#the veil of veronica if you will

[tennessoui]

Hey,

could I ask you what do you think of the people in the disaster lineage? We know you love Obikin and Luke but what do you think about Yoda, Dooku, Qui-Gon and if you want also Ahsoka and Sabine.

I often struggle to connect with the last ones but I find the first three interesting. What are your thoughts?

my only thought right now is that i'm giggling at anakin being left out of the disaster lineage

the last thing this guy needs, you know?

as far as everyone else, i generally like them! i wish i had character thoughts to share, but most of the time i don't - i approach a lot of star wars through the lens of writing because that's how i engage with the canon and the material the most, and that means that with characters i don't know so well i see them mostly through how can i use them in a story and what do i take from their canon representations to transpose on my written characters to get where i want to get

i don't dislike anyone in the disaster lineage as far as i'm aware - i also haven't read the books either, so i'm mostly going off of the movies/tv shows and no supplemental material. and i haven't seen anything with sabine in it yet (my to watch list is very long and star wars doesn't get priority unless obi-wan is in it or it's rogue one related), so i forget about her. so often. most of the time, i would say

[baby-steps-bindery]

iconoclasts by rowanisawriter

AUTHOR COPY HAS SAFELY ARRIVED🙏🔥🔥🔥

which means I can finally share my bind!

Another classic book look! Which was perfect for this bind especially, on account of its themes of sacrilege, blasphemy, and doubt.

The cover art is “Saint Veronica with the Veil” by Mattia Preti. When I saw it, I knew it was The One—it made me think of Mira looking up fearfully in face of Mystra’s perceived wrath.

(I wish I could’ve included the blood-stained cloth shaped in Jesus’s face, but you win some, you lose some.)

As for the typeset, here it is:

I’m so proud of it—I think it’s the best typeset I’ve done so far! 

All the chapter images are from the public domain, by French artist, Maurice Denis. Each were carefully selected to suit each story. I’m especially a fan of the art I chose for heretic’s Act I and Act III.

Now, the dust flaps:

Fun fact: the “follow Rowan on tumblr” section is inspired by Megan Whalen Turner, since on the edition I have of her book only lists tumblr as her social media which is so iconic🤣💖

Thank you @rowanisawriter for letting me typeset this, but also for writing this series, thereby dragging me into BG3 fandom and allowing me to meet all my new friends! Will always be grateful for that💖

With love, 

Emi xoxo

[sengardet]

🧙‍♀️⚡🫀Veronica's Downfall (Magical electro+ heart torment.)

Veronica leaned against the cave wall, breathing heavily after a long day of battles. The flickering light of her campfire cast mysterious shadows on the rocky walls. "A decent shelter for the night," she muttered to herself, beginning to set a protective ward around the perimeter.

Veronica's ward shimmered faintly at the cave entrance as she laid down and closed her eyes, her breaths deep and even. The subtle glow illuminated her athletic, toned body sprawled on the bedroll. Blonde hair fanned out around her features.

Veronica's steady breathing echoed through the cave as she slept, golden hair spilling across her bedroll, her muscular form still and serene in slumber.

Yanil approached her meditation cave, eager for quiet solitude. But as she neared the entrance, an unnatural glow emanated from within - a shimmering veil of light blocked her. Someone had dared to intrude upon her sacred space!

wearing a bright grin, Yanil placed a pale hand on the luminous barrier. It crackled and sparked at her touch. "How adorable, they think this will keep me out."

She took a step back and closed her eyes, focusing inward. Tingling energy surged through her slender form. In a flash, her body transformed into pure electricity. The crackling blue current that was Yanil flowed forward, probing the rocky walls for gaps and fissures. Finding a narrow crack, she poured herself through, slipping past the magical seal like water through a sieve.

Yanil slipped inside like an electric shadow, her lithe frame materializing from sparks and flickers. A wicked grin spread across her pale face as she crept towards the sleeping warrior. Veronica's powerful essence called to her, enticing and invigorating.

The witch licked her lips, drinking in the sight of Veronica's toned body, the raw strength evident even in rest. She knelt beside the slumbering woman. Delicate yet dangerous fingertips hovering just above soft and inviting skin that covered a mighty vitality.

"You'll make a lovely little pet" she whispered. Yanil wrapped her slender arms around Veronica, pressing her body against the warrior's, waking the woman. As Veronica felt something amiss, Yanil could feel Veronica's mighty heart pounding through layers of taut muscle. The strong woman's chest rose and fell with each deep breath, her body pulsing with vigorous life.

Yanil shivered... she had never felt a heartbeat so strong, so full of raw vitality. It made her petite body quake as it punched into her frame.

Veronica's eyes met Yanil’s.

"What the hell are you doing?!" she growled, twisting to throw Yanil off. But Yanil clung tight, giggling manically.

Blue sparks danced across Yanil's fingertips.

"You're such a heavy sleeper, sweetheart," Yanil said. "I think it’s cute..."

Before Veronica could react, Yanil sent a shock of magic directly into her chest. The warrior cried out, body jerking and spasming as the electric jolt seized her heart. Yanil clung tightly, shuddering in sadistic glee as she felt the mighty muscle writhe and flutter in her embrace.

"Get...off...me..." Veronica gritted out, trying to throw the witch off. But her struggles only excited Yanil more.

Yanil directed another surge into Veronica's flailing body, forcing her pounding heart into agonized submission. The warrior collapsed to her back with a groan.

"Shhh, don't fight it," Yanil said softly, stroking her fingers over Veronica's breastbone as she perched atop the breathless woman’s hips. "Just relax and let me have my fun."

As the warrior’s consciousness waned. Yanil alternated the shocks with forceful chest compressions, sadistically coaxing the organ to pound before subduing it once more with crackling energy. Veronica gasped and convulsed beneath her, back arching, fingers clawing at the ground.

Yanil leaned down, raven hair brushing Veronica's face as she captured her lips in a searing kiss, breathing life into starving lungs. She pulled back and gazed into defiant hazel eyes clouded with pain and terror. Beautiful. “Aww, how’d you lose to a delicate little thing like me?” Yanil said with a menacing smile.

Veronica’s panicked eyes darted around until they landed on her trusty blade. She lunged for her sword, fingers grasping the leather-wrapped hilt. With a warrior's cry, she swung the blade in a deadly arc towards the witch.

But Yanil was too quick. The witch seized Veronica's wrist in a delicate grip, sending jolts of crackling energy surging through the warrior woman's arm. Veronica convulsed as sparks danced across her skin. Her fingers spasmed open and the sword clattered to the stone floor.

"Tsk tsk, naughty girl," Yanil purred, her black lips curving in a wicked smile. "You'll need to be punished dearly for that."

Delicate fingers, alive with sparks, slid across Veronica's collarbone and down between her heaving breasts. Yanil's touch passed through skin like a ghost, burying deep in Veronica's chest. The warrior gasped as those slender digits wrapped around her frantically beating heart and began to explore.

"Mmm, how cute it really is, so warm and feisty…" Yanil murmured, breath hot against Veronica's ear. "I can feel every throb, every quiver." Her fingers mapped the pulsing contours, delicately yielding to its vigorous pulse as it pinned her hand to the woman’s sternum.

“Now for your punishment.” Yanil sent a sharp jolt of electricity surging into the quivering organ and squeezed. Veronica let out an agonized scream as her mighty heart spasmed violently before wiggling like jello in Yanil's grasp. Her athletic frame writhed, losing strength quickly.

"Oopsie, I think I overdid it a bit," Yanil giggled as the once powerful organ fell limp and still. She gave the pliant ventricles a patronizing little shake. "Wakey wakey!"

"Please... mercy..." Veronica whimpered with the air left in her lungs, eyes wide with fear.

Yanil smirked, reveling in the once proud warrior's pathetic begging. She leaned in close, ebony hair brushing Veronica's cheek as she breathed into her captive's quivering lungs and squeezed her flailing life. Veronica's body shuddered in a mix of revulsion and desperation as she fought for control of her fluttering diaphragm. “No…” Yanil said with a smile.

Yanil pressed her fingers into Veronica's quivering heart, feeling the muscle twitch beneath her fingers. A thrill pulsed through Yanil's body at the touch, her own heart jerking her around in the excitement. She began to squeeze and massage the heart, coaxing it back to life, keeping the woman in the twilight of consciousness.

A moan escaped Yanil's lips as the heart spasmed in her grip. "Come on, cutie. Let's get that blood pumping again," she said. Her delicate fingers rhythmically compressed the thick, meaty organ, forcing it to contract and relax. Veronica's body jolted with each pulse as the witch forced blood through her veins.

Yanil dragged her fingertips across the heart's slick surface, sending tiny electric shocks into the sensitive cardiac muscle. It quivered and clenched erratically under her touch. She pressed her palm firmly against it, savoring the sensation of its strengthening beat against her skin.

"That's it, fight for me," Yanil whispered sultrily. She continued her sensual cardiac massage, squeezing and caressing, until she felt a steady pulse in its form. As the heart gained feeble rhythm, Yanil traced a finger along a bulging artery, applying pressure, making the struggling organ strain and throb against the restriction.

Despite the torturous ministrations, Veronica's stubborn heart found its natural rhythm, pumping defiantly of its own accord between Yanil's cruel compressions.

[manically-depressedd-psychopath]

𝐵𝐸𝐸𝑇𝐿𝐸𝐽𝑈𝐼𝐶𝐸 𝐵𝐸𝐸𝑇𝐿𝐸𝐽𝑈𝐼𝐶𝐸 𝐵𝐸𝐸𝑇𝐿𝐸𝐽𝑈𝐼𝐶𝐸!!

hi i’m Maddie!! (or any nickname you’d like)

they/them(?)

matching lydia pfps with @book-girl4evaaa and @shrxe 💜

my url is a ref to Solitaire by Alice Oseman. i just so happen to live up to the name.

DECO MY TREEEEEE

don’t be afraid to talk to me istg i am the least scary person ever🥲

also i probably wanna be friends with you :D

hate anons >:(

————————————————————————

“𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑳𝑰𝑭𝑬, 𝑵𝑶 𝑶𝑵𝑬 𝑴𝑨𝑲𝑬𝑺 𝑰𝑻 𝑶𝑼𝑻 𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑽𝑬“

𝙁𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙢𝙨/𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙨:

• Beetlejuice

• Beetlejuice The Musical

• Beetlejuice (cartoon)

• Beetlejuice Beetlejuice

• Heathers

• Heathers the Musical

• Mean Girls

• Mean Girls the Musical

• Mean Girls (2024)

• Crush (2022)

• Ride The Cyclone the Musical

• Hamilton the Musical

• Edward Scissorhands

• Heartstopper by Alice Oseman

• Solitaire by Alice Oseman

• Radio Silence by Alice Oseman

——————————————————

𝙈𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙘??:

• Radiohead

• Green Day

• Tv Girl

• Pierce The Veil

• Laufey

• Pheobe Bridgers

• Frankie Cosmos

• Cavetown

• The Smiths

• Mitski

• Lana Del Ray

• Taylor Swift

• Girl in Red

my spotify

——————————————————

𝘿𝙉𝙄 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚..

homophobic, racist, zionist, zoophile, pathetic hate anons, make SA jokes, a trump supporter, or just a dick/bigot in general💜

————————————————————————

𝙎𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝘽𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙨:

veronica sawyer rp blog: @ask-veronica-sawyerr

Kevin G rp blog: @ask-your-boy-kevin-g

Bud Dean rp blog: @big-bud-dean

Eliza Schuyler rp blog: @ask-eliza-hamilton

Lydia Deetz rp blog: @ask-lydia-deetzz

vent blog: @mxds-rantz

poetry blog: @we3ping-w1nds

(yes this is me revealing i have a poetry blog)

@/spacedreamon for divider creds

i think that’s all so have a great day/night, drink some water (please😔)

💜💚🩷💜💚🩷💜💚🩷💜💚🩷💜💚🩷💜💚

[everythingisawayoflife]

Neil's Death & The Symbolism Within - An Essay

OKAY LIKE A FEW PEOPLE SAID I SHOULD SO LET ME TALK ABOUT THIS, its gonna sound like nonsense. this is a repost so it gets more visibility! Trigger Warning for discussions of Suicide, Self-Harm, Mental Health. Please read at caution cause I discuss a lot of sensitive stuff here.

So my scene analysis paper was exactly as it sounds, we watch a movie of our choice, and analyze it from our textbook, America on Film: 3rd edition. I chose Dead Poets bc it had been a minute since I’ve seen it and I also have seen it enough times to be able to analyze it. So I chose Neil’s suicide. a very chilling scene that when broken down, says a lot, for saying very little. so first lets get into the biblical allegory.

