#i finally wrote something jesus christ

[cheriekos]

“my self-sufficiency will be the death of me” [timkon ficlet]

goooooood afternoon timkonners. Really wanted to get into the habit of writing a little bit everyday again, so I’m filling out some whumptober-adjacent prompts (courtesy of scealaiscoite). This may be eventually cross-posted to my ao3, who knows, this is mostly just to keep my writing skills in check after a really rough few months of work + to get me out of my writing slump on my larger fic projects. This has been very lightly edited, and is extremely unbeta’d. Anyways, enjoy! Prompt: blood swirling down a shower drain. Content warnings for light descriptions of a knife injury & medical treatment related to that.

The ceiling is that awful popcorn texture. It's yellowed over time. There's a spreading stain over corner, likely some water damage from the unit above. There's some rust at the corner of the shower curtain rod and some odd looking spots at the bottom of the flimsy plastic curtain that has him groaning because he's going to have to look into this, he lives here, other people live here, and clearly the landlord spruced up his apartment but not the others and this needs to be taken care of but it's another thing to take care of -

His breath catches in his throat, a barely held gasp just eeking out past his lips. Every time he tries to breathe low into his belly, his chest spasms. Bruised ribs, he catalogues. Another thing to take care of.

Tim's fingers shake over the left side of his chest, right above the torn parts of his uniform, right where his emergency beacon was slashed through. He lost the one on his wrist sometime between Falcone's latest hidden warehouse and the apartment building. If he reaches down to his boot, he can press the one still intact. He can press it, and someone will come and get him.

He can't move his hand.

Well - It's not that he can't. He's still got some feeling left, which is good. But he can't stop staring at the ceiling. The thought of even moving his head makes him feel so - so tired. It feels as if someone has scooped out his bones and filled him with dense liquid. He tries to will himself to move, to slam down on the emergency beacon and suffer through the indignity of having to be saved by Robin and sit through a thorough dissection of everything he did wrong tonight. He doesn't mind it so much anymore, really - but he's just - he's too tired. He's too tired.

When he closes his eyes, it feels good - the rest that calls to him feels like the kind after a particularly long day of running around as a kid. When you've probably spent too much time in the sun and your chest hurts, the phantom pain of deep laughter following you to your bed. He believes it, for a moment. That he's really just closing his eyes after playing too much and too long and his mom will be there in just a moment to brush his hair out of his eyes and tell him don't let the bed bugs -

He presses down on the knife wound along his abdomen to keep himself awake.

Only an inch deep, but three inches long - they got messy trying to pull it out, he thinks. Another wound. Another thing to take care of. Which he won't be able to take care of if he passes out in this dingy bathroom that's probably going to give him an infection.

His fingers feel cold. He can't tell if he's going into shock or if he's been sitting under the spray of the shower so long that the hot waters run out.

He can't die like this. Not like this. Lying in a mold covered bathroom, shredded to pieces. Not like this.

It's painful, it makes him flush with a deeply buried shame that he tried hard not to face - but he chokes out his name anyway.

"Superboy," he says. "Kon."

There's a moment - one painful, awful moment - where there is nothing but the sound of the shower and his own, ragged breathing. Then, somewhere further inside there's the sound of a window opening, the stumbling of leather boots against hardwood floor - and then Kon's there, right there next to him, and Tim has never felt so relieved and so ashamed at the same time.

"Shit," Kon says, holding Tim's face. He looks down at Tim's hands, shaking against the wound in his side, and follows the blood going down the shower drain. "Shit."

"Good t'see y'too." Tim mumbles.

Kon's staring - or at least, Tim thinks he is. He thinks time is slowing down, maybe. Between one blink and the next, Kon's face morphs from wide-eyed worry to a grim sort of determination. The grip on Tim's face tightens - not unkindly.

"Not funny, Tim," Kon says, lowly.

Tim just swallows, barely wincing at the acrid taste of copper on his tongue. He tilts his chin with what little energy he has, indicating his stomach.

"Knife wound," he says. "Bruised ribs. Gotta check for - for concussion -"

"Stop talking -"

"Need - stitches -"

"Stop talking."

Tim's mouth clicks shut. He feels something burn at his chest - not pain, but something more akin to anger flaring beneath his skin. The urge to crawl out of the tub, to rip away from Kon and get his own goddamn medical kit was making his stomach roll. But God, his bones were like lead and his head was so heavy - the overwhelming relief of being gathered up into Kon's arms was almost enough to distract him. Almost.

"I'm taking you back to your house -"

"Can't."

"Why?"

"Got - my own - my own place -"

Kon freezes as he leaves the old bathroom, pausing briefly to scrunch his eyes tight and mutter a small Jesus Christ before readjusting Tim in his hold, gently.

"You need help, Tim, and you've lost a lot of blood -"

"Not too much -"

"Tim -"

"Kon," Tim says, strained. "The longer we stand here arguing, the more blood I lose. Take me - take me back to my apartment."

Time really slows down then. Kon's bright, bright eyes bore into his, a completely open book. Tim can see the way he swallows down his words, the way his jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth - the way his eyes shine with worry. Tim holds his gaze, focusing on the pain blooming across his ribs in order to avoid thinking about just how much Kin's gaze unsettled something within him.

"You're gonna be the death of me," Kon mutters.

"Not if I die first," Tim says, softly. Kon doesn't laugh - doesn't so much as smirk. Then, he's bounding out the door faster than Tim could blink.

Tim feels a wave of vertigo and he does everything he can to stop the bile rising in his throat. He digs his nails into the worn leather of Kon's sleeve, groaning with his lips shut tight. Kon's thumb rubs a soft circle where he holds him - a gesture so gentle that it takes Tim by surprise. He doesn't get to relish in it for long before Kon's laying him against his new dining table; Tim mourns the clean wood. He'll be scraping out blood from the grooves for the next few months.

"My medkit -" Tim's hand reaches out, weakly. "Get me - needle -"

"Are you out of your mind?" Kon damn near shouts. "You're not sewing yourself up."

"I can and - I will -"

"No," Kon says firmly, hand wrapped around Tim's wrist. "Can you - can you just let someone help you for once?"

No - it's the reply right on the tip of his tongue. Help. There was a time when people surrounded Tim, when he could reach out a hand and find another reaching out to him. But the longer he does this, the more he loses, the more people start to disappear - the more that he finds that the only hands he has are his own. The hands that will stitch him up and prop him up straight, the ones that get things done.

But another, tiny part of him sighs. A little part of him sags with relief, maybe with exhaustion- because yes, he would like some help. His fingers are cold and cannot stop shaking and Kon is steady.

"Fine," Tim finally says. "Help me."

Kon smiles. That irritating, crooked grin lights up his face and Tim chest constricts at the familiarity of it.

“Was that so hard?” Kon says, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Yes,” Tim groans.

Kon moves swiftly - more assured, more practiced than he had been months ago when he first had to deal with some bad scrapes while out on a mission with the team. His hands don’t flit about wildly, searching for something to make it better. He takes off his own gloves and washes his hands before cutting through the tightly woven Kevlar of Tim’s suit, gently washing the cut, and letting Tim dig crescent shaped divets into his bicep while he threaded Tim’s skin back together.

“You’ve gotta breathe, Tim - “

“I’m trying, asshole - “

“Don’t call the guy with the needle and thread an asshole, asshole - “

Tim barely notices that Kon has already snipped the medical thread and has started placing bandages across his side. Tim watches as he moves, quick, tearing medical tape and snipping bandages with determination, and then carefully placing them where Tim still bleeds. Tim’s mouth goes dry - he looks up at the ceiling instead.

“How’s your hearing? Seeing double?” Kon asks, flashing the little emergency flashlight in Tim’s eyes. Tim resists the urge to bat him away.

“Just fine,” Tim blinks. “God help me if I - if I ever have to deal with - two of you.”

“Twice the fun,” Kon remarks.

“Twice the headache,” Tim says, with little heat. “Kon - painkillers - “

Kon rattles a small bottle, labeled meticulously in Alfred’s familiar handwriting. “These ones?”

“Yes,” Tim says, breathlessly. He tries to put one hand under him, arm shaking with the effort to try and pull his own body weight up.

“Hold on - “

“I can - get up by myself - “

“Tim,” Kon says, warm hands curling around Tim’s arm. “Let me help you. Please.”

There’s an earnestness to Kon that is so disarming that it peels away the remaining resistance in Tim. He uses his last bits of energy to wrap an arm around Kon’s neck, a flush traveling across his cheeks as he mutters okay and lets himself be held again. This time, he lets himself melt a little further into Kon, pointedly ignoring the unfurling, winding feelings in his gut - he neatly packs that feeling away for later in the corner of his brain. He focuses on breathing, on the steady rhythm of Kon’s heartbeat, and the soothing hands that hold him.

He blinks rapidly, realizing that he’s been placed on his couch and that Kon has managed to rummage up the eye-sore of a blanket that Dick had given him as house-warming gift a while back. Kon’s in the kitchen, then suddenly by his side, waving a small glass of water and the painkillers in front of Tim.

“Drink up, Timmy,”

“Don’t call me Timmy,” Tim grumbles, and downs the pills and water in one swift movement.

When he sits back, it’s like every bit of adrenaline keeping him awake has left him. The last dredges of it disappear and all he can do is curl against the headrest, the scratchy, awful blanket giving him an odd sense of comfort. He blinks, slow, trying to get a good word out before sleep could take him. To tell Kon he’s got it handled, that he needs to report back to Dick about the stake-out going wrong - but he can’t. He just looks up at Kon, illuminated by the bright lights of Gotham from the window behind, and he feels a deep, deep ache in his sternum. A sudden urgency fills him - a worry. That when he wakes up, Kon will be gone and something about that makes Tim feel sick.

He moves his fingers slightly, flushing with embarrassment as he croaks out “Stay?”

Kon doesn’t hesitate. There’s barely enough time for a thought before Kon’s hand tangles with Tim’s, the rough pads of his thumbs, slowly becoming calloused from farm work, begins to rub against Tim’s knuckles. Tim’s breath catches in his throat.

“Of course,” Kon whispers. “You don’t even have to ask.”

Tim breathes out. “Oh.”

There’s a smile on Kon’s face - a little knowing, a little sad. Something childish blooms in Tim; he wants to reach out and hold his face, wants to pull at the edges of his cheeks until the sadness went away. But rest tugs at him, the exhaustion in his bones pulling him down, down, down until the feeling of Kon’s hand in his was a distant sensation, his last words something like out of a dream.

“I’ve got you, Tim. I’ve got you.”

[ciderjacks]

argh. This comic writing is taking me way longer than usual. I keep editing things and it doesn’t feel right.

[galateaknife]

Hey, remember when a bunch of assholes who forgot one of the cardinal rules of fandom (i.e. keep your ship nonsense away from the creators of the source material) maliciously misinterpreted an actor from their show when he grouped together the two most popular ships in the fandom in order to gently say that the assholes’ preferred pairing was also not canon?

I’m assuming this is badly referencing that incident, as this was posted without any evidence or clarifying details.

[trentcrimminallybeautiful]

(via @medecineformelancholy ) Wrong time to open tumblr I already cried too much today - but I was thinking about just that. Specifically Trent finding something he cares about (he obviously cared about the club and sport as a whole, but that was intertwined with the less appealing and sometimes cruel aspects of journalism) - and pouring his whole heart into it - for Ted to act like none of that mattered (obviously not Ted’s fault, and that could be fixed so easily if they talked after/if Ted only realised) I also have feels about Trent being a pretty pessimistic/melancholic person (with regards to himself anyways), and the total football scene and him being so excited and believing in something for once, knowing it will all work out (both figuring out the book’s narrative, but also seeing a hopeful future for the club, for Ted). And then it all crashing with Ted treating himself like he doesn’t matter. Help😭 Oh also - SORRY - but something that’s always on my mind and I can’t write to save life so here. Trent has spent all his life growing this hard shell to protect himself, and then it must have been so hard to open up. So I have this image of Trent being hurt by the laugh police, and then even more by Ted asking to change the title, and then him coming home with the manuscript and thinking “I want it back” (with regards to his hard shell - whatever he did to make it through life before) But he’s unable to get it back. It’s going to hurt - he let himself be vulnerable and it led to this. (I’m so sorry😭 both for flooding your comment and the angst)

do not apologize. i am weeping

YES. YES LIKE. something about trent finally finding something to care about and pour his passion into and feel safe with and then have the very person who gave him that, who trent respects and deeply wants to like his work (like him) just. reject it. obviously, not ted’s fault, etc etc there’s stuff going on with him, but fuck. trent genuinely getting his hopes up in a way he never does (bc god yeah pessimistic and melancholic is a good way to put it) and then ted, completely unintentionally, knocking his feet out from under him. even if from ted’s perspective it’s self-deprecation wrapped up in folksy wisdom, for trent, a huge part of his point, his message, was that ted did this. “the lasso way”. and for ted to dismiss is own role as unimportant he’s also dismissing trent’s hope and a huge part of the point of his book.

and YEAH. YEAH. IM. trent building up walls and then finally, finally taking them down, letting them in, opening up, and especially with ted, finding a community, yes, but also a person, who makes him feel safe, lets him feel like he can be himself and open up, and then. then the laugh police scene. and then just. that hurting, the idea that maybe he’s been annoying ted this whole time, maybe he really shouldn’t be opening up and being ‘himself’, maybe ‘himself’ is obnoxious, and then getting that note and just. it hurting even more. both for ted (does he really believe that? that it wasn’t about him at all? is it even trent’s place to try and convince him otherwise, especially in light of this?) and for himself (he’d wanted so badly to be liked—not just his work, although that was true, he’d wanted ted to like it so badly, but himself, wanted ted to like him to a degree that was embarrassing, that felt pathetic now, and now it felt like he’d achieved neither. he can’t even keep up a smile at the little mustached doodle ted left, because all he can think is he failed. that it hurts.) and he just—he wishes, at least part of him, he could go back to before. not that he’d never met ted, but that he could still have those walls up, that he could just. not be hurt. if he’s going to feel lonely and rejected anyway, then maybe he was right all along, to stay alone. to let people hate him. because this is worse than being hated for his aloof, standoffish persona. this hurts so much more

but he can’t go back. there’s nothing he can do. he let himself be vulnerable, and now this. the hurt won’t go away. and it just—it feels like a mistake. he’d thought he’d finally gotten it right, but maybe he’d never gotten it right at all

and he has a community now, support, but. maybe he begins to pull away, to withdraw. the opposite of what ted had intended. not because he doesn't believe in that community, but because if he was wrong about ted, or about himself, then how can he trust this? what if he's annoying them, too? what if he doesn't belong here at all?

of course it's another story if they'll let him pull back too much and even more of another story if ted will stay away, but.

hey consider. trent's book essentially being about what ted's done and the effect he's had on all these lives and on the team and yes, it's his philosophy, but it's also him, so persistent and kind and sincere and brave, because maybe anyone could have done it but no one ever did, no one ever has, and even if trent doesn't directly say it in the book about how ted's changed his life, changed him, and how ted--not just his ideas, but ted--changed lives and changed nelson road for the better. and even if those ideas can persist after he's gone, even if it's a seed that once planted can flourish on its own, ted still planted the seed. and then the only feedback ted leaves him is that it's good, but it was never about him. it's good, but he disagrees with a fundamental pillar of the thesis. it's good, but trent's wrong. and trent, who wants him to like it, who cares about his opinion, who wants ted to like him and wants ted to like what trent has to say about him and what trent's written about him, trent who had said they could offer criticism so trent could tell them how they were wrong... takes the criticism. changes the title. out of respect or just because ted asked, and trent's helpless to refuse him. for ted. ted reads the book trent desperately wants him to like, that trent's spent all season writing, that trent's poured his soul into, and casually tells him he disagrees with a huge part of it. and trent takes it to heart.

[earlysunshines]

love at your door

minatozaki sana x fem!reader

synopsis: you wake up on the couch to find out that it’s actually not your couch and oh my god why is your hot neighbor sitting across from you watching tv???

warnings: sana is a FLIRT ; reader is a loser ; sana is a losersexual ; pacing is iffy but it’s bc i wanted it to be short ; alcohol ; anything else i didn’t mention ; not proofread so prob spelling errors idk i wrote most on my phone

a/n: based off the time i got drunk and fell asleep in the wrong room… anyways my love for sana will NEVER DIE guess who’s BACK.

you wake up with a groan, face smushed against a cushion that's definitely not yours, and the first thing that hits you—aside from the dull pounding in your head—is the faint sound of a tv playing in the background. 

slowly, you crack your eyes open, blinking against the morning light. you finally realize you’re not in your room, and the couch you're sprawled out on… also not yours.

you sit up too quickly and regret it immediately, head spinning, the room around you momentarily blurred. but then it sharpens, and your heart nearly stops when you spot her. sana, your neighbor—your gorgeous, gorgeous neighbor that you’ve been eyeing since you moved in—sitting across from you on her armchair, completely unbothered with her legs tucked underneath her, eyes fixed on the tv but clearly aware you’re awake now. 

she’s holding a ceramic mug in one hand, and for some reason, that little detail makes everything so much worse.

because—how did you end up here?

you glance down at yourself and, of course, you’re still in your luigi costume from last night. the tight green tank top clings to you under the denim overalls (one strap purposely loose and falling off your shoulder because you’re desperate for attention in these trying times) which you had decided to wear in some ill-fated attempt to look “hot” while still committing to the theme. you had succeeded, at least you think, judging from the compliments you vaguely remember through the drunken haze of the halloween party. but now, under sana’s gaze, you suddenly feel a lot less confident about it.

“jesus christ,” you mutter, rubbing your temples, trying to piece together what happened. “what—”

“morning sleepy,” sana says, finally looking over at you, lips curling into a small, amused smile. “you came stumbling in after the party. i figured it was safer to let you crash here than send you back to your place like that.”

this has to be a nightmare.

her voice is casual, like this isn’t completely mortifying for you. like this isn’t the exact scenario your sleep-deprived, engineering-major brain has dreamed up in countless fleeting moments when you’ve caught glimpses of her in the hallways (well, you figured you’d be in a less embarassing scene) but now it’s real, and your heart is thudding painfully loud in your chest, and you can’t decide if you want to disappear or if you never want to leave.

(the first option might be the smartest)

you clear your throat, pushing down the urge to bury your face in your hands. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t—i didn’t mean to crash here like that. i must’ve been drunk out of my mind i— fuck, nayeon, that bitch… im sorry my friends they’re—“

“don’t worry about it,” she waves off your apology, taking a sip from her mug, her gaze briefly dipping down to your outfit before flicking back to your face. “i never knew luigi could look this good.” she adds, a smirk playing on her face that renders you weak.

you feel heat rise to your face instantly, and you’re pretty sure it’s not just the aftermath of all the alcohol you consumed last night. her words hang in the air, teasing, but there’s something else in her tone that sends a jolt through you. something that makes you suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you feel, the snug fit of the tank top and the way her eyes had lingered on your exposed skin just for a second.

“uh—” you start, but your voice comes out strained, so you clear your throat again, scrambling for a response. “thank you…?”

she grins at your awkwardness, a soft, almost mischievous smile that only adds to the rising tension in the room. “you’re welcome.”

you force a laugh, trying to ignore the way her gaze makes your skin tingle. “right, well… thanks for, uh, taking care of me. and not letting me do something even more embarrassing.”

“more embarrassing than this?” sana raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your discomfort. she gestures toward your outfit with a nod, and you can’t help but huff a laugh this time, the tension breaking just a little.

“point taken,” you mutter, swinging your legs off the couch to stand, only for a wave of dizziness to hit. sana’s on her feet in a second, steadying you with a hand on your arm, her touch gentle but firm.

“easy,” she murmurs, and you freeze, suddenly way too aware of how close she is. her hand lingers just a second too long, and when she finally lets go, you feel like you can breathe again—but it doesn’t stop your pulse from racing.

her eyes dart down to the base of your neck and the intensity of her gaze is amplified.

“quite a hickey, huh?”

“what?” you had to be drunk drunk. you can’t recall anything about kissing girls, you’re not the type to be like that when under the influence. “that’s— i can’t even remember.”

“had fun, didn’t you?” sana looks back into your eyes, making you shrink despite her smaller frame. you feel sorry, you want to apologize for something you can’t even remember—you have no clue why. she’s just your neighbor. she’s the neighbor down the hall that greeted you kindly when you had moved in to town. the same neighbor that you had to blink multiple times at before realizing she’s not a fairytale princess that’s creeped out of the books.

you glance at the door, needing an escape, even though a very large part of you doesn’t want to leave just yet. but standing in her living room in yesterday’s clothes with your head still buzzing is doing nothing for your nerves.

“i should, uh, probably go,” you say, pointing vaguely toward the door.

sana steps back, giving you space, but her expression shifts into something playful as she watches you. “right. but hey—if you ever need a place to crash again, my couch is always open.”

you blink, not sure if she’s joking or if there’s more to that offer. but before you can overthink it, you nod, mumbling a quick, “thanks, i’ll keep that in mind,” before heading for the door.

and just as you’re about to step out, sana calls after you, her voice teasing, warm. “hey, luigi.”

you pause, turning to look at her.

she leans casually against the doorframe, eyes glinting with that same playfulness, and she gives you a slow, once-over before her lips curve into a smirk. “seriously. never knew luigi could be this hot.”

your heart stutters in your chest, and all you can do is laugh, a nervous, breathless sound, before quickly slipping out the door, your mind buzzing as you head back to your place.

sana always caught your eye, but now… now you’re pretty sure you’re never going to stop thinking about her.

—

the whole day you’re quite literally losing your mind. as soon as you crash onto your bed when you get back home, you cringe at how much of an idiot you are, and at the fact that you accepted every single drink handed to you by nayeon.

and then the next day, you’re still replaying the entire morning in your head—how sana’s words lingered, the way her eyes had flickered over you with that teasing smile. it’s been driving you to distraction all day. you couldn’t focus during class, barely heard a word your professor said, and by the time your last lecture ends, you’ve come to a decision.

you’re going to do something about it.

