#Heavy Pettin'

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Heavy Pettin'

[metalsongoftheday]

Wednesday, November 8: Heavy Pettin', "Roll the Dice"

Shortly before they became arguably the first semi-noteworthy band to imitate Def Leppard’s blend of crunching guitars and glam rock hooks, Scotland’s Heavy Pettin’ was another New Wave of British Heavy Metal act putting out singles on Neat Records.  And that single was a corker: “Roll the Dice” was much more fast-paced and energetic than the High n’ Dry and Pyromania ripoffs they would soon roll out, though Steve “Hamie” Hayman’s yelping and yowling were always a goofy blend of Joe Elliott and David Lee Roth.  The music had similar traces of very early Leppard, but it was more like the hard rock wing of the NWOBHM done right, radiating the same simple joy in rocking out that defined the era.  These guys didn’t totally know what they wanted to be, and that ultimately did them in, but “Roll the Dice” was a really fun track.

[rockrevoltmagazine]

HEAVY PETTIN Dominates Leyendas del Rock 2022!

HEAVY PETTIN Dominates Leyendas del Rock 2022!

Scottish, Heavy Rock legends HEAVY PETTIN have released the live video from their electrifying performance at Leyendas del Rock! Signed with MUSIC GALLERY INTERNATIONAL, Heavy Pettin is managed by Shawn Barusch and Lee Langton. “Hey guys it’s Hamie coming attacha Live !!!! Hope u like our new Video … Taken from the Heavy Pettin European tour 22…. This show was in Spain August 5th at the…

[elexaria]

religious!johnny mactavish x afab! reader smut bc i said so

ONE LAST POST I SWEAR and then i will sleep except not rlly bc its 8am and i have to get ready for a virtual meeting RRR

ANYWAYS.

cw — afab! reader, nothing too spicy, foreplay, pnv, religious corruption ig?? idk, johnny is just too damn horny for his own good and hes a good christian boy n all but…. pussy go brr

johnny had always been devoted to his faith, going to church with his wee grandma ever since he could walk n talk. swears to himself and the big man in the sky when he came of age that he’d wait for the one, he’d save himself for marriage as god intended him to do.

you were agnostic at best, but that was fine to him. you respected his faith, you even attended church with him when he occasionally goes! a loving, supportive partner — that’s all he could ever ask for.

well, not really.

see, you’re so damn pretty. such a pretty thing, all snuggled up in the crook of his arm as you two lay in bed, watching a movie before you’ll eventually go to sleep. he told you from day one that he wants to wait until marriage, it’s important to him. and you respect that! you do occasionally find yourself pouting whenever your friends gloat about their sex lives, and you just kinda have to go “ahahaha yep, still haven’t gotten fucked by johnny yet. still ain’t married—“ awkwardly, and they playfully tease you about it but they don’t care. you’re in the most healthiest relationship you’d ever been in, they love him!

but i digress. his fingers gently stroke along the length of your arm, as they always do. he’s a bit of a fidgety fella, it’s the ol’ adhd, he tells you. so his fingers dance around the fabric of your tshirt, the texture is satisfying to the pads of his fingertips. the movie continues on, and you giggle at a snarky quip someone makes. it makes his lips twitch up into a small grin, the sound of your giggle. his fingers are still absentmindedly touching around, and that’s when he accidentally grazes your boob.

and oh my god.

wait, what? it’s nothing like he’d ever felt before— he slyly looks down at you, to see if you’ve caught on. and with another sneaky swipe, that confirms it. his blood is running hot, and my god he can no longer concentrate. two fingers run across the swell of your breast from underneath your tshirt, you shiver as you look up at him. and god, you had never seen him look like that before. flared nostrils as his breathing grows heavy, his jaw clenched. “johnny—“ you mutter as he now begins to slowly paw at your soft breast, and it makes you whine at how good it feels to be touched like this.

"it's no like we're daein' anything serious here, aye? just some light pettin'." johnny justifies to himself as he mumbles into the crook of your neck as his hand darts under your shirt, groaning at the soft mounds of fat that jiggle with each grope. how much you whine and gasp as he pinches a peaked bud between his fingers. his cock is rock hard, screaming for attention. but he stops, borderline panting as he looks down at you. he looks guilty, but he has to restrain himself. he’s saving himself for marriage, remember?

you shyly scuttle off to the bathroom to finish yourself off, the tap running to hide the obscene squeals you make as you sit on the bathroom floor, one hand pressed over your mouth while the other rubs intricately tight circles around your throbbing clit. meanwhile, johnny’s stroking his cock just from the thought of what had just happened, groaning as he spills himself into a tissue.

he swore he would keep his virginity in tact for when you two finally got married.

"i'm savin' masel' for marriage, ye ken." he mutters as his fingers stroke the glistening folds of your puffy cunt, sucking the air through his teeth as his fingers coax every last tantalising moan from you as he fingers you, your hands wrapped around his cock as you mutually pleasure one another.

“it’s no sex,” he justifies to himself as you suck his cock, eyes half-lidded as one hand cups the base of his shaft, the other cupping his swollen, full balls with a wanton gaze in your eyes. “fuck, ye have no idea whit yer daein’ tae me.” he growls, fucking into your mouth slowly as his cross pendant thumps against his hairy chest with each buck of his hips.

“it’s just the tip, yeah?” as his heart races, his swollen tip rubbing into your clit, and you swear you’re fit to burst when just the tip, like he promises, slowly sinks into your pussy. he grips onto the pillows besides your head, his eyes glossed over as he tries so hard not to cum right then and there. his breathing is rugged, his pupils narrow as he slowly sinks himself deeper inside you. you both moan together, sweat glossed foreheads pressed against one another as you two join in a debauched union.

“fuck me— ye feel fuckin’ divine.” he growls as he pulls out, slamming his hips right into you with a snarl. “gonnae cum so fuckin’ fast, baby girl. fuck, look at ye.” he says between rugged breaths, eyes bearing right down at you as you tighten and pulse around his cock, eyes fluttering as you cum right then and there. fuck, the wait— or lack there of it — was worth it. with a couple of lazy, sporadic thrusts, johnny spills himself inside you with a primal roar, his knuckles white as he grips the sheets while your velvety vice of a pussy milks him of every last drop of the thick ropes of cum churned from his now drained balls.

in the haze of it all, johnny groans as he pulls out, his eyes fixated on the sight of his cum dripping out of your puffy cunt. his fingers crook up into you, gently pumping his essence right back inside of you. “better have a wee chat with the big man upstairs about this. fuck, no that i could resist this. christ, look at the sight of ye.” he chuckles, his thumb grazing against your swollen clit with an affectionate smile.

“i mean, fuck me, am gonnae marry ye so fast if it means i get tae do this all the time.”

[powderblueblood]

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

CHAPTER TEN — THE NEW FACE OF FAILURE

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: a surprise visitor shows up at nancy wheeler's house during your sleepover. eddie has a run-in with steve harrington and gets some hard-to-choke down news from a teacher. things with your newly released convict father seem to be going... eerily well. content warnings: does excessive yappin count. cussin! shitty dads! allusion to past physical abuse! drugs and smoking! heavy pettin! lovesick and scared about it edlacy! word count: 11.6k

Dear reader, 

For the first time in forever, I have nothing smart to say. I mean, really. For the first time in forever, when things have reached a previously unprecedented crescendo of shit-hitting-fannery, when my life has truly shown every possible sign of being headed toward complete ruin, when it’s not just opposite day but bizarro world incarnate, I feel…

Good. 

Because I’m looking at him. 

And he’s looking back at me.

And Nancy Wheeler is yelling for him to get in the goddamned window. 

Eddie Munson has no business standing outside the Wheeler’s garage with a fistful of pebbles, cautiously flicking them at a second story window, yet he is. The soft pelting noise had made your neck jerk up from where it craned over Nancy’s nails, painting them a springy green and go, “Do you hear that or is it my paranoia talking?”

See, when you woke up that morning, you knew you had two phone calls to make. Instead of using the traceable line of your house phone, you’d snatched a handful of quarters and booked it to the payphone at the edge of the lot. You’d almost stopped at the Munson trailer, tossing your own rocks at Eddie’s window, but thought better of it– there was always a chance that the newly exonerated (sort of) Ray Doevski would be peering through the blinds, taking a Rear Window affect to his newly instated house arrest. 

Yeah. House arrest, and you were sure that the same crack had run concurrently through the minds of you and both your parents– we’d hardly call this a house. But Ray was ordered to stay put, and even had this nutty gadget tagged to his ankle, this new fangled monitor that they were just rolling out. 

“Always on the cutting edge, aren’t you, Daddy?” 

With shaking fingers, you thunked in Eddie’s number, which he’d scrawled inside the cover of a Flannery O’Connor short story collection you’d been carting around a couple of months ago. It was one of those days that came up every now and again, where you couldn’t quite keep the lid on feeling blue. The weight of everything came down on you in an avalanche, leaving you unable to throw your pithy remarks into conversation with him or with Ronnie like you usually would’ve. Pretty much silent, pretty much staring a hole through the middle distance. He grabbed the book from you in the library during free period, your free period which he wasn’t even in, and whispered, “Just in case that curse gets lifted and you get your voice back. I’m sure you’ve got, like, a laundry list of barbs you’ve been dying to unload on me all day.” 

You remembered the way his eyes softened as he slid the book back to you, pressing his ringed hand against the cover for a couple seconds longer than he needed to. 

“Or just… for anything, y’know. We can just talk. About nothing. If it helps.”

At the time, you fought the instinct to put your hand over his.

“Won’t Wayne care that I’m calling?” you’d crackled, voice weary from underuse. 

Eddie shrugged. “Not if you pretend you’re Gareth.”

And that was exactly what you were hoping you wouldn’t have to do, shivering in your thin sweater as the dial tone to the Munson’s droned out. What if Wayne answered? What if you couldn’t rightfully approximate the voice of a balls-half-dropped freshman? What if he knew it was you, what would he do? 

Well, you needn’t have worried, because you apparently had a future in impressions. You squeaked out something about being the aforementioned Emerson looking for Eddie (at this ungodly hour of the morning?), something about Hellfire. 

“Gareth the Great! What’s the problem, the Arcane Brotherhood finally scoop your ass? Need me to come bust you from their tower? I told you, goin’ all Fear and Loathing in Luskan is gonna cost y–”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie, it’s me,” you chattered, but even through the worry, a tiny smile pulled at your lips. 

 “Uh. Disregard everything I just said.” His voice had an early-morning static to it that you wanted to stay tuned into. “Hi!”

“Hi.”

“Hi… are you… shivering right now? Need me to come warm you up, because I’d be more than happy to cr–”

“Eddie, I’m at the payphone–”

“--what the hell are you doin’ out there?”

“--will you shut up so I can tell you? I don’t have a lot of time, so I need to cut right to the chase.”

“Sorry,” and this breathy little laugh runs through his voice that nearly knocks you clean out. God. What you wouldn’t give to hear that breathed into your ear instead of through some handset flaking rust. “Please, cut away.”

But, uh, yeah. That other thing. 

“My father got out of prison some-fucking-how–”

“Wait, what? Like he esc–,” you listen as Eddie drops his voice to a hiss, “Like he escaped?!”

“Oh my god, let me finish! –but, psh, no. Ray Doevski is a man of manicured hand, alright, he’s not tunneling out of anywhere. It’s all apparently legally above board, but… he’s– he’s at home. He’s in the trailer… He’s there right now.”

The fear in your chest was beginning to make your breathing feel white hot, hard to get out. Walls closing in. Your dad is at home. He is in your trailer. He is there right now. Five minutes alone in your room, a flick of his eyes over your belongings, he’ll know everything– everything that you’ve done–

You didn’t even notice that your breaths were turning into low, panicked gasps until Eddie’s voice broke through the receiver again. 

“Lace, stay put. I’m comin’ out there.”

“Eddie, no!” you barked down the phone, and a couple of birds scattered from the powerline overhead. Despite the fact that you were pretty sure collapsing into Eddie’s arms would have put a temporary stopper on the panic, you weren’t awarded such luxuries in this life. Figures. “I’ve got to get back to have some phony-ass breakfast with them in, like, now and you cannot be seen near me. Not here, okay?”

What Eddie crackled back with was like a shot of adrenaline to the heart chamber. It wasn’t a plea, or a demand. He simply said, brimming with a bright resolve, “Say the word and I’m there. Right next to you. Hear me?”

You had never heard anyone sound so sure about you before. 

Well, Eddie’s valiance was rivaled only by Nancy Wheeler, who you phoned up next. Karen Wheeler answered in a chirpy voice that even sounded blonde, her voice pitching higher when you announced who was calling. 

“Oh, Lacy! Of course. I’ll grab her for you, sweetie.” A little too goddamn knowing-sounding for your liking. 

But Nancy was all firm edges, picking up on the tremble in your voice just like Eddie had. “Well, you’re coming over. Obviously. Pack a bag– we need to put in serious work for that Streak article you’re finishing, right? Might even be an all-nighter. I’ll order pizza.”

With your dad shackled to the trailer and your mom reluctant to leave his side, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do to prevent you from swanning off to the Wheeler residence. Had to stay true to your commitments, after all, something your dad constantly impressed upon you. But when you reminded him of this as you hitched your overnight bag over your shoulder, heading out to Nancy’s waiting car, he met you with a serene smile. 

“Of course, honey. Do what you need to do.” No argument. No pushback. Not even a snide remark. That chilled you to the bone. 

