broidobe

[broidobe]

If you do decide to come back on tumblr and decide to start writing again can I request a 90’s Dave Grohl (Nirvana era) smut oneshot plz?! I love your stories you’re a great writer! Take care my friend. 🤍

baby i’m so extremely Catholic that “sadly” i could never even see a return. i simply come back to clear out the inbox and the notifications.

[broidobe]

do you have any drafts you could post? as like a farewell maybe

uhm i kind of already gave my farewell with the goodbye post but take this i guess? this is the only draft i have because i posted everything before i left. i dont even know if the grammar is okay because i am not going to read it. this was requested by @rentherainbringer so please give them all the kudos for creating such a complex, amazing character.

and no, i will not be returning. i've deleted tumblr off everything and this was simply a visit to clear my inbox.

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

𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔰 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔣𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔦

requested by @rentherainbringer! this is an oc fic just to clarify lol.

☾you’re a music journalist with a habit of falling for the broken ones. jonathan steele has a habit of becoming everyone’s obsession☽

☾warnings: suggestive tension, smoking, swearing, heavy emotional undertones, soft angst, dark glammy vibes☽

 𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ᡣ𐭩 𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓪 𝓸𝓯 𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝜗𝜚 𝔀𝓪𝓼𝓹

⁎⁺˳✧༚miscellaneous masterlist

the rain hits the window like someone’s throwing nails at it—sharp, persistent, annoying. you’re cross-legged on a torn-up velvet couch in the green room, scribbling barely-legible notes into your little black notebook while cigarette smoke curls like question marks above your head.

he’s late.

of course he is.

jonathan aaron steele doesn’t do "on time." he doesn’t even do "alive" in the traditional sense.

you met him once—briefly. backstage at some grimy dive bar, bathed in stage lights and eyeliner, where he looked like a fallen angel who’d gotten bored halfway down. he didn’t talk much. just smirked, offered you a light, and called you “red” even though your lipstick was black that night.

now, two weeks later, your editor wants a feature. “get into his head,” she said. “dig deep.”

like that’s possible. jonathan doesn’t dig—he drowns.

the door creaks, and you know it’s him before you even look up. something about the way the room shifts. like the air wants to worship him. or maybe warn you.

"hope i didn’t keep you waiting, sweetheart," he says, voice low and laced with exhaustion or arrogance—you can’t tell which. maybe both.

"only half an eternity," you quip, not looking up.

he chuckles. it’s soft. dangerous. he slides into the chair across from you like it was made for him, cigarette already between his fingers, eyes rimmed in last night’s kohl. the rings on his fingers glint under the flickering lightbulb. he looks like he hasn’t slept in a decade. but he wears it well.

"what do you wanna know?" he asks.

you raise an eyebrow. "who you really are."

he smirks. "that’s a boring answer waiting to happen."

"try me."

jonathan leans back. exhales smoke like he’s got ghosts in his lungs.

"i’m a bad habit with good intentions," he murmurs. "the kind of guy you regret kissing at midnight but still dream about by dawn."

you click your pen. "that’s poetic. rehearsed, even."

he grins. "comes with the job."

his boots scuff the floor as he leans forward. too close. your knees touch. neither of you moves.

"you wanna write about me, right?" he asks, voice velvet and ash. "then don’t ask me who i am. ask me what i’ve lost."

your throat tightens a little. the question sits heavy in the room.

"...what have you lost?"

he blinks. once. twice. then: "god, maybe. sanity. a bassist or two. someone who loved me before i learned how to ruin that kinda thing."

you scribble fast, though your hand shakes a little.

"and what have you found?"

his eyes meet yours. they’re all stormcloud and candlelight.

"that nothin' makes you feel more alive than the moment after everything falls apart."

you hate how your pulse skips at that. hate how magnetic he is. how he’s both altar and sacrilege.

and maybe he sees that in your eyes. because he smiles—a sad, lopsided thing—and asks, “you ever kiss someone just to see if the world would end?”

you blink. “...no.”

