#slipknotimagines

[jimsbeetroot]

Hiii I love your work, could you do a smut with Joey and fem reader where she rides him while he's sitting at his drum kit?

keeping the beat ♱ joey jordison

Title: Keeping the Beat Pairing: Joey Jordison x Fem!Reader Word count: 1.355 words Warnings: NSFW / smut (18+), rough sex, public-ish setting (semi-private), reader riding Joey, dirty talk, possessiveness, swearing.

The dull thrum of bass amps hummed through the thick walls of the rehearsal space as the remaining members of Slipknot packed up and scattered. Everyone had cleared out after the last session, except for Joey — who, as usual, stayed behind, clinging to the sanctuary of his drums like they were the last thing keeping him tethered to reality.

The muffled clang of cymbals, the rhythmic pulse of his practiced strokes on the snare, and the occasional grunt of frustration were all you heard when you first entered the dimly lit room. His back was to you as he hammered out the final beats, his body swaying slightly with the pulse of the music. It was the kind of focus Joey only found when he was alone — the kind that let him block everything else out, even the world beyond the drums.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment, just watching. The way his long black hair clung to his damp neck, the way his toned back flexed under his worn band tee — it was a sight you had grown used to but never tired of. Joey Jordison was a beautiful mess, and you couldn't help but adore every piece of him.

Eventually, he stopped mid-pattern, stilling his sticks and letting the silence of the room settle in. He didn't even look up when you took a few steps forward, but you knew he was aware of your presence. His fingers twitched, and his posture shifted slightly, as if he was waiting for something.

"Enjoying the show?" he asked, his voice low and slightly rasping from exertion, but with that familiar cocky edge you loved.

You stepped closer, leaning against one of the towering amps near the wall. "I like the view."

He smirked, but didn't turn around, tapping his sticks against the rim of his snare in time with the soft, heavy beat of his heart. "You should get a better one, then," he muttered, his voice thick with amusement and the faintest trace of challenge.

You took a few more steps, until you were standing between him and the kit, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. There was something almost magnetic about the way he moved behind those drums, like he was consumed by his own rhythm. The thought made you smile. You liked watching him lose himself in his element, but tonight… tonight you had other plans.

Without a word, you slid a hand down his thigh, the warmth of his skin seeping into your palm. His muscles tensed under your touch, and you felt his breath hitch.

"You're killing me with that look," Joey growled, finally turning to face you, his eyes intense and dark, his black hair falling messily around his face. His gaze was predatory, but there was an undeniable softness to it — one that only ever came out when he was with you.

You smirked. "I like watching you play. You look so focused."

"Focused?" He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lips twitching upward in amusement. "You have no idea, babe."

You leaned in closer, your breath hot against his neck. "I think I have an idea."

Joey’s hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss — slow, but charged with the promise of something much more urgent. His tongue brushed against yours, tasting, teasing, and then pulling away just as quickly. You groaned in protest, the need building between you as his hands moved to your waist.

"You're not just here to watch, are you?" he rasped, his voice thick with hunger.

You shook your head, biting your lip as you stepped closer, straddling his lap in one swift motion. The hardness of him pressed against your thigh, and the sensation sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

"You have no idea how much I want you," you whispered, your hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the solid muscle of his chest beneath your fingertips.

Joey let out a low groan, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. "Then take it."

Without hesitation, you unzipped his jeans, freeing his cock, already hard and flushed, waiting for you. His breath caught in his throat as you slowly lowered yourself onto him, inch by inch. The moment you were fully seated, you both exhaled, the tension of the build-up breaking with a shared, needy gasp.

You rested your hands on his shoulders for balance, feeling the slight tremor in your thighs as you slowly began to move. The pressure, the fullness — it was all too much, and it made you dizzy with need. Joey’s hands gripped your waist, guiding your rhythm, his eyes locked onto yours with a dark, hungry intensity.

"Fuck," he groaned, his teeth gritted. "You feel so good on me."

You leaned forward, brushing your lips across his as you began to ride him harder. The friction was maddening — his cock hitting all the right spots, his breath ragged and uneven. The sound of his breathing, the slap of skin on skin, filled the room, but you were too lost in the moment to care.

"You're perfect," he whispered, his hands tightening on your hips as he pulled you down onto him with a sharp thrust. "Don't stop."

You didn’t want to. You wanted more. You needed more.

Your body responded instinctively, moving faster now, chasing that sweet, burning release that was so close it made your head spin. His fingers dug into your skin, pushing you further into the rhythm, his lips trailing over your neck, sucking and biting lightly at your skin.

"God, you’re so fucking hot," he muttered between kisses, his voice strained. "Every time I think I’m used to you, you surprise the hell outta me."

The words sent a thrill through you, but you were too far gone to say anything in response. All you could do was move — harder, faster, chasing that rush that was almost within your grasp.

Joey’s hands shifted, one moving to your breast, the other trailing down to your clit. He flicked it roughly with his thumb, and the jolt of pleasure almost sent you over the edge.

"Joey," you gasped, your head falling back. "I’m so close."

"Then come for me," he growled, his hips snapping up into yours with a sudden, brutal force. "I wanna feel you fall apart."

With that, you let go. The pressure in your stomach shattered, and you came hard, your body trembling violently as you ground yourself down onto him. Joey’s grip tightened on you as he followed right after, his groan of release filling your ears as he came inside you, his cock twitching and jerking with every wave of pleasure.

You both stayed still for a moment, trying to catch your breath. The room was thick with heat, the air heavy with the scent of sex and sweat. Your body was still buzzing, your skin tingling with every tiny movement.

Joey’s hands gently caressed your back, his fingers tracing idle patterns across your skin as he kissed your forehead.

"Think we broke your kit?" you whispered, a tired grin on your face.

Joey chuckled, his thumb gently brushing over your lower lip. "Nah. But if we keep going like this, we might."

You smirked, your hands resting on his chest as you slowly lifted yourself off him. You could still feel him inside you, his presence lingering even as you stood.

"Maybe I should come back tomorrow for round two," you teased, feeling playful now that the high had subsided.

Joey raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a wicked grin. "You’ll be back before then, babe."

