#readers beware

[confused-red-head]

Im TOTALLY not crying over what I have planned for The Novice's Guide to Magicks and Metamorphosis at 3 am! Totally not!🫠🫠🫠🫠

[twsted-outro]

POV: someone records your husband (and nonbiological son grim) shopping for holidays dinner and uploads it to magictok (ruggie, jade, floyd, sebek)

"me, my amazing husband, and our ugly ass cat-son" (Y/N) probably

merry christmas or whatever the equivalent it is in twst

OG tiktok by @/trentos_freshmaker

[teddybeartoji]

18+ mdni; gn!reader

with a hand on the back of your head and another holding your throat, nanami curses under his breath, the sight of you gagging around his cock so filthy that the usually composed man has his knees threatening to buckle from underneath him. 

sweat trickles from the side of his face and there’s a deep shade of blush spread across his nose and cheeks, hiding the freckles you love so much. even the tips of his ears burn, the pleasure blooming everywhere under his skin as he rocks his hips against your face. the first buttons of his dress shirt are undone, a few hickeys already starting to darken on his skin from you nipping at him before dropping to your knees. he’s been working so very hard, and you just want him to let off a little steam – he just needs a bit of a push sometimes. 

so with you sat on his lap, sucking on his earlobe while pleading for him to take a break, it was impossible for him to say no. how could he when he’s got an angel in his arms, playing with his hair and kissing his neck ever so sweetly – he’s a weaker man than he thinks. 

when you slithered down between his thighs and stared up at him with big, hungry eyes, he found himself loosening his tie, his mind already beginning to cloud with the nastiest thoughts. 

ghosting your fingers over the growing bulge in his slacks, you rested your head against his thigh with a mischievous smile etched onto your lips. “c’mon, ken… i want to make you feel good.”

your words come out as a purr, as a siren’s call – you always have been a little tease, always the one to make him break and crumble. 

so here he finds himself now – slacks pooling around his ankles and the hem of his shirt caught between his teeth, trying his utmost best not to fill your mouth with cum after the first ten minutes like some damn teenager. his hair is a fucking mess, dusty blonde strands falling over his forehead no matter how many times he tries to push them back. he’s given up on it now, realizing that there are better things to be doing with his hands – the one on the back of your head, protects you from knocking against the wooden cupboard while the other rests on your neck, marveling the way his cock slides up and down your throat. 

it’s mesmerizing, the feeling of the bulge under the palm of his shaky hand. he’s in there, filling you up like nothing else and it’s the hottest fucking thing in the world. 

his pace is slow and steady, every roll of his hips has your nose nuzzling into his pubes, your chin pressing against his heavy balls. drool trickles from the corners of your mouth and it’s a sight to behold – it dribbles all the way down onto your thighs and from there on onto the floor and nanami can’t help but feel the coil in his stomach tighten faster than ever. you’re the only one that makes him feel like this, who manages to mold him to your own liking all while being down on your knees. 

the tip of your tongue tickles his balls and the growl he lets out makes you clench your thighs together. his shirt falls from between his teeth and he rushes to undo the rest of the buttons, desperate to get the material off of him, so he can give you his full attention once more. it’s exciting to see him this needy. 

you try to look up at him with him still down your throat and as a reward, he moves to stroke your cheek with his thumb. “you’re– you’re doing so good for me, darling.” 

his voice is raspier than ever and the praise that tumbles from his bitten lips has you moaning around his cock. his vision goes blurry for a moment as the pleasure overwhelms his senses. you’re something else. 

you’re fucking perfect. 

the ache in your knees fades in your mind as you get to watch him unravel above you. his strokes become more languid; he pulls out only a little before pushing back in, his tip reaching deeper and deeper with every thrust he makes. he wants to stay inside you, he wants to stay there forever. 

squirming below him, you screw your eyes shut and try to focus on your breathing – but as he stays slotted deep down your throat, it’s getting harder and harder and you can’t hold back the few tears that have been brimming at your lashline.

“f–fuck, i’m sorry, sweetheart… i– “

he feels you struggling, but doesn’t pull out even an inch, only grinding his hips into your face as if he was fucking your tight little hole instead. you claw at the backs of his thighs, your nails marking up his sensitive skin as you gag around him. but nanami’s mindful not to go too far, to make sure that he wouldn’t miss the moment your scratching should turn into tapping instead. as much as he’s enjoying himself, he’d rather die than to hurt you.

he waits for your signal but when it doesn’t come, he presses himself even further down your throat, moaning loudly when you gag around him. his blonde pubes stick to your skin, your spit acting as glue between you. 

your mouth is so fucking warm and tight and, fuck– the obscene sounds that fill his ears are making him lose his mind. you feel divine and it has him wondering what ever did he do to deserve a lover like you. 

all it takes is two pats against his thighs and he’s pulling away, his eyes locked onto your face as you gasp for air. crystalline droplets brim in the corners of your eyes and run over the apples of your cheeks, leaving behind salty remainders of your hard work. your lips are swollen and covered in a mixture of his precum and your own spit. trying to catch your breath, you take a moment before looking back up at him. 

the way his lips part in a silent groan the second you make eye-contact, his chest rising and falling as he strokes his fat cock right in front of your face. there’s still a strand of spit connecting the two of you, from your lips to his tip, and nanami wants to hate how big of an effect such a small thing can have on him. it’s romantic. 

you look ruined. 

he thinks you look absolutely fucking beautiful.

leaning down, he presses a fiery kiss to your lips as a thank you, as another form of praise. he loves the way you taste and they way you feel against him. 

you breathe into his mouth. “more…” 

nanami squeezes his fist around his base, another groan falling from him as he pulls away from you. the grin on your face, the hearts in your eyes and the love pooling on your tongue are more than enough to have him taking in a sharp intake of air – you reach out to him, gentle fingers wrapping around his way bigger ones as you guide him back to your mouth. your heavenly lips. 

as embarrassing as it is, it only takes another few minutes for him to cum down your throat with a loud, deep groan. he holds your neck just as before, feeling the way his own cock twitches inside of you as he gives you his all. 

there’s so much of it that despite you swallowing around him a couple of times, it still pours out from the corners of your mouth, turning you into an even bigger mess than before. but it’s not like you mind – this is exactly what you wanted in the first place. he’s panting like a dog above you, face red as a tomato as he bucks his hips into your mouth one last time. 

the sound that leaves his lips as he finally pulls out resembles a whimper and he lets out a sheepish chuckle, a bit flustered that you managed to pull that out of him. but then again…

it is you. 

his beloved, his love – the one who knows him the best, the one who knows what he needs without ever having to ask. you read him like an open book and he couldn't be more grateful. you're more than he could've asked for. hoped for.

and he loves you.

[m6rija]

⟡ ⠀teaser⠀⠀⊹⠀⠀ jiaoqiu, hoshinas, jouno, hyoga, pantalone & you

gn reader who finds teasing their partner endearing. minor kn8 spoilers. hyoga is soft, jouno is possesive, might be a tad suggestive for soshiro. written before the snezhnaya release.

jiaoqiu

it was common to see the two of you together in the kitchen, discussing delightful flavors and intricate recipes. your relationship was cemented by the wide culinary world, and you considered your relationship a serendipity brought on by that world— who knew that an acclaimed chef and a healer would end up together?

at least that's how it was for him, as you were keenly aware of those little words and actions you did just to mildly annoy your colleague, who saw these as simple tests put on your part for him to solve. something you ultimately used to your advantage to get jiaoqiu in your hands, who wouldn't complain.

lately, however, this dynamic would have begun to wane, after finding your partner unable to see you.

perhaps you were afraid that your monotone tone would not give away that it was a joke when you said something to him, in the absence of your face grimacing in amusement.

but the one with vulpine features was smart, and was aware of your change in behavior.

“i can feel you, your gaze on me." a soft smile would remain on his face as the man did something in the kitchen.

“you could hurt yourself cooking." you noticed his ears perk up, attentive to what you were saying.

he would tilt his head to the side, as he continued to do his thing in the kitchen. "you didn't used to be like this."

"it's normal for me to worry about you, it would be very cruel for me to switch the spices around or something." you crossed your arms, annoyance and confusion of the hand on your head.

“i wouldn't mind.”

“hah?” you frowned, taking one of the spices containers in your hand to then place it somewhere else— just for him to hear, as you would soon return it to its place silently.

“that's my spouse.” he cooed softly, velvety.

at that, you would form a thin line with your lips, while your hands took another container to this time —for real— change it completely. “i bet you won't be able to find them.”

your cheeks were slowly getting red, a small smile forming in your face.

“are you sure about that?”

“completely.” you laughed.

regardless of what happened, you'd give your partner a hand. after playing with him a little, maybe.

soshiro

separated by divisions, it was not particularly well known that a cadet from the sixth division maintained a relationship with the acclaimed vice captain of the third division. perhaps everyone thought that he would not get along particularly well with the members of the unit led by his older brother.

however, your closeness with soshiro would not go unnoticed by the observant new members of the third division— who watched attentively as, with a smile, you spoke to hoshina while keeping a distinctly short distance.

“it wouldn't be such a big deal if everyone knew” you commented, taking your food between chopsticks, sitting next to him. “i mean, i know you like to be discreet, but come on, it's been a long time.”

"y'know my position on workplace relationships" he sighed, eyes on yours "besides, it's not something that's inherent."

"oh, then you'd be very afraid that at this very moment i might kiss you, aren't you?" you laughed softly, aware of the curious glances the two of you had begun to catch since you sat down together.

the narrow-eyed one remained silent, though that trademark grin of his would not twist at any moment. even, he widened it to such an extent that one of his fangs peeked over his lower lip.

“we both know ya won't, sweetheart.”

you leaned in just barely, noses almost brushing and breaths colliding, intent on intimidating your partner. “are you afraid of cadets watching us kiss? you sound like a child, soshiro.”

though your breath was stolen in the second as the man would sink his fingers through your hair and pull you closer to him, finally bringing your lips together in a soft but steamy kiss, in which he would make sure to bite your bottom lip with his fangs a couple of times; culminating in laughing at your surprised expression.

“don't think i'll go easy on you, you've earned it.”

you were about to complain, but hoshina had left his seat.

“hey!” you called out to him, regardless of the heads you managed to turn at the scene the two of you were starring in— personally you didn't care what they thought, but you feared what soshiro would have in mind for you after this.

“see you in my office this afternoon, cadet.” he smiled at you as he walked away.

soichiro

the most famous, new and intriguing topic of the sixth division would be how a cadet who had just joined the division began to climb the ranks from one day to the next. it was said that they came from the third division, and that this person was the new dispute between the hoshina— they were arguing about “who could handle your military strength better” or something like that the members of both divisions imagined, since it was uncertain why the brothers mentioned you when they were discussing.

but it would be when soichiro would call you to his office that some cadets would approach the said space with the intention of listening to the conversation between you, curious even though they knew very well that what they were doing was an improper act and if they were caught by someone of high rank perhaps their jobs would be at risk.

