#(Stop assuming shit and stop policing what grown ass adults do in the bedroom or who they love it’s fucjing weird as shit)

[throwawayblog-thrwaway]

why is that the same people that encourage folks to be themselves and be weird are like. vehemently polyphobic lmao

[mypoisonedvine]

The Wrong Idea | Lee Bodecker x reader

summary: you weren’t exactly a rebel in the eyes of the law, but that didn’t mean you cared for the corrupt, alcoholic town sheriff.  and that certainly didn’t mean you would care at all for him marrying your mother.  if only you’d known how much worse it could get...

word count: 4.5k

warnings: smut!! (heavy dubcon/noncon), age gap (reader is 19), stepcest, loss of virginity, pain kink, creampie kink, infidelity, degradation, oral (m and f receiving), spanking, choking, slapping, daddy kink, authority kink, subtle ddlg themes?, reader’s mom being toxic af

You’d never cared for the Sheriff.  Even you, being generally a well-behaved young woman, thought he was a little too intense and a little too corrupt.  Up until now, you’d assumed your mother agreed with you on that, because she never protested to your complaints about Sheriff Bodecker and his ‘fascist reign of terror’ as you called it.  Apparently that was a poor assumption, though.

“You… what?!”

“I never told you we were seein’ each other because I knew you had your childish rebellion against him and his police force,” your mother explained with a demeaning eyeroll.  “But now that we’re engaged, I can’t hide it anymore.”

“How long has this been going on?” you asked quietly, still in shock at what you were hearing— and unable to take your eyes off of the sparkling diamond wrapped around her finger.

“Oh, I’d say… about two months now,” she decided.

“Two—” you stopped and started over, so bewildered that you couldn’t finish your original sentence.  “You’re engaged after two months?”

“Don’t make that face at me, you look so ugly when you scowl like that,” she frowned.  Of course, she could never miss an opportunity to nag you.  “He’s a respectable man, and he treats me well.  The wedding is in three weeks— and he’s generous enough to let you live with us after that.  Says there’s a spare bedroom for you in his house.”

“His… his house…” you slurred, suddenly feeling light-headed.  “I’m… we’re moving…?”

“Yes, honey, and with your work ethic it’ll take you the whole three weeks to pack up, so you should start now,” she informed you with that cruel, fake smile of hers.

She walked away as you sat down on the couch, staring off into space, trying to comprehend what you just heard.  It’s not like you thought your mother was flawless or anything, or that you and her had a perfect relationship, but you thought she would’ve been a little more… gentle about all this.  She could do better than him anyways!  But she didn’t care about that, only money and status.  You could almost laugh at her small-mindedness to think the Sheriff of a nothing-town like Knockemstiff was actually plentiful in either of those things, but right now you couldn’t laugh.  You couldn’t even cry as you packed your things and said goodbye to the home you’d known your whole life.  You were just numb.

//

You couldn’t look him in the eye when you arrived at his house, duffel bags in hand and shoes stained with the dry red dirt of summer.  It was nicer than your old place, and if it were anyone else’s you’d say it had charm, but everything was tainted because you knew it was his.  You could sort of tell that this had been his bachelor pad for a while, but it had a half-assed attempt at hominess with the rug in the living room and a centerpiece on the kitchen table.  He even had a TV, presumably funded by bribes and all his other nefarious dealings— meaning you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to watch it.

“Nice to meet ya, properly,” Lee greeted, though his monotone didn’t come across as particularly impassioned.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” you mumbled quickly, hoping to get this conversation over with.

“You don’t have to call me Sheriff anymore, you know.  Not in the house, at least.”

You nodded but said nothing, following him as he motioned for you and moved into the hallway.  You trailed behind him, noticing the eerie lack of any personal effects on the walls (no family photos, apparently, and not much of a family to photograph in the first place from what you’d heard), and stopped when he reached the door at the end.

“This is your room,” Lee informed you stiffly.  Opening the door, you were horrified by the assault on your eyes of pink.  Pink everything: pink wallpaper, a pink fuzzy quilt, pink bedframe.  There were even assorted stuffed animals on the bed, disturbingly enough.

“When my mother told you she had a daughter, did she not mention that I was grown?”

“You may be nineteen, honey, but you’re nowhere near grown,” he scowled.  “She didn’t tell me she had a daughter until two days before the weddin’.  This is what I managed to... improvise, since then.”

You almost had sympathy for him, just in that you two were both victims of your mother’s eccentricity.  Almost.  

“Must’ve inherited your expensive taste from your ma,” he frowned.  “Sorry, princess—” the nickname made his lips curl like the word itself tasted sour— ���but this’ll have to do.”

“Oh, I’m nothing like her,” you sneered back, “cause I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole.”

“What are you two chatting about?” your mother’s voice called from the kitchen.

Both of you answered at the same time: “Nothing!” 

