#Concourse clock

[mudwerks]

Concourse clock at Grand Central Station, New York, New York (LOC)

Carol M. Highsmith

[rabbitcruiser]

Grand Central Terminal was opened in New York City on February 2, 1913.  

[sanctusinferi]

O Come, All Ye Frightful

Art The Clown x Reader | WC: 5.3k+ | Explicit Content

Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Santa actually comes way more than once a year. Warnings: 18+ ONLY — Minors DNI. Idk this entire thing feels slightly sacrilegious. Art being criminally hot in the Santa suit while behaving like a Certified Freak. Slightly dubious consent. Handjob. Premature ejaculation. Multiple orgasms (his refractory period is non-existent). Cum as lube. Unprotected sex. Rough sex. Choking & breath play. Degradation if you squint really hard. A/N: In the words of my iconic king...ho, ho, UH OH🎄Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and so on and so forth. <3

The clock hands finally crawl their way past 7pm and you sigh tiredly, knowing you’ll soon be freed from this hellish holiday prison. Christmas music plays quietly from the speaker system and you mouth the words mockingly, tired of hearing the same dozen or so songs repeat over and over during each shift. Between rude, entitled customers and the unruly hordes of children screaming their heads off for a chance to beg a fake Old Saint Nick for crap they definitely don’t need, you’ve just about had your fill of the season.

Outside the store, the rest of the deserted shopping mall has been left in engulfing shrouds of pitch-blackness; the other closed-down and empty shops like a line of pocket-sized abysses. It’s Christmas Eve and everyone else has shut their doors early to spend time with loved ones. You should be home too, but your boss is a heartless prick.

You huff with annoyed boredom, bent over beside the register with your elbows planted atop the counter and your palms cradling your chin. It’s been dead for hours—not a single customer in sight—but you’ve been forbidden to leave until the mall officially closes for the night. A quick glance at the clock says that’ll be in about an hour or so. Just beyond the entryway, a flurry of movement near the floor catches your attention and you lean over the counter to see what it is. 

The dingy strands of an old mop sweep into view and your eyes trace along the wooden handle until they land upon Mike, clad in his loose-fitting uniform. His long legs bring him into view with stuttered steps as he cleans the tiled floors. He spares you a quick glance and a wave which you return, trying to hide your obvious disappointment in the presence of the headphones planted firmly over his ears. You’d kill for some conversation right now. 

Aside from the janitor’s brief visit and the flash of someone dressed all in red in the distance, you’re certain the building is otherwise totally vacant. With that in mind, you decide to pack it up just a little early. What your boss doesn’t know won’t kill him, you muse.

Your back is turned as you straighten merchandise and lock the door to the rear exit, rendering you completely unaware of the noiseless presence lurking and watching you from just around the corner. When you close out the register, your head is buried in the drawer and your attention is too focused on what you’re doing to notice the tall figure which glides sneakily past the shop.

You flip the switches near the door and step outside, reaching over your head to pull down the steel security gate. The heavy contraption slams shut with a resounding clang and you crouch with your key in hand to lock it in place. From your stooped position, you spot a small puddle and several oddly-shaped droplets splashed across the tile floor beneath you; the substance opaque and viscous. You hum contemplatively, knowing Mike had been by not long ago to mop and wondering where the mystery liquid could have come from. With a dismissive shrug, you stand back up and turn to head for your usual exit, the only door you know will still be unlocked at this hour.

A single row of recessed lights remain lit overhead, lending a somewhat spooky atmosphere to the abandoned concourse. You reach up to whip the red-and-green felted elf hat off of your head, the decorative gold bell jingling as you shove it into the pocket of your matching dress. A pair of tight, flesh-toned stockings hug your legs and you long to peel them off. While the uniform is fun and festive, this year you’re feeling decidedly not. In fact, you’d go as far as to deem yourself unjolly. Even as you absently hum along to the tune still filtering through the mall, you aren’t feeling your usual holiday joy.

Passing through the food court, you approach the center of the mall where the massive North Pole backdrop still stands, illuminated beneath the silvery halo of a light that never gets turned off. You laugh to yourself, wondering whether a selfie inside Santa’s sleigh in your silly costume might help to prompt some Christmas cheer. You'd deemed yourself too old to take a photo with the man himself during business hours, but you still deserve to have a little fun on your own time, you suppose.

With renewed energy, you traipse towards the yuletide scenery where you find the zig-zagging velvet ropes blocking your way, but easily slip beneath the blockade between two posts. Once you’ve entered the empty queue, you spy a comically large pair of black boots sticking up from inside the sleigh—propped casually on the curled front. Your heart stops at the exact moment the ambient music cuts off and the wide-open space falls eerily silent. It would appear you aren’t as alone as you thought.

A familiar red hat peeks over the back of the cushioned bench seat and you approach cautiously, admittedly hoping to find the rosy-cheeked man who usually occupies the sleigh. Maybe you’ll be permitted to take a photo with Santa after all, as childish as the notion may be. 

What you actually find is alarmingly opposite of what you expected. The face tucked beneath the fur-rimmed hat isn’t jolly or round, nor is it warm or welcoming. It’s harsh and angular, painted in a stark black-and-white motif; seemingly done up for the wrong holiday altogether. A long, lithe body clad in all the trappings of a traditional Santa suit reclines leisurely in the sleigh, crowding the confined space as if he belongs there. Blackened lips wrap around the blunt tip of a candy cane and upon hearing your startled gasp, a pair of pure white eyes—spectral and inhuman—lock onto your face. The darkened pupils shine like two specks of coal.

Art’s expression twists into one of genuine surprise, having not expected you to come across him quite so soon. Your eyebrows flick upwards and he mirrors the gesture, waiting with barely restrained excitement as the wave of confusion contorting your face is swiftly replaced with the tell-tale signs of apprehension he knows and loves. His stomach knots with gleeful anticipation.

“S-sorry,” you laugh, awkward and breathy. “I thought you were Santa.”

The clown immediately hurls the peppermint candy aside and his oversized shoes come down with a loud thud as he hastily sits upright in the sleigh. Art points frantically to the massive banner overhead that bears the namesake, then gestures to himself; seemingly wanting to indicate that he is in fact Santa Claus. You can only chuckle in amusement, but when he emphatically waves in an attempt to have you join him where he sits, you realize he isn’t joking. 

Your smile falters only a little and with a dismissive lift of your hand, you attempt to politely decline his request. Art is not pleased with this response so he childishly stamps his feet and crosses his arms over his chest as he regards you with an exaggerated and churlish pout. When he tries crooking a beckoning finger in your direction, an actual laugh escapes unbidden. His surly expression of disappointment softens slightly at the sound and his hope renews. He attempts once more to entice you, this time patting a velvet-clad thigh with his hand and even offering an inviting if not unsettling smile.

Something about the animated stranger intrigues you and you find yourself compelled to accept the clown’s invitation. You relent with some hesitation, smoothing your palms over the knee-length skirt of your elf dress and shuffling timidly towards the sleigh. Art can hardly contain himself and twists his body, looking swiftly from side to side as if struggling to remain calm and seated. You lift your foot onto the raised platform and slide your way into the tight space with him.

Art continues to wiggle back and forth restlessly, his knees pressed tightly together as he pats them excitedly with both hands before eventually straightening his spine and adjusting himself until his posture is stiff and proper. A rush of air bursts from your nose as you laugh nervously. The celebratory clapping of his palms is muffled slightly by his fingerless gloves as he waits for you to plant yourself in his lap. You do so gingerly, lowering yourself with as much finesse as you can manage and situating your bottom at the very edge of Art’s bony knees.

You’re perched awkwardly only for a moment because Art promptly yanks you in, spreading his own legs so abruptly that you nearly tumble to the floor of the sleigh between his feet. The jarring movement forces you to reach out, grabbing onto his shoulder with one hand to balance yourself as he wraps an arm around your waist and uses the other hand to nestle both of your legs between his parted thighs. Your hip is so close to his body, you can feel the warmth emanating off of him and notice a distinct lack of the customary belly you’d normally expect to find beneath the velvety soft suit.

“Sorry,” you apologize a second time, clearing your throat with a smile and another awkward chuckle as you fold your hands in your lap. “This is probably weird...me sitting on a grown man’s lap.”

Art responds with a scandalized, open-mouthed frown and a firm shake of his head that makes the white pom-pom sewn at the end of his hat flop back and forth. He blinks his eyes rapidly and swishes a gloved hand in your direction, effectively batting away your concerns. It’s clear he finds little issue in having you perched on his thigh. 

When Art leans uncomfortably close, you stiffen, though he pays it no mind and peers around your shoulders to look at one of the props which comprise the festive scene. It’s a crooked sign whimsically nailed to a red-and-white striped pole that begs the question: What Do You Want For Christmas? He sweeps his hand towards the signage—inviting and expectant—prompting you to provide an answer.

“Hmm,” you stall, having not expected the creepy clown to go through all the motions of the mall Santa experience. You shift with a huff and his arm tightens around you as his other hand pats the outside of your thigh in what you suppose is meant to be some semblance of encouragement. It only serves to distract, filling your head with a disorienting buzz at the near-intimate closeness of this complete stranger. “Guess I haven’t really given it much thought.”

He considers your admittance for a moment, his face slack and pensive before he shrugs. Art releases his hold on your thigh in favor of diving a hand into a pocket in the pants of his red suit. To your surprise, out comes an artfully weathered scroll of paper that he unrolls with a quick flick of his delicate wrist. Evidently another prop, it contains names written in two columns—apparently a naughty and nice list. Art tips his head towards the paper and regards you inquisitively, as if asking which side you belong on.

“Well, I think the nice list,” you offer, happily playing along. “But I’m not entirely sure what it would take to end up on the naughty list.”

The clown tilts his head and regards you like a predator, grinning salaciously and wagging his thinly-drawn eyebrows in a way that causes an undeniable heat to stir low in your belly. You squirm in the clown’s lap and he playfully squeezes your leg just above your knee. Your cheeks prickle with something you’d rather not acknowledge and suddenly you can no longer meet Art’s pale gaze. Endeavoring to assuage your growing discomfort, you redirect your attention back to why you’d come over here in the first place.

“Would you mind if I took a picture of us?” you inquire politely. 

Art acquiesces quite gladly and frantically nods in agreement, his obvious enthusiasm making you smile. You shift your weight to access the deep pocket of your costume and his colorless eyes follow your every move. 

“You don’t talk very much, do you?” 

The conversational question somehow sounds more invasive out loud than it had in your head and you turn to dig around determinedly in your pocket so as to disguise the way you cringe. Luckily, your phone slides out and brings with it the floppy elf hat you’d shoved in there earlier, leaving no time for Art to respond. Not that he would.

The clown moves swiftly, snatching the crumpled felt hat and violently unfurling it with a loud jingle. His mouth forms a perfect circle of delight and he gives the hat several more shakes just to hear the musical tinkling before lifting both arms to gently fit it over the top of your head.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks,” you say, bending to allow him better access and smirking when he playfully flicks the little gold bell sewn on the end.

He adjusts the hat to his liking, then taps a single long digit on the tip of your nose. You duck your head bashfully, though he doesn’t allow you to hide for long. Two slender fingers hook under your chin and he lifts you by the jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes in a silent stare that stretches on until your pulse increases and your entire body grows hot.

Turning your attention to the phone clutched in your fingers, you beg your hands not to shake as you open the camera app and lift the device to align both yourself and Art in the frame, making sure to include the beautifully decorated tree in the background. The clown is so large, you have to extend your arm to its limit in order to fit him. As you do, his eyes meet your own in the image reflected on the screen and he draws his body even closer to yours. One of his hands drop into your lap and the other rests gently against your lower back. You swallow loudly. 

“Smile,” you command softly, struggling to make your lips lift in a gesture that doesn’t reflect the conflicting feelings of trepidation and attraction brewing within you.

Art’s grin slashes across his face in an instant, a wide set of teeth suddenly emerging from behind his inky lips. His ghostly eyes burst open and his eyelids all but disappear with the exaggerated stretch of his face. The abrupt appearance of the severe expression makes your stomach curl with unease, but you cannot deny the way the thrilling glimmer of fear settles somewhere a little further down.

You snap a couple of photos, then switch the angle to capture a few more. When you drop your arm slightly, Art repositions himself as well. With the hand that had settled in your lap, he reaches up to cup your chin and draw your face nearer to his. This close, your senses cloud with nothing but the clown: the earthy scent of grease paint mixed with something spicy, the warmth of his nearness and touch, the subtle whisper of his steady breathing.

His painted skin is unexpectedly soft when it rests against your own and he goofily purses his lips against your cheek like a teenage girl taking a silly selfie. While the pose appears playful, the painful way his fingertips pinch the flesh of your face against the firm edge of your jawbone is anything but. Shock zings through your body, though the heat it carries isn’t due entirely to surprise. Art holds you with unrelenting force and your smile weakens even further as you fire off several more snapshots.

Before you can lower your phone, Art’s hand ventures from the small of your back until it settles between your shoulder blades. Its counterpart finally falls away from your face, instead reaching for the illuminated screen and switching over to a video before returning to firmly encircle your throat. Your breath catches and you suddenly feel as though you may overheat. The furry cuff of his suit presses against your cleavage, the synthetic material quickly absorbing the warmth that rolls off of your body in waves. Your hand shakes so much, you doubt the recording will even be watchable.

When Art turns his head, the tip of his pointed nose drags sensually along your jaw and his grinning mouth opens with an audible slickness. Humid puffs of breath skitter along your hypersensitive flesh, a prelude to the wetness of his tongue wriggling lasciviously along your cheek and up towards your temple.

You’re paralyzed—arm still hovering parallel to the floor—frozen beneath the disbelief of Art’s seductive attention and held still by the increasing pressure surrounding your neck. You know you should tell him to stop or push him away, but you just can’t bring yourself to put an end to the suggestive way he holds you prisoner and samples the saltiness of your skin.

As quickly as he licked your face, Art stops and you cease filming with your phone, hardly able to comprehend what you’ve just recorded. His mouth snaps shut with force and his hands slip away from your body as if burned by the contact. To your surprise, he carries on as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened and steadies you in his lap as he pitches to one side.

Reaching into a bag stashed near his feet, Art presents you with a single candy cane. Your head is still reeling from the hot, wet drag of his tongue across your skin and it takes a moment for your brain to catch up to what your eyes are seeing. The hooked confection is waved tantalizingly in front of your face before you manage to raise a hand and accept it.

“T-thank you,” your words emerge barely a breathy whisper. 

The cellophane crinkles slightly in your grasp and you robotically stuff your phone back into your pocket. Your body moves on autopilot as you plant your feet and shift to stand, but Art’s sinewy arm bands around your waist and crushes you right back into his lap. It seems to jostle you from your stupor and you blink several times before turning to face the mysterious clown. He reaches out and snatches the candy cane from your hand, causing you momentary concern that you’ve done something to offend him by trying to leave. 

