cw gn!reader but written with f!reader in mind, angst, no comfort, breakup, pining, minor clubbing wc: <1k
an i'm on my period which is making me a little emotional, which resulted in this
ex!suguru will never truly be over you, convinced you’re the one that got away.
the breakup was “mutual”, emphasis on the quotation marks — it only meant you guys ended on good terms. it was a very quiet and tender scene. he holds your hands in his, slowly his thumb strokes across your knuckles, never letting his eyes leave your tear stained face.
ex!suguru who, despite disagreeing wholeheartedly with the decision, sees it’s for the best. he will forever hate himself for being unable to see it coming, unable to stop it — one day he suddenly notices how staying in the relationship brought you more turmoil than joy, and he didn't have the heart to hold onto you even though he so desperately wanted to. but he would ruin himself million times over for you
“it’ll be okay,” he says softly, letting himself indulge in the small acts that come so naturally to him one last time before he has to let go, hand reaching up to dry your tears and cupping your cheek. “i’ll be okay.”
with the quiet promise, he feels the stress leave your body and you rest against his touch, a sad smile painting your lips — you’re so beautiful, he thinks.
ex!suguru who lies because he knows it's what you need to hear. you had already stayed longer than you wanted because you didn’t want to hurt him. he wasn’t surprised. you were just so considerate, through and through. he had always thought the relationship was too good to be true anyways, never truly feeling worthy of you
ex!suguru who doesn’t cry, but that is because he feels numb. he can’t remember feeling a pain as intense as this one.
when your tears have stopped, only shy sniffles escaping you, he comes with one last confession. “i’m always going to love you.” he waits, hoping you would say it in return. it isn’t because you don’t love him anymore that you can’t keep going, it’s just because it isn’t working.
“i know,” you say quietly and his heart shatters.
ex!suguru who has his friends fooled because they think he is over the relationship already. he acts the same, eats the same and goes about his business the same — but that’s because it doesn’t concern anyone other than the two of you.
first weekend as a single man, gojo forces him to go out clubbing with him. he really doesn’t want to, but he can’t give his friend any excuses he will accept.
he hates every moment of it, rudely shutting down anyone that approaches him. no matter how attractive, no matter how charismatic, no matter how willing — they’re not you so what’s the point?
ex!suguru who hates the universe a little more than usual. despite his best efforts, he can’t seem to escape you entirely. and he swears he tries, but you somehow just appear every now and then.
he spots you in the grocery store, doing your daily shopping. he spots you in the line of the coffeehouse, ordering your usual drink (one he knows by heart). he sees you on every feed, posting pictures and updates of your life — you seem happy.
his heart screams for him to surrender to his desires, to approach you and hear your voice again. but he knows better, so after torturing himself by admiring you for a few seconds, he simply turns on his heel and leaves.
ex!suguru who after years still thinks about you as much as the day you left. he has tried to move on, but it feels like a betrayal, even after all this time.
has he healed? sure, a little. life goes on after all. with time he has been reunited with some sense of happiness. however it could never compare to the period of his life where he was so fortunate to be with you.
ex!suguru runs into you after nine years. and not like all the times he has simply noticed you down the street — no, you fully crash into his chest one day while walking out of a bakery.
to say he is surprised is an understatement. he has memorised all the places you used to visit so this exact scenario wouldn’t happen, and this had never been a chain you had set foot in before. but a lot changes in nine years.
“suguru, hi.” your voice is light, a rhythm in it that was not present at the end of your relationship. “wow, crazy running into you. how have you been?”
“good,” he croaks, eyes glued to your face. he still finds you as ethereal as the day you left. he wants to say more, but he is a little unsettled by how at peace you seem to be despite not being with him. “and you?”
it doesn’t go unnoticed how you present yourself as genuinely content with where you are in life. however, suguru goes through the entire heartbreak all over again — he has missed so much of your life. he used to think he would be along side you for every single moment of it. instead he is stood in front of you and feeling as if the walls are closing in on him.
his breath catches when you stretch out your hand to grab his forearm. “it was really great seeing you again,” you muse. it’s probably just wishful thinking, but he believes he hears a sadness in your voice that comes from missing him.
