#born without bones band

[shessofineliterallyhitmewithacar]

guys i’m so obsessed with born without a bone’s album baby, like i only recently came across the band and have only listened to that album so far but holy shit it’s so fucking good!

i’ve got rough terrain and cancelled playing on repeattt!

i hadn’t heard of the band before and tbh only came across it through a fic so idk if they have a fandom or if they’re big or whatnot but i toooootally recommend holy shittt

[yanderedrabbles]

The North Wind & His Bride

The North Wind was the coldest and cruelest of winds. So when a man came to your father's door claiming to be him and asking for your hand, your father was quick to turn him away.

"My daughter is too bright and too kind to be wasted on the worst of the winds. Come back once you learn to carry spring on your breath instead of snow."

And all that night the wind whispered down your chimney. You dreamt strange dreams - of the colours found only at the edge of the world, of snow flurries and seas black as night.

The man returned the next day. And your father once again refused him. "Come back when you can grant succor to the poor and the pitiful and not freeze them where they sleep."

That night, the wind keened even higher and rattled the window shutters. You dreamt of a wedding dress with frost for lace and a ring the gold of sunrise on snow. When you woke, your ring finger was cold as ice.

The man did not come again that day and you huddled close to the fire, rubbing warmth back into your bones. Your father paced his study and tried to scheme a way of avoiding the wind.

That night, the air laid still as in a coffin and you slept the black sleep of the drowned. You woke in time to see the first snow of the year, two months too early.

Your father's crops froze in the ground or rotted with the thaw. He paced his study and tried to scheme a way of avoiding the creditors.

When next your suitor came, your father's good manners had been worn down by debt collectors and bank notes. He snapped at the wind like a thing cornered. "Come back when you can guide ships safe to port and not wreck them on icy shores."

That night, a blizzard blew in from the north and any creature not crouched by the fire or huddled indoors was found frozen solid. You dreamt again, of a man with cold hands and even colder eyes who danced with you under foreign stars.

Your suitor did not come again but terrible news did. Your brother's ship was wrecked by a storm high on the winter coast. All souls were lost.

Through your grief, a terrible anger began to grow.

When next your suitor came, you greeted him at the door. He had a face as finely chiseled as an ice sculpture and eyes the deep black of the hinterland sea.

"If you would have me as your bride, then I will have a dowry from you."

He took your hand in his and his touch chilled you worse than a corpse's would. He looked at you with a hunger born out of winter and scarcity and cold.

"Anything. Ask anything of me and you can have it."

All through your brother's funeral you thought of ways to avenge him. And now you asked the North Wind for the one thing you thought he could never obtain.

"In a kingdom far south of here, where the snow never falls and the winter never comes, there is a jewel carved from the sun God's bones. Bring me that as a wedding band and I will be your bride."

You thought he would flinch or ask you to reconsider. Instead he bowed and kissed your hand and said he would soon return.

You felt your hope slipping, but he did not return the next day. Or the day after that. The end of autumn came without snow or gales or the return of your suitor. Slowly, you began to breathe again. Began to heal from your brother's death. Began to dream of summer and love and fresh fruit bursting between your teeth.

The winter equinox dawned with clear skies. There was to be feasting that night, and dancing. You dressed your hair with silver chains and sweetened your lips with winter berries. When the music started, one young man after another swept you into his arms and spun you around the bonfire. You tilted your head back and laughed and flirted and forgot all about your suitor.

Near midnight, the wind started to blow. The fire hissed as snowflakes drifted down from suddenly cloudy skies. Your dance partner caught one on his glove and offered it to you. Daring and high on the thrill of dancing, you licked it off his finger. "Tastes of winter in storm," you teased and when he took you for another dance, you wondered if you'd caught yourself a husband.

He spun you around but the arms that caught you were icy cold even through the fine velvet of the wearer's suit.

Midnight tolled and you looked up into the eyes of the North Wind.

He pulled your hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against your skin. At his touch, even the bonfire at your back seemed to lose its warmth.

"The journey south was wrecked with danger and the sun almost melted me clean away, but I have brought your dowry."

Before you could pull away, he slipped a ring onto your finger. It was the gold of fire and sunset and desert sand, and it's warmth spread through you.

The snow turned into a blizzard but you didn't notice it. The wind outside the safety of his arms was sharp as stinging nettles and the townsfolk called to each other in panic, barely able to keep their torches from blowing out.

The North Wind kissed your cheek, eyes glimmering with triumph.

"You're mine now. My spring bride, my dearest love."

All your dreams of a sweet summer love melted. When the snow finally settled, you were no longer in the town square but in a throne room at the edge of the world. Green and blue lights danced in the sky and shone through the palace ceiling, bathed your new husband in all the colours of his kingdom.

He leaned forward and claimed his first kiss.

When you pulled away and tried to step out of his embrace, he tightened his grip and his smile both.

"You are my wife now," he explained in a voice as comforting as frostbite, "And a wife cannot refuse her husband's love."

Your sun ring was the only spot of warmth on your body and you clung desperately to the anchor it offered.

"I would not refuse you, husband of mine. But I am the daughter and the sister of common men and there are traditions to uphold before I can climb into your wedding bed."

"What more must I do to have you?"

What would he be unable to do, here at the end of the world?

"Build me a fire that burns all day and all night on one stick of wood and you can have me as promised."

"These are strange traditions you have, wife of mine. But I have come this far to have you, and I will go further yet."

He left you with a flurry of snow and the hissing shriek of a gale. When he was gone, you paced the throne room from one end to the other and could not find a door. Everything about the room was as stark and cold as he.

Exhausted and chilled, you sat at the foot of his throne. What terrible thing did you do to earn the love of the North Wind? You wiped away your tears and then jumped at the hissing sound they made when they touched your ring. Like water spilled on coals.

"You've melted his heart," your ring hissed. "And he cannot afford to let you go."

You stared at your hand. Eventually you found your voice and the strength to ask, "How do I escape him?"

"Trick him. His heart holds all his power. If you have it, you can ride the wind far from here. He was once a man and still might be tempted into a deal."

The ring was silent after that and you waited for your husband's return with bated breath. It was dawn when he came to you, a branch slung over his shoulder. It was of a dry, white wood that you didn't recognise.

There were no fireplaces in the North Wind's palace and so he laid the branch at your feet before he lit it. It caught with a harsh crackle and fire spread across it in a greenish haze. You stretched your fingers out to feel the heat and even the meagre warmth of it was a comfort.

But that comfort turned to a slow dawning horror when you realised the branch wasn't turning to ash. The fire ate at it but the wood refused to darken.

"It's a branch from Death's own orchard," your husband said proudly. "It can burn for eternity and never go out."

"Well done," you said, even though your lips were numb from panic. "But we must watch it burn for the full day and night or else our marriage cannot be consummated."

He sat down beside you and curled his arm around your waist. "It is an easy task to watch this fire, wife of mine. When I grow tired, I need only think of the reward that awaits me."

For a whole day and night, the North Wind held you his arms and watched the fire burn. When Dawn's light touched his palace again, he kissed your shoulder and then your neck and then your lips. He sighed with a deep contentment.

"At last I will have you."

With each kiss, you felt yourself grow colder. With each caress, the binding ties of marriage grew tighter. All night you thought of a trade to offer him and now you said it aloud.

"Husband of mine, I will come willingly to your bed and serve willingly as your wife. But I would ask you first for a boon."

"Ask, wife of mine. If it is mine to grant, then I shall grant it."

You slipped off his lap and turned to look at him.

"I would have your heart."

The North Wind sighed and miles away, a gale began to form. "You already have it."

"So have said countless suitors over countless years to countless girls. And still they were unfaithful, unkind. If your love ever turns away from me, I will be stuck here at the end of world with naught but sea bears and ice hounds to comfort me."

The North Wind sat on his throne and regarded you with eyes old as the mountains. In his own hall, in his own country, he did not seem like a man who could easily be tricked. Still, you tried. You let your hands drift across his cheeks and up his thighs, let his skin bask in the warmth of your touch.

"Grant me this, husband. And I will be yours for eternity."

Was it lust or love that made him hand you a knife and bid you cut out his heart? He guided your hand to the tender spot between his ribs and the bare skin of his chest almost made your reconsider.

The blade was carved out of whalebone and moonlight and he was bleeding before you even pressed down. You thought of your brother, drowned in the ice so far from home and found the strength to slice into him.

The blood that welled up from his chest was thick and black as oil. Where it touched your skin, hoatfrost bloomed.

He didn't seem to feel any pain - he only pulled you higher up his lap and watched the guilt and horror flicker across your face.

When the cut was deep enough, you pushed your hand into his chest and felt for his heart. His organs were colder even than his skin and it felt like you'd sunk your hands into snow.

The beating of his heart mirrored yours and when you finally grabbed it, the thrumming of his blood sounded just like your own.

You held the North Wind's heart in your hand and pulled it from his chest.

All at once, in all the countless winter kingdoms, the wind stopped howling and the snow grew still.

His heart was the size of your palm and oozed icy blood over your fingers. It was so cold that at first you didn't realise the numbness in your hand was spreading. It crawled up your arm like a burning frost and locked your bones in place.

You couldn't drop his heart even if you tried.

The North Wind looked at you with an indulgent, amused smile. And when the ice reached your heart he leaned up and kissed you.

He kissed you and for once his lips felt warm, felt human. Dimly, you realised it wasn't him who was getting warmer, it was you who was freezing over. Becoming a thing of ice and hunger as he was.

"Now you need never fear I will abandon you." The North Wind ran his hands up your sides and warmth bloomed in his wake.

"Now you can control the wind as I do and ride it to the furthest reaches of the world. You can swim with the sea bears and dance with the witches."

You looked down and realised his heart was almost gone, melted into your bones and blood.

He kissed you again. "My love, you are as free as the wind."

It wasn't until then that you realised the cost of freedom. The cost of having the North Wind's heart. And when he drew you up in his arms and lead you to your wedding bed, you were too cold to turn him away.

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 18 "Universe"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: This chapter is dedicated to the quantum spirits.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 5k

A/N: It's a Christmas miracle! 🎄 The final chapter is ready just in time. And, my God, I'm so emotional about it 😭 It hurts to let it go.

After finishing this chapter, you might want to re-read a certain part of a certain other chapter, because of reasons 🤭

If there ever pops up a 19th "chapter", don't be surprised! If it happens, it's going to be a bit of art for this fic 💖💖💖

My biggest thank you goes to @/ClockworkSiren, once again, for beta reading this whole thing and letting me borrow our lovely babies Alyth and Michael and turn them into Lilia and Mikhail ❤️😭

Reposted from my Ao3💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter

"So, this is it?" She gazes out the window, engines rumbling under their seats. "The Maldives of Giedi Prime?"

"What was that, darling?" Feyd's hand is heavy on her knee, the coolness of his wedding band seeping pleasantly through her gown. His bald head thuds softly against the back panel as he follows her gaze.

The black, oily waves of the svart valta lick at the pale coast of the peninsula below. White sand stretches between tall, chalky cliffs that stand out of the landscape like the unearthed bones of an ancient beast. According to her interface, they're still 150 meters above the ground.

"The Maldives," the relic mutters pensively. "They were an archipelago on Earth, a popular honeymoon destination. Never been there. They were flooded around the time I was born."

"Honeymoon," Feyd repeats the foreign word that lacks a proper translation in Galach, but with the individual words grafted together, it sounds cute. He likes it. "M'gonna drink your honey as soon as we touch down. Until the moon comes out?"

His wife snickers warmly and her breath fogs up the window. Feyd's hand slides to the inside of her thigh, squeezing the soft flesh above her knee.

"Not if I drink yours first," she teases, though her musing gaze remains on the lurid landscape below, abyssal wave hungrily trying to scorch the peninsula of Telkel. From the tasu aurinkosesti, they had flown east to reach one of the most remote Harkonnen settlements on Giedi Prime. Looking at the undulating mass of radiation, she wonders: "What color do you think it'd have under a yellow sun?"

"Don't know," Feyd hums. "You're the scientist. Green, maybe? Or brown."

He had explained to her earlier that the settlers had tried to reintroduce fish to the sea here in Telkel. The giant, corroding basins along the shore remain, but their filter systems have been shut off for decades. To cultivate fish that can not only survive but thrive in the heavily polluted waters would take some serious scientific effort that the late Baron Harkonnen didn't think promising enough to chip his budget for.

"We could have gone to Lankiveil," his woman briefly pouts, though her eyes betray her fascination as the village below increases in size. "I would die to dip my toes into an ocean without having them singed off. Or for some fresh air and a walk among pines. I never had much of that on Earth either."

Feyd hums, contorting his torso to press his cheek against hers as they both gaze out of the same window. Long, pale fingers play along her ribs. "The waters on Lankiveil would freeze your toes off, but… We'll go there," he promises with a low whisper. "Or any other planet you want. The universe is practically ours now." 

Practically. Perhaps after a week of writhing on top of each other in damp sheets, their thirst for revenge will return.

The conversation between Feyd and his brother after the ceremony had been brief, but Glossu had formally invited the both of them to Lankiveil, the snowy, tranquil home of Feyd's early childhood and a place full of emotional debris. But he would rather not elbow his way through the wreckage on their honeymoon.

The aircraft touches down on a bleak landing pad between low buildings that look like matchboxes among the unforgiving landscape. A small committee of a dozen Telkelis awaits the daunting visitors from Barony, their massive aircraft ink-black and shiny, factory new, among the dusty grey architecture and pale hills. The sharp wind of rotor blades makes the Telkelis' drab trousers whip around their legs.

Lilia quickly maneuvers to the other side of the passengers' cabin after prying the hem of her Lady's travel mantle out of Glugo's many finger-toes. The garment has the same functionality as her wedding down, but simpler and more practical.

"You'll get your plushies back when we're inside," the handmaid tries to soothe the wistfully glugging creature. "They're in the suitcase— Oh! Not that one."

But Glugo has already wrapped four out of eight hand-feet around the handle of Mikhail's personal suitcase that the guard had refused to deposit in the cargo department because old habits die hard. As a former resident of the slums of Ganpolis, he prefers to have his belongings where he can see them.

Feyd-Rautha clicks his tongue while Lilia helps his wife into the shiny mantle and gloves, concealing her from head to toes.

Outside, scalding wind carries the sound of distant, crashing waves and the scent of bitter salt. The relic has to hold onto her husband's arm as she sways on the iron footsteps of the aircraft. Behind them, guards spill out of the second cabin, half of them heading straight to the cargo compartment where her cryo pod is stored. She is quite like Mikhail in that regard. 

The committee bravely keeps a stoic face and  doesn't flinch at the disturbingly cute sight of an eight-arm-legged creature toiling away with a too heavy suitcase and refusing a desperate guard's help.

Leaning towards his wife, Mikhail whispers: "My chair's inside that thing!"

Feyd's nostrils flare as he struts towards the gathered dozen with heavy, leisured steps, clutching the hand of his wife. His other hand lifts to shield himself against the glaring sun and the tip of his thumb subconsciously slides against his ear where an inconspicuous black button pierces his antihelix. To the unsuspecting eye, it looks not too different from a regular transponder with an unconventional placement, but what it really contains is a tiny loudspeaker and a chip with just enough memory to run the script that detects the voice.

"Welcome to Telkel, my Lord, my Lady." The committee bends their knees and salutes. The clumsy tension in their limbs gives away that they didn't have to salute to authority often in their lives out here in the godforsaken wilderness.

"Thank you for having us."

If it weren't the young Baron's very own raspy drawl speaking, the Mayor of Telkel would have never believed that 'thank you' would be the first words coming out of Feyd's mouth. The Mayor's daughter had cried in the morning, certain that Feyd-Rautha would behead her father for something as mundane as the driveway to the villa being too crooked or the bad condition of the weather-beaten landing pad.

"It's an honor. The entire village is ecstatic, my Lord." Still hunkering down on one knee, the man's smooth brows suddenly shoot up in horror. "Congratulations!" He blurts. "On your marriage!" He'd meant to say this in the very beginning. Helplessly, his pale eyes snap from Baron to Baroness.

"Thank you," the Lady speaks from behind the curious veil and her voice sounds kind and human. "Why don't you stand up. Don't hurt your knees."

Feyd-Rautha casts a threatening glance at Mikhail, so the guard doesn't blurt out that 'the Lady could print y'all some chairs.'

The Mayor and his people shuffle, straightening their bodies into the sharp wind.

"Oh, my Lady, our knees and backs are used to it." The older man points a scarred thumb behind his shoulder, where the inkvine plantations are beyond the village border. This is how Telkel gets by now, hovering over the maws of poverty at the whims of Giedi Prime's rocky soil and erratic volcanoes.

The Lady lets out a sympathetic sound and the Mayor can't help himself. The next words just come tumbling out. "It'd be an honor to show you around the plantations and the old basins, if you'd like. Never seen them in action, but my father did. For a year or so, they had a relatively stable population of Tilapia in there."

"I'd love to see them. Actually, if I could have some water samples, maybe I could—"

"Not now, sweetling," Feyd's grating voice chastises and he squeezes his wife's gloved hand, compressing her wedding ring between her fingers. "The villa is prepared?"

"Yes, my Lord. The maids and workers you sent have been very thorough. Radiation-proof window panes, fresh paint. Even got some imported plants. My daughter picked them." The renovated villa is now considerably more homely than the Mayor's own residence. "Shall we head there?"

Despite its forlorn ugliness, the relic finds Telkel and its grey, flat buildings among chalky hills oddly charming. Even if she'll be covered from crown to toe in her lead-painted mantle, she swears she will go to the beach — if Feyd lets her out of the bedroom — and feel the sand underfoot, hear the massive waves trying to swallow the shore. Compared to Barony and the roiling industrial trenches that stretch across most of the northern hemisphere, this is a natural paradise.

"Guess we won't be seeing ya for a while, eh?" Mikhail leers, freshly painted teeth brilliant in the glaring sun as he leans lopsidedly against the grey pillar of the villa's roofed porch. Lilia harshly pinches his side, between the plates of his armor, but the apples of her cheeks round up with laughter. Sometimes it still scares her how openly her husband jests with Feyd-Rautha, a man who used to be known first and foremost for his quick blades and unstable outbursts.

The welcome committee has left them ten minutes ago and the guards currently come shuffling out of the building, having deposited the Baroness' priceless sarcophagus in the room adjacent to their honeymoon suite.

"You may join us for meals," Feyd concedes, grinning.

"Meals as in…?" Mikhail cocks a hairless brow.

"Oh, absolutely not!" The relic gasps and her guard breaks into raspy laughter, lungs expanding in crunchy hops.

"Dun' worry. I wouldn't share my woman anyways. Not even with you, m'Lord. Aight then, see ya in a week, eh?"

Wiry arms curl around Lilia's thighs and the scrawny guard hauls his wife quite easily over his shoulder. She calls him a prat between giggles, and a mongrel, but Mikhail already makes a sprinting beeline for Glugo who still stubbornly drags his suitcase down the freshly paved pathway to the guest house.

"They'll be fine," Feyd-Rautha soothes his wife's veiled, lingering glance. "Look at me." His gravelly timbre demands for her undivided attention and her eyes follow his magnetic pull.

Pale fingers sprawl across her sternum, urging her backwards. Even through the lead-painted layers, she feels his possessive touch singe her skin and bones. Unwittingly, her feet pass the threshold of their holiday abode and the door closes at her husband's back.

Inside, silence embraces them. This place is only for them, where they need to be nothing but lovers. Color provided by golden glow globes fades into Feyd's pallor, the softest notes of pink on cheeks and lips, and blue framed by dark blonde lashes. 

The building is brutalist in its arches and pillars, but less suffocating than the palace. The welcoming range of non-colors and sharp angles creates actual depth and contrast, not like the bulbous pyramid interior that reminds of  a termite burrow, or the innards of a giant insect. Bright daylight streams through the thick windows, fading into glowglobe haze.

Something about this place evokes… Nostalgia.

"You're blushing, husband," she teases, though her hammering heart under his palm betrays her own butterflies.

"Off with that thing." Feyd-Rautha has already mapped out the buckles that keep her mantle fastened and strips it off her frame quicker than she would have ever managed. Her gloves land on the same shiny pile and she hooks her bare fingers into Feyd's belt loops, turning her husband around his tall axis to walk him up the curved stairs. Those pretty eyes could eat her alive, oozing lust like blue honey.

Neither of them take note of the gentle, green fern that line the staircase in tasteful pots.

"Off with that thing." The woman's fingers glide under Feyd's lapels and over his smooth shoulders, slipping his ornamental jacket off his arms. The expensive garment flutters over the banister and he remains in a sleeveless tunic and trousers.

"So, now that you're my wife, will you stop taking that potion?" Feyd leers at her stomach once they've reached the top, his tone playful. The hand that lunges to smack him atop the head is one that he had predicted, and so he dodges it masterfully and dances behind her. Hard, strong arms curl around her middle, lifting her off the ground until she breaks into gasping giggles and demands to be let down with kicking feet. The hem of her gown slides up her shins.

Feyd grins, feeling the plushness of her breasts against his forearms. "What a rare pleasure to have you in a gown, my darling" he purrs.

"For this special occasion, I thought I might as well," she huffs with laughter, accepting her airborne fate.

"I like it. It's practical."

"Practical for you, not for me."

The garment is a classic cut worn by Harkonnen noblewomen, flattering and intricate in the way it curls around her bosom and hips in obsidian black, nothing like the stiff latex and see-through plastic of the former Baron's palace servants.

"Don't worry, you won't have to wear it for the rest of the week, my darling. You'll wear nothing but sweat and cum on your pretty skin. Or maybe some blood. I didn't bring a coffer full of toys for nothing."

"I hope some of them are for you."

"More than you'd think," he purrs, pink lips pressing against her neck. "And some of the blood will be mine."

"Oh? We could start now." The woman twists out of his grasp, turning and grasping his lapels. Her lips find the crescent scar on his clavicle, pretending to delve for a kiss when she really pinches the thin layer of skin over the bone between her teeth. Feyd grunts, shamelessly pressing his confined erection against her navel.

"Let's go, my darling." He seizes her hand, his whole universe, and opens the door.

🎶🎶🎶

"Look, doesn't this remind you of something?" His wife's voice whispers to him excitedly and Feyd-Rautha tilts his head, brows furrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"Look!" Her ringed hand slides out of his grip and he chases after it viscerally, nearly overwhelmed by the sudden discomfort of having no soft palm against his own. She shouldn't be slipping away from him at all on their honeymoon.

But then, recognition carves into him, serrated blades that tear his guts open with a monstrous sense of deja vu. His head spins as he advances into the room.

Feyd's feet step on polished parquet and his gaze swivels around, scanning the surroundings which he thought he would never see again. There are white curtains fluttering by the window, a king-sized bed carved out of white marble, a black comforter tucked around the mattress and blue pillows are lined up against the headboard. A real fern grows in a terracotta pot in the corner.

Horrified, Feyd's head snaps back to his woman, suddenly recognizing the  Harkonnen gown wrapped around her curves. He finds her eyes brimming with meaning. 

She clutches his wrist hard, nails digging into tender skin, and it is like some sense of frantic, mutual understanding settles upon wife and husband. Her features soften and she looks at him, seemingly confused.

"I don't recognize this place," he lies. His heart clamors like a captive beast.

"Me neither." She pulls her hand away and takes a step back, her cheeks hot and her head dizzy as the universe's mysterious gears rotate around them. But she masks it well.

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Feyd rumbles, tracing his fingertips over the cool, smooth marble bedpost. It feels so real. It is real and always has been real.

"I don't know. I feel so awake." 

A flash of warmth blossoms in Feyd-Rautha's chest as he regards the woman he has seen so many times before, in visions and reality. Curiously, she moves around the light-flooded bedroom. Sunlight filters through the curtains, temporarily robbing her flesh of color. A frown decorates her brows and she turns back to face him. Years of comfort reside in the way she moves and Feyd chases after her with measured steps.

"What's your name?" He asks. She tells him only a forename, no House, because she has none, unfamiliar sounding, because the name was given to her 24,000 years ago. "I've never heard that name before," Feyd confesses, standing mere inches away from his wife. Her pretty face is craned upwards to meet the alluring gaze of his eyes. She would describe the color as baby blue. The prettiest shade in the world.

"And what's your name?" She breathes. No matter what this is, she has no reason to be nervous. It already happened.

He hesitates at that. Feyd-Rautha Rabban. But ultimately, he stays true to the script. "Feyd." 

The name sparks no judgment on the woman's features and he remembers the flood of immense, stupid relief and how he had concluded that there is probably more than one person in the universe named Feyd, that Harkonnens all look the same to foreigners. To talk to a person who only knows Feyd, not Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had been his lifeline out of the gluttonous maws of death.

"Feyd," she repeats, suddenly giggling.

He too is in the mood for giggling, but he didn't giggle then, so he doesn't giggle now. Feyd leans an inch closer, eyes rapidly dancing across her mirthful face.

"Feyd as in you will fade away when I wake up?" She covers her mouth now, still laughing. Something compels him to laugh as well because all things considered, this is still a funny joke, even though neither of them will wake up. 

Or will they?

No. No, they won't.

The pressure against the apples of his cheeks doesn't feel so unfamiliar anymore, as the corners of his mouth lift into a wide grin. His lips part and what escapes him is a small haha.

Suddenly, the woman flinches and her smile drops. Perhaps she had the same thought as he did. She catches herself quickly and remembers: "Sorry! I just—"

"What? Oh, the black teeth? People usually find them very pretty where I'm from, desirable even.” Feyd closes his mouth. He's still unsure if laughter suits him, but his woman seems to like it. Always has.

"Oh, no, please keep laughing!" She wraps her hand around Feyd's wrist. So smooth, every part of him. She wants to curl against his body and rub her cheek against his pallid flesh. Even now, his features are still outlandish to her, strikingly pretty. The pale skin, so light that it almost looks translucent, the entirely bald head and lack of brows.

She should have always known that he's not a figment of her imagination, because she couldn't have imagined someone so pretty.