“did i end up being a toy for you?” you would start, in a calm voice despite what you implied with your words. “it's not nice to wake up every day to messages from your brother, you know?”

“my brother talks to you more than he talks to me…?” a soft, comical tear would slide down one of the cheeks of the white-stranded one, who would cover his face as if his heart had broken.

“i've treated him better than you, it's only natural.” that was like a shot to the captain's chest, and his head was now buried in the surface of the table.

you would bring your hand to the man's hair and walk it over it with a certain delicacy, as if you were caressing a swallow. “but i have already made up my mind, and for that i would like to remain in the sixth division.”

soichiro would lift his head expectantly, your fingers now entwining through the loose hair on his forehead.

“i would like to be your spouse.” you stated confidently, looking attentively at the person in front of you.

it was a long few months of bickering. you had been arranged to marry the eldest hoshina— you were no more than a colleague the brothers knew and yet the youngest was completely opposed to the idea that one of his most valued cadets would be his older brother's spouse. in the end the brothers would end up fighting over your hand and it would be you who would decide who to marry, at their request.

“but it will be you who will inform soshiro of this.”

you watched as another faint tear slid down his face, and you were amused at the effect his poor relationship with his younger brother had on him.

jouno

a relationship as thorny as the people in it, members of the hunting dogs and with fangs as sharp as cobra— jouno and you shared similar tastes, habits and behaviors that isolated you from the rest of the group. sadistic, the criminals you caught would hang on to the thread of their lives while begging not to be disposed of.

it was easy to speculate that this facade was nothing more than something constructed for the job you had. but that couldn't be further from the truth, for your colleagues knew perfectly well that this behavior was your crude personalities.

as well as when his hand would sink to your hip as you whispered dirty lies in his ear in a low tone, bitter comments just to play with your boyfriend's jealous nature. his muscles would tense and his smile would become forced as he felt your body press against his, your hands placing themselves with tenuous delicacy on one of his shoulders to direct your lips to his ear— you were aware of how much he hated to hear another man's name slipping out of your mouth.

you were playing with fire, you knew it perfectly.

oh, but how you loved to do it.

you were returning from a mission you had been assigned with tecchou: your planning and implacable intelligence were the key to victory, while your colleague's strength and agility were indispensable when it came to fighting those against you.

you praised the brown-stranded man's assistance like a sugar-coated mantra— your ears were used to being drowned out by nasty opinions about him, so it was a pleasant surprise to find that he was just a simple man who exasperated your boyfriend.

however, that you sat at the meeting table next to him, shared smiles together with him and looked at him with such affection would cause jouno to give you a certainly bitter expression. and not only to you, but to tecchou as well.

“someone's in a bad mood” you whispered to the one who had taken a seat next to you, covering a soft chuckle that escaped your lips with one of your hands.

you were doing it on purpose, and jouno should be used to your antics by now— but it seemed he still wasn't, not at all. “it's only natural. i thought i told you i didn't like you doing that.”

“what thing?” you played innocent, noticing how jouno felt you lean into the man next to you. “see? he does this kind of thing often.”

“you should stop treating your partner like this.” commented tecchou, face showing almost complete disinterest in the conversation. to him, as well as the rest of your coworkers, it was obvious that you were simply toying with jouno, and it was best not to pry too much.

“i won't take the word of someone like you. stay out of other people's relationships.” growled back jouno, almost immediately.

“don't treat tecchou like that, sai.” you shook your hand, then placing it on one of the opaque-haired one's shoulders. you had drawn a pout, looking at your partner almost as if you were begging him. “he's just being a good friend, he's not as bad as you think.”

with his brow furrowed, he would let his head rest on his arm propped on the wooden table. “your next missions will be only with me. i don't want to see you alongside people like him.”

no matter how much you complained, certainly, you would only get a chance to be with tecchou in group activities. jouno was serious about taking care of what belonged to him.

hyoga

your hand was sinking into the pale hair of the man sitting next to you— quietly enjoying his meal, you watched him with a playful smile on your face. you didn't expect the most reserved man of all the people on board to confess anything about his relationship with you.

he had mentioned something to you about it being inherent if he wanted to depetrify you: probably someone would ask something about how you knew each other, since no one had ever seen you together— you had joined the kingdom of science as a double-faced agent but no one was aware of it, not even gen himself, who usually meddles in other people's business.

you didn't quite know why they hadn't brought you back to life before, but they probably would eventually regardless of whether hyoga said anything or not.

“were you so eager to see me that you couldn't wait a little longer?” you laughed, watching as his brow furrowed slightly. “surely they were waiting for a more suitable time to wake me up. i'm a warrior too, you realize?”

you would lean back against one of his shoulders, his plush garment kissing the exposed skin of your neck and face ever so gently— without expecting for him to comment any further.

“you are precious to me.” you heard, soft enough to be almost lost amidst the sound of waves crashing against wood.

you'd lift your head to look at him, completely surprised. it was rare that he would allow himself to say such gentle things, and it seemed that tonight he was in a particularly good mood.

“i can't believe i'm that important to hyoga.” you commented loudly, audible enough for people nearby to hear, and your partner's ears colored a soft red as he sank his face into his food to ignore what you were doing.

“ah, if only he would say it more often so i wouldn't doubt so much…”

“i love you.”

it was fleeting, but your heart stopped in that split second. you'd let out a smile followed by a laugh, watching as he buried his face under his mask after finishing his meal.

“make a wish, hyoga is being romantic!”

“he looked like a serious guy when we fought. i see he's someone weak in front of the people he loves.” moz commented with a chuckle, receiving a threatening look from the taller one.

the truth is, he was thinking about the uncertainty that followed his trip to america, and how deeply afraid he was of losing you.

so he decided it would be best to make it clear how he felt about you rather than regret not having done so.

pantalone

who would have thought that a simple designer would be deeply involved with the fatui. your workspace was nothing more than a small location on the cold snezhnaya, a cozy place that greeted with countless outfits and garments meticulously constructed with each of your clients' preferences in mind.

sunk among fabrics, intricate stitching and refined patterns, it had become complex for you to notice that a hand had taken place on one of your shoulders— the pressure it applied being so gentle and delicate. it was the scent of a cologne that would cause your concentration to waver and consequently you would notice the weight at your side.

upon verifying who it was after turning your head, you would turn off your sewing machine and leave your seat behind to properly greet the person now in front of you. “good evening, sir.”

his laugh, low but melodious, was the prelude to a warm-looking smile. “good evening, sweetheart.” he would then express his curiosity at how formally you were addressing him, despite being in a private space.

you would comment that the walls were thin— perhaps one of your staff could hear more than they should.

with your short steps accompanying your calm tone, you lifted with your hands the piece that the regrator must have come for. it was a suit of dark shades adorned with silver details, of a clean finish and stunning appearance.

“it's a shame not to be able to participate in such luxurious events” you remarked, the man in front of you paying attention to the attire that now rested in his hands.

your greatest pleasure has always been to see your clients wearing the pieces you worked for so long— you have never had the opportunity to see pantalone wearing any of them despite being his designer of choice, partially because he only commissioned things for specific events you could not attend.

“i've offered you several invitations and your response has been the same.” his smile never wavered, his eyes now fixed on you attentively.

you sighed, softly. “events organized for prestigious individuals are not my place.” you recited as usual the same words you used to decline his invitations.

you rested one of your hands on the edge of a desk made up of dark wood, fabric scraps hugging your fingers.

“it would be improper to question the guests of a harbinger.” the dark-haired one would mention that as he approached you.

“the regrator is bringing a mere designer as a guest? it wouldn't look appropriate.”

“it's you we're talking about” his distance was short enough that you felt trapped between his figure and the desk bathed in fabrics. “promoted by the fatui— the most renowned designer in snezhnaya. even remarkable people from other nations come to you, don't they?”

“you flatter me” you lowered your head, feeling small in front of him. “but i would still feel out of place.”

“then i will organize a gala you can call your place.” he cupped your chin with his hand clad in a black leather glove. “the guests would wear your works, everyone would have eyes for you.”

“i'm afraid if i take a large number of jobs, my time would be scarce to attend the event.” his hand would go up to one of your cheeks, his thumb dancing over your warm skin.

“then it will be as soon as you are finished.” his smile was serene, but you well knew he felt victorious holding you in the palm of his hand.

“i can't refuse, can i?” you laughed softly.

[dykesevika]

Werewolf Sevika !!

Men DNI

DO NOT use or repost my art without credit/permission

[solarisfortuneia]

— 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬.

and the smell of camphor dancing in the wind.

✦ info: he didn't know he'd lose you so soon. (come back, please. even if it is just for five more minutes.)

✦ featuring: alhaitham.

✦ warnings: angst, character death (reader), heartache, 1.2k words, somewhat proof-read.

✦ notes: i cried so goddamn hard writing this. why is my first work after hiatus pain. why did i pick up the angst wip. but!! i'm writing again, so that's good. (more notes at the end.)

he didn’t know that it was your last day together. 

he didn’t know that the smile you gave him that afternoon, your eyes sparkling like sunlight upon the serene waves of the ocean, would be the last he’d ever see. that the playful light in your gaze would fade so very soon, slipping through his fingers like sand.

he didn’t know that last night would be the last time he held you close while you drifted off to sleep. he didn’t know that today would be the last time he’d wake up with you.

he didn’t think he’d lose you like this. 

he didn’t think he wouldn’t be able to save you from that blow. 

“please, please,”  he begs, both to you and to whatever force that is just barely holding you together. “just stay with me for five more minutes, please. until i can get you somewhere.” 

the rain soaks him to the bone, clothes and hair sticking to his skin. your lips stay motionless, eyes shut.

“wake up, please,”  he bargains. “you can have all the five minutes of extra sleep you want later, i promise. just—”  his vision blurs, and something shines on the ground before it is gone, swallowed by damp earth, lost amidst drops of falling rain. 

desperately, he tears off parts of his traveling cloak to staunch the bleeding. deep inside, he knows it is futile. he knows your wound is too great. he knows what lies ahead. but he cannot help but press the cloths to your wound and pray. 

please, please tell me it’ll be okay. 

please stay with me, beloved. i’ll read you all the books in the world. i’ll sleep in with you everyday, even if we end up whiling away our time. 

please. stay. stay with me. i can’t lose you yet.  

“— just wake up, beloved.” 

by some miracle, your eye flutters. just a bit. just enough to set hope ablaze, just enough for the grip on his heart to loosen a tiny bit. he buries his face in your shoulder, resting his head against your neck, uncaring of the blood that stains his clothes. your blood. on his clothes. his hands. everywhere. 

no. no. this can’t be happening.

he feels you strain beneath him, your unwounded arm gently, weakly brushing his back. he jolts upright, eyes trained on your face. you send a frail smile his way. he clasps your face softly as you nuzzle into his palm.