"shame," he murmurs. "you look like the type who’d enjoy it."

the silence after that is loaded. thick with something unspoken and stupid and dangerous.

"i’m not here to fall for you," you say quietly.

"good," he replies. "i’m not here to be fallen for."

but when your fingers brush as you pass him the lighter, neither of you pulls away. and the world keeps turning anyway.

[broidobe]

i seriously NEED more josh silver stuff anything PLEASEE

i’m no longer writing

[broidobe]

Still active??

uhhhh maybe?? not writing but maybe reposting? don’t expect anything lol

[broidobe]

lots and lots of people have been asking where i’ve went and telling me to come back.

well, i’ve got some news you may find saddening.

growing up in a russian household, religion, specifically orthodoxy and catholicism, have been huge aspects of my life.

i’ve been known to have “bouts” of faith where i become apart of my catholic faith once again.

and for awhile now, i’ve become closer with Jesus than i ever have been. i’ve honestly been so happy lately

but coming back to catholicism means i am obviously giving it my all.

after the death of the beloved Pope Francis, it’s been difficult for all catholics, including me and yesterday the 9 day mourning period began for him.

ever since the day he left this earth to join our Father, i’ve been reflecting on this account and how writing such things has damaged and brought me down in drastic ways.

the lust and stress that’s been brought on my shoulders from this has completely destabilized me.

i knew i needed change so i went to Jesus and i’m doing so much better.

i’m prepared to receive backlash for my decision to return to my faith. but i’m prepared to receive more backlash for this:

i am leaving, and not returning.

i know i promised to finish all the fics that were requested but i hope you understand that this is not something i can do anymore.

ive made over 700 posts on this account and most of them are fanfiction. that’s about 600ish fanfics i’ve written alone in 5 months.

that’s…a whole lot of dedication.

i won’t be deleting anything posted so you can always go back to them.

this is a new chapter of my life, i’ve been reborn once again and i’ve achieved true happiness

thank you all for showing me support and love through this journey, i am so grateful to have built a community like this.

i love you all, God bless you 🤍🙏

[broidobe]

𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔫𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤

requested

☾tripping with jim morrison leads to an intimate, hallucinatory journey through bodies, minds, and dreams. reality slips. only sensation remains☽

☾warnings: nsfw, acid use, surreal sensory experiences, praise kink, light d/s elements, body worship, dirty talk, spiritual sex vibes, it's weird and that’s the point☽

𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ᡣ𐭩 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓲𝓬𝓼 𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝜗𝜚 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓸𝓻𝓼

⁎⁺˳✧༚miscellaneous masterlist

you’re laid out on jim’s floor—shirt unbuttoned, head tilted back into a velvet pillow, ceiling melting into liquid gold. incense curls in the corner, thick and sweet like stolen sugar. his voice hums low from across the room, reciting poetry in rhythm with the flick of a lighter.

“there are things known, and things unknown,” he says, lighting the joint with a grin. “and in between… us.”

you’re already gone, pupils wide, skin hypersensitive. the acid started crawling in your bloodstream twenty minutes ago, and now the world is beginning to ripple like a pond after a gunshot. jim kneels beside you, the haze of his breath brushing against your cheek.

“you feel it yet?”

“feel everything,” you whisper, breath catching in your throat as his fingers trace slow, electric lines across your stomach.

he chuckles, eyes glowing in the dim, candle-lit dark like something ancient and holy. “you’re beautiful like this… undone. untethered. open.”

he says it like a spell, like a prayer. you arch slightly, not sure if your back is rising or if the floor is falling away. he presses a kiss to your collarbone—soft, reverent.