Encouraged by her touch, Feyd smiles once more and it has never been easier. It feels so good. He looks away from his woman who still holds his wrist and finds a mirror on the far wall. He looks foreign to himself, his cheeks not in the right place, but he's gotten more used to it.

"If I pinch you, will you wake up?" She teases, pinching his skin without waiting for his answer. She seems fascinated by the small blotch which decorates his wrist where she poked him with her nail, twisting and turning his wrist and hand like he's an interesting specimen. Of course she would look at him like that — his little scientist, life saver, love of his life.

Even though this is not a lucid dream, Feyd knows he doesn't have to worry about what he does, not with her. She has loved even the most unlovable parts of him. He feels compelled to do things he would have never done before her, such as dismantling the walls around his soul with laughter.

Even though this is not a lucid dream, she knows she doesn't have to worry about what she does, not with him. She also feels compelled to do things she would have never done before him. Such as getting married to the apocalyptic soundscape of an erupting volcano and adopting a lovely freak of immoral genetic engineering.

"So, Feyd…" She purrs his name like an exotic, amusing thing. "What would you like to do?"

Feyd pretends to be taken aback by the question, because no one ever used to ask him that. Not like that. "What would you like to do?" He coos, slinking closer with rolling gait and a small smirk on his serpentine features. He knows the way her pupils dilate well.

"There's a bed in the room, so…"

Feyd leers, smile turning wolfish. Yes, he will fuck his wife senseless. He might even fuck her so good that his own climax jostles him awake and out of whatever the fuck this bizarre simulation is. Which, upon second thought, would ruin his life.

She speaks again, moving her lips closer to his, pretty lashes lowering so they almost kiss her cheek bones "...So perhaps that means we should sleep."

Feyd acts baffled, then rumbles: "I won't sleep in my sleep."

"I meant sleeping with each other."

Of course she did. Feyd's hairless brows shoot up and something light flutters in his stomach when she starts giggling again, attempting to turn away as if suddenly bashful about her own words.

"To the bed, you confusing woman," he orders with a low growl and there is not even an ounce of resistance when his hands wrap around his wife's shoulders, nudging her backwards, so her knees bend around the mattress of their honeymoon bed and she sinks down.

Her husband's face hovers directly over her and she admires the dip of his cupid's bow and the soft curve of his jaws. So pretty. She reaches up and cups his cheek and the way his bone structure slots against her palms feels just right, always has.

Feyd pounces on her like a tiger and the strength and weight of the hard muscles concealed by a black tunic and slacks becomes evident. Heat pools into her abdomen instantly, caged under the man of and from her dreams who is made of flesh and blood, smells like it too. A familiar note of something leathery and metallic clings to him.

There is no need for a prelude, because they've loved each other a thousand times, in the past and the future. Feyd's lips kiss her decolletage before they find her throat and by the time they've found her lips, the hard ridge of his cock is pressed against her core which is only covered by the fabric of her dress, ridiculously easy to access.

Practical for him, as he said.

Why not, she thinks. It's not like the world is going to come collapsing down on them. Right?

Why not, he thinks. Even if the world comes collapsing down on them when they're done, it would be worth it.

Her hands curl around the back of his head gently and Feyd wants to weep at how soft her touch is, almost like she's worried of hurting him. He loves her nails in his scalp as much as he loves the loving dance of her fingertips.

She rolls her hips against his pelvis, ever amazed how hard his body is. A small grunt escapes her husband's mouth and mingles with the sloppy kiss which is all soft lips and saliva, leaving her open-mouthed and softly moaning for more as her core yearns for friction.

Feyd-Rautha is ever amazed by how soft and pliant her body is, breasts and stomach like a pillow for him to snuggle. And her little cunt is already grinding against his crotch. Under different circumstances, he might have had his fun right away, but that's his wife and her squirming hips are too tempting not to spoil her rotten before he fucks her. He reaches down, long fingers gliding up the curve of her thigh where the dress has pooled around her hips. Instinctively, her leg curls up higher, knee pressing against his ribs. Feyd works her underwear halfway off her rear, needing to get up to slide it off fully.

"If this is a lucid dream, I should be able to make myself wet with a thought," she muses as Feyd scoots down and freezes halfway, before he can settle down between her thighs, hard cock straining against his trousers.

The brief moment of hesitation is all it takes to throw him off the track of time that has carved its way through the universe.

"But it's not a lucid dream. They were visions all along, weren't they?" Feyd blurts, deviating from God's wicked script. For a moment, they both stare at each other in terror, as if expecting the universe to disintegrate and crush their souls into one smoldering singularity in space-time. 

But nothing happens.

Nothing at all.

The relic shuffles up slowly, tugging her dress down her legs and sitting back on her haunches.

"What is going on?" Feyd hisses, scared that the quantum spirits in the walls are listening. "What the fuck was that?"

He has never been so grateful to see the spark of knowledge in her eyes.

"That was our past, present and future."

"So, are we in a— a fucking time loop? Are we gonna wake up and go through hell again? Will I have to wait another eternity for the Guild to pluck you out of space?!"

"No!" She curls her arms around his shoulders and lays her forehead against his. No, my love… But it is a loop of sorts." Rapt fingertips glide slowly to the crescent scar on Feyd's pallid clavicle, inflicted by herself a few months back, first noticed by her 24,000 years ago, when Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen was not even a spark among the stars. "We could have never ended up together if we hadn't already seen us be together in the past, but what we really saw back then was our future. Weren't we the greatest actors? We were so good, we convinced even ourselves."

The terrible, beautiful Ouroboros has finally come to devour its own, cosmic tail and a shudder of awe passes through the two souls who straddle the starry serpent's undulating neck. From the macroscopic cosmos to the microscopic one within their bodies, it makes even their molecules tremble, even the quantum particles that make up the endless void of every ounce of matter, every brain, every soul.

"But I messed it up," Feyd insists. "I said the wrong thing. Why didn't we see ourselves having this conversation during our first dream? Why didn't we wear our wedding rings then?"

"There's never just one future." She kisses him on the lips, stealing his anxious breath for but a moment.

"How many?"

"Many." The engineer laughs, hands trailing up Feyd's neck to cradle his jaws. Panic fades from his gaze and flows into blue-eyed petulance. "Are your scientists aware of the many-worlds-theory?"

"Do I look like I know?" Strong hands hold his wife's face in a gentle vise.

"In quantum physics, a particle always has two states at once until it is observed. Then, its waveform collapses and it becomes one of the two states. But what happens to the other state?" She pauses, closing her eyes. "It exists too, but in another world. That is the many-worlds-theory.

With every decision we make, every beat of a butterfly's wing, every quiver of a molecule brushing against another, a new world branches off. That makes a tree with infinite branches or a delta with infinite rivers, rolling onwards and onwards since the birth of the first atom. Among this… infinity—" Her breath shudders in trembling reverence. "—there are branches in which we said it just right, because we knew what to say. Branches in which we saw exactly this conversation, or never found each other at all."

"So, why are we in this one where every vision of us acting was aligned perfectly? How probable is that?"

"As probable as any other nexus of visions. One infinity can't be bigger or smaller than another." A small smile plays around her lips. "Some say, the entire universe in itself is a simulation. For all we know, we could just be figments of someone's imagination, or pixels on a computer screen. Perhaps it would have been a less exciting story to tell, if it happened any other way."

The relic briefly turns her head to look at you — yes, you — quantum spirit in the walls.

"And why us?"

She is so happy that her husband's spark for science has finally been ignited, even if just for a few heartbeats — or a few beats of a butterfly's wings.

"When I was with the Bene Gesserit, they called it prescience. They said it's genetic and that my genes allowed me to survive millennia in cryo sleep." She sighs with bitterness. "If my own family has an aberrant sequence in our DNA, we might as well be the ancestors of— of everyone versed in prescience."

And the cause for so much suffering. 

Feyd sees it in her eyes, that flame of intrigue followed by the need to explore and sink into the inland empire of her mind and the ancient technology that's fused with her, a place where he can't follow. So, he tilts her face upwards in both loving hands and kisses her hard before breaking away with a coy grin.

"Are you saying you're my great great great aunt?"

"Yeah!" She blurts out laughing. "I think I am."

Giggling, she goes back in, throws her arms around Feyd's neck and topples him on his back, tangling her legs with his like their threads of fate.

In their angry daydreams, they have pictured themselves in red and gold as the king and queen of a new, better empire, handing out guns and bombs to the revolution.

But in their hearts, they're just a girl and a boy. An astronaut lost in space and a man who has yet to discover his destiny beyond being the unwilling prince of a noble House.

From now on, their future is theirs, and despite all the rights and wrongs, it boils down to a single question.

What do they want? A war to make the universe anew as they see fit? Or maybe just a universe as big as they are. Maybe just—

Peace.

Caught in the riptide I was searching for the truth There was a reason I collided into you Calling your name in the midnight hour Reaching for you from the endless dream So many miles between us then Now you are always here with me Nobody knows (nobody knows) why (why) Nobody knows how, and This feeling begins just like a spark Tossing and turning inside of your heart Exploding in the dark Calling your name in the midnight hour Reaching for you from the endless dream So many miles between us then Now you are always here with me Oh, inside me I find my way Back to you, back to you Calling your name in the midnight hour Reaching for you from the endless dream So many miles between us then Now you are always here with me Two words In your hands, in your heart It′s one (whole) universe You are always here with me

- Here With Me (Two Worlds) by Susie Suh

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

A/N: Thank you from the bottom of my heart for accompanying me on this writing journey ❤️ I'm a little heartbroken that it's over 😭 I had expected to be more relieved, but I'm actually so sad right now. Proud and happy but sad 😭 

If you enjoyed reading this labor of love of mine, please do let me know in a comment, if you can find the time 🫶🏻 No matter if you have or haven't commented before, I'm going to be so grateful about every thought, every reaction. Comments are genuinely the most rewarding thing when publishing my stories, much more so than hits and kudos, because fanfics (in my opinion) are to be relished and not consumed  🫶🏻

I'm not ready to say goodbye to the Dune universe. I have more stories in mind. The idea that I've been mulling over would be the largest, longest and most complex work that I've ever written. I'm talking about heavy world building, an entirely original planet and population, a much more depraved Feyd-Rautha and female protagonist. I've already been teetering at the border of an OC with the reader character in this one. For the next one, I would cross that line for the first time and go for an OC, make the FMC as fleshed out as Feyd is. The story would have a heavy emphasis on religion, corruption kink and cannibalism. It'd be a dove that's almost dead. Basically, all the world building would be my excuse to write deranged, blasphemous, messy smut. It definitely wouldn't be everyone's cup of tea. However, I wouldn't wanna start posting before I've written the entire thing, which might take a long time, so as not to put too much pressure on myself. Can't disappoint anyone if I'm only writing for myself for the time being ❤️

I also have a smutty F/M/M threesome oneshot cooking in my brain, one of the men being Feyd, the other being a surprise 🤭

Annndd I also have two other Feyd oneshots (that have been on ao3 for ages) to upload here, which I'll probably do within the next weeks.

If any of this sounds like something you'd enjoy, feel free to subscribe to me as an author on ao3 to receive email notifications, or follow me here on Tumblr 🫶🏻 I would be so happy to see you again, all of you 💕

[streamafterlaughter]

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter XI: Be Alone With Me

masterlist | playlist | pinboard | prev. | read on ao3 | diaries coming soon

songs: don’t speak by born without bones, be alone by paramore

chapter tags: slight angst, slight hurt/comfort, reconnections, enemies to friends, slight fluff i guess? | fic tags: angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | This fic is rated 18+ MDNI each chapter will have its own content/trigger warnings

summary: you take a chance on something you’d believed was long gone.

a/n: sorry i’m late! this one’s a little bit of everything. you can now also read on Ao3!

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites. Unless otherwise stated, my tumblr and ao3 are the only account that feature and contain this work, and any replication was done without my consent. Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere.

taglist @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality @munsonburn3r

—

You stare at the screen, cursor blinking in the text box. You’ve been stuck here for about twenty minutes now, typing and deleting words that all make you cringe. It’s unclear why you’re suddenly so nervous, once having nothing to fear when you texted this number. It hurts your heart, the way things change. Finally, you decide to keep it simple.

hi.

He’s typing before you can even exit the app.

Eddie (block later): hi?

> hi…?

Eddie (block later): to what do i owe the pleasure?

> was wondering if you wanted to get coffee or something today.

Eddie (block later): am i being punk’d?

> is it 2004?

Eddie (block later): no…

there’s your answer. pete’s? in an hour?

Eddie (block later): i mean, yeah, of course.

> cool.

You lock your phone and toss it down on your bed, flopping back into the pillows, feeling your skin burn as you think about Eddie, probably sitting in his own bed, eyebrow cocked as he reads your messages, confused as all hell. That makes two of you, having bamboozled yourself with the sudden surge of courage. You suppose you owe him at least the chance to redeem himself, you’re too old to be holding this long of a grudge.

You pull yourself from the bed, drifting hesitantly over to your closet to find an outfit. You dig through your clothes, panic coursing in your veins until you stop to breathe. This is not a date, you remind yourself. This is coffee, with an estranged acquaintance. Nothing more. You pick out one of your favorite t-shirts, the band logo almost illegible, and a pair of high waisted jeans that you secure with a leather belt. You slip on a pair of shoes and grab your old leather jacket, refusing to acknowledge that you probably wouldn’t have worn it if it weren’t Eddie you were meeting up with. The plan is to slip out the door unseen, but for some reason Chris has risen before noon today, and is sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal placed precariously in his lap.

“Where are you off to, all dressed up?”

You look down at your clothing. “I’m not dressed up. Am I?”

Chris shrugs. “You gotta date or something?”

Shit. “No, I’m going to grab coffee. With Eddie.” You’re fifteen again, lying to your brother about going out to the quarries to smoke with your burn out friends. Only this time, Chris isn’t looking at you with his big brother face, just a teasing smirk on his lips.

“Okay… Have fun.” He turns back to the television, as if you’ve told him you’re going grocery shopping.

“What, no interrogation? No borderline invasive lines of questioning?”

He shrugs, not even bothering to turn back around. “That’ll come when you get back, I assume.”

You roll your eyes at the back of your brother’s head. “Okay, whatever! Bye!” You fling the door open and pull yourself over the threshold before you lose your nerve.

–

Pete’s Cafe is what the oldheads of Hawkins would describe as the Hippie Hang out. Its walls are covered in local artists’ work, with their prices scribbled on sticky notes taped next to them. The room holds a couple mismatched couches, along with plenty of rickety wooden chairs and tables to eat and chat at. The menu is written across a few black boards in multi colored chalk, all with catchy names and gluten, dairy, or nut free alternatives. There’s a small stage by the window that is only ever occupied every other Wednesday of the month for poetry open mics, a few of which you’d participated in in high school. It may be tacky, but this place has been a comfort to you since you were a teenager, finding solace in the peanut butter and banana toast and insanely bitter coffee.

You spot Eddie in a corner, already sipping on what looks like a black iced coffee, and you make your way over to him.

“Needed your fix that bad, huh? Couldn’t wait for me?”

Eddie beams at you, causing you to falter for half a second as you sit down across from him. “Told ‘em to look out for the pretty girl in the hardcore band t-shirt, ordered for you already.” As if he’d planned it, the barista brings another drink over as you recover from him calling you pretty. “Iced caramel, oat milk and two sugar.” She smiles brightly at you and Eddie before turning on her heel. “That still your order?”

You stab the straw into the plastic lid, taking a gulp to stifle your nerves before nodding. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t seem to believe.” Eddie plucks a scone from the plate between you. “Although now, I think it’s my turn to be in disbelief.”

“Why’s that?” You’d never been good at playing coy, voice shaking with every word that leaves your mouth.

“Well, uh. I don’t wanna sound rude or anything because, really, I’m glad to be here. But, uh, why are we here?”

You ponder the question, straw stuck in the corner of your mouth. “Does there have to be a reason?”

Eddie gapes at you, scone abandoned on his napkin. “Well, yeah, kinda. With our long, convoluted history and everything, it leaves a fella confused.”

“You’re tellin’ me. I spent six years hating you for ratting on my brother only for it all to have been for nothing.”

“And I am, like, really sorry–”

You raise your hand to cut him off. “Not right now. This is me, extending the olive branch. Let’s see how this goes first before we get into the touchy feely stuff, okay? I don’t wanna get my hopes up.”

Eddie nods, surrendering. “Okay, fine. How do you propose we make up for lost time, then?”

–

“Look, I know you broke your rule once, I don’t wanna make you break it again, but I did get some really nice stuff from Rick yesterday, and I feel like it would go to waste if I smoked it by myself.” Eddie yaps away as he fumbles for his apartment key. After failing to find a place to go, you’d resigned to returning to his house without much thought. You can feel your palms clam up as you step inside, taking in your surroundings.

You hadn’t been to Eddie’s apartment yet. The last time you’d visited him, Eddie’s dwelling was his uncle’s trailer in Forest Hills, a room at the end of a tiny hallway cluttered with posters of metal bands and old Corroded Coffin fliers on the walls. This place has the same aura, but is very clearly a more adult version. The posters and fliers on his walls are framed, the TV a reasonable size placed on a table against a far wall, the couch draped in soft, fluffy blankets. In one corner, a black ball of fur purrs in its sleep.

“Oh, my god. Who is that?” You practically squeal, pointing to the pile of fuzz.

“That’s Ethel, she’s very sweet.” At the sound of Eddie’s voice, the cat’s head pokes out from where it was tucked into her legs. “Hi, baby!” Eddie greets the animal with a scratch under her chin, and she closes her eyes and rubs her head against his hand.

“She’s so cute. I didn’t know you liked cats.”

“One day, you’ll have to accept the fact that you don’t know much about me at all, Bee.” Eddie sits next to you on the couch, leg brushing your own as he lifts Ethel into his lap.

“Yeah, you might be right.” You sigh, distracted by the soft, warm kitten in Eddie’s lap. You scratch behind her ear, and she purrs dramatically as she nuzzles into your touch. “Anything else you care to tell me before I discover it myself?”

Eddie pretends to think about the question. “Depends on what you wanna know, I guess.”

“Right now, I just wanna know what that weed feels like.” You stifle a giggle, and Eddie’s smile widens.

“Really?”

You shrug. “Seems I’m breaking a lot of my own rules lately.”

–

You can’t help it, Chris’s words repeating in your head like a broken record. Eddie’s a good guy.

Your guard is up, sure, but you’re starting to see what he’s saying. You and Eddie are on his patio, sitting across from each other as a joint is passed back and forth. So far, you can’t argue with the sentiment. Eddie has been nothing but friendly, and that leaves you dumbfounded. You’re used to spitting half assed insults back and forth, never having a productive conversation. Today, though, you’ve learned that Eddie loves cats, lives alone, and collects vintage mugs from thrift stores. You’ve indulged him as well, telling him about your time in New York, the poetry book you’re writing, and the indie artist you found on Bandcamp last month. You’ve run out of small talk, though as you snub out the roach in the crystal ashtray.

“So, uh,” Eddie clears his throat, sitting back in the creaky patio chair. “Why’d you actually wanna hang out with me?”

You tilt your head at his words. “You really aren’t gonna let this go, are ya?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m still not convinced this is some kind of cruel prank. I have a hard time believing you’re that quick to forgive someone. In fact, I know you’re not. It’s been years since we’ve hung out alone.”

You sigh, mirroring his posture. “Usually, I’m not. You’re not fully out of the woods yet though, I’m still upset with you for not telling me the whole story. However, I also know that you had your reasons, and Chris had his for letting you do it. Of course it hurts, still. But it hurt worse to let you leave.” You feel the tears prickling in your eyes, and you swat them away, willing your voice not to crack. “We were best friends once. Told each other everything, did everything together. It wasn’t easy cutting you out of my life, Eddie, no matter how well I hid it. I missed you all the time. I thought I had finally gotten over it until you came back. You just showed back up into my life, no warning, you didn’t even call. That kind of thing is jarring, y’know?” Eddie frowns in the light of the setting sun, the golden hues of his eyes sparkling in the light. You take a breath before continuing, “I don’t think we can ever go back to the way things were. It’s too painful, pretending the last six years haven’t changed us entirely. But I want you in my life again. It's probably harder avoiding you anyway, when you’re still my brother’s best friend.” you laugh nervously, attempting to fill the silence he seems far too comfortable sitting in.

Finally, he nods. “Okay, I can live with that.”

You can’t help but let out a short, sharp “HA!” in response.

“What’s so funny?”

You scoff, head shaking in disbelief. “Even after all that, it’s not a big deal. You’re like,” You shrug mockingly, then put on your best Eddie impression. “‘That’s cool, that’s chill, no big.’”

“That is not what I sound like!”

“It so is! You should be bouncing off the walls with excitement that I’ve decided to give you another chance.”

“Oh, my apologies, your highness!” Eddie shoves out of his chair and skips in circles around you and the table. “Thank you, Princess Bee, for giving a layman like me another chance at life! You’ve spared me, and now my existence belongs to you! Anything you want, just say the word! I shall fall on my sword if you so desire!” He stops, hovering over you and in front of the sun, causing him to glow. You gulp. “Better?”

“Yes,” Your voice gives with your nerves, and you disguise it with a cough. “Much more acceptable.”

Eddie throws his head back, cackling, and you let your own laugh slip from your throat. “Seriously, though,” He eventually adds when he’s stopped laughing, and you turn to listen. “I’m glad you’re willing to talk to me again, and I really am sorry. You have no idea how hard it was to come back, seeing you after so long and not being able to fall back into our life from before. I missed you, Bee, so damn much. I thought about it every day, and I wish I had picked up the fucking phone. I couldn’t do that to you, though. I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me. I wasn’t even planning on staying here, I was gonna pack this place up and sell it.” He gestures inside to his apartment, which you now see is still half in boxes.

“What convinced you to stay?” You wonder aloud, feeling your eyelids grow heavy with the loss of the sun.

“Steve, actually.”

It jolts you awake. “What?”

“He told me you missed me. I didn’t believe him, though. He had no real proof, nothing that would convince a normal person. But it made me think about it, about what would happen if I left and he ended up being right. I couldn’t do that to you, and I especially couldn’t give Steve a reason to lecture me.” He chuckles, shaking his hair around as you digest his words.

“Did he convince you to tell me everything, too?”

“Nah, that was Chris. He feels bad enough for not telling you himself, I think he just wants to be in your good graces again. Which, knowing you, is gonna take a lot more than that.”

You smile at him. “Yeah, probably, but it’s definitely a start.” You glance out at the view below you, quiet in the fall of night, the temperature dropping steadily. “It’s getting kinda late. I should get going.” You stand, and Eddie rushes to open the screen door for you. “Thanks for having me over, Eddie. I had a good time.”

You could have sworn his cheeks had turned pink, but you brush it off as an effect of the cold. “Thanks for coming, Bee. I did too. I’ll see you later?” He says it like a question, like he’s unsure you’ll actually want to hang out again. But you nod, giving him a weak wave as you open his door, whispering one more “bye” before it latches behind you.

–

Your apartment is dark when you enter, and you assume Chris is working, or out with friends. You flick on the light switch, though, and shriek at the sight of your brother sitting at the kitchen counter, facing the door, posture far too straight for him.

“What the fuck, Chris?!” Your palm rests against your erratically beating heart as Chris’s composure breaks, face splitting into a grin as he laughs. “What are you doing?!”

“I was waiting for my little sister to come home. Do you have any idea what time it is?!” He crosses his arms over his chest, pretending to scold you.

“Oh, shut the hell up.” You close your door and place your keys on the hook beside it.

“I’m serious! I wanna know how it went!”

You roll your eyes, placing your bag on the counter. “It was fine, we just got coffee, hung out at his place for a while. Nothing dramatic, believe it or not.”

“I do not.” Chris stands, arms still crossed, to block the path to your room. “Tell me the truth.”

“Chris, you are not the one that gets to demand the truth, remember? Besides, I am. You can ask Eddie, nothing worth mentioning happened.”

“First of all, I will be getting the details from Ed regardless, so I’m giving you the chance to tell me what happened first. Secondly, your entire face is pink so there is obviously something you aren’t telling me. What happened?”

“Nothing! I met his cat, does that count?” You rub your cheeks, feeling their flush against your cold hands.

“Is that, like, a euphemism?”

“Ew, Chris, No.”

Your brother cackles, and you join him with a more nervous laughter. “Look, I don’t know if Eddie will say anything more compelling. We talked. He apologized. It was a nice time. That is all!”

“Uh huh, sure. We’ll see.”

You groan, finally pushing past him to get ready for bed. “You need to stop saying shit like that.”

From behind you, he calls, “There is always more to it with Eddie than you realize! Just you wait!”

You close your door on him, begging yourself not to let your brother’s cryptic warning get to you.

–

You wake up the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed, squinting at the sun streaming in through your blinds, tinting your room yellow. As you stretch, kicking the blanket from your body, you snatch your phone from its charger on your nightstand. On your screen are texts from your group chat with Robin and Steve, as well as one from Eddie that causes your stomach to flutter, for some reason. Ignoring that, you open the texts from the groupchat first.

Yesterday, 11:47 PM

stevie: I can’t believe it. You really did it.

bobbins: this is unforgivable

stevie: Disgraceful

bobbins: punishable by death

You type your response quickly:

Today, 9:05 AM

> please forgive me, i am only human. also, if u could fill me in on wtf ur talking about???

It takes a few minutes, but Robin responds,

u hung out with EDDIE and u didnt TELL US??

> rob, it has been less than 24 hours, at least let me breathe a little!

bobbins: that’s why im shocked! we had only just talked about it! i figured u were gonna wanna plan it out a little more!!!

Steve finally joins the conversation:

sorry, bee, we’re just in shock that you did it without like completely overthinking it. we were worried someone had replaced you with a bad imitation

You snort as you type your reply:

> how did u guys even find out already?

Minutes go by.

> ???

Finally, Steve caves:

He texted me when you left last night. I texted Robin.

