[carpettbed]

I need to bully him.

[thedeeperthewound]

Lollatrent moodboard by yours truly 😊

[lovieboyd]

he better RUN before i get to him.

[carpettbed]

Dream blunt rotation...

[the-line-begins-to-blur]

Trent Reznor's back

[jaaskelainent]

🔥🔥🔥🚒

[mothmanmothplan]

He wants that cookie so effing bad

[vac1llator94]

my one dream, my only master (devil i know/popstar au chapter four) (nsfw)

Sorry for the wait y'all but SHE'S HERE AND SHE'S FUCKING HUGE.

content: alcohol, drunk sex, the coveted blowjob, dirty talk, they finally fuck.

title from "wuthering heights" by kate bush.

word count: 15,222

-

Halfway into the tour, the party feels like ancient history.

Not exactly by your own volition, of course.

Weston has decided it's time for you to rebrand.

"People are worried," he tells you solemnly one day on the bus. Unbeknownst to him,—you hope, anyway,—you're focusing really hard on trying not to throw up. You're hungover as fuck. Usually, when you drink, your body tells you when enough is enough. If it did last night, you must have already been too far gone to hear it.

Besides, there's always more alcohol. These days, it's begun to flow like a fucking waterfall, whenever and wherever you go.

Pop princess title be damned, you've learned how to party like a rockstar.

That's probably part of the reason why Weston is looking at you as though you're something small and pitiful. A tragedy in the making, under his own care.

He has to intervene. Of course he does. It's the responsible thing to do, for both your career and his.

You swallow, trying with all your might not to gag. "Worried?" you manage, once you're fairly confident you aren't about to spew all over Weston's slacks. "Why?"

Weston grimaces, trying desperately to disguise it as a genuine smile. You think you see his eye twitch. "You know..." He waves his hands vaguely. A dismissive gesture, poorly disguising very real concern. "Your public image, it's just... Changing, a little."

The bus hits a bump on the road. Your stomach lurches. Please, God. Not now.

You swallow again, and your throat feels like cotton. "Example, please?"

"Oh, it's just..." Weston continues to fidget, all anxious and mousy. Part of you wants to scream at him to be professional and get the fuck on with it. No wonder his wife always seems to be moments away from smacking him.

Then again, you know acting on that impulse would spell definite trouble for your professional relationship. You hold on to the ruins of your self control.

Finally, he spits it out. "The partying." The words escape him quickly, as though he's been holding them back for months. For all you know, he has. "It's becoming obvious. I know you're young, and you want to have fun and all, but..." He pauses, scratching at the back of his neck. "It's just not a good look. I think that we could stand to cut back, at least in the public eye. Focus on your work more. Surround yourself with better people."

You blink. Swallow again. The churning in your stomach dissipates slightly, but you aren't sure if it's a trick of your mind or not. One thing you've learned about hangovers: the nausea comes and goes in waves. "Better people?" you echo, your voice still rough. "And by that, you mean 'not Jeremy,' right?"

Weston's ears go slightly pink. "Well... Jeremy certainly leaves much to be desired sometimes, from a PR perspective," he says carefully. "He prides himself on being a ruffian. You know this."

You grab the bottle of water next to you, taking a tentative sip as you consider what Weston is getting at. It isn't that hard to figure out.

He sees through your attempt at sneaking around,—which is disappointing, but ultimately not surprising. However, he seems eager to place the blame on someone else. To help you clean up your act,—in the public eye, at least. When you get past the 'never-going-to-drink-again' stage of your current ordeal, you don't figure he'll protest too much if you throw back a beer or two. Just so long as you don't make yourself look like a total lush while doing it.

Plus, it gives you an excuse to do something about Jeremy.

Jeremy, who you're dreading seeing the next time he tries to 'pay you a visit' on the road, on a break from his own touring cycle. Jeremy, who you've faked it with the last few times you've had sex, just for the end result of it all being over faster.

Jeremy, who never asked about the bite marks on your neck after that fateful party.

"So what are you saying, Weston?" you ask, pulling away from your water bottle. You turn to look at him, leaning against your own propped-up arm as the road rushes by beneath you. "That you want me to break up with my boyfriend?"

By now, Weston's face has gone almost completely red. "You said it," he says. "Not me." - Of course, Jeremy doesn't take kindly to being broken up with from several states away. You're tempted to place the hotel phone back down on the receiver to escape his wrath, but you figure you at least owe him this little bit of dignity in the face of mortally wounding his pride.

"What the fuck, babe?" he asks, his voice cracking. A knot of guilt settles in your stomach as you realize that you've brought Jeremy Knox to tears. "We were happy! I mean, I thought we were happy..."

You scramble for something to say. Something to smooth it over a bit. "Happy and compatible are two different things," you offer lamely. You're stretched out on your stomach across the still-stiff duvet in the luxury suite. You trace the swirling pattern on the blanket, trying desperately to avoid the temptation of the Circus magazine, laying not a foot away from you. If there's ever a time that Jeremy deserves your undivided attention, it's now.

"Right." Jeremy scoffs. "We're suddenly incompatible. After almost a year together, when you haven't even seen me in a month..." He trails off, then speaks up. "Tell me the truth," he says evenly.

You pause, furrowing your brow at his words.  Blindly, you pull the magazine closer to you. Just to busy your hands. "About what?" you ask, smoothing a hand over the glossy cover.

Jeremy lets out an indignant snort on the other line. Like you should already know exactly what he's talking about. "Is there somebody else?"

The question gives you pause.

In the traditional sense, there isn't. You're not having an affair. Jesus,—you would hardly have the time, given your schedule. At the same time, the question conjures up images of Weston looking at you expectantly. Giving you permission to make the decision you were too much of a coward to make yourself. You said it, not me.

Then, your mind flicks back a few months earlier.

Hands roaming your body. Teeth on your neck. Fingers inside of you.

Christ. You close your eyes, take a deep breath. Try to bring yourself back to Earth.

Unless it's in the pages of one of these magazines,—where he has been notably absent, considering he hasn't released an album in three years,—you aren't going to see Trent ever again. Even if you did, you have to remember that he's a fucking bastard.

He's hot, sure. Whatever. And he made you come like a bitch with just two fingers and his voice.

But he's an asshole. No good for you. Worse than Jeremy, maybe.

No. Scratch that. Probably.

You're supposed to be focusing on your career. This twisted schoolgirl crush shit has to go.

"Of course there isn't," you speak up, keeping your voice even. "Sometimes this stuff just happens."

To your credit, you do sound convincing.

Maybe you should look into acting.

- Your legs are cold.

You wanted the dress that you're wearing to be longer,—and, ideally, similar to the one that you're trying to emulate. But everyone else seemed to think you needed to be presenting a more "modern take" on Kate Bush's "Wuthering Heights," so the red sweetheart dress it was.

You think the whole thing is ridiculous, quite honestly. First of all, the original song is barely twenty years old. Second, you didn't know that modernity came at the cost of freezing your ass off. Seems sort of counterproductive.

It's a chilly overcast morning, just after dawn. You're in some park in New York,—you can't remember exactly which one,—surrounded by a film crew, select members of your touring entourage, and a second camera crew from MTV.

God. It seems like everything you do has to involve MTV in some way. You figure the channel is just a necessary evil for the modern popstar.

In between takes trying to hide your shivering as you replicate the choreography you've practiced tirelessly in your downtime, all while lip syncing a song that isn't even yours, you stop and do talking head shots with the media. It's a rehearsed song and dance. You've done it sick, high, running on empty. You can handle it when you're just feeling cold and slightly burnt out.

It doesn't even matter that you did a basic runthrough of possible questions and answers with Weston last night. He's really taking to this whole improving your image thing.

"I think," you say after a long, exaggerated pause, "that it's important for young artists to have influences. To, ah... Learn from the people who came before us, take inspiration from what they do, and turn it into something new. You know, like... Fresh."

The guy conducting the interview nods along with you, smiling. The cameraman keeps rolling, mostly-obscured face set in concentration. You try not to visibly cringe, knowing that, if you ever stuttered or used a placeholder word during that phony spiel, it will surely make the cut. Regardless of the changes that Weston is trying to make, you know what the media will see you as until you either age out or fade into obscurity,—a vapid, stupid child.

Brat.

You blink, trying to shake the sound of his voice out of your mind. It's really getting annoying, at this point. Why can't you be like those little bitches who get their kicks from Leonardo DiCaprio or Brad Pitt or something? Safe, bland, blank slate actors. Probably still assholes, but more polished. Attempting to protect...

Their images. Ugh, their fucking images.

"You read the book, right?" the interviewer asks now.

You snap back to the present. "I'm sorry?" You lean forward, as though it's simply the wind keeping you from hearing. Not memories of getting talked down to and fingerfucked by some pretentious, reclusive rockstar.

"Wuthering Heights," the guy continues. "You read it in school, right?"

"Oh." You nod easily. "Yeah, yeah. I did. Great novel." You look at the camera, giving it a sweet, demure smile. Letting it in on the secret that, on top of being the downfall of decency in young women, you also happen to be well-read.

The interviewer chuckles. "Wasn't so long ago, was it?"

And just like that, it's back to the same old shit. Every magazine. Every TV station. Every stilted conversation with someone on your crew. It's always the same.

You're an attractive young woman... And that's all.

If the conversation doesn't have anything to do with any of those three attributes, most people simply aren't interested.

