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greeneyezblackheart · 6 days ago

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dead air, dirty talk - duff mckagan

modern!duff mckagan x reader

She hosts a late night music radio show, just getting by and keeping things entertaining with her crowd, until a charming caller with a self proclaimed ‘ex rockstar life’ becomes awfully involved.

warnings: 18+ content, power imbalance, legal age gap, humiliation, choking, mild breathplay, mentions of alcohol use, sadism, masochism, strong language

word count: 7k words

{tags: @hollywoodroses @duffrosemckagansslut }

special thanks to @hollywoodroses for your advice! ur the best.

The rain made the city glow.

Far from magically, it wasn’t remotely close to a movie scene, but in that ‘neon-reflected-wet-sidewalks-outside-the-pub’ way, where the gutters are glimmering and vaguely smell like the ever familiar city sewage.

Her mary janes hit puddles as she lazily makes her way up the cracked pavement, big flight jacket only zipped up halfway, the cold city wind hitting the skin behind the small slightly exposed black lace bralette she wore as a top. Even at these midnight hours she stuck to her image, hoping to be recognized one of these days.

It was nearly midnight, and everybody in the city was definitely asleep. Yet she was just clocking in.

The radio station was far from glamorous. The suspiciously stained ceiling tiles, the vending machine left with the trail mix no right mind would ever buy, the stuck front door that wouldn’t dare to budge without the help of your hip. A little box of flickering “ON AIR” light and a secondhand incense smell, where the only audience were night owls, truckers, and the very painfully lonely assholes.

A college student technically, firstly, but she felt like her major was just getting by. Rent was late, always. But the apartment had a window that overlooked that city skyline, and when it rained like this? It almost felt expensive.

She threw her jacket on the ever empty guest seat, her minibag following with the jingles of her keychains. She slid into the swivel chair, and tapped the mic, one of the objectively finest things in her life.

“Hey you lot.” she spoke lowly, speaking into the dim half-lit studio. Her voice honeyed with sarcasm, “Welcome back to your nightly reminder it’s past your bedtime. I’m your host, and hell no I’m not playing any Linkin Park.”

The night started the same as ever, the phone blinking lazily as she did.

First caller swore up and down that his cat was possessed. “I swear to you, she growls when I play The Strokes. That can’t be normal!” She chewed her gum and blinked slowly, she sighed to the side. “Maybe your cat has taste.”

Click. Next.

A woman requesting a Celine Dion song for her cheating ex. “You know, just so he knows what he lost?”

“Sure,” she said, already queuing up an obnoxiously rowdy song, betraying her request. “This one’s for you, Greg.” she rolled her eyes.

It droned on; half comedy, half confessional booth? Most nights, she floated through the calls like a milky smoke, half listening, half thinking about her shift ending. Her tone always cool, borderline teasing, like she dared the world to amuse her.

Then came his voice.

It wasn’t dramatic, just low. Steady. Like someone who hadn’t slept in a few days but didn’t mind, yet also a curiosity behind it.

“Hey,” he said. “First time caller. Thought I’d see what the lame and lonely are doing tonight y’know?”

She blinked, oddly dumbfounded, she loved her crowd of course. A bunch of bored and chatty people who didn’t mind being teased and jested with. Her hand froze over the soundboard. There was a pause. Not dead air, more like a charged silence.

He hadn’t stumbled. Didn’t have to unconsciously beg to be heard. He dared her to listen.

Frankly she just wasn’t used to that.

“Well,” she said slowly, her slender fingers pinching her bottom lip, rolling the pout between her index and thumb curiously. “You’ve officially been the smoothest first time caller on the show.”

He chuckled again, his voice that of an unpolished yet inviting young buck. “Oh I’m so glad to raise the bar, it wasn’t awfully hard. Hold your applause I beg.”

“Oh,” she mused, flipping a switch on the board, “someone’s cocky.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’d love to hear this list, first time caller.” she mocked and giggled.

“I’d need a second call for that, you wanna play some songs on this joint eventually don’t you?”

She raised a brow, she could feel the listeners worldwide–or, locally-wide doing the same. The show was far from that of a cohesive talkshow, the collective felt like it was a well promoted music groupchat, nothing so charming.

He teased for more time. Interesting.

