ㅤ꣖ ♥︎ ꣓ 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐌, 𝓇apper!𝒸hris ⅋ 𝒻em!𝓇eader. ✸ must be of age. minors do not interact.
parental ꢄ advisory. toxic situationship. rapper!chris [he’s a red flag]. rough sex. angst. strong language. begging. backshots. degradation ⅋ humiliation. power imbalance. use of pet names [mamas, baby]. slight cnc themes.
sweet ꢄ notes. i need him insanely bad, shit’s not even funny anymore. yes, i’m aware this is a few hours late. i’m hungover! cut me some slack! anyway, i hope you had a nice valentine’s day 🤍 if not! this is for youuuu. xx
the glow of your laptop screen was the only light in your apartment, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. curled up on the couch, you were half-watching a sitcom, but the canned laugh track felt hollow, an annoying buzz against the loud silence of your own thoughts. you’d been re-reading the texts for what felt like the hundredth time, your thumb scrolling up, up, up past the memes and the late-night ‘u up?’ messages to the one that mattered.
mi amor: gon show em what’s mine soon, baby. put you on the story so they know.
that was a week ago. a full seven days. and since then? nothing. not a hint of you on his feed, not a glimpse of your hand in his, not even a vague, cryptic post that you could pretend was about you. you knew it was stupid. you knew that in the grand, complicated, and completely undefined mess of your ‘situationship,’ a public post was the least of your worries. you were a talking stage. you were a late-night call. you were a convenience. you knew all of this.
but he had promised.
he’d said it with that low, gravelly voice of his, the one that always made your stomach do a slow, lazy flip. he’d said it while his fingers were tangled in your hair, his lips pressed to your temple, and for a moment, you’d let yourself believe it. you’d let the fantasy bloom in your chest—the idea of his millions of followers seeing a piece of you, a confirmation that you existed in his world outside the four walls of your apartment.
the feeling of being a secret was beginning to curdle, turning from something exciting and illicit into something sour and shameful. every time you saw him post a picture from the studio, a shot of a sold-out crowd, or a mirror selfie with his friends, a fresh wave of disappointment would wash over you. you weren’t in any of those pictures. you were the after-party, not the main event.
so when your doorbell buzzed, a sharp, insistent sound that cut through the sitcom noise, your first instinct was irritation. you weren’t expecting anyone. more specifically, you weren’t expecting him. he usually just texted ‘here’ and you’d unlock the door before he got there, the familiar routine a comfort in its own right. the formal ring of the bell felt like an intrusion.
you paused your show, swinging your legs off the couch and padding to the door in your oversized t-shirt and fuzzy socks, your mood a heavy blanket you couldn’t shake off. you peered through the peephole and your heart did a stupid, traitorous little leap.
it was chris.
and he wasn’t empty-handed.
you took a deep breath, schooling your features into something resembling neutrality, and unlocked the door. he stood there, a sheepish, handsome grin on his face, looking unfairly good in a simple black hoodie and baggy jeans. but it was what he was holding that made you pause. in one arm, he cradled a ridiculously cute, fluffy pink teddy bear with a bright red satin heart sewn onto its chest. in the other, he held a wicker basket, beautifully arranged with a bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed red roses and what looked like boxes of your favorite chocolates.
“happy valentine’s day, mamas,” he said, his voice a low hum.
for a split second, the anger and disappointment melted away, replaced by a warm, gooey feeling that spread through your chest. it was… thoughtful. it was more than thoughtful. it was the kind of grand, romantic gesture you saw in movies, the kind of thing you’d never, ever expected from him, the king of non-committal hookups.
but then the memory of his empty instagram story, of the promise he’d so casually broken, came rushing back in, dousing the warmth with icy resentment. this felt like a consolation prize. a shiny, pretty apology for something he didn’t even realize he’d done wrong.
“oh,” you said, your voice flat. you stepped back to let him in, your eyes fixed on the gifts. “thanks.”
you took the basket from him, the scent of the roses and chocolate filling the air. you didn’t meet his eyes. you didn’t lean in for the kiss he was clearly expecting. you just held the gifts, the silence stretching between you, thick and uncomfortable.
chris’s smile faltered. he stepped inside, his gaze flickering from your face to the gifts and back again. he was a master of reading a crowd, of feeling the energy of a room, and he could feel the temperature in your apartment drop by twenty degrees.
“that’s it?” he asked, a hint of confusion in his tone. “just ‘thanks’?”
