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roosterbruiser · 1 year

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𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟓

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You film your first scene. Jake wants to celebrate at the disco. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7.5k ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜��𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟑𝐫𝐝, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗 𝐒𝐚𝐧 𝐅𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲, 𝐂𝐀

Expansions by Lonnie Liston Smith is playing while Rooster fucks you in front of a camera for the first time.

You’re bracing yourself on a flimsy school desk, panties and plaid skirt at your ankles and white button-down entirely undone and exposing your torso. Rooster’s naked all except for a pair of thick framed glasses and a tie, which is Dennis’ attempt to make Rooster look like a schoolteacher.

At the very least, the set is clean and small. You’re inside a warehouse of sorts outside of LA, on a proper sound stage. It’s warm--not as warm as it is outside, but warm enough that they keep having to throw your hair back out of your face. You’re not sure if it’s the lights or the amount of people crowding the room or the smoke or the excitement that’s making it so warm--you don’t really have time to think about it.

This sex doesn’t feel very different for you--not entirely. Yes, there is a camera and there is a crew. People are smoking cigarettes and cigars and sipping on bourbon while they watch Rooster fuck you. There are bright lights above you and you’re wearing just about the ugliest school girl uniform you can imagine--which you would never wear. You’ve been going at this for hours now, only stopping to eat tuna salad and rehydrate. But otherwise, the sex feels fucking good. It feels really fucking good.

You’re turned on--you are always kind of turned on--but this time it feels especially gratifying. Hours of cunnilingus and handjobs and fingering and position switches and now you’re finally able to close Rooster inside of you, hold him against you as he fucks you. You were aching for it before he sunk into you. He could tell how bad you really wanted it, that you weren’t acting, that you weren’t like the other girls with the faux fuck-me eyes he usually shot with. And honestly, it made him all the more harder. Even if he knows that he’s going home with you, that you’re going to be living with him, he can’t get enough of you. He’ll seize any opportunity to fuck you.

“Gonna have to earn that -A, baby,” Rooster says, gripping the bend of your hips as he pounds himself into you. He watches your entire body jolt as you take every thrust, watches your eyelashes flutter and your pigtails quiver. “Think I just give out grades for free, huh?”

“No, Mr. Bates--oh, fuck--I’m gonna be a good girl and-and earn it,” you moan out, pushing yourself against Rooster’s body.

“Perfect,” Dennis grunts from his spot beside the camera, shaking his head in wonder as Rooster drives his cock into you over and over again. “Why don’t we spank a few times? Nothing serious,” Dennis says.

Rooster pauses momentarily, gasping when you clench around him and glance at him over your shoulder. Your sweet face is adorned with minimal makeup, which is supposed to aid in you looking young. And you do look young--because you are young.

“That okay, kid?”

It’s a courtesy Rooster gives all his scene partners, but he doesn’t call the rest of them kid.

You nod, swallowing hard.

“More than okay,” you answer, biting your lip.

You’ve never been spanked before, not sexually. But you’re not going to let that show: you’re a professional now. Dennis loves you, has been fawning over you and bragging about you all fucking day, and you’re gonna show him that you’re fucking down. You’re down for anything. You’re Cherry fucking Arsan and you don’t say no

“Told you she’s got a beautiful mouth,” Dennis mutters to the cameraman, cutting a cigar and striking a match. “Tell her she’s being punished, Rooster. She’s been bad.”

This is when Rooster is usually on autopilot. He thrusts, kisses, curls, pumps, pants, licks, spits, pinches, grabs, gropes while thinking about what he’s going to have to drink when he gets home or if the Bills are gonna be in the Superbowl this year. But he can’t go on autopilot with you--which is something he discovered only a few hours ago. He is achingly inside of his own body when he’s with you, feeling every single bit of your flesh and muscle and wetness, filling you up.

What’s peculiar is that while he’s thoroughly enjoying fucking you, he’s looking forward to when this is all said and done. He’s gonna take you to In-N-Out and buy you a burger, take the long way home through the winding palm tree-lined valley, take a shower with you, invite some friends over, light up some cigars, and just spend the night talking. You’re a conversationalist, someone who seems to know a little bit about everything, someone who is always listening with wide eyes and a bitten lip.

“Won’t be too rough,” Rooster tells you through grit teeth, squeezing your hip.

You don’t really mind if he is, though--but you smile all the same, humming.

“I’ve been so bad, Mr. Bates,” you moan out, throwing your head back. “Are you gonna hit me with your paddle?”

“I broke my paddle on another student,” Rooster answers and you pretend to gasp. You’re doing very well--better than anyone could’ve expected. “I’ve gotta use my hand on you, girl.”

When his hand first comes down, it’s at the same time he delivers a particularly deep thrust. The shock sends you forward, jolts the desk. The pain is there--a sting, heat pooling in your cheek. But then he smooths his hand over the spot, very subtly so that only you can detect it, and grips your hip again.

“Oh, that’s so good,” you whimper, which is entirely true and real. You like it. You like being spanked. “Fuck, Mr. Bates. Please, do it again.”

Rooster bites down hard on his lip, glancing at Dennis, who nods rapidly at Rooster and motions for him to do it again. You’re a moaning mess beneath him, your knees just about ready to buckle, when he spanks you again. The slap is loud--its bark worse than its bite--and again, he smooths his hand over the spot and gives you a delicious relief.

“Fuck,” you whine, panting. You feel like this is getting you close, a heat rising up from your toes and spreading all across your skin. “Fuck.”

Rooster’s throat is tight with arousal. You sound fucking pitiful, like you need release, like you want something that only he can give. He knows that sound, has become acquainted with it.

So, he reaches down and presses his hand between your legs, letting his pointer and middle finger circle your clit. You jolt again, but then press yourself into him further and arch your back.

“Just like that,” Dennis encourages, eyes widening at the breath caught in your mouth and the way your hips buck to meet Rooster’s thrusts. “Keep doing her like that, Rooster. Just like that.”

Rooster wants to talk to you the way he does when you’re fucking at home--wants to say your name and tell you that he wants you to cum. He wants to be closer to you, wants to let his body rest over yours. He wishes that you were facing him, that he could take your nipple in his mouth. But this is okay for now--he’s okay with watching your knuckles turn white and listening to those beautiful sounds falling from your parted lips.

“Shit, you gonna make her cum?” Dennis laughs jovially, shaking his head in wonder. “Tell him how close you are, Cherry.”

“I’m so close, Mr. Bates,” you pant, chest heaving. You want to reach back and hold him, but something keeps your fingers firmly curled around the desk instead.

Rooster is still steadily pounding into you, eyes trained on that red handprint on your cheek, fingers circling your clit as you clench around him and cry out desperately.

“Fuckin Hell,” Dennis mumbles to his assistant. “How good do they look, huh? Fucking perfect.”

When Rooster cums, letting his chest rest against your delicate back as he pulses and spills inside of you, you’re grinning and gasping. He’s holding onto you tightly, his hands sore from coming down on your rear so relentlessly at the direction of Dennis. You’re sore, too--but you don’t mind it.

