#sacred manifesto
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If speaking kindly to plants can help them grow, just imagine what speaking kindly to humans can do.
— Unknown
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My love you don't know
my soul is a fire on the bay
Natasha Kanapé Fontaine, tr. Howard Scott, Assi Manifesto
#literature#poetry#natasha kanapé fontaine#assi manifesto#earth is planted in my blood#divine‚ glorious selfhood#sacred flame in your soul#innu lit#m#x#indigenous lit#cree lit
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27th January marks Holocaust Remembrance Day. When we think of the millions of lives taken by the Nazi regime. A regime that spurred a systemic white supremacist, ethnonationalist manifesto. A sepratist ideology of a supreme ethnicity, a supreme race, that had been festering across Europe for centuries. Millions of sacred lives, Jewish lives, taken in the name of supremacy. Of hatred and violence.
Millions of Jewish people, Soviet and Polish Citizens, communists, Rromani people, disabled people, Soviet prisoners of War and Queer people were murdered during the Nazi regime. Millions of lives were brutally taken whilst the Nazi regime convinced Germany, through a copious force of propaganda, that those lives were the real threat. That it were those lives who were inhumanely violent, were not just, they were deemed a threat to Nazi society.
Hitler and the Nazis promoted the idea of a master race— an Aryan, German race that needed to be protected as they thought that was the product of “racial purity”. And to Nazism, the Jewish people were the biggest threat to their sepratist, extremist ideology of racial purity. Initially, the Nazi leadership tried to force Jews out of Germany completely, with propaganda encouraging the dehumanisation of Jews to facilitate exile and the subsequent Holocaust of Jewish people in Europe.
“Rats, lice, cockroaches, foxes, vultures – these are just some of the animals the Nazis used to deride and dehumanize Jews. They used words too. In a new linguistic analysis of dozens of Nazi speeches, articles, pamphlets and posters, researchers show how this process of anti-Semetic dehumanization, which began before the Nazis took power and helped fuel the party’s popularity, was modulated to justify atrocity: in the years before the Holocaust.”
These lives, for purely existing, posed as a threat to the Nazis violently sepratist ideology. Propaganda subjugated German citizens with the power of deception; indoctrinating a people with the belief of superiority, purity and organic virtue. Simplifying the regimes ideological complexities to be palatable, unquestionable and targeting individualism. The ideological sepratism had indoctrinated millions into following the belief that Jewish people were sub-human— an undoubted threat to German people, values and society— and this was only achievable through the already pre-established rampant antisemitism that festered through out Medieval Europe, from Christian accusations of “killing Jesus”, to blood libel, the accusation of poisoned wells, and forcing Jews to chose either baptism or death.
“The mood changed markedly in around the year 1100, at the time of the First Crusade. Hordes of religious fanatics from all social classes, driven by a longing for redemption, set forth to kill infidels in the Middle East and to liberate holy Jerusalem. It stood to reason that they should also combat perceived enemies of Christ at home. Jews were hounded and forced to choose between baptism or death.”
The Holocaust happened because for generations, Europe failed to crack down on antisemitism. Christianisation spread through colonialism and with it, they carried antisemitism to new lands. The Holocaust happened because the Nazi party could convince millions of people of racial supremacy and purity. Far-Right ideology holds onto sepratist endorsement when they enforce anti-immigration laws, Islamophobic policies in France and the desperation of English nationalism. The Holocaust happened because Western superpowers only saw the Nazi imperial expansion as a threat to the Western hegemony.
The Holocaust of millions of Jewish people happened, and the effects of which are felt to this day. Every single day. The pain is carried through generations, for now there is a hole in every Jewish soul. We still feel the anguish, the pain. The frustration that this feels so never-ending.
And it is that pain, that fear, that drives us to say that with every last fighting breath, like the Maccabees who faught for our liberation, like King David who defeated a giant with a slingshot and stone and unbridled courage — Never again, for anybody. We will fight with all that we have. For such a magnitude of slaughter and pain should never touch this Earth for as long as we stand. We cannot carry forth our pain like a baton, we must hold it, a sword, to the enemy and ensure liberation of all feet that touch this Earth. They will not make our people, the Jewish people, into a proxy for their imperial expansion and sepratist Western values.
Never again, for anybody, for all life is sacred.
Never again, for anybody, and certainly not in our name.
Never again, for anybody, and that means Palestine.
#holocaust#history#statement#free palestine#palestine#anti capitalism#anti imperialism#jumblr#judaism#jewish thought#jewish#jewish socialism#jewish communists#anti zionist jews for palestine#anti zionism
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Manifesto of the Committee for the Sick and Useless
Those of us with disabilities form an interest group with an immense number of seemingly abled people. Everyone whose culture, beliefs, age, personality, sexuality, language, immigration status or other inclination makes them less useful to society belongs with disabled people in the fight to exist without justification.
The Committee for the Sick and Useless believe it is the innate and inalienable right of all people to:
Do Nothing
Help No One
Feel Awful
And above all else
Be Useless
In this age of increasing productivity and accomplishment, we too often sacrifice the most sacred right of all living things: to simply exist, asking much and contributing nothing. We sacrifice this right not just for ourselves as individuals but for all life on Earth present and future.
Our existence has been made conditional on the work we are expected to do, whether that work is employment, education, or caring for the home. Even plants and animals must now earn their right to exist by producing food, providing beauty, cleaning our air, warming our hearts. The ugly, unpleasant and useless are abandoned.
We, the committee, do not consider ourselves at odds with health, joy and usefulness. Rather we are united with all good and joyful people in our fight against the demand for productivity. Our enemies are those who demand that the land produce wealth, that the workers produce profit, that the sick produce medical certificates, that children grow up and the elderly make themselves scarce.
The right to exist is the foundation of all human rights and duties; it cannot be made conditional, lest all rights be made conditional. We support the right of everyone, everywhere, to live.
In this admittedly revolutionary goal, we have many allies. These include, but are not limited to: queers, cripples, drug users, the unemployed, the mentally ill, the anti-colonial, the incomprehensible, the celibate, the ugly, mutes, mystics, pessimists, mosquitoes, cats, children, teenagers, the elderly, speakers of suppressed languages, and people without a driving license.
This is Chapter 31 of Redefining Disability, with very minor edits. I held off on posting this until it was published. It is now in a real physical book that they cannot take away from me so here you all go.
If you would like a copy of this or any other chapters from the journal, there is a pinned post on my blog with free download details. I would also be happy to email them to you.
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𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 (part two)
summary: she sought for validation; he sought for acceptance. two juveniles who believed they’d spend the rest of their lives playing red guitars and borrowed claviers, (along with the trepidation of isolation), meet in one boring afternoon, and find themselves reveling in caterwaul voices, laying in a field of colossal grass, and writing lyrics with botched ballpens and crumpled papers.
— or: two people bond over emotional trauma, and fall in love through great manifestos
warnings: 1hr reading time, slow burn, friends to lovers, slight teenage angst, jealousy, tooth-rotting fluff, eddie being a sap, weird manifestos, reader being adopted, eddie and reader both having a self discovery whilst falling in love, fem!reader (she/her pronouns), me not knowing how to write both piano and guitar playing properly, deep words (sorry guys open google), lengthy, idiots in love, a love story about two sad teens going through a phase (jk) eddie has a bit of a corruption thing (not kink) bc he introduces reader into new things lol!
explicit warnings (for part two): virgin!reader, virgin!eddie; piv, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), creampie, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, overstimulation, first time, soft, vanilla porn, mentions of blood, handjob, cum eating, biting, marking, missionary, maybe soft!dom eddie bc he watched porn a lot and thinks he "knows his way", sweet but short aftercare
a/n: this is a story of fiction. i do not know the locations in both indiana and illinois. this is written in the way i prefer it to be to fit its story telling, and i am well aware of the things i write in here, and how i write this story. based on the song '1979' by the smashing pumpkins. hope you all enjoy part two!
PART ONE; SERIES MASTERLIST
That we don't even care
To shake these zipper blues
And we don't know
Just where our bones will rest
When you were young, you remember sneaking out of your room from the orphanage to sneak into the living room and watch the television with a low volume, loud enough for you to hear so as to not disturb the Nuns asleep in their rooms.
You thought falling in love was exchanged between lingering stares, a ring of hope and yearning in their eyes; sharing gospels about yourselves that you’d never tell anyone else, compliments coming from Freudian slips. The ‘will they, won’t they,’ the supportive friends. And months, maybe years, of mutual pinings until they end up confessing beneath the rain in the middle of the road as if there’d been no cars passing by. Yelling through the thunderous storm their words of utter devotion and kiss like their lives depended on it.
For years, before you’d been adopted, you watched the same scenario of love stories on a small screen for hours until your eyes ran dry. Boy and girl meet, one fell first and the other fell harder, an almost confession, an almost kiss, a secret that could ruin their relationship and it almost did, a confession spat in a dangerous situation right before everything went to shit, and then they lived happily ever after.
The same one every movie.
But they never really expressed how falling in love truly felt. They just showed it.
Your mother, adoptive mother, had once said that you’d feel this electricity inside you. That sparks fly when you see their smile, or just see them in general. That you’ll feel a thousand butterflies consume you until you feel like you’re floating in the clouds with their hand in yours as you fly into eternity together.
That everything else falls apart and it’s just the two of you. Heartbeats heard in your ears as you get lost in this abyss of abiding love. Or a spotlight would compel you to look at him like a sacred artifact in a museum. That you’ll find yourself wanting to be closer to them no matter how dangerous it has been—like moth to a flame.
Eleven year old you had stared at her with a look that told her you understood. And you did. Kind of. A young mind like yours couldn’t fully understand that feeling.
So you waited.
Up until Eddie Munson came to your life.
Eddie Munson, who’s been hiding something from you the past couple of weeks.
Every time you were together, whether it had been for school purposes, songwriting, or just for the hell of it, he’d be stuck in this small mental corner with his front facing you, the back of his notebook keeping a somewhat barrier to hide whatever he was doing. And whenever you asked, he’d stop writing, tap your nose with the tip of his pen, and say
“A satanic ritual.”
Then he’d go back into writing.
Your curiosity would sometimes almost get the best of you; debating if you should take a quick peek when Eddie leaves the notebook with you (closed) and excuses himself to the bathroom. But it was an invasion of privacy.
And he’s doing it right now.
Walking through the somewhat crowded hallway, you’ve got a hand clutching the sleeve of his unbuttoned black plaid shirt, just right on his elbow as he writes while walking. Just like you’d been all those months ago.
His tongue darts out, his feet stumbling across his own, muttering short apologies to the people he accidentally bumps too. But he lets you guide him through your small tugs.
“Christ, Eddie!” you push him away when one of the students comes running in with their projects, almost smacking him against the locker. “Put that down!”
Eddie laughs a bit before he finally snaps it shut, shoving his pen in his pocket. You drop your hand from his elbow. “Sorry, Mands.”
“You’re gonna trip,” you avoid the judgemental stares. Of gossiping kids speaking behind locker doors; you focus on Eddie. “And honestly, if you did, I’ll just make fun of you and pretend you don’t exist.”
“You wound me, pretty girl,” he slaps his hand to his heart, a sardonic pout coming with. But the pout is gone sooner when he realizes what he’d just said, and he clears his throat. “You gonna sit with us at lunch, or you’re still sticking with Wheeler and her friend?”
“They’re revising for the school paper,” you fiddle with the clasp of your bag. “So, uh, maybe I can sit with you if that’s alright?”
“It’s more than alright,” he smiles. Eddie’s palm slams on the cafeteria doors and pushes it open, letting you in first before he follows, letting the door swing until it hinders and settles closed. He scratches his jaw, looking up at the ceiling. “But, uh, you gotta sit beside me. Or else you’ll be stuck between a sticky mess of Sour Patch Kids and, well, kids.”
You walk between the chairs from his table and the one beside him. Eddie takes an empty chair beside Dustin, dragging it beside him at the head of the table and pulls it out for you to sit on. You smile at him, sitting down.
“Oh, hey, (y/n),” Dustin smiles, braces a different color this week that leaves you endeared. “Hey, Eddie.”
Mike chews on his pudding pie. The same brand as Nancy’s, and he’s got a confused frown on his face that’s almost mistaken as repulsion had you not known him. “What are you doing here?”
“Eddie has stained my reputation. I’m a pariah now.”
“Hey,” Eddie laughs, pulling his ball pen out of his pocket. “I could embarrass you right now,”
“I’m always embarrassed. For you, at least,” you jest.
Gareth opens his small lunchbox, his name written on the side in capital letters. “You ready for tonight?” he asks Eddie.
You whip your head back at the boy beside you, sleeves rolled above his elbows, which reminds you of the one he posited just on your arm. If people didn’t look at you for walking around unabashed beside Eddie Munson, they were looking at the tattoo on your arm. It had caught Principal Higgins’ attention, and you saw him visibly parley to himself if he should punish you for it.
But then his eyes flitted to Eddie and he sighed, sauntering back to his office with a shake of his head and muttering something about blemishing the temple of God with your tattoos.
“Been practicing our asses off for the past few weeks. ‘Course I’m fucking ready,” Eddie scoffs. Then he lifts his head off the notebook and looks at you. “You’re coming, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you smile softly.
He returns the same smile with the same fondness, his eyes twinkling in appreciation. The hand on his lap comes up to twirl his pinky around yours, dimples deepening in glee. You feel your heart pound at the small touch; see how everything behind him blurs. And you flutter your lashes.
Dustin clears his throat that breaks your eye contact. Eddie shoots him an almost murderous glare, unhooking his finger from yours.
-
The Hideout was dark. With stone walls and chipped wooden tables. The bartender looked like he was nearing his fifties, but looked approachable and kind when he’d greeted you with a rag in his hand as he wiped the glasses when you stepped inside. The lights were dim but bright above the small stage with band equipment—where you saw Gareth’s Corroded Coffin drums.
Eddie had been over exaggerating when he said he had a crowd of five drunks. But they’re not exactly many either. There were people scattered around, preoccupied in conversations you don’t, and couldn’t be bothered to know.
You nervously tug on your dress. A deep shade of red that’s almost black to match him. You walk between tables and old men, sitting on the table second to the front, giving you a clear view of the stage.
Earlier, you’d told Eddie you’d meet him there before he dropped you off at your home despite his protests. He told you to wear something pretty—simple, but pretty. Something that’s you, in his words.
Waiting patiently, you hear the soft clinkings of glass against bottles of alcohol at the bar, the quite boastful laughter of the men in the corner. Your knee bounces, hands clasped in front of you as you trace the rigid strikes of Corroded Coffin’s band poster, and startle yourself when a looming presence hovers over you, casting a shadow over the light.
You yelp, looking up to see a man. His hair gray as his hairline recedes, exposing his forehead. He had a nose that looked a bit like Eddie’s, and his blue eyes shimmer in curiosity as they settle on you; his stare is anything but creepy.
“Are you…Mandy?” he says gruffly, a lilt of uncertainty in his voice, and he sounds as nervous as you are.
“No. I’m (y/n)...” you furrow your eyebrows. “Oh, shit. Are you Eddie’s uncle?”
His hands rub the back panel of his hat, nodding. “Yes ma’am. Wayne Munson. D’you mind if I sit?”