You roll your eyes and jab the keyboard.

> i hate u both! look, if u want all the gory details, meet me at bennys in twenty.

They each reply with confirmation, and you roll out of bed to get ready for the day.

–

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

indigo!reader

❤︎❤︎❤︎

Without further ado: Saturn

She is the night sky incarnate—celestial, unknowable, and just a little bit cursed.

There’s a kind of ache to her beauty, like looking at the moon too long and feeling it pull at something buried deep in your chest. Saturn doesn’t walk into a room; she drifts in like smoke from a candle you didn’t realise had gone out. Her presence is quiet but devastating, like a storm building in the bones.

She smells like vanilla and firewood. Keeps a half-melted pack of blue M&M’s in every coat pocket. Has a collection of knives like other girls have lip gloss. Her fingers are always nicked. Her heart, too.

Her apartment is lit only by candles and constellations. There’s a galaxy map pinned to the wall above her bed, and every night, she traces the orbit of Saturn with ink-stained fingers like it’s the only truth she trusts. She says she feels safest under open skies, especially if they’re angry—thunder makes her feel alive. She doesn’t just like the beach at night, she belongs to it—sits barefoot in the cold sand, sugar between her teeth, daring the ocean to swallow her whole.

Her favourite band is Sleep Token. She listens like it’s scripture. And she kisses like she means to haunt you.

She believes in soulmates and slow destruction. In love that burns and scars and brands. She’s the kind of girl who’d rather die for something than live for nothing. Every poem she’s ever loved ends in blood. She doesn’t fear the dark. She is the dark.

She met Ben during a thunderstorm. She was sitting on a rooftop with her boots over the edge, eyes on the stars. He was bleeding—bad—dragging himself out of a botched op, high on rage and pain. She didn’t flinch when he showed up. Just offered him a half-empty bag of M&M’s and said, “You’re leaking all over my view.”

He blinked at her. Then laughed. The first real laugh in years. She stitched him up by candlelight. Didn’t ask questions. Played punk records and told him the moon was in Scorpio, which probably explained why he was acting like such a self-destructive bastard.

He told her she was crazy. She told him he was worse. Then she kissed him like a dare.

They’ve been circling each other ever since—planets locked in gravity, knives and kisses and every storm in between. She doesn’t soften him. He doesn’t tame her. They’re just two chaos-born creatures who finally found someone who bites back just as hard.

She calls him her walking catastrophe. He calls her his end of the world. And maybe they’re both right.

❤︎ first meeting ❤︎

To be continued...

a/n: let me know what y'all think, please!!! <3

[mattsundaes]

RECIPROCAL SIN

♡ — levi ackerman x f!reader

It's inappropriate, this unspoken arrangement between yourself and Captain Levi. And yet as the polarity between right and wrong begins to disintegrate under his steady, burning, gaze, you can’t quite bring yourself to care.

18+ ONLY

wc — 2.5k

prompt — lactation kink, mutual masturbation

additional content — smut, infidelity, voyeurism, exhibitionism, fingering, handjob, pregnant reader

╰┈➤ kinktober masterlist

This is wrong, and you know it.

Despite the fact that you’ve never so much as even kissed Levi Ackerman, let alone actually touched him in such a way, you’re well aware with every fiber of your being that it’s wrong. 

You knew it was wrong from the start, back when you’d avert your gaze from the silver band left discarded on your night table, turning instead to face Levi from where he stood leaning against the wall across the room. 

It was a silent agreement born out of the Scout Regiment captain furiously bursting into your home unannounced in search of your husband late one evening, the lock on the front door splintering uselessly beneath the unforgiving force of his boot. He had a bone to pick with the Garrison captain, one that had him stomping through the house, unaware that the object of his irritation was off on business in another district. 

With the loud rush of water pouring into the bath drowning everything else out, you had no idea you weren’t alone in the house until Levi brusquely pushed the bathroom door open with no regard for potentially cornering the captain in a state of undress. But instead, he found you with your head tossed back against the lip of the porcelain tub, water still rushing from the faucet, lips parted for your breathy little moans as you spread your legs beneath the rising soapy water and began to relieve the maddening heat between your thighs with your fingers.

Not one to beat around the bush, Levi had cleared his throat, standing there in the middle of the room looking down at you with his arms crossed. While tension was still visible in the set of his shoulders, his expression was otherwise unreadable. 

You had served alongside Levi as a team leader amongst the Scouts for several years—years full of lingering glances, mixed signals, and so much unresolved tension, you had been choking on it. 

Frustration had eventually found you in the bed of Matteo, a Garrison captain who had taken a liking to you—much to Levi’s displeasure. One thing led to another, and within a few months, you were married. Your pregnancy came shortly thereafter, at which point you were discharged from the Survey Corps for the sake of your health.

Levi hadn’t spoken to you since the day you packed up your office at the base, offering you nothing more than one last sweep of his penetrating gaze as he muttered, “Good luck.”

Despite the months of silence, as he stood there—boots a stark contrast against the white marble adorning the bathroom floor—it became abundantly clear the unspoken thing that always hung heavily in the air between you had yet to dissipate. Far from it.

“I take it he’s not here,” he had ventured.

Sinking slightly lower into the soapy water, you turned off the faucet with your foot.

“He’s not.”

“Well, don’t stop on my account then,” he’d said mildly.

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, thighs clenching together with the achingly traitorous throb of arousal that coursed through you at being caught in the act.

Caught by him.

Without letting yourself second guess what you were about to do, you’d slipped two fingers back into the heat between your thighs, his steady eye contact making your heart pound heavily in your chest as you fingered yourself with Levi as your silently captivated audience. 

And so, somehow, it became a habit—Levi would quietly slip away from the barracks when your husband wasn’t home, offering you no pleasantries nor conversation, just his rapt attention as you touched yourself for him. Sometimes in the bath, occasionally when you were curled up on the sofa downstairs, once in the kitchen. But mostly in your room, legs spread wide on carnal display as the other side of your mattress remained cold and empty, your ring finger left bare.  

He never said much, and neither of you ever outright acknowledged what you were doing. As if the silence stifled the truth behind the pangs of lust and want that constantly simmered deep in your abdomen, day in and day out. 

After you found him frustratedly palming the obvious erection tented at the front of his pants one evening, clearly unable to wait to take care of things in private, you’d begged him to touch himself, too. You came harder on your own fingers than you ever had on any man’s cock that night, fingering yourself to the sight of Captain Levi fucking Ackerman slumped down on the floor in your room, biting his fist and cursing as he furiously stroked his flushed, leaking shaft. 

You quelled the budding guilt in your chest by reminding yourself again and again that you weren’t even touching him, the two of you were simply pleasuring yourselves in the same room. And if the slick arousal between your legs soon turned into a gushing flood whenever you were an observer to the sight of the Captain fucking his fist, well, that was a secret best kept between you and your fingers alone. 

At one point or another, Levi began to migrate from the wall across the room to a chair beside your bed. And this is how you find him now, his muscled thighs spread wide as he rocks his hips upward into the firm grip of his fist while you moan and writhe atop the mattress.

It’s wrong, how badly you want him. How much you want to climb into his lap in that chair, to sink down onto his fat cock and ride him until he fills you with every last drop of his seed. How often you fantasize about leaving Matteo, especially the nights he comes home late from patrols with alcohol lingering on his breath and the suspicious, cloying stench of perfume clinging to the collar of his jacket. 

But the growing roundness of your belly is a constant reminder of just how complicated your situation is, with no easy break in sight.

“Look at me,” Levi’s voice is rough as he pulls you from your thoughts.

Despite the fact that the two of you never actually touch, the intimacy of this depraved ritual makes you tremble—Levi’s jacket left strewn across the back of the chair. His shirt untucked and partially unbuttoned, a tantalizing sliver of his chest left exposed. Black strands of hair strewn haphazardly across his face, lips parted and slick with saliva. Pupils blown wide with lust. Knuckles white as he tightly grips his cock. 

To see him undone like this makes you weak.

Reckless.

You’ve never felt quite so seen as you do under his steely gray gaze, the nearly imperceptible reactions that tug at his stern facial features with every little whimper and moan that leaves your lips.

“What’s…” Levi suddenly blurts out before he trails off, voice pitched in an odd tone.

Glancing down, you quickly realize what he’s referring to, taking in the sight of the two wet stains that have formed on the front of your nightgown. Your breasts have begun to produce milk recently, sometimes leaking at inopportune times, though this is the first it’s happened during one of Levi’s visits.

“I’m sorr—“ you try to apologize, embarrassed.

But Levi cuts you off with a loud, gruff moan, eyes glued to the dampness hugging your breasts as he swiftly catches the thick ropes of cum spurting from his cock with the washcloth that had been folded neatly over his thigh.

You begin to notice a pattern after that—Levi’s eyes will often stray to your chest as the two of you touch yourselves, lingering for a moment. And the nights when he finds your nightgown damp with the milk leaking from your nipples beneath, you swear you can feel the tension in the air go taut as a bowstring before it quickly snaps, sending him over the edge with a climax that has the feet of his wooden chair groaning backward across the floor. 

–

Maybe it was the way Matteo left this morning, hardly a look in your direction as he shrugged on his jacket and made his way out the door.

Or maybe it was the way Levi arrived, unable to keep the curve out of his lips when he uncharacteristically tucked a small yellow flower behind your ear.

Regardless, something’s left you feeling emboldened tonight when Levi settles down in the chair beside the bed, freeing his waiting erection from the confines of his pants. Bold enough to cross an invisible line you know doesn’t even exist anymore, not really.

Your tits ache relentlessly as of late, swollen and heavy with milk, and you’ve been leaking far more often. So when you feel your nightgown already growing damp when you’ve only just begun to toy with your slit, you’re not surprised. But rather than let the cotton stick to your chest, you don’t hesitate to pull down the thin straps instead, allowing your tits to spill out.

Levi’s answering harsh intake of air is audible, and you can’t say you don’t take pleasure in having truly caught him off guard for once. When you turn to face him after a beat, the look on his face makes your head spin, eyes dark with heady, unabashed desire. 

And maybe it’s wrong.

Maybe it's always been wrong.

But right now, you don’t care.

All you care about is the way his entire body tenses when you bring one hand up to your breast and squeeze, letting milk spray out. He looks utterly transfixed, so you use both hands to fondle your tits, letting the milk freely leak everywhere as he grips the chair with one hand while pumping his dick with the other. The wood groans, threatening to splinter.

Nobody’s ever looked at you the way Levi is now—like he wants to consume you.

Like he’d cut down a thousand Titans just to close the gap between the chair and the mattress.

Like he doesn’t give a shit if this is wrong, either.

And it’s that which loosens your lips to say the words that have been sitting on the tip of your tongue for weeks, since the first night your wet shirt sent him careening over the edge.

“Do you want a taste?”

The shredded, frayed threads holding together the last of Levi’s self-control snap, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor the only warning before he’s pressed against the side of the bed, taking one of your breasts into his scorching hot mouth. You gasp at the sensation, back arching into his touch as Levi sucks at one of your tits while squeezing the other, letting the milk freely dribble down his hand. 

“Fuck,” he groans, pulling back so he can lick broad, firm strokes across both of your tits with his tongue, lapping up every sticky, wet smear of milk. 

When he’s cleaned up the mess—temporarily—he pauses, glancing up at you with a wild look in his eyes, milk dripping from his full lips.

“Levi,” you whimper, unable to stop yourself from tangling your fingers in his hair.

A grunt of pleasure leaves his lips when you tug, and he lets you pull his face back into your chest. A fresh gush of arousal leaks from your cunt at the feeling of his teeth grazing your sensitive nipples, callused fingertips kneading the soft skin of your breasts as he greedily drinks from you.

“Don’t stop,” you keen, spreading your thighs and pulling up the hem of your nightgown as your fingers seek out your pulsing cunt. 

“Couldn’t if I tried,” he exhales, breathing hard, his hair entirely askew, cheeks and chin entirely soaked with your milk.

With both of his hands occupied, the bed frame groans as he ruts against it, flushed cock smearing precum along the edge of your sheets. 

“Need more,” you plead, because there’s no turning back now.

Levi doesn’t hesitate to oblige you, continuing to milk your swollen tits with his lips and left hand as his right snakes between your legs, batting your own hand away to slip two dexterous fingers into the slick, velvety walls of your pussy.

You both moan at the intrusion, and his lips brush against your achingly hard nipples as he murmurs, “Are you always this wet?” Another finger joins the first two, stretching you open even further. “For me?”

“Yes,” you exhale, rocking your hips into his touch.

And then his mouth comes crashing into yours, lips slotting together like he’s been studying the shape of them for days.

Months.

Years.

Levi’s kiss is every bit as hungry, greedy, and all-consuming as you’ve always imagined, his lips and tongue exploring every inch of your mouth with the subtlety of a wildfire as you tug him up beside you onto the bed.  He’s confident and precise, like he already knows each button to push, every little way to have you gasping and moaning into his mouth. 

And when he takes your bottom lip between his teeth, thumb playing with your swollen clit as he crooks his fingers in your soaked channel, you come without warning, keening and shaking as he strokes you through the aftershocks of searing pleasure exploding inside of you. 

You reach for Levi as you come down from the haze of your climax, an unapologetic groan spilling from his lips when your fingers wrap about this throbbing cock. With your other hand, you tug him by the hair back down to your breasts. He’s quick to take the hint, lips suckling at your leaking tits once more as you stroke him

An idea suddenly occurs to you, and your mouth quirks upward with a smirk that he can’t see as you let go of his dick to palm at one of your breasts instead. You bring your attention back to his shaft a moment later, satisfaction curling in your gut at the downright depraved moan that you pull from him as you coat his length with the fresh milk now dripping from your palm. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he grunts, hips jerking into your lubricated touch.

“I made a mess, so I think it’s only fair if you do, too, Levi,” you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair as he squeezes a spray of milk from your breast and lets it coat his lips and tongue.

Continuing to stroke him, the rhythm with which he jerks his hips upward soon turns to an uncoordinated stutter, and the way he continues to mouth at your breasts grows sloppy, his entire body tensing up.

“Come all over me.”

And that’s all it takes to send him over the edge, his body swiftly shifting upward and positioning his cock to dump rope after rope of thick, hot cum all over your milk-soaked tits. You whimper, cunt clenching around nothing at the filthy sight.

“Tch. What a fucking mess,” he murmurs as he leans in, not giving you time to respond before closing his plush lips back over one of your tender, leaking nipples.

— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[angelickks]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. oc!max "mad max" winchester

MAX "MAD MAX" WINCHESTER is the wild card in the winchester deck: unpredictable, untraceable, and impossibly hard to kill. the only daughter in a family of soldiers and ghosts, max learned early that love doesn’t come easy—but loyalty, that’s carved into her bones. born with a null heart, she’s a myth wrapped in muscle and mystery: undetectable by angels, demons, reapers, or any force that hunts by sense or soul. possession rolls off her like water. she can’t be tracked. she can’t be touched. it makes her terrifying to enemies and priceless to her family. she walks like she’s got nothing to lose and fights like she’s already lost too much. she’s the one who keeps going when everyone else breaks—and she’ll burn the whole world down before she lets her brothers fall.

she’s a little sister, rebellious daughter, best friend, and loose cannon.

she wears dark, musky perfume that lingers like a ghost - sandalwood, tobacco flower, vanilla. she picked it not from trends, but because it masked the scent of gun oil and sulfur. castiel once said she “smells like war and cake.” she took it as a compliment. she carries the perfume in her go-bag because "smelling like sulfur and grave dirt isn't hot, dean."

sam once admitted it smells like home to him now. the smell has immortalized itself in the impala. all of the boys jackets or flannels have traces of it. when cas came along, the more time he spent around her, he started to have the smell linger on him as well.

in the beginning, the fact that cas had the smell on him as well sorta pissed dean off but he grew to secretly enjoy that traces of max were always still with them.

laundry day is sort of a funny thing because the boys have grown so used to the smell of it being on their clothes that the detergent smell kinda irritates them.

her jewelry is a collection of mismatched tokens and quiet sentimentality: a rusted bullet casing on a chain from dean (her first salt-round)— when dean went to hell, his ring stayed on that same chain until he got back home. on the inside she etched three notches, a failsafe the siblings had from when they were young, always the same meaning: three, still standing. a tiny quartz stone sam gave her when they were kids ("for luck," he’d said, dead serious), and a bent spoon bracelet she swiped from a diner in spokane during a hunt they barely survived. she wears them like armor, never flashy, but always there. quiet relics. proof she’s survived this long. her fingers are always stacked with rings - some stolen, some gifted, one possibly cursed - from a vegas exorcism. a simple band one that she wears on her left middle finger that dean stole as a gift for her seventeenth birthday. one of them doubles as brass knuckles. a few knuckle tattoos she did herself in a motel bathroom at seventeen.

known to be terribly blunt but very empathetic – max doesn’t sugarcoat things. she says it like it is—but when it counts, she understands people in a terrifyingly accurate way.

dry-humored as fuck – her sarcasm could slice through kevlar. she uses humor as both a defense mechanism and a test. this definitely stems from dean.

silent caretaker – she won’t tell anyone she’s worried. the boys have both learned to recognize that care in silence. she’ll fix their gear, stash their favorite snacks in the Impala, and stay awake until she hears them come back from a hunt.

she had to learn emotions on her own - how to cry without breaking, how to love without trusting, and how to build a self out of broken pieces no one helped her pick up.

keeps three knives on her person at all times: one silver, one iron, one sentimental. the last is rusted and cursed and belonged to john.

max doesn’t flinch from pain, but she hates watching others get hurt - her breaking point is watching dean bleed. while sam is also her older brother, dean was and always has been her protector and caretaker. in silence, max and sam look up to dean, would follow him to hell and back (again and again) if he simply asked.

stitches herself up with better precision than any ER nurse - once did it in a truck bed with a cracked mirror and dental floss. dean threw up.

talks to the Impala like it’s a person - leaves her favorite rings in the glovebox when she’s scared - “listen, sweetheart,” she says to the Impala, lovingly wiping down the dash. then stomps inside: “freakin' haunted-ass concrete bunker. smells like old men and disappointment.”

has a ritual of spitting salt over her left shoulder before a hunt - dean rolls his eyes. sam copies her when he thinks no one’s looking.

refuses to say goodbye - says “see you later” instead. says it like a prayer.

the tether of the family – she’s the one who silently ties sam and dean together when they start drifting. she talks them both down, even when she’s breaking inside.

dean’s co-pilot in grief – when things get too heavy for him to carry, she picks up the slack, sometimes without him noticing.

sam’s secret keeper – he tells her things he doesn’t even say out loud to himself. she sees his softness and protects it.

she’s the chaos between sam’s logic and dean’s instinct.

she borrows (steals) dean’s old shirts constantly—oversized flannel that smells like motor oil, leather jackets with burn holes, a metallica hoodie she swore she gave back but never did. sam’s sweaters, though? only when she’s sick. or homesick. she’ll deny it, but they’re comfort, pure and simple.

best mechanic of the siblings – dean’s good, but max feels engines. she talks to the Impala like it’s a breathing thing. she can fix a carburetor by sound alone.

her and dean used to get into a lot of petty fights about who can fix certain things faster.

a lot of the skills she honed was from bobby and john, in order to keep her out of trouble at school she was found under the hood of the impala or the odd stolen car on off days.

occult specialist – she’s the one who dives into the dark texts. latin, enochian, arcane rituals—she remembers the weird things others skim over.

this is sam and max's bonding time. being able to put everything aside and put their brains to work. they feed off each other perfectly, if sam doesn't know, max probably does and vice versa.

has a weird superstition about red thread – she always keeps some in her pack. ties it to trees. says it "keeps the soul tethered."

believes any cup of coffee over $2.50 is “a scam against humanity.” - she will rant about starbucks like it personally insulted her ancestors. meanwhile, her YETI mug says: “world’s okayest sister.”

there’s a duct tape label on one of the drawers in the bunker kitchen that says: “MAX’S DRAWER. DO NOT TOUCH. EVER.” it contains: hot sauce packets, gummy worms, three bullets, a lipstick, a sachet of salt, and an unopened red bull from 2014. dean tries to replace the red bull but the same one is constantly put back. - “it’s a relic. ain’t bothering nobody”

believes in fate but hates it – she’s convinced she’s part of something bigger, and it both comforts and infuriates her.

max didn't learn jackshit from john other than to survive, load a gun, protect her brothers, and throw punches like the ones she was aiming for owed her goddamn money- she learned about makeup and how to be anything but a hunter from drugstore aisles, grimy motel mirrors, and half-torn cosmo pages

max is the type of girl who sharpens her eyeliner with the same blade she uses to clean her gun. always picked up things from TV screens flickering in motel rooms, from other girls in bar bathrooms.

funnily enough max enjoys nail polish. she had a nail biting problem and has been putting on nail polish to counteract it because the sight of chipped nails irritates the actual fuck out of her, so it def helped there.

its always black and redone in gas station bathrooms using cheap polish and hunting knife tips as cuticle pushers. when she discovered chrome nail power, she likes the black polish + chrome look.

that said, she likes to experiment from time to time, once showed up to a hunt with blood-red polish, nails grown out (dean says they look like claws) with rhinestones on her ring fingers, and not a damn apology in sight. dean didn’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.

carries a flask labeled “holy water” that definitely isn’t holy water. (it’s fireball. dean’s tried it. regrets ensued.)

her room is somehow the cleanest and messiest at the same time - the bed’s always made. weapons are lined up by type. but the desk? it’s a chaos altar. books, coffee mugs, crushed salt packets, little bones, polaroids, expired motel keys, a crowbar, her earrings, one of sam’s hoodies.

writes little half-poems in the margins of her research journals - always half-finished. always a little sad. she pretends they don’t exist. - her handwriting is borderline illegible. sam told her to translate her notes once and she couldn't

has a list in her journal titled: “people I’d fistfight again”. it's alphabetized.

texts like a goblin: no punctuation, all caps, uses 🧍 constantly, ends most convos with “ok cool die”

she makes their coffee too strong. she leaves knives in weird places. she’s the one who always has a plan B...and C… and burn it all down.

supernatural mlist!

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒: i love her so obvi had to give her some headcanons. check out my spn mlist for more of my beloved oc. iʻm so happy that this oc has been recieving lots of love from u guys. my inbox is always open for suggestions, requests, and general thots. muah muah <33

[vaelsnipe]

Weathering the Storm

Day 1 Cruel / Beauty @daily-writing-challenge Story Theme Song

The Thundering Cloud Serpent stretched across Vaelsnipe’s chest shoulder to shoulder and collarbones in a storm-born arc of ink. Its coils broke through thunderclouds that curled into the designs of both his tattooed sleeves, weaving past runes and beast-shaped memories. But this serpent wasn’t just a symbol to the hunter. It was the mark of a reckoning, a moment of transformation burned into flesh.

It had happened in Pandaria, deep in the jade-slick wilds where mist hung low and the air pulsed with ancient power. The contract was simple on paper: eliminate a void-twisted pterrordax nesting near a forgotten temple on the side of the mountain. Dangerous, but nothing Vael hadn’t done before. He wasn’t alone either, he had taken the job alongside a mercenary band he’d ridden and bled with more than once. He’d trusted them in the cautious, measured way he allowed anyone in. Enough to share campfires, to sleep without his back to a wall and to watch his six.

But when they reached the cliffs near the nest, something shifted. The silence between them sharpened and too few eyes scanned the brush. Too many had stayed on him. He didn’t sense the betrayal until the knife was already in his side. Spell-tipped and poisoned. It was supposed to be fast, clean and efficient.

They didn’t shout and there were no curses nor demands. Just cold calculation, the quiet trade of a man’s life for coin without looking back. He staggered back, breath caught in his throat and ribs flaring with agony as the toxin surged through his veins. Their faces blurred in the rising mist, the last thing he saw before his knees hit the moss-heavy earth. They faces were not of hatred nor guil, just a cold hard indifference that hurt more than the blade that had left its mark.

And then came the shriek echoing through the craigs. The pterrordax had awoken.

Vaelsnipe crawled, dragging himself toward cover, toward elevation and anything that wasn’t the blood-wet soil. His mind throbbed between pulses of poison and betrayal. Every breath tasted like ash. But he didn’t die there. He wouldn’t.

He patched the wound with fire-scorched leather, crushed bitter herbs between his teeth to slow the venom. He built traps with trembling fingers and loaded his rifle with specialty rounds while the skies darkened above. Thunder rolled in the distance like a warning but he was past warnings now.

The pterrordax hunted him through jungle and crag for hours. Each swoop of its shadow was a new trial. Vael struck when it got close bleeding, half-delirious, rage his only clarity. It wasn’t just survival anymore. It was something personal. The creature had become the avatar of every betrayal he’d ever suffered. And when it dove through the rain, when its talons snapped against the stone he clung to, he didn’t retreat. He roared back.

Lightning cracked the sky. In its flash, his silhouette stood alone on the cliff’s edge ragged, bloodied, but unbroken. The beast in the clouds had met its kin in flesh. When the beast finally fell, tumbling into the valley below in a twisted ruin of void-ridden wings and shattered bone, Vael remained standing. Just barely.

A reclusive pandaren healer found Vaelsnipe collapsed near a temple ruin, the pterrordax’s black blood still staining his clothes. They treated the poison and mended his wounds. But even then as the fever broke, the old Vaelsnipe didn’t return.

When he healed enough to walk, he didn’t go home and didn’t send word. He didn’t have a home or anyone to even send word too as Tycil was gone so he vanished into shadow, ghosting through forests and outposts, gathering rumors like blood scent on the wind. The mercenaries had scattered as cowards often did. But none of them were beyond his reach.

He hunted them the way they had once hunted beasts: patient, silent, relentless. One he found in a gambling den, still wearing the ring Vael had once helped him win in a duel. Another was gutting fish in a coastal village, pretending to live a small life. One hid behind mercenary contracts of his own, clinging to a new crew who never knew what kind of man he’d once sold. Vaelsnipe ended them all quickly and precisely.

