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tryskomys · 11 months ago

Text

Wet Sand

Stone Gossard x OC

Chapter 1 - River

Summary: He was a punk, she did...punk. Can I make it any more obvious?

masterlist

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Notes: but tryskomys, I hear you say, you have two unfinished fanfictions and you’re just going to pull a non-existent sixth member of one of the most influential bands of all time out of your ass? and my answer is yes. i am about to do that. i hope that this can be read even if you're not aware/a fan of this type of music. maybe i can convert you, though? give it a try, it might win your heart over. i'd be honoured if it was through my story. (more notes at the end)

tw: swear words, flirting skills of a 9 year-old. cheesy meet-cute. like, rom-com style stinky cheese. hope you'll like it!

songs:

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1987, December

It’s late.

Probably already dark outside, the basement didn’t have any windows so there was no way to tell. Not that it mattered anyway, winter seemed to feast on seasonal depression so it made the sun go down even before it could properly rise above the horizon of the Seattle skyline.

She was grasping at straws though, looking for any excuse to bail. Excuse for herself, that is.

This was your idea, idiot. Sit and observe the local wildlife, you said. Serves you right.

She winced at her internal self-scolding as she looked around the room, scratching her forehead uncomfortably. It should be illegal to have this many people in one place. It just doesn’t seem right.

The human species has evolved from herd behaviour, but it seems like bars are a lingering relic of those times. Like a pocket universe where anything goes. A window to the past. Especially the mating calls.

She allowed herself to break the edgy facade she cemented on her freckled face and grinned, hiding the smug expression by taking a swig of the stale beer that she’d been sipping for the last hour.

A couple of teenagers, definitely not old enough to be in a bar, just walked - stumbled by. Their tongues were so far up each other’s throats that they probably reached into their eye sockets, too.

She managed to lift the lukewarm bottle of Budweiser just as they crashed into her table, minimalizing the spillage to a tiny puddle. They didn’t even seem to notice the collision, instead awkwardly taking a beeline to the restrooms.

Bless their hearts.

She snorted and wiped the liquid with the hem of her blue sweatshirt before cuffing the sleeves. There were many more odd couples similarly lost in their little worlds, some of them more one-sided than others. Her eyes scanned the line of people standing in front of the counter, either waiting for their drinks or simply chatting.

A surfer dude with a barely visible 5 o'clock shadow trying to woo a short brunette who seemed to be too drunk to realize he’s clumsily trying to slip a pill into her drink. Thankfully she seemed to be quite infatuated with his greasy blonde hair and wouldn’t look away no matter how hard he tried to bait her. In the end, her friend came up and dragged her away, leaving the guy to sit there like a lost kid.

All is fair in love and war my ass. Good riddance, prick.

The girl rubbed her eye and softly cursed when it stung. She forgot she had eyeliner on but it was already smudged, mixing with the purple circles under her eyes.

The bar was definitely going overboard with the heating, trying to make up for the coldness emanating from the brick walls, abused by the snowy breeze outside. The herd factor didn’t contribute to making the place more breathable either.

She took another gulp of her beer, pulling a disgusted grimace as the stale liquid moved down her throat. Her gaze moved to another group of people at the bar.

Two girls, one very tall and the other trying to make up for her average height with big heels, talking to a fairly good-looking guy who just seemed to enjoy the attention.

There was no way she could hear them from this distance, but the body language was a clear giveaway that they were trying to one-up each other, one outfit more colourful than the other, showing all the peacock feathers that matter to a guy like that - pompous, in a tight shirt and permed hair teased as far as they could go. She even felt like she could smell his nauseating pine cologne.

Oh, a little bandana too. Cute. Crawled right out of a Mötley video.

She snorted again, wiping a drop of beer that ran down her chin as she moved to the next couple. One of the lone strings of artificial light was pointing there, making it seem a lot more dramatic than it needed to be. Like a Renaissance painting.

She was just about to study the scene but her eyes flickered next to them at the sound of a shot glass breaking against the floor. She rested her back against the hard wall, welcoming the stingy sensation of the cold stone.

Ha, stone, what a grounding word.

Stone, stone.

My kingdom for a stone…

She sang a little melody in her head before frowning.

“What the fuck?” she whispered to scold herself again, wondering if there are any brain cells left in her brain, considering they seemed to be rapidly dying due to the lack of oxygen in the room.

