#like take peril for instance

[acakefilledwithrainbowsandsmiles]

y'all do NOT appreciate tsunami and riptide enough, and i mean it :(

they are a beautiful everything x just ken relationship and yall keep tryna make riptide a butch he/him lesbian nuh uh

#FreeRiptide

[xxplastic-cubexx]

just read the new mutants issue where Charles chose to stay behind in space and my god the juxtaposition between Charles trusting Erik and Erik joining the hellfire club and wondering at his own trust worthiness. I wonder how much of Charles decision was him ultimately trying to avoid the fact that his first class had seemingly betrayed mutant kind and not be willing to face them and how much of it was Dani and Illyana's reaction to him having Karma mind control Illyana. the fact that Illyana was depending on him to ease her mind through limbo and in choosing to stay he forced karma to do it instead, probably fucking up their relationship in the process.

I love him, this is crazy, how much of this is him trying to runaway and how much is this him not trusting himself to fix things and how much is it just him trusting Erik?

i keep trying to put into words my exact thoughts about the sitch but there really is a lot for one issue aintit... oh charles you and your brain...

[shotmrmiller]

(Unnamed for now, 4.8k words of nothing but self indulgence because ex bf simon is king. just porn without plot, the usual filth. also i wrote myself into a hole with the smut but whatever.)

If your friends knew that you'd gone to great lengths to look presentable— less cave-dweller, more human— hoping to get lucky tonight only to end up waving off anyone of interest because you're too busy sulking about a relationship you willingly broke off, they'd kick you from the group chat.

(Or never let you live it down.)

But here you are, perched on a barstool, its cracked leather slightly sticky beneath your legs, the cocktail you'd ordered a while ago sitting mostly untouched on an even stickier bar top. Lamenting. Moping all over a guy who hasn't bothered to return a single phone call since you left him the voicemail. And it hadn't been his fault, really. He'd been upfront with you from the get-go; he's a busy man with a job you don't want to know about and are safer not knowing about.

You'd noticed the specific wording he'd used. Not better off but safer off, its implications perilous. The hardened look he'd given you when you'd pressed him on it, hoping for a slip of the truth, had been the first and only warning you'd needed.

Get off his case, understood.

You clench your teeth, irritation nipping at your nerves. You'd like to think that you've mourned this ex-relationship plenty and feeling an acute, smoldering ache again over a whisper of a memory (and not even a fond one at that)—

Time to douse these flames.

Waving the bartender down, you push away the watered-down drink and gesture for a shot. She eyes you warily, hesitating for a moment before sliding an empty glass over and reaching for some top-shelf bottle your bank account already feels the bite of. The fiery burn that courses down your throat resembles the one in your chest.

The alcohol swiftly does its job, offering a sense of relief, and you're grateful for it, even if fleeting. The room starts to blur a bit, the strobing lights overhead bleeding together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, and you let yourself sink into the moment, the gentle ebb of intoxication pooling heat in your cheeks, warmth seeping into your limbs.

Things don't look so bad now; the world has taken a dreamlike quality to it, with softened edges and vibrant colors. With the liquid courage dulling the sharpness of your previous thoughts and easing the tension in your shoulders, you reckon that now you can start looking for your prey of the evening. It's why you even bothered to slink out of your comfort zone in the first place.

Mission directive: Get laid. Or plan B: go home with a new number saved in your contacts.

You rest your chin on your palm, eyes lazily scanning around the room, taking in the hazy but lively atmosphere. The dance floor is a whirl of energy, couples moving to the rhythm of the music, a group of friends huddling in a corner, hands gesturing animatedly as they chat each other up, and at the front—

If you swiveled away in your chair any faster, the courage you'd knocked back 10 minutes ago would come back up, spilling onto the bar top the barkeep gave up trying to keep clean. There have been numerous instances where your mind plays tricks on you, teasing you with glimpses of big and blonde in your peripheral while out running errands, the miserable lump in your throat only dislodging once you've made your grand escape.

(It's not running away; It's a tactical retreat. You'll face the music when it's less deafening.)

And in keeping with tradition, you settle your tab and scurry off to the bathroom, clutching your bag like a lifeline. A familiar shadow just walked in through the front door, once again haunting you. No matter how many times you whisper reassurances under your breath, dismissing it as a cruel joke your mind loves to play, the semblance of him never fails to arouse a bit of panic in you.

The trip to the bathroom feels like you're trekking across the country, weaving in and out and around crowds of people, dodging flailing limbs like an extreme sport. The inside is relatively small and cramped; three stalls for the entire bar. It's blessedly empty, so you beeline to the sink, hoping for a splash of cold water to settle your nerves.

The water is startlingly cold, or maybe it feels colder because you're flustered, and you're mid air-drying your hands when you hear it: that unforgettable gait, heavy and solid, like a tank rolling over rugged terrain. It's something that you can still hear echo in the small confines of your flat when the world is quiet. The mirror in front reflects your tense face, its edges cloudy with time and poor-quality cleaning solutions.

Get a grip, you're losing it.

Until the door swings wide, hinges screeching as it gives way with no resistance, and you realize that you're not losing it. But you just might.

"'Ello, poppet."

Incredulity forces a chuckle out of you because it's either you laugh or you cry.

"Nice," he eyes the cracked tile beneath your feet, "choice for a night out. Beer's more piss than ale, though." The door closes behind him.

The mockery in his voice is wildly unwarranted, especially for a man you haven't heard from for a better part of the year, and you finally gather your wits to bite back indignantly.

"What? It's not your cuppa? I always assumed you ratted out in seedy holes like this." The bruise-tight grip you've got around your bag makes your fingers ache. "I'll be sure to pick a more refined place for you next time."

He wastes no time closing the gap between you two, your three steps back negated by his single one with laughable ease, and the space around you seems to shrink, his presence swallowing it whole. You'd forgotten just how large a man he was— is.

A different beast altogether.

"No need. We won't be comin' back 'ere again." Your brows quirked at that. He's gone and learned French, apparently. Oui. You try to keep your personal bubble intact by taking another step back only to come in contact with a stall door, its chilly surface forcing your spine rigid. Cornered, caught in the crosshairs of the hunter's gaze, and the intensity of it makes you feel vulnerable, bare, as if you're staring up the barrel of a loaded gun.

"Easy, lovie, no need to look at me like tha', 'm jus' 'ere to talk," he says with a tone that's tinged with condescension, and his giant mitts are up and palms facing you like he's dealing with a skittish animal. There's a thought there, buried deep, that you refuse to acknowledge.

"Talk?" The question bursts out before you can stop it, followed by a sardonic laugh that feels unexpectedly cathartic as it leaves your mouth. Talk now, when you not only kept your line of communication open but also actively tried reaching out for weeks? Weeks spent waiting for a response, foolishly hoping he'd give a damn enough to at least put up a fight for you and what you had?

He tilts his head slightly, eyes unreadable. "Better late than never," he remarks, but that's the problem, isn't it? You were forced to come to terms with never, whether you liked it or not. And you had not liked it, but it had been necessary. To know there was a part of his life you weren't welcome to, regardless of reason, was something that shadowed your interactions. The realization that you were kept at arm's length due to the duality of his life was too bitter a pill to swallow.

It'd been a painful process making peace with the fact that maybe things just hadn't been meant to be. C'est la vie and all that tripe. But now, here he stands before you, having materialized out of thin air, a bloody intrusion upon the fragile peace you've built for yourself— it feels like a mockery of the emotional distress you've had to endure.

"Better late than—? You honestly fucking think you can just," you stumble over yourself in disbelief, "just corner me in a tiny bathroom of a dingy bar to talk?"

Simon raises one bulky shoulder, unconcerned. "You chose the place."

His piss poor attempt at a joke is like a slap in the face. "Right. Goodbye, Simon." You step around him briskly, your arm brushing against his. Just as your fingers graze the cold metal of the door handle, his encircle your wrist and gently pull you away. The span of his palm could easily engulf the entirety of your hand, and you can't help but wonder if you're as delicate and fragile as you feel in his grasp.

"Let me try that again," he murmurs tentatively, and you curse your good nature— the one that's always been too quick to soften even when you know better. You know just how clumsy he is with words, how his tongue ties itself in knots when emotions creep into the conversation. Simon gives your wrist a tender squeeze. "Ya can leave whenever you want."

Damn it. Damn it. Fine. This confrontation has been a long time coming anyway. "Then try again and make it fast," you snap, words short and clipped. "How we haven't been kicked out of here yet is a bloody wonder."

He steps away from you and leans his hips against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. Here Simon stands, no longer a hazy apparition in the corner of your eye but fully here. Real. Uncomfortable so. You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"Didn't mean to disappear on ya," his tone carries a note of something resembling regret. "Work took me across the world, couldn't reach out t'you even if I wanted to." And there it is, the crux of the problem. His job. Always his job. The one part of his life you've never been allowed to see, what had been the ever-constant shadow hanging over your relationship. What tore him away from you for weeks at a time only for those same gaps to start getting longer and longer while his stays grew shorter.

That's not good enough.

"So that's it?" Simon cannot honestly expect you to take his paltry excuse and run with it. As if it's enough to stitch together the wound his silence left behind. "Work? That's what you're going with?" It's the audacity that stings the most, the hope that you'd simply accept it and move past all of this heartache.

For all you know, he could be lying through his teeth, spinning enough truth to make it seem believable. You must have your suspicions plastered on your forehead because Simon peels himself off the sink with a sharp breath and narrowed eyes.

"'M many things, love, but a liar ain't one of 'em." His hand disappears into the front pocket of his worn denims, and when he pulls it free, you instantly recognize the tattered, frayed edges of his wallet. Still clinging to life, it seems. As stubborn as the man holding it. He opens it and extends it to you because it's imperative you see...?

"Work." And right there is an ID, not your plain old driver's license, which you're unsurprised to see absent. The man has no business being behind the wheel of any vehicle; he's a threat to all life and limb while on the road— but a military ID, the insignia emblazoned on the card unmistakable. You'd pieced together as much but never fully assumed, never formed a picture, just a blurred outline that left more questions than answers.

Name: Simon Riley. Rank: Lieutenant. Special Forces is right above the square where a photo is supposed to be. "There's no picture." You flash your eyes up at his in question.

"Never," he states.

You swallow thickly. An admission, this is. A roughly hewn olive branch tucked away in the ratty wallet you'd told him to toss ages ago. He snaps it shut with a practiced flick and then rucks up the right sleeve of his jacket up to the crook of his elbows, exposing his forearm, stark and freckled, the skin pale but then closer to his wrist, his flesh taking on a more golden hue— honeyed, sun-kissed.

Simon Riley does not tan.

"Sat on my arse out in a barren stretch o' land f'r months on end, cookin' under the blazin' sun while waitin' for orders tha' never came," he grumbles, voice weary. He doesn't flinch when your wandering fingers feather across the darkened strip of skin. "The only form o' communication was local." You flip his hand, the underside of his wrist startlingly pale like the underbelly of a fish. "Couldn't 'ave reached out even if I wanted to. No signal."

It hangs heavy, what he was willing to share, and you're wondering if he's only asking for understanding or something else. Your treacherous heart flutters in your chest, breath squeezing from your lungs. A tiny part of you hopes for he's asking for that something else.

There's a new scar on his palm, close to the hardened calluses on his knuckles, the deep, puckered groove still red and raw— fresh enough to make you wince— and you can't help the frown that pulls at your lips. You can bet he took care of this himself, the oaf. Probably spit it clean and wrapped it up with whatever he had on hand. He's lucky it didn't infect.

"Only when I came back did I receive the missed calls, the texts, the bloody voicemail," he gnarls, and while the sharpness of his tone isn't aimed at you, you feel the biting sting of it anyway. Simon cradles your hand in his much larger one, and he doesn't squeeze, doesn't hold too tight; he simply holds it, the choice to refuse him if you wanted.

You don't.

"And this isn't something you could've told me before? I know I pressed when I shouldn't have," chagrin pools in your cheeks, "but I worried for you. You were sometimes so unreachable, standing between two worlds at once. I couldn't help ease the weight of your responsibilities because I didn't know what I was dealing with." As you thread your fingers with his, they feel impossibly small, brittle— like the bones of a bird swallowed in the expanse of his hand. How unsettling.

(Yet you wouldn't have it any other way.)

Simon shakes his head, slow and deliberate, but his grip on your hand tightens. "I've more enemies than friends," he mutters, raising your hand to his masked lips, the gesture oddly tender as he presses a kiss on it even though it forces you to rise onto your tiptoes. You blow a puff of air, mildly exasperated. Big geezer.

"Every time I rid myself o' one, two take their place. I only did it t' keep ya safe. There's nothin' they'd love more than to exploit any o' my weaknesses." He says it as though the admission itself is dangerous, and maybe it is, but the risk, you believe, is one worth taking even if he won't.

Where he sees danger, you see trust. And that's all you ever wanted. Trust, because either you'll have all of him or none of him, so you tell him that.

His grip tightens imperceptibly. "Only wha' I feel is safe f'r you to know. Nothin' more." You know he means it. You've seen how far he's willing to go, how much he's willing to sacrifice, to keep you out of harm's reach.

Simon will shoulder just about anything alone if it means you'll be kept safe.

How lovely. He's taken it upon himself to play Batman when no one cast him into the role. Ah, well. A win is a win, and you've long learned some battles aren't worth the effort today, so you tuck this conversation into the back of your mind, a note to revisit at a later date. As for now, though...

"Alright, Si," the old nickname slips from you so easily, as if it never left, "We can continue this tomorrow, if you're able, but as for me," your gaze flickers to the faint ring of grime around the drain and the scribbles covering the peeling walls, "I've just about had it with this place."

But he's got no interest in letting you go now, not when you've given him the second chance he'd been desperate for. Instead, he jerks you to him, your shoulder colliding into his chest, his arms cinching tight around you. There is no grace, no soft pretense to it— just a raw, unfiltered need of a man clinging to what he's been too afraid to lose; your arsecheeks apparently because that's what he's currently pawing at.

Pervert. Honestly, you'd applaud him for holding back from groping you for this long. No shame in giving credit where it's due. You thought about letting him have his fill, indulging his starved-dog behavior until his hands started to wander beneath your clothes. You ought to make him stop this before it spirals into something completely out of your control.

Ah, but then he latches onto the sensitive spot on your neck, right below the ear, so close to your drumming pulse and your words snag in your throat like fishhooks when he suckles.

It's tragic how quickly you cave.

Simon's breath fans hot over your spit-slick throat, slow and composed while yours is sharp and shallow as if you can't quite catch it. He jerks his head toward the stall, and you freeze, disbelief rooting you in place.

"You're joking." He's gone and lost whatever scraps of sanity he had left back wherever he was because there's no way you're getting down and dirty in— your lip curls in distaste as you look at the industry-grade bottle of disinfectant that sits in the corner— here. But then he's dragging you toward the nearest stall anyway, your bag tumbling to the ground, not my bag, Simon, shit, you owe me another. The door is a pitiful excuse for privacy, barely clinging to the hinges and sporting a gap wide enough to make you grimace. You've hardly any time to register anything else before Simon is already at your feet, smoothly dropping to one knee, the crown of his head dipping slightly below your navel.

Simon's hands cup the back of your thighs, palms spread wide as they trail upward, the tips of his fingers finding lace and not your everyday cotton. With a deliberate slowness, he lifts the hem of your skirt, his neck craning just enough to bring his line of sight under the drape of fabric, and his gaze lingers.

Oh right. You've got on that set— the one he'd carefully chosen for your birthday, that one that fits you so perfectly it almost feels unfair. A little indulgence that'd been meant for his eyes only. Even as you'd slipped it on earlier tonight, it'd felt like you'd been breaking the rules.

It makes you wonder...

You hook a leg over his shoulder, the heel of your shoe digging into the straight plane of his back. "Well?" Your question is wrapped in feigned nonchalance. "Does it make you upset?" Simon shrugs, dismissive, his eyes steady as they lock onto yours. The dim light above buzzes faintly, its unkind glow spilling over his rugged face. It does nothing to soften the sharpness of his features.

And you notice a new scar, tiny, close to his hare's lip.

"Doesn't threaten me, sweet'eart."

A sharp laugh escapes you. How infuriatingly arrogant. Simon leans in, his nose brushing against your sex roughly before he takes a crude sniff, unrestrained, unapologetic. Nasty as always.

The faintest smirk curls the corners of his lips. "Can't blame me, my girl and I 'ave been apart f'r too long." Humming, you place a hand on his head, palming over the short bristles of his hair before curling around the back of his neck, and you grind down on him.

"If you're hungry, then eat." The smile you give him after your gracious offer is nothing short of salacious.

