kircsh

[kircsh]

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ masterlist :;

about me/dni below cut

richie kirsch

"TEACH HIM A LESSON"

josh beeman

"THE LAST DROP"

hi this is my alt for posting fics n stuff... i also post on archive

he/him, inconsistent writing schedule, even more inconsistent fandoms. i don't take reqs

i post slightly harder kink stuff but still have some hard boundaries on what i'm comfortable interacting with n such

i am uncomfortable with proshippers/profic interacting with me. i don't want to see incestuous/pedophilic fantasies even if it's in fiction. i believe in letting people write what they want but that doesn't mean i want to be near people who write that sort of stuff specifically :(

[kircsh]

Teach Him a Lesson [Oneshot]

“Your face drops. At first in disbelief that he would even dare to ask that, and then in horror as you realize you want to go back.”

RATING: 18+ MDNI

CONTENT WARNINGS: KNIFE-PLAY, BLOOD KINK, GUN, TALK OF MURDER

SUMMARY: You show Richie how to properly kill.

EXTRA INFO: MASOCHIST!RICHIE X SADIST!READER | PARTNERS IN CRIME | NO BETA WE DIE LIKE MEN | GENDER NEUTRAL READER AUTHOR’S NOTE: hi i wrote this at like. 1 in the morning. don’t expect anything good. i also don’t usually write for slashers. i just think richie is neat ,,  ermmmm…,,, wah  enjoy i guess maybe WAUGFHSDHKH i also posted this to ao3!!!!!!!!!! if anyone cares!!!!!!!!!!!! also ummm not very canon compliant just because. i dont care. i do not care. i am cronge but i am free. :heart: WORD COUNT: 2.4k

“Really? That’s how you plan to do it?”

You look at Richie, whose proud grin is melting into something of an ashamed grimace. He scoffs and gestures with the .45 in his grip, carelessly flailing it about like it wasn’t loaded. It took everything in you to not tell him to put it down before he shot himself, but you decided you’d be better entertained if he just so happened to lodge a bullet in his foot.

“Well, if you’ve got something better, then by all means,” he mutters, handing you the pistol. You look at the gun and shake your head, taking it from his grip and placing it on the table. Walking to the counter across the kitchen, you pull a chef’s knife from the butcher block. It was the biggest one nested in the wood. It was heavy in your hand, a nice weight to it. It must’ve been expensive, with little designs engraved into the blade. 

“For one,” you begin, turning to face a very confused Richie, “gun’s too easy. Too loud. Frankly, it’s lazy.”

Richie’s face reddens as you shame him for his weapon choice, although he tries to brush it off. “And a knife wouldn’t be too loud? Y’know, the screaming?”

You shrug. “Not if you get them in the right position,” you simply state, the spine of the blade tracing along your palm. Richie huffs and you swear you see him roll his eyes in your peripheral vision. 

“Which is…?” he questions, crossing his arms. The look on his face pisses you off a little bit, all smug. It takes everything in you to not just slap that stupid fucking grin off his face. 

“You need a demonstration,” you say. It was intended to come out as a question rather than an observation. It was too late to correct your tone now, you had a job to do and a student to teach standing in front of you.

He looks you up and down, brows furrowed as he processes your words. “Demonstration? Like, what, a drawing?” he asks, tilting his head. Your lips twitch their way up into a little grin that you don’t try very hard to fight. Your eyes dance between him and the blade, and you think of a better way to demonstrate to him how exactly this murder plan would work. 

“No, no,” you correct him, inching closer to him. He backs away slightly, a little intimidated by the visual of you holding a large and (seemingly) sharp knife. “You’re a hands-on learner, yeah?”

“I, uh… In what way?” he apprehensively asks. You fight the often occurring urge to strangle him. He was just so clueless. It was endearing, in a way. But goddamn, it made it super easy for him to piss you off. 

“Let me show you how to do it. You’re tall, you’d be a good test subject,” you comment, emphasizing that point by tilting your head up to directly look at him. He breaks eye contact and lets out a breathless chuckle. 

“Why would that make me a good… test subject?” he practically shudders out the last words, not sure how to feel about himself being described in such a way. 

You shrug. “Well, if you get good at getting the tall ones, average people are easy as shit.” Richie can’t find any argument against that logic, although he seems hesitant to be the subject of this… demonstration. 

