#damn you harold

[how-masterful]

"Roger ap Gwilliam, the most dangerous prime minister in history" MOTHERFUCKER HAROLD SAXON??? HELLO??? BRO YOU WERE THERE

[clanoffelidae]

In this essay I will-

I think 95% of the Master's issues and being like ✨that✨ boil down to untreated PTSD and generalized anxiety that just keep feeding off of each other and compounding in a positive feedback loop as time goes on.

They never had much control over their own life, first from Time Lord society just being like ✨that✨(which is more than enough to severely traumatize anyone who spends more than five minutes on Gallifrey tbh) and then on and on what with also being the son of nobility, Theta running away and shattering what little solid future they felt they could see, being resurrected by the Time Lords specifically to fight, the drums, whatever the hell happened after they went back through the Time Lock, just to name what I can think of off the top of my head. The Master has never really had control or security and is always desperately trying to grab hold of it, hence their name. (Because let's be honest, unless that individual is very kinky, the only person who's going to be naming themself 'the Master' is someone who is extremely insecure and is doing everything they can to try and get a sense of control and safety.)

They're deeply traumatized by this constant manipulation and lack of security, and the fact that it never ends nor do they ever get any help for it means that it keeps building off of itself and worsening that feeling of insecurity, leaving them a more and more anxious wreck as time goes on, always feeling like everything is spiraling out of control. The Master is also desperate to live, clinging to life however they have to; going through unfathomable lengths from possession, whatever was going on with Crispy, more possession, chameleon arches, and resurrection just to get one more breath. They want control of their own life and existence, and of course one of the largest parts of that is control of their literal life, ergo control of their death and successfully securing themself from it.

And all of this compiles into a person trying to lay claim to everything they can, trying to conquer all they see to secure the entirety of their surroundings, manipulate everyone to be under their command so that they know exactly what everyone is doing and thinking and there are no unknown variables, and most interestingly of all - push the Doctor into embracing their destructive potential.

Which, at a surface level glance, makes absolutely no sense. Why the hell would someone who is scared simply be virtue of being alive then actively try and push an individual whom they acknowledge as being far more fearsome and powerful than they into a rampage?

Because they feel that it's going to happen anyway, so if they cause it, then that means that they have a little control over it.

But why are they convinced that the Doctor is inevitably going to go on a destructive rampage across the universe?

Because the Master has spent all of their lives scared and spiraling out of control because of it, desperately lashing out at everything around them in an attempt to find security. They're scared, and they've always been scared; so they can't possibly imagine that the Doctor doesn't feel the same way.

Oh the Doctor says it, and they logically acknowledge that the Doctor has different experiences from them, but at a core level they can't really understand it. On a core level the Master can't imagine someone not being as scared as they are and so can't truly reconcile with the fact that the Doctor isn't.

Because if they've always been scared, and can't imagine that anyone else could not feel that way, then it follows suit that they're watching the Doctor like a ticking time bomb just waiting for them to blow, just waiting for the Doctor to start lashing out like they are, because they just can't imagine that that isn't going to happen.

They can't imagine that the Doctor might not need to destroy and lay claim and conquer just to feel some semblance of safety and security, so that means it's going to happen eventually some day, the Doctor is inevitably going to lose control in their eyes.

So if they're the one who pushes the Doctor into it then they get to keep some small fraction of control over the oncoming storm; they get to feel a little bit safer, no matter how paradoxical the feeling, because they were the one who pushed the Doctor to break, as they are convinced is inevitably going to happen, so they had control over it. They had control over this powerful and unknowable variable, so it makes them feel safer; even if the rampaging Doctor turns and kills them, they paradoxically feel safer for it because they had control over it.

So that's why the Master keeps desperately trying to break the Doctor, because they're scared of them, but by pushing their fears into becoming reality then they were the one who controlled when those fears came true; because they just can't imagine that maybe the Doctor won't ever snap, and that maybe their fears won't ever come true, and that maybe all they're running from is bad dreams.

So anyway, in conclusion I think a lot of things would be fixed if someone just gave the Master some space-Xanax and space-therapy; they'd still be a sadistic bastard who gets a kick out of toying with people like a cat with mice, but they'd be a lot better about it thanks for coming to my TED talk.

[illiana-mystery]

Close to the Enemy (2016)

[fulltimecatwitch]

that party scene with the list of occidental vs oriental qualities ...

the way western academia in general fetishizes POC experiences in the name of intellectualism is so gross, no to mention that when these thoughts and opinions are expeessed by POC voices they often don't get that "seal of approval" from academia, they only have value when western thinkers voice them

they will literally just toss us aside like toys once they are done fetishizing our trauma so they can climp up the ladder and get that "chair of the department" position

[fkinavocado]

.

[arolesbianism]

Bro I'm losing my god damn mind and I haven't even messed around with the new gameplay shit like at all. Ive spent the past like 5 hours just reading and looking at shit I haven't even played the damn video game

[eazy-peazy54]

EVERY. DAMN. PASSCODE. FOR THISISNOTAWEBSITEDOTCOM.COM:

Will update when i find more!! (updates VERY frequently)

everything in bold+italics needs to be spammed for the full effect

Dipper  Mabel Wendy Soos Bill Cipher Bill cipher Pacifica Gravity Falls Robbie GideonStanley Stan Stanford Ford Sixer Mcgucket Hectoring Pinata Rat Divorce Breakup Weird  Alex Hirsch Matpat Giffany  Pines Sorry Skeleton Math Mystery shack Mystery Lies Tad strange Book of bill God One eyed king Blanchin Boyfriend Curse Wittebane Euclid Euclydia Peak  Platinum Paz Fuck  Shit Glass Shard Beach Theory Cray cray Ad Astra Per Aspera Im still on your mind Vallis Cineris  Help me Theraprism Triangle Weirdmageddon Blind eye Dorito Deer teeth Baby bill Baby LALALALALA Journal 1 Journal 2 Journal 3 Blendin History Filbrick Love FBI Waddles Reality Universe Portal T J Eckleburg Season 1 Season 2 Season 3 Cursed Scary Abuelita Gun Disney Mickey Mouse Caryn Cryptogram codex Ducktective Toby Determined Irregular Booberry Horror Creepypasta Seven eyes Yes Trigonometry Torture mentally Xyler Craz Tantrum Justblendin Black sheep Baaaa Monster Titans blood Life Death Skibidi Fortnite Gyatt Who are you Fixinit1 R34lity Love ya bro Conspiracy Dippy Fresh Disco girl Liar Lyre Harold's Ramblings Union Made 29121239168518 Grebley hemberdreck 3466554 Tinsel snake XGQRTHX 333 sundapple lane cozy creek IL 60714-94611 naitsuaf mountain don't axolotl morality well well well being Burnside Creepypasta Family matters Forget the past Nothing Something Hey nerd Even his lies are lies Riddle No LLIB When will I die Elon Clone Multilevel mark Goodnight Sally Paper jam Tyrone Fordtramarine Tourist trap Mason The duchess approves shape Scalene Scientology Meow Shave Your Grandma Nacho Rizz Crypto Sevral times Easter Egg Oh yes they both Oroborous Suck it Merlin Just fit in Daddy Mommy Burned Inside Kings of new jersey Destruction is a form of creation They'll see They'll all see I see Unreality Rubberhose You can't kill an idea Card Scrimbles Am i blanchin Fuck Alex Fuck you Alex Fuck you (im not cursing out alex i prommy, these are deadass codes) Hotxolotl Bye gold Ciphertology NSA Globnar Disneyland Rehpic Kook Kubrick Not a phase Paper is book skin Virus Spookemups That's just a You're insane Owl trowel L is real 2401 NFT Question Answer  Occurremus iterum Frilliam Butternubbins Dispense My Treat Dionarap Stod eht tcennoc History Hologram The gun Marry me

[sm-baby]

TADC fanart masterpost! (WIP)

Not a "must read" i just wanted to put them all in one place :3c yall can just play russian roulette with these... have fun!

TADC CARNIVAL AU Masterpost

General The Amazing Digital Circus comics:

The Confession booth || Dubbed Version by @briandraws || Dubbed Version by @volticglitch

Exit door (Kofi request)

General Doodles

First ever TADC POST!

Second ever TADC post!

OMG I lovveee The Amazing Digital Circus

Caine Expression test!

Pomni Doodles

Beat his ass, Pomni

Christmas:

You did great || Dubbed Version by @volticglitch

You did Great (Part 2) || Dubbed Version by @mramazingva

The Snowman Comic || Bonus

Mistletoe

Bubble and Harold

Happy Holidays!

Able:

Able.AI introduction post!

Oh Able fucking died

Stop hitting your brother, Caine

Brothers Communication!

Able Voice Claim

Able let go of them!!

Babygirl pose

Big hands

Catboy Able???

Able put your clothes back on!

My, what a lovely drawing!

Able Doodles!!

Cutie patootie!

How'd you get there!!

Oh no Pomni

Gangle... ayo...

Company's Boys!

Showtime (Caine x Pomni):

First ever Showtime post!

God damn it, Jax!!

Char.AI joke

Caine has no body!

Comic Pomni and Caine wedding

Sleep

Doodle dump!

Dance with me!

Doodle dump (Again)!

Casual relationship || Dubbed version by @mramazingva

Asking out Caine || Dubbed Version @mramazingva

Doodle Page!

Doodle dump! (again again)

Pomni no!!

Doodle time (Feat. Able, Ragatha)

Doodle dump (again again again)

This, too, is showtime

Marriage!

Plushy showtime!

Showtime and other's support!

The Siblings Episode:

Meet The Pomni Sisters and The Raggedy siblings!

Join in, sister!

Randy and Ragatha!

Meet Pomni and Pomni!

Meet Jingle!

Meet Kingly!

Meet Jillz!

Zooble's Sibling?

Kinger and Kingly

I don't know what you expected

How Great They are

They're not real

Thoughts on Caine?

Thoughts on Caine? gone wrong this time

the wonders of sisterhood

Night 1 !!!!!!

Freakshow AU (Fan content): WIP bc im tired !!

Desclaimer: The AU is made by @hootbon ! I draw a lot of Showtime about it, but showime is not canon! This is just me being indulgent and being a fan of her amazing work.

FREAKSHOW AU Fanfics Masterpost

Meet Freakshow Able!

"The Mansion" Skinset

Freakshow and Carnival Merge (Mini AU)

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Gold Rush (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Your whole life you have been Daemon’s voice of reason. Tonight, you choose to be the impulsive one. 

Warnings: Velaryon! Reader (And POC!) Friends to lovers. Fluff. Eloping. Tender, loving smut.