She realized she truly might not have much to work with at this point because she was starting to see colours that definitely weren’t there.

Is that a fluffy pink scrunchie?

The pair consisted of what seemed to be another mating ritual, but this time, she couldn’t get a read on the situation. At all. She just couldn’t concentrate, all her senses were fixated on that one scrunchie wrapped around a high ponytail.

She studied the flowing hair that cascaded around it. Long, a little wavy. Soft, considering they had an unnatural red tint near the ends, probably courtesy of a bad dye job.

Too soft. Unfairly soft.

She blinked a few times and squinted, unable to make out the face they belonged to as he was facing the bar, his shoulders shaking with a laugh. Broad shoulders. Angular.

She realized he was towering over most of the bar and wondered if he was really that tall or if it was just the phosphorescent scrunchie standing out like a black eye. She caught a glimpse of his hand as he moved his lanky arm to pat the blond girl next to him on the back, almost condescendingly. An unusual gesture for a mating ritual.

The blondie, courtesy of peroxide, was pretty tall as well, but his huge hand seemed to take up a bizarre amount of length of her torso.

The sagacious watcher darted her eyes from knuckle to knuckle, trying to count them as if she were making sure he didn’t have any extras. No, they were just very long. And elegant.

When she reached his fourth finger, graced with a simple silver ring, the hand disappeared into his back pocket, awkwardly sticking out as it didn’t really fit. She chewed on her lip to contain another smug grin.

Good riddance. That’s what you get for wearing tight jeans, you beanpole. Might as well wear stockings next time.

She quickly turned her attention the room again when she realized she held her gaze on his ass for way too long to pass it as simply observing the locals. Her breath seemed to hitch in her throat, so she sipped a bit of her beer to ground herself in the murky depths of socialization.

Hm. Grounding. My kingdom for a stone…

This time she visibly shook her head and a blush crept up her jawline, perplexed by the way her brain ridiculed her. And the image of the guy’s fingers burned behind her eyelids like a cruel brand.

They would look great wrapped around the neck. Of a Les Paul. The neck of a Les Paul. Not a Strat, that one is not thick enough for them. Fuck.

She looked again, this time he was facing the tall blondie next to him so she get a little peek at his face. She didn’t want to, though. The hand was enough. Somehow her head screamed at her to look away, to find a different object of attention, just not this stupid beanpole. She couldn’t help it. The overly dramatic lighting hit the angles of his face just too perfectly not to look.

His forehead was quite prominent. His nose too, true aquiline shape. And a sharp jawline, clenching from time to time when he chuckled at something the blondie said.

Like a Roman statue.

She chewed on her lip again, this time a bit more harshly to silence her stained thoughts. She wasn’t sure about the rest of his face as the lighting only illuminated the most noticeable parts, but she could tell he had a very unusual kind of attraction.

Look anywhere else but his face. Or hair, or ass. Come on, there must be somewhere else.

She hyped herself up to leave his Roman nose alone and her eyes were already involuntarily falling back down his body, but this time she stopped at his torso. She sucked her teeth, trying to hide an amused smirk.

A white t-shirt, sleeves rolled up a bit. And a vest. Not just any vest. It was this grotesque mix of velvet, crochet and patchwork fabric, all sorts of different colours.

Really? With that scrunchie? Decadent.

She would’ve thought it was some sort of a bizarre Seattle trend if he wasn’t the only one wearing that. Somehow, it looked perfect on him, though. It hung from his slender shoulders like he was born with it, beaming under the sliver of light like one of those colourful kaleidoscopes kids buy in scammy souvenir shops. It must’ve been the way he was carrying himself.

He had this smug confidence around him, that was all she could make out. Otherwise, he was unreadable. Unlike the other guys around the bar, cool and unbothered.

Like a stone wall.

This time, her brain didn’t sing a stupid tune. She was too fixated on the way his nose scrunched whenever he broke into a smirk, raising his eyebrows as the blondie tried to articulate something. She was clearly trying to play it cool but ended up being flustered instead. He seemed to bask in it, though.

Figures that a beanpole with a scrunchie would be amused by some poor girl’s advances.

He does seem like he’s kinda into it, though. The way he bites his lip from time to time gives it away. And he’s definitely standing way too close to her.