He waits anxiously before letting out a breath he had been holding for a couple moments. “You’re not going to hurt me for real, are you?”

You shrug again. “No promises.”

His face drops slightly and you expect it to go pale. But you can’t help the way your eyebrows raise when his face noticeably darkens with blush. You take note of the reaction and don’t say anything. 

You instruct him to turn around to practice an example from behind  and he reluctantly follows the order. Slowly stepping up to him, you start by wrapping your arm around his upper body and putting the spine of the knife to his neck. “Don’t want screaming to be an issue? Here’s where you start,” you murmur into his ear from behind his head. He lets out a strained breath as you speak, your breath hot against his face. 

Richie nods, swallowing hard. His forehead becomes visibly sweaty, which you find strange considering it wasn’t all that hot in the kitchen. For now, at least. You continue to ignore the observations, trying to give him the lesson. Now isn’t the time to get distracted.

“Alright, and then they struggle, and that’s when you let them down,” you continue, slowly motioning him to fall to the ground. He slumps onto his knees, feigning to struggle as he does it. It almost makes you giggle when he plays along with it. 

“And then…” you murmur, quickly getting up and turning around to straddle him, “you pin them down.” 

Richie refuses to make eye contact with you as you do this, and it doesn’t take you long to feel exactly why he was suddenly so nervous. Ignoring it isn’t working anymore. You need to make it known. Was it a little mean when you pretended to shift your legs a little as an excuse to grind against him for just a second? Probably. Did that make it all the hotter? Absolutely. 

You take the knife and tilt his head up using the tip of the blade. “Now, since I’d be there, I’d help hold them down. You wouldn’t have to worry your pretty little head about restraining them.”

He exhales sharply through his nose as he tries his best to ignore the tightness in his jeans and the way your warmth and weight on him just felt so good–

“Are you listening?”

Richie snaps out of his little daydream at the sound of your voice and he hesitates before nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Yeah. You’ll restrain them.”

You purse your lips and shake your head, trying to fight the urge to make fun of the raging boner poking into your own crotch but hold your silence. It’ll be a better time later, you decide. 

“And then, you’d think to aim for the heart or chest or whatever, but I would actually go for somewhere a little softer,” you tell him, the knife trailing almost teasingly down his torso. He can’t help the little whimper that escapes from his lungs as you shift against him again, sounding like a little dog.

You take the hem of his shirt and lift it up enough to expose his stomach. He shivers as the blade gently presses against the flesh. His stomach caves in instinctively and you smile at how sensitive he is right now. 

“Go for the stomach before you go anywhere else. All else fails, they’ll probably bleed out before any help gets there,” you tell him, tracing the spine of the knife across his stomach. You silently admire how it shifts the way his body hair lays. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs. Despite just laying there, he sounds out of breath, like he’d just worked out for hours. You can’t take it anymore. 

“You fucking freak,” you finally scoff, backing off of him with an amused laugh. He opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a confused whine. 

“Wh–What are you–”

“Richie, come on, man. Really? Go take care of that,” you gesture for his crotch, the outline of his cock incredibly visible. He blushes furiously and shakes his head. 

“No, just… just come back,” he begs, his voice dropping, “please?”

Your face drops. At first in disbelief that he would even dare to ask that, and then in horror as you realize you want to go back. You hesitate, gripping the knife’s handle  in your palm tighter. 

“Richie…”

“Please, it doesn’t have to mean anything,” he continues to pathetically beg, sitting up and scooting closer to you. How did it even get to this point? Weren’t you just demonstrating how to kill? He utters your name softly, looking up at you through his lashes. “Please?”

Oh, goddammit. 

You feign reluctance as you lower yourself back down onto his lap. In reality, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. “You better remember every word I tell you. I’ll rat you out to the cops if you fuck this kill up tonight.”

“I will, I promise,” he immediately responds with a nod, although you’re not entirely convinced. You sigh and set the knife off to the side, expecting him to just want a quickie here on the floor. But he opens his mouth.

“Keep it,” he breathes. You look at him confused. Certainly he doesn’t mean…?

“The knife?” you question, not believing it for a second. But he nods, and he seems damn serious as he does. 

“Wh–Dude, why would I even–?”

“Just… I need a demonstration on the cuts,” he cuts you off, propping himself up on his elbows. “Aren’t you teaching me a lesson here?”

