keaganz

[keaganz]

Billy just face plants right in between them hairy thighs, rubs his face like some demented cat all over Steve's sweaty balls, fills his lungs full of that musk and funk. Let's himself chub up nicely before dragging his nose up along damp soft skin by passing all that glorious chest hair, going straight for the ultimate prize. Billy has to hold Steve down using his increase weight and body mass he worships his pits because Steve is so damn ticklish.

And they’re making out sloppy style

[keaganz]

They also be fucking wet, messy and sloppy. They both look like the type to have a musk kink. I'm not talking, just sniffing underware. I'm talking shoving their faces in each other's pits after a long day.

And they’re making out sloppy style

[keaganz]

*dies from cuteness overload*

Jeff + Emma Frost 💙

[P4tre0n] [Linktr.ee]

[keaganz]

Schlocktober: A Fake Event Where Anything Goes

While other people are out here dropping Kinktober prompt lists with 9000 stipulations, I bring you this.

It's not a real October event, but it could be if you believe. The prompts are here for anyone to enjoy anyway.

Why "schlock"?

It means trash/junk, and that's the quality of content I'm striving for with these prompts. It's also fun to say.

But, y'know, if you want to take a prompt and turn it into a masterpiece of a whumpy longfic, go for it.

What fandom is this for?

Whatever fandom you want.

What ships can I write/draw?

Any of them.

Even [my fandom's most despised ship]?

Especially [your fandom's most despised ship].

What if I want to combine prompts? What if I want to write or draw things out of order? What if...

Go for it.

Are crossovers okay?

Do. Whatever. You. Want.

What if I want to create something problematic?

Send me the fucking link.

What does [prompt] mean?

You tell me. It's all open to interpretation.

Are there any rules at all?

Sure.

No AI use. If you need an LLM to write your schlock for you, consider a long walk off a short pier. If you need it to do your editing for you, use a beta reader instead. A stick figure drawn on the back of a napkin is better than soulless AI art.

Tag appropriately. 'Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings' means anything goes. 'No Archive Warnings Apply' means your work is guaranteed not to contain any of the major archive warnings (non-con, major character death, graphic violence, or underage sex).

No irl bigotry. Your characters can be problematic as all get out, but if you try to post a weird pro-JK Rowling essay or something you're not going in the collection, bud. Don't kill the vibes.

What are the vibes?

Just have fun.

But other people are having fun wrong!

Shut the fuck up.

Are you going to be doing this?

Probably not.

How do I participate?

There's an ao3 collection right here:

Schlocktober on ao3

Otherwise, just hashtag #schlocktober or something, idk. I don't expect anyone to actually do this.

Text version of the prompts under the cut.

Day 1:

Quadruple Fisting

Inappropriate Use of Labubus

Sex-Related Injury

Day 2:

Quesadilla Cocksleeve

Taking Notes During Sex and Grading It

MyPillow Humping

Day 3:

Erotically Burning Hair

Nostril Worship

Fuck or Live

Day 4:

Gap Tooth Kink

Pegging with a Square Peg

Peeling Sunburn

Day 5:

Not Squirting, Not Pee, but a Secret Third Thing

Nipple Sounding

Enemas to Lovers

Day 6:

Defiling a Puritan

Room Temperature Play

Edging on an Edge

Day 7:

Bidets

Too Many Legs

Shallow Throating

Day 8:

Lingerie Made of Crabs

Not Water Sports, but Water Leisure

Masturbation Pollen

Day 9:

Nonconsensual Consent (NCC)

Afterneglect

Last Time

Day 10:

Human Centipeding

Ball Slapping

Fuck or Die Trying

Day 11:

Sex on Meth

Plucking Hair by Hand

Harem on Strike

Day 12:

Second-Hand Creampie

Haggled Use

Age Progression

Day 13:

Cactus Insertion

Antibreeding Kink

Mechanical Bull

Day 14:

Banned on TikTok

Predator/Predator

Prey/Prey

Day 15:

Scissoring with Scissors

Butterplay

Cannon (Artillery) Compliant

Day 16:

Dueling Gloryholes

Inedible Cum

Purple Nurple

Day 17:

Pimple Popping

Lap Riverdance

Pain Without Pleasure

Day 18:

Nonconsensual Soloplay

Weakness Kink

Genital Swap (Not Whole Body)

Day 19:

Chip Clip Nipple Clamps

Spatchcocking

Wound Fucking

Day 20:

Boot Blasphemy

Understimulation

Gamma/Delta/Sigma (G/D/S)

Day 21:

CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Torture)

CBT (Cock and Ball Therapy)

Asparagus

Day 22:

Autocannibalism

Actual Jackhammering

Extrasensory Deprivation

Day 23:

Going in Dry

Aroused by the Smell of Rubber Cement

Sterilization Ritual

Day 24:

Genitals Stuck in Zipper

Ennui Kink

Earwax Wax Play

Day 25:

Actual Handcuffs (They're Under Arrest)

96ing

Sex as a Sedative

Day 26:

Hospice Roleplay

Gas Station Sex Pills

Balls So Blue They're Practically Purple

Day 27:

Extreme Temperature Cockwarming

Promiscuity Cage

Salt Daddy

Day 28:

Sex with Crocs

Anal Toeing

Breaking a Sex Contract

Day 29:

Coming in Someone Else's Pants

Clowns

Cloning Gone Wrong

Day 30:

Lube As Spit

Pet Work

Clear Showers (Character Is Adequately Hydrated)

Day 31:

Pumpkin Seed Snowballing

Candy Apple Coating

Ghost of a Sex Offender

[keaganz]

|| come and love me ||

Pairing: Vampire!Eddie Munson/Reader

Summary: Eddie wakes up with a bit of a problem. Turns out, you have the same one.