"Don’t count on it," you said, standing up and straightening your clothes. "I’ve got other things to do."

He smirked, leaning back in the drum throne, eyes half-lidded and his usual mischievous glint still in place. "I’ll be waiting. And next time? I’m taking you on the floor."

You shot him a look over your shoulder as you headed for the door. "I’ll be looking forward to it."

[jimsbeetroot]

Can you do a joey smut??? Idc about the plot I'll be happy with anything I love your work btw

whatever you ask of me ♱ joey jordison

Title: Whatever You Ask of Me Pairing: Joey Jordison x Female Reader Word Count: ~2,200 Content: Established relationship, passionate sex, dirty talk, worship vibes, some light dom/sub dynamics, after-show setting.

The door slammed behind you both, echoing off the walls of the dressing room. The crowd's roar was still ringing in your ears, the high of the concert still buzzing in Joey’s blood. Sweat clung to his skin, his eyeliner smudged, hair wild and damp from hours under hot lights and a mask.

You barely had time to register the door closing before he had you against it—his hand flat on the wood beside your head, his chest rising and falling fast.

“You,” he growled, voice low and dark, “were staring at me like you were gonna eat me alive all night.”

You blinked, breath caught in your throat. “Maybe I was.”

Joey smirked, tongue running along his bottom lip. “Yeah? I could feel your eyes from behind the kit. Knew exactly what you wanted.”

“I wanted you,” you said, quiet but bold. “I want you.”

His eyes darkened, pupils blown. “Say it again.”

“I want you.”

He leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, lips just brushing but not kissing yet.

“You want me to fuck you?” he whispered, and the words hit you like a match to gasoline. “Hard or soft? Fast or slow? Tell me—I will do whatever you ask of me.”

Your knees nearly gave out.

“Hard,” you breathed. “Fast. Now.”

That was all it took.

Joey crushed his mouth to yours in a kiss that stole every ounce of air from your lungs. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your thighs to lift you, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He carried you across the room like you weighed nothing, slamming you down onto the padded couch.

“God, you drive me insane,” he muttered, yanking your shirt up over your head, pressing hot kisses down your collarbone. “Sitting side-stage, all sweet and innocent, and the second we’re alone—this is what you want, huh?”

You nodded frantically, fingers fumbling at his shirt as he shrugged out of it, revealing a sheen of sweat glistening on his chest and tattooed arms. His hair clung to his face, wild and messy, and he looked at you like a man possessed.

He shoved your jeans down your legs with a low groan, tossing them somewhere behind him before kneeling between your legs.

“Look at you,” he whispered, spreading your thighs wide, dragging his fingers slowly over the soaked fabric of your panties. “Already this wet for me. All I did was talk.”

You whimpered. “Joey, please…”

“Yeah?” He hooked a finger under the fabric, sliding it to the side to expose your soaked heat. “Please what, baby? You want my fingers, my mouth—or just cock?”

“Cock,” you gasped. “Please. Just fuck me.”

Joey’s mouth twitched in a smug grin. “Begging so sweet for it. You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.”

He stood up just long enough to shove down his jeans and boxers, cock flushed and already hard, veins thick along the shaft. He gave it a lazy stroke, eyes locked on yours.

“Condom?” he asked, breath hitching.

You shook your head. “I’m on the pill. I need to feel you.”

His jaw clenched. “Fuck…”

He dropped back to his knees and guided himself to your entrance, teasing the head just barely inside you. He groaned as your slick heat clung to him.

“God, you’re tight,” he growled, then pushed in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face twist in bliss. “You take me so fucking well every time.”

You cried out as he bottomed out, hips pressed to yours, stretching you wide and full. His hands slid under your thighs, anchoring you in place.

Then he started to move.

Fast, just like you begged—hips snapping into you with sharp, rhythmic thrusts that sent your body arching off the couch. The wet sound of skin slapping echoed in the room, mingling with your moans and his ragged grunts.

“You feel that?” he panted. “How deep I am?”

You nodded desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say who’s fucking you like this.”

“You are, Joey,” you gasped. “Only you.”

He leaned in, kissing you hard and filthy, tongue claiming your mouth as his thrusts got rougher. The couch creaked beneath you both, his pace relentless, precise, like the same rhythm he pounded into his drums—except this was just for you.

“Gonna make you come on this cock,” he growled. “Wanna feel you squeeze me so tight I lose my mind.”

You were already so close. Your body coiled tight, every nerve on fire from the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that existed.

“Joey—fuck—I’m—”

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering just a little as you clenched around him. “Come for me. Let go. Let me feel it.”

You shattered with a cry, thighs shaking around him as you came, heat flooding your core. He didn’t stop—kept pounding into you through the aftershocks, jaw clenched, brow furrowed in concentration as he chased his own release.

“Fuck, fuck—gonna come—”

He pulled out just in time, stroking himself fast until he came all over your stomach with a deep groan, strands painting your skin. His hand trembled slightly as he caught his breath, resting his forehead against yours.

Silence fell for a moment, both of you panting, skin slick with sweat and come.

Joey looked down at you—flushed, ruined, blissed out—and smiled.

“You okay?” he murmured, brushing hair from your face.

You nodded. “More than okay.”

He chuckled, breathless, and grabbed a towel from the nearby counter to clean you gently, tenderness taking over where ferocity had just reigned.

As he curled up beside you, pulling you into his chest, he whispered:

“Next time, you want it soft and slow… just say the word.”

[jimsbeetroot]

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.

[jimsbeetroot]

Dude… something something corey screaming in your face while grabbing your hair I’m on my knees I’m pleading please please please

burn me down ♱ corey taylor

Title: Burn Me Down

Pairing: Corey Taylor (Slipknot, circa 2002) x Fem!Reader (Y/N)

Setting: Slipknot’s early 2000s era — at y/n and corey’s home.

Word Count: ~3150 (complete)

Warnings: Explicit smut (18+) VERY VERY toxic/possessive relationship dynamics. Rough sex (hair pulling, face slapping, choking, degradation) Screaming/yelling/arguing. Mentions of blood/bruises (split lip, biting) Obsession/jealousy!

Do not read if you are easily triggered, offended, or uncomfortable with toxic, dark relationship dynamics!!