Simon thumbs your gusset to the side and slips his tongue through your folds, and it's electric, raw. Frissons ripple through you, starting from your nape, and it cascades down your arm and your legs, and the sensation is sharp, almost overwhelming, and you bow forward, nails digging into the dense muscle of his traps.

It's been so fucking long.

Hot, wet pressure circles around your swollen clit, purposefully shy of what you covet, enough to stir something within you but not enough to satisfy— nowhere near enough. It makes you testy. Impatient. It pushes you to lose control, feeling it slip from his grasp, only to land squarely in his.

It's the exact reaction Simon craves. You can grind down on the tip of his nose all you want, push and pull at his head every which way, but you don't come without his say so, and to earn that, there's something you have to do.

By the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip, bite-swollen and glossy with spit, peering down at him with bleary eyes after having rutted against his face without restraint, frantically seeking the friction you yearn for, you also know what to do.

Good.

Now he waits. Your pussy is dripping slick, dewy honey trailing down his chin and joining the sticky mess pooling near his knee, but he doesn't care— his focus is entirely on you. Simon knows exactly how this will end. You're as mulish as ever, he muses, but you'll break. You always do. It's not a question of if but when, and he's content to wait as long as it takes for the inevitable. After all, he's a patient man when he chooses to be.

Your chest heaves with every ragged draw of air to your lungs, your pretty lips quivering with need, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. If he had the skill, he'd pencil this very moment onto paper, immortalizing it. The desperation that clings to your features, the frustrated grunts you give when he laps at your— his— cunt, tongue skimming just shy of your pearl.

It's intoxicating. A heady visceral rush that courses through his veins and pools white-hot in his groin, stiffening his cock almost painfully.

And then, when a finger dips into your sopping entrance, the composure you'd been desperately clinging to begins to come apart. Simon watches it unfold through heavy-lidded eyes, the gentle part of your lips, the tremor in your breath— he drinks up every single second.

"Please," your voice is barely more than a breadth of a whisper. Your surrender is almost as sweet as you.

The kiss he plants on the inside of your thigh is searing as he hums. "What's it?" The prickly stubble of his jaw scratches against your skin. "Don't lose ya courage now," he murmurs, "you've already fought 'alf the battle.

Heat licks up the sides of your jaw, but you truck on, dignity long lost, in tatters next to your bag on the floor. "Please let me come." Your words come out in a half whine, half plea, and Simon's response is immediate; he cants your hips as two thick fingers enter you fully, and at this angle, it's more than he knows you can take, but you asked for it. Begged for it.

Simon takes it slow, not easy, the suction on your clit maddening; strong, fluttering pulses that seemingly beat in tandem with your heart and the world begins to tilt on its axis, his strong hands keeping you anchored lest your knees give way beneath you.

The world narrows down to the sound of your hiccups, the tension coiled spring tight below your navel, the feel of his shirt knotting in your fist— if he had hair long enough to tug, you would've ripped it out.

You knock your head back against the door almost violently, the dull throb stamped out by the livewire crackling beneath your skin when you finally do come, a scorching heat radiating from within your core out, leaving a raw, tingling sensation in its wake. It stings, you dazedly muse. The orgasm that was wrenched from you was so thunderous your pussy stings. It's short-lived but potent, and you can't help but wince, your lips curling, teeth slightly bared in discomfort.

Ouch.

Simon, on the other hand, is just peachy, unbothered as ever, leaned back on his haunches, chin glistening with slick, his thumb sweeping what's about to drip off his nose.

"Don't think for a second I'm returning the favor here. I've standards, Simon." He huffs in response but says nothing, expecting nothing less of you, instead opting to shrug his jacket off and place it over your drooping shoulders. Your limbs feel leaden as you exit the stall, Simon nimbly reaching for your health hazard of a bag before leading you toward the door.

Your fingers curl around the knob, and twist and pull—

and nothing. Confusion knots your brows together as you retrace your steps. Had you pushed or pulled it open? You can't quite recall, so you give it a firm push it instead—

and nothing. Again. The door stays closed.

"Need help there?" Irritation sparks within you, wishing your glare would eviscerate the obstinate door. Does Simon think himself funny? All you want is to go home, scrub yourself sparkling clean, and sleep until the late afternoon, but the door is conspiring against you. Good. Great, even.

"Bloody door," you grumble, "It won't open." Simon steps forward, unhurried, and twists the handle once, twice—

"Open sesame," he says, tone utterly flat and casual, and you snap your slackened jaw shut. "Oh for fuck's sake, Simon, keep your shit jokes," but the door opens with a click.

You're joking.

You're fucking joking.

It swings wide with a creak, and you glance around instinctively. Nothing out of place— just the usual drunken bodies flowing in and out, their laughter and slurred conversations blending into the background.

Simon drapes a heavy arm around your shoulders, large hand squeezing firm as he walks you out, and you trudge alongside, your gait sluggish, until a massive bulk stumbles into your path, and Simon quickly places himself between you and the drunken mass, both a protector and a threat.

The bloke is a guy with a row of thick hair that runs from his forehead to the nape of his neck, the sides clean shaven. "Sorry, bonnie, didnae mean ta-" limpid blue flashes to Simon, his thin-lipped smile stretches wide— too wide— flashing too many teeth for comfort, "bump into ye." He doesn't linger though, clodhopping his way back to the bar. There's a bold-lined tattoo on his nape, of a... revolver? A choice.

"Walk. I'll take ya home. Won't come in for a nightcap," the lines by his eyes becoming more pronounced. "Scouts 'onor." Simon pulls you along, and you're fighting off the sleep in your eyes when a man in a cap, his profile partially hidden by the brim, bumps his knuckles against Simon's shoulder, and curiosity outweighs your fatigue.

"Who's that?"

Simon grunts. "Security."

You don't remember having been frisked by security when you came in.

The crisp air outside bites your cheeks when you step out, and you're grateful for Simon's forethought as you tug the sides of his jacket closer to you, burying your nose into the collar— it smells of cigarette smoke and him, musky and woodsy— a quiet comfort. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, each step feeling heavier than the last as you make your way towards his vehicle.

The metal door groans as it opens, and he extends a hand, aiding you up when you squeeze it as you slur out a confession.

I missed you.

He doesn't falter in his movements as he guides both your feet inside, and his hands are steady as he adjusts the belt, buckle quietly clicking into place until he straightens, gaze dark and fluid as it lingers on you.

He runs the rough pad of his thumb along your bottom lip tenderly.

"I know, sweet'heart. Get some sleep."

The door closes with a firm but gentle push.

I know, he says. Exhaustion pulls at you, dragging you further away from consciousness. Bastard.

Simon doesn't wake you when he pulls up to your driveway, hooking an arm under your knees and the other around your waist to take you inside, your head lolling on his shoulder. Tomorrow, you'll ask him how he knows where you live, considering you moved for a new job months ago.

[dreamer-milore]

—misinterpretations.

// first meetings with our beloved deliverer

IN WHICH • You firmly believe a certain Chrisos Heir has his eyes on someone, and it's definitely not you, based on the numerous times you've seen him with the Prince of Kremnos. You conclude that they're in a secret relationship. Or perhaps you've misinterpreted everything all along? (You're fully convinced Phainon is attracted to Mydei).

FEATURING • Phainon

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

You've seen enough for you to come to a conclusion. You have visual evidence, so you're not being unreasonable. And your claim is completely logical and rational.

That blue-haired knight you keep seeing is homosexual, who may or may not be in a secret relationship with the Prince of Kremnos.

You don't know that knight's name, but you are sure that he's well accustomed to the perils of the battlefield.

Well, if you were being honest, you barely know anything about Okhema. You were just a refugee who came from a distant city-state that was now in ruins thanks to the Black Tide.

You arrived just a few weeks ago, bruises and cuts littered your body--the marks of a warrior, they say-- and you're sure you'll be decorated in scars after a few weeks.

But that'd be the case if you do manage to last, and you did, otherwise you wouldn't be witnessing the secrets of that certain knight.

(You don't know the name of that blue-haired knight, so you just gave him the nickname 'knight.')

You didn't bother to ask for his name, since you're a hikikomori and you'd much rather prefer to stay within your living quarters. The Black Tide just had you in a 'cowardly' state. You find comfort and security within the confines of your home, believing that the place not within the walls of your house is dangerous.

Though, there are times where you did step out of your home, but the occurrence is rare, and the duration of your visits to the outside world is short. Not lasting more than a few hours. (The most you've done is 2 hours).

During these trips of yours, you would sometimes catch glimpses of the knight with an ash blonde-haired individual who you learned was Mydeimos, Prince of Kremnos. And during those times, you always, always, saw the two in a very close distance--one that you could not just dismiss as that of friends.

This continued on, with each and every one of your trips, you would accidentally spot those two.

One instance, you saw the two really really close to each other, as if they just finished a kissing scene. (They were whispering about top-secret confidential case. You just saw it wrong).

And you also take note of the trust they put into each other, which you observed via eavesdropping on them, but you could only make out very few lines.

You're sure those two are in a secret relationship. So when rumors broke out that of a certain knight asking a florist for courting rituals, you concluded that the lucky girl, or more accurately, the lucky guy, was Mydeimos.

You knew someone who's been crushing on Phainon for a while now, and you can't deny that you feel bad for them sometimes. But it's not like you could do anything. I mean, you can't just tell her to confess, since Phainon will definitely reject her, and you don't want that happening, so you end up discouraging her instead. You know it's a grim method, but you suppose it's still helpful, right?

So when you got called to the Council of Elders, you had no choice but to abide by them. You went there, begrudgingly, and it seems like it's for a mission to save a group of refugees that are en route to Okhema.

You are aware of how dangerous the outside of Okhema is, so you don't mind why the Council takes the matter seriously. Since you were a former knight yourself (of course you have trauma), you were deployed to handle the mission, along with some others. (You didn't want to go, but you have to abide by it. And it's also kind of obligatory.)

That was the case, until one member argued that Okhema is running low in manpower, and there are various other matters to attend to, so they suggested that a Chrisos heir should handle the current mission, accompanied by you.

The Chrisos heir they wanted to deploy? The 'knight.' More accurately, Phainon. You learned his name is Phainon.

The Council agreed to the member who gave the suggestion.

(The Chrisos heirs are the chosen ones from the prophecy, no? Shouldn't it be fit that they handle things like these? If you view it from this angle, it seems about right. It's objective. The Council is just being rational and objective. Totally not because of their disdain for the Chrisos heirs. And how considerate of them, for putting you into this mess. How truly kind.

As agreed by the Council, you were sent to the borders of Okhema to meet up with Phainon, so the two of you could start the mission. You two made your way to the location of the refugees, carefully navigating through the outside lands of Amphoreus.

You barely spoke a word to him, so he, too, didn't say much in return. It was only when you both reached the location did he start being a little bit more talkative. He'd tell you some snippets from his life, and whatnot. And it wasn't just you, but he also talked to the refugees to ease their worries.

Just from that alone, you can tell Phainon is a really good guy, and now you know why people seem to like him.

When monsters emerged, you were quick to shoot them down with your gun. Though you're not very skilled in close combat, sniping with your gun is where lies your true talent. Even Phainon heavily complimented this talent of yours. (It saved him, after all.)

It took a while, but you slowly began to talk more to him, and to the refugees too.

At last, you reached Okhema safely, with no harm done to the refugees.

After that mission, you and Phainon helped the refugees get settled in. Afterwards, the two of you reported back to the Council. The Council was delighted, and dismissed you two.

(Finally, one less thing to worry about.)

You walked outside of the Council's place, with Phainon at your side. You've grown to be acquainted with him, and the same can be said for him. Only that, his might be a little more complicated.

You already bid him farewell, but he cut you off and asked you if he could treat you for lunch. You were taken aback, but said nothing. (You can't really say no to free food now, can you?)

As much as possible, Phainon wants to prolong this. He finds something akin to comfort while he's in your presence. With you, he doesn't need to act strong and brave, nor feel the need to act according to his title--Phainon, the Chrisos heir, Phainon, the Deliverer.

He's just Phainon. And he likes it that way.

He has no explanation for this phenomena, but he suppose it can be attributed to that one time you saved him. You've met before, a few weeks ago, when you first came to Okhema. Clones of Nikador attacked the Holy City, therefore a battle ensued. But this time, he was on the losing side. Heavily injured, with barely any comrades to aid him, Phainon fought with the best he could do. And when he was cornered, he fell to his knees, and prayed for a savior. His prayers were answered, in the form of a refugee with one heck of an expertise with guns--You, in short.

Shortly after, Mydei and the others came, but by the time Phainon was well, his savior was no longer around to be thanked.

Phainon is not sure if you still remember.

But he'll definitely make it up to you.

"Hey, I actually have this friend Aglea. The demigod? I just need to talk to her after. Do you mind tagging along?" Phainon asks you, his tone light as always. Or at least, that's what you think, when actually, he's been meaning to tell you that minutes ago. He can't help but choose his words carefully out of nervousness.

You nod with a hum. "I don't mind. You're already treating me to food, so why not?"

True to his words, Phainon indeed treated you to lunch, at a quite expensive-looking eatery, which made you raise an eyebrow at him. His eyes consistently stayed glued to your face, staring and gazing as the two of you talked. Mostly about the battlefield, since it's a shared aspect between the two of you. Barely anything personal, really. Phainon takes note of that. Maybe you weren't as open as he thought you were. He will absolutely make sure you'd gradually loosen up to him, someday.

After the two of you finished lunch, you accompanied Phainon to the bath house, where Aglea is. You notice how the people there (Phainon's Chrisos buddies) kept looking at you. Strange, so you made sure to keep your guard up. You finally bid farewell after that.

When you got home, the first thing you noticed was that your bedroom door was slightly ajar. You could've sworn you closed it before your departure. But oh, nevermind.

Consecutively, Phainon kept visiting you without fail for the past few weeks. He even introduced you to the rest of his friends. Including Mydeimos, or Mydei.

So there are friends but are secretly in a relationship? That must mean the others don't know, you thought.

Well, what you didn't know, was that your conclusion was absolutely wrong. You found this out in the most unimaginable way possible.

"Hey Phainon, is that the girl you've been crushing on?" A little girl with red hair, asked.

All of Phainon's friends stared at the little girl, shocked and defeated for unearthing the 'secret' they've been keeping for a while now.

(Phainon told everyone about you. It was always you that he could yap about the past few weeks, ever since you saved him. And since then, he's also made sure to keep a really close eye on you, watching you from a distance. Or from the window of your home.)

You look to Phainon, whose face was burning red. He catches your gaze for a second, his mind short-circuits as he looks away.

"So, uhhh... Tribbie..." Phainon managed to say, "this is (Name)."

Wait, so he's bi?

[iniquitousyearning]

mattheo riddle. let me fuck you.

PAIRING: Mattheo Riddle x Gryffindor!Reader

SUMMARY: worried that mattheo was just going to use you for sex and leave, you had him agree to courting you first until you felt you were ready to take it to the next level. after months of this, mattheo finally can’t take it anymore, and lands himself on his knees at your feet.

WORD COUNT: 4.1k.

TAGS: 18+, SMUT MDNI, Degradation, Praise, Absolute Feralism, Begging, Exhibitionism, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasm, PIV, Semi-Public Sex (implied cloaking charm), Dirty Talk, Swearing, Oral (f receiving), Body Worship, Slight Breeding Kink.

Courage. Bravery. Honesty--all traits that your house, Gryffindor, valued and honoured.

However, conspicuously absent from that list, was stupidity. A trait that you certainly seemed to posses a fucking abundance of these days.

To delve into the specifics, you possessed stupidity in the form of pure idiocy that took root when you began messing around with a certain curly haired Slytherin boy. This curly haired Slytherin boy just so happened to come from a group of assholes who seemingly detested your friends as well as your own bloody existence, having been nothing shy of full blown enemies for majority of your time spent at Hogwarts.

And yet, somehow, one thing led to another with this certain boy, and before you knew it you'd found yourself in a certain situation you'd never have imagined in a million damn years.

A courtship.

Securing Mattheo Riddle's commitment to court you exclusively, with a firm agreement to abstain from sex until you felt unequivocally ready, baffled your understanding. This arrangement was meticulously crafted out of a deep-seated concern that, left unchecked, he might merely try fuck you and then vanish without a trace.

He was known for doing that.

The rules of the courtship were a safeguard for your heart, a decision rooted in self-preservation, rather than any preoccupation with your virginity or lack thereof.

The harsh reality was simple – you desired Mattheo Riddle, despite every instinct screaming that you shouldn't. To shield your heart from potential wreckage, you implemented a set of rules governing the extent to which Mattheo could advance in your relationship. The decision to progress to the next level, if and when you deemed him deserving, rested solely in your hands.

It was a fool proof plan. No way for you to get hurt.

