#I am biting - give it to meeeeeeee

[stagefoureddiediaz]

So we’re gonna get an incoming reverse uno of the buck tommy date only with buck and Tommy running into Eddie on a date with Kim and denying it’s a date only for buck to figure it out (or have been told Eddie was gonna be with Marisol) and pull Eddie up on it aren’t we!!!

[mikichko]

i am so normal coded rn

Brain went brrrrrrrr

Price and the new 141 member getting into an argument. Price is all like if you don't behave ill take you over my knee girl.

She's all like I fucking dare you or you'll have to catch me first or even you don't have the balls.

🫠🫠

i’ve always wanted someone who was super by the book to clash with John “i routinely tell my superiors i’m going to maim/murder/hang them” Price. this gave me the perfect opportunity to do so. 

noncon spanking. abuse of authority. power imbalance. size kink. mean, dom!Price. forced submission.

You have this way of getting under his skin. 

An impossible itch. No matter how many times he picks and prods at his flesh, you worm beneath the dermis, burrowing deep. Sitting pretty against his goddamn bones. Festering. 

Incurable. 

He turns to vice to stem the irritation. Cigars. Whiskey. His hand shoved down his trousers like he's a fuckin' boy and not a man on the wrong side of forty. 

Thinking of you—of breaking that smart mouth of yours on his cock. 

It's the way you saunter around with your head held high, balancing golden eggs on your crown, that irks him something awful. The patronising drawl when you huffily remind him that what he's doing is breaking seven, no, ten, different laws, Price. You can't just do whatever you want, there are rules—

And that's the crux of it. 

A difference of ideas. Experience. You still see the world in shades of black and white. Good and bad. Unwilling to acknowledge that the line between is saturated and blurred. A putrid muck that traps all. Bogish. 

He knew it was a mistake when they sent him your file, asked if he needed the additional help. Hostage negotiator. He's heard of you. By the fucking book. You recite passages like it's gospel, turning printed words into a knife. A terrible fit for a team that works in the pivotal no man's land you claim doesn't exist. 

Yet—

He takes you on. Brings you in. Buries his anger at your fucking gall deep in his chest where it rots. Grows. Swallows down the rage, apoplectic fury, when you undermine him at every opportunity, citing laws and regulations like it's a fucking prayer. 

A calamitous decision, he knows. Terrible. But—

Despite it all, you're good at what you do. Brilliant. A budding rose germinating in fecund soil. You'll grow into something wild, won't you? Something untamed. 

Under his hands, you'll bloom the prettiest. He knows this deep in his bones. But—

“You're breaking the rules, Captain—”

—pedantic little thing, aren't you? 

Obediently following the wrong master. 

It irks him. He's been known to step on the toes of his superior officers for less, caustic words hissing foul from between his teeth. 

But unlike them, you're worth something. Even as the moral antithesis to his utilitarian dogma, he sees your potential. How you can shape this world dangling on a brittle thread if you lay down your senseless principles and follow him. Listen to him. 

But of course, you don't. 

And he supposes he ought to have known better. It's dripping gasoline over an open flame. The sequence of events is easily premeditated, seen, when you refuse to listen to what he says (“it's against the law, Price!”), walking away from him, his team, the mission, and take matters into your own, morally righteous hands. Bringing his underhanded methods to the desk of your superior officer, demanding he be investigated for crimes. The result is a loose warning from someone in a suit several sizes too big for them, and your fury when he pulls you back, has you assigned to another mission with the 141, with himself. Preens at your glower when you march back into his office, into his hands. 

In the fallout, he has no one to blame but himself, really. Anyone could have seen this coming. But the thing about shirking his morality in favour of a better outcome—above all else—is that he doesn't have to. 

And so, he doesn't. 

No. He blames you. 

(How perfect for him, then, that there's no one on base except you and him.)

“If you think I'm not going to report you again if you do something illegal, Price, you're wrong.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at your fucking audacity. 

"Better watch that mouth of yours, Sergeant, or you won't like what happens next." 

His palm itches when you look up, offering him a slow, feline blink. Leonine eyes creasing at the corners. 

"And what is that, sir? I'm just doing my job—" it's whispered breathlessly, all faux professionalism even as jest leaks down your brow. They pinch, then. Drawing together in a mockery of confusion. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?" 

"What is that, mm?" He mocks, arms folding over his chest. He has to breathe through his nose for a moment. Gather himself together before he does something reckless, something like— 

It's the defiant little jut of your chin that does him in. That unravels this fraying knot of control until threads slip through his fingers. Falling too fast for him to clench down on them. 

He's threatened his superiors for far less. His kin, teammates. You have no one to blame but yourself for this, really. No one at all when he pulls his hand from where it's tucked under his armpit, curling rough, worn fingers around your wrist. Pulls you close, wrenching you into his chest until your nose bumps the buckle of his vest. 

"'m'gonna take you over my fuckin' knee, is what's going to happen." 

Your swallow is a gunshot. “You—you wouldn't dare—”

He leans in close, closer still. Breath scorching over your cheek. Preening when you bare your little teeth at him. “Wanna bet on that, Sergeant?” 

It's easier than he would have expected to wrangle you over his knee, pinning you down with an arm across your lower back. The height of his chair keeps your front bent, belly pressed against his thigh. Ass seated perfectly in his lap. Precious gem. 

He hums low in his throat, teeth sinking into the butt of his cigar as he locks you tight against him. Grabbing your wrist, twisting it up behind your back. Holding steady. A warning. 

