#(more insane)

[robthegoodfellow]

I Just Wanna Cheer

Crying, Creampie, Virginity Kink for Days 21/22/23 of @harringrovekinktober additional incidental use of sex toys, praise kink, orgasm denial, dom/sub dynamic, role playing, you know the drill—now with emerging feminization kink

(roommates in love, kink experimentation, billy gets boinked, nsfw)

Handy Links to Previous Chapters: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 (kill me)

.

It was his own fault for trying to cancel on Robin again—having assumed, now that she knew about his and Billy’s fledgling thing, that she’d be more understanding of his needs.

But no.

Eyeroll audible over the phone, Robin had offered a different option. Just bring your boy toy along if it’s that much of a burden to leave his side. There was a loaded pause during which Steve scrambled to recall whether he’d told her that particular part of their fledgling thing, then she continued, blithe and cavalier. That is, if you can stand to keep your hands off each other’s dicks for a couple hours. Speaking over Steve’s choked bluster: It’ll be a struggle, I know. But I believe in you. Stay strong.

So he’d called Billy up after, risking Madam Manager’s ire for lingering too long on his lunch break, and caught him right before he left for class. Billy had gone quiet, digesting Steve’s rushed explanation—drinks at the Taproom around eight; you, me, and Robin—and then cleared his throat. Like, us all hanging out as friends? he asked. Or…? And Steve froze, wrongfooted. What—uh, whatever you want, he said, clumsy. She knows. I mean, not everything—just that we’re… uhm. Sorry? he added, wincing, and Billy mercifully jumped in, put him out of his misery. It’s fine. I’ve been talking to Heather about us. I needed someone to… He trailed off, and Steve breathed a sigh, grinning with relief as he nodded. Yeah. Me, too.

Billy had already showered and eaten when Steve got home—tilted his cheek for a drive-by kiss as Steve passed him huddled in the corner of the couch, psych notes open on his lap. Hadn’t moved even after Steve had finished stuffing his face, washing up. What should I wear? Steve called as he emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, and Billy glanced over—locked on Steve’s hand, the fisted terrycloth at his hip. Understandably, it took Steve a moment to absorb Billy’s reply: I was gonna ask you the same question.

And Billy—never asked Steve for fashion advice. Which meant he had something else in mind.

They were late meeting Robin.

.

“You live literally down the road,” she exclaimed when they arrived at the Taproom, flushed from power walking and also other things. Steve’s buttons were misaligned on his shirt, and Billy’s hair gave off the distinct impression of having just rolled out of bed. Distinct and—accurate.

“Couldn’t find my wallet,” Steve lied, gentle arm at Billy’s waist to guide him into a chair. 

Billy sat. Carefully.

“Well, I hope it turned up,” Robin said, unconvinced and unimpressed. “Because first round’s on you.”

“Everyone’s usual?” He stooped, arms looped around Billy from behind, and—lightly pressed on his abdomen, encouraging him to lean against the chairback, relax from his prim perch. “Okay?” he asked, when his boy swallowed a whimper, red flooding his cheeks. Billy nodded, and Steve kissed his neck, the skin feverish under his lips. “Good.”

They explained away Billy’s spacey distraction easily enough—big psych test on Monday—but by the second round, with Billy shifting every minute, rocking in his seat ever so slightly, his eyes glassy, lips parted, Robin was growing concerned.

“You sure you feel alright?” she checked, then squinted. “Or feeling too alright?”

Steve cut in, scooched his chair alongside Billy’s, their legs flush under the table.

“He hasn’t been sleeping well,” he said, drawing Billy to slump against him, corralling with the comforting palm on his shoulder. “You need to go home, babe?”

Billy huffed, hearing the subtle taunt. You give up? Give in?

“M’good,” he insisted, wagging his head. Unseeing, unblinking, he fumbled for his glass. Tossed back the rest, ice cascading toward his mouth. He slouched into Steve’s touch, crunching cold loud between his molars. Hidden, insinuated a hand around Steve’s thigh and underneath—cinching him close. If he traced upward not too far, he’d bump the bulge straining Steve’s zipper. One glance at Billy’s lap revealed he was in even worse shape: a patch of wet seeping through pale blue denim. “Robin’s turn to buy.”

.

Lucky for them, Robin caught the eye of the Gina Gershon type behind the bar—got her number, the promise of a good time after her shift—and around the fourth round, Robin went to fetch tequila shots and never came back. 

Sloppy steps to the exit, clinging to each other’s waists, and the muggy summer night welcomed them to the sidewalk, chatter and cheesy pop muffled beyond the door. 