With a grimace, you dragged your bag into the room and shut the door in his face.  It was those little acts of rebellion that had to tide you over.  You weren’t audacious enough to do anything actually cruel, or illegal, but you weren’t going to make this any easier for him.

At first it was just refusing to leave your room.  That worked for a week, until you realized you were going to starve to death.  So then the only times you saw him were at the dinner table, which you made into a protest by pretending he didn’t exist and refusing to answer his questions.  You occasionally relented when he asked you to pass something from your side of the table, but you never looked at him while you did it.  

He didn’t seem angry or sad about your determination to avoid him, if anything it seemed like he was happy to pretend you weren’t there either.  And that should’ve made it easier, but for some reason it bothered you even more.  You realized that maybe his attention did matter to you, even though it was negative attention that you were hoping to inspire, but you knew that was ridiculous and you tried to fight it.  Still, for all your plans to never see him, you sure did think about him a lot.  You thought about where he might be, so you could be somewhere else.  You thought about what he must be doing at work, and how he was probably continuing to be a nasty mean drunk as frequently as possible.  You wondered if he and your mother were making love just across the house, although you were lucky enough to never hear anything.  Just knowing that could be happening made you feel sick, even though you realized it was none of your business.  

You sometimes found yourself listening for it at night, just in case.

//

Your mother had decided to spend her new husband’s money on a trip, but the man himself couldn’t tag along— too much work to do, apparently.  The prospect of being left alone with him was nightmare fuel, but you didn’t even try to ask her to stay… you knew she wouldn’t listen.  She’d been totally absorbed in her own world since the wedding, seeming to be very fulfilled by the social role of ‘Sheriff’s wife’ to the point that she had lost all interest in her former position as ‘your mom’.  

There was a balance to the silence with her gone, though.  You avoided him, he avoided you; it was a tense truce, but a survivable one.  At least without her, nobody was going to try to make you two get along.  Friday night was different, though.  This time when he came home from work, you knew you were stuck with him until Monday morning.  That thought made you realize that you needed to get out and you didn’t care if you weren’t dressed for it.  It was hot, and it was just a walk so nobody was going to see you in this miniskirt anyway, right?

Too bad Lee was sitting on the couch, still in his uniform, not giving you any mind but likely to harass you before you could make it outside.  You figured if you just walked casually enough, he wouldn’t even notice, so you made your way towards the door.

“You’re not going out like that,” he announced suddenly, seemingly without even looking up from his newspaper.

“Says who?” you deflected quickly with a raised brow.  It wasn’t that you wanted to pick a fight, but you just couldn’t understand why he would even care what you were wearing.

“Says the guy who doesn’t want you to give all the neighborhood boys the wrong idea.”

“What idea?!” you asked, crossing your arms.  He shot you a look, quickly raking in your body and outfit which made you feel more observed than you cared for.

“The idea that you’re a slut,” he explained coldly.

You gulped at his words but tried to keep a poker face.  You didn’t let it get this far just to give up.  You were so sick of his shit; what made him think he could boss you around when he’d never even tried to get to know you?

“What makes you assume that’s the wrong idea?” you shot back, fighting the nervousness in your voice.

You hadn’t expected him to stand up instantly, the coffee table wobbling a bit when his knee bumped into it.

“The fuck did you say?” he hissed.

With his teeth bared at you he looked like a predator, and you felt like small, helpless prey.  You tried to muster some of your former confidence, but everything came out shaky and weak.  “I— I said that maybe it’s not the wrong ide—”

He pounced, crossing the room and slamming you back against the wall, a hand at each shoulder; you instantly cowered, shrinking back and turning your face away from him as far as you could.  You never thought he’d put his hands on you like this.  Your heart was pounding so loudly that you were surprised you could hear his hoarse whisper.

“Watch your tone with me.  I’m not kidding around.”

“I’m an adult,” you weakly fought back, “I can do what I want.”

“Not in my fuckin’ house you can’t!” he bellowed.

For some reason, it all hit you at once.  All the emotions you’d been suppressing since your mother had gotten engaged— all the anger and fear and betrayal and indignation, they came bubbling up before you could stop them.  

“I don’t even want to be in your ugly fucking house!” you cried in response.  “I don’t wanna be anywhere near you!  You’re a fascist and a tyrant and a pig!”

You expected him to get more aggressive but he suddenly stilled.  It was the scariest anger, that outwardly-calm type that made your blood go cold.

“Go to your room.”

You didn’t question it, turning to walk away (any excuse to get away from him, right?), but you didn’t expect him to follow you in and shut the door behind the both of you.

You were paralyzed with fear as he stepped past you and sat on your bed.  It was sort of strange as you realized you’d never seen him in your room before.  He stood out against the somewhat childish decorations, but you were in no mood to appreciate the humor of the situation as he patted his knee.

“Lay across my lap.  Don’t make me tell you twice.”

