#Kurt Cobain x reader

[marvelobsessed134]

Hiiii can I request something with Kurt that has to do with a breeding kink and sneaking around? Cant stop thinking abt him whispering in my ear abt breeding me while doing it in secret in a closet before a show 😭 bonus points if he has his hand over my mouth so no one hears us 💗 thank you!!!

Pre-show workout

A/n: finally a request for something other than Mötley Crüe. While I love writing for those boys I also love to write for different people. Also a disclaimer this is not to be disrespectful to Kurt in anyway I’m just a teenage girl writing out hers and others fantasies.

Pairings: Kurt Cobain x Fem!Reader

Warnings: soft ish smut?, breeding kink, and I think that’s it to be honest

It was right before a show and you knew this was probably a bad idea but your husband thought otherwise.

Kurt had you pinned against the wall ass he thrusted in and out of you, his hand covering your mouth so no one would hear. His band mates were right outside and that made it even more thrilling.

His other hand held you up and he fucked into you at a rough pace.

“Are you gonna cum baby? So am I. I’m gonna cum inside you and fill you up would you like that?” You nodded quickly, feeling a sense of a sugar rush from his dirty talk. He never really had that much dirty talk but when he gets pussy drunk..god he doesn’t even know what he’s saying half the time.

But the two of you had wanted a baby for awhile so you guess now is the time to make one.

The blonde was a mixture of groans and grunts, trying to stay quiet himself while you were muffling into his hand.

You clenched around him and the frontman knew that you were close. Tears fell down your face as you came, and not long after Kurt reached his peak as well. “Ahh just take it babe.” He’d whisper in your ear.

The two of you stood there trying to re-catch your breaths. You fixed your clothes and your husband gave you a passionate kiss.

“Mm you got a show to do im pretty sure.” You teased.

He smiled down at you, loving your sense of humor. It’s what made him fall for you in the first place.

“You better be there front row.”

“You bet I will.”

[captain-lessship]

The Most Random Kurt Cobain x Read Headcannons Ever Written.

Listens to your favorite music and gives his opinion on it

Surprisingly a great dancer

Is too prideful to ask you to dress up on Halloween but always immediately says yes when you ask

Has dedicated a performance to you in the most random ways

“This one is for the love of my life… who burnt my toast.”

Wears your clothes and has gotten to a point where he won’t even ask

“Are those my jeans?” “Our jeans.”

Loves reading, loves it even more when you read it aloud and he follows along.

His love language is a blend of words of affirmation and physical touch.

He loves to walk up behind you and lay his chin on your shoulder so he can tell you something 

If you aren’t comfortable with physical touch, he understands and works around it so you can be comfortable 

You always have a lighter. 

Your most famous picture together is you holding the lighter, lighting his cigarette while he hugged you from behind. (A miracle you didn’t catch your hair a blaze)

You are the driver of the group, he sits in the passenger seat and fiddled with your air vents and radio 

Feels bad if you took on one of his bad habits but won’t say anything to you. 

He loves holding your hand in “weird ways” like holding three of your fingers and fiddling with them as he held them

Has a wall of photos of you and him (featuring his and your friends)

Kisses your hand or wrist a lot in public.

Does show you off if you’ll let him

Points you out to anyone and everyone 

Old married couple type beat.

You and him always have your morning coffee or tea together, sometimes still in bed cause you can

If you work, he’ll send little gifts or flowers to flex and to woo you. (And make your coworkers jealous)

Sometimes you’ll catch him staring at you like if he blinked, you’d disappear.

“Kurt…Kurt!” “Wha?” “Your cigarette is about to fall out of your mouth.” “Oh.”

Thinks anything you do is hot. Painting your nails? Hot. Hammering a nail to hang a picture? Hot. Walking? Hot. 

He only goes to bed if you all but beg though once he gets there, he melts into the mattress. 

Lays on top of you while asleep.

Acts as if he’s too far from you, he’ll combust.

Loves when you go to his concerts or on tour with them. 

[enterssandmans]

sick days

(kurt cobain x reader)

(summary: taking care of kurt when he’s sick is like taking care of a whiny child)

————————————————————

kurt moaned in pain for the 10,000th time, ducking his head away to avoid the cup that held the red liquid he oh so envied.

you sighed in annoyance, trying to keep your cool as you knew this was nothing new. he hated the medicine, you basically had to hold him down and shove it down his throat when it was time to take it.

“kurt, babe. come on” you pushed, trying to coax him in with your sweet tone. the guitarist again refused but eventually gave in once he heard your tone, he rolled his blue eyes and sipped down the medicine.

kurt pulled a face of disgust as the sour liquid went down his throat which made you chuckle because you know exactly how it feels.

“that shit is fucking disgusting” the blonde mumbled, laying back down onto the bed as you sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his forehead which was still really hot.

“i know and i’m sorry but i promise it’ll make you feel better” you offered some comfort, giving him a sweet smile which made him melt more than his fever.

he managed to smile a bit, looking up at you as his eyelids began to droop from the side effects of the medication.

“thank you for helping out” he stated, resting his cheek against her hand which made your smile grow brighter.

“get some rest babe, i love you” you whispered, giving him a gentle kiss on his forehead before he finally drifted off into a well-needed deep sleep.

[boizandgurlzinthehouse]

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦.

kurt cobain x fem!reader

summary: after breaking up with courtney, kurt can breath beside his beloved y/n. his soul is free, but y/n's dreams aren't. trigger warning: knives, bad dreams, baddy written fluff (?), courtney is evil in that one word count: 1.169k

it could be a peaceful night, after days of fight –divorcing from courtney, y/n wanted to be beside kurt, supporting him by taking care of frances at home, or taking a confession on court, admitting to them that courtney in fact, were not okay. hanging out with them, it was y/n, who got a call from him when he locked up himself behind doors, when courtney called the police that he was trying to murder himself with a gun. getting there at the same time as the cops, she was the first witness the law called. after the sentence that kurt and courtney was no longer a couple, kurt and y/n went home. their romance started under his marriage, but it wasn't real cheating, y/n was too freaked out to do anything before their divorce. she didn't want to be a homewrecker, and plus, courtney frightened her until the end.

as courtney collected her leftover clothes, y/n turned to make some tea. she wished that the other woman could get away quickly, and the kettle boiled for too long.

"you know, i always wondered why kurt wanted you. i mean, you are truly beautiful, i can't take that away from you, it's just... you are so fucking dumb."

"...sorry, what?" y/n turned around. courtney leaned on the doorframe, smiling.

"you re so fucking dumb, really, really dumb if you think he's not gonna leave you. you are boring for him, yes, your... secrecy can be hot for awhile, but it's not enough to keep him."

"i'm sorry, but... why can't you accept the situation?" y/n barely whispered.

"why are you saying always sorry?" courtney's face was suddenly closer, her mouth grew bigger, and claws crawled on her fingers as she began to get closer to her. suddenly, grabbing y/n's shoulders, she grabbed her, tossing on the bed where usually she and kurt slept. something gleamed in the low light; a knife –courtney was holding a knife, pointing it to her. "sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry! you should apologize for being a whore and taking away my life!"

"i can't to anything, it was your fault!" y/n cried, trying to free herself, but courtney was too strong. way too strong, she draw blood from y/n's wrist.

"OF COURSE YOU CAN!" it wasn't her sound, it was like an animalistic scream, from the deep of her throat, her soul. "YOU CAN'T GET AWAY AFTER ALL OF THAT! YOU STOLE MY LIFE!"

"no!" y/n tried to scream. no, no, no, no!

"y/n, y/n..." courtney pointed the knife at her skin, slowly pulling it. she didn't felt pain, but it was terrifying.

"no, please, please no!" shaking, it was no help. no way out, she's gonna die here–

–in this stupid dream.

"y/n, please, wake up." it was kurt, but for a moment, and as he turned over her, she thought it was still her dream... or worse, that it was in fact, reality and that crazy psycho-bitch came to murder her. screaming, she looked at her wrists, almost hitting her lover in the head.

"courtney, kurt, what... what?" a single thought couldn't form in her mind as she fought her tears, catching her head from side to side to check that she wasn't in danger. "she's... where... she was, i don't, i'm sorry, just..."

"y/n, please, listen to me!" kurt pleaded, holding her face between his palms. "it was just a dream, just a dream, love."

"a dream? my wrists..." she murmured, looking at her hands. kurt held them, kissing it as they explored them together.

"see? nothing happened to you. your wrists are alright, just as your lovely body."

"yeah..." y/n nodded, inhaling and exhaling, kurt did it with her. tilting her forehead to his, seeking comfort from him. she still couldn't believe what she dreamt, it was so... real. but she didn't want to tell it to him, because it would just rile him up, and he deserved a good sleep after tiring days.

"or should i make some tea? it may help you to calm down." he asked, ready to stand up from the bed, making y/n whine like a baby cat and claw after him.

"please don't, just... stay here with me."

if you go away, maybe you never come back. she knew it wasn't true, but still, it was better to be safe than sorry.

"okay, then i'll just hug you until you're alright." he said, touching her chin, making her nod.

"yes, please." y/n ducked herself under his arms, not daring to close her eyes. the warmth of his body calmed her down, grabbing the back of his t-shirt, she didn't want to see him cry. stroking her back with his fingers, kurt kissed the crown of her hair.

"do you want to talk about it?" y/n shook her head. "no problem, babylove. you'll talk about it when you're ready."

"just some nasty things happened to my wrists." she murmured, making him look down to her.

"only in your dreams, darling. i'd never let anything happen to your precious wrists."

he helped her peeling off her sweated t-shirt, giving her a new one. offering her to bath, she declined. she was too scared to stay away from him even for a moment, so he just opened the window, the noises of the city always calmed her down since childhood.

"sorry for waking you up, baby." she whispered, facing him as he kept her lose by keeping his hand on her back and her hair, twirling her locks around his fingers. "i wanted you to sleep, to get rest."

"don't you dare to say sorry, love. i'm here to help you, just as you helped me these days, didn't you?" kurt asked, not even waiting for an answer, because he knew she did it. "we're here to help each other, and as long as i see that you're alright, it's worth everything."

y/n tried to say something, but kurt hushed her as he kissed her eyelids, her eyelashes.

"and what does matter a couple of hours? i missed you in my sleep either way. these days were tiring for all of us, but it's over now. tomorrow we gonna see bean, she's so happy for you every time she sees you."