“Not at all,” you gesture to the chair beside you. Wayne pulls the chair out, moves it a bit more to the side to give you an appropriate distance so he wouldn’t make you feel uncomfortable, and he sits down with a grunt. “S-sorry for cursing. I’m Eddie’s friend—”
He says your name. “I know. He can’t stop talking about you,” he chuckles lightly. “I finally get to meet the girl that makes my nephew wake up before his alarm clock.”
“That’s me,” you twiddle your thumbs. “Um, Eddie told me you worked at night.”
Wayne understands what you mean, placing his cap on his lap and rubbing his hand on his knee. “I do. But it’s a holiday and I couldn’t pass on the opportunity to see him play.” he scratches his silver beard. “Do you drink? I could order us some.”
“I’m eighteen, Mr. Munson” you tell him. “I can’t drink yet.”
“Coke it is,” he hollers for a waiter, a man a bit younger than the bartender. He orders a pale ale and two cans of coke before he takes out his pack of cigarettes when the waiter leaves. You notice how he’s got a small lighter wedged to the side of his cigarettes like Eddie’s, and you wonder if he’d caught it from his uncle. “You smoke?”
You look around cautiously when he sticks one in his mouth. “Will they let me?”
“You ain’t gonna go to jail for it,” his eyebrows raise. “I’m not pressuring you, kid. I’m just offering,”
Finally, in an impassive shrug, you take one and you place it in your mouth. When Wayne lights up his own, he offers you his lighter. “Thank you, Mr. Munson,”
You sit in silence for a short beat, the smoke of your cigars mixing in the weak waft of the ac. He wasn’t as menacing as you expected, and you didn’t know why you expected it in the first place. Based on Eddie’s stories, Wayne had never questioned his love for his fantasy game, or complained about his love for metal. He’d been the first person to accept Eddie for who he is, the only family in his life that stayed and cared.
“You know, I-uh-I’d like to thank you,” he turns to you. “You never judged my nephew for who he was. You made him happier and, hell, I haven’t seen him this happy in years. He’s always hogging up the phone talking and laughing with you. I’m not there for him as much as I used to; and I’m glad you gave him back his smile,”
Flushing, you look away and hide your parlously proud smile behind the borrowed cigarette, stained by your fuliginous lipstick. “Nothing to thank me for, Mr. Munson. Glad I could make him happy.”
“Ah, please,” he waves his hand, cigarette in the air. “Call me Wayne. Makes me feel old.” then he waves around his face. “I know my- hair says otherwise. But I’m still in my forties.”
“Copy that,” you take a quick hit. “Wayne.”
Wayne nods his head in acknowledgement, a guttural grunt leaving him. “My nephew hasn’t been this happy in a while. Eddie tends to… hide his emotions. Likes to distract himself with that god-deafening music and his fantasy game. And since you came to his life,” his arm lifts, as if to give your shoulder a pat before he clenches it to a fist and puts it back on his lap.
You chuckle. “You can pat me, Mr. Muns- Wayne.”
“You sure?”
“It’s just a shoulder pat, sir,”
Balky, his hand comes up to clap at your shoulder, shaking it lightly. You smile, placing the cigarette back in your lips and sucking until you couldn’t breathe, and let it all out.
“You helped him… (y/n),” he swallows. “And I thank you for that.”
When your drinks come, footsteps advance the stage. First came Gareth who settled behind the drums, who saw you immediately and gave you an ebullient wave, then Jeff and the other guy who’s name you’ve (sadly) forgotten.
Then Eddie came just when you opened your can. The fizzle of soda coalesce with his eager footsteps. Your hand stops around the ring, eyes trailing up to Eddie’s face.
You try to bite back a gasp.
There’s dark eyeliner beneath his eyes that names him hellaciously unique; the liquid kohl renders his eyes wider—his umber eyes darker, almost voluminously black, although fulgurated with the dim lights and his buzzing excitement. His vogue is eccentric, almost a masquerade that fools, had you not known him. But it’s so him, and at the same time, it isn’t.
But Eddie looks unashamed and proud of his look of ripped sleeves and borrowed eyeliner, his hair asininely wild, curlier like he’d gotten himself a perm. He’s wearing black jeans with more tears, his Dio vest that accentuates his lanky arms, the pudge of his stomach seen through his shirt but he wears it proudly; happy trail peeking underneath when he lifts his hand to pull on the mic.
He taps on the silver mesh head of the mic. Eddie clears his throat. “Uh, hello?”
You see everyone turn their heads, unamused, but forcing themselves to acknowledge his presence. Eddie smiles nervously, before his eyes settle on you and Wayne.
“Good evening gentlemen and lady,” he winks at you. “Uh, yeah, thanks for being here tonight. It means so much to the owner who’s been working his ass off so, give him a round of— ah, screw it no one’s listening,” Eddie tuts with a ridiculous smile, eyes meeting yours in a short apology. He’s not upset, but he finds it amusing. “This first song is, um, Breaking the Law by Judas Priest. Hope you guys enjoy it and if it gets too loud, I suggest you cover your ears.”
He picks up his red Warlock NJ guitar (Sweetheart, he names her) resting on the amplifier beside Gareth’s guitar, slinging it around himself before he pulls on the vermillion pick on his neck. Eddie settles himself up front, lips hovering over the mic. Then he looks back at Gareth, who throws one of the dumstricks into the air but fails to catch it and falls to the ground with an awkward cattle.
Beside you, Wayne smiles at the inconvenience, but doesn’t elicit a laugh out of him. Gareth shoots the both of you a penitent smile, picking up the stick. He taps it together three times to signal preparation, before you’re startled with his sudden slam on the snare.
You’ve never really seen Eddie play the electric guitar. Well, you have. You’ve just unfortunately forgotten the first time you actually did. And you wonder if thirteen year old Eddie was just as great as twenty year old him, playing the guitar with such precision; he was, indeed, a virtuoso with guitars—electric or not.
The sight holds you ransom. Eddie, with his hair unruly, an unforgiving proud smile on his face when he darts his tongue out to glide his dexterous fingers across the bronze strings of Sweetheart, his voice a caterwaul as he recites the almost innocuous lyrics.
“Feel as though nobody cares if I live or die.”
But his eyes were passionate—not of the barely there crowd, but it was obvious he loves what he’s doing. Especially now that you’re here, witnessing this for the first time with his beloved uncle. In that small stage, it stymies all judgment of conservative people, and he lets himself relish in the freedom of doing what he desires.
A gloss of pursuit sybaritism coats his eyes; with a white ring of sheer wanton hedonism just above his dark irises. The rest of the boys mimic the same passion, arms kinetic at their own playing, noses scrunched in glee.
Eddie doesn’t look like an angel tonight. When the lights shine horns on top of his head—the cardinal hue of serpentine antlers usurps the halo over his head. He’s devilishly handsome, wickedly catching your eye through the palls of branded cigarettes that spread across the room.
Beside you, Wayne claps and whistles, showing his everloving support. Eddie smiles brightly, leaning back when he does a riff you’re certain you’ll struggle studying it. When the song ends, scattered claps gift him. Few, but loud to show their support.
He’s sweaty all of a sudden, and he runs his hand through his dampened hair, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “Thanks. Thank you- hey, man, you owe me a beer,” he points at the guy sitting in the corner, who raises his bottle and tips his hat. You don’t know him. “This next song is dedicated to this lovely lady up front,”
You feel eyes on you. Suddenly, you want to sink into your chair just to avoid the unwanted eyes, and you tell yourself to forgive Eddie for making you off-guard. But the strangers give you either confused eyes, or looks that say they could care less. But Wayne claps, which makes you hide your flustered smile behind the coca-cola can that you drink from.
“It’s Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic by The Police. I know it’s unusual for us to play something that’s not metal, but I practiced this song just for her. A…token of gratitude. And also for my uncle,” he adjusts his mic. “Um. Hope you guys enjoy,”
You appreciate the fact that he’d practiced a song from one of your favorite bands just for you, despite it being out of his taste. You clap, a silly smile on your face that hurts your cheeks.
He strums, benign in all his dexterity, and shoots you a cheeky wink. You playfully grimace at his action, and you fail to miss the laugh Wayne lets out at the wordless banter.
You gently sway to the indie music, see the way his rings glide across his nylon strings, how the bones of his fingers move through his skin when he plucks, mouth pressing up to the mic to sing clemently. You copy his nods, your own fingers tapping on the tin of your can.
The only thing the song lacked was the piano; you, basically. Eddie started playing with his eyes on you, and suddenly you remember being eight years old in the dark living room of the orphanage you stayed in. Except you hadn’t been the one watching — this time, you’re in the screen of that small box, finally feeling what it’s like to stare at someone so completely enamored with everything they did. With everything Eddie did.
Because everything slows and everything else blurs, a flame igniting across every vein that brings you into a lovelorn haze. You hear your heart beat with the precious song Eddie has dedicated to you right in your ear, and you feel like floating off the chair. The halo comes back to slot itself between his horns, luring you in like a moth to a flame; like a venerated, fallen angel that has you plunging your hand through the clouds and taking his, flying you to his safe haven.
“I resolved to call her up, a thousand times a day. And ask her if she'll marry me, some old-fashioned way,”
His once caterwaul cry of a voice shifts into a soft, canorous sway from baritone to tenor. Eddie smiles at you, a look in his eyes you can’t fathom but makes your heart burst, blood dripping down your chest but you don’t care.
For four minutes and twenty seconds, your eyes never leave Eddie. And neither does he, like he knows he won’t so much as place the wrong finger on the wrong string or fuck up his plucking. Everything’s a scene on a cheesy romcom, a feeling told through a lovesick song, a story told through a galore of rhyming words in a poem.
“Every little thing she does is magic; everything she do just turns me on. Even though my life before was tragic. Now I know my love for her goes on,”
In your mind, you push yourself off the table, chair falling to the ground, coke spilling onto the wooden top, walking yourself up to him and tackle him in a kiss; one of his arms would be around your waist and the other holding the mic stand tightly, your hands cupping his delicate face and mold your lips with his like some puzzle piece waiting to be connected.
That the spotlight settles on the both of you, and you’ll fly up to the skies to spend the rest of your lives loving each other in eternity like everyone else did.
But you stay on your seat with a fluttering heart and an agape mouth. You don’t realize Gareth has sped up his drums for the denouement of the song, and Eddie leaves on last hard strum before the small crowd claps for him, seemingly happy to finally watch someone play a song they knew.
Eddie bows, an abashed smile for gratitude. “T-thank you, everyone—”
“Holy shit. They’re actually clapping for us—”
“Shut up, Jeff,”
-
“Thanks for coming, uncle Wayne,”
Their hug is tight with claps on the back and prolonged grunts. Wayne breaks away, hands on his nephew’s shoulder, a proud smile on his face.
“No problem,” he nods at him. “Needed a break from work, anyway,”
You stand behind Eddie, fingers joint in front of you. Wayne gives you a kind smile that you return, one that makes Eddie turn to his shoulder to look at you, and you can see the roseate glow that dusts his cheeks. He bats you his eyelashes, eyeliner slightly smudged, before he turns back to his uncle.
“I like this whole… makeup thing,” he points at his eyes.
“Thanks,”
He leans in to whisper something in Eddie’s ear that you can hear, hushed words that are suspicious when Wayne looks at you again and when Eddie laughs nervously and lightly pushes at his uncle’s shoulder with a small whine of uncle Wayne, shut up!
“Nice meeting you, Mandy,” Wayne tips his hat to you. “Drive safe, kids. I’ll see you tomorrow, Eds.” he pats his shoulder, shaking it lightly before he walks away.
Eddie walks you to his van, a hand on the back of your waist with his notebook clutched to his side. It’s quiet, with your shoes crunching with the gravel ground; he opens the door for you, right before he moves to his side. You watch in the side mirror as Wayne gets in his own car and pulls out of the driveway.
Eddie throws his black notebook in the back, key twisting to start the car, and Broken Wings by Mr. Mister plays. It startles you, whipping your head at him.
“Where exactly are you taking me, Munson?” you narrow your eyes in feigned suspicion. He chuckles, buckling in his seat belt. “Well, that’s a first.”
“We’re leaving Hawkins. I can’t go to jail,”
“Oh?” you raise a brow. Eddie laughs, humming along to the song which peaks your interest but you’re more curious about something else when he pulls out the driveway. “So where is it?”
He gives you a quick glance, the corner of his lip twitching up. “Illinois,”
Your smile falls a bit, shifting into something confused when you squirm in your seat and rest your hands on your lap. “Oh,” you purse your lips. “What’s up in Illinois?”
“A surprise,” Eddie chuckles. “I’m not kidnapping you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Noooo ritualistic sacrifice.”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” you toy with your fingers, scratching gently at your tattoo. “You do know that when we get there, it’ll be one in the morning,”
He slows the van for a moment, driving with one hand as he reaches blindly behind him. Finally, he pulls out a pillow. It looks new, smells fresh, even, like laundry detergent. Eddie places it on your lap. “Figured. Take a nap, then,”
You don’t. You hug the pillow to your chest, but you rest your head on it after you say a small thanks. Eddie adjusts the volume of the radio, redirecting the acs and when you give him a silent thanks with an abashed smile, he takes this as an opportunity to talk again.
“I’m really glad you came, by the way,” he smiles. “I mean, I know you said you’d come a while ago. And I’m really happy that you came even though our gig kept on being canceled for months.”
“I made a promise,” you lightly slur. “Your uncle’s really nice, by the way. He showed me this picture of you in his wallet when you were a baby. All ass and naked-”
“Shit, really?”
“No. I’m kidding.”
He tsks. “Would have been a nice, PG way to show you my ass but hey, it’s good to know my uncle doesn’t go around showing my butt.”
You laugh, unabashed. “I think I’d prefer grown up ass than baby ass, Eddie,”
Is this… flirting?
Flirting that’s not PG-13? Although, when has flirting been family friendly?
Why is he flirting with you?
Eddie’s smile dwindles. “You also look nice,” then he stammers. “I mean, more than nice. You look good- great- pretty- b-beautiful.” he sighs, the embarrassed pink tinge on his cheeks hidden by the darkness of his van. “You look… beauteous”
A rush of heat convulsing from your head to your toes that makes you squirm on your seat and toy with the ends of your red dress. “Beauteous, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Big word,”
“You know me,” he makes a psh sound, tapping his fingertips on the leather of his steering wheel. “I like it when they’re big…words,”
You turn your head to him. “Are you alright?”
Eddie’s fidgeting on his seat, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, feeling like he’s been berated for something so small. “Yeah! Why wouldn’t I be? I’m- sorry for, uh, the whole ass thing.”
“It’s just ass, Eddie,” you laugh.
“Yeah, but it’s my ass,” he motions to himself. “Isn’t it weird that I’m talking about my ass as a baby to you- you know what?” Eddie suddenly stops the van, right in the middle of the road, where it was just the two of you in his van in the asphalt ground.
You gawp. “What are you doing?”
He unbuckles his seatbelt, leaning forward to shrug his vest off, leaving him in the extra shirt he brought along after his show—The Van Halen shirt he opted to shoplift one time, but you’d stopped him by buying it which he thanked you with an ice cream. And coincidentally, Runnin’ With the Devil starts playing.
Eddie places his vest on top of you, the entire shoulder length covering your chest; it’s as if he wants to keep you warm. You pout, hugging the pillow with one arm and the other tugging the vest around your right arm.