She was so caught up in her crass analysis that she didn’t notice that the guy turned to face the room, leaned his palm against the wooden bar and scanned the crowd with a dissociated gaze. She thought she started seeing strange colours again when her vision blurred in a green haze. It took her a split second before she realized he was looking right at her.

The green was his eyes. Huge, protruding eyes lined with the slightest hint of eyeliner.

Shit.

Her head snapped to the restroom door, trying to avert her attention to anything else but the fact that she had been caught gawking at a stranger across a bar. The sudden motion made her neck cramp, so she reached up and poked it as nonchalantly as possible.

Very subtle.

Her eyes started wandering away from the restroom sign and she tried to not repeat her mistake. But he just stuck out of the crowd, with that stupid scrunchie and that stupid nose. It was like waving a diamond ring in front of a magpie.

Her hopeless gaze just ended up on him again. She was taken aback when she found that the glowing green didn’t move.

This time, he was the one to dart away when their eyes met, rapidly turning his attention to the blondie. He did it a lot more gracefully than her, but she couldn’t help but grin when he clumsily rubbed his neck.

She caught a glimpse of the tiniest crack in his composed facade before he brushed a stray hair away from his face and tucked it behind his ear. He leaned his elbow on the bar, coolness wrapping him around once again.

Strike one.

She could still see in her peripheral that he was looking around the room and she subconsciously followed his suit, like yawning when someone else does.

It didn’t take too long before their line of sight crossed again, this time they both knew better than to lock themselves in an unescapable staring contest and looked away before anyone could classify it as anything else but a coincidence.

Strike two.

She catastrophically failed at containing the smile that appeared on her face, quickly taking a sip of her beer to hide it in case he happened to look at her again.

The beer was getting warmer and warmer and that made the bitterness overwhelming, so the grin was exchanged for the typical nose scrunch grimace you do when you drink something that used to have bubbles in it.

The momentary lapse in attention caused her to involuntarily shoot him another look, but he was already studying her face with a lopsided smirk dancing on his lips. His eyes stayed the same, but somehow she felt the smile changed his demeanour.

Strike three.

He seemed to soundlessly tut and slowly shook his head as if he was deeply disappointed that she was making faces while drinking alcohol like a child.

Before she could stop herself, she mockingly repeated his grin and then stuck out her tongue at him.

Like a child. 5th grade flirting, very mature.

He closed his eyes for a second to compose himself and then turned back to the blondie next to him, unsuccessfully trying to hide a toothy smile with a gulp of beer, just like she did minutes ago.

If she could deck herself in the face, she would do it in a heartbeat. She would deck him as well for the tasteless taunt. She rolled her eyes at her own immaturity, but it was simply a knee-jerk reaction to his mischievous expression.

Pavlov’s beanpole.

She didn’t see that grin on his face when he was talking to the blondie. She couldn’t decide if that was a particularly good thing. The suave factor was exchanged for playful sarcasm and she was wondering if it was insulting or not.

Is he insinuating that I’m not worthy of his coolness like Miss Fast Times over there?

She automatically tried to smooth her messy hair down, putting a stray curl behind her ear.

Pavlov’s beanpole.

The curl just bounced back, joining the unruly sea that lined her face. Not that his lack of interest would be a big surprise to her, considering the out-of-place look that she was sporting.

The mousy fawn colour of the mop of curls was contaminated by a similar grown-out red as his, the sectoral heterochromia tinted one of her otherwise brown eyes with a streak of blue.

The satanic-panic-defying t-shirt with a red dragon didn’t help much, either. How could she compete with a girl-next-door-all-American sweetheart when she’d look like a stray raccoon from The Shire next to her and Mr. Beanpole who’s a whole foot taller than her?

Thank god no one’s heard me speak, they would stone me for foreign espionage or some shit. That’s it. One last peek and go home.

Oh.

The scrunchie disappeared from her sight and so did the peroxide blond perm, leaving a gaping nothingness in the stream of warm light.

Good for you, sweetheart. It’s not like you had to try or anything.

The watcher rolled her eyes at her bitterness and emptied the rest of the bottle in her throat, downing it like it was a shot. Another twitch of the nose, now accompanied by a stifled cough.

