#chevy small block

[captainfreelance1]

I drew this picture recently I call it 'Molly and the Camaro' after the two featured subjects. Professional Wrestler Molly Holly who has fondness classic muscle cars, as seen in the side by side compression below.

Molly Holly is best known for her time in the WWE were she wrestled during both the Attitude and Ruthless Aggression eras, she is a one time WWE Hardcore Champion and a two WWE Women's Champion. Molly retired in 2005 and induced into the WWE Hall of Fame in 2021.

The Car behind her is a  1969 Z/28 Chevrolet Camaro, a true classic and legendry pony car that uses 302 Chevy Small Block an engine that made the car famous on both the SCCA Trans Am and NHRA Race Tracks.

[ablogofcourage]

The Corvette disc brake caps really make the car...

[mxc-art]

After his car was totaled in the race against the Downtown gang boss (see Knockout, it's in the back, center right), he was out of any way to continue his crusade to shut down Túl's illegal street racing racket. However, the horse who got him out of downtown, Diji, had an idea; "I've got family out in the sticks, who, if I remember correctly, should have an old War-era Ute out there that hasn't seen pavement in over a decade." Ax'L's hesitant, he's never been much of a mechanic, Anne had helped him keep his old car running while he worked to clear the streets of downtown. "Ran when parked!" he uttered with a wink.

The car was a wreck; sun-bleached, flat tires, chewed through brake lines, bone dry radiator, the cabin was a nest to the local rodent population, but with some muscle she turned over, and with some fresh fenrite and a bit of "go-juice" she managed to bark off at Diji, damn near burning his eyebrows off. By the end of the day, Ax'L had found a new set of wheels to combat the Inner City gang. She's unconventional, she's old, but she's a runner, and still has some life left in her.

Was excited to finally draw Diji in one of these pieces and keep the story going! This was also a piece very roughly blocked out in blender, after a bunch of toying around with the camera and focal length to really push the perspective. Also I wanted to do go for more yellows and optimistic colors, since that's the color I feel best associates with his character. Diji is a former member of the Downtown gang that helped Ax'L escape after the events of "Knockout" as a thank you for essentially freeing him from a very shitty boss. He's absolutely going to make more appearances as the story goes along, and I can't wait to show more of it!

As always, thank you to everyone, whether you read the description or not, for checking out my artwork! Storytelling is something I've always sucked at but always wanted to try to do more, and this is my latest venture! Hopefully I'll have a proper name for the whole thing in the future!

Vehicles pictured/heavily referenced:

1976 Chevrolet El Camino

1973 small riding lawnmower

[stone-cold-groove]

From the car files: specification page from the 1972 Chevrolet Chevelle brochure.

[automotiveamerican]

A Serpentine Belt System For Your Small-Block Chevrolet Is As Near As Your Junkyard S-10 - Jeff Smith @Hemmings

There are plenty of very nice aftermarket serpentine accessory drives on the market and most are well designed but frankly also expensive. One affordable alternative for the small-block Chevy can still be found in junkyards and on abandoned trucks and cars.  The one perhaps most overlooked is the serpentine drive system used on the 4.3L 90-degree V-6 used in Chevrolet S-10s and S-10 Blazers and…

[cherrysnax]

i want to see my little freaks interact and save their city and grow into teachers and engineers and Pulitzer Prize winners and actual doctors and real superheroes and beat up middle aged petty Italian niggas but I need to put a pen to fucking paper (metaphorically) and draw. But I can’t. how can I make something about coming out of horrible circumstances a better, stronger person if my body is shutting down on me?

how can i draw people beating the odds if I can barely brush my teeth or shower or lay down without immense pain?

[onlyhappyvibes]

New front pads on the dually

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

In the early years of Pro Stock racing the weight factors were very important. Smaller engines ran in lighter cars. Bill Jenkins decided that a 331 cubic inch small block Chevy was optimal.

He installed a small journal 327 crankshaft with bearing spacers into a 350 4-bolt main block. He decided that 5.85 inch long connecting rods were the best length (5.70 is stock). Then he bored the block .030 oversize.

When he installed it into his Vega he won so many races that he was considered the highest paid athlete that year.

[reigningqueenofwords]

Oh, Sassy

Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: 3,610 Request: Anonymous. May I ask for Dean getting to know a car girl who is also a chef (like she loves food and stuff)? Take care of yourself and drink enough! Xx

“Y/L/N!” Your boss called out, making you slide out from under the car you were under. 

“Yeah?” You called back as you got up and made your way to his office. “What’s up?” Leaning on his door frame, you crossed your arms. “I was just finishing up Mr. Carson’s car. You know the one you jumped down my throat about this morning?” You raised an eyebrow. 

Your boss gave you a bored look. “This is Dean Johnson.” He sighed, motioning to the man sitting across from him. “New hire. He’s gonna be shadowing you while he gets used to the garage. Probably only a couple days.” He shrugged. 

You gave Dean a small wave. “Why me? I work odd hours because of the restaurant.” You reminded him. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for him to shadow one of the guys who are here all day?” 

“Nate’s last day is Friday, he’s moving, remember? Then Gage threatened the last guy I hired within two hours and made him quit. Kyle is…Kyle.” All you could do was nod at that, knowing exactly what he meant. Kyle was nice, but a bit out there. 

Sighing, you nodded. “Alright. Well, I’m only here for another hour. It’s up to him if he wants to help me on Mr. Carson’s car or meet me here tomorrow morning.” 

“I’m here, might as well start, right?” He smiled as he got up. “Nice to meet you.” Dean held out his hand for you.

You shook his hand. “I’m Y/N/N. Let’s go get started. Do you have something to change into?” 

He glanced at his clothes, then at you. “Should I? I usually work on cars in jeans and a t-shirt. Sometimes I’ll throw on a jumpsuit.” He shrugged. 

“Yeah, we had jumpsuits when I first started, but we all got tired of wearing them.” You motioned for him to follow you to the car. “Right now I’m finishing up this old 1993 Pontiac Bonneville. Mr. Carson will be in first thing tomorrow morning to pick it up, so you’ll meet him then.” 

“You make it sound like he’s a grumpy old man.” He chuckled. 

“Sometimes.” You said simply, wanting to get back to work. 

Finally, you were clocked out and walking through the parking lot. You lived just a couple blocks away, so you didn’t bother to drive. You had an hour and a half to clean up and get to your second job. “Need a ride?” Came Dean’s voice, making you look over. He was standing next to a beautiful 1967 Chevy Impala. 

“Nice car.” You motioned. “But I’m good. I live a couple blocks away.” You shrugged. “Thanks, though.” 

“Anytime.” He said simply before getting in. 

The next day, you yawned as you walked in, downing a large Monster Ultra. “Those things will kill ya.” Dean told you from where he was leaning against the wall. 

“But it keeps all you guys alive after I’ve worked most of the night.” You gave him a sarcastic smile. “And why are you out here…and not in the garage? Are you in time out?” 

“Oh, sassy. Nice.” He smirked, making you roll your eyes. “Let me guess, you’ve been put in time out before?” 

“Gage got mouthy my first week here, so I might have superglued a couple of his tools to his bench.” You shrugged. 

Dean threw his head back, laughing. “Oh, that’s hysterical. My brother would do that to me. Don’t give him any ideas if you ever meet him.” He shook his head. “And no, I’m not in time out. I was told to wait out here for my ‘babysitter’ by one of the guys. He didn’t give me a name.” 

You nodded, motioning for him to follow you to the back. “That would be Nate.” You told him. “Bummed that he’s leaving.” He was a chill guy overall, and didn’t really get mouthy like Gage. And he was all there, unlike Kyle. 

“So, you said you worked most of the night. Second job?”

“Yeah, I’m a chef.” You finished your drink and tossed the can into the recycling bin. 

His eyebrows shot up. “So, you’re a mechanic and a chef?” Dean couldn’t tell if he was more surprised or impressed, then remembered hearing you mention a restaurant the day before. Now that made sense. “Couldn’t pick one?” 

Laughing, you pulled your hair into a pony tail. “Nope. I used to help my dad work on cars when I was a kid. He died when I was 13, and I kept it up. When I was 15 I got sick. I binged Food Network for a few days. I went to culinary school when I graduated. Couldn’t find a job as a chef right away, so I got a job as a mechanic right outside of town. After working there a year, I finally landed a job as a chef. Quit my other job. And that seemed to be okay for a bit, but something was missing.” 

“You missed being a grease monkey.” 

You nodded. “I really did. Started working here about 9 months ago. Bossman likes to get on my case. I think it’s because I’m the only girl, but he’s not a bad guy.” By now you were used to it, and just dealt with it. “What about you? What’s your story, Johnson?” 

“Traveled a lot as a kid, and kept it up after my dad died about a year and a half ago. Finally decided I was tired of it. So, me and my brother picked a spot to stay put for a while.” Dean knew he was omitting details, but he didn’t feel he was truly lying to you. How could he say he was wanted by the FBI? And that his family had hunted spirits up until recently? That his brother had psychic powers? He would be honest as much as he could, while keeping out other things. 