Requested: Uh, I don’t know for markers of arousal, but they are a mess. Sub Daemon and POC reader, as requested. I finished the bingo! Yay! 

You clutch the letter in your hand, a joyous smile slowly starting to spread on your face. Uncaring of the guards, or the people around you, you hike up your skirt and race to the courtyard, screaming with all your might. 

“Daemon!” You say, laughing. “Daemon, Daemon, come quickly.” The letter is still clutched in your hand. Your light blue slippers, matching your dress, are starting to get mud soaked; you have avoided the paths to get there faster. 

Your childhood friend is in the training yard, his armor glinting under the sunlight. For once, he is not wearing the full Targaryen regalia, but rather a simple chest plate. You find yourself a bit taken aback by how handsome he looks with the sun hitting him from behind, hair shining like polished silver. He reminds you of the statues of the Seven you have seen in the royal Sept, a halo around his head. 

Daemon sets Dark Sister down when noticing your arrival. He steps aside from his sparring partner, a knight from House Lannister, as if he were meaningless. The man shouts something, probably in indignation from the abandoned match, but Daemon only has eyes for you.

Standing on the steps near the courtyard, his full attention is a heady feeling. It nearly makes you sway. He manages to look even more handsome when a bit roughed up. 

“Is that…?” He asks, pointing at the parchment in your hand. You nod. 

“He said yes! My brother said yes!” You shout, laughing. Daemon runs towards you, even more mud soaked and sweaty than you are and hugs you to him, spinning you around. It only prompts you to laugh louder. 

“You wonderful, wonderful woman.” He says, peppering your face with kisses, uncaring of the stares from the rest of the knights scattered around. You squeal when he squeezes you to him a little too hard, only to laugh right after at his eagerness. 

At the noise, Ser Harold lifts his head, but when he realizes that it is Daemon and you once more, he only shakes his head in exasperation before returning to his guard duties. 

“And has the Queen..?” You ask Daemon, in a low voice. Sudden doubts make your heart clench. Convincing her of allowing Daemon to marry you had been hard, especially considering she had a match in the Vale already lined up for him. It had taken the two of you nearly a year, and you had only managed to soften her heart by reminding her and her brother husband were once a love match too. She had agreed only if your brother agreed to it too. 

And that had been another can of worms. You knew Corlys was ambitious and wanted to see his wife, Rhaenys, on the throne. Marrying Daemon was the utmost betrayal in his eyes, for it was clear your friend would side with his own brother if there was a succession issue. Thankfully, he had given you permission, swayed by the promise that you would keep Daemon and Caraxes out of it if the worst came to pass. 

Finally, Daemon and you could marry. You were holding the very proof of it in your hands. 

“She has. But still…” Daemon gently grasped your face, tilting your head up so he could look into your dark eyes. “We must not allow them to change their minds.” 

You looked up at him, chewing your lower lip. It was not the first time Daemon suggested eloping. Running away to Dragonstone to be wed in the traditions of your shared ancestors and damn to your families. You had never dared. Despite being oddly similar to the romance tale of the Queen and King, you doubted they would take kindly to it. 

“Corlys said…” You start, softly. You do not mind being the voice of reason. It is how it has always been. Ever since you were the little girl sent to foster under Queen Alysanne’s watchful eye. Your father had thought, back then, if you could claim the Cannibal, you surely needed a strong woman to teach you to be one. 

His plan had worked. Perhaps you had not learned much about being a proper Lady, that didn’t track mud into the halls or stab others with practice swords, but by the Gods you had learned strength.  Both of you had, under her. The thing was, Daemon always thought that strength meant charging right at problems while you thought it was better to watch and think first. 

“Give me that.” Daemon complains, taking the parchment from your hand. You yelp and try to take it back, but he raises it high over his head, where you cannot reach. You try regardless, holding his shoulders and jumping up and down in a quite undignified manner. 

Daemon watches you with a smirk, eyes lingering on the bodice of your dress. It is once you exhaust yourself that you notice he is leering at your breasts, and you give him a good shove for it. 

He laughs. He pulls you by the waist and places a kiss on your forehead. 

“You are a pig.” You complain, crossing your arms over your chest. It is not the first time you have caught him looking at you, but it is the first time it feels so intentional. Daemon and you have never crossed that line before. Sure, he has looked, and you have too, but it is only natural. You are the only girl he has been around in a consistent manner. The two of you have been partners in crime since you were children. 

Daemon has had his dalliances outside of you, of course. You know he is fond of brothels and Gods know what else. You do not mind it. This wish for a match between the two of you is not about physical attraction, but rather that if you had to pick one man to be bound with and him only one woman to belong to, both of you choose each other. It’s simple. 

You love him, of course you do. But then, how could you not? Everyone loves Daemon. He is just that charming. Maidens want to be with him, knights want to be him. He is a true dragon, the finest his House has to offer. 

And you are… You. A daughter of House Velaryon, a bit too wild, a bit too unladylike. Nothing to your name but your dragon. At least in that you take pride in. What a foe, your child was. 

“Only for you.” Daemon says, brushing a stray curl away from your face. He twists his finger in it, making it coil tighter before springing back up. 

“Sure.” You laugh, and Daemon gives your hair a harsh little tug, making you yelp.

“I am serious.” He warns, a bit threateningly. His grip on your hair is firm enough to force you to keep your attention on him.  His eyes are locked with yours. “From today on, you are mine. And I am yours. I won’t… I don’t want anyone in my bed that is not you.” 

Your breath catches in your throat. It might as well be a declaration of undying love, coming from Daemon. He is not one for monogamy, your friend. That he is now saying he wants you and only you means… It means everything. 

“But you have never touched me.” You say to him, confused. 

“Of course not, you silly thing.” Daemon shakes his head. “My father would have strangled me.” 

You fight the urge to laugh. Baelon Targaryen had never been too fond of Daemon not being a proper Prince. Unfortunately, he was often so busy with his duties he had little chance of teaching either of you manners. 

No, instead, the older Prince was much more decisive. Every time he caught Daemon with one of the maids, he got rid of them and paid them a pretty sum to forget the incidents ever happened.

“They would have sent me back.” You realize, voice barely above a whisper. If he had ever caught a whiff of impropriety between the two of you, Prince Baelon would have sent you back to Driftmark so fast you would have gotten whiplash. 

“Yes. They would.” Daemon agrees, softly. His grip on your curls soften. Instead, he starts scratching at your scalp, as if to soothe the hurt. “And I didn’t… You are good. I wouldn’t have brought you dishonor.” 

The admission embarrasses him. Daemon wants everyone to think he isn't concerned with that sort of thing. It is his armor. Being the Rogue Prince, the one who makes the unexpected move, the one who doesn’t care about consequences. But he does. When it is someone he loves on the line, Daemon does. 

He loves you. You love him. Why do you have to wait a full moon for Corlys to get here? He is not the one getting married. You don’t need a fancy gown, nor do you need to be wed in a Sept, under a religion that is not yours. 

You look up at Daemon, a mischievous smile starting to form on your face. He looks at you. Not a word is needed. Daemon knows what you are thinking right away. 

His brows pinch together.

“Are you sure?” 

“Daemon.” You say, exasperated. Who does he think he is speaking to? You had not claimed the most dangerous dragon in Westeros because you lacked boldness. 

“Tonight?” Daemon searches your eyes. He finds no hesitation.  

“In the traditions of our houses.” You agree. 

“You understand that if we…” Of course you know. The bedding. Being married usually implies that. The thought fills you with dread and excitement in equal parts. You have been trying very hard not to think of Daemon in this way since the two of you were teenagers. But now, it is not only expected, but encouraged. 

“I know.” 

His hand on your waist tenses. You can feel his grip tighten, greedily. There is so much want in his eyes that it warms your blood. 

“Alright, Lady Confident.” Daemon teases, pressing another kiss to your forehead before letting you go. 

“The dragonpit, tonight. Get us the robes and Viserys.” You point at him, sternly. 

“And what will you get?” He pulls you in again, pressing your bodies flush against each other. You tremble against him, unable to help it. Daemon has such a magnetic pull on you, sometimes you feel like the two of you are never truly apart. He is constantly pulling you to him, into him, even when not in the room. He owns your thoughts, your feelings, your desires. 

But you are not about to tell him that. You like running too much, and by the Seven he likes to chase. 

“Is my presence not enough?” You tease, deftly slipping out of his grip. You start to walk away, hips swaying. Before you are truly out of his reach, you casually speak, as if it were the most normal thing to say. “My riding gear. I intend to ride a dragon tonight.” 

Daemon grabs your wrist, pupils blown. He stops you from leaving. 

“A dragon?”

“My dragon.” You snicker. “I suppose, while we are busy with that, Caraxes and my Cannibal can get to know each other.” 

His joyous laughter chases you all the way to your chambers. You spend the afternoon getting yourself ready. You bathe, soaking in the hot tub until you feel dizzy from the heat. Choosing to elope has made you unable to seek any advice from the only female presence in your life. You doubt Queen Alyssane will take well to the news of what Daemon and you are planning to do. 

Nerves clench in your stomach at the thought of bedding him. It is needed, if you wish to really be wed in the manner of your ancestors, and it has to happen tonight. Otherwise, the tradition would not be complete. 

Having grown around Daemon, you are not fully innocent. Not only have you listened to his exploits, but you also know your body well. What worries you is the fact that he has a lot of experience on you. 

You scrub yourself clean and get up, taking out your secret stash. Pearls are one of Driftmark more prized exports, and you have quite a few. Some have been ground into a fine powder that you apply over your eyelids. You like how the shimmery white contrasts against your brown eyelids, drawing attention to your eyes. 

Some women, especially near Dorne, use black pigment to make their eyelashes look fuller. You have always enjoyed the contrasts more. Velaryons have striking coloring, or so most say. The shimmery silver hair all Valyrians share, with darker skin to offset it and make it pop even more. It’s the same logic you apply to your makeup. 

Once you have scrubbed yourself to your satisfaction, you fret over choosing a shift to wear under the robes. Daemon has sent them to your chambers already, wrapped in a cloth as to not let anyone see what they are. You note that he has selected ones with a red sash, and you frown. You will no longer be a Velaryon after tonight, but you intend to honor your House. 

Perhaps the followers of the Faith of the Seven have the right of it, with the exchange of cloaks. With no Corlys to attend your wedding, you feel oddly adrift. You exchange the red sash for a light blue one. 

Finally, with no other excuse to stall, you put on your black cloak and make your way to the dragon pit. The dragonkeepers barely spare you a glance, used as they are to your antics. 

