ᗷIᑎᑕᕼI ᗪᗩ ᐯIᑎᑕI

Please keep inbox requests short so that I can write the fic in reply to the request.

I’m mostly interested in writing about:

💽 Harry Potter (all)

💽 Twilight (all)

💽My Chemical Romance (all)

💽 Ryan Gosling (all)

💽 Resident Evil (Leon Kennedy)

I do not consent to my fics being reposted elsewhere nor being fed to AI. If you wish a part two of something, request it, do not AI generate it: that constitutes intellectual theft.

Gerard had a system: he would come home from school (or, on weekends, a shift at Barnes & Noble), mumble a 'hello' to his parents if he was feeling particularly social, and race downstairs to his basement. Once in his bedroom, whose walls were entirely covered with band posters, he would sit down at his desk and dial up AOL. It took almost exactly six minutes from turning on the piece-of-shit to actually logging on, during which time he'd tear off his uncomfortable clothing and think about what he was going to write. Then, the fun really began.

He'd spend hours on various forums dedicated to certain adult actresses, eventually falling further and further down the rabbit hole. He'd scroll impatiently, trawling for more. More of what? Even Gerard didn't know— just more of what he liked to see; things that made him feel like he was part of a community of other sick, perverted freaks that liked seeing pretty girls throw up.

Unlike these sick, perverted freaks, however, Gerard actually had a girlfriend: you. In one of these first posts, he had revealed that his penchant for women heaving up their guts had come about when you'd eaten something bad, and he'd found that your whining, sweating, and complete dependency on him in that moment gave him a rock-hard erection. Gerard had wondered if he was perhaps mistaken that it was your vomiting that had aroused him, so he'd bought a copy of Lili Xene: XXXTREME from a like-minded guy on the Emetophilia forum to see if he really liked it: research, he reasoned. Of course, he did, and he found himself frequenting the forum, explaining his experiences to other users.

xboyherox - 9/4/98 - 01:13 I dunno about you guys, but I just love lookin at chicks vomit. It rocks, more than anything. I guess it started because my girlfriend pukes a lot. She's just prone to nausea. So I hold her hand for her etc etc, and I dunno...something clicked.

This was one of the first posts Gerard made after discovering his proclivity, in a sub-forum dedicated to the adult-actress Lili Xene who was now one of his favourites. He found himself returning to her video tape most nights, replaying scenes until he knew the sounds of her gags off by hand. Sadly, though, as all porn-watchers know, ol' reliable can lose its magic pretty quickly if you watch it too often, and Gerard began to find himself bored with the same 17-minutes-and-20 seconds that had once brought him bliss: he needed more. That's where he got the idea to slowly but surely begin to climb a ladder of extremes with you; the best thing was, you didn't even need to know it was happening for him to enjoy himself.

xboyherox - 15/4/98 - 22:13 Went out for seafood w my girlfriend... think she had a bad oyster because she threw up for like 10 minutes when we got back. held her hair up and nearly creamed my jeans lol... life is good.

P.S. Don't go to Ricky's in Clifton, NJ if you don't want food poisoning.

Gerard wrote this after you'd fallen asleep on his bed, exhausted from being sick. Glancing over his shoulder as he tapped away excitedly about the events of the evening, he considered if it was unethical; but the way Gerard saw it, he wasn't enjoying your misery: he was simply finding a silver lining. If anything, he'd be even more doting when you got sick if he was trying not to cum his pants.

"Gee? You coming to bed?" Gerard practically jumped out of his skin when you spoke; the light from his computer screen must have woken you. "Uh— yeah, baby. Coming now." And with that, he logged off for the night.

Two weeks later, and you still hadn't been sick again, despite your period coming and going: his AOL was running dry on vomit- and life-updates, and he hadn't been able to orgasm for lack of new material. He had to take matters into his own hands. Thankfully, his friend Frank had invited you to a party downtown, and he knew just how to get what he wanted.

