you will never be Anemone.

Orchids: Look to the sky and dream of Yarrow. If you need a bit of help Ivy may be useful.

Carnation: If you feel lost plant Clover. Do not look back on life with Marigold.

Gerberas: Plant Lily-Of-The-Valley, it will help. Look at Lilac and savor it.

Peonies: Trust in life Hyssop will end in Honeysuckle. You will achieve Holly.

Tulips: Look forward you can and will have a Larkspur. Look at the Newspaper staff with Lemon Balm.

Daisy: Go volunteer you will achieve Goldenrod. You may find some Ferns.

White Chrystanum: To cleanse your home smoke Dill and perform a ceremony to keep yourself safe.

Baby’s Breath: You will find underneath your pillow Clematis and Corriander.

Rose: You will experience a Lotus Flower.

Iris: You will understand a Spearmint and a Snapdragon.

All star signs: Don’t worry. Current Sign off.

*Ignore how blatantly specific these are. Nothing will happen to you. Hydrangeas = Aries Lillies = Taurus Orchids = Gemini Carnation = Cancer Gerberas = Leo Peonies = Virgo Tulips = Libra Daisy = Scorpio White Chrysanthemum = Sagittarius Baby’s Breath = Capricorn Rose = Aquarius Iris = Pisces

Op-Ed: Avians and The Watchers

By Lydia

A great number of Avians have taken refuge in The Birdhouse as they have either recently escaped from or recently rescinded their status as Watchers. This development has taken place over the past several weeks since the construction of The Birdhouse itself. During this time, the lavish structure has seen a large group of displaced individuals staying inside for multiple nights at a time, as they slowly transform the area into their sanctuary from the dreaded (seemingly) omnipotent beings. While The Birdhouse was never officially announced during its initial construction days as a haven from The Watchers, the treehouse has found itself to be one of the most crucial structures on the entire server, being the championed landmark of over thirty citizens.

A recurring discussion among this eclectic cast is their ability to accommodate the psychological repercussions that The Watchers have given them, both to the group as a collective and to the individuals themselves. While many of them struggle with the aftermath of having been manipulated and deceived by The Watchers as mere Players, or are recent escapees of the omniscient ensemble, their troubles were far from over upon their arrival. Malevolent Watchers are known to be notoriously sadistic towards those that dare defy them, acting in retaliation through possessing Avians who have been claimed by The Watchers as their puppets, and through physical attacks, kidnappings, and the erasure of memories of said puppets. This is only the surface of their nature and does not cover the entirety of torture methods used by The Watchers.

The consequences of both the past and the present harrowing events cannot be understated. The preponderance of Avians who have dealt with The Watchers harbors several growing internal conflicts. These conflicts cover a variety of personalized disquietude, such as guilt over having been a part of The Watchers themselves, the struggle to control Watcher-given powers, increasing anxiety over the possibility of the Watchers returning to attack The Birdhouse and its inhabitants, distrust between those who are former Watchers and those who are not, the need to ensure that their companions are protected at all times, survivor’s guilt, the knowledge that their loved ones are still in The Watcher’s captivity, and the growing lapse of memories in the minds of those who are Watcher’s Puppets, among other mental dilemmas.

Despite the ongoing crisis regarding malevolent Watchers, the Avians have made great efforts to fight back against them, both through self-defense and the use of another outstanding ensemble that is perhaps on par with The Watchers in terms of their overarching presence: The Listeners. An invisible barrier, serving as a mystical security system for The Birdhouse, was invoked by the de-facto Birdhouse guardian, Ayre, an assistant archivist, and coordinator at The Perimeter. Ayre has also been named as the de-facto “parent” of The Birdhouse for extrapolating their wisdom and caring instincts towards the other members.

Ayre, having previously encountered The Watchers when they were kidnapped and placed into a Third-Life-structured Server, was rescued by The Listeners after refusing to give The Watchers a violent and callous show of competition as a Player. Due to Ayre's affiliation with The Listeners, an imperfect but necessary group for the Avians’ protection, they had gained the ability to use a Listener Incantation to cast a permeable unseen shield over The Birdhouse. This barrier allows only those who have absolutely no harmful intentions toward The Birdhouse members to stay inside the treehouse for longer than a few minutes. The incantation applies specifically to those who are Watchers, cast in hopes of both providing both a practical use and a psychological one to put those who are suspicious of Watcher Avians at ease.