Caraxes has been brought forth, as has Balerion. Their growls and cries greet you as you step into the lower part of the pit. Your own mount is near, but kept carefully separated. He has an unfortunate tendency of biting other dragons. 

“This is an awful idea.” It is the first thing Viserys says to you, once he sees you approach. “The two of you will kill our grandmother one of these days.” 

“Good evening, Viserys.” You say, taking off your cloak. “Why, thank you for congratulating us.” 

“Thank the gods.” You hear Daemon’s voice before you see him. You turn, finding him dressed in his own set of robes. You had not doubted him for a second. “I thought you were playing a cruel joke on me. That you were… Oh.” 

He finally sees you, dressed in your version of the ceremonial robes. He freezes. 

“You look beautiful.” Daemon says, still a bit stunned. The images of him superpose in your mind. The boy he had been, the man he is now, lips stretching into the most joyful smile you have ever seen. It makes something warm and syrupy sweet nestle inside your chest, covering you in a golden glow.  So of course, he has to be a bit crude. “And all of it mine by the end of the night.” 

Viserys sighs. He looks very put upon, your recently appointed officiant. You decide not to make him wait any longer. Daemon and you marry under the traditions of your Houses that night, with only Viserys and your dragons as your witnesses. 

After the deed is done, palms and lips bloody, you race each other to Daemon’s chambers. The few servants left behind turn to stare, and as you pass, chamber’s doors open. Everyone wants a look at the two troublemakers that are making a ruckus near midnight. Gasps and scandalized murmurs are heard as the onlookers take in your appearance. The runes are painted brightly on your foreheads for all to see if your attires were not damning enough. 

You are sure the news will reach the Queen before the night is over. But as you stop in front of Daemon’s door, you can’t bring yourself to care. He lifts you up into his arms and opens the door with a well-placed kick. 

“Finally.” He says, carefully placing you inside. You laugh. Daemon busies himself with closing the door after the two of you, and it is then that you realize. 

You are married. To Daemon. Your best friend. Your childhood companion. Daemon, rider of Caraxes, the Rogue Prince, Daemon. Fuck. 

Daemon seems to be going through a similar thought process because when he turns to face you, his face is frozen into stunned realization. Now what? His eyes seem to be saying to you. So you step closer. And closer. 

And then his hands are on your waist, and he is kissing you for the first time. 

It’s devastating. There is no other way to describe it. You have been looking at Daemon ever since the two of you met, unable to look away from him, and you finally have his full attention on you. It’s terrifying. His lips move with yours, soft and tender, as if you are something to be treasured. No one knows you as he does, no one could break you as easily as he could. 

You grasp at him like he is your lifeline, hands clinging to his shoulders. There is no finesse in the way you undress him, greedy hands grasping at his robes. Daemon allows you to do so, his hands on your hips steady and calm. It is not until the robes have fallen from his shoulders, exposing his bare skin, that the two of you separate. 

“What do you need?” Daemon asks you, voice low. You look up at him, hoping to see the same desperation you feel reflected in his eyes. What you see takes your breath away. Daemon’s eyes are almost all pupils, the black having swallowed the purple you so love. His lips are swollen from your kisses, mouth slightly agape. “I’m here.” He says, and it sounds wrecked. “I am here.” 

The softness makes you want to cry. You feel overwhelmed with how badly you would like to be close to him. 

“I want… I need…” You articulate, barely. You try to take off your robes, but your hands, so deft at removing his, are slow and stupid when it comes to removing the knots. 

“Let me.” Daemon unties the knots, taking your robes away. His hands wrap around your back, pulling you close. “You are gorgeous.” 

His hands are warm against your ribs, caressing softly. He traces the curves of your waist and hips as if committing them to memory. You do not feel exposed or embarrassed, with Daemon touching you like this. You have belonged to him, heart and soul, since before you knew what the word meant. It’s only right that it is him who you give yourself to. 

Daemon kisses you again, slow and soft. His lips trace your jaw, and then, the shell of your ear. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge. 

“I seem to remember you saying something about dragon riding.” He whispers, and you can hear the devious smile he must be sporting in his tone alone. 

Because you are mean, and so much like him, you bite at his naked shoulder. You expect him to yelp or curse, but are fully unprepared for hearing Daemon moan. 

The both of you look at each other, before a giant grin takes over your face. 

“You like that.” You smirk. Daemon’s brows raise.

“So what if I do?” He challenges, with a smirk of his own. You run your nails down his sides, almost experimentally. His eyes almost cross, expression morphing into half pain and half pleasure.  “Seven Hells, you are not allowed to do that!” He complains, and you laugh. 

“I do intend to ride, you know?” You whisper to him, not a hint of shame on your face. 

“Good.” Daemon goes sit on the bed and takes off his breeches. He parts his legs, letting you see his cock for the first time. “Princess, come sit on your throne.” 

You shiver slightly, feeling arousal quickly taking over your best senses. His cock is pink and almost angry looking, perfectly placed for you to sit on his lap and sink on it. You want nothing more than to have him inside you. 

“No.” You say, instead. “Get me ready first.” 

“Come here, then.” He orders, impatiently. “Let me touch you.” 

“You have no manners.” You complain, a bit irked. Daemon has the bad habit of issuing commands, instead of asking. Ever since he was a child, the people around him have yielded to his position or his charm, even to his good looks. Daemon always gets what he wants. 

And you don’t want him to think it includes you. Being taken down a few pegs is healthy, once in a while. So you remain rooted to your spot, naked and confident in your own skin. You start to run your hands along your neck and breasts, tantalizingly. You can feel yourself starting to get wet. 

His eyes track your movements in the same way a man dying of thirst might look at running water. Hungrily, greedily. 

“And you intend to be the one who teaches them to me?” Daemon’s voice comes out much breathier than he probably expects. 

“It is never late to start.” You agree, mischief making your eyes light up. One of your hands pinches your soft buds, getting them hard and alluring. Your breath is heavier, soft little sighs leaving your lips at the stimulation. 

“Fucking… Come here.” Daemon says. You ignore him, running your hands over your breasts. “Please.” He adds, a bit desperate.

You smirk. You take exactly one step towards him. The way he looks at you makes you feel bolder. Your stance widens, one hand dropping between your legs, teasing. 

“Please. Please, by the Gods let me touch you.” He interrupts, before you can do anything more. “Come here, just… I’ll behave.” 

You run your hands over your sides and wait a bit, as if pondering his question. 

“Please.” Daemon repeats. He looks wrecked and you haven’t even touched him. You wonder if this is what he likes about sex, how powerful and in control you can feel knowing that you have another person wrapped around your little finger. 

“I suppose I’ll allow you to get me ready.” You say, very graciously. You make your way to his lap and pull him in for another kiss. 

As soon as your hips are over his, Daemon tries to cheat. He lifts his own hips, trying to grind his erection against your core. You pull at his hair, in warning. He growls against your mouth, and insists on attempting to grind against you. 

You pull back from him, bracing your hands on his knees. Almost on instinct, one of his hands goes to your waist, to steady you. 

“Was that what I asked you to do?” You ask him, frowning. Daemon pouts. 

“I was getting you ready. You are so wet and warm, I bet I could just slide right in.” He complains, much like a scolded child. 

“Really? Then you must not know what getting a woman ready means.” You grin. “Allow me to teach you. Sit back and watch.” 

Daemon growls at you, face slowly starting to flush. You are not sure if he is more enraged or aroused by what he is seeing.  

“You can’t be serious. My balls are turning blue from…” 

“Not my problem.” You answer him, cheerfully. You remain sitting on his lap. The hand he keeps on your waist allows you to not need to support yourself so much. You free one of your hands and direct it to your pearl, where you rub slow, steady circles. 

Under the candlelight, your cunt glistens. You wonder what you must look like to Daemon, wantonly touching yourself on his lap. By the awed look on his face, it must be quite the sight. 

“Do you..?” He licks his lips, throat suddenly dry. “Do you need my help?” 

“Yes. Put a finger inside.” You spread your folds, feeling how slick you are. Daemon groans. 

“Fuck. That’s…” He presses his finger into your hole, slowly. It sinks right in. You sigh, please. Fascinated, Daemon pulls it back a bit, only to push it back inside and feel your walls swallow it. 

“Another. Open me up.” You say, voice a bit shaky. “Curl… Ah. Like that.” No other order is needed. Daemon adds another finger and curls it, a bit mean. It makes you sit up straighter, hands clutching at his shoulders. For a while, nothing exists, except his fingers moving inside you. Want is making you burn up, sweat collecting in the small of your back. You rock your hips against his hand, looking him right in the eyes. 

Daemon’s expression is open in a way you have never seen before. He looks entranced by you, as if he is in the middle of a religious experience. His eyes are fixed on your face, watching your mouth form soft little pants. His other hand is on your hips, aiding your movements. 

“I love you.” He says, sounding a bit broken, a bit in awe. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You press a kiss to his temple. “Ready?” 

Daemon nods, hiding his face on your chest. You grab his erection and line it up with your hole. He hugs you, tighter still, and it’s then that you sink on him. 

You curse, eyes going wide. Daemon lets out a groan. 

“Daemon.” You say, urgently. You feel like he is carving out a space for himself inside of you, as if he had not owned it already. “Daemon.” 

“I know.” He whispers back, rubbing slow circles on your back. He lifts his head and cradles your face, as if you are made of the most fragile porcelain. “My lady wife.”

“My lord husband.” You answer, equally tender. And it is then that you lift your hips and bring them down again. Daemon gives a punched out moan, hands tightening on your hips. 

You push him down to lay flat on the bed, bracing your hands on his chest to get better leverage. You lift yourself, up and down, until you have worked yourself into a frenzy and cannot stop moaning. 

Under you, Daemon has his eyes closed. His mouth is parted open, and he gives soft moans every time you bring yourself down. His hands are curled around your wrists, gently holding you to him. 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough, it feels like you cannot breathe if you are not near him. You need to be as close as you possibly can, and you need it now. 

You lay yourself down on top of him, until your breasts are squished against his chest. Daemon’s eyes open. He hugs you to him, kissing the crown of your head. 

“Thrust your hips.” You say, starting to lavish his throat with kisses. “I need…” You grind your hips against him, his pubic hair rubbing against your pearl just right. With the way you are laying on top of him, Daemon can’t get enough leverage to do anything more than shallowly thrust. You nearly cry from frustration.

“Shh… Just…” He rolls the two of you over, ungracefully. He grinds his hips against yours, with little to no technique. His back is hunched, hair in complete disarray. The blood - drawn runes on his face have smeared, leaving only red lines in their wake. You wonder if you look as fucked out as Daemon does. The thought makes you clench around him, pleasure building up, and up, until one well aimed thrust makes you scream and reach your peak. 

