#because the older games are now pretty fucking old

[sailor-aviator]

Hey.

Go ahead and get settled because this will be...long, in true Liz fashion.

So, by now I'm sure most of you have heard what's happened. If not, you can search this blog for some answers or others for more.

I joined this fandom offiicially at the end of September after being a long time lurker. I had just lost my job and times were uncertain for me. I felt inspired to write, and as someone whose formative years were shaped by the fandom experience, I wanted to feel that sense of belonging again - to feel like a part of a community. I've talked about it on here before, but I started my fandom days in the original Hunger Games fandom when the first movie had just come out, and then I shifted gears towards the SuperWhoLock fandom. If you know anything about SuperWhoLock, then you know you had to have pretty tough fucking skin to be a part of any of it.

Of course, this was back in the day when fandom was an actual community and not authors having to beg for scraps of engagement and people thinking its a numbers game. I was a fairly large blog within the SuperWhoLock community (Waywardly-Carrying-On was the username), but I left fandom for a few years because life got hectic and I felt like I had outgrown the fandom itself as I was no longer watching any of the shows. As the years went on, I started to yearn for the fandom experience again, which is how I found myself dipping toes into several different ones.

I was so excited to publish my first fanfic. I had convinced myself that I wasn't a good writer (much to the chagrin of my irl friends), and I had put a pause on writing my original story. I wanted to write this idea about a cowboy and a girl using characters that I had grown to love like I did way back in my older days. So, I started posting, and I was so excited for the story, that I kept posting almost daily. MamaMay was one of the first people to embrace not only my story, but me as a person into the fandom. She made me feel welcomed and wanted.

Pretty much right off the bat I was already getting anons telling me that I was being too much and that I needed to calm down with all the posting. I was confused because...this is Tumblr. It's literally a blogging website? Why wouldn't I post? I decided to ignore the mean words (not before giving my opinion, of course) and kept on doing my thing. Well, the anons got continually worse and worse. I had a suspiscion as to who the anons could be, but I never had concrete proof. So, I experimented with blocking suspects until finally it worked. I'm not naming names because that's not my style, so don't even bother asking.

The fact of the matter is, some of you have entered fandom spaces for the first time, and you don't know how to act. You don't care to learn fandom etiquette as you've made abundantly clear by calling fandom olds every name under the sun while utilizing the anonymous feature. Newsflash, you're part of the problem. You're the reason why authors don't want to publish anymore. You are the reason that something that's supposed to be fun is starting to feel like a goddamn chore.

How many times can authors on here say that we aren't machines? We have lives outside of this website: family, friends, jobs, school, etc. Some of you really are just hellbent on making everyone around you miserable, and it's sad. You can't just leave well enough alone and let people enjoy something, no you feel like everyone has to enjoy it the same way as you.

Some of you go after authors on here because of some weird sense of jealousy too. I don't know why my shit blew up, babe, I really don't. But I started out with no followers and no support just like everyone else. I'll tell you what helped me though: following fandom etiquette and reaching out to other creators to build an actual community. None of this "I've reblogged three of your things and now I'm messaging you so that you return the favor." No, I reached out to make actual friendships which is what fandom is SUPPOSED to be. If someone was clearly not interested, it was fine!! I backed off and kept doing my own thing.

Some of you think being mean on the internet makes you big and bad. Guess what! It doesn't! It's loser mentality and I feel genuinely sorry for you. I'm sorry that people in your own life made you feel so small as to feel like you had to lash out at strangers on the internet who are just trying to have fun.

Anyway, this is my really long way of saying that I am taking a break for a little bit. I have no idea how long it will be - could be the weekend, could be a couple of weeks, could be forever. I need time to decide if this is something I want to keep persuing. If I come back, I don't know if I will remain a TGM blog or if I'll shift gears and hop into another fandom with a rebrand. Guess we'll just have to see.

To the people on here who have been a constant source of joy, laughter, and support: thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Your presence has meant everything to me, and I hope that my break sees me wanting to come back and giggle about the silly plane movie with you all again.

Nothing but love,

Liz 💛

[findafight]

Okay I kept thinking about this post and Steve being a BNF of Corroded Coffin message board of the internet of yore.

Alright so way back in the nineties Suzie hooks everyone up with the internet, yes? Yes. Eddie and Steve got together in '92 after some mutual pining and a few disastrous relationships that couldn't handle 1) Steve and Robin's general QPR clinginess 2) Eddie's intensity 3) the secrecy required if having multiple years of monster fighting and subsequent NDAs and the trauma associated therein. They're older and more settled and ready for an Adult Relationship.

Corroded Coffin is gaining traction and doing really well and the internet is still a brave new frontier, so Steve says to Eddie something like "I'm going to see if there's some message boards about you 🥰" and find them he sure does. So he makes accounts and posts under the username EddiesOnlyGroupie because he's hilarious and also the mods banned him from using EddieMunsonsHusband (he figured it was fine on the internet because nobody actually knew who he was but APPARENTLY NOT homophobia lives on in the digital age). He gets pretty well known in the Corroded Coffin fandom, most assuming he's a woman because he will go off on how hot Eddie looked at a gig. Like. Saying unhinged internet shit because 1) true and 2) he and Eddie think it's so funny. Everyone kinda believes the groupie thing too because of all the performance pics he's able to post and how he'll sometimes offer tidbits if knowledge about the band.

When they transition from chatrooms to livejournal etc he follows, with the same username. He's kind of a legend by the mid aughts. EOG is the acronym people use when discussing theories on his identity, and he's like "guys I'm literally his only groupie it's self explanatory. Guys why don't you believe me Eddie hasn't slept with anyone but me since 1992. We're basically married". He goes "it's not a mystery we literally are in love and Jeff and I go to Cubs games and cry when they inevitably lose together. Gareth is Godfather to my cats" (Eddie is still offended that he was not named Sassafras and Moonshine's godfather when Steve and Robin adopted them in '89). No one believes him.

Possibly because he still thirsts after Eddie and whenever someone posts a new Eddie pic those in the know wait for him to pop up with comments like "I want to bite his neck omg" "he has no ass but nobody is perfect I'll settle between his thighs anyway" and "literally a crime I am not married to him right now what the fuck" As twitter grows he swoops in to grab his handle, and follows a bunch of other CC fan accounts (some of them old friends, some of them new to the scene)(EOG 100% has his own fanlore page, which also has speculation on who he is and how he gets all the bts pics. It also doesn't believe when he says what it says on the tin. He's Eddie's only groupie.)

tumblr and tiktok come round and Steve is like. Openly horny on main. He's seen some shit go down on the internet but he's still commenting on Eddie fan edits that are title shit like "why am I attracted to this middle-aged white man" and "retro cc fancam" with things like "I'd let him lick the inside of my ear and only bring it up to tease him on special occasions" "his FINGERS" "back in '89 Jeff and Howie and Claire staged a mutany over this song because they were 'sick of Eddie only writing about biting bats' lmao" and "Jeff is my favourite member of cc"(just to stir the pot)

Eddie comes out in the 2010's and he's like "yeah I've been in a long term relationship with someone who is usually mostly a man kinda (gender is fucky) for the past twenty years, lol. His name's Steve. I love him a lot even if he mocks me online." and of course EOG comments "the mods of that old message board should have let me keep my original handle of EddieMunsonsHusband. When're you gonna make it reality, Munson? smh" and everyone is like Huh?? EOG is a MAN? And he's like yeah? Sometimes?? Not always?

(He 100% thinks this is him telling people he's Eddie's Steve. They don't get the message)

Anyways life goes on Steve continues to thirst under pictures of Eddie, he has his pronouns and name in his bio on twitter (Steve, he/him, she/her, Eddie Munson's first and only groupie 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️ ) and continues to post behind the scenes photos that shockingly few people question (she always says "because I'm his groupie" though. He and Eddie think this is VERY funny and also true. Robin groans. They've been making the same joke for two decades.) and people believe it because Eddie has interacted EOG sometimes, liking photos or videos, commenting sometimes. (Steve has a more professional realname account that he rarely uses but Eddie usually tags Steve there)

And THEN Internet user EddiesOnlyGroupie says he's taking a few weeks off for her honeymoon because "I'm finally marrying the man of my dreams!" And people are happy for him but also bummed because Eddie is also taking a two week hiatus but EOG promises wedding and honeymoon photos. (Face reveal! Sorta!)((he doesn't get why people are excited because he's pretty sure he's been in a lot of Eddie's recent pictures, but whatever)

Imagine the Internet's surprise when Eddie Munson posts a collection of pictures spanning '86 to his 2016 wedding of him and Steve, including one of Steve looking seriously at an old desktop computer, captioned "Steve starting his internet career" and tags EOG.

Steve qrt with "I told yall. I'm his only groupie, and they should've let me keep EddieMunsonsHusband even if they WERE homophobic. Because now it's TRUE"

Niche internet community drama chaos ensues.

[mari-the-bimbo]

Checkmate

A/N: This is part of the ‘think I need someone older’ series because I’m very behind on it whoopsie! Also have I watched Queen Gambit? No. Did I use the show as inspo anyways? Yes! :D

MINORS DNI, 18+, blow job, semi public sex? Dirty talk,

“You again Geto?” you ask with a sigh as you watch the older, handsome man with his jet black hair tied back, patiently wait for you at the table.

“Hey beautiful”

You try your best to hide your smile from the handsome man who always managed to win every other chess game to land at a game with you.

“You sound disappointed to see me y/n, I’m hurt” he says playfully as you sit at the table, scanning the board, preparing for a game of chess with him.

“Yet you find yourself here every time” you retort, he chuckles nonetheless as he begins. “I enjoy it” he says.

“I’ll never understand why you enjoy playing chess in a pub full of old men though” he says. You shrug your shoulders “I’m just better than all of you” you say as you move a pawn.

He laughs amusedly, it echoes across the room littered with a few nearly middle aged men, none of them gorgeous as your favourite opponent.

“so cocky” he swoons. “And what if I won today?”

“You won’t” you say confidently with a smile, he can’t help but mirror your smile. He was so lovesick for you.

“You wanna bet on that?” He says, you give a breathy laugh at his eagerness. “Ok bet”

“And what happens if I win the bet?” He asks, causing you to halt your next move on the bishop.

You raise an eyebrow at the mischievous male, debating whether letting the simp have a favour from you is a wise idea.

“What would you want to do if you won?” You ask. Fuck being wise right?

He smiles knowingly, licking his lips, but it’s too late to take back words.

“You let me have my way with you”

Your breath hitches at his statement. You glare at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you can help me out with something I really need” he says.

“Oh really?” You say as you move another player, your head goes fuzzy for a second. Wait, was that the right player to move?

“Mhm, just a little something under the table” he says dirtily as he confidently moves another player.

You gulp at his suggestive words, you know what a man obsessed with you would want, but you never expected him to have this effect on you “what?” You say as you move your king.

He smiles before leaning in closer to you. You feel his breath on your neck, “is your mouth as good as your hands?” he rasps and you gasp, pulling away from him, glaring at the man.

However Geto’s dark eyes were no longer on you but rather your king who he just put into check.

“Checkmate”

You stare in disbelief at the board. How did he defeat you? He never wins against you, nor does he ever come close to it.

“You-“

“Aww man all the guys have left. They didn’t get to witness this beautiful victory” he mocks with a smile.

You squeeze your thighs together, hating yourself for choosing your desire for the handsome chess genius over your own ego.

He tilts his head and flashes a pretty smile at you as he unzips his jeans. “Well I guess it’s good they’re not here to witness what’s next huh?”

———————————-

You were, in fact thankful that all the other chess enthusiasts left. The pub staff too busy sitting inside, having a cigarette to know Geto’s dirty antics.

You’re not surprised when upon freeing his cock from his boxers, you found it was already rock hard and decorated with pre cum. He was horny this entire game?

“Dirty pervert” you mutter.

He laughs at you while reaching out a hand to caress your cheek, “you seen the faces you pull when you’re concentrating? How can a man resist?”

“You-“

But your sentence is cut off by Geto’s tip which he now shoved against your lips, pre cum wetting them.

“Nu uh, you can run your mouth when you win a game princess, until then, it’ll be stuffed with my cock” he says, leaving no room for protest.

He pets your hair as the pre cum around his pink thick cock gets licked up by you. He moans deliciously, singing your praises from his mouth.

“Ohhhh pretty girl, your mouth is just as good”

He enthusiastically grabs your head with his thick veiny hand to press his cock deeper into your mouth. You initially struggle to fit the girth of him in, but your choking is only music to his ears.

He laughs blissfully at the sound, “so cuteee” he moans, his hips thrusting harder every time, because the wet gummy feeling of inside your mouth was just too good against his length.

Your whimpers vibrate against his sensitive head, his praises is now mixed with curses as he ruts into your mouth as if you were a sex toy. His thick arm grabbing the wooden table for stability, because, oh god, it was so easy to lose his composure with a pretty thing like you in between his legs.

Heavy balls slap against your chin, and the drool trails down your face but you try to keep up with his eager stamina.

Finally he slows his pace when he makes you aware he’s about to cum, the creamy taste of his cum flows down your throat as well as trickling down your chin mixing with your spit.

You’re both panting as you finally take his length out of your mouth and look up at him from in between his legs.

It takes everything in you not to suck him off again as you watch him slump against the chair, black hair strands frame his face dishevelled, his muscular chest heaving as he lets out a satisfied sigh.

“Hey princess” he coos as he grabs your chin, pressing his sweaty forehead against yours, he kisses your wet lips for continuing. “Maybe you should let me win more often yeah? I promise I’ll eat you out next time”

You give him a breathy laugh against his lips, “in your dreams Suguru” you say, even though you know you’ll take him up on the offer.

[kunigmis]

pluck my cherry?

isagi yoichi x female!reader

synopsis: isagi yoichi asks his dear older stepsister a favor, which is to pluck my cherry? you’ve been a part of his life since he was 10, so you’re disgusted by the thoughts you’ve had of him. but, he’s just so sweet and innocent, you think maybe corrupting him wouldn’t be too bad…

content warnings: minors do not interact! all characters are 20+, age gap (7-years), stepcest, virginity loss (on isagi’s end), unprotected sex, oral (female!receiving), handjob, creampie, squirting, hinted breeding kink if you squint, kind of sister-con!isagi (he’s in love with you), heavy petting and groping, cum eating, pervert!isagi…

notes: i’d love to do virgin!isagi i’m sorry, but like that’s getting me all hot and bothered ૮꒰ ˶> ༝ <˶꒱ა virgin!isagi who’s a natural at sex!! love heart eyes… the two of you have grown up together and you’re adoration turned into lust… parents aren’t really mentioned but your mother fell for isagi’s father (just imagine his parents had split up). isagi has been in love with you since he was 10 btw. probably ooc… ૮ › ༝ ‹ ྀིა and!! this is for lovely @killsaki‘s family ties collab!! i loved being part of this, it was sm fun <33

WHEN ISAGI COMES TO you, all blushing and staring lovingly at you with his pretty and big blue eyes, asking you a favor you, dare say, wanted to say no to, you’re only allowed to hesitate for a moment before he’s hounding you for an answer. he’s bigger than when he was as a teenager, always having stood taller than you, so it’s easy for him to press you into a corner and keep you there for as long as he wanted.

you’re not sure whether or not he’s serious. he’s always been a bit of a jokester, he’d come in and play with you like a toy. despite being older than he, it was as if the “age barrier” played no part in your guys’ relationship. you wanted the respect you knew he could give, yet he couldn’t bring himself to show it. and, he didn’t really mind that you were older anyway.

but, you always found that to be endearing. you kind of liked to be treated like you were as young as he was, to not have your age be a factor in how he treated you. he was usually upfront about how he felt, never acting like he was forced to interact with you and like he actually wanted to be around you. it was sweet and had you feeling things you shouldn’t for the person he was to you. but, you’d push those thoughts aside when you’d shove your hand into your panties and treat yourself to a playful game called crushing on your little stepbrother. and, this was not a game a 30-year-old woman like you should be playing.

so, you shake your worries once more and ask him if he’s actually asking or just messing with your feelings. because you’re sure that, either way, you’d say yes despite your inner turmoil.

“why would i joke about this, big sis?” isagi knew your sick and gut-twisting feelings whenever he’d use that to address you. his eyes were sharp and perspective, so he would easily catch you pressing your thighs together and anxiously avoiding his gaze. you were so easy to read, and he’d hope just as easy to get into bed. “c’mon, please? f’me.”

god, he was doing to be the death of you. isagi had you tangoing with the devil with the wild thoughts he gave you. you’ve imagined it so many times, and you’re sure you’ll imagine it so many more, but now’s the time when your thoughts become reality. all those sick and twisted ideas of fucking your little stepbrother on every and any surface in your house that you could were about to become a little more than just scenarios in your pretty little head.

isagi doesn’t even question your silence, he knows you’re thinking about it—and he knows you’re going to give in. fuck, he licks the back of his teeth in anticipation, trying to quench the urge to just pounce on you now. he’s wanted this for so long, remembering how his eyes would always get so big and starry when he’d look up at you as your family had dinner. you treated him so kindly, so sweetly, like he wasn’t some random 7-year younger child your mother brought in with an extra bonus of a father figure. you accepted their presence quickly and doted on isagi with innocent adoration. that is, until you both knew it turned into something a little south of innocent and a little dirtier than adoration.

and, so, you’re left to swallow down any refusals and instead nod meekly, so easy to give in and you’re sure isagi would be using such a thing to his advantage later on.

finally, you were within his grasp and he wasn’t planning on letting go.

“fuck—! ‘ichi, please!”

an hour had passed since isagi and you got to it. you’re a creamy and hot mess now, hair tousled and stuck to your sweaty forehead. your lips are red from continuous biting, by both you and isagi, and are begging to be plucked like the pretty cherries they were, “s-stop teasing already…”

you watch as your little stepbrother tongues his way into your pussy, all hot and squirming with the walls of your insides. he’s moaning against you, sloppily eating you out and taking every moment, every second he can to engrave the taste and smell and feel of you into his mind. he’s coming off too needy for his own liking, but how could he not be when you’re just so ripe for the picking?

isagi only relents for a second to give you a laugh, kissing your swollen clit before he’s puckering his lips and sucking with fervor. you throw your head back into your pillow, tongue heavy in your mouth that all you can do is cry and palm at isagi’s skewed hair. you got it so messy, fingers tangling within each strand, that you’re not sure who looks worse.

“s’good, ‘ichi, fuck,” you’re twitching from overstimulation, being denied orgasm after orgasm as isagi would makeout with your cunt just before pulling away when you were on the brink of release. for being a so-called virgin, he was great at giving head. “w-wan’ cum for you… need it!”

you’re begging and squirming beneath him and his hot mouth. his arms circle your thighs and hold you down, thick fingers have their nails pressed into your skin that they create small crescents in their wake. he’s nosing at your clit now, mouth back at your entrance so he can dig his tongue into your messy cunt. he curls it just right, wiggles it enough to reach further than before, and you’re seeing white by the time you can moan out a warning.

“fuck! fuck!” you’re arching off the bed and thrashing, so overstimulated that you’re no longer in control of how your body moves. meanwhile, isagi keeps going, drinking in all of you to not waste a savory drop. his eyes are so droopy, practically swirling in a pool of blue and rich lust that you’re sure you’d drown if you got too lost in them. and, it was just now that you’d noticed the soft humping of the bed isagi was doing.

you pant a laugh, move a hand to brush the hair from his face and give him a small tug, “‘ichi, so cute… humping t-the bed,” you’re in no state to be teasing, but the blush on isagi’s face and the way he hungrily comes up to hump your wet pussy, you’re just babbling whatever comes to mind now. “why not put those hips to use and fuck me already?”

isagi’s eyes go wide, letting out a moan when your hand comes to toy with his dick through his boxers. he’s so thick, you can feel the heat and weight within the palm of your hand. you’re sure you’re drooling right now, but you can’t help the way your hand eagerly dips within his boxers to start jerking him off.

you start slow, only circling the tip before you fist his cock from base to tip. isagi shutters when you do, muscles flexing as he holds himself above you. you watch in awe, eyes honed in on the facial expressions isagi makes as you play with him. his brows pinch upwards, eyes screwed shut as his mouth falls open in an oh. he’s so vocal, nothing like past encounters you’ve had, and you’re embarrassed to say the noises he makes may just make you cum untouched.

“f-fuck, big sis, j-just like that,” isagi begins to thrust into your hand and tries to match your pace, but your hand is moving too fast and he’s just feeling too good, that his hips stutter and he’s quick to try and pry your hand away, “wait! ‘m-m cumming—!”

you don’t stop your ministrations, continuing to ride out his orgasm as white peaks from above his boxers and begins to seep through their material. isagi’s head hangs on to your chest, a long and low groan having left his lips at his release. god, he’s so hot, and the way he keeps moving his hips is so cute.

isagi pants hotly against your skin, slowly coming to a stop as you remove your hand and press them to his lips. “open up,” he eagerly does as told, tongue swiveling out to wrap around your fingers and lick his own cum from them. he’s staring at you while doing so, fair face flushed red down to his chest as he moans around your fingers. “what a good boy, ‘ichi.”

if he had one, isagi’s tail would be wagging with the praise. he’s practically a dog in heat, tongue lapping any body part of you as he humped the air. it’s like he’s imagining the feel of your pussy around his dick without having even put it in.

by the time isagi’s done with your fingers, you had already used your other hand to reach down and tug his boxers off. he obediently shimmied out of them, his dick big and thick as it rubbed between the folds of your cunt. “c-condom—“

isagi had the mind to reach for his pants, but your hand snagged his between grimy fingers and pulled him back, making him gasp when your other had begun to line him up with your entrance and ease him in. “fuck—wait—big sis!”

you shiver when he’s fully within you, the stretch new and giving a whole other meaning to sex for you. you wouldn’t be able to go back to anyone else’s dick after having isagi’s. it was molding your walls to fit only him, making sure that your pussy knew the shape and every little detail to it that there was. you’re sure that it was made just for you—that isagi was made just for you.

“f-fuck, big sis—s’hot, s’good. i want t’ cum already—“ isagi didn’t even give you time to breathe with how quickly he began thrusting. the second you slid him in, raw and all, he was seeing stars and thrusting away. his hips were glued to the globes on your ass, hands pressing to the underside of your knees to have you bending in a way that he saw himself going in and out within just a few inches away. he was so enamored by the sight, by your pussy, that he began to feel dizzy. “you f-fuck me so good.”

you’ve never felt so good before. isagi was bringing you to levels you’d never reached, and you were almost positive he wasn’t a virgin; but, with how sloppy he was in his movements, be it giving head or fucking your cunt, you were led to believe otherwise.

“yes—‘ichi r-right there!” your eyes cross when his tip hits that spot inside you, kisses it repeatedly, and abuses it with a mission. he’s so sloppy and yet that just makes it so much better, having isagi pounding into you without a thought within his pretty little head, just so focused on how you feel and getting you two to release, has you forgetting all about where your relationship now stands. “so hot, ‘ichi!”

isagi is nodding with your words, hips never stuttering despite how he loses his rhythm every other thrust. who knew pussy would feel so good. he’s practically head above the clouds right now, your walls are just so gummy and wet that he’s slipping out and back in so easily. he’s still got the taste of you on his tongue, letting it hang out to drop a glob of spit where the two of you meet. he’s never going to get enough of this; he’ll fuck you every day, anywhere and everywhere he could think of; he’s never going to let you go.

when you clench around him, he jolts forward, sending you into a further bend than before. you’re screaming, his name a mantra you can’t help sing. ‘ichi, ‘ichi, ‘ichi, he swore he’s never heard anything more angelic than that before. with your lips all red and looking so good, isagi forces himself to remove his hands from your knees and press his shoulders into them, having his hands linking with yours as he messily kisses you.

it’s all tongue and teeth and spit, just so messy that you have it dripping down your chin. you moan into his mouth, swallow the noises he returns, and suck his tongue like some candy. isagi watches in a daze, eyes lidded and glued to the way you suck his face. you’re liking this more than he originally thought, but he’s not one to complain when your nails dig into his hands and plead for more.