“alhaitham—” 

his full name. archons, how long has it been since you called him that?  

“— take good care of yourself, okay?” you tell him, chest heaving, your fingertips touching a tear on his cheeks. “i love you. so much.” 

those are the last words he hears fall from your lips. he presses a kiss to your forehead, to your eyelids, and to your cheeks and to your lips, over and over and over until he feels your breath slow, hoping they’ll say what he knows he cannot manage to choke out.

i love you. 

he stays there next to you for who knows how long, holding you until the rain slows and a faint rainbow smiles in the sky.

until he can’t smell camphor anymore.

—

every person has their curiosities. 

they’re just the little traits that set them apart from others, the things that make them tick just a little bit differently, the things that make them, them.

for instance, someone may be obsessed with collecting tiny furniture, while another eats the crusts off their sandwich before actually consuming it. someone may have an affinity for the most niche aspects of linguistics, while another can accurately predict the next raindrop that slides down a window pane.

after all, no two people are exactly alike, are they?

alhaitham knows he’s got his fair share of these curiosities himself. his aversion to soup and all things that resemble it, to name one. and with you, he’d noticed two things. 

number one: the scent of camphor that seems to linger on every inch of your person. 

he’d caught whiff of it almost immediately the first time you met. you were but one of his juniors in the akademiya, filled with bright-eyed curiosity and anxiety to match. you had tripped over a stair and bumped into his table in the library, bringing the mountain of books in your arms crashing down.

and with subsequent coincidental meetings, he learnt that the subtle scent of camphor dancing in the air meant you weren’t far away. 

you were, unfortunately, one of the poor souls who seemed to be cursed with constantly recurring minor illnesses, and almost always walked about with a stuffy nose. and so, you always carried a small disc of camphor in a handkerchief, as well as in your pocket.

you swore up and down, left, right and center that sniffing the vapors helped make breathing easier.

‘it’s my grandmother’s remedy, alhaitham! camphor always works wonders. well, that and eucalyptus oil.”

alhaitham may not know the validity of your claim or the legitimacy of the cure, but he knew to never, ever question a grandmother’s remedy. that, and he’d much rather refrain from starting a back-and-forth about something so small.

and number two: your neverending pleas of different variations of ‘just five more minutes!’ 

“five more minutes, ‘haitham. please.” you’d whine grumpily when he woke you up to start your day. “let me sleep in for five more minutes.” 

“five more minutes, habibi,” you’d ask when he put down the story you’d requested he read out to you before bedtime. “read me the part where she finds the music box?”

“five more minutes, baby,” is what you’d tell him when he asks how much longer you’d take getting ready. “you can’t rush perfection!”

those five more minutes were never five minutes long. 

but he’d always, always indulged you and those pleading eyes of yours. as stoic as he appeared to be, you lived in his heart. of course he could never deny you anything under the sun.

—

alhaitham remembers that silly little song you sang over and over, the one you’d learnt from a kid in the bazaar. he’d taken you to see one of nilou’s performances, and, friendly soul that you were, you’d struck up a conversation with some of the eager audience members before the play. 

“oh, how i wish i was a bird flying free,

i’d see the world, every mountain and every sea!

oh, how i wish i was a cloud in the sky,

wouldn’t you like to wave to me as i pass by?”

you’d hum that rhyme on every idle afternoon.

loss is inevitable. he knows that, with how logical and rational and straightforward he is. he’d lost his parents, but he was far too young to remember. he’d lost his grandmother, but she passed in her sleep of old age, serene and wise.

but you? he didn’t think you’d leave him this soon. a singular wish sits in his soul, making its home in his bones. 

a wish that you’d come back, somehow. 

he wishes you gave him five more minutes, just as he always did.  but he knows that you could’ve given him five more hours, five more days, five more years and five more decades and it would still not be enough time spent with you. 

a blue feathered bird comes to perch on his shoulder, interrupting his musings just as he raises his face to the sky. he sees the heart shaped cloud that floats idly above sumeru city.

 he thinks of the rhyme again, and something in him tells him to wave. and so he does. a scent so familiar lingers, faintly brushing his nose in the wind that picks up.

“alhaitham, it's time to go.”  kaveh calls his name softly.

 alhaitham doesn't move. “five more minutes,”  he says, echoing your favorite phrase. “i smell camphor in the breeze.” 

✦ extra notes: my alhaitham characterization for this fic stems from how i believe that when alhaitham is attached, he's attached. so i focused more on that, and less of all that rationality and whatnot. this one loves deeply, yk?

that camphor thing is a real grandma remedy in our household (my mom would tie some in a hanky and put some under my pillow and still to this day reminds me to do it when i'm sick) which is what originally sparked the idea for this

when i'd initially started this wip, i didn't expect it go this way. usually i write with my brain, but i think i wrote this one with my fingers working faster than i can think hsjhsj so sorry if it's kinda out of place lmao but yk what? i'm happy with it still even though i feel like it doesn't have my usual quality.

thanks for reading.

[apric0tfield]

I'll do anything for your happy ending.

Based on this tweet

[gwynndolin]

Fuck. it's not risk of rain. it's that... uhhh.... Slay the Spire. it's that game. the devs of slay the spire are fucking everywhere in the seattle party scene. at least to me. they're like constantly on the periphery of my social life, i swear if i go to a party there's a not insignificant chance i'll be in the same room as them and if that happens i'm gonna fucking Bolt

i dont even know which dev(s). they have sex with so many people (which obv isnt bad) but i've talked to like six people who have fucked the devs or been in direct contact with them. this one nazi brainrot girl i semi-knew fucked them and disappeared soon after and there's a pretty good chance they're dead? that's not even the first nazi brainrot girl they fucked which i'm not gonna flame them for, checking every person you pound for weird worldviews would be insane

i keep meeting local game devs who know the slay the spire devs and i just have to nod and go Yup there's nothing wrong with that while there's a sword of damocles hanging over my head like any day now i'll be in the same room as these motherfuckers who have haunted my periphery and are, admittedly talented, and really haven't done anything wrong except Scare Me

but yeah wrong game not risk of rain lmao

if someone had told me that this was what the risk of rain ask from yesterday was going to turn into i would have laughed in your face. I'm honestly like. stunlocked. this is probably the funniest information i've ever received in my entire life

@laurbyboom @sexhaver i need both of you two to see this immediately

[fast-burn]

aliens with any pairing but maybe... max/GP and max is an alien?! or vice versa?

this makes me sooooo so happy, xeno stuff is my happy place 🥰🥰🥰 science fiction + erotica my beloved

in fact this made me so happy that it's 4.4k long, so you can read the fic here if you prefer it on ao3 😵‍💫

kink list here

XXX

Mx.V.33-1 was their longest-lasting subject at RB Research Labs Milton Keynes. He had large, wide set eyes and a plush mouth, a neat row of pointy teeth, webbed fingers tipped with tiny talons, and gills along the side of his neck. He had grayish skin that was blue in the right light; it was soft to the touch. When extremely inebriated, GP could be pressed into admitting that he found Mx.V.33-1 somewhat cute, though it was certainly his bias as the lead scientist on the project. He called Mx.V.33-1 Max, for short, and it had stuck with everyone else in the lab.

Because he was extremely sapient—had mastered four languages and was working on Latin, was good at chess, even better at FIFA, loathed coursework but put up with it for the sake of science—Max had free reign of the RB compound. It wasn't safe to let him wander far alone, but he could spend hours out of his deep, salt-water tank. He liked wearing white t-shirts and jeans. He liked going for rides around the countryside in GP's Mini, and more often than not got his way when he asked to get behind the wheel and turn donuts in farmers' fields. He liked dogs and cats equally. He liked raw beef, and chocolate, and tomato soup. For the most part, he liked the research team.

GP was fully aware that his reciprocal fondness for Max was far from professional, but it didn't stop him from feeling that way. In his heart, Max was his ward, not an experiment. That's why he was at the lab on a Saturday, happily covering for a junior assistant who wanted to go visit her mum in hospital.

He'd brought a whole tray of Kinder Eggs for Max, hoping they could while away some of the day by combining the toy parts to make some new mechanical monstrosity. Max's creativity was endlessly fascinating. GP could put the results in the daily report, but mostly he just wanted to watch Max have some fun, and make chocolate disappear faster than GP could unwrap the foil.

The lights were already on when GP beeped past the locked double-doors, set on a timer to mimic the sunrise and set outside. Max was nowhere to be seen from this side of the tank.

"You are not supposed to be here," Max's voice crackled through the lab speakers—a clever bit of engineering that could parse speech through the water. "You don't come on weekends."

"Well spotted, Max," GP said, rolling his eyes as he took off his sodden coat. It was raining to beat the band out there, but that was England for you.

"Why are you here?"

GP shuffled the computer mouse to wake up the screen, and started typing in his epic-length password. "Don't you want to see the present I've brought you?"

Max swam out of his privacy enclosure and up to the front of the tank. "Yes please," he said.

Something was very wrong.

"You're pink," GP remarked. Mostly pink, but in some places purple, and in others a coral-orange. He glanced at Max's basic vitals on the computer screen. His dual heartbeat was elevated, though nothing beyond standard range. "Do you feel alright?"

"Fine," Max said, except he shrank back from GP a fraction, body curling in on itself. "Don't worry."

If Max was just another alien plant or sponge or fungus in the lab, GP would be merely curious, or maybe downright intrigued, but Max meant so much more than that. Of course GP was worried. "I'll need to take a fluid sample."

Max grimaced. "Ugh, no. It's okay, this is normal."

"You have an established normal. It doesn't include pink."

"It's just...my time," Max said, cheeks blooming spotty shades of purple. He was embarrassed. Several things clicked for GP at once.

"You're in estrus," GP concluded, and Max retreated from the front of the tank entirely in a flurry of bubbles.

They hadn't done much experimentation into Max's reproductive system. Obviously Max had one, but all his gonads were internal and seemed somewhat inert, and so they didn't poke at it much. They were far more interested in Max's DNA and its ability to adapt, crucial data being generated in stem cell research. And there was, of course, the opportunity to observe a humanoid member of an alien species learn to communicate, and thrive.

Max always glommed on to the profane and inappropriate first in any language he learned, and was a delightfully naughty encyclopedia for dirty jokes—something that especially pleased the linguists in the lab. Other than that, Max hadn't displayed much in the way of reproductive attributes. He didn't even use his computer login to look at pornography, just watched a lot of late night Twitch streams. They each had their theories about it: lack of an appropriate partner, or impracticality of breeding in capture, or complex and ephemeral alien sexuality. It hadn’t really been relevant, and now GP was floundering.

"You're not supposed to be here," Max whined again, voice just as clear from wherever he'd hidden himself.

"Well, I am," GP replied. "Let's just get you sorted out. What can I do to make you comfortable?"

"Nothing," said Max, but he was a bad liar, tone going suspiciously flat. "You can go home."