“Take a nap,” he pats your knee gingerly, giving you a small smile. “We’re gonna have a long night, sweetheart— god fucking damnit,”
You blush at his moniker but laugh at his rabelaisian accident. He sings beneath his breath, gives your bare knee a rub with his thumb before he starts driving again, forgetting to put his seatbelt back on.
-
“Oh my god, you are so gonna sacrifice me to the Devil,”
“Only bad girls get punished, (y/n)— I’m just gonna shut up now,”
When Eddie said he’d be taking you to Illinois for a surprise, you don’t expect to be brought to some abandoned home in a place you’re an alien to. Upon you stood a house which hangs on rusted nails and broken cement walls. It seemed to be a small historic mansion, built in a hamlet a couple minutes from the suburbs.
You feel like you’re one of the protagonists who idiotically explore a home they shouldn’t be exploring in some horror movie. That behind the bushes hid a man with a burnt face and knives for fingers. The trees rustle, crickets chirp and the wings of birds flap into the night sky. There’s a dog that barks from a distance, cars that speed across the asphalt road to their destination, and Eddie’s labored breathing as he stares at you for any signs of fear or hesitance.
You should be afraid — it’s one in the morning, and Eddie’s brought you to a place that’s hours away from your home. Are you afraid of him? Never.
But are you afraid of ghosts…?
“Is this safe?” you look around, surrounded by low hills and trees from afar that hide the city and the suburb. “Are we gonna get arrested?”
“We’re safe,” his eyebrows raise a little. “No ghosts, I promise. Although I can’t guarantee you there won't be any bugs and weird creepy crawlies in there, but I’ll protect you from them,” Eddie jokes.
You laugh, looking at the broken windows, the shape making it seem like someone had thrown a rock inside. There’s a small graffiti beside the door. Mellon Collie & Infinite Sadness, motherfucker!
“Mands, come on,” Eddie offers his hand, a glint of hope that bejewels his dark eyes. He’s gotten rid of his eyeliner already (sadly), but he looks just as handsome. Shyly, you place your hand on top of his.
His palm is rough; the same goes for his fingertips. But they’re warm and gentle and so welcoming. It’s like your hands are made to hold his, with the way they connect like some padlock. Eddie holds your hand the same way you hold his heart: of reverential attentiveness and utter devotion.
Eddie beams, bearing a smile that reaches his eyes. He tugs you close to him, pocketing his keys. “I got you, ‘kay?”
You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Copy that, rockstar,”
He blushes.
Slowly, Eddie pushes the door open. An eerie creak emits from the decrepit door, loud that you worry it would be heard from the houses a couple minutes away. He visibly winces at the sound, your hand tightening around his when he tiptoes his way in.
“Fuck, I forgot the door did that,”
You look at him. “You forgot?”
“Well, how’d you think I knew about this place?” he smirks at you. “Gotta impress you, sweetheart. You, as an avid lover of pianos and Billy Joel, need to take you somewhere you’ll love,”
In all honesty, you appreciate the effort. And the thought of Eddie wanting—needing to impress you, makes your heart perform an elegant summersault. “Well, that’s nice of you. I can learn how to love some dingy home.”
Eddie laughs.
There’s a spiral staircase that leads up to the second floor, its balusters broken in half, the risers in the middle having foot-sized holes, the handrails covered in green veins. There’s an arched entrance beside the foyer, leading to a living room with couches covered in a thin white sheet, with a coffee table fallen sideways and a couple of smashed plates on the ground. There’s a window beside the fireplace, too, although what only remains to be the frame itself.
The carpeted floor is covered in mold, and you wonder what its design might have been before it had turned into this disgusting, brown color.
“Don’t worry, there’s a room in here that doesn’t look this… mlegh,” he frowns deeply, wiping his hand on his thigh. “God, that was gross. This way, m’lady,”
He leads you through the spacey hallway, passing by ripped picture frames, a kitchen full of smashed plates and open cabinets filled with moldy and spoiled food; bedrooms with blankets covered in dust and démodé clothes inside unhinged wardrobes. Each item and corner harbor cobwebs from lingering spiders, and you almost ran into one if it weren’t for Eddie warning you to be careful.
Finally, your feet meet the marbled floor of a new room; moldy carpets gone, the darkness gone as this room is lit with the moonlight that sparks through the broken window. But there’s a clean blanket in the middle of the room, a picnic basket and a pack of beer—both fresh and clean.
You look at Eddie with a parted mouth and he says,
“Behold,” his arm stretches, moving behind him to guide your vision. Eddie’s ringed hands unearth his surprise, where your eyes follow his direction. “A piano,”
There’s a primeval grand piano in the middle of the room, the dust wiped off of its existence; its legs had been duct taped, the lid chipped and it’s missing two wheels but it was beautiful nonetheless.
“You said you’ve always imagined playing Billy Joel on a grand piano, so here you go,” he lightly punches a wall. “Now, I know I’m no rich, snobby person, but I would applaud you, sweetheart,”
You near the piano, running your fingertips across the keys, pressing on one of them to see if they’re in tune and they are. You snap your head at Eddie with a slack jaw, tears welling your eyes.
“Gareth and I drove up here, fixed up this room. Luckily, he knew someone here in Illinois who could tune the piano. And as for the blanket, and the beer, and the sandwiches, well, uncle Wayne did me a favor and brought all that shit up here. Now, I know it’s kind of gross in here and it’s like, one in the morning but—oh!”
Eddie’s tackled by your hug, feet knocking him back and almost to the ground. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, nose digging onto his hair and eyes slammed shut to fight back the overwhelming tears. There’s not a single bone in him that’s hesitant to hug you back, holding you close to his chest, his heart pounding against yours when he presses his lips on top of your head.
“This is amazing,” you say against him. “I can’t believe you-you did this for…me.”
You pull away from him, hands on his biceps when you turn to look back at the grand piano. Eddie’s arms run back and forth on your waist, looking down at you with a triumphant smile before he twists you so that your back’s to his chest.
“Anything for you, Mandy,” he moves his hands up to your arms, rubbing them. “This was all I could do but-”
“I accept anything you give me,” you murmur with a smile, starstruck with the piano and his gift.
“Yeah, I know,” he rests his chin on your head. “Now, you’ve got something to play for me?”
-
The lively music created by your adroit fingers was enough to make Eddie sway. You lack the guitars, the drums, and the trumpet but it’s robust with buoyancy nonetheless.
You play the same way Eddie did—with a bobbing head, a bewitching voice, and dexterous fingers that know their way to your beloved instrument. He sips his beer, sitting cross-legged on the blanket, watching you with such awe; an exact mirror of you and him in the Hideout.
You keep your eyes riveted on the piano lest of mistakes. But Eddie thinks you’re far from failure, with how nimble your fingers are, and how your voice was as angelic as it had always been.
“You mighta heard I run with a dangerous crowd, we ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud,” your fingers glide, from left to right, pressing on all chords in quick speed, and it makes him holler. “We might be laughing a bit too loud. Aw, but that never hurt no one.”
“YES!” he claps. “You’re amazing! A fuckin’ star!”
Eddie takes a swig of the bitter liquor, headbanging to a song that wasn’t even metal but you could headbang to any song, right?
When you’re done, he pulls out a rose from a basket and throws it at you, falling on top of the piano as he stands up from the blanket, clapping loudly that it ricochets outside the empty, broken halls. You flush, smiling bashfully when you stand up and take the red rose into your hand, bringing it up to your nose and bowing as if you just finished an hour-long concert.
“Felt like I was in church,” Eddie pants, wiping his palms on his jeans. “You’re goddamn amazing, Mands. You really could be the next Billy Joel,”
“Oh, stop,” you wave him off, playing with the stem of the rose. “You’re just-”
“Complementing? Praising you?” he cocks a brow, walking towards you and places his hand on your back. “Okay, now sit. I’ve got a surprise for you, babe,”
“I swear, if you’ve got Billy Joel around, I won’t hesitate to kiss him in front of you,”
“Keep it in your pants, young lady,”
You guffaw. “How could I keep my lips inside my pants?”
“By- shh. I’m trying to show off here,” he stretches his arms, fingers settling over the keys. “Um, Dustin taught me this. Kid’s great with the piano and all that shit. Not as great as you, though. He’s more…superior with his mind than he is with music. But, he was able to help me with this so let’s thank the little shrimp for that.”
Nodding, you bump your shoulder with his. A smile paints your face, having already been surprised that Eddie Munson learned how to play the piano for you. But you wait for the real one, eager to see what he has in store when he positions his fingers on the piano, rings pressing against the ivory.
“Uhhh- oh!”
You peer quietly, watching the way his fingers keep a leisurely pace; an obvious sign that he’s still unsure of which keys to press next. But he knows the words by heart — something you’ve never heard of, and it’s obvious that he’s written this himself. You deem the meaning behind them salient, singing with his voice a dulcet tenor, eyes evident that he’s repeating all the words Dustin said:
Remember the keys. Play gently. Make sure you don’t get pinched by the keys, and you can always go slow. This isn’t some Corroded Coffin show where you start headbangin’ and making those fucking riffs. You play- gently! What did I just say? God, you’re gonna die a virgin.
Eddie looks at you for a split second, nervous, worried with the way your eyebrows furrow and your mouth parted. If he were being honest, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. The minute he sat down on the bench, he'd forgotten half of what Dustin had said, mind almost omitting to remember the lyrics he’d worked hard for for weeks.
And god, you’re staring at his hands and his face with bewilderment. And you’re beautiful. He feels so fucked up (in a good way). He’d probably kill himself if he fucks this one up.
But you regard the lyrics. They’re meaningful and heartwarming, meant just for you when he takes those short glances, but there’s a part that stitches all your wounds together, provided by his dangerously blunt needle.
“You whisper into my heart. And I've never been quite smart, but I heed your words in a tempest; just where our bones will rest,”
Piano played with fidelity, lyrics sang with breathless devotion, fingers genuflect to please you with its core venerated. Eddie Munson plays for the key to your heart even though he’s had it in his palm for a long time; shakedown your mind with a flickering flame in his mind, veins high on morphine.
Suddenly he stops, and Eddie looks at you with a face so wrecked with nervousness you just want to kiss hug him.
“That’s- that’s everything that I remember,” he flops his hands down to his lap with a huff. “It’s actually unfinished. But I couldn’t wait any longer,”
You croon. “Why not?”
“Well, why’d you think I brought you here in the first place?” he whispers. “Other than me wanting to surprise you. I mean, Mands, I wanted to impress you. Think of any other guys who’d bring someone to an abandoned home for anything but a date.”
“A date, huh?” you repeat, slowly smirking. “This is a date?”
Eddie pales. “Well, I mean, if you want it to be… a date...”
You decide to play with him. “I hardly think of this as a date,”
“Why not?”
“I’ve barely eaten,”
He giggles, leaning back with his head lulling back. “Sorry! Sorry I jus’- wanted to see you play.” Boldly he reaches up to push your hair behind your ear, the side of his face glimmering by the bright moon seen from the huge hole on the wall of the room. “I stole your lyric, by the way. Kind of makes me not want to give you some credit,”
Flushing, you look away, mustering up the courage to place your hand on top of his. “I’d really appreciate the credit, Munson,” you murmur. “That way the world would know who I was,”
“But who cares about the world?” he cups your face, thumb resting on top of your cheek. “I’m here, Mandy. I’ll… heed your words. Y’know? I’ve never been smart but I’ll heed your words in- what was the next word?”
“Tempest,”
“Tempest,” Eddie repeats. You giggle, leaning into his touch. “I am…stupid for you. But I’ll understand you. I’ll listen to you, and I’ll take care of you, (y/n). I…”
He’s redolent of piety to genuine amor. Eddie looks at you like you painted the stars on the dark sky, like someone who’d pulled him out of hellfire and thought that all his devilish, leather and metal glory was worthy of your attention and acceptance. He cradles your heart in his hand.
“I think I’m in love with you,” he states. “I didn’t know anyone could fall in love twice but, life is full of possibilities.”
Tears well your eyes, rivulets transferring to your eyelashes. It seems like Eddie has mirrored you, too. You cock your head to the side, letting out a dry chuckle.
“Me too,” you bite your lip. “I really like you. And I think I’m in love with you,”
“Thank fuck. My next option was to sacrifice you to Satan if everything went to shit,”
“Hey!”
“Kidding,” he smiles softly. “Can I kiss you?”
Four words enough to sweetly kill you, only to be resurrected by his yearning stare. You nod. “I don’t know. Can you?”
He doesn’t answer, but yeah, he can kiss you.
It’s tender, it's soft, it's warm, it's free, and it’s loving. It feels like summer in the dead of the night; like sitting in front of the fireplace with hot choco during winter. Eddie kisses you the way a lover would, with megawatts of avidity. And his lips are soft and home and so validating. I see you. I feel you, I understand you.
Eddie fully carries your face in his hand, slanting his mouth against yours when he takes a deep breath. He breaks away for a moment before he tackles you with an open mouthed kiss that you reciprocate, the feeling of his balmy tongue grazing your plump bottom lip.
You feel the heat wave itself from your chest to the space between your legs that makes you subconsciously lean closer to him, thighs bumping. Eddie’s hand crawls from your cheek, to pressing lightly on the dip of your neck, to your plump shoulder, grazing the tattoo he painted on your skin until they land on your thigh, lifting it on top of his.
You moan softly that vibrates across his warm chest. Eddie hums, playing with the ruffles of your red dress, keeping your hot mouth locked against his. But when your hand comes down to grasp at his bicep, moving behind to tangle lightly on his curls, your body searches for friction and uses his thigh as the nearest solution.
“Christ, babe,” he breaks away, the tip of his nose still pressed on your cheek. “You only got panties beneath?”
“You never know,” you pant.
He groans, feeling blood rush down to his cock that immediately hardens. You feel an acute bump beneath your knee, giving Eddie a rubicund glow. You press the back of your knee against it, which makes him squeak. “Y’ really wanna- wanna do this? I mean, I just kissed you.” he swallows thickly. “And I’ve- I’ve never done this before,”
Eddie looks ashamed, like it’s embarrassing to be a virgin in your twenties. Your heart melts for him, face softening, taking his hand into yours and kissing his knuckles.
“Me, too,” you confess. “But I trust you and- and I wanna do this with you. Besides, it’s better than to leave high and dry, right?”
I trust you.
He laughs jovially.
“You’re right,” he gives your mouth quick pecks, too short for your liking but he makes up for it when Eddie readjusts himself so that he’s fully facing you, urging you to do the same so that he’d wrap your legs around his waist. “‘M gonna take care of you, Mands.”
He easily lifts himself off the old bench, carrying you with him. You sway with every step, arms locked around his neck, lips slotted against him with his eyes closed tightly but luckily he knows his way to the thin blanket.
Eddie kneels, almost falling down with your weight. He places a hand to the back of your head and the other on the bottom of your spine when he gently lays you on the light eiderdown.
Immediately, he lays himself on top of you, a forearm on the side of your head with the other palming at your waist. Your dress rides up to your thigh, pooling beneath you when Eddie moves forward to caress his thigh against yours, your knees pressing up at his sides.
“Can I- Can I remove your dress?” he asks gently, eyebrows joint. “Please?”
