#Man Smiles The Most Beautiful Smile In The World

[sleeplessspell]

The Tyrant of Harmony

On the outer curve of the continent, where the sea sang with the land, lay the Isle of Harmony. A small peninsula kingdom, its people were few, its cities scattered, and its land modest compared to the sprawling empires that loomed to the east and west. But in this land of salt, wind, and art, a quiet fire had long been burning—one that would one day consume the throne. That fire was named Simeon.

Prince Simeon was born not of a royal marriage, but from lust and cruelty. His father, King Albrecht, a man of hollow grandeur and swollen pride, had forced House Elane—once a proud noble family—into ruin. Their sin was beauty. More precisely, the beauty of their eldest daughter, Serenya. To save her family, Serenya bowed her head and became the king’s concubine.

Simeon grew up in the shadow of his mother's broken grace. He saw the way people looked at her—half in pity, half in scorn—and he heard the whispers in the marble halls of the palace. "Concubine's son," they called him. He never said anything back, but Simeon listened. He watched. And he remembered.

Most believed Simeon's rise was sudden—a flash of ambition in a quiet son. But those close to him knew better. From his childhood, Simeon’s path was etched into his heart. He spent years crafting a web of loyalty and fear, slowly turning his father’s enemies into allies and his brothers’ allies into memories. He sowed doubt, whispered betrayal, and never hesitated to use the blade if silence was needed. By the time his eldest brother died in a mysterious "hunting accident," there were no voices left loud enough to object to Simeon being crowned king at the mere age of sixteen.

The coronation was cold, despite the summer sun. No cheers, only polite applause. That suited Simeon just fine. He had not taken the throne for glory. He had taken it for revenge.

Soon after his coronation, Simeon inherited the archives of the crown. Hidden in the back of a locked vault, beneath a tapestry of seagulls and pearls, he found it: the truth. 

During the lowest tides of each moon cycle, the sea retreated from the cliffs along the southern coast, revealing caves where the finest pearls in the world were born.

For generations, the royal family had harvested these pearls in secret, selling them through shadow merchants to the empires, amassing quiet fortunes. While the people starved and artists begged for patronage, the kings lived like gods. It should have made Simeon angry. But it made him smile. He would use this secret treasure to destroy everything the crown had built.

Simeon publicly declared the truth of the pearls. The Kingdom of Harmony, long believed poor, was in fact rich beyond imagination. And then he did something no one expected—he hoarded it.

Lavish gold-plated halls rose in the palace. Simeon wore robes threaded with diamonds. He imported foreign delicacies so rare that even the cooks had to ask for instructions. He hired a thousand personal entertainers, some of whom didn’t even perform; they just looked pretty and clapped on cue. Ministers whispered of madness. Nobles grumbled. Simeon grinned.

But he didn’t stop there. As a twisted joke, he declared a "charity tithe"—a mere 10% of the pearl profits—would go to the people, to "appease their ignorance." It was, to him, rubbing salt into their wounds.

Hospitals appeared in villages that had never known a healer. 

Simeon scoffed as he signed the orders. "Let the peasants have their bandages." 

But those bandages turned into operating rooms. Midwives trained in the new clinics, and infant mortality plummeted. Elders lived long enough to annoy their children again. One man wrote Simeon a poem about how his gout no longer kept him bedridden. Simeon burned it.

Bread became affordable. Bakers stopped mixing sawdust into the flour. Clean water flowed into towns where disease once reigned. Roadways were repaved, connecting towns that hadn’t seen one another in years. Trade surged. 

"If they want to trade chickens and clay pots, let them," he muttered.

But soon Harmony's pottery was praised across the continent. Their chickens became a culinary delicacy. The roads carried not just goods, but ideas, and the kingdom blossomed.

Homes were reinforced to withstand the ocean's cruel winds. Salt rot was no longer a yearly catastrophe. The arts, long dormant, flourished. Artists, poets, and sculptors no longer painted to survive—they painted to inspire. 

Theater troupes toured freely, and local dialects were preserved in song. One boy from a backwater village sculpted a statue of Simeon entirely from driftwood and sea glass. It made the cover of three foreign art journals.

To the people of Harmony, the tyrant was a godsend. Their stomachs were full. Their children lived past infancy. They sang in the streets songs not of rebellion, but of reverence. "Simeon the Silver Flame," they called him. "The Hand of Renewal." "The Pearl King."

Simeon had intended to be the villain. He wanted riots. Street art of his face with devil horns. Effigies burned in public squares. Instead, they held festivals in his name. One traveling bard composed a hymn that included the line: He took our gold, he took our pride, he gave us joy and fish beside. Simeon nearly choked on his imported saffron lamb stew when he heard it.

Religious leaders, once divided by dogma, all began to agree on one thing: Simeon was the chosen one of prophecy.

A fishmonger wept openly when Simeon passed through the harbor one day. 

"He cured my daughter with roads," the man sobbed. 

"That’s not how medicine works," Simeon grumbled. 

"He brings warmth to the winds!" 

"It’s summer!" 

But it didn’t matter.

At night, Simeon sat alone in his palace, surrounded by gold he no longer found amusing. A unicorn-shaped candlestick mocked him from the mantel. He read letters from mothers thanking him for saving their children. He saw buildings named after him: Simeon General Hospital. Simeon Public Library. The Simeon Soup Cooperative. ("Soup Cooperative? What does that even mean?") He once tried to raise taxes arbitrarily to spark revolt. The people thanked him for using the funds to build a coastal warning system.

His mother, Serenya, once a broken woman, now stood tall beside him, pride shining in her eyes. 

"You’ve undone what your father destroyed," she whispered one evening. "You’ve healed this land." 

He wanted to scream.

His siblings, who had once mocked him, now praised him. 

"Thank the gods you took the throne," said one. "Or we’d all be lost." 

Even the nobles, notorious for their venom, now begged for royal commissions and showered him with loyalty. Duke Vassil named his son Simeon and offered to host an opera about the king's life. (Simeon canceled it. Twice. It became a surprise hit on the underground circuit.)

He had wanted to burn it all. To expose the royal family for what it was—cruel, selfish, corrupt. He wanted the people to spit at his name, to curse the crown, to tear down the palace brick by brick. Instead, they sang his praises. Loudly.

As the years passed, Harmony only grew stronger. The roads gave way to canals. Trade routes expanded into the mountains. Art from the peninsula hung in the great halls of foreign courts. Students from distant empires came to study under Harmony’s scholars. Wars passed the kingdom by, for no one wished to harm a place that gave the world beauty. 

And yet, with every passing year, Simeon's despair deepened. He devised ever more ridiculous schemes to sully his reputation, and every time, they were misconstrued as acts of genius or kindness. 

When he shut down the old central market for "renovation"—a ploy meant to inconvenience and impoverish the local merchants—they simply moved operations to the new park he had ordered built months earlier as a joke. It had clean fountains, ample benches, and, regrettably, excellent foot traffic. Profits increased.

"Why do they thrive in my chaos?" Simeon groaned, head buried in his hands during one council meeting.

"Because your chaos is oddly functional," his advisor Maelen replied, sipping tea from a mug that read World's Worst Tyrant.

In another attempt, he outlawed the weekly fair held on Wednesdays, citing a royal superstition. The people responded by inventing a new event from Tuesdays to Thursdays. They called it the Harmony Squeeze, a three-day cultural festival of community and joy. The phrase "Squeezing the King" caught on, and no amount of proclamations could kill it.

He tried to impose a national hat tax. Unbeknownst to him, the money funded scholarships for orphans. He tripled import tariffs on cheese, hoping to enrage the dairy-loving port cities. The move led to a boom in local cheese-making, and within a year, Harmony became one of the premier destinations for goat cheese.

"Cheese has now become our fourth biggest export," Maelen noted one day, sliding a slice of "Royal Regret" across his desk.

"I hate how good this is," Simeon hissed.

One morning, a local playwright named approached him with a request: a royal portrait for her play The Flame of the Sea. It depicted Simeon as a reluctant hero destined to save the realm with a sword of song.

"Absolutely not," Simeon said. “You are not allowed to perform that play.”

"Too late," She replied. "We performed last week. Sold out. It got a standing ovation that lasted over thirty minutes."

By the twentieth year of his reign, even the empires that once ignored Harmony sought his wisdom. They sent him gifts—paintings, exotic animals, and one time, a golden harp that played itself and narrated Simeon's life story in verse.

"You are a symbol of enlightened monarchy," declared the Empress of Tharna during her state visit. "You must advise us."

"No," Simeon said. "I'm busy ruining my country."

"You don’t seem very good at that," she muttered, a confused look on her face.

In private, Simeon often raged. He threw his crown into the sea three times. Each time, it was returned by grateful fishermen who swore it brought them luck. He shut down the national ballet in a fit of pique. The dancers held street performances that drew even larger crowds.

When he replaced the palace wine with vinegar, claiming it a "cleansing tradition," nobles declared it an acquired taste and started buying barrels. Fruits that would have been discarded previously were now being used to make vinegar.

On his fiftieth birthday, the people erected a statue of Simeon atop the largest fountain in the capital. It depicted him lifting the nation with one hand while shielding children from the sea with the other.

He stared at it for an hour from his balcony. Then he whispered, "I give up."

The next morning, he called Maelen.

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"I've decided to become a real tyrant. No more games. No more charity. I want fire and despair. Bread lines. Curfews."

Maelen raised an eyebrow. "Your Highness, yesterday you gave free spectacles to every scholar over sixty."

"An accident, I thought they would find it insulting."

"They’re planning to name the new wing of the university after you."

Simeon let out a strangled groan.

You have just taken over a kingdom and intend to be a tyrant, so you hoard resources for yourself and give the people the scraps. What you don’t know is that those ‘scraps’ you are giving the people are actually life-saving and they now believe you to be the hero king of prophecy.

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 10) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @krystiana @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @fadedintime @theoriginalgirll

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Lewis had always been a man who controlled his environment—every variable calculated, every contingency planned for, every outcome anticipated. It was how he'd survived twelve years in a world where most operators barely lasted five. It was how he'd built an empire from nothing while others with family connections and inherited power had fallen.

But standing in the sprawling pool house of Salvatore Ricci's estate, watching snow flurries dance against the darkening November sky, Lewis was acutely aware of how many variables now lay beyond his control.

The call had come three days after Naomi and Miles had been close to identifying exactly who was feeding information to Suarez; Salvatore's demand interrupted their progress—his daughter was to return to New York immediately. There was no negotiation, no discussion, just a father's edict delivered with the absolute certainty of a man accustomed to universal compliance.

"My daughter returns home where she belongs," Salvatore had said, his voice carrying that particular blend of paternal concern and barely veiled threat that had built his reputation across three decades. "My territory, my protection. This is not a request, Hamilton."

Lewis had wanted to refuse. Every tactical instinct screamed that moving you across international borders while an active threat remained unidentified was a risk not worth taking. But Paolo had privately confirmed what Lewis had already suspected—Salvatore's "request" carried implications far beyond simple family reunion. It was a test of Lewis's understanding of power dynamics in their new alliance, a measuring of whether the British operator appreciated the delicate balance between respect and independence.

"Careful, my friend," Paolo had warned. "This is not just about her safety. It's about hierarchies that predate your involvement."

So here they were, installed in the pool house of the Ricci estate—a "compromise" that Salvatore had presented as generous accommodation of Lewis's desire for operational independence while keeping you under the umbrella of Ricci family protection. The pool house itself was larger than most luxury apartments, equipped with every comfort and convenience, including private security systems that Lewis had personally enhanced upon arrival.

The French doors leading to the hot tub steamed slightly in the cold air, the contrast between the heated water and November chill creating a ghostly veil that seemed appropriate for your current situation—existing between worlds, neither fully in Ricci territory nor fully independent of it.

"You've been staring at those trees for twenty minutes," your voice came from behind him, pulling Lewis from his thoughts. "I'm starting to think you're trying to burn holes through them with your mind."

Lewis turned, taking in the sight of you wrapped in one of his sweaters that hung nearly to your knees, a mug of something steaming held between your hands. The simple domesticity of the image created an unfamiliar tightness in his chest—a reaction he'd been trying to control with limited success since Scotland.

"Just checking the sightlines," he replied with a half-smile. "Your father's security team has cameras pointing at us from at least three spots in those bare trees."

You moved to stand beside him at the window, casually bumping your shoulder against his arm. "Ah, classic Ricci trust issues in their natural habitat. He doesn't spy because he thinks we're up to anything. He just can't stand not knowing everything."

"Smart man," Lewis said, allowing his hand to rest lightly on your lower back. "Information is survival."

"Says the guy who has Miles sweeping for bugs twice a day," you countered with a laugh. "I've seen him crawling under furniture with those weird little devices."

Lewis didn't deny it. "That's different—"

"I know, I know. It's not personal distrust, it's professional necessity," you finished, your eyes crinkling with amusement. "I've heard that one before."

Something about your easy teasing made it increasingly difficult for Lewis to maintain the careful distance he'd built his reputation on. Every day, the strategic arrangement that had defined your marriage's beginning felt more distant, replaced by something he wasn't yet prepared to name.

"Miles is coming after dinner," he said, shifting to more practical matters. "He's got some leads on which member of my security team has been talking to Suarez."

"How's he liking the servant quarters?" you asked, curling up on the plush couch with your legs tucked beneath you. "I'm sure it's quite the downgrade from your usual accommodations."

Lewis smiled despite himself. "He texted me this morning saying, 'Mate, these "servant quarters" are nicer than anywhere I've ever lived, and your father-in-law stocks the good whiskey.'"

Your laugh warmed something in Lewis that had been cold for longer than he cared to admit. "Papa probably doesn't know what to make of him."

"Few people do," Lewis agreed, finally moving from the window to join you on the couch, though he left a small gap between you. "People underestimate what's behind that charm."

"Like they do with you," you said, studying his face. "Except you use that whole stoic, controlled thing instead of charm."

The observation was accurate in a way that still occasionally caught him off guard. You had a knack for seeing past his carefully constructed walls.

"Different approaches to the same goal," he acknowledged. "Miles learned to put people at ease while getting what he needs. I learned to plan for every scenario."

"You rarely ever talk about your military days," you said, curious but careful.

Lewis considered how much to share. His military career was something he rarely discussed, not out of secrecy but from habit of keeping parts of his life separate. But something about you had been breaking down those barriers.

"Special operations," he said finally. "Miles and I were in Afghanistan, sometimes places we officially weren't supposed to be."

"And unofficially?" you prompted, trying to sound casual but clearly interested.

"We handled situations when diplomacy failed," Lewis said simply. "Miles gathered intelligence from people. I planned how to use it."

"That explains a lot," you said thoughtfully. "About both of you."

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Miles is so good with people because that's how he survived. Reading what makes them tick." You took a sip from your mug before continuing. "And you plan for absolutely everything because that's how you kept people alive. Control as a survival thing."

The insight was uncomfortably accurate. Few people had ever connected those dots about his past and present.

"We were good at it," Lewis said simply. "Until we weren't."

"What happened?" you asked, your voice gentle.

Lewis rarely discussed Kabul. The mission that had ended his military career was a wound that had scarred over but never fully healed. Yet something about the moment made the story easier to tell.

"Operation went wrong in Kabul," he said evenly. "Bad intelligence. We were sent to extract a high-value target who was supposedly willing to give us information, but it was a setup."

You remained quiet, giving him space to continue.

"We lost three men in the first five minutes. Miles noticed something off about a supposedly 'friendly' checkpoint. His instincts saved who was left, but we still had to fight our way out across fourteen kilometers of hostile territory."

The memories were still vivid—the smell of dust and blood, the sound of gunfire echoing through narrow streets.

"Miles took a bullet to the shoulder. I took three in the leg," Lewis continued, his hand unconsciously moving to his thigh where the scars remained. "Medical discharge for both of us. The operation was classified, erased from the records, and we were told to find new careers."

"Told?" you repeated, catching the euphemism.

"We could either keep quiet and take a payout, or face charges for things that officially never happened," Lewis clarified. "The government needed deniability. We needed to disappear."

"So you built new lives," you concluded. "Miles with his charm, you with your planning. Same skills, different world."

"Yes," Lewis acknowledged. "Though in many ways, our current world is more honest about its brutality."

You moved closer, eliminating the gap between you on the couch. "Thank you," you said simply. "For telling me."

Lewis found himself taking your hand, a gesture that felt increasingly natural despite his usual aversion to casual contact. "Not a story I share often."

"I know," you replied, your fingers lacing with his. "That's why it matters that you did."

The implication hung between you—the growing trust, the boundaries falling, the strategic arrangement evolving into something neither of you had anticipated.

The moment was interrupted by Lewis's phone buzzing with a text from Miles: Heading over in 30. Found something in those financial trails. Also, your father-in-law invited me to Sophia's birthday dinner tomorrow. Should I be worried?

Lewis showed you the message, watching your expression shift to amused concern.

"Poor Miles," you laughed. "Sophia's going to eat him alive. She's been changing her birthday plans every day since we got here."

"How's she handling the scaled-down celebration?" Lewis asked, genuinely curious about your sister's adjustment to the security constraints.

Your expression softened with affection. "Better than I expected, honestly. Finding out there might be international crime lords after the family has actually toned down her dramatics. She's settled for a small gathering at the house instead of the club event she'd been planning forever."

"Eighteen is a big deal," Lewis observed. "Even with everything else going on."

"In the Ricci family, it's practically sacred," you confirmed. "The formal 'you're an adult now' moment, though Sophia's been acting like she's grown since she was about twelve. I'm glad we made it back for her birthday, even if the reasons are... complicated."

The mention of your return to New York brought Lewis's attention back to the tactical situation. Salvatore's demand had coincided with intelligence suggesting Suarez's surveillance of your movements had intensified, with the added complication of still not knowing exactly which member of Lewis's security team had been compromised.

"Any word on when your father plans to move on De Garza?" Lewis asked, shifting to operational concerns.

Your expression grew more serious. "Paolo says he's gathering final evidence. Wants everything in place first. You know how Papa works—big dramatic justice moment for maximum impact."

Lewis did indeed understand. Salvatore Ricci's approach to betrayal was almost ritualistic—carefully staged confrontations that served as warnings to anyone else considering similar disloyalty. Different from Lewis's own preference for quick, clinical elimination of threats, but effective in its own way.

"Your father has asked me to be there when it happens," Lewis noted, still uncertain about the implications. "Unusual for him to include outsiders in family business."

"You're not an outsider anymore," you said simply. "Not to him. Asking you to be part of De Garza's judgment is his way of acknowledging where you stand."

Lewis considered this. "As your husband."

"As family," you corrected. "Which in my world means more than just paperwork. He's bringing you into the inner circle."

The observation aligned with Lewis's own assessment, though hearing it directly brought the implications into sharper focus. Accepting Salvatore's invitation meant acknowledging certain traditional power dynamics that Lewis had always avoided—family loyalty above strategic advantage, ritual above efficiency, tradition above innovation.

Yet he recognized the necessity. New York was Ricci territory, and certain concessions to Salvatore's methods were both tactically sound and strategically advantageous for the longer-term alliance.

"I'll be there when he's ready," Lewis decided. "But I'm going to handle Suarez and our leak my own way."

"That's fair," you agreed. "Papa respects clear boundaries when you're upfront about them. It's when things are fuzzy that he can't deal."

The conversation shifted to more immediate concerns as you both prepared for Miles's arrival, but Lewis found his thoughts returning to the evolving dynamics of your relationship—both with him and within your family structure.

The woman who had entered his life as a strategic alliance was proving far more complex and compelling than any arrangement could have anticipated. The careful distance Lewis had maintained throughout his professional life was eroding in ways that both concerned and intrigued him. Each day brought new variables beyond his control, yet he found himself increasingly unwilling to restore the boundaries that would reinstate that control.

It was... unsettling. And strangely exhilarating.

Snow kept falling outside. The bare trees were now covered in white, shining under the security lights around the property. Winter had arrived in New York, bringing familiar patterns and possibility for new beginnings.

Miles arrived right on time, his natural charm making the tactical intelligence briefing feel almost casual as the three of you settled in the pool house's living area.

"Financial traces definitely lead back to Petrov's network," Miles confirmed, spreading documents across the coffee table. "He's using shell companies to pay someone in our security division. The pattern matches his usual methods. He's actually being less careful than normal, which suggests he wants us to know it's him."

"Aleksei Petrov doesn't get sloppy," Lewis noted, studying the transaction records carefully. "If we can see his involvement, it's because he wants us to."

"The question is why," you added, leaning forward to examine the papers. "What's the gain from letting us know he's working with Suarez?"

"Gets in our heads," Miles suggested. "Makes us divide our attention between finding the mole and watching for him."

Lewis nodded. "Classic diversion. Create multiple threats at once, stretch our resources, then exploit the weaknesses."

"Have we narrowed down who's selling us out?" you asked Miles while casually leaning against Lewis's shoulder.

