#first one is inspired by smashing pumpkins

[necro-acid]

original stuff (almost all)

[lustytears]

i wanna turn you on.

loser!luke castellan x f!reader

summary: (title is inspired by the smashing pumpkins - today) luke castellan basically watches you from your cabin window and mutually (but not mutually) masturbates with you.

warnings: smut, luke is a bit weird. luke is giving virgin but that’s up to the reader honestly, reader gets sexualized by luke, written in mainly luke’s perspective but it does switch to the readers, masturbation, bathroom breaks (if you catch my drift from the previous tag), luke is a manipulative piece of shit but it’s very hard to know at first read.

You weren’t kidding when you had the sneaking suspicion that one had always been watching you. All of your darkest moments felt violated, invaded, or even threatened.

Maybe you thought wrong. That’s what everyone else thought when you confessed to your friends, saying that “Nobody would bother to try and watch you” or, “You’ll be fine. Camp’s safe.”

What you were unaware of was that Luke Castellan, the brave and noble leader who aspired many at camp for his dedicated devotion to his people and the gods.

Were you wrong to think otherwise?

•————————————————————————•

He was desperate. Desperate to understand you, feel you, and even taste you. His heart (as conveyed by those personal to him) was kind, logical, and even charming. He welcomed everyone who was unclaimed, and those who were claimed. The sweet little “heys” and the “hellos” are what people paid attention to. His demeanor and morality were nothing but pure.

You knew that for some reason, Luke had the right intentions. But for some part inside of you, something twisted his image into something so much more darker and malevolent.

He wasn’t dark, neither any of the things you thought. Contradicting, yes—but he couldn’t help but stare at you whenever you walked past, staring at the back of your body and sometimes your ass. He tried to snap out of it, tried so hard to keep his control, but he couldn’t help it.

He realized that you were his new obsession. Occasionally, Luke would sometimes go to the bathroom stalls to stroke his painfully rock-hard cock that leaked small beads of pre-cum, wiping onto his hand and leaking all over the base of his cock. His mind would drift to how your voice was maternally caring, sweet and dripping almost like nectar. Your lips and the way they would part open and close, rubbing them together against your pink-glossed lip gloss. The thought of the sticky consistency and shiny glow of your lips wrapped around the base of his cock as he steadily thrusted his cock hard and fast into your mouth like it was nothing but made for him would make him grip the top of the stall door.

Luke would try to feel disdained by these thoughts, try so desperately to think of other problems he had. But you were his only problem.

One day around Camp, he noticed how one of the Ares boys were sticking around you like you were some kind of fly trap. The boy would try and lift you up, slinging you over his shoulder like you were some prized possession.

“Put me down!” You laughed as you nudged your body, particularly your hips noticeable to both the boy that was carrying you and to Luke.

The Ares boy took notice of the sudden tension and put you down, before accidentally (but obviously, not totally) pushing your ass into his pelvic region when he grabbed your arms and pulled you back. You’d laugh, the impact of your ass in those little black shorts bouncing against his center drove Luke fucking insane.

Luke ended up getting one of the hardest boners ever to pain him, and he would occasionally watch your body move around, your hips swaying and the way your ass was barely fit into your outfit made him palm his cock, pretending to adjust his jeans.

On a dark night, Luke realized that you had the same routine. Specifically, it was your night routine. He didn’t expect to remember it, but he remembered one specific incident where he followed you to your cabin.

He watched as you opened the door and closed it, slamming it behind you in what may have been frustration. Then, he got the idea to get a closer look.

Luke inched near your window, crouching below the window pane just to see perfectly into the dimly visible light that instantly let him see into your own world. It was so wrong, but it was so worth knowing that the blinds were pulled up all the way, almost as if you personally wanted somebody to watch you like you were a product on display.

You walked around the room, his eyes following your every step, even when you sat down on the bed and looked through your dresser, going through the top drawer that contained your underwear and nightwear. Pulling out a black mesh nightgown, you got up and started to strip down to your bare and naked body. He carefully focused on how the t-shirt you wore hiked up above your amazingly flawless breasts. The way you pulled it off and threw it down to the bed caused the two of you to moan, unknowingly so. You seemed frustrated with something, but he was high as fuck on this moment.

His cock rubbed against the barriers holding him back, and it wasn’t getting better. When your thumb tucked underneath the waistband of your underwear and shorts, you pulled them down and off your legs. Your ass was visible for him to see, and he dared to peak his head up a little more to see how it motioned as you walked to your bed.

He expected you to put back on your nightgown, but he thought so, so fucking wrong. You flopped down your bed and pulled your legs up to show him how your pussy looked dripping wet. His mouth dropped, his hands going down to his pants and subconsciously unbuttoning them so he could stick his dick out through his boxers and thrust his half-erect cock into his fist.

But he didn’t want to touch himself just yet. He needed to see more. What more could you give? It didn’t make any sense, but it finally did when your long and slender fingers tucked under your weight, where you parted your cunt apart with two fingers in a ‘V’ shape. You moaned as the cold air hit your hot and wet pussy. Luke’s hands fumbled to pull his cock out, his eyes glued to the way you were now dipping your middle finger into your sopping wet hole. You pressed a finger into your gummy walls and started to create a rhythm along with your hips and your hand.

He rubbed the leaking pre-cum all over the tip of his cock, pretending like your thumb was doing so. He wrapped his palm around his dick and jerked himself up and down in a slow and deliberately painful manner. Your fingers moved to your clit and began to rub it in a circular motion, your lips all puffy and your eyes closed from the pleasure you were giving yourself. So much was going on for you that your back arched off the bed, and Luke’s cock was being fucked even faster from his own hand. He whined a bit louder, involuntarily thrusting into his own hand. The both of you could sense your own respective releases, and it wasn’t slowing down anytime sooner.

Luke would whisper his name to his own self, pretending like it was you who was calling it out through the muffled sounds of your moans inside of your cabin. Your legs twitched and two fingers were now deep and invasive inside of your tight cunt.

He hoarsely whispered to himself. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum so hard all for you,” softly swearing as he could feel his own semen dripping out of his cock and lubricating his fist.

Your fingers worked harder, and your clit was getting rubbed to the point where it felt like it was numb for pleasure. You let out a steady and sharp moan, lifting your ass off of the mattress and pumping now three digits into your pretty and pink pussy. He watched you, all goggly and eyes wide like he’d miss one second of you. He couldn’t waste the opportunity to miss you cum.

Luke was now practically moaning and hyperventilating as he let out a sigh and came all over the place. Webs of white and hot cum coated his overstimulated cock and the fist of his hand. You followed along, cumming and tightening all around your fingers as you vocally expressed one of the best moans one could ever experience in an orgasm.

All tired and weak, your legs fell down against the bed as your swollen clit pulsated from such intensity.

With realization, Luke snapped his eyes down to see the mess he made just crouching below your window. He groaned, shaking his hand to get rid of some of the cum that was on his hand. His cock was now soft and finally pleased, so he tucked his cock right back into his boxers and pulled up his jeans, remaining low and among the bushes before he know it was safe to walk alone.

When Luke was approached by a wandering cabin mate, he’d just make an excuse.

“Couldn’t sleep. Had to kill time,” knowing damn well with a smile that you just solved his nightly frustrations.

[mikeywayarchive]

Mikey Way: “I was borderline terrified a lot of the time My Chemical Romance was active. I was learning the bass in front of 20,000 people every night!”

By Gregory Adams ( Bass Player ) published June 9th 2023

The reunited emo kings’ low-end ranger reveals why he swapped out his signature Fender Mustang for a sparkling new signature Jazz Bass, learning bass in arenas, and how he overcame insecurity about his chops

Full interview under cut:

My Chemical Romance’s reunion has seen bassist Mikey Way thrumming through the high pomp punk of The Black Parade and Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge favorites with a familiar rhythmic fortitude, but keen-eyed band obsessives have probably noticed the musician is no longer sporting the snazzy, silver-flake Squier Mustang signature model Fender built for him back in 2012. 

The good news is that’s because, as Fender have just formally announced, Way has a brand-new – but just as glammy – Jazz Bass out now. There’s a good reason why Way’s made the switch: the Jazz Bass is his first love.

Though he started out on guitar, Way got the hang of a four-string in the mid ‘90s while playing a loaned-out Jazz Bass in his pre-My Chemical Romance project, Ray Gun Jones. He upgraded to a silver-finish Jazz of his own by the time MCR started touring in the early ‘00s, but a trailer mishap led to that instrument getting smashed to pieces on a highway.

Way tells Guitar World that he eventually became obsessed with the short-scale sturdiness of a Mustang bass guitar as My Chemical Romance were writing their 2010 full-length, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, after fooling around with a model Duff McKagan had left at North Hollywood’s Mates Rehearsal Studio. By 2012, Way had his Squier model in stores.

It was during the downtime after My Chemical Romance went on hiatus in 2013, though, that the stubbiness of his Mustang became a little hard to handle.

“I stayed away from playing bass for a little while, which is natural – I was just decompressing,” Way explains. “Then, sometime in 2014, I picked up the bass again, to get my chops back, [but] I noticed that the Mustang felt strange to me.” 

After reaching out to the folks at Fender, Way got a grip on his playing by stretching out on the longer-necked Jazzes they sent him. Way’s take on the Jazz Bass is outfitted with ’70s-style single-coil pickups, and a thinline “C”-shaped maple neck the bassist says is super-speedy.

The finish is silver, of course, but Way also wanted an aesthetically inkier black pickguard. The headstock, likewise, pops with its matching gloss-black finish.

Speaking with Guitar World, Way gets into the glam and grunge gods who inspired his love of a good sparkle coat, overcoming performance anxiety, and why a steady attack wins the bass race every time.

What were some of the musts when it came to designing this latest signature?

“I’ve been obsessed with the sparkle finish as far back as I can remember. Growing up in the ‘90s, the silver-flake [finish] was big in alternative music. Chris Cornell had the Gretsch Silver Jet, [Daniel Johns] from Silverchair had one – [with] the imagery the Smashing Pumpkins used, they liked sparkles.

“Ace Frehley, of course, was big into flake finishes, and as a kid, you love the larger-than-life, comic book world of Kiss. [And there’s] David Bowie – the glam rock stuff. That flake finish makes me think of so many different things, but that’s why I love it so much.

“I remember being younger and going into stores and seeing a flake finish and being like, 'Oh my god, that’s an expensive [looking guitar] – I can’t afford that, let alone play it.' It was almost intimidating.”

One aesthetic difference between your Mustang model and this Jazz is that you didn’t throw a racing stripe on this one.

“I thought about bringing it back and keeping the continuity. Maybe somewhere down the line we’ll throw a racing stripe on this. The thing with [seeing a] racing stripe was always like, 'This player is a badass!'”

Is there a psychology behind removing the racing stripe, then?

“The psychology behind it is that I forgot about it. When My Chemical Romance was talking about doing reunion shows [in 2019], I’d contacted Michael Schulz from Fender and was like, 'Is it OK if I make a new bass for this [next] era of My Chemical Romance?' I wanted to take my past and bring it to the future – taking my Mustang and melding it with the Jazz Basses that I loved so much. 

“I tried to have my cake and eat it, too. I wanted the thinner neck, and I wanted the silver-flake, but I wanted it on a Jazz Bass. They knocked it out of the park immediately.”

Getting back to how you used to admire those silver-flake guitars in the shops, you actually started out as a guitarist, right?

“So, the story goes that my brother [My Chemical Romance vocalist Gerard Way] had a Sears acoustic guitar when he was 10 years old. We would take a shoelace and make a strap, and we would stand on the couch pretending we were in Iron Maiden. And then it got real around ’93-’94, which lines up with the rise of alternative music. You started to see people that looked exactly like you, and they were playing guitar. They were playing Fender Strats! 

“My brother got a Mexican Stratocaster, Lake Placid Blue. I found it not too long ago, and Michael from Fender hot-rodded it. That’s how I cut my teeth – that Mexican Stratocaster [was] my first foray into really trying to learn how to play guitar. I would watch bootlegs of concerts, and watch [guitarists’] hands and fingers – Thom Yorke, Billy Corgan, Noel Gallagher, Jonny Greenwood. I would watch what they were doing. It all started from that.

“Bass came out of necessity, twice. Me and my brother had a band called Ray Gun Jones, I guess in ’95-’96. It was kind of Weezer-ish, or us doing a surf-punk thing [with] a little bit of pre-mid-west emo. At the time we were really into Weezer, Jawbreaker, Promise Ring, Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, Sunny Day Real Estate. 

“[Ray Gun Jones] needed a bass player, so my brother was like 'Hey, do you want to play bass for my band?' I was already a huge fan – I’d always tag along to practices. The ex-bass player let me borrow their bass. We had 4-5 songs, and I got the rudimentary from that. In that era, everyone was like, 'I want to be a guitar hero,' but I realized I had a natural knack for [bass]. I picked it up right away. 

“Then, with My Chemical Romance, it was the same thing. My brother was like, 'We need a bass player,' and I was like, 'Well, this is familiar' [laughs]. 'Here’s the demo; learn these songs.' They weren’t terribly difficult.”

Was that bass you had borrowed a Fender Jazz?

“Yup, I’ve only ever played Fender. I’ve tried tons of other basses from other companies, but it always feels alien to me.”

You mentioned studying the playing of Thom Yorke or Billy Corgan through those bootleg vids. Were there any bassists that you treated similarly, to understand the mechanics of bass?

“Matt Sharp from Weezer. I tried to ape him in the beginning, but my attack sounds vaguely reminiscent of a Smashing Pumpkins recording. I would learn Siamese Dream and Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, and the Blue Album [the band’s 1994 self-titled debut] by Weezer. Those were the three albums that I put the most time into learning. That’s in my DNA.”

How about from a hyper-local perspective. If My Chemical Romance started out playing New Jersey basements and VFW halls, where there any bassists from that scene that inspired you, or that you appreciated?

“Yes! We shared a rehearsal space with this band called Pencey Prep – that was [MCR guitarist] Frank Iero’s original band. John McGuire was their bassist, and he let me borrow his equipment all the time. He taught me fundamentals, and gave me pointers – he taught me a whole heck of a lot. 

“I always respected Tim Payne from Thursday, I loved his attack and stage presence. And when I’d watch Gabe Saporta from Midtown, I thought 'This dude is the coolest guy in the room.' He’s got this calm, cool, and collected [presence] that you can’t fake or learn. And then Eben D’amico from Saves the Day – brilliant! 

“I would try to learn Saves the Day basslines. They were pretty complex [compared to] what most bands were doing in that scene. Most bands in the post-hardcore scene had simplistic basslines, but Saves the Day did not.

“There’s also Ray Toro, the guitar player of My Chemical Romance. Not only is he truly gifted at guitar, but he’s truly gifted at bass and drums – Ray can do everything. He was instrumental, early on, with showing me the ropes. Ray gave me lessons when I was a novice. I can’t thank him enough for that.”

What kind of pointers was he giving you?

“He showed me proper fretting, or [how to maintain] a steady attack. I got a really great compliment from our front-of-house guy, Jay Rigby. He told me that I’m one of the very few bass players that he doesn’t have to go in and tweak the volume [for]. 'You’re steady, throughout.' I think that’s something that Ray Toro instilled in me: the consistency of attack. 

“It’s funny thinking about it, but I was such a novice going into My Chemical Romance that I would bring myself into an anxiety-ridden state of, 'Oh my god, we have a show tonight; I have to start practicing right now.' I would be practicing four to five hours before we played – I’d play the set [in the green room], and then I’d play it again. Other bands would be like, 'What are you doing?' I was so neurotic at that point, because there were so many people around me that were beyond gifted. 

“I got pushed into the deep end; you’ve got no choice but to figure it out. Ray and Frank are so gifted that I had to keep up. I didn’t want to ever do the music a disservice.

“That brings me back to the simplicity of the early My Chem basslines. The first album [2002’s I Brought You Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love] was me learning the bass, and somehow [producer] John Naclerio recorded me and said, 'You did a great job,' which I did not expect. 

“I thought I was going to go in there and they were going to have to do some studio magic, or someone would come in and play [my] part. I thought of the worst-case scenario, but I went in and did it. I played the bass seriously [enough] by that point.”

What are you generally looking for in a My Chemical Romance bassline? 

“What makes it for me is if I do a fill, I’ll only do it once. If you listen to [the band's 2022 comeback single] The Foundations of Decay, any fill on there I only do one time. What’s interesting about The Foundations of Decay is that it’s very loose and run-and-gun. We went in and punched things in for timing, which everyone in the world does, but the meat of that is first-or-second take. Which brings me to someone else who was very instrumental to my bass playing: Doug McKean.

“He’s no longer with us, unfortunately, but he was our engineer from The Black Parade [until his passing in 2022]. He was always a huge cheerleader for me – he instilled confidence in me. He was always good at getting a killer performance out of me.”

What are some of the biggest My Chemical Romance bass moments for you?

“I’ll say that fill in on Foundations. No-one saw that coming.”

There’s a YouTube video out there of someone playing their favorite Mikey Way basslines, some while using your signature Squier Mustang, but one standout in particular is The Black Parade’s The Sharpest Lives.

“What’s funny is Sharpest Lives has a bass solo, and I was terrified of it. I had performance anxiety [through] the 12 years before we broke up – I don’t have it anymore. Somehow when the band got back together, a switch in my brain [got] flipped. [But] while My Chem was active, I was borderline terrified a lot of the time.

“I’m playing with people far above my skill level, I’m playing [on bills] with bands where their bass players are way better than me, [and] our shows were getting massive. We were playing arenas! So not only are you learning the bass, but you’re learning the bass in front of 20,000 people every night. It made me tweak a little, but I think it shaped me into what I became.

“That solo gave me anxiety. It was when we were playing the biggest venues of our career, and it would break for the solo [Way starts singing his ascending bass lick]. I practiced it relentlessly, then it [became] second nature. Later on, it [became my favorite part of the show.”

You’re already playing the Jazz signature in your live show, yeah?

“It’s what I use for the live show. Basically, Fender built [it] for the reunion, and then we made a couple tweaks for when we release it.”

Was there a learning curve at all towards transferring My Chemical Romance songs you’d written on a Mustang onto the Jazz?

“There was Planetary (GO!), a song off Danger Days. I’d guess you’d say the whole thing is a disco beat. It’s dance-y – [Mikey starts singing an octave-popping bassline], I do that for the entirety of the song. I was very happy that I only had to do that on a Mustang, initially [because of the shorter scale]. But going back to what I said, [after] I took a little break, [I] went back to a Jazz Bass. 

“I missed the room, or the way my hand went up and down the neck. I wanted to go back to that, so I jumped back in and felt right at home again.”

How many Jazzes are you bringing on the road?

“I bring two basses out, [but] I stopped even switching [during the set]. This is a testament to Fender craftsmanship – that thing stays in tune. It’s got the four-saddle bridge, and it stays in tune so well. I’m a little neurotic so I’ll tune every few songs, but if I went five to six songs you probably wouldn’t even notice.”

What does it mean to you to now have a fully-formed Fender signature model – as opposed to the Squier – and with the body shape you began your career with?

“It’s really a dream come true. It’s funny, in 2002-3 we started touring across the country. I had a Mexican Jazz Bass, but [the band] were like, 'You have to use something with better electronics; better wood. Step it up!' So, I went into the Guitar Center on Route 46 in New Jersey, and at the time Fender had released a special Guitar Center edition that was silver-flake. 

“It always bugged me that the pickguard was white – it threw me off, aesthetically, and I was like, 'I’m going to change that pickguard one day.' So, I got that, and I was using that for a while. 

“We were out with [Boston emo quartet] Piebald – it was one of our first cross-country tours ever – and one night someone forgot to close the trailer door. We’re driving on the highway, and half the contents spilled out – unfortunately, my bass was a casualty of that.

“But Frank Iero, and his heart of gold, jumped out on the highway in the middle of the night and tried to recover [the bass]. He was like, 'Maybe we can fix it!' I’ll never forget him doing that. He got a chunk of it – it’s in one of our storage units.”

For more information on the Limited Edition Mikey Way Jazz Bass, head to Fender.com.

[indouloureux]

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 (part one)

summary: she sought for validation; he sought for acceptance. two juveniles who believed they’d spend the rest of their lives playing red guitars and borrowed claviers, (along with the trepidation of isolation), meet in one boring afternoon, and find themselves reveling in caterwaul voices, laying in a field of colossal grass, and writing lyrics with botched ballpens and crumpled papers.

— or: two people bond over emotional trauma, and fall in love through great manifestos

warnings: 1hr reading time, slow burn, friends to lovers, slight teenage angst, jealousy, tooth-rotting fluff, eddie being a sap, weird manifestos, reader being adopted, eddie and reader both having a self discovery whilst falling in love, fem!reader (she/her pronouns), me not knowing how to write both piano and guitar playing properly, deep words (sorry guys open google), lengthy, idiots in love, a love story about two sad teens going through a phase (jk) eddie has a bit of a corruption thing (not kink) bc he introduces reader into new things lol!

explicit warnings (for part two): virgin!reader, virgin!eddie; piv, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), creampie, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, overstimulation, first time, soft, vanilla porn, mentions of blood, handjob, cum eating, biting, marking, missionary, maybe soft!dom eddie bc he watched porn a lot and thinks he "knows his way", sweet but short aftercare

a/n: this is a story of fiction. i do not know the locations in both indiana and illinois. this is written in the way i prefer it to be to fit its story telling, and i am well aware of the things i write in here, and how i write this story. based on the song '1979' by the smashing pumpkins. the whole lyrics layout inspired by @/upsidedownwithsteve! 1979 is like one of my fav songs ever and i wanted to write a story about it. sorry it took a while to post :( hope you guys all enjoy.

PART TWO; SERIES MASTERLIST

Shakedown 1979

Cool kids never have the time

On a live wire right up off the street

You and I should meet

In a field miles away from a town that’s cursed him, Eddie lays in the colossal grass with his hands on his chest and his eyes closed, the sun blinding him through the thin skin of his eyelids. Growing weeds tickle his inked skin, dirt stains his leather jacket, and ants cross over his hair; he does not mind one bit.

He daydreams of the sky. How accepting they’d be — how they wouldn't mind his disheveled, long hair, or his punk style and see him as one of them; One of the clouds who form themselves into whatever they want and float freely across the cerulean aether atmosphere. A place where he can be himself, where he can bring his darkness into that white airy cotton, even when it turns grey or when the night begins. Eddie would be himself, and no one would judge.

