#rinawrites

you feel his eyes on you the moment you enter. his group is hard to ignore, easily the loudest ones in the room. the rest of them carry on like they're the only ones around, but whitney is quiet. watching.

it's a weird balancing act the two of you have. he, by all accounts, torments you every day. he slams you into the lockers, uses your mouth or ass or cunt whenever he wants, treats you worse than a piece of meat. but whatever's wrong with him is mirrored in you. you choke back a moan every time he shoves you around, you cum regardless of the hole he puts his dick in. so when you feel the weight of his stare, heavy as a lead collar, you can't help but be pulled over.

he grabs you, pulling you into a booth and throwing an arm around your shoulder before you can think. you already know how this is going to go, can feel the buzz start in your fingertips. his smile is mean, sharp, as he slides a beer over to you. "drink up."

you do. the beer fizzes as it goes down. you can see whitney's eyes trace your throat as you swallow; he hands you another one before you've even hit the bottom. that one goes down just as easy, the room not even starting to spin. whitney's friends are jeering, cackling to each other whenever you look past the rim of your glass. you feel something on your thigh and know before looking that it's whitney's hand. he pops open the button on your jeans, working his fingers down.

"you're lucky," he whispers. "got in a fight here last week. almost got booted out. now I gotta mind my manners." he sinks his hand lower and flicks your clit. "i'd bend you over the table if i could, but i'll settle on making you squeal."

you almost do. his hands on you always make you want to cry, whether they're playing with your cunt or choking you out. you wonder where he learned to fuck so good, then kill the thought as quickly as it sprouted. you don't want to think about him with anyone but you. you focus back on him, the pads of his fingers circling and rubbing you clit. he pinches it now and again, just to be cruel, but it makes you want to bite down on something to keep your moans in. you're good at sitting and taking it, but he always makes you want more.

you can see the bulge in his pants past the alcohol and your own lust, and you reach over to mirror his movements. it's not payback you want to give him, not even close. you don't want to prove to him that you know what you're doing either, that you're as big a slut as he claims. you're operating on kicked-dog instinct, the helpless hope that by acting good you'll make him keep wanting you. you slip your hands into his waistband and start to work his cock because your small, pathetic, helpless self wants to make him feel nice, too.

it works. you can feel his fingers shaking as he rubs your clit, see the tremor in his thighs the more you twist your hand. maybe all that practice out in the park with one blank face or another was worth it. he pulls his hand out of your pants to force another beer on you. "one more," he pants. you comply, the bitter taste stinging your mouth. but you're his loyal dog. you'd put up with anything if it meant he kept looking at you for one more minute. you drink the beer.

his friends are a little quieter now, a couple of them eyeing you as you finish. they should know better, you think. how good of a slut would i be if i couldn't hold a few drinks?

whitney's no slouch either. still strong, he pulls you up onto his lap. you can feel the hard line of his cock pressing into your cunt past the wet patch you made on your shorts. he pulls you back to his chest, forcing your head back. "that's my slut." his voice is heavy, breathy, all for you. his friends look away, embarrassed or disinterested or both. you suppose this is downright normal behavior for whitney. it doesn't matter. all you can feel are his hands on you, his cock so close, right there-

he pushes up into you, and if it weren't for the clothes you're both wearing, he'd sink home. it's all you can do not to moan out loud into the room. on instinct, you rut back, deliriously hoping somehow he'll get inside you. you aren't really thinking at this point, mind focused only on the feel of his cock against you and how it isn't inside you right now. you're like an animal, like a dog in heat pushing against him. the only thing that breaks the spell is whitney picking you up and spinning you around, face-to-face. you'll never get tired of seeing his face, that sharp smirk, the bite in his eyes, the bangs that make you want to reach up and pull. before you know it, one of his lackeys is back and a shot glass is pushed into your hands. whitney wraps his arm around yours, forcing you to take the shot with him. "bottoms up," he says, eyes starting to go glassy.

