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.