“you too,” he whispers, and you’re gone again.
ex!suguru who eventually comes to terms with just being alone again. before you, he always imagined this was how it would end, not the person made to share his life with someone.
you had obviously made him believe otherwise. with you by his side, waking up next to someone and sharing your meals didn’t seem so silly anymore.
but it turns out he only wanted those things if it was with you.
tags @sad-darksoul ノ @madaqueue ノ @toadtoru ノ @hiraethwa ノ @harperluvgojo
©hiraethwrote 2024 . all rights reserved. reposting, translating and otherwise plagarisim is prohibited
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crybaby
this is the most unhinged thing i’ve written and it’s @thorniest-rose’s fault bc of this post (no this is not going on ao3 bc some of my irls know ab my ao3)
featuring: virgin!eddie; also bottom!eddie; eddie w an oral fixation; lots of crying bc eddie is pathetic (affectionate); unhinged horniness and then extremely soft tenderness
cw: brief mention of piss bc eddie is depraved; mention of drugs; f slur used once; obviously very nsfw minors go away you are not welcome here
~~~
eddie isn’t good at much, but the things he’s good at, he’s really good at. these things include things other people know about him. writing stories, drawing creatures, making up plot twists and snags and tangles during campaigns, playing complex riffs on his guitar, finding his place easily on stage in front of people. (not many people, but still. people.)
but he’s also good at things that nobody knows about, things that nobody should or will ever know about. specifically, he’s good at getting himself off.
he’s experienced, simply put. he knows his body. he knows what feels good, and what doesn’t, and he knows what he likes. he’s gotten practice. he’s also gotten… creative.
he’s been home alone often enough that he’s gotten to try things. things he’s read about in magazines, seen pictures of, things that he’s just randomly thought of and gotten curious about.
he likes being breathless, so he curiously wraps his fingers around his own neck and squeezes until he’s a little lightheaded and gasping. (he uses a belt to do it one day, and he’s reminded of the bite of the leather on his neck every time he wears the belt after that. so he leaves it in his closet for the times he’s feeling particularly depraved, because he can’t wear it out anymore.) he comes immediately when his hair gets caught on his rings and he accidentally pulls too hard, so that becomes a thing afterwards.
he shoves his face into his pillow to muffle his moans, and when he bites down on it he realises he likes having it in his mouth. (he’s always liked having things in his mouth, pencils and his hair and gum and his necklaces, so he supposes this makes sense.) so he starts biting his pillows and then the ends of his blankets and then his underwear, and then he sucks on his fingers and bites his arms when he tosses them over his face.
some nights it’s harder to come than others, and he tries everything. sticking a pillow between his legs and riding it, using too much lube to get four fingers inside himself as he groans into his mattress, pushing his knuckles against his taint and pressing a hand against his belly, fucking himself with the handle of his hairbrush until he saves enough money to get an actual toy.
it’s also fun sometimes when he’s high, his head full of clouds, every sensation somehow simultaneously heightened and muffled. (on one particularly desperate night, he gets too high and accidentally pisses himself as he’s coming, and if that awakens something inside him as he comes back down… well, that’s his business.)
he’s aware of how it would look if someone were to take a peek into his bedside table drawer and found the bottle of lube (and the empty one he just hasn’t gotten around to throwing away) next to the pills and weed. but nobody looks at his stuff.
sometimes he does it without even the intention of really getting off. it just feels nice. gives his brain something to focus on while he does other things, fondling his dick over his pants while he reads or does homework, putting a toy inside himself while he draws or works on a campaign.
there are nights that he sets aside just to get off. just to sit in bed with lube and a box of toys (some of which are just innocuous things, like the belt and the hairbrush, that are only used for this), to spend hours taking himself apart. (yes, hours. the only time he’s ever patient is when he stops himself just before tipping over the edge.) he always gets a little delirious after long nights, giggling breathlessly to himself as his come and sweat dries tacky on his skin, as he untangles his fingers and rings from his own hair.