See, that didn’t even hurt. The elders of Hackney would’ve been proud. Fucking lightweight.

That seemed to be enough for that night, so she rubbed her eyes again and tried to mentally prepare for squeezing through all those cheerful people. The bony fingers were still lurking behind her eyelids, now joined by a pair of cheeky olive eyes.

When the vigorous rubbing stopped, she blinked a few times to make sure she did open her eyes, because the hands were still there. Right in front of her, leaning against the table, each fully wrapped around a dewy beer bottle. She looked up. The eyes were there, too, exactly as sly as before. Only even bigger up close.

Jesus Christ.

"Figured you’d want something you wouldn’t choke on. Seems like I came exactly at the right moment.”

His voice was a lot deeper than she would’ve expected, nasal and smug. The smug part was, on the other hand, just as she’d imagined. It was irresistibly annoying.

Don’t be rude, don’t be rude, don’t…

“Did that line ever work out for you?”

Oh well.

His smirk grew even wider, scrunching his nose just as she’d noticed before. Very irresistible. A chuckle rumbled somewhere deep inside his chest. It sent a jolt through her whole body, she was taken aback by the way her limbs jerked at his command.

Pavlov’s beanpole.

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m trying to find out,” he chirped, raising his eyebrows when she didn’t chuckle. Irresistibly punchable face. She felt like she was under a microscope, those saucer eyes inspecting her every move.

His face was properly illuminated now that he leaned a bit closer, making all those angles even more prominent.

The nose looked softer somehow, almost elven, the scrunchie twinkled in all shades of pink. She noticed that he had two almost symmetrical freckles on each of his cheeks, as well as on both sides of his chin. A Roman statue sculpted with a protractor. He raised his eyebrows even higher, challenging her to respond.

��Earth to Baby? Who put you in a corner?” he mused, waving his obscenely long fingers in front of her eyes. Measuring her entire face.

Pavlov’s…fingers? Quick, say something witty.

“Budweiser tastes like piss.”

Nailed it.

His laugh rang in her ears. She caught a glimpse of his teeth, observing the sharp tips of his canines. Even his teeth would cause a papercut.

“Different strokes, different folks,” he retorted, shrugging. She mirrored his movement.

“I’m not into golden showers, sorry,” she shook her head, putting on a pitiful pout. He let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head.

“In that case, I’ll be on my way, milady.”

He bowed and dramatically spun around as if he were leaving. She chuckled, a sound that made him spin back and lean against the table again, this time even closer, with another irresistibly annoying smirk.

Jesus. Do you know the term 'personal space', mate?

She tried to convince herself that she minded by leaning back against the stone wall. It was like he could hear the wheels turning in her head, raising his eyebrows on cue with her inevitable train of thought.

My kingdom for a…

“Stone.”

Her eyes popped open.

What the fuck is this fever dream? Can he hear me?

“Pardon?” she choked out. He narrowed his eyes at her.

“That’s my name.”

Huh?

“Oh. I wish I could help you with that,” she blurted out, regretting it immediately when his eyes lost all cheerfulness.

If there was an encyclopaedia of human expressions, that would be the picture next to the definition of 'puppy eyes'.

Before she could say anything, he raised his eyebrows again and broke into a wide grin, the suave coolness back in its tracks.

“Oh my god, your face. Don’t cry, Baby, not for me.”

Fucking beanpole.

She rolled her eyes so hard she might’ve pulled a muscle, letting out a heavy huff when he giggled. His hair bounced off his shoulders as they shook, waving a strawberry shampoo scent in her direction. That was enough to make a wave of blood rush into her cheeks.

Cool down, fast.

“What a gentleman. Can’t resist a beer from such sophisticated hands,” she shrugged, hiding the way her throat knotted with a soft cough. He just nodded, handing her the bottle.

His fingers seemed to be everywhere, and when they brushed against hers, she could swear her eyes went fuzzy for a split second. He seemed to notice the contact too, quickly offering his bottle for a clink.

“Cheers, Baby.”

“Chin-chin, beanpole.”

He snorted at the nickname, taking a swig. She followed, welcoming the harsh bubbling sensation only a cold beverage can bring. He tapped his finger on the wooden table.

“Can I sit?”

“It’s the Land of the Free, mate. Be my guest,” she nodded, raising her eyebrows when he cursed under his breath with a chuckle.