"i wanna worship you like the fucking sun,” he murmurs, sliding his hands down your sides. “burn myself on you. dissolve into you.”

his mouth trails lower, and you gasp—half in pleasure, half in disbelief at how real he feels. every nerve is alive. you’re pure sensation, a soul in skin. jim moves like he’s dancing, like his body is made of smoke and rhythm and endless want.

he pulls your pants down slowly, like a ritual. like he’s unwrapping sacred scripture. his fingers drag along your thighs, his lips part to whisper something in a language you’re pretty sure is made up, but you feel it.

the words slip into your skin, curl into your bones.

“can i taste you?” he asks, but he’s already between your legs, already anchoring you to the earth with his mouth.

the world explodes in technicolor.

he eats you like he’s starving, like you’re the answer to some cosmic question that’s been burning in his brain since birth. moaning into you, praising you in fragments—“so sweet, fuck, baby, give it to me”—like each syllable is a sacrament.

your hands tangle in his hair, and it’s not hair anymore, it’s fire. golden. glowing. too bright to touch but you hold on anyway.

and then—he’s above you again. pupils blown, lips slick, a man possessed.

“ride me,” he says, voice rough and low like thunder against your chest. “show me god.”

you straddle him, his hands gripping your hips, grounding you as you start to move. every thrust is a new universe. every grind sends shockwaves through your spine. you’re both moaning now—his head thrown back, yours falling forward.

your skin glows. you swear you can see the sound of your breathing.

he grabs your ass, thrusting up into you like it’s the only way he’ll ever get to heaven.

“you’re… unreal,” he groans. “fuck, baby. you’re not real. i’m dreaming you, aren’t i?”

“we’re dreaming each other,” you gasp, rolling your hips harder.

your orgasm hits like lightning. it tears through you with divine ferocity. his follows seconds later, loud and beautiful, his body curling into yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

and then—silence.

just sweat. breath. hearts.

he pulls you down, presses his forehead to yours.

“you are,” he whispers, “the most sacred trip i’ve ever taken.”

you laugh, dizzy and full.

“same.”

[broidobe]

𝔞𝔵𝔩 𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔤 𝔤𝔦𝔯𝔩𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡

requested

𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ᡣ𐭩 𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝓸 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝜗𝜚 𝓰𝓾𝓷𝓼 𝓷 𝓻𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓼

⁎⁺˳✧༚guns and roses masterlist

the second you two went public, twitter/X threads were FERAL. “she was born after use your illusion,” “what do they even talk about,” “he’s dating someone the same age as sweet child o’ mine”—and axl hates it. not cuz it bothers him, but because he knows it upsets you.

i’ve been called worse by better people, he says, scrolling past the comments with a deadpan expression.

yeah?

yeah. like, you should’ve seen what kurt used to call me. now that was mean.

he’s so defensive over you.

like he’ll be chill 99% of the time, but if anyone dares make a disrespectful joke about your age or imply you’re a gold digger or trophy—he’s going nuclear. zero hesitation.

she’s not with me for money," he’ll growl in an interview. "she has a degree, a career, and a better handle on life than i did at thirty. grow up.

you tease him CONSTANTLY about being old.

you’ll say stuff like omg you were alive during the cold war? and he’ll glare at you with fake betrayal.

you little brat.

me?? i’m just a baby, remember?

yeah, and i’m about to put you in time out.

(but secretly? he lives for your sass. keeps him sharp.)

you steal his sunglasses and band tees all the time.

and he just lets you. he acts annoyed but he loves how you look in them.

you post a mirror pic in his vintage 1988 tour shirt and he comments “keep it.”

then sends you a text five minutes later:

wear nothin’ else when i get home.

he buys you vinyls and rare music memorabilia like love letters.

this is an original pressing of black sabbath’s first album. i got it in ‘71. it still plays.

you’re giving this to me?

you’re mine, aren’t you?

(dies)

lowkey insecurity moment from YOU?? yes.

you overhear some fans say you’re only with him for fame, or that he’s just having a midlife crisis, and it eats at you a little.

you don’t say anything, but axl notices.

you’re quieter. won’t meet his eyes. smile’s a little dimmer.

so he sits you down and goes

you know why i’m with you?