He couldn’t possibly be doing what I think he’s doing, could he? you wondered to yourself, but did as he asked.  You realized you’d never been so close to him before, the warmth of his body radiating through his clothes.  He smelled like cologne and booze, although you didn’t think he’d actually had much to drink yet today— at least compared to his normal habits.  It was almost worse to think that he wasn’t acting on drunkenness now.

“It’s prob’ly too late for it, but you are in serious need of discipline, young lady.”

You had no idea what he was talking about, but your body reacted to it differently than you expected.

His fingers slipped between the top of your skirt and your skin, having to pull pretty hard to get it down due to how tight it was.  You bit your lip and hoped he wouldn’t notice your arousal, but as your pussy was exposed, you could feel the breeze from the ceiling fan and you knew you were undeniably wet.  You didn’t know why, but you were.

“Count them for me,” he instructed coldly and before you could ask what you were counting, he brought his hand down firmly.  You felt his wedding ring in the slap and it made you feel a little sick.

“O-one,” you stammered.

He delivered four more, alternating cheeks, and you tried not to react with visible pain.  But as the intensity increased, you realized that not reacting might’ve actually been making it worse.  Either way, you couldn’t stop yourself from crying out when the eighth made your whole body lurch forward from the force.

“Eight!” you squealed, but both of you noticed the way you pushed your hips forward.  Unintentional as it may have been, you were trying to rub yourself on his thigh, desperate to be touched where it felt like all the energy of your body had focused.  You were sure you’d never been so horny before, and now your clit was nearly throbbing.  What the fuck is wrong with me?!

He quickly delivered the final two slaps before grabbing your neck, hoisting you up until you were on your knees before him.  He examined your face closely and you tried to keep your lip from shaking.

“You’re worse than I thought,” he hissed.  “You are in dire need of a punishment.  You should thank me for going so easy on you so far.”

You realized when his grip on your jaw tightened that he was being literal.  “Thank you, for going easy on me…”

“Where’d that fire go, huh?  Guess you’re all talk,” he laughed.  

He roughly shoved his fingers into your mouth, moaning lowly as your tongue rubbed against the pads of his fingers.  “This fuckin’ mouth.  You just don’t know when to keep it shut, do you?  Come on baby, open up.  I’ve got a better use for it than your fuckin’ disrespectful attitude.”

He used his free hand to work on his belt right in front of your face, and your eyes went wide.

“Don’t act so surprised sweetheart,” he said with a hint of irritation, “this is exactly what you’re asking for.”

You gasped a bit when his cock was freed from his trousers, springing up and already red at the tip.  You’d never seen one this close before and it was intimidating in every way.

“Like what you see?  You’re so wet for it,” he purred.  You tried to speak but words abandoned you. 

It was all a blur as he held your mouth open and shoved his cock inside— it tasted like skin and salt, and the size made your chapped lips crack until you worried they would bleed.  His moans were deep and gravelly, making your skin break out into goosebumps as he pumped smoothly into your pliant mouth.  He slapped your face a few times, not quite hard but plenty strong enough to make it sting.  You winced with each impact, the tears which had welled from your gagging finally falling down and dripping from your chin.

“Suck on it, princess, like a popsicle… fuck yeah, like that,” he groaned, and your mind resisted obeying him but your body was completely at his mercy.  “Aw baby, ya look so good chokin’ on my cock.  Is that what you were gonna go do in this slutty little outfit you’ve got on?”

You tried to shake your head but he was holding you down, not even giving you a chance to breathe.  His protruding stomach rubbed against your forehead when his cock was this deep in your throat, and the disgust and fear somehow made your arousal stronger.

He let you go, finally, and you pulled back with a gasp and a cough.  You weren’t given much reprieve, though, as he started to tug at your blouse as well.

“No, wait,” you whimpered, weakly trying to bat his hands away.

“Wait?  I think I’ve been waiting long enough,” he growled.  “Your ma’s a fuckin’ tease, hasn’t touched me since I got her that ugly fuckin’ ring.  Let’s hope you learn from her mistakes.”

Your blouse was torn open and tossed aside, leaving you only in the pulled-up skirt and your bra.  Reaching up to cover yourself, you were discouraged by the shockingly-gentle brush of his hands. 

“Don’t cover yourself, sweetheart, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured.  His gaze made you feel hot all over, and it wasn’t just because of the summer weather outside.  “Nobody ever looked at ya before?”

You shook your head, looking down at the floor.  A finger under your chin guided you to look up at him.  

“Nobody ever touched ya before?” he pressed, his stare boring into you.  You shook your head again.  “Fuck,” he whispered, but then he started to smile proudly.  “Knew you were a good girl, princess, you just didn’t wanna act like one for some reason.  You gonna be good for me now?” 

You nodded weakly, swallowing as you tried to comprehend what was happening.  

“Then I’ll be good to you, too,” he promised darkly, a shimmer in his eyes that made you throb between your thighs.  “Come get on the bed, pretty girl.”