“So…” she drawled, resting her chin in her palm. You swear you could hear her amused grin over the radio. “What’s your name, our oh-so-charming mystery caller?”

A pause. “D.”

She waited for more. Nothing came.

“No last name?” she teased. “Witness protection advice such an alias? If you could call it that.”

“Something like that.”

“Alright, D Something-Like-That, what really made you call in tonight?’

Another pause, a little longer this time.

“Just wanted to hear needed some voice other than my own..”

And just like that, her sarcasm wavered. Briefly.

She leaned back in her chair, one mary jane rested on the edge of the desk, watching the rain crawl down the window in tiny silver threads.

D hadn’t filled the silence. He let it breathe, which told her a lot. Most people feared dead air. He let it exist. It was the kind of thing only people with unrelenting confidence could pull off, radioshow or not.

“You always talk like that?” she asked after a beat, voice curious and musing. “All cryptic and poetic, or is it just for me?” she teased smokily.

“Depends,” he said. “Is it working?”

She smirked, he got her there, admittedly a thrill shot up from layers behind her abdomen. “A little. But don’t get a big head about it, you’d have to best all the trucker callers who tell me Iron Maiden predicted 9/11. You’re in the league for sure, but the best in it?” she jested.

“Aw darn.” he chuckled. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time won’t I?”

For some reason, it hadn’t felt like a threat. When most of her callers promised a call back, she already dreaded it. But him?

Next time?

She liked this mix, unrehearsed boldness, smooth and not pushy. She liked that. It wasn’t often someone on the other side of the static actually got to her.

Most of her audience was a blend of awkward stoners, lonely oldheads, or self proclaimed “deep” Elliott Smith fans. She loved them, she was them, but it didn’t stop her from knowing how much more aware she was of them. Sharp edged, and sad in a way they hadn’t earned yet. She envied her crowd some times, more love than hate there.

But this guy? He didn’t even try to prove anything, and it slightly unnerved her. Just a bit.

“You a music guy, D?” she asked.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

“You could say that, sure.” he chuckled

“Define ��music guy,’” she pushed.

“Played a little. Wrote a little. Y’know? Lived backstage.”

She tilted her head. “You in a band?”

“Used to be. Not the frontman. Never liked the idea too much, y’know? Just there to get drunk, high, and play. Not much else to it, y’know?”

“Ohhh,” she teased. “Mysterious past, famous rock god calling from exile maybe? You’re intriguing us.”

“You laugh,” he said, clearly amused. “but you’re not that far off.”

She almost made a joke. Almost.

"You miss it?" she asked uncharacteristically tenderly.

“I guess I miss the feeling.” he paused. “And I miss not having to explain it.”

She liked this, she wanted to save it in a bottle and keep it for later.

“Call me next week,” she said, almost without thinking. “Same time.”

A silence hung between them, it was warm.

“Yeah,” he said, quiet and sure. “I will.”

After D hung up, she just sat there for a second, staring at the blinking line that had gone dark.

The next call came through.

“Hey, it’s Alan again; remember me? The guy with the misspelled ‘Mtoely Crue’ fucked up tattoo?”

She smirked, her fingers absently tapping on the desk. “Hey you. I was wondering when you’d call to make up for your last very questionable tattoo.”

The usual stream of callers came through; a guy who swore Ozzy didn’t eat the damn bat, a woman asking for a shoutout to her ‘super cool’ cat named Gary Glitter, and an ex-groupie proudly proclaiming how she wore the bandana of David Bowie’s guitarist after stealing it.

It was all so, mostly, predictable yet amusing. Her demeanor was noticeably different, she felt herself smiling into the mic more. Swinging her legs under the desk like a teenager with a secret.

Even when she walked home under the same dripping sky, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, she just kept hearing that voice of his.

She didn’t know what it was exactly. Just that it felt honest in a way people rarely are, especially behind anonymous lines around 2 am.

The next day blurred like a washed out tape.

College was a haze of fluorescent lights and dull lectures. She sat through a pretentious music theory class taught by some prissy asshole who pronounced “fugue” wrong, and graded as if he was some kind of Beethoven himself.

Lunch was a pathetic half bagel and a chai latte, she ignored all her texts. Checked the station voicemail, nothing.