...why?

because you look at me like i’m still me. not just… axl fucking rose.

you are axl fucking rose.

no. with you, i’m just axl. the dumbass who forgets where he left his phone. the guy who can’t stop writing songs at 3am. yours. and that’s all i wanna be.

(you sobbed. admit it.)

on stage he’s SO MUCH WORSE.

he’ll make eye contact with you in the crowd and smirk like the devil himself.

dedicates “you could be mine” to you with that glint in his eye.

you’re bright red. the crowd goes nuts. he thrives.

he tells the guys you saved his life.

not in a dramatic, rom-com way. in the quiet moments.

she makes me wanna stick around.

like. not just for the band. or the fans. but... life, y’know?

and they all get it. and they’re so glad he found you.

he spoils you, brags about you, kisses your forehead like he’s saying a prayer, and goes a little crazy every time you wear red lipstick.

you bring youth back into his world.

he brings depth into yours.

together, you’re chaos and comfort.

[broidobe]

fuck i forgot to anon that- anyways yeah we're a system and there's a fun little group of christian's in here who are weeping over the holy spirit and jesus and our hosts are all pagan or satanic... the one you talk to is a follower of cernunnos! -Rose 🐦‍⬛

thats honestly so cool! да благословит вас Господь to them!

[broidobe]

sorry dudes writings coming soon lol!

been busing with family shit

tis the russian orthodox season

excuse my russian:

Кто-нибудь еще помимо огромной русской ортодоксальной семьи?? как вы постоянно ходите вокруг говоря Христос Воскресе

[broidobe]

can't believe you rated young chris cornell a 5 and a 7... UNACCEPTABLE!!!

you know how i like my men….tattooed, mormon-looking, metal band, specifically deathcore or metalcore. example: phil bozeman

[broidobe]

Rate young Chris Cornell on a scale from 1 to 10 <3

5 with long hair, 7 with short hair.

normally i’m a fein for some long hair but i just don’t like his….oops

[broidobe]

𝔧𝔢𝔣𝔣 𝔟𝔲𝔠𝔨𝔩𝔢𝔶 𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

requested!

𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ᡣ𐭩 𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓭𝓫𝔂𝓮 𝜗𝜚 𝓳𝓮𝓯𝓯 𝓫𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓵𝓮𝔂

⁎⁺˳✧༚80s-90s rock masterlist

jeff would absolutely write you songs without telling you

like you'd just be lying in bed, watching the ceiling spin, and he'd pick up his guitar, strum something low and haunting, and just start singing things like

her eyes are the color of something i forgot / but i dream of them still…

and you're like "jeff??" and he's like "don’t worry about it" as if he didn’t just crack open your soul

he's the type of boyfriend who stares at you across a crowded room but not in a creepy way

like you're talking to a friend and you just feel it — that warm gaze — and you look over and he's smiling, all shy, sipping coffee with that little upturned smirk

you ask him what??

and he goes you just look really nice in this light and then goes back to whatever he was doing like he didn’t just melt your insides

he keeps polaroids of you in his guitar case

you found them once by accident, and it was like… photos of you asleep, brushing your teeth, making soup, sticking your tongue out at him

he just smiled and said, i like remembering the soft parts of us

literally who gave him the right 😭

this man kisses like he’s trying to memorize the moment

hands cradling your jaw, always lingering a little longer

his lips are gentle at first but then they grow deeper, hungrier, like he’s pouring everything he’s ever felt into that kiss

and when he pulls away? he presses his forehead to yours and exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time

arguments are rare but intense, full of metaphors and pacing

he gets emotional fast, but never yells — he just… retreats, writes, stews

later he’ll show up at your door, soaked in rain, clutching a notebook and whispering i couldn’t sleep without telling you how sorry i am

and you read the poem inside and now you can’t sleep because why is he so devastatingly romantic 😭