“Don’t spoil me, I’ll blush,” he reached for an empty chair in the cubicle next to them and sat down opposite her.

He folded his arms, trying not to take up all space at the table. She didn’t feel any less overwhelmed though, as his eyes were still darting around her pale face, very occasionally blinking in a slow, deliberate pattern.

“Thanks for the drink. Hope your lady doesn’t mind,” she narrowed her eyes, trying to look anywhere but his face. He raised his eyebrows for a second as if he didn’t know what she was talking about and then nodded.

“Oh! Oh yeah, I was waiting for my lady to sober up a bit but she got spooked when she didn’t see my face four times anymore,” he shrugged, not showing a single sign of defeat or self-pity. She knitted her eyebrows as she took a drink, tutting.

“I think it was the scrunchie, Stone,” she put extra weight on his name and he gave her the best pout he could conjure.

“Baby doesn’t like my scrunchie?”

“I think it’s cute, goes with the granny vest. But you know how it goes, different strokes…” she nodded sympathetically, her heart skipping a beat when his lips parted in a big “O” and he opened his eyes even wider.

How is that possible?

“You think I’m cute?”

Abort.

“I said your scrunchie was cute. Big difference, Stone,” she emphasized his name again, making him shake his head in disappointment.

“That’s getting kind of old. You’re running out of ammo. That’s like waving a big red blanket in front of me, so watch out,” he threatened with his index finger. She raised her palms in defence.

He scanned her arms, wondering how something so innocently small could make his cheeks inflame so harshly. He just started to imagine wrapping her hands in his when her voice tore him out of his thoughts. It was low and silent, velvety like a siren call. It undermined the whole 'innocent' thing.

“I surrender. I’ve just never met a person named Stone before. Might be a common name here, what the hell do I know.”

He managed to compose himself quite quickly, shooing dirty thoughts out of his head like unwanted pest.

“Let’s hear your name then, see how it stands the test of time. Kate? Audie? Marge?” he mused in a terrible English accent as he counted the names on his fingers. She mocked a laugh, shaking her head.

“Har har. Okay, Dick van Dyke, you struck me as a witty person. I’m disappointed.”

“Maggie?”

“No.”

“Agnes?”

“…no?”

“Aha! Adelaide! Maeve!”

“Do I look like your grandma? You’re the one who borrowed her vest!” she pointed at him, her voice changing pitch as she waved her arms around.

He smiled like the Cheshire cat, now being the one to raise his arms in surrender. She shook her head with a scoff.

“It’s Keeva.”

“See, told you.”

She reached up as if she was going to slap him, with a big grin plastered on her face. He flinched and raised his arms even higher, trying to contain the laughter that was rumbling in his throat.

“Your name is Kiwi and you’re…”

“Keeva!”

“…and you’re laughing about Stone? Baby, we’re in the same boat here,” he raised an eyebrow, clueless to the fact his Patrick Swayze routine impacted her more and more with every use.

Stop it, beanpole.

“No one calls me Keeva, though. It’s usually Kiki, as in the sound people make when they try to pronounce it. Easily disguised, unlike Stone, which sounds like a name from a Cheech and Chong movie, by the way,” she retorted, grinning in expectation as she noticed the single twitch in his eye that appeared before every snappy remark.

“Oh, ok. Kiki, as in the Kikimora, right? Kinda suits you, not gonna lie,” he smirked and she shook her head in disbelief at his blatant taunting.

“Lies, lies. Don’t try to deflect, Stoner, you’re the one with the weird name here.”

“It’s not just your name, though, I’ve heard things about you that you wouldn’t believe,” he shrugged, nonchalantly looking around the bar as she froze on the spot.

What the hell…

He looked at her again and leaned forward, motioning her to come closer to him, too. His saucer eyes scanned her with intense sincerity. She frowned but inched closer. He nudged her head with his cheek so he’d be closer to her ear. His hair tickled her carmine face, his warm breath like gasoline on her already flaming ears.

“I’m in your walls,” he breathed out, breaking into a wide pompous smirk when her eyes widened at his audacity. His aquiline nose brushed against her cheekbone as he sat back in his chair, clearly satisfied when she jerked her foot forward, kicking his shin with the tip of her worn-out Docs.

Pavlov’s Stone.