Word count: 3k

Tags and warnings: Smut (a little more explicit than what I normally write), fluff, psychic vampire Eddie (it's not super important to the story, but it's mentioned!), established relationship, Eddie's a cheeky lil shit (affectionate), Eddie's POV, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(Does anyone actually want any more of this AU? Here it is, anyway. Can be read as a part 2 to Creature in the Night. Title is from Wild Child by W.A.S.P.)

Eddie Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

Eddie's not one for waking up early, never has been. Even after everything that's happened - what he is now - he still likes his sleep. Being an undead creature of the night is exhausting, thank you very much.

But as he is right now, he doesn't think he could go back to sleep even if he tried.

How could he, when he's lying in bed with the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

You're curled up in his arms, still fast asleep, soft snores pushing past your parted lips. His arms are around your waist, his chest pressed to your back.

He allows himself a contented little stretch, his wings unfolding as best they can without knocking everything off your bedside table. He's still getting used to them.

The room is beginning to become unbearable as the sun slowly rears its ugly head for another stifling summer day. Eddie's hair is plastered to his forehead, and his boxers are twisted at his waist in a way that's quickly becoming uncomfortable, but right now, he couldn't care less.

He has you, safe and close to him, and nothing could make him happier.

Well...

Maybe there's one thing that could.

You shift in your sleep, your ass pressing against Eddie’s dick, which decides that it needs to wake up now too.

Great. Just fucking perfect.

He tries to move himself back a bit, so he doesn’t wake you, and just his luck, you follow him, pushing yourself right back into the position you were in before. A little sigh escapes you, as if you’re finally content.

That makes one of you.

Eddie tries again, carefully pulling himself back, and again, you follow him.

"Eddie..." you mumble, with another little sigh.

He winces.

"Sorry, baby, didn't mean to wake you," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

You don't respond, instead nuzzling your head sleepily into your pillow. Eddie breathes a tiny sigh of relief. He's about to put his head down again when-

"Eddie..." you say again, and his eyes widen.

You're not awake, he realises that now.

You're dreaming. About him.

And judging by the way your ass is still pressing against him, it's a good dream. Not only that, but he can feel it, emanating from you in waves.

And suddenly, he's starving.

He's still getting used to how all of this works. Different emotions have different tastes to them, he's realised, and how intense they are can affect that. Anger, rage especially, tastes like charred meat, like it's been cooked to the point of ruining it. Sadness tastes...soupy. Like it's been watered-down. Bland. Tasteless.

Happiness is a whole other thing, because it comes in so many different forms. It's like pasta, he thinks - no matter what shape it is, you can't go wrong with it.

But this? What you're feeling right now? It's like the most indulgent kind of dessert, the kind that could sicken even the sweetest tooth.

It's definitely not helping his current situation, he can say that much, at least. Sometimes he thinks drinking blood would be easier.

God, he needs you to wake up, and soon.

He gently shakes your shoulder, and you mumble something incoherent, before drifting off again.

"Baby, c'mon, you're killing me here," he grumbles, giving you another little shake.

With a snort, you wake up, lifting your head in a daze.

"'S'wrong?" you whisper hoarsely. "Eddie?"

Eddie rolls you onto your back, softly stroking your cheek.

"Nothing's wrong, sweetheart," he tells you. "It's just, uh, you were talking. In your sleep."

You rub your hand across your face, trying to rouse yourself. "Was I?"

Eddie chuckles, pushing his messy hair out of his eyes. "Oh, yeah, you were talkin' up a storm."

"What did I say?" you ask.

He pretends to think about it for a minute, tapping his lip with his index finger.

"I believe, if I'm not mistaken, that it was something to the effect of-"

He raises his voice, making it ridiculously high and breathy.

"Oh, Eddie."

Your eyes widen as you glare at him, slapping him on the shoulder. "I did not."

"Oh, but you did. I'm not lying, heard it with my own two ears." Eddie makes a X across his chest with his finger. "Cross my heart and hope to...Well, you know what I mean."

"You know what? I don't have to listen to this right now," you tell him, clearly embarrassed. "And it's still very early, so goodnight."

You roll over onto your side with a huff. Not knowing when to call it quits, Eddie sidles back up to you, sliding his arms around your waist again.

"Baby, c'mon, don't be like that," he murmurs, pretending to sound as pathetic as possible in the hopes that you'll give in and let him win this one. "It's not a bad thing. If anything, I thought it was flattering, that a pretty thing like you is dreaming about little ol' me."

You don't reply, but Eddie is nothing if not persistent. His hand dips lower, tracing faint lines across your stomach.

"In fact, I'm, uh...Well, I'm kinda in the same boat. If you catch my drift."

He feels you shiver under his touch, and that only urges him on.

"I was thinking, maybe, we could help each other out. What do you say?"

Still no answer. Fortunately, Eddie has one last play. He sighs, long and dramatic.

"Y'know, maybe I got the wrong end of the stick. And like you said, it is still early, so I should let you get some sleep."

He moves to pull away from you, when your hand suddenly catches his wrist.

"Wait," you mumble.

"What's wrong, baby?" Eddie asks, his tone the very definition of innocence, in spite of the shit-eating grin on his face.

