AHH I ABSOLUTELY LOVE YOUR FICS YOU'RE THE COOLEST BABE!! and also can I request one jim and reader just being cutesy with sid's baby backstage and how it's uncle jim and aunty y/n and just it's rare to see jim playing with baby sidney backstage since reader and him don't have any of their own children and what baby sidney does to jim which makes reader burst into laughter and when reader and jim have to babysit sidney and he gets all giggly watching jim kiss reader or get soft with eachother sometimes?? I KNOW IT'S SO CHEESY but hey it's cute right?
#4 nanny - jim root
summary; the gentle giant becomes a baby sitter for baby sidney!
word: 1.100
The chaotic, metallic hum of a Slipknot backstage area was usually a symphony of clashing gears: the hiss of oxygen tanks, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Mick warming up his wrists, and the frantic energy of Sid Wilson literally bouncing off the walls. But tonight, in the quiet alcove behind the wardrobe trunks, the atmosphere had shifted into something uncharacteristically soft.
You were sitting on a fleece blanket spread over the industrial carpet, your back against a road case. In your lap sat little Sidney—a miniature, wide-eyed version of his father, mercifully lacking the gas mask but possessing all the chaotic charm.
"Who’s a little rockstar?" you cooed, bopping his nose. Sidney let out a high-pitched shriek of delight, his tiny hands grabbing at your rings.
Jim Root, towering at six-foot-six even without the boots, loomed over the scene. To the world, he was the terrifying #4, a silent giant with a mane of hair and a mask that looked like a deathly jester. To you, he was the man who forgot where his glasses were every morning and insisted on buying the "good" artisanal coffee beans even when you were on a budget.
"He’s staring at me again, (Y/N)," Jim rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. He stayed back a few feet, looking at the baby with the cautious curiosity of someone observing a rare, unpredictable species.
"He likes you, Jim. Come here," you urged, reaching out to snag the hem of his black denim vest. "Uncle Jim needs to say hello."
Jim sighed, a sound that ruffled his beard, but he sat down—a slow, folding process that reminded you of a lawn chair being packed away. He settled cross-legged next to you, his large frame making the corner feel suddenly very small.
"He’s so... small," Jim muttered, extending a tattooed finger.
Sidney didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, his tiny, damp palm slapping onto Jim’s cheek. Then, with the pinpoint accuracy of a mischievous spirit, the baby’s fingers dove straight into Jim’s iconic, impeccably groomed beard.
"Oh, no," you whispered, biting your lip.
Sidney didn't just touch the beard; he anchored himself. With a joyful grunt, the baby began to twist and pull, using Jim’s facial hair like a handle to pull himself closer. Jim’s head was jerked forward, his eyes widening in a mix of shock and mild pain.
"Hey—hey, easy there, little man! That’s attached!" Jim gasped, his hands hovering awkwardly, afraid to pull the baby’s hands too hard.
Sidney just giggled, a bubbly, infectious sound, and buried his entire face into the salt-and-pepper hair, blowing a loud, wet raspberry against Jim's jaw.
The image was too much. The "Great Big Mouth" himself, trapped by a ten-pound human. You doubled over, a loud, wheezing laugh escaping you. "He’s—he’s nesting! He thinks you’re a bird!"
"It’s not funny! He’s got a grip like a vice!" Jim complained, though the corners of his eyes crinkled in that way that meant he was secretly melting. He finally managed to gently pry the tiny fingers loose, only for Sidney to immediately reach up and pat Jim’s nose with a soggy hand. "Great. I’ve been marked. I smell like formula and drool now."
"You look adorable," you managed to say, wiping a tear from your eye. "Uncle Jim is a natural."
-
A week later, Sid and his partner were tied up with a press circuit and a wardrobe emergency, leaving you and Jim in charge of the "littlest DJ" for a few hours in the lounge of the tour bus.
Jim was taking his role very seriously. He had a burp cloth draped over his shoulder like a high-fashion accessory and was currently focused on a very intense "conversation" with Sidney.
"See, the thing about the Fender Jazzmaster," Jim was saying, holding a pacifier like a guitar pick, "is the versatility. You don't want to pigeonhole yourself, Sid. Keep your options open."
Sidney, propped up in a nursing pillow on the sofa, just kicked his legs and stared at Jim with unadulterated worship.
You watched from the small kitchenette, leaning against the counter. You and Jim had talked about kids—the "maybe someday" that hovered over every touring couple—but seeing him like this made your heart ache in the best way. Jim was a man of intense quiet; he felt things deeply but rarely performed them. Seeing him let his guard down for someone who couldn't even talk yet was a rare gift.
You walked over and slid onto the sofa next to Jim, resting your head on his shoulder. He immediately shifted, his arm snaking around your waist to pull you flush against his side. It was a "Jim quirk"—he was like a magnet; if you were within six inches, he had to be touching you.
"He's been good?" you asked softly.
"The best," Jim said, his voice dropping into that tender register he reserved only for you. He turned his head and pressed a long, lingering kiss to your temple. "I think he likes the sound of the bus engine. It's like white noise."
Jim turned his face toward yours, his hand moving from your waist to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "You okay? You look tired."
"Just happy," you murmured.
Jim leaned in, his nose brushing yours before he pressed a soft, slow kiss to your lips. It was sweet and grounded, a moment of "us" in the middle of a world of "them."
Suddenly, a loud, rhythmic slapping sound started up.
You both pulled apart to see Sidney frantically clapping his hands together, a wide, gummy grin on his face. He let out a piercing, joyous shriek, bouncing his bottom against the cushions.
"Is he... is he cheering for us?" you laughed, leaning into Jim’s chest.
"He’s a voyeur," Jim joked, though he was blushing under his beard. He reached out and scooped Sidney up, bringing the baby into the space between the two of you. "Alright, kid. You win. Group hug."
Sidney immediately grabbed Jim’s lower lip with one hand and your hair with the other, effectively tethering his aunt and uncle together.
Jim caught your eye over the baby’s head. There was a silent communication there—a shared thought of maybe, eventually, ours will look like this. But for now, as Sidney settled into the crook of Jim’s massive arm and reached out for your hand, "Aunty" and "Uncle" was the best title in the world.
"Don't tell his dad," Jim whispered, kissing the top of Sidney's head. "But I think he likes me better."
hiiii, would you mind doing an angsty one shot with jim where the reader and him are seeing each other again after having decided to take a “break” from one another due to a hiccups in their relationship? maybe add a little smut? thank you so much! love your works! 🖤
hiccups ♱ jim root
i hope you enjoy this! sorry for the long wait!
summary: jim and the reader reunite, confront their shared mistakes, and decide to try again.
Pairing: Jim Root (Slipknot) × Reader (Y/N)
Genre: Break-up/Make-up, Angst, Reconciliation
Warnings: P-in-V sex, vanillia, oral sex (giving and receiving.
Word Count: ~ 3.282
-
The sky over Des Moines has that sickly, bruised-fruit color it gets right before night settles in for good—purple and gray and heavy, like it’s pressing down on the city. By the time you pull into the gravel lot of the dive bar, your hands are clenched so tight around the steering wheel your knuckles ache. The place looks exactly like it always has: a low, squat building with a flickering neon sign, the kind of bar people go to when they don’t want to be recognized or remembered. It smells like old cigarettes and spilled beer even from the parking lot, like regret has soaked into the foundation.
You spot his truck immediately.
It shouldn’t still have the power to do this to you, but it does. The sight of it hits your chest like a dull blow, knocking the air halfway out of your lungs. He’s here. After weeks of space, of carefully worded texts and long silences, he’s just… a few yards away, sitting on the other side of a wall.
The break was supposed to help. That’s what you told each other, anyway. A pause. A reset. Something to stop the slow erosion that had been happening ever since the tour cycles grew longer and the quiet between you grew sharper. Fame hadn’t broken you—it had just worn you thin. Both of you. Too tired to fight, too tired to fix it, too tired to even explain what hurt.
You push open the heavy oak door. The bell above it rings, loud and bright in the dim bar, and the sound makes your stomach twist. Inside, the air is warm and stale, music humming low from a jukebox in the corner. No one looks up. This place is perfect for disappearing.
And then you see him.
He’s in the back booth, exactly where you half-expected he’d be, hunched over a glass of whiskey like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored to the floor. Even like that—even folded into himself—Jim takes up space. His shoulders are broad, his presence unmistakable. His long hair hangs loose, partially hiding his face, but you know him well enough to recognize the tension in his posture. The way he holds himself when he’s braced for impact.
As you walk toward him, he looks up.
“You’re late,” he says, his voice rough, low enough that you feel it more than hear it.
You stop at the edge of the booth. “I almost didn’t come.”
Something flickers across his face—hurt, understanding, relief—all tangled together. He slides over, the vinyl seat squeaking softly, and pats the empty space beside him.
“But you did,” he says quietly. “Sit down. Please.”
You do.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The table between you feels like a no-man’s-land, cluttered with condensation rings and old regrets. Finally, you start talking—not about the break, not yet. You talk about the tour dates he’s wrapping up, the riffs he can’t stop obsessing over, how every song feels like it’s chasing something he can’t quite catch. You tell him about the house, how it feels too big when he’s gone—and somehow even bigger when he’s there but not really there, lost in his own head.
The truth creeps in slowly, careful and unarmed. The hiccups were never explosive. There was no betrayal, no dramatic betrayal you could point to and say, that’s where it broke. It was the quiet. The way he’d retreat inward, shut down, become unreachable. The way you started to feel like a ghost, moving around him instead of with him.
“I didn’t know how to come down,” Jim admits finally. His voice is softer now, stripped bare. His hand moves across the table, hesitant, until his fingers hover near yours. “The adrenaline just… it burns everything else out. I’d come home and feel empty. Like there was nothing left to give. I hated that you saw me like that.”
Your throat tightens. You let your hand rest against his, closing the distance he was too afraid to finish crossing.
“I didn’t mind the shell, Jim,” you say quietly. “I minded that you wouldn’t let me help fill it back up.”
His fingers curl around yours immediately, like he’s been waiting for permission. His hand is warm, rough, gripping just a little too tight, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in a slow, absent-minded rhythm, and the simple touch sends a familiar ache through you.
The tension shifts. It’s still emotional, still fragile—but there’s something else now, something physical and undeniable. The booth feels smaller. The space between your knees and his feels charged. When you look up, his eyes aren’t on your face anymore—they’re on your mouth, like he’s memorizing it all over again.
Jim’s hand is still hovering near yours, not touching now, like he’s afraid one wrong move will send you bolting.
The silence is deafening. You’re the one who breaks it.
“This wasn’t just on you,” you say, quietly but firmly. “I need you to know that before we go any further.”
He looks up at you then, really looks—brows drawn together, jaw tight. “I know you keep saying that, but—”
“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “You don’t. You hear it, but you don’t believe it.”
That makes him go still.
You glance down at the table, at the little cracks in the wood filled with years of spilled alcohol and bad decisions. It feels easier to talk when you’re not staring straight at him. “I pulled away too, Jim. I got resentful. I stopped asking questions because I was scared of the answers—or worse, scared you wouldn’t even hear them.”
He swallows. “You always heard me.”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “And that’s part of the problem. I listened so hard that I forgot to talk.”
That lands.
He leans back against the booth, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I didn’t know you felt like that.”
“I didn’t tell you,” you admit. “Not clearly. I’d get passive, snippy. I’d act like I didn’t care when you disappeared into your head, but I did. I cared so much it made me angry.”
His mouth twists, something like pain flashing through his eyes. “I thought you were… bored of me. Or tired of the same conversation over and over.”
You look up then. “I was tired, yeah. But not of you. I was tired of feeling like I had to compete with the noise in your head.”
He nods slowly, absorbing it. “I didn’t realize how shut down I was until you weren’t there anymore. The house was quiet, and for once it wasn’t peaceful—it was loud as hell.”
That pulls a small, sad smile from you. “Funny. I felt the same way.”
He leans forward again, forearms braced on the table. “I should’ve let you in more. I should’ve said, ‘Hey, I’m not okay, and I don’t know how to fix it.’ Instead, I just… disappeared.”