"Down to three possibilities," Miles confirmed. "All had access to the compromised protocols, all showing weird money movements in the last six months."

"Names?" Lewis asked, mentally reviewing potential connections.

"Davis, Hernandez, and Cruz," Miles replied, sliding personnel files across the table. "All cleared when you hired them, all clean until recently, all positioned to access the systems when the breaches happened."

Lewis studied the files, calculating possibilities with practiced precision. "Cruz worked Lagos operations before London. Possible connection to Suarez's Nigerian distributors."

"Already checking that angle," Miles confirmed. "Hernandez has been hiding some health issues—big medical debts that magically disappeared three months ago."

"And Davis?" you prompted, picking up the third file.

"Former military intelligence, perfect record," Miles said with a hint of personal connection. "Served in our region, different unit. Honorable discharge after getting hurt. No obvious weak spots, but had access to everything that was compromised."

Lewis considered each possibility methodically. "We need proof before we move. Keep watching all three, but focus resources on Hernandez. Medical debts are the most obvious pressure point."

"Already on it," Miles assured him. "Naomi's team is tracking their communications in real time. We should know for sure within forty-eight hours."

The tactical discussion continued as plans formed and contingencies were established, the three of you working with the easy cooperation that came from shared understanding of both threats and objectives. By the time Miles departed back to the main house, a clear path forward had emerged despite the complications of operating from Ricci territory rather than Lewis's own secured locations.

*******************************************

Later that night, as snow continued to fall outside, Lewis found himself drawn to the hot tub on the pool house's private deck. The steam rising from the heated water created an otherworldly effect against the darkened sky, the snow melting instantly as it touched the surface. A strange counterpoint of elements that somehow seemed appropriate to his current circumstances.

He had just settled into the water, the heat easing the persistent ache in his leg where old bullet wounds protested against the winter chill, when he heard the sliding door open behind him.

"Room for one more?" you asked, wrapped in a robe against the cold air.

Lewis felt that now-familiar tightening in his chest at the sight of you—hair in its natural curly state and in a low bun, face free of makeup, eyes reflecting the soft lighting from the pool house behind you. A version of yourself few ever saw.

"Always," he replied simply, watching as you slipped the robe from your shoulders to reveal a black barely-there bikini. The sight sent heat through him that had nothing to do with the water's temperature.

You slid into the water across from him, sighing as the warmth enveloped you. "I forgot how brutal New York winters can be," you said, sinking deeper until the water reached your shoulders. "Scotland was cold, but this hits different."

"Damp cold versus dry cold," Lewis observed. "Different physiological response."

Your laugh echoed in the night air. "Only you would analyze the scientific properties of being cold."

"Habit," Lewis acknowledged with a small smile. "Hard to turn off."

"I've noticed," you replied, but your tone was affectionate rather than critical. "Though you're getting better at it. The Lewis Hamilton I met in London would never be sitting in a hot tub talking about the weather."

The assessment was accurate. Since Scotland—since you—certain rigid patterns that had defined his existence for years had begun shifting in subtle but significant ways. The control that had been both his greatest strength and his most impenetrable barrier was... evolving.

"Different situations call for different approaches," he said simply.

You moved through the water toward him, settling beside him rather than maintaining the distance across the tub. "Is that what I am? A different situation?"

The question cut to the heart of what was developing between you—the strategic arrangement that had begun your relationship now transformed into something neither of you had named but both increasingly acknowledged in small actions and quiet moments.

"You're..." Lewis paused, searching for the right words. "More complicated than that."

"Complicated," you repeated with a smile. "Not exactly what every girl dreams of hearing."

"But accurate," Lewis replied, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin. "What started as strategic has become... personal in ways I hadn't expected."

"The great Lewis Hamilton, faced with something he didn't plan for," you teased, though something serious lingered in your eyes. "How do you even cope?"

"I'm adapting," he admitted, finding honesty easier in the steam-wrapped privacy of the moment. "And finding unexpected value in the surprise."

Your expression softened. "Value, huh? At least I've been upgraded from 'complicated' to 'valuable.'"

Lewis found himself smiling—another change you had gradually worked in him. "Always precise with language."

"Some precision is overrated," you suggested, moving closer until your thigh pressed against his beneath the water. "Sometimes it's better to... improvise."

The implication hung between you, heavy with meaning beyond the words themselves. The careful distance Lewis had maintained throughout his professional life—the control that had defined his reputation and ensured his survival—becoming increasingly difficult to justify when faced with the growing connection between you.

"Improvisation has its merits," he acknowledged, his hand finding yours beneath the water, fingers intertwining with natural ease.

You studied him for a moment, your perception cutting through his careful composure as it increasingly tended to do. "You've been pulling back since we got to New York."

The observation caught him off guard—another demonstration of how effectively you'd learned to read him despite his lifetime of practiced control.

"Not pulling back," Lewis clarified after a moment's thought. "Reevaluating. Being on your father's territory changes things."

"This isn't about my father," you said with quiet certainty. "This is about you being afraid of what's happening between us."

The directness of the assessment was uncomfortable precisely because it contained elements of truth Lewis wasn't yet prepared to fully examine. The connection developing between you had progressed far beyond strategic alliance into territory he had carefully avoided throughout his professional life—genuine attachment with its accompanying vulnerabilities.

"I wouldn't call it fear," he said finally. "Caution, maybe. In our world, personal attachment creates potential weaknesses."

"Or strengths," you countered, squeezing his hand beneath the water. "Have you considered that?"

The concept wasn't entirely foreign to Lewis's strategic thinking—alliances had always been part of his operational approach. But this was different. This was personal in ways that defied tactical calculation, emotional in dimensions he had deliberately avoided since leaving military service.

"It complicates things," he said, the admission costing him more than it should have.

"The best things usually do," you replied, your free hand coming up to rest against his cheek. "But that doesn't mean they're not worth it."

The touch of your palm against his face, warm from the heated water, broke something in Lewis's carefully maintained control. His arm slid around your waist, drawing you closer against him as his mouth found yours in a kiss that carried nothing of strategic calculation and everything of genuine desire.

You responded immediately, your body molding against his as the kiss deepened, your hands sliding into his braids as his tightened at your waist. The steam from the hot tub enveloped you both, creating a world apart from tactical considerations and operational necessities, a space where only this connection mattered.

When Lewis finally pulled back, both of you breathing harder, his forehead rested against yours. "We should go inside," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "It's getting cold."

The practical suggestion carried deeper implication, and you studied his face carefully. "Are you sure? You've been keeping some distance since we got here."

"Some battles aren't worth fighting," Lewis admitted, his hand coming up to touch your face with careful tenderness. "Even for me."

Your smile in response was warm and knowing. "Finally something we completely agree on."

Inside the pool house, the warmth enveloped you both as water droplets fell to the floor. Lewis reached for towels, handing one to you with practiced efficiency that couldn't quite mask the heat in his gaze. The memory of Scotland—of that night when his careful control had finally broken completely—flooded back unbidden, sending heat through you that had nothing to do with the hot tub.

"You're thinking about Scotland," Lewis observed, his perception as acute as ever despite his own evident distraction.

"How can you tell?" you asked, though the warmth in your cheeks probably answered the question.

Lewis's smile held dangerous promise. "Your expression. The same one you had that night in the library when I—"

"Yes," you interrupted, the heat intensifying at the reminder. "That night."

His eyes darkened slightly, pupils dilating in a way that suggested his mind had gone to the same memory. "You've been... restless since we arrived in New York."

"Restless is one word for it," you agreed, moving closer despite the towel still wrapped around your shoulders. "Sexually frustrated might be more accurate."

"Patience has never been your strong suit," Lewis replied, though his tone suggested he was reminding himself as much as you.

"Not a Ricci family trait," you countered, deliberately closing the distance between you until your body pressed against his. "Besides, if I remember correctly, you didn't mind my impatience in Scotland."

Lewis's hands settled at your waist, neither pulling you closer nor pushing you away—suspended in that careful control that both frustrated and fascinated you. "Scotland was different."

"Different how?" you challenged, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath damp skin. "We're still the same people."

"We're on your father's property," Lewis pointed out, though his voice had roughened slightly as your fingers traced patterns against his skin. "With his security team watching every move."

"We're in the pool house," you reminded him, leaning up to press a deliberate kiss to the side of his neck, just below his jaw where you'd learned he was particularly sensitive. "Which you've personally checked for cameras twice today."

A small sound escaped him—barely audible but deeply satisfying given his usual iron control. "You're being difficult again."

"Bratty, you mean?" you suggested with a smile against his skin, your teeth grazing gently along his collarbone. "We both know what happened last time I was bratty."

Lewis's hands tightened at your waist, a flash of something dangerous and thrilling passing through his eyes. "Is that what you're trying to provoke?"

"Obviously," you replied, holding his gaze with deliberate challenge as you stretched up to capture his mouth again, your teeth catching his lower lip in a gentle bite that drew another of those quiet sounds from him. "Is it working?"

"This is your father's house," Lewis said again, though the protest sounded weaker as your hands continued their exploration of his chest.

"We're in the pool house," you repeated, pressing kisses along his jaw between words. "A very private, very secure pool house."

Lewis's control was visibly fraying, his breathing less even, his hands less steady at your waist. "You're playing a dangerous game."

The warning, spoken in that low tone that never failed to send heat spiraling through you, nearly broke your own composure. "I did warn you," you murmured against his lips, "that I'd never take no for an answer."

"Such a brat," Lewis replied, something dark and promising entering his voice as his hand slid up to tangle in your hair, tugging gently but firmly to tilt your face up to his. "Always pushing limits."

"Only yours," you assured him, your breath catching at the deliberate control in his grip—firm enough to direct but never to hurt, exactly the way he'd held you in Scotland while his mouth...

The thought was interrupted as Lewis finally broke, his mouth claiming yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. Gone was the careful restraint, replaced by focused desire as he backed you slowly against the wall, his body pressing yours in a way that left no doubt about how effectively your provocation had worked.

"You win," he murmured against your lips, your towel falling open in the process. He paused only to glance down at the sight of you: bikini bottoms still clinging to your hips, top snug across your chest, the towel forgotten at your feet. His hand slid lower, tracing a path that promised to recreate exactly what had happened in Scotland. "For now."

Your smile was pure triumph before it dissolved into gasps as Lewis proceeded to demonstrate that his tactical precision extended to far more interesting applications than mere security operations.

"You look like sin," he said, his voice rough as his hands traced the bare lines of your waist. "And you act worse."

You grinned, breathless. "And yet, here you are."

Lewis slid one thigh between your legs, spreading them gently, pinning you without needing to say a word. You gasped when he shifted just slightly, the pressure of his thigh against your center making your knees wobble.

"You know what I should do?" he whispered, leaning in to kiss the curve of your neck. "I should leave you like this. Wet and wanting. Learning a lesson."

"Or," you offered, rolling your hips the tiniest bit, "you could just admit you need me just as bad."

He laughed once, low and dangerous, before pulling back just enough to look down. His palm pressed flat against your stomach, slowly sliding lower, dipping beneath the waistband of your bikini bottoms.

But he didn’t go far. Just let his fingers rest there. Warm. Possessive. Teasing.

"You're soaked." His voice was quiet now, like he was marveling at it. "All this for me?"

You couldn’t answer. Not properly. Not when he dipped his fingers inside, slow and deliberate, sliding them through your folds like he had all the time in the world.

"Keep your eyes on me," he said.

You did. You had to.

He pulled his fingers free after only a few strokes and held them up in front of your face—slick, glistening, undeniable.

"Open."

You obeyed.

He slid his fingers into your mouth, slow, watching every movement as you sucked them clean.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice dropping an octave. "You're going to behave now?"

You nodded.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Words."

"Yes," you whispered, dazed and aching. "Yes, Lewis."

A wicked smile curved his lips as he stepped even closer, his hard length pressing against your belly, straining through his swim trunks.

"Eyes on me," Lewis said, voice low but razor-sharp, dragging your gaze back to his as his fingers hooked the ties of your bikini bottoms and tugged them free. The air hit your skin, cool in contrast to the burn in his stare.

Fingers brushing deliberately slow over your thighs, the dip of your waist, before he undid the knot at your back, letting your top fall between you. His hands never left your body—just shifted upward, thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts before his mouth replaced them, warm and commanding.

He licked, kissed, and sucked at your nipples until they peaked under his tongue, until your breath turned to soft whimpers. Then lower. His mouth traced a path down your stomach, slow and wet, leaving glistening trails along your brown skin that made your legs tremble.

But just as you thought he’d keep going, give you what your body was aching for, Lewis stopped.

He rose to his full height, the heat between you stretched taut. You pouted without thinking, your lips pressing together in visible disappointment.

He chuckled darkly, rubbing a thumb across your lower lip as he stepped back, nodding toward the floor. "Let’s put that smart mouth to use."

Heat rushed through you. You knelt slowly, spreading the towel out beneath you for cushion, eyes never leaving his.

"Good girl," he murmured, stroking your cheek with a knuckle. Then came the next instruction, smooth and clear: "Untie my shorts."

Your fingers worked the drawstring, slow, trembling slightly with anticipation as you tugged his trunks down just enough. Your breath caught at the sight of him—hard, thick, heavy in your hand.

"Open your mouth for me."

You obeyed instantly, lips parting.

But instead of giving you what you craved, he hovered the tip just above your lips, skimming it across with maddening control. He cooed at the sight of you, eyes dark with amusement and arousal. "Look how pretty you are like this," he said, low and fond and wrecking you. "Lips all soft and parted, waiting so sweet."

Your thighs pressed together for relief, and still he didn’t relent. Just held himself there, letting the heat between you build.

You were dying for him. But at the same time, you were savoring every second—every inch of dominance he poured into this moment, the power he held even while baring himself.

"Still so impatient," he murmured, brushing the head of his cock gently along your bottom lip. "And so desperate. You don’t like when I make you wait, do you?"

You hummed softly, the sound vibrating with want and frustration.

And then, finally, he allowed you a taste.

You wrapped your lips around him, slow and reverent, letting him slide in just enough to savor the weight and warmth of him. A groan slipped from his throat, low and strained, his hand coming to rest gently at the back of your head.

"That’s it," Lewis breathed. "Nice and slow. Let me feel that pretty mouth."

He rocked forward, guiding the pace. His voice didn’t falter—he kept talking, kept praising, kept controlling. "You look so good like this," he whispered, hips shifting as he started to thrust gently, deeply. "Moaning like that… fuck, you feel perfect."

You moaned again, overwhelmed in the best way—his rhythm, his voice, his hands in your hair.

And all the while, his control never slipped. You were completely undone, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet.

Your moans vibrated around him, sending a deep shudder through his body, but Lewis didn’t lose focus. His grip in your hair tightened—not harsh, just firm enough to remind you who was guiding this.

"That’s it," he murmured. "Just like that, baby."

You hollowed your cheeks, taking more of him, reveling in the way he breathed out a curse under his breath, jaw tense. The slow grind of his hips made your eyes flutter shut.

"Don’t close your eyes."

The command was soft but sharp. You blinked up at him immediately.

He looked down at you, eyes dark with something primal, but also proud. "There she is," he said. "You wanted to act grown, didn’t you?"

You nodded as best as you could with him in your mouth, a muffled sound of agreement rising in your throat. You were soaking wet, your thighs slick and clenched with nothing but air and need between them.

Lewis exhaled sharply, then slowly pulled out of your mouth, a line of spit connecting you to him. You pouted again, lips swollen and shiny, chest rising and falling.

And he just smiled. That smug, devastating smile.

"Fuck," he whispered, thumb swiping the corner of your mouth. "You look wrecked already."

Your hand instinctively reached for him, but he caught your wrist, shaking his head. "Uh uh," he warned, pulling you gently to your feet. "You don’t get to decide what happens next."

You continued to kneel before him, naked, glistening, panting—and he didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Just let his gaze roam down your body, slow and hungry.

"You’re dying for it," he said softly, brushing his fingers along your breasts. "But you still haven’t earned it."

The protest caught in your throat, lips parting, but he leaned in close—breath brushing your ear as he spoke.

"I want you to remember this ache," he said, voice like silk wrapped around steel. "I want it so deep in your bones you dream about it."

You whimpered, thighs pressing together again out of instinct.

"And when I finally fuck you,” Lewis whispered, hands grazing your neck, "you’ll know you earned every second of it."

You were trembling. Every nerve lit up. And yet all he did was kiss your shoulder, slow and deliberate, before pulling you up, grabbing the towel and wrapping it back around your body like you hadn’t just had his dick down your throat.

"C’mon,” he said, eyes twinkling with that infuriating, perfect control. "Let’s get ready for bed." He smirked when he saw your mouth agape in surprise. "Don’t look at me like that, babygirl. You wanted to play. I’m just teaching you the rules."

***********************************************

The next day, Salvatore Ricci was ready to move against De Garza, and Lewis's presence was expected at the dock warehouse in Newark where the confrontation would take place.

"Traditional location," you explained as Lewis prepared for the meeting, checking his weapon with practiced efficiency. "Papa believes certain things should be handled on the docks. Old-school symbolism."

Lewis understood without requiring elaboration. The docks represented the historical foundations of the Ricci family's power—the entry point of their influence in America, the place where Salvatore's father had first established the connections that would eventually build their empire.

"Will you be there?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

You shook your head. "Family business, but women aren't included in this particular tradition. Mama will take Sophia and Maria shopping for birthday preparations while I join them as cover, and the men will handle the... business."

The gender division was another old-world approach that Lewis had deliberately avoided in his own organization, but he recognized the deep roots such traditions held in families like the Riccis.

"I'll tell you what happens," he promised.

Your expression carried concern despite your understanding of what was happening. "This is important to Papa—having you there. It's his way of saying you're family, not just an ally."

"I get what it means," Lewis assured you, his hand coming up to brush your cheek in what had become a habitual gesture between you. "And I'll respect the tradition."

The drive to Newark was conducted in silence, Lewis seated beside Salvatore in the back of a bulletproof SUV while Paolo drove and two additional security vehicles flanked them front and back. Tradition dictated certain appearances be maintained, but practical security ensured those appearances didn't create unnecessary risks.

Salvatore himself was exactly as Lewis remembered from their initial meetings—immaculately dressed in a tailored suit despite the grim business ahead, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly groomed, his hands adorned with the heavy gold rings that signified his position. A man who had built an empire through both brutal efficiency and meticulous attention to the appearances of power.

"My daughter seems... content," Salvatore observed after miles of silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead rather than on Lewis. "Despite the circumstances that brought her home."

"She's remarkably adaptable," Lewis replied, recognizing both the observation and the implied question beneath it.

Salvatore nodded slightly. "A family trait. Though she has always been the most... independent of my children. Never easily directed, even as a young girl."

The assessment carried both pride and frustration—a father's complex relationship with a daughter whose capabilities matched his own while existing within the constraints of traditional family structures.

"Independence is a valuable quality to have," Lewis noted, careful to acknowledge the trait without directly challenging the traditional values Salvatore clearly held.

"Perhaps," Salvatore conceded, finally turning to study Lewis directly. "But she seems to have found focus under your guidance."

The suggestion that Lewis had somehow "directed" your independence would have amused you greatly, Lewis suspected. But he recognized the framework within which Salvatore understood the world—patriarchal structures where the appearance of male guidance was necessary regardless of practical reality.

"We've developed an effective partnership," Lewis said diplomatically, the truth of the statement extending far beyond the strategic alliance that had initially defined your marriage.

Something in Salvatore's expression suggested he understood more than Lewis had explicitly stated. "Partnership," he repeated, a hint of something like approval in his voice. "An interesting choice of words for a marriage."

"An accurate one," Lewis replied simply.

Salvatore studied him for a moment longer before nodding once, as if confirming a private assessment. "Tonight you will stand with me as De Garza faces the consequences of betrayal," he said, shifting back to the immediate business at hand. "This is a family matter, not a business arrangement. You understand the difference?"

"I do," Lewis confirmed, recognizing the significance of the distinction in Salvatore's world. Family matters were handled with ritual and tradition, while business arrangements followed more practical considerations of profit and loss.

"Good," Salvatore said with finality. "De Garza will understand too, before the end."

The warehouse appeared on the horizon—an unassuming structure among dozens like it along the dockyard, its exterior giving no indication of the scene prepared within. Three additional vehicles were already parked outside, Salvatore's most trusted captains having arrived earlier to secure the location and prepare for their boss's arrival.

Inside, the space had been arranged with deliberate theatrical effect—a single chair positioned under bright lights in the center of the open floor, surrounded by shadows where Salvatore's men stood in silent attention. De Garza himself was already secured to the chair, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled, evidence of rough handling visible in the bruises marking his face.

Lewis followed Salvatore into the space, positioning himself slightly behind the older man's right shoulder—the traditional place for a trusted lieutenant in such proceedings. Paolo moved to the left, completing the tableau of authority facing the betrayer.