Everyone starts to clap for you, Dennis releasing an ear-piercing wolf-whistle that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand to attention.

“How was I?” you whisper to Rooster, catching his gaze. His glasses are sliding down his nose, his tie loose around his flushed throat. He swallows hard, laughing, then presses a kiss to the middle of your shoulder blades. “Was I outta sight?”

“You were fab, baby,” Rooster tells you. He pulls away from you just enough to let his cock slide out and then holds your waist as you straighten up. “Really somethin’.”

When you stand up and look out at all the men in front of you, all the mustaches and sideburns and corduroy and hairy chests and glassy eyes, something tingles in your belly. It’s like moving into a new home, understanding that things are unfamiliar now but will soon become a common fixture in your life. And as they all clap for you, grinning, you know this is something you’re going to see often.

So, with cum dripping down your legs, you take a bow.

Rooster’s still holding onto your waist, shaking his head softly as your pigtails swing wildly. He’s seen that grin of yours before--he likes it. It’s toothy and real, very wide and sweet. But something in his chest feels heavy when he realizes that you’re giving it to all of these jackoffs.

“She’s my new moneymaker!” Dennis calls gleefully, hobbling over to you and holding your naked waist with his beefy hand. “Cherry, you’re a fucking goddess, baby!”

When Dennis’ hand lands on your rear, where he gives a few lewd squeezes, you don’t pull away from him. You don’t do anything except grin and laugh. But Rooster sees it--sees him groping you.

“Stellar,” Rooster says softly, nudging himself against you and away from Dennis. Dennis pretends not to notice and you just beam up at Rooster. “Let’s rock and roll, Cherry.”

You feel like you’re on top of the fucking world.

Rooster drives home with the top down and lets the warm air kiss your face and throat as you throw your arms in the air and cry out your name: I’m Cherry fucking Arsan! Every single nerve in your body is alight with excitement, with pleasure. Dennis handed you a check for $1700 and it’s tucked in your bra now--you swear even the paper is hot, burning your skin.

“Oh, I feel fucking amazing right now!” You shout, pushing the straps of your tank-top down so your perfect tan won’t be broken up by thin straps of pale skin. “Oh, God, baby! This is the life you’ve been living since you were eighteen? Goddamn! I missed the fucking memo! I just wanna--ugh, I wanna fucking scream!”

Rooster, with his shades and another expensive turtleneck intact now, chuckles with a grin adorning his lips. He has a hand on your thigh, where he’s rubbing circles there with his thumb, and Joni Mitchell on the radio.

“Scream, then!” He tells you.

You look at him--all that beautiful man in this beautiful car under the beautiful sky. You think about the check in your bra. You think about opening up your own bank account. You think about taking another bump of coke. You think about fucking Rooster whenever you want to.

And then you fucking scream. Arms up, chest tight, throat open, mouth wide, eyes shut--you scream into the wide open air all around you. Rooster’s in stitches, his ears ringing, as your holler echoes all along the valley.

“Christ, kid!” Rooster laughs, squeezing your thigh. “You’ve got a set of lungs on you!”

Your entire body feels loose now as you lean over to rest your head on Rooster’s shoulder. You smell like sweat and sex, which is a scent that Rooster is so accustomed to now that he hardly even realizes it.

“Oh, I know,” you giggle, plucking the shades off his face and putting them on to shield you from the sun overhead. “I’m a screamer.”

Rooster smirks.

“Oh, I know,” he teases. He’s squinting at the sun now, but you look too darling in his oversized glasses to take them back. “Thought we could grab some burgers and have some company tonight. How’s that sound?”

You know that by company he means the usual crowd--which means Jake, which means another bump if he’s feeling generous. At the very thought of it, saliva pools under your tongue.

“Sounds groovy to me, baby!”

Rooster’s happy--he’s really, really happy. You’re snuggled up right beside him, singing along to Joni Mitchell, wearing his sunglasses, blinking at the sun, his scent thick on your skin. You’re happy, too--you’ve got more money in your bra than your daddy’s ever seen all at once, you’ve just been fucked, you’re gonna do a bump with Jake, and the sun is shining.

It’s a perfect day. It feels like the makings of a perfect life.

Jake is already waiting for you and Rooster in the living room. He let himself in a few hours ago, helped himself to a couple beers, turned on a record, and has been laying out on the couch waiting to hear that front door open.

And when he hears those familiar sounds, he sits straight up with a grin on his face, searching for you. There you are, just beside Rooster, dressed in a little pink tank top and a pair of clogs. Your hair is wild--Jake can tell Rooster rode home with the top down--and your cheeks are pink with delight. You’re carrying an In-N-Out cup, which you’re still slurping from, and you’re laughing at something Rooster said.

“Where’s mine?” Jake asks, eyebrows raised.

Both you and Rooster’s gazes snap in his direction immediately, Rooter taking a subtle step in front of you and puffing out his chest before he realizes oh, it’s just Jake.

“Jake!” You call out, dropping the milkshake on the tile as you skitter towards the couch with your arms wide open.

You’ve grown very fond of Jake since you’ve met him--he’s clicked into your life just as easily and quickly as Rooster has. And Jake has grown just as fond of you, stopping by Rooster’s pad more often than before.

Something stings Rooster’s cheek watching you skip over to Jake like you are.

But then he bites his lip hard and looks at the tile, shaking his head.

“Cherry, you spilled your milkshake!” Rooster whines, grabbing the discarded cup.

Strawberry clops onto the tile that Rooster just had cleaned, but when he looks up and sees you grinning apologetically over your shoulder as your clogs echo throughout the house, he knows he won’t stay mad.

“Get your pretty little ass over here, girl!” Jake insists, opening his arms for you.

Jake assists in holding onto your waist and hoisting you over the back of the couch and on top of his body, where you fall into a fit of giggles as you kiss his face and tangle your hands in his hair. He’s warm and soft--he smells like weed and patchouli.

Rooster crosses the house to throw the shake away, grabbing some paper towels as you and Jake kiss each other hello fervently.

“Did you miss me or something, baby?” Jake asks.

He watches the column of your throat as you laugh and sigh happily, your head tipped back. There’s a spot of shake just by the corner of your mouth and before you can answer him, he leans up and licks it off.

“Strawberry?” He asks, smacking his tongue.

“Mhm,” you tell him. “Want some more, baby?”

You offer him the little bit of your hair that dripped in the shake and he sucks it clean while you bite your lip.

“You two are gnarly,” Rooster sighs, slumping down on the sofa behind you.

He wishes that he was under you--but he knows that he’s being selfish. He gets you all of the time. Hell, he just got you for four hours. He got all of you for four fucking hours. And, somehow, he got paid for it.

“Perfect for each other,” you tease, squeezing Jake’s pecs. “How’d you get in?”

“Rooster never locks the back door,” Jake says, nudging Rooster. “Not even after all that freaky deaky East Area Rapist shit.”

