Categories > Celebrities > Green Day
Fisrtly, I don't own Green Day, secondly this is cross posted between three other sites. Because apparently I'm a comment whore and I demand attention. So this is the first chapter, and it has non-con(RAPE) so if that makes you uncomfortable leave now.
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Tré Cool was not a whore, he wasn't some horny male Jezebel; he didn't regularly strut around in drag, didn't always edge his band mates into any wicked doings and, despite popular controversy, he most certainly was not the type of man that would go sleeping around with whoever, and whatever was available at the time. True, he's had quite a number of visits during the dark of night when he should of been sleeping. He's experienced blows while his girlfriend was just in the other room, encounters behind the studio building, being roughed up in the back of his own car, hell even the brooms in the many janitor closets of the countless stadiums he's played in have bared witness to the dirty deeds.
But quite frankly; Tré was the innocent one; he had no desires for any of this.
Tré was the victim. He had no control.
His eyes were frantic, scanning the room for any ways of escape as a roughly calloused hand snapped after his arm. He pried himself away before he could be dragged off into the shadows the moonlight couldn't reach, "W-where's Billie...?" He asked as he evaded the arms that reached for him again and again; backing away in a futile attempt at increasing the distance between him, and his assailant.
Mike's smile resembled something of pure sinister sneer as he closed in on the frightened drummer. His fingers, as nimble and skilled as if he was playing his bass, popped open each of his shirt buttons one by one. In no time at all, it was hanging open, exposing his bare chest, then arms as he slipped it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor, left forgotten as he got ever so closer. "He stepped out for a few drinks," Mike's face twisted up in a way of horrific glee, "Good riddance, I say."
Tré's heart pounded. He made a break for it, hauling ass past Mike for the phone that lay on the nightstand just beside the bed. But only four steps, and his forearm was caught in Mike's vice grip. The taller male laughed darkly as he yanked his helpless prisoner back, his other arm flying for his shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?"
Tré didn't answer, he shoved his body against Mike's chest for his escape, and was thrown back in return. His body slammed against the severely under looked wall behind him, sliding down the peeling paper, to the dirty carpeting below as he clutched his head in pain. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes, as he was violently pulled to his feet by the slim fingers tangled in his auburn hair. Tré allowed a strangled sob to rip from his tightened throat as he was pressed back against the wall and Mike's leg forced its way between his own. He tried to push him away, and his hair was yanked once again by its roots.
"No Mike, please don't - not tonight - please." He pushed again, this time harder, trying to ignore the pain pulsing through his skull as the bassist kept the knot of hair in his fist; pulling roughly every time the drummer tried to flee. His free hand kept his shoulder pinned to the wall,
"If you would stop fighting," Mike grunted as he pressed himself closer, "this will be more enjoyable for the both of us." Tré didn't listen, he thrashed violently to break away from the bassist's hold. He kicked and screamed as he fought off his friend's bucking hips; his hands clawed at the other's torso, his eyes squeezed shut and the tears started to pour, but it was no use. Mike's grip was unbreakable. No amount of squirming and scratching could -
Mike let him go.
His head was released, his shoulder let go, and the leg remove from between his own. Tré was to shocked, to over whelmed with the joy of being free from the hands, to react any other way, than to stand in complete shock. But when he did open his lightly swollen eyes, he was struck.
A loud slap echoed through the room, and Tré was on the floor. His cheek stinging painfully as his mouth started to fill with that all too familiar taste of copper. He opened his mouth, and a stream of red dripped to the floor, followed by a quiet cry of pain as he tenderly touched the damaged cheek. It hurt so much.
"Don't you ever scratch me again!" Tré was afraid to look up, he kept his head down, shaking with fear and sobs as he curled himself into a protective ball. He hated this, he wanted this to be over now; he just wanted sleep to claim him now, and forget this terrible nightmare. But that wasn't possible, Mike wouldn't allow it,
"Tré," Mike's voice spoke harshly above him, "say something."
"...S-stop, I-I don't - not like th-" A kick into his gut was all it took to shut him up once again. With hot tears streaming down his cheeks, he opened his eyes to find Mike standing above him still, the silver skull buckle of his belt, the very one that had just struck him, shining slightly in the only light coming from the moon outside the window. That same sinister smirk played among Mike's mouth and eyes, making the baby blue's glow with the sickening delight of seeing him this way. Bruised, broken, and losing the fight for his freedom.
The bassist knelled down beside him, "Your arms have proven to be quite a problem," Mike said with a sneer as he lifted the belt to show it with a raised brow, "We'll have to fix that, won't we?"
Tré struggled to crawl away from him, but Mike grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and forced him onto his stomach. He tried to kick him again, but it was no use. With his hands bound behind his back by the leather belt, Mike pulled him up to his knees, and slapped him in the face again. He didn't say anything, just watched as the drummer sobbed again at the pain throughout his face - enjoying the power he held out of just a simple smack across the face.
