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ink-flavored · 7 months ago

Note

everything under preferences & emotions for the jumbo ask game? :3

woagh a beeg one

so my heart always wants to talk about Pride and Justice, literally all the time, for any reason. but i also want to shove Harlan and Yvonne in everyone's faces, as the new kids on the block. so to satisfy my extremely indulgent urges, i'm going to split this list in half and answer 5 for each couple.

Pride & Justice

🔥 Give us a list of general likes and dislikes, such as colors, textures, music, weather and other stuff!

Okay for Justice this is easy. He likes books and analyzing books (especially romance, especially in his book club), basically any animal (including humans), bright colors (yellow, light green, soft blues, lotta pastels in his wardrobe), soft textures, fruity scents (like in lotion and shampoo and stuff), his favorite season is spring, he likes overcast skies, and he'll listen to just about any music but has an affinity for classical and Lo-Fi Hip-Hop Beats To Study/Relax To.

On the other hand, Pride is so repressed that he does not allow himself to enjoy things for a hot minute because he's afraid of looking Weak and Vulnerable for Experiencing Joy. He'll admit to enjoying weed, alcohol, shoplifting, and inciting violence, but that's about it. Eventually, he comes to enjoy the punk scenes Ollie frequents and trips and falls into emo stuff (he also listens to pop-y club music when he's not at the club, but won't admit it), he can tortuously admit his favorite color is maroon, he obsesses over telenovelas with Sofia, he loves watching bad movies on purpose to make fun of them, he likes rain and snow, and his favorite texture is "Justice's clothes."

🍊 What is your OC’s favorite meal? Snack? Dessert? Drink? Any reasons behind this besides liking how it tastes? What is your OC’s most hated food? Stuff they can’t stand to eat or drink?

Justice is partial to breakfast food in general, but simply cannot resist the opportunity to eat French toast when it's available. It's the first thing he perfected while learning to cook for the first time, so it's special in that way too.

Pride doesn't cook much (or rather, doesn't cook anything recognizable as human food), so his favorite things are made by other people or store bought. In general, he likes tart, sweet-and-sour flavors because it reminds him what his sin tastes like, and Ollie's weed brownies for exactly the reason you're thinking.

I haven't thought too much about what either of them dislike, so I'm pulling these out of my ass. Pride thinks yogurt is the weirdest, grossest food in the world, and Justice really doesn't understand the appeal of avocados.

🍑 Where is your OC’s favorite place to relax or calm down? Recount a story of their time spent in this place! What makes it so special to them? Is there anywhere your OC hates to go to? Anywhere that stresses them out or have negative memories of?

For a while, Purgatory was Pride's escape. Nobody cares about Purgatory, nobody would ever look for him there, so it's where he went to cool off after another fight with Lust or to escape someone he pissed off. Relatedly, Hell is his least favorite place (shock, gasp).

On Earth, he kinda just goes to his room and curls up in his blanket nest when upset. Sometimes he will accompany this with extremely loud sadboy music. If he's just chilling though, he'll sit in the most space-taking position on the couch possible and watch Epic Fail compilations or something. Bonus points if Justice is there and he can invite himself into his lap.

Justice likes to sit on the balcony and be quiet, either with a book or nothing. It's his Thinking Spot, where he goes to brain it all out. It's important to him because he never really... had a place for that in Heaven. Everything he did was strictly regulated and controlled, so all his "relaxing" had to be done during his designated "relax" time, which he """shockingly"""" didn't get a ton of.

He hasn't been on Earth long enough to have negative associations with any particular place, but his memories of Heaven have been quite tainted by his recent rejection. He both wants to go back desperately, and hates that he wants to at all.

🧡 Who is your OC’s favorite person? Why is this person the top of their list and have they actually met them (an idol or role model or celeb can be someone’s favorite after all!). Who does your OC absolutely hate, the one person who they’d sell to Satan for one corn chip? Why do they loathe this person so?

Pride's favorite person is HIM!

In seriousness, Pride has himself on a pedestal because literally nobody gave a shit about him up until the events of the story happened. It was/is a coping mechanism, a survival technique, a way to rationalize all his actions away as Correct, because if he was ever wrong then that meant that everyone who had ever hurt him was right. As he grows, he begins to unlearn this way of thinking, but he never really lets go of that core idea. Pride is the most important person in the world to Pride, because he has to be. When nobody else is around, he has to truly, genuinely, earnestly love himself, not just to cope, but to like... be happy. But since he's not alone, and does have people who love him, Justice is his favorite non-him person for both character development reasons and extremely gay reasons.

As for his least favorite people, that could honestly fill a book. He is so bitter. God for obvious reasons, Lust for being abusive, Lucifer for lying about being better than God, but his hatred for Envy is I think the most interesting. In real life, the emotions of envy and (unhealthy) pride are very closely linked - people who have an unhealthy relationship with their pride are often envious of other people. Pride hates Envy because she's the concept of everything he can't admit to himself (he's envious of angels and humans who are happy, loved, and have God's affection), and Envy hates him right back for flaunting his confidence/dismissal of her sin as a concept at her and showing what she thinks she needs to be happy (and no longer envious). They're catty as fuck.

Justice loves Pride (for gay reasons and character reasons), but it's an extremely close race, maybe even a tie, for his sister Kindness. She's the reason for a lot of who he is, they intentionally modeled their human bodies so they would look related. Kindness really helped shape his understanding of how God's justice and God's kindness work together to create the Perfect Wholesome World of Heaven and is a big reason he believes what he does. Obviously when Heaven turned out to not be so wonderful and wholesome, he still took those ideals with him to Earth. One of his core philosophies is that justice should be guided by kindness, not the other way around, and she helped teach him that.

His personal antagonist in the book is Honesty, and he loathes her for extremely good reasons. She was his direct superior in Heaven, and made his life very difficult once he started suggesting that maybe Purgatory isn't the best way to do things. He has been under her thumb for ages, and him leaving Heaven was basically the excuse she was looking for to brand him a traitor. Justice does not wish death on anyone, but he's very close saying some very mean words about Honesty.

📙 What kind of subjects (of conversation, of discussion, in school or whatever) does your OC find interesting or engaging or that they can talk for hours about? What kind of stuff do they just find fun? What things bore your OC to tears and they couldn’t care less about? Why?

Justice LOOOOVES Blorbo From His Books. Pick up any book in his collection, he'll have hours of conversation at the ready. Even the trashy pulpy ones - ESPECIALLY the pulpy ones tbh. He's also a rules lawyer by definition of embodying God's justice, so he also enjoys having a friendly argument of semantics and creating the most busted TTRPG characters you've ever seen based on nothing but technicalities.

What Justice does not like talking about is... arguments for the sake of arguing? I guess? He doesn't like getting into fights, he just likes talking about rules, so anyone coming at him with like... real Stakes in the topic at hand with Furious Rebuttals immediately turns him off. He's just playing toys. Why are you so mad.

As previously mentioned, Pride doesn't really allow himself to enjoy things for a while, and even when he does, he doesn't like the idea of talking for hours about stuff. When he gets into art and starts painting, he doesn't really talk about it as much as he just... does it all the time, here's a picture. He'd rather show, not tell, and let the art speak for itself. Even with his bad movies and telenovelas, he doesn't have much to say other than "they're so fuckin hilarious, this one's my favorite, we should watch it Right Now, No Take Backs."

Pride finds SO many things boring actually. Don't talk about sports, don't talk about anything with numbers, don't bring up PROBLEMS in the NEWS??? It better be FUNNY or SEXY or VIOLENT or he is not listening to you.

Harlan & Yvonne

😊 What can make your OC smile even when they’re feeling down? What cheers them up and makes everything feel better for them? Is your OC generally a happy person and do they enjoy making others smile? What about your OC makes others happy?

Harlan is definitely a happy guy by default, especially after starting magic HRT. He lives a very party-heavy college lifestyle around a lot of other party people, so he's very rarely in a situation where thinking about his problems is in the forefront of his mind.

Music pretty reliably makes him happy, and just being in a situation where there are lots of people having a good time also makes him want to have a good time, which is where the parties come in. The infectious energy and the drinking games and whatever party potions everyone is passing around, all that is where he wants to be, with the people he wants to be with.

Harlan is also very good at being your personal hype man? He will simply not let his friends get away with self-depreciation, and give you compliments until you agree that they're true.

Yvonne is a more subdued kind of happy. She's consistently homesick for her herd, but does her best to keep in touch and explore her big city lifestyle in Athendrolyn and make a new "herd" for herself.

When she's particularly homesick, she'll either go on a long walk/trot along the beach or the forest trails, or if the weather's bad, curl up with a warm drink and a blanket and watch nostalgic movies from her foalhood.

Her social battery for people she hasn't integrated into her "new herd" is drained quite quickly, but if she's mentally made you part of that group, you're basically family to her. She'll drop anything for her herd, no matter the situation, and is all around a very compassionate and loyal friend.

⭐ What is your OC afraid of? Any crippling phobias or some such? How do they act when scared and what helps them calm down? Does anyone ever find your OC scary? Why?

Yvonne is a centaur, so she has crippling horse anxiety. Which is to say, she's afraid of most things! When she was living with her herd, it was mitigated by being in a herd and having a community and a leader to follow, but when she moved away for access to magic HRT, it got worse. She's particularly afraid of unexpected loud noises, sudden movements, and can get pretty overwhelmed in flashy environments like parties or concerts. She definitely leans on the "flight" half of fight or flight, and will look for any escape route possible. Depending on what's causing the episode, just being in a quiet room with someone she trusts for a few minutes can be enormously helpful, but the most reliable way for her to not be anxious is for people to announce when they're coming into a room, explain whatever that noise just was, and not go to parties.

As for being scary, Yvonne is a Clydesdale, so I wouldn't put it past people to find her intimidating, but usually once she opens her mouth all that is put to rest. She's very friendly!

Harlan isn't a particularly anxious person, but does avoid the ocean whenever possible. He's terrified of the sea and most deep water in general. He can swim, he just doesn't like doing it, and it's pretty easy for him to be calm by not going near deep water👍ever 👍

He's not scary either, nor would he ever want to seem scary.

🍋 Does your OC act petty and jealous easily? What sort of things make them feel like this and do they experience guilt for getting so worked up? How do they deal with these emotions when they get them? If your OC doesn’t feel like this often, why not?

Harlan is definitely very petty. One thing that happens in the short story is that his friends tease him about making up Yvonne (because they'd never met her/seen a picture of her), and once she shows up he takes EVERY OPPORTUNITY to rub their noses in the fact that HHHIISSS girlfriend is here, and his REALLY AWESOME GIRLFRIEND is right there, and wow did he mention they're DATINGGGGG??????

He really hates being underestimated, or being made a fool of, which is why he reacts so strongly to things like that. He doesn't like feeling like he's second best, so if he feels like that's happening (even if it isn't), he asserts his "authority" basically with any straw he can grasp. Sometimes this is easy, like when Yvonne turns out to be real and not fake, but other times it's just... unrelated or insulting or made up. He's not good at impulse control, so usually he has to be told to knock it off.

Yvonne is not very petty or jealous because in general very calm and not very confrontational. She can be a little insecure, too, so in instances where she is feeling jealous, it's more internal, and she doesn't act on it.

When she does feel it bad enough, she can shut down and be kind of closed off. Usually someone can help talk her back out of it, and Harlan is especially good at this because he likes to hype her up at every opportunity.