Ringed fingers touch the grass when he removes one from his chest, soft beneath his fingertips that he massages. Eddie hums, taking in the calming sound of air swishing the trees, the faint sound of passing cars, the optimistic birds, and the sound of Dustin talking to his girlfriend with a sickenly high-pitched and lovey-dovey voice. Which reminds him:

“Hey, Henderson,” he turns around, laying on his stomach. Eddie takes a quick glance at his watch — 7:05 am. “Wrap it up lovebirds. We gotta go to school.”

Dustin nods his head, his cap blocking his eyes. “Yeah hold on. I gotta go, Suzie-poo. I’ll talk to you later, I promise. I miss you already. I love you.”

A giggle. “I love you more, Dusty-bun.”

“I love you more multiplied by all the stars in the galaxy.”

“No, I love you—”

“Alright,” Eddie suddenly takes the microphone from Dustin, shooting him a judging look with a raised brow before he speaks. “Sorry, Suzie-poo. Gotta take Dusty here to school or else you won't be seeing each other and he’s gonna spend the rest of his life running up this hill crying. Bye-bye now.”

He almost laughs at the thought of Suzie’s shocked face when he turns the radio off. And maybe that same laugh comes out when he sees Dustin’s horrified expression when he realized he’d — or Eddie — had just cut her off. He looks back at Eddie, mouth agape, before he playfully punches his shoulder.

“Asshole,” Dustin kicks his shin. “That was my girlfriend, you idiot. She’s gonna be pissed that you cut her off!”

“Nah, she loves you too much,” he stands up, patting the dirt off his knees and his jacket, fixing his hair. “Now come on, Dusty bunny, we gotta go to school.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dustin swats his hand away when Eddie tries to ruffle his hair by slipping it beneath his hand, but the kid smiles anyway. Anything for the affection he gives. “You know, you’ll be like this one day,”

Eddie plays with his keys, walking down the hill in heavy footsteps that threaten to twist their ankles. “What’d you mean?”

Dustin hops over the fence, followed by Eddie who grunts loudly. “Being sweet. Disgusting. In love.”

He scoffs, walking over to the side of his van and opening the door, but not before he looks at Dustin over the hood of his van with a look. “So you admit that you and Suzie are disgusting?”

“From the words of you, Steve, Lucas and Mike — who actually both have girlfriends — yes, I admit that we are disgusting. Disgustingly sweet.” 

They close the doors simultaneously, the keys jingling when Eddie shoves the keys in the ignition. “You know, when I was fifteen, I spent my time playing the guitar and studying songs. My fingertips were bleeding, Henderson,” he shows him his palm, letting Dustin see the faint scar lines on his fingertips. “I never dated a girl. So I highly doubt I’d fall in love.”

“The only reason you never dated was because of your reputation,” Dustin throws his bag behind him. “And you’ll fall in love. I bet you will. You may be cynical and mad, but you’ll find the right person, Eddie,” he smiles at him. “Trust me.”

“Yeah yeah,” he shakes his head, the car shaking into a start and Mötley Crüe starts blasting that startles the poor boy beside him. “We’re gonna take this bet to my grave, then.”

Eddie Munson has only fallen in love once. When his Uncle, Wayne, had come home with a red guitar after his night, tiring shifts at the plant. He remembers clearly the way his eyes lost focus of the world and remained on that guitar, like the center of attention; the only attraction in this terrifying world. Eddie remembers the way his heart pounded like he’d fallen down a roller coaster, and remembered the way his tears had mimicked said coaster when he hugged his Uncle and sobbed out his gratitude.

That had been five years ago. When he was fifteen. And he swears he’ll never fall in love again.

Because love—in his own concept—was a dangerous game. More dangerous than when you decide to go and attack Vecna powerless in Dungeons and Dragons, or taunting a swarm of demobats. It’s a game with unknown intentions and arduous side quests that render you defeated before you even get to love itself. Dangerous and tiring, if you’d shorten it. And no one wants to delve into a love so treacherous if you’ll end up getting hurt anyway. 

It’s what Eddie thinks; understood. How he perceives love and what he thinks love is with his semi-nihilistic mind despite never having to fight for love. It’s a game he refuses to partake in and narrate, and would rather watch people struggle with it from the sidelines (with a beer in hand and a freshly rolled blunt in his mouth, as he’d imagined).

So he prays Dustin would win that game. Despite being miles away from his girlfriend; give him all the makeshift spears and shields made of garbage lids and dull nails. He cares so much for him that he actually hopes their love will succeed, that he’d go out not scathed but covered in grime and a triumphant smile. Even now when Eddie looks beside him to see the lovesick smile on Dustin Henderson’s face who replays every memory he had with Suzie during that one summer.  

He reaches over to give his friend a pat on the shoulder, which gifts him a bright smile before he races off to Hawkins High with eternal dread.

—

His day wasn’t at all dreadful. It felt like a normal day.

Probably because Jason Carver wasn't at school today due to a foot injury, and his little balls-in-laundry-baskets friends had no leader to bark at them around all day. They did nothing but practice and sit quietly at their tables, and so did Eddie.

Albeit the day being normal, he’d still get his usual judging stares and glares. Eddie Munson wearing a Dio shirt today? Freak. Eddie Munson wearing shoes other than his Reeboks? Freak. Eddie Munson trimmed his bangs today? Freak. Eddie Munson’s not wearing his vest? Still a freak.

He kept his head low, eyes on the ballpen that draws on his palm as he walks through the emptying hallway. Dustin had gone with Steve Harrington, and the rest had decided to leave early. Eddie? He’d just gotten out of detention for spacing out during class. Why detention? He'd never know why. Even Ms. O’ Donnel thinks he’s a freak. 

Eddie whistles. Mandy. Something new and unusual, a song he’d heard from Wayne early in the morning that he too whistles as he makes his coffee and smokes outside the porch. He’d woken up to the sound of it for two weeks and he finds himself subconsciously copying his Uncle.

His footsteps echo in the walls of Hawkins High. He jumps and spins and occasionally taps his fingers across the lockers covered in stickers, if not dents from rowdy students. The sight of the exit doors surprises him when he turns right, and a bright smile comes up to his face when he sees them. Eddie pulls his keys out of his back pockets, shoves his pen inside, and continues to whistle like he’s taking a walk on a quiet, sunny day at a park.

Until by the time he’s about two rooms away, he hears the sound of a piano. Soft and ear-pleasing, yet startling since it’s been an hour after school ended and no one, not even the teachers other than Ms. O’ Donnel should be here. Eddie stops his whistling, eyebrows furrowing as he hears the piano play the same tune he’d been whistling.

And then a voice. Far and hushed, like a ghost. Unseen through the walls, floating and yearning to be noticed; so they sing to be noticed instead. Eddie’s heart palpitates a little in panic, wondering if the ghost is singing the same song he’s whistling to get his attention. His hands curl into fists and prepare to run away.

But he thinks of disturbing whoever's in that room. He also thinks he should just go home because it probably could just be a ghost, seeing as half the victims from the Starcourt fire had been students and they’d probably come here for refuge in the afterlife. But Eddie’s curious. Maybe taking a glimpse over the small window on the door and seeing a ghost would cause no harm other than a possible possession, right?

So he tiptoes his way to the door he recognized as the music room. He’d seen this room once when he snuck in here during middle school and he needed a guitar for Gareth or else they would have lost that talent show (they did. No adult would let a child playing quote unquote, Satan’s Music, win).

Carefully, he peeks sideways through the small window, where he sees through the blurry glass; a girl sitting in front of a keyboard. Her back to him, head bobbing slightly at every key she presses, showing merely the tip of her nose and the plump apples of her cheeks when she sways lightly to her gentle playing. Eddie quietly shoves his keys back inside his pockets, pressing his ear against the glass, and watches the grace take upon her fingers. 

“I see a memory. I never realized how happy you made me,” 

A voice so celestial, like an angel he’s never seen but envisaged. Maybe like an angel he’d imagined in the clouds up above; a voice so warm like the summer breeze, soft like silk and the denim of his vest. It’s inviting and it’s hypnotizing, with every perfect lilt. 

Something new from his usual heavy ululating music. Something he might like and never get used to. 

And it’s tempting. So tempting that he finds himself opening the door harshly that the doorknob slams against the thin wall of the room that even startles Eddie.

“Oh Mandy, well you came—”

You scream, hands slamming on the keyboard that makes a distorted sound of unmatched keys. Eddie’s eyes widen and his hands raise in defense, hiding behind them when your own hand comes up to gasp into your palm, horrified by his sudden arrival. His heart pounds against his chest, hands coming down to clasp at his pec. And he’s staring at your petrified look.

“Mother of God,” you whimper. 

“I’m sorry!” he closes the door behind him hastily. “It’s, uh, I heard you. And I thought you sounded… great,” Eddie’s shoulders deflate, sighing when a small smile comes up to your face.

“Really?” you finish for him. “Sorry. I- I thought I was alone.”

“No, it’s okay.” Eddie finds himself smiling with you. More at the way there’s dimples at the bottom of your mouth and your teeth show slightly through your lips. 

He stares at you, longer than he intends to, a sense of familiarity waves down him when he traces the slope of your nose and the thick eyelashes that meet with your cheeks when you blink. Eddie thinks you’re pretty — especially with your small smile that makes his heart feel weird when he realizes he’s the receiving end of it. A faint picture flashes in the back of his head, and he limply points at you. “Hey, uh, I kinda remember you,”

Your eyebrows raise a bit, hands falling to your lap. “You do?”

“Yes! I think…” his eyes narrow. “Middle school.” 

“Yeah,” you tell him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It was back in middle school.”

Yes, he remembers you. Only that blurry picture in the back of his mind only focusing on the small pigtails of a girl shorter than him, the ends of a borrowed purple dress that tickled his knees, and that similar smile of yours except you’d been missing a tooth on the bottom row of your teeth that matched his. And that voice, still sweet but deeper than it used to be, still entices him like it used to do.

Eddie gawps. “Holy shit,” he says your name with pure shock, the smile on his lips starting to strain his cheeks. But he doesn't care, not when you’re prettily smiling with him. “You— you played that same song! Mandy, right? You played that too?” 

“I did, yeah,” he walks over to you, hands on his lap and slightly bent. Eddie walks until he’s standing beside the bench you’re sitting on, hand grazing the plastic of the borrowed keyboard. “Mandy by Barry Manilow. Yep.”

“I’m Eddie Munson. Although I'm sure you already knew that,” he offers his hand, hoping you won’t notice the trembling and the silent clinking of his rings. You smile at him, taking his hand into yours and he wonders why even the handshaking felt familiar.

And your hand is warm. Soft like the grass he’s touched earlier this morning, feeling the same small scars in the pads of your fingertips when his thumb slyly runs through them. They were light and they were pretty, your own dainty little ring made by a wire that loops around a gemstone was a hard contrast to the abominable ones on his hand. Almost like an angel shaking the devil’s hand. 

Eddie wishes to feel this way again. How a simple touch ignites something new, yet the fire starts within him that he can't find. 

“I know,” you place your hand back on your lap, his own falling disappointedly on his side. “Sat behind you during History.”

He nods his head down on the bench you’re sitting on, asking for permission. You scoot aside, motioning for him to sit beside you; and Eddie, for the first time in his life, shyly does. He sits beside you, thighs almost an inch apart as he nervously watches you toy with the black keys. “How come I remember you a bit in middle school but not…?”

“Your early years of high school?” you press on a key he doesn't know. “I left after middle school. Moved to Queens, for my dad’s work. Came back here because my nana got sick.”

“Oh,” he plays with his rings, pulls them up before he puts them back on, a slight indentation on his fingers. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” 

Eddie exhales, feeling his heart unwind when you begin to play a steady beat, watching as you press down on the plastic keys. “I came inside because I thought you sounded good,” he nods his head to you. “Your voice. It’s nice. And, because I also thought that ghosts might have heard me whistling and decided to play with me. Scare me shitless.” 

“Ghosts?” you repeat, pressing on a key that emits a deep tune. 

He hums. “Hawkins is filled with dead people. Right beneath this school and those roads you walk on,” he points behind him. “‘ve you heard of the mall fire last summer?”

“I think so,” you furrow your eyebrows. “My dad’s friend called him about that.”

“It was horrifying,” his eyebrows meet for a split second when your eyes widen and you look away from him. Eddie smiles a little. “So, piano huh?”

You look at him again. “Well, technically it’s a keyboard but…it makes the sound of a piano,” you slam a finger onto a black key. 

Eddie has gotten to the point where he realizes there’s no future in this conversation if he doesn't make up another question. And he doesn't want this to end. He just met you again, and he’d like to stay here a bit more even though he’s been craving to leave the school an hour ago. Anything to get to know you a bit more before he sees what’s going to happen next.

“Can you play me a song?” he asks quietly, feeling embarrassed by his diffidence. “Only if you want to.”

“Of course,” you smile at him, fists clenching that your index scratches on the cuticles of your thumb. He wants to stop you, but he worries about crossing borders and you’re probably just as nervous as he is as you say, “what song?”

“Mandy,” he deadpans. You blink at his tone, which makes him clear his throat and speak again in a rather forced cheerfulness that means no harm but to correct himself. “Please?” 

You let out a short chuckle, unclenching your fists to spread them out and stretch. “Yeah sure.”

You began with grace, you performed with aplomb, and his ever-curious mind was captivated by how simple it was for you to play and croon at the same time, as if he didn't know how to do it himself. Eddie watches silently, sings in his head with your gentle humming; remembers how he’d caught Wayne swaying to this song once and thinking he looked funny and at peace, wearing his usual red flannel with a cigarette in his mouth and eyes closed. He looked high back then, unperceived that his nephew had been standing there to the side with crossed arms and an amused smile.

Is this what his uncle felt? Finding peace in music other than electric guitars and heavy drums? Lacking all that yowling rasps and instead replaced with a voice that runs through velvet flawlessly like yours. Where he sways and taps his feet, watching your slender hands switch between keys without having the pads of your fingertips stuck in between them despite him noticing the slight shakiness in your hands, dwelling in on the missing memory that scratches on the back of his mind as he watches you play. 

“Caught up in a world of uphill climbing, the tears are in my mind and nothin' is rhyming,” you take a shy glance at him, eyes flitting to the redness of his ears. Eddie smiles to take your attention, making his ears turn redder when you smile back at him. “I…I forgot the next lyrics,”

Eddie chuckles. “So have I,” he lies. He just doesn’t want to sing. Not in front of you, at least. He worries he might crack his voice and he could just jump out that window.

There’s a faint sound of a door slamming shut from outside that makes you jump a bit, which makes Eddie turn around to where the sound was before he completely ignores it.

Trying to hide the disappointment that flows from him when you stop playing, he focuses on the fact that you’re looking at him as you do so. Which twists his heart in a way that’s far from bad, and tries to distract himself by clapping like one of the people he wishes he had after his shows. “That was it, all I could remember,” you motion to the piano, flushing bashfully. “I- stop,”

You laugh, your hand barely touching his wrist but motions for him to settle it down. “Bravo,” he smirks at you, wiggling his eyebrows. “That was amazing. Talented. You could be the next, I don’t know, Billy Joel.”

“I barely finished the song,” you nudge your knee with his. “I actually think I made a few mistakes but, uh, thanks,” Eddie fights the urge to remove the lone lint from your hair. He smiles at you instead, settling his hands on his lap. “What about you? Still playing the guitar?”

Eddie’s shoulder bumps with yours when you sway gently as your right hand presses all five fingers onto the keys. He can't stop looking at you, anywhere but your eyes really, so they mostly stay at your cheeks. Sometimes shyly at the plumpness of your lips chastely, or at the dimples threatening to deepen. “Still do. We play at The Hideout every weekend for some cash. We’ve got a crowd of about five…drunks.”

He feels that unfamiliar sensation of heat blooming in his cheeks when you laugh. It’s as soft and inviting as the piano that your hands rest on. “You should come see us,” Eddie continues, nudging his shoulder with yours. “That way I can tell my uncle we’ve got six people watching us now.”

“Hm,” you remove your hands from the keyboard, copying his slumped posture albeit a bit more poise. “I might think about it. If you play me a song too,” you raise your brow at his grimace. “What? It’s only fair.”

“Fine,” Eddie crosses his legs over the small bench, walking around with his hair twirling over his shoulder as he does so. His eyes never leave you even as he crosses the room to pick up an acoustic guitar. “Damn room doesn’t even have an electric guitar. Amplifier’s at the gym and I hate that place.”

You laugh, watching him take the neck of the brown guitar and grab a monobloc from a stack beside the door. He sets it beside the keyboard, awkwardly sitting down before he sets the guitar on his lap eagerly. Eddie smiles at you, grabbing a part of his hair and hiding his mouth behind it bashfully.

“What song, m’lady?” he peers at you through his eyelashes. Eddie feels triumphant when he makes you laugh again, thinking he could watch you push your hair behind your ear with a demure look any time of the day.

Your shoulders raise into a shrug, the smile on your face falling a bit. “Dunno. Ever heard of The Outfield?” 

“On the radio. When my uncle listens to music early in the morning,” his fingers slide across the strings, pressing randomly on frets. “Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I listen to music other than metal.”

“Shocker,” you gasp dramatically. “You’ve ruined your image for me. I don’t see you as a metalhead anymore. You’re merely a commoner. A pretender.”

“You wound me,” he pouts at you. “Come on, (y/n). Give me a song,”

“Alright,” you rest your elbow on the keyboard, cheek on your fist. “Your Love. The Outfield. Think you know it or you’re just pretending?”

“Think I might have studied this for… other embarrassing purposes. But yes, I know it.” He clears his throat. “Prepare to cover your ears,”

Your Love wasn’t a song that was merely played by a guitar. However, an acoustic wouldn’t hurt. Not when he’s doing it for you. Eddie fears pressing his fingers on the wrong string, or a strain from his voice because that would just be plain humiliating. 

Your observance adds fuel to the fire of his confidence, while it also simultaneously makes him nervous ‘cause you’re watching; not just listening, not judging. You’re watching him like you actually want to see him play. And as far as he could remember, you’re the first girl to actually pay attention to what he’s playing without any cruel thoughts. He wonders if you think he’s great at this, just as much as he thought you were remarkable in the whole piano thing. 

Come on. E, C minor, B, E- no A. A, goddamnit.

When he almost misplaced his finger on the wrong string, he almost cried. But you’re not looking at his face anyway, perhaps too enthralled with the gentle sound of plucking; the deep baritone-like sound that the brass string produces makes you sway similarly like his earlier. 

“I ain't got many friends left to talk to, nowhere to run when I'm in trouble,” he shoots you a nervous glance, and he’s almost thankful that you’re looking at his hands. “You know I'd do anything for you, stay the night but keep it undercover,”

“You’ve got a nice voice,” his fingers slide across the brass string so quickly that it almost burns his fingertips when his voice dies in his throat and he looks up at you. “S-sorry.”

Eddie sets the guitar down, the flat of its back on his lap and knees. “No, it’s alright. Thanks,” you smile warily when he scratches nervously at the guitar. “So um- you gonna come see us in The Hideout? No pressure. Just, so I can show you that I really am into metal.”

Your lips tug downwards into an upside-down smile that teases him. Eddie tips his head back, flashing you a toothy grin as you say. “I’ll see to it, Eddie Munson,” you take a glance at your watch. “U-unfortunately though, I’ve got to go.”

He fights the urge to voice his disdain through a quiet groan of protest when he sees you reach on the other side of the bench to take your bag and sling it over your shoulder before you stand up from your seat. Eddie places the guitar on the ground, nervously fiddling with his fingers. “Um. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Stopping in your movements, your thumb slides between the leather strap of your bag and your shoulders. “Yeah. Sure. If you’ll see me, anyway.”

“I’m sure I will,” he offers you a smile.

He watches you leave with a sad frown. 

But later that night though, when he talks to Dustin on the RT, he remembers telling him that the girl in the purple dress wore ripped jeans now and a yellow blouse covered in pink flowers, her hair down in loose waves over her shoulders that enticed him. Eddie remembers telling him you’d looked mature, prettier, and that maybe you’d come to his show next week.

What he doesn’t tell him, though, is that he remembers every spot on your face that had dimples when you smile. That your voice was like petal silk that pleases his fingertips as he rubs it between them; or that your hands had similar scars like his, only you’ve gotten them for a different reason. How graceful you’d looked playing the keyboard like you’d been the only one in that room. 

A veridical sense of déjà vu makes his mind tingle and his heart twist. In his bed, Eddie has his hands over his stomach, staring up his ceiling with a poster of Tiamat he once saw during a yard sale that he bought. But he thinks of you, the exiguous curiousness grows the longer he remembers that bright smile on your face. And he feels nothing but the want inside him that yearns to see you again.

Justine never knew the rules

Hung down with the freaks and ghouls

No apologies ever need be made

I know you better than you fake it

“Lost in a purple hill, shake these zipper blues? Hey, Nancy, do you think—”

A shoulder bumps you, too hard to be taken as an accident. Your notebook falls to the ground, ball pen tight in your hand as you let out a startled gasp. You look at the boy first, whose eyes widen in embarrassment as they flicker between the journal on the floor and to your agape mouth. 

You should have expected it. The halls were crowded and there were very eager students to enter the cafeteria and take tables before someone else would. But still, you’re taken aback by the sudden impact, even after almost squeezing yourself against the lockers just so you would avoid this kind of incident.

“Shit, dude, I’m sorry,” 

You give him a tight smile. “‘S alright,” he apologizes through a useless smile before he’s being dragged away by his friends. Nancy spins around at the upheaval, and follows the direction of your eyesight before she frowns in disdain.

Asshole didn’t even bother to pick it up for you. Or ask if you were alright.

“What a prick,” she clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth. You ignore the slight throb on your shoulder, bending down to pick up your notebook and wipe whatever dirt it's picked up from the ground. “Is it ruined?”

Shaking your head, you close it shut and hug it close to your chest. “No. It’s alright. I’m just lucky the floor doesn’t have any piss or something. Or else I would have…punched that guy,”

Nancy chuckles, shaking her head. She turns back around, clutching your wrist to go through the sweaty sea of rushing students. “I doubt that—ow, hey!”

Your face hits Nancy’s permed coils, nose meeting the Fabergé glory of her shampoo. You grimace, moving away to see your friend rubbing her shoulder before you see Patrick McKinney furrow his eyebrows in worry at his mistake. 

“Sorry. You alright, Wheeler?” he reaches out to rub her shoulder chastely, but Nancy shrugs it off, nodding. Patrick’s eyes relax, taking a glance at you before he realizes he doesn’t know who you are before he pats her shoulder carefully. “Alright. Sorry, again.”

It was difficult to hide the frown that paints itself on your face when Nancy simply grabs your wrist, guiding you around the crowd once more. And there’s this annoying itch in your head that keeps on reminding you how unlucky you’d been that you bumped into an apathetic guy who hadn’t even bothered to ask if you were alright whereas Nancy got sympathetic eyes and genuine concern. 