You almost resisted, but it was your need driving you now, not your mind.  You had been waiting too long to let a boy touch you, and now that a man had touched you, you felt all kinds of wrong and yet craved more.  Before you had even finished sitting down beside him, he was slipping off your bra and pushing you back onto the quilt.

“Sheriff!” you yelped instinctively, a little disoriented as he started to climb on top of you.

He chuckled, clearly amused by your unexpected appeal to authority.  “Wanna know a secret, sweetheart?  Wanna know the real reason I said you didn’t have to call me that anymore?”  He leaned down, his breath hot and moist against your neck when he spoke: “Because it made me so fuckin’ hard when you said it.”

He pressed his cock, still wet with your spit, against your thigh; maybe just for emphasis, a reminder that he was still hard and wasn’t anywhere near done with you.

“What are you gonna do to me…?” you asked weakly, your voice so wavering and broken that you cringed just hearing it.  

“Just gonna make you feel good, princess,” he smiled, and before you could ask what that would entail, he was groping your tits in his large, calloused hands.  A low groan echoed in his chest, and you tried not to squirm as he teased your nipples between his fingers.  They were already hardening from the moment he’d touched you, but somehow it was getting even worse when he played with them, watching your face and surely seeing the shame you wore there.

His hands trailed lower, rubbing your waist, your thighs… you found yourself anticipating that he’d remove your panties, so much so that when he did, you quickly lifted your hips to help him slide them off.  You couldn’t believe how easily you were letting him do this to you.

“I can tell how much you want it,” he taunted lowly as the fabric slid down your legs and was tossed to the floor.  “I can smell how much you want it.”  He growled a little before diving in, licking a thick stripe through your folds and taking a moment right at the end to tickle your clit with his tongue.  “So fuckin’ sweet, princess; I knew you would be,” he praised.  You were forced to wonder how long he’d been thinking about this.

The noises were beyond obscene and you felt your face burning— but there was a burning in your gut, too, and shooting down your legs.  You’d never felt like this before (being a very good girl who never even touched herself), but you knew that if he didn’t stop, you would come.  And you really, really wanted to come.

Everytime he put pressure on your clit, your leg quivered involuntarily.  It was nearly too much, the sensation so powerful it almost hurt, but he pushed you right to the edge without knocking you off.

“Please,” you found yourself begging before you could stop it, “please, Sheriff—”

“I’m not your Sheriff anymore, sweetheart,” he informed you gruffly, popping up from between your legs with the entire bottom half of his face covered in your arousal, “I’m your daddy now.  Go on and beg your daddy to fuck you.”

Eyes shot wide open, you stared back at him in bewilderment.  Rage flashed in his eyes, and he snarled as his hand suddenly wrapped around your neck, tightening and choking you. 

“You heard me,” he groaned through his teeth.  “Beg me.  To fuck you.”

“Daddy,” you stammered, hoarsely fighting to speak through the pressure on your throat, “fuck me, please.”

He slammed his cock into you and you nearly screamed.  It burned and you instinctively tried to crawl away but, of course, his weight on top of you made it impossible.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned.  He laid down on top of you entirely then, slipping his arms under your torso and holding you tightly.

Each thrust made you feel like you had reached your limits, as if you couldn’t be stretched further which was probably true.  And yet, in spite of it (or worse, because of it), you found yourself moaning and writhing under him, even arching your back to make his movements smoother.  He laughed a little as he bit at the shell of your ear.

“You love it, baby,” he moaned, “you love my cock.”

You couldn’t respond, just sob as you clutched at the shirt still on his back, your jaw tight as you tried to bear the pain.  

“It’s not always gonna hurt like this,” he promised between heavy breaths, “s’gonna feel good soon.  Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, pretty girl.”

Truthfully, you weren’t sure if that meant that this would happen again or not.  At the moment, you were incapable of thinking that far ahead, too focused on the way the sting of the stretch was melting away and morphing into such powerful pleasure that you couldn’t even see straight.

He kissed you, and only then did the weight of it hit you.  Who he was, what he was doing, what you were doing… it had been distant and vague before, but something about his tongue inside your mouth made you remember that the metal digging into your back was his ring; that the lips on yours were sworn to somebody else— and at that, the one exact person that made this so fundamentally wrong.

Tears welled in your eyes, gentle sobs shaking your chest.

“Don’t cry, baby,” he whispered, pulling back and kissing your tears away, “feels good, don’t it?  Feels good when daddy fucks you?”

You knew speaking would only make you cry more, so you only nodded your head shamefully.

“That’s my good girl,” he moaned as he fucked you deeper, harder, rougher.  Your fingers held onto the back of his neck, running through his hair and pulling him closer.  He kept mumbling praises but they fell on deaf ears, pleasure clouding your mind and making every hair on your body stand upright.  He didn’t stop as he reached down between your bodies and laid his hand over your stomach, growling with satisfaction at what he found there.