📀 How easy is it to shock your OC? To confuse them? To lie to them, to manipulate them? How are they with feelings of trust? Can your OC be trusted?

Yvonne grew up pretty sheltered in a rural area with only other centaurs, so she's pretty out of her depth when she moves to Athendrolyn with its dozens of different creatures and customs and traditions. The culture shock made her pretty susceptible to being tricked, both in non-serious ways and worse ways, but she's definitely more vigilant now. She's very trusting, even after those unfortunate incidents, and will generally give people the benefit of the doubt.

Harlan is much quicker to call bullshit, but also quicker to go "yooooo no wayyyyy," about something that personally piques his interest, whether or not it's true. He tends to trust people unless they have a known history of being untrustworthy, and his fraternity (or whatever I'm calling it in this fictional world) can definitely spread news, true or false, faster than anyone can possibly outrun it, so if he's trusting someone he knows he can trust, but they got their info from someone else who got it from someone else etc... yeah.

On his end, Harlan is a pretty straightforward guy, but he does fib a liiiittle bit on occasion to seem cooler. It's why his friends jumped to "your girlfriend isn't even real" in the first place. It's more dramatic than the things he's done in the past, but it's also not not something he would do.

💛 In general, how in control of their emotions is your OC? Do they have a good hold on them or do their emotions control them, not the other way around? What do you think is the reason behind this and is your OC ever concerned about their lack of or good control?

As previously mentioned, Harlan doesn't have the greatest impulse control, and will act on how he feels before he thinks through what he's actually doing. He really feels the need to prove himself among his peers and seem cool and interesting, and the party lifestyle that encourages impulsive actions ddddoesn't help? much?

He knows he has this problem, and does try to catch himself, but it's a process after acting impulsively for so long. Yvonne being a stable, calm presence in his life has tremendously helped him.

Yvonne isn't impulsive at all, kind of the opposite. She has a lot of anxiety, and that prevents basically any impulsive action, which can cause her feelings to rule her life in a different way. She can be closed off and wary of things that aren't already in her comfort zone, especially growing up so sheltered.

She actually didn't realize how closed off she'd gotten until she met and started hanging out with Harlan, and has been slowly trying to increase her tolerance of out-of-comfort-zone experience since.

[send me something from the jumbo ask game]

#annika talks #answered #ask game #Justice #Pride #long post #Athendrolyn After Dark

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waywardrose-archive · 2 years ago

Text

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY | 8

stranger things | eddie munson x reader | rated e | 8.9k

spotify playlist | for @punk-in-docs

fem/witchy/goth!reader, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, consensual pursuit and capture, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird?

Weird weird?

He shrugged. He liked weird.

In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: This chapter’s got everything: fantasy sharing, insecurities, intimacy, horrible parents, Capri-Sun, and smut! 🖤 Check the #em tagd tag ⬇️ for previous chapters! Please comment (or critique), like, and reblog. I truly do appreciate any and all interaction. I promise I don’t bite — unless you want me to.

Eddie sat across from you in another diner for second breakfast. The sun blasted through the thin cafe curtains to warm your side. He’d said little during packing or check-out. Your gaze kept snagging on his. He’d present a quirk of his lips. You’d grin and go back to whatever you were doing.

He appeared to be mulling over something. You doubted he regretted having sex. You certainly didn’t, even though you felt deliciously used. Maybe because you felt deliciously used.

When the waitress took your order, you opted for coffee — just like Eddie. She returned with an insulated carafe, mugs, and creamers.

With a gentlemanly flourish, Eddie said, “Milady, may I pour you a cup of our finest bean juice?”

You smiled.

“Why, good sir, I’d be delighted.”

He left enough space at the top of the mug for cream and sugar. As you seasoned, he poured for himself. You watched his nimble fingers as he went about seasoning his coffee. Your gut tightened as you remembered those fingers had made you come, those hands had cupped your breasts. You watched his lips as he swallowed. You had kissed those lips. You had sucked a faint hickey on that neck.

Before he could catch you staring, you sipped at your coffee. You met his gaze over the rim, though. Light reflected off the table, causing his eyes to turn mahogany. You’d seen those eyes dark and hazy with desire.

You wondered if he had the same thoughts as you. Did he keep picturing you under him? Had he memorized your sounds? The way his come looked on your skin?

His stomach gurgled, which made you both laugh.

“Guess pop and chips don’t last long,” he said, hand over his stomach.

“We burned a lot of calories this morning.”

He gave you a devious smirk.

“We did.”

You found his leg under the table and crossed your ankles around it. He pressed his calf to yours as he drank his coffee.

You were nearly at the Indiana border when he lowered the music to half-ask:

“This is going to sound stupid, but that wasn’t your first time.”

You laughed — short, but loud. “No, obviously.”

“Then I gotta ask: Is it always like that?”

“Like what?”

“Intense? Hot?”

From anyone else, you’d think that flattery. From Eddie, it felt genuine. It was still flattering, of course. You liked the thought of rocking his world.

“Could ask you the same,” you said as you took off your sunglasses since the sky was becoming more overcast the farther east you drove.

He adjusted his position in his seat, putting an elbow on the windowsill. He’d also blocked the view of his crotch with a lifted knee. You changed your grip on the steering wheel as tension rose.

“For the record, no,” he said. “I’m not, uh— I’m not the most experienced guy.”

“I’m not the most experienced girl.”

“So, you’re saying we lucked out back there?”

“Or maybe we lived up to each other’s expectations?”

“You had expectations?”

“I told you I’ve fantasized about you.”

“What do you, you know, fantasize about?”

There had been so many in the past few weeks. From rough to tender. Sometimes it wasn’t even about sex. Sometimes you thought of sitting with him and talking. Just talking. Maybe holding hands. Those scenarios didn’t turn you on, per se. They were a comfort, especially after the nightmares of red lightning and cold soot and chittering of unseen predators. Nightmares where vines wrapped around your limbs until you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Nightmares of mental vivisection. Nightmares as warnings.

You couldn’t tell him that. There was nothing he could do about them. Only you could face those dreams, because they had a message you alone could decipher.

But dreams had meaning, and he’d had dreams about you.

You asked, “What about those dreams I supposedly invaded?”

“No suppose about it. You had.”

“Had. Past tense.”

“And will again. Believe me, this entire trip is gonna haunt me.”

You wouldn’t forget this trip for a long time, either — maybe ever. However, the way he said it had a touch of grief.

“You make it sound so... grim?”

“Look, we’re going back to Hawkins...”

“‘There is no real going back,’” you said, quoting Tolkien. “‘Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same.’”

You glanced at him again to see his fist pressed to his mouth.

He finished the passage:

“‘I am wounded with knife, sting, tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?’”

You sighed. “Do you want to go back to how it was? Like we’d never done it?”

“Hell no.”

“Then why are you talking like things won’t be different in Hawkins? We’re different now.”

He was silent for too long. You looked at him once more. He stared out the windshield, face blank. You steeled yourself for his excuses to rationalize rejection, fishing a Djarum from the fresh pack and sticking it between your lips. He pushed in the car’s cigarette lighter for you.

Softly, he said, “It’s not that I don’t want it to be different, but I’m trying to be a realist here.”

“Oh, so you’re the only one with that capability in this car?”

“No, what I’m saying is the reality of being together in front of the whole school isn’t good. For you.”

You shot him a glare.

“The fuck?”

“No, hear me out. In Chicago, we’re just people. There’s no baggage. There is baggage — capital-b baggage — in Hawkins.”

The cigarette lighter popped, ready. You snatched it from the dash before he could and lit your cigarette.

“I get it. People are dicks—” You shoved the lighter in its holder. “—And you’re being one right now,” you said, cracked the window, and exhaled.

“I am trying to protect you.”

“By pushing me away?!” Your fists strained around the steering wheel. “Dammit, Eddie, don’t you get it? I want you! I want to get to know you and talk about stuff. And watch stupid TV.” You waved a hand in the air. “And, okay, have sex when we can. I...” You took a long drag from the cigarette to keep from crying. “I don’t care if the whole school knows about us, alright? We know about us.”

He crossed his arms.

“I’m not pushing you away.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“It’s hard to forget a lifetime of bullshit.”

“I’m not asking you to forget it,” you said as you ashed the cigarette through the open window.

“I know, okay, I know.”

He retrieved a Djarum. You offered yours to light his. He took it with a ‘thanks,’ pressed the cherry to the unlit cigarette, and handed it back.

You said, “I know you’re an outcast. I pay attention at school, you know? I’m not deaf or blind.”

“Or stupid.”

“Neither are you.”

You smoked and navigated the interstate off-ramp and tried to think of something to soothe both your ruffled feathers. Evidently, he had been thinking the same thing, because he grumbled:

“I guess nothing has to change.”

“Right? You have lunch with your friends. We go to O’Donnell’s class. We hang out after school—”

“That’ll be different.”

“That bad?”

“No.”

“Cool,” you said. “And sometimes I go to The Hideout to watch you play. That’s it.”

“When would you want to... you know?”

“Whenever we can?” You shrugged and ground your spent cigarette in the ashtray. “My parents have date nights. What about your uncle?”

“He works second or third shift.”

“See? We’ll be together when we can.”

“But you get where I’m coming from, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” You looked to see his expression had softened. “I know you want to protect me, but I’m not one of your little sheep. I appreciate it, but you don’t have to.” You held out your hand, which he took. “I’m not new at being a weirdo.”

You threw him a wry grin.

He deposited the butt of his cigarette in his empty soda can, leaned closer, and brought your hand to his lips for a kiss.

You smiled at him.

“So, you told me about a dream,” you said and wet your lips. “The one where O’Donnell is Samwise. What about another?”

“Shit, I... I don’t really remember. That one stood out.”

He was blushing and too still, which most likely meant he was lying.

You gently withdrew your hand, saying, “Tell me about the latest one.”

After a beat, he said, “You know those dreams that are jarring? Like a bunch of snapshots pieced together? It was like that.”

“Scary or sexy? Or both?”

“Sexy. Deeeefinitely sexy.”

“Okay, and...?”

“I woke up— Shit.” He rubbed his face. “I was so hard.”

You bit your lip as heat spread through your body. You pictured him like that: in his dark, messy room, waking with a gasp, his cock throbbing and oozing.

“What did you do?” you asked.

“I jacked off.”

His ‘duh’ was silent, but undoubtably there.

Despite the brief retort, you grinned.

“To what? What did you imagine?”

“Fuck, baby.” He put a hand between his legs. “You, okay? I thought of you.”

“Was I naked?”

He hummed. “Naked, your ass bouncing against me.”

“I was riding you?”

“No, bent over. I held your forearms and fucked you from behind. Shit, I...” His breathing deepened. “I got my dick in so deep, and you squeezed around me, moaning for it. And I pushed you down. Your ass in the air for me.” He covered his eyes. “I spanked it, too.”

“I’d let you do that,” you said as your cunt pulsed.

“Yeah? You into that?”

“With you, yeah.”

“Yeah, holy shit, we can do that. I came in you, too. Watched it drip out of your little pussy.”

You whispered, “Fuck.”

You squirmed in your seat, underwear stuck to your now-wet slit. That had been more than you thought you’d hear. You could see it, too, almost feel it: his pelvis slapping the underside of your ass, his cock ramming deep, his strong hands on your arms, then at the center of your back, then cracking against your upturned ass.