He didn’t taunt them, nor give them the chance to explain themselves. Each kill was clean, but never cold. There was feeling in it like an artistry honed not from hatred, but from understanding. There was a cruel beauty in how he moved through it: like lightning itself, striking once, never twice. His blade was the silence before the thunder. His rifle, the storm’s roar with no prayers and no mercy. Just the weight of a promise fulfilled.

This wasn’t justice nor revenge.

Just the quiet and precise finality of retribution, Reclamation.

He wasn’t taking their lives so much as reclaiming the pieces of his own they had stolen. And as he walked away from each corpse, he felt no lighter, only more defined.

There was no lesson in the kills, no justice, grand lesson nor peace. From that day forward, he stopped looking for people to stand beside him. Instead, he learned to be the storm. To carve his own thunder across the sky as he was alone.  To be the serpent rising and the storm he would never again outrun because now, it answered to him.

[cherryberg]

ok heres a real quastion why do you find your current blorbos so compelling. can u tell me abt their themes. would u get along with them in real lifes

my bones crunching teeth. my gripping hand on your shoulder, drawing blood.

ned flanders .. where to fucking start .. in the shortest way possible, that is

well, quickly. me? getting along with ned flanders? In Real Life? hell no! simply by virtue of me being the person i am. perhaps the band Dr. Colossus put it one way when they said “Stupid Sexy Flanders / Republican at best / Politically to the right / Dexterity to the left” (haloes .. my Dr. Colossus mention) but who’s to say how accurate that is now. i too am lefthanded you know. and we all saw him kiss fat tony. and he missed him too

anyway, simple put. i think ned flanders is like. a deep character - thanks in part to his religiousness. now you can throw your hands up about like his, well, flanderisation - from the homer simpson perfect neighbour foil to unbearably devout christian - but it does effect multiple aspects of his life in really interesting ways

so you’re telling me this man hates his beatnik parents? (Hurricane Neddy) what, did he cling to religion as a way to other himself from them? carelessly raised by them without discipline? repressing his anger for years? and how does that reflect upon his own kids, brought up in a strict christian household. his own kids he’ll be overprotective of because he can’t afford to lose them like he lost their mother (Bart Has Two Mommies), but who are still harshly scorned and punished when their faith in christ waivers? (Todd, Todd, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?)

and what if when he doubts? when god takes both of his wives? (Alone Again, Natura-Diddly, O C’mon All Ye Faithful) his wives who he loved and will continue to grieve for? (I’m Goin’ to Praiseland, Diary Queen) and what of his second wife, huh? fourth grade teacher krabappel? how he learns to lower his religious guards for her? (Ned ‘n Edna’s Blend Agenda) how happy they were, however brief, with these compromises they made for each other? (The Man Who Grew Too Much) and krabappel’s relationship with rod and todd, did she have an effect on them? is it her influence whenever they speak out? (Bull-E) then again, we all know how impressionable those two are on a whim .. (Bart the Lover) and, goodness fucking gracious, so on and so forth. and they replaced his wives with a dog

sighs .. i can admit he can get Dead Wife Guy with it sometimes but i do think flanders is like .. a bit of a tragic man? i dunno, that “And I did something I hadn’t done in, I don’t know how long. God help me, I smiled.” in The Many Saints of Springfield lives sorrowfully in my brain. dude, after losing so much - his wives, his business he went bankrupt for (When Flanders Failed), his teaching job (Left Behind). like .. man. i dunno

i think it’s a little hard to watch a flanders-centric episode without wondering what it means for ned and his family on a deeper level, even for an episode as innocuous as Fland Canyon (what do you mean todd has night terrors that maude held him through? and that it’s todd’s nightmare of forgetting maude’s face that made him stop believing in christ?)

and, hey. if you’re really crazy enough, you could squint and make out some sort of aquatic sea creature motif with the Jellyfish Festival and song in A Star Is Born Again and his profound emotional processing in faith down in the hadal zone in O C’mon All Ye Faithful

regardless, all this to say. yeah .. i may be a bit of a nedhead :]

.

& btw .. he pulls, like, constantly. did you know this? like, constantly

[almondemisewriting]

doomed to repeat

prologue: original sin

This story happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. It is already over. Nothing can be done to change it. - Matthew Stover

notes: as mentioned before on my main blog @almondemise, I recently watched the acolyte while recovering from an infection and became rather obsessed with it. I fear this might be my roman empire. star wars had never really interested me but you can count on the fact that I watched every single of those movies after finishing the acolyte. although I haven't written fanfiction in years, I better put this english degree to work. no oshamir as I fear I can't do them justice. / banners are by @cafekitsune & gif by @goodsirs

summary: after Osha and Mae had banded together and betrayed Qimir in the forest of Khofar, he killed them. now, once again, he was alone. how good that he had already been working on another plan. on the other end of the galaxy, there was a girl born out of pure force. a weapon raised for one reason only: to kill him. but the force works in mysterious ways.

word count: 3.6k

pairing: qimir x female oc; the stranger x female oc

warnings: english is my second language, jedi evil arc, manipulation, psychological abuse, physical abuse, violence, martyrdom and other religious themes, probably inaccurate star wars lore & deviation from both plot and general worldbuilding, explicit content and other sensitive themes in following chapters

She had never chosen to be the Chosen one. Her destiny of martyrdom was forced onto her as retribution for her original sin: being born. All the suffering Amalthea endured throughout her life never could quite make up for it.

In fact, Amalthea had never made a decision, she was simply an amalgamation of all the choices made for her. She had no particular feelings about it. It was not like hate was a feeling that was allowed for her to feel anyway. There were dozens of rules for her to follow, a hundred things being forbidden to feel, a million things not allowed to experience, all for her safety.

If pride was allowed, Amalthea would have been proud of being good at following rules. It made her life easy, but it also made her lonely. Late at night, she lay awake, a blanket of unhappiness weighing her down, the viciousness of isolation gnawing on her bones so tangible that she bit her lips bloody. There was no one she could talk to. Amalthea was not allowed to speak to anyone unless spoken to. Emergencies excluded, of course. An easy rule to follow.

But at Anantore Point, only a couple of people were authorized to talk to her at all. Her days were spent in perpetual silence, thinking, listening. Often she went days without talking to anyone. It helped that people usually ignored her, acted like she was part of the furniture, her Cortosis ring and the veil helping to keep her hidden. Amalthea often imagined the others not being able to see her at all.

Until a year ago, no one bothered to correct her daydreams. It would have been worse if there were people who actually wanted to talk to her. A connection. Any connection. Amalthea vastly preferred being invisible. At least that is what she often told herself.

With time, not being able to talk to anyone made her into someone who was an excellent listener. And she was eager to listen. Going into most of the rooms of Building C and blending in to eavesdrop was easy.

"..heard that Team Three did not come back from their mission. Apparently they sent a message that they found him and then just vanished. They couldn't even track their ships!" "And they won't try to find them?"

Kiani and Odessa were low-stationed officers who mostly did administrative work but had a hang for gossip. Amalthea became acquainted with most of the events at the station thanks to them. Usually, it was just who slept with who, complaints about what food they served in the canteen, and other inconsequential things. But sometimes Odessa had interesting news thanks to Nyseth. Amalthea did not know exactly what his job was, but she did know that they tried desperately to hide their relationship.

Knowing so many secrets of the people living at the station did not make her feel bad. It was not like she could have told anyone. And with news like that she could not help listening in a bit more closely. Sinking into a plush brown chair close to them, she acted like she was reading one of the books she always carried around, but focused on their mouths. Conversations like these were often whispered and she was lucky that the veil hid her stare. 

"No, I heard Yavin say that they will not send a recovery ship. It's too dangerous. He is probably on some other planet already, but all kinds of cultists will be searching for him. He says that having multiple ships in the same vicinity will end up with us losing more teams."

Odessa's voice was hushed and taut. When she named him, she almost stumbled over her own words, her fear transforming her dispatch into a jumbled and croaky mess. Amalthea heard Kiani gasp. There was a short silence after.

"I guess it will be time then soon," Kiani mumbled. Both she and Odessa started looking towards Amalthea. The insinuation made her sick to her stomach. She promptly lowered her gaze down to her gloved hands. Had the others seen her staring? Were they still looking themselves?

Trying to sink deeper into the chair, her shoulders slumped forward in an unnatural curve, her veil almost touching her knees. Now, standing up and going anywhere would have made it obvious that she listened in. So she agonized in the awkward silence, trying to make herself invisible again, the feeling of uneasiness leaving behind an uncomfortable prickle on her skin.

Suddenly, loud chatter outside the door interrupted them. The metal of the double doors crashed into the sandstone walls next to it and in came a whole barrage of people back from their missions and other work, ready to storm into the canteen to fill their grumbling stomachs. 

By now, Amalthea knew all of them. At Anantore Point there were less than fifty people employed and even less than that were allowed to enter the buildings on a permanent basis. The less people knew she existed, the better.

The loudest group of all were Brom, Qimir, and Kona. Qimir was today's good news. During a mission over the last couple of days, his ship suffered sudden engine failure while in hyperdrive, and while going back into realspace he got unlucky and landed in an asteroid field where he got cut off from the rest of the group. Just this morning he was able to find them again, his ship completely beaten up, but his mission completed.

Amalthea did not know what to think of him. He was unprofessional, goofy, carefree, and not the smartest. But he knew his way around ships and various planets better than more experienced explorers at Anantore Point and he had come here on personal recommendation by Senator Fasmum. Most importantly, he was her anchor point when the time came.

Qimir's job was being responsible for getting her safely to him so she could do her job. Perhaps the last person she would ever see. Still, he was the reason she had to wear the Cortosis ring. At least that is what Amalthea guessed. Until Qimir showed up a year ago she never had to wear one. But like her, he was Force-sensitive, although he never studied it. They tested him and he could barely even light a lamp. Master Xylter said that the Force was wasted on someone like him. But Qimir could still observe it. 

And that was the problem. Although Amalthea could not see it, she exuded massive amounts of the Force and that was distracting for every Force-sensitive person who came close to her. Close in this case was relative. Depending on how sensitive someone was to the Force, they could feel her from hundreds or thousands of miles away, even if they were strangers.

She wondered what it looked like, but no one had ever bothered to tell her. And Amalthea did not dare to ask. Master Xylter had said that it was because more important guests would visit after the recent happenings, but it was obvious that Qimir could not concentrate on his job with her around in this state. Amalthea did not mind the Cortosis ring. Sure, it was heavy, but having it rest on her collarbones was strangely comforting sometimes.

However, not even the ring could make Qimir stop looking at her. She felt the weight of his stare bearing down on her without mercy. And she just didn't understand why. Most of the people at Anantore Point didn't even give her a single glance, never mind a second one. Meanwhile, it was like he could not rip his eyes away from her.

Sometimes, when she sensed him, she looked back and it was like he could stare straight through the veil into her eyes, making the hairs on her neck stand up. At least, he was good at concealing it in front of others. Amalthea was not ready to be lectured on being too noticeable. 

So, like many days in the last year, she decided to eat her dinner in her room. Nobody looked at her when she got up and made her way to the door. Except Qimir. His gaze was glued to her. When she walked past him to exit, she could have sworn that their eyes met. Knuckles white and straining, she clutched the front of her robe in her hands and got out of Building C as fast as she could, stumbling over elevator entrances, stairs, and her own boots.

Could he see underneath her veil? That was impossible unless you were a Jedi and had enough control of the Force. And there were only five Jedi living at Anantore Point: Grandmaster Torinn, Master Xylter, Yavin, Ecla, and Amalthea. Shuddering, she tried to physically shake off the feeling, her dense robe rustling in the desert winds outside. The way from Building C to Building A was, as usual, completely empty. Out of all of the people living here, only four had access to Building A, Amalthea being one of them. Only Ecla was standing in front of the entrance ready for her night shift and nodded at her. "Meditation?"

She simply nodded back and made her way to her room. As her guard, Ecla was allowed to talk to her. When she first came to Anantore Point six years ago, Amalthea was really excited but soon understood. Ecla was here to do her job, not make friends. She would later quietly enter her room to put down dinner and then leave as quickly as she came. The same routine as most days. Only after closing the door behind her, she realized that her books still laid in the employee room.

Although Amalthea was bored a lot, she was grateful. The Conclave of Light had saved her life when she was a baby, housed, fed, and trained her. In exchange, she did what she was born to do and it was an honor. There might have been many rules, but they were all there to keep her safe from Rebels, Wildlings, and, in the worst case, the Sith.

Most people believed them to be extinct, but you could never be too sure. And suspicious events over the last years had proven the caution of the Jedi right. Soon it would be time for Amalthea to go. A nameless Sith had been slaughtering people. Jedi searched for him and ended up dead too. He was not a dark user with many followers, but he was amassing amounts of Force that made it clear that he was a danger. Not just to the Jedi, but to the Republic at large.

Just a month ago he had executed multiple Jedi and civilians on Khofar, then vanished without a trace. It was Amalthea's responsibility to stop him. A final fight. It was all Amalthea had been working towards. The climax of her entire life. Her purpose. Her dream? She had never asked herself that. She would rather not. The choice had been made for her, the Chosen One. Her immaculate conception would either end in immaculate victory or immaculate death. Before her thoughts could get any louder, Amalthea assumed her meditation pose, closed her eyes, and concentrated.

Amalthea did not know how much time had passed since she started meditating when she heard Ecla enter her room. She often lost herself in her concentration, not knowing when and where she was when she awakened, saturated with Force and strengthened with knowledge. Ecla did not put her dinner plate down or leave the room. When Amalthea turned towards her, Ecla did not even hold a plate.

"Master Xylter requires you in the main office in Building B."

Immediately she knew what this would be about. Actually, Amalthea had already expected to be called in soon. It was time. The feeling of finality grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. But there was no time to acclimatize. She put her gloves back on and followed Ecla outside, struggling and breathless.

Amalthea could have found the way to the main office herself, but it was night, and Anantore Point, being the only cluster of buildings in this desert and desolation, stood out. Not having others around made it safer, but the lights flickering could be seen far away. So as soon as the sun tinged the sky with hues of pink and orange, Amalthea was not allowed to walk outside alone. She moved gingerly behind Ecla, almost hiding behind the broad shoulders of the experienced Jedi warrior, becoming invisible in between her massive strides.

Often, Amalthea pictured Ecla before Anantore Point in her head. She knew nothing but her name. Nevertheless, she trusted her. And, while she could not tell anyone, she admired her. She knew that Ecla would always keep her safe. Amalthea had personally seen her finish off intruders before. Secretly, she wished Ecla would come with her on her mission. She knew she was sinning heavily with that wish. Personal affections were forbidden. Any outside help during her mission was forbidden. But no one would ever know what she thought. No one ever asked. 

Master Xylter was not the only one waiting in the main office. Amalthea had a look at the others. Grandmaster Torinn. Yavin. Qimir. So it was as she expected. Master Xylter cleared his throat and she quickly got down on her knees and looked to the ground. "Greetings Master." Amalthea could hear Qimir swallow loudly. When she got up and glanced at him, he was glaring at her. Was he angry that she didn't greet him? But there was no time to contemplate.

"You know why you are here. Your mission is in three days. Say yes if you understand." Master Xylter had never been patient. "Yes, Master."

Amalthea pondered for a moment. It was now or never. "I don't know if I am ready for the mission yet. I still have not been knigh-,", she began.

Master Xylter reacted fast. "Insolent!" His voice was so loud that even Ecla flinched. Immediately, Amalthea fell to her hands and knees, her veil brushing the dirty ground. Not a second later, Master Xylter's boot secured it there. Desperate, Amalthea pleaded for forgiveness. She should not have acted so rashly and the humiliation of her audacity stung worse than a cut.

"How dare you question the decisions of the Conclave! I must have spoiled you too much. You have not been knighted because you're simply not worthy. I do not care if you do not think you are ready, you are ready when I say you are. You will do your duty and you will do it gladly," Master Xylter exclaimed. 

"Stand up." Slowly, Amalthea got back on her feet, her posture demure, her arms hanging aimlessly at her sides. They were dirty and bruised, but it was too mortifying to openly try to brush them clean on her already ruined clothes. She decided to get this done quickly.

"I have been ill-mannered, Master. I deserve punishment."

When she was younger, Amalthea cried every time this happened. But she quickly learned it would just incense Master Xylter more. By now, she had more control over herself. Calmly, she lifted her dirty veil, her face as tranquil as an undisturbed lake at dusk. When her Master struck, not a single soul in the room dared to move.

But the corner of her sight showed something interesting. Qimir's hands, tightly curled into fists. Did he want to hit her as well? He was an explorer, after all, a job that sought people with a hang for violence.

"Thank you, Master. I will do better," Amalthea said softly. As she put her veil back down her unobstructed gaze fell back upon Qimir. His eyes seemed to bore themselves into her, his dark blown-out pupils reeling her in like the gravity of black holes. It was the first time their eyes met directly. The moment was gone as quickly as a shooting star and Qimir straightened his gaze towards the empty space in front of him, his jaw unclenching and his back loosening. 

Yavin spoke up. "You will leave Anantore Point at dusk together with Qimir. He will take you to the designated place, deploy your pod, and wait for you to finish your mission. You will kill him. You will wait for further instruction," he stated slowly and clearly.

Yavin had been the commander of the explorers ever since Amalthea could remember and he was good at his job. He was deviant and did not want to be found. Commander Yavin did so anyways. He prided himself in his work, but he had gotten older as well and Amalthea could hear in his voice that he was glad that he could soon retire. It all came back to how successful Amalthea would be. Grandmaster Torinn laid a calming hand on Amalthea's veiled hair.

"Remember, Padawan. No weapons. Your Force will provide. Do not doubt the Conclave. As a last resort, please make use of this."

His old croaky voice was barely above a whisper, and still, everyone listened with reverence. Grandmaster Torinn had trained Jedi for decades, was highly respected, and had been specifically chosen to instruct Amalthea in the Force. He dropped a small green crystal in Amalthea's open hands.

"This is an Artusian crystal. It will strengthen your Force when you need it."

Next to him, Master Xylter grew impatient. "You will finish this mission. You will be successful. You will be allowed to talk to Qimir during the mission. Flight emergency situations only. Now go back to your room. Do not expect rations for the next twenty-four hours. Dismissed," he bellowed.

Amalthea clutched the crystal in her hand and felt the sharp edges press into her skin as she wordlessly left the room, bowing slightly. Of course, she didn't expect to get fed any time soon. Denial of food was Master Xylter's favorite punishment.

The three days were over faster than Amalthea anticipated. Ecla came into her room to wake her, but Amalthea had not been able to sleep and was already meditating, her new clothes equipped and her bag next to her. It was her first time to leave the building complex ever since arriving here over twenty years ago and the airfield fascinated her. There were thousands of little lights blinking like stars on the ground, dozens of ships awaiting to soar into the gradually lightening morning sky.

Amalthea felt electrified by what expected her, her stomach churning, her body slack and glossed over with cold sweat as she dragged herself behind Ecla towards a small exploration ship. Qimir was already waiting for her, greeting her shyly. Once again, his eyes wandered all over her body, fixing themselves on her face. Today was the second time he saw her without her veil.

She would not need it anymore from today on. There was nothing that could keep her safe now. So she lost her protective layers shielding her slender, bony figure and her dark curls. Qimir watched them billow in the artificial wind of the ship's engine, seemingly unsure of what to say. After some deliberation, he asked the worst question possible.

"Are you ready?" Ridiculous. Did it matter? Had Amalthea been anyone else, she would have probably laughed. Alas, she had not laughed in years. So she responded in the only way she knew and silently climbed into the ship that would deliver her into the hands of her destiny.

[1117feverlessdreams]

Drivin’ Me Crazy

🚦⚠️ PAIRING: Yunho x GNreader!

🚦⚠️ SUMMARY: As you begin to break away from the bonds of your billionaire father that has always held you back, you found a newfound respect for Jeong Yunho, his personal driver, who had unknowingly changed your life for the better.

🚦⚠️ WORD COUNT: 12.3k

🚦⚠️ TAGS/WARNINGS: Daddy issues x9999746564545664, passing of mother, angst, name calling, spanking, fingering, choking, spitting, & creampie. Uses of darling, slut, and baby. Cutesy parts with fluff, exploration of kinks.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚*

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚*

While, unlike the dramatic tale of Rapunzel, you are permitted to leave the home you were raised in to venture freedom. However, the means by which you can obtain that freedom is limited and overruled by your father.

It’s always been about him, the billionaire made from profitable expenditures that drags you along on his several business trips.

It is you, ‘the child’, who has not been taught to fend for themselves, compelled with the only choice to follow his suit.

Even as his one and only child, people weren’t interested in who you were, a fact alleviated by your father’s intervention to appease everyone you befriended by showering them with gifts…or screwing their mothers.

To your knowledge, your mother passed away when she gave birth to you. In that regard, it is not ironic that your father cannot even look you in the eye, or manage to speak to you in a “domestic” manner.

In the past, you’ve had one too many step-parents to count beyond two pairs of hands. But not even one real parent you felt loved from ever, on a single digit.

From the day you are born, up until your non-thrilling adulthood, a flat rectangular sheet of paper with a printed value and a dead man's face continues to place before you, money.

You hated that it held so much power. That it’s truthfully so ordinary, but people feel that they need it because of its abusive rewards of control and greed.

‘People’ like your father.

It is only with money that a person can ride so braggingly across many cities in a sleek black Rolls Royce Phantom Sedan, concealing its interior with tinted windows that hide the drowsiness of your father by your side.

Meanwhile on your other side, sits his stiff tuxedo-draped bodyguard, focused with their gaze straight forward through designer black shades.

His employees are the ones you’re quite familiar with to be very serious in most aspects of your life. Not a funny bone in their body, specially built by the demands of your father’s purpose; to be the centerpiece of everything.

Thus, as you grow older, so does the despise you have for him. Evil thoughts conjure in your sensitive mind, some of which you have to control against the strengths of your wish to remain sane.

But even so, as you ride to the next big city for yet another business trip, you make it all about you this time, crossing the line of professionalism by provoking the only unguarded person inside the luxurious vehicle.

Presumably, you do not intend to inflict any harm, but rather a pleasurable honor to yourself which is fatefully ignored whenever you're in the presence of said billionaire of profitable expenditures.

Your father’s new hire, Jeong Yunho, controls the wheel of the Rolls Royce with precise concentration and smoothness.

Perhaps along with the great deal of attention provided to his black mullet-styled hair, or the dry cleaning of his uniformed vest, and the ironing of the underlying tight white button-up, black tie, and smooth trousers without a wrinkle in sight. In addition to cleanliness adds his accessory of a one-handed leather black glove steering next to his bare, veiny, decorative hand with ring bands, and best of all, the pretty jewels in the inner corners of his eyes as a feminine accent.

With the exclusion of Jeong Yunho, everything else was too short of being perfect. To you, he was exceptionally perfect.

You came so far as to remove every obstacle that could prevent your father's tyranny from spoiling him. Yunho was knowledgeable, kind, generous, and sweet. However, all your father could see, was a driving tool.

Thus, it was the ideal time to establish a relationship in the quiet atmosphere of the vehicle, which is the only place at which you can meet…and reclaim the freedom your father had claimed for you, and indefinitely… for him.

…

“Mr. Chauffeur, or, Yunho was it?” Your speech sounds above the AC blowing in the vehicle. In effect, there is a slight shift in your father's slumber, your bodyguard still remains seated stiffly, but the man to whom you were speaking to glances at you quickly through the rearview mirror, nodding in acknowledgment as the front pieces of his hair softly sways, and then he ever so professionally resumes eye contact onto the busy road ahead.

“This may sound forward…” you continue, reviewing his beautiful physique once more as your gaze locks at his ring, specially wrapped around his ring finger. “But I was wondering, Yunho, if you were married by any chance?”

Your father snorts loudly and slowly awakens from his nodding off, yet the stagnant bodyguard's expression remains the same. Yunho, the chauffeur, proceeds to be unfazed, smirking even. Despite this, it was a minor tactic to ensure your father was alert to your next set of words.

“As you may know…dear father is recently divorced, and I was just wondering if you could maybe just provide him some stable relationship advice, you know, man-to-man.”

Your lips bunch in prevention from grinning as the bodyguard moves for the first time since you’ve sat in the backseat. In the brief moment of attempted adjustment for comfortability, they then adjust their shades upward with the tip of a pointer finger, sniffing loudly through their nostrils.

At the same time, your father has sat up and is taking a quick scan of all areas of the vehicle. He is observing the shift change in the enclosed space before glaring at you harshly.

“Y/n, what’s gotten into you?” In response, you shrug carelessly and he averts his gaze to the charmingly focused expression of his newly hired chauffeur. “You’re not obligated to answer that sir…”

Your father then hardens his apologetic gaze into a dark one, directly toward you as he turns in his seat. “Also, it’s Mr.Jeong. I thought I taught you when you were small that you always call our associates by their last names. Have some respect, child.”

With his one handed glove, the tan and handsome driver turns the wheel toone-handed make a right, looking both ways to ensure that he or anyone else does not risk your safety, a basic responsibility of his duties.

“That’s quite alright sir, I understand.” Your attention is drawn to the cherry lips that move with the suddenness of Mr.Jeong’s honey-drizzled voice. In the short time, it takes after completing the turn, he glances quickly at you in the mirror, his smirk never leaving, and the reflections of his eye jewelry gleam from the sun like a frame-by-frame animated effect. “The answer is no, I am not married your legacy.”

If it weren’t for his amusing response- or good looks, the name your father had assigned him to give you in the boast of his ego would have triggered you greatly. Yet you smile in glee as you observe your father exhaustingly adjusting his suit blazer.

His heart sings with relief that your preposterous question didn’t blow things out of proportion, and he exhales a deep breath before settling back in for his nap.

Your mischievous outlook on his actions leads you to see the situation as an opportunity to disturb the peace once more. You actively gain closer to the Chauffeur in front by moving your ass to the edge of the seat, gripping the passenger headrest, and arching your back extensively for a lengthier reach. “So a partner then…or maybe a fiancé perhaps?”