When we first see Neil, he opens his window and slowly puts his Puck crown on his head, like so:

This combines two major elements of the main biblical parallels at play: The Agony in the Garden and one of the major Instruments of the Passion, The Crown of Thorns. For those who have not grown up around Christianity/don't pay attention to it, here are some brief yet thorough definitions of the terms I just threw around:

Agony in the Garden: The night Jesus and his disciples spend in the Garden of Gethsemane where Jesus spends the entire night praying and wrestling with his inevitable crucifixion. Some scriptures add that he was sweating blood during this but it depends on which translation you read. The Agony really shows Jesus' human side and can best be seen in the musical Jesus Christ Superstar's most pivotal number, Gethsemane, which I've linked here.

The Passion: A collective name for the events leading up to Jesus' crucifixion. Essentially all of what Easter is. Passion's archaic definition is suffering.

The Instruments of the Passion: Notable relics and icons from the Passion. These include the Crown of Thorns, the cross itself, Holy Lance, Veil of Veronica, and more.

Anyway, the entire first part of the scene shows Neil, who moves slowly and deliberately. No one else in the entire house is awake and he has become one with nature, by opening his window and feeling the winter breeze. Neil bows his head, presumably IN PRAYER, before we cut to the next part. While Christianity has become decentralized in households across America, it was still very crucial in 1950s America, especially in WASP-y domains. So, it would be correct to assume Neil's family is Christian, especially of how Welton is structured (i.e. the main meeting hall is basically a chapel, they sing hymns, etc.).

Jesus Christ was crowned with thorns as a way of mocking him. He was put on trial because according to the Romans, he claimed to be a God, which because the Romans adhered to their set pantheon, it was considered sacrilege and blasphemy. Jesus only ever responded (again, depending on the translation), "You say that I am." So they wanted to mock his authority and placed that crown on his head. Neil is essentially mocking his own authority because the entire movie he has tried and failed to have authority over his own life. His father continuously shoots him down and refuses to listen until the final break when he tells Neil he is sending him to military school. For Neil, he believes it was foolish to think he could even persuade his father just a tiny bit. He expresses this from the moment we first meet Mr. Perry to the final argument.

Where Jesus wears a crown of thorns, Neil's crown is woven with what appears to be fruits and maybe flowers. Flowers and fruit have had sensitive and romantic connotations throughout all of history and are often represented in classic art and literature. Neil is making this sacrifice in the name of art. If you notice throughout the entire movie, anytime death is mentioned, the camera is focused on Neil. It is brilliant subtle foreshadowing and it eats me alive every time it happens. Neil knows what he is about to do. Robert Sean Leonard played this scene beautifully and I so badly want to discuss all of this with him.

Continuing on, we watch Neil make a silent descent down the stairs and he is entirely shadowed. This gives the audience the implication that we already see a ghost:

Neil needed theater like he needed breathing and when theater was taken away from him, his life force was gone. The whole of Neil already died. We see this resignation with his final line:

"I was good. I was really good."

Neil already views himself as dead. He speaks of himself in the past tense. So Neil walking silently through his house as if he were already a ghost is so haunting. I mentioned earlier that Neil knows what he is doing. In Christianity, suicide is considered a sin. We see this in The Divine Comedy, an Italian narrative written by author Dante Alighieri in the 1300s CE. In the first and most famous section, Inferno, when Dante and Virgil arrive in the Seventh Circle and come across those who have committed suicide where they have been turned into trees. The only exception to this is Judas Iscariot, who is being feasted on by a three-headed Satan. Now again, Judas dies two different ways depending on which biblical translation you read but typically the narrative is this:

Judas turns Jesus into the Sanhedrin for 30 pieces of silver and when he discovers Jesus is to be crucified, Judas hangs himself.

In Biblical times, despite suicide being marked as a sin, in Judas' case, because he wanted redemption from his bad act, it was viewed as an acceptable death. So for Neil, this suicide is a redemption for betraying his father. A small parallel, maybe even a bit of stretch, but it is there for me nonetheless.

Back to Jesus, Neil's descent down the stairs also parallels to the walk along the Via Dolorosa or the Way of Suffering. It is the path Jesus walked to his crucifixion, a long and arduous journey. The walk is about 2,000 ft (600 Meters in Metric) yet this is a man who has been beaten, starved, tortured, who was also tasked with carrying his own large wooden cross, and Neil has his own cross to bear: The emotional weight of what he is about to do. It was a slow and painful walk for Jesus and its a slow and painful walk for Neil. Skipping ahead, Neil finally arrives to his destination. The choice to do it in his father's office was absolutely on purpose. Neil comes back to the spot he emotionally died, the moment he lost everything. We get just a brief bit of hesitation for Neil. He fiddles with the key to his father's desk. He holds it gingerly and turns it over in his fingers a few times before reaching down to unlock the drawer with the gun. This goes back to the Agony in the Garden, which again, is best expressed in Jesus Christ Superstar's Gethsemane:

Why I should die?

Eventually, Jesus resigns himself to die:

Alright, I'll die! Just watch me die! See how I die!

Neil does not go silently. I don't know if I'm hallucinating or have really keen hearing, but I swear you can hear the tail end of the gunshot simultaneously as the dirge-like music cuts and Mr. Perry gasps awake. I might just be making that up but I don't know tbh. But anyway, while Jesus resigns himself, the following lyrics express frustration with God and the life that was already planned for him when he has a selfish sense to live. This song and musical really delve into the debate of how much human and God was Jesus Christ and it really opens the door for his human side. He expresses selfishness and a want to abandon his mission. He is hesitant to die. He is hesitant to die painfully. Like I said earlier, Neil hesitates ever so slightly.

Then I was inspired

Now, I'm sad and tired

After all I've tried for three years

Cause not only is God, well, y'know, GOD, he is also Jesus' father. A father who had planned out a whole life for his son and while his son goes along with it, he has a desire to live outside of that. Sound familiar? And I really am trying not to be sacrilegious or anything! I grew up in a Christian household but outside of that, theology has always interested me and I've learned to view it from an academic standpoint. As for my beliefs now, I'm still unsure, and I don't think I ever will be sure and I think that's okay. We're getting off topic, so let me get back on track.

The final time we see Neil alive is him sitting at his Dad's desk, gun wrapped in cloth with Neil gripping it:

He looks sure, with maybe just a flicker of sadness. The entire scene Neil has looked serene. And not like the calm kind of serene, the morose kind. Solemn, I think is a better word for it. Neil's soul has died. Neil is about to crucify himself and become a Dead Poet. He has fulfilled the purpose of the poets they read about in the Society. He lived life as full as he could only for it to be cut down so short. That's the tragedy of it: Neil had so much life to live and so much more to contribute to the arts. But Neil's father killed that passion, killed that love. Earlier in the film, Keating recites the Whitman poem, O Me! O Life! In summary, the poem essentially states that life itself is what makes life worth living. It's a question and answer poem. The speaker wonders what about life is worth living when it is full of constant suffering. They get an answer: life itself is. You being here on Earth and having an identity is what makes it worth it. Neil doesn't see that worth anymore. Life without the arts, his friends, Keating, is not worth living for him anymore. I really recommend reading that full poem, linked here, it is so gorgeous despite it being so short. That sweaty-toothed madman had a gift.

I think that's pretty much everything. There have been a MILLION think pieces on Todd and Neil's whole relationship (TLDR: those boys are GAY) so I didn't get into it here, mainly cause I wanted to focus on Neil and the real meat of my rambling, which was the Biblical allegory. I feel like I said a whole bunch of nothing and it might not make sense to me in the morning but it feels good to get it all out. I love this movie and I love Neil and I love Biblical allegory.

I also hope that this post communicates that suicide is not the answer! Please reach out if you have feelings that make you feel unsafe or need someone to lean on. My DMs are always open and I will leave the major crisis hotlines if needed.

988 - Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, call for support

741741 - Crisis Text Line, text TALK to speak to someone for support.

[apaperswan]

One of my favourite Loustat moments in the whole TVC saga is towards the end of Memnoch The Devil: after his journey through Heaven and Hell in the company of Memnoch, Lestat comes back to earth with one missing eye and Veronica's veil folded to his chest. Traumatised and afraid, whilst trying to process what he's been through he inadvertently kickstarts a new coming of Christ.

Towards the end, back in New Orleans, for fear of him losing his cool and ruin this new weird Christian cult, Maharet imprisons Lestat for a while, hoping that he will calm down. Louis pays him a visit:

"One night Louis came, with the quiet ease of a chaplain into a jail, immune to the rules yet presenting no threat to them.

Slowly, he sat down beside me and folded his legs, and looked off as though it was not polite to stare at me, the prisoner, wrapped in chains and rage.

He laid his fingers on my shoulder. His hair had a reasonable and fashionable look to it—that is, it was clipped and combed and not full of dust. His clothes were clean and new, too, as if he had perhaps dressed for me.

I smiled to myself at that, his dressing for me. But from time to time he did, and when I saw that the shirt had antique buttons of gold and pearl, I knew that he had, and I accepted that the way a sick man accepts a cool cloth on his forehead.

His fingers pressed me just a little harder, and I liked this too. But I didn't have the slightest interest in saying so.

"I've been reading Wynken's books," he said. "You know, I picked them up. I went back for them. We'd left them in the chapel." And now, he did glance at me very respectfully and simply.

"Oh, thank you for that," I said. "I dropped the books in the dark. I dropped them when I reached for the eye, or did she take my hand?

Whatever, I let the sacks fall with the books. I can't budge these chains. I can't move."

"I've taken the books home to our place in the Rue Royale. They're there, like so many jewels strewn out for us to gaze at."

"Yes. Have you looked at the tiny pictures, I mean, really looked?" I asked. "I've never really looked. I just ... it was all happening so quickly, and I didn't really open the books. But if you could have seen his ghost in the bar and heard the way he described them."

"They are glorious. They are magnificent. You will love them. You have years of pleasure ahead with them and the light at your side. I've only begun to look at them and to read. With a magnifying glass. But you won't need the glass. Your eyes are stronger than mine."

"We can read them perhaps . .. you and I... together."

"Yes ... all his twelve books," he said. He talked softly of many miraculous little images, of tiny humans, and beasts and flowers, and the lion lying down with the lamb.

I closed my eyes. I was grateful. I was content. He knew I didn't want to talk anymore.

"I'll be down there, in our rooms," he said, "waiting for you. They can't keep you here much longer."

What is longer?"

Also, since Lestat is held prisoner in a church, this came to mind literally immediately.

[doyelikehaggis]

Make Me Write

OKAY SO. I have too many WIPs. Please help me complete them by sending me the title of a fic/number and forcing me to write a paragraph for it otherwise they will never be finished. Also all of the titles are just placeholders, they will probably not be the final title lmao (Explicit fics will have an E next to them and Mature fics will have an M!)