-

You hear the front door slam hard enough to rattle the windows, and you know it’s him before his boots even hit the floor. Heavy, deliberate footsteps—stomping through the house like he’s trying to bury something with every step.

Your stomach clenches.

You stay curled up on the couch, one leg tucked under you, a glass of whiskey in your hand that you poured purely out of habit. The bottle sits uncapped on the coffee table. You’ve barely taken a sip.

The yelling starts before he’s even in the room.

“What the fuck is this?”

You don’t move. “What?”

“You know what.” He storms into the living room and throws a crumpled piece of paper at your chest. It bounces off and lands on your lap. A flyer from last night’s show—your friend’s band. The one you went to without telling him. The one he specifically told you not to go to.

“You’re spying on me now?” you mutter, grabbing the flyer.

He laughs, a sharp, humorless sound. “I didn’t have to. You’re fucking stupid enough to leave your shit lying around.”

You stand slowly, the heat already crawling up your neck. “It was just a show.”

Corey’s eyes are bloodshot. Not from tears—no, he doesn’t cry. Not in front of you. Probably not ever. Just blood and rage. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, even from here.

His voice drops an octave, gravelly and quiet, which somehow makes it worse. “You think I’m fucking stupid?”

“I didn’t do anything—”

“I told you not to go.” He steps in close, too close, so close you can feel the heat radiating off of him. His chest nearly brushes yours. “And you went anyway. Like a goddamn brat. Like you wanted me to lose my shit.”

You try to push past him, but his hand shoots out and grabs your wrist—hard. “Don’t walk away from me.”

“I’m not doing this with you right now, Corey.”

“You are. You fucking are.” His fingers tighten, and you glare at him, breathing fast. You’re not scared of him. He’s rough, angry, broken—but he’s never crossed that line. Not really. Not yet. You don’t think he will.

“You wanna scream at me, go ahead,” you snap. “It’s what you do best anyway.”

And he does scream.

Right in your face. A guttural sound, pure fury and pain. His other hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back roughly, and you gasp—half in shock, half in something else entirely.

“You want to test me?” he growls, inches from your lips. “Fine. Let’s fucking play.”

Your mouth opens to say something—anything—but the words catch in your throat when his lips crash down on yours. It’s not a kiss. It’s a threat, a promise, a punishment.

His tongue pushes past your teeth, claiming, bruising. His grip on your hair never loosens, forcing your head back as he devours your mouth. You can barely breathe, can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the burn in your scalp and the hot, angry way he’s pressing into you, chest to chest.

You whimper into him, a sharp little sound you hate yourself for making.

He pulls back just enough to speak. “You like this shit, don’t you?”

You shake your head, but he doesn’t believe it. He sees the heat in your eyes, the way your thighs press together.

“You love it when I get like this. When I grab you. When I take what’s mine.”

“I’m not—”

He cuts you off with another kiss, biting your bottom lip hard enough to sting. Then he turns you, forces you backwards until your knees hit the couch. You fall with a soft grunt, and he follows you down, straddling your hips.

His hand is still in your hair, yanking your head to the side so he can mouth along your neck—biting, sucking, leaving marks. His free hand slips under your shirt, rough fingertips skating over your ribs, your waist, up to your breast. No teasing. No softness. Just possession.

You arch into him despite yourself.

“Say it,” he hisses into your throat.

“Say what?”

“That you want me like this.”

You glare at him through your lashes. “Fuck you.”

He grins, wild and feral. “That’s the idea, sweetheart.”

His hand moves down, unzipping your jeans with practiced speed. Your legs open for him before you even realize what you’re doing. He knows your body too well. Knows how to break you down, peel away the anger until all that’s left is need.

He pushes his hand between your thighs, and when he finds you wet, he chuckles low in his throat. “Liar.”

You hiss through your teeth. “Corey…”

“You can’t stand me,” he murmurs, fingers sliding over your heat through your panties. “But you can’t stay away, either.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me you hate me.”

“I do.”

He shoves your panties aside and thrusts two fingers inside you.

You gasp, back arching. “Fuck—!”

His mouth is on yours again, stealing the sound, the breath, the thought. His fingers curl deep, finding that spot that makes you see stars, and your hands fly to his shoulders—nails digging in.

His rhythm is punishing. Unforgiving. Like the words he spat at you. Like the way he screamed in your face.

He pulls back to watch your face, his eyes dark and glassy. “Say it again.”

“I hate you,” you breathe, barely able to speak.

He adds a third finger.

You cry out. He grins.

Your body’s betraying you.

You’re soaked, thighs twitching, breath ragged. And Corey—he fucking knows. His fingers are ruthless, curling deep inside you, dragging over every raw nerve until your back is arched like a bow and your vision blurs.

“You gonna come just from my fingers?” he growls against your cheek. “Is that all it takes now?”

You shake your head, but the moan that slips out of your throat betrays you.

“You’re so full of shit,” he laughs, voice hoarse and mean. “All that attitude, that mouth—and the second I touch you, you melt.”

“I fucking hate you,” you breathe again, even though your legs are shaking, even though you’re clenching around him.

He slaps your cheek.

It’s not hard—just enough to snap your head to the side. Enough to sting. Enough to silence you.

The room goes quiet. The only sound is your breathing—yours and his, heavy and sharp like a goddamn war.

Then: “Do it again,” you whisper, eyes locked on his.

Corey grins.

And this time, he does hit you harder. Not enough to hurt—just enough to rattle your bones, to make your cunt throb, to break your pride.

You’re soaked. Ruined. Writhing under him.

“You love this, don’t you?” he growls. “Being my little whore. Letting me use you when you’ve been bad.”

You don’t answer, and he slaps you again, the other cheek this time. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes. Fuck—Corey, yes.”

He yanks his fingers out of you and stands, towering over you with wild eyes and clenched fists. He looks fucking feral. His shirt is already halfway off, tattoos shining with sweat, jeans hanging low on his hips. That chain he always wears is bouncing against his collarbone as he breathes.

“You’re not coming yet,” he snaps. “Not until I fuck it out of you.”