However, to absolutely no one's surprise, Mattheo wasn't a fan of this plan –not when he reluctantly agreed to it, and certainly not now. Not as you were seated across from him in a dimly lit corner of the library, the top buttons of your white button-up uniform shirt straining against the curve of your tits, your tie a loosened mess around your neck, and your burgundy pleated skirt way too fucking short for any bloody blokes sanity to remain intact.

Mattheo had counted the fucking days since the two of you started messing around, each instance of shared intimacy without crossing that final threshold chipping away at his restraint like relentless erosion. He wasn't fucking sure how much he had left in him.

"Did you finish this one, Matt?" Your voice rang out as a soft whisper, the hum of it snapping Mattheo from his wandering thoughts.

Forcing himself to meet your eyes and not linger on the buttons of your shirt just begging for fucking relief, he nodded. "Yeah. This one too."

Mattheo lifted a divination book, a testament to the exhaustive night the two of you had spent cramming for tomorrow's exam. Weary, you gave a nod, pushing up from the desk.

"Let's put these away, yeah?" you suggested gently.

Mattheo's throat parched as he observed you tugging down your skirt, a belated realization of how perilously high it had inched past your hips. With an innocent effort to conceal the expanse of those enticingly thick thighs – the same thighs he enthusiastically found himself nestled between every damn night – you fueled a growing heat within him. Mattheo cleared his throat awkwardly, giving a nod before pushing himself up as well.

As the two of you retreated into a dimmer, more secluded section of the library, you bent at the hips to return your book to its shelf. Unmindful of Mattheo's intense gaze, exhausted yet persistent, you began chattering. "I think there might be one more we can skim through, if you're still up for it-"

That thought abruptly dissolved as two sizable, calloused hands sought out your body, gripping anywhere and everywhere they could. An instinctive flinch involuntarily escaped you, but the sensation of those hands delicately tracing your thighs swiftly eased your tension. A trail of burning flames surged up your torso, and you instinctively straightened against him.

"For fucks sake." Mattheo's voice resonated as a low, deep growl in your ear, so intense you questioned whether he meant for you to hear it. His fingers clawed at the buttons of your shirt, nearly tearing it open in a frenzy. "What the fuck are you doing to me."

"Matt-" your hands came up, finding his. The two of you had certainly messed around in a lot of questionable places, but the library? At midnight on a weekday? "W-what are you-"

That sentence was abruptly cut short as Mattheo's lips attacked your neck at the same exact moment he slipped a hand through your now unbottoned shirt and roughly cupped one of your tits, twirling his thumb over your nipple. An entire body shudder rumbled through your limbs and the softest of moans escaped your lips, filling the charged air between you.

Music to Mattheo's fucking ears.

"Let me fuck you." It wasnt necessarily a demand but more of a plea. The desperation in his tone was fucking palpable. He sunk his teeth into the side of your neck as he pressed his hips against your ass, the entirety of his erection jabbing into your back. "Let me fucking fuck you."

You gasped, lids fluttering in an involuntary response as his hand switched to your other breast now, kneading and groping and squeezing with just as much fervour, more even. When you moaned again, he growled against your neck, pulling off you momentarily just to spin you around to face him.

His hands seized your hips, pressing you back against the shelf. "What is it, princess? What the fuck do you need from me?"

You scarcely had a moment to absorb the question, accompanied by the raw, desperate vulnerability in his tone, before he surged into action again. Long fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your skirt, while the other hand ascended to your jaw, gently tilting your head back to meet his intense gaze.

"I've been so fucking good, have I not?" His fingers inched excruciatingly slow over your mound, taking his time to tease you for all he could, watching every subtle ministration of your face as he went. "I've stayed out of fights. Haven't partied. I've been so fucking loyal..."

You swallowed, acknowledging the sincerity in his words. Yes, all those things were undeniably true. Mattheo had transformed into a different man in recent times. While you were drawn to him for the chaotic soul he was, the fact that he willingly opted out of party nights to spend time with you hadn't escaped your notice in the slightest.

Mattheo noted your silence. "Was it the drugs? Because you know I quit those."

Long fingers crept toward your slit, one finger gliding along and coating itself in your slick. Gods, if you weren't already fucking dripping for him.

You tried to shake your head. "No, Matty..."

His hold on your jaw tightened as he felt how fucking wet you already were. He snuffed a groan in his throat. How a little fucking Gryffindor could manage to have him in such a chokehold was beyond his comprehension.

"Is it the smokes?" He tilted his head, watching your eyes. "Because, fuck--I'll light every last one into flames right here in this fucking isle. I'll use the ashes to sear your fucking name onto my skin--just give me the goddamn words."

As his finger connected with your clit, drawing quick frantic circles over it, you mewled, your hands squeezing his biceps as your brain could only muster the comprehension to say one fucking word.

"Mattheo-"

"Mhm." Mattheo groaned, pressing his lips to your temple, his hand on your jaw slithering down to clasp a firm hold around your neck. "Yeah, baby, that's my name, fuck...say it again."

His pace on your clit increased, your head spun with carnal lust. Intoxicated. "Mattheo-"

"Yeah, good girl. Fuck--so fucking good." The reply came within seconds, along with the release of your throat, his hand gliding back to tangle in your hair. "Come on, baby, you know I'm not in this for the sex...you know I want way more than that."

If you hadn't already been rendered helpless and speechless from his relentless pace on your clit, you would have scoffed at that. But instead, all you could do was attempt to breathe the words out between your moans.

Your lids squeezed shut, fingernails digging into the fabric of his uniform. "I-I don't know that, actually."

"Fuck." Mattheo dipped low, his finger thrusting into your cunt before you could even realize it had, his thumb continuing the pace on your clit. The way your wet walls gripped his finger as he pumped it in and out of you was enough to send him into pure fucking desperation. He sucked in a deep inhale, gathering himself. "How do you figure that, hm?"

"Because-ah-here you are practically fucking begging me to let you fuck me." Your back arched, your legs trembling. If it wasn't for Mattheo's looming frame practically pinning you against this shelf, you were certain you'd be a pile of limbs on the floor at his feet. "You're just...t-telling me what I want to hear, Matty."

"I'm not." His pace increased, his brows knit tight. He didn't like that response. Not one fucking bit. His lips found your ear, his grip on your hair intensifying. "You don't understand how fucking bad I want you--how fucking bad I want every single last inch of you. Your laugh, your smile, your wit, your heart, your fucking soul. You haunt me every moment I'm awake. Even when I'm asleep you're there, fucking torturing me. I dream about waking up next to you. I dream about growing old with you. I dream about worshipping you, pleasuring you. I dream about pumping this perfect cunt full of my cum. No woman has ever fucking done this to me. I'm insane for you. For fucks sake please let me fucking fuck you princess. I need you so fucking bad. All of you."

"Gods," was all you could say, not a single shred of coherence left in your brain, not as those words bounced around inside your head in rhythmic hums synced with the movement of his fingers. You were right there. "Matt--fuck, I'm gonna cum-"

"Mhm, go on baby," he cooed with a softness that seemed to fray against the edges of desperation, his voice nearly shredding against his vocal cords. How he was keeping himself together was truly fucking impressive. "You're so fucking good for me. Such a pretty fucking pussy, hm?"

"Yours," you breathed out just as your vision blurred, your entire body shuddering around his fingers. "It's all yours!"

A choked gasp slipped from your lips, swiftly muffled by the plush entirety of Mattheo's mouth. His tongue invaded past your teeth, meticulously exploring your gums as if etching the details into memory. The sound of his groan reverberated through you, but it soon became a mere echo as your ears rang and your orgasm charged, coursing through every inch of your being, leaving your head spinning and your body trembling against the shelf.

Mattheo withdrew his lips from yours, sensing the aftershocks of your orgasm rippling through you, sure in the fact you had regained enough composure to remain quiet without his help. He grazed his teeth along your jawline, warm breath bathing your skin as both of you panted in unison, bodies pressed and fighting for breath as he slowly pulled his finger from your cunt and teased over your clit with slow, sensual swirls.

"Let me fuck you," he repeated again, softer this time, his voice a whisper as light as a feather in the air. "You said it's mine...you said this pussy belongs to me."

"Yes," you panted, squirming against his hold as he continued his slow teasing strokes over your clit. "I...I did say that...it does..."

"Mm," his dark eyes lingered over your lips before he leaned in slightly, resting his forehead against yours, erratic breaths intermingling. "Please. Fucking please, let me take what's mine."

Mattheo Riddle had gone by many names over the years; an asshole, a delinquent, a rebel--but a man with manners? A man who'd ever had to beg and plead for something he wanted? That was not something you would have ever included in his description. Seeing him like this, completely and openly vulnerable, did something to you. Something you knew you could no longer resist. This was a man you knew you were willing to take risks for, willing to risk getting hurt for. It'd been fucking months. You wanted him. Just as fucking badly as he wanted you.

"I dunno, Matty," you grinned, unable to fight it off even if you tried. "Maybe you should say please again...maybe you should say it on your knees..."

Mattheo huffed, a groan accompanying it.

"Dirty, dirty little thing..." he whispered, pulling his hand from your cunt entirely now, both hands shifting to your hips, gracing them with a feral squeeze. "You really fucking are mine, aren’t you?"

As Mattheo Riddle dropped to his knees at your feet, you were certain the entire world had faded away. You were certain that time no longer existed and that there wasn't a single other living being in the entire expanse of the universe--all there was, across all existing planes of reality, was you and this messy, curly haired boy at your feet, looking up at you with dreamy chocolate eyes, poised to beg and fucking plead for release from his torment.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," his hands trailed a steady path from your hips down your thighs, squeezing and grabbing every inch of flesh he could. "You know that, right?"

You pulled your lip between your teeth, unable to peel your eyes off this boy before you. He was mesmerizing, In all his glory. Every last fucking molecule of him.

"Yes, Matty..." you breathed, your hands clutching at the wooden bookshelf behind you, steadying yourself. "You tell me a thousand times a day."

"Only a thousand? I was aiming for way more than that." Mattheo hummed, wetting his smirk-adorned lips as he brought his mouth to your inner thigh, softly nipping at it. "Guess I have to step my game up, huh?"

You blinked, pulse pounding in your ears. “I-“

“Please, princess…” Mattheo shifted, snapping himself back to the task at hand, nipping at your other thigh now, his voice so soft you almost missed it. His eyes never left yours. “Fucking hell.”

In one swift movement, his hands gripped your thighs and spread them apart, one leg slung over his shoulder as he brought his lips to your already dripping cunt, placing a vulgar kiss to it, tongue delving into your slit, a trembling groan echoing in his throat when he swallowed your wetness.

Your lungs sputtered, head falling back against the shelf--his eyes, in the pits of perversion, watched you, soaking in your speechless delight while he explored each tiny crevice of your cunt. Bliss built inside of you for the second time, blocks of white hot energy, stacking with every second those velvety, full lips massaged your folds. Your mouth fell in an open pant, your hips rocking into his face--his hands moved, sticking your wrists to your hips as he gripped you there.

You struggled to find your breath--oxygen had left the room--and you squeezed your eyes shut, desperate to keep your moans quiet. Your previous orgasm still had you tingling, the stimulation almost, almost too much--but you found yourself climbing toward your second with little effort. Your eyes rolled back, pleasure crashing over you, tiny moans leaving you while he sucked slowly on your clit, engorged and throbbing at his lips.

"Fuck, Mattheo-" you whined, your nails digging into the flesh of your own thighs as his strong grip kept them pinned there. "I'm gonna-fuck-"

Your core thumped with a demand to cum--Mattheo was reining you to a cliff, your desire a wild animal, bucking with abandon and ecstasy.

"Mhm, that's it," he muttered into your flesh. "Let me fucking taste you."

His tongue swirled over your nub, slipping wet circles around it before he groaned and sucked it hard between his teeth. You wailed, cracked, orgasm gushing through you, a geyser, a cascade of ecstasy that left you quaking, your walls spasming at his chin.

There was no more holding back your moans. "Oh--f-fuck!"

Mattheo swallowed your release hungrily, releasing your wrists and clutching your hips to his head, as if the evidence of your pleasure sustained him, laving at you until you squeaked and jerked from sensitivity. With a satisfied gasp, he released you entirely, slowly rising back up to his full height, watching with tethered emotion while you descended from your high.

Without even giving you the chance to process it, he reached down and swiped two fingers along your slit, collecting your cum before bringing it up to your lips and urging it past your teeth.

"That's what I do to you, baby," he cooed, his eyes far less intense than they were before. His free hand brushed the sweat dampened hair away from your forehead, watching as you wrapped your lips around his fingers and worked them clean. "You like that?"

You nodded, heat flashing your face, and Mattheo groaned appreciatively, slowly pulling his fingers from your mouth. His gentle grip found your chin now, drawing your eyes to his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, "you don't have to-"

You cut him off. "Fuck me, Matty."

Mattheo blinked, and you reached for his belt.

"Please, Mattheo," you clenched, body quaking with need. Even after two orgasms you still wanted more, needed more. You needed him, and now you were the one willing to beg for it. "Please, fuck me."

Almost immediately, Mattheo's eyes darkened, his gaze glossing over with a hunger that spoke volumes far louder than any words ever fucking could. He leaned in slightly, your scent still lingering on his breath.

"You want me inside you? Hm?" He purred, lips grazing over yours. "You want me to fuck you here? Open and exposed for anyone to see?"

You smirked knowingly. The cloaking charm he had cast didn't escape your notice. This boy always had a knack for thinking one step ahead. Yet, the exhilaration of the prospect was just another facet that had initially drawn you to him.

You nodded. "Yes, Mattheo...I need you..."

Mattheo pressed his lips to yours, not wasting another singular second of time as his hands moved to the clasp on his belt, fumbling with it, a low groan escaping him as he pulled his throbbing cock free, gliding his fist over it a few times as his tongue hungrily fought with yours.

Mattheo's hands shifted to your shoulders, spinning you around, your own hands grasping at the shelving in front of you. You felt the warmth of his thick length gliding between your thighs, teasing you, slicking himself in your wetness.

"You're sure you want this?" Mattheo's voice was a soft growl in your ear, his hands grasping at your hips with enough force to bruise. "Fuck, princess, please be fucking sure."

The reaction was immediate. As though he asked you if you needed oxygen to breathe. "Gods, I'm fucking sure, Mattheo. I'm so fucking sure."

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, fingernails digging into your flesh, pulling your skirt higher up your torso. "You've got me so fucked up, princess..."

As he slicked his length over your core once more, teasing your entrance, you whimpered. He was so smooth and silky and fucking big...you knew this was going to sting, even after two orgasms, even after he had you dripping down your thighs. Just that thought alone made your pussy clench, you'd do fucking anything to get him inside of you.

"Mattheo..." you whined, your body tensing with each false thrust. "Stop teasing me."

"Shit,” he breathed, easing the head of his length into you now, before slowly pulling out. "I'm teasing myself, baby...I don't know if I'm going to be able to control myself-"

You groaned, shuddering. "Please!"

Mattheo matched your groan with one of his own, and with one smooth movement, he tightened his grip on your hips, tugging you closer before he drove his dick into your cunt, splitting you open with one deep, slow thrust.

"Oh..." he moaned, paused, froze, entire body seemingly turned to stone. The only outward sign of his consciousness was his rapid breath washing over your neck. "...fuck."

You gripped the edges of the shelf with such intensity your knuckles were pale, doing everything within your power to keep quiet. The feeling of him seated inside you like this was everything you'd fucking imagined it to be. Better even. Your entire body was tense with bliss, your walls moulding around him.

Mattheo's lungs sputtered. "Relax...fuck-relax around me, baby..."

"I-" You weren't sure what he meant, your body trembling, your heart pounding in your throat. "Matt-"

"I'm not going to fucking last," Mattheo growled into your ear, the strain in his vocal cords more prominent than ever. "...if you keep squeezing me like that."

You mewled, head falling back against his shoulder as you fought to suck oxygen into your lungs. Mattheo finally began to move inside you; slow, easy strokes in an effort to give you a chance to adjust, feeling your tight walls relaxing around his thick girth, before he pulled out entirely and slammed back in, stuffing you full, groaning as you pulsed around him with each brief pause.

"Fuck...tight fucking pussy...so fucking wet..." he whispered, lips pressed against your ear. "All fucking mine."

Any ounces of restraint Mattheo had managed to maintain prior to this clearly had now been entirely annihilated as he increased his pace, fucking into you like a savage, as though he'd never get to fuck you again. He panted into your ear, groaning, fingernails bruising your thighs while he hammered your cervix with thrust after thrust after thrust. Sputtered curses left him under his breath and he attempted to silence himself with your neck, biting and nibbling at your throat. You stifled every single noise that threatened to leave your lips, body bouncing with the power of his hips, air hiccuping in your lungs as he pounded you.