1. Back From the Dead (like mother like daughter) [EastEnders]

2. A Tale of Two Peters [MCU]

3. Sambastian hookup [Glee] (M)

4. Windows to the Soul [Hollyoaks]

5. Opera Ordeal [Lucifer]

6. nudist resort [Lucifer] (E)

7. What happens in Vegas… [Lucifer] (E)

8. Facetime [EastEnders]

9. Love in the Villa [TVD]

10. BFB [EastEnders]

11. Adventures in Babysitting [EastEnders]

12. Spin the Bottle [Hollyoaks]

13. You Are In Love [Hollyoaks]

14. Do Nurses Turn You On? [Grey’s Anatomy] (E)

15. American Pie Reunion: Stifler Version [American Pie] (E)

16. Wedding Woes [Friends]

17. The One Where Rachel Kisses Joey [Friends]

18. 7 Minutes in Heaven [Boy Meets World]

19. Summer Nights [Teen Wolf] (M)

20. You Have A Date For This Thing? [American Pie]

21. Cotton the Pony [Friends]

22. What Does George Have To Do With This? [Hollyoaks]

23. Let’s never go back [TVD]

24. A Proper Goodbye [Outlander] (E)

25. New Traditions [Girl Meets World]

26. Bigger Than The Whole Sky [TVD]

27. You Have A Vampire In Your Bed [TVD]

28. Feed [TVD]

29. Rules of (A Fake) Engagement [Gilmore Girls]

30. My Tiny Prince [Crashing]

31. You Needed Me [Crashing]

32. Marley and Teddy [iCarly]

33. Hey There, Delilah [Glee]

34. ASMR [Glee]

35. Were in the Woods? [Teen Wolf]

36. Beefsteak Club [Outlander]

37. He’s Your MJ [Amazing Spider-Man/MCU]

38. Veronica [Boy Meets World]

39. Welcome to the Black Parade [Life With Derek]

40. Eichen House Twins [Teen Wolf]

41. He Doesn’t Belong There [Outlander]

42. I’m Not Sick, I’m the Devil [Lucifer]

43. The Origins of Stefanie Salvatore [TVD]

44. Let the Games Begin [MCU]

45. You’re On the Front Page! [DCTV]

46. Veil Dropped, No Enzo [TVD]

47. High School Musical: The Reunion: Glee Edition [DCTV/Glee]

48. Truth, Dare or Die? [TVD]

49. Spilled Coffee & Scars [Lucifer]

50. The Kissing Booth [Life With Derek]

51. Mind-Dive [TVD]

52. Male Code Blue [Life With Derek]

53. Guardian Enzo [TVD]

54. Greenhouse [Legacies]

55. Hope living with Jeremy [Legacies/TVD]

56. Love Letters [Legacies]

57. Cake by the Ocean [EastEnders] (M)

58. An Unexpected Gift [EastEnders]

59. History Repeats [TVD]

60. Blonde and Bitchy Just Happens to Be My Type [EastEnders]

61. Return of the Gay Uncles [EastEnders]

62. SilverSpider [MCU]

63. Vampires In Vegas [TVD]

64. Would You Maybe Want To Be My Date To My Parents’ Wedding? [Legacies]

65. Boxing Den [EastEnders]

[thegrimdog13]

Scream Stuilly Playlist (Short version)

Heyyyy Stuilly fans! Today I will be sharing all the songs on my Stuilly playlist this is the version without explanation! let me know if you want more of these types of things! Because I will be doing more Stuilly! ( I have a long version with explaining that I posted before this one)

Stuilly playlist-

•I Love You Hoe by Odetari & 9lives

•if I killed someone for you by Alec Benjamin

•Partners in Crime by Set it off

•Mary on a cross by Ghost

•Shut Me Up by Mindless Self-indulgence

•Psycho Killer by taking heads

•The Red means I love you by Madds Buckley

•Highschool sweetheart by Melanie Martinez 

•Play Date by Melanie Martinez

•You know what they do to guys like us in prison by my chemical romance

•Teeth by 5 seconds of summer

•Vampire by Olivia Rodrigo

•I can’t decide by Scissor Sisters

•Love Me Dead by Ludo

•Our love is God from Heathers

•Creep by Radiohead

•Everybody by Backstreet Boys -

•It took me by surprise by Maria Mena

•Red Right Hand by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds- 

•Big Fun in Heathers

•SIMP by Full Tac, Lil Mariko , & Rico Nasty

•Touch-Tone Telephone by Lemon Demon

•Favorite (slowed + reverb) by Dark Academia & Brown eyed Girl

•All I wanted by Paramore

•Crazy Girls by TOOPOOR

•Happy Together by The Turtles

•Hug Me from despicable me

•Coming Undone by Korn

•Word Up! By Korn

•Narcissistic Cannibal by Korn

•I Kissed a Boy by Jupither

•Ghostface by Aaron Fraser-Nash

•Absolutely Anything by CG5

•You’re the One I Want from Grease

•Casual by Chappell Roan-

Okay this is were we get to songs that repeat but there are also some different ones as well:

Billy’s Playlist-

•Ghostface by Aaron Fraser-Nash

•Come As You Are by Nirvana

•Psycho Killer by Talking heads

•High school Sweethearts by Melanie Martinez

•American Horror Show by SNOW WIFE

•Mama by My Chemical Romance

•Arms Tonite by Mother Mother

•Every Breath You Take by Chase Holfelder

•Smells Like Teen Spirt by Nirvana-

•Mama’s Boy ( Apple Music live ) by Dominic Fike 

•The Red Means I love you

•The Search by NF

•SIMP by Full Tac, Lil Mariko , & Rico Nasty

•(Don’t  Fear) The Reaper version by Peirce the Veil

Stu Macher playlist-

•My Room by Insane Clown Posse

•My Axe by Insane Clown Posse

•Play Date by Melanie Martinez

•Mad Hatter by Melanie Martinez

•Carousel by Melanie Martinez

•Dangerous by Big Data 

•Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People

•Hokus Pocus by Insane Clown Posse 

•Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus

•You Get Me so High by The Neighborhood

•Insane In the Brain by Cypress Hill

•If I killed Someone for You by Alec Benjamin

•Romantic Homicide by d4vd

•An unhealthy obsession by The Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra

•I was made for lovin’ you by Kiss

•Destroy me by Mr. Kitty

•Touch-Tone Telephone by Lemon Demon

•Paparazzi version by Kim Dracula

•You know what they to guys like us in prison by my chemical romance- 

•I love you hoe by Odetari & 9lives

•Cake by Melanie Martinez

•All I wanted by Paramore

•Hug Me by Pharrell Williams & Trey Parker 

•Word Up! By Korn

•Narcissistic Cannibal by Korn

•I/Me/ Myself by Will Wood

•2Escond 2lght 2Eer by Will Wood

•MASOCHIST by Ellise

•You Ruined Me by The Veronicas

•Youth of America by Birdbrain

•Scrum On Your Shoe by Jake Webber

Thanks you for looking through my playlists!

[officialpenisenvy]

later vampire chronicles books are so funny. what do you mean lestat fucks the devil and gets the veil of veronica and armand starts a cult around it

[froottalks]

Masterlist

Started: 18/08/2023

[Requests are OPEN, you may suggest people that are not on this list.]

Fandoms I write for:

Arrowverse

The Flash

Caitlin Snow

Fractured Promises {Alternate version}

Iris West

Jessie Wells

Supergirl

Kara Danvers

Guiding Stars

Unreachable Skies

Healing Hearts

Unveiling Hearts {part 2 to Healing Hearts}

Twisted Desires

Alex Danvers

Lena Luthor

Tangled Deceptions

Elegance Unveiled

Shadows of Redemption {part 2 to Tangled Deceptions}

Samantha Arias

Maggie Sawyer

Arrow

Felicity Smoak

Mia Smoak

Thea Queen

Laurel Lance

Melodies of the heart

Dinah Drake

Legends of Tomorrow

Sara Lance

Zari Tomaz

Ava Sharpe

Amaya Jiwe

TVDU

The Vampire Diaries

Elena Gilbert

Unexpected Connection

Caroline Forbes

Veiled Secrets

Bonnie Bennett

Katherine Pierce

The Originals

Hayley Marshall

Moonlit Bonds

Rebekah Mikaelson

Freya Mikaelson

Davina Clair

Legacies

Hope Mikaelson

Josie Salzman

Lizzie Saltzman

Penelope Park

Teen Wolf

Allison Argent

Lidiya Martin

Malia Tate

Marvel

MCU

Natasha Romanoff

Sparks in the Ring

Igniting Desires {part 2 to Sparks in the Ring}

A Flame Ignited {part 3 to Sparks in the Ring}

Enigmatic Desires

Countryside Love

Countryside Affection {part 2 to Countryside Love}

Forever Love {part 3 to Countryside Love}

Wanda Maximoff

Serendipitous Hearts

Echoes of Affection

Threads of Fate

Shadows of desire Part 1 - Enchanted obsession Part 2 - Desires Unleashed Part 3 - Veil of Shadows

Whispers of Fate {part 2 to Threads of Fate}

Shattered Bonds

Carol Danvers

Watching Your Back

Kate Bishop

Hello, You

Scream Franchise

Scream VI

Sam Carpenter

Tara Carpenter

Riverdale

Betty Cooper

Veronica Lodge

Whispers of Lost Love

Cheryl Blossom

Harry Potter

Hermione Granger

Ginny Weasley

Fleur Delacour

The Witcher

Yennefer of Vengerberg

The Mortal Instruments

Shadowhunters

Clary Fray

Isabelle Lightwood

[nalyra-dreaming]

Hey Nalyra,

quick question and idk if you already answered this but I’ve repeatedly seen people talk about the Memnoch book in the last few days where Lestat apparently drinks Jesus' blood? And I’m still not completely sure if they weren’t just joking cuz wasn’t Jesus born like 2000 years ago and Lestat was born in the 18th century? Or is it just a random guy named Jesus? Or was he also a vampire?

Hope you can help me out here cuz I’m pretty confused 😂 Thank you and have a great day 🫶🏽

Hey hey!

Oh, no that happens. Happened? Will happen? :))

Memnoch is a spirit who claims he is the christian Devil. He takes Lestat on a little adventure outside "our" realm, it is noted that other characters feel Lestat "leave". That trip takes them through purgatory, heaven as well as other places, and yes, Lestat is brought to the moment where Jesus Christ walks along with his cross - and drinks his blood.

"The Blood of God, Lestat," He whispered. "Think of all the human blood that has flowed into your lips. Is my blood not worthy? Are you afraid?" Sobbing, I cupped His neck with both hands, my knuckles against the crossbar, and I kissed His throat, and then my mouth opened without will or struggle and my teeth pierced the flesh. I heard Him moan, a long echoing moan that seemed to rise up and fill the world with its sound, and the blood flooded into my mouth."

*clears throat*

Btw, Lestat also takes "Veronica's Veil" back with him - a real relic, which is ultimately taken (and hidden away) by the vatican.

As a note, I mean, I wouldn't call it "time travel" because it happens wholly outside our realm. So time isn't really the factor there.

And it is never ultimately said if Memnoch only claims to be the Devil - or if he IS, by acting as such, the Devil. Same goes for angels and ultimately God btw, since they are all beings of the spirit realm.

But yeah, Lestat drinks God's blood. Because in that moment God has gone down as Jesus. Oh, and he then goes down on Dora. And... drinks her blood - from there.

It's a wild - and heart-wrenching - book, believe it or not. It was once meant to be the last, but since it isn't now... I have come to like it a lot better, actually. There's a lot of stuff in there, including some beautiful Loustat moments.

And the Book of Hours is from there!

[ming-sik]

Thoughts on Veronica and how most fanfics seem to blame her well... *gestures to everything about her* this because of her 'lack of education' and not how she (and her siblings) may or may not have been targeted by the Lesiegang faction due to her lineage?

Ik most fanfics make it out that she's insaine for wearing veils while in the fanfic Ahrensbach wears veils to 'protect themselves from sun's rays' and treat it like canon and for importing spices from Ahrensbach as this huge threat to the duchy because (insert 100+ medical reasons) and honestly? It reads like someone who's wanting to become a bit closer to their dead mother by practicing things her dead mother practised (and don't get me started on how yucky I feel everytime when Rozemyne superiorly tells everyone how spices are ruining their stomachs and the amounts of spice they eat is 'unsafe', conveniently ignoring how spicy South Asian food can get yet not many over there's forming stomach ulcers or on the verge of death because they smell 1 tokbokki-)

Anyways, I'd really like to know your thoughts on this!

So previously I did not know that much abt aob fanfic but.

IMO the answer is that AOB is classist/misogynist/xenophobic and fans end up either picking up on that or being drawn to it. It's a pretty simplistic answer but it explains a lot of the really strange behavior that goes on.

Veils are pretty clearly an attempt to invoke hijab which is by itself fine, YS is actually desperately lacking cultural differences between duchies, and if that's a Lanzenavian custom that's been imported to Ahrensbach that'd actually mimic how wimples are at least believed to originate from hijab. However even the way canon treats veils is really weird. Veils shielding you from the sun is actually mentioned in p5v6 during this Detlinde pov chapter

but since Detlinde and Georgine are veiled indoors, they're also almost definitely worn for cultural reasons. All of which is again fine... except that they're the evil duchy. The veiled characters we see are Detlinde, Georgine, Veronica, and Aurelia(Fraularm and Alstede aren't veiled, so this is presumably an optional cultural practice). Three of them are villains, while Aurelia's reason is that she's ashamed of strongly resembling Veronica and wants to hide her face, which would be an absurd thing to expect of her, except that Ferdinand never shuts the fuck up about Detlinde looking like Veronica so she probably would face discrimination for resembling someone in her family. There is not a single even neutral female character... well, in Ahrensbach, but also specifically who wears a veil except Aurelia who's wearing hers for a very specific reason unrelated to her being from Ahrensbach.