You attempted to distract yourself from… well, the whole meal of it, by allowing the Precious Moments-themed decor of the Wheeler household to wash over you. The house is warm and chintzy inside, with shoes piled up by the door and laundry overflowing in baskets. Nancy’s bedroom is just as achingly normal in tones of pink and cream, a sanctuary and a strangle between girlhood and growing up. She’d shyly batted a couple of stuffed animals away from the bed that had seen the throes of her and Steve Harrington. Her Tom Cruise poster hangs opposite a pinboard of college brochures. Barbara Holland’s memorial card on her mirror. 

Guilt and innocence and upward mobility. 

As you looked around, you thought about the photo strips from the mall of you and Tina and Cass and Carol, how they were stuffed away in a box somewhere. You made a mental note to tug Nancy into the next photobooth you both came across. And Ronnie, for that matter. 

Nancy was kind about everything, of course, like she always is; she didn’t push for information about your dad’s surprise return, but you gave it pretty willingly as you cracked into her Cosmo and nail polish collection. Everything but the you and Eddie of it all… that juicy morsel you were saving until the witching hour struck, the customary time for girls to tell secrets at sleepovers. 

But somebody always has to try and get the jump on you. 

Which is how you and Nancy end up hanging out of her window, a beaming Eddie staring up at you from the pavement. 

“What the hell is he doing down there?” Nancy hisses, her eyes panicked and flaring. 

“I’m not entirely sure,” but even through the initial flash of panic, your voice has taken on this dreamy quality that makes Nancy roll her eyes–and rightfully so! “Munson, what say you? What the hell are you doing down there?”

“I–”

Nancy doesn’t even let him finish, just lets out an exasperated sigh and tells him, “Just– come up here, alright? I do not want to answer for what’s gonna happen if my dad catches you in the driveway!” 

Without a second thought, Eddie makes to hoist himself into Nancy’s dinky bedroom window. He falls over the little seat in a jangle of silver and leather and hair and gleaming teeth– “Ow! Jesus!” “Eddie, shut. Up!” Nancy winces, you wince, but as Eddie rolls onto his back and clears the hair out of his eyes, you realize that fluttering in your stomach is not a fight or flight response. 

He smiles up at you, all teeth and mischief. “Hi. Whatcha doin’?”

Oh, no.

You nudge him in the ribs with your foot, way too light for him to yelp like that. Nancy looks like she’s going to kick the shit out of him for real–and you too, maybe.

“You’re telling me you didn’t know about this?” she demands, turning on you. You notice that she’s still holding her fingers aloft, which you appreciate! No one seems to care about manicures as much as you do. It’s nice to finally be seen, for Chrissake. 

“Like I’d bring the heat around your place, Nancy! Come on, currently in a precarious situation much?” 

Hilarious to describe Eddie Munson as heat when he is, at best, a bull in Wheeler’s overstuffed china shop. Adorably so, you have to concede, watching him pick up a little porcelain figurine from her dresser. 

Nancy’s not buying it.

“I plead the eternal fifth!” you exclaim, eyes wide and willing the laugh to stay out of your voice as Eddie peers around Nancy’s stuff. “He operates on his own logic.”

Nancy eyes you warily before her gaze darts to Eddie. “Can you not touch anything? ”

“You have a cat just like this!” Eddie barks.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” the both of you chorus.

Delicately, Eddie replaces the little ceramic cat with a severely offended look. “Sheesh, ladies, I thought we were friends.” He drops the pretense pretty fast, jerking his chin in your direction with a smile that has I ain’t goin’ nowhere written all over it. “I need a word with the duchess here.”  

“So leave a message!” 

“He can’t–” “--you think we got answering machines in Forest Hills?” “--my dad–” “--life might be different for all you up here on Maple–” “--will have him taken out by sniper rifle.” “--you know this woman used a payphone for the first time in her life today?” 

A squinting Nancy lets this settle in the air for a second, like a stink bomb that’s just been deployed. I mean, you don’t know if she can see it exactly, but the charge between you and Eddie isn’t exactly subtle. Changed, maybe, from will-they-won’t-they to they-did-and-it’s-hazardous. Realization soon dawns on her. 

“Oh, you–ohhh,” Nancy nods, and chirps another, “Oh!” 

Then, a thunderous hammering that just about brings down Nancy’s bedroom door. The three of you lurch and freeze. Your hand instinctively goes to grab Eddie’s arm, fingers finding the soft leather. Your lashes flutter.

“Nan-cyyyyy!” 

That high-pitched, middle-schooled, reedy little tone? “Oh, shit. It’s just Mike.” 

“Mom said you were getting pizza so you have to get a pie for me and the guys! Wait,” some juvenile sounding muttering, “Two pies!” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Nancy snarls, in the way only an older sister can, “I… am going to go out there and run interference and you– five minutes, okay?! I’m–” She goes so far as to set a timer on her watch. “I mean it.”

Both you and Eddie make noises in the affirmative, him sidling closer and closer to you as Nancy moves out of the room. But she pivots, nailing you both with pointed index fingers. “And don’t– don’t you even think about it. You two are not subtle, I will know!” 

“Wheeler, I resent that perverted implication!” Eddie hisses, but his fingers are already walking themselves over the curve of your ass. You’d say something if you weren’t desperately trying to keep yourself under control. 

“Mike, quit yelling the house down like an asshole!” “Who is that? Have you and Lacy got a guy in there? Gross, are you sharing a boyfriend or something?” “Shut up, don’t be disgusting, I’ll kill you, get downstairs!” 

Soon as Nancy’s door clicks behind her, you wrestle an easily malleable Eddie down to sit on the bed and climb right into his lap, thighs planting either side of him. Your body is completely abuzz now that you’re alone with him again, physical form melding instantly to the heat of his body. Eddie’s gaze darkens just a touch, like he’s dimmed the switch inside his head from mischievous to slightly dastardly. “Oh, shut up!” you say, and catch your mouth on his.

“I didn’t say shit!” Eddie breathes in return, falling right into your rhythm. 

“You heard the chief,” you struggle through desperate lip smacking; that lived in taste of him, cigarettes and sweet soda, makes your head feel all baubly on the stem of your neck, “Five minutes,” Eddie’s hands web into your hair, your knees sag into the comforter, “Explain yourself.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Eddie’s mouth clicks sweetly against yours, words a bullshit mumble against your tongue. A heady mix of relief and desire flood you as you brace your hands around his shoulders. 

“Don’t lie,” you say, tinge of a whimper creeping in as Eddie’s grip starts to harden, indenting the flesh of your thigh. “I’ll kill you.” 

Looking at his grin is one thing, but feeling it against your neck as his mouth embarks on its own journey is something completely different. “Prom–”

“Eddie, how did you even know I was here?” A light, mindless slap comes down on his shoulder. Your breathing is becoming troublingly labored, head becoming troublingly spinny as Eddie’s teeth graze your collarbone.

“Rudimentary guesswork!” he gasps, coming up for air that’s soon stolen by the ready plushness of your mouth. “Okay. Okay. Fine, I saw Wheeler pick you up in her goddamn station wagon and–” Eddie’s voice cracks a touch as your hips press harder into him, “--put two and two together?”

“And you came here because…? Expound, already!” Your furious, air-starved hiss is a stark contrast to the way your lips keep chasing his.

“I wanted to c– I needed to come–” he swallows your stupid blooming smirk with another kiss, “Shut up. I wanted to make sure you were okay. And I couldn’t sleep. Could you sleep? I couldn’t sleep, just kept thinkin’... Kept… hnm, thinkin’ about you… About you like this… ‘n last night…”

As he babbles, your heart jackrabbits. Christ, you want him so bad. You’d listen to him like this for hours–talking like this alone, open and wanting, is enough to get you off. Eddie’s easing your skirt up your ass, rucking that fabric up slow like he did last night–but you want more than last night, if that’s possible, you want all of him, and for longer and for good–

You want him so badly that you forget where you are. Eyes snap open to catch direct iris-on-iris contact with Nancy’s Tom Cruise poster, hung strategically in view from her bed. 

Nancy’s bed. Nancy’s room. Nancy’s fucking Tom Cruise poster.

“Shit,” you say in a strangle, right against his cheek. “Shit, what are we doing?” You rear right back, getting a good look at Eddie’s ruffled demeanor, his blush-high complexion. That intoxicated look he’s wearing just from feeling you up.

Someone looking at you the way Eddie is right now feels completely, totally brand new. Ardent and urgent, untouched by influence. 

You’re almost positive that your gulp is audible.

With a couple of rapid blinks, Eddie seems to come back down to earth. 

“No. No, you’re right, um– listen, at the risk of completely humiliating myself–”

“More than you did crawling in that window? This is crazed.”

Eddie pauses a beat, a genuine look of offense constricting his features. His hands have moved from your ass to your waist, and don’t shift. 

“Hold on–Doevski, are you marking my dismount?”

You assholes just can’t help yourselves, can you? Mouth twitching at the corners, you harden up your gaze.

“I’m just saying, if you weren’t wearing ten tonnes of regalia, you might be able to make a more subtle entrance–”

“--who died and made you a hellenodikas?”

“Oh! Pulling out the Ancient Greek mythology on me now, huh?”

“I would never… pull out on you,” Eddie says and manages to hold his stone faced expression for a grand total of half a second before both your faces split in two. See, you hate him for this; that he can keep perfectly in time with you, and has since the jump. 

You’re the first to move. You edge yourself off Eddie’s lap, his hands mournfully side along your legs as you move.

“C’mon. Montague moment’s over. Kick rocks.”

He gives you one good, solid nod and mockingly straightens himself out before attempting to worm his way back out the window. Crouching half in-half out, he pauses. Some remnant of a smile he smiled at you about a million years ago flickers across his face.

“You know, Lace,” Eddie says, “you keep throwin’ me out of windows like this, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you don’t like me.”

The door of the record store. The hot blast of stoned realization. Your fingers around his wrist. 

Knees working faster than your brain, you bend to Eddie and meet his mouth again. The kiss is soft and gentle, devolving into several little pecks around his smiling cheeks, his eyes, his forehead. To tide you over. To be continued.

“Eh, I don’t like you,” you mumble, tips of your noses brushing. “That much.”

“Yeah? Well, you got a funny way of showing it.”

You watch Eddie’s dismount (an easy six) and nervous jog all the way ‘til he’s disappeared through the shrubbery of the Wheeler’s. Soon as he’s out of sight, you’re almost positive that you catch a flash of burgundy paintwork zipping past the driveway, but it’s too fast to tell. Weird. 

Nancy near slices your fingers clean off as she noiselessly returns to the room, slamming the window shut. For as enraged as she’s trying to look, this girl with her half-painted nails also bears the familiar expression of someone baying for gossip. 

“Spill everything. Right now.” 

—

Eddie is a living, breathing, stink bomb of a cliche. He’s walking on air, he’s signed a lease on cloud nine, he’s all Gene Kelly’d out and still tap dancing down the locker lined steel trap of Hawkins High. Push back his curling bangs and he’s sure that PROPERTY OF LACY DOEVSKI is etched on his forehead, by the delicate hand that wields your fountain pen. 

Dude’s a goner. Lights out, KO’d, hit the bricks gone. And he only has himself to blame. 

If it were anyone else, he’s pretty sure it’d be different. Easier to stamp out the flame of hotheaded lust beneath his sneakers like a bag of dogshit on fire if it was some other right-side-of-town type girl. If it was just about being his diametric opposite. But it’s not. It’s you, sharp and silly and sexy, a total turn on even when you’re doing your best O’Donnell impression to sic him into studying. The you that he’s been slyly slipping into the NPCs of Hellfire, in ways that make Ronnie’s eyes roll (but she still tries to flirt with them, and that weirdly makes him a little… jealous? That dwarf is slick when she wants to be). The you that sometimes make a cameo appearance at his lunch table when you’re not holed up in the newspaper room, sat with poise and pith that the rest of the gaggle of nerds just don’t know what to do with. 

Eddie can’t count the amount of times he’s wanted to crawl across that table and kiss you. And he’s been close to doing it. Couple times. Remnants of sloppy joes on his hands and knees.

But now he can kiss you, at least in private anyway, because there’s still a roadblock or two you have to navigate. And so what! What’s a little challenge when you’re this blissfully, head fuckerly, heartburningly in l—

“Watch where you’re going, asshole.” 

This particular dagger comes straight out of the maw of Hawkins High’s crown jackass, Steve Harrington, whose shoulder Eddie’s just accidentally checked. Now, Eddie’s never cared much for Harrington, but never thought much about him either—the feeling, outside of scoring a baggie or two, is apparently mutual. But the glower Steve is sporting says anything but nonchalance. 

“Jeez, Harrington,” the grin Eddie’s sporting makes a full meal out of a plate of shit, “If you like me so much, you can just say so. No need for the whole pullin’ pigtails routine.”

Steve stares at him for a good, hard second or two— so rigidly, in fact, that it nearly makes Eddie’s face falter. Who pissed in this guy’s Cheerios? Because, even if he double counts on his fingers, Eddie’s sure it wasn’t him. 

“I,” Steve starts, pretty dumbly, “I’m havin’ a party on Friday. You should come.”

Eddie knows an order when he hears one, but it’s usually couched in something like, You got any good stuff, man? Y’know, phrased in the strained way popular kids do when they pretend not to hate his guts for half a second. 

He knocks a mocking two fingered salute off his forehead and Steve’s grimace deepens. “Be there with bells on, sire.”

Up the hallway, one of the classroom doors creaks open. 