“I shouldn’t have told you that,” he said. “But I really can’t say no to you.”

You met his eyes, his gaze dark and hungry. You must’ve looked the same, because he cursed.

“Come home with me,” you said and forced your attention to the road.

“Wha—”

“Come home with me. My parents won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

You frowned. Most guys would’ve jumped at the chance to have sex again. Did he think that wasn’t on the table? Because that was very much on the table. If he told you to pull over and get in the backseat, you would. There hadn’t been another car on this stretch of road in nearly ten minutes.

Perhaps he had deliveries to make. It was Saturday night, after all.

“Only if you want to, of course,” you said, giving him an open look. “I get it if you’ve got plans or whatever. I can take you home.”

Ahead, leaden clouds gathered. A storm was settling in. If he were to make deliveries tonight, he would get soaked...

Eddie hoped it wasn’t obvious he couldn’t take his eyes off you. It probably was, though. You had a glow. Your eyes shone in the midday light, lips still puffy. There might be prettier girls out there, but they couldn’t compare to your radiance.

No one had kissed him like you kissed him. You made him feel like his thoughts had been put in a blender. He felt invincible yet defenseless, accepted yet under scrutiny, but most of all treasured.

He didn’t know if that was normal. His parents hadn’t seemed to treasure each other. He thought Wayne loved him. He loved Wayne. His flock looked to him for guidance. His bandmates treated him as an equal. None of that compared to what he felt for you.

He didn’t know if he liked it, honestly. It disrupted everything. You’d occupied his thoughts before this. Now, he feared, you would dominate them.

Then what would happen when you discovered he was trailer trash?

You’d feel sorry for him, that’s what. Oh, poor Eddie living in a one-bedroom trailer with his uncle.

Fuck that. Fuck pity. And fuck fearing heartbreak.

Fear was the mindkiller.

The look you gave him begged him not to hide even as you rolled back your offer of another night together. He didn’t know how long you’d think that. It didn’t matter, either. That wasn’t up to him, however much he wished it were. You weren’t a character in a campaign.

“No, no plans,” he said as he scrubbed damp palms on his thighs.

“Oh, okay, well... I can still take you home.”

The first heavy drop of rain pinged on the roof.

“Wayne can pick me up from the park.”

“Eddie, it’s starting to rain.”

He knew that. He could see the freckled pavement and how dark clouds obscured the sun.

You turned on the headlights, saying, “It’s no big deal.”

Big deal or not, he’d look like a crazy person if he insisted you leave him at the park. In the middle of a storm. With no ride waiting for him.

He had to be strategic here.

“No, let’s go to your house,” he said. “I’ll give Wayne a call when we get in.”

You nodded.

“If that’s what you want.” You gave him a sweet smile. “I just want to spend more time with you.”

Jesus Christ, he couldn’t deny you. Not when you said adorable shit like that. Not when you were the first person to say anything like that to him. Not when the possibility of having you all to himself was available.

He cleared his throat, wishing he had more to drink.

“I wanna spend time with you, too.”

You looked at him again, your gaze so warm. That alone made whatever would happen in the future worth it.

Twenty minutes later, you drove past the Hawkins welcome sign. The storm let loose shortly thereafter. Instead of continuing east, you turned into the older section of Loch Nora, where brick houses sat back from the road and the utility lines were buried. Eddie’s spidey senses started tingling. He tried to recall ever having driven through this part of the neighborhood and found a vague sense of familiarity.

Richie Riches liked their nose candy, after all.

The wipers sloshed across the windshield. Beyond the windows, rain melted the light and blurred architecture. It didn’t change his awareness of how out of his element he was.

He wondered how he hadn’t noticed you were a rich girl. He’d been mindless to the Munson Doctrine, because ladies — especially pretty, smart, funny, rich girls — shit, he was screwed — like you were out of his league. It all made sense, too: moving from New York, the expensive cigarettes, your gently used car — which had probably been a parent’s — and your lack of a part-time job. You’d offered to buy drinks for his bandmates at The Hideout. You’d paid for the motel room, gas, and snacks. You hadn’t even blinked at prices or told him to put food back at the convenience store.

You turned onto a circular driveway. Ivy climbed the side of a sprawling red-brick house. An old oak grew nearby, its golden leaves scattered over the manicured grass. Eddie tried not to gawk at the three-car garage tucked to the side as you hit the door-opener remote.

The garage could accommodate his entire trailer.

There were two open bays, and you pulled in next to a glossy maroon sedan.

“Well, this is me,” you said, and turned off the car.

As nonchalantly as he could, he said, “Nice.”

“If you want, you can call your uncle.” You pointed to the interior door. “Phone’s in the kitchen next to the fridge.”

“No, I’ll help.”

“Oh, cool, thanks. I need to check the mail. I’ll be right back.”

He nodded and began gathering the food wrappers and empty drinks into a plastic bag. You left the driver’s door open before dashing to the mailbox. He shook the car’s ashtray into the bag, looked at the tidy garage, and cursed. He was so out of his element, beyond the edges of the map.

Here be dragons.

Here be the loaded.

Who were about as dangerous as dragons.

He hadn’t realized he’d stilled until you returned and closed the garage door. To act normal, he continued gathering until there was nothing more to gather. He shouldered his duffle and carried the plastic bag, following you into the house—

Which smelled of citrus and laundry detergent. The tile floor gleamed under the kitchen lights. Everything was so clean and proper and spacious. Floofy valences capped the windows. Paneled appliances blended with the cabinetry. The refrigerator had a built-in icemaker.

Your voice pulled him from touching the lever for ice.

“What?” he asked.

“Are you thirsty?” you asked — again.

“No, I’m good.” He glanced around, looking for the trashcan. “Need to throw this away,” he said as he swung the plastic bag.

“Yeah, of course!”

You took it to the sink cabinet, where you pulled out an under-counter trashcan. He watched your ass, but averted his gaze before you turned to him. The blinking 02 of the phone’s answering machine caught his attention.

He thumbed at it, and asked, “You want to check those?”

With a sigh, you dropped your bags on the island in the middle of the kitchen.

“I guess I better.”

The first message was from your mother, dated yesterday at 4:18 PM. She reported they’d arrived without a hitch. With excitement growing in her voice, she said they were having dinner with Jerry Springer. However, she was concerned you weren’t home and gave the phone number and address of the hotel. The second message was from a telemarketer.

You grinned.

“She gave me all that before they left. I’ll talk to her after you call your uncle.” You bit your lip as you looked around. “Do you want to get settled first?”

“Up to you, milady.”

“C’mon, I’m on the third floor,” you said as you plucked your bags from the island.

“Your tower.”

With a laugh, you asked, “Ah, but am I a wizard or a spider?”

“Well, neither’s as hot as you, so there a third option?”

You hummed as you turned off the kitchen light. “You tell me.”

Only your silhouette was discernible in the gray murk, as though you were made of shadow. There was something mysterious and alluring about that. It made him want to reach into the darkness to feel what reached back. Rain drummed against the windows, tapping a persistent rhythm and softening the edges of the silence.

“Siren,” he said. “Definitely a siren.”

You blew a laugh through your nose as you stepped closer. “What does that make you?”

He thought, A sucker, a sailor, yours, ensnared.

He said, “I’ll get back to you about that.”

“Please do.”

You were now near enough to touch, so he did. He cupped your cheek, his thumb skirting the corner of your mouth. Your lips parted, and he couldn’t stop himself from caressing the curve of your bottom lip. Your beautiful eyes gleamed like glass.

He couldn’t believe you let him touch.

You leaned in and tilted your face to his. Your overnight bag nudged his leg, setting off a chain-reaction of memories. He’d kissed you in public. He’d shared a high with you. He’d lain next to you in a foreign bed. He’d chased you, caught you, and carried you back to that same bed — where you’d clawed at him and moaned his name and came on his dick.

He could have that again.

He met you midway, kissing you once, twice. He tasted smoky clove and soda on your tongue, smelled the rain in your hair. It was addictive. He wanted more. He dropped his duffle to snake an arm around your waist and pull you even closer. You swayed against him before dropping your bags. Your hand slid under his jacket, pushing away his previous uncertainty.

After a long, heady moment, you broke the kiss with a sigh. Your hand remained on his back while the other held the side of his neck.

Voice low, you said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

Staying just as low, he said, “Yeah, call your parents, and I’ll call my uncle.”

“And then...”

You shrugged.

“And then,” he agreed.

He didn’t know what then, but he wanted to find out. He grabbed his duffle and your overnight bag from the floor, which you thanked him for. You led the way through the shadowy house to the grand staircase in the foyer. With your back turned, he let himself finally gawk.

Outside the kitchen, the floors were dark hardwood with lighter area rugs to define the spaces. The living room had a big-screen TV tucked into a corner with a velvet modular sofa oriented towards it. In the dining room, an honest-to-God crystal chandelier hung above the large table.

The second floor was as cushy with thick carpet and tasteful art. Not a family photo to be found. You pointed out your bathroom before opening the door next to it and flicking a switch at the foot of the stairs beyond. Golden light brightened the white stairwell.

He climbed the stairs behind you as the automatic door closer fizzed the door shut. He’d half-expected your bedroom walls to be some dark, moody color, yet they were white. However, posters covered most of the white, much like his own—

Though your room smelled better than his.

You clicked on the lamp by your big bed and on the dresser across the room before setting your purse on the desk under the wide window. His eye caught on the stereo cabinet between the dresser and double bookcase. He itched to peruse your vinyl and tape collection. You must’ve seen it on his face, because you smiled and gave him free rein.

“You sure?” he asked, dropping the bags near the bed.

“Yeah, go for it,” you said. “I’ll call my mom while you shop.”

He checked the time on the bedside clock. It was early afternoon despite it looking almost night outside. Wayne wouldn’t be awake for another hour.

“Cool.”

He crouched in front of the cabinet as you slipped off your jacket and sat at the desk, where a phone waited at the corner. He concentrated on the music in front of him while you talked on the phone. There was Bowie, classic Zeppelin and Rolling Stones, Deep Purple, INXS, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure, Cocteau Twins, Depeche Mode, Sisters of Mercy (of course), Bauhaus, Metallica, Dio, and a bunch of indie goth bands.

Your voice sharpened, catching his attention.

“I told you I forgot to check the messages when I got home from school,” you said.

A male voice snapped through the phone. Obviously, your father.

“I stopped by the convenience store after school.”

Your father replied, though Eddie couldn’t make out the words.

“No, I wasn’t being irresponsible.” You rested your forehead in your hand. “I just didn’t check the mess—”

Your father interrupted, his voice getting sterner.

“Apologize to Mom for me, plea—” You took a deep breath as he interrupted again. “No, I didn’t—”

Your father said something to make you shoot to your feet, chair scraping across the floor.

Eddie straightened and took a step to you.

“I didn’t sigh,” you said. “I breathed. I do that sometimes, like—”

Your father’s voice became louder as he cut you off, ending the scathing reprimand with a ‘young lady.’ A panicked feminine voice said something in the background.

You were quiet for a beat.

Your voice was thick as you said, “I’m sorry. I was stupid and didn’t take you or Mom into account. I apologize, sir. Sincerely. It won’t happen again.”

Your father grumbled, sounding appeased.

“I’ll see you tomorrow— Yes, sir.” You nodded. “Good night, sir.” You slammed the phone’s handset on its base. “Asshole.”