Rooster rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“Do you know how far away Sacramento is, man? A whole fucking plane ride away. And we’re in one of the wealthiest suburbs in Los Angeles,” Rooster retorts. “Of course I never lock the backdoor.”

Jake pretends to mock Rooster and you laugh, sinking your weight onto him.

“How was it, baby? Gimme the skinny,” Jake says, pushing your hair behind your ears as you situate yourself on his lap, hands on his chest. “Don’t spare any details.”

“It was fucking groovy! Just, like, hours of fucking and then a round of applause and a paycheck at the end of it,” you tell Jake, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. “Look at this.”

You reach into your bra, grab the check, then wave it in front of Jake’s face with a flush over your chest and throat. Jake feigns impression, letting a low whistle fill the room as he reads the paper.

“You’re a rich lady!” He grins.

“Won’t need us to buy your threads anymore,” Rooster sighs, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “Gonna get rid of us?”

You scoff, letting yourself fall back until your head is on Rooster’s lap with your hips still planted over Jake’s.

“Nah,” you tell Rooster, tracing the smile that’s biting his lips with a careful finger. “Need you to show me how to open a bank account. And someone to buy me caviar.”

Rooster bites down softly on your finger and you laugh, kissing his arms and chest.

“Was it just you two?” Jake asks, drifting his finger from your belly button up your chest.

You shiver at his touch--you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to being touched so much all the time. You love it. It makes you feel like you’re living in a dream, something wrapped in cotton and confetti.

“Yeah, man,” Rooster answers. “It was her first gig. Dennis wouldn’t throw her to the wolves like that.”

He’s not telling the truth--Dennis would throw you to the wolves like that and very easily, too. Dennis tossed around the idea of today’s shoot featuring Rooster and three other men--all of which would run a train on you. But Rooster carefully coaxed Dennis away from the idea over coffee a few days ago, convincing Dennis that just you and Rooster would sell just as much as a gang-bang.

He doesn’t want to scare you, though--not when you’re already diving head first into this industry and his life. He’s guilty, almost, knowing that he isn’t telling the full truth. But he figures that as long as he’s around, you’ll be okay. You’ll be good. He’s too fond of you to let anything bad happen. And, anyway, wasn’t he the one that sat behind you and let you sign that contract?

Jake knows Rooster is bullshitting, at least a little bit. But it isn’t his prerogative to shed light on his friend’s discrepancy.

“Well, we’ve gotta celebrate somehow,” Jake tells you, squeezing your hips.

“I already had my first In-N-Out burger,” you grin, patting your belly. “What else could I possibly want?”

Rooster pinches your cheek and you grin up at him. You’re teasing him--he loves that you’re always teasing him.

“Let’s go to Bell Bottoms!” Jake says suddenly, a grin devouring his face. When you perch a brow at him, when Rooster sighs, he continues, “It’s the best disco joint in LA.”

At the sheer notion of going to the disco, your body is on fire. You’ve always wanted to go to the disco: dancing, drinking, sweating, singing, fucking. It all sounds so fucking glamorous. Your toes are numb just thinking about stepping into that foggy joint, just thinking about grinding yourself between Jake and Rooster.

But Rooster doesn’t like the disco.

He’s frowning, watching your body tense with excitement, watching Jake grin at you and twirl your hair around his fingers.

“Oh,” Jake suddenly says, catching Rooster’s less-than-enthused gaze. He glances at you and then nods to Rooster’s frown. “Forgot the old man doesn’t like the disco.”

Fuck.

You shoot around, bottom lip puckered and eyes wide. You scramble to move yourself onto Rooster’s lap, straddling him, sinking your fingers into his hair. Helplessly, he holds onto your hips and lets your weight sway him.

“C’mon, Daddy Warbucks,” you whine, nudging your nose against his, “take your little orphan out for a spin! C’mon! I’ve got boogie shoes now!”

“We’ll make it worth your while,” Jake adds from behind you, smiling at Rooster. “And by that I mean the first round is on Cherry!”

You nod vehemently--you have the money now and you intend to spend it on the people that you love. And you love Jake and Rooster; you love them so much that your heart could burst.

Rooster contemplates for a moment, still frowning. You’re kissing all over his face now like a puppy, muttering out little please’s as you cuddle up against his warm form.

“C’mon,” Jake encourages, smoothing his mustache. “She’s never been to the disco! Take this girl dancing!”

Rooster looks at you, pouting and smiling all at the same time, and then sighs. How could he ever say no to you? This might be an issue.

“Alright,” Rooster relents, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take you dancing, kid.”

Just as you finish shimmying your mascara on your lashes, Rooster appears in the mirror behind you. He’s wearing a suede jacket and a tight-knit sweater, his shades low on his nose and his curls gelled.

“Well, well, well,” you tease, smiling at him through your reflection, “you clean up mighty nice, Rooster.”

He crosses his arms, leaning against the door. He would tease you back if he could get his voice to work--but he can’t, not when you look as fucking beautiful as you do right now. Your eyes are glittery and big, your cheeks are pink, your chest is glimmering, your heels are high, and your hair is perfectly straight. You look much older right now than you did earlier on set--thank God. Rooster doesn’t like it when you look like such a young thing.

“So I’ve been told,” he finally breathes, letting his eyes drag down your body. “You look dynamite, baby.”

You shake your ass at him a bit, grinning. You’re so excited that your nerves are vibrating. It was difficult to apply your eyeshadow with the tremble in your hands, but you did it. And now you’re almost bouncing.

“Thanks,” you tell him, carefully applying lip gloss. “Like the dress?”

Your dress is the color of a tangerine, made entirely of sequins. The neckline dips low and the hem stops short on your thighs. But the sleeves--the sleeves fan out elegantly into bells. It’s a perfect dress, one that you bought without even trying on because you just knew.

“Shit yeah,” Rooster grunts, smoothing his fingers down your arm.

You grin.

He watches you silently, just breathing you in. Everybody’s gonna want you at Bell Bottoms. Everybody already wants you anywhere, everywhere. And he knows that you aren’t his to keep--you’re not anyone’s to keep--but he wants to keep you here, in his house, close to him.

“How many times’ve we fucked now?” Rooster asks softly.

Humming, you scrunch your brows.

“Well, what do you classify as fucking?”

“Full penetration,” Rooster answers.

You laugh.

“Hmm,” you start, tutting. “Well, there was the first time in the office--you know, with Dennis. And then, what, about a dozen times since? Twice on New Years. Once today, right? So, like, I don’t know. A steady fifteen? Twenty?”

He hums, swallowing. He can hear Jake in the living room, rummaging through the bar and making himself some cocktail that he shouldn’t be mixing with all the cocaine he’s ingested.

“Right,” Rooster nods. He steadies himself on his feet, clearing his throat. “So, you like fucking me then, right?”