You let out a breath, as if you're nervous.

"Look, I...Maybe I did have some kind of dream about you, okay?" you mumble in a rush.

Eddie's smile only widens. "That's not a bad thing, sweetheart. Like I said, I'm flattered."

He gently pulls at your arm, and you let him roll you onto your back again. He reaches for your wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it.

"Honoured, even," he says, and even though he's teasing, he means it.

How he managed to land someone like you, he'll never know. But he'd never take it for granted. Not before, and certainly not now. Not after everything that's happened to him.

"You want me to help you out?" he asks, dark eyes watching you carefully.

You stare up at him for a moment, before you finally nod. Eddie's on you in a heartbeat. His hands drag the length of your stomach, across your ribs, calloused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. A breathy gasp escapes you, and that only encourages him further, greedy hands sliding up over your chest. Your back arches into his touch, and he squeezes you, desperate to hear more of those pretty noises that always drive him wild.

You reach for him, and he's quick to catch your wrists.

"Nice try, but you're not gonna distract me, okay?" he asks, his tone just leaning into patronising.

He waits until you nod in answer, before moving your hands up over your head.

"Keep those right there. I mean it."

He knows you well enough by now that if he was taking it too far, you'd tell him. You're stubborn, probably even more than he is - which is really saying something. If anything, judging by the look you're currently giving him, he's not doing enough, and he sets to work to correct that as quickly as he can.

His hand slips down to your thigh, his touch teasingly light as his fingers play with the hem of your pyjama shorts. He traces small circles across your skin until you huff impatiently at him, urging him on. He pushes past the hem, dragging the tips of his fingers across your underwear. He can feel a little wet patch on the fabric, and his mouth pulls into a sly smile against your ribcage.

"Baby," he groans, still dragging against you. "Is that because of me?"

He loves playing the fool with you sometimes, knows how it drives you crazy. But it's so hard not to. He wants to hear you say it. Needs to hear you say it.

You make a non-committal hum in response, and that just won't do. He presses harder, finally drawing a moan from you.

"Well?" he persists. "Is it?"

You mumble a flustered "yes", and that's enough to satisfy him. For now.

"Musta been some dream you were having," he continues, between little kisses across your stomach and chest. "Why don't you tell me about it, huh? Give me some ideas."

He keeps teasing as he talks, his fingers pressing not quite where you knows you want them. He can't help himself. He loves you like this. All spread out and pliant. Letting him take care of you.

You open your mouth to speak, barely getting a single word out before Eddie drags his fingers against you, hard. You slap at his shoulder.

"That's not fair," you practically whine at him.

Eddie stops, levelling you with a feigned look of disappointment. He takes your hand, pressing it back up above your head.

"Try that again, see what happens," he replies, the warning clear in his tone.

You're still pouting, but you say nothing.

"If you want me to stop, all you gotta do is say and I'll just-"

Eddie lies still.

"No, wait," you say, a little too quickly. "I don't want you to stop."

"You gonna behave?"

You nod.

Eddie tilts his head. "You promise?" he asks, his tone definitely patronising now.

You nod again, more urgently.

Eddie smiles. "Good girl. Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Right, I believe I was..."

He slips his fingers beneath your underwear, sliding two of them up and down the length of you.

"...right here."

You gasp sharply, and that only urges him on.

"Now, since you're so insistent on talking, you can tell me all about that dream you were having. I feel like I have a right to know, since I was in it."

"Eddie, come on, it's embarrassing," you protest.

"It's not embarrassing at all. But look, if you don't wanna tell me, that's fine. I can't make you. I'm just saying, think about how much nicer this would all be if you were getting exactly what you want."

He keeps going, his fingers sliding back and forth in a way that he knows isn't enough, and he says as much.

"You want more, don't you?" he asks, in a sickly sweet tone.

You let out a little whine in response.

"You don't?" he asks, pretending he doesn't understand.

You huff then, and it takes everything in him to hold back the laughter threatening to burst out of him. You're so cute like this.

He can be a bit mean sometimes, he knows he can, but he also knows you like it, even if you won’t always admit it. He presses just a little harder then, and another moan pushes past your lips, small and broken.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks, as if he’s not at all aware. “Use your words.”

He picks up the pace, knowing it's only going to make things harder for you.

“If you don’t tell me, I can’t do anything about it,” he says with a theatrical little sigh.

You push yourself closer to him, and he pulls back. He can't have you finishing before he's even gotten started. He's having far too much fun with you right now.

"O-Okay, fine, I'll tell you," you say in a rushed breath.

“Come on, sweetheart, you can do it," he murmurs. "You’re always so good at telling stories, and you have no idea how much I wanna hear this one.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to concentrate. Eddie's not helping. But to be fair, he's not trying to.

"I-I was…I was on top of you, and your hands were on my hips, and you were…you were telling me how good I was, and…and how well I was taking you and- Oh, God, Eddie-"

Eddie picks that exact moment to slide a finger inside you, completely cutting off whatever else you were about to say.

"I could do that for you, if you want," he says nonchalantly.

He's surprised at how well he's holding himself together right now, especially considering how impatient a certain something is getting.

"You want that, baby?" he asks.

"Please, Eddie," you manage to stammer out, and that's about all he can take.

Undead or not, he still has needs, and God, you're driving him crazy right now. He pulls away from you, letting himself get comfortable as he lies down.

"C'mon," he says, lightly slapping his thighs. "Up you get."