“You okay?” he asked, which he belatedly realized was dumb.

Of course, you weren’t okay.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, ducking your head. “Call your uncle, if you want.”

You darted around him, too quick to stop, and rushed down the stairs to leave him gaping like a fish.

As the door shut, he didn’t know if he should follow. Maybe you needed a minute to yourself. When things were rough for him, he preferred to handle the aftermath alone. It gave him privacy to get his shit together.

He picked up the phone’s handset to call Wayne, which should give you enough time.

Instead of a dial tone, there was a garbled, muddy babble. It wasn’t words, per se. It was rhythmic, like a busy signal, but also an echo of language. Or a backwards phrase repeated.

“What the hell?”

He hung up and tried again, yet the babble remained. He pressed the hook switch a few times, though it didn’t solve the problem. Unplugging and re-plugging the phone didn’t help, either.

With a huff, he slung his jacket over the desk chair and went to the second floor to find you. A wedge of light from your open bathroom door illuminated the landing. You whined a curse and banged a small bottle against the side of the faucet.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said gently and reached for the bottle. “Let me.”

“Fucking childproof caps.” You stilled as your chin wobbled. You looked at the ceiling with watery eyes. “My head is killing me.”

He withdrew the bottle from your limp hand. It was a nonprescription painkiller. He lined up the triangle notches on the cap and bottle and popped it open.

“I should’ve taken something when we first got in.”

“You’ve had a headache this whole time?” he asked and shook three pills into his palm.

You croaked a ‘yeah’ and took the pills, putting them on your tongue and swallowing them with a mouthful of tap water.

At a loss for words, he put the bottle aside and pulled you into a hug. You rested your hot cheek on him and looped your arms around his middle. Your chest shuddered with sharp inhales. He rubbed your back, wondering why he hadn’t noticed you weren’t feeling well earlier.

Probably because he’d been too in his head about his insecurities and the possibility of future disasters.

“Dads are dicks,” you said once your breathing calmed.

He grunted in agreement. “Tell me about it.”

“He’s so concerned about me embarrassing him — embarrassing him more. Or doing something, I don’t know, just for me?”

Your father sounded like a controlling asshat.

“You’re not embarrassing. You’re the coolest person I know.”

Voice small, you asked, “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

You gave him an affectionate squeeze that he returned.

He said, “You missed a phone call. It happens all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“I can sleep through the phone ringing.”

“You’ve never missed my calls.”

“Of course not. I have a sixth sense about these things.”

You snorted. “Naturally.”

“Naturally.” He swayed you a little. “Uh, speaking of: your phone’s acting up.”

“Acting up?”

“Yeah, dial tone’s weird.”

“Huh.” You loosened your hold, yet kept your face tilted down. “It’s a new phone. Maybe I broke it.”

“I can use the kitchen phone,” he said.

“No!” You hugged him again, though your fingers now dug into his back. “No, it’s okay. I’ll fix it or replace it. Then you call your uncle while I get us something to drink.”

He wrapped his arms around your shoulders and kissed your forehead.

“Hey, whatever you want, sweetheart.”

You sighed, sounding content. Tension drained from his neck and shoulders. He didn’t like you upset or in pain.

“Okay, phone,” you said despite not moving.

“Gonna have to let go of me first.”

You made a disgruntled sound before sliding your hands away. Your fingertips found his skin between his waistband and the hem of his shirt. Goosebumps rose at your easy caress. His gut tightened, too.

He leaned back to get his hands on your jaw and eased your head up for a kiss. Conscious of your headache, he stayed gentle. He brushed his lips across yours, nudged your cute nose with his. You grinned against his mouth. He opened his eyes to see your face relaxed.

Sounding dreamy, you whispered, “Thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Yes, you have.” You looked into his eyes as you pulled away. “You have.”

“Then you’re welcome,” he said, grinning.

With a smile — a tired smile, he noted — you took his hand to walk him out of the bathroom, turning off the light as you went. He trailed after you and felt like a puppy. Granted, if he had a tail, it would be wagging.

Once in your room, you crawled under your desk to mess with the phone wall jack. You muttered to yourself, but he didn’t catch the words. He sat at the foot of your bed and stared at your upturned ass. It was a nice ass. He’d like to touch it again — maybe when you felt better.

You shuffled from under the desk and lifted the phone’s headset. The regular dial tone droned from the speaker.

“There,” you said and got to your feet.

“Wow.”

“You sound surprised. Like a girl can’t fix things.”

He held up his hands.

“No, that’s not—”

“Did you think I couldn’t handle it?” you asked, your eyes sparkling with humor as you approached.

At your teasing manner, he spread his knees and urged you close by the hips.

“Oh, baby, I know you can handle a lot.”

You bit your lip, looking pleased, and smoothed his hair from his face. He let out a deep breath, letting his eyes go half-mast. You yawned suddenly and covered your mouth, then wiped at an eye. It smudged your eyeliner a little, yet it hardly mattered. You were perfect and sweet.

“Sorry,” you said as you suppressed another yawn.

He turned his head to bury his own yawn in his shoulder.

“Want to take a nap?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Get in bed, then. I think I can figure out where you keep the drinks.”

“Call your uncle.”

“I will, sweetheart.”

He backed you up, stood, and gave you a quick kiss. You made a satisfied sound before kissing him again.

His heart couldn’t take this. It absolutely couldn’t. You were so adorable when sleepy. And he wanted to make you feel good any way you needed, any way you’d let him. He’d make you tea, fetch you extra blankets, rub your back, fork over his whole damn stash. Fucking anything. Anything.

He left you perched on the bed with the assurance he’d be right back. He made a pit stop in the bathroom to pee and wash his hands. In the kitchen, he found Capri-Suns in the fridge and grabbed a couple.

By the time he returned, you’d turned off most of the bedroom lights and were sitting in bed. He dumped the Capri-Suns on your nightstand save for one, stabbed the straw into the pouch, and gave it to you.

You thanked him and snuggled into the pillows.

He snatched a Capri-Sun for himself and turned away before he did something ill-advised, like kiss you too hard or propose marriage or worm between the sheets and yank your underwear off and eat you out until you cried. Maybe all three.

Instead, he drank his juice while calling Wayne, who sounded as if he’d been awake for a while. Wayne didn’t seem surprised when Eddie said he was at yours and would stay the night. Wayne asked for your number in case of an emergency. He recited it from memory.

Wayne reminded him to use protection.

He sputtered and averted his face as heat crawled up his neck.

He then cleared his throat before saying, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Good. No mini-Munsons just yet.”

“No, not yet.”

“Alright, kiddo, keep that thinkin’ cap on, and I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

“‘Kay.”

Wayne ended the call, and he placed the phone’s handset on its cradle.

“Your uncle sounds nice,” you said.

“He’s a good guy.” He sat at the desk to slip off his boots. “Took me in when no one else would.”

“Their loss.”

He looked at you, finding you curled on your side and watching him.

“That’s what he said.”

You gave him a wry grin.

He remembered ‘two idiots, one thought,’ and grinned.

After stuffing his socks into a boot, he stood to undo his belt and unclasp his wallet chain. He lay his wallet on your desk and piled his jewelry on top, feeling your gaze the entire time. He draped his belt over the chair, turned off the last light, and came around the bed.

As he lifted the blanket, you rolled onto your back and asked:

“Aren’t you going to take off your jeans?”

“Do you want me to take them off?”

“I want you to be comfortable.”

With a shrug, he said, “I’m comfortable.”

“Eddie... I’ve seen your legs before.”

“And a whole lot more.”

“Yeah, so take them off and get in here.”

“Yes, milady.”

He left his jeans in a heap on the floor and slid under the blanket. It was already warm and smelled like you: your soap and shampoo, your perfume and musk, your laundry detergent, and that dark headshop scent. The sheets were soft as only fine cotton could be. The pillows were fluffy like his hadn’t been in years. He hardly needed to adjust anything.

You asked, “Comfy?”

“Almost.”

Your brows pinched.

“Almost?”

“Back to me,” he said. “If that’s cool.”

You gave a little nod, the corners of your mouth curling up, and faced away. He closed the short distance to mould himself against your back; a hand on your hip with his other arm crooked under his pillow. You stiffened, yet didn’t protest.

“This okay?” he whispered.

“Mm-hm.”

Little by little, you relaxed and adjusted your legs. He matched your even breathing until his eyelids became heavy.

He’d never held someone. He’d been to sleepovers and slept next to friends, but this was different. Last night he’d stayed close, but hadn’t held you — though he’d yearned to. He hadn’t wanted to spook you, as if you’d realize who he was, remember what you’d done with him, and flee in disgust.

But this? This felt right. You were warm and soft against his front. You fit him.

A crash of thunder jolted him awake. He lifted his head to look around. The room was still dim from the storm. You weren’t in bed, which he didn’t approve of. You stood in front of the dresser, hanging a necklace on the jewelry stand.

You met his gaze in the mirror.

“Hi, honey.”

He wiped at his face with a groan.

“Hey,” he said, voice scratchy. “What time is it?”

You glanced at the nightstand and reported it was 5:32.

He grunted and flopped onto his back. “How long you been awake?”

“Maybe ten minutes?”

You wore a new pair of pajama pants under the t-shirt you’d napped in. They were cute. You were cute. He wanted to wrap his arms around you.

“Come back to bed,” he said as he scratched his stomach through his shirt.

“I need to finish unpacking.”

He rose onto his elbows as thunder rumbled.

“Did you mean come back to bed?”

“No,” you laughed.

He drew out an ‘I don’t know’ and knee-walked to the foot of the bed.

You spun to face him, eyes glinting with mischief.

“I need to unpack, sir.”

“That sounded a lot like ‘take me to bed.’”

He planted one foot on the floor and rose from the bed.

“Those don’t even have the same amount of words,” you said.

“I guess I have a bad ear for that.”

“Somehow I doubt it.”

As he prowled to you, he asked, “You calling me a liar?”

“No, I think you knock your own talents when it suits you.”

“Oh, ouch, sweetheart,” he said, and put his hands on your hips to back you against the dresser. “You wound me.”

You attempted to hide your smirk and asked, “Should I kiss it better?” while bracing your hands on the dresser.

Though he’d been sleeping next to you, he hadn’t gotten to touch you enough. He pushed himself against you, making you arch. Your breasts pressed against him.

“Later.”

His dick grew heavy, and he bent to kiss your covered chest. He worked his way up until he reached your neck.

You softly groaned with a tilt of your head.

You were his now — with no one to interrupt. Your skin was his to taste — and he did. He kissed the salt from your skin, trailed his teeth down the cord of muscle at the side of your neck.

You fisted his hair and brought his mouth to yours. Your lips smeared across his, your tongue peeked out, tasting of Capri-Sun’s fruit punch. He could devour you whole like this. His hips copied the back and forth of the kiss. God, his dick felt strained and hot between his legs.

You began to slide onto the dresser top, but he stopped you.

“Don’t,” he said. “Turn around.”

Barely giving you enough room, you turned in his hold, rubbing against his front. His gut tightened. He caged you in with his arms and nosed around your hair to kiss your neck again. You smelled so good, like sleep and spice.

He looked at the mirror to see you biting your lip and watching him. He straightened, keeping his front to your back. His erection snugged into the cleft of your ass.

You rested against him, looking more alluring than he’d ever seen you.