You open your mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to beg—but then he grabs your ankle and yanks you to the edge of the couch so hard your jeans come halfway off with the motion. He peels them the rest of the way down along with your soaked underwear, tossing them across the room.

Then he drops to his knees between your thighs like he’s worshiping at a goddamn altar.

His tongue is on you before you can even blink.

You scream.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust—he never does. He licks like a man starving, like you’re the only thing that will save him from drowning in his own rage. His hands clamp down hard on your thighs, fingers digging into flesh as he buries his face between your legs and devours you.

You writhe, hands flying to his hair—messy curls soaked with sweat. You pull, hard, and he groans against your cunt, the vibrations sending another wave of heat through your core.

“I’m gonna—fuck—Corey, please—”

He pulls back just before you hit the edge.

You sob, legs twitching. “You fucking bastard—”

He stands, undoing his belt with jerky, aggressive movements. “You don’t get to come until I say you can.”

“Then hurry the fuck up—”

He backhands you across the face.

Harder, this time.

You gasp, stunned—but it’s still within that line. It doesn’t scare you. It shatters you, ignites something reckless and raw deep in your gut.

Your lip’s split.

You taste blood.

Corey grabs your jaw in one rough hand, dragging you up so your face is inches from his.

“You think you’re in control here?” he breathes. “You’re not. You never are.”

You don’t say anything.

You just stare at him, lip bleeding, chest heaving—and nod.

That’s when he finally undoes his jeans.

He pulls himself out—hard, angry, flushed—and shoves into you without warning. One brutal, deep thrust that knocks the air out of your lungs. You cry out, legs wrapping around his hips, nails clawing at his back.

There’s no rhythm, no buildup. Just fucking. Pure, punishing, aggressive. The slap of skin, the hiss of breath, the low growl in his throat that sounds more like an animal than a man.

He grabs your throat, not tight, just enough to pin you. Enough to claim you.

“You don’t go to other men’s shows,” he growls, fucking harder. “You don’t leave without telling me.”

“I—I didn’t—”

“You did.” His grip tightens. “You did it to get back at me. And now you’re gonna fucking pay.”

He pounds into you like he’s trying to fuck the disobedience out of your body. Like if he fucks you hard enough, you’ll learn to obey.

Your orgasm hits so fast it terrifies you.

You don’t even know it’s coming—one moment you’re biting back insults, the next you’re screaming, body convulsing, vision going white.

Corey doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, slapping your face again mid-orgasm, laughing when you sob.

“You wanted this,” he says. “You wanted to feel something, didn’t you?”

You nod, tears slipping free.

“Say it.”

“I—I wanted this.”

He grins. “Good.”

He pulls out suddenly and fists himself, finishing across your stomach with a loud, guttural groan. His other hand stays locked around your throat until the last spasm leaves his body.

You’re both panting. Sweaty. Bloody. Broken.

You’re lying there—naked, legs still spread, cum cooling on your stomach, lip split and bruised—staring at the ceiling like it might have answers. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths, your heart pounding too fast for the silence that’s settled between you.

Corey is sitting on the edge of the couch now, shirtless, chain glinting against the sweat on his chest. He lights a cigarette with shaky fingers. Doesn’t even look at you.

“Are you proud of yourself?” you ask hoarsely, voice shredded.

He exhales smoke. “Fuck off.”

You sit up slowly, wincing at the ache in your thighs and throat. You can taste blood. Smell sex. Feel the heat between your legs, raw and pulsing. You should hate him. You should scream and throw shit and storm out.

But you don’t move.

You can’t.

Because that’s the worst part. The ugliest truth.

You want to stay.

“You treat me like I’m disposable,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t respond.

“Like you can just fuck the fight out of me and expect me to keep taking it.”

Still nothing. Just the flick of ash on the carpet.

You push to your feet. “Corey.”

He finally looks at you. Eyes dark. Emotionless. Mask back on.

“You knew who I was when you moved in,” he says.

“I didn’t know this.”

“Yes, you did,” he snaps, standing now. Towering again. The fire’s back. “You knew exactly what I was. You liked it. You like when I scream in your face. You fucking love it when I grab you.”

You don’t deny it.

You just stare at him, quiet, bleeding, and waiting for the knife twist.

“You think I don’t see it?” he growls, stepping closer. “That you crave the chaos? That you get off on the pain? You fucking need me to be this way, because if I was kind—if I was soft—you’d leave.”

He’s so close your breaths mingle.

“You’d get bored,” he finishes, voice a low rasp. “You’d run.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight.

“You don’t know what I’d do.”

“I know everything about you.”

You should slap him. Should throw your glass at the wall and burn this place to the ground. Instead, you whisper:

“Then why haven’t you asked me to leave?”

Silence.

He stares at you like you just knocked the wind out of him.

“You want me gone?” you push.

“No.”

The word is barely there.

His jaw clenches. He turns away like it’s the only way he can keep from reaching for you again.

“Say it.”

“I said no.”

You exhale, the sound half a laugh, half a sob. “Then stop acting like you don’t care.”

He spins around, eyes wild. “I care too much.”

“Bullshit.”

“You think this is easy for me?” he growls. “You think I like being this fucked up? You think I don’t lie awake every goddamn night wishing I could just be normal for you?”

Something in your chest cracks.

“I don’t want normal,” you whisper. “I just want real.”

He moves before you can blink—grabbing your face, smashing his mouth against yours. It’s still rough, still laced with anger, but there’s desperation now. A panic. Like he’s afraid you’re going to vanish if he doesn’t hold you hard enough.

Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers clutching at the hair at the nape of his neck. You taste blood and cigarettes and sex, and all of it is so fucking Corey it makes your head spin.

He drags you backward, both of you stumbling into the hallway. You slam into the wall with a grunt, and he lifts you—legs wrapping around his waist automatically. He’s already getting hard again. You can feel it through his jeans, pressing against your aching cunt like a promise.

“You still wet for me?” he growls into your neck.

You nod. “Always.”

“Fucking ruin you.”

“Do it.”

He doesn’t take his jeans all the way off. Just enough to free himself before he’s thrusting back into you, harder than before, angrier somehow. The wall shakes with every slam of his hips, his mouth locked on your throat, sucking hard enough to bruise.