He proceeds to methodically unwrap the candy with theatrical flair, then holds it out to you, indicating a desire for you to eat it here and now. You hum in understanding and attempt to take the candy cane, however Art pulls it away with a chiding look and instead directs it towards your mouth himself. Staring incredulously, you watch with niggling suspicion as the clown nods in encouragement, a glint of something sinister flickering in his white irises. 

Your lips part obediently and though you do so somewhat clumsily, you lean forward and—as requested—allow the candy to slip into your mouth. Sweet peppermint flavor bursts across your taste buds and your mouth instantly begins to water. Art studies you with unflinching and steadfast attention as he feeds you, his pupils expanding into deep, dark pools of hunger. While the act is bizarre and slightly humiliating, you find yourself inexplicably turned on; exhilarated by the pleased way in which Art’s open-mouthed expression seems to silently praise your compliance. 

Perhaps it’s how intimately close you are to his monochrome face or the way he shamelessly watches the lewd swirling of your tongue with such rapt, appreciative awe, but you find yourself clenching your thighs in an attempt to quell the sudden wetness blooming between your legs. Art takes notice of your restless predicament and his body responds in kind, blood rushing to his loins where he begins to harden against you.

Without warning, Art yanks the candy cane from your mouth, giving no thought to the way the sharp, hard sugar scrapes painfully along your bottom lip. He plunges the spit-sheened end of it into his own mouth, savoring the taste of you and coating it with his own saliva before carelessly shoving it past your now-bleeding lips once more. 

You’re unsure what possesses you to behave so wantonly, but you lock eyes with the clown and practically swallow the narrow cylinder of candy whole; being mindful of the slight point your sucking had formed, but taking it deep into your mouth until your lips meet the tips of Art’s fingers where he holds the curved end of the candy cane. For good measure, you even let out a throaty moan that shatters the quiet of the empty mall. 

His drawn-on eyebrows raise so high, they disappear behind the furry brim of his hat and his mouth rounds into a humorous circle of facetious astonishment. This time, he removes the candy cane from your lips more gently, ignoring the thin strand of saliva that follows it. With the list he had procured earlier back in hand, Art takes the pointed end of the candy cane and uses it as a pencil, pretending to add your name to the naughty column. He smiles proudly and fakes a hearty laugh before blindly tossing the props over his shoulder.

You lick your sticky, bloody lips and try once more to slide off of Art’s lap. When he latches onto you this time, something noticeable shifts in his demeanor. Whether it is the darkening of his eyes or the muscles in his body growing taut and coiling like a beast prepared to pounce, it is blatant and frightening. Your skin prickles with apprehensive awareness, though your aching center doesn’t seem to receive the same message. 

A breathy cry escapes you when Art harshly twists your body around, pulling you away from his thigh and settling you directly over his pelvis where you immediately feel an unmistakable ridge of firmness through the thin material of his suit. You have no choice but to allow all of your weight to rest against him as Art holds you down and begins to grind against your ass. He isn’t testing your reaction to his advances like you might have expected, rather the distinct lack of shyness in the unhurried rotation of his hips indicates something more like a warning of what’s to come.

Unsure what else to do with your idle hands, you reach behind yourself and brace either palm on the clown’s writhing hips. Your biceps quiver with the effort to ease at least some of your weight off of Art’s lap, but he’s having none of it. He yanks you down fully and even parts his thighs wider to facilitate more contact between your body and his painfully hard erection. You’re overcome with your own bout of carnal need and reciprocate his enthusiasm, swiveling your hips with determined precision.

Art has only known physical contact through the occasional struggle of a terrified victim’s body against his own and this new sensation is totally foreign to him. The stimulation is overwhelmingly pleasant—a particular faction of indulgent self-gratification yet unfamiliar to him—and he leans into the strangeness of it. His body’s reaction is swift and imminent. Art’s arms twine around you with disconcerting strength that renders you immobile, practically squeezing all the air from your lungs as a powerful shiver wracks his trembling body.

The clown makes no sound, but he hotly exhales the relief of his release against the back of your sweat-dampened neck. His hold is unrelenting, trapping you close to the solid heat of his lanky frame for a moment longer until he recovers. However, his composure does not return and instead he’s burdened with a new and curious hunger which instantly begs to be sated.

Art presses both hands to your lower back and shoves you forward onto his right knee, creating enough space between your bodies to access the elastic waistband of his crimson costume. His gloved hands move with grace and speed, easily freeing himself from the suffocating velvet prison. The consuming fire in your belly beckons you to turn and look at him and in doing so, you fan the flames into a raging inferno of desire.

A light sheen of sweat decorates the narrow sliver of skin that is visible between the disheveled halves of the rumpled Santa suit. Beads of cum still ooze from the tip of his length and evidence of his orgasm smears messily along the pale skin of a thick and visibly hard cock. With lust-driven bravery, you reach for it, desperate to feel the solid heat of the turgid flesh against your palm and yearning to quench a lecherous thirst of your own.

The tacky streaks of Art’s release wet your skin as you grip his swollen dick and give him an experimental squeeze. You slide your fisted hand from the reddened, shiny tip all the way down the veiny shaft until your knuckles meet the cum-matted thatch of hair at the base. The engorged appendage throbs noticeably in your grasp and Art’s shoulders drop as he throws his head back. His white irises roll and disappear behind his hooded eyelids, his body thrashing with stilted, stuttered jolts as your fingers tighten and you take advantage of the glide of his slick spend to begin steadily jerking him off. 

When your thumb sweeps over the sensitive head, Art flinches at the stimulation and a milky rope of cum spills lazily from the slit. The warm strand of seed splashes across the back of your hand and in a flash, he’s rudely batting your sticky fingers away from his cock with a sharp slap. 

You’ve barely recovered from the harsh contact when his spindly fingers delve under your skirt and tear at your tights until the delicate threads come apart and allow him access to your panties which he yanks unceremoniously down your thighs, the garment tangling in the torn stockings still wrapped around your legs. Art’s hands dig claw-like into the flesh of your upper arms, brutishly twisting and turning you as he pleases; dragging you back into his lap so he can lift your hips high enough to notch the tumescent head of his cock at your center. 

A grating cry rips from your throat and echoes through the cavernous building when you’re violently yanked down and stretched with sudden force around Art’s erected cock. Though unprepared for the size of him, your cunt swallows the clown’s length with little trouble. As your lips part with an unbridled cry of ecstasy, your cheeks sting with shame at how the flood of moisture leaking from your core eases the harsh penetration, the momentum of you taking Art’s cock halted only on account of his considerable girth.

Finally managing to get your feet under you, you scramble to escape the dizzying pressure and overwhelming penetration so you can catch your breath, but Art refuses to allow you a single second of reprieve. He stands abruptly without ever pulling free of your relenting body, sinking his cock unbelievably deeper as he bends you over the curved front of the sleigh. Your elbows crash painfully into the hard surface when you attempt to catch yourself before your face makes contact. As you adjust your position, your hips drop in a way that forces the bulbous head of Art’s length to grind against you with blinding pleasure and your knees grow weak.

With your eyes pinched shut against the onslaught of sensations, you can’t see Art reaching towards the massive Christmas tree to unravel a length of perfectly-strewn ribbon. He yanks the metallic gold material free and gives it a dramatic twirl through the air before lashing it across your back the same way Santa whips his trusty team of reindeer, ushering you to continue writhing so willingly along his slippery cock.

Art quickly grows bored of that and instead takes the ribbon between two fists with a flourish while he continues to thrust leisurely; burying his cock to the root then slowly, tortuously, and teasingly dragging it back out until only the tip remains within your spongy walls. He reaches over your head with the ribbon, taking advantage of your parted mouth to wedge the scratchy material between your lips. It pulls taut and settles between your teeth, becoming the perfect means for Art to wrench your head back at an uncomfortable angle. His eyes widen comically when they meet yours upside down in a taunting stare, holding your gaze hostage as he starts to fuck you mercilessly.

Mounting you like a feral animal, Art becomes desperate with the need to wreck you wholly; driven by the desire to possess and consume you. His hips surge with unforgiving and powerful thrusts that have his heavy balls slapping your clit with each stroke.

You call out on every deep drive of his cock, the unsteady and unpredictable rhythm sending you into a tailspin of pleasure that robs you of the ability to breathe. Drool and tears spill down your face, the harried sounds he forces from you catching in your throat as you gasp for air. The hat crammed down on your head falls sideways, its cadenced jingling a derisive reminder of the depraved things the clown is inflicting on you.

Before long, the frenzied push and pull of his cock isn’t enough for Art and his lips split with a snarl, his teeth bared in a savage display of greed. Nothing but complete surrender will satisfy him and only total ruin could fulfill his recently unmasked libido. He wants to watch you fall apart and the evil motive shines brightly in his unsettling eyes.

Using your tongue, you force the spit-soaked material from your mouth so it falls around your neck. Art gathers it in one hand and pulls tight, fashioning the glittery ribbon into a sort of noose that begins to choke you out. While the position of your head is more comfortable, the lack of oxygen certainly isn’t.

Your grow light-headed both from the inability to breathe and the unrelenting grind of Art’s fat cock. With his unoccupied hand, he grabs your waist with bruising pressure and pins you in place so he can curl his towering frame over top of you. Blanketed beneath the heat and heft of the impassioned clown, your ribcage presses agonizingly against the edge of the sleigh and you can do nothing but accept Art’s brutal usage of your body.

Bending his knees, he leverages his height to fuck up into you with rapid and shallow thrusts before he cruelly buries every inch of himself inside you. Your slick walls spasm around the thick, veiny intrusion as an orgasm slams through you. Art cums with you as your pussy ripples and squeezes, but he has no intention of relenting. He ruts wildly against your ass, fucking you harder and faster until your juices spill around him and your combined fluids form a creamy ring around the throbbing base of his cock.

You bite back a scream when Art pulls out of you with a vindictively mimed laugh. The sudden termination of your pleasure sends you tumbling to the ground on unsteady legs that refuse to hold you up any longer. Twisting as you fall, you’re met with the sight of Art looming tall and ominous above your crumpled form. With his thickening cock in hand, he fists himself like a madman, crowding over you just in time to paint your face with yet another burst of cum. Ropes of opaque fluid splatter messily over your features.

The clown gives his length several harsh shakes, managing to flick a few more measly drops of his release onto your stained skin. Your face twinkles and sparkles in the light coming from overhead, appropriately looking like flecks of snow melted on your cheeks and lips. Clapping happily above you, Art offers you a decidedly proud thumbs-up of approval, deciding you fit in rather perfectly with the rest of the festive decor.

David Howard Thornton Masterlist || Writing Masterpost

[shybunnie20]

Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

★My Masterlist

Summary: After some time in the spotlight, Eddie returns to Hawkins and finds that his unfinished confession to his best friend awaits him.

Author's Note: Here's a little something I wrote while I've been chipping away at my other WIPs. It’s way longer than I expected but I'm happy with how it turned out. The angst is very mild and it has a happy ending!

No use of y/n, established past friendship, Eddie and reader graduated the same year but ages aren't specified, focuses on Eddie's POV, proofread to an extent.

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: MDNI, mentions of sex, contains profanity.

After posing for the cover of the latest Metal Edge magazine, Eddie was eager to head back home ASAP. While he enjoys his time on the East Coast, he was really looking forward to some much-needed downtime. As he boarded his private jet and set off, everything was going according to plan. However, the weather decided that he was going to make a pit stop. Rather, an emergency landing.

Plans get derailed and unpredictability is a part of the lifestyle. When your private jet is just about plucked from the sky during a lightning storm, finding a place to land is imperative, no matter the location. In this instance, his jet touched down in Indianapolis. Hopes of catching a taxi to Hawkins were dashed. No taxi driver in their right mind would willingly brave the distance from the city to the suburb in that weather. Eddie was left with one person to call upon—the man whom Eddie had been considering visiting for quite some time.

Wayne was surprised to receive the phone call but he agreed to pick Eddie up from the airport without hesitation. They haven’t been staying in touch as of late; Eddie’s life is nothing short of a whirlwind consisting of sold-out arenas and constant travel. Getting a hold of his nephew became a challenging feat. Wayne rarely got past speaking to Eddie’s assistants.

It was his uncle’s rare day off and calls at that time of night were few and far between. So, when Wayne’s canary yellow phone practically leaped off of the hook, he was astonished. After making the drive through the pattering rain, Wayne retrieved a sulking Eddie from Concourse B. As Eddie settled into the passenger seat of the fixer-upper, exhaustion from his turbulent journey was evident.

The next morning, Eddie wakes up with a protesting ache in his lower back, the result of a night spent on the pull-out couch. As he sits up straight, he lets out a low groan, vocalizing how his body yearns for the luxurious embrace of the Egyptian cotton sheets that are fitted around his California king mattress. They lay chilled without him, thousands of miles away in his opulent hillside mansion in Beverly Hills.

As he stretches in an attempt to unknot the tension between his shoulder blades, Eddie takes in his surroundings. He stumbled through the front door so late last night that he had no energy left to get reacquainted with his childhood home. He even wound up sleeping in his designer jeans, the coarse denim a far cry from the plush pajamas he would normally change into before bed.

A gentle grin forms on Eddie’s lips upon feeling comforted by the familiarity of the room. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the simple life that Wayne brought him up in. Eddie gazes around, noticing the subtle changes such as the addition of new mugs and hats to their respective displays. One particular change catches his attention and draws a fond exhale from his stale lungs. The worn-out doormat, which was torn to hell when he was a teenager, was finally replaced.

Despite his internal clock being out of whack, Eddie’s brain knows when it’s time for a cup of jitter juice. He rises from the rickety mattress, his back cracking loudly at the extension. A moan of discomfort slips out as he winces at the pinch at the base of his neck. “Jesus, fuck,” he mutters aloud. Eddie makes a mental note to buy Wayne a new sofa.

His socked feet slide across the linoleum as he steps into the kitchen. He notices that the bedroom door is closed, though it’s doing very little to dampen the loud snoring emitting behind it. Eddie yawns as he grinds his fists into his eyes, causing a splash of tingling colors across the darkness of his lids. He approaches the corner cupboard, knowing that what he’s looking for will be in the same place it always has been. The cabinet door greets him with a squeak and he’s met with a single dented can of Folgers. That shit is practically varnish remover, it simply won’t do.

Eddie sighs as the craving for his favorite Italian coffee intensifies. It’s so rich, flavorful, smooth, and yet, it packs a punch. Just the thought of the hazelnut dark roast takes him back to the first time he ever tried it in Trieste. From that moment on, he needed it imported back home.

Well, the java situation is a bust. For the time being, Eddie has a choice. Either charred slices of Wonderbread or plain cornflakes. AKA, buttered plywood or a bowl of sawdust. Ew and ew . Settling for the arguably more exciting option, Eddie decides on toast. Each bite into the brittle slice causes dark crumbs to scatter into his open palm that he holds beneath his chin. He can’t be bothered to get a plate, even as an adult.