(you’re undeniably an idiot, but everyone in your circle knows that anyway.)

so after class, you stop by the small flower shop near campus. it’s not something you’d typically do��flowers and chocolate, that’s so cliché, right? but somehow it feels like the right move. sana had caught you completely off guard yesterday, and maybe it’s time you do the same.

you have a small conversation with the florist, who recommends her favorite assortment of tulips. you don’t want to do too much, so you settle with yellow tulips, their petals delicate and bright. simple, but thoughtful (you hope).

next, you pick out a small box of chocolates, nothing fancy but enough to show you’ve put some real thought into this. because somehow, leaving things the way they were feels unfinished.

you can’t possibly just leave it like that, you can’t have the only real memory and meaningful interaction between you and sana consist of you flat out drunk and at a loss for words.

you’re already a loser as it is, and especially when sana is around—whether that’s when you two both end up at the mailbox together, with you losing the ability to speak when she simply smiles and compliments you; and also the simple greetings when you two arrive at around the same time on wednesday’s and thursdays (not that you take note of it—you definitely do). 

when you get home, you scribble out a short note on a small card:

hi sana,  

thanks for letting me crash on your couch yesterday. i’m really, really sorry. 

here’s a little something as a thank you. hope you like tulips.

and chocolate.

– luigi 

you read it over twice, fighting the nervous energy bubbling up inside you. it’s playful, casual, but maybe—hopefully—it’ll make her smile. you take the flowers, chocolates, and the note, placing everything neatly in a small brown paper bag before heading down the hall.

when you reach her doorstep, your heart is pounding. you place the bag gently on the ground, adjusting the flowers one last time so they look perfect. then, you take a deep breath and knock, firm but quick, before spinning on your heel and rushing back to your own place.

you barely make it through the door before the nerves fully hit. your heart races, and you lean back against the door, letting out a heavy breath. what if she doesn’t like it? what if it’s too much?

but before your thoughts spiral too far, you hear the faint sound of her door opening down the hall, followed by the quiet shuffle of her picking up the bag.

there’s silence for a bit before you hear the door close again, earning a sigh of relief.

if your friends were to find out literally everything that had happened in the span of less than forty-eight hours, they’d tease you until you had to move out again.

—

the next night, you’re at your desk, buried in the engineering assignment youve been given that same day. something about fluid dynamics, a dense problem set that has you scribbling equations and checking graphs on your laptop. it’s not exactly easy to focus—your mind keeps wandering back to sana, the flowers, the chocolates, and really just everything about her. every time you think about her, a small smile tugs at your lips, despite the headache that’s building from the workload.

then, out of nowhere, you hear a knock at the door.

you blink, glancing at the clock. you’re not expecting anyone, and for a second, you wonder if you imagined it. but when the knock repeats, you push your chair back, setting aside your notes. still a little distracted by the assignment, you take your time getting up, stretching briefly before finally heading to the door.

when you open it, there’s no one there. just silence, the hallway empty. but as you glance down, you spot something on the floor—a folded piece of paper. your heart skips a beat, and you can’t help but grin as you bend down to pick it up, already knowing who it’s from.

you unfold the note, and sana’s handwriting greets you:

so, you’re kinda cute even in that luigi costume—i couldn’t stop thinking about you

(i think you’re cute in uniform and not) 

though i have to ask—what’s with the hickey? did luigi have a little too much fun?  ;)

anyway, i liked the flowers. i liked the chocolates too. 

but i think i like the person giving them more.

you should come over in five minutes if you’re not too shy. i mean, you weren’t that shy the other night ;)  

– sana <3

your face heats up instantly as you read the hickey line, hand instinctively reaching to touch your neck. there’s no way, right? you don’t remember—

then it hits you. fuck. it wasn’t a hickey. nayeon had bullied you about how you ran into something that night at her party, some broom? wall? maybe momo elbowed you? or something. you’re not the type to just fuck random girls, not when you’re loyal to your neighbor that you utter maybe three sentences a week to if you’re lucky. but the thought of what had happened that night isn’t even important because now your mind’s racing, thinking about how sana’s teasing you. you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you all giddy and nervous.

you reread the note, feeling that familiar nervous excitement grow. come over in five minutes if you’re not too shy. your pulse picks up. there’s no way you’re saying no to that.

without bothering to change out of your hoodie and sweats, you grab your keys, locking the door behind you as you head down the hall. your heart’s still racing, and your mind’s swirling with a mix of nerves and anticipation as you stop in front of sana’s door.

when she opens it, she’s standing there with that same playful smirk—sultry, seductive, and somehow so cute at the same time. her eyes gleam like she already knows exactly what’s going through your mind. 

"took you long enough," she says, stepping aside to let you in, her voice warm, teasing. "for a second, i thought you’d be too shy to show up."

you huff a laugh, shaking your head as you walk inside, glancing around her apartment again. “i’m– i’m not.” it sounds unconvincing, but the woman in front of you thinks it’s adorable.

she quirks a brow, then smiles at that, closing the door behind you. "good to know." she says, handing you a small glass of wine and suddenly everything is a little bit too intimate. 

the two of you end up sitting on her couch, the tv still softly playing in the background like it had been the other morning. the conversation flows easily—there’s that natural comfort between you now, even with the teasing tension that lingers under the surface.

she talks about herself and you talk about yourself too, piquing both your interests. small talk grows into something bigger and you two enjoy the newfound information you’re both learning about each other. you’re breaking the ice, maybe easing into the cold waters in comparison to splashing into it.

“so, about that hickey,” she says, leaning back into the couch, her grin widening as she glances pointedly at your neck. her leg crosses over the other and she holds the glass in her hand near her lips, a small smirk tugging at one corner. “i’m just saying, it looks a little suspicious.”

you roll your eyes, your face heating up again. “it’s not a hickey. i swear.”

“uh-huh,” she teases, clearly not letting it go. “sure it’s not.”

“apparently i hit a broom or wall—something like that.” you shake your head, laughing lightly, but there’s an undeniable pull between you two. 

the way she looks at you, the way her smile lingers a little too long, and the way her knee brushes against yours every now and then—you have to hold yourself back from saying and doing a lot of things. it’s in the way her voice lowers when she speaks, soft and reeling.

you spend the next hour just talking, laughing, sharing random stories about classes, her teasing you about your engineering homework, and you teasing her back about her terrible taste in tv shows. every time she smiles or laughs, it feels like a small victory, something you want to keep chasing. and every time you speak her eyes are in deep contact with yours, spiking your heartrate without fail.

eventually, the conversation lulls, and there’s a moment of quiet where she looks at you, her eyes softening just slightly. “you know,” she murmurs, “i’m really glad you came over. this… was nice.”

“yeah,” you say, smiling back, your heart racing in your chest. “it was.”

“i always thought you were really cute,” she says before sipping on her white wine, “but i’m not a chaser.”

“is that right?”

“unless you count me responding to your apology, then yes.”

you laugh, setting the empty glass down. 

“well,” you begin, biting your lip. “i like to pursue.”

“quite forward isn’t it?”

“you invited me over for wine, it doesn’t get more forward than what you’ve brought to the table.”

“is that so?” sana hums, tilting her head. she bites the inside of her lip, looking at you with narrowed eyes. “i think it can get more forward.”

your breath hitches in the slightest and you can tell sana’s noticed when she lets out that signature chuckle. 

“well, i think it’s time to end the night. you were working on assignments prior, no?” you frown at the suggestion.

“i— yeah, you’re right.” 

there’s a knowing smile on her lips, but you ignore it and stand up with her as she walks you to her door. 

“i had a great time pretty girl,” she puts her hand on your forearm while saying it, her touch burning your skin. “hopefully we can be much more forward next time.”

you laugh. “i like the sound of that.”

“mhm, goodnight.” she says, grinning at you before meekly closing her door.

you purse your lips before walking down the hall and reaching your door. your hand lingers on the doorknob before you turn it and head in, feeling a sense of regret.

…

sana hears a knock at her door ten minutes later, turning off the sink and drying her hands before walking over to see what’s up. 

the moment the door opens and sana sees you standing there, the look on her face is priceless.

“what—” she starts, raising an eyebrow, clearly confused, but before she can finish, you step forward, your hand reaching out to grab her forearm gently. you pull her just a little closer, your heart pounding as you look at her.

“i want to be more forward,” you admit, voice low, the question hanging in the space between you.

for a second, she just stares at you, wide-eyed, before a soft laugh escapes her. she gets it now. “oh, we’re moving pretty fast, aren’t we?” she teases, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “take me out to dinner.”

you grin, and she hesitates for a beat, but then she nods, and it’s enough—enough to send your pulse racing, enough for you to lean in. before you can close the distance, though, her hand comes up, fingers lightly brushing the base of your neck, and you feel her shiver as she touches you.

“you say that like,” you pause, observing the surprise and allure in her features. “like you didn’t eye-fuck me the other night.”

her cheeks flush as her fingers linger on your skin, and you catch the way she bites her lip, trying to hide her own smile. you don’t wait any longer.

you lean in and meet her lips with yours, melting into it just as she does. 

it starts soft, just a gentle press of your lips against hers, but it quickly deepens as sana lets out a quiet, surprised sound that turns into something more—something she’s clearly enjoying a little too much. her hand moves to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and the way she kisses you back sends a thrill through you.

before you know it, she’s dragging you inside, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other guiding you back toward the couch. the door closes behind you, but you barely notice, too focused on the way her lips move against yours.

when you finally pull back for air, she’s breathless, grinning like she’s just won something. “you should’ve been this forward earlier,” she teases, her thumb brushing against the side of your neck.

“yeah?” you ask, a little breathless yourself, but you can’t stop smiling.

“yeah,” she murmurs, eyes flickering down to your lips before she leans in again, kissing you slower this time, savoring it. sana is a great kisser, the type of kisser that leaves you wanting more and more. after a moment, she pulls back, just enough to whisper, “maybe you should stay a little longer.”

you can’t help but laugh softly. “you sure you can handle that?”

“please,” she says, eyes twinkling with that familiar mischievous look. “you weren’t that shy the other night.”

“well i was drunk and—“

before you can even finish your response, she’s kissing you again, and this time, you’re more than happy to let her pull you even closer.

[sweetiecutie]

🖤Fuck or die🖤

Paring: slasher! König x fem! Reader

Warnings: NSFW, mdni, dead dove do not eat, non-con so rape, cuckolding, unwilling cheating, oral, facefuck, dick piercing bc I know y’all like it, unprotected sex, blood, murder, gore in the end. This is only fiction, don’t take any of this too seriously! If you feel triggered by any of these tags - just scroll past!

Word count: 4k, holy fucking shit

A/n: not me writing this in one day, jesus fucking christ😮‍💨 It’s first time I wrote something so violent, but I think I did pretty good! Originally planned to post it on halloween night but I’m too eager to share!! Also, I tried my best to fix all mistakes by proofreading it 4 times, I really did, but I’m pretty sure that I left out some still

It’s been very uneasy in a small town where you lived - series of blatant murders shook up all inhabitants with their brutality. Cruelly butchered corpses gave a hint of culprit’s strength, so cops guessed it was a man. And the most terrifying thing about this whole situation was that this maniac was still on loose - he never left any evidences, not a damn thing - nothing that could give a clue of who he was. The only trace he’s ever left wasn’t an accident or his mistake, but a well-planned thing - after appearing nameless in numerous news reports and articles he finally decided to introduce himself, writing KÖNIG with his victim’s blood on white flooring, said victim’s two bloody teeth serving as umlaut.

And his motives behind picking out victims were just as unclear - there was nothing in common between all these people: he didn’t have any preferences in victim’s sex or age, their profession nor appearance - as long as they lived in one family house, to avoid anyone hearing their screams, you figured. It seemed that he simply loved killing, who that was - didn’t matter.

You can’t say how exactly it all happened. It was another evening that you were spending at your boyfriend’s place - Paul’s parents were out of town for a few days for anniversary of their wedding, leaving a huge house for their only son. You felt uneasy - there weren’t any new murders in over a month, people were scared that maniac will go “haunting” very soon, which meant that no one was safe.

Paul only cooed at you soothingly when you shared your worries with him, promising to “protect you from all weirdos out there”, placing a comforting kiss on your forehead. So to distract yourselves you decided to throw a movie night - stacking up with snacks and beer, Netflix window opened on a large tv-screen, ready to serve its purpose as you made last preparations.

Cuddled up on the comfy couch, your boyfriend’s comforting warmth slowly seeped into your tense muscles, you watched some corny comedy, groaning in tandem at poorly-made jokes. When suddenly a sound of shattered glass jolted you both up, staring tensely at each other.

- I’ll go check it, - Paul said, getting up and heading to the living room from where the noise came. Everything was quiet for a few long minutes, your fingers fiddled with loose string on the corner of fluffy blanket as you heard some crashing and your boyfriend’s angry shouting:

- Y/n, get out of here!

Then everything was as if in a blur; tall figure clad in all black stepped into the living room, white scream mask contrasting starkly, huge knife covered in thin layer of blood was shining in blue tv-light. Your heart dropped to your stomach as you stared at the man in front of you - sticky feeling of fear seemed to fill every muscle in your body with heavy lead, making it impossibly hard to move even an inch. And then something in your head snapped, you threw yourself off the couch and towards the door opposite from killer, but he was way quicker - huge hands gripped you by your shoulders, rising you off your feet easily and dragging you back towards living room, your struggling and screaming did nothing to help.

You were now kneeling in front of this psycho, hands tied up tightly with coarse rope that dug painfully into your soft skin, surely leaving deep indents and dark bruises. Your boyfriend was laying on his side a few meters afar - bound by his wrists and ankles with same rope, crimson blood oozed out of deep stabbing wound in his stomach, nose obviously broken and bleeding - all these a result of his grapple with intruder, which obviously didn’t end in Paul’s favour.

- Please, - you weeped, tears and snot covered all of your face, whole body trembled with fear and adrenaline. - Please, I’ll do anything you want, just don’t kill me, - you managed to choke out, silent cries tore through your chest, their intensity made it hard for you to breathe - you were hysterical.

- Oh, I know you will, sweetheart, - mechanical voice said in mock sympathy. One huge glowed hand came up to cup your chin, causing you to jolt violently upon feeling the contact; murderer tilted your head upwards, your insides churning upon laying your eyes on white plastic of his mask.

His thumb rubbed soft circles on your wet cheek - it was almost ridiculous how gently he touched you. This made you sob even more, but you didn’t dare to turn away, too scared to anger him.

- That would be a shame to kill such a pretty little thing, after all, - maniac said, glove-clad pad of his thumb swiped over your trembling bottom lip, soft cotton absorbing the mixture of your tears and saliva glazing it. - I may have an idea. Wanna hear it?

Silence set in for a few long gut-wrenching seconds which was interrupted only by your quiet sobbing and sounds of your boyfriend struggling against tight ropes. Quiet squeal tore through your chest as huge hand squeezed your cheeks harshly, yanking your face upward, forcing you to look up at König. Your bleary from tears eyes fixed upon two black holes in his mask, where man’s eyes supposedly were.

- I said “wanna hear it”? - slasher gritted out, his tone harsh as he put heavy emphasis on every syllable he uttered, making you shrink even further into yourself. You nodded your head hastily, not wanting to try out your luck any more.

- Y-yes, - you stammered, your voice giving out making your response sound more like a kitten’s squealing rather than human speech. König stared at you for a few long silent seconds, your knees beginning to tremble from both fear and painful exposure to hard flooring, which soon irradiated onto the whole of your body.

- I’ve been watching you guys, you know? For a few weeks now, - he said nonchalantly, his grip on your face loosened, long fingers tracing intricate shapes on your cheeks and temples, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ears, getting it out of your eyes. A wave of hysterical cries threatened to tear through your throat upon hearing his words, but you tried to suppress them as much as you physically could, staying still before him.

- Yes, - his voice sounded delicate - as if one of those passionate lovers who proclaimed their tender feelings. - Seen you guys do stuff… kiss, cuddle, fuck. A pathetic view, to be honest, - as he said so, his fingers came to tangle in your messy hair, massaging your scalp with soft movements. You felt sick. This man with a dagger bigger than your forearm clasped tightly in one hand, was caressing you so tenderly with another one - his unpredictable behaviour was making your guts churn.

He turned toward your boyfriend who was still thrashing harshly, struggling with all his might against secure confines of tight rope. Your gaze shifted towards your lover as well - the sight made your heart ache - his blood - some already caked and some fresh and shiny - covered the whole bottom of Paul’s face, a makeshift gag out of piece of some fabric was tied skilfully around his head - by the looks of it not to be untied by itself. His eyes met murderer’s, you could make out his muffled promises of killing the bastard, threats to not touch you and to get the fuck out of here. Murderer didn’t look impressed at all, staring silently at your man lying at his feet.

- Look at this pathetic scumbag - I tied your hands loosely, hoped for a bit of a fight, - harsh noise came from the speaker behind the mask, which you figured to be a sigh. König then turned back towards you, his head tilting to the side slightly, you could practically feel his intense gaze prickling on your skin. - Why are you even wasting your time on this piece of shit? He can’t even fuck you right, and you expected this piece of shit to actually protect you from danger? Provide for you?

Hot tears rushed down your cheeks at his words, as you stayed silent, not knowing what to say. König sighed again, rolling his shoulders to rid himself of the tension in sore muscles, his neck popping loudly, making you jolt at the sound.

- Now, my plan is - how about I show you what a real man is like? Set the bar high for you, hm? - he said, a cool glimmer of blood-stained blade caught your eye as König twirled his knife skilfully in between thick fingers barely twenty centimetres away from your face. He noticed your attention shifting from him to his little tool, softly nudging your chin up to look back at him. - Oh, don’t worry darling. If you’re being a good girl that thing won’t touch you, deal?

You nodded your head frantically, swallowing a thick lump in your throat. - Anything, - you choked out, voice hoarse and barely audible but it was enough for him to hear.

- I like the eagerness, - murderer chuckled, straightening his back from semi-crouching position to stand to his full height. His hand left your face with a small pinch on your tear-stained cheek, tossing his knife from one hand to another as if he was juggling; finally gripping the handle tight König pointed the tip of sharp blade towards your boyfriend: - I want you to watch. You dare closing your eyes and she’s dead.

Your eyes widened in panic, staring fearfully at Paul, mouthing silent “please” at him. Maniac shifted his attention back to you; he put his knife into its holster which was attached to his thigh with tight leather straps, you noted that he didn’t secure the handle, making it easier to pull the knife out in one move if needed.

You watched as if in slow motion how his hands came to the waistband of his black jeans, undoing the button and tugging zipper down, pulling front pants pieces apart. Your gaze darted up towards his mask-covered face, confusion mixed with terror written on your face - your insides dropped as you finally realised what he actually meant.

- What? Doll, I promised to show you what a real man is like, - one big hand came to rest on the crown of your head, not pushing nor pulling, just staying there securely. - Now I warn you, you dare using your teeth - I’ll pluck every single one of them before gutting you like a fucking pig, you get it?

Your breath stopped upon hearing his words, shoulders started shaking as strong bout of adrenaline rushed through your veins, making your poor heart pound crazily, threatening to break your ribs from the inside. You nodded your head vigorously, all of a sudden extremely aware of the tight rope binding your wrists together, how your fingers prickled from constricted blood flow, how much your shoulders ached from being pulled back for so long.

- Good girl. Now, go on, - König said, lightly pushing your head towards his clothed crotch. You had to crane your head up painfully because of the height difference between you two in order to even reach König’s private parts. You gazed up at him, unsure of what exactly he wanted you to do, but he just stared down at you silently, not offering any instructions nor comments.

You darted your tongue out, licking a noticeable bulge showing through his boxers, soaking black fabric in your spit. You did it again, and again, fear and adrenaline subduing feelings of humiliation and shame, you could hear your boyfriend’s muffled “get your fucking hands off her”, but König didn’t seem to pay slightest attention to the other male. You tilted your head to the side, pressing your opened mouth to the thick shaft that was trapped between man’s v-line and his tight underwear, sucking on it softly. That made slasher heave a deep sigh, hand on your head tangled deeper in your hair, holding you firmly in place, indicating for you to keep going.

- Now pull my boxers down, - psycho ordered a few seconds later; his voice, though contorted by voice changer, now sounded deeper. You looked frightfully up at him, your hands still bound tightly behind your back.

- But… how? - you asked, a spark of hope igniting in your chest as thought of him untying your hands popped up in your head. But it was extinguished just as quickly as it appeared with his next words:

- Well, think about it, - he shrugged his broad shoulders ever so slightly, your mind racing at the speed of light as you tried to figure out the problem.

You opened your mouth, moving as slowly as you could to indicate that you didn’t mean to do anything reckless - baring your teeth and gently hooking the elastic of his boxers, your canines grazing slightly against warm skin of murderer’s lower stomach. Once you secured your hold on elastic you pulled down on it, managing to slide it down slightly. König’s hard cock sprung right out, standing tall and thick against his clothed stomach - tip was concealed by brownish foreskin, and your eyes widened at the sheer size of him. Your attention was caught by two symmetrical rows of shiny silver balls running along mighty shaft, glistening coldly is white light of living room’s chandelier.

- Now, doll, that’s what a real good cock looks like, - man said, his free hand came to wrap around thick shaft, pumping it a few times to reveal pink head, a shiny bead of precum sitting in the middle of it. - Open wide, princess. And mind your teeth.

You let your mouth fall open, sticking your tongue out; his cock was standing too high for you to reach it in your kneeling position so König had to guide his length down to your lips, your mouth managing to only take his tip and a little bit more inside.

With your mouth full of other man’s cock your eyes wandered in the direction of your boyfriend; thrashing around seemed to finally exhaust him, crimson blood oozed out of the wound in his stomach. His chest was heaving in tandem with his wheezing breath, angry tears streamed down his temples as he stared with fierce anger at your abuser, the sight made your throat clench, causing you to gag on killer’s hefty length.