And you thought, well that’s because they knew her. Having to date Steve Harrington when he was still here, who’d been part of the basketball team himself, of course they knew her. You? The guy looked at you like some random crayon found on the ground. So you tell yourself to get over it; they don’t care and neither do you. It was a simple bump. Your friends would have asked if you were okay.

Nancy didn’t.

Well, she was distracted.

No, she wasn’t.

Shut up.

The cafeteria doors are left open with the people that surges through. Nancy stands on her tiptoes, searching for the boy with glasses that made his eyes larger and took up half his face — Fred, you remember; you practically sink onto her shoulder in fear of accidentally bumping into someone again. And fuck, how muscly was that guy for your shoulder to hurt?

When she spots him, Nancy’s quick to drag you to her side and sit you down beside her in front of Fred, who’d immediately chatted about this thing he’s seen somewhere you don't bother understanding. But when his eyes land on you, his talking stops. Lips snapping shut and he’s staring at you with those wide eyes of his, the scar on his cheek bending when he smiles cheekily at you, his forearms resting side by side on the table as he leans closer.

“I heard a rumor that you were with Eddie Munson yesterday,” he narrows his eyes playfully. Nancy whips her head at you, astounded with the new gossip she’s heard, especially now that it included you.  

Nervous with the attention diverted to you, you move back, fingers fidgeting on your lap. “What? Where’d you hear that?”

“Andy saw you.”

“Who’s Andy?”

“That guy who kinda looks like Arnold Schwarze-something.”

Nancy snorts. “He does not look like him.”

Frowning, you lean closer. “What was he doing there yesterday?”

Beside you, Nancy opens a pack of pudding pie that she quietly offers to you. You shake your head politely, offering her a short smile before Fred asks for your attention with a simple tap on your elbow. “He left something by the locker room. Then he said he caught Eddie Munson sitting beside you on a small chair inside the music room being…shit, Nance, what’d he say?”

She shrugs, mouthful. “Dunno. Cute? Or, weird?”

“Somewhere along those lines, but we’re sugarcoating it for you,” he leans closer. “You do know who Eddie Munson is, right? Like, what people say?”

Nancy reaches behind you to take the Hi-C juice box in your bag and puts the straw in for you, shoving it in front of you that you gladly take and quietly thank her for as you say, “That he’s a freak? Just because he dresses out of the trend doesn’t mean he’s a freak, y’know?”

“Steve used to think he was,” Nancy raises her eyebrows at you. “I mean, I don’t think he’s a freak. He does have an influence on my brother though. He’s growing his hair out. Like a mullet, or something.”

“Well he’s not a freak,” you bring the small plastic straw to your lips, the sweet orange-y flavor of the mechanized juice filling your taste buds. “He’s nice. He said I had a…nice voice.”

No one’s said that to me before.

“That’s sweet,” Fred pouts. “Don’t know. Maybe he’s planning on luring you in as a sacrifice.”

Eddie? Cult leader luring you in for some sacrifice? The same person who’d smiled kindly, watched you play the piano like he was actually interested in your performance and applauded you like he’d been watching a breathtaking opera at the same time, invited you to watch his band at some dingy restaurant and thought ghosts might have been haunting him?

His style might say otherwise—with all those brutish rings he’d harbored so proudly and his disheveled mullet-ish hair. But with those wide, curious eyes that watched you like the most interesting flower blooming from the iced frozen ground, a voice so benign and placid who’d praised you in a way anybody else wouldn’t? No. He’s not a cult leader. Or a freak.

And you’d only known him from the mystifying, blurry memories and the couple minutes you’d spent with him yesterday. 

That same Eddie who you found with a small frown that lifts into a charming smile when his eyes find you. Briefly does he stop talking with his friends from across the room when your eyes link with his. And Eddie presents you a smile so pretty it makes you dizzy; with his style different, that same leather jacket with a red flannel beneath and a band shirt you don’t recognize, but he had the same fondness in his look that makes your heart flutter wildly like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon. 

You feel a spark of electricity ignite in the tendrils of your veins; the sound of your heart beating in your ears as everything else muffles and the spotlight goes onto him — like the sun beaming through the window to show you what you’d been looking for. 

Yeah sure, he’s a cult leader.

(A cult leader who made you feel noticed in a town with 15,000 ignorant, judgy people despite being with him in less than thirty minutes.)

“What’s she smiling at— oh,” with her laced fingers, Nancy places them beneath her chin and tilts her head sideways to take a glimpse of Eddie, who’s still looking at you. “That’s cute,”

“You really shouldn’t believe rumors,” You turn to her, nudging your juice box with her hand. “I mean, I’ve been here for three months. I barely know him and I think he’s just…being himself. It’s like this town hates people who are comfortable being themselves.”

The corners of Fred’s lips tug down. “Ouch,”

“What? It’s true,” 

“Y’know, we had a yard sale last year,” Nancy tells Fred. “Eddie was there lurking.”

“And?”

“Seemed like he didn't caused any trouble. Just roamed around, gave this kid a stuffed animal when he couldn't reach it. He seems nice, Fred.”

And you almost tell them that five years ago, Eddie Munson followed you backstage when he saw you crying; That he’d asked you if you were okay, that he said you’d do great and you did, and in between those hazy flashes of cut memories, you almost tell them that he wore a Bauhaus shirt too large for him, that his hair was buzzed and he made you laugh until you’d—quite literally—forgotten the reason why you cried in the first place.

—

“Hey there, Mandy,”

You yell, clutching the notebook closer to your chest and the pen tight in your hand that it might pop the ink out. Eddie’s hands raise in defense, eyes widening in shock as you both stop walking, the leaves crunching beneath your worn-out shoes and his white sneakers, the birds flying away from the disruption. 

“Jesus Christ,”

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” familiar, but the memory’s lost in your worry-filled mind. You laugh disbelievingly at him, closing your notebook and tucking the pen behind your ear. “What?”

“Nothing!” you scratch the dents on your notebook, shying away from Eddie’s intensive look. “Mandy? ‘S not my name.”

“I know. But it’s a cool nickname. And you know,” he tilts his head sideways. “The song.”

You smile when his head lulls back, chuckling shortly when you both begin walking again. Eddie has his hands behind his back, his hair wild from the harsh winds of August’s warm breeze. Which he fixes with quick pats to the hair covering half his forehead, his eyes never leaving you.

“Why are you walking home?” you see him bring his hands in front, toying with his rings, pushing them in and out of his fingers. 

When you look up at him, your right eye squints from the brightness of the sun until he steps over it. “I wanted to walk home. And, um, I don’t have a car,” you flush beneath his piercing gaze. “What about you?”

“Because I saw you walking home,” he grins. “You were writing while you were walking so I thought maybe I should come join you in case you accidentally trip,” 

The sun draws a halo above his head, painting over the devil horns drawn onto him. It gives him a sacrilegious glow, intriguing you to just push his hair behind his ears and ask him all the things that made him smile just so you could see him smile once more. Yet, you don’t; your hands stay around your notebook, your mouth parts but never says anything, and you merely try to say those words through your eyes.

Cult leader, my ass.

“What, so you…left your car in school so you could walk with me?”

He shrugs. “I guess so. It’s still there when I come back, anyway. After I walk you home,” Eddie swallows. “...after I walk you home as a friend.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

Eddie’s lips purse. “So…” he makes a noise, like a random music note. “I didn’t see you in history today,”

History was (unfortunately) the only class you shared with Eddie. Where in the first three months, you’d kept on asking yourself where you’d seen him over and over again as you stared at the back of his head. (Wishing he’d turn around and ask for your name, if he’d seen you before, and notice you like he’d notice every random fuzz he’d find on his table.)

And he noticed you today. Even when you weren’t there, the thought of him thinking about you and wondering where you were sets a comfortable flame in your cold chest. 

“I was at the clinic,” you smile a little. “Some guy bumped into me earlier and I don’t know what he’s made of. It really hurt,”

His eyes darken into a gloom of concern, his eyebrows meeting like a broken bridge. “Are you alright? You okay now? Does it, uh, still hurt?”

“A bit,” you roll the injured shoulder. “Still kinda sore. ‘S like I played football, or something.”

Eddie’s teeth join behind his lips that remain separated, his bottom lip jutting out into a pout you can’t fathom the meaning behind. Then he’s biting it, his hands clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to make the hardest decision of his life before he’s pointing his thumb behind him. 

“Do you wanna go back to my van?” he asks quickly. “I’ve got something cold in there and I could help you. And I can drive you home, too,” his voice is eager and almost excited with a lace of hope. “But only if you want to,”

You’re unheistant when you say, “Yes,” take me with you. Aid me. Ask me how I am and I’d tell you. 

The walk back to school was quicker with his urgent feet that you had difficulty catching up with. You spot his car parked behind the school, befuddled with the amount of dents and the way his van leans sideways more than evenly. Eddie has a hand hovering behind you as he guides you, the other hurling the backdoors open that tricks you into thinking it’s gonna be thrown aside.

The back of his van was messy — with four empty beer cartons stashed aside, a Bauhaus poster that matched Eddie’s shirt with its sides ripped, white ridges seen in that black paper, a red cooler behind the cartons, and a blanket that you assumed used to be white but has been left unwashed for who knows how long. 

But despite the messy appearance, you sit on top of the blanket when he asks you to. And he sits beside you, 

a heavy hop that makes the van shake slightly and a creak underneath. He shoots you an embarrassed smile, a hand behind him to prop himself up as he twists his torso and pulls on the cooler until it slides near him.

When Eddie opens it, it’s nothing but almost melted ice and four bottles of Boston Lager with one of them being half-empty. You peer over the red box, watching as his hand dives through the cold mess before he hands you an unopened beer bottle.

Out of curiosity, you bring it up to your nose and take a whiff just because.

Eddie chortles. “What’s it smell like?”

You frown. “Like water.”

He stops you from putting the bottle right at your shoulder, looking for something behind him before he sighs scornly, reaching out behind him to pull out a black bandana decorated with large, intimidating skulls. “Here just—wrap it around so it won't wet your shirt too much,”

Eddie gently takes the bottle from you, half of his fingertips covering yours. Half a touch and it already makes you feel like someone had thrown a rope down the hole you’d been stuck in and pulled you out; in that slight formidable tactility does your skin tingle, a warmth that feels like you’re hovering your hands over the flawless dance of a flame. A caress that barely lasts ten seconds, but was a lifetime of gratifyingly dizzy touches. 

The coldness of the bottle doesn’t scathe you anymore now with his handkerchief wrapped around it. It seems like Eddie felt the same way, with how his neck reddens, and abruptly places his hands on his lap, watching you from the corner of his eye as you place the bottle on your shoulder. 

But the silence is comfortable, with the howl of the wind and the rustling of the trees. You dab the bottle on your shoulder, the bandana itself smelling of cigarettes and a boyish aroma you can’t comprehend, but you had a feeling it smelt just like him. The white skull turns gray, the cloth dampens and turns cold, and you turn to see Eddie with his nose wrinkled into a quick sniff before he looks around him and settles on your notebook.

“So what were you writing?” He gently takes the purple notebook into his hand, tracing its ridges and checking its black spine, flipping it around where he sees your name written on the upper left corner in small cursives.

“Um, just…things,” you pinch your nose with a vacant hand. “Just lyrics, I guess.”

“You? Lyricist?” Removing the hand from your nose, you reach over to flip the journal open, thumb skimming across the thick pages. “Just when I thought you were cool with the whole piano thing,” your face heats, smiling sheepishly at him.

“I wouldn’t say I’m great at this whole thing, though,” your thumb stops on a page you’d been writing on. Eddie diverts his attention on the half-filled page, head tilting down as he brings the notebook closer to his face.

You fear his judgment; not because you don’t trust him, but it leans more into what you’d gone through. That his criticism will be cruel, unkind and harsh like others had been, taking out all their negativity into the words you’d poured your mind onto, leaving without an apology or at least a clement admonition. 

There’s doubt that spreads across your mind. You watch as Eddie pokes his tongue out to graze his teeth, his thumbs drumming on your notebook, his own eyes flitting between your unaligned writing. But the smile that breaks across his charming face calms the dread down. Eddie looks at you, the crinkles on the corner of his eyes so endearing. 

“Lost in a purple hill, shake these zipper blues,” he reads out loud. “I like it. It’s very…savvy,”

“Savvy?”

“Savvy. Innovative. Creative,” you beam at him, your lips starting to ache from the bright smile you hold as Eddie’s head flips between your creative words and your contagious joy. “What? It’s amazing. Literally, all the words you can find in a dictionary that’s a synonym for creative. It’s—it’s that. W-what?”

His eyebrows join in a confused hill as the smile remains on his face, shaking his head at the shock that amalgamates with your glee. “Nothing,” you look away, feeling your entire body heating with the new sensation of appreciation. “I just thought it was kinda stupid. Like, maybe no one would understand it, y’know?”

Eddie’s thumb rubs his bottom lip. “Well, tell me what it means—hey, please?” he pouts playfully at you. “Tell me what it means, come on. I like it, I might as well know the meaning behind it, right?”

You shake your head in disbelief, placing the bottle on your shoulder to the space beside the two of you.  “Alright. Um, well, a hill right? You get up this hill and you feel disconnected from the world in…a good way. You- lose all toxicity and burden this place gives you. And I chose purple because, well, I like the color purple,” you laugh nervously. “And, zipper blues. It’s this depressed feeling you get from moving around too much. So you get lost up this hill, you get rid of that sorrow, and just disconnect all your problems. And, I don’t know if it makes any sense but—I’m rambling too much. I’m sorry—”

“No!” Eddie reaches out to place his hand on top of yours, quick and urgent to touch you again and the way his hand softens on you feels like he’d been substantially relieved to do something Eddie’s stopping himself from doing. Like water to a slowly dying flower, your heart blooms at the touch you’ve wanted to sense since earlier as he stops you from your ranting. “It’s okay. I- I get what you mean. And it’s…”

You feel him squeeze your hand gently. “It’s…?”

“I’m thinking of other cool words,”

You laugh bashfully, a laugh he copies. A laugh that reaches his eyes, went from deep into something high like a giggle until a small snort comes from him. You feel elated to make him laugh this way despite saying nothing. 

“It’s amazing, (y/n),” he doesn’t say Mandy, but it mantles your insides nonetheless. “You have other songs you’ve written?”

Toying with the neck of the beer, you nod. “I’ve got a couple of papers back in my place but, uh, I’m not exactly allowed to invite boys in my place yet.” he moues playfully. “But I could um, talk to you over it on the phone? Or give it to you tomorrow? I should just give it to you tomorrow, you don’t have to give me your number—”

Eddie squeezes your hand again. “Hey,” he chuckles at you. “Relax, Mandy. I’ll give you my number and we can talk, yeah?”

You feel like you’re waiting for an ice cream cone to be offered to you when Eddie plucks the pen behind your ear and writes his number down on the bottom of the page that he’s read. His writing is scrawny, unaligned like yours, capitalized when he leaves a note beneath the digits that you can’t read. He tells you not to read it yet after he offers to drive you home. 

The drive to your home was filled with small talk and music from the stack of cassettes on the back of his car. Ranging from Metallica to Judas Priest as said from the cases you gave him. And despite his attempt at his careful driving, the van sways against the uneven asphalt of the town streets. 

Eddie, with a hand on the steering wheel, has a hand hovering behind you as you twist your torso and lean towards the backseat to search for more cassette tapes. 

“What are you even looking for?” he asks, carefully turning left. You pick through the mountain of unarranged music, placing them next to each other when you see something you’re not looking for. “Careful. You might fall forward and I’ll just laugh at you.”

“I found it—turn right!” The wheels of his car screech at the sudden pivot, makes you clutch the grab handle and his arm, feet lifting off the clutch and onto the brakes where he presses lightly. “Fuck,”

“Sorry,” he pushes his hair out of his face, glancing at the cassette in your hand. “Oh, I didn’t know I have that,”

The black case of Reggatta De Blanc is clutched tightly in your hold. “I didn’t know you listened to The Police,” you flip it, scanning the back. “They’re my favorite band.”

“I didn’t know you listened to rock,” he’s still pressing lightly on the brakes to slow the van down, the smoke leaving the hood grows both your concerns. “I used to listen to them. Well, when I used to drive my Uncle to work when his car broke down for a while. Refused to listen to any of my tapes. Misfits? No. Iron Maiden? Still no. I mean, I get that he’s old, or something, but he has to try new things out!”

You open his player and withdraw Sisters of Mercy, prompting him to express his displeasure with a half-joking gasp and a short 'hey!' across the cut music. But you swiftly insert the tape to stop him. Eddie's fists clench over the peeling leather steering wheel, his gaze fixed on you.

“The Police, huh,” he grins at you. You swallow the upbeat tempo of Message in a Bottle, bopping your head to the introduction riff. Eddie’s head turns between the road and you. “Thought you’d be more Kate Bush, or something. Billy Joel. Madonna, maybe. Queen. Elton John. The Cure…”

With a twisted smile, you run your nails through the polyester filament yarn of your seatbelt. “I do. I don’t have a specific genre, Munson,” you turn to him. “I can like anything. Hell, I like W.A.S.P. And Joan Jett”

He gasps, turning right. “& The Blackhearts?”

“Fuck yeah,”

Eddie’s tongue clicks with the roof of his mouth, shaking his head. “What a potty mouth, Mandy.” his nose wrinkles when he laughs. Angelic, you think. A laugh a cult leader wouldn’t have; something Eddie would have. 

“Well, people usually don’t believe me,” you laugh timidly. “‘S like people need to like just one genre and make it their whole personality. Like, what if I like metal and pop at the same time?” his eyebrows raise a bit. “Sorry. N-no offense. It’s just…annoying, at times.”

You remember being twelve, recently having left Hawkins with a deep frown on your face. But you had a girl invited to your room in search of a new friend. With a borrowed boombox, you showed her Blue Öyster Cult after going through countless tapes of pop artists. And when she found out that the band had a different type of music, way different than the ones you’d just listened to, she’d told you: listening to different types of music makes you unbalanced. You need to stick to the one that makes you you. Or else people wouldn’t know who you are.

Wise words for a pretentious girl, you thought back then. Nevertheless, you believed her. 

For five years. 

But when you returned to Hawkins, you need reinvention. Because girls were only ever interesting when they’d reinvent themselves every once in a while to keep people hooked on. And you were tired of being unseen, invalidated; so you went back to your older self. Someone who played the piano but enjoys metal as much as Eddie Munson did, from what you’ve seen. You want to show him that side of you, in hopes for affirmation.

“None taken,” he breathes. “But, you’re right. No need to apologize.” your stomach buzzes with his accordance. “Metal’s just…me, though,” unlike earlier, Eddie turns the hazard before he turns. “So, I hope you don’t mind a man with a shag who’s a high school repeat’s driving you home, sweets,”

Sweets. Your whole body burns in the best way, biting back a smile. “No. I don’t mind. I like that.”

“I like that for you, though,” he gesticulates to you. “Being unashamedly yourself. Without aaany judgment whatsoever. And, uh, that’s amazing,” Eddie, although with his words genuine, smiles weakly and sweetly at you; harbors something that he wants to say but stops himself from doing so. “I should be like you more often.”

“I think you’re already being yourself,” your eyes trace the scratches on the windows, the slight blur on the corner of his windscreen; what once was a far distance of a motion blur of modern homes turns slower when Eddie’s foot lifts slowly from the accelerator. “I should be like you.”

“Trust me. You-...” when he looks at you, he visibly softens at your countenance. His adam's apple bobs in what seems to be rich poignance with the way his pupils slightly shrink when he flits his eyes away from you, only to dilate and almost take over his brown irises when they look back at you a mere second later. Eddie chuckles dryly, can't help but smile earnestly at you. “I like you as yourself, (y/n),”

Your hand compels you to reach for his. Like magnets forced to meet. But the console which separates you both hinders you from doing so. But maybe it was your fear; your lack of courage. A film reel in your mind that slides through its mid-tone dull colors of a possible incident — he’ll hold your hand tighter with the gentle caress of his calloused thumb that alleviates the rigorous pounding of your heart and smiles brighter than the ultraviolet sun. 

Or his face would twist in disgust and shove your hand back on your lap, lips curled into revulsion and he’d ask you what was wrong with you, reject any excuse that would come out of your mouth like they always did before he’d drop you home and ignore you like you didn’t exist.

Keep it together.

“Thanks,” you mumble, the pads of your thumbs come across the linear scars on your fingers. You see Eddie balk in his seat, lips pursed to make small incomprehensible sounds while he bobs his head to Message in a Bottle. Your house emerges, curtains drawn and run down car missing. Disappointedly, you press on the red button of the seat belt buckle. “Right here, Eddie.”

The van halts to a stop, passenger door right in front of the pathway to your small home. The radio lowers, the seat belt snapping back in place tickles your arm, and dismay wooshes with his loud ac. 

But Eddie leaves unexpectedly before you do, the unlocking sound of his car door disappears quicker than the door slamming shut. You watch as he crosses over with squinted eyes, until he reaches to open your door, bowing lightly with an arm stretched towards your house; a smile that reaches up his eyes and a dimple that comes with.

“M’lady,” he nods his head at you. You can’t help but laugh, picking the bag up from between your legs and slinging it over your shoulder, the heat adding an unfortunate ache on your eyes that shoots up to your head and almost burns any skin that’s exposed. Eddie notices. “‘S hot, isn’t it?”

“Unusually hot,” you shake your head. Eddie closes the door, walking on the unmowed grass on your small lawn until you both end up beneath the porch, in the shade that soothes you.

His eyes desecrate the components of your door, tracing the doorbell button, lips making small psh sh sounds before Eddie finally looks down at you. “Can I have your number?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “But I already have yours.”

“So I can call you anytime, Mandy,” he laughs heartily. “I can’t exactly save phone numbers, can I?”

You flush in embarrassment. “Right. Sorry,” you take the pen from behind your ear, reaching out. “Can I have your arm, please?”

Eddie smiles. “Lovely manners.”

He shows you his arm, a small, almost unnoticeable butterfly tattooed on his wrist where you write your number above it. “Nice tat,” you smile up at him, your own blue ink that’s botched to almost unusable decorates his pale skin.

“Yeah, I don’t really know how I got that,” his eye shuts, nose wrinkling, watches your eleven digits appear on his wrist along the veins. “Nice,” he sings. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to get going,” Eddie tugs on his bracelet, his feet lifting off the porch. “See you ‘round, Mandy. Shake those zipper blues beneath the burning solari for me, won’t you?”