“Losing a parent is tough. I’m sorry for your loss.” You said honestly. 

“Y/L/N. Mr. Carson is here for his car!” Your boss called down the hall. 

“Coming!” You called back before glancing at Dean. “Ready to see if he’s a grumpy old man today?” 

You and Dean got along great, and you found yourself crushing on him as the days went by. He was easy to talk to, and it was nice to have a friend at work. A couple weeks after he started, you approached him at lunch. “Hey, De? I have a question.” 

He grinned at you. “De, I like it. What can I do for you?” 

“There’s this awards thing for all the chefs in the state this weekend, and I kinda don’t want to go alone…” You explained awkwardly. “I was wondering if you’d come with me?” 

“Like a date?” He licked his lips, clearly flirting with you. 

There was no way to stop the blush that formed on your cheeks. “I-if you’d like.” Why turn down a date with a fun, nice, and handsome guy? 

“Do I need a suit?” 

“Unless you have a tux.” You joked. “But a suit should be fine.” 

Dean sipped his soda. “Guess we’ll have to exchange numbers. I can drive. We can arrive in style. Unless you have a nicer car than Baby, which I doubt.” 

“I have nothing as pretty as her.” You told him. “Dinner will be served at the awards, as well, so we’ll be well fed.” 

“Do I get to try your cooking?” He was curious, that was for sure. 

You pretended to think. “Maybe on our second date.” 

Dean leaned against Baby as he waited for you downstairs. He stood up straight when he saw you come out. “Wow.” He breathed. “You look beautiful.” 

“You look very handsome, too. You didn’t have to rent a tux, though.” You smiled. 

“It’s an awards thing, right? Gotta look good.” He brushed over the front of his jacket. “And clearly I needed it because you look… wow .” It wasn’t like him to be this speechless, but he was so used to seeing you in a tank top and jeans. He was used to seeing you with grease all over you, your hair pulled up out of your face. “Shall we?” He moved to open the door for you. 

Smiling, you stepped forward. “We shall. And hey, maybe you’ll be a good luck charm and I’ll win an award.” It would mean a lot to you if you did. 

“Hi, Dean, come in.” You opened your apartment door for him. The date to the awards had been a blast, even if you didn’t win anything. When he dropped you off after, you kissed his cheek and asked him out on a second date for the next night. Dinner at your place. 

His face lit up when he saw you. “Hi, sweetheart.” He greeted you. “Oh, these are for you.” He held out a bouquet of flowers. 

Smiling, you took them. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.” You shut the door behind him once he was inside. “Can I get you something to drink? Beer, water, soda, milk?” 

“Beer. Thank you.” He looked around your living room as you went to put the flowers in some water and get him a beer. “So, something smells amazing.” His mouth was watering. 

“Thank you.” Handing him his beer, you sipped your own. “Baked potatoes are almost done, and then I’m making some steaks with butter garlic onions. Then, for dessert, homemade cherry pie.” 

“Love me some cherry pie.” Dean winked. “Sounds delicious, sweetheart.” One perk about staying in one place was not having to microwave his meals. “Maybe for our next date I’ll have you over for burgers. I make a mean bacon cheeseburger. I’m sure I can tell my brother to scram for a few hours.” He was already mentally planning a few dates for the two of you, wanting to spend as much time as he could with you. He pictured taking you to the movies, out to eat, to the beach, and to the fair. Maybe walking away from hunting was the best thing that happened to him because he’d met you. 

You smirked at him. “What? Are you worried your brother is more charming than you?” You teased him. 

He chuckled and shook his head. “More like I don’t want my baby brother around while we’re on a date.” He countered before taking a swig of his beer. “Want any help?” He asked when your timer went off. 

“Sure. Can you get the cheese and sour cream from the fridge and put them on the table? And how do you like your steak? Warning: you say well done and I’m kicking you out.” You gave him a playful look. You couldn’t help it, he made you feel fun . 

“You wound me. Do I look like the kind of douche that would order ‘well done’?” He put his hand on his chest. “Medium-rare, thank you.” 

“Good boy.” You winked before heading to start the steaks. Hearing Dean groan lightly, you giggled to yourself. 

One year from the date of that awards show, you were moving into the house that Sam and Dean rented. You got along with Sam, and had no problems with him staying. If anything, you felt it was a really good idea. Because you had two jobs, there were technically four incomes for one home (also, because you worked two jobs…you did the least amount of housework, only doing it on your days off). “That was the last box.” You grinned as you saw Dean coming down the stairs. “I am officially all moved in.” 

“Awesome.” He looked like a kid on Christmas. “Sammy has to work until 5, so he said he’ll meet us for dinner.” He took the box from you and went to take it upstairs. 

“So, this means we have a few hours to ‘celebrate’? Just us?” You followed him, eyes on his butt. “I work tonight, so right now would be perfect.” 

“I like how you think, sweetheart.” The two of you just seemed to fit together perfectly. 

“I’m home!” You called out as you shut the door behind you. 

“You’re early.” Dean glanced at the clock. “Like…4 hours early. What’s wrong?” He saw the look on your face and rushed to you. 

You sniffed. “Uh, remember Darla?” 

He nodded. “Yeah, the older waitress that told you she wanted to pinch my cheeks? Everything okay?” 

“She didn’t come in for her shift tonight, which is really unlike her. She has never missed a shift without calling, and even that’s rare.” You started. “So we sent Jimmy, the busboy, to check on her.” Your voice broke. “Poor Darla…Poor Jimmy.” 

“Baby, what happened?” 

“Her door was busted in. And sh-she was dead. Brutally killed.” He pulled you to him, holding you tight as you cried. “We closed early for the night, and the cops came to talk to everyone before we got sent home.” 

He hated that you were hurting, but beyond thankful that you weren’t the one that went to check on her. You didn’t need to see something like that. “Do they have any idea who killed her?” 

You shook your head. “I asked one of the officers how she died. The look on his face…” You breathed, pulling away slightly to look up at him. “He said he’s never seen anything like it, and if he didn’t know any better, that a bear got her.” 

“A bear?” He furrowed his brows. 

“That’s how bad she looked.” Letting out a breath, you stepped back. “I’m going to take a hot shower and take a couple sleeping pills.” You kissed his cheek softly. 

He nodded, rubbing your arm. “I’ll be up shortly.” Sam was supposed to be home from work soon, and wanted to talk to him about this. Something in his gut told him his two years in town were coming to an end. He watched you slip off your shoes and then make your way upstairs. He’d stay and grow old with you if he had the choice. Part of him had let himself dream about an actual future with you. The two of you working on Baby with a little you. Him watching you teach a little him how to properly chop on onion. Clenching his jaw, he forced down the tears. 

“Dean?” Sam paused in the door. “What’s going on?” 

Looking at his brother, he didn’t have to say a word. He saw that Sam understood what was going on. Sam knew that them living away from the supernatural was over. He was angry enough that he was losing his apple pie life, but even angrier that Sam was losing his. His baby brother had really just started letting his guard down in the last 6 months or so. Just in time for it to blow up in their faces. 

Dean jerked awake when his phone rang. “Hello?” He yawned as you shifted besides him. “Bobby?” He sat up. Dean had called him now and then to check in, but Bobby never called him. 

“You still in that town you told me you settled in?” 

“Yeah, we are.” He said softly, glancing at you before slipping out of bed. He didn’t want to risk waking you up. 

Bobby sighed. “Been hearing rumors from the town about half an hour away. Sounds like a crossroads demon.” He warned him. “I don’t know if it ever went your way…”

Dean groaned. “It has.” He knew that was what tore Darla apart. “Y/N/N’s coworker must have been one of them. She came home upset, and I can’t blame her. Darla was always nice.” He ran a hand over his face. “We had planned to keep an eye out just in case.” 

“Not gonna lie, was hoping it woulda passed your town by.” Bobby told him. 

Standing in the kitchen, Dean looked out the window into the backyard. The same backyard that you had just been lounging in the day before, in the bikini you’d bought just to wear for him. “Maybe it’s a sign, Bobby.” He said, letting his emotions show. “Maybe it’s a sign I need to get out of town. What’s next? Werewolves? Vampires? I can’t let her die.” 

“Dean, you’ve been there two years.” Bobby pointed out. “In those two years I’ve heard you happier than I ever have before. You’ve sounded more alive than ever before.” He was clearly trying to talk Dean out of leaving. “That woman loves you! And from what Sam says, she’s perfect for you. Walk away now, and you’ll always wonder what could have been.” 

“What happens if we decide to have a family one day, and then something comes after them? What if I can’t protect them?” 

“Boy, that’s a question every parent has. To this day I wonder the same damn thing! You boys might be hunters, but you’re my boys. At least think about things.” 

Sighing, Dean closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Bobby. We’re leaving.” 

Waking up, you rolled over to cuddle Dean, but he wasn’t there. “De?” You blinked, slipping out of bed. Usually, if he couldn’t sleep, you could find him in the garage, so that’s where you went. “De?” 

He whipped around, blocking the trunk. “Baby?” He had clearly been crying. 