- Aw, poor girl is not used to a decent cock, huh? Tell me, did the even reach down to your throat? Lemme guess - he was cumming a few minutes after shoving his pathetic ten centimetres in this precious mouth, wasn’t he? - König chuckled darkly, suddenly pushing down onto your head, forcing you to take half his length down your tight throat, keeping you in place as you choked around his thickness, metal balls were rubbing painfully against the softness of your tongue, irritating sensitive buds of it.

Murderer’s free hand joined the one resting on your nape, gathering your hair in a makeshift ponytail, fixating your head in one position. Tears of pain and humiliation rushed down your reddened cheeks as man fucked his massive cock into your tight throat; his pace was erratic, without certain rhythm, making it hard for you to synchronise your breathing with his irregular thrusts. Your lungs burned with lack of air, dainty kneecaps ached from standing for so long on hard flooring, surely bruising your tender skin.

He let go of you only when you actually started to choke, your whole face reddening with exertion; thick strings of spit mixed with precum connected your swollen lips to glistening pink tip, fat tears rolled down your cheeks, dripping down your chin onto the floor below. A choked cry tore through your chest as massive hands manhandled you around, forcing your head down so that your wet cheek was pressed against cold hardwood facing your boyfriend, your back arched and ass up high in the air. König kneeled down behind you, backs of your thighs were touching coarse denim sitting snugly around his legs, cold metal rivets of his holster contrasting brutally with warmth of your skin. Broad palms kneaded on soft pudge of your ass, delivering a strong smack to the swell of your buttcheek, impact softened slightly by the fabric of your shorts and his glove.

Your boyfriend started thrashing as hard as ever, grunting and screaming as much as he could as König pulled your shorts along with your underwear down to your knees, huge hands resting on the bottom part of your ass, thumbs spreading your pussy open. Silent tears ran down from your eyes, gathering in a small puddle on the floor; you heard maniac tut behind your back, a pad of thumb swiped up and down your slit, making you jolt from sudden contact.

- What a shame, - he heaved a deep sigh, straightening his shoulders and looking up at your boyfriend. - She’s wet, dude.

A few small sobs left you upon his words. Paul tried talking back, but a horrible bubbling sound came out of his throat - gag in his mouth was completely red with absorbed blood, some of it oozed down the corners of his mouth, adding to the bloody mess on his face. You sobbed at the sight, squeezing your eyes shut to avoid looking at horrible picture.

- Turns out our little slut likes it rough, yeah? - König mocked, leaning over your frail form, one meaty forearm rested next to your head, huge chest pressed tightly against your back, overstimulating your thus on age senses. Terrifying mask was barely a few centimetres afar from your face as man whispered right next to your ear: - Did he ever fuck you rough?

His heavy gaze was fixed expectantly upon you, huge hand that still rested on your ass squeezed your flesh painfully, causing you to cringe. - No, - you mouthed, but that was more than enough for him. Slasher hummed in acknowledgment, straightening back into his kneeling position.

- Don’t worry love, I’ll give this pretty pussy what she needs, - psycho said, fisting his leaking cock a few times before aligning swollen tip against your tight entrance. With slow but persistent push of his hips König forced one third of his length inside your poor cunt, fresh dose of hot tears rushed from your eyes, pain of penetration adding to the ache all over your body.

With a sharp snap of his massive hips man forced as much of his cock as it’d go into you. Loud yelp tore through your throat, scratching it painfully; stretch of his girthy cock was too much for your pussy to take, ladder of piercings adding to unpleasant feeling. Tender walls fought against his thick length, such sudden stretch caused your muscles to reflexively constrict around him more, drawing a throaty groan to tumbling out of killer’s broad chest.

- There there, dearie. Poor pussy so used to pathetic cocks, can’t even take me whole, - König said in fake compassion, you felt his length throb within you, twitching a few times. Strong hands held you in place tightly, preventing you from moving your hips even for a millimetre.

Murderer generously allowed you a minute or so for your poor cunny to accommodate to his size before beginning to move his hips in shallow but quick thrusts. Soon enough König was full on fucking into you on rapid pace, your whole body jolting forward with intensity of his mighty thrusts, strong arms yanking you back in place every so often.

One of his deadly hands slithered around your ridiculously smaller form, index and middle fingers danced across your spread around his dick folds, causing your stomach to tense at sudden contact. Free hand yanked you up by the rope binding your wrists, urging you to raise your torso; your shoulder blades were pressed tightly against his heaving chest, warmth emitted off him like a fucking radiator.

Clothed fingertips rubbed tight relentless circles on your clit, causing thick pleasure to rush up and down your spine and your back arch uncontrollably. Your teeth clenched to suppress all the small sounds threatening to spill out of your lips; you felt König’s massive form shift behind you, cold plastic of horrendous mask pressed against the side of your face - he was whispering right into your ear, soft voice real and unchanged:

- I’m gonna slit your fucking throat if you’re not using it, - that caused a shiver to rush down your spine, arising goosebumps in its wake. You moaned out, doing as the murderer wanted, letting all the small sighs and moans flow freely from your lips, your voice lower than usual from all the crying and throatfucking.

Your breathing became shallow; your head just wasn’t working anymore - emotional shock along with physical abuse drained you out of all strength - you were a mere rug doll in psycho’s tight grip, and he could do whatever he pleased with you, you were too exhausted to fight back anyway.

Consciousness started to slip out of your grasp, vision blurred out with tears, dark spots appearing in the corners; König’s throbbing dick pounded your poor pussy mercilessly, thick cockhead nudged against all the sweet spots inside of you, his piercings stimulating you even further as if in spite of all your attempts to resist pleasure psycho was forcing onto you. A tight coil curled in the pit of your stomach, threatening to explode with every harsh snap of mighty hips against your reddened ass. Soaked with your slick fabric of König’s gloves felt overbearing against your clit, his fingers never once stopping to rub your sensitive nub.

A few moments later something deep within you snapped, like a rubber band stretched to its limit - suddenly the world around you turned white, ringing noise filled your ears as you had the most painful orgasm of your life being wrung out of you; your body quivered and thrashed in serial killer’s strong grip, unintelligible sounds and words poured out of your lips, barely louder than a whisper. And then everything became quiet. Soft velvet of darkness enveloped your bruised and exhausted body; you were drowning in warm waves of sleep, not finding it in yourself to try and fight them off. You gave in happily, trusting yourself in welcoming hands of darkness and quiet, afar from horrible reality, afar from fear and danger.

It felt as if your head was splitting in two - horrible ache settled somewhere deep inside of your brain, pain irradiated from within to the outsides of both hemispheres, causing you to groan in agony quietly in. Your whole body hurt, eyelids felt swollen and heavy even as they were closed; and then suddenly your eyes snapped open.

You were lying on cold hardwood flooring in your boyfriend’s living room, shorts and underwear still pulled down to your knees, but your hands now free from rope. You pulled your bottoms back up, hot tears pooling in your eyes as you let out a choked sob. You felt wretched, disgusting, dirty.

- Paul? - you called out to your boyfriend, the sound of your own voice startling you - hoarse and scratchy, total opposite from your usual octave.

As you turned around your breath got caught up in your chest, bitter ball of bile got stuck in your throat - you felt like you were about to throw up.

Here lay Paul - pale and lifeless, dull eyes staring blankly into nothingness, gag still fixed tightly around his head, now brown with dried out blood. Some of his insides spilled out of the gaping cut across his stomach, lying on the floor in a small heap right next to him, huge puddle of blood spread out on the floor, getting into all small cracks and gapes in wooden flooring.

And on the wall behind, in strange brownish color that looked all too similar to the caked blood on your boyfriend’s face, in sprawling handwriting were words:

SEE YOU SOON ♡

Slasher! König Masterlist

Another a/n: I’m planning on making it a series - let me know what you guys think<3 Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! Give writes some love - we live off feedback<3

[jadeylovesmarvelxo]

🍂🍁🎃

❤️ just some tooth rotting fluff involving Eddie and his not so secret admirer

🎃💌

Eddie was in hell. Who's idea was it to do this stupid shit again?

A banner hung from outside the school that proclaimed today was Boo Day 👻🎃 a day dedicated to your boo (partner) or someone you admired.

Who had came up with this monstrosity you ask? Why that was Miss O'Donnell. She had the idea to have the day before Halloween dedicated to love. Where she had even had an idea like that was anyone's guess but Eddie was pretty certain that the old bat had lost her mind.

Or teaching Eddie for three years had finally driven her crazy.

Everywhere he looked people were cooing over mystery cards that they had gotten from a secret admirer.

This was another thing he hated about this whole day, he had to suffer through Valentine's Day, now he has to go through this shit as well? Who the hell would send him a card like that?

He'd be slightly jealous if he didn't think this was load of bullshit.

He dodges excited students dressed up as ghosts and pumpkins, students who Miss O'Donnell had cajoled into delivering cards and gifts to people who had participated in the card and gift exchange.

Finally there is a hint of escape when he barges into the drama room and breathes a sigh of relief. Jesus h Christ that was a nightmare.

It takes Eddie a second to realise that he's not alone. His heart skips a beat when he realises you're with him.

🎃💌

You're settled on one of the desks with a serene smile on your face that disappears the moment you hear the door open.

Once you see it's just Eddie and no loved up couples looking for a place to make out, you feel yourself relaxing once more.

"Hey Eddie" the haggard look on his face morphs into a genuine smile, all cute dimples and big brown eyes lighting up.

He was so cute and you had the biggest crush on him and you had planned to tell him, today in fact but his loud proclamation that this day was all a bunch of bullshit made you chicken out of handing him the card you made.

You doubted he felt the same anyway, he probably had a crush on one of the cheerleaders or someone like that.

Even if he said he didn't conform to societal standards you still caught him checking out the cheerleaders once or twice. You weren't a cheerleader or popular or anything like that, you just did what you liked and right now that was occasionally joining in on a Hellfire campaign or drawing or writing, honestly anything creative was your thing.

"So do you not have a secret admirer you made a card for?" Eddie teases and you clam up, avoiding his eyes.

"Maybe it's not like he feels the same though" you murmur and notice that Eddie isn't smiling anymore, in fact he looks kinda pissed and a little sad.

"Right, so I guess it's some popular douchebag or something?" He mutters and you try to figure out why his mood has suddenly changed so dramatically.

Was he jealous of who you liked? Didn't he realise that it was him you were smitten by. Shit what if he didn't... Feeling brave you decide to tell him how you feel and hope that he feels the same way or at least things aren't awkward between you after it all.

"It's you. I made a card for you Eddie" shit you wish the ground would swallow you up. The waiting to know how he felt was horrendous, if he laughed in your face you're sure that you'd high tail it out of here.

Instead of laughing he's gawking at you and you're ready to leave and hope to forget this all but something in his expression stops you.

"Maybe I should thank Miss O'Donell after all then" he's grinning widely and looks thrilled. "Can I see the card sweetheart?" flustered you nod and hand him the card.

It has a hand drawn picture of a pumpkin patch and you wrote inside if you were a pumpkin I would pick you 🎃❤️

Cheesy yes but you thought it was cute. Now however you're second guessing that decision and mortification fills you. Shit. This was a bad idea.

The anxiety leaves you when Eddie looks up at you smiling, he hides his face with his hair and it's so adorable.

"Aww shucks sweetheart, that's so cute. Just so you know I feel the same about you, I like you a lot princess and I'm thinking that maybe I could take you on a date"

Beaming you kiss his cheek and nod. "Where were you thinking?" he holds up your card and points to the pumpkin.

"I'm thinking of visiting the Pumpkin patch in town" he suggests and the idea is so perfect that you can't help but giggling.

"Sounds perfect"

🎃❤️

[spacedace]

Yo here have this dp x dc snippet from ages ago I forgot I wrote until I found it just now lol:

Joker had died just after sunset, when darkness had settled fully on Gotham. Beaten horribly with a blunt, metal object of sickeningly familiar description, then finally killed in the concussive force of an explosion from the various bombs the warehouse had been filled with.

It felt obvious who it had to be.

Except, of course, that Dick was looking at cctv footage and official court documents showing just how fucking impossible it was for Jason to have finally taken the clown out for good.

At the time everything had to have happened his little brother was across the city, in a public place, with official witnesses.

Official, official witnesses. They - one Margaret Tinsel - had signed their name as such, right next to their notary stamp and the date on the marriage license.

Marriage License.

Because Jay had been over at the courthouse next to city hall getting married.

Dick only found out he’d been dating Jasmine Nightingale a couple of weeks ago. He hadn’t even properly met her yet, just saw her from the roof across the street as she and Jay sat on her fire escape sharing a pint of ice cream, laughing and looking stupidly adorable and smitten with each other. And now they’re married.

How in the fuck was he going to explain this? Bruce was already spiraling on the idea that Jay had killed Joker, he’d want specific details on just how tight of an alibi Jason had for the crime. He’d want to see that proof himself.

And then he’d want to talk to Jay. Who hadn’t told any of them what the fuck was going on in his personal life. Who had very purposefully tried to keep Jasmine Nightingale - shit, no she applied for a name change, they both had, they were both Nightingale-Todd now - away from the family and their meddling.

Babs on the other end of the line seemed to share his utter loss over the situation.

“I did some digging.” She said, drawn out enough to let him know that whatever she found - while not bad - sure as shit wasn’t going to make things any easier to explain. “They’ve uh…as best I can tell, they’ve been dating for about three years now.”

Three years.

Jesus Christ. How in the hell is he going to break that news? Did he even break that news? That’s something that Jay should do.

Except Jay just got married less than two hours ago at the same time the Joker was violently - and karmically satisfyingly - murdered and there was absolutely no way that letting Bruce go over there to talk to Jay while all Batman-ed up was going to lead to anything but a fight, which means that he has to break that news or else Jay and his new wife - his wife holy fucking shit - are going to have to deal with a pissed off Batman on their honeymoon and -

“Oh.” Tim said from where he’d come to stand at Dick’s shoulder at some point during his internal freak out. “I guess they decided to do the courthouse thing after all.”

The train wreck of Dick’s thought process, at that point, entirely exploded.

[chososdiscordkitten]

Obsessive!Choso♡ pt 9

pt 8 here

content: stalking (duh.) overdone sick trope 👍🏽, FINALLY something happens Jesus Christ, reader hates school, Choso can't THINK, reader HAS siblings but doesn't consider them family, not so much stalking in this one, more just progression and Choso being cute hehe (a.n) yayyy I finally finished this!!!!! sorry I was bed ridden for three days straight and finally felt the sun on my face yesterday.(depression) I know I indulged a little too much of my thoughts and feelings abt family in this one but I HAD to. Wrote this listening to 'This town- Niall Horan'

Taglist: @eristi @sunaumi @ex-ria @just-pure-trash @kha-0s @iluvreinah @iamboredowo @integers @waytootiredforthisss @1arminsimp @hannas16 @chosowhore @tojicvmslut @ofalcaodacolinablue @thesharkcollector @mochipip @hotvillianapologist @ziklope @saeline @morinuu

Obsessive!Choso who remembered how angry you looked earlier talking to your roommate, almost like you were arguing with them but he didn't know why. You seemed perfectly fine when he asked you if you were ready to go. He looked over at you, basking in the light of the moon. “Can I ask you something?” he blurted, making you look over at him. Bright eyes and a slight sneer on your lips, humming a quiet ‘mhm’ before looking back up to the sky. “What was your roommate telling you?” he asked, making your eyes turn tight, “Before we left- I mean.” he clarified. You didn't bother looking over at him, you kept your eyes on the sky before answering him. “They were telling me how rude I was being. ‘First day back and you're already running off with god knows who’ I think they said.” you repeat what they told you in a sarcastic tone, “Telling me that was sooo unlike me.” you mumbled, being able to feel his stare on your skin.

“I dunno,” you spoke up, knowing he wasn't going to say anything till you expressed your opinion on the topic. “I certainly didnt miss their lengthy lectures or their opinions on my life.” you murmured, hands in your pockets as you hummed. “Lectures?” Choso spoke up, questioning why your roommate was lecturing you. ‘Of all people in the world I refuse to believe they lecture you on your choices.’

“Mhm. They love chastising me for such stupid things. It's like I live with my mother again.” You frowned, looking over at him to see if he had heard what he needed. “And that's a bad thing?” he pinched his eyebrows, “If you grew up the same way I did, you'd never want to see your mother again, let alone live with her.” you laughed, “16 years was more than enough time living with that woman.” You joked, scanning his face and seeing he did not comprehend what you were saying. 

Obsessive!Choso who blamed your words on your boozy state, making sure to remember the topic so he could ask you later. Seeing your flushed expression and thinking it was time to get you home, in hopes you’d sleep off whatever they gave you. “C’mon. Let's get you home.” he mumbled, seeing a tinge of disappointment on your face. You hummed, “I'd rather stay here forever.” swishing your torso as you looked up at the moon. It was clear from the tone you took that you were clearly inebriated. But he’d much rather have you here, tipsy and refusing to go home, than with another man who would've just hurt you. “You stay out here any longer and you'll get sick.” He took a step forward. In the state you were in, you had found confidence looming inside you, a small smirk forming at your lips before you looked at him. “I didn't know you cared.” you teased. Eyes half lidded when you saw his face turn bitter.  Furrowing his eyebrows and looking at you with a hand placed flat against his chest, almost clutching his pearls. “Of course I care-” serious tone as he saw you try to suppress a laugh.

You sighed with a smile, looking down to your shoes and humming in response. Looking up at him with a hazy smile, “Take me home.” you wirred. The words that fell from your lips made a chill run down his spine, the tone you took didn't help either. Choso only nodded his head quickly before taking a step away from you, suddenly feeling like you were too close. You only raised your eyebrows at him, almost waiting for him to start walking in the direction of your house. He inhaled sharply before turning to take a step, seeing you walk right next to him. Silence. Usually the silence that fell between you two was comfortable, knowing he wasn't a man of many words at times. But this kind of silence made you want to laugh at how awkward it was. Especially anytime your hand brushed against his, he'd flinch away as though you were made of glass. 

“You're so strange.” you mumbled with a smile, being able to see the side of his profile as you walked. “Strange?” he asked, looking over to you with his hands in his pockets to keep from touching you. You laughed at the way he said that word, almost like it was the last thing he was expecting to hear from you. You remembered a picture you had seen on instagram. Of a cat looking sad and apologizing for being strange and off putting- which you found hilarious because he looked exactly like that cat right now. “Yes- strange and off putting.” You smiled, mimicking what the photo said. Choso mentally was scolding himself for being that way, not knowing why you were calling him that- but thought there had to be a reason behind it. 

Obsessive!Choso who took a few seconds to process what you had said, seeing you look up at the stars as you walked on the sidewalk. “I'm sorry...?” he asked more than stated, making you look at him with a confused smile. “For being ‘strange and off putting’?” he mumbled seeing you not understanding why he was apologizing. You wrapped your hand at the ditch of his elbow with a small laugh, “That's okay. I like you even if you are.” you joked, making Choso feel a warmth flood his cheeks. 

Walking across the street and stepping up the small steps of your porch. Seeing the porch light turn on, scanning his face. Noticing his flushed cheeks and blaming it on the weather. “You wanna come in? My roommates won't be home till late.” You smiled, looking at him through your eyelashes with a cheeky smile. Choso widened his eyes at your words, thinking of how forward you were being. Too forward. He nodded his head ‘no’ before speaking. “I think you're a little too tipsy right now.” He grumbled, seeing you disagree with your head. “I'm not- you're just a little blurry right now.” You smiled. Seeing him give you a feigned ‘is that so?’ raising your eyebrows in response. Mouthing a small ‘Okay, okay.’ before turning to unlock your door. 

You opened the door to your house before feeling a certain itch in your brain form. “Before you go-” you turned around, the door cracked open with the door knob in your hand. “Do you...” you hesitated, suddenly feeling very embarrassed by what you were thinking. “Do you not like me or something?” You gave a forced smile. Knowing the words you had been thinking for the past few days were finally out in the open. The expression that formed on his face was something you never expected to see from him. He looked like a deer in headlights. Eyes wide and mouth struggling to find words to say to you. “I-” he started, you tilted your head with raised eyebrows waiting for him to say something. “Because I like you, Choso.” you hummed, batting your eyelashes. Hoping that your own words would motivate him to say what you wanted to hear. 

The seconds you stood there felt like an eternity- maybe it was. The porch light had turned off from how long he took to answer you. Choso’s head was reeling from the words you told him. ‘As a friend? As a stranger? As something else-’ his mind was racing with questions only you could answer. He mouthed a million words, trying to say something but hesitating before he actually voiced them. “I-” he managed, seeing you part your lips and the shine in your eyes start to dim. “I lo-” he started, catching himself before stuttering. “I like you too.” He shuddered, the feeling of words falling from his lips without permission. 

Obsessive!Choso who nodded his head ‘no’ almost in disbelief at what he just said. “Really?” you asked, cheeky smile on your lips, fishing for more words from him. His face showed you everything you needed to see, he looked nervous. It was almost funny, looking horrified yet elated. He only nodded his head yes, seeing you look away from his gaze. “Do you really like me too?” he asked, feeling a frog was in his throat. Heart thumping so hard in his chest he swore you could hear it. Looking up at him through your eyelashes, dim lighting making your eyes sparkle once more. Nodding with a small ‘mhm’. “Even if I'm strange and off putting?” he whispered, feeling hazy as though this was a dream. You gave him a lushy smile, cheeks starting to hurt from how much his words delighted you. “Especially if you're strange and off putting.” You giggled, making him look down at his shoes. Noticing just how close you were to him. 

‘This is wrong. I shouldn't be here.’ he thought, looking back up to inspect your features. Taking advantage of how close he was. Even if he knows he’ll feel guilty for it later. ‘I don't deserve to be here with you.’ His gaze was heavy on you, feeling like he was staring into your soul. You exhaled, looking off to the side before speaking, “I've never felt so seen before I met you.” you whispered, feeling like he could see every crack, every secret and every moment of doubt in your life. Even if the plentiful amounts of liquor you had earlier were clouding your judgment. It was the truth, a truth you hadn’t admitted out loud till now. He called your name, making you look back to him with swelling eyes and a wavering smile. “-I see you,” he hummed, the horrified look on his face now gone, looking at you with warm eyes and a softened expression. Calling your name once more, “-I always have.” you furrowed your eyebrows, lip quivering and looking to him with expectant eyes.