Eddie takes your hand, gently tugging at you until you take the hint. Ever the gentleman, he's already wriggled himself free of his shorts and flung them halfway across the room. You swing a leg over Eddie's hips, straddling him.

"Y'know, as pretty as the view is, sweetheart," he says, his hands running back and forth across your thighs, "I don't think this is exactly what we were doing in your dream, was it?"

You shake your head as you sit forward, taking him in hand and slowly sliding down onto him. Eddie's sure he's gone to Heaven. How do you always feel so good? Every goddamn time.

"You okay, baby? Not too much?" he asks.

"No, it's- it's perfect," you tell him.

He slides his hands up to your hips, easing you down closer to him. He doesn't know what's better right now, how you feel or how you taste, because Christ, he's completely overwhelmed by the waves of pure lust pouring from you. It's not like he hasn't felt it from you before, but never this intense. It's perfect.

You're perfect.

He thrusts up into you, and he laughs at your little surprised yelp.

"Wakey wakey, sleepyhead," he says with a smile. "You want me to do the work?"

He will, gladly, but he knows you'll take it as a challenge. True to form, you shake your head, pressing your palms against his hips as leverage, before raising yourself up slightly and sinking back down. It takes you a couple of tries, but eventually you find your rhythm, and Eddie doesn't even have to do anything. He just lies there, letting you take what you want from him, and God, if you aren't the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, especially like this. Lost in your own pleasure, panted breaths falling from your parted lips.

You're a vision like this. A dream.

"That's it, sweetheart, you're doing so good for me. So fucking good," he manages to grit out.

His head's fuzzy, like he's been drinking the hard stuff. It's not just how he feels, but how you feel as well. It's too much, and not enough at the same time. If he could keep you like this forever, he would. But unfortunately, he's still the same as when he was alive in that regard. He knows he's not gonna last long.

He slides a hand between your legs, rubbing against your clit as you ride him. A broken moan leaves your throat, and you push his hand closer to you, breaths growing heavier and more ragged the closer you get.

"That's it, sweetheart, so good for me, you're perfect-"

The words are barely out of his mouth when he feels you squeeze him tight, your back arching as you ride it out. He doesn't let up until you push him away, over-sensitive. He tries to give you a minute to recover, but you're having none of it, doubling down on making sure he gets off too. The way you sink back down onto him pushes the air from his lungs, and he doesn't hold back, gripping your hips and fucking up into you like he's possessed. It doesn't take him long at all to follow you, fingers digging little grooves into your skin.

You lean in close to him, resting your forehead against his as you both struggle to catch your breath. He stretches his wings out, letting them close around you like a cocoon. He's never felt more sated, and he tells you as much.

"Probably why I feel so tired, then," you mumble. "You're a glutton, Eddie Munson."

Eddie just laughs, pulling you in for a kiss.

"Can you blame me? You taste so fucking good," he says sincerely. "I can't help myself."

A breathless little laugh escapes you at that, and Eddie thinks it might be the prettiest sound he's ever heard. You slowly sit upright, and he stretches himself out, letting out a long, satisfied groan.

"We should get you fed now, yeah?" he asks. "Since you were so good to me."

"No, I'm gonna feed me," you tell him. "I couldn't trust you in the kitchen before, and I'm sure as shit not gonna trust you in there now."

Eddie holds a hand up to his mouth with a dramatic gasp.

"Are you saying I'm a bad cook?" he asks, pretending to be offended.

"I'm saying you're a terrible cook," you shoot back cheekily.

Eddie clutches at his chest theatrically. "Oh, you wound me, you awful woman."

You roll your eyes, moving to climb off him when he grabs you, holding you still.

"What?" you ask.

Eddie shakes his head. "Nothing, I just...God, you're beautiful, you know that?"

You scoff at him, and he reaches up then, cradling your face in his hands, firm enough to lightly squish your cheeks.

"I'm serious," he says. "Prettiest thing I've ever seen."

"And you're a big sap," you tease, placing your hands over his.

"For you? How could I not be?" he murmurs.

You puff out your cheeks against his palms, and he smiles up at you.

"Alright, c'mon, let me up," you insist. "I'm starving."

He reluctantly lets you go, and you awkwardly climb off the bed, lifting the shirt Eddie threw on the floor last night and putting it on. Eddie wolf-whistles at you as you leave, laughing when you pull a face at him. He indulges himself in another long stretch, resting his arms behind his head.

Death, afterlife - whatever he's supposed to call this, it's pretty damn good right now.

Taglist: @punkrockmlchael @hikohyuuga @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife @samslvrgirl @cheesesandwichsanto @magikdarkholme @spider-starry @jeangeniex @hazydespair @rainybloo28 @alexxavicry @e-c-a-r-l-a-t-e @writergiih @deadwizzardlover @paintballkid711 @avilou

(You can join the taglist here! You can also request to be removed through the same form!)

[keaganz]

The King, The Flayed & The Banished :)

Still love them

[keaganz]

Lazy morning

[keaganz]

There are so many good fics that I started reading years ago that are, for one reason or another, unfinished. Those that suck? Oh, absolutely, it does. Like I'm 25k deeply invested and then radio silence. Do you know what I do? I will daydream about what direction the author may have taken it. How the characters would develop and grow. What I don't do is feed the fucking story in to an AI program and let it spit out soulless word salad. Trust me, there are stories from 2016 that I would love to see continued. And sometimes you get lucky, and the author will start posting again. I had a story that was on hiatus for years and suddenly updated a bunch before going dormant again. And I was so happy for those few new chapters!