“I don’t have all afternoon, Mr Munson.” 

Steve looks past him to the imposing, near-six foot figure of Ms O’Donnell, impatiently tapping her shoes against the linoleum. Eddie’s smirk flattens into a tight line.

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m in high demand! As you can see.”

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response and takes off toward the exit. 

“Quit gazing after the quarterback and get in here,” O’Donnell demands. And who is Eddie to deny her, Amazonian Baba Yaga that she is? 

“Ms O’Deeeee, you call yourself a Hawkins Tiger?” he says, turning on heel, “You oughta know that Harrington is one of our finest ball players. Loves to play with balls, that one.”

“You can attest to that first hand, can you?” O’Donnell snarks, settling down behind her desk and gesturing Eddie to get comfortable at the top of the class. 

Oh, Iris. She’s right on his level, when she’s not tearing him a new asshole, scholastically speaking. 

Her name may not be Iris either, but tomato potato. Eddie slumps down into the desk like a graceless, clinking cat.

“I know you didn’t bring me here to talk about my extracurriculars. That would be a breach of propriety on your part.”

“Sure as hell I did not.” O’Donnell removes her eyeglasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, as she often does not even thirty seconds into an interaction with Eddie. “I’m missing my granddaughter’s recital for this, I want you to know that.” 

He’s pulled out the there’s no way you’re old enough to be a grandmother line half a dozen too many times for it to fly again. Not that it ever did— look at this woman, with her tented fingers! She has a clear sight line right through his bullshit. 

“I appreciate that you value my education more than some pipsqueak with a cello.” 

“The problem is that you don’t,” O’Donnell sighs. There’s a note of defeat in her voice. “Eddie, we need to talk.” 

In all the years O’Donnell has been on his case (four consecutive), she’s never addressed him by his first name. Eddie shifts in his seat a little, good mood not quite punctured yet. But askew, slightly. 

“They finally found out about our clandestine little tryst, huh? Well, you can tell Higgins and the school board that I’m—“

“Shut up.”

He does. Right up.

“You understand why I push you so hard, don’t you?” O’Donnell asks him, and instead of some smartass response, Eddie clams. Ask him honestly and he’d say she’s a past-prime faculty lifer in desperate need of a power trip. That’s the narrative he’d always gone with anyway, the reason she’d always single him out and make an example of him and insist on the repeat exams he’d rarely end up passing anyways. Like, just flunk him, okay? Get the humiliation over with. 

“It’s because I know your situation,” she tells him, “And I know you’re better than it. By a goddamn country mile.” 

That knocks him. He blinks. Huh?

“You’re bright, you know. If you only allowed yourself to be,” O’Donnell nods, leafing through a manila folder in front of her, “If you could only find some way to focus, you’d be a halfway to decent student. Might even make it to college.”

“Don’t be too generous,” Eddie scoffs, arms folding over his chest. He can feel the defense rising. 

O’Donnell stares at him over the rim of her glasses. “Oh, I’m not. Because the reality is, you’re too far gone. I’ve done all I can to try and drag you out of the sandpit of shit you’ve managed to fall into, but our time is coming to a swift and brutal end.” 

A beat.

“Christ, who died and made you my guidance counselor—“

“You’re not graduating, Eddie.”

A cold sear runs down Eddie’s spine. “Um.”

Alright. Alright, look. It’s not like he hadn’t expected this, in some way or another, but again, if he is really honest… Eddie had expected some eleventh hour miracle that ended up with him with that diploma in his hand. Walking the stage in that godawful green gown, scooting down the line to take his place beside Ronnie and… and you. 

First Munson to ever do it, at least in the proud township Hawkins. Something solid to his name, finally. A GED that wasn’t necessarily a ticket to college, but proof that he could break the family curse of not following through. He didn’t need to be valedictorian or anything, he just needed… 

“But—but,” begins the scramble, “I’ve been doing… better, right? Like, I’ve gotten my grades up… not massively but a little!”

And he had. Fact is, these last handful of months, he hadnt just been dicking around with you and Ronnie after school— you’d actually gone out of your way to slice off some of those legendary brain smarts and slide them his way, bumping him up a letter grade in at least three subjects. 

You’d said something similar to O’Donnell.

You’ve got something, y’know, beyond all the hair and regalia. This system is rigged to fail anyone who surrenders to being, like, a bad test taker— so you just have to game the system and make it work for Eddie Munson. Right?

Then you’d poked him in the cheek with your number two pencil and he’d forgotten everything he’d ever learned, brain lingering on that little touch for days. 

That was before. Before your bedroom. Before Wheeler’s bedroom. Shit, before Granny Ecker’s closet. 

“Now, Eddie. Jesus. You’d need a miracle to get you anywhere close where you need to be to get out of here. Look, I am telling you this because I—“

“Why? Why do you even care? You’re the one that’s been failing me half the time.”

“Yes, because you’ve been failing, smartass! Think I’ve got a choice in the matter?” O’Donnell and her high Midwestern fury shuts him up again. “I’m telling you this because… well, it’s time to weigh up your options.” 

“Which are none.”

“Which could be none. The question on almost the entire faculty’s mind is, why haven’t you dropped out by now? And I’ve got a pretty good stab, I think.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Because, contrary to popular belief, you’re not your father.” 

Eddie has to look away. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I knew Al Munson. My first year here, I taught him. And I was green then, sure, in the goddamn dark ages but even then I knew he was just looking for any easy way out.” 

“And I’m not, huh?”

“No. Because you would’ve dropped out by now.” O’Donnell closes the folder like she’s seen enough. “Eddie, you have something to prove. And it’s worth proving.” 

Far be it from Eddie to believe that any teacher in this school actually gives a shit about him, but the glance he steals to O’Donnell makes a damn strong argument otherwise. 

“So w… what do I do?”

“God knows half the staff doesn’t want you around for another year. Sorry, but it’s true,” O’Donnell rolls her eyes and Eddie feels the sting of his last name, the skid mark of his father’s legacy following him wherever he goes, “I’ll work on it. Starting with Higgins, which should earn me canonization of some kind.”

“Castle in the sky and all that shit.”

Eddie doesn’t exactly nod; defiance is as strong as his white blood cells. He kind of wants O’Donnell to prove that she’s serious about helping him. About caring at all. 

She goes on, tone strict and pushing. 

“But you– keep your nose to the grindstone. Just because you’re not gonna pull through this year completely doesn’t mean that the improvement in the last couple of months meant nothing. I have noticed, by the way. And, uh, keep up the peer tutoring.” 

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Huh?”

“Peer tutoring,” there’s amusement dancing in O’Donnell’s words that makes them a little uneven, “Lacy Doevski’s been so kind as to take you under her wing, hasn’t she?”

A shock of heat takes seat on his cheeks. Right. He’d forgotten about that scam you ran like a ride on lawnmower through Kaminsky’s class. 

“Y—yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“Well, keep that something going. It’s good. For the both of you,” O’Donnell clips with a knowing look. “I knew her father too.” 

She dismisses him with a wave and Eddie, feeling like she’d just made him tie up a pair of leaden boots, follows the tug of his deflated heart like a compass. A tread through the eerily empty after-hours halls brings back a memory here and there. Getting caught smoking under the stairwell on the first day of freshman year; a girl named Phoebe lending him a pencil in Biology, which he ended up using to pretend-stab Tommy Hagan who made fun of her stammer (Tommy cried like a bitch, as if Eddie would ever actually do that); fighting against his better judgment and jimmying the lock of a classroom open so he could help Gareth make a new character sheet for Hellfire and getting detention when they were found out, while the freshman hid under the desk so he wouldn’t be caught too. Plenty of little battles lost. But this is the big one–the one that tells him he’s doomed to repeat this adolescent torture for at least another year. 

However, as soon as he shoulders the swinging door open and sees you, bathed in a pool of lamplight with reams of typewriter paper surrounding you, and you pull your fountain pen from your mouth with a tired smile, stitched together just for him… 

KO. The big gold belt. Eddie Munson, heavyweight champion of the world.  

“Hey, Hildy,” he says, sliding down the short handrail into the typing pool, just because he knows it’ll make you roll your eyes and laugh. And it totally does, a croaky little giggle rasping out of your lips. “What’s the scoop?”

“Don’t you dare come any closer.” Your voice, your outstretched hand, makes Eddie freeze in a rigged marionette’s pose. It’s like your words have actual alchemic pull, how powerless he is to obey you and shit. “Let me just…”

“Seriously?” Eddie lets his arms drop, playing with a ball of elastic bands from the desk he sits on as you painstakingly reorganize your papers. “Y’know, I really should have an early preview of this, given I’m the star of the goddamn article and all. What if I object? What if you paint me in, like, an unflattering light? I could sue. Character defamation.”

“You’re taking care of that defamation all on your own, darling,” you yawn, the punch of your words not quite hitting like they usually would as you stagger across the newsroom to him. You’re exhausted–Eddie can see it. The deep shadows under your pretty eyes, new ink stains appearing on your fingers every day. You’re jerky and shaky, overcaffeinated to the point that the drug ain’t even working anymore. You’re working yourself to the bone. It’s been like this for ages; every spare moment that Eddie doesn’t see you, you’re playing catch up for college applications. “But no. Not ‘til it’s cooked and printed. My portfolio needs this article for a lead-in and it has to be bulletproof. Watertight. Unassailable. Other words for–”

“--perfect?” Eddie steps in, tossing the elastics over his shoulder and tugging you closer so that you’re just about sitting in his lap. “In that case, you chose a real winner of a subject.”

“Eddie.”

“No, seriously! Trailer park nobody with a fantasy game club. Wah-wah. I don’t envy the amount of fluffing you probably have to do to make it remotely appealing to… whoever’s in charge of reading that shit.” 

“Admissions board,” you supply. You’re close enough that Eddie can taste your perfume and honestly, he’s doing a great job of not just licking it clean off your neck. “And I know this is one of your self-pity rally cries, and I won’t entertain it. Besides, it’s not just about you. It’s about Hellfire. The whole… well, I’m not saying any more. You’re just gonna have to read it and find out.” 

“But I want my ego massaged,” Eddie pitifully whines, right out his nose. He clutches onto you harder, the pressure of your body against his alleviating the pressure of his total failure. His breath snags as you, so tired that you’re nearly trembling, kiss him softly. 

“Mm, let’s compromise. I can massage something else,” you hum against his chasing lips, but something saintly touches him before you get the chance to move your inky hand. He uh-uhs you. 

“Much as I appreciate the offer and will immediately curse myself for turning you down the second I get back to the trailer… you’re worn out, Lace. Seriously.” Eddie flicks a lock of your hair out of your face. Were you always like this, even when you were queen bitch? Did anyone ever think to check in on you before? “You been sleepin’? At all?”

“I have a countdown to my future and a convict father taking up residence on my couch. Of course I’m not sleeping. I’m optimizing,” you snit in the sleepiest voice he’s ever heard, your head is lolling against his shoulder. The pout you’re wearing makes Eddie want to bundle you right back to Forest Hills, tuck you up in his grody sheets and not let the rest of the world in ‘til you’ve got your strength back. Just you, him, some records. He’d read to you from The Silmarillion, because that was a surefire way to send you unconscious in seconds. 

“I just need to get this article done and then I’m… I’m good. It’s out of my hands,” you croak.

“Then it’s… NYU’s problem, right?” says Eddie.

“Columbia,” you murmur, “with Emerson as a safety.” 

“Lofty safety.”

“I’m a lofty girl. But you know what? I’m gonna get in.”

A pang in the key of dread hits Eddie in the throat. “I believe that.”

“But you know why?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Because of a silly little story I wrote about you.” You curl Eddie’s hair around your finger and he wonders if you can feel the physical sensation of him melting. Dripping all over you like a pathetic soft serve. “It’s so beyond comprehension but… You’re gonna make my dreams come true, Eddie Munson. I can feel it.”

About time I returned the favor, huh? is what he wants to say, but it’s not the time and it’s not the place and he thinks you might be drifting off in his arms. So he just breathes you in, and takes the win.

—

One thing Ray Doevski was always known to do was move. Not so much in a without exercise, the body devours itself kind of fashion, but in a without constantly one-upping oneself, the self devours itself kind of fashion. With Ray, moving was always some new business venture, some new property acquisition. Some other new reason for a cocktail party, so your mom would have an excuse to pretty herself up and you’d make your on-cue cameo, sweeping through the room and waving at all the important people your father had charmed and collected like stamps. And like stamps, the people he tended to collect all got more valuable with age. Ray liked old money, even if your family was on the newer end of the see-saw.

You saw all that for what it was now. Running the big scamola, charming these people out of pocket with that ugly Hawkins High class ring on his finger. Gold, garish, glaring, a glimmering green stone set right in the center. You hated that thing. 

So, to see someone so diligently dedicated to movement and momentum sit docile on the sofa is pretty fucking disturbing. With that ankle monitor permanently welded to his leg, Ray can’t do so much as stand outside for a smoke without the heat coming down on him. Such are the conditions of his parole. It’s a humiliating fate, watching someone so previously well-kempt rot before you. 

And more disturbing still, your father seems… not unhappy about his situation. As far as a man on house arrest goes, he’s not angry. He’s not irritable, he doesn’t even seem that frustrated. It’s strange. He’d even asked you to borrow a couple of your books to keep him occupied. That threw you. He’d never taken an interest in your voracious love for literature before… but boredom does absolute downright Invasion of the Body Snatchers type shit to a man.