He hasn’t ever asked anyone that in his life because he’s always just known. And, really, he knows that you do enjoy fucking him. He’s asking because of earlier. He’s asking because you dropped everything in your hands to run to Jake, to kiss Jake, to love on Jake. And it isn’t necessarily that he’s jealous--but envious. He’s envious. You haven't truly gotten the opportunity to miss Rooster yet and he knows that. But his heart is heavy now and he wants to hear you say it: you like fucking him.

You pause immediately, letting your eyes fall to his in the mirror. He’s looking at you completely earnestly, maybe even a bit sheepishly. But he isn’t letting his gaze falter, isn’t letting his eyes fall from your pretty ones.

“Roo,” you start softly, finally facing him and letting your back rest against the sink, “I don’t like fucking you. I love fucking you.”

His cheeks grow warm with delight. But you’re looking at him very seriously, your brows knit and your head tilted. You’re very serious about what you’ve just said--because you’re very serious about sex.

“Just had to make sure I was going your speed,” Rooster says, trying to sound casual. He doesn’t, though. “Don’t want you to have to fuck, you know, an old man.”

You feel it then--guilt. It’s like a warm glass of water being poured down the front of your dress and settling in a puddle at your heels.

“Oh, baby,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. He’s still blinking sheepishly, his heart sitting in his throat, as you stroke his face gently. “I don’t have to fuck anyone. Not outside of work, right? I want to fuck you. I always want to fuck you, baby.”

You’re telling the truth. Rooster is the best sex you’ve ever had in your life and it doesn’t really come close. Sure, you like fucking Jake and you liked fucking all those other men back home. But with Rooster it’s different--he’s attentive and driven, almost gentlemanly in his insistence that you cum before he does.

Rooster is searching your face: your knit brows, your pouty lips, your glassy eyes. He knows you’re telling the truth. He’s embarrassed for a moment that he even asked and gave himself away, but then you’re pressing your lips against his, curling your fingers in his hair.

“You’re the fucking man,” you whisper against his lips, your breath hot and sultry against his mouth.

He moans without even meaning to, his fingers digging into the rough sequins on your hips. Jesus fucking Christ--just to hear it fall from your lips, it makes his spine tingle. You recognize the chill, you see the way his eyes flutter shut, you see the way his breathing stutters. He likes it. What man wouldn’t like his ego stroked just a little bit?

“Oh, Cherry,” he mutters against your lips, smiling softly. His mustache rubs against your Cupid’s bow just right, getting mucked with gloss. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t want to ask you to say it again--but he wants to hear it again. Just the notion that the coolest fucking girl he knows thinks so highly of him makes his entire lower half go practically numb.

“You’re the fucking man, Bradley,” you tell him, really meaning it. You’ve used his real name very sparingly since he gave it to you a couple days ago--you just think Rooster suits him. But when he hears you say it, his head tips back and his jaw goes slack. “I mean it, baby, I’m not fucking with you.”

You can feel his hardening cock pressing against your dress now and it makes you smile. Just your words, just your breath, just this dress and it’s enough to make him hard. And that thought makes you wet again, makes your thighs press together.

Maybe you’re aroused, too, because of how fervently you mean it. You don’t like to stroke men’s egos if you think you’re not going to get anything from them. You like being fucked by men and you like penises, but you don’t necessarily like men. But Rooster--God, he might be one of the best people you’ve ever met. You know already, just like you know every day that California is where you’re supposed to be, that you’re going to know him for a long time. And he’s the fucking man.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bradley mutters, pressing your body against his. He’s thinking about the very first night you were here, when he picked your name, when you told him to imagine you were having sex again, when you got him started and left him out to dry. “You’re a fucking minx.”

“You’re not an old man,” you tell him, kissing his lips gently. His mouth is warm and wet and your gloss is transferring to his lips now. “But you’re my old man, right?”

You don’t know what you mean other than this is how you’re asking him if he’ll take care of you. You want him to take care of you--you want it more than anything in the world, you think.

He isn’t sure what you’re asking. But he nods, pulling you tight against his body.

“I’m whatever you want me to be,” he says against your lips.

You like to hear men say that to you--but Rooster might be the first. Now you’re the one with a quivering chin, with a tingle running up your spine. Fuck.

By the time Jake comes round to your room, his hair freshly combed and his nose freshly blown, you’re pressing lingering kisses all along Bradley’s bare thighs and swallowing his thick ropes of cum. He’s leaning back against the door, his hands tangled in your hair, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every thick breath he takes.

“I leave for a couple minutes and the two of you go at it again?” Jake asks, grinning at you and leaning against the doorframe.

You press your face against Bradley’s warm thigh and sigh into all his expansive skin covering all that hard muscle. Even just blowing him, even just letting the head of his cock press into the back of your throat, even just swallowing his cum--it makes you feel closer to him. It makes you feel good.

Rooster still has blood rushing past his ears from cumming so hard. It happened quickly, which isn’t something that happens often. You’re good with your mouth, though--too good almost.

“Fuck off,” Rooster grunts, panting still. He’s stroking your hair now as you just rest against his thigh. “Make yourself useful and get the car started, huh?”

At that, Rooster tosses Hangman the keys. Hangman looks down at you, waiting for you to grin up at him or invite him on his knees beside you--but your eyes are shut. You’re just resting against the bare skin of Bradley’s thigh like it’s where you belong. You don’t even mind that you’re on your knees.

Then it’s quiet again. It’s just you and Rooster and your lip gloss is smeared and he’s almost naked before you. There’s no hurry, there’s no rush. Things are just calm. He’s petting your hair, smoothing his palm over your silky hair over and over again.

“Thank you,” you mumble to him, glancing up at him.

Your eyes are heavy-lidded and sweet.

Rooster’s throat is tight.

“Kid, why are you thanking me?” He laughs, swiping his thumb across your jaw. “I should be thanking you.”

No one has ever thanked you for blowing them before. Your heart feels fuzzy, fuzzy and warm. You don’t know why you do it--why you wrap your arms around his leg and hug him close to your body, but you do. He doesn’t say anything about the sequins digging into his thighs and doesn’t think it’s strange that you’re hugging him.

But when he’s all the way up there and you’re all the way down there, you look smaller than you ever have in his eyes before. A small and beautiful thing, holding him against you, relishing in the feeling of his leg hair against your soft cheek.

You’ve hugged a man’s leg like this before. Just one time, not very long ago. Except he was not naked and you did not have a pretty dress on. You were crying and he was, too. It doesn’t matter now, though, because with each day that flits past, you’re certain that you’ll never see that man again. Your daddy will stay in Nebraska and you’ll stay here.

“Roo,” you whisper, “I wanna die in California.”

His breath catches between his teeth. You say it with such calmness--you aren’t sad, you aren’t mourning. You’re just telling him something.

“You will,” he says softly. “Eighty years from now.”

You hum for a moment. Eighty years of this. Eighty years of his skin against yours. Eighty years of falling in love and getting fucked and eating burgers and getting paychecks.

You sit back finally, lean your cheek into his palm. His eyes are soft, swimming with fondness. But he’s trying to read that strange serene expression all over your face.