“Yes, please,”
His hands wander to the buttons in front, removing them with ease until your bra appears. It doesn’t match what’s below you, something you’re slightly embarrassed about, but Eddie goggles at them as soon as he pulls on your strap. “Oh, god, you’re hot.”
He mouths at the top of your breasts, sucking gently as he begins to pull down on your dress until he sees your cotton panties. He drags them down until your body’s free of restraint, where he moves back so he’d remove them off your legs and place them on top of the basket to avoid any dust ruining the fabric.
Then he goes back to kissing your tits, hands cupping them together, bunching the material of your bra in his fists. You moan softly, grasping his shoulders.
“Beautiful,” he says. “Goddess divine,”
Eddie helps you sit up slightly so he could reach behind and clumsily unclasp your bra. His tongue pokes out in determination, makes a happy sound of success once he sees your bra loosen, straps draping down your shoulders that he gladly removes from you.
“Hold on,” he leans back, moving to his knees to remove his vest and shirt. Eddie stuns you with his alabaster skin tainted with black ink. A gnarly demon on his chest beside a black widow, the infamous bats on his outer forearm, the puppet master on the inside and the butterfly on his wrist; the wyvern on his bicep, and there’s a huge, hotly formidable tattoo of a pair of bat wings starting from his v-line, curving around his waist, and a skull beneath his left pec. “There. Now we’re even,”
“You look… christ, I’m not even gonna fucking hold back. You look hot. Very fuckable,”
He laughs with a light shake of his head. “I’m gonna pretend you were looking at my face while you were saying that.”
When he goes back down, his lips attach to your hard nipple. You mewl softly, feeling his hot saliva lather around your tit when he suckles hard like he searches for something in there. You clutch at his hair, head tipping back, hips jolting up to grind against his bulge which makes him groan.
“Do you have to suck on my tits longer or should I start touching myself already?”
Eddie chuckles in disbelief. “Patience, honey. ‘M gonna give you what you want, don’t worry.”
His hand grips at the warm flesh of your thigh, index finger moving up to slip beneath the waistband of your panties, massaging your flesh. And he treats the other breast with the same hunger, doesn’t stop until he’s certain they’re sensitive (they are. They really are.)
Finally, he starts moving down, pressing wet, open mouthed kisses on your belly, down to your navel, until he reaches your dampening underwear. You prop yourself up to your elbows when he stutters in his movements, staring up at the wet spot that reveals the indent of your little cunt.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, a forming billow of insecurity preparing to tackle you the longer he stares at your clothes sex.
“Nothing,” he clears his throat. “Jus’ that I’ve never… eaten a girl out, before. Well, I’ve had practice. Just not at a girl’s p-pussy,”
Curiosity waves insecurity off. “Well, where? At your hand?”
“At a fleshlight,”
Your head feels like burning. “Oh,” you blink. “Well, do your best, I guess. Good luck,”
“Thanks,”
Eddie sniffs at your arousal, biting back an animalistic groan that scratches at his throat when the aroma of nectar fills his nostrils. Eddie leisurely removes your panties, lifting his eyes up to connect with yours. They’re achingly concupiscent, pupils blown in the thick glaze of frisson that makes the hair on his arms raise with anticipation.
Finally, he tugs them down, wiggling them off you. Eddie’s practically edging himself, with the way he slowly reveals your cunt, mouth watering at the shiny gloss at your clit from your slick. He growls lowly, sliding them off faster until he tosses them into nowhere (you make a note to hit him later for that).
His hands push at your knees, spreading your legs apart, making your pussy open and splay out for him to press his tongue against.
Which he does; Eddie’s lips purse, lets a thick glob of his spit cascade down to your clit before leaving a featherlight kiss to it, until he licks a fat stripe from your tiny hole to the bud. You keen, back arching, which makes him link his arms around your legs and press a hand on your navel to keep you down.
It’s a foreign feeling you know you’d relish for the rest of your life, especially when it comes to his tongue. “Oh, fuck,” you whimper.
“You taste- taste fucking amazing,” you do. Like honey; like a pétillant sweet moscato, syrup on pancakes and all other sweet shit he could think of. Eddie repeats his action, which makes your hole flutter around nothing. He suctions his mouth at your clit, sucking all the juices that continue to leak out of your blushing cunt. “Christ on a fucking clutch- oh, god, Mandy.”
There’s an embarrassing sound that seems to be like quiet slurping and the raw music of wetness created by his lips and your arousal. Your toes curl, the tip of his tongue dragging along your folds like some kitten before he returns to taking your clit back in his mouth.
Mewling, your elbows give out and your head falls down to the sheets, eyes squeezing shut. His vacant hand comes down to drag itself along the mess of your hot sex, amalgamated with his saliva and your lubricous dampness, rubbing your clit with his index and middle finger in slow, pressured circles that begins to ignite the flame below your stomach.
“God- Eddie- I-”
“Wanna use your words, babe?” he laps at your hole, nose rubbing at your clit when he shakes his head vigorously. “Tell me how good it feels, come on. Don’t go shy on me.”
You nod, your wrist pressing on your forehead when Eddie parts your slick petals with his fingers, formed into a v to expose more of you. He licks at it, teasing your folds, gawking at you.
“Feels- feels amazing. Felt like I was gonna pee whenever you- fuck- suck at my clit. God, Eds, I want more,” you whine, bucking your hips at his face. “Please. Please please please,”
He laughs against you. “You weren’t gonna pee, sweetheart.”
“How’d you know?”
“Porn,” he furrows his eyebrows. “Eavesdropping works sometimes.”
Eddie licks at his fingers, index and middle stuck together in his mouth as he twirls his tongue around them. He pulls them out with a small pop, eyes wandering up to your bare, heaving chest, and he couldn’t resist a teasing squeeze using the hand pressed on your navel.
Then, he begins to ease one finger, lips apart, breathless as he watches you take in his digit slowly. It’s a strange feeling, with something prodding deep at your entrance, where Eddie doesn’t stop until he’s practically knuckle deep into you, pressing against your viscid walls; an alien sensation that feels good, albeit you still don’t feel full, even so, it’s tingly and blissful.
Your brows furrow, lips disjoined to produce heartily mewls, evoking Eddie of his altruism. He can’t get enough of how you taste, of how heavenly your sounds are despite the deed being so irreverent. He’s thrusting the single digit slowly. So you buck your hips against his face, almost shoving your clit into his mouth.
“M-more,” you whine. “Please. I can take it,”
“Yeah?” he kisses the outside of your cunt, nipping at your thighs. “Gotta stretch you open first, right?”
The tone’s a question, though it careens to remind you of what he’s going to do next. Eddie pulls his finger out, moaning quietly at his scintillating limb. He lifts his middle finger, placing it beside the sticky index before he gingerly impels inside. Your hips raise, your wails turning a bit louder, bursting into pleasured linns of coloratura.
When he brushes that sensitive spot that makes you sob, one that abuts the waves and fluxes delirium on every blood that swims on your insides. Eddie looks up at you, hair in a tangled mess when you keep pulling on them as he picks up his pace and quaffs at your pulpy button, shoulders spreading your legs at an almost uncomfortable distance that puts an ache from your legs to your thighs.
The sounds you make are absolutely empyrean. They reverberate from the torn walls of the hallway just outside, like angels warbling as they play the harmonious harp with their cherubic fingers; like the skies had opened, let out a beam of sunlight surround him in a circle and take him up to heaven where you remain.
And they shouldn’t be taking sinners like him; a devil worshiper as they rudely opine. Yet here he was, listening to an angel cry, her teardrops leaking down his fingers to his gyrating wrist, combing through his hair pruriently.
But now, because of him, he doesn’t think you're an angel anymore. With what’s happening — angels don’t submit to the devil now, do they?
Eddie’s hair is a blazing abradation against your sensitive skin, heightens every part of your senses that explodes your mind. You feel an overwhelming, anomalous twist in the pit of your stomach.
He places gentle kisses on your silky thighs, looking up at you with such vehemence. “You make the prettiest sounds, Mands. Just as pretty as your voice, hm? Wanna sing for me? Gon’ make you sing so loud, baby.”
Fingers fasten. They scissor, and they spread, and they augment on your viscous in your tight canal. An amoral sound produced by his neophyte hands and your needy, swelling cunt that aches for more despite already having been split open by his fingers.
You moan, loud, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit as his arm begins to shake the faster he moves his hand inside you. Eddie begins moving up, fingers still fucking you, kissing his way up to your face. He leaves wet spots on your skin, both of his saliva and your wetness. Your hands leave his hair, eyes scrunched close to weep coarsely, pushing at his hand, urging him to go deeper that his cold rings sting your raw folds.
“I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, stomach flexing, arm grasping at his hastening hand. You clench around his fingers, locking him in place for a split second from how tight it was. “God, Eddie, I’m- you’re making me cu- I’m close,”
“You can cum,” he kisses your cheek, dragging his lips up to kiss the corners of your eyes. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Come on, be a good girl and cum for me,”
You do, with your back bowed, jaw slack with mewls and moans, thighs shaking when he continues to rub your clit even when your cum starts to coat his fingers, dripping down to his rings and wrist. Liquid spurts, a hollow but wet sound when he slows his fingering and fucks your tiny entrance open.
Finally, Eddie pulls them out with a humiliating shlick, cum leaking out of your hole and onto the thin blanket. He shoves his fingers in his mouth, like it’s his libation —god of fingerfucking, as you’d call him in your mind when he sucks all the white sap.
“Felt good?” he pokes your cheekbone with the button of his nose. “Because if it didn’t, I might as well leave you here and go back to Hawkins butt naked.”
You laugh, slapping lightly at his arm. “It felt amazing, Eddie. Don’t worry.”
Your hands fumble with his jeans. But Eddie kisses you, unrestrained with his tongue sweet, a faint bitter taste of the beer he drank earlier. He places his hands on top of yours, placing them on top of your stomach before he goes back to removing his jeans.
The sound of his pants unzipping excites you, eyebrows raising as you kiss him harder, hands coming up to grasp his face gently, thumb on his cheek and the rest of your fingers below his jaw that you caress its emolliency. Eddie raises his hips, tugging them down until he’s clad in nothing but silver rings and checkered boxers.
He nods towards his crotch when you break away from him, eyes leading from his chest, to the fuzzy brown hair of his happy trail, to the bulge that pokes out of his loose underwear. “Wanna see it, babe?”
“Can I?”
Eddie snorts. “Yes you abso-fucking-lutely can. Take it out, sweetheart. You can play with it a little,”
He moves to lay halfway beside you, legs dropped and slightly spread, hands on his back to support himself. You get on your knees, face aflame when Eddie’s eyes watch your every move with his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. You wonder how he could be so calm; if he felt the same nervous sensation overwhelm your core, both being neophyte to sex. Nevertheless, you’re not nervous enough that you want to stop.
But when you tug down on the band of his boxers and his cock vaults up, he tries to hide how overwhelmed he is. You ogle, and if you could, you would have foamed at the mouth at the sight of his thick girth, tip swell with precum, how a vein bulges beneath and how his sack hung heavy. A voice in the back of your mind wonders if he could even fit inside you but suddenly you’re starved.
“Pretty,” you breathe out, tongue licking your lips. “Dude, you’re big,”
“Thanks.” he blushes.
Gallantly, you swipe your hand across your slick heat to lubricate your palm. He visibly shudders, eyes glassy, groaning when your fingers enclose around him.
“Fuck,” your wrist gyrates, starts moving up and down on his length. Eddie’s hips buck into your fist, your movement leisurely, like you’re relishing the feeling of his hot cock in your hand. But you lean down, mimicking him earlier by letting a dollop of your spit drizzle down on top of his tip. “Oh- oh god, that felt good,”
You slant down to wrap your lips delicately around his engorged helmet. He moans, breath ruptured when you sink down onto him, taking only what you could and coat the rest with your trembling hand. “Fuck- shit- yeah, baby, your mouth’s amazing,”
He tries not to buck up into your mouth, restraining himself by carding a hand through your hair to cup it on the back of your head. His hearing becomes muffled, nothing but the opaque sound of birds, deluging it with your gurgles, your spit and his fluid that continues to leak from his slit leaking down to his balls.
Eddie had imagined this once- twice- three, he doesn’t know. It had been too many to count and he feels bad thinking about it; what kind of normal person would imagine their friend being on their knees, naked, sucking on their cock?
You look up at him, eyes vast and credulously submissive with enameled innocence, like you’re repenting with his dick in your mouth, as if it had been your god and you beg for forgiveness for all the sins that you’ve caused.
Jesus, Mary, Joseph. Oh…fuck.
Cardinal paints the alabaster marble of his cheeks, brushing over it until it spreads down to his clenching neck and heaving chest as you imbibe his tip, suctioning your cheeks around his length and jerk him off. You look like you know what you’re doing, leading him to wonder if you’d done this before. He should be jealous, let that fraught warp in his mind and spread over his nerves until he stops you and begins to ask. But pleasure besets him, too much, that the question withers away into the carnal haze.
You gag and he almost cums. “Shit, ‘ve been thinking about this for a long time,” Eddie’s voice is rough, sweat dripping down his temples and onto his hair that settles over his shoulders. You break away from his head, moving down to lave your tongue up from the base above his sack to the ridge beneath his tip. “Ohhh- fuck,”
Eddie gently pulls himself off your mouth, his hand coming down to your cheek and raising your head. His cock grazes your upper lip when it pops out and arches to his stomach, leaking down his happy trail. A luster of his precum and your spit smears on your plump lips, mouth parted to take a short gasp of air as he pulls you up to him.
“How’d you learn how to do that?” he wipes the fluid off the corner of your lip, bringing you into a kiss because he misses you, and just because he wants to taste himself.
“Gave a guy head before I left New York,” you murmur against him. “He came all over my face and some of his cum went in my eye. Got pink eye for two weeks,”
He winces. “Ouch,”
Then he gives you a kiss on your eyelids, your laugh that he interrupts with his mouth, cajoling you with kisses as he lays you onto your back beneath him where he slots himself between your legs, his cock grazing your still sensitive folds that makes you whimper in his mouth.
Craving, Eddie’s hand ventures from your waist, squeezing your ample thigh, stopping on your calf to hike your leg up his waist. He grinds down onto you, pressing his hardness against the swell of your cunt.
“Still want to do this?” he questions between wet kisses, your hands venturing the slope of his back. “Just say the word and I’ll stop.”
“Don’t,” your eyebrows furrow in frustration. “I mean, I still want to do this. Christ, please,”
“Okay,” he breaks away, moving across you to check the basket. “Okay okay okay okay- fuck. Gareth forgot the fucking condoms.”
You stammer. “W-you knew we were going to have sex?”
“You never know,” he laughs nervously, copying you. “Um. I could pull out. I mean, I can’t exactly promise you I’d have the- the energy to do so. But I could just eat you out ‘till you’re okay. OH! Sixty-nine! We could do that! That way we’re both satisfied,”
“Eddie,” you reach between to grab his cock, squeezing lightly. His eyes flutter, groaning. “Just- just fuck me, okay? We can figure it out later.”
“Shit, okay,” he leans down to kiss you. “And I’m not gonna fuck you, babe,”
Eddie digs his nose into the crook of your neck, his hand replacing yours, slapping his tip on your bud. His forehead rests on your cheek when he does this, relishing in your small moan. “Why not?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna make love to you,” he lazily kisses your cheek. “‘Y need to stop being vulgar sometimes, sweetheart.”