"This little pussy is mine...you're mine..." he growled, fingers snaking down and brushing over your clit. "Fuck, you feel so good...I can't believe you kept this from me for so fucking long..."

Rapture numbed you, at the edge of your skin, a typhoon ready to wreck you witless. Your lids fluttered, teeth biting your lip with enough force to draw blood. He was going to make you crack. Make you fucking scream. There was no way you could continue being quiet when he was fucking you this good.

"M'sorry, Matty-" you weren't even sure what you were apologizing for. "So good...so deep...I-"

"Cum for me." Desire had consumed you both, his pace embodying complete desperation, a frenzied, urgent need to bring you both to orgasm. "Cum so I can fucking breed you...pump this little cunt full of my cum like I've dreamed of doing for months..."

Mattheo increased his pace on your clit, thrusts deepening even further--which you didn't even think was physically possible. He was slamming you deep, panting with every snap of his hips, your pussy hot and slick and pulsing with your oncoming climax.

You couldn't hold it back anymore--"Oh Gods-Mattheo!"

You shattered, exploded into flames, spectrum of colour blazing through your mind, a string of sobbing wails fleeing you as pulsed and spasmed on his dick, third climax shuddering through your veins. Mattheo groaned, clamping his palm over your lips as he continued to drill into you, holding off his own climax for as long as he could until he was physically unable to control himself--and he cursed, lungs sputtering as his hips slowed, cock twitching inside you as he poured his cum inside your cunt.

The room itself seemed to shudder, a tremor rumbling in the hardwood until he had finished and slowly pulled out, a deep, satisfied sigh leaving his chest.

After you collected yourself enough you spun around and watched as he tucked himself away, brushing his dampened curly hair back from his forehead. He straightened out, tucking the soft white fabric of his uniform shirt back into his pants before doing up his belt.

The second his eyes met yours, you reached for him. "I'm sorry for making you wait-"

"Don't ever be sorry," he cut you off, pulling you into him and placing a soft kiss on your forehead. "You were more than worth the wait, baby."

[p0orbaby]

Finders Keepers

summary: you’re good at catching things, leah’s eye is one of them

warnings: a little suggestive

a/n: thank you for the request !

word count: 2k

-

You’re the new goalkeeper coach for the Lionesses, which is great, except for one glaring problem: Leah Williamson. She’s distracting, in the way that a house fire distracts you from finishing your cup of tea. You’ve never coached a team that required so much attention to detail, and you’re starting to understand why. You need every neuron firing just to remember how to breathe when she’s in the vicinity, let alone when she’s talking to you.

And she talks to you a lot. It’s not always about goalkeeping either, which is alarming, because you’re really only equipped to discuss which angle to cover or how to improve reaction time. Instead, she wants to talk about where you’re from, what you think of London, whether or not you like Thai food. She asks you about your star sign once, which is bizarre because you’re not sure if she believes in that sort of thing or is just trying to make you sweat. You lie and say you’re a Pisces, mostly because it seems like the least offensive answer, and she nods like that explains something.

You try to keep your interactions professional, but she makes it difficult. For instance, Leah has a habit of “accidentally” bumping into you. She claims it’s because she’s got bad spatial awareness, but you’re fairly certain she just likes the way you flinch when she does it. You’ve read somewhere that “accidental” touch is a sign of attraction, but you’re not sure if that applies when the person doing the touching has the coordination of an european champion.

One day after training, she lingers on the pitch while you’re gathering up cones, which you suspect is an attempt to chat you up. She watches you with a smirk, and you can feel her eyes burning into the back of your head like an exceptionally focused laser pointer.

“You missed one,” she says, pointing out a cone about three feet to your right. You didn’t miss it, but you pick it up anyway because you can’t think of anything better to do.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying not to meet her eyes, because when you do, it’s like looking directly at the sun. Leah Williamson is a human eclipse, and you’re about to go blind from prolonged exposure.

“No problem,” she replies, not moving.

She’s still standing there when you finish. You’re holding a bag of cones and looking for an escape route, but she’s planted herself directly in your path like she’s grown roots.

“You’re not running off, are you?” she asks, with the kind of grin that makes you wish you’d pursued a career in something less perilous, like bomb disposal.

“I was thinking about it,” you admit, and she laughs, which is a mistake because her laugh does things to you—dangerous, uncoachable things.

“You’re cute,” she says, and now you’re actively searching for the nearest exit, because if she keeps this up, you’re going to do something really stupid, like ask her out for coffee or give her your social security number.

“Uh, thanks,” you stammer, clutching the bag of cones like it’s a life preserver.

She tilts her head, clearly amused by your discomfort. “No need to be nervous,” she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to relax when Leah Williamson is standing less than a foot away from you.

You’re not nervous, you want to say, but that would be a lie, and you’re not about to start lying to yourself, not when you’ve done such a good job of repressing your feelings up until this point.

“Well,” you say, taking a step back, “I should probably—”

“Want to get a drink?” she interrupts, like she’s asking you if you want to grab a sandwich, and you nearly drop the cones because your brain can’t process the words coming out of her mouth.

“What?” you blurt out, because that’s all your synapses can muster.

“A drink,” she repeats, like it’s the most normal thing in the world for a player to ask out their coach. “You know, alcohol? Liquid courage?”

You’re pretty sure you’ve just suffered a minor stroke, because the world tilts sideways and your pulse goes through the roof. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” you manage to say, which is the understatement of the year, considering the fact that you’ve spent the last three months trying to convince yourself that Leah is just another player on the team, and not the walking, talking embodiment of temptation.

“Why not?” she asks, and you can tell by her tone that she’s genuinely curious, like the idea of you turning her down is as foreign to her as the concept of gravity.

“Because,” you start, then pause, because you don’t have a good reason, and she knows it.

“Because?” she prompts, raising an eyebrow.

“Because it’s unprofessional,” you say finally, as if professionalism is something you’ve ever been good at.

“We’re not at work now,” she points out, and you hate that she’s right. You hate that she’s standing so close to you that you can see the tiny freckle just above her left eyebrow. You hate that you want to reach out and touch it, trace the shape of her face with your fingers.

“Leah—” you start, but she cuts you off by taking a step forward, closing the gap between you. She’s close enough now that you can smell the faint hint of her shampoo, something fresh and citrusy that makes you want to bury your face in her hair and never come up for air.

“I’ll see you later, then,” she says, and it’s not a question.

-

You don’t know why you go. Maybe it’s because you’ve never been particularly good at saying no, or maybe it’s because the idea of Leah waiting for you is too tempting to resist. Either way, you find yourself standing outside the pub, staring at the sign like it’s going to give you the answers to the universe.

Inside, Leah’s already at the bar, leaning against the counter with the kind of casual confidence that makes you wonder if she’s ever had an awkward moment in her life. When she spots you, she grins, and it’s like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

“You made it,” she says, as if there was any doubt.

“Yeah,” you reply, because what else can you say? I’m here because I’m an idiot? I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about you? I’m here because I’m trying really hard not to fall in love with you and failing miserably?

“Drink?” she asks, holding up her pint glass.

“Sure,” you say, because if you’re going to make bad decisions, you might as well make them with alcohol in your system.

She orders you a drink, something that tastes like it should be served in a coconut with an umbrella, but you don’t complain because it’s delicious and also because Leah’s eyes are twinkling in that way that makes your stomach do somersaults.

“So,” she says after a moment, “why don’t you want to go out with me?”

The question hits you like a freight train. “I never said that,” you protest, but your voice is weak, like you’re already losing this battle.

“You didn’t have to,” she replies, taking a sip of her drink and watching you over the rim of the glass. “But you’re not very good at hiding it”

“I’m not?” you ask, horrified at the idea that your feelings might be more obvious than you’d like to admit.

“Nope,” she says, popping the “p” in a way that should be illegal. “It’s written all over your face”

“Oh.” You stare into your drink, wondering if it’s possible to drown in a pint glass.

“But it’s okay,” she continues, and now she’s leaning in closer, her knee brushing against yours under the table. “Because I’m not really good at hiding it either”

And that’s when you know you’re completely, irrevocably screwed.

-

It’s not a relationship, you tell yourself, because relationships require labels, and what you and Leah have is more like an ongoing series of bad decisions strung together by moments of sheer idiocy.

You try to keep things professional, but it’s difficult when she keeps showing up at your door with that grin and that laugh and those hands that seem to know exactly where to touch you to make your brain short-circuit.

One night, after you’ve spent far too long convincing yourself that you’re strong enough to resist her, she shows up at your flat with food and a bottle of wine. You know it’s a trap, but you let her in anyway, because you’re a sucker for Thai fried rice and bad decisions.

You spend the evening on the settee, eating and drinking and pretending like you’re not going to end up in bed together by the end of the night. You watch some terrible low budget comedy that Leah picked out, and you’re about halfway through when she starts inching closer to you, like she’s trying to be subtle but failing spectacularly.

“You’re sitting awfully close,” you point out, because it’s either that or spontaneously combust from the proximity.

“Am I?” she asks innocently, but there’s a twinkle in her eye that tells you she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Yes,” you reply, but you don’t move away, because if you’re going to go down in flames, you might as well enjoy the heat.

She grins, and then her hand is on your thigh, fingers tracing patterns that make your heart race. “I think you like it,” she says, and it’s not a question.

“I think you’re trouble,” you counter, but you don’t stop her when she leans in and kisses you, soft and slow, like she’s got all the time in the world.

You kiss her back, because you’re weak and because she tastes like wine and because you’re tired of pretending like this isn’t exactly what you want.

The rest of the movie is forgotten as you tumble into bed together, a mess of tangled limbs and breathless laughter. It’s fast and frantic, like you’re both trying to make up for lost time, and when it’s over, you’re left lying there, staring at the ceiling and wondering how you got here.

“Don’t think too hard,” Leah murmurs, her head resting on your chest, and you can feel her breath against your skin, warm and steady. “You’ll hurt yourself”

“Too late,” you mutter, but you don’t push her away, because despite everything, despite all the reasons this is a terrible idea, you like the way she feels next to you.

“We’re a disaster,” you say after a while, because the silence is starting to make you anxious, and you’ve never been good at sitting with your own thoughts.

“I know,” she replies, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “But we’re a fun disaster”

You can’t argue with that, so you don’t. Instead, you close your eyes and let yourself drift off, hoping that when you wake up, you won’t regret this as much as you probably should.

-

You start seeing each other regularly after that, though you both refuse to call it dating. Dating implies a level of commitment that you’re not ready to acknowledge, and anyway, this is more like…mutual self-destruction with benefits.

You try to keep it a secret from the team, but you’re fairly certain they’re onto you. Especially after that time Leah practically tackled you during training because she “tripped” over her own feet, which would be believable if she wasn’t literally the most coordinated person you’ve ever met.

“You’re an idiot,” you tell her later, as you’re trying to pry her off of you in the changing room, but she just laughs and kisses you on the cheek, because apparently she’s incapable of taking anything seriously.

“I’m your idiot,” she replies, and you hate how much you love the sound of that.

You’re not sure how long this can go on before everything blows up in your face, but for now, you’re content to keep making the same mistakes over and over again. After all, if you’re going to screw up, you might as well do it with someone who makes it fun.

And Leah Williamson, for all her flaws, is nothing if not fun.

Even if she is going to be the death of you.

[muzaktomyears]

Yoko’s life revolved around her acquisitions, but her most valuable acquisition was John. By marrying Lennon she had established herself as a celebrity and financial power to be reckoned with. It was the process of acquisition – not the object itself – that kept Yoko going. Antiques were routinely delivered, examined, and carted off to Apartment 71 or to the basement for storage. Clothes were bought and hung up, never to be worn. Once she had acquired something, Yoko lost interest in it. She lost interest in John after they were reunited and she lost interest in Sean after he was born. She treated them both with an icy reserve bordering on contempt.

Life became complicated for Yoko because John was not an inanimate object, but a human being – one with an active imagination, a strong sex drive, boundless energy, and a terrible temper. Indeed, Yoko lived in fear of John’s occasional outbursts of anger and frustration. Although he remained quietly behind closed doors most of the time, she knew well that John’s passive and self-absorbed behavior masked an overwhelming restlessness. Like an old lion, he could turn and bite your head off when you least expected it. Whenever John got a little stir-crazy upstairs and threatened to become “difficult”, Yoko attempted frantically to appease him with vague promises, or she would scare him with ominous psychic predictions and mystical mumbo jumbo. Usually, Yoko could keep John in line with a few carefully chosen words. One of her favorite ploys for controlling him was to tell him that the planet Mercury was going retrograde, a perilous astrological period during which accidents were likely to happen. When I asked John what Mercury being retrograde meant, he explained that it was an astrological period when the planet Mercury, “the messenger”, appeared to move backward against the sun, causing massive disruptions in communications and generally creating “chaos in the cosmos”. Yoko was always to tell me that we had to keep John isolated for his own good. Once in a while, John would try to circumvent Yoko’s strict rules, but he would often regret it soon afterward. For instance, one day John was listening to radio station WBAI when he heard a very eloquent, urgent plea for contributions. New subscribers were to receive a copy of a book titled The Devil Was a Woman. John wanted the book, and as WBAI was one of the radio stations he frequently listened to – he was particularly interested in nutritionist Gary Null’s health show – he impulsively ordered me to call up and contribute one thousand dollars on his behalf. Immediately, the station announced the contribution. When Yoko heard about it, she read me the riot act. She reminded me angrily that whenever John acted impulsively, I was to bring his behavior to her attention before following his orders. I was to consult her about all matters involving John and “human relations”, or his having dealings with the outside world. “After all,” explained Yoko, “I’m here to protect him.” I assured her I understood perfectly. Yoko had the key to John Lennon, and she used it to make John her sole possession by taking him out of public circulation. The old lion had pulled in his claws eagerly and agreed to give up rock and roll and its deleterious lifestyle. Because of his self-destructive behavior when he was on his own, John believed that the only sane alternative was to isolate himself. Moreover, Yoko had offered him the opportunity to try parenthood all over again. When she managed to give birth to Sean against all odds, John took it as a sign of divine intervention. He told me that both he and Sean were “riding on Mother’s good luck”. His childlike dependence on Yoko was so great that he dreaded the thought of Yoko dying before he did. “I hope I go first,” John had told me, “because if Mother died before me I wouldn’t be able to face life on my own.” He had resigned himself completely to the proposition that he could not survive without Yoko. Thus, John willingly sacrificed his freedom for the illusion of safety. And it was part of Yoko’s Faustian pact that she had to keep John, for better or for worse, and remain an appendage to John’s fame and to the pervasive Beatles legend, no matter how much she craved independence and personal fame. It was no wonder that she bitterly resented John, even as she was constantly conscious of the need to retain his loyalty. Without John Lennon, Yoko Ono was just an eccentric lady with no money and no power – and for this she would never forgive him.

John Lennon: Living on Borrowed Time, Frederic Seaman (1991)

[houserautha]

These Destined Ends

Part 9

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: kind of (?) sub!Feyd, oral sex f receiving (there’s an imbalance in oral sex but I promise reader shows him some love too), p in v, “no hands”

A/N 1.0: Two updates in one week?? I probably should edit this more but I’m just excited to release it hehe

Feyd drags his tongue down your navel, dipping into the divot of your belly button to lick out the poison. You’ve taken to creative methods of your daily dosages, the current which gives you shudders of delight. His tongue is warm and wet, his grin roguish, and his dark eyes sinfully gorgeous; there are certain instances when you can hardly stand to look at him, this being one of them. You honestly don’t know what he will see reflected in your own eyes.

His tongue darts out to capture any residual poison from his lips. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Fine.” You sit up, pulling your shirt back down. Disappointment is evident on Feyd’s face. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

He pulls you to the edge of the table and nudges open your legs so that he might position himself between them. “They’ll wait.”

“We don’t want to anger them.”

Feyd’s tongue rolls in his cheek. “Don’t we?”

“No.” You hop off the table. “Come on.”

“You haven’t taken your dose yet.”

You fix him with an exasperated look. Feyd pours the measurements into the glass, then into his mouth. His expression is comically triumphant. You roll your eyes as you close the space between you, then press your mouth firmly to his.

His kiss is as dangerous as the poison itself, spilling out from his lips and down his chin, down your chin, coating the inside of your mouth as his tongue pushes into it. You greedily kiss him back, poison forgotten. It’s him that you need the daily dose of, a perilous addiction that would render you sickly without. And he pulls you in like he knows this, that it’s only the poison from his lips that you seek.

You withdraw, breathless and wiping at your chin. “Satisfied?”

“For now.”