he doesn’t have any experience with other people, to his own disappointment. he’s curious about if it would feel better for another man to pull his hair, if they would pull it harder, sharper, if their hands would feel better around his throat, if their dicks would feel better in his ass than Eddie’s fingers.
he manages by himself, though. (manages is a light term. he’s killing it, really.) a few times a week, when he gets to get away from the rest of the world for a while. it’s not gross, he doesn’t think. he’s a healthy amount of horny, in his own opinion.
until steve harrington.
steve turns his world upside down (pun intended), from the moment eddie pins him against the wall out of fear and steve makes those little gasping noises, and then it gets worse when he sees steve bite a fucking demon bat and rip it apart before spitting its blood onto the ground like it was nothing, all covered in sweat and blood and lake water. eddie has to focus on where exactly he is and the fact that the world might be ending to distract his dick.
(nancy notices him adjust his pants, and his face burns, but she just barks out a laugh that she disguises as a cough, thankfully.)
he’s distracted until everything is over, luckily, as it would be difficult to sneak off long enough to rub one out. (to king steve, of all people. jesus.)
when he’s released from the hospital, he goes home (home now meaning the apartment the government gave wayne in return for the trailer.), and he’s hard before the shower water is even warm. and steve is in his head. covered in sweat and blood, panting and grinning and hovering over eddie. eddie ends up pressing his face to the wall, his breathes and soft whines echoing off the tile, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s moaning steve’s name, but it doesn’t really matter. no one’s here to hear it.
and steve keeps doing this thing. which really isn't a thing at all. he's just... existing. but it's summertime, and he keeps wearing these shirts with cut-off sleeves, and these shorts that cling to his ass like saran wrap, and he keeps pushing his hair back in this way that's so casual it's clear he isn't aware that he looks like a fucking model. (his hair is also longer now than it was when they met. long enough that he sometimes borrows hair ties from the girls to keep it out of his face while he's cooking (which is a whole other story) and eddie has to physically turn away to tear his eyes away from his neck.)
obviously he doesn’t tell anyone that he’s hot for steve. because it doesn’t matter. steve’s hot. that’s that.
but the problem is that he’s falling for steve. beyond the way his neck looks when he looks up at the ceiling and the way his muscles shift when he lifts something heavy, eddie is falling for the rest of him. his kindness, his bravery, the way he acts with the kids and robin and nancy, the quips and bitchy faces he makes when he’s annoyed. the way he traces the scars around his neck absentmindedly. (the scars that match eddie’s.) and eddie doesn’t just want to lick his chest and feel his fingers in his hair anymore, but he also wants to just… hold his hand. kiss him good morning. borrow his sweaters to sleep in and let their hair tangle in a hairbrush.
which is a problem because they’re actual friends now, apart from the all the trauma bonding. they bond over other things. over dustin and the kids, over teasing robin and teasing each other, over hawkins. and most of the time, eddie forgets he’s hot for him until he’s horny, and then steve is all he can think about.
he discovers that steve is hot when he smokes. they’re in steve’s living room with robin and nancy and jonathan and argyle, passing a bong around, and the way steve’s eyes shine, framed by his dark princess eyelashes, and the way he blows smoke at the ceiling and grins lazily make eddie feel like his skin is twisting. so he excuses himself to the upstairs bathroom for a few minutes. he bites the hand towel hanging by the sink to keep himself quiet. (nancy gives him a knowing look and smile when he comes back and he just flips her off. she giggles, but no one questions it because they’re all high.)
it’s still not really a problem. he’s good at pretending steve doesn’t make him feel lightheaded just by looking at him.
steve might be eddie’s best friend. which is nice. but also…
steve is a tactile person. eddie notices it at the very beginning of their friendship, watching how steve drapes himself over robin as she’s watching movies or talking with someone, how steve tugs dustin closer just to hold the back of his neck or his shoulder, how he holds eleven’s hand whenever she reaches for his. and steve is the same with him, leaning against him on the sofa, setting his legs over eddie’s lap. he doesn’t question it when eddie starts to headbutt him, rubbing his head and face against steve’s shoulder or arm or back just because. he just smiles or laughs quietly when it’s particularly aggressive, which just makes eddie’s heart grow warmer.
steve gives eddie a key to his house when his parents move out. i know you have a place with wayne, but it’s just… i want you to know that you, like… have somewhere to go. if you need it. so eddie gets a key made for his apartment gives it to steve two weeks later. you too. steve tries to hide his watery eyes, but eddie doesn’t let him. he just pulls him into a hug.
it doesn’t occur to him that it wasn’t entirely a great idea until he’s facedown in bed, crying and fucking himself with a toy, and the front door opens.