Ayre does not carry the task of helping their fellow Avians alone, thankfully. With everything from personal crafts, baked goods, home-made meals, preening sessions, the arrangement of many blanket forts, and personal décor, The Birdhouse has the mark of not only the citizens who seek a moment to rest, but the mark of those who have overcome incredible horrors. Those who have come to The Birdhouse now show not merely desperation, but the determination to make it an introductory testament to their survival. They engage in all manners of jovial discussions, camaraderie, and creative pursuits, with the addition of meals, music, and medical treatment sessions. A sense of normalcy, whatever that may be, can be elusive during times of both tangible and intangible terror. Despite this, the work that the Avians have put into making their presence in the overall Hermit Citizen community prevalent does not go unnoticed by our reporters at The Overseer. Though these citizens are under the gaze of The Watchers, they are also in the vicinity of those who would seek to bolster them from the sidelines, no matter how far away they may be. While our impact is significantly limited, we firmly believe that they have everything it takes to overcome the trials of the malevolent Watchers, and the expectedly nonlinear recovery processes throughout their time as Hermit Citizens.

Weekly Weather Report

By Nes

Thursday - Thunderstorms are expected to hit the server early Thursday morning and continue into the evening. Citizens can expect a high of 7 degrees Celisuis (45F) and are advised to stay indoors if possible. Flooding is expected for those in valleys and close to the ocean.

Friday - Clear skies are expected Friday with highs of 18 Celsius (65F), chance of rain is low and conditions are optimal for outdoor activities such as building, hiking, or gathering resources.

Saturday - Clear skies with high winds is expected Saturday with winds reaching 20kph and a high of 21 Celsius (70F), chance of rain is moderate and citizens are advised to take caution when flying as windspeed could peak in some areas.

Sunday - Cloudy skies is expected with the wind from Saturday continuing at 20kph and a high of 11 Celsius (52F), rain is highly likely and citizens are once again advised to take caution when flying.

Monday - A thick fog with light drizzles is expected Monday morning before clearing up some time in the afternoon to clear skies and a high of 15 Celsius (59F), citizens are advised to take cation when traveling in the early hours and to enjoy the moderate temperatures of the afternoon.

Tuesday - Clear skies in the early hours with moderate rainfall around noon and a high of 26 Celsius (79F) is expected Tuesday. Citizens are advised to get any outside work done early in the day to avoid being soaked.

Wednesday - Rain is expected to continue until Wednesday morning before clearing up into cloudy skies with a high of 24 Celsius (75F), citizens are advised to enjoy the nice weather with a beach episode or picnic.

Days since last...

A few issues ago, we had a great list of days since the last accident on the Hermitcraft server. As the server is still an OSHA violation, we are happy to inform you that, once again, the list is here and the record currently held is still 0.

Ancient Ruins (BdoubleO’s base): 0 - We salute everyone who got killed by HotGuy while protecting the horses. You are the backbone of our society.

Total Chaos: 0 - The fletching table still has no functionality and witches on the sides of Total Chaos still are deadly.

The Perimeter: 0 - Going too close to the wither cage is your own fault.

Etho’s Alien Base: 0 - We know and love the speedy running, but falling from the platform on which the base is, is your own fault.

False’s Base: 0 - The elytra course and kinetic energy are claiming many victims.

Scarland: 0 - Do not touch the funny flying skulls.

Rift/Grumbot Laboratory: 0 - Jumping into the pen with many chickens will kill you.

Gem’s Village: 0 - Trying to recreate the barrel diorama doesn’t end well.

Hypno’s Base: 0 - Gravity will work if you jump down the pit.

Jevin’s Cathedral and Castle: 0 - We know that Jevin is looking for artifacts, but, important note, do not try to show the fabricated artifacts to actual historians. They will not appreciate it and they know how to use weapons.

Dwarven Keep: 0 - The lift is fun, it is great, and easy to fall off.

OMEGA Cave: 0 - The slimes in the pit are not hungry, you don’t have to feed them.

Pinball Machine: 0 - Blowing up the area under the base ended up with many casualties.

Keralis’ Base: 0 - Remember that there are many holes in the walls and floors.

Mumbo’s Vault: 0 - Somehow, many people got bitten by a particularly blood-thirsty horse.

Pearl’s Alien Landscape: 0 - The area with chest monsters is still down there and you can get out. Please get out of there.

Gigacorp: 0 - Don’t run around working tree farms. Crastle: 0 - Trying to hide artifacts from Cub/Cleo will never end up well for you.

StressMonster101: 0 - Do not talk to the people you don’t know in the new forest, and do not give them your names.

Decked Out: 0 - I could make a montage out of all of the Decked Out workers falling to the bottom of level three while trying to decorate the walls.

TFC’s Branch Mine: 0 - Look under your feet when walking around. Ravines are your enemy.

VintageBeef’s Map Island and Cottage: 0 - Group hiding in the outside toilet is heavily discouraged. TCG Arenas: 0 - Watch where your elbows go while cheering. Too many people have gotten an elbow in the face treatment lately.

Welsknight’s Village Area: 0 - Do not go outside the area that is lit up. Mobs exist.

xB’s Base: 0 - Do not go into the pens of animals in the Zoo.