Daemon collapses next to you, his release painting your thighs. There is silence, for a while. Both of you look at each other, sated and exhausted by the day you have had. And suddenly, there is a pounding on the door. 

“I swear to the Seven, Daemon Targaryen, when I get my hands on you…” The Queen screams, and you dissolve into a fit of giggles. 

[soullumii]

this is trouble | joel miller x f!reader

part 2

summary: it's been three weeks since joel last fucked you. tonight he finally has the time.

warnings/tags: 18+ smut mdni, filth. was meant to be plotless but sort of has plot now oops. fem!afab!reader, fwb, semi-public sex, vaginal fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, secret fwb, dirty talk, bratty!reader, grumpy!reader, dom!joel, soft!joel as fucking always (i’m a romantic, what can i say?) little bit of feelings oops, some angst at the end oops, pet names, no use of y/n

word count: 4.6k-ish

a/n: couldn’t find a gif of joel stroking that damn guitar so i made one. lowkey hate this but i needed to upload something so here i hope u enjoy

so when you give that look to me,

i better look back carefully cuz this is trouble, yeah this is trouble

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

It’s been a good few weeks since you last fucked Joel.

Since this whole friends with benefits thing started between you. 

And tonight you’re kind of set on getting his dick back inside you again. Since, y’know, it’s been so long.

You’ve been craving it for a while, but tonight it’s kind of all encompassing. Kind of been the only thing on your mind since Tommy and Maria invited you out tonight. You and Joel, the latter who for the past three weeks has been busy with god knows what. 

You’re kind of pissed at him. Kind of really pissed. And your horny, pent up brain doesn’t help much with keeping your cool. 

At least you’re a few drinks in now, which has cooled your temper down some (though has spiked your libido quite a bit). Maria and Tommy are totally not picking up on your bad mood, though, thank god.

You swirl the last few dregs of wine in your glass, hardly listening to what Maria is practically shouting to you from the other side of the booth, since it’s so fucking loud in here. Your mind is caught on Joel standing at the other end of the Tipsy Bison.

You’ve been eyeing the way his hands curl around his glass of whiskey. The way his flannel stretches over his broad chest. The way his mouth moves as he talks to one of the stable hands named Harry. 

You remember the feeling of that mouth between your thighs.

Fuck, how much longer is he gonna make you wait? Another damn week?

He looks over at your table, eyes catching yours from across the room. You glare at him, trying to convey the frustration and lust and want you feel.  

His lip twitches in a smirk, seemingly having received your message. He pats Harry on the back, and then he’s sauntering back over to you and your little group of friends.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” He slides into his seat next to you in the booth. His scent of pine and sandalwood envelops you, a silent torture in and of itself. “Harold doesn’t know when to stop talkin’.”

Tommy laughs boisterously. When he’s had one too many drinks, he’s impossibly loud. “Man, I remember when he kept me at the greenhouse for an hour talkin’ about some bullshit.”

“He's a good guy. Just likes to talk." Maria glances at the radio perched in the corner, a new song playing through the speakers sprinkled throughout the bar. “Oh I love this song! Let’s go dance!”

Joel looks over at you, and you’re still kind of out of it, eyes fixated on the way the sleeves of his flannel are rolled up above his forearms, showing off the veins that snake across his skin, the muscles that shift with each drum of his fingers on the table top.

You’re not in any condition to dance at the moment, and Joel is certainly aware of it.

“I think we’ll stay here,” he says. “Y’all go enjoy yourselves.”

“Suit yourself.” Maria drags Tommy out to the dance floor, leaving you and Joel at this little booth tucked in the corner all by yourselves. 

Alone. 

In the dark. 

And you’re drunk. Joel, probably on his way there.

This is not going to end well. Or maybe it will. For you, at least. Just…not for any poor suckers who might stumble across whatever is about to take place. 

Joel lazes in his seat, casually stretching an arm over the back of the booth, pressing in close to you.

“Howdy,” he says.

“Hi,” you say.

“…You doin’ alright?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice rather than any real concern, and you know he knows exactly what’s wrong with you.

“I’m fine,” you respond coolly.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“I’m havin’ some trouble believin’ that, since you’re poutin’ like crazy right now, sweetheart.”

“I am not pouting-“

He laughs, full on fucking laughs at you. “Uh yeah, ya are. You’re actin’ like a lil brat. Givin’ me those goddamn eyes from across the room.” 

“Eyes? What eyes?”

His voice dips into something dangerously low, only for you to hear. “The ones practically beggin’ me to eat your pussy. Those ones.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Joel!” you hiss, turning your head to hide your embarrassment. You drain the rest of your drink and immediately wish you had more. Or some water, at least, to cool down the warmth settling high in your cheeks. 

“That’s what you want, ain’t it?” 

“I don’t fucking know. Are you actually going to do it? Or are you just gonna leave me high and dry again?”

He sighs heavily, his fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose and why is he the frustrated one here?

You’ve gone three fucking weeks without his dick in you! After he and you made a deal! You should be mad. Not him!

But maybe…maybe that’s just it. Maybe he isn’t fucking you because he just doesn’t want to anymore. And that, scarily enough, makes your chest ache and your eyes get all teary and wow you are so drunk right now. 

“Listen—“ he starts.

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep, Joel,” you snap, folding your napkin into little squares to distract yourself from how upset you are. 

He pulls back, and you think he might just get up and leave you to stew angrily again. You could afford to throw yourself another pity party. There’s a bunch more napkins on this table that need folding.

He doesn’t leave, though. Instead, his hand settles warm on your thigh. Your fingers stall around the napkin. 

“I know I’ve been busy, but I intend to keep my promise this time,” he says softly, his hand squeezing your bare flesh, your sundress already having ridden up your thigh. “Don’t think you’ve been the only one cravin’ this.” 

His hand caresses down your inner thigh until his palm is cupping you through your panties, his knuckles brushing over your clothed entrance, and you’re grateful that the booth is angled the way it is, that you’re tucked on the inside, because it makes it a lot harder for anyone to see what he’s doing.

And it makes it a lot easier for you to give into it.

Your legs fall open, providing him more access to where you’re slick and ready for him, your knee pressing into his jean-clad thigh.

“Mm, there we go,” he smirks, stroking you through the fabric, and a tiny whimper escapes you. He leans in, his warm breath ghosting over your ear when he murmurs, “You’re such a drama queen when you’re horny.” 

Motherfucker…

Okay, yes. You can be a bit dramatic. But it’s not only your body that’s horny for him…your heart is kind of horny too. Joel is your best friend and to not see or talk to your best friend for three weeks is practically torture, especially when they’ve been giving you the good dicking down that you deserve. You have a right to be dramatic. 

You send him a scathing glare but it melts the moment his fingers pull your panties to the side and slip beneath the fabric.

You’re wet as hell. You know it. He knows it. But you’re still mad at him, and kind of drunk, so…

“Don’t you say fucking shit.”

“I wasn’t goin’ to.”

It’s a damn lie. He loves commenting on how wet you get for him. While it’s a bit humiliating for you, it only boosts his ego. Like hell he needs an ego boost, though.

His finger lightly swipes up your folds, and he bites down on his lip to try and hide the arrogant grin on his face at the way you thrust your hips forward needily with a breathy pant, but he’s failing. It’s practically impossible for The Joel Miller not to make things about himself.

“How often did you touch yourself thinkin’ about me while I was gone?”

Case in point. 

“Hmm…I don’t think I ever did.”

He circles the pad of his finger around your entrance, and stares you down with dark eyes, looking straight through your core, his voice dipping into something sultry and ragged and downright criminal. “You’re such a damn liar.” 

You feel like you might melt into the faux leather booth. Your thighs are already sticking to it, why not just become part of it at this point?

He slowly sinks his finger inside you, his thumb stroking your outer lips as he does so, and you’re boneless against the cushioned back of the booth.

“I’ll be honest for the both of us. Practically came to the thought of you every night,” he mumbles against your ear and lightly bites your earlobe. “Was thinkin’ ‘bout how much I missed you… ‘bout your body… ‘bout this perfect pussy.” He emphasizes each word with a pulse of his thick finger inside you. 

You shudder, your body lighting up at the thought of him lying in his bed, his hand closed around his cock as he came with a moan of your name on his lips. 

“Why didn’t you just come see me?” You huff, choking on a breath when he crooks his finger inside you, stroking your walls.

“Too much was goin’ on. Maria had me on patrol every morning, then I had guard duty to watch the folks that just left town. I wanted to see you, but I didn’t have enough time. You know I like takin’ my time with you, sweetheart.”

His excuse is valid enough, and he really does like taking his time with you. Content to just plant himself between your legs for hours to coax you through orgasm after orgasm. Or fuck you slow and deep, pulling back just when you’re on the crest to watch you squirm before he builds you up again, over and over until you’re practically screaming at him to let you cum. 

Still…he couldn’t have stopped by once to explain his situation? 

He slides in another finger, and you vaguely register that the song Maria and Tommy sauntered out to the dance floor to is coming to an end and another is starting in its place. They’ll be back soon.

“We can’t do this here,” you hiss, attempting to pull his hand out from under your panties, but it’s half hearted. You don’t want him to stop.

But he pulls back anyway, “If that’s what you want.”

It’s sweet, it’s considerate.. But he’s a damn jerk, because he knows how long you’ve been waiting for this. He knows you want him to keep going. Especially judging by the way he’s looking at you, eyes dark and hooded, the corner of wicked his lips twisting up…

He just wants you to fucking say it.

“Joel…” you grumble.

“What? You change your mind?”

Your fingers curl around his hand, tugging it down again, pressing it up against your throbbing core. That’s gotta be answer enough.

He’s not having it. “C’mon baby. Use your words…”

You scowl at him, muttering, “Don’t stop.”

“Speak up, sweetheart. Can’t hear ya. It’s loud in here.” 

Ughhhh! “Please touch me, Joel. Please don’t stop.”

He smirks. “As you wish.” 

Princess Bride reference. Cute. Makes your heart flop a little in your chest.

Joel eases his fingers back inside you agonizingly slow. He strokes the pads of his fingers inside you. A tingle unfurls in your chest, starts in your toes and spreads up your calves, and a low moan tumbles from your lips.

Thankfully, from anyone passing by, it would look like you two are just deep in a private conversation. Joel, pressed against you, leaning in close, and you, shielded from view by his broad shoulders, listening intently to whatever he’s saying.

They just don’t know that he’s breaking you down, brick by brick. That he’s making you leak all over this fucking booth. That it’s pure filth he’s muttering in your ear and not a juicy secret.