"I'd appreciate it if you came out to the auxiliary tank and I could give you a check-up. After that, if you want me to leave, I will." GP sat down at the desk and loaded up the daily report. He typed the date. Mx.V.33-1 showing signs of he started, but then paused. He minimized the window.

When Max had been brought to RB, nearly a decade ago, Dr. Marko had rolled him into the lab in a tangled fishing net, with several hunks of debris trapped alongside him. Max was frightened, skin flaking and eyes darting about. Where there's one, there's a pair, Marko had said, and Horner next to him had actually rubbed his hands together with glee.

Maybe it was better if GP consulted his team on Monday, in person. He opened the software for the lab's cameras, and changed the settings to encrypt the day's recording to his thumbprint.

Max was a beautiful creature. This was far too private for the likes of the RB upper brass. 

GP heard the telltale thumping as Max swam into the smaller side tank. It was wide enough to hold four Maxes, but only as deep as a bathtub, designed to be comfortable for both subject and scientist. He grabbed the med kit and a laptop from the storage trolley, and rolled his chair over.

"I am only putting up with this so you'll leave," Max said, arms folded on the edge of the tub, his hair slicked back from his forehead and sticking up at all angles. His voice was softer in the open air, rather than the tinny recreation of the speaker. He smelled different than usual, too. More musky, but also more sweet, like burnt sugar. "Go ahead and run your experiments, if you must."

"Fuck the experiments," GP said with more feeling than he intended, and the expletive made Max quirk a smile.

Max unfolded one of his arms, and GP started attaching sensors. He was a dusty-rose colour all over, slippery because of the salt and the protective film Max's body started generating if he hadn't been out of the tank for a couple days. GP had to use special wipes so that the sensors would actually hold. Usually, Max was a very good sport and held perfectly still. Now when GP touched him, he jolted, just slightly.

"Tell me about what you're feeling," GP asked as the data started rolling in on the laptop.

Max's gills finally sealed shut and he started breathing through his nose. "Restless. Irritated. Sensitive, also."

GP looked up at Max, blushing purple again. "Sensitive where?"

"You know," Max said as he squirmed. GP had no idea where. He could make an educated guess, but that only went as far as extrapolating from human experience. Unless, of course, he touch Max and find out that way.

He changed tactics. "Is this the first you've had your—your time?"

Max snorted. "I have of course been alive for many years. This is my fourth," he said, "but I have not had one for a while."

"When was the last time?"

"Right before I was," Max looked down, and then at the wall. "Before I came here."

Ah. That told GP a lot. Max ordinarily went into an estrus phase more frequently than every eight years, and it made him very vulnerable, especially as he was recovering. He should be in his sexual prime, but something about being at the lab prevented that. And, just as notably, something recently had pushed him back into his regular hormonal cycle. GP didn't know how far in the data he had to review, but he made a mental note to look back three months, at least.

He broke a fresh tab out of its package and held the receptive end up to Max. "Lick, please," he said, and Max's tongue flashed out dutifully to wet it with his saliva. GP placed it into the scanner which whirred to life as it started calculating hormone levels. "Do you usually spend your time with a group, or a partner, or alone?"

Max scowled, and his heart rate ticked up on the laptop screen. "Are you asking if I have wild orgies or if I just jerk off by myself?"

"Something like that," GP said. He knew Max preferred him to be straight-forward with his questions, but it didn't stop Max from giving rude answers. "If you like, you can just tell me the standard. I don't have to know your personal sexual history."

"My personal—" Max balked and sank deeper into the water. "It is supposed to be with a partner."

"Sorry I can't help with that," GP said, thinking of how little interest Max had shown to anyone else in the lab, at least in that sense. It would be an incredible breach in decorum to ask anyone to help Max through estrus, but he knew any of them would still be happy to help.

Max's plum flush spread to the seashell curves of his ears. "I did not expect you to."

GP changed the subject. "Can we go back to the sensitivity?"

"I'd rather you just guess."

"Well," GP went on, "for example with the human species, we tend to feel—"

"Yes, I know all about it," Max snapped, popping back up with a soft splash. "It is the same for me, but slightly different. Go on and write it in the report. That's all you need to say."

"I'm not making a report," GP said slowly.

Max looked at the laptop screen for the first time. "You're not? But you're asking me questions like you are."

"That's because I want to help you. Max," he said, holding back the urge to make him look GP in the eyes, "fuck the experiments."

Finally, Max seemed to relax. He tugged at his ear, rubbed his thumb across his lips, the beauty mark there. "Okay, well if it's just you who wants to know, maybe it is better if I show you."

Max tugged on the zippered front of his navy wetsuit—clothing he insisted upon more for cultural adaptation than any real modesty. The base of his throat was pinker than his arms, legs, and face. His chest was a little swollen. And then Max tugged the zip over a bulge on his abdomen.

It was convex, like a wide bowl, or...like a baby bump, such a pale pink that it was almost white, the skin stretched taut over Max's distended stomach. GP refrained from reaching out; they had assured Max that he was welcome to scratch up anyone who didn't get permission to touch. But he wanted to , so desperately. He wanted to palpate it and soothe the ache, or maybe make it worse. The desire was so sudden and unexpected that GP was nauseous.

He sat with his fists curled on his knees, lips pressed together, and watched as Max leaned back and kept unzipping his suit.

The slit between Max's legs was gently parted and swollen, the tip of something bright pink peeking out from inside. That had to be Max's penis, or some kind of clitoral tissue. Maybe an ovipositor. It was hard to tell with the distortion of the water.

"This is where I am most sensitive," Max said, hands going to frame his slit, and spreading—

A blip came from the laptop, and GP turned his head instinctively to see the hormonal report load on screen. They had it set to display the standards along with new results so that they could see the differences, and a gradient map to show extremes. Several bars were deep red.

"GP."

He looked back at Max.

"You're not paying attention," he complained. "This is very intimate, and you are looking at the computer."

"Intimate?" GP choked.

Max grasped GP's wrist and dragged him forward. "Here," he said as GP's fingers splayed over Max's belly. "Feel how full. Push down on it."

The skin was coolish compared to the tight grip of Max's hand. GP pushed gently, and Max groaned, an uninhibited sound bouncing off every surface in the room. There was a shift in Max's abdomen, and something squirted out of Max's slit. "Max—"

"Oh, yes," Max sighed, eyes fluttering. "Yes, thank you, GP."

GP looked down and pushed again, and watched a bright orange object shoot out of Max. It was slightly bigger than a marble.

"Is that an egg?" he asked, tongue buzzing in his mouth.

Max nodded and let go of GP. "I have more than usual. It is supposed to be less than twelve. You can't even see them from the outside, normally, but it has been so long."

The two eggs that Max had released rested on the bottom of the tub. "So you're a...carrier, then?"

"I can do both," Max said. "When I have my time, I produce the eggs of course, but I can be the other half whenever. It is very lucky, for us. Not everyone can be two in one."

Max was special; GP could have told anyone that. "That's wonderful. Well done," he said, and Max practically glowed with the compliment.

"Will you help me lay them?"

GP's fingers twitched on Max's stomach. "I can keep pushing."

"No," Max said. "There's a better way."

Desire stirred in GP, making his cock swell in his pants. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

Max pulled off his suit and tossed it on the edge of the tub with a wet slap. "I want you to fuck me."

GP swallowed. He'd never—he wouldn't. Max was his responsibility to care for. There were whole documents on ensuring that Max wasn't ever abused in his capture, and it all came down to what Max wanted. If what Max felt like doing all day was to play video games, that's exactly what happened. If Max stayed in his privacy enclosure for a week, they didn't drag him out.

Palpating Max's abdomen to induce spawning was one thing, but fucking him was—

Max pushed up against the edge of the tub and pressed his mouth to GP’s.

"What," GP started to say against Max's lips, but Max just kissed him harder. He was firm, and his nose dug into GP’s cheekbone.

"That's how humans start when they want to fuck, right?" Max said when he released him a moment later. "I saw two of them doing it in the corner over there when they thought no one was looking."

Part of GP wanted to ask which two because he had about a hundred quid on various office romance pools. "That's similar to what we do, for sure."

Max groaned, fisting his talons in GP's lab coat. "Then show me how."

GP tilted his head and kissed Max properly. Max's mouth was salty, of course, but also slick and soft. He learned quickly, like he did everything else, lapping at GP's tongue and then sucking on it. He nibbled on GP's lower lip with his triangular teeth, little blades that he was so, so careful with.

"That is weird," Max proclaimed when he pulled away, "but nice. Can we fuck now? You are wearing too many clothes."

"This isn't the most precious place for it," GP admitted. He couldn't easily take Max to bed, though the thought of having Max under him at his flat was deliciously tempting. Max, home with GP on the weekends, raiding his fridge and demanding sex at all hours of the day. Insatiable, bratty, gorgeous Max.

"It doesn't matter," said Max, climbing out of the tub. "Just get naked."

"Don't the eggs have to be in water?"

Max rolled his eyes and started tugging on GP's clothes, clearly annoyed at how GP wasn't dropping trou fast enough. "They are of course not fertilized. I just want them out."

GP's lab coat was a lost cause, huge holes shredded through the fabric already, so he took over for his sweater before Max could attack that too. Max sat back against the lip of the tub, apparently pleased to watch now. It was just after Christmas and GP wasn't too thrilled with his physique after gobbling down a whole roast he'd bought just for himself, but he did alright at the company gym. Max's body was sleek and chubby in places, like a seal, to keep warm in the water.

As soon as GP shucked his trousers to his ankles, Max was in his lap. The chair squeaked dangerously beneath them.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Max asked. That was another part of the care-and-keeping of Max: he had a right to his own internal life. If Max wanted to tell any of them a secret, it would stay between just those two.

"Of course you can," GP replied.

Max rocked in his lap, leaving a puddle of tank water and protective fluid. "I was thinking about you," he said, grinding his wet slit against GP's briefs and his erection. "Like this. I wanted to have you just like this. That's why all the eggs came." He leaned forward and spoke right in GP's ear, a soft murmur that none of the microphones around the lab would catch, "You knocked me up."

GP groaned, dizzy from the rush of blood down south. He clutched Max's hips without asking, but Max just pressed himself deeper into GP's lap. His pregnant little belly pressed against GP's stomach and a fresh splurt of wetness soaked them both.

He wrestled his dick out, hand already slippery from whatever secretion Max's slit was producing. "Put it where you want it," GP said, because he didn't know where Max's vaginal entrance was mapped compared to a human's.

Max wrapped his hot, webbed hand around GP's length and guided it until the tip was in the right place. Then he sank down on it, a perfect slick slide. The muscles he had inside rippled around GP's cock. "Fuck, fuck, that feels so good," Max said, swiveling his hips, getting used to the space. "Oh, GP, you're so big, you're so warm. And hard."

"What do you—" GP started to say, and Max took GP's hand to guide it to the front of his slit.