you're his muse, but in the realest way

he studies the way you move, the way you talk, how you hum songs when you’re washing dishes

he doesn’t just love you — he documents you

your love becomes a living art project that he tends to like a garden

songs, doodles, scribbles in margins of books

you find your name written on napkins, your laugh recorded on tapes

nighttime with jeff is a whole experience

he loves lying on your chest, tracing patterns on your skin

tells you stories about stars and ghosts and his childhood

falls asleep halfway through a sentence, fingers still curled around yours

whispers your name in his sleep like it’s a song he doesn’t want to forget

[broidobe]

just to clarify

not sure how many more times i need to say this but my requests are closed. if you forgot, i'm finishing the upcoming fics list and then going on break. i don't mean to be a total dick but...c'mon...i've said this A LOT.

[broidobe]

𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔩𝔞

requested by ☁️!

☾you and sami were once inseparable back in his hanoi rocks days, but time and distance pulled you apart. years later, a trip to LA throws you straight into the path of someone you never stopped missing☽

☾warnings: some angst (just a lil), cursing, emotional pining, implied romantic feelings, fluff overload at the end☽

𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ᡣ𐭩 𝓲𝓽 𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓽 𝓶𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝓮 𝜗𝜚 𝓳𝓸𝓪𝓷 𝓫𝓪𝓮𝔃

⁎⁺˳✧༚hanoi rocks masterlist

you don’t expect to see him. not in a city this big, this sprawling and always moving — where everyone’s chasing something and running from something else.

but there he is, standing outside a small venue on sunset boulevard, lighting a cigarette like no time has passed at all.

his hair’s still long, still messy in that way he never tried to fix. and even now, with a different band and years of life in between, he looks just like you remember.

sami yaffa.

your sami — well, not really yours, not anymore. maybe not ever.

you stop in your tracks, heart thudding like it’s trying to remember all the things you forgot. the laughter, the late-night phone calls, the way he used to lean his head on your shoulder when he got too tired after shows. the promises to visit, the letters that came less and less. until finally, silence.

you almost don’t say anything. almost turn around and chalk it up to fate being cruel. but then he looks up, and his eyes catch yours.

and just like that, the world stops.

"no fuckin’ way," sami breathes, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “is that—?”

you laugh before you even mean to, a nervous, disbelieving kind of sound. “hey, sami.”

he drops the cigarette to the sidewalk, crushes it under his boot, and walks straight over — pulling you into a hug like no time’s passed at all.

“i thought i’d never see you again,” he mumbles into your hair, voice a little hoarse. “fuck. what’re you doing in LA?”

"work trip," you say, arms still wrapped around him like muscle memory. “just a few weeks. i didn’t even know you were here.”

he pulls back enough to look at you — really look at you. his eyes are softer than you remember, but the way he looks at you? that’s the same. like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

"jetboy’s been keeping me around here lately," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "but... shit, i missed you."

you smile, a little sadly. “i missed you too. a lot.”

you end up grabbing coffee, sitting in a booth at some tiny diner with sticky menus and bad lighting, but it’s perfect. you talk for hours. about the in-between years. about what you’ve both been doing. about everything and nothing and the million things you never said.

somewhere between his third refill of black coffee and your sleepy grin, he says it. softly, like it’s been sitting on his tongue for years.

"i always thought about you. even in london. even when i didn’t call.”

your breath catches, but you meet his gaze. “i thought about you too. every time i heard your name, every time i saw a letter in my mailbox that wasn’t from you.”

“i was scared,” he admits, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug. “scared if i called, you wouldn’t care anymore. that i ruined it.”

“you didn’t,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “you never did.”

he smiles, something small and shaky. “can i make it up to you?”

you nod. “yeah. but only if it involves pancakes. i haven’t had proper pancakes since i got here.”

his grin is boyish, full of mischief and something deeper — something tender.