“I can feel me inside ya,” he grinned.  “Feel that, sweetheart?  Feel how deep I am in your wet little cunt?”

When you didn’t answer, you got a quick slap to the face.  “Yes,” you replied quickly, “yes, I— I feel it.”

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, biting you there until you nearly screamed.  You couldn’t figure out why something so objectively painful only pushed you closer to your peak, making every spot inside you more sensitive, but somehow it did.

“Gonna come, pretty girl?  Want daddy to fill you up?” he groaned against your ear, pushing down on your stomach even harder.

“Yes, daddy!” you sobbed.  “Please!”

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me,” he hissed, “don’t fuckin’ stop.  Keep milkin’ my cock and m’gonna fill ya up so good, princess…”

You couldn’t stop even if you tried— your orgasm hit you in powerful waves, your head falling back as your walls clenched involuntarily (as did your fingers and toes, so hard that your nail tore the sheets a little bit, which you wouldn’t notice until the next day).  He grunted as he came, pumping into you with each thrust until you felt more full than you ever had before, in a way you could never describe.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, him catching his breath and you losing yours as his weight threatened to crush you.  “Fuck,” he groaned as he sat up and pulled out.  He grabbed your legs and held them up for you, staring at your abused pussy and making you feel uncomfortably observed.

“Push it out for me, wanna see my come leak outta ya,” he purred, moaning a little when you did as he asked.  It felt even hotter as it gushed out of you, and you mindlessly bit your lip.  He tucked his softening cock back into his trousers, rezipping them and buckling his belt.  “We’d better get ya cleaned up, huh princess?” 

The bathroom wasn’t far, so he carried you, setting you down to stand on your own as he started to draw a bath.  You watched him, although you weren’t really watching him so much as staring into the void of space that happened to be in his general direction.  You were so out of it that you didn’t even register when he turned around and smiled at you with an air of pride.

“You look so good like this.”  

It pulled you out of your trance, though you had to ask him to repeat himself with a mumbled “huh?”

“I said you look good like this,” he explained, stepping closer.  “Fucked out, braindead, just my empty-headed fucktoy.”

“I… I don’t…” you began to disagree.

He used your jaw to turn your face to the mirror, and you gasped when you saw yourself: your hair was a mess; your whole face was red, especially your eyes and nose from crying, but plenty on your cheeks where he’d slapped you; your lips were swollen and slick; bruises were already forming on your arms where he’d grabbed you, and along your neck and shoulders where he had bitten you.

His form dwarfed yours as he stood behind you, looking at your reflection with a smile.

“Look at us,” he announced wistfully, “one big happy family, huh?”

[savedbybangtan]

Let Me Love You

Summary: She lucked out one too many times. Luckily, Jimin was there to ‘save’ her.

2,916 words

Warning tags: smut, dubcon, stalking, possessive, unprotected sex (wrap it up yall), slight yandere?

                                         Let Me Love You

Food.

Water.

 Death.

 Three things immediately popped out in your mind that you begged for, that you needed.

These days, the pain in your body didn’t even allow you the few seconds to fantasize that you were in your parent’s home on a weekend morning where you did not have any work today. The pain was too great for you to ignore so that, as soon as you woke up, you were reminded of your grim premise.

You open your eyes, too tired and weak to be disgusted by the scent of yourself, vomit, and reliefs that were soaked into the naked mattress in the floor. There were two small windows on one wall, short and almost reaching the ceiling indicating that you were in a basement, but sunlight never shined through them. They were being blocked from the outside.

Footsteps could be heard on through the thin ceiling. It sounded as if he were entertaining guests with given the thumps of the music and feet.

If you called out right now, you may be able to alert one of the guests to help you out this situation.

You knew it wouldn’t make any sense. He would find you. Besides, your throat was too weak to make any sound above a hoarse whisper and the music was too loud.

Someone opens the door (the only entrance to the basement) that sat on top of a long staircase. Dim lights filtered in and you squinted at it, sensitive to the light.

The door is closed but you made out the silhouette before you were engulfed in darkness again.

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m entertaining upstairs – so I can’t stay for long – but I really missed you and wanted to see you,” you heard the angelic voice apologise to you.

“…min…Ji-min…” you managed to hoarse out.

“What is it, baby?”

“Thirsty.”

“Already? I just gave you water and food two days ago,” he chuckled. I couldn’t see him, but I could tell he had that wicked glimmer in his eye that did not go with those rose powdered cheeks he sported by now.

He walked to a corner of the room, far from where your chain would allowed you to reach, if you were even able to walk. The light from the fridge illuminated his outfit. He wore a black turtleneck, black jeans and of course, black boots. When you had first met him at that bar, he wore the same colour palette. If you only knew.

He came back with a bottle of water that he poured slowly into your mouth as you drank in large gulps.

“What do you want to eat,” he asked sweetly – the same tone he used when he asked what you were drinking that night.