The dangerous twinge in your bone stills you. 

One wrong move and he'd snap it in half. 

This has you taking a different approach, legs falling limp over the armrest. Head dropping over the other side. Malleable in his grasp—however artificial it is.

“Price—” you breathe, winded. Panic on a spindle. “What are you—what do you think you're doing—?”

He hums, mouth tense around the cigar. Words muffled, slurred. “What I should have done a long time ago.” 

“What—hey!”

Your words pepper off into a choked scream when his other hand falls to the hem of your pants, grabbing the fabric in his fist. The shock fades into indignation. Anger. He tastes it in the air as your hips squirm, legs kicking at nothing. Furious little growls spilling from your lips as you thrash, unconcerned by the ache in your bone. 

“Better keep still, love,” he taunts, mouth curling over his teeth as he twists his hand high, higher, up the small of your back until your fingers brush the skin between your shoulder blades. Any more and he'll break it—

“I'm going to fucking—!” It ends on a whine. A whimper. The pain makes you shiver. “Fuck, fuck—stop, stop, ow, stop—!”

“Not a fan of a little pain then, mm?” 

Your breath is ragged. Paints the air in a fine mist of defeat. He has you. The only option out of this is breaking your bone, a threshold no one is willing to cross. 

Price purses his lips back around the cigar, inhaling once, thrice, before he slips his fingers out of the hem of your trousers, reaching up to take hold of the cigar. It's all so matter-of-fact. So nonchalant when he places it in the ashtray. When he brings his heavy, warm hand back to your ass, curling his fingers beneath the fabric. Pulling. Tugging. 

They come off easier than he'd expected. A harsh tug, and the cleft of your ass is revealed. Plush skin curving enticingly as he rips them down to mid-thigh—panties and all. 

The shock fades back into indignation. You hiss something foul under your breath that makes him huff out a chuckle. 

“Not really in the position for that, are you, love?” 

“Shut up—”

He likes the way you sound like this. Feral. Furious. There's ash in your throat. It blots soot around each word, giving them weight. Gone is the woman who barged into his office, sniffing like you smelled something foul. Backing him into a corner. Sputtering in his face about rules. Regulation. 

Now you're bare-assed, panting, in his lap. Small little fawn in the maw of a bear. But oh, do you fight back—

Teeth bared, indignation bleeding into embarrassment, blotting pink in the whites of your eyes.

The sight is hewn into his hindbrain. 

“Look at you,” he purrs, petting your cheeks. “Been beggin’ to be bent over my knee since you got here, haven't you?” 

“Begging? Don't be—ahh!”

He brings his hand down with a small huff, eyes glued to your flesh. Watching it shake under his hand. The width of one swallowing up an entire cheek. So big is he that you're nearly made infinitesimal in his clutch. The thought makes him groan.

You squirm more in shock than discomfort. Head craning over your shoulder, eyes misting over with tears. Glaring at him. 

“What the fuck, Price!”

He strokes your skin, feeling the heat of your flesh bleed through his palm. Resilient little thing, aren't you? He huffs again, blood buzzing. Electric. There's a kindling fire in his guts. Embers sparking, catching. 

He can't deny how badly he's been wanting to have you like this. Craving your tears, your agony, your submission.

“Count,” he barks out, rough. Abrasive. “You're getting ten. Count ‘em for me, and if you miss one, I'm adding two more.”

“You're crazy, you're—!”

His hand comes down again. The impact shakes the fat of your ass. The strike makes you yowl, thrashing to get away. You don't get very far, still trapped in his hold. The threat of a broken bone keeps you from lashing out too wildly, and all you can really do is sit in his lap, and take it—

The notion has him groaning low in his throat. Something wicked spooling in his veins. Wanting. The sight of you heaving, bare-assed, and begging for mercy unleashes something inside of him. Something primal. Starving. 

Price takes a breath to steady himself, head buzzing. Heart pounding. It feels like the euphoria of nicotine—all bliss, sedation. Ease. 

Cathartic. 

“I said count,” he rasps, words cinder in his chest. Smoke. Dragged up from that burning pyre in his belly. Nocuous, hungry. “That's an order, Sergeant.” 

His hand is scorching against your skin. Thoughts turning over themselves as you hiccup in his lap. So pretty, he thinks, eyes flitting over to you. Taking in the sight of your shock, your denial. It tastes like fine wine on his tongue. Heady. 

“Here comes one—”

“One?”

“I told you, didn't I?” His nail rakes across your skin, cruel. Mean. Something preens when you gasp. Your pain perfuming the air. “M’addin’ two more if you don't count. Thought your speciality was listenin’?”

You scowl, twisting back to level him with an awful sneer. “Oh, fuck you—!”

His hand comes down again, harder this time. Vicious. The scream is tangled in your throat, gagged. He feels pleasure—dark and ugly—bloom in his chest, dripping, liquid, down the length of his spine. The twist of agony on your face is beatific. 

“Not gonna count?” He taunts, pinching your inflamed flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “We're gonna be here all day at this rate, love.”

He leans down, broad chest curling over the small of your back, hand cupped possessively over your cheeks. “But maybe you want that, mm? Maybe all this, mhm, insubordination has just been for show. You wanted this. Wanted to be taken over my knee—”

“You're wrong. I haven't—” it tapers off into a squeak when he pinches your flesh again. 

Price pulls back, breathes shallowly through his nose. 