“pancakes and a second date, then,” he says. “you’re not getting rid of me again.”

[broidobe]

𝔫𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔷𝔞 𝔫𝔰𝔣𝔴 𝔞𝔩𝔭𝔥𝔞𝔟𝔢𝔱

requested!

𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ᡣ𐭩 𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓻𝔂 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝜗𝜚 𝓶𝓮𝓰𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓽𝓱

⁎⁺˳✧༚megadeth masterlist

a = aftercare

nick’s soft as hell after sex

wraps you in blankets, gets you water, wipes you down

strokes your hair and whispers sweet stuff like “you okay, baby?”

if you say you’re sore? he panics like a golden retriever in trouble

b = body part (his + yours)

on you: thighs. obsessed. will worship them

on him: hands. and he knows how to use them

flexes his fingers on purpose just to make you squirm

c = cum

messy af. loves painting your body with it

especially between your ass cheeks 😮‍💨

rubs it in, stares you down while he does it

menace behavior

d = dirty talk

filthy. unhinged. cocky.

says things like:

“you feel how soaked you are for me?”

“whose cock makes you cum like this?”

“you’re my little toy tonight, huh?"

gets worse if you talk back—brats beware

e = experience

toured the world. seen and done everything

but with you? it’s special

“nobody else mattered before you” (🥹)

still hits like a sledgehammer in bed tho

f = favorite position

prone bone: flat on your stomach, deep strokes, ass gripped

lotus: face-to-face intimacy, slow grind, eye contact that kills

reverse cowgirl: for the view. smacks your ass the whole time

g = goofy

total goofball outside the sheets

dumb jokes, leg humping, chaotic energy

but when it’s time to fuck? switches into demon mode

will say something ridiculous like “i’d let you ruin my drum kit with that pussy” and keep going

h = hair

90s bush. doesn’t trim, doesn’t care

clean, but natural

likes your hair any way. “leave it, i like the texture”

i = intimacy

tries to be casual, but melts during soft sex

if you kiss him slow or say “i love you” mid-ride?

gets clingy and breathy

“don’t stop… need you so bad…”

j = jack off

jerks off constantly on tour

thinks about you in the crowd, panties optional

will ask to do it onto you

also loves when you watch

k = kinks

impact play: spanks like it’s his job

power play: loves dom/sub dynamics

breeding kink: “gonna fill you up, baby” 😩

praise + degradation: whiplash between “good girl” and “dirty slut”

mirror sex: wants to watch your soul leave your body

overstimulation: your shaking legs = victory

miiiight let you tie him up if you play nice

l = location

green room quickie before soundcheck

studio wall smash, hopes it’s soundproof

hotel balcony, dark lights, public risk

m = motivation

your voice when you moan? 🫠

tight clothes, teasing touches

one sexy pic or text and he cancels plans

n = no

draws the line at actual emotional degradation

will never cross a boundary

all fun, all freaky, zero trauma

o = oral (giving + receiving)

giving: pussy worship. tongue god. doesn’t stop til you cry

receiving: loud, twitchy, begs with full sentences

will praise you while you do it. full eye contact. feral

p = pace

ruthless. jackhammer vibes

but knows how to slow grind to ruin you

loves switching tempo just to make you beg

q = quickie

lives for them

bends you over anywhere, anytime

will be hard for hours afterward thinking about it

r = risk

semi-public king

turns on the second you suggest something bold

also thrives on you teasing him when he can’t touch you

s = stamina

literal machine. drummer arms = endless thrust

“you good for one more?” even when you’re limp

you’ll need an ice pack after. and maybe prayers

t = toys

loves using vibrators on you while watching you squirm

into cuffs, plugs, maybe even a little pegging if you tease him long enough

curious and kinky af

u = unfair

tease demon

will edge you for an hour just because he can

makes you beg, cry, say please 50 times before he lets you cum

v = volume

loud af. moans, curses, breathy filth

whispers “you feel so fuckin’ good” like it’s sacred

lives for your noise too—“let me hear it, baby”

w = wild card

randomly drops to his knees and eats you out with no warning

spontaneous floor sex? yes.