In the kitchen of some guy's house, Gerard had been mixing drinks for you— something sweet and strong that went down easier than it should have— whilst taking water for himself. He almost felt bad when you'd kissed his cheek and told him he was so sweet for staying sober tonight, just so he could drive you home.

"Need a refill?" he asked from next to you on the sofa. You glanced down at your plastic cup and swirled the light-pink contents around. "Sure. What's even in it? Tastes like juice!" you laughed. Gerard stood up and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Secret recipe," he smiled, taking your cup back to the kitchen to refill it with whatever-the-fuck he could find.

Every time you sipped, he watched your face, listened to your words become more and more slurred. It was working, for sure. “You good?” he nudged you gently. Your head was pleasantly fuzzy, cheeks warm, body loose against his side, but you couldn't deny your stomach was feeling...uncomfortable. "Mm," you considered. "I feel a bit..." It crept up suddenly— that heavy, rolling nausea. You shifted, sitting up. “Gerard.” “Yeah?” He sounded almost breathless as he scanned your face. “I think m'gonna be sick.” His whole body tensed with barely restrained excitement, but his face stayed relaxed— mildly concerned, if anything. "Oh?" You nodded at him with worried, guilty eyes. "Ok. Uh— let's go to the bathroom. C'mon." He stood up, reached for your hand, and guided you to the bathroom at a pace.

Locking the door behind himself, he watched as you sunk down against the cool tile next to the toilet. The floor was strewn with plastic cups, toilet roll, and empty bottles, but he kicked a small clearing and sat next to you. "Urgh..." you groaned, pulling yourself forward to grip the bowl. "Oh— hang on," he said, flushing the toilet with one hand and scooping your hair back with his other hand. "There you go. I’ve got you,” he murmured against the side of your head. "I hate this feeling," you moaned, beginning to tremble and sweat. "Yeah?" "Yeah. Out of control." Little did you know, that was exactly what Gerard needed. You: out of control; him: completely in control. You were in good hands, he considered.

At last, the pressure built to a boiling point and you lurched forward, letting the first of your poor stomach's contents come pouring out. Gerard made a broken, punched-out sound like the air had been knocked out of him; his eyes widened in wonder. He kept one hand steady in your hair and the other rubbing your back in slow circles, whispering praise the entire time as he crouched behind you. "M'sorry, Gee," you slurred into the bowl. “Oh, honey. That’s ok. Doing so well for me.” You heaved again, eyes watering. Gerard was shaking behind you, breathing hard and clearly fighting the urge to grind against you while he watched in awe as your body did something so wonderfully unnatural.

When the worst passed, he carefully wiped your mouth with a piece of toilet paper and kissed your temple. You didn't know you'd just made Christmas come early. "Ok, come, on baby," he murmured, hauling you to your feet. Let's get you home."

While he was disappointed that it was over, he was practically vibrating with excitement for what he would write when he got home.

xboyherox - 27/4/98 - 02:02 Being designated driver isn't all that bad when your gf's a sloppy drunk. Went to a party and when she started looking green I almost lost it right there on the couch... I can still see it when I close my eyes

More soon Kit “with the king fu grip” Jones

Time flies when you're planning how to get your girlfriend to puke for you, because it was already May.

You’d been making out on Gerard's twin bed for almost an hour. The window was cracked to let his cigarette smoke out, and Gerard was half on top of you, mouth on your neck, hips rolling against your thigh in slow, distracted ruts. When he pulled back, his lips were puffy and his eyes were dark. You smiled wickedly up at him before rolling out from under him, off of the bed. "Where—?" Gerard began to wonder if you were abandoning him mid make-out session, but realised quickly, with delight, where this was going as you settled in front of the bed on your knees. "Oh." "Sit," you grinned, patting the bed in front of you. You didn't need to tell Gerard twice: he practically flew forward, fully clothed, so his legs were hanging over the edge of the bed, your body between his legs. You shuffled closer, beginning to palm his painfully hard erection over his jeans whilst unbuckling him. You giggled as he threw his head back, so sensitive to your touch. "You wanna take these off, Gee?" "Oh. Oh— yeah. Yeah, hang on." He blushed, the tips of his ears turning pink as he flopped back against the bed and shimmied the jeans down his legs, haphazardly kicking them off before he was sat back up, grinning down at you excitedly.