"Here, feel," he said, making GP press against the pink flushed member that GP had only glimpsed in the tub. It was slim, maybe five or six centimeters long, tapered at the end, coated in fluid. "Be gentle with me."

"Alright," GP agreed, stroking up and down the length with two fingers.

Max shuddered, his passage clenching around GP. "See? Very different. I'll tell you another secret: it's small."

"It's just the right size."

Max shook his head. He braced his hands against GP's shoulders, talons pricking slightly. "I am just stating the comparison. I don't have the standard length. But that is fine, because this is what I want," he said, pushing up and sliding down, riding GP's cock.

GP turned his head and kissed Max's neck, over the seal of his gills. He could feel the slight difference in texture, like a stretchmark or an old scar. Max whimpered and his passage clenched. He leaked more slick. GP rocked up into him, unable to help himself.

"Do humans kiss everywhere?" Max asked.

"Yes," GP admitted, lips moving across Max's gills again, making him pulse. "Everywhere."

Max got impossibly wetter. "Would you kiss my pussy?"

GP's mouth dropped open, shocked dumb enough that only an ugly grunt came out of him, and Max laughed.

"I am of course just messing with you. I know all about cunnilingus and oral sex," Max leaned back and smiled with his sharp teeth. "We can try it another time. Right now I need you to fuck me as hard as you can, or the eggs won't come out."

"You're really giving me a rough time, teasing me like that," GP said, and snapped his hips up.

Max moaned, liquid around him for a moment before he squeezed. "Is it working?"

GP thrust in again, using his hands on Max's hips to bring their bodies together.

"Harder than that, come on," said Max, and GP did. "Harder. Really hard, I won't break. Can't you feel how wet I am for you?"

It was a challenge in the rolling chair, but GP spread his knees for leverage and really thrust—a pace that he would have considered brutal otherwise, but Max just gasped and grinned. So GP kept going, a mindless, animalistic fuck, surely bruising. Max moaned like a pornstar, high and whining.

"Feel so good," GP said.

"Tell me," gasped Max. "I want it. Tell me a secret, tell me, tell me."

"Wet, slutty little cunt," he grunted, dragging up the nastiest parts of himself as he fucked into Max. "Gonna make you heat all the time. Look at you, you're so desperate. Can't do anything 'cause you just want my cock so deep in you, making you take it."

Max's belly tensed, his walls fluttering rhythmically around GP's cock. "Yes, I want that," he said. "Always."

"Tiny baby dick because you just want to be bred, don't you? That's all you're good for?"

"Please," Max whimpered. "So close. Harder, GP, please."

"Any harder and I'll fuck right through you." GP's legs were burning, back aching, but he kept going, driving himself closer to the edge. He rubbed Max's slim, short cock between his fingers. Max cried out, urgent. "That's it, go on. Come for me."

"I will, I will," Max chanted, his head tilting back and the base of his throat fuchsia, trembling with the rest of him. Suddenly, GP's cock slipped out of him on a thrust, and Max burst, eggs squirting out of him and splattering the floor as he screamed. GP pressed on Max's belly, helping it along, and felt it decompress under his palm, everything squeezing out in an orgasmic rush.

When it was done, Max's entrance drooled as he gasped, perched over GP's lap as he caught his breath. There must have been a hundred eggs on the floor, most of them orange, but a few more yellowish or more red. They were wet, and a couple rolled away, leaving shiny snail trails in their wake.

"Wow," GP said, which was an understatement. He pushed again on Max's stomach, but it was empty now, and Max just whimpered.

"If we were going to have a baby," Max panted, "you would have to come on the eggs."

GP's cock bounced, the crown smearing against Max's used hole. "I don't think it will work."

"Too bad." Max spread his slit open with his hands, just like he had earlier in the tub. "I guess you'll just have to do it on me instead."

It was only a matter of a dozen or so strokes, everything still so lubricated, absolutely sopping, and then GP aimed himself right at the soft, secret core of Max and climaxed, painting the folds with pearly release.

Max was a welcome weight in GP's lap afterward, and there was no scientific way to explain how they just rested and snuggled for the better part of ten minutes. It wasn't unusual for Max to be affectionate, but he was selective about it, and rarely did he want to endure it for long.

It was when GP's knees started shaking that Max finally got up. "I knew you would be good at that," Max said, smiling like GP was the experiment, gone perfectly to plan. "I might make eggs again, soon. This was so many at once, so I think next time will be a little different. But you will help me again." There was no room in his tone for GP to argue, but he wouldn't dream of it.

"I'm glad it won't be so messy next time." GP surveyed the general disaster zone around the chair and was already dreading the cleanup.

Max slipped back into the tub, and dove down for a moment before popping back up with the two eggs that he'd released in the water. He put one of them in his mouth and bit down, the squelch in his mouth like a cherry tomato.

GP must have given Max some sort of look, because he offered the second egg in his open palm. "Want one?"

"Absolutely not."

"They are an excellent source of nutrients. A waste if you don't eat them unfertilized, but I am not picking them up off the floor," he said. When GP still didn't take the offered egg, he shrugged and popped it in his mouth too.

GP felt his gut roll uncomfortably. "You don’t have to eat those. I brought you Kinder Eggs."

"What!" Max exclaimed. "GP, you did not say! How many? Can I have them now?"

"If you help me with mopping," he said, and Max hummed, considering.

"Just give me a minute," Max replied. "I can still feel your come on me. I should clean that first. And I want to see how it tastes."

GP sat down hard in the chair, and when it skidded backwards on the slick floor, another handful of eggs went racing jauntily away across the lab.

[eddiesghxst]

PRICE OF FAME (PART 2/12)

hiii here's these two again, enjoy!!

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: eddie still hates you, you're way too nice, and gareth fucked up big time

contains: enemies to lover trope, themes of sexism/misogyny, smoking, drug and alcohol use, reader gets injured (nothing crazy), eddie hooking up with someone that's not reader, mean eddie, sexual themes, a glimpse of needy n sad eddie, mild violence (eddie punches someone), and Eddie being nosey <3

word count: 5.6k

| previous part | next part |

| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

Eddie can’t do it.

He can’t fucking stand you. He hates that you’re everywhere, always around, always lingering— like a fucking hawk— just silently watching and waiting for one of them to fuck up. And he hates that you carry that fucking journal everywhere, always jotting down notes about whatever bullshit you write about— and he’s sure it isn’t any good either way because most of the time, the band does the same shit every day. There’s nothing for you to write about. They do a show, hang out backstage, catch wind of some party, stay out until they can’t physically walk anymore, and crash as soon as they get to the hotel. 

It’s the same shit. Yet, you’re always writing something down as if something new has happened— as if it’s something intriguing and eye-catching. 

You barely talk for the first few days; you just watch and observe, and Eddie thinks this must be how animals at the zoo feel— on display and putting up some fascinating show. He hates it.

After the third show, you start to loosen around the edges and start actually talking, like a normal human being. You talk to Jeff the most, laugh at his shitty jokes and ask him questions about songs and lines he’s written in past songs, and Eddie hates that. He hates watching you sit next to Jeff and scribble in your journal as Jeff strums out a new hook. 

He hates that whenever he brings you up to Jeff and makes some snide comment about you, Jeff never joins in— just shrugs and says, ‘She’s not too bad, actually.’

As if Eddie would ever believe that.

Gareth hardly pays any mind to you; he's too busy checking out chicks and just… being Gareth, but you’ve talked to him on multiple occasions. Eddie’s caught glimpses of you two chatting at rehearsals or in the green room. You even sat with him at breakfast the other day, and Eddie— Eddie almost blew a gasket because that was his fucking seat.

You’re ruining everything, and nobody seems to notice except for Eddie, and it’s driving him nuts.

“Dude, you’re gonna scare her away if you keep glaring at her like that,” Jeff mumbles, turning back to his guitar as he runs a dust cloth over the neck of the instrument. 

They’re in the studio today because there’s no show tonight, and against all of Eddie’s wishes, Richie still invited you to come sit in for their session. Eddie watches through the glass of the sound booth as you settle in on the brown couch, pulling out that stupid journal and a pen, mindlessly clicking it a few times before writing a note. Ridiculous. 

Eddie glares at Jeff and works the gum in his mouth as he pulls a face, “Good. She can blow off the face of the earth for all I care.” He grumbles, sitting down in the metal chair beside Jeff. 

Jeff looks at him, raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and shakes his head, “She’s not going anywhere, man. You’re gonna fuck it up if you keep being so… hostile toward her.” He points out. Eddie leans back in his chair, pulling out a box of cigarettes and sparking up. “I’m not gonna be the one to fuck it up,” Eddie mumbles through smoke, “You guys are practically feeding her all the information she needs on a silver fucking platter. She’s a goddamn shark.” 

Jeff scoffs and says nothing more as he continues cleaning his guitar. Eddie glances at you and watches you talk to the producer, smiling and laughing at something that Eddie can’t hear because the mic is off and the door is closed. 

Aside from how annoying and creepishly lurk-y you are, Eddie can admit you’re pretty. You have a pretty face, pretty smile, pretty hair, a bright look in your eyes that Eddie can’t stand because you look at the rest of the band like they hung the fucking moon when they speak. You look at everyone as if they’re so important, and Eddie thinks that’s dumb. 

He glances at Jeff, watches him silently for a moment, and glances back at you, takes a hit of his cigarette before speaking, “You like her?” he asks.

Jeff glimpses at Eddie and laughs with a shake of his head, “Isn’t that precisely what you’re pissed about?”

Eddie shakes his head, “No, like,” he kicks the heel of his shoe into the floor, “Do you wanna fuck her?”

Jeff pauses his task and watches as Eddie puffs on his cigarette. “I have a girlfriend, Eddie.” He reminds the boy. Eddie glances at him and scoffs, “That chick from Chicago? Thought that was just for fun.” He responds. 

Eddie remembers the girl from a few weeks back, remembers Jeff sneaking her on the bus while they had dinner. He didn’t know they were serious.

Jeff shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing in disbelief, “No, man. She’s come to like every show— and her name is Naomi; she’s not a chick.”

Eddie grunts in response, burning to the end of his cigarette when Jeff stands up and nudges him with his foot, “Just talk to her, dude. She’s not as bad as you think she is, and she asks good questions— actual questions, about the music and shit. None of that,” he waves a hand in gesture, “stupid shit we get from reporters. She’s good. Just try.”

Jeff leaves Eddie to mill about it and finish off cigarette, snuffing it out in the ashtray sitting on the amp. Eddie doesn’t believe Jeff one bit; he thinks you’re a liar who’s mastered the art of manipulation and has weaseled your way into gaining his friends' trust. He doesn’t believe you are here for the music, as Jeff had said; he thinks— knows— that you’re here to find the cracks.

You’re here to find the cuts and bruises and press into them so you can tear them apart piece by piece. A starved monster, preying on his band for some sick and twisted story to feed the media so you can climb the ladder of your industry. Eddie has met and knows people like you, and he can call your bluff from a mile away.