you can feel the flush from the booze work its way down your neck. you're sure your whole face and chest are bright red, sure you already look fucked-out despite not having anything in you. it's embarrassing. it makes you want to cry. the cheers from whitney's friends as you both down your shots makes you want to cry more.

whitney pushes against you harder, pinning you between his body and the table's edge. you can smell the liquor on his breath. you hope yours matches. you spread your legs wider, hoping the invitation makes him pull you out of there, hoping he tears your clothes off here and now and fucks you 'til you can't breathe. you can barely think, hips stuttering against his, oblivious to whoever might be watching. the only things in your mind are whitney's hands wrapped around your waist, his breath on your neck, heavy and wet, and his cock still somehow inside his pants and not inside you.

you hear him speak against your neck. you want your sweat in his mouth. "finish your drink." you do just as he says.

the night air is cool on your overheated skin. the urge to cry has dissipated now that you're away from whitney's friends. it's been replaced by the blank-space urge to go along with whatever whitney says. you lean against him as you walk; now that you're moving, the drinks you downed back-to-back have made themselves known.

"fuckin' lightweight," he smirks, but there's no bite in it.

the night is quiet as you two walk along the street, making the slow path to the orphanage. there aren't any cicadas this time of year, and traffic is minimal at two in the morning. all you can hear are your own footsteps, mirroring whitney's. he slows, seemingly lost in thought. his arm goes tight around your waist, supporting more of your weight than before.

"on second thought," he says. "maybe i don't want to wait till you're home. maybe i want to fuck you right here on the pavement."

the thought makes your knees go weak. he feels it, letting you drop and pouncing on you the minute he can. he kisses you, rough. his lips are chapped and his mouth tastes like cigarettes. you almost wish you'd asked to bum one when you left, but getting the taste from his tongue down your throat is just as good. you push your shirt up with one hand, the other daring to tangle in his hair. he moans when you pull on it, high and clear, like a bell. in all the times he's fucked you, you've never heard him make that noise before. it makes your cunt twist. your legs inch wider, if that's even possible.

his mouth moves down to your throat, biting and sucking, sure to leave marks. you hope they're dark enough to last for days. his hands pull your bra down, letting your tits fall out. you can feel him pinching and pulling at your nipples, but your mind is still short-circuting a little from his moans. whitney never lets himself get so loud at school, or the park, or even in the alleys. the small part at the back of your brain wishes you'd heard that moan in a plush bed in whitney's parents house instead of on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, gravel digging into your back. the bigger part is ecstatic you get to hear it at all.

he lets one of your tits go, pushing his pants down, desperate. you match him, pulling your shorts down so fiercely you hear a stitch pop. it's worth it to get his cock in you. he presses up against you again and you release a moan of your own so loud it's almost a scream. the head of his cock rubs against your clit, twice as good as his fingers were in the pub. you can feel him dripping against you.

"look at you," whitney's voice is low. "all it takes is three drinks and you spread your legs wide open."

"just for you," you whimper. "only you."

you feel his lips curl against your collarbone. his thrusts get more insistent, a breath away from pushing into you. you can feel the tip of his cock pressed riiight against your hole, catching on the rim. "just me, huh?"

"yes," you're almost hysterical. "i'm yours, i'm all yours, i'm your slut, i'll do whatever you say-"

you're cut off by his cock pushing into you, as deep as he can go. he's splitting you in half, burying himself inside you so he can never come out. "fuuuck," he breathes. "you're mine."

you choke on the words in your throat. it feels like he's up in your stomach.

he starts to thrust, hard and fast. there are small tears in your eyes, relief and build-up all at once. you're in heaven, drifting along a cloud, disembodied. his breath puffs out against your chest, little ah-ah-ahs as he pushes in and out of you. fucking him always feels good but here, the culmination of his attention on you all night, makes you out of your mind with want. whitney's right that you're all his, and you know it. no one else has ever made you feel this insane.