By Thursday, she had almost convinced herself it was a fluke. An oddly charming stranger who stumbled into her show and played her like a damn fool for her audience.

But she couldn’t stop thinking of his voice, the steady smokey rasp, but friendly chuckles behind it. A certain gravel to it you don’t get from a mic, but from life. From late nights and hotel bathtubs and waiting too long between cigarettes.

She continually replayed the call in her head, especially the pauses. The way he’d say “y’know” like he expected her to understand everything as he said it. Or it was just a habit, she was reading too far into it, she knew it.

The following Friday night rolled in like clockwork, it felt like the past hundred, the city buzzing under the same rain slicked sky. The comforting hum of the studio set in as she sat in her chair, fingers already itching for the mic. Tonight was the night.

She clicked the mic on, ready to get into the usual chaos of her late night crowd.

“Alrighty, you know who I am, cut the crap and call me.” her voice danced in the air with a playful edge. “Hit me.” she tempted her awaiting callers.

The calls flooded in, each one blending into the next; people joking about how they were finally awake enough to properly understand their grandpa’s recommendations, a woman who was seriously convinced she was the bastard child of Eddie Van Halen, another just wanted a song rec.

She kept it coming, half-listening, half-laughing, her usual dry sense of humor coating every interaction. But then, a strange shift in the feeling of the next call.

“Hey, who’s calling us tonight?” she said, a feeling in her gut about this caller.

A soft and familiar chuckle vibrated through the speakers, unmistakingly smooth, yet carrying that same rough edge that made him stand out before. “I’m afraid it’s me again,” came his familiar beautiful voice, rich, and warm with mischief. “Wouldn’t want you to think you’d gotten rid of me that easily.”

She truly couldn't suppress the smirk that tugged at the corners of her mouth. D, of course, like he promised. A wave of relief and excitement washed over her, leaving that electric feeling hanging in the air.

“Back for more?” she teased, keeping her tone light, though there was that new kind of amusement she found last time he had called her. “Thought you’d let someone else have the spotlight for once.”

“Couldn’t keep away,” he replied smoothly. “I figured I’d call in and see if you were still managing to keep up with all this music gossip crap. I have to admit, I’m impressed you haven’t lost it yet.”

Her eyebrow arched, was he listening to her show the whole week leading up to today? She leaned closer to the mic. “Oh, I’m hanging in there, don’t you worry about me. But I do have to ask… what’s your angle this time?”

She could hear his smile, whatever that looked like, in his voice as he spoke again, and she knew it was that smirk– the one he probably wore every time he got into this kind of playful back and forth. “No angle. Just wanted to check in and see if you’re still as interesting as last week, which you’ve seem to have a knack for. I gotta know, a question that I imagine all listeners have thought of…” he began, her eyebrows raising. “Are you as interesting off the air as you are on it?”

Her pulse shot up, but she kept her cool. “I don’t know… maybe you should find out for yourself. Unless you’re a complete nutcase and lied your way up to this point about this ‘ex-rockstar life’ you claimed.” she teased.

His ever sunny laughter rumbled through the speakers, the kind that was easy-going and mischievous. “I think that’s a dangerous idea, y’know? But hey, I get it. You probably think you know everything about this side of life, right? I mean, you’ve heard all the stories, the ones about the craziness, the tours, the late nights, the drama.”

She raised a brow feeling the challenge settle into her chest. “I mean, sure. I’ve heard some pretty wild stuff. But I bet you’ve seen a lot more than you’ve led on, D.” she giggled.

He chuckled. “I’m sure I could tell you a few stories that would blow your mind, but who knows? Maybe they’re better left off the ears of a radio show host, y’know?” he jested.

She leaned forward, rolling her eyes and musing, her tone intrigued and teasing. “Oh, don’t be so mysterious. You think you can just be all cryptic on my show and not expect me to want to know more?”

“Well, I’m a fan of mystery,” D replied, his voice lowering a tad. “Especially in people who can keep up. I’ll give you a hint, though. Being on the road isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. After a while, you start seeing how shitty it can be, y’know.”

“I’d imagine.” she said softly.

His voice shifted. “It’s humbling to get back into the spot you were before the big lights. Even for a little.”

She was quiet for a moment, letting the tension linger between them before speaking again. “Sounds like you’re not in that life anymore?”