Softly, he wipes the wet mascara from under your eyes. When you kiss his fingers, rubbing your face against his hand like a loving cat, he nearly weeps at the softness that overwhelms his being.

“You’ll stay with me, won’t you?” You ask, lashes battering against your cheeks.

Men don’t stay with you forever. Not usually. Not before.

“Where else would I go, kid?” He whispers.

That’s a good enough answer for now. You’re the one that pulls his pants up, you’re the one that fastens his belt and zips his zipper. You’re the one that helps him tuck his sweater back into his pants.

“You know earlier, when I said thank you?” You ask as he helps you to your feet. He pulls you against his body, nodding gently as you cup his cheek. “I mean it. Thank you. For, you know…everything.”

“It’s all gravy, baby,” he says, his breath fanning out over your face.

Your thumb is rubbing the rough skin of his cheek soothingly like you’ve always been doing this.

“Good. Because I don’t think you can get rid of me.”

Bell Bottoms is busy. Wall to wall, floor to mirrored ceiling, there are people dancing. It’s a sea of sweaty bodies dressed in corduroy and suede and silk and satin. It’s too dark to make out anyone’s face, too dark to differentiate one person from the other.

It’s a smaller building--which Jake tells you makes it more exclusive. The bouncer, a big hulking man with a big hulking beard, claps Jake on the shoulder and lets all three of you past the velvet rope. And inside, everything is purple, red, green, yellow, blue, pink. It’s a kaleidoscope of neon, dazzling the velvet walls and the silver mirror balls on the ceiling.

Get Down Tonight by KC & The Sunshine Band is pulsing through the speakers. It’s so loud that you can feel every single word in your chest, in the soles of your feet.

“I’ll grab us some drinks,” Rooster yells into your ear, manually stuffing your hand into Jake’s as Jake looks around excitedly, bobbing on his feet. Then he comes close to Jake’s ear and shouts, “Don’t let her go, man, alright?”

And then Rooster is gone, shuffling through the sweaty bodies and hair and stepping in puddles of tequila that have been sloshed onto the floor.

“Alright, baby,” Jake calls to you, holding both your hands in his and pulling your body against his. He’s high--excited, jittery. You look fucking beautiful in the dim glow of the room, like you’re a sculpture they had made for this exact spot. “You wanna bump?”

Sinking your teeth into your lip, you nod excitedly. You’ve been waiting for him to ask.

Honey, honey, me and you / And do the things / Ah, do the things / That we like to do

He shuffles the two of you against the wall and cages you in with his body. You’re grinning, kissing his face and sneaking peeks over his shoulder at the hustling crowd, the very lining of your stomach vibrating with excitement.

Jake’s happy that you want another bump--Bradley won’t ever get high with him and neither will any of the other friends. Maybe they’re all too old--or they think they’re too old--but you seem to be just the right age. Excited, young, new.

He tangles with the buttermints canister for a moment before he dabs his finger inside of it and then brings it to your lips. You’re already ready, grinning, barring your teeth for him.

“You’re so fucking foxy,” he mutters, pressing his finger against your gums.

There’s some sort of blissful relief in the movement of his finger in your mouth. The familiar taste of his skin and the new taste of flower petals on your tongue--you love it. You aren’t sure if you love it because it gets you high or if it’s because Jake is touching you.

“There you go, baby,” he mutters to you, eyes heavy-lidded. “That’s gonna feel real nice when you’re dancing, huh?”

Oh, do a little dance / Make a little love / Get down tonight, get down tonight

When Bradley wanders back to the spot he left you, holding three glasses in his big hands, he can’t find you or Jake. But it only takes a moment or two before he sees you on the dance floor: you’re easy to spot when you’re the life of the party.

And boy, are you the life of the party.

You’re in the middle of the neon dance floor, your dress reflecting every bit of technicolor that shines on you sporadically. You’re dancing like your life depends on it, throwing your hair back, leaving your throat open and your face serious. Every single swing of your hips, sway of your shoulders, bounce of your breasts--it’s enchanting.

Jake’s right there with you, hands on your waist as you two grind against each other and everyone around you. He’s fucking high--he feels great and he knows you do, too. You’re a good dancer and he knows he is, too. He feels like the two of you are made for each other.

Do a little dance / Make a little love / Get down tonight (Whoo), get down tonight (Baby)

And again, Rooster gets that feeling when he looks at you. You look tougher than everyone here--more beautiful, too. He thinks about you saying you want to die in California and his toes grow cold. He sits in a booth, leaves your drink close to his, and starts sipping on his Tom Collins.

“I feel so fucking good,” you call to Jake, hands over his shoulders. Your heart is pounding and you’re sweating, but you feel like you can do anything right now. “Do I look so fucking good?”

Jake grins, nodding fervently.

“You’re the hottest fucking thing this dance floor’s ever seen!”

You laugh loudly, tipping your head back.

Everyone is singing along and grooving, jiving. Everyone is touching you seemingly, the entire crowd moving in tandem. And when people touch you, you feel like they love you. Everybody loves Cherry Arsan. And Cherry Arsan loves everybody, too.

“Let’s never leave each other,” you tell Jake, all the affection sitting hot in your chest suddenly spilling out of your mouth. Your eyes are teary as you hold his cheeks in your hands, still moving your shoulders along with the song. “Let’s just always be like this, alright?”

“I wouldn’t leave you,” Jake says, his heart racing. “I fucking love you, Cherry!”

A certain pleasure prickles your skin at the words.

He loves you--he means it. You know that.

“Say it again,” you moan, biting your lip.

“I fucking love you,” Jake grins, peppering your face with kisses.

It’s all you’ve really ever wanted--to be loved, adored.

And because he’s high and he feels invincible and because you’re high and anything goes, you let him lift you. He wraps his arms around your thighs and you laugh wildly, bracing yourself against his shoulders. And then you’re up above everyone else, spinning, your head tipped back.

You can see your reflection in the disco ball above you, all one thousand little squares of you. You’re fucking beautiful. Jake sinks his face into your belly and inhales you, grinning. He feels you flex with delighted laughter and holds you tighter.

Then your head lulls at the perfect moment--you see Rooster sitting at a booth by himself, three glasses before him. He’s watching you, a smile tugging at his lips. You wave at him wildly, blowing him kisses and throwing your hair behind you.

“I love you!” You call to Rooster, but it’s lost in the sound of the music. He doesn’t hear you. But you keep calling it to him. “I fucking love you!”

It’s well past three in the morning when Rooster carries you inside the house, Jake trailing behind him with a broken Elvis song falling from his lips. No one is entirely sober, least of all you and Jake.

Almost all your makeup has melted off and your hair is matted to your face where you sweated from dancing all night. Jake’s holding your shoes and you’re softly scratching the back of Rooster’s neck, head on his shoulder, with your legs wrapped around his hips.

“Wanna another drink?” Jake asks you, slurring slightly, as he toes his shoes off and closes the front door behind him.

Rooster scoffs.

“Man, you need to sleep it off,” Rooster says, frowning when you nod at Jake. “You, too, Saturday Night Fever.”