“You sure you don't wanna come in?” you grinned, wanting to talk to him surrounded by the warmth of your bedroom. Choso softly nodded his head no, “Another time.” he grinned. Even if he had turned down your offer, you found comfort in knowing that he at least liked you. Choso straightened his posture, looking at you with a toothy grin. “Lock your doors-” he started, half laugh caught in his chest. “Lock your windows, close your curtains.” he lectured, making you smile in response. “I will. I will.” you mumbled, stepping into the doorway and looking at him as you leaned against the door frame. 

Sappy smile on your lips as you watched him take a step back, “Goodnight.” he grinned. Looking at you as though this was some shitty rom com from the early 2000. If you paid any more attention, you'd see his pupils in the shape of tiny hearts, hands in his pockets as the porch creaked beneath his heavy boots. “Goodnight Choso.” You hummed, waiting till he turned around to walk away. Making note that he looked back once at you when he was at the bottom of the stairs, and once more when he was walking on the sidewalk before closing the door. You found it sweet he looked back twice at you, if only you knew he kept looking to see if you closed the door so he could stand in the spot he usually stood at to watch your house. To watch you.

Obsessive!Choso waited to make sure your roommate got home before he left you alone. To make sure they didn't bring back one of their ‘friends’ with them. Not trusting your roommate or their shitty friends. But his fears were eased when he saw they came back alone, stumbling out of a car and tripping on their own shoes, sure. But thankful they came back alone, especially since they seemed frustrated when they saw the doors were locked. Having to fumble with their unused keys just to get into the house. Thankful that you listened to him, looking up and seeing you did in fact close your curtains. Smiling to himself at how you acted on your promise. Even if you were going to do it already, Choso couldn't help but think you did it just because he told you to.

Making sure to gently lay on his bed when he got home, on the brink of falling asleep before hearing his phone ding. He wanted to ignore it, but thoughts of what if it was you flooded his mind. Picking up his phone a staring at it with squinty eyes, seeing you had sent him a photo. ‘ik its late but i wanted u to know this is what i was referring to btw’ he read, waiting for the photo to load. Seeing it was a very sad cat, ‘oh god did i look like that ?’ he typed, trying his best to sound coherent. ‘yes u did!!! thats why i told u that’ he read hearing your voice in his mind. ‘im sorry if u were sleepin’ you double texted. Making Choso roll over slowly on his bed and hug his pillow with a small blush on his cheeks. ‘i wont lie, i was about to’ he replied, seeing you start to type. ‘ok ok ill let u sleep, text me in the morning ok?’ you asked, your coherence made it clear to Choso that you probably ate something to soak up what was in your stomach. ‘ok’ he sent, typing with one eye open, ‘goodnight :)’ before shutting his phone off and snuggling into his pillow pretending it was you.

Obsessive!Choso who’s assumptions were true, you had finally eaten a sad grilled cheese and had a cup of coffee before your roommate got home. Suddenly regretting every single thing you had confessed to Choso. Worrying you made him uncomfortable or offended him by your slurred words that had no meaning behind them. Even if it was embarrassing recalling all the things you had said to him, you were glad they were said. Knowing that if you hadn't found the confidence to tell him, those words probably wouldn't have been spoken till you were frustrated with the lack of progress. But now the looming thought of ‘Did he mean he liked me in a friend way, or in another way?’ was heavy. Frustration creep back into your mind, feeling like you haven't made any progress at all.

Sunday was spent in bed for Choso, feeling a little under the weather. Watching the small red dot on his phone move anytime you needed to run an errand for your roommate. It worried you- him feeling ill. Knowing how long he spent outside just to get you home. You tried asking him if you could come over with medicine. But the mere thought of you standing in his apartment, inches away from the shrine he had in his closet. Various photos of you in small frames around his apartment. It made him shiver at the thought. Clearing his throat before assuring you. “I’m fine- I'll be fine.” holding back the itching cough that tickled his throat. He did find it endearing that you would have risked your own health for him. The anxiety just thinking about you coming to see him was 50-50 with the heart aching feeling of actually letting you see him. 

There was nothing more Choso wanted than to have you at his side, be it the rising fever or his feelings. But he struggled to deny your attempts to see him, feeling a certain ache in his heart to be doted on. It pained him to say ‘no’ to you, it really did. But he couldn't risk you coming here. Almost crying by picturing you being upset at the things he had stolen from you, telling him he was your stalker the whole time. Monday came like a grade four hurricane. Choso woke up feeling like death came for him in the night, blinking his eyes open and seeing the time. Knowing one of the three classes he had with you started in an hour. If he was being honest, Choso knew he’d get sick eventually. Cold weather and an unheated apartment have never made the greatest combination. What he didn’t expect was to wake up on the day of classes and feel like a victorian child being eaten away by the plague. 

Choso dreaded sending you that text. It sounded like a lame excuse, like a lie. ‘im too sick to go to class, im sorry’ he felt like he was failing you in some way that you'd never forgive. But your quick replies of ‘i knew it’ and demanding his address and apartment number made his heart warm. When he didn't reply; you called him. He picked up on the first ring, “I was just about to text you back.” he croaked, his voice raspier than usual. “I sent those texts like 10 minutes ago.” you scolded, hearing him give you a half laugh from his chest. “I fell asleep.” he played coy, smiling as he pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Don't lie!” you smiled, being able to hear him let out a small huff. “I would never lie to you.” he muttered, cozying into his blankets as he closed his eyes. His incoherent words made you smile, telling him to send his address now. 

Obsessive!Choso who felt his brain pound in his mind. “No. Go to class. And pay attention.” he mumbled quietly letting his inner thoughts slip, making you sigh dramatically. “I’ll think about it.” you muttered, being able to hear his breathing steadily over the phone. Whispering his name and hearing small heaving. Thinking he probably fell asleep. You sat in your living room contemplating actually going to class. Hearing your roommates leave the house one by one. With a loud sigh you sat up, knowing there wasn't anything you could do unless he gave you an address. Sitting in your intro to humanities class. Knowing this was one of the classes you were to have with Choso, you were fiddling with a pen in frustration. Staring at the screen of your computer as you heard the professor talk on and on.

Something the professor said made you remember Choso had sent you a photo of his courses for that semester. Opening it on your dimmed phone, scanning the photo and seeing the upper corner showed the street name of where he lived. Knowing that there was only one small apartment complex; if you could even call it that, near the campus. And coincidentally it was on the same street that the photo showed. If you were being honest, this made you feel like a stalker. But you were doing it for good, you just wanted to help a friend. 

Smiling to yourself before gathering your things mid class. Walking to the grocery store close to your house. Surprisingly, the weather wasn't as bad as it had been the past few days. Today it was surprisingly sunny and not as cold. Picking up any kind of medicine that looked like it would work, not caring what it cost or if it was a name brand. Coming home to an empty house and packing a few things into a duffle bag, ordering an uber to take you to a small restaurant. Picking up a small bowl of chicken soup and riding to his apartment complex. Furrowing your eyebrows when you stood in front of the two story building, knowing that Choso was bed ridden in one of the 8 studio apartments. Suddenly realizing you had just come without warning, you called him.

Hearing the phone ring, and ring, and ring before he picked up. Nasally and hoarse as he mumbled a quiet “Hello?” gaining a small smile from you before you spoke, “Which apartment is yours?” you asked with an obvious smile in your tone. You heard silence before he spoke, “What?” he asked, being able to hear the confusion in his voice. “I said-” you trailed, “Which apartment is yours? I'm outside.” you laughed, hearing silence on his end. 

Obsessive!Choso who felt like his whole world would come crashing down if you even stepped into his apartment. Finding a sudden burst of energy and sprinting across his apartment and collecting everything that could look suspicious. Muttering various ‘what do you mean’ and ‘why’ trying to distract you from what he was doing. Finding a black photo box big enough to fit all the things you gave him that he had hidden in his closet. Standing in the middle of his apartment, “H-how was class?” He tried changing the conversation. Hearing you exhale dramatically, “Boring.” you mumbled. His eyes went wide when he found an old vent big enough to fit it in. Hearing you tell him to hurry up while he undid painted over screws with his hands. “No- really it's a mess-” he tried deterring you, only hearing you sigh before shouting at him playfully. “Choso, I don't care! Let me in.” Slipping the box into the vent as quietly as he could, closing the vent and standing up. Quickly scanning his apartment trying to see if he missed anything. “You take any longer and I'll go knocking on every door till you answer.” you teased, hearing him let out a low cough. 

“It's on the second floor- number 4.” he exhaled, gulping down as much of the coarseness he had in his voice as he could. Standing against the door as he heard you hand up the phone, not even bothering to check what he looked like as he waited. His heart beating faster and faster as he heard footsteps outside of his door. A small knock before his hand hesitated to reach the door knob. Unlocking the lock and wrapping his hand around the brass knob, turning it slowly. Cracking the door and seeing you, hands full and already beaming. Hearing you gasp, “You look horrible.” You grinned, scanning his state. Disheveled hair, squinty eyes, and cheeks derived from any color, looking paler than normal. He let out a phlegm riddled chuckle, “And you look great.” he smiled, feeling his brain turn to mush by just looking at you.

“Let me innn.” you hummed, knowing he was speaking nonsense. Seeing him nod no while his hand was firm on the doorknob. “No-” he gave you a weak smile, “I'll get you sick.” He scoffed, looking at you through the small crack. “I don't care. Besides-” you gave him a toothy grin. “If you don't let me in your soup’ll get cold.” You hummed, seeing him close his eyes and look to the floor. Looking back up at you with soft eyes, letting go of the doorknob and pushing the door open. Taking a step inside, scanning the four walls of his so-called apartment. Placing the duffle bag on the counter of his small kitchen. “You were right-” you trailed, seeing he didn't have much decor, or really anything on his walls. “It's colder here than it is outside-” you joked, looking over to him and seeing he looked almost bashful.

Obsessive!Choso who heard you unzip the bag before he apologized, “I know- I’m sorry-” seeing you turn to him with a miniscule space heater in your hands. Letting out a small laugh at the way you displayed it between your hands. Seeing him slouched over himself, almost trying his best to stay standing upright. “Go lay down, you look like you'll keel over if you keep standing.” You smiled, unpacking the small tub of soup as he shuffled over to his bed. Sitting down gently as he watched you make yourself comfortable. Turning on the small battery operated heater and hearing him give a pained laugh. You muttered a quiet, ‘Shut up’ as you looked to his kitchen, “Bowls?” you asked, looking over to him watching you on his side.

“In the cupboard above the stove.” he grumbled, seeing you nod and reach up to open the cabinet and seeing a single bowl. “Choso, if I open up one of these drawers am I gonna see just one spoon?” your tone was already accusatory, “Definitely don't open the drawer closest to the microwave then.” he smiled, closing his eyes as he heard you open the drawer with a gasp. Smiling when he heard you stepping to him, placing the glass bowl on his nightstand. “Eat. Then I'll give you medicine.” You demanded. Seeing him open his eyes and look up at you. 

You turned around and pulled out the chair that was at his desk, rolling it to face the bed. Humming quietly as you walked back to the kitchen counter. Hearing him shuffle out of bed and sit up against the wall, “I thought you couldn't cook?” he smiled, taking a small sip of the warm soup. “I can’t- if I did cook for you, you'd end up even more sick.” you mumbled, walking back to the chair and sitting on it. Placing the medicine on his side table as he ate. He looked over at you with hazy eyes, “Why didn't you go to class?” he hummed, looking over to you. “I did-” you assured him, “-but I left like 20 minutes in.” you laughed. 

Obsessive!Choso who wanted to scold you, nodding his head ‘no’ in disapproval. “Why?” he mumbled, feeling his throat sting. “I kept picturin you all alone, dry heaving in your cold-” you laughed, “- apartment and I felt horrible.” You tilted your head, seeing him stare at you with the bowl in his hands. “Especially since you're always so nice to me-” you hummed, “I thought it was my turn to do something kind.” crossing your ankles and seeing his hazy eyes look at you as though this was the first nice thing anyone had done for him.

“How did you find out where I lived?” he asked, setting the bowl onto his nightstand. You widened your eyes slightly, leaning in closer to him. “I stalked you.” You whispered, seeing his smile fall and scan your face. He mouthed a small ‘What?’ before you leaned back into the chair. “No, in the uh- picture you sent me of your classes this semester-” you grinned, “it had the address in the corner.” you looked at him disapprovingly. “Ah.” he smiled, “Either way- when I feel better I'll find a way to repay you.” He promised, seeing your delicate hands pick up the bottle of cold medicine and shake them in his direction.

Seeing him pop the bottle open and take them dry. “You can pay me back by taking me out.” you whirred. Choso froze up, looking at your face to see if you were being serious or not. You raised your eyebrows when you waited for him to reply, “Well?” you asked, looking at him while blinking slowly. “I can't focus on what I want to say to you right now.” He mumbled, turning away from you and feeling goosebumps form on his arm. 

“Don't think about what to say. Just tell me what you think.” You assured, wanting to know what thoughts he hid from you. “I think-” he started, wanting to avoid this conversation in its entirety. Seeing his cheeks flushed as he avoided your gaze, you scooched the rolling chair closer to him. ‘Hmm?’ you hummed, placing your hand atop his that was on the edge of his bed. All but flinching when he felt you. “What do you mean by-” he gulped, looking back at you with pinched eyebrows and shy eyes. His ears burning, mentally blaming it on your tiny heater. “...Take you out?” his eyes showing you how unsure he was asking you that. You gave Choso a small giggle, “You’re a lot less intimidating when you look at me like that.” you teased, seeing him close his eyes at how embarrassed he felt. “I meannn-” you droned on, “Like on a ‘date’ or something.” You leaned back into the chair, making this conversation sound way too casual. “You want me to take you on a date?” he asked, unsure if he heard you correctly. You nodded your head ‘yes’, seeing him think about it. Finding it very difficult to process what you were saying.  “...As friends?” he asked quietly, voice hoarse and cheeks pink. You let out a laugh, seeing his expression fall. Settling down a little and looking at him with warm eyes. “You're impossible.” your tone endearing with a smile on your lips. 

Obsessive!Choso whose face looked horrified. “No Choso. Not as friends.” You grinned, tightening the grip you had on his hand. The blush roamed down his neck. “I suspected so- b-but I didn't want to assume.” he stammered, reddening cheeks feeling lightheaded by hearing your words. You furrowed your eyebrows, standing from the chair and pressing your hand on his forehead. Leaning over slightly, Choso lightly inhaled, feeling your hand on his face. Pressing the back of your hand to his cheek and humming. “You're warm-” you mumbled, seeing him close his eyes. “It's the heater-” he smiled, lifting his hand and wrapping it around your wrist. Hearing you scoff at his accusation, pulling your hand from his face. Looking into your eyes and blinking up at you.

“Don't blame my heater for your blushing.” You joked, rolling your eyes before sitting down. His hand falling from your wrist as you saw him stumble over his words. “M’not blushing.” he huffed, fiddling with his thumbs. “Sure. Blame it on you being sick.” you teased, seeing him look over at you. Not even bothered by the conversation at hand, treating this as though it was some casual topic. Finally being able to gather his thoughts, ‘You're going to kill me one of these days, you know that?’ he thought to himself, seeing you look rather pleased with how flustered he was.

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing on his night stand. Seeing your eyes look down to see who it was, “Who's ‘Yuuji’ with a heart emoji?” you asked, looking up at him with a perked brow. Picking up his phone and seeing it ring, “My baby brother.” he whispered, clicking the small green button and raising the phone to the ear opposite to the one facing you. 

Obsessive!Choso who answered “Hello?”, hearing his brother ask him questions. “No- No i'm better now.” he smiled, looking down to his lap. Strands of his hair falling and blocking your view of his face. “Yes Yuuji, I took medicine already-” he was cut off. Feeling your fingers push the hair from his face behind his ear, pads your fingers grazing his earrings. Looking over at you with a shocked expression before stuttering. “Y-yes I ate-” feeling his blush return. “I-I’m alone-” He stammered, you furrowed your eyebrows. Leaning in closer to hear what his brother was saying, so close the air he inhaled was sweetened by your perfume.

‘You never stutter- who's with you?!’ the voice from his phone asked him, making you smile. Choso tried leaning away from you, only for you to lean on the edge of the bed trying to hear. “My friend is here-” he irked, seeing you give him an offended look. Squinting your eyes as you feigned offense, ‘Friend?’ you gasped quietly. Making Choso nod his head ‘no’ in defense as his brother scolded him for making someone else sick. Even hearing his brother ask, ‘You have friends?!’ with a laugh before he exhaled harshly. “I will call you later Yuuji.” his tone stern and authoritative as you settled back in your chair. Silence in the air as you hear- ‘Tell your lover i say hiii-’ his brother teased before Choso hung up. Your perfume still stuck in the air close to his face.

It was quiet, sure. But you heard him clearly, making note it was the second time; that you knew of, that his brother referred to you as that. He looked over at you hesitatingly, seeing a smug look on your face. “Your brothers must be my biggest fans.” You tease seeing him give a pained laugh, clutching his ribs as he leaned against the wall. “They really are-” he grumbled, seeing you from the corner of his eye. Seeing you hesitate before asking. “You really love your brothers huh.” You asked, Choso turned his head to look at you. 

“There aren’t words that could come close to describing how much I love them.” He declared, noticing a hint of sadness in your eyes at his words. “That's really sweet Choso.” You replied, giving him a warm smile. “And you? Do you have any siblings?” he asked, mentally scolding himself for not having asked you that sooner. “I do-” you replied without thinking. “Did- I did.” you nodded. Furrowing his eyebrows, “Did they…pass?” he pressed, not liking the look on your face. Almost like it pained you to speak about this. “Last time I checked? No, they're very much alive. Just not family anymore.” You shrugged, seeing the confusion in his eyes. 

“I don't understand.” He blurted, not seeing how that was possible. “They're only a blood relation.” You trailed on, looking down to your hands on your lap. “They were always just random people I lived with.” You slouched your shoulders, “But they're your family.” he mumbled, snapping your head to look up at him. “They've never been a family to me. Not now, and they never will be.” You declared, looking back at him with furrowed eyebrows. Tone more stern as you saw his face, full of pity and sorrow.

Obsessive!Choso who wanted to hear more, asking you- “Older or younger?” hoping to know why you hold such disdain towards them. “Both.” You mumbled, looking at his face. Feeling like he was staring right into the largest crack you had in your heart. Choso took your hand, making you look at him with pinched eyebrows and soft eyes. Running his thumb over your knuckles.

“That's why I think it's so sweet how much you care for your brothers. Mine never cared the way you do.” You grinned, seeing him look at you with a soft smile. Choso couldn't help but feel his chest swell with pride. At being a good older brother, and from receiving a compliment from you. “I'm sorry.” he apologized for nothing, you gave him a prize winning smile. Scoffing before speaking up, “It's fine. I'm fine, I'll live.” You assured. ‘I am still sorry. I'm sorry you weren't cherished the way you should’ve been.’ Choso thought, blinking down to his hand holding yours. Feeling his heart throb in his chest from how much progress he had made with you.

pt 10 here

-

the past few days I was writing this it felt like it was never ending omg- THANK U FOR READING. I know I took a hot second in writing this- unfortunately life kicked me in the butt. ANYWAYS. im alr writing next part- (lets pretend im not the author of this) EVERYONE CALM DOWN THINGS ARE HAPPENING HEHE

[wintrwinchestr]

bite the hand

the killer & the sound - chapter 3

summary: you hadn't expected joel to put such an abrupt end to... whatever it is you two had. or, what you thought you had, anyway. you write and perform a new song on the second night of the tour about it, and the consequences aren't quite what you expected them to be. how could something that seemed so simple at first have become so complicated?

warnings: 18+, smut, no outbreak au, no use of y/n, rockstar!joel, aspiring rockstar!reader, d/s dynamics, pretty major daddy kink, age gap (reader is early-mid 20’s, joel is early-mid 50’s), pet names (sweetheart, darlin', baby, babygirl, songbird(!!), etc), big time angst, daddy/mommy issues, religious shame, degradation (joel calls you a whore), spanking, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv sex, manhandling, one (1) kiss, spitting, smoking (reader & other characters), drinking (reader & other characters), getting walked in on, characters who need therapy sooooo badly, lots of internal monologue, let me know if i missed any!!

word count: 13.2k

a/n: as always, thank you so much for your patience and sticking around to see what i put our pookies through this time. these chapters just keep getting longer and longer but it's not my fault they have a lot to say!!!!! if you'd like an idea of what reader's lil diss track sounds like, i very much imagined gibson girl by ethel cain when i wrote it. thank you as always to my best babygirl kiers i love u to death. i hope you like this one, nice comments/reblogs appreciated if you enjoyed!!

series masterlist

read this chapter on ao3

divider by @saradika-graphics

Jesus Christ, what the hell is he doing?

Joel has been in the shower for at least thirty minutes now, and he’s spent more than half of that time just letting the scalding water pound against his back as his vision goes blurry from the steam. He finished his “rinse off” within five minutes of stepping inside the bathroom, and now he’s just stalling, wondering how the fuck he’s supposed to go back out there and get in bed with you.

If it weren’t for the decades’ worth of tattoos that he can see when he looks down at his bare body, he wouldn’t be able to recognize himself right now. He’s always been one to hit it and quit it, love ‘em and leave ‘em, or whatever little figure of speech you want to use for just being a fucking playboy. Since when has he ever cleaned a girl up, given her his clothes to wear, let her sleep over after he fucks her? Though, he has to give himself some credit, it’s not like he was planning on letting you stay. He was just trying to preserve some of your dignity, but then, when did he even decide to start caring about shit like that? 

Fuck.