He smiles at you from the corner of the sofa as you come in from an evening shift at the bookstore, your worn copy of Answered Prayers by Truman Capote in hand. It sends a cold dart through your tummy. 

“You!” comes a snarl and your elbow is being snatched before you can even regain your bearings. 

“What the f–”

Your mother slams her bedroom door so hard it seems to shake the trailer. It occurs to you that you haven’t stood inside her bedroom in weeks–months, maybe–or even seen inside of it save for the odd glance. Even then, it was always the sad staging of dresses and hose strewn across the bed, glasses with scarlet staining sitting on the nightstand and the smell of cigarette smoke and perfume growing old and flat and stale. But she’d straightened the place up– now the bedsheets sat tight around the corners of the mattress, and Gloriana’s jewelry was tidied away somewhere. No used wine glasses to behold. Like housekeeping had breezed through. 

She told you she worked as a maid once, ‘For about a minute. Before your father rescued me.’

“What’s your problem?” you snipe, rubbing your pinched elbow through your sweater sleeve. 

Your mother exhales a furious stream of smoke through her grit teeth, Dunhill poised, lit and ready. “You have to do something with him!” 

“Me?!” you hiss back. Alarm sets off a roil in your stomach. You’d made incredibly delicate work of avoiding your father since he landed on the other side of the trailer’s formica table, notching it all down to I’m eighteen, I’m about to graduate, I’ve got work to do! All of which is definitely true, but you’d padded it out a little. 

Padded it out with the time you spent with your lips on Eddie Munson’s lips, sure, but…

“Yes, you!” Gloriana spits, “Don’t think I’ve noticed how you’ve been skirting around him since he came back. Shouldn’t you be over the moon with yourself?”

“I am. I am over the moon.” Greatest lie you’d ever told. “He’s back! Hurray! We’re all happy families again. Do we get the house back? Do I get my car?”

Your mother’s lip lifts into a little smirk. “Oh, Lacy. Has someone gone and turned your head about Daddy? Knocked him off his pedestal?”

See, your mother’s always had this thing– this seething jealousy about the way you looked up to your father. Not necessarily because you never looked up to her the same way (you’d written plenty in your journal about the vapidity of being a ‘society wife’, as she definitely was– a kind of cornfed Midwestern Slim Keith, an ex-pageant girl from the unremarkable middle point of Hawkins who benefitted entirely from her once-poor husband’s grafting), but because you were there at all. Yearning for his approval and robbing his attention. 

Not like you ever got much of either. 

“You want I should call the cops and tell them he’s been running phone scams from the trailer?” 

Your mom lets out a little huff that could be mistaken for a laugh. “He just sits there, all day long. And when he’s not sitting, he’s curtain twitching.”

Just like you’d thought. Rear Window. Danger zone. 

“This place could use a neighborhood watch,” comes the pith through your nerves, “Has he seen anything good, at least?”

Gloriana rolls her eyes at you, hooded with the pretense of as if I’d tell you. “That’s the other thing. He doesn’t talk. But he does ask questions.” 

“Like?” you ask, after a rough swallow that alerts you to how dry your throat has suddenly gotten.

Finely penciled eyebrows quirk. It reminds you of how much your mother can resemble Ava Gardner, when she puts some chutzpah into it. “Better get out there if you want to keep him from his suspicions, is all I’m saying.” 

As if she knows more than she’s letting slip. 

“Shouldn’t you be over the moon? Aren’t you happy that he’s out?” You turn the mirror on her. Gloriana’s eyelids flicker, as if she’s exhausted by the mere question. 

“Of course I am. Don’t be ridiculous,” she sighs. “But some things… were easier. Before. You and I didn’t need to pretend–”

That we liked each other. 

“Yeah.” You snip right into her sentence because although you’re well aware of the scope of your mother’s feelings toward you, it still stings to hear it said out. She’s still your mom, after all. Or, she should be. 

Standing in this room is making you nauseous. 

“I’ll keep him occupied for a while.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

Moments later, you’re tossing a pack of cards on the little formica breakfast table. It used to be a universal language in your household, when your father was still feigning interest in you. He taught you to play cards, and taught you how to cheat at them. You only retained one of those things. Little miracles.

“Want to deal?”

Ray slowly closes the cover on Answered Prayers and rises to the table. 

“Why don’t you give it a try?” he says, a smile playing around his mouth. You resist the pull to roll your eyes, as if he’s bestowing such an honor on you—and wonder when exactly you did stop worshiping him.

Sometime between the last time you’d seen the back of his hand and the guilty verdict, you’re guessing. 

You lay out his hand, and yours. He archly remarks, “Gin?”

“I’ve gotten better.”

“You’ve gotten a lot of things, haven’t you?” Ray says, focusing on his cards. “Lot of things have changed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look, I admit, I came on a little… strong that first night I came home.” Strong was one word for it; you’d call it more of a three-hour cross examination delivered while you were trapped inside an iron maiden. You’d shed as little light on the whole Munson situation as you could. He gave me a ride once or twice. We go to school together, what do you expect? “But can you blame me? With you and your mother living in… this place? I had to know. To be sure that you were safe.”

You want to think, he doesn’t give a shit about safety. He gives a shit about treason. About me fraternizing with his enemy’s offspring, or whatever. But the way he says it gives you pause. 

“It’s not so bad,” you shrug, swapping out a card. “It’s cozy.”

We’re not cozy people.

Ray takes a dig into the stock pile himself, regarding you with a curious look. “See what I mean? You seem… more willing to accept your circumstances. It’s interesting.”

The line between Ray Doevski praising and insulting you is like fishing line; depends on what he’s baiting you with. Accepting one’s circumstances was usually Doevskian for accepting failure.

“What, did you expect me to be kicking up tantrums about not having a clawfoot bathtub anymore? Because I’m not,” you smirk, “I’ve even adjusted to the notion of not always having hot water.”

Your mind flashes back to the small, square shower in the Munson trailer and you make a mental note to ask Eddie how his water heated to boiling within seconds. 

“That, I could personally never get used to.”

“Plumbing wasn’t so great in IDOC, I take it?”

“No. But that didn’t register so high on my scale of problems inside.”

“Was it scary?”

“Yes.”

“And were you… in danger?”

A long beat settles between you. Ray shifts in the vinyl-backed seat, a tiny squeak the only sound between him and his apparent discomfort. Chills, again. You get a chill. 

“... yes,” he says, and meets your eyes. They’ve sunk a fraction more than the last time you’d looked into them. Some of the gray shocks in his hair have turned white. Scary, to witness real evidence of your parents growing old. And frightened. “Lacy, I’d done badly by a lot of people. Some of them were even inside with me, and they wanted retribution, and that was fair. I could live with that,” depending on what end of a shiv he was on, you guessed, “But I also did badly by you. Very badly.”

Ah, acknowledgement that their father has lied about their criminal enterprises for the better part of her life–just what every little girl wants. It wasn’t as if you had still staunchly believed the not guilty campaign that your parents had spearheaded throughout Ray’s trial, even in the face of stony evidence. He was guilty; you had to figure out if you cared about the crimes, or the fact that he’d led you to believe he was so much better than he was. 

But this is the first time he’s really copped to it. 

You’re not quite sure what his admission is supposed to do, so you stare at your spades.  

“It makes sense that you don’t trust me anymore,” Ray goes on, “But I love you, and I always will. All I’ve ever wanted is to provide the best for you, the very best I could. Better than that, even– because that’s what you deserve. The whole world, Lacy.” 

Stomach churning, you wish he’d stop calling you that. Your nickname sounds wrong in his mouth. A world apart from the girl he thinks you are. 

“I just feel like you could’ve done that without skimming money off children’s charities,” you hear yourself saying before you register that your mouth is drawling off the words, “And laundering money through those rentals. And… what was it, drug trafficking? I lost count.”

Knowingly, you brace for explosion. Ray flipping the table, scattering his hand and laying an open palm across your face, the dull thunk of his Hawkins High class ring making contact with your cheekbone. That’d be something. Something solid. Something you could point to, that said I know who he is, I tried to stand up to him, I’m not him, please don’t think that I am.

But he doesn’t, so the line of your shoulders tense for no reason. He digs a cigarette out of the soft pack laying on the table and flicks it towards you with a fingertip. His right hand, ring finger bare. He’s not wearing it. 

He is wearing a sad grin of humility, shrugging like, well, kid, you got me there. Dead to rights.

He looks like somebody else. 

“So, how’s your life been, Lacy Doevski?” A charm dances around his tone, the way a flame dances around the edge of a photograph that doesn’t want to burn. 

And despite your best fucking instincts, despite the way that nickname falls out of his mouth like upchuck, despite the fact that you should hate him, there’s a change in the lighting around him that you just cannot help but want to engage with. 

“You really wanna know?”

“I really wanna know. Tell me everything. The road to Columbia, how’s that going? The newspaper. This job at the bookstore in town. Your friend, uh, Nancy, right? She seems like a nice kid. I know Ted Wheeler, a little bit. Went to school with him and her mom, Karen. And everybody knew Karen, but, uh, don’t mention that to Nancy!” He steals another card from the stock pile, but doesn’t discard one from his hand. You decide not to mention it. “I want to know everything, Lacy. I’ve been way too distracted with things that don’t matter as much as you. Call this… makin’ up for lost time.” 

Your shoulders shrug into themselves, like when you were a little kid and he’d let you sit on the big leather chair in his office after you’d sat outside the door for a solid hour, begging to come in. The corners of your lips pick up.

“Just about to finish my applications. I’m submitting this writing portfolio–”

“--I thought we talked about business school?”

You seize. You had. An effort in setting you up for a future of undebatable prestige started to sound more like sending you off to the meet market, the more your father talked about it. Business school is where you’ll meet young men of excellent character, Lorelei. Excellent family stock. It won’t hurt if they see that you’re smart, too. 

… why the everloving fu-huuuck would you go to business school when you spend every spare second of the day giving yourself carpal tunnel and preaching about that Woolfe chick, Lace? Nope, you need someplace with climbing ivy and people whose dissenting opinions on cliterature you can cat fight with. Eddie Munson, leaning over the counter at the Bookstore and shedding light on your secret desire to bury yourself in novels and pretention with his ever-burning flare of perception. 

Cliterature? you’d asked, brow an arch. 

Classic literature. As written by the fairer sex. Bronte and broads.

Well, Jesus Christ. Who died and let you lead the third wave of feminism, Munson?

“Um…” You hadn’t prepared a good defense for this. You felt a stab of nausea.

“It’s okay!” your dad chuckles, tapping you on the wrist in reassurance, “You changed your mind. That’s fine. But it’s still Columbia, right?”

“God, of course. Couldn’t imagine anywhere else.” 

“Good.” The smile reaches his eyes. “Sorry, your portfolio.”

“Right, uh– I’m just about polishing it off and I’ve got a great lead in, my last article for the Streak…” you trail off. A warning signal travels down your brain stem. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him about Hellfire. You’ve got to keep him as far away as–

“About what?” Ray asks brightly. Picks up a card. Discards another. You see a twitch in his mouth. 

“An after school club,” you blurt. “My, um. My friend Ronnie’s in it. We were… lab partners. Junior year. Dissected frogs together.”

“Yeah, that really bonds people for life, huh?” Ray says. Not a trace of irony. “Well, I look forward to reading it. If you want me to. I know writers can be very precious about their work.” 

And their subjects.

“Uh, well. We’ll see. I might not want to jinx it after I send off my applications.” 

“Superstitious,” he smiles, “Just like your old man.”

“And I have a boyfriend.” The blurting just doesn’t let up from you, eh? Like you have to cover all your bases while Ray is swept up in this gregarious mood. “And he goes to… Ithaca. I think.”

Your father makes a face that stands up to some interpretation of, la-di-da, lookit you! and Christ, you’re nearly sure he’s bought it. College guy… he’d kind of fallen by the wayside since you took that trip to Saturday morning detention. He’d better fucking pick up if you call now, if he hadn’t gone back to Vermont or wherever. 

“Well, look, I’m glad you’ve kept that momentum even given… everything. And I’m glad you seem to be surrounding yourself with good, level-headed people.” People he would have called nobodies eight months ago. People you would have called nobodies eight months ago. “Like Nancy. And this Ronnie. And that you’ve stayed out of trouble, as much as you can.”

You swear you see his eyes flick to the window beside you. In the direction of the trailer across the way, where a warm yellow light glows from the bedroom. There’s a shake in your breath, but Ray isn’t quite done. 

“I’m incredibly proud of the woman you’re becoming, Lacy. And look at that–” His hand slaps down on the table, revealing his melds. “--gin! I thought you said you got better at this, kid!”

“You took me by surprise, Daddy. What can I say.”

—

“Quit that. That’s explosive cargo you’re flickin’.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Tap, tap, tap. One of the hinges of this rusty, crusty, dusty old domed metal lunchbox is loose, and you can’t stop toying with it. “This is what you’ve been carrying your motherlode around in?” 

“What about your mother’s load?” Eddie says, scraping the lunchbox a couple of inches away from you on the bench. Still, you reach for it, and he smacks your hand away. “Respect the receptacle, please. It’s a thing of legend.”

“Seems like a dangerously obvious hiding place for a bunch of illegal substances,” you say, brow creased. Had Eddie put any thought into his operation thus far? Because this seems extremely haphazard. He’s always swinging that goddamn thing around school, and one look inside the false bottom could put him away for a long time, if the Reagan administration had anything to do with it. 