You bid him goodbye with a sad wave, but you cover it with a smile.

Shake those zipper blues beneath the burning solari. Huh.

Morphine city slippin' dues

Down to see

That we don't even care

As restless as we are

It was a battle between who was gonna call first.

That day when Eddie drove back to the trailer, quietly as Wayne took a nap on the fold-up bed in the living room, he went inside his bedroom and locked the door. Barely was it night. Barely. Yet there he was, sitting on his bed clad in nothing but a random shirt and boxers as he waited for your call.

Nothing.

So he sat and played and thought and dreamed. 

Shake those zipper blues beneath the burning solari? What the fuck does that even mean?

The first ring on his phone, it hadn’t come from you. Mike Wheeler asked if he’d used any kind of shampoo on his hair, and what brand it had been. Eddie answered that it was three-in-one, no specific brand. Just anything he could afford. The second had come from Dustin, who’d asked about something DnD related that Eddie had already forgotten. 

And then the third was from Reefer Rick, who was put on probation and asked how he was and honestly, the phone call lasted for two hours. A conversation that barely included any drug talk whatsoever and simply what had happened in their lives.

So obviously, Eddie couldn’t help but mention you. Minus your name for safety reasons.

“Shit, dude. She’s… she’s nice. She’s smart and she writes songs like I do and she plays the piano. And I actually met her before! ‘S just that I don’t exactly-... remember it, y’know?”

“Don’t tell me you’re fallin’ in love, kid.”

“I’m not!”

“You know about love and how dangerous it is, don’t you?”

He did. 

Like a dangerous game of Dungeons and Dragons.

Yet there he was, the sun gone and the skies Stygian, painted with scattered specks of the burning stars and the crescent moon. Eddie’s patience had slowly been wilting, his knee bounced on the floor and his ass was sore from sitting too long on his lumpy mattress. A notebook in hand with his own clusterfuck of rhyming words with deep elucidations in hopes you’d be talking about songwriting. 

And when the phone rang, he stood up faster than the speed of light and he took the handset off the wall and pressed it up to his tingling ears. 

“Hello?”

A huff of a laugh. “Hey, Eds.”

Eds. Eds Eds Eds Eds. 

His heart palpitated; a ruthless attack of the Cupid’s red piercing arrow shot through his heart. Eddie Munson rested his hand against the wall and the other tight on the phone receiver as his knees liquified from your giggle. 

“Hey there, Mandy.”

“I took your lyric, by the way,” he could only imagine what you looked like that night—pajamas, sleep shorts, a crop top, or a random band shirt he thinks you’d totally have, you’d still be pretty nonetheless. “Shake those zipper blues beneath the burning solari. It’s very impressive. Kinda making me not want to give you credit here,”

Eddie shook his head in playful disbelief and turned over to rest his back on the wall with a silly smile and a belly full of butterflies. “I’d very much appreciate the credit. At least then the world would know who I was.”

A playful sound of consideration kisses his eardrums. “Maybe. Yeah, sure. I’ll give you credit.”

Since then, phone calls had been filled with exchanged conceptualizations and words written with a botched ballpen onto crumpled pieces of papers; Eddie would see you in school, too. Passing each other shy smiles, listening to music in his van as he offers to drive you home, his hand discreetly turning back to you to pass notes during History. He no longer found the random fuzz on his table interesting and thought that the girl who answered his notes that ended each message with a smiley face was way more interesting than anything else in the world.

Maybe DnD and metal, too. But you came in first.

And every night, after a campaign or band practice, after his uncle would wish him farewell before heading off to work, the usual jejune midnights had turned into cavorting twilight nights. Before he knows it, he’s already brushing his teeth at six pm, like you’d smell his breath through the phone, and bounces his knee in anticipation in front of the phone. 

One night, when Wayne stayed home to get some proper rest, he'd noticed how Eddie had barely left the room to watch the tv with him, or how he hasn't played a guitar in weeks, or suddenly rush out a farewell to meet his friends.

He took a peek in the crack of his bedroom door, saw how his nephew had a lovesick smile as he laid on the floor with the phone on his ear babbling about things that has happened on his day or something about his past.

"You've been hogging up the phone, Eddie. I've got someone to call too, you know?"

Poor Eddie yelped, almost dropping the phone to the ground. Wayne chuckles, walking over to him which made Eddie clutch the phone to his chest. Wayne claps his shoulder.

"Yeah like who? That recently divorced mom beside Kapinsky's trailer?"

He jested to his uncle, who barks out a laugh. "Probably. I'm not the only one trying to woo girls here, son,"

"I- I'm not trying to woo him, man! I'm just-... trying to be her friend."

Wayne huffs with a smile and a light shake of his head.

It went on for weeks; countless calls that he didn't realize months had passed. Every day, every night, you’d become his friend; conversations started turning into somewhat remedial talks other than songwriting, telling each other the stories in your lives that none had experienced, talking shit of the judgementals and the great pretenders, and gave each other keys to your hearts for safekeeping.  

“What ever happened to Benny’s Burgers?”

“Heard some Russian kid got him killed, or something. Jason’s using it for his orgies now. Like ritualistic sacrifices are way more important than teenagers having sex all together. The children of god hath given into their temptations! Those gents might not but repent their sins for foul fornication!” 

“Eddie, I don’t care if you sell drugs. Half the kids in my old school in Queens sold them. Would almost kill each other for ‘stealing’ their clients. Hell, even half of the NYPD sold drugs.”

“In all honesty, it’s weird how you’re so normal about this.”

“My mom died when I was a baby. The orphanage had different answers on how I ended up there, though. My dad died, he was in jail, he dumped me there. But it doesn’t matter — I’ve got a new family now, anyway.”

“My old man’s in prison. Haven’t talked to him in years. My mom died too, so at least we have that in common, eh?”

“Sometimes I wish people cared. Like-... sometimes I wish they’d see me; stop treating me like a ghost and ask ‘hey, what songs can you play on the piano?’ and all that shit. ‘Hey, are you okay? What’d you feel about getting left at an orphanage? Sorry, I hit you on the shoulder.’ And all that stuff.”

“‘M kinda tired of being seen as a freak. I know everybody has their own thing. But sometimes I… wish I liked the same thing everybody else did. But that’s the thing about society and their codependency on approval — you like something that people think is far from normal, or something that people say isn’t- trendy, you’re a freak. I mean, sorry I like playing a fantasy game than Monopoly. Or- that I like Eddie Van Halen than Olivia Newton-John.”

“Hey, you love Olivia Newton-John!”

Laying in his bed of lumps and stains, Eddie imagined he’s in a field. The tall grass stroking his inked skin, the clouds that hover over him, all his devotion laid upon the clouds that mutate into your silhouette, which beguiles him more. And even when his visual morphs the sky gray and lets its sickening tears drip down onto him, he stares up at this cloud indentation of you that looks back at him. Until it’s blown away and he finally sees your spellbinding beauty. 

“Hey,” your voice startled him. “Still there, or you’re asleep?”

“No. This is Eddie’s soul speaking. He’s very asleep,” his jest was followed by an obnoxious snore that made you laugh brightly. He smiles. “Yeah, no. I’m still here. Sorry,”

“It’s okay,” you softly said. “Hey, um, my neck’s aching.”

He frowned. “Oh. Do you wanna continue this tomorrow?” Eddie twirls the cord around his finger, trapping the phone between his neck and ear.

“No,” you sighed. “Keep talking, please?”

“Okay,” Eddie cleared his throat. “Band practice went well. We, uh, learned a new song. Something that’s not metal. Gareth was kind of a bitch about it but hey, there’s no harm in trying something new.”

“Really?” he nodded, remembering you were not there before he said ‘yes’. “What song is it?”

Eddie turned to his side, facing his Blue Öyster Cult poster. “It’s a surprise, Mandy,” his scoff etched a smile on his frivolous face. “You’ll hear it when you come to Hideout.”

“Shame,” he thought you’d been pouting. Playfully, with your pink lip jutted out. “What should I wear when I watch, though?”

“Anything you want,” it made him panic a little; he didn’t have an outfit for the show. Eddie sat up, his foot knocking over an empty bottle that fell down on his floor that thankfully did not break but was loud enough to disrupt you.

“What was that?” you had asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he clutched his ankle, face crumbling in pain. “Yeah, babe, I’m alright,”

Shit.

He sensed it then. When your breathing went silent, when his heart stopped beating for a millisecond, the way your mind registered what he said the same time he did. Eddie’s body had loosened in panic.

“Okay,” you finally said, quiet and gentle. “Um, careful.”

“Thanks,” he almost said it again, getting himself distracted. “Thanks, (y/n),”

A pregnant pause. Eddie was massaging his ankle with a look that berated him for his idiotic freudian slip. He scolded himself by bumping the sore spot against the foot of his bed, hard enough that another loud thump was heard and tears brimmed the edge of his eyes.

“Okay, seriously, what is going on in there?” you chuckled incredulously. 

“Nothing!”

“You know what? You should come here before you accidentally trip on a knife.”

Eddie’s head dipped. “I thought you weren’t allowed to invite boys in your home?”

“I can rebel, you know,” he felt an eye roll. “Besides, my parents aren’t home and- I’m bored. And my neck hurts and everything’s better when you’re here.”

He deceived himself into thinking you meant nothing in the last part. Eddie felt the warmth rise to his cheeks then, something he’d grown familiar to seeing as it only happens when he’s with you. 

“Sure,” he picked up a random pair of shoes beneath his bed and opened his drawer to pull out the finest pair of jeans he owned. “Be there in a couple of minutes.”

That night, he parked his van a few houses from yours, and he immediately spotted the purple curtain of your windows. The light dimmed with the yellow warmth of your lamp, your silhouette moving across with something rectangular in your hand that he can only assume was your notebook. He felt slightly eccentric.

Eddie, ever the man who loves to put on a good show, decided to climb up the side of your home using the uneven ridges of the brick wall and your pipes. His palms had lightly scratched against the rough surface of the bricks, where he used all his strength to lift himself up until his head peeks through your window.

When his forearms rested on the stool of your window, he propped himself on one arm and used his left hand to knock rhythmically on the glass. Eddie saw your silhouette stop pacing, your shadow growing as you near your window and pulled the curtains back.

He’d smiled, bigger when he saw your shocked, wide-eyed gaze. Eddie knows you’re berating him when he hears your muffled rambling. You unlatched the window and pulled it up, your hands clutching his bare elbows.

“You idiot!” you hissed. “I told you my parents are gone. And you come up through the window? Are you insane? You could break your back or stab yourself with the bushes!”

Eddie fell face down, his cheek meeting your carpeted floor. He pressed his palms on the ground, pulling his entire body in until he flopped on your floor. And when he finally fixed himself and rids of the leaves and dirt that stuck to him, he stood up. And you slap his arm.

He gawped at you. “Ow!” he pouts, massaging his arm. “You wound me.”

“Relax,” Eddie took his shoes off. “It was just a slap, you drama queen.”

Eddie’s eyes wandered across your body. You were wearing a band shirt: Dead or Alive. He didn’t know who they were. But he didn’t care because then he’s got his eyes on your exposed legs, black sleep shorts that barely come across half your thighs and it made him swallow thickly, his blood flowing everywhere and god forbid had he popped a boner right in the middle of your room, he would have jumped out your window and broke his neck instead.

“Y-you know me,” his voice cracked the slightest. “Always a queen. Which is why I love the Queen. Not the Queen of England. The band, I mean. Well, I listen to them occasionally.”

You sat on your bed, kicking his shin. “I know, dummy.”

That had been a couple of nights ago.

Now he’s sitting bored, fourth row in the second lane, his chin on his palm, right hand drawing a small bat on the corner of his notebook. Along with some other words until he quietly rips the page off, folds it, and takes it in his hand before he moves it behind him.

Eddie feels the paper slip off his fingers. He thinks of your smile, whether it be a toothy grin, a closed lip or the one that made your teeth shine prettily. His body shivers from head to toe, cheeks tingling while his knee bounces in anticipation.

A light graze on his bare elbow startles him, the heel of his foot knocking against the metal leg of his seat. He takes the paper from the corner of his table, silently unfolding it.

I think that’s a bad idea.

Offended, he writes. I just said hi >:(

He gets a quick reply after he gives it to you. I can smell you thinking. I’m like a vampire. And I’m already telling you that filling someone’s locker with shaving cream is boring and a bad idea.

You snicker when he takes a quick glance at you with a silent gasp. Then what do you suggest we do?

Fill it with shaving cream and stick someone’s hair in it. It’s grosser.

It’s followed by a brief drawing of two stick people, one with a small triangular skirt and one with a guitar in it’s hand, in front of a crooked rectangle which he assumes is the locker, the door opened and curved drawings oozing out. And some small, clustered lines that represent the hair you’d told him about.

Eddie smiles brightly, folding it and shoving it in his pocket before he shoots you a silly smile. 

The bell rings, obnoxious and almost deafening. Eddie stands from his seat, watching you meticulously gather your stuff together, hands gently pushing your items inside your bag. He sits on his table, waiting.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Mandy,” He tucks his book on his torso, watching you sling your bag over your shoulder and narrow your eyes at him. “It’s a great idea,”

“I’m not one for bullying, but I think, even though I contributed to your prank knavery, it’s pretty tame and shit,” 

Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for you, slapping the top of the door as he passes through. “Oh yeah? Give me something better, do tell.”

“I say fill the locker with water, but then it’ll just slip out,” he towers over you. Sometimes he likes to take advantage of the fact that people would move out of his way merely because they didn’t want to be touched or grazed by him like some disease; he can move faster. “Or we can get your little shrimps to make some machine type of thing that could explode in their locker.”

“Who? Dustin?” Eddie bumps his shoulder with yours. “I mean, yeah could be. And we can just blame it on him,”

“Great idea,” your face wrinkles in confusion. “Wait, who’s locker are you destroying, anyways?”

“Gareth’s,”

Your nose wrinkles. “What did Gareth ever do to you?”

“Breathing,” he sighs. “Anyway, are you doing something later?”

Even in a clustered hallway, Eddie finds it in himself to get the wind knocked out of him when you look up with pensive eyes. Your mouth parts, the ends of your front teeth peeking just a bit from beneath your top lip. You blink and your eyebrows widen.

“Nothing. Homework, maybe. Or just writing again,” his heart pangs at the sad sigh you let out. “Wanna come over?”

He brightens.

-

Eddie lays on your thick mattress, hands clasped together on top of the notebook that lays open on his chest. Eddie scans every saxe glory of your blue walls, smelling the citrus fragrance of your new white sheets. It’s soft, maybe softer than the field up weathertop, and comforting. You sit on the edge of the bed, W.A.S.P. playing out loud but not loud enough for a complaint. 

He turns his head to you, sees how your back is hunched with your notebook on your lap and your fingers drumming on the sides with your pen wedged in between your lips. Eddie leans up, peering over your shoulder.

I put my heart on a piece of paper and you throw it away(?) my heart’s on a string around my neck and

Half the page is scribbled words and annotations with doodles of flowers on the corners. The annoyance radiates off the inelegance of your structure, the bite marks that deepen on the plastic cap of your black pen, and your eyebrows that meet in the middle. Eddie wants to kiss your worry lines away, taking your face in his hands and wonder how, despite the agitated expression, could someone still look so pretty?

Taking his pen from beneath the notebook, he takes the cap off with his teeth. Eddie props himself up on one hand, crosses his arm over yours and presses the black tip on your lined page.

Hi. Notice me pls :(

You laugh cordially, snapping your head to him with your chin on your shoulder and his chin on your bicep, his bottom lip jutting out from the lack of attention. 

“What’s up, Mands, huh?” his chin nudges your arm. You soften. “Writer’s block?”

“Writer’s block are for authors,” you say in a small voice.

“Writers. Songwriters. Semantics,” Eddie purses his lips. “Do you wanna turn the radio off? It’s what usually ruins the whole thinking thing, sometimes.”

“No,” you pout. “Maybe I just need a break. I don’t even know why I’m so upset about this. ‘S so stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Eddie readjusts himself, his upper body being propped up by his arm with his legs spread on your mattress, knocking your arm with his temple. “Tell me why you’re upset. Come on.” 

You ruminate, staring deep into his eyes. “God, I don’t know, Eddie. It’s like my mind’s all hazy these days. It won’t work. Everytime I try to finish this stupid song, I- my mind just stops. It’s like I’ve forgotten the English dictionary, or something. I feel so illiterate. A freakin- a fucking ten year old could make a christmas jingle faster than I can finish this stupid stanza.” you slam your pen in the middle, closing your eyes in a deep sigh. “It’s tiring— I’m sorry. I talk too much.”

Eddie wants to draw this out. Close the space that’s almost not even there and take you into his arms as he heeds the words you avow with the silk petal of your voice that burrs when you tiptoe the edge of a breakdown. But you’re already looking away from him with a visible wobble of your bottom lip.

“Hey, hey,” he finally sits, ignoring the ache on his arm when he limits himself by touching your shoulder rather than grasping your chin; there’s still the lingering hesitation of crossing boundaries when it comes to physical contact, and he doesn’t want to drive you away. “You don’t talk too much. I love listening to you talk,”

A shimmer in your eyes from the tears that coat your irises. You blink rapidly and smile weakly. “Thanks. That’s- that’s nice.”

“You know what,” he plops to his stomach, reaching over to the ground where his open bag laid and took out two cans of Budweiser, warm with dents on the silver tin. “Let’s drink— just one! Have you ever tried?”

“I told you I used to live in New York. The only things I haven’t tried are coke and marijuana,” you take the can from him. “My dad gave me beer when I was fifteen. Not exactly great parenting but, we were alone and he didn’t know what to feed me.”

He opens the can and drinks the bitter alcohol with ease, letting it leave a burning sensation on his tongue as he watches you do the same. Eddie chortles when your face rumples in distaste, a frown replacing your woeful pout. 

“You alright there, Mands?” He raises a brow. “Sure your daddy didn’t give you apple juice?”

“Jesus christ,” you clear your throat. “I’m starting to think he did.” Eddie gently takes the can from you when you give it to him, gently placing it on your bedside table. “You know, Fred Benson has a party a couple blocks from here.”

Eddie takes another athirst sip. “Who?”

“Fred. The guy with glasses who’s with Nancy? I sat with him during lunch?”

“Oh right!” He sets his beer beside yours. “He’s nice. He put Hellfire Club in the student yearbook.”

“We should loosen up a bit,” you stand up, stretching your limbs and wince at the ache on your back. Your Beatles shirt, cut up to a midriff, exposes your stomach, a small scar just on the side of your hip and it makes Eddie flustered. He looks down at his hands. “We should go to the party.”

Eddie hops off your bed with the twist of his legs. “You can’t just leave. What about your parents?”

“I can rebel,” you repeat playfully. “And since when do you care about all that stuff, guy-who-got-arrested-once-when-he-sold-weed-to-an-undercover-cop?"

“I care when it comes to you,” he says softly, and he thinks you must have been pretending not to hear what he said. “Gonna call them or leave a note?”

“Gonna tell them I’ll sleep at Nancy’s,” you pull your drawer open and take a yellow sticky note out, scribbling down. Eddie takes his shoes from beside your bedroom door, frowning at the smudged dirt on the heel of his right shoe before he slips them on. “Can you wait outside? I’m gonna change.”

-

You looked breathtaking.

Embellished in a simple dress that stopped just above your knees, a pair of high-cut canvas sneakers that needed a bit of washing; a jubilant vogue that beguiles him, lifting him off his jittery fee. Your adroit hands accoutred in rings with lilliputian gems, warped around your dexterous fingers in delicate silver wires. And your hair, free from all its restraint, flowing down your shoulders. 

Driving to Fred’s house, you looked like a bright star found in the darkness of Eddie’s van. Sat on his seat, listening to all his metal mixtapes and headbanging to the songs you found endearing. His heart quivers whenever you awe at mixtapes you find in the back of his car. 

You were beautiful.

Covet reigns his cynical heart; he yearns to touch you. Wrapping his arm around your waist, holding your hand, or taking your face into his palms and telling you all the things that’ll make you smile. He wants to fortify you from all the savage things that ought to hurt you; Eddie yearns to proclaim his devotion into a dulcet whisper until he feels the rapidness of your heartbeat that thumps against his. 

But confusion regnants. He doesn’t know why he feels this way for a friend who simply knocked the wind out of him by wearing a simple dress. Then again, he thinks if it were any other person, they’d feel the same way. It’s you. You and your kind, shy, delicate heart that he wants to keep.

You, that he’s also lost.

It has been an hour since you guys have arrived. Maybe more than an hour. Eddie doesn’t know, but when he glances at his watch, it’d already been eleven in the evening. He wasn’t fond of parties but when it came to you and anything related to your happiness, he’d tolerate it. And for the first time in his life, in a house full of alcohol, he’s still sober. For your sake.

You told him you’d go to the bathroom, and he waited at some couch, stuck between two very drunk people who made out and completely forgot that they’re sitting right next to Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson. But, in all honesty, it felt nice not having someone run away as soon as they saw him. 

But when twenty minutes pass, where he debates on fetching you in case something happened, or thought maybe you were taking a shit, he ultimately decides to search for you. 

Foreigner guides him between the sweaty limbs of drunk teens and students who’ve already graduated high school but remained in Hawkins (aka Steve Harrington. He saw a glimpse of his voluptuous hair towering over the crowd). 

“I wanna know where (y/n) is,” he sings subconsciously. “I want you to show me,”

And then, he sees you. In a situation that proves his nagging thoughts right.

Standing against the wall is a drunk you. And lo and behold, Steve Harrington peers over you with a flushed face that spreads up to his neck, shirt unbuttoned like he’s seducing you with the jungle on his chest. Eddie feels the bottom of his stomach twist uncomfortably, a twinge of jealousy floating within the acids inside. 

He pushes the people away, as gently as he could, making his way toward you. 

“I know— Eddie!” you gasp, pushing away from the wall. You open your arms and fall against him, wrapping your limbs around his torso tightly so that it makes him just as shocked as Steve was. “Where have you been?”

“I was waiting,” a hand massages your forearm, the other resting cautiously on your back. “You said that I stay there.”

“Have you met Steve?” Eddie smiles tightly at him. He tries to hide his disappointment when you uncurl an arm from him. 

“Yeah, I met him,” he says softly. “Dustin kept on talking about him.”

Steve’s eyebrows raise in bewilderment. “Uh- yeah. Nice seeing you again, man.” he nods his head at him. “Haven’t seen you since I left highschool,”

“Kinda surprised you’re still here,”

He narrows his eyes at Eddie. “I could say the same,” Steve runs his hand through his hair, shifting all his weight on his left leg. “Didn’t you repeat high school?”