you've had plenty of cocks in you (even though whitney's was your first, you'll be dead in a ditch before you tell him that) but his is the only one that hits that spot up in you that makes you scream. the head of his cock is the only one that kisses your cervix just right. with everyone else, it just hurts. whatever pain whitney deals out makes your cunt twitch tighter. you reach your hand down between your bodies, trying to find a good angle to rub your clit. it only makes you more frustrated, the slide of how much you're dripping keeping you from getting any friction.

whitney notices what you're doing and smacks you hand away. "knock it off. i want you to cum just from my cock." you let out a high whine at that, desperate. as good as it feels, it just isn't enough. you start to rock your hips in time with thrusts, hoping somehow you'll get him deeper, harder.

"that's it," he moans out, panting breaths. "crying like a bitch in heat. bet you want me to cum as deep as i can, make you my pet." your cunt pulses hard at that thought. you want him to own you. that's the spark that keeps you coming back to him, the horrible place inside you only whitney can reach. he makes you want to roll belly up and beg whenever he walks by. and he knows it.

you're sobbing now, big gulping breaths you can't control. you spasm the next time he hits your spot just right, twisting tight tight tight, so hard you think you black out. not far behind, whitney starts to stutter against you. "'m cumming," he says as he stuffs his face into your neck. he does, hips twitching a staccato rhythm he can't control, fucking himself into you like a dog. you can feel him pulse inside you.

the two of you lie there for a second, both panting like you've run a mile. you always feel like you've been shot after fucking whitney, like your mind can't register what's just happened. you wait for the pain, wait for the gush of liquid to come out of you. this time it doesn't. he stays on top of you, stays inside you, well past when he normally pulls out. he stays there long enough that you start to feel the gravel in your back again. if you think about it long enough you'll remember your discomfort, but your brain hasn't come back on yet and your body is still riding the high of having whitney so near.

finally, he starts to move. you can feel the sweat on your skin in the cool night air as he peels his body off yours. "c'mon," he says, pulling you back up to your feet. your legs are wobbly as you walk with him back to the orphanage. you want to invite him back up to your room; he invites himself up before you get a chance. whitney practically pulls you through the halls, only resting once you get to your room. he flops down on the bed, dragging you down with him.

🪶

directly influenced by this post by @lunammoon <3

@lanafofana this may be of interest to you

@manhattenstops p e r c e i v e

it's two a.m. in some podunk town in new jersey and whitney's got his cock shoved down your throat.

let's back up.

two months ago, your band started touring the northeast u.s., an idea brought to your by your manager and approved by whitney's ever-present need to get into fights. you were barely popular enough to justify doing a tour at all, but your manager insisted this was the "next step" to "build up your brand." whatever. what that meant in real life was a series of shows in shitty, falling-down local venues followed by nights you don't remember and days you slept through. and this entire time, while whitney plays his guitar onstage and picks fights with fans, you've been getting hotter and hotter under the collar.

it started in manhattan. you all got up in front of a small but violently invested crowd and hit them hard and fast with your setlist. after a couple songs and a few more drinks, whitney started getting handsy. you say "handsy" - to anyone else, it would look like he's just playing his guitar. but to you, something about the twist of his wrist as he finished a measure put your mind straight into the gutter. every time his fingers twitched on the neck you felt them in your cunt. you swore he did more moaning than singing.

maybe you were imagining it. maybe the built-up lust and shame you'd felt about whitney for years were finally coming to a head. maybe you'd fully slipped into psychosis. who could say. all you know is, night after night, whitney went on stage and performed, and you went back to the bathroom of whatever sketchy bar you were in and fingered yourself until you came. the worst part was, you were almost sure he was doing it as one of his weird mind games, which meant the other shoe was about to drop. whitney never led you on without making sure to punch you once you were down. he'd pull you by the leash and grind your nose into the ground once you revealed your mess. however fun it might be to fuck yourself to the thought of someone you could never, ever have, that fun was inevitably going to end. whitney's games never did feel good for long.