“And I should’ve pushed back,” you say. “Instead of matching your silence with my own. I thought giving you space was the loving thing to do, but really, I was protecting myself.”
He studies you for a long moment, eyes searching. “Did you ever think about not coming back? Like… really ending it?”
Your chest tightens, but you don’t lie. “Yeah. I thought about it a lot. Some days it felt easier to imagine a clean break than fixing something this tangled.”
His jaw clenches, but he nods. “Same. And I hated myself for it.”
You reach across the table again, this time more deliberately. He takes your hand immediately, like muscle memory kicking in.
“But I didn’t want to be done,” you continue. “I just didn’t know how to be better without burning us both out.”
He squeezes your hand once. “I don’t want to keep doing this halfway thing. Where I show up physically but leave you alone emotionally.”
“And I don’t want to keep assuming the worst when you shut down,” you say. “I want to ask instead of accuse. Even when I’m scared of what you’ll say.”
There’s a long pause. Not awkward—heavy, but honest.
“So what are we saying here?” Jim asks quietly. “Because I don’t want this to just be… missing each other.”
You meet his eyes, steady. “I’m saying the break showed me what doesn’t work. But it also showed me I still want to try—if we both do.”
His thumb starts tracing your knuckles again, slower this time, calmer. “I do. I want to learn how to come home without shutting you out. And I want you to call me on my shit when I start drifting.”
A breath leaves you that you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “And I want you to tell me when you need space instead of disappearing. I can handle the truth. I can’t handle guessing.”
He lets out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “We really sucked at communicating.”
You huff a soft laugh. “World-class bad.”
The tension breaks just enough for something warmer to slip in. He looks at you differently now—not desperate, not guarded. Grounded.
He exhales, a shaky breath that sounds almost like a laugh. “We should get out of here,” he mutters. “Before I say something stupid. Or start apologizing all over again.”
You squeeze his hand once, grounding him. “Okay.”
He stands first, towering as he always does, but when he looks back at you, there’s something different there—hope, cautious and real. As you follow him toward the door, the bell rings again, sharp and clear, and for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t sound like an ending.
Outside, the night has cooled, the bruised purple sky deepening into something darker and quieter. The gravel crunches under your shoes as you follow him toward his truck. Neither of you rush. It feels important not to.
Jim unlocks the door but doesn’t get in right away. He leans back against the side of the truck, crosses his arms, then uncrosses them like he can’t quite settle. The neon from the bar washes over his face in soft flashes of red and blue.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“When things started going bad,” he says slowly, choosing each word, “did you ever feel like I didn’t want you anymore?”
The question lands heavier than you expect. You take a breath. “Sometimes. Yeah. Not because of what you said—but because of what you didn’t.”
He winces but doesn’t interrupt.
“When you’d come home and go quiet, I’d tell myself you were just tired. But after a while, it felt like you were relieved I wasn’t asking for anything.” You glance away, embarrassed by the honesty. “So I stopped asking.”
“I thought you didn’t need me the same way anymore,” he admits. “You were so… capable. You handled everything. I figured you were better off when I stayed out of the way.”
You look back at him, disbelief flickering into something sadder. “Jim, I didn’t need you less. I just needed you with me.”
He exhales hard, tipping his head back against the truck. “God. We really missed each other, didn’t we?”
“By inches,” you say. “Which somehow hurt more.”
Silence stretches again, but it’s different now—no longer a wall, more like a pause to breathe.
“I was scared,” he says quietly. “Not of losing you. Of keeping you and still failing.”
You step closer, until there’s barely space between you and him. “I was scared that if I told you how lonely I felt, you’d feel like you were never enough. And I didn’t want to be another thing you felt like you disappointed.”
His eyes soften. “You don’t disappoint me.”
“I know that now,” you say. “But back then… I let fear do the talking.”
He nods, eyes dropping to the ground. “I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want fear running the show.”
“Me neither.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he reaches out—not fast, not desperate—and brushes his thumb along your wrist, right where your pulse jumps.
“So,” he says, a hint of nervousness creeping in. “Do you want to come back to my place? We don’t have to—” He stops himself, shakes his head. “I’m not asking for anything. I just don’t want tonight to end in a parking lot.”
You smile at his proposal and nod.
The drive to Jim’s house is a blur of rain-slicked pavement and the rhythmic thrum of the engine, a sound that usually lulls you to sleep but tonight feels like a countdown. You glance at his profile in the dim glow of the dashboard—the sharp line of his jaw, barely visible beneath his impressive beard, the way his large, veiny tattooed hand grips the steering wheel a little too tight.
The silence between you is heavy, vibrating with all the things you didn’t say at the bar, all the months of "space" that only served to show you how empty the world felt without his shadow looming in it.
When he finally pulls into the driveway of the home you once shared, your heart performs a painful stutter. He kills the engine, but neither of you moves.
"I didn't change the locks," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble in the cramped cabin. "I couldn't bring myself to do it. It felt too final."
"I kept my key," you admit, your voice barely a whisper. "In the back of my wallet. Just in case."
He turns to you then, his dark eyes searching yours, looking for a sign that this is more than just a momentary lapse in resolve. He finds it in the way your breath hitches. Without a word, he’s out of the truck and opening your door, his hand reaching for yours to lead you inside.
The house smells like him—sandalwood, old guitar strings, and that faint, metallic scent of the road. As soon as the door clicks shut, the "break" officially shatters. He doesn't flip the lights. He doesn't need to. He crowds you against the wood of the door, his massive frame a warm, solid weight that you’ve ached for.
"I missed you so fucking much," he groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His beard is soft, scratching your skin in that familiar way that makes your toes curl.
"It was so quiet here. It was driving me insane."
He kisses you then, a slow, deep exploration that tastes of the whiskey he had at the bar and the raw desperation of a man who has been starving. His hands, those long, incredible fingers that can coax fire from a fretboard, are suddenly everywhere—mapping your curves through your clothes as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.
He leads you to the bedroom, the sanctuary where you spent so many mornings tangled in sheets. He strips you slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, his expression one of pure, unadulterated reverence. When you are finally bare before him, he drops to his knees.
"Jim..." you gasp, your fingers sinking into his long, dark hair.
"Let me," he murmurs against your thigh. "I’ve spent four months thinking about how you taste."
He parts you with practiced ease, his thumbs gently spreading your cunt as he leans in. The first lick is long and slow, a deliberate stroke that sends a bolt of electricity straight to your core. He’s meticulous, his tongue swirling around your clit while he uses his fingers to stretch you open, sliding two of them deep inside you to feel the way you're already soaking for him.
You arch your back, a ragged moan escaping your throat as he drinks you in. He treats you like a masterpiece, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, his tongue flicking and pulsing against you until you’re a trembling mess of nerves. He doesn't stop until your hips are bucking against him, until you’re sobbing his name into the quiet room.
When he finally stands, his eyes are dark with a predatory heat. You reach for him, your hands fumbling with his belt, needing to feel him just as much.
You pull his trousers down, and his cock springs free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with his heartbeat. You take him into your mouth, wanting to give back every ounce of the pleasure he just poured into you.
He lets out a choked sound, his head falling back as you swirl your tongue around the head of his length, tasting the salt and the heat of him. His hands rest on your head, his fingers threading through your hair, not pushing, just holding on as if you’re the only thing keeping him upright. He’s so sensitive, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches as you take him deeper, your hand stroking the base of him.
"Enough," he rasps, his voice breaking. “I can't... I won't last if you keep doing that."
He pulls you up onto the bed, hovering over you, his massive body shielding you from the rest of the world. This isn't the rough, angry sex of a fight; this is a reunion. It’s soft, it’s sweet.
He enters you slowly, his cock sliding into your dripping cunt with a heavy, agonizing friction. You both let out a synchronized moan as he bottoms out, the fullness of him stretching you, completing the puzzle that has been missing a piece for months.
"Look at me," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
You open your eyes to find him watching you with a look of such profound love that it brings tears to your eyes. He begins to move, a slow, rhythmic grind that emphasizes the connection rather than the speed. He’s deep inside you, his chest pressed against yours, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own.
Every thrust is a promise. Every time he pulls back, only to sink into your heat again, it feels like he’s stitching the wounds of your relationship back together. His hands find yours, pinning them to the pillow, fingers interlaced as he drives deeper, his cock hitting that perfect spot that makes your vision go white.
"You're mine," he panted, his sweat dripping onto your skin. "Tell me you're mine."
"Always, Jim. I’m always yours."
The pace quickens as the tension builds, the friction of his skin against yours creating a heat that feels like it’s going to consume the entire room. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper, wanting to feel every inch of him. The sound of his heavy breathing and the wet slap of your bodies meeting is the only music you need.
When the climax hits, it’s a slow-motion explosion. You shatter beneath him, your walls pulsing around his length, and he follows you a second later with a guttural roar, his body locking tight as he spends himself deep inside you.
He collapses onto you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged. For a long time, neither of you speaks. You just lay there, tangled together, the silence finally peaceful.
Jim eventually rolls to the side, pulling you into his arms so you’re tucked against his side. He kisses the top of your head, his hand stroking your arm in a slow, soothing motion.
"We have a lot to talk about tomorrow," he whispers into the dark.
"I know," you murmur, closing your eyes and finally feeling safe. "But tonight, let's just stay here."
"I'm not letting go," he promises, his grip tightening just enough to let you know he means it. "Not again."
I love YOUR JIM FICS!!! Can I request a story where Y/N and Jim are on tour, pick a huge fight right before the show, and then have to share a tiny bunk on the bus while still super mad but secretly horny? Lots of sass, tension, and cold, snarky hate sex, please!
LOVE THIS AHHH!!!
burnout ♱ jim root
- A fight before the show turns into rough, unresolved sex in a shared bunk.-
-
Pairing: Jim Root (Slipknot) × Reader (Y/N)
Genre: Realistic Smut, Established Relationship, Angst, Size Difference, Power Struggle, Emotional Tension
Warnings: P-in-V sex, lack of foreplay (painful penetration), unresolved argument, brat behavior, rough tone, size kink, emotional coldness during intimacy, implied aftercare tension, dirty talk, biting sarcasm, light degradation, no immediate resolution, mild language, reluctant arousal, clashing love and resentment
Word Count: ~6,000
-
You found him in the tuning room, hunched over his guitar with that furrow between his brows so deep it looked permanent.
He didn’t look up when you came in. Just kept twisting one of the pegs, plucking the low E-string again and again, brow tight like it personally offended him. You stood there watching him for a second, arms crossed, your back still aching from standing all day. He hadn’t said more than five words to you since yesterday afternoon.
“Hey,” you said, carefully.
“Mm,” Jim grunted, eyes still locked on the fretboard.
You waited. He said nothing else.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
God. That word. Like a slap.
You stepped closer. “You sure? Because you haven’t looked at me once.”
Now he looked up — just for a beat — and then went right back to the strings.
“Trying to focus,” he muttered.
You blinked. “Okay, but I’m not the fucking enemy, Jim.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re acting like I’m bothering you by existing.”
“Y/N,” he snapped suddenly, the growl in his voice low and biting, “can you not do this right now?”
Your whole body tensed. “Do what?”
“This.” He put the guitar down with a sharp clack on the stand and straightened up slowly. All six-foot-six of him unfolded like a warning. “You picking a fight before I go on.”
You stared up at him. The height difference was ridiculous — like yelling at a lamppost. Still, you didn’t back off.
“I’m not picking a fight,” you said tightly. “I’m trying to talk to my boyfriend, who’s apparently forgotten I’m even on this tour.”
Jim exhaled harshly, pacing away from you, running a hand over his mouth. “Jesus, Y/N…”
“No, fuck you,” you shot back, stepping after him, small and furious. “You’ve been shutting me out since we got to Denver. I ask you what’s wrong, you brush me off. I try to sit next to you, you get up. You didn’t even kiss me when you left for soundcheck.”
He turned on you so fast you actually startled — and it pissed you off that your body still flinched when he raised his voice.
“You want a kiss?” Jim snapped, towering over you now. “Is that what this is? You want a fucking kiss?”
You stared up at him, defiant. “Yeah. I do.”