When the tour bus jerks to life as the driver begins the trip to the next city, the loss of balance is enough to finally snap Joel out of the uncharacteristic morality spiral he’s now found himself in. He rubs his hands across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and cursing under his breath, knowing that he can’t hide in here and avoid you forever. Besides, he’s getting old, and he has to sleep at some point if he wants to be at least a little functional tomorrow. And what is he so fucking scared of, anyway? 

Joel turns off the water, and the knob screeches in protest as the dull roar of the shower fades into silence. He steps out of the stall and hardly makes any effort to dry himself off, solely focused on getting out of there before the fog evaporates from the mirror and he’s forced to confront his own reflection. He shakes out his hair and pulls on a clean pair of briefs, then sends out a silent prayer to whoever the fuck might be listening, begging for help in making it through the night without having to address whatever it is that’s gnawing at his conscience. He didn’t even think he had one of those anymore.

Joel enters the bedroom quietly, hoping that you’d be exhausted enough to have fallen asleep by the time he returned. When you don’t even twitch as he shuts the door behind him and climbs under the covers, he lets out the breath he’d been holding, and lays himself down as close to the edge of the mattress as he can without falling off the damn thing. If he can put as much distance between the two of you as possible tonight, maybe he can make it out the other side unscathed.

Just when he thinks he’s in the clear, having settled himself down with his back to you and situated his silk sheets and pillows to his liking, he feels you roll over in your sleep as you let out some dreamy little whine. Joel likes to keep it cold on the bus, and your shivering form must feel the heat still radiating off of him from his shower, because then you’re wrapping your little arms around his bicep and pulling him close. He wants to shake you loose, to put some extra pillows in between your bodies just for good measure, but he can’t be so cruel. Not when you look like such a goddamn angel, sleeping so peacefully with your hair spread out around you like a halo, long lashes fluttering against your cheeks. He wonders what you’re dreaming about. 

Joel isn’t sure when exactly it happened, but somewhere in between that very first rehearsal and right now, the lines started to blur between a fun little fling he wasn’t going to think twice about letting go of once the tour ended, and something that he wants to sink his claws into and claim as his own. He has to face it now, whether he wants to or not—he can’t get himself to push you away, to growl at you not to touch him and to stay on your own side of the bed, because he doesn’t want to. What he wants is to tattoo his fucking name right underneath that shitty moth on your upper thigh, and therein lies the problem.

He has a history of breaking things, of being too controlling and rough and mean when he plays with his toys, until they fight back and tear themselves apart as they escape his clutches. But you seem like something that can’t be broken, that would glue itself back together just to get played with again the next day, and that sets off some alarms he didn’t know he was capable of hearing. Maybe he does still have a conscience, after all.

At first, Joel had liked how eager and willing and naive you were, how easily he could push and pull you this way and that because you didn’t seem to realize what this was. Or at least, what it was intended to be. Whether you were smart to his intentions or not was never really his concern before, but now… You’re nuzzling your face into his arm, breathing in his scent and letting it soothe you as it coats your senses, and it’s awakening something protective, possessive, in him. Joel has never been good at romance or love or relationships, and he had resigned himself a long time ago to the fact that he’d never be able to settle down. The life he lives can’t sustain something steady or healthy like that anyway, what with the touring and the groupies and the sex and the alcohol. 

But now here you are, this fragile and yet unbreakable thing in his bed who he worries wouldn’t run away no matter how much he growled and bared his teeth. And god dammit, that scares him. Joel had thought he was done being scared, that he had left that feeling behind before you were even born, probably. And yet, here it is creeping up on him again, grabbing him by the throat and suffocating him. You’ve got real talent and beauty, with a promising future and blossoming career ahead of you, and you’d probably give it all up and follow him into the darkness if he promised to call you a good girl once you did.

Joel has never been a very good man, but something about you makes him really have to stare down the barrel of it now. He can’t do this to you, he can’t let you in, and he knows that. He’d poison you, if he hasn’t already. And he can’t give to you what you seem to think this is, what it could be, if he wasn’t so fucking damaged. So he decides it then, as he doesn’t stop his hand from brushing a stray strand of your halo out of your delicate face, that he has to put a stop to this first thing in the morning. And he has to be cold and concise about it, so that you’re perfectly clear on what the two of you are going to be from now on, even if it hurts you. You’re a big girl, and he trusts that you’ll get over it somehow, because letting this continue would hurt you a hell of a lot worse, in the end.

And you seemed to have taken it well, all things considered. He didn’t tell you the whole truth, the real reason why he decided to yank the arrow out of your heart when he was the one who shot it in there in the first place. Because then you’d know that he’s a broken man who also breaks things, and he can only shatter so many of your illusions about him in one morning. He knows this is his fault, and he was at least man enough to take the blame, he can give himself that. He had decided to paint himself as an actually respectable person who knows when he’s taken something too far, who definitely does have a conscience. Maybe you’re the one who lured it out of the dark cave it was hiding in, but he still can’t risk anything, on the off chance that he still is the same mangled man he always was and the one he will continue to be. So he lies to you, just a little bit, because what you don’t know won’t hurt you, and he can’t let you come any closer for fear of causing even more pain than he already has. 

Joel watched as your bare legs carried you out of the living area and off of his bus, the tops of your thighs just barely concealed by his shirt he had lent you the night before. He didn’t react when you slammed the door on your way out, he had expected you to do as much. But he did half-expect you to turn around and spit a fuck you, Joel at him the way he would have deserved. It might have hurt less if you did, that way you would have left a sour taste in his mouth to replace the still-lingering flavor of your pussy mixed with the cum he had spilled inside you last night. 

God, he is so fucked.

—

You had made sure to thank the audio technicians before you disappeared from the venue after your sound check, but otherwise avoided looking at or speaking to anyone on your way out. Especially him. You had held Angel close as you swiftly made your way back to your bus before Death’s Head had a chance to take the stage for their turn, not wanting to hear any more of Joel’s voice than you’ve had to today. Besides, it’s already been looping like a skipping record in your mind since this morning, refusing to let up no matter how hard you try to drown it out. 

Mistake, respect, and professional are the choice words that are chanting themselves over and over again, so many times that they almost don’t sound real anymore, just a random sequence of letters and noises that you can’t make sense of. What happened last night didn’t feel like a mistake to you, especially not when he was so gentle in cleaning you up afterwards, when he brought you a glass of water, when he let you curl up against him in his bed, wearing his clothes. He sure as hell had plenty of time to decide that you were worthy of respect before he had you act like a whore on stage in front of tens of thousands of people for his own sick pleasure. (And apparently yours, but that’s not the point.) And now you’re supposed to believe that he suddenly had a change of heart overnight, that splitting you open on his cock and using your body to get what he wanted made him finally develop a moral compass and decide that he wants to start acting like a professional? Damn, maybe you are more powerful than you thought. 

You just can’t believe you were stupid enough to let yourself feel something for him. He was just playing you like his guitar this entire fucking time, a pretty instrument that he can pluck and strum and draw pretty noises from, then put away without a second thought. He’s a celebrity, a rockstar, for fuck’s sake. Half of his songs are about sex, and if the rumors are true, he recorded the original intro to Kiss it Better while he was hooking up with some groupie in a bathroom. Just like you, he had probably used her to get what he wanted, then dropped her like it was nothing. Of course he never fucking cared about you. 

You should burn the clothes that he sent you scurrying back to your bus wearing this morning. They’re currently shoved into the bottom of your plain-looking laundry bag in the corner of your room, though you’re half tempted to just toss the whole thing into the dumpster behind the venue and set it ablaze. But you know he doesn’t care about material things as much as he does his ego, and it’s going to be much more satisfying to set that on fire than some worn-out pieces of clothing, anyway. Destroying them also wouldn’t do anything about the way you keep catching an inhale of his cologne every once in a while, the masculine smell of it wafting from his t-shirt and carving out an undesired space for itself in your brain. You try to ignore the way your cunt flutters against your will at the scent, at the memories it conjures, and hope that she doesn’t develop a habit of betraying you like this when it comes to him. She almost gets the better of you, tempting you to second guess your plan to perform your scathing new song at the end of your set tonight.

Almost.

You’re feeling good about what you wrote, and you’d be even more upset with yourself if you backed out now, if you gave in to Joel once again, without him even knowing it this time. He seems to think that he knows you better than you know yourself, that he can make decisions for you and that he always knows just what to say to get you to do as he asks. For once, you want him to be fucking wrong about you.

The show starts in just under an hour, and you’re dedicating your last bit of quiet solitude to solidifying the new words and the motions of your fingers in your memory. While you were scribbling in your notepad earlier today, you had tried to ride the fine line between calling him out so blatantly and using descriptions that were too clichéd, and you’re happy with the in-between that you landed on. The song could be about anyone, but it isn’t, and if the shoe fits when he tries it on, oh fucking well. Plenty of men wear the same size, and if he wants to make yet another thing about himself, that’s not your problem.

Ideally, you had wanted to include the song in your sound check so that your band would be prepared for tonight, until you had let your eyes drift to the side of the stage and saw Joel observing in the darkness, just like he had done while you were performing the night before. You suppose it wouldn’t be very professional of him to avoid you like the plague the way you’re trying to do with him, but still. You had averted your eyes as quickly as you had spotted him, and decided that the song was just going to have to be a surprise for everyone, not just Joel. Your band members are smart enough guys, you’re sure they’ll be able to catch on and back you up when it’s time to unveil what you had been working on all day. But if they don’t, you’re prepared for it to just be you and Angel up there, the same way it has been for as long as you’ve been making music. Until recently, at least.

You’ve opted to get yourself dressed and ready in the safety of your bus, attempting to avoid a repeat of last night’s pre-show interactions with Joel by minimizing the amount of time you actually have to spend inside the venue. You doubt he’ll try anything, but considering how unafraid he was to volunteer himself as a witness to your sound check, you’d rather not risk it. So, you do your best to keep your distance as you make your way off the bus and to the side of the stage with Angel in tow, hoping that your viscous aura alone will be enough to keep him away. 

Your band members are already waiting for you in the wings when you get there, and you tuck yourself safely behind the group of them as you wait for the lights to go down. You ghost your fingers along Angel’s strings one last time, just to make sure that your muscle memory is securely locked into place—it is, because you’re fucking good at this. You don’t need Joel’s whispered praises and soothing touches to know that you’re a star, and you don’t want them. You don’t. You fucking killed it last night, and you knew it before he told you so, because your ears were still ringing long after the audience had finished applauding and screaming for you. For your own performance, not for the on-stage degradation you endured because of a dumb teenage crush you couldn’t seem to shake off.

If your timing is right, you should’ve gone on a few minutes ago now. Each passing minute has you gnawing at your bottom lip and picking at your nails with increasing intensity as you and the audience both become more restless. You aren’t sure what the hold up is, but you just want to get out there and safely away from the possibility of Joel before you make one of your goddamn fingers bleed. You’re so consumed in your destructive self-soothing that you don’t hear the sound of jingling chains and creaking leather approaching you where you stand, followed by a clearing throat and the last voice you want to fucking hear right now.

“Tommy told me they’re jus’ tryin’ to fix a light or somethin’. Shouldn’t be too much longer now,” Joel says, and you stiffen as he speaks. He sounds earnest in the way he addresses the group of you, but the feeling of his gaze lingering on your skin tells you his true intentions.

Your bandmates hum in acknowledgement as they maintain their casual demeanors, while you shift your jaw and remain steadfast in your stoicism. Your face is calm and concentrated, but your fidgeting hands tell a different story, and the telltale habit is most of what prompted Joel to come over here against his better judgment. He so badly wants to take your hands in his so that you’ll stop tearing at your skin, to massage the worry right out of your palms and tell you there’s nothing to be nervous about, just like he did last night. Though, you’d probably bite his goddamn fingers clean off if he even so much as reached out a hand in your direction, and he wouldn’t entirely blame you if you did, considering that he’s more than likely the reason for your agitation.

Instead, he settles for asking, in as neutral of a tone as possible, “You okay, darlin’?”

Your gaze remains focused on the stage, on the mic you should be standing behind right now, if it weren’t for some stupid fucking light. After a pointed beat, you answer him with a short, “I’m fine.”

You can see in your peripheral vision that Joel nods and shifts his weight, moving a little further behind your band and closer to you. He lets a matching bit of silence pass, for some reason not using the opportunity to just turn around and walk away, before speaking again. “Quit messin’ with your fingers.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you snap, whipping your head to finally face him. You peer up at Joel from under your eyebrows, putting on a stony face and doing your best to look intimidating even as he towers over you. Despite your efforts, your heart still flutters for just a second when your eyes meet, before he drops his own gaze to the floor and takes a step back from you.

“That how this is gonna be?” Joel asks, and you could swear he sounds a little defeated.

“Yeah, it is.”

You turn yourself back to the stage again, and he takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself and suppress a reaction to your attitude that he might regret.

“Look, can we–” he starts, but a sudden burst of screams and hollers cuts him off as the venue lights finally dim. You push past your bandmates and stomp your way towards the stage, feeling volatile and as determined as you’ve ever fucking been to give a killer performance tonight. You could’ve spit some real fire at him, told him to leave you the fuck alone like you had been so tempted to, but you didn’t want to scare him off. You don’t even need to check to know that he’s still standing exactly where you left him, and that he’ll probably stay there and watch you the whole time because he doesn’t know what the fuck he wants, apparently. Maybe you should bring him onstage for his public humiliation the same way he did to you, see how he likes it. But you have a little more humanity than he does, and if it all works out, he’ll have to watch you tear him down surrounded by his own bandmates and brother, and that’s gratifying enough for you.

When you and your band have all taken your places, you introduce yourself to tonight’s crowd with a newfound vigor, and begin your set with a chord so resonant it vibrates your bones. The sound surrounds you, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking loose the wallflower version of you who performed these same songs just last night. It feels like a metamorphosis, like the moths that adorn the strap slung around your body and the one etched into your skin finally belong to you instead of him.

—

You sail through your set, never stumbling over a chord or missing a lyric, even in your anticipation to reach the end. While you thank the crowd and wait for their roaring cheers to die down, you finally chance a look at the side of the stage. Just as you had predicted before you went on, Joel’s silver-tipped boots are still planted in the same place they were thirty minutes ago. Perfect.

“Y’all have been amazing tonight, this was so much fun,” you pant into the mic. “I, uh… I actually have one more song before I go, if that’s alright. Just wrote it this morning.”

Another wave of whistles and applause engulfs you as you turn to check on your bandmates, who all wear confused expressions as expected. You step back from the mic to tell each of the guys the key and tempo of what you wrote, and ask if they can maintain something steady and follow along while you carry the melody. When they’ve all gotten the plan, they look at each other and wordlessly communicate a final decision, seeming to be up to the challenge. 

You resume your place at the front of the stage, taking one last look at your victim before beginning to strum the song’s now-familiar echoing intro. The tone is a little Western, and you wrote it that way on purpose, just as an extra hidden jab toward the obnoxious midnight cowboy persona Joel had first lured you in with. Your haunting voice comes in a few measures later, singing lyrics that are unlike anything you’ve written before. They’re darker, more graphic, and they tell the story of a girl and a cold-blooded man covered in leather and tattoos, who got her alone one night and ripped her clothes off and whispered things he didn’t mean while he fucked her. And after everything was said and done, the girl had lied to herself, replaying everything that had happened between her and the cold-blooded man that night, convincing herself that because it felt good, because he was good to her, that it had meant something. She had bared her body and soul to him, only to find out that he had also been lying to her that night, playing with her like a doll who didn’t know any better, who was just happy to get looked at and touched and praised by someone she had once held on such a high pedestal. You let the lights embrace you and warm your skin as you bare yourself once again, trusting this time that it won’t end in shame or hurt or tears. 

When the buildup of your lyrics and chords finally culminate in the song’s cathartic crash, the first thing you feel is relief, like a crushing weight has been lifted off your heart. The crowd’s enthusiastic response to your creation surrounds you, filling your ears and infiltrating your soul, and you can’t help but laugh at the overwhelming feeling. You gesture behind you for your band to meet you at the front of the stage, and you all bow together to another round of raucous cheering before making your way offstage. This time, you do remember to leave Angel behind, satisfied in what the two of you accomplished tonight.

You’re still reveling in the rush of your performance by the time you’re shrouded in the backstage darkness once again, so caught up in the feeling that you nearly forget what your moment of spontaneity was for in the first place. Or rather, who it was for. You didn’t have enough wherewithal to check if Joel would still be lying in wait once you exited the stage, mostly assuming that his ego would get the best of him and he’d just huff his way out to the buses for a smoke once he realized what you were doing.

You assumed wrong.

Before your eyes even have a chance to adjust to the change in lighting, a calloused hand is gripped tight onto your upper arm, dragging you deeper backstage as you exclaim in protest and try to snatch your arm out of the iron hold that traps it.

“What the—Joel?! Get the fuck off me! What are you–”

“Will you fuckin’ quiet down?” Joel hisses next to your ear. “Quit makin’ a goddamn scene, already made enough of one as it is.”

Despite your struggle against him, his size and strength overpower you, and before you know it you’re being shoved into a dressing room, the door getting slammed shut and locked behind you in a second.

“What the fuck, Joel?” you shout up at him as he backs you into the door, finally letting go of your arm to loom over you and brace one of his hands next to your head.

“I can ask you the same goddamn thing. What the fuck was that out there, hm?” He spits back at you.

You massage the aching finger-shaped marks on your skin where he had gripped you, eyeing him with an annoyed expression. “It was just a song, what is your fucking problem?”

He scoffs, rolling his neck as his brows twitch in disbelief. “Just a song, right. Everybody knew that shit was about me.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, both from the anxiety of being confronted like this and the aggravation caused by his egomaniacal tendencies. “You are so fucking self-centered, it’s insane. It could’ve been about anyone—”

“But it wasn’t, huh?” Joel interrupts. “Who else do they know that has a filthy title inked into his hand, as you put it. Gimme a break, sweetheart. As if that same title didn’t have you soakin’ your fuckin’ panties for me last night.”

You hate that you can feel your cunt flutter in response to his words. “Whatever, will you just let me go? This isn’t very professional of you, locking me in your goddamn dressing room just so you can throw a fit,” you retort.

Realization flashes across his face as he steps back from you, breathing a heavy sigh. “Professional…” he speaks quietly, testing out the word, searching for the meaning behind why you had used it so pointedly. “Jesus Christ, is that what this is about? You are such a goddamn child, you know that?”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, crossing your arms now that he’s given you the room to do so. “Didn’t seem to think of me that way last night. I’m a big girl, I can do what I want, why do you care so much if I wrote a stupid song about you?”

Joel shuts his eyes, scrunching up his face like he’s fighting against what he wants to say next. “Because, fuck—This ain’t what I wanted, okay? Said I wanted to keep it professional between us, not that I wanted you to make a goddamn fool outta me in front’a God and everybody.”

“Well, what do you want?” You push, stepping into his space as your blood begins to boil over. “Because I thought you fucking cared about me, and then you just told me to get lost this morning, like none of it meant anything to you—”

“Of course it fuckin’ meant somethin’ to me, Jesus Christ.” Joel says, so breathlessly it’s like the words escape his mouth before he can catch them. “Did this for your own goddamn good—”

“Oh, for my own good?”

“Yes, for your own good. Because I know what you want this to be, and I can’t give that to you, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Joel doesn’t answer, but he shifts his jaw like he considers it, and lets your angered breathing fill the silence.

“Huh?” You provoke, hitting your palms against his broad chest once. Your push hardly does anything to knock him off his balance, but you swear it makes his eyes darken. “Why not?” You demand a second time.

You can tell he wants to bite back, but he suppresses the instinct, instead backing away from you as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Y’ know what, I ain’t gonna do this with you right now. We can talk about this later.”

Joel makes for the exit, but you dart in front of the door handle, feet planted firmly on the ground as you block his only way out. You grit your teeth as you stare up at him, daring him to either do something about it or finish what he started.

He takes another steadying breath. “Really ain’t helpin’ your case much right about now. I suggest you move, sweetheart.” His voice registers a somewhat eerie calm, the kind that a storm usually follows.

“You don’t get to back out of this.”

“Ain’t backin’ out. Said we’re gonna talk about it later. Move.”

You stare at each other in strained silence for a few moments, neither of you in the mood to give in to the other. You doubt that you’re about to bear witness to the first time Joel has ever submitted to someone else, so you slide away from the door, making a vow to yourself to find him after the show and force him to make good on his word.

“‘S what I thought,” he huffs, unlocking the door and slinking out into the hallway. He holds his head a little too high for someone too scared to tell you how he feels, like it’ll eat him alive if he admits to anyone that he really does have a heart.

You step out of the room and watch him walk, waiting until he gets a few paces away from you to grumble under your breath, “Self-centered and a fucking coward.”

Either Joel wasn’t as far out of earshot as you had thought, or the angry thudding of your pulse inside your head had made it difficult to tell just how loud you had said your little dig. He stops in his tracks, giving you a second to sweat before turning around to face you. “What was that?” he asks, but you already know he had heard you loud and clear. He begins to stalk towards you, and that predatory sway of his shoulders has you suddenly feeling meek.

“N-nothing,” you lie, backing into the dressing room as he continues his prowl.

“Nah, go ahead. You wanna do this right now, we’ll do it right now. What’d you say, baby? C’mon.” Joel’s movement forces you backward until the base of your spine hits the edge of the vanity table in the room. You wince at the impact and the sound of the door slamming shut again, and then he’s bracing both of his hands on either side of your hips, caging you in. Joel’s hot breath ghosts against your face as his eyes seem to glow a fiery shade you’ve never seen before. “Say it again.”

You swallow hard, nervous eyes flitting around his face, unsure of the safest place to land, or if there even is one. “Called you a coward…” you admit softly, voice trembling.

“Yeah? I’m a fuckin’ coward? What else, hm? Why don’t you use your big girl words and say to my face what you really wanted to say about me out there instead o’ that bullshit lil’ poem you wrote.” He’s just being mean now, lashing out because you hit him where it hurts. But god fucking dammit, there’s something about the way he’s standing over you, how he’s using his size to intimidate you and how the smell of his cologne mingles with the fading aroma of his last cigarette, that begins to cloud your judgment. You can’t help the way a dampness begins to bloom between your thighs as a result of his demeaning words and close proximity.