“Exactly! Making it the last place anyone would think to look!” Eddie beams, flicking the lid open. “Class A drugs? Why, no, officer, these are my party pretzels. From home.” A deeply tragic baggie of crushed pretzel pieces lands between the two of you. Your frown deepens a degree or two. Eddie shrugs, shaking his curls out a little and starts picking through the detritus in the lunch box. Other than a couple of dime bags, a box of Camels, a lighter and some loose Twizzlers, his load’s light.

“How exactly does one get into the business of selling hydroponics et cetera out of a lunchbox, Eddie?” 

“Why, you lookin’ to diversify your criminal skillset?” That sly poke. You roll your eyes, jiggling your mary jane’d foot and pick up a bag of Mary Jane herself.

“I’m just curious about the trajectory! The more I learn about you, the more it occurs to me that you’re possibly the uncoolest drug dealer in history. You know, stereotypically speaking.” 

“The answer I think you’re looking for is that I’m a big, big boy,” Eddie rasps, taking an exaggerated chomp out of one of the liquorice ropes, “and I contain multitudes. Shit happens. Sometimes it leads to you selling pot. Et cetera.”

“What kind of shit?”

He considers you for a second, but you’re bright-eyed and curious about him. He jumps back from you when you’re like this sometimes, like he just touched a hot stove. You’d give him shit for it, but you did the same thing. The Twizzler waves in your face. “If I didn’t have such a brain-damage inducing crush on you, I’d think you were a narc.”

 “Eddie.” Though your heart does jump like a needle on a scratched record when he says crush. Particularly when he says crush like that. But he could elaborate on that for you later. 

“Fine, fine, fine– I’m not gonna get into the finer points of it now, but… basically, some shit went down with my dad that meant I had to move in with Wayne and working at the plant isn’t actually the cash cow that you’d think it is, and neither is me picking up barback shifts at the Hideout so… I hit up my dad’s friend Rick who said he’d help me out if I ever needed it and here we are. Lunchbox and all. Half ounces for halfwits at horrible parties.” Eddie toughens into this tense line as he speaks, like he’s halfway embarrassed about having to do this. “Means to an end, y’know?” 

You nod, though you want to prod further so bad. “Do what they expect of you until you don’t have to anymore.”

Exactly, Eddie mouths with narrowed eyes, another bite into the Twizzler. “You know what tune I’m singin’.”

Better than the both of you realize, it seems.

“This whole,” you gesture around the circular clearing, the place everyone knows you come to meet Munson to score product, “place does kind of look like the kind of hotspot where one might catch Goody Proctor dancing with the Devil.” 

It’s your first time out here–you’d elegantly skirted the responsibility of ever having to pick up for your group of friends but it’s… delightfully creepy. Whispers cragging through the tree branches. Eddie’s presence knocking you off guard at every turn–well, not you. Not anymore. 

“Rumors are kind of starting to add up. Satanic worship, human sacrifice… girls panties going missing. That’s all I’m saying.” 

A maddened grin peeling over his features, Eddie scooches closer to where you sit, perched on top of the rotting picnic table. “Why do you think I lured you out here, Lace?” His fingertips race up your calf and you spill a giggle, squirming away. “The Dark Lord requires another infernal bride!” He leaps up, ticklish touch attacking your sides ‘til you’re shrieking, not working quite as hard as you could to beat him away. 

“Ed–Eddie, st-aaahap!”

“It’s all cool! It’s no big deal! Just take your clothes off and sign my yearbook! Then, hey presto, the big guy’ll give you whatever you want.”

Eddie’s hands slow to a still on your hips, your uncrossed legs caging his sides. His lids fall, mouth prepping a pout for yours, but you press your thumb into his lips. 

“Whatever I want?” you whisper, eyes narrowing. 

A smirk flickers across Eddie’s mouth, a puff of breath pressing his mouth into your thumb until the tip is wedged between the edge of his teeth. Your breathing stills for a second and you resist pushing it further into his mouth. 

“Shit,” he murmurs, moving your hand across his cheek so he can kiss you full on the mouth. His tongue is needy and searching, making you curve into him just a touch. You can feel the prickle of his stubble coming up. Eddie with a five o’clock shadow… “I’d give you whatever you want, Lace. John Hancock in the Book of the Beast or no.” 

The wettened peaks of his lips go straight for your jugular. You two have shared enough mouth-to-mouth episodes for him to know that feeling his tongue against your pulse is liable to make you do nutty things. 

“Tell me what you want, dahling one,” Eddie’s mouth crawls up your jaw in an approximation of Bela Lugosi, up to your ear, where he knows you’re ticklish too. You feel him smile at your breathy laugh. “Anything you desire, anything beneath the blazing sun and under the heaving mud, anything under the banner of… the Hawkins township, because I don’t have a lot of gas money right now…”

“I want you,” you struggle through a sigh–his stupid mouthy beautiful mouth, “to get rid of that goddamn lunchbox. At least, for illegal purposes. Keep it for pretzels.”

Eddie honks out a nasally groan far too close to your ear and you jerk back. “No! You’re supposed to be all, ‘I absolutely indubitably want you, Eddie,’ and then we’re supposed to, ee-ee,” he thrusts his clothed hips into yours animatedly, “on this very table top. Until you realize it’s covered in woodlice.”

“Well, I can’t fuck you if you’re in prison. I’m telling you, that old tin thing falls apart in the hallway and you’re being tried as a full adult!” Wait, did he say woodlice? 

“You worry too much. S’gonna make you warty. Plus,” he says, unlatching himself from you and tossing his effects back in the tin box, “this is a family heirloom. Al Munson made good on his last straight job at the plant for a grand total of six hours, and all he got was this lousy lunchbox.”

Speaking of Al… 

“Y’know, I was thinking… If it wasn’t for your dad…” Your hands knit in your lap as you pretend to look around for woodlice.  

“‘If it wasn’t for Al’ what?” Eddie’s tone is flat, “Grand theft auto would decrease tenfold from here to Bloomington? Less diner waitresses would have complexes about men who abuse the free refill system? Starcourt Mall wouldn’t have burned down?”

Your eyebrows knit. Okay, pause. “What has he got to do with Starcourt Mall?”

“I’m not a hundred percent, but I have a theory,” Eddie says, arms bound across his chest. “It involves horseshit bombs and the Russian mafia.”

“And you told me my Larry Kline theory was crazy!”

“Well, funny you mention because my idea actually runs kind of concurrent to that–” 

“No, let’s put a pin in that for a second,” you cut him off, “It’s… my dad. I think he might actually be somewhat rehabilitated. Knocked down a peg, maybe? He actually displayed a hint of diffidence, Eddie. I think I … kind of have Al to thank for that.”

Sure, there was an air of initial disconcert to you and your dad’s little game of gin rummy, but the more you ruminated on it, the more it felt… threatless. Your mom had even joined you for a grim dinner of mac and cheese, where the three of you had nearly fondly reminisced on the pasta alla vodka from a restaurant they always went to on New Years Eve in Indianapolis. Maybe that’s what it took; a stint in prison to crack his ego like the Liberty Bell, and now Ray Doevski had to bear the humility like everyone else. Maybe he’d make good on his promise, making up for lost time.

But the disbelief, and, in fact, concern that Eddie is eyeballing your way says something different. 

“Don’t thank Al for anything.”

“I’m just saying. Dad and I actually talked last night, for the first time in… ever, really, and it didn’t feel like he was sizing me up. It was.. He was… nice.”

“Lacy.” Eddie’s shoulder’s sag. He hops up on the table next to you, bringing you knee to knee. The tear in his jeans rubs against the webbed nylon of your tights. When he looks at you, it’s with rounded eyes that could very well have been checking you for brain damage. “I don’t mean to blow out your candle or anything, but coming from someone as well versed in the tales of a crooked father who never really changes as I… I don’t buy this Ray of sunshine bit.”

Your hackles start to raise. Hey. Just because Al Munson was a famed and patterned piece of shit didn’t necessarily mean–

Eddie clocks you immediately, your crunched brow and pursed mouth. His hands go up, requesting pause. “Look. This is your first time at the convict parent rodeo, so I know how it is. Whirlwind. They always roar in in some Cadillac full of promises, right, swearing to make everything they fucked up right by you. But it never sticks, Lace. They’re hardwired to not follow through, okay? At least not on anything that doesn’t serve their own vain little agenda. With Al, it’s always some big dick scheme, something that’s gonna set us, and by us I mean him, up for life. No matter how good it feels to have them back, it– it always feels better when they’re gone.”

His searching eyes dart to his hands, as if he’d said a touch too much. On the one hand, a couple of painful pop rocks explode in your chest. You always feel this way whenever he mentions Al– Eddie’s let you in on glimpses here and there, revealing that he hasn’t quite shucked off the essence of being a hurt kid. It presents you with the super challenging desire to soothe the memory, but you dance around it at a distance. The dad stuff, it’s still sticky for the both of you. But now that Ray is back, and Al is back, you kind of have to talk about it. It figures pretty keenly into… whatever the fuck you two think you’re doing.

Then, on the other hand, a quick flash of resentment burns in you. Yeah, your dad is hardwired–why can’t mine be different? 

“Better?” you ask. 

“Maybe–not better,” Eddie rectifies, his rings knocking against his palm. “But easier. It’s always easier when he’s gone, even if I want him to be there. At least I know what to expect when he doesn’t call or write or whatever, which is nothing.”

“So I should do the same? Expect nothing?” You can’t hide the bite in your voice, and you can’t meet his eyes when he looks at you. 

“Lacy,” he says, searching hard for you in there, “You know what kind of guy your dad is. All the pomp and circumstance in the world won’t change what you’ve already seen. What you’ve already been through. This nice guy shit is a tactic– you…”

A heavy-ringed hand pulls your face to his, forcing you to look him in his earnest, gleaming eyes. 

“You deserve more than that.” 

Confusion with a sadness chaser churns in you. The metallic chill of Eddie’s rings against your cheek. A cooling comfort. Not a harsh sting. Not an open palm. A cradle. 

“I know you don’t believe me, for whatever reason, but you do deserve more than that.”

I still want you to be wrong, a voice hisses in the back of your head. Fucking Medusa rising.

“Yeah,” you nod in his hands, surrendering because it’s the right thing to say. “Yeah, of course I do. I’ll be careful. It’s fine.”

“And speaking of careful,” Eddie’s timbre hits a more suggestive spot, his hand falling from your jaw to your shoulder, “Harrington’s having a party on Friday, s’why I need fresh supplies.”

“Oh, really?” you mumble, mood not immediately perking up.

“Yes, really,” Eddie mocks, grip slipping to your waist. “I was thinking… y’know. Harrington’s house is big. Lotta rooms. Lotta beds…”

“Lot of intimacy at big parties,” you paraphrase Gatsby. “But the last time I was at Harrington’s… Is that such a good idea? Risking a repeat of teenage gladiator?”

“You were hardly gladiating, you were performing The Crab Monologues. Now, Carol, she wa–”

A scowl starts growing on your face. “Not helping your case.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry,” Eddie grins that bitten, private grin he deploys when he’s just about to lay one on you. “Will you show if I promise to protect you from wild redheaded assailants?”

“I’ll consider it. But that better include that little neighbor girl of yours, too,” you warn, suddenly reminded of the viscous stink-eye that Billy Hargrove’s stepsister had been throwing your way the last couple of times that you passed her in the trailer park. “Orphan Annie has it out for me for some reason.”

“You’re so cute when you’re paranoid.” 

“You have a woodlouse in your bangs.”“Wuagh! Where! Kill it!”

author's notes: christ it is GOOD TO BE BACK!!! if this feels like a part one to something, that is because it very much is, my friends. this was on its way to becoming a 20k+ chapter, which would freak me out actually so i decided to have some boundaries for once and split it in two. get you warmed up for what's to come. it's drama. btw. anyway on with the show - ohhh, you guys i have been listening to so much early-mid 00s emo in order to write this story. i realized that that's my secret weapon, because it's just as melodramatic as these two fucking dumbshits are. points to anyone who knows what the title of the chapter is a reference to (bonus points if they can find it a second time in a past chapter of this story) - flannery o'connor is of course a standard doevski pick for an author, but also a nod to maya hawke playing her in the biopic, which looks exquisite btw - back at it with the extremely rudimentary dnd references! i thought fear and loathing in luskan was fun - eddie WOULD know a ton about ancient greek mythology, specifically the goings on at the olympics, but not because he has any real vested interest in it but moreso because when he researches for a campaign he goes absolutely hard, like me with my 26 tabs open googling 'nail polish shades popular 80s teen girl bonne bell' - kick rocks! montague moment's over! but real quick-- what's munson? it is not hand, nor foot nor arm nor face, nor any other part... belonging to a man :) - yet another hellfire & ice fancast moment, i must present my personal pick for o'donnell-- it's gotta be allison janney, baby. less in the 10 things i hate about you guidance counselor vein, rather in the stepmom from juno vein. - 'hey hildy, what's the scoop?' had to get a his girl friday reference in somewhere, didn't i - answered prayers by truman capote is not only the cuntiest book ever written (capote essentially sold the secrets of his wealthy socialite friends in order to write it) but is also the latest ryan murphy adaptation - we stan jordan baker from the great gatsby in this house alright! that's all for this one! hope you enjoyed it, i know it's heavy on set up but next chapter will see us right back at casa de harrington for another blowout party, so... brace yourselves. please comment and reblog to support the work, thank you hellcats i love you forever

[j-onedrabbles]

𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒉 𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏: 𝑰'𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆 cw: insecurities, overthinking wc: 0.3k

Y/n waited anxiously for her professor to end the class. He had gone over in his time on a rant about something she couldn’t bother to pay attention to. She wanted to get out of this class but also didn’t want to be rude and walk out. She already packed up her things and was ready to just go.