“God, you look so pretty takin’ my fingers, like you were made for 'em. Such a good girl."

“Joel, oh my god…”

Your breaths are coming out hotter, heavier, especially when Joel’s fingers slip out only to glide up through your folds to run delicious patterns over your clit.

“Fuck…” You whimper, the heat in your lap pooling thick and abundant. Your hips chase after his fingers, grinding against his hand.

You’re dangerously close.

“That feel good, baby…?” He eggs you on, his voice a rough rumble of thunder against your ear. 

It’s embarrassing how quickly, how enthusiastically you’re nodding, and Joel slips his fingers back inside you, his thumb coming down to rub circles on your clit as he fucks his digits up and into you.

The music is loud, but beneath it, you can hear the wet sounds of your pussy as Joel takes you apart, stroke by stroke, a steady metronome. 

You grasp onto his forearm desperately, your nails digging into the muscles there with a gasp of his name. “Joel-“

Shit. You’re seriously going to cum in this shitty little moth-eaten booth in the only bar in this entire town. You won’t be able to live it down. But you can’t bring yourself to care–you’re close, on the precipice, and you meet Joel’s dark, dangerous eyes, urging you to cum on his hand with a C’mon baby, you can do it, give it to me and you might, it’s right there it’s—

“…-ere did you learn to do that?”

The unexpected sound of Tommy’s voice has you frantically ripping Joel’s hand out from beneath your dress and scrabbling for a napkin to wipe up the mess on your thighs, on the fucking booth, your orgasm rearing back angrily and setting into a dull buzz in your limbs.

The wicked man beside you scoots himself further under the booth, likely to hide the hard-on he’s sporting. He wipes his hand on his thigh. You think you can hear him grumbling angrily under his breath at the interruption, but you’re not sure, ears instead trained on the sound of your friends getting closer. 

You reach for the drink menu, pretending to read it.

“I took dance classes in my free time before the outbreak,” Maria says as the couple closes back in on the booth you and Joel were totally not defiling. She shimmies at the both of you. “You guys really missed out on some of my great moves while you were moping.”

“We weren’t moping,” Joel defends.

“Sure…” Maria drawls.

If she only knew.

“I’m just not really feeling well,” you say. 

Maria’s playful grin falls into a look of concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just tired. Need to go lay down, I think. It’s been a long day.”

“Let me walk you home,” Joel says, grabbing his coat he had slung over the booth and strategically positioning it over his pants when he stands.

“Thanks.”

“Feel better!” Tommy says, and you give him a grateful nod as Joel’s hand settles on the small of your back and he steers you out of the stuffy bar and into the cool summer night.

Katydids sing in the dark as you and Joel stroll down the street to your house tucked at the end of the cul-de-sac. Fireflies light the asphalt. An owl hoots overhead. 

“You really feelin' bad?” He asks quietly, once you’ve reached your front porch. 

"No. I just wanted to get out of there."

He hums. "Are you still mad at me?"

“I dunno.” Not really. You’re just pissed you were interrupted. Still, he needs to feel some remorse for his radio silence, so you don’t elaborate.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely as you unlock your door. “Really I am. There’s no excuse. I should’a made the time to at least tell you what was goin’ on. I’m sorry.” 

You open your door and pause in the warm light from the foyer. “You can make it up to me by fucking me.” 

“As good as that sounds, I wanna make sure you’re okay. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You sigh. Ugh. Usually Joel’s fine with pushing things to the side. Bottling things up. He does it a lot. You sort of wish he would just drop it right now. You don't want to deal with the weird feeling in your chest that's been here all night. But he’s looking at you, waiting.

"I just thought...Maybe you were done with this. With me."

He frowns. “Hell no. I like what we have. I don’t want it to stop anytime soon." He steps forward, wraps his arms around your waist to pull you in.

"Me too..." You murmur, hands drifting up his back, pressing him in close for a hug. "I'm glad you're safe."

He chuckles. “Course I'm safe. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno," you say into his shoulder. "I just worry about you.”

"Yeah? You worry 'bout me a lot?"

You pinch his stomach playfully. "You're my best friend. Of course I do."

He pulls away a bit, huffs a tiny laugh. But it's not like his usual laughs. It's forced. Quiet. "Right."

You're a little too drunk to ask about it, and still horny enough to want to get things back on track, so you look into his dark eyes, smiling coyly, lip tucked between your teeth as you roll your hips into him. "Now that I forgive you…think you can fuck me now? Cuz it’s been way too fucking long.”

He groans softly, yes ma'am, and presses his lips against yours.

Okay, yes, he’s your friend but you also kind of kiss sometimes.

You tug him inside the house and shut the door, your mouth still latched to his. The moment the door snicks into the frame, he’s got you pressed against it, his hand rucking up your dress to bunch it around your hips while his tongue dips into your mouth.

You swiftly unbutton his flannel, sliding it down his arms. Your hands find his chest, fingernails scraping over his pecs, through his dark chest hair that thins out the further south it goes, but thickens again into a happy trail that disappears below his waistband.

Fuck, he’s so…

His fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties, a repeat of earlier, and you break the kiss to drop your head against the door with a thump when his fingers find your clit again.

“Jesus, you’re so wet.”

…And there he goes.

“Three fucking weeks, Joel,” you bite, though the end of his name melts into a moan when his fingers sink inside you again. 

“Didn’t know you were keepin’ count.” 

“Fuck—“ He quirks a finger. “S-shut up.”

He huffs out an amused chuckle into your cheek, trailing kisses from your jaw down your throat. His teeth sink in, and his mouth suctions over your skin, delivering a beautiful little mark on your flesh that he kisses gently after. It drives you fucking crazy.

“I’ll shut up if you let me taste you,” he mumbles against your skin, his voice vibrating pleasantly through you.

Your pussy pulses around his fingers, your clit honest to god throbbing against his palm, and now he knows you really want him to eat you out, especially when you follow up with an enthusiastic nod.

Joel slips his hand out from beneath your panties to lift you up around his hips and carry you to your bedroom. He plops you on the edge of your mattress and immediately sinks to his knees on the floor, eye level with your cunt.

“God, been thinkin’ about you for weeks. Missed this pussy so goddamn much,” he says, leaning in to kiss your inner thigh.

His lips trail down your leg as he pulls your panties off and stuffs them into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Let’s see how good I did,” he says, pulling your legs apart to get a good look at what a mess he’s made of you. He hums appreciatively at the sight of your glistening folds, licking his lips. That enough has you clenching around nothing, fingers tightening in the bed covers. 

“You seein’ what I do to you? No one else can make you this wet, ain’t that right?”

“You’re such an arrogant ass,” you growl.

He just smirks as he lowers himself again between your legs. He puffs a breath of cool air along your slit before listing over to kiss your other inner thigh, grinning when you groan in frustration.

“Joel, please.”

“So impatient.”

“I’ve waited thr—“

“Three weeks, yeah I know.”

He presses forward to lick a hot stripe up your folds with the flat of his tongue, and your hand flies to his hair, anchoring him closer to your pussy.

“S-shit,” you whimper. 

He lightly drags a finger along your slit, the slight pressure fucking agonizing. 

“Joel.” You sort of want to scream at him. He’s been teasing you all fucking night. 

“Alright,” he laughs and allows you to guide his head back down until the bridge of his scarred nose is pressed into your folds and his tongue is prodding at your entrance. 

He takes his sweet time unraveling you, alternating between licking into you and sucking your sensitive clit into his mouth. You can’t say much, reduced to wordless cries with each movement of his mouth. 

It’s messy, sloppy, but you like it. You like seeing the wetness on his face when he pulls back for air. You like the way his hair is pulled in all different directions, all because of your greedy hands. You like the way he has to push one of his hands down to palm himself in his jeans, just to relieve some of that pressure.

He clearly loves eating you out. And you very much love that he loves it.

But you’re getting kind of desperate. Kind of really want to cum. So…

Your hips begin to grind against his face as he sucks on your clit, and he seems to receive the message because he slides two thick fingers into you and starts to eat you out in earnest, delighting with a low moan when your legs clench around his head, the scruffy hairs of his beard tickling your inner thighs. 

“Holy shit, Joel.”

“Mm—“ He moans.

Your foot keeps slipping off the bed, so Joel’s large, warm hand curls around your calves to situate your legs over his shoulders. This new position grants you more leverage to chase after your orgasm with steady rolls of your hips into his hungry mouth.

He sucks your clit as he thrusts his fingers into you at a brutal pace, hitting your g-spot that has you jerking against him with each stroke. His hand plants on your abdomen to hold you down, stilling your desperate movements.

You’re getting close, the pressure building and magnifying as Joel moans against your pussy, the vibrations driving you insane.

“Fuck, Joel—hah-“

“Mm.”

“Jesus, Joel—fuck—oh my—hnhh—”

“Mhm.” He encourages.

It shatters in you, white hot and falling over you, a waterfall of warmth. Your body straightens stiff as a board, back arching off the bed, quivering as you cum against Joel’s mouth, your slick running down his chin and catching in his beard.

You try to push him away, your orgasm overwhelming on its own, but Joel hates it when you do that, wants to make sure you really feel it, so he presses himself back in to lick and guide you through it. Drawing it out.

It has your head falling back, eyes rolling into your skull, mouth dropping open on a satisfied moan. 

He only gives you a short amount of time to recover while he pulls his jeans and briefs off. You tug your sundress over your head. And then he’s rising up to meet you again, scooting you back until your head almost brushes the headboard. He sinks his thick cock into you as he presses his lips against yours, muffling your surprised and needy moan.

And then he reaches up, his large hand gripping the headboard as your legs wrap around his waist, and then he’s fucking you in earnest, each snap of his hips sheathing his cock fully inside you in a desperate rhythm.

And all you can do is lay there and take it and fall apart.

“S-shit, baby,” he grunts. “That’s it.”

“Oh God…” You whine. 

Your hands scrabble for purchase on his back, your blunt nails scratching up his sun-freckled skin, feeling the muscles bunch and shift as he holds the thumping headboard steady, his knuckles turning white as he grips it. His other hand finds its spot next to your head, holding himself up as he obliterates your pussy. 

He prepared you well for him, but you’re still stretched so full, the breaths knocked from your lungs with each thrust of his cock into you. His pelvic bone brushes your clit with the roll of his hips, the uneven pressure dragging you closer and closer to that metaphoric cliff.

And his moans certainly help, too. He’s not quiet, between strings of praises are ragged moans and tiny whimpers. It only turns you on more.

“Fuck, Joel, can’t leave me without this again.”