He grabbed your jaw — not hard, just firm — and leaned down, pressing his mouth to yours in a single, flattened kiss. No tongue, no heat. Just pressure. Like sealing an envelope.
When he pulled back, his hand dropped.
“There,” he muttered. “Happy now?”
You wiped your mouth with your sleeve. “Wow. That really cleared things up. Thanks.”
“I’m trying to get in the zone. You barging in here to bitch at me doesn’t help.”
“I’m not bitching,” you hissed, voice rising with frustration. “I’m telling you I feel ignored and you’re acting like I’m a fucking inconvenience.”
“Because you are right now!” Jim exploded. “I’ve got ten thousand people out there waiting for me, and I don’t have time to babysit your feelings!”
Silence.
That was the one.
Your heart kicked like it had been dropped off a ledge.
“…Babysit?” you repeated, voice quiet and dangerous.
Jim’s jaw flexed. His hands were fists. “That’s not what I meant.”
“No, go ahead,” you snapped. “Tell me how hard it is being around your clingy, needy little girlfriend.”
“Y/N—”
“Fuck this.” You turned and stormed out.
-
The show came and went.
You didn’t watch from the side this time. You stayed backstage, sitting on a fucking flight case, arms wrapped around your knees, pretending not to care. Pretending you weren’t boiling under your skin with rage and hurt and every emotion you weren’t allowed to show right now.
And when the show was done — when Jim walked past you, still glistening with sweat, nodding to techs, speaking to anyone but you — you couldn’t take it. You slipped outside, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the back wall, letting the cool air bite into your skin.
Your phone buzzed once. You didn’t check it.
Ten minutes later, a voice startled you.
“Uh… Y/N?”
You turned.
A young security guard stood a few feet away, clearly nervous. “Jim sent me to get you. Said you should head to the bus.”
You squinted at him. “He couldn’t come himself?”
The guy shrugged, visibly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. He just told me to find you.”
You rolled your eyes and dropped the cigarette, stepping on it with more force than necessary.
-
You found Jim sitting alone on the tour bus, hood up, shoulders hunched, a beer half-drunk in his hand.
“Really?” you said sharply, stepping up into the entryway. “Sending a security guard like I’m some random fan you need wrangled?”
Jim didn’t even look at you. “You walked out.”
“And you let me,” you snapped. “You didn’t say a single fucking word to me after the show.”
He turned his head slowly. “You were outside smoking. What was I supposed to do, chase you down in front of the crew?”
“Oh right. Can’t risk looking like you care.”
“Don’t start,” he said darkly.
“Start? You started it in the tuning room, remember? You kissed me like I was your fucking aunt.”
Jim stood up, fast and tall. You stepped back out of reflex — barely — but he didn’t move toward you. Just loomed there, tense and ragged.
“I told you,” he said, voice low and even, “I can’t fight with you before a show. I told you that.”
You blinked hard, feeling heat rise behind your eyes. “And I told you I needed you. I’ve been trying for days, Jim. You’ve shut me out over and over and then act surprised when I snap.”
He rubbed his face. “I’m tired, Y/N.”
“No shit,” you snapped. “So am I.”
You stood there facing off like two people who didn’t know how to reach each other anymore. And yet — you were still stuck in the same space. Same tour. Same damn bus.
Eventually, Jim muttered, “Get in the bunk.”
You scoffed. “No.”
“You wanna sleep on the floor?”
You didn’t answer. You pushed past him, yanked open the curtain, and climbed into the narrow bunk.
He followed.
And suddenly you were in it — both of you, crammed into a bed the size of a coffin, your five-foot frame curled against the cold wall while six-foot-six of brooding, silent rage pressed behind you.
You could feel every inch of him. His knees bumped the back of your thighs. His forearm brushed your shoulder. He exhaled, and the air tickled the back of your neck.
“Stop moving,” he hissed after a few minutes.
“Then stop breathing on me.”
“I’m lying still.”
“You’re crowding me.”
“I’m twice your size,” he snapped. “Where exactly do you want me to go?”
You shifted again just to spite him.
He grunted and kicked his leg out slightly — enough to nudge your ankle and make you squirm more.
The tension was unbearable.
You hated this. You hated that you still wanted him. That despite everything, your body still ached for his.
You hated that he wasn’t touching you.
That all that space he took up — it still didn’t feel like enough.
The curtain was the only thing separating you from the rest of the world. But inside this bunk, it was a battlefield of silence and everything you weren’t saying.
You whispered into the dark, “I don’t know why you even wanted me here.”
He didn’t answer.
But you felt his breath falter.
Your shoulder bumped his chest when you, for the thousandth time, tried to get comfortable. “Can you move?”
“Where?” Jim mutters. His voice is low and pissed. “We’re in a fucking shoebox.”
You grunt, shifting around, arms pulling the blanket and adjusting your tank top. It barely covers anything. You didn’t exactly dress for war tonight — lace panties, soft shirt, no bra. You hadn’t expected to be sleeping next to a six-foot-six wall of pure tension.
“You’re taking up all the space,” you hiss.
“I’m literally pressed against the wall,” he snaps back. “Maybe if you’d stop squirming every two seconds—”
“I’m not squirming—”
“You’ve elbowed me in the ribs twice.”
You roll your eyes in the dark and huff. You turn over sharply, giving him your back, which presses your bare thighs and ass flush against his boxers. His arm is tucked between the mattress and the wall, but you can feel the tautness in his body — the tension coiled beneath his skin.
You lay still for a full ten seconds before shifting again, trying to get comfortable.
“Jesus, Y/N,” he mutters. “Can you stop moving?”
You freeze.
“I’m uncomfortable,” you snap.
“No shit. You picked a fight and now we’re stuffed into a fucking microwave,” he says, voice tight. “You get what you want?”
You’re about to whip around and tell him to go fuck himself again — but then the bus rumbles.
A bump in the road. Just enough of a jolt to rock you backward.
Right against him.
More specifically: right against it.
You go still.
So does he.
You can feel it. Hard. Heavy. Pressed right against your lace-covered heat.
You say nothing for a second. Neither does he.
Then: “Are you seriously hard right now?” you spit, not bothering to lower your voice.
“Are you seriously grinding on me?” he fires back.
“I didn’t grind! The bus moved!”
“Uh-huh.”
You twist, facing him. His face is barely lit by the strip of LED light outside the curtain. His jaw is clenched, his eyes unreadable.
“Well maybe if you weren’t some pervert who gets off on being pissed—”
“Oh please,” he huffs. “Like you’re not soaking through those tiny-ass panties right now.”
Your mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
He shifts, and that thick cock presses harder between your legs, and fuck — he’s not wrong. Your body betrayed you the second he got hard. Now your pulse is in your throat, and yeah, you can feel it — the heat, the wetness, your panties practically sticking to you.
You try to move away. He keeps his hips still.
“Shut up,” you mutter, pushing against his chest.
“You’re dripping,” he says, low. “I can feel it on my leg.”
You shove him harder. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re soaked.”
You both fall into silence, breaths sharp and short. The anger’s still there, but it’s tangled now — a thread of tension pulled too tight, fraying into something else. Something that’s burning hot and humiliating and desperate.
“You’re not even gonna get me ready?” you ask, voice suddenly cold. “You’re just gonna shove it in and hope I survive?”
He scoffs. “You think I’m touching you after the way you acted?”
You glare. “I’m not taking that without prep. Are you fucking insane?”
“Then figure it out,” he growls.
Your brow furrows. “Excuse me?”
“You want it? Get yourself ready.”
“Jim.”
“I’m not fingering you when you’ve been acting like I’m a fucking disease all day.”
You glare harder. You’re furious. Humiliated. And still achingly turned on. You stare at him, jaw set.
“Fine,” you mutter. But you weren’t fine, and you weren’t ready. You knew you weren’t.
Your body was still slick — hot and flushed and needy — but not in the way it should’ve been for him. Not for his size. You’d never done it like this before. No prep. No fingers. No foreplay. Just heat, anger, and the unbearable pressure of him nudging at your entrance.
“Jim…” you whispered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing your expression for the first time all night.
He didn’t stop. His jaw was locked, eyes fixed on your face, and he pushed in — just barely. The stretch was instant. Sharp. Wrong.
“Shit,” you gasped, your whole body tensing up.
He stilled.
Your hands were braced on his chest now, tiny fingers splayed over the broad, solid expanse of muscle. He was so much bigger than you — always had been — and right now, the difference felt unbearable. He wasn’t even halfway in and you already felt full to the point of pain.
His breath ticked against your face. Then, for a split second — just one — his brow furrowed.
“Y/N,” he murmured. “You’re not—fuck, you’re not ready.”
“No shit,” you snapped through clenched teeth. “That’s what I was trying to say.”
He gritted his teeth. Pulled back just a little. “You should’ve said something sooner.”
“I did. You ignored me. You told me to use my own fingers like I’m some disposable hole.”
He flinched, just barely. But you caught it.
Something shifted in his expression. The fire dimmed. The anger cracked — not completely, just enough for something else to slip through. Regret. Guilt. That familiar, quiet look he got when he realized he’d gone too far.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered.
You blinked up at him, lips trembling slightly, and for a moment the silence in the bunk filled with something you hadn’t shared in hours — intimacy.
But then — you moved. Just slightly. Your hips tilted to adjust.
You clenched.
It wasn’t on purpose.
He froze.
“Stop,” he snapped, eyes going dark.
You blinked, startled. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Well, it’s not helping,” he growled, holding himself back with visible strain. “You’re like a goddamn vice right now.”
“Well maybe that’s because your caveman dick doesn’t fit when you’re too much of a pissed-off jackass to do the prep!”
“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, bracing a hand beside your head. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
And just like that — the flicker of tenderness vanished. The fight returned. Not as loud now — not with the other guys within earshot. But more brutal somehow. Quiet and cutting. The kind of argument you can only have when you know someone so well that you know where to hit hardest.
“Why are we even doing this?” you muttered, voice shaking. “You clearly don’t want me.”
Jim’s eyes snapped to yours.
“You think I’d be inside you if I didn’t want you?” he said lowly, bitterly. “You think I’d lose sleep, let you crawl all over me on this fucking bus, beg security to bring your ass back, if I didn’t want you?”
You stared at him, breathing hard. Angry. Humiliated. Wet.
And you didn’t answer.
Because you did want him. And he wanted you. That was never the problem.
The problem was everything else.
“Just—go slow,” you said finally, voice small.
His jaw worked. Then he nodded, once.
He pushed forward again, slower this time — steady, inch by inch, with a hiss of breath between his teeth. It still hurt. He was still too big and you were still too tight, but now the burn felt like a challenge you weren’t going to back down from. His body pressed into yours, covering you, filling you — until finally he was fully inside.
You were panting. Sweat beading along your collarbone. Your head tipped back, pressed against the bunk wall.
Jim didn’t move.
“Okay?” he whispered. Quiet. Just that once.
Your eyes flicked up to him, the anger still simmering behind your lashes.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Now shut up and fuck me.”
His expression twisted — arousal and frustration and something darker. And then he did.
The rhythm returned, harder now, more punishing. His cock dragged along your walls, thick and unrelenting. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t murmur praise. He just drove into you like he had something to prove. Like every thrust was a challenge.
You met him in kind — digging your nails into his back, gritting your teeth, your legs trembling from the strain of keeping your voice down. Every now and then, your breath caught — not from pleasure, but from how tight it was. How it still hurt, even now.
But the pain made it real. It grounded you. Anchored you to him.
Because for all your anger — all your fighting — this was real. This was you and Jim, tangled in love and rage and the brutal intimacy of knowing someone so deeply you could wound each other without even trying.
And still — you kept fucking.
Because it was the only way to feel each other when words failed.
And maybe, just maybe, it was the only way to remind yourselves you still belonged to one another — even when everything else felt broken.
— Y/N calls it quits too early—Jim proves she’s not done.
Pairing: Jim Root (Slipknot) × Reader (Y/N)
Genre: Smut, Established Relationship, Power Play, Slight Overstimulation
Warnings: P-in-V sex, overstimulation, teasing/brat behavior, light dominance, dirty talk, no aftercare neglect (ends soft), mild language
Word Count: ~3,000
-
The bedroom was quiet except for the soft buzz of the lamp and the slow drag of breath between kisses. You were already straddling him, hands on his chest, his shirt half unbuttoned beneath you. His hair was messy—your fault. His lips, red and slightly swollen—also your fault.