“eddie?”
eddie can’t even move, his vision blurred as his door opens and steve appears and freezes.
“oh.”
eddie says steve’s name, tears sliding across his skin and soaking into his sheets as he continues to fuck himself, hanging just on the precipice of enough, his body flushed with desperation and embarrassment.
steve must see it all, the desperation and embarrassment and all the tears, because he falters, his voice soft when he asks, “are you okay?”
“i can’t come,” eddie whines, a small sob escaping him, his hand slowing, and he hides his face in the mattress, squeezing his eyes shut, because holy fuck, steve is seeing this. seeing eddie like this, bare and more naked than he’s ever been because someone’s eyes are on him now. (he kind of likes it. feeling steve’s eyes trail over his skin, watching the toy. he feels seen.)
“do you want some help?” steve asks softly, his voice almost disappearing before it reaches eddie’s ears. eddie sobs again, nodding into the bed.
“please.”
it’s quiet for a moment before he feels the mattress shift and steve’s fingers run through his hair. eddie whimpers, letting out a quiet yes.
“look at me,” steve says lightly, quietly, gently. eddie turns his head, blinking up at him, breathing hard. steve caresses his head, hesitating. “i just got off work,” he says slowly, like he knows exactly how eddie’s brain is lagging. “and i’ve been handling money and stuff all day, so i’m gonna go wash my hands. and i’ll be right back. okay?”
“okay,” eddie says weakly.
“okay,” steve repeats softly with a smile. his hand disappears from eddie’s hair, and eddie whines as steve leaves to the bathroom down the hall. he keeps fucking himself as he listens to steve’s footsteps down the hall, to the bathroom sink running, to his bedroom door shut. his eyes flutter open when the mattress shifts again.
steve is laying next to him, his eyes soft, trained on eddie’s face even though eddie’s ass is in the air.
“what do you need?” steve whispers. eddie’s heart clenches. his hand stops again, holding the toy in place, and his brows furrow as his eyes water again.
“i need it to be real,” he says weakly without thinking.
“…what do you mean?”
eddie is still crying, and steve wipes a tear from the bridge of his nose carefully.
“need you to mean it, stevie,” eddie breathes. steve blinks at him, touching his cheek.
and then steve is moving closer, nudging their noses together, and eddie’s eyes close as their lips brush against each other.
“i mean it, eddie,” steve murmurs. and then he’s kissing him.
eddie gasps, releasing the toy and reaching for steve’s head, clutching at him, more desperate than he’s ever been. when they part, eddie’s skin is wet with tears and spit and eddie’s fingers have gotten lube in steve’s hair.
“what do you need?” steve asks again, his fingers brushing over eddie’s cheek.
“fuck me,” eddie breathes.
“…you sure?”
“please, steve,” eddie cries quietly. “i need it, i need you so bad.”
“okay,” steve whispers, kissing him again. “like this?”
“mm.”
steve shifts, moving to kneel behind eddie, and eddie is trembling with anticipation as he listens to steve undress, flushing with heat as he feels steve’s hand slide over his ass.
“you know you’re beautiful?” steve says softly, touching him. he presses against the toy for a moment, pushing it into eddie harder, making eddie whine, before he slowly, carefully pulls it out. “fuck.”
“stevie,” eddie whines, arching his back. one of steve’s hands squeezes, and his other traces eddie's hole lightly, his fingertip just pressing inside for a moment.
“you have condoms?”
eddie groans, gesturing with a flop of his arm to his bedside table, and steve laughs softly, getting up.
steve rubs his skin when he’s back, running his hands over eddie’s ass and thighs and the small of his back, his hands soft and warm and gentle on eddie’s scars before they pull away and eddie hears the clicking of the cap of the bottle of lube.