you were at a in atlantic city nursing your third (fourth?) drink. your thoughts were going in circles. was whitney doing it on purpose? did he know how bad you wanted and wanted and wanted? or was it just some kind a coincidence? and the worst thought of all - was it not about you? did he have someone else on the mind? you were sure he wasn't helping your manager with some social media schtick - whitney would probably kill him if he suggested that. which meant he was doing whatever this was out of his own free will. which meant he had some kind of tormenting agenda. which meant you'd better watch your back.

maybe it was all in your head. you prayed it was all in your head, the culmination of years spent fucking yourself to sleep at the thought of whitney's voice, his smirk, the exact tilt of his eyebrows when he played a riff. any alternative was even more embarrassing.

the next sip of your drink almost choked you. whitney grabbed the back of your neck, just this side of friendly, and slid into the seat next to yours. "how's our girl?"

you can feel the flush splashed across your face. you know it isn't from the alcohol. it's whitney's proximity, the closeness of him making your body fight between flight and freeze. you want to run away and never see him again. you want to show him the soft parts of your neck.

"what did you think of the show tonight?" his smile is mean. he's never looked at you another way.

"it was good," you manage. it's an effort to keep your voice steady. "good crowd."

"yeah, i bet you had to fight 'em off after, huh, whitney?" tom's voice was grating in your ears. you hadn't noticed the rest of your bandmates coming over.

"sure." whitney's eyes linger on you. "they were begging for it."

you want to cry. you want to escape to the bathroom. you want to grab whitney and eat him whole, never let him go. you want to let him claw your heart out.

you take another sip of your drink.

the next stop is the aforementioned podunk new jersey town. it's in some friend-of-a-friend-of-tom's basement, a house party spilling out of all floors into the yard. whitney does his new usual routine of begging someone to fuck him through the hour it takes you to finish your show. you do your usual routine of pretending you aren't soaking through your underwear. once your set is up, you make a beeline for the tub of jungle juice, some bright red monstrosity mixed together by a roommate. it doesn't matter what's in it because tonight you've finally hit your limit. tonight you're going to get stupid drunk and fuck the next person who looks at you.

three drinks later, you notice the cups they have here are unique, blue instead of the customary red.

you're stalling.

normally you aren't shy about trying to find someone if you're in the mood, but the last two months have had you all out of sorts. of course whitney would make you suffer like this too, somehow cockblocking you from….yourself?

what is it about whitney that makes you so crazy? is it the knowledge that he has sex? you know he fucks, it would be hard to miss. he always shows up to practice with bruises on his neck or peeking through the torn knees of his jeans. this new routine isn't out of character; it's really the most whitney-like thing he's done all tour. you'd know, you've been pining after him for years.

fuck, the amount of times he's brought people back to your shitty hotel rooms or shittier van, you know the exact, precise sounds of sex with whitney by heart. you've memorized it, fucking freak that you are, which is maybe why his new routine has you up in arms. you recognize the foreplay motions he's making, the exact tilt of his grin when he knows he has someone on the hook.

(or at least you think you do. this could, after all, be a figment of your imagination, a grand delusion birthed by your inability to have sex with the one person you want. maybe your desire has finally driven you mad, made you hallucinate signs and actions that aren't there.)

your drink is watery in your mouth. you see that grin now, just this side of mean, looking at you from across the room. whitney's had you, hook line and sinker, since you started making music.

the poor guy next to you never stood a chance.

he's passably cute, a little too sweet to scratch the itch you need now, but his lips are soft on your neck in the bathroom of this stupid house. he's doing nothing to work you up, pawing gently at your waist and chest like he's afraid to touch you, but you've been so keyed-up the last few weeks it almost doesn't matter. you can pretend for now, get your fix and go home without this fucking weight on your chest. you let your animal brain take the lead, let your higher-order human mind go blank so you can rut yourself against this guy's thigh like a dog. you're already sticky; this won't take long.

it doesn't, but not because party guy switches gears. the door of the bathroom slams open and there whitney is in all his frontman glory.