The burnt bits accumulate in his hand as he continues to nibble. While Eddie brushes his palms over the sink to rid himself of crumbs, he catches sight of the magazine clipping held to the fridge door by a Tweety Bird magnet. Frozen in time on glossy paper is a photo of him at the American Music Awards last year. “Damn, I looked good.” He smirks as he recalls the tailored suit, the lapels encrusted with dazzling gems, and his pale bare chest blinding the paparazzi from beneath it. The memories of that night come rushing, the flashing cameras and the cheers of his fans.

With his tummy partially pleased but the craving for quality coffee intensifying, Eddie recalls that there’s only one good place around here to get a quality cup of Joe. Eddie takes a brisk shower to wash away the residual stickiness that clings to his skin from a night spent fully clothed in the stuffy trailer. He dresses in the most pedestrian outfit that’s in his suitcase, hoping to blend in as much as possible, and heads out.

Eddie’s stride carries him through the glass door of Morningside Café, the cheerful bell above it announces his arrival. The café is bustling, as one would expect on a Saturday morning. The patrons have come for their morning pick-me-up, much like Eddie.

Initially, he considers keeping his onyx-lensed sunglasses on, a barrier that would shield him from potential recognition and the commotion that would ensue. But he decides to take them off, knowing that he might stick out if he’s wearing sunglasses indoors. Eddie tucks one of the folded arms of the frame into the collar of his t-shirt. To his surprise, nobody reacts. No one gasps or falls to their knees at his feet. The world around him continues to turn. Part of him yearns for the ego boost that comes with being recognized but, all in all, he’s relieved to experience a semblance of normalcy for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

Taking a moment to soak in his surroundings, Eddie’s gaze sweeps across the interior of the shop. His eyes linger on the display case where flaky pastries drizzled with chocolate and caramel sauces are housed. The cabinesque aesthetic warms the soul with rich wood tones and a brick fireplace. It stands dormant, flameless, because it’s too warm out for a fire this time of year.

Beside the fireplace sit two figures that catch his attention. Even from a short distance, Eddie recognizes the mane of luscious locks, a signature feature that only belongs to one person. He strolls over with excitement tugging at his chest.

“Excuse me.” Eddie’s voice is hushed as he addresses the two figures engrossed in conversation. “Do you happen to know if the creamer here is fat-free?”

Steve and Robin’s dialogue comes to an abrupt halt, their voices silenced by the unexpected interruption. They exchange a glance, their eyebrows raising in unison. Simultaneously, their heads turn to peer over their shoulders. And there he stands, Eddie, someone they never thought they’d see again.

Steve gets to his feet a beat faster than Robin and he’s all smiles. “Look what the cat dragged in!”

“Must be an expensive cat,” Robin quips while she eyes Eddie, a quick assessment that catches details he overlooked in his haste to blend in. Her comment refers to the flashy jewelry he neglected to take off. “Persian, right? Those are the goblin-looking ones that rich people like? Ugly little fluff balls, if you ask me.”

Eddie’s sigh carries relief, expressing his genuine pleasure in knowing that Robin remains candid and unfiltered, just as he remembers her. As he extends his hand, Steve meets him with a firm handshake.

A friendly slap on the shoulder from Steve follows. “What brings you to this god-forsaken town?” His question is punctuated by true curiosity and a hint of humor, alluding to Eddie’s past that has kept him from ever returning up until now.

“I was in the area,” Eddie replies with a sense of restraint, deliberately avoiding the true source of his change in plans. “Figured I'd swing by to see what’s what.”

Robin gestures for Eddie to take the seat opposite of them. They all settle into their mahogany-colored chairs. Eddie shifts awkwardly, the denim of his jeans dragging on the leather noisily.

With her elbows digging into her knees, Robin leans forward and supports her chin with her balled fists, positioned to hear the greatest story in her life. “So? ”

Eddie blinks dumbly, bemusement evident on his face. “What?”

Reclined deeply into his chair, Steve rests his hands on his belly with interlocked fingers. “Enlighten us. Where the hell did ya go?”

“ Oh. Well, uh, I migrated west and lived in my van for a while. Then I found an ad in the paper for a spare bedroom in a janky apartment. I did the roommate thing for a bit and then- I dunno.” He twists the grim reaper-shaped ring around the base of his middle finger. “Things just worked out, I guess.”

Robin blows a raspberry and sits back into a less anticipatory position. “Long story short, huh? The last I saw, you were on the red carpet escorting Heather Locklear.”

Her reference to Eddie’s past event appearance draws a smirk from him, feeling a sense of satisfaction in knowing that his old friends have been keeping up with the big things he’s been doing. While she encourages Eddie to delve into the details of his daily life, Steve looks across the room at you. Your nose is to the grindstone, your hands working deftly to maintain the rhythm that ensures that the orders are being fulfilled in a timely manner.

Opening shifts are the worst, for the customers and the employees alike. Nobody is at their friendliest due to the dark clouds of exhaustion hanging over everyone’s heads. Not to mention, regulars have their quirks. Some are particularly anal, specifying exact temperatures for their flavored fuel. They scrutinize your every move, even going as far as monitoring the thermometer to ensure that their demands are met.

The grind of the morning rush is draining, yet, you soldier on. You wipe away spilled coffee grounds from the countertop and amidst the clatter and constant flow of orders, you catch Steve staring right at you. His expression is peculiar, his arched brows paired with a subtle curve to his lips. You tilt your head inquisitively at him. What?

Steve subtly points across from him and mouths, Eddie Munson.

Your hand freezes mid-motion, the damp rag caught between your palm and the solution-streaked surface. Instinct takes over as you lean onto your tiptoes, straining to catch a glimpse over the top of the coffee machine. And no shit, there’s that head of chocolate curls. Your pulse spikes as apprehension floods your belly. Returning your gaze to Steve, you mouth back to him, oh my god.

Steve’s frantic wave beckons you over, his urgency not leaving room for subtlety. Eddie takes notice of Steve and he looks to see who he’s motioning to. Your eyes meet and for a split second, utter disbelief is mirrored on both of your faces.

You panic and duck out of sight, retreating to the relative cover near the floor. Your thoughts race, your heartbeat pounding twice that. What the actual fuck is he doing here?

Eddie’s heavy-footed steps carry him up to the counter, the air around him feeling electrically charged, making his arm hair stand up straight. His chest constricts as he approaches the ledge and looks behind it. There you are, sitting on the floor with your legs pulled close to your chest and your forehead against your knees.

“Sweetheart.” He chuckles airily, though his brows are pulled together as to why you’re down there.

Reluctantly, you lift your head and meet his eyes. A sheepish grin tugs at your lips and you can’t help but scrunch your nose. “Eddie, hi!”

“Whatcha doin’ down there?” He asks playfully, then catching his bottom lip between his teeth in an attempt to suppress the smile that threatens to form. “Almost looks like you’re tryin’ to hide from me.”

You shake your head, only slightly annoyed at his amusement. “I’m busted, huh?” As you get to your feet, you wipe your palms on your apron before rounding the corner of the counter.

Eddie’s arms are already outstretched before you’re even in full view. You find yourself stepping forward to meet his embrace. The hug is brief, not quite as long as Eddie would’ve liked it to be. His beaming smile accompanies his glittering stare as it follows your features, studying the subtle changes since he saw you last. “Long time on see."

You’ve already taken a step back, creating a bit of space between the two of you. With a deep breath, you nod. “Tell me about it, it’s been like what, six years?” It’s your turn to trace the contours of his face.

You’ve seen the tabloids on the racks in the supermarket, the pages that showcase his exhilarating career. You’ve seen his music videos on MTV. Regardless of the set design and general concept, there’s a constant—Eddie, partially naked with jeans slung low on his hips, surrounded by bleach-blonde stunners hanging off of him one way or another. He always stood tall, an embodiment of untouchability despite being touched just about everywhere by sets of cherry-painted fingernails. His image has become synonymous with charismatic magnetism and sex appeal.

And now, he’s standing right in front of you. Eddie’s silver nose ring catches the overhead lighting, a rebellious contrast to the well-groomed beard that frames his jaw. He has far more tattoos than he had when you were friends. The dangling layers of necklaces twinkle like constellations. While you hugged him, you recognized his natural scent which was mostly the same, but with a faint woody undertone. The cologne he wears seems to have become one with his clothes, the scent being inseparable from him no matter how many times the article is washed.

Eddie also looks stronger and his physical presence is more defined. His slim frame matured into something more substantial, and his muscles are built and bound with raw talent. It’s a curious juxtaposition to see him in such plain clothes. He almost resembles the Eddie that you knew, feeling both familiar and transformed, an evolution you’re struggling to take in all at once.

“Yeah, coming up on six. Feels like it’s been longer than that,” Eddie replies, the joy in his voice unconcealed. He shamelessly looks over your uniform, the baby blue polo shirt beneath the navy apron, with his interest plain for anyone to see. He took in your scent too. Your natural smell blended with coffee, and it struck a chord within him. The combination of the two is better than his beloved Italian coffee beans alone.

“How long are you in town for?” You play with the hem of your apron, shifting your weight on the balls of your feet, attempting to soothe yourself with the rocking motion.

Eddie sucks air through his teeth with resignation. “Just today, actually.”

“Oh,” you mumble, your expression subtly crestfallen at the news of his limited stay. “That’s too bad. You really can’t stay any longer?”

“I wish I could but stopping by wasn’t exactly on my to-do list. I was flying home from New York and then my jet-”

You’re startled as your supervisor’s voice booms from behind you, yanking you back to reality. Her words are stern, reprimanding you for being distracted. She scolds, saying that the line is twice as long as it should be. A quick glance at your coworker makes you feel guilty, seeing as he’s struggling to keep up with taking and filling orders by himself.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. “Coming!” With a final moment of eye contact with Eddie, you offer him a rueful smile. “Sorry, duty calls.” As you turn and make your way back to your station, you call out to Eddie over your shoulder. “It was great to see you.”

The sentiment hangs in the air, one that Eddie wishes you had a chance to elaborate on. But, time is of the essence and you’re already back to filling cups without waiting for his response. For a few seconds, Eddie watches you seamlessly shift back into work mode as if he isn’t there anymore. Returning to Steve and Robin, he’s met with pointed looks that are laden with interest. The weight of the encounter, the unexpected vulnerability he felt looking into your eyes, settles on his shoulders. As Eddie returns to the seat across from them, he slumps down with a pout.

Robin’s brows furrow at his sudden change in demeanor. “Why the long face? Didn’t you ask her out?”

Eddie’s response is a sullen half-note while he stares fixedly at a speck of mud on Steve’s shoe. “No, I didn’t. And quite frankly, I don’t think she’d even want to. You should’ve seen the way she looked at me. It was like she hardly recognized me.” In the way that Eddie is carrying himself, it’s obvious that his insecurities have been stirred up.

Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I don't know, man. It's kinda hard to believe a hot shot like you can’t get whatever girl he sets his sights on.”

That remark sparks something within Eddie, a realization that switches his perspective. Steve’s words hit home—he’s Eddie fucking Munson. A Grammy award-winning recording artist for Christ’s sake. Casanova, heavy hitter, ladies’ man. His confidence resurfaces, becoming acutely aware of the charm he can whip out whenever he needs it; he’s well equipped for this moment.

Summoning the deepest breath he’s ever taken, Eddie rises to his feet once again, feeling sure of himself this time. His hands smooth down his shirt and he clears his throat. When Eddie chances a look behind him, Steve and Robin are giving him two, technically four, thumbs up as a means of encouragement. With newfound resolve, Eddie approaches the counter once again.

You’re a flurry of motion, caught up in the demands of your job. A bead of sweat threatens to drip from your brow as you ensure that the whipped cream on top of the ice-cold beverage is the perfect amount.

“Hey.” Eddie’s voice cuts through the ambient noise, a little louder than necessary to ensure that you’ve heard him.

You peek up at him with a grin in acknowledgment. “Hi.” Though his presence is noted, your focus is unwavering, determined not to let any more interruptions affect your efficiency.

Eddie’s knuckles wrap against the counter, a drumming that underscores his everlasting nerves when it comes to you. “What're you doing tonight?”

Powdered cinnamon dusts the air as you gently tap the kitchen dredger over the tower of whipped cream. The finely ground burnt umber falls where it’s meant to, rather than onto your apron. “I don’t have any plans, why?” You hand the completed drink to the awaiting customer beside Eddie, giving them a polite smile that’s a testament to your professionalism.

“Would you maybe wanna grab a bite to eat?” He hesitates for a beat, the thudding of his heart is on the verge of drowning out his voice. “I’ll bet you’ll have worked up quite the appetite by the time you’re shift is done.”

You sigh softly, mulling over Eddie’s offer. “I don’t know…” You flip the switches on the machine, causing it to roar to life.

Eddie holds his breath, every passing second heightening his senses.

“Okay, I suppose I will be pretty hungry.” Your eyes nearly forming tears of stress as you accept the ever-present line of customers. “Early dinner at Benny’s?”

“Just like old times.” Eddie smiles so wide that it feels like the corners of his lips might split and bleed. “Yeah, that sounds perfect.” He offers to pick you up, which he’d truly rather not. That would mean that he’d be taking you out in his uncle’s jalopy. In Eddie’s mind's eye, he would pick you up in a sports car and rev the engine to the point where you’re pressing your thighs together to stave off the vibrations coursing through you. A man can dream.

“No, I’ll meet you there.” Your voice is firm. The authenticity of your smile bridges the previously placed distance between you. “Thank you, though.”

His knuckles leave one last sequence of knocks on the marble surface, a rhythm of pride and assurance. “See you later, then.”

“Later.”

Eddie turns away and finds his friends with expectant gazes plastered on their faces, awaiting the verdict of the exchange. His smile hasn’t fallen in the slightest, his dazzling white teeth and flushed cheeks don’t go unnoticed. Eddie’s enthusiasm is palpable, his words coming out in a hushed rush. “She said yes!” He exclaims, trying to shake the blood back into his fingers as the tingling sensation bites at him. “It’s a date."

Seated at the mini kitchen table in Wayne’s trailer, the rusty metal chair squeaks under his weight anytime he shifts. He can’t even sit still, despite there being plentiful hours between now and when he’ll see you again. Eddie finds himself flipping through the scrapbook you put so much time into making the summer before your senior year. That particular summer holds such significance to him, a time when the days were endless, and the bond between you felt unshakeable.

Each photograph feels as warm and breezy as the one before it. Sunbathing on the shore of Lover’s Lake, your toes dipping into the water as you prepared to leap off of the dock. The memory is vivid—your skin glistening and energy positively radiant with innocence and naivety. One of the snapshots of Eddie is far less flattering. He’s captured with sharp tan lines, the contrast in tones creating the illusion of him wearing a white shirt, despite being topless.

Eddie bites down on his lip as he studies the photograph of you riding your bike in cutoff shorts, your t-shirt having met an equal fate. The wind tangled through your hair in a way that he wished he could with his fingers.