“You and that smart fuckin' mouth. Told you it was gonna get you in trouble—”

He doesn't wait. His hand rears, and comes down with a loud smack that echoes in the sparse office he has you trapped inside. Your howl races alongside it, curling up the walls. Beautiful in all its agony. 

“Christ—” it's a dagger to his resolve. You sound so fucking good howling like this. Oscillating between feral anger and pain, hissing vitriol between clenched teeth. Choking on sobs. 

The first few are experimental. Testing the waters. Feeling. You're combative during it all. Fighting. Screaming. Each strike is uncounted, echoed only with a plea for help. One he knows won't come—

The only person on base is his Lieutenant. Ghost knows better than to barge in on his affairs. 

“No one's comin’, love,” he grunts, sweat beading along his hairline, dripping down his temple. The room heats along with the blood in his veins, stifling and oppressive. He reinforces each hit with more strength, increasing the tempo until you're screaming on his lap, begging for mercy, mercy, please, please, Price stop, stop—

Your skin raises with each new strike. Swelling. Becoming inflamed. The perfect imprint of his handprint sits on each cheek, edges intumescent. The globes shake, shuddering deliciously under each hit. 

He gets to eleven before you break. Tears streaming down your face, voice a threadbare whisper. Hoarse from screaming. 

His hand rains down, slaps your left cheek so hard it stings his hand. Burns. You whimper. Mewling. Squirming on his lap, and then—

“O–one—”

He grunts, feels himself thicken in his trousers. “Good girl.” 

You shudder, body breaking out in goosebumps. “Price—”

“Ah, ah, love. You're not allowed to speak unless you're counting.”

He hits you again, cock throbbing when you tense up, sniffling. Grinding out a soft two between trembling lips. 

You don't break the way he wants you to. There's a glare on your face despite the tears, the sniffles. A defiance that burns over the bridge of your nose. 

But that's fine. He has eight more strikes to ruin you, doesn't he? 

He sets to it with a low moan, your pelvis pressing taut to his tumid cock, the friction raging in his guts. 

But that, he finds, isn't really the point. No. The pleasure, the arousal, is secondary to the way you fall to pieces at his hand. Flesh stinging his palm with each loud smack that rings out sharply in the room. Uneven breaths. Shuddering little ah-ah-ahs that tumble out through clenched teeth. 

It's addictive, this. Therapeutic. 

There's static in his head. White noise. It renders everything else mute. Moot. Molasses drips down, thick and entrenching, congealing over every churning thought in the back of his head. There's a sense of peace, ease, he hasn't felt in years. In decades. 

He feels his belly knot each time your ass jiggles, skin bulging up from the trauma of being hit so harshly. Chafed under his palm. Welts forming in the shape of his hand. A tattoo you'll have for weeks when he's through with you. Aching each time you try to sit. And fuck—

You'll think of him. Of this. Being taken over his goddamn knee like the bad fucking girl you are. Broken in over his lap. Helpless. Submissive. 

The whimpers fade, replaced with shallow hiccups. Your throat is torn. Raw, ruined, by your screams, yowls. Each rasping whine sends jolts of pleasure down his spine. Liquid want molten in his marrow. 

“S–seven, nngh—”

The moan slips out—scorched, bleached—and drills deep into his loins. 

He peels his gaze away from your blistered skin, glancing at your face, but you duck from his view. Hide. Dropping your head over the armrest. Evading him. 

It's new, this. This meekness. 

You were so combative, so feral before. His gaze rakes down the expanse of your spine, over the curve of your cheeks, before settling, hot and heavy, at the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. You squirm in his lap, thighs sliding together. Rubbing. It's no different from before when he'd spank you, but—

He catches it. 

It glints in the soft light when you move, and he feels something dark, ruinous, curl in the tar-stained fibrils of his chest. Congealing in the crevasses. Hardening. 

Price flicks his tongue out, swiping over his lower lip. The bristles of his beard graze the soft flesh, prickling across it. His throat is suddenly dry. Parched. 

His hand comes down again, notably softer than the other hits he subjected you to. Almost—

Tender. 

This isn't meant to hurt. Not this one. 

He strokes his finger over your skin, cock throbbing with the rasping gasp that spills—a twisted amalgamation of pain, skin still smarting, burning to the touch, and—

His lashes flutter. Nostrils flaring. 

Your slick, wet, between your inner thighs. 

He slides his hand down, down, until your ass cheek is cupped in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger. Nestled tight. A perfect fit. The sight of your skin—soft, so soft—against his bearish, hirsute paw is sickeningly addictive. He grunts, pressing his thumb into the crease between your cheek and thigh. 

“P–Price—”

And then he pulls, moaning deep in his chest as he peels the fat of your ass away, unveiling your cunt to his rapacious gaze. Fuck—

“What’s this?” He taunts, breathless. Pinched. You squirm, trying to press your thighs together. Hiding your pussy from his scorching stare. He doesn't let you. “Gettin’ off on me spankin’ your arse?” 

“N–no, I'm—”

He pushes his thumb up, sliding it over your skin. Gathers your slick on the tip. “Don't lie to me, mm. You're fuckin' soaked.”

The air is punched from his lungs. Spills out in a wretched grunt. In the vacuum, something grows. Knots. Festering inside his chest. Animalistic. Primal. There's an itch in the back of his head. 

He lets go of your arm, knows you won't run. Won't try to escape. No. 

You're a good girl, aren't you? One who does what they're told. Follows orders. It tangles in the soporific slurry of his head, pitching a bivouac of need when you bring your arm down, curling it through the gap of the armrest, holding tight. 