He jabs at your entrance, before he slowly pushes himself in.
A searing pain threads around your cunt, chiefly at your entrance and your inner walls; though, when the pain spreads across your body, it numbs on your nerves, so the only thing burning was your sex. But Eddie’s taking it slow, agonizingly slow, feeling the tension that radiates. He comforts you through soft strokes against, kissing your cheek at every inch he pushes in.
When you wince once his pelvis pushes against your clit, Eddie lifts his head from your shoulder, his eye twitching lightly from holding back. He massages your thigh, other hand coming up to cup your face and rest his thumb on the corner of your eye when tears begin to form.
“Are you okay?” he whispers, trying not to move, but his tip’s right at your spot. “Do you want me to pull out? Does it hurt too much?”
“It’s supposed to hurt right?”
“Well, I heard it does,” he kisses your nose. “Sometimes it doesn’t for others, though,”
“Okay,” you chuckle lightly, grasping harder at his back.
It took almost a minute for the sting to retire, and he stayed pliant inside you, waiting until he felt your walls relax around him; until your crumbled face slackened and your mouth opened, letting out sacred breaths.
“You can move now,” Eddie smiles, slanting his mouth against yours. His tongue explores your mouth, mouth staying closed around yours as he begins to pull out halfway, before he pushes back in slowly.
Eddie sheathes himself inside you, an omnipotent surge of sybaritism divaricates your senses. He brushes his hair behind your ears, gazing down at you even though your eyes are closed and you stare into a void with your body aflame. And he feels good- amazing, with every stretch that enkindles every nerve.
You look blissed beneath him, every bone submitting to every grind, every time his head hits that very spot that lets you create sensual croons, soft ones that it seems like you’re silently gasping with your parted lips. He places a kiss to where your eyebrows join, sloppy with his hedonistic thrust.
It’s nothing but soft, breathless moans, his grunts and your whimpers when the pain numbs out, his lips moving down until he meets yours with his ever loving tongue brushing your bottom lip from the lax kiss. The tush of hair tickles your skin, his balls slapping gently against your ass, his hand leaving your thigh to push your silky coiffed hair off your shoulder.
He doesn’t hurry, takes his time with you like he’s got every second of your lives, like you both don’t lack sleep. And Eddie can’t stop kissing every inch that he could reach — whether it be the hollow skin of your collarbone, or leaving bites on your neck to mark you, not because he claims your being but because he wants to own your heart. He kisses your cheekbones dampened by your tears, taking your hand from his back, leaning down to kiss the tattoo he stabbed onto your skin.
“You can cry,” Eddie whispers. “I got you. You look so pretty, hm — fuck, my pretty, pretty girl.”
You let your tears fall down to his thumbs, slowly opening your eyes even though it stings to do so with the tears that prod at your eyeballs. Eddie smiles, clasping his hand around yours and kisses every calloused fingertip.
“Ah, Eddie,” your bottom lip juts out, letting the moans flow. “Feels- f-feels so good. Your cock feels amazing,”
“Shit, Mands, don’t say that,” he laughs weakly. “You’re gon’ make me cum faster than I intend to,”
Each thrust builds a bubble inside, until it explodes and floods you in rhapsodic waves. A heavy feeling that tells you that you’d never get sick of feeling him buried deep in your gummy walls, or of hearing his breathless moans, or the love that radiates through every caress of his that brings you comfort.
The lacuna is almost not there, like he wants to melt his skin with yours. His sweat drips down to your bare chest, where his lips venture until he wraps his mouth around your sensitive nipples that had been chafing against his chest. You run your fingers through his hair, your hips lunging up to grind with his.
Eddie’s definitely not fucking you. No, no with his velvet sighs, or with his naughty suckles. He’s making love to you like he said; like he promised.
“You feel me making love to you?” you nod, taking his face down to smush it against yours. “Put your legs around me, sweetheart,”
You do, gently circling your legs around his waist, heel pressing onto the bottom of his spine. You feel yourself split open, suctioning his cock, driving him deeper. It’s when the lewd sounds increase their volume, whenever his heavy sack hits your wet cunt as he picks up the pace of his thrust, pushing in and in and in.
“Fuck,” you cry out, pulling lightly on his hair. When you suck on his collarbone, a claret bruise colors his pearlescent skin, his chest reddening from the amount of sanguine blood that flows through. “You’re so deep,”
“Can you look at me, honey?” your eyes force itself open to stare deep in his doe eyes, roaring with ecstasy, staring right at the windows of your soul. “Hi there, Mandy.”
Eddie gathers both your hands in one hand and pins them above you, which you meekly allow him to while his vacant one slithers itself between your bodies to rub on your clit. The words in your mouth turn into moans, getting drunk at the bliss.
He moves faster, the sounds making it seem like he’s fucking you but you’re too lost to care. Eddie moans, keeps on nudging your nose whenever your eyes begin to flutter shut from lethargy.
“You’re taking me so well, hm?” he nips at your jawline. “Pretty little pussy just taking my cock, yeah?”
It’s just you and Eddie inside that abandoned home, you believe. You feel him carve his skin against yours like a promise, when you exchange your slick sweat and your breathy moans swallowed by his open mouth that hovers yours; his hips folding against yours in corybantic impetus. He refuses to close his eyes as if he’d lose you when he blinks, devotion swelling his waterline.
He drills faster and deeper, the hollow and wet sound of your arousals spurs him on more. There’s a sting on the inside of your cunt, though too faint for it to even dwell in your mind. Then that now familiar feeling of something twisting at the bottom of your stomach comes to surface, burgons over your senses, and so did Eddie’s.
“I’m gonna cum,” you mewl softly. “I’m gonna cum, Eddie.”
“I know, baby,” his grip tightens on your wrists, his thumb on your clit adding pressure and fastens his rubs. Eddie wantonly fucks his cock inside you now, moaning at your small cries when he hits that spot over and over again. “I gotta pull out, okay?”
“No!” you push his chest against yours, locking your feet around him. “Cum- cum in me. Want it in me, please.”
And who was he to resist you?
(Someone who isn’t ready to be a father, technically. But he seriously couldn’t resist you.)
Eddie kisses over your fluttering pulse, his cock snug, pressing himself against your thighs. He continues rubbing your clit, his blunt nails pressing on the sides of your wrist. And he coaxes you through the billow of your orgasm. “That’s it, baby. Good girl- shit- oh, fuck, gonna cum inside this pussy, yeah? Gon’ give you all of me.”
You cum with a gasp, lewd sloshing from your pussy as you gush around him weakly. You feel his cock twitch inside you, right before he tries to muffle his moans by kissing you sloppily, mixing his sultry seed with yours when he slows his thrust, pushing it inside deeper.
He mouths at your chest, licking across the top of your breast before he works up your nipples. Eddie moves his hips again for a couple more times before he slowly pulls out of you.
Your legs fall to your sides. Eddie kisses your knees, massaging your legs, spreading them apart.
Then he pales. “Fuck, (y/n), you’re bleeding-”
“Huh?” your head lifts, seeing the small pink puddle beneath your ass. Eddie wipes his sweat on his thighs, reaching for his shirt that’s been thrown somewhere to wipe it across your cunt hastily. “Babe that’s normal…”
You hide your eyes behind your wrist, panting heavily. The pounding on his heart eases, gently wiping across your cunt. “Really?”
“To some. But I did,”
Eddie reaches for a new bottle of beer from the basket on top of your head, opening it with his teeth before he slots himself back between your legs. You prop yourself up to your elbows, his hand cupping below your mouth when he brings the bottle to your lips.
You drink the bittersweet liquor, swallowing slowly. He smiles at you. “You did a great job, yeah?” He kisses your forehead, and he can’t help but cheekily lather your cunt with his cum when he reaches down to slide his fingers between your semi-bleeding folds.
“Ah-” you squirm away, gripping tightly onto him. “Ouch. Sen- sensitive, c-christ,”
“Sorry, baby,” he plucks his finger inside his mouth, morsel of cum and your blood filling his taste buds. “Couldn’t resist,”
Eddie slants his lips onto yours, letting your pulse relax in the frenzied mist, the afterglow ensnaring your beating hearts. You see that the moon grants his eyes a vermeil glow when he pulls back, skin glistening like stars in the night sky, luring you in for you to lose yourself in them — you do, basking in the comfort of his gaze, pilfering your soul.
Double-cross the vacant and the bored
They’re not sure just what we have in store
In November of 1979, Eddie Munson stood breathless on the stage of the theater room for the Middle School Talent Show, electric guitar in hand, buzzed hair drenched with sweat that dripped down to his Bauhaus black shirt. The aftermath of his oh-so-metal performance of Breaking The Law left the parents clapping scatteredly, and his classmates hollering and yelling from their seats.
He looked back on his then bandmates and little Gareth who sat proudly behind the large drum set. Eddie laughed, clapped with them before he genuflected, ignoring the judgemental stares of conservative parents who watched his every move as he walked down the stage.
“Well, that was a very loud and brazen performance from… Corroded Coffin,” Mr. Clarke smiled brightly at them, holding the card in his hand. “Up next we have a very, very lovely girl named-”
He said a name, which Eddie deemed as the girl who sat in front of him during History, who wrote things on top of her books that he recognized were lyrics he’s unfamiliar to. Eddie ran his hand across his buzzed head, looking around and wondered where that girl may be.
Little Gareth stood beside Eddie, who pointed behind to the backdoors. When he turned, the doors were swinging open, the exit seen through the small window where he saw her running away to Hawkins High.
Eddie patted his friend’s back, deciding to follow that girl in a purple dress and short pigtails that disappeared into the darkness of the school parking lot.
The doors slammed against the walls, twice, and he ran and ran until he reached Hawkins High where she hid. He roamed the unfamiliar walls, knocking against the dents of the lockers, until he heard the gentle sound of piano from the music room nearby.
Like an angel’s cry for help, as he remembered. The tune of that song his uncle sang every morning familiarizes itself in his eardrums. Eddie approached the door, peaked through the small window, and saw
You.
Your back to him, back hunched, purple dress resting down to your knees with your hands idly pressed at the keys with a melancholy mist surrounding you. Eddie listened to you sing, a couple pitches wrong but nevertheless soft and dulcet, even though he heard something restraining your throat with what seemed to be held back sobs.
“Oh Mandy, well you came—”
When he stormed in, the doorknob slamming at the wall, you yelled, high pitched and laced with fear. Eddie’s eyes had widened and closed the door, placing a finger up to his lips to shush you.
“Hey- hey hey hey no, shh, quiet—” he lunged at you, cupping his hand over your mouth. Your screams had died instantly, though your eyes remained wide with distress and tears that stained his hand. You placed your hands on the bench, waiting until Eddie removed his hands from your mouth.
He saw that you had missing teeth like his, both on the same spot when you hissed at him. That you looked like you had been freshly crying (which you were) with your lips pouted and eyes stained red with the tears that priced your eyes.
Once his hand returned to his side, you kicked his shin, hard enough that Eddie knew he’d have a bruise (he did. A big one that lasted for a week). He winced loudly, rubbing the spot “What is wrong with you? Why didn't you knock?”
“Dramatic entrance,” he spread his arms, bowing down to you like he’d just finished a show. “I didn't mean to scare you like that. S-sorry. Are you okay?”
You had surveyed his intimidating demeanor of oversized black Bauhaus tee, ripped jeans, a single skeleton ring with a slick buzzcut that shone from the fluorescent lights of the music room with puffy eyes. Eddie felt that nervousness bubble in his stomach, knowing how well you’re judging him. But your posture remained relaxed and you showed no ounce of fear so he thought that was new.
When you remained silent, he took the opportunity to speak again. “My uncle loves that song,” he sat beside you, making you scoot over. “He sings it almost every morning.”
“Mandy?” you said, fiddling with your fingers, sniffing.
“Yeah,” his tongue prods at the gaps between his teeth, feeling the gums that protected his adult teeth. “Oh, Mandy. Well, you kissed me and stopped me from shaking,”
You smiled weakly, sniffling. “My mom likes it too,”
“Really?” You nodded, tugging on your dress. “I wouldn’t blame her. I like it, too.” Eddie had reached for his pocket, pulling on his skull handkerchief as he spoke again. “Why did you run away? You were next and you ran.”
“I was nervous,” you huffed, tears welled your eyes. “Tammy Thompson said I sounded like a muppet singing so I ran away so I wouldn't embarrass myself,”
Eddie gasped. “She said that?” he furrowed his eyebrows. “She’s the one who sounds like a muppet.”
You gawped. “No she doesn’t!”
“Yes she does!” Eddie pressed his fingers on either side of his nose, before he began singing in a voice shrill and deafening that made you laugh hard. “Yesterday's a dream- oh! I face the morning yeah yeah crying on a breeze woah ooh The pain is calling- aaaaaaa!!”
You laughed beside him, both your small chests aching for the lack of breath that had been wheezed out, cheeks strained and eyes welled with tears. “Okay, maybe she does sound like that,” your smile withered. “But, what if she’s right?”
“She isn’t.”
“You didn't even hear me sing,”
“Yeah, I did,” Eddie scooted closer, bumping his arm with yours. “You sounded cool. You sounded like an angel. A pretty metal angel.”
You remembered that it had been the first time you blushed — thirteen year old Eddie Munson, who still had baby teeth at his age, had been the receiving end of that bashful smile; you remembered that he asked if you could play, and you did, with the ends of your purple dress tickling his knees that exposed from his jeans.
“Metal?” Eddie nodded. “I was playing the piano.”
“Well, anything can be metal,” he pulled out his handkerchief. “Crying is metal. Singing is metal. This chair,” he used his other hand to grasp at the leg of the bench and shook it, making you giggle. “Is metal.”
That night, not only did Eddie Munson offer you his handkerchief for aid (that he wiped beneath your nose himself, unbothered by the thick snot dampening the fabric), but he offered you friendship. He offered you comfort and validation, and you offered him acceptance.
That he proceeded to compliment not just your voice but your hair and your dress. Eddie Munson made you comfortable that night, had kindled something between the two of you that you called a friendship. He watched you play that piano in the music room unabashedly and confidently, him being your first ever audience, and Eddie stood up from the bench, and clapped at you like you’d performed at a concert.
That he sang Don’t Fear The Reaper by Blue Öyster Cult (and gave you a mixtape right before you left) in front of you so you’d get even.
He took your feelings seriously, said that you’d do great and it’s normal to get nervous before a performance; talked to you with his innocent, doe-eyes gaze with his hand on your shoulder for comfort.
And that he watched you, standing in front of the crowd, cheering you on as you sang Mandy with full confidence and carelessness of the judgemental eyes and insults from Tammy Thompson.
You went back home with the thought of that boy with a buzzcut that made you smile brighter than anyone else had. And you had a silly little childish crush on him for god knows how long.
But Eddie had a crush on you until 1982, where he unfortunately started to forget. And you, the same.
Yet he never forgot. He always thought about that girl in the pretty purple dress who had a pretty smile and a cute laugh, who gave him a kiss on the cheek for cheering her on during the talent show.
He thought about her — you — every night before going to bed and he dreamt of you.