De Garza's eyes widened slightly at Lewis's presence, clearly not having anticipated the British operator's inclusion in what would traditionally be internal family business. The recognition seemed to intensify his growing desperation as Salvatore approached with unhurried deliberation.

"Antonio," Salvatore said, his voice carrying that particular quality of disappointed authority that transcended mere anger. "Twenty years in my service. Twenty years of trust, of opportunity, of family connection. And yet here we are."

De Garza's expression shifted between fear and defiance, the calculation of a man seeking any possible avenue of escape. "Salvatore, there's been a misunderstanding. Whatever you've been told—"

"Silence," Salvatore interrupted, the single word carrying absolute command. "The time for your words has passed. Now is the time for you to listen."

The room fell into complete stillness as Salvatore circled De Garza's chair, his movements carrying the weight of ritual performance rather than mere interrogation. This was justice as theatre, designed to communicate messages far beyond the immediate punishment of a single betrayer.

"I took you into my home," Salvatore continued, his voice deceptively conversational despite the underlying steel. "Gave you a place at my table. Trusted you with my business, my family, my legacy. Treated you like a son when your own father was too weak to raise you."

De Garza's eyes darted around the room, seeking any ally or escape route, finding neither as Salvatore's men watched impassively from the shadows.

"You sat beside me at my daughter's confirmation. Stood as godfather to my nephew. Represented my interests in meetings where only family would normally be present." Salvatore's words fell like carefully placed blows, each one highlighting the depth of the betrayal. "And yet you sold information to Suarez. Endangered my daughter. Compromised operations that feed the families of a hundred loyal men."

"It wasn't like that," De Garza protested, desperation evident in his voice. "Suarez had leverage. He threatened my sister's family in Miami. I had no choice!"

Salvatore stopped his circling, standing directly before De Garza with cold assessment. "There is always choice, Antonio. You could have come to me. I would have protected your sister, punished Suarez for his presumption, preserved your honor."

The truth of this was evident even to Lewis, who understood enough of Salvatore's code to recognize that family loyalty would have superseded business considerations had De Garza sought help rather than betraying trust.

"Instead," Salvatore continued, "you chose cowardice over loyalty. Betrayal over family. And now you face the consequences of that choice."

De Garza's composure finally broke entirely, fear overtaking calculation as the full reality of his situation became undeniable. "Please, Salvatore," he begged, tears streaming down his face. "For the sake of our history, for the memory of me taking care of your father—"

"Do not speak of my father," Salvatore interrupted, cold fury replacing the disappointed authority in his voice. "His name does not belong in the mouth of a traitor. He taught me that loyalty to family is sacred above all things. That betrayal of that sacred trust demands the highest price."

Salvatore turned slightly, his eyes finding Lewis with deliberate significance. "Family protects its own," he said, the statement carrying layers of meaning beyond its surface simplicity. "And punishes those who threaten what is protected."

With smooth precision, Salvatore withdrew a pistol from inside his jacket—an older model, beautifully maintained, clearly carrying symbolic as well as practical significance. "This gun belonged to my father," he explained, his voice carrying that conversational quality that made the moment more chilling than any theatrical rage could have achieved. "He used it to establish our place in this country when others would have denied us opportunity. A tradition of protection that has sustained our family for generations."

De Garza sobbed openly now, all pretense of dignity abandoned as Salvatore approached and pressed the weapon into Lewis's hand with deliberate ceremony.

"Now my son will take care of the trash," Salvatore said, the designation carrying unmistakable significance to everyone present. Not son-in-law, not ally, not partner—but son, with all the familial recognition such terminology carried in Salvatore's world.

Lewis accepted the weapon with appropriate gravity, understanding both the practical task assigned and the symbolic acceptance being offered. This was not merely execution of a betrayer but formal acknowledgment of his place within the Ricci family structure—a position earned through marriage to Salvatore's daughter but solidified through demonstrated loyalty to family interests.

De Garza's pleas increased in desperate intensity as Lewis stepped forward, the weight of the pistol in his hand significant in more ways than one. The man's eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming down his face as he begged for mercy that tradition dictated would not be granted.

"Please, please, I have children, a family—I'll disappear, you'll never hear from me again—"

Lewis maintained his composure, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts as he raised the pistol with steady precision. This moment was about more than simple elimination of a threat—it was ritual acceptance of a place within a structure that operated on traditions far older than his own organization. Strategic respect for Salvatore's methods while in Salvatore's territory.

"Antonio De Garza," Lewis said, his voice calm despite the gravity of the moment, "your betrayal endangered my wife and her family. That alone would warrant this response."

His finger settled on the trigger, eyes locked with De Garza's in a final moment of acknowledgment—not personal hatred but necessary conclusion to actions that had violated the most fundamental trust.

The shot echoed through the warehouse, followed by absolute silence as De Garza's body slumped in the chair, the bullet having entered precisely through the center of his forehead. No hesitation, no unnecessary drama, just the efficient finality that characterized Lewis's approach to all operations.

Lewis lowered the weapon, turning to offer it back to Salvatore with appropriate respect. The older man studied him for a moment before shaking his head slightly.

"Keep it," Salvatore said, his voice carrying genuine approval. "It's a classic. A family heirloom that should stay with family."

The significance of the gesture wasn't lost on anyone present—the symbolic transfer of both weapon and trust from father to accepted son-in-law marking a transformation in Lewis's status within the Ricci hierarchy.

"Thank you, Mr. Ricci," Lewis replied, acknowledging both the gift and its deeper meaning with appropriate gravity.

Salvatore's expression shifted into something almost warm, a smile briefly transforming his usually severe features. "Call me Sal," he said, placing a hand on Lewis's shoulder. "You're family now."

The drive back to the estate was conducted in different silence than the journey out—not tense anticipation but satisfied completion, the ritual of justice having been performed according to tradition with appropriate participation from all parties. Lewis found himself reflecting on the evolution of his position since first entering the orbit of the Ricci family, from strategic ally to accepted member with all the obligations and protections such status entailed.

It was not a transformation he had anticipated when arranging the marriage that had brought him into Salvatore's world. Yet here he was, a British operator with his own empire and methods, now carrying a symbolic family weapon and acknowledged as son rather than merely business partner.

You were waiting in the pool house when he returned, your expression a mixture of concern and curiosity as Lewis entered. You'd clearly been watching for his arrival, positioned near the window with clear view of the driveway, though you'd made no move to approach the main house where Salvatore would be returning to his regular routines as if nothing unusual had occurred.

"So it's done?" you asked, your voice quiet as you studied his face.

"Yes," Lewis confirmed, removing his jacket and carefully placing Salvatore's pistol on the side table. Your eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, immediately recognizing it.

"He gave you Nonno's gun," you said, surprise evident in your voice. "I've never seen him let anyone even touch it."

"A gesture of acceptance," Lewis acknowledged, moving toward you with natural grace. "Though I think you knew something like this might happen."

Your smile was knowing but warm. "Papa doesn't do anything without thinking ten steps ahead, especially with his symbols and traditions. Asking you to be there for De Garza wasn't just about punishing a rat."

"Family politics," Lewis noted with a hint of dry humor. "Another kind of strategic game."

"Look at you, starting to get how the Riccis operate," you repliedl. "How are you feeling about all this?"

The question was careful but genuine—concern for how he was processing both the execution and his deeper integration into your family's world. Lewis took a moment before responding, wanting to be honest rather than just saying what might sound right.

"It needed to be done," he said finally. "De Garza had to go, and doing it your father's way made sense there. Not how I'd normally handle it, but it worked. Though we're definitely beyond what either of us thought we were signing up for with this marriage."

Something in your expression softened. "Beyond what we planned, sure," you agreed, fingers lacing with his. "But in a bad way?"

The question had a vulnerability beneath its casual tone—wondering if he was truly willing to accept not just you but your entire complicated family with all its traditions and expectations. Lewis heard the real question behind your words, and found himself wanting to answer honestly.

"Not bad," he assured you, his free hand coming up to touch your face in a gesture that had become natural since Scotland. "Just...different territory than I'm used to navigating."

You laughed, warm and genuine. "Only you could make joining a family sound like adjusting a battle plan."

"Old habits," Lewis acknowledged with a hint of a smile that appeared more often around you lately. "But I'm learning to be flexible."

"Flexible," you repeated, your eyes sparkling with amusement. "Wow, such sweet talk. I'm swooning."

"I'm being precise," Lewis replied, the teasing lighter than it would have been weeks ago. "It's another—"

"—of your things," you finished, grinning. "Yeah, I've got your user manual pretty much memorized by now."

This easy back-and-forth still surprised Lewis sometimes—how comfortable you'd become with each other since Scotland. How he'd gradually let down walls he'd maintained for years and actually found himself enjoying it.

"Your sister's birthday dinner is tomorrow," Lewis said, changing the subject but keeping hold of your hand. "Your dad made it clear everyone's expected to show."

"Sophia would literally murder anyone who tried to skip," you confirmed with a nod. "Especially since she had to cancel her big club plans because of all this security stuff. The family dinner is the centerpiece of her entire existence. Mama's been on the phone with caterers all day."

"Miles seems pretty worried about his invitation," Lewis observed, remembering how his friend had looked almost panicked when mentioning it.

You laughed with obvious delight. "Oh, he should be! Sophia's been grilling Papa about him non-stop since he got here—like, very specific questions about his background, his military service, where he trained. She's always been obsessed with spy stories and now there's a real former operative under our roof."

"Miles has handled worse," Lewis said, though he didn't sound convinced. Even in the short time they'd been here, Lewis had witnessed Sophia Ricci's legendary determination when she wanted information.

"Has he though?" you said with a mischievous grin. "We're talking about my baby sister on her 18th birthday with a new mystery to solve. Papa might protect his business associates from international criminals, but I'm not sure even he can protect Miles from Sophia when she decides she wants answers. She's like a bloodhound once she gets curious about something—she won't stop until she knows every detail of his entire career."

You both shifted to planning for tomorrow's party, but Lewis found himself struck by how strange his life had become—here he was discussing birthday parties instead of security protocols and operational risks. Sometimes the contrast with his former existence was so stark it gave him mental whiplash.

But there was something valuable in this new reality—what had started as a strategic marriage was turning into something real. You were becoming a true partner, not just an alliance on paper. And somehow, he was becoming part of something bigger than his own carefully built empire.

Family, it turned out, was just one more area where you were changing him in ways neither of you could have predicted when you signed those marriage papers. And for the first time in his life, Lewis was okay with not being in complete control of where things were heading—as long as you were by his side.

The morning after De Garza's execution dawned bright and crisp, the snow from the previous days having given way to clear skies that cast brilliant sunlight across the white-blanketed grounds of the Ricci estate. Lewis had risen early as was his habit, completing a security check of the pool house perimeter before you'd even stirred from sleep.

By the time you both made your way to the main house for what you'd described as "traditional birthday breakfast," Lewis had already received three updates from Naomi confirming her arrival with the requested item, a detailed analysis of Hernandez's communications from the previous week, and notification that Miles had survived the night without further journalistic interrogation from Sophia.

Nothing in Lewis's extensive tactical training or operational experience, however, had prepared him for the scene that greeted you both when you entered the Ricci family's private dining room.

Salvatore Ricci—the man who less than twelve hours ago had orchestrated a rat's execution with the cold precision of a general—sat at the head of the table wearing dark silk pajamas and a fluffy pink feather boa draped around his neck. The family patriarch's severe expression remained largely intact, creating a surreal contrast with the frivolous accessory.

Flanking him were Maria and Gabriella, both similarly attired in matching pink silk pajamas and identical feather boas. An elaborate spread that resembled a high-end tea party more than breakfast covered the table—tiered trays of pastries, decorative bowls of fruit, champagne flutes filled with what appeared to be mimosas, and multiple silver tea services.

At the opposite end from Salvatore sat Francesca, elegant even in casual morning attire, a subtle pink scarf around her neck her only concession to the theme. Her Jamaican-American heritage was evident in her warm complexion and the slight lilt that still colored her speech despite decades in New York. She maintained an air of amused tolerance for the proceedings, clearly the steadying influence that prevented the celebration from descending into complete chaos.

And in the center of it all was Sophia, perched in her chair with the confident entitlement of someone who knew this entire production was in her honor. She wore a glittering plastic tiara with "Birthday Girl" spelled out in rhinestones, her pajamas matching her sisters' but with additional embellishments that marked her as the day's honoree.

Lewis paused almost imperceptibly at the threshold, his expression betraying nothing of his internal recalibration. You squeezed his hand briefly, leaning close to whisper, "Papa's a hard-ass every other day of the year, but birthdays make him soft. It's the one day we can get away with almost anything. Just go with it."

Before Lewis could respond, Sophia spotted you both and squealed with delight. "Finally! Everyone's here!" She bounced in her seat with unrestrained enthusiasm. "Birthday breakfast can officially begin!"

"You're late," Salvatore observed, though without the edge that typically accompanied his critiques. The feather boa somehow failed to diminish his authority.

"Sorry, Papa," you replied, moving to kiss his cheek before taking your seat. "We were up late reviewing security protocols for today."

The excuse wasn't entirely untrue—Lewis had indeed spent part of the night analyzing potential vulnerabilities in the estate's defenses given the influx of extended family expected for the evening's formal dinner. The fact that this analysis had been conducted between more intimate activities was a detail best left unmentioned.

Lewis took the seat beside you with practiced composure, nodding respectfully to Salvatore. "Good morning, sir."

"Sal," your father corrected, the single syllable carrying the weight of yesterday's shared experience at the warehouse. "And good morning. Coffee?"

Before Lewis could respond, Gabriella leaned forward with a mischievous grin. "Oh my God, what happened to your neck?" she asked, her question directed at you with deliberate innocence.

You instinctively reached up, your fingers brushing against what you suddenly remembered were several distinctive marks just below your collar—evidence of last night's activities that your hastily selected sweater had failed to conceal.

Maria feigned shock. "Are those bruises? Should we be concerned?"

Heat flooded your face as Lewis maintained his usual impassive expression beside you, though you caught the slight tightening of his jaw that suggested he was not as unaffected as he appeared.

"Girls," Francesca admonished lightly, her dark hands elegant as she gestured dismissively, eyes dancing with amusement despite her maternal tone. "Leave your sister alone. It's Sophia's day."

"Oh, I don't mind sharing the spotlight for this," Sophia chimed in, her curiosity now fully focused on the situation. "I have so many questions."

Salvatore cleared his throat, the sound immediately commanding attention despite the absurdity of the feather boa. "Leave your brother alone," he said, his gaze shifting meaningfully to Lewis.

The designation—brother rather than brother-in-law—hung in the air for a moment before Maria seized on it with delighted precision.

"Ooh, he's our brother now," she said, her teasing directed at both you and Lewis. "Papa has spoken."

"I always wanted a brother," Gabriella added with exaggerated wistfulness. "Someone to intimidate my boyfriends and teach me how to play poker."

"I'm quite capable of both those things," you pointed out dryly.

"Yes, but now we have a real brother," Maria countered, raising her mimosa in Lewis's direction. "Welcome to the family chaos, brother dear."

Miles, who had been silently observing this exchange from his position near the window—clearly having been invited but choosing to maintain a safe distance from the family dynamics—caught Lewis's eye and leaned over to murmur, "This could be your future if you two have a daughter someday. Pink feather boas and tiaras."

Lewis nearly choked on the espresso that had appeared before him, recovered with his usual efficiency, and replied in an equally low voice, "Let's focus on eliminating Suarez and our mole before considering further familial expansions."

Miles grinned. "Tactical priorities. Got it."

Meanwhile, Sophia had shifted her attention fully to Lewis, her expression transitioning to the purposeful look you'd warned him about. "Well, brother," she said, emphasizing the title with clear enjoyment, "did you get me a present?"

"Sophia!" Francesca and Salvatore exclaimed in unison, parental disapproval momentarily uniting them despite their distinctly different approaches to family management.

Lewis, however, appeared entirely unruffled by the direct question. "Of course," he replied with calm assurance. "I was planning to present it at dinner, as is traditional."

Sophia's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing this new obstacle with the strategic acumen she'd inherited from her father. "I want it now," she declared, a statement rather than a request.

You caught Lewis's eye and silently mouthed, "I warned you," your expression a mixture of amusement and resignation.

Lewis studied Sophia for a moment, recognizing in her the same determined focus he'd observed in you on numerous occasions—the Ricci trait of absolute certainty that one's desires were reasonable and should be accommodated.

"It isn't properly wrapped," he said finally, a token resistance that both of you knew was merely procedural.

"I don't care," Sophia responded immediately, her attention now entirely fixed on this new objective.

Lewis nodded once, rising from his seat with the smooth precision that characterized all his movements. "I'll get it. Naomi delivered it earlier this morning."

As he left the dining room, Maria turned to you with undisguised curiosity. "What did he get her? And when did he have time to shop with everything going on?"

"He has people for that," you replied with a small smile, not bothering to hide your pride in Lewis's efficiency. "And I'm not telling. You'll see in a minute."

Lewis returned shortly, carrying a distinctive orange Hermès bag that prompted an immediate reaction from all three sisters.

"Shut the fuck up! No way!" Sophia squealed, leaping from her chair with all pretense of sophisticated adulthood abandoned. She bounced up and down, hands making grabby motions toward the package, her reaction pure, unfiltered eighteen-year-old excitement.

Lewis, ever in control, held the bag slightly away from her reach. "Sit down, please," he instructed calmly. "It's heavy."

The effect was immediate and somewhat comical—Sophia dropped back into her seat with surprising obedience, hands now folded in her lap in a parody of patience that barely contained her vibrating excitement.

Lewis placed the box carefully in front of her, stepping back with the cautious respect of someone who understood he was witnessing a sacred ritual. Sophia attacked the packaging with focused intensity, tearing through the careful wrapping to reveal the distinctive shape of a Birkin bag in a deep, rich green that complemented her coloring perfectly.

Her scream of delight could likely be heard beyond the estate's iron gates where your father's men patrolled. "OH MY GOD!" She lifted the bag reverently, turning it to examine every angle. "IT’S PERFECT! JUST THE ONE I WANTED!!"

"Your sister mentioned this was the one you picked out," Lewis replied with characteristic understatement that failed to acknowledge the weeks of constant texts and threats from Sophia.

"Holy shit," Maria breathed, leaning forward for a better look. "That's not just any Birkin. That's the limited forest green with gold hardware. There were only fifty made."

Gabriella whistled low. "Brother has excellent taste," she observed, her teasing tone now tempered with genuine respect.

"He does," you confirmed, squeezing Lewis's hand when he returned to his seat beside you.

Even Salvatore appeared impressed, though he masked it with a gruff, "I hope you didn't spend too much. She's only eighteen."

"It's an investment piece," Lewis replied smoothly, meeting your father's gaze with calm assurance. "And a suitable acknowledgment of a significant milestone."

Sophia finally tore her attention from the bag long enough to launch herself around the table and practically tackle Lewis with a hug that clearly caught him off-guard. His momentary stiffness gave way to an awkward but genuine pat on her back, his expression reflecting the unique challenge of navigating physical affection from someone who wasn't you.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Sophia exclaimed, squeezing him once more before releasing him. "You're officially my favorite brother now."

"I'm your only brother," Lewis pointed out with unexpected dry humor.

"Even better," Sophia replied instantly. "No competition."

The breakfast continued with the chaotic energy that seemed to characterize Ricci family gatherings, conversation flowing freely between serious topics like security arrangements for the incoming relatives and frivolous debates about whether Sophia's new Birkin required its own Instagram account.

Lewis observed it all with his usual analytical attention, cataloging the family dynamics and adjusting his understanding of the Ricci hierarchy with each new interaction. You watched him watching them, noting how he was gradually relaxing into the boisterous atmosphere despite its stark contrast to his own carefully controlled existence.

At one point, Francesca appeared at his side while you were engaged in heated debate with Maria about something entirely inconsequential. Your mother leaned down slightly, her voice pitched for Lewis's ears alone.

"Thank you for yesterday," she said simply, her gaze steady and knowing. "Salvatore told me what happened. What you did."

Lewis met her eyes with quiet acknowledgment. "It was necessary."

"Yes," she agreed, surprising him with her directness. "But more importantly, it was loyal. That matters more to this family than you might yet understand."

Before Lewis could respond, she straightened and moved on, rejoining the general conversation with seamless grace. But the brief exchange added another layer to Lewis's evolving understanding of the complex family structure he had married into—a system where violence and tenderness, business and family, tradition and adaptation all existed in precarious balance.

You caught his eye across the pink-festooned table, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Lewis gave you the smallest of smiles in response—a private communication that needed no words. In this moment, surreal as it was with feather boas and birthday tiaras, Lewis Hamilton was finding his place in a world far different from the one he had built for himself, yet somehow increasingly comfortable despite its chaos.

*********************************************

By seven o'clock, the Ricci estate had transformed from morning's intimate family breakfast into a full-scale celebration. The main house glowed with strategically placed lighting, security personnel blended seamlessly with catering staff, and the steady arrival of black SUVs and luxury cars announced the gathering of extended family from across the tri-state area.

