1. Riders of Mutiny

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IMPORTANT

*I DO NOT OWN ANY MUSIC IN THIS STORY. FULL CREDIT GOES TO THE ARTISTS.

*THIS IS STRICTLY FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES.

*FYI: You might notice that I changed some of the lyrics to fit the storyline better.

ONE MORE THING: This is a DD/LG book, I've read quite a few books involving this and thought they were adorable and really interesting so, again, decided to write it for fun. I did a little research to try and make sure it's explained well enough. But if you see anything that could be added, or something wrong, please comment and I'm happy to change it.

ALSO, the main couple's relationship moves FAST. Like 0-100. Just a heads up!

I think that's all, this has honestly been ridiculously fun to write, so I hope you enjoy it!! 

*UNEDITED*

⚠️*trigger warning*⚠️ (suicidal thoughts and actions are mentioned in this chapter)

***

It was a quiet, lifeless evening in the Mutiny men's household. Every man but one, who occupied the house was out making a delivery for a business they were collectively a part of. The one who stayed behind, their leader, did so for most deliveries that were deemed safe. Nothing safe ever seemed remotely interesting to the man.

He sat in his room at the top of the stairs, to the far right of the hall, situated away from everyone else. He was a private person, kept his thoughts, experiences, almost everything to himself. Most of the time, the only genuine emotion anyone saw out of the man was either lust or anger. No one was sure if he even had any other filters. It was as if he was meant to live his life in between someone's thighs or beating someone, sometimes to death.

The other men, the ones he considered family, brothers, viewed his brute personality as a strength, but he couldn't disagree more. He hated just about everything in the world, but most of all himself. There were two things that had kept him going this long, but not a soul knew about one of them and he would keep it that way. Maybe if he had been able to have his little secret for longer or gotten to know it better, things would be different, but that wasn't the case. 

The other thing was his club. He'd had loyalty to the Mutiny men beaten into him since he could walk and he lived so he could die for his men when the time came.

Beyond that, there was nothing, just an empty space where a soul should be. He was as lifeless as his brothers who had been buried six feet under. A shell of a person left wandering the earthly plane. His existence had no meaning beyond that of providing his strength for others. 

That was probably why every night he found himself alone in the house, he usually clutched a pistol in his hand debating on whether to eat it. He gripped his shoulder-length, raven black hair in one hand as he leaned forward in his seated position on the edge of the bed. His gun tapped against his knee as he stared down at it in a daze. His mind flicking back and forth over what he should do, his finger hovering heavily over the trigger.

If anyone ever saw him in this position, they might think him depressed or maybe question any past trauma to see what might have led him to these moments. The truth was, he wasn't sad or lonely, sure some shit may have happened to him, but he didn't give a fuck about any of it. The fact that he felt next to nothing was what caused him to sit here day in and day out. 

There was no happiness in his life, it was an endless loop of grey static and it pissed him off. Anger was the one thing he could definitively say he felt. In fact, he thrived in it, the slightest annoyance sent him off the rails. Growing up he learned to push people's buttons, looked for reasons to get mad, to fight. He felt pain, he wasn't inhuman, but it never surpassed the rage that fighting fueled within him. Besides, most people couldn't touch him considering he was a 6'8, muscled, literal fighting machine.

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