Jim leaned back slightly against the headboard, lazily tracing his fingers up your thighs beneath his shirt, which now hung off your shoulders.
“Kind of aggressive tonight, huh?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
You grinned, your lips brushing his jaw. “I just wanted you.”
He hummed. “You always do.”
You rocked your hips slowly over him, feeling how hard he already was beneath you. “Yeah, well… you were being mouthy earlier.”
“I was right earlier,” he corrected. “You’re the one who gets mouthy when you’re horny.”
You didn’t dignify that with a response—you just slid your hand between your bodies and guided him into you. The groan that left his mouth made you feel like you’d just won a prize.
“Fuck,” he hissed, hands tightening around your hips. “You’re serious tonight.”
You sank down on him fully, closing your eyes and relishing the stretch. “I told you I wanted you.”
Jim’s head tilted back against the wall, his jaw clenched tight as you started to move—slow, deliberate, letting him feel everything. He let you take the lead, just gripping your waist and watching you through half-lidded eyes.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice gravel-thick. “Taking what you want.”
“I always do,” you breathed, hands planted on his chest.
His smirk deepened. “I’ll remember that later.”
But right now, he wasn’t trying to take control—he was letting you ride it out. And you did. You chased it. You pushed your hips harder against his, leaned in and bit at his neck, dragged your nails down his stomach, until the fire started curling low in your belly. You moaned against his skin, grinding down, chasing every flicker of pleasure until it finally took over—sharp, fast, overwhelming.
Your body trembled as you came, and you felt Jim’s grip falter for a second, his own breath catching at the way you clenched around him. But you were done. You’d gotten yours.
You slumped forward, forehead pressed to his collarbone.
You were nestled comfortably against him, your back to his chest, skin flushed, heartbeat just starting to settle. He was still inside you, hard and unmoving. You were riding the high of your orgasm, smug and drowsy, already halfway checked out.
“Mmm.” You sighed contentedly, resting your head against his shoulder. “That was so good.”
Jim’s voice came a second later. “Uh-huh. Glad you enjoyed yourself.”
You laughed sleepily. “You’re welcome.”
His voice dropped lower. “I didn’t come.”
You smirked, eyes still closed. “Yeah. You can do that later.”
“Later?” he repeated, incredulous.
“Yeah.” You shifted slightly, just enough to make him groan at the movement. “You’ll be fine.”
There was a pause. A moment of silence that felt almost too quiet.
Then you felt it—his hips pulling back just slightly.
Your eyes popped open. “Jim—”
Before you could finish, he thrust into you. Slowly. Deeply. No warning.
“Jim!”
He didn’t say a word. Just kept moving, slow and controlled, his hand slipping to your hip to hold you in place.
“Wait—what are you—oh my god.”
He kissed the back of your neck, breath warm. “You were perfectly fine a minute ago.”
Your body jolted, still sensitive from your orgasm. You reached behind you to press at his thigh. “I just came! I’m—shit—s-sensitive.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t stop. His thrusts stayed steady, hips pressing against your ass, cock sliding right against that oversensitive spot inside you that made your breath catch every time.
“Jim!” you gasped, trying to squirm forward, but he held you tighter.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Holy—okay—wait, fuck—”
“You’re not done until I’m done,” he said low in your ear. “Thought you could just come and roll over? Nah, babe. Not how this works.”
Your brain short-circuited as pleasure and overstimulation collided. His rhythm never faltered, each thrust deliberate and dragging, like he was savoring how wrecked you were getting.
You tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathy, desperate sound.
“Oh, now you don’t have anything to say?” Jim teased, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “You had a whole lot of attitude two minutes ago.”
You whimpered. “J-Jim, I—fuck, please—”
“You’re taking it,” he growled. “You’re gonna feel all of me. Since you clearly had more in you.”
You couldn’t think. Couldn’t argue. Your entire body was hypersensitive, twitching with every drag of him inside you.
“Feels too good, doesn’t it?” he muttered against your skin.
You nodded helplessly, mouth parted in a silent moan.
“You wanted to be in control,” he continued, breath heavy. “Now I’m in control. That okay?”
You choked on a yes. It came out more like a sob.
Jim’s free hand slid under your thigh, hiking your leg up so he could get deeper, and the way you cried out made him groan behind you.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “You’re doing so good for me.”
Your second orgasm hit so fast you didn’t even realize it was building. One minute you were breathless, the next you were shaking in his arms, legs trembling, your whole body spasming around him.
You cried out his name, nails digging into his forearm where it wrapped around you.
Jim gritted his teeth as you clenched around him, his thrusts faltering. “Shit, babe—fucking hell—”
He buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural groan, hips pressing flush against your ass as he held you tightly.
Neither of you moved for a while. Just panting, sweat-damp skin against skin, hearts racing in sync.
Finally, you managed to breathe out a stunned laugh. “You’re… such an asshole.”
Jim chuckled, kissing your neck. “And you started it.”
hiii, not sure if you’re the same person, but there’s an acc on wattpad with the users @/joeysdolls and @/dreamyseventies (their backup acc) that have one-shot stories and they are almost word for word the same as your own, so i just wanted to let you know. again, not sure if those are your own wattpad accounts but the bio says they are seventeen years old and i know your tumblr here says you’re in your twenties, so im airing on the safe side haha! as a fellow writer, i know how much hard work goes into creating these stories and you deserve to know in case it is plagiarism. much love! <33
yay that is me!! I’ve sort of tried to keep it separated from here but if you read any Johnny knoxville or Henry Cavill stories that look familiar to some of these, they’re by me too!! If I’m running out of ideas I like to just do the same plot but with a different person, cause y’know…I wrote ‘em hihi! I’m basically plagiarising myself 😉😂
hello! can you write a mick x reader smut where mick’s have been feeling horny all day and the reader is teasing him to just only make it worse?
driven mad ♱ mick thomson
Title: Driven Mad
Pairing: Mick Thomson x Female Reader
Setting: Slipknot rehearsal space and backstage
Genre: Smut, Romance, Slow Burn, Teasing
Word Count: Approximately 2000 words
-
You knew Mick was struggling. It was written all over him, the tight jaw, the restless hands, the way his eyes darkened whenever they landed on you. You could practically hear the restrained frustration humming just beneath the surface. Today had been like walking on a live wire — every glance, every accidental brush of skin between you sparking something fierce and raw. And Mick? Mick was not handling it well.
You watched him from across the room, the rehearsal space filled with the dull clatter of instruments and muffled voices as the band took a break. His broad shoulders were stiff, arms crossed over his chest like a shield. His dark eyes flicked up to catch yours, holding the heat that had been building between you both since morning.
A slow smile tugged at your lips. You decided to test the fire, to fan the embers and see just how far you could push him.
You approached deliberately, letting your fingers trail lightly over his forearm as you passed. Mick’s breath hitched, his eyes sharpening in response. You could see the flicker of hunger, the tension uncoiling in his muscles.
"You've been like this all day," you murmured, voice low and teasing. "Trying to pretend it’s nothing, but I see it."
His jaw clenched, and his voice came out rough, a low growl. "Don’t."
"Don’t what?" You stepped closer, so close your breath warmed his skin. "Tease you?"
Mick’s hands twitched at his sides, his control cracking. "Yeah."
You smiled wider and brushed your fingers up the inside of his wrist, watching as the tension in his body increased, like he was fighting a losing battle.
"Maybe I want to," you whispered, lips almost brushing his ear.
His breath hitched. "You’re impossible."
That only made you smirk more.
Throughout the day, you kept it up, small touches, teasing smiles, and words whispered just loud enough for him to hear. When Mick thought no one was looking, you caught him stealing glances, his eyes dark and heavy with need. His normally stoic demeanor was fading, replaced by something raw and exposed.
Every time you caught him off guard, you leaned in, letting your hand brush his arm or pressing your body just a little closer, enough to make the heat between you undeniable.
"You’re killing me," he muttered during a break, voice rough, frustration simmering beneath the surface.
You smiled sweetly and pressed a feather-light kiss to his jaw. "Good."
By the time rehearsal was over, Mick was practically pacing, his restraint wearing thin. You found him alone by the equipment cases, his broad back tense, hands running through his dark hair in a rare display of agitation.
You approached quietly and slipped your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek against the hard line of his back.
"Still thinking about it?" you asked softly.
He exhaled sharply and spun you into his arms, cupping your face with hands both large and rough. His eyes were dark pools of hunger and frustration.
"I’ve been holding it together all day," he confessed, voice low and ragged, "and you’re driving me insane."
You grinned and slid your hands beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips. Mick’s breath hitched, muscles flexing under your touch.
Without warning, he crushed his lips to yours, a fierce, desperate kiss that left no doubt about how much he’d been holding back. His tongue tangled with yours, deep and demanding, as his hands roamed your body with possessive hunger.
You melted against him, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. Mick’s hands slipped beneath your shirt, tracing the hard planes of your back, pulling you flush against his chest.
Your fingers found the belt loops of his jeans, tugging at them teasingly. Mick groaned, the sound vibrating through you.
"Not yet," he rasped, voice thick with need.
You smiled wickedly, lips brushing the sensitive skin just below his ear. "Then start."
His hands moved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your jeans, fingers grazing the bare skin of your hips, sending shivers racing down your spine. Mick’s mouth trailed down your neck, biting and sucking tender bruises into your skin.
You arched into him, craving more, fingers clutching the back of his shirt as your breath came in short gasps.
His fingers curled inside you, slow and teasing at first, then firmer as he found that perfect spot. You moaned softly, a sound that spurred him on.
Mick’s hands gripped your hips, lifting you higher, deeper. The pressure and movement were perfect — rough and possessive, yet careful enough to keep you aching.
You slid down from the crate to the couch nearby, Mick following without breaking contact. His lips never left your skin, trailing fire and leaving marks only he could make.
You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him up for a deep, hungry kiss that left you breathless.
His hands moved over your body with urgent intent, undoing the button and zipper of your jeans in a fluid motion. You helped, pushing your clothes aside until you were bare beneath him.
Mick’s eyes darkened at the sight of you, every curve and line etched in shadow and light.
His mouth found yours again, kisses fierce and claiming. His hands explored every inch of your skin, memorizing you in a way that made your pulse quicken.
He lowered you onto the couch, never breaking contact. His mouth trailed down your neck, biting gently before moving lower, lips brushing the swell of your breasts over your bra.
Mick’s hands were rough but gentle as he freed you from the confines of your bra, palms and fingers tracing your curves, eliciting soft moans from you.
You arched into him instinctively, craving more of his touch, more of his heat.
His lips followed the path of his hands, kisses soft and scorching, and you felt yourself unraveling beneath him.
Mick’s fingers slipped lower, exploring your body with a possessive hunger that made your breath hitch. His touch was expert — firm and sure, sending waves of pleasure through you.
When he finally slid inside you, slow and deliberate, the sensation was overwhelming. You gasped, clutching his shoulders as he moved, steady and sure.
His hands gripped your hips tightly as his thrusts gained rhythm and power, building the pleasure higher with every movement.
You cried out, voice raw as your body moved in time with his, lost in the sensation of being filled, owned, cherished.
Mick’s breath was hot against your skin, voice low and rough as he whispered, "You’re mine."
You nodded, breathless and trembling.
The pleasure built rapidly, every nerve ending alight as Mick’s pace quickened, fingers curling inside you expertly.
Your moans grew louder, your body tense and trembling as you reached the edge.
Mick’s voice was a growl in your ear, demanding, "Come for me."
And you did — shattering around him in waves of ecstasy, crying his name as your body convulsed in release.
Mick followed moments later, gripping you tight as he tumbled over the edge with you, sweat slick and skin flushed.
Afterward, you lay tangled together, your bodies slick and spent, hearts pounding.
Mick’s hands never stopped exploring, tracing lazy patterns over your skin as his lips pressed gentle kisses to your forehead.
"You’re mine," he murmured, voice low and full of promise.