He murmured a ‘fuck’ and slid his hands up your sides, catching your flimsy t-shirt as he went.

“You wearing a bra, baby?”

You shook your head, making him curse lowly.

He ran his hands over the satiny skin of your stomach. Your nipples poked underneath your shirt. He stared at their reflection, remembering the feel of your tits in his hands and against his face, the way your nipples jabbed at his palms. He needed to refresh his memory, needed to brand the feel of your flesh in his hands.

When he cupped your tits, you inhaled. He stroked your warm skin with gentle fingertips, kneaded the supple weight of your breasts, then grazed his thumbs over your peaked nipples. Your ribs undulated gracefully with your breathing; so alive and all his.

You arched into his touch, putting your hands on his forearms. He squeezed your nipples and rolled them just a little. You moaned and ground your ass against him.

He ground back, moving counter to you. The inside of his boxers rubbed at his length. Precome made the thin cotton stick to the tip of his dick.

“Eddie...” you whined as you canted your ass.

“How’s the headache?”

“Gone.”

Before he could reply, you nudged him to the side and spun to face him. You steadied his head by the jaw to kiss him hard. It was like you wanted to eat his soul. You kissed him with tongue and teeth and spit. He held onto your bare back, because his knees trembled. He hoped you couldn’t tell. Your lips were perfect. Your skin was warm and soft. He wouldn’t mind if this was all you two did for the rest of the night.

Your hands left his jaw, and you broke the kiss to say, “Want you.”

His gut tightened again.

“Where?” he asked as he swept his hands down to your ass.

You pulled up at his shirt until he had to lift his arms. You tugged the shirt off and dropped it to the floor.

Cooler air cleared his head, but then you ran your hands over his shoulders and into his hair. He kissed you, feeling breathless and buzzing, vibrating like a tuning fork. Your parted lips lured him closer — that siren status confirmed.

You touched him from neck to chest to stomach to the waistband of his underwear. The moment dilated as anticipation increased. He wanted to roll his hips to get you to touch his cock.

Instead, you went to your knees.

He slapped a hand on the dresser to steady himself. Because holy shit. No one had ever— But you were— And, holy shit, he was going to come so fast.

“Okay?” you asked, as if you didn’t look like a wet dream.

He nodded numbly.

You kissed above his bellybutton, nuzzled his stomach, caressed his hips and sides. He lurched forward when you squeezed his ass. His cock bumped your chest, sending a ripple of sensation down to his toes. You palmed him through his boxers to make his knees tremble anew. He thrust into your hand and bit his lip. The muffled touch was enough to weaken him further.

You crooked your fingers under his boxers’ waistband to ease them down his thighs. His erection flopped out, almost hitting you in the cheek like some gangly appendage. He whispered an apology, but you replied it was okay. You called him honey, and he had to swallow a groan.

With gentle hands, you helped him step out of his boxers. Then he was naked save for his sole necklace. You purred and ran your hands up his thighs. He got harder, which seemed impossible, and the room heated — or he was so hot, he couldn’t feel it anymore. Your touch practically seared him.

You moved in to lick the precome now dribbling down the length of his cock. He put a hand on your shoulder to balance himself. It was a shock how good it felt: the velvety texture of your tongue and the tease of your breath ghosting over his dick.

You then steadied his cock with fingers around the base and wrapped your mouth around the tip. He moaned at the heat, the way you burned him with muggy, hot suction. You tongued at the crown as you twisted your head. Your spit-wet lips clasped around his girth. The head of his cock slid along the hard roof of your mouth to the soft palate at the back.

If he thrust, you’d gag and sputter. He didn’t want you retching. He didn’t want you to stop.

He rocked with you, and that had you moaning. He kept tight control of his movements, only nudging the same place of your soft palate.

“This what you want?” he asked. “Want me to fill your pretty mouth?”

He’d fantasized about doing it, too. He imagined how your cheeks would hollow as you sucked, how you’d hold his driving hips, how you’d take every inch of him.

You hummed an affirmative before fisting the base of his cock. He rolled his pelvis forward as you closed your eyes. Your smothered groan reverberated through him, making it difficult to keep it slow and easy.

Shit, he loved the way his cock pumped into your mouth again and again. Saliva drenched your chin. Your hand on his hip pulled him forward, urging him to thrust faster despite his intentions. You sucked and lapped, getting him all slick.

“You’re gonna make me come...”

You moaned an agreement.

He stilled his hips and gripped the nape of your neck.

“Shit, wanna fuck you.”

Because he did. He wanted inside your sweet pussy once more. He couldn’t get enough.

You moaned again and met his gaze. He couldn’t stop from shifting his hips, teasing you both. You whined around his dick, and he nearly forgot his earlier desire.

“So good to me.”

You sucked harder and pushed your tongue on the underside of his dick. It made his eyes roll back. It was so perfect, so good, he could lose himself and spill down your throat.

But, no... No—

He pulled your head away with a gasp, back hunched. Your mouth remained open, a thin string of spittle connected your bottom lip with this cock. Beyond that, the neckline of your t-shirt sat askew on your heaving chest. He wanted to shove himself in your hot mouth until your nose met his stomach, or to fuck your tits — or your tight pussy.

Shit, whatever.

He wanted you so bad.

As he caught his breath, you flicked your tongue out to taste him one more time.

He inhaled through his nose.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asked.

You licked your swollen lips with a nod. Your eyes were huge and glassy, drunk on him. He pulled you up as he bent to meet in the middle for a sloppy kiss. The spit and precome on his dick smeared across his stomach. He wiped at the saliva on your chin and fed it back to you.

“So sweet, baby.”

You mewled around his fingers in reply.

He hoisted you to your feet and kissed your talented lips. You stumbled a bit against him, knees obviously numb and stiff, and held onto his shoulders. He shushed you, wrapped an arm around your waist, and cradled your warm cheek.

“I got you,” he said.

You nodded, saying, “Take me to bed.”

He grinned, which you returned.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, and walked you backwards to the bed.

Once there, he turned you around, urged you up, and told you to bend. Your pajama pants hid your ass and thighs, but your t-shirt slid up your back to expose the feminine curve of your torso. He swept his hand down your spine. You lowered your chest to the bed, your ass jutted out to graze his cock. He took hold of your hips and ground himself against you.

“Eddie...”

He grabbed the globes of your ass to knead them. You hummed and wiggled. Then he gave one cheek a grazing smack. You gasped as your flesh jiggled.

“Like that, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Do it again.”

And he did.

You groaned softly and shimmied to encourage him to continue. However, he didn’t want to get distracted. He felt the heat between your legs and needed more. He pulled your pants and underwear to your knees, then kissed the small of your back.

With a shaky, needful voice, you said, “Please, don’t make me wait.”

“My lady’s wish is my command.”

You breathed a laugh.

He smoothed his hands up your thighs to frame your ass. He could eat you up, you looked so delicious. Your skin was so fine. He kissed one cheek, then the other.

You made a small, desperate sound. In response, he nosed at the crease where your leg met ass. He breathed in the heady scent of your arousal and musk. It had his pelvis flexing, cock twitching.

You arched to push against his face. He spread your tender pussy to see it all flushed and wet.

“Sucking my cock got you so worked up.”

You froze.

He said, “God, that’s fucking hot,” and dragged his tongue between the glistening folds of your pussy.

You moaned.

He licked up to the little furl of your asshole. Your breath hitched. He did it over and over, licking all your holes. You ground against his mouth, trying to get more. He angled your hips, tucked his face between your legs, and swirled his tongue around the petite bud of your clit.

You gasped a few ‘please’s and his name, but he didn’t want to stop. He sucked on your clit, its hood. You spread your legs as far as your pants would allow and tried to ride his face.

“Eddie, c’mon! Please—!”

You muffled the rest in the mattress.

He pulled away, and you moaned with disappointment.

“What was that?” he asked before swallowing the salty-sweet taste of you.

“Please, I...”

“Whatever you want.”

“Please fuck me.”

He cursed loudly as a surge of pleasure raced down his spine. He clenched every muscle below his bellybutton to keep from coming right there. Resting his forehead on your ass, he breathed through the near miss.

When the surge abated, he scrambled for a condom. He told you to hang on as he tore through his duffle to find the condom box. In the meantime, you snuck a hand between your legs to play with your clit.

He almost came again at the sight.

At this rate, he was skittering into two-pump-chump territory.

Holy shit, don’t think of pumping.

He found a condom, ripped it open, and rolled it on — all the while thinking of roadkill and long division and the dirty dishes he’d left in the sink. He then took hold of your pants and underwear, tugging at them and sending you forward.

You meeped, yet squirmed to help undress from the waist down.

He tossed the clothes away, crawled over your prone body, and settled above you. With his dick nestled right against your sopping pussy, he rocked his hips. He couldn’t help himself — especially not when you rocked back. You were slick and hot and so ready.

He mouthed at your neck. The bite of your sweat added to the intoxicating taste of you on his tongue.

He realized then your rocking had a purpose: you were attempting to catch the tip of his dick. You made a tiny distressed sound as you continued to fail.

He shushed you. “I got you.”

“Want you.”

“Me too, baby.”

He reached between your bodies to angle his cock just right. You tilted your hips at the same time. It felt like wild magic to push inside you with one long stroke. Your cunt was tight and silky hot around him. He let his head fall forward with a groan. You quivered under him as though on the verge of orgasm.

He kissed and nibbled his way up your neck until reaching your ear. He sucked on the lobe and kissed the corner of your jaw.

“Eddie...”

“You ready?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Talk to me, baby.” He kissed your neck. “Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck me. I want it.” Your cunt squeezed around him, and he couldn’t tell if it was voluntary. “Take me, make me come.”

His stomach swooped. Your words spurred him on. He drew out just enough before letting the full weight of his lower half drop. You panted a ‘yes’ and braced. He set a punishing pace, fucking you in earnest. The clutch of your cunt had him losing himself to the rhythm. He didn’t care, not minding to drown in you.

You buried your face in the mattress, muting your growing moans. He needed to hear you, though. He gripped your neck and tilted your head back. You tensed with a startled gasp and clawed at the bedding.

He’d felt you tense like that before and knew what it meant.

“Gonna come, baby?” he asked.

“Don’t stop!”

He ignored the burn in his muscles as he hammered his cock deep. You struggled under him, breath ragged, ass grinding. Then you let out a sharp cry. You shook against him, shrieking curses as your cunt quivered and gushed around him.

With a growl, he cupped your jaw to keep your head against his shoulder. He pistoned his hips faster and harder. You rasped out a stunned, drawn-out ‘fuck’ as your orgasm continued to unravel. Your scalding, drenched cunt milked him until it started to be too much.

He couldn’t catch his breath as every muscle locked up. Ecstasy simmered at the base of his spine, growing hotter with each clap of his hips meeting yours. It was a staccato beat to his groans. Then it all boiled over. He gritted his teeth and threw back his head as climax poured out of him. He felt scalded from the inside out.

All that remained was his singed heart beating out the syllables of your name.

He sagged on his elbows and lay his damp face on your rucked t-shirt. There were probably things he needed to say or do now, but he couldn’t remember them. He didn’t think he could form words between his harsh breathing.

Your soothing fingers touched his cheek, his temple. He turned his head to kiss them.

When his erection started flagging, he held the condom and pulled out slowly. You gave a wordless protest, yet didn’t stop him from rolling onto his back beside you. He should tie off the condom and dispose of it. He knew that. However, he didn’t want to look away.