Bracing yourself. 

His hum breaks in his throat. He drags his hand away from your cunt, reaching for the snuffed cigar idling in the ashtray. There's a fever in his veins. It makes his hand tremble. Shake. He needs the blunted drag of nicotine to quench this heady anticipation blooming in his guts. A brumous storm gyring inside him, an incipient maelstrom of want thickening. Intensifying. Threatening to spill over. 

He needs something to steady himself before he tears into you like a beast—

You cock your head over your shoulder, staring at him with eyes drenched in midnight ink. There's a flicker across your tear-stained expression. Something coy. Feline. Leonine. 

There's nothing said. Nothing needs to be. He finds what he's looking for in the fracture of your mien, and scoffs under his breath at your sheer gall. Little fuckin' minx. 

Tobacco proves to be a paltry facsimile when he draws in a bursting mouthful. The restive glow of it dulled under the adrenaline coursing through his veins, heady. Syrupy. A roaring deluge of anticipation broiling in the balmy air, crackling around him like a storm cresting over the horizon. Ozone saturates in the thickening atmosphere. 

Something will break. Shatter. 

He tenses, waiting for the first stormcloud to breach, and drops his hand back to your tender ass. Stroking over the raised welts just to make you gasp. Your hips flex under the shocks of pain riveting down your spine, undulating in his lap. Pitched perfectly over his cock. 

His breath shudders through a needlepoint. The friction is electric. 

In petty retaliation—and just to see you squirm—he trails his knuckles over your heated skin, luxuriating in the way you shiver. Head falling back down over the armrest, beautifully alluring in your vulpine submission. His fingers dip between the cleft of your cheeks, feeling the slickness sticking to your soft, sensitive skin. Soaked between your thighs. Wretched girl. 

His index and middle finger slide over your slit, parting your folds. He feels the small pulses of your drenched hole against his flesh when he slides over it with the press of his fingers. Eager little thing.  

He hums under his breath at the sight of his hand seated across your hand, fingers shoved between the globes of your smarting ass. Soft and tender to worn and gnarled. The cropping of dark hair over his knuckles, his hand, against your bare skin is obscene. The picture of sin with your stricken flesh and his thick veins. The contrast curdled in the back of his head, morphing into something ugly and wanting. 

Idly, he thinks of making you bounce your sore ass on his lap later, your pussy swallowing up his fat cock. Taking it all the way to the root. Over and over again. Breaking you on it until you're begging for mercy, until this little attitude of yours is crushed between his teeth. 

Slick gathers against the rough pads of his fingers, drenching them. The hair on his knuckles is matted down, wet with your arousal. Naughty girl. He'll make you pay for that. 

And for the puddle seeping into his trousers. 

You mewl when he slips, sliding over your clit. The noise spilling molten over your lips, bludgeoning into his loins. 

He drags in another mouthful of smoke. Lets it rot between his teeth as he drops the cigar into the ashtray once more, attention riveting to the slip-slide of your slick thighs rubbing together for friction against your aching clit. Cunt pulsing needily against his hand. 

You haven't learned a damn thing at all, have you? 

Smoke funnels out of his nostrils when he growls. “Spoiled, aren't you? Need to be taught a lesson in respect.” 

“I, ah, am respectful, Captain—” 

He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. This lippiness of yours grates on his nerves. He wants you begging for mercy, limp in his hold. Pretty doll. Waiting obediently for him to put you back together again. Soft and submissive at his heel. 

“Got three more to go, love.” You shiver when he strokes over your ass. Petting gently with wet, tacky fingers. “If you're a good girl and take it for me, I'll play with your pretty cunt, mm. You'd like that, wouldn't you?” 

Price brings his hand down, grunting when you moan out his name. Sharp and needy. Your plaintive posturing is a spark inside a tinderbox. 

“E–eight.” 

The next one is harder, sharper. The force twinges his joints. Rattles through his bone. 

It's unexpected, and the pain makes you yowl, body drawing tight like a bow. There's no pleasure when it's like that. No friction against your cunt. It's just—

“Price—!” You yelp, shrill and distressed. The lead up to this has been child's play. A soft hand to tender a nervous mare. 

His old man taught him to never strike with the whip first but to wean them slowly. 

He waits, humming mockingly to your pettering whimpers as you heave, tremulous, into the air. Shuddering in his grasp at the aftershocks of agony rippling through your body. 

Waits. Waits. And—

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, cooing low and condescending when you gasp, craning your neck to level him with an imploring, pleading stare as you stammer out a frenetic nine in a breathless rush. Tears soak your lashline, clumping them together when you blink through another deluge pooling against the rim. Your lip wobbles. The stream breaks, spilling over. Fresh tears run down your wet, sticky cheeks. 

There's real panic in the whites of your eyes now. That haughty, pedant gleam buried under pyretic desperation. Gone is the coy twist to your lips. The wily little bloom of amusement in your gaze. 

Aw, poor thing. But—

Too late. “You didn't count. You know what that means, love.” 

That knot in his chest unfurls, and leaks acid into his lungs. This want is corrosive. A poison. The sob breaks through your chest. The first thunderclap. He relishes in it. Leans back in his chair to bask in the potency of your unmaking. 

“Good girl,” he husks out, burning lungs spewing black smoke into the air. “Just ten more now, love. Know you can take it for me, can't you?”

Pretty thing. He'll have that haughty attitude snuffed out before the end of the night. Have you begging for his touch, his cock, him, before the sun draws across the horizon. 