“ready?” steve whispers.
“yes.”
it’s better than the hairbrush. better than the toys. eddie groans, his voice muffled by the mattress, and steve lets out a soft shit.
“how do you want it?” steve asks roughly after pausing for eddie to adjust.
“hard. please. steve.”
“i got you, baby.”
baby. fuck. eddie’s never been called baby before. he’s never been called anything but his name, but freak and fag. he’s never been called anything sweet.
he starts crying again as steve fucks him, leaning over him, his hands on either side of eddie’s body.
“you feel good?” steve asks when he notices eddie crying.
“yes,” eddie chokes, delirious, gripping the sheets so tightly they might rip. “yes, so good, stevie. love your fucking dick.”
steve laughs, his breath on eddie’s shoulder before one of his hands slides over eddie’s back.
“just my dick?”
eddie giggles like he’s high, his back arching.
“love all of you,” he says.
“love all of you too, eddie.”
it doesn’t feel like the world’s tipped upside down like it should have. it feels like eddie already knew.
eddie whines, reaching back and grabbing steve’s hip, feeling it move back and forth, feeling his muscles shift under his skin.
“talk to me, stevie,” he says desperately, too loud.
steve leans down closer, brushing his lips over eddie’s shoulder.
“you wanna hear me?”
“mm.”
“i’m so obsessed with you,” steve says softly into eddie’s ear, breathing hard. eddie tilts his head to listen. “i’ve gotten off to… to the thought of you so many times.”
“really?” eddie says weakly.
“fuck. yeah.”
eddie whimpers, biting his lip so hard it might start bleeding.
“me too,” he says, because he doesn’t know how to articulate anything he’s thinking. steve seems to understand him.
“shit.” steve presses a rough kiss to eddie’s shoulder. “you’re so amazing, eddie. fucking everything about you. so fucking perfect. so pretty. that fucking hair. your lips.”
eddie’s head is filled with clouds. he’s crying, spit dripping from his mouth as it hangs open.
“steve,” he chokes. “gimme your hand.”
steve’s hand starts to slide down, under his hips, but eddie stops him with a quiet no, and he releases his hip, holding his hand up for steve to take it. their fingers lace tightly for a moment before eddie pulls steve’s hand to his mouth, sliding his tongue across his fingers.
“jesus,” steve murmurs, letting go of eddie’s hand and sliding two fingers into eddie’s mouth. eddie groans, holding steve’s wrist tightly. “you’re so perfect.”
eddie whimpers, sucking on his fingers and melting onto the mattress as it creaks with every thrust of steve’s hips.
“you’re so much better than a dildo,” eddie mumbles around his fingers, and steve laughs, kissing the back of his shoulder.
“am i your first time?” he asks after a second, like he’s just realised. eddie hums affirmatively, sucking on his fingers harder, smiling dopily when steve pushes them farther into his mouth, spreading them over his tongue. “god, you’re a fuckin’ natural, aren’t you?”
eddie giggles, drooling.
“can i go harder?” steve asks.
“yes. please.”
steve pulls his hand away from eddie’s mouth, and eddie whines softly, replacing his fingers with his own as steve sits ups straight, gripping eddie’s hips tightly before he slams into him. a short scream escapes eddie before he reaches to grab a pillow, pulling it close and burying his face in it.
“alright?” steve checks, breathless.
eddie moans into the pillow, pushing his ass back out toward him.
“words, eddie,” steve says, sliding a hand over his ass, and eddie lifts his head enough for steve to hear him.
“yes.”
“okay.”
eddie can hear steve’s smile in his voice.
eddie groans into the pillow as steve fucks him, each thrust hard enough that eddie’s whole body rocks forward, and he mumbles into the pillow even though steve can’t hear him.
“so fucking good, stevie, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”
he’s getting closer. his moans grow louder, higher and higher, until steve’s hands tighten on his hips, gripping him like they’ll fall apart at the seams if he lets go. (the seams being the matching scars that cover their bodies.)