Aurelia also gets discriminated against for wearing a veil, which would've been a decent way to show a conflict where a likeable character ISN'T portrayed as the unambiguous good party except that the story doesn't seem to think this is strange. No characters really push back on the validity of this suspicion and Aurelia herself seems to accept it as a matter of course. The fact that fans have obviously picked up on the fact that veils are meant to be a strange exotic cultural practice and are writing characters that way themselves is pretty telling.

As you say, it's fine to veil. There are a lot of reasons to do it from the utilitarian sun protection to propriety to her being proud of being from Ahrensbach, which is in itself neutral unless you accept the premise that Ahrensbach is the evil duchy or you think veils are inherently suspicious.

Veronica's lack of archduke candidate education is obviously irrelevant because she managed to scheme enough to create the Veronica faction. The women had a phd in machinations and knowledge of enough archducal matters to function as the Aub's first wife, so either she got an archducal education once she was married or she just didn't need it which could be how it works because unlike female aubs, female archducal wives aren't expected to take over their husband's work when their husbands are pregnant. Even if she was uneducated enough that she struggled with handling administrative duties, how this would lead to her abuse is a problem we apparently have our strongest misogyny soldiers working on because those two things are unconnected. In canon characters outside of Rihyarda are pretty uninterested in why Veronica or Gabriele are the way they are, but most people aren't evil because they're stupid, they're evil because they have what they believe to be a completely valid motivation for whatever heinous thing they're doing, and the way YS treats faction politics definitely could've been a major source of her desperation to solidify her power alongside her stated internalized misogyny. (Her internalized misogyny isn't necessarily the story's misogyny, but it is strange that this isn't really pushed back on and the only victim who gets much spotlight is Ferdinand despite Veronica seeming to target women much more harshly.)

None of this is a defense of Veronica, I disagree with the thing where she systemicatically abused and ostracized a massive portion of the duchy and my condolences to her victims, but the ways AOB chooses to signal that especially female characters are villains is notable and by notable I mean falls into some patterns. This is mainly that damnable Ferdinand's fault because he 1) will not shut the fuck up about how everyone he dislikes is basically his mommy reincarnated and 2) hates women so much it's unreal, so the fact that he's Rozemyne's main source for a lot of characters colors that. You could argue that this is him and other characters intentionally being written as unreliable narrators, but if that's true then it's a little strange that the fandom is so united on taking his word as gospel, and when read it does not come off that way. Veronica's deal being attributed to stupidity might come from how Ferdinand treats Detlinde if I had to find a reason for it, but honestly the machinations of the AOB fandom are in some ways incomprehensible to me.

The spice thing is just straight up racist. It's racist in canon, the way that all spices are lumped together when both nutmeg and chili peppers are "spices" despite having wildly varying flavors and effects is in itself racist. We don't get a single named spice. Are they talking about peppercorns? Chili peppers? Nutmeg? Cumin? What about ginger? Even assuming we're talking about specifically capsaicin, spicy food causing ulcers is mostly pop science, and the health risks beyond short-term pain pale in comparison to, like, alcohol. Spice tolerance is a thing and Rozemyne might not like a ghost pepper, but shockingly yeah cultures with a lot of spicy food aren't pretending to enjoy it as an elaborate bit(tteokbokki are Korean but I know what you're getting at). If Ahrensbach people eat food flavored with fantasy bird's eye peppers from a young age they're not gonna experience any problems from eating spice unless they have unrelated health issues.

As with everything the defense of this is probably that the characters are unreliable narrators. I've spent a lot of time arguing with people on this so at some point I just have to say that if every sympathetic character in the story is parroting something and no conflict ever arises from the fact that they're incorrect then the story is just having a character say something that is true in universe, and the fact that Ahrensbach and by proxy Lanzenavian culture are treated the way they are is xenophobic in Ahrensbach's case and racist in Lanzenave's. Fans are Like That because they pick up on this stuff and either uncritically accept it as just a thing that's true about AOB's worldbuilding that's neutral or were already prejudiced and therefore had no conflict when the story confirmed those prejudices. Which is another thing. If these characters are meant to be unreliable narrators, you'd think the fandom wouldn't uncritically accept character testimony so often!

[cerealforkart]

Dungeons and Daddies the Manga Lesson 19: Pop Punk

Read right to left

[first] [prev] [next]

[masterpost]

Transcript under the cut

Transcript reading guide / key

[xxxx] =  identifier of text source

- =  break between panels

(xxxxx) = text outside of normal speech bubble

Disappointed Faces of Your Peers (Page 73)

[Link]: How do we get goth like you, Scary?

[Scary]: All you need to do to be a good goth girl,

(or boy ig)

Is take all the love you have for yourself and throw it out.

-

[Effect]: BANG!

[Link]: Okay, I’m going to try and visualizing this and put all the love I have for myself into a fingernail…

[Terry Jr]: What the fuck! 

They could hear that!

[Link]: Whatever man…

-

[Normal]: I’m writing down everything I love about myself,

and I’m putting it behind this dumpster. 

[Link]: That’s pretty lame…

[Normal]: Well, you suck. 

-

[Taylor]: I will take all the love I have for myself– the abundance of it- and channel it into 

Kaguya Shinomiya

So, my love for her is just double now. 

One Day, I’ll Leave You a Phantom (Page 74)

[Terry Jr.]: Hey, I need to tell you something. 

[Scary]: (Sigh)

What?

[TJ]: I don’t think I make it out of this part.

[Scary]: … What?

[TJ]: There was an item in D.A.D.D.I.E.S. HQ…

-

[TJ]: The Die Another Day.

I rolled it and I aw the Black Parade, 

and I saw you, holding the tape measure. 

-

[TJ]:Something hits me in the head. 

I go down. 

-

[TJ]: I just want you to know so it doesn’t freak you out.

[Scary]: No! I mean- I- I don’t care. 

[TJ]: Right. I’ve left Veronica a letter…back home..

[Scary]: Well, she’s gonna be pretty cheesed with just a letter!

So maybe you should…

Stick around…

So Paint It Black and Take it Back (Page 75)

[Effect]: Flip!

[Hermie]: Forward five steps. 

[Effect]: STOMP!

Oof!

-

[Effect]: Hhhhh…

SHHH

[Scene]: Silence

-

-

Give a Cheer For All The Broken (Page 76)

[Taylor]: (understood!)

-

[Combat box]: Thaumaturgy

[Scary]: This is original. Just wrote it. 

It’s called… Wiser

-

 [Poem, Scary]: The world breaks down into two veils.

One sits heavy on me,

drenched in thorns,

the other with knowledge,

thus impales me,

like a bitter devil with one horn.

The world breaks you down and then you die,

leaving nothing but the mess you’ve made.

Follow me to break the tie,

embrace the nothingness of the Black Parade.  

Everything sucks and no marching band

can give the truth.

Like my poetry now. 

I have no wisdom,

No fucking plan.

That makes me wiser.

Don’t ask me how. 

The end. 

-

[Dice roll, Scary]: Intimidation 23

[Effect]: Murmur

Murmur

Murmur

[Combat box]: Vibe Damage, The Mood, - A Lot 

Transcript provided by @confusedfoam

[denim-mixtapes]

Aren't We All Sinners? - Vol. II: People Write Songs About Girls Like You

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female Reader Word Count: 10.4k Summary: It's a night full of firsts, and new feelings for Eddie start to surface when you go to see Corroded Coffin perform. After some less than stellar news from your mom, Eddie cheers you up with a late night call and your very first orgasm. Warnings: 18+ ONLY Heavy sexual themes + Explicit smut. Chapter specific: Alcohol consumption, drug use mention, Making out, reader insecurity, more in depth discussion of faith/loss of faith, more of Eddie being a Thigh Guy (TM), Phone sex, Guided Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Eddie's disgusting overuse of pet names (Specifically: sweetheart, angel, and baby).

[Series Masterlist] [Mixtape Playlist] <- This playlist, aesthetically, is NOT Eddie-centric. Ignore that. I was going more based on themes than the actual music genre.

You aren’t entirely sure how you got here. 

Lying has never really been your strong suit, obviously, but with a thinly veiled half truth about going to visit with your college roommate, Veronica, at her family home in Muncie and a promise to call as soon as you arrived, you were set free for the night. It cost extra volunteer hours at church, a promise to start coming to choir practice again, and what feels like your sanity, but you’re on your way to Muncie. 

In reality, it wasn’t entirely a lie. You are meeting your roommate at the bar, but the couch she offered you for the night was that of her boyfriend who you hadn’t yet met. You aren’t too keen on staying there, but the curiosity to see Eddie’s band and excitement to see your friend after weeks apart won out in the end. 

The Phoenix is a larger bar than you’re used to seeing in Hawkins, obviously built for live music and an expansive crowd, but still small enough to host local bands. After making your call home from the pay phone out front, you make your way to the door. House music and the sound of a crowd seep out from the open door as you approach, floating alongside the haze of cigarette smoke, and a large stoic bouncer stands just out front. When he asks for your ID, you panic, but a commotion from inside commands his attention and he waves you through without looking before walking away to break up the fight. 

Your arms wrap around your torso uncomfortably as you weave through the crowd toward the bar, and you breathe a sigh of relief when Veronica calls out your name and waves you over, happy to see a friendly face. 

“Ronnie!” You shout back, a bounce to your step now that you’ve seen her, making a beeline in her direction.

A quick hug, an introduction to her boyfriend, and then she’s in full judgment mode, scrutinizing your outfit. 

“The hell are you wearing, girl?” She giggles, already tipsy, holding out both of your hands to take a closer look at you. “You know you’re at a rock show, right?” 

“My parents thought we were going bowling!” You exclaim, embarrassed, “this was the best I could do if I wanted them to let me leave the house.” 

It’s not a completely hopeless outfit, you don’t think, a baggy pair of overalls over a long sleeve white ribbed tee and a pair of All Star sneakers. Nothing revealing, but nothing too church girly either. Clearly, your friend does not agree. She takes your hand and drags you to the bathroom and pushes you into a stall. 

“Trade me,” she says simply. You try to stutter a response, but she’s already throwing her black polyester miniskirt over the stall wall. “Keep your shirt, we’ll fix that next.” As you reluctantly strip your overalls and pass them to her over the stall, she adds, “If this boy means enough to you for you to drive out to Muncie and lie to your dictator parents, then you better look hot for him, that’s all I’m saying. How do you know him, anyway?” 

You huff in protest, pulling the skirt onto your hips with a wiggle and a jump and slamming the stall door open to meet her out in the main bathroom. “He doesn’t…mean anything to me. It’s not like that. He works at the record shop and has been showing me new music. That’s all this is, just another new band. It just happens to be his.” 

“Sure,” she scoffs, rooting in her purse to retrieve a pair of manicure scissors. She doesn’t even ask before she starts butchering your shirt, cutting off the bottom hem just above where the waist of the skirt sits and pulling, twisting, stretching it until it rolls. “The shade of red you’re turning right now suggests otherwise. Is he hot, at least?” Next, she snips the collar off of your shirt, leaving a raw edge, the same at the cuffs of your sleeves. You try to protest as she reaches to keep cutting but she bats your hand away, cutting a “V” into the neckline to reveal a little more of your decolletage. Thankfully she stops before anything too damning is revealed. 

“He’s…” you trail off. You’ve never called anyone hot before. It never felt fitting. But Eddie is decorated in too many tattoos and piercings, too much darkness for you to want to call him handsome. So you relent. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah? Yeah what?” 

She’s having too much fun trying to get you to admit it. 

“Yes, he’s hot, okay? Really hot.” Now that you’ve started you can’t stop the words from falling from your lips. “He’s got these eyes, gosh, they’re the most stunning thing you’ve ever seen. He has this way of speaking that just captivates you. And Ronnie, his hair. I just want to run my fingers through it.” 

She giggles, handing you a dark, brick red lipstick from her bag and urging you to put it on. “Jesus, even when you’re hot for someone it’s rated G.” 

You mumble a soft “shut up” and throw the lipstick back at her. You try to push past her to get to the door, but she grabs your shoulders and focuses an intense stare into your eyes. 

“You look sexy,” she says, reaching up to pull the scrunchie from your hair and muss it up just enough, “own it. Forget your parents for a night and show that rockstar what you’re made of.” 

It’s with all the love in your heart that you say, “you’re so lame.” Both of you laugh and make your way back out to meet her boyfriend at the bar. You order a water, much to her chagrin, and twist around in your seat excitedly when an emcee takes the stage to introduce the band. 