"i'm glad." she smiled, brushing his short, blonde and angelic hair.

"i'm glad that you take part in my life. i know it's not a triumph, but..."

"it's the best thing that ever happened to me to be in your life." she whispered, giving him a longing, slow sweet kiss. resting her head on her pillow, inhaling his scent, she fell in love with him again.

"i love you, kurt." i love that you heal unconsciously the things you've never caused.

"i love you too, y/n. i'm never gonna let those ugly bad dreams get to you anymore."

and it was true. they never came again.

a/n: sorry if it wasn't that good, i'm just tryna get used to kurt's soft personality. but anyway, i like domestic fluff so maybe there's gonna be more like this.

if you want to see more of these, send me a req by comment or here

bye bye babiez

[fritz-federleicht]

Your name/ Kurt Cobain x reader

Summary: Kurt carves your name into his guitar

Words: 499

FLUFF

"What are you doing?" You walk up to Kurt with big steps. He's sitting there with his guitar on his lap, carving something into it.

"Carving your name into my guitar." He says as if it were a matter of course and continues to carve your name. You stand next to him and run your fingers through his hair.

"Kurt, are you high?" You ask him, thinking he wouldn't do that sober.

He looks up and nods. His pupils are huge. "Yes. But that doesn't change what I do. I want it like this." He clears his throat and continues.

You watch him finish the last letters of your name, then he looks up at you. "What do you think?" He holds out his guitar to you.

"It's okay." You answer him after a brief look. Kurt looks at you in horror. "It's just okay?" He asks.

"I'm just saying it would look better if it said 'Y/N + Kurt'."

Kurt's horrified face twists into a grin. "You think that would look better?" He asks, convinced of the idea. "Absolutely." You assure him.

"Then you do that." He holds out his guitar to you. You point. "You want me to do this?" "Yes. Then everyone has done their part."

You doubt. "But what if it looks like shit? What if I screw it up?"

"You can't screw up at all. Have you seen mine? It doesn't look good." As Kurt speaks, you run your fingers over the notches that make your name.

"Come on honey. I want to show the world that we belong together." He wraps his arm around your legs and pulls you close.

You put your arms around his neck and run your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. "But you have to promise me that you won't destroy it."

You stick your pinky finger out at him. "Pinky promise?" You ask. Kurt replies. "Of course. Otherwise the tabloids will think we're not together anymore."

You sit down across from him. "All right. Hand it over, then." You hold out your hands, Kurt hands you the guitar. You position it on your lap. "Here, take the knife." You accept it and start carving a big '+' into it.

"Beautiful honey. Better than mine." Says Kurt. You grin and carve the letters of his name into it.

When you're done, you look at your handiwork. "I messed it up. The 'R' turned out way too small." You whine.

"No it didn't. It turned out perfect." He stands up and lifts the guitar, holding it away from him. "This is now the most valuable guitar I've ever owned and ever will."

"Thanks for your help." He leans down and pecks your lips. "I'll use it right away at the next gig."

"Don't do that." You try to persuade him. "Yes I will. You can't change my mind Y/N." He leaves the room and says. "I want everyone to know that you belong to me."

[certifiednatelover]

sub!Kurt Cobain Headcannons!

WARNINGS: NSFW. if you are a minor or are not comfortable with this topic DNI

any disrespectful comments to me or my followers/readers will be BLOCKED!

No proofread!

requested? yes, by anon💫

Sub!kurt loves making love to you when your high from weed or heroin. He'll offer some to you because he knows that you turn into a Dom when you're high on weed/heroin

Sub!kurt will whine and whine and whine. You'd have to cover his mouth up to prevent him from waking up krist or dave.

*whines*

"shh we don't want krist and dave finding out that your a slut for me right?"

Sub!kurt LOVES getting degraded by you. he gets turned on as soon as you call him your little play thing or his little slut

"i can't believe you already came and I didn't even touch you, you little slut"

"I-Im sorry I can't help myself when I'm around you.."

Sub!kurt has a HUGE mommy+breeding kink. ARGUE.WITH.A.WALL-

"can I please come inside you momm-"

"wait what did you just call me-"

Sub!kurt will be clingy ASF after. he'll pamper you with kisses and expects you to do the same

Sub!kurt LOVES after care. he loves when you ask him if he's feeling ok and he always wants you to feel ok as well

"hey sweetheart you ok?"

"blud didnt i just make you come like 5 time-"

comment "taglist" if you wanna be on the taglist!

Yours truly, R.A.Y.Č.E.K☆🍓𖦹🍒𖦹☆

taglist:@bazooka-cazooka (lets go one person🗣)

[dumblilb]

Screw Up *ೃ༄

Kurt Cobain x reader

(He thinks he messed up a performance and you reassure him he’s perfect)

(Warnings: cursing, angst, depression, dark feelings, fluff at the end)

(Words: 701)

*ೃ༄ ࿐ *ೃ༄ ࿐ *ೃ༄ ࿐

I could tell the second the show had ended he wasn’t happy. You could see the glint in his eyes die out as he finished the song. As he got off the stage he didn’t reach for my hands as he usually does.

We get into the van krist sitting in the passenger seat as I sat in between Kurt and Dave. Kurt turned slightly away from us hiding his his face in his hair.

We pull up and head into the small room we are sharing during this stop on tour.

The almost indecifrabile sound of his whimpers are heard as he opens the door and shuts it behind him.

“He’s not doing well is he.” Krist sighs.

“We should check on him.” Dave says about to reach for the door handle.

“No, he needs a minute.” I say stopping him.

“But y/n…”

“Just let me handle it and I’ll pay for your weed addiction this week.” I say and they raise an eyebrow to each other.

“Okay fine we’re gonna go grab a pizza, we’ll be back.” Krist says and they walk back out. I take a deep breath and reach for the handle.

“Kurt…..? Are you okay?” I say and he looks up from his lap. His slouched posture straightening at the sound of my voice.

“Yeah, I’m doing fine.” He chokes out running a hand over his face. I sigh and sit down next to him on the bed.

“It’s okay to not be okay, you know that right?”

“Yeah I guess, it’s just…. I fucked it up and I feel bad. Like it was the last song of the night and I fucking messed up.” He says with a weak voice as he leans his head on my shoulder. The light scruff on his face itching my skin.

But it didn’t matter.

The way his soft blue eyes fluttered in an almost sleepy manner as he nestled into me made everything feel like maybe it’ll be okay.

“I didn’t even notice, if it makes you feel any better.”

“Yeah a little, I guess, I just feel like recently I can’t do anything right.” He says softly yawning.

“I’ll never understand why you feel this way about yourself. You are the most beautiful, talented and kind man I have ever met. I wish you could see yourself the way I do.” I whisper realizing the silence in the room made everything feel so loud.

I turned towards him as he lifted his head from my shoulder, resting it on my forehead. His lips quivering as his eyes well up.

“I just don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He sobs. His hands ending up in his hair, till I grab them in mine, and rub them softly.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” I reassure, letting him let it out for a little bit. He leans into my chest as I hold him tightly.

“Do you ever wish you could escape. Like just be completely happy for a day. I never know if I’m happy.”

“You know how I know when I’m happy?”

“How?”

“When I’m with you. I always know I’ll be okay when I’m with you.” I smile softly to him and I feel him lean into me more.

“I feel okay when I’m with you.” He whispers, and as it gets farther into the morning he drifts asleep. My fingers raking through his hair as he dreams in my arms.

The guys came back to the room later that night pigging out on pizza as we slept.

As the sun shines through the dingy curtains, and the once heavy feeling on my chest is gone, I open my eyes and look up to see Kurt. Sitting with bed head, holding a journal and pen. He was humming a melody I had never heard before as he scribbled words down.

“What are you writing, can I hear it?” I ask softly as the boys snore loudly on the other bed. He looks over to me with a soft smile.

“Not now, this is for another day.”

“Can I ask what it’s about?”

“You.” He grins. “You make me feel less dumb.”

[callme2heaven]

Welcome to my Blog

Hello! My name is Isa, I am 26 and I also run @metallicaislife.

I adore the Seattle Grunge scene and the men behind it so I've decided to start writing for them.

Feel free to send in headcanons or chat! :)

Thank you for checking out my blog!

There will be smut occasionally, MDNI with those posts.

Masterlist

Chris is so pretty🥹

[kcyars99]

[motleycrueobsessed]

Masterlist (revamped!)

Who i will write for!

-Tommy Lee

-Nikki Sixx

-Mick Mars

-Vince Neil

-Joan Jett

-Kurt Cobain

-Jason Dean

-Veronica Sawyer

-Heather Chandler

-Heather Duke

(I wont write for mcnamara because i dont know her well!!)

-Douglas booth! Sixx

-MGK! Lee

-Daniel Webber! Neil

-Iwan Rheon! Mars

-Kristian Stewert! Jett

+ If you want to request someone whos not on here, just send me an ask and ill see what i can do!! 🖤

Kinks / Weird shit i wont write for

Watersports. (Piss/scat kinks)

Pedophilia.

No stepcest.

Noncon.

Heavy on the noncon.

If your unsure of something, just ask! If im uncomfortable with writing it, i wont write it.

Tommy lee:

None

Nikki sixx:

None

Mick mars:

None

Vince Neil:

None

Joan Jett:

Kurt Cobain:

None

Jason Dean:

None

Veronica Sawyer:

None

Heather C:

None

Heather D:

None

DB! Sixx:

None

MGK! Lee:

None

DW!Neil:

None

IR!Mars:

None

KS!Jett:

None

I have like no motivation, so please be patient with my posts!

also pls send me asks i will probably write so much more if i get asks

Anon family!!

none 🥲

🕸️🕸️🕸️

[mothrcobain]

Born to Die

hey, so, basically, i was writing this fanfiction called born to die based upon kurt cobain and an original character called nirvana lacey anhedönia and, well, i never finished it and i think i’ve lost the inspiration to. but, i still want it to see the light of day because i think it’s beautiful (sort of). so, here we are.

Gibson Girl.

1480 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ You wanna… ]

Lovelace.