“s’good, s’good! gon’ cum! i-inside? please?” isagi gasps into your mouth, letting your tongues press and slide together as his hips stutter all over the place. your pussy spasms and sucks him right back in, like it has a voice of its own and it’s begging to be bred. isagi whines at the feeling and only pleads more.

you’re not all there right now, brain all mushy and gooey, so you just nod and babble incoherently. isagi isn’t even listening, only focused on the release coming quicker and quicker. it builds, the metaphorical dam blocking it breaks and he’s panting and gasping into your mouth as his cum is fucked into your cunt.

“w-wait—‘ichi, i-i feel like i’m going to pee—!” you’re crying, having been fucked into a bawling mess as your lower stomach burns and tingles like before you use the restroom. you’re hiccuping with every thrust isagi gives, legs shaking over his shoulders and you’re going cross-eyed when you feel yourself lose it all.

isagi is so lost in getting milked dry by your pussy, and it’s only worsened when you cling to him and cum around his dick and along his abdomen in spurts. you squirted. “oh, f-fuck that was fucking hot,” the black of isagi’s hair sticks to your sweaty chest, his tongue licking along your chest and kissing marks into your skin. he’s trying to calm down, but your juices just keep flowing and making a mess that he can’t go soft. “b-big sis, fuck, stop please… my dick’s going to fall off…”

you’re trying to stop spasming, trying to let yourself down, but you just can’t. it wasn’t enough, you’re so hungry for isagi’s dick that your pussy doesn’t want to let him go. you’re tightening around him, practically stuck together by your release that you’d probably tear if pulled apart.

“o-one more time…”

there’s no going back to how things once were now.

[its-the-pilot]

Waves | Rooster x Reader

| Waves Masterlist | Masterlist |

My first Top Gun fic, please be nice and enjoy!

Summary: Fourteen years after leaving without saying goodbye, Bradley Bradshaw comes back into your life. (Mav's niece!reader)

Warnings: swearing, adult banter

Length: 2k words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Working on this as a series, let me know what you think and if you want to see more!

Message or comment to join the taglist!

Chapter One

“Bradshaw, as I live and breathe.”

Bradley immediately recognized the voice behind him without needing to turn around. He shook his head before downing the shot of bourbon in his hand and throwing his next dart, scoring 13. He’d never claimed to be good, but the unwelcome distraction didn’t help. “Hangman. You look… good,” he replied flatly, turning to face his fellow aviator.

Both men were wearing their service whites, customary for the mixer held for TOP GUN students the night before beginning training. “Well, I am good, Rooster. I'm very good. In fact, I am too good to be true,” Hangman gave his usual smirk as he picked up Rooster’s last dart from the table and threw it, hitting the bullseye without even looking. “Didn’t think they let old timers in.”

They had met a few years earlier in flight school, and they instantly had a rivalry of sorts. Bradley had been several years older than the rest of the pilots in the program, due to not being able to attend the Naval Academy like he wanted. It took him years longer than it should have to become an aviator, and there was a bit of a chip on his shoulder because of it. Hangman, cocksure as ever, had instantly picked up on that weakness and exploited it to the best of his ability, pointing it out every chance he got. Some things never changed.

“Didn’t think they let assholes in either, but here you are,” Rooster shot back, taking a long pull from the beer on the table beside him before moving to gather his darts off the board.

The younger man chuckled, the insult seeming to roll off him like water off a duck’s back. “C’mon now, Rooster, we’re old buddies! Some older than others,” He smirked, sneaking in another jab as he patted him on the back. “Don’t take it so personal.” Hangman did a quick once over of the bar, his grin still firmly affixed to his face as he noted the number of women in attendance for the evening. “Plenty of delectable dessert options tonight, why are you holed up over here all by your lonesome?”

“I’m here to fly, not fuck my way through Coronado.”

A boisterous laugh escaped the tall blonde’s mouth. “Someone doesn’t know how to take advantage of a situation when it presents itself. Your callsign really is fitting.” Straightening his uniform, Hangman’s eyes locked on to a pretty woman approaching the bar. “If you can’t get laid in Whites, you just don’t know what you’re doing. Watch and learn, Rooster.”

Bradley rolled his eyes and turned back to his dart game, draining his beer as Hangman walked away. As fun as it might be, he had no desire to watch him make a fool of himself in front of an entire bar with his cocky attitude.

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

You recited the drink order for your table a few times in your head as you walked up to the bar, raising your hand to get the bartender’s attention. Your coworkers Kendra and Hazel had wanted to come out tonight, knowing that the new crop of TOP GUN candidates would be here, dressed to the nines. You hadn’t been interested but they wore you down, telling you they would pay for your drinks if you just kept them company for a few hours. You secretly hoped it wouldn't take them long to find a couple guys to take home, so you could get on with your uneventful evening of laundry and prepping for work.

“3 beers, 3 vodka shots,” you ordered, passing a $5 tip across the bar. Sliding onto a barstool as you waited, you made a cursory glance around the bar and groaned to yourself, shaking your head. You couldn’t understand what the appeal was, most aviators had more balls than brains and were just looking for a quick lay.

It only took a minute of waiting for your drinks before you felt a warm, solid presence accompanied by a pair of hands resting on the bar top on either side of you, covered in white sleeves. “Not interested,” you said in a sing-songy voice, not even needing to look up to know it was a new TOP GUN aviator standing with his chest pressed gently against your back.

“Not even gonna give me a chance?” He asked, his southern drawl coming out as he leaned close to your ear.

You turned as much as you were able with his body so close and gave him a look, your eyebrow raised. He was handsome, tall and blonde, with striking green eyes, but his uniform was enough to turn you off. “Nope. I don’t date aviators.” Lord knew you had a lifetime’s worth of experience with them.

Your uncle Pete “Maverick” Mitchell had raised you from the time you were eight years old, after your parents died in a car accident. Growing up around Navy pilots gave you an aversion to them, and in your line of work, that was more helpful than you could imagine. You worked with aviators day in and day out in your job as an Aerospace Psychologist, and getting personally invested with the pilots would have consequences.

He chuckled, leaning back only slightly to allow your movement as his eyes traveled over your body. You wore a cabernet colored maxi dress with wedge sandals tied to your feet with white ribbons, like pointe shoes, and you had never felt more exposed than you did right then as he licked his lips, looking at you like prey. “You’re in the wrong place then, darlin’. We’re all aviators around here.”

“Well aware,” you sighed, turning back to the bar and waiting for your drinks. When the bartender approached and set your drinks down, you smiled warmly at her. “Thank you, Penny.”

The older woman grinned back, always happy to see you. She’d known you most of your life, though she was in and out of it at the will of your uncle, a typical flyboy incapable of settling down. You would never understand why she kept coming back to him after he broke her heart so many times. “Who’s your friend?” she asked, looking him over briefly. Penny knew how you felt about Navy guys, but she enjoyed teasing you.

“Not my--”

“Lieutenant Jake Seresin, ma’am. Callsign Hangman.” He offered his most charming smile as he cut you off and lifted his right hand from the bar to offer it to Penny.

You immediately took the opportunity to duck under his arm, grabbing the drinks on the bar in front of you. Penny laughed as Jake watched you slide away from him and head back to the table with your coworkers. “Better behave, she’s the owner,” you called back, your hands full of glasses.

“A pleasure, Lieutenant,” she took his hand and shook it before wiping down the bar where your drinks had just been. His eyes followed you across the bar, and she snapped the back of his hand with the towel. “You won’t wear her down. She’s got a million reasons not to go anywhere near Navy guys. There’s plenty of other fish in the sea.”

When you got back to your table, you snuck a glance back toward the bar, watching Penny give Jake what she was sure was a warning about you. He didn’t look phased though, and within minutes he had moved on to another girl a few seats away at the bar, repeating the same move he had done with you.

“Predictable,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as your coworkers chatted, rating the various aviators in the bar. You largely ignored them as you took a long drink from your beer, looking out the window at the sun setting over the ocean when you heard the tinkle of piano keys interrupting your thoughts. The old upright in the bar hadn’t been played in as long as you could remember, usually the only time you heard it at all was when someone got too drunk and fell into it.

From your seat you could only see the back of the man playing, but you could tell he was an aviator. Dressed in his service whites, his broad shoulders were pulled back with perfect posture as he tapped away at the keys, getting the feel for the instrument before he started playing an all too familiar song.

“You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain, Too much love drives a man insane…”

The sound of his voice made your stomach flip as if you were in a F/A-18. “No fucking way…” you breathed, not taking your eyes off of the back of the man’s head as he played.

“What?” Kendra asked, stopping her conversation with Hazel to turn in the direction of the piano player, then back to you, confused as to your reaction.

You didn’t answer as you stood, your steps cautious as you made your way across the bar in his direction. It couldn’t be. It had been nearly fifteen years since you last heard from him, the night he left for the last time.

Without saying goodbye.

“Jesus, Bradshaw! Not this song again! Is it the only one you know?” Hangman complained, not far from the piano and chatting up what was probably his fourth girl of the evening. Hearing his name was all the confirmation you needed.

Bradley wasn’t deterred by Hangman’s whining, instead he just continued singing, the bar joining in. He had always been good at being the center of attention when he wanted to be.

“You broke my will, but what a thrill, Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!”

Moving closer, you slipped into his line of sight without a word, a combination of emotions you didn’t understand bubbling up inside of you. He looked just like his father from the pictures you had seen, but at the same time he was still the teenager you had known so long ago.

“I laughed at love ‘cause I thought it was funny, You came along and…”

Looking up, his voice trailed off and his fingers faltered on the keys, making a sour note as he made eye contact with you. There was a long, awkward moment of silence as the entire bar watched on, curious as to what was happening.

He couldn't believe you were standing in front of him. The last place he had expected to find you was anywhere near anything having to do with the Navy, even if it was just a bar. And now here you were, staring at him as if you were seeing a ghost. Though he supposed he didn't look too much different. “You look good, Dimples.”

Your breath hitched in your throat at the nickname, and before you knew what you were doing, your hand reached out and slapped him across the face as hard as you could. The same hand flew to cover your mouth as you gasped at the realization of what you did. He didn’t immediately turn his head back to face you, and it made you feel even more nauseous.

It was so quiet a pin could drop. Embarrassment flooded over you and your eyes moved around the bar frantically before landing back on Bradley. When you realized his eyes were still on you, a sob only muffled by your hand escaped before you turned and ran out the back doors to the beach, barely stopping to get your purse and tell your friends you were going home on your way out.

There was no way this wouldn't be the talk of North Island tomorrow.

It remained silent until the door to the deck slammed shut behind you, then people started whispering amongst themselves, stealing glances at Bradley. Hangman had a smug grin on his lips as he stepped up behind his fellow aviator, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he leaned down to speak quietly.

“Damn, Rooster. I thought I was the only one who could earn that level of ire from women. Kinda hot, right?”

He shoved Jake’s hand away and stood, grabbing his cover off the top of the piano before heading toward the door you had exited from. “Fuck off, Bagman,” he snapped, hoping you hadn’t gotten too far.

Chapter Two

[your-nanas-house]

Just a... thong

◇ Pairing: Dad's Best Friend!Cillian Murphy X Bff's daughter!Reader

◇ Warnings: mention of masturbation, age gap (all off age, Cill is in his 40s, Y/n 20s), pervert Cilly, laundry, dad's best friend, cramps

◇ Summary: Cillian decides to take care of the laundry and finds his best friend's daughter's thong.

◇ Note: Sorry for the mistakes and the English. Another piece of the "AU/series" of Dad's Friend. Thank you @drcranessweetestdoe to encourage me to write smt. It's bit shitty but I hope it will "satiate" you a little. 🤭

It had been several weeks since Y/n, his best friend's daughter, had come to stay with Cillian for the summer holidays.

He had rearranged a bit of the usual routine that the man had made his, now that he was in his 40s and considered himself too old for several things.

However, he had adapted quite well, thanks to the collaboration of the young woman who also did not want to cause any disturbance to him and therefore followed his schedule a bit.

They had established little silent rules, such as the times of breakfast and meals in general, who cooked and when. They had also decided without talking about it that they would do the dirty laundry individually even though she was the one in charge of running the washing machine and making sure of the little details like which clothes could go together and which couldn't.

Usually Y/n took care of the sorting too, before Cillian could do anything, so it was the first time for the man to take care of that task.

The young woman was busy on a call with her family and the Irishman didn't have much to do, so when he passed by the room where the washing machine had finished he approached it, deciding to do it himself to take away a task from her seeing how well he was taking care of all the things he had asked her to do in exchange to make her stay under his roof.

His baby blue eyes scanned the object, taking in the different buttons before making sure it was actually done.

When he was sure of it he opened it, rushing to get the basket to put all the wet clothes in there and then go and hang them outside since the weather permitted.

They were mostly his things and a few things from Y/n, just clothes he had seen on her the previous days, some sports tops and... a lacy piece.

A lacy... A lacy piece of clothing, Cillian repeated to himself before his eyes snapped quickly back to the undergarments he was holding in his hand. His breath catching in his throat as his mouth dried, his heart started to beat faster, drumming against his chest at the realization.

A thong.. it's just a thong, Cillian, get yourself together, he thought, scolding himself, as his eyes snapped towards the door and back to the fabric when he was sure that he was still alone.

Her underwear was soft under his fingertips, smooth and silky except the lacy part that decorated it in an innocent but provocative way.

There was little fabric... he really wondered why she worn something like that since it covered barely her cunt, exposing probably fully her round ass cheeks.

"Fuck" the older man murmured under his breath, his breath becoming heavier as his mind wandered, imagine his best friend's daughter wearing something like that... just that, her body completely bare, her breasts on full display as the thong hugged her hips, teasing him with its little see not see game.

His body reacted pretty quickly and he was hard.. again.

It had been happening quite frequently since she entered his life in a daily basis. He really felt like a pathetic teenager by the way his body acted at the mere display of a bit of her skin.

Cillian bite his lip, taking a deep breath as he stroked the fabric in his hand for a couple of seconds, groaning softly at the feeling while his other hand moved slowly to his boner which was quite noticeable because of the sweatpants he had choose to wear that morning. His thick fingers slowly brushed his clothed hard lenght, before palming it... his bottom lip caged by his white teeth as his mind started to play different scenarios.

"Fuck" he cursed lowly, moving his hand again to pull out his cock irrationally, following the wind of his carnal desire with no shame, too blinded by lust.

"Is everything okay? Is it your back again?.. I heard you curse" Y/n's sweet voice interrupted him, making his blood run cold and move quickly up.. stretching his muscles in the wrong way.

He really was too old for this kind of things, he thought dramatically while cursing softly.

A shock of pain hit him, making him lean against the washing machine in an attempt to regain himself.

Karma.. just Karma, Cillian repeated in his head while inhaling deeply, now feeling pretty much self-conscious about his actions. Luckily she didn't look like she had noticed the perverse actions he was about to comply.

Her look was one of worry and not disgust, even when she moved quickly closer to make sure he was alright and help him sit on the sofa to relax a moment while she continued the task, not noticing the piece of clothing that was missing since he didn't have the opportunity or the time to throw it back in the basket before she took it to another room, warning him that she was coming back to check on him and his back.

[yamujiburo]

okay, just to weigh in on the Brock discourse, I absolutely remember being blown away when I learned he was 15 because as a kid it was like.. He's 2 heads taller than Ash and Misty, he cooks like a professional chef, has by far the most level head of the group, and he was caring for all of his siblings because his father was hiding out on the outskirts of Pewter City and his mother was... Arceus knows where, add on the fact that he was a Gym Leader which, given the general vibe of the Gym leaders of Kanto, would lean more towards being a legal adult... Everything about him just screamed "mid-late 20's" Heck, I was also shocked to learn Misty was only a year or two older than Ash, since she was a Gym leader too, I just assumed at bare minimum she was 18 and just short for her age.

The assumptions we make as kids, I guess.

Oh super fair! As a kid it’s very easy to look at a character who’s noticeably a little older and be like “ah that’s a grown up”. Brock always read as a teen to me personally but I’ve definitely done that for other cartoon characters for sure

The pokemon world is very different than ours seeing how 10 year olds (even younger than that in the games) are allowed to go out on their own and begin what can only be equated to college level studies in a field they’re interested in. But that’s that cartoon suspension of disbelief you gotta give into. Which is the fun of it imo.

I think, especially now, it should be pretty clear that gym leaders can be any age. Like Ash is a world champion at 10 and Paldea gave us a fucking toddler in the elite four (poppy) which I love LOL

Also! Fun fact, Misty is also 10 in the anime. It’s mentioned only in the jpn version in like the third episode tho hahaha

[gurugirl]

The Con Artist | Part 1*

Summary: You're a wanted criminal and when Harry Styles, the detective on the case, finally catches up to you he finds it difficult to resist your charms.

A/n: This is detective!harry x crimina!reader / y/n | This will be a short series (3-7? parts). The Con Artist Masterlist

6.7k words

Warning: Criminal activity detailed (drugging, stealing, conning), smut (oral sex)

◈ ◈ ◈

The first time you remember stealing anything was when you were about three years old. From what you recall, you were with your mother at a dollar store of some sort. On the bottom shelf in one of the aisles was a pretty mirrored compact. It snapped close with a satisfying click and opened up easily for your three-year-old hands and so you put it into your mother’s purse as she was bringing you out of the store.

Being three years old, though, you forgot all about the mirrored compact when she surprised you with a toy she bought for you. The next day she came across the stolen item and somehow, she knew you’d done it. Because maybe there had been some sort of pattern. You just can’t remember stealing before that day.

But then you started stealing clothes from the mall when you were older. Lip balm (you became fond of the Chanel lip balm in Light but frequently settled for a Lancôme or Clinique as they were usually easier to snatch up), candles (the expensive ones to make it worth your while), pens, and lighters. You stole anything small enough to be taken without anyone noticing.

The only time you ever got caught was when your mom found the mirrored case in her purse when you were three. Even now, 23 years later. Here you are, stealing for a living. The man lying on the bed you are standing next to is knocked out cold. You may or may not have slipped him a little something to send him off to sleepy time before he could take his pants off, but that was the game. He wanted something and so did you.

Yours was a simple grift. Straight men are easy. All you have to do is hang out in really nice clubs and bars near the nice neighborhoods. Dress a certain way. Talk a certain way. Compliment the man. Compliment him some more. Laugh at his attempt at flirting and play dumb. Definitely laugh at his jokes. Act dumb. Sit alone. Bat your lashes. That kind of bullshit.

The man would need to be rich, or if not rich, showy and cocky (because how fucking annoying is a showy cocky asshole with nothing to actually show for it?). You typically looked for a nice watch (Rolex is easy to spot, but the really expensive watches are Audemars Piguet and Patek Philippe). He’d need to be a little drunk. Or even desperate is fine. Sometimes drunk isn’t necessary. You just need to get him to take you to his home. Never to yours. Married men would suggest a hotel. And that could work too, under the right circumstances. And married men were special because they’d never report you.

Then, once you’re in his house you suggest a nightcap, a drink for your nerves you say (a lie because you don’t drink alcohol) and insist on making them yourself. Drop in enough crushed benzos and voila. The man thinks he’s about to get laid but he falls asleep fast and you steal his cash and his jewelry. And sometimes a few other things you can take with you on your way out the door.

Tonight’s meal is a married man but his wife is out of town. The “house” is in Hope Ranch but it’s more like a mansion. It’s massive and the guy is loaded. That’s all you care about.

You served him a gin and tonic with a lime wedge and 10 mg of crushed-up benzos. You poured yourself a tonic and chucked a lime in for good measure, so it looked like you were drinking too.

He brought you to his room after drinking his glass of nighty-night juice and you could tell it was taking effect. He fell asleep almost too quickly. But who were you to complain? His wallet was lying on the coffee table and his Rolex was an easy snag. You were out the door in less than an hour. He only had about $50 cash in his wallet but the Rolex would be worth around nine thousand dollars for you. You loved the dumbasses with the expensive watches the most. Rolexes are a dime a dozen. They’re the easiest to come by and the easiest to get rid of.

By the time you get back to your little studio, it’s past 3 am. You don’t live in the best part of LA but it’s also not bad. Koreatown has its moments. The supposedly haunted Gaylord Apartments studio has been your home for the last two years. You truly could afford something nicer but it’s hard to imagine paying more than you already do for rent. It’s a waste of money really. You’re living fine and saving your cash. You don’t want to be a thief all your life. Just for long enough to save up so you can go anywhere you want, buy a house for cash, and live out your days as an old maid who never found love. Because love seems like a pipe dream at this point.

Men suck. But then again, you’re not really much of a catch yourself. So ending up alone is probably your true calling. You’ll buy a bunch of books, get a few cats, maybe grow a garden and wear robes all day long. Drink cold juice and watch murder mysteries at night with your cats all curled up around you, and fall asleep on your couch because sleeping alone in your bed just sounds depressing. And maybe you’ll do some traveling. Who knows? You’ve amassed a decent amount of money. You’ve given yourself until 30 and then you’ll call it quits. Just a few more years.

At the Gaylord, you’re not allowed to have pets, but you can have fish. You crouch down to look into your aquarium and see that Buster and Barry are fine. They usually are. They’re pea puffers. Kind of cute really. But Buster killed his first mate, Brenda.  When you introduced Barry, Buster left him alone. Buster and Barry don’t usually interact which is why they get along. You had no idea that puffers could tend to be aggressive but when Brenda was found belly up in the 10-gallon tank one Thursday evening after you’d secured a nice Saint Laurent coat and a Royal Oak Piguet, you were quite disappointed. You’d had such a good night too. The Royal Oak was worth close to $60 thousand. And the coat was just an extra on your way out the door. But poor Brenda. Dead in a day.

You turned off their fish tank light, “Goodnight boys.”

At night, when you were alone in your bed you’d think about the things you’d done. You never really found guilt anytime you thought back. You did feel like what you were doing was wrong, though. You knew that much, you just didn’t feel that bad about any of it, though. You’d made yourself a nice small fortune and you did it doing something you loved. Why did you love stealing from unsuspecting idiot men?

Who knows?

You had a mostly-typical upbringing. Your mom and dad split when you were five and you saw your dad every other weekend like most of your friends with their dads.

Your mom was a good mom. She took care of you. Loved you. Protected you. Encouraged you.

You didn’t have an unusual childhood. Others who had it far worse turned out normal. You had no excuse. No trauma to point at. No mental health problems ran in the family. No vendetta against men. Nothing to prove.

You just liked it. There was a thrill that came with it. And the better you got at it, the more fun it was. And you loathed the idea of working a regular job somewhere earning a living wage. A living wage. What a joke. You were earning like a CEO and not once did you ever have to put out for anyone you didn’t want to. Everything was on your terms.

You could sleep in as late as you wanted. Skip a day of work if you chose, never needing to call anyone to tell them you were taking a sick day. You could do two in one day if you were on a roll. Or you could abandon ship if the man you started chatting up turned out to be someone you could actually see yourself fucking. Because you did draw the line there.

If you started to become interested in the guy, or he was attractive enough, and he invited you back to his place you would have a choice to make. You could stay the course, drug him, and then steal his watch and his money or you could just have a fun night with an attractive man at his place. You wouldn’t steal from someone you’d slept with. You had some moral boundaries.

You were nice, though. You weren’t like a bitch to anyone. But I guess ask any of the men you’d stolen from and they’d have a different mind about that. You had a small handful of friends. You didn’t like letting people get too close, though. For good reason. Because when you got close it became harder to hide your dark secret. People always asked what you did for a living. What an intrusive question to ask anyone. You always made up some lie about working online and inputting data for a medical corporation. Something that pointed to you making just enough money that would explain your nice clothes and expensive purses, but also that would have you home during the day.

Your best friend, Raechel knows your secret. Probably your mom as well. Also, Josh who buys your stolen goods but that’s a different story. But that’s it. In the whole wide world, you have one person that you’ve told directly what you do (again, not counting Josh). Because you couldn’t hide it anymore. And Raechel is still around. She’s your best friend. Now your mom, well, you never told her but she knows. She’s not dumb.

Bright and early the next morning, if you can consider 11:30 am bright and early, you headed to your dealer slash fence man, Josh, after shooting him a message that you were on your way.