You'd changed into a deep burgundy gown that complemented the gold cross at your throat, while Lewis had opted for an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that somehow made him look both approachable and dangerous—a combination you'd noticed worked particularly well with your family. The unspoken message: respect me, but don't fear me unless you give me reason to.

"Ready for the real interrogation?" you asked Lewis as you both stood at the window of the pool house, watching another vehicle pass through the security checkpoint. "Morning was just the warm-up. Wait until my great-aunt Lucia gets hold of you."

"I've survived professional interrogation techniques," Lewis replied, though there was the faintest hint of apprehension in his usually confident tone. "How bad could an elderly Italian woman be?"

You laughed, the sound genuine with just an edge of warning. "Nonna Lucia made two FBI agents cry during a raid in '92. And they weren't even asking her questions—she just decided they looked too smug."

Lewis raised an eyebrow, the subtle gesture speaking volumes. "Noted."

The walk to the main house felt like crossing a demilitarized zone—the calm before inevitable conflict. It was strange how much had changed since you'd made this same walk months ago, back when your marriage was still fresh and purely strategic. Back when Lewis had been Mr. Hamilton to you, a business partner rather than the man whose bed you now shared willingly.

You'd barely made it through the door when the first ambush occurred.

"There she is! With the Englishman!" Your cousin Vinny's voice boomed across the foyer. At thirty, he still possessed the subtlety of a freight train and the confidence of a man who'd never faced consequences for his volume level.

He approached with the characteristic Ricci swagger—designer suit, too much cologne, and a smile that had charmed countless women before they recognized the red flags. Behind him trailed your other cousin Gia and Vinny’s younger brother Carmine, all wearing expressions of barely contained curiosity.

"Vinny," you greeted with a measured smile, accepting his enthusiastic kiss on each cheek. "Gia, Carmine. You all remember Lewis."

"How could we forget?" Gia said, her eyes moving over Lewis with unabashed appraisal. At twenty-six, she'd already been married and divorced twice, each time emerging with better real estate and jewelry. "The mysterious Englishman your father arranged for you. Though you two seem much more... comfortable together than at the wedding."

Lewis stepped forward, extending his hand with the perfect balance of respect and self-assurance. "Good to see you all again. Happy to be here for Sophia's celebration."

What happened next surprised you. After the polite but distant greeting you'd have expected from him, Lewis's hand settled possessively at the small of your back, drawing you subtly closer to his side.

Carmine, just twenty and already working his way up in your father's business, shook Lewis's hand with a grip that was trying too hard to assert dominance. "Yeah, you too, 'bout time my cousin isn't flying solo to these things."

The subtle dig wasn't lost on Lewis, whose expression remained pleasantly neutral even as his fingers pressed slightly firmer against your back. The casual intimacy of his touch and the deliberate "us" in his response registered immediately with your cousins, whose glances at each other spoke volumes. The arranged marriage they'd all whispered about obviously had evolved into something else entirely.

"Well, you're practically one of us now," Vinny declared, slapping Lewis on the shoulder with fraternal presumption. "Especially after that thing with De Garza. Word travels."

Before Lewis could respond to this blatant fishing for details, a commanding voice cut through the foyer.

"Is that my niece finally coming to greet me? Or do I need to wait all night while you gossip in the hallway?"

Nonna Lucia sat enthroned in the main sitting room, a tiny but formidable figure draped in black silk and gold jewelry that announced both mourning and prosperity—the perfect combination for a woman who had been the family matriarch since your grandmother's passing five years ago. At eighty-seven, her mind remained razor-sharp, her tongue sharper still.

"Nonna," you said warmly, crossing to kiss her papery cheek. "You look beautiful."

"Flatterer," she dismissed, though pleased. Her dark eyes, sunken but alert, shifted immediately to Lewis. "And you. The husband who keeps my fiore away from her family."

"Not by choice, Mrs. Ricci," Lewis replied smoothly, approaching to take her extended hand. Instead of simply shaking it, he bent slightly to brush his lips against her knuckles—a gesture of old-world respect that clearly caught her off guard in the best possible way.

"Hmph," she sniffed, though the ghost of a smile tugged at her mouth. "At least he has manners. Better than the others Salvatore was considering. That Sicilian—" she made the sign of the cross dramatically, "—may the saints preserve us from such men. Like looking at a shark with a bad tailor."

You bit back a frown, remembering your own similar assessment when your father had first presented Lorenzo Bianchi as a potential husband.

"Come, sit," Nonna commanded, patting the sofa beside her. "I want to look at you both properly. Together. The light in here is better."

You recognized the examination for what it was—not just curiosity about Lewis, but assessment of your relationship. Nonna Lucia had negotiated three of her own daughters' arranged marriages, and her approval could shift family opinion more effectively than even your father's declarations.

As you sat beside Lewis, he surprised you by casually taking your hand, his thumb stroking absently across your knuckles in a gesture too natural to be calculated. The simple touch shouldn't have affected you after everything you'd shared, yet warmth bloomed in your chest at the public claim it staked.

"Now," Nonna declared, leaning forward to study you both like specimens. "You are good together. The coloring—his darkness, your warm tones. Very complementary. Your children will be beautiful."

"Nonna!" you protested, heat rising to your cheeks despite your usual composure. "We're not—it's too soon to—"

"Nonsense," she waved dismissively. "I was married at twenty, first baby at twenty-one. And that was an arranged match too! Your great-uncle and I didn't even meet until our wedding day. At least you two had time to get acquainted first."

Lewis, rather than appearing uncomfortable with this direct discussion of your potential reproductive timeline, seemed almost amused. "We're taking things one step at a time, Mrs. Ricci. But I appreciate your vote of confidence in our genetics."

His response—polite but gently deflecting—surprised you. Even more surprising was his arm sliding around your shoulders, drawing you slightly closer in a gesture that felt both protective and possessive.

Nonna nodded approvingly. "Smart man. Patience is important. But not too much patience, eh? I'm not getting younger, and great-great-nieces and nephews would be nice before I meet the Madonna."

"You'll outlive us all, Nonna," you deflected with practiced ease, though your mind was spinning at Lewis's unexpected public display of affection. This was more than your arrangement had ever called for, more than necessary for appearances with family who already knew yours was a strategic match.

Before Nonna could continue her reproductive interrogation, your cousins returned with drinks and renewed determination to extract information.

"So," Gia began, settling across from you with feline grace, "Sophia mentioned you two were staying in the pool house instead of the main guest suite. Very... private."

The implication hung in the air, reinforced by her knowing smirk. You'd forgotten how quickly information traveled through the family network, and how little remained truly private.

"The pool house offers certain security advantages," Lewis replied smoothly, his arm still comfortable around your shoulders. "Separate perimeter, controlled access points."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Carmine snickered, earning an elbow from Vinny that did nothing to diminish his grin. "Security advantages?"

"Some of us prefer discretion, Carmine," you replied coolly, though the marks still visible on your neck somewhat undermined your dignity.

"Speaking of discretion," Vinny leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "word is you and the Englishman here have gotten a lot... closer lately."

You stiffened slightly, wondering exactly how much detail had spread through the family grapevine. Lewis's hand squeezed your shoulder gently, a subtle reminder of his presence.

"The best arrangements evolve naturally," Lewis offered, his tone giving away nothing while confirming everything.

The deliberate ambiguity in his response made Gia laugh delightedly. "Oh, I bet it has. Remember when you were telling us how much you dreaded this whole arranged marriage thing? Funny how things change."

"Life is full of surprises," you replied with sweet venom, years of practice at these family dynamics keeping your composure intact despite your rising embarrassment.

Nonna Lucia cackled, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Let them be, vultures. When you all find someone who looks at you the way this one looks at her, then you can talk—arranged or not."

The observation startled you, your eyes darting to Lewis to find him already watching you with an expression that made your breath catch—something intense and genuine that transcended any performance for your family's benefit. Something that hadn't been there in those early days when your marriage was still just a business transaction between families.

Gia, undeterred by Nonna's scolding, slid closer on the pretext of refilling your wine glass. "So," she whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, "is it true what they say about Englishmen? All that proper exterior hiding something much more... interesting? Because those marks on your neck tell quite a story. Not bad for an arranged match."

You opened your mouth to deliver what would undoubtedly have been a scathing response when Lewis suddenly rose, extending his hand to you with impeccable timing.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked, nodding toward the adjacent room where music had begun playing and several couples already moved across the floor.

The rescue was so perfectly executed that you immediately placed your hand in his, allowing him to pull you smoothly to your feet.

"If you'll excuse us," Lewis said to your family with that subtle charm that somehow managed to be both polite and dismissive. "I promised my wife at least one dance before her sister monopolizes the evening."

"Go, go," Nonna waved you off with obvious approval. "Young people should dance. Builds passion. Even in arranged marriages."

Lewis led you toward the music, his hand warm against yours, leaving your cousins to their speculation and Nonna to her evident satisfaction with your match. The moment you were out of earshot, you exhaled with relief.

"Thanks for the save," you said as his arm circled your waist, pulling you into a proper dance hold that felt surprisingly natural. "My family is..."

"Exactly what I expected," Lewis finished, that hint of a smile you'd been seeing more often since Scotland appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Bold, protective, and determined to know everything about us."

"They never quit," you agreed, finding your rhythm with him easily as you moved across the floor. The way your bodies synced felt nothing like the stiff, formal dance you'd shared at your wedding reception, when you'd been practically strangers bound by contracts and family alliances. "But you handled them better than I thought you would."

Lewis guided you through a smooth turn, his movements precise but relaxed. "Necessary adaptation."

"Is that all this is?" you asked, suddenly very aware of his hand pressed firmly against your lower back, how naturally your body followed his lead. "Just adapting to the situation? Part of our deal?"

Something flickered across his face – a moment of unguarded emotion that vanished almost instantly, but not before you caught it. "Not just that," he said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Some arrangements turn into something more than what was on paper."

The weight of his words hung between you, full of implications neither of you had openly discussed despite how much had changed since Scotland. This wasn't the strategic partnership you'd agreed to anymore, or even just convenient physical comfort. It had become something neither of you had anticipated when you'd signed those marriage documents in your father's study.

"My cousins think we actually fell for each other," you said, trying to sound casual despite the way your heart picked up speed.

"Your cousins might be smarter than they look," Lewis replied, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Though that's not saying much."

Before you could process what felt dangerously close to a confession, the music changed and suddenly Sophia was beside you, looking radiant in her birthday dress with the Birkin bag still proudly displayed on her arm despite how out of place it was with evening wear.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, practically bouncing with excitement. "Papa's ready for the toast! I need you both front and center right now. Family photo time!"

Lewis kept his hand at your back as Sophia dragged you both toward the main dining room where your father stood waiting with champagne. Whatever vulnerable moment you'd been sharing had passed, but something had definitively shifted between you – another step away from your arranged beginning toward something neither of you had planned.

As everyone gathered around Sophia, Lewis stayed close beside you, his presence no longer that of the outsider who'd walked into your father's study as the fourth suitor. He'd somehow found his place within the chaos of Ricci family dynamics, marked most clearly by the pistol that now resided in your pool house. When your father's fingers closed around his champagne glass, Lewis's fingers laced with yours, the simple touch communicating what neither of you had found the words to say.

Salvatore's commanding presence drew immediate silence from the gathered family members and associates. He stood at the head of the room, elegant in his tailored suit, looking every inch the powerful man who had built an empire through calculated decisions – including the strategic marriage that had brought Lewis into your life.

"Twenty-five years ago," Salvatore began, his voice effortlessly carrying through the space, "I welcomed my first daughter into this world. Eighteen years ago today, I welcomed my youngest. Each arrival changed our family in ways I could not have anticipated. Each daughter brought different gifts, different challenges, different joys."

His gaze moved to Sophia, genuine paternal affection softening his usually commanding presence. "Sophia, from your first breath, you have been a force of nature. Determined, passionate, impossible to ignore or direct against your will." Appreciative laughter rippled through the guests who knew your sister well. "You remind me daily of your grandmother—a woman who knew her own mind and refused to be anything less than exactly who she was meant to be."

Sophia beamed with pleasure at the comparison to your beloved grandmother, whose strength had helped build the Ricci empire alongside your grandfather.

"Eighteen years marks traditional entry to adulthood," Salvatore continued, his tone shifting to acknowledge the milestone's significance. "Though in truth, you have carried yourself with the confidence and clarity of purpose of someone far beyond your years for as long as I can remember."

You felt Lewis's silent attention beside you, watching your father with the careful assessment that was second nature to him. But there was something else there too – a growing understanding of the complex family he'd married into. Not just the business side he'd initially negotiated with, but the deep bonds and traditions that sustained it across generations.

"To Sophia Ricci," your father concluded, raising his glass higher. "May your determination serve you well, may your passion bring you joy, and may you always know that behind you stands a family that will support and protect you through whatever path you choose."

"To Sophia," everyone echoed, raising their glasses in unified celebration.

As tradition dictated, Sophia rose to acknowledge the toast, her expression momentarily serious despite her usual vivacity. "Thank you, Papa," she said, her voice carrying the emotion the moment deserved. "And thank you all for being here tonight, especially given the... adjusted circumstances."

The delicate reference to the security concerns that had necessitated scaling back her original plans was handled with surprising maturity. For all her youth and apparent impulsiveness, Sophia demonstrated the family's innate understanding of appropriate public presentation.

"I've been looking forward to this birthday since I was little," Sophia continued, her natural confidence evident as she addressed the gathering. "Not because of parties or presents, though those are excellent bonuses—" appreciative laughter rippled through the room "—but because in our family, eighteen means being truly included. Being trusted with the full reality of who we are and what we do."

Her gaze found your father briefly, something passing between them that transcended words. "I've waited a long time to be fully part of this family's legacy. To contribute, not just benefit. To protect, not just be protected."

You felt Lewis's hand tighten slightly around yours, a subtle recognition of the weight her words carried in your world. Unlike many outsiders who married into families like yours, he understood completely what Sophia was really saying – she was officially being welcomed into the family business, trusted with secrets and responsibilities that had been shielded from her until now.

"So tonight," Sophia continued with a bright smile that somewhat masked the significance of her words, "I not only celebrate turning eighteen, but also officially joining the family business. Thank you all for being here to mark this milestone with me."

She raised her glass in a gesture that mirrored your father's. "To family—by blood, by marriage, and by choice. Our greatest strength and most sacred responsibility."

The formal dinner transitioned to more relaxed celebration as tables were cleared to create space for dancing, a small orchestra positioned at one end of the room beginning a selection of music that bridged generational preferences. Salvatore led Francesca to the floor for the traditional first dance, their movements together demonstrating decades of partnership both in dancing and in life.

"They still love each other," you remarked, watching your parents with quiet admiration. "Through everything, all the complications of this life—they've never lost that connection."

Lewis studied the couple with analytical interest, noting the easy synchronicity of their movements, the way your father's usually commanding presence softened in your mother's company. "It's rare," he acknowledged. "Especially in our world."

"But not impossible," you added, your fingers still intertwined with his.

The comment hung between you, weighted with implications neither of you had fully addressed despite the evolving reality of your relationship. Other couples joined your parents, the formal space filling with movement and conversation as the celebration shifted into its next phase. As you scanned the room, you caught sight of Sophia cornering Miles by the bar, notepad in hand and expression intensely focused as she fired questions at him.

"Should we help him?" Lewis asked, genuine concern for his friend evident beneath his usual composure.

"Absolutely not," you replied with sisterly mischief. "She's been dying to talk to someone with his background. He's the perfect subject with that mysterious military past. Besides, it's good for him."

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Good for him?"

"Miles relies too much on that charm of his. Sophia won't fall for it – she'll just keep pressing until she gets real answers. He needs the practice dealing with someone who isn't immediately charmed by that whole routine he does."

Your assessment of both Miles and your sister drew another of those rare almost-smiles from Lewis. "Tactical weakness identified," he observed dryly.

You laughed, the sound drawing glances from nearby family members who were still adjusting to seeing you so at ease with the man they'd originally viewed as just another of your father's business arrangements.

As the evening progressed, you found yourselves circulating through the gathering, accepting congratulations from family members who'd heard about Lewis's recent "promotion" to family status after the De Garza situation. The news had traveled quickly through the Ricci network – Salvatore giving Lewis his father's gun, calling him "son" rather than son-in-law, bringing him into inner family business that went beyond the original alliance parameters.

At one point, your father appeared at Lewis's side, two glasses of his special reserve whiskey in hand. You excused yourself to let them speak privately, but watched from across the room as they stood in quiet conversation, their body language telling its own story. Your father no longer maintained the careful distance of a business partner; there was respect there, and a growing trust that went beyond strategic necessity.

"They look good together, don't they?" your mother said, appearing beside you with her usual quiet grace. "Your father needed someone like him – young enough to adapt to changing times but experienced enough to understand our world."

"Is that why he chose Lewis from the others?" you asked, curious about your mother's perspective on the arrangement that had changed your life.

She smiled knowingly. "Partly. But I think he also saw something in the way Lewis looked at you during that first meeting. Something different from how the others looked at you."

"Different how?"

"The others saw what they wanted from you. Lewis saw who you actually were." Her dark eyes, so like your own, studied your face carefully. "And now you see him too, not just the arrangement."

"Lewis! It's your turn to get in the photos!" she demanded, waving imperiously. "Family picture time, and you're not escaping!"

You watch him tense slightly – these domestic rituals still pushed him out of his comfort zone despite how far he'd come since your wedding. But to your surprise, he nodded and moved toward the gathering without hesitation, his hand finding yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As your sister organized everyone into position, you watched Lewis navigate this new territory with the same precision he brought to everything. The family photographer directed you all into position, with Sophia centered as the birthday girl and the rest of the family arranged around her. Lewis stood beside you, tall and composed, no longer the outsider cautiously maintaining strategic distance. When his arm slid around your waist, the gesture felt both protective and possessive in a way that had nothing to do with your original agreement.

"Perfect!" the photographer declared after several shots. "Beautiful family portrait."

Family. The word hung in the air between you and Lewis as the group dispersed back to the celebration. Not business partners, not strategic allies, but family – with all the complicated obligations and unexpected connections that entailed.

"You're officially one of us now," you said lightly as you moved away from the photography setup. "No escape possible. The Riccis have claimed you."

That ghost of a smile appeared again, transforming his severe features momentarily. "I'm discovering there are worse fates," he replied, his eyes holding yours with unexpected warmth. "Some arrangements have unexpected benefits."

As the party continued around you, that simple statement settled somewhere deep in your chest. What had begun as your father's strategic decision, a business arrangement between families, had evolved into something neither of you had anticipated. Something that felt increasingly like a choice rather than an obligation.

..........tbd

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── MOTHER'S DAY 🍰

❀ pairing: dad!spencer x mom!reader

❀ summary: your mother's day traditions throughout the years.

❀ warnings / tags: fluff, smut, oral (fem receiving) MDNI!! WC: 1.4k

❀ author's note: need 500 of his babies lowkey. spencer and reader have a 5-year-old named penny in this fic!

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST

mother's day might be spencer's favorite holiday after halloween. you were pregnant during your first mother's day after you two had gotten married, and he spent the entire day pampering you; breakfast in bed, a goofy 'world's #1 mom' mug, all your favorite movies while you laid in his arms, ordering from your favorite place, a massage, a bubble bath accompanied by two apple juices he'd poured into champagne glasses to make you feel fancy, finishing the day off by your loving husband whispering sweet nothings in your ear as he made love to you.

although your firstborn couldn't quite yet grasp the concept of 'mother's day', spencer still wanted to include her even when she was less than a year old. he placed penny's tiny hand on the card he had made, and drew its outline, no matter how much the baby fussed in his arms. and just like the year before, he treated you like royalty the entire day.

the same routine went on for the next five years; outlines of your daughter's hand on each mother's day card, drawn by spencer until she was old enough to do it herself, spencer's chicken-scratch handwriting replaced by your daughter's, even though you could barely tell the difference.

you woke up to the sound of "mama, mama, mama!" as well as the creak on your bedsprings, your eyes slowly fluttering open to see your daughter jumping up and down at the end of your bed with a gleeful expression, "happy mother's day!" she said gleefully, holding out the card; the front of it a tiny handprint drawn with a pink crayon with the text 'happy moter's day!' "do you like it?"

"i love it. did you make it yourself?" you asked, pulling the girl into your side as you watched spencer make his way into the bedroom, carrying the same tray he'd used for every past mother's day. "i did!" penny said, puffing out her chest proudly, "thank you, penny pie. i love it so much." you pressed a kiss on top of her head while spencer placed the tray down on your lap, the same breakfast on it as every other mothers' day: coffee, cut-up fruit, a pile of pancakes with a smiley-face drawn on with whipped cream; but this year there was a new addition to the pancakes. chocolate chips. "what's with the chocolate chips?" you asked, your daughter grinning at you, "i put them." she said with slight mischief.