You smiled, curling into his side. "Always."
The heat between you hadn’t cooled — it was a slow burn, a steady flame that promised this was only the beginning.
Can you do a joey smut??? Idc about the plot I'll be happy with anything I love your work btw
whatever you ask of me ♱ joey jordison
Title: Whatever You Ask of Me
Pairing: Joey Jordison x Female Reader
Word Count: ~2,200
Content: Established relationship, passionate sex, dirty talk, worship vibes, some light dom/sub dynamics, after-show setting.
The door slammed behind you both, echoing off the walls of the dressing room. The crowd's roar was still ringing in your ears, the high of the concert still buzzing in Joey’s blood. Sweat clung to his skin, his eyeliner smudged, hair wild and damp from hours under hot lights and a mask.
You barely had time to register the door closing before he had you against it—his hand flat on the wood beside your head, his chest rising and falling fast.
“You,” he growled, voice low and dark, “were staring at me like you were gonna eat me alive all night.”
You blinked, breath caught in your throat. “Maybe I was.”
Joey smirked, tongue running along his bottom lip. “Yeah? I could feel your eyes from behind the kit. Knew exactly what you wanted.”
“I wanted you,” you said, quiet but bold. “I want you.”
His eyes darkened, pupils blown. “Say it again.”
“I want you.”
He leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, lips just brushing but not kissing yet.
“You want me to fuck you?” he whispered, and the words hit you like a match to gasoline. “Hard or soft? Fast or slow? Tell me—I will do whatever you ask of me.”
Your knees nearly gave out.
“Hard,” you breathed. “Fast. Now.”
That was all it took.
Joey crushed his mouth to yours in a kiss that stole every ounce of air from your lungs. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your thighs to lift you, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He carried you across the room like you weighed nothing, slamming you down onto the padded couch.
“God, you drive me insane,” he muttered, yanking your shirt up over your head, pressing hot kisses down your collarbone. “Sitting side-stage, all sweet and innocent, and the second we’re alone—this is what you want, huh?”
You nodded frantically, fingers fumbling at his shirt as he shrugged out of it, revealing a sheen of sweat glistening on his chest and tattooed arms. His hair clung to his face, wild and messy, and he looked at you like a man possessed.
He shoved your jeans down your legs with a low groan, tossing them somewhere behind him before kneeling between your legs.
“Look at you,” he whispered, spreading your thighs wide, dragging his fingers slowly over the soaked fabric of your panties. “Already this wet for me. All I did was talk.”
You whimpered. “Joey, please…”
“Yeah?” He hooked a finger under the fabric, sliding it to the side to expose your soaked heat. “Please what, baby? You want my fingers, my mouth—or just cock?”
“Cock,” you gasped. “Please. Just fuck me.”
Joey’s mouth twitched in a smug grin. “Begging so sweet for it. You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.”
He stood up just long enough to shove down his jeans and boxers, cock flushed and already hard, veins thick along the shaft. He gave it a lazy stroke, eyes locked on yours.
“Condom?” he asked, breath hitching.
You shook your head. “I’m on the pill. I need to feel you.”
His jaw clenched. “Fuck…”
He dropped back to his knees and guided himself to your entrance, teasing the head just barely inside you. He groaned as your slick heat clung to him.
“God, you’re tight,” he growled, then pushed in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face twist in bliss. “You take me so fucking well every time.”
You cried out as he bottomed out, hips pressed to yours, stretching you wide and full. His hands slid under your thighs, anchoring you in place.
Then he started to move.
Fast, just like you begged—hips snapping into you with sharp, rhythmic thrusts that sent your body arching off the couch. The wet sound of skin slapping echoed in the room, mingling with your moans and his ragged grunts.
“You feel that?” he panted. “How deep I am?”
You nodded desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say who’s fucking you like this.”
“You are, Joey,” you gasped. “Only you.”
He leaned in, kissing you hard and filthy, tongue claiming your mouth as his thrusts got rougher. The couch creaked beneath you both, his pace relentless, precise, like the same rhythm he pounded into his drums—except this was just for you.
“Gonna make you come on this cock,” he growled. “Wanna feel you squeeze me so tight I lose my mind.”
You were already so close. Your body coiled tight, every nerve on fire from the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that existed.
“Joey—fuck—I’m—”
“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering just a little as you clenched around him. “Come for me. Let go. Let me feel it.”
You shattered with a cry, thighs shaking around him as you came, heat flooding your core. He didn’t stop—kept pounding into you through the aftershocks, jaw clenched, brow furrowed in concentration as he chased his own release.
“Fuck, fuck—gonna come—”
He pulled out just in time, stroking himself fast until he came all over your stomach with a deep groan, strands painting your skin. His hand trembled slightly as he caught his breath, resting his forehead against yours.
Silence fell for a moment, both of you panting, skin slick with sweat and come.
Joey looked down at you—flushed, ruined, blissed out—and smiled.
“You okay?” he murmured, brushing hair from your face.
You nodded. “More than okay.”
He chuckled, breathless, and grabbed a towel from the nearby counter to clean you gently, tenderness taking over where ferocity had just reigned.
As he curled up beside you, pulling you into his chest, he whispered:
“Next time, you want it soft and slow… just say the word.”
Could you write a Craig x reader fic? I don't have any specific ideas, I just want fluff and smut :)
under the surface ♱ craig jones
Title: Under the Surface
Pairing: Craig Jones (Slipknot) x Female Reader
Genre: Fluff, Smut, One-shot
Warnings: Smut (oral m and f receiving, fingering, unprotected sex), soft dom!Craig, praise, aftercare, slight mask kink (he keeps it on for a bit), dirty talk
Setting: At home, post-tour
-
The house was quiet again.
You weren’t used to it—not after weeks of Slipknot’s tour chaos, the buzz of fans, the storm of adrenaline Craig came home drenched in. Now it was just you, the low hum of a record playing in the background, and your boyfriend curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled up, fingers absentmindedly rubbing your thigh.
Craig wasn’t a man of many words, but he didn’t need them to let you know how much he missed you. The way he hadn’t stopped touching you since he walked through the door told you everything.
His long fingers ghosted over your skin again, barely there. You gave him a knowing look. “You’re trying to drive me crazy, aren’t you?”
He looked up at you from under the shadow of his hoodie. The barest hint of a smirk curled his lips, and then he leaned in—still silent—and kissed your jaw. Then your neck. Then just under your ear. Slow, deliberate, each touch more intense than the last.
“You’re the one in my lap, sweetheart,” he said finally, voice low and gravelly. “Seems like you’re the crazy one.”
You smiled, threading your fingers into his hair. “Maybe I missed you a little too much.”
He tugged your hips down slightly, adjusting you over his lap so your legs straddled him now. The shift pressed you right against the growing hardness in his jeans, and you felt a flutter in your stomach.
“Yeah?” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Show me.”
Your breath caught.
Craig wasn’t like the others. He didn’t grab, didn’t demand. He waited. Watched. Wanted you to come to him. And you always did.
You kissed him slow—hands braced against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms. He tasted like spearmint gum and silence, and when he kissed back, it was with quiet, devastating precision. He knew exactly how to unmake you.
You rocked your hips just slightly, teasing friction between your bodies. Craig’s hands tightened around your waist.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips. “You trying to ruin me?”
You just smiled and reached down to tug at the hem of his hoodie. “Off.”
He peeled it off in one fluid motion, revealing the black tee clinging to his lean frame. Tattoos peeked out from under the sleeves, and you had to take a second to just look at him. God, he was beautiful in that quiet, haunted kind of way—like a man who felt everything but only let you see it when you earned it.
Your shirt followed his, and Craig wasted no time—hands sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples through the lace. You let your head fall back with a gasp.
“Love these,” he muttered. “Love all of you.”
His voice was barely above a whisper, but it made you burn all over.
He lifted you like you weighed nothing and carried you to the bedroom, laying you down like you were something fragile. And then—without a word—he grabbed the mask off the dresser.
You blinked. “You’re putting that on now?”
He grinned under it, voice muffled but unmistakably amused. “Thought you liked a little mystery.”
Your thighs pressed together instinctively. Damn him.
Craig knelt between your legs, spreading them gently with his hands. You were already wet, aching, and he hadn’t even touched you there yet.
Then he lowered his masked face.
You gasped when his tongue met your core, hot and deliberate. He licked a slow stripe up your center, then did it again, and again, until you were trembling under him. The cool press of the mask against your inner thighs made it even more intense.
“Shit—Craig—” You reached down to tug at his hair, and he groaned into you, the vibrations sending heat all through your body.
He sucked your clit, slow and deep, fingers sliding into you without warning. You arched your back, moaning shamelessly.
“That’s it,” he growled, mask still on. “Be loud. Let me hear how much you missed me.”
You were already close, but you didn’t want it to end yet. You tugged him up by the front of his shirt.
“Need you. Now.”
He stripped off the rest of his clothes, crawling over you like something dark and hungry. His lips found your neck again, kissing and biting gently as he lined himself up.
You wrapped your legs around him, hands in his hair, and whispered, “Please.”
He pushed into you in one slow, deep thrust.
You both moaned—him, low and gravelly; you, breathless and needy.
Craig set a slow pace at first, rolling his hips, watching every reaction you gave him. He kissed your jaw, your mouth, your throat—worshiped you. His hand slid between you to rub your clit, just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge.
“I fucking missed you,” he said, voice breaking slightly. “Missed this. Missed how you feel around me.”
Your hands dug into his back. “Harder.”
He growled, grabbing your thigh and pulling it higher around his waist. Then he started thrusting faster, deeper—each one hitting that spot inside you that made you cry out.
“God—Craig—I’m—”
He didn’t stop. Just kept going, murmuring, “Let go. I’ve got you. Come for me, baby.”
You shattered, clenching around him, stars exploding behind your eyes. Craig followed right after, with a quiet, ragged moan of your name.
You lay tangled in each other’s limbs, his hand stroking your hair, your leg draped over his hips. The room was warm and quiet again.
“You always so quiet when you’re this good in bed?” you teased sleepily.
He gave a soft laugh. “You want a talker? Date Corey.”
You snorted. “No thanks. I like the silent type.”
Craig leaned over and kissed your forehead. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
You nuzzled into his chest, heart full. “Me neither.”
hiii i know this sounds weird but can you make a jim x mick x reader smut? but the reader is the dom and they’re both the sub? jim and mick are my fav members ^^
big men, good boys ♱ jim root and mick thomson
Title: "Big Men, Good Boys"
Pairing: Jim Root x Mick Thomson x Fem!Reader (Dom!Reader, Sub!Jim & Mick)
Word count: ~2000
NSFW / SMUT / D/s themes / Praise kink / Size kink / Light bondage
-
You always knew what kind of effect you had on men—especially the cocky ones, the towering ones who assumed their size gave them control. But that illusion shattered the first time you pulled both Jim Root and Mick Thomson down to their knees with nothing more than your voice.
They’d thought they were being clever, sitting on either side of you backstage after the show, manspreading and subtly boxing you in on the couch. Jim’s fingers had brushed your thigh. Mick had leaned in close, voice low and gravely as he’d said, “You ever think about what it’d be like between us?”
You’d turned your head slowly. Looked them both over—massive, towering, sweat-slicked men still half in stage gear.
Then you’d smiled, slow and sharp.
“I have,” you said. “But only if you do exactly what I say.”
Now, they were doing just that.
Your hotel room was dimly lit, warm with the low hum of anticipation. Jim stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, six-foot-six and visibly unsure of what to do with his hands. Mick loomed behind him, broader than both of you, but staring at you like a student awaiting punishment.
“Strip. Both of you. But slow,” you said from where you sat on the bed, legs crossed, robe open enough to tease what they could—and couldn’t—have.
Jim obeyed first, hands moving to his shirt. It came off over his head, revealing pale skin and wiry muscle, black ink disappearing into his waistband. His jeans followed, inch by inch, until he stood in nothing but boxers, the outline of his cock already hard against the fabric.
Mick followed, a little more hesitant but just as obedient. When he finally stood naked beside Jim, you let your gaze travel slowly over them both—two massive men now under your eye like pets waiting for command.