You had with you the white dial Rolex Daytona you took off of whatever his name was the night before. Now, this watch is worth about $20,000 but Josh would take a big cut of the profit because he was the one going and selling the stolen item, he needed to make money from the deal too. Plus whoever he sold it to wouldn’t pay him the full $20,000 either, because they also needed to make a profit.

You met him in your usual spot. He took a look at the jewelry and searched for the model reference number to make sure of its value. Then you left with $8,500 in cash and a quarter ounce of Girl Scout Cookies (that’s a nice strain of marijuana bud to clarify).

The bank wouldn’t take big ass deposits like that at a time or there’d be some kind of flag on your account and it would get reported to the IRS (protocol), so you generally would only deposit $3,000 at a time. Which also meant you had a large stash of cash in your apartment at all times. You tried to space out the deposits. Had multiple bank accounts at different banks, and went to different branches in different locations but cash was difficult to work with at times. It was the only part of the job you hated. Dealing with all that cash. Especially when you preferred to save most of it. You usually bought yourself nice things, but most of your money you didn’t touch. You were serious about your future plan of buying a house for cash and getting lots of cats.

Tonight you planned on going to the Warwick again. The last time you were there was six months ago. You’d gotten a big hit with a B-list celebrity and you didn’t want to show your face around there for a while just in case he found you there or anyone recognized you somehow. Six months seemed like a good amount of time to wait.

You stopped at your favorite café and picked up a latte and scone to go. Then you walked to Liberty Park to drink and eat your breakfast slash lunch in the sunshine.

You wondered who would be at the club tonight. The Warwick was usually crawling with celebrities (lots of money). You knew how to handle them all. It really didn’t take much though. Look cute, act dumb. Usually. There were a few times you’d encountered a celebrity or wealthy man who was looking for someone with substance, but that wasn’t what you were going for. You searched for the ones who wanted one fun night and nothing more.

You were sitting on the concrete ledge near the sculpture and sipping your hot latte when a shadow appeared blocking the sun from your body. You looked up to see a tall man looking down at you. Instantly you sat up straight. He was very attractive.

“Hi… I was hoping you could point me in the direction of The Ritz Carlton. I seem to be lost…” he looked at his cell phone and then held its screen to your face and you laughed, placing your latte down next to you.

You stood up and smiled and noticed he didn’t have a watch on his wrist (old habit), “You’re definitely lost. The nearest Ritz is gonna be like a 45-minute walk from here. It’s that way,” you pointed in the direction of the 110, though it couldn’t be seen from where you were.

“Fuck. Well, thank you, I guess. I’m new here and went for a walk and found myself enjoying the sun and now here I am. Lost puppy in a big city.”

The man had thick, dark hair, seafoam green eyes with a dark green limbal ring, richly pigmented lips, and a jawline that could cut rock. And he was British. Clearly from out of town.

You held out your hand and introduced yourself and he quickly wrapped his big paw around yours and you saw the tattoo on his wrist. His clothes didn’t indicate that he was well-off. But sometimes it was hard to tell. Some rich guys didn’t give a fuck. This one didn’t. If he was, in fact, wealthy.

“Harry. Nice to meet you. S’hard finding a friendly face in a new city. Do you live here?”

“I do. Not far from here. What are you in town for, Harry?” You asked, keeping eye contact. You didn’t know if you should size him up for a job or see if you could get him to take you back to his hotel for a fuck. This guy looked like he could fuck. Tall and broad, deep voice, and big hands. A dimpled smile.

“Ahh, just work. Plan to be here for about a month. Staying at The Ritz off Olympic while I’m in town,” he smirked at you and that was all you needed to hear to know he was interested. Yeah, you’d fuck him.

“Is that so? For a month huh? Here, let me give you my number, ya know, in case you need anyone to show you around. A friendly face like you said…” you gestured toward his phone so you could put your number in and he unlocked it and opened up his messages app.

You were bold. You had no problem picking up a guy to fuck. You just needed to be somewhat straightforward. Your jobs were different. Playing coy was the game when they wanted to feel like they were in charge. But when it came to actually fucking someone, you were in charge and you wanted them to know it.

“Seems quite forward to give your number to a complete stranger, Y/n,” he spoke your name, wrapping his lips around the vowels in the most sensual way. That mouth of his could do some damage. You swallowed.

You laughed and shrugged, “Not really. It’s just a number. Now, what you do with it is up to you. If you’re bold, you’ll use it.”

Harry grinned at you and the way you nearly let your knees buckle when you saw his dimples was not a normal reaction. But Harry was gorgeous. You'd let him fuck you if he was into it. Absolutely. This man could get it from the top to the bottom. He was well-muscled and sturdy under his clothes. Something told you he’d have a big dick too and you’d love to let him use it on you.

You shook yourself of your thoughts and Harry cleared his throat, “Well, thank you. I’ll certainly consider calling you,” he lifted his cell phone upward as he spoke.

You were a little disappointed by his remark. Consider calling you? What the fuck? Maybe he wasn’t straight. Would explain why you found him attractive. All the hot ones were some shade of gay. But he was flirting with you... Wasn’t he?

Harry waved as he walked off and you sat back down to finish your latte and dry scone.

◈ ◈ ◈

You got yourself dolled up and tried to erase the way you were feeling annoyed that Harry hadn’t messaged you or called you. You gave him your number. You were rarely rejected. Unless he was gay… You laughed at yourself as you sprayed your hair to hold the style and then looked at your phone again. It was 9 pm. The perfect time to show up at the Warwick. It was time to work.

You were let in with no problem, despite the long line to get in. No cover for you. You got yourself a soda water with lemon and sauntered around the perimeter. Lots of groups tonight. Some of the guys watched you walk by. But you were specific. Precise about the men you worked. The young ones in the groups were probably spending more than they could afford to be there. Not your type. You moved along the lower room until you spotted a group of men sitting together. Now, these guys were job material. Men with money.

You neared them slowly, sipping your soda water until one of them looked up and saw you. You smiled at him and kept walking until you found a place to sit where you could be in the sight line of the man with whom you smiled. He had his eyes on you alright.

You’d give it ten minutes before heading their way. Just to see if he’d come to you first. Just to see if he was into feeling like he had the upper hand. Sometimes older men preferred more traditional roles and liked to be the aggressor. Oh, little did they know…

You swung your left leg over your right one, letting your dress ride up your thigh so he could see what you were working with. You smiled at him again and then looked away, pretending to be caught in the act.

But then suddenly someone sat down next to you, catching you off guard. You jerked your neck toward the intruder (this was not uncommon), ready to tell him to buzz off when you were met with the warm smile of the man you couldn’t stop thinking about.

Your look of disdain quickly turned to one of excitement and you couldn’t help the smile that crawled over your face at the sight of Harry. He was in a suit; his hair was styled just so with a thick curl falling over his forehead. He had rings on his fingers and he looked like he’d been drinking a little with dazed-out eyes on yours.

“Y/n. I didn’t expect to see you here,” his gaze dropped down to your dress and your thigh and then back up to your face.

You mimicked his display, dragging your eyes down his frame and back up to his handsome face, “It’s been a while since I’ve been out. Felt like a good night to have some fun.”

The man you’d scoped, was long forgotten as you and Harry began to chat. He was alone at Warwick. Like you. And he was hot. He was clearly a bit tipsy with the way he was so loose with touching your arm and your hand, the way he’d pause his eyes at your lips as you spoke.

The thing that really got you worked up was how he’d lean in to speak into your ear so you could hear him. It was necessary to do because the club was so loud, but you fucking loved having him so close you could smell him and feel his voice vibrating off your ear.

“You look amazing,” he said as he plucked at the hem of your short dress, his fingers brushing against the skin on your thigh as he did so. Probably on purpose. Definitely on purpose.

You decided he’d be worth the work raincheck. You’d let him fuck you. And it seemed like that’s just what he wanted when his eyes settled on yours and he looked like he wanted to devour you.

“Wanna get out of here?” You asked. You were a-okay with abandoning ship for a hot night with Harry. Work could wait. This man before you, flirting with you and watching your lips as you spoke was ripe for the taking. You didn’t want to miss the chance to try him out in the sack.

Just like he said, the taxi stopped at The Ritz-Carlton on Olympic and he took you up to his room. In the taxi on the way to his hotel, he scooped his arm behind your back and pulled you into his side, brushed your hair from your neck, and put his mouth next to your ear, “You sure you want to do this?”

Your breath hitched in your throat. Yeah, that happened. That never happens. Not to you. You were the one making men’s breath hitch. But Harry had some kind of natural charm about him that matched your own energy. A panty-dropper. But it helped that he was so goddamn fine with a deep British accent and dazzling eyes.

The room didn’t appear to have been slept in, but that’s probably due to the strict housekeeping staff taking care to clean up behind their guests.

You kicked your heels off near the door and Harry walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your front. He kissed your neck first. You were admittedly caught off guard by his energy. He was quite forward and confident.

You leaned your head to the side and smiled when you felt him in your back, poking you with what you knew was going to be a big cock. He was already very turned on.

You turned in his arms to face him and slid your hands up to his shoulders and kept your eyes on his, “I don’t usually do things like this…” you spoke innocently.

Harry tilted his head to the side and smirked. The look on his face said he didn’t believe you, “Me neither.” You certainly didn’t believe him.

You lifted yourself upward on your toes and pressed your mouth to his. You had had enough of the back and forth. It was time to get down to it. Harry’s cock was hard and your panties were wet. That’s all that was necessary at that moment. Talk could wait.

Harry gripped your waist and walked you backward to his bed with his mouth attached to yours. You let go of his shoulders and slid yourself back onto the bed as he crawled after you. You grabbed his collar and pulled him down to you, lips locking together in haste.

Putting your leg over his hip you bucked yourself upward to feel his hard-on under his pants and you moaned at the bulk of him.

“Get your pants off, Harry,” you cooed as you palmed over him. Harry sat back and removed his shirt and there was nothing in you that was disappointed by what you saw. More dark tattoos covering his chest and his arms. His body was masculine and sculpted exactly to your preference. Firm with smooth skin and a smattering of hair at his pecs and under his belly button.

You moved your arms behind your back and unzipped your dress and let it fall down your arms. You were wearing a special bra that was sticky on your breasts, which you’d forgotten about until that moment. It was difficult to remove in one quick go because the sticky inside was super sticky so it stayed put. You sat up and turned away from him as he began to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants.

Pulling the bra away from your skin slowly you looked over your shoulder and Harry was looking at you with his brows scrunched in confusion. You laughed and when you’d removed the bra lifted it upward so he could see, “It’s a sticky bra and it’s awkward to take off. Didn’t want you to see it coming off. It’s less magical that way.”

Harry spit out a laugh as he visually inspected the bra and he nodded, “Okay. If you say so,” taking the bra from your hand and tossing it on the bed. Harry was only in black briefs when he put his hands up to cup your jaw and pulled you in for a kiss. He pushed you back into the bed with his lips smoothing against yours and he settled himself in between your legs. You were left in only your nude thong. Harry’s briefs-covered cock was pressed right over your pussy. He was thick. You knew he was something special down there. He rocked down over you and licked into your mouth. His solid arms kept his torso held up while his hips were pressed down over you.

You bent your right leg at the knee and spread a bit for him to access you better and he moaned.

“You’re getting me wet even through your underwear. Need something, Y/n?” His cocky smirk was warranted. You hated a cocky man but Harry had every reason to be. He was delectable.

“I need you, Harry. S’why I’m here right now,” you spoke in your sultriest voice and licked at the seam of his lips. Harry brought his mouth down slowly, his warm lips pecking and licking a cherished path down toward your breasts. He palmed and sucked at them. You arched your back and panted. He wasn’t going easy on your nipples as he pulled each into his mouth and swirled his tongue around your areola. His nips caused you to moan loudly into the room.

He moved his head further down and you knew what was coming. But in all honesty, you hadn’t shaved in a while. You were full-on bush down there. You didn’t expect to be getting laid tonight. You were on a job when you saw Harry at the club. You got all dolled up, shaved your legs, and did what needed to be done. But no more than what was necessary.

When he got to your hips you braced yourself for him to see your pussy in its natural state. He put his fingers into the band at your hips and looked up at you as he slid them down slowly. You craned your neck up to see what his expression was when he finally took you in.

He saw your bush. You saw him pause at your pussy but he continued dragging your panties downward. You held your breath when he put himself back between your legs and lowered his face to your inner thigh, planting a hot kiss very close to the curve of where your ass and your cunt met.

“Can I?” He looked up at you, his mouth parted in lust. You weren’t going to say no to head. If he wanted to get down there with your wild garden of desire and wrap his mouth around your clit you’d let him.

“Yes,” you smiled but felt yourself blush a little at the idea of being munched on while you’re pussy-scaping was nonexistent.

But he didn’t seem to care at all. He put his lips over your mound and went to town. Like all the way into town and back home again, then back to the strip so he could have dinner and seconds. He found all the parts that needed to be found under your pubic hair. You settled yourself back into the pillow and relaxed. Harry was a man who liked pussy clearly. He wasn’t deterred by the bush one bit.

Your clit was being given sufficient attention when he began to use his fingers in your crease, softly stroking you up and down until he placed his middle finger right at your hole. He prodded it in a bit and you looked down at him between your thighs. He had his eyes closed, his tongue lapping at you then you watched as his lips found your clit and he pulled at it, sucking you into his mouth and you gasped. He was good. This man was hot and he was good at giving head?

“Fuck, Harry! Right there…” you moaned your words, needing to let him know to keep up with what he was doing. He was going to get you off fast this way.

Harry moaned into your pussy and opened his eyes when he heard you and he nuzzled in further, shaking his head left to right quickly and slurping your clit just as he inserted a second finger. You felt it go in. Harry’s fingers were long and he was getting the job done nicely.

You arched your back at the distinct feeling of heat traveling from your groin outward. You slid one of your hands down and placed your fingers into his thick hair. Something you’d wanted to do since you first saw him earlier in the day. You just had no idea it would be happening while he was expertly eating you out in his hotel room at the Ritz.

You bucked upward toward him and panted, “I’m gonna come, Harry… please….” Your voice was shaky and your orgasm was beginning to blossom. Harry was making a mess of his face with your arousal as he dug in further, one hand holding you down while his other kept his fingers stroking your walls just like you needed.

The snap fuzzed up your hearing for a moment. Your ears rang as you came in his mouth, your body stiffening and jolting with each stroke of his tongue. You were sure you were speaking but your mouth and your brain didn’t meet up as you quivered under the man who was lapping at your pussy like there was no hair in the way.

You opened your eyes when Harry kissed both sides of your hips and sat back. He looked down at you with a grin as your chest was rising and falling quickly, “Holy shit. That was the fastest I’ve ever come from… that.”

Harry chuckled and got off the bed. He walked toward the dresser and you could see his hard cock pressing against the front of his dark briefs. He grabbed two glasses and a bottle of water and brought them to the bed. Pouring a glass for himself and for you. He sat down next to you as you sat up and handed you the glass, which you happily guzzled down. Harry did the same. You hoped he wasn’t washing away the taste of your hairy pussy. That would be embarrassing.

“Sorry. About the lack of trimming. I really didn’t expect to show anyone the goods tonight,” you laughed. It was so ridiculous for you to be apologizing for that. It was natural for most women to have hair on their crotch. Just like it was for men. You weren’t sure why you were apologizing. Maybe it was because Harry was so incredibly attractive.

Harry’s brows pinched together and he frowned, “Really? I mean, I don’t care about the hair, but you weren’t thinking you were gonna laid tonight? Looking like that?”

You shook your head, “No. Truly.”

“Well, you have a beautiful pussy. I doubt anyone would ever kick you out of bed for going au natural. Doesn’t bother me.”

You smiled at him and leaned forward to brush the back of your hand over his cock, “What about you? Do your trim?” You smirked.

Harry laughed through his nose and took your glass, placing his and yours on the side table before covering your hand with his and pressing your palm down on his lengthy cock. He brought his other hand up to you, his fingers at your neck and thumb over your cheek when he leaned in to kiss you.

When he backed away from the kiss he looked down to where he had your palm pressed over him, “Why don’t you check.”

You let out a laugh of disbelief but smiled and took the top band of his underwear in your hands and pulled at it, lowering the material and seeing the smattering of hair at his low stomach turn into a darker, thatch before his cock sprung out. The cock was a total distraction. You had forgotten all about the hair when you saw his large organ standing out.

Harry lifted his hips and helped you pull his underwear down. He was certainly nicely built. That was for sure.

You smiled at him and then looked back down at the masterpiece between his legs and leaned in to kiss the tip. Harry moved back, putting his arms behind him to give you space to worship him.

You heard him inhale a sharp breath when your lips came into contact with the tip of his crown and then you looked up at him, “May I?”

Harry nodded quickly and you stuck your tongue out to lick him up and down. You had a lot of area to cover with his penis but you managed to lick him from base to tip all around. He was very hard in your hand. Heavy and thick. You stuck your tongue softly into the slit at his head and looked up at him. He had his eyes closed and his mouth parted.

Just as you wrapped your lips around his tip and swirled your tongue over his frenulum he jolted his hips and gasped, “Wait, god… hold on…” his hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you off.

You looked up at him and then sat back, causing his hand to fall away from your neck.

“I’m not going to assume you wanted to have sex, but I kind of wanted to,” he kept his dark eyes on you.

You hated giving blow jobs if you were honest and Harry’s cock was going to cause some damage to your tonsils you could already tell. That monster might not even fit quite well enough for you to really get the job done anyway.

“So, you don’t want a blow job?” You queried, just to be sure.

“I love a good blow job, but…” he looked down and laughed as he shook his head and then set his eyes back on yours with a goofy grin, “this,” he gestured toward his crotch, “tends to take a little training. Not the easiest man to suck off.”

You raised your brows and scoffed, “So, you’re saying that you think your cock is so fat that I’d have trouble taking it down my throat and you’re giving me an easy out and offering to fuck me with that instead of choking me with it?”

Harry barked out a laugh and nodded, “Well, I guess you could put it that way.”

“Thank God, because that thing is quite daunting. Would rather have it in my vagina than my throat, so thank you for that,” you couldn’t believe this man, but he wasn’t wrong. In all honesty, he probably got used to this spiel. It kind of sounded like he’d said it all before.

“So you do want to have sex?” Harry repeated to be sure.

You rolled your eyes and climbed over his thighs, pushing at his chest to bring his back down to the mattress. You straddled his hips and put your unshaven pussy over his cock and then kissed him as your answer. You rolled your hips up and down and Harry grabbed your ass and guided you up and down along his shaft.

There was a lot of girth to rub yourself on with him so your clit was being pressed into on each stroke. Harry moaned into your mouth and pressed you down harder over him as he rocked upward, pressing himself between your slick folds.

“Come on…” he breathed out, “I’ve got a condom,” he said and nudged you up. You stayed in his lap as he leaned over and pulled out a condom from the side table. You found it interesting that he had a condom there being that this was a hotel room. You knew the pattern of men staying in hotels.

Condoms would typically be kept in the luggage or a wallet. Unless the man was expecting company… But you decided to let it go. So what if he was expecting company? Maybe he planned on getting lucky tonight when he went out and thought ahead by putting condoms conveniently in the side table (which is odd for a man to think ahead like that). A woman, now she would think ahead and put condoms in the side table because women think about things like that. Men don’t. Not normally. It’s not a big deal, but it’s also out of character for a man staying in a hotel that he only very recently checked into.

“You okay?” Harry asked you, making you realize you were stuck in your head a bit.

“Oh… yeah. I’m totally good,” you nodded feeling a bit like you were missing something important. Like you were being forewarned of something by the tiny revelation you just had.

You took a breath and tried to push the sudden inexplicable feeling you had down. You wanted him to fuck you. Of course, you did. But what was that feeling you were getting? This sense that something was off? You knew to trust your senses. You had a good read on people and something was not quite right. And you saw him twice in one day? In LA of all places? A strange man from out of town? Yeah… something was off.

You put your hands on Harry’s shoulders and frowned, “I’m… sorry…” you pinched your brows together as you slid off of his lap, “I think I should go.”

Part 2

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[houseofhyde]

ii. a game of westerosi chess.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the six chess pieces in the king’s game and how your uncle calls checkmate. read the first part here !

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, possessiveness, themes of sexual/romantic ownership, alicent slander (im sorry, i love her, but this is daemon’s pov and we all know that man wakes up every morning and makes the conscious decision to be a hater), daemon being a filthy pervert (affectionate), smut ( masturbation, breeding kink, voyeurism, dacriphilia, virgin kink- if that's even a thing-, implied bi!daemon )

word count. 11.3k

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir​

hyde’s input. yes, i could have just made them get married after the events in part one. no, that wouldn’t be as fun as watching daemon suffer. i went and fucked myself over a little though because i never realised how much i’d struggle to write from his point of view without the fear of making him too out of character or his behaviour feel, idk, fake? empty? idk what the right word is but yeah. i caught the flu and have had sick-brain the whole time while writing this so who knows if the writing is even comprehensible lmao :)

disclaimer: i’ve never played chess (i'm too dumb for that) so pretend any incorrect comparisons are simply because there’s different rules for chess in westeros <3

when daemon targaryen was five years old, no more than a mischievous little babe who haunted the halls of the red keep, there was no one greater in his eyes than his older brother.

his older brother who bonded with the largest dragon; who snuck wine into his cup when the adults were occupied with their political indiscretions; who stood up for him even in times where he was the culprit. 

his older brother who had the longest winning streak in the whole of the red keep when it came to chess.

from maesters to the king, and ladies in waiting down to his own mother, there was not a single person within the castle who could face viserys targaryen in the game of strategic moves and walk away undefeated.

it was an understood fact: viserys targaryen was a master at chess.

one day, after catching his younger brother, moon-eyed and fresh-faced from wondering the dragonpit in search of a dragon to claim, and now spying upon his winnings against a pretty maiden, viserys had called the boy over. with daemon captivated by the sight of the chess board, the older of the two felt the cogs in his brain turning, an idea spawning.

you see, when one becomes the best at something, there is no more challenge. no fun to be found when you’re no longer sat at the edge of your seat wondering if this person will finally be the one to best you. and, so, viserys thought if no one else was good enough to beat him, he’d need to create a worthy opponent.

enter onto the scene, daemon targaryen.

with him being but a child still, viserys began his teaching with what captivated the little boy most: the figures which sat atop the checkered board.