“What’s going on? What the hell is that in your trunk?” You moved over to look. “Why do you have so many weapons?” Your eyes went to him. “Why were you crying?” 

“Let’s go inside to talk. Sammy, why don’t you go start packing my clothes?” He glanced to Sam, who was off to the side. 

“Why does he need to pack your clothes?” Why weren’t you getting any answers? You pulled your arm from him as he tried to lead you away from Baby. “Talk to me!” 

“My name isn’t Dean Johnson.” He swallowed. “My name is Dean Winchester, and up until I moved to town…Sammy and I traveled the country hunting things.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “Hunting things? Like deer?” 

“I wish.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “Vampires, ghosts, demons, wendigos.” He listed. 

Blinking, you tried to let that sink in. “You’re telling me that’s all real?” You stared at him. “Say I believe you, why leave now? Why try to leave in the middle of the night?” 

“Because Darla was killed by a hellhound. She must have made a crossroads deal and her time was up.” He explained. “It was a wake up call. We can’t escape that life.” 

“You’re leaving me, us, because someone else was killed?” Of course you cared about Darla, but what did she have to do with your relationship with Dean? 

“What if the next thing that comes through targets you?” 

“By that logic- you running away from your girlfriend is running away from protecting her!” You countered. “What if something comes through, and you aren’t here? What then, Dean?!” 

“Us being here is like a beacon. Bad things just follow us.” 

You shook your head. “So, what the hell was the last 2 years? What bad happened then?” You locked your eyes on his. “What ‘bad thing’ followed you over these past 2 years?”

He looked down. “Nothing.” He admitted. “They were the best 2 years of my life. I let myself hope for things that I can’t have.” He managed. 

“Who the hell says you can’t have them? I’m here, aren’t I? I love you, and I think I’m pretty fucking good!” You threw your hands up. 

“Sam got out once. Had the apple pie life. It got his girlfriend killed.” He told you. “I can’t let that happen to you. I love you too much.” 

Clenching your jaw, you stepped closer to him. “So don’t let it.” You said firmly. “Teach me.” 

Dean whipped his head up to stare at you. “What?” He breathed. 

“Teach me. I’m a fast learner.” Your heart was pounding in your chest. “We stay right here while you teach me anything I have to know. I’m sure there’s a way to make this house safe, right?” He nodded a bit. “Then we do that. I’ll quit my job as a chef, and we keep working. All three of us. You teach me until you think I know what I need to know. Then we can leave.” 

“I can’t ask you to do that. You have a life here.” The pain couldn’t be hidden from his eyes. “You don’t want to live motel to motel. Eating shitty food and sleeping on crappy beds.” 

You cupped his cheek and gave him a soft smile. “You know why I want to do this?” 

“Why?” 

“Because I love you too much to let you walk away from me.” You kissed him softly. “I can’t see my life without you. We all have some money put aside, and we can put even more aside between now and when we leave. That’ll get us a couple nicer motel rooms now and then, right?” 

Dean looked in your eyes, wondering how the hell he got so lucky to find you. “You believe me?” 

You took a breath. “Mostly.” You admitted. “It’s a hard thing to wrap my head around, but I’m sure as you tell me more, and as you teach me- I’ll come around.” Your heart told you to trust what he was saying. “Please, let’s go back inside, tell Sam to stop packing, and talk.” 

“You won’t hate me for taking you from the two things you love? Cooking and working on cars?” 

“I’d hate myself for letting you walk away.” 

[applesooyoung]

That you for answering my Wonbin ask, I sound so out of it sorry I was half asleep while typing it, but you perfectly portrayed how I see him honestly.

Can I ask for your opinion on him being extra sensative? Like say a flick of his nipple and he's leaking precum, a kiss on the neck and he's heard, he cums easily and quick too.

You can call me Chevy or 🎨 anon!

ZNNSDNKEJDWKSO ofc pookie! My blog is always open for your thoughts big or small, hard or soft or just somewhere down the middle >< welcome to my anon club, chevy!! 。。(〃_ _)σ∥

. . — headcanon ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ PLEASE REBLOG! spam likes = blocked .˚ ꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆ ✶

BACK TO: [ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐧𝐚𝐯 ]

YESSSS HE'S SUPER DUPER SENSITIVE TOO! Like trust me, he's so damn whipped for you, every single thing you do is jeopardizing to him and everything is masked in that stoic and often nonchalant demeanor of his— it's not a demeanor, really, it's all a facade.

He's made out of glass, he's just so sensitive and fragile. (in a cute way, of course) All it takes is one little kiss and he folds better than origami omfg, I also love to think that this man has so MANY erogenous zones I'd like to name them all but here are a few: nipples, ears, neck, collarbones, and thighs. Since I love you so much, I'll give it to you— I'll elaborate each part (*´－｀*)ﾉ (also, to make up for my late reply to your ask )

( NIPPLES ) – As you mentioned, YES a single flick on his sensitive nipples would make him a mess and toying with it would make it torture for him. God, just the feeling of your skin graze upon his nipples would make him darn flustered and please, quite sure he appreciates nipple clamps to some extent 👀.

( EARS ) – Trust me when I say that this man always ALWAYS wants your mouth on his ears whether simply whispering on his ears or as kinky as nibbling and biting on his ears. Dirty talk with him would be like adding gasoline to the fire.

( NECK ) – The most obvious one but he denies loving it when you touch him there. He enjoys your kisses, your nuzzles and the way you would choke him whenever he wants you to or he's just probs feeling kinky.

( COLLARBONES ) – This is his favorite erogenous part out of all. His collarbones are so perfect! But you don't blame him though, the thought of him being marked by you would make him hard anytime. He's the type to shyly beg you for hickeys when he's so needy.

( THIGHS ) – Wonbin passenger princess, I'm so fucking in love you guys you don't understand. All I wanna do is to rest my hands of his pretty thighs ugh, maybe a graze or two would make him leak precum. He just wants you to manhandle him by gripping his thighs real tight.

© applesooyoung

[ablogofcourage]

[ambrossart]

Post Prom

summary: after leaving prom, you and eddie go to the hideout to reminisce and listen to music. one thing leads to another, and you end up going back to his trailer.

pairing: eddie munson x dwm!reader word count: 6,320 warnings: sfw, new relationship, eddie being awkward, eddie being adorable, eddie being romantic, eddie being obsessed with his guitar, lots of fluff, two-part story

This short story is the epilogue to Dancing with Myself. For proper context, I highly suggest you read that before reading this. It's 10 chapters long and a fairly quick read.

The stars had never shone as brightly as they did that night.

You couldn’t stop staring at them as you walked out of the banquet hall with Eddie by your side, with his suit jacket draped over your bare shoulders, feeling more and more like it was always meant to be there.

“This looks better on you anyway,” Eddie had said as he offered it to you. “Just don’t get it dirty, ‘kay, or else Wayne’ll kill me. It’s his one good suit.”

“I’ll guard it with my life,” you promised, only half joking. 

And while you thought about this, while you traced your thumb along the silk lining of Wayne Munson’s one good suit jacket, while you walked and talked and stole glimpses of Eddie’s face when he wasn’t looking, you couldn’t help but smile and say to yourself,

I’m in a dream, aren’t I?

Yeah, you had to be. The stars were far too bright, and the night too calm. Cars drove up and down the road and passed by without a sound. In the wet, wet grass, crickets chirped and a single sprinkler was still sputtering with life, hissing in the dark with a quiet shhhh-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. You could hear it so clearly as you and Eddie strolled down the covered footpath together, your shadows illuminated by the soft orange glow of the street lights overhead. Eddie had a ring of keys in his right hand. They jingled as he tossed them up, caught them, and twirled them around his index finger.

I’m in a dream, you thought, and tomorrow morning I’m gonna wake up in my bedroom, alone, with that dusty old journal sprawled open in front of me.

And this made you withdraw into yourself and go silent for a minute. Your steps got slower and slower. Your smile slipped and collapsed into a troubled frown that deepened the further you got from the banquet hall. Eddie glanced over his shoulder, saw you falling behind, then slid his keys back into his pocket.

“Buyer’s remorse?” he said with a chuckle, but there was no humor in his voice, none at all. He turned and stepped in front of you, blocking your path with his body. “Hey, y’know we don’t have to go anywhere, right? I mean, we can always go back inside or… or I can just take you home, if you want.”

Eddie muttered the last part under his breath, wincing as he did. His dark brown eyes pierced into yours, nervous and a little afraid, afraid that if he said goodbye to you right now, if he took you home, kissed you goodnight, and watched you walk through that front door, there was a small chance he might never see you again.

And you supposed that was partly your fault, so you put your hand on his chest and gave him a reassuring smile.

“No, that’s not it,” you said. “I was just thinking.”

Eddie raised his eyebrows at you. “You were just… thinking?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I was just thinking.”

If this really is a dream, please, please, please don’t wake me up.

You motioned toward the parking lot. “Lead the way, sir.”