That’s what I’m fucking carving into my arm. With that oh-so-American size of the knife, the cut was deep and my handwriting as unhinged as it could be, probably and possibly worse than the cruel (upon me!) variety of forms it takes; like it was in my journal (I’ve always adored the copulation of the words probably and possibly as it tends so well to my seeming lack of sincerity and existential confusion), but worse, worse. Tingling all over I was in not an aroused, sexual way—but in the way it tingles when the high becomes scary, when the swirly faces start to scratch at you and when your belly feels scarily pregnant (everyone whom I know wants children; I wonder, am I sociopathic or a prophetess? Probably both, they’re primarily synonymous anyway). I knew so damnéd well I was addicted to this shit, the little, translucent, hallucinatory blotters (I prefer ’em trippy on both the outside and in, and pink; but I’m an addict! I’ll take whatever anyways) I get by shaking my ass to the guy whose name I do not wish to have my married brain clouded with. He still cut into my head like the knife that was working with all it’s effort and my inputs carving that v on my plump, ripe forearm. I was addicted as fuck; and I fucking loved it. At the very fucking least, I was pumping out poems like a heroine of the fifties. It’s what it was: the fifties had Sylvia Plath and the eighties had me. Downright iconic. The blood by now—I felt like a lamb, but I knew I was the dragon—was flooding my lap on which that forearm of mine was settled. I apologise if my writing, grammer, thoughts, anything else is fucked up in this or don’t make sense—I’m drugged up into Cloud Nineteen (ten blotters, two packs of Marlboro Reds over this evening).

I know I sound fucking insane and I probably am, and I treat myself to pain Virgin Mary couldn’t have dreamt off—but, I promise I’m not mean. Just a hard, excessive exterior and a tight, eager posterior in this dollhood of mine. Does that even make sense…? I don’t fucking know shit… “Ah, fuck…” I whispered with the most disappointing one I could muster when I fucked up the second l of Lovelace.

Lovelace, Lovelace… Great, I have to recall him.

The fucker who got me into this.

Norwegian trucker in India who was friends with my greaser pa, Norman Anhedönia, called Gibson Lovelace. The chap had forty years worth of oxygen wasted in his shallow breathing (he always breathed shallow, even when he came; I had noticed), a nine-incher monster of a dick, pedophilia, a drunkard wife and an obsession with me. I’d always been what Nabokovian terms would term nymphet, and I do say I’m split on it. I’m a shit daughter and a demon child, or am I? Maybe I’m just depressed and suicidal, or I’m fucking divine and the reincarnation of Eve meant to meet her Adam through a senseless act of violence upon myself (I didn’t know at the time, but I was fucking foreshadowing; go me.). Every girl needs a senseless act of violence properly upon herself but rarely upon the other to discover her one and only cult leader.

Anywho, Gibson led me into his truck away from my father who was too busy cleaning his shades listening to Elvis on the records: January of ’77, I was seven going to turn eight in the November of that year. He fucked me raw, smashed my head so hard into the steering wheel that I bled (I was questioning too much), kissed my cuts and made me promise I wouldn’t pick up a knife again but didn’t do shit about what I actually felt; he told me to stick my tongue out and placed this thin translucent sheet of pink from a little booklet he kept in his glovebox. And I decided that I loved it. I’m at fault, I’m at fault… Fuck Waheguru.

I’m finished. I squeezed my arm as hard as I could, the blood spraying over the marble floor (I had tucked the rug away; I can’t let Mumma see). My incisors with the utmost force to keep my vocal chords at bay dug into my chapped bottom lip and drew blood there too. It trickled down to my chin and came to nirvana at my lap resting amongst the other red molecules; it left a ferric taste on the tip of my tongue, slightly bitter and quite sweet. Bittersweet. Blood, blood, blood, blood, blood… Blood, everywhere. Gibson would’ve rubbed it all over my nipples and told me to lick it up like it was his sperm all over my asscheeks or, well, just cheeks. I did have quite big tits for an almost twelve-year-old, I must admit… I’ve always had more estrogen and my estrogen was also more sensitive: susceptible. Susceptible to manipulation, fuckery, religion, what not… Finally, I could fucking feel something except for the stimuli of my g-spot and the irritation in my nostrils that still blossomed when I chainsmoked indoors or that itching feeling in me when I go too much time without my LSD. I have this delusion that I only pump men good or pump out good stuff when I’m pumped on those little squares: He said that LSD would be good for me when I told him that I write; I’ve been pumpin’ poetry for my baby ever since. I hate children, and I sincerely wish that all babies die alongside their parents and the doctors and the nurses and the medical’s parents and me…

My disorders kicked in (Borderline Personality Disorder, majorly untreated) and I fucking panicked. After so much shit, I fucking panicked. Panicked. Jumping up almost to slam my head to the sink I was cutting up like ham under, I had to hold onto the sink to make myself stand actually. I slowly experienced my hand creep up to switch on the faucet (like Gibby did to the faucet in my eyes everytime he crossed my neurocircuitry) and my other arm (I’m right-handed) creep to wash the blood from Lovelace off. Thankfully, I had a few bottles of peroxide, a pack of Reds, a babydoll dress all set up, razor and men’s shaving cream, my skincare, makeup—all of that set up, and the shower prepped as well. Today, I was to die.

The same year as Gibson’s arrival to me, I spiralled and ended up flinging my curvy body down the roof of some pretentious hotel in Seattle. I didn’t die, unfortunately. Then, well, I was transferred to a crazy people place for four years until I got out in March of ’81 (this year!) equally, if not more, fucked up. I had glowed so much surrounded by my little hellspawns, my creatures... My paradise is dying in the arms of nobody. But, I couldn’t care when the blotters kicked in and helped my cerebrum in distorting so fucking shittily my face into some eldritch horror that passed the likes of werewolves mid-transformation and golems. I giggled manically at the twistings of my eyes into the hair and my ears into halo, my mouth stretched through the giggle was transmuted to the petrified image of a dog and a lady and what fucking not. Oh, I need my pen… Pen, pen, pen, pen,... pen!

The lad

I tried to write into the journal page I had kept open on the small settee of my bathroom that I had also made sure to drip some of my essence onto (not like that, pervs; the blood, I’m saying) but my mouth wouldn’t co-operate with my cerebellum or my cerebrum. The giggles just wouldn’t stop and they just got more and more distorted like guitars fitted into amps and amps and shredding. I fell back on the ground, it cushioned by my ass, and held my head in my arms, shaking my head as if to curate outside of my all the fogginess and to shake out of my trip. I wanted to write, write! Not whatever the fuck this was. My eyes were squeezed so hard, I was crying. And, I couldn’t fucking stop laughing like a shitshow.

“Oh, God, stop, stop, stop, just fucking stop…!” Hadn’t even realised I was sobbing but in that moment that epiphany hit me like a freight train (whatever the fuck a freight train is; I just picked up on the writing tool from whatever I read using this). My arm was still bleeding, smearing blood over my cheeks; my lip was still cut from my teeth, bleeding the smaller bits too; I was shaking like a fucking banyan leaf in the rainstorms of Wash.

• • •

Strangers.

5010 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ Don’t talk to strangers, or you might fall in love ]

Even the isolation, deprave, and mesophilia of our fucked-up, Lacey, crazies hospital was better than this drenched, little town. What was better than any of those two fucking disasters, though, was my stance on the railway tracks. Sittin’ there like teke-teke, waitin’ for my gorgeous guts to be smashed over, destroyed, violated, clawed out by the grinders of the train. I’d never seen starry nights—the ladies at Lacey would never have enough testicles to let me watch a shooting star and hope that it crash into me, the fuckin’ meteorite. My years at Cawnpore already were quite less in number, and it eternally was too polluted for us to see something more than the dhruv star and a few other killers; I’d never seen starry nights. According to this astronomical magazine I picked up while the nurses took us out to the local stores of Lacey for us teenage girls to detoxify our battlefields for minds, today was a meteor shower and I was thoroughly intrigued by blazing space rocks in the skies, so I bluffed and fucked my way out of the hospital. My egg and sperm donors did not believe for a major nanosecond that I was cured. At two years of pained age, I was standing in the middle of the gray-like-me roads, conscious of the act; at four, I burnt my pierced earlobe on purpose, using the steam-fuelled iron to; at six, any blade I pranced upon would find it’s metallic way to scent the room in the aroma of my equally metally blood, I only wished for one to kiss those marks and draw about them, to be what the lyre was to Apollo; at eight, this curvy brain of mine finally snapped into her hemispheres and told me to fling my curvy body down the highest story of our hotel. At eight, my suppliers abandoned their Catholic mistake of a dolly into a mental hospital in my Americana birthplace, Lacey.

There, I morphed myself like the blesséd Phoenix, curse, profanity I am into The Mother. Mother Lace, Mother Nirvana, Messiah of thee, and the literary combo of Three. One of the only times I shall ever cherish are my years with those six girls… My girls: my loves, only ones who would ever succeed in enveloping me with so much heat that the outward exterior, the exoskeleton of middle fingers and catty hisses, melts into a puddle of rot beneath me and the inner delicacy of my wretched fragility and mortality is on display for all those mental fuckers to eat.

Needless to say…, I missed my bundle of little women, my packets of compressed, oppressed joy. So, I lay there longing with my arms stretched onward craving hiraeth in the Heavens—now that I look back, it never was hiraeth. I knew exactly what my home was: the browned mental hospital where I spent four formative years of my Jim Morrison's life in. I longed for the hug of my collected daughters, their soft digits brushing my hair as they softly inquired escape from the hellhole I promised to save them from. My girls... I loved them, like the mother they never received. I had promised, I had promised… I was a betrayer. What mother to those girls…

On instinct I experienced my hands reach to the crown of my head, relief coursing through my blood the moment a thorn stung me. Their entity had crafted for me a crown of thorns to relish me as their Lady and Saviour. I did feel blood seep from the pinch, but I stuck my finger between my lips and thrashed my tongue around, gazing at the dying glows of the starry night.

I pretended to be Jesus.

I am Judas, or am I?

I don’t even know what I’m writing. You’re hallucinating while interpreting strange symbols written left-to-right in lead and antimony compounds upon thin, delicate tablet-like structures made of tree sap, so I guess we two are never too far apart in our crazy.

Well, to them (my girls: Laine Jean Ray, Bonita Ana Dios, Aurora May-Belle Long, Theresa Midge Check, Verbena de Baïa Voisin, Margaret Sarah Check), I still remain Yeshua. Yet, I feel a wolf in lamb’s skin as myself; a panther in the throes of the night sky that I stare emptily, tearily, upon. I fake it so real, I am beyond fake (translation: you people are fucking dumb).