And now, here in 1986 where you sat on the passenger seat of his car with a cigarette in your mouth, racing the borrowed time before the sun begins to rise, the open window that blew the hair out of your face as you stared out with a blissed smile, Eddie realizes he’s been playing that dangerous love game since he was thirteen.
That he’s already charged Vecna and his swarm of bats with nothing more than a blunt spear, courage, a dream and a crush that blossomed into love. He’s been there since 1979, having it paused for four years before returning to the Upside Down when you came back.
He’s already played that dangerous game of love and now, he’s killed Vecna with a stake through his heart and won.
Eddie parks his car beside the broken fence of weathertop, the black sky now a bright shade of gray. You smile at him, unbuckling your seatbelt, before you simultaneously open the doors together and exit.
You hold the basket in your hand, the other laced around Eddie’s, climbing up that hill until you reach that spot you both were in weeks ago, with the tall grass tickling your bare ankles, hands tight against each other, a silent promise of protection as he holds you close to him.
Your equilibrium is askew from earlier events, his shirt hangs well over your body that tickles your sensitive skin, and Eddie actually is shirtless, after unfortunately getting too much dust on your dress.
But he feels free, standing on top of the hill with his tattoos and the love of his life holding his hand. When the white clouds start to emerge and levitate above him, its shapeshifting glory; pertinently gifting you with peaceful vapor that flows through the town.
You both sat down, and soon you’ve both got a sandwich and a beer in your hands, sitting side by side, watching as the sun deliberately rises from the earth. You rest your head on his shoulder, munching on the sandwich, bottles balanced between your legs.
“No wonder why your mom’s eager to watch the sunrise,” you smell his musk of faint sex and cigarettes. Eddie presses a kiss on the top of your head. “It’s beautiful,”
He looks at you, the afterglow of sex still dawned on your vogue. You rip a piece of bread off and pop it into your mouth, and Eddie says, “I love you,”
You look up at him, the warm, dandelion smolder of the sun illuminates your face stupendously. He doesn't need to go further into detail how pretty you looked.
But you? — with all the darkness of the world put on pause like some movie, the pastel colors of dawn that crawl up from his chin to the entirety of his face, his tangled mush of curls that frame his picturesque, devilishly handsome face, it heralds safety; love and adoration that you harbor for this man.
“Yeah?” you press your chin on his shoulder. “Didn’t peg you as the type to fall after sex, Munson,”
“Oh, sweetheart, I fell a long time ago,” he rubs his nose against yours. “I just forgot,”
“How romantic,”
Eddie places his sandwich on his lap, just so he could push your hair behind your ear and stare at you. So he could see you, validating you for all your worth.
You both sit there, on the field just where your bones will rest, until it withers into dust and disappear behind those dirt and stone and go one like you both never existed. But death was the least of your concerns, relishing in the moment you have with this person who'd given you validation when you sought for it (and Eddie, who stares at you with such devotion like you'd given him everything he fought for — acceptance).
“But yeah,” you whisper. “Maybe me too,”
He leans down to kiss you. And when the sun rises and coats you with its celestial brilliance, with his kiss chaste and soft and so loving, you break away with a small click created by your wet, plump lips.
“I love you,” you say. And you mean it.
songs played by sequence: unnamed Mötley Crüe song/ Mandy - Barry Manilow/ Your Love - The Outfield/ Third Uncle - Bauhaus/ Marian - Sisters of Mercy/ Message in a Bottle - The Police/ I Wanna Be Somebody - W.A.S.P./ I Want To Know What Love Is - The Foreigner/ Paranoid - Black Sabbath/ Breaking the Law - Judas Priest/ Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic - The Police/ Broken Wings - Mr. Mister/ Runnin' With the Devil - Van Halen/ Only The Good Die Young - Billy Joel/ 1979 - The Smashing Pumpkins (not in the fic)
special thanks to @poppy-metal and her very horny anons who inspired me for the smut i love u
REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE APPRECIATED 💕
#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munsonx y/n#eddie munson smut#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson angst#eddie munson fic#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson#stranger things#stranger things one shot#stranger things x reader#stranger things x you#stranger things x y/n#stranger things smut#stranger things angst#stranger things fluff#stranger things fic#stranger things fanfiction
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Happy anniversary of Willem Van Spronsen's attack on the Tacoma ICE detention center. Here's a thing I drew a while back. Here's a manifesto that he wrote, it's v good.
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What follows is the written manifesto of Willem Van Spronsen:
there's wrong and there's right.
it's time to take action against the forces of evil.
evil says one life is worth less than another.
evil says the flow of commerce is our purpose here.
evil says concentration camps for folks deemed lesser are necessary.
the handmaid of evil says the concentration camps should be more humane. beware the centrist.
i have a father's broken heart
i have a broken down body
and i have an unshakable abhorrence of injustice.
that is what brings me here.
this is my clear opportunity to try to make a difference, i'd be an ingrate to be waiting for a more obvious invitation.
i follow three teachers:
don pritts, my spiritual guide, "love without action is just a word."
john brown, my moral guide, "what is needed is action!"
emma goldman, my political guide, "if i can't dance, i don't want to be in your revolution."
i'm a head in the clouds dreamer, i believe in love and redemption.
i believe we're going to win
i'm joyfully revolutionary. (we all should have been reading emma goldman in school instead of the jingo drivel we were fed. but i
digress.) (we should all be looking at the photos of the YJP heroes should we falter and think our dreams are impossible, but i double digress. fight me.)
in these days of fascist hooligans preying on vulnerable people on our streets, in the name of the state or supported and defended by the state,
in these days of highly profitable detention/concentration camps and a battle over the semantics, in these days of hopelessness, empty pursuit and endless yearning,
we are living in visible fascism ascendant. (i say visible, because those paying attention watched it survive and thrive under the protection of the state for decades [see howard zinn, "a people's history of the united states.") now it unabashedly follows its agenda with open and full cooperation from the government. from governments around the world.
fascism serves the needs of the state serves the needs of business and at your expense. who benefits? jeff bezos, warren buffet, elon musk, tim cook, bill gates, betsy de vos, george soros, and need i go on? let me say it again: rich guys, (who think you're not really all that good,) really dig government, (every government everywhere, including "communist" governments,) because they make rules that make rich guys richer.
simple.
don't overthink it.
(are you patriots in the back paying attention?)
when i was a boy, in post war holland, later france, my head was filled with stories of the rise of fascism in the 30's. i promised myself that i would not be one of those who stands by as neighbors are torn from their homes and imprisoned for somehow being perceived as lesser.
you don't have to burn the motherfucker down, but are you just going to stand by?
this is the test of our fundamental belief in real freedom and our responsibility to each other.
this is a call to patriots, too, to stand against this travesty against everything that you hold sacred. i know you. i know that in your hearts, you see the dishonor in these camps. it's time for you, too, to stand up to the money pulling the strings of every goddamn puppet pretending to represent us.
i'm a man who loves you all and this spinning ball so much that i'm going to fulfill my childhood promise to myself to be noble.
here it is, in these corporate for profit concentration camps.
here it is, in brown and non conforming folks afraid to show their faces for fear of the police/migra/proud boys/the boss/beckies...
here it is, a planet almost used up by the market's greed.
i'm a black and white thinker.
detention camps are an abomination.
i'm not standing by.
i really shouldn't have to say any more than this.
i set aside my broken heart and i heal the only way i know how- by being useful.
i efficiently compartmentalize my pain...
and i joyfully go about this work.
(to those burdened with the wreckage from my actions, i hope that you will make the best use of that burden.)
to my comrades:
i regret that i will miss the rest of the revolution. thank you for the honor of having me in your midst.
giving me space to be useful, to feel that i was fulfilling my ideals, has been the spiritual pinnacle of my life.
doing what i can to help defend my precious and wondrous people is an experience too rich to describe.
my trans comrades have transformed me, solidifying my conviction that we will be guided to a dreamed of future by those most marginalized among us today. i have dreamed it so clearly that i have no regret for not seeing how it turns out. thank you for bringing me so far along.
i am antifa, i stand with comrades around the world who act from the love of life in every permutation. comrades who understand that freedom means real freedom for all and a life worth living.
keep the faith!
all power to the people! bella ciao
don't let your silly government agencies spend money "investigating"
this one. i was radicalized in civics class at 13 when we were taught about the electoral college. it was at that point that i decided that the status quo might be a house of cards. further reading confirmed in the positive. i highly recommend reading!
i am not affiliated with any organization, i have disaffiliated from any organizations who disagree with my choice of tactics.
the semi automatic weapon i used was a cheap, home built unregistered "ghost" ar15, had six magazines. i strongly encourage comrades and incoming comrades to arm themselves. we are now responsible for defending people from the predatory state. ignore the laws of arming yourself if you have the luxury, i did.
#willem van spronsen#terrorism#ICE#abolish ICE#no borders#anarchy#power puff girls#manifesto#long post
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In the grand expanse of the cosmos, where stars flicker with ancient wisdom and galaxies pulse with the heartbeat of creation, there exists a realm where imagination reigns supreme. Within this boundless expanse, there emerged a craftsman named Dave Filoni, a bard whose tales once resonated with the harmonious chords of the Force. In the beginning, his hands sculpted worlds, his words breathed life into characters, and his vision illuminated the darkest corners of a galaxy far, far away.
Oh, how we marveled at his ingenuity! The Clone Wars, his magnum opus, unfolded like an epic poem, each episode a verse in a cosmic ballad. Ahsoka Tano, Anakin Skywalker, and the clones—they danced through his narrative with grace, their stories etched into the very stars. It was Filoni’s storytelling that rekindled the spirit of Star Wars, bringing forth a resurgence of hope among the faithful.
But as the wheel of time turned, a shadow crept over Filoni’s creations. The nefarious specter of greed began to weave its tendrils around the heart of his storytelling. The allure of profit beckoned, whispering promises of wealth and power. And thus, the purity of Filoni’s artistry began to wane, eclipsed by the insatiable hunger of corporate coffers.
We, the ardent admirers of Filoni’s craft, find ourselves in a state of profound lamentation. Where once there was depth, there now lies a barren landscape of shallow plots and hollow characters. The live-action series under Filoni’s stewardship, once hailed as the heralds of a new era, now stand as monuments to avarice. These productions, bereft of the soul that defined his animated triumphs, reek of profit-driven decisions. Substance has been forsaken for spectacle, and intricate storytelling sacrificed upon the altar of easy fan service.
Yet, in the depths of our sorrow, we extend a hesitant hand towards Filoni, seeking to understand the nature of his fall from grace. Is he a captive bard, his creativity held hostage against his will? We theorize, not out of malice, but out of a desperate desire to preserve the belief in his intrinsic brilliance. Could it be that his hands are tied, his creativity stifled under breakneck deadlines and profit-hungry overlords? The very thought chills the heart, for it suggests that the shackles of capitalism have ensnared even the most luminous minds.
And so, until the truth unveils itself, we stand resolute in our condemnation of the avaricious grip of the Disney corporation. The gloved hands of a mouse have become instruments of oppression, throttling the imagination and desecrating the sacred lore we hold dear. The weight of this corporate yoke stifles not only Filoni’s genius but also the collective dreams of fans worldwide.
In the echoes of our discontent, there lingers a glimmer of hope—a hope that one day, Filoni will break free from these chains, that he will once again wield his storytelling prowess with unbridled passion and unwavering dedication. Until then, we raise our voices in defiance, calling for the restoration of creativity, integrity, and the boundless spirit of storytelling that the Star Wars universe deserves.
manifesto anon you genuinely brought my mood up, it's been such a crazy fucking day, sorry I've been delaying answering this but it's always so funny to read your little manifestos they make me giggle
#also again you're right as always#sorry i cant write a cool ass answer like you do#manifesto anon#asks#star wars meta
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This manifesto has been a source of inspiration for poets, alchemists (the word "chymical" is an old form of "chemical" and refers to alchemy—for which the 'Sacred Marriage' was the goal) and dreamers, through the force of its initiation ritual with processions of tests, purifications, death, resurrection, and ascension and also by its symbolism found since the beginning with the invitation to Rosenkreutz to assist this Royal Wedding.
The Chymical Marriage
Talon Abraxas
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So I had to watch the last two episodes of ANDOR on my phone because first I was taking a bunch of teenagers on a trip to DC, and then I was in a cabin with my family on the edge of a swamp and my sister is only up to episode four and no one else has watched the show. Thus, last night I was able to finally sit down and watch episodes 11 and 12 on a television, and now I have a few Thoughts I would like to share:
Remember how in episode 8 Bix and Brasso are talking about Maarva's decline, and Bix says she fell? Brasso asks how, and Bix says she was trying to see if the drainage grate on Rix Road was open-- because she wanted the Rebellion to be able to go into the hotel and take on the Empire. And she says it with that sad little smile, like, We know all know she's imagining things, she's on her way out, but wouldn't that be nice?
IT'S CASSIAN. CASSIAN USES THE DRAINAGE GATE AND GOES INTO THE HOTEL AND TAKES ON THE EMPIRE TO HELP BIX. HE'S THE FUCKING REBELLION, MAARVA. My whole heart, jesus.
When Cass stops by his adoptive father's funerary stone (and gives that sweet, sad half-smile that Diego Luna can just break me with), his fingers and hand are all bloody, and I couldn't figure out why-- and then I remembered he'd been bare rock climbing with Melshi to escape patrols on Narkina 5 in the previous episode, and I wanted to kiss the continuity supervisors for this show on the mouth, because actions have weight and consequences, and injuries take time to heal, and of COURSE Cassian is marked by Narkina 5. Of course it bit into his body the same way it bit into his soul.
The folks over on the A MORE CIVILIZED AGE podcast are absolutely right: Cassian is a water-type Pokémon. The man is always in association with water: breaking out of a dam-slash-base that holds back a sacred river on Aldhani, hiding his money and weapons in a shower in the hotel and then arrested by the sea when he tries to run away to Niamos, marooned in a prison surrounded by water, caught (like a fish in a net! LIKE MEERO'S 'ARE YOU A FISH' SPEECH WITH BIX!) by fishermen by a lake on Narkina 5, finding out Maarva has died while the waves crash on Niamos, listening to Nemik's manifesto as the rainstorm comes down on Ferrix, wading through the water of the Rix Road drain to get to the hotel to liberate Bix-- the water imagery is just there.
And you know why? DO YOU KNOW WHY? It's because water is fucking impossible to pin down. It flows. It shifts. It can freeze solid, become a vapor, bring life, drown the unwary-- it's necessary to life, and antithetical to it. It takes the shape it's forced into. You want an elemental association for a spy? It's fucking water.
In conclusion, I hate everything, Tony Gilroy et al are monsters, I HAD MY CASSIAN ANDOR OBSESSION UNDER CONTROL YOU BASTARDS WHY DID YOU HAVE TO MAKE THIS SHOW SO GOOD.
The only good news is now I have about eighteen months to write an ABSURD amount of fic to fill the void Wednesdays will now represent.
#andor#andor spoilers#episode 8 spoilers#episode 12 spoilers#whole season spoilers honestly#cassian andor is a water pokemon#cassian andor#my beloved space disaster#this is a tony gilroy fanpage now
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Books I want to read in 2024
I was inspired by @fluencylevelfrench to write this post, so here are the 50 books I want to read in 2024, which is my provisional Goodreads goal. (I always set a lowish number and adjust it throughout the year depending on how my goal progresses.) Last year, I read 121 books, so I'm hoping to be able to read at least 100, but I have no idea what my year is going to look like.