"No," you reply, forcing a polite smile and laugh. "No, it really wasn't."

-

You stay on the set until the sun starts going down. At that point, everybody packs up. As you retreat to the bus with Weston and your guitarist, Alex, you're exhausted, eager to return to somewhere climate controlled. The entire shoot just... Irritated you.

Despite all this, Weston seems pleased as he settles on the bench seat by the window.  "That was fantastic, guys," he says, though he's only looking at you. Why wouldn't he be? All Alex does is stand on the hill and pantomime his neutered rendition of the song's guitar solo.

He's there for eye candy, mostly. Which you totally get.

You cast a furtive glance over at him on the opposite side of the bus, sipping from a disposable coffee cup. He catches you despite his windswept black hair hanging in his face, and sends you a sly smile.

You bite back a grin. As soon as you look back at Weston, your expression is cast in misery once again.

You sigh. "I wouldn't say fantastic," you say. "I told you when we finished recording. The whole thing seems so... I don't know. Weak? Maybe it's just because we're rushing everything, what with the tour and all, but..."

"Not weak," Weston cuts you off. "Refreshed." He gives you a sympathetic look. Like he feels bad that you could possibly be as stupid as you are. "You can't just expect to go in and do a one-to-one recreation of the original song. Nobody wants to hear that."

Alex snickers. "Yeah," he drawls sarcastically. "Haven't you heard? Nobody wants to hear that."

You bite the inside of your cheek, shooting him a quick middle finger before turning back to Weston. "What about that dress?" you ask. Luckily, you had gotten the dignity of changing back into your jeans and sweater after the shoot. Actual weather-appropriate clothing was a huge relief. Something you'd been sorely missing all day and surely would be missing again when you returned to set in the morning. "I liked the original dress. It was elegant. They dressed me like I'm going to a cocktail party."

As expected, Weston brushes you off once again. "It's just reinvention," he says plainly. "You're trying to appeal to a contemporary audience. Some changes are to be expected."

"Weston." You cross your arms over your chest. "The thing is skimpy. I was freezing my ass off."

Weston blinks at your bluntness. That telltale redness begins to creep from his neck up his face.

"Oh, the humanity," Alex says with a chuckle. He takes another long sip from his coffee, his eyes trained firmly on you. "You should sue, you know. For workplace maltreatment."

Weston grumbles something, throwing his hands up in the air in surrender as he returns his attention to the window. As he turns away, you return your gaze to Alex and shoot him a smile.

He nods back at you, his grin never fading.

The way that he looks at you threatens to burn a hole through your sweater.

-

You didn't intend to find a rebound after you broke up with Jeremy. It was all incidental.

Alex was good at finding drugs when you were on the road. He was fun to get high with, nice to look at, okay to talk to.

The sex just sort of happened. Yet another thing to fill the void.

It was different than it was with Jeremy. There aren't any feelings there when Alex sneaks into your hotel room, and there aren't supposed to be.

Maybe you're fucked in the head, but something about the carnal insignificance of it makes it hotter.

There's no illusions about it when Alex hurriedly tugs your clothes off. The clothes aren't important. Your status isn't important. The fact that people in the crowd know your name and not his... Not important.

He can use you in ways that the audience could only dream of. And you'll thank him for it.

You like it when you're stripped bare, facing the headboard of the hotel bed. He doesn't insist on seeing your face,—something you're unreasonably thankful for. All that you feel is the guitar string callouses on his hands against the soft skin of your hips, the springs of the mattress creaking beneath your hands and knees.

You don't feel guilty if you slip away for a moment. If the unkempt dark hair and harsh words whispered breathlessly into your ear momentarily send you somewhere else in your mind. You suspect that Alex wouldn't be offended.

He would be an idiot to complain when you come almost every time.

- When you arrive back at the hotel, Weston disappears, likely eager to be rid of the both of you. Alex follows you back to your hotel room. You try not to feel smug about it.

Pulling your room key from your pocket, you cast a glance at him over your shoulder. "So... Will you be coming up later, or..."

"Nah," he says, dashing your hopes in a second flat. "I was actually thinking about going out tonight. There's this club right down the road..."

You wrinkle your nose. "Really, Alex?" you ask, making no effort to hide your distaste at the mere idea.

He snorts in amusement. "Yes, really," he replies. "We're only staying in New York City tonight..."

"Yeah," you cut him off as you unlock the door. "And tomorrow we have soundcheck, then the show..."

"And then we're on a bus and on to wherever the hell is next." He follows you into the room, pushing the door closed behind the two of you. "We're young. A good night out is worth being a little tired."

You sigh. "I'm not just a little tired, Alex." Blindly, you flop down onto the bed. "I'm exhausted."

Alex stands at the side of the bed, looking down at you dubiously. As though he has the nerve to doubt the veracity of your fatigue. You're constantly being run like a fucking racehorse. His job is simply to back you up. He doesn't know the pressure of being the main attraction.

"I'll tell you what it is," he says. "You're too good to mingle with the commoners." Though you know he's teasing, the crooked grin on his face pisses you off. Even when you're looking at it upside-down. "You just like partying when you're social-climbing with your old boyfriend..."

You grumble as you reach behind you, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at him without a moment's hesitation. "That's not true," you say as it hits him smack-dab in the middle of his chest. "I just don't like being gawked at like a zoo animal. " You sit up. "The people at those parties didn't ask me for fucking pictures..."

Alex snorts, tossing the pillow back in your direction. "Because they don't like you," he replies easily.

"Yeah, whatever." You shrug. "I'd rather be disliked than harassed all night."

"That's you, I guess." The deep sigh that he exhales makes it clear just how disappointed he is. "Just thought it'd be fun to have some drinks and let loose a little. More for me and Heather, I guess..."

You sit up. "I'll go if Jill goes," you say on a whim.

He huffs at the mere idea. "Yeah. Good luck with that," he says drily. "Guess I won't be seeing you, then."

You scoff. "What? She goes out sometimes!"

"Jill won't do shit at a club, and you know that." You hear the same note in his voice that you heard in Weston's earlier. That self-assured tone men always seem to take on when they're reminding you how obvious everything is, how stupid you are. "She'll maybe pop in for half an hour, but then she'll want to leave. She'll get one drink and probably not even finish it in the time that she's there."

"Whatever." You shake your head. "I'll ask her."

- You knock at your drummer's door. You can hear her inside, shifting around, the soft murmur of her voice. When she opens the door, the room's phone is cradled to her ear. She holds a finger up, signalling for you to wait.

"I know, baby," she says into the phone, her voice gentle as always. "I miss you, too. It's just for a little while, though. I'll be home for Thanksgiving. It'll be here before you know it."

On the other line, you can faintly hear a tiny voice. You're sure that it's Jill's daughter, Hailey. From what you've heard, the poor kid always takes it hard whenever her mom hops on another tour.

Gaps in interacting with your parents were never unusual for you as a child. It was part of your job, technically. But the relationship that Jill has with her daughter seems to be vastly different from the way your mother treated you.

Of course, the family isn't relying on Hailey to bring in the money.

You stand in the doorway and wait, a strange feeling tugging at your chest. Like maybe you're hearing something you shouldn't be.

"Okay. Love you, too. I'll talk to you later, okay? Bye, sweetie." With that, the call drops, leaving Jill holding the phone idly in her hand. With that, she meets your eyes. Gives you a gentle smile.

"Hey, girlfriend," she greets you easily, leaning against the doorway. "Sorry about the wait. How'd the video shoot go today?"

"Fine," you reply. "Tiring. Cold."

She hums. "Mmm, yeah. I'll bet. Kinda glad me and Heather weren't needed for that one." She tilts her head to the side, regarding you curiously. "Did you need something? You look a little frazzled."

You roll your eyes. "Frazzled isn't the right word for it," you say. "Alex and Heather are going clubbing tonight, and Alex gave me this big, weird guilt trip about not going. I told him I'd only go if you went."

Jill frowns. "Ugh. Don't hate me, okay?"

You smile at her. "I could never."

"Good. Because I am not about to drag my ass out into the cold to go stand around with a bunch of drunk kids. Especially not with a show tomorrow night."

You sigh. "Don't blame you," you say. "Looks like it's a night in for both of us, then. I'll just let Alex be pissed."

"He'll get over it." She sounds completely certain of this. "And hey. If you want to come up here later, there's a bottle of wine in the fridge. Would be cool if I could finish it before we get back on the road."

"Yeah." You nod, though you already know exactly what you're going to be doing for the rest of the night. "Yeah, I'll think about it."

- You don't expect to get restless.

You spend a good hour or so leafing through your magazine collection while the radio plays softly in the background. You read an interview with Nick Hexum, step out into the balcony, smoke a cigarette, order room service. The sky goes black. It's late, and you're bone-weary tired, but you just know deep down that you couldn't sleep if you tried. You think you can see the lights from the nightclub as you lean against the banisters, along with the rest of the neon pollution that pours over the city.

Everything's so bright. So awake. It doesn't make you feel like sleeping.

You need a drink.

You consider taking Jill up on her offer, then decide against it. You'd feel like you were encroaching,—plus, there's the damning thirteen year age difference between the two of you, as well as the fact that, even as a touring drummer, she's more skilled and passionate of a musician than you will ever be. Sometimes her integrity,—as a musician, mother, person,—intimidates you. You don't want to deal with those disconcerting feelings right now, want to be a thorn in her side even less.