“Ow! I just can’t get enough of that thing you do with your mouth when you’re pissed off, sorry,” he snorted, reaching under the table to rub the spot she’d just hit. As if the blush could get any worse.

“I’m fucking with you. It’s a small world out here. A friend of mine has a band who was told by another band that a band that practices in the Potatohead hired some hot-shot English munchkin as a session musician for their EP. And that she’s wreaking havoc and corrupting the youth of Seattle with good ol’ evil rock and roll,” he shrugged. “And the friend told my band and I told another band…you know how rumours spread like wildfire around starving artists.”

Oh. So the fingers do wrap around a Les Paul. Figures.

“You trying to tell me that I get jobs because of you? My knight in shining armour, pleasure to finally meet the man who puts crusty toasts with a smear of butter on my table each night,” she did a quick dramatic bow and couldn’t help but smile at the way his eyes twinkled when he realized that he didn’t mistake her for someone else.

He’d hoped it was her. He’d be disappointed if it wasn’t.

“Anytime, Baby. If you behave, I might tell another band and you’ll get a slice of cheese on top.”

Is the 'baby' still a part of the routine?

“Charitable. Well, there’s a surprisingly big market for session musicians here. It’s not the most fabulous thing in the world, but I get to play and get paid for it, that’s all I could ever ask for, really.”

He looked so different when he was serious. Older. Stoic. Breathtaking. He nodded and Keeva knew Stone completely understood what she was talking about. It was in those damned eyes.

“Is it fulfilling?”

“What job is? I mean, on top of it, I work in a café six days a week. When I get to go to the studio, sometimes they give me sheet music, sometimes they tell me to just do whatever, I do my part and go home. Hardly fulfilling for a musician, but you know…”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Stone nodded, focusing his distant gaze on the table.

He reached up to his hair and pulled off the scrunchie, letting the red waves fall in his eyes before carefully tucking them behind his slightly pointy ears.

Her nose was hit with his scent again and she was glad his stare was fixated on the pink fabric he was trying to play Cat's cradle with under the table. He always got to the first loop and let it go again, the scrunchie was way too small for his hands.

“Are you in a band?” he asked, and for the first time that evening, he seemed to be a bit awkward, vulnerable even. It was endearing, another irresistible notch on his belt.

“Do I look like I have any friends?” she chuckled, relieved when he mirrored her smile. The sudden seriousness was overwhelming.

Can this guy do anything in moderation?

“Different strokes...but I’ve heard that you’re fucking great,” he let the compliment hang in the air for a few moments before striking her with another look.

Scrutinizing her. Pinning her to her seat again. She shook her head, hoping the short curls curtain at least a part of her red face.

“Not really. If I was, I would be in a band. I mean, I’ve been here for about a month now, so that’s a pretty short time to find anyone, but still…” she sighed. “I’ve had no time to go and see any gigs yet. I wanted to check out Soundgarden tonight, I’ve heard they’re playing Off Ramp, but…”

His eyes lit up so bright they swallowed her senses and made her lips part in surprise. She thought they couldn’t get any more mesmerizing.

There’s that misbehaving beanpole again.

“No way, are you stalking me? I’m going there, too.”

“Did you get lost on the way? We’ve both been here for hours,” she chuckled and took a drink of the beer that was once again indigestible. She pulled another face and that earned a deep, breathy laugh from him.

“I know a shortcut, Baby. We’ll get you a fresh bottle there, I can’t stand seeing your baby face in pain. Come on, chop-chop or we'll miss it! Jesus, when Chris sees you there, he’s gonna implode!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫

i've never been too comfortable writing about real, actual people so if this is awkward, i'm really sorry, i'm working on it ♡ i try to take this as more of an 'inspired by real events' story, so we'll see what comes of it.

sincerest apologies to fellow Pearl Marmelade fans, my brain works in bizzare patterns. Please, don’t stone me. hehe. heh. get it? love you all!

#pearl jam fanfic #pearl jam fanfiction #stone gossard fanfiction #stone gossard fanfic #stone gossard x oc #90s music #pearl jam imagine #mother love bone #pearl jam #band fic #grunge fanfiction #grunge fic #lmfao i know all the grunge musicians hate the term #i just couldnt help it #fanfiction #fanfic #stone gossard

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