You gasp beneath Eddie, turning your head at him. “You repeated high school?”

“Didn’t I tell you that?”

“Yeah but I forgot,” you rub your nose with the side of your finger. “I’m sorry. That must have sucked.”

It used to. Until you came back. 

Eddie’s mouth parts, but all that could come out was. “Wanna go back home?”

“I haven’t peed yet,”

“You’ve been talking to Steve for twenty minutes?” he exclaims his disdain over this fact, tightening his arm around you without even realizing it. “Alright, I’m taking you up to the bathroom,”

“Hey hey hey,” Steve reaches out to grasp Eddie’s elbow, clumsily but tight as he can see the drunken gloss in his eyes. “Where’d you think you’re going?”

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

“Oh I heard it loud and clear,” he scoffs. “You’re not taking a drunk girl to the toilet, Munson.”

Eddie turns, hiding you behind him and lets you pick on the loose thread of his vest. “And what do you expect me to do? Let her piss herself in here?” he wonders wherever Steve found the nerve to act all protective over you. “Sending her up there alone is more dangerous, Harrington.”

“And you think I’ll let you take her up there?”

“Hey, excuse me,” with your hands around Eddie’s torso, you spin, your cheek right on the DIO print of his vest. “If you’re thinking that Eddie would take advantage of me, h’wont. You don’t know him. He- he won’t do what you’re thinking,” you narrow your eyes at him. “You know, if you people would just take the time to get to know him, you’d know that he’s not a freak. Or that he’d sacrifice me to the devil, or some shit. He’s a really nice person and you’re just—judgemental morons. And I really need to fucking pee.”

Your sweet mien is stripped off. An austere look makes Steve stumble back, face flushed in embarrassment than inebriation. He sputters out an apology, his eyes sobering in genuity. But surprisingly, he apologizes to Eddie. “I’m just drunk. I know it’s not an excuse but… she’s my friend.”

Still, with your words that left his heart unveiling and pounding like a fast drum bass, Eddie nods his head at him in slight forgiveness. “I get it, man. No hard feelings.”

(But he still is jealous that Henderson liked him more.)

Eddie takes you into his arms, smiles reassuringly at you as he pushes your hair out of your face, and leads you up to the nearest bathroom.

Lamented and assured

To the lights and towns below

Faster than the speed of sound

Faster than we thought we'd go

Beneath the sound of hope

Eddie Munson had only been in love once.

But maybe he’s wrong.

You sit patiently in the passenger seat, swaying to a Barry Manilow mixtape you found in Fred’s house that Eddie didn’t stop you from taking. He watches you from inside the convenience store, the beep of the scanner faint as well as the jingle of coins.

He bids a quiet goodbye to the cashier and pockets his change, holding two water bottles in his hand, sauntering to his vibrating van, and hopping in with ease.

Your eyes snap open, wide in its demiurgic inebriation. Eddie shuts the car door, placing his bottle on the cup holder in front of the gear shift so he could open yours to save you the struggle before he hands it to you. “Sober up, princess,”

Although half-drunk, you manage to swallow his sobriquet and flush. Princess. Babe. Mandy. What’s next? Love of my life?

God, I kinda hope so.

Eddie’s got his eyes on you, searching for any signs of struggle as you open the bottle with a small grunt before you bring the plastic up to your lips, swallowing heavily. Your eyes flutter shut, eyelashes caressing the gentle skin of your cheeks as you moan.

“Shit,” you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What’s in the water?”

“Special K,” he jokes, opening his own. “You sober yet?”

“I can physically feel it-” you gesture your hands to yourself, waving it in a downward motion as you swallow the thick saliva on the edge of your tongue. “-disappear. I can feel it go down to my bladder.”

Eddie chuckles, shaking his head as he faces the steering wheel and twists the key in the ignition. “Just make sure you don’t have to pee yet. I’m gonna take you somewhere,”

You screw the cap back on, tugging on the ends of your dress as solemn curiosity makes you look up at him through your eyelashes. “Ooh. Where ya takin’ me, Eds?”

“It’s a surprise,” he pulls out of the parking lot, watching carefully from the rearview mirror with his eyes squinted. “I take Dustin up there every morning to talk to his girlfriend. But there’s a special spot I’m taking you.”

“Dustin has a girlfriend?” you gasp. “I always thought he made that up,”

“Oh, but she’s very real,” 

Tucking the bottle beneath your chin, you wriggle your brows at him with a skittish look. It enamors him, and it can’t stop him from turning his head at you and smiling softly. He wishes this would last — a fortuitous moment of abundant reposefulness, in his shitty van with your presence gracing the darkness of his world. 

Your face reappears in the darkness whenever a streetlight passes by. And every spark, you grow even more beautiful despite the intoxication that drops a barbell onto your eyelids. Eddie watches the buildings disappear, replaced by old trees, huddled together beside the road that swishes and collides with the passing breeze. 

With the doo-wop music pleasing to your ears, you hum beneath your breath, hand reaching out to roll the windows down and peak your head out. The wind strokes your skin headily, but the attempt to sober you is in vain. At least, with the alcohol that’s left in your system; you're clearheaded enough to register the lyrics from the radio and Eddie’s words of carefulness. 

Unable to detach his eyes from the lengthy road, Eddie filches every moment he’d glance at you out of worry you’d get your head decapitated off a pole or anything that passes by. 

But the sight of you with your back arched against the open window, hands in the air and your hair across your tipsy face was enough to relieve his worry. Were his eyes cameras, he’d taken every picture at every blink he took and kept in his mind. Just in case he’d never see such an unfathomable sight again.

“Hey, Mandy,” he yells slightly. “Having fun there, girl?”

“Totally,” you sigh, teeth gleaming. “Are we there yet, Munson? The inside of my mouth’s getting all dry here.”

“Get back inside, then,” he glouts playfully. “We’re almost there, babe.”

He’s getting really fucking comfortable with those petnames, now. 

You slither yourself back inside, slumping on his chair, your dress ridden up to your thighs. Eddie blushes from his face to his chest, snapping his eyes back on the road as you squirm on your seat, tugging on the ends until you’ve settled properly and rose the window up halfway. 

He tugs on the collar of his Paranoid shirt, a stark contrast to his exposed, opalescent skin. “You had fun poking your head out the window?” he cocks a brow. “Or do you still wanna go chase the cars that pass by thinkin’ they’re treats?”

“Dick,” you kick his shin, dirt smudging on his blue jeans. 

Eddie stops beside a broken fence, the vibration of his van coming to a halt when he twists the keys from the ignition and pulls it off. You blindly open the car door much to his dismay, and hop off with bleary feet. He does the same, shuts the door the same time you did and watches you cross over the van until you stand in front of him.

But you look at the hills, high and dark; its luscious green grass unseen by the darkness. He watches your jaw relax and your blinks decelerate. 

“We’re gonna walk up there?” you say smally, fiddling with your rings. 

“You don’t wanna?” his left eye narrows, a small pout coming up to draw itself on his face. “It’s okay if you don’t wanna. I can try to drive my car up the hill. Unless you also don’t wanna climb up the hill then I can just take you wherever you wanna go.”

You shake your head, tugging on his leather bracelet, hooking your finger around the ornament and crossing the shattered fence. “I can do it. I’m—I’m sober enough. I think I just have to remove my shoes. Hold on,”

He crosses the fence first, planting his feet on the ground as you use him as leverage. You balance yourself on one foot, pulling on the laces of your shoes and pulling it until he sees your socks—blue covered in black bats. Eddie takes your shoe as you do the same to the other, until he’s got your high-cuts in one hand, and the other being pulled by you.

Everything was untroubled. Laughs shared when he trips and scrapes his bare knee on the uncut grass; your socks darkened by the damp soil, his white Reeboks the same. And Eddie matches your heavy huffs, the remaining energy on his body on his legs that continue to lift him up the hill.

When you reach the top, you half-yell in relief, bending with your hands on your knees. Eddie sets your shoes down, letting himself fall on his ass. Once you’ve obtained your spent breath, you plop down beside him. 

“Holy shit,” you press your hands on the earth below, shifting to rest on your knees. “Eds, we can see Hawkins from here,”

You see the lights that brighten up the town. The miniscule homes of the village from across,  the burnt Starcourt mall, the sirens that lead its way to the Hospital and the variegated radiance from the arcade. You gawp silently.

“Exactly why I took you up here,” he tugs down on your dress when the wind blows it up, keeping his eyes at your face. “And if you look very closely, or if you have the eyes of an owl, you can see the trailer park.”

He laughs amusingly when you squint your eyes. Eddie knows if he can’t see it, so can’t you. But you try, nonetheless. 

“I don’t see it,” you lament, sitting back down beside him. Eddie tries to ignore the weight you rest on his arm; the pinky that grazes his behind your backs for anchor, and how your bare legs graze his jeans but despite the covering, he can feel the heat radiating off your body. 

“You’ll see it better when the sun’s up,” he leans on his right arm, shoulder bumping yours when he reaches for his Lucky Strike pack. Eddie flips it open, his small lighter lodged to the side of his cigarettes. You peer over, chin on his shoulder. He pulls out one, sticking it between his middle and index before he uses his thumb to pull his lighter out. 

Then he looks at you, nose beside yours with the minimal proximity. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No,” you say. “My dad smokes. The dad who adopted me, I mean.”

“I know,” he smiles before he sticks the cigarette between his lips. He shoves his pack back on his pocket, sitting back down. “Do you smoke?”

The question was muffled through a lisp, but was still understandable. “Haven’t tried,” you answer. “But I almost did. It was weed, actually, that shit you sell? When I came back during summer, Steve picked me up and he asked me if I wanted to get high,”

“Really?” The cigar bobs when he speaks, the hand that cups over lowers slightly, his thumb stopping on the sparkwheel. “How long have you and Harrington been friends?”

He finally lights it up, the white paper burning into a crisp orange until smoke begins to vent. “Since middle school. Met him after my parents adopted me from my foster care. They took me to Hawkins, our house was near his, and we were invited to dinner by Steve’s parents when they were still present in his life.”

A burning jealousy on the pit of his stomach, ignited not by the lighter. “Were you good friends?”

“I’d like to think we were,” you tilt your head back and look at him. Eddie feels your pinky tap his, which he taps back. “When his parents started going on business trips, and mine were…well, working in Hawkins, Steve and I hung out in either his bedroom or mine,” you smile at him. “But, we rarely talked when I left for New York. It was a phone call every three months. And then he picked us up at the airport,” 

He lets the smoke leave the corner of his lips, on the other side where you weren’t. “Did he, uh, tell you all that shit about Henderson and Wheeler?”

“Through the phone. It’s kind of crazy,” his heart flutters at your light smile. “You know, I’m not sure if I should tell you this shit or not, but he told me about this whole thing about- monsters, and all that crap. Demogorgons, demodogs, the Upside Down. The Mind Flayer-”

“What, like DnD?” Eddie snorts. “Maybe the little shrimp talked to him about it, who knows,”

“I mean, he was half-drunk when he told me,” your lips purse. “Either he played DnD, or he dreamt about it. I mean, I asked Nancy about the Starcourt fire but she wouldn’t tell me anything!”

Eddie takes another puff, a long one that reaches his lungs. “‘M pretty sure he was just stoned,”

“What about you?” he sees you observe the cigarette, but he’s sure you’d been looking at his hands first and his dimly lit rings. “How’d you know him?”

He taps his finger on the rod, chunks falling down on the grass on the minimal space between your legs. “High school,” his lips twist into a frown. “I had my first senior year with him. And- uh, he was a douchebag. King Steve,” Eddie nods his head, a sardonic smile offered to you. “And when Henderson came and said that he was awesome, kept on insisting, actually, it was hard to believe.”

“Did he ever, uh,”

“Call me a freak?” he finishes. “Once. Twice. Dunno. We crossed paths but never really met, I guess. We knew we existed in each other’s lives but we never really acknowledged. He was too gung ho on Nancy Wheeler,”

You chortle, a plain snort leaving you that renders him amused. “Oh, God. Nancy. D’you know Steve wouldn’t stop talking about her whenever he called me.”

“You ever get jealous?”

He hopes you say no. Never did. He’s my friend. Only ever liked him as a friend. I don’t like his hair, I don’t like his smug smile. Eddie doesn’t care if it deems him jealous. But there’s nothing bad in hoping, right?

“No,” you ponder for a bit. “Maybe,”

His heart sinks.

“Only because I wished someone talked about me the way he did to Nancy,” a pensive gloss covers your irises, lit by the vibrant colors of the town upon your grazing knees and swaying feet. “He sounded so in love. And I always thought about how she would feel if she knew someone talked about her like that.”

He sighs. “You never know,”

You think he’s in thought, with the way his shoulder presses against yours absentmindedly and the silence that’s drawn out from his peart mien. 

“I had this dream when I was a kid,” you whisper. “That I was the greatest pianist in the world. I was singing with Billy Joel and—everybody knew who I was,” Eddie smiles. “And, ever since that dream, I’ve taught myself how to be one of the greatest pianists in the World,”

You exert amenity towards him when he laughs bemusingly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” your eyebrows furrow for a split second. 

A sudden memory climbs its way to his head. “Do you remember back in middle school? We, uh, hung out a lot after the talent show. And- and all we did was play music,” He says it with slight uncertainty; he himself can barely remember all those times yet he based on a single memory. “We played this one song all the time.”

“Does Everyone Stare,” you answer. “The Police.”

“That one,” he nods his head. “Because it was the only song we knew how to play that had guitars and pianos.”

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you nod. “I can’t believe we forgot each other,”

“But I do remember some parts,” he takes a short hit. “You said that you wanted to marry Billy Joel, and then you kept on bragging to me how you could play Die Young like, fifty times,”

“Only the Good Die Young!” you correct him. “God, yes! I played that even when I was in Queens. My grandma loved that song.”

“I always wondered why you had a huge crush on him. He was old,”

“He was not!” you gasp.

Eddie shrugs, lips curling in amusement when a huff leaves his nose. “Yes he was! And it was a good reason for me to get jealous, too,”

Shit.

If he could, he’d ululate his stupidity into the sky and embarrass himself further because it’s already out now, isn’t it? But confirming your jealousy didn’t mean he’d harbored feelings for you, right? He could be jealous for other reasons like…

He doesn’t remember.

“Jealous?” you repeat. “You were jealous of Billy Joel because I liked him?”

“We were kids. Hell, I got jealous when Tommy H. brought his Nintendo to school. Or when Barb Holland—may she rest in peace—won class president. I get jealous all the time,” he snickers. “Don't let it get into your big head, Mandy.”

Double crossed between his lies and what you truly perceive, you shake your head mirthly. “Yeah. Okay, Munson.” you roll your eyes at him. “God I… whenever I played that song, I always imagined I was in a concert. With this… huge grand piano. I’d play for those snobby rich people, then I’d get roses thrown at me. I’d play so hard my fingers would bleed and they’d give me a standing ovation,”

Eddie smiles. “What a dream,” he looks away, chin on his neck when he looks down on his lap. “I’d be your first ever watcher. Then I’ll throw tomatoes at you and boo you off the stage,”

He looks back at you and you laugh jovially. 

The muddle of alcohol in your head almost makes you miss how his jaw clenches and his eyes soften. A solemn twinkle in his button eyes, nostrils flaring as he stares at you with the smoke on his cigarette flowing between the tangled strands of his hair. 

Suddenly nervous with his intense stare, you nod at his cigarette. “Can I-uh, try?”

Eddie blinks. “Yeah, sure.”

He offers it to you with a balk stutter on his hand. You lean over, your hand almost on his thigh as you wrap your lips around, lipstick staining the orange filter that leaves a pink coruscating shine. Brazen do you inhale, cheeks sucked in, gray smoke filling your lungs until you cough abruptly and push it away.

Smoke puffs when you cough and he laughs jubilantly. “Mandy!”

“Fuck,” your hand grasps his shoulder, the other covering your mouth. “Christ. No wonder why my dad says I shouldn’t smoke. Oh- shit. Ah.”

He pats around beside him. “We left our water in the car,”  

“Screw it. I’ll try again,” you wrap your hand around his wrist and take the cigarette in your mouth, sucking like your life had depended on it until Eddie himself has to pull it away. It’s a bit calmer this time, no coughs and only smoke. 

His palm meets the side of his hand to a mock applause. “Bravo.”

“Who taught you this?”

Eddie takes a short puff. “My old man,”

Your smile falls. “Oh, shit, sorry,”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “My…mom got mad when she found out. I was eight,” he licks his lips. “And, you know, I told myself I wouldn’t do it again. But highschool happened and before I knew it, I have a metal lunchbox full of packs and weed,”

You feel his pink shyly tap yours. “My mom used to take me up here,” Eddie continues. “Way before Dustin did and- we used to go up before the sunrise so we could watch it. When he was dead asleep,” he swallows thickly. “She’d make these sandwiches, chocolate and peanut butter, and we’d eat them while we watched the sun rise; and she’d point out all these butterflies,” he shows you his wrist where the insect lays. “And she said ‘Eddie, you must always cherish the beginning of a new day,’”

He mimics the voice of his mother in a high-pitched voice and a tone that lilts to a posh border. Eddie knows it’s not exactly her voice, but he loves a good impression.

“She sounds like an amazing person,” you whisper.

“She was,” Eddie muses, a melancholy wave that crashes on him as he lays on the undertow, helpless. “She always had this bubble of hope, even if my dad always popped it. She just kept on blowing, and smiling, and loving even though she was struggling and honestly,” he looks at you with a sad smile, “she’s one of the strongest women I’ve ever met,”

Your heart breaks the slightest. But he looks at you like the brightest star he's ever found.

“She always had a bubbly personality even when everything was tough,” he sighs. “And I haven’t done this. Watching the sunrise since she, y’know, because I always slept in,”

His chuckle makes you smile breathlessly. But it had been more wistful. There’s a mosaic of maudlin rings over your eyes, on the verge of shattering. “Is that why you took me up here?”

“Kind of,” he drops his head sideways. “There’s no sunrise, though. So I hope this will suffice,” 

“I’ll take anything you give me, Munson,” you smile softly. “It makes me happy, either way,”

Finally, your pinkies hook behind you. His finger is warm, bigger than yours but bears a whit of gracious familiarity. They hook, as thick as thieves; Eddie gifts you a smile so warm and loving that makes you lean close.

“Even if my van’s all run down and loud and on the verge of burning?” his eyebrow raises. “Or I stain your reputation?”

“I don’t even have a reputation,” you laugh. “But yes. Even if you van smells like marijuana and you, like, listen to Orgasmatron for god knows how many times. I’ll accept anything,” 

I’ll accept anything.

Eddie leans close, tobacco breaths exchanged, nose bumping with yours; his eyes are low and hooded, his eyelashes that tickle his cheeks when he blinks rapidly, fearing that once he opens his eyes you’re a mist within the gray smoke. And fuck, you’re pretty.

Prettier than the barely there stars above you, prettier than the morphing clouds that entice him at seven in the morning, prettier than Sweetheart (his beloved guitar, yes); prettier than everything else, you being the center of attention, the only attraction in his terrifying world. His heart pounds like he’s fallen down the rollercoaster, and it feels gratifyingly amazing.

Your pinky clutches his tightly in a silent promise. And he vows to keep it, whatever it may be.

“Just where our bones will rest,”

Befuddled, he pulls back slightly. “What?”

“I thought of a lyric,” although disappointed, Eddie finds it in himself to smile lightly. “My heart's on a string around my neck and I stare just where our bones will rest.” you say. “Shit, Eddie, do you have a ballpen?”

“Lucky for you, I do,” he reaches for his pocket again and pulls out a blue pen with the cap covered in small indentation of bites. You frown. “Sorry. I get nervous a lot.”

“It’s okay,” you unscrew the cap. “Um, fuck,”

You unlace your pinky from his, pulling your left forearm out so you’d write the lyric just above your inner elbow, small across the skin of your forearm. 

“I could get this tattooed,” you mutter. And then you look up at him with a proud, bright smile. 

“I could do it,” his shoulders raise to a shrug. “I mean, I mostly do my own tattoos,” Eddie shows you his arms—the butterfly on his wrist, the bats on his forearm, before he pulls on the collar of his shirt and shows you The Devil. “Either I use my machine or the stick and needle,”

“Didn’t know you knew how to do tattoos,” you narrow your eyes at him. “What’s next? You can fix cars,”

He almost says yes.

You reach to touch the tattoo on his forearm in awe, delicate finger grazing his inked skin, petting the hairs on his arm. “Seriously. I’ll do it, (y/n),” he chuckles. “Just gotta tell me when,”

With your eyes gilded in delirium, you nod. And he smiles.

Eddie Munson had only been in love once. 

But he had no idea he could fall in love twice. 

-

You could remember how delicate he’d been.

Eddie had taken you back to his home. The place dark and desolate with the missing presence of his beloved uncle. He’d sat you down on his couch, apologized for how messy the place had been and that you’re getting your first tattoo at some dingy trailer. And you remember how your words succored the insecurity out of him; how he visibly deflated in relief and knelt in front of you.

Although covered in latex, his hands were warm against your arm, but it was incomparable to the spark you felt when you looped your pinky around his. 

His words had saged the pain from the stabbing needles. Constant praises that made your stomach flip; ballyhoos that made your cheeks burn as your mind swallowed them in a way that you shouldn’t— “You’re doing a great job, babe” “Taking it so well, aren’t you, Mandy?” “I know it hurts, but it’ll feel good soon,” “Good girl.”

Good girl had been the last straw. 

Eddie was doing it on purpose, right? Or your mind was just too deep into the gutter?

He’d traced the words you wrote on your inner elbow in vigilant precision. Eddie was fruitless of failure, nothing amiss in the Stygian tattoo. Which left you in awe given that he’d used a stick and needle rather than the machine hidden somewhere beneath the depths of his dusted bed. 

When he was done, he lathered your arm with ointment before covering it with plastic—cling wrap. And he drove you home with smiles painting both the canvases of your faces; the inside of his van filled with nothing but twitching hands that yearn for reconciliation, and knowing looks exchanged between the music of The Police.

You had laid on your bed with the lingering feeling of his latex touch and his bona fide scrutiny that night. A silly smile on your face when you think of Eddie Munson; the boy who’d disappeared in your life who you miraculously found again.

special thanks to: @vendettaparker, @munsonquinns, @familyvideostevie, @applcrumbl for proofreading :3

PART TWO

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE APPRECIATED 💕

[dracofuego]

A Strange Thing Called Love pt 1.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem! Reader

Synopsis: Draco Malfoy meets someone that tries to change his heart. He is conflicted on letting her into his life or suppressing her completely.