You laughed quietly before freeing him from his grey boxers, stained at the front in a small, dark patch with his excitement. He couldn't care less how eager he looked as you welcomed him into your mouth. “Fuck— just like that,” he groaned, fingers sliding into your hair. You smiled around him, smug, and took him deeper, slow and wet as you adjusted. Gerard’s pale and surprisingly toned thighs tensed under your hands as he peered down at you working him.

For a while, he let you set the pace, hips twitching as he fought the urge to buck up. At last, his resolve melted and the grip in your hair tightened; he began guiding you— gentle at first, then firmer, pushing you down onto his cock until your nose pressed against his stomach. “That’s it… take it. Oh, good girl.” You spluttered in protest, eyes wide and nails digging into his thighs; Gerard didn't even have his eyes open to see your distressed face. Still, you were determined to please and pushed through: after all, he'd been so good to you these past weeks. The angle made your eyes water and your throat hug him just right; Gerard groaned, eyes squeezed shut like the sounds alone were going to finish him. Instead of easing off, he held you there a second longer, hips lifting just too forcefully.

The pressure tipped over into too much. Gerard felt your throat seize around him and his eyes popped open with excitement as he felt you gag. You should’ve been disgusted; instead, you felt heat pool in your panties as he held you there, in a state of complete disregard for your well being. You squeezed your thighs together as you fought down another gag. He loosened his grip in surprise, shuddering in pleasure as you gagged again, leaving you to slide off him with a wet pop and a cough.

You stared at each other, both catching your breath, and you wiped your mouth on the back of your hand. Rain tapped against the window; upstairs, his mother’s television murmured through the floorboards. "Are you—?" "Yeah," you nodded. "It's ok." You shrugged, though your eyes were streaming and spit was all over your face. He peered down at you guiltily: it was like something had overtaken him when you gagged around him, and couldn't let you up for air. You were still nauseated and overstimulated, but the way he looked down at you with those big puppy eyes made you lean down and sink your mouth around him. Gerard forgot all about his selfless concern as you took him in.

"Oh, fuck," he whined, hand once again finding your hair— not shoving, but applying a steady weight that pushed you down until your throat had no choice but to flutter and seize around him again. You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting to keep down what you knew was coming. At last, your body rebelled. Your back arched unnaturally, fighting to scramble away from him, but his grip on the back of your head was strong. With eyes momentarily rolled back at the feeling over your gagging, he felt something hot cover his lap: finally, it had happened. That was enough to push him over the edge. Gerard had gone to heaven; he made a broken, punched-out noise as he came down your throat. "Oh my God. Oh my fuckin' God." His hand was still gripped in your hair, trembling, holding it back and forcing your head down while you heaved in response to the thick ropes of cum flooding your mouth.

He was still rock hard as his hand finally dropped from your hair and his eyes lazily opened, still dazzled by the strength of his orgasm. He looked down at his lap: his cock and thighs were absolutely slick with your spit and bile. As far as he was considered, this was art. His eyes lifted to yours: your makeup was running and you looked shocked, appalled even. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry," you whispered, eyes wide in embarrassment. You looked like you were about to cry. If he hadn't just completely emptied his balls he would be begging to fuck you just for the way you looked, right now. He took a moment to realise what you had said. "What? No, don't be! I mean—" he rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear his head. "I pushed you too far, I'm sorry," he rambled. You looked up at him, sat on your heels with dregs of vomit running down your chin. "I'm so embarrassed." Gerard's heart ached as he leaned forward, careful not to let any of the various liquids slip from his lap. "No, baby, please don't be." His hand came down to cup your face. "Look, let's get cleaned up, ok? I love you." He looked fraught trying to convince you that it was ok without showing you that this was nothing short of bliss for him. He grabbed the sheet off his bed and carefully wiped your face, before wrapping it around his waist and leading you to the basement bathroom.