Three band members take their place and start playing, a long, slow build of music that introduces the first song. From somewhere off stage, a guitar riff sounds, and you perk up, eagerly waiting to see your friend (could you call him a friend?) take the stage. 

When he makes his entrance, Eddie is breathtaking. His staple black, ripped denim adorns his lower half, handcuffs locked at his waist to hold them up. Other than his battle vest, his torso is bare, a smattering of tattoos you’ve never seen before on full display under the harsh stage lights. A black bandana is wrapped around his forehead, holding back those enticing curls, and the same guitar from the flier hangs heavily on the strap across his shoulder. You can’t take your eyes off of his fingers as they glide up and down the fretboard, a speed and a talent you’ve never had the pleasure of seeing live. 

Not only does he look good, but they sound incredible. You can feel the bass in your chest as they play, and before you know it, you’re abandoning your post at the bar and joining the crowd that gathers in front of the stage. You feel electrified, not a drop of alcohol in your bloodstream but you’re drunk on the atmosphere, swaying with the beat and grinning stupidly up at the man who has yet to notice you. 

When he does, when his eyes lock on yours, it only amplifies the adrenaline in your system. As he strums the final, lasting note of their first song, his eyes meet yours and you forget how to breathe. 

Eddie isn’t so sure it’s you at first. You’ve never looked like this before. Plush thighs on full display in a skin tight mini skirt, torn tee shirt exposing your midriff, a brick red stain on your lips in lieu of your usual clear gloss; but your smile is wholly you, and the tiny, shy wave that you give confirms that this is real, you’re here, and you look like you were ripped straight from a wet dream. Silence overtakes the crowd. Eddie forgets that he’s supposed to speak, supposed to be putting on a show. He’s distracted at the first glimpse he catches of you in the crowd. Gareth gives two kicks of the bass drum to snap him back to reality. 

Your trancelike eye contact is broken when the drummer snags Eddie’s attention back and he introduces the band to the crowd once again. 

They put on one hell of a show. Not that you have much to compare it to, but the way your body is buzzing, moving with the crowd, prickling with excitement all night, you know they’re good. Toward the end of the show, there’s a song that showcases every member individually with a solo, a little bragging right for each of them. When it’s Eddie’s turn, he power slides to the edge of the stage, where the crowd has pushed you to the very front. He’s knelt in front of you, eyes wound shut in concentration and fingers playing at the strings sinfully. His tongue pokes between his lips, and that's when you find yourself screaming along with the others in the crowd. At the sound of your voice his eyes fly open, a cocky, sly grin gracing his face as his solo comes to an end. A guitar pick is flicked your way, and when you catch it, he shoots you another wink before standing back up and moving on with the show. 

The rest of the night is vibrating floors and sweaty bodies and ringing ears. The push and pull of the crowd around you, and a giggle caught in your throat when Eddie takes a dramatic bow at the end of the set. Your cheeks sting from smiling, and when you make it back to the bar and order another water, it’s the most refreshed you’ve ever felt in your life. 

Conversations swell around you, the hum of a satisfied crowd and the rattling of ice in cocktail shakers. You spot your friends at a table in the corner and wave, but at the same time, Eddie is pushing through the saloon doors to the side of the bar, denim vest now exchanged for a cropped muscle tee, and his eyes are locked on yours. He’s headed straight for you, so you stay put. 

“Hey!” He shouts, all of his excitement and a post-show high poured into one little word. Without hesitation, arms wrap around you, pulling your frame into his. One of his hands tangles in your hair and the other rests on the small of your back. You breathe him in, the acrid stink of pot and sweat masked by cheap bathroom cologne and leather. You should be disgusted, but you can’t be bothered. Pulling back to gauge your reaction, he holds onto your elbows, making sure not to let you get too far. You grip his forearms in return. “What did you think?” 

“Eddie!” You shout, at a loss for words but praise dripping from your tone. “So good! You guys killed it!” 

Speaking to your lips now instead of your eyes, he rolls his own bottom lip between his teeth, breathing, “fuck yeah we did.” The bartender stops in front of the pair of you. Eddie greets him by name, because of course he does. “Hey Joe, give me a PBR, and…” he trails off, looking sideways at you and dropping a hand to your waist with a squeeze. Your skin shouldn’t be tingling where his palm rests against it, but it is. “What’re you drinking, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. 

“Oh, uhm, just water.” 

SweetheartSweetheartSweetheart.

“Fuck that,” he laughs, “we’re celebrating! C’mon, it’s on me.” He narrows his eyes at you, calculating, before looking back to the bartender. “Give her an Amaretto Sour on the band’s tab.”

When the bartender, Joe, you assume, turns his back you widen your eyes at the man beside you. “Eddie! I’m not drinking-” 

“Shh,” he insists, holding a finger to his lips. “You’ll love it, I promise…and if you don’t, you don’t have to drink it. I’ll give it to Gareth, kid’s a bottomless pit.” 

He’s right, you suppose. You’ll be 21 soon enough anyway, what’s a few months?

When the drinks are passed across the bar, Eddie presses the cold glass of light amber liquid into your hand. The coolness is a reprieve against your warm skin even if you don’t end up drinking it, but you do give it the tiniest taste at the eager prompting of the man beside you. The sweet, nutty drink is nothing like what you expected and goes down easy, but you still nurse it slowly as Eddie introduces you to his bandmates, chats about the set and asks you which songs were your favorite. All of them, you want to say, but manage to recall a couple of titles. 

When your drink is almost gone, Ronnie approaches you, boyfriend in tow. You introduce them all, they praise the band on a great show, and your roommate pulls you aside. 

“So, we were thinking of heading home,” she says, looking from you to Eddie and back, leaving her statement open ended. 

“Oh…” You look over at Eddie yourself, liquor and adrenaline clouding your judgment. He’s talking to Jeff animatedly with his hands and smirks over the other boy’s shoulder when he catches you staring. “You know what, you guys go ahead. I’ll hang out for a little bit.” 

“Are you sure?” She asks, gripping your shoulders, “Have you had anything to drink?” 

“Just this one,” you say, “I’ll be fine, promise. I’ll stay a while and I can just head home. I’ll tell my parents I wasn’t feeling well if they ask.” 

“Okay,” she nods, “just be safe, and call me tomorrow to tell me everything.” Wrapping her in a tight goodbye hug, you promise to do so, and when she pulls from your embrace, her focus is behind you instead of on you. “I think someone else wants your attention now. Bye, Eddie!” She’s gone with a flutter of her fingers. 

Turning on your heel you find Eddie just behind you, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He nods toward the door he came out of earlier. “Wanna go somewhere a little more quiet?” 

You only nod in response, and he grins victoriously, guiding you toward the back exit of the building with a commanding hand on the small of your back. 

He tries not to crowd you, he really does, but your skin is warm to the touch, soft where his fingertip slips beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re here, and you’re dressed so differently than you usually do, and he can’t help but wonder just what else you might do to rebel tonight. He only hopes he’ll be lucky enough to find out. 

Stepping outside into the balmy night air, he takes you past the band’s van being loaded up with their equipment and toward another slightly smaller van. You hesitate when he opens the back door and holds it open for you, but the laugh lines that crease around his eyes when he offers you an encouraging smile are enough to get you moving. As you climb in, his hand never leaves the small of your back for support, and you can practically feel the way his eyes linger on your backside, but aside from the rush of heat to your cheeks you don’t react. 

It’s clunky and awkward, getting yourselves situated in the back of Eddie’s van. Where he falls gracelessly into a pile of blankets with an air of confidence only Eddie Munson could manage, you’re still tripping over your own feet and hunching to accommodate the low ceiling, unsure of where to sit. He grins up at you, and if you didn’t know any better you’d say he found your anxiety amusing. His gaze is fixed on your skirt hem where your fingers idly fiddle with it, a glint in his eye and heave in his chest from where he still can’t catch his breath after an exhilarating show. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs, the word hanging quiet in the dusty air. He pats on the worn out, threadbare bean bag chair beside him and unsuccessfully tries to stifle his joyous laugh. “I won’t bite, sweetheart.” His smile flashes with mischief and it’s only when you give in and settle into the cushion next to him that he leans in closer and adds in a breath, “unless you want me to.” 

You pretend not to hear him.

“You guys really did kill it tonight,” you compliment instead, grinning and nudging his bent knee lightly with the rubber toe of your sneaker. “I don’t…I mean I guess I don’t know what the standard is, since this was my first concert and all, but it was seriously so good.”

“No fucking way,” he exclaims, savoring the way you blink involuntarily when he swears. Reaching out to catch your ankle before you can withdraw it, he squeezes gently and grins up at you. “You’ve never been to a show before?” 

A shrug. The press of your knees tighter together, hyper aware of your skirt riding up in this position. “Not unless you count the church choir’s Christmas performance or Worship before Sunday service.” 

He only manages a soft chuckle and another thoughtful, “no way,” when he releases his hold on you, playfully dropping your foot. A few moments of silence pass, interrupted only by a ruckus outside, two men arguing and then the slamming of car doors. When it passes, Eddie speaks up again. “So you’re really into all that, huh? Jesus and whatnot.” 

You can’t stop the giggle from coming out at his phrasing. “I guess, yeah?” You shrug again. “Although, I used to say I enjoyed worship because I could feel God moving me through the music…but now I’m starting to think that might just be what live music feels like, because I got the same rush in there as I used to during worship…maybe better.”

Eddie tries to not let it go to his head that you basically just equated him to God.

“You guess? You don’t sound so sure there, sweetheart..” His eyes fall from your own and trail downward, lingering on the crucifix around your neck before continuing on. You shy under his gaze, skin warming under his attention as you wrap your arms around yourself again. “But you still wear that cute little thing, so I’ll believe the good girl act for a while longer. ” 

He knows it’s not just an act, that you truly are as innocent as you seem, but there's curiosity and drive behind your eyes – a hunger to learn more and be more than just the church girl, and so help him, he’s determined to help you reach that potential.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, shrugging. Always shrugging. You fear you might develop a hunch from it. As you continue talking, Eddie leans across the front seat to turn on the radio, turning the volume down to a more appropriate background level. Still, you don’t miss the way he stiffens in reaction to your next sentence. “My dad is a pastor, so it’s kind of all I know. I grew up in the church, went to catholic school, the whole nine yards, so it’s just been kind of drilled into me.” 

“Seems like a good reason to believe in something, just ‘cause others told you you should.” He says, voice dry but not cruel judging by the hearty smile on his face. This time when he plops back down, it's on the beanbag beside you. 

“Yeah, yeah,” You try not to focus on the fact that the dip in the cushion has rolled your body in toward his, or on the way that his thigh presses into yours, or the heat that lingers there. “When I moved out for college, I kinda got the drift that things weren’t as black and white as I was raised to believe. Like for example,” nudging his shoulder playfully with your own, “not all secular music is made to worship the devil.” 

Eddie snorts, “right, only the good stuff.” 

Playfully punching his shoulder, you sarcastically agree. “Exactly! I dunno, it’s just hard sometimes, finding my place in the middle. I like to believe that there’s still some truth to the Word, but I also don’t think that I should be living life in fear of being labeled as a sinner for the kind of music I like, or the kind of company I keep, or the length of my skirt. Frankly the concept of sin just seems…I don’t know, like a threat nowadays? How are we supposed to let the promise of an eternity in Hell stop us from enjoying the life we’re living now if we don’t even know for sure that Hell exists!? I just– sorry. Sorry, I’m going off on a tangent.” 

“It’s okay,” he chuckles, and his voice is soft and earnest when he urges, “you have nothing to apologize for, I asked.” 

“I– I suppose.” 

Your eyes shine with worry when you meet his, and it only makes his smile even wider. 

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know the truth, your truth. And besides,” his expression is downright giddy when he lets his head lean back against the seat back behind you, eyes shifting to take a peek at you, “I get what you mean. Nobody is truly perfect, but that doesn’t make them inherently evil either. Sure I’m tatted up and swear by the word ‘fuck’ and play a game that society sees as devil worship, but there’s also like, murderers and people who beat the shit out of their kids and animals and rob banks. So it’s a spectrum, I’d say.” He takes your hearty laugh as a sign that he didn’t cross some sort of unspoken boundary and presses further. “Really, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? I find it hard to believe that you haven’t rebelled at least a little since leaving the nest.” 

“Uh…” you take in your surroundings and let out a chastising laugh. You could tell him about your sole experience at a frat party, but you hugged the wall and nursed a solo cup of water the entire time, so you wouldn’t say that counts. “This?” 