They cut a crooked path toward the apartment, breathy silence broken by the odd chuckle or hum, speech smothered by the pulsing weight of expectation that had settled all around.

They were going home, and Steve was gonna fuck him. Shove inside, push to the root and hammer his hips until he spilled, until the swollen hole oozed white, until he—

Billy was whining in short throaty bursts by the time they reached the stairwell, stumbling now and then, relying on Steve to half-haul him up the last flight. Please he mumbled, the moment their door clicked, and Steve wasn’t sure where the surge of macho muscle came from, but next thing he knew he’d hefted a clinging koala into his arms, gripping just below the ass, striding to his bedroom, wet lips mouthing Steve’s neck with every step.

Part of him wanted to throw Billy down, watch him bounce on the mattress, but he didn’t—or he would, but not now, not when his good boy had been squirming for so long, desperate to wring some relief from the toy wedged snug. No, he lowered him gentle onto his back, lovely legs hugging Steve’s hips, dangling off the bed—Billy’s hips lifting the moment fingers fumbled at his button, tugged at his zip.

The lube was within reach, right where they’d left it, when they’d overindulged before rushing out the door, Steve slicking up the small plug and working it in, pulling a new pair of pale pink panties up long, bronzed legs, then selecting a pair of jeans, a tank cut so low around the neck, hanging loose about the ribs, that it barely covered his nipples. 

Steve had taken it upon himself to carefully tuck the front of the tank into the waist of his jeans, the way Billy liked, and now took it upon himself to untuck, pushing the tank up as he yanked the jeans down, fingers hooked in a back pocket. 

He left the jeans balled below Billy’s knees, allowing them to part wide and meanwhile keep his ankles tied. Bending low, Steve ran his nose along the obscene jut of cock beneath sticky satin, breathed heat through the fabric—pressed his face into Billy’s crotch when he writhed, moaning.

“Here’s what I want,” Steve said, peering up—a strange vantage point: the heaving hills and valleys of Billy’s abs, his pecs, the underside of a tilted chin, the shifting rise of biceps, arms flung above his head. “I want to pull down the back of your panties. Check my good boy is ready for me.”

“Ready,” Billy panted, hardly more than a wheeze. “M’ready, ready. Please.”

“Haven’t gone past the middle plug,” Steve told him, all regret—as though breaking it to him gently, and Billy sobbed. “But,” he went on, shushing, sneaking to fondle the base of the plug through silky smooth pink, cup the shivering curves of his ass. “You promise to tell me if you want to stop, and I’ll fuck you now. Fill you up. And if it’ll make my good boy happy, we’ll plug him up after. No leaking.” Billy was begging under his breath, babbling yes, please—please, yes. “Promise?” Steve prompted, reaching for the lube as he sat up, propped against the edge of the mattress.

Billy promised, tears already eeking down his temples, wetting his hair. Steve watched them drip as he slicked his fingers—used his dry hand to inch the panties down, the front drawn taut as the back pulled, clearing the rise of Billy’s ass to sit bunched below.

He didn’t tease his boy too much: traced up to stroke the stiff heat straining satin, brush the twitching length with his thumb, then drifted back down to caress the protruding flat of glass. One mild tug, and it slipped free on a gasp. He let it thunk on the carpet at his feet.

The hole that kissed blind fingertips was still fluttering from the sudden loss—seemed to suck him in, inflamed greed, taking two easy, then three. Billy’s face was twisted, eyes closed, his lashes wet, hips grinding into the touch as though searching, feeling his way in the dark. A whine puffed past slack lips, desperate—almost forlorn.

“Okay,” Steve breathed. Withdrew, grappling clumsy for the lube, slicking his cock where it bobbed by the bedspread, trailing drool. “Okay, baby.”

His forearm hooked shaking thighs, dragged Billy closer, ass almost hanging off the bed. Steve gripped himself mid-shaft, thumbing the crown, and nudged forward, catching on the rim that still seemed too small, impossibly small.

Billy sighed, set one hand on Steve’s forearm, the cross bar holding him steady—coasted down the arm to link their hands, and Steve bowed his head, suddenly swamped. Just—overwhelmed.

He pushed, steady pressure, and it was like with the plug, where resistance caved to a gobbling grip. Pushed and the slicked crown was swallowed up by clenching heat. Paused to breathe, a returning squeeze to their linked hands, then sank further—this stuttering plow that deepened with the duet of stuttering breaths.