You figure you don’t have much of a reason to hold anything back anymore, already having pissed him off by threatening his ego twice in one night. “I hate you,” you rasp, which is pretty much what the lyrics of your song boil down to. You do hate him, for saying all the right things and touching you all the right ways to make you think he wanted the two of you to be something, only to throw your naivety in your face, tell you that you’re acting like a child when he’s the one who tried to give up and walk out when something became more complicated than he could handle.

“Yeah, I bet you do. Think you can do better than that, though, huh? Sure had plenty to say earlier, don’t get all shy on me now, sweetheart.” He spits the pet name at you like it’s an insult, coated in the venom dripping from his sharp canines.

“Fuck you,” you snap, eyes welling up and threatening to spill over despite yourself.

Joel spins you around as soon as the words leave your lips, pinning your wrists behind your back with just one of his hands, using the other one to grip your jaw and make you face your own reflection in the vanity mirror. You shut your eyes tightly, not wanting to confront what he’s reduced you to, and he allows you to keep them that way for now.

“You want me to? That why you’re all fired up, ‘cause you need Daddy to fuck this bratty ass attitude outta you?” Joel rumbles next to your ear.

You struggle to shake your head in his hold, mumbling, “No, I don’t.”

“No? So if I reach my hand under this lil’ dress, I ain’t gonna feel that pretty pussy drippin’ for me?”

You aren’t sure why you bother lying to him again, humming an mm-mm that sounds more like a whimper.

“Hmm, let’s see about that, then,” Joel muses, releasing your face from his hold to bend you forward and flip up the skirt of your dress. “Would you look at that… panties are ‘bout fuckin’ soaked through, ain’t they?” You whine as he begins to rub your folds over your underwear, pulling back the crotch of them and letting it go so that you can feel the damp snap of the fabric against your sensitive skin. “Thought you were such a good girl… you like it a lil’ mean, hm? ‘S that why you pulled that stunt tonight, to get Daddy all worked up so he’d treat you the way you really been wantin’?”

You feel a stinging smack on your ass before you’ve even finished muttering a complete No. Joel’s rough hand does nothing to soothe the burn as he rubs it around your smarted flesh, squeezing at the plush of your ass with a possessive grip. “Had just about enough of you lyin’ to me tonight. Why don’t you tell me the goddamn truth and I’ll give you what you want, hm? Gonna ask one more time. You want Daddy to beat up this lil’ brat pussy?” He asks, moving his hand back to the wet fabric of your panties, circling your clit over the material with the pad of his finger.

You can’t help but moan at his crude language, releasing another pulse of wetness in response. “Mmh, yes, please—” you mewl.

“Open your fuckin’ eyes,” Joel barks, and it startles you into obedience. “Yes, who?” he challenges, making eye contact with your reflection in the mirror.

He continues his ministrations over your covered clit, and you force your brain to work through the distraction, to give him what he wants and not earn yourself another spank.

“Y-yes, Daddy, I want it,” you admit, your voice drenched in a pathetic need. 

Joel swiftly yanks your panties to the side, practically tearing them clean off your body with one hand in an effort to expose your swollen core to him, not daring to release your aching wrists from the other one’s hold. He circles your dripping entrance with the rough tips of two of his fingers, not pushing all the way inside just yet.

“Think you owe me a goddamn apology first, hm?” he taunts, using his fingers to smear your ashamed slick around your entrance.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry–” you whine, pushing back into him impatiently.

Smack. “For what, baby? What’re you sorry for?” Joel presses, his harsh spank telling you to stay fuckin’ still. 

“For… for writing that song… for calling you a c-coward… ‘m sorry, Daddy, I’m sorry–” you cry. He shoves both of his thick fingers inside you as your reward, carving out space for them inside your little hole as he starts up a bruising pace, the obscene wet sounds of his movements filling the room and mingling with your broken little wails. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does, getting ordered around and talked down to and used like this by someone you said you hated only a few minutes ago, but you don’t really care to unpack that right now. Or ever. Maybe you were naive and immature in thinking that this thing you’ve gotten yourself into could ever pan out like what you’ve seen in the movies, but you think you could learn to be content with what he is willing to offer you—praise doled out as easily as he deprives you of it, a firm hand and fingers that can strum along your clit as expertly as he does the strings of his guitar, and a cock that makes you feel like someone else entirely, that can send you somewhere far away and bring you back down to earth at the same time. You let him use his fingers to pound all that angst and fire and attitude out of you as your eyelids flutter shut again, losing yourself in the feeling of him.

“How many times I gotta tell you, huh? Keep ‘em open, look, baby,” Joel commands, letting go of your wrists to deliver a light smack to the side of your face. You fall forward at the sudden release of his hold, catching yourself on the vanity table and digging your nails into the hard surface to ground yourself. His punishing hand forces your gaze straight ahead with a claw-like grip on your jaw, and your eyelids still feel so heavy, everything moving slowly as you look at yourself in the mirror. Your parted lips, smeared mascara, and unfocused gaze paint a debauched version of yourself that you don’t recognize, blurred by the sleepy submissive state he seems to be able to plunge you into so easily. “Take a good goddamn look in the mirror, at what I’m doin’ to you, and you tell me if you really want this.”

Every sharp thrust of his hand against your cunt knocks loose more and more of your ability to think, let alone speak. But you know by now that if Joel demands a response from you, he’ll get one, coherent or not. He seems to like it when your words come out a ruined mess of whines and slurred syllables, anyway, getting off on how hard and fast he can knock down those walls you attempt to put up and turn you into something so servile and saccharine.

“Want it, please, Daddy,” you beg, struggling to hold yourself up as his fingers get you closer and closer to your release.

“You sure about that? ‘Cause this is what you’re gonna get, sweetheart,” Joel grunts, the exaggerated word punctuated by the stretch of a third finger joining the other two inside your already fucked-out cunt.

“D-don’t care, just want you—ah—” you’re cut off by the sudden stroking of Joel’s curled fingers against a particularly tender and unfamiliar spot inside you. You begin to unravel at the overwhelming feeling, letting out little wanton pleases and Daddys as you continue to soak his tattooed hand.

“Fuck, gonna be the goddamn death o’ me, lil’ songbird, you know that? Tried to stop this shit before it could get started, tried to keep you away from me, but I just can’t seem to fuckin’ help myself, can I? We’d be nothin’ but bad for each other, but—shit—been thinkin’ ‘bout this tight cunt all goddamn day, couldn’t get the taste o’ you outta my mouth. Reckon I never will… In fact—” Joel pulls his fingers out of you in an instant, and you cry out from the sudden loss as you watch him suck them clean in the mirror. You feel dizzy, letting him manhandle you as he spins you around to face him and hoists you on top of the vanity table with little effort. He groans as he crouches, pulling your drenched panties down your legs and tossing them somewhere behind him. With your raw-looking cunt now fully exposed to him, he spreads your legs wide and curses under his breath, “Should’a done this shit last night, fuck—” before diving in between your thighs and licking a long stripe from your entrance to your swollen clit. He latches onto the sensitive nub, closing his eyes and sucking hard as his large hands force your legs to stay open. You let your upper back rest against the mirror as he works you over, and the cool glass sends a shiver down your spine as your hips tilt upward, allowing him better access.

He drinks from you as if you taste like his favorite top-shelf whiskey, growling into your flesh as he’s surely leaving fingertip-shaped bruises on the softness of your thighs. He alternates between swirling his tongue around your clit and fucking it in and out of your hole, beckoning you to spill yourself into his mouth. He savors every wave of slick that pours from you, each of your little cries and whimpers making his cock strain harder against the confines of his jeans. 

You can’t help but let one of your hands drift to his hair, and he doesn’t stop you from grabbing onto his messy curls as you buck pathetically against his tongue. 

“Such a sweet lil’ cunt, got me fuckin’ addicted to it, I swear…” Joel half-whispers, rubbing his thumb in circles around your clit to make up for the absence of his tongue as he speaks, your hips still desperately chasing after his movements. He spits onto your folds once, watching it drip between the curves of them for a moment before lapping up your combined juices and picking up where he left off. Your eyes are shut tight, brows peaked with need as you beg him to keep going, please, Daddy, gonna come.

Joel pulls away again just enough to tease, “Always come for me so easily, don’t you? Sing for me, songbird, c’mon.” A few more rough strums of his thumb and pulses of his tongue have you crying out, shaking where you sit on the table as you gush into his waiting mouth. Joel works you through it as you practically ride his face, your hips twitching with each overstimulating flick of his tongue over your sensitive clit.

He doesn’t wait very long for you to come back into yourself, the impatient bastard that he is, before he’s commanding you to open and using his strong fingers to yank your jaw downward. Your eyes blink open just in time to watch him spit a mouthful of your own release onto your waiting tongue, and then he’s pressing his lips to yours in a sloppy kiss, tongues twisting around each other as he forces you to taste yourself. So immersed in the distraction of finally feeling his lips against your own, you don’t notice when he loosens his grip on your face to grab one of your hands instead, placing it on his still-clothed bulge and growling into your mouth as you massage the hard shape of him.

“Feel what you do to me, babygirl?” Joel breaks the kiss to ask, voice low and eyes dark. “Even if I kept you away from me, wouldn’t fuckin’ matter. Still have to take care o’ myself one way or another, would just be pretendin’ it was your perfect cunt squeezin’ me instead o’ my hand, anyway. Might as well stick to the real thing, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree, lashes fluttering at his filthy words.

“Yeah? You want it? Want Daddy to split you open again?”

Your skin is burning hot, every one of your nerve endings on fire with need, and you don’t care how pitiful you sound when you answer with, “Please, Daddy.”

“Good girl,” Joel praises. He makes quick work of ridding himself of his belt, tossing it aside to join your discarded panties on the floor with a metallic thud before freeing his leaking cock from his jeans. He prods the thick head at your entrance, still so wet and stretched out from the earlier efforts of his fingers and tongue that he slides inside with hardly any resistance. “Greedy thing…” he hisses, holding onto your hips as he watches his thick length begin to slide in and out of you. A flash of silver catches his attention from the edge of his vision, and he focuses there instead, on the cross shaped charm dangling from your neck and resting between your breasts. He picks it up between his large thumb and forefinger, rubbing the pads of them along the smooth metal. “Probably shouldn’t be wearin’ such a thing anymore, hm? Now that I know how much of a whore you really are.”

“Not… ‘m not a whore,” you counter, but it’s so futile, meaning nothing at all when you really take a look at where you are now, how it all began, and how your voice cracks in your poor attempt to prove him wrong.

“Y’ are, though, songbird. ‘S okay that you are. Only for me though, huh? Jus’ Daddy’s whore? All mine?” Joel drops the cross in favor of cradling your cheek, hurrying his pace as he taunts you. There’s no use in denying it, not when his degrading words prompt your cunt to squeeze around him and provide more slick aid for his quickening thrusts, an involuntary whine escaping your throat. You’re seeing such a different side to him now than the one he showed you the night before, and you begin to wonder which one is the real Joel, or if either of them are, or if both of them are, somehow. Or if he even knows. You’re willing to take whichever one he decides to let you have, you think.

“Y-your whore, Daddy… wanna be yours, please,” you babble, his cock hitting you deep and hard as you let him fuck you so dumb you allow yourself to just give in and agree to whatever he says you are, whatever he wants you to be, just the way he likes.

“Fuck,” Joel curses through gritted teeth, removing his hand from your face and to grip onto the plush of your hip again. Your pliant state and filthy admission combined with that sinful symbol around your neck spur him on, and he uses his hold on your skin to fuck into you with abandon. “Really would just let me ruin you, huh? Tried to be a decent man for once in my goddamn life, but you just had to be a fuckin’ brat about it and start some shit, didn’t you? If you don’t want me decent, tha’s fine by me, baby. But lemme make somethin’ real goddamn clear to you,” he rambles, each slam of his hips into yours getting you closer to release for the second time. He delivers another sharp slap to your cheek with a You listenin’? and you nod to the best of your ability, finding it impossible to focus your eyes on him as that knot in your stomach begins to tighten.

“You want this, you wanna be mine, you can be mine, babygirl. Lord knows I’d find my way right back inside this sinful lil’ cunt, anyway. But this ain’t gonna be a fuckin’ relationship, you understand? Take it or leave it, songbird.” He slows his thrusts as he spells out his ultimatum, but they still make you ache, all the same. His fiery gaze bores a hole straight through your skull as he awaits your response.

“Take it, w-wanna take it, Daddy.” The desperation in your voice and painted across your expression have him returning to his punitive pace, grunting and swearing into the warm skin of your neck as your hands scramble across his back, pulling yourself into him and burying your face into his shoulder. His thick leather jacket helps to muffle your cries as he loses all control, using your body to chase after his own high.

“Course you’re gonna take it, filthy thing. Made to fuckin’ take it, Christ,” Joel rambles, your vocalizations increasing in pitch as you squeeze around him, whole body tensing as your sore pussy prepares to drench him one more time. “So goddamn desperate… Just take whatever I give you, however I wanna give it to you, always have you comin’ on my cock just the same, huh? Go on, babygirl, come for Daddy again, tha’s right…”

With his permission, and a few more just-right strokes of his tip against that sweet spot deep inside your walls, you’re spasming in his hold, whining that filthy title you had just used against him less than an hour ago. He spills his release into you at the same time, and despite the way he’s treated you and the words he’s spat at you tonight, it makes you feel whole again.

You breathe heavily against each other for a few minutes, neither of you wanting to let go as you both struggle to process what the hell just happened, what it will mean for the remainder of the tour. 

A sudden knock at the door quickly yanks you out of your thoughts, offering a taste of what the future may hold much earlier than you were expecting.

“Joel? You in there?” a voice asks from outside the dressing room.

“Huh…? Yeah, just gimme a–”

The door opens before Joel can finish answering, and you can see clear as day over his shoulder that it’s Jesse.

He claps his hand over his eyes when he notices you, but you can still see how his cheeks burn red under his fingers as he shifts where he stands, undoubtedly trying to come up with the least mortifying way to get himself out of this situation.

“Jesus, kid–” Joel grumbles, finally pulling out of you and shoving his still-slick cock back into his briefs. He zips himself up as you tug the skirt of your dress back down to cover yourself, still feeling much more exposed than you’d like as you eye your forgotten panties laying just a few feet from where Jesse stands.

“Sorry! Sorry, Joel. It’s just, uh—”

Joel turns to face him as he finishes adjusting himself, and you’re thankful that he doesn’t walk away from you completely, using his broad form to provide you with what little modesty he can afford under the circumstances. “What, Jess?” he barks, exasperated.

“Um… The guys asked me to come find you, we’re on in like a minute—” 

“Well, tell ‘em to hold their fuckin’ horses. I’m comin,” Joel orders.

“A-alright, I will, man. I’ll, uh… I’ll see you out there.” 

Jesse leaves the room as hurriedly as he had entered, nervously fumbling with the handle as he shuts the door on his way out. “That kid ever learn how to fuckin’ knock?” Joel mutters to himself, picking his belt up off the floor and looping it back around his waist. He retrieves your ruined panties when he’s done and casually tosses them over to you, a stark contrast from the attentive aftercare he had provided last night. You slide off the vanity table and tug them back on over your legs, shivering at the feeling of the cool, damp fabric against where you’re so sensitive and sore, still leaking Joel’s spend. You fidget with the hem of your dress and try to ignore the way your heart sinks into your stomach, wondering what Jesse must think of you now. You haven’t really spoken to him at all since this whole thing started, and you doubt you ever will after what happened tonight. Of course, he’d had a front row seat to your obscene little performance during Kiss it Better, but it was all just an act, as far as he knew. But he has more than enough confirmation now to know that it very much wasn’t, and the humiliation of it all makes your anxious imagination begin to run wild. Your bottom lip quivers at the thought of Jesse running straight back to the guys with a shit-eating look on his face, eager to tell them all about how he just saw their opening act with her legs spread for Joel in his dressing room. Images flash through your mind of the band you’ve looked up to for so long now shooting you dirty looks backstage and whispering about you amongst themselves, sharing their doubts about if you really deserve to be touring with them at all. Maybe they’d call you easy, say that you’re just another dumb slut who gave it up for the first rockstar who asked, that your career will be doomed unless you grow up and learn to respect yourself a little more. And maybe they’d be right.

You can’t stop a few hot tears from rolling down your cheek at your catastrophizing, but you wipe them away quickly. This is what you asked for, isn’t it? Joel had given you an opportunity to leave this where he had ended it, and you were the one who had begged to be his, even after he showed you what it would look like, and told you explicitly what it would never be. You pull your shoulders back and make an effort to stand up a little straighter as he addresses you again, not wanting to look like some pathetic, defeated thing.

“You good? Need anythin’?” Joel asks, and it would be kind of sweet if he weren’t halfway out the door already. 

You sniffle a little, but try to feign nonchalance as you shake your head and reply, “No, ‘m fine.”

You must not do a very good job of it, because he’s craning his neck to look down the hallway as soon as you finish your sentence, like he knows exactly what’s on your mind. “Don’t worry ‘bout him,” Joel says to you, giving an annoyed shake of his head. “If he knows what’s good for him he’ll go to his grave swearin’ he didn’t see anything. Kid knows better,” he reassures, and it does help to slow the unspooling of your thoughts some. 

“Okay,” is all you offer, along with a small smile.

Joel nods curtly, “Okay.” And after another beat and a rake of his eyes along your form, “I’ll see ya, songbird.”

He’s gone before you can reply, and you let the sound of the door closing ring out in your ears until you’re left in total silence, save for the sound of your own unsteady breathing. More than anything else, you just want to head back to your bus and scrub yourself clean of him, to put on unstained clothes and remove your ruined makeup so that you have a better chance of recognizing yourself in the mirror if you’re unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of your reflection. Maybe if you hurry the pace of your walk of shame, you can outrun the feeling altogether, you think, swinging the dressing room door open and letting it slam behind you as you make a swift exit, heading straight for the one place that even slightly resembles a home to you right now. You keep your head low as you wander the unfamiliar backstage halls, and hold the skirt of your dress down against the breeze that threatens to expose you yet again when you push open the venue’s back door. More tears begin to fall as your boots carry you up the steps of your bus and lead you to your private little room in the back, and you don’t wipe them away this time, although you can’t put your finger on why they stream down your skin so impatiently, one stinging droplet after another.

You sit down heavily on the edge of your bed, although you have a strange urge to kneel at the foot of it instead. Your fingers find their way to your crucifix as you contemplate the idea, and it hits you all at once how very lost you feel. You miss… something. Your mother? Perhaps not, but maybe the idea of having a caregiver, someone to turn to when you feel the way you do now, to help you sort through the tangled knot of emotions unraveling itself in your heart and attempt to make some kind of sense of it. She wasn’t the perfect mother, by any means, but she tried, and it was her first time being a woman too, after all. You are following in her footsteps, as many daughters aspire to do with their mothers, but you don’t think she would be very proud of the particular path of hers you’ve begun to find yourself stumbling down—the one that leads you to a man who won’t change himself, who can’t, but who you’ve somehow convinced yourself that you deserve, because you’ve never known a man who’s told you otherwise. 

And now here you sit, alone, in the dark cave of your too-big bus on the second night of a career-changing national tour, crying girlish tears and missing something you can’t place but that you know you can’t go back to, wishing someone could just wipe your mind clean and tell you that you’re good and that you’re not a disappointment to your mother and God even though you don’t really care what they think of you anymore, anyway. You need someone to tell you who you are, and Joel seems to know the answer—a good girl, a whore, his songbird. You shift at the memories of when those names for you have spilled from his mouth, and you’re reminded of the wet fabric still pressed against your core. It feels good when he tells you who you are, after all, when he slots himself inside of you and makes you feel like something he owns, when he makes you feel perfect and floaty and beautiful and like he knows you better than you’ve ever known yourself.

And how could something that feels so good ever be bad for you?

—

The whiskey burns as it slides down the back of Joel’s throat, but it still isn’t strong enough. All it does is remind him of the igniting spark that led to the blaze now engulfing him—when you’d both had a few glasses of the stuff swimming around in your blood streams in the green room of last night’s venue, when he’d lured you onto his lap and teased the wet spot on your panties and asked if you’d let him touch you. He knew you were going to say yes, but it was still the respectable thing to do, and he had liked hearing you beg for it all pretty and polite. He fears that’s the last he may have seen of that version of you, that what he did this morning had stomped out the little delicate, glimmering light that had drawn him to you in the first place. And if it wasn’t snuffed out then, it’s surely nothing but a wisp of smoke now.

Joel had recognized when everything had started to become too real too fast, in the dark of his bus last night when even in your sleep, you had seemed to consider him as something warm and comforting and safe, instead of the beast that he knows himself to be, with too sharp of claws and too loud of a roar. He had tried to do the right thing for once in his goddamn life by finally thinking about someone other than himself, so why didn’t you take the opportunity to get out of this while you had the chance? What is it that you see in him that he knows for a fact isn’t there, has never been there? You had retaliated because you had wanted this to work, because he had hurt you when he shoved you away, but he can’t possibly fathom why you’ve chosen to fight so hard for this. And he’d only gone and proved himself right when he responded to your reprisal the only way he knows how, especially when you’d used that word against him that he’s always been avoidant to admit about himself—coward.

And you were right, weren’t you? Joel is a fucking coward. He does everything in his power to pretend otherwise, to show his fans and the world a version of himself who’s never for a second thought of himself as anything less than God incarnate. And maybe except for Tommy, no one has ever been the wiser to his ruse, until you. And it scares him, to be seen so clearly. Because then he might actually have to try to understand where all these defense mechanisms came from in the first place, and he can’t have that. 

Coward.