Your ruination at his hand. The thought strokes along the kindling smouldering inside of his chest. Burning away at the pyre he's been building since the day he met you. When you looked up at him, pretty in your scorn, and disobeyed his command. Undermined him. So righteous in your fury. A burgeoning flame he wanted nothing more than to snuff out under his heel, and now—

Wide, wet eyes plead with him. “Please, Price. Please, please. I'll be good—I promise I'll be good, sir—”

—ash in the palm of his hand. 

He strokes over your searing flesh, humming softly under his breath. “I know you will, pretty girl—” basks in the hiccup of relief you let out, lets it glue in his ears, echoing over and over again. So sweet. 

He lets your relief live for a moment. Take its first breath of air through aching lungs—

“But I told you, didn't I? That I'd take you over my knee.” Price pats his hand over your cheek, shushing you when you startle, squirming on his lap. 

“Now. Be a good girl and count for me, mm?”

[coconut530]

ok I'm rambling again so yeah. Hello veteran worshippers I'm new :)

I mean, like I knew about Sleep Token, heard The Summoning first in one of my Trigun artist’s Tiktoks, then heard Take Me Back To Eden in a video by the creator of Covenant Webtoon. Listened to those songs for fun sometimes, but then TMBTE got ✨stuck✨ in my head. Then I was like “Live video of TMBTE??? Does it exist?”

And like. Why didn’t I get into this band sooner.

First off here’s The Summoning and TMBTE so you can see my pipeline:

And then THIS RITUAL introduced me to the band, which was FREAKING AMAZING IT’S SUCH A GOOD RECORDING!!

I love their aesthetic, secondly. You don’t see many mysterious bands these days, and these guys deliver so well. Every single member has a distinct and interesting look that's all so cool. I love how the Vesselettes/Espera exist, like that's amazing and I love seeing them. Vessel looks so fun to draw I wanna do it at some point. This is the first band I’ve found that just speaks to my OCs more than other fictional characters. Probably gonna see me animate Dark Signs with one of them soon enough.

Third, like… their lyrics are some of the most creative and evocative things I’ve heard in so long. It kinda sucks they don’t do many interviews bc I’m dying to know what goes through their heads when they write this amazing music. Some of my favorite lyrics are in a list below so you don’t read a gigantic paragraph, and will also show you my favorite songs I’ve found:

Chokehold: Still getting into this one, but "So show me that which I cannot see / Even if it hurts me / Even if I can’t sleep / Oh, and though we act out of our holy duty to be constantly awake / You’ve got me in a chokehold" is a build that always gets me so hyped up

Granite: just found this one, it's so BADASS!! "When you sit there acting like you know me... So keep an eye on the road, or we'll both be here forever" is so freaking awesome. I need like an animated music video that just illustrate the lyrics bc that'd be so cool

Like That: "Fall into your eyes like a grave (all that is inside, all your anger) / Bury me to the sound of your name, no (all your disgust, all your resentment) / Fall into your eyes like a grave (all your difference, all your pain) / Bury me to the sound of your name (all your pain)." There's so much resentment in this song and it's dripping off of these lyrics specifically, it's awesome

Missing Limbs: just found this one also but OMG it made me tear up the first time watching it in the Red Rocks Ritual! It's so sweet and tender, by the time you get to the title at the end you just get punched in the feels. "I'd give anything / To balance your conviction with certainty / To fall asleep without you lying next to me / To sever my connection with everything ... And I'll live like I've got missing limbs for you" IS SO GOOD HURTS MEEEEEEEE

The Summoning: -insert the rest of the song after 5:00- Obviously this is the part everyone uses in their social media posts, and I am not immune to its allure. It’s amazing!

Take Me Back To Eden: -insert the entire second chorus- and "And I don't know what's got its teeth in me / but I'm about to bite back in anger / And no amount of self-sought fury / will bring back the glory of innocence." The way Vessel sings this is so desperate and like enhances the lyrics so much more augh

Aqua Regia: honestly like all of it. The rap-ish style with the creative lyrics is so cool and the imagery of it all is so vivid. I love how the second chorus builds with the verse. It has such a steady, pungent rhythm that's so fun to sing

Rain: "I know, I know, I am what I am / The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb / So darling, will you saturate? / -second chorus-." I love the opposites in this verse, so interesting. The chorus has that yearning (tm) and I'm all here for ittttttt

The Night Does Not Belong To God: "When you live by daylight / With angels at your side." It's literally two lines but after the beautiful build that intros the song and his angelic voice, it does something to you

Dark Signs: I melt into a puddle every time I hear "I might break and bend to my basic need to be loved and close to somebody." The line is evocative enough just hearing it once, but making it a backing vocal that’s always playing just makes it punch you over and over. All the beat drops in this song are amazing

Atlantic: EVERY FREAKING WORD AND NOTE IN THIS SONG

I need y'all to like... hear Atlantic at Red Rocks specifically (cw: flashing):

This is the main reason I made this post bc... LIKE EVERYONE NEEDS TO HEAR THIS HELLO?!?!?!?!?!?!?!! This version is so amazing I barely listen to the studio version. "Sobbing as they turn to statues at the bedside / I'm trying not to crush into sand." I can't tell you what exactly but this makes me feel things. "Call me when they bury bodies underwater / It's blue light over murder for me / Crumble like a temple built from future daughters / To wastelands when the oceans recede" is a phenomenal verse and I've never felt more connected to the ocean when I hear it. The piano, the vocals, the instruments, the venue, II singing at the end, the vesselettes, the lights. Oh my god. The outro. Soothing and angelic omggggg. That beat drop?!?!?! ✨ w h a t ✨ . They've put an addictive substance into every one of their songs but this one is like an overdose. Can't get anything done all I'm thinking about is this -flails hands at video-. Vessel is literally a vessel in this song bc whatever entities the band made a deal with to have music this good are singing through him here.