“S’Wednesday,” you retort brokenly, yawning.

Rooster rolls his eyes, carrying you to the couch as you kiss his neck.

“It’s Thursday, baby,” he corrects.

Jake is already rummaging around the bar, still singing to himself. He’s fading fast, he can feel it. But he wants to keep the party going--wants to feel all that life thrumming in his body, pulsing through his veins.

“Got anymore Aperol?” Jake asks, vision bleary as he knocks into a few bottles ineffectively.

Rooster sits on the sofa, expecting you to climb off him and sprawl you--you don’t, though. You just stay connected to him, your breaths hot and damp against his shoulder. He hugs you close to him, humming. You’re gonna have a Hell of a time tomorrow.

“No,” Rooster lies. He wants Jake to just settle in for the night. “Why don’t you go take a shower, man? You’ll sober up.”

“Don’t want to sober up,” Jake sighs, grabbing a glass and pouring the first liquor he can paw in it. “Sobriety’s for squares.”

“I approve this message,” you mutter, blindly throwing a thumbs up in the air.

Rooster scoffs.

You sit up a bit, just enough to press your forehead against Rooster’s. You’re crashing--fading fast, he can tell. Now that the blow has worn off and the alcohol has settled in your belly, you’re almost done for. Your eyes are heavy and your limbs ache and your feet are sore, but you’re still so happy.

“You didn’t dance with me,” you whine, pressing your fingers into Rooster’s cheeks.

“I don’t dance, kid,” Rooster says gently, stroking your flushed cheek.

“But don’t you break all the rules for me?” You pout, tracing his amused smile.

Jake sinks into the sofa beside the two of you, sipping on lukewarm peppermint schnapps. It’s even warmer going down, spreading across his belly.

“Sometimes I do,” Rooster says softly, swiping the smudged lip gloss off your chin.

“Jakey danced with me,” you grin lazily, glancing at Jake, who’s humming with his eyes fallen shut. “He said he loved me, didn’t you?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Jake grins, peeking an eye open to tussle your hair.

Rooster’s heart skitters for a moment.

“See,” you pout, turning back to Rooster. You hold onto his shoulders, rub your nose into his. “Jake dances with me and he loves me. Don’t you love me, baby?”

Rooster swallows thickly.

“Of course I love you, baby,” he answers.

He’s thinking about when the three of you sat on this sofa not long ago--when you and Rooster admitted to never being in love, when Jake talked about Gentry. He’s thinking about the way he watches you lay on Jake, the way you slinked away from him and into his arms. And he holds you tighter now, pressing his lips to yours. You taste like salt and sweat and vodka, your lips plump with sleep.

He isn’t gonna let go of you tonight. He’s gonna stay right here, holding you against him. Because he does--of course he does--love you. He is almost entirely sure of it. Maybe not in the way he thought he would love someone, but in a way that makes his eyes heavy with salt.

“I know it,” you mutter to him, stroking his curls. “I know it.”

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: omg!!! the disco!! in this economy?? it's more likely than you think!!

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

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269 notes · View notes

hannahhook7744 · 1 year

Text

Quinzel brothers only in Gotham bio (redone);

Name: Lucifer "Lu" Felix Quinzel.

Age: 16 years old.

Pronouns: He/Him.

Gender: Cisgender male.

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Notes:

Calling him by his first name instead of his nickname will get you slapped.

Commenting on his eyes will get you smacked.

Participating in 'Kick a ginger day' will get you kicked right back.

He hates his hair, eyes, and name.

He likes angry and sad music.

He is one of the many children of Harleen Quinzel and the joker.

He is in the following clubs: The Global Villain Kid Support Club, Gymnastics Club, Martial Arts Club, Drama Club, Movie Club, Cards Club, and Comedy Club.

Liu likes building joke shop items and Jack in the boxes.

He is single for now.

He grew up with his grandparents until his youngest siblings—Jackie and Bryce—were born and his mother finally left his dad.

Harley fisted alot though and sent money for his, Emoji, and Joseph's care.

He did not know he had a twin that was being raised by Ivy until his mom left his dad.

He also didn't know that Lucy was his bio sister and not his bio cousin until then either.

After Harley left his dad, she moved him, Ace, Ivy, Ivy's kids, him, Emoji, and Joseph into the apartment building her uncle left her after his death.

Liu loves Hamilton the musical and stars.

He also always wears 3D glasses to cover up his mismatched eyes.

He has Heterochromia—which caused him to be born with one blue eye and one red eye.

He loves paint balloons and hates his name.

He and his family are Jewish.

He is terrible at chemistry but wonderful at psychology.

He resents his dad greatly.

He is also debating changing his name when he's 18.

Liu works at the movie theater and sometimes he takes up temporary jobs at passing by circuses.

He wants to be a dagger thrower at the circus when he grows up.

His superhero name is Karma.

He's allergic to anesthesia and corn.

His bestfriends are his twin brother, Ace, alongside Juke Jones (A Red Lantern) and Aster Cutter (Drawback).

His favorite classes are psychology and art.

His weapon of choice is throwing knives.

His family:

Frances Quinzel Sr. (Maternal Great Grandfather),

Phyllis Quinzel (Maternal Great Grandmother),

Nicholas Quinzel Sr. (Maternal Grandfather),

Sharon Quinzel (Maternal Grandmother),

Louis Quinzel (Maternal Great Uncle),

Alice Quinzel (Maternal Great Aunt by Marriage),

Harleen Quinzel (Biological Mother),

Delia Quinzel the 1st (Maternal Aunt),

Bartholomew Quinzel (Maternal Uncle),

Frances Quinzel Jr. (Maternal Uncle),

Ezekial Quinzel (Maternal Uncle),

Nickolas Quinzel Jr. (Maternal Cousin Via Barry),

Jennifer Quinzel (Maternal Cousin Via Barry),

Lila Valeska (Paternal Grandmother),

Zachary Trumble (Parental Great Uncle),

Paul Cicero (Paternal Grandfather),

Jeremiah Cicero Valeska (Paternal Uncle),

Joker/Jack Napier/ Jerome Valeska (Biological Father),

Bethany (Paternal Step-Mother),

Pamela Isley (Maternal Step-Mother),

Jeremiah Fleck (Older Paternal Half Brother),

Lonnie Machin (Older Paternal Half Brother),

Joker Quinzel Jr. (Full Older Brother),

Lucille Quinzel (Full Older Sister and Adoptive Maternal Cousin Via Delia),

Teresa Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Rose Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Thorn Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Hazel Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Ace Quinzel (Full Twin Brother),

Emoji Jeune Quinzel (Full Younger Brother),

Joseph King Quinzel (Full Younger Brother),

Sofia (Younger Paternal Step-Sister),

Benicio (Younger Paternal Step-Brother),

Jackie Napier (Full Younger Sister),

Bryce Napier (Full Younger Brother),

Ivan Isley (Maternal Younger Step-Brother),

Delia Dennis the 2nd (Daughter) ,

Deidre Dennis (Daughter),

Anthony Delfini (Godfather),

Calliope (Pet Monkey),

Rover (Pet Mutant Venus Fly Trap),

Budsie (Pet Hyena),

And Louie (Pet Hyena).