His laugh was soft, yet gravely and laced with amusement. “No. That bit is behind me. The memories stay for years. They stick around. Like the people who truly get it, the ones who really know what it’s like, y’know?”

Her curiosity peaked, but she didn’t lead on. “So, you’re saying I’ve got to be in the elusive ‘get it’ club to understand?” she asked with a playful edge.

“Maybe,” D teased. “Or maybe I’ll just show you what happens when you start looking beyond the hairspray and pretty men. You know, in person?”

Her heart skipped. There it was again! That invitation, hanging in the air like a challenge she couldn’t resist.

“I guess I’ll have to be properly schooled this weekend.” she chuckled. “If you think you can handle all of my beauty and charm… and wit.” she said ever so sarcastically.

D’s voice dropped to a lower amused pitch, “Oh I know I can, I’m sure. But we’ll see how tough you are, no audience, no mic.” he chuckled.

“I guess we’ll have to see. Check your inbox, send the deets there.” she giggled. The listener count had spiked up, she hadn’t even noticed. She was too busy writing the caller number on a nearby notepad to contact this illusive D.

After that shift the plan was set, her phone buzzing moments later.

D: So, Saturday night, 8PM. Guess you’re calling out sick to your loyal listeners?

She stared at the message, the playfulness in his text was unmistakable. It kind of hit her though, she hoped it wasn’t some total uggo just playing around. He didn’t have to be a looker or anything, she kind of just created some hot fantasy subconsciously. Her fingers hovered the keyboard, then she bit a fraction of the skin of her bottom lip and typed.

You: You better not be all talk. I’ll be there, abandoning my favorite group of loners for you.

The typing popped up on her screen. She couldn’t help but giggle.

D: I already promised. See you at the station.

Saturday morning came by fast, and the hours were slipping by before she could really prepare for meeting up with this D character. On the off chance he wasn’t some behemoth troll, she decided to play the game and get all pretty regardless.

Standing in front of the mirror, a bundle of excitement and nerves playing in her gut. Her hair cascaded in soft waves, hands trembling as she worked her locks. She had already chosen a simple outfit, a black slip dress and black sheer stockings. She slid on kitten heels, trying to at least look like she was there for a “good time” and not too try hard.

The clock struck 7:45pm and at this rate, she had been ready for hours. Waiting around, not wanting to be too early. Her heart raced as she took one more good look in the mirror. She sighed and got her purse, excited and nervous all at once. She stepped out of her apartment, and locked the door behind her.

The rain had settled in the past couple of days, a grey gloom remained. The neon lit reflections make an appearance in the vague drizzle. She tried to wind up her confidence she led on in her show, and that she had interacted with him this entire time with.

The idea of being around a personality who collided so well with hers made her stomach flip in anticipation.

When she stood by the radio station, she immediately scanned the street, watching oncomers with intent. She immediately glanced down at her phone, going to ask where he was when an extremely tall figure stood in front of her.

She looked up, she picked up on the features before her brain could even scream out his real name in all of its astonishment.

His hair was styled in a tousled way, the hints of grey but the natural blonde shone through his hair. His face was the same as the magazine covers that had moved her to make a show about the genre, only aged, only more scruffy, timelessly rugged. She took it all in, his tattooed arms, the way he dressed in a simple black band shirt, a cross chain, how it hung off his slender body?

She was awestruck, Duff Mckagan stood right before her. Guns N Roses was everything to her, absolutely everything. One of her immediately loved bands, always updating the show on their every news, more so than other bands. This was the best possible thing to come out of this.

The dazed look on her face, jaw hung slightly open. He listened to the show, that asshole knew what kind of reaction this would get out of her this whole time. Warranting the smirk she had imagined behind the static, being plastered on the face of her absolute favorite bassist. Who knew now that he was, she knew immediately he’d hold all of her spoken affections to him.

Duff smiled down at her, his hands in his jean pockets. “You look like you’re thinking of running out of here.” he said, his voice so warm and clear, yet all the more rough now that it was in front of her.

Her heart thudded, this was her absolute dream since she started the show. An unrealistic one sure? A girlish unmistakable attraction built inside of her, one that was always there of course, it was Duff McKagan. But this was also D, the personality that charmed her to no end.