Xisuma’s Base: 0 - Be careful when going through the rainbow corridor as colors may distract you and you will fall off. (Happy Pride everyone!)

Zedaph’s Place: 0 - That bed is not safe to sleep in.

Atlantis: 0 - This is an actual creeper, not the Scar’s costume. Run.

Shopping District: 0 - Twinkly Trash expansions contain redstone, and huge falls, and cars. Just be careful. Also, when the sign says “Do not cross the line,” listen to it.

Spawn Village: 0 - The pig slime is not bouncy. And using Cub’s tunnels is safe for Cub and him only.

This content was brought to you by Ilea.

Scar Unsafe Hermits

By Nes

Hermits’ bases are often judged based on whether or not they’re considered Scar safe, and rightfully so, because this man dies a lot. If anyone could die in one block of water, it would be him. But one thing we rarely consider is whether the Hermits themselves are Scar safe. Which Hermits get Scar killed the most? Which ones are currently out to get him? Does he just randomly implode near some of them? Well, dear reader, today we bring you a list of the top 5 unsafe Hermits for Scar to be around.

#5 - JoeHills

While Joe is not inherently a threat to Scar, he is immune to the good times as demonstrated during the 2023 Sexyman polls, where he beat the builder in scitty to scitty combat. We praise his valiant victory and also advise he keep his distance from Scar lest his power to resist the good times kills him.

#4 - Cub

Although they were partners via Convex for a while and seem to be on good terms, we here at The Overseer have no doubt Cub would kill Scar if given the chance. He has already replaced Jellie with a clone. What if Scar is next? Be Cautious.

#3 - Grian

Grian may have kept him alive throughout 3rd Life and a few other series, but at the end of the day, he is also the cause for a lot of Scar’s deaths. Just to name a few, killing him with a creeper in 3rd Life, killing him with a creeper in S8, almost killing him with dripstone several times, pushing him off cliffs, etc. Additionally, Scar is a hazard to Grian. Despite this, they can not be separated, it would destroy the fandom.

#2 - Doc

Docm77 is typically unsafe for Scar to be around solely due to the fact he can break the laws of reality. However, this week he is an extra risk to the builder thanks to The Incident where Scar and Grian blew up his machine. It is advised that Scar runs, and never stops, because Doc will find him eventually.

#1 - Scar

… Who else did you think #1 would be? You could put this man in a 1x1 room with no hard surfaces and unlimited food and water, and he’d still die. We’re convinced his life goal is to die as often as physically possible, and it scares us. Scar needs to be protected from himself.

And that’s our list of the top 5 Scar Unsafe Hermits! Thank you for reading, and if you’re interested in if you’d make the list take the quiz: Are you Scar Safe? (https://uquiz.com/08u8h4)

Lost and Found: Issue 8

By Lydia

All of the following items have been brought to The Overseer staff’s office for safekeeping until they are claimed. If you recognize one of these items as yours, please visit us to receive your items, or contact us at [email protected]. Thank you! *Not a real email address.

Item 1: A garden sculpture of three frogs. This sculpture appears to be a garden decoration that was found turned upside-down near one of Rendog’s race tracks. The sculpture has faded green, orange, and pink paint with several geometric patterns painted in many different colors on the backs of these frogs. It is said that they have a low harmony when placed in the sunlight. If this sculpture belongs to you, we hope that you still have room for it in your garden.

Item 2: Six pool floatation rings. These pool rings all differ in shape, some being created for toddlers and some being created for fully grown adults. They arrived in various bright colors with patterns of pineapples, flamingos, ghasts, allays, and dolphins on them. They were found near Pearl’s largest Alien tree covered in dirt and have since been thoroughly cleaned. If these are yours, enjoy your next trip to the ocean, or the lake!

Item 3: An iron robot with bright blue eyes. This iron robot measures approximately 4 and a half feet tall and was found wandering through the Shopping District, asking if anyone had seen its owner. When asked the name of its owner, it stated a series of letters and numbers unknown to us. SB-129. If this robot belongs to you, please take your time in picking it up, as it has been very helpful around the office during the past week. We are fully stocked on coffee, tea, and junk food, thanks to our new underling.

Item 4: A pile of music discs, all of which contain original instrumental music. These music discs do not have titles written on them, however, they do play a selection of genres, including electro-pop, bluegrass, southern gothic, bossa nova, jazz, and reggae. They do not have an artist’s name on them. They were found without any container or sleeves to hold them. Staff members note feeling unexpectedly impressed at the quality of the music. If these discs are yours, please continue your musical pursuits, and send us a copy of your first album!

Item 5: A large lava lamp. This lava lamp measures approximately five feet tall, with a black base and lava from the Nether inside of it. Upon being plugged in, it was revealed that several miniature depictions of Striders and Ghasts were placed inside. If this lava lamp is yours, we hope it can continue to serve any groovy purposes you have in store for it!