Rabban is departing today for a political mission, one that neither you nor Feyd are privy to — to his chagrin. You were both requested by the Baron to attend his send off. As you stride beside Feyd to the thopter hangar, the sight of the Baron seizes you with burning hatred.

He floats next to Rabban, muttering something to him that you can’t hear. Both cease their talking when you arrive. Frankly, you don’t know if you want to tear out their throats or leave them to Feyd’s concubines.

Rabban wordlessly boards the thopter. It will take him to a more secure location to be delivered to a heighliner, from your understanding. As you observe the scene with thinly veiled disgust, you notice a commotion to one side — it’s the same Sardaukar soldier from before, along with a handful of others. Today they’re adorn in the typical Harkonnen armor, distinguishable only by the fuzz of closely shaved hair on their heads.

You grab Feyd’s arm, lean into him. “Who are they?”

“Sardaukar. Though I suspect you already knew that,” he says without tearing his gaze from them. “I don’t know what business they have with my rotten brother.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I.”

He breaks away from you and storms to the Baron. They share a short, heated exchange, one that has your stomach clenching. How he stood to even be near his uncle bewildered you, though you supposed in some sense that he was unable to completely divorce himself from the man. Feyd was his heir, after all. A fact that the Baron wields over him. Your hands form into fists.

“He said that the Emperor’s soldiers are assisting them in the mission. Something about a shared goal.”

You frown. Both of you stand silently as the soldiers climb into the thopter after Rabban, stirring dust as its wings snap out and then ascend into the rings of smog circling the hangar. The Baron glides toward you both.

“Your brother is a fine soldier,” he rasps, “I know I can rely on him to secure our objective.”

Feyd’s upper lip curls into a snarl. “He has plenty of time to considering he doesn’t have any other obligations.”

“There’s a reason I made you the na-Baron,” the Baron replies coolly. “Your brother has a different fate.”

This response unnerves you. You stare after his bulbous retreating form, then flick your gaze to your husband — Feyd’s entire body is rigid with fury. You wonder briefly if he had spoken to Rabban, and what he said if he did. The more days that have passed since your wedding, the less time you had to spend together.

You were coming up on one month now.

“We dont need to stay here any longer,” you tell him.

Feyd wrenches his arm from your grasp. He snaps, “I have something I need to tend to.”

And then somehow you were left alone in the hanger, a mixture of emotions forming within you. You wanted to chase after Feyd but your better senses warned you not to — he could be volatile like this, and you weren’t really in the mood for a verbal lashing.

Instead you wander the fortress grounds. It’s taken some time, but you’re finally used to the black sun. And the guards no longer believe that you’re an Atreides spy or, at least, any threat. You want to comment on this but it’s a nice freedom, and you nod to them as you pass by. Your aimless stroll is interrupted by a loud yelling, however, drawing you to the massive gates that barricade the fortress from the rest of Giedi Prime.

Before today, you’d never even seen them open.

There’s a crowd of citizens gathered outside, obviously agitated. Guards stall them from entering with their spears, though, to the credit of the citizens, they’re doing a fairly decent job of holding their own. You spot Asha amongst the number of servants aiding in the crowd control.

“What’s going on?” You ask.

“They’re here for their monthly audience with the na-Baron,” Asha explains, “but he’s refusing to meet with them. They aren’t happy.”

She grimaces as an angry shout pierces the air.

“Why is he refusing them?”

Asha casts you a sideways glance. “He’s the na-Baron, he doesn’t need a reason.”

You survey the crowd.

“Tell them that their na-Baroness will receive them.”

“What? Are you sure?” Asha stares at you as if you asked her to behead them all.

“Give me a few minutes, first.” You flash her a smile and then turn back towards where you came from, the clamor of the crowd subsiding.

In your chest, your heart pounds furiously. You didn’t even know Feyd took audience with the citizens, much less what to do with their requests. But you could handle it, you were sure. It was about time that you contributed to the baronship.

Quickly you change into a formal dress and then make your way to the throne room. Your footsteps ring out through the space as you climb the dais steps and take your place on your husband’s throne. It’s to the right of the Baron’s, not quite as grand, and you have half the mind to sit on it before the doors open and the citizens of Giedi Prime spill inside.

The first citizen is a woman, dressed in a worn white dress. Her eyes are sunken. “na-Baroness, we are grateful for you to receive us today.” The woman nervously licks her lips. “I wouldn’t know what to do without my stipend. None of us would.”

Those that can hear her nod their assent.

You do your best not to let your surprise show on your face. You wave a hand. “Of course.”

Most of the citizens are all there for similar reasons: their monthly allowance bestowed upon them by the na-Baron. You learned that families that served in the Harkonnen military received a slightly higher amount, including those retired from it. You were loathed to be impressed by Feyd but you couldn’t help but admire his rule — he was many things, but an excellent na-Baron happened to be one of them. He supported his people in ways that others would not have bothered to.

Of course, not everyone comes to you for money.

You settle a dispute between two neighbors arguing over property lines, and a factory employee declaring unfit working conditions. It rather surprisingly becomes very easy for you to delegate the matters of these people — you found you cared about their problems, making them your own. The crowd had dwindled down quite a bit when you’re faced with two men who can hardly look at each other.

���na-Baroness,” the taller one says. He introduces himself as Anagon.

The other man remains silent.

“We are here today for your gracious judgment,” Anagon continues, unbidden. “You see, this man has forsaken me and my family.”

You examine both men. Anagon is dressed in the style typical of nobles, the other in a simple tunic and pants. He refuses to meet your eyes.

“I see,” you say. “How so?”

“He stole my family’s ceremonial dagger. Straight from my manor!”

The other man finally says, “I didn’t!”

“He deserves the swiftest punishment for his crimes against me,” Anagon continues as if the other man never spoke, “the lower citizens of Giedi Prime must learn their place.”

Anagon’s face falls as you ask the other man, “And what do you say?”

“I-I did find the dagger but —” he raises his voice to be heard over the noble’s protests, “I found it while demolishing the old factory. It-It was buried under the building, lost and forgotten. I fully intended to return it to its owner.”

Anagon hisses, "You did not!"

"You can not know his intentions," you remind him pointedly, then, to the other man, "is this dagger here today? Let me see it."

"My-My name is Res," the man says as he approaches. He offers to you a ceremonial dagger, one that you notice is badly bent out of shape and tarnished. It certainly looks like it’s been buried under a factory.

“Did you know where the dagger was? Answer me truthfully, for I will know if you have lied.”

Anagon shifts his weight. “No, na-Baroness. But it is my family’s ceremonial dagger. It-It was misplaced in the civil war two generations ago.”

You gaze between Anagon and Res. Taking the dagger from the latter, you hand it blade-first to Anagon. “This relic belongs to you. But you must compensate Res for his troubles — you accused him wrongfully. It is not your right to put whoever you see fit into place.”

“Fine. And how do you recommend that I compensate him?” Anagon asks, clearly displeased with your decision.

“You will give him a job under your employ.”

You had sat in on quite a few political meetings with Feyd, and knew the factory that Res spoke of. It had to be demolished and thus left many workers displaced. Anagon, a man you knew only by name until today, was the wealthy head of a series of factories that produced weapons.

Anagon’s jaw flexes. “na-Baroness, there must be another way —”

“You will employ him or I will take that ceremonial dagger and cut your throat with it.”

“She’ll make quick work of it, though,” a familiar rasping voice says. You shift to discover Feyd in the doorway of one of the throne room entrances, the one used for servants. Anagon and Res both stare wide-eyed at him. “You heard her.”

Anagon and Res exchange a glance before the noble mutters something akin to an apology, and promise of employment. Anagon lingers, seemingly for Feyd’s disapproval or your ire, but when neither of you speak, he turns and storms away. Res blinks up at you gratefully.

“Thank you, na-Baroness. You are exceedingly generous and fair.”

You dip your chin. Res takes that as his invitation to leave, smiling softly as he does so.

“That’s it for today,” Feyd announces. “I will receive the rest of you tomorrow.”

The remaining crowd grumbles but filters out of the throne room, leaving you alone with Feyd. He stops on the stairs at the bottom of the dais and gazes up at you. “You belong on a throne.”

Your brows furrow, and you ignore him. “You did not have to intervene, I was managing it quite well.”

“Clearly.”

“Then why did you dismiss them?”

Feyd examines your face. “If a noble claims that a lower-class citizen stole from their house, the citizen would receive death. No questions asked.”

“What?” Outrage shoots through you. “That’s ridiculous. You saw what happened —”

“I’m not disagreeing with you, wife. I am merely stating the truth of the law.”

You bristle. “Do you suggest I call them back here and slaughter the poor man for something that he did not do?”

“While that would be entertaining,” Feyd retorts, “it would demean your decision. The only real danger of it is that the citizens of Giedi Prime will be disappointed if I receive them now.”

“Maybe for good reason,” you sniff. “Why did you desert them today? It is clear to me that these people rely on you.”

A shadow of anger passes over Feyd’s expression. “I was not equipped to handle their problems, which look minor in the face of my own. My emotions would’ve clouded my better judgment.”

“That’s no reason to leave them,” you counter.

“And what do you know of ruling?” Feyd snarls. He advances on you, still towering above you despite your position on the throne. “You played the part of doting daughter to the Duke for all these years. This is your first taste of it. Do not tell me how to rule over my people.”

“Our people,” you dryly correct, “as you married me and thus gave me equal power over them.”

He sneers. “Perhaps a mistake if you think you know more about ruling than me.”

You curb the flare of your irritation, barely, by lifting your chin and looking your husband squarely in the eyes. He is a storm, crackling with dangerous energy, ready to unleash upon you.

And you tell him, “I know plenty of ruling. Get down on your knees, Feyd-Rautha, so I may prove it to you.”

Recognition flickers in his eyes. As much as the beast in him calls to you, the opposite is just as true. You love him like this — wild and beyond your control, fraying at the seams of his sanity. You want to pull on the threads until he unravels completely.

You lean forward slightly. “I said kneel.”

Never breaking eye contact, Feyd sinks to his knees before you.

A heady surge of power crashes over you then, threatens to encompass you, the brightness of the sun after an eclipse. And you are drunk on it, gulping greedily from the golden chalice that it embodies.

“You pretend that I am nothing but a duke’s daughter,” you hiss, “when I am your wife, the wife of the na-Baron. You say I know nothing of rule and yet here you are, submitting to me. How does that speak to your assumptions?”

Feyd says nothing. His gaze burns you.

You continue, unbidden, “I should punish you for your impudence. Tell me, na-Baron, what does your law say of this?”

“It says whatever you would like,” he rasps.

You can see his cock straining against his pants, feel the heat of his desire. And yet he gazes upon you with utter devotion, ready to follow out your orders without hesitation.

“I would like to put that mouth of yours to better use than making false claims.”

Feyd wavers.

“No hands,” you instruct.

You do him the favor of hiking the skirt of your dress up around your hips, then spread your legs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he marvels you. With the slightest indication of your chin, he all but crawls closer to you, breath fanning the sensitive skin of your thighs. He moves as if to brace his hands on either side of you and you press the toe of your heel to his cock.

“No hands,” you repeat, alleviating the pressure on him only once he’s locked his hands behind his back. A frustrated groan rumbles through his chest, eyes flashing. You say, “Continue.”

Your back bows as his cheeks nuzzle up against your thighs, his mouth ghosting over your cunt with perverse refrain. Unwittingly, you snap your hips to meet him — you didn’t tell him to tease you, you wanted him to fuck you with his mouth, with his stupidly plush lips. Feyd’s breathy laugh warms your exposed entrance, a stark contrast to the cool air of the room, of the throne itself.

Finally he presses his mouth to your entrance and licks a stripe of your center. You shiver in delight. He drags his tongue through your slick folds, slow and savory, deliberately avoiding your clit. Feyd has no hair for you to anchor yourself so instead you grab the base of his neck and push him closer; there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s strong enough to resist you, but he assents to your touch. Feyd’s tongue spears you, stroking your inner walls before withdrawing and paying attention to your aching bud. His mouth closes over your clit and sucks.

The action sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. You hold him to you, giving him no other option but to worship you, his licking and sucking becoming almost lewd, fervent, coating his chin with your wetness as he laps at you.

You pull on the back of his armor. Feyd releases his mouth from your cunt, shoulders heaving from his effort. You behold him like this — yielding to you, slick with your moisture, on his knees — and you feel a pulse of want. It drives you to kiss him, to push your tongue into his mouth and taste yourself. Feyd kisses you back just as passionately, mouth working to devour you, devour every logical thought you might conjure.

“Now,” you say, breathless, “I want you to fuck me right here on your throne, so the next time you doubt my competence you remember this moment.”

Feyd nods eagerly. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, na-Baroness,” he amends, rasping.

You smirk at him, pat his cheek. Feyd remains kneeling as you step from the throne. His body quivers with the slightest hint of his lust, visible to your eye as you circle him from behind. Drinking in his broad shoulders, his tapered waist, the shape of his ass, you swallow, exhilarated by your power and the man before you.

“Sit down. On the throne.”

Feyd obeys. He moves his hands from behind his back to the armrests. There’s a tension in the line of his jaw that tells you it’s taking every ounce of his strength not to touch you.

You set to removing his armor. “Lift,” you instruct and he does as you ask so that you can slide his pants down. His cock springs forth, slapping up against his toned stomach. You trail the backs of your nails up his length, under the curve of his head, and Feyd nearly whimpers at the contact.

You straddle him, and his entire body coils. There’s a tremendous release of endorphins when you finally sink down on his cock, clenching your walls and taking him all in. Feyd groans. You wiggle your hips appreciatively and let yourself adjust. He bucks into you then slightly, which you respond to with an agonizingly slow withdraw, lifting up on your knees so that he’s once more exposed to the cool air. His cock twitches.

“Fuck,” he all but seethes.

You slam back down on him and he howls out. Joining him with a cry of pleasure, his cock piercing you almost painfully, you set a violent, unsteady pace, instincts guiding you to seek out your own orgasm. It washes over you too quickly, stills you as it takes a hold over your senses.

“Please,” Feyd mutters. He grinds against your cunt, eager to keep up the friction.

You hum “Please what?”

“Please let me touch you,” he begs, “please, na-Baroness.”

You pump his cock slowly, lazily, and he grits his teeth in agony. Feyd trembles. “Fine,” you say, his hands on you before you can even finish the word. His touch is electric.

Feyd grabs hold of you, curls his fingers into the dip at your lower spine, and thrusts with you, over and over. He’s the one sitting on the throne but you are the one in charge — holding power over him by the snap of your hips, the way your cunt coaxes out his orgasm, your lips on his neck. And he is all too willing to be the slave to your pleasure, aiding you to orgasm twice more before finally coming inside you.

His thick cum fills you. You moan into the juncture of his shoulder as he wrings his own pleasure from you, shuddering, breath warming the side of your face.

“I-I won’t make that mistake again,” he rasps.

You can’t help but laugh. “Mm, pity. I quite enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it,” Feyd says. His expression turns into one of introspection. “I’ve never…given…myself to someone like that before. Not on purpose.”

Your heart twinges. “I wouldn’t have —”

“No. No apologies. I did it willingly. It was a show of…trust.”

The pain you feel at his behalf melts away to something even more confusing and impossible to name. You don’t say anything as you both adjust yourselves; you, slightly uncomfortable as his cum slides down your thighs, him, looking neither abashed at his admittance nor pleased. Just…content. A look you’ve never noticed before gracing his handsome features.

Unspoken between you, the two of you return to your quarters. Fatigue seizes you. But there’s a tiny bird trapped in your chest that beats its wings against your rib cage — hope. A foolish, tragic brush of promise that you wish to silence.

From your place on the bed, where you collapsed upon arrival, you covertly watch Feyd. He cleaned you, gave you a new dress to wear, and now is ensuring that he’s fit for the view of others. You trace the shape of his body, so achingly familiar to you, hidden mostly under his armor. He catches you staring and lifts a brow, dark eyes glinting.

“Yes, wife?” He turns. “Or should I say, na-Baroness?”

You grin at him.

Sitting on the tip of your tongue, a confession lies, your judgement loosened by this moment of peace between you. You want to tell him about the beating of your heart, the way that he’s properly — unavoidably — invaded your mind, but the opportunity passes as soon as you have the chance to grasp it.

There’s a commotion outside of your quarters.

Feyd beats you to the door, shields you with his body as you both survey the servants pacing back and forth. They seem to be mumbling between each other hastily, worriedly, obviously uncertain about what to do with themselves. You can’t miss their pitying glances.

“What’s going on?” You ask.

Feyd’s expression is grave. “I don’t know.” He grabs the arm of one of the passing servants. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“na-Baron!” The servant’s eyes widen. “I-I don’t know, we haven’t been told —”

Suddenly you hear your name being called over the clamor. Asha elbows her way through the servants, face stricken, and grabs you by circling her arms around your neck. “Y/N, I’m so sorry —”

“What? What are you sorry for?”