“this, brother, is the pawn. it’s the least worthy piece, but do not let that fool you into thinking it is weak, for anyone may wield power if they work hard enough. a pawn may become a queen, just as a fool may become a lord.”

the rogue prince, now a man of three and thirty, awakes with one thing on his mind: his niece.

he’s always been a restless sleeper, not even in dreams would he escape the havoc of his own head and the inner-workings of it. and, though he’d scarcely recall the images his sleeping mind would conjure, the evidence comes in the state he’d find himself in: sprawled diagonally across the bed, the pillows which had once provided rest for his head now scattered along the floor and the bedsheets- which scratched uncomfortably on his skin, a slick of sweat oozing from his pores and leaving him looking glazed, like a freshly cooked hog at a feast- now a wrinkled tangle around his waist, trapping his legs in the cotton confines.

he spies the familiar lick of sunlight casting through the closed curtains, affirming that dawn has indeed passed and a new day is upon him.

running a hand over his face, a disgruntled sound escapes him, sluggishly moving himself to sit up right, that familiar yet new ache in his back flaring up and begging for release in the form of stretching limbs and extended muscles. age has begun to sneak up on him, grabbing him in it’s clutches and reminding the egotistical man that he is just that: a man, not a god, much to his own displeasure.

the hand departs from his face only to pause midair. a smell, heady and musk infused, reaches his nostrils. it’s dirty and grimey in every way yet enticing him to seek it out again, to sniff out wherever the odour is coming from and bury himself in it till he suffocates.

tentatively, he retraces his movements till his fingers dance over his face once again and realisation kicks him like the hoof of a horse, hard and with a lingering pounding.

only, the pounding comes from his crotch rather than his skull.

the smell is you, in all your dribbling, soaking, honeysuckle glory, stained on his skin like the slaves of volantis are stained with ink.

another inhale floods his senses with the memories from last night, replaying the feel of your bodies pressed together in dance, and your hand squeezing his almost painfully tight as he leads the way to your chambers, and the eager spreading of your legs as he at last satisfies his hunger for you- a hunger which had started sometime after you’d first began to present the figure of a woman, all supple breasts and pouting lips and silhouettes made of dresses that hid from view the naughty parts of you your uncle’s cock ached to see.

the voice in his head, which more often than not drives him to behave erratically, this time is but a whisper, a seduction of craving and curiosity that has him slipping his hand further down, brushing over the fine line of his lips and awaiting entrance as he parts his mouth open, brushing his stained digits over his tongue.

a jolt of heat burns down his spine while the sweet tang of your taste invades his senses. like biting through a lemon, the taste should repel him in every way, flood his soul with shame and leave him disgusted in himself.

instead, he licks his tongue in a silent plea for more.

the thought of never bathing again crosses daemon’s mind, unwilling to wash away the evidence of the peak he’d driven you to with nothing but his fingers. gods help the world when he finally gets his cock in you, for he’s likely to become a deranged, dirty shell of a man too busy getting fill after fill of your pulsing cunny to ever plunder himself into the oil-infused waters of a bath.

you’d be so sweet for him, a little harlet for him to mold and bend and break into every which-way he desires you. and it’s that thought, plus the taste of your dried essence, which has the rogue prince’s cock stirring beneath the tangled sheets.

desire awakens much like a dragon would: slowly and, then, all at once, eyes wide, chest huffing and puffing, and body arising from the ground.

the prince kicks the tangled sheets off, no thought given to whatever corner in the chambers he tosses them towards, eyes and hand and mind too focused on the once flacid organ between his leg growing more solid and red in the tip as the moments pass.

“fuck...” he means to only think it, yet speaks it aloud into the solace of the room as the warmth of his hand makes itself familiar with his cock.

he gives himself a tug, dry hand meeting the movement with resistance yet the layer of skin which conceals his soon-to-be seed soaked slit retracts enough to allow the blushing head of his cock to poke through. while he’d typically prefer to wet it with a whore’s cunt, or slicken it with whatever mindless ointment he could find laying around, daemon finds himself gathering his own saliva and spitting a fat drop of it into the palm of his hand.

the glide of his digits over the organ becomes easier, allowing him to work himself into full-blown hardness, cock taking over the use of his brain and sending him into a state of restless lust, demanding to be fed and satiated with the emptying of his stones, preferably into the warm, pulsating, tight cunt of his little dove.

while the prince does debate his ability to throw on a robe- or, even, roam the halls in his nude glory- and seek out your likely sleeping form, to watch as you startle awake with the breaking of your maidenhead and cry out for your uncle to fill you with his spend till you’re swelling with his bastard, he decides he prefers the thought of making you wait a little longer, see how much he can test the limits of your impatient desires.

after all, a maiden always feels best when her cunt’s as soaked as her crying eyes and her mouth’s spewing plead after plead, begging for his cock.

while one hand works over himself, the other sneaks it’s way back into his mouth, lust bursting into bright colours as he licks over the taste of you, soaking it into his bloodstream and making you part of his genetics- just as he is part of yours.

daemon allows his eyes to slip shut, sinking into sweet fantasies and mental pictures of bouncing tits and blood stained sheets, only to reopen them within an instant at the sound of his chamber door slamming against the solid wall.

“oh my!” a young girl dressed in rags turns her back on him as quickly as she notices his naked form, as if allowing him to compose himself and make himself presentable. “i’m so sorry, my prince! i would have knocked but he said i should simply let myself in!”

daemon makes no attempt to find cover.

“do whatever it is you need to do.” he speaks with a tone far too relaxed for a man who’s still got a grip on his cock. if anything, the raggedness in his breaths comes from his frustrations of losing the flavour of you on his tongue. “don’t stop on my account.”

she hesitates upon facing him again, eyes clearly wandering off from her own commands and glancing down at his exposed crotch more times than he imagines she’s comfortable with. from the look of her, she’s young in age- likely only recently blossomed into a woman- and, at the thought of his being the first cock she’s ever seen, he feels himself grow closer to his peak, a sick and twisted satisfaction buzzing through his veins at the possibility of giving the sweet girl her first sense of visual arousal.

when the shock passes, yet still lingers in her features like a harsh cough irritates the throat, she makes her way fully into the room. in her arms, a tray with a mass of food, enough to feed a lord and his men for several nights. without a word, she lays the assortment out on the large table within his chambers, hands shaking under her own nerves.

meanwhile, daemon slows the flick of his own wrist, teasing his cock with the impending satisfaction. a smile, too faint to be seen yet present enough that he feels the slight stretch of his lips, births itself as he considers who this offering of a feast may be from.

“what’s this about, girl?” he throws the question out into the air, clear amusement in his tone.

“the king, my prince.” just as he expected. “he’s ordered this be sent to you.”

and so it begins, he thinks.

his brother is buttering him up, showing a sign of good-will to have daemon in his good graces when he orders the rogue prince betroths himself to the king’s pretty daughter, her supposed virtue now a pile of crumbled ruins in the eyes of the court. as if he needs convincing to take such a sweet young thing to wife, the perfect little bird made of blonde hair, valyrian blood, sugar-coated cum and the sweetest song of whimpers and pleas.

“then make sure you let my brother know how eager i am to receive his feast.” he can feel himself reaching the edge of his peak, tethering off the edge and seconds away from painting his hand white with wasted seed.

perhaps the serving girl will lick it clean for him.

“of course, my prince.” once finished with the arranging of the feast, the maiden straightens out some wrinkles in her skirt- though it does nothing to clean up her looks- and begins to make her way back toward the entry to his chambers. “the king will be surprised to see you so agreeable, though it will help soothe his unease, my lord.”

“his... unease?” daemon’s movements stop, the air runs dry and the girl visibly stiffens, hand curling around the door handle and clenching it as if it is the only thing giving her support.

clearly, she’s said something she shouldn’t have.

“i must go, my lord.”

“unease over what, girl?”

“you... you don’t know, do you?” she’s beginning to irritate him, speaking in riddles and shaking like a leaf in the winds of winter.

“answer me clearly or i’ll have your tongue.” the girl can not see the way he moves off the bed, nor the way he spies his eyes towards his trusted sword propped against a wall, but she certainly hears the loud thud of his feet meeting the floor, feels the darker shift of energy in the room as the rogue prince makes a threatening advance towards her.

“ser gerold royce, my prince...” he’s near certain she lets out a pathetic whimper, like a wounded doe. “he’s proclaimed himself as lord of runestone.”

the world comes to a stand still as her words flood over him.

while the prince is frozen in his spot, face an empty canvas devoid of emotion, the young girl makes a swift exit, wise enough to not wish to stick around long enough to bare witness to the hot-headed prince’s reaction. the slamming of the door on her way out seems to startle him back into motion, naked limbs striding across the room and grabbing at the door. he twists the handle and gives a harsh tug, strong enough to have the wood smash as it collides against the wall.

the door does not open.

he attempts again, and again, and again, and is met with the same resistance each time. only then does it dawn on him- the feast, the unease- this was never about his brother keeping him in his good graces.

this was about the king keeping him locked away in his chambers.

“next, you’ve got your knight. while still not a very point-worthy piece, this holds power in the way it moves, jumping over pawns like a real knight slices through his enemies with the point of his sword.”

four days pass by slowly within the confines of his chambers.

at first, he rages. pacing the floor till the plush carpeting runs thin, hacking away at hand-crafted furniture his ancestors had sat upon and broken fast at, mouth dropped open in a bellow of impassioned words of all the things he plans to do once he gets his hands on his older brother, most of which start and end with his grip on the king’s neck.

then, he tries rest.

it’s a hopeless attempt, though, as the thoughts are running far too rampant for him to ignore the fact he’s confined within his room, not a clue of what his brother has done in regards to runestone’s rebellion. then come the thoughts of you, his little dove, likely hurt, and confused, and needing your dear uncle’s guidance on how to continue onward, how to outsmart the wretched ladies within your father’s court, how to ensure you do not wind up married off to some boring oaf of a lord, with not a drop of valyrian blood in his veins.

after sleep evades him, and rage consumes him once more, he switches to pleasuring himself, hand squeezed tight around his cock and working over the sex organ till he’s completely spent, his sack drained and nothing but pathetic droplets of seed painting his skin by the eight, ninth, tenth peak he drives himself too, fuelling the fire of his lust with past rendevouz- the pentoshi whore he’d fucked in front of her own husband, the nights he’d spent in the streets of silk in rooms where cups and cunts were shared amongst the crowd, the young knight who’d sought him out after a tourney and cried out as daemon stretched the tight pink hole of his arse- and with future desires- the slapping of his stones against your pearl as he takes you from behind, your pretty eyes struggling back tears the first time he fucks his cock into your silky wet hole, the sick, and nasty, and down-right degenerate want to bend you over the small council table and shoot his seed into your womb for all those wrinkled cunts to bare witness to.

ultimately, it’s the memory of how you taste that sends him spiralling for a tenth time.

the rogue prince is a sexual deviant, that was the very first whisper that had flooded the keep about him. and oh how he’s worn it with pride over the years, a twisted joy found in watching their outrage each time he speaks of crass and acts on sin.

even so, there is only so much he can take until he reaches his limit. and, thus, with his cock feeling like it may fall off if he does not give it some recovery time, the prince returns to raging.

that is how the king finds him, sword in hand and the expensive fabrics that once made up the curtains leading onto a balcony now nothing but tattered rags on the floor.

“i must say, daemon, this takes me back.” viserys’ tone carries amusement, which licks at daemon’s ire and coaxes it back to life, hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the prince reminds himself- despite how infuriating the king may be- that he cares deeply for his older brother. “me entering your chambers and finding you amidst a temper tantrum.”

the prince is quick on his feet, turning on his ankle till he finds himself gazing upon the face of his brother. he’s dressed in his finest robes, a mixture of reds and blacks, yet daemon does not miss the green jewel on one of his fingers. the crown upon viserys’ head reflects the sun, shining offensively in the prince’s face as if to more harshly remind him of the inheritance he’ll never claim, the throne he’ll never sit.

“what is the meaning of this?” daemon bellows and instinctively raises dark sister, the tip of the blade pointed directly at his brother.

the sound of kingsguards drawing their own weapons floods the room yet the raise of viserys’ hand halts them all in their defence, calling his brother’s bluff.

“i had some business to attend to.” the king speaks so casually, as though he’s discussing the recent weather or what he’d eaten for his supper the evening before.

“so you imprison me in my chambers as if i am some ill-behaved child!” daemon means to question him yet his words come out as more of a statement, an acceptance of the matter at hand.

“yes, well, what kind of idiot would i be to let my brother wander free in my castle while i’m grasping at straws to prevent a war?” the room grows more tense with every exchanged word between the two brothers, a feat which doesn’t go unnoticed by the guards who stand by the king nor the maidens who had rushed in after the reopening of daemon’s chambers, scrambling around to tidy the place up. “a war which you started in the first place.”

it irks something in daemon, the way viserys remains level headed whilst he’s pacing the room, and gripping his sword, and releasing his frustrations in bursts of loud voices and disgruntled grunts. condescending in every way, it sends daemon into a headspace where he’s no longer a man-grown and, instead, a tear-stained child being reprimanded by his king and grandsire.

he liked to torture young daemon who, despite his best efforts, was always prone to outbursts of emotion- outbursts the old man liked to meet with calmed expressions and tired words of disappointment, dismissing his grandson to bed.

it seems to be a commonality shared among kings, antagonising daemon.

“a war i started?!” and yet he falls for the trap every time, meeting viserys’ passive with his aggressive, striding those few steps closer till he’s a hair away from touching the king with his blade. still, his brother holds off his guards. “and how do you suppose i done such a thing while being imprisoned!?”

“cool it with the theatrics, brother,” viserys punctuates his exhaustion with an eye roll and gives a single nod of his head, giving the kingsguards the go-ahead to swarm around daemon.

a pair of them, both young in their knighthood and matching in face, grab at the rogue prince’s arms and hold him in a stand-still while another guard plucks the weapon from his hand. daemon shoves against their hold and is met with more resistance.

dark sister is passed among the guards, each hand that touches it being added to a tally of people on daemon’s list of men to disembowel. finally, viserys holds the weapon, examining it like it is the very first time he’s seen it.

“daemon, it brings me no joy to do this,” the king starts up again, eyes meeting the glaring amethysts of his brother. “but with the tensions arising and war creeping over the horizon, i can not afford to risk anything going amiss.”

“get to the point, brother. you’re speaking in rhyme as if you were some bard.”

“very well. from now until i decide you are not a threat to this kingdom, your confinement will be stretched from your chambers to the red keep. you are to carry no weapon and you will step no foot out of this castle.”

“you’re a fool if you think i’ll agree to this.”

“it is an order from your king!” viserys lets the mask slip, intentionally or not, and his irritation shines through like the stars paint themself across the dark sky. “and if that’s not enough to keep you in line, you will also be monitored at all hours of the day, every move you make within these walls will be shadowed by that of a knight of my choosing.”

daemon targaryen considers murdering his brother.

“and i see no man more fit for the job than ser criston cole.”

for the first time in his life, daemon targaryen may just go through with it.

“the bishop may be similar to the knight in it’s point count, yet it moves differently. while a knight can not move three times in the same direction, a bishop must stay within the colour it started in. think of a bishop like a maester: chained to an oath it can never break”

he’d rather be forced to endure a lifetime of self-flagellation than another moment of this conversation.

“it is in your best interest, your grace, to cut this state of anarchy out from it’s roots before any other houses chose to follow in the footsteps of runestone.” the new hand of the king is certainly an improvement from the hightower cunt, daemon can’t deny it. yet a part of him feels the knife of betrayal twist deeper into his back upon realising his brother had not only ignored his own warnings of the green lord till rhaenyra brought them up too, but he’d once again given the role to a random lord in his court rather than his own brother. “we have cause to believe that the dandarrions may be next to follow, given the less than kind words your daughter had for them during her tour for a marriage.”

“then there is the matter with the lannisters and, of course, the never ending tensions with the dornish folk. they’re more weary than ever, since someone,” maester mellos has never been a subtle man, despite all his supposed wits and knowledge, and so it flies over no one’s head when he takes a glance at the rogue prince and his standing guard, the insufferable man who’s made himself daemon’s shadow. “went to war with the triarchy.”

“my apologies for riding you all of that tyrant crabfeeder!” daemon speaks for the first time since he’d been forced to sit at the small council. “i’ll be sure to stand by and allow the next one to rip you all to pieces.”

daemon drowns out the rest of the meeting, uninterested in hearing his brother grovel at ways to keep his subjects at bay, as though they are the ones that rule over him.

gifts of gold for the dandarrion, a knighting for the lannisters’ youngest lords, peace-offerings in the forms of poetic words, and sweetened fruits, and lavish silks for the dornish. each gift more empty than the last.

it’s the mention of your name that brings him back into the room.

“were she here, we could have used her as a bargaining plea for one of these stronger houses,” ser lyman beesbury is the one who speaks and, with each word, the rest of the councilmen grow wider in the eyes and stiffer in their seats.

daemon explains their otherwise odd reactions away with them simply feeling uncomfortable discussing you in his presence, everything changed and nothing the same since sometime between the night he had you pressed against your door and his confinement within the keep.

upon release back into the castle, he’d searched for you first of all, paying no mind to criston cole as the knight struggled to keep up with his rushed footfall, mind too focused on the renewed anger he wished to placate with his cock in your mouth and the further destruction of your purity, all in the name of spiting your father.

when he’d reached your chambers, however, he’d found nothing but a mess of emptied trunks and an unkept bed.

“the princess is not here.” ser criston had spoken between gasps of air, chest heaving beneath the unnecessary layers of chainmail and armor his position forces him to wear.

daemon had demanded an answer for your whereabouts, only to quickly realise the knight was none-the-wiser. it was the new hand, ultimately, that clued him in, over sips of wine and looks of caution from other council-men amid a private feast.

“driftmark, prince daemon.” he’d dabbed at the corners of his mouth with poise and composure, everything about the man seemingly perfected for politics, serving only to irritate the prince further. “the princess has accompanied her older sister and her new husband on their trip to laenor velaryon’s home.”

that was the last daemon had heard of you.

a near moon later and you were still out of reach, likely turning your nose at the smell of salt that coated the walls of the velaryon household and wondering why a certain red-speckled dragon had yet to swoop in on the island, carrying the cause and answer to all your problems upon it’s back.

“dare i say i agree, your grace,” another of the men chimes in, his words barely a whisper at first, glancing nervously toward the king. “perhaps we may write for her return and see to it that a betrothal be made.”

daemon chooses to observe viserys in this moment, eyes trailing over his features and taking note of every wrinkle in his brow, every greyed hair within his unshaven face, every upturn and scorn of his lip. there’s a wave of unease that’s fallen over his brother, and it only grows with every moment that the lords speak of you in the rogue prince’s presence, the air thick with the discussion the two brother’s had yet to have regarding the rumours of your deflowering.

“and, tell me, my lords, what you suggest we tell the princess’ current betrothed?” maester mellos, ever incapable of holding his tongue, barks across the table, deathly unaware of the looks that befall the council nor the tensing of daemon’s shoulders. “the king is trying to avoid war, not further instigate one by implying her current betrothal is not good enough, that house-”

“that’s enough!” the king rises from his chair all at once, slamming his hand down on the table and commanding the attention of everyone in the room, more so when he recoils in pain. all at once, the rumours of his declining health and the effect it’s had on his body feel all too true. “there will be no further discussions of my daughter nor the prospect of a new betrothal. what’s done is done and i will not go back on my word to appease your fear-mongering speculations. we will continue our diplomatic relationship with these houses and ensure they do good to remember who sits the iron throne.”

the men obey like sheep, each bowing their head and mumbling false reconciliations.

one by one, they all take their leave.

first, lyman beesbury, who with pale face and solemn eyes lays apologies at visery’s feet. next, the master of laws and maester mellos, neither of them wasting time with niceties and opting for a mere bow towards their king. when all the chairs lay empty, save for daemon’s and the king, silence runs thick through the room. neither brother moving, each testing their unnamed opponent and awaiting the first blow through the tension to be made.

daemon grows impatient.

“unless corlys velaryon fucked a new son into our lady cousin and had the babe birthed in a matter of days, i do wonder who you’ve betrothed my niece to on driftmark.”

“do you know what your problem is, daemon?” though viserys’ words come out with inquisitory tones, he leaves no space for the prince to answer. “you’re so busy with your own schemes and plans that you fail to see when you’re the one being played.”

daemon feels small.

for a moment, he’s no longer a man grown into a soldier, with a mighty sword and a fearsome dragon. instead, he’s frail and weak, and staring across at his older brother as he beats him once more in the game of knights and checkered spaces, a taunting look on his face as he knocks over the little boy’s king piece and declares himself victor.

when the moment passes, he straightens his posture and rises from his seat, and reminds himself of the words his mother would comfort her crying babe with each time he failed to win, whispers of how there’s always something to be gained in any loss he finds.

he settles with leading his brother further into the trap of rumours him and his niece have conjured up together.

“i hear your new wife is fond of the seven, brother.” the prince reaches to grip the hilt of his sword, only to find an empty space and the reminder that he carries no weapon as of late. “ask her to pray for your daughter, i don’t believe she tasted the bitterness of moon tea after our evening together.”

the king does not call daemon’s bluff.

“this right here? the rook, worth more than the bishop or knight, yet less than the king or queen, it is an allusive piece. play the game wisely and your rook may trap the king, leaving it with nowhere to run.”

with the passing of another moon, daemon plunders deeper into insanity.

he’s always been a man of possession, the kind who owns and conquers and takes. objects, lands, people. they’re all the same in daemon’s chequebook of ownership. and, while living a rather messy and unkept life, he enjoys the pleasantness of having his possessions in his line of sight, like the sword he’s worn at his hip since the old king bestowed it upon him, or the seating he takes at every royal feast, chair angled perfectly to keep his eyes on the brother, nieces, family he possesses.

with dark sister out of reach and his most recent favoured family member out of sight- the pretty niece he’s silently layed his claim on-, destruction is imminent.

no longer does he debate with his own inner-turmoil over if he will go against the king’s orders but, rather, he questions when.

when will he redeem his previous loss against ser criston cole, beat the knight to the ground and steal his weapon as he lays unconscious?

when will he slip through the cracks in the castle walls, making use of the secretive halls built by maegor the cruel himself and slice through any guard who may attempt to get in his way?

when will he take the skies atop his fire-breathing mount, fleeing the city of whispering cunts and chees-playing fools?

the answer to each questions comes back to one thing, one person, one possession he needs to locate first.

you.

the events to follow the council meeting had lead him to several conclusions.

the first, and most obvious one, was that you clearly were not on driftmark, as lord strong had so boldly claimed. the second took him a few sleeps to fully decide upon but, remembering the words spoken of your betrothal among the council men and the apparent greater houses they could have given your hand to, daemon crossed off the possibility of you being in winterfell, the young stark lord likely too prideful to entertain the king’s earlier propositions of marriage after the way you’d left him amid a feast to go and- falsely rumoured- fuck your uncle.

with the dandarrions, the lannisters and the dornish folk already ruled off the list, it left daemon with few options.

his strongest lead is the baratheons, a long-standing connection between the two houses and a recently widowed lord who’s previous wife had gifted nothing but girls from her womb, it took no genius to assume a targaryen bride would serve him well.

daemon will soon find out he's wrong.

there’s an unease that takes over someone’s chambers the moment they notice something has been tampered with, whether it be as silly as a glass moved a few inches across a table or something as significant as a chest of drawers laying open when they’d clearly been left shut.

it tickles the back of the prince’s neck this very evening, skin rising to mimic that of a goose as he trails his eyes over his surroundings.

he’d returned to his chambers later than usual this evening, the day spent cornering council-men and threatening them- daemon had quickly discovered they feared him less with no blade to slice through them and his own personal minder at his back, that ridiculous kingsguard armour reflecting every ray of sun and every burn of candlelight.

daemon had taken to tormenting the poor ser crispin only a matter of days into their forced companionship. he figured that, if he may no longer seek joy in the streets of silk or the bloodshed of his enemies, let him at least take pleasure in the squirming discomfort of a man he loathes entirely.

“my niece,” he’d spoke as the two sat through their usual quiet supper together. “did you enjoy fucking her?”

“i did not fuck princess y/n.”

“well, of course not,” daemon pushed his spoon back and forth, passing time while he thought up his next taunt. “my younger niece has always had the more refined taste out of the two of them. rhaenyra, on the other hand, well she’d fuck a hound if it licked her the right way.”