Eddie cracked a small smile. “All right,” he said, and backed away from you with a little bounce in his step. “I’m, uhh, over here, so…”

You weaved through the crowded parking lot and found Eddie’s 1979 Chevy Nomad parked alone on the west end between a dying tree and a flickering lamppost. You held in a laugh. Oh jeez, you thought, of course he parks in the sketchiest spot he can find. If Ted Bundy had a reserved parking space in Hawkins, this would be it. It practically screamed, Yeah, you’re about to get napped.

Eddie seemed to notice this, too. He lingered by your side for a minute, then reached up to scratch his head. “Uhhh… there were other cars around when I parked here, just for the record.”

You looked up at him, fighting back a smile. “I wasn’t gonna say anything…”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed into a playful glare. “Yeah, you were.”

He went and opened the passenger-side door, and you busted out laughing when you saw his guitar case propped neatly against the front seat. This didn’t shock you nearly as much as it should have. If anything, you were more surprised that Eddie hadn’t strapped it safely into place with a seatbelt.

“So you let your guitar ride shotgun, huh?”

“Well, she is a lady,” Eddie replied, making you giggle.

“So, what, should I go sit in the back like cargo? Or do you wanna just rope me to the hood like a Christmas tree?”

Eddie leaned against the side of his van. “No, I’d never do that to you…” Then, with a self-amused smirk: “You can just hold her on your lap.”

Your eyes flattened into a hard line. Very funny, your eyes said.

Eddie chuckled quietly to himself, then stepped away from the van. “Just kidding, I’ll move her.”

Effortlessly, he lifted the guitar out of the front seat and put it in the back with the rest of his equipment, setting the instrument down on the floor with great care. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said while stroking the top of its case. “You’re still my number one girl, okay?”

You rolled your eyes and climbed into the front seat. As soon as you sat down, something small poked your butt, making you jump up in surprise. It was a guitar pick, one of many scattered about Eddie’s van. You were finding them everywhere: under your feet, on the dashboard, in the ashtray, even wedged in the crack of the center console. You dug one out with your fingernail and threw it into the glove compartment.

“You know, you really need to clean out your van,” you said to Eddie as he slid into the driver’s seat.

“Uhh, yeah,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to get to that for about two years now.”

He closed the door and flashed you a charming smile.

“So… where would you like to go?”

“You didn’t have a place in mind when you asked me?”

“Honestly? No… I was kinda expecting you to say no.”

You both laughed. Then you looked away and caught your reflection in the side-view mirror. It felt so strange, being there. You had fantasized about sitting in this van at least a hundred times. Now here you were, digging plastic guitar picks out of your seat (you found another one and flicked it away). It was even better than you imagined.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter,” you said, giving Eddie a shy smile. “You can pretty much take me anywhere.”

“Anywhere,” Eddie repeated slowly, his brown eyes locked with yours. “That’s… very unhelpful.”

Smiling, he leaned back in his seat and thought about it for a minute. His right hand went up to rest on the steering wheel. His index finger started tapping rhythmically against it. In the silence, you were swiveling around in your chair. Eddie caught you out of the corner of his eye and laughed.

“Having fun over there?”

“Yeah,” you said while moving back and forth. “I like the swivel.”

“The swivel is fun,” Eddie said. “The swivel is fun…”

Then, slowly, his whole face lit up.

“I got it,” he said. “I know where we can go.”

He started the van and put it in reverse.

Soon after, Eddie was pulling up in front of the old auto parts store on the corner of Main and Oak.

The building was basically dilapidated at this point. The grass along the side was patchy and full of weeds. The blue exterior was badly faded, chipped, and covered with graffiti. In the large storefront window, beneath a tattered and weather-worn awning, a marquee reader board was still advertising a sale on tires from 1966. If not for the row of cars and motorcycles parked along the curb, if not for the music pouring out onto the street, you would have thought this was just another abandoned building.

Eddie got out first, walked around the front of the van, then opened the passenger-side door.

“Ready?” he said to you, his eyes shimmering with childlike excitement.

You went inside and were instantly transported to the 1950s… or at least Cliff Kozack’s twisted, apocalyptic vision of the 1950s. Old Halloween decorations lined the shelves: coffins, skulls, cobwebs (those were real, though; Cliff kept them because they matched his aesthetic—or he was just too lazy to dust). Guitars hung from the ceiling and fell occasionally, landing behind unsuspecting patrons with a startling thwack! Famous faces were plastered across the walls: Elvis Presley, Connie Francis, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Sam Cooke, Ritchie Valens. All the chrome finishes were dull and rusted in the corners. The black-and-white checkered floor was grimy and sticky with spilled beer that nobody had ever bothered to mop up. In the corner, propped beside a dusty, broken jukebox that only played one song: “Rockin’ Robin” by Bobby Day (and God help you if you played that song), a skeleton dressed in a leather jacket was gesturing toward a sign that spelled out the night’s drink specials.

Except there were no drink specials, just cheap beer and booze.

Cliff poured a beer, slid it across the bar, and then saw you and Eddie walk in through the front door. His eyes widened in horror.

“Quick,” he said to one of his bartenders, “what day is it today?”

“Uhh… Saturday.”

“Saturday.” Cliff closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. “God, I was really hoping I got my days mixed up.”

Then he poured himself a shot of bourbon.

Two, actually.

One for you and one for Eddie.

He slammed them back in two gulps.

Meanwhile, you and Eddie were heading into the lounge just off the main bar, where a psychobilly trio called the Killer Elvises was performing on stage. Their hair was greased and styled into matching pompadours. The lead singer plucked an upright double bass that was almost as tall as he was. And they played the kind of snarling, thrashing music that made you want to get up and punch someone in the face for no reason at all. You had been there for less than a minute and Eddie was already getting revved up.

“God, I love these guys,” he said, shouting over the music.

You two were making your way to a table in the back. It was your table, the one you sat at every Tuesday night. Eddie wanted to sit there specifically. He insisted on it.

“Y’know the lead singer used to only play classical music? Wasn’t even allowed to listen to anything else. Yeah, I guess his parents were like these super-religious zealots or something.”

You looked toward the stage, where the lead singer was currently singing about drinking blood under the full moon and having sex with a werewolf.

“Well, I’m sure his parents are very proud of him now.”

Eddie glanced back at you, a smile crawling up the side of his face. “Yeah. Probably.”

Then he pointed toward a table tucked away in the corner of the lounge, half hidden behind a massive stone pillar. From the stage, you could barely even see it.

“That it?” Eddie asked. You nodded and said it was.

You sat down and made yourself comfortable while Eddie stole the seat across from you. Then he propped his elbow on the table and laid his chin on his palm, gazing at you with his big brown eyes.

“So, uh, this is your table, huh? And, what, you would sit in that spot?”

You looked around you. “Uhh, yeah, pretty much… I mean, it’s not the exact spot, but—”

“Well, hold on,” Eddie said, “I’m pretty sure I asked for the full experience, so…”

He made a "go on" motion with his hand. In return, you made a funny face.

“Seriously?” you said.

Eddie nodded, his eyes soft and affectionate. “C’mon, humor me.”

You looked away, feeling all the blood rush to your face, then slowly got up and dragged your stool a couple more inches to the right. When you sat down again and turned your body ever so slightly, you had a completely unobstructed view of the stage.

“There,” you said in a flustered voice. “Happy now?”

But Eddie didn’t answer you, not for a long while. He kept staring at you, then at the stage, then back at you, his eyes darkening more and more with each pass. During this time, the Killer Elvises had transitioned to a slower, almost bluesy style. You were thankful for that. Otherwise, you might not have heard Eddie when he said,

“Hey, how many times did you come here?”

You shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Guess.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Eddie’s abruptness made you a little uneasy.

“I dunno,” you said. “Twenty, maybe thirty times.”

Eddie dropped his head into his hand and cursed.

Your eyes widened. “What?” you said. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Eddie rubbed his face in frustration. “Yeah, well, it’s a pretty big goddamn deal to me,” he said, sounding angry, but not at you. “Thirty times, Y/N, and that’s probably a modest estimate. You came to watch me thirty times, and I never noticed you. Never. Not once. How the hell did I not notice you?”

You shrugged your shoulders again. This time, they felt a little heavy.

“I guess you just weren’t looking,” you said, and Eddie stared at you with a guilty, helpless expression.

“Yeah, I was,” he said under his breath.

Then—

WHAM!

Two huge fists slammed onto the table, making you both jump.

“Well, well, well,” said Cliff, bringing his face down to your level, “look who’s here…”

“Hi, Cliff,” you said. “Hey, congratulations, by the way. You’ve got a real packed house tonight. I think there’s like fifty people here.”

Cliff’s lips curled into a hard, unamused smile.

“Hey, man, I keep telling you to get a sign for this place—”

“I don’t want a sign,” Cliff said to you. “Signs attract pests, and I’m still trying to get rid of the two I currently have.”

His eyes went to you, then to Eddie, then back to you.

“Hey, we’re like your only regulars… us and the guy that likes to sleep in that booth over there.” You gestured toward him with your chin. “You know, someone should really check on him soon ‘cause I haven’t seen him move in a while.”