"penny might be a better cook than i am." spencer shrugged, sitting up behind you and wrapping his arms around your middle, placing his head on your shoulder, "what do you think?"

"well, i think i'm gonna have to taste them." you grinned, turning to look at spencer, "happy mother's day." he mumbled, pressing a soft, quick kiss on your lips.

after breakfast, you got your gifts; a new watch from your husband and a crocheted heart-shaped coaster that penny said auntie penelope 'helped her make'. you'd bet fifty bucks on auntie penelope doing most of the work.

after that, the three of you went to penny's favorite park, the spot much emptier than usual, most people preferring to spend mother's day at home. your head was on your husband's shoulder, and you were listening to him talk about a recent case while you watched your daughter play, a giddy smile on her small face as she swung on the swing, trying to get higher and higher.

then came dinner, then came the cake that penelope had baked because spencer was hopeless when it came to that, and penny had decorated it (it was a messy, uneven picture of a cat she had made with strawberries. it was so beautiful it almost made you cry.) then came tangled, then penny's bath time, then her bedtime story, and in the end, you and spencer were left on the couch, the man's head laying on your chest while you ran your hand through his curls, 10 things i hate about you playing on the tv without you really paying attention to it. you turned to spencer, his eyes glued to the tv.

"spence?" "mm?" he hummed, without looking up from the tv, "you ever think about having more kids?"

your words finally got spencer's attention, and he looked up at you, pondering his words for a moment before replying, "sometimes. do you?" "i do." you purse your lips, "i mean, penny's already getting pretty big, and i don't want our kids to have a huge age gap so-"

your husband cut you off by bringing his lips to yours, spencer's hand behind your neck, until he finally pulled away, looking at you with nothing but love and adoration in his eyes, "all you had to say was that you wanted another baby." his chilly hands lifting up your nightgown, "and i would've put one in you immediately." your husband hummed, pressing his lips on your chest, starting to trail down lower and lower, "i remember when you were pregnant with penny..." spencer mumbled, his fingers tracing the stretchmarks left by your daughter on your stomach.

"yeah? you chuckled softly as spencer's hands slowly started tugging down your pajama pants, "what'd you think?"

"i think..." you lifted your hips so he could get your pajama pants off, a patch of wetness already visible on your panties, "you were at your most beautiful when you were pregnant…" spencer rubbed a finger over the wet patch, making you shiver.

"yeah? even though i had the worst case of pregnancy nose ever?" you snorted as spencer dipped his fingers under the waistband of your panties. "i couldn't get enough of you." spencer chuckled against the skin of your lower stomach as you lifted your hips once again to allow him to slide down your panties, "whenever i went away on a case i couldn't sleep unless i was looking at your picture."

you looked down, and by the earnest look on spencer's face, you could tell that he was being honest, but before you could say anything, your husband had spread your legs and licked a stripe up your slit, making you shudder. spencer’s tongue flicked your clit while his long fingers teased your entrance, circling it. you held your breath, only listening to the noise spencer let out as his tongue flicked your clit again, until his greedy lips attached themselves onto your throbbing bud, making you throw your head back in pleasure.

you finally felt one of his fingers plunge into you, a whine leaving your lips because it just wasn't enough!!! your husband chuckled, and you could feel it all the way up your spine, the man adding in a second finger.

spencer thrust his fingers in and out of you, your gummy walls clenching around his long digits, until you whimpered, "there, there!" when you felt him hit that sweet, spongy spot inside of you, the pleasure making your toes curl and squeeze your eyes shut in pure bliss.

spencer continued to rock his fingers in and out of you, attaching his lips around your clit and then circling the sensitive bud with his tongue in a way that made you arch into his mouth, searching, begging, for more.

"please, please..." you whine, your hand in his hair, tugging on his long curls, pulling him closer to your clit. spencer let out mumbled noises against your core, magnifying the pleasure even further.

"'m close, 'm close, honey..." you whine, and spencer keeps doing what he has been, except now, he's paying extra attention to your clit, flicking the sensitive bud more often, building and building and building that feeling in your abdomen...

until it all comes down in a moan of your husband's name, your pussy clenching around his fingers, forcing them to stay inside of you, forcing them to keep filling you, the movements of spencer's tongue getting slower as he helped you ride out your orgasm, until your grip on his hair finally started to loosen, and he could pull his lips away from your clit, his lips soaked as he looked up at you with a dazed grin. when spencer pulled his fingers out of you, you whined from the sudden loss of contact.

spencer brought his fingers to your lips, coated in your arousal, smudging it on them before pulling his hand away, pressing his lips on yours before you had time to lick your lips.

"you always taste so good..." spencer mumbled, his tongue darting out to lick your wet lips, before pulling away to look at you with nothing but sincerity in his eyes, "i love you. and i want another baby with you."

[softieekayy]

Reid-iculous

Past!spencer Reid x reader x Frank Langdon

Word count: 3.7k

A/n: I just saw that the requester wanted an OBGYN reader and I completely glossed over that and made the reader and Emerg doctor. I will rewrite this if you hate it, I’m so sorry 😭

The morning dew rested gently on the grass, most of the world still sleeping in the early hours of the morning. That, unfortunately, was not the case of the beloved health care or emergency in Pittsburg. The rustling of sheets slowly woke Frank from his slumber and in a still sleepy haze, he threw his arm over his beautiful fiancee, trying to soak in this feeling, the next time he’ll have it is in another 15 hours. Gruelling work it was, the trauma bay in the PTMC but this is what they chose and it’s too late to change. Or well, that's what the woman tracing light patterns on his back would say.

“Frank.” she calls out, voice as sweet as honey and he wonders, how on earth could anyone give up on such a sweet thing like her. “Hm.” he grunts, already knowing what the next words are. Frank lets out a louder groan, turning himslef onto his stomach as she giggles and places a small kiss on his forehead before making her way into the bathroom, humming a tune under her breath. Frank lets out a sigh, sitting up and trying to rub the sleepiness from his eyes as he joins her in the bathroom.

He watches the younger woman for a minute, knowing what her morning routine by heart but still always admiring. “How are you always so cheery in the morning?” the questions leaves his mouth before his brain has the time to process it. His fiancee, in the midst of washing her face, stares at him through the mirror and responds, “drugs.” a dead serious look on her face as the tall, dark haired man snorts. Seeing that, she lets a small smile of her own slip.

“But seriously Frank, we are going to be late if we don’t get in the shower now.” she tells him, tugging the white t-shirt she wore to bed over her head and tying up her hair. Frank admires her for a second too long, the swell of her breasts and the way her curves looked in the lighting of the bathroom. He needed someone to pinch him before he decided that this was just another wonderful dream.

“You gonna keep staring loverboy?” (Y/n) asks, peeking her head out of the shower and frank sheds his clothes in lightning speed before joining her. The hot water feeling amazing on their skin, a last moment of relaxation before they both tense up at work again.

“Fuck-” the sentance cut off as a student running past the couple accidentally bumped into (Y/n), luckily frank caugh her before any major injuries could happen, telling her that he didn’t need his day starting off by bringing her to the hospital for a CT because she hit her head. The shorter woman just glared at frank who grinned like he found a pot of gold. The couple made their way into the hospital, seeing most of the day shift members already present and the night shift just wrapping up final details on cases before letting the day shift take over. Frank and (y/n) walked over to their lockers, already seeing samira there, waiting for her best friend.

“Damn, looks like your wife gets you for the rest of the day” Frank mutters as he takes the bag his fiancee hands him, making her way towards the other woman. “We haven’t even started for the day and you’re already stealing her from me,” Frank whines like a petulant child while both woman snicker. Samira throws her arm over the other woman’s shoulders and pulls her in, “You get her 24 hours a day Langdon, let me have her for these 15,” Samira tells him, making his frown deepen as they make their way over to Dana and Robby at the nurse’s station.

Robby looked at frank once, then again, laughing lightly at his sour expression.

“Jesus, who pissed in your coffee this morning?” He huffed out as the younger man muttered something about stealing time under his breath. Dana, being a woman and smarter than the two men who stood before her, “it’s probably because dr. mohan is hogging dr. (y/l/n), again.” she huffed out, a smile on her face as she watched the two women, thick as thieves and close as sisters. Samira was showing the other woman a patient chart, asking for some advice on what to say to the parent who wouldn’t listen or acknowledge the proper care instructions. (y/n)’s eyebrows pinched together the more she listen to samira talk about the ridiculous parent.

“They come here for our help but won’t take our advice, what are we doing here then” The younger woman rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest, red painted lips curled into a disapproving frown. Samira only shook her head and muttered a small “i know” before leaving the other woman to deal with her patients.

“Morning Dana, Dr. Robby.” she greeted kindly, a smile on her face and a chai tea in one hand. Dana smiled at the young doctor before handing her a patient chart, a teen boy with an open tibia fracture in room 302. The younger woman thanked her before making her way over, her shadow for the day today being Dennis Whitaker. She quite liked the young man, he reminded her of a drowned rat but like a cute one. She had a thing for strays, Frank Langdon would and will heavily attest to that.

Opening the door, she walked in and introduced herself and Dennis.

“Hello Ryan, I’m Dr. (y/l/n) and this is Dr.Whitaker. Do you mind if he observes and helps us today?” She asks kindly, a soft smile on her face and when the boy shakes his head no, (y/n) motions for Dennis to go ahead with the examination and diagnosis, gently helping and guiding him when his tone wavered in unsureness. Ryan was a champ, the more the two doctors talked to him, the more impressive he became. They found out that he obtained the fracture from playing football, it was practice but he still took it seriously. An hour or so later, he was all wrapped up and ready to go home. Thanking both the doctors with a huge grin on his face as his mom beside him gramaced a little.

On the otherside of the ER, Frank Langdon stood still, chart in hand as he looked awestruck by his beautiful wife to be. She has to be the most gorgeous creature frank has ever laid his eyes on. The way her smile lights up a whole room needs to be studied but more so the fact that she’s so warm. Like sunshine personified. Everyone and everything finds itself drawn to her presence, like a moth drawn to a flame. Unbeknownst to him though, the two biggest gossips in the room are watching him diligently.

“He still looks at her like it’s his first time meeting her.” Pearlah says, not moving her eyesight from Frank. Princess, who stood beside her looking at a patient chart hums in response.

“Do you rember the first time they met?” Princess laughs, the memory of a slightly younger verson of Frank playing in their head. He had tried so hard to not catch feelings for the younger resident but failed miserably and everyone around them could see it. He was walking backwards while talking to her, just so he can keep looking at her face and made sure she stuck by him everyday. He was awestruck then and he was awestruck now. Not much had changed.

“Um..Dr.Langdon..?” Mel’s voice brought Frank back from whatever fantasy played in his head at the moment. He looked down at the blonde resident and sighed, aplogising for bring so distracted but the former only smiled and waved her hand, saying that it’s not a big deal. (Y/n) looked up at him from where she sat at her desk, flashing Frank a warm smile before turning her attention back to what Dennis was saying. Frank swore to every god in existence that his heart stopped but before he could say anything to anyone or even may his way over to her, the speakers started blasting.

“Trauma team to the ER. GSW incoming, female, late 20’s.” That’s all the doctors need to hear before they start preparing themselves, gowns and gloves on. Frank and (Y/n) move in sync, clearly and silently stating that they’ll be the ones to take over this case. The ambulance comes quick and on the gurney lays a blonde woman that the young doctor knows too well. Jennifer Jereau. Her best friend at one point when she was dating her co-worker.

“JJ?” the nickname falls out of her mouth before she’s able to stop it. To her, it feels like everything in the world has stopped movin. It also meant that if JJ was here then so was he. She paused for the slightest second but that didn’t go unnoticed by Frank but the years of training took over, “On my count,” she barked out, her voice authoritative and on edge, “One, two, three.” The team transferred JJ to the bed as they began to check her vitals.

“The gunshot is through and through.” She yells out as the team prepares for what’s to be done next. Pearlah administers the IV and morphine as Frank begins to work on his finacee’s former friend. Not that he know’s who she is anyways. Before she could start helping again, the doors bust open and a very worried Dennis stands there, panting as if he’d just run a marathon saying something about a federal agent and urgent care.

“Go.” Frank tells her, not looking up from JJ. (Y/n) stands there for a moment, uncertain but frank reassures her, tells her that he’s got JJ and that she will be okay. The young doctor feels slightly comforted at his words before taking off the gown and gloves, making her way towards the very recognizable team.

“Fuck- I uh, need a minute.” She tells the young student doctor as her lips curl down into a frown and an uneasiness takes over her. She feels like she’s going to be sick. Dennis looks worried and opens his mouth to say something before she shoots him a look and he walks away, mumbling something about bringing back a bottle of water. Nothing in the ED department goes unnoticed by anyone and this time, it was Robby. He watched as she took in deep shaky breaths, clearly trying to ground herself. To anyone else it may have looked like it was a hard case but to him, he knew it was something else that bothered her.

“Hey kid, you okay.” Robby’s soft voice broke (y/n) out from her train of thoughts as she looked up at the senior attending, simply nodding her head, hoping that Robby would take the hint. Spoiler alert, he didn’t. Robby crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a look, she called it the disappointed dad look. Looking up at him she rolled her eyes, knowing that she would have to explain her little breakdown.

“It’s uh, my ex. And his team, they’re here.” She told him, voice wavering a little. Today was a great day. In fact, she had a date later tonight with her hot tub, a bottle of wine but now she has to see her ex. Spencer Fucking Reid. The man who built her up only to cheat on her emotionally and then tear her down. “Fuck, kid-” Robby’s cut off by her shaking her head. The last thing she needs is Robby sending someone else with Whitaker and then this becoming the new hot gossip.

“I’ll be fine,” she tells him before looking around, “Whitaker!” She waves him over and he hands her the patient chart, the duo making their way over to the team. Emily is the first one to spot her, eyebrows furrowed and biting her bottom lip, all actions the brunette was familiar with very well. She nudges Morgan beside her who nearly drops his drink. Yeah they haven’t seen her for 6 years but damn does she look better than ever.

“(Y/n)..how have you been?” Emily was the first one to speak up, wincing a little as she did so and that did’t go unnoticed by both doctors as Whitaker immediately began to ask Emily questions before deducing that she had bruised ribs, a concussion and would need a x-ray and CT scan, just to make sure there isn’t underlying damage. She pretended to not feel the heated glare from a certain tall, lanky brunette piercing the side of her face as she gently held Hotch’s face in her hands, making sure that it wasn’t broken.

“Are you always this silent, doctor?” Spencer’s question cut the air sharply, his voice nearly suffocating her. He spat out the word doctor as if it were a slur and maybe to him, it was. The young doctor eyed him sharply, choosing to bite her tongue and not cause a scene, especially here.

Spencer Reid however, could not keep his mouth shut, even after he got the glaringly angry stare from Aaron Hotchner.

“You know, I always imagined you to be surrounded by the soft glow of a delivery room. This fluorescent nightmare suits you though. Stark, cold, and sterile…just like you.” His words cut deeply into the doctor and she pauses what she’s doing, letting Whitaker take over.

“And you haven’t changed a little. 6 damn years Doctor Reid and you’re still the man I left.” She hisses back, arms crossed against her chest and the fluorescent light catches the stone on her ring finger, Spencer’s eyes darting towards it momentarily as he scoffs.

“I’m surprised you managed to lock anyone down with your attitude.” Spencer hisses and before (Y/n) can say anything else Frank enters the room, sensing the hostile environment his eyes dart between the short doctor and the tall lanky one.

“Is everything okay?” He asks, his voice low and hesitant. To be honest, Frank didn’t give a flying damn about the other people in the room as long as his lovely fiancee was okay.

“Perfectly peachy…” She mutters, handing him the patient chart and making her way to have some cool down time. Robby caught her eye as she left, raising his eyebrow to ask if she’s okay to which she rolled her eyes. Not at him, no, at Spencer. He was a thorn in her side that she couldn’t get rid of, no matter how hard she tried.

The only place she could find dark and quiet enough was the break room. She was surprised no one was in there but grateful nonetheless. (Y/n) closed her eyes, needing to rest them for a minute before she heard the door open and close, hoping that it was someone just here to grab a quick snack. The sound of the chair being pulled out from across made her nervous and she hoped to god that it wasn’t Robby who followed her in.

“So..i heard the little spat you had.” Samira’s voice made the younger woman’s eyes snap open as she looked her best friend. She groaned, letting her head fall back. Samira patted her knee sympathetically. When (y/n) first started off at PTMC, she was matched into the OBGYN program before deciding that it wasn’t for her and switching into Trauma and since that day, her and Samira have been glued to the hip. Sisters in everything but blood or as Frank and the rest of the ER department likes to call them, work wives.

“I just don’t understand why he’d say that here, while I’m working. He doesn’t seem to realize that I’m not the same person I was 6 years ago but he still is.” She sighs, running a hand through her hair in frustration before tying it up again. Samira nods in undertsnding, also curious as to why such a hotshot profiler couldn’t be respectful to his ex at work.

(Y/n) pauses, looking at Samira and raising her eyebrow, “shouldn’t you be with patients?” Samira waves her off, telling her that Victoria was more than capable to be on her own for 15 minutes. The younger doctor nodded as they both sipped on a box of apple juice provided by Samira diligently. They sat together for 5 more minutes before Samira patted her shoulder and kissed her cheek before leaving, telling her to not lose her mindnfully. (Y/n) swatted at her best friend at that while laughing. She threw the empty apple juice box in the trash before leaving, sighing quietly.

“You disappeared for a bit.”

“Jesus fucking christ-” Frank’s laughter cut off her sentance as she swatted him on the shoulder, scolding him about scaring her. Frank stopped, looking at his baby seriously, taking her hand in his, “baby, are you okay?” Frank’s question made her fall silent, the warmth from his hand keeping her grounded. She looked up at him, mouth parted slightly, “Yeah Frankie, I’ll be okay.” She tells him yet her words fail to soothe Frank. He nods his head, kisses her forehead and tells her to kick ass in the ER before leaving to attened to his own duties.

“Hey, there you are.” Dennis exhales in relief. (Y/n) says a quick sorry and promises to make it up to him with some delicious donuts. Dennis smiles and tells her that it’s not a big deal and that the ‘scary law enforcement agents’ are all patched up and okay. She smiled brightly at him before patting his back as a thank you and made her way over to them. Out of everyone she missed Emily and Hotch the most. Emily was her Samira and Hotch her Robby.

“Hey.” Her voice was soft as she greeted Emily and Hotch, Spencer simply rolled his eyes, “Oh look, Princess here is finally over her temper tantrum and wants to be a doctor again.” All eyes snapped onto him the moment the words left his mouth.

“Jesus christ Spencer what’s your deal? It has been 6 damn years since we broke up. LET IT GO. You can’t come into MY workplace, antagonize me and then pray I don’t say anything. Because from what it looks like, you’re the only one that hasn’t moved in more than half a decade. Hot shot profiler and still can’t let go of the past. What’s next, are you going to start claiming that i haunt your nightmares or that I’m a witch who put a spell on you? MOVE ON!” Her snapping wasn’t on anyone’s list today except maybe Frank and Samira’s who passed a $20 bill to him. Robby and Dana just looked at eachother, Dana hiding her face behind an ipad but everyone could still see her shoulders shaking from laughter while Robby ran a hand down his face, trying to conceal his laughter as well. Trinity, Princess and Pearlah gossiped in Tagalog while Victora and Dennis looked like scared Victorian children seeing light.

Spencer could only look at her while scoffing. “Don’t scoff at me Spencer, leave the hospital. You’ve been treated and there’s no reason for you to stay.” She hissed out, not wanting to be disrespected any longer. Spencer looked at her for a second before he shoved his way out. If he wanted to act like a petulant child then he’ll be treated like one. Emily smiled at her and patted her arm, making a promise for them to catch up and left as well, the rest of the team following behind them.

(Y/n) sighed and made her way over to the nurses station where Dana and Robby stood watching her, a smile on Dana’s face. The younger of the three looked at them, exhaustion painting her face as clear as day as they all stared at eachother.

“No.”

“I-I didn’t even say anything.” Dana stuttered out with a smile on her face as she was met with a deadpan stare.

“You don’t have to. I can read your mind.” Dana’s smile didn’t waver and she just pulled the young doctor into a motherly side hug, kissing her forehead. She looked at Robby who looked at her, she gave him her signature ‘dad i swear i didn’t do anything wrong’ smile and he sighed for what felt like a millionth time.

“I am required to send you home, especially after an emotional outburst like that,” Robby paused, looking at her, his voice dropping into a whisper, “but since you’re my favourite resident ( daughter but he’d never admit that), you can stay. Just go take a 30.” At his words she tries not to squeal and gives Robby and overly exaggerated fist bump that he recepriocates awkwardly before heading to the break room.

“That’s quite a scene you caused there.” (Y/n) perked up at her fiance’s voice and teasing tone as he came to join her in the break room, he pulled the chair out beside her and sat down. She smiled at him and Frank took her hand in his own, letting it rest on his knee as he pushed her favourite sandwich towards her.