That night, he posted smugly from his desk, fresh out of the shower with you asleep on his bed.

xboyherox - 9/5/98 - 23:16 Girlfriend gagged whilst blowing me and I totally lost my cool.. held her head down like a complete asshole. When i did let go I felt so bad...but she let me carry on!!! She actually threw up and I came so hard i saw stars. It rocked.

Obviously I cleaned her up after etc etc, (I'm not a douchebag) and she didn’t even seem mad. Maybe I've converted her? lol.

Anyway, I don’t know what I did to deserve this but I’m never getting over it. This has ruined every other fantasy for me.

Just a week later and you found yourself with your pants around your ankles in the low red light of your boyfriend's room. Gerard, also fully clothed apart from his undone zipper, was inside of you, hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear. Tonight, he'd flipped you on your stomach in the middle of his twin bed, pillows shoved aside so nothing was in the way, and settled over you from behind— chest to your back, hips slotted against yours, the full warm weight of him pressing you into the mattress. The position made you feel small under him, pinned in the best way. He'd pushed into you slow and deep, exhaling hard against the side of your neck once he was fully settled. You were still reeling from his length, adjusting around him as he practically purred in your ear.

“Stay just like that,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

As if you had a choice, you nodded, arms folded in surrender above your head. Gerard began moving his hips in long, heavy strokes, the kind that made the bed creak and forced little gasps out of you every time he bottomed out and retreated. One of his hands braced beside your head; the other slid under your jaw, turning your face slightly toward him so he could watch your expression with hungry eyes. He was already breathing like he’d run a mile as he kissed the back of your neck with a groan. “Open your mouth f'me, sweetheart.” And you did. Gerard’s fingers— long and a little rough from guitar strings— slipped serpent-like past your lips. He started with one, pressing down on your tongue, slow and careful at first while he kept rocking into you from behind. He used his other fingers to grip your jaw, to keep it in place while his index finger explored your mouth. The dual sensation, feeling completely stuffed, made your eyes flutter as you groaned around his fingers, spit leaking down his wrist.

Yearning for more, he pushed another finger into your agape mouth. His index and middle fingers hit the back of your throat at the same time as his cock hit your cervix, and your whole body jerked forward. You squealed and tensed up in delight and pain; Gerard groaned low in response against your ear, hips slamming against your ass so hard you knew it would bruise. “That’s it? Yeah. That's it. Open your fuckin' legs.” He stopped thrusting suddenly, causing you to whine, and used his knees to push your legs apart: you obeyed, gasping into his hand.

He didn’t pull his fingers out apart from to smear your saliva around your face. He kept them there, stroking over the sensitive spot that made your gag reflex flare, while he fucked you through it. He brought his other hand up to wrap around your throat, forcing his full weight to collapse onto you now he was no longer supporting himself. Your throat convulsed around his fingers, and he could feel it from inside and out: his eyes rolled back into his head as you gagged and moaned with every thrust.

Tears sprang to your eyes and the pressure built fast: wet, helpless and overwhelming, until your stomach finally began to feel uncomfortable. "Gerard—" you warned, words coming out garbled by his fingers. "What, baby? Too much for you?" he cooed into your ear. Again, you should've been repulsed; should've told him it felt bad and it was too much— but that would've been a lie. Your throat and cunt clenched around him in a way that made his jaw fall slack. "That's what I thought."