I started reading fanfiction around 2000/20001. Modern readers don't understand how spoilt we are for the vast number of platforms that hoast fics. You don't understand the discourse that happened when FanFiction.net started mass deleting works because the admins started labelling stuff as problematic, vile, and disturbing.

Do you know what helps encourage fic writers? Commenting and engaging with their fic! Kudos are nice yes, i love Kudos. But comments sooth my soul and are such a serotonin boost! Knowing someone took the time to dissect what I wrote and to theories on what my brain is cooking up next is just so addictive!

Maybe if people updated more we wouldn't turn to ai

You’re a pathetic, impatient loser. Fanfic writers owe you nothing, and their writing is their own, not yours to do with as you choose, you entitled brat.

[keaganz]

Samain or Samuin was the name of the festival marking the beginning of winter in Gaelic Ireland. It is attested in the earliest Old Irish literature, which dates from the 9th century onward. Samhain was one of four Gaelic seasonal festivals: Samhain (~1 November), Imbolc (~1 February), Bealtaine (~1 May), and Lughnasa (~1 August). Of these, Samhain and Bealtaine, marking the transitions into winter and summer respectively.

Halloween is the Catholic appropriation of Samain so that the locals wouldn't revolt too much when the Celtic religion was banned by the invading armies. Just like most Christian holidays are stolen, sacared days from other religions. So saying you want to change the date is extremely offensive.

Should Halloween be moved to Summer since it's all about going door to door in impractical outfits?

[keaganz]

“𝑰 𝒃𝒆𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒖𝒑.

𝑾𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘.“ 🥀

[keaganz]

My current not-approved-by-the-government opinion is that im not anyone's parent and i should not be responsible for random teenagers online. If I post smth thats 'meant for adults' and its labled as such then what happens from there is literally not my problem. If a teen- who is fully capable of turning on self moderation settings on their own btw- doesn't use a site's provided self moderation settings and they see boobs or dicks then like literally whatever, its neither the end of the world or a big deal. It shouldn't fall on me or a website or a tech company to do a parent's job, and also frankly i don't think a parent should be breathing down their 16 year old's neck on the off chance they do actually want to look at tits, but thats a discussion that americans will fucking throw a fit at so maybe we'll discuss that another day in better company.

"But what about young children!!" see thats! where parents should be involved- that is to say, why are you letting your young child on the internet in the first place, you fucking idiot.

[keaganz]

been seeing some cropped top billy on here lately, thought I'd share my own version too :)

[P4tre0n] [Linktr.ee]

[keaganz]

Reblog if you're a fanfic writer and you wanna know what your followers' favorite story of yours is ❤

[keaganz]

The conversation surrounding cultural appropriation has been so severely mutilated by white “allies” that the original intention behind that conversation has become almost unrecognizable in most social contexts.

[keaganz]

The Office

gareth emerson x eddie munson

word count: 1k

summary: Corroded Coffin Fest Day 29: The Office | Gareth has a crush on one of the warehouse drivers.

warnings: None?

notes: Submission for @corrodedcoffinfest! Thank you guys for reading my CC Fest entries so far! It means a lot to me.

Gareth Emerson wasn’t the kind of man who fell for people easily. He moved through his life quietly— he showed up early for work, he always finished his reports on time. He kept to himself unless conversation was absolutely necessary. He liked order. Things that made sense. He liked numbers that lined up. What he didn’t like, or at least didn’t know what to do with, was the warehouse driver who hauled shipments in and out while he flashed a smile his way that made Gareth’s heart flip in his chest. 

Eddie Munson was loud in ways that weren’t always literal. He took up space and he knew how to work it. He wore worn-out band t-shirts under his work shirt, walked around the warehouse like he was always a step out of rhythm, and he called people things like “boss” or “chief” with a crooked smile (Gareth thought it was pretty) that somehow never sounded like a mockery. Gareth told himself it didn’t mean anything, that Eddie was like that with everyone. He was friendly and casual. 

And he was definitely straight.

He’d seen Eddie chatting with people in the office break room— women, mostly. They’d look at him with heart eyes and laugh loudly at the things he’d say. There were rumors about him and someone from Accounting last year. He’d shown up to the holiday party alone, though, and stayed for exactly twenty minutes before ducking out with a six-pack under one arm. Gareth had nodded at him that night across the room, intending for it to be just that— a polite acknowledgment that he’d shown his face. But Eddie had crossed the room toward him anyway. Eddie had told him he liked his tie, and then said something about “keeping the nerds company.” Gareth hadn’t had the presence of mind to say much back to him.

It had been like that for months now. Gareth watching him from the periphery. Saying hello when Eddie would strike up a conversation. He had felt something shift— quiet and so fucking unwanted— every time Eddie stood too close to him, or smiled at him, or leaned against Gareth’s desk to ask a question that didn’t require that much leaning. Gareth had tried so hard to keep it under wraps, and it certainly didn’t help that Eddie seemed to know his way around a moment. Gareth has spent more time than he cared to admit wondering what he was thinking. There was a part of him— stubborn, hopeful, foolish— that thought maybe Eddie looked at him differently. That Eddie wanted him just as bad as he wanted Eddie. That maybe the way Ed smiled at him a little too long was an indication. But Gareth had been wrong before, about other people. So he says nothing. He keeps it to himself. Lets the pining pass like background noise while he gets on with his day.

It was a Tuesday when things finally shifted.