In the mottled light from the window, your skin shone with sweat, your hair was in disarray — no doubt like his — and your eyeliner was a mess.

With no small amount of pride, he privately admitted he enjoyed being the cause of that.

You met his eyes and smiled lazily as rain pelted the glass.

He took your limp hand and pulled it. You grumbled, but scooted closer to rest against his side.

“Goddamn,” he said. “Thanks for that.”

You laughed, “You’re welcome,” and put an arm around his middle.

“Want to order a pizza?”

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #stranger things #em tagd #waywardrose writes

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thereyvan · 1 year ago

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pre-hiatus and post-hiatus? nah. these are the real subtypes of Fall Out Boy fans

note: this has been designed to be at least somewhat comprehensible to non-fans and new fans

type 1: the regulars. these are the majority of FOB fans. whether they joined before, during, or after the late 2009 to early 2013 hiatus, whether they prefer the fandom nickname of Car-Crash Hearts, Overcast Kids, Youngbloods, or Fobbies, these are the fans that make up most of the fanbase. type 1s tend to like most of FOB's output, save for a few songs they're not that fond of. they probably follow the band's socials and maybe the band members' socials. overall, these are the FOB fans you're most likely to meet on the internet or irl. they can overlap with types 5 and 6, but are more on the down-low about it

type 2: the stans. these are the really obsessive fans. they insist that they like everything FOB has put out and have probably heard the various 2001 demos. they're the fans that make it their life mission to go to as many FOB shows as possible and get barricade each time. a few of them get downright creepy with their stalking. it was a type 2/6 overlap that had a hand in causing Patrick Stump to leave social media. understandably, most other fans are not fond of these. they tend to overlap with type 5, occasionally overlapping types 3 and 4 as well

type 3: the pre-hiatus gatekeepers(i know i said pre-hiatus ain’t a subtype, but this doesn’t refer to all pre-hiatus fans). usually, these fans joined the fandom between the band's formation in mid-2001 and the hiatus and are self-proclaimed “elder emos.” they put all of FOB's pre-hiatus work on a pedestal and degrade their post-hiatus work. they also tend to look down on anyone who joined the fandom after the hiatus. type 3s are the entitled elitists of the fandom. they tend to cross over with types 2 and 5 and occasionally 4. if they’re also a type 5, they're almost certainly horny for Pete Wentz. the one good thing about them is that the type 2 overlaps are the most likely to spread appreciation of Joe Trohman and Andy Hurley

type 4: the smol-beanifiers. these are the annoying asses who infantilize the everliving shit out of Patrick. they noticed his adorkableness and introversion and exaggerated those traits to hell and back, justifying themselves by pointing out his endearing nature. i mean, while he is quite the cutie, these people take it way too far. they're the ones who tend to call Patrick a "smol bean" and act as if his sweetness makes him completely innocent, most just flat-out ignoring that that man canonically fucks. those that don't ignore that that man fucks almost always overlap with type 5 and are probably Peterick-loving fujoshis. type 4s were everywhere on mid-2010s Tumblr and Wattpad, but are less common now. most of them matured into type 1s, but some only worsened into type 2s. either way, there’s an all but 0% chance that they don’t overlap with type 6

type 5: the simps. these are the fans that are down bad for at least one of the boys- some might say they're down colossal. type 5s can overlap with any other type and are the most likely to have an AO3 account. there's really not much else to say about these lil degenerates

type 6: the Patrick lovers. yes, there's enough of these to get their own type. these fuckers- who can overlap with any other type- absolutely love Patrick. they are the #1 Soul Punk and Truant Wave defenders. notably, a decent chunk of the type 6s on the Fall Out Boy sides of Twitter and Tumblr("fobtwt" and “foblr”) are transmascs who project themselves onto him, relating to his insecurity about his body, the resulting fondness for wearing layers, and him being a measly 5'4". these features have also led a lot of generally insecure fans to attach themselves to him. there's also a lot of neurodivergent type 6s, as Patrick himself has ADHD. he also has asthma, which has led many fans to be even more in awe of his belting ability. a lot of them are also unspeakably horny for this man, seeing him as a certified DILF. i am admittedly one of these people

EDIT: i didn’t mention the type 6 lesbians because i figured that was just a given

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takethistoyourstardust · 12 hours ago

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my vinyl collection is so strange bc we have:

- standard pressing of so much for stardust

- standard pressing of folie a deux that i am pretty sure is from 2009 unless they’ve made more with the original website name and overcast kids references in the copyright info

- singles version of the we didn’t start the fire cover which i think had less than 1000 pressings?

- 20th anniversary clear dark blue pressing of take this to your grave

and if i do get my hands on a soul punk/truant wave vinyl. well i will simply never shut the fuck up ever again.

#the Mage rambles #fababoi #sp era #FROWINF UP

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panfritoo · 4 months ago

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Exhibition Review: Women in Revolt! Art and Activism in the UK 1970-1990

Anything feminist puts me instantly on guard. Feminism sells. Sure. But can't female artists be recognised for anything other than having a vagina? Female artists in Britain did not occupy the spaces of museums and galleries, their work has been safeguarded under individual mattresses and home archives. So I approached Tate Britain's exhibition with a certain scepticism, wondering if the show would be a tokenistic gesture of promoting ‘inclusivity’.

From the get-go, there is one thing obvious. There are no Guerrilla Girls. There are no Mona Lisas. Each piece, interdependent, brings dimension to all the contradictions and experiences of women at a time of significant sociopolitical change. As a result, the exhibition is messy and fatiguing; it almost tries too much at once. However, this is no sign of failure, there is a feminist, non-capitalist politics which informs the curation of the exhibition. Women in Revolt! Art and Activism in the UK 1970-1990 showcases the works of over 100 female artists who used their work to campaign for women’s rights and whose contribution to British culture has been incredibly uncredited.

Arranged chronologically, the exhibition begins with photographs taken by then-20-year-old Chandon Fraser of the First Women’s Liberation Conference that took place in Oxford. Unlike images of any male gathering, these images are intimate, women are smiling and some carrying their infants with them. These women are wives, mothers, activists and artists all carrying the burden of being a woman in each role. Maureen Scott's painting Mother and Child at Breaking Point supplies an honest reflection on being a devoted mother and at the same time, losing the sense of ‘I’. Or, Susan Hiller's "10 Months," where she documents her growing pregnant belly through photographs, along with text from her journal where she writes about being a woman artist. At the time, being a female artist and a mother were considered incompatible. These works demonstrate that while society accepts that there are good, bad, and they-went-to-buy-milk-they-said fathers, mothers are held to different standards.

The works are witty and thought provoking, for instance, Monica SJOOS referencing phallic culture with a painting of a big penis overcasting a city or Rose Finn-Kelcey's 'The Divided Self' a self-portrait of her sitting on a bench at Hyde Park, bookended, appearing on opposite sides of the bench in conversation with her 'other' self. The photograph examines the dichotomy between the person we are in private and the person we are in public.

The exhibition also recognises the influence of subcultures in their role of pushing the boundaries behind the theatrics of womanhood. In the 1980s, against London's depressive political backdrop, a bunch of working-class teenagers were determined to build their own swinging London and escape into an electric new counterculture. These kids would gather around cubs like Blitz's which made the ultimate test bed for new romantics, punks, fashion and lesbian squatters. The photographs by Jill Posner of lesbian couples inhabiting new places were a way to challenge traditional female beauty canons aimed at male arousal and defy sexual orientation attitudes. While others such as Jill Westwood’s photographs of her wearing a latex outfit or Liz Rideal’s self-portraits of her face in a photo booth as she reaches orgasm would use hyper-sexualisation as a means of declaring control over their bodies and acknowledging their sexual self.

It becomes evident that women produced work on the fringes of the art industry, creating their magazines, putting shows at alternative venues and sustaining their work through collaboration. The postal art project supported by Monica Ross and Su Richardson is an example of the networks women built to disseminate their work. These works included in the exhibition are small-scale pieces of artwork using DIY techniques that women would produce on kitchen counters with random items found in the house. These collectibles were mailed between women creating documentation of their experiences. Forms of low-status art became a significant medium of feminist art, which is a direct reflection of women's precarious material conditions at the time.

The exhibition does not focus on a universal experience of women, each room has the function to provide a new layer to the narrative of feminism activism in Britain. Marlene Smiths' “My mother opens the door at 7 am. She is not bulletproof” a portrait of Dorothy Cherry Grace who was shot at her home in Brixton documents the BLK Art Group's contribution to feminist activism and racism in Britain.

Turning our view back to the present, what does it all mean? Perhaps this is the most important. One cannot stop themselves from making connections between women’s rights then and now. Abortion is being criminalised in my countries disowning women from their bodies, women are still inflicted between becoming a mother and pursuing their careers, walking alone at night is still dangerous, and social media algorithms have taken a role in exposing young minds to figures such as Andrew Tate and their “toxic masculinity” content. But at the same time, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else in time but now.

I’ve confessed to myself that I am not a feminist of my time, as a young woman I’ve become weary of the term. Women In Revolt has put into question why I refuse to recognise this history of my gender when it means everything I take for granted now. Despite my initial judgements, this exhibition is a revelation.

#feminism #art #art exhibition #tate britain #archive of women artists #female artists #british art #exhibition review

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plasmivs · 2 months ago

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𝙻𝙴𝚃'𝚂 𝙳𝙾 𝙰 𝚆𝙴𝙸𝚁𝙳 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶.

WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE. - Freshly baked goods, graveyard soil, and something vaguely chemical.

HOW THEY SLEEP. SLEEPING POSITION. SCHEDULE. ETC… - He doesn't sleep well. He's often plagued by nightmares. Mostly about the events after the accident. When he does sleep, he requires sleeping aids and has a hard time sticking to one position, finding all of them uncomfortable after a time. Vlad often forgoes sleeping though, opting to caffeinated drinks or medicines to stay awake. He uses heavy eyeliner to hide the dark rings that evidence his restlessness.

WHAT MUSIC THEY ENJOY. - 70s/80s punk and rock music, with the addition of newer pop punk and other alternative music with similar genres and sounds.

HOW MUCH TIME THEY SPEND GETTING READY EACH MORNING - Vlad is all about appearances when it comes to the public so it wholly depends on if he believes he'll be leaving the mansion or expecting guests at anytime that day.

FAVORITE THING TO COLLECT. - Green bay Packers memorabilia and merch.

LEFT OR RIGHT HANDED. - Ambidextrous

FAVORITE SPORT(S). - .... american football....

FAVORITE TOURISTY THING TO DO WHEN TRAVELING. - hiking local nature trails.

FAVORITE KIND OF WEATHER. - Overcast with light rain, maybe fog. Unless it's game night.

WEIRD / OBSCURE FEAR THEY HAVE. - Being found out as a freak of paranormal nature and shunned from society, worse yet-- hunted down like some dangerous animal.

THE CARNVIVAL / ARCADE GAME THEY ALWAYS WIN WITHOUT FAIL. - The ball toss, for carnival games. The original pac-man for arcade games. (he took turns playing with Jack and Maddie when they were younger.)

tagging: you. the person reading this. even if it's been weeks since I posted it.

#dash game ii rip to my youth #///im pulling fun headcanon stuff off of old blogs dont mind me

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swampstew · 2 months ago

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What's the Magic Word?