She holds you at arms length. There are tears in her eyes. “The House of Atreides has fallen.”

A/N 2.0: I’m sorry Leto, you don’t survive in this universe either😭😭😭 Also, part 2 of Feyd and reader solving their disputes with fucking.

For the life of me I can’t remember who but I dedicate this chapter to whoever reblogged Part 7 and added something like “I wish Feyd would fuck away my disbelief and insecurities”. Because same.

Part Ten

Taglist:

@moonsoulk @heartarianagran @torchbearerkyle @unicoreads @taleah @mamawiggers1980 @jovialeggsbailiffsoul @harkonnin @avidreader73 @unicorntrooper @beebeechaos @kamcrazy123 @wo-ming-bai @kpopnstarwars @m-indkiller @dacreshoney @stopeatread

[cynthia39100]

Merlin rewatch -- S3E8: The Eye of the Phoenix

Arthur's pretty chill in this episode I feel.

There’s the scene at the bridge:

The first thing he did when he spotted Grettir was putting away his sword, and he remained respectful throughout the conversation. In contrast Gwaine raised his sword instantly.

(tbf, it could be that Gwaine was with Merlin so he was in protection mode, while Arthur was roaming around alone with a fantastical questy mindset).

Such a dork <3. Just took words in their literal meanings lol.

It's just a comical beat, but it also showed how not tense and not on guard Arthur was, facing this mysterious figure who was guarding the supposedly magical land.

He even got this nice, gentle smile when Grettir came to shake hands!

When Grettir mentioned magic, while Arthur rejected the idea, he didn't jump up and down at the word, only calmly expressed his disagreement. "I don't condone the use of magic.” Then Grettir talked about different realm, different rule, and Arthur seemed to really take in those words. He still wouldn't seek help from magic, I don’t think, bit the information was at the back of his mind for him to utilise should the need arise.

He even thanked Grettir like a good boy he was~

When Grettir disappeared into thin air -- a blatant occurrence of magic, Arthur just looked and shrugged and kept going 😂It seemed like Arthur just accepted it as a thing in this place that he was going in and it wasn't his business. I really like his kind of taking things in stride without thinking too much or making a fuss. Maybe it’s for the benefit of the quest, or that’s just how he was when left alone/free of princely duty.

In other scenes too:

Arthur did caution Gwaine but it wasn't at all harsh, just a gentle nudge. He didn’t shout “He’s the King!” like some previous instances, just that it’s his father and yes he knew his father was wrong but he’d appreciate if the insult happens away from his earshot.

When Merlin was hiccuping non-stop and seemingly not understanding the meaning of "alone and unaided", while Arthur was preparing a serious possibly-deadly quest, Arthur was quite patient too. He was annoyed but he did explain to Merlin with proper words instead of throwing things or yelling. An accomplishment eh lol.

The only time he was not chill was when Merlin got to him in the Perilous Land, but it's Merlin, and his most important quest as a prince was interrupted (sort of disqualified too), I think he's allowed to be a bit of a prat xd

[S3E8] [other episodes]

[natequarter]

Me on a date: The Sarah Jane Adventures lures you in with a closed-off and paranoid single woman living alone who slowly opens up to her much younger friends in an obvious parallel to the Doctor, particularly the Third Doctor (alone and miserable on Earth, which she cannot leave, unwilling to open up to her friends but slowly coaxed out of her shell); Sarah is the protagonist of The Sarah Jane Adventures, but she is not its hero. We see hints at her trauma, emotional repression, and paranoia over the course of the show; she repeatedly lies to her charges, to the point where they essentially have to stalk her to keep track of her, and she’s fundamentally incapable of relating to ‘average’ people, because she never really adapted back to life on Earth, emotionally or psychologically, and never learnt to grieve. All of this is a compelling, if implicit, storyline on its own, but it hits much harder if you’ve listened to the Big Finish audio series Sarah Jane Smith, in which Sarah is explicitly depicted as an antihero who willingly and recklessly endangers herself and her friends because she’s miserable without the adrenaline of danger and saving the world. Her heroics more often than not cause more harm than good; she cuts herself off from her friends just to solve mysteries (to the point it puts her life at risk), she throws herself into situations that nearly kill her multiple times, and many people die because of her intervention, some of them innocent. The only way she can rationalise the Doctor leaving her to herself is that there was some higher purpose. The artifice of prophecy pervades the entire series; time and time again it becomes clear that any instance of ‘coincidence’ or ‘fate’ are actually down to the machinations of time travel, Sarah, or the cult that has dedicated itself to fulfilling its doomsday predictions. Sarah in The Sarah Jane Adventures is an obvious Doctor stand-in for the narrative, but in Sarah Jane Smith it goes further than that: Sarah embraces his manipulative behaviour, his darker side, his tricks and bluffs. She pretends to be blind to outwit her enemies. She defeats her enemies through words and kills a villain through intentional inaction. At one point she’s forced into a moral dilemma reminiscent of the conflicts that the Doctor faces, where she must choose between the lives of thousands of innocent Londoners and her friend. In the end, it’s no question to her; she chooses to let her friend die. She’s willing to let both her friends die, if it comes down to it—and one of them ultimately does. Sarah is an unusual character; unlike most ex-companions, she’s fundamentally incapable of readjusting to normal life, and has pretty explicitly spent her life since leaving the Doctor isolated, miserable, and in constant peril. But she also doesn’t fit in with the companions who ultimately meet their doom travelling with the Doctor; unlike, say, Clara Oswald, she’s given the chance to back out before it’s too late, and she takes it. But it’s clear that she never recovered from leaving the Doctor, because the Doctor’s lifestyle is the only thing that makes her feel like life is worth living. Sarah Jane Smith clearly portrays Sarah as someone transformed by the Doctor into the Doctor. But this is not a good thing, and the series occupies itself with deconstructing the damaging psychological effect the Doctor has on both people in general and Sarah specifically—Sarah is not a nice person. She is not a better person for having known the Doctor; in fact it’s only made her worse. She’s a danger to the people around her. She’s irrational and obsessed with getting what she wants to the exception of all else. She’s sometimes outright cruel. It’s a fascinating play on a usually much kinder (if imperfect) character, and personally, I love it.

My date: What the hell?

[marwyn]

Throughout Hitchcock’s catalogue of work characters resemble each other, as seen in the many instances of mistaken identity in films as diverse in tone as North by Northwest and The Lodger (1927), in which a visitor to a town is suspected of being a serial killer, though, unlike Uncle Charlie, the lodger is innocent. The doppelganger is an oft-discussed motif of Vertigo, but it is an equally important element in Shadow of a Doubt in which the doubling of characters takes on a “vividly vampiristic” nature. The two Charlies are doubles of each other, sharing not just a name and a seemingly telepathic bond, but also, as relatives, a bloodline, something Charlie highlights when she exclaims, “We have the same blood.”

Blood forms a link between Dracula and Mina too, for during Dracula’s infernal baptism of Mina he forces her to drink from him, and Uncle Charlie appears to hint at his literary predecessor, stating, “The same blood flows through our veins, Charlie,” thus recalling Dracula’s words to Mina: “Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood; kin of my kin.” However, there seems to be more than a familial, blood bond between the two Charlies. This is recognized by the characters themselves, for Charlie states, “We’re not just an uncle and niece,” which is something her uncle echoes, asserting, “We’re no ordinary uncle and niece.” Indeed, there does seem to be a romantic element to the relationship which borders perilously on the incestuous.

Enter Uncle Charlie, dressed like a catalog and with all the preternatural calm of a vampire claiming a bride, played by an unabashedly creepy and hard-to-pin Matthew Goode.

HOTD Episode 1.01 and teleplay / Mia Wasikowska on filming Stoker / Victoria Williams, “Reflecting Dracula: The Undead in Alfred Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt,” in Images of the Modern Vampire: The Hip and the Atavistic (eds. Barbara Brodman and James E. Doan) / Genevieve Valentine, review of Stoker

[cruesuffix]

Another Crüe Interview

From: The Observer (January ‘05)

Transcribed by: Miss Lily (me)

Tagline: ‘Sex, drugs and hip replacement surgery... the continuing adventures of Motley Crue, the most notorious rock'n roll band in the world.’

Wrecking Crüe’s Return

The most obnoxious and excessive band ever are back. In Los Angeles, Caspar Llewellyn Smith asks Mötley Crüe about facelifts, Pamela Anderson and hip replacements. Photographs by Jamie-James Medina

IT IS A CHILL winter night in Los Angeles when the four members of the band billed as the most notorious on earth unfurl themselves from unfurl themselves from their hot rod hearse. The two figures that loom largest are Tommy Lee, with all the goofy energy of a maniacal drummer and former husband of Pamela Anderson that you might expect, and the vampiric Nikki Sixx, bassist and de facto leader of the group in its present incarnation. Less able to command the flashbulbs and TV carnera booms - less able to extricate himself from the vehicle - is guitarist Mick Mars, who is more the wraith, bent double and stick thin, barely mobile following his hip replacement operation less than five weeks ago.

Despite $70,000 worth of plastic surgery, courtesy of MTV which has been filming him for a reality show, singer Vince Neil looks puffy in the face, not the lip sticked blonde pretty boy who fronted the band when they were the most baroquely glamorous and barbarically decadent act ever seen. But as the group forge, and in one instance, hobble their way into the venue, is the serpentine way in which Vince's tongue flickers from his mouth that makes the fans outside the Palladium - chanting “Crüüüüüe! Crüüüüüe!” as if a moratorium on umlauts has expired - believe this is the day they feared would never come.

Vince's reptilian aspect is repulsive, frankly, but this band more than any proved that when it comes to heavy metal, a little sleaze surely never hurt. So, after the several overdoses and deaths among their circle of friends, after the soap operas of their many and varied lurid relationships, after all the all the bad-blood between them.... more than five years since they spilt, seemingly for ever. Mötley Crüe have risen.

Alas, from the media's vantage point, impossible to discern the precise object of Vince's desire. That is because the Crüe's arrival at the venue has been fraught, and the reporters gathered - from publications including the Wall Street Journal and Metal Hammer (Germany) - are already listening to five men in suits at a press conference, as silent video footage behind them describes the scene outside. It could be an accountants' convention, as Dennis from the American booking agency explains that this reunion, encompassing a global tour, has come about because Nikki was 'treated like an icon' by fans when he toured with his own band following publication of The Dirt, the Crue's bestselling autobiography (described by Rolling Stone as the most detailed account of the awesome pleasures and perils of rock'n' roll stardom ever'). Nikki was busy writing his own Heroin Diaries, an account of his old addiction, but finally capitulated to the demands of promoters, rang the other guys, and lawyers smoothed it all through.

Since the group fell apart, Neil too has had his own band, as well as his fledgling TV career (Remaking: Vince Neil started airing in the States this month) and interests in motor racing and golf. Likewise Tommy, presently in the middle of recording the “best thing I've ever done” with his outfit Methods of Mayhem, also the star of a forthcoming reality show for NBC TV (in which he gets sent to university to take classes in chemistry, literature and horticulture). Then there was last year's autobiography, Tommyland, in which he said that his long standing antagonism towards Vince would prevent the Crüe ever reforming

Mick, the eldest at 48 by two years, has been mostly laid low by his ankylosing spondylitis or the 'grey ghost’ as he calls it - a genetic bone disease that is slowly fusing the joints in his body and which necessitated hip surgery.

Vince, Tommy and Nikki talk with relish about their extracurricular activities, and Tommy has already disparaged four new songs that the band have recorded (“they're wack!”). As for Mick, it seems an act of demonic sadism to force him to throw himself into the demands of a crushing rock tour. But next, at the press conference, Rick from VH1 notes that “our audience has a great interest in metal overall right now,” while Jim from Clear Channel Entertainment, the dominant media force in US rock, admits to having “recently refamiliarised myself with their hits' like 'Girls, Girls. Girls'.” He announces that one of the 'polished new numbers, 'If I Die Tomorrow,’ “will definitely be a hit in 2005.” Rick and Jim are as heavy metal as the Olsen twins and their dour rapaciousness feels depressingly at odds with the vaunted spirit of this particular group

It is to a more romantic view that Tommy subscribed earlier, during the band's only formal interviews on this occasion. They have gathered at a studio rehearsal space in outlying Burbank and plan to board a helicopter painted in their livery to fly to this evening's show. While Nikki is having his hair teased ("Make it bigger!”), the wolfishly grinning drummer responds to the suggestion that the Crüe have always been the quintessential LA band because all the madness of the civilised world washes up here - you go west and then you can't go any further - “So true,” he laughs, “so true!”

Tommy is wearing a baseball cap, a singlet and combat shorts, revealing several tattoos. He talks fondly of Pamela Anderson. but says he advised her not to come to the gig tonight because of the anticipated press 'clusterfuck'; confesses to drinking 'a bit' still; and enthuses about groups such as Snow Patrol and Sigur Rôs (who left him on the floor 'curled up like an infant’ when he heard them for the first time).

“I know, it's kind of crazy." he says of the reunion, “but I just go with whatever seems to be fun at the moment. Wherever my heart is. First I was like. "Ah no, fuck I'm busy." But then there was this overwhelming demand from the fans.” The band constantly pay tribute to their fans. “I'm not stupid, so fuck, let's go!" Of the Crüe's early days, he reminisces: “We were just rebelling against everything else that was fucking going on. Fucking wearing girls make-up… fucking crazy hair and leathers and spandex!"

THE BAND'S ORIGINS LIE GENERALLY IN the decline of Western civilisation, but specifically in a West Coast music scene that had fallen for English pop groups like Haircut 100 and local new wave bands.“Skinny ties with the short hair... we were like, "No fucking way!". The band had come together by April 1981, and Nikki, Vince and Tommy lived together in a two-bedroom cockroach invested apartment on Clark Street, 50 yards from the Whisky A Go Go club on Sunset Strip.

"We'd get drunk, do crazy amounts of cocuine, and walk the circuit in stiletto heels, stumbling all over the place," Vince said in The Dirt. “The Sunset Strip was a cesspool of depravity.” “Is it still like that?" I ask Vince, who is wearing a T-shirt with a pink slogan ('I think that stripper last night liked me') stretched over a waist that belies the fact that he still boozes, It's arguable whether his brow-lift, partial face-lift, check implants, nose job, and jaw-line sculpturing have improved his looks.

“I don't know, he says. “Nobody in the band lives there any more. I'm sure you still have the same wannabes and poseurs who act like rock stars. It's the same old scene. It’s cool.”

Tommy, who has seen Vince perhaps twice' since the band split, begs to differ: “Everything's way different.” He says the local LA scene is on its ass and that “a lot of weird things have happened between from the time we started ‘til now. People wear condoms!"

If Tommy as a kid was a shy outsider, being in Mötley Crüe changed him, as it changed them all. Certainly, girls came flocking, and in the early days there were endless hilarious escapades - like the time that Nikki tried it on with Tommy's mum (“If you can get in there,” said Tommy's father, “you can have it”). And while the drinking and the drugging and the fighting curdled into something darker - the routine humiliation of groupies in ways that make the fable of Led Zeppelin and the mud shark seem quaint, for instance - the band grew closer to each other.

“It was about being in a gang.” says Vince. "People said we wouldn't make it, that we sucked. We were like, "Fuck you!" We just went ahead and stuck to our convictions." The band self financed their first recordings (known as the Leathür tapes) and carried out their own promotional duties, “driving around putting up fucking flyers on telephone poles ourselves,” as Tommy recalls. “There was something really special about that,” he continues. “We fucking made it happen, you know what I mean?"

Finally signed to Elektra Records (despite the label's boss complaining. "I'm not in the circus business”), the Crüe swiftly became the hottest heavy rock act in the States. Records such as Shout at the Devil led to trailblazing tours across North America and Europe. Only Ozzy Osbourne could out-gross them - in a literal sense - as the carnage reached its zenith. (See box page 17.)

Is rock'n'roll a more conservative business these days, I ask Tommy? “Oh my god, it's completely different, it's fucking retarded. Knowing more about it makes me appreciate how the West was won in the old days, how we did it.”

All this time, Nikki in the background is explaining why the group won't take their shirts off for a photograph - nothing to do with their collection of sagging tats, it's because “we're not a fucking boy band!"

Meanwhile, outside on his own in the tour bus sits Mick Mars. Dressed all in black - black sunglasses and a black blanket on his lap, too - he repetitively tugs at the folds of loose skin on his hands. Tommy only met him for the first time in six years three weeks ago and say “he's anti-social - he hates everybody,” as if the prospect of meeting any of the band wasn't potentially intimidating already, But while his condition means he can't turn his head to mect my gaze, Mick seems relieved and pleased to have someone to talk to, and he discusses President Bush's opposition to the stem cell therapy that might help others with his disease with grace and humour.