“it’s lovely, chris. thank you,” you repeated, your voice still devoid of the affection he was clearly fishing for. you turned away from him and walked toward the kitchen, the teddy bear tucked awkwardly under your arm.
you heard him sigh, a heavy, frustrated sound. then, the sharp, violent slam of your front door echoed through the apartment, making you jump. the sound was so aggressive, so out of place, that it sent a shiver of both fear and something darker, something like excitement, down your spine. his heavy footsteps followed you into the kitchen, each one a deliberate, angry thud on the hardwood floor.
you ignored him, focusing on the task at hand. you carefully placed the pink bear on the counter, its stupidly cheerful face a stark contrast to the tension you were feeling. you unwrapped the cellophane from the roses, the crinkling sound deafeningly loud in the silence. you opened a cabinet, pulled out a tall glass vase, and filled it with water at the sink. one by one, you began to delicately place the roses into the vase, your movements slow and precise, a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control.
he stood behind you, his presence a physical weight in the small space. you could feel his eyes burning into your back. you could practically hear the gears turning in his head, the confusion morphing into anger.
“what the fuck is your problem?” he finally bit out, his voice low and dangerous.
you finished arranging the last rose, turning the vase slightly to make it look perfect. you turned off the tap and dried your hands with a kitchen towel, stalling. finally, you turned to face him, leaning back against the counter. you let your lower lip jut out in a pout you knew he hated, a childish expression of your discontent.
“what’s up?” he pressed, taking a step closer. his shadow fell over you. “i come here, on valentine’s day, with all this nice shit for you, and you’re acting like i just tracked mud on your carpet. talk to me, baby.”
you let out a humorless little laugh, shaking your head. “it’s stupid.”
“obviously,” he scoffed, and that one word, so dismissive, so condescending, was all it took for the dam of your restraint to break.
“you said you were going to post me, chris,” you blurted out, the words tasting petty and childish even to your own ears. “a week ago. you said you were going to post me on your story. so everyone would know.”
he stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. then, a look of disbelief crossed his face, followed by a short, sharp scoff that felt like a slap. “are you fucking serious? that’s what this is about? an instagram story?”
the way he said it, as if it was the most ridiculous, pathetic thing he’d ever heard, made shame and anger burn in your cheeks. he didn’t get it. he would never get it. to him, it was just a picture, a fleeting 24-hour blip on a social media app. to you, it was a symbol. it was validation. it was the one thing you’d dared to ask for, and he hadn’t even remembered.
“you know what? forget it,” you said, your voice shaking slightly. you rolled your eyes, pushing off the counter and walking back into the living room. “it’s dumb. you should just go home.”
you intended to retreat to the safety of your couch, but you didn’t get the chance. you turned your back on him, a clear dismissal, and that was your mistake.
a hand clamped down on your arm, his grip like iron. he spun you around with a force that knocked the air from your lungs. your eyes widened in shock as he looked down at you, his face a mask of cold fury. the playful, charming rapper was gone. this was someone else. this was the man who commanded stadiums, the man who didn't take disrespect from anyone.
“go home?” he repeated, his voice a menacing whisper. “i don’t fuckin’ think so.”
before you could process what was happening, he was shoving you. not hard enough to make you fall, but with enough force that you toppled forward. your hands and face met the soft cushions, the impact muffled by the fabric. the scent of your own apartment, now alien and threatening, filled your nose.
you gasped, your mind reeling. one of his hands shoved up the back of your oversized t-shirt, his calloused fingers finding the waistband of your underwear. he didn’t bother pulling them down. he hooked his fingers into the lace and ripped them, the sound of tearing fabric a sharp, definitive punctuation mark in the tense silence.
you heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of his jeans being pushed down. there was no preparation, no gentle touch, no whispered words. there was only the cold shock of the air on your exposed skin, and then the blunt, forceful pressure of him pushing against you. he lined himself up and with a single, powerful thrust, he was inside you.
a choked cry escaped your lips, a mixture of pain, shock, and a shameful, immediate pleasure. he was thick and unforgiving, stretching you, filling you completely. he didn’t give you a moment to adjust. he immediately began to pound into you, a relentless, punishing rhythm that was all anger and possession.
he was drilling into you. your face was pinned to the cushions, your world reduced to their texture and the overwhelming sensation of him inside you. your ass, slick with the precum he’d forced in with him, was lifted into the air, jiggling and bouncing with every brutal impact. his hips slammed against you with a force that bruised, the sound a wet, obscene series of plaps that echoed in the quiet room. it was the sound of ownership. the sound of him taking back control.
his hand clamped onto your hip, his strong fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you in place, angling you to take every punishing inch.
“is this what you wanted?” he growled in your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “huh? you wanted attention? you got my fucking attention now.”
tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring the pattern of the couch fabric beneath you. it was too much. it was rough and degrading and exactly what you secretly craved when you felt this messy inside. he was punishing you, and every cell in your body was singing with the brutal, violent catharsis of it.
you tried to answer, but all that came out was a broken sob. “chris…”
“don’t,” he snarled, his pace quickening. he was fucking you with a furious energy, as if he was trying to erase your attitude, your disappointment, your entire being, and replace it with nothing but him. “you don’t get to disrespect me. not today. not after i come here trying to do something good for you.”
through the haze of sensation and humiliation, a harsh, bright light suddenly illuminated the cushions in front of your face. the flash. your blood ran cold. you knew instantly what it was. he was holding his phone. he was recording you. face down, ass up, being pounded into your couch. he was getting the content for his story after all.
the realization shattered something inside you. the fight, the anger, the last vestiges of your pride—it all crumbled into a pathetic, whiny mess.