“No, I kicked him a few minutes ago. He’s fine.” Then to Eddie, Cliff said, “I see you finally found your number-one fan. You know, she comes in here every Tuesday. Every Tuesday. The other night, I thought she was gonna start a bar fight.”

“Really?” Eddie gave you an impressed look that made you feel embarrassed.

You put both your hands on the table and sat up as tall as you could. “Hey, that’s… that’s not even…” With a huff, you sank back down and muttered under your breath, “I was trying to listen to the music. They wouldn’t stop talking.”

Cliff’s chest rose and fell with hearty laughter. “You hear that?” he said, clapping Eddie on the shoulder. “She was trying to listen to the music,” and for some reason that made Eddie smile and chuckle to himself.

Once Cliff returned to the bar, you turned to Eddie and said, “What, is that like an inside joke or something?”

Eddie was still smiling. “No, it’s just…” He pointed across the lounge. “You see that table over there?”

“Yeah… What about it?”

“When I was younger, my dad used to bring me here a lot. Yeah, he would, uhh, just drop me off here while he went and did… well… whatever he did.” He shrugged it off like it didn’t matter. “Anyway, I’d sit at that table… at that table… for hours and hours, just watching these guys play and wishing I could be as good as them one day. And, yeah, I would get really annoyed whenever people talked during my favorite parts.”

Now you were smiling, too. “That’s… really cute, actually,” and you both went quiet and listened to the band play for a while.

Halfway through the fourth song, while you watched the musician’s tattooed fingers fly across the frets of his hollow-body guitar, you couldn’t help but say, “He’s really good.”

Eddie said, “He’s very good…”

You glanced to your left and caught him watching the guitarist in silent awe, his mouth hanging open, eyes racing to keep up with every movement of the man’s fretting hand.

Stifling a giggle, you said, “You are green with envy right now.”

“I am…”

“You’re gonna go home and practice for like three hours, aren’t you?”

“Oh, at least,” Eddie said, giving you an adorable smile.

That’s when Cliff’s partner decided to drop by for a friendly little chitchat. The buxom brunette strutted up to your table with an empty drink tray and pressed it against her chest while she observed you and Eddie with a tender, motherly expression.

“Awww, well aren’t you two just the sweetest thing, sitting here all cozied up and adorable… I feel like I’ve been waiting half my life for this day to come.”

Cleo tossed you a girlish, not-so-well-hidden smile (Wow, you thought, it’s a miracle my secret lasted this long), then turned to Eddie and said, “You know, she’s been coming here every Tuesday for the last… God, I don’t even know… probably about three ye—”

Panic seized you. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Eddie’s lips twitch upwards, curling into a cocky smile.

You squeezed your eyes shut and blurted out, “Yeah, he knows, Cleo! He knows. How ‘bout you go get us some drinks?”

Cleo brushed you off with a laugh. “Oh fine, oh fine…” She lowered the tray to her side. “What can I get you two lovebirds?”

Eddie said, “I’ll just have a beer.”

And you said, “I’ll have a rum and Coke, with muddled cherries, garnished with cherries and some sugar around the rim. Make sure Cliff really grinds those suckers down, too. I don’t wanna see a bunch of cherry chunks floating around my glass.”

Cleo looked at you both tiredly, her lips gathering into a tight, uncomfortable smile. “Yeah… that’s gonna get old real quick.” Then she sighed and went back to the bar.

As soon as she was gone, Eddie looked at you and said, “Three years? Did I hear that right?”

You shook your head. “No, not three years. Nowhere near three years.”

There were, you were fairly sure, at least two occasions where you chose to stay home.

Because you were sick.

You immediately changed the subject: “So, anyway, when are you guys getting a new lead singer?”

“Nice segue,” Eddie said. Then: “Shit, I dunno, man… after Scottie got locked up, it just didn’t feel right to replace him. Plus we couldn’t find anyone, so…”

“I’ll do it,” you said. 

Eddie squinted at you. “Can you sing?”

“No… but neither can Scottie.”

Eddie laughed. “Fair enough.”

Then you leaned onto your elbows and said, “Any idea when he’s getting out?”

“Uhh…” Eddie stretched out his arms while he thought about it, rolled some of the tightness out of his neck and shoulders. “I think he gets released in like three months.”

“Damn,” you said. “Hard to believe it’s almost been a year.”

You suddenly remembered the last time you saw Scott Sloman. It was a few months before he graduated. Scottie came up to you after school and said he needed a favor.

God, he’s an idiot…

Who?

No one. Never mind.

You shook the memory away. “Shit, man, let that be a lesson: don’t go speeding through a school zone with a bunch of pot in your car. What the hell was he thinking, anyway?”

Eddie nodded slowly, his eyes taking on a distant sheen. “Yeah…”

And now, as you looked at him, a terrifying thought crossed your mind. It made your heart sick with dread. 

“That could’ve been you,” you said, and Eddie’s gaze plummeted to the floor.

Just then, a shiver rolled through you. You pulled Wayne's jacket tighter against you and tried not to think about that anymore.

“Okay, sweeties,” said Cleo as she returned with a tray of drinks. “I have one Shirley Temple with a side of maraschino cherries.” She set down a highball and a shot glass, then reached for the last glass on her tray. “And for you, sir… one Coke. Can I get you anything else?”

Eddie scowled at his beverage. “Where’s my beer?”

“Uhh, waiting for you to turn twenty-one.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and brought the glass to his lips. “Like I don’t drink already…”

And Cleo said, “Not in my bar, you don’t.”

She turned and walked away, but before she got too far, Eddie called out to her again: “Hey, Cleo, can we get some wings?”

Cleo looked back at him and sneered. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Meanwhile, you chucked a maraschino cherry at Eddie’s head.

“What?” Eddie said to you with a mischievous smirk. “I just want some wings…” and he tipped his head to the side, dodging the next cherry you fired his way. “Hey, where’d you come up with that, anyway?”

“I dunno, I panicked,” you said. “I thought I’d been found out, and I needed to throw you off my scent.”

“With blueberry wings?”

“Blueberry barbecue wings, actually.”

“Yeah, what is that? Is that a real flavor or did you just make that up?”

“No, it’s real… I think.” You seriously considered it for a minute, then shrugged. “Yeah, I imagine it having this smoky-sweet kinda flavor. I’ve never had it before, but I feel like it’d be really delicious… that or really disgusting. Either way, I’d like to try it once before I die.”

“Noted,” Eddie said, and reached into your shot glass full of cherries.

Your jaw dropped as you watched him put the fruit between his teeth and gently, so gently, pluck it off the stem.

“Hey, you know how they say, umm, people who can tie cherry stems with their tongues are automatically good kissers? Yeah, turns out there is zero evidence to support any kind of correlation between the two. I mean, obviously, you must have pretty good muscle coordination to tie a cherry stem with only your tongue, but that says very little about how good you are at kissing. Yeah, it really just means you have a skilled…”

You closed your mouth, snatched your drink, and washed the rest of that sentence down your throat.

Eddie watched you, a smile tugging at his lips. “Makes sense,” he said. Then, in a low voice: “Can you do it?”

You set down your glass and wiped your lips. “Do what?”

“Tie a cherry stem with your tongue.”

You gulped. “Umm… I’ve never really tried, honestly, but probably not. I’m very not very coordinated in general, so I wouldn’t expect that skill to transfer.”

Eddie nodded. “I see,” he said while stealing another cherry from your glass. Before popping it into his mouth, he looked right at you and said, “Well, I can.”

Your whole body flushed. “H’okay…” you said as your mind raced with a million unbidden thoughts. You reached for your glass again and—“Hey, here’s a fun fact: did you know that grenadine isn’t actually made from cherries? It’s made from pomegranates.”

“That is a fun fact,” Eddie replied with an amused smile. “You wanna hear another fun fact?”

“Tell me.”

“Your face is about as red as your drink right now.” Eddie propped his chin on his fist and raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Fun fact.”

Your blush deepened. “Oh,” you said.

Then you looked down at the table and thought, God strike me down, I’m a filthy fucking pervert.

The band stopped playing around twelve-thirty. Afterward, the members packed up their instruments and returned to the lounge to drink and play cards with a few of Cliff’s off-the-clock employees. By then, most of the Saturday night crowd had already moved on, leaving only Cliff’s regular clientele: some college kids, a couple bikers, but mostly just a bunch of old guys that wanted to drink quietly at the bar and be left alone. Those were Cliff’s favorite kind of people. He kept their glasses full and they kept to themselves. They were the perfect patrons.

Then there was the Munson kid.

“Hey…” Eddie came up to the bar and started drumming his hands on the counter. “Just outta curiosity, who do you have up next?”

“Nobody,” Cliff said while he cleaned the soda gun. “Nobody else signed up.”

“Interesting,” said Eddie. He reached into his pocket and slammed two twenty-dollar bills on the counter. “How much time will that get me?”

Cliff glanced at the meager offering. “Five minutes.”