You could just call room service again. Order a bottle of wine up here. But then you'd still be alone in your hotel room, and drunk, too. There's no fun in that. In fact, it just might make you feel even worse.

Besides, you think you're craving something a little stronger than wine.

The hotel bar calls to you, a siren song. You know it defeats the purpose of everything you said to Alex earlier,—more than likely, you will be seen, and then people will know that you're staying here,—but the itch is too maddening not to scratch. The pull towards a few expensive mixed drinks and a pleasant buzz is stronger. The reward outweighs the risk, at least in your mind.

You don't even bother changing out of your jeans and sweater.

-

The bar is on the very top floor. You ride the elevator up, ignoring your relatively shabby reflection in the mirror on the way.

Then again, maybe the fact that you look like you just rolled out of bed is good. People are less likely to recognize you that way.

As soon as you arrive at the bar, you seat yourself at the very end of it. You ignore the curious look of the bartender,—like she's trying desperately to place you,—and place a hurried order for your most recent drink of choice.

As soon as the cool glass is pressed against your hand, you feel better. That is, until you get the keen and unmistakable feeling of eyes on you from across the bar.

Taking another sip of your drink, you flick your gaze in the direction of the unsettling weight on your back.

For a moment, you're sure that you're mistaken.

There's no way that Trent is here, at this hotel bar. Why the hell would he be?

But your eyes never focus to turn him into someone else, someone more likely.

He is here. And he's staring at you.

As though he has the right.

Your hand curls tightly around your drink. The glass sweats against your palm. You force yourself to look away.

No. Not engaging, you decide.  Not tonight. Not any more in the future.

You try to focus on the liquor against your tongue, the warmth settling through your body as it slides down your throat. Even as the alcohol physically takes the edge off, you are still keenly aware of him.

Just a few feet away. Watching you like some creature lurking in the brush, waiting to pounce.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

You roll your eyes before turning around again. "Are you just gonna stare, or..."

The bastard smiles. Actually smiles at you. "Nice to see you again, too," he says quietly.

You sit silent for a second, giving him a hard glare. "You're serious?" you finally ask. "After... Whatever happened at that party a few months ago..." You pause, feeling your throat go dry in response to the memory. It's still difficult to believe that it wasn't some kind of fever dream. You take another quick sip of your drink. "You expect me to... What? Greet you with open arms? Fall at your feet?"

"I don't expect anything," he replies, unruffled. He's just so fucking cool. You would like to break his composure, but that would require getting close to him again. Putting yourself in the position to get hurt. You aren't sure it's worth it, though your body is sure as hell trying to tell you otherwise. "Although... You deliberately ignoring me did take me by surprise."

You huff out a dry laugh. "Yeah?" you ask. "Well. I try not to pay too much attention to assholes."

"Mmm... We're doing the sophomoric insult thing again, huh?"  His lips twitch. He thinks this is funny. He's smiling at you, and he thinks that this is fucking funny. You're afraid that you're going to break the glass in your hand.

"I'm not trying to insult you," you lie. "It's just the truth. You are an asshole." You shrug, pretending nonchalance, though you're mad enough that you're shaking slightly. "You haven't shown me anything thus far to prove otherwise, so..."

He blinks, the slight smile gradually vanishing from his face. Finally, he sighs. "That's fair."

You blink. "What do you mean, 'that's fair?'"

"You have a point." His face is set in that unreadable blankness that you've observed every time you've encountered him. Frighteningly composed, despite what his artistic persona would have everyone believe he might be like. He's one eerie bastard, that's for sure. "I haven't been the most pleasant the last couple times we've met. I'm sorry for that. That wasn't fair of me."

You eye him warily. As though this is some sort of strange joke... No. Social experiment. He seems like the type of guy to conduct social experiments. Needle and needle at people, seeing what makes them tick. He could have a field day with you, doing that.

"You're serious?" you ask. "You're actually apologizing to me right now?"

"Something like that, yeah." He takes a sip of his drink, then returns his disconcerting gaze to you. "Since you happen to be here, I figure now would be the best time to say it. I'm sorry for how I treated you at Mike's party last summer. I was a total and complete fucking cunt."

The obscenity leaves his mouth so flatly that you can't help but grin at the absurdity of it. You bite at the inside of your cheek before replying.

"Cunt is a gender neutral term for you, I suppose?" You try not to let your mind wander back to the couch at the aforementioned party.

"Of course. Everybody has the capacity to be a miserable cunt."

The bartender looks up from the pitcher that she's cleaning, shooting him a dirty look. He nods towards her apologetically before looking back at you.

"Maybe come sit a little closer," he suggests. "I think we're disturbing the peace, talking so loud."

You hesitate for a moment. "Are you going to... Do something to me?" you ask. "If I come over there?" You sort of wish that he would, but you're doing your best to push your base instincts down and keep your head screwed on straight.

Of course, he echoes you as if you've asked the stupidest question possible. "Do something to you?" He tilts his head at you, for the moment looking more like a confused pet than a ravenous predator. You vaguely wonder if this is really the same guy who had his fingers in your mouth five odd months ago. "Like what?"

"I don't know," you reply. "You're just... You're being weird. I don't know if you're, like, messing with me or something..."

"I'm not. I swear."

You sigh, grabbing your drink as you rise to your feet. "Okay," you say, gingerly seating yourself on the barstool next to his. "But if you start fucking around, know that we've got witnesses."

"Like who?" That stupid, self-assured grin is back on his face. He nods towards the bartender. "Her?" he asks lowly, before motioning towards a man on the opposite side of the bar. "Him?"

You pause, regarding the man, who appears to have his hands clasped in something vaguely resembling prayer, head solemnly dipped towards the bar. He isn't paying either of you the slightest bit of attention. It seems that the only thing in the world that really exists to him is his drink.

You turn your eyes back to your companion on your opposite side. "Poor guy," you mumble.

"Sucks, doesn't it?" His concern could as easily be genuine as it could be sarcastic. You can never tell with the way that he talks. So frustratingly level about everything.

"What would you know about drinking alone?" you ask dryly.

He doesn't falter in his response. He shows no surprise. No frustration. "Just as much as you do," he says. "Probably more."

"Pity." You motion towards the mostly-drained glass in his hand. "You seem to be much more pleasant this way."

He huffs. "Yeah," he says. "Let me have two or three more and see if you still think that." He goes quiet for a moment, watching you as you continue to put a dent in your own drink.  Finally, he speaks again, delivering an apt judgment. "You're still mad."

You roll your eyes, pulling away from your straw. "Of course I'm still mad." As you continue, your voice betrays you. Going quiet. Weak. "You hurt my feelings."

You cringe internally, half expecting him to laugh at you, insinuate that you're entitled for expecting to be treated respectfully after the unrespectable things that the two of you did in some other guy's house, with your boyfriend waiting downstairs. Yet, when he looks at you, there's a terrifying softness beneath his usually-frigid gaze.

"I know," he says. "And I feel really bad about it. That's why I wanted to talk to you." He sighs, running a nervous hand through his hair. Some sick part of you revels in the feeling of seeing that you're making him squirm. Serves him right.

"Danny told me you were really upset when you walked out," he continues. "He said you were crying..."

You scoff. "I was not crying." For all you know, you actually might have been. But it'll be a cold day in hell before you admit that.

"Well, maybe you looked like you were going to cry..."

"I wouldn't have wasted my tears on you."

"The point is I upset you," he goes on. "You admitted that much. I knew it, even then. Didn't take me long to start feeling bad about it."

"Which part?" You stir the ice around in the bottom of your drink, keeping an intent eye on him all the while. Waiting to see just how much he'll say. Just how much he'll apologize for.

His guilty conscience alone is almost enough to make you wet.

"All of it, really." He fiddles with his hands, rested awkwardly in his lap. You didn't realize before now just how capable he is of being awkward. His air of self-importance had blinded you.  "That whole night was just... Y'know... Not exactly my proudest moment."

You blink at him. "Lemme guess. Lapse of judgement."

He huffs a nervous laugh. "You don't forget anything, do you?"

"No. I don't." You push your now-empty glass away before honing back in on him. He's not getting out of your sight unless he gives up on... Whatever is unfolding here. "I definitely don't forget being discarded like trash on the floor after being strung along for the better part of an hour..."

He blinks at you. "You thought I was stringing you along?"

"Um, yeah." You laugh incredulously. "I mean, I wasn't asking you to marry me or anything, but you're really hot and cold. It's a mindfuck." Your mind flicks back to the way he looked down at you in what could only be described as horror as you knelt on the floor. The cutting ache of rejection. "You looked at me like I disgusted you afterwards," you continue. "Pretty much told me to get out of your sight. How else was I supposed to take that?"

He continues anxiously fiddling with his fingers. "It was a mistake."

"A mistake, huh?" You laugh bitterly before leaning forward, lowering your voice so that no one else hears. "As far as I know, you've let your other mistakes blow you."

You are delighted to see his face go red. "Jesus Christ," he mutters. "That's still what you're thinking about?"

It is. You aren't sure why, but it is.

You shrug. "I felt slighted," you admit.

"Well, I'm honored, but..."

"Don't be," you cut him off. "It's an inferiority thing, on my part. Like, what does fucking... Lisa from Nashville have that I don't?" You try your best to catch his eyes again, but he won't look at you. You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm told that I'm very good, you know."