While Vince is nervous about this evening's imminent performance - “If we screw up, we screw up in front of the world….. it might be the most important gig of our career” - Mick is confident that despite his AS, he can give it '11o per cent'. Forget the sex and drugs, I say, that never-say-die attitude is true rock'n'roll. “That's right."

Nikki suddenly appears and interrupts. The helicopter journey has been cancelled - something to do with the LA Fire Marshall and the negotiation of a landing fee. “That sucks!” shouts Tommy outside. According to the bass player, there's a different reason anyway. "We're the fucking Crüe - that's why!”

Tickets for the Palladium show this evening have been distributed for free to 2,000 fans, who have queued for them outside the Hustler magazine store on Sunset Strip. It is a mostly male crowd, and judging by the faded T-shirts and engorged guts, most of them have been fans since the outset. Thirty-six-year-old Sean Warner, who first saw the group in 1981, and calls the swimming pool cleaning business that he runs 'The Pool Crüe', has however brought his two young sons with him. "It's important that they see the original line-up,” he insists.

The calculation is, of course, that a younger generation will fall for the band's charm given the success of contemporary cock rockers such as the Darkness (at whose gigs the Crüe’s promoters have run teaser ads for this reunion). Also present in the queue, more improbably, is current Los Angeles resident and British pop star-in-the-making Har Mar Superstar. Indeed, it transpires that Har Mar is such a fan that he is living in the Crüe's old apartment. And given the enthusiastic response to this comeback from whippersnappers such as Slipknot, perhaps the Crüe have tapped into the rock zeitgeist. It's mean-spirited to suggest that the spectacular interest in their coming together again reflects a modishly ghoulish desire to learn if they can escape their latest escapades alive.

IN THE YEARS THAT FOLLOW THE BAND'S first flush of succers, the lunacy is pandemic. Nikki starts shooting heroin and coke; the reliably priapic Tommy marries TV starlet Heather Locklear; and on the fourth night of a party to celebrate the release of the band's third album, *Dr Feelgood, a drunken Vince crashes his Ford Pantera into an oncoming vehicle, killing his passenger, leaving the young couple he hits both brain-damaged. He serves a short prison term and enters rehab. Certainly, the pages of The Dirt would make Caligula blush, let alone the band themselves. "The book showed us as assholes,” says Vince, "because for most of the time, that's what we were.”

Nikki goes on something of a drugs bender in Hong Kong - hiring a gaggle of prostitutes dressed as Nazis and nuns for his embarrassed manager - and almost dies of yet another overdose back in LA. The whole band are in and out of rehab, before Vince is fired in early 1992 after falling out with Nikki and with Tommy in particular for the umpteenth time. Tommy weds Pamela Anderson six weeks into their relationship The marriage lasts three tempestuous years and ends with Tommy spending three months in jail on charges of spousal abuse. Hen-pecked and drinking heavily, the reclusive Mick comes close to committing suicide. His extreme case of AS steadily worsens, leading to chronic depression. The others are too preoccupied to really notice. No wonder Tommy tells me: “We are all still alive, right? How crazy is that?"

——————

[Eyes blazing and mouth wet with urine, Ozzy looked straight at me: "Do that, Sixx'

In 1984, Motley Crüe supported Ozzy Osbourne on tour - and finally met their match, as Nikki Sixx relates below

OZZY HARDLY spent a night on his tour bus: he was always on ours. He'd burst through the door with a baggie full of coke, singing. “I am the krelley man, doing all the krell that I can, I can,” and we'd snort up the krell all night long. until the bus stopped and we were in the next city.

In one case, that city happened to be Lakeland, Florida. We rolled out of the bus and went straight to the bar, which was separated from the swimming pool deck by a glass window. Ozzy pulled off his pants and stuck a dollar bill in his ass crack, then walked into the bar, offering the dollar to each couple inside. When an elderly lady began to cuss him out, Ozzy grabbed her bag and took off running.

He came back to the pool wearing nothing but a little day dress he had found in the bag. We were cracking up, though we weren't sure whether his antics were evidence of a wicked sense of humour or a severe case of schizophrenia.

We were hanging out, us in T-shirts and leather, Ozzy in the dress, when all ofa sudden Ozzy nudged me. “Hey, mate, I fancy a bump.”

"Dude," I told him, “we're out of blow.”

“Maybe I can send the bus driver out for some.”

"Give me the straw,” he said, unfazed.

“But, dude, there's no blow.”

“Give me the straw. I'm having a bump.”

I handed him the straw, and he walked over to a crack in the sidewalk and bent over it. I saw a long column of ants. marching to a little sand dugout built where the pavement met the dirt. And as I thought, "No, he wouldn't," he did. He sent the entire line of ants tickling up his nose with a single, monstrous snort.

Then he hiked up the sundress, grabbed his dick, and pissed on the pavement.

Without even looking at his growing audience - everyone on the tour was watching him while the old women and fimilies on the pool deck were pretending not to - he kneit down and, getting the dress soggy in the puddle, lapped it up. He didn't just flick it with his tongue, he took a half-dozen long, lingering. and thorough strokes like a cat. Then he stood up and. eyes blazing and mouth wet with urine, looked straight at me. “Do that. Sixx" I swallowed and sweated. But this was peer pressure that I could not refuse.

After all he had done so much for Motley Crie. And. Ifwe wanted to maintain out reputation as rock's most cretinous band, I couldn't back down, not with everyone watching. I unzipped my pants and whipped out my dick in full view of every. body in the bar and around the pool. ‘I don't give a fuck,’ I thought to steady myself as I made my puddle. ‘I’ll lick up my piss. Who cares?’

But, as I bent down to finish what I had begun, Ozzy swooped in and beat me to it. There he was, on all fours at my feet. licking up my pee. I threw up my hands: "You win.” From The Dirt by Motley Crüe and Neil Strauss (HarperCollins).]

——————

When Vince is kicked out of the band there is an ill-fated diversion into more experimental musical territory with new vocalist John Corabi. Truth be told, the band's pop metal was never wholly original - Mick argues that the Leathür tapes (collected on the tastelessly titled Music to Crash Your Car To box set) show them at their best, rather than the mooted classics on a forthcoming Greatest Hits. But the new album with Corabi flops and on the accompanying tour the band finally, albeit metaphorically, stiffs.

It is during this period that Nikki takes umbrage in an MTV interview when asked about the plentiful women, fire, and hairspray in their videos. “That's a silly question. Women, hairspray and fire?!”

In late 1996, Vince (whose four-year-old daughter, Skylar, has meanwhile died of cancer) returns to the fold. According to the singer: “I wouldn't have gotten defensive like Nikki. I wouid have said, “You know what, we are about fucking fire, we are about chicks, and we are about hairspray. And that's a whole lot better than being about boredom.”

The band disintegrates again in 1999 - Tommy leaves, the others limping on with a drummer called Randy Castillo for two more years (Castillo then leaves, and dies of cancer shortly thereafter).

No wonder that now, within the next six months, filming is due to start on a screen version of The Dirt. “I want Brad Pitt to play me,” says Tommy. So does Nikki. Vince reckons Val Kilmer could get him down pat. And you, Mick? "Jennifer Aniston,” he says deadpan. “I want her to play me."

AT THE PALLADIUM, AN AIR-RAID SIREN announces that the original line-up of Motley Crüe is about to take the stage for their first live show for more than five years. Vince and Nikki stride on, Tommy hops up to his drum riser and Mick hobbles right. Down in the crowd, Sean Warner rocks out as 'Dr Feelgood’ lurches into life, with bemused ten-year old McKay and eight-year-old Markus squashed beside him.

“This is a monster that's been sleeping,” shouts Vince as the song ends. "It's reared its head again!" Then it's ‘Shout at the Devil,’ 'If I Die Tomorrow' and 'Girls, Girls, Girls'.

Nikki is struggling because he can't hear the click track that the band now use to keep In time, and Vince is prancing around the stage doing more of the tongue thing. The show staggers the thin line between organised chaos and total collapse, much as Mick finally managers to stagger 15 feet across the stage to join in.

"Can I get a "fuck yeah"?” Tommy asks the crowd.

"Fuck yeah!"

“Can I get a motherfucking “fuck yeah"?"

"Motherfucking fuck yeah!"

“That - that is why we fucking love you!"

Show over, Tommy, Vince and Nikki dole out soundbites for TV camera crews, An exhausted Mick (who can't drink after his operation) has gone home. Nikki (who can't drink because "if I drink I die, simple as that”) follows him shortly afterwards. Vince and Tommy head on to a party at the Whisky A Go Go. Vince then slinks off into the night, while Tommy mans the decks and, shirt akimbo, plays a set of techno.

In the morning, it's back to business as the band minus a recuperating Mick sit through a succession of brief interviews with local radio stations across America. They give stock answers to a succession of the same questions: it's for the fans; they’re all getting on just like brothers; lock up your daughters when we hit Wisconsin!

The truth is that the four members of the band will travel on tour in separate buses. But the bonhomie doesn’t seem forced. “It's been like getting back on a bike,” says Tommy off air on getting back together.

“Without a saddle,” says Vince.

"Yeah..” says Tommy. “Woah! My mind was already going to sniffing the saddle.. but then I realised what you were saying.”

I tell Nikki that, if possible, we would like to shoot pictures of the band back at their old apartment, where Har Mar Superstar is now living. “Superstar?” says Nikki. “There is a superstar living in our place?” Even Tommy, more au fait with contemporary music, is utterly baffled.

Of all the band, Nikki is the most sensitive to the accusation that they are only back together to pick up a final pay cheque. “What does money have to do with anything?” he asks when we talk separately.

"When you see Lennox Lewis get S14 million for a fight, do you say he's doing it for the the money? Of course not, 'cause he's got the fucking eye of the tiger. He wants to kill his opponent. That's me. I'd do this shit for free.” Is it all for love or money?

Two days later, all four members of the band make it to Hat Mar Superstar's apartment on Clark St to have their picture taken. The place is tiny and kept in appropriately squalid fashion. Tommy has brought a bottle of cheap white wine with him, which he and Vince chug together out of Har Mar's mugs. They reminisce fondly about how they used to use the balcony as a trash can and came close to being evicted - and how they used to kill the cockroaches with their hairspray and lighters. “This is so sick, dude!” Tommy says by way of general approval.

A month after we meet, on 9 January, Vince gets married for the fourth time, to his gitifriend Lia Gerardini. Officiating at the ceremony in Las Vegas is newly ordained minister and former hip hop star MC Hammer, Vince's personal manager stands in as best man after his first choice is hospitalised. The original best man had been found with serious injuries in a drainage ditch following a party at the Neil household two days earlier. This is but the latest surreal chapter in Vince's life - and in that of the Crüe too, because also present at the wedding are a reconciled Tommy and Nikki.

"Do you think the drink, drugs and women overshadowed the music for a while?” I had asked Mick. “Not for me it didn't. It may have for the other guys but my shadow was AS.”

Nikki had insisted that: “The real thing that brought us together was music. The pussy and the drugs was the icing on the cake. The music was the cake.”

Vince had had the final word: "It's always gonna be with you, the band, isn’t it? It's like a life sentence." And then mixing his metaphor: “The whole band is like an old tattoo.”

All being well, Mötley Crie will enchark on a UK tour in June.

OMM

(this one took way too long and I almost lost my transcription twice… yet i still love to transcribe these things!) (*editors note: the third album was Theatre of Pain, not Dr. Feelgood. think if you publish an article in a magazine, you should do some basic fact checking before hand. for that alone, if you see any more mistakes here, i am terribly sorry, i really tried with this one.)

[olga-antonovna]

Evan had prophetic dreams so whenever he closed his eyes he'd see visions of the future, especially ones that involved death and peril. There were instances where these visions would take place in a first person perspective and Evan would be looking down in his hand to see himself holding a bloodied icy blue colored eye in his palm. This particular vision was always recurring and he could never figure out what it meant until he came face-to-face with Moody, who had the same icy blue eyes like the ones Evan saw in his visions.

But Evan's own death wasn't the only one he would have visions about. He would oftentimes see Barty's death as well, but he'd never remember them when he woke up. Barty, on the other hand, would sometimes catch Evan's quiet murmurs as he slept, always muttering on and on about how he "wouldn't be Barty's last kiss".

Pandora had tactile visions so when she touched something or someone associated or connected to a memory, she would see glimpses of the past or future. Once, in divination class, Pandora was reading Lily's palm lines, tracing her finger along the creases when she immediately was pulled into a vision which involved flashes of a blinding green light, a baby's screams, and the desperate cries of a woman. In the end, the vision ended with a tall, gaunt hooded figure standing over the mangled and limp body of Lily who laid in a room of what Pandora thought to be a nursery.

Felix had retrocognitions which caused him to have visions of the past, which were usually triggered by visiting specific locations where the events within these visions occur. With this power, he can remain conscious and aware of his surroundings as the visions play out like a movie right in front of him, appearing almost like a time-loop where ghosts remain oblivious to his presence (except obviously its not ghosts and instead the events which took place in the past). I could see him being able to control when he gets these visions, maybe even triggering them on purpose in a place where he spent the most time with his siblings so that he can replay special memories he had with them.

[kristsingto]

Trying to make sense of Tamtawan leaving Padtaphi, as of ep.3

Spoiler Warning

Since before the series began, my working theory has been something to do with the mafia/other unspecified antagonistic force that poses the threat of death. While it’s clear that the original synopsis is not 100% reliable (especially since there were massive rewrites, and a lot of what is in the series already doesn’t completely match up) I do think it makes sense.

To clarify for people who haven’t seen the original synopsis, it states that Tamtawan came back to “find the mafia who exposed the video that destroyed Pathaphee's reputation and put his life in danger.” 

A lot from the original synopsis has been altered, but I think that theorizing that the mafia will still play an important role is reasonable because of the scene in the trailer in which we see Phi and Tam jumping off a boat where armed men chase them. There have also been other instances in posts from the official Twitter account that showcase the characters in states of injury:

The question stands, then, of why the mafia would be after the two of them, and why Tam leaving would help anything. There’s also another big question, which is what does Yong know, and what role does he play in all of this? And why is Tam acting like this now that he's back?

I think that since they're reporters, that some sort of investigation that Phi and Tam did got them into this peril. We see in the first episode that they're both reckless and end up in a pretty dangerous situation (with Phi getting injured here, also). This ends up being good for the two of them, as they win the competition, but also sets a dangerous precedent for their future investigations.

If they work together on investigating the mafia, then I think it could be something that really gets their new show to get eyes on it and brings back Phi's reputation. And if the mafia being behind Phi's cancellation (though it's unclear why within the original synopsis) holds true, then it will all properly come full circle.

Okay, now we come to why Tam left if all of this is happening. I'm not sure of why - but I think it would make sense if he left in some sense for Phi's sake. Maybe in his head, he took on this dangerous business while Phi got to live out his dream? Tam seems more invested in Phi getting to live out his dreams than his own dreams, so I doubt certain theories (such as Tam leaving solely for a great opportunity in Australia).

So, why didn't Tam tell Phi anything, and why does he continue not to? I think that perhaps Tam is working on both restoring Phi's reputation and in handling the mafia problem by himself, and doesn't want to burden Phi with the latter. The question is, why, and how doesn't Phi know if Tam does? Perhaps, in actuality, Tam is singularly the one in trouble with the mafia/with ties to it, and they're getting to Tam by targeting Phi? In that case, I can see why he would cut off Phi as harshly as he could bear to and then get as far away from him as possible. Live out your dreams, don't worry about me. Leaving the country could also, then, be a choice Tam made for his own safety. If the mafia is tied to Phi's cancellation (the cameras being running) then of course Tam would come back.

Another option is that Phi and/or both of them are in fact in trouble, but that in leaving, Tam is somehow able to lessen things? Phi is a public figure, so I wonder, also, how that would factor into this.

What does Yong know? He's still in contact with Tam after he left, and seems to know something about why he left that Phi does not. I imagine that he is somewhat involved in Tam's leave. Perhaps Tam came to Yong before leaving, asking him to take care of Phi before he made his leave? Perhaps Yong is even more involved, somehow? I'm not sure - but what I do find interesting is a line from the mock trailer. Things may have changed, but in it, the boss character (likely who became Yong now) tells Tam "you have two options right now," which leads to Tam leaving once more. If this holds true, then it signals to me that he's much more involved than it seems. Did he tell Tam to leave, for one reason or another?

And now here's a big question that is much more relevant to our first three episodes. Why is Tam acting like this right now? Honestly, I have no idea what's going on in his head.