The picture beside it features the two of you together. Obviously, Wayne had taken on the role of photographer. You’re both posed proudly beside a tower of playing cards that you spent 45 minutes building card by card, on the very table that Eddie is sitting at. Both of you held your breath and didn’t speak a word to avoid knocking it down. Taped across the same page are watermelon and grape-flavored blow pop wrappers, unredeemed arcade tickets, movie stubs, and receipts saved from snack runs made on days that you were craving specific treats.

With the turn of a page, Eddie melts a little as he comes across the photobooth strips. It was necessary for you to sit on his lap in order for both of you to fit within the frame. He was able to wrap his arms around your waist and hold you close as if there was anywhere for you to go inside the cramped box. Your arms encircled his neck and rested on his shoulders while you made silly faces at the camera, and even better, at each other. Eddie recoils at the picture of him with red-stained popsicle sticks protruding from his mouth, immaturely imitating a walrus, of all things. You laughed so hard that you insisted on taking a photo, and as much as dislikes the image itself, he’s still eating up how delighted you were by his antics.

The moments that weren’t captured on film come flooding back just as vividly as if they’re pasted to the paper before him. Inhaling helium from balloons and laughing hysterically at one another is a night that comes to mind. He knew he’d never get sick of making you laugh. And that time when playfully tossing popcorn into each other's mouths evolved from being a fun game to a skill. Last but not least, Eddie reminisces about sitting in his van together with the windows down, sharing cigarettes and music as the cool evening air enveloped you both. The quieter memories are just as deafening as the amusing ones.

His life had its fair share of upheaval and dysfunction that seemed to pull him in all directions. Amidst the chaos, one constant remained. You. Eddie didn’t need more than that, you already made life worth living. But, as life often goes, the sweet moments can become bitter in the blink of an eye.

It was the night of your graduation party, a celebration meant to be an intimate gathering among close friends—you, Eddie, Robin, and Steve. But when Eddie pulled up to your parent’s house, a scene was unfolding before him that he hadn’t anticipated. The yard was dotted with clusters of students while the front door was revolving with people drunkenly coming and going. Inside the belly of the beast was even more lively.

Eddie hesitantly navigated the throngs of teens in the hallway, people he was sure that you weren’t even on a first-name basis with. He knew your house like the back of his hand but it felt foreign due to the sheer number of bodies dancing, running, and tumbling over.

He was going to finally tell you how he felt, a declaration that had been building within him for some time. Eddie understood that you were out of his league, the unspoken boundaries dictating that best friends aren’t supposed to fall in love, yet he found himself helplessly ensnared by his adoration for you. For so long, Eddie was afraid of pressing his luck, and even more so, was in a state of constant disbelief that he was lucky enough to call you the most important person in his life.

Graduation marks a turning point in a young person’s life, a juncture where change is inevitable. Eddie was ready for change and he wanted his dreams to bleed into reality. He yearned to hold you without any limitations, to kiss you like he needed to in order to survive. It was time for a new chapter and Eddie hoped that when he turned the page, he’d get the girl he wanted more than anything in the world.

You were in the kitchen. Typically, he gets a kick out of the way you act when you’re that buzzed. Your joyful disposition under the influence of celebration and booze led to you being the most laid-back version of yourself. However, he was facing an unanticipated predicament. Eddie was trying to have a serious conversation with you at a rowdy party. His hands were trembling, and luckily, his leather jacket concealed the fact that he’d soaked the pits of his t-shirt.

“There you are.” Eddie stepped closer to make sure that you could hear him over the music and chatter.

“Here I am!” You giggled, your cheeks flushed and energy unreserved. “Isn’t this wild?”

Eddie glanced over his shoulder after being bumped into by a stranger. “Yeah, it is. But uh. what happened to watching movies and ordering pizza?”

The trace of disappointment in Eddie’s tone might have been discernable to a sober individual, but in your inebriated state, it slipped under your radar. Your smile remained and you swayed. The movement was more so a result of your jelly legs than unenthusiastic dancing. “My parents went all out and invited our entire class! I guess they figured that throwing a rager was a good way to congratulate me.” You chuckled and took another burning sip from your cup.

Eddie leaned in, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. “Can we go somewhere and talk? There’s something I need to tell you.” The weight of his unspoken feelings was on the verge of suffocating him and the heat of the room paled in comparison to the fire in his belly.

You tilted your head slightly, your eyes ever so bright. “What is it?”

Given that you hadn’t budged an inch, that meant that the conversation was gonna happen right where you stood. Eddie tried to breathe steadily, knowing that he’d rehearsed this and he knew what he wanted to say. Unfortunately, the words had startled to scramble in his head. “You, uh, you know that you’re my favorite person in the whole world, right?”

“Of course, you’re mine too.” You pawed at his shoulder before leaning back against the counter to make up for your lessening ability to stand up straight.

“I mean, I couldn’t ask for a better best friend-” Unfortunately for him, the timing couldn’t have been worse. The song that had been playing ended abruptly. “But I wanna be more than that.” Eddie’s heart sank as his words hung in the air. The confession that was meant for your ears only was now released into the open, leaving him exposed.

A mocking laughter filled the air that the music once inhabited; Jack Carver, the asshole who’s had it out for Eddie since the fifth grade, was locked and loaded. Eddie’s blood ran cold at the sound as it collided with his ears. His fight-or-flight instincts kicked in, his body tensing as he struggled to prepare himself for what was about to happen. Jack Carver’s taunting cut like a sharp blade, drawing a wave of laughter from the surrounding students with it. “Did everybody hear that? The freak wants himself a little girlfriend.”

Defenseless, Eddie clenched his knuckles as the walls began to close in on him. He knew it wasn’t over yet.

“There’s a reason you’re still a virgin. And you’re gonna die as one, too.” Jack sneered.

Prior to that evening, Eddie had steeled himself for the possibility of rejection from you. He‘d surrender to the emotional blow to keep you as his best friend. But he wasn’t armed for the level of humiliation that Jack’s provocation brought down on him. It was the wounds of his childhood, the physical and emotional scars from years of being picked on, that were torn open. Jack always knew how to hit him where it hurt.

The tears that blurred Eddie’s vision shielded him from your pitying and startled expression. It all felt like a cruel twist of fate, a reminder that he was meant to be the outsider, forever on the fringes without someone to hold him close at night. As the laughter continued to echo around him, Eddie fled before the atmosphere could swallow him whole. Without a second thought, he shoved his way through the crowd and bolted out of your front door.

The night air hit him like a wall, cooling the hot tears that streamed down his scorched cheeks. Eddie stumbled to his van and slammed the door shut behind him. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and let out a shuddering breath, feeling like everything inside of him was coming apart at the seams. Eddie squeezed his eyes shut to clear his vision by forcing the pooled tears to flow and he raised his head back up. He saw you stepping off of your front porch, a concerned look branded on your features while you called out to him, searching.

At that moment, he decided that he was gonna show every single person who thought so little of him that he could be somebody. Eddie was going to outdo all of them and kick the expectation that he was going to end up in prison like his father, that he was going to be dealing drugs for the rest of his life, and that he’d always be trailer trash.

If Eddie could go back in time, things would have gone differently. But after chasing the California sunrise, he’d mastered the world of glamorous parties, adoring fans, and beautiful women. They threw themselves at him. He didn’t have to worry about rejection because he could have his pick, he had whatever flavor he wanted for the night. But no one satiated the craving he continued to have for you. No one laughed the way you did, no one understood him the way you always had.

You’d never have another moment together, he accepted that. And it didn’t matter anymore because he became the man . He didn’t have time to sit around and sulk about a small-town girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day. But despite putting his feelings in the rearview mirror, he daydreamed nonetheless. Eddie wondered what it would be like to show you the new and improved version of himself. He hoped that you’d be impressed. More importantly, did you listen to his music? Or read about his scandalous escapades in the gossip magazines that wove lies into the truth?

Even so, that night set him straight. It wasn’t going to happen for you and him. His only star had fallen, so he put all of his time and energy into making a name for himself. The songs on his albums are about living life in the fast lane and the thrill of the night. They’re about trashing hotel rooms and experiencing things he never dreamed he would because that’s what sells records.

But at home in his lyric notepad lays the songs of unpursued love, melodies about chances taken and lost. There’s one ballad in particular, its verses tell the story of him introducing you to his newfound confidence, something that you never knew him to have. It speaks of how he’s seen the world twice over, and yet, his favorite place to be is tucked away in the memories where things hadn’t changed yet.

Those heartfelt lyrics remain buried, never to be shared with the world. They’re a tribute to you, the unsung song in his life.

Eddie’s experience when it comes to the attention of women should, theoretically, render him immune to being nervous. Yet, he finds himself impossibly so. The source of his unease? You. This isn’t just anyone, you’re not just some chick. The late afternoon swings around and Eddie’s nerves are in full swing. He’s feeling just as anxious as he did the night of that party because second chances are rare for him. Eddie is acutely aware that this is very likely to be his last shot with you. This isn’t just any date—it’s your first date. The significance isn’t lost on him, and he’s determined to make it count.

Standing in front of Wayne’s bathroom mirror, Eddie attempts to wield the cheap razor to trim the edges of his beard. His curls, normally styled to perfection, look deflated and lackluster without his fancy shampoo and hair products to nourish them. The trailer park’s hard water isn’t doing his hair any favors when it comes to frizz either. As Eddie rinses away his beard trimmings from the basin, he exhales dramatically, watching his self-esteem swirling down the drain. He tries to remind himself of his good looks by reciting a silent pep talk. The thought of disappointing you, or not meeting your expectations, is something he can’t bear.

Eddie parks Wayne’s car outside of Benny’s Burgers and takes a moment to double-check his appearance in the visor mirror. He wants to make certain that he looks as decent as he can. This is the chance he’s been waiting for, this is for all the marbles. Unlike his usual casual encounters, where names and personalities go unlearned, this is different. Eddie has to earn your affection back.

He peers down at his fingernails, thankful that they’re still in good shape from his last manicure. Eddie mutters to himself, trying to get a feel for an appropriate greeting. “Hi, you look… pretty.” Lame. Frustrated, he twists the skull ring on his finger, adjusting it from its sideways position to face the right way up. “It’s so nice out tonight, but you look even nicer.” Eddie groans, banging his head back against the headrest. “Jesus Christ, Munson. Get your fucking shit together.”

With a thick swallow, Eddie steps out of the car and makes his way across the parking lot that crunches beneath his sneakers. As he enters the restaurant, he’s happy to see that this place hasn’t changed one bit. Eddie debates waiting by the door for you or to sit down for the time being. Anxiety wins, and he chooses the latter. As he strides across the room, he tries to keep his easily recognizable face relatively hidden. Eddie slides into the booth that the two of you always sat in. You spent innumerable Saturday nights sitting here, laughing and teasing, talking shit and venting about how high school felt so life or death at the time.

A soft chuckle slips out as he traces the initials that he carved into the table all those years ago. He grins, recalling how much you scolded him while he chipped EM into the wood with his pocket knife. Eddie absentmindedly fiddles with the lid on the ketchup bottle from the condiment caddy, lost in his own thoughts, until the restaurant’s door opens. His heart thumps madly as he watches you stroll in and scan the room until your gaze lands on him. Beyond his control, Eddie’s eyes are gleaming, overwhelmed with the privilege of being in the same room as you once more.

He stands from the booth as you approach, his legs acting with a mind of their own. Once you reach him, he’s not exactly sure what to do with his hands. He decides against offering a hug since you don’t initiate one. Eddie returns to his seat as you settle into the one opposite of him.

“Hey,” you place your purse beside you on the seat.

“Hi, there.” The red of his cheeks deepening as his hands go right back to fidgeting. Eddie clears his throat. “How was the rest of your day?”

“It was okay, nothing special,” you reply vaguely, your voice dripping with fatigue.

Eddie takes note of and appreciates the slightest bit of makeup you’ve applied since he saw you this morning, simply because it accentuates your natural beauty. It’s a small detail, but it doesn’t go unnoticed, and it warms his heart to think that you might have put some effort into your appearance to meet up with him. Or maybe he’s getting ahead of himself and you just don’t like wearing makeup at work. Regardless, just as a complement is about to roll off of his tongue, the table is approached by an old woman.

She beams, clutching her miniature notepad tightly. “My goodness, I remember you too! You’re all grown up now.”

You nod respectfully, clearly remembering her. Eddie, on the other hand, does not recognize her as quickly. It’s like he’s buffering as he thinks, and then his eyes widen, suddenly remembering that the woman is the waitress who always served the two of you every weekend. Holy shit, he thought she looked old back then but now she looks ancient. “It’s nice to see you,” He performs, trying his best to be a gentleman and show you that he’s good-natured.

“I’ll be right back, I know just what to get you,” She says sing-songy manner and bounces away into the back kitchen. Even after all this time, she still knows your orders by heart.

Despite the breath that you release, the hurt isn’t evident on your face. “Why’d you disappear on me that night?”

Your straightforwardness catches Eddie off guard, and he struggles to find the right words to respond. “Doesn’t matter why,” he begins, trying to deflect from the topic. He’d much rather you ask him if he has any pets or if he’s read any good books lately. “That was ages ago, what matters is that I’m not a pathetic loser anymore.”

“You were never a loser, Eddie,” you insist while looking into his eyes, reminding every fiber of his being that you always liked him for who he was. But just as quickly, your gaze drops. You always hated when he talked about himself that way because you thought he was a total catch.

Eddie’s gaze lingers on you, studying the shift. Slowly, the realization dawns on him that your hurt runs deep, possibly deeper than his own. Coming to terms with his self-centered perspective makes his chest ache. He was so consumed by his own insecurities that he never spared a thought for how his sudden departure wounded you.

You change gears with an almost perfected ease, smoothly transitioning from the heaviness of the subject. “So, Mr. Super Star, what’s it like being you?”

A chill is sent up his spine, uneasiness caused by how swiftly you just rebuilt your walls before his eyes. He bites anyway, hoping that your interest in his stories is genuine. “From the outside, it looks like fun but it’s nothing short of chaos. When you’ve got a show every other night, and a band wants you on their new album, and then someone’s throwing a massive party...” Eddie trails off, afraid that his rambling is coming off as bragging. “Anyway, enough about all that. How ‘bout you? How’d you end up working at Morningside?”

There’s a flicker of joy on your face that shows your appreciation for his desire to hear you talk about yourself. “I needed something part-time, I’m actually studying to be a-”

EEK! You both startle at the ear-shattering squeals of three middle school-aged school girls. They’re gathered around Eddie, borderline frothing at the mouth to be looking at and breathing the same air as him. They’re all talking a mile a minute over one another, asking for autographs, wanting hugs, and gushing about his music.

Eddie looks at you and he can’t quite gauge your reaction, your expression is practically unreadable. “One second, I’m sorry.” He scoots out of the booth to greet the girls. He figures that if he handles this interaction skillfully, they’ll likely leave both of you alone afterward.