“Good boys,” you purred.
The way Jim shifted at the praise, biting his bottom lip, didn’t go unnoticed. Mick’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“Color?” you asked.
“Green,” Jim said instantly.
“Green,” Mick echoed.
“On the bed. Hands behind your back.”
They climbed onto the mattress with a mix of eagerness and submission, muscles moving beneath skin as they kneeled in front of you. You pulled a silken rope from the nightstand drawer and took your time tying Jim’s wrists behind him—tight but not painful. He groaned softly, already half gone at the contact.
“You always look so confident on stage, Jim. All that swagger. And now you’re shaking under my touch,” you whispered, brushing his jaw with your fingers. “Pathetic.”
His cock twitched.
You turned your attention to Mick, letting your fingers trail up his chest. “You too, big man. Quiet, brooding. But you’re not so scary when you’re waiting to be told what to do, are you?”
Mick swallowed hard, eyes fixed on yours. “No, ma’am.”
You smirked.
Grabbing both their chins, you leaned close, letting your dominance settle in fully. “You’re mine tonight. I want to hear begging. I want obedience. And if either of you get ahead of yourselves, I stop. Understood?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they corrected.
You stood and let your robe drop. Both men’s eyes darkened at the sight of your body, but neither dared move until you let them.
You climbed onto the bed and positioned Jim first, pushing him back onto the pillows. You straddled his hips, pressing his bound wrists against the mattress.
“Keep your hands right here,” you whispered. “Don’t you dare move them.”
He whimpered beneath you.
You rocked your hips against him slowly, teasing, letting your soaked heat drag over the fabric of his boxers, watching him strain. Mick knelt at the edge of the bed, watching you ride Jim without even undressing fully yet.
“You want more, Jim?” you asked, already knowing the answer.
“God, yes—please, I need you,” he gasped.
You slid down his boxers slowly, watching his cock spring free. Hard, leaking, twitching.
“You’ll get what I give you,” you warned.
You took him in hand and stroked once, slow and firm, just to watch his eyes roll back. Then you slid down and took him into your mouth—just the head—before pulling off completely.
“Fuck!” he groaned, hips bucking slightly.
You slapped his thigh. “Did I say you could move?”
“N-no, ma’am. I’m sorry—”
“One more slip like that and I leave you like this. Understand?”
He nodded frantically.
You turned to Mick. “You. Sit up. Hands behind your head.”
He obeyed, chest rising and falling with heavy breath. You crawled over to him and whispered, “You’re going to watch while I ruin your bandmate. If you behave, I’ll let you taste me. If you don't, you get nothing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You returned to Jim, straddling him again and finally sinking down onto him, inch by inch. He let out a ragged moan, eyes wide, mouth parted.
“God, you’re so tight,” he breathed.
You rolled your hips slowly, using him, controlling every motion. He was entirely yours—wrists bound, too afraid to move. You braced your hands on his chest and rode him harder, grinding down until his breath turned to helpless gasps.
Mick watched, cock rock-hard between his legs, but unmoving.
“Look at him,” you said to Mick between moans. “The great Jim Root—whimpering under me like a needy slut. Does that turn you on?”
“Yes,” Mick rasped. “So much.”
You smirked. “Good. Because you’re next.”
You pulled off Jim with a slick sound, making him cry out in frustration, and pointed to Mick. “On your back. Now.”
He obeyed instantly. You straddled him next, but didn’t let him inside yet. You let your wet heat drag along his cock as you leaned forward, biting at his neck, his jaw, his earlobe.
“You think about this when you're on stage?” you whispered. “Being underneath me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he gasped. “Every fucking time.”
You slid down on him slowly, and this time it was your moan that broke the silence. Mick was thicker than Jim, the stretch intense—but so, so satisfying.
You fucked him hard, hands on his chest, watching his mouth fall open in awe. He wasn’t quiet like you thought he’d be—he begged, whined, pleaded for more, praised you like a goddess.
Jim lay beside you, panting, still bound and watching like a starving man.
“Please let me come,” Mick begged. “I’m close—please—”
“Not yet,” you said.
You pulled off him too and crawled back between them both.
“Get on your knees. Both of you. Faces close.”
They obeyed.
You lowered yourself between them, one hand on each of their cocks, stroking them slowly as you used their faces to grind your hips.
“Lick,” you commanded.
Two tongues met you at once—one flatter and eager, one more precise. You moaned, gripping their hair, dragging them where you wanted. They worked together surprisingly well, and soon you were gasping, grinding harder, using them like toys.
“Fuck—just like that,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”
They didn’t. If anything, they grew more desperate, wanting to please you, to taste you, to be the ones who made you come. And when you finally did—loud, shuddering, with your thighs trembling around their heads—you let them both kiss your inner thighs like good boys.
You pulled away slowly, panting, sweaty, flushed.
“Have you both earned it?” you asked, crawling to your knees.
“Yes, ma’am,” they breathed.
You unbound Jim’s wrists and had them both lie down side-by-side. You climbed on top of them both—one cock in each hand—and started stroking them in tandem, leaning down to kiss one, then the other.
“You don’t come until I say so. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they whimpered.
You kept the rhythm tight, fast, until their hips were bucking and they were dripping pre-cum, eyes screwed shut in restraint. You kissed their necks, whispered filth in their ears, let your slick from before drip down onto their cocks just to watch their bodies seize.
“Now,” you finally whispered.
They came almost simultaneously—Mick with a growl, Jim with a choked gasp—spilling hot and heavy all over your hands, your chest, themselves.
You sat back and admired the mess you made.
Two massive, broken men laid out for you. Shaking, panting, wrecked.
You smiled and ran a finger through the mess on your chest, then licked it clean.
i love your writing a lot. been having a fuckin stressful time lately, anxities coming back and all, so i wondered if you could write a joey fic, i know you've done a lot already, with just comforting elements. maybe some rain outside, his cats, a friends to lovers kind of thing... or not, honestly, i'll leave it up to you! just in need of some comforting jo! thanx already.
the sound of rain ♱ joey jordison
im sorry to hear you've been having a hard time....hope this helps just a tiny bit <33
Title;“The Sound of Rain”
Pairing; Joey Jordison x Female Reader
Type: Comfort | Friends to Lovers (Soft)
Word count: 2300-ish
The rain started sometime in the late afternoon, quiet at first—just a soft tapping against the windows of Joey's house—but now it poured in steady sheets, turning the world outside into a blur of gray.
You hadn’t meant to stay this long. It was supposed to be a quick drop-off—a hoodie of yours he’d borrowed (and absolutely refused to return until now)—but then he’d offered coffee, then music, then lunch… and now here you were, curled up on his couch with a blanket over your legs, one of his cats purring loudly on your lap.
“I think Missy’s officially adopted you,” Joey muttered from the kitchen, glancing over at you with a faint smile. He had a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a mug of tea in his hand, steam curling into the air.
“She has good taste,” you replied, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “Can’t say the same about her dad, though.”
Joey gave you a look, mock-offended. “You’re seriously gonna trash-talk me in my own house? While I’m literally making you tea?”
“You’re not making it, you’re steeping it,” you teased, but your smile was soft. The playful banter was familiar, safe. You always felt warm around him, and not just because of the hoodie or the blanket or the cat-shaped furnace on your lap.
Joey walked over and handed you the mug, fingers brushing yours. “Well, next time you can make your own damn tea.”
“Deal,” you said, but neither of you moved to talk for a second. The moment hung there—quiet, almost hesitant.
He sat down beside you, not on the other end of the couch, but close. Close enough that your shoulders touched. You didn’t flinch away. Neither did he.
Outside, the rain whispered steadily, drumming gently on the roof.
“Shitty weather,” Joey said softly.
“I like it,” you said. “It feels like everything can just stop for a little while.”
He tilted his head, watching you. “You okay? You’ve been kind of quiet today.”
You sipped the tea and nodded. “I’m fine. Just tired. Life’s been... a lot lately.”
Joey didn’t press. He never did. That was one of the things you loved about him—he never tried to fix you or talk you out of your feelings. He just let you have them.
Instead, he reached out, brushing your hair back gently behind your ear. His hand lingered for a second too long. “You know you can stay, right? I don’t care if it’s all night. Hell, the rain’s probably gonna flood half the roads.”
You didn’t answer right away. The tea was warm in your hands, the cat was still purring. Joey was beside you, his presence grounding, like he always was. Like he always had been.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” you said quietly.
He nodded, like he understood the full weight of that sentence.
“You don’t have to be.”
Later, the two of you migrated to his bedroom, not because anything was happening, but because the couch was too small and Missy refused to move. Joey tossed you some old sweatpants and a soft band tee that smelled like him—cedarwood and detergent and faint traces of cigarettes. You changed in the bathroom, suddenly aware of how domestic this felt. Like something more than friendship.
When you came out, he was already under the blankets, his black hair damp from a quick shower. His tattoos peeked out from the sleeves of his old Misfits shirt, and he looked strangely… peaceful. Softer than you usually saw him. You got into the bed without a word, turning to face the window, where the rain streaked in lines of silver down the glass.
It was quiet for a long time. You thought maybe he’d fallen asleep—until his voice broke through the dark.
“Can I ask you something?”
You turned toward him. “Of course.”
He hesitated. “Do you ever think about us?”
You blinked. “Us?”
Joey propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with guarded eyes. “I mean… more than just friends.”
The air shifted. You stared at him, your breath catching slightly.
“I do,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “More than I probably should.”
He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years.
“I thought I was crazy,” he said. “Every time you come over, every time you fall asleep on my couch, or steal my hoodies, or take care of my cats like they’re yours… it kills me. Because I keep thinking—what if she doesn’t see it that way? What if I lose her completely if I say something?”
“You won’t,” you said quickly, sitting up a little. “Joey, you never would.”
He looked at you, eyes dark and searching. “I don’t want to scare you off. You’re... everything, you know? I didn’t think I deserved someone like you.”
You swallowed hard. “And I didn’t think you saw me that way.”
He reached for your hand under the blanket, fingers curling around yours. “I see you. All the time. Every day.”
The silence returned, but it was full now—warm, meaningful.
You leaned in, barely thinking, and kissed him—soft, uncertain, but real. He kissed you back immediately, a quiet sigh slipping from his lips like he'd been waiting forever.
When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his.
“Is this okay?” you asked.
“More than okay,” he whispered, and for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you felt something settle inside you.
The storm outside raged on, but in that little room with Joey’s hand holding yours, it was finally quiet.
You woke in the middle of the night to the sound of thunder and the sensation of arms wrapped around you. Joey had shifted in his sleep, his arm draped protectively over your waist, his breath soft and even against the back of your neck.
Missy was curled up near your feet, and another of Joey’s cats—one of the shier ones—had taken up residence on the windowsill, staring out at the storm.
You smiled into the dark, your heart strangely full.
You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Maybe it would be messy. Maybe you’d both stumble trying to turn years of friendship into something more. But right now, in this moment, it didn’t matter.
Right now, Joey was holding you like you were the only thing that made sense in the world, and outside, the rain kept falling—steady, soothing, like a lullaby for two people who finally, finally found each other.
Title: “No nut november”
Pairing: Jim Root x Female Reader
Genre: SMUT!
Word count: ~ 4000-ish words
It was maddening — a deep, throbbing kind of frustration that pulsed between your legs and gnawed at the edges of your sanity. You weren’t just horny, you were feral for him. You'd offered yourself to Jim in every filthy, desperate way imaginable — bending over in a towel with nothing underneath, whispering filth into his ear before bed, even slipping your hand down his pants while he watched TV. Every time, he shut you down.
Usually, just a passing glance or the brush of your thigh against his crotch was enough to get him hard and ready to ruin you. But now? His hands — those big, sinful things that used to grope your tits, spank your ass, and choke you just right — stayed locked in his pockets. His jaw clenched every time you touched him like he was barely holding back from tearing your clothes off.
Subtle glances. Playful touches. Whispers in his ear about how wet you were for him. Begging him silently to pin you down, fill you up, fuck you until your knees gave out. But Jim kept his distance, stoic and cold like a monk sworn to chastity.