1Q84 Book 1 by Haruki Murakami (currently reading)
1Q84 Book 2 by Haruki Murakami
1Q84 Book 3 by Haruki Murakami
Hamburg – hin und zurück by Felix & Theo
Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli
Die Verwandlung by Franz Kafka
Words and Rules: The Ingredients of Language by Steven Pinker
Love, Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli
International Relations Theory by Stephen McGlinchey
You Are What You Speak: Grammar Grouches, Language Laws and the Power of Words by Robert Lane Greene
Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything by Steven D. Levitt
Meditations on Diplomacy: Comparative Cases in Diplomatic Practice and Foreign Policy by Stephen Chan
Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich
Reflections on the Posthuman in International Relations: The Anthropocene, Security and Ecology by Clara Eroukhmanoff
In Cold Blood: A True Account of Multiple Murder and Its Consequences by Truman Capote
Haus ohne Hoffnung by Felix & Theo
Effi Briest by Theodor Fontane
Into Thin Air: A Personal Account of the Mount Everest Disaster by Jon Krakauer
Migration and the Ukraine Crisis: A Two-Country Perspective by Agnieszka Pikulicka-Wilczewska and Greta Uehling (eds.)
Writing Systems: An Introduction to Their Linguistic Analysis by Florian Coulmas
Nations under God: The Geopolitics of Faith in the Twenty-First Century by Luke M. Herrington
The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference by Malcolm Gladwell
Herr der Diebe by Cornelia Funke
Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the All-American Meal by Eric Schlosser
Park Statue Politics: World War II Comfort Women Memorials in the United States by Thomas J. Ward
The Sun Is Also a Star by Nicola Yoon
Restoring Indigenous Self-Determination: Theoretical and Practical Approaches by Marc Woons
Veronikas Geheimnis by Friedhelm Strack
The Sacred and the Sovereign by Özgür Taşkaya
1984 by George Orwell
Sounds of War: Aesthetics, Emotions and Chechnya by Susanna Hast
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams
Feminists Don't Wear Pink (And Other Lies): Amazing Women on What the F-Word Means to Them by Scarlett Curtis
Into the Eleventh Hour: R2P, Syria and Humanitarianism in Crisis by Robert W. Murray
The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams
Men Explain Things to Me by Rebecca Solnit
Life, the Universe and Everything by Douglas Adams
Women & Power: A Manifesto by Mary Beard
So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish by Douglas Adams
The Sources of Russia's Great Power Politics: Ukraine and the Challenge to the European Order by Taras Kuzio
Mostly Harmless by Douglas Adams
Women, Race & Class by Angela Y. Davis
Feminism without Borders: Decolonizing Theory, Practicing Solidarity by Chandra Talpade Mohanty
I'll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson
The “Clash of Civilizations” 25 Years On: A Multidisciplinary Appraisal by Davide Orsi
Making Space for Indigenous Feminism by Joyce Green
It's Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini
We Were Liars by E. Lockhart
Hood Feminism: Notes from the Women That a Movement Forgot by Mikki Kendall
Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda by Becky Albertalli
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Queer Witch’s Manifesto 2.0 (2023)
(Written in 2021 originally sourced from another manifesto online, this was adjusted for my own needs back then, now updated again to better fit the needs of 2023 and so forth. Finished this edit up for the Full Super Sturgeon Moon of Aug 1st ~ 3rd 2023, as I re-investigated my life’s values and what made up who I am for my 32nd solar return on July 24th. Enjoy. If this echoes true with you, you are allowed to use this manifesto for yourself too. It is open and free to use and change as you need. Take care.
-O)
----
There are INFINITE genders or lack thereof and sexual identities.
Each one deserves the same space and respect as the next.
Each one brings something unique and necessary to a circle
should they choose to share their magic with us.
We are not limited by binarism.
White supremacy upholds ideals and expectations that harm EVERYONE and must fall.
Christo-fascists seek out only furthering this harm in our communities.
We must NOT let it continue.
Even though white supremacy harms everyone, white people must not center themselves in discussions or plans for taking it down.
We must center the voices of those most marginalized by white supremacy first and foremost
Because we are fighting white supremacy, queer magicians must work hard not to appropriate sacred religious tools, artifacts, aesthetics, practices, or deities that do not belong to us.
Sex magic is powerful, beautiful, and queer. It should not be censored.
Like anything sexual, we must hold up the idea that informed and enthusiastic consent is mandatory.
Our queered-up version of sex magic also fights rape culture, patriarchy,
heteronormativity, and cisnormativity.
Though we are anti-capitalist we recognize the constraints of the society we live in and know that money magic is often critical and empowering for those living in the margins.
We recognize that the Goddess does not equal “womb worship”
and that ANYONE can invoke “Goddess energy.”
Goddess energy is intersectional.
We recognize that some witches may have physical, emotional, or mental limits that cannot be overcome with spirituality. We welcome these witches to bring their whole, real and authentic selves into a magical space and cast spells in a way that works best for them.
Magic is not diminished by disability.
Disabled witchcraft is powerful, immeasurably so.
All bodies are capable and deserving of magic and joy in their lives.
We recognize that individual traumas may need to be healed before we move on to collective work.
Global climate change is killing us all and we MUST protect and heal the Earth.
Hierarchies do not work in a queer magical context. We are equals even if our jobs differ.
MAGIC IS A TOOL FOR PERSONAL HEALING THAT LEADS TO EMPOWERMENT.
This empowerment enables us to focus on social progress, empowering others, and collective liberation.
#manifesto#queer witch manifesto#queer witch#queer#witchcraft#queer witchcraft#lgbtq#lgbtq witchcraft#lgbtq witch#marginalized witchcraft#witch#marginalized#social justice#leftist#leftism#leftist witch#pagan#religion#tumblr witches#witch manifesto#personal manifesto#life#values
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Human beings can’t be all sacrifice, you have to do something for yourself too…
Marina Tsvetaeva, Earthly Signs: Moscow Diaries, 1917-1922
#marina tsvetaeva#quotes#words#literature#quote#booklr#books and libraries#light academia#dark academia#book worm#books#reading#quote of the day#book quotes#bibliophile#february#q#lit#sacred manifesto
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I'm interested in Javert's list of demands (read: gentle suggestions). He is wracked by a crisis. The tenets of his life no longer mean anything. His life's work amounts to less than nothing-- it may have been carried out in error. Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer, things fall apart; the center cannot hold-- you get the idea.
But he still feels compelled the leave the scene of his final act to fire off "A Few Observations for the Good of the Service", which makes sense in light of his revelation, except compared to the internal monologue chronicling collapse of his faith and all the ideals he held sacred, the observations are pretty tame. Some of this is probably "man who has not expressed a single profound thought in his entire life isn't about to start right at the end", but if we grade the observations on a curve, given what we know about Javert's ideas of obedience and speaking up (PUNISH ME MR. MAYOR), it maybe reveals something about how that ideological rigidity was daily maintained.
To be sure, some of his observations are (or can be construed as) anti-prisoner: ensuring a woman working at the canteen can't reach out and touch their hands, a recommendation for more isolation and misery perhaps. Some are pointers on police efficiency, or scolding subordinates for lack of discipline. Some, though:
“Fourthly: it is inexplicable why the special regulation of the prison of the Madelonettes interdicts the prisoner from having a chair, even by paying for it.
Most of the points that would suggest some kind of reform for the prisoner's benefit are couched in terms of pure efficiency or rule-of-law (conditions that allow for illness to spread among prisoners costs the state money, letting some prisoners extort money from others is just more crime) but point number four seems almost purely altruistic. We have to imagine at one point Javert had the thought "well, why can't Prisoner 42069 have a chair?" and then immediately, ruthlessly squashed it down. Because those are the rules, that's why. And he put that thought away and didn't let it out until everything else that gave order and structure to the world collapsed from under him.
As statements go its meticulously worded (and perfectly grammatical, we are assured) but still slightly incoherent- the points are all over the place, not in any kind of order and with minimal rational, which I suppose speaks to his state of mind. I think you can read it as the actions of a short-circuiting machine, spitting out the last few processes as Daisy Bell winds down-- or perhaps just as a catalogue of doubts. Whoever opens it up probably won't get much out of it-- a quick "alright, duly noted" before tossing the not-quite-manifesto in the trash-- but I'm curious what we, the readers, are meant to take away from it. Tidying up loose ends? I don't think 'defiance' is quite right, but maybe something closer to a petition. What someone who has never in his life believed much in democracy might come up with when seized with the need to express dissatisfaction.
I don't know, I'm still chewing on it.
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Cienie’s take on Mandalorian Culture: Kad Ha’rangir and mandalorian traditional weapons, p.2
part 1
There are in theory contradicting sources about Taungs - namely Death Watch Manifesto [Bounty Hunter Code], Star Wars: The Essential Guide to Warfare Author’s Cut, Part 2 – Ancient Coruscant and Republic Collapse, all written within the TCW era (2008-2020) and Mandalorian song Vode An best known from the Republic Commando game soundtrack (2005).
The first source claims that Taung Crusaders “relied primarily on handheld weapons such as beskade and Mythosaur axes” and that those weapon forms inspire modern Mandalorian designs.
Bounty Hunter Code also included an artistic version of Taungs proving themselves against Mythosaur, while using swords / sabers against the beast.
The problem with the Death Watch Manifesto lies in its political nature and so can’t be treated as an objective source. The point of Manifesto was to gain new loyal members of Death Watch (the loyalists of Old Faith) to fight against Duchess Satine Kryze’s pacifist rule. Text provided simplified version of the conflict between warriors and so called Faithless supported by Republic and Jedi from supposedly perspective of Tor Vizsla[3], including emphasis on repression that happened upon the traditionalists, such like exile to Concordia and intentional destruction of their culture:
“Seven centuries ago, their craven, hut’uune warships and Jedi bombarded our worlds. They incinerated Mandalore’s farmland and forests, leaving much of our homeworld a forsaken desert of fine white sand, and then occupied our worlds. They killed, exiled, or disarmed our warriors and suppressed our ancient codes.
or
“Our secret operations on Mandalore and Concordia are producing more and more beskar, but Mandalorian armor remains hard to find - and the New Mandalorians treacherously destroyed many heirloom suits of beskar’gam.”
and
“Some of our warriors were exiled to the moon Concordia. Others - myself included - slipped away to resume the ba’slan shev’la”.
This raises a question: how close to the truth is the knowledge provided by the author? If warrior culture were systematically erased for ages within Mandalorian society, then there is a high possibility that author’s knowledge is either
incomplete - the ancient tradition was passed in secret for ~700 years and from the start was designed to uphold customs that warriors should consider sacred, thus the only one correct and right version to believe. After such a long time Tor Vizsla (and Death Watch members in general) may simply repeat already whitewashed “history lessons” that for ages fitted Faithfuls’ needs. In that case we could assume the author himself does not lie on purpose and simply presents the knowledge passed through generations between traditional Mandalorians.
deliberately present information in a way that fits the Death Watch’s rhetoric to manipulate/encourage readers to the author's case. This doesn’t mean Tor is lying about events per se, as Sith War, Mandalorian Wars and Republic attack on Mandalore did happen and have confirmation in different sources, however the manner of presenting is clearly non-objective. This is especially noticeable in a way Mandalorians are separated into Faithful working hard to keep their culture alive and thus in symbolic way face and overcome the trials of Kad Ha’rangir (the warrior / positive god) while Pacifist choose the easier way and follow the Arasuum (negative god) or how the text focus so much on connecting modern Mandalorians to their mythical-historical progenitors as Mandalore the Ultimate (who opened Mandalorian warrior ranks to anyone worth of the title) and Taungs in general.
Of course, those two options don’t exclude each other and may easily co-exist, as the author operates on knowledge passed down to him while presenting it in a favorable way to potential members of Death Watch. Which leads me back to Taungs using swords and what traditional weapons means.
Taungs at some point needed to pass down their metallurgist knowledge to humans and other assimilated Aliens so it is very possible that their blacksmiths in fact had made those types of weapon, especially in a period of time close to Mandalorian Wars. The new warriors (Neo-Crusaders) needed to be properly equipped - and many “recruits”came from Republic territories thus could be more familiar with sword fighting than using axes, so the author may not be wrong about ancient Mandalorian design on which the modern beskar swords are based to some degree. With Mandalorian culture existing for over 7000 years, both (Taung) axes and (Mandalorian human) swords at some point became seen as traditional Mandalorian weapons however there is no way to say for sure did Tor Vizsla had a proper knowledge about Taung battle methods or did he stretched the facts for propaganda, as another cultural tradition that humans shared with the ancient Mandalorians?
Considering the nature of the Death Watch Manifesto and mentioned destruction of warrior culture by New Mandalorians (Republic), I tend to favor the latter possibility. Especially when the three most important ancient Mandalorian (Taung) deities presented in the same Manifesto carry no sword-like weapon. Which again raises a question, what is the point of a god called Kad (sword) if the available picture (interpretation) shows him with a Taung-like traditional ax?
Hod Ha’ran too carries an axe while only Arasuum either is using ceremonial(?) cane or his weapon is deliberately held blade down, as a sort of symbol of giving up warrior nature (that author of Manifesto clearly ties to “traitorous” pacifism).
The ancient Mandalorian deities were led by the all-seeing Kad Ha’rangir (left), shown here beside the trickster god Hod Ha’ran (center) and the slothful Arasuum (right).
This is even more palpable, as:
🔶Mandalore the Indomitable was presented with a typical mythosaur axe and spear - weapons both used by the Taung leader in original comics.
Comparing his image to other important figures from Mandalorian history, this Taung is the only one that holds a traditional weaponry while the Ultimate (and some unnamed characters) has a blaster and the rest don’t hold any armament at all. Interestingly, Tor is pictured twice - first, with a sort of technologically advanced spear/lance(?) and secondly with a darksaber.
The lack of blaster connects him the strongest with Indomitable yet not with the gods who use solely axes.
🔶the sabers used by Taungs, as far as can be seen on the Mythosaur picture, don’t resemble the presented above sword design (it does however fit the author’s description “a single-edged, curved sword”). One may argue that those two types represent different eras, which is a fair argument - with a culture reaching 7 thousands years there is no reason to think the armament didn’t evolve according to the needs of warriors who took part in endless war campaigns. However, from a propaganda purpose solely, I find it interesting how the author didn’t try to connect each bit of lore of original Mandalorians to swords and in result, highlight the importance of the Darksaber. Instead we are told that Taungs used both swords and axes and the book even presented a bunch of unnamed warriors with sabers, yet the Indomitable and Mandalorian gods are tightly tied to axes first and foremost. It could be really easy to present both of those figures with mentioned single-edged, curved swords that Darksaber resembles to some degree and keep it as a continuation of a great, old tradition. Yet the best known Taung mythological-historical characters do not use swords at all.
Another source, Star Wars: The Essential Guide to Warfare Author’s Cut, Part 2 – Ancient Coruscant was published on starwar.com in 2013 (and still can be read there). This in-universe text gives us some insight about historical education and archaeological works in regard to Taungs and prehistoric Battle of Coruscant:
Nor, says Hu, can we say anything about the Battalions of Zhell, or the Taung legions that confronted them.