Joel tosses back the last of the amber liquid in his glass, releasing his white-knuckled grip on it and slamming it back down onto the green room’s bar cart. He knows that his band and about twenty thousand people are waiting for him to buck up and emerge from yet another hiding place, and he realizes that this is becoming a pattern with you—you awaken some long-dormant feeling from deep inside of him, it makes him feel threatened, and he retreats until it goes away and he remembers how to paint his mask back on. And the one time you didn’t allow him to run away, he lashed out like a caged animal and undoubtedly gave you a pretty solid idea of what he meant by “for your own good”. And yet, you were so desperate to be allowed any part of him at all that even in his most volatile and beastly state, with his talons out and his teeth bared, you didn’t run away. You didn’t even try. You didn’t want to. You took everything he had given you like it was a privilege to do so, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand why. 

Joel shakes himself out, hitting a solid hand against his cheek once in order to bring himself back from the depths of another unwanted episode of introspection and self-loathing, and lets the burn of the whiskey dissipate as he makes his way to where the rest of Death’s Head is waiting for him. He can feel their eyes on him without even needing to look, and snaps out a defensive I don’t wanna hear it before any of the guys get a chance to say anything. 

Tommy shrugs, stepping up to Joel with his arms crossed. “Wasn’t gonna say nothin’.” 

Joel finally turns to face the group, giving each member a scrutinizing once-over in an attempt to read their body language, to suss out if they’re just pissed because he left them waiting, or if Jesse ran his mouth while he was gone. When Joel’s examining eyes land on the dark-haired guitarist, Jesse’s quick to shake his head, mouthing the words they don’t know. Satisfied, Joel nods once in understanding, adjusting his jacket and cracking his neck before turning toward the stage again.

“Y’all ready, or what?” he mutters rhetorically, not bothering to wait for an answer before he marches his way into the spotlights and allows them to enshroud him, burning up what remains of that cowardly version of him, if only for the remainder of the night. Joel picks up his guitar, swinging the strap around his chest before fiddling with his mic stand as the deafening sound of the crowd reminds him of who the fuck he is, or at least, who they think he is. Who he pretends to be. And he gets to believe it for the next two hours. If he plays the part well enough, maybe he can lose himself in it entirely. But then, hasn’t he been trying to do that for the past couple of decades? It hasn’t seemed to work yet, but it doesn’t hurt to keep trying. 

Or maybe it does.

—

You feel a little better now, more at ease, now that you’ve had some time to focus on taking care of yourself. It’s easy to forget the wonders that a hot shower can do for a girl, especially when you have to fight against your own brain just to get up and take the ten or so steps towards the bathroom, when you’d much rather stay curled up in the same position on your bed until your skin adheres to the sheets. Now having scrubbed away the tears and the sweat and the tacky dampness between your thighs, you emerge from a cloud of rose-scented humidity as someone you think you understand a little better now, who deserves to be taken care of instead of reprimanded for only doing her best with what she’s been given.

With clean hair and skin and a comfortable change of sleep-ready attire, you decide to finally make some efforts to unpack your suitcase and make your little room feel more like a home. You hang your dresses up on the rack, set your shoes into a somewhat orderly line on the carpet below them, and place your jewelry neatly onto the antique tray you had carefully packed away to bring along with you. You had found it in a little thrift store downtown, when you had first left home and decided you needed something that was only yours, something pretty and special that you could look at everyday and know that it was the very first step in building the life that you had always wanted for yourself. The brass needs a little polishing, but it’s still one of the most beautiful objects you’ve ever seen, and the way the ceiling lights glint off the metal brightens up your space just enough that it feels a little more familiar to you now. 

Your earrings and other necklaces fill the blank space in the center of the neatly carved filigree, and you make the decision to add your crucifix to the pile of silver studs and chains. It’s strange how such a simple charm can make things feel so complicated. You haven’t taken it off in so long that you fear the guilt that might come with removing it, but you figure it will still be there for you if you ever feel like clipping it around your neck again. And if that feeling never comes, then you’ll deal with that then, too.

For now, you breathe a little deeper without the weight of the thing resting against your chest, and smile to yourself when you hear a small group of excitable-sounding male voices approaching your bus. Your bandmates file through the door a second later, though you’re suddenly shy to greet them as you emerge from your bedroom, worried that they might be pissed at you for what you sprung on them earlier in the night. You lean against the doorframe as they each collapse onto the living area couches, cracking open beers from the minifridge and passing them around to each other.

“Hey, you,” greets your floppy-haired drummer, Max, patting the cushion next to him. If any of the guys were to be easy going about what you put them through tonight, it would be him. You’re happy to see that he doesn’t seem to hold any animosity towards you. “You want me to crack one open for you?” he offers.

“Um… sure,” you agree, approaching the group and relaxing into the open seat next to him as he hands you a bottle. You take a few swigs while the guys begin to talk amongst themselves, waiting for an opportune lull in their conversation for you to chime in.

It comes about halfway through your beer. “So, listen,” you start, setting the sweating bottle on the table in front of you as you feel their gazes shift in your direction. “I’m sorry for pulling that on you guys tonight. This whole thing is just as big for y’all as it is for me and… I guess I forgot about that, for a second,” you say, although the end of your sentence kind of sounds like a question. “I really appreciate how you backed me up out there, that’s all.”

It’s rare that the four of you get sincere with each other like this, and your apology lingers in the air for a moment before someone else speaks up. 

“It’s alright, kid.” The comforting voice comes from Scott, your quiet and kind-eyed bassist. “We’re all professionals here, yeah? We’d be some sad fuckin’ musicians if we couldn’t improvise every once in a while.” You laugh at that, and his lopsided smile warms you when you meet his soft expression.

“I mean, I kinda fucked up a little bit,” says Joey, your rhythm guitarist, ever-reliable for lightening the mood. “You sounded badass though, so whatever. Nothin’ you need to apologize for.” When you turn your head to look at him, he looks slightly uncomfortable with the way Max has him pressed up against the wall, but his gaze is sincere. “You wanna talk about it, though? Some pretty heavy shit you wrote.”

You do consider it, but shake your head, having reflected on it quite enough for one night. “Not right now,” you reply, and he gives you a sympathetic smile in return. “One of you have a smoke, though? Think I’m just gonna get some air and call it a night.” 

“Now, how are you gonna ‘get some air’ with all that smoke in your lungs?” Scott jests, and you give him a look before standing up and holding your palm out flat to him, making a hand it over gesture with your fingers. 

“Don’t give me shit, dude, I know you have one. That’s why I asked.”

Despite his protest, he digs the pack out of his pocket and slides one out, playfully holding it hostage against his chest. “Still shouldn’t smoke ‘em, though. Gonna ruin your voice one of these days.”

You roll your eyes at him, but laugh, anyway. “Fine, tonight’s my last one, I promise. Just gimme.”

Scott extends his hand out to you, and you snatch the cigarette out of his hold. “Light, too?” he asks, and you nod, leaning down to him with it in your mouth already.

You make a quick exit when the tobacco begins to burn, trying to fill the bus with as little smoke as possible, but not before making your appreciation known to the guys one last time. When you step out into the chilly night air, you wish you’d brought a sweater to wrap around you, but figure the flame between your lips will warm you up soon enough. 

The Death’s Head bus is parked just up ahead, and you can make out Jesse’s silhouette in the moonlight, his back leaned against the idling vehicle as he puffs his own cloud into the sky. The sound of your bus’s door shutting behind you draws his attention your way, and you give each other a friendly nod as you each burn through your cigarettes.

“Can I join you?” he asks, having to shout in order for his voice to reach you over the rumbling engines.

The fears you were ruminating on a few hours ago all come rushing back to you in an instant, but his inquiry seems casual enough for you to let your guard back down a little. It would be rude of you to decline, and it might be nice to get to know him a bit more if he’s offering, you suppose.

“Yeah, okay,” you reply, nodding for good measure in case your voice didn’t come out loud enough. His long legs close the short distance between you in just a few seconds, and you shove your unoccupied hand into your pocket in an effort to come across more relaxed than you feel. You’ve never been great at small talk, or meeting new people, especially ones who’ve walked in on you after having just been fucked by the lead singer of his band. 

You’re grateful that Jesse decides to break the silence first. “So, uh… you two, huh?”

“Mhm,” is all you offer, kicking a rock around the asphalt with the toe of your shoe.

“Yeah… Well, I don’t want you to feel weird around me, or anything. We can just forget it ever happened.”

You can’t help but release a puff of smoke through an awkward giggle. “Sounds good to me.”

“And I didn’t tell the other two, just so you know.”

His admission makes you pause, trapping the rock underneath your shoe as you peer up at him. “You didn’t? So… they don’t know?”

Jesse shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Well, Tommy might, just ‘cause he knows Joel better than anybody, but Eugene’s probably clueless. They’re all good guys, they won’t give you shit for it even if they do find out… I might, though, just for fun.” He nudges your shoulder with his as he jokes, and it makes you laugh a little more earnestly this time. “Just… be careful, that’s all. And I want you to know you have a friend in me, if you ever feel like you need one.”

His kindness is nearly enough to bring you to tears. You feel so relieved that everything the worst parts of your brain had conjured up had all been a lie, that Jesse isn’t who you feared he’d be, and that he’s offering you his friendship, even after he’d seen you in such an embarrassing and compromising state tonight. 

“Jess!” Joel yells from the doorway of his bus, and the harsh gravel voice startles both of you out of the moment you’d been sharing. “Finish up, kid. Takin’ off in a few.”

Jesse nods, raising the end of his cigarette in acknowledgement before stomping it out on the pavement. “It was nice talking to you. Remember what I said, okay?” 

“Okay,” you nod, and he’s handsome and boyish when he smiles back at you before following his orders and jogging back to his own bus, sliding through the door past Joel’s broad form.

Joel’s expression is hard, but otherwise unreadable as he juts his chin at you, wordlessly suggesting the same direction he’d just barked at Jesse. He shuts the door behind him as he steps inside, and you think on Jesse’s words as you finish puffing your smoke down to a nub. Be careful, he’d cautioned, and it’s like he had been waiting outside for you to make sure he had a chance to tell you that. Remember what I said, like it was important to him that you took his words to heart. You finally toss the end of your own cigarette onto the ground, letting it sizzle out before heading back inside and carefully passing the now-occupied bunks as you make your way to your own little sanctuary. 

You’re still buzzing from the tobacco as you close yourself into your room and crawl into bed, and you can’t decide if the emptiness of it makes you feel comforted or afraid. You don’t necessarily wish you had Joel’s heavy, lumbering form tucked in beside you, but you hadn’t anticipated how having a bed to yourself would leave you with only the company of your own thoughts. You try not to dwell too much on Jesse’s warning, instead trying to snuff it out like the smoldering end of your cigarette so that it doesn’t prevent you from getting some much needed rest.

Even for being a bed inside of a tour bus, you have to admit that it’s one of the most comfortable, luxurious things you’ve ever slept on, especially compared to the lumpy double bed from back in your apartment. You don’t fight it when sleep begins to pull heavily on your eyelids, the incoming wave of it washing away any lingering anxieties as you allow yourself to relax into the plush mattress.

You hardly rouse even as the bus heaves forward on its trip out of the parking lot, leaving everything that happened tonight exactly where you left it, the ghost of it now left to wander the halls of the venue instead of haunting you as you travel to the next one. And there’s something comforting in that, you think, in the idea that nothing on this tour is permanent, that your life begins anew every 24 hours in a city you’ve never been to that doesn’t know your name yet. 

And maybe that’s how you’ll figure this whole thing out, by taking it one day at a time, fluttering as close to the flame as possible without touching it, because you kind of like feeling the heat on your wings. As long as you’re careful when you dance around the fire, then there’s really nothing to be afraid of.

But only time will tell.

tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @zliteraturehoe @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @alex-does-art-things (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

message/comment/ask if you'd like to be added!!

[therealcocoshady]

Marshall being a boy dad ?? 👀👀

MARSHALL MATHERS BEING A BOY DAD HEADCANON

Author's Note : I love receiving requests for fics & HCs ❤️ You can definitely keep sending them my way 👀! Also to give you guys a quick update on Recovery : Chapter 34 is in the works but I have been working on a few different things for this blog so it's taking a little more time than expected ! 😅 That being said, I have many ideas for this fic and I think I have finally figured out the ending 👀. Going back to this HC, from what I see in my Ask, you guys are suckers for the whole Marshall Mathers being a Dad trope and I cannot blame you 🙊. Here I am, sharing what I think he would be like, being a boy dad - Let me know what you think !!!

This HC is my very own take on Marshall being a boy dad but, just in case you haven't read it - @theboujeestofboujee also wrote something similar that was absolutely adoralble "How He treats Your Son"

BEFORE THE BABY’S BIRTH 

Doesn’t matter if the baby is a boy or a girl : he is a big softie with his little one

After raising three girls, he is really overjoyed to have a son

Before finding out the gender, he swears he doesn’t care « As long as the baby is healthy, it doesn’t matter » 

BUT once he knows he is having a son ? So happy. 

He wasn’t really in a baby clothes frenzy for his daughters but for his son ? He might get a little carried away. 

His little one is definitely getting some cool baby sneakers and cute outfits 

Contrary to what a lot of people think and expect : he does NOT name his son Marshall Bruce Mathers IV 

He doesn’t want to pay homage to his own father 

He is not an egomaniac 

He doesn’t want his boy to be crushed by the weight of expectations - he knows it’s going to be hard enough when people know he is Eminem’s son 

For privacy reason, his son might use his mother’s name on a daily basis (just like his daughters went by Scott) 

Baby boy’s middle name might be Deshaun, in honor of Proof - one of the best men he has ever known 

Either Denaun or Royce is his son’s godfather 

BIRTH / AFTER THE BIRTH 

He takes time off before the end of the pregnancy - doesn't matter if he has to postpone a tour or an album : family first

Wouldn’t miss his son’s birth for the world 

He is happy his son takes a bit after him. But even more if he looks like his mother.

« Thank God he has your nose » 

OR « Jesus Christ… He has my ears. » 

He announces he is a Dad for the 4th time but he is intent on protecting his baby’s privacy - he has definitely learned a few lessons 

May not even do the announcement before the baby is a few months old 

Do not expect him to share pictures of his son on social media - NOT HAPPENING

At most, he will share a picture of the baby's hand for the announcement and that's it

Definitely takes time to enjoy life with his newborn son and the baby’s mother 

Every second he spends with his newborn baby fills him with joy 

He doesn’t mind doing the late night feedings or being on diaper duty 

He gets his son’s name tattooed on him soon after the birth 

Might not be somewhere too visible, though, especially is he chooses not to share his son’s name publicly 

If someone leaks any information about his son, he will lose his shit 

He usually doesn’t care if a paparazzi snaps a picture of him but his son ? That pap is in big trouble indeed 

In interviews, he refuses to answer questions about his family. The most a journalist will get from him about his son is : "Yeah, he's doing great" or "It's fun being a boy dad"

GROWING UP 

Just like with Alaina, Hailie and Stevie, he is adamant on teaching his son some good manners. No big difference there

However, he tends to be a little more strict with his son - because he knows what being a boy is like

That being said, he’s not much of a disciplinarian 

As long as his kids behave well and do well in school, he is pretty lenient 

Especially when he sees so much of himself in his son 

He loves his kids equally but he has a soft spot for his son because a) he is the youngest and his last child b) he is the only boy in the family, besides himself

He is a fun dad and he loves doing stuff with his children

Just like with his daughters, he makes it a point to be there for every important moment 

He does not doubt his wife/girlfriend/baby’s mother’s ability when it comes to parenting but he wants his son to have a good, strong male presence in his life 

He also pressures himself on being a good role model 

Definitely a stressed out Dad - not when his son is a baby (diapers and bottle feeding are the easy part) but more as he grows up. He constantly worries about setting up a good example for his baby boy. 

His son better respect women. He won’t have it any other way. 

He leads by example : he treats his baby’s mother very well, same goes for his daughters (obviously)

When he grows up, he has to have the « just because Dad says some stuff in his songs doesn’t mean it’s true » conversation with his son. 

The « no swearing » rule is still very much in place 

And if his son ever calls a woman a colorful name or disrespects a girl in front if him ? He is in BIG trouble. 

He teaches his son to respect everyone and makes sure his boy is polite from a very young age

He also makes sure his son knows not to take any disrespect. He teaches him that violence does not solve any issue but he will not have his son be bullied like he was.

He would not force his son to practice any activity he doesn’t want to

If his son wants to do ballet, he will show up to every recital and be the proudest Dad in the room - same goes for any other sport or artistic pursuit 

But hopefully he can share his passion of either Football or Basketball with his boy 

Baby boy sees his first Lions and Pistons game at a young age - doesn’t understand a thing but Marshall is too happy anyway 

What do you think ? What would you add ? 👀

[seecarrun]

“Tah-dah.”

The combination of the deadpan tone and the perky little spirit finger wiggles is enough to make Eddie roll his eyes and scoff at Richie’s antics, so he opens his mouth and starts to call him a fucking idiot.

That is, until he actually gets a look at what it is Richie is showing him.

There, carved into the old wood of The Kissing Bridge, are the letters R+E.

He blinks down at them in something like surprise. “The fuck is this?” he asks. Richie frowns, irritated.

“It’s our fucking initials. What the fuck does it look like?”

“Well, why are our initials carved here?” Eddie asks, not meanly or anything, but definitely bewildered. “Who the fuck wrote our initials here?” He steps closer and bends down to get a better look. “This looks old. Is this from when we were kids? I never noticed this before. Did someone do this to make fun of us or something? Why wouldn’t they tell us? Did they tell you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Richie waits for Eddie to finish the worst game of twenty-questions in history, exuding the kind of patience he didn’t even know he was capable of as Eddie goes on for what feels like forty fucking minutes.

“Dude,” he finally bursts out, unable to take it anymore, “I carved those. Me. Jesus Christ.”

Eddie blinks up at him, all eyes and freckles, confused. “You did this?”

“Yes.”

“When we were kids?”

“Yes.”

“So…” Eddie looks at the wood and then back at Richie again, and Richie tries not to burst into a million pieces as he sees the cogs slowly turning in Eddie’s head.

“Oh my god, get there faster!” he finally snaps, and Eddie shoots him a glare.

“Shut the fuck up, dude! You had thirty years to know about this shit, I’ve had thirty fucking seconds, I’m fucking processing!” Richie throws his arms into the air and does a weird, exasperated little circle as Eddie continues to inspect the carving, his brows furrowed. “You carved our initials into the kissing bridge when we were kids,” he states again, just to hear the whole thing put together, and gingerly runs his index finger over the plus-sign. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Richie asks, cringing.

“Obviously not, if I’m fucking asking.”

Richie’s heaves a sigh. “I liked you,” he finally admits. Somehow, the world doesn’t end. He briefly thinks teenage-Richie would have been surprised by that.

Eddie traces his finger along the E now, slowly. “You liked me back?” he says, so quietly it takes Richie a moment too long before he realizes what Eddie said.

“Wait, back?!”

(Part 2 here)

[ediewentmissing]

Look at this sexy fucking man! Please! For the love of all of the underwear this pic and your stories have helped ruin, I need a fic for this pic! The more dirty talk the better! Just mmmmmmm going to town on him and riding him and guiding his mouth to suck and bite and lick my tits like ahhhhhhhh. Please!!

IM SO SORRY THAT I MISSED THIS i took a break but now i’m back AND HOLY SHITTTTTTTTT AAAAAAAA 😍😍😍 i’ve been rlly busy lately and i’m probably not gonna write very often (sorry 😿) but i wanted to give u something, so i wrote this in approx 6 minutes lmao sub!eddie incoming

“Ah- Shit- Please,” The handcuffs rattle against the headboard as Eddie sucks in through his teeth. His jaw clenches and eyes roll back into his skull as you slowly lower yourself down on his stiff cock.

You’re not quite sure what he’s begging for. More? Less? Who cares.

“Yeah, be a good boy and fucking take it,” You ride back up his length, and back down. And again. And again. He whimpers pathetically, his top row of teeth clamping down on his bottom lip in a foolish attempt to shut himself up.

“Awh,” you coo, “Barely started yet and you’re already a mess. Filthy boy.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, trying his hardest not to burst so quickly. But you’re just so wet, and so tight, and you’re clenching around his cock so deliciously.

“Mmm, fu-uck-” His mouth is open, head tipped back giving you the perfect view of his neck.

“Yeah? You like me using you like this?” He nods, humming.

You still on his cock, and his head jolts upright to look at you with confused, pleading eyes.

“Answer me, Eddie.”

“I- I love it…” you begin to bounce on him at a steady pace, and he moans loudly, “Fuck! God- Fuckin’ Christ. Mmmm- I love you using me. So, so much- Ah, ah-”

“God, look at you, baby…” you smirk down at him. His pupils are fully blown, swallowing the caramel-coloured irises whole. Hot tears run down his rose cheeks, picking up sweat on their way down his face.

You bounce ever so slightly faster, and go in to kiss his neck, sucking and biting that sweet spot that makes him writhe.

“Wait, no, please look at me. Please. I wanna see you.”

You pull off of his throat and look directly into his lustful eyes. Sweaty, hair sticking to his face.

He moves his palms to your abdomen, running his fingers up your torso as he breathes heavily, chest rising and falling, until he reaches your tits.

“So pretty-y~,” he groans.

“Mm, go ahead. Touch ‘em, baby,” you nod, and he carefully trails his thumbs over your nipples, gently squeezing them.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, involuntarily rutting his hips up into you, moaning.

You lean forward, a non-verbal sign for him to take one in his mouth, and he immediately obliges.

He kisses over your tits, soft, wet clicking sounds being drowned out by his whimpers vibrating against your chest and the skin-slapping-skin noises as you continue to ride him. He drags his tongue over everything, sucking and gasping as his high is in sight.

He bucks his hips up again, this time hitting the special spot inside of you. You clench hard around him, angling yourself to that he can slide deeper inside your aching pussy.

He detaches his lips from your chest, “Fuck, f-fuck, fuck! Haah… I’m-m gonna cum-” he moans, looking at you.