Chapter 8: The Island of Thorns

It was an exceptionally overcast day as the Victoria Punk sailed towards an isolated island. Large grey shelf clouds covering the sky and blocking out the sun, the ocean water choppy. Killer stood at the helm watching his Captain through the open doorway, Kid stood at the railing inside of the dragon mouth inspecting the island with a pair of steampunk binoculars. He saw a large cliffside on the west side of the land, miles of beach shoreline and what looked like the worn remains of a ship dock. The vegetation was overgrown, blocking view of anything else.

“When we dock, I want a team to take the dinghy and sail around the area, check to see if there’s any settlements or anything of interest. Keep a small group behind and divided between inspecting the beach and guarding the ship; you, me and the rest will follow Rowena to wherever her coven used to be.” Kid handed off the binoculars, switching roles with Killer.

They sailed in silence, getting closer to their destination when Killer made a choking noise, “You’re going to want to see this.”

Taking the binoculars back, he focused on the direction Killer pointed at. He felt a catch in his throat. There was a patch in the vegetation where he could see the remains of pyres, blackened and broken down. He counted at least seven from the clearing alone.

Kid was a brutal and bloodthirsty pirate; his reputation was that of a man with the largest civilian casualty count and he was proud of that. He simply did not give a fuck for anyone who stood in his way or mocked him, and he didn’t care how many people were hurt or killed in the process. However, the scene and the history of what they were coming upon made him scowl, lowering his binoculars. When they finally reached the dock, Kid went inside to retrieve the Witch.

Knocking on the door he could hear shuffling and stepped back as the door opened. Rowena greeted him, looking morose. She had donned on a black dress that reached her ankles with large slits that exposed her thighs and legs, the heart shape neckline connected to lace floral sleeves that covered her arms and shoulders. Motioning his head upwards, Rowena followed him off ship. Their group walked in silence as they trudged up the beach, Rowena and Kid leading the crew; she had donned on a black wide brim hat, sand getting kicked up from her combat boots.

He knew they had reached the place when Rowena’s steps began to falter, as if she was trying to literally drag her feet. Kid stepped behind her placing a hand on her shoulder, his large frame and equally large coat shielded her from the others.

“If you need a moment, tell me.”

She shook her head, muttering a harsh “let’s just get this over with.”

So they continued walking, reaching an opening at the end of the forest trail. Kid was sure the scene would haunt him for the rest of his life.

As the crew and Witch entered the clearing, they were greeted with a staggering number of pyres, one next to the other with little space between them, scattered around the settlement. All of them were blackened and crumbling; it was a mystery that they hadn’t blown away entirely from the elements. Kid couldn’t explain it but there was a heavy, weighted feeling in the air. Like there was a presence around them but also not at all.

It made him feel like he was being stalked, hunted even. He could hear the crew muttering, nerves clearly on edge. Rowena kept walking, not looking anywhere but straight ahead and he quickened his pace to catch up to her.

Rowena continued until she reached the destroyed foundation of what he assumed was her home as she tripped over herself, bending slightly and he could see her shoulders heave. It was a small dwelling, holding probably only two bedrooms and one main area. Rowena stepped over the rubble and walked into one of the bedrooms, tears streaming down her face, and she stopped over what Kid could see were the remains of a stone bed. The room was littered with burnt cloth and wood.

“This was the room where my mother and I slept.”

Walking into the next room she trailed her fingers on the broken walls. “This was our ritual room; it had a roof that we could open so we could see the moon and stars as we did our practices. I used to love dancing in here under the stars,” she sniffled.

Walking back out to the main room, she lowered her body to the ground sitting on her heels to keep her upright, head bowed. After a moment, she pulled a vial from her waist bag and with scooped up dirt and ash from the ground, pouring it in the vial.

“Hundreds of years ago in our prime, our coven had nearly 400 witches. There were maybe 90 of us left by the time I was born and we all lived here. Prejudices and fear kept us isolated, and if any Witch dared to emigrate elsewhere, they usually came back driven out by the locals, or they died out there by them. This island was our only safe space. I don’t know who betrayed our secret but if I could, I would send them to hell myself.”

Turning to face Kid, “What now?”

“I guess we should start wherever you kept any books or places of learning. You said your coven had a Supreme Witch; we should check her dwelling too. Is there anything here you can salvage?”

Rowena walked around a few times, poking around the debris. She picked up something from her former bedroom, wiping it clean with the bottom of her dress. It was a small black ring, with a magnificent stone in the center, albeit dirty. At first glance it looked deep green.

“It was my mother’s. I remember she never was without it. I can’t believe it was back here.”

“You said when the incident happened you were with your Supreme. What was that about?”

“We were having a private conversation.” Kid gave her a look. She let out a pained sigh.

“I was born under a blood moon. It’s a lunar eclipse event typically interpreted as an omen of death, or the usurping of kings. Additionally, my birth element is water, one of the harder elements to master. Birth elements mean that you can use that element without needing to borrow a source, like I would with say Earth or Fire. I can pull water from the moisture in the air if I so wish, but I can't manipulate Earth unless I'm holding a piece of Earth. If they’re ranked: fire is the strongest element, then water, earth, and finally air. I-uh…also have a degree of power over life and death,” she said rather flippantly.

Kid blinked. “Did you just say you have power over life and death?”

“Yes. Haven’t you noticed how my plants have grown and matured repeatedly on your ship despite me only being onboard for like a month?”

“N-No!”

“I can force most plants to speed through their natural life cycle if I concentrate hard enough. I can also recover from grievous injury by applying my magic to myself. That’s how I survived the pyre. My body was destroyed and I just sorta regrew everything. I don’t even have to think about it, it’s like an automatic response. I’m not sure I can do this to the same degree to another person or animal.”

Kid looked at her incredulously. “Would you be considered a highly gifted Witch or were you par for average?”

Rowena furrowed her eyes in confusion. “How does one even measure gifted qualities? I can’t say for sure, I know I’m not anywhere near powerful as my Supreme was or many of my sisters.”

“Are you sure? Cause you’ve done some pretty powerful things by my standards and if that’s not you at your full potential then I can’t even begin to imagine what kind of training you would need or that I could provide.”

“Then checking the Supreme’s abode will be the best place to start, although if it looks like this then there isn’t much hope.”

“You didn’t finish telling me why you were meeting with your Supreme.”

“Oh, right. We were discussing my next set of tribulations. I was being tested since I was learning more advanced forms of witchcraft. But more importantly, she confessed to me that she had been feeling rather weak lately, she said her power was leaving her body gradually. That’s the sign that means a new Supreme is budding. There can only be one Supreme Witch at a time: she who is so powerful she has mastery of every element without needing to borrow from a tangible source. Not only can she use them at will but she can also manipulate them to into new forms. She can call forth ice by manipulating water and air; lightning by manipulating fire and air. The Supreme Witch can use every form of magic in our recorded history and is also responsible for keeping the records safe. She confessed to me that she saw me in her visions as the new Supreme on the day of my birth and that she was taking me under her wing to learn from her personally. I was so happy, Kid. Can you imagine, being destined to be that powerful?” she was smiling through her tears, then it faded.

“She started clutching her head, the excitement on her face was replaced with one of sorrow. Then she looked at me and told me our secret, our hidden island location, was out and that we were under attack. We’ve never been assaulted on our land but if there was ever a threat, we had a plan to keep ships from docking on the beach. But these Marines had gotten the jump on us, they were already at the shoreline. They rounded us up like we were wild animals and I saw my sisters fight back but there was one Marine, he overpowered everyone. And you know how the rest happened.” Rowena lowered her head, tears overflowing anew.

Kid lifted her chin and wiped her tears away but that only seemed to make her cry harder. Frowning, he pulled her into his chest and held her as she sobbed. He could feel the wetness on his body but he stood perfectly still, arms around her shoulders keeping her close. Feeling her trembling and not knowing what else to do, he leaned down and awkwardly whispered into the shell of her ear, “I got you, Ro--wena.” Cringing at himself for the attempt at shortening her name during a vulnerable moment.

She let out a gasp and wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing him with surprising force. He rubbed her back slowly as she let herself cry; for the loss of her family and for the years of pain and suffering that lead up to her emancipation thanks to Luffy. After a few moments, she had her breathing under control. She wiped her face clean with her hands before extricating herself from the Supernova who used his coat to wipe his chest.

“Are you ready to move on?” He asked quietly.

Rowena nodded. He led her out of the ruins holding her hand; it was small against his but he held a firm grasp on it.

“If you want to cry again just squeeze my hand. I’ll let you hide under my coat if you don’t want the others to see you.”

She bit her lip as another fat tear fell from her eye, she nodded vigorously and he once again wiped it for her, the action quickly becoming second nature for him. She led him to the Supreme’s dwelling and like the others it had been destroyed. Rowena pilfered through the remaining debris but found nothing that she could see. Kid frowned, calling out to Killer for a report.

“The scouting team reported nothing except a sea wall, they docked and are scouting the forest and land on the east side; the beach team is scouting the west side finding nothing on the beach itself. We’ve searched the buildings but it’s all just ash and broken bits.”

Kid tsked, he wasn’t giving up that easily. He dropped Rowena’s hand and walked out to where larger foundations laid. Raising his hand, he partially closed his eyes deep in concentration.

“Uh what are you doing?” Killer tilted his head.

“Investigating,” he said through gritted teeth.

Rowena stepped out and started collecting more dirt in a larger vial. How deep is that waist bag of hers? he mused. Kid walked around the settlement and after making the same circuit three times, he came to a stop.

“There is a large mass of metal somewhere in the Supreme’s dwelling, it must be underground. Too much Earth keeping it in place for me to just lift it out.”

Rowena walked back inside and asked Kid to clarify where the metal was. Re-entering the room, Kid walked over to the northern most wall and pointed to the ground. Nodding, she told him to back up to the other side as she took a few steps back herself.

She dug both hands into the dirt, dragging her nails into the Earth building up debris under her nails, letting her hands get stained and dusted. Rowena straightened her back and took a wide stance. She began making fluid motions with her hands and feet, dragging her right foot from outside her left one, and dragging it to the outwards to lift and stomp her boot into the ground. A large square outline appeared in the ground as the dirt crumbled and lifted away, small mounds creating a lip around the hole.

She nodded to Kid who walked over, toeing the edge. He raised his hand and used his power, they could hear a grating sliding noise and after a minute, a very worn and rusted metal container was lifted out, spilling dirt everywhere. Rowena’s eyes bugged, waiting for Kid to open the safe. As soon as he did, she pilfered through the contents and started making hyperventilating noises.

“Everything ok Ro’?” he peered over her shoulder. She whipped her head back, arms loaded with thick textbooks.

“Kid, this is my Supreme’s Grimoire, her Book of Shadows, scrolls and other sacred texts. These are the only written records of witchcraft dating back 800 years,” her face a mixture of happiness and melancholy.

“I’m sorry I doubted you. This priceless knowledge would have been lost forever,” she put everything down and wrapped her arms around him as she cried again.

Kid froze, turning deep red as she held on to him, his crew averted their gazes. Suddenly a voice could be heard over Killer’s transponder snail.

“Hey Killer, this is the dinghy team, we found remains of an old settlement but it’s been abandoned for a very long time s’far as we can tell. Also, I’m not sure if it’s just us but this place is creepy. The men keep reporting whispers in the fields or feelings of being watched.”