“you gonna come for me, honey?” steve asks breathlessly, sliding a hand up eddie’s spine. eddie groans and turns his head so steve can hear him.
“can i?”
“…come.”
eddie comes.
he’s always noisy when he comes, and he’s used to holding a pillow to his face to muffle it, but today is different. he’s groaning, low in his throat, and then he’s sobbing, his shoulders shaking as he cries. steve moans as he comes soon after, a hand running comfortingly down eddie’s back.
“fuck, eddie,” he pants. “you okay?”
eddie whines, trembling, and steve pulls out carefully, moving to lay next to eddie, pulling him into his arms. eddie’s legs give out under him and he lets steve pull him close, taking a gasping breath.
“slow,” steve instructs gently. “i got you.”
eddie inhales slowly, shakily, pressing his face into steve’s neck, focussing on the feeling of steve’s chest hair on eddie’s skin. his hands find steve’s waist, sliding to his back before they roll slightly so his arms can wrap around him.
“you okay?” steve asks softly after a few moments.
“‘m so okay, steve,” eddie murmurs. steve’s fingers run over his skin. “i’ve never come that hard. fuck.”
steve laughs softly, tilting his head to kiss the top of his head.
“got worried,” he says softly.
“don’t worry,” eddie says. he closes his eyes. “i’m just a crybaby.”
“sweet boy,” steve murmurs into his hair.
they’re quiet for a moment before steve carefully lets go of him, shifting to take off the condom and tie it off, rolling over to toss it to the trash can next to eddie’s desk.
“touch me,” eddie says before steve’s even rolled back over, and steve listens, pulling him close, tugging at him until he’s on top of steve, their legs tangled.
he closes his eyes as steve traces lines over his back, his fingertips dancing over eddie’s scars gently.
“did you mean it?” eddie asks softly after a minute. steve’s hands pause for a second before they continue.
“mean what?”
“that you… that you love me.”
“yes,” steve says without hesitating, without thinking.
“really?” eddie asks weakly.
“yes,” steve whispers again. “i love you. like… a lot.”
“fuck.”
“are you crying again?”
“…no,” eddie lies, but his voice cracks, and he feels steve’s chest move as he laughs softly, reaching to run his hand through eddie’s curls.
“crybaby,” he says fondly, kissing his head again. eddie whines, nuzzling into his neck. “i got you.”
eddie takes a shaky breath when he stops crying, sighing softly.
“next time,” steve says softly, “i wanna do this at my place.”
“why?” eddie asks, smiling.
“wanna make you as loud as possible.”
eddie snorts.
“yeah?”
“mm. wanna hear you scream without a pillow in your face.”
“okay,” eddie says softly. he could fall asleep here, his chest pressed to steve’s. their heart pressed together, beating in tandem with nothing but skin between them, feeling steve’s fingers sliding over his skin like they can’t decide where to stop. “you really like me?” he asks after a moment.
steve is quiet, still touching him.
“i came over today,” he starts slowly, voice soft. “because i had a bad day.”
eddie sits up, his forearms crossed over steve’s chest as he looks down at him, frowning a little bit. steve looks up at him fondly and tucks his hair behind his ear. his cheeks are flushed and rosy, his hair tousled, his eyes half-shut.
“work was rough,” he explains without eddie having to ask. “had a headache and some customers were rude and i just…” he shrugs weakly, nonchalantly. “couldn’t wait to get—“
he cuts himself off and swallows, his eyes flicking back and forth between eddie’s almost nervously.
“get what?” eddie prompts softly.
“…home.”
eddie blinks, his brain whirling, because steve is at eddie’s apartment right now, not his own house, and it all clicks. steve came to eddie’s after he had a hard day. steve called eddie’s name not three seconds after shutting the front door.
“oh.”
steve smiles weakly at him. eddie leans down and kisses him. he touches his cheek as steve’s lips part, caressing him. his skin is soft. he shivers when steve’s tongue slides over his lip, and he smiles when steve sucks on it softly.
“jesus,” he breathes when they part.
“what?” steve whispers.
“so good.”
“yeah?”