Eddie balks. “No!” He protests, voice thick with disbelief, “no, come on there was never any sneaking out in high school? No secret late night rendezvous with the quarterback?” 

You lean your head on his shoulder, unable to face him head on when you admit, “there was, at best, a peck on the lips with the captain of the debate team after prom.” Your laughter is dry and self deprecating. 

It makes no sense to open up like this to Eddie. Earlier in the night, you weren’t even certain you could call him a friend, but now here you are openly admitting your dirty little secrets…or lack thereof. There’s just something about him that offers you comfort. His charming presence, the confidence he carries that never feels judgemental, the arm around your shoulder holding you close to his chest as he chuckles at your admission. 

Wait– when did that get there? 

“Sorry, sorry, I should have known.” His laughter is more jovial than cruel, a dig at his own ignorance rather than your innocence. His free hand crosses both of your bodies to grab your left hand, holding it up and twisting so that the dull overhead light reflects off of the gold band on your ring finger. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Promise ring? How far do the rules of that thing reach, anyway? Like does–” There’s a pause and a stutter in his breath. For the first time since you met him you can feel uncertainty wavering in his voice. “You know what, no that’s too far. Even I can recognize that.” 

The giggle in your voice is music to his ears when you press him to say what he wants to. The jab of your elbow in his ribs, your little playful smack to his chest. You lean into him with a raised brow, challenging him to continue.

Eddie stares you down, scrutinizing, narrowing his eyes as you continue to giggle innocently up at him. He’s begging every God he doesn’t believe in to forgive him when he gives in. “Okay, but only ‘cause I want to know if it’ll make you blink like swearing does.-” 

“ – I do not blink at swears!” 

“You definitely do,” he confirms, coolly ignoring your interruption with a smug grin. “Now do you wanna hear the question or not?” Doe eyes shine curiously back at him through the dim moonlight as you nod. Reaching for your hand again, he fidgets with the ring on your finger, with your fingers themselves, turning your hand about in his own with his gaze fixed on your joined hands. Quieter now in the still air of his van, his voice is even more gravelly than usual when he asks, “D’you take it off when you wanna touch yourself?”

You blink.

 He likely already knows the answer, but the image of you getting yourself off has already wormed its way into his brain and he just has to know.

“I-” your throat is suddenly the driest it’s ever been, and your attempt to clear it is only partially successful. The atmosphere in the van has shifted, your previous laughter and playfulness sucked out the cracked front windows and replaced with a sudden awareness of your proximity. You should chastise him for bringing it up. It’s inappropriate. You shouldn’t answer him, it’s inappropriate, but the way his Adam's apple bobs and his eyes dart up to meet yours as he patiently awaits your answer compels you to give it. You answer to his lips, unsure if it’s because you don’t want to meet his eye or because you simply can’t look away from the perfect cupid’s bow framed by late evening stubble. “I don’t do that.” 

“‘Cause it’s a sin?” He teases, and despite your earlier rant on sin, you give a shallow nod in response. 

“It’s like you said earlier,” the space between you is getting smaller, but neither of you are aware of who’s at fault for that. You feel drawn to him, the gravel of his voice, his own personal gravity curling around you and tugging. “We don’t know if heaven or hell exists,” closer, “and even if it does, aren’t we all sinners in the end?” Closer. He’s close enough now that his breath ghosts your collarbones, his free hand on the curve of your waist, his gaze drops to your own mouth as he finishes, “The way I see it, if you don’t sin a little, then doesn’t that mean Jesus died for nothing?” 

You’re close enough now to taste the beer and hope on his breath, and for a brief moment you think he might kiss you, but then another ruckus breaks out outside the van. Excited hollering and slamming of doors and a broken beer bottle against the concrete just outside the van startle you and Eddie apart. Your heart is racing when you look out the window to see the car that was parked next to you peeling away, and you take the moment to calm yourself. 

Shaking your head, you settle back into the bean bag an acceptable distance away from him once again, but he spreads his legs as he settles further into the cushion, pressing his thigh into yours and commanding the space. You convince yourself he’s just getting comfortable, not trying to stay close to you, but the way he smirks down at your naked thigh pressed against the black denim covering his own sends a shiver down your spine. 

You both wait out the moment, a beat of quiet passing between you, but when the tape that’s been playing in the background clicks to signal the end, he speaks up again, nudging his knee into yours. 

“For real, though, you’ve never even been curious about it?” He asks, turning to rest his arm against the seatback behind you. 

“About se…about sex?” 

God if that little stutter wasn’t endearing to Eddie and God if the curious pinch between your brows didn’t go straight to his cock because you aren’t denying it. He decides to test the waters, lean in a little closer again and gently push the hair out of your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. 

“Well, sure, yeah…but not even that far. Just like,” he pauses again. “Even the PG-13 stuff. Making out under the bleachers or missing half the movie and steaming up the windows at the drive in are essential to the teenage experience.”

You hum thoughtfully, his question bouncing around in your head. You can’t stop focusing on his hand that’s come to rest on the outside of your thigh, pulling you just slightly toward him. Your brain is foggy, you can’t for the life of you remember being curious about what you might be missing out on, but then again you’d never had anything to compare it to either. It’s not that you don’t know about sex. Sure, the schools you went to taught abstinence only sex ed, but you’re not stupid. You know the logistical side of things, you’ve just never experienced anything first hand so you don’t know how it feels. If the way your pulse races whenever Eddie meets your eye or the jolt of adrenaline you get when he touches you in a new unfamiliar way has anything to do with his so-called teenage experience, then you just might think you have been missing out. 

“Not really? I guess I never saw the point.” You finally say, shying under his attention. “But I also didn’t have any experience to inspire such curiosity.” The way you say it is like a question, meek voice lilting up towards the end of the statement and another shrug pulling at your shoulders. Then, turing from shy self-pity to the mask of self-deprecating humor you’re used to using with your roommate, you tack on, “y’know, ‘cause the captain of a catholic high school debate team is bound to be the object of every girl’s fantasies, right?”

Eddie’s face falls again, his fingers stilling where he was once stroking the exposed skin of your thigh. He tries to hide his shock, but you still catch a glimpse of it amongst the gleeful look of curiosity. “So you weren’t just being hyperbolic, huh? You’ve really never even been so much as kissed?” You’re about to jump in when he waves you off and rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah, prom with Dorky McChristian, I know. But I don’t think that counts. I mean really, truly kissed. A toe curling, basement flooding kinda kiss that leaves you wanting more, you know?” 

“When you put it that way…” your laughter is soft and nervous. There’s no judgment from Eddie, not that you can feel. He’s leaning in and speaking with a genuine sort of curiosity that sparkles in his eyes, like he really wants to know what makes you tick and what hasn’t yet made you tick. It’s the same voice he uses when he asks if you’ve ever seen Evil Dead or listened to Kiss, like he’s just banking away another fact about you in his memory. So without that feeling of judgment, you confirm his statement. “...then no, I’ve never been kissed.”

He tries to keep his voice full of seduction and not the hope that swells in his chest when his gaze drops to your lips and he asks, “would you like to be?”  

Your heart is in your throat, caught there with the little gasp and exciting sort of uncertainty that bloomed in your chest at his offer. You should get going. You should make note of the time and tell him you’ll see him on Monday at the shop. 

Instead, you nod. 

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, grinning proudly, the cat that caught the canary. The hand behind your head comes to rest on your jaw, two fingers pressing into the pulse point under your jawline and thumb tugging gently at your lower lip. He relishes in the way your pulse races under his fingertips, “gonna have to hear you say it, angel.”

“Yes.” 

It’s barely audible, the hint of a whisper on shaky breath but it’s enough for Eddie. Eddie, who crowds your space even further, his eyes heavy-lidded and fixated on your lips until he’s too close to focus. Not for the first time tonight, your breath hitches, fingers tingling, heart hammering, the thump thump thump against your ribcage rivaling the band’s earlier performance.  

Time seems to stop in this moment, surrounded by the scent of cheap cologne and musk and summertime air leaking in through the cracked windows. Minutes or hours or days pass there, breathing each other’s air, leeching body heat from tacky skin. 

When it finally happens, you’re surprised at how tender it is, the gentle press of lips against lips so quick you’re unsure who even finally closed the gap, but Eddie leaves no room for doubt. The moment you pull back enough to voice your confusion, near protesting that – while better than your prom kiss – that was still absolutely just a peck, his grin contorts into that self-assured smirk. The hand on your jaw shifts behind you again, working into the hair at your nape and pulling you back into his embrace with an involuntary squeak. 

It’s hard. Shoulders tense, teeth pressed tight against closed lips, eyes wound tight. 

You’re unsure what to think at first. 

But then Eddie breaks away just enough to mumble, “‘s okay,” and, “just follow my lead, sweetheart,” between another set of rushed kisses. You try to relax, and remember, oh, yeah, you should be kissing him back. That’s a thing. 

Eddie is soaring with pride when you relax enough to return the kiss, leaning up and into it, unknowingly pressing your chest up against his in an effort to get closer. Despite your obvious nerves and initial stiffness, you’re more than making up for it now. She’s a natural, he thinks smugly, a quick study, and when he coaxes your lips apart and hears the soft whine that comes with it, he can’t help but let his mind wander to all the other noises he might be able to get you to make. 

You don’t know how much time passes before he breaks the kiss, pulling away with reluctance and a tug of your lower lip between his teeth, but your breathlessness suggests it’s been a while. 

“How ya feelin’, angel?” He wears his smugness in the dimple of his smirk, tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip, his own breath ragged but much more controlled than your own. “Like you wanna confess?” 

He swears he could live off of the flushed smile and bitten lip that you try so desperately to hide from him before carefully answering, “Not…necessarily.” 

There’s a soft thump when his head falls lazily against the seat back, smirk growing as he sizes you up. “No?” He teases, eyes raking across your features, taking in your rumpled clothes and heavy lidded gaze, the shy smile hiding behind the curtain of your hair. Nimble, calloused fingers hook into the space behind your knee, tugging until your legs drape over his lap. Your skin burns where his fingertips tickle just below the hem of your skirt, goosebumps forming in their wake. They stay there, dancing along your exposed thigh as he allows you a moment to catch your breath, and he can’t help but praise, “you look fucking perfect like this.” His touch teases higher, dipping under the polyester just enough to make you squirm. “Now don’t get me wrong, I love your usual look, but this…” Tugging on the hem, he shifts again to hover over you and nudges your nose with his own. You can feel the brush of his lips against yours as he speaks, “...worst part is you don’t even know what you were doin’ to me in there tonight.” There’s no time to answer before he kisses you again, a hungry growl in the back of his throat. 

You’d never given much thought to kissing before tonight. Truly, out of sight out of mind. When you’d overheard Veronica on the phone with one of her friends talking about the date who used too much tongue, you remember thinking any amount of tongue in a kiss must be too much, surely. 

But now, Eddie is coaxing your lips apart with his own, every move calculated and commanding, and when his tongue sweeps into your mouth to massage your own…oh.

Something akin to static settles deep in your stomach, tendrils of it curling from your chest and down to tingling fingertips. Reaching out, you fist a hand in the collar of Eddie’s tee shirt and pull, wanting him as close as possible. Betraying his suave demeanor, the action makes Eddie lose his balance, toppling him over with a joyous laugh and a hand on either side of your head. He drops his weight onto one elbow and reaches out for you with the other hand, tilting your chin with his thumb to make space for himself in the crook of your neck. 

“Feelin’ a little eager are we?” He murmurs into your ear, breath ghosting the shell and making you shudder at his closeness. “By all means, sweetheart, manhandle me all you want.” 

Teasing, always teasing, he noses along your jawline, savoring your shallow breath and the way he can feel you arch up into him. Your hand slips into his hair as he tests the waters, kissing, licking, sucking at little points across your neck. A nip of his teeth into the soft flesh just below your ear has you gasping and tightening your grip on his curls. You press your thighs together unknowingly as he soothes the sting with a pass of his tongue and continues on, latching onto another lower point on your neck. 

“E-Eddie, wait-” You gasp, gently pulling him away from you. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently, biting back a smile as he admires the sight of you flushed and pliant beneath him. “Not feelin’ it?” 

“No I – um, it’s not that. I mean it’s different. I feel weird, but…good weird?” Your voice falters, brows pinched, and you bring a hand up to rest on your own neck in the space he just occupied. 

“That’s called horny,” he teases, interrupting you. 