“Alright, see you next class.” Y/n was up and out the door in seconds. She saw Minho waiting for her across the hall and walked over quickly to him.

“Hey,” He offered a smile but got a bit concerned when she just wrapped her arms around him and hid her face in his chest, “What’s wrong?”

“Can we go back to your place?” Y/n asked

“Come on,” Minho wrapped an arm around her shoulder and walked her out to the parking lot. Y/n got in his car first and sighed heavy as Minho walked around to the drivers side. She was letting what Yeona said sit in the rest of her class and even talking with minho and the rest of her friends only helped so much. She was mad at thinking it could be put in the past and that she let her pettines get to her. Overthinking to the point of almost crying.

“Hey,” Minho called as he started the car and looked over at her.

“Sorry,” Y/n sighed as she wiped under her eyes

“Don’t apologize, how can I help? What’s wrong?”

“I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about what she said, but what if she’s right? You might be better off with—”

Minho grabbed her chin and turned her to him and kissed her. Effectively stopping her ramble and her thoughts before he pulled away, “I am not better off without you, okay? I’m yours and you’re mine.”

“Is that you’re way of asking me to be you’re girlfriend?”

“What if it is?”

“Then I say yes. I’m yours,” Y/n smiled

Minho smiled back and gave her a quick peck on the lips before he pulled out of the parking spot and headed back to his apartment.

←PREV|NEXT→ MASTERLIST| MAIN MASTERLIST

a/n: 🤭

taglist: @xxoche3erryxxo @iadorethemskz @maeleelee @morningstardada @sungookie @mistlitmoonlight @junebug032 @m111nho @slay-and-gay @hyunjinshairband01 @beautifulixr @i-dont-know-me-either @blinkjunhui

[zillabean]

Commission for the irrepressible Babs, who wanted poor Will doing his damnest to keep Hannicat from savaging Castiel, who must've grabbed his tiger tail or something XD

Maybe he didn't follow the rules at the Heavy Pettin' Cafe XD

[sweetfirebird]

A Star for Trenne's Own

This is for Djaz/Seren on Patreon, who wanted some Taji and Trenne, something happy and maybe spicy if possible.

Content tags: post and pre-sexytimes. Taji mid-longing at the height of his shehzha-ness. Spoilers for Taji from Beyond the Rings. Alien genitalia (though really described much here.)

A Star for Trenne's Own

Taji flung his arms and legs outward on the soft sheets of his big bed and stretched, trying and failing to remember that though he currently felt no pain, his prosthetic issues were still there. The bedding was freshly changed. Taji had no real thoughts to spare for whoever had been collecting their laundry except to wish them well and maybe thank them some day whenever he left this room again.

He frowned fleetingly at the idea of moving from this room, from this bed, and rolled over to press his shoulders against sweet-smelling pillows and spread his legs in sensual delight. His skin was scrubbed and clean, oil massaged in by Trenne himself, gently urging Taji this way and that, finally allowing Taji to lick at his pussy and suck his cock in exchange for Taji’s stillness while he made sure all of Taji’s skin was moisturized and soft.

Then he’d placed Taji on the bed to rest so he could quickly clean himself before returning to the bedroom. He put a protein bar in Taji’s hand. Taji meant to glare at him for it, but he looked up and was immediately distracted by Trenne’s lovely, delicate eyes. So big and so deadly when he needed to be, but so delicate.

“Eat, peha.” Trenne said that because he was clever and wonderful and knew it would make Taji eat, at least a little.

“Trenne,” Taji sighed back at him, but took a horrible, dry, crunchy bite of something that wasn’t his eshe. The crunchy ones were his favorite, Trenne would say if Taji complained. His ears would dip down. He would worry. Taji took another bite and even chewed and swallowed it, but only to please him. “Why are you so pretty?” he complained, disliking the sensation of crumbs on their bed and turning to sweep them away.

He turned back in time to catch Trenne’s ears twitching the way they always did when Taji paid him compliments. “So strong,” Taji went on breathlessly, not teasing although he’d meant to. “With markings I want to kiss. Will you let me kiss them next, eshe? Ah twitch twitch go your ears now. You’re lovely. Trenne,” Taji caught himself whining and at least cut that much off. He dutifully crunched away at the awful food Trenne wanted him to eat and hummed when Trenne’s eyes would meet his.

Trenne stood at the end of the bed, too far away, checking his DD for news and updates from the others. That was important. Taji tried to remember that.

“So smart,” he sighed this as well. “Clever and brave. They’re counting on you even now. You must be tired. Are you tired, Trenne? Come here and rest with me.”

“Water now,” Trenne said, not asking and also not climbing on the bed with Taji to rest or anything. He took the wrapper of the protein bar away and replaced it with a cup, and stood there, ears forward and attentive, while Taji frowned but drank the water.

Trenne stepped away seconds later, dealing with the wrapper and cup.

“I’m such a bother,” Taji realized, vaguely certain he’d realized this before and suddenly, impossibly tired. His bones were heavy. He could barely follow Trenne’s path around the room. “So much work for you when you’re already tired. I’m sorry.”

Trenne’s ears went to the side and then flattened. He looked at Taji directly, then came closer to the bed to cup Taji’s jaw. “It is my honor.” He brushed a tingling, sensitive space beneath Taji’s ear and then did the same to Taji’s mouth. “And it is pleasant work.”

Taji was basking in warmth and lighter than air. He smiled.

Trenne’s ears came back up. “Rest, peha. I will not leave.”

Rest did not sound fun with him close enough, naked from his shower and still damp while touching Taji. But he picked up the DD and began to skim the information again, petting Taji as he did. Taji pressed into his roughly, textured palm and let his eyes close. He had to be patient. The information was important. Trenne was eshe but they did not have soldiers to spare. He still had to be sharp.

Trenne could be patient. Remarkably so. He was Sha and not human and could come many times without ejaculating. He did that for Taji when the longing was too much, and in the meantime, answered Taji’s begging by letting Taji use him like a toy, stimulating him on his cock until Taji was a pitiful, shivering wreck and only then giving him a taste.

Sometimes, in odd moments when Taji was suddenly aware again, he worried over Trenne putting in all this work to please him while also still working to protect everyone else. He thought of that now and didn’t whine or plead or beckon Trenne to the bed. But he opened his eyes to watch him and the tiny movements of his ears as he absorbed whatever the others had to tell him.

It was good that he wasn’t distracted like Taji was. If Taji had been Shavian too, Trenne would have to fight the longing. But he had probably wanted that, when he’d dreamed of this in his youth. Now he’d never know it because Taji couldn’t give him that.

He exhaled mournfully.

“So soon?” Trenne looked down to ask, a question that didn’t quite make sense.

Taji gazed up to his still face and concerned ears. “You’re so good. My eshe.” He shivered a little and pressed his face hard into Trenne’s palm until Trenne began to lightly touch him again. “I’m more work. I can’t give you the longing. Not much of a…”

“Taji.” Trenne stopped him with a voice so firm that a hot pang went through Taji’s chest. Trenne stared down at him with the Sha version of wonder. “I believe myself fortunate that you cannot. They would judge me and they would be harsh if I gave in, even in the smallest ways. You as you are, Taji shehzha. A star for my own.”

Taji slid forward to put his face against Trenne’s thigh. “All of that and I…. I worried. In Laviias. If something happened to you and the longing would be as painful as they insisted it was. I didn’t know it then, so I believed…. I told—I told them I could live without you if I had to. That’s not very…”

“My wise shehzha.” Trenne stopped him again, one hand curved to Taji’s nape. “Clever Taji Ameyo. I would have you survive. Is that… not the answer I should give?”

His uncertainty cut through some of the warmth in Taji’s mind. He tipped his head back.

Trenne studied him with the quiet that spoke of worry. “Is it not what you want your eshe to want? I would have you survive.”

“Even if it meant another touching me?” Taji shook his head as he asked it. “I wouldn’t want it. If that had happened,” he kissed Trenne’s skin and curled his hand behind one knee, “I would imagine you,” he promised. He licked his lips and had to kiss Trenne again, shivering as he made his way up Trenne’s thigh.  He shifted to get closer, pulling Trenne toward his greedy, hungry, shehzha mouth. “I’d want this.” He used his fingers to part flesh and then his tongue to taste it before shifting to rise up higher. “Want you.” He found Trenne’s cock and sucked hard on one of the bumps that felt so good inside him. Trenne’s cock was just for him. He didn’t want some phantom eshe. “Only you.” He found a new spot to suck, but it still didn’t give him what he wanted. What he needed, hot and nutty-sweet in his mouth. “Please. Please Trenne.”

“Take what you please, peha,” he was told softly, Trenne’s palm sweeping over his shoulders and then down to help draw Taji up onto his knees. The DD was in his other hand. He needed to work and Taji should care about that and not only filling his mouth and getting Trenne to spill so much it fell to his cheek and then his chest and Taji would have to lick it from his fingers to be satisfied that he’d gotten it all.

“Trenne.” He dipped his head to find other secretions and slid his knees apart. No pain, just an open body meant to receive.

He glanced up.

Trenne took a deep breath, the one that meant he was fighting to focus. Taji kept his eyes open while lapping up what he could for now and then returned to Trenne’s cock.

“My shehzha, not yet,” Trenne told him, firm and strong and clever, the DD falling to the bed before his hands were on Taji to position him how they wanted. Taji was slick from before and open enough it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but Trenne pushing him down, pushing inside him slowly to give him so much that he whined and bit his lip and swallowed what little taste he’d had so far.

No one else would compare. Taji shifted back and dropped his head to moan open-mouthed for more. “Only Trenne,” he managed, a thrum in his blood, “only you.”

 “A star for my own,” Trenne answered, and began to move Taji how he pleased.

[rockstar-pornograffitti]

for your consideration (seems like smth you would like)

This shit kills

[antiquatedsimmer]

Eddy and Silas made their way towards the barns, the morning mist still clinging to the air.

"Now, listen close, son," Eddy began, his voice steady. "I don't want no whinin' or backtalk. We're gonna do the work that needs to be done. But don't you worry, I'll make it a learnin' experience for ya." Silas stayed quiet, matching his father's pace.

( Long post today! just warning ya!}

Eddy led Silas to Millie, their beloved cow, and stepped back, observing closely as his son approached the large animal.

"Now, Silas, when it comes to brushin' Millie, ya gotta be careful," Eddy advised, his voice low and measured. "Use the soft brush, like this one here, so ya don't irritate her skin. Just gentle strokes, boy, like you're pettin' her." Silas nodded attentively, taking the brush in his hand and following his father's guidance.

Eddy then moved to Millie's side and showed Silas the proper technique for milking. Silas watched intently as Eddy demonstrated, his young hands mimicking the movements carefully.

Millie stood there calmly, seemingly content with Silas' efforts. She didn't make a sound or show any signs of distress, which reassured both father and son.

"Good job, Silas," Eddy commended with a proud smile. "You're takin' to this like a natural. "

While Eddy and Silas ventured out to tend to the chores on the farm. Helena, on the other hand, rose from her slumber and swiftly prepared herself for the tasks that awaited her inside the house. With a tune humming softly on her lips, she adorned her working attire, ready to tackle the daily household responsibilities.

With broom in hand, Helena began sweeping the floors diligently, sweeping away the remnants of dirt and dust that had settled overnight. The rhythmic swish of the broom filled the air, creating a comforting cadence in the otherwise quiet house. As she moved from room to room, ensuring every nook and cranny was free from debris, Lucile, their young daughter, joyfully played and explored in the corners of their cozy home.

Silas, his eyes heavy with sleep, struggled to find his footing on his first day of farm work. But he pushed through the fatigue to complete the responsibilities his father laid out before him. He collected eggs from the coop, a delicate and essential chore, and learned how much grain to feed the chickens each day.

Eddy, taking on the role of mentor, stood beside Silas, guiding him through the process. He demonstrated the proper technique, emphasizing the importance of handling each delicate egg with care.

As Silas reluctantly followed his father's instructions, his mind wandered to thoughts of sleeping in or engaging in playful adventures. Despite his initial silent protest, Silas found himself adapting to the farm tasks with surprising ease, akin to a natural-born farmer.

Inside the Harrington household, a troubling discovery unfolded as Helena witnessed the aggressive behaviors that had taken root in their daughter, Lucile. The influence of Silas's bullying had taken its toll, manifesting in Lucile's tendency to bite and resort to kicking instead of using words.

Recognizing the urgency of the situation, Helena fervently hoped that Eddy's plan to instill responsibility in Silas would yield positive results. She knew that curbing Silas's negative influence on Lucile was crucial to prevent her from adopting further ill-mannered habits. The thought of both her children becoming difficult to raise weighed heavily on Helena's heart, instilling a sense of fear and concern.

In the midst of this apprehension, Eddy entered the room, catching a glimpse of Lucile's actions. With a determined expression, he swiftly took charge to address the behavior, refusing to let their daughter fall prey to the same destructive path as Silas. They had already witnessed the challenges of raising one child who strayed from the right path, and the last thing they needed was a second child following suit.

After the rest of the work was done, Eddy and Silas found respite in the comforting embrace of the kitchen, where Helena had prepared a hearty lunch for them. Silas, wearied by the day's labor, silently consumed his meal, while Eddy observed him intently.