And like the fourth thing. By now listening to all these songs may have made you realize:

what can’t they do?!?! Their music just goes into so many different genres sometimes and it’s amazing. Never heard a band this versatile.

Uh, yeah. That's been my experience with Sleep Token so far, and I am so normal about them, as you can see :D !!!!! Excited to be into them and this community. Any of my followers reading this who don't know who they are, go check them out, they're freaking amazing. They will change you.

[starshideyourfics]

You Ahh Sooooo Byuootifuh

Hey, you’ve got Robin. Or I guess you don’t, really. If this is important text me, but you can leave a message and I’ll get back to you eventually. Unless you’re my mom, then probably sooner! BEEP.

“Rob-biiiiihhnnn! Where are you? There’s a hah guy shtanding ow-side my room, and I don’ know where I am. I need you here, Robbie. Yuhv gotta hehp me! I’m gonna say somethin’ shtupid and ‘mbarrass mysel’ in front of the hod guy. Robin, come save meeeeeeee!”

“He’s probably going to be a little confused,” the nurse tells Eddie as she hands him all the aftercare instructions and the prescription to take down to the pharmacy for Steve’s after-procedure painkillers. “When we moved him, I don’t think he realized he’d already gone under because he asked if the operation was happening in another room.”

Eddie nods, biting his lip to hold back a laugh as he gives the papers a cursory glance. He peeks into the room and sees Steve holding his phone in front of his face and mumbling, eyes furtively moving back and forth between the screen and the doorway. “But he’s okay otherwise, right? Everything went fine with his teeth?”

The nurse, Kathy—Eddie reads her name on her badge—smiles, shaking out her graying bob. “Yes, all smooth sailing the whole way through. Turns out his upper wisdom teeth were only partially impacted so it was even easier than the doctor anticipated. But he’s still going to be pretty uncomfortable for the next couple days, and he shouldn’t eat anything that makes a sound when he bites into it for about a week.”

“Got it. And thank you, Steve is terrible at being a patient, so I hope he didn’t give you any trouble.”

“He’s been very sweet, if a little loopy. Kept asking if Robin was coming, so I hope you know who that is,” Kathy says, a little conspiratorially at the end as her voice drops low.

“Yeah, she’s his best friend. I think Robin’s seen him sick more often than I have.” Eddie gives a little half shrug and nods towards the door and by extension Steve. “Anything else I should know?”

“I don’t think so. As soon as he’s able to walk out of here he’s ready to go.” She thinks for a second, and pushes her cat-eye glasses up on her head. “He really is just going to be disoriented and probably emotional for about an hour, so be ready for that. And depending on how he’ll take it afterwards, you might want to film him. If only so he can see how he was acting.”

“I’ll take that under advisement. Thanks, Kathy,” he says with a wink, before heading into Steve’s recovery room. Steve will pretend to be annoyed at having any of this filmed but he’ll find it funny after enough time passes, so Eddie keeps his hand hovered over where his phone sits in his pocket. If nothing else, he owes Robin a visual since he’s sure Steve has already sent her some absolutely incoherent texts.

As Eddie enters the room, Steve’s eyes are wide and glued to him, his expression confused and mistrustful, like he doesn’t recognize the man he’s known for years. Hoping it is just Steve forgetting that Robin no longer accompanies him to every appointment in his life, Eddie keeps his voice gentle and asks, “Ready to go home?”

Steve presses his phone against his chest and curls in on himself, still staring Eddie down. His cheeks are swollen, and he can’t quite close his mouth so a bit of drool has escaped from one corner. Still, he manages to ask, “Where’s Robin?”

“At work, like you would be if you didn’t need minor surgery. Do you remember me bringing you to your appointment this morning?” Eddie is a little worried at just how confused Steve is. He sets the aftercare papers on the chair by the door, no longer thinking this will be a quick process. Maybe he should have asked Kathy if Steve’s history of concussions might be making this worse…

“So, you’re one of Robin’s friends?” Steve asks, sounding slightly less apprehensive.

Eddie can’t help shooting Steve a confused look of his own, blinking a few times and holding his tongue between his lips. How does he even respond to that? He decides for a moment to play along, “Yeah, I’m one of Robin’s friends.” Not even a lie; he and Robin have been friends for years, and not solely because of their connection to Steve. He also very slowly retrieves his phone from his pocket and opens the camera, hitting record.

Knowing Robin is clearly good enough for Steve since he relaxes, and closes his eyes. “Okay, but you’re sooooo pretty. Robin knows better than to bring her pretty friends around. She knows!”

Eddie bites back a chuckle. “Aww, you think I’m pretty Steve?”

Steve throws an arm across his eyes, blushing furiously. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. That wasn’t supposed to be out loud!” Steve moans, “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and I’m this!” He gestures to his cheeks, bruises already forming. “How am I supposed to talk to you ever again after this!”

Eddie laughs, floored that Steve both has no idea who he is talking to and that he’s so upset over not being in peak condition to hit on him. “Steve, baby, we’re married,” he soothes. “You already locked this down,” he adds with a gesture to himself, leather jacket over Zeppelin shirt down to his ripped black jeans.