In my convulsing tubule of thoughts birthed by my cerebral quality, I failed in my life to notice movement, possibly a metre from me. I was laid over the railway track like a corpse, eyes empty yet body warm for no reason at all. It truly seems bizarre how the movement noticed me neither—maybe dissolved so much in the grief were they that they were as heady as me, as crazy as I! Trapped inside the fever dream of their own thoughts, vowed to never spit it out, bit tongues and summertimes spent in clawing bedsheets and clamping hands over the own lips so as to refrain from the awareness that might spread. That might say…: I am iron. I am usable, extremely so. Exploit me, as if you have not already. Though, I might have not warneth thou… I rot as vigorously as I am used, keep me out in the world and I will break down and become ash of myself. In the velvet night, a puff of air as a sigh crawled out of me, liquid dripping down the corneas of I, ruining not the night (this was to be, I planned to die today for fuck’s sake) but my precious mascara and eyeliner. Oh, how I worked on that lining to accentuate my inherited, unwanted, auto-appreciated felinity. I’d be the prettiest girl in the morgue.

Someday you will ache like I ache.

Anyhow, the shower from the atmosphere had concluded a few minutes prior. And, well, finally, the train I was waiting for to scramble and crumble my guts into nothing but wasted potential, like I already was, had arrived… Only, it arrived wrong. It ran over the steel beside me, beside us (counting in the movement I am). A severe monsoon bummer filled my chest, the void in my heart had been concealed tightly and packed with Lyssa, Eris, what not. I craved to screech at the tyrant Father for his sin, for his fucking disruptive mercy on me—I did not want mercy! I needed death to fuck me like his personal, unpaid, loyal servant-girl; I needed it violent! So, as soon as all registered in my voluminous cerebrum, I recoiled in my pose, resorting to the protection of a foetal position as I screamed out my sobs and muffled them by staining my shaved thighs with my lipstick and drool smelling of minty chew-gum that I chewed last minute, tears of brown-black from my mascara and liner, hitting my head against my knees and punching the bloody rails that I was once moonbathing over until I experienced my knuckles burn and bruise, actual slivers of blood peek through the skin. I continued then too, but was too passionate in my quiet wailing to keep up the aggression.

And, thence, I swiped my tears with my bleeding knuckles, unrealising in my little girl’s misery of the fact, and smeared blood over my eyes and mascara over my blood. By some distance, I could hear some twigs crunching, maybe it was the movement I hadn’t noticed beforehand. When I did notice in that current moment, fear struck my gut like Cupid’s arrow when I had seen Priscilla Presley for the first time in forever. Naturally, a response occurred within the fatty mass of electric muscle in my head and I recoiled within myself, burying my face in my knees that I had pulled to my tits, only my eyes blinking up like a defensing cat—if I had been a cat, my pupils would have shrunken to that reptilian, creepy glare. I saw that the thing was lighting a cigarette, my cravings relit alongside (the appearance of the thing was half-revealed in the dim spark).

Stupidly as I ever could be, I murmured from my coil, “Do you have a light?” However softly I did speak, the boy did hear because it was the death of the night in wherever we were, the railroad was as quiet as could be with the crickets around chirping and inaudible bats may or may not be sauntering about. Dim moonlight that I somedays worshipped (as a witch, I did) proved herself, and I saw him. The first predicament was that he’s cute: blond, ice eyes, hopeless swagger, shaky legs. He paused himself in his trek, and slowly but mildly clumsily, turned to see my form. Perhaps cold moonlight proved her importance to hallucinatory pages of dead sap’s inkéd words of feel-good love. Wow, fuck, I went overboard on there. So, he scrutinised me for a moment, squinting to gaze at me carefully.

I’ll never forget what came out of my future husband’s mouth the first time he spoke a single thing to me…: You look very pretty when you’re crying; tears suit you. I don’t think that I can emphasise the moan that was nearly to escape me at that very moment, it was a shockwave of whatever down my spine to my ladyness. My knees dropped to become flat, just legs, and I did acknowledge the gashes in my doll heart bleeding so vigorously, it matched my swallowed drool.

“You don’t mean that, you’re drunk.”

His honeyed voice, sort of scratchy as I observed he was pubescent and hormonal in his blue jeans, white striped shirt—walked into the room, you know you made my eyes burn!—and black-y jacket he kept open, pushed me to experience the yayo-type, giggly joy of his chuckle, he shook his head in amuséd denial of his drunkenness. He was poetic, he had a slur, he had his thin lips wrapped around a cigarette—shit, I needed them wrapped around mine… And, I loved it. Why the fuck was I enamoured? “You’re a hypocrite,” He paused for a moment, maintaining that smile. Two distinct holes, punctures in muscle, were noticed by thee truly, myself, at that very moment; I felt my ribcaged heart palpitate. “You’re bawling your eyes out here like Virgin Mary.”

“Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful.” The moan that was slowly and gradually, steadily and irresistibly, mountaineering up my throat finally escaped in the form of this: *Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful*. Which, I did mean—how could I not mean *this*? I’m not Lisa Rowe, you buzz (although I wish to be—have you not read the sheer charisma produced from the description Kaysen emits of her? She was definitely the prettiest girl in the morgue!).

Hands of his extended to mine, both, and I took them, shakingly wobbling from my psych-out. I felt drunk. As terror-inducin’ it seems, drugs had exhilarated me, no cock of a man who had money this nymphet had onlooked had been left out, I was such a La Lolita for my crazy desires—but I had never had a swig before. Smelling the booze off my falling, twisted guy as he pulled me up from my literal and mental death—I only knew that my heart was hitting at my sinews, she felt a depraved wanderlust. Some wanderlust it was to, like a man in a Prime Minister pose, mark that free, angel Earth mine with maybe a flag (a tattoo) or a hole (a lovebite), something, somewhat. I held onto his shoulders for both metaphorical and literal support, he held onto the curve of the lower back I possessed, though the fabric of his jackie didn’t benefit friction and he kept slipping his arm off accidentally because, one, he adorned too much weight on; two, the fabircs intermingled like our forms, the cheap satin and whatever the fuck his jacket was made of. “Why am I a hypocrite, though?” I finally asked this little blond dude what had been pestering me (I am not to blame for this worthy-of-disdain obsessiveness, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I am Cool Girl: I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive) for how millennium long. His ocean eyes matched mine for a moment, and he seemed to think through for a momento before he permitted the giggle of a hyena break out of him: Because you’re pretty when you cry, and I’m not.

“Yes, you are.” No hesitation was laced through me, none of that unaware uncertainty that I usually experienced leaking through my tune when I comforted one of my girls—my girls...—and instead was there an ignorant stubbornness. I was always stubborn, but what the fuck? I, having registered in my still plush cerebrum that my crown of thorns (gifted to me by Laine specifically, although all the girls worked on it) had fallen like my Lucifer when I had risen, thence I bent to grab my status, injuring my already injured hand thus further as the thorns pierced and pricked into my skin. And, I didn’t even cry…

He recoiled almost physically at my olden compliment (remember the first dialogue of the previous paragraphed rambling?) and I was due a breakdown of my psyche in that very singular fraction of a minute when my man suddenly perked up, “I only have this cig,”, changing the subject. Yahweh, my knuckles burnt. I ohed a tiny bit, and chuckled, extending one of my quivering, weak limbs and bending to wrap my lipstickéd lips on the ass of that cigarette, same one he took a drag from not fifteen seconds ago. His Atlantic eyes widened for a twiddling momentous, and, possibly and probably in drunken stupor and marijuana heights of his death wish, he giggled—I physically felt my pupils dilate, what the fuck? Maybe it was the nicotine, maybe it was the aftershocks of my tiny-teeny mental breakdown on the rail, maybe it was hisself… Damn, I think I understood Grant so well in that miniscule moment: Heaven is a place on Earth with you.

The world was built for two.

Delusional, I was convinced that it was us two the moment he grabbed the cigarette from me for his chance, and he examined the matte, messy mark of my lip stamped on it.

With the dumbest smile he could muster in my damnéd opinion, this little, blond, territorial, underdeveloped man adjusted his lips on the exact place I had left my shine, suckling it like it was some part of me. He knew what he was doing, I could pluck it from the glitter in his pretty orbs that told me shit he’d never be able to spit out in our tragic, magic relationship of some thirteen years. We kissed in death like we kissed in that moment, he blew smoke into my mouth and I giggled, almost extracting the alcohol of his from the roof of his mouth as my tongue felt her way around. We parted for perhaps, well, a second (I don’t remember the details, I’m writing this after our wedding sex, 1988. We’re in our flight back to Olympia from Honolulu, and he’s sleeping on my tits), and rejoint as I adjusted the angle to kiss-fuck this virginal Cherub better. “Darling, is this your first?”, he nodded, responsive—to be frank, that was adorable...! I’m pretty sure I squeaked out of sheer kiddy excitement, squeezing the sides of his face (cheeks). My grip migrated to around his neck, form bent for he was teenier than I. I didn’t even know his name and we were kissing in the blue dark…

Parting, I only gazed into his oceanic gaze and breathlessly giggled, “Oh, wow, fuck,... That was…, yeah.” A grand total of seven partners (three females, four males) I had engaged in before this merman, and I had never felt myself stolen of breathe ever in my existence after a mere kiss. Possibly was it the intoxication, the nicotine fucking over my senses so that my taste buds tickled with the enriching experience of his glazed cavern, but was it not thrilling, oh Mary! I had enchanted outward the sweetest giggle, and he in his still stupor snuggled his head inside the curve of my shoulder and chest; he was only that much tall. I was not lanky in any aspect, neither I am still—on the flipside, truth is that my mother repeatedly insisted upon me to not drown in my head and force her to onlook, rather to go outside, soak some tan (I am racially brown, thence I don’t require a tan) and run some. I decline profusely, tangling in blankets again and writing what, if discovered, would have positively filed me into the South Sound Behavioral Hospital yet again for a term not of four years now but of God-knows-how-long.

Eventually, I figured: some other day, this nymph may or may not have only prolonged my life now, and I told myself it. By the railway roads were grasses uncared for (like most daughters were; the human was their mother and the stain’d, tall grasses were the lost), we decided unconsciously to sit by those and talk the dimlight of the night off the clouds, to dawn we conversed. As unbelievable as it may sound considering the turbulence not even Athena might have dreamt of that had plagued the twisty courses of my lifetime, I had not sipped upon the liver eater yet: alcohol! With my newfound darling, that was precisely what I did.