Name: Emoji Jeune Quinzel.

Age: 15 years old.

Pronouns: He/Him.

Gender: Cisgender male.

Sexuality: Pansexual.

Notes:

Unlike his older brother, Lucifer, Emoji actually likes his name.

He gets along great with his siblings and is usually the mediator between them and sometimes their friends.

Skylar Kyle and Lee-Lee Willis are his best friends.

He loves smiley faces and they take up a good portion of his wardrobe.

He loves pulling pranks, playing cards, and riding his bike.

Emoji also has quite the sweet tooth.

Emoji decorates his clothes with paint and patches.

His best classes are art and music.

His weapon of choice is a mallet.

Emoji is also a fan of croquet, parkour, dancing, singing, cards, and board games.

He likes happy sounding and funny music.

His superhero alias is Happy.

He is less of a sourpuss compared to Lucifer and less temperamental than him too.

He also has almost no bloodlust at all.

He is friendly and hyperactive and a well-behaved, albeit horrible student due to his short attention span and lack of interest in school-related things.

He is in choir, drama club, band, the comedy club, the DND club, and the Global Villain Kid Support Club.

He wears a pair of smiley face sunglasses that Harley gave him when he was little.

He lives with his siblings and mom in the apartment building they live in.

He is single for now.

Emoji also hates their dad just as much as his siblings do but since he doesn't want his siblings to go to jail he keeps them from killing their father.

He has no allergies.

Emoji wants to be an art teacher when he grows up.

His family:

Great Grandpa Frances Quinzel Sr. (Maternal Great Grandfather),

Great Grandma Phyllis Quinzel (Maternal Great Grandmother),

Nicholas Quinzel Sr. (Maternal Grandfather),

Sharon Quinzel (Maternal Grandmother),

Louis Quinzel (Maternal Great Uncle),

Alice Quinzel (Maternal Great Aunt by Marriage),

Harleen Quinzel (Biological Mother),

Delia Quinzel the 1st (Maternal Aunt),

Bartholomew Quinzel (Maternal Uncle),

Frances Quinzel Jr. (Maternal Uncle),

Ezekial Quinzel (Maternal Uncle),

Nickolas Quinzel Jr. (Maternal Cousin Via Barry),

Jennifer Quinzel (Maternal Cousin Via Barry),

Lila Valeska (Paternal Grandmother),

Zachary Trumble (Parental Great Uncle),

Paul Cicero (Paternal Grandfather),

Jeremiah Cicero Valeska (Paternal Uncle),

Joker/Jack Napier/ Jerome Valeska (Biological Father),

Bethany (Paternal Step-Mother),

Pamela Isley (Maternal Step-Mother),

Jeremiah Napier (Older Paternal Half Brother),

Lonnie Machin (Older Paternal Half Brother),

Joker Quinzel Jr. (Full Older Brother),

Lucille Quinzel (Full Older Sister and Adoptive Maternal Cousin Via Delia),

Teresa Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Rose Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Thorn Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Hazel Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Ace Quinzel (Full Twin Brother),

Lucifer Felix Quinzel (Full Older Brother),

Joseph King Quinzel (Full Younger Brother),

Sofia (Younger Paternal Step-Sister),

Benicio (Younger Paternal Step-Brother),

Jackie Napier (Full Younger Sister),

Bryce Napier (Full Younger Brother),

Ivan Isley (Maternal Younger Step-Brother),

Delia Dennis the 2nd (Maternal Niece via Lucifer) ,

Deidre Dennis (Maternal Niece via Lucifer),

Anthony Delfini (Godfather),

Calliope (Pet Monkey),

Rover (Pet Mutant Venus Fly Trap),

Budsie (Pet Hyena),

And Louie (Pet Hyena).

Name: Joseph King Quinzel.

Age: 14 years old.

Pronouns: He/Him.

Gender: Cisgender male.

Sexuality: Aroace (aromantic asexual).

Notes:

Joseph also goes by Jo, Joey, Joey King, and Jo King.

His superhero alias is April Fools King, April fools for short.

April Fools is his and his brothers' favorite holiday.

Him, Emoji, and Liu all have ADHD.

He finds his name funny and takes great joy in introducing himself as 'Jo King' to people.

He took like prank shop items and clowns.

Joseph also wears purple and green 3D glasses.

His bestfriends are Linus Luthor, Lylod Snart, Eleanor Nygma, Ivan Isley, and Achilles Emerson.

He's playful with a temper and thinks he's funnier than Liu.

He also enjoys riling Liu up in several ways. Especially when it comes to his name.

He does well in school. Far better than his brothers.

He is a ball at parties.

Joseph is apart of the comedy club, the gymnastics club, the drama club, the dnd club, and the baseball team.

I he lijes pranking, acting, dancing, singing, playing games, playing with my pets, playing baseball, sleeping, parkour, go karting with his family and friends, and telling jokes.

He is allergic to fish.

His favorite colors are green and purple despite his hatred of his dad.

Joseph wants to be a pro baseball player when he grows up.

His family:

Great Grandpa Frances Quinzel Sr. (Maternal Great Grandfather),

Great Grandma Phyllis Quinzel (Maternal Great Grandmother),

Nicholas Quinzel Sr. (Maternal Grandfather),

Sharon Quinzel (Maternal Grandmother),

Louis Quinzel (Maternal Great Uncle),

Alice Quinzel (Maternal Great Aunt by Marriage),

Harleen Quinzel (Biological Mother),

Delia Quinzel the 1st (Maternal Aunt),

Bartholomew Quinzel (Maternal Uncle),

Frances Quinzel Jr. (Maternal Uncle),

Ezekial Quinzel (Maternal Uncle),

Nickolas Quinzel Jr. (Maternal Cousin Via Barry),

Jennifer Quinzel (Maternal Cousin Via Barry),

Lila Valeska (Paternal Grandmother),

Zachary Trumble (Parental Great Uncle),

Paul Cicero (Paternal Grandfather),

Jeremiah Cicero Valeska (Paternal Uncle),

Joker/Jack Napier/ Jerome Valeska (Biological Father),

Bethany (Paternal Step-Mother),

Pamela Isley (Maternal Step-Mother),

Jeremiah Napier (Older Paternal Half Brother),

Lonnie Machin (Older Paternal Half Brother),

Joker Quinzel Jr. (Full Older Brother),

Lucille Quinzel (Full Older Sister and Adoptive Maternal Cousin Via Delia),

Teresa Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Rose Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Thorn Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Hazel Isley (Maternal Older Step-Sister),

Ace Quinzel (Full Twin Brother),

Lucifer Felix Quinzel (Full Older Brother),

Emoji Jeune Quinzel (Full Older Brother),

Sofia (Younger Paternal Step-Sister),

Benicio (Younger Paternal Step-Brother),

Jackie Napier (Full Younger Sister),

Bryce Napier (Full Younger Brother),

Ivan Isley (Maternal Younger Step-Brother),

Delia Dennis the 2nd (Maternal Niece via Lucifer) ,

Deidre Dennis (Maternal Niece via Lucifer),

Anthony Delfini (Godfather),

Calliope (Pet Monkey),

Rover (Pet Mutant Venus Fly Trap),

Budsie (Pet Hyena),

And Louie (Pet Hyena).