“Trust me baby,” he groans. “Another damn week and I wouldn’t’ve survived.”

His hand releases the headboard, slides down to tangle in your hair. He tugs your head back, and molds your lips to his. Teeth nipping your bottom lip before his tongue dives into your mouth. You moan appreciatively.

You can hardly breathe, but god it’s perfect. This moment is so fucking perfect. You want to take a picture of it. Frame it on your damn wall. 

You’re sure it looks like he’s fucking eating you right now, but you like it. You want him to consume you. Want him to be yours… Want to be his.

Stop. He’s your best friend.

He pulls back to lick a stripe from the corner of your lips along your jaw before sucking marks and kisses down your throat, his hips still thrusting into you steadily. His hand squeezes your breast, rolls your nipple between his index and thumb.

“Oh…oh—“ God… 

“You close baby girl?”

“Fuck, ye-yes… Yes need you…”

“N-need me to help you cum?”

He’s losing it. You’re losing it. Fuck please!

“Please, Joel—“

He pulls back enough to watch you, lips pink and puffy and kissed the fuck out. His eyes drift to where he’s thrusting inside you, dick slick with your arousal, sheathing itself inside you with wet, fucking nasty sounds.

“God, you're perfect. So fuckin' perfect...” 

His hand drifts down and you tremble, brows screwing together as his thumb fiddles with your clit.

White hot arousal pools in your core, unrelenting. Unstoppable. You feel like a damn metamorphic rock. Becoming something new under all this heat and pressure. 

It crests, crashing, filling your insides with hot magma as your mouth drops open on a silent scream, eyes squeezing shut as your pussy clamps down on Joel’s cock repeatedly.

He follows right behind you, painting your insides with thick, hot cum, leaking out of your entrance over his cock and down your ass cheeks.

You hiss when he pulls out, feeling empty. He gathers the cum that leaked out with his thumb and pushes it back into your quivering hole. 

“So goddamn pretty…” he murmurs. “Look so pretty with my cum inside you…”

Friends. You’re friends. 

So why the hell does this feel like so much more? Why is it that you’re so turned on by him practically claiming you?

You’re still trying to catch your breath when he lays down beside you, brushing your hair out of your sweaty face. “Feel better now? Not so mad anymore?”

“Mhm,” you hum happily.

He leans in, presses his lips against yours softer, slower…meaningfully. You kiss him back, tugging him close. His arm snakes around your waist, tugging you into him. You're pretty sure normal friends with benefits don't do this. But you and Joel have never been normal.

In those long three weeks you had started to worry maybe he'd never come back. It fucking scared you. Now, you're unsure you ever want to let go.

When he pulls back his eyebrows are furrowed, lips drawn in a frown. He looks concerned. "What's wrong?"

"What?"

"You're cryin'..." He wipes your teary eyes with his thumb.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You scramble to wipe your eyes, sniff. Smile at him. Reassure. Act normal. "Oh, no-I'm fine. Just... think I'm still drunk."

"Somethin' going on? You looked like you were gonna cry back at the Bison, too. Did I do somethin'?"

You shake your head, squeeze his arm. "No, of course not. I'm just being weird. Tired, I think.”

"You sure?"

"Mhm.”

"You can tell me anythin’, y'know?"

What? Like I think I'm in love with you? Fat chance.

"I know. Everything's fine."

You’re such a damn liar.

He can see right through you, but he lets it go. "Okay. If you're sure." He leans in to press a kiss to your jaw. Friend. Friend friend friend. "I'd love to stay but I gotta go. Ellie's probably wonderin' where I'm at."

Joel sits up, swings his legs over the edge and stands. Grabs his jeans, pulls them up. His belt buckle jangles as he slides it through the loops.

“I really did miss you, by the way,” he says, looking down at you. “You. Not just the sex.”

His words warm your cool, exposed body. Fuel the burning the realization, I love you. “I missed you, too.”

He turns to leave, and you see the fabric poking out of his back pocket.

"You still have my panties."

He smirks. "Guess you'll hav'ta come over to get them back."

You smile back, blushing. “Looking forward to it.”

He leans down to kiss your head, "Night, angel."

"Night," you say faintly.

Only when your front door slams shut do you allow yourself to give into the fantasies. To imagine what it’d be like to call him yours. To not keep things a secret. To tell people you're together. To be his.

Damnit, you’re in trouble.

[freedomfireflies]

404rrry catching a cold and wanting to babied by tink but also trying to act all tough “im just letting you be nice to me you know? But keep rubbing my back”😂

🩷🩷

“Harry—”

“No.”

“Harry—”

“Uh-uh.”

You huff. “Harold, I swear to god, if you don’t open your mouth so I can take your temperature, I will shove this thermometer up your ass and take it that way.”

He grimaces. “You don’t need to take my temperature. I’m not sick.”

“You’re coughing, you have a fever, you have snot literally dripping down your nose, and you can’t even stand up.” You cross your arms. “You’re sick.”

“And you’re annoying. But apparently there’s no prescription for that, is there? Well, I guess there is one—”

“Harry.”

“What?” He groans and presses his palm to his forehead. “You’re giving me a headache, do you mind?”

“Yeah. I do. Can you take the damn medicine I got you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you probably laced it with something,” he retorts. “And also because I’m not sick. Why do you even care so much? Do you really expect me to believe that you don’t like to see me suffer?”

“Oh, I do,” you agree. “But if you’re not better by next week, I have to go to that goddamn convention alone and Alex will be there. And if you’re not there, then I have to deal with him alone, and that’s just not fair.”

He considers this a moment, smirking slightly before leaning back against his headboard. “So…you wanna use me to make another guy jealous?”

“I—ew. No. I just…he’s annoying and he always hits on me and it’s gross.”

“So…”

“So, I’m not using you, but he’s scared of it. It’s just—forget it, are you gonna take the damn medicine or not?”

“Can you admit that you like to show me off to your nerdy admirers?”

You scowl. “No.”

“Fine. Then I guess I’ll just stay here and miss the convention.” He pauses. “...even though I’m not sick.”

With a rather dramatic groan, you reach for the bottle of pills on his nightstand. “Fine. Fine. Maybe…I like to have you around…sometimes…because it makes me look…better. Maybe. Sometimes.”

He grins. “Uh-huh. And…?”

Your teeth grit. “And I would really appreciate if you would come to the convention with me…so I can make…Alex…jealous.”

“Mm. Good girl.” Pleased, he sticks out his tongue and his hand.. “All right, Doctor. Make me better. Oh, but if you do decide to put something up my ass…the lube is in the second drawer. Right next to the strap-on.”

You smirk.

OKAY I DON'T KNOW IF I DID THIS RIGHT BUT I HOPE IT WAS SOMEWHAT WHAT YOU WERE WANTING, THANK YOU FOR SENDING IT BB, THIS IS FUN HEHE 💞

[cameronspecial]

Let Me Put Her In Her Place, Angel

Pairing: Frat!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.1K

Summary: Daisy's favourite pastime is getting a rise out of Rafe.

Masterlist

Daisy knows Rafe loves Y/N. Her best friend and the frat boy have been dating for almost six months now and her favourite thing to do is to tease the boy. She’s seen how smitten he is with Y/N. It’s funny to do little things to the boy that shows how much he loves Y/N. Daisy sits with Y/N at the dining room table while the boys play their video games in the living room. The girls had been playing with them but wanted to take a break to get something to eat. “You know Rafe is whipped for you,” Daisy whispers to Y/N. The other girl shakes her head, “No, he isn’t. He loves me, but I wouldn’t say he is whipped.” “Y/N, he totally is. He would stop whatever he is doing just to make sure you are okay,” Daisy argues. Y/N continues to cut the apple, “That’s just what a good boyfriend would do.” “I’m going to prove it to you. OMG. Y/N, are you okay?” Daisy yells, scraping her chair to get closer to Y/N to continue the act. 

Y/N watches as Rafe immediately throws the game controller somewhere in the room. He is off of the couch and runs toward Y/N as fast as he can. “Angel, what happened? Where are you hurt?” he worries, looking over every inch of her to make sure she is unharmed. Y/N can’t say anything before Daisy is laughing her head off, “She’s fine, Rafe. I just wanted to see how fast you’d come running to her side.” Rafe groans, glaring at his girlfriend’s best friend. He kisses Y/N on the lips, checking to see if she is okay and then heads back to his game after her reassurance that she is. “Told you he’s whipped,” Daisy brags. 

——

Daisy has been craving a variety of snacks all day, but she is too lazy to leave the warmth of her bed to go get them. Her solution. Taking advantage of Rafe being at his girlfriend’s beck and call. She can hear as he uses his key to let himself into their dorm. “Hey, Angel. I got all the stuff you asked for. Although, you know you could’ve called me. You didn’t have to be embarrassed and get Daisy to do it,” he calls out, placing the bags on Y/N’s desk. His head looks over to her bed and sees it empty. Confused, he looks over to Dasiy’s bed to see the girl smiling. She reaches out, “Great, bring them here.” “Where’s Y/N?” Rafe asks, handing the bag over because he still thinks this is for Y/N. Daisy tears into the bag, “She’s not here. She went to office hours. These are for me.” “You couldn’t have gotten them yourselves. I’m not your butler,” Rafe complains, sitting on Y/N’s bed to wait for her. He might as well stay for her.

Daisy shrugs, “Why get out of bed when my best friend’s boyfriend is so whipped for her that he would do anything for her no questions asked.” “You are an asshole, you know that,” he points his middle finger at her, taking out his phone to see if Y/N will be back soon. 

——

Rafe and Daisy are getting drinks and making small talk about the party. Daisy looks over Rafe’s shoulder and her expression changes to one of shock. “Damn, Y/N is flirting with Harold,” she tells him. Rafe’s face sours instantly. He doesn’t want to look behind him; it would kill him to see his Angel being unfaithful to him. The look of heartbreak on Rafe’s face makes Daisy feel bad. “Rafe, I’m just kidding,” she apologizes, turning him to see that Y/n is just talking to another one of their girlfriends. Rafe shoves her away from him, “You are getting on my nerves.” He beelines toward Y/N, wrapping a protective arm around her. His head rests on her shoulder, “Let me put her in her place, Angel. Please.” “What did she do now?” Y/N posits. His head buries in her neck, “She made me think you were flirting with another guy.”

“You know I would never do that. But I’ll talk to her. So you don’t have to worry about it, okay? Let me take care of it, Rafe.” 

“Okay, but I want extra cuddles tonight because she hurt my feelings.”

“Rafe, you can have a lot more than cuddles if you want. I’ll make you forget all the mean things Daisy has done to you.”