You dig your nails into his shoulders. Leave marks. He wants them.

“Mine,” he snarls. “You’re mine.”

“Yes,” you moan.

“You don’t look at other men.”

“No.”

“You don’t leave.”

“Never.”

He grabs your face again, fingers digging into your jaw. “Fucking swear it.”

“I swear.”

Your orgasm hits before you’re ready—quick, violent, your back slamming against the wall as your body convulses around him. He bites your collarbone, stifling a broken sound as he spills inside you again, hips jerking until he’s empty.

Then it’s over.

Again.

You both slide to the floor in a heap of sweat, spit, and bruises. He holds you this time. Silent. Shaking.

You don’t speak for a long time.

When you do, it’s barely audible:

“This is gonna kill us.”

Corey nods, chin resting on your shoulder. “Yeah.”

He takes a deep breath: “I know I’m fucked up. But I’d burn the whole world down for you.”

“I know.” You say, not doubting him at all.

Neither of you move.

Neither of you leave.

Because this is the sickest part.

You need it.

You need him.

And he needs you just fucked up enough to stay.

[jimsbeetroot]

corey taylor fucking you while he's in his mask and it only turns you on more 👅👅👅

under the mask ♱ corey taylor

Title: “Under the Mask” Pairing: Corey Taylor x Female Reader Genre: SMUT! Word count: ~2,000 words

You shouldn’t have found it so hot.

You really shouldn’t have.

But here you were—backstage, tucked in the shadows of a dimly lit dressing room after Slipknot’s set, with your back pressed to the cold concrete wall and Corey standing in front of you, still in full stage gear. Mask on. Jumpsuit half unzipped. Steam practically rolling off his sweat-slick skin beneath the black and gray layers.

His chest was rising and falling hard, breath heavy behind the grotesque grin of his mask.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The way his gloved hand slid slowly up your thigh told you everything you needed to know.

“I saw the way you were looking at me tonight,” he growled through the warped mouthpiece of his mask. His voice was lower than usual—distorted slightly by the material, but it only added to the fire in your core. “You like this, don’t you?”

Your legs pressed together, hips shifting subtly for friction as your fingers fumbled with the hem of your skirt.

Corey leaned in, his breath ghosting against your ear. “You like me like this. With the mask on.”

You whimpered, nodding, and that was all it took.

His hand grabbed your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his hidden gaze. You couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses, but you felt them. Felt them sear into you like coals, burning you from the inside out.

“So fucking filthy,” he muttered, voice ragged. “My sweet girl getting wet for a monster.”

You gasped as his gloved fingers dipped under your panties without warning, finding you already soaked.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re dripping. You want me to ruin you just like this?”

“Please,” you breathed.

That was it. No more teasing.

He spun you around and bent you over the dressing table in one motion, pushing aside the clutter of setlists and water bottles with a crash. His hands yanked your panties down just enough to bare you to him, and before you could even catch your breath, you felt the thick heat of him pressing between your thighs.

Still masked. Still dressed from the waist up. Only the necessary parts exposed.

The contrast sent your head spinning.

Corey didn’t ease in—he never did when he was like this, fresh off stage and still thrumming with adrenaline and rage and power. He bottomed out in one brutal thrust that stole the air from your lungs and made your vision blur.

“Goddamn,” he growled through the mask, grabbing your hips tight. “So tight for me.”

Your fingers scrambled for purchase on the dressing table, nails digging into the wood as he set a punishing pace. The sound of skin slapping echoed against the walls, loud and obscene, mixed with your helpless moans and the heavy rasp of his breath behind that monstrous grin.

He bent over you, grinding deeper, his voice dark and taunting in your ear.

“You gonna come for me like this? Let me fuck it out of you while I still look like a fucking nightmare?”

You nodded frantically, crying out as his hand slid around your throat, holding—not choking, just reminding you who had you. Who was inside you. Who you belonged to.

Your eyes flicked up to the mirror in front of you. The sight made your knees go weak.

You. Bent over, flushed and desperate. Him—mask on, mouth twisted in that fucked-up permanent grin. Still in his boots. Still wrapped in the black of his jumpsuit, only the heavy bulge of him slamming into you revealing the rawness underneath.

You clenched around him at the image alone.

“You see that?” he rasped. “Look how fucking ruined you look for me.”

“Corey—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“No,” he barked, hand tightening at your throat. “You don’t come until I say so.”

You whimpered again, thighs shaking, biting your lip so hard it nearly bled.

But the tension in your stomach only wound tighter. He fucked you like he was still performing—fast, relentless, primal. Each thrust hit deep, almost too deep, and the edge wasn’t just close—it was violent. Every nerve was on fire.

“Take it,” he grunted. “Take it all. My dirty fucking girl.”

When he pulled out suddenly, you whined in frustration—but he turned you around and lifted you onto the dressing table like you weighed nothing.

“I want to see your face when I make you scream,” he growled.

With one swift motion, he thrust back in, burying himself to the hilt. Your hands flew to his shoulders, grabbing at the collar of his jumpsuit, your mouth falling open in a silent scream.

Your walls fluttered around him, already so close to the edge you could barely think.

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Let go, baby. Show me what this fucking mask does to you.”

You shattered.

A sob tore from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you, blinding and wet and overwhelming. Your body arched off the table, clenching around him in violent pulses, dragging him over the edge with you.

Corey groaned—loud and low, almost inhuman—as he spilled inside you, grinding deep, holding your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breaths, your bodies trembling against each other.

Then Corey’s gloved hand came up, gently brushing your cheek.

“You really are a dirty little thing,” he murmured behind the mask.

You gave a weak, breathless laugh. “Only for you.”

He leaned in closer. The mask nuzzled your cheek, the rough leather against your flushed skin sending another shiver down your spine.

“Good,” he said, voice dark and possessive. “Because I’m never taking it off if this is what it does to you.”

[jimsbeetroot]

hello!! can u make a jim root fanfic where y/n is a member of slipknot (bassist) and there’s like a cute moment on stage with the two that goes viral on social media? this has been stuck in my head but i don’t know how to write.

thank u so much!!

viral kisses ♱ jim root

hope this is what you had in mind?!