“mm.”
he tucks his face back into steve’s neck, sighing and relaxing, melting against steve, who reaches for the blanket and manages to drape it over their bare bodies. steve mumbles something about changing the sheets tomorrow.
“stevie?” eddie says after a few moments, feeling steve’s breaths become slow and sleepy.
“mhmm?”
“next time will you choke me?”
steve snorts, his arms tightening around eddie as eddie smiles.
“if you want me to. yeah.”
“‘s nice.”
“will you show me how?” steve asks. his voice is slurring a little bit, heavy with sleepiness. “‘ve never choked anyone. don’t wanna hurt you.”
“i’ll show you.”
“show me everything you like.”
“…you sure?”
steve scoffs.
“yes. want everything you’ll let me have.”
“…oh.”
“go to sleep, honey,” steve murmurs. eddie nuzzles into his neck and bites him. steve just hums and presses a hand to the small of his back. “love you.”
“love you too, stevie.”
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The phenomenon of young Revacholian metalheads venturing out to the Porch Collapses (coined 'porch sitting') for the sake of proving how 'hardcore' they were started sometime in the late summer of '13 by a (then) Corpsemetal band called Timor (meaning Fear).
Fronted by 22-year-old Tobias Hawthorne, the band struggled to find any real renown, even amongst the Metal Underground. Reports of the events that took place during the early days of their arrival are based heavily on speculation, but it's believed that the group (Consisting of Hawthorne, Beauchamp "Beck" Waters, Antonio "Tony" Zaldivar, and Edgar Laaksonen) arrived to an unspecified porch sometime during September of '13 and set up camp. Though they had spent much time flaunting the plans of their endeavor to members of their circle, they had not actually told anyone exactly where they were going, for fear they might be followed by law enforcement or someone hoping to piggyback off their innovation. The four young men took only a medium sized petrol generator, one week's worth of food and clothes, two small tents, one pot, two microphones, a small mixing table with headphones, four sleeping bags, and minimal cold weather gear with them.
They claimed it would only be a brief week-long endeavor, but it took nearly a month and a half before an emaciated Laaksonen arrived back home as the only surviving member of the four piece. With very little of his memory still intact, and palesickness leaving him bedridden and decomposing from the inside out, getting the story of what had happened from the young man was an incredibly difficult endeavor. Despite this, across the few interviews that the family allowed to take place, as well as testimony from people at his bedside, the following recount of events was pieced together.
Upon their arrival, the band had set up their modest camp with the intention of capturing Pale Frequencies using one of the microphones and the mixing table, but being ill prepared to handle such proximity to the entity, they began to notice symptoms of palesickness within the first day. Nausea, headaches, and fatigue were the first, but seemed manageable, so they continued on with what they had set out to do.
It was in their minds that they were creating a new genre of metal, which they coined PaleMetal. It was set to be their claim to fame, a goal they hoped would award them with reverence, to be pioneers of a brand new sound, and, at first, it seemed they were succeeding. Only one of the mics they had brought was sophisticated enough to capture the frequencies, and Waters had been put in charge of mixing them with the demos they had recorded prior to their departure. Entroponeticists believed that being the sole person in charge of listening to and analyzing these frequencies on a near-constant basis played a heavy hand in the deterioration of his mind. As the days crawled on, Waters began to exhibit symptoms of minor fever psychosis. Laaksonen recalls hearing him have fully fledged conversations with himself, often staying up into the late hours of the night just listening to the recordings on loop. He told of an encounter the two had where Waters believed himself to be a Graadian woman. "[He] spoke the language and everything," Laaksonen claimed. "Put on this weepy little voice— couldn't remember who I was. And then, three hours later, perfectly fine".
Meanwhile, the rest of the band began to experience symptoms of their own. Hawthorne had become fixated on the microphone. Nearly every waking moment was spent out near the edge of the porch, clutching the small metallic device and holding it out towards the pale in hopes of capturing more. Every time he went out, he moved closer, soaking up more radiation. "It was as if he was waiting for something. Like he expected something to happen—I don't know what it could have possibly been. He was an entirely different person every time he came back". Laaksonen notes that physically, the man began to change as well. What started as a tall, well-built man was swiftly becoming something more akin to a shambling corpse, and every time he returned, he would have more frequencies to feed the mixing table. More frequencies to feed to Waters.