His face lights up like a Christmas tree and he lets her go talk to Daisy about the teasing. He may be annoyed with Daisy, but he sure is glad for what it is going to get him tonight. 

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia

[illiana-mystery]

Damn, Harold. And I mean damn. 🤤🥵

[foxonfier]

thought about michael dawson today. thought about the inherent tragedy of his story, how wound together he and walt are even after being wrongly separated for years, how losing his son so long ago culminated into this horrifically intense need to protect him from any harm, even harm that’s wrongly perceived. how this man is the answer for “would you kill for your child?” and how horribly the main cast failed him in season two. mostly, i thought about how much i love this character and how sometimes i feel like i’m his #1 fan because DEAR GOD the michael hate runs deep and you guys just don’t understand him like i do. oh michael how you fucked up so bad and yet i love you even more for it. i don’t think i’d enjoy the first two seasons of this show nearly as much if michael wasn’t present in them… thank you lost creators for michael. thank you harold perrineau for playing this character so fucking well bc god damn!!!! michael truly lives in my head rent free and i cannot get over literally everything about him. help

[angmarenthusiast]

More Total Drama Incorrect Quotes

Duncan: What's your greatest fear? Heather: Being forgotten. Duncan: ... Duncan: Damn, that's deep. Duncan: Mine is the Kool Aid man, but I feel kinda stupid about it now...

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

Scott: ‘Technically legal’, the two best words in the the English language, right before ‘cowboy spectacular.

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

*During a game of Hangman* Courtney: Nope, there’s no Q. You lose. Heather: Are you kidding me?! You can still add something! Courtney: I already added a belt, four earrings and an extra arm! YOU LOSE!

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

Noah: I just wanted to say that over the years, I have come to regard you as… people I met.

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

Justin: Yesterday, I watched Cody try to eat a decorative rock from Harold's potted plant. Trent caught them and told them they can't eat rocks. Cody started whining something about no food being in the house before walking away.

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

Jo: All in all, a 100% successful trip. Brick: But we lost Anne Maria. Jo: All in all, a 100% successful trip!

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

Mike: Lol. Heads up if you try to make a candle with food coloring, the food coloring will just sink to the bottom of the glass, and when the flame eventually reaches the bottom all the food coloring will catch fire and become one giant tall flame that you cannot possibly blow out and the glass will start to crack and then you’ll throw your tea on it in a panic and then the extremely hot food coloring will boil and sizzle horribly and then the glass will shatter. Please take my word on this. Cameron: What did you do Mike? Mike: a Mistake.

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

Brick: *eating a cinnamon roll* Anne Maria: Cannibalism. Brick: *confused chewing noises*

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

Sierra: I know what you're up to. Izzy: Really? Because I barely know.

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

Cody: *is visibly upset* Tyler: Cody, what happened? I haven't seen you like this since you found out candyland wasn't an actual country.

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

Izzy, in Eva’s window: I thought I’d find you here! Noah, climbing past Izzy: WE COULD HAVE USED THE DOOR-

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

Cody: Could you guys at least try to see this from my perspective? Harold: *crouches down* Justin: *kneels down* Trent: *sits on the floor* Cody: Cody: I hate all of you.

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

Sam: Without ugly, there would be no beauty in this world. Dawn: Thank you for your sacrifice, Scott.

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

Sam: Pick a card, any card. Scott: Fine. Sam: Wait, that's my credit card! Scott: You said any card.

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

*Beth and Lindsay are in a mirror maze* Beth, seeing Lindsay: C'mon, you got it! Almost through! Lindsay: I see you! *runs straight into a mirror, shattering it* Beth: *screams*

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

Heather: Gwen- Gwen: *sighs* Courtney used to call me Gwen... Heather: ...Because it's your fucking name.

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

Zoey: Hey bro, what do you want to eat? Mal: The souls of the innocent! Mike: A bagel. Mal: No! Mike: Two bagels.

[syrma-sensei]

Somewhere In Your Heart, Ch.3: Mirrors.

pairing: soldier boy x fem!reader.

rating: explicit.

setting: in the early 80s.

word count: 3.7k

warnings: prostitution, angst, sexual innuendos, violence, cursing...

summary: Soldier boy lives through the ennui of his peak, but everything is about to change when he has a shift in his heart.

“That’s not what I fucking signed up for!”

Legend flinches a bit as Soldier Boy flings the glass of liquor in his hand. Legend's face twitches as he sees it splinter into tiny pieces, which makes him often wonder if he’d end up with his head bashed into pieces if he carried on his career in this damned place. Despite everything, Legend has developed a tight resolve when it comes to dealing with Vought's supes, Soldier Boy in particular.

“You wanted the gal, and now you have her.” Legend answers crudely.

Soldier Boy seethes, “I don't recall being consulted about her fucking pimp tagging along!”

Legend sighs at this point, “Mr. Harold's her manager, and he emphasised his inclusion to be thoroughly considered. He's been her tutor for years. And you heard her yourself, she wanted him in.”

Soldier Boy smacks his lips in deep frustration. Great. Now, he'd have to deal with her manager being up on their asses in their little game of cat and mouse. What he wants is simple, he wants her in his bed after he's won her over. He doesn't want that fuck face to get in his way. Soldier Boy sighs, passing an aggressive hand over his face.

“When do we start the rehearsals?” Ben asks in a tight tone, he's still finding this hard to digest.

“Tomorrow morning, because you know, she's quite busy at night.”

Legend's insinuated smirk didn't go unnoticed by Ben. The little shit.

“Good.” Ben replies, and dismisses Legend, because he too has a busy night.

Ben exhales deeply through his nostrils before he scooches by the swarms of dancing and drunk people. He's donned in a casual outfit for tonight. Casual yet fancy; Ben never skimps on his looks whether it's for business or in his private life. He dresses both to impress (the gals) and depress (the pals). He's aware of his effect on both sides and likes to swagger with his looks; he has black jeans on his legs, black jean jacket wide open to show off his chest which is accentuated by a white shirt. His feet are comfortable in a pair of brown and sleek boots.

Finding his way to the bar, his piercing green eyes catch the visage of a pretty girl by the bar. Once his eyes land on her, she flashes him a grin which he partially ignores on his way to his destination.

He sits on a stool, resting one arm on the bar counter, ordering a drink, then he turns around to have a quick scan on the dance floor. Most of the people dancing are between late adolescence and early twenties. When he was their age he applied to Dr. Vought's Compound V trials to win his father's favour. He scoffs between him and himself.

A real man doesn't take a shortcut.

The words still titillate a bitter taste akin to ash under his tongue whenever he remembers what his father spewed in his face after Ben saw God under those fucking trials. It was perilous and shrouded with uncertainty, but he was willing to do it for his father, to make him proud. He became America's first superhero, the golden son of the states, but what good the golden son title could do him if he was a disappointing coward in his father's eyes.

He closes his eyes for a bit, he can't believe it still haunts him after all this time. His dad is dead. Hell, he's older than him right now, hitting his fucking sixties with ease his dad would've wished he had. The bastard died of cancer, or so he'd heard. It was a long time ago. He doesn't remember, of course, why would he bother? He didn't even attend his funeral. The old bastard didn't deserve the honour.

He gobbles down his drink in one go when it's served, relishing in the momentarily burning sensation. Then, he orders another.

Fuck, sometimes, he wishes he was normal like those youngsters, he thinks melancholically. Hell, he can't even get drunk to forget, to make mistakes, to feel alive again.

He comes to places like this because it's easier to blend in. He's rarely recognised among drunk and stoned people who are looking for some ass.

Ben's head whips to the side when he feels a gentle hand on his arm, caressing it tenderly. “You look sad…” He raises a brow at the girl, she's the same gal he saw when he first entered the club. “I can fix that…”

He lets her despite the fact he knows she can't fix shit.

After hours, Ben is lying naked in one of the club's rooms, beside him the girl who offered him help, the help that did him nothing at all. He knew from the outset this wouldn't work, but he gave it a shot because the girl looked somewhat akin to Rita Hayworth whom he had a crush on growing up.

He rubs his eyes with a groan as he sits up, deftly swinging his feet down on the floor. This is not good. Sex is never not good to him, especially if it's accompanied with some toots on fine breasts like this one had. God, she has two watermelons for a pair of tits. And boy did he fucking like tits. Big, medium, small, he likes all of them.

Ben glances at her, fuck, he didn't even ask for her name, but Rita-Hayworth-knock-off is a new mom. He can sense the milk hormone kicking in her system which she's trying to dial down with meds. Ben twitches his eyebrows; it explains why she's taken this road.

He shakes his head, looking at her, she seems in her early twenties, he can hazard a guess and say it's the same scenario. She met Romeo, got knocked up, Romeo left, big old daddy kicked her out. And now she has hers and her baby's mouths to feed.

Ben grunts as he reaches for his jean jacket on the floor, he grabs something out before he gets dressed in his clothes. He leaves her some money under the pillow.

Rita-Hayworth-knock-off wakes up after a while to find her payment under the pillow, and a piece of paper above it, with no trace of the handsome man. Her eyes widen when she flips it back and forth trying to comprehend what's that.

It's for you and your baby, not for the fucking pimp.

Rita smiles with tears in her eyes, hugging the check to her chest.

When his pursuit of pleasure has failed, Ben heads back home. And by home it means one of his private properties, a penthouse. He sighs as he slips the jacket off, tossing it on the armrest of the leatherd big sofa in the living room. He ambles towards the wet bar and pours himself a drink. He lets out an elongated sigh, it almost sounds longing and craving.

“Fuck…” He groans. You really did a number on him. His bodys is fucking raging with want and nothing besides having you will regale that burning desire to claim you. He guzzles up his drink.

He fucking met a broad twice and his body is acting up like a pussy. He's fucking Soldier Boy, the Soldier Boy. One fleeting girl can't bring him to heels like that. But again, the image of your sensual features, the rasp in your voice, the mystery in your eyes, they're all so fucking tempting him to coax you down layer by layer. He wants to see the girl behind this facade. Oh, he knows there's one behind that eloquent, sagacious mask. He wants to meet the one who's grinding on his vainglory's gears. He wants that woman, and he's intended to own her.

The world of Vought is a dreadful and dangerous place to be, but however the people in charge of making it dazzle with such glamour, they earn each penny they make.

You were fast to acclimate to the somewhat new atmosphere. Jack was proud of you, and you were happy you managed to do so.

You're always on time, with utter competence and professionalism; any lack of diligence is frowned upon. Your business is mostly tied to none other than Soldier Boy, the greatest hero ever lived.

Working with America's son is amusing to say the least.