“all this from a man who preys on his own blood for his sexual deviance. you and i both know what you done to your niece, how you seduced such a-”

“my nieces have always seemed so alike. both pale haired, both sharing the same smile, both wearing the same dresses.” the knight and the prince had long abandoned their food now, discussion heavy with daemon’s accusation of ser criston abandoning his own vows and committing what he can only imagine would be declared treason, deflowering a princess. perhaps soon the two will share something in common. “now i wonder if they feel the same. you must know, so tell me, did rhaenyra’s cunt grip your pathetic cock in a vice that threatened to ruin any other woman for you? or is that a trait only my youngest niece possesses?”

even now, hours into the late night and several more cups of wine drowning in his system, daemon can not bite back a dry laugh as he recalls the astound look upon the knight’s face, a mixture of disgust and discomfort.

he’s seated- more accurately speaking, he’s draped- upon a chaise, muscles tense and mind racing, in need of distraction. most of his nights end like this now, several emptied pitchers of wine along the floor, red staining his mouth and his own figure collapsed over whatever surface he finds first. occasionally, he’d attempt to have his way with a serving girl, ignoring the looks of ser criston as he stands guard outside his chambers and watches the prince enter with his partner for the evening, yet most were dismissed before daemon could satisfy himself, a mixture of his own drunken incontinence and their far too placid natures.

at least the whores of the silk street make him believe they want him.

letting out a groan, he sinks further into the seat, legs bent at the knee and feet planted firmly on the ground as he lets himself lay back fully. he’s contemplating taking rest here for the evening, and weighing the likely-hood of awakening with a new pain in his neck. 

it would certainly be a more comfortable sleep than the would he’d taken last night, back slumped against a wall and body sat atop the cool marbled floor.

he makes his choice, limbs too tired to make the few paces to his bed, and resigns himself for the night, twisting once more to find the most comfortable position upon the chaise and closing his eyes.

only to reopen them instantly.

something rustles. that feeling of unease creeps in once again, slow like fog over the horizon, hazy and threatening, and cold in every sense of the word. someone has been in his chambers, is in his chambers, and they’ve left something askew.

his eyes dart over the room, trying to assess every nook and corner and crevice within it in hopes of spotting a pair of spying eyes or unsettled objects. struggling due to all the blind spots his position has created, daemon heaves himself back into the upright position, figure slouched and back curved uncomfortably.

the rustling happens again.

he shoots up from his seat, wondering if his inebriated state has begun to create delusions, or if the psychosis caused by staring at the same red walls of the keep nonstop has finally begun to take over. he must be going mad, he thinks, eyes scanning over the whole of his room as he turns in place, cursing the more he notices nothing out of the ordinary.

until he sees it.

there, placed exactly where his tired limbs had been mere moments ago, lays a note.

it’s folded over and sporting a strange yellow blotch in one of it’s corners while, in the centre, written in the blackest ink so delicately and flowery it near stirs his cock in his breeches, kepus.

he snatches at the paper, near tearing it in two with the speed he unfolds it, eyes racing over every scribble and every swirl of pretty inked words.

the rain is the only thing that brings me comfort these days.

the letter begins and, while the writer has still not identified themselves, the prince is more than certain he knows who is speaking.

i’ve never been a fan of change (i’m sure you recall my horrid tantrums as a child whenever my mother assigned me a new handmaiden), yet never have i faced one so large. where in the capital i spent my days with books and needles and rides upon dragon’s back, here i am told to sit quiet as a mouse, as though i am merely another ornament within the lord’s home. where i once spent nights rolling my eyes and wishing to be excused from public feasts, here i cry and ache for a morsel of socialising outside the lord’s inner circle. where once i slept sound over the small folk screaming and cheering into the late night, here i sit awake by the window and listen to each raindrop.

i am not built for the cold, both in weather and in people. they frighten me here, which is a thing i never thought i’d need admit to. there are no whispers here, only silence. but their eyes, they speak paragraphs of hatred and disdain and ill-intentions with a simple glance. i need not worry if they will eat me alive here, but rather whom will be the one to do so. in the capital i’ve always felt untouchable, first because i was my father’s daughter, a princess of the realm, and, when that began to lose effect, you stepped in and taught me safety can be found in another, with your advice and your combat training and your inability to let me fall asleep without you on my mind.

i’ve developed a sick obsession for you, uncle, and it is entirely your fault.

he’s sunk back onto the chaise, hand gripping the letter tighter as a mixture of worry and anger stirs up in his loins. worry over the tales you tell, anger for the possibility of this being a sick game, a note written by some pathetically bored serving wench aiming to ruffle some feathers.

he decides he must keep reading to uncover the truth.

and so, now, it is with heavy heart that i must admit i’m disappointed. don’t perceive me as foolish, for i am wiser than some maiden who believes the things i feel for you to be love. but i always believed there was understanding between us, two different souls yet so completely immersed and knowing of each other’s drives and needs. even when i was a child, you were always the first to notice once i was too tired to continue with the festivities or when i craved the thrill of sneaking down to the dragonpit to spy upon the great beasts. i thought you’d understand, too, that this is not the life i wishfor: a husband with the personality of a wet piece of parchment and a life of silence and gloom.

i am a dragon, just like my sister, and my father, and our ancestors. and a dragon can not grow in a cage, so why have you let them put me in one? you agreed to help me, to ruin me for any other lord so that my father would have no option to but to wed us, leaving us both to our own devices. you, gaining that valyrian wife you always wanted while not changing your whorish ways, and i, earning the freedom i would not find shackled to some low achieving, overbearing, egotistical man. yet i now have a betrothed who’s hair is brown and who’s house has no dragon.

i will risk writing this only once, for the spiders may not spin their thread here but they still bite, and ask this of you: speak sense into my father. tell him i’m with child, tell him i’m a threat to the realm, tell him i’m plotting my own death. tell him any lie you need to put a stop to this betrothal and bring me home, to where i belong.

or, outsmart him and simply come rescue me yourself, like some knight on his white stallion (caraxes would likely singe my hair off if i ever dared call him such a thing in his presence).

i’ll be awaiting your next move, uncle. be sure you play wisely and don’t lose both your princess and your king.

coldest regards,

your little dove.

p.s. i have cum to learn that, while my fingers are indeed skilled, they are nowhere near as good as yours were, kepus.

the intensity behind the stare he holds the note under may just set it alight.

no longer does he doubt who could have written such a thing, the mentions of your joint ploy to deceive the courtiers and the wording used to describe the connection shared between you both marking the undeniable truth of the letter’s author. 

perversion brings him to reread the final sentence, mind fully registering them and flooding him with pink hued paintings of his pretty niece, as nude as the day you were born, now flushed skin and hardened nipples and honey dripping down your thighs as your dainty hands fail to fuck themselves as deeply as his had.

daemon can’t help but wonder what his little dove must think of in moments of self-pleasure, questions of whether you were depraved enough to think of men doing unspeakable things to you or if you merely blush over the memory of your uncle.

reading over the last part two more times, his eyes scatter back up the page- first, in an effort to avoid having to deal with his own impending arousal, and then because he feels compelled to read over the letter once more, eyes scanning over every detail.

it takes an unknown number of reads for him to notice a code among the words, a subtleness of ink layered to appear harsher, darker, more noticeable than the other words upon the parchment.

i’m, where, you, once, were.

i’m where you once were.

an inexplicable sense of pride comes over him, the fact his little dove has found a way to tell him something whilst, simultaneously, telling him nothing. were your worries true of spiders and the risk of one of them reading this letter in the time it took to reach him, he doubts any of them would be wise enough to notice the message, much less decipher it’s meaning.

and, while he applauds your display of wits, he despises his own inability to comprehend it. if you are where he once was, where had he been?

just about everywhere in the seven kingdoms, is the unfortunate truth.

by the time sleep at lasts takes over him, daemon has gained two things: the letter you’ve sent and the unbreakable will to move in on the king at last.

“the objective of chess is to protect your king while attacking your opponent’s. you must back the king into a corner, leave him with no way out, place him in check. only then will you be able to call checkmate and win.”

daemon nudges the knight with his foot.

as they’d sat for supper that evening, the prince had felt doubtful of the contents in the vial. he’d pinched it from the grand maester himself and, though he payed no real coins, the prince would argue he payed a grater price: feigning interest in conversing with old crone. a near three hours he’d sat, listening to the man drone on and on, till at last he’d excused himself to relieve his bladder and left daemon with a window of opportunity, his ointments and medicine all in a neat little display.

having little time, he’d grabbed at what he was sure to be milk of the poppy- a significantly smaller dose remaining within the vial compared to the rest- and tucked it in his trousers, at last excusing himself from the bore of a lifetime.

it wasn’t difficult to slip the liquid into a cup of wine, nor was it particularly hard to convince ser criston to drink from it, inviting the knight to join in on his empty toast towards the hightower queen and yet another pregnancy.

hours later and ser crispin lays slumped over outside his door.

daemon gives one more nudge for safety and, when the man merely slouches even closer to the ground, he grabs at the knight’s weapon and nestles it in his own scabbard, making use of it for the first time in two moons.

the hour is late and most of the keep have given in to the temptations of rest, yet the prince still travels the halls with caution, one eye looking over his shoulder. he half expects every guard he passes to seize him on sight, spewing some nonsense of his wrongful weapon or non-permitted solitude. with luck he reaches his destination, no one to spy upon the way he enters into the emptied library nor to witness as he shoves a bookcase aside and steps into the tunnel.

his memory serves him well, even after all these years, navigating himself through the interconnected secrets of the keep. he passes rooms of lords laid in bed with women they do not call wife, and ladies disrobing for the evening, and the still empty chambers of his little dove, till, at last, he reaches where he wants to be, not bothering with patience before barging his way out of the tunnel and into the regal chambers of the king.

“it took you longer than i expected.” daemon had counted on his brother being the one wearing shock upon his face, yet it is the prince who plays the fool, stepping into the room to find his older brother sat at a table, goblet in hand and a familiar checkered board in front of him.

it irks him to hear the king even imply he’d been expecting his arrival.

“don’t you have a wife to be bedding, brother?” he steps deeper into the chambers with caution, eyes on the empty bed and the lack of sight of his brother’s breeding mare.

“pregnancy, daemon. it works wonders on a woman’s body,” he takes a sip of his drink before reaching to pour a second cup meant for the prince. “it’s just a shame one of those wonders comes in the form of my wife snoring louder than a lion roars.”

it’s strange to hear his brother discuss details of his new bride.

daemon had never sought answers for their marriage, yet he’d forever questioned what had driven his brother to marry such a girl, childhood friend of his eldest daughter and so clearly lacking the backbone needed to stand up for herself against the injustices forced against her by her own father. were the prince a more gentle person at heart, perhaps he’d find it in him to pity her.

instead, he sees her as just another thorn in his brother’s side, waiting for the chance to poison his mind and seat one of her wretched babes upon the throne.

“come, come,” dragging him out of his thoughts is viserys once more, now half-hovering over the table and moving his limbs back and forth, hands carefully placing each piece upon it’s designated checker. “sit down! let us play!”

only as he’s seated across from viserys does he notice he’s been bestowed with playing the blacks on the board. never before was he allowed, the older of the two always insisting black was his lucky colour and refusing to play the whites.

in truth, daemon has always suspected his brother had been to fearful to play white, not knowing how to make a good first move and relying on his opponent to instead kickstart the game and give him places to move his pieces.

“isn’t it a beautiful board?” the elder must confuse his staring as a sign of fascination, gawking at the splendour of it. “it’s the very same one mother gifted me after i bested her for the first time.”

there it is, that familiar lick of envy, a sick and cruel twist in his guts as he stares down at an object viserys gets to remember their parents by, while all daemon ever got was disapproving looks and half-hearted embraces. perhaps the rumours are true and the prince has a complex which forces him to pity himself, to cast a shadow upon his own image and declare that it was a wrong forced upon him by others.

or, more likely, the consequences of watching his parents prop viserys up on a mantelpiece whilst leaving him in a corner to collect dust had lead him down the path to the destructive man he’s become.

even when he’d claimed caraxes, he could only imagine what his father’s reaction would have been, were he still alive to witness it. 

impressive, but your brother claimed the greatest dragon to have ever lived, the one who the great conqueror rode upon and forged a throne under the black dread’s flames.

“‘tis exactly the same as any other chess board, brother.” he lets petty feelings spin lies on his tongue, rolling his eyes and disregarding the clear etherealness, the intricate carvings on each piece and the extravagant linings of the board, and each of it’s shimmering onyx and quartz squares.

daemon downs half his cup in one sip, eyes trained on his brother’s first move.

king’s pawn forward two spaces, a strong start and an immediate attack to the centre.

it’s fitting, daemon thinks, for this to be the first move his brother makes while leading a game. while a powerful start, it’s rather obvious, one he’d seen viserys defeat in a manner of mere seconds. perhaps age has taken away his astute mind and skill for the game.

daemon retaliates, moving one of his bishop’s pawns forward two spaces.

with the crease that forms in viserys’ brow, daemon delights. his brother was not expecting him to move in such a way, likely expecting him to do something erratic like bringing his queen’s pawn forward.

the pair continue to move in silence, sips of wine and scratching of pieces echoing around the chambers. it’s deceivingly peaceful, nothing like the confrontation the rogue prince had geared himself up to walk into. while he’d awaited bursts of anger and scathing accusations and marks of betrayal, the two sit like children once more, moving empty objects in an imitation of politics.

the only difference is daemon appears to have the upper hand, a growing collecting of white pieces stored to the right of his long-ago emptied and refilled cup.

as always, it’s daemon who takes the first bite.

“i’m afraid i must pay you your dues, brother.” his words slip through his own smirking lips, satisfaction rolling in by the hundreds as he spies the white king, slowly losing places to hide on the board. “it’s truly applaudable how you managed to not only secure one daughter a marriage amid questions of her virtue, but two! young helaena will follow in her half-sisters’ footsteps, surely.”

viserys’ hand pauses mid-air, his remaining bishop held in his grasp. his grip tightens with each passing second. the older has always been more level-headed, that no one can dispute, but the rogue prince will forever swear up and down, high and low, that it is his brother who carries the more foul temper.

viserys’ anger is just harder to weed out from behind false niceties and calmed breathing.

“if you mean to say that helaena will be so lucky as to marry a noble man, filled with honour,” he lays his bishop down at last, not managing to capture any of daemon’s blacks. “then yes, i should hope so. both the betrothal of my eldest daughter and my middle-born were to good men, faithful lords. my helaena will be lucky to do the same.”

“you never did quite tell me about y/n’s betrothal, brother.” the king chuckles at daemon’s words, empty amusement in the obvious statement the prince makes. still, he makes no attempt to stop him, letting him string the conversation along to the dreaded topic between them: the rumours of what daemon had done to you. “last i spoke with her, she was rather... occupied with something other than the prospect of marriage. when you announced her future union to her, did she drop on her knees and kiss your feet in gratitude? or did she spit at you and-”

“did she drop on her knees for you?” the raise in viserys’ voice is minimal yet enough to have daemon smirking over the rim of his cup, amused to see his brother being led into his trap for once.

he makes his next move on the board fist, plucking his knight and moving it over one of his own pawns. if he plays is cards right, messes with his brother’s head just the right amount, perhaps he won’t notice how he’s moving in on his king.

his only hope is to keep talking about his little dove.

“so that’s what you wish to discuss, brother? how it felt to fuck your young daughter?” for the first time he speaks the lie out loud, no hiding behind innuendos nor insinuations. they need to believe you’ve stolen my virtue, kepus, were the words you’d whispered to him, face still fresh from dried tears and teeth stained purple with the wine he’d let you sip from his glass late into the night as the rest of the world had slept, they need to think that you fucked me.  he’d sworn an oath to you, to put on a show and ruin you beneath the judgement of others. he’ll be damned if viserys becomes an exception to this oath. “because i can go into detail, you needn’t beg. i can tell you of how it felt to have her squeeze around my cock, and how she arched that little back like a cat, spine curving deeper each time i pounded into her. i can tell you of how she begged for her uncle, her kepus, to shoot his spend into her aching womb and-”

a screech rings out as viserys’ chair flies backwards, the king rising to a stand and glaring down at his brother, who only sinks deeper into the velvet lined seat and allows himself another sip of his glass, face painted in pure amusement as viserys’ reflects that of an angered dragon.

“enough! i will not have you speak such atrocities about your own niece!”

“oh spear me the lecture of the seven, brother!” the hypocrisy to shun him for lusting after his own kin, it has to be the hightower cunt’s doing. feeding lies into her new husband’s head, any means to have his true-blooded targaryen daughters removed from the line to the throne. daemon at last feels himself begin to irk, a scowl engraving itself into his forehead. “your own beloved, your late wife, shared blood with you and you never once objected to bedding her. it is our family’s birthright to keep the blood of the dragon burning hot, not dampen it with that of lesser folk. i mean our parents, for gods’ sake, they were siblings! are you going to tell me it’s wrong?”

“this is not about you being her uncle, daemon. this is about you being you! and her being my sweet girl, one of the last pieces of aemma-”

daemon can’t help himself, flying out of his own seat with the slam of his hand on the table. the pieces rattle under the impact, the white queen toppling over and sending her pawn flying off the board.

“your sweet girl who you let be slandered by the same lords who break bread at your table and drink from your cups!” the prince stands taller than the king, shoulders straight and head held high as he flips positions, becoming the one staring down upon his older brother, who’s slouched and frailer than he once was, hands searching for the steadying hold of the oak table. “tell me, brother, where were you when she drank herself sick as they spoke on her fertility? what did you do when they mocked her for being scared after an attack on her life, in her own chambers!? did you even ask her what happened between us before you shipped her off like cattle to the slaughter, let her tell you it was she who asked it of me? she detested the thought of marrying some unknown lord so much she’d rather destroy her maidenhood and her honour, but you wouldn’t see that, too blinded by your own downfall into becoming a boot-licker for all these cunts who hold land in your realm.”

viserys can only stare, frozen where he stands and eyes widened in bewilderment at his brother’s own outburst, chest heaving in anger and hands shaking with adrenaline as he points towards the king.

“are you in love with her?”

no more than a whisper, so quiet the rogue prince is almost sure he imagines it.

till the king repeats himself.

"gods, don't be ridiculous!" it’s neither a yes nor a no, and daemon is so painfully aware of this, aware that he gives no real answer to your father nor himself.

the concept of love and all it entails has never appealed to the prince, at least in the way it’s presented in song and written of in history. all his life he’d heard of knights who’s lady love was a gem they sought to hold, to sing songs of faithfulness and dance around with hands entwined by marriage. of men who made themselves better, kinder, more gentle, all in the hopes of pleasing their lover and winning her hand. daemon had never experienced such a feeling.

while love is something most feel in their heart, daemon feels it in his loins.

it’s a hunger that consumes his very being, aching, and growling, and demanding to be fed with bursts of passion and shouts of anger. it’s a possession he needs to take, to mark someone as his, in every sense of the words. his to own, his to touch, his to drown in expensive gifts. his love is not kind, but brutal, and loud, and forceful, never leaving room for the rest of the world to doubt it. it makes him want to march into battle, to burn down cities, to spill the blood of any who dare harm the object of his obsession. his love is a fire that burns him from within, spilling out from his skin and scorching everything in it’s path.

the prince is not sure if he wants you to burn in its flames.

“but i could give her a greater life than any other man in this realm.” what he is certain of is that he will not stand by as your father let’s you be ruined by someone other than him. “a good man means nothing if he can not keep her safe, or even happy. at the very least, wedding her to me would mean her husband is someone familiar. she wouldn’t have to leave her home, or change her ways, or even bare a child if she does not wish to.”

viserys sighs, tired body dropping back into his chair and his mangled hand reaches up to brush over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeeze shut. the prince almost believes he sees a flicker of resignation, winning his brother over at last or exhausting him so deeply he sees no choice but to accept his words as truth, if only to silence him.

instead, the king reaches for the board once more, an airy laugh escaping him as he examines the placement of each piece. leaning over, he sits his queen back up and drums his fingers on the table.

he laughs once more.

"after all these years, daemon, you still struggle to capture my queen."

“but your queen, daemon. the queen is where you hide all your power, look for where your opponent keeps their queen and there you shall find true victory.”

the words of years ago spin round and round in the prince’s head.

his eyes, glued to the board, watch as the king moves his queen out two spaces and captures daemon’s knight, snatching it off the board and tossing it over his shoulder. viserys looks up, awaiting for daemon to continue the match, to put an end to it at last.

but he’s too stuck on the phrasing his brother had used, stubborn in his belief that it’s meaning has little to do with the game upon the table and, rather, the one that’s being played with words and whispers and undisclosed betrothals.

the prince thinks of the queen, the hightower girl who parades around the courts in green silks and upon swollen ankles, face downtrodden each time she foolishly thinks no one is looking. if ever he believed viserys held true affection for her, he’d wonder if she was who the king refers to, if otto hightower had truly been sent back to oldtown empty handed or with a new bride on his arm.

but any fool with a set of eyes can see the king loves his second wife like he loves the iron throne: through duty and obligation.

it is, instead, the late queen aemma who viserys must speak of.

and, while her maiden home, house arryn, where she’d spent her girlhood in the days before she’d been betrothed to her cousin, possesses no lord nor man awaiting a wife, a neighbouring house had just recently named a new wifeless lord.

a house which remembers, especially those who wrong it.

“no…”

i'm where you once where.

“you have to understand, daemon, that the actions you take leave me with consequences to bare. after what happened to lady rhea… after what you done,” his brother, so clearly exhausted with the secrecy and the scheming, folds like a house of cards against a gentle breeze, collapsing further into his seat and shaking his head. he does not notice as daemon moves his own queen along the board. “the vale were at an unease. threatened, was the word they used. so when lord royce staked his claim over his house’s seat, demanding i compensate runestone for the marriage agreement you destroyed and the lady you took from them, i had to give them a show of good faith. i had to reassure them of the longstanding trust between our houses.”

“so you gave her to them, sold her like some slave!”

“i made a political deal!” he attempts to defend himself in both words and on the board. in both, he fails. “one where lord rhoyce gains a bride, i avoid war and my daughter gets to finally take on the duties bestowed upon her at birth.”

“you’re a fucking fool, viserys. you would have been better delivering her to the triarchy. least they would make her death a more swift one. that rhoyce twat’ll have her head on a pike, and her tits and cunt will be hand delivered to you. they’ll slaughter her, as payment for their-” daemon swallows every ill coloured word and expression of his despise that comes to mind at the memory of his bronze bitch, giving no out for his brother to twist this conversation into a matter of his own wrongdoings. “late lady.”

with no more hesitation, the rogue prince moves his queen one last time and delights in watching the white king fall into check.

he knocks the piece over, quietly declaring checkmate.

“brother, please,” the king’s words are as fragile as his health, failing and mute against daemon’s scowling features, which refuse to play nice any longer. “do you think this is what i wanted, for my daughter to be used as a bargaining tool for peace? but there’s no going back, what’s done is done.”

“then undo what is done!”

“how can i when they threaten violence and-”

“you’re the king! who gives a shit what they threaten, they have a dozen men to your thousands. you have dragons! if the threat of fire worked on the men of the vale once, it’ll do so again. so regain your pride and write to that cunt royce. tell him to have your daughter cleaned up and sent back to where she belongs, to find fulfilment in his new lordhood and to drop this notion that he even deserves to gaze upon a targaryen princess, much less stick his shrivelled cock within her. i urge you to send this letter post-haste,” that familiar blade of his sits neatly by the entrance of the chamber, attracting the prince over till he clutches it in his grasp at last, quickly returning dark sister to her rightful spot by his side and discarding the blade he’d stolen from ser criston. he glances back at the king, now risen once more, and twists the doorknob. “and pray, dear brother. pray that it reaches gerold royce before i do.”

with the slam of the door, daemon plunders into the halls of the keep, footsteps heavy and echoing with each one he takes. jaw clenched and hands fisted, he paints the image of a man enraged, sick and fed-up with the games being played.

by the time he reaches his chambers, shoving his way past the sleeping knight at it’s doors, there’s bound to be a flurry of gossiping fools who speak of the prince and his defiling of the king’s commands, but he cares little as he straps himself into leathers and steel, hell-bent on reaching the dragonpit before day breaks and the sun paints the sky alight.

daemon is done sitting idly by, waiting for the king to see reason.

because while at the age of five, naive and easily influenced, daemon targaryen had looked up to his chess-genius of a brother, it was at age five and ten that he realised why his brother kept winning, why pawns and knights and rooks would conveniently move to the places he needed them to be.

he cheated.

[dontbesoweirdkira]

Imagine coming home from a long day of running errands to see ¡yandere! Sam Trapani beating one of your admirers to a bloody pulp on your front door step.

Warnings: Gore, violence, mentions of stalking, obsession, forced relationship

A/N: I drew this at the depths of night when I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t seen really any yandere mafia stuff soooo…… here you go!! Art + headcannon…you may now feast.

Requests: open 24/7

Bonus pt.2

(I mention that the admirer is young, I mean like Sam is 40 so the other guys is late 20’s to early thirties. Sam is just getting insecure about his age)

Sam had been stalking and slowly trying to court you for about a year and he’s getting closer to his goal of finally making you his; but this new guy that just moved in next door is just fucking it alll up.

It first started with the guy going over to your house to introduce himself and harmlessly wanting to be a friendly neighbor. Then quickly become bolder and bolder with his flirtations, much to Sam’s dismay! Could you believe that THE Sam Trapani is extremely jealous of this guy?? Probably 10 years younger and quite handsome, That boy is a serious threat.