With that, he lurched both fingers straight down your throat, scissoring them open and closed to maximise their invasiveness. At last, you heaved below him, unwillingly emptying your stomach around his fingers. Gerard, of course, did not retreat. The sound was wet and messy and lewd as the vomit hit the sheets he’d already thought to cover with a towel: you should've realised where this was going when you saw the towel, in the first place. Gerard raised his head from the crook of your neck and made an almost animalistic noise, like the sight of your coming undone around his fingers had physically hit him. His hips snapped forward harder, fucking you through every heave while his fingers stayed buried in your mouth, feeling every spasm.

“Fuck, look at you— puking around my fingers while I’m inside you. You’re so fuckin' pretty like this.” You clenched around him with every retch, blurring the line between distress and desperation for more. Gerard was shaking above you, completely gone at the overstimulation of the sensations, praising you in a wrecked stream of words as he kept both ends going— deep, steady thrusts into your cunt, and those fingers pressing just far enough to keep the gagging going. When you heaved again he moaned like he was the one being ruined.

He lasted maybe another minute once you'd let go of your stomach's contents. Gerard buried himself to the hilt, fingers still on your tongue, wrapped around your throat and jaw as he came with a broken sound, hips jerking desperately as he spilled inside you. The whole time he fought to keep his eyes open, watching your face with eyes dark and frenzied like he couldn't get enough of the sight into his brain.

When it was over, he carefully pulled his fingers out of your mouth and pressed a flurry of kisses to the back of your neck. Then, he slid his cock out of you, immediately reaching for a smaller towel and glass of water he’d slung nearby. He cleaned your face first, gentle even though his hands were still trembling, then wiped your mouth and chin with a warm washcloth before helping you turn onto your side. He stayed pressed close while your breathing evened out, already thinking about the post he was going to write the second you fell asleep in his arms.

The gig had ended over an hour ago, but you still couldn't wipe the smile off of your face as you stood in the parking lot outside the small Boston venue. Life with the band on their first-ever tour was exciting, to put it mildly: living out of the back of this eight-seater van was tiring and often sweaty, but it was all worth it to see Ray in his element on stage.

While they were now well-known enough to play a couple of dates across the East Coast, they were far from having a full crew, and so would have to load and unload the equipment at every gig. While you'd prefer to help load the van up, Ray insisted you just stay put and let your "big, strong boyfriend" deal with it; you'd rolled your eyes but obliged him.

And so, you leaned against the side of the van, arms crossed against your chest and a sappy smile on your face, watching as the guys loaded up the van with endless guitar cases, drums, and cables. You were, frankly, pleased not to have to help: it was sweltering hot, and you'd much rather stand and admire your boyfriend's muscular arms than throw your back out lifting a speaker. Ray gave you a small wink and a kiss on your temple every time he passed. “Five more minutes,” he reassured you as he emerged once again through the fire exit. “Then we’re outta here.” "Sure," you nodded with a quiet smile. You didn’t mind waiting; you never did.

The other band with a bigger crew had already cleared out, leaving the backstage quiet, except for the occasional shout from inside and the double-doors swinging open as the guys went in and out. You always enjoyed watching the guys after shows: it was obvious they were still basking in the glow of what had been a great performance, and you were just happy to soak it up from the side lines.

Unfortunately, your peace was broken when a man in a high-vis vest and a clipboard began to walk over. He stopped a few feet in front of you, eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin crawl. "Sweetheart. It's crew only back here." “Oh, no, I’m waiting for someone,” you smiled politely. "Sure," he shrugged. "You can wait for them out front with the rest of the girls." Your eyebrows shot up. The rest of the girls? "No, I mean that I'm with the band," you explained, dumbfounded. “You're...with the band?” he repeated, smirking patronisingly. You didn't reply, merely blinking at him. He chuckled, tapping his pencil against the clipboard. "Right," he drawled, stepping closer conspiratorially. "So, how does that all work? Do you stick with one guy, or are you just…available?” Your mouth fell open. You crossed your arms tighter over your chest, balling your fists. “Excuse me?” “Oh, come on," he rolled his eyes, words dripping with condescension. "Seen plenty of girls like you in my time. Hanging around the vans after shows, hoping one of the guys notices..."