“no, no, please, chris,” you sobbed, the words muffled by the cushions. “i’m sorry, baby. i’m so sorry, please don’t.”
your apologies seemed to fuel him. a low, guttural groan rumbled in his chest. he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he continued his relentless assault. “sorry for what? for being a brat? for needing a reminder of who you belong to?”
“yes, yes, i’m sorry,” you cried, your body starting to tremble as the overwhelming stimulation pushed you toward an edge you couldn't control. “i’m sorry, daddy, please.”
the honorific slipped out, a desperate plea, and it was like flipping a switch. his rhythm changed, becoming impossibly deeper, faster. he was close.
“that’s my good girl,” he praised, the words a dark caress against the storm of his movements. “begging for me. this is what you’re good for. not pouting over some stupid fucking picture.”
he was right. in that moment, he was absolutely right. this was your dynamic. this was the language you both understood. not roses and chocolates, but friction and force.
“you think i need a fucking holiday to spoil you?” he grunted, his voice tight as his own release began to build. “i don’t need a day to tell you i love everything about you. your pretty face, this ass, the way you whine for me. i love all of it. but you’re mine. and don’t you fuckin’ forget it.”
his words, so possessive, so toxic, were the most romantic thing he’d ever said to you. they broke you open completely. with a strangled cry, your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, shuddering wave of release that left you limp and boneless against the cushions.
your climax triggered his. with a final, deep groan that seemed to be torn from the very depths of his soul, he came deep inside you, his body going rigid before collapsing on top of you, his heavy weight a comforting, suffocating blanket.
for a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged sobs and his harsh, heavy breathing. the air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and the faint, sweet scent of vanilla from your air freshener.
he stayed on top of you, not moving, until his breathing evened out. then, he slowly pushed himself up. you heard him adjust his clothes, the rasp of his zipper loud and final. you didn’t move, your face still pressed into the couch, shame and satisfaction warring within you.
he sat down beside you on the couch. you flinched when you saw his phone still in hand. he didn’t say anything. he just angled the screen so you could see it. he wasn’t recording anymore. he was on the ‘post to story’ page.
your eyes widened in horror. the video was there, a short, twenty second-second loop. the clip was in a stark black and white filter, the harsh light of the flash making your skin gleam as his hips pounded against you. you could see his hand clamped firmly on your hip, holding you steady. the video was muted, and one of his unreleased, slower tracks was playing over it, the bass a low thrum that you could feel even through the phone’s tiny speakers. he was actually going to do it.
he watched your reaction, a small, cruel smirk playing on his lips. he typed a caption, his thumb moving quickly.
‘my valentine’
he then tapped the emoji keyboard, adding a single red heart right beside the words.
he held his thumb over the ‘share’ button, letting you see it. letting you squirm. you looked from the phone to his face, your eyes pleading.
“chris, please,” you whispered, your voice raw.
he held your gaze for another long, torturous second. then, with a sigh, he tapped the ‘delete’ button and discarded the story. he slid his phone back into his pocket.
“see?” he said softly, his voice back to its normal, low timbre. he reached down, his touch surprisingly gentle as he brushed a strand of hair from your tear-stained cheek. “i’ll give you whatever you want. you just have to ask nicely.”
he stood up, towering over your form on the couch.
“now get your fine ass up and get all pretty,” he said, his tone casual, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened. “i’m taking my girl out on a date.”
ohMygosh my babeh😭💌 im so so so sorry girl i don't even know what happened to me💔 i used to be so chronically online here but now i just check on this app here & there, i don't think I'll ever make a comeback on here sorry😅💘💝💖💗💓💞💕
˖ ❜୧ headcannon 𑇛 ˖ :: requested here dealer!chris and bambi are taking you to haunted house ⊹ 𓈒
dealer!chris who . . . shows up to a Halloween party in a Ghostface mask just to mess with Bambi, watching her giggle and roll her eyes when he won’t take it off. But later, when the lights go low and everyone’s too drunk to notice, he disappears, only for her to feel a hand grab her waist in the dark. She squeaks, spinning around to see Ghostface looming, all black compression shirt and heavy breathing. ❝Boo,❞ he murmurs, voice low and smug under the mask. She tries to shove him, but he cages her in against the wall, fingers tracing her jaw while she whispers his name. He doesn’t take the mask off, just tilts his head like a taunt. ❝What’s wrong, baby? scared?❞ Her laugh trembles, half nervous, half breathless—until he finally lifts the mask to kiss her, slow and rough, the bass thumping through the walls while he mutters against her mouth. ❝Knew you’d look pretty all flustered.❞
₊ 𝓢𝐏𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐘 𝓢𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝓕𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝓛𝐎𝐋𝐀 ֹ ˖ i didn't know what to put >.<
jbbartram-illu
2087
baratheonpilled
dededos