Eyes bugging out, Steve struggles to push himself into a sitting position. Swinging his legs over so his stockinged feet can touch the floor, he leans forward just a bit. His mouth hangs open even more, and Eddie can finally see that it isn’t all swelling in his cheeks, his mouth is still stuffed with bloody gauze. “No way,” Steve says, very pointedly looking up and down the length of Eddie’s body.

Holding up his left hand, Eddie wiggles his ring finger, drawing attention to the gold band there, the way it stands out from the bulky silver rings he’s worn since high school. “I promise, we are.” This makes Steve lift his own left hand, and he marvels at the matching gold band on his own finger. “Do you want me to call Robin? Or Dustin? They both were at the wedding,” Eddie offers, wanting to reassure Steve as much as possible until his own memories come back. If they come back…

Eddie’s never heard of anyone suffering from permanent memory loss after anesthesia, but at least loopy Steve is still very into him. Taking a couple steps closer, he holds his hand out to Steve. “Think you can stand up, Sweetheart? I don’t know how long the Novocaine is supposed to last, and I can’t give you painkillers if we don’t have them. Your nurse said you were fine to leave once you can get up and walk, so how about it?”

Tentatively, Steve takes Eddie’s offered hand. Instead of holding it, he examines the fingers, pressing their palms flat together, running the pads of his fingertips along the callouses on Eddie’s. His face screws up in concentration before saying, “You play guitar.” It isn’t a question and the surety of the statement sends a rush of relief through Eddie’s entire body. He stops recording on his phone and slips it into his pocket. This is more than enough evidence of Steve being completely out of it.

“I do. In a band.”

Steve nods, then looks down and wriggles his toes. “Do you have my shoes?”

Eddie points to where they are sitting under the recovery bed. “Do you want help getting them on?” Steve nods again, and Eddie drops to his knees, untying the shoelaces and pulling the tongues forward. He holds one after the other for Steve to slide his foot inside, setting each on his own thigh to tie the laces before placing his husband’s shod feet on the floor. He gets back up to his feet and sticks his hand back out to Steve. “Ready to go?”

“M'thirsty,” Steve groans, taking Eddie’s hand and pulling himself up. He wobbles on unstable legs, but Eddie instinctively grabs Steve around the waist to steady him. This makes it very easy for Steve to turn into Eddie’s chest, leaning their heads together. “My mouth feels weird,” he mumbles.

“That’s because you had your wisdom teeth cut out of your jaw. It’s honestly a miracle you made it this long without getting them removed.” Eddie brings a hand up to stroke over Steve’s cheek. “We’ll check with Kathy about how long you should keep the gauze in, but I’m sure it can’t be too long.”

“Who’s Kathy?” Steve clutches at Eddie’s shirt. “Eds, am I supposed to know who Kathy is?”

“She’s your nurse,” Eddie says with a smile. “I’m just glad you remember my name now,” he adds before pressing a kiss to the side of Steve’s head.

Steve preens at the kiss, as much as he can when he feels terrible and can’t close his mouth all the way. He wraps his arms around Eddie’s chest, stalling out their progress at leaving the recovery room, but Eddie is just glad he’s cuddly and needy instead of completely disoriented. Eddie rubs soothing circles on Steve’s back, letting his husband sag against him for a long moment. Then he whispers, “Ready to try walking again?”

“Okay,” Steve answers in a whisper.

Steve lets Eddie manhandle him around until he has an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, while Eddie’s arm is snaked around his waist. Eddie picks up Steve’s aftercare instructions, and leads him out the door. He spots Kathy at the nurse’s station and waves her over.

“I’m sure it’s in here somewhere,” Eddie starts, holding up the papers, “but how long should Steve keep the gauze in his mouth?”

“Oh, crap!” Kathy exclaims, pulling down her glasses and settling them on the bridge of her nose. “He should already have it out. We like to make sure everything has clotted properly before sending you on your way, and the gauze could dislodge the clots and start you bleeding all over again.” She’s fully focused on Steve as she says it, taking his hand and leading him over to the nurse’s station, Steve still firmly attached to Eddie as they walk.

Kathy grabs a pair of gloves and pulls them on, then gently guides Steve to open his mouth. She peers inside, reaching in without further preamble and delicately pulls out the wads of gauze from each side of his mouth, the white cotton stained red and pink. Holding them in a gloved fist, she pulls off the glove, turning it inside out and trapping it, before transferring the whole thing to her other hand and repeating the process. She tosses all of it into a red biohazard bin, and looks into Steve’s mouth one last time. “Do you taste blood, Steve?”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head and slow swipe of his tongue around his mouth. He keeps moving his tongue, sticky from dehydration, like a dog licking at peanut butter. “Am I allowed to drink anything yet?”

“Of course!” Kathy goes to get him a cup of water. “No straws for the next few days, and nothing too hot, but you can drink as much as you need.”

Steve downs the water and thanks Kathy. Eddie does as well, and with a wave he steers Steve to the elevators. They make it down to the pharmacy where Eddie gets the prescription filled, leaving Steve to sit on one of the waiting room chairs, and coming back to him with a bottle of Vicodin, an antibacterial mouth rinse, and a special hooked syringe for irrigating the stitched sockets in the back of Steve’s jaw.