Slowly, he got to his feet, tugging his jean pants down as he did so. Mike eyed Tré's bloodied mouth with need as he started to rub the tent in his undone pants. The drummer didn't look at him, he bowed his head, only then to have it lifted back up.
"Its been two weeks since the last time..." He trailed as the pad of his thumb crossed over the blood dripping from Tré's mouth, smearing it across his unbruised cheek. He groaned, the pace around his clothed member increasing the slightest bit. "That means this is way over due..." His fingers tauntingly squeezed Tré's lips together, puckering them up as he started to push his pants down past his hips.
"Do you think you deserve any lube this time...?" Tré looked away without an answer.
"I thought so." Mike laughed as he pushed the other down to the floor, his jeans and boxers soon joining him. "Scream, and your mouth is my new fuck toy."
Mike grabbed his stiff dick and gave himself a few good strokes as he walked around Tré's frozen form. Staring at everything from his frightened face, to his curved backside, and his trembling limbs. Mike often forgot why he loved this so much, going after the weak man whenever the chances came, but he was retold his own reasons every time.
"I-I'm gonna t-tell Bi-llie." Tré threatened, hiccuping into the dirty floor, "H-e'll hate y-you, he'll th-throw you out o-of the band."
"Quite honestly Tré, I don't give a damn." Mike glowered as he kicked him, causing a loud yelp to then grace a look of satisfaction across his face. "You're like a broken record - you use the same fucking threat since day one and that's never stopped me before - so let's skip the talk, and get straight to what we both want..."
Mike got down behind his helpless victim, leaving his cock to take hold on the drummer's hips. Tré tried to move away, but the restraints on his hands made that impossible. Mike pulled his ass off the ground and used his hand to push the head of his prick against his asshole. In one go, he stuffed himself into his ass. Tré screamed as he was ripped open for what must of been the hundredth time. His face twisted in pain, blood and tears mixing as they fell from his face, joining the many other stains upon the floor.
The question being, why must Mike do this? Why must he go after the poor man whenever the chance may be, when they were alone? Knock him down to the floor, hurt him with whatever object was in his possesion, force him into such misery and pain that it would reduce him to nothing but blood and tears...?
Simply put; because he could, and no one was ever there to stop him.
Tré Cool wasn't a whore that slept around with anyone. He was just caught at the wrong times, alone and vulnerable, by the worst of people, Mike. He was just an innocent victim of circumstance.
+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+
Tré Cool was not a whore, he wasn't some horny male Jezebel; he didn't regularly strut around in drag, didn't always edge his band mates into any wicked doings and, despite popular controversy, he most certainly was not the type of man that would go sleeping around with whoever, and whatever was available at the time. True, he's had quite a number of visits during the dark of night when he should of been sleeping. He's experienced blows while his girlfriend was just in the other room, encounters behind the studio building, being roughed up in the back of his own car, hell even the brooms in the many janitor closets of the countless stadiums he's played in have bared witness to the dirty deeds.
But quite frankly; Tré was the innocent one; he had no desires for any of this.
Tré was the victim. He had no control.
His eyes were frantic, scanning the room for any ways of escape as a roughly calloused hand snapped after his arm. He pried himself away before he could be dragged off into the shadows the moonlight couldn't reach, "W-where's Billie...?" He asked as he evaded the arms that reached for him again and again; backing away in a futile attempt at increasing the distance between him, and his assailant.
Mike's smile resembled something of pure sinister sneer as he closed in on the frightened drummer. His fingers, as nimble and skilled as if he was playing his bass, popped open each of his shirt buttons one by one. In no time at all, it was hanging open, exposing his bare chest, then arms as he slipped it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor, left forgotten as he got ever so closer. "He stepped out for a few drinks," Mike's face twisted up in a way of horrific glee, "Good riddance, I say."
Tré's heart pounded. He made a break for it, hauling ass past Mike for the phone that lay on the nightstand just beside the bed. But only four steps, and his forearm was caught in Mike's vice grip. The taller male laughed darkly as he yanked his helpless prisoner back, his other arm flying for his shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?"
Tré didn't answer, he shoved his body against Mike's chest for his escape, and was thrown back in return. His body slammed against the severely under looked wall behind him, sliding down the peeling paper, to the dirty carpeting below as he clutched his head in pain. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes, as he was violently pulled to his feet by the slim fingers tangled in his auburn hair. Tré allowed a strangled sob to rip from his tightened throat as he was pressed back against the wall and Mike's leg forced its way between his own. He tried to push him away, and his hair was yanked once again by its roots.