Her face crept into a shy smile, trying to force that personality she had put up for days. “Not quite,” she looked up at him, “Just taking in the fact you’re not… you’re… you?” she stuttered. In disbelief understandably.

He smirked still looking down at her and her gloomy little get up, he liked this. “Oh I’m sure I’ve lived up to all your expectations, huh? All those praises you’ve been throwing my way” he said, clearly amused by the idea. “I thought I was just another call-in but, you talk about this old bassist more than you let on, y’know? You had no clue.”

She wanted to die and melt into the earth, in a good way. Her cheeks immediately flaring pink. Of course he was going to bring that up, she thought. Her lips twitched between embarrassment and amusement. “I—what?” She tried to recover quickly, though she could already feel her face warming at the thought of it. The unabashed admiration she had casually thrown into the open radio air, wrapped up in excited ramblings about GnR? She was so screwed.

Duff chuckled sensing her realization, “I mean it’s cool,” he continued. “You’ve been raving about me and the old guys for weeks. What was it you said? ‘Unparalleled character’ or something like that?” His smirk was practically etched into his face. “You like me? If that even scratches the surface of it.”

She was still extremely embarrassed and also excited for how this night could possibly continue. D was Duff, she was here, that electric personality was her all time favorite. How would anyone recover? She gulped quietly and pursed her lips, trying to.

Duff laughed again, low and rich, like a guilty pleasure. “Oh I’ve been listening alright. Don’t think I missed a word. Couldn’t help myself, y’know? You’re so charming when you talk about me. It’s like that sarcasm and wit just becomes girlish gossip in those segments.”

There was something about the way he said it, something that made her wonder if he was playing her or if he actually enjoyed her vocal passion about him, she was after all cool-headed, and relaxed on air. He picked up on that demeanor change when she spoke about Guns N’ Roses.

She didn’t know how to respond to that, so instead she deflected with a quick and really shaky sarcastic reply. A hand to her hip, looking up at the statue of a man with red flushed cheeks “So what’s your point Mckagan? You’re just trying to get me to say I think you’re as cool as your band right?”

“Oh absolutely,” he responded. His voice dripped with mock sincerity. “Because if you don’t admit it, I might just have to leave you right here by your own radio station, and go find someone else who gets it.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re too cocky for your own good,” she shot back through an unstifled smile. “You know you have a huge ego.”

He nodded with his hands in the air in mock defense. “At least I have some talent to back it up, do you know who I am?” he jested.

She raised a brow, the challenge in his voice making her heart race. “Oh so you’re a legend now? Tell me, should I be getting your autograph or…” she led on.

“Aw come on.” he replied, his voice a playful murmur. “Don’t pretend you’re not into it. You've been talking about me for weeks, I’ve only just started calling in two weeks ago.”

She almost let her composure slip, as if that mattered at this rate. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or deeply worried you’ve been keeping track for all this time.”

“Both,” he said with a chuckle. “I’d definitely say both.”

Their banter felt like it had its own rhythm, playful and flirty. Their eyes kept locking for longer than it should. Despite the teasing, she felt a real connection here. It was chemistry and curiosity. Like they were both looking for something, and daring the other to find it in each other. It was tense and rich, a thrill she had longed for in her boring grey life.

The night stretched on, full of shared stories, laughter, and the ease that came from spending time with someone who just gets it. They finally decided to head back to her place, a few blocks away. It wasn’t about impressing each other, just wanting to know more.

“So you’ve been in that world for a while. It’s hard to imagine you just leaving the whole thing.” she mused, leaning against the counter. Duff sat on one of her stools on the other end, leaning on his elbows.

“Wasn’t an easy decision, but it gets to a point y'know? I’m old.” he said, taking a drink on his now second bottle of beer. She nodded, as cool as she was trying to be, she couldn’t help but look onto him. How beautifully he had aged, she was far younger than him of course. A college student, and he was in his early sixties, but she couldn’t help the way she looked at him. He was just too appealing.

Regardless she found herself nodding.

The night stretched on, with drunk laughter and comfortable silences filling the apartment. They shared stories, and they both felt the chemistry growing between them, it was undeniable. Her hand grazed his arm as she reached over for another shot, which they were so drunk they hadn’t exactly remembered getting it out.