You fumble over your words and shut yourself up before you say something you regret. 

“Alright. Fine.”

The spine of the blade traces over his stomach again, just above his belly button. He breathes hard through his nose and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

“How hard should I press?” he asks suddenly, making you look him in the eyes. You glance away and look back at him, not sure how to take the question.

“Until it hurts? Until it kills them?” you bluntly respond. You are not stooping to this level of degenerate “flirting”, unlike whatever the hell Richie was doing. 

“Show me.”

Oh, what the hell? You press the knife into his flesh, although it doesn’t pierce anything. It was still turned over so that the spine was touching his skin. He shakes his head. “Turn it over.”

You decided a few moments ago to just go along with Richie. In a weird way, you kind of liked it. The knife flawlessly rotates in your hand, the blade now pressed against his skin. You’re almost scared of the amount of power you hold over him at this moment. You go between reveling in it and fearing it. What if you went too far? You’ll cross that bridge if you get there.

The knife slices through his skin like butter. It must’ve been recently sharpened; he didn’t register the sting immediately. He inhales through his teeth sharply as you slowly glide it across the length of his stomach. You debate stopping, but you can just tell he’s been aching for this. You’d never admit it, but you had been, too.

Crimson beads start emerging from the slice. It was a thin incision, mostly out of fear of what would happen if you went too far. Going and getting stitches with the state of healthcare? It’d probably be cheaper to just kill him at the scene and turn yourself in. 

“Mmf… Like that?” he asks, biting his lip to suppress little whimpers of pain as the stinging continues to crescendo. 

“Yeah. Like that,” you affirm, still holding the knife. Part of you wants to stop. This is insane, isn’t it? Was it more insane to be in this situation than it was to be this horny about it? 

“Do it again,” he breathes out, making your eyebrows raise. “Deeper.”

“Richie, I can’t…”

“Deeper,” he repeats, his voice more urgent.

You close your eyes and position your knife a couple inches above the previous incision. You can’t believe you’re doing this. The knife presses in a little deeper than last time and you grimace at the way it doesn’t slice through as easily. “Slower,” he gasps, throwing his head back. He slumps down a bit from being propped up on his elbows. You oblige and cut a bit slower. The groans and sharp hisses coming from him turn you on an embarrassing amount. 

An idea pops in your head and you give an experimental roll of your hips against his as you cut. His eyes flutter shut in ecstasy, his hands inching their way up your hips. You hate the way his large hands fit around your body, the way you can feel his fingertips digging into your skin. You hate the way it captivates you, reels you in. He moves you against him, letting out a guttural moan as he pushes his hips up into yours. 

You finish the second cut, watching as the little drops of blood clot up at the slit. You’re both panting hard despite not actually doing much of anything. At this point, sex wouldn’t even satisfy this fucked up hunger the both of you had. 

You need to taste him. Sliding down his body, he groans at the sudden lack of pressure on his aching cock, his hips pointlessly shifting in an attempt to get any sort of friction. Your face rests just above the waistband of his jeans, your tongue sliding out and pushing against the fresh wounds. He shudders and lets out a quiet, ecstatic cry. 

“Please,” he gasps, his hand moving down to grasp desperately onto your head. His fingers are relentless in the way they hold onto you, like he’d die if he let go. 

Richie tastes delightfully salty and metallic and so, so delicious. You lap at the cuts, desperately getting anything you could in your mouth. Like a vampire, you practically suck at the slits, your spit and his blood mixing in a disgusting and beautiful mess. He whines and lets out quiet cries, covering his mouth with his free hand to try and stifle the louder noises he involuntarily lets out. 

He gasps out your name, his body tensing up and writhing under you. It doesn’t take you long to realize that he definitely just came in his pants. You look up at him, giving one final teasing lick as you clean the rest of the blood off of him. He looks dazed as he gasps for air, his hips still shifting in blissful agony. 

The two of you pant at each other for a couple moments before you sit upright and decide to break the silence. “That’s what you, uh, not do when you kill someone,” you joke, looking back down at the bright red lines across his stomach. Jesus, you did all that? You admire your work, even if it’s not much. It made him come, and sometimes that’s all you really need. 

“Got it,” he nods, throwing his head back onto the floor, “got it.”