You hesitate to answer.

“I can promise you I will probably have anything you ask of me. I know all of your favourite foods and bought them.”

                                                            🌃

The blue and lime green lights darted manically about the bar. It was loud and filled with cigar, weed, cigarette, and hookah smoke. The scent, four gin and juices, and bottle of wine (that was finished before you even entered the club) had you feeling free. You didn’t want to think of your dumb boyfriend who broke up with you because of a few male friends you kept.

You didn’t want to think about your so called “friends” who had taken his side.

You definitely didn’t want to think about how you were fired, yet again, for rejecting the advances of yet another coworker. They tell you to report the matter to HR, but you believed in an eye for an eye. Someone who smacks someone’s ass should get smacked across their face – not relocated to another desk.

You danced crudely to the music, obviously drunk.

It wasn’t safe for a girl, wearing such a revealing and tight lavender dress to go out by herself. Especially not in this crowd.

Still, you needed to get lost in a crowd of people and let loose. You were sick of your parents breathing down your neck about moving out now that you finished college and secured another job. There was no way you were telling them how you were fired again. You needed to get out of the house.

The upbeat tune of Raising Hell by Ke$ha was exchanged for the smooth beat of BMO by Ari Lennox. You were too drunk for this song. You started to slowly grind your hips into the air, trying to mimic the moves of an exotic dancer.

A pair of soft hands grabbed you by the waist and danced against you, obviously having trouble trying to keep your nonexistent rhythm.

It was hot.

His hands were all over you. You glanced back and saw juicy lips that you suddenly wanted to kiss, but you were already short of breath. As if the final ounces of alcohol had finally ran through your bloodstream, the room swayed and it got dark.

“Shit,” you heard someone say. You couldn’t tell if it came from you or him.

You felt yourself being dragged away, too weak and too inebriated to care.

Before you could even reach an exit, you passed out.

You woke up and could tell you were in a moving vehicle. You saw the same stranger driving, but that “new car” scent put you back to sleep.

You woke up to the sound of keys jingling about, you noticed that this was not your house and that the man carrying you was that same stranger from the club. “Hey! Where are you taking me!” You slurred, fighting the urge to pass out once more.

You shouldn’t have estimated the power of that wine you drank in one sitting.

He flashes you a perfect smile that oozed excitement. “I’m taking you home, y/n.”

“This isn’t my…home.” You let the darkness engulf you as it was getting too hard to fight.

You were too drunk to question how he knew your name.

Minutes, hours, or days passed before you woke up in a crisp, white bedroom.

You spat some of your hair out of your mouth.

With a stretch, you take in your surroundings.

What happened last night? The last thing you truly remembered was chatting up the handsome bartender.

You scratched your head and that’s when you realise you were in nothing but a large tank top, obviously male.

Fuck!

Not again, you thought. You can’t believe you were in this situation again.

You spotted a bathroom through the open door and ran into it. There were no love marks on your skin. Your make up was removed pretty well and the clothes you wore last night were folded neatly on top of the counter, including your panties which you found a little embarrassing, imagining someone folding them.

You slowly brought your hand to your entrance, feeling for any kind of tenderness or fluids that would indicate anything out of the ordinary.

If something did happen, at least they weren’t rough.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t do anything to you. I didn’t want our first time to be like that.”

You removed your hand and spun to look at the owner of the voice.

Who the hell was this? You eyed him wearily.

Ignoring your glare, he spoke again, “I washed your clothes for you! They might be uncomfortable, so you can wear my shirt instead if you like.”

“Um, do you mind telling me who you are?” I couldn’t sense any danger from the angelically handsome silver haired man who spoke to you so innocently.

“Oh, I’m Jimin. Park Jimin. I’m 25 and I work as a police officer.”

“I meant, why am I here?”

“You fell out in the middle of the dance floor last night.”

“Why?”

He laughed again, turning his eyes into little upwards crescents. “I think that’s enough questions before we eat. I cooked breakfast. Its downstairs. Come down once you’re done in here.”

With that, he left.

Oh, he’s a police. That explained why he would bring me home. He felt the need to serve and protect. You were lucky this time, but this will have to be the last time you go out drinking alone. You quickly chucked off his tank top and got dressed in the same clothes as last night. You were indifferent to the walk of shame by now. Walking outside in club attire in broad daylight was bound to catch a few stares, but you didn’t care what people think.

You searched for your shoes and realized he probably had them downstairs.

By the time you gotten down and found the kitchen, he was just about to sit down.

“Look, I really want to thank you for saving me. Something really bad could have happened last night. I tend to have this self-destructive streak about me that I can’t quite shake off, but I promised myself this would be the last time I pass out from drinking.”

He smiled at your words. “That’s great. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you are never that careless again. Please, have breakfast.”

“Oh no, you’re too kind. I’ve already bothered you enough.”

“Come on, now, Y/n. I’ve already cooked it. I don’t want to waste it.”