They gave each other a drunk knowing glance, everything was slower, every little touch just a bit more hypnotic and obvious. She felt a shiver go down her spine as his darkened gaze looked at her after the mistake. They stared at each other way too long, pushing past the barrier of the radio show host and her favorite caller. They were long past it a couple shots and stories ago.

Interrupting her thoughts, he leaned into her neck as she sat on the stool next to him. “You know, as charming as you are on the air…” he began. Her fingers tensing around her empty shot glass. “I think I’d approach you, persona or not.”

She stiffened at the feel of his half-grown stubble grazing her neck, the exact kind of masculinity that ruined women in stories like this, all this time firmly believing she was stronger than that. But she was just no different was she? Her breath hitched in her throat, her eyes going wide no matter how she forced it not to show.

“Yeah?” she asked, her voice came out too light, too airy, too not her. She hated it. Hated how it stripped her of the venom straight from her tone with just his closeness. Her usual bite dissolves distressingly fast, melting into something so shamefully soft.

Her hands rose, sliding under his arms to his neck, her fingers clinging there as if instinct told her to not let him get away. He leaned closer, their bodies pulled by an invisible heat.

This was Duff. Duff.

The same man whose music had sparked only the dirtiest nights alone in her younger years. The man she’d praise to hell and back on air without a clue he was listening. None of the lines she’d drawn for herself mattered now, not his age, his legacy, not the sinking guilt that she should’ve known better? She didn’t care.

He lifted his face from her neck, she swore right there he could read her mind. His dark gaze looked at her flushed face, drinking in the way she blinked slow and heavy– no longer daring him of anything, but asking for something. Subtly. Shamefully. Like he had her under some kind of spell, which he did.

The way her thighs came together didn’t go unnoticed, his rough hand slid down, thumbing a slow teasing path along her inner thigh, beneath the hem of her already short dress.

“Oh don’t try to look so tough now,” he murmured briskly, inches away from her face. His tall frame slid off the stool with ease, crouching down in front of her. She jolted when his knee touched the floor, like the sheer shift in position made everything more real. She could feel herself beneath her dress getting more needy. She gripped the sides of her stool hard.

“You were all mouth today,” he muttered, clearly enjoying himself. “Slick little comebacks, your sarcastic radio shtick, right?” His other knee hit the floor. He looked up at her with something between amusement and mock pity, his lip curling slightly.

“All that ‘cool girl’ edge for your little phone-in fan club,” he murmured, dragging his fingers higher on her leg. “But just look at you now.”

Her breath trembled in her throat. Duff tilted his head slightly, like he was just admiring her unraveling. Watching her. Loving how he’d peeled it all back without much effort. And that smug, devastating look of his?

It violently ruined her composure.

Because he was right. She was all mouth.

His hand slid higher, thumbing the inside of her thigh with practiced ease, and he grinned like the devil when she shuddered more frequently under his touch. Still firmly gripping the sides of her stool like they were the only thing keeping her tied to reality, she was coming completely undone.

“God look at you,” he murmured, low and amused, watching this ‘cool girl’ fall apart in real time. “Didn’t even have to try.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her mascaraed eyes were wide and glassy, lipstick smudged from drinking moments ago, a normalcy that felt like eons ago.

“This is the same girl right?” he asked from between her thighs. “The same girl who talks circles around her callers? You sounded so in charge over the radio. So untouchable.”

She whimpered. Actually whimpered at how humiliatingly true that was. He knew everything. He listened to everything. All those nights she’d talk so highly about all these famous musicians like they were her gods, how they carved her into the personality that she was, flirted with him without knowing it was him. And now here she was, on his knees between her legs, looking like she was going to be the next bitch he’d sink his teeth into.

“God, you should hear yourself.” he said, leaning into her right inner thigh, his thin lips and stubble making themselves known as he talked against her leg. “Begging in your breath. You’re not even hiding it anymore.”

Her face burned. Her thighs trembled. She was so wet it was actually embarrassing, her panties clinging to her anatomy in the worst way. She tried to shift, close her legs instinctively, like closing them even a tad would recover herself.

“Oh hell no, you don’t get to play shy. Not after all that big talk and praise.” he cooed, all wicked and low between her. His every annunciation felt on the sensitive skin between her legs. She felt like she was on fucking fire.