It had become a sick cycle, but battling their own ailments, Zaldivar and Laaksonen could do little more than watch on. Rarely ever did they leave their tent, and their week-long endeavor quickly turned into two, then three. Food went mostly uneaten due to a lack of appetite, and dehydration was near constant. Their bodies had begun to show physical evidence of deterioration. Gaunt faces, sunken eyes, and pallor, along with the rapid decline in muscle mass, had made it clear that something was very wrong, and yet Laaksonen describes an almost euphoric sort of trance that snuffed any desire to leave. "It was strange," He states. "It almost felt like we were already dead. The sort of peace you find when the end is almost near and there's nothing to be done. Like, a sort of acceptance that this is where we should be for the rest of eternity, that the rest of Elysium doesn't exist for us anymore".
With self-preservation taking a backseat, the boys' physical and mental wellbeing continued its staggering nosedive until one fateful morning, when Laaksonen recalls waking to the sounds of arguing outside him and Zaldivar's tent. Upon unzipping the flap to the outside, they were met with a scuffle between Waters and Hawthorne. It is unknown who started it or why, but at some point, Waters managed to fish a switchblade from the pocket of his jeans as he was pinned to the ground. It's estimated he landed around fifteen stab wounds to Hawthorne's neck and torso before the larger man collapsed, dead.
Waters, still in a state of psychosis and adrenaline, then took off into the pale. "I remember before he left, he sort of sat there crouched over the body for a minute, and then he looked at me with these big, white eyes. He just stared for- god- I don't even know how long, and then he just got up and took off. It was crazy, too, the way he disappeared. It's like he was there and then just... gone. Like the mist swallowed him." [Laaksonen pauses and takes a breath. His head turns to gaze out the window of his hospital room]. "Those eyes, though... I'll never forget them. There was nothing behind them. It's like he wasn't a person anymore."
It seemed as if that encounter had been a wake-up call for the remaining band members, who gathered what they could (namely, both the mixed and unmixed recordings) into a single backpack. The MC they had used for the journey there had refused to start, so there was no choice but to make the trek on foot. Zaldivar made it through less than a day before collapsing, and it wasn't until two days later that Laaksonen was picked up by a Lorryman who recognized the symptoms of palesickness and gave him a ride to the nearest medical center.
Despite the combined efforts of many experts, Laaksonen passed away a little over two months after he was found. The damage done to his internal organs and tissues was too great to be reversed. His body was donated to an entroponetics institute to better study the effects of the Pale on the human body.
Before his death, he released the final mixes of the recordings under the band's label as the new genre Pale Metal. Despite no evidence that copies of the tracks cause adverse health effects, many still believe the recordings to be cursed, and most record shops won't even carry the EP in their stock. Copies have been known to circulate on the black market, often selling for several thousand Reál. The original tapes were given to the Waters family, who refuse to release them to authorities even to this day.
Despite the story of Timor becoming infamous amongst metal communities, it still sparked a trend of young people venturing out to the fringes where land meets pale, in search of experiencing it for themselves, as well as some wanting to create their own "True Revacholian Pale Metal". Very few who depart for the porches ever return, and the RCM (as well as other authorities) will refuse to open missing persons cases for anyone even possibly suspected of being affiliated with the PaleMetal scene. The official statement is that they "refuse to risk the health and safety of their officers by deliberately subjecting them to Pale radiation". Unofficially, it's believed they don't have the funding, manpower, or desire to go looking for "masochistic long-hair freaks". Those who do return often gain renown in metal circles for their bravery but still find themselves living with long-term health effects.
The practice of Porch Sitting has mostly died out, and PaleMetal is still considered one of the most taboo subgenres of metal, though plenty of diehard metalheads still listen from the safety of their own homes. Some bands still pop up every now and again, trying to recreate the sound. As of '51, it's estimated that nearly 300 people have disappeared due to this phenomenon.
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