You laugh louder at his jokes than you do at sam’s, your clothes are getting much more revealing and the way you prance your little ass over to him anytime he calls your name was seriously eating at him and he’s at his wits end of it. Sam knows he’s getting older but is his charm really that stale now?

Even when Sam is having a full conversation with with you this little shit will come around and inject himself into the whole interaction. Sam even started going grocery shopping on your schedule just to be able to have some alone time with you and yet again this man appears out of the wood works. Every. Single. Time.

(Okay that’s a little dramatic but the point still stands…Sammy cannot keep up with him. He’s finally met his match and he’s so whiny about ittt)

The other guys noticed this and found it extremely hilarious, Trapani wasn’t the hot shit of the town anymore and there was someone younger and more good looking ready to take his place and his girl. They poked fun and joked how Sam was now officially an old geezer and that a young damsel like yourself wouldn’t want anything to do with him. They fed into his insecurities and made everything just ten times worse. Of course they meant no harm, Sam usually wouldn’t be hung up on a girl for too long and plus he still had pretty much every other woman of Lost Haven in his hands so what what the big deal? Why were you so damn special anyways?

“Look Sam,” paulie breathed in between laughs. “Y/N is admittedly very gorgeous but just leave it alone at this point. She’s very obviously more into him than you. What about that broad down at the Corleone…what was her name??”

“Michelle..” Sam gritted in a low venomous tone

“Right, Michelle! Maaaaybeee…you can get her out of that hell hole and I’m sure once she cleans up nicely she’ll be…something of a wife” Paulie erupted into laughter once again after finishing that sentence, barely able to hold back the tears that accompanied it.

Sam already decided enough was enough and there was no point in trying to play this whole love game thing fairly. Going down to your house and giving it to you straight was the only way he could think of doing this. He wanted your love story to feel organic and for your admiration for him to slowly bloom but you’re obviously not getting it. You don’t understand that Sam is the only possible match for you.

So much time stalking, analyzing and carefully articulating every move he made with you isn’t about be washed down the drain just because some bright eyed sucker wants to fuck you. No…it’s okay though. You’re just slightly misguided by all the butterflies and fluff but soon he’ll lead you right back to where you need to be.

As his car approached your door, he noticed a fellow holding a huge bouquet of flowers and a wrapped gift in his hand ready to knock on your door. Obviously Sam’s time was running out far sooner than he had previously expected at that moment something inside of him snapped.

Without thinking any further he got out of his sleek black car and opened the trunk, out of it he grabbed a bat and started towards the young man.

”Oh hey Sam! I’ve been knocking on y/n’s door for quite some time now. Do you know where sh-“ before the young man could even finish his next sentence the bat connected with his head and continued to do so as Sam kept striking him over and over..

Nothing was said out of Sam’s mouth as he beat him to a pulp…actually nothing could be heard throughout the entire neighborhood outside of the thwacking of the bat and the cries that escaped the admirer’s lips, pleading for him to stop. Everyone in the neighborhood silently watch from a distance, they all knew of Sam’s affiliation and no one wanted to be next on Salierie’s list. Even the birds decided to stop chirping in fear they too would meet the same fate as the fellow

This continued on for another couple minutes before a blood curdling scream broke Sam’s attack.

“Sam?!? What the hell are you doing to him????”

Hearing you’re familiar voice, Sam swiftly stood up to face you, hurriedly trying to explain what happened.

“Look…y/n calm down, this is just a simple miss understanding…”

He flashed a brisk smile and steadily started walking towards you

“Just come with me and we can speak about this over dinner, huh? You’d like that?”

Shaking your head and carefully backing away from the deranged man, you cried out

“No…n-no…no Sam….” A breath passed “Y-you gangsters are all the same…you hurt people without cause, just look at what you did to him! He was a good man!”

Sam for a moment, stopped walking and looked back at the bloody scene he had just created before looking back at you.

“Oh sweetheart…”

He began walking towards you again, this time faster so he could catch your arm.

“…trust me when I say, this isn’t the worst i could’ve done to em’. ”

Pulling you in close to his chest, he moved slightly to the side of your face and lowered his lips to your ear before speaking again,

“I’ve got something to make it up to you, doll face.” Looking down at his bloody and bruised hands, he held a perfectly intact rose…

[oceanpulls]

Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross have a plan to soundtrack everything

Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross – best friends and Nine Inch Nails bandmates – found unlikely creative fulfilment (and a couple of Oscars) by reassessing what they had to offer as musicians. Now they’re thinking even bigger, and imagining an artistic empire of their own making

By Zach Baron

Photography by Danielle Levitt

Every weekday, Trent Reznor makes his way from his house, a cottagey sprawl behind a white wall in a canyon on Los Angeles’s Westside, to a studio he’s built in his backyard. There he meets his best friend, bandmate, and business partner, Atticus Ross, and they get to work. Reznor and Ross observe the same hours, Monday to Friday, 11am to 7pm. “We show up,” Reznor told me. “We’re not late. We’re not coming in to start to fuck around.” It’s a methodical, orderly existence that Reznor could not have foreseen in the ’90s, when he was fronting Nine Inch Nails and struggling with a drug-and-alcohol problem that was his answer to success. “I would do anything to avoid writing a song,” Reznor said. “I’d rewire the studio 50 times.”

Now Reznor has a wife, Mariqueen Maandig, five children, and multiple jobs. He is sober. Since 2010, when the director David Fincher asked Reznor and Ross to score The Social Network, for which Reznor and Ross won an Oscar, the two men have had steady employment composing for film. This year, Reznor and Ross are also starting a yet-to-be-named company, built around storytelling in multiple disciplines: film production, fashion, a music festival, and a venture with Epic Games.

And then, of course, there is the oldest and perhaps still the most complicated of Reznor’s jobs: being the frontman of Nine Inch Nails. In 1988 Reznor formed what was then a one-man band; the first two full-length records Nine Inch Nails released, Pretty Hate Machine(1989) and The Downward Spiral (1994), have sold more than eight million copies. (Over subsequent years and subsequent albums, the band has since crossed the 20 million mark in sales.) In the ’90s, for a time, Nine Inch Nails were ubiquitous: a phenomenon on the level of Nirvana or Dr Dre. During that decade, the success of the band nearly killed Reznor. “I didn’t feel prepared to process how disorientating that was,” he said. “How much it can distort your personality.”

These days, Nine Inch Nails, which Ross joined as a full-time member in 2016, present a different problem – how do you make something old, something so already well-defined, new again? There are years when Reznor feels like he has the answers and years when he’s less certain. He has put the band on hiatus more than once; after the last Nine Inch Nails tour, in 2022, Reznor deliberately took a break from playing shows as well. “For the first time in a long time I wasn’t sure: what’s the tour going to say?” Reznor told me. “What do I have to say right now? We can still play those songs real good. Maybe we can come up with a new production. But it wasn’t screaming at me: this is what to do right now.”

But he and Ross still come to work, daily, in search of transcendence. “We sit in here every day,” Reznor said. “And a portion of the time organically becomes us just figuring out who we are as people and processing life and a kind of therapy session. And in those endless hours it’s come up: why do we want to do this? And the reason is because we both feel the most in touch with God and fulfilled.”

It is easy to make things when you are a teenager growing up in rural Pennsylvania, near the Ohio border, as Reznor was, and you have nothing to lose and everything to gain; it is considerably harder, once you’ve got older, and found a way to make things that people like, to keep going. It’s an old story: the act of creation can lift you up, but those sharp gifts can also destroy you, and if you make it past that, the sheer blissful regularity of life with money and a family can even you out so thoroughly that there is no friction left to work with. You look inside the cupboard and the cupboard is bare, or it’s a mansion and living inside of it is a person you’re bored of, and so you stop looking. But Reznor and Ross have never stopped looking, and the search for that magical feeling of finding something – that feeling of, in Reznor’s words, “I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know how I just did what I did, but I’ve channelled it into something that worked” – is still the thing that organises their days and their moods.

We were talking in their studio, which was low-lit and cold and full of synthesizers’ blinking lights. Reznor was on a sofa and Ross sat in a chair nearby. The two men first met in the ’90s, when Reznor signed Ross’s band, 12 Rounds, to Reznor’s Nothing Records. Soon after, they became friends, and then musical collaborators. “I was just getting sober,” Reznor said, “and I was in a pretty fragile transitional phase. And I just hit it off with Atticus right off the bat. And part of it was, he was someone who was on much firmer ground, in a mentor-y kind of way, than I was.”

Ross is two years younger than Reznor, but when they met, he’d already been through certain things Reznor was just getting around to. “I got clean when I was very young,” Ross told me. “So I had a bit more experience than him. Put it like this: I knew you could have fun without being high.”

Their friendship has been a constant in both their lives since. “I don’t know if parts of us are broken and we don’t feel good enough,” Reznor said, staring at the ceiling of the studio, “but we know if we work as hard as we can and do the best work we can, it fixes something. At the core of it, that’s what unites us creatively. On top of that, I think his take on the world and role in life helps me understand my place and not feel as detached in some ways.”

Reznor often jokes, or simply explains, that he is a “quart low” on whatever it is that makes people happy. “I think we can both, on our own devices, run below zero as a baseline,” Reznor said. “I don’t mean manic depression, I just mean we don’t take compliments well. It’s like when we won the Oscar, it was the day after: ‘Let’s take today guilt-free, kind of say fuck yeah.’ And tomorrow we’ll have settled back down to a few feet below sea level.”

In their years of collaborating with each other, both men have found some mutual reassurance – a little lift. Reznor gestured at Ross.

“I remember something he said to me – I don’t know if you want me to say this or not – in one of our talks years ago: ‘Here’s what I want today.’”

“I see what’s coming,” Ross said, nervously.

“I just want to feel OK,” Reznor said, quoting his friend. “I want to feel like I’m OK.”

One day this winter, Reznor greeted me at the door of their studio – in the course of reporting this story, I never saw him anywhere else – wearing a black hoodie made by the synthesizer company Moog, black jeans, and black running shoes. At 58, Reznor still retains the angular intensity and jet-black hair of his youth, but time and fatherhood seem to have made him quicker to smile. He looks a little like a college professor now, or an unusually-well-cared-for software engineer. He led me back, past walls of unused gear and several black-clad mannequins, all of which startled me, to their primary workspace, where Ross – a tall west Londoner (he grew up in Ladbroke Grove) with a stern face and a pleasantly reedy voice – sat at a computer, also all in black. (Once, I asked the two men whether their upcoming clothing line would feature any colour. “No,” Reznor said, incredulously. “Of course not.”)

They were on deadline for two films at the moment, including Luca Guadagnino’s forthcoming Queer. “But we’re trying not to work,” Reznor said, drily. Leaned up against one wall was a photo of the two in tuxedos, accepting the Academy Award for best original score for their work on The Social Network. Reznor had contributed to soundtracks before, in the ’90s, but he’d never formally scored a film until The Social Network.

But Reznor and Ross quickly realised that the work, in some ways, wasn’t so different from songwriting. “What do we do when we write a song?” Reznor asked. “We’re trying to emotionally connect with somebody.” Take the Mark Zuckerberg character in The Social Network:“Here’s somebody who thinks this idea is so important that it’s worth kind of fucking your friends over for it. And then realising maybe it wasn’t worth it, or I didn’t realise how I’d feel if I got what I wanted at the price of this. I can relate to that in my own language. Suddenly there’s music.”

“I’m grateful not to be as angry and frustrated and desperate as I have felt in the past,” Reznor said. “I couldn’t have predicted that I would feel this level of fulfilment.”

And Reznor found that he enjoyed the exercise of solving someone else’s problems instead of his own. “There’s something about not being the boss and working again in service to something that I initially felt guilty for feeling kind of fulfilled by in a weird way.”

Reznor said that on another Fincher film, Mank, the director suggested: “What if it sounded like maybe inspired by Bernard Herrmann and as if it were recorded in 1935 and this film canister sat on the shelf for 60 years?” OK, interesting. (Ross and Reznor were nominated for that one too.)

On the first film the two men scored for Guadagnino, Bones and All, “we got a cut of that that was nearly four hours long with no music and we kind of thought, Oh, fuck,” Reznor said. “Four hours we sat without a pee break, transfixed. It didn’t need music. And when you watch that you approach it differently.” Then Guadagnino brought them Challengers, due for worldwide release in April. Reznor said, “He started us down a path, saying, ‘What if it was very loud techno music through the whole film?’” (This is exactly what it turned out to be.)

“I wish I had his notes,” Ross said of Guadagnino. “His notes were so fucking funny on what each piece was meant to do.”

“Oh, yeah,” Reznor said. “‘Unending homoerotic desire.’ It was all a variation on those three words.”

They liked the challenge of scoring, they found, and that feeling of not being in control. They also liked the way it made them crave being in control again: “It makes you more inspired to work on other stuff when we’re finished,” Reznor said. “Even if it’s just, Thank God it’s done now and we can appreciate the freedom we had before we gave it up.”

These days, Reznor and Ross also like having jobs that let them be at home, around their families. Both men had tumultuous or lonely lives when they were younger; both men have found that fatherhood soothes certain unresolved aspects of their pasts. Ross has three kids, and “probably the greatest reward is how balanced and happy they all are compared to – certainly my growing up was an unusual sort of scenario. It was a fairly chaotic youth.” Ross comes from a notable English family, but his immediate lineage was more unstable. “My dad had a club called Flipper’s Roller Boogie Palace in LA in the ’70s,” Ross told me. “He went bankrupt in England and had a judgment passed against him where he couldn’t talk to a bank manager for 15 years. So he moved here and opened this sort of Studio 54 on roller skates on La Cienega and Santa Monica.” Ross held up a coffee-table book full of photos of the club. “You don’t need to look at it, but it was just a mad life. So I grew up in some madness.”

It is particularly endearing to see Reznor, who at a distance was a fierce and terrifying figure in his 20s and 30s, find domestic bliss. I am old enough that my adolescence coincided neatly with the S&M-flavoured, I wanna fuck you like an animal era of Nine Inch Nails; when I was leaving Reznor’s house one day, I noted with some amusement the cheerful mundanity of a basketball hoop in the backyard. “I’m grateful not to be as angry and frustrated and desperate as I have felt in the past,” Reznor told me. “I couldn’t have predicted that there was a world where I would have a sizeable family with kids and feel the level of fulfilment and comfort and be able to live in that.”

Was that something you were consciously seeking before you found it?

“I think I had some abandonment issues from my parents splitting up, or feeling I never fit in, and I’d gotten accustomed to being on my own. And largely due to my own, I think, inability to really be intimate with people, or share or be open or know how to be a friend or a partner to somebody… Trying that out and doing it with pure and full immersion has led to an unexpectedly great outcome.”

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

The other film project Reznor and Ross were on deadline for was Scott Derrickson’s The Gorge, a science-fiction thriller starring Miles Teller and Anya Taylor-Joy. They were working on a lengthy, music-dependent scene that they’d already mostly scored. But, Ross said, “the director wants it to be a bit more, I can’t think of a better word than just a bit more scary and intense.” They weren’t sure what that directive meant, exactly, but they were content – they were happy – to try to figure it out: to enter the room once again, carrying nothing, and to try to leave it with something that didn’t exist before.

Ross called up the scene on a monitor at the centre of a long mixing board: Teller and Taylor-Joy in an evil-looking spiky forest. Reznor and Ross have somewhat fluid roles in their collaboration, but today the plan was for Reznor to improvise some music while Ross edited and manipulated it in real time. “Atticus’ superpower,” Reznor said, “is that I can come up with a melody and a chord change, and he can make that sit on the scene in a way that is meticulous, and mind-numbingly boring to watch him do.”

A studio assistant, also in all black, presented himself to help Reznor set up a microphone and a cello next to a keyboard that sat underneath another computer monitor. Ross hit play on the footage and what they’d already completed of the score, a kind of haunted, chanting murmur. “It’s basically atmosphere at the moment,” Ross said. Next to him was a synthesizer whose make and model he asked me not to print and which the two men use as a kind of sound ecosystem to feed stuff into.

Reznor began by pushing down on the piano’s keyboard, while with his other hand he manipulated the sound with a flat synthesizer on the desk in front of him. It began as a kind of mellow pan flute thing, and then, with a push of a few buttons, became more of a sad, Social Network-ish plonk. Ross stood up and started tapping the synthesizer to his left, and the sounds Reznor made began to loop and accumulate – little melodic figures that plunged in and out of feedback. Reznor moved from the piano to the microphone, where he sang a few soft passages in a baritone falsetto, more sad than spooky, and then to the cello, which he played slowly and choppily. Ross moved between the computer and the synthesizer, trying to harness it all as it built to a loud, echoing crescendo.

After about 20 minutes, Reznor sat back in his chair, and Ross soon followed suit. Everything got quiet again. “It’s going fishing,” Reznor said to me, shrugging. “Sometimes something happens.”

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

Or, sometimes, everything happens. One of the first things you see when you arrive at Reznor’s home studio are two original paintings by the Yorkshire artist Russell Mills – on the left, a razor against a rusty red background; on the right, a decaying yellow-and-black collage – that ultimately became the insert and the cover art for Nine Inch Nails’ The Downward Spiral. This is the record with “Hurt” and “Closer” on it. It’s an album Reznor nearly didn’t survive.

Why do I bring this up? Well. If I may, for a moment, sound like the ageing dude in a black T-shirt leaning against the back wall of a bar where you’re just trying to be young and free of recitations of what the year 1994 felt like, there was a different quality to the way things would happen in music. Bands would labour for years, unknown, and then just get struck by lightning, is the best way I can put it: one day, you’re just a guy, and then one radio station plays your song, and then every radio station plays your song, and everyone is listening to those radio stations, because there is nothing else to do, and then MTV loops your video, and everyone watches it because, again, there is nothing else to do, and all of a sudden you are known by millions of bored people in a way that doesn’t quite happen now. This is a gross oversimplification, of course, but here Reznor is, one of the very few people who have experienced the thing I’m describing. I thought: let’s just ask him what that was like.

Reznor said, OK, he could tell me exactly what it felt like. He gave me a single moment: Woodstock ’94, which Nine Inch Nails almost didn’t play – “it seemed like it was going to be gross, to be honest with you” – but ultimately did. “And when we got there, it was terrifying,” Reznor said. “It was way bigger than I pictured in my head and walking on stage. But this is the point of the story: I knew. You could feel like you were in the right place at the right time.”

In retrospect, how did you handle success?

“Had a drink. That’s what sent me down the path. I wasn’t the guy that, you know, at 12 years old cracked a beer. That wasn’t it at all. Just, I feel anxious around people. I’m not sure how to act, especially now that you’re someone that’s supposed to act a certain way. There’s a projection. It feels uncomfortable to walk down the street and people are looking at you because they recognise you. That’s weird. Suddenly everybody wants to be your friend and you’re the coolest. Everyone wants to date you and shit like that.” Reznor said he found it was “easier to have a beer before I go in that room, and then a couple of beers before I go in that room. And pretty soon over a period of time, wait a minute, things start to get out of control. And you know how the story goes.”

Here’s how the story went: Reznor began to wonder if Trent Reznor could ever live up to the Nine Inch Nails guy that people had in their heads. “The reason I was having to drink was to fix that problem, my own insecurity. But the net result is: I’m not really who I am because now I’ve got drugs or alcohol in my system and I’m not thinking as who I really am. And that comes into focus once one gets sober and has time to reflect and kind of think about what got you there and shit you did.”

Eventually, Reznor got sober, and built himself back up. Today he’s happy to talk about all of it, obviously, but he and Ross have done a lot together since – 10 albums’ worth of Nine Inch Nails (Ross was an official member of the band for five of them), among other things – and Reznor is, by nature, not one to dwell too much on the past of a band that he’s still very much trying to figure out. “We’re not fans of resting on our laurels. We’ve been afraid of thinking about nostalgia. That’s a whole other conversation, but the reality is we’re getting older and our fans are getting older and that’s a fact. And I think, say, during the pandemic, not that you asked this question, but as I’m sure everybody was, I was pretty genuinely freaked out and very clearly came into focus: I’ve got to protect my family.”

He was consumed by fear, by terror of what might happen, of what he might do about it. “I can’t even fit all my kids in a car,” Reznor said. “But in the midst of that anxiety, sitting alone in here, I found comfort in nostalgia. I found comfort looking back at things from my youth that I’ve been afraid to even allow myself to glimpse at because it meant artistic death. Because one has to look forward. One can’t be self-referential. I was so afraid growing up in a little shitty town. I could see people that thought the highlight of their life is junior in high school catching the football. You know what I mean? That’s it. That was the peak. I don’t want to fucking be that person. I could see my fate if I stayed in that town.”

In those moments sitting by yourself, what were you getting nostalgic for?

“I miss parts of living in Pennsylvania. I miss a simpler life that I grew up with. I really loved the first INXS album in 1983. I was a senior in high school, and when I listen to it now I could almost start crying because it fucking reminds me of driving in a shitty fucking car in the summer in Pennsylvania. You know what I mean? Man. I allowed myself to kind of immerse myself in who I was at that time, and what it felt like.”

Reznor had been trying to remake himself ever since he left where he grew up, and now here he is in Los Angeles, over 40 years later. “And I kind of went on a deep dive for a while and allowed myself to realise: I am who I am. And the things that made me weren’t the cool things. I’d always been ashamed of: I came from a shitty town; I didn’t have an exotic upbringing; shitty education, you know what I mean? That’s who I am. I’m not sure what the point of all that confession was.”

Well, except: “It plays into where I’m at now.”

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

The last time I saw Reznor and Ross, it was once again in their studio. They were sitting very still. Had they been working before I got there?

“We were for a little bit,” Ross said. “And then nervously thinking about you arriving.”

Really? It’s OK if that’s the truth.

“That’s the truth,” Reznor said. They’d just been in this room for the past weeks, months – years, really, he said. Head down. Working. He gestured at me. “It’s a different mindset.”

And “I was thinking about something you said the other day,” Reznor said. That was on a Friday. I’d asked a somewhat rude question about their soundtrack work, which was: why would Reznor or Ross work for anyone else when they didn’t have to?

Now it was Monday. “I thought about that over the weekend,” Reznor said. “It’s like, Why are we doing this? The idea comes from what we think is a good place of ‘Let’s break it up. Let’s get sent down the rabbit hole on certain things and feel like we’ve got tasks being assigned to us rather than us just blindly seeing what happens creatively.’ ”

But, he said, “I think coming out of a stretch of a number of films in a row, I want some time of seeing where the wind blows versus: there’s a looming date on a calendar coming up and we’d better get our shit together. And certainly in the last few weeks I’ve been itching to do what we often do, which is just come in and let’s start something that we’re not even sure what it’s for.”

Some of that energy, he and Ross said, would probably become the next Nine Inch Nails album. Doing soundtrack work, Reznor said, had “managed to make Nine Inch Nails feel way more exciting than it had been in the past few years. I’d kind of let it atrophy a bit in my mind for a variety of reasons.”

But now, “I do feel excited about starting on the next record,” Ross said. “I think we’re in a place now where we kind of have an idea.”

And then there was the company, which Reznor and Ross spent the last two years putting together, piece by piece, with the help of John Crawford, their longtime art director, and the producer Jonathan Pavesi. The idea was, what could they do that they hadn’t already done around storytelling? Some of that might take the form of examining Nine Inch Nails from yet another angle – “we’ve been working on homegrown IP around Nine Inch Nails, stories we could tell, and we’re working on developing those in a way that are not what you think they’d be.” (As in: not a biopic.) They also have a show in development with Christopher Storer, the creator of The Bear, they said, and a film with the veteran horror director Mike Flanagan.

Reznor put on a pair of black-rimmed glasses so that he could examine a piece of paper next to him. “We just wrote some notes because I knew I’d forget what the fuck I’m about to say.” There was a short film coming with the artist Susanne Deeken. There was a clothing venture, a T-shirt line made in collaboration with a notable designer whose name they’d like to keep secret for now, which will arrive this summer. There was a music festival that they were currently planning, “where we’re going to debut as performing as composers along with a roster of other interesting people,” and a record label, both scheduled to launch around the same time.