Gareth was refilling the printer paper in the supply room when Eddie appeared in the doorway. His sleeves were cut off an old Iron Maiden shirt that definitely had a hole right under the navel. A blue button down with his name stitched into the chest, unbuttoned and hanging from one of his shoulders slightly, his clipboard in hand. He leaned his against the doorframe, looking lazy as ever, and nodded at the stack of boxes.

“I didn’t know this was in your job description,” he chuckles softly and flashes a bright white smile over at him.

“It’s not,” Gareth shrugs, straightening up a bit. “But the printer kept flashing a warning light and no one else was doing it… So here I am.”

Eddie shakes his head. “God forbid the warning light goes unanswered.”

Gareth doesn’t reply. He can’t quite bring himself to look at him. He was very aware of how close Eddie was standing, even if the doorway wasn’t truly that close.

Eddie tapped the clipboard against his thigh as he peeks over his shoulder. He drops his voice so it doesn’t carry as far, it was only for Gareth. “Hey, you ever come down to the loading dock? Feels like I only ever see you when the coffee machine breaks.”

“I prefer to stay where the temperature is regulated,” Gareth says softly, a little too dryly, and it makes him wince internally.

“I get that… You’re more of a climate control guy.” There’s a pause, a roll of Eddie’s eyes, and then, more softly, “You should come by sometime anyway. I’ll show you how not to run over your own foot with a pallet jack.”

Gareth turns toward him then, just slightly, and meets his eyes. “That a formal invitation?”

“Sure,” Eddie says quietly, watching him. He takes in his body language and tries to attest if he’s gotten his signals right. “Unless you’d rather keep pretending we don’t know each other outside of your�� toner emergencies.”

Something about the way he said that made Gareth’s heart stutter in his chest. He wasn’t teasing him, he wasn’t being sarcastic, he was just being honest. Light, but deliberate. Like he meant for Gareth to notice the bright GAY sign flashing over his head.

And for once, Gareth doesn’t look away from him. “I’ll stop by,” he says softly and then nods.

Eddie nods himself, slow and satisfied with the result of his flirting, and he pushes off the doorframe. “I’m looking forward to it.” He sends him a wink and is already gone by the time Gareth realizes he was still holding a ream of paper against his chest like it would do anything to save him from this train wreck. 

Gareth exhales and sets the paper down. He stands there just a moment longer— just long enough to admit to himself that no, he hadn’t imagined it. Eddie didn’t smile at everyone quite the same way he smiled at him.

And that maybe, just maybe, it was time to do something about it.

tags ;; @the-unforgivenn @djomorelikedelulu @peachyproserpina

[keaganz]

|| sanguis ||

Pairing: Caracalla/Reader, background Caracalla/Reader/Geta

Summary: Caracalla's bloodlust is difficult to control at the best of times. This may prove too much, even for him.

Word count: 2.8k

Tags and warnings: Vampire AU, smut (not explicit, but still obvious!), period sex (again, whoops), mentions of blood and injury, Caracalla is a nasty little imp (affectionate), no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(More Vampire AU! It's been seven months and I still think about the way Caracalla says 'blood' with that dazed smile on his face. Vampire Geta got his own fic, so it's vampire Calla's turn!)

Vampire AU Masterlist || Caracalla Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

It is in the middle of a banquet that it reaches him.

A familiar scent. Sharp. Metallic.

Blood.

For most of the evening, the hall has been bustling with people: senators and patricians engaged in political talk, servants hurrying to and fro to ensure that everyone is contented and well-fed, and a quartet fills the room with the most beautiful music, skilled fingers plucking at the strings of a harp and lyres.

People from all walks of life gathered together in one place; the sights, sounds and smells are overwhelming, particularly to one with such heightened senses.

But it is unmistakable.

His gaze does not travel far. It does not need to.

You sit some ways away, your head inclined towards the woman sitting next to you as she speaks. He watches as your eyes widen, a worried expression growing across your face. You politely excuse yourself, before standing to leave.

Not once does Caracalla move, nor blink, until the grand doors have closed behind you. He turns his attention to his brother then, who is deeply immersed in conversation with a member of the Senate.

A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth.

What a perfect opportunity he has been presented with. He would be a fool to ignore it.

He is quick to slip out in search of you, unbothered by the custom of polite excuses and goodbyes. In his eyes, an Emperor shall do as he pleases, and he has never been one to bow his head to tradition, much to Geta's chagrin.

As expected, he finds you in your chambers, resting on the lectus on the far side of the room, with your hands lying just beneath your stomach. Even from where he stands, the scent of blood is strong. It threatens to overwhelm him.

The trembling breath that escapes him is what alerts you to his presence. You move to right yourself, wincing in pain as your body protests.

"Caracalla," you greet him softly.

His name on your tongue always sends a shiver through him. How little he hears it; so often referred to by his titles as he is.

“So this is where you are hiding away, little dove,” he calls, his gaze flickering between your face and your stomach.

"I do not hide myself," you reply in quiet protest. "I am..."

You falter, embarrassment staining your cheeks.

The smile on Caracalla’s face is sly.

“You need not explain,” he replies in a low voice.

Your eyes widen, as does his smile.

“You know,” you murmur. “Of course you do.”

Caracalla’s sense of smell is unrivalled, at least by human standards. Much like a shark, he can smell the smallest drop of blood from a great distance. And much like the creature that made him into what now stands before you, that small drop is enough to drive him into a frenzy if he is not careful.

If Geta is not careful.

But his brother is not here, and there is no one to stand between him and what he desires. You.