makes you feel like the hottest person alive mid-errand

x = x-ray (size)

long. 7.5-8 inches, not too thick, but curved to destroy

veiny, hard, pretty, cocky.

asks “wanna kiss it?” like a menace when he’s hard

y = yearning

thirsty 24/7

tour separation has him down bad

sends voice notes and videos of himself stroking it slow to thoughts of you

z = zzz

passes out hard after

but not before cuddling, checking on you, and mumbling “you fucked me up” with a stupid smile

dead to the world within five minutes

[broidobe]

𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯

requested by 🐅!

☾the reader tie up eric carr and worship his ass until he’s trembling, begging, and completely ruined—in the sweetest, filthiest way possible☽

☾warnings: nsfw (18+), rimming (reader giving), light bondage (silk ties), power play (sub!eric, soft dom!reader), dirty talk, praise, body worship, mild brat-taming, aftercare☽

𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ᡣ𐭩 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝜗𝜚 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼

⁎⁺˳✧༚80s-90s rock masterlist

you’d barely gotten the silk ties in place before eric started squirming.

"you sure you're okay with this?" you ask one last time, fingers ghosting down his bare chest as you lean over him, catching that flutter of nerves and need behind his eyes.

his cheeks are already flushed, curls a bit wild from how he’s been shifting in anticipation. “yeah,” he breathes, voice soft and eager. “please. i want it.”

you smirk, dragging your hands slowly down his sides. “you want what, baby?”

he swallows hard. “want you to… do what you said. i want you to eat me out.”

god, the way he says it—so shy but so turned on—makes you hum low in your throat. “good boy,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss him deep, tongue teasing his before you trail down his jaw, his neck, biting softly just to hear the breath hitch.

he gasps when you get to his thighs—because you spread them wide with intention. his wrists are bound above him with smooth silk, tied to the headboard, and he's completely open for you, ass up just slightly with a pillow under his hips.

you trace a hand down the curve of his back and over that perfect ass, giving one cheek a firm squeeze. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do this.”

"m-mmh," he whimpers, lifting his hips just a little more, already trying to be helpful. obedient. desperate. "please."

you trail kisses down the backs of his thighs, slow and teasing. “stay still for me, eric,” you whisper, breath warm against his skin. “you move too much and i’ll stop.”

he whines—actually whines—and it makes you grin like the devil.

you start slow, lips pressing reverent kisses to the soft skin between his cheeks, hands spreading them gently. he lets out the softest moan when you finally flatten your tongue and lick a long stripe over his hole, teasing it with slow circles.

“oh—f-fuck,” he gasps, head tipping back.

“mmm, you taste so good, baby,” you purr, voice thick with heat. “such a pretty ass. made for me, huh?”

he nods, barely able to speak. “yes—yes, please, more—”

you hum against him, tongue diving deeper, hands keeping him spread just how you like. you eat him out like it’s your last meal—slow, deliberate, worshipful. you make sure he feels everything. you tease with the tip of your tongue, then push in deeper, moaning against him as you devour him.

he’s trembling, panting, hips rolling subtly as he tries not to move too much, his knuckles white where he’s gripping the silk ties.

“doing so good for me,” you murmur between licks. “you’re such a good boy, eric. so sweet. so obedient.”

he sobs out a moan at that—full-on losing it—and you can tell he’s close even without being touched.

"g-god, i—i can't—" he pants, voice shaking.

you pull back just a little, just to blow against the wet heat, and he bucks up with a shameless cry.

"what did i say, baby?" you coo, giving his ass a light smack. "no squirming. or i’ll make you wait."

he groans and nods, breathless. “i’ll be good. i’ll be good. i promise.”