We were dwelling inside uncanny synchronisation with our acts: we looked around at the same time, fixated on the same piece of cement, reached to gasp one another’s hands the same moment. I didn’t flinch, neither did the blond darling. Which..., was quite, well, it was especially choking as I... Usually froze at contact of the physique from someone whom I loved. Around this time, with my drink-induced lover, it felt good.

We curled up by grass, against a gray boulder-like structure, perhaps a part of a rotten or demolished building of some sort, debris. There, I suckled upon the lengthy cancerstick and inquired like an owl: “Why were you here, anyway?” In a casual tone I did, as if it was something so normal that I was nonchalant. “Oh, y’know, to kill myself.” The answer delivered by this sweetness would dwelling in me a day or so afterward (take that very literally) was just as nonchalant, confirming the suspicion conjured by my despaired subconscious that he was just as heady as me, as crazy as me, someone who would rot along me like iron all the while fearing the rot, hiding from something murmuring within thyself and teetering about; aura as a nymphic call and melancholia as the default ring of the mood. GOD is a teenaged girl of grunge and glitter, and I am a doll (soulless, empty, pretty with no matter on the inside yet pretty from the back—it matched!).

“No, no, like, why?” I repeated with an accentuated tone and my regular gestures of hand and eye, “The reason you wanted to kill yourself. I don’t judge, promise.” I shrugged, chuckling a bit as I passed the miniature cancer to him for a drag. “Clearly.” He chuckled too, widening his eyes momentarily to allude to my appearance; as I remember it, that elicited out from me a little giggle. I mean, it was the factual; darling, not lying. A girl; a girl dressed in a pearly babydoll dress with lacy tights (opaque white-like, frilled, a bow on top of each, knee-high) and no footwear with mascara smeared down her face from a clear breakdown of her battlefield for mind, manic brown eyes with a grape-coloured lipstick on pouty heart-shaped lips, blood and dirt also staining her optic area due to her bleeding knuckles from which she punched the steel of the rails because the train did not run over her? Paired alongside the fresh wounds on display littered across that fatty arm of hers? Oh, she was a crazy chick—and I could tell that this little guy loved it. He loved my mania, he loved my blood, he loved my crazy, he loved everything that I loved about myself. Maybe it was his alcohol that urged him this way, but I loved him for he loved what he saw.

But is she pretty on the inside?

“Well,” I spaced back in with the thrill of his voice curling the air around us; I wish we were plunged into steel. Sound travels best in something like steel… What would his voice be in steel? The thought messaged down my spine a shiver. “’s mostly everything about my life. Wouldn’t say I’m addicted, but all I do these days is mope and get high, or drink. I’ve been this since last month. Last year, I saw this… This dead boy who hung himself in the woods. That really affected me, I think; I’ve got suicide genes.” He paused a bit, sighing as he was passed the smokestick again. I puckered up a bit and drew closer to his pretty face, rounding my lips out and pushing out a ring of cigarette smoke. On impulse, he stuck nose through the centre of the dissipating smoke ring which drew from me another giggle—he was just like me! I did that too! I’d never thought someone else would…? What the fuck is going on?

Taking a drag, he then resuméd: “My parents are divorced… I’m really embarrassed of that.” He added a bit hesitantly, I could gauge that he still felt the shame of it all; which perplexed me. A divorce is shameful? How so? It’s a fucking life decision… But, that’s okay because this little one was clearly less mature and emotionally developed than I, although that amount still was remarkable considering his physique and my presumé of his age (which I thought to be elder to me, but still not too much so). “Why?”

“I want my real family back. My dad promised me he wouldn’t remarry, and he fucking did; to a bitch nonetheless. I hate her and her children are so… Phoney…!” Humming at his hurt words, I was analysing him: eyes gliding over the pasty, smooth contours of his vanilla face; staring into the trench of his pupils surrounded by his ocean eyes as he passed back the almost dead cigarette to me. The guard he wore over his exterior again was forming as he read that I was reading him without contempt (he thought I was feeling that, but I was simply analysing him emotionlessly—as if he was a labrat and I was dissecting him to figure out the following: what the fuck is this little shit?). But, I got him before he leaned away or apologised: Don’t worry, go on. Say it. I hate my cousins too. He relaxed yet again, I could see his shoulders come down and he leaned into me again,. Our heads were almost leaning against each other’s, breathes intermixing with each intake and out. “Go on.” I repeated, tapping his knee to accentuate my point.

He snapped out of whatever daze (he was reading me too, perhaps; mentally dissecting my Barbie body too, perhaps) and his hand came to clasp mine. I bit back a giggle and a smile at the contact, he did notice the corner of my lips tilt upward so he took that as a positive for further lacing of his fingers with mine. I, now a bit assured in myself, squeezed his hand and nudged him again: go on.

“Right,” He chuckled, “So, well, I just feel… Alien. You know, when I was little, I used to look at the stars,” He pointed briefly to the stars that were shining above the both of us, “And imagine my real family because I just felt like I wasn’t from here, like I was from another planet. I think I like that feeling, I was homesick for a place that didn’t even exist. And, to be honest, you’re the only other alien I’ve met.” That made me giggle after I muttered hiraeth at the sentence spoken second to the last. I found in my nicotined mindscape that this… Theory, was almost verbatim of a theory I myself had gardened in my meadow for mind. “Y’know…! I felt like that too, still do actually. I just used different terms for it. I called whatever the fuck our species are Earth Angels, angels on Earth. I read somewhere once that a person with scars of cuts on their arms was called an angel by a kid, and I think I really internalised… That.”

He chuckled, “Your mind is divine, Pretty. Yeah, I think my family is also a reason in why… I want to kill myself, y’know?”

“Oh, absolutely. I love them so much so I do what they want and they hate me for every speck of originality; I don’t know if it’s my mental disorders or it’s my hormones, but every small inconvenience makes me wanna kill myself. I’m also a hater! I hate everything and I do nothing to change it which, admittedly, makes me an arsehole—but, fuck it.” We both had laughter crawling up our throats and I could tell it wasn’t actual laughter. Oh, no. It was mania, laughing not because it threatened to spill; laughing because you had nothing else to do. Like crazy people (I do think that I am insane, in some way, shape or form. But, I also think that I’m supersane. Who fucking knows? I think a lot, don’t I?).

The cigarette had gone out by now, I think I had stubbed it out by pressing to the moist ground after he had truly started opening the shells of himself, not wishing to be distracted by drugs when I had the most addictive and healthy sedative offering his lifestory to a little shit like me. “Well, what’s it for you? I haven’t ever seen… You around…” He slurred out as we jumped down from our maniacal, little, episodic bursts of sacrilege or insanity… Well, are they not synonyms?

“Ah, so, I just moved here about a… Maybe a few days ago? I think a week or so. I moved from Lacey, though I’m actually Indian. Well… It’s a fucked-up fairytale, really. My whole ancestry and family is the following: sexist, racist, extremist to Sikhism, religious, doomed, homophobic, transphobic, Islamophobic, very, very Indian. It’s only my grandmother who acknowledges the sexism floating between our family; she dreamt high and was ambition incarnate but her marriage to this horrible fucking man led her to be so oppressed she couldn't speak a word of English without being thoroughly taunted for it.” His face clearly contorted into a gnarly grimace, and I felt my nose start to itch and burn again remembering all this up… Never had I ever trauma-puked this well or been so comfortable vomiting it out to someone I did not know.

“’s just… Fuckin’ Hell. I can’t translate it into words, I can only feel.” Shaking my head in a paternal sort of disappointment (no matter how much I despise the fact, I am my father’s daughter; his copy of carbon) at my inability, I felt myself pulled in again… How? How was he doing this shit? Being so fucking kind? It made me anxious, admittedly. Why was he so kind? What did the fucker want?

I’m being too cynical. I wanted to cry; instead I accepted his tentative comfort and shoved my face into the nook of his neck, breathing down it like a vampire in the night. I had the purely feminine, feline urge to wrap myself around him like Sarin and never let go to slowly dissolve into him even if maggots eat us out. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why…? For a few minutes I think, we stayed in that exact position, in a sort of silence that neutered my turmoil. His arms were gel onto my wounds, and I, terrified, readily crept in like the Dutch beetle on the elm.

“Don’t.” I eventually muttered out into the tender, pale, untouched flesh of temptation on his neck; I don’t know why I did it, don’t decipher or discover the root at all. What is a girl to do when offered love on a silver spoon when she only possesses a forked tongue of venom caused from licking slivers of love off a parental knife? I was a black, not racially but spiritually. I was corrupt, disgust, free-use trash for swollen cocks with zero semblance of any soul and only a pretty body. It’s my pretty power which is my ugly. I am disgusting… I sometimes feel the scorching need to cleanse myself, to face redemption, to hurry to salvation; and other days I revel in the hellfire of lust that would surround me once I am liberated of this uséd body.

[sabrinaleatherwood]

Backstage

ship - Kurt cobain x reader

credits to GIF owner

warnings - kissing, cursing, mentions of sex(no actual smut),mentions of smoking, cigarettes, possibly typos, fluff

Feel free to reblog or repost :)

You had just arrived at the building your boyfriends band Nirvana was playing tonight. After going to the store to get Kurt a pack of cigarettes you had rushed back from the store to see him before they went on stage. As you walked in from the back door you quickly went to the room you knew Kurt would be. As you walked up to the door of the room you knocked softly, hearing a "come in." You opened the door to see Kurt and the other band members, Dave and Krist sitting on two seperate couches, Dave and Krist on one, and Kurt on the other. You walked over to sit next to Kurt. As you approached him he smiled up at you and grabbed your hand pulling you next to him. "Hi my love" he whispered softly into your ear. "Hey baby" you whispered back. "I got your cigarettes" you said to him after a moment of silence. "Thank you sweetheart." He smiled at you. Someone, probably an band manager, walked in and told the band they were on in 10 minutes. As everyone stood up Kurt held out his hand to help you up. You took his hand and he pulled you into him wrapping his arms around your waist. You put your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. He began to deepen the kiss when you stopped him "Not now love" you said softly. "You have a show to do." Resting his forehead on yours he whined Back "Fine but after the show I'm gonna fuck you so hard you wont be walking for days." You blushed and looked down softly pushing at his chest. "Go play your damn show Cobain". He smiled saying "I'll see you later y/l/n, I love you." He pulled you in for one more kiss. " I love you too" was the last thing you said to him before watching him smile at you then walk on stage with the rest of the band. You went into the crowd and watched him blow you a kiss from the stage. You blew one back to him as they began the first song.