Title: Viral Kisses Pairing: Jim Root x Fem!Slipknot!Reader (Bassist) Genre: Fluff Length: ~1,200 words

-

The crowd roared as the final notes of “Duality” rang out across the stadium, sweat dripping down your neck under the weight of your jumpsuit. Your fingers tingled from the heavy set, bass still buzzing through your chest. But it was the kind of ache that meant you’d given it your all—your favourite kind.

The energy backstage was electric tonight, but on stage, it was another level. Every member of the band had been on fire, and somewhere between “Psychosocial” and “Spit It Out,” the adrenaline had hit a peak. You glanced over at Jim, your boyfriend and the band’s lanky guitarist, his mask reflecting the overhead lights like a sinister mirror.

He met your gaze for just a second, long enough to crack a smile behind his mask. You couldn’t see it, but after all these years, you didn’t need to.

As the intro to the next song kicked in, you found yourself gravitating toward his side of the stage—something that happened naturally more often than not. Sid had once joked that the two of you were like magnets on stage, always pulled together no matter the song.

The two of you played shoulder to shoulder, back-to-back, matching each other’s rhythm like you were tethered by something invisible. You didn’t have to speak to be in sync—it was muscle memory by now.

Then, right before the chorus, Jim leaned in dramatically, putting his forehead to yours for a brief moment of tension, sending the crowd into a frenzy. You could hear the screams from the barricade, the way your fans loved the chemistry, the chaos, the rawness of it all.

But then he did something different.

Right after the final riff of the song, when the lights cut to black for a second, he pulled down his mask just enough to press a quick kiss to the side of your helmet—right at your temple—and gave your bass a cheeky tap with his pick before walking back to his side of the stage like nothing happened.

You stood there, stunned for half a beat. It wasn’t unusual for the band to mess with each other during sets—Corey had once thrown a drumstick at Craig mid-song just for the hell of it—but that? That was something else.

You recovered quickly, chuckling as you adjusted your strap and turned to face the crowd again. But the way your cheeks were heating under your mask? Yeah. Good luck hiding that.

The rest of the show flew by in a blur of sweat, screams, and distorted guitars. But backstage, it took about ten minutes before you were pulled aside by one of the tech crew.

“Uh, Y/N? You’ve kinda… blown up online.”

You blinked. “I what?”

The tech handed you their phone, already open to Twitter.

There, front and center, was a grainy fan-shot video under a tweet that read:

“WAIT DID JIM ROOT JUST KISS THE BASSIST MID-SET?? #Slipknot #CoupleGoals”

The video had already been viewed over 200,000 times. Someone had zoomed in, slowed it down, and added heart emojis. Another edit played the kiss in reverse with sparkles and dramatic music. Someone else had turned it into a TikTok trend already.

You groaned. “Oh, God.”

“Are you embarrassed?” Jim’s voice came from behind you, deep and amused.

You turned to see him, mask now fully off, curls damp and sticking to his neck, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You kissed my helmet on stage.”

He raised a brow. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

“I didn’t. That’s the problem,” you said with a laugh. “We’re gonna be the talk of the fandom now.”

“We are the talk of the fandom,” he replied, stepping closer and lowering his voice just for you. “And besides… if you think I won’t kiss you on stage again, you’re wrong.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “You planning to make it a tradition now?”

“Maybe,” he said, brushing a curl off your cheek. “Or maybe I just wanted the world to know you’re mine.”

You smirked. “Well, mission accomplished.”

Jim leaned in, pressing a real kiss to your lips this time—no masks, no crowd, no lights—just him and you in the quiet chaos backstage.

From somewhere nearby, Sid’s voice rang out.

“Y’all are cute but I swear to God, if you start making out during ‘People = Shit’ next show, I’m leaving the stage.”

You both laughed as Jim flipped him off over his shoulder, then turned back to you with a grin.

“You ready for round two tomorrow?” he asked.

You nodded. “Always. But maybe next time, kiss me somewhere less helmet-y.”

Jim laughed and threw his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as the two of you walked back toward the dressing room, phones buzzing, fans screaming online, and your heart still racing.

Later That Night

Corey reposted the viral video with the caption:

“Slipknot: where we rage, scream, and apparently have on-stage couple moments now. 😂🔥”

The band group chat was chaos for hours, but you didn’t care.

You were already curled into Jim’s side on the tour bus, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh, both of you scrolling through memes of yourselves and laughing way too hard.

And honestly? You kinda loved it.

[jimsbeetroot]

hey darling, hope you are doing alright 💗

i love your writing a lot. been having a fuckin stressful time lately, anxities coming back and all, so i wondered if you could write a joey fic, i know you've done a lot already, with just comforting elements. maybe some rain outside, his cats, a friends to lovers kind of thing... or not, honestly, i'll leave it up to you! just in need of some comforting jo! thanx already.

the sound of rain ♱ joey jordison

im sorry to hear you've been having a hard time....hope this helps just a tiny bit <33

Title;“The Sound of Rain” Pairing; Joey Jordison x Female Reader Type: Comfort | Friends to Lovers (Soft) Word count: 2300-ish

The rain started sometime in the late afternoon, quiet at first—just a soft tapping against the windows of Joey's house—but now it poured in steady sheets, turning the world outside into a blur of gray.

You hadn’t meant to stay this long. It was supposed to be a quick drop-off—a hoodie of yours he’d borrowed (and absolutely refused to return until now)—but then he’d offered coffee, then music, then lunch… and now here you were, curled up on his couch with a blanket over your legs, one of his cats purring loudly on your lap.

“I think Missy’s officially adopted you,” Joey muttered from the kitchen, glancing over at you with a faint smile. He had a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a mug of tea in his hand, steam curling into the air.

“She has good taste,” you replied, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “Can’t say the same about her dad, though.”

Joey gave you a look, mock-offended. “You’re seriously gonna trash-talk me in my own house? While I’m literally making you tea?”

“You’re not making it, you’re steeping it,” you teased, but your smile was soft. The playful banter was familiar, safe. You always felt warm around him, and not just because of the hoodie or the blanket or the cat-shaped furnace on your lap.

Joey walked over and handed you the mug, fingers brushing yours. “Well, next time you can make your own damn tea.”