“Y/N.” You hear harshly whispered on your left side. Then looking back a quarter over your shoulder to shrug at your father as if you didn't see the problem in asking.

“Neither your legacy. I am not seeing anyone as of current.” It’s inescapable to not stare into the rearview mirror when the authoritative and single man states his response rather bluntly. He flickers his eyes to meet yours in the mirror again for seconds longer, allowing you to catch a small smile that dents into his defined apple-like cheekbones.

It intrigues you to think that maybe he finds this as amusing as you do, because working with your father certainly doesn’t come with this much excitement.

“What about kids?” An upcoming red light makes him slow to a stop, allowing him to directly response to your question. “I have not bred any children yet your legacy.”

You remove your hand from the passenger seat's headrest and fully lean forward, nearly folding your body in half with your arms crossed against your chest, and onto the middle counsel to further enclose the space in between you two.

A tap on your lower back pokes onto your spine from your father but you ignore it while a sly smirk masks onto the lower half of your face. “Really? So a guy like you, is living a life like this…all alone?”

“Well yes…It’s been like that for quite some time now your legacy. In any case, I believe independence should not always be perceived so negatively. I’m free enough to create the life I want to have for myself.”

In the blink of an eye, his head turns so quickly that you do not notice the sudden movement of direct eye contact. Without warning, you are compelled to lose yourself within those brown orbs without knowing what you are searching for.

It was as if he was trying to communicate something with you that weighed heavy on the brain. You were thrown so high for a loop that you had almost slipped up and forgotten the hidden objective you were trying to accomplish here.

In another blink his eye gems encapsulate a green hue in his interest corners, then snapping you out of a trance. “Green light.”

The charming male regains feel of the wheel and rolls his eyes forward with the never leaving smirk as he hits the gas with a heavy foot. If you hadn’t leaned forward already, you would’ve flown to the front with him.

But in either case, it would’ve been a win-win.

…

It is easy to identify the destination from about two blocks away due to the valet parking belt that secures the building in front. It is for this reason that your father must ride in his Rolls Royce.

Like it’s his own red carpet, he arrives fashionably on decent timing so streetwalkers, service workers, and even business partners can rightfully adapt to his presence.

A speedy Jeong Yunho unbuckles his seatbelt, steps out of the car, and runs around the front of the vehicle to move onto the sidewalk to reach in front of your father's door. He opens it entirely with a leather glove hand, allowing your father, you, and his muted bodyguard to get out to showcase your status.

“Thank you, Mr.Jeong, We will see you later tonight at 9 o'clock sharp.”

“Of course, as previously requested sir.” After your father makes his way out, it takes you a bit longer to come out than usual…almost like you're purposely taking your sweet time. The bodyguard behind you tries to give physical assistance but you insist on handling it yourself.

“Child, it’s important that we make a great first impression by having fine time management.”

“Why yes, my dearest apologies father.” You make yourself ‘unstuck’ from the invisible force that held you bound in the backseat, finally making your way out the door and turning alongside the tall dark, and handsome Yunho, who remains holding the door until…oh no, you accidentally trip and collide into his broad arms.

“Careful! I mean-excuse me your legacy…are you alright?” As you look up at him with what you perceive to be pouty eyes, an old trick that has grown out of whack long ago with your father, Yunho nearly apologizes again, but you cut him off as you stare into his bedazzled eyes whispering, “Drive safely, it’d be a waste if I couldn’t talk you again."

As perplexed as his fluttering eyelashes read him to be, the big friendly giant manages to respond effectively. “I always do”, are the words in which you hear under his breath that only waves in sound inside your close distance. “Hopes for a great evening your legacy.”

Standing beside the hypervigilant bodyguard that guards him, your father nods to Yunho behind you before walking forward to enter the building and unforgettably leaves you behind.

Perhaps your attempts at ‘savoring’ Yunho and simultaneously inducing your father’s frustration were a little extreme…

But to you, it seems like everything was going according to plan.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚*

A FEW DAYS LATER

“Mr.Jeong.” Your father nods in greeting to Yunho who holds open the car door as usual. “A pleasure to assist you again sir.” Your father smiles at the driver's greeting while subtly fixing his tie, then joining the inside of his fully owned luxurious car with another one of his bodyguards.

You’re trailing a few steps behind him while stumbling to catch up. It seemed he had a tendency of leaving you behind more often lately, not that you are bothered by it anyhow. Especially when you can talk to Yunho even more so as you reach to stand in the way of the opened car door.

“So you’re still alive huh?” The statured man switches his extensive legs and looks toward the ground, scooping his neck to look right into your eyes, displaying his pretty white-toothed smile, and those cheekbones that hold the greatest balls of light. "That I am. I hope that doesn’t cause any inconvenience to the legacy.”

“Not at all…” You take the last digestions in seeing all of him in his well-fitted black waistcoat, trousers, and shiny leather boots until you arrive at tonight’s occasion. “It’s actually quite a pleasant surprise.”

For a brief moment, your breaths mix as you stick one leg in the backseat, coming into the car sideways and meeting Yunho face to face. Not even a minute after you get comfortable seated, he closes the door and does his little jog around the car. Never did you take your eyes off of him even through the window shield.

When the towering and ethereal man enters into the drivers seat buckled and secure, he starts the vehicle immediately and steers onto the road.

Unconsciously you draw closer to the middle to see him, or rather, to make sure he could see you. It wasn’t long until you were talking again shortly, ignoring the groans your father made at your side.

“So, how’s your day been…Mr. Jeong?”

“Just fine your legacy, and yours?

“So good, so far.”

“I’m glad to hear it, your legacy.”

“Oh…are you?”

There was a slight increase in your father's groans, as he began to massage his temples tentatively in frustration.

“Of course. As a person of service-you and your father’s service, it pleases me to know you’re doing well your legacy.”

You’re moving more toward the middle, to make yourself aligned in the mirror for Yunho to view. “It makes me glad to know you’re doing just fine too. However, it’s just this one thing that’s been bothering me…Mr.Jeong.”

Much to your wanted expectations he glances carefully through the mirror attentively with brows furrowing in concern. To enhance your bothered attitude you cross your arms with a slight pout. “Could you not say your legacy after every sentence? I mean it can be annoyingly tedious right?”

While merging to another lane, he has time to respond to your question thoughtfully. Especially with your father wavering by your side. “I don’t mind it all, you’ve rightfully earned the title. But if you so claim that it bothers you, what would you prefer me to call you then your-”

“Y/n works just fine.”

“Does it?” Your father seconds.

“Yes…it does.”

“Child?”

“Father?”

He gives you a ridiculed stare that makes you sit back and stay quiet for the rest of the ride much to your father’s satisfaction, but for you to possession of the last word was enough in regards to satisfactory to yourself.

…

Even though you are the first to get out of the vehicle when you arrive at another business convention, you’re the last to go into the facility as you attempt to bid goodbye to Yunho.

“Drive safe Yunho, I’ll see you later tonight!”

Instead of a verbal response, Yunho bows deeply, and almost apologetically rather than the happy-go-lucky smile he generously gives after picking you up and dropping you off.

You notice his eyes are not meeting yours but rather right behind you. In following his sight, you spot your father next to his bodyguard through the building's stained blue glass. His hands are overlapped behind his back, appearing very unamused as if Yunho and you are being judged for pulling each other back from doing the things you should be doing.

You roll your eyes and turn to meet Yunho again, even with evil eyes hawking you two. It was only then you see Yunho opening the drivers door, stiffly putting a hand up in goodbye when your eyes briefly meet. He then moves into the vehicle, buckling up immediately, and starts the engine, pulling off in a matter of seconds.

Needless to say, he left you behind in dust with the only matter to attend to your obligated duties… ‘your father’s legacy’.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚*

ONE WEEK LATER

The chauffeur sits still buckled in the seat, holding the shifting gear with his bare leather-clad hand steadily, ready to pull off to attend your father's grand event tonight, a celebration at the Five Star Michelin restaurant he purchased downtown.

Whenever your father invests so much in something so special, it would be unbearable for him not to blow more money on a celebration. Just for the hell of it.

As his child, you should be happy for him. But you’re everything but, rather annoyed, pressed, disgusted. There was a feeling inside your gut that he had everything to do with Yunho's change of attitude from last week.

He wasn’t as cheerful as he once was, his responses to your flirtations were dry and brief, and he would barely look at you in the rearview as you attempted to talk to him.

But the difference with you today is that you decided enough is enough. Your father has brought you down in your most joyous moments, and it was long overdue for you to return the favor.

This time you’re sat right behind Yunho, while next to your father, who’s sat with another one of his bodyguards next to him. The particular arrangement was decided upon by your father for some odd reason. But you’re thinking, with your position being behind Yunho, he would not be able to see you in the car at all.

But he can still hear you of course…and that’s where your diabolical plan comes into play.

Through the space between the window and the headrest, you lean forward and hold onto each cushioned side on the back of Yunho's seat with both hands. His hands then grip harshly onto the steering wheel, turning his knuckles into the brightest tint of white.

“Nice to see you again Yunnie…can I call you that?”

Your father who sits in the middle stares directly into the rear view mirror, burning his laser-like vision through the glass, and reflecting its power back into Yunho's eyes, blinding him with fear.

“If it pleases you, you can call me whatever you wish. But-erm, however, it is still my honorable service to be the legacy’s dutiful Chauffeur.”

Yunho looks briefly through the rearview mirror, and your father gives him an appreciative nod. It was then that you had a favorable idea of exactly what was being done.

How cruel for your father to think he could maintain control of everyone else’s conversations with undercover telepathic signals, or more so, control of Yunho.

In fact, what he didn’t know, is that it couldn’t weaken your determination in the slightest, yet it does the complete opposite. One thing you’re good at is games, and so you play into his little diversion.

“Ughhh you are so unbelievably proper today Yunnie, it’s just Y/n remember?” From your perspective, between the small crack of his headrest and window, you can see that his grip on the wheel grows even tighter. It was then shortly afterward that his head began bobbling from the road, and then to the rearview mirror as he struggled to interpret all the mixed signs and signals. “What’s wrong?”

Suddenly, a hand grabs onto your shoulder and pulls you from Yunho's seat to your rightful one. “Don’t criticize him. The question you should be asking my child is; What’s right?” As if those tacky words of wisdom haven’t given you the ick, the second your father throws his arm around your shoulder does.

“Properness is something you should adapt to. The people would beg to converse with you more, and you’d actually have friends. Who then could potentially be fantastic business partners by the way.”

It couldn’t be anymore oblivious that he was trying everything to pin you down to a stump. To keep you from embarrassing him tonight, and acting out ‘unprofessionally and unethically’. Even though it hurts to admit it, your heart pounds vigorously from the slick venom he curated in his artificial advisory. But you’re not a ‘child’ anymore, you can’t be fooled, or kept silent with a jumbo lollipop.

You throw his arm from your shoulder in the nicest yet slickest manner possible, while simultaneously putting your arm around his shoulders. “I’m so thrilled to hear you say that father, which gives me this brilliant idea! Yunho here”, you gesture towards said man with your free hand, “…should come to the event with us. He can be my friend, and teach me how to speak with this ‘properness’ you want me to adapt to.”

The look of shock on your father's face as a result of something you wittily said is something you would die for, but it’s here, on earth, and oh if you had a camera on hand to picture this moment, you’d take it to the grave.

In the absence of an answer, he glances at his bodyguard, nudging the stiff arm with his elbow, and then unexpectedly bursts into a loud laugh, making you jump in your seat. “Absolutely NOT. it’s not a part of his assigned duties to be your ‘friend’. You can make those yourself easy once you learn how to clean up that act.”

Embarrassingly, almost like the child he called you to be, you uplift yourself from your seat backrest to meet his evil eyes with your timid ones. “But father-”

“No buts.” He places the back of his hand in front of your face like a flag of victory that makes you retreat back into the seat.

Even though you tried to refrain from being childish before, but you feel no choice to submit to it now. You grab onto his costly tuxedo blazer, throwing yourself and him side to side against the leather cushions.

“Ohhhh Pleaseeee. Please Please please please please please please please please-”

That's enough, child. I cannot believe you are acting in such a foolish manner." Having been yelled at directly in the face by a provoked outburst, you unhand him with a disoriented look on your face. You began to consider a different course of action while looking out of the tinted window. “Mr.Jeong?”

Yunho looks into the mirror, once, twice, and then thrice as he hears the authoritative voice address him. He has a fair idea of what your father is bound to ask. Unbeknownst to all of you, he’s internally contemplating how he should answer accordingly.

“Would you care to accompany us this evening, as my child-the legacy’s, plus one?”

The gears stop its scornful grinding in your head in the making of the underdeveloped plans to change your father's mind. Rather his question implicates a chance to control, yet you avoid showing the excitement from the thought as you hide your grin in the palm of your hand.

In the time it takes Yunho to respond, the nerve-wrecked chauffeur slows at a stop sign. In terms of location, you are all now across the street from an upcoming town featuring plazas and restaurants with an emphasis on quantity over quality. A reasonable assumption you all are close to where you need to be.

In the meantime, Mr.Jeong drives on the road steadily. Suspiciously though, he increasingly watches in the rearview mirror more than needed.

The gloss coating in his brown eyes becomes more apparent as they shift from person to person each time, unsure of the proper landing spot. “If it’s not a bother sir… I’d be honored.”

“Hmm.” That is all that can be heard when immediately following the drivers statement.

“Well then…you’re welcome to join us. Just make sure you park the vehicle in a safe space, and then you can meet us in the food court inside.”

For Yunho it was a difficult time deciding whether to smile or not, so instead he bows lightly with his head and tucks his lips in for a few seconds seconds. “Everything will be done just as you ask sir, and I will join the both of you shortly.”

“Thank you father.” You add while tucking in a bright smile of your own.

He waves you off, sitting back to relax the very last few minutes of travel with a few peeks of any sneaky interaction.

…

As your father was the personnel behind the main event, there was a stroll of people outside waiting for him. Photographers, business partners in other industries, and lower-class civilians who fantasize about your billionaire lives.

This made it difficult for you to maneuver inside at a reasonable time, but your father didn’t mind the extra attention of course.

As a result, Yunho's best interest lies in waiting for a clearing and using that time to find a safe place to park the luxurious Rolls Royce.

Meanwhile, after a good many minutes of the bodyguard growing extremely anxious about the commotion in you and your father’s space, you’ve finally all made your way into the food court. One would have expected another to just sit and eat, and there was that occurring as you came in of course…and a shitload of a billion questions about your father's next business endeavor, as if the current moment wasn’t celebratory enough.

A guest who is currently speaking to your father cut themselves off in something you believe to be rather uninteresting. “Did your legacy finally get married?!” The guestpointst in the adjacent direction, and thus you see your plus one.

Every time a boot hits the ground he leaves a mark in the room with a beautiful smile, the one that makes his cheeks mold into the roundness of an apple, the inside holding balls of light. In a moment you could’ve sworn a twinkle had shined over his eye jewelry. His mullet tail brushes over the soft tan skin of his neck with every step, oh how’d you love to run your hands over it all.

His strides come to a halt as he arrives by your side. However, that is changed when father moves him in between you two, patting him a bit roughly on the back. “Not quite yet, we have a lot to work to do before we get to that point.” He then looks specifically to Yunho laughing in his face. In return, the taller man shares a polite smile with the group, essentially keeping his cool. “Oh, but this is our wonderful Chauffeur, Mr. Jeong Yunho.”

Like clockwork, a shake of hands is conjoined right after another, and in courtesy, Mr.Jeong Yunho even bows afterward. “What a grand pleasure it is to meet you all.” A, “Likewise.” is said among the group…how humbling.

In just a few seconds you were forgotten because your father moved the focus elsewhere. To be specific, Yunho, a someone who has ‘less work to be done’. “Well then”, you awkwardly intercept, “Me and Mr. Jeong Yunho here are going to be conversing with our other guest. Please excuse us.”

Without thinking, you take him by the hand, wandering off into another group to join some other pesky conversation.

As a waiter passes by with a plate of champagne, you grab a glass for yourself and Yunho, chugging your own in seconds with a lack of grace. “Just nod and smile. This is how people usually conversate with my father since he obviously loves boasting about himself. I bet he’ll be so caught up in it that he probably won’t even bother to spare a glance.”

Contrary to thought, one of the most compliant and respectable soldiers to your father’s commands nods swiftly and begins to follow your instructions. In turn, you are so caught off guard by his loyalty that you nearly forget to follow your own instructions.

Yunho enacts his assigned roleplay with a swig of champagne. The bubbles cascade down his throat as he sticks out a pinky decorated in his embellished ring for class.

The arm in which he uses to raise the glass causes his waist-coated vest to crease, then revealing his bare chest underneath. It is growing to be a little sweaty, presumably from nervousness. His chest sinks and rises, causing patches of wetness to form on the white button-up that a nipple begins to peak-

“Alright, I think that’s enough.” In response, Yunho ceases to sip from his glass and inspects the inside with the tips of his large fingers, gravely observing the absence of any carbonated liquid present.

“I believe I’m feeling a little nervous, but the champagne is a great cause for distraction.”

You take in the view of how adorable he was being, observing the glass like it was a golden antique as if he was hoping for more champagne to magically liquify out of thin air.

Yet the lingering in your admiration doesn’t last as a waiter with a charcuterie board and olives in hand breaks your line of vision, offering the samples to the whimsical tall fellow, which he gladly accepts, and wastes no time shoving it full into his mouth.

As they smile wide and depart with a pleased look, your eyes follow them in disgust as you watch them walk into a different room with its entrance engraved into an archway. Behind it are swaying couples and even more champagne glasses in their hands. It encourages you to offer your hand to Yunho, consecutively wiggling it for emphasis. “I think I know where I can get you some more of that champagne big guy.”

“Really?” He speaks with a mouth full of food, in realization, he covers it quickly to keep in any more flying particles. You nod and tilt your head toward the archway. “And maybe we could dance a little, just to fit in?” Perhaps this idea could have sprung from your jealousy…but at least you’ll appear ‘normal’ and preoccupied.

An instant slap sound is made when his much larger hand intertwines your fingers together. The feeling is so soft, warm, and delicate. It’s not a touch you expected a chauffeur to have. He swallows the last bits of food in his mouth and removes his overly attractive hand. “That sounds delightful your legacy, I think that will work perfectly.”

You look down to see the link that has bonded you together in ways you never have before. Even more so you tighten it as you pull him toward the adjacent area where the classical music overrides your eardrums, you both look to your left to see that it is actually a live orchestra. To you though, it wasn’t all too surprising to see the extremities your father had organized.

As you pass by you move toward the champagne that is now stacked in a pyramid on a dress-skirted table, just outside of the dance floor. For a moment it’s a cleared space away from the other couples to give you privacy and peace. Which is perfect for what you want to confess.

“I would really appreciate it if you could just call me Y/n…please. The moment Yunho hears your plea, he pauses his small sippings, swallowing the remaining sweet bubbly liquid.

“A legacy doesn’t have thoughts of moving out of the country to start a new life. It is particularly difficult to do given that everything has been plated on the table for me since birth, including the future generations to take up the family business. As far as I am concerned though, I never had a seat...and I do not intend to stay for the entree…if that makes any sense at all."

You bow your head in awkwardness, but out of your peripheral vision you see Yunho looking deeply at you and then back in the other room in search of your father who's nowhere to be seen. In truth, he is a bit hesitant to speak, but he knows your father is too far out of reach to hear his words.

“My apologies…y/n it is then.”

…

In short, dancing with Yunho felt lively. His large hands encapsulated your waist perfectly with a champagne glass in hand, and yours were on his shoulders before they slowly crept up to the back of his neck. The tips of your fingers ghostly brush against the ends of the strands. Not to mention the eye contact you were now maintaining was severely intimate. The only subsiding factor was the respectable space between your bodies.

“Yunho?”

“Yes? What can I do for you Y/n?”

His adaption to uphold your governor's name was relatively swift; perhaps he was aware that it was making you uncomfortable all along. Plus, just sounds better.

“Don’t tell my father this but, I really hate how he belittles me sometimes, and so… I’ve been sort of using you as a taunt to get back at him. I just wanted to say, I’m truly sorry for causing any trouble.”

The look in his eyes are unreadable, but his hands being still on your waist shows a good sign.

“Not to worry, y/n. ‘twas fairly obvious anyhow. That is, you taunting him but, also him belittling you. I both hear it and see it without uttering a word. So, If anything, I am the one who is due for an apology .”

In denial, you shake your head. Denying that he shouldn’t be sorry, and/or denying the fact that someone had finally acknowledged what you have as a ‘father’.

“It just feels like he’s not even my father sometimes you know…well hell, most of the time.”

“Hmm. Despite shrugging his shoulders, he appears contemplative of letting go of a running thought. “Don’t tell your father I said this either but…it’s probably because he doesn’t want others to perceive you as his child, Y/n. With the presumption you don’t fit the standards…his words.”

Your tongue pokes the inside of your cheek as you scoff and move your eyes to be entertained by the instrumentals of the classical orchestra. Down deep inside you were cowering in fear, hoping that he wouldn’t detect the hurt you’ve been burying for so long. “Well, of course, I’ve already come to that conclusion. But I don’t wanna suck up to him and become like one of these snobs. Like him…”

“Well, lucky for you that has a very simple solution. Just don’t, y/n.” In that same moment, Yunho uses his overpowering strength to cease the swaying you both used to blend in. You became timid, looking deeply into his eyes for the need for separation, yet his hands never slip away, and neither do yours.

“Even if it means losing all your inherited wealth, or being banished from his riches completely, at least you’ll be happy, free of anyone's approval.”

It was the same non-telling expression that displayed on his soft features nearly two weeks ago after he said ‘independence should not always be perceived so negatively.’ It wasn’t until this moment that you realized he had a feeling of how you truly felt. Then, and now.

“Excuse me? Is everything I need to hear and more coming from my father’s honorable and dutiful Chauffeur?”

At this, he scoffs with a dark chuckle and throws his head forward with a sinister grin that is contrary to his usual smile. “I just take the people that pay me where they need to go y/n. Pretty much everything else outside of that has no limits.”

‘I want to explore those limits. What does his life look like outside of driving us everyday, all day?’

“Why’d you do it?”

“Could you specify that question for me please Y/n?”

“You know…just agreeing to be here with me right now, you could’ve respectfully declined. Everyone else does…”

His eyebrows furrow from the process of newly open emotions, but the meaning of what you intended registers nonetheless. “Don’t you wanna learn how to speak properly y/n? Or was that just another taunt for your father in the usage of myself?”

“Oh no! Your hands begin to wander aimlessly from the back of his neck with no control as you frantically speak. “It’s not like that anymore I promise. I-It’s just easier talking to you, and I think that’s what's making my father upset because this isn’t how we typically speak to our…associates.”

Without your acknowledgment, your fabric hands have vile to a still in front of you. From a bystander's perspective, it looked like you were declining a request to dance. However, the sudden contact of a rock-hard chest pressed against your palm read differently. “Oh shit! Erm, I mean-sorry...”

When you attempt to bring your hands down, they are brought back up again on his hard chest. This time, with his hands over yours, he slowly drags them back onto his neck, regaining their placement from before. “So…what’s next dear y/n? You have me here, dancing with you in the open for your father to see…what’s your end goal here?”

The ability for common sense is overridden by touch in the effects of what happened, and what you think to say next shows the side effects. “You said pretty much everything else outside of paid driving has no limits right?”

“As I have previously stated that is correct, yes.”

“In that case then, I want you to be honest with me. Do you… want to have me?”

His hands lose balance at your waist, blinking rapidly as he takes a few steps backwards.

“M’sorry y/n?”

“What do you think about having me without my father speculating on every little thing we do? To talk, joke, and touch as we are now. Maybe..in other ways of dancing?”

The eyes of the young man avert downward, his expression concerned, and there can be no doubt that he is seriously considering your 'subtle' suggestions. His face softens once more, and a grin appears as his eyes return back into yours. The sense of urgency has dissipated from the beating of your head and chest, as you grin along with him.

“I think…we’re gonna have to find a way to make that happen, but when has your father ever left you unattended?”

Your relief leads you to take a few tiny steps forward in a bid to bridge the gap between the two of you. In the spirit of boldness, you drag your hand down to fiddle with a button on his waistcoat. As for a doubled intention, it soothes you to determine a plausible course of action.

“Don’t worry too much. He won’t have anything to worry about if I have you with me. At least, for you anyway.”

A resuming of eye contact follows, and a shaking emotion of sympathy, lust, and infatuation. As a result, you were concerned that the guest might discover the connection that took place, possibly reporting the events to your father out of interest or judgment.

You part from him, trailing behind his body that turns to follow yours as you face back to the central area where your father can be found. In the moment of staying still with dancing bodies, catering, and live music, you managed to make a way out of no way.

You turn back to make eye contact with a stunned six-foot friendly giant who appears to be wanting more. “Follow me cutie, I have an idea.”

In immediate action, your cute little companion follows behind you as if he were a deeply attached puppy eager to perform any instruction you command.

…

In brief, this is how your idea played out:

By using your own initiative, you were able to guide yourself and Yunho to return to the central food court area so that you would be more openly aligned in your father's sight.

Upon seeing you two, he calls you over to have dinner, which initially kickstarts the exact plan you have in mind.

As disgusting as it was, over an accumulated amount of time, in every bite of food you ate, you left some chewed residue in your mouth, plus a wash of champagne created a perfect combination of barf served right onto your plate.

When you abruptly stand from your seat, the splattered mess grabs the attention of those around you. In effect, it ceased all conversation, then followed up by a unified loud gasp with the adlibs of ‘oh dears’ as the table guest watches you with worried eyes.

You have been seated by Yunho who has quickly risen with you to clean any residue on your body that unfortunately hadn’t made it onto the plate.

With his back toward the table and his gorgeous face planted directly in front of yours, you smirk then wink quickly, causing him to cease both his actions and the internal panic when he realizes this was the commotion you purposefully triggered.