As you watch him engage, you’re beyond disappointed. It seems like he’s more interested in the attention and adoration of his fans than he is in spending time with you. He should’ve just told them to go away. Now you’re certain of where his priorities lie and you should’ve known from the moment you saw his face this morning. He isn’t here to mend things, Eddie has less than pure intentions and you’re not going to wait to find out what they are.

While Eddie is busy giving the girls his full attention with his back turned to you, you seize the moment to slip out of the booth and quietly exit the restaurant. One of the girls is clinging onto him after a hug and he has to pry her off of himself. In doing so, he sees your hurried movement out of the corner of his eye. He half-heartedly thanks his fans and rushes after you, his mouth going dry as reality hits him like a freight train; he’s getting a taste of his own medicine.

“Wait up,” Eddie calls out to you, his chest heaving.

You stop in your tracks and turn to him with a hardened look on your face. “Why are you here? Was it so you could show off how untouchable you are now?”

Eddie’s mouth falls open as he steps forward, but you inch away. “No. Of course not.”

“Then what? Because I don’t even know why I agreed to come here. You’ve obviously outgrown Hawkins and everyone in it. I wasn’t good enough for you to stick around for, much less stay in touch with.”

Eddie’s heart breaks in two at the sunset reflecting in the glossy pools that have formed along your lower lash line. “You were always enough for me,” he says weakly.

You roll your eyes and your car keys jingle in your hand as you cross your arms over your chest. “Do you really expect me to believe that when it’s been nothing but radio silence for six years?”

“Yeah, kinda,” he snaps, suddenly feeling defensive. Memories of the night he left come flooding back and he’s transported to that place of feeling unworthy and inadequate. His chest puffs up and his shoulders tense. “At least I made something of myself. Can’t you at least be a little bit happy for me?

He immediately realizes that was a low blow, evident in the way the tears start pouring from your eyes. The hurt on your face cuts a deep pang in Eddie’s chest for his thoughtless comment. You’ve always been there for him, you were always in his corner for as long as you’d known each other.

You shrink into yourself, avoiding his intense stare as you crumble. “I am happy for you. It just sucks that I had to be forgotten about for you to get there. But I understand, I really do. You had to ditch this town to chase after what you wanted for your life, and that included leaving me behind too.” You wipe your nose with the back of your hand and sniffle.

Eddie’s tense posture relaxes and his expression turns sorrowful as he watches you fall apart from his wrongdoings. It hurts to watch you run a hand through your hair and wipe the mascara from below your eyes in an attempt to compose yourself. The sound of your fumbling car keys is like a thundering countdown in his ears, urging him that his time is running out before he’s lost you entirely. Eddie’s mind races as he fights the impulse to do something, anything, to make amends. “Don’t go,” he begs. “I’m sorry.”

You respond with your eyes fixed on inserting your key into the lock of the car door, your trembling hands making it difficult to do so. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yes I do,” he insists, getting as physically close as possible without crossing any boundaries.

The piercing glare that was previously on his face has found its way onto yours. “I disagree. You got everything you could’ve ever wanted.”

When your eyes meet, he can feel it in his toes. “I didn’t, though.” Eddie notices the inflamed veins in your eyes, hating himself for being the reason you’re crying. It’s an odd feeling, but a small, sad smile tugs at his lips.

The scoff from you hits like a slap to his cheek. “Let’s see.” You hold out your hand and begin counting on your fingers. “Expensive clothes, a massive house, I’m sure you have multiple cars. You probably have a personal chef.” All true. “For fuck’s sake, you have a private jet. What more could you possibly want?”

Eddie is terrified of making a move that might push you further away, yet he musters the courage to try to ground you with his touch. His fingers gently wrap around your wrist and both of you watch as he brushes his thumb over your veins. “I never got to have you.” Eddie’s voice cracks ever so slightly as he lays all of his cards on the table. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

A tear rolls down your cheek as your hands begin to interact with his. You contemplate pulling your hand away, the heartache inching back into the forefront of your mind. “If you wanted me you would’ve been here all along.”

Eddie holds his breath as your fingers intertwine and your palms press together. “I’m here now, and I want you just as badly as I did back then.” His lips press a soft kiss to the tops of your knuckles and his teary eyes meet yours. “I was just a dumb kid who turned heel and ran when things didn’t go the way I wanted them to.”

“Yeah, you were,” you agree with a bite of your lip. “You didn’t even give me the chance to tell you that I felt the same way.”

Eddie grins, giving your hand a squeeze and another kiss. “Is there any chance that you still feel that way? Because I’m still stupidly in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you too.” You exhale with relief.

Eddie tilts his head at you, continuing to hold your hand to his plush lips. “Wanna be stupid together?” 

“Yeah, I’d really like that.”

Reblogs are greatly appreciated! ♡

★My Masterlist

★Tip Jar ♡

[ultraheydudemestuff]

West Side Market

1979 W 25th St.

Cleveland, OH 44113

The West Side Market is the oldest operating indoor/outdoor market space in Cleveland, Ohio. It is located at the corner of West 25th Street and Lorain Avenue in the Ohio City neighborhood.

The market began operating in 1840, across the street from its current location. Josiah Barber and Richard Lord, prominent businessmen and both former mayors of Ohio City before it was incorporated into Cleveland, donated land to Ohio City's government, stipulating that the tract be used for an open-air neighborhood market. The market space became a center of the Ohio City community for the next three decades and other benefactors donated adjacent lands allowing the marketplace to expand. In 1868, a one-story, wooden framed building was erected on the site, and the newly christened Pearl Street Market was opened.

Thanks to brisk population growth in Cleveland and Ohio City in the latter part of the 19th century, the market outgrew its space again. In 1902, lands were purchased across the street from the Pearl Market site to allow for market expansion and eventual construction of additional indoor market space. Cleveland architectural firm Hubbell and Benes was contracted to create the new indoor space and, after nearly a decade of planning and construction, the current West Side Market building was completed in 1912 at a cost of nearly $680,000. The Neo-Classical/Byzantine building is a brick construct with a large interior concourse that provides nearly 100 stalls for sellers and an 85-stall outdoor produce arcade that wraps around the side and rear of the main building. In addition, the building has a large clock tower, easily visible from most of Ohio City in the building's early days.

In 1915, the permanent building spurred sellers to establish the West Side Market Tenants' Association, a coalition founded to help maintain the market and organize for future improvements and additions. This organization exists at the Market today. Periodic upgrades accommodated more tenants and maintained and improved the overall conditions. A fuller, $1.1 million modernization was undertaken in 1953 to add lower-level storage areas and upgrade stalls in the arcade. Another renovation, this one for $5 million, took place after the Market was added to the National Register of Historic Places on December 18, 1973.

The market's profile rose in the latter 20th century. Politicians passing through Cleveland often stopped in to sample the array of foods sold at the market on any given day. The market also began sponsoring major food festivals in the neighborhood which drew people from Cleveland and the rest of the world. Despite the successes of the 1980s, however, the market began to face financial straits as Cleveland itself was experiencing monetary struggles. A large portion of the market's subsidies from the city dried up, leaving tenants facing higher rents to keep the market open. Yet the market expanded and was renovated throughout the 1990s and into the 21st century.

A 2004 project enclosed and added space heating to the arcade portion of the market, as well as completed major interior and architectural renovations to the main building. In the September 2010 issue of Food Network Magazine, the West Side Market was named America's "Best Food Lovers' Market." The market's centennial was celebrated in 2012. In 2016 city officials announced that starting April 3 of that year the market would add regular Sunday hours for the first time in its history. The city of Cleveland transferred management of the market to the non-profit board Cleveland Public Market Corporation on April 24, 2024; the city retains ownership. Many stalls have remained under individual family control for much of the life of the market, several dating to 1912. The market's tenants and sellers reflect the cultural diversity of the surrounding neighborhood and Cleveland as a whole. The current roster of tenants includes those of Irish, German, Slovene, Italian, Hungarian, Greek, Polish, Russian, and Middle Eastern descent, among others. The market attracts tourists from all parts of the United States, who visit and learn about its history. Its national profile has been boosted in recent years by coverage on various programs produced by the Travel Channel and Food Network.

[ladyeckland28]

Empty Spaces

Three psychological tales of terror and isolation inspired by the YouTube series Backrooms

By Lady Eckland, Glenn Riley and Ms Darkwood

Starring @horrorseventhree as Bernard in Midnight At The Meridian and @solesofwonder as Tara in The Labyrinth

Midnight at the Meridian

By Glenn Riley

The clock on the main concourse display flickered, then settled stubbornly on 00:00. Midnight. Bernard sighed, the sound echoing slightly in the cavernous, empty space of the Meridian Mega Mall. Another Tuesday night shift, another eight hours of walking silent corridors, listening to the hum of dormant escalators and the whisper of the air conditioning. He adjusted the ill-fitting security jacket, the fabric stiff and smelling faintly of industrial cleaner and loneliness.

"Zone Bravo clear, heading towards Delta," he muttered into his radio, the words feeling pointless even as he said them. Routine. Everything was routine.

"Copy that, Bernard," Gary’s voice crackled back, laced with the usual weariness. "Dave's sweeping Echo. All quiet on the western front."

"Ten-four," Bernard replied, clipping the radio back onto his belt. Gary was in the north wing, Dave down in the service tunnels beneath the food court. Three lonely sentinels guarding a sleeping giant made of retail space and simulated daylight. Bernard was patrolling the central atrium and the adjacent luxury goods section – Zone Delta. Acres of polished marble floor reflected the muted emergency lighting, making the high-end storefronts look like museum exhibits behind their security grilles. Handbags that cost more than his monthly salary gleamed under spotlights, mannequins draped in designer clothes stood frozen mid-pose, their blank faces unnerving in the silence.

He hated this part of the patrol. During the day, this area buzzed with piped-in classical music, the scent of expensive perfume, and the murmur of affluent shoppers. At night, it felt like a tomb. A very shiny, overpriced tomb. He tapped his baton against his thigh, the rhythmic thud a small comfort against the oppressive quiet. Thud-thud-thud. His footsteps echoed, sharp and distinct. Thud-thud-thud.

He passed the gleaming glass elevator shaft, its internal lights off, the cars resting silently at the ground floor. He rounded the corner towards the main fountain, currently drained and dark. Usually, the gentle burble of water filled this space. Now, only the hum of the building’s systems remained.

He paused, listening. Was that...? No, just the air con kicking in again. He continued his patrol, checking the grilles on 'Bijoux Fantastique', 'Senator Watches', 'Le Cuir Chic'. All secure. Boring. Mind-numbingly boring. He sometimes wondered what he’d do if something actually did happen. A break-in, a fire. Would he be a hero? Probably not. He’d probably just call the police and hide behind a large potted plant.

He reached the end of Zone Delta, marked by the transition from marble to the garish carpet of the mid-range fashion wing. Time to check in. He unclipped his radio.

"Bernard to Control. Zone Delta clear. Proceeding to Foxtrot."

Silence. Not static, just... dead air. He frowned, pressing the transmit button again.

"Bernard to Control? Gary? Dave? Anyone copy?"

Nothing. He tapped the radio. Maybe the battery was dead? No, the indicator light was green. He tried switching channels. Still silence. A cold knot began to tighten in his stomach. Equipment failure was common enough – cheap radios, older systems – but losing contact with everyone simultaneously? That felt wrong.

He tried Gary’s direct channel. "Gary, you read me? Bernard here." Silence. "Dave? You there, buddy?" Nothing. The silence was suddenly heavier, pressing in on him. The background hum of the building seemed louder, more insistent.

He decided to head back towards the central security office near the main entrance. Maybe the main console was down. He turned, his footsteps quickening on the marble. The echo seemed to follow him, slightly out of sync. He glanced back, but the corridor was empty, shadows pooling around the bases of pillars and darkened storefronts.

As he reached the central atrium again, something new intruded on the silence. Faintly, distantly, he heard music. He stopped dead, straining his ears. It was the mall’s daytime music. A cheerful, offensively bland pop song from a few years ago, the kind designed to encourage spending, now drifting eerily through the empty space.

"What the hell?" he whispered. The PA system was centrally controlled, timed to shut off automatically at 10:30 PM, half an hour after the last shopper was shooed out. It never played overnight. Never.

He fumbled for his radio again, forgetting it wasn't working. Useless. Okay, stay calm. There had to be a rational explanation. A timer malfunction. A system glitch. Maybe Dave was messing around in the control room? But Dave was supposed to be in the service tunnels. And why wasn't he answering his radio?

The music grew slightly louder as he walked towards the main entrance, the upbeat tempo a grotesque counterpoint to the fear coiling inside him. It felt mocking. He passed the darkened food court on his left, the chairs stacked neatly on tables, silhouettes in the gloom. The music seemed to be coming from the speakers dotted across the high ceiling, tinny and pervasive.

He reached the security office, a small glass-walled room tucked beside the main sliding doors. The lights were off inside. He swiped his keycard. The reader beeped green, and the lock clicked open. Relief washed over him – at least something was working. He pushed the door open.

"Gary? Dave?" he called into the darkness. No answer. He fumbled for the light switch just inside the door and flicked it on.

The office was empty. The main console, usually alive with the glow of monitor screens displaying CCTV feeds, was dark. Completely dead. Not just asleep – powered down. The master PA system controls were on a separate panel, and its indicator lights were also dark. Yet the music played on, seeping into the office from the mall outside.

Panic began to bubble in his throat. This wasn't a glitch. This was impossible. The system was off, dead, but the music was playing. And Gary and Dave were gone. Or at least, not answering.

He backed out of the office, scanning the vast, empty concourse. The music swelled, seeming to fill every corner of the enormous space. Where could they be? Maybe they went to investigate the music? He tried shouting their names, his voice cracking.

"GARY! DAVE! CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

Only the cheerful pop song answered, its lyrics about summer love feeling obscene in the dead of night. His shouts echoed, bouncing off the distant walls and polished floors, sounding small and lost.

He needed to get out. Protocol dictated they check the emergency exits on their patrols. He knew the nearest one was at the end of the west wing, past the department store. He started walking, almost jogging, his baton held tightly in his hand. The music followed him, relentless.

As he moved through the different zones, a new, chilling sensation crept over him. The mall felt... different. The layout seemed subtly wrong. Hadn't there been a kiosk selling phone chargers here yesterday? Now it was just empty space. And the corridor leading to the sportswear section seemed longer than he remembered, the perspective subtly skewed, stretching into the gloom.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Fatigue. Fear. Playing tricks on his mind. He had to focus. Get to the exit.

He passed a row of mannequins in a shop window – a family scene, parents and two children, all frozen in disturbingly lifelike poses. As he hurried past, he could have sworn the head of the father mannequin turned slightly, tracking his movement. He stopped, heart pounding, staring back at the figure. It was motionless, plastic eyes fixed straight ahead. Just his imagination. It had to be.

But the feeling of being watched intensified. The air grew colder. The music seemed to warp slightly, the cheerful melody underscored by a discordant hum, almost subliminal. He risked a glance up at one of the PA speakers. It looked normal. But the sound wasn't just coming from the speakers anymore; it felt like it was emanating from the walls, the floor, the very air of the mall.