Sorry it's short!

[captain-lessship]

Kurt Cobain x fem!Reader Headcannons (NSFW included)

A/n: Was a request from for ever ago

- You and him were.. very different.

- To start, you were a sunny vacation town girl who’s daddy dearest owned several businesses in. You were on the more popular side in highschool, prom queen and Miss Seaside winner for two years in a row. Your parents expected you to go off to college, get an excellent degree and marry a lawyer. You didn’t go that route.

- You went to a few auditions and you got casted in a movie and that set off your career.

- They were proud that you were a Hollywood gal. Their sweet little girl? an actress! A loved one: funny, pretty and kind. You demanded the focus of the camera and it loved you. Now they expected you to win awards and marry an attractive actor like Johnny Depp or Leonardo DeCaprio. But the one you picked? Kurt Cobain. He wasn’t even an actor!

- Kurt was the kinda man your mom would faint and send your Dad into heart attack if you ever told them that you and Kurt were together. (Thank god you told you mother near a soft couch and your father has great health insurance.)

- It shocked at lot of people when you were seen at Nirvana shows, singing along and vibing with the rest of the crowd. It shocked them even more when Kurt came to your movie premiere. He wasn’t a formal guy yet here he was: by your side, supporting your achievements.

- Your parents eventually came around to the idea of him and warmed up to him being around. Kurt knew he was officially part of the family when he saw a stocking his nitial on your alls mantel.

- Kurt was a very gentle person despite the persona he developed for the stage.

- Many thought that he didn’t love you when the pictures of you both appeared in magazines. In those pictures, he looked like being with you was torture but that wasn’t the truth at all.

- In the majority of the random paparazzi pictures, Kurt seemed standoffish like a cat who had its tail stepped on, while you were just rattling on about what your plans were. You both blamed it on no context.

- Your voice always grounded Kurt and sometimes his anxiety would hit him in public.

- But the ones your loved ones took?Kurt looking at you like you are the love of his life (you are). Your favorite was from the Christmas dinner you and the rest of Nirvana decided to have while on tour. You were sitting in Kurt’s lap and you were unwrapping the gift Krist had gotten you. Kurt was looking at you like you were an art piece and you frozen in laughter. You kept this photo on your bedside table and had another copy in the hallway.

- After it was well established that you both were together, Kurt was affectionate in public. He would pepper kisses to your cheek and the corners of your lips when you sat in for interviews, leaving the talking to Dave. He could be seen resting his head against your shoulder during car rides, award ceremonies and when you guided him home when he had too much to drink or smoke, his lips would always try to attach themselves to yours.

- If Kurt was ever missing, all they had to do was find you and he wouldn’t be more than a few feet away.

- If you’d let him, he’d be in the bathroom while you took a shower. You didn’t mind it because it was never an inconvenience. Kurt knew when he could and couldn’t be attached to you.

- Kurt jokingly covers Dave’s and Krist’s eyes if you have a semi-nude scene in a movie. But if they were to stare too hard (they don’t), he would throw something at them.

- You both share cigarettes often. He used to grumble about the lipstick stain you left on them but he grew to love them and miss them even.

- He was even more affectionate in private, constantly laying his head in your lap, pulling you into his lap on the rare occasion he was sitting up. Krist and Dave joked that if he wasn’t touching you, he’d die.

- It was half true. He was saddened and moody when you weren’t around. Krist gave up and called you when they were trying to take the pictures for the Nevermind album. The second you walked in the building, Kurt’s mood improved tenfold

- It was mutual. Any time you were having a near breakdown over something, someone just had to call Kurt. He once came to your studio to console you over your hair, which the stylist who stepped in for your regular, had just melted with bleach. He assured you that you looked sexy with shorter hair and you felt better and the stylist lived to see another day. (He was right and you were a real trend setter with your shorter hair with layers.)

- At home, you and him were very quiet (strange ik). But it was comfortable quiet and it never was completely silent.

- Only the sound of soft guitar playing and the flipping pages of your book could be heard. It was peaceful.

- People were always shocked to hear you say how good of a lover he was, which highly offended you.

- “He can be a four to you and a ten to me and that’s alright cause he’s not for you.” Is what you snapped at an interviewer who was wondering why you were dating Kurt.

- They wanted you to say either money or fame but your answer was what you thought. Kurt was pissed that they were all but calling you a gold digger when you actually had your own gold and no need for his.

- Flowers came to you every time he was away. You kept a dried flower from every bouquet

- He would pick a necklace from your jewelry box and wear it if he was going to be gone for a while.

- He kisses you softly, as if he would bruise you if he did other wise. His finger traced shape into your arms and on the top of your hand.

- His stubble tickles you often and he purposefully rubs his face against the side of your neck or your face to get you to laugh. (You go through the stages of grief every time he shaves)

- Matching tattoos <3

- You took great care of Kurt. When he would go into a depressive episode, you would tenderly coax him into still taking care of himself.

- You would sit in the bathroom with him when he showered, sometimes even wash his hair for him. You would wrap him in a bath robe and have him face the wall and you would blow dry and brush his hair. He hated seeing himself in this state so you had him avoid the mirror.

- You would sit out clothes for him and he’d get dressed while you made him something to eat. He would eat and you would talk to him, hopefully keeping him distracted from his thoughts.

- “You deserve better”

- You didn’t believe him when he said it. “I think you’re perfect for me.”

- That eased his thoughts for a while. He believed that you deserved someone who wasn’t sick, in pain and moody all the time but you wanted him. He knew he had to wife you up.

- To give him credit, he took great care of you. He would paint your nails, clean your makeup brushes, rub your shoulders and would leave you little treats in the house or in your car.

- Every night that he was home, he would hold you and rub your back til you fell asleep. If you held him, you would play with the hair at the base of his neck til you heard soft snores.

- He was always appreciative for all that you did for him, often gloating and talking about you. “Oh my girlfriend? The angel that was sent to earth? Yeah she likes my songs.” “My girlfriend can do that.” “Have you seen my girlfriend in that new show?”

- He worshipped the very ground you walked on.

- You and him were acting like an old married couple from the day you made it official. With wild careers, you didn’t have it in you to have wild free time. You were both gentle souls deep down and it was brought out when you were together.

- When you and him got married, it was a bitch to plan. He had shows, you had filming. After months, you decided on a September wedding at a nice venue. Everything had gone perfect until your reception. You had changed into your shorter party dress and were heading to see Kurt when it happened.

- It started to rain. Kurt looked at you and you looked at Kurt. You both had the same idea.

- You kicked off your heels and he took off his jacket and out you two went: playing in the rain.

- You both were soaked and laughing. You and him were kicking water at each other. Some of your less up tight guests joined in. Slowly turning it into a muddy brawl.

- Best Wedding Ever.

——————NSFW——————

- The first time you and Kurt had sex was after one of your award shows, you didn’t win but you were about to win something else.

- Kurt had been loving how you looked in your dress. When you returned home, your usual make out session seemed to have more behind it. You picked up on what he wanted to do before he admitted it.

- It was an experience. He fucked you like you’d never been fucked before. He held one of your legs up by your ankle and had magnificent rhythm. He loved the honey dipped noises that came from you.

- Has effectively ruined the idea of ever having sexual encounters with anyone else (not that you would ever think about it but if anything ever happened between the two of you? It’s a life of nun hood for you.)

- After you were finished and cleaned up, you and him laid next to each other, smoked a cigarette and looked at each other with nothing but love.

- Playful wrestling was typically how you ended up making love. You either ended pinning him down or he would hold you back by the band of your bra, pushing him to be tempted to take it off of you.

- There was another popular reason that lead to sex. You were not oblivious to how the grunge girls looked at him like some sort of god. You weren’t typically the jealous type but just something about the very dedicated fans hit a nerve. grabbing his hand and leading him away.

- He was confused the first few times this happened, thinking you were mad at him but it clicked when you entered your hotel room. You simply took off your shirt and pants and Kurt got the hint.

- While Kurt didn’t get jealous of your male co stars, he would jokingly make fun of them to Dave and Krist. If they were staring at you or were trying to get that on screen romance to translate to real life, he would simply enter the conversation and mock them to their faces. He did it in a way that they really couldn’t do much without having to admit they were after a taken woman.

- He then would take you home. He would ask things like “Do you think he could do it like this?” I am better than him, right?” (This lead to neighbors being able to faintly hear you scream Kurt’s name)

- Kurt is the president of the thigh lover club. He kissed, bit and sucked hickeys on them.

- Kurt isn’t mean persae but he has a mean streak. He would hold off thrusting back into you if he wanted an answer from you, take a little too long to do things or his famous line that he gives if you say speed up. “You do it then.”

- You do it then = He would lay on his back and let you ride it out like a maniac with very little input from him.

- Most of the time, if neither you nor Kurt had the energy but the urge, you would simply rest yourself on his cock and stay until either you had to separate or one of you wanted to properly fuck the other.

- Due to his back problems (it’s what he blamed it on in the beginning before you told him that having preferences were important and his were respected), his favorite positions were ones where you were on top or were you both on your sides.

- ABSOLUTELY loses it when you look back at him while you are reverse cowgirling.

- When he was on top, he had to be looking at you. He wanted to see your expressions. The turned on haze your eyes made him cum almost instantly.

- You and him have had “funny” sex. Meaning you will try things you see in movies and pronos that you both know wouldn’t work between the two of you but would be funny to attempt (Mythbusters of Sex). Even if it completely failed, you both would laugh it off and go do something else like you riding Kurt for dear life.

- Since you were an actress, you had access to costumes and props. You would have sexy fashion shows. His personal favorite was the 70s go-go dancer get up, mainly due to the moves to match.

- There have been some absolute sexual blunders; You were slightly sticky which made you uncomfortable after he finished licking whipped cream off your tits and he nearly froze to death during the lead up shower sex. A sticky woman is an unhappy woman and a frozen man is an unmotivated man.

- When he would go off on tours, you would eventually get so horny that you would have to call him just to listen to his voice. When he figured out that you were touching yourself during these phone calls, his mean streak took hold. It was like a game: he would say the most perverted things to you and you would have to tell him when you came.

- You loved this game, which is why you kept calling.