You shrug and sat. “Fine, if you insist.” You start to dig in immediately. It was amazing and settled your stomach. You could already feel the hangover nausea kicking in.

You horsebacked the rest of the hot tea and stood abruptly. “Thank you so much! That was really delicious. I hope one day I can repay your kindness.”

All of the joy in his eyes dissipated as you moved to leave, but you didn’t notice.

“Can you tell me where my shoes are?”

“How about you stay for a while longer?”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

“Are your parents waiting back for you?”

“No, I tend to not even come home most weekends and- wait,” you stopped, eyeing him suspiciously thinking it was weird that he assumed you lived with your parents although you were obviously an adult. “I’m a grown woman, you know. I may act like a teen, getting drunk like that, but I’m 21. I can do what I want.”

“And you were fired recently, meaning you don’t have anything better to do, right? Please, stay with me.”

Revelation.

Before you thought to wit your way out of danger, you stammer.

“How did you know I was fired from my job?” You started to slowly back away.

If you were not in the current predicament, you might have noticed how beautiful and genuine his smile was. “Oops, looks like I blew my cover! I guess I can drop the façade. I love you, y/n. I had for a while now, but I couldn’t talk to you because I know someone boring like me wouldn’t stand a chance.” His eyes furrowed in mock sorrow, but those plump, tempting lips pulled into smile. “If you’re good, I’ll let you stay in the house…I really do not intend to hurt you.”

He reached and arm out for you slowly, but you evaded his touch as if he was fire. “Let me out of here! You stalker!” You dashed to what you assumed to be the front door with the crooked cop trailing behind you slowly.

“I don’t want to hurt you, y/n!”

You looked back for a moment as you grab frenetically for the door handle. He waltzed toward you with his hands in his pockets. He had on his uniform, the only thing missing was the hat and shirt.

Clammy hands finally got the door open and you charged through it without taking your eyes off the monster behind you. Even when you fell down the stairs, you did not turn your neck to see that the door you took so long to open was your personal gateway to hell.

Instead of seeing the bright lights of morning, you are greeted with darkness. When your eyes adjusted, you realised that it’s a basement.

“FUCK!!!” You screamed in agony clutching your broken leg.

Park Jimin tutted and cooed toward you. “See what you did to yourself? I told you that I don’t want to hurt you. Let me see…” He reached out for your leg but you pull away from him quickly, the action eliciting a groan from you. “Hey, I’m trying to help.”

“Then take me to a fucking hospital!”

“You probably don’t even need one. The fall wasn’t that high. It was about seven steps. I took a course in first aid.” His voice was something lethal. How was he so calm with you shouting at him? You gave him your leg.

Gently, in his crouched position, he rotated your leg, massaging it to assess where it had broken. “Shh, shhh, shhh, its okay,” he cooed at you mindlessly. With a deep gulp and wide eyes, he warned, “Suck in your breath…” You did as he said, in too much pain to argue. “It’ll take a sec…” He snapped your leg again with a grueling sound similar to a branch breaking from a tree during a hurricane.

You screamed.

And screamed,

And screamed,

And blacked out from pain.

[thelaurynpetrie]