Steve was lost in it, so consumed by the sensory influx—the salty musk of sweat and precome, the lungs bellowing in his ears, the thundering throb of his pulse where they were joined, where they were holding on, nerves alight, a smolder about to catch and roar—so consumed that when he bottomed out, flush with Billy’s ass, he kept going, rocking into him, lifting, Billy’s knees curling toward his chest, where the flimsy tank still lay, askew.

“Good?” Steve asked, throaty, and Billy’s eyes rolled in his head as he laughed, weak, lips barely hitched. Slowing, Steve circled the rim that clutched him, as though measuring—assessing. Feathered his touch from thin skin smooth and slick to the peach fuzz of Billy’s ass check, tickling, and grunted as the convulsive clench. “Fast or slow?”

His boy didn’t answer with words—maybe couldn’t—just a bobblehead, like Fast? Yes. Slow? Yes. Yes. Yes. So Steve gave him both, grinding into him torturous slow, adjusting until he nailed the spot that made Billy squirm and mewl, then let loose. Jackhammered, and when Billy's blushing wet cockhead peeked from the pink frilly waistband, smearing his abs, Steve smirked, mindless except for one driving thought: I want to feel him come on my cock.

Reaching down, unsteady, Steve tucked him back out of sight. Stroked him lightly as he said it: “Cream your panties for me, Billy.”

And god, Steve loved to watch him lose it beneath him, give in, crack open, but to feel it from inside...

Milking me, he thought, jaw slack, launched into sweet blue nothing. Fucking milking me.

Barely caught himself from faceplanting with an arm made of noodle, panting fit to die. The sweet blue nothing blinked at him—so pretty, heavy-lidded.

All Steve could do for the moment was blink back.

.

You knew you had it good when waking life was indistinguishable from a wet dream. The hazy cloud of ecstasy that lured Steve from sleep in the wee hours of the morning resolved into recent memory as he squinted, absorbing the smells of Billy embedded in the sheets—registering the absence of Billy’s sounds. His warmth. Steve pawed at his eyes, unsure whether the emerging snapshots, burning to the touch, were real or fantasy.

…Billy, after Steve had emptied into him, placidly rolling onto his stomach, presenting his ass for inspection upon request—humming long and low at the probing touch where he was swollen, pucker red and shining. A more insistent prod, and a pearl of white bloomed.

Distantly, he heard water running in the pipes. Billy—in the bathroom?

Middle of the bed, Steve had murmured. Lay on your tummy. And Billy army-crawled to obey, his ankles shackled by the mess of denim. Steve opted to leave them for the time being.

Billy had dropped flat with a whooshing sigh, head fenced by sprawling arms, legs akimbo, and Steve crawled to lie alongside, propped on an elbow. For a while, he just studied that face—the rosy cheeks, the pink lips gently curled in blissed satisfaction, eyelashes dark and clumped from tears. 

Need anything? Steve asked, quietly mesmerized, brushing back a lock of tawny hair. Or want? One blue eye had cracked open, bleary, exhausted. And yet—his hips twitched, bare ass still exposed, satin shoved low. He wanted Steve to keep his promise: no leaking. 

Steve’s bedroom door creaked open, and moments later the mattress dipped under a heavy form, blankets shifting as Billy settled.

“You okay?” Steve asked, voice scratchy. Half-awake, he rolled, slinging his arm around Billy’s back.

Billy yawned an incoherent confirmation. “Took care of business.”

Steve traced to the base of his spine, absently curious, and ran a finger down his crack. No plug. “All clean?”

“Mhmm.” Arching, Billy pressed into his touch, then resettled with a tired chuckle. “So you can mess me up again.”

Steve snorted—gripped an asscheek, meaning to claim a squeeze before he withdrew. But then… he forgot to do that last part. Drifted off still fondling Billy’s butt.

.

To make up for the delayed festivities due to socializing the night before, they’d resolved to shack up all of Saturday. A few hours of drinks sets us back, what—three or four orgasms? Steve estimated, and Billy had scoffed, let out a loud Hah! For you, maybe. At which Steve had swooped in, herding him against the wall to nip at his throat. I’m sorry—was that a complaint? Shivering, tilting his chin for more, Billy clung to his ribs. No. No complaints.

Which is why Steve was a little put out to realize he’d slept until nine—that Billy had let him, moreover, because the rest of the bed was cold and empty.

And then the buttery cinnamon sugar hit him upside the head, beckoned him upright, nose in the air. Heard the telltale clinks and thunks of Billy puttering at the stove, and couldn’t help but smile. 