Genre: Slowburn, Angst, a bit of Fluff

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: Hi! This is my first Draco series and I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I am writing it. This series is inspired by some songs from The Smashing Pumpkins, and the idea came to me while I was listening to them at like 2am lol.

Chapter 1: First Interaction

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

The first interaction with him was around third year, when you were trailing behind him in one of the corridors. Lost in a daze, the only sounds echoing were the tapping's of each of your feet against the floor. Each step that you took was then followed by his up ahead, harmonizing the sounds perfectly. Something lands between your two feet, disrupting the sequence of your footsteps. Looking down, you notice a piece of parchment. You pick it up, the rough texture of the material gliding against your fingertips. Without trying to snoop too much, you look at the top of the parchment for any sort of identification; Draco Malfoy. It was then when you bothered to move your head up and look straight ahead.

The boy continued his strides, unbeknownst that the piece of parchment had completely fallen off between the book he was holding against his side. You run after him, hoping to reach him just in time before he heads off to who knows where. Endurance was never your specialty and you mentally curse for Malfoy to walk so fast.  But you knew that this was something that could be significantly important to him, and you knew in your heart that you would feel guilty if you didn’t do something about it. Your body is now several feet away from him. It was as if he was in his deepest thoughts, as the sounds of your footsteps growing closer and closer did not startle him. The sudden flick of your hands against his shoulder was what caught his attention, and when he turned around, the words that you wanted to say were caught up in your throat.  Time seemed to have stood still, and the boy noticed your freezing pose. His eyebrows arch up, confused as to why this random girl he has never seen in his life had touched his shoulder. 

“What do you want?” The arrogance in his voice was apparent, but that didn’t stop your heart beatings from going faster. His ice gray eyes gaze down to your short stature, then slowly back up to your frail hands, trembling against the brown parchment holding so dearly to your chest. A tint of redness landed on your soft cheeks, like honey crisp apples. 

“Y-you dropped this… I didn’t want you to l-lose it.” You couldn’t help but stutter. Your eyes bore into his, afraid that he would soon catch on to your embarrassment. He took the parchment from your hands, and you briefly felt the coldness of his fingers, a coldness that seemed to have also lingered in his silver irises. He gives one last look at you before he giving a quick nod and turns back, walking further into the corridor.

The next several nights you would stare at the dark ceiling up above, your mind replaying the events that happened earlier that week. You heard things about Draco Malfoy, most of which weren’t great. So why did you keep thinking about him? Even when your eyes, right before you go to sleep, you see his face. His platinum blonde hair styled carefully, with a few of the light strands falling against his forehead. His alabaster skin complemented his pearly silver irises. Like northern constellations, his beauty would illuminate in the darkest of nights. You still recall the way his eyes met yours, along with his fingers, his eyes had a coldness, and it was a coldness so intense it hurt.

You knew you couldn’t help your feelings. You developed a liking on Draco Malfoy. But you barely know him, which is pathetic really. How could you like someone you have never really met? While you both did have a few classes together, you never had the courage to go up to him directly. The thought of doing that only made you panic. Besides, he was always with his Slytherin friends, who are just as bad as what everyone else says about them. You can only admire him from afar, either in the Great Hall or in a class where you had a glimpse of him. There were a few times where he caught on to your gaze, but never bothered with it. 

Fast forward to fifth year and you are starting with your first class, potions. Potions was never your favorite subject. You weren’t exactly bad at the class, but you weren’t the smartest either. It wasn’t the class itself that you disliked, if anything you were mostly intimidated by Professor Snape. He does not have any problem calling out students. He had a sixth sense of knowing which students did or did not study, or if they even bothered listening to him in class. Luckily for you, he has only put you on the spot once within the entire years of having potions with him, and you only hope to keep it that way. He belittled you for forgetting one of the most significant ingredients for one of the potions he taught earlier that week. Feeling humiliated was definitely an understatement. The bickering and giggles of the students behind you had only made you feel worse. Crabbe and Goyle were laughing and calling you a filthy, idiotic mudblood. From the corner of your eye, Pansy Parkinson joined along with them, and to her right you caught a glimpse of Draco with a smirk. It would be a lie to say your heart didn’t feel any pain with the sight of his lips turning upward with the mention of his friends making fun of you. But you weren’t going to let that bring you down. But it was upsetting to have feelings for Draco despite it all.

Being one of the first few students to arrive in the classroom, you had the privilege of choosing the seat you wanted to take. You didn’t like sitting in the front of the class, as that would make you feel too exposed to Professor Snape, and you’d rather not make eye contact with him every single time, let alone try and call on you. As much as you wished to sit in the back of the classroom, you knew that was also another terrible option. That would only make you seem hidden, and thus, giving him more of a chance to put you on the spot in class, especially since it is easier for students to doze off without getting caught. Which leads to the middle, being the safest option for you at least, and you didn’t hesitate to set your satchel on one of the empty middle tables.

You take out your quill, ink, and notebook. Dabbing the quill into the dark ink, you open the first page of your notebook, writing down your name and date on the top left corner. Taking out the textbook for the class you began to re-read the lesson for the day. The classroom starts getting louder as more students begin entering and shuffling around in their seats while taking out their materials. You felt someone sitting next to you, but didn’t bother looking up as you were too busy concentrating on the textbook in front of you. It wasn’t until the sound of Professor Snape’s voice did you look up and close your textbook. 

And it was as if the universe was finally reading your thoughts, because sitting to your right was Draco Malfoy. A light-hearted rush of adrenaline went through your veins, your heart palpitating at an accelerating rate against your chest. Crimson red was now flowing through your supple cheeks, your fingers nervously tapping against the parchment of your notebook. Looking to your right again, you see his hand reaching the inside of his satchel. His eyebrows were furrowed, almost stressed as his hands continued to search for whatever he was missing. Observing the materials in front of him, he had his notebook and ink out and prepared, but no quill.

Your small delicate hands make way to your brown satchel, reaching inside for an extra quill that you always have just in case. Your body turns towards Malfoy, his silver eyes still searching through the inside of his satchel, the sun reflecting perfectly off his milky white hair.

“I have an extra quill. '' His eyes meet yours, and there again you feel the crimson red of your cheeks deepening much more. “..of course it’s up to you if you want to take it. I’m just offering it to you so you don’t miss out on the lesson today.” you continued. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. His slender finger reaches up for a bit but pauses, almost hesitating your generous offer. You give him a soft smile, easing the awkward tension between the two of you. He takes the quill from your fingers and quickly nods, before turning his body forward and starts writing in his notebook.

Potions seemed to fly by faster than you expected. A part of you is upset the class is over so quickly, as you won’t be sitting next to Malfoy anymore, though the two of you didn’t interact at all during the entire class period. The other part is grateful so you don’t embarrass yourself in front of him already, and you were sure he noticed you blushing earlier today like your first interaction with him. Gathering your materials and placing them in your satchel, you quickly run out of the classroom, unbeknownst of a silver pair of irises watching you. 

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

“You seem delightful today, Y/N.” You were sitting in the Great Hall eating a sandwich with your close friend, Sofia. Her long deep auburn locks flowed carelessly against her tan skin, her ocean-like eyes observing you carefully. 

“How can you read me so well, Fifi?”

“You’re an open-book so tell me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” 

Taking a sip of pumpkin juice, you debated on telling her the exact truth. It’s not that you didn’t trust her, if anything she is one of your best friends and you know any secret you tell her is safe, but you just didn’t want to go through the embarrassment again. She told you that you could find someone better. 

“Potions went well today.” A half-truth, because technically you did have a good day, you were just avoiding the whole explanation of it.

“Oh, fun!” she gleamed. “So what happened?” 

You sighed, debating how you were going to tell her. Leaning in close, not wanting for anyone else to hear you softly whisper, “Malfoy sat next to me today and I gave him my quill.”

Sofia took notice of how fidgety you were getting, your eyes were looking at everything around the room, searching for a sense of comfort. A big smile forms on her lips, eyes shining bright “Really?! What happened next?”

“..That’s it. That’s all that happened.” You tried not to laugh, it was ridiculous that the two of you didn’t have any interaction whatsoever during the entire class period besides offering him your quill. Not even a simple thank you. The thought of it does kind of sting, but being the person that you are, you shrugged it off, and hoped that deep inside he meant no ill will.  

“Merlin, Y/N it’s been like two years since you’ve liked him and you were given the one opportunity to try and converse with him and you didn’t even do that?” 

Your hands motioned to her to keep quiet, afraid to expose your secret to everyone at Hogwarts. To be fair, almost half of the girls at Hogwarts already had a crush on Malfoy, but you being a muggleborn would be a whole different story.

“Actually, I did offer him my quill and told him he could take it if he wanted to, that it was his choice. But he just took it and didn’t say anything.” huffing, you start playing with your wand against your fingers, avoiding eye contact with Sofia.

She sighs, “Oh, Y/N. Maybe it’s just not meant to be. I don’t want to be a debbie downer but you have a big heart with that pretty little body, and you deserve someone that will see you for what you are. Not some posh kid who thinks he’s better than everyone. Plus, who knows if he will sit next to you again in Potions or whatever other class you might have. I just.. don't want you to get hurt.”

You hated to admit but she is right. Malfoy wasn’t exactly the best person to be around, especially with how superior he feels to everyone, including muggles. And being a muggleborn you knew that you had absolutely no chance. You just had to try and convince yourself to do better. And maybe Cupid’s arrow made a mistake pulling back and shooting his sweetheart’s bow right into your heart that one night in the corridors.

But that all changed once again when you see him later that evening at the Astronomy Tower.

[sunbloomdew]

oc inspired paintings :D

lyrics from "Message In A Bottle" by The Police

lyrics from "Tonight, Tonight" by The Smashing Pumpkins

see more about these pieces under cut :]

you don't have to, i was drinking melisa and as such was a bit sleepy while writing it. might not be very detailed or sensible lol

so, these are actually my ocs inspired paintings! first one is for haru and second one is for primrose. they are 'mirror characters' as i like to call them.

they were created alongside (more or less, the concept for them was anyway) and share themes and arcs in a way :)

now a little bit about the landscapes i picked and the songs.

"Message In A Bottle" is one of the songs from haru's playlist. There are a couple of reasons for why i chose it. First it's about loneliness which is a central aspect of haru's arc. they are a character who hates being alone and tries their hardest to make sure that doesn't happen. However in their pursuit of social renown and validation of a collective, they abandon the only people who loved them in the first place.

Loneliness is one of the things that prompted them to change in a way that would earn them approval of strangers and aquaintances. But their transformation ultimately didn't lead to them feeling better, instead it made them even more lonely - not able to connect with their newer friends and not able to open up to the old ones anymore.

The lyrics i chose have sort of a double meaning. It's how haru was feeling before their change begun. but it is also the way they are continue to feel, no matter how badly they deny it. the lyrics are also a contrast to their actual situation - they are surrounded by people who don't understand them - wether because they don't know them or don't know them anymore.

Second is the imagery. Haru was created for Our Life Beginnings and Always. While they are a spring themed character, i view them as the period of ending of spring and beginning of summer, so they embody both seasons to a degree. A castaway island in the song is something that i definitely associate with summer. And a summer, beach, california child is what haru tries to emulate, even if it's not truly what they are.

Third, it's a little inside joke with myself i have. i'm developing a pirate au with olba characters and ya know. bottle messages.... pirates......

Almost forgot but the last thing is that haru listens to a lot of 80s & 90s music, and this song came out in 1979 so. they definitely have heard it before. not their vibe but they thought it was okay.

anyhow, that song is fucking good, go give it a listen <3

and now for the second painting.

"Tonight, Tonight" is a song from Primrose's playlist. I think this song describes the uncertain nature of the future, but regardless of that, at this moment, tonight is tonight. There are things to come but not now. later. tomorrow. It ties into Primrose's arc.

At their core, Haru and Prim's stories are about change. Haru who rushes into things, changes themselves almost mechanically - with no regard for themselves or others, just to achieve their short-term goal. Primrose is going to be the opposite. A character who clings to the way things were, who never wants to plan for the future, afraid of what might change.

She is content to pretend that everything is just fine and things will go back to the way they were, losing herself in the comforts of her stories, books and the internet. Primrose is my Our Life Now and Forever character who is also spring themed except it's the winter-spring period. The change of the season is more visible and that makes her even less likely to accept it. The spring connection and imagery is more important here because spring is in a way a season opposite of fall. So part of the reason Primrose is afraid of change is her awareness of the fact that she doesn't really fit in Golden Grove.

Her journey will be about accepting that change in inevitable. And Haru's journey is about letting things be the way they are.

Her aversion to change is especially highlighted in her teenage years - everyone around her seems to be changing yet she is staying the same, not knowing if it's a bad thing or not, but not willing to find out either. I connect this song with her, because i feel like this is her expressing that she is not clueless about change but won't easily accept it either.

The lyrics are a bit of a foreshadowing to Prim's state as a young adult. People around her are figuring out their post high school plans, but she doesn't want to leave her hometown. "You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth." is the way she feels about leaving for university/college right away. It's also a bit more subtle in a way how growing up makes you leave some pieces of yourself behind, wether you want it or not.

I've been listening to other songs by The Smashing Pumpkins and what i like about them is that they aren't very direct with their meaning. It's a little bit how i want this character to be too. Maybe. Primrose isn't nearly as developed as Haru at the moment.

Some smaller things about the second painting. This song reads to me as Qiu/Primrose song specifically, step 2 one probably. I chose a forest with those type of trees because Rosie is Canadian and they have boreal forests there. Also i liked this imagery for her.

this song is good too, although i like "1979" from the same album more. still, give it a listen :3

i wanted to post some oc stuff, cause i get distracted by my other characters easily and start working on them, but i still wanna yell into the void about Haru and Rosie :]

toodles~

[bubblegum-blackwood]

Tagged by @desertfangs (thank you!): When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💗

Bath Bombs - E, Daniel/Marius, 4660 words. What no who said I was projecting on Daniel in this fic haha. Exploring Daniel's monsterfucker side with some bonus Marius Dom drop! I'm super proud of how this one turned out, I really enjoyed writing it.

Teacher's Pet - E, Marius/Armand, 19867 words. College AU I wrote out of spite and ended up having so much fun with that I'm planning on making another three or so fics in the universe, featuring some good old Daddy Marius and Lestat, Louis, and Armand being in a band together. Daniel will appear in the sequel but I'm not far enough along to post it yet, it'll probably happen some time after the Vamptember craze dies down and I stop obsessively coming up with new WIPs to fit prompts for fandom events 😅

In You I Taste God - M, Lestat/Armand, 1356 words. Inspired by "Adore" by The Smashing Pumpkins, this is Armand and Lestat talking about Armand's suicide attempt and what he saw in Lestat's blood on the chapel floor. I would highly recommend the song if you haven't listened to it, it gives me major L/A vibes and I just enjoy The Smashing Pumpkins, and yes I did listen to that one song on loop for the entire time it took me to write this fic.

Surrender the Night (chapter seven of my Marius/Armand prompt collection Dark and Stormy Fairy Tale) - E, 3425 words. You can never go wrong with, in @fofoqueirah's words, some good old nostalgic whipping. Also Daniel's there too. 🖤 I like all of Dark and Stormy Fairy Tale (Wolf Song and Trust Fall especially), but this is my favourite out of all of them.

Bring Me to Life - G, Loustat, 7452 words. The first fic I ever wrote for VC, in which the ending of IWTV actually happens and Louis comes back for Lestat to heal themselves together. It's fun, it's sweet, and I incorporate some Evanescence lyrics into it!

Honourable mention to Fruit Gushers, my Mael/Marius hate-fuck fic (with some surprise Daniel/Marius and Daniel/Armand there at the end), for being my weird little brainrot obsession fic just like everything else I've done with Mael. It was stupidly fun to write.

Tagging: @fofoqueirah @darkangel1791 @hekateinhell @shittyravencarcosa @faerywhimsy

[agentdumortain]

AN INTERVIEW WITH JACKIE COHEN by Isaiah Mock for WHIPLASH MAGAZINE

(Top row: cover art from Jackie Cohen’s solo EPs About Yesterday and Give It Time. Bottom row: cover art of one of Stunts’ EPs “Leaning Backward” and their most recent release, “Didn’t See That Coming”.)

Jackson Cohen, better known as Jackie, is the frontwoman of one of alternative’s underdog up-and-coming bands Stunts. She tells me before she’s even sat down that she never expected to be where she is today. “I know a lot of people say that kind of thing under these circumstances, but I mean it in every sense.”

We discuss the obvious first; how the element of surprise, virality, and speed affects the path and struggles of becoming a public figure. But the singer feels that the "unexpected" sentiment she holds is even more relevant to her and the band's evolution since highschool. "I don't think our music is what we imagined it'd be at all, but we're pretty in love with it. That's a good thing!"

Cohen’s earliest works, both solo and collaborative with various members of Stunts, (past and present) are a far cry from what you’ve most likely heard from her today. Psychedelic pop, sweet and swooning, are accurate descriptors—sometimes even synthesized.

All of those elements are still found in Stunts’ recent projects, but the trajectory of their music has undoubtedly shifted into something heavier. Not darker, but in the literal way, with more weight. Post-punk and rock influences are obvious, especially in lyricism. There’s an air of confidence and lived experience that wasn’t present before. The singer names Jeff Buckley, Slowdive, The Smashing Pumpkins, and The Cure, as just a snippet of her and her bandmate's inspirations. “Y’know, I think—doesn’t everybody want to be someone else a little bit?” She smiles with some humor at the thought, but it’s clear she believes it.

“About Yesterday”, Cohen’s first EP, can be found scattered in many corners of the internet, (not on any formal streaming platforms, as it is rife with uncleared samples) where it’s often named as a favorite by indie popheads from all backgrounds. She made it in her basement with the help of her older brother and a few of his musician friends. “Realizing your older siblings are cool is a tough pill to swallow,” she jokes. “But at some point or another, they realize you’re kind of cool too, and that opens up a whole new world of opportunity. He [Jackie's brother] definitely encouraged my, um, my—penchant for music? That feels dorky to say."

“Artists like Imogen Heap, TV Girl, Mazzy Star; I looked up to them for sure while making that, [About Yesterday] and most of my other stuff too, to be honest. I think it was comfortable and fun to work in that style. I was able to express myself how I needed to at that time, and I still am, it just sounds hugely different from when I was 16.”

I ask her how that change in sound, as vague as that is, came to be. Does she attribute it to anything specific, or feel like it was a natural progression?

"Working as a team, probably? That will always yield different results and force you to "evolve" in some way or another. I was doing the band and my own thing at the same time, [in highschool] though, so if I came up with something I knew wouldn’t fit with Stunts, I could still take it somewhere else if I really wanted to. But I think meeting my friends, my bandmates, that was a really big part of the shift. Probably the biggest. They all have their own unique tastes and styles in what they consume and create. I grew up going to shows, but they have taken me to probably hundreds more at this point, and shown me stuff I wouldn't find on my own. They’re so versatile as musicians and artists, they’re always open to trying all these different things, but they don’t lose their standards or vision in the process. Ever. Um, they’re the best. Sorry—I’m rambling," she laughs. "Does that answer that question at all?”

Not even minutes later, we've bounced through several different subjects, Jackie sometimes asking me more questions than I can ask her. When I had reached out for an interview, she eagerly accepted the opportunity and invited me to come to her apartment rather than my initially suggested café. "Coffee shops can get so fucking loud!" She had emailed me.

We're still in her living room, which also serves as a makeshift studio. (She clarifies: "None of the real recording happens here, I think I would've been evicted by now if that were the case.") The space is small and full, but well organized. There's a few photos framed on her desk-side wall above her monitor, a handful of them I recognize as cover art. I ask her if there's any story behind them.

"Oh—ha, I was really into film in highschool. I still am, I just don't have as much time or opportunities for it right now. But yeah, some of the photos I've used for cover art are mine. Some are just ones I dug up from my parent's basement." She follows my gaze, which lingers on one cover that has been an object of speculation since it's release. "Give It Time."

I glance back at her, understanding if she doesn't want to elaborate on it. Most fans believe it's a photo of her and Seven Lawless, her ex-bandmate and ex-boyfriend, (who, at the time of the EP's release, were both in Stunts but their relationship was not yet public.) but the pixelated editing has left it fairly ambiguous. There are other plausible theories floating online about who it could be.

When I had first arrived at her door, she told me: "I'm an open book with most things, as long as you don't have bad intentions." And I'm not in the business of prying into subjects like that for anyone I interview—but she smiles at me warmly when she realizes what's caught my eye.

"I didn't take that one actually. It's still one of my favorites, though."

There's a comfortable lull in the conversation while I continue to examine the wall, until I point to one that looks only slightly out of place among the rest. There's about five people (you can probably guess who) squished into the frame, all half-dressed and soaking wet with wild grins plastered onto their faces.

She immediately bursts into a fit of laughter. "Okay, maybe not that one. My manager might kill me."

Stream "Didn't See That Coming" here.

☆☆☆

This is the first part of a pre-BOTB interview miniseries about my @infamous-if OC, Jackie Cohen. Whiplash Magazine is local to her home county's music scene but a lot of their audience is spread out online too. :)

The album cover edits were inspired by @spider-actual’s edits for their Infamous band Shelter In Place, go check them out they are so cool !!!