Your father who’s sat across from you both isn’t too worried. Rather he appears more upset about the intimate contact you’re both showcasing to his guests.

“Child! Go to the wash rooms, at once!” Both you and Yunho react to the direction of loud sound and respectfully adjusted your bodies with hands by your sides.

“I apologize father. I think I ate too quickly…and perhaps, maybe I drank more than I could handle. My only desire was to honor you and celebrate you, but I do not feel well at the moment."

In frustration he breathes deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head, then flicking you away with the bending of his wrist.

“Mr.Jeong, would you care to give the legacy some assistance? Afterwards, just drop them off at the most high-quality hotel, and come back to join us shortly please.”

“Of course sir. I will make it a priority to be of assistance, and come back quickly for return.”

In embarrassment, your father continues to conceal his sight of you until you leave. A waiter comes in immediately to clean the mess, and it makes you feel terrible in the slightest.

Although you’re sure the ‘messiness’ your were going to venture, would even things out for you surely.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚*

Upon walking towards the safe spot Yunho secreted your father’s black Rolls Royce, he opens the back door for you in a procedure to which you however slam shut to show your unappreciation.

“There are things that we do with my father, that should not be done without my father. One of the most notable differences is that I will not be seated in the back seat." As you approach the passenger side, he follows your gaze as you open the door. "I call Shotgun!”

Yunho chuckles, then disguises quickly in search of any persons, as he has hidden the car in a secure location in which no one should see you two. He unbuttons his vest which had gotten a little too tight with all the food, drinks, and nervousness he consumed. After further inspecting for a clearing he walks speedily around the car with the uniformed coat in hand to settle awkwardly in the front seat.

Even as he made his way into the car to be seated, the seatbelt strap repetitively formed into a tangle when he tried to secure himself. It was even more awkward when all you could do was stare as his chest squeezed with every pull.

His face read every aspect of embarrassment, yet he persistently tries to fix the belt with endless results of failure. In the coming realization of the uselessness of his efforts, he decides to relieve what’s on his mind as he exhales a deep sigh. “Your legacy- or, my apologies…Y/n?”

You channel out of watching the show of his squeezing the broad breast to acknowledge that his hands are now placed unto his thick thighs, rubbing up and down rapidly onto the top base with accumulating sweat. Your eyes then wander to his puppy dog face which has unexpectedly melted into a childish pout, and that’s when the realization strikes you.

“Let me guess. You’re chickening out of this, aren’t you? I mean- it took me a while to collect that food in my mouth and then ‘fake’ throw it up you know...”

In hearing this he acted as though he was controlled by a switch, exhibiting a variety of expressions, unsure of which to choose. “No! I mean- you just said ‘we’ and ‘without your father’, as if this is going to happen between us often, and I didn’t know if that was your intention or if you just-”

“Only if you want it to Yunho.” Tentatively, you place a hand over his shaky, large, bejeweled one to soothe his nerves. In response, a cute and sad little pout turns into one big goofy smile.

“Listen…soon enough, I plan on getting the fuck out of town to be free of this stupid lifestyle, and without the need for anyone’s approval thanks to you wise sir.” The said wiseman’s smile shrinks in length, he faces you completely, showcasing his full attention and unwavering seriousness as you speak from the heart. “With that being said, I would love to have you to myself even after the time when it is appropriate for me to leave this life behind.”

As you keep your hands over him, Yunho continues to face you. However, you notice that his eyes struggle to maintain eye contact. Your lips, however, did not seem to be too hard of a catch. “That sounds…really nice y/n.”

You take in your bottom lip as if it got shy in hiding from the most angelic gaze. “Cool.” To relieve the initiated awkward intensity, you swiftly remove your hand from his and turn forward to the enclosed scenery, his eyes never moving from you. “I know a detour from that overpriced ass hotel. It’ll make the trip a whole lot longer.”

As a helpful indication as to what you were implying, you turn your head to look at him once more, hoping the knowing expression you were putting on was easy to convey. It didn’t take long for him to notice, and the thought of it made him bat his eyelashes from the explicit mental images.

Shyly, he averts his gaze downward on his lap where his hands are now resting; his ears become the brightest shade of red. ‘How cute’ you thought. “So… you want to take a detour to give us more time to-

“Exactly.”

Simultaneously, upon your immediate response, you both conquer the fear of looking at one another as you match a wide smile. It ‘twas funny how looks could kill the both of you…but a yearning for each others touch excites you both all the more.

…

The tension that was in the air had dropped into your laps, rubbing still between both of your legs. A driving Yunho somehow maintains steady alignment in the lane, and the only giveaway that he feels the way you do is the continuous stares at every slow of traffic, stop sign, or red light.

“If it means anything…unlike your father…I really like the way you think.” You turn to him, unashamed to glance over his towering muscular stature as he focuses on the busy road. “It can be a bit troublesome at times, but, for some peculiar reasoning, it excites me beyond what I should feel.”

You look at him tenderly, heart thumping at a compliment you’ve never heard in your entire life. Heart thumping at the fact you make him feel excited in ways your father prohibits. “Thanks Yunnie, I appreciate that more than you know.”

As you’ve directed him for most of the trip, you have no choice but to turn your highly focused concentration back on as the vehicle makes its way into an intersection. “When this light turns green, you need to make a right here.” You find yourself, for no apparent reason, outrageously grabbing on his biceps with your closest hand while pointing in the said direction.

The contact remains until the light turns green, and you’re forced to let go to enable him to drive properly. The next street approaches as well as your next direction. “Okay, now left.”

Unexpectedly, the black-haired man takes a sharp turn, causing your body to move forward as your hand instinctively grips his thigh for stability.

“My sincerest apologies, I suppose my foot weighed on the gas too hard.”

It’s never happened before…if it did you worst be in the car with this man right now, your father would’ve fired him long ago for a ‘silly mistake’. However, with your level of intuition, you feel as if mistakes happen for a reason.

“No worries, just keep going straight down here…” You rise your upper body back up slowly pulling your hand upward with it to the meatiest part of his thigh with an abrupt stop before his intimate parts. “Now pull into this lakehouse restaurant's parking lot.”

He does so with an anxious demeanor shivering over his body, contrary to the calm ripples of the lake pond with ropes on its borders, in every angle it designs a perfect view. You watch it with grace, symbolically embodying the calmness of the water and the creatures in it living their simplistic lives.

You became so lost in your thoughts that you forgot that your hand was so close to where this man needed you, and to make matters worse, he was so reluctant to speak up for his own benefit. “I don’t recall ever seeing this place before. It’s peaceful, and right now it’s possibly awkward to say… romantic?”It was then you caught onto his hint of neediness, and removed your hand from his lap clumsily in embarrassment.

“Yeah…you got the right idea. I figured it’d be perfect for our special occasion and all.” You laugh off your nervousness as it is now a little too quiet, which also makes Yunho a little wary about his next move.

“Father rarely ever visits this place if that’s what you’re thinking about…” You knew that wasn’t what he was primarily thinking about, but it was a recurring thought in the back of his mind. “As you should know, he’s deadly allergic to shellfish. Plus the restaurant is a little more hidden on the outskirts of town, so it isn't so popular with the common people. Nevertheless, it’s always worth a visit to the lake view."

He nods quietly, a grin slightly uplifting the prints of his cheekbones as a thought walks across his mind. You observe him attentively to gain a better understanding of what he is going to say next. “I think I’m starting to love the way you think. Truly, I’m impressed. You really thought this all out in that ballroom?”

You match his grin, leaning forward as you gain the boldness to grab onto the collar of his white button-up. “That’s right soldier, don’t ever doubt me. Plus, I guarantee you’re gonna love the ways I please you so much better.”

You slowly let go of his collar and make hold your own with one hand. You use your other one to dig behind the material of your tailored satin blazer jumpsuit on your chest.

He gulps as he watches your strip tease act. His bulge behind the curtains becomes evident as it grows in size. You bite your bottom lip as you pull out your hand, revealing a thick wad of cash. “Here. It’s a tip for your courtesy, Mr. Jeong.”

He stares at the stack of cash, shaking his head no like he was in disbelief from what he really wanted to see from you. When you see he isn’t going to take it, you tenaciously bring down the bills between his thighs, stimulating the tip of his erect member and making his hips jerk as his mouth drops further with every movement.

“Dear Jeong Yunho…you truly don’t know how much you’ve changed the entire course of my lonely, miserable, sad life. Please, take this as a thank you.”

His head shakes as he struggles to look down at the action of your stimulation. Yet an evil smile that you don’t recognize awakens his soft features. “Y-you think I want your fucking money darling?” You sense a trembling in your chest as you watch the monster you have awakened swallow thickly, then roll his eyes forward into the depth of your soul.

In response to your slow movements, he roughly grips your hand and places small kisses on the back of it, never leaving eye contact with you. “You shouldn’t cheat yourself, your hole is priceless to me baby.”

Your focus becomes so disoriented from his sudden change of character, that even you nearly forget to play your role, as you are the one that initiated the whole ordeal. “Oh? You submissively pull your hand from his lightly controlled grip, then reach down again unto his lap to take back the bills. Yet as you go for the stack, which there lies still on his erection, he watches you like a cheetah on the prowl, and as his prey, you never stop looking so he doesn’t rip you to shreds. “Who knew you had such a dirty mouth with all that shined and polished vocabulary you speak?”

He smirks, adding to the deviousness of his glare. “Just imagine all the more physical things I can do with it, you would love it, so much better.” He quotes your taunting from earlier, using your own playing card for your little game. “But, perhaps we can save that for another time right?”

You shake your head as you witness your cute little puppy dog transform into a wolf, and you are confused in whether to be frightened, or proud.

“It’s always the quiet ones. Who would’ve thought? I bet this isn’t the only time you’ve fucked your bosses kid outside of driving, Mr. No limit.”

“Actually my darling, you’re the first. Daddy’s little brat who needs to escape bondage from the rich world.” He tongues his cheek in amusement, letting it a huff from your harsh assumption. “But, now that we’re away from all that, with me, you can forget everything but my name.”

With the rushing thoughts of screaming his name while he’s inside you, many words are con-jumbled on the top of your tongue. He smiles devilishly, seeing as to how you’re quickly consumed by the thought. “To the back darling.”

To your surprise, you find yourself obeying as you kick off your shoes, then climbing carefully onto the middle counselor as a bridge way to settle into the back seat. “You really think you’re going to tame me huh? You obviously haven’t paid attention in the last couple of weeks.”

“Y/n my dear, you obviously haven’t had my dick in you yet sweetheart.” Your eyes become blown as you grip the cushions of the seat, and your heart rate begins to accumulate as it beats rhythmically towards your eardrums. Yunho chuckles at your reaction and finishes with an expression of a satisfied smile. “How about you take off that jumpsuit and your underwear to make things easier, if you’re wearing any that is…and make room for me yeah?“

Without any disregard, you follow his commands. It was an odd feeling to be the subordinate here as his duty was to commend service unto you. After he sees you fully undressed, he wastes no time getting rid of his button-up, knee-high boots, and black slacks.

“Hurry and get back here soldier”, you tease. “We’re on limited timing. I don’t want father to create more suspicions than he already annoyingly has.”

“You worry too much rookie, I’m coming.” In immediate action, he climbs toward the back in his black underwear, his dick poking and jumping through the seam.

He hovers over you and takes in the imagery of your naked body, and you rub your fingers over the abs and chest that have grown hard in reaction to your warm and gentle touches.

The sound of a growl can be heard as he squeezes your jaw and collides your lips with his in a heated make-out session mixed with peach-flavored champagne. A final kiss is shared as he bites your bottom lip, gently letting free from his grasp that disconnects a string of saliva. “Bend over, please.”

With the desperation laced in his voice which has gradually become a lot deeper, you assume the position as he makes room for you to do so. He comes from behind you with your back arch like a cat in heat, and you evilly came up with the idea to push up against him to tease his hard-on. He groans and grips both of your hips leaving indents of nail marks, even through the glove.

You found pleasure in it, biting your lips in ecstasy until you felt a hand being removed, followed up by Yunho grabbing the stack of bills in the council. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Perhaps this could come in handy.” The wad of cash is tossed into the air and into his hands behind you, where he is possibly weighing it to determine its value.

“What the hell? What’re you talking-“

A loud smack is heard throughout the vehicle as his nail in your asscheek grips into your skin deeper. A duality of pleasure and pain overwhelmed your senses, causing you to moan loudly in the quiet space.

“Where’d you get this from anyway, huh darling?”Your eyes sting and with the current burning of your asscheeks. You try to find time to come up with words that would make sense to effectively reply with. Yet another smack from the bills is what gets the gears operating again. “I asked you a question, darling.”

“I-i-I um deposited it from my bank this morning. It’s my share from the new restaurant and literally all the money my father’s ever given me”, you rush out.

“Oh darling, you poor thing. He rubs onto your sore red flesh to soothe the surface, but the freshness of the burn only makes it hurt worse. “This is only 10% of what me and your father make combined, and that’s saying a lot.” He throws it back in the front as if it were worthless, which to him it probably might’ve been.

You remain silent. But of course down inside you’re pissed at your father, and yet what’s new?

You just wanted to feel loved. It was as if the universe sent Yunho the supersonic signal as he began kissing up your neck, stopping at your earlobes to give them small nibbles. “Oh, what should I do with you, honey. What do you really need huh?”

“Yunnie, please. You waddle your knees backward into the leather seats, finding a way to press into his hard-on that he dodges from your hole. “I just- I need you inside me now, please.”

“Okay, darling. No more teasing okay?” He leans backward, using the hands he once had on you back in their place into your cheeks to spread them apart. “Can you open your legs a bit more father for me?” In eagerness, you obey. “Gorgeous baby, good job. Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m gonna stretch you out a bit with my fingers, Just by the looks of it you’ll have me coming in seconds, but Yunnie wants you for just a bit longer than that.”

You’re wanted.

So, are you ready darling?”

You’re going to feel loved.

“Just fucking do it already, please.”

He spits onto your opening, followed by the sleek material of his gloved finger entering your hole with smooth sailing thanks to the lubricant he provided. Unbelievably so, his finger grows deeper which feels to have no end. In a few more seconds after that, he reached a certain spot that made your body jerk uncontrollably and he halted his intrusion. “F-fuckkk. Right there baby.” you roll your hips, “that feels so fucking amazing.”

His concern is replaced by pride to hear he could make you feel good doing barely anything at all. “Oh, I see. That explains why you’re squeezing around it so tightly baby, but maybe we should add another to get you where I need you.”

“Yes, please do.”

He wiggles about finger inside you making you feel like you have unlimited proximity in the tight space. Just like the first, he glazes upon that sweet spot, making you whine aloud in pure pleasure. “Just one more baby, you can do one more right?”

You blink rapidly in a daze, slightly rolling your hips to gain more of the addictive feeling. “Yes Yunnie, give it to me. Give me more please.”

“Of course my dear. You asked so kindly after all.” Just as requested, another smooth gloved finger dived into your hole, opening you with a wide stretch. He memorizes the exact area that makes you squeal. Massaging it, pinching it, and puncturing stimulation with fingered thrust.

Needless to say, you were feeling very pleased and wanting more as you move your hips further backward where your ass cheek meets his palm. penetrating his fingers in and out as you please. “Must be the desperation kicking in huh baby? You need something bigger and deeper don’t you?”

You look back at him and the way his fingers disappear into your opening. “How many times do you want me to tell you that I want you to fuck me?”

He bites his lip, using the non gloved hand to grip an asscheek and inject his fingers into it at a fast pace like he’s preparing a Thanksgiving turkey. After a few minutes, the rush slows down and stops, leaving you breathless and sobbing with your back arched extensively.

“That will be the last time. There’s just one thing I have to do so I can give you what you want.” Just like with the stack of cash earlier, you hear a rumbling in the front seat as Yunho reaches to grab yet another item. It gave you a lot of food for thought about how creatively he’d used it in your sex craze.

The new uprising of growing need between your legs in excitement causes you to feel impatient. You look over your shoulder to tell him you cannot wait any longer, but a firm hand turns your head back forward. “Keep your head right there baby, Yunnie will give you what you want real soon okay?” You tongue your cheek, letting go out the most tiresome groan, that was, until you choked up on something enclosed on your neck.

You dig your nails into the backseat for stability while you bring up your other hand to get a feel of what was holding you from breathing. You feel that it’s a cloth material, then a knot with two long pieces attached, oh you know it’s a…

“Oh, you kinky mother-“ you say in a hoarse breath, but your speech is cut off when your yank upward, and simultaneously, all of Yunho's girthy cock split you wide open. “…fucker!”

“I am going to fuck you, but I just want to let you know that this is how I planned on taming you. Yes, it’s kinky, but I’m sure you’ll take pleasure in it because contrary to life, I think you liked being controlled, but only during sex, hm?”

Correct.

It was the only time you’ve felt wanted and cared for, and given that’s Yunho knows your background, it wasn’t that shocking for him to connect the dots. You probably have your moments of dominance at times just to feel powerful right?

You pointed to the tie around your neck, as it was getting a little too hard to breathe, limiting your communication. Yunho being attentive as he is, takes notice and loosens it up.

A few coughs are released from your throat, as your chest heaves with large intakes of breath. You turn your head to look into Yunho’s eyes, reaching back to touch his muscular thighs, and underneath his cheeks. “You bet your sweet ass I do.”

He grins in amusement, moving to just a few pecks into your lips. “Hmmm. Who knew daddy’s only child could be such a slut huh? Getting railed in the back seat of his Rolls Royce? You are really naughty.”

You pull your chin back, grinning mischievously as you shrug your shoulders, rubbing your ass in the base of his cock. “What the fuck are you going to do about it?”

Yunho grabs onto the tie once more, letting out quiet ‘tsks’ as his tongue clicks in his mouth. “Oh, darling.” An expected tightening of his tie tightens around your neck once more, but what you didn’t expect is for him to hammer into you, his hips meeting your ass in head-on collisions with no end. The indents from his nail piercing were still bruised, but the pleasure overtook all feeling.

You’re whining sounds hoarse, as overstimulation started to creep in, but your words are incoherent to all ears. “What was that baby? I couldn’t hear the shit talking over your choking. He leans forward with his cherry lips on the shell of your ear. “Or had my cock reached so far to your brain that you can’t even speak?”

He kisses your cheeks and loosens the tie. You nearly fall forward as he never stops pounding into you, but he upholds you by the strength of his large hand on your upper arms. “Fuck me harder, please. Fuck me stupid Yunnie, I don’t care!”

Just as your yelling is ceased he pulls out of your enlarged hole, pulling you down to be seated on his lap facing forward. Once seated your eyes make a connection with his through the rearview mirror as it usually does on any drive. The both of you watch each others jaw-dropping expressions as his cock enters you once more scrumptiously piercing through you with an addicting burn.

“One of the world’s national treasures, this tight fucking hole.” After that was said, he waste no time digging for gold, hammering every ounce of cum he had in him.

“Yes just like that Yunnie! I'm so fucking close" You speak through the mirror, your body bouncing, making it hard to concentrate, but more importantly, it draws his attention even more for you. “Give me all your cum, make me your slut.”

He groans into your ear, ejaculating his semen deep into the darkest depths of you body, that awakens it to the light.

“That might’ve been the hardest I’ve ever came in my life.”

He pulls out from your opening, giving you the chance to slide into the other seat. “No fucking kidding. Lesson learned: Never judge your father’s chauffeur by his professional cover, because he might have good dick.” You both laugh exhaustedly through heaving breaths, watching each other's naked bodies shake like the effect of another orgasm.

After it dies down, silence creeps in once again as it did before this all started. The sounds of ruffled clothes provide a few timeskips until it’s back to reality. “So-”, Yunho begins, “with this whole plan you’ve been test driving…was this supposed to be a part of it?”

You frown, recognizing the puppy dog face under the disheveled black strands before his sex drive took control. “Oh Yunnie, of course not.” You place a hand on his bare thigh, this time for the solution of comfort. “I’ve always wanted you taking me like this, and as for my plans for today… I wouldn’t have imagined to have come to this point.” You lean close to his side and whisper, “Literally.”

Yunho breathes out a light chuckle, and stares at your hand at your thigh intensely, causing you to want to remove it as a result. “Besides the sex jokes. Got any regrets?”

With an immediate shake of ‘no’ on your head you say, “Hell no.” However, when you see Yunho's bland reaction to your response, you become compelled to ask him the same question. “Are you regretting it? There must be something since you asked.”

“No.” He says matter-of-factly. “I’m just… conflicted is all. I’ve always taken a liking to you, and I grew more fond of the personality that grew behind the legacy thing. You’ve always had goals of your own.” As you prepare to thank him for his praise, you notice that he opens his mouth once more. “But then again, my support for you risk the possibility of me losing my job, and then I’d have to choose.”

As your interest peaks in his last choice words in his confession, you turn to him in your seat. “Choose? What choice would you even have to make?”

“Don’t you know? It’s either you…or your father.”

“Yunho… you should never be given that ultimatum, or use it against yourself. If pleasing my father is your priority, then you should pursue that, but I’ll never be the second choice. I’ve lived through that already.”

He's slow to respond when he mends through contemplation, absorbing all of the information that contradicts what he has been manipulated with by your father. You pick up his habit of rubbing his hands over his clothed thighs when he has something to work through in his mind.

Having grown uncomfortable with the sudden change of mood sitting next to him, you grab the door handle to go back and sit in front.”Let’s just get to that hotel and forget all of it, fathers still expecting you…”

Just as you were leaving, you feel a warm chest make contact with your back, and a large ring-dressed hand makes its way in front of you, touching your hand on the door handle.“I know what I want more, but I’m afraid to make the choice.” His deep voice rings in your ear, echoing sound waves down each vertebra of your spine.

In response, you turn with your head down, afraid to look into his eyes as he rejects you. “Then you don’t really want it Yunho, because if you did, you’d do anything in your power to get it, no matter the cost.”

He removed his hand from the door handle, pulling it back in what you did not expect to occur- Yunho grasping the left side of your chin to confront you face to face. “I want you…can I have you, please? In the long run, just like you said?”

Your heart squeezes harder in your chest, fueling more ounces of blood by the second from his sweet confession. The imagery of his messy black mullet, his sparkling eye jewelry, and his wrinkled white shirt contrast with his despair. “So…your choosing me? Just like that?”

He shrugs, looking over the details of your face, smiling as he memorizes every square inch. “I’d say that I need longer to think about it, but my mind is already made up.” His thumb pressed against your chin, uplifting your head to look deport into his eyes. “So yes, I’m choosing you, darling. Can I have you?”

You take advantage of closed distance to exchange peach-flavored lips, sloppily trading tongues and groaning each other's names in between.

It was the best decision you’ve ever made, a chance for freedom, to forge your own path, and to be someone outside of your father's shadow. Jeong Yunho was your window to the world, giving you the courage to take on a journey of your own and find what you truly wanted in life.

“Fuck.” You mutter pressing into Yunho's chest as he makes the kiss deeper with a “Mhmmm.”

But it’s not what you said in means to spoken pleasure, but there was something you both kept forgetting. “No wait-, you push away from his lips with the palm of your hand on his chest, “How am I supposed to explain this? I don’t want you to get fired so soon.”

He chuckles, reaching up to fix the collar of your jumpsuit, grinning at your uneasy expression. “You’re just now thinking about that huh? Don’t worry baby, I’ll do the fancy talking.”

Smiling in relief, you took hold of his collar and pushed him against the seat, crawling into his lap as before, yet facing him with the front of your body. “I would be more than happy to do the dirty talking for you, Mr. Jeong. Would you like to take another 'spin around the block'?”

“You’re gonna give me a ride now baby? Take control?” He bites his lip in anticipation, playing with his tie that was loosely wrapped around your neck, squeezing the bouncy flesh on your thighs.

“That’s right, you say smoothing your hand up his damp white button-up shirt and over his abs, unbuttoning the clasps to undress him yourself this time. “I am my father’s child, control runs naturally in my blood.”

“Well then...” He grins, I’ll be sure to buckle in tight darling.”

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚ * ੈ✩‧₊˚*

END

Much love,

Xoxo

PLEASE DO NOT COPY MY ORIGINAL WORKS, reblogs are appreciated and accepted. Stealing and modifying my work or publishing out on other platforms is not.

©️1117feverlessdreams, 2023

[leave-alighton]

Once again, it's: Songs That I No Longer Feel Like Pretending Aren't Good Just Because of Public Opinion.

Today? Story of My Life by One Direction.

You heard me.

One. Direction.

The boy band born from the half-fulfilled dreams of five white guys (without the fries), then broken up like the dreams of every fangirl for a reunion tour. Yes, this is the origin of Watermelon Sugar Styles, Slow Hands Horan, the one who did the fifty shades darker promo song (ZAYN, all caps), our dearly departed Payne, and the other guy. This is before they knew an independent career, their first taste of stardom. And they knocked it out of the park, really. You can't say they didn't! No matter how you feel about what makes you beautiful (oh-oh), you can't deny that you remember exactly what that five-part harmony sounded like when you read that lyric.

But enough about the band. There's another book to be written about that whole story, and the usual tweeny-bopper, love-or-hate reception they got- not to mention a decade's worth of drama more juicy than anything your high school could come up with. No, this is about one of admittedly many songs they released that just, slapped. I would've written this piece sooner if I'd known which one to choose earlier.

Story of My Life was the second single pre-released on their album, Midnight Memories, from 2013. This might've been called the height of their career if it didn't seem like their entire career was consistently orbiting in the stratosphere from conception to destruction- a live-stream release sponsored by google, a documentary, hit after hit topping charts, and no shortage of loyal, dedicated, screaming fans arriving at every show on their Where We Are tour.

But why am I talking about it, over ten years later? Because! As much as you can argue that their success was staged, bought, or scripted, their music was good.

Because it's me, I want to start with the lyrics.