“I know you baby, and that means I know you haven’t eaten.” Frank tells her, going as far to unwrap the sandwich for her. One thing about Frank Langdon is that he will always take care and baby his fiancee, not because he thinks that she can’t take care of herself, no, because she works so damn hard and what type of man will he be if he doesn’t take care of her.

Unbeknownst to the couple, pair of eyes watched their interaction closely.

“How much do you want to bet she’ll be pregnant a year after marriage.” Pearlah asks Princess who shook her head.

“A year? Are you insane, it’ll be right after they get married.” Princess responded, her voice confident. Pearlah side eyed her for anminute before passing her a $50 bill, starting a whole new betting pool.

Tagging: @madeupinmyhead because I did “steal” this request from you

[cheriladycl01]

Down Under - Daniel Riccardo x Reader SMUT

Plot: Daniel had always dreamed of the day seeing his wife in a pretty wedding dress, but not for the reasons most would think.

Warnings: eating out, oral (fem receiving), 18+ minors dni

Here you were walking down the isle in your large white wedding dress looking down where your husband stood with his best man and fellow groomsmen. He hadn't noticed you yet where he was talking to his best man Lando. Max, one of his groomsmen nudged him, shurgging his head over to you. His eyes met yours just as the music started playing for you to walk down the isle too.

Tears brim his eyes, he'd always seen you as the most beautiful girl in the world, but today you were etheral and he wanted to burn this image of you into his mind and keep it there forever.

You make your way down the isle, holding your dad's arm who also has tears in his eyes. All thats on your face is a huge grin, excited to be Mrs Ricciardo after this. You loved Daniel with all your heart and being able to share a last name with him was special to you.

"You're the only man i trust with her Daniel, i hope you know that. Look after my baby" you father says, before placing a kiss on the side of your head. Daniel smiles at your father a solid not to him.

"Always sir" Daniel says, before glancing over you seeing just how magnetic you looked up close.

You guys shared your vows, you had both done very meaningful vows for your actual wedding that you'd more than likely repreat in 10 years, then 20 and 30. You would save the laughter for at the after party where the maid of honor and best man, and some family members would to also say some words for the pair of you.

"You may now kiss the bride" the officiator says and you shake your head.

"Nope, i may now kiss the groom!" you grin and cup Daniels face pulling him down and in for a kiss. It's lasts for a while until you feel Daniel's grin widen.

"Nope, i'll listen to him" Daniel grins, pulling away and dipping you into the typical bride kiss. Your both giggling against one another as you do, the crowd below cheering and whooping.

"Come with me" he whispers in your ear, gripping your hand.

"Alright folks, if you all head into the barn i'm going to get Mrs Riccardo into something a little more ... breathable and then we'll see you out for the after party!" he grins, before taking your hand and walking you away. Everyone starts to leave while Daniel walks you into the chalet you guys had rented.

Before you know it, the minute you guys get into the home you were hoisted up onto the nearest counter, your large puffy dress bunching up around your hips. Your in fits of giggles as Daniel tries to work out how to step in between your legs but is sort of restricted.

"Daniel what are you doing!" you laugh looking at him.

"Need you so bad, wanna fuck you for the first time as my wife" he grins with that cheeky look in his eyes.

"What?" you burst out laughing.

"Please, need you" he groand trying to bunch up your dress around you.

"We dont have time!" you laugh, holding him at bay by his chest.

"Just, just a quick little taste. I'll be so quick" he says, sliding his hands down before getting on his knees.

"Daniel!" you gasp at the crudeness. But before you know it he's under all layers of your dress, teasing a finger up your thigh touching the garter of your white lingerie. He plays with the fabric before flicking it against your skin making you gasp. You feel his nose, and the bump run up along the silk covering you.

"Danny" you gasp, moving your hips forward and wrapping your legs around him, resting them on his back and shoulders.

He doesn't say a word, not that you'd hear it muffled under the ruffles and multiple layers of your dress, but you feel your panties pulled to the side and his wet tongue tease you.

His nose gives the perfect amount of pressure on your clit a moan coming from you. You would normally have a hand pulling at the curls of the hair, but with no access to it they gripped the edge of the counter.

"Oh fuck, please" you moan feeling the way he's moving against you stimulating every place that possibly needs it. You can feel his nose pressing agaisnt you. Your hips jut against his face and your can finally hear some slurps that he's making as you rock agaisnt his face.

You feel the coil build in your stomach as Daniel's licks are relentless against you.

"Omg please please please" you cry out your knuckles white from the grip on the table. Daniel's finger enters, his tounge moving to play with your clit, gasps coming from you and your head drops back.

He reaches a certain part of your spongey walls that makes your lurch forward grabbing his head through your dress with as gasp as your legs tighten round his head and start to shake.

"Omg" you gasp as he helps you through your orgasm. He ruffles up, finding his way out of the big puffy dress and the sight before you once his head pops up is one you would be happy getting all to familiar with.

He was there, your juices covering his chin and his curls messier, face flushed red from the heat.

"Been waiting to do that for years" he sighs, leaning his head against your thigh.

"Years? You've been dreaming of marrying me for years for the sole purpose of what? Eating me out in my wedding dress?" you laugh out loud looking down at him.

"Right, lets get you out this dress now" he says, avoiding the question while helping you up despite the wobbly legs and heels combo that isnt helping. You couldn't help but giggle as he carries you up the stairs to the master bedroom where your body-con white dress was laid out by your maid of honor.

Daniel helps you take off the dress and just looks at you in your underwear.

"Gods, i cant believe this is what i get to see for the rest of my life" he says, running his hands along your waist. He helps you get into the dress despite his wish to ravish you on the bed behind the pair of you, but knows that people are waiting to celebrate the newly weds.

"Every day" you grin holding the side of his face before he pulls you into a kiss.

"I love you"

"I love you too"

Taglist:

@littlebitchsposts @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[sidemari]

• Bun in the oven •

Some texts about you telling them that you’re pregnant and some headcanons about how they’re during the pregnancy. 

Characters included: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, Keegan P. Russ, Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick, König, Nikto and Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader 

TW: Mild angst, mentions of abortion and insecurities, implied smut. But everything works out in the end. 

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

You call him from the corner of the room, that nervous smile on your face. Soap knows right away that something big is coming — he feels it, like he senses danger on the field… But this time, it’s something different. Something good.

“Johnny… Do you remember the night you came back home after being away for so long due to that mission?” You tested the waters by avoiding telling the truth right away.

“Yeah… How could I forget that night?” He smiled warmly, his mind flashing with the images of that day. “What about it, hon?” 

“Well… You know we got carried away and…”

“And…?”

“We’re having a baby.” You finally share your secret. 

He blinks. Once. Twice. His usual playful smile disappears for a second, replaced by a stunned look, as if he’s trying to decode what he’s just heard.

“Are… are you serious?” You nod, and he… explodes with joy. He literally lifts you into the air with a surprised cry, almost laughing and crying at the same time.

“Oh my God! We’re going to be parents?! Aye, fuck, baby, is this really real?”

He kisses your forehead, then your belly, even though it hasn’t even changed yet. He murmurs a bunch of sweet things in that warm accent — promises, plans, dreams. And then he whispers very softly, just for you to hear:

“I swear I will be the best father in the world… to our baby. And the best man to you. Always.”

When the morning sickness starts, he becomes your personal bodyguard against any suspicious smells: “What the hell is that in the air?! It smells like poison, honey. Close that window!”

He researches everything about pregnancy and becomes the most emotional “expert” on the planet. He sends you messages like: “Did you know that the baby already has little fingers today? LITTLE FINGERS, BABY!”

He talks to your belly every day, telling them about his missions, his friends on the team, and asking if the baby prefers soccer or rugby: “If you kick now, it’ll be rugby, okay?”

He starts to become obsessed with photos. He takes a thousand selfies with you and your belly, even while you’re sleeping. 

He refuses to let you carry anything, literally: “Not even the bag. Not even the remote. Let me carry it, honey.”

He massages your feet every night, and even develops a ‘military relaxation technique’ just so you can sleep better.

He has a hospital bag ready with 30 unnecessary things, like three types of chocolate, a teddy bear, and a mini speaker to play Scottish music for the baby.

He’s always reminding you how beautiful you are, even when you feel uncomfortable and insecure. “No matter how big your belly is, you’ve always been the love of my life, and now you’re carrying our little miracle. And no, I don’t give a single fuck about those stretchmarks. You’re nurturing a life inside your womb and your body is adapting itself because of it. I still think you look damn hot and I’m forever thankful that those pregnancy hormones shifted you into a little insatiable thing.”

He gets touchy-feely, sometimes hugging you in the middle of the night just to say thank you. 

He makes up nicknames for the baby while he’s still in the womb, like “Little Soap”. 

He gets really emotional during the first ultrasound. He holds your hand tightly and tries not to cry… but fails miserably.

He makes special playlists with soft Scottish music, movie soundtracks and even records himself talking so the baby can hear at night.

He buys miniature army clothes, but also absurdly cute ones, like animal costumes, because “he needs to have style in the nursery”.

One day he shows up with a crib set up in the middle of the living room just because “he wanted to see if it would look nice in natural light”.

He learns to cook your favorite foods (even if it turns out to be a disaster) just so you can eat what you want safely.

He keeps notes with the dates of the first times: first kick, first time their heartbeat was heard, first photo of your belly. He’s creating a secret “dossier” of love.

He swears he’s going to be the most present father in the world. No matter how much life changes, he will always be there for you two. 

It was a quiet night at home. The sky was clear, with a million stars shining through the open window. You were sitting on the couch, with a cup of hot tea in your hands, and Soap was lying next to you, with his head on your lap, apparently tired from the intense mission of the day. The conversation was calm, but you knew it was time to tell him the news. He was so focused on caressing your stomach as you played with his hair, that he didn't notice how nervous you were.

"Did you know you're going to be the best dad in the world?" You said softly, feeling your heart race. Soap looked at you with a crooked smile, his eyes shining with evident affection.

"I have no doubt about that, love. But what do you mean, best dad? If I'm not, who will be, huh?" You laughed, but you were feeling overflowing with happiness. Suddenly, the moment was there, and it was as if time had slowed down just so he could hear your words.

"Well… I can't say who's going to be the best father, but you're the best for me, and… Our daughter is going to be very lucky." There was a pause. Soap stood up quickly, looking at you, confused, as if he hadn't quite understood. His eyes were curious, but his smile stubbornly wouldn't leave his face. 

"Wait… What?" He asked, his eyes shining even brighter. You laughed, feeling the heat rise to your face. 

"I… we're expecting a little girl." Soap's eyes widened for a moment and he was silent, processing the information. When it finally sunk in, he leaned forward, with a dazzling smile.

"A little girl?" he repeated, his voice full of disbelief. 

"Yes, a little girl," You said, your heart almost jumping out of your chest. "You're going to be the father of a little girl." And then, he simply laughed. A genuine, happy laugh, one of those laughs that seemed so honest that you felt your soul warm. He stood up from the couch, holding your hands tightly before he jumped close to you, not caring about the teacup that almost fell to the floor.

"Are you sure about this? A real little girl?" He asked again, his eyes shining with happiness.

You laughed then, finally, the feeling of nervousness disappearing. He was more excited than ever, and his happiness was contagious.

"I'm sure!" You answered, laughing along with him, the two of you hugging each other tightly. "We're going to have a daughter, Soap." He ran his hand over your belly, still not fully believing it, but with a sparkle in his eyes that didn't fade. 

"I promise that I'm going to be the best dad in the world. It's going to be a pleasure to watch our little girl grow up." You leaned back against the couch, feeling your heart beat faster. 

"I know you will." And as he continued to rub your belly, smiling like a fool and in that moment, you were more certain than ever that he was the kind of father who would do anything for her. 

Keegan P. Russ 

You hadn’t planned to tell him like this. You wanted something elaborate, symbolic… maybe a candlelit dinner, a note written in your nervous handwriting. But there, sitting on the couch, with his hand resting on your thigh and his eyes intently watching a movie, you felt the right moment — a comfortable, intimate silence, just the two of you.

“Keegan…” You began, your voice low, almost as if you were keeping a precious secret between your lips. He turned his face to you right away. He always did that — when you spoke, he listened. With his eyes, with his whole body. It was a habit of his to offer you his total presence.

“Is something wrong?” He asked immediately, already with that protective look that always came when you hesitated.

“No… it’s just...” You took his hand and brought it to your belly, as if that would be enough. Maybe it was. For a moment, he didn’t understand. He looked back at your face, at your eyes filled with unshed tears, at his hand under your still flat stomach, but which held a secret growing in silence.

“Are you...?” He didn’t finish the question, but his eyes said it all. You nodded, with a shy, uncertain, but hopeful smile. The air between you changed. He didn’t say anything for a second too long — but you saw it. His shoulders relaxed as if he had been waiting for this news without knowing. His eyes watered, and his mouth opened slowly, a whisper coming out between his lips:

“Are we becoming a family...?” The way he hugged you that night was different. It was a protective, reverent grip. As if you were made of porcelain. As if the most important miracle of his life was inside you — and it was.

The focused, meticulous soldier appeared in a new form: in nutrition spreadsheets, reminders on his phone with alarms for his snacks, vitamins, and appointments. He went with you to all of them—even when he was exhausted, even when he had just returned from a mission the day before. He sat next to you, held your hand, and listened intently to every word the obstetrician said.

Keegan was the type of person who didn’t say much, but showed it all through his actions. He learned to cook healthy meals even though he didn’t know how to cut a tomato properly at first. He would run his hands over his belly before bed every night, with a caress that felt like a silent prayer.

And when the symptoms got tough — the nausea, the aches, the bloating — Keegan didn’t run away. He showed up with tea (and if you refused to drink them, he’d force you to, saying it was for the good of the baby you were nurturing), warm blankets, and concerned eyes. He sat on the floor beside your bed when you didn’t want to talk. He was just there and it was enough. 

Sometimes, during the night, he would wake up just to check if you were still sleeping well. He would run his hand over your forehead, carefully adjusting your position, as if he could protect you even from nightmares.

Keegan, during your pregnancy, was as firm as steel and as gentle as a cozy blanket. He became your safe haven, your silent and constant guardian. He slept with his hand on your belly, talked to the baby when he thought you couldn’t hear, promised he would be there, always, that he would take care of you, that no one would ever hurt you both. 

You found him in the kitchen, cooking your latest craving: berry pie.

“Baby,” You called, leaning against the door frame. He looked up immediately, a small smile forming when he saw you there.

You walked over to him slowly, your heart racing, and pulled out the small pair of blue booties you had bought that morning.

“For when he gets here.” You said, placing the booties in his hands. A cheesy way to reveal the gender of your baby, yes, but those booties were just too cute for you to ignore. 

Keegan frowned, confused at first — until understanding dawned on him. He blinked a few times, in disbelief.

“A little boy?” He asked, almost in a choked whisper.

You nodded with an excited smile. He laughed softly, shaking his head as if he was still processing it. Then he pulled you slowly closer, resting his forehead against yours before spinning you around slowly and carefully to not make you nauseous.

“My little boy… Our little boy!” He murmured, his voice cracking with joy.

When the time arrives, Keegan is incredibly calm on the outside, but inside he is a whirlwind of emotions. He has never been so scared and so happy at the same time. He held your hand through every contraction, whispering “You can do it,” “I’m here,” “It’s going to be okay” like a mantra — as if his voice could protect you from the pain. When he heard the baby cry for the first time, his eyes filled with tears instantly. He tried to hide it, but the emotion overflowed in his eyes and in the way he smiled at you and when he held his son for the first time. He was completely mesmerized: his big fingers touched the little body with the greatest delicacy in the world, as if he was afraid of hurting his own son. 

Keegan refuses to sleep while you rest. He sits in an armchair with the baby on his lap, just observing every little detail of the newborn. When the medical team came back and found him with the baby sleeping on his chest, and you sleeping in bed, they said it looked like a scene from a movie. 

He talks to the baby even though he knows he doesn't understand: "You have your mother's eyes... And you'll be strong like her too." 

Takes pictures of the tiny feet, of the baby grabbing your finger, of you breastfeeding him, bathing him and sleeping with him and keeps them all in a folder that only he has access to.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

You realized something was wrong when you woke up with an upset stomach for two days in a row — and without having eaten anything heavy. The smell of the breakfast you loved started to make you nauseous… and that was the first warning sign. Kyle even jokingly commented: “Are you abandoning me in our sacred coffee ritual?” — and you forced a smile, pretending you weren’t worried. A few days later, you realized your period was late. A week. Then ten days. And then fifteen. And then, sweet fear hit deep in your chest.

You bought the test by yourself, on a quick trip to the pharmacy, and hid it in your purse as if it were a state secret. On a cold, slow morning, you took the test while Kyle was still sleeping. The silence in the bathroom was almost deafening as you waited the five minutes that the package indicated. Two lines. Two lines that changed everything. You stood still for long minutes, in the same position, holding the test with shaking hands and teary eyes. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. You did both. The first thing you thought was: "How am I going to tell him?" — and right after: "Will he want this with me?" 

You tried to plan a cute way to tell him. A special dinner, a little box with the test and a note. But anxiety got the best of you. You told him in a simple way, on a normal afternoon, when it was just the two of you, sitting together. He noticed something different about you, and when you shared the secret you were carrying alone, time seemed to stop.

He was sitting on the couch, his eyes softly focused on you as you walked slowly toward him, your hands clasped in front of you, as if trying to contain your racing heart. He could tell right away — you were nervous.

“Are you okay, love?” He asked, his voice low, full of affection.

You nodded, but your throat was dry. You took a deep breath, then walked over and sat down next to him. His hand came naturally to yours, his warm, firm fingers wrapping around yours as if to say ‘I’m here, talk to me.’

“Kyle…” Your gaze met his, and there was so much tenderness there it almost hurt. “I’m pregnant.” For a moment, the world seemed suspended. His smile froze mid-smile, his eyes wide with surprise. You saw the emotion building there — first confusion, then a wet gleam in his eyes, as if he’d just heard something sacred.

“Are you… pregnant?” He repeated in a whisper, as if he was afraid to break the moment.

You nodded, with a small smile. His answer came in the form of a soft, almost breathless laugh, before he pulled you into a hug full of warmth and reverence. He held you as if you were made of glass, but at the same time with such intensity that your heart seemed to fit into his.

“We’re going to have a baby… Fuck’s sake!, that’s so amazing...” He whispered against your neck, as if he still couldn’t believe it. 

“Kyle… No swearing around the baby.”

“Copy that.” He smiled. “I'll be here. Every step, every beat of this little heart… I want to live it all with you.” After that, he placed his hand lovingly on your lower belly, as if he could already feel the new life you had started together. And in that moment, between soft smiles and slow kisses, the whole world seemed to fit between his arms.

He became obsessed with learning everything: he read medical articles, downloaded three different pregnancy apps, and asked the internet if certain strange food cravings were normal. 

He created a ritual: every night, he would lie with his head on her belly and whisper stories, just to “familiarize the baby with his father’s voice.” He would always say proudly: “Our baby will be born hearing the most beautiful accent in the world, honey.” 

He was so protective, but in a sweet way —  accompanying you to every appointment, carrying healthy snacks in his bag, and talking to doctors like you were a secret agent on a mission. 

When your belly started to grow, he bought funny “Loading… Baby 50%” T-shirts and forced you to wear them just to see your grumpy little face. No need to tell him they look awful, he’s already taking pictures of you. 

One day, he found you crying watching a random video of a stray dog being adopted and he just sat down with you, hugging you tightly, and getting emotional too, without even knowing why. 

He insisted on putting the crib together with his own hands. He made several mistakes, got his fingers stuck, and cursed the manual — but in the end, the crib was perfect.

When the contractions started, he went into military mode in 0.1 seconds. He grabbed the hospital bag, checked the checklist, warned everyone and took you to the hospital as if he was on a mission.

During the birth, he held your hand the whole time, letting you crush his fingers without complaining as he kept murmuring something along the lines of “Breathe with me. I’m with you.”

When the baby was born and cried for the first time, he cried too — the kind of silent, emotional cry that comes from deep in the chest.

He was paralyzed for a few seconds when he saw the baby in his arms, with teary eyes, whispering: “We did it. Look… we did it.”

You waited to find out the baby’s sex until the birth. It was a huge shock when the obstetrician said that a little boy had been born: “Hell yeah!”, he celebrated. “My little boy,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Our son...”

König

He finally returned from that mission that seemed to have no end. 

You call him by name with that soft voice that makes him feel weak to his knees. He notices something in your tone. The blue eyes fixed on yours with attention… and a hint of anxiety. “Was ist passiert, mein Schatz?” (“What happened, my love?”)