Smiled while he pulled on some sweatpants, a worn tee. Smiled as he brushed his teeth, took a piss. Washed his hands. Smiled as he wandered to the kitchen, itching to wrap his good boy up tight, kiss his neck, his cheeks—

The smile didn’t slip, but it… froze solid, along with the rest of him, at the vision that greeted him: Billy halted in front of the fridge, limned in morning sunlight.

Billy with his hair piled atop his head in a messy bun, wearing one of those close-fitting crop tops that he knew drove Steve crazy. His gaze dropped to the rumpled tube socks, trailed up the bronzed curves of his calves, his thighs—to the green pleated hem. Of the skirt.

The cheerleading skirt. The cheerleading skirt that Billy was wearing, in the kitchen. That he had worn while baking cinnamon buns. And making coffee.

Steve had completely flatlined, but all it took was a puff of sound—a nervous muffled squeak of a thing—and his attention swung to Billy’s face. To Billy’s bottom lip, drawn between his teeth. To Billy’s big blue eyes, slanted brows. Hopeful, but—uncertain.

“What—?” Steve tried, shaking his head, and at least tacked a grin to his bafflement. “How…?”

“Borrowed it,” Billy said, fidgeting. Cautious smile. “From Heather.”

Bless Heather for all eternity. Forever and ever. Amen. 

“You look—” He couldn’t seem to move, but that was fine. Billy was coming to him—a certain slink to his stride. Steve rallied. “You look—so good. So, so, so—”

Billy set his hands on Steve’s waist, toying with the thin cotton. “I was thinking we could play… like we did that time with the spies? Only…”

His good, good, genius boy.

“Only… jock and cheerleader?” Steve finished, and Billy ducked, bashful—except not his usual bashful, but extra bashful, like he was putting on a show, like he was… a blushing, bashful, virginal little—

Billy leaned up. Kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet. Instinctive, Steve palmed the back of his head, fingers buried in blond, and pulled him flush.

“You wanna be my good girl today?” he whispered, lips brushing Billy’s cheek—pressed a kiss there when Billy nodded. “Whatcha wearing under that skirt, babe?”

Billy giggled—quiet and flirty. “Breakfast first.”

Steve nipped his ear. “And then a snack?”

“Down, boy,” Billy scolded, swatting his arm. He turned and walked away—the sway deliberate, as confirmed by the cheeky wink thrown over his shoulder.

.

Now with next chapter: He Loves Me, Loves Me, Loves Me

[happymetalgirl]

Undeath - More Insane

--------------------------------------------------

Well in the spirit of dusting off this blog and scrubbing off some of the rust with some brief album reviewing, what better way to ease back in than with some simple, good ol' meat & potatoes death metal. This is the third album from old school Floridian death metal revivalists (from New York), Undeath!

Their 2020 debut album, Lesions of a Different Kind, instantly hooked a great many death-metalheads clearly hungry for the primal, groove-focused, hardcore-influenced stew of gory, straightforward death metal that Undeath was cooking, myself included. Though a subtle feature of their craft, I think the band's hardcore influence is what ultimately gave them the edge over the surrounding death metal crop with the dynamic punch of hardcore, and the surge of bands with similar influence like Frozen Soul, Gatecreeper, Sanguisugabogg, and 200 Stab Wounds represented, I think, a shift in the death metal landscape toward leaning into allyship with the meteoric rise of metallic hardcore thanks to bands like Code Orange, Harms Way, Kublai Khan, and especially Knocked Loose. Undeath's sophomore effort in 2022, It's Time...To Rise from the Grave, deviated basically not at all from the mission statement they'd put out two years prior, in style or quality, to the dismay of no one really.

More Insane finally does show a change of trajectory for Undeath as they showcase some technicality and finesse through some slightly more sophisticated composition as a break from the infectiously filthy, nonstop go-dumb approach. Nothing radical, but I think a fresh approach for the band relatively speaking, even if Cannibal Corpse worship or Bloodbath worship aren't exactly new in the death metal landscape broadly.