He finally reached the emergency exit, a heavy red door marked with the familiar green running man sign. He pushed down hard on the panic bar.

It didn't budge.

He threw his shoulder against it. Nothing. It was sealed tight, as if welded shut. He tried the handle – locked from the outside, as it should be, but the panic bar should always open from the inside. He hammered on the metal, his shouts echoing uselessly back into the mall.

Trapped. The realization hit him like a physical blow. He leaned his forehead against the cold metal door, breathing heavily. The music pulsed around him. He was trapped inside this vast, empty, wrong place, and his colleagues were missing.

He pushed himself away from the door, forcing himself to think. Other exits. Service corridors. There had to be another way out. He remembered Dave mentioning a service hatch near the loading bays, down past the supermarket anchor store. It was a long walk, back through the increasingly alien landscape of the mall.

He started back, moving more cautiously now, scanning the shadows, listening intently over the incessant music. The mall felt less empty now, more like it was holding its breath, waiting. He kept glancing at the mannequins, expecting them to move. He avoided looking directly into the darkened shopfronts, afraid of what he might see reflected in the glass.

As he passed the entrance to the multi-storey car park, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Deep within the concrete structure, barely visible through the glass doors, a light source bobbed erratically. A flashlight?

"Gary? Dave?" he yelled, banging on the glass.

The light stopped moving. Then, slowly, it began to approach the doors. Bernard squinted, trying to make out the figure behind the light. It was tall, silhouetted against the deeper darkness of the car park.

"Is that you?" Bernard called, relief warring with a nagging unease. Why hadn't they answered?

The figure reached the glass doors. It wasn't Gary or Dave. It was much taller, impossibly thin, its limbs too long, moving with a jerky, unnatural gait. It held a standard-issue security flashlight, but its hand – or what passed for a hand – seemed to wrap entirely around it, pale and multi-jointed. It had no discernible face, just a smooth, vaguely humanoid shape where features should be. It tilted its head, mimicking curiosity, the beam of the flashlight dancing across Bernard's terrified face.

Bernard stumbled backwards, a strangled cry escaping his lips. The music surged, louder now, the melody twisting into something harsh and grating. The figure behind the glass remained motionless for a moment, head tilted, then it raised one long, spindly arm and tapped lightly on the glass. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was drowned out by the music, but Bernard saw it, felt it.

He turned and ran. He didn't know where he was going, just away. Away from the figure, away from the music, deeper into the heart of the Meridian Mega Mall, which was no longer just a building, but a trap, a hunting ground. The cheerful pop song chased him through the endless, subtly changing corridors, a soundtrack to his descent into a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. He was lost, alone, and the midnight shift had become an eternity. The mall was awake, and it was hungry.

The Thirteenth Floor

By Ms Darkwood

The digital clock on Alex’s monitor glowed 10:47 PM. Outside the panoramic windows of Sterling Corp’s thirteenth-floor office, the city lights glittered like scattered jewels, a stark contrast to the sterile, fluorescent-lit reality within. Alex stretched, groaning as his spine popped. Another late one. The Henderson report had been a beast, but it was finally done, emailed off into the corporate ether.

He shut down his computer, the sudden silence amplifying the low hum of the servers down the hall. Usually, the office was a hive of activity – ringing phones, clacking keyboards, the low murmur of stressed professionals. Now, it was just him.

Well, almost.

"Still burning the midnight oil, Sabrina?" he called out towards the corner office, its glass walls partially obscured by blinds.

A muffled response came back. "Needs must, Alex. This merger won't merge itself."

Sabrina Hayes. His boss. Sharp, driven, demanding, and apparently nocturnal. Alex respected her, feared her slightly, and mostly tried to stay out of her direct line of fire. He gathered his belongings – laptop bag, crumpled jacket, reusable coffee cup.

"Right, well, I'm clocking off," he said, walking towards her office. "Don't let the spreadsheets bite."

He saw her silhouette through the blinds, hunched over her desk. "Goodnight, Alex. See you at the 8 AM briefing."

"Wouldn't miss it," he lied, forcing a cheerful tone. He walked towards the lift lobby at the centre of the floor. The doors slid open automatically as he approached, revealing the empty lift car. He stepped inside, pressed the 'G' button for the ground floor. The doors slid shut, the familiar chime sounded, but the lift didn't move.

He pressed the button again. Nothing. He tried the 'Door Open' button. It remained stubbornly closed. Annoyed, he pressed the emergency call button. A tinny, pre-recorded message played: "Please remain calm. Your call is being connected." Then, silence. No ringing, no operator. Just the low hum of the lift's ventilation.

"Great," he muttered. He hammered the 'Door Open' button again. The doors juddered slightly but stayed shut. Okay, plan B. He fished his phone from his pocket. No signal. Of course. Thick concrete and steel, designed to keep corporate secrets in, apparently kept mobile signals out too.

He sighed and pressed the button for the 13th floor again. Maybe it would register that. After a moment's pause, the lift gave a slight jolt and the doors slid open, revealing the same empty lobby he'd just left. Progress.

He stepped out, deciding to try the fire stairs. He headed towards the heavy door marked 'EXIT'. He pushed the handle. Locked. He frowned. Fire stairs shouldn't be locked from the inside. He tried the adjacent stairwell door. Also locked solid.

A prickle of unease ran down his spine. Power glitch affecting the lift and the electronic locks on the fire doors? Possible, he supposed. But the lights were still on, the servers were humming.

"Sabrina?" he called out, walking back towards her office. "Having some trouble with the lifts and stairs."

No reply. He reached her office. The blinds were still drawn, but the light inside was off now. Strange, he hadn't heard her leave.

"Sabrina?" he said again, tapping lightly on the glass door. He pushed it open gently. The office was empty. Her computer was off, her chair pushed neatly under the desk. But her handbag was still on the floor beside the chair, and her jacket was slung over the back. She wouldn't have left without those.

"Okay, this is weird," Alex said aloud, the sound swallowed by the office silence. Where could she be? The restrooms? He checked them quickly – empty. The kitchenette? Empty, save for a lingering smell of burnt microwave popcorn. The server room? Locked, as always.

He walked the perimeter of the large open-plan office space. Rows of darkened monitors, empty chairs, deserted desks holding sad-looking pot plants and stacks of files. The silence was absolute now, except for his own footsteps on the industrial carpet.

Then he heard it. A faint, rhythmic clicking sound.

It seemed to be coming from the ceiling vents. He stopped, listening intently. Click... click... click... Like fingernails tapping on metal, but faster, more insectile.

"Hello?" he called out tentatively. "Is anyone there? Building maintenance?"

The clicking stopped. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before. Alex's heart was starting to beat faster. Lifts out, doors locked, boss vanished, weird noises. This wasn't just a glitch anymore.

He continued his circuit of the office, peering down empty corridors, checking meeting rooms. All dark, all empty. He felt increasingly exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights. Every shadow seemed too deep, every corner a potential hiding place.

He reached the far side of the office, near the archives room – a windowless vault of filing cabinets and storage boxes. The clicking sound returned, louder now, definitely coming from inside the archives. And it was accompanied by something else – a wet, tearing sound.

Against his better judgment, driven by a mixture of fear and a desperate need for answers, he approached the archives door. It was slightly ajar. He pushed it open slowly.

The room was dimly lit by a single emergency bulb. Filing cabinets lined the walls, casting long shadows. In the centre of the room, illuminated by the stark light, stood Sabrina. Or, what was left of her.

Alex clamped a hand over his mouth, stifling a gasp. Her back was to him. She was still wearing her smart business suit, but it was torn and stained. And sprouting from her back, erupting through the fabric, were four long, spindly, chitinous limbs, black and jointed like a spider's legs. They twitched and clicked against the linoleum floor, supporting her weight as she hunched over something indistinct on the ground.

Her head turned, slowly, unnaturally, rotating almost 180 degrees on her neck. Her face... oh god, her face. It was stretched, distorted, pulled taut over inhuman bone structures. Her mouth was wider, filled with needle-sharp fangs, glistening with saliva. Her eyes – there were too many. Eight black, multifaceted eyes glittered where two should be, reflecting the dim light. She wasn't wearing Sabrina's skin; it was her skin, horribly mutated, blended with the exoskeleton of some monstrous arachnid.

She – it – let out a high-pitched chittering sound, the noise vibrating in Alex’s bones. The thing she had been hunched over was a large rat, now mangled and partially devoured.

Alex stumbled backwards, hitting the doorframe. The creature straightened up, its spider legs unfolding, raising its height considerably. It dropped the rat carcass with a wet smack and took a step towards him, its human feet shuffling awkwardly while the spider limbs moved with terrifying speed and precision.

"S-Sabrina?" Alex stammered, knowing it was useless.

The creature tilted its head, a grotesque parody of Sabrina's inquisitive expression. "Alex," it hissed, the voice a horrifying blend of Sabrina's familiar cadence and a dry, clicking rasp. "Working late again? Dedication. I like that."

It took another step, faster this time, the clicking of its extra limbs echoing horribly in the confined space. Alex turned and bolted. He ran back into the main office area, adrenaline flooding his system. He could hear it scuttling behind him, unnaturally fast.

He ducked behind a bank of cubicles, heart hammering against his ribs. Where could he go? The lifts were out, the stairs locked. He was trapped on the thirteenth floor with... that thing.

He risked a peek over the partition. The creature stood in the centre of the open area, its multiple eyes scanning the room, head twitching side to side. It seemed disoriented by the open space, more comfortable in the confines of the archives.

He needed a weapon. Anything. He scanned the nearby desks. Stapler? Too small. Letter opener? Maybe. Then he saw it – a heavy glass award trophy on a vacant executive desk. He crept towards it, staying low.

A sudden skittering sound from above made him freeze. He looked up. The creature was on the ceiling, clinging effortlessly with its spider limbs, its human body dangling beneath, head swiveling, searching. Its shadow stretched grotesquely across the desks below.

It spotted him. With another chittering hiss, it dropped from the ceiling, landing heavily on a desk just meters away, scattering papers and splintering wood. It scrambled towards him, faster than he could have imagined.

Alex grabbed the heavy glass trophy and scrambled backwards, tripping over a chair and falling heavily. The creature loomed over him, fangs bared, a strand of thick, web-like saliva dripping onto his face. He swung the trophy desperately, connecting with one of its spider legs with a sickening crunch.

The creature shrieked, a high-pitched sound that was both insectile and agonizingly human. It recoiled, clutching the damaged limb. Alex scrambled to his feet and ran again, heading blindly towards the windowed side of the building.

He glanced back. The creature was recovering quickly, its eight eyes fixed on him with cold, predatory hunger. It started producing webbing, thick strands shooting from spinnerets hidden beneath its human torso, trying to ensnare him.

He dodged the sticky strands, reaching the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. Trapped. No way out. He backed against the glass, holding the trophy like a club, panting heavily.

The creature approached slowly now, savoring the moment, clicking and chittering softly. Its distorted Sabrina-face twisted into something resembling a smile. "Nowhere to run, Alex," it rasped. "This merger... is hostile."

It lunged. Alex reacted purely on instinct. He didn't swing the trophy. Instead, he threw his entire weight sideways, smashing the award against the huge pane of glass. Reinforced corporate window-dressing wasn't designed for that kind of impact. Spiderweb cracks appeared instantly. He hit it again, harder.

The glass fractured, groaned, and then exploded outwards with a deafening roar, showering the office with shards and letting in the cold night air and the distant sounds of the city. The sudden decompression and noise seemed to stun the creature for a vital second.

Alex didn't hesitate. He didn't think about the thirteen-story drop. He scrambled through the jagged opening, grabbing onto a thick metal mullion separating the panes. He clung there, bleeding from cuts, the wind whipping around him, the dizzying drop below.

He looked back inside. The Sabrina-spider-thing was recovering, crawling towards the broken window, its multiple eyes gleaming with fury. It wouldn't be able to follow him out here. Or would it? Could it crawl on the outside of the building?

He didn't wait to find out. Hand over hand, adrenaline masking the pain, he began to edge his way along the narrow ledge towards the neighbouring window, hoping against hope it might lead somewhere, anywhere, other than back inside the thirteenth floor, where his boss waited, hungry and changed. The city lights seemed impossibly far away, and the clicking sound from the office behind him was the only certainty in his world.

The Labyrinth

By Lady Eckland

The brochure called it "The Aqueous Labyrinth: The Ultimate Aquatic Challenge." Tara Newman, toweling her hair vigorously after her morning warm-up laps, grinned. Ultimate was right up her alley. She’d swum the English Channel, navigated the Strait of Gibraltar, competed in grueling open-water marathons across the globe. A man-made underwater maze at a luxury swim resort? Sounded like fun. A novelty.

The resort itself was state-of-the-art, carved into a coastal cliff face, catering exclusively to serious swimmers. Olympic-sized pools, resistance flumes, hypoxic chambers, and then... the Labyrinth. An underground network of flooded tunnels, pools, and passages, designed to test navigation, endurance, and nerve.

"You're sure about this, Ms. Newman?" asked the attendant, a young man with unnervingly bright eyes, as he handed her the waiver form and a waterproof map laminated onto a buoyant board. "It's... disorienting down there. Standard time limit is two hours. Distress signal is three sharp tugs on the guide rope near the entrance."

"I'll be fine," Tara said confidently, scrawling her signature. Disorienting? She’d navigated through shipping lanes in near-zero visibility. "Just point me to the entrance."

He gestured towards a heavy, circular vault door set into the rock face at the far end of the main pool complex. "It's monitored via sonar, mostly for flow and structural integrity. We don't have cameras in the main tunnels – privacy and the challenge, you know. Just... stick to the map. People get turned around." He hesitated. "And try not to touch the walls too much if you can help it. Algae."

Tara nodded, already strapping the map board to her wrist. Algae? Seemed an odd warning. She adjusted her goggles, took a deep breath, and pulled open the heavy door.

A blast of cool, chlorinated air hit her, carrying the amplified echo of dripping water. Stairs led down into turquoise-lit water that filled a wide tunnel disappearing into darkness. A thick guide rope snaked from a stanchion beside the stairs into the depths. She dipped a toe in – cool, but not cold. Standard pool temperature.

She slipped into the water, the vault door hissing shut behind her, plunging the entrance chamber into the eerie underwater glow. The silence was immediate, broken only by the sound of her own breathing and the gentle lapping of water against the tunnel walls. Okay, Labyrinth, she thought, let's see what you've got.

She consulted her map. A straightforward tunnel first, then a choice of three branching passages. She pushed off, her powerful strokes propelling her easily through the water. The tunnel was wider than she expected, the tiled walls smooth beneath the water, illuminated by intermittent underwater lights set into the ceiling. It was strangely beautiful, in an artificial, sterile way.