Caracalla clasps his hands behind his back, taking his time as he crosses the room to you.

"It is difficult to ignore something so enticing, I assure you," he admits, the hem of his robes trailing softly across the floor.

Your hands grip your knees, gathering the fabric that covers them in bunches between your fingers. It does not escape his notice that you will not meet his gaze.

"There is nothing enticing about this," you whisper in resignation.

Caracalla stops in front of you. He reaches out, placing a finger beneath your chin. With a small push, he tilts your head up. Your eyes remain cast downward, your teeth worrying at your lip.

"Look at me, little dove," he murmurs.

You do as he commands, with only the slightest resistance.

"You are in pain," he says, his voice laced with sympathy.

He is much too close to you. His senses feel submerged, as though he may drown at any moment. Everything grows hazier, and that need...

How tightly it grips him by the throat.

"It is nothing that I have not experienced before," you reply.

He can feel each of your words against his fingertip, feel the rise and fall of your jaw, the bob of your throat as you swallow-

He squeezes his eyes shut, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. This helps matters none.

"Even so," he starts, turning his head in the hopes that it will aid him in finishing what he must say. "I wish to offer my assistance."

No sooner do the words leave his mouth when he drops to his knees at your feet, and oh, he most certainly has your attention now. You watch him carefully, as a rabbit would watch a prowling wolf.

"Caracalla, I must insist-" you begin to say.

"And I must insist that you do not try to dissuade me."

His bright gaze tracks your every movement. Every flicker of your eyes. Every stilted breath.

"Unless, of course, you can provide me with sufficient reasoning," he says, his nails scratching ever so slightly across the fabric of your tunica.

His head tilts, waiting for you to answer. Your lips part, but no words pass them.

"I do not need my brother's gift to know your thoughts," he murmurs. "Do not forget that I am more than attuned to your mind. I know when you desire something, and when you will not admit to it."

His patience only grows thinner, but he will not move until he hears from you what he already knows. It will be worth the wait.

You always are.

You clutch at his shoulders, digging lightly into his skin.

“You will be careful,” you say quietly.

It is spoken as a question. It is enough to anchor him, if only for a moment. He reaches up, cradling your face gently.

“I will not,” he replies, his gaze darting to your lips. “But I will not hurt you.”

Eventually, you nod, and that is all the answer Caracalla needs. He hastily gathers the hem of your tunica, pushing it up out of his way. He stops at your thighs, pressing your hands over the fabric to hold it in place. Your grip is tentative, but you do not let go.

Caracalla lays his palms against your knees, parting your legs. The slightest whimper escapes you at his touch.

"You are beautiful like this, little dove. Truly," he breathes, his tone awed.

No matter how often he sees you as you are now, it never ceases to leave him wanting.

His hands tremble against your skin. There is only so long that he can keep himself under control. He moves like a man possessed, pulling at the knots of fabric that keep you from him, and when he finally, finally, has you exposed, that is when his patience breaks.

His tongue drags against you, slow, languid, in every way uncharacteristic of the man who kneels before you. The sharp bite of his nails against your skin belies his true nature. How deeply he hungers for you. You grasp at his fiery curls, and he groans against you, leaving you quivering in his grasp. He is persistent, relentless in his pursuit of what he wants, needs from you.

He will not stop until you fall to pieces for him. After all, he is very used to getting what he wants. And you? You are always so generous.

If he could, he would bury himself in you. Make a home for himself within your ribcage, so that he may feel how your heart pounds. How your veins rush with life.

His hands slide along your thighs, keeping you held open, pliant for him. He feels you shiver under his touch, and he is falling prey to hedonism. He has never been one to deny himself any form of pleasure, and to have you like this, lost in your own desire, it is intoxicating.

He finds himself growing more and more addicted to you as time goes by. It should frighten him; instead, it leaves him all the more desperate for you.

A stuttered cry of his name is the only warning he receives before you find that sweet release that he has been pushing you towards. Your hold tightens briefly in his hair, before you slowly fall slack across the lectus.

When he draws back, resting on his heels, he cannot help the wicked smile that spreads across his face at the very sight of you, in such a dishevelled and dazed state. You are truly magnificent.

He swipes his fingers across his mouth, not wanting to waste a single drop. You are like nothing he has ever had, and will never have again. When it is not you, it is dull, bland. Merely a cheap imitation.

How often have he and his brother argued over the idea of turning you? Making you one of them? Every time, it ends the same way, for they cannot agree. Even within his own thoughts, Caracalla does not know the answer. The thought of losing you to the ravages of time or illness sickens him to his stomach, terrifies him in a way that little else does. But to lose something so decadent...

He is conflicted. Nothing else can sate him like you.

He leans his forehead against your thigh, his breaths leaving him as shuddering sighs. How he still hungers for you.

Your name falls from his lips in a strained whisper. He feels your fingers run slowly through his hair, placating him.

"What do you need?" you ask gently.

How selfless you are. Slowly, he lifts his head, drowsy with desire.

"I must have you," he replies, his voice hoarse from lack of use.

"Was this not enough?" you ask.

Caracalla rises to his feet clumsily, and you move to steady him.

"No," he replies simply.

He will not wax poetic to you, when the simple truth will suffice. His hands find your wrists, and he eagerly guides you across the room. His robes are hastily scattered along the floor, leaving him in only his tunica as he pulls you into bed with him. He cannot wait any longer, and he tells you as much in how impatiently he tugs at the rest of your own clothing. You help him as best as he will allow, but he makes it a struggle, eagerly pressing kisses along every inch of skin newly bared to him.