“Deal,” you said, but neither of you moved to talk for a second. The moment hung there—quiet, almost hesitant.

He sat down beside you, not on the other end of the couch, but close. Close enough that your shoulders touched. You didn’t flinch away. Neither did he.

Outside, the rain whispered steadily, drumming gently on the roof.

“Shitty weather,” Joey said softly.

“I like it,” you said. “It feels like everything can just stop for a little while.”

He tilted his head, watching you. “You okay? You’ve been kind of quiet today.”

You sipped the tea and nodded. “I’m fine. Just tired. Life’s been... a lot lately.”

Joey didn’t press. He never did. That was one of the things you loved about him—he never tried to fix you or talk you out of your feelings. He just let you have them.

Instead, he reached out, brushing your hair back gently behind your ear. His hand lingered for a second too long. “You know you can stay, right? I don’t care if it’s all night. Hell, the rain’s probably gonna flood half the roads.”

You didn’t answer right away. The tea was warm in your hands, the cat was still purring. Joey was beside you, his presence grounding, like he always was. Like he always had been.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” you said quietly.

He nodded, like he understood the full weight of that sentence.

“You don’t have to be.”

Later, the two of you migrated to his bedroom, not because anything was happening, but because the couch was too small and Missy refused to move. Joey tossed you some old sweatpants and a soft band tee that smelled like him—cedarwood and detergent and faint traces of cigarettes. You changed in the bathroom, suddenly aware of how domestic this felt. Like something more than friendship.

When you came out, he was already under the blankets, his black hair damp from a quick shower. His tattoos peeked out from the sleeves of his old Misfits shirt, and he looked strangely… peaceful. Softer than you usually saw him. You got into the bed without a word, turning to face the window, where the rain streaked in lines of silver down the glass.

It was quiet for a long time. You thought maybe he’d fallen asleep—until his voice broke through the dark.

“Can I ask you something?”

You turned toward him. “Of course.”

He hesitated. “Do you ever think about us?”

You blinked. “Us?”

Joey propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with guarded eyes. “I mean… more than just friends.”

The air shifted. You stared at him, your breath catching slightly.

“I do,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “More than I probably should.”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years.

“I thought I was crazy,” he said. “Every time you come over, every time you fall asleep on my couch, or steal my hoodies, or take care of my cats like they’re yours… it kills me. Because I keep thinking—what if she doesn’t see it that way? What if I lose her completely if I say something?”

“You won’t,” you said quickly, sitting up a little. “Joey, you never would.”

He looked at you, eyes dark and searching. “I don’t want to scare you off. You’re... everything, you know? I didn’t think I deserved someone like you.”

You swallowed hard. “And I didn’t think you saw me that way.”

He reached for your hand under the blanket, fingers curling around yours. “I see you. All the time. Every day.”

The silence returned, but it was full now—warm, meaningful.

You leaned in, barely thinking, and kissed him—soft, uncertain, but real. He kissed you back immediately, a quiet sigh slipping from his lips like he'd been waiting forever.

When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his.

“Is this okay?” you asked.

“More than okay,” he whispered, and for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you felt something settle inside you.

The storm outside raged on, but in that little room with Joey’s hand holding yours, it was finally quiet.

You woke in the middle of the night to the sound of thunder and the sensation of arms wrapped around you. Joey had shifted in his sleep, his arm draped protectively over your waist, his breath soft and even against the back of your neck.

Missy was curled up near your feet, and another of Joey’s cats—one of the shier ones—had taken up residence on the windowsill, staring out at the storm.

You smiled into the dark, your heart strangely full.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Maybe it would be messy. Maybe you’d both stumble trying to turn years of friendship into something more. But right now, in this moment, it didn’t matter.

Right now, Joey was holding you like you were the only thing that made sense in the world, and outside, the rain kept falling—steady, soothing, like a lullaby for two people who finally, finally found each other.

[jimsbeetroot]

Hello dear! how are you? hope ok <3 i really love your writing and would love to ask you for a smut request (only if you want) i would like it to be an imagine of joey finding y/n masturbating and moaning his name, only if you want you can add sex rough and maybe degradation. take your time <3 please and thank you 💗

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧 ♱ 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐲 𝐣𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧

love this! thank you for the request!!

warnings! smut, smut and very much smut! rough sex! degradation, punishment, fingering and so much more

summary; joey teaches reader a lesson for thinking she could do better than him

words; 1569

-

IT WAS LATE, and the house was too quiet. Joey wouldn’t be home for at least another hour, but you couldn’t wait any longer. The need had been building all day, a slow, simmering burn that you’d tried to ignore, but it was impossible to deny. Your body ached with longing, a desire that only he could satisfy, but he wasn’t here.

Your fingers itched to touch, to find some relief, and before you knew it, you were naked on your bed, your hand between your legs, searching for the pleasure, the one only he could give you.

Your mind was filled with thoughts of Joey—his hands, his mouth, the way he commanded every inch of your body when you were together.

Your fingers moved in desperate strokes, slick with arousal, and you couldn’t stop the soft moans that slipped from your lips, his name on your tongue like a prayer.

“Joey,” you whispered, the sound of it spurring you on as you dipped your fingers deeper, chasing the release that teased at the edges of your consciousness. Your back arched off the mattress, your breath hitching as you imagined him here, hovering over you, his intense eyes locked on yours, his voice rough and possessive as he told you how much he wanted you.

But no matter how much you tried, no matter how fast or slow your fingers moved, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t him. Your frustration grew, a whimper of desperation escaping your lips. You needed him. God, you needed him so badly.

Lost in your own world, you didn’t hear the front door open, didn’t hear the sound of his footsteps coming up the stairs. All you could focus on was the growing ache between your thighs, the pressure building, and how close you were—so close—when suddenly, a voice cut through the haze of your desire like a knife.

“Enjoying yourself, kitten?”

Your eyes flew open, heart lurching in your chest as you turned your head to find Joey standing in the doorway, his expression dark and dangerous. The shock of being caught was like ice water on your skin, and you froze, your hand still buried between your legs.