She swam for perhaps ten minutes, the tunnel twisting gently. The silence began to feel profound. No birds, no wind, no distant traffic. Just water, concrete, and her own heartbeat drumming in her ears. She reached the first junction, three identical tunnels branching off into dimmer light. She checked her map, oriented herself using a numbered marker on the wall, and chose the middle path.

This tunnel was narrower, the ceiling lower. She had to be more careful with her strokes. The lights here were spaced further apart, creating pools of darkness between them. She swam through one such dark patch, feeling a brief, irrational flicker of unease. It felt like swimming through liquid night.

She reached a wider chamber, a deep circular pool. The map indicated she needed to dive down, where the exit tunnel continued about fifteen feet below the surface. She took a breath, surface-dived, and kicked downwards. The pressure increased in her ears. Below, the water was darker, the light from above barely penetrating. She saw the illuminated opening of the next tunnel and swam towards it.

As she entered the lower tunnel, she thought she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, back in the deep pool she’d just left. A flicker of shadow, a disturbance in the water. She paused, treading water just inside the tunnel entrance, peering back into the gloom. Nothing. Just the play of light and shadow on the rippling surface far above. Must have been her own wake.

She continued on, but the seed of unease had been planted. The attendant's hesitant warning came back to her. People get turned around. And the odd comment about algae. Why mention that specifically?

The Labyrinth lived up to its name. Tunnels branched and reconnected, stairs led up to small, dry platforms that were dead ends, grates blocked some passages, requiring her to find alternate routes. She consulted the map frequently, but found herself having to backtrack more than once. It was definitely a challenge, testing her spatial awareness.

She surfaced in another large chamber, this one with several tunnels leading off at water level. She needed a short break. She hauled herself onto a narrow ledge running along the wall, water streaming from her swimsuit. She sat there, catching her breath, the amplified sounds of dripping water echoing around the cavernous space.

That’s when she saw it. Scratched into the tiles just above the waterline, almost hidden by shadow, were words. Not official markers, but desperate, jagged letters: "NOT ALONE" and "IT SEES".

Tara’s blood ran cold. This wasn't part of the challenge. This was real fear etched onto the walls. Suddenly, the stories she’d vaguely heard – rumours dismissed as resort gossip about swimmers who took longer than expected, or who came out shaken – took on a terrifying new weight. Had people gone missing down here?

She slid back into the water, her confidence replaced by a gnawing anxiety. She looked at the map again, but the lines and symbols seemed confusing now, less like a guide, more like the scrawlings of a madman. Every splash, every ripple, every gurgle of water seemed menacing.

She chose a tunnel – marked 'Sector Gamma' on the map – and swam faster now, wanting only to find the exit. This tunnel was long and straight, but poorly lit. She swam through stretches of near-total darkness. In one of these patches, something brushed against her leg.

She yelled out, the sound choked by water as she inhaled sharply. She spun around in the water, limbs flailing, peering wildly into the blackness. Nothing. Just the feel of the water swirling around her. What was that? A loose bit of piping? A stray current? Or...?

Not alone. It sees.

Panic began to set in. She forced it down, relying on years of training to control her breathing, to stay focused. But the Labyrinth felt different now. It wasn't a novelty; it was a trap. The chlorine smell seemed sharper, the water colder, the silence heavier, pregnant with unseen threat.

She found herself in a section where the tunnel split vertically – one passage near the surface, another deeper down. The map indicated the lower path. She hesitated, remembering the feeling in the deep pool earlier. But the map was her only guide. She hyperventilated slightly, took a huge breath, and dived.

The lower tunnel was narrow and completely dark. She swam by feel, one hand trailing along the smooth, cold tiles of the wall. She counted her strokes, trying to estimate the distance. Ten strokes... twenty... thirty... This tunnel felt much longer than the map suggested.

Suddenly, her trailing hand brushed against something that wasn't smooth tile. It was rough, textured, and slightly yielding. Like... skin. Cold, clammy skin covered in a fine, abrasive fuzz, like wet sandpaper.

Tara snatched her hand back as if burned, a silent scream trapped in her lungs. She kicked frantically, desperate to get out of the dark tunnel. She saw a faint glimmer of light ahead and surged towards it, bursting out into another lit chamber.

She surfaced, gasping, coughing, heart pounding fit to burst. She scrambled onto a low platform in the centre of the chamber, shaking uncontrollably. What had she touched?

She scanned the water around the platform, her eyes wide with terror. The surface was still, reflecting the underwater lights. But she knew, with chilling certainty, that she wasn't alone anymore. The thing she had touched in the darkness was down here with her. It was real.

She looked at her map board, but her hands were shaking too much to hold it steady. The lines blurred. Where was she? How far to the exit? It felt like she'd been swimming for hours, but the clock integrated into the board showed only 45 minutes had passed. Time felt distorted here.

A low sound echoed through the chamber, seemingly coming from one of the submerged tunnel entrances. Not a splash, but a deep, guttural clicking, like pebbles rolling together underwater.

It sees.

Tara didn't want to see it. She just wanted out. She scanned the chamber walls. High above, near the ceiling, she saw something that wasn't on the map – a small, square opening, possibly a maintenance access duct. It was her only chance.

She dove back into the water, forcing down her terror, and swam towards the wall beneath the opening. It was sheer, smooth tile. No handholds. The opening was a good ten feet above the water level. Impossible to reach.

The clicking sound came again, closer this time. Ripples disturbed the surface of the water near the tunnel entrance opposite her. Something was emerging.

Tara kicked off the wall, swimming desperately towards another tunnel entrance, praying it was the right way, praying it would lead her out. She glanced back as she reached it.

In the centre of the chamber, slowly rising from the water, was a figure. Pale, bloated, and slick, like something that had been submerged for too long. Its limbs were too long, ending in webbed claws. Its head was large and eyeless, dominated by a gaping maw filled with rows of needle-like teeth. It moved slowly, deliberately, water streaming off its fungal-looking skin. It turned its blank head towards her tunnel, and although it had no eyes, she felt utterly, horrifyingly seen.

She plunged into the new tunnel, swimming with the desperate strength of pure fear. The tunnel twisted, turned, plunged downwards. She scraped her shoulder against a rough patch of wall – algae, the attendant had said. But it felt more like the skin of the thing behind her. Was the Labyrinth itself alive? Was the creature part of it?

She didn't know how long she swam, blind panic overriding thought. She ignored the map, following instinct, choosing tunnels that seemed to lead upwards. She burst into chambers, scanned frantically for exits, plunged into new tunnels, the clicking sound a persistent echo in her mind, sometimes seeming closer, sometimes farther away. It was hunting her. The Labyrinth was its domain, and she was the prey, just like the Minotaur's victims.

Finally, gasping, lungs burning, muscles screaming, she saw it – a shimmer of natural light from above. A vertical shaft, with rough-hewn steps carved into the rock beside a waterfall of chlorinated water cascading down. The exit? Or just another cruel trick of the maze?

She didn't care. She hauled herself out of the water, onto the first step, ignoring the pain in her scraped limbs. She climbed, forcing her exhausted body upwards, towards the light. She didn't look back, didn't dare listen for the clicking below. She just climbed, until she collapsed onto a metal grating, blinking in the blessed, ordinary light of the main resort complex.

She lay there, shivering, sobbing, safe.

But later, wrapped in thermal blankets, sipping hot chocolate, the resort manager's soothing words about disorientation and mild hypoxia felt hollow. She knew what she had seen. She knew what she had touched. The Labyrinth wasn't just a challenge; it was a feeding ground. And something ancient, hungry, and unseen by the glossy brochures waited patiently in the chlorinated depths for the next challenger to venture too far into its maze. Tara Newman had survived, but a part of her would forever remain trapped in the echoing, underwater silence, listening for the clicking sound in the dark.

[hananoami]

The subway series offline activities are about to start🚇Hunters, please sit tight and hold on tight!

🚇 Dimension-breaking escalator companion screen launch Take the elevator up slowly with him, look at each other side by side, and feel the sweetness of being so close.

📍On July 11, People’s Square Station, station concourse level escalator (between the two toll areas in the station concourse of Line 1, located in the transfer area between Line 1 and Line 2/Line 8)

🚇Love and deep space super happy women special train

Four major themes, diverse styles, go on an exciting and interesting journey with him!

📍From July 12th to 26th, Shanghai Metro Line 2·Love and Deep Space Themed Special Train *On July 12th, the [Exterior] of the subway will be decorated, and on July 13th the [Interior] of the subway will be decorated (Note: The four major themes are the interiors of the carriages). If you want to get a complete themed train experience, it is recommended that hunters 7 Go and ride after March 13th. *The train will run around the clock during the published operating hours, waiting for hunters at different stations on Line 2. The train cycle (referring to one-way from the origin station to the terminal station) has about 12 trains per day.

[Special Note]: The subway operating hours are under the jurisdiction of Shanghai Shuntong Metro Group. They are subject to uncontrollable fluctuations due to many factors. It is impossible to completely avoid the possibility of temporary suspension of theme trains due to daily train maintenance and other reasons. Hunters, please understand.

🚇Xindong Photo Offline Check-in Exhibition Take offline photos together and take photos with him in a tacit understanding. Shanghai People’s Square Subway Station will open a special check-in exhibition to leave heart-warming memories with him in the midsummer~

📍From July 11th to 24th, the entrance gate of People’s Square Station Hall of Line 1 (near Gate 17) lobby area

🚇Bailian ZX large screen launch If you are excited to travel, make an appointment with him. Shanghai Bailian ZX Fun Center will launch Love and Deep Space on the big screen. Welcome to check in!

📍On July 12th and 14th, outdoor large screens at Shanghai Bailian ZX Creative Field; 📍Indoor multiple LED screens from July 12th to 14th In addition, Bailian ZX mini program "Meta ZX" will also open a lottery from 14:00 on July 10 to 18:00 on July 26, giving away 5 copies of "520 yuan in cash" ~

💡Special Tips: Because the subway is an important means of public transportation, if it causes people to gather for a long time, the relevant departments may order rectification or cancellation. Therefore, hunters are also requested to abide by the relevant order and avoid staying for long periods of time and occupying traffic roads. Thank you for your cooperation.

[poem-today]

A poem by Brian Brodeur

THE CARPENTER'S TALE

There's going to be an accounting. And it'll be the weird stats that come out of somewhere. And this is one of the stranger ones.

—Kerry Breen, This American Life, 8/13/2021

Most of us laughed at being called "essential" in those first weeks of New York's quarantine. We'd grease a hinge or patch a rotten sill,

replacing sunk beams under a snack machine, painting classrooms. Though it felt like cheating, I'd never seen the schools look so pristine.

Then, in April, at our team meeting, our boss clears his throat and his voice softens. Putting down the cruller he's been eating,

he says, "Next week, we start building coffins." One of us laughs. Another spills his coffee. I tell my boss, "Get out of here. Build coffins."

He looks up from his clipboard and glares at me, then gives us all the plans his boss gave him: "We'll be building coffins for the city."

On Monday, I show up at this school gym outfitted as a shop. On cinderblocks, beside the bleachers with the lights turned dim,

our prototype: a six-foot plywood box standing on its end where the feet would be. Above the prototype and scoreboard clocks,

a championship banner's "Victory" had begun to sag where flags of UN nations cling to the ceiling. Under Germany,

we set up cutting and assembly stations, a place where we can urethane the boards. Electricians rig fans for ventilation

and 10 of us plug in extension cords. We stack up drafts of plywood on the floor— a draft is 50 sheets. Our only words

concern the lack of Mets and Yankees scores, how hot the gym gets, who brought Gatorade. We run through 2x4s and they bring more—

wash, rinse, repeat. I mean, we're getting paid, but after so long it occurs to me: My god, they really need this many made?

No one gives us an end. We build 150, stacking them from one side of the gym to the other, five coffins high—no one can see

above the shrink-wrapped freight pallets of them. I back the forklift into the elevator and drive down Concourse near the stadium

and down another street to a tractor trailer. The forklift's so slow people honk at me. Honk at a guy carrying coffins—or

scream at me to move. This goes on three weeks. I find it—I don't know—bizarre, I guess, not one person ever stops to ask me

what I'm doing, everyone obsessed with toilet paper. Then, passing on foot, a guy who speaks Spanish stops to zip his vest 

and says, "Morte," finger-slicing his throat. "Sí," I say, and he just shakes his head and walks away. I slam the trailer shut.

Our team built 450 in the end, and there were other teams in other districts across the whole Department of Ed.

No one I tell has ever heard of this. Why would they? Not exactly good PR— Guess what we used schools for. You'll never guess. …

But now that things are waning, more and more I feel alright, like I can let it out. It wasn't war—if it had been a war

we'd know what happened, what it was about, how much we'd lost, what people did out there. I'm sure someone will make a final count,

and we'll deal with each last expenditure, but that's years off, and this is not a war.

Brian Brodeur

More poems by Brian Brodeur are available through his website.

[celestialemmissaries]

closed starter for @temporalobjects (kazuhiko)

The pitfalls of archaeology are that whilst one is engrossed in the history and ancient world, there was still an air of danger that everyone had to keep a watch for and sadly, one of Gabriel's companions had befallen a most unfortunate fate. After taking a tumble into an ancient trap in a derelict Japanese temple that dated back to the Jomon period, and was said to be one of the temples that the legendary Himiko conducted worship in, Gabriel was the one who dragged him out and took him to the hospital.

It was quite fortunate that it was just himself and his injured companion at the time, he was uncomfortable with revealing who or what he actually was and intended to keep it that way. But now that they were at the hospital, and informed that his fellow archaeologist would need time to recover, he decides to have a little wander through the wards. Ever since he left the High Heavens, he had grown attached to the mortals and this world where life was simply finite. A stark contrast to himself. But in that finite life, lay the very foundations of hope and joy, of freewill that he so craved and was now fortunate enough to partake in at least for a short and fleeting moment.

As Gabriel was making his way out of the ward however, a certain nurse catches his eye. Younger than the rest of the team that he saw walking around. It makes him smile a moment, his urge to approach and interact ever present and it seemed the timing was just right. He looks up at the clock, maybe his friend could use the space for now to recover, besides maybe he was still knocked out. So the angel walks towards the nurse, adjusting his clothing and fixing his hair before greeting the other with a warm smile, "I'm sorry but I think I'm a little lost. I'm trying to get to the food concourse, and can't seem to find my way. Could you help me?" Smooth Gabriel, very smooth.

[merpmonde]

Arrived here a year ago today: Nagoya station. I did little more than settle in at the guest house and wander back to the station for food before getting a good night's rest.

At each end of the station concourse, there's a distinctive clock - one called the Silver Clock, and the other the Gold Clock, which make good meeting points.

At basement level, there's a good row of restaurants, and I settled on one that serves miso katsu, pork cutlet fried with a hatchô miso sauce. It turns out I'd hit the jackpot, because that's a local dish, and because I loved it! I went back for more another evening with fellow guests, and once again when I made a stop-over at Nagoya on the way from Western Japan to Tokyo. I'm definitely eating there again if I get the chance!