And for two years they’ve been working with Epic Games on something that is not exactly a video game, in the UEFN ecosystem Epic has built around Fortnite – “It’s what Zuckerberg was trying to bullshit us into calling the metaverse,” Reznor said. “You can’t say that word any more, but in terms of the tool kit, thinking about it through the lens of what could be possible for artists and experiences, we thought that would be an interesting way to tell a story through that.”

They were nervously contemplating the prospect of having day jobs again, of being responsible for more than just themselves. Early on, as they contemplated launching the company, they’d sat down with David Fincher to ask him about movie production: how does it work? “And he’s like, oh, you’re fucked,” Reznor said. “I can distil a two-hour conversation into that. Because, he said, ‘I know you guys, and no one’s going to care more than you do, and you will not be able to let it go.’”

Reznor has actually had this experience before, of being sucked into a project bigger than Nine Inch Nails and having it take over his entire life. Years ago he worked as an executive, first for Beats and then for Apple, building a streaming-music service.

“Trent was very clear when we started,” Ross said. “We cannot let this get into Apple terrain.”

Reznor laughed. “What I mean by that is – I will make this brief; I’m trying to think through what I’m about to talk shit on. Just to self-censor for a second.”

Reznor paused for a moment and then explained. For years, he said, he’d wondered: what would make a good streaming service? This was before the advent of Spotify in the US or Apple Music. Jimmy Iovine, Reznor’s old label boss – later, Iovine would also become Ross’s brother-in-law, after he married Ross’s sister, Liberty, in 2016 – was launching a music service at Beats, which was then acquired by Apple, and Iovine said to Reznor: come try to make this thing a reality. And Reznor surprised himself by saying yes.

“It was a unique opportunity to work at the biggest company in the world at a high level,” Reznor said. “And it was interesting, the scale of the people that you reach through those platforms, just the global amount of influence those platforms can have was exciting. The political situation I was dropped into was not as exciting.”

Reznor enjoyed working with Apple’s design team and its engineering team. “But it made me realise how much I want to be an artist first and foremost.” Reznor also became discouraged with the possibility of fixing the problem that he was trying to solve. “I think the terrible payout of streaming services has mortally wounded a whole tier of artists that make being an artist unsustainable. And it’s great if you’re Drake, and it’s not great if you’re Grizzly Bear. And the reality is: take a look around. We’ve had enough time for the whole ‘All the boats rise’ argument to see they don’t all rise. Those boats rise. These boats don’t. They can’t make money in any means. And I think that’s bad for art. And I thought maybe at Apple there could be influence to pay in a more fair or significant way, because a lot of these services are just a rounding error compared to what comes in elsewhere, unlike Spotify where their whole business is that. But that’s tied to a lot of other political things and label issues, and everyone’s trying to hold onto their little piece of the pie and it is what it is. I also realise, I think that people just want to turn the faucet on and have music come in. They’re not really concerned about all the romantic shit I thought mattered.”

Anyway, Reznor said, turning to Ross, “That was a long-winded way of saying, when we talked about this company, I just said, ‘Be aware of what success might look like because it will turn into something that eats up lots of cycles and time and attention and energy.’ ”

But, Ross said, taking on new responsibilities was, paradoxically, also a way to stay a little younger. “I know we’ve all been talking about being dads and being adults and all that,” Ross said, “and there is a part of me that thinks: it’s important to keep the kid alive.” Meaning the child inside yourself, rather than the one you’re responsible for.

He told a story about him and Reznor visiting the director David Lynch at his house to work with him on the 2017 revival of Twin Peaks. “And I don’t know how old he was at the time,” Ross said, “but he was older. But just walking in there, and he had the room set up and there’s a screen there, there’s some chairs here and there’s some musical instruments there and he’s smoking a cigarette. There’s nothing old about that dude. You know what I mean?”

Lynch showed them some Lynchian footage. It was incredible, even if they didn’t quite know what they were looking at. Lynch was probably 70 or 71 at the time. “But it’s that thing of it doesn’t matter how old he is,” Ross said. “He is alive. It’s that bit of it all that one doesn’t want to lose with age.”

The point was, Reznor said: “Let’s try some stuff. We’re bored. We are. You know what I mean? We’re grateful. We enjoy doing films. We can write a better Nine Inch Nails record, I think. We can put on a cooler tour. We are aimed to do that. But man, what if we try to do that?” Meaning, the company. “What if we could take what we’re good at, like we did with film? We identified something I think we’re good at and we figured out how to apply it to something else. What if we take that theory and try it on some other things? And that’s led us into: we’re not beaten down completely yet. And it feels exciting. That’s what matters to us right now.”

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

Styled by Mobolaji Dawodu Grooming by Johnny Stuntz using Dior Capture Totale Hyalushot SFX Makeup by Malina Stearns Grills by Alligator Jesus Tailoring by Yelena Travkina Set design by Lizzie Lang at 11th House Agency Produced by Emily O’Meara at JN Production

[oneforthemunny]

ok but most to least likely to cheat? please? i love angst!

i really don't think any of them actually would. i think they're just not gross like that, and they're all lover boy coded to their core. it's webbed in all eddie dna, even the worst of them.

i can tell you why each of them wouldn't??? a fair compromise?

janitor!eddie- self explanatory. i mean this and i know it's gonna sound insane and fake and silly, but i really don't think he could find another person attractive once he met you. it's just not in his dna, no one else exists type thing. he loves you for so many reasons, and he's gonna fuck that up?? yeah, right lol.

mafia!eddie- genuinely is annoyed by most people's presence. he's busy babes, and he doesn't trust very easily. he's never been a big relationship guy, not even casual really. he's just been incredibly tunnel visioned with his own shit, that it just not a necessity. then he gets hooked once he does. really, wouldn't want to bc he doesn't trust anyone but also bc he's found the best.

older!eddie- truly is too old. too old and tired to be fucking around and playing games like that. even if he wanted to, that's embarrassing to him. being old and a fuckboy? he did that when he was in his twenties. now, he wants to settle down. wants something real.

modern!eddie- he's too pussy whipped for that. genuinely. he might think someone's pretty or nice. i think the thing with him, is he's a little too trusting sometimes, so when he meets a girl and she's nice to him he's like "oh a friend :)" when... that's not the case. that would be the closest thing to him actually cheating is she asks him stuff about the relationship and he tells her, and it's obv the other being malicious about it. then once you pointed it out, it's shut down. truly, he's just a moron, but a lover boy at heart. very much so the type if a girl flirted to say "i have a girlfriend and she's crazy. please don't touch me, she'll scalp you."

hockey!eddie- surrounded by puck bunnies, and he giggles at them when they try because??? hello??? he's clearly got you??? silly girls, you're right there! sunshine boy, he would never. you make him so happy, i don't even think he would consider it a possibility. some of his teammates cheat (obv they're hockey boys and gross) and he's so disgusted by them. even more than that, he's shocked. he genuinely thinks so lowly of them, especially if they're married and have kids. the foulest thing to him.

rockstar!eddie- i mean... once you guys are in, he's all fucking in. that's the thing about him, is he does everything so intensely. he's also had everything, all kinds of kinds, seen the world, experienced all it has to offer. and when he thinks about you compared to it, it's just not even close. he chooses you every time. i mean, you have three wedding ceremonies because he's just that into it. that into showing the world how you're together. then once the babies start coming, forget about it. he's locked in long before then, but after that? call him anti-feminist or whatever, but no other woman, person, anything on earth is better than you. it's why in the sex dungeon, he gets you a high priestess costume, because truly that's how he sees you.

cowboy!eddie- barely sees anyone anyways bc he's kinda a recluse. not the most romantic either lol, especially pre-you. he's more of like a "you can come over here" and then he's ready for you to leave after he's done. he likes his space, so once he meets you and wants you in his space? alters his routine for you? accommodates you into his life? plus you're a little kinky freaky wild and exciting like him? he's in for life. i think he can be a little bit flirty still at the beginning, just years of being a bachelor, but he'd never fuck or kiss or really engage romantically with anyone else.

dom!eddie- the closest he'd come is a threesome maybe. MAYBE. but truly, i don't think he'd want them in any other way than for his own twisted kinky fantasies with you at the center of them- like the other person involved could genuinely be anyone, he doesn't have someone in mind. but really, truthfully? everyone else bores him. he would be so bored if he was with someone who did everything he said (even tho he mocks you and tells you that's what he wants). if he was with someone who blindly obeyed without a fight, he'd be bored after twenty minutes. plus, you're his best friend, genuinely, outside of the kinky part of your relationship, you're his person. when something happens, good or bad, you're the first person he wants to tell. the first person he wants to do things with, never gets tired of doing things with, genuine best friends.

boxer!eddie- similar to those before, that he's anti social but he's mean too. like he comes across as an asshole, and is one, and he was very lonely before he met you. someone who can keep up with him, give it as good as they take it. quick witted and a little cynical and snarky, but not utter doom and gloom. he really was convinced he'd die alone, george clooney and remain an unmarried bachelor for the rest of his life, hopping from whoever to whoever (if he didn't die in the ring first) then he met you. it took him so long to build that up, get the relationship to a relationship, that he's not cheating and fucking that up. couldn't fine someone he'd want to cheat with even if he did because you're one of a kind to him.

bouncer!eddie- ok, i know i said he would, and technically he does-ish, but it's really not super intentional. he's actually stupid and thought he was being cool. anyways. he wouldn't cheat once he actually communicated and there was confirmation he was in a relationship lol. i think he'd be down for threesomes, but that's it. not genuine cheating bc he doesn't actually feel anything towards the other person other than in the moment, he's horny. especially if they're touching you, or your touching them, but that's the key right there. you have to be in it. plus, who else is gonna be freaky with him like you are? no one. and you're funny and sweet to him and exciting and like to listen to his music? in his eyes, it's a match made in heaven.

[hockeyboysimagines]

hi!! Can you do romance prompt for Arber #9 “However many years we have left, I want to spend them all with you.”

you write him so sweet🥹thanks in advance I can’t wait to read it!

Thanks for this anon! Enjoy🤍

“Hey babe? What do you want for your birthday this year?” Arber asked from behind the laptop. You would be turning 20 next month, thankfully on a weekend free of games and practices. It gave him a free and open 4 days to cram everything celebratory he could think of for his favorite girl. You deserved it and now that he knew how unserious you thought of your birthday, he wasn’t going to let you get away easy. He’s gasped and nearly had a hissy when he found out you didn’t celebrate and hadn’t for a long time, scoffing at the suggestion that you continue with that theme. “Uh. No.” He said holding up a hand to silence you “We’re celebrating your birthday.”

“Nothing.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head “Come on. Don’t be like that. I can’t take you out at midnight, so you have to let me get you something or throw a party.”

You leaned around the doorframe from where you were folding laundry to smile mischievously “Even if I was old enough, you would take me out where? You barely make it past 8pm every night.”

You weren’t wrong.

It wasn’t uncommon for Arber to suggest watching a movie only for him to asleep within the first ten minutes of it. He still glared at you either way. You were always giving him shit for the gap between your ages, though it wasn’t huge. Arber however felt most days like he was 80 years old, and being held together with screws and tape. So while he was only 4 years older, the constant beating his body took made the gap seem wider.

“What are you saying?” He turned completely around.

“I’m saying there’s no way you’d be able to party till all hours. Midnight is way past your bedtime.”

His mouth fell open “What did you just say to me?”

“You heard me. Old man.”

You immediately regretted it because the ‘Old Man’ in question was out of his chair and across the room before you even had time to scream. In one swoop he had you airborne and then on the bed with a squeal with an “OOF.” As you landed and bounced.

“Take it back.” He said fingers digging in to your sides.

You screeched and started to kick“Never.”

An all out wrestling war had started and you were losing until you heard a loud crack.

He shot straight up eyes squeezing shut “Oh Jesus!” He yelled, chuckling as he held his lower back.

“Careful grandpa.” You gasped out as you started laughing “You don’t wanna slip a disk.”

“You-“ but you had already slid out from under him and made to run before he caught you again and pulled you down on top of him.

“Okay okay you win. You win. Oh god, I think I threw my back out.”

You started laughing and took a deep breath attempting to untangle yourself and sit upright to straddle him “So when you kick it are you gonna leave me all your stuff?”

He made a face and closed his eyes “You say the sweetest things to me.”

You gave a little giggle and reached a hand forward to rub his shoulders. He closed his eyes and groaned head falling to the side “Oh my gosh that feels fucking phenomenal.”

“Your pretty beat up here.” You said tracing a finger over the scar from his shoulder operation and the scattered bruises from the game yesterday “How many good years do you think you have left?” He smiled and let out a low chuckle, eyes still closed and rested a hand on either side of your hips.

“However many years I have left, I want to spend them all with you.” A bunch of tiny butterflies started flitting around in your stomach and you smiled very slowly as he peeked at you out of one eye “Pretty smooth eh?”

“For a guy who’s almost halfway to 50 it wasn’t bad.”

He gave your hips a squeeze “Just promise me one thing. If there’s ever a time when I can’t get it up put me out of my misery.”

You gave him a smack and then a kiss.

“Deal.”

[stratossphere]

the bonfire. | j.k

the tension between you and knoxville builds. a lot. set in mid-2003.

word count: 5.6k

warnings: a lot of drinking and smoking (reader is described as a stoner), mentions of age gap, smut, oral (fem. receiving), fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, knoxville’s dirty mouth in general

"I'm telling you, I don't want to fuck him." You said, an amused expression on your face as you passed the spliff you were smoking over to Bam. You had been on this topic for almost an hour now on and off, and for some reason you just couldn't seem convincing.

"Dude, we all know you do. Just get it over with and tell us if it was good or not." He scoffed, taking a second to suck in a hit before he continued. "The dude has a huge hard-on for you anyway, so might as well shoot your shot."

"I know he has a huge hard-on for me. I'm just...too lazy to deal with that." You groaned as you sunk down in your camp chair. You’d all been sitting at a bonfire outside of someone's friend's house for over two hours now, and you were getting kind of bored. Bam and Ryan had flown in from Pennsylvania the day before, so you were trying to get as much time as possible in with them before they had to leave again, but sometimes they made it hard.

"You're just scared you can't pull him." Bam scoffed, handing the joint back and then dramatically turning in his chair to glance over to where Johnny was. "Although, he's pretty old compared to us."

"I could absolutely pull him. All I'd have to do is bend over in front of him and he'd be barking like a dog." You scoffed, elbowing him not-so-gently. "And who cares if he's older? He acts like he's fucking five."

"So you do want to fuck him." Bam called you out like it wasn't already obvious. "Dude, I'm serious. Go pull your little bend over routine and get out of here. It's physically hurting me to watch you guys anymore."

"Watch us? We barely even talk!" You protested, downing the last of your can of beer before turning back to Bam. "He's not that hard to pull. Remember when that girl kissed his neck and he was blushing like a girl and had to put a pillow in his lap? Easy money."

"Yo! Dunn! C'mere!" Great. Now Bam was bringing another person into this. And, of course, Ryan looked more than happy to drop down in the camp chair across from you. Bam smacked your arm. "We're debating whether or not Y/n’s got enough game to fuck Knoxville."

"Dude, totally. He's like, rock hard for you already." Ryan scoffed, cracking open another beer as he spoke. "You got the guts, though?"

"You know what? You two are assholes." You scoffed, crushing your beer can and tossing it at Ryan's feet. "Watch this shit."

You turned in your chair, looking around and trying to find Johnny again. He'd disappeared from his position next to the ping pong table that Ehren and Steve-O were destroying, and it took you a second to locate him crouched down in front of one of the beer coolers. Perfect.

"Knoxville!" You shouted loudly enough to draw his attention, watching his head crane back in your direction with his sunglasses still sat perfectly on top of his head. It had gotten too dark for him to be able to see properly with them on, so he'd ditched them about half an hour ago. "Can you grab me one?"

"What kind you want?" He shouted back, holding up both Budweiser and PBR. Steve-O had definitely been in charge of beer supply, because all there seemed to be was pisswater for choices. You motioned to his left hand that held the Budweiser, and watched him chuck the other can back into the cooler before kicking it back shut.

"If you two say anything, I'm gonna tell Tremaine to have you shot with paintballs for weeks." You warned quickly as Johnny started his way over, jabbing a finger at each of them individually. You were really praying they didn't mess up your game, because Johnny was going to make it into a huge thing if they did.

"Who? We're not even here." Ryan said dramatically, pretending to zip his lips and throw the key in the fire seconds before Johnny was behind your chair holding the beer over your shoulder.

"You three sharing secrets and braiding each other's hair over here?" He cajoled as he pressed the cold can into your neck, making you wince as he came around the side of your chair and plopped into the empty one that was to your right. "I feel left out."

"Thanks, J." The little nickname lingered on your lips as you took the can from his offering hand, your fingers brushing his as you did so. You watched his eyes stick to yours momentarily, and you could tell that what you were doing was so easily working. Like picking up sticks.

"Fuck off, Knoxville. You don't have enough hair to braid." Bam scoffed, extending his foot across you to kick his friend in the leg. You pushed him away, shooting him a look to kill as you leaned back in your chair slightly.

"We're smoking, if you want some." You offered, motioning to the new joint that Ryan was rolling as we spoke. Johnny shook his head, cracking his beer tab and letting out a gentle sigh.

"On a break right now. I'm sticking to...other things." He said vaguely, putting his feet up on the same empty chair that you currently had yours on. Oh yeah. Easy money.

"Ooh. Other things. My favorite." Bam snorted, as if this conversation was hilarious to him. You shot him another dirty look, and he seemed to take the hint, standing up and wiping his hands off on the legs of his black jeans. "Well, I'm gonna go do something more fucking interesting. Dunn, care to join?"

"Sure, man. I've been hanging out with Y/n way too fucking long, anyway." Ryan scoffed, getting up with the joint still in his hand. You glared at him and held your hand out.

"Leave the weed, fuckhead." You ordered, watching him sigh before dropping the perfectly-rolled joint in the palm of your hand. You then watched them walk away to where they could still watch both of you before turning your attention back to Johnny. "Well? What does 'other things' entail?"

"Nothing heavier than cigs and beer. The way god intended." He sighed, reaching down to grab your lighter off the ground and then handing it over to you.

"What're you taking a break for?" He was kind of making you feel guilty for smoking in front of him, but he was the one that had chosen to drop down right next to the world's biggest stoner.

"Recovery. I feel like I haven't slept for days." He sighed, letting out a slight chuckle as he reached into his back pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes. "So. After this, you think you'll be willing to do more stunts?" Huh. Maybe not easy money.

"You want me to do stunts? For what?" You were genuinely surprised. Sure, you'd let Steve-O convince you to do the whole skateboard-into-the-water thing, but that had only been because Bam got food poisoning and needed a stand in.

"Just in case we make another movie! Filming never stops, Y/n/n." He explained, his arm moving to rest on your armrest as he spoke. You frowned at the nickname, moving your arm to rest next to his as you looked out at the fire pit.

"Probably. I liked the money." You said thoughtfully, lighting up the joint and making a point to blow the smoke to your left instead of your right so that it wasn't directly in his face. "I thought you said you were banning women from stunts."

"I did. You're different." He said simply, and you watched him attempt and fail to hide the fact that he was looking directly at your tits in your low-cut tank top. You raised an eyebrow at him in question at calling you 'different'. He quickly spluttered at the look on your face. "Because you're—you're badass. You're different."

"I'm taking that as a compliment." While you talked, you had been slowly inching your feet closer to his, and your shoes were now touching. If he noticed, he didn't say anything about it. "So? What would the next stunt be?"

"Well, we were playing with the idea of...naked barrel racing...across a tarp of lube." It was clear by his face that he was proud of his idea, but you could also tell that he was embarrassed to have to tell you what it was. It actually made you laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of that plan.

"You just want to see me naked." You accused, narrowing your eyes at him. He chuckled, looking unbothered by your accusation before taking another drag from his cigarette.

"What makes you think that? All the guys would be naked, same as you." He said, raising one eyebrow quizzically. You shrugged, a coy smile dragging onto your face.

"Hey. I don't know what you're into. Could be both." You said, hitting your joint as you studied his face. For someone who currently had your foot brushing purposely against his leg, he looked pretty at ease.

"Oh, not me. I'm a tits man, myself." He chuckled, his eyes moving back down to where you were now definitely moving your foot up his leg before looking back to you. "I'm just playing, doll. I'm planning on shooting them with paintball guns once they get out there, so you can't do the stunt."

With those words, a leg dropped down on yours, and you looked down towards your feet to see that he'd trapped the leg moving against his with his own.

"But, I'm sure I can get what I want in a different setting." He concluded, eyes flitting back up to yours. His fingers had now inched over your hand where his arm was next to yours on the arm rest, and you could feel the bandaid that was around his ring finger from picking up a broken bottle on set a couple of days prior.

"Oh yeah? And what exactly is that?" You were so thankful that it took a lot of weed to get you high, because you were afraid that you didn't sound as put-together as you thought you did. He seemed completely sober, and you could help but feel nervous about his hand on yours.

"Come on. I thought that was obvious." He drawled with a wide grin, leaning in close to your ear so that his breath tickled your skin. "I wanna see you bent over and spread in every pretty position I can think of."

"Whew. You pick up fast. I was afraid I was gonna have to get drunk and show you my tits." You laughed, turning slightly in your seat and setting your joint on top of your beer can so that your hands were free.

"Offer's still on the table." He teased, winking at you as he slowly brought your hand up before pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

"Well, how's this?" You then leaned in to kiss him, and were satisfied to see that he met you halfway there, your hand immediately pulling out of his to cup his cheek instead. Kissing Johnny Knoxville. Cross that off the old bucket list.

When you broke away, you were out of breath, and you could feel the way your heartbeat was going a million miles a minute as he leaned away to take another drag of his cigarette without a care in the world.

"You know, I hate it when you call me Knoxville. Sounds better when you're saying my real name." He said, brown eyes on yours as he spoke. The party was loud, and everyone was drunk and shouting at each other, but he spoke so calmly and quietly you almost didn't hear him.

"PJ Clapp. That's so much sexier." You said with a grin, waiting until he wasn't 100% paying attention to lean over your chair and mouth you owe me money to Bam and Ryan, who had just watched that entire exchange. He chuckled.

"Yeah, that's why I don't use it." He sighed, looking up at you once again after he had ashed his cigarette onto the grass between his feet. "You know, I'm a little old for you. I have gray hairs."

"They should call you Silver Foxville." You said dryly, rolling your eyes as you glanced to the limited space between your lips. You’d kissed him once, and now you really wanted it again. And again. "Your dick still works, doesn't it?"

"Thank you for proving that I'm not just a pretty face." He poked fun at your attention to that one certain thing, and he just proved his point with his wide grin. You shrugged, pushing your boldness to the highest level you could stand.

"Pretty face means nothing if you don't have a pretty dick." You said coyly, leaning away from him again to take another hit off of your joint and blow it away from him. You felt a surge of satisfaction as you saw the shaken look on his face. Considering the people he was friends with, you’d assumed he'd heard worse.

"Shit. You're making me fuckin' harder than Portland cement." He muttered, tilting your chin fully towards himself just as you were exhaling another cloud of smoke and pressing his lips to yours as you basically transferred your smoke right into his lungs. "Wanna feel?"

When you gave your hum of approval, you felt his hand on your wrist, and then he was pressing your palm into the bulge of his Dickies, a low groan escaping his lips as your fingers cupped his hard cock through his pants. You were thanking god that your chairs were facing away from everyone else in the group, because you were not a fan of the idea of pictures of what you and Johnny were doing at the moment.

"Fuck. Let's go somewhere else." You mumbled against his mouth, slowly pulling your hand away from him as your eyes darted towards the house that barely anyone else was in. You knew he would've been perfectly fine with you feeling him up to completion right there in the yard, but you were really trying to preserve your dignity, high or not.

"Come on. I know the house." He breathed, breaking away from you and dropping his cigarette under the toe of his close-to-destroyed converse before his eyes zeroed in on the spliff still between your fingers. There wasn't much left, but still enough to where you felt guilty about abandoning it. "And let me see that."