"Who told you that? Knox?" He finally looks at you to deliver this question. The discomfort in his expression morphs into that same smug air of amusement that has annoyed you since you first crossed paths with him. "I'm pretty sure you told me some pretty unflattering things about how he doesn't like to return favors."

God. You did mention the fact that Jeremy didn't eat you out. Your face heats up at the memory. You try to maintain your gall. "Well... He isn't a problem anymore."

"So I've heard." He motions towards your empty glass. "Another drink? For your troubles?"

You snort. "Being rid of him doesn't feel much like trouble."

"Could I buy you a drink anyway, then?"

"What? As a peace offering?"

"Sure. Whatever." He shakes his head before looking back towards the end of the bar. "Whatever you want," he murmurs before waving the bartender down.

"Another one of whatever she just had, please," he says when she approaches the two of you. "And put her on my tab."

-

"So, what are you doing in New York?"

You pull away from your drink, savoring the warmth running through your veins. God, this is good stuff. "I had a show last night. Today was devoted towards shooting a video." You focus on your straw, swirling it around aimlessly. You don't want to look him in the eye too much, afraid of how the fragile peace might be shattered if you do.

"A music video, huh?" He sounds intrigued enough. Perhaps he's something of an actor himself. Maybe his guilty conscience is tricking him into thinking that you're worth feigning interest.

"It's stupid." The words slip from your tongue before you consider them, but it's the truth. Much like the majority of your career, the whole thing is just tedious and dumb.

You sigh before going on. "I recorded this cover of a Kate Bush song," you say. "They made me change almost everything about it. Water it down until everything good about it was gone. I hate the way it came out, but my label wants it as a non-album single." You shrug, as though thinking about your absolute lack of creative agency doesn't make you want to scream. "The video is supposed to be an homage to the original or whatever. But they stuck me in this tacky little slutty dress and let me stand out in the open for several hours. Freezing my legs and tits off."

He hums. "Sounds unpleasant. Unrelated: have you ever been suspended upside down and spun around until you puked?"

You roll your eyes. "Oh, you're right. I'm sorry. I forget who I'm talking to." Despite the sarcasm in your tone, there's a smile on your face. You can't seem to keep it from surfacing.

You should be more nervous, have your guard up further. Why are you just perched on this barstool, not moving away? Not saving yourself from the grasp of his claws?

He hums. "Well, you look warm enough now." 

You feel those eyes climbing over you again, appraising. Unlike last time he saw you, you're completely covered,—lilac sweater, dark wash jeans. Looking like some sort of juniors department store ad.

The alcohol makes you brave. And stupid. "What? You disappointed?" you tease.

He glances up, catching your eye. Making it hard for you to look away. Rabbit and wolf, trapped in a staredown. "Do you want me to be?"

You don't know how to answer that.

Don't want to be completely honest with him.

You remember all too well what happened the last time you did that.

Your mouth feels dry. You take another sip of your drink before deflecting his question with one of your own. "Has anybody ever told you that you're totally bipolar?"

He chuckles, flashing teeth like fangs. You remember the way that they felt against your skin. Try not to want it again. "A few times, yeah."

"Yeah, well..." You try to keep your head straight. "You're being nice to me. I don't know what to make of that."

"What?" He raises his eyebrows. "You don't like it?"

You idly poke at the ice in your drink. Another one down. What is this? Your third? "I don't trust it."

"You don't trust me?"

A wry grin comes over your face. "Rabbits shouldn't trust wolves."

"I didn't hunt you down, you know. You were just here."

"Once I was in your sights, you didn't want to let me get away."

"You can leave if you want to." He shrugs. For all intents and purposes, you could believe that he doesn't care. Doesn't give a single fuck.

Still, you swear his eyes shine beneath the dim light. Always like he knows something you don't yet. "But you don't want to."

He doesn't even ask if that's true or not. Doesn't think he needs to, evidently.

And he doesn't.

You swallow hard. Try to shift the focus away from you. "Why are you in New York?" you ask.

Suddenly, the flicker of light in his eyes vanishes. Just like that, he once again looks as though he's never been amused in his entire life. "I was visiting friends," he says flatly, his eyes flitting away from you. "On my way back home."

Though you know that you should know better, you can't resist pressing. "Home?" From what you know, he's been living in New Orleans. Working out of a funeral home.

Though the hard line of his mouth tells you that he absolutely doesn't want to, he's courteous enough to answer. "I'm heading back to Pennsylvania to visit my family."

"Oh." Simple enough answer. Even a bit past tipsy, you know better than to pry for more details.

You wouldn't want him doing the same to you, after all. Though you doubt that would stop him.

"My family lives in the area, too," you supply. "I mean, they haven't always, but they do now. You know, now that I'm in the business or whatever." You shrug. "Anyway, I'm not visiting while I'm here."

"No?" he asks softly. You wait for it,—the inevitable pressing. Perhaps a jab about how you're just too much of a spoiled brat to make time for your folks anymore.

It never comes.

Your drunken tongue chimes in to fill the silence when he neglects to. "I can't believe it."

He turns back to you, facing you again with that look in his eye. There's a strange sort of earnestness about him in the light of the bar. For a moment, he doesn't look like he's only capable of communicating via sarcasm and calculated schemes. It's almost as though there might actually be something genuine lurking beneath the surface. "You can't believe what?"

"You actually have feelings."

He laughs incredulously. "Of course I have feelings."

"Really? I thought you were just pretending. You know..." You wave your hand flippantly, taking another sip from your quickly-dwindling drink. "For your art."

He chuckles. "And I can't believe that you're actually somewhat perceptive," he shoots back. "I thought you were just pretending. You know. For TV."

You scoff. "Jerk."

"Oh. We've downgraded to just 'jerk' now?" He laughs. "You're not gonna call me an asshole? A bastard? Scum of the fucking Earth?" You feel a slight pressure against your leg. You look down to find that his knee is rested against yours.

When did you get so fucking close to each other?

He's leaning even closer, too. It's as though the room is closing in, obscuring the bartender and the drunkard and the rows of bottles on the wall until it's just the two of you in the bar. The hotel, the city, the world maybe.

"Is the alcohol making you docile, kitty?" he asks.

You force out a laugh, trying to ignore the heat that floods your face. "Oh, fuck you..."

"There she is." He pats your knee condescendingly before pulling back.

You immediately miss the way that he invaded your space.

You try to pull your head together, despite the fact that all your good sense is drowning in a haze of liquor. "I'm not docile." The edge in your voice makes that a believable statement.

"You aren't, hmm?" There's the pressing. The goading. The fucking egging on. You're falling for it, hook, line, and sinker. "You're a wild cat, then?"

You laugh dryly. "I'm not a fucking cat."

He chuckles. "Right. You seem to think you're a rabbit." You had foolishly convicted yourself you'd never look into his cold eyes again, but here you are. Staring him down, maybe more intently than you ever have. Unflinching, thanks to the liquid courage in your veins. Looking into those eyes for what he really wants from you, what you know he won't tell you.

"I don't think you are," he continues. "Rabbits run. Or they freeze. But cats stay. They fight. They go in for the fucking kill, claw your eyes out."

"I haven't even gotten close to clawing your eyes out," you interject.

"Yeah." He laughs softly. "Somehow."

His knee brushes against yours again. It occurs to you that you're both underdressed as the denim of your jeans rubs against each other.

"You know what else cats do?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

The vulnerability from earlier has melted away from his face. He's right back to looking sickeningly proud of himself. "If they like you enough, they'll jump into your lap and purr."

You roll your eyes. "I'm not doing that," you insist.

"You already have," he responds easily. "A few months ago."

You huff. Wonder why you're staying here, rather than telling him to go fuck himself. He's back to being condescending. Shouldn't you leave?

"I didn't purr."

"You might as well have." He lowers his voice. Leans in again. You don't know if your heart is more likely to stop or explode from your chest. "Made some interesting noises, anyway."

"Do you want me to claw your eyes out?"

"No. Listen." You flinch as his hand suddenly wraps around your wrist. Part of you says you should wrestle out of his grip. Ask him what the hell is wrong with him.

Yet, you stay still.

"So I had this pretty kitty cat, purring in my lap," he goes on, voice low. "And you know what I did?"

You can hardly fucking breathe. Against all odds, you manage to draw a feeble breath into your lungs. Exhale it as: "What?"

The amusement leaves his face. Suddenly, he's serious. Deathly fucking serious. "I shoved her down. Kicked her on her way out."

You shouldn't play along. But you do anyway. "After you offered to feed her."

He sighs. You know that there's no way his complete and utter resignation is an act.  "Yup."

You keep pressing. "And you feel bad about that?" Your head cocks to the side as you question him, leaving your mind flashing back to his mouth on your neck. You try not to revel in the possibility of it happening again.

"Yeah." He delivers the verdict with certainty, as though he's known the answer for a long while. He doesn't sound excited to admit it, but he doesn't hesitate, either.  "I do."

"And you want to make it up to me?" It barely registers to you that you're nearing the edge of your barstool.

"Yeah. I mean, it's only right..."

"And you know the drinks aren't going to cut it, right?"

He chuckles. "Well... Kind of figured..."

You know you shouldn't be so bold. Know that there's still a chance that this is all a trick. That he could burst out laughing at you at any moment. The words slip out before you can stop them. "You know that my room is down on the sixth floor?"

He just nods. The dangerous spark in his eye catches the light as he waves the bartender down.

- As soon as the elevator door closes, you're on one another.