You choose to ignore the comment, finally eeking out,  “please don’t, um…I can’t have any hickeys. I’ll be dead. Literally six feet under if my dad sees anything.” You pout at your own statement, big, round eyes and a puffy lower lip that Christ, Eddie just wants to sink his teeth into. 

He’s about to do just that when a loud banging comes at the back door of the van. His face falls, head sinking, curls tickling your chest before you both look to the still-closed doors. Thankfully Gareth doesn’t open them, only yells through the layers of metal. 

“Ed, bar’s closed. We gotta get going!”

His voice is practically a growl that you can feel in his chest, “can’t you hitch a ride with the guys? ‘M a little occupied at the moment.”

There’s a long pause on the other side before he calls back, “...all the equipment…no room in the van, I’m sorry man.” 

He heaves a sigh and presses another hurried kiss to your lips, nipping at that pout just as he wanted to, but much more playfully quick than intended. He quietly murmurs an apology to you before yelling back, “fine! Give us a second, jackass. Take a lap around the block or somethin’!” Then turning to you with puppy eyes, “sorry, I am so sorry about that.” 

He kneels away from you, leaning on his heels to offer you a hand up, which you gladly take. 

“It’s okay,” you hum, not wanting the evening to end but knowing it might be a good idea to head home before things carry on further. “It’s, um…it’s quite late, I should probably be on the road already anyway.” 

You right yourself as he goes for the door, pulling your skirt down where it bunched up, finding your discarded purse in the corner and fishing out your car keys. By the time you’re situated, Eddie has already hopped down from inside the van and is offering his hand to help you down easily. 

With youreet secure on cracked asphalt, the real world settling in alongside the cool night breeze around you, you’re suddenly nervous again, shy. You find yourself worried that outside the comfort and closeness of his van, he’ll see you for what you really are; an inexperienced girl playing dress up with false confidence. The next time he sees you at the shop in your usual, modest getup, he’ll regret ever kissing you – or worse, forget it even happened. 

Dejected by your own thoughts, you nod at him in thanks and clutch the strap of your purse nervously. 

“It really was a good show,” you say in place of a farewell, “Eddie, tonight was really fun.” 

“Thanks, angel,” he says through upturned lips, lighting a fresh joint. He leans against the open door of the van, one foot propped up on the bumper, the free hand not pinching his smoke stuffed into the pocket of his jeans. He looks like he was ripped straight from the silver screen, the bad boy John Bender type in your own little coming of age flick. He exhales, billowing smoke into the air in the direction opposite you. “I had a pretty stellar time, myself.” He grabs you by the forearm before you can retreat to your car, pulling you into him for a much more chaste goodbye kiss, mumbling, “drive safe,” against your lips, not wanting to part even to share the sentiment. 

“Promise,” you assure him, pressing a final kiss high on his cheekbone and turning to start the journey to your car. You turn to say a final goodbye and are met with the flash of a Polaroid Spectra. “What was that for?” You ask, voice lilting, giggling musically. 

You can see Gareth returning from around the corner and wave, feeling floaty as you walk backwards to your car. 

Eddie simply says, “Told you you look fantastic like this. Wanted to remember it.” Like this, he thinks, hair a riot, skirt bunched up, flustered and breathless from nothing more than a kiss.

Shaking your head, you shout another goodbye before getting into your car and driving away. 

As the photo develops in Eddie’s hand and he’s joined by his drummer, he shakes the thoughts from his mind. You don’t know what you’re in for. 

Fuck Gareth for needing a ride.

—

Monday following the concert, you flit into Camelot music in your regular getup. Hair twisted into two messy braids, soft off-white tee shirt layered under a billowy thin denim dress. The forecast called for rain and a bit of a chill with it, so instead of sheer pantyhose you opted for a pair of over-the-knee socks, surely covered by the dress when you left the house, but now exposed by the knot you’d tied over one knee. 

Eddie’s with a customer when you walk in, but his attention is solely on the tops of those socks and the way they cut into your skin. You busy yourself by looking at a rack of new releases that don’t interest you as he finishes up, ringing out the cheerleader/letter jacket couple with a shallow nod and empty responses to their questions. 

As soon as the door shuts behind them, you’re joining him at the counter. 

“Hi,” whispered nervously, uncertain where you stand after the weekend. 

“Hi, angel.” Eyes dart over your shoulder briefly, ensuring there’s nobody around before he reaches over the counter to hold your face with both hands, pulling you in for a searing kiss. You squeak with surprise and he laughs into the kiss, breath ghosting your upper lip. “Thought about you all weekend.” 

You insist he’s trying to flatter you. 

He’s not lying. Only omitting the fact that most of those thoughts were lewd, obscene little brain worms. Images of you panting beneath him, your chest pressed against his, nipples perking under his attention. He kept returning to that damned thought of you touching yourself, of his name on your lips as you reached your peak. Every chance he got, every moment of alone time, his imagination ran wild, long, languid strokes of his cock spurred on by the memory of those perfect sounds you made for him from just one silly makeout session. It fueled him, how sensitive you were, so new to everything. Moreover, nothing turned him on more than the fact that he was, apparently, the first and only person to make those precious sounds, to make you feel that way, not even yourself. 

“You did not,” you accuse, rolling your eyes. 

“Cross my heart,” he mumbles, jaw slack at the memory. Then, ducking suddenly below the counter he adds, “Hey! Made you something.” 

You can’t help but giggle at the way his hair stays suspended in the air just a beat longer than he does, and you lean forward further to see him rooting around under the counter for something. He returns with another mixtape, this one labeled sloppily as People Write Songs About Girls Like You. 

Raising an eyebrow at the title, you turn the tape about in your hands. 

“Should I be worried about this one?” 

He quirks a single eyebrow, “only if Daddy finds it.” 

“Oh my gosh.” Mortified, you stuff the tape into your purse and hide your face in your hands. 

It’s a short visit this time. While a few Metallica tracks were featured on your first mixtape, he decides to play you their ‘86 album Master of Puppets in full over the store stereo, pointing out certain tracks and what they mean to him. He credits the title track for literally saving his life in his third (and final) senior year, says the dedication to learning to play it on the guitar by ear is what made it click for him that he wasn’t as stupid as everyone tried to convince him he was. It was that push that allowed him to finally cross that stage and inspired him to put a real honest effort into the band too. 

“I think this is my new favorite song, then,” you note with a soft smile as it comes to an end. 

“Softie,” he teases, throwing a balled up receipt at you. 

“Maybe,” you giggle. Then, noticing the time, “hey, I gotta get going, have to cut it short today. Mom said she wanted to talk about something when she got off of work. Sounded important.”

Ever dramatic, he mimes a dagger to the heart, twisting it, writhing with the pantomime of pain and falling limp against the cash register. “If you must,” he heaves. “Can I call you tonight at least?” 

You fiddle with the gold cross around your neck, and his eyes follow the movement. “It’s not that I don’t want you to,” you say uncomfortably and note all too quickly the hurt on his face. “It’s not!” You insist, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s just that if you call while my parents are awake, they’ll…ask questions. And probably listen in on the other end.” 

“Well,” he chuckles, “we don’t want that.” 

“Nope.” 

“Tell you what.” He pulls a sticky note from off the stack near the register and scribbles hastily, passing it to you when he’s done. “When do they hit the hay, what, nine? Ten at the latest?” You nod. “Give me a buzz when they’re out. I’ll be around.” 

Grinning, you plant both hands on the counter and lean across it to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “sounds like a plan. Talk to you later!”

“I’ll be waiting!” 

—

As it turns out, your mother’s talk was not important. 

“I’ve arranged a date for you,” she says over the rim of her coffee mug, her post-work decaf practically a ritual at this point. 

“You what?” 

“A date!” She repeats, smiling sickly sweet like she’s doing you a favor. 

Dread swirls in your stomach, all color draining from your cheeks. “Mom, I- you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know I didn’t have to, silly. I just thought it might be nice for you to get out with a nice, respectable boy, and besides, Justine was practically begging me to make the arrangement, what with the way she was bragging about Tom’s doctorate studies and empty social calendar.” 

You balk with realization, “wait- Justine…? Mrs. Murray? You mean you set me up with Tommy Murray?” 

The Murray’s were well known in your parish. Charitable, well off…uptight. Tommy had been in the youth group with you for a few years, but he aged out in your 8th grade year. Janie had a massive crush on him, but you thought he was an arrogant jerk, a narcissist at best. He was smart but he knew it and that soured you to him immediately. 

“He goes by Tim now, honey.” Is all she manages in response, not acknowledging your disgust. 

“Mom,” you scoff, “I am not going out with that guy.”

“Don’t be rude,” she chastises, the mug in her hand thunking against the table harshly, dark, milky liquid threatening to slosh out from the force of her setting it down. “I’ve already made the plan so you will go through with it. Now I suppose you don’t have to continue to see him if you don’t like how it goes but I did you the favor of setting this up, the least you could do is show up. Respectably.” 

It’s almost painful, suppressing the eye roll, but you know you’ll be better off just giving in. At least maybe you’ll get a good meal out of it. Your voice is soft, obedient when you ask, “when and where?” 

“He’ll pick you up Thursday at noon for lunch.” 

“Can’t I drive myself?” She doesn’t have to answer. Her stern look is enough to have you sighing with defeat. “I’ll be ready by 11:45.” 

“That’s what I thought. Now go clean up for dinner.” 

—

By some miracle, your parents both manage to turn in before nine that night and you retire to you room, door cracked and handheld landline receiver tucked under your pillow, waiting for any sign that they’re asleep. By 9:20 the bedside lamp clicks off, the thin stream of light from under their door going dark. By 9:35 your father’s snoring indicates that they’re out. 

Still, you wait another twenty minutes to assure that they’re asleep for the night before you pad quietly across the room to shut your door and throw a blanket in front of the crack at the bottom. Just in case. 

Your heart skips a beat with each ring, until finally the other line clicks. 

Silky smooth and hushed, voice mottled by the crackling of the line, he answers, “hello?” 

“Eddie?” You ask hopefully…stupidly. You know who you dialed, he doesn’t know who is calling. You can’t see him smiling at your blunder over the phone, you just clear your throat and continue, identifying yourself. 

“Yeah, I knew it was you, sweetheart. Did you think I could forget your pretty voice?”

“You’re such a flatterer, you know that?” You tease, twirling the fringe of your throw blanket between the fingers of your free hand. 

“What!?” He’s all mock shock and dramatic gasps, the other line rustling as he gets comfortable in bed. “Me? Never. I haven’t even told you how nice you look tonight.” 

“Please,” This time you do snort through your laugh, shaking your head even though you know he can’t see. You settle back into your pillows, tucking the receiver between your ear and shoulder so you can free up your hands for idle fidgeting. “You can’t even see me.” 

“Just cause I can’t see you doesn’t mean you don’t look nice.” He argues, “I bet you’re a stunner. Describe it to me. What’re you wearing?” An overused line, a cliche for any late night phone call, he’s aware, but he’s dying to know what someone like you wears to bed. 

You hum into the phone, tucking your feet underneath you and hugging your knees to your chest. “You won’t laugh?” 

“I could never.” 

You think about lying, but something tells you he would be able to tell. 

“It’s a, um,” you giggle at how predictable your answer must seem to him. “A white nightgown.” He’s quiet on the other end, not much more than an encouraging mhm, trying to pry more details from you. You’re not sure exactly what he’s looking for, so you go for the obvious, describing the details of the garment. “It’s got, like, a french collar and this frilly lace on the hem and the straps…little bow on the neckline.” 

“Now why would I ever laugh at that? Sounds to me like you’re just living up to the nickname, angel.”

“Don’t be cruel,” you giggle, though his tone doesn’t hold any malice. 

“Wouldn’t dare. How long is it? Hittin’ the floor?”

“Nope.” Playing with the lacy hem of it, you correct him, “little bit above my knee.” 

You swear he groans on the other end. Eddie, who’s been playing shows in sleazy bars for years, who’s seen his fair share of scandalous outfits on girls much more sexual than you, is groaning over the mention of…your legs? No, that…that doesn’t add up. 

“So you’re letting those pretty legs out to play, hm?” His voice is rougher, gruff, and he takes note of the rustling of pillows behind you. “You in bed?” 

“Mhm,” you don’t know which question you’re answering. Both are true, you suppose. 

“Yeah? Me too. So…” Eddie sighs into the receiver, palming his growing erection through his jeans. He is far too into this already, and he’s getting ahead of himself. He doesn’t even know if this is pushing your boundaries too far yet, for fuck’s sake, but God, is he hoping you take the bait. “I was thinking.” 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you tease. 