Written in these walls are the stories that I can't explain I leave my heart open but it stays right here empty for days She told me in the morning she don't feel the same about us in her bones It seems to me that when I die these words will be written on my stone

First off, I want you to put yourself back in 2013. Every song by these crazy kids has been an upbeat, lovesick, prime contender of the sickly-sweet end-credits track of a feel-good romcom. But this opens with a forlorn, Mumford-esque acoustic and this first verse. What the hell do you even do?

The story of my life, I take her home I drive all night to keep her warm and time is frozen The story of my life, I give her hope I spend her love until she's broke inside The story of my life

The story of the narrator's life is a lesson in insanity- doing the same thing over again and expecting a different result. But what do you do when you're a teenager and in love? He gives her everything. Again and again he opens his heart up, just to be left empty again. The lyrics are masterful, telling the story from a perspective of self-blame, of thinking it must be something he's done wrong for her to keep leaving. But he's doing everything right- taking her home, keeping her warm and comfortable, and just living in this moment with her- time frozen- and savouring it because he is just, so down bad. He's [spent] her love until she's broke inside, as if the love for someone else is a finite resource, and he believes himself selfish enough to use it all up. a

I've posted almost half the song at this point, but I have to draw attention to just one more line:

Although I am broken, my heart is untamed still

Come on. An untamed heart, still willing to soar to new heights of heartbreak, despite a broken boys' best efforts. This story of a poor man's efforts to keep accommodating someone who doesn't care for him like he does her. It's a hard lesson to learn, and the song perfectly encapsulates the feeling of that realization through your first love.

Aside from the lyrics (which were written by the boys themselves!), Story of My Life is one in many examples of how the band work together as a team of five vocalists. Each verse a seamless transition from one member to another, a perfect practiced harmony during the chorus, built-in backing vocals for added flare- every one of them is a talented singer in his own right, but coming together is a unique showcase of just what you can accomplish when those voices work in tandem. And they are wonderful voices! Sure they might all sound very similar, but that's the point in a boy band. They hit each note with a strength and stability that holds the immersion of the song itself, each voice an instrument in its own right- unfaltering, comforting, and melodic. I wonder what kind of tea they drink.

It is interesting that Harry's vocals were once again favoured above the other four (talking about his role in the band is a whole other post however), and I haven't really talked too much about the instrumentals itself- although that's because One Direction is made of vocalists, so the instrumentals aren't a huge reflection on them anyway. Evidently, there is a lot more to be said about the meta of the song and the band itself- but that's not what this segment is about. Story of My Life is one of many well-crafted pieces of art produced by this band, and once you strip away the context and the stereotype, it gets a lot easier to enjoy what's underneath.

[lesbianreginageorgeisreal]

Ask away (I'm bored)

1: Name

2: Age

3: 3 Fears

4: 3 things I love

5: 4 turns on

6: 4 turns off

7: My best friend

8: Sexual orientation

9: My best first date

10: How tall am I

11: What do I miss

12: What time were I born

13: Favorite color

14: Do I have a crush

15: Favorite quote

16: Favorite place

17: Favorite food

18: Do I use sarcasm

19: What am I listening to right now

20: First thing I notice in new person

21: Shoe size

22: Eye color

23: Hair color

24: Favorite style of clothing

25: Ever done a prank call?

27: Meaning behind my URL

28: Favorite movie

29: Favorite song

30: Favorite band

31: How I feel right now

32: Someone I love

33: My current relationship status

34: My relationship with my parents

35: Favorite holiday

36: Tattoos and piercing i have

37: Tattoos and piercing i want

38: The reason I joined Tumblr

39: Do I and my last ex hate each other?

40: Do I ever get “good morning” or “good night ” texts?

41: Have I ever kissed the last person you texted?

42: When did I last hold hands?

43: How long does it take me to get ready in the morning?

44: Have I shaved your legs in the past three days?

45: Where am I right now?

46: If I were drunk & can’t stand, who’s taking care of me?

47: Do I like my music loud or at a reasonable level?

48: Do I live with my Mom and Dad?

49: Am I excited for anything?

50: Do I have someone of the opposite sex I can tell everything to?

51: How often do I wear a fake smile?

52: When was the last time I hugged someone?

53: What if the last person I kissed was kissing someone else right in front of me?

54: Is there anyone I trust even though I should not?

55: What is something I disliked about today?

56: If I could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?

57: What do I think about most?

58: What’s my strangest talent?

59: Do I have any strange phobias?

60: Do I prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it?

61: What was the last lie I told?

62: Do I prefer talking on the phone or video chatting online?

63: Do I believe in ghosts? How about aliens?

64: Do I believe in magic?

65: Do I believe in luck?

66: What's the weather like right now?

67: What was the last book I've read?

68: Do I like the smell of gasoline?

69: Do I have any nicknames?

70: What was the worst injury I've ever had?

71: Do I spend money or save it?

72: Can I touch my nose with a tongue?

73: Is there anything pink in 10 feet from me?

74: Favorite animal?

75: What was I doing last night at 12 AM?

76: What do I think is Satan’s last name is?

77: What’s a song that always makes me happy when I hear it?

78: How can you win my heart?

79: What would I want to be written on my tombstone?

80: What is my favorite word?

81: My top 5 blogs on tumblr

82: If the whole world were listening to me right now, what would I say?

83: Do I have any relatives in jail?

84: I accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow me with the super-power of my choice! What is that power?

85: What would be a question I’d be afraid to tell the truth on?

86: What is my current desktop picture?

87: Had sex?

88: Bought condoms?

89: Gotten pregnant?

90: Failed a class?

91: Kissed a boy?

92: Kissed a girl?

93: Have I ever kissed somebody in the rain?

94: Had job?

95: Left the house without my wallet?

96: Bullied someone on the internet?

97: Had sex in public?

98: Played on a sports team?

99: Smoked weed?

100: Did drugs?

101: Smoked cigarettes?

102: Drank alcohol?

103: Am I a vegetarian/vegan?

104: Been overweight?

105: Been underweight?

106: Been to a wedding?

107: Been on the computer for 5 hours straight?

108: Watched TV for 5 hours straight?

109: Been outside my home country?

110: Gotten my heart broken?

111: Been to a professional sports game?

112: Broken a bone?

113: Cut myself?

114: Been to prom?

115: Been in airplane?

116: Fly by helicopter?

117: What concerts have I been to?

118: Had a crush on someone of the same sex?

119: Learned another language?

120: Wore make up?

121: Lost my virginity before I was 18?

122: Had oral sex?

123: Dyed my hair?

124: Voted in a presidential election?

125: Rode in an ambulance?

126: Had a surgery?

127: Met someone famous?

128: Stalked someone on a social network?

129: Peed outside?

130: Been fishing?

131: Helped with charity?

132: Been rejected by a crush?

133: Broken a mirror?

134: What do I want for birthday?

[helplessswan]

Ugly as Sin | Transfem! James x Fem!Dave

KNIVES HERE!!!! With some angst, again, lol, 7k words aprox | request rules, ao3

I follow you now / I follow you down

To a dirty black room /Where the air is gone

I'll lie down on the table / And I'll wait for you

To step inside me now / Come inside me now, Jesus

or

An horrible night with transfem! James and fem! Dave

TAGS: Angst, Hurt No Confort, Transfem James, Fem Dave, Transphobia, Dysphoria, Internalized Misoginy, Emotional abuse, Vomiting, Non-Consensual groping

If there was one thing in this world James hated, it was herself.

She hated the way her body lacked curves; she was made of straight lines like the slashes of a knife. She hated the width of her shoulders compared to the rest of her body. There was nothing delicate about her, nothing pleasing to the eye, nothing that indicated she was a real girl.

James squints at herself in the mirror, trying to hold back her tears. She can't stop seeing all the flaws that adorn her body. 'Deformed, I look deformed,' is the only thing running through her head. She inwardly curses being born with this body that isn't hers inside or out, and she curses the fact that she isn't blind so she can ignore all her misshapen muscles and bones.

Her gaze never wavered or shifted from the glass, a reminder and a punishment to herself. It wasn't the first time she'd done this, staring at her reflection for endless moments, pointing out her imperfections like an angry mob pointing at a traitor. And she wouldn't stop until she found something to smile about the deformed canvas that was her body.

The rest of the room is forgotten. The smell of suffocating humidity is the least of her worries. The air is icy against her skin, freezing and cracking like crumpled paper. The mirror's glass squeals and cracks as if trying to break out of its wooden frame; not even the rock band stickers and dirty finger smudges could hide the cracks.

She wears the same clothes as always, rags sewn together at the sides, seeking their own shape. James didn't know how to sew; her fingers always ended up bleeding, and the punctures burned beneath her skin like maggots in herhe tender flesh. An old Venom T-shirt Lars gave her for her 19th birthday covers her flat torso. To cover her legs, shame, and sins, she wears a skirt: long, knee-length, like that of a student at a religious school.

Her long limbs tremble, and her left arm rises to touch her right forearm, the pads tracing the skin that was neither soft nor pure. The softness doesn't last long; she's never soft; it doesn't take long for her to dig her broken, sharp nails into the flesh. She drags and scratches all around, leaving white lines in her wake. But James isn't content to scratch; she needs to pound, to crush.

She falls to the ground, defeated like a soldier begging for mercy, surrendered to a higher power. Her knees scrape against the floor without care, but they feel more like rough stones. Blood is draining from her parched veins; the air pushes her to the ground in submission. She stares as if she has nothing left.

She raises her fist in the air and smashes it against her skin, once, twice, repeatedly, the way a hammer drives into wood. She already knows how this is going to end: a bruise of every color that's unpleasant is going to form on her skin, Dave, Lars, and Cliff are going to discover it, and she's going to end up scolded by the latter two because they simply don't understand her. They don't understand her constant suffering, her struggle with her own body.

A physical punishment is all she needs, a little roughness to get her in her stride. Finding comfort in pain was easy, the only thing she knew. It was an almost nostalgic pain. She could almost hear her father's belt in the air, just like the day her dad walked in on her trying on one of her mother's dresses.

She remembers that day perfectly, the winter of ‘78. It was snowing outside when James arrived home after school. The house felt freezing inside. No one was home, neither her parents nor her sister, just James and the sound of her own footsteps as she wandered through her home. She hurried up the stairs, ready to grab her guitar, her only true and faithful friend. But before she made her way to her room, She stopped dead in front of the half-open door to her parents' bedroom. She sniffed around as if it were a forbidden place, her gaze quickly focusing on one of her mother's clothes lying on her bed. It was a light blue dress, hand-sewn by one of James's aunts. It was a pretty dress, although, in reality, James didn't know much about dresses.

She approached the bed delicately, walking on tiptoe as if someone, even in her solitude, would listen, would judge her. She took the sleeves of the dress in her hands and was frightened by her own thoughts when she realized she was beginning to plot in her mind how the dress would look on her. James imagined how such a feminine garment would fit her pubescent body.

She looked at it hesitantly and decided she had nothing to lose.

Even though she did have it.

She stripped from head to toe, left in only her socks and boxers. She slipped her head through the gaps in the dress, and in the blink of an eye, she was wearing it. The fine, carefully crafted fabric caressed her as gently as when her mother hugged her. She looked at herself in the mirror, and a flurry of unfamiliar sensations formed in her stomach.

The dress hugged her in ways she'd never imagined before. She spun around on her own axis, and the ruffles of the dress floated in the air like in old Hollywood movies.

There was something so forbidden and wrong about her actions, waves of guilt and disgust crashed over her body, but she didn't stop. The warmth of the dress melted the bitter, icy cold outside, and James couldn't help but smile at her reflection in the mirror. She knew boys weren't pretty; they didn't have to be… But she felt so pretty now. Was this really so wrong?

She stood in front of the mirror for a few minutes, posing, trying to arrange the dress to her body, making it her own. And seeing the lipstick on the counter, it was easy to deduce what was going through her mind. She grabbed it and tried to remember all the times she'd seen her mother put on makeup. She lost herself in her own bubble, ignoring the outside world.

When she finished applying her lipstick, her father was standing in the doorway.

Belt in hand, the leather rose like divine punishment. And in moments, her skin burned. No matter how much James screamed or begged for forgiveness, her father took his god's word as a whip and punished his child with his own hands as she deserved.

The punishment didn't end there; that was just the first, pitiful part. Her father couldn't remain silent; it was his duty to inform his wife of his son's sinful behavior. And her mother's look of disappointment, fixed on her, was more painful than any blow. Whispered prayers were the first thing James heard when she tried to approach to the woman who had given her life.

What she had discovered about herself in such a short and fleeting time was torn away, along with her pale, 15-summer-old skin and her sanctity. Being a deviant like her was wrong. She knew it because it carried a punishment. Transgender and fags would have no peace, neither here nor in hell.

But she thinks that hell is fine if she can be a woman there.

Now, at nineteen, James knows it well: the violence on her battered body was what calmed her, a mere scratch compared to the deep wound that was God's eyes upon her.

Not even when she loses her breath and her arm cramps from beating herself up, James stops with her self-harm. She would love to be able to shed her body, to inhabit a skin that felt like her own and not the sack of bones she was part of. Maybe it wasn't even worth clinging to such an unhappy life, maybe...

James jumps in fright when she hears the sound of the door opening interrupting her despair. Her blue eyes widen, paranoid. Reflexively, she covers her face with her arms, but no, it's just Dave. Dave was everything her mind wanted to avoid and admire in these moments of misery, because she was everything James wasn't. Dave was pretty, with long, unkempt orange hair that moved onstage with the wild beauty of a wildfire. She knew how to wear skirts, dresses, and heels and not look like a circus freak. Dave was a real woman, not the joke James was.

She couldn't help but compare herself to the redhead every chance she got, jealousy building in the pit of her stomach every time she saw her. Her natural, unashamed femininity made James feel incompetent in comparison, and she couldn't even blame Dave for that. She wished seeing Dave was more like seeing a reflection, a peer, but then she looked at her own body and couldn't help but feel sorry for herself.

Dave is honest, at least with the rest of the world, at least with James. Every time she asks tough questions and waffles on about whether they see her as a real girl or not, Cliff and Lars lie to her face, believing it to be comforting, telling her what she wants to hear. Sometimes she wishes she could see into other people's minds, to know what they really think of her, even when she's terrified of the results. Dave wasn't like that; she didn't console James when she talked about what an abomination she was; Dave just got on her nerves.

Their relationship was like that, that ambiguous space between love and violence in which the two had spent their entire lives. Dave's voice rises, demanding

“Hey James! Where did you leave- Oh no, not you again with this crap to get our attention.”

James's body tenses; she wants to yell at her, to tell her that she isn’t trying to get anyone's attention, but she knows that if she contradicts Dave, there's no stop of her anger. She can't avoid the words from hurting; she doesn't like to think there's a half-truth in them, she doesn't like to think about how it comforts her when her bandmates worry about the bruises on her arms. James gives in; she feels like Dave knows her better than she knows herself.

Dave stands in front of James, who is on the floor. Dave's eyes were stern on her like a lion's on its prey. A rough hand lands on James's head and tugs carelessly at one of her long blond locks.

Their gazes meet when James raises her head at Dave's treatment. James shudders, feels the air suddenly turn icy, and looks down. She can't bring herself to meet Dave's stern gaze. She'd never admit it, but she was afraid of the redhead; just looking at her caused her physical pain.

Sometimes, James wishes she could possess her own body the way Dave possesses her thoughts and pains. Every time Dave possessed her like a parasite in her stomach, James turned crystal clear.

Dave's hand tightens even more in her hair, testing what she was going to do. She really could do anything James wanted in this state; a sea of possibilities opened up before her. And out of all of them, she chose to place her palm gently on her dry cheeks. Her calloused thumb traces the contours of her skin, her nail pressing dangerously into the flesh as if it were Dave's next dish.

“Phew, look. If I help you look like a real woman, will you stop crying?”

James's eyes open, and she falls silent, breathless. She feels her mouth go dry in an instant, and the hand pulling at her hair as if it wants to decapitate her doesn't hurt as much anymore. A real woman. Being helped by a real woman to become one. To undergo mitosis until reaching the closest thing to peace and beauty was something so divine that it could only be achieved through a pact with the devil.

She doesn't think about it for a second; she feels as if she could kneel right there, the same way she knelt before God every night, begging Her to take away all that warm sin that came in temptations like the sky-blue dresses, femininity, and a word that sounded so beautiful: "woman." Now she begged for the sin, accepting divine fury for a bit of peace of mind.

She nods, doesn't speak, just shakes her head. She's moved; she never thought she'd be alive to witness Dave find kindness in her heart. She never thought she'd be alive to witness her loved ones grow up; she can't imagine herself growing up, especially in that body. A ray of hope glides through her bedroom mirror.

When she takes Dave's hand to get up from the floor, there's no turning back.

They walk briskly to Dave's room, slipping on air. The redhead walks as if she's committing a crime, glancing sideways out of the corners of her eyes, and James feels flashes of déjà vu. Dave's door is broken and unoiled; she has to kick the bottom of the wood a few times to get it to open.

Heading straight to the closet, Dave didn't waste a second of her time. Dave's room—Dave and Lars, actually, the two of them shared a room—wasn't much different from James's. The moldy walls and general chaos were a common decoder between the two rooms. Cliff had suggested James and Dave share a room, the two girls tigether, but Mustaine left no room for discussion in that characteristically sharp voice; she wasn't going to share a room with James.

Dave takes garment after garment onto her bed with a carelessness and confidence that James could never allow herself. Stockings, skirts, dresses in colors so dark they were blinding. Old, raw leather was what stood out in James's eyes. She wants to take them in her hands, dress them, feel them hug her body and warm her. But she keeps her hands to herself; she knows she can't take Dave's things away from her. When the pile of clothes is big enough for the redhead's liking, she begins to search for the best clothes for James, who can't help but idealize how her figure will look when Dave is finished with her, as if a set of rag-shaped constructions could fix everything about herself that she considered deformed.

“take off your clothes”

Direct, raw, that's how Dave's words come out. There are no sugar-coated filters or false ideas. James obeys, thinking she knows what's coming next. she takes off her shirt, revealing her flat chest, a plain lashed by violent storms. Her abdomen is the depression of the terrain, sunken in, her skin is thin, giving her a slender appearance that highlights her bones. She never marveled at her thinness like many girls who worship it; it only highlighted her worst qualities. It's not that she's deliberately gaining weight either; if she's learned anything, it's that thinness is something to yearn for, a symbol of respect among many women.

She takes off her pants; her legs are infinitely long, ger knees prominent and always scraped. The blond body hair had long since disappeared, the result of James exposing herself to long waxing sessions. They had left her skin red and irritated, but that was sometimes the point, the connection that generated the pain.

She's left vulnerable, in just her frayed panties and socks. She closes her eyes, feels bile rise in her throat, burning everything in its path. She felt vulnerable before Dave, but she didn't back down, hoping the redhead would see a little light in her. She needed a skilled, stern hand to reorganize her body so she wouldn't be ugly anymore, ugly as sin. She only prayed that that stern hand wouldn't crush her last rays of hope.

They burn, Dave's fingers against her skin, burning cold. They never rest on her completely; James is the patient, Dave the steel-bladed surgeon, the psychiatrist who prescribes pills. Black eyes rest on her body, testing which medicine to distribute. She takes one of her bras and passes it to the blonde. It's black, C-cup, and James's mind returns to the ring. She slips it on, her back wide, and the fabric frays in places, but Dave doesn't look surprised. The hooks scrape James's skin when she manages to adjust it. It stings; the fabric isn't of a pleasant quality; the seams feel like ant bites on her skin. She wants to scratch until they scab over, but her hands keep working.

Several plastic bags are the first thing she sees in Dave's hands when she raises her head. They're disposable bags, Dave probably got them at a supermarket or something. She doesn't give James much time to think; she shoves the bags into the gaps between her bra and her chest without any care. She can't help but feel a little disgusted; it's almost as if her chest is actually being ripped open, although that would be a little more pleasant, more real than dirty bags. But this is always better than nothing; she wasn't ungrateful.

Dave isn't very fond of her job. Her touch is dubious, as if unleashing unprecedented depravity. James can't help but feel decayed. She knows Dave has done worse than helping a tranny, yet she still treats her so abjectly. Still, she can't help but crave Dave's company. She begs not to be abandoned; she knows the hole Dave is capable of leaving her in is one she can't climb out of. She wants to satisfy her, needs the redhead's poisonous arms around her.

She doesn't expect it when Dave runs her hand around the cloth-covered bags, as if there's something real there. James takes one, two steps back. Her hands cup her chest as if she's about to be stabbed. No, she's already been stabbed, and she's preventing her blood from clotting and gushing out in black and red. The redhead looks confused; she doesn't understand how James can react so realistically to something she sees as fake.

James looks at her stomach, looks at her navel, and her stomach churns. After years of enduring the shared hatred of a world that wants her dead, she doesn't know why Dave's help makes her so weak. She wished she could put Dave in her shoes, make her see through her eyes, know what it's like to look in the mirror and understand the word self-loathing. But that will never happen, because Dave is beautiful, and Dave is a real woman.

Dave's arms fall back, looking at James like a parent looking at an ungrateful child. James knows the disappointment in her gaze, knows what it means to fall short of expectations; she does it all the time, just by living.

Another piece of clothing ends up in James's hands: a plain black T-shirt. A bit different from her usual style, there are no rock band logos or any silly phrases like the band's tees usually wear. She puts her arms and head through the holes. The air feels chilly. The pockets inside the bra create slight curves, which James thinks would be enough to satisfy her and paint her eyes with false perception most days.

She sits on the bed for the next item. Dave insists she can't put it on herself, that the fabric is cheap, and James's hands are too big, and she's too clumsy to keep from tearing it. The blonde stays quiet; perhaps Dave knows better. They're black Lycra stockings, meant to be knee-high. They're more opaque than what James usually sees the other woman wear; they don't go with the revealing outfits Dave always wears. They're discreet, so no one will notice them too much.

James positions her feet like a ballet dancer's so Dave can start putting on the stockings. She was right; the fabric feels cheap, as if it could tear at the slightest wrong touch. There's pure concentration in Dave's eyes, unlike her careless swipes from before. A dead silence accompanies her firm touch. The stockings rise up her calves, trapping her skin inside. It reaches her knee, and the redhead smooths the Lycra over her freshly formed scrapes. James's chest tightens, and she hisses in pain. She wants to clench her legs together, but she keeps them in place.

Her breathing becomes labored as they reach her thigh, her touch intensifies, and she begins to feel everything with intensity. She dreads watching Dave approach her crotch; she doesn't want to disgust Dave more than she already does. But James knows she's fucking disgusting. She alone soils her pale skin with filth. She discovers it again every time she sits on her bed, her legs trembling and her hands stained with her own fluids; when she looks in the mirror and her most violent organs remind her of her ontological reality, the knowledge that she will never be a woman, but rather the attempt at one.

There it is again, the nausea. Her stomach churns violently, she feels like all the alcohol she's been choking on for years is going to explode in her throat. She can't stop, the anxiety is eating her alive. She didn't think about how badly this could end when she accepted Dave's proposal. She can't understand how she stripped naked in front of her, with her body wanting nothing more than to be mutilated and reassembled. Maybe she needed Dave that badly.

She can understand when Dave doesn't pull her stockings up to her hips. The disgust she must feel with a body like James's. Her disappointment is clouded with relief as she pulls the last few inches of fabric up to her hips.

She puts on the skirt Dave hands her. It's shorter than she usually wears, revealing more than it should. But it's not like the miniskirts the redhead wears either. In fact, she doesn't remember seeing Dave wear this same garment before. Her hands work clumsily; it's too tight for her legs, too narrow for her fake waist. She feels her body compressing. Maybe she should slim down a little more if she wants to fit into Dave's clothes.

Now she feels like a corpse dressed for its funeral. There's something messy about the way the clothes don't fit her body. She shouldn't have expected them to, Dave has always told her that; it's silly for her to expect to look feminine, because she wasn't going to. The fabric is scratchy as a weed, but she stays still. She remembers how her mother had once told her sister that beauty hurts, and James thinks she was right. Beauty hurts, it stings, it leaves bruises.

Dave has a mirror in her room too, a desktop one where she can't see the full picture of the mess she is. She can only see her face, dried by the tears from of years. The bright red pimple scars stood out on her skin, and she wants to scratch them off. She sighs; she can't even look at her face without thinking about everything she wants to tear out and rearrange.

“You’re not even good enough to put on clothes. Do I have to do everything myself?”

She looks over her shoulder at Dave's voice, disappointed in herself. The redhead grabs her by her nonexistent waist and drags her like a rag doll. James's feet slip on the floor and she feels like her outfit is about to rip. She squeezes her legs together to keep from falling to the ground; Dave really didn't seem to care much if the blonde fell under her touch.

She doesn't ask permission to start adjusting James's clothes. She doesn't need permission if it's James. James would never be able to deny Dave anything; she couldn't give herself that right, she wasn't the one to do it. Hands start tugging at her shirt, at her skirt, sometimes getting dangerously close to the areas James hated most on her body. Dave doesn't know which ones they are, and she doesn't mind avoiding them either.

It faintly reminds her of moments from her childhood. Her father used to do this to her mother all the time. Running lipstick off her face until there was no trace left, buttoning her shirt all the way up, or trying to make her skirt cover up even more. Maybe this is what her mother felt when her father tried to "fix" her; she felt possessed, consumed.

She imagines what it would be like to be a couple with Dave. For a second, she doesn't think her heart could handle the redhead's attitude every day. But if her mother could endure and love her father, she could live with Dave in a more romantic way. James isn't sure if she likes the woman that way, but she also wishes things between them were different.

Her mother used to shed tears at times like these. Maybe she should be crying too. She'd always been told boys didn't cry, that it was only for girls. Maybe crying would make her more of a woman. She feels foolish every time she interacts with Dave, like everything she's learned throughout her life is wrong, somehow.

She looks down and breathes. She's going to let Dave teach her everything she doesn't know.