He looked up at her hungrily, he rolled her eyes. “You gonna cut the shit and tell me how bad you wanted this?” he asked, breath hot. “You ever touch yourself listening to my voice on those late night shows? I bet being a media outlet just gave you so much content.”

She gasped, the humiliation a fire in her stomach. Her lips quivered. “I… maybe.”

“Oh, maybe?” he mocked, his fingers dragging across the soaked fabric between her legs. “C’mon. The girl who always has clever little comebacks on her show is unsure of herself now?”

She groaned, bucking her hips forward. Desperate. It was messy. Sloppy. Her thighs parted with no fight at all at this point. Her heels digging into her floor for leverage. She needed him, and the raw shame of how quickly she had folded only turned the both of them on.

He smiled at this, “Yeah… there she is.” His voice smoothly darkened, like he personally knew this side to her for ages. They had met today, but he was oh so familiar with how much she liked him. “My messy girl,” he said, satisfied with her physical honesty.

Her panties were practically pasted to her, the heat between her legs pulsing with every syllable he threw at her. His ever growing ego, already keeping him from being quiet.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” he muttered, sliding his hand beneath her, not to fuck her, to cup her. Palm curved perfectly to feel every wet, hot pulse of her cunt as she dripped down onto him, her arousal leaking into the creases of his aged hands.

“Fuck. Won’t you listen to yourself? Look at the fight you lost so miserably.” he mused.

She sobbed a pathetic, strung out wail. He took that same hand, slick with her and slapped her cheek with it. Not hard, just enough to make her feel it. To leave a warm humiliating wet mark across her skin. Her head jerked slightly with the motion, a deranged glaze in her eyes.

Her cheeks were blazing, she didn’t look away. Her eyes stayed locked to his, dizzy and dark and so painfully needy, it hurt.

He grabbed her jaw, fingers digging in, almost cruelly.

“You stay the fuck with me baby, don’t get all dumb now. You wanted to be seen, didn’t you? You talked a big, big game.”

She was beyond thought, rational ones at that. She just asked. It’s all she could do.

“Please. Fuck… fuck– please.” she pleaded, hardly breathing.

He scoffed, loving this side of her, as humiliating as this was for her. He was growing more and more fond of her as far as she let go. “Oh please what?” he cruelly taunted. “You even asking to do something dirty? Or are you just doing all this to sit here, sob on my lap while I make you cum without even taking my cock out.”

Her moan broke mid air, her hands tangling in his shirt. She didn’t even know what she wanted, she felt like she never knew anything until now.

He stood over her, still sat in the same stool where she was just chatting with him. Looking up at him desperately. One hand remained knuckle deep in her cunt, the other violently gripping her face, never for a moment letting her gaze slip from his intense one.

He spits on her face, her eyes only fluttering shut for the first time in ages to avoid his spit. She let it slide down her ruined face. Her own fluids and his spit melting into each other as they remained on her face.

He slapped her again. “You’ll remember this every time you hear my voice now, huh?” he lowly said, nearly inside of her ear. “Next time you sit this cute ass in that little booth, playing those tapes and old interviews? Just know one of ‘em lived in your headphones, and now he’s the reason you’re a shell of the cool girl they know.” he threatened so deliciously.

She had a dazed and weary longing look, her eyebrows turned upward and glassy. She nodded as if he was the only thing in the world that she could ever need to get by, to be told what to like, hate, what to do. She felt so completely his.

She came. Hard. Her hips violently bucking into his hand, her full body shattering against him with a cry that would’ve embarrassed her if she still had any pride left.

But she didn’t.

Of course she didn’t.

This is all she wanted, to be the lame one in any interaction. To not be the more knowing one, to be completely and utterly subordinate.

Her orgasm didn’t even fully release its grip on her, thighs still twitching, her body malleable and soaked with aftershocks when he grabbed her wrist and stood her up in one full motion.

Her mess sliding down her leg, not getting a chance to even soak into the fabric of her underwear.

She was so excited.

She squealed and gasped as he spun her onto the counter, where their remaining beer and empty shot glasses reminded them of how they even got here.

The cold edge of the counter met her ass with a sharp thud, and before she could catch her breath, he was already caging her in, surrounding her in his tall stature.