“Cute.” 

“Sorry,” you giggle, “couldn’t resist. What were you thinking about?” 

“...how unfair it is that you’re 20 goddamn years old and you don’t know what an orgasm is like.” Your fiddling fingers halt, the air sucked from your lungs at his boldness, that same churning, staticy feeling starting low in your stomach at the thought. “And I know you say you don’t know what you’re missing out on so it’s not that bad, but hear me out. I know what you’re missing out on, and I think it’s a fucking shame.”

“I’m…sorry?” 

There’s a long pause between you before he finally breaks down and joins in on your laughter. 

“No need to be sorry, angel. I just want to help you out.” 

“And that’s an entirely selfless offer, I'm sure.” 

“Baby, there’s lots of ways I’d love to be involved, but tonight’s about you. You need to learn about your body first, find out what you like.”

“You want me to…on the phone with you?” You know what he’s suggesting, but still can’t quite wrap your head around the idea. 

“Only if you want to. This is only good for me if you’re enjoying yourself.” His words settle right in between your legs, your thighs squeezing together and trapping them there with the growing heat between them. Against your will, a whimper makes its way past your lips at the thought. “Sounds like you’re into the idea.” 

Glaring down at the gold band on your finger, you sigh before ripping it off and shoving it in the drawer of your nightstand. You want this, you think, and you don’t need judgment from some dumb piece of symbolic jewelry. Still you hesitate. 

“I don’t…hate the idea, but I don’t know how to– I wouldn’t know what to do.” 

“That’s why I’m here. I’ll walk you through it. Just do as I say and tell me how you’re feeling. If you like something, don’t like something…if you change your mind all together. Just tell me and I’ll adjust accordingly. Think you can do that?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, “we’ll start you off slow. Want you to play with those gorgeous tits for me, okay? Start over your nightgown, just do what feels right.” You shake away the nagging insecurity and oblige, running a hand across your chest, steadying the phone in the other. It takes a moment to find your rhythm, cupping, softly groping at your own flesh, but Eddie can tell the moment you relax into it, soft sighs and hitched breath like music to his ears. “Good, now don’t forget your nipples, sweetheart. Light touches, tease yourself a little, remember we’re just getting warmed up.” 

You settle further into your plush mattress, letting the down pillows and Eddies gravelly, rough voice envelop you. He continues to coach you until your muscles are loose, movements slow and careful, appreciating your body in a way you never considered. 

“When you’re ready, I want you to hike up that skirt and touch yourself through your panties. Don’t take them off yet, stroke that pretty cunt until you’re whining.”

“Eddie!” You don’t know if you’re scolding him or praising him, shallow breath stuttering as your touch ventures south, teasing through your underwear and letting out a soft moan when your fingers press against the damp cotton. 

“How’s it feel, angel?”

“F-feels good,” you simper, gasping when your touch focuses on that spot that makes your toes curl. 

“You want more?”

That gets him what he wants, a sharp whine disguised as a, “please,” and he’s finally giving in and unbuttoning his jeans, allowing his aching cock some reprieve from the denim confines with a satisfied grunt.

“Lose the panties, baby. Slide your fingers between your folds, tell me how wet you are for me.” The phone gets knocked aside in your haste to peel your panties off, kicking them off the edge of the bed, but you make sure it’s securely back in place on your shoulder before you follow his instruction. It’s obscene, the sound your arousal makes as you part your lower lips, sliding two fingers between them. “Fuck, don’t need you to tell me,” he groans, pulling his boxers down just enough to start stroking his cock in time with your moaning, “she’s telling me herself. Keep playing with your clit, baby, I could listen to those sounds you’re making forever. Might fuckin’ put ‘em on my next album.“

The line goes quiet for a few moments, just the sounds of wet, slapping skin and labored breath and needy mewls. 

Your pleasure floods your stomach, coiling tight and hot and as your fingers toy with your sex. Muscles tense, the sound of Eddie’s ragged breath on the other end of the line spurring you on further, faster, needier. You’re chasing a feeling you can’t even identify but you know you can’t wait to get there. 

“Mmh– Eddie, I-” You cut yourself off with a hand over your mouth, stifling the desperate keening sound threatening to come out. 

“You’ve been needing this, angel, I can tell. So desperate already. Haven’t even fingered yourself and you’re already about to cum, aren’t you? C’mon pretty baby, try a finger for me.” Without hesitation, your fingers dip down to tease at your entrance, forefinger curling in without much resistance. It’s tight, the feeling foreign but not unwelcome. You cry out at the intrusion, slowly pumping in and out and pushing yourself further toward the edge. “That’s it.” He croons, “doing so well.” 

Your hips have a mind of their own, grinding on your hand, seeking out that sweet friction that you lost from your clit. Thigh muscles tense even more, shaking, your back arching off the bed. You don’t have to warn him, he can tell that you’re just on the edge, all it’ll take is one little push, and he’s happy to give it.

“Let go, baby.” It’s practically a growl and you can feel it in your bones, mixing into your growing pleasure and making it boil over. Suddenly, your body can’t help but obey, tipping over its peak and tumbling toward sweet release. 

Eddie has to bite into the meat of his bicep to stop himself from shouting with his release, the muffled sound of it lost on your ringing ears because you’re still coming down from your own. 

It’s quiet again for a moment. You can hear what you think is Judas Priest playing from somewhere in the background on his end while you both catch your breath, until finally you break the near-silence with an involuntary giggle. Eddie can’t help but laugh with you, aimlessly, tittering over nothing on a late night phone call like you hadn’t just had your entire world turned upside down. 

“What’s so funny?” He asks after a moment. 

“Dunno,” you giggle, “you were right, I guess. I mean it really was pretty darn unfair that I went my whole adult life not experiencing that.” 

“Just you wait. That was nothing.” Then, despite himself, he laughs again. “Did you just say darn?”

“I– yeah?”

“You mean to tell me you just moaned an entire year’s worth of spank bank material into my ear and you still won’t swear?” 

You protest, “that’s different!” 

“How is that different! I would even argue that swearing is the lesser offense here! Shit, I’ll get you to swear for me one of these days. I guarantee it.”

Both of you stay like that a little while longer, joking and laughing and teasing as if you hadn’t just come undone in each other's ears. It’s comfortable, familiar, like you’ve known him much longer than a month. Eventually, when his tape comes to an end, he reaches for his acoustic guitar and starts to play a quiet tune, soundtracking your conversation. It starts to lull you to sleep, but just when you’re on the precipice Eddie's voice brings you back to reality again. 

“Hey, angel?” 

“Hmm?”

“You’re my girl, right?” 

He isn’t entirely sure why he asked, the thought burst from him like a Xenomorph before he could stop it. But there was something there, a pride that swells in his chest at the thought of claiming you as his.

“I’m your girl, Munson.” You confirm, sleepy and gleeful and satiated. 

[the-epic-hiram-lows]

Archie time! I will do this even though the board itself was mysteriously removed from the post (should I re-upload it, or keep it as an esoteric limited edition item?) Haters are fuming. For extra context, you might want to see the boneless version, which shows the original photos without color edits but still cropped.

As always, commentary is L-R, top to bottom.

This idea came so easily and so vividly to me that I almost feel like I can't take credit for it. It took surprisingly little time to find a good font as well. As for the meaning of it, I think it's pretty much what it says on the literal tin. Archie is often bruised, literally and figuratively, throughout the series. More often than not, the situations that bruise him were never his situations in the first place. He has a huge martyr complex- both a cause and effect of his need for psychic bandages.

As I noted earlier in this series, I told myself that using photos of the actual source material was cheating. After breaking that rule with Jughead, I wanted to double down on this (which I successfully did on Veronica's, whose board I started before Archie's,) but had to fold here. Aside from the fact it is nearly impossible to find a photo that looks like these four, how do you Archie Andrews from Riverdale? You cannot do so meaningfully. I chose this specific photo for three reasons. Firstly, of course, that it fit the color palette. Secondly, it looks like a memory. Thirdly, the way Archie is breaking the fourth wall of the photo. He is present in the moment but acknowledging the people off-screen looking back. While this is textually more of a Jughead thing, Archie is Riverdale. This is a subtle representation of the thin veil between Riverdale the universe and Riverdale the product. Its increasingly meta nature. In terms of composition, I didn't crop faces out, which would normally be my instinct. It didn't feel right. Archie wouldn't obscure the faces of his friends. They are everything to him- one of the reasons the picture is in the center row.

I originally found this quote doing research for Veronica's board. I thought it was very interesting from an 'abusive father intentionally makes himself vital to child to feed his narcissism' type of way, but at second glance I read it as mournful. This was almost certainly what the creator intended, but the context in which I found it confused my perspective. This is, of course, a tribute to Fred. A summary of Archie's psyche would be incomplete without one.

When I saw this pin, I thought 'Archie!' The original photo was lackluster, so I spent 2-3 hours photoshopping this pin onto a Riverdale varsity jacket. I eventually reached photorealism, where someone would easily accept there is a pin on that jacket, but at that point it didn't catch the eye. I had to sacrifice some realism for the sake of the mood board. After another hour or so, it is exactly Fine. In the end, nobody mentioned the jacket either way. Maybe that means I did a good enough job that no one consciously noticed it. Maybe it means I did all that for nothing. Who's to say? Either way, this pin is a bit off when you consider my intentions of representing Archie's psyche. This is something Archie hears, but doesn't say. I kind of justified it to myself by saying he would wear this as a way to laugh at those who think he is a fawn who should stay out of danger, but... I don't know. Maybe the fourth wall gets one panel as a treat? The more I think about it, the more I think I wasted that photoshop time on something that betrays my thesis statement.

Not my best work!

Firstly, let's call it like it is- this is, for the most part, a filler image. However, within that, I did have reasoning! Though it isn't ever alluded to through dialogue or camera work, Archie does have quite the thing for Converses. He often wears them throughout the series, and seems to have a good amount of variety in his collection. But, beyond that, Converses have been a staple of the American teen for generations. Archie, as we often state, is a representation of Americana. Though Converses are often seen in modernish counter culture, they also have a sincere athletic-but-not-an-athlete charm.

The first image I had for Archie, saved days (even weeks) before I committed to making a mood board for him. This is, again, less about his brain and more about him as an abstract. I will kick myself about that later. Actually, pretend I never stated this was supposed to be a psychological study. Pretend I said it was mostly focused on his psyche, but not entirely. Thanks. Anyway, this is embodies season one Archie. Pre-pilot Archie, even. Considering the fact Archie turned 16 during his affair with Grundy, the text stings even more.

Nothing I say about this picture will be as well-worded as @hauntingattheblackberrypatch's brilliantly apt observations on it, but nevertheless I persist. I immediately fell in love with the symbolism. In so many ways, and for some many reasons, Archie fights with his heart. When we examine physical fights Archie gets in, they are often matters of the heart. He is never violent without deeply emotional violation. He often uses his physicality on someone else's behalf- his way of showing he cares. Instead of a sleeve, Archie wears his heart on his boxing glove. There are probably dozens of layers to this sentiment that range from the fully literal interpretation I gave to an entirely psychological one, several steps removed from Archie's conscious thoughts. I think the visual provides enough for the viewer to pick and choose their metaphors, and they would probably be correct in their interpretation. If you saw the boneless board, you might have noticed I swapped the background of this photo. The plain background made me focus too much on the first and not enough on the heart, so to speak. It felt too cold. I wanted warmth, texture, and sentiment. I went with a photo of yellow flowers. Though they don't really read as flowers, the effect is there.

A view from inside the diner. Another fond memory. Or, if you choose, a stock photo chosen for its generic Americana charm. (It's both.)

Broad notes now! Like I said in the original post, I did this board instead of sleeping. I finished it about five minutes before my alarm went off and I had to get out of bed.

I wasn't 100% positive about the color scheme I'd end up with going in, but I knew I wanted Americana and primary colors, and I knew Archie's board would be less muted. I wanted it to feel like nostalgia in its least cynical form.

[fxreflyes]

5, 11, and 12 for the music ask!!!

thank u sm for the ask ava 🥰🥰🥰🥰

5. A song u don’t think your followers will have heard? ok I chose an artist w 624 monthly listeners on Spotify so … hopefully y’all haven’t heard under the veil - mood of a sinner

11. A song that makes you dance? So I don’t dance but if I did, untouched by the Veronicas

12. A song from the 90s? My own prison - creed

Ask me music asks :)