He doesn’t believe Jeff. But he does, however, know how to play your game. 

The next day is show day— the fifth show of the residency, and Eddie is in a good mood. He woke up with a girl in his bed, got high, went for a short walk to a nearby cafe, and even signed a few autographs for some lovely fans. On top of that, you haven’t shown up for rehearsals yet, and Eddie thinks the world is working in his favor today if you skip.

He’s playful today. He jumps on Gareth’s back and makes him run down the rows of the arena, screaming and hollering like wild animals. He and Jeff take Richie’s golf cart and go for a spin backstage, giggling when the security chases them and tells them speeding backstage is prohibited. They don’t listen, though; Eddie ignores everyone’s warnings and keeps hauling ass down the nearly empty hallways, swerving around boxes and equipment like a madman.

And Eddie may be mean sometimes; he may push people's buttons for the hell of it and do things he knows he shouldn’t just to get a reaction out of it, but Eddie isn’t cruel. He isn’t a psychopath who likes hurting people, so he doesn’t mean to speed past you and spook you badly enough to stumble into a stack of road cases.

Eddie saw you, and he tried to warn you, yelled out for you to move out of the way, and even honked, but you had a pair of headphones stuffed over your ears so that you couldn’t hear the squealing wheels of the golf cart or Eddie’s warning. He almost took you out. Almost. But he didn’t because he swerved at the last second, and you panicked and stepped back, stumbling on the heel of your shoe and falling onto the cold cement floor, slamming your back against the black boxes.

Eddie curses and comes to a screeching halt, parking the golf cart and following Jeff as he jogs over to you, quickly asking if you’re okay and helping you to sit up. As you speak, your face is twisted in confusion, wincing and sitting up, “I’m fine, I just— I just fell, it’s fine.”

Eddie watches from a few feet back as Jeff helps you stand up, face pinching in an expression of pain when you put your weight onto your ankle, and Eddie doesn’t believe it for a second. “I think you might need to get that checked—” Eddie cuts Jeff off and speaks the first thought that comes to his mind, “Why didn’t you move out of the way?”

You look at him, anger replacing your look of pain as you glare at Eddie. You grip the band of your headphones and wave it at him, “Because I didn’t fucking hear you, jackass.” You snap. “What, you couldn’t see the big ass machine hurling your way?”

“No,” you seethe, “You shouldn’t have been driving that fast anyways; this isn’t my fault. The least you could do is say fucking sorry.” You spat. And Eddie just thinks you’re a brat. Before Eddie can respond with an even bitchier response, Jeff is cutting in with a wave of his hands, “Okay, this is fucking stupid,” he scoffs, “just let me drive you to medic so you can get checked.”

Eddie doesn’t even bother helping Jeff get you to the golf cart; he simply watches as you fake your limp all the way to the vehicle and thank Jeff for helping you get in. Jeff looks back to Eddie and raises an eyebrow, “Are you coming, man?” 

Eddie wouldn’t willingly spend a minute with you if someone paid him to do it. 

He shakes his head with a scoff and tells them to go on, he’ll meet them at the stage later on, and Jeff takes off without another word.

“Did you try to hit the journalist with a fucking golf cart?”

Eddie’s good mood is long gone. 

After the whole golf cart fiasco, Eddie took his time walking around backstage and burning through cigarettes before finding himself in the room filled with snacks and drinks. He’s standing at the table filled with chips and sodas when Richie storms in and starts causing a goddamn scene.

“What—” “You know what I’m talking about.” Richie snaps. Eddie’s face twists in annoyance, “I didn’t try to fucking hit her; she didn’t move out of the goddamn way because she’s an idiot,” Eddie grumbles, returning to his task of sifting through the different brands of chips. Eddie doesn’t believe you’re actually hurt. That pathetic fall was as minor as a fall can get, and he thinks Jeff and anyone else who believes your shitty acting skills is dumber than a rock. 

Richie snatches the bag of chips out of Eddie’s hand and tosses them onto the table, ignoring Eddie’s protest as he speaks, “She sprained her fucking ankle, man.”

Eddie scoffs, “She’s faking it, Richie; anybody with brains can see that from a mile away.” He rolls his eyes. Richie looks at Eddie as if he’s lost his mind, as if Eddie is the worst villain to ever grace the goddamn planet, “You’re fucked up,” and Eddie’s stomach twists in some weird way he can’t explain. 

“You have some serious fucking issues, man. That girl did nothing to you, and you treat her like shit.” Richie spits, and Eddie hates how his throat feels tight, like someone shoved a golf ball down his throat. “Get over yourself.”

Richie leaves Eddie in the empty room, silent and, against Eddie’s wishes, feeling like the shittiest man alive. 

Eddie’s good mood feels like a dream now.

He’s silent throughout rehearsals. He sings his parts half-assed and plays his solos half-assed, too. You watch from the side of the stage, propped up on one of the road cases to take the weight off your ankle, and Eddie doesn’t even glance in your direction the entire time. He avoids you at all costs, leaving the room when you walk in, going the other direction you’re walking in, and even skipping lunch to avoid crossing paths. 

You’ve been like a ghost all day; everywhere Eddie goes, you’re somehow there, walking with a shitty limp as if trying to rub it into Eddie’s face that, ‘You did this. This is your fault.’ and Eddie can’t stand it. By the time the doors open to the arena, Eddie is more than ready to finish the show and steer clear of all traces of you.

You watched the show on the TV in the dressing room, silently snacking on a bag of Ritz crackers with your foot propped up on the coffee table beside the couch. The medic advised you to avoid putting pressure on your ankle for the next few days so you couldn’t have your usual front-row view of the show. 

The boys do good; they perform a new song they’re working on, and the crowd seems to have loved it. As usual, they get up to their ritual backstage antics, pregaming for whatever party they’ll attend, loud and obnoxious music, and cheering on whatever drinking game they’ve made up. You’re silently writing in your journal, updating the last entry on what you’ve witnessed today. Interpretations on the new music, drabbles on what you and Gareth briefly discussed about his childhood, and quick notes on whatever comes to mind while writing.

You hardly notice Eddie stumbling through the dressing room door until you hear him bumping into the side table with a curse. You look up, silently watching as he looks around the room, searching for something you’re unsure of. You try to keep your voice level to not scare him, but he is startled either way, “What are you looking for?”

His eyes are low, puffy around the edges from the alcohol he’d tossed back earlier, hair tousled with curly strands clinging to his lips. His lips are slick, swollen, and red, clothes askew on his lean frame. His jeans are unbuttoned, belt clinking as he sways a bit, licking his lips as he stammers, “Uh… my uh, my jacket—” he blinks, stumbling to lean against the door and blinking hard, “M’looking for my jacket.”

Your eyebrows raise as you watch him, the disheveled and captivating mess he is, bleary eyes gazing at you through a cloud of eyeshadow and whiskey. You breathe and point to the chair in front of the vanity, “It’s over there.”

His gaze follows your lead, landing on his strewn jacket, cursing as he walks across the room. You busy yourself with your journal, picking up where you’d left off. You can hear Eddie rustling behind you, and you try to avoid glancing back at him, but you fail, glancing in time to watch as he leans forward into the mirror to tug at misplaced strands of his hair. 

He’s silent for a moment before clearing his throat, glancing back at you through the mirror, “I’m uh… I’m sorry about,” he gestures to your elevated foot, forgetting you’re not even facing him, and rubbing the back of his hand to rub his nose and sniffling, “About your foot… Was really shitty of me.”

You glance back at him, a ghost of a smile gracing your lips, “Thank you, Eddie. I appreciate your apology.”

Eddie scoffs, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and shoving a stick between his lips with quivering fingers, “Yeah, well, that’s the first and last apology you’ll ever get from me so…” you silently watch as he lights his cigarette, puffing out a cloud of smoke and glancing at you through the mirror, “cherish it.” 

You quietly sigh and shift in your seat, ignoring his remark, “You going out tonight?” You ask.

You watch as he steps away from the vanity and walks over to the couch, plopping down on the farthest side from you with a deep sigh, “That’s the routine.” He mumbles around a cloud of smoke.

You nod, an uncomfortable silence settling over the two of you as you continue writing. Eddie is slumped down in his seat, quietly puffing on his cigarette as he gazes at you through low lids, “What are you writing?”

You look at him; pen paused over the sentence you’d been writing as you tilt your head, “I’m working on my piece… you know, the piece you’re starring in.” Eddie grumbles in response with a single nod of his head, and his eyes are so low you’d almost think he’s falling asleep if it weren’t for his determination to finish his cigarette. 

“Why— why haven’t you asked me anything?” Eddie asks.

You look at him, doing your best to keep a neutral expression as you fold your hands over the paper of your notebook, “I wasn’t under the impression you wanted to be… bothered.”

Eddie glances at you, scoffing, and you remind yourself that you’ve already somehow made the man despise you, so it’d be better to hold your tongue, opting not to remind him of the shitty attitude he’s had since you met. “I’m part of the band, aren’t I?” He shrugs, picking at the loose threads of his ripped jeans. “Shouldn’t I have as much coverage as… Jeff?” He mumbles, and you think he might be under the impression that you can’t hear him, but you do either way.

Your eyebrows raise, and you shift in your seat once again, “Well… would you like me to ask you some questions?”

Eddie is more gentle when he is drunk, you think. More pliable, softer. The stone-hard deflective shield he has thrown up for you has withered beneath the alcohol. Where his eyes are usually cold and sharp, they are now softer and telling— of what, you’re not sure yet. He shifts further into the couch and shrugs, and you take a deep breath and flip to a clean page, scribbling Eddie’s name in the corner.

“Okay, Eddie,” you begin, turning ever so slightly to face him. “Tell me about yourself. Tell me about who you are aside from the frontman of Corroded Coffin.” You glance between your notebook and Eddie, patiently waiting as he takes a drag of the burning paper. He looks at you, the majority of his face shielded behind unruly dark curls, and the room is so silent it’s nearly deafening.

Eddie shakes his head so gently you almost don’t notice the movement, “I don’t…” he bounces his leg once, “I thought this was about the music.”

You nod, “It is.”

Eddie gently blinks, like if he blinks too hard, the earth might shatter, and you think it’s beautiful, and you think you might hate that.

“It’s about the music, but I can’t write about the music without knowing the creator, can I?”

Eddie looks at you, eyes almost clear with lips parted around smoke. He blinks again, and you smile in encouragement, situating the pen in your grip. He looks at you, studies you, his gaze dropping to your awaiting hand, and his face twists in some expression you can’t put a finger on.

Before Eddie can speak, the door opens, both of your heads snapping toward the door as a tipsy Gareth pops his head inside, “Eddie, come on man, the car’s here.”

If Gareth had noticed the odd combination of you and Eddie sitting on the same couch, willingly enduring each other's presence, he wouldn’t mention it. 