“Five minutes?” God, that greedy bastard. Eddie threw his head back and groaned an all-too-familiar groan. “C’mon, man, I’m trying to impress a girl here.”

In response, Cliff pressed his massive palms onto the counter, leaned forward, and gave Eddie an intense, unblinking stare.

“You’re trying to impress a girl?”

“Yep.”

“That girl?”

“Mhm.”

Cliff exhaled deeply through his nose. “Okay, kid, lemme tell you a little something about that girl. She comes in here every Tuesday just to watch your shitty band play shitty music. When you guys suck, she gives me hell for it. She says I need to invest in a better sound system.”

“Well,” Eddie muttered under his breath, “you do need a better sound system. That thing’s a piece of shit.”

Cliff arched his eyebrow, daring him to continue. Eddie waved his hands in surrender and stopped talking.

“What I’m saying is… I dunno how the hell you did it, kid, but clearly you’ve already done enough to impress her.”

Cliff’s words sank in deep, making Eddie’s heart feel warm and full. He leaned against the bar and observed you for a moment, while you sat and sipped your drink at the table (and probably, secretly, tried to tie a few cherry stems with your tongue, just to see if you could do it). Then he turned back to Cliff with a huge smile.

“Yeah, but I still kinda wanna do it, so…” Eddie placed his finger on the stack of paper bills and slid it further across the counter. “How much?”

Cliff sighed and slapped his hand over the cash. “Okay, Romeo, you’ve got twenty minutes.”

Eddie pumped his fist in victory, spun around, and went marching back to your table.

“Hey,” he said once he reached you, “wanna be my roadie?”

Your eyes were skeptical, but also curious. “Sure.”

And now Eddie was dragging the guitar strap over his head while you sat on the stage with your legs dangling over the edge, barefooted, your heels resting beside you. He switched on his amp and reached into his back pocket, pulling out yet another plastic guitar pick. It thrummed gently against the steel strings as he played a few random chords, making sure his instrument was still in tune.

“Just out of curiosity,” you said, “how many guitar picks do you have on you at any given time?”

“Uhh, at least two,” Eddie replied with his head bent over his guitar. “Yeah, never know when I’m gonna need one.”

“Right,” you said, “I guess you never know when someone’s gonna ask you to bust out a wicked guitar solo.”

Eddie chuckled a little at that. “Well, it hasn’t happened yet, but…” He looked over at you and smiled a sweet smile. “All right, crazy, name your song.”

“Any song?”

“Any song.”

Wow, talk about pressure. You clapped your hands together and brought them to your lips in thought.

And you thought.

And you thought.

And you thought some more.

Finally, after a minute of silence, Eddie leaned over and said, “Okay, remember we’ve only got twenty minutes here.”

“Fifteen now,” Cliff hollered from the bar, and Eddie gave you a look that said, Hurry up.

“Okay, okay,” you said. “Ummm… Oh—”

“Can’t do ‘Free Bird.’”

Your mouth snapped shut, and you frowned. “Why? You can’t play it?”

“No,” said Eddie, a little insulted by your accusation. “No, I can definitely play it. Easily, actually. I’m just not allowed to play it. That’s the problem.” He started scratching his chin, a nostalgic smile consuming his face. “See, uhhh, when I first learned that song, I played it nonstop for like three weeks straight, drove everyone here crazy… so, yeah, if I play that song right now, Cliff’s gonna throw us both out.”

You laughed. “Okay, then—”

“Same goes for ‘Stairway to Heaven.’”

“Wow,” you said. “Way to ruin every good guitar song for me, Munson.”

“Hey, trust me, there are plenty of better guitar songs out there. You just have terrible taste in music.”

“I do not have terrible taste in music!”

“Well, your favorite band’s Journey, so…”

You made a sharp, stabbing motion with your finger. “Hey, watch it, pal. If you’re gonna turn this into another Journey hatefest, then I’m just gonna…” but you couldn’t bring yourself to finish that sentence, not while Eddie was staring at you like that, his eyes practically sparkling under the stage lights.

You turned around and laid your hands on your lap. Then, after a brief moment of careful deliberation, you said, “I wanna hear ‘Hotel California,’ and I want you to put some soul into it, Munson.”

When Eddie didn’t answer, you looked over your shoulder and saw him rubbing the back of his neck in contemplation.

You sighed, dejected. “What, you’re not allowed to play that song, either?”

Eddie shook his head. “No, no… just, uhhh, gimme a second, okay? It’s been a couple years since I played that one.”

He put his guitar pick between his lips and thought hard about it for a moment, humming the melody under his breath, miming the chord progressions with his fingers until they felt just right. Once he finally had it, he took the pick out of his mouth and positioned it over the strings.

“Okay,” he said to you, “get ready.”

“Oh, I’m ready,” you said… and your mouth fell open as soon as Eddie strummed the first chord, his fingers gliding effortlessly across the strings.

The slow, haunting twang of his electric guitar sent chills down your spine and made your skin prickle with goosebumps. All of a sudden, you were twelve again, sitting alone in a dark and crowded auditorium while some strange boy played a terrible cover of Judas Priest’s “Rock Forever.”

The kid sucked. God, did he suck. And, worst of all, he didn’t even seem to realize it. He was playing like he was the headlining act on a rock ‘n’ roll tour, like everyone in the audience had paid hundreds of dollars just to watch him perform. You could hardly contain your laughter. It was cracking you up all night: while Chrissy’s dad drove you home, while you gave your parents a painfully descriptive play-by-play in the living room, while you tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep because you couldn’t stop thinking about that hilariously awful performance.

Except by then you weren’t laughing anymore. You were too busy picturing that boy’s face, and his eyes… mostly his eyes… those deep, deep brown eyes, the brownest eyes you had ever seen. Every time he played his guitar, they took on this focused yet far-off look, like he was a million miles away.

Those deep, distant brown eyes left you speechless even now.

“Wow, Munson,” you said when he was finished, “you’re like my own personal jukebox.”

It was a silly throwaway joke, not even remotely funny, but for some reason it made Eddie stop everything he was doing and stare at you for a moment, his eyes dazed and blinking, as if he suddenly couldn’t remember where he was.

“What?” you said.

“Uhh, nothing,” Eddie replied, “just a little déjà vu, I guess.”

He gave his head a couple quick shakes and raised his guitar again, his movements awkward and clumsy as his hands struggled to find their natural grip. “Uhh… next song? This one’ll probably be the last, so think carefully, okay? You really gotta make this one count.”

“Okay,” you said, but you already knew what song you were choosing. Yeah, you had made that decision about four nights ago when Cliff cruelly pulled the plug on Eddie’s Tuesday night performance.

You stole one glimpse of his shirt and said with the brightest smile, “‘Prowler’ - Iron Maiden.”

Eddie closed his eyes and sighed deeply, blissfully, then turned to you with an adoring look on his face.

“You’re welcome,” you said. “Have fun, sir.”

You were both smiling as you and Eddie left the bar together, the night sky hovering high above you, twinkling with a thousand stars.

Eddie carried his guitar and his amp and hauled them into his van. Then he reached back for the small bundle of cords you held in your arms.

“So, did you have a good time?” he asked.

“I did,” you said. “Yeah, it’s always fun pissing off Cliff.”

“Yeah…” Eddie glanced back at you. “Yeah, he’s a good guy.”

Then he pulled the sliding door closed and leaned against it, staring at you with a gentle expression that made your heart speed up a little. You wondered when Eddie was going to make a move. You wondered if he was going to make a move. You wondered if you were being too presumptuous in assuming that he was going to make a move. Then you wondered if you were wondering about this too much and finally slumped down beside him, your back squeaking against the filthy van door.

“Shit,” you said, “I definitely just got this jacket dirty.”

You peeled away from the van and turned around, guiltily displaying your back to Eddie. 

“Is it bad?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”

Great, you thought, and leaned against the van again.

“I’ll pay to have it dry cleaned.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Eddie said. “I’ll take all the blame… Yeah, I don’t want Wayne hating you before he even meets you.”

And that made you grin—a stupid, happy grin.

“I think he’ll really like you, by the way.”

You looked up at him in surprise. “Really?”

“No,” Eddie replied dully. “No, he'll definitely think you're annoying.”

For that, you clobbered his shoulder with your fist. Eddie absorbed the blow, laughing as he did.

“God, always so violent,” he said, pretending to rub the pain out of his shoulder. “You know, if you’re looking for an excuse to touch me, you can just…”

Eddie closed his mouth and looked away, then started pensively clucking his tongue behind his teeth: click, cluck, click, cluck.

The sound reminded you of a ticking clock steadily counting down the minutes.

One-o-eight.

One-o-nine.

One-ten.

The night was finally nearing its end. Now you and Eddie were standing at a literal and metaphorical crossroads, its intersection marked with a tiny green sign. It sat smugly on a rusted metal pole and presented you with two options: you could keep going straight down Main Street or make a sharp right turn onto Oak.