Getting Steve into the car takes a minute since he keeps trying to step in with the wrong foot first, and Eddie finally folds him into the seat and moves his legs into the footwell after. Steve manages to buckle his own seatbelt and holds onto all of his papers and the bag with his prescriptions, but on the drive home he panics and starts crying over how numb his tongue still feels. “What if I swallow it?” he wails. “I can’t feel it, how am I supposed to keep it in my mouth?”

“You aren’t going to swallow your tongue,” Eddie says, trying to be as reassuring as possible while also driving safely. “Take deep breaths, baby. You are going to be just fine. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”

By the time Eddie pulls into their driveway, Steve has calmed down. He’s still loose-limbed and loopy, but more coordinated than before, and he walks inside the house entirely under his own power. He even takes off his own shoes, untying the laces and leaning hard against the wall as he toes out of them. Eddie follows behind Steve as they go upstairs, ready to catch him if he loses his balance, but he makes it to the top of the staircase just fine.

Eddie helps Steve change into his pajamas. “Okay, I’m giving you a pre-emptive painkiller, and then you are taking a nap. Hopefully you can sleep off the rest of the anesthesia and you’ll feel more like yourself when you wake up.” He sits Steve on the side of their bed, and goes to get water from the bathroom, leaving all of Steve’s aftercare stuff in there after shaking a single pill out of the little amber bottle.

Steve takes the Vicodin and drinks all of the water, asking Eddie for a refill right away. Of course he’s still thirsty, he wasn’t supposed to drink anything in the hours before his surgery in addition to not having food since the night before. Eddie brings him more water, and that gets drained, too, which turns into one more trip to the bathroom so Steve can have the cup waiting on the nightstand for when he wakes up.

Sliding under the covers, Steve reaches out and grabs Eddie’s shirt. “Stay,” he whines, “please, Eddie. Need you here.”

Eddie acquiesces, still in his jeans and t-shirt, as he gets in on his own side of the bed. He spoons up behind Steve, hand resting low on his husband’s abdomen. Steve scoots back, pressing his body tight to Eddie’s, and raising a hand to run through his curls. Kissing the side of Steve's head, Eddie smiles and asks, “So, am I still the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen?” barely teasing. The actual teasing will come later, most likely courtesy of Robin when he shows her the video from the hospital.

“Yes,” Steve answers, completely earnest. “You’re beautiful and pretty, and so fucking hot. I love you, Eds.”

“Love you too, Stevie.”

Then Steve grinds his ass back into Eddie’s crotch. “Want you, baby,” he says, with a breathy little moan, “Wanna make a baby with you.”

Groaning, Eddie cants his hips away from Steve, hand going to hold his husband’s hips in place so he can’t chase after him. He was not expecting horny Steve to show up this soon post-surgery. “Steve, we can’t have sex, not right now. You aren’t supposed to do any vigorous activity for forty-eight hours.”

Steve sighs, and even without being able to see his face, Eddie knows he’s pouting. “That’s dumb,” Steve says. “Besides, it doesn’t have to be vigorous activity. I just wanna make a baby with you. Make a pretty baby with my pretty husband.”

“How about we take a nap now, and when you’re not coming down from honestly a pretty powerful high, we can talk about all the baby-making you want to do?” Eddie asks, his own eyes closed. He and Steve have talked about kids in the past, decided that they’re happy waiting with how many teenagers they halfway raised already. But this doesn’t feel the same as the dirty talk and kinks Steve leans into when they have sex. This sounds like Steve wanting something impossible on top of wanting a baby.

Steve doesn’t answer, just takes Eddie’s hand off his hip, and returns it to rest over his belly. He leans back, entwining their legs together, and hums. Steve’s breathing slows, evening out, and then Eddie hears Steve whisper, “Beautiful. Beautiful Eddie.” as he falls asleep.

Steve and Eddie both wake up to voicemails from Robin, absolutely cackling over all of Steve’s messages, and promising to swing by later with ice cream.

Blushing as Eddie kisses his neck from behind, arms wrapped around him, Steve asks, “Can we put off any further baby discussion until tomorrow? Or forever?”

Eddie laughs. “Tomorrow. I can even promise that I won’t tell Robin about that part.”

Turning in Eddie’s arms, Steve looks like he swallowed a bug, only just realizing how much he already shared with Robin while he was high from the anesthesia. “Fuck,” he mutters, burying his face in Eddie’s shoulder. “This is going to be a long night.”

Also on ao3!

[enevera]

psychic ice (/affectionate) ghost water grass and a little bit of fairy but like,,,,u just aren’t threatening at all it’s hard to explain SKDJSKDJDJ <33333 i think it’s the jjk radioactivity

psychic - i wish i could hug u you’re the sweetest person i know

hugging u RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!! hugging huggingggg

ice - you kind of need therapy i’d take you if u need

this is gonna become a running gag give it a bit jsjdjd

ghost - i wish i could hold your hand you’re so kind

<333333333333333 yes!!! okee so either we hold hands and hug at the same time and i twist your arm oopsie OR we hold hands and swing them btwn us while going to get ice cream there’s no in between kkskdn

water - sometimes i think you’re ready to bite me at all times

i am a biting mutuallllllllll!!!!! CHOMP!!!!!! >:D

grass - you deserve just. so much more attention. you’re so good?

i am little puddle oh noooooooooooooo o///o the mutuals are too niceeeeeeee to meeeeeeee

fairy - you kind of scare me… in a friend way (affectionate)

you’re right tho i would have to work to scare a mouse jsjdndhhdbd

ask game!!