You look back to Eddie, and you almost want to stop him as he gets up because, god, you were so fucking close. So close to finally touching Eddie. But he’s gone quicker than he came, the scent of his cologne and smoke lingering like a ghost, and despite Eddie giving you absolutely nothing to write about, you find yourself writing about him either way with nothing but his scent to aid you.

Eddie is drunk, and he can not, for the life of him, stop thinking about you.

A girl is climbing over him in the back of a taxi, and Eddie can only think about you. The look of pain you had when you stood up after falling, the way you looked at him as if he was the bane of your existence— it makes Eddie’s stomach churn, and he wishes the culprit for his nausea was the alcohol, but it’s not. Eddie knows it’s not because the second he thinks about the way you smiled at him in the dressing room, the way you said his name, the way you spoke so gently despite how much of an asshole he’s been to you, Eddie’s sick stomach settles and erupts in this annoying warm flutter.

Eddie can’t think of anything but the fact that he wants you to smile at him more, wants to hear you say his name again, and talk to him in your gentle way.

His face pinches in frustration, fingers gripping the girl's waist as she mouths at his neck. She moans against his skin, grinding down against his bulge and grinning when she feels him rut up against her. Eddie mumbles something, he’s not sure what he mumbles because his brain is split between worlds of scary feelings and arousal, but the girl laughs, scraping her teeth against his thumping pulse, “That journalist?” She asks.

Eddie blinks away the foggy cloud, “Huh?”

Lany pulls away from his neck and looks at him, biting her lip and tilting her head as she rubs up against him again, Eddie grunting in the back of his throat as his face twists in pleasure. “The journalist. You said her name.” Lany hums, drifting her hands up Eddie’s chest and grappling at the collar of his unbuttoned sheer top. Eddie blinks again and shakes his head, “I didn’t,” he denies.

Lany giggles, “You did, Eddie.”

Eddie glances over her shoulder, making awkward eye contact with the driver through the rearview mirror, and he slightly grimaces and looks back to Lany as she leans in, ghosting her lips over his and tauntingly whispering your name. Eddie grunts in protest, squeezing her hips in a warning. Before he can say something, Lany kisses him with a hum before pulling away to where her lips brush against hers as she speaks, “Did you fuck her?”

Eddie pulls away from Lany, a look of distaste on his face as he glares at her, “Did I— what? No,” Eddie cringes as if it’s the worst thing he’s ever heard— and it’s not, and Eddie… Eddie hates that, he thinks. “No, I didn’t fuck her. Are you serious?” “You want to fuck her then?”

“I want you to stop talking about her,” Eddie counters, dragging his thumb across her bottom lip and watching as he drags the plump flesh down, grinning when Lany nips at his fingertip. “Maybe put these pretty lips to good use, hm?” He taunts, grin widening when she nods and sucks his thumb down to the last knuckle, his jeans tightening at the feeling and sight.

And if Eddie did say your name, he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t dwell on the fact that he’d been thinking of you for whatever odd, fucked up reason, and he doesn’t try to figure out what that weird flutter feeling is when he thinks about your softness, the softness he’s been depriving himself of.

He doesn’t dwell on any of it because Eddie is drunk, and when Eddie drinks, he thinks of and does stupid things, things that sound good at the moment but will screw him over in the long run.

And Eddie wants nothing to do with you anyway, and it’s not like one half-assed drunken conversation changed that, right?

Eddie’s got a blistering headache and a churning stomach as he stands outside the studio the following day. It’s drizzling, gloomy clouds drooping over the looming buildings of New York, and Eddie always hated this kind of weather; he preferred a full storm over the tease of a shower.

New York has never been Eddie’s favorite place, it’s dirty, and reeks of trash, and the people are shitty, but he likes how easy it is to blend in with the crowd; not many people notice him here, and that’s rare these days.

He’s leaning on the stoop of the building, tiny drops of rain dripping from the portico onto his leather-covered shoulders. A burning cigarette hangs between his fingers as he watches the traffic go by, taking slow puffs to ease his body.

He hardly notices you when you bounce up the stairs until you stand just two steps below him. He glances at you and sees the coffee cups in each of your hands. You extend one out to him, “Would you like one? They accidentally gave me two.” You offer.

And you’re fucking nice. Despite how shitty Eddie has been towards you, you’re still nice to him, and Eddie, for the life of him, can’t stand it. He thinks you’re weird, insane, stupid. Thinks you were probably dropped as a baby more times than anyone can count because there’s no way somebody in their right mind would willingly give him the time of day when he’s treated them as shitty as Eddie has treated you. He nearly ran you over, for Christ's sake.

Still, Eddie doesn’t falter, “No. Probably spit in it on your way here.”

You laugh, and it irks Eddie in a way that makes him want to shiver as if the sound were nails scraping against a chalkboard. He distracts himself with a drag of his cigarette as you say, “I didn’t, but thanks for the idea.”

Eddie grunts in response, focusing on the last of his smoke as you tell him you’ll see him inside before walking up the rest of the stairs. Eddie barely acknowledges you as you pass him, but he acknowledges the sound of something dropping beside his feet. He looks down with pinched eyebrows, eyeing the notebook lying on the wet ground.

It’s your notebook— obviously— he’d know that stupid journal from anywhere. It’s a pale yellow with two leather straps you like to tie in a lousy bow, and Eddie believes it’s an annoying color, but he thinks that has more to do with the fact that you chose it. Mindlessly, Eddie picks it up, shaking off the rainwater before it seeps into the pages, and he turns to give it to you because he’d assumed you realized you dropped it, but you’re gone.

Eddie blinks, eyeing the door and the book in his hands, and Eddie knows he should just follow you and give it back because that’s the right thing to do. Knows he shouldn’t peek inside to see what your mind is like, knows you’d probably kill him because Eddie would do the same if anyone looked into his thousands of journals back home, but his fingers itch, and before he can stop himself, he’s flicking his cigarette bud away, leaning against the building and cracking the front page open.

Eddie’s not sure what he’d expected. Maybe something interesting, like a list of dudes you’ve fucked or some rant about a friend, but Jesus, how much more boring could you get? Grocery lists, reminders to book appointments, dates for work meetings, boring shit that Eddie could care less about. He flicks through nearly half of the book before anything piques his interest, snickering when he comes across a page of you talking about a guy named Danny, “What a sap,” Eddie mumbles to himself, softly chuckling and turning the page.

He flips through a few more pages before halting because Eddie's name is right at the top of the page. 

The door opens, and he jumps, fearing you might be searching for your lost journal, but it’s only a staff member. Eddie watches them trot down the steps before returning to the treasure in his hands, eagerly reading as if the book will turn to dust before he gets a chance.

And Eddie thinks he’s fucked up, screwed up in ways he never really wants to address. Despite Eddie’s outwardly attitude of thinking he’s the best at everything and knows all, there are still ugly parts of him that he so badly wants to reach inside and pull like weeds from a garden, crack his chest open, and take it from the root; pieces of him that can make him crumble quicker than a house of cards on a rickety table. 

However, the way you write about Eddie— the words you use and the so careful placement of each thought— it makes Eddie feel something he forgot he ever could about himself, and he doesn’t like how it makes his insides twist. He hates it. Eddie hates that you can read him as if he’s a fucking children’s book. Hates that you can see and point out parts of him that have been lost for so long he’d thought it was a dream. He can’t stand it. 

But as much as Eddie swears he hates what you’ve written and as much as he hates that it makes him feel something other than disdain, he can’t stop reading. He wants to read all you can say about him and only exist in the imagery you create of him because Eddie, for once in a long time, is someone in your eyes.

You write about Eddie like he is a person, a human being with real feelings and depth and a history of memories you’ve never seen or heard of before, but you still somehow manage to paint him so clearly. Inside your words, Eddie exists as more than the entity that fame has created him to be, and Eddie can’t remember the last time he read something about himself and didn’t feel like a pawn. 

It’s… refreshing.

Eddie flips the page, thinking there will be more you’ve written about him, but he’s selfishly disappointed when he realizes it’s just a personal entry. He scans the page, nearly deciding to close it for the day, when he catches a glimpse of a familiar name— Gareth.

It takes Eddie a moment to fully grasp the words you’ve written, the meaning of what exactly you’re explaining that you’d apparently discussed with Gareth. As soon as he lets the words settle into his chest, he’s storming into the building quicker than he can comprehend.

Bursting through the room of Richie's rented studio, Eddie makes a beeline for the sound booth where Gareth is busy tapping out a steady beat.

Eddie barely acknowledges you and the rest of the band in discussion off to the side, but his abrupt appearance has halted all conversation in the room. He storms up to Gareth behind his drum set and wastes no time gripping the man’s collar, gaze lit with fire and words seething as he leans in and glares down at the man. The room goes silent as soon as the question leaves Eddie’s lips, “Did you fuck Chrissy?”

Chrissy Cunningham was Eddie Munson’s high school sweetheart.

As the story goes, Eddie spent the better part of high school crushing on the cute captain of the cheerleading squad. For as long as he can remember, Eddie had been labeled as the school freak— something to do with his love of fantasy games and ‘odd music taste’— so he’d never imagined he would get a chance with Chrissy, but that all changed after a weird spiral of events they experienced together.

Eddie and Chrissy dated for a few years until Corroded Coffin went big. The long-distance trial of their relationship didn’t last long; Eddie rarely called Chrissy, and when he did call, they could only ever find time to argue about whatever Eddie had been photographed doing. Chrissy never came to watch the band once they moved out to LA, and she broke Eddie's heart the one time she did. 

So, it’s no surprise that reading the words in your journal has twisted the knife that’d been lodged in Eddie’s chest for so long that he was sure he couldn’t feel it anymore— he was wrong.

Gareth is looking at Eddie as if Eddie has asked him if the sky is blue and Eddie’s mind is a whirling wind of fire. “What are you talking about, man?” Gareth’s eyebrows pinch in confusion.

Eddie sneers and pulls him closer, Gareth leaning so far off his stool that Eddie's grip on his shirt is the only thing keeping him from the ground. Gareth drops his drumsticks to grab Eddie’s wrists as Eddie speaks, “Don’t bullshit me, Gareth. Did you fuck Chrissy, yes or no?”

Eddie looks at his best friend, and he sees lies, something he’s never had to associate with their friendship, and it almost hurts him more than what Chrissy did. Gareth stutters, shaking his head as if he wants to say no, tries to say no and deny that he slept with his best friend's girlfriend, but he can’t.

Gareth whispers Eddie’s name so quietly Eddie nearly misses it, but the quiver in his voice is all Eddie needs to hear to know the truth. Eddie doesn’t take a second to think before he cracks a closed fist down on his best friend's cheek, sending him back, crashing into the symbols in a clatter of noise.