Original sources of the photos used for album art: About Yesterday / Give It Time / Leaning Backward / Didn't See That Coming

[schmem14]

Master List of all works by Schmem14

Dramione fics:

When Malfoy Met Granger… (29k): In 1998 Hermione and Draco share a contentious train ride back to Hogwarts for eighth year, during which they argue about whether men and women can have strictly platonic friendships. They part ways, but then find themselves meeting several times in the years after school, putting their theories from that first day to the ultimate test. Inspired by When Harry Met Sally. Rating: M

In for a Knut, In for a Galleon (30k): Hermione is in trouble, and Draco has a wild idea that will keep them both safe. A murder, a marriage... and a happily ever after? Gossip columnist Watching Witch is on the case... Written for the “You Know You Love Me” Gossip Girl prompt fest 2022. Rating: M

Short Stories from the Library of Hermione and Draco (Ongoing): Collection of short one-shots featuring Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger perpetually falling in love. **Chapter 1 is index of all works, relevant ratings, pairings and warnings included for each story.** Ratings vary by chapter

Inheritance (14k): Draco Malfoy inherits 12 Grimmauld Place when Harry unexpectedly passes away, but there’s a catch; He has to let Hermione Granger stay. Rating: M

Dear Hermione (19k): Hermione and Draco return to Hogwarts after the war and become friends, but the lack of apology weighs on both of them and Draco finds himself falling in love even as he struggles to say sorry. Rating: T

What the Portraits Saw (4k):**Embedded with art by Hero//regretful-prince** Portraits are meant to be seen and not heard, or so you've been led to believe. Verity the Virgin is merely the portrait of a simple girl painted into an unimaginative pastoral scene. Her world is upended when she catches a mysterious thief trying to make off with some Malfoy family valuables. Written for the Double the Trouble Dramione Fest 2022. Rating: M

Pumpkin Spice Smorgasbord (7k): Single mother Hermione Granger has been crushing on widower Draco Malfoy for far too long. Will fake dating Theo make Draco jealous enough to act? Dramione and Dratheomione included. Rating: E

Draco, Ron, & Harry:

Draco Malfoy and the Sparkly Green Boots (4k): Draco x Harry. The tale of a serendipitous meeting between former classmates in the least-likely place imaginable; the strip club where Draco works. Draco’s luck is about to change for the better when Harry takes him home after. Muggle AU. Unapologetic smut piece written for the QQQ Pride Fest 2022. Rating: E

Lost at Sea (4k): Ron x Harry. Harry is helplessly in love with Ron Weasley, has to watch him marry Hermione and start a family with her, all while Harry spirals into madness, getting with the other Weasleys in order to dull the pain. Will Ron ever choose Harry? Rating: E

From Sunset to Star Rise (7.5k): Ron x Harry. Ron and Harry move to New England to get away from the aftermath of war, buy a cozy cabin in the woods, and fall in love under the stars of an autumn sky. Written for the Pumpkin Spice Fic Fest 2022. Rating: M

Flying on Ice (7k): Ron x Draco. Ice Hockey/Muggle AU, Draco tries to deny his feelings for his teammate. Ron is a little too open with himself and Draco doesn’t like to share. Rating: E

Ron and Draco Go on an Island Adventure [Gee Thanks, Hermione] (15k): Ron x Draco. Draco loves Ron. Ron loves Harry. And Harry's getting married to Theo, which leaves Ron on the verge of a full-on mental breakdown. It's up to Draco to keep Ron company during these trying times.[Oh, and did I mention, Hermione sneakily banishes the two of them to a tropical island for a month?] Written for Dronfest 2023 Rating: E

Mastermind (10.7k): Ron x Harry, Harry x Draco, Draco x Ron. Written for Dronarry fest 2023. This story features a dark, possessive stalker Draco who is determined to wheedle his way into the Golden Trio, first by dating Hermione, then by winning Harry and Ron over. Mind the tags! Rating: E

Monster Mash, Graveyard Smash (8.5k): Ron x Draco x Harry A vampire, a werewolf, and a zombie meet at the Halloween Ball... Written for the Pumpkin Spice Fic Fest 2023. Rating: E

Firebolt fics: 

Solace (9k): Harry x George fic where George finds solace in Harry’s arms when coping with the loss of Fred. Rating: E

93 Diagon Alley (30k): Harry x George are broken after the war. They find themselves moving in together. A slow-burn friend-to-lovers fic written for the QQQ Pride Fest 2022. Rating: M

Peeling Potatoes (0.5k): Harry x George- George is still grieving Fred. Harry offers a moment of peace. Rating: T

Mistletoe, or Die F***ing (2k)- George x Harry x Fred- What happens when Fred and George fuck around with magical mistletoe and sex pollen after one too many dubious brownies and bottles of Molly's homemade egg nog? Poor “Father Christmas” is going to have to be the one to find out… Rating: E

Other HP Pairings: 

How to Catch a DILF (10k): Albus Severus x Draco. The cat’s out of the bag—Albus has been in love with Mr. Malfoy for ages, and everyone seems to know about it except for the man himself. When the opportunity arises for him to make his fantasies a reality, will Albus have what it takes to seduce the DILF of his dreams? Written for the CMD fest 2023. Rating: E

Heart in a Box (15k): A cannon-divergent Luna x Harry fic that explores the possibility of things going differently during Slughorn’s Christmas Party in HBP, and how things progress for years after. Rating: M

All’s Fair in Love, and War, and Paintball (35k): A multi-ship 8th year Hogwarts Fic that pays homage to TV series Community’s paint-ball episodes with a last-man-standing paintball competition that breaks out during the Halloween feast. Ships include and are not limited to: Dramione, Panville, NottPott, and Ron x Padma x Parvati. Rating: E

The Golden Trio is Mine (3.5k): POLY Draco x Harry x Hermione x Ron. Three friends find themselves catering to Draco’s every need one night. Ron wears a crown, Harry crawls like a dog, and Hermione makes a lovely musical cock warmer. There may be an inappropriate use of the Firebolt. A crack fic featuring Dom Draco and lots of kinks. Rating: E

HP Cocktober 2022 Collection (24k): Multiple pairings. A collection of flash fics (1000 words or less) written for the HP Cocktober 2022 prompt series on Twitter. Chapter 1 is index of all works, pairings and warnings. Rating: E

HP Kinkuary 2023 Collection (28k): Multiple pairings. A collection of flash fics (1000 words or less) written for the HP Kinkuary 2023 prompt series on Tumblr. Chapter 1 is index of all works, pairings and warnings. Rating: E

One Small Eternity (10k):  Ron x Pansy- Pansy is back from a five-year stay in Paris. She hopes to renew her standing among the wizarding elite, only to find that Lucius Malfoy has a business proposition that could either spell success or disaster, maybe both.Through it all, Pansy finds love in the most unexpected place and with someone she can never have. Will the timing ever be right for them? Rating: E

How to Care For Your Monster Book: A Guide by Rubeus Hagrid (8k): Hagrid x Monster Book of Monsters- Hagrid finds many uses for his new course textbook... some of them may shock you. A crack canon compliant story detailing Hagrid’s first year of teaching and what really happened with that strange textbook he assigned. Rating: E

The Seven Sexcruxes of Tom Riddle (2.5k): Hagrid x Tom Riddle- This crack story taken seriously explores the unlikely romance of a troubled dark wizard and the man he’s definitely NOT in love with. Mostly funny, very filthy, and a tiny bit sweet. Rating: E

Bedknobs and Broomsticks and Enemies You Shouldn’t Sleep With (20k): Oliver x Marcus- Retelling of the Prisoner of Azkaban from Oliver’s POV. Twist: he’s secretly been shagging his Quidditch Rival Marcus Flint. SO MUCH SMUT. Enemies and Lovers. You get the gist. Rating: E

Harry Sandwich (3k): Draco x Theo x Harry- This is a short, filthy snack of a story in which Harry James Potter, of mostly sound mind and body, gets to be the meat in the middle of fresh hot slices of Draco and Theo. 8th year crack fic. Rating: E

Of Vines and Fiendfyre (5k) Hermione x Neville- This fic features a Voldemort Wins AU, a captured Hermione, Dark Neville, and a whole lot of horrifically sex-spore fueled sex. MIND THE TAGS on this DD:DNE. Rating: E

There’s Something About Ernie (4k)- Ernie x Draco x Harry- Draco is back at Hogwarts for his eighth and last year of school. He wants Harry more than he'll ever admit, but when he's snubbed, he decides to exact his revenge by fucking the one person who has the power to take his mind off of his heartbreak.Too bad Harry has the same idea. This PWP is a masterclass in manipulation. Enjoy! Rating: E

HP Saffics Summer Exchange 2023 (2k)- Multiple Pairings - This is a collection of microfics (exactly 200 words each) written as gifts for the exchange. Wide range of femslash pairings and prompts. Rating: T-M

Atonement (5k)- Percy x George- Percy feels guilty for Fred’s death, and it seems he’s the only one who can get to George. Written for HP Cest Fest 2023, mind the tags. Rating: E

A Merciful Alternative (4k)- Draco x Lucius- Draco learns that there is no easy way out after his failure to kill Albus Dumbledore atop the Astronomy tower. The Dark Lord promises to humiliate the Malfoy family in every way possible before the night is through. Written for the HP Cest Fest 2023, mind the tags. Rating: E

Iris (6k)- Alice x Neville- Neville’s always been infatuated with his mum, but falling in love with her was never part of the plan. Written for the HP Cest Fest 2023, mind the tags. Rating: M

HP Kinktober 2023 Collection (32k) - Multiple Pairings-  A collection of flash fics (1000 words or less) written for the HP Kinktober 2023 prompt series on Tumblr. Chapter 1 is index of all works, pairings and warnings. Rating: E

Peculiar Prompts Collection (Ongoing)- Multiple Pairings- Submit a peculiar prompt to my asks box and I might write something for you! details HERE. Chapter 1 is index of all works, summaries, pairings, and warnings. Rating: T-M

31 Days of Weasley Collection 2023 (19k) Multiple Pairings- Written for the Weasley Jumpers 31 Days of Weasley fest for tumblr. Chapter 1 is index of all works, summaries, pairings, and warnings. Rating: T-E

Fucking Perfect, Actually (9.5k) Ron Weasley x Cormac McLaggen- That time Ron Weasley took forever to realize he's secretly in love with his meathead hockey rival, Cormac McLaggen. Ice Hockey AU, Muggle AU. Written for HP Rare Pairs Fest 2023. Rating: E

Forever in Your Debt (4.6k) Ron Weasley x Mary Cattermole, Mary Cattermole x Reginald Cattermole- Ron has been trying to make amends with the Cattermoles for years with no response. Mary finally decides to write back because it turns out she does want something from Ron after all. Written for HP Rare Pairs Fest 2023. Rating: E

Podfic: 

For Sale by Owner: Rose Weasley Granger’s Virginity (3.5 hours): Written by Vukovich. Rose Weasley Granger x Draco Malfoy Original Story and Summary here. Rating: E

Like a Brother Would (30-45 min): Written by wolfpants. Ron x Harry. Original Story and Summary here. Rating E

Yes, But It’ll Cost You (30-45 min): Written by mintaminta. Draco x Harry. Original Story and Summary here. Rating: T

[weministertomonsters]

Piper And The Vampire

This (unfinished as per usual) story is 3.5k words long and heavily inspired by the Interview with The Vampire TV series, but whether that's obvious... Probably not.

─────────────── · · · · ✦

I was in a world of trouble that all began because one boy couldn't keep his damn mouth shut. But all stories have to start at the beginning if they are going to make any sense, so that's where we'll begin.

I was eleven when my father fell from his horse and got his head smashed in. He didn't last long, nobody can when your brain is turned to a pink pudding and won't stay in your head where it should be. I was the unlucky one who found him, and he was still moaning in the ditch with flies all buzzing around. I ran home, hollering the entire way.

"Mumma, it's Papa!" I yelled, crashing right into the kitchen.

She smacked her floury hands on her apron. "Where he at? Coming home from the bar? Still there and fighting again?"

"No, he's in the ditch. His head's all crumpled like a pumpkin someone forgot in the cellar."

She looked grim and vaguely sick like I had told her I'd found someone's cow sickening in the woods. "Good Lord help us," she said, picking up her skirt till I could see her brown shins.

She greased her legs and arms every morning with shea butter, and her skin shone as a result. She wasn't white-skinned and golden-haloed like the angels in the Big Church windows, but she was my angel. Tall, imperious, and often untouchable. Now she ran down the worn road leading from our cabin to the rest of the village. I followed her but she said over her shoulder, "Call the Doctor."

"I've already seen him, Mumma! Can't unsee that," I protested, eager to be a big girl.

"In case there's saving in him yet," she responded in a flurry of movement, disappearing down the hill.

Satisfied my Mumma wasn't trying to shield me from any perceived horror, I ran to get the Doctor. He didn't live far because, in such a small town, one person's backyard was another person's front yard. Even our house, which was considered "out of the way", was still visible from the middle of the town.

I could hear the Doctor say, "Geez, Louise, can't a man eat his supper in peace?" to his housekeeper as I thumped up the stairs and past the cocker spaniel on the porch and busted in through the grand blue door.

"The devil doesn't stop his deeds for anyone, Doctor Carney." She replied, sensible as always, turning to me. "Now, what's wrong Miss Piper?"

"My Papa's hurt real bad. I don't think he gon' make it but Mumma said I should call you," I heaved and gasped for air.

Despite complaining seconds ago, Doctor Carney practically flew off his chair with nothing but his case of medical things which was always within reach, looking like a hero in a comic book as he leaped on his horse that was also waiting in the yard at almost any given hour. I watched from the window, guilty about feeling excited. Or was it fear that tightened my ribcage and caused my heart to thrash in its cage of bone? I couldn't tell.

"A glass of water, Miss Piper? You look like you ran the whole way here."

I gulped down the water, relishing the slightly sweet taste. I thought it was almost as good as the stream early in the morning, the same cool and clean-tasting stuff.

"I should go back," I said but Mrs. Louise put a hand on my shoulder. "Now, how about you stay on? It's getting dark out there and I don't want you walking home alone."

I could tell it was because she didn't want me to see my father in his current state. I was going to tell her that I'd been the first to see him and there was no use keeping me but she brought a tall glass of milk and a plate laden with sticky brownies from the kitchen. I forgot to say thank you for the treat and that thought would keep me up for a long time later that night. When Doctor Carney came back, it was with a wagon borrowed from the Smiths and I knew this because of the streak of black going up one side. The oldest son of the Smiths had started a fire for fun and it got out of control and almost took the wagon with it.

My Mumma jumped out the back as soon as it stopped. She had been crying so it didn't take much else to know that my father hadn't made it. She wouldn't have cried otherwise. There my Papa was, tucked in the back of the wagon and wrapped in a musty sack. His shoes stuck out over the top because he was taller than the sack was wide.

"I'm sorry," Doctor Carney said awkwardly as he dismounted, and the way he said it made it unclear whether he was expressing sympathy or apologizing for wrapping my father in a feed sack.

"So, he's dead," I said somberly. "What we gon' do for bread now?"

Mrs. Louise looked a little appalled at that, glancing in uncertainty at my Mumma who laughed in an odd, wet way and hugged me tightly.

"It's the shock," she said. "She'll be bawling her eyes out tomorrow."

"I will not! I like my eyes," I retorted but my Mumma was already pulling me away.

"The wagon, Mrs. Maarten?" Doctor Carney said, showing up after he'd hauled my father off someplace.

The cellar perhaps; kids always rumored that the dead bodies shared the cellar with his milk, potatoes, and preserves because it was the only place cold enough to keep them for burial. No one else had a cellar or those that had one didn't want dead bodies in it.

"I'll come for the wagon tomorrow," she replied over her shoulder. "If the Smiths need it now, that's too bad."

"Are you sure walking alone in the dark is fine? We can always send the manservant along with you," Mrs. Louise called after us.

"It's not the works of man I'm afraid of but the work of the devil," Mumma retorted.

"Mumma, you making yourself sound weird," I complained.

"I've seen what happens in the dark and this ain't nothing yet, my dear," she responded.

That was my first hint that she thought something else other than a horse had happened to my father.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

I had been right to worry about bread. As bad a father as mine had been, he at least brought a loaf of bread home when he came home from work. That way, even if we had nothing but stale bread and watery milk to go with it, we still had something to eat. Money doesn't come cheap and it doesn't grow on trees, so Mumma had to go and find work. The first week consisted of her leaving early in the morning, coming home worn to the bone, and shaking her head in defeat.

Right when the pantry was scraped clean and things were beginning to feel desperate, she came home on a Saturday evening with a strange glow in her eyes and a pocketful of cinnamon hard candy.

"I've got a job, Piper," she declared, dividing the candy between us. "Things gon' look up now."

"When do you start?" I asked.

"Monday and it'll be long hours. Will you be able to take care of yourself?"

"Heck, I've been cooking and cleaning since I was nine, Mumma. I can handle it. 'Sides, I'll be at school most of the day myself," I ducked the incoming swat for cussing and felt very grown up and independent.

The first week was a slow one. Mumma didn't get her first pay until Friday and had to buy from the general store on credit. She hated doing that and so she bought the absolute minimum; bread and milk. On Sundays, we might get invited to a friend's house for dinner, and there I would gorge myself on potatoes and chicken, and cornbread. After school, I had another three hours to pass before Mumma came home and I was left to my own devices. I'd usually play with the dolls I made of straw and old strips of cloth and eat doorstep-thick slices of chewy bread with a dollop from the last jar of preserves.

One day she came home with something all wrapped up. The pantry was now truly empty and all I'd had for breakfast was the end of the loaf with the last glass of milk. My stomach felt like it was turning inside out to start digesting my other organs.

"Did ya get a gift of potatoes from the Sir?" I asked excitedly, spotting the package. "We having potatoes for dinner?"

"Hush up. It ain't no potato. It's a baby." She gently pulled back the cloth so I could see what I'd thought was the tops of a bunch of potatoes was instead a skinny baby.

In light of my crushed hopes, I wasn't exactly welcoming. "Well, kinda looks like a potato to me."

"Piper. Mind your tongue now."

"But it does!" I insisted. "Brown and wrinkly and half-starved looking. Like a dud potato. How did you find a baby anyhow?"

"I ain't having your attitude today," she sighed and walked inside.

"It ain't attitude!" I hollered back, miffed but repentant. "I'm starving is all."

I knew I'd finished the milk that morning. What was she going to feed it? Was it her or him? I was too distracted by the dull thunder in my stomach to care. The baby began to cry and I sat on the porch and listened to Mumma try to hush it up, thinking of how hungry I was.

After a couple of minutes, I went inside. Mumma was changing the baby's diaper.

"It stinks in here," I announced.

"This poor thing was by the roadside in a saddle blanket," Mumma said in a hushed voice because she had finally got the baby to settle. "Hungry with a wet diaper. No one in sight. I have no idea what happened."

"So, what we gon' do for food? The baby needs to eat too."

"I got paid today. Would you run by the store? With any luck, Gran-Mae will still be open and you can buy us something. Two cans of milk for the baby and whatever else looks good for us. You just be sensible, okay? Don't come back with your pockets filled with nothing but candy," Mumma said.

I took the gold coins with a whistle and skipped out the door, biting down on one just like a shopkeeper who wanted to make sure their gold was real. For the six minutes or so it took me to get down the hill to the general store, I felt rich and pretended that I was heading down into town to buy a fine horse. Black with white socks, like Doctor Carney's horse.

Gran-Mae was on the small porch of her store, sweeping dirt out of the cracks in the floorboards with a short stick broom. She could bend well for her age and her backside pointing at me looked like the rump of a friendly cow.

"Gran-Mae? You still open?" I called.

"Now if it isn't Piper Maarten!" She hooted, straightening up and bracing her hand on her back. "I'm closing up, but you come on in."

She bustled through the doors she hadn't locked yet. Lucky that, because she had more than three padlocks on that door and it would have taken forever to open them up because they were all damaged by the rain and rustier than the gates of hell.

It was like stepping into a cluttered heaven that smelled of so many good, heavy scents. I sniffed as quietly as I could manage and caught scents of maple syrup and soap, brown sugar and earthy potatoes, and baby carrots. The oily block of cheese on the counter wafted enticingly in my face, so close I could just lean over and chomp into it.

But the real exciting part was Gran-Mae's candy jar. It had caramel twists and cubes of cinnamon hard candy and bulbs of cherry chew squished next to tacky peppermints, a chaotic jumble of colors that was a feast to my eyes.

Gran-Mae used to give free candy out to the kids, especially when they had gotten hurt. She had to stop when five-year-old Vernon Akson down the street figured jumping off the roof of his parent's barn last summer to get hurt bad would earn him a mountain of candy. Even Mumma and I could hear his screams and he never walked quite right after that.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"You come here, child, and I'll nail your head!" I growled. "What you been doing in the kitchen?"

"I ain't eating anything!" Willy yelled back, scampering to the porch and making a dash for the oak tree out front.

"Then why are the pie toppings lookin' skimpy?" I retorted. "Get outta the tree, Willy."

We ended up keeping the baby. Not sure how, but Mumma got a little extra money from the Sir to care for the brat. Maybe she asked. A little extra always goes a long way and with some candy, I was bribed into grudging acceptance of the baby who had quickly grown into the most impulsive, excitable seven-year-old I'd ever known. With Mumma working, I became a mother of sorts, something I didn't think I was cut out for.

At fifteen now, I was wiry and taller than most of the girls in my class and felt as much out of place with them as I looked. I could always hang with the boys though because even my skirts couldn't get in the way of my love of climbing. However, Sundays sure did. Dressed in my nicest brown skirt, there was no way I could go climbing after Willy without ripping it.

"Willy," I sighed. "We gon' be late if you carry on."

"You ain't whippin' me no more?" He asked hopefully, coltish limbs wrapped around the branch he was clinging to.

"Nah, there ain't enough time. Come down and get dressed. Mumma is gon' be here any moment with the Sir."

Willy shimmied down the trunk and thumped onto his feet. "Why is he coming anyway? I ain't never seen a Sir go to church."

"They do, they just go the big fancy one in the city yonder," I said as we went inside to wash up.

"Have you ever been to the city, Piper?" Willy asked, standing on an old apple crate to reach the wash basin so he could splash his face.

"Once, when I was real small, my Papa and I rode on his horse to the top of Windcreak Hill and I saw the city from there. It was half-dark and all the fancy lights were sparkling like fallen stars. Only got to see that once though, because afterward he started drinking and couldn't ride straight," I said, dragging the brush through my curls to try and force it all into a bun. "Then Mumma said I couldn't ride with him no more."

"Shame, I want to see the city too."

"It's nearly half an hour to Windcreak Hill on a horse. Your legs won't get you there and back in time for dinner even if you went at the lick of daylight," I said in what I figured was a kindly tone. "You need to wear a bow."

"But I wanna see the city!" Willy whined, enchanted by my description of it.

"When I get me a horse, I'll take you," I promised. "But only if you're good. Now let's find you a tie."

I went into the room he and Mumma shared to see if I could find one. Through the dusty window, I saw a fine carriage coming up the way. That had to be Mumma and the Sir.

My thoughts were interrupted by a splash and the splatter of water from the kitchen.

"What you did now?" I demanded, hurrying in.

"I was trying to brush my hair and the crate broke!" Willy said indignantly. "Wasn't my fault."

"At least you didn't tip everything in the basin," I mumbled, nudging him to the side and hastily throwing a dishcloth on the water. "We gotta go."

"But I'm bleeding," he fussed.

I checked his lip. "It ain't too bad. Suck it up."

Willy skipped out the door. "Come see, Piper! The Sir has a fine carriage horse," he said in his squeaky voice.

"Hush up or he'll hear you," I muttered.

The Sir came out first and offered a gloved hand to Mumma who took it graciously, trying not to titter. She looked mighty fine in her new silk dress and idly I wondered if she and the Sir were getting together or something. No way she bought that herself.

"Ready, children?" Mumma called.

The Sir stopped in front of us, his pink lips under his blond mustache dimpling into a small smile which slipped into a frown as he looked from me to Willy.