I actually was kind of disappointed by this album's playing into those over-played death metal compositional tropes on my initial listens to it because the shift of focus onto more intricate guitar passages and more ornate song structures does indeed kind of clash with the simple, no-nonsense, anti-overthinking approach that made Undeath's hooky and delicious pair of albums before More Insane such a breath of fresh air for death metal. And it was disappointing to hear what I first heard as being dragged into the muck of death metal by the mere gravitational pull of it simply to keep on schedule and put out an album. The more I listened, however, without the expectation of the same jungle-pit-opening death metal experience the band already kindly delivered twice, the more I came to appreciate the finer details of the arpeggiated melodic leads on "Sutured for War", the ripping speed of the drumming on "Cramped Caskets", the intricacy of the riffing on "Disattachment of a Prophylactic in the Brain", Alexander Jones' more expansive vocal technical prowess all across the album, and the more I came to appreciate More Insane as a finely crafted death metal album in a slightly different vein that showcases the instrumental talents Undeath has to offer without sacrificing too much of the hooky, meaty core of the band's primary compositional appeal, and definitely one of the year's most solid death metal records from a band who has, through both their consistency and boldness, definitely earned being trusted to try something different and to expand their sound in the future.

The strength of More Insane lies less in the brute force and hardcore-infused muscularity of their prior output and more in the band's practiced and meticulously honed technical abilities in death metal's foundational elements both in writing and playing. And with less of a lean-in to the novelty of the hardcore influence that colored the previous two albums, Undeath prove that they're not on top of the death metal game because of a gimmick or a trend, but because they know their shit, and they've got their shit together, and in that sense, More Insane is an even simpler display of their death metal supremacy than It's Time and Lesions.

8/10

[housewarningparty]

"Brandishing the Blade" by Undeath @ The Constellation Room - 09/27/24 Santa Ana, CA

New album More Insane out 10/04

[separatist-apologist]

HEAR ME OUT

chistmas erina where eris owes lucien a favor and has to play santa for his nieces and nephews and arina is visiting lucien and elain for christmas and they fuck with eris still in his santa costume

How dare you.

[nowonlyghosts]

Undeath // More Insane (2024)

[onlyhurtforaminute]

UNDEATH-BOUNTY HUNTER

[thisaintascenereviews]

Undeath - More Insane

Death metal band Undeath is one of my favorite modern bands of that style, and their last album, 2022’s It’s Time… To Rise From The Grave was my favorite album of 2022. I really should have given that honor to 2022’s Blue Skies by Seth MacFarlane, because that album is a fantastic jazz record from the Family Guy creator, but I digress. I still really loved it, because Undeath took the formula of 1980s death metal, and added some modern production onto it, but I wasn’t sure how their latest album, More Insane, would go. I listened to the singles a couple times from it, and I wasn’t disappointed, but I didn’t know what to expect, either.

The album’s been upon us for the last week, so what do I think about it? Is this album going to be another top five or top three contender, or does this one fall short? Unfortunately, this album does fall into the latter category, but it’s not by much. I would say this is their “worst” album, but by default. It’s not as interesting or inventive as their last two, but it packs a punch. The reason this is bogged down slightly is because a handful of tracks are pretty straightforward and by the numbers, but they aren’t bad songs. They just don’t really stick out, and because the album is so short, quality matters a bit more when the quantity isn’t as large.

Everyone sounds great, and when the album goes off the rails, it sounds awesome, but some of this album blends together and it leaves a little bit to be desired but not much. This band’s “worst” stuff is still streets ahead of other bands’ best stuff, so it’s still quality death metal, but it won’t necessarily blow you away. I’m still having a good time with this thing. I’d recommend it if you want a solid death metal album, but it’s their weakest album. Even then, this is a great album for newcomers to the genre, because it gives you a good idea of what to expect, at least before diving into the meat of the genre. Even with the more straightforward tracks, it’s an enjoyable album, for sure.

[akesius]

Undeath - More Insane (2024)

[jestroer]

Whos in the lead on Mumbo v Etho poll someone please tell me 

[candycatfalls]

the book of bill is great

[candyskiez]

Y'all have gotta get more insane about platonic relationships like you are about romantic relationships. We need to get more annoying about them NOW. I need to see more meta and losing our minds over them. Get more annoying NOW. More than that. More than that also.

[shinseifer]

"average cat owner spends 3 years in prison" factoid actualy just statistical error. average owner spends 0 years in prison. Miette's mother, who kicked her body like the football and went to jail for One Thousand Years is an outlier adn should not have been counted

[catmask]

when u go to write a mentally ill person in ur story you are presented two options. the first option is to write your mental illness realistically as you actually experience it with all the ups and downs and people who are like you will resonate with it and feel seen. except every person who reads instagram infographics on mental health that uses the phrase narcicisst for anyone who does anything that crosses them and unironically call themself a dark empath will call you scary and tell you that youre demonizing mentally ill people

the second option is to lie and write inspiration porn for those people to get hard to

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

do i ship these characters or do i want them to form a sketch comedy duo