This is a mix of Harley Quin and Joker medias.

Dc Rp friends; @gotham-is-fucking-weird @gothams-new-hero @christelgothamite @gotham-its-seven-in-the-morning @formerarkhampsychologist @gotham-bitch etc.

#only in gotham #only in gotham bio #onlyingotham #children of joker and harely quinn #dc ocs #dc original characters #dc fanon #dc original character #my original characters #original characters

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throttlegainwell · 7 months

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Man, the backstory I've given Joyce in the pdwm-'verse is just so mean. It's like their current situation: there's more than just one thing going on, and different dynamics with each parent, but it's all dysfunctional and not good. Except both of her parents objectively suck, whereas at least Joyce is trying and definitely gets it right sometimes.

I stand by it, in the sense that I'm pretty convinced she had a childhood ranging anywhere from dysfunctional but not wildly traumatic to just abjectly shitty. But I do feel bad about it.

(Spoilers for Joyce's backstory in pdwm below cut)

Warnings below for CSA/incest, loss of a child, parental abandonment, and emotional abuse/domestic violence. Also this is very long. Sorry.

So here's the backstory for Joyce in this 'verse--which doesn't come up a lot because she doesn't like to talk about it, so I'm trying to decide how reasonable it is for her to mention any of this to Karen, whether she's drunk and emotional about Lonnie leaving or not. I may end up having to leave it for that future fic I'm going to do, where we check back in with Joyce down the road.

Her parents lost a child before she was born (probably a childhood illness). This pretty much shaped her whole childhood. (She promised herself that she would never ignore one kid because she was so focused on the other, but she was thinking of the scenario she experienced, where one of those kids sucked up all the oxygen because they were gone--she didn't fully comprehend what that would look like with two children who both still needed her at the same time, until it had already been going on for a while. And by then she didn't really know what to do about it.) They were mostly checked out and withdrawn, though her mother also became a privately very angry person and sometimes borderline emotionally abusive, though not with any predictability. They just didn't really connect, at best, and she would unexpectedly lash out at Joyce, at worst; she could be overly critical. Her father was nicer and clearly cared about her, but he was just emotionally unavailable. She really didn't get a lot from them, even though she wouldn't characterize them as outwardly abusive (though her mother was, in some ways). They were kind of dysfunctional as people and as a couple before this, but the loss definitely exacerbated all of it.

But her parents' relationship tanked after they lost their child, and even though they had Joyce, they never really recovered. They were worse to each other than they were to her, with her mother sometimes becoming physically aggressive and verbally abusive toward her father and her father just kind of clueless. It was a lot of long stretches of loneliness punctuated by brief periods of chaos. The father was kind of in and out, until he just kind of stopped coming back, but because he still called sometimes and sent money back to them, no one would really admit that he'd abandoned them. Obviously Lonnie's abandonment touches a nerve; this is part of why she really wants her kids to have a relationship with their father, even though that father sucks.

By the time Joyce is 14 or 15, her mother has actually secured a pretty good job for the first time, and they're able to rent a small house. (This is why her mom wanted a portrait that year--she was proud that they finally had some kind of stability.) They really intended to be in that house for a while. This is when her maternal uncle, Dennis, comes to stay with them, and it's where the CSA warning comes into play, and since I already went into that in Iconoclast, I'm not going to get into it here. But I didn't make that decision lightly at all. I really thought very hard about how to accomplish the goals of the story and what seemed like a reasonable backstory, given what we know about her. This is also around the time her dad stopped calling (probably because he died, I dunno, but it's also plausible that he just felt bad and couldn't make himself do it anymore).

They moved around a lot and struggled financially, sometimes very severely. (There's a very brief implication in Iconoclast that Joyce experienced food insecurity as a child, when she notes that Will was starving in the Upside Down and she never wanted her children to know what that felt like--that was intentional. It's also one of the reasons that she's so insistent about feeding her kids and why it's one of her biggest worries about Jonathan. Lonnie knowing how poor she was and not feeding her kids is such a huge slap in the face to her. She probably had nightmares for years where she couldn't feed them and they went hungry. Sorry, found yet another way for Lonnie to be just absolutely godawful.)

This period of financial stability is when they ended up in or around Hawkins, so that's when she'd have met Hopper and Bob, I guess, though I feel like there were some continuity issues there within the show, and I think it'd be fair if she didn't know any of them in high school. She spent as much time as possible at school or out with boys (because she didn't really relate well to girls and they weren't terribly nice to her), and she didn't want to be at home unless she absolutely had to; she regularly got home late, after everyone else was in bed. She already had sort of a reputation, by then.

In any case, after Joyce left home to marry Lonnie--when she was 17 or 18, maybe, and he was a year or two older--her mom lost the job and moved away again in search of someplace cheaper, and Joyce made it clear that she didn't need a forwarding address, so that's the last time they spoke. She kept in contact with that aunt Lonnie mentioned, for a little while, but eventually they lost touch. She had Jonathan when she was 19, almost 20, and by then she'd managed to find a job despite her reputation, though it paid terribly and so she was still pretty reliant on Lonnie at this point (though his income was never stable, so she couldn't easily budget and plan around it).

Anyway, so the point here is that Joyce never really had anyone looking out for her and she never really had anyone to look out for. She was always looking out for herself and kind of a unit of one; she didn't have other siblings, she never stayed in one place long enough to form real social bonds or have any stability, and her parents made it clear that she was alone. So she had to learn how to take care of herself even before her uncle's abuse and her mother's betrayal. It was an unhappy, lonely childhood that she would probably downplay the trauma of if asked, but that undoubtedly sucked and left its mark on her. And it's why she's way more likely to strike out on her own than ever ask for help or rely on others or, frankly, factor them into her planning. She learned all of this as she went along, and basically when she did have access to support or resources, she was savvy and used them, but she very much internalized the lesson that they could be yanked away at any time and so she couldn't get used to them.

It's all just very, very sad, and Joyce absolutely could have been way more messed up than she is. But she looked at all of that and said, you know what, I hated every second of that, and I don't want my kids to feel that way. Which is more than her parents did for her. And she failed to prevent a lot of it, but not all of it. I wouldn't say it's objectively a worse childhood than, say, Jonathan's--I'd say they're just very, very different, and difficult and painful in different ways.

#please don't wake me series #director's commentary #joyce byers #i actually kind of see her being raised by a grandparent or some other extended family member #though in this series she wasn't just because i wanted more direct parallels #and also because again i combined a couple stories

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