"You've done well today, son," Eddy commended, his voice carrying a paternal warmth. "With time and practice, the work will become easier for you." Silas nodded in acknowledgment, his fork idly pushing around the eggs on his plate.

Eddy's tone softened as he imparted words of wisdom. "I want you to understand, Silas, that this is not a punishment," he emphasized. Silas's eyes met his father's gaze, curious and attentive. "Someday, your mother and I won't be here. It will be your responsibility to care for this land, to ensure its prosperity. You're reaching an age where you must learn the ways of the farm, to carry on the legacy. I want your future children to experience the same happiness we have here."

Silas replied with a mixture of reluctance and determination, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "I understand, Father. I will do my best."

As they continued to savor their meal, Silas felt a whirlwind of emotions stirring within him. The weight of his impending responsibilities bore down on him, raising doubts about the path he was expected to follow. "Do I want to be a farmer?" he pondered silently, his thoughts muddled with the prospect of marriage and the future that awaited him.

[bloop-im-a-frog-now]

If The Gods Were Kind — pizza

Second hurt/comfort story! I loved writing this one. I’m a bit scared I wrote the bad day like, too stereotypical. I’ve had bad mental health days, but just health wise? Not really. So, hopefully, I didn’t mess up too badly. But like I said, I really liked writing this scene, it’s filled with hurt but soooo much domestic fluff, like, just them <333

Master Post

— —

Content warnings: Panic attack, meltdown, internalized ableism, ableist language. The beginning is rough, pls stay safe <3

Scar bolted out of bed, hyperventilating. He clutched the blankets, closed his eyes and tried to hold back tears. He wondered if that ever worked for anyone, holding back tears that were about to spill any second now. He swallowed a sob and gasped a breath. His eyes glanced to the bed on the other side of the room. Wings ruffled against the sheets and a small noise came out from them, but they stopped after a couple of milliseconds. 

His hand trembled as he pulled the covers away from his boiling body, trying desperately to put the dream in the back of his mind. Pizza wasn’t dead, Etho confirmed it, Tango even pointed out the sign on the little shack Scar built for her. He ignored the amount of strength he used to get rid of the blankets, and tossed his legs at the edge of the bed, taking deeper breaths, just to calm himself, to remind himself everything was fine, it was just a dream, get a grip on yourself . 

His mind didn’t register the ache and the heaviness in his hips and calves when his feet met the ground. He was too busy trying to stay silent, trying to make the horrible nightmare go away, to really register his body was trembling and was struggling to even hold him up tight. He carded a hand through his messy hair (was it getting longer?) and took one deep breath before getting up. His body immediately slumped back onto the bed. He groaned, rubbing his hands against his face and pulling his hair. Was now really a good time?

His eyes searched for his crutches, his cane, anything to distract him from his dream and from his stubborn body, as even moving his neck took too much energy. He rolled his shoulders back, but it only aggravated the ache. When he realized that not only hadn't he fallen asleep in the bedroom but in the kitchen, his cane was probably also there. It’s not a far walk, but he couldn’t remember where he last put his crutches. Why weren’t they in this room?

He wiggled his toes, hoping his legs could support his weight until he reached the kitchen. His mind started to look for places he could hold himself to, while wondering how he wound up in his bed if he fell asleep in the kitchen. Was it Grian? Grian was by no means an early bird, and Scar would much rather he slept the most out of the two of them, but was he strong enough to carry Scar all the way to their bedroom? He had to remind himself, as he used the last energy in his arms to clench the bedpost, that the kitchen wasn’t really that far. It gave him hope he could make it without waking Grian up. 

The house was boiling when he finally arrived in the kitchen and sat on a chair. He didn’t have anything in his inventory, he doubted he could make his body move once more to get the food in their storage system, and he was so glad he had foregone the armor yesterday. He was overheating, he might need some water, but he just let himself feel the cold furniture coarse with sand. 

His eyes caught his cane and his crutches side by side close to the ladder, and he let out a sigh of relief. Grian just placed them together, in an obvious spot. Scar wished he had put them to his bedside, but the last time his body gave him trouble, it was eighteen days ago.

After settling on Monopoly Mountain, Scar could barely walk, let alone do other tasks that were needed to do that day. Grian had simply forced him to sit on a chair and brought Pizza up the mountain, so Scar could do something with his hands. 

His throat clogged at the thought of Pizza, petting her fuzzy fur, already infested by sand and dirt, feeding her carrots they had stolen from the village, calling her a good girl, and adjusting her headband and her saddle. He missed Pizza. He missed her so much, she didn’t deserve all the hate and the teasing the others inflicted upon her. He just wanted his llama back. His mind wandered back to his nightmare, and he pulled his hair to stop thinking about it, it was only a dream, she didn’t die . 

A sob escaped his mouth and he let his head fall on the table. His shoulder blades and hips complained, a gnawing feeling between them and on his waist. He really didn’t know how he should sit. Should he slouch? Should he roll his shoulders back and sit up straight? Maybe he needed food and water. Should he yell at Grian to wake him up? No, his companion needed sleep, who knew at what time he went to bed. 

“Scar?” A rough voice called. 

Scar froze. Did he wake up Grian? He turned his head slightly to the entrance of the kitchen, not too much so that it required all of his lasting energy, but enough to see one macaw wing stretching out, looking fluffier than the last time he saw it. Grian sat down and inspected him, arms crossed against the table. Scar barely moved. 

“What are you doing sitting here, looking into nothingness?” Grian’s face lightened up a bit, slightly amused. 

Now that Scar thought about it, it was kind of silly sitting here, doing nothing. But he did not appreciate the lighthearted remark when he was hungry, frustrated, thirsty, boiling, and cursing at his body for making his life ten times more complicated. 

He simply sighed in reply, looking at the table instead of those lightning green irises. Grian hummed and stood up.

“You hungry?”

Scar hummed. He wasn’t sure if he simply didn’t have the energy to form words or if the morning dryness in his throat clogged the words in it. He did cry, it might’ve contributed. He heard Grian rummaging in their food barrel. 

“What do you want?”

Scar did not reply. He was simply hungry. He would eat anything at this point. He was mostly thinking how to relieve this ache, this soreness in his muscles. A piercing pain traveled through them, it hurt and he did not want to deal with that, did not want to think about it. 

“I’m making applesauce, the apples are getting bad.”

Grian showed him the apples, asking him if he was actually holding the fruit, and Scar nodded. Grian squinted his eyes as he concentrated on making them food. Scar focused on the noises Grian made around the kitchen. The pots and pans clanging together, the harsh chopping noise, the swish sound the knife made against the peel, the bubbles of the boiling water, anything to distract him from the muscles spasms and the weight on his shoulder, the tension around his neck. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, listening, picking at his nails, while Grian cooked. His head perked up when the bowl clanked against the table. Grian sat down and started eating, eyeing Scar. Scar tried to pick up the spoon, he really did. His upper arm didn’t stop spasming, he couldn’t control his movement, so he kept his arm close to his side, letting it pass. He looked at the applesauce and just wished his body could fulfill its own needs without throwing a fit. 

Grian stood up, placed his chair next to Scar’s, and sat down with a big thunk , making Scar jump in surprise. Grian took his bowl and almost shoved the spoon in his mouth. He moved back, a grunt bubbling in his throat and his muscles whining at the sudden movement. Grian rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Scar, you need help and I am offering said help.”

Scar glared at the spoon in Grian’s hand, wishing all the deadly curses at it. Grian huffed, frustrated.

“Sometimes you just need a break and there’s nothing wrong with that. Look, nobody is gonna come bother us if you don’t want to see people. Heck, I’m sure if I explained the situation to everyone, they would totally understand.” Grian’s shoulders slumped, and Scar wondered if that’s how puppy eyes looked. “Please, Scar?”

Scar hesitated. He was hungry, but he really didn’t want Grian to actually be his servant. It was a fun concept, at first. He really hoped Grian was doing this out of the goodness of his heart. He cleared his throat.

“Not part of the debt,” he murmured, making sure to look deep into those electric green eyes, even if they intimidated him. 

Grian blinked at him owlishly. “Of course not!” His accent was more pronounced than usual. “You’re not well, let me help.”

Scar shifted his gaze to the bowl and nodded. Grian fed him, making sure he wouldn’t choke on the applesauce. It was quite good for smashed boiled apples. He could taste some of the sugarcane they started cultivating close to the edge of the roof of the mountain. It sweetened the aftertaste of the acidic flavor the apples left. Scar was quite impressed, and it did fill a hole in his stomach, even giving him a bit more energy. 

After being satiated, Grian moved behind Scar, rolled up the sleeves of his red sweater and dug his thumbs on Scar’s lower neck. Scar winced and inhaled through his teeth, making Grian stutter in his movements.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

The movement became gentler, rolling his thumbs against the tense part of Scar’s neck. It was quite relaxing, but a lingering pain made the gesture quite uncomfortable, as if someone was applying pressure to a newly formed wound. Scar didn’t complain though, he appreciated the physical touch and was glad to know Grian became comfortable with him enough to touch him like this. He hummed in pleasure when Grian’s thumbs massaged his shoulders and traveled against his biceps, feeling the tension loosen up. Grian let out a chuckle.

“Jeez, Scar, are you stressed or something?”

Scar tensed, immediately thinking of his nightmare. The thumbs stopped circling his deltoid, and Grian’s long nose appeared in his peripheral vision. 

“What are you worried about?”

Scar sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Grian’s right hand left his shoulder while his left hand rounded the other before squeezing it reassuringly. His gaze landed on wide bright emerald eyes, on a slightly freckled nose that almost looked like a beak without looking crooked, on rosy cheeks, on dirty blond curls that frame a concerned face. Scar never realized how majestic Grian looked.

“Scar?” Grian inquired.

Scar put his hand on the one holding his shoulder, to touch where he was permitted to. 

“Pizza,” he let out. Grian quirked an eyebrow. “Had a nightmare about her dying,” he confessed, closing his eyes and rubbing his thumb against Grian’s knuckles. 

“Oh, Scar.” A warmed hand wormed itself close to the base of his hair. He shuddered.

“I miss her, G.”

“I know.” The hand nested itself in his hair, bringing his head to Grian’s shoulder. He stuttered a breath.

“Why did they take her away? She didn’t do anything, she didn’t deserve that.”

Scar let out a sob, his body slack from easing tension out with his crying. Grian shushed him, playing with his hair, scrubbing his scalp. It felt amazing, even if the tension in his neck was back. He grabbed the hand that was playing with his hair, stood straighter on his seat, and brought the hand closer to his chest, letting his other hand fall and grasp Grian’s thigh. Grian’s hand was now slowly rubbing circles, and Scar couldn’t be more relieved to receive physical touch.

Grian shushed him again, whispering “I know ” over and over, reassuring Scar that Pizza was alive, that she probably got lost. He took his hand out of Scar’s grasp and brought it to his cheek, wiping the tears away as they came and tracing his scar that jagged his cheekbone. He leaned in closer and Scar could smell the faint applesauce in his breath.

“You’re so strong, Scar,” Grian murmured, landing his forehead against Scar’s. “I’m so proud of you.” Scar did a whole body shiver at the praise, not realizing his cheeks got warmer with the already warm room. Jade eyes locked on his sunflower’s ones, barely an inch between their faces. “Can I kiss you?”

It was so quiet, but it echoed in Scar’s ears. He slowly nodded, not knowing what to expect. Grian wiped dry his cheeks and leaned his lips slowly against Scar’s. When their lips met, Scar wasn’t sure how to respond, what he was supposed to do. Grian’s lips were warm, chapped by the dryness of the desert, and were pressing harder. In order to not lose balance, Scar pushed back and wondered what was the purpose of this action.

Grian pulled back and surveyed Scar’s face. He smiled, placed his arms around Scar’s neck, and hugged him, face buried in the crook of his neck. Scar was taken by surprise and placed one hand on Grian’s waist, while the other rested on his shoulder blade, not sure how far or how close his hand should be to the wings. 

“We’ll find her, Scar. We’ll find her and prove to everyone to never mess with us, and that’s a promise.”

Scar sniffed and let out a choke sob, circling his arms around Grian’s waist and muffling his cries of joy in Grian’s sweater. Grian petted his hair once more and they stayed there in a long silence, sometimes interrupted by Scar’s sniffles and Grian’s reassurance and praise.

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[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Heavy Pettin - Sole Survivor

[lonelyasawhisper]

If Queen Won't, Brian May

Sylvie Simmons, Creem, 1st March 1984

SO HERE I am back in the giant Ajax can on Vine Street and waiting for Brian May. I look at my watch; the little hand and the big hand are sticking up like a peace sign; almost noon and it's hard to believe I'm up at this ungodly hour after last night's festivities, let alone the star. (Capitol threw a party to welcome Queen into the Ajax Can family — Elektra won't be getting The Works when it comes out early next year. There were hors d'oeuvres, aperitifs, and talking of a pair of teeths, Freddie Mercury, Roger Taylor, John Deacon and Brian May.) This is not the usual fluorescent-lit room where Duran Duran posters smirk cheekbonely from the walls. This is a cozy chamber tucked around the back somewhere, through convoluted corridors and up and down staircases — couldn't find it again even if you threatened me with a night at Plato's with Steve Perry — dark and small as a confession box...

I confess! I know I shouldn't; I know there's a reputation to consider; I know Mötley Crüe told me just the other day that they're "the opposite" of this band. But I LIKE QUEEN. There, I've said it. Not only do I have all their albums (except Hot Space; I'm not that daft) but I sing 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in its entirety at the slightest provocation. And the Brian May-penned 'Flash' is probably the best sci-fi theme tune in the Universe.