I think that he was devaluing the hurt his leave brought (whether purposefully or not) since Phi did technically achieve his dream as Tam saw it (become a big shot reporter). Over the first few episodes, he starts to understand, better, the sheer impact he had on Phi.

Tam's inclination to perform acts of service for Phi seems to be where most of his flirty behavior comes from. Because he wants to do things for Phi, even when Phi is still mad at him. Especially because of everything happening to him. His flirting tends to come in forms of doing things for him. Pork skewers, coffee, teaching him how to cook, defending him, etc.

His smugness is mostly present when there's proof of Phi still not being over him. I think the main question, here, is how justified Tam thinks he is in leaving, to be smug, even when the guilt is also present? And why is he acting this way when he didn't in the past?

The show doesn't give us much insight into Tam's head, other than a few scenes that show us how much he does still love Phi. Except!

While it is outside of the series proper (and as such could be different in aspects) this song is perhaps the most fascinating insight into Tam we have so far. And it's been making me think in circles about what this means for Tam within the context of my own theories and of the series proper.

He describes himself as hating himself for giving in and letting Phi take all that's his, and that he says it's fine no matter much much it breaks him inside! Tam feels at a loss to understand Phi, and says he'd wait for Phi even if he was seeing someone else. And Tam wants to "drift away in a dream." He consents to pain - to having his "heart broken" again by Phi, who he sees as heartless. And he loves him no less for it. Tam seems confused if Phi even loves him, thinks about him, and has true feelings for him. But he doesn't seem angry about the idea of Phi not loving him - he says he'll be there even so.

Phi is ephemeral in the MV, like something Tam can't quite hold onto (despite him being the one who left!) and he sees himself as a giver, performing tasks for Phi all throughout the song until it's Phi who does something for him.

So, let's unpack that. I think that this provides a lens to think about the scene this episode where Phi takes on work that Tam has to do, as well as how Tam expresses his affection for Phi within these first few episodes. He's a giver, he sacrifices himself (coming back from Australia for his sake, buying him food, talking to people for him, teaching him to cook, making his coffee, etc) and seems, while smug about Phi still being hung up on him, to not fully connect the dots about why Phi changed so much until it becomes 100% clear.

Does Tam think that Phi doesn't love him? That, perhaps, he settled for him? While it seems unbelievable from how we see Phi act in flashbacks (calling him his sun, wanting to be together forever) I think that Paul, who we see in the trailer, and is also in the novel, may explain this. From some novel spoilers I've seen and connecting the dots from BTS footage and descriptions of Paul, it seems clear that while in university, Phi had a crush on Paul (though unclear how strong) and the two had a great rapport. Does Tam feel inferior to Paul? That Phi would be better off with Paul instead of him? Jealous? I won't be going into deeper novel spoilers I've seen, but if the series follows suit, then Phi's feelings for Paul are highly important to the narrative in contextualizing Tam, and in their university life.

How does Tam see himself? It seems as if he defines himself in what he can do for/what he has done for Phi. Tam often excludes himself from Phi's more "together" type of dreams. He's the producer to his reporter, in "service" to Phi in a certain way. Then what is his degree in Australia? Did that perhaps boost his confidence? Tam is visibly different in how he holds himself from university to now - was it time apart from Phi that actually made Tam more confident in himself alone? What now, then? (I imagine that this will be key in Tam's arc, and the positive impact that Phi ends up having on Tam now that they're relearning each other).

Was their relationship a sort of "dreamland" to Tam? Did he perhaps think it would never last forever, while Phi felt the opposite? The final night conversation before Tam left (and the billboard conversation) reveals Phi's assurance of their life together, which feels right with their relationship and the amount of time. We don't know when Tam chose to leave, exactly, but there's ambivalence in the way he responds to Phi. What is he thinking about?

My opinion on some other theories below:

I'm not leaning towards thinking that Tam leaving is connected to any fights that Tam and Phi were having in their relationship, and I think the Australia bomb is definitely something Tam didn't ever mention to Phi before leaving based off of the most recent episode. However, I do think the idea of Tam's leaving stemming from a conflict that Phi thought was over could be really interesting if it is what the series chose. The two of them did fight in 2022, but weren't fighting when Tam left. So maybe there was a major conflict between them that the two of them mostly buried, and that at the very least, Phi thinks is behind them, but that Tam was actually still hurting over? The knock I have against this is that Tam doesn't seem to have any resentment himself - but I think if it's perhaps something like not being good enough, then it explains things better.

Illness is a major reason that people have been considering, but I don't quite agree, or at least, am not a fan of it. If they go for it, then I hope it'll be interesting, but I don't think there is anything to suggest it within the series (at least, yet). Though I suppose it would explain the photo above of Tam in hospital clothes in its own way! If they do go for this one, I imagine it'll only really work for me if the decision comes from Tam having deep complexes about being a burden and it isn't really illness specifically that got him this way - it was always building inside of him. But opinions will vary!

Lemme know if you have more theories!

Other thoughts:

"Treating him like shit" is probably solely referring to how Tam broke up with Phi, because things do seem fine before Tam left. Phi is thinking about marriage, they seem to be living together, etc. I don't think that Tam was treating Phi badly before he left (at the very least, not intentionally, and not in an obviously irrefutable way).

What are Phi's unknown red flags? Krist mentioned the idea that Phi had his own red flags that he wouldn't mention, as the series isn't there yet. Do his issues explain, in part, the Consent MV and how Tam views him? The series, so far, has focused mostly on Phi's POV, and he doesn't know why Tam left, either! How would this series feel from Tam's POV? And what are we still missing?

Tam is a very "human" character (as described by KS), and "changing" is a major aspect in both Tam and Phi's arcs, so I think that there should be patience for the two of them. I think that when we're on the rewatch of the series after it ends, things will make a lot more sense. And the character arcs will have ended, showing us where the two of them end up! I'm really excited to see these multifaceted characters. Tam, in particular, really interests me.

I think Tam is financially well-off and has family money. He considers using 6 months of salary for the show this episode, and while it may be desperation, I also imagine that he'd be much less likely to suggest it if he needed that money to survive. The house that Phi and Tam lived in is Tam's, as he's staying there now (now I'm thinking about how much it must have stung for Phi to also find a new place, seeing as Tam also poked fun at him having the money to afford to propose), and I find it highly unlikely he earned all that money himself. We'll probably see more when Tam's mom shows up in the series!

Question for you all! This episode had Phi calling Tam a puppy. The official Twitter has described Tam as a cat. What do you think is more accurate in terms of dog/cat? Just a little question.

I don't want to focus on this, but the meta aspect is definitely something to consider. Tam and Phi break up in 2022, the same year as LOL Fanfest 2022, where Krist and Singto basically broke up (their work partnership) on stage. Is Tam's reason for leaving going to echo real life? I lean away from it personally (because of the other things associated with Tam leaving) but it's interesting to keep in mind with The Ex-Morning, seeing as so much of it is means to play with elements of Krist's and Singto's real lives.

[tatious]

Aight, here goes nothin

The Wild Robot X Kamen Rider crossover AU

(Art by @hanpi_kun on Twitter)

This au has been in the works since December of last year. It's only now that I have the courage to show it here in Tumblr (please go easy on me)

I even came up with a synopsis :

"Roz, a rozzum unit longing to return to her island home, finds herself entangled in a perilous twist of fate. Unintentionally thrust into the role of humanity's unlikely hero known as "Kamen Rider", she becomes a key player in a covert project operated by one man to protect humanity's future. Now, Roz must contend with the schemes of Universal dynamics, as well as confronting a corrupted rozzum unit and her army of "Augments." Whose destructive rampage threatens to wipe mankind off the planet, as part of their mysterious "Salient Neutrality initiative."

OR

I turned roz into a power ranger because I'm fucking bored

And unironically, i think that's probably the best way to describe what kamen rider is to people who never heard of it, except instead of men in spandex, we have cyborg karate bugmen in motorcycles

Also I think it's important to note that this au takes place during "The Wild Robot Escapes", the sequel to the original book of the wild robot.

(Please excuse the poor art)

For roz's design, I decided to (or at least try) lean towards Kamen riders from the showa era, like white gloves and a scarf

I also gave her a shield as a little spin on kamen rider's usual trope of having a sword as their weapon, emphasizing her nature (or programming?) to defend. She doesn't want to fight, she wants to protect.

We've seen her willingly risk her life to protect an island full of animals. In this au, I want to take it to the next step and see if she'll risk her life once again, only this time to protect humans who are actively working against her.

Will her limiting code set her up for failure, or will she become more than what she was programmed to be, for the sake of humanity's future?

In contrast to Roz, Vontra's design took inspiration from Kamen riders from the heisei era (the era after showa). A lot more sharper edges, less clothing materials like scarves and gloves, more armor, and collars.

Much like her original body, vontra has tentacles that she can pull out on her back. (She only got four instead of five, though)

But since she was given weapons and various data in martial arts by universal dynamics (to counter Auxilium in combat), Vontra wouldn't use them at all if it proved unnecessary.

But sometimes, she'll pull them out for use as extra hands or intimidation tactics. (or just aura farming)

One more detail : the name "Archus" came from the word "arc", which represents progression and development of a character.

Hmm, wonder if that's hinting at something.

Here's a closer look at the belts

Kamen rider's transformation gear almost always consists of solely a belt that is activated by the Rider doing a pose and saying "Henshin". But for this au specifically, they work differently.

For instance, the assistance driver (roz's gear) is used to activate her combat protocols, which basically overrides her inhibition protocols, allowing her to fight properly. But in turn, it severely drains roz's power and, as a solution, limited the usage time of combat protocols to only three minutes. Leaving roz barely holding on before collapsing down, out of power.

Once it reaches 2 minutes the light at the center of the driver will start blinking red, signaling that they only have 1 minute remaining.

(Basically, think of Ultraman's color timer)

As for Vontra's, her gear basically works as an extended power core. Like roz's, it also starts blinking red. But it's not limited to time, more so as it's a measuring system of how much energy and power vontra has left. If it's red, it's time to retreat.

Ah yes, evil roz be like

"A rozzum NEVER completes it's task"

I don't got much to say about her from a design standpoint other than the foot that took way too much time to draw than I would've liked.

I specifically drew inspiration from Kamen Rider Ark-One, from Kamen Rider Zero-One.

One last thing to say about this au

The story took a few inspiration from stories like Megaman and Big Hero 6, where robot assistants became heroes and whatnot. And I thought to myself

"What if roz became one as well?"

Well that's all I got for this au

I will be sure to expand on it, flesh out the world, characters, plot, and everything else. As I have also planned to write a fanfic based on this au.

Thank you for taking the time to read this post.

Have a nice day!

[amurderandconspiracy]

Five Stages, Two Talons, and a lost little Crow

****Dragon Age Veilguard spoilers AHEAD, read at your own peril ****

>>> 

Follow up scene with Lucanis and Viago – After “Scents and Grief” and the letter This scene is prompted by what was not shown of the companions during the Regret Prison. Viago is a worried older brother, just do not tell him I said so. My Rook is a nonbinary Crow!Mage!Rook but this scene does not necessarily give any descriptions of Rook, other than their name, so you can inject your own into the scene if that helps you.

>>> 

The sound of the room’s double doors slamming woke him from his depressed slumber.  Darkness flooding his sight as he opens his eyes to the still dimness of the wardrobe and with a brief intake, the comforting perfume slips into his nose and settles into his lungs.  The feathers of the blanket brush against his skin and a crumpled parchment clutched in his hand falls to the floor of the wardrobe as he comes back to himself.  Remembrance dawns for a moment, chilling the brief warmth in his chest.  The void of anguish spreads and Lucanis starts to sink back down as his mind fights the web of miserable exhaustion and emptiness, only to remember that the loud sound of the double doors slamming woke him.

“Where the Maker are they!?” booms an angry voice laced with deeply seated fear and worry.  The familiar and irritated lilt of Viago’s voice travels through the stone chamber and bounces off the aquarium glass, barely muffled by the wardrobe doors.

Lucanis cannot seem to muster a mood to deal with Viago in this moment and Spite uses the lack of response from Lucanis to jump to the fore, responding with irritation and unkindness, “GET. OUT!”

Lucanis rolls his eyes, and directs a thought at Spite, thanks for that, pissing off Viago is not the best idea…especially when we failed to tell him what happened to Rook...

Spite seems to catch on this thought and tilts his head, NOT GONE. ROOK IS OURS; WE WILL FIND THEM. ADDER’S MUSTACHE CAN WAIT.

Lucanis goes to respond when the doors of the wardrobe are furiously pulled open, the flood of watery shimmering light from the aquarium casts a tint of greenish-blue into the dark cupboard, an enraged Viago speaking with clipped tones as he attempts to bodily drag Lucanis into the room, “Hiding Dellamorte? Answer me!” Viago is speaking through clenched teeth and the grip he manages on Lucanis’ gear feels like claws dug into flesh.

Lucanis’ emotional reserves may be numbed to the point of oblivion but his instincts are well honed and the hostile way that Viago is demanding Lucanis answer to him allows the cool exterior of indifference to slide into place as the innate need to defend himself and his safety takes hold.  Lucanis surges forward from his nest and uses the offset of Viago’s footing to push up and out of the wardrobe while grabbing the forearms of the raging Fifth Talon.  Viago senses the shift and tries to throw his mass to reorient the balance and allow Lucanis’ sprung energy to overbalance him.  In the same instance Viago attempts to drop his weight, Lucanis anticipates the use of encumbrance for leverage, feeling himself cross the center line and performs a slight spin to disengage, freeing his hands of Viago’s forearms and preparing for a more concerted response.

“Where are they, Dellamorte!?  Where is my…Rook?!” Viago seems to strain to contain an emotional reaction as he yells the final question and Lucanis makes a quick assessment, seeing the always brooding but usually composed Viago breathing irately; a wild look about his features.

Lucanis immediately disengages and holds up his hands, stepping just out of range. “Viago, I…” he responds with a stripe of shame and guilt seeping into his voice.

“Don’t you fucking dare!  Where is Rook?  And don’t you fucking say what you almost said…where is Fae!?” Viago steps forward, pressing the advantage, fear and anger mixing in his voice as he fights for some semblance of control to get an answer. An answer that does not involve apologies.

“They…were…pulled into the Fade…” Lucanis starts to explain, the guilt and the weight of his emotional decline is evident in the way his voice drops in timbre, almost breathy as he forces out words he has not wanted to say.

“And when in damnation were you going to tell me that a member of my House was in the bloody Fade? Were you going to leave me to wait obediently in Treviso without a single word?!” Viago continues to advance, though his shoulders are dropping as if a weight is dragging him past composure.

“We…I do not have answers. They were there…one moment…the next they were not and they cried my…” Lucanis swallows and stops then, unable to say more without losing face. “I was going to come to Treviso to tell you, to tell you to your face.” Lucanis almost pleads, the mask of the assassin’s calm drawing back to reveal a haunted expression.

Spite circles Viago, stalking and observing him. SMELLS LIKE POISONS…AND…ROOK. He seems perplexed by this and tilts his head like a bird, assessing the rumpled look of Viago’s hair and the puffiness of the skin below his eyes. DROWNED IN ANGER AND GRIEF. Spite steps closer at this point, knowing Viago cannot see or hear him.

Spite, back away. Viago is Fae’s teacher, their older brother of sorts. Do not push him. Lucanis mentally tries to pull Spite away from Viago.  Watching the man absorb the response.

Viago sees the strain on Lucanis’ face and the pieces of fragmented information starts to paint a saddened expression of understanding and commiseration, “Who and what do I have to kill to get them back…is there another of these so-called gods that we need to sacrifice to bring them home?” Viago looks directly into Lucanis’ eyes, the wheels of negotiations and plans already churning in his mind.

Lucanis hesitated for a moment, not knowing the right answer and after their little breakdown last night, he was not currently apprised of the battle plans or developments from the rest of the team.  He knew Emmrich had been formulating some theories; Neve as well.  Harding and Taash had immediately started reaching out to their contacts and network.  The loss of Davrin and Assan, and the capture of Bellara had not even been discussed, everyone avoiding the subject all together.  The team had been in shock, disassociated from the reality of their losses when they had mercifully escaped Tearstone Island following the firestorm that Elgar’nan had kicked up in response to the slaying of Ghilan’nain.

Viago looks at him in anticipatory silence, Lucanis shakes off his hesitation and responds with a voice of surety he is certainly not feeling, “Let us go down to the kitchen table, we can put on coffee and discuss with everyone our strategy going forward.” Lucanis steps forward then and places his hand on Viago’s arm, redirecting him with very little effort toward the doors.

“We will get them back Viago. We must.” Lucanis promises, not entirely to Viago, not allowing acceptance of anything less.

WE WILL. Spite affirms, settling into Lucanis with purpose and determination.