“Joey,” you gasped, scrambling to sit up, but before you could move, he was there, his hand wrapping around your wrist in a bruising grip as he yanked your fingers out of your pussy.

“I asked you a question,” he growled, his voice low and menacing. “Were you enjoying yourself, kitten? Did you think you could get off without me?”

“I—I wasn’t—” You stammered, but the words caught in your throat as he brought your wet fingers to his mouth, his tongue flicking out to taste you. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, but there was no mistaking the anger in his eyes, the tension in his grip. He wasn’t pleased.

“You weren’t what?” he mocked, his eyes never leaving yours. “Weren’t thinking about me while you touched yourself? Weren’t moaning my name like a needy little slut?”

His words hit you like a blow, sharp and cutting, and you felt the sting of tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “I was thinking about you,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I couldn’t wait, Joey. I needed you, but you weren’t here, and I—”

“So, you thought you could just take care of it yourself?” he cut you off, his tone dripping with disdain. “You think you can do a better job than me, kitten? Is that it?”

“No!” You shook your head frantically, desperate to make him understand. “No, Joey, I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up.” The command was harsh, and you obeyed instantly, your breath catching in your throat. His hand tightened around your wrist, his other hand coming up to grip your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were dark, filled with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. “You don’t get to touch yourself without my permission. You don’t get to come without me. Do you understand?”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest, the weight of his dominance pressing down on you in a way that made your pulse race with equal parts fear and excitement. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Sorry isn’t good enough, kitten,” Joey snarled, his gaze piercing as he released your chin and shoved you back onto the bed. “I’m going to teach you a lesson. A lesson you won’t forget.”

You barely had time to register his words before he grabbed your legs, spreading them wide as he settled between your thighs. His eyes were locked on your exposed, glistening cunt, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch in your throat. He replaced your fingers with his. You gasped at the sensation. Joey leaned down between your legs and grabbed on to your thighs, holding them spread apart. You whimpered when he blew on your sensitive skin, the hair on your neck standing up. He worked roughly, leaving no time for you to adjust or get into his rhythm. He merely plunged his two fingers in and out of you so fast, that you weren't quite sure, as to what was happening anymore. You hissed and groaned, using the pillow beside you to muffle your screams. “You were so horny, for this weren't you? Couldn't even wait a day for my fingers, could you?” Joey taunted and looked up at you with a devilish grin. He suddenly retrieved his fingers from your cunt and for the first time ever, you were almost relieved. He’d been so fast, so brutal with your cunt that it was nearly aching.

You were taken aback by his fury. You’d expected him to be flattered, but he was seeing red.

“You think you can do a better job than me?” he hummed, his voice low and dangerous.

Joey stood up and fumbled with his jeans, the chains clinging together as he dropped them to the ground. He took a step towards the edge of the bed and leaned down, positioning himself on his knees. He leaned over and grabbed a hold of your ankles, pulling at them roughly towards him, so that you were perfectly aligned in front of him. Your heart raced as Joey pulled his hard cock out of his boxers. He positioned himself between your thighs, his eyes dark with intent as he stared down at your exposed, glistening pussy. You were so wet, so ready for him, but he wasn’t going to make this easy for you. Not after what you’d done.

“Let’s see how much you can handle, kitten.”

Before you could respond, he slammed into you with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The force of it knocked the breath from your lungs, and you cried out, your back arching off the mattress as the sudden intrusion stretched you wide. Joey didn’t give you a moment to adjust, didn’t offer you any reprieve as he set a punishing pace, each thrust deep and unrelenting.

“Is this what you wanted?” Joey growled, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he drove into you with merciless force. “You wanted to get fucked, didn’t you, kitten? You couldn’t wait for me, so you had to do it yourself. You had to touch yourself like a dirty little whore.”

His one hand travelled up to pinch your nipple and the pain made you gasp.

His words cut deep, but they only fueled the fire burning inside you. You were helpless beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of his thrusts, the roughness of his grip, but it was everything you craved. Your body responded to his dominance, the sting of his degrading words only pushing you closer to the edge.

“Tell me how much you need me,” Joey demanded, his voice sharp and commanding. “Tell me you can’t get off without me, kitten.”

“I can’t,” you gasped, tears streaming down your cheeks as your nails dug into the sheets. “I can’t, Joey. I need you. I need you so bad.”

“That’s right,” he growled, his hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch, to make your head spin with a dizzying mix of fear and pleasure. “You belong to me, kitten. Every part of you is mine. No one else can make you feel this way. No one else can fuck you like I can.”

A whimper escaped your lips as his grip tightened, his thrusts growing even more intense, each one driving you closer to the brink. The heat pooled low in your belly, the pressure building to an almost unbearable peak, and you knew you were close—so close—but you wouldn’t let yourself fall until he gave you permission. Until he told you you could.

“You’re going to come for me, kitten,” Joey hissed, his voice rough with his own impending release. “But only when I say so. Only when I give you permission. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you choked out, your vision blurring as you teetered on the edge of oblivion. “Please, Joey, I need to come. Please let me come.”

His grip on your throat tightened even more, cutting off your air, making your head swim as he leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. “Come for me, kitten. Now.”

The command sent you spiraling over the edge. With a choked cry, your body convulsed beneath him, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you trembling, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. Your walls clenched tight around his cock, pulling him deeper, and Joey groaned, his release following yours as he buried himself to the hilt, his warmth flooding you.

For a long moment, you were both lost in the aftermath, your bodies still shaking, hearts pounding in unison as you lay there, tangled together on the bed. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, the heavy rise and fall of his breath as he slowly came down from his high.

Finally, Joey pulled out of you, rolling onto his side as he gathered you into his arms, his demeanor softening as he held you close. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his fingers brushing through your hair as he murmured, “Good girl, kitten. That’s what I like to hear.”

You snuggled into his chest, your body still quivering from the intensity of it all, but there was a deep sense of satisfaction, of comfort in the way he held you, in the warmth of his embrace. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice small and shaky.

Joey kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment before he spoke, his voice a soft rumble against my hair. “You’re forgiven, kitten. But remember, you don’t need to do that on your own. I’ll always be here to take care of you.”

His words soothed the last remnants of your fear, replacing it with a warmth that spread through your chest