He grips your hips, urging you closer to him.

"Caracalla-" you begin to say, when a finger is pressed to your lips.

"Not another word," he replies, his tone harsh. "Please, you will not distract me."

He will not allow you even a moment to retreat into your shell; his need for you is far too great.

Heat rushes to his cheeks as he slips fabric aside and pushes into you, greedy hands clenched at your waist to draw you closer still. He rests his head against your chest, a momentary reprieve from the overwhelming want that still roils through him.

He does not have words to explain to you how beautiful you are in this moment, how wonderful you feel. He must show you.

You will learn to cast these feelings of shame aside. He cannot have something as wonderful as you sullied with such ugly thoughts.

They were given to you, but they are not yours to hold. He will gladly tear them to pieces if it would make you happier.

The warmth of your body so close to his, the heat emanating from you, the dizzying, desperate need to sate this unrelenting hunger...

All of it is too much for him to bear. He is overcome with lust, feral in how he takes you. He is running out of time.

"Little dove, please, I must-" is all he manages to stammer out.

It is enough, and you lean forward in his hold, tilting your head back to expose your neck to him. He tentatively cradles the back of your head, bringing you closer to his waiting mouth.

It is too much all at once. No sooner have his fangs pierced your skin than he is tumbling sharply over that edge, spilling into you. Rivulets of blood run freely into his mouth, and he laps at them greedily. He feels you shudder harshly in his hold, a brief convulsion before you still against him.

It is rare that he is allowed to have you like this. It is not often that Geta allows it, as Caracalla has always had difficulty in controlling his urges. It fills him with such frustration. His brother is not his keeper. And despite every baser, animalistic urge that rages war in him in this very moment, he will not hurt you.

You are safe.

Eventually, he is able to pull himself free of you. His tongue catches the last drops of blood as they trickle along your skin, and he allows himself a moment longer to savour them.

A muted groan escapes you, as you rest your forehead against Caracalla's shoulder.

"Are you alright?" he asks, bringing a hand up to rest on your back.

He feels you nod against him.

"Tired," is the only word that passes your lips.

Caracalla smiles to himself, holding you closer for a brief moment, before he reluctantly parts from you. He helps to lay you down on the bed, shushing you when you begin to protest of the mess you will make.

"Stay where you are," he commands.

You are too fatigued in your current state to argue further, and he is grateful for this. He presses a kiss to your cheek, before setting about his tasks. He calls for a nearby servant in the halls to fetch food, a bowl of warm water and clean cloths.

You are already beginning to doze in the short time he had left you. He settles himself between your legs, running a damp cloth across your skin. You flinch the slightest amount under his touch, and a mischievous look glints across his face. He is somewhat clumsy in his ministrations, but you do not look as worried anymore, so he is satisfied.

He sets the bowl aside, turning his attention to the platter of food. No sooner has he lifted a piece of fig to your mouth, when the door opens.

“Brother,” Geta starts, low and cautious. “What have you done?”

Caracalla does not turn to him, preoccupied with more important matters. He presses the fig slice past your parted lips.

"You need not worry," he replies softly. "She is quite alright."

His thumb catches a drop of juice as it drips from your mouth, bringing it to his own with a sly look towards you. You smile shyly, turning your head.

"Geta," you call gently.

He crosses the room to you, his strong hand taking yours.

"I am alright," you assure him.

Caracalla lets out a huff then, tilting your head to face him again.

"You will not distract me from what I must do, brother," he grumbles, holding up another piece of fig.

Taking care of another in the afterglow has never been Caracalla's forte. He seeks pleasure and no more, and oftentimes, he is quick to fall asleep as soon as it is caught.

But you are different. He wishes to take care of you, to replenish your strength. Very little has ever meant as much to him as you do. He finds that his mind is more often than not clouded by thoughts of you. It borders on obsession.

There is, of course, another reason that he seeks to do so, and he sits now by your side. There is little doubt in Caracalla's mind that his brother loves him, but trust is a different matter entirely. So often has he had to clean up the messes that Caracalla leaves in the wake of his destruction. If he can prove himself, perhaps Geta will be less watchful of him.

Geta retrieves your tunica from the floor, helping you to slip it back on, as Caracalla pulls the blanket up around you.

"Sleep now," he murmurs. "You have most certainly earned it."

You reply with a tired nod, your blinks slowing as your eyes gradually drift closed. Neither Emperor moves a muscle until they are quite certain that you have fallen asleep.

It is Geta who speaks first.

"I have given some thought to our predicament," he says quietly. "About-"

"No," Caracalla interrupts. "We will not have this discussion. Not now."

Geta looks to speak once more, when Caracalla shakes his head harshly.

"Please," he whispers, blue eyes beginning to fill with frustrated tears.

Geta watches him for a moment, before he nods.

"Very well. Rest now."

Caracalla is quick to climb under the sheets with you, wrapping his arms around your waist. The bed moves slightly as Geta stands, tending to the lantern light.

It is some time before sleep finally comes to Caracalla. For now, he is grateful that you are here and safe. In this very moment, it is enough.

Taglist: @lover-rep-fanfic @punkrockmlchael @x-vadon @dubiousmetamorphosis @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife @samslvrgirl @cheesesandwichsanto @alexxavicry @writergiih @marsbarcat

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[keaganz]

A bonus piece related to this (the Billy Mini Reverse Bang), based off a meme apparently and suggested by @drwhoisginnyholmes