He doesn’t wait to hear Gareth’s spew of apologies, and he doesn’t wait to listen to the pathetic excuses he makes up because he’s marching over to you next, a scowl on his face as he tosses your journal into your lap, and you look up at him in shock, “You dropped this on your way in.” 

And if this is the end of Corroded Coffin, then Eddie’s sure you’ll have one hell of a story to write. That’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it?

A good story.

————

part three

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a/n: AHH U MADE IT TO THE END, PLS LET ME KNOW HOW U LIKED THIS PART I LOVE TO HEAR UR FEEDBACK, ILY BYE

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cutie lil taglist: @mastermindmiko @whataboutbibi @ryanmxrie @ihatepeanutss @tlclick73 @motherfckerrr @emxxblog @jesssssmaybankk @eddiesguitarskills @bibieddiesgf @chloe-6123 @micheledawn1975

[teddybeartoji]

this could work for bf! satoru or snow leopard! satoru but i feel like he'd be REALLY into omorashi... stay with me here.

idk how he discovered that he was into it but GREAT GOD ALMIGHTY 😫

just imagining him curled up into you quivering out of desperation. you have a steady hand on him (conveniently placed where his bladder is) to hold him in place. poor thing has tears in his eyes, just begging you to let him go already (but we both know he doesn't mean it)

satoru has never looked more gorgeous to you

he's more than capable of overpowering you to leave and properly relieve himself, but god, does it feel good to be at your mercy (or rather lack of )

his desperation just gets worse the closer he gets. he just NEEDS to relieve himself somehow, so he proceeds to beg you to have your mouth on his. this time around, you decide to be a little nice and listen to his pleas. and god he just melts.

It's so damn messy, but neither of you can get enough of it. satoru is drooling everywhere and moaning into it. idk how, but he managed to sound even cuter than before.

neither of you care to pull back for air, and the lack of it gets to satoru's head as he feels a wave of warm and pure bliss wash over him.

or maybe it was something else........

YEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH GRAY I NEED TO KISS YOU SUPER ULTRA SLOPPY STYLE HOLY FUCKKKK I'M GONNA GO WITH OUR LITTLE LEOPARD AGAIN BC FUCCCKKKKKKKKKK IT'S SO FUCKING HOTT

18+ mdni; snow leopard!gojo x gn!reader + piss kink

sitting on his big thighs, you jerk him off with your one hand while the other presses down on his bladder. he squirming, his hips can't stay still underneath you and he just looks so pretty like this. he throws his arm over his face in desperation and your heart swells at the sight of his exposed neck. purple and red marks litter his marble skin - they look like they belong there. he's whimpering and mewling like the baby that he is and he loves it so fucking much.

"need to go. i really– need to go." you can hear the pout and it makes you want to push him even further. the tip of his cock is so fucking pink and swollen, pre-cum leaks from the slit and your mouth salivates at the thought of taking him down your throat. his tail thumps and swings in the air from all of the excitement and his fuzzy little ears twitch uncontrollably.

"yeah?"

you sound so mean and he fucking loves it. you're not concerned abt him – no, no fucking way. you want to push him further and further. you want to break him. you swipe at his leaking slit with your thumb and watch his fangs sink down into his plump lower lip. his hips lift a mere inch from the bed but you push him back down with ease.

the leopard peeks from under his arm, his teary eyes observe you as you punish and torture him with a toothy, proud grin. the slick sounds from your hand steadily pumping him fill the room alongside with the mewls that keep bubbling up his throat.

the pressure in his stomach keeps getting stronger and stronger and he knows he really can't hold it in any longer. his slender fingers wrap around your wrist, gently pulling at you to get your attention.

"please– fuck. i can't– i can't hold it, i'm sorry." oh, his eyes are so beautiful like this. his flushed cheeks are stained from the tears that have already spilled from the corners of his eyes and his lips wobble so desperately.

"don't be sorry, baby. just go."

he can't tell whether you're joking or not, but he's getting so fucking close that he really doesn't have the time to figure you out either. you tighten your fingers around him and shimmy yourself down his legs, bending yourself closer to his cock. never taking your hand from his lower stomach, you slowly but surely add even more pressure on his bladder to finally convince, to force, him to let go.

his fingers dig into your wrist but he doesn't push or pull – he's making sure that you won't take your hand off of him. his eyes are even wider now, his curiosity is eating him alive. what do you mean by 'just go'? he watches your smile stretch even wider, even further, as you rest your head on his thigh. your breath fans his dick and he shudders at the sensation. fuck, he really can't hold it anymore.

tears spill from his lashlines, his pretty angel eyes, and you press a kiss to his base. you feel him twitch in your hand, you feel his tail whip at your back. he can't control it. he's about to burst.

more pressure. his eyes roll back into his head and his ears twitch again. you squeeze his tip and kiss down his sensitive balls.

"i— "

he has never sounded this broken. his breath hitches in his throat and his nails are beginning to leave little dents in your skin. his other hand finds your cheeks, but it doesn't stay there. his fingers push through your hair until they stop at the back of your head, pushing you closer into him. your nose brushes at his soft skin and fuck – he feels you smile against his balls. he can't do it, he can't do it, he can't do it.

"give it to me, angel."

his eyes finds yours just as your lips part and wrap around his swollen tip. he can't look away. his balls contract as he stares at you. his face is red as a tomato and he's panting as if he's about to fucking die.

he is about to die. your mouth is so warm around him, your tongue is so wet and this whole situation is just too fucking much. you lower your head and bury him deeper inside your throat. saliva drips from the corners of your mouth and his hips buck up, making you gag on him so deliciously.

when you try to pull away, the hand resting on the back of your head stops you. humming around him, he bucks his hips again. his head lolls back onto the pillow and his back arches – he looks gorgeous. pressing further down on his tummy, you prepare for what's coming.

his tail thumps fervently beside you and his whole body twitches. a broken moan spills from his lips and warm liquid fills your mouth and throat. tears form in the corners of your eyes from the suffocating feeling but you surpress the need to pull away. you want him to feel good. he's your baby after all.

you press down on his tummy a little more, intent on getting every drop out of him. he feels so good, it feels like heaven. you feel like heaven, your mouth. the sight of you only makes him more insane – your own tears, the spit and piss trickling from your lips. your eyes. they twinkle up at him, so determined, so focused on taking care of him.

you gag again and tap on his thigh to let him know that you need air and he immediately removes his hand but keeps it on your cheek as you pull off of him with a loud gasp. piss dribbles down your chin and neck and satoru thinks he's going to pass out. you take a deep breath in but waste no time diving back in. he caresses your soft skin as you wrap your lips around him once more, letting your mouth fill with the liquid again.

he's so fucking in love with you.

everything is so messy. piss soaks the bedsheets below him and spit coats his heavy balls. a bead of sweat rolls from his temple and his hands shake. his fuzzy tail wraps around your middle as you drink him up like he's the only thing that could satiate your thirst. taking your hand off his tummy, you bring it down to his balls. you massage and fondle them only to watch your big cat sink even deeper into the bed. your smile widens as you kiss his tip and the underside of it, making him curse under his breath.

"you're so cute, baby."

your purred out words immediately go to his lower stomach; another kind of pressure builds and grows – the knot tightens with every kiss and every lick and every touch and every breath. he whimpers at you, his eyes big and glassy. his lips are parted and you catch sight of his sharp fangs.

wrapping your hand around his cock again, his whole body jolts and you tease him with a laugh. you squeeze at his base and tongue his sensitive slit – you know he can give you more. you take the tip back into your mouth and take him down your throat while jerking him off at the same time. all it takes is a steady pace and a tight grip and your mouth is being filled again. thick and sticky cum floods your throat and you swallow as much as you can; some of it still escapes your soft lips though – a mixture of spit and cum and piss coates your lower face and satoru thinks you look beautiful. moans fall from his lips like a waterfall, he's not even trying to hold back. it's not like you want him to do that anyway. you're just as greedy as he is.

you give him a smile and then he's already pushing himself up from his position and pressing his lips against yours. he can taste everything and he can't help but moan into your mouth. you pump him lazily as you let him suck on your tongue like a good boy. he paws at your skin and you know he's hungry.

he's fucked out and he's exhausted but he'd be nothing if he didn't take care of his baby the way you take care of him. it's your turn now; you let him mark you with his scent and taste and he can't wait to let you do the same to him.

[missbaphomet]

Fell down a rabbit hole of sex toys shaped like tools, here's what I've found so far

[billybrain]

billy tries to hide that he’s sick because he considers even having a cold, a weakness. but once you find out and start taking care of him… he turns into a big baby.

[neg4tivecre3p]

IT: Welcome to Couch Rotting.

I think that's enough nice and cozy fall vibes for this even if where I live the sun is kinda burning the fucking ground so have Pennywise after a shower

Hope you all had a good Halloween!!

[zurenie]

yo drop some fandom hcs i wanna draw them

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Lone werewolf Reader lives on their own in an old, decaying cabin at the edge of the woods, where the trees grow thick and the sky shows rain. They don't know how to be a wolf, or werewolf, so here they are, traveling into the woods to test their abilities.

They've been on their own for years, abandoned at a young age for reasons unknown to them, left with scars on their arm shaped like teeth marks, and having to make it on their own. It has made them a little rougher, a little colder, and a bit wiser. People weren't good, and neither were the wolves, whatever they may be in the end. All were the same in the end: greedy, hungry beings who took and took and left you dry as a bone.

Reader has learned how to grow plants, how to lay traps, how to keep an eye out for footprints and tracks. They've learned to repair boards and knobs, they've taught themself to understand the ways of the world, they've seen how to sew and how to clean. Everything they need, they can do.

It doesn't help when one day, as they're out in the woods in human form, they stumble on a wolf caught in a trap. It's a small one, oddly colored, but Reader, for once in a very long time, feels pity. Empathy. Courage. And they saw through the ropes holding the poor beast down. It nips at them at first, until it seems to realize they're helping. It licks at their hands, staring up at then then hopeful, bright eyes.

Once the ropes are cut and its free, it jumps up. For a moment, Reader fears it will attack them-

But it doesn't.

All it does it lick them, let out a short, playful bark, and then it runs off, a blur through the cold, wet woods. Reader sighs, but heads back to their home. That night they can hear howling, loud and winding, and even when the moon is full and round, Reader stays tucked in their blankets, hiding away from the sounds that haunt them, away from the blinding moon, away from the town and the woods and all the danger lurking out of sight...

When they wake up in the morning, there are dozens of footprints outside their house. Reader can see some small, but the ones that give them fright are the large ones, larger than their head... Reader isn't sure what exactly they helped... or who... but, they decide to tread more carefully from now on...

(And watching from the trees, happy to see their new friend, is a young werewolf, ready to drag their newest friend into the woods for a day of play...)

@sugar-soda @roxanndrummond @thewickedweiner (Guess who the young werewolf is! And woo, Reader has trauma! What color pelt do you think Reader has? Something natural or something unique? Their eyes, I imagine, are a honey orange or fluorescent green)