“that’s my good boy.” you spit between his cheeks and dive back in—rougher this time, sloppier, letting the heat build and build while he’s gasping your name like a prayer.

he’s a full-blown mess by the time you finally slide a hand underneath him, wrapping around his cock—and the second you stroke him, he’s gone.

he cums hard, shaking, his thighs trembling, his whole body jerking under you as he cries out.

you don’t stop.

you lick him through it, slow and dirty, even as he writhes and babbles, begging for mercy and whimpering how sensitive he is. your free hand smooths down his back in contrast—soft and comforting, grounding him while your mouth ruins him.

when you finally let up, he’s a flushed, trembling heap. you untie him carefully, gently massaging his wrists, kissing each one. he blinks up at you, dazed, eyes wide and glossy.

“you okay, baby?” you ask softly, brushing a curl from his forehead.

he nods, smiling all blissed out. “i feel like i just went to heaven.”

you kiss him sweetly. “good. ‘cause i’m not done with you yet.”

he whimpers, and you grin.

[broidobe]

𝔫𝔬 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔦𝔯 𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔣

requested!

☾when sami shows up to surprise you after a week apart, he’s not prepared to see your signature long hair—gone☽

☾warnings: excessive dramatics, emotional support hair scarf, mild fluff, a distressed man, clinginess, some dramatic baby crying energy, but make it rockstar☽

𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 ᡣ𐭩 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓼𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓸𝓮𝓼 𝜗𝜚 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓪'𝓼

⁎⁺˳✧༚hanoi rocks masterlist

it had only been a week. seven days. one tour stop and a radio interview.

and yet, when sami stepped into your apartment, arms full of flowers and a dumb little smile on his face, ready to kiss your cheeks and wrap himself up in your signature absurdly long hair—he froze.

you turned around from the mirror. “hey, babe—”

his jaw dropped. “w—what did you do.”

your smile faltered. “oh! yeah. i cut it.”

cut it. cut it?!

his eyes locked on the soft ends now brushing your shoulders, all bounce and volume and still beautiful—but gone were the curtain-like strands that once fell down your back like silk. gone was the hair he used to absentmindedly braid while you watched movies. gone was the hair he used to sleep under, like some luxurious, living blanket.

his bottom lip trembled.

“sami?”

“y—you cut it,” he whispered, stepping closer, horrified. “i didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

you blinked. “…you’re being dramatic.”

he collapsed onto the couch like a grieving poet.

“i loved that hair,” he muttered into a throw pillow. “it used to slap me in the face when we kissed. it’d strangle me in bed. it made me sneeze in the shower. it was… it was sentient. and now it’s gone.”

“sami,” you laughed, coming to sit beside him, “you’re mourning it like a person.”

“because it had personality!” he wailed, peeking out from the pillow with wide, teary eyes. “i had a bond with it. it used to get caught in my rings. i named the long strand that curled over your left shoulder.”

“…you what?”

“her name was nadine. she tickled my arm when you rolled over in bed.”

you stared at him.

he flopped dramatically into your lap. “and now i have nothing. nothing but bare shoulders and emotional scars.”

you gently ran your fingers through his hair. “you are absolutely ridiculous.”

“you chopped off my will to live.”

“but i still look cute, right?”

he pouted, looking up at you like a sad little victorian boy. “…you look gorgeous. like. unreal. i want to cry again.”

you grinned and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “you’ll live.”

“barely.”

you grabbed one of his hands and placed it on your head. “you can still play with it. just… less of it.”

he huffed, but started gently combing his fingers through the shorter strands. “i guess i could get used to this. you look like a sexy french artist now. or a movie star. or—fuck. okay. yeah. i’m into it.”

“oh, now you’re into it?”

“don’t push it,” he grumbled. “i’m still grieving nadine.”

you giggled and kissed his cheek.

he paused, sighing. “just… let me mourn properly, okay?”

you grabbed a hoodie, shoved it into his arms, and said: “fine. cry into this. she would’ve wanted it that way.”