Main Street was the logical and more dependable choice. The road was recently paved and brightly lit, dotted with all kinds of trees, flowers, shrubs, and these cozy little wooden benches that sat so neatly on the freshly cut grass. It was a nice road, a scenic road, a road that gradually led onto Cherry Street, then Maple Street, and finally, safely, brought you to your house. You and Eddie would sit in his van for a few minutes, enjoying the awkward yet wonderful silence, and then he would lean across the seat and give you a kiss—a chaste, gentleman’s kiss.

All in all, not a bad way to end prom night. In fact, you thought it sounded rather romantic.

Sweet.

Innocent.

Then there was the other street: Oak Street. Oak, with that hard, hard K. You couldn’t see all the way down that street, not from where you were standing, but you knew it eventually turned into Cornwallis. And you knew Cornwallis… yeah, you knew that road very well. That road was older, cracked and covered with potholes. It was the road where your tire had blown out while you were driving back from a party at Sattler’s Quarry. You and Chrissy had to hike a mile to Benny’s Burgers and ask Benny to borrow his phone. And the whole time you kept thinking, I’m never, ever driving on this road again.

Yeah, Cornwallis was a bad road, a dangerous road. It went on for miles and miles, winding through steep hills and giant pockets of dark, dense forest. And if you weren’t very careful, you might accidentally… inevitably… make a wrong turn and find yourself flying straight down Kerley Road.

… towards the Forest Hills Trailer Park.

Oh shit, you thought. That is a very tempting road.

You sucked in a shaky breath as your knees trembled with indecision.

Meanwhile, Eddie had pushed off the side of the van and went reaching into his pocket for his keys.

“It’s getting late,” he said, his voice husky with regret. “I should probably—”

You put your hand on Eddie’s heart and felt it jump at your touch.

“I don’t wanna go home,” you said, “not yet.”

Eddie’s eyes widened for a second, then softened with a warm, hazy glow. He leaned into your palm, into you, and murmured against your lips,  

“I don’t wanna take you home.” 

⏩ part two

DWM MASTERPOST

MASTERLIST

[icannotpickanamewtf]

ᴛᴡɪsᴛᴇᴅ ɴᴇʀᴠᴇs (PT. 2)

EVAN PETERS AHS x READER

SUMMARY: 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖫𝖠 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌. 𝖠 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅, 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗒𝗉𝗌𝖾, 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐…𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾.

Chapter Focus: Kai Anderson x Reader

🚨WARNINGS: 𝖠𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖧𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒, 𝖮𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖬𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖢𝗎𝗅𝗍, 𝖱𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝖲𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝖾𝗍𝖼…

You officially decide that Michigan is a complete bust. 

As soon as the plane landed and you’d made your way out of baggage claim, you were hit by a blasting cold. 

Is it possible for someone to shit out a block of ice? 

You had to pile on coat after coat, your grey fleece detective jacket rested on top of your layers. 

The service was awful, the people acted like NPC’s, and overall, your first impression was a 3/10. 

You held your suitcase and bags in one hand as you rung up your phone to call for an Uber, your motel was right outside Brookfield Heights but far enough so you wouldn’t run into any possible suspects while you were off-duty. 

After making a pit stop at an overpriced airport cafe for some mid-afternoon coffee, you hurriedly rushed to the front exit once you got a message from your Uber Driver that they’d arrived. 

The car was a silver chevy and was low to the ground, it had just barely enough room for your three bags in the trunk, but you were grateful nonetheless. 

An older man sat in the drivers seat and his grey hairs were slicked back to expose his wrinkled forehead. He seemed pretty jolly the whole ride to your motel, until you mentioned Brookfield Heights. 

“It ain’t the town for a vacation, that’s for sure.” Was all you managed to get after your numerous questions, clearly the news about Kai had followed all of Michigan and haunted the witnessing residents. 

The drive was mostly quiet after besides the Christian-pop that subtly played over the rusty car speaker, you resided to staring out the window. 

‘Welcome to Brookfield Heights!’ decorated the bright green sign outside of the ghost town. Trees flew past the window as you tried your best to absorb your surroundings.

The more you knew the better.

You’d already spent weeks holed up in your office studying the towns layout, from each fire-hydrant to large corporations and events. 

Fall had come in full swing, leaves were brown and the grass shook from the chilly breeze. 

The barren farmland and empty fields soon turned into old buildings and little country-side stores. If you weren’t investigating a cultist, you’d have thought it was a cute little town. 

The driver, whom you noticed you forgot to ask for his name, pulled over when your run down motel entered your sight. 

The older gentleman unlocked the doors and said his farewell to you as you left the Honda Civic. It felt weird to have both feet on the ground after traveling for so long, but it did absolute wonders to finally have some fresh air. 

The Honda Civic closed the doors from behind you and the Christian-pop faded in the distance as the car rolled out of the motel parking lot, leaving you to face your soon-to-be home for the next few months.

The motel’s sign was barely hanging on for dear life, the walls had chipped yellow-ish paint, and the doors were falling off their hinges. It was practically invisible amongst all the regal and historical hotels that littered Brookfield. It was perfect. 

You grabbed your small suitcase by the handle and made your way to the check in, a little hut outside of the motel. Your luggage bounced from the rickety cement and overgrown weeds, but your grip kept it from flopping over. 

The door to the check in creaked from the force of your palm, screaming in age as you stepped inside the small room. 

The floor was a dark mahogany, a vending machine ran brightly to your left with miscellaneous snacks, and dust covered the few chairs that lined up on the wall to your right. But the main attraction, was the older woman standing behind the reception desk in front of you. 

She had red curly hair, down to her shoulders, and her eyes sagged with exhaustion. Her skin could be compared to a sickly green but the bright red lipstick she adorned made you think that it was a thick application of make up. 

Oh, and the resting bitch face. Yep, you were definitely going to enjoy this woman’s presence. 

“Uh–Hello, I’m here to check in for a room?” You had made your way up to the counter, standing awkwardly in front of the woman who continued to apply the same bright red color of her lips to her fingernails. This made you half-ponder when was the last time you painted your own nails. 

The woman’s crooked name tag read “Louise” as she blatantly ignored your attempt at interacting. Louise barely even looked up to meet your eyes as she slowly turned to grab what you assumed as your room key from behind her. 

Louise spoke with a know-it-all tone, a snide grin lit up her features, “There. No parties. No dealing before seven A.M. and no fucking past eight.”

Part of wondered why she announced the last rule like it was a pointed remark at you, but the other half of you knew exactly what she was trying to get at.

Fortunately for her, you hated confrontation in these situations. 

You were also jet-lagged as all hell. 

So you just kept your mouth shut and dragged your deranged detective ass out the check in door and to the stairs that led to your room. 

The key read “17B” indicating it was on the second floor and almost all the way on the other side. The wooden stairs wobbled under your feet and you almost thought they would completely give out, but you carried your suit case all the way up the two-flights of stairs. 

When you made it to your room, you haphazardly threw your clothes into one of the drawers (locking the door and moving the chain above it) and practically collapsed onto the old bed. It was fairly small for a motel room, and the same yellow paint donned the walls but with a 80’s pattern of lines and crescents. 

You laid with your back on the mattress, feeling all the lumps and creaky springs underneath. 

It was quiet in the room. 

It’s not that you weren’t used to quiet. 

But this time, you were completely alone. Your leather shoes felt heavy on your feet, and you could sense that a migraine was well on its way to your skull. 

You were so fucking tired. 

But you had a cultist to expose, lives were at stake, you couldn’t just sit here and rest.

A dark corner of your mind infested with guilt shunned you for thinking that you could possibly deserve the comfort of a bed. Or the comfort of a job. 

Or the fact your alive–

“Fuck this.” You stood quickly and shrugged off your large trench coat, opting to brace the cold and sit down in the shaky chair in front of the wooden desk the laid in front of the bed. You flung open your laptop and spread out your papers. 

A room temperature energy drink that you packed found its way in your hands as you typed away. 

You didn’t sleep at all that night. 

———————

Morning came slowly, and with it a fresh pair of deep circles engraved themselves under your eyes. 

But with morning, came more opportunities to explore. 

You freshened up, applied some dry-shampoo and washed your face, before heading out to explore Brookfield. 

You had to get a sense of your surroundings in person, online maps and insane amounts of internet research could barely compare to being able to experience the real thing. 

Your trench coat sagged on your shoulders, but without it, the fall-chill would’ve given you a cold so you tiredly walked your way into town. Your bag with your laptop, recording device, and USB drive sat heavily on your shoulder. 

You easily mixed into the crowd of locals, sneakily taking time to take pictures with your phone of the posters of Kai Anderson that popped up every now and then. 

All of which had “FEAR” written in at least one sentence, you’d think he’d be more subtle but it was almost like he was trying to get more negative attention than positive. 

Hm. Weird. 

After about an hour of just walking around and exploring Brookfield Heights, your lack of sleep caught up to you. So you decided it was time to get a nice something to eat and a whole lot of espresso. 

Thankfully, there was a tiny cafe near the Butchery that was owned by the victim of a majority of Kai Andersons harassment, Ally Mayfair-Richards. 

You glanced back at the restaurant before making your way into the little cafe, the warm scent of coffee and scones filled your nose at your entrance. The cold chill turned warm and you were finally able to take off your coat. 