"thought i'd find you here," he says, and that's what makes your hips twitch harder than any of this heavy petting. party guy blinks dumbly, mouth open to stutter something out. whitney doesn't give him a chance. he grabs him by the collar and all but throws him out of the room on his ass.

the door shuts behind him. you hear the lock click.

"what's our bassist doing in here with some fucking wannabe?" whitney's tone is light. you hear the danger looming under it; you decide not to care.

"god forbid i try to make my own fun," you scowl, or attempt to. whitney always makes you weak in the knees. "it isn't fair you're the only one who gets their dick wet."

whitney snorts. "please. that fucking guy? you'd be better off humping your pillow back home."

your face, already hot from the alcohol, flushes more. "how do you know?"

"i know what you are," whitney pushes closer to you. your back thuds against the wall. "you need something a little stronger, yeah?"

all the frustration punches out of your chest. "i'm not your fucking groupie, whitney," you snarl, shoving at his chest. he falters for a second before grabbing your arm and twisting, just enough.

"you're right," he breathes. "you're worse."

whitney pulls you in for a kiss hard enough that your teeth clack together. it feels like heaven. you moan without thinking, the curve of whitney's lips with just the right amount of bite. "i've seen you," he says, kissing down your neck. "on stage, you look like you want to cry." he bites down hard, sucking to make sure he leaves a mark. you do cry out at that, half pleasure, half pain. it feels good to finally get what you want. you're still nervous he's going to pull it away.

"god, i've been wanting to do this all tour," he mutters, half to himself. you feel his fingertips rubbing you over your leggings. he's still able to find your clit, teasing the promise of fucking you through the fabric. "wanted to corner you in the green room and push you down on your knees every time."

"do it," you moan without thinking, fingers scrabbling to find purchase in his hair, his shirt, his belt. whitney's hands still, just for a moment. he pulls his face off your skin long enough for you to see his expression - he looks like he's been given a million bucks. then, quick as a flash, his smirk is back and his fingers are in your hair, pushing you down 'til your knees hit the linoleum. you're face-to-face with his dick, the outline of it visible through the fabric of his jeans. on instinct, you lean forward to nuzzle against it, tongue laving a wet patch in the denim. you can tell he's hard. you want him rock fucking solid. you can almost suck the head of his cock into your mouth if you really try.

whitney pulls your face away from him. you look up, whine already in your throat, when you see his face. he's panting, face red. "i knew you were a freak," he says, voice awestruck. "not even five minutes in and you're already drooling for it."

"please," you let a whimper out. it's pathetic, you know it is, but you've wanted him for so goddamn long. it hurts to get what you want; your cunt aches with it.

"you want it?" he shakes your head a little. it feels like he has you scruffed like a dog.

you're actually crying now, little pinprick tears at the corners of your eyes. "please whitney, please."

he smiles, then pops the button of his jeans. his cock slides out, thick and heavy enough to push the zipper down with its weight. you're on it in a split second, laving your tongue around the tip. you make little kitten licks against the length of it, trying to hold yourself back from just shoving the entire thing in your throat. you want him to think you're good at this, like you're a cool kind of person who's sucked a lot of dicks before. whitney has other plans.

he puts his hand on the back of your head, easing his cock further into your mouth. you get about halfway down it before his tip his the muscles at the back of your throat and you fight the urge to gag. he lets up, rocking your head back and forth so your mouth slides along his length. you can feel yourself drooling, little strings of spit dripping onto your folded knees. you're in heaven.

above you, whitney's moaning out little uh-uhs in time with the movement of your mouth. you take a quick glance up at his face to see him flushed. he grins with all his teeth when he sees you looking. you want this to be good so bad. you want him to come back after this is over.

he works your head like that for a minute or two, enjoying shallow little thrusts into your mouth. then, he pulls you off him so you can catch a breath. his eyes are glittering. you only take a couple gulps of air before you pounce back on him, this time licking and sucking at his balls. they're soft. you hear him bite off an "oh fuc-k" as you pull one into your mouth, nuzzling it with your tongue. he doesn't let that last too long, taking a fistful of your hair and tearing you off him. he's panting like he just ran a marathon. you're doing the same, and you're sure your face is bright red.