“It pisses me off that you think we’re done, you’re cute for that.” he said darkly amused. Hell yes. This was all she wanted, the be talked circles around for change, for anyone to truthfully best her. This was heaven.

She barely had time to breathe before he yanked her dress up with both of his hands, bunched it around her waist and shoved her panties aside, ripping her sheer stockings in the process like they were garbage.

Her eyes watched everything he did, to the point where she held her breath to see what he was going to do with her exposed entrance. He tugged violently at his belt, throwing it aside. His force just as mean to her as it was to the button of his jeans.

He slammed into her as soon as it got out, not even giving her a chance to see any vein, nothing but the size and girth.

She choked on a scream, her fingers clawing behind his neck, the sudden stretch of him inside of her blinding. She never felt more lightheaded, like she was far from alive. It was perfect.

He didn’t ease in. There was no ceremony. No sweetness. Just filth.

Just a man who’d listened to her voice for months, jerking off to her smug little interactions and her high praise of him and his band. Finally under him, where he firmly believed she belonged this whole time.

His hips snapped against hers in a brutal rhythmic slam. She wasn’t sure if she was moaning or sobbing, or even begging. Whatever it was, he drank it in like it made him harder.

He gripped her hips so tightly, she’d bruise. She wanted it to bruise, she never wanted this heightened ecstasy to leave her even months after. Each thrust knocking the wind out of her, hair sticking to the mess on her face in strands.

“Say something now.” he panted, leaning into her. “C’mon little host, our lady of the hour. No more one-liners to share with me?”

She didn’t try, she didn’t want to try. Her past persona a disgrace in her mind if it kept her from treatment like this for ages.

“That’s what I thought.” he dimly smiled, a soft gesture of thumbing away her stuck hair from her face. “My poor thing, that attitude surely didn’t last long.”

He didn’t slow, didn’t stop.

She couldn’t even count how many times either of them probably came, too mentally far away to even recognize it.

And she loved it. Every second. Every degrading word. The physical example of her being the least smart one in the room, an erotic humbling she had longed for everyday.

She finally embraced what she thought she was better than for ages, a slut, a gross perverted radio host with the furthest of innocent intentions with her hoped connections.

The apartment had gone quiet, save for the steady hum of her body still trembling in the aftermath. She was completely laid out on the counter. A little bruised, a little adored.

She brought her weak hands to her body, finding every physical evidence of his rage all over her, every indent of his teeth marks brought an exhausted smile and gasp as she found them.

Duff was resting his forehead on her lower abdomen. His chest rising and falling with unhurried breaths, watching her like a satisfied animal.

Her lips were red and kiss bruised, mascara smeared from the corners of her eyes. She never felt more settled. Anchored.

He came up and held her to his naked body, none of them remembering the motions of getting naked. He kissed her forehead, he sat her on his lap on the stools. Gentle. Disgustingly gentle for a man who just made her sob and drool all over her own kitchen counter.

“You done pretending? For me at least?” he whispered into the crook of her neck, peppering it with kisses. Her voice was hoarse. “It’s beyond you.”

Duff spent the night, the shower and sleep after it all the more of a reminder of what pretending to be a proud cool-headed girl kept from her.

She lied in bed with Duff, the most tired and gratified she had ever been. She knew what she’d have to do.

It was the last time the “ON AIR” light would glow.

She leaned into her mic, her voice all polite and graceful. Changed.

“If you spent your 2-4 AM’s with me, I wanna thank you personally. Thank you for wasting your time with me. Even the weird ones. It’s not forever, I love you guys too much.”

A pause as she held her finger over the switch.

“I just wanna thank a very special one of you.” she said, her eyes glinting upward. “I’m happy to have put on the rawest show for you.” she said softly into the mic.

Click.

She slung her bag over her shoulder, switching the light off in the room without any reluctance.

The “ON AIR” light blinked off. The silence was as erotic as ever, not empty. She felt claimed.

The guest seat wasn’t empty tonight, Duff proudly coming up to wrap his arm around her and walk her out. Smugly looking down at her as she was his prize.

She was something else entirely as she left the station for the last time.

note: this was my first fanfic i hope you enjoyed <3

#been awhile since I’ve read any fanfic #that was fantastic #duff mckagan #duff my beloved #my favorite blonde

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