Your brain is too hazy to really register which one of you initiated. It's as though there's some natural magnetic pull, tugging you towards one another until you wind up like this.

This.

It's a wonder that you're able to breathe, with him pressed so close to you. Your back against the elevator's tacky gold-papered wall.

You force yourself to break away for a moment. Come up for air. Ask another godforsaken question that you can't stop from spilling out of your mouth. "You're trying to make things right with me, after last time?"

He hums against your neck. Your foggy mind registers that he's licking you from jaw to collarbone, drawing out a desperate moan from you. "Mmhm."

"Because... Fuck." You find yourself reaching behind you. Gripping the rail along the wall. "Because you feel guilty? That's your motive here?"

"Partially." His mouth is back against your ear now. His hand lingers at the bottom of your sweater.

"Partially?" you echo breathlessly. "So this isn't, like... Pity sex, right? Because I don't..."

He gives a huff of amusement. "No. It's not pity sex." His fingers settle beneath your jaw, pulling your face even closer to his. "Definitely not," he murmurs before he leans back in, crushing his mouth against yours.

His tongue is in your mouth. He tastes like tequila. Your knees are weak, your mind empty and racing all at once. You've never felt so keyed up while you were simultaneously so completely exhausted.

He's like a drug. No,—he's better than all the drugs you've tried.

Not that you would dare tell him that, ever.

You pull back, ashamed to find yourself panting as you continue to blather on. "Then what is it?" you ask. "You said you feel bad, but that doesn't mean that you like me. In fact, I don't think that you really do. Hell, I don't know if I really even like you..."

Christ. What is this,—a fucking eighth grade dance? Why does it matter if you like one another or not?

He chuckles. "You don't," he says. "You don't like me."

You try not to jump as cold flesh comes into contact with the skin beneath your sweater. His hand makes a slow climb up your torso, like a snake slithering up a tree.

"I'm serious," you continue breathlessly as his hand wanders across your torso. "What's the deal with this? It doesn't make sense. It... Feels like I'm dreaming..."

His hand comes to rest on your bare breast. You figured an oversized sweater didn't require a bra, earlier. As he groans against your neck, you figure you made the right decision.

"The deal is that I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since that party," he says. "Haven't been able to escape you. Or the memory of what I'd done to you." He grips at you hungrily, greedy fingertips digging into your flesh as though someone might come to wrench you away. "Every time I saw your face somewhere, I thought about it." His mouth is pressed against your throat now. No room to breathe.

"You're everywhere," he murmurs against your skin.

You can't help but shiver, trapped between him and the wall of the elevator.

Funny how these things always start with you being pressed against a wall.

You're not terrified like you were when Jeordie had you in the same position, about a year ago. You probably should be afraid, to a certain extent,—this man has never really been good to you in your limited prior interactions,—but you feel too alive to really give a damn.

"You're everywhere," he murmurs again, hand pressed just above your furiously pounding heart, "and I think I need to get you out of my system. So you don't drive me completely insane."

It should make you angry. He wants to be rid of you. Even now, when he's touching you like this. The goal is to forget you, ultimately. Get inside of you, then toss you to the wayside like you never existed.

But fuck. It's not like you want forever with him, either.

Like he said, you don't even like him.

He's pretentious. He's mean. He's fucking moody and unpredictable.

He's... God, how many years older than you? Eleven? Twelve? Thirteen? At least a decade.

He's no good for you. His hands might feel great, and his mouth even better. Every nerve ending in your body may be alive and buzzing, but it doesn't change a thing.

This can't go anywhere, except for precisely where it's going right now.

As the elevator keeps descending, you meet those cold green eyes. "Yeah," you say, hating the way that your voice trembles ever-so-slightly. "I think I need to get you out of my system, too."

He doesn't say anything. Just keeps leaning in, preparing to pounce on you again. His willing prey.

Ding!

The doors shudder open. You let out a shaking breath of anticipation as he backs away from you, turning around before stepping out into the hallway.

You attempt to follow him, only to stumble over your own feet on the way out.

No sooner do you go careening into Trent's side does he catch you. "Whoa." His arm wraps around your waist so easily, keeping you from falling facedown on the tacky patterned carpet. "You good?"

"Fine." You half-heartedly attempt to pull away from him. His hold on you remains.

The two of you remain stationary in front of the elevator for a moment.

"You're gonna have to let me go, y'know," you speak up.

"Why?"

"Because. We can't let anyone see us... You know. Like this."

"Yeah. Like anyone isn't going to figure it out if they see me going into your room." Even dizzy from the head rush of the alcohol, you can see the smugness written all over his face. "They'd know then, regardless of whether I was touching you."

You let out an indignant huff, trying your best to bring yourself down to earth. You swear you weren't so dizzy up at the bar.

Maybe it's not even the drinks going to your head. Maybe it's just the anticipation of it all.

"We need to get out of this hallway," you blurt out.

"We could," Trent agrees lowly. "But I don't know your room number, kitty."

You aren't too out of your element in this dreamlike state to flip him off.

He huffs out a laugh, trailing after you as you head towards your room door.

- He seats himself on your bed, like all of this is normal. Like this isn't shaping up to be the worst mistake you've made in months.

No sooner does he sit down before he grabs the magazine that you left discarded on the duvet. "You actually read this garbage?" He flips through the pages absently as he awaits your answer.

Heat flooding to your face, you sit down beside him and yank the magazine from his hands. "It's... Something to do," you say lamely, dropping it onto the nightstand.

He hums. "Not really something I expected from you." He casts you a curious glance. "Wouldn't think you'd care much, anyway. But, y'know... Considering the fact that there's a good chance you'll see your ex every single time you open one up..." He smiles slyly. "Unless that's why you do it."

You scoff.

No, you think. I do it because there's a good chance I'll see you.

You can't tell him that, of course. You're not that far gone. "Stay out of my head," you tell him flatly.

He laughs. "A little late for that, don't you think?"

You should want to slap him.

Instead, you find yourself seizing the opportunity to kiss him again.

You press your mouth to his before either of you can even really think about it, hands reaching back to tangle in his hair. You're practically melting into him, just like you've thought about all these months. So very close to him.

There's still a gap to close. But you aren't far from it.

Further than you'd like as you pull back to breathe. Further still, for the moment, as you rise from the bed, only to sink down into the floor.

He watches you so hungrily. As though you're not the one thinking about devouring him.

"What're you..."

"Isn't it obvious?" You will your hands not to shake as your fingers ghost over his belt buckle. Mercifully, you're able to undo it with minimal trouble. "I'm doing what you wouldn't let me do last time."

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to crack a genuine smile. If that's his intention, he fails. "So fucking insistent," he comments.

"Mhm." A snap of a button. A tug of a zipper. Your fingers hooking in the waistband of his underwear. In any other circumstance, you would tell yourself to slow down.

But you're hungry for him. Fucking starving, in fact.

He looks down at you with the strangest look in his eyes.

Always watching. Always observing.

He can't pretend to be unaffected. Not when he's hard for you like this.

You can't help but let out an embarrassing sigh as you finally free his cock from its confines. As though you're the one, out of the two of you, who ought to be relieved. You've thought about this entirely too much, from the first time you laid eyes on him. God only knows why.

Well. You know why, actually. At least partially.

It's just difficult to admit it and maintain the little bit of pride that you have left.

He's gorgeous. You can't deny it, seeing the way that his breathing stutters as you wrap your hand around him. His chest rises and falls out of time, his head tilting back just slightly. As though it's safer to look up at the ceiling than down at you.

You won't let that happen, if you can help it.

You absentmindedly run the pad of your thumb along the side of him. Acknowledge the fact that this is real. That he's here, hot and hard beneath your touch, letting you do this to him.

At your mercy.

Maybe this is why he wouldn't give in before. Too afraid, deep down, of what might happen if he let you have your way.

You're going to have your way, here and now. You're going to undo him.

But first, you're going to become intimately familiar with the ways in which he futilely tries to maintain control.

You lean in further, giving him a tentative lick before your eyes flick back up to look at him.

He looks back at you like it pains him. Like you're the sun, too bright to stare at directly.

Just as you're congratulating yourself for your obvious effect on him, his hand comes to rest at the back of your neck. The slight pressure alone is enough to make you lightheaded again.

"We're not doing this teasing shit," he says decisively. "You wanted this so bad, you're going to do it right."

Your face burns. Just like that, he's back to tugging at the reins. Such a fucking control freak.

You wish you could push back, but it's hard when he's holding you by the scruff of the neck like some disobedient animal. You feel the disturbing urge to melt underneath his touch. Let him tell you,—no, show you,—what to do.

You can't ruminate over that for too long. So you simply give in, taking him into your mouth.

The way that his breathing stutters in response will be ingrained in your mind for the rest of your life.

Where Jeremy and Alex have had to coax you in the past, you take initiative this time. You're greedy, frenzied. Trying to take more of him before he's even recovered from the initial contact.

"Fucking... Christ," you vaguely hear him through the cloud of your focus.

His hand lingers on your neck as you pour your energy into sucking and licking at him. As though he just might have to remind himself that you're here right now, too.

That he's too far gone now to second guess. That he can't feel guilty about this until later.

God, he's everything you could have dreamed of. That just makes this whole situation even worse.

He's big, especially considering his stature. As much as you want to take him in completely, you know you're at risk of embarrassing yourself if you do. Difficult as it might be, you have to pace yourself.

Despite the firmness of his touch, you can feel him trembling slightly.