“Hey Captain, this is the beach team scouting the west side, we concur with the creepy vibes. There isn’t anything out on this side either but I’m not liking the feeling like I’m being stalked through the trees.”

Everyone turned to Rowena who pulled back from Kid, wiping her face.

“The island is likely haunted. The immeasurable pain and agony from the victims who died here cannot be erased. This land is tainted and stained, the ghosts of my sisters are here, crying in despair, furious at the injustice. And with so much pain and anger, it invites…other things...this place is no longer safe, we should leave as soon as possible. I don’t think we should be here when night falls.”

Kid pulled out his pocket watch, it was about five o’clock. Grabbing the transponder snail from Killer, “all teams head back to the dock and prepare to sail.” Looking to the present crew, “gather everything out of this safe and drag it back to the ship.”

The crew hauled ass, piling the texts and items into a four-wheeled cart. Rowena walked around the perimeter, collecting things she found on the ground. As the crew carted the relics back towards the forest trail path, a sudden strong gust of wind shook through the trees, branches all swayed forward and the leaves bristled creating a loud, ominous sound around them. Everyone froze.

“We should go, we should go right now,” Rowena’s voice was alerted and Kid barked at the men to go.

The sound of whispering was much louder and clearer now. Invisible voices were crying out for help but amongst them were other voices too, not crying for help but something much more odious. The hairs on the back of Kid’s neck began to stand up and he started speed walking, which prompted everyone else to run.

As they rushed down the path of trees, it felt like they were no closer to reaching the beach than they had when they had entered the trail. In fact, the longer Kid stared at the exit the further away it seemed to get. Breaking through the whispers, the crew could hear shouts of fear around them.

Rowena stopped running and unsheathed her blades. Pulling out a vial from her bag, she quickly doused her swords.

“I’ll double back to make sure the rest of the crew make it to the beach; you go on ahead,” she shouted over her shoulder as she turned back the way they came.

“No, stay with us. I believe in my men and if they don’t make it, they didn’t have what it takes to sail with us anyways.” Kid snapped.

Rowena eyed him; he couldn’t read the emotion on her face but he wasn’t sure he liked it. Not caring, he grabbed on to her arm and yanked her with him, running towards the exit. Again, the exit seemed to just be out of their reach and he roared in frustration. The rustling in the trees ramped up and the whispers sounded so close to them now.

“What do we do?” Kid looked at her.

Handing him her blades, she dug in her bag rummaging through her items. After a moment, she pulled out small cones that she quickly lit aflame with a gold lighter. They let off a woodsy scent and as they began to burn and the smoke furled out, he could feel a woosh in the air and suddenly the whispers didn’t feel right in his ear. The Witch began tossing several lit cones in either direction, the smoke plumes rising in the air as they burned.

Holding one in her hand, she called over her shoulder, “Let’s move!” In just minutes they reached the beach and Kid almost threw himself to the ground to kiss the sandy shore.

The pirates raced down the beach, out of the corner of his eye he could see the other teams emerging from the woods, some of them looked rough as if they had been fighting only who knows what. They all ran towards the ship. A loud, terrifying roar began emitting from the forest. Rowena pulled back, waiting for everyone to get ahead of her as she held the rear, swords raised.

“WITCH! MOVE YOUR ASS OR I’LL MOVE IT FOR YOU” Kid screamed at her as he stood by the boarding plank while the crew boarded.

She ignored him, holding out her hands and yelling at the last of the men to hurry. Letting out a frustrated yell, Kid ran up the beach to retrieve her. As he neared her, a wave of birds flew up from the tree line, screeching.

A massive shelf cloud was completely covering the island and there was a deep rumbling noise, but whether it was coming from the sky, the sea or the land, Kid couldn’t be sure. One more man broke from the tree line, running towards the boat. Just as he reached Rowena, Kid saw blackness shoot out and grab at the man. He was a newer member named Cut. Cut was pulled down and being dragged backwards, screaming for help.

Rowena sprinted to him, swords swinging at the black mass. It let out a vile hiss as her swords made contact, and the tendrils whipped back into the shadows of the trees. The man got up and left only a trail of dust and sand as his legs carried him to the ship. Rowena started walking backwards, swords up in defense as she eyed the trees.

Kid grabbed her arm and started to pull her again when another set of tentacles came shooting out, this time aimed directly at him; she blocked them before it could touch either of them, the same hissing noise came from them as her blades sliced against them. Kid could see a black ooze drip down into the sand, a vile smell in the air.

The tentacles retreated again – Rowena turned to him, “Now you can move my ass.”

With an annoyed growl, Kid picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, sprinting down the beach.

“More are coming,” she warned and he willed his legs to run faster.

He kicked up a flurry of sand as he sprinted towards the dock, using his devil fruit power to pull the anchor up. He yelled at Killer to get moving as the men withdrew the plank from the dock completely.

Putting Rowena down, “What now?”

“We’re safe here. We’re on the water and they cannot touch the salt from the sea, it burns them.”

“What the fuck was all that?!” he barked.

“Demons.”

Everyone’s eyes bugged as they all looked between the Witch and the island of hell they just barely made it off.

“Evil spirits and monstrous demons are attracted to strong, negative emotions. Any emotions will due honestly but when it’s pain and anger, it’s like a feeding frenzy for them. After what happened here, it must have been a feast for them, there’s a legion deep in there.”

“You can see them?”

“I can hear them, each voice speaking out to us. Every dying wish, plea for help, lust for blood,” she was shivering.

A low groaning came from the island as darkness overtook the land, tendrils trying to reach them as they raced down the shoreline. They stopped just short of the shore, tendrils testing the wet sand and immediately pulling back. Kid felt himself shudder.

“The land is haunted both by the vengeful spirits of my coven and the greedy mouths of those demon shits. This was once a powerful land teeming with magic and now its poisoned,” she slammed a fist on the railing.

“Is there anything you can do?” Kid asked, standing next to her.

“I don’t know, the sheer number of them is already overwhelming. I don’t think I can just cleanse the land by flooding it with the sea. It might take something much greater.”

“Like what?”

She frantically waved her hands in the air, “I just don’t know. Where are the books, maybe I can find something,” she walked to the cart and started digging through the materials. Finding the Grimoire she sat on the deck and ran through the pages, the ship sailed a mile off the coast for safety.

After several minutes, Rowena hopped up and showed Kid the page she was reading. He looked skeptical, “You can do that?”

“I can try, we’re a good distance away but we should put some more between us while I prepare. Is there a space where I can be alone while I get ready for this?”

He quickly instructed Killer to sail further away from the land as he led Rowena through the helms room that sat inside the dinosaur skull’s mouth. Through the second door in the room, they walked out to an open space still covered by the massive skull, looking out to the ocean.

“The aftereffects will make the sea a bit choppy.”

Facing the island, she bowed her head and began to mutter a chant quietly, holding her wand as she started making sharp hand motions. Kid crept up slowly so he could see her better – she was still chanting but ceased her hand motions. Two fingers pointed upwards on each hand as they clasped together, her wand sandwiched between them.

He felt his hair tugging upwards on his scalp and skin. He saw that Rowena’s hair had also been pulled up, it was standing straight up in the air and he hadn’t really appreciated how long it was before. It reached the roof of the dinosaur’s mouth, clumps of hair stuck out like spikes in his, only black in color.

She whispered to herself, as if forgetting Kid was behind her. “I miss you all so much. I will carry the weight of your pain and thirst for vengeance.”

Opening her eyes and speaking louder in a deep voice, she rumbled out, “Cataclysm.” A single tear fell from her eye, hands broke apart and she raised one up; clenching it into a fist, she dropped to the floor and punched it with all her might.

Hearing a thunderous cracking from the sky, Kid watched as the sky opened in the shelf cloud, and he could see black plumes and fiery embers falling through to the island. The thunderous roar became louder, as if the planet was being screamed at by an unseen Titan. The ocean began rolling, waves became choppy and the ship was rocked sharply.

Large objects were raining from the sky itself, exploding on impact as they fell to the land. Giant clouds of smoke and dust blew out from all sides of the island, the cliffside broke and crumbled into the sea. They could feel the land shaking as it became pummeled with more mass objects and Kid watched as the beach and land became ruptured; cracks breaking through the shoreline, water engulfing the sand as it rushed to flood the ruined land. It took 15 minutes for the island to sink entirely.

Breathless and in awe, he reached out to Rowena, “What was that power?”

She turned to him, a dead look in her eyes, “Solar magic. I pulled meteors down and destroyed the Island of Thorns. In doing so and burying it at the bottom of the East Blue, I’ve purified my home. I only hope that by doing this, my coven is free to move on from this purgatory.” She stumbled, depleted of energy.

Kid caught her, holding her against his chiseled body, both hearts beating rapidly. They stayed like that as the ocean calmed itself, the ship no longer rocking violently. He found that he didn’t really want to let go of her, but he knew they had to get a move on.

“Can you make it back to your room?” she nodded weakly. Not liking that, he bent forward intending to scoop her up in his arms but she protested.

“Before we go, I need to do something,” she pulled back and sat down on the wooden floor.

Kid kneeled next to her. From her bag she pulled out several pieces of colored yarn, feathers, raw cut gems, shells, and other items. She began stringing it all together.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m making a Witch’s Ladder.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a useful tool for scrying, meditation, and can be used in my rituals too. My mother and I made my first one together, it was bounded with bay leaves, rose quartz gems and seashells. Haven’t had one in years.”

She gingerly stood up; a bit unsteady on her feet. Kid straightened up and stood directly behind her acting like a wall for the Witch to lean on, which she did to his delight. Facing the direction of her former home, Rowena let out a small, sad sigh. Wand anchoring her string, she began to recite words while tying knots into the string, eyes partially shut.

By knot of one, the spell's begun. By knot of two, the magic comes true. By knot of three, so it shall be.

Her voice faltered and cracked at first, but it became more confident as she spoke her chant.

By knot of four, this power is stored. By knot of five, my will shall drive. By knot of six, the spell I fix.

She shut her eyes and spoke more fiercely.

By knot of seven, the future I leaven. By knot of eight, my will be fate. By knot of nine, what is done is mine.

Rowena opened her eyes, chanting the final line with clear determination; the knotted string dangled from her wand. She pulled it off, wrapping it around her wrist twice. She turned to Kid and asked him to tie a slipped buntline hitch to keep it from falling. As he tied it up, he saw the heavy bags under her eyes. She tried to walk back to the door but her energy was fading fast. Her knees buckled and Kid grabbed her. Scooping her up he swiftly carried her to her cabin.

Laying her down in bed, “You did good today; I know it wasn’t easy and you really saved our asses. I’ll give you some time to recover, don’t worry about training for the next two weeks, just rest up and read your books, I’ll have Killer bring them down in a bit.”

The Captain walked back to the deck and began addressing the crew; instructing the wounded to visit UK and the rest were dismissed to their daily duties. He had Gig take control of the helm and chart a course back to Sabaody so they could finally get back on course to the New World.

With Killer, the two men brought down Rowena’s books to her room. They knocked but there was no answer. Entering cautiously, they realized she was out. They quietly placed her items on the small table and exited.

Kid stood at the threshold, giving her one last look and walked back inside to remove her boots from her feet and drape the blanket over her. He hesitated for a moment before leaning down and kissing the top of her head. Finally satisfied, he walked out to let his Witch get the rest she deserved.

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