"The Aristocrats" by Lauryn Petrie

Tonight Greg R.S. Uzelac invited me to tell my very own version of the legendary joke "The Aristocrats" at Catland in Brooklyn. I highly recommend this show, it’s going to be a monthly called “The Aristocracy” where a different comic gives their take on the classic joke at the end of every show. ————————————— Here’s a transcript of what I said: First of all, I'd like to say that telling this joke is an honor. I'd like to thank my Mother for destroying my self-esteem, and my Father for throwing me into freezing lake's while holding onto rocks to teach me how to swim, and all the boyfriend's I ever had that raped or beat me. Seriously, it's okay to laugh. But mot of all, I'd like to thank Chris Cornell for his suicide as it has inspired me, to make his death abut me. And to be a better artist, all around. Thank you, Chris, for inspiring me to take The spotlight of you as long as they'll allow me to be on stage. Now, I give you my version of “The Aristocrats”: It was a usual morning at the Trump household in the 1980's. Ivanka Trump awoke early as usual to clean her father's urine soaked third bedroom. This is where she got her "working Moms" work ethic she would brag about so much as an adult. Every Tuesday night after family dinner she would dutifully engage in the family tradition of strip teasing for her father so he could get it up to fuck her aging mother. As time went on this all became routine and she learned how to disassociate. To toughen his sons up he would have them "practice" by taking turns on the family great Dane. One after another filling the dog with their spoiled rich boy Cum as Ivanka stripped and Donald looked on as he tried to Fuck Ivanna. This became as routine as wiping his ass and bankruptcy. Fast forward to Inauguration Day. We all saw it. The open secret of Melanie’s abuse. The country being taken over by sith lords. But what we didn’t see, was the night of the inauguration. As Tuesdays in the Trump family had always been a tradition of incest, sucking, and fucking since Madonna was on the airwaves, none of that changed. What did change was that now they had secret service, members of the trilateral commission, members of the Bohemian Club, and men in black to join in. And did they ever. Since Melanie had recently tweeted something passive aggressive abut her husband, he made his anorexic and least favored daughter Tiffany throw up in Melanie’s mouth repeatedly- like a baby bird until he reached climax, at which point he would unlock the suitcase with the nuclear codes. pick a button, and cum all over it, secretly hoping that the force may be enough to ignite one of the missiles. Due to great advances in science in this year of our lord 2017, Trump is now able to achieve climax multiple times a night due to over the counter-dick pills which his poor family endures repeatedly every Tuesday. You may be asking yourself, "Why Tuesdays?" Well, the truth is, I have no fucking idea. It’s just what they do on fucking Tuesdays. Just like any other addiction, the need for more excitement grows over the years. Just R Kell-ing a girl with piss isn’t enough anymore. Watching his wife eat his daughter's vomit isn’t enough anymore. Watching his sons fuck the taxidermied corpses of wild animals from Africa, isn’t enough anymore. Occasionally, he would order Kelly Anne Conway on her knees in the oval office where she is gladly passed around like a cum bucket all in the name of job security. As if this wasn’t enough, he often makes Sean Spicer eat the cum out of Conway’s ass. "SUCK HARDER" Trump screams. His dick in one hand, a remote control aimed at FOX News in the other. Still, Trump's sexual appetites grew. Do you know the grave of the unknown soldier? Can anyone actually prove that there’s a body buried under that eternal flame? Well, earlier this month, Trump asked that same question. The formaldehyde filled corpse was dragged into a secret room under the Lincoln bedroom where he and other ex-republican presidents took turns skull fucking the cadaver until they were interrupted by Dancing With The Stars. (Which for some reason they are all huge fans of.) As soon the program ended, they all immediately went back to filling the cold, rotting body full of their warm presidential seed. Laughing, the next day - they took away our health care and dreamt of how many other even more meaningless corpses they could fuck in the future together. In 2018, after a culmination of police brutality, the pharmaceutical companies raping America, and general civil unrest, a fall out "storm the bastille" style attack was launched on the white house As America collapsed into civil war, Trump, using all the brains in his head, nuked his own country to: And I quote: "Threaten all those peasants with swords." Then, like clockwork, Tuesday night rolled around. And in the trump family, a tradition is a tradition. It doesn’t matter if you have to do deals with the mob and bury bodies in the cement of your towers. It doesn’t matter who you have to lie about or what handicapped people you need to make fun of. When Tuesday comes around, it’s “Scat and Incest night” TRADITION. As part of the white house fell off burning into a smoldering pile of rubble, the Trump’s began their Tuesday night tradition. Tiffany assumed the position and promptly began vomiting into Melania’s cold Botoxed mouth. The boys began fucking taxidermied endangered animals, as Ivanka FINALLY sucked her father’a cock, knowing that this was probably the end. Being a working Mom her whole life, (even from jobs she could never be fired from) she knew how important it was to finish the job. Unfortunately, Trump’s dick pills had been destroyed in the fire. As helicopters landed behind them shooting innocent civilians, his dick grew harder. He then told his youngest son to stand in front of him. One hand on his throbbing member, the other on a commemorative pistol. (The one rumored to have been given to Nixon from Elvis.) Knowing that this was probably the the end of his legacy, and that he had lost. With the radiation seeping into his already deranged skull, he shot his autistic son right in the forehead. Somehow, the boy fell over but didn’t die. Amazed, Trump’s hard on went down. His son, bleeding profusely, pulled down his pants, revealing that he still wore diapers. Melanie took a moment from swallowing Tiffany's vomit to gasp at the faux pas. Barron, having what seemed to be a moment of clarity, began to pull his diaper off. He grabbed handful after handful of his own shit and began to massage it gingerly into Ivanka's hair as she tried to get her father hard again with a sad blowjob. As they fucked and sucked each other to exhaustion, Trump began shooting his family members one by one. Suddenly, out of the rubble, Stephen Colbert burst up, covered in blood and dirt. He looked on, with a tear rolling down his vomit soaked shirt, he realized that there was nothing he could do. COLBERT: “STOP! WHY ARE YOU KILLING THEM? I MEAN, YOU'RE ALL HORRIBLE BUT LOOK HOW MUCH CUM YOU TAKE FOR EACH OTHER. My god...you're worse than I ever imagined...YOU'RE THE ARISTOCRATS.!" Then Trump promptly shot him in the forehead. He then took another shot at Barron. This time the boy was definitely dead. Trump looked down, with what could almost be construed as a look of guilt. He then turned to his two grown sons and said: "You know what this means." "Yes, Father" they responded dutifully. They then began fucking Barron's head wound, as the city continued to burn. The end.