The thought fleetingly occurs to you that he might be considerably more pent-up than you are.

Surely, he doesn't have a girl waiting for him up in his room. Probably doesn't have one waiting on him to come back to his hometown, either. He really doesn't seem like the type.

You figure that he's married to his work. Too inflexible to hold down a serious relationship.

The fact that he fucks groupies has been confirmed to you. Fine. You can't let the jealousy burn through your gut too badly, knowing that you're finally getting exactly what you wanted.

But touring is one thing. Riding around the country attending to personal matters is another.

When he vaguely told you what he was here for, he looked sad, bone-weary tired.

Delusional as it might seem, you suspect that, had you not been lingering at the hotel bar, he wouldn't be going back to anyone else's hotel room tonight. Or inviting anyone else to his.

God knows when the last time was that he's done this sort of thing.

You find your eyes travelling back up to him.

Maybe to see if you're doing a good job.

Maybe just to see his face again.

You're met with the vision of him with his lip between his teeth, eyes blazing with heat. Another pornographic snapshot to burn into your memory.

He sighs shakily. "You keep stopping," he speaks up. "Just... Don't do that. You're gonna... Oh, fuck..."

Fine. If he has a problem with you stopping, you'll try to refrain from doing just that.

You hum around him, tentatively beginning to bob your head. You always felt ridiculous doing this with Jeremy, marginally better with Alex. Now, though, you can't find it in yourself to worry about how ridiculous you must look. Maybe because the sounds he's making insinuate that you don't look ridiculous at all.

He's desperate. So fucking desperate. You can feel it, in the way he trembles beneath you just slightly. Hear it in his voice. 

God, his fucking voice.

"Oh my God..." he breathes. His fingers tremble slightly against the back of your neck before moving upwards. Before you can completely register what's happening, he's stroking your hair.

You can't help the genuine moan that breaks up from your throat in response to the gentle contact.

What the hell is wrong with me? you wonder for a fleeting moment before his voice breaks you out of your self deprecating trance.

"You are good at this," he tells you lowly, his voice shaky with pleasure. "You told me you would be, but I just... Mmm..."

He didn't believe you. He didn't fucking believe you when you told him.

The outrage of it all is enough for you to lower yourself further onto him, taking him just a little bit deeper as you try your best to maintain control of your gag reflex.

You do. Thank God.

You thank your lucky stars even more as he lets out a shaky gasp, followed by a low groan. "Fuck..."

The noises that he makes sound like surrender. Like laying down, giving up, passing himself over to the very thing he's been trying to avoid. This proud man, defeated by his own shamefully human desires.

It's fucked up, and it shouldn't have you squeezing your legs together to combat the molten heat spreading between your thighs. Yet it does.

Even harder, when you register a bittersweet taste on your tongue. Familiar, yet slightly different, all at once.

Despite everything in the world that he can control, the way he comes undone for you seems wholly involuntary.

This knowledge is the sort of thing you could get addicted to, you think.

You want to draw more out of him. More breaks in his composure, more sounds, more of that faint taste that you're trying your damnedest to commit to memory.

You've known that you've wanted this since the first time you met him. Still, you couldn't possibly anticipate that you would enjoy yourself this much.

It's good. It's too good.

And he seems to think so, too.

He lets out an almost-pained-sounding hiss, like he's hurt himself somehow, but you know better. You know better.

You don't know how, really. Neither of the men you've been with before now have been this reactive, this lost to their own pleasure, this visibly overcome by it all. It's almost like just having him in your mouth is enough to put you in tune with him, somehow.

But of course, that sounds fucking crazy. It's easier to chalk it up to you being drunk and horny.

You don't have much time to think about it anymore when he speaks up again. "Come on," he urges between labored breaths. "Slow."

Slow. In the state that you're in, you hardly register the meaning of that word.

Fuck slow. You want everything, now, so fast that you can't fully comprehend it. You want to be overwhelmed. Consumed.

Slow doesn't do that.

There's obviously a conflict of goals, however, as his fingers dig into your scalp. Futilely attempting to get a grip on you, and your ravenous, all-consuming want.

"Hey." There's a warning edge in his voice, but it's weak, and oh God, you're fucking wet. "You need to slow dow—"

You know what he's going to say, and you should listen. But some animal impulse takes over, the stubborn desire to stay here for the moment, and you lose your good sense. With very little input from your conscious mind, you find yourself digging your fingernails into the skin of his thigh. Some fucked up distraction, you guess.

It works. At least for a moment.

He inhales shakily. Surprised. Temporarily subdued.

The next thing you know, however, his own fingers are tangling in your hair and tugging. Using equal force to get what he wants. To challenge you.

You pull back with a soft gasp. Heart pounding. Eyes fluttering.

A woman possessed by lust and singleminded focus.

He looks down at you as you pant, trying desperately to regain your bearings. You can't quite decipher if he's regarding you with disapproval or surprise or both. He has the strangest look in his eye, and you can't bring yourself to think straight in the slightest.

He hums before pulling his hand away. Every nerve in your body seems to cry out at the loss of contact. "You play dirty, kitty," he comments.

You want to spit some insult at him, but you can't. Not when every fiber of your being is crying out for what you just lost. "Need you back in my mouth," you find yourself saying between panting breaths.

Humiliated. You should be fucking humiliated by how debased you are at the moment.

So why aren't you?

"No." He says it so decisively that all your prior resentment for him comes rushing back in one horrible instant. How can he deny you again?

You cast your gaze down at the hotel carpet, face flaming.  No sooner do you avert your eyes before his fingers are curling underneath your chin, tilting your face up to look at him.

You meet those wolfish green eyes, and accept the fact that you are totally and completely lost. Wholly out of your element.

He tends to have that effect on you.

"If we're going to do this," he starts, "I'm not gonna let it be some... Cheap, quick thing."

You blink up at him, trying not to focus too much on the feeling of his hand on your face. "You think that blowjobs are cheap?"

You barely register him rolling his eyes before he reaches down with his free hand, tugging at the collar of your sweater.

Somehow, your brain naturally interprets the action as a cue to come closer. You obey without question, rising out of the floor to sit on the edge of the bed with him yet again.

Breathless this time. Knees likely bruised. Wearing far too many clothes.

He doesn't seem to dwell on the fact that you're a total mess as he keeps his hand on your face, leaning in to close the distance between you once again.

Of course, there's a good chance that he's secretly revelling in your disheveled state.

You can't help but believe that this is the case as he groans against you, his tongue darting into your mouth to brush over your own.

Moments ago, you were tasting him. Now he's tasting you.

It's dirty, and heady, and addictive. It isn't like any sex that you've had before. It's more like how they describe it in the pulpy romance novels that you used to secretly read as a teenager, between all the casting calls and vocal lessons.

Here it is. The undeniable chemistry that you've always dreamed of, with a man who is utterly disturbed by his desire to touch you.

He pulls away from your mouth,  putting a horrific amount of distance between the two of you once again.

Then he's reaching for you, feverishly tugging at your clothes. "Off," he says. "I need these gone. I need to see you."

Satisfaction runs hot through your veins.

You need him to see you, too.

One by one, your garments fall to the floor in a haphazard heap. Sweater. Jeans. At some point, your hands enter the fray, just to tug his T-shirt over his head. Leave him completely bare.

He stops when you've been stripped down to your panties. For a second, he looks oddly detached, observing you as though you're an instrument of some kind. Something that he will appreciate, make use of, then thoughtlessly break.

His fingers hook at the edge of the flimsy fabric. Though your breath hitches with anticipation, he makes no move to pull them off, or even to touch you. He just lingers, and looks.

"You wore these during your shoot today?" he asks quietly.

You nod. "Mmm-hmm."

He hesitates, seeming to deeply consider something. You briefly worry that he might choose this point to turn back. Remember that this is all a mistake.

Instead, his fingers tighten against the fabric. He gives one sudden, decisive tug.

The charged quiet between you is interrupted by the sound of fabric tearing.

The remains of your underwear fall to the floor. Rendered useless now.

"When I watch that video," he speaks up, "I'll remember this."

You don't say anything. Just look at this man who should mean nothing to you, who finds sick pleasure in destroying your things. Who would likely do the same to you, if given the chance.

And you crush your lips against his. Again.

His mouth is so hot against yours, his hands on your hips sending sparks of electricity through your very being. You close your eyes, soaking it all in, before he breaks away.

You watch with amusement as he reaches for his discarded jeans to retrieve his wallet. He opens it, coming up with a foil wrapper.

"You came prepared, huh?" you tease as he rips the packaging open.

"Best to stay prepared," he replies. "You just..." He reaches down, breath hitching, and God, you can't look. Can't gawk at him and make this whole thing more real and alien than it already is. "You never know."

You hum, eyes averted towards the generic art hanging on the wall across from the bed. "You never know, huh?" you echo. "Do you follow random popstars to their hotel rooms on a regular basis?"

He laughs. It rests somewhere between nervous and genuine. "Not even close."

A few seconds later, he's tilting your face back towards him. Wordlessly letting you know that you can look now.

You meet his eyes, doing your best not to show how dumbstruck you still are by this whole thing. By the fact that he's hovering over you, like you've imagined a shameful number of times before. That you can see the lean expanse of muscle in his arms, the look in his eye. As expected, he's regarding you like he could tear you apart. This close, however, there's this strange, animal undertone that insinuates that he can't help it.