In spite of his big headed self, he's actually good at taking orders and exerting them like a good soldier would. Through the days in the rehearsals, he's been unexpectedly nice to you, which makes you wonder what he really wants from you. You're not an idiot. Jack made sure of that. You know that Soldier Boy wants you; him practically eye-fucking you is a bit of a giveaway. However, he doesn't verbally express anything of the sort.

During the days at Vought, you've come to learn more and more about Soldier Boy, bits reporters would kiss your ass to divulge to them. But of course your professionalism and the NDA you signed prevent you from doing so.

You find Soldier Boy — or Ben as he emphasised to call him, is an interesting individual, as expected from a man of his rank and fame. But as any performer he's a complete hypocrite. Just like yourself. The first time in which he almost made you gasp was when he invited you to his headquarters in the tower so you could sniff some crunched crack with him. To kick back, as he put it. That shit is good, I'm telling ya. You discovered that America's golden son isn't as godly as his media pretence claims to be.

He's flawed, tremendously so. Just like you are. He has a short and firing temper that threatens to blow off at any second. And he isn't kind to those who don't make him happy. One time, he burst in the face of a poor assistant for not bringing his right order of coffee. Iced. He snarled at him.

And to add insult to injury, he's hard to please.

However, and oddly enough, he isn't as crass with the gentle sex. Especially with you. Maybe the fact he would fuck you at some time has something to do with that. Be that as it may, you enjoy the companionship of the supe, because there's a lot to him that intrigued you. Despite everything, his what is akin to giddiness that he shows when he's with you is growing on you.

Anywho, within the deepest layers of you, you envy him. He isn't on a leash like you. He comes and goes whenever and wherever he likes. He takes shit from nobody, and does whatever he wants. You wish you had anything close to what he had. The power, the money, the connections. You want to be like him, and not some bitch tied to her owner for life.

Today's the day you and Soldier Boy officially record the cover song after days of arduous rehearsals with the latter. Again, he's hard to please; you can't help but to think whether he made you and the rest of the crew reiterate when he didn't like that note, or when he disliked the harmony of the rhythm, or he was doing that on purpose just so he can spend more time with you.

You internally sigh, you shouldn't read much into the lines, but considering, you relish in the attention and you give him yours, the thing he wants the most as of yet. You wonder when he's going to get bored of you. Up close, Soldier Boy is the kind of a man who falls fast into ennui. It's only a matter of time before he tosses you aside and moves on to his next stimuli.

You're playing with fire, and you know that. Much like he is seeking the pleasurable sting, so are you.

Despite Soldier Boy's faults, he knows how to get the job done, whether it's on field or up on the stage, Legend muses. The latter can't but acknowledge that Soldier Boy is a talent. A magnificent and pure one at that.

Legend is glad about the fact this gal is being in Vought's favour. She has the voice and the looks, and he can feel it, everyone working in the studio can feel it. The chemistry between the two. Maybe, just maybe, he can consider making them a screen couple after the song hits the audience on cloud nine.

It's been a good day today. The records are going smoothly. The only thing that might've disturbed it was Jack Harold's presence in Soldier Boy's. The latter has a thing about the former. And casting professional shit aside, the man is hubristic and kind of unpleasant. Luckily, he doesn't come by often. Jack dropped by from time to time to establish his presence. Nothing harmful, yet.

Legend only hopes Soldier Boy keeps his cool in front of Jack just for a couple of days more. Legend watches the duo sing in a flawless consonance.

Everything is at ease until a rambunctious Noir barges in the studio, seeing red.

The music of “Just The Two Of Us” slowly dwindles away, as yours and Soldier Boy's melts into the walls of the recording room.

“You’re standing in my place, Soldier Boy.” Noir enunciates.

Soldier Boy wries a brow the young supe.

The palpable tension is a clear cue for the crew to scramble out of the recording room, because they know better not to get in between two supes. Legend watches from the control room, he notices that you aren't running like the rest of the staff. Instead you take the spot behind Soldier Boy.

The latter can hear your heartbeat quicken up and can distinguish it from Noir’s; each has its unique pattern like a thumbprint. And at the moment, Noir's is gushing with fury, and yours… Well, yours is bumping with fear and… excitement?

Soldier Boy scoffs at Noir, a small grin playing on his lips. “Your place?” He snickers, “Listen up, kid—”

“No, you listen to me, Ben.” Noir spits, “This is where you fucking stop getting in my way!”

Soldier Boy bursts out laughing, “Getting in your way? Kid, this is my hit, before your old man knocked up your mama.”

That's it. Noir couldn't take more insult into his wound and marches forward, launching an attack at Soldier Boy. However, the more seasoned supe grabs his fist in his first with ease.

Soldier Boy tilts his head, glancing at you over his shoulder, “You might as well get outta her, sweetheart, things are gonna get a little bit messy.”

You don't need to be told twice. Your feet hit the air as you scurry out of the room. But… Noir takes the shot and hauls you in his free hand and hurls you to the wall. You wail as you fall on the floor.

“You little shit!” Soldier Boy grits his molars and grasps Noir’s arms and fixes him to his spot before he headbutts the younger supe. Three hits were enough to make Noir stagger backwards, giving Soldier Boy the chance to punch Noir's cheeks, then depositing him unconscious onto the floor.

Soldier Boy lips twitch at the pathetic little shit, before he walks in your direction, crouching down to your level.

“Hey, are you okay, sweetheart?” Unlike the brutal scene from moments ago, Soldier Boy's touch is gentle when he holds you up to check for any injury. Luckily, and thanks to Soldier Boy, Noir couldn't exert enough power to cause any severe damage to you but manageable bruises and a sprained ankle.

Legend watches at the mess from behind the scenes as supe crisis staff pour into the room to clear that mess up. He doesn't heed anything of his attention but how Soldier Boy insisted on carrying you up in his arms to get patched up in his own personal quarters.

Legend lights up a cigar and wonders what kind of spells you cast on Soldier Boy that he's so smitten with you. Could it be you're a supe with hypnotising powers? Maybe, but if so, you'd have been within Vought's records.

But nothing of the sort was found on you. You're just a human with a pretty face and vocal talents that happened to captivate the mind of the current most important asset of Vought. He expected Soldier Boy to get bored and toss you aside after a couple of days when he was done with you. But Legend was gravely mistaken. For the past weeks, Soldier Boy only got more enamoured by your charms and was putty in your hand with only a bat of your pretty eyelashes. Legend kept an eye on both of you everyday to see how that was coming along, and it surprised him to say the least.

Perhaps they can use you to their benefit for a better communication with the supe, Legend says. Because as the days pass by, Soldier Boy is only getting older and out of touch with each day. He's become more tenacious and hard to deal with each day. Maybe you could become a key for a new affair. Who knows, maybe when the song is all the rage in the country, people will like the idea of pairing you together better than Soldier Boy with Countess. People would find a human girl paired up with Soldier Boy more appealing and more relatable. Legend flick the cigar in the ashtray on the dashboard in the control room. He shakes his head, and gets back to reality. There are two injured people in the mess today which makes him release a series of expletives as he huffs a vapour of smoke.

He sighs. The things he does for talents.

“Oww!” You groan as the medic dabs an alcohol-soused piece of cotton on your ankle.

“Careful with that one. She's delicate.”

Soldier Boy tells the medic as he patches you up.

When he's done, he leaves you with several plasters on your body and a swollen ankle wrapped with a white bandage.

Great. Now you're gonna be useless for few days. You sigh, already picturing the querulous frown on Jack's face. You're gonna miss a couple nights at his clubs.

“Relax, you’re gonna be fine.” He offers you a glass of whiskey with rocks. “I know you're no snowflake.”

You take a gulp of your drink and the searing sensation temporarily numbs the bitterness you've held for the most of your life.

You sigh again, placing the glass on the coffee table in front of you. In times of vulnerability like this, you can't be but haunted by the memory of your brother. The only family you had before your life took a shitty turn and snatched him away from you. Before you met Jack. Before you've become this.

You drown yourself in self pity and scoff. Life wasn't just a bitch by depriving you of your care-taker and protector, it also threw Jack Harold in your way who moulded you into what you are now. A complete hypocrite, who lives off kissing ass and sucking dicks.

Soldier Boy studies you before he pours you another. He knows you need another shot.

“You know…” You say after you feel the tantalising burn in your esophagus. “I didn't remember being roughhoused by one of you folks in our contract. Plus, what did he mean by you getting in your way?”

You usually won't care, but you're really curious what rubbed Noir the wrong way that he hurled you across the recording room. For all you know, and from what you've heard from the halls of Vought, he was on a solo mission.

Soldier Boy jeers. “The kid's delusional. He thinks I pulled the song from under his feet when in fact, Legend begged me to do it.” He swallows a mouthful of his drink.

You sigh again, “But isn't he a member of Payback? I thought you guys are like family.”

Soldier Boy sneers, “The kid needs to be reminded to respect the chain of command every once in awhile. He shouldn't have crossed me with such impudence.” Then through his fleeting ire, a sly grin pulls at his lips as he tips your chin up, “And he shouldn't have touched what belongs to me.”

A bemused shiver roils through your spine at his claim of ownership of you. You can't be his. You're Jack's. The latter made sure of it. Being Jack's property would be a dread to any woman, but wanting to be Soldier Boy's is frightening. You saw what he did to Noir with a sliver of his strength, the fact he can snap you in two halves like a toothpick makes your bowels liquid. However, you can't ignore the twinge in your core when he said it. No, no. You learnt how to lie and be a fake bitch to other people, but not to yourself. You don't misinterpret the aching throb between your legs for this man. No, no. You crave to be his, you wish he'd snatch you away from Jack the way life snatched your brother away from you; once and for all.

You drum up what remains of your deteriorating aplomb and keep your chin up. “I wish to be compensated.”

Soldier Boy quirks a brow up. “You want compensation?”

You nod at your bruises, “If you want me to be yours, you must show me.”

He falls silent for a moment that elapses like a year. Then, another grin curves his lips up. “Show you…”

“I want you to show me something I've never seen… Can you do that?”

His grin widens, it almost resembles a shark's. “I think I can, dollface.”

After a few days, and after your bruises fade away into yellowish smudges, Soldier Boy keeps his words.

He sneaks you out of Vought after you two finish recording the damn song. Pleasure after business as he told you. You only thank Christ that you conducted the visuals a day before Noir came back and almost ruined your work.

He takes you to a building in the heart of the city, the sliding spyhole glides open, an eye peeks through it, and as soon as it perches on Soldier Boy, the door immediately clicks open.

You step in, dogging Soldier Boy's steps. He turns to you and smirks. “Welcome to Herogasm, sweetheart.”

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