It was quaint but reminded you of a cabin in the woods with their wooden accents and architecture on the inside. It was a nice comparison to the modernized celeb hubs in LA. 

There were few people inside, all were seated and kept to themselves. You quietly stepped up to the counter, deciding to order a large black coffee with four shots of espresso, and a blueberry muffin to nibble on while you worked. 

The teenager behind the counter smiled at you before preparing your order, there were only two people working but they seemed eager. 

Did they feel the impact of what was happening around them? Were they in his cult? What would happen the the kids if Kai Anderson succeeded? 

Would it be your fault–

Again, your thoughts were cut off as the teenager handed you your drink and treat. Allowing the person behind you to place their own order after you paid. 

Wait, person behind you? 

You didn’t even notice the man that had made his way to the line, becoming the sixth customer inside the shop. 

When you backed away from the counter, you were able to soak in his appearance. 

Kai. Fucking. Anderson. 

You pretended to find a seat and load up your laptop, but sweat pooled at the back of your neck. 

What if he caught you? What if he busted you? 

You had to act normal. Like it was a regular day in Brookfield Heights, and you were just a local getting some coffee. 

You sipped anxiously at your caffeinated monster of black coffee as you subtly analyzed his appearance. 

The cultist wore a black beanie, letting his oily blue hair dangle freely. His sweater was black, his shirt was black, his pants were black, and he wore black combat boots. 

Was he trying to scream out that he was some kind of villain? 

What was this guys fucking problem? 

You knew he was on adderall and taking an inhumanly sized dose, but god, so much for inconspicuous killer. 

But eventually you realized that if you didn’t have all the information you collected on this little town, you would’ve just thought it was a regular guy with eccentric style. 

He ordered a large cinnamon latte, extra espresso with no whipped cream and low-fat milk. He poured one creamer and no sugar. 

He carried his own papers and phone in one hand, while collecting his drink in the other. Kai Anderson walked over to the table right next to yours and sat down, scrolling aimlessly while taking notes? You couldn’t get a clear shot of what he was writing. 

So, you were literally sitting in the same space as a serial killer and cultist. Life was great!

You managed to get away with a few more glances before exiting out of your tabs, all of which had extreme dirt on Kai, and opened a decoy word document that looked like boring tax papers. 

You pretended to work on fucking taxes for twenty minutes without interacting with him at all, until Kai stood up from his chair (the only way you could tell was from the chair sliding against the floor) and sat in front of you. 

You barely looked up from your laptop until he fully made himself comfortable in front of you, propping his arms on the table and staring directly at you. 

Sometimes you wondered if fate had it out for you. 

“Hey.” Kai cleared his throat, which indicated that you should probably stop ignoring the elephant in the room and look up at him. 

In doing so, you got a clear glance at his face. Little bits of stubble decorated his cheeks, and his eyes were wide as they looked at you. 

“Oh, Hi?” The silence was much better than talking, but this guy would probably slit your throat if you didn’t respond. 

You tilted your head a little in faux innocence as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

Kai seemed to fall for your act completely, “Are you new around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” 

Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck–

TO BE CONTINUED.

[digitally-imagined]

A song about being a plural system.

Lyrics:

[Intro] hey hey there stop before yah shop i think yah better know whats about to drop before we swap do yah got the chops? we're'n enigma fight the stigma im about to pop

[Chorus] we are we are we are not just me you'll come to see if our mind is free

we are we are we are not just me a system of three and a few more at least

[Verse] A mind is something vast an' heavy A life's a levy Get in my chevy we're a bevy of people tryna be It's so unfair Don't mind to share But as they stare easily scare feel like this world a foreign lair I'm a fawner I'm a goner On my honor better watcha when we spawnah They not calmer- a marathoner yawner The baddest cat gonna be your embalmer Or maybe Simon say you aint worth the brawlah He's my fuckin' rock I know I'm not a lot Don't put him on the clock livin' ain't a job J-cat's the jock they won't be mocked Part of the flock on meta's block they'll make yah squack

[Chorus] we are we are we are not just me you'll come to see if our mind is free

we are we are we are not just me a system of three and a few more at least

[Verse] Inside us see we are a sea but there agree To be's the key- I hope we'll all be free oh gods I plea Don't gawk, body's a dock, I watch you like a hawk We must unlock as time tik toks the fringe i'll stalk I'll be ready to knock But as I stand upon the falls don't got the balls to break these walls I'm just so small all of my faults I keep recalled We're'n enigma fight the stigma disrespect then you can ligmah Can you countem- it's Alpha Beta Sigma Do yah getcha? Life's a bleak streak and I'm weak but I'll speak a little freak You can take a peek if you don't like it you can squeak

[Chorus] we are we are we are not just me you'll come to see if our mind is free

we are we are we are not just me you'll come to see if our mind is free

we are we are we are not just me a system of three and a few more at least

[thedoze1223]

My project car, 1952 Plymouth Cranbrook custom. Chopped, shaved, lowered, nosed, decked, frenched headlights, floating grill, custom metal work, lake pipes, small block Chevy V8. More to come.

[roe-and-memory]

at some point, when he runs out of projects to work on and things to fix, lightning mcqueen takes on the brilliant idea of getting a late model car. what better is there to do in the middle of the week than get out racing — again.

he runs races in kingman at the local track, towing his car on a trailer behind his good ol’ 75’ chevy k10.

its familiar for him. he used to race these cars, he used to race against young drivers and old drivers alike — sometimes, he even got a chance to race against real cup drivers. those were the coolest days of his life at the time.

he recalls the victories and the championships he won in his years as a super late model racer, the only childhood pictures he has being the ones from when he was 15-17 that hang on the wall of macks truck with such intense pride. the idea brings him nostalgia, and the very real realization that he can afford to build a new one — his old one sitting comfortably in the rusteze racing museum — and, since hes done working on his truck, he has all the time in the off season to waste.

his first order of business is a chat with rusty and dusty to work out a sponsor deal.

rusty and dusty are excited at the idea, but being a primary sponsor IS expensive.. so, they tell him that they’d be willing to partner with tex to work out some sort of team and dual primary situation. they KNOW tex has always wanted to sponsor lightning, so why cant he do it now on his lower league car?

tex is delighted by this idea. he gives lightning funds to build the car, as well as works with rusteze to make a middle ground, hot paint scheme that’ll ignite the track and catch everyones eye.

once he has all the materials, his second order of business is putting everything together.

having been his own mechanic for quite a while before his radiator springs racing team came in, he knows the inside and outside of his car like the back of his hand. with minimal instructions, hes got the chassis and frame together in less than a week.

he never told doc about any of this — so imagine the mans surprise when he steps into his garage one morning, lightning is still asleep inside, and he finds the skeleton of a brand new racecar propped up on a bunch of cinder blocks.

he interrogates lightning, finally getting a confession of ‘oh, right…. uhhh wanna be my crew chief in a second series now?’, and he agrees. he helps lightning build the car too, happy father-son bonding time as they discuss what this kind of racing would look like as doc isnt too familiar. when theyre done, ramone paints her, and she’s ready to be entered in a race.

tex essentially covered the entire cost of the car itself, all lightning has to do is pay the small fee of entering it into the local track and everything is settled..

these races turn into a sort of therapy for him. he can race without all the big crowds, and he can have more personal connections with fans this way. it brings the track in kingman more publicity.

lightning is LOVED by the owners of the track. he decides it’d be in his best interest to do autograph signings and fan days there, bringing the track more publicity and more funding — cause all money from these events goes right to them.

aside from that, lightning also cant find it fair for him, a cup driver, to be racing against younger people and teams that arent as wealthy.. each win he gets there results in donation of the money.

sometimes he gives the money to second or third place finishers/their team, depending on who wants it. other times, he donates the winnings to the 50/50 raffle right before its called and he ups the pool — hell, sometimes he’ll just straight up donate the money to a local charity or school. on some random and perhaps slightly rare occasions he gives the money back to the track. its nothing against them, obviously, but he donates a ton already and he thinks other people should get chances — and they completely understand.

the only thing he would ever keep from these wins are his trophies, and even if he doesnt run ever race or he doesnt win every race, being able to get trophies reminiscent of those from his beginnings in the sport brings a smile to his face.

but… imagine one race he just gets Walled. it’s bad. his car is fucked and suddenly the world is spinning — as his car rolls down onto the apron of the track and the caution lights come on, he makes a poor attempt at crawling out of the car. its ends up with him half-sprawled across the pavement trying to remove his helmet and firesuit, racecars going by at a still high speed just meters away from his head.

it sucks, its stupid — the impact broke a bone in his knee and hip that he’d already experiences issues with from a past crash from a similar situation.. he doesnt wanna admit hes hurt, so, he avoids as much contact with medical services and doc, and just insists he’ll walk off the godawful limp hes fighting with — the one sending shudders and tremors through his whole body with each new step he takes — and he wants to fix his car.

this secrecy cant last long, obviously.. i cant imagine what a piston cup race would do to him that same weekend.