Large hands come to rest on your hips, pinning you to the mattress. You've never been so happy to be confined in your life.

His breaths are heavy against your neck as he leans in to whisper in your ear. "You've been wanting this, haven't you?"

You don't have to think before you're eagerly nodding against the pillow. "Mmm-hmm."

He hums his displeasure. Clearly, that wasn't a good enough answer. "Real words," he demands.

You give an exasperated sigh before obliging him. "Yes," you manage, voice cracking from the sheer intensity of your need. "I have."

"I thought so." He lingers there above you. Despite how much more amiable he's seemed in comparison to your previous interactions, he's so intense up close, you can hardly wrap your mind around it. "You still felt that way after how I treated you last time?"

You chew absentmindedly at your bottom lip as you consider it. God. As much as you would like to say no...

"Yes," you speak up, the truth pouring out into the miniscule space between you. "I did."

He chuckles. "Poor lost kitty." One of his hands unwraps from around your hip, only to run tenderly over your neck, your collarbone, between your breasts. As though he's actually, honest to God petting you. Your breath hitches as your eyes flicker closed.

"Kitty doesn't care if she's touched nicely, does she?" he asks. "As long as she's touched at all..."

"Actually," you chime in. "I'd like for you to touch me nicely." As much as you don't want to be leaning to the side to arch towards his hand, you can hardly help it. "I think it might feel good..."

"Yeah?" Even without looking, you can hear the smile in his voice. "Well. I guess I might give you that..." He trails off for a moment as his hand ventures down between your legs. "For tonight, at least..."

For tonight.

That could mean he'll go right back to being cruel to you later...

Or that he'll never touch you again.

You can't find it in yourself to worry about which it is as he forces your legs further apart with his knee and presses his thumb into your clit, beginning to rub slow, steady circles.

A pathetic, whimpering moan tears its way up your throat. You melt into the bed as he sets a steady pace, stoking the flames building steadily inside you.

"So fucking wet," he murmurs. "Got that way just from sucking my cock. Or maybe you were like that before we even came back to the hotel room. You're easy."

You want to argue against this point, but you can't. Not when he slips a finger inside your pussy and you fucking squeal, bucking your hips up against his hand.

He chuckles. "Uh-huh." You want to tell him that that's not a real word, as he would say, but you're distracted by the way that he's pumping that same finger in and out of you. Rhythmic. Purposeful. Without a thought in your mind, you find yourself pushing your hips down towards him.

Obscene. It's fucking obscene, and Trent is clearly enjoying every second of it.

"Easy little popstar." He murmurs his assessment of you as he works at you.

Suddenly, he halts his pace, pausing knuckle deep inside you. You whine, shifting impatiently against him, only to arch your back with a gasp as he pushes a second finger inside.

His low laughter doesn't escape you, even as the sound of your own moans fills your ears.

"Fucking whore."

The degradation registers in your fuzzy brain just as he hits a spot deep inside you that has you crying out loudly enough to warrant a noise complaint.

"Oh. That's the spot, huh?" he coos before repeating the action, inspiring another needy moan from you. "Good to know."

It's all you can do not to let your eyes roll into the back of your head as he keeps pressing into you. Reflexively, you find yourself digging your fingers into his shoulder. You hold onto him, as though you're afraid that he might evaporate, simply cease to exist.

His voice cuts through the haze of your pleasure. For one mindfuck of a moment, it's as though he sees right through you. "It's alright," he tells you softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

But then, after a few more deliciously deep thrusts of his fingers, he pulls back. Every cell in your body seems to mourn him.

Even as he's crawling back up the bed towards you. Still eyeing you like prey.

"That was a fucking courtesy." His voice cuts through the fuzzy haze of your mind. "So fucking soaked. Probably didn't even need to be stretched..."

He pauses, noticing the way your eyes are honed in on the absolute mess on his fingers. They shine in the dim lamplight, coated in the proof of how badly you need him.

Your mouth falls open instinctively.

"Yeah?" he laughs. "Wanna clean up your mess like last time?"

The noise that comes out of your mouth is some unintelligible mix of a moan and an affirmative hum. Luckily for you, Trent is intuitive enough to take it as a yes.

For a moment, as his fingers dip back into your mouth, it's as though everything is right in the world.

Another muffled moan escapes you as you eagerly swirl your tongue around the digits, tasting the sweetness of your own arousal.

"Should've known you'd be good at sucking cock," he says lowly as he watches you lick your juices from his fingers. "I should have known the first time I got my fingers in your mouth like this... Shit..."

He pulls his fingers from between your lips with a distinctive pop. That same hand travels lower for him to stroke himself again as he resumes his position above you.

His latest sound of desperation is something new, animalistic. You swear to God that it's akin to a growl. "Spread," he orders you. "Spread your fucking legs."

You don't have to be asked twice before obliging him.

"Good," he breathes. "That's a good whore..."

His breath hitches as he slowly moves forward. One hand pressed against the headboard. The other finding the perfect angle to...

Oh, God.

You don't bother to consider the volume of your voice as the distance closes between the two of you. Nothing matters. Not the people in the adjoining rooms. Not your reputation. Not the fact that Alex and Heather are out having fun without you, or that Jill's polishing off a bottle of wine in her room by herself, or that you hate the video that you shot today.

Nothing matters, because he's finally inside you.

Yet, his hand comes down to clap over your mouth. "Shhh," he chides. "Don't... Don't fucking scream. I still have to walk out of here later..."

You let out another choked moan against his hand. Apparently, your volume is satisfactory enough this time for him to continue pushing forward.

Your breathing quickens as you feel your walls stretching around him. Every aspect of him feels so new, so unlike Jeremy or Alex. He's more practiced in the way he eases himself inside of you. More patient. More sure.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, just before he buries himself as far into you as he can go.

You gasp against his hand.

He looks down at you, eyes ablaze as he finally pulls his hand away from your mouth.

"You feel like a fucking virgin still."

He says it so matter-of-factly, it's hard to convince yourself that he doesn't actually believe it.

"I'm not," you manage, despite the very distracting pressure deep inside you. "I swear. I—"

"I'm not accusing you of anything," he cuts you off. "It's just... God." He begins to move again, and oh. Oh.

You expected him to be rougher. Less tentative. The way Jeremy was towards the end. The way that Alex always has been from the get-go.

Maybe he'll work up to that. For now, he's fucking you slow.

Steady, and deep, but slow.

"Fucking tight," he says. The way his voice shakes leaves a swell of pride in your chest, knowing that you can affect someone like this. Him, no less. "Feels so..."

Though every part of you is screaming for him to keep talking, he trails off. You can't complain much, however, when his head dips down for his mouth to graze your neck. His tongue darts out, tracing a languid line across your skin.

Your fingers dig into his back as another contented sound escapes you.

He pulls back, continuing to murmur in your ear as he rolls his hips into you at a measured pace. "You feel so good," he tells you. "Such a tight little cunt..."

There's that word again. So dirty. So crass.

Such an easy way to get the blood rushing to both your face, and your...

Well...

The effect isn't lost on him, judging by the soft laugh against your neck.

"You like that, don't you?" he asks. Though you doubt he's expecting an answer, you nod.

"I know, kitty," he goes on. "Such a dirty girl, aren't you? Hmm? Not what everyone expects you to be?"

You shake your head in response. Words evade you. There's only this.

This two backed-beast on top of a worn queen sized mattress. A lust-filled, sweaty amalgamation of a has-been and a fraud.

Of course, his head is screwed on straighter than yours.  "Yeah?" He's as cool as ever. You wonder if guilt is the only way to break his composure. "I'm not what everyone expects me to be, either."

For a moment, your hazy brain struggles to compute that statement. For all you've seen, he's every bit of what you would expect. Uptight. Prideful. Then again, there's the fact that he apparently has a conscience, and the fact that he  isn't hurting you... Yet.

You wait for him to get rougher. For the degradation to get personal.

But nothing changes.

He's steady in his pace. Practiced. Unravelling you, bit by torturous bit.

All you can do is hold onto him, nails in his back and legs wrapped around him.

And listen to him.

In between the sound of your own ragged breathing, you make sense of the fact that he's still talking.

"You feel so good," he tells you again. "You are so good." A wry laugh as his thrusts quicken ever-so-slightly. "Too fucking good for me. But you're here, aren't you?" You try not to completely lose your composure as the hand that isn't currently gripping the bed comes to rest against your jaw, cradling your face.

He keeps you held there, as though there's any way that you would get up and run away if you got the chance. "You want this, don't you?"

You think that much should be plentifully obvious. Still, you manage to nod against the pillow, letting out a debauched moan.

Still, it's not enough. God, when is it ever enough for him? "No," he insists. "You have to tell me. I need to hear it." You hadn't noticed how much he picked up his pace before now, until you take note of the way that his own breathing is falling out of time, his desperation bleeding through. "Tell me that you want this..."

"I want this," you finally manage, despite the fact that your brain has entirely gone to mush. "God, you should... Mmm... You should know that I do. I told you earlier..."

"Wanted to make sure you hadn't changed your mind."

The idea is laughable, but you're not in much of a position to laugh.

"I want this," you tell him again. Unsteady as your voice is, you don't know if you've ever meant something so sincerely.

"Yeah?" He's close enough that his lips ghost over yours, but it's not a kiss. Not actually. "This isn't too much for you?"

"No," you reply quickly, without even thinking. "I want more."

You don't consider those words before they escape your mouth. Don't fully know what you even mean by them.