"Mon Dieu," he said. "Your lip."

"Banged it on the wash basin," Willy said, puffing up like he thought it was tough and cool to have a bloody lip.

"Most unfortunate," the Sir said, holding out his white handkerchief, which had a lacy edge just like a lady's handkerchief.

I groaned inwardly as Willy took it and smeared his blood and saliva on the cloth before trying to hand it back. The Sir laughed once and I snatched the cloth.

"I'll wash it and return it to you, Sir," I said with a curtsy.

"Oh, no need! I have plenty of those. Throw it away. Now, shall we?" He said, gesturing to the carriage.

In that high-up and big wheeled carriage, it didn't take long to get down to the church. Despite that, we were still a few minutes late, just enough that everyone was gathered in the churchyard and greeting each other.

"Nah," I said, shrinking back in my chair. "Everyone's gonna be looking."

"Piper," Mumma said, her eyes as brown as burnt brownies and her tone dry with a sharp warning edge.

Don't embarrass me in front of the Sir, her gaze said, it's an honor to sit in his carriage.

And it was, but all I was thinking about was how everyone would talk about us later. The girls at school would crowd around me asking questions and all the boys would make lame jokes. And the old folk would talk smack about Mumma over their Tuesday cards. Crickets, just the thought gave me a hot chill.

"You will never blend in, Piper. Best to learn that now," the Sir said bluntly, looking at me like he had guessed what I was thinking.

Looking at him straight on, I realized his hair came down to his shoulders, tucked coyly behind his ears to keep it from falling into his eyes. Something about him bugged me. Perhaps the hair or the way he sat, or his ability to deliver a rude line like that with a smile on his face. I rose to the challenge of that innocent smile.

"Neither will you, Sir. Respectfully saying, everyone is gonna talk about you and your fine horse and carriage and girly hair."

"Piper!" Mumma hissed.

The Sir laughed. "Let the girl speak, Marilyn. Honest opinions are so hard to come by these days."

"Marilyn? You call my Mumma by her first name? What's she to you?" I demanded.

Willy squirmed in his seat, impatient to get out and play.

I couldn't stand the Sir's lofty attitude and Mumma's cattle brand-hot gaze, so I threw the door open and stumbled out into the sunshine. I hadn't realized how dark the carriage had been with its draped windows.

"Now if it ain't the Maartens!" Pastor Wilkins said, walking towards us with his fat black Bible tucked under his arm.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the Sir, though. He just stood and stared, as I'd expected. I edged to the side and waited with bated breath to see what would happen. I hoped Pastor Wilkins would tell him to leave. The Sir smiled and tilted his head up to the sky for a moment.

"Such a sunny day isn't it? It surely livens the senses."

"Indeed," Pastor Wilkins drawled, having recovered from seeing a white Sir in his mainly dark-skinned congregation. "You from Gaines by any chance?"

"The grand city, yes of course," the Sir said. "Shall we?"

"Welcome to our little town, in that case," Pastor Wilkins said.

Then he walked inside with him and that was that. I arched my eyebrows. Somehow, that interaction had gone differently than I expected. I had been waiting for a polite but brutally suspicious Pastor Wilkins because I knew that man was like a guard dog around strangers, but Pastor Wilkins only seemed happy to have a rich Sir in his pews.

Disappointed, I drifted inside. Only later would I realize that the unquestioned acceptance of the Sir was just a precursor for what was to come.

[yoshinobuiha]

it's james birthday. he's 55 today! i will be posting more pictures and gifs later on hopefully, but first off i wanted to just acknowledge somehow someway how glad i am to even know this unassuming aries guitarist exists. when i got into sp a few years ago, i was in an extremely dark place. i was mourning the loss of a very precious person who had been a smashing pumpkins fan, and his zero tshirt was one of the possessions of his i kept.. i was an extremely casual fan at that point, but digging deeper into all the cds and dvd he had left behind gave me something i could ground myself on, an anchor i could grab on for dear life while i drowned in the violent ocean of grief i was in.. james was like a breath of fresh air, i just related to his sensitivity and sense of humor. just being able to learn about the group and him, starting this blog, making these videos, has helped me recover from a lot of trauma i was losing in my battle against. i think back and wonder if i really was going to make it through, i feel like i started listening to them at such a crucial point. it's crazy to think about. this band is very much just a part of my life now. james is just, even if just a little one, a part of my purpose on earth at this point. i really love running this little blog and i appreciate everyone who interacts with it. — james is such an inspiration to me because i really admire the way he seemed to deal with the difficult and painful experiences and relationships in his life by just being real and honest, but also kind and considerate about it. i admire his private nature. i admire his music, his devotion to love. his style and the interesting cultures i have learned about through my interest in him! anyway. i hope james the best and all of you who read this as well lmao. i just wanted to get some stuff off my chest. happy birthday to james and anyone else who is also born on this magical ass day :-)

[rabbitcruiser]

National Starbucks Day

Starbucks is one of America’s true iconic brands. Right up there with McDonalds, there are few places you can go in the world and not find a Starbucks. In other words, it is a brand worth celebrating. More than that, it is a brand worthy of an entire day. Thus, September 29 is National Starbucks Day. From humble beginnings in the coffee-crazed city of Seattle, Starbucks has become the name behind coffee all over the world!

National Starbucks Day timeline

​​1971 First cup

​You can find the original store in Seattle's Pike Place Market — a great place to visit!

​1984 Italy inspires the idea of coffeehouse culture in America

​After a trip to Italy, Starbucks ​Director of Retail Operations and Marketing Howard Schultz was inspired to serve coffee in a similar fashion to the Italians — with a coffeehouse culture that he felt was lacking in America.

​1994 ​Starbucks opens its first drive-thru location

Since many people need coffee on the go, Starbucks decided it was time to open up drive-thrus to bring even more convenience to its customers. ​

How to Observe National Starbucks Day

Travel to one of Starbucks' "Out There" locations

Pay it forward

Try a new drink

Try the Starbucks on board a train in the Swiss Alps!  With all of its unusual locations, Starbucks has become a blast. Just don't forget to throw a photo up on Instagram to commemorate.

A great way to celebrate National Starbucks Day is by buying the drink for the person behind you. You may even start a "pay it forward" chain, and make everyone's National Starbucks Day even better!

If you usually get a hot drink, opt for a cold one. Get crazy and throw a bit of flavoring into that plain iced coffee. Step outside of your comfort zone this National Starbucks Day and you never know — you may end up finding your new favorite drink.

4 All-Time Starbucks Faves

A classic takes the top spot

​Ice Ice Baby

Every basic girl's favorite drink

​Why eat a cinnamon roll when you can drink it?

Are you surprised that a Vanilla Latte is the most popular choice at Starbucks? We aren't either. It is hard to go wrong with this drink — which offers a chance to use different types of milk — iced or hot, and many more. ​

​The second most popular drink at Starbucks is an Iced White Chocolate Mocha. With both white chocolate and vanilla syrup, the sweetness of this drink is pretty epic.

Fall means leaves dropping, colder weather, and of course, Pumpkin Spice Lattes for all. ​

The fourth most popular drink at Starbucks is the Cinnamon Roll Frappuccino Blended Coffee,but be sure you know you're diving into something with 85 grams of sugar. ​

Why National Starbucks Day is Important

Starbucks Coffee Is the lifeblood of America

Starbucks Coffee is (almost) everywhere

Starbucks' menu is always expanding

Many people cannot (and do not want to) imagine their day without a cup of coffee. It is what gets us out of bed and pushes us through the most difficult days. One could call it a vital part of our lives, and who's to argue?

Some of the craziest Starbucks locations include Paris' famous Louvre museum and Guantanamo Bay. You never know when the need for coffee is going to strike.

From a Horchata Almondmilk Frappucino, to its smash hit color-changing and flavor-changing Unicorn Frappucino, you will never be forced to order anything boring.

Source

[lovejustforaday]

Shoegaze Classics - Somnium

Somnium - Sianspheric (1995)

Main Genres - Shoegaze, Space Rock, Dream Pop, Neo-Psychedelia

A decent sampling of: Post-Rock, Ambient Pop

Shoegaze made its first small but noteworthy splash in the U.S. indie/alternative scene some time in the mid 90s.

Bands like Drop Nineteens, Starflyer 59, Lovesliescrushing, and The Swirlies were coming onto the scene, embracing the subgenre's formula with their own unique twists while following the example of bands from the British Isles like MBV and Ride.

Other American bands like Smashing Pumpkins took broader inspiration from the original shoegazers, playing around with guitar textures and dipping their toes into more washed out reverb sounds.

Canadian bands, meanwhile, barely even touched shoegaze until the turn of the century. That is, with one notable exception. Today we're going to be looking at Canada's own original shoegaze band - the elusive and wispy Sianspheric.

The Band

Sianspheric were the only even somewhat prominent first wave shoegaze band to come from the land of the canucks.

And by saying that, I certainly don't mean that these guys were MBV level big, nor even to the degree of bands like Lush or Swervedriver. These guys were small timers, filling the void for hip 90s Canadians needing a homegrown fix for their addictions to heavily reverberated guitar.

Hailing from Hamilton, ON, Sianspheric was formed in 1994 by Sean Ramsay on guitar, Matthew Durrant on drums, Steve Peruzzi on vocals on bass, and Paul Sinclair on guitar. Peruzzi's vocals are perhaps the platonic ideal of a shoegazer - perpetually relaxed, half awake even, but rich and highly resonant in tone despite a generally soft delivery.

The band were part of a broader scene of indie rock happening in the 90s Greater Toronto Area that Ramsay himself has dubbed the "Pseudo-Burlington scene". Sianspheric were also part of a wave of artists writing shoegaze music that heavily overlapped with a new generation of space rock.

The band quickly signed with the Canadian indie label Sonic Unyon and promptly dropped their first record in 1995. No early EPs this time fellas.

The Record

Somnium is a faintly glowing, leisurely 'spacegaze' tour-de-force, ever subtly subduing its listener into dreamy visions of seemingly bending laws of the universe to its will, just like any other powerful substance. It is an auditory experience meant to accompany a form of relaxing interstellar space travel that unfortunately doesn't exist at the time that I'm writing this review.

From a strictly timbral frame of reference, I would say this record contains many of the most pleasing textures that 90s shoegaze bands would manage to produce.

Big fans of Slowdive in particular (such as myself) are also sure to enjoy this record, as it shares a similar ethos with the band's heavy use of dynamics, building intensity, and more involved, atmospheric production to augment its hazy guitars.

The album opens with "Turbulent + Hydrodynamic", an aimless journey on a riff through vast infinite stargazing before the abrupt pull of a celestial body drags the listener down into a whirlpool of distorted guitar rock.

"This Window" takes psychedelic dream pop to a whole new level of tranquility, with a tiny, dotted guitar refrain that twinkles in and out of the realm of audible sounds, like a distant flicker from far out.

Immediately following is the crushing waves of "Watch Me Fall", a plunge into more sonic whirlpools with a sense of inquisitive glee, going in head first just to see what is on the other side.

"I Like The Ride" is a mind-melting, orgasmic rush of sensory pleasure in the form of juicy, crunching guitars that flood the ear canals with fizzy sonic fluids til it reaches the brain. It is a full out-of-body experience that leaves me feeling completely suspended in time while simultaneously blasting through the universe with all the propulsion of pulsar rays. Peruzzi's nasally half-chanted vocals peek through the synchronized mess of it all, with defiant declarations of self-determination, yet somehow maintaining an aloof coolness in his inflection, as if he isn't even a part of reality. I don't use this comparison often, but this song really is like having some of the most gratifying sex ever.

The record closes with an ambient post-rock piece. Towering at over twenty one minutes long, "Where The Planets Revolve, I Wish I Was There" is certainly a daring choice of how to end your album, but I do think it overstays its welcome considering the very minor variation it offers over those twenty one minutes. Furthermore, the riff this track its based around is not one that I think lends itself well to being repeated dozens of times; no real sense of closure or finality in its melody. For something in a similar vein done frankly (IMO) better, I'd recommend "Midnight Souls Still Remain" at the end of M83's 2008 LP Saturdays = Youth.

Still, this is not nearly enough to sour my experience of this record. It's a bit front-loaded, sure, but there are stunning celestial textures throughout all of these tracks, and the highlights are more than enough to keep me invested for the entire duration. Somnium is a very solid record.

What Came After That?

Sianspheric are still going as a band, and never really stopped going, even if their output has waned over the years. The lineup has changed a few times, but Sean and Matthew have maintained their roles as guitarist/vocalist and drummer, respectively. Original vocalist Steve left the band shortly after their second record.

The band's follow up material after Somnium has mostly leaned harder into the space rock component of their sound. There's the 1998 sophomore LP There's Always Someplace You'd Rather Be, and the more instrumental The Sound of The Colour of The Sun from 2001.

I checked out the 2001 record while writing these reviews, and I've got to say that "Radiodiffusion" is arguably just as great as "I Like The Ride", though more of a bittersweet vibe juxtaposing the latter's intense euphoria. Could really do without the jumpscare on "Tous les soirs" though, like holy shit wtf come on guyz!

Sianspheric's latest LP was 2016's Writing the Future in Letters of Fire. Save for a 2020 EP titled So We Swim, the band has not put out any other major releases since. Their still playing shows regularly though, which is always great to see for bands that have been around without hiatus for as long as they have.

Even if you were already a savvy shoegaze connoisseur coming into this series, there's a good chance that you've never heard of this band or this record until now, so I compel you to explore this hidden gem of the 90s. Somnium really delivers one of the most far out trips that any shoegaze record has to offer.

8/10

Highlights: "I Like The Ride", "Turbulent + Hydrodynamic", "This Window", "Watch Me Fall"

[doomdomine]

mini post of songs that remind me of eric — 🍓 !

the smashing pumpkins (the gnashing blumpkins)

- pennies: the intro is just so him. nothing else 2 say

- bodies: i feel like this song can be connected to how i see my attachment to him and how he saw the people that failed (??) him in his life. “come into my life forever,” hits so hard for me cus i know that if i haven’t outgrown him by now, i prob never will. especially when so many others who’ve surpassed my age are stuck on him and the case in gen. i also feel like i’ll never be able to ‘escape’ him cus of his mark on the world and how he’ll continue to inspire so many others in that way.

- to forgive: holy fucking shit the first time i listened to this he was literally the only thought in my head. “ten times removed / i forget about where it all began,” “holding back the fool again / holding back the fool pretends.” this song is just the embodiment of what i imagine he felt near the end. never fails to make me cry like a little bitch

- farewell and goodnight: reminds me so much of his humanity, of how much he tried yet still felt like he could never get it right. “heart strung is your heart frayed and empty / cause it’s hard luck when no one understands your love / its unsung.”

- blew away: eric’s version of dylan’s beautiful (lol) “please don’t ever leave / and i will grieve, and remember thee / hope to meet you there.”

hole (so funny cus if he hated sp no way he felt any better abt hole or courtney love 😭)

- northern star: “and blackest night and i wait for you / it’s cold in here, there’s no one left / and i wait for you,”

“he’s so cold / he will ruin the world tonight,”

“ghosts that haunt you with their sorrow / i cried cause you were doomed.”

- honey: “and everything you ever said, now tears me all apart,”

“he goes down, down to his bitter end / he knows now, now you can’t touch him,”

“i hold onto you like the death of an angel / and i hold onto you with all the life that’s in me,”

“why was i not good enough to save you from destruction?”

- pacific coast highway: “go with your gun in my hands,”

“i knew a boy, he left me so damaged / do you even know the extent of what you ravaged?”

misc. (basically just single songs from bands that i can’t compile into their own category)

- under the milky way by the church: “wish i knew what you were looking for / might have known what you would find.”

- stuck on you by failure: this song is more for me and how i feel abt never being able 2 escape him.

“i claimed i didn’t care for you / but your verse got trapped inside my head, over and over again,”

“i thought i’d drop you easily / but that was not to be / you burrowed like a summer tick / so you invade my sleep and confuse my dreams / turn my nights to sleepless itch,”

“stuck on you til the end of time / i’m too tired to fight your rhyme / you’ve got me paralyzed,”

“even when i’m alone / i hear your mellow drone / you’re everywhere inside of me.”

and uhhh i have a whole playlist dedicated to him w a lot of other songs but these r just the main ones that scream Him and im too chickenshit to link my profile here cus im paranoid ✊😭 but mayhaps…. one day…. mayhaps….

[velvetineblue]

REPOST AND LIST 5 SONGS THAT INSPIRE YOU TO WRITE YOUR MUSE ! ♫ 

i do not care for the winter sun, beach house

スーパーマリオランド, user-999

cloud, yameii

falling and laughing, orange juice

tomorrow's dust, tame impala

bullet with butterfly wings, taking back sunday/smashing pumpkins

& . . . LIST 5 QUOTES THAT INSPIRE YOU TO WRITE YOUR MUSE !

what goes too long unchanged destroys itself. the forest lives forever because it dies and dies so lives. ( ursula le guin )

once, a first grader asked me how long a poem had to be, and when I said it could be just one word, he wrote a poem that was just his best friend's phone number ( heather christle )

let's do it after the high roman fashion, And make death proud to take us. ( antony and cleopatra, william shakespeare )

in the summer I stretch out on the shore and think of you. had I told the sea what I felt for you, it would have left its' shores, its shells, its' fish, and followed me. ( nizar qabbani )

but why the wind said should you be so distressed as if anything here belonged to you as if anything here were your concern ? ( a. r. ammons )

[memorableconcerts]

The Smashing Pumpkins (also referred to as simply Smashing Pumpkins) are an American alternative rock band from Chicago, Illinois. Formed in 1988 by frontman and guitarist Billy Corgan, bassist D'arcy Wretzky, guitarist James Iha and drummer Jimmy Chamberlin, the band has undergone several line-up changes since their reunion in 2006, with Corgan being the sole constant member since its inception. The current lineup features Corgan, Chamberlin, Iha and guitarist Jeff Schroeder.

Disavowing the punk rock roots of many of their contemporaries, the band has a diverse, densely-layered sound, containing elements of gothic rock, heavy metal, dream pop, psychedelic rock, progressive rock, shoegaze, and electronica in later recordings. Corgan is the group's primary composer; his musical versatility and cathartic lyrics have shaped the band's distinctive albums, which one writer described as "anguished, bruised reports from Billy Corgan's nightmare-land". With 30 million albums sold worldwide, the Smashing Pumpkins were one of the most commercially successful and critically acclaimed bands of the 1990s, often cited as an important act in the popularization of alternative rock music. However, internal conflicts, drug use, and diminishing sales led to a break-up in 2000.

In 2006, Corgan and Chamberlin reconvened to record a new Smashing Pumpkins album, Zeitgeist. After touring throughout 2007 and 2008 with a lineup including new guitarist Jeff Schroeder, Chamberlin left the band in early 2009. Later that year, Corgan began a new recording series with a rotating lineup of musicians entitled Teargarden by Kaleidyscope, which encompassed stand-alone singles, EP releases, and two full albums that also fell under the project's scope—Oceania in 2012 and Monuments to an Elegy in 2014. Chamberlin and Iha officially rejoined the band in February 2018. The reunited lineup released the album Shiny and Oh So Bright, Vol. 1 / LP: No Past. No Future. No Sun. (2018), Cyr (2020) and Atum: A Rock Opera in Three Acts in three increments across 2022 and 2023.

Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness - 1995–1997

During 1995, Corgan wrote about 56 songs, following which the band went into the studio with producers Flood and Alan Moulder to work on what Corgan described as "The Wall for Generation X", and which became Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, a double album of twenty-eight songs, lasting over two hours (the vinyl version of the album contained three records, two extra songs, and an alternate track listing). The songs were intended to hang together conceptually as a symbol of the cycle of life and death. Praised by Time as "the group's most ambitious and accomplished work yet", Mellon Collie debuted at number one on the Billboard 200 in October 1995. Even more successful than Siamese Dream, it was certified ten times platinum in the United States and became the best-selling double album of the decade. It also garnered seven 1997 Grammy Award nominations, including Album of the Year. The band won only the Best Hard Rock Performance award, for the album's lead single "Bullet with Butterfly Wings". The album spawned five singles—"Bullet with Butterfly Wings", "1979", "Zero", "Tonight, Tonight" which Corgan stated was inspired by the Cheap Trick song "I'll Be with You Tonight", and "Thirty-Three"—of which the first three were certified gold and all but "Zero" entered the Top 40. Many of the songs that did not make it onto Mellon Collie were released as B-sides to the singles, and were later compiled in The Aeroplane Flies High box set. The set was originally limited to 200,000 copies, but more were produced to meet demand.

In 1996 the Pumpkins undertook an extended world tour in support of Mellon Collie. Corgan's look during this period—a shaved head, a long-sleeve black shirt with the word "Zero" printed on it, and silver pants—became iconic. That year, the band also made a guest appearance in an episode of The Simpsons, "Homerpalooza". With considerable video rotation on MTV, major industry awards, and "Zero" shirts selling in many malls, the Pumpkins were considered one of the most popular bands of the time.

In May, the Smashing Pumpkins played a gig at the Point Theatre in Dublin, Ireland. Despite the band's repeated requests for moshing to stop, a seventeen-year-old fan named Bernadette O'Brien was crushed to death. The concert ended early and the following night's performance in Belfast was cancelled out of respect for her. However, while Corgan maintained that moshing's "time [had] come and gone", the band would continue to request open-floor concerts throughout the rest of the tour.

The band suffered a personal tragedy on the night of July 11, 1996, when touring keyboardist Jonathan Melvoin and Chamberlin overdosed on heroin in a hotel room in New York City. Melvoin died, and Chamberlin was arrested for drug possession. A few days later, the band announced that Chamberlin had been fired as a result of the incident. The Pumpkins chose to finish the tour, and hired drummer Matt Walker and keyboardist Dennis Flemion. Corgan later said the decision to continue touring was the worst decision the band had ever made, damaging both their music and their reputation. Chamberlin admitted in a 1994 Rolling Stone cover story that in the past he'd "gotten high in every city in this country and probably half the cities in Europe." But in recent years, he had reportedly been clean. On July 17, the Pumpkins issued a statement in which they said, "For nine years we have battled with Jimmy's struggles with the insidious disease of drug and alcohol addiction. It has nearly destroyed everything we are and stand for. … We wish [him] the best we have to offer". Meanwhile, the band had given interviews since the release of Mellon Collie stating that it would be the last conventional Pumpkins record, and that rock was becoming stale. James Iha said at the end of 1996, "The future is in electronic music. It really seems boring just to play rock music."

The Smashing Pumpkins - "Thru The Eyes Of Ruby" - Live 1996