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks. No sex, no kisses beyond a tired peck, no lazy morning head, no grabbing you by the throat and pushing you into the mattress with that cocky growl of his. You felt discarded, stripped of the part of Jim that devoured you. What the hell had changed?
The answer? That damn bet.
“A whole month? Without sex? No fucking way.”
Jim’s voice had been tight with disbelief, his arms crossed as Sid pitched the idiotic idea over lunch. “No Nut November,” he said with a smug grin. What started as a joke twisted into a challenge — and Jim, ever the prideful bastard, couldn’t back down. Especially not in front of the rest of Slipknot.
They all assumed he’d crack first. Everyone knew about the two of you — how you’d sneak off mid-tour, fuck in closets, bathrooms, dressing rooms, wherever you could find five minutes and a locked door. Loud, sweaty, animalistic sex that left bruises and bite marks. Jim had a reputation for being insatiable, the first to fold, the one who couldn’t go a day without having you on your knees.
And maybe that’s what got under his skin — the teasing. The idea that he didn’t have control. That he was ruled by his cock. He had something to prove.
So he agreed.
And you were suffering for it.
—
That night, when Jim came home, the full weight of what he’d agreed to began pressing down like a vice.
You were waiting for him in your shared apartment, excitement practically vibrating off your skin. You’d texted earlier that day, a few teasing photos sent with no words at all. Your body — always his favourite playground — was dressed in nothing but a black lace robe that clung to your curves and hinted at everything underneath. You’d lit candles, queued up a playlist you knew drove him insane, and even tucked a bottle of bourbon in the corner, his favourite.
The moment he walked through the door, you launched yourself into his arms, climbing his massive 6'6 stature like a monkey.
“Hey, baby,” you purred, arms winding tight around his waist.
Jim stiffened. His arms didn’t wrap around you like they usually did. No quick grope of your ass, no hand at the back of your neck pulling you in for a hungry kiss.
He cleared his throat. “Hey.”
You blinked, confused, your hands smoothing down his chest. “Long day?”
“Yeah.”
That was all he said. He peeled himself away from you gently, his large hands placing you back on the ground again, moving into the apartment without so much as a glance at the seductive spread you’d prepared.
You followed him, heart sinking. “Well... I thought maybe I could help you relax a little. Take the edge off.” You stepped in front of him, fingers dipping beneath the hem of his shirt.
Jim caught your wrists gently but firmly. “I’m just gonna take a shower.”
You stared at him, stunned. “Alone?”
“Yeah.”
He was gone before you could say another word, disappearing into the bathroom and clicking the door shut with a finality that felt like a slap.
You stood there in silence, your body aching with the rejection. You hadn’t just wanted sex — you’d wanted connection, intimacy, the part of Jim that only you got to see when his guard was down. And he hadn’t just said no — he’d walked away without looking back.
In the bathroom, Jim braced his hands against the sink, staring at his reflection. He looked like a man at war — and he was. His cock had been hard since you greeted him at the door, already aching just from your touch. But he couldn’t do it. Not tonight. Not after what he’d agreed to.
He muttered, “Fucking Sid,” under his breath and turned on the shower.
Behind the door, you waited.
And waited.
And as the water ran and your candles burned lower, the ache in your chest deepened. You wrapped your robe tighter around yourself and retreated to the couch, alone, wondering what the hell had just happened — and why the man who usually worshipped your body now seemed like he couldn’t even stand to touch you.
You didn’t even hear the water shut off. Just the quiet creak of the bathroom door, and then the soft shuffle of Jim’s feet moving down the hallway — not toward you, but toward the bedroom. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t call your name. Didn’t even look.
That was the final straw.
You stood abruptly, the lace robe falling open just enough to show skin, and stormed after him.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed in a clean shirt and boxers, a towel slung around his neck, drying his hair like none of this was even happening. Like he hadn’t just ignored every part of you.
“Do you not want me anymore?” Your voice cracked before you could stop it.
He paused mid-motion, eyes lifting to meet yours. “What?”
You stepped closer, trembling with frustration and something deeper — desperation. “Do you not want me? Just say it. Just—fuck, just say it. Why won’t you touch me? Why won’t you fuck me?”
He let out a breath, slow and controlled but didn’t answer.
You dropped to your knees in front of him, voice shaking. “Let me show you. Let me prove it.”
“Y/N—”
But you were already tugging at his waistband, hands fumbling. You could feel the heat of him, already hard beneath the fabric despite everything. It made your breath hitch — maybe you weren’t crazy. Maybe he did still want you. Maybe he was just punishing himself.
You leaned in, lips brushing his skin just above the waistband, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”
Jim’s hand suddenly caught your arm, firm but not rough.
“No.”
You looked up at him, stunned. “No?”
He pulled you up from the floor with one swift, overwhelming motion, arms locking around you as he sat back on the bed. You straddled his lap now, your breathing erratic, heart hammering against his.
He buried his face in your neck and held you. Really held you. Like he was trying to memorize your shape all over again.
But it wasn’t the same. His arms were strong, warm, but distant. His breath wasn’t ragged with want, and his body wasn’t melting into yours the way it always had. It was like being hugged by a stranger who wore your boyfriend's skin.
--
“Alright, come on — just spill it,” Sid grinned, eyes gleaming like a devil about to light the fuse. “When did you cave? And how bad was it?”
Jim didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, sunglasses shielding the flicker of irritation in his eyes. His voice came out flat, dark, and final. “Didn’t cave. Not gonna. Stop asking.”
Sid gave an exaggerated groan and flopped back in his seat, but the mischief never left his face. Around the conference room, the rest of the band and crew were lounging, trading smirks and sideways glances. This stupid bet had gone from harmless bravado to a full-blown war of attrition — and Jim, as always, was dead serious.
His silence wasn’t casual. It was loaded. Coiled.
Even Sid was starting to realize that Jim’s legendary self-control wasn’t a bluff — it was a storm gathering under the surface.
In the corner of the room, Jim sat like a statue, jaw locked, thumb rhythmically tapping against his thigh. Tension bled from every inch of him. His mind wasn’t here. It hadn’t been for days. He muttered something beneath his breath — maybe a curse, maybe a prayer — while Mick and Shawn watched with barely contained amusement.
“How you holding up over there, Root?” Chris called out, unable to resist.
Jim didn’t even look up. He just raised a middle finger and kept staring at the table like it might save him from saying something he’d regret.
Chris chuckled. “Where’s Y/N? Haven’t seen her lately.”
Jim’s stomach clenched. His fingers twitched.
“She’s not coming,” he muttered.
“Funny,” Chris said with a smirk. “I talked to her this morning. She said she was dropping by.”
Jim’s chest went tight. Heat climbed up his neck. “What?”
As if summoned by his dread, the door swung open.
“Y/N!” Sid sang out, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
Jim froze.
You entered the room like a storm disguised in sunlight — radiant, warm, unaware of the chaos waiting to detonate. “Hey, guys,” you said sweetly, weaving through the room with a soft smile. The second your eyes landed on Jim, you beamed and leaned down to kiss him.
He turned his face away.
Your lips missed his skin entirely.
You blinked, stunned. Pulled back, confusion quickly turning to humiliation. “Seriously?”
You stood upright, your smile gone. Two weeks of cold shoulders. Two weeks of half-hearted hugs, dodged kisses, and you pretending it didn’t hurt. But this — this was a fucking slap in the face.
“Well, clearly I’m not welcome here,” you said sharply, folding your arms.
“What? No—come on, Y/N,” Chris said quickly, trying to defuse the crackling air. “We love when you stop by.”
“Maybe you do,” you replied icily, eyes locked on Jim. “But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.”
Jim exhaled through his nose and dragged a hand down his face, like he was physically holding in whatever was clawing at his insides.
And then, like a bomb, Sid burst into laughter.
“Oh my god, wait—he hasn’t told her?” Sid wheezed, slapping the table.
The laughter spread like wildfire — Mick smirking behind his coffee, Corey shaking his head, Shawn grinning silently.
Jim’s hands curled into fists in his lap. He looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.
“Tell me what?” you asked, voice cold as ice.
Sid leaned forward dramatically. “We dared each other to do No Nut November.”
Your heart dropped.
You stared at Jim like you didn’t even recognize him. “You want to run that by me again?”
Jim opened his mouth, but no words came. Just a sigh.
“Y/N, I was gonna—”
“How long have you been doing this behind my back?” You stepped closer, voice sharp enough to draw blood.
“Two weeks.”
The room erupted again with knowing groans and snorts of laughter. Everyone here knew the two of you. Two weeks might as well have been two months. Your relationship had always been fire — raw, messy, beautiful. You needed each other like oxygen. And now, suddenly, he was withholding that intimacy like it was a game?
“A fucking bet?” you asked, voice cracking with disbelief.
Jim swallowed hard. “It’s not just a bet. It’s—”
“Don’t.” You stepped back, trembling with fury. “Don’t try to make it noble. Don’t act like it’s some personal crusade when you’ve been icing me out without even telling me why.”
The room went silent.
“How many of you idiots are still doing this?” you asked, turning to the others.
Sid, Chris, Corey, and Craig raised their hands sheepishly.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, shaking your head. You could feel your face burning. You weren’t embarrassed — you were furious. Furious that he’d made you question your worth, your desirability, your connection, just to prove a point to the band.
You locked eyes with Jim one last time, and this time your voice was low, seething, vulnerable. “You let me think I’d done something wrong.”
He looked stricken. “I didn’t mean—”
“No,” you said, backing toward the door. “You chose to shut me out. You made me feel like a burden.”
Then you were gone — the door clicking shut behind you like the final note of a song no one wanted to hear.
And Jim just sat there, unmoving, surrounded by laughter that no longer reached him. And you, you'd officially decided, that you were going to break that man, and you knew exactly how.
—
“Y/N?”
Jim’s voice broke the silence, rough and uncertain, drifting in from the doorway.
You didn’t answer — not with words.
You lay sprawled across the bed, silk sheets twisted around your thighs, one hand buried between them. Your other arm lay above your head, gripping the pillow as soft whimpers slipped from your lips. Two fingers curled deep inside your soaked cunt, rhythm slow, deliberate — not nearly enough, but it was all you had.
The sound of your moan made him stop in his tracks.
“Y/N…” His voice faltered, turned into a strained whisper. “…fuck.”
He stepped into view, eyes blown wide, jaw slack. The sight of you — flushed and glistening in the low light, your legs spread open, hips rocking up to meet your hand — hit him like a punch to the gut. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, straining for release.
He didn’t move toward you.
Didn’t say another word.
He turned on his heel and tried to leave.
“Jim!” you called, breathless, your voice cracking on the edge of a moan.
He hesitated.
“Come back,” you whispered, sliding two fingers out of yourself and bringing them to your lips. You licked them slow, deliberate. “I know you can’t cum. I’m not asking for that. But I’m so fucking wet… and I need you.”
He turned, his face flushed and unreadable, eyes flickering between your parted thighs and your mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
But he was already walking toward you.
The second his knees hit the mattress, he was on you — hands warm, greedy, sliding down your stomach and parting your thighs even wider. His fingers replaced yours, plunging into your dripping heat with a quiet groan. You whimpered, arching into his touch.
“Fuck, baby,” he muttered, watching your face contort as he worked you open.
His mouth followed — warm breath against your pussy, the soft brush of his beard sending a shiver up your spine before his tongue licked a slow, devastating stripe through your folds. You gasped, thighs twitching around his head, fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth and held it there, firm and wet.
“Jim—oh, God—” You cried out, grinding against his face, your legs trembling.
He moaned into you, the vibration shooting through your core like lightning. His free hand reached up, kneading your breast, pinching your nipple until you bucked beneath him.
“You’re fucking soaked, baby,” he groaned, licking you deeper, tongue plunging into your cunt before dragging back up to suck your clit again. “You want it that bad?”
You nodded desperately, unable to speak. Your whole body was shaking.
“Say it,” he growled.
“I—I need you,” you gasped. “Need you inside me, need you to fuck me, please.”
He pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you — dark and intense, face slick with your arousal.
“Look at me when you cum,” he said, voice like gravel and sex and everything you craved.