"No Mike, please don't - not tonight - please." He pushed again, this time harder, trying to ignore the pain pulsing through his skull as the bassist kept the knot of hair in his fist; pulling roughly every time the drummer tried to flee. His free hand kept his shoulder pinned to the wall,
"If you would stop fighting," Mike grunted as he pressed himself closer, "this will be more enjoyable for the both of us." Tré didn't listen, he thrashed violently to break away from the bassist's hold. He kicked and screamed as he fought off his friend's bucking hips; his hands clawed at the other's torso, his eyes squeezed shut and the tears started to pour, but it was no use. Mike's grip was unbreakable. No amount of squirming and scratching could -
Mike let him go.
His head was released, his shoulder let go, and the leg remove from between his own. Tré was to shocked, to over whelmed with the joy of being free from the hands, to react any other way, than to stand in complete shock. But when he did open his lightly swollen eyes, he was struck.
A loud slap echoed through the room, and Tré was on the floor. His cheek stinging painfully as his mouth started to fill with that all too familiar taste of copper. He opened his mouth, and a stream of red dripped to the floor, followed by a quiet cry of pain as he tenderly touched the damaged cheek. It hurt so much.
"Don't you ever scratch me again!" Tré was afraid to look up, he kept his head down, shaking with fear and sobs as he curled himself into a protective ball. He hated this, he wanted this to be over now; he just wanted sleep to claim him now, and forget this terrible nightmare. But that wasn't possible, Mike wouldn't allow it,
"Tré," Mike's voice spoke harshly above him, "say something."
"...S-stop, I-I don't - not like th-" A kick into his gut was all it took to shut him up once again. With hot tears streaming down his cheeks, he opened his eyes to find Mike standing above him still, the silver skull buckle of his belt, the very one that had just struck him, shining slightly in the only light coming from the moon outside the window. That same sinister smirk played among Mike's mouth and eyes, making the baby blue's glow with the sickening delight of seeing him this way. Bruised, broken, and losing the fight for his freedom.
The bassist knelled down beside him, "Your arms have proven to be quite a problem," Mike said with a sneer as he lifted the belt to show it with a raised brow, "We'll have to fix that, won't we?"
Tré struggled to crawl away from him, but Mike grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and forced him onto his stomach. He tried to kick him again, but it was no use. With his hands bound behind his back by the leather belt, Mike pulled him up to his knees, and slapped him in the face again. He didn't say anything, just watched as the drummer sobbed again at the pain throughout his face - enjoying the power he held out of just a simple smack across the face.
Slowly, he got to his feet, tugging his jean pants down as he did so. Mike eyed Tré's bloodied mouth with need as he started to rub the tent in his undone pants. The drummer didn't look at him, he bowed his head, only then to have it lifted back up.
"Its been two weeks since the last time..." He trailed as the pad of his thumb crossed over the blood dripping from Tré's mouth, smearing it across his unbruised cheek. He groaned, the pace around his clothed member increasing the slightest bit. "That means this is way over due..." His fingers tauntingly squeezed Tré's lips together, puckering them up as he started to push his pants down past his hips.
"Do you think you deserve any lube this time...?" Tré looked away without an answer.
"I thought so." Mike laughed as he pushed the other down to the floor, his jeans and boxers soon joining him. "Scream, and your mouth is my new fuck toy."
Mike grabbed his stiff dick and gave himself a few good strokes as he walked around Tré's frozen form. Staring at everything from his frightened face, to his curved backside, and his trembling limbs. Mike often forgot why he loved this so much, going after the weak man whenever the chances came, but he was retold his own reasons every time.
"I-I'm gonna t-tell Bi-llie." Tré threatened, hiccuping into the dirty floor, "H-e'll hate y-you, he'll th-throw you out o-of the band."
"Quite honestly Tré, I don't give a damn." Mike glowered as he kicked him, causing a loud yelp to then grace a look of satisfaction across his face. "You're like a broken record - you use the same fucking threat since day one and that's never stopped me before - so let's skip the talk, and get straight to what we both want..."
Mike got down behind his helpless victim, leaving his cock to take hold on the drummer's hips. Tré tried to move away, but the restraints on his hands made that impossible. Mike pulled his ass off the ground and used his hand to push the head of his prick against his asshole. In one go, he stuffed himself into his ass. Tré screamed as he was ripped open for what must of been the hundredth time. His face twisted in pain, blood and tears mixing as they fell from his face, joining the many other stains upon the floor.
The question being, why must Mike do this? Why must he go after the poor man whenever the chance may be, when they were alone? Knock him down to the floor, hurt him with whatever object was in his possesion, force him into such misery and pain that it would reduce him to nothing but blood and tears...?
Simply put; because he could, and no one was ever there to stop him.
Tré Cool wasn't a whore that slept around with anyone. He was just caught at the wrong times, alone and vulnerable, by the worst of people, Mike. He was just an innocent victim of circumstance.
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