You handed it over hesitantly, half worried that he was going to give the joint the same treatment as his cigarette, but then let out a sigh of relief when he took a hit that had his eyes watering and smoke pouring out of his nose as he coughed. Wow. He really hadn’t been lying about taking a break.

Once he was satisfied with his hit, he handed it back over to you before taking your hand and beginning the walk through the sliding back door and into the house. You prayed for your tomorrow self's sake that no one was paying attention to you both, hoping that somehow the only two people going inside instead of coming out were going magically unnoticed.

"I should really be taking you back to my house. I feel bad." Johnny said as he closed the door behind you, his hand tightening in yours as he dodged expertly around the table and chairs that were moved messily all around the room. You scoffed.

"I don't give a fuck. We could be in a club bathroom for all I care." You said honestly, taking one last hit of your joint before setting the butt down on the kitchen counter as you passed by. His strides were much longer than yours, and you were hurrying to keep pace with him.

"Just how I like it." Just as he spoke, he gently nudged you into an open door, revealing a small bedroom which was quickly determined to be Star Wars themed. You frowned at him, to which he waved it off. "Scott's an eccentric decorator. He's got all themed bedrooms."

"Glad you picked the good one." You muttered as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling his sunglasses from the top of his head and discarding them on the opposite edge of the bed. His fingers immediately danced over the bottom hem of your decently-short shorts (which you’d actually repeatedly caught him staring at throughout the day of both shooting and partying), pulling them up further over your ass before his hands were kneading your exposed skin.

"Take 'em off." He spoke into your mouth, his hands moving back upwards until his fingers laced their way into your hair so that he could hold you tighter against his kiss. You did as he requested easier than you were willing to admit, yanking them down your hips to reveal your black and white cotton thong. Kind of cheesy, but you didn't miss the way his eyes lit up when he noticed it.

There was a moment where he just studied you, and just as you was going to move in and try to shield yourself from his sharp gaze, his hand was on your lower back and he was gingerly knocking you back onto the bed. He was on you seconds after your head hit the galaxy-print pillows, his hands roughly rucking your legs up over his hips as his lips pressed back onto yours.

You knew you were fucked. You could tell by both the way your whole body shook from just his hungry kisses and the fact that you were already missing his presence when he was still on top of you. But you didn't even care enough to think about it. All you could think about was the fact that he was pulling your tank top over your head, and then his hands were on your tits. He broke your kiss to look down at you, one hand using his thumb to brush over your sensitive nipple as the other held your jaw so that you couldn't look away from him.

"Listen to me, sweetheart." He said breathlessly, biting his bottom lip as he looked down at you in a way that you had never once seen from him in the past four years of knowing him. It was making every part of you that craved him throb even more. "I'm gonna eat your pussy, and you're gonna be a good girl and let me, understand?"

That almost killed you right then and there. You had been pretty sure you were going to be screwed before, but now you were positive. Your legs were tightening around his hips with every word, and you could barely get yourself under control enough to give him a nod. He smiled in satisfaction, then gave you one last kiss before he was pulling out of your grasp, lips leaving a trail of soft kisses down your arm as he slid himself down further towards the edge of the bed.

"So fuckin' hot. Smell so fuckin' delicious." He said as he moved, his fingers nimbly dragging the waistband of your underwear right down your legs as he went along. It was ridiculously smooth, and it made you even wetter for him as you waited less-than-patiently for him to get his mouth on you.

"Please, PJ." You whimpered, legs jello in his hold as he trailed his tongue up your inner thigh. You weren’t someone who usually allowed yourself to be teased, but something about the way he was touching you had you so transfixed that you couldn't even be bothered to complain. He chuckled.

"Oh, I like it when you whine for me. Say my name one more time and I'll let you have what you want." He crooned, sinking his teeth gently into your sensitive skin. You arched your hips up in the direction of his mouth, eager to get some form of release in any way you could manage.

"PJ. Need you so bad." You whined again, lip drawn harshly between your teeth as you watched him with desperate eyes. There was a glint in his gaze that made your heart pound, and you practically saw stars when his lips finally moved to where you needed him, his tongue laving around your clit and down over your entrance in one smooth motion. "Holy shit."

"Shh. Be a good girl for me and keep your mouth shut." He muttered, only taking that split second to remove his mouth before it was back at full force, his lips sucking adamantly at your clit as his tongue weaved intricate symbols that had you rolling your hips against his mouth. Despite his telling you to shut up, you couldn't stifle the moans that welled their way into your throat, your voice high-pitched and strung-out on pleasure.

He brushed his tongue across your clit over and over again, occasionally licking down to push his tongue into your entrance, his fingers replacing his tongue on your clit each time he did so. It felt so good that you felt like you couldn’t see what was in front of you, your senses blinded and heavy with pleasure as he ate you out like no man had ever done before.

"You like everyone hearing how good I'm making you feel? 'S that why you can't control yourself?" He cooed as he removed his lips from my clit, a single finger pushing into you as a replacement as he gazed up at you with sly lust. You let out a disappointed gasp at the change in sensation, your clit aching in his absence. When he saw your face, a second finger followed his first, leaving his index and middle fingers curled inside you fully. "Who knew Y/n Y/l/n was such a pretty little slut."

"Please. Need more." Your voice was airy and distraught, fingers laced in the comforter on either side of you as you urged him to finish what he had originally started. You felt so close, yet so far.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head. You’re gonna get what you want." He promised, curling his fingers forward and pushing them upwards in a slow but precise movement that had your hips involuntarily jerking forward and the air rushing from your lungs. Jesus, he really was good.

He started to push his fingers against that sweet little spot inside of you slowly, his cheek pressed against your inner thigh as he watched his digits disappear into you over and over again. And then, just as you were beginning to think that it wasn't going to be enough, his dipped his mouth back to your pussy, his tongue pressing back against your clit as his fingers worked in and out of you.

Your eyes slammed shut as your head pushed back against the pillow, your chest heaving as you took in the obscene slurping sounds he was making with his tongue mixed with the wet sounds caused by his fingers. He shouldered your legs even further apart, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he stared up at you the entire time.

Your climax was approaching almost embarrassingly fast. Your late night fantasies of Johnny Knoxville's head between your legs was even hotter than you had imagined many times before, and the sight of him grinding his hips down into the bed with every swirl of his tongue was making your entire body thrum with heat.

"I can feel you squeezin' my fingers, dollface. Let me feel you cum on my tongue." Johnny encouraged as he continued to push his fingers into you, his free hand pushing on your hip to keep you from pushing up into his mouth as aggressively as you wanted to. Your moans and gasps were now way beyond your control, and your voice only got louder as your back arched up, your climax hitting you hard enough to make you see stars as your eyes fell back open.

You had half a mind to clap your hand over your mouth as you panted and whined through your orgasm, your free hand taking a handful of his dark brown hair and pulling as you came. He didn't stop his tongue and fingers until your voice gave out and you were forcibly gasping for air, your grip in his hair going lax as you came back down to earth.

"Holy fuck." You breathed, wincing when he pulled his fingers out of you and accepting him with open arms as he moved back up to look at you with gleeful eyes and a spit-soaked chin. You reached out and used the collar of his shirt to pull up and wipe his mouth off, only to have him immediately suck his equally-wet fingers into his mouth once you had dropped the fabric back down to his throat.

"Damn. Can't get you to shut your mouth no matter if you're gettin' finger-fucked or not." He said cockily as he pulled his fingers from his mouth and wiped them off on his shirt. When you gave him a dirty look, he leaned his head to the side to suck gently at your neck, the rumble of his baritone laugh tickling your skin. "Although, haven't fucked you yet. We'll see."

"I can't cum again so fast." You said in surprise as he began to undo the buckle of his KNOXVILLE belt, a hand moving to his chest as you looked up at him with wide eyes. Your legs were still shaking, and if you had been loud before, it was only going to get worse if he fucked you while you were so sensitive. He kissed you gently, his eyes locked on yours.

"You can take it. Look, you've already got your legs spread nice and wide for me." He reassured, his hand gripping your thigh as he ripped his belt from his belt loops. You weren’t quite reassured, but you fumbled to get the zipper of his pants down regardless, his lips on yours encouraging you to let him do whatever the hell he wanted with you.

Once he had completely gotten his pants undone with your help, he stood up to quickly shuffle them off along with his boxers, leaving him bare from the waist down in front of you. Your mouth practically watered at the sight of his cock, hard and leaking against the hem of his t-shirt. You barely gave him any time to stand there, pulling him back in with your fingers around his wrist before he was kneeling in front of your spread legs with his mouth half-open.

"You got a condom somewhere?" He asked suddenly, eyes unable to pull away from between your legs as he spoke to you. You mentally slapped myself, because of course you didn't have one, and since he was asking, he obviously didn't either. Unsafe sex was called unsafe sex for a reason.

However, you were too impatient to think rationally.

"No. You can just pull out." You said impatiently, watching as he gently pulled your legs back over his thighs. His gaze was so searing and yet his hands were more than careful with you, his touch so light it almost felt as if you were moving on your own.

"I like the way you think." He teased, pumping himself a few times as his eyes finally dragged their way back up to yours. "Be as loud as you want, gorgeous. I don't give a fuck."

You nodded as if you even had a choice, holding your breath as you felt the tip of his cock swipe through your pussy before he was slowly pushing himself into you. If there were any lingering thoughts in your head of anyone else you had ever even considered having sex with in the past, each and every one was erased with the drag of his cock inside of you. You both let out heated gasps, his hand tightening on your leg just above your knee and your head falling back once again. You were still a little sensitive from your last orgasm, and every touch felt like electricity as he slowly pushed his way completely inside of you.

"Fuck, you feel so good." He groaned, his hips stilling momentarily as you tensed at his length. As his tip brushed against your cervix with just his entering thrust, you knew you were in for it. You had seen him naked more times than you had previously been a fan of whilst working for Jackass, and at the time you had assumed he was a shower, but holy fuck was he a grower. It made another shudder of pleasure race up your stomach. "So fucking tight."

He didn't seem to be able to stand much time waiting, and before you knew it, he was slowly rolling his hips into you, his cock hitting every still-sensitive nerve as he fucked into you. You watched in ecstasy as he pulled the hem of his shirt up his muscled torso, biting it between his teeth so that he had both hands free to pull you forward on his cock.

"Oh. Right there. Right there." You gasped, moaning languidly as he picked up the pace of his hips and fucked right against the spot that he'd had his fingers against not three minutes before. He groaned in agreement, his head falling back and pulling his shirt further up his chest as he put all his movement into his hips.

You were really hoping that rubbing against the mattress while he'd been eating you out had gotten him at least a little close to cumming, because your second orgasm was quickly edging its way through your nerves as he fucked you hard enough to make the bed creak painfully loud. If anyone walked in through the unlocked door by that point, it was going to be their own fault.

"You look so good, takin' my cock like such a pretty little slut." Johnny purred, holding your legs open hard enough to make your muscles ache as he slammed into you over and over again. The pleasure was so good and so intense that your eyes were watering, and you could feel tears starting to track down the side of my face as you gripped helplessly at the sheets in a failed attempt to ground yourself with something. "You'd look so good with my cum dripping out of you."

You tried to mouth not funny, but all you could do was moan, his filthy words making you teeter dangerously on the edge of cumming before you were ready. You weren’t on birth control, but you weren’t exactly a big fan of making good decisions anyway, so you decided that if you weren’t able to get the words out, that you really didn't need to say them.

"Fuck, you want me to fill you up?" He questioned, his voice muffled by his t-shirt still between his teeth and his words followed by a low groan. "Fill you up like the good little slut that you are?"

You whined in agreement, nodding your head as best you could as you arched your back up further with every slam of his cock against your cervix. It was a pleasured pain, one that you knew you’d be feeling for the next couple of days.

"I'm gonna cum, princess." He whined, seconds before his hips stuttered and you felt him cum inside of you, warmth painting your insides as you let out a porno-style moan and came right there on the spot with him. That had to be a good sign for the both of you, right? "So goddamn good."

Your second orgasm was even more blinding, and your vision went white as your back arched up painfully, your fingers helplessly pulling at the bed as you whimpered and gasped with every wave of pleasure that coursed through your body. His hands stayed on your hips the entire time until you were verbally begging him to stop thrusting his cock into you, the wet sound of him pushing his cum back inside reaching your ears as he slowly moved to a stop.

"You sounded so good, baby. Did so good." He babbled, immediately falling forward to press his lips sloppily to your throat as his hips moved lazily as he thrusted his last bit of energy out. Your head was spinning and your legs and pussy were already aching in the sweetest way possible as you wrapped your arm around his neck.

"God, you're fucking good at that." You breathed, letting out a strangled gasp when he finally pulled out of you. Whoever used the Star Wars comforter next was going to notice a suspicious looking stain right in the middle of it next time they got into bed.

"I can't believe it took us this long." He said, his breath coming out in pants as he steadied himself with one hand on the mattress next to your head. You realized with the increased quiet inside the room that you could hear multiple people talking and shouting at each other from outside of the door, and you mentally cringed because you knew that were was no way that you hadn't been overheard.

"Everyone's gonna know." You mumbled, carding your fingers through his hair as you finally felt your breathing beginning to calm again. You could feel his heartbeat against yours, and it still hadn't slowed down either. It made you feel a little bit better about yourself. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your lips.

"Good. Then everyone will know that I'm the one who's giving it to you good, and I won't have any competition."

Oh yeah. You were done for.

[irisintheafterglow]

End Game #8 (volleyball captain!gojo x you)

summary: you accompany the captain at a party on the gojo estate and he can't be serious for a single second.

wc: 2.1k

cw/tags: swearing, domestic satoru, creepy old men and therefore protective satoru, no specified gender but reader is wearing a dress, passive-aggressive insults because he's never serious ever, a tiny tiny bit of angst but lots of fluff, established relationship (i never get tired of tagging this)

note: there's no volleyball game play in this, just captain!satoru being captain boyfriend!satoru. also i'm literally creating a multiverse of characters in this au cuz there's like the gojo partner but then also the geto partner and soon i wanna make the inumaki partner and yeah i could talk about this for HOURS but ANYWAY hope you enjoy

likes, reblogs, and feedback are always appreciated <3

An infuriatingly obnoxious loop of “Get up, stupid, or I’ll hit you with my car!” invades your sleep and your hand flops aimlessly to turn your phone off. 

You prop yourself on an elbow, checking the clock on the nightstand and groaning when you see the time. “Satoru,” you say softly, but you’re met with a half-asleep grunt from the other occupant of the bed. The entire right side of his face is sunk into the sheets and his arm is still draped over your torso. He’d never looked more handsome, you thought, taking in the messy strands of white hair on the pillows and his limbs entangled with yours. You pat him gently, trying to crawl out from the blankets. “We have to get up now.”

“No, we don’t,” he mutters into bed, pulling you back down beside him onto the mattress effortlessly. With his chest to your back, he sighs deeply onto your neck and you fiddle with his fingers resting near your stomach. His body tended to run warm and the room smelled so much like him that you wanted to lay in it for the rest of time. You flip to face him and aren’t surprised to see him still burrowing into the plush covers. For once, his eyes weren’t the most prominent feature of his face; now, your finger traces the sharp angles under his chin and he smirks, eyelids still shut. “Like what you see?”

“Mhmm, very pretty.” A single finger becomes the rest of your hand as you comb some loose strands from his face, only for them to fall right back onto his forehead. He hums when you continue to run your fingers over his scalp all the way down to the hair on the back of his neck. Fuck, he’s so beautiful.

“Not as pretty as you, though.” A bright blue eye finally winks open and you smile. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Good morning, menace,” you tease and his jaw drops in fake-offense. “Time to get dressed.” 

“But I like when you wear my stuff instead.” His gaze flicks down to your torso, covered by one of his older, softer shirts from a summer intensive camp. “Stay a little longer.  I like looking at you.”

“The last thing we need is for your parents to come looking for you and see us laying in bed together.” His eyes widen and he abruptly shoots out from under the comforter, leaving you laughing on his pillows as he searches around his closet for his formal clothes. “Would you mind getting my–”

“Already on it, sweetheart,” he calls from behind the bathroom door, slinging the garment bag over his shoulder. “You know, honestly, it’s starting to hurt a little bit when you think I can’t read your mind.” 

“Forgive me for not expecting you to be thinking of me all the time, then.” Your eyebrow arches challengingly and he hangs your dress on the top of the mirror before peeling off his shirt. To your horror, you have to stop yourself from drooling. 

“I accept your apology. And, for the record, you’re the only thing on my mind. All the time.” He shoots you your favorite lopsided grin of his and you stare at him like a love-sick idiot. Despite harboring feelings for him for the past three years and finally establishing a relationship, you still felt a level of embarrassment seeing his bare chest. It was different from when he was changing with the rest of the team; now, every inch of lean muscle honed over years and years of training was on display for you and only you. He catches you staring from your gaping silence. “You’re being a hypocrite, my love.” The patronizing note in his voice snaps you out of your adoration. 

“What do you mean?”

“You tell me to get up and then stay in bed to ogle me. It’s not fair, and a bit perverted.” He shrugs, tugging on a white button-up and black slacks. You scoff and throw a pillow at him, indignantly kicking off the blankets and making your way to unzip the garment bag. 

“Your dad is going to kill us both if we’re late and you take longer than I do to get ready. I’d say it’s fair I gave you a head start.” You blow him a kiss before slipping into the bathroom to change. 

As predicted, Satoru ended up taking longer than you did to get dressed. Though he was already in his proper attire while you were still in your lounge clothes, it took the entire time you were in the bathroom for him to decide on a tie. In the end, he forgoes the tie altogether and you self-servingly undo some of the buttons of his shirt while his eyes rake over you in your dress. It was a deep shade of purple with a generous amount of skin exposed, something he picked out with you when he first asked you to be his date. 

“Do you like it?” He asks, even though you left him speechless when you first walked out of the dressing room. He had to bend forward to rest his elbows on his knees just to keep his lungs functioning. 

“Like it? I fucking live for it,” you breathe, spinning around in front of the mirror again and again to watch the fabric billow beneath you. It was incredibly flattering on your figure as well as easy to maneuver in. You looked incredible in it, but your face falls as a realization dawns on you. “Is it too much, you know–” He doesn’t miss a beat. 

“Did I tell you that I beat my deadlift PR yesterday?” 

“Baby, what does that have to do with the dress?” His eyes flick to your shoulders and then back to your face, raising his eyebrows expectantly like a teacher waiting for an answer. “Oh.” The smile makes its way back onto your expression and you admire yourself once more, no longer worried about any snide remarks or lingering stares with the foreboding guard at your back. 

“This dress was definitely a good choice,” he whispers in your ear as his hand guides you through the crowded entryway. “But, if anyone starts to agree with me, I’m gonna send them to kingdom come.”

“You always had a flair for drama.”

“That's why you fell for me, isn’t it?” You shake your head in lighthearted exasperation. As more people continue to invade your space, Satoru is behind you like a shadow, mirroring your every movement and never straying too far. “Take a right. I don’t wanna deal with the brass.” You steer clear of the boisterously laughing group of men immediately in front of you, but it’s too late. They spotted Satoru first, making him grimace, and then they spotted you. Before they can surround you further, he’s stepped in front of you to effectively block you from the leering stares of the men twice your age. 

“If it isn’t the crown prince of Jujutsu Volleyball,” one of them, a square-faced man with nauseatingly intense eyes, remarks coldly. “Shall we expect your absence from Nationals for yet another year?” Your temper flares and you’re about ready to rip out the man’s throat, but Satoru continues to appear calm and indifferent to the insults. 

“Hmm, I wasn’t aware they were allowing retirees into the building, let alone those who’ve already picked out their tombstone. Should I have the maid mark the calendar for your Celebration of Life?” Unconsciously, your hand finds his shoulder as if to warn him against any more biting words. He was being particularly ruthless tonight and you couldn’t help but think it was because you were there, too. 

“Watch your tongue, boy. You forget I control your team.” 

“Oh, I didn’t forget.” His hand flexes, curling into a fist and then opening again. He definitely wasn’t kidding about beating his PR deadlift. “I just don’t care.” The men stiffen at the blatant dismissal. Unable to squeeze any shred of entertainment from Satoru, their attention turns to you. 

“And who’s this?”

“None of your business, that’s who,” your boyfriend states casually, but the underlying threat in his voice was evident. His fingers continue to curl and uncurl and you take hold of his wrist, rubbing your thumb into his palm. With your other hand, you snag a glass of punch from a nearby server’s tray. You knew it took everything in Satoru’s body to remain cordial, to not raise his lip in a snarl or slam the man’s head into the tile beneath your shoes. Of course, he had his own way of fighting without violence. His eyes narrow for a nanosecond before he puts on a nauseatingly fake grin of celebration. “Congratulations, by the way, on your new girlfriend.”

“What the hell do you think–”

“Maybe our respective partners can go on a daytrip sometime, seeing as they’re the same age,” he smiles maliciously and you just about choke on your drink. He’s turned to you with exaggerated concern in an instant, unable to keep the smirk from creeping onto his face as he rubs your back. The group of men are stunned and the square-faced one has turned a vibrant shade of red. Satoru, on the other hand, radiates triumphant self-satisfaction while he re-establishes his hand on your back. “Good to see you.” 

You aren’t bothered for the remainder of the evening, most likely from fear of the six-foot, lanky-legged bodyguard attached to your hip. Suguru arrives shortly after your confrontation with the higher-ups and your eyebrows hit the ceiling when you see the student council vice president on his arm. You unabashedly gawk when they enter and direct Satoru’s attention to his best friend. He looks at you in disbelief, back at Suguru, and then back at you. Several times, you accidentally step on his feet while you’re dancing in the middle of the floor. 

“Since when did Suguru have game?” You’re physically unable to wipe the expression of shock from your face. 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Satoru whispers back over the sound of classical strings. You both crane your necks to follow the pair’s movement around the room like hawks. The vice-captain must feel your stares on the back of his head and he flips you both the bird when his date isn’t looking. Neither of you are deterred in the slightest. “At least he’s still Suguru.”

“That is not a pair that I saw coming.” 

“To be fair,” he shrugs, “neither are we.”

At 10:00, Satoru’s father announces himself at the top of the staircase in the foyer for several toasts and it takes all of your willpower not to roll your eyes. You cringe inwardly when he gestures to Satoru, whose nose scrunches in disgust at the shallow praise that was, really, all for show. There’s applause and flimsy well-wishes, but by 11:00, you’re confessing that you’re socially drained for the night and you’re back in his clothes half an hour later. 

“We’ve done a lot of stupid things, but I think that party was one of the stupidest,” he declares as he flops onto his bed next to you. You hum in tired agreement and snuggle further into his blankets.

“Stupider than putting a fake cockroach in the changing room and scaring the hell out of everyone?”

“It’s definitely up there. Kinji was truly out of his mind for that one.” You huff a quiet laugh against his chest, relishing in how easily his arms slip around you and pull you flush against his body. “You look hot as shit in that, by the way,” he murmurs into your ear. He nods to the alternate version of the team’s jersey covering your body, a muted shade of purple with black sleeves. It’s the same uniform he’d be wearing in a few days' time when you step into the bright lights of the city stadium, and the same one you hope to wear after he wins every team he plays against. 

“You’re gonna smell like my body wash during Nationals if you don’t wash this, Satoru.”

“That’s kind of the point, dear.” You snort and close your eyes while he presses kisses to your hairline.

“What, are you going to war or something? I’m gonna be right there with you the entire time.” Your mouth widens into a yawn and you struggle to keep your eyes open. 

“I hope you’re right there with me beyond that, too.” His voice is so low, it’s barely audible, but you hear it and make a promise in your heart to fulfill his wish. He was recently contacted for Olympic team tryouts, but the future after your last high school tournament was relatively a mystery. For now, you settle into his chest and inhale him again. 

“You can’t get rid of me now that you’ve got me, Satoru.”

“Promise?”

“On all the red asters I’m gonna grow in our garden.” It’s the last thing you remember saying before drifting back to sleep. 

Sure, he belonged to volleyball, but he belonged to you first.

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