[theworldismyoysterandiamthepearl]

The secrets of Grand Central Station: From subterranean tennis courts to a $20 MILLION clock, explore the hidden treasures lurking inside one of the world's most famous travel hubs

One of Grand Central's standout features is its vaulted plaster ceiling in the main concourse, designed by French artist Paul Helleu

from https://www.dailymail.co.uk/travel/travel_news/article-12616121/The-secrets-Grand-Central-Station-subterranean-tennis-courts-20-MILLION-clock-explore-hidden-treasures-lurking-inside-one-worlds-famous-travel-hubs.html

[jrpneblog]

Ched and Fred see North End home

North End progressed to the last sixteen of the FA Cup after beating a dogged Wycombe Wanderers 4-2 on penalties after the game had gone one hundred and twenty minutes without a goal. This was an instantly forgettable FA Cup fourth round tie in which chances were at a premium and neither side really deserved to go through in normal time. North End looked sluggish and off the pace for much of the game and never really got out of second gear while a spirited but ultimately restricted Chairboys outfit didnt look like breaking North End down for much of the game. As always in these cases the penalties provided the excitement and Freddie Woodman saved two of the first three from the visitors leaving Ched Evans to calmly slot home the winner at about a quarter to six.

Hecky made five changes from the side beaten at Blackburn with Storey, Hughes, Ledson, Kesler- Hayden and Riis making way for Lindsay, Thordarson, Holmes, Potts and Osmajic. North End started the game tentatively as neither side made any sort of impression in the early stages although Wycombe had a header just wide on ten minutes. North Ends best chance came when Osmajic was put through one on one but the ball just bounced a little bit high and the shot hit the keeper. The striker then had another effort before the interval with the Wycombe keeper saving and as the ball fell to McCann his effort was cleared off the line by the visitors defence. That was about the sum total of a disappointing first half as North End looked to improve after the break.

No changes for the home side after half time but the tempo of the game didnt improve very much as both sides couldnt break the opposition defence down. Thordarson had a shot for North End and Harvie had an effort cleared at the other end but neither side really looked like scoring the goal that would have surely won the game although there were a number of half chances early in the second half. Changes for both sides saw North End move to a back four. As the ninety minutes were almost up Greenwood had a shot well saved and a curling effort from the same player hit the post right on the stroke of full time. So the game went to extra time and penalties with North End seemingly starting to finally get some sort of grip on the proceedings.

Sadly for the 10,444 inside Deepdale extra time proved just as frustrating as the first ninety with few efforts of any note giving the respective goalkeepers much to think about. So it came to penalties and with Ali McCann winning both tosses the kicks were taken at the Town End and McCann chose for his side to go first. Greenwood fired the first home just before the six o`clock news. Wycombe scored their first and after Osmajic scored, Freddie saved and as Frokjaer scored Freddie saved again. McCann put his close to the Bar in the Town End concourse before Wycombe made it 3-2. With one penalty left each Ched Evans only had to score to put North End through and the old War Horse slotted home as cool as you like to put North End into the last sixteen for the first time in ten years.

Not a game for the neutrals or for the purists but the result was all that mattered as North End continue this years good cup runs under Paul Heckingbottom. It would be asking a little bit to be drawn at home for the third time on the trot but that is what I will be wanting when the draw is made at 7.10 on Monday evening. Meanwhile we have the small matter of a trip to Norwich on Tuesday evening where we will have to be much better than we were on Saturday if we are to get anything from that game.

.

PRESTON 0-0 WYCOMBE WANDERERS

FA Cup 4th Round

(Preston won 4-2 on penalties after extra time)

.

WOODMAN 8

WHATMOUGH 7 LINDSAY 7 GIBSON 7

POTTS 6 THORDARSON 6 McCANN 6 MEGHOMA 6

HOLMES 7 GREENWOOD 6

OSMAJIC 6

.

SUBS

HUGHES 6

LEDSON 7

KESLER-HAYDEN 7

FROKJAER 7

EVANS 7

.

MOTM: Freddie Woodman

Attendance 10,444

Preston Fans 9,470 (90.67%)

[spaciousreasoning]

Back Home Again

I set the clock for 5:30 this morning, so Deborah and I could leave her house by 6 a.m. in order to get me to the Norfolk airport by 7 a.m. for my 8 o’clock flight to Denver. It all worked out just fine, we gave each other a big hug before she drove off.

Once I got through the TSA check and reached the appropriate concourse, I bought myself a bottle of water. I had declined coffee and a nosh from Deborah because I was still trying to figure out when I was going to check my blood sugar.

As it turned out, I finally checked it about an hour before arriving in Denver, or about 8 a.m. Oregon time, and it turned out to be 155, just a little lower than the day before because my diet over the past several days had not been particularly healthy and I had gotten in very little physical exercise. That will be changing in the days to come.

Landing early in Denver we had to sit and wait for the gate to become available, and by the time we got into the airport there was only about 30 minutes left before the boarding of my connection to Eugene, and that was on another concourse. Luckily, when I got to the next gate, passengers were still exiting the plane we would be leaving on. So I had time to find myself a sandwich and some chips to enjoy once the flight to Eugene began.

When we finally got to Eugene a little after 1 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, Nancy was waiting in a line of cars out front for me, and we came straight home. I was able to enjoy some chocolate chip cookies she had made while I was gone before unpacking my bag and settling back into more or less normal life again.

Then I showered, made myself a cup of cold brew, and Nancy and I played our usual brain games a little later than usual. It was about the same time I realized I had forgotten to take my morning meds when I checked my blood sugar, so I did so about 3 p.m.

We had dinner about 6 p.m., enjoying some leftover rice and garlic honey chicken with roasted veggies. Then we indulged in more chocolate chip cookies. And I took my second dose of meds for the day.

Then we started our evening streaming schedule, starting with the first episode in the new series of “Shetland.” Nancy had watched a few minutes of it while I was gone, but it started out so tense and exciting she had decided to wait for me. Then we watched the next episode of “Shrinking,” the first episode of the Netflix series “English Teacher,” and, finally, the next two-part story in the “Dalgleish” series.

I neglected to report yesterday that last night before going to bed, Deborah and I watched a concert on PBS to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the iconic debut album from the Violent Femmes. They teamed up with the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra in a special, sold-out hometown concert, recorded by Milwaukee PBS for a national viewing audience. It was quite enjoyable.

[mapsoffun]

Toronto’s Union Station is quite gorgeous, and I was especially struck by the grand clock in the main concourse. It feels almost like a hybrid of Washington DC’s Union Station and New York’s Grand Central Terminal as they all share a similar Beaux-Arts architectural style, but in layout it even reminds me a little of 30th Street Station in Philadelphia (though that was built a few years after this station opened). 

When taking the UP, you connect to the main concourse via a skywalk, so it is a bit of a hike if you’re bringing luggage with you, but the walk through the building is lovely.

[scots-gallivanter]

TWENTY

I’ll sing of a river I’m happy beside

The song that I sing is a song of the Clyde

Of all Scottish rivers, it’s dearest to me

It flows from Leadhills all the way to the sea

KENNETH MCKELLAR, The Song of the Clyde

SCOTLAND HAS SOME mesmerising scenery, most famously in the Highlands and Islands: panoramas that move something inside you. It’s a feather in the cap of the Firth of Clyde, therefore, that in 2022 Glasgow to Largs was the only Scottish route to feature in the UK’s top 10 most scenic bus journeys, as voted by SunLife customers. The ‘Clyde Flyer’ came third in Britain. It runs regularly through Greenock, Gourock and Wemyss Bay en route to Largs.

The views you enjoy to the north and the west, to Arran, the Cumbraes, the Cowal peninsula and the Kyles of Bute, are indeed phenomenal – alpine in grandeur. The Gazetteer of Scotland (1847) declared: ‘No parish in the west of Scotland, and few in the Highlands, can surpass Largs in the beauty and romance of the landscape which stretches along its own area, or is hung out within view of both its uplands and its plains.’

In his 2013 guidebook, Gourock to Largs Coast Through Time, Bill Clark writes: ‘…the distance from Gourock’s eastern boundary at Cardwell Bay to the ‘Pencil’ memorial just south of Largs, is a mere 16 miles. The road that tracks the land’s edge between these two points, however, allows the traveller to experience one of the finest scenic journeys in the land.’ (The Pencil monument was erected in 1912 to commemorate the Battle of Largs in 1263, in which Scotland repelled a Viking invasion.).

These sublime views, of course, are what discerning daytrippers have always seen as they sail ‘doon the watter’, that age-old practice of travelling to Rothesay, Dunoon, Millport, Largs, Girvan, Saltcoats and other coastal resorts during Glasgow Fair holidays. Following the coronavirus pandemic, marketeers have americanised such trips around the Clyde coast as ‘staycations’.

Largs once hosted a huge annual horse and cattle sale to celebrate St Colm; and it attracted thousands of farmers and crofters from all over Scotland. There was no pier, only a jetty for landing passengers. The beasts were thrown overboard to sink or swim ashore. Travel writer John Lettice observed that the fair continued for several days. The vast concourse of people, who flocked there on foot, on horseback, in carriages, and in boats, almost covered the plain next to the sea:

‘All was movement, animation, clamour and din; and to have regarded this motley, and tumultuous scene in undisturbed quiet, from some of the neighbouring heights, must have been highly gratifying to a curious, or contemplative mind.’

As campsites were few and far between in the Largs area we pitched tent next to a busy flyover, near the shore and next to a couple of campervans from which Bon Jovi competed with The Carpenters into the small hours. In the morning a woman out walking her two Snautzers apologised for waking us up but we were already up with the larks. We were unable to use the toilets at the yachting club 50 yards off as a special code was required to access them and their undoubtedly hot showers.

TWENTY-ONE

The coast at this place, as it is with a few exceptions along the whole course of the Frith, is bounded at a short distance back from the shore with a range of hills, sometimes rising in gentle slopes, and at other times in abrupt rocky precipices, from which is to be had a continued succession of beautiful and varied views.

JOHN LEIGHTON, Select Views on the River Clyde (1830)

THE CLYDE Flier bus takes us past sheer sandstone rocks, honed and honeycombed on their well-wooded heights, out of whose crevices gnarled trees thrive. On the other side are the fairytale landscapes of the firth. We alight from the bus for the boat to Bute in an architectural theme park. With its Georgian-style timber frontage, its Chinese pagodas, and turrets; its Queen-Anne-style Italianate clock tower, and its soothing curved design, Wemyss Bay railway station is a glorious A-listed building. It has a pleasing feel, thanks to a group of volunteers who rescued it from dereliction. Now a vibrant place with a colourful community garden, book shop, museum, and multiple hanging baskets, this miracle of glass and metal architecture and engineering won the World Cup of Stations cup in 2023. It is a masterpiece from the golden age of rail, with a rare curving walkway that takes you down along a winding wood and glass ‘tunnel’ to the old steamboat terminal.

You get the notion that Wemyss Bay folk are rightly very proud of their station, but there are several other architectural wonders in the area that have not been so lucky. Beneath one of the picturesque precipices stood Ferncliff, a splendid villa built in 1851 that, along with the similar homes of very wealthy businessmen, earned Wemyss Bay the nickname New Glasgow. It was the home of the Danish consul in the 1870s and, in its heyday, was called Seaside Heights. It became the Rothmar Hotel in 1924; a convalescent home for miners in the 1940s; and a ‘Christian guest house and conference centre’, a Baptist church and then an evangelical centre from the 1970s until the 1990s. One of its rooms was known as ‘The Prime Minister’s Room’ after Clement Attlee stayed there. It was demolished in 2001 to make way for flats.

Kelly House was another country house not far from the station. Enriched by the slave trade in the West Indies, John Wallace, a distant relative of William Wallace, bought the ‘Kelly Estate’ in 1792, and built a gothic mansion with tall chimneys, ornate turrets and sprawling landscaped gardens. An earlier building, Kelly Castle, had burned to the ground in 1740.

Wallace’s son and heir, Robert, who became MP for Greenock, had ambitious plans for a marine village containing 200 luxury villas; a hotel, a school; three churches, terraced walks with a fountain and grass promenade; a harbour and quay for steamboats; a curling pond, a bowling green; heated baths, and a reading room and billiards room. However, he went bankrupt after slavery was abolished. In 1871 the estate came into the hands of James Young, the inventor of paraffin. Young was a friend of David Livingstone, the explorer, and he built a replica of his African mud hut in the grounds. It is long gone.

The house, revamped in the 1880s after Young’s death, was destroyed by arson in 1913 and the site was cleared during the war, when the Forces moved to the area to train for the invasion of Sicily. There is speculation the fire was the work of suffragettes unhappy with the house’s association with the slave trade, but no culprit was ever charged. It is now the site of a caravan park.

Castle Wemyss was the village’s pride and joy, a fascinating place with rare sea views, built by developer Charles Wilsone Broun in 1850. He also built 32 villas nearby, only one of which (Mansfield) remains.

The Cunard tycoon, Sir John Burns, later Baron Inverclyde, bought Castle Wemyss in 1860. It had a badminton court, a pier, greenhouses, Roman baths, and a monk’s cell. It was of great historical value as a fashionable destination for V.I.P.s, among them Henry Morton Stanley, U.S. General Sherman, Lord Shaftesbury, Anthony Trollope, Peter II of Yugoslavia, Emperor Haile Selassie, and various members of the royal family.

Trollope wrote some of his novel Barchester Towers during one of his stays, and it inspired him to write of Portray Castle in his book The Eustace Diamonds.

The fourth and last baron was renowned for his parties, some of which according to local gossip, included midnight ‘skinny dipping’. He was briefly married to a daughter of the millionaire owner of the Sainsbury chain. Alas, however, wealth would appear to be transitory. He died in 1957, childless; and his heirs couldn’t afford to maintain the estate. His title came to an end. The estate went to a developer, and Inverkip Power Station was built on part of the grounds. The castle itself crumbled, and the roof was ripped off to avoid housing rates. It was bulldozed in 1984, and a housing estate was built on the site. A flight of steps and a flagpole are all that remains of a priceless and elegant mansion, and gardens likened (in a biography of George Burns) to the Babylonian gardens of Nebuchadnezzar. The powers that were even removed an age-old monkey puzzle tree that stood at the entrance to the drive (‘for safety reasons’).

I had a look in Wemyss Bay station bookshop for anything by a writer who spent her last years in nearby Skelmorlie, and who set almost half of her many children’s books along the Clyde coast. Dorita Fairlie Bruce’s work was incredibly popular from the 1920s to the 1940s. In her Springdale series she renamed Ayrshire, Brigshire, and called Largs, Redchurch.

I pick up a copy of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists instead, bringing my tally to four of them; I have a peculiar habit of giving them away.

I walk around the station waiting for the next boat and come across the bronze statue of a boy. There’s a far-fetched story that Wemyss Bay was named after an 18th-century boatman called Bobby Wemyss. It seems unlikely but it didn’t stop marketing folk calling the statue Bobby. It stands in the station for the world to see – without the mask that was placed on its face during COVID.