You did — eyes wide and glassy as your orgasm hit, your thighs clamping around his head, your whole body going tight and then shuddering apart.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—Jim!” you sobbed, trembling, grinding against his mouth as he licked you through every last wave of pleasure.
When you finally stilled, panting, your hand still fisted in his hair, you looked down at him, dazed and needy.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please just fuck me. You’re hard. I feel how hard you are. I want you so bad it hurts.”
He groaned, forehead resting on your thigh.
You reached for the waistband of his jeans, fingers brushing the outline of his cock, thick and pulsing under the denim.
But he caught your wrist. Gently. Firm.
“No,” he said, eyes shut tight. “No, baby. If I do, I’ll cum the second I’m inside you. I can’t—”
“You can,” you whispered, leaning up to kiss his jaw, his neck. “Just once. Break the bet. Please. For me.”
His entire body tensed. His cock twitched against your leg. But he yanked himself back, swearing under his breath.
“Fuck!”
He scrambled off the bed, pacing the room like a caged animal.
You watched him, bare and wrecked, legs still spread, his taste on your tongue.
“Where the fuck are you going?” you called after him, smirking even through the ache between your thighs.
He grabbed his keys off the table with a frustrated grunt, his hard-on straining obscenely beneath his jeans.
“For a drive!” he shouted back, slamming the door.
Not angry at you.
He was angry at himself.
Because this stupid fucking bet was destroying him.
And you? You were going to be the death of him.
—
The days after Jim had made you cum were unbearable — for both of you.
He thought he could handle it. Thought that giving you just a taste — his fingers buried in your dripping cunt, your body writhing beneath him, the sound of your breathless cries in his ears — would be enough.
But he was wrong.
That moment had wrecked him. Every night since, he woke up rock hard, haunted by the memory of your heat, the way you clenched around his fingers, how you whimpered his name like a prayer you couldn't stop repeating.
And you? You’d made it ten times worse. Parading around the apartment like temptation incarnate — sometimes completely naked, sometimes in lacy little things that left nothing to the imagination. Bent over innocently to grab something, hips swaying. Moaning softly in the shower, loud enough for him to hear.
It was torture. And somehow, Jim was still holding the line.
Barely.
You had to give him credit. You would've folded days ago if the roles were reversed. But Jim, he was like a brick wall. Resisting every pull, every look, every desperate plea.
Now, the end of November was in sight. Just three more days.
But you couldn't take it anymore.
His hands were magic — sure — but nothing compared to the stretch of his thick cock ramming into you, making your legs shake and your mind melt. You were practically dripping just thinking about it.
You needed him.
“Jim…” you whined dramatically, throwing yourself into his lap like a bratty little nymph in heat.
He didn’t even flinch this time. The man had grown resilient.
Sitting with his laptop, brows furrowed in concentration, he barely reacted as you curled against him and clung to his neck like a needy kitten.
“What’s going on?” he asked, casually, rubbing your back like this wasn’t hell for him.
You leaned in and whispered against his ear, “I want it. So bad it fucking hurts.”
Jim froze. His muscles tensed under your hands as he shifted on the couch, obviously trying to hide his growing erection.
“Three more days, Y/N,” he said, voice rough and low. “Just three.”
You ground your hips down onto him, feeling his cock twitch through his jeans. “No. I need it now.”
Your fingers snaked down between the two of you, brushing over his bulge as you straddled him fully. He sucked in a sharp breath and jolted, lifting you off his lap with a groan of frustration.
“This isn’t fun anymore,” he growled, standing up, and running a hand through his hair. “Fuck this stupid game.”
He grabbed his phone and paced the room like a man possessed.
“Chris,” he said sharply into the phone. “You better be honest with me—who’s actually still doing this No Nut November bullshit?”
You sat on the couch, biting your lip, silently begging for the right answer.
Please, God. Let it be no one.
You couldn’t make out the rest of the conversation. Didn’t matter.
Because when Jim returned, his eyes were darker. Hungrier. And that smirk…
“Go upstairs,” he said, voice like sin. “Take your clothes off. I’ll be up in two minutes.”
You squealed and practically sprinted up the stairs, heart pounding.
Stripping faster than humanly possible, you tossed everything aside and crawled onto the bed, anticipation knotting in your stomach.
The door creaked open.
Jim walked in, shirtless, belt already unbuckled. His eyes roamed over your naked body like a man starved.
“Knees.”
You dropped instantly, obedient and breathless, kneeling on the floor with your thighs pressed together to relieve the ache between them.
Jim brushed your hair back, his fingers tender as they cupped your cheek. Then he tied your hair back into a makeshift ponytail with the elastic from his wrist.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked, “I’ve missed this pretty mouth.”
He undid his jeans just enough to free himself — thick, flushed, rock hard.
You didn’t wait. You wrapped your hand around his shaft and gave a few long strokes before sliding just the tip between your lips.
But Jim was too far gone for teasing.
He grabbed the back of your head and pushed in, slow but firm, groaning as the head of his cock slipped into your throat.
You moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut. After four years, your gag reflex was practically nonexistent, and you took him like you were made for it.
“Fuck, baby,” Jim groaned, hips rolling as he fucked your throat with increasing urgency. “You feel so fucking good.”
Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, spit dribbling down your chin, but you didn’t care. You wanted to be used. Needed it.
His cock twitched against your tongue. His hips stuttered.
And then— “Shit, I’m gonna—fuck, take it—”
He spilt down your throat with a loud, broken moan, hips jerking against your mouth as you swallowed everything, hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself.
When it was over, he pulled out slowly, watching as you wiped your mouth and stared up at him with that same wicked gleam.
“Good girl,” he said, breathless, offering his hand.
You took it, and the second your lips met his, it was pure fire.
His mouth crashed onto yours as he pulled you onto the bed, stripping what little was left of your clothes and tossing them aside as they offended him.
“You’ve got no idea how many times I’ve thought about this,” he murmured as he stared down at you, his voice rasping with lust.
Then, he grabbed your hand and dragged it between your legs, pressing your fingers into your dripping cunt.
“You’re soaked,” he groaned. “You’ve been like this for days, haven’t you?”
“I don’t want your fingers,” you gasped, trembling. “Just fuck me, Jim. Please.”
He didn’t hesitate.
He lined himself up, eyes on yours, and kissed your forehead as he slowly pushed into you.
The stretch burned beautifully.
Your back arched and a surprised cry tore from your throat.
“Shh,” Jim whispered, resting his forehead against yours. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Once he was fully inside, he stilled, giving you a moment. You were clinging to him, nails in his back, body wrapped around him like you never wanted to let go.
“Move,” you finally whispered.
And he did.
Long, deep strokes that made your breath hitch with every thrust. Your legs locked around his waist, and your body met his with desperation, slick and eager.
“Faster,” you moaned. “Please, faster—”
He growled and pounded into you, the bed creaking beneath you as his cock slammed into you again and again. Every thrust hit deep, right where you needed him until your vision blurred and the pressure in your core snapped.
You came hard, gasping his name, your pussy pulsing around him so tightly he could barely keep moving.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough.
You forced your eyes open, locking with his just as he lost control.
“F-fuck—Y/N, baby—”
He spilt inside you with a loud groan, hips shuddering as he emptied every drop into your cunt.
When it was over, he collapsed beside you, chest heaving, arms pulling you close.
“That,” he panted, “was both the best and worst month of my life.”
You smiled, still shaking, and curled into him. “Same.”
His laugh rumbled in his chest as he kissed your shoulder. “We are never doing that again.”
corey taylor fucking you while he's in his mask and it only turns you on more 👅👅👅
under the mask ♱ corey taylor
Title: “Under the Mask”
Pairing: Corey Taylor x Female Reader
Genre: SMUT!
Word count: ~2,000 words
You shouldn’t have found it so hot.
You really shouldn’t have.
But here you were—backstage, tucked in the shadows of a dimly lit dressing room after Slipknot’s set, with your back pressed to the cold concrete wall and Corey standing in front of you, still in full stage gear. Mask on. Jumpsuit half unzipped. Steam practically rolling off his sweat-slick skin beneath the black and gray layers.
His chest was rising and falling hard, breath heavy behind the grotesque grin of his mask.
You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The way his gloved hand slid slowly up your thigh told you everything you needed to know.
“I saw the way you were looking at me tonight,” he growled through the warped mouthpiece of his mask. His voice was lower than usual—distorted slightly by the material, but it only added to the fire in your core. “You like this, don’t you?”
Your legs pressed together, hips shifting subtly for friction as your fingers fumbled with the hem of your skirt.
Corey leaned in, his breath ghosting against your ear. “You like me like this. With the mask on.”
You whimpered, nodding, and that was all it took.
His hand grabbed your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his hidden gaze. You couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses, but you felt them. Felt them sear into you like coals, burning you from the inside out.
“So fucking filthy,” he muttered, voice ragged. “My sweet girl getting wet for a monster.”
You gasped as his gloved fingers dipped under your panties without warning, finding you already soaked.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re dripping. You want me to ruin you just like this?”
“Please,” you breathed.
That was it. No more teasing.
He spun you around and bent you over the dressing table in one motion, pushing aside the clutter of setlists and water bottles with a crash. His hands yanked your panties down just enough to bare you to him, and before you could even catch your breath, you felt the thick heat of him pressing between your thighs.
Still masked. Still dressed from the waist up. Only the necessary parts exposed.
The contrast sent your head spinning.
Corey didn’t ease in—he never did when he was like this, fresh off stage and still thrumming with adrenaline and rage and power. He bottomed out in one brutal thrust that stole the air from your lungs and made your vision blur.
“Goddamn,” he growled through the mask, grabbing your hips tight. “So tight for me.”
Your fingers scrambled for purchase on the dressing table, nails digging into the wood as he set a punishing pace. The sound of skin slapping echoed against the walls, loud and obscene, mixed with your helpless moans and the heavy rasp of his breath behind that monstrous grin.
He bent over you, grinding deeper, his voice dark and taunting in your ear.
“You gonna come for me like this? Let me fuck it out of you while I still look like a fucking nightmare?”
You nodded frantically, crying out as his hand slid around your throat, holding—not choking, just reminding you who had you. Who was inside you. Who you belonged to.
Your eyes flicked up to the mirror in front of you. The sight made your knees go weak.
You. Bent over, flushed and desperate. Him—mask on, mouth twisted in that fucked-up permanent grin. Still in his boots. Still wrapped in the black of his jumpsuit, only the heavy bulge of him slamming into you revealing the rawness underneath.
You clenched around him at the image alone.
“You see that?” he rasped. “Look how fucking ruined you look for me.”
“Corey—fuck—I’m gonna—”
“No,” he barked, hand tightening at your throat. “You don’t come until I say so.”
You whimpered again, thighs shaking, biting your lip so hard it nearly bled.
But the tension in your stomach only wound tighter. He fucked you like he was still performing—fast, relentless, primal. Each thrust hit deep, almost too deep, and the edge wasn’t just close—it was violent. Every nerve was on fire.
“Take it,” he grunted. “Take it all. My dirty fucking girl.”
When he pulled out suddenly, you whined in frustration—but he turned you around and lifted you onto the dressing table like you weighed nothing.
“I want to see your face when I make you scream,” he growled.
With one swift motion, he thrust back in, burying himself to the hilt. Your hands flew to his shoulders, grabbing at the collar of his jumpsuit, your mouth falling open in a silent scream.
Your walls fluttered around him, already so close to the edge you could barely think.
“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Let go, baby. Show me what this fucking mask does to you.”
You shattered.
A sob tore from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you, blinding and wet and overwhelming. Your body arched off the table, clenching around him in violent pulses, dragging him over the edge with you.
Corey groaned—loud and low, almost inhuman—as he spilled inside you, grinding deep, holding your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish.
For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breaths, your bodies trembling against each other.
Then Corey’s gloved hand came up, gently brushing your cheek.
“You really are a dirty little thing,” he murmured behind the mask.
You gave a weak, breathless laugh. “Only for you.”
He leaned in closer. The mask nuzzled your cheek, the rough leather against your flushed skin sending another shiver down your spine.
“Good,” he said, voice dark and possessive. “Because I’m never taking it off if this is what it does to you.”