"you like when i fuck your mouth like that?" he asks, giving you another shake. you moan in response, voice a little rougher than before. "tell me how much you like it."

you feel like crying. "i love it whitney, please, been waiting for this for years, please-" you think you are crying by the end of the sentence, so desperate to have him back in your mouth.

"years, huh?" he pulls you back from where you've been inching closer towards him, fist tight in your hair. "if it's been that long, i should give you the full experience."

you're babbling something almost incoherent to yourself, your mind laser focused on his cock and how it's not back in your mouth. "please, please fuck my mouth, my throat, do whatever you want, i'll do anything-"

his grip on your hair loosens just a bit and it's enough for you to get him back in. you bob your head up and down his shaft with renewed vigor, stroking your tongue alongside it. you can feel his tip hit the back of your throat, your mouth still not able to fit his full length inside. you want that desperately to change, trying harder and harder to fit another millimeter of his dick inside you.

whitney has the solution. he puts his other hand on your lower jaw, tilts your head down and like magic, his cock pops into your throat. he lets out the loudest groan you've ever heard in your life. you think you black out, seeing stars, riding the purest shot of pleasure you've ever felt. you keep him in your throat for a moment, nose nestled against his patch of pubic hair, doing nothing but feeling him inside you.

then you start sputtering, drool dripping out of your mouth, stretched wide around him. he keeps your head pressed up against him, muttering "stay there, stay there." it's all you want to do, to be good for him. you'd sit here all day, suffocate yourself on his cock if it meant doing whatever he wanted.

he pulls you back, allowing you to spit out thick wads of saliva and catch a breath of air. you look up at him, stars in your eyes. you think you're in love.

he fucks your throat like that for another couple rounds, enough that your neck and chest are covered in your own spit. you can tell he's walking the line between coming down your throat and holding off, pulling himself back every time he gets too close. you're wet enough that you've soaked through your underwear, maybe even your pants. you might have already cum.

finally, he has your face pressed up against his stomach and his hips start to move, little thrusts, trying to get himself further down your throat. please, you think for the thousandth time that day, please please come down my throat, make me yours, make me yours.

"fuck, 'mgonna cum, i'm-" you can hear him whining over the static in your ears. you want him to fill you up so bad your teeth hurt with it.

he does. you can feel his cum spurting down your throat. there's so much some mixes with your spit and drips out of your mouth. he stays like that for a second, grinding into your throat one more time before he pulls you off him with a pop. you're gasping for air in great big gulps, doing your best to swallow down all of his cum and not choke. whitney slides down the wall until he's on the floor next to you, looking as fucked-out as ever.

he reaches over and gives your head another shake. you feel like you're glowing. whitney snorts. "i can see your tail wagging."

that sends another frisson of lust through you, tired as you are. whitney doesn't miss it. he smiles, still mean. "good dog."

🪶

i wrote this in like 3 minutes to distract from the fact I'm procrastinating the Angst. boo hoo don't bother me.

🪶

I got my crescent moon earring stuck in my collar at work last night and pulled it out. It *is* cheap jewellery, so the attachment broke instead of tearing through my piercing hole, but i still bled like a lamb at the slaughter.

I don't know why they keep turning crusty.

also inspo struck me on the way home from work last night, then i dreamt about it (also e sports for some reason) and then i typed it up in essentially an hour. this is the most farm-to-table as fanfic gets for me.