You take a deep breath, smiling with a nervousness that he immediately picks up on — and you finally say three words that change everything: 

“I am pregnant.” For a moment, he freezes. Not with rejection. Not with anger. But as if the world had gone silent. His eyes widen slightly, he takes a step back as if he’s been shocked, only to then approach you again with visible hesitation in his hands. The mask covers half of his reaction, but his eyes say it all. Pure vulnerability. The doubt of whether he deserves this. The desire to believe he still deserves to be happy. 

“Is it… mine?” He asks, his voice lower than ever.

“Of course it is, König!” 

When you say that — of course he knew it was his — König lets out a shaky sigh and puts his hands on his head, walking a few steps as if he doesn’t know what to do with his own body. Then he stops and he comes back to you. He kneels and he hugs your still-flat belly, pressing it against his face with an almost religious reverence.

“Mein Gott (My god)… you gave me a new life.” He murmurs, his voice hoarse and muffled.

Then he looks down at you, with teary eyes — the intimidating giant now looking like a lost, happy boy — and says something you would never forget:

“I never thought I would have something so precious. I will take care of you. The both of you. Even if the world falls apart… you will be safe.” 

In the first few months, König is on constant alert. Every moment of nausea, every different expression on your face, makes him stop everything to check if you are okay. 

He obsessively researches pregnancy in silence, on his cell phone, reading scientific articles, forums, and even mothers' groups — all in secret, with his eyes fixed on the screen as if he were studying military tactics. 

He tries to cook for you (with… variable results), just because he read that certain foods help with morning sickness. 

When your belly starts to grow, König starts talking to you when he thinks you are sleeping. He lies down next to you, his head resting gently on your belly, murmuring in German with a sweetness that seems unthinkable for such a huge man. "Dein Vater liebt dich sehr, mein kleines Wunder..." ("Your father loves you very much, my little miracle...") 

He starts to accompany you to every medical appointment as if they were a mission, paying attention to every comment from the doctors and nurses as if his life depended on it. 

When your belly is already heavy and your steps are slower, König starts carrying you to any place that involves stairs. Literally. He doesn't even ask. He just picks you up with the greatest care in the world, as if you were made of glass. 

When you start having false contractions, he goes into a state of absolute focus—the hospital bag has been packed for weeks, the routes have been planned, the emergency numbers are posted on the fridge. But despite this, he is always kind, always calm with you, even though he is seething with nerves inside.

He has internal crises of insecurity, but he never burdens you with them. He writes everything down in a hidden notebook, as a way of letting off steam. 

You find him on the balcony, the sky tinged with gold by the sunset. König’s back is turned, still, silent, as he usually does when he’s thinking too much. His large hands are resting on the railing, his broad body almost blocking the light. He turns when he hears your footsteps, and his soft gaze immediately lands on your belly with an almost reverent affection.

You smile, and he responds with that shy little smile at the corner of his mouth, his eyes still seeming to search for more signs that you’re okay.

“What did the doctor say?” He asks in a low voice, waiting for each word as if they were sacred.

You walk towards him, slowly, feeling your heart beat faster — not from nervousness, but from excitement. Then you take one of his hands and guide it to your belly.

“She’s fine,” You begin, looking into his eyes. “And yes... I said she.”

König’s eyes blink, as if it took him a second to process.

“She...?” He whispers, almost in disbelief. You nod, smiling even wider.

“We’re having a little girl.” His breath catches for a moment. His blue eyes — usually so restrained, so trained not to show too much — shine with immediate moisture. He kneels, letting his forehead touch yours while his hands wrap around your belly with a delicacy that doesn’t match its size.

You run your fingers through his hair, feeling him snuggle closer, his arms around your waist as if he wanted to protect the two of you from the entire world.

“She’s already so loved, König. By me… and by you.”

“I… I don’t know if I’m ready. But I’ll give everything. Everything. For both of you.”

“You’re already everything she needs. And everything I need too.” 

Nikto

The truth is that you found out you were carrying his child only in the third month of pregnancy. The missions, your dangerous job, the obligations, plans and goals, your own complex relationship with Nikto… all of this was too much for you to handle. The days became weeks and the weeks became months as you just ignored the symptoms, thinking that the nausea and exhaustion would pass. But they remained very present, and your suspicion only increased.

You took a pregnancy test, which came back positive. And to be sure, you also took a blood test some days after and then, an ultrasound, which finally revealed the baby's gender: a little boy was coming into the world. You did all this without saying a word to Nikto, fearing that he would hate the news. You weren't stupid, you knew he would soon realize something was out of place. Your body was changing, your symptoms were still present, and you even avoided exposing yourself to any kind of risk, as much as possible, unlike before.

He suspected the possible reason why this was happening, but he never forced you to admit anything. Not until you were ready.

When you told him the news, at first he reacted with silence and a hard look, trying to process the information. He’s not the type to show emotion easily, so you thought he was angry or indifferent… But inside, he would be conflicted. Part of him would feel vulnerable — the idea of ​​having created a new life would hit him harder than he expected. Another part would be on edge, worried for your safety and that of the baby, since his world is too violent for something so innocent.

But he wouldn’t shy away from responsibility. He just wouldn’t know how to show he cares in the traditional way. You’d see him more protective, more present, but also more silent. His love would be shown in actions, not words.

The base was silent that night—just the hum of the generators and the occasional sound of boots echoing in the hallway. He was sitting at the table, cleaning his weapon with the meticulous precision of always, his mask pushed up to his forehead, revealing those hard eyes… but that always softened when they landed on you. You walked in slowly, your fingers intertwined in front of you, your heart beating fast.

He noticed it instantly. He dropped the metal piece on the table and watched you silently. Not like a soldier, but like a man. Your man.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, standing up immediately, his tone low but attentive.

You shook your head, taking a deep breath before speaking.

“It’s not that. But… I need to tell you something. And it’s important.”

His eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms, his body firm as steel, but his gaze… almost nervous.

“I’m pregnant, Nikto.”

The silence that followed was as thick as the darkness outside. He didn’t answer. He just stood there, motionless, as if time had frozen. What did you expect? A scream? A sigh? A “how did that happen?”?

None of that came.

He walked towards you, slowly, as if he were stepping on unknown land. He stopped so close that you could feel the heat of his body. His gloved hand rose to your face — it hesitated in the air for a second — and then landed with a delicacy that no one would ever imagine that man was capable of.

“My son?” He murmured, his voice so low that it seemed like a secret between you and the universe.

Son… And he even had guessed the baby gender right.

You nodded, tears in your eyes, but smiling.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, there was something there. It wasn’t fear. Or anger. It was… instinct. A raw kind of love — unconditional, protective.

"How do you…" You hugged him, and that took him by surprise. It took Nikto a few seconds to hug you back, but when he did, he stroked your hair with affection. "How do you know it's a boy?"

"Is it?"

"I mean… yeah."

"Perhaps it was just my intuition." He kissed the top of your head, wanting to protect you from the world.

“You will not leave my sight.” His voice had returned to its firm tone. “I will take care of you both. From now on.” And then, for the first time since you met him, Nikto knelt down, making himself vulnerable before you. Lifting your shirt, he pressed his lips to your slightly swollen belly, so gently that it barely seemed real. But it was. It was his promise. No pretty words. Just presence. Just surrender.

Nikto was already a controlling person by nature, but from the moment he found out about your pregnancy, he became a constant shadow by your side. He checks safe routes before you go out, monitors the environment where you sleep, and leaves discreet trackers on everything you wear “just in case.” He doesn’t say, “I’m afraid something will happen,” he just acts—as if he could take on the whole world for you and the baby.

He’s not the type to say, “You look so beautiful carrying my son” but out of nowhere you find a soft blanket on the couch, hot tea on the table, or maternity clothes in your size neatly folded on the bed. When you ask him if that was his doing, he just answers curtly, “Maybe.” But if you insist, he might say, “I like to see you comfortable.” (And he looks down, because that was the most vulnerability he could show that day.)

If you’re lying down and you let out a whimper of pain or discomfort, within seconds he’ll be there, kneeling beside the bed, pressing his hands firmly against your back. He never comments anything, he just keeps going until he feels you’ve relaxed. When you say a weak “thank you” he’ll give you a quick nod and maybe — just maybe — press a kiss against your forehead before leaving the room.

At night, when you are dozing on the couch or in bed, he will slowly come over and, if he is comfortable doing so, he will rub your belly while speaking to the baby in Russian. They are short, almost military phrases, but sweet in his own way: "Your mother is stronger than anyone. You will get this from her." Or even: "You will not know war. I swear."

Even with all his confidence, he sometimes stays silent for long periods, staring at you from afar. When you ask him, he ends up saying something like: “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this. I only know how to fight.” It’s at this moment that you see his most human side. He’s not afraid of war, but he is afraid of failing you. And when you hold his hand and tell him he’s already doing more than enough, he doesn’t respond. He just squeezes your hand tightly — and doesn’t let go.

Simon “Ghost” Riley 

Hot and intense nights became common when the pressure of the world became great enough to suffocate you both.

You sought refuge in sex, night after night indulging your most primitive and sinful desires as a relatively effective, but twisted, way of enduring the horrendous reality of serving the country.

Even though you knew that being careful was relatively far from being part of your routine, you felt the world fall apart when the first symptoms began.

Nausea, fatigue and insecurity had become part of your essence and the fear of the future permeated your soul.

You tried to hide your pregnancy for as long as possible, not wanting to tell Simon, much less your team members.

Bringing an innocent life into the hell you lived was a senseless act. Then why did you feel so much love for someone who hadn't even been born yet?

You were almost four months pregnant when, during a mission, you fainted for no apparent reason. You weren't taking care of yourself enough — eating little, sleeping little and keeping so many secrets to yourself... It came as no surprise to anyone when your body couldn't handle all of that.

"Stay with me... Hey! She needs medical help!" Ghost shouted, looking around desperately, protecting your body as if you were the most fragile thing in the world at that moment.

Your consciousness slowly returned, and you realized that you were being carried by him to a safer place.

"I'm sorry." You stammered, feeling guilty for having interrupted the gathering of such important information.

"Don't apologize. I've never seen you so pale and weak like this, not even on worse missions." You were finally in a calmer place, still alone with him, and before other people entered the room to check on you, you decided it was time to tell him the truth.

"Simon, I..." You hesitated, wondering for a moment if being honest with him was really what you wanted.

"You...?" He encouraged you, squeezing your thigh affectionately, as usual.

"I... I'm pregnant." His eyes widened, and his grip on your thigh tightened, almost hurting you.

"What...?" He mumbled to himself, slowly fitting the pieces of the puzzle together and everything made sense — your extreme sensitivity to the tastes and smells that you usually liked, your endless naps, your hurried and unannounced trips to the bathroom, your lack of complaints about cramps, almost as if you hadn't had your period that month... It all made sense, and his head almost exploded.

"How did I not notice?" He whispered, pulling you close, hugging you tightly as if he wanted to protect you from all the evil in the world. "How far along are you?"

"Almost four months." You mumbled against his chest as he stroked your hair lovingly. "I think it was on your birthday..." 

That night... That fateful night.

"How are you feeling about this?"

"I... I don't know what to think..." Your hands involuntarily went down your body, caressing the slightly swollen belly due to the life that was developing there. "But I love them so much already..."

He smiled against your hair, hugging you tighter, a genuine happiness slowly forming inside his heart.

"I'm scared, Si." You admitted. "I'm scared of bringing them into this world only to suffer and see horrible things like the two of us."

"Hey, don't say that. Even in hell I found you. I found someone worth fighting for and waking up to everyday. Life isn't all bad, you taught me that yourself." You didn't answer, but he understood what you meant.

"Regardless of your decision — whether you’re keeping them or not — I will support you and stay by your side. Until my last breath." And he kissed the top of your head.

You couldn't muster the courage to abort that life. They were the fruit of the love between you and Simon and they were the best thing you had.

So you decided to keep it, to face the consequences of your acts, to carry the responsibility of bringing a life into this world. 

Months passed without you wanting to know the baby's sex, until Simon convinced you to investigate it.

"Guess." You murmured against his lips, your hands cupping his cheeks.

"Hmm, I have a feeling it's a girl." He secretly longed for one. You guided his hand so he could feel the baby moving, kicking you weakly every now and then.

"It's a girl! We're having a little girl, Si!" His heart fluttered with joy.

"Bloody hell, love... Fuck, I love her so much already. I can't wait to finally meet her."

He has a habit of murmuring sweet nothings your swollen stomach as his fingertips caresses the skin of your belly.

He doesn't let you lift a finger to do almost anything and he even asked captain Price not to allow you to leave the base for any more missions. He couldn't bait to lose both of you.

He helps you with your craving and pregnancy pains —  his massages are divine and melt away any tension you may be feeling.

Close to delivery, when you can no longer bear the weight of your very own stomach, he holds your belly gently with both hands, slowly freeing you from the weight of your little girl for a few seconds — seconds that relieve you absurdly.

Actually cries when he sees his baby for the first time — she's just so tiny, all wrapped around a blanket and her baby clothes, her foot is barely the size of his thumb and she's a little carbon copy of him in appearance. He's utterly glad you decided to keep her over five months ago. He couldn't imagine a world where you three didn't exist anymore.

He is completely disarmed by his daughter. He can face any enemy without hesitation, but if she cries in the morning or asks for something with that look in her eyes, he simply melts.

Protection is his second name. He checks locks, cameras, and sleeps lightly, as if he was still in the field. But the truth is that he just wants to make sure that nothing will hurt the two people he loves most in the world.

As your husband (fucking finally, right?), Simon is silent… but constant. He doesn't need big words; he shows it with actions. Coffee ready, blanket pulled up in the middle of the night, arm around waist without saying anything. He is simply perfect.

[zorosgirlfriend]

monster trio ~ !! Mother's Day Special

context: you are a mother to them in a way orrr you will be their future mother of their kids however you see it

warnings: none

masterlist and rules || have fun reading!

Monkey D. Luffy

You were still blinking sleep out of your eyes when..

Luffy suddenly burst into your room, arms full of random stuff.

“Happy Mother’s Day!!” he shouted, nearly tripping over the doorframe.

“Luffy—I’m not even a mom yet—”

He dropped everything in your lap: snacks, folded-up napkin flowers, and what looked like a doodle of you with a baby shark (??).

“You will be someday, right?” he grinned.

Crawling onto the bed and laying across you like a weighted blanket.

You laughed, hugging him back.

“That’s not how it works!”

“Too late,” he beamed.

“I already made you my world’s best someday-mama hat.”

You blinked. “There’s a hat?”

He pulled it out from behind his back. It had macaroni glued on it.

Roronoa Zoro

Zoro handed you a mug of tea without saying a word.

You blinked, taking it.

“...Thanks?”

He grunted and sat next to you, arms crossed.

“It’s Mother’s Day, right?”

You raised a brow. “But I’m not—”

He shot you a look.

“You put up with all of us. You clean up after our messes. You make sure I don’t sleep through dinner. You carry bandages. You’re basically a mom already.”

You gaped. “Zoro—”

He sipped his own tea and muttered.

“But still.”

Still.

You smiled, leaning against his shoulder.

“Thanks, ‘dad.’” aka future dad to your kids

“Hey—!!” he said all flustered.

Vinsmoke Sanji

Sanji went all out.

You didn’t even get to stand up and breakfast was brought to you on a tray with little flower petals.

“Bonne fête, mon amour,” he said with a bow.

“For the queen of my heart, who’d make the most beautiful mother this world’s ever seen.”

You laughed, a little shy.

“I’m not actually a mom yet, though.”

He knelt beside you dramatically.

“Not yet, no. But when you are, I’ll be the luckiest man alive.”

“…You already say that every day.”

“Exactly! I’m consistent.”

He winked, offering you a tiny heart-shaped toast.

You bit into it, amused.

“Did you make this from scratch?”

“Of course. Even the jam. With love.”

“…How long have you been planning this?”

Sanji just kissed your hand and said nothing.

[ghstyles]

Happy | His Angel

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 1.2k

Summary: You find out a bit more about Harry's background

His Angel Masterlist

Main Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Moonlight filters through the half-drawn curtains of Harry's bedroom, casting soft shadows across the tangled sheets. They've been lying in comfortable silence for nearly half an hour, Y/N's head resting on Harry's chest, his fingers absently tracing patterns on her bare back. These quiet moments after lovemaking have become when Harry is most unguarded, most willing to share pieces of himself that remain hidden from the rest of the world.

Y/N listens to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, her mind wandering over the contradictions that make up the man she loves. A thought that's lingered in the back of her mind for months finally surfaces.

"Harry?" she murmurs, her voice soft in the darkness.

"Hmm?" His response is a low rumble beneath her ear, his fingers never pausing their gentle exploration of her skin.

Y/N props herself up on her elbow to look at him, her hair falling in a curtain around them.

"I just realized I've never asked you something pretty basic," she says, studying his face in the dim light. "How come you have a British accent? Did you grow up there?"

For a moment, Harry's fingers still on her back, a subtle tension entering his body that might be imperceptible to anyone who doesn't know him as well as she does. Then he exhales slowly, his hand resuming its movement along her spine.

"Born there," he says after a brief hesitation. "East London. Lived there till I was nine."

Y/N waits, sensing there's more to the story but knowing better than to push too hard when it comes to Harry's past.

He shifts slightly, adjusting their position so they're both lying on their sides, facing each other. His eyes, darkened to a stormy green in the low light, search her face before he continues.

"My mum was English," he says, the words coming with effort. "Met my dad when he was doing business in London. They weren't together long before she got pregnant with me."

Y/N reaches out to touch his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. These glimpses into his past are rare and precious, each one a piece of the puzzle that makes up the complex man beside her.

"Was she beautiful?" she asks softly.

A ghost of a smile touches Harry's lips.

"Yeah," he confirms, his accent thickening slightly as memories surface. "Had these eyes that could see right through you. Dark hair. Always smelled like vanilla and cigarettes."

He falls silent for a moment, his gaze distant as if looking into the past.

"She tried," he continues eventually, his voice rougher now. "For a few years, at least. My dad was... well, you know what he was. But she tried to shield me from the worst of it."

Y/N's heart aches for the child he had been, knowing the broad strokes of his childhood but rarely hearing details like this.

"What happened when you were nine?" she asks gently.

Harry's expression hardens, the vulnerability receding behind familiar walls.

"Dad's business interests changed," he says, his tone deliberately neutral. "Got involved with some people in Chicago. Decided we were moving to the States."

He pauses, his jaw tightening.

"Mum didn't want to go. They fought about it for weeks. I remember hiding in my closet, pillows over my ears, trying not to listen."

Y/N moves closer, her hand sliding to rest over his heart, feeling it beat faster beneath her palm.

"One night, the fighting was worse than usual," Harry continues, his voice now barely above a whisper. "Next morning, Dad told me to pack my things. Said we were leaving, just the two of us."

The unspoken conclusion hangs in the air between them.

"Did you ever see her again?" Y/N asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Harry's laugh is short and bitter.

"Once," he says. "When I was fourteen. Right before Dad kicked me out. I found her address, took three buses across town to see her."

He falls silent again, and Y/N waits, her thumb stroking gently over his skin.

"She had a new family," he finally says, the words clipped. "Husband. Two little girls. Nice house in the suburbs. She looked... happy."

The pain in his voice, despite his obvious attempt to mask it, makes Y/N's throat tighten.

"Did you speak to her?" she asks.

Harry shakes his head slightly.

"Watched from across the street for a while. She was in the front garden with the girls, planting flowers or something. They were laughing."

He swallows hard, his eyes focusing back on Y/N's face.

"I left before she saw me. What was the point? She'd moved on. Made a new life without the reminder of her biggest mistake."

Y/N's hand moves to cup his cheek, her heart breaking for him.

"You weren't a mistake, Harry," she says firmly.

He catches her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm, a deflection, she realizes, from emotions he's not comfortable confronting.

"Kept the accent, though," he says, deliberately shifting the focus. "Even after all these years. Used to try to hide it when I was younger, blend in more. But later... later I realized it was useful. People hear the accent, they make assumptions. Underestimate me, sometimes. Or overestimate me in ways I can use."

His smile turns slightly predatory, more familiar territory for him.

"American women seem to particularly enjoy it," he adds, his tone lightening as he pulls her closer.

Y/N allows him this retreat, understanding that he's shared more than he usually would. Still, she can't help but ask one more question.

"Do you ever think about going back? To London?"

Harry's expression turns thoughtful, his hand sliding down to rest on the curve of her hip.

"Sometimes," he admits. "Haven't been back since we left. Might be interesting to see it as an adult."

He studies her face, something new entering his expression.

"Would you want to go? With me?" he asks, a rare uncertainty in his voice.

Y/N smiles, warmth spreading through her chest at what this invitation represents, a willingness to share not just his present and future, but pieces of his past as well.

"I'd love to," she says softly. "Whenever you're ready."

Harry pulls her against him, burying his face in her hair. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled against her neck.

"Thank you," he says simply.

Y/N knows he's not just thanking her for her answer about London. He's thanking her for listening, for not pushing too hard, for accepting the fragments of himself he's able to share.