You definitely take note of the feral spark in his eye, however.

You can't make sense of anything of all before his hand is once again between your thighs, his thumb pressed against your clit. He rubs at you quickly, insistently. There's no fumbling as he times the movement of his hand to coincide with the movement of his hips. It's like you've done this a million times before. Like he knows you.

"You want more?" he manages to ask through all this, as you gasp and moan and grip onto him for dear life. "This isn't enough for you, is it? You still want more?"

You can't trust yourself to speak. Don't know if your vocal chords will even work for anything except the practically inhuman sounds climbing unbidden up your throat.

You nod against his shoulder. Try not to fall off the edge of the fucking Earth.

Try to remember who you are, as he tries to tell you exactly that.

"You're a greedy fucking girl," he grits out. He buries himself so deep inside you, it's hard to differentiate where you end and he begins. "Don't know what's good for you. Don't know where to stop."

"I don't want to stop," you manage, despite the haze in your head that disconnects your brain from your mouth. "Don't stop... We can't... Please."

"Too easy to make you beg." He's all over you, looming above you, buried within you. You swear that nothing else in the world feels this good.

"I'm not going to stop," he says. That promise is music to your ears. "I'm going to keep going. And you're going to come, aren't you?"

You barely register the question. Once you do, you find yourself letting out a pitiful noise of affirmation, because yes, you are. You're going to totally and completely shatter, here, in this hotel bed, wrapped around him, and you have no clue what's going to come afterwards. If anything is going to come afterwards. If you don't just die on the spot from how good this all feels.

You can't speak. Luckily for you, he takes no objections to doing it for you.

"Yeah. You are." He chuckles, like he's proud, before his lips brush against the shell of your ear again. "Do it."

You don't know what kind of black magic he's capable of. Don't know what spell he must have you under for you to come at his command.

But you do.

As soon as he says the word, you're gasping, legs tightening around him as you feel that telltale tightening and release. You can hardly breathe. Maybe you don't need to. Maybe all you need is this.

Him.

Every bit of him, infiltrating every bit of you.

It's meaningless, and you're wasted, and it has to no right to feel this good. And yet...

"God." His pace falters, and he stills. For the moment, there's nothing but the two of you. You, in the aftermath of bliss. Him, in the midst of it.

You watch in awe as the pleasure overtakes over his expression. As he closes his eyes and lets go. Surrenders to the finality of it all.

His peak crests, then ebbs and flows away.

You know what comes next. The inevitable separation.

You try to brace yourself for it, but nothing can soften the blow of it when he opens his eyes and pulls back.

Here you are. Empty.

Just you again.

You try to make peace with it, despite the forboding drunken haze clouding your head. Try not to read too much into the way that he sighs when he finally catches his breath.

Once again, he sounds as though all the problems in the world have fallen onto his shoulders.

He curses under his breath before standing, stalking off to the bathroom.

-

You must be out of it enough to doze off in his absence. By the time you come back around, the bed is settling underneath you.

Your eyes crack open, allowing you to register the faint shape of him in the near-dark. Did he turn off the light for you? He must have.

Seems like him. To want to exit in the cover of darkness.

Like a vampire.

The comparison is enough to coax a sleepy giggle from your cottony throat.

"Something funny?"

His voice is soft. Much softer than the feeling of the sheets, being pulled up towards your shoulders.

You aren't pulling on them, you know. So that must mean...

"Are you tucking me in?" you manage in lieu of an answer to his own question.

"I'm making sure you don't freeze." The mattress settles beneath you again as your eyes involuntarily flutter. "Don't know how much that'll help, though."

You don't say anything for a moment. You just lay there, absorbing the heat emanating from the presence lying next to you.

It doesn't go away.

Once again, you pose a question. "Are you staying the night?"

"Somebody has to make sure you don't choke to death on your own puke in the night." A nudge against your shoulder. "Lay on your side, kid."

You huff. Complain. Slur something that vaguely sounds like "not a kid."

"Okay." His laughter is slow. Heavy with the impending threat of sleep. "Not a kid. Right. Sorry."

Sorry. So many apologies from him, in one night.

As you drift away, you feel as though you might already be dreaming.

-

The alarm clock on the bedside table blares.

You groans, slapping around blindly in an attempt to turn it off. Eventually, you manage it.

You force yourself to open your eyes. Every cell in your body protests.

Early morning light streams through the windows, making the pounding in your head apparent. Your mouth carries a faint, sickening sweet taste. The mere reminder of last night's drinks makes your stomach protest.

The knot in your gut tightens even more when you note that the spot next to you is completely cold.

How much of it did you conjure up in your head?

Perhaps you stumbled off to your hotel room alone. Stripped down to nothing and defiled yourself to the thought of him. It would be far from the first time, but God. This would be a new low.

You figure you'll just have to come to terms with your overly vivid imagination.

You rise on heavy legs, head swimming as you begin to collect your clothes from the floor, shamefully putting on each item, one by one.

As you're pulling your sweater over your head, a flash of white catches your eye from the bedside table.

You scramble for it, hoping for some proof. Evidence that you didn't just have the most vivid, embarrassing wet dream of your life the night before.

To your surprise, you get your wish in the form of a hasty, brief message, scrawled across the hotel's complimentary note paper. Your eyes roam over it, hungrily accepting meager crumbs.

Thanks for last night. You're probably gonna need Tylenol today. Just a guess. I'll be home in three or so weeks. Maybe.

You struggle to make sense of the line at the bottom of the note. You realize with a flip of your already-queasy stomach that it's ten digits.

A phone number.

His fucking phone number.

For what seems like eternity, you sit at the edge of the bed, clutching the paper in your hand.

When Weston beats on the door, summoning you for checkout, you grab the copy of Circus that had previously fallen to the floor. You shove the note between two random pages, tucking the magazine protectively beneath your arm as you stand to collect your luggage.

[classichorrorblog]

Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992)

[germsauce]

Tim Roth as Franz Kafka/Josef K in Franz Kafka’s ‘The Trial’ (1988) dir. david thomas

[thedeeperthewound]

this gif is like disturbingly high quality for 1990 but it’s kinda cuteeee ,,, hello freckles and double ear piercing holes and stubbly upper lip..

[birdsy-purplefishes]

You can see his eye freckle! Why is it so high-def?!

[sharklover00]

[psychotic-gerard]

you’re not in this alone -> take my fucking hand and never be afraid again -> i’ll never let them hurt you, i promise -> i fought them all off just to hold you close and tight -> i mean this forever -> if you were here, i’d never have a fear -> holding on, i hope you do the same -> things are better if i stay -> i really need you to listen i’m telling you the truth -> we’ll love again, we’ll laugh again, we’ll cry again, and we’ll dance again -> i’m taking back the life you stole -> so give me all your hopeless hearts -> don’t stop if i fall and don’t look back -> i’d encourage your smiles -> so bright the sun is ashamed to rise and be -> defiant to the end we hear the call to carry on -> we’ll make them pay for the things that they did -> we’ll show ‘em all what we mean -> give me sincerity -> if i could figure it out, we’ll both never be afraid again -> i’m not afraid of your condition -> you’ll never take me alive, you’ll never get me alive -> i am not afraid to keep on living, i am not afraid to walk this world alone -> the future is bulletproof, the aftermath is secondary -> so let me be the one to save you -> can i be the only hope for you? -> i’ll keep you safe tonight -> i’ll find you when the sun goes black -> this planet is ours to defend -> salute the dead and lead the fight -> we are never gonna die -> if i ever let you down, i’ll be the one who drives you home tonight -> if you all keep believing, i’ll keep believing -> that for every failing sun there’s a morning after -> tonight belongs to me -> be afraid of who i am, i can take it -> so we’ll press till you can’t take it anymore -> get up coward

[pinkdoeweirdo]

the feeling when your fictional crush is so wild you can't even defend them:

[fear-is-truth]

a/n — “i like noses. i like big noses because, well, because you can kind of like, you can, like, sit on them.” — doja cat

you’re sprawled out on the couch, tangled in a mess of limbs, the room quiet except for the faint hum of the tv in the background. your legs are slung lazily over evan’s shoulder, and his chin rests on your stomach as he absentmindedly traces circles on your skin. you’re barely awake, drifting in and out of that sweet spot between sleep and consciousness.

“i love your nose,” you mumble, voice slurred.

“it’s so pretty.”

he lets out a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating against you. “seriously? my nose?” evan repeats, his fingers pausing their little pattern.

“mmhm.” your eyes flutter open just enough to catch his amused smile—not to mention those dimples. your heart aches at the sight. he leans down, brushing his lips against your thigh in a soft kiss that sends warmth pooling through your body.

“you’re something else, you know that?” he says, his voice low, playful, but there’s a sweetness there, too. his thumb gently caresses your skin, and you can’t help but smile. you’re too tired to respond with more than a soft hum, letting the comfort of the moment wash over you. he kisses your inner thigh again, softer, slower this time, like molasses. telling you without words how much he adores you.

“go back to sleep, babygirl,” he whispers, his chin finding its place back on your stomach, and you do, with a smile on your lips and the feel of his kisses lingering on your skin.

[carpettbed]

♡ from kate van buren's new video ♡

[trentch]

trent’s video message to a fan named michelle, april 1990 (nin live archive)

[carpettbed]

The armpit close-up got me doing this instantly

[robopuffy]

lowkey freaky nasty for all of them ngl

also hi john