- When he got back home though, it was your turn to play around. You acted completely oblivious to the call you made and this confused the man. He wasn’t a beggar but an only after a few hours of being home, he would be begging.

- You mercilessly teased him about it, sometimes throwing his word back at him.

- “Missed me? Poor baby.” “So turned on you don’t even know what to do?” “Tell me exactly how you want it.”

- Neither one of you were set in the dominant or submissive role, it depended on the mood.

- You would be the more submissive one if Kurt was gone for a long time or if Kurt seemed very happy.

- Kurt would be the more submissive one if you were mad at your job or if you were the more horny one.

- This man tries to seduce you in the serotypical ways (He read those romance books with the shirtless cowboy men on the covers) but it doesn’t work on you. But when he isn’t even trying, you’re looking at him like a sex god.

- One time, all he did was walk up behind you and massage your shoulders as you were venting about a particularly stressful day, the only difference to the million other shoulder rubs was the fact he leaned in and whispered in your ear. A few hours later, you were spent, half asleep and Kurt was laying there with a hundred yard stare and the post nut shivers.

- You have flashed him during a Nirvana show and he turned bright red and nearly forgot the words to the song.

- Poor Dave has walked in on you guys once. Was traumatizing and he couldn’t look you or Kurt in the eyes without turning red. (May or may not have was to teasing from the both of you like offering him the chance to join, asking if you both could make it as porn stars and asking if what design of tramp stamp you should get since he’d see it too)

- Suffice to say you and Kurt have a healthy and gratifying sex life.

[goblinofbiscuits]

Hello again! Maybe a Dave x reader where maybe y/n is Kurt’s friend and Dave likes her??

Kurt's friend

A/n: sorry this took so long, I have been focusing on my music alot more and was trying to pass school for a good solid month, I have been working on my writing again and finishing request and all of that, so hope you like it more to come

Warning: smoking, invasion of personal space

You and kurt have been friends since the beginning of nirvana, you were a musician in the same scene, had the same believes, and tastes. You personality were quite different though. You were a little more outgoing You had your shy moments yea but doesn't everybody.

Kurt's was more shy and reserved, he did have his burst of energy moments though, especially on stage, many who observed you friendship thought you two were in a relationship you were quick too shut them down though you two were friends that's it that's all.

Kurt had called you asking if you want to play a solo on one of his songs, you were suprised one because kurt didn't collaborate too often and two, cause he wasn't one for solos either. But of course you excepted, who were you to turn down a opportunity like this, so next day you packed you guitar and headed to the studio

"Kurt!"

"Y/n, hi!"

You two hugged for a moment, Kurt's become a very busy man in the last couple years so you haven't had much time to hang out

"I missed you man how are you" you said taking in his new hair, no longer a dark brown color

" I've been doing good, touring us grueling as hell though" he said sitting down lighting a cig before turning to you with a worry look and quickly going to put it out.

"Kurt I smoke Tolman, you don't have to not smoke around, I promise you my asthma stops nothing"

"I know I know, I'm just trying to be thoughtful" he said relaxing after your statement

"Well thank you that's very sweet but you don't have too" you say before ruffling his hair and going to set down you guitar case and start tuning.

As soon as you start tuning the e string, a man with long brown hair walks in with two drumsticks in hand

"Sorry I'm late, traffick was shit" he said absent mindly

" it's all good man, hey let me introduce you two, this is y/n, y/n this is dave our drummer"

"Hi" you said brightly, happy to meet a new person

"Hi" dave replied with a love struck look that you didn't quite know what emotion he was feeling

" so it's only gonna be you two working in the studio, kris is visiting his girlfriend and the main guitar and vocals are already recorded, the only job left is the solo and the Drums behind the solo" the producer chimed in

So you finished tuning threw some ideas back and forth with kurt about what the solo should sound like and got to work.

You made your way to the booth and briefly just marked your solo to dave so he can come up with the beat and extras like fills and such. You did pick up on the fact that he might be a little off his game.

Kurt had mentioned dave before, talked about how he was kinda shy in his own personal way, you had also picked up on how he spoke a lot less than the rest of the members. So you just chalked it up to you being new and unfamiliar, qnd the blush on his cheeks from the heat considering it is summer.

You and Dave started playing and it was amazing, you didn't have to more than two takes. You were so excited about how well it went that as soon as you put down your guitar you rushed to hug dave as he was standing up from his kit.

"OH shit I'm so sorry I was just really excited about how well that went that I had seem to forget that person space exists" you said pulling away once common sense kicked in

"nah it alright, I was actually mean to ask you something?" He said kind of tense

" wass up?" You said messing with your hair a bit

" would you like to go on a date friday, I really wanna get to k-know you better" dave said really nervous at this point

"I would love that umm aha here we go this is my number call me" you said grabbed a piece of paper writing your number and giving it to the musician

You said your goodbyes and set up plans to hang out with kurt, you ste up a time you were gonna see dave on Friday and head to you car feeling on top of the world

[boizandgurlzinthehouse]

𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮?

summary: y/n didn't fell well in the last year... and she probably never will feel herself well again. word count: 2.832k trigger warning: SUICIDE, SELF-HARM (really, don't read it if it trigger you please please please), psych ward, signs of mental illnesses, heartbreak, hallucinating, screaming, farewell letter

count your fingers. breathe in, breathe out.

"are you doing this again?"

y/n sat on her bed, smoking a cigarette as she read the newest tabloids. others were watching tv in the lodge, but she preferred to out out some titles and interesting articles. the date stated 1995, may 3rd.

"you are no longer in the newspaper. they're dumb, never writing anything in these papers, fuckers."

scratching her neck, her nail broke at the end. it was weak ever since she got here, sleeping and eating was difficult also.

"but they were true about me."

she looked at him, pulling her knees to herself.

"fuck you, they weren't."

kurt sat at the leg of the bed, now the closest ever. he always stood at the door, sat by the window, or sat on the ground, facing her.

just keep counting. six, seven, eight...

"you look like you need a rest, love. dark circles doesn't fit you."

something constantly buzzed in her mind, like a radio band is always on, even if there's no music and no jokes. or the tv in the lodge at 2am, no shows were playing, she always talked with kurt at night, until the nurses didn't guide her back to her room. she was alone here, at peace, doing what she liked to do --writing her diary, reading books, painting her nails. he wanted to paint kurt's too, but he never came close to her, never let her touch him. he was distant, but in a comforting way.

"who do i need to look beauty for?" y/n asked, exhaling the smoke. kurt smiled, pointing at himself.

"for me."

"yeah, of course."

take your medicine. place a pill on your tongue, then swallow it down with a gulp of water.

the next dose of pills were laying on the plate, waiting for her to take them with a cup of water. they trusted her enough to take it alone, since she almost scratched her wrists from freaking out too many times. the clock on her nightstand ringed, it was time.

"you know i'll never disappear, even if you take those?" kurt laid back on her bed, reaching his hand to the ceiling.

brushing her hair, y/n turned away her head from him. she didn't want to hear this, and to turn to her sane sense.

"if you live only in my head, why can't i just make you go away?" she whispered, her eyes lingering on the lace of the curtain, forming an angel and a bunny.

"because you don't want to let me go."

looking at him again, the buzzing was so intense and it wasn't pleasuring. the voice wanted to tell her something, but it never could. it was a void. she was a void.

am i telling this to myself too? y/n felt tired, picking a pill, popping into her mouth. she ate more pills than actual meals, in the first two months, it was strange to even eat after only living on little pieces of medicine for so long. she looked at kurt, he was still here. ten more minutes and he'll be gone, but the pills only made her tired, they never sent him truly away. or, maybe it was easy to crawl into her mind. laying down, she used her boney arm as an extra pillow, dragging the comforter up on her body.

"when i wake up, piss off."

"can't promise, princess." kurt said, leaning on his elbow as he saw her closing her eyes.

days went like this --waking up before 10am, taking pills, skipping breakfast because the pills always caused her nausea, playing and talking with the others in the psych ward, talking with her own psychiatrist, eating lunch, taking pills, resting in the afternoon, reading the tabloids every wednesday, watching the telly or reading a book before dinner, and then, taking the day's last pills, and then sleeping all night, but she often woke up, sometimes two or three times even.

a knock woke her up from her deep slumber, making her shake. looking around, kurt was not around anymore --at least he kept his poor promise. a nurse, dorothy was standing in the door.

"good afternoon, y/n. you have a visitor."

it was strange. she broke her connections with most people, only dave and christ knew that y/n was still in here.

"who?" she asked, getting up to put on her shoes.

"his name is dave grohl. do you know him?" dorothy asked, making her nod. standing up, y/n went out on the door, seeing dave. walking up to him, dave smiled at her, but it was something uncertain in his eyes. y/n gave up for caring about other's feelings a couple months ago, since she couldn't even deal with hers.

"hello, angel! how are you?" he asked in the sound like you ask from a child, hugging her lightly.

"totally fine." really, she was in a psych ward almost a year from now on, what could she say?

"can we go for a walk? that girl... maybe dorothy? said that we can go for a little walk, i want to know what's going on with you."

stepping outside, y/n breathed fresh air only when she opened her window, and went for a short trip with the others once in three months. the air was calming, and the sun didn't shine too bright, flowers grow on the edge of the sidewalk. dave was so strange, like he also lived in her mind. but he doesn't have to know about that.

"so, what's up? hanging around, uhm..." he wanted to continue, but y/n looked at him.

"chill, dave. i know this place is a horror house. i'm pretty fine, dealing with my things and stuff... and you?"

"i'm fine also. me and jennifer talked about having kids, but i'm not feeling the time yet."

"i felt that." she and kurt had frances, y/n loved her as her own daughter, even if that crazy woman courtney fretted her for being in the baby's presence.

"i have some pictures about bean, do you wanna see them? courtney was against it, but... i thought you'd like."

"that's really nice from you, dave."

seeing the pictures, she felt like the whole universe laughed at her. the buzzing started again, she tried to smile. "how big she is!"

"yeah, well, she is just like her fath-"

dave suddenly silenced. because everybody knew. everybody knew that y/n got in here because kurt died, her mind couldn't comprehend the fact, and she began to see him. she began to hallucinate, and most of the time, she just laid on her bed and looked at the ceiling, not eating, not drinking. if she wasn't crying or screaming, she was sleeping or just being like a sack of potato. the most miserable sack of potato. almost a year, and she didn't even made the smallest progress. she clearly, medically went crazy because of her lover's death.