Though Brian may not agree. For one, the title track on the first album he's ever done outside of Queen just happens to be a sci-fi theme tune called 'Star Fleet'; for another he's so modest and understated you virtually have to beat the bloke with rubber truncheons to get him to admit that Queen are pretty big.

Anyway, the Star Fleet Project is a mini album — as May's own liner notes say, it's "not your normal kind of album; not an album which has been 'thoughtfully pieced together by a coordinated band as a balanced and polished listening experience.' Not a Queen album." Certainly isn't. All three songs — 'Star Fleet', the theme from a Japanese Saturday morning sci-fi program that shows on English TV that Brian got hooked on thanks to his young son Jimmy, 'Let Me Out', a song Brian wrote for Queen years ago that was never used, and 'Blues Breaker', dedicated to Eric Clapton, the man whose axe-work with Cream inspired a 15-year-old May to build his own electric guitar — were recorded over a two-day period back in April during a break from the year-around Queen boxing match. At loose ends, Brian called up some music friends in Los Angeles and jammed. Yes — jammed. What they used to do in the old days when musicians spent more time with each other than their accountants. Anyway, after much thought — and a bit of persuasion from Heavy Pettin', a British rock band he was producing on the side who heard the tapes and drooled — and more red tape, the jamming session got put out as pure and untouched as Michael Jackson, and credited to Brian May And Friends. His friends? Neighbor Alan Gratzer of REO Speedwagon, Phil Chen, ex-Rod Stewart bassist, Fred Mandel, the former Alice Cooper member who showed up on Queen's last tour, and on co-lead, Eddie Van Halen. (The two met when Brian caught Van Halen's set on a Black Sabbath tour and got friendlier when they met up again in Germany and confessed to being mutual fans.)

Brian May has just walked into the chamber, right on time. He's tall, got the same hairdo he's had for years, an intent expression on his face and a soft, very English voice.

"We had some time off from the group which we forced on ourselves," he's saying about why he's just done a record that sounds like it could have been made any time in the past 11 years Queen's been together. "We felt, Queen, that we'd got too close to each other and we needed a break. We all do different things — Roger's been making an album, Freddie's been doing stuff with Michael Jackson, John's been doing all kinds of stuff with computers and weird machines, and I thought, 'Why don't I do something?' Most of my favorite musicians were around L.A. where I was, and they all said 'yeah, great, let's go and do it.' Which really surprised me; I thought people would say yeah great, but we're busy.' So I booked the Record Plant and we went in and tried it, and it worked out better than I could ever have dreamed. One of the best times of my life, really."

He doesn't have too many friends in the business, he says. "They are pretty well my best friends, but also some of my favorite players." They're also veterans of some of the most commercially successful, richest mainstream rock bands around. By doing this project, did they reckon they'd show us they weren't in it for the money alone?

"I don't think anything like that was in our minds. There was never any talk of it coming out to begin with — it was just to be in there playing really, and I was quite prepared to leave it that way. Possibly to prove something to myself — that I could play with other musicians and enjoy it, and make something worthwhile."

If he's saying Queen hasn't been making anything worthwhile lately, there's a lot of people who couldn't agree more. Like Hot Space frinstance.

"There's a lot about Hot Space I didn't like. But at the same time," Brian covers himself, "it was probably, in retrospect, the right thing to do at the time, because we had to investigate all those different avenues and get all those bits of R&B influence out of our systems. No, part of the problem with us, the group, was we got so close to each other that familiarity breeds contempt, and we didn't like the way each other played anymore. That was one of the things that happened six months ago. And now, having got outside it and seen a lot of other people. I realize that the other three are pretty good. And I think they've had the same experience. We appreciate each other a bit more now. After this record I came back to the group much fresher. You get to understand how other people play, and you realize that everybody has their own style, and I found that I was a bit more patient with John and Roger and Freddie. Also what I got from stepping outside was realizing what other people think of us as individuals and as a group."

And did he kill himself? "Well, they thought we were pretty good — which surprised me!" He obviously didn't get to poll the people who dismiss Queen as a pretentious sort of band. Brian chuckles. And this Star Fleet Project has to be one of the most unpretentious records a superstar musician has ever made, casually put together and released without the usual sheen and polish a Queen album goes through before seeing the light of day.

"Well it is very different, and that's part of why it was a release for me. I wouldn't agree with you that Queen are pretentious, but I know what you mean. Queen are a group who've always been — everything has to be perfect before it gets out. It's worked on and worked on and argued about and talked about and torn to bits and put back together. We work to keep the spontaneity in there, but nevertheless it was nice in this case to do something which worked immediately, the adrenalin from the fact you'd never played with these people before, and everyone feeling good. I had no desire to interfere with it."

Has Queen lost its excitement? When you've got so many followers and so much success that you can even put out an album like Hot Space and it sells, when you can flash a credit card and get a record co. employee to go out and charge up anything your little heart desires, doesn't it all get a bit boring?

"It's funny you should say that because that never goes through my mind. I certainly don't feel we could do anything. For instance, last night at the party — I suppose everyone's very up about a new deal and a new album, but I was very depressed underneath it all really because what I think about is still the music. And we'd just had a play-back to the record company, and I was really desperately unhappy about the way it sounded. And I couldn't even think about we're a huge rock group, all the things you're saying. All I could think about was I'd hated what I'd heard and I was ashamed of it. I don't really think about what Queen looks like to the outside world very much. I think about what it feels like. It has had its good moments and I think we can play some good stuff; but it also has some really awful moments."

A lot of the Outside World who do think about Queen probably think it's Freddie's band. He thinks of a direction, everyone fights a bit, but generally follow meekly behind. True?

"It's a continual fight, because we all have very definite ideas of what direction we want to go in, and none of them are the same. It's a continual battle and it's very democratic and it's very painful. Most of the time when we're recording, it's hell. You have this constant dividing line between being up and positive about what you're doing, and the other side is that you may be trying to push what you want down someone else's throat, and maybe the other three will take it for a little while but in the end they'll say, 'No, this is rubbish, we hate it, stop pushing.' And that's what's happened a lot.

"I had a very clear idea in my head of what I wanted [the new Queen album] to be. It's an oversimplification, but I wanted it to be more of a rock album. But I obviously pushed too hard in the early days, and everyone got very angry with me and said 'Look, stop. Don't tell us what to play.' And then you take three steps back and try and work it out again. That's happened with all of us. We all feel that suddenly we can see a path ahead and the other three can't see it at all, and that makes it really hard.

"The plus of it is that after you've had your arguments and found an intermediate course at least you've already been through a vast political process, and the stuff which does come out has been through a gigantic sieve. So I think in the end you come out with stuff which is a real group product, and it's better than any of us could do as a solo artist. I honestly think that, and that's why I'm still in Queen. I think the group is still better than any of its component parts."

So is the next Queen album going to be a rock album? (Bumped into Roger Taylor at the party and he slurred that it was definitely "very heavy — one side of the album especially will definitely give you brain damage")

"So far," nods Brian, "I think, in spite of all the shouting, it is."

When a group member leaves the fold to do his first album, it's usually "OK, here I am. Me, the Star." But Star Fleet isn't a flashy guitar album or ego showcase. What gives?

"I don't think I am a flashy kind of person really. When I come to do a solo album — maybe one day I will — I've no idea what it will be like. This isn't it. This is just an event of some people having fun together, and that's the way it should be looked at. I don't know what is me, if that's what you're asking. That's one of the difficulties I've had in thinking about a solo album. Because on the one hand I would like to do all heavy stuff, because I don't feel I've got enough outlet for the heavy stuff in Queen; on the other hand I'd like to do some guitar arrangements and continue the guitar-orchestra direction, which again we've sort of left alone for a while in the group. Then again I like to sing songs that have a lot of personal feeling for me, which also sometimes doesn't fit into the group framework."

Hasn't he ever had the temptation to leap out onstage, push Freddie into the wings and grab the limelight, just once?

"No, I'm very happy with how it is. I get my bit to do. As you say, I can be flash for a while and then blend into the group, and I'm very content with that."

That's the one thing Brian and Eddie Van Halen have in common. They're both pretty low profile guitarists in bands with the most outrageously flashy frontmen on earth. Do they feel any kinship there?

"Yes, a lot. There are parallels, obviously. The whole business of what roles people play in groups is something which interests me very much for its own sake, because you do find that the bass player is always a certain kind, the guitarist is usually a certain kind of person. I don't know whether it's the selection process or whether it's an environmental change process [I forgot to mention; he has a degree in physics!] — you can see those elements in the component parts of groups. Guitarists do tend to be like that, people who feel they have a lot to say but don't really want to be in the center of the stage doing it; they want to be at the side doing their bit and enjoying it and getting into it and not having the responsibility for what the singer does."

And if you're expecting any guitar duels on this album, forget it. Instead of playing superstars, trying to outdo the last lick, they're like a couple of polite gentlemen going "After you"; "No, after you."

"I think we're very alike, and there's no feeling of competition there because we both love what the other person is doing. Particularly in my case. My first reaction to seeing Edward was I didn't want to play with him because he's so great. And then my second reaction was I wanted to pick up the guitar and play with him. Because we're so different in playing, but we're very alike in the way we think. There's no duel there, and I'm glad you said that because I was frightened people would think Guitar Battle kind of rubbish. Just people enjoying each other's company really. And it's not just me and Edward — it's me and Alan and Philip and Fred. We were all in there, and it was a good interaction all round.

"I still think, sometimes, am I being foolish putting this out? But then every time I listen to it I get this great feeling about it. It's so real and live and personal that I hope that other people will get that feeling about it."

With all the members of Queen going their separate ways, there's always the risk that they might forget to get back together again. Does Queen still feel like a real band?

"It does again now. There have been a few crises in our history, and one of them was about six months ago, when we could have easily said, 'Look, we hate each other, let's forget it.' And it almost was that. But instead we said 'look, we're all getting very intense with each other because we haven't had a break for ages, and we've been in this endless make-an-album-tour-the-world-make-an-album cycle; so let's get out of it for a while and maybe we'll appreciate each other.' And it's worked pretty well. We got back together and we feel like a real band again."

Retrieved from The Creem Archive

[loganxcouture]

13,14,16,25..

13: Biggest turn ons

taking control, confidence, having passions

14: Biggest turn offs

being pretentious, not having good hygiene, being rude to service workers

16: I’ll love you if

you bring me coffee and a blunt, i’m a simple girl

25: My idea of a perfect date

hike or walk somewhere pretty, smoke, some heavy pettin, good food and drinks, and a sunset at the beach

tysmmmmm 😊

[deputy-buck]

Are you still taking asks for that OTP ask game? If so... 3, 13, 15, 45, 47. For Boyd/Raylan/Tim!

Any and all ask games that are on my blog are always open, just specify which one and I'll answer! Thank you, Anon!

-

3. Who tops and who bottoms?

I couldn't really explain it so here's a visual.

13. Would they hate-fuck if they were mad at one another? If they had a falling out?

Tim absolutely would not. He's not goin to touch anyone when he's upset or not emotionally present because he knows how it feels to be touched and it not mean as much as the other person is tellin him it means, he's been hurt like that before and he'll never be that type of man.

Boyd and Raylan would generally not if they were mad at each other, but there are those odd patches where they have to go back and make each other feel like it's their first time all over again. Somethin about fuckin on a scratchy blanket in a truck bed really centers them after feelin weird for so long.

15. Who initiates PDA the most in public?

Boyd, because he's not afraid of being seen as less masculine like Raylan. He likes interlockin his fingers with either of his partner's fingers! He likes pullin them close by their waists! He likes makin sure everyone knows these two are his!

Okay, Alright, let me explain; Raylan isn't scared of bein seen as less masculine, he just doesn't like the feelin of things lookin so permanent. He has some commitment issues and thinks that if everyone perceives his relationships as Good, things will start falling apart from the inside. He's scared of jinxin himself so he clams up in public.

And then Tim generally doesn't think of holdin hands or anthin. If he's out in public, he's thinkin about so many other things than bein affectionate, like how shady that alleyway looks, and how there's so many fuckin windows in this place. He likes when Boyd holds his bicep though, keeps his hands free and it's easy to get out of if he needs to.

45. Which one of them gets sick more often?

Sorta answered here. It still stands that it's Boyd, but with Tim there, he gets over it a lot quicker and (not mentioned in the other answer) there's minimal risk that Raylan catches whatever Boyd has because Tim is strict on the No Sharing Fluids rule.

47. Who is the one who usually makes the first move?

Raylan and Boyd are pretty tied when it comes to that, they've always just taken what they wanted from each other, knowin it wasn't an issue. Though Raylan is a little more dramatic about it. Whinin and shovin, tearin at clothes, intentionally placin their hands on his ass until they do what he wants. He'll do just about anythin to get what he wants.

Boyd gets caught up in the kissin and foreplay, content to keep it as just some heavy pettin and dirty talk most the time. That doesn't mean they don't finish, no he'd never leave either of his men high and dry, he certainly ain't like that.

Tim likes watchin them go at it and beg him to join. Sometimes he'll just give verbal instruction until they finish then make them both blow him, or he'll fuck Boyd's cum deeper into Raylan's hole, whichever he feels. Other times he wants to treat both of them like Pillow Princes, give and give and give til they can't take anymore.

[eyelinertestosterone]

VINNIE VINCENT INVASION-HEAVY PETTIN’