Your climax comes hurtling towards you unexpectedly, and it your pussy grips onto Eddie’s throbbing cock, only fuelling the fire of his orgasm.

He finally releases, warm, thick cum pumping into you at he same time you fall over the edge.

Breathy ‘I love you’s fall from his wet, pink lips. And it was nothing short of the truth. He loved you.

[ananxiousgenz]

HEY YOU GUYS KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS????? JARTHUR COWBOY AU TIME!!!!!

this one also comes with a bit of info for the beginning:

@percymawce-arts and I have finally given this monster child of ours a name!! from here on out, this fic shall be known as "When the Land was Godless and Free" (a lyric from the song foreigner's god by hozier)!

the chapters we are posting are like. severely out of order. we've just been going crazy behind the scenes (we keep getting good ideas and then discussing/writing them for literal hours, it's a great time). percy basically wrote all of this and i just did some minor edits and left all caps comments screaming about how fucking GOOD this is, so any and all compliments should be directed at him <3

and some trigger warnings: this chapter contains alcohol and some suggestive themes!!

@izel-reblogs and @ellamenop (if you guys want me to stop tagging you please lmk)

“Here’s to John and Arthur! Arthur and John!” Noel shouted, stepping up onto the bar and raising his beer, some of it sloshing over the side of the cup with the motion. “Freaky-ass, sharpshooting, vigilante crime-fighting extraordinaires! Without you two, those gangsters would still be shooting up this charming little town.” He flashed a wink and a gaggle of girls seated behind John giggled. John rolled his eyes. “To John and Arthur!”

“To John and Arthur!” the bar echoed, jovial sounds of conversation and rowdy drinking soon filling the space again. John smiled into his drink, only to choke and nearly fall out of his chair when Noel clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Get ready for a lot of free drinks,” he said, hopping down to the floor. “This town’s full of generous rich folks just waiting for a chance to throw some money around.” 

John groaned. “Does that mean I have to talk to people?”

“I’m afraid so, darlin’,” Noel said, all easy charm and swagger as he leaned up against the bar next to John. “Uh oh. Don’t look now, but there’s one coming up behind you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John swore under his breath as a young blonde woman in a pink (and startlingly revealing) dress came up to the bar beside him. “That was fast,” he whispered to Noel, who barely managed to hide a snigger.

“Hi!” the woman squealed, her pitch akin to metal nails on glass. John winced. Voice aside, her general disposition was the near equivalent to staring straight into the afternoon sun, and the neon pink of her dress didn’t help matters.

“Can I buy you a drink, cowboy?” she crooned, gently brushing a hand over his shoulder as she smiled far too brightly (the whole blind sharpshooter gig tended to work better when only one of them was blind). 

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I don’t-”

“It’s on the house for you, sweetheart. I’ll pay for everything, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. So, how about that drink?” She moved in closer beside him, her hand drifting up his neck and along his jawline. John was only beginning to think of how to politely decline when he felt a looming presence over his shoulder.

“Only if you buy for all of us,” Arthur said, not unkindly. But John had been traveling with him for long enough to recognize the hint of something else beneath the politeness. Not what it was, just that it was there. The woman giggled.

“Well, of course! Anything for our dashing heroes!” John glanced over his shoulder at Arthur. His face was set in stone, watching the woman like a hawk on a rabbit as she slipped a few coins into the bartender’s hand and waited for drinks in return. He looked… tense. Like he was a piece of rope, stretched to the verge of snapping, and if that annoying woman made one wrong move, he would.

Noel raised an eyebrow at Arthur. “You must be a real hit with the ladies,” he murmured into his glass, looking Arthur up and down as he did so. Arthur paid him no mind.

The sunshine woman was not the last to buy them a round of drinks, not by a long shot. Plenty of flirtatious ladies (and a few flirtatious men), thankful patrons and impressed watchmen approached them, hoping to show their gratitude by buying them a shot or a glass of whiskey. Arthur didn’t leave John’s side the whole night, quick to shut down any attempts at seduction by feigning ignorance to the intentions of anyone who approached them. But John knew better. John could see the hard set of his jaw, how he gripped his glass too tightly whenever a scantily clad lady twirled her hair around her finger, or a rambunctious young cowboy leaned too far into John’s personal space. It made John’s heart flutter wildly in his chest. 

The drinks only slowed as the saloon emptied out, leaving Noel, Arthur and John three sheets to the wind, laughing uproariously at something stupid as the morning sun came over the horizon (Oscar had retired hours before, drunker than anyone at the bar much, much faster. Arthur had squeezed his shoulder and bid him goodnight with an expression of concern that made John’s heart clench).

Noel wiped tears from his eyes and looked over John’s shoulder, out the window behind him. When he saw the beginnings of daylight creeping over the horizon, he sighed. (He watched them, Arthur and John, engaged in a quiet but passionate discussion about something he couldn’t parse. They were both flushed and leaning in too close, chuckling at every other word that passed between them, oblivious to the rising sun or the empty saloon or Noel’s hands on their arms, steering them towards their room at the inn upstairs).

John chuckled (he did not giggle, he chuckled) as Noel tossed him into their rented room, with Arthur following soon after. He tripped over a trunk near the foot of the bed on his way in, falling forward onto the mattress with a gentle oof. Arthur laughed at him much too loudly for whatever time it was. 

“Alright, you two,” Noel said, trying to hold back a laugh, “wash up and go to bed. God, I should’ve never given that toast, you’re both insufferable drunks.”

“Oh, shhhhhhh,” Arthur hushed, pulling John out of bed by his wrist. John leaned fully against Arthur in an effort to stay upright. It mostly worked. “You loooooove us,” he laughed. Noel smiled.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes but unable to keep the fond expression off his face. “You keep telling yourselves that.” He wiped his nose and tipped his hat to them. “Goodnight, you two.” Then he closed the door, and it was just them. John and Arthur, Arthur and John. 

“Okay, come on,” John said after a long stretch of silence, inelegantly turning Arthur in the direction of their shared washbasin and mirror. Arthur giggled a bit as John tried to move him forward, mumbling some drinking song under his breath that John didn’t recognize (maybe it’s a British one, John thought lamely). They tripped over each other's feet a few times, but ultimately made it to the edge of the sink without completely falling over. 

When they did, John braced his hands on either side of it with a tired sigh, watching his reflection in the mirror. There was a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead and a flush to his cheeks from the alcohol, but otherwise he seemed in decent condition. A few cuts and scrapes, some new and some old, and his braid was a little out of sorts, but nothing really concerning–

Then all the haziness of the alcohol and the late night was gone because Arthur’s full weight was at his back, his warmth permeating the fabric of John’s shirt and vest. His hot breath fanned across John’s ear and jaw, his eyes fluttering closed with the weight of inebriation. John inhaled shakily, suddenly brought back to shifting bodies and whiskey and fireworks with such vivid clarity it could have been real.

But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. John was drunk. Arthur was drunk, he could barely stand up straight, for fucks sake. He was just using John for support, falling asleep on his shoulder, and… 

And pressing his nose behind John’s ear, ghosting his lips over the back of his jaw. Breathing his name with a pained expression. John’s own expression matched, half lidded eyes never leaving the mirror, tense and pained and wanting, oh-so deeply, for the one thing he knew he couldn’t have.

Despite himself, John’s eyes slipped closed. His shoulders relaxed, tension leaving his body as Arthur hands came up to rest on his hips. His head tilted, granting Arthur access to more of his jaw and neck. And Arthur took it. He didn’t kiss, but he skimmed. Barely there, almost not real, deniable. Like a spirit. Like a gut feeling. Like instinct.

“John…” Arthur breathed. John felt a shiver work its way down his spine at the sound of Arthur’s voice at the base of his skull, reverberating in his head like it was meant to be there. It took every ounce of will that John had to keep the small moan building in the base of his throat from escaping.

“Arthur,” he answered, voice hoarse and quiet. He wanted to open his eyes. Wanted to see himself in the mirror with Arthur over his shoulder, arms around him, nosing at his neck and shoulder, resisting the urge to press warm kisses into his skin. Or maybe to bite. To draw blood. John had never been shown a difference between violence and love. Maybe they weren’t so different. He hoped so. He wanted… 

He wanted to see the look on Arthur’s face. Would it be like it was that day in the cabin? Shocked and a little confused but mostly needy. Yearning for something. Yearning for John. Or would it be darker? Dark like the clouds before a storm, the kind of storm that drowned you with rain and filled the air with electricity. Would it be dark like he was holding back? Like John was? 

But John didn’t open his eyes, no matter how badly he wanted to know. If his eyes stayed closed, he could pretend Arthur’s gentle, delicate touch wasn’t there at all. Just a taste of something more, enough to leave John wanting. Enough for him to imagine. Enough for it to stay a pleasant, alcohol induced dream. If he opened his eyes it would be real, and it would have to stop. And John did not want it to stop.

“John,” Arthur murmured, his voice just above a whisper now. “Open your eyes.” The timbre of it was deep, so much deeper than John had heard it before. How could he have possibly known? How could he know John so well in so little time? So completely? The moan John was holding on to finally slipped past his lips when Arthurs grip on his waist tightened, ever so slightly. “John,” Arthur choked. 

“I can’t,” John whispered as Arthur’s fingers moved from his hips, leaving a burning heat behind in the shape of Arthur’s palm. They trailed up and up, tugging at the buttons of John’s shirt as they went, making his breath hitch. Up to his open collar, nails dragging across John’s collar bone and hollow of his throat. Until they wrapped ever so gently around his neck, the thumb coming up to guide John’s jaw this way and that. John was breathing hard, now.

“Why?” Arthur asked, pressing himself closer, still, to John. John whined.

“I…” I want to. God, I want to. Make me. “Please, Arthur, don’t make me. Please, just–”

John gasped when he felt Arthur’s teeth scrape lightly over the skin of his neck, his hand flying up to grip Arthur’s hair, his shoulder, something. To hold Arthur. But he was stopped by a strong grip on his wrist, which guided his hand back down to the edge of the sink, holding it there. Pinning it. 

“John,” Arthur whispered. John’s chest was rising and falling like Akke’s after a long sprint, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s. Arthur’s thumb caressed his knuckles, white with the strength of his grip on the sink.

“Please,” they said at the same time. John’s brow furrowed, his lips hung parted in anticipation. His mind swung wildly from the present, between Arthur and the mirror with a hand around his throat, to the cabin, pressing Arthur to the wooden floor, pinning his wrists above his head. The burning momentum between them suddenly halted by John’s fear, like a landslide on the track before a train. Now the train was out of control again, brakes screeching against wheels that just wouldn’t stop, sparks flying. Sparks like fireworks. Sparks like live wires. Sparks like exploding gunpowder.

But then the warmth at his back was gone. Along with it the hand at his throat and the one  pinning his own to the sink. The teeth at the junction of his neck and shoulder and the hot breath on his skin vanished, leaving only a stark coldness where they’d been before. John sighed, whether in relief or disappointment he didn’t know, and opened his eyes.

The flush on his face had migrated down his neck and chest, which was exposed now (when had Arthur done that?) and heaving. The ‘light sheen’ of sweat was beading at his temples and brow now, falling in drops down to his jaw, along the bridge of his nose. His lips were parted and his eyes were wide and his neck was bare. 

And Arthur, leaning drunkenly against the wall behind him, arms crossed, expression chilly. He was breathing heavily too, and his face was red like the first hints of daylight in the sky. But it was the hard set of his mouth and brow that made John shiver.

“We should go to bed, John,” he said, voice still raspy. A needy, sad little sound rose from John’s throat then, and John’s hand flew to his mouth, as if to force the offending sound back in. Arthur swallowed and turned, ready to head back to one of the twin beds awaiting them. Side by side and yet still miles apart. “And don’t worry.”

“It’ll all feel like a dream, tomorrow.”

[filthy-baee]

Trailer Park Princess

Part 1 - The idea

Bully!Eddie x hyperfem!Reader

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, mean!Eddie, bully!Eddie, smut, dubcon, noncon, virgin!reader, Eddie is older than reader, reader is over 18, kinda perv!Eddie

Note: I wrote this in 3 months. It took me so long to finish this. I still hope you like it! Not proofread! ♡

Y/N always loved being girly, always wearing skirts or dresses, hair always done and her body always smelt sickenly sweet. And Y/N loved her mom. She really did. Sure, her life was not the best, since her father went away and took all the money with him. It seemed like her formerly nice life found an early end. As she needed to move from her big house to the trailer park, the people changed towards her. They stopped being nice to her, talk to her and ignored her alltogether. Her mother worked her ass off for her daughter in her last year at school, but like every person, she also had a vice - smoking pot. Y/N didn't mind it actually, the only thing that she minded was where she got her shit from - Eddie Munson.

He was a little bit older then Y/N, and she can't deny the small crush she had on him. Sometimes Y/N could hear his van in the night or smell his weed when he was in his room smoking some pot with his window wide open. As they started living in the trailer park, Eddie was the only one who still talked with Y/N. Her social status was now as low as his and he kinda liked that. Y/N were really cute and damn, she was so submissive to him. He knew her from school and even talked with her sometimes before she moved to the trailer park, as she was the only girl who wasn't scared of him or was mean to him. She helped him with everything when he asked her. Y/N even did Eddies homework, just because he asked her to. Sure, he bullied her sometimes, just to see her pretty eyes water and her lips tremble. Sometimes he pushed her, just so he could catch her by her waist, pushing his clothed dick into her ass - the only thing between them his jeans and the thin skirt of Y/N. He also couldn't ignore the little wetness that always formed in her cute panties when he was a little mean to her.

As Y/N finished school, she got a job as a waitress at the Hideout. Eddie also finally finished school in the same year as Y/N did and found a job at a car workshop, near the Hideout.

Y/N's mom bought more and more from Eddie, sometimes forgetting to pay. Eddie didn't mind it that much, as he had a chance to see Y/N and talk with her now that they're out of school, even if it was just about the money her mom didn't pay. Also he could see her cute little face and body in even skimpier little outfits that she only wore at home and was too shy to wear at work.

After some weeks and many unpaid purchases of weed from Eddie, he finally made his way up to Y/N's trailer again. He knew that her mom was out to work and she was alone at home. He knocked on the door, taking a last drag from his own blunt, before he threw it on the ground.

Y/N heared the knock from her bedroom. She jumped to the door, slowly opening it, as she was scared alone at home. As she saw Eddie she opened the door fully, greeting him with a big smile. Eddie eyed her up and down. Y/N wore a short pink skirt with a white crop top. Her boobs nearly escaping the tight top and Eddie could see her panties if she would pick something up.

"Hey Eddie. Mom isn't here yet. Can I help you with something?" she asked and smiled sweetly at him. God, she was too cute for her own good, he thought.

"Well, you know, actually I think you can." Eddie said as he got into Y/N's trailer. He really could see her influence in the trailer. Everything was decorated with small knick knacks in all shades of pink. Eddie didn't really fit in there. He stood out like a sore thumb.

"Sure. What can I do for you, Eddie?" Y/N asked as she leaned against the small kitchen counter. Jesus Christ, this is going to be so easy he thought and a small smile grew on his face.

"You know, your mom didn't pay the last few purchases - again." Eddie said walking closer to Y/N and letting out a dramatic sigh. She could smell the weed on him as he came closer to her. "Oh. I am really sorry! She is so forgettable! But Eddie.... I don't have- " she started to talk but Eddie lifted his hand and she stopped talking immediatly. "I know you have no money. But I think we can find another agreement, right, Y/N?" he spoke and his hands grabbed the counter and Y/N were trapped between his arms. She nodded and looked in his dark chocolate eyes. "What can I do? I can cook for you or-or clean your trailer..." she said slowly, as she thought about other things she could do for Eddie.

Eddie pretended to be thinking really hard, tapping with his finger on his chin. He walked around a little, his long hair flowing around him. Y/N couldn't take her eyes off of him, as he came closer again. "Hmm, what about this sweetheart? You do everything I say for - hm, let us say - a month. How does this sound?" he asked her sweetly, standing right in front of her again. She tried to look away from him, his gaze too much for her. Eddie's hand grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. His pupils were blown, dark gaze following her every move. "Like...like a- a...slave?" she mumbled and whispered the last word, feeling embarrassed just by saying it.

Eddie grinned, his eyes never leaving hers. "If you want to put it that way, yes. We can say you are my slave for a month and your mommy doesn't have to pay me one dollar. Soo? Are you in, sweetheart?" Y/N could feel his hot breath against her blushing cheeks and she let out a small whimper and she nodded slowly. "Fuck. Did she really just whimper?" Eddie thought and he could also see how her thighs clenched together, as Y/N agreed. This is way too much fun for him, who cares about the money? This is something Eddie would pay for actually. The cutest little thing he ever saw and now he can do whatever he wants with her. That's just too good to be true! Eddie would lie if he says he didn't have a sweet spot for her. She was too nice for her own good and so damn pretty! Thank the lord, that her mommy smoked so much, that she even forgets to pay for it. But to be honest, Eddie did never remind her to pay up. He just waited for the right moment to talk with her sweet daughter. And he knew how much Y/N loved her mommy. She would do anything for her, to keep her out of trouble. Y/N knew that Eddie can get really uncomfortable, if people don't pay on time. She heard him talk with them in his trailer and damn, he can be really scary.

But it was different with her family. Eddie was calm with her and her mother, letting slip things, that he would never do with other people. Maybe he likes Y/N, but he would never say that to her.

"Good girl." Eddie said and let his knuckles brush over her jawline. Goosebumps rose on her skin as Y/N bit her lips, looking up at Eddie with big eyes. Eddie thought deeply, glancing at her blushing cheeks. "Kiss me." he demanded.

Y/N gulped, not knowing if she heared him right. "W-What?" Eddie pulled her closer by her hips. "I said...Kiss. Me!" Eddie's hand brushed her hair behind her ear, waiting for her next reaction. Her eyes started glizening with tears. Y/N felt uneasy. Kissing him? This would be her first kiss!

"Or should I search for your mommy and get the money out of her? You know we had an agreement, princess." Eddie mumbled staring at her glossy eyes. A small smirk appeared on his lips as he saw that Y/N was struggeling badly. "N-No! I'm sorry. It's just- I...never-" Y/N studdered, looking ashamed to her side.

Eddie couldn't believe it. She never kissed anyone? This has to be his lucky day. "No problem, sweetheart. I show you." he said, as he pulled her waist flush with his hips. Y/N could feel his warmth radiating from his body. Eddie pushed his legs between her thighs. He grabed her chin in his hands, his thumb slowly brushing over her bottom lip. Y/N opened her mouth, being submissive like always. Eddie grinned as he saw how responsive she was.

Eddies lips brushed over hers. Eddie took his sweet time with her, kissing her deeply and slowly. His tongue brushed over her lips and Y/N let out a low moan. Eddies tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting her sweet taste.

As Eddie broke the kiss, Y/N heart was racing, her face a bright red. "Good girl. You will learn how to do it in no time." he said patting her head like she was a cute little puppy. Y/N leaned into his touch, loving the feeling of him carassing her hair.

She was just too cute, Eddie thought. "Now tell me. Are you a virgin, Y/N?" Eddies eyes met hers again in a piercing gaze. She tried to look away but he grabbed her jaw in a tight grip. She nodded, but Eddie was not having any of it. "I asked you a question. I need your words, princess. Or is a small kiss enough to get you dumb?" he grinned. "Y-Yeah...I am...a virgin." you whispered.

I am one lucky motherfucker, Eddie thought as he heared her words leave her sweet lips.

"Kiss me again. Like I did before, but now you do it on your own." Eddie demanded. Eddie pulled her up by her waist and sat her down on the kitchen counter. Y/N could feel his hard dick between her legs as he sat her down. She looked up to him, mumbling a small "Yes, Eddie" before she pulled him down to her. Her lips met his in a small kiss. Y/N licked slowly over Eddies lips, trying to do it just like Eddie did before. He grinned as he saw her struggle, her legs were trembling, goosebumps appeared all over her small body. Eddie slowly opened his mouth, giving her permission to enter his mouth with her tongue. She tasted the weed on his tongue, a small whimper escaped her plush lips. As Eddie grapped her ass, Y/N's body tensed up. She opened her mouth further and Eddies tongue pushed deeper into her mouth. Eddie looked at her. Y/N's eyes were closed, her small hands clamping down on her skirt, knuckles turning white. Eddie pulled away, just as he saw her leaning into his touch on her ass more and more. Y/N looked at him disappointed. Her lips were puffy and a small pout appeared on her lips. He patted her head slightly, ruffeling her hair. "Good girl. You did so well." Eddie smiled softly at her. "T-Thank you."

Eddie took some steps back from her, leaving her cold and needy for him. "I will pick you up tomorrow after work. Then we will talk about the rules for our little agreement, sweetheart."

Eddie walked to the door, waving at her before closing the door behind him. Y/N still sat on the kitchencounter, legs shaking with need. Y/N's fingers slowly brushed over her lips, still tasting Eddie on them. She let out a sigh. As she hopped down from where she sat, she saw the small patch of wetness she left behind.

Taglist: @darknesseddiem @tlclick73

[shellxrls]

i think @starfxkr wrote ab the theory that rafe is short for rafael (if not pls correct me!!).

and it got me thinking, imagine bimbo!reader finding it out one day after rafe endures a particularly harrowing reprimand from ward — doors slamming, both their voices raised to a crescendo until ward finally silences rafe and dismisses him out of the room “-and don’t come back until you’ve learnt something rafael.”

you’re a bit ditzy, fiddling with some diamantes on your nails — that rafe, of course, payed for — and waiting outside the office for him to come pick you up and take you to the country club.

you skip up to him as he exits, oblivious to his tense and angered demeanour and excited to exercise your newfound knowledge, “rafael,” you coo “is that like the turtle?”

“jesus christ — what? you heard that shit- what— what turtle?”

“the one from those movies? with megan fox?”

“shutup, baby—baby just shut up for a sec.” as he palms his eyebrows in a futile attempt to massage out all the tension, running his hand back all the way across his buzzed head and wondering how on earth he was going to deal with you today.