"look, y/n... me, jen, chris and his wife is going on a trip... you should come too. it's much warmer there in california, you could loose up a little bit, don't you?"

y/n scratched her arms, looking at the stop sign at the end of the road.

"it's a really nice idea, dave. thank you. it's just... what if kurt-"

"what? what about kurt?" dave asked, getting angry. "sorry, but what fucking about him?"

"nothing, just... nothing, really, i just don't want to go."

"because of him? y/n, i don't want to be mean, but did you look at yourself? his death caused all of us pain, but you literally got sick from it."

"what about me? what about me, what about me?" she yelled. "don't say that he's dead, because i fucking see him everyday, and i'm not gonna let it slip!"

"do you see him right now, huh? do you see him? because if yes, then you are just the same as those girls who get shocked to be normal just a little bit!"

"and what if i saw him? what if i saw him and he just could see that how big of a cock your are, fuck you, dave!"

he laughed like he doesn't believed what he just heard.

"here we fucking are again, y/n! because i'm a good friend of yours, i'm gonna tell you that nobody fucking sees him, nobody who's normal! i thought that it's just some aftermath of your depression, but..."

"but what? i am crazy? i am compulsive? i am fucking hopeless? because you know, every fucking day was a menace since things got fucked up!"

"no, you are fucking worse than you were when he died!" dave screamed, trying to reach for her arm to get her back to the psych ward, but y/n clawed at him like a cat, while from the tip of her throat, an enormous shriek came from her, and then y/n just snapped.

"HE MAY BE DEAD! AND EVEN IF HE IS, I WISH I COULD DIE EVERY DAY JUST TO FREE MYSELF FROM ALL OF THIS VOID!" her vocal cords almost teared up as she screamed, crouching on the ground, holding her head. this was the end, the waves crashed above her head, the endless sea of her depression caged her in.

like a switch finally turned down, y/n tried to collect her breath, but it didn't helped. she went too deep, and the last breath of hope was sucked out from her.

"are you okay? y/n, fuck, are you alright?" dave asked her. y/n stood up, brushing her hair from her face.

"yes, i think everything's okay." she felt her own voice static, but it didn't matter.

"okay, then... shall we go back? you must be tired."

"yeah. let's go back."

dave didn't even know that he saw her the last time alive.

"i hope you get a little rest. i think it wasn't a good idea to come, but... i care about you. we all do." he said inside, y/n pulled up the muscles of her lips.

"it's okay. it was good to see you, dave." giving him a hug, it lasted a little bit too long, but he wanted too, so it wasn't a problem. she just wanted to feel loved after so long.

"see you later, y/n."

"yeah, see you too, dave!" she waved to him from the window, dave got out his camera from his car.

"do this again! wave and say, 'hi everybody!'"

"hi, goodbye, good morning, good afternoon everybody!" she sang while faning with her hand, smiling. dave waved to her the last time, then he got in his car, riding away.

do kurt miss christ and dave just as she?

1am. 1995, may 4th.

not a soul walked on the hallways of the ward. it was peaceful, only the small droplets from the fountain harmed the silence. only one bathtub, filled with water, a hand hanging on the side of the white porcelain. little curls of steam floating in the air.

"are you sure about that?"

he was here again, with her. kurt leaned on the brim of the tub, looking at y/n as she collected the pills. she's gonna swallow all of it, with two gulps of water, and then... she didn't know what's going after this, but she couldn't handle it any longer. life was too heavy, she felt it on her shoulders, her spine, her head, it crawled it's weight into her guts from day to day, a new day, a new weight.

looking at him, she stopped in her movements.

"did it hurt?"

kurt only smiled at that, saccharine in his smile.

"did life hurt?"

"only when you weren't there." she replied, then, placing the first dose of pills into her hand. "i wrote a letter. i hope they find it. and i hope i'll find you."

because she hoped, really. she had hope, not for life, but for him. she felt dumb every time she saw lame romance movies about people can't live without each other, but it turned out that it was true. she literally died without him, and air got much more suffocating.

looking at the pills, she looked up to the cross on the wall in front of her. so this is the end.

"i'll look for you, kurt. i love you." she said, not even paying attention to the fact if he was there or not, even if he just lived in her head. downing the pills, chug, another doze of pills, chug. just a couple of minutes, and no days will be spent with agony and crying, screaming, watching shitty movies, trying to live.

somehow, it was comforting to her.

laying back in the warm water, she saw kurt coming closer to her. her vision began to get blurry, and she felt stomach churn, her heart and liver exploding, but it was only a little pain. her lover bend over her, and maybe he touched her, kissing her forehead, but she didn't felt it. there was no movie in front of her eyes, playing her whole life, there weren't any so special things from books the writers always talked about. it was just laying down and resting for awhile.

in her last moments, she felt nothing else but warmth.

dear everybody, or anybody who finds this,

i never wasted too much words about anything. maybe i should have done, but i'm not gonna change this, so please, don't judge me. it's rude to judge dead people anyway.

everyone who thinks that my actions is in connection with kurt, they're right. i don't want to brag about my mental state, let's just say, i didn't feel well in the last couple of months. people around you change you, taking you to a ride, and i guess that i wasn't ready for the end of the ride. in the end, i only want you to remember that how wonderful and gentle, unique and perfect creatures we are. i loved myself, always, i just didn't love the way i felt.

some words to the people, because i was too much of a scaredy-cat to talk with them in the last rounds: dave and chris. you two are truly wonderful, the best guys i could ever imagine. i'm sorry that you have to get to know about this in a letter, but please, never let kurt's memory die, and maybe, don't even let mine. i didn't do a lot of good things in my life, but i loved. i loved and cared, and maybe that can be valuable even for you. courtney, i know we've never been good friends, but maybe, we never could be. i just want to wish you strength and courage for the rest of your life, i've never invalidated your feelings. maybe i felt just like you, excluding the fact that i don't have a lovely supergirl. frances bean, you little star; you won't remember me, but i'll remember you. you are the most fantastic girl i've ever known, and you'll gonna rock the world, just like your father did.

i don't want you to be sad. i wasn't sad, just a little crazy. living our lives without our loved ones claims us to be strong and brave, but i'm not enough brave for it. you're gonna do it instead of me, and my gratitude will chase you forever.

never forget to love and care! i did the same.

y/n y/l/n

she opened her eyes, sun shining through her eyelids. where the hell she was? feeling something soft under her touch; she laid on sand. little rocks pressed into her palms as she sat up. she didn't know where she was, and she wasn't even certain if she did what she did. coming to her senses, the waves crashed in the ocean only a few foot apart from her. washing the shore, it almost get wet her too. it was peaceful and unusual.

but she was not the only one sitting on the beach.

a figure, 60 feet from her sat just like her in silence, looking at the ocean and the dawning sun. could it be...

standing up, she was unsure in her steps, but somehow, she managed to go closer. it was him. instead of screaming and jumping, she simply crouched beside kurt, looking at him, so she was sure that it's really him. the wind blew his hair, his lips surely were salty from the air. brushing through his hair at the back of his neck, the blonde curls felt like silk. he was an angel.

without saying a word, y/n leaned her head on his shoulder. she could touch him now, watching as the sun bleed through the sky. she felt something warm in her chest–

–sure it wasn't reality. but it didn't even needed to be.

a/n: this is my first oneshot in this genre, and to be honest... i don't want to write more. i just had a very depressed couple of weeks, and this just came into my mind. i won't write fics like this, it turned out that i like domestic comfort and fluff more. if you liked it, or want to request, write in the comments, dm me or write here

stay safe, love yourself girliez,

louisa

[fritz-federleicht]

Hey boo! I love your Kurt imagines and I was wondering if you could do one where the reader is sick. No worries if you can't.

Thanks! <33

Next to you/ Kurt Cobain x reader

Summary: You're sick and try to keep Kurt at a distance. He soon longs for you

Words: 570

FLUFF

---------------------------------------------

The door slowly slides open. Light streams into the completely dark room.

You groan and turn in your bed, away from the light. Footsteps come toward you. "Kurt, you know it's no offense, but go away! I don't want you to get sick." You try to stop your lover with a raspy voice.

He stops. "But I want to hold you in my arms again. Besides, the sofa is rock hard." His footsteps settle back into gear. In a moment, he'll be standing right next to you. "And it's not particularly big, either."

"But I don't want you to get sick!"

You almost made it through the cold without infecting Kurt. He's been nursing you the last few days. Again and again he came into your room like a caring mother and asked if you needed anything. Kurt brought you tea and soups. In the meantime your cold has gotten better, but not completely gone.

Despite your illness, he often tried to lie down with you. During the night he entered the room and crept up to you. Kurt slowly lowered his body onto the mattress. But because of your cold, your sleep wasn't very deep anyway and you woke up immediately. He tried to move as little as possible, hoping you wouldn't notice him. And thus also not the deepening in the mattress.

Kurt now stops a little bit away from you, accepting your request not to come closer. For now. "I won't get sick, my love."

"Honey, it's only two more days. I'll be fine then." Your voice is weak.

It's quiet. Kurt doesn't answer anymore and you wonder if he has left the room.

"Kurt? Are you still there?"

Suddenly he's standing right in front of you. The light shines against Kurt's back, exposing his slender outline. Before that, he avoided the brightness. "I don't care if I get sick. Understand this please. I just want to hold you in my arms." Kurt's voice sounds tortured. So very tortured. He sounds like he's about to cry because his longing for you is so strong. It breaks your heart to see him suffer.

You exhale and slide to the side. "Alright, then lie down with me." You pat the empty spot next to you. "But don't complain if you feel bad later and get sick."

Kurt places himself next to you and gently wraps his arm around your waist. So gently, as if you could break at any moment. He pulls you to his chest and exhales in relief. "Finally. I've been wanting to do that for the last few days."

A soft chuckle creeps over your lips. It's sweet that he missed you so much.

Kurt continues to speak. "And if I get sick, then that's the way it is. I'll deal with that when the time comes. Right now I want to enjoy this moment."

"Then do that. I won't run away." You drop deeper into your soft pillow. "Is it okay if I sleep?"

"Absolutely. You need to get well." Kurt's lips gently press a kiss to the back of your head as he pulls the blanket over your ailing body. "Sleep tight honey."

You close your eyes, sure you'll feel much better tomorrow. Maybe it's because of sleep, or maybe it's because Kurt is lying next to you.