“When enthusiasts stage recreations of the battle they tend to use replica great axes and swords known from the excavation of Taung burial sites on Roon,” he says. “But by the time the Taungs reached Roon these were ritual objects -- species capable of traveling through hyperspace don’t still rely on edged weapons. Nor do you find such weapons still used by societies as sophisticated as the Zhell nations. It’s as if you staged a recreation of the Siege of Ramsir with the Imperial Army limited to parade sabers.”
Hu says he knows it may be unromantic to imagine the confrontation at Zhell occurring between armies that possessed aircraft and atomic weapons. But he urges us to look deeper and examine the qualities of Dha Werda Verda that have kept the poem alive for eons.
(For those unfamiliar with the history of prehistoric Coruscant - Zhell nations were the ancient enemy against whom the forefathers of original Mandalorians fought for control over the planet. Ultimately, Taungs were driven away from the Coruscant and it is generally assumed that Zhells were humans.)
It is understandable that in-universe researchers won’t have the same knowledge as star wars fans familiar with Tales of the Jedi: The Sith War or Knights of the Old Republic various media - and in result in-universe assumptions may differ from “truth” (lore). Here are some vital details to take into account:
🟢For one, Taungs (ancient Mandalorians) were capable of traveling through hyperspace yet still used edged weapons during fight, as was proved in The Sith Wars. So the assumption axes or swords were solely ritual objects before Taungs even got to Roon doesn’t hold true. The traditional axes and swords may have some ritual importance (and thousands years later Din Djarin, a modern Mandalorian will claim, “weapons are part of my religion”) but their primary function is still fulfilled on the battlefield.
🟢The second detail worth examining is that axes and swords are mentioned solely in the context of graves. Source does not provide any additional information about the nature of those old burial sites and so there is no way to tell whether Taung cremated their dead (a continuation of prehistoric Taung funeral rites known from Dha Werda Verda poem?) or preferred skeleton burials. We don’t have any clue where the weapons were placed in the graves, if swords and axes were next to each other and if not, which kind of weapon were more often found in the closest immediate vicinity of the remains. There is also no information on what kind of advanced research was conducted on the blades to test if those were indeed battle weapons or items forged solely to fulfill the cultural/religious purpose. Due to lack of additional data, we can’t exclude a possibility that in one grave several weapons could be deposited and only one or two truly belonged and were used by the dead while the rest was simply grave goods - like the trophies taken from defeated enemies, a parting gift from the Taung community or, in case Roon was inhabited by other species (conquered and dominated or living peaceful alongside warriors?), a grave good related to a different social group and/or culture. Additionally, a specific funeral rites like cremation may not leave enough organic remains for a proper science research. If Taungs co-existed with other species, the graves with swords could belong to non-Taungs, either as a sign of honor /good relationship between separated cultures or as sacrificial burials on the occasion of Taung's funeral (as sacrifice of a slave/conquered people). Of course, those are just possibilities worth taking into account though sadly, we do not know the extent of in-universe archaeological research in that regard.
With such a large period of time Taungs spent on Roon, there is a great potential to create a proper correlation between type of weapon (its shape) and the chronology of burials and to theorize which weapon and when were the most popular. Similarly, there should be research done about correlation between type of weapon and alleged age, status and battle injuries of dead. As in, a certain type of weapon may be more often found in graves of esteemed adults (warriors) while the juvenile ones equipped appropriate to their age or lack of fighting experience.
Of course, Roon burial sites are older than 7.000 years and so archaeological excavations won’t solve all Taung cultural riddles and will depend a lot on the type of burial and its state of preservation but the point is, fiding swords in Taung graves does not automatically means it was their traditional weapon.
Thinking more about the issue, I’m intrigued by no mention of spears - and sure, organic parts such as wooden spar wouldn’t survive to modern times without proper conditions yet the stone or metal spearhead could. Especially since there are more examples of Taung using spear and spear-like weapons than swords.
The Essential Guide to Warfare gives an illustration of Taungs on prehistoric Coruscant (Notron) and if we take it at face value, spears are presented as a common weapon.
In the same sourcebook, The Indomitable was presented as holding glaive(?), while The Sith War also featured spear-like weapons used by Taung!Mandalorians alongside mythosaur axes, including Mandalore himself.
In The Essential Guide to Warfare even the Ultimate was presented with a spear - and doesn’t this picture resemble the prehistoric Taung leader?
Of course, over time Taung & early Mandalorians’ weapon preferences could change, yet the spears and axes are present in both a prehistoric and ancient period of their culture, while swords themselves either fell out of favor or have never been that common to begin with.
🟢 The third matter is that Taungs in times of living on Roon weren’t Mandalorians yet. Galaxy at War sourcebook states that they “battled the native Human nations for control of Coruscant before being driven off and forced to flee to the Outer Rim world of Roon, where they remain for millennia until the legendary Mandalore the First leads them to conquer another world.”
Of course, Taung primary culture is what Mandalorians were based on, yet millennia is a long span of time and so naturally cultural changes happened within their society. There is no clue if Kad Ha’rangir even predates the Mandalorian era or if his cult evolved once Mandalorians for good started their holy crusaders and destruction brought to many species. On one hand, if Kad Ha’rangir was a part of mythology existing during the Roon era, then we could argue that using swords could become a sort of religious taboo once Mandalorian culture came to life. Thus Taungs relied on mythosaur axes (probably based on the great axes mentioned in Author’s cut), spears and similar weapons while swords were sacred and maybe played a special religious function. However, if that was true, then why would Taung!Mandalorians accept human warriors / vassals to carry a sacred weapon?
Ancient Mandalorian society is implied to have more rigid structures than modern one, with a clear division into warriors and non-warriors social classes. If non-Taung part of society and newcomers could join Crusaders ranks before the Sith War then they should follow the same religious and/or cultural practices. Which could explain the general lack of traditional swords between Mandalore the Indomitable’s soldiers seen in the comics regardless of their biological species. At the same time Star Wars Miniatures included in Bounty Hunters set presented Mandalorian Blademaster - the set is not limited to one era but considering that
A) Mandalorian miniatures don’t have Neo-Crusader typical armors - if anything the shape and gray-black colors resemble Ordo Canderous’ armor[4] who according to KotOR Campaign Guide was already a warrior before Neo-Crusaders dominated Mandalorian culture
B) includes Mandalore the Indomitable and basilisk war droid rode by a warrior with again, no Neo-Crusader armor
C) various additional quotes and description on cards
may as well imply the Sith War and/or pre-Neo Crusaders culture.
Of course, there is no way to tell for sure if said Mandalorian Blademaster was meant to represent Taung or human/non-Taung species yet the existence of warriors specialized in swordfighting may suggest using swords was not a matter of religious taboo in the original warrior culture. At least not during the twilight period of their religion, as in the Indomitable’s times Taungs were said to worship the war itself, not gods in their primal version.
If we go further into the Great Adoption era, swords become more and more visible between warriors, as was presented:
on already mentioned illustration from The Essential Guide to Warfare
and here it is important to note that swords are held by Neo-Crusader(s) and Mandallian Giants. The latter were one of the first alien species included into Taung!Mandalorian ranks, before humans and Great Adoption.
Star Wars Miniatures also introduces Neo-Crusaders using swords such as
Mandalorian Marauder - KotOR set - with description “For years the Mandalorians were content to raid worlds on the Outer Rim, but during the Mandalorian Wars they began launching assaults across the Old Republic” suggesting the era of Great Adoption (opening ranks to non-Taungs)
Mandalorian Jedi Hunter - Dark Times set - with description “Some of the scattered survivors of the Mandalorian Wars seek out Jedi to punish for their humiliation”. This model (quote) is clearly representing the post-Mandalorian Wars era in which Taungs are believed to be extinct.
yet still didn’t dominate the ratio of melee weapons. So we have previously mentioned KotOR Campaign Guide with majority of characters described as humans and whose stats of traditional weapons varied from unarmed, dragger, knife, mace, vibroblade, vibrodagger or bayonet while mythosaur axes are solely mentioned in regard to two Taungs, Mandalore the Indomitable and Ultimate.
From the above set, Canderous Ordo (future Mandalore the Preserver) has a dragger gauntlet, while the KotOR II Prima Guide advises to equip Ordo with swords.
However in modern times, human Mandalorians are more commonly tied to swords (and knives or vibroblades in general) than axes, as can be seen in various sources:
A Practical Man
"And my name's Briika," said her hard-eyed mother. Her name came from the word for "smile," and Beviin enjoyed that kind of irony. She could shrivel anyone with that stare. "Those crushgaunts are illegal. But you know that."
"I just like antiques," Beviin said. He patted the scabbard on his belt, rattling an ancient saber in its sheath. "I've got a proper beskad, too. On the road for a reason?"
and
It could have ripped Beviin open like a canister. But his armor was forged from beskar, real Mandalorian iron that even Yuuzhan Vong weapons might not penetrate. He reached into his belt and drew his ancient beskad, a short razor-edged saber forged from the same.
Republic Commando: Triple Zero
"I opted to take on Vau. He had a real Mando iron saber, and I was unarmed.”
Collapse of the Republic sourcebook
Jango Fett: Open Seasons
Star Wars Miniatures
Mandalorian Quartermaster whose design clearly was inspired by Death Watchman from Jango Fett: Open Seasons.
Star Wars – Clan Wren Unit Expansion
Card: Beskad Duelist (x)
The Clone Wars
introduced Darksaber
and the characteristic art seen in Pre Vizsla (and later in Duchess Satine)’s residence
and the mural decorating the city:
All presented there ancient(?) Mandalorian warriors carry a simple, two-edge(?) swords.
Sidenote: Darksaber originally was introduced as heirloom passed down in clan Vizsla, not the item representing the right to title of Mandalore. However since the later lore presented Tarre Vizsla, the first and for now the only New Canon Mandalorian Jedi, there is a question - should TCW!art be seen as a cultural shift from Taung weapons to human swords inspired by the figure of Tarre and his legendary darksaber?
Star Wars Rebels
presents Darksaber as ancient and culturally important weapon:
"I didn't know Mandalorians developed a type of lightsaber."
"We didn't. This was one of a kind. Legend tells that it was created over a thousand years ago by Tarre Vizsla, the first Mandalorian ever inducted into the Jedi Order. After his passing, the Jedi kept the saber in their temple. That was until members of House Vizsla snuck in and liberated it. They used the saber to unify the people and strike down those who would oppose them. One time, they ruled all of Mandalore wielding this blade."
Forces of Destiny: Art History
(the short animation can be seen here)
The statue of Tarre Vizsla though wasn’t presented in full details, clearly was built to represent the legendary Mandalorian holding sword blade down that brings to mind the medieval-like knights.
The Mandalorian
follows the The Clone Wars and Rebels take on Mandalorian culture with an even greater importance put on Darksaber and its meaning for warriors. The show treats Darksaber not only as an ancient relic and as a valid claim to the “throne”, but also as mystical item that may not accept its wielder like it did with Paz Vizsla (though this put under question all previously Mandalorians using the sword who were far away from heroic side of characters) and may even be cursed, as said Armorer:
If, however, it is not won in combat and falls into the hands of the undeserving, it will be a curse unto the nation. Mandalore will be laid to waste and its people scattered to the four winds”
Looking at the sources, it can’t be argued that some major cultural changes happened to Mandalorians and the further from Taung hegemony era, the swords became more prominent and in some cases, like Darksaber, are vital to secure “line of succession”. This shift is as much about weapons as about warriors themselves, as modern Mandalorian society is dominated by humans - although how much of an important role religion (Kad Ha’rangir) played in this change is up to debate.
Even if Taung society living on Roon used swords - whatever as weapons or ritual objects - during Mandalorian era this kind of weaponary is hardly seen used by confirmed Taung warriors (BHC so far is an exception) while modern human Mandalorians moved away from the axes in favor of swords, especially Darksaber.
[Next part] further sources to dispute
SIDENOTES:
[3] I say supposedly, as I support Jango Fett’s doubt it was written by Tor Vizsla. C’mon, can anyone imagine Legends!Tor writing anything like that?
[4] For better comparison, the typical Crusader and Neo-Crusader armors look like this
Ordo’s own armor resembles the Neo-Crusader type however it seems to still keep some elements from the previous kind. Ordo himself took part in the Mandalorian Wars yet as a veteran he was bitter about how his people from proud warriors degraded into mercenaries and criminals. When he became a Mandalore, he tried to bring Mandalorians back to the honorable ways which is why I personally count him more as example of pre-Neo Crusader Mandalorian culture.
#star wars#cienie's take on mandalorian culture#mandalorians#taungs#darksaber#bounty hunter code#mandalorian religion#cienie's research#i think the next part will be the last in regard to kad ha'rangir
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He casts his vision of paradise into hell, and vice versa; nothing is sacred; everything is of divine essence.
Tristan Tzara, Seven Dada Manifestos and Lampisteries, on ‘Richard Huelsenbeck’
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top 10 books i read in 2022 (in the order i read them)
the master and margarita by mikhail bulgakov: in the 1930s, the devil comes to moscow; chaos follows. almost 2000 years earlier, pontius pilate sentences the mild preacher jeshua to death. also: kind witches, fireproof manuscripts, the greatest love story ever told;
here by richard mcguire: the corner of a living room from 3,000,500,000 BCE to 22,175 CE, the illusion of time, the joys and sorrows of life, the magic of comic books;
lilith's brood (dawn, adulthood rites, imago) by octavia e. butler: humanity is saved from a nuclear apocalypse by a species of hideous aliens who offer an impossible deal to ensure the continued existence of life on earth. in perfect bulter fashion, tons of discussions about hierarchical structures, gender, language barriers, consent, and the vital need to embrace transhumanism;
the faggots & their friends between revolutions by larry mitchell & ned asta: somewhere in between a fairy tale and a utopian political manifesto, a sacred text from days long gone -- the story of a declining empire ruled by the fascist patriarchy, where gay men, lesbians, feminists, and drag queens live communally, produce art, have sex, and await the next revolution;
earthlings by sayaka murata: three young people become aliens to survive the horrors of modern life. provocative, utterly chaotic, equal parts hilarious and sad;
to the lighthouse by virginia woolf: the epic portrait of a family and of an artist;
nona the ninth by tamsyn muir: god is a man, the divine is most definitely feminine, eating someone is the ultimate way to say 'i love you' -- of bad puns, mismatched families, and the horror of your exes becoming besties;
dolore minimo by giovanna cristina vivinetto: the poetic dialogue between a self-born daughter and her mother-self;
the city and the pillar by gore vidal: a gay man in 1930s-40s america grapples with society's (and his own) prejudices and chases an idealized version of his high school best friend and one-time lover down a path of self-hatred and destruction;
loaded by christos tsiolkas: 24 hours in the life of an angst-ridden gay greek-australian boy as he travels through melbourne in search of drugs, an escape from responsibilities, and something resembling love.
#there's a alternate version of this were i don't limit myself to one book per author and just list off octavia butler's bibliography#but on the other hand there are sooooooo many honorable mentions#daytripper maus the unbearable lightness of being the white book home fire never let me go#the bluest eyes the satanic verses the metamorphosis the other stuff i've read by woolf murata and tsiolkias#soooo much good stuff#books
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