Before you could even think of how to answer (which was probably for the best), the back door of the venue banged open again: Ray stepped out with an amp braced against his hip. He paused at the fire exit when he saw the expression on your face: whilst he wasn't necessarily conflict averse, he'd never step in if he thought you had it handled. The look on your face and the man's proximity made him decide to check what was up. “Heyyy," Ray greeted sheepishly, setting the amp down in the back of the van before turning to you. "Everything okay?” “Oh, she’s just fine, man,” the guy answered. “I was just letting her know it's crew only back here." Something in him cooled: he didn't like how the guy was answering for you one bit, let alone the substance of his reply. Ray was bigger than people usually clocked at first glance: his big hoodies and quiet demeanour hid his broad shoulders and solid arms until he decided to use them. He straightened up to his full height and shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking irritably on his heels. “I was asking her, man.” The crewmember raised his hands in mock surrender, still smiling. “My bad. Didn't know groupies counted as crew, these days.”

The word landed ugly in the air between them. Ray’s head tilted and his eyebrows scrunched in confusion, before he went very still, realisation of what the guy had meant by 'crew only' dawning on him. “What's wrong with you? Don’t call her that.” “I’m just saying—” “I don’t really care what you’re saying.” Ray took his hands out of his pockets and stepped forward half a pace— not quite in the guy’s face, but close enough that the height and build difference became obvious. “She’s not a groupie: she’s my girlfriend. And," he scoffed, "even if she wasn’t, you don’t talk to anybody like that. It's not cool.” The guy’s smile faltered. He glanced between the two of you, clearly recalculating his approach. Ray stood solid and quiet at your side until the man shook his head and backed away toward the venue.

Only when he was gone did Ray’s shoulders loosen. He turned to you immediately, the hard edge vanishing like it had never been there as his hands came up to cup your elbows, thumbs brushing gently over your sleeves. “Jesus,” he muttered, glancing toward where the guy had wandered off to. “I’m really sorry about that. Are you alright?” “I’m fine," you nodded reassuringly. “Just... not a great conversation,” you laughed dryly. Ray shook his head, already frowning like this was somehow his fault. "That fuckin' guy," he grumbled. He stepped forward and tugged you carefully into his chest, one hand settling between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head. He was warm and solid and still a little tense, like part of him was ready to deal with anyone else who might try something. “M'gonna complain about that douchebag,” he muttered into your hair. "That bad, huh?" you giggled against his chest. You wrapped your arms around his middle, pressing your face into the soft fabric of his shirt; he smelled like fresh sweat and the faint metallic edge of stage gear. With your head at his cheat you could hear his heartbeat was still a little quick. It was funny to see him like this: the most easy-going guy with his hackles up the second someone bothered you.

After a moment, he pulled back just enough to look at you, brown eyes as warm as usual. The fire exit doors swung open again as Frank, Gerard, and Mikey filtered out of the backdoor, chatting enthusiastically about something with a few final bits of gear in their hands. Ray pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before reluctantly letting you go, not wanting to risk being accused of 'grossing them out with your love', again. “Alright,” he said, looking around at the guys as they slammed the van's trunk closed. "Let's get on the road, then." He turned back to you and grabbed your hand lightly. "Ready? Need anything before we go?" he whispered to you. You shook your head with a smile: you loved how he looked after you.

With that, Ray led you to the front of van, hauling the passenger door open for you to climb in. He lightly kissed your knuckles then closed the door gently, all but buckling you up himself. The guys filtered into the van, still buzzing, as Ray slid into the driver's side. He glanced over at you as he turned the engine on, taking your hand and putting it on top of the console, so he could hold it as he drove. You squeezed his hand; he squeezed back, gentle as ever.