The club's neon lights are as harsh as a blinding sun on her retinas. The narcotic smell in the dead, stale air burns her nostrils and makes her feel sick; she wants to go back to bed. She doesn't like clubs like this; she's a bar girl, where everyone was minding their own business, too lost in the alcohol to care what anyone else was doing. This was different; in the few minutes she spent here, she saw more people powdering their noses than she'd seen in her entire life, and she lives with Dave.

Before leaving, she put on a pair of Dave's shoes that were killing her feet. Along with the tights and the tight skirt, James can barely walk. She looks like a deer that's been attacked and its hind legs are broken. Dave had gone to the trouble of putting on her makeup; eyeliner adorns her eyelids and a little blush reddens her cheeks. No lipstick.

She's alone, standing weakly against the bar as she clouds her mind with alcohol. She keeps her head down, her voice high-pitched so no one suspects. She knows what happens to people like her in places like this. She still doesn't know why Dave thought this was the best place to bring her. It's full of drugged-up strangers with brain-damaged minds looking to spread their stupidity and human filth.

The redhead had let go of her in the sea of people to actually have some fun. She remembered all the times Dave told her how boring it was to spend time with someone as shy as her. James didn't know that feeling went so far as to leave her alone in such a hostile environment.

She can't hear the music in the room; the volume is too high for her to hear anything other than the frequencies of the rumbling bass drum. In all the din, she thinks she's finally gone deaf. She can't identify any of the sounds around her. Her brain is being whipped into a needle of noise and is about to explode.

As she struggles to stay alive, a hand slides down her back until it touches her shoulder.

James tenses instantly, her whole body sensitive to the foreign touch. She doesn't want to look up, but she has to. She forces herself to see the man's face; he's tall, very tall, even taller than James, and that intimidates her. She's not used to meeting people taller than her. His face is blurred; she can't see any nuance of his expression other than a mocking smile with too much teeth.

She curses her stupidity and her numbness for not warning her that someone was approaching. Fear begins to course through her veins along with the alcohol, a race to see who will take control of her body. She'll be in deep trouble if the alcohol wins.

Icy fingers caress her shoulder where the fabric doesn't cover it. They drag like dirt; James already knows where she'll scrub her skin with soap first when she gets home. The man must have noticed the scared expression on James's face, because he presses harder, her blood rushing back. The skin where his claws dig in burns like a live fire, about to leave a scab covered in blisters.

The man's words turn into animalistic growls in James's mind. The blonde's knuckles turn white as her fists clench, her arteries bulging as if they're about to burst. She moves silently, knowing that one false step is inevitable when dealing with idiots in pubs who think they can do whatever they want.

Confronting a stranger in a bar should be easier than it actually is: strike and walk away, knowing she'd never run into him again. But fear paralyzes her; dressed like this, she feels more vulnerable. She knows that now, she looks just like the target, the perfect prey for the target of violent hands. Now, she's just a fourth-class citizen.

Her gut is in knots. She doesn't know how many times she's felt nausea take over her senses so far today, but this is definitely the worst. She feels like she's going to regurgitate until there's not a single organ left inside her. She feels like she's going to burst into flames, and can't avoid the sour taste that forms on her tongue.

When James didn't respond verbally, the man brought his face closer to hers and spoke louder. His breath was sour, the stench strong, and James wrinkled her nose, gasping for air. She swallowed, her throat feeling hard and raspy. She wished Dave were here. She'd seen her defend those she considered one of her own, but she didn't know how much that applied to her, probably because James wasn't one of "hers," she was Dave's, and she was terrified by how natural the idea felt.

But, just as her mind wanders, she returns to her tormented reality when she feels the man's hand move down her bare arm. He seems to take her silence as an invitation. She tries to move, but finds herself trapped between the man and her arm. She squirms in place, wanting nothing more than to escape his filthy touch. Feeling cornered, she begins to gasp for air, becoming like one of the defenseless animals she used to hunt with her father. A coward only goes after prey he considers certain. And James isn't doing anything to defend herself.

She's disgusted with herself for doing nothing, disgusted with the stranger, with the stench in the air. She can no longer distinguish where they're touching her; she feels like it's no longer worth knowing. She holds her stomach above the cloth and looks down, trying to focus her vision on whatever it is. Her head is slowly starting to kill her, the pain becomes unbearable, and she's about to stop recognizing her flesh when a hand rests on her leg.

She squeezes her eyelids shut, wishing she were unconscious, but the pain keeps her awake in a state of misery. The fingers don't stop there; they squeeze her thigh as if trying to cut off her blood flow. She becomes a piece of meat in the eyes of a predator. The hand moves up, leaving his filth everywhere. His nails feel more like teeth trying to pierce her tights as they approach her crotch. She hears the mocking laughter, and her stomach can't hold it anymore.

James vomits on the man, purging all the alcohol and fucked-up stuff out of her.

She feels the putrid fluids pouring out of her body. Her throat is incinerated; she's barely eaten anything all day, and pure acid is pouring out of her throat. The liquid stains the guy's shirt and pants. She doesn't notice, nor does she care. She just wants to escape the blinding lights and the drilling sound. She misses the comfort of her bed. She misses Lars and Cliff; she wishes they were here, looking at her with genuine concern.

With wobbly steps, she drags herself backward as if she's running from a brutal crime scene. When her feet manage to connect two steps without losing her balance, she tries to run, but the shoes she's wearing cut off her circulation and she scrapes until her flesh becomes sore and unbearable. The constant feeling that all her clothes are about to be ripped off isn't very pleasant either.

And there it was, a red dot in James's vision.

She doesn't have to articulate many steps until she's face to face with Dave again. She can recognize that wild mane of hair from miles away. There's always been something about the way Mustaine commands a presence wherever she is—fire rising in the air, generating panic, making everything about her in an instant.

Whether she wants to or not, she always ends up dragging herself towards the redhead out of inertia, or maybe she just needs her that badly. This is a face she does recognize, Dave's angry expression etched in her head from nights of beer and shouting to which she'd grown accustomed. Her eyes, the most solid brown she'd ever seen, pierce her vision like two razors.

Asking Dave why she left her alone is a waste of energy. In the redhead's mind, the favor was already done when she let her play dress-up in her clothes. It's no surprise when Dave snatches up the urge. Her voice drowns out any other noises that had been racking her brains just seconds ago. She's alone in the crowd. Her gaze fills her with self-loathing, sickening gaze; she must smell like a rotting corpse and vomit stains she hasn't noticed yet. All she can think about is how she wants to hide when Dave stares at the deepest vices inside her.

When tears begin to flow from her reddened eyes, her mind is filled with the thought of how much she hates how easily she can be destroyed. And how she drinks it down like liquor, because the redhead won't want her when she fights back because she hates what she doesn't possess, and James doesn't respect herself enough to give herself any other way. Dave doesn't tell her what she wants to hear; she instills fear in her, she disciplines. She looks down on her, giving her a sense of belonging.

A vile heat settles in her eyes as tears flow. Her shoulders slump; those inches she had over Dave, her roars of rebellion on the stage where she towered, were just a joke. She was never smaller than when she stood before the redhead's vile eyes in intimacy; she became docile, drugged by her perfect image.

“Oh no, you’re not going to cry now.” Dave’s hands roughly land on her shoulders and pull her close. Their foreheads collide, miraculously missing the point of a headbutt. Their faces are so close she can feel the redhead’s alcoholic breath against her chapped lips. Their shocks of hair hide their expressions from the rest of the audience, making sure no one gets too curious. She doesn’t think Dave wants to be seen with her too much outside of the band. “I help you with your transvestite shit and you start crying. Nothing will satisfy you, bitch.”

It hurts to know that she's a charity case in the eyes of the person she adores most. But she needs her so much now, and she doesn't know how long she'll last. It could be an eternal pain for a short life, or just a fist squeezing her heart with its blunt nails.

Dave's hand brushes her fingers without interest until it reaches her bony wrist, squeezing as if James is going somewhere, away from her harsh touch. It takes a while for James to realize that Dave is leading her to the club's emergency exit, straight into an alley between establishments. It's only when she inhales the air that wafts through the open door that she slips from the step between the club and the icy sidewalk that she realizes is the fact.

She falls as if she carries the weight of all her sins in her bones; she can almost feel the air breaking to make way for her body. She closes her eyes as if that might make her collapse hurt less. aher hands and legs scrape the raw cement, where bruises will later form, reminding her of this day like the rest of the wounds on her skin and flesh. But the worst blow falls to her head; she hits the floor and almost falls unconscious, but she's not so lucky. She genuinely doubts hee brain is in good condition; she feels like hee brain has exploded, throbbing as if trying to burst out of her head; her entire forehead aches, expanding and contracting.

Trash and small stones dig into her palms as she tries to settle. Her entire upper body weighs her down, her organs splintering between the confines of her ribs. She can't lift her head completely, as if it were dangling, about to detach itself from her neck. She inhales and exhales with abnormal difficulty. The scent of accumulated waste makes it difficult to breathe, leaving a strong, rotten feeling on her tongue. Her tights are now all ripped, scraps of her skin seeping through the torn rows of Lycra. She can't deny that she imagined this, ending up in an alley, feeling broken, dirty, for one reason or another, but she never imagined it would be thanks to Dave.

She coughs up the dust that ended up in her mouth and looks up, thinking the sight might blind her.

The cold, apathetic light from the old lighthouse on the wall is the only illumination to be found besides the faint moon. Dave's oversized body eclipses any illumination. Her curls ignite like matches, glowing. She's tall, no matter what her measurements, and she stands tall with a rage that puts her on a pedestal beyond James's plane, whatever that may be. She blinks weakly; she's going crazy.

She moves forward gracefully, each short step echoing in the night. The heel of her shoe leaves behind a dry, echoless sound. Her two feet rest on James's sides, at her waist. James is helpless, subdued; she's evaporating, on the verge of fading away. There's no blood left in her body, no definite thoughts. She was paying dearly for the sin of being a girl.

Dave lets herself fall against her, sitting on her abdomen. The force with which she collapses is enough to make James groan. The redhead takes her time settling into James's lap. A smile that doesn't reach her eyes rests on her night-darkened face. James gathers her thoughts; maybe Dave is enjoying it, maybe she is enjoying it. The idea disgusts her with herself; it doesn't help that she has her on top of her, writhing like a parasite about to enter her, a parasite that feeds on the flesh and its desires, and will let James's devoured body pay for her sins.

She's not crying anymore; her mind is so rotten she no longer has the strength to do so. She watches Dave move like a snake, her fangs long and sharp. The redhead leans closer to her face for what seems like a short eternity. Fingers grip her hair, holding her head in place, still. Her fringe obscures her gaze, but it's not necessary to meet her gaze when her entire attitude is predatory. Her lips stand out among her features, pink like a newly formed bruise.

And it's those lips that are on hers at the moment her eyes begin to narrow.

Dave's lips taste of the femininity she'd never had. The sting of lipstick and the unmistakable scent of bad whiskey. James's lips taste like vomit—just acid and waste—but she felt even dirtier with the redhead's mouth on hers. It's almost a kiss, but you can't really call it one; there's something about it that makes it feel thick and heavy. But they both know they'll never do it any other way.

She keeps her lips there, sucking out any remaining spirit from the blonde girl. James only opens her eyes when she starts gasping for air. She breathes heavily and swears she can feel Dave's smile against her mouth. Dave's tongue drags inside, possessive, hateful. It's wet, like an open, dripping wound, and she feels like she might choke on her own blood if they don't stop now.

A hand moves from her hair to her neck. It squeezes, not cutting off the airflow, but enough to leave a mark different from those of his arms, one that no T-shirt or wristband could hide. Like a dog's collar, always present and ready to strangle her. Dave squeezes a little harder, pushing her luck as the flesh of her throat begins to twist.

She gasps in intense pain when Dave bites her lower lip. It breaks easily, adding the taste of iron to their tongues. Her teeth pierce with a surgeon's precision, tearing at the small, transparent scabs of flesh. But James isn't alert when the scent of blood reaches her nose, too worried about suffocating. She doesn't want to die now, at the hands of her blind love, where God won't find her.

Her bra sticks to her body from the fragrant, primal sweat pouring off her. Her arms barely hold up her back; they're numb, practically asleep, trying to hold themselves up as the floor leaves its mark. Dave lets go of her lips like a hunter letting go of an already dying prey, because there's nothing more disgusting than taut flesh. The redhead is agitated, rejuvenated and fed. Satisfaction is all James sees before Dave stands and speaks to her for the last time that night.

“I hate you, Hetfield. I thought I liked girls, but I had to meet you.”

HEYYYY hope u liked this. I love transfem James she's everything to me

English is not my first language. This was written in Spanish, translated using a crappy website, and proofread using my poor English and a Word document. Which is sad, because the original is quite good.

thanks to my friend Sam for this beautiful art <333

[thetreehousechronicles]

Operation F.A.L.L.E.N

FACTIONS IN THE NEW WORLD - Prt.2

The Raiders Clan ( Cree’s Group)

Also Known As: The Marauders, Queen Coil’s Iron Court, The Coil, The Scorchkin

Motto (Spoken, defiant): "No Chains. No Masters. Only the Wreck."

True Motto (Scratched into Armor, a silent promise): "Rip the Gears from the Machine Before It Grinds You to Dust."

Overview: From the skeletal remains of cities and the choked arteries of broken highways emerge the Rustborn Horde – a savage tapestry of nomadic warriors, desperate salvagers, and scarred exiles, all bound by the corrosive acid of their hatred for the KND regime. Once fractured bands of survivalists and teens cast out by the system, they coalesced under the iron will and brutal charisma of Cree Lincoln, the former Teen Ninja prodigy now a crowned warlord of the wastes. They are the storm that breaks against KND convoys, the unseen hands that snatch children from indoctrination camps, and the lifeline of stolen tech for fledgling rebel cells. To the Citadel, they are vermin, terrorists to be exterminated. But within their ragged ranks beats a fierce code: shield the young, avenge the brutalized, and never bend the knee to tyranny.

Leadership:

Queen Coil (Cree Lincoln) – The Iron Serpent:

Description: A Teen Ninja prodigy betrayed by the very foundations she helped to build. Now, she is the crowned warlord of the Rustborn, her command etched in blood and steel. Loyalty is forged through the crucible of power, honed by ruthless strategy, and cemented by the legend of her own brutal past. Her armor, a grotesque mosaic of shattered decommissioning rigs and scavenged TND tech, crackles with stolen energy and glints with coiled wire – the genesis of her new moniker. Where Rachel McKenzie dictates from a sterile throne, Cree reigns from the back of a roaring rust-bike, her wrath a tangible force. Yet, the whispers within her inner circle speak of the ghosts that still cling to her, the weight of choices made in fire and fury. She offers no apologies, no claims of innocence – only the stark, brutal clarity of her purpose.

Structure:

The Spireguard: The Iron Fangs: Cree's elite guard, handpicked for their savagery and unwavering loyalty. Each wears a twisted mockery of old TND gear, their presence a promise of swift and brutal execution. They are her blades in the shadows, her enforcers in the dust.

Runners & Rustkids: The Wind and the Wreckage: The eyes and hands of the Horde – scouts, agile salvagers, and young rebels snatched from the jaws of KND "re-education." Many are orphans, their survival instincts honed to a razor's edge. They are trained in the brutal ballet of guerrilla warfare and the unforgiving language of the wastes.

The Chainbreakers: The Ghosts of Systems Past: Defected KND or TND operatives, their allegiances shattered and reforged in the fires of rebellion. They are the strategists, the saboteurs, the leaders of daring raids and desperate prison breaks, their insider knowledge a potent weapon against their former masters.

The Coilborn: The Wild Seed: Children born and raised within the brutal embrace of the Clans. Survival is their first lesson, loyalty their unbreakable bond. Some see them as a warped reflection of KND indoctrination – others believe they are the true inheritors of a world stripped bare.

Territories Controlled:

The Raiders Clan controls a vast and dynamic network of territories, allowing them to strike swiftly and vanish without a trace. Their domain includes the Coilpaths, a labyrinthine sprawl of concealed trails, forgotten subterranean tunnels, and abandoned pathways that snake through the very heart of KND territory. These hidden veins of the wastes allow the Horde to move like shadows, launching devastating ambushes and supply raids before melting back into the desolate landscape. Supplementing these secret routes are their Wreck Havens, formidable iron nests on wheels. These mobile fortresses are built from the scavenged bones of derelict bases, cannibalized vehicles, and whatever scrap they can wrest from the ruins, forming constantly shifting strongholds that appear and vanish like dust devils on the horizon, defying any attempt at static defense. Finally, the Clan holds a growing number of Seized Outposts, liberated KND watchpoints that now stand as defiant bastions against the Dominion. These scars of rebellion, marked with the crude, defiant sigils of the Rustborn, offer vital sanctuary to fellow rebels and the forgotten, serving as loud, visible statements of defiance against the Iron Cradle's crumbling authority.

Public Image:

To the Citadel: The Rot and the Rabid: Within the sterile walls of the Citadel, the Rustborn are a plague – a chaotic, disease-ridden force violently opposed to the Commander's "order." KND propaganda paints them as monstrous figures who "devour innocence, hoard resources, and sow anarchy." Posters depict Cree as a demonic queen with glowing red eyes and a jagged crown of scrap, leading hordes of feral, brainwashed children.

To the Wastelands: The Saviors in Savage Guise: Among the scattered freefolk, Cree is a legend whispered around crackling fires. Her Clans are the only ones audacious enough to strike at the heart of the Citadel's supply lines and emerge victorious. They are a force of untamed fury, loud and ungovernable – but they deliver results. Children in the dust whisper tales of the Rustborn riding roaring rust-bikes against drone swarms or liberating entire indoctrination camps under the cloak of night.

Technology & Weapons:

Forged from the scraps of a broken world, the Rustborn's arsenal is a brutal testament to desperation and ingenuity. They wield unpredictable, jury-rigged weaponry capable of savage devastation: Chain Blasters, once decommissioning tools, now crackle with repurposed energy, leaving foes twitching and paralyzed; Rustcycles, junkyard motorbikes fused with scavenged hover panels, roar across the wastes, perfect for lightning ambushes; EMP Skulls, painted helmets packed with salvaged tech, unleash disruptive pulses that tear through KND comms; Modded TND Blades, stolen from former comrades, crackle with the raw energy of vengeance; and Trap Wurms, repurposed surveillance drones, now lie in wait as crude but effective explosive mines beneath the shifting sands. Fighting with the ferocity of cornered beasts, the Clans rely on overwhelming numbers, swift hit-and-run tactics, and the sheer unpredictability born of desperation, their chaotic tech a brutal weapon against the polished refinement of the KND.

Notable Figures in Cree’s Clans:

Cree Lincoln – “Queen Coil,” the Serpent of the Wastes: Once a TND elite, now a war-scarred rebel queen. She commands not through gentle persuasion but through the sheer force of her will and the brutal clarity of her vision. She has forged a crown from the ashes of her past and built a throne upon the pyre of the old system.

Maurice – “Ghostwire,” the Shadow Hand: One of Cree’s oldest allies, a phantom in the wires. Though not a full member of the Horde, he is their unseen intelligence, the whisper in the machine, the one who always knows where the iron needs to strike next.

Chad Dickson – “Kingpin Cross,” the Merchant of Mayhem: Former Teen Operative #274, now the charismatic and ruthless leader of the Freelance Core – a band of mercenary Teens who sell their skills to the highest bidder, be it adults, rebels, or those even darker. His alliance with Cree's Clan is purely transactional, a razor-thin line between loyalty and profit.

Wallabee Beetles – “Hellhound,” the Ghost of the Arena: Once a captive broken and reforged within the Clans’ brutal trials, he now roams the wastes as a dangerous enigma. Cree respects his brutal survival but sees him as a lost weapon, a traitor who turned his back on the Horde. His intimate knowledge of their inner workings makes him a formidable threat.

Mick “Junkjaw” Torres – The Iron Prophet: A feral genius of scrap and Cree’s chief engineer. He birthed the first roaring Rustcycles and now maintains the Clans’ rolling fortress, The Howler – a monstrous tank-hive cobbled together from a crashed S.C.A.M.P.E.R. He speaks more fluently with the language of engines than with people.

Zee – “The Ash Tongue,” the Voice of Vengeance: A survivor of the KND’s Re-Education Initiative, now the fiery heart of the Horde’s rage. She leads daring rescue missions into indoctrination camps and her speeches burn with the white-hot intensity of napalm. She always wears a scorched KND helmet, a silent testament to the horrors she endured.

Steve – “Patchvolt,” the Underground Current: He maintains a quiet facade working with Hoagie at the junkshop, but his true skill lies in procuring rare tech and deciphering forgotten TND blueprints. He operates as a neutral courier in the shadows, a vital link between Cree’s Clan and Hoagie’s network, his loyalty as silent and steady as the glow of his cybernetic ey

Under Factor:

The Freelance Core

Descirption: Born from the bitter ashes of the KND's fall and the perceived weakness of the rebellion, the Splinter Guard, led by the iron-willed Chad Dickson, operates from the brutalist fortress of Fort Echo. This militant faction, also known as The Supremes or Chad's Battalion, adheres to a stark philosophy: survival through strength, rejecting childish ideals for a ruthless pursuit of apex dominance. Their highly trained Echo Corps, equipped with augmented visors, enforces this doctrine, while failures are culled in the brutal training grounds of the Black Quarry. Whispers of the cybernetically enhanced Apex Protocol elite and Cipher's memory-altering "Forget-Me-Not" serum paint a chilling picture of their methods. Viewing Rachel's Dominion as bloated and the rebellion as naive, the Splinter Guard carves its own path through the post-Fusion landscape, a dangerous force feared by both the Citadel and the rebels, offering a brutal truth in a world drowning in lies.

Enemies of the Clans:

The KND: The Iron Enemy: The primary target of their wrath. Every stolen convoy, every fallen operative, is a deeply personal victory in their ongoing war for freedom.

The Forgotten War Survivors (Adults): The Ghosts of a Broken Past: While some Raiders form uneasy alliances with adult survivors out of necessity, deep-seated suspicion remains. The memories of the old villains' cruelty towards children run too deep for easy trust.

Rogue Mercs & Sellouts: The Tarnished Blades: Former rebels who traded their ideals for the relative safety and comfort of the KND. These traitors are marked for swift and brutal retribution by the Chainbreakers.

Faction Comparison:

Mad Max’s War Boys: Fierce, tribal, and bound by a fanatical loyalty to their leader.

Firefly’s Browncoats: Rebel underdogs fighting for a lost cause with grit and determination.

Shadow of Mordor’s Uruk Clans (with purpose): Brutal tribes driven by a clear objective and a savage code.

[myonlyangel28]

i have more to get off my chest. i have held this in for a while but since most of us have the same overall consensus on things i figured fuck it let me share this.

i’ll be honest. i’ve been away from the fandom for the most part after zayn left. i wasn’t around as much during babygate and still to this day don’t know much about it bc i left the fandom around that time. i came back october 2024, after liam’s passing. i still followed harry and louis’ careers but not as much their personal lives, until the holivia era. i didn’t follow the taylor russell stunt tbh but i don’t have an issue w her and harry’s stunt bc it rly wasn’t too bad (compared to holivia and the haylor era). however after i came back to the fandom and i went down the larry rabbit hole again and my gosh… im so disgusted w the industry for how horribly they have treated our boys.

harry and louis were just two young boys who wanted to sing and love each other freely. but bc this industry is very bigoted they made near to impossible for them to have a normal relationship. it’s absolutely despicable. they have publicly separated them bc they think larry would be a detriment to their careers like news flash it’s 2025 jeff azoff and simon jones. their management has traumatized our boys so much. they wanna blame the fandom and say it’s bc of us. no it’s bc you have homophobic people in this business who believe that who they genuinely are is wrong.

i’ve seen a couple blogs on here allege that harry finally left jeff and the azoff’s. i genuinely hope those rumors are true bc jeff is harry’s biggest opp. he’s been sabotaging harry’s career for years. harry has gotten so much negative press lately and i don’t even understand why. the man went mia for a long time and most of the articles ab him since october have been negative. they have painted him as an arrogant jerk who thinks he’s too successful of a solo artist to reunite w his band mates. we all know harry is one of the most humble people ever. he is so kind and doesn’t have a malice bone in his body.

they have also tried to make him look as if he’s this heartless jerk who doesn’t care ab liam. they even blamed harry for liam’s passing by saying he didn’t support him enough. liam himself had stated a couple times that harry always a sixth sense and always knew when something was wrong. he supported him. it’s absolutely despicable how harry has been vilified. this was one of his best friends and someone who was like a brother to him. they knew each other since they were 16 and 17 years old. harry loved and adored liam. just bc he wasn’t constantly posting ab him publicly doesn’t means he didn’t care. what people fail to understand is that these boys are very private people. they only post on their socials on occasion.

also i genuinely believe harry is fighting back his management team and label. i feel like that is another main reason he is taking his hiatus. this break is so deserved bc he has been working so hard for 14 years straight without no real break and he’s finally taking one. i’m so proud of him! he’s prioritizing taking care of himself. i think he’s sick of stunting and he’s tired of hiding this from the public. i genuinely think he’s fighting to come out. i hope he keeps fighting. if harry chose to walk away from the industry i would be devastated bc he’s the best thing that’s happened to this industry in a decade. he’s so talented and he was born to do this. but i would more than anything understand and respect his decision. he deserves so much better. i want him to do what’s best for him and his family.

my biggest fear is harry having the same fate as elvis. i genuinely hope harry is fighting back and not letting anyone take advantage of him. he’s such a bright light in this dark world. he’s an intelligent person and ik he knows the game by now. i hope he’s advocating for himself. i hope he genuinely has a good support system around him.

louis sacrificed the first few years of his solo career so harry could flourish and be more free. lou signed an extra 5 years w simon so harry didn’t have to. if that doesn’t show you how much louis loves harry idk what will. he gave up the first few years of his solo career for the love of his life. also so that harry can succeed. he didn’t want harry to suffer.

i feel like in a way harry is returning the favor to louis. he’s taking time off so louis can shine. i’m not saying this is a main reason but it wouldn’t shock me. ik they love and appreciate each other.