"Always," she whispers back, holding him tightly as the conversation fades into comfortable silence once more.

They lie entwined in the darkness, the revelation hanging between them, another piece of Harry's carefully guarded past now entrusted to her keeping. Neither speaks again for a long while, but Y/N feels the subtle change in him, the almost imperceptible relaxation of muscles that comes with sharing a burden long carried alone.

Eventually, Harry's breathing deepens as he drifts toward sleep, his arms still wrapped securely around her. Y/N remains awake a little longer, thinking about a young boy with a British accent, watching his mother's new life from across a suburban street, and the complex, dangerous, wounded man that boy became.

Just before sleep claims her, she makes a silent promise to herself, and to him, that no matter how many walls he still has up, she'll be patient enough to wait for him to lower them, one by one, in his own time.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

A/N: bit of a short one today. I'm defiantly posting again tomorrow to make up :) Oh, and the title is kind of misleading hahaah I apologize. The content was NOT happy

Taglist:@silastylesswift @babegoals @harryssunflower17 @puzio19 @goldensunflowerss-blog @drewrry @tinawritesstuff @dipmeinhoneyh @spinninc @harrystyleshotwife @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @estaticheart @harrysguccihandbag @mads3502 @harrydeary @valuunit @myfavfanficsever @lunaharrygurl @prettygurl-2009 @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @mellamolayla

[btsstraykidsateez]

All Ours.-Felix.(NSFW.)

Dirty talk, fingering, pussy eating, missionary, riding, unsafe sex, creampie.

What you loved the most about your relationship was knowing that everything that people saw about you and Felix in public was far from what you two were like behind closed doors. The public would see a loving couple who held hands, laughed, kissed and were very romantic. Not a single soul could say that your relationship wasn't genuine or special.

But they never saw the dirty part of your relationship.

When your front door closed and the rest of the world faded out.

When the soft, gentle boyfriend who held your hand in public would pin your wrists above your head as he fucked into you.

When the words from a soft spoken man became filthy, breathless and desperate.

You loved this side of your relationship not just for the fact that no one would ever see it, but because even if you could show it off to the public, you wouldn't. You loved showing Felix off, loved having him show you off, but these intimate, dirty moments belonged to you two and the rest of the world would never be worthy of seeing it.

"Look at you." Felix groaned, pushing your legs apart, "So fucking beautiful and it's all for me."

You nod, "Only you."

He grinned at you, "Yeah? This pussy belong to me?"

He placed two fingers on your clit and started rubbing causing you to groan at the contact. You grabbed at the sheets and felt your face flush when your legs started shaking. It really never took much for your body to react to him.

"Ye-Yes." You stutter, "It's all yours."

"Good." He replied, kissing your knee before moving to kiss the other.

He was kneeling between your legs, your naked body on display. Your arousal was obvious between your thighs as well as other places. Your nipples were hard, face flushed and even your neck was flushed. He could feel your legs trembling around him and it had his cock throbbing from where it was pressed against the inside of your thigh.

You could feel his pre-cum smearing against your skin and you wanted nothing more than to take his cock into your mouth and suck it until his voice got so deep that you couldn't understand what he was saying. His voice always got like that when he was on the edge of an orgasm and you fucking loved it.

"Felix," You moan, "need your mouth. Please."

The sound of you begging always worked. He never hesitated to bury his face into your pussy once you begged.

He knelt between your legs, his eyes locked on your most intimate place. He leaned down and inhaled deeply, a groan escaping his throat. "Fuck, you smell so good," he murmured. "I could eat this pussy all day and never get tired of it."

He started with slow, deliberate licks, tasting you, teasing you. You squirmed beneath him, trying to urge him on, but he held your hips down, keeping you in place.

"Patience," he chuckled, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. "I'm going to take my time with you. I want to savor every fucking second."

He focused on your clit, sucking gently, his tongue flicking out to tease. You moaned, your body already trembling with need. He looked up at you, a wicked grin on his lips.

"You like that, don't you?" he said, his voice a low growl. "You like it when I suck on this little clit. It's so sensitive, so responsive. Just like you."

He returned his attention to your pussy, his tongue delving inside, fucking you slowly with it. You cried out, your hands fisting the sheets, your body writhing.

"Felix," you panted. "Please. More."

He obliged, his fingers joining the action, stretching you, preparing you. "That's it, baby," he murmured. "Take it. Take everything I give you."

He returned to your clit, sucking and licking with a fervor that had your body tensing, your orgasm building. But just as you were about to tip over the edge, he pulled back, a evil smile on his face.

"Not yet," he said, his voice firm. "I want you to cum on my fingers first. I want to feel that pussy milk me."

He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that special spot. You cried out, your body clenching around him. He began to move his fingers in and out, his thumb circling your clit, his mouth sucking and biting at your inner thighs.

"Come on, baby," he urged. "Let me feel it. Let me feel that pussy cum all over my fingers."

Your body obeyed, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you shaking, your vision blurring. He continued to finger you through it, his movements slow and gentle now, drawing out your pleasure.

"Good girl," he praised, kissing your inner thigh softly. "Now, let's see if I can make you cum again."

He dove back in, his tongue and fingers working in unison, his dirty talk never ceasing. "Your pussy is so beautiful when it's flushed and swollen like this," he murmured. "And so fucking tasty. I could live between these thighs and die a happy man."

He sucked your clit into his mouth, his fingers curling inside you, and you were lost. Your body tensed, your back arching off the bed as a second orgasm tore through you, even more intense than the first.

He looked up at you, his chin glistening with your arousal, a satisfied smile on his lips. "That's my girl," he said, crawling up your body, his cock hard and ready, "So fucking beautiful."

"Felix, please." You moan, "I need you so bad."

He chuckled and slowly started jerking his cock just to tease you. You licked your lips at the sight, the way his tip glistened with pre cum had your mouth watering. You wanted to suck on his cock so bad but you knew he was ready to fuck you. You'd end up sucking his cock later anyway, but you couldn't help but crave the weight and taste of it in your mouth.

"Look at you." He whispered, "So fucking desperate for it. Even after two orgasms that pussy is so fucking ready for my cock."

You whine and grab his shoulders, "Felix, please. I need you to fuck me."

He groaned and kissed you hard stealing the air from your lungs. You wrap your legs around his waist to try and keep him pressed against you. You didn't want any space between you two.

"Going to make you cum again all over my cock." Felix promised, "Then you can suck my cock afterwards if you want to so bad."

You can only nod as you tighten your legs around him. Your desperation has his cock throbbing and he can't take it anymore. He has to be inside of you. He has to feel your pussy clench and spasm around his cock as you cum on it.

He kisses you one more time before pressing his cock against your pussy groaning at the feeling of your fingers digging into his shoulders.

He slowly pushed into you, inch by inch, your body stretching to accommodate him. You both moaned at the sensation, the intimacy of it, the raw, primal connection that only the two of you shared.

"Felix," you gasped, your nails digging into his back. "You feel so good."

He began to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both familiar and intoxicating. Each thrust was deliberate, designed to draw out your pleasure, to make you feel every inch of him. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was as hungry as it was tender.

He broke away, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes locked onto yours. "I love you," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I love every fucking part of you."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, his words hitting you right in the chest. "I love you too," you whispered.

He smiled, a soft, genuine smile that was reserved only for you. Then, with a wicked glint in his eye, he picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, more urgent. He reached down and grabbed your leg, hitching it higher around his waist to go even deeper. You moaned, the angle hitting that sweet spot inside you perfectly.

"Right there," you panted. "Don't stop."

He chuckled, a low, sexy sound that vibrated through your body. "I won't, baby. I'm going to fuck you just like this until you can't take it anymore."

He kept his promise, his hips moving in a relentless rhythm, each thrust driving you higher and higher. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your inner muscles clenching around him.

"Felix," you cried out, your voice hoarse with emotion and exertion. "I'm close. So close."

He leaned down, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "That's it, baby," he murmured. "Cum for me. Let me feel that pussy milk my cock."

Your body obeyed, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you shaking, your vision blurring. You cried out his name, your nails digging into his back, your body convulsing around him.

He groaned, his movements becoming erratic as he chased his own release. "Fuck, you feel so good," he panted.

He reached between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles. "Again," he demanded. "I want to feel you cum again."

You thought you were spent, but his touch, his words, his body moving inside you, it was all too much. You felt another orgasm building, your body responding to his every command.

"Felix," you moaned. "I can't. It's too much."

He smiled, a wicked, knowing smile. "You can, baby. You will."

He picked up the pace, his fingers working your clit, his cock filling you completely. You were lost in a haze of pleasure, your body a live wire, every nerve ending sparking with sensation.

"Cum for me," he growled. "Now."

And you did. Your body exploded in another orgasm, even more intense. You screamed his name, your body bucking wildly beneath him.

He groaned, his body tensing as he found his release, your inner muscles milking him for all he was worth. He collapsed on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his breath ragged.

But he wasn't done. He rolled off you, pulling you with him so you were straddling his hips, his cock still hard and ready. "Ride me," he said, his voice a low growl. "I want to watch you fuck yourself on my cock."

You smiled, a slow, sexy smile as you positioned yourself above him, his cock pressing against your messy pussy. You took him inch by inch, your body stretching to accommodate him once again. You began to move, your hips rolling, your body taking control.

"That's it, baby," he murmured, his hands on your hips, guiding you. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Use me to make yourself feel good."

You leaned back, your hands on his thighs for support, your body moving in a sensual rhythm. You could feel every inch of him, the way he filled you, completed you. You moved faster, your body chasing another release, your breath coming in quick gasps.

He reached up, his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. "You're so beautiful," he murmured. "So fucking sexy."

You moaned, your body responding to his touch, his words. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your inner muscles clenching around him.

"Felix," you panted. "I'm close."

He smiled, a wicked, knowing smile. "Then cum for me, baby. Let me watch you cum all over my cock again."

And you did. Your body shook through another orgasm, your vision blurring, your entire being convulsing, your inner muscles milking him for all he was worth.

He groaned, his body tensing as he found his release with you, your bodies moving in sync, your breaths mingling, your hearts pounding as one.

You collapsed on top of him, your body spent, your mind blissfully empty. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his cock still pulsing inside you.

"Love you," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"You too," you whispered, your eyes already heavy with exhaustion.

And as you both drifted off to sleep, your bodies still connected, you knew that this was what true intimacy was. It was raw, it was real, and it was all yours.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

Crush

Pairing: Warriors x Reader

Warning(s): N/a :)))

Notes: Inspired by this post by @hxney-lemcn! Hope you enjoy <333

Masterlist

It was a beautiful morning in Castle Town.

The scent of fresh-baked bread wafted through the warm air as the streets filled with a steady influx of people, accompanied by chattering voices and the measured thump-crunch of rolling carriage wheels. The sun shone in the cloudless sky, and it would be rude to complain when the golden rays brought a fresh throng of customers to your humble bakery.

Let it never be said that waking up in a body that wasn't yours—at least, you thought it wasn't yours, but everything was up to interpretation at this point—wasn't a jarring experience that had taken many, many months to truly grasp with all the brainpower you possessed, especially when memories of what could only be described as another world flooded your dreams, soaking them in fever-tinted insanity.

Especially when you realized the world was not your own.

Especially when you realized that world was the titilating world of the esteemed video game 'Hyrule Warriors'.

E—

Ding!

You raised your head at the noise of the front door opening, setting the newly revised menu sheet back on the oak counter, expression falling into a winning smile that felt almost robotic in nature. "Welcome to Selma's Bakery. How may I help..."

The words seemed to die in your throat as the tall, blonde man sauntered in, boots tapping softly against the hardwood. An embroidered royal-blue scarf fluttered behind him, clashing horribly with the eye-insulting lawn-green of his tunic, banishing every assumption you could have had on who he was.

This was Link.

Link of Castletown.

Link, the Hero of Courage.

Link, the only male video game character that you had ever considered in the deep, dark recesses of insomnia.

And he was looking directly at you.

"...you?"

It was with bated breath that you watched the Hero of Hyrule strut forward, not stopping until he was close enough to lean an elbow on the sturdy upholstery of the counter, gaze flicking to the menu. For a split second, his brows furrowed, though the expression was gone before you could fully process its meaning, and he flashed a smile that was as dangerous as it was charming. "I'll have a slice of fruitcake," he hummed, and you nearly choked when a wink was shot in your direction. "And your name, if you would."

Nope.

Before you knew it, you were turning on your heel and practically scrambling through the door leading to the back, ignoring the shocked gasping noise from the hero behind you. Anya, the other baker on duty, raised her head at your abrupt entrance. A piping bag sat heavy in her hands, the tip hovered over the golden crust of an egg tart.

You didn't waste a breath. "Switch with me."

Her face scrunched in confusion, yet she still set the bag aside, arms folding over her chest. A perfect blonde eyebrow raised, but she didn't look too judgmental. Yet. "What? Why?"

Hylia above, you did not have time for this, which is why you softened your expression imploringly and prayed she'd gotten enough sleep the night prior to honor your totally-reasonable request. "Please switch. With me."

Anya craned her neck to peer through the small window in the door. If she at all noticed the fact that Link, the Hero of Hyrule, was standing at the counter, drumming his fingers on the wood like an impatient child, she made no mention of it, instead motioning towards the half-prepped tarts. "Fine, but these better be piped by the time I get back or there'll be hell to pay."

"I literally love you," you breathed, and she rolled her eyes, moving towards the door.

"Whatever. I should be thanking you for letting me steal your tips."

With a creak of old hinges, your friend was gone, and you quickly busied yourself at the workstation to finish the rest of the tarts. They weren't the bakery's most popular item, but they were up there, and thus made fresh every morning. As you worked, a short tune filtered from your lips, the remnant of an aforementioned fever dream that just couldn't seem to stop plaguing your poor mind with visions that were equal parts glorious and insane.

The night was dark, yet the light cast across your face couldn't have been brighter. A flickering screen filled every inch of your vision, emblazoned with a vision of your favorite Hyrulean hero—

No! Bad thoughts!

Your palms stung as you unintentionally slammed them down on the counter, jarring up a puff of flour that shot straight to your face. "Fuck!" you screeched; hands flying upwards, eyes squeezed shut in a split-second of post-fangirl insanity. Life in Hyrule, a place you'd once dreamed of with all the fervency of a rabid teenager with nothing better to do, wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and you weren't sure your heart could take discovering whether the so-called Hero of Hyrule really was all he was cracked up to be. Not that you had doubts, per se, but the real world had a habit of ruining things, and there was no way in hell you would allow it to do that to this too.

The hairs on the back of your neck jumped to attention when Anya swung back in, patting her hands against the off-white fabric of her apron before flashing a suspiciously shiny rupee your way. "You're an idiot, you know."

You leveled her with a flat look, halfheartedly wondering if a tart to the face would make any difference in her next words. What was one itty-bitty dessert, anyway? "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"He's not going to bite," she stepped forward, damn-near sashaying in what you could only assume was smug triumph at having once again stolen your tips. "Unless you're into that?"

You pursed your lips and shot the wall a prim look. You were above this. Probably. "Who's 'he'? I have no recollection of who you speak of."

This time, it was Anya's turn to shoot you a horribly flat look, though it was peppered with a healthy sprinkling of motherly disappointment and bestie snark. "The man who just asked if you were having a cardiac emergency or normally like that."

You damn near choked on your own saliva. "He— what?!"

Your coworker rolled her eyes, shoving the rupee in her pocket when it didn't seem to phase you. "You're not going to ask what I told him?"

"I—" you paused, turned to face her, and glanced through the window on the door to confirm that the Hero of Hyrule had indeed vacated the premises. "—don't think I want to."

Anya snorted, looking spectacularly unimpressed. "Suit yourself," she shrugged, apparently just as done with the debacle as you were. A beat passed, and your blood ran cold when she shot you a sinister smile that screamed trouble and many laughs at your expense. "We're out of fruitcake, by the way."

You buried your head in your hands and wept for mercy.

Mercy was not, in fact, granted.

"Fucking hell," you grunted in a manner most certainly inappropriate for a humble baker, muscles straining as you struggled to heft the flour bag over your head. Two days had passed since Link—the Hero of Hyrule and Savior of... well, everything—entered your shop with his titillating request, and you were doing everything in your power to avoid comprehending it longer than strictly or morally necessary, even if it meant waking up at the asscrack of dawn to relinquish the week's flour from the Granary. Especially if it meant waking up at the asscrack of dawn to relinquish the week's flour from the Granary. Hard labor usually did the trick, so why wouldn't it now?

Back screaming and legs cursing, you straightened to the best of your meager abilities, readying the last bag with a sigh absolutely worthy of someone twice your age. A dollop of flour drizzled from one of the fraying corners, and you just barely managed to contain another slew of colorful language when it dusted the side of your tunic and the tops of your left boot as they peeked out from the grassy cover. You just washed those!

A glimmer of gold on the horizon caught your eye, momentarily tearing your mind from the drudgery in its brilliance. You'd never understand why the flour couldn't be picked up a day prior, but the sunrise was another story.

There was no denying it: Hyrule was beautiful. Flawed and terrifying, but woven with more mystery and magic than you supposed even the staunchest fangirl could handle. Not even your self-inflicted aversion to the Hero of the land could stifle that.

But.

You adjusted the sack and began the trek down the hill—where a small cart waited—trying and failing to once again distance yourself from... whatever this was.

But.

What if he was a jackass? Or his voice was not as hot as Nintendo tricked you into believing it was? Or the second you spoke to him everything would burst into flames because life was a simulation—

"That looks heavy," someone with a very familiar voice commented, and your neck damn-near cracked from how quickly your head swung to face the blonde twink himself.

Link was here.

Link was also just as spectacularly attractive as he had been in the bakery, and it was with great fangirl sorrow that you had to acknowledge how good the man looked with his back to the sunset.

You halfheartedly wondered how much jail time assaulting him with a flour sack would earn you.

"It's not," you said in a voice that sounded like it was two octaves from impersonating a squeaky toy, and prayed to whatever deity was watching that, out of all men, this one would know to take 'no' for an answer. Maybe. Hopefully. Hyrule wasn't as weird about gender as your world, though it was old-fashioned.

A perfectly manicured eyebrow ticked in your direction as the hero seemed to consider his next words carefully. He was close enough that you could feel his presence in the depths of your soul—a pounding realization that was all the more painful when you realized dropping the flour was your only true shot at escaping what was quickly turning out to be a PR disaster and a half, assuming you didn't just want to roll down the hill like a dumpling—yet farther than anyone you'd received the reluctant pleasure of meeting. His eyes were a cerulean that not even state-of-the-art Nintendo graphics could justify, and you could have sworn that the Goddesses blessed each whisp of hair connected to his head from the way they shone in the creeping light.

"You're shaking," the Hero pointed out in a tone that brokered only minimal argument. He was right, and he looked devastatingly rugged while doing so. Your hands fisted in the thick sackcloth, nails threatening to claw it open with the slightest wayward move. Another, softer smile was flashed your way as the mask slipped snugly back into place. "At least allow me to accompany you—I promise I'm more company than I look."

How did he know? Weren't stick-straight twinks supposed to be oblivious? It would seem Tumblr had deceived you once more, though at least this time was marginally less embarrassing than the time you attempted to speak to a customer in Hyrulean Sign at the owner's anniversary dinner.

"...Don't you have better things to do?" you asked, not unkindly. The bag was beginning to slip, but you were determined to see this through, whether it included harassment from this blonde twink or not.

But the hero wasn't to be deterred. In a motion that would have put the staunchest assassin to shame, he hauled the bag from your shaking arms, tossed it over his shoulder, and started down the path towards the cart.

Openmouthed, you stared—because he was the type to carry small children around and simultaneously leave a trail of women behind in the wake of his competency, which absolutely had to be studied.

...Until the reality that your goods had been stolen by this heathen in obnoxious green crashed down harder than any fandom reality check and you took off after him, boots skidding across the ground as you stopped just a few feet away, arms extended.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

Link paused, eyebrow raised. He was still smiling, like it was something he employed often to get what he wanted, and you hated that it was working. "Helping a citizen in need," he said cooly, adjusting the bag a bit more snugly over his shoulder.

Your mouth opened, then closed, and the bastard took the opportunity to slip right past you, humming a tune that sooner belonged in his imagination than anywhere else.

"Hey!"

I really wanted this to be longer but the story was just not storying T-T

[purinbunnii]

SFW ZAYNE HEADCANONS (with quotes & examples):

⸻

1. Quiet Protector

Zayne is the kind of man who knows your habits better than you do. He doesn’t hover—but he’s always there.

Example:

You don’t mention your headache, but when you return to your quarters, the lights are dimmed and your preferred tea is steeping on your desk. You glance around, confused.

He passes by, pausing briefly.

“You were squinting in the observation deck. Light was too harsh.”

That’s all he says—but it means everything.

⸻

2. Acts of Service King

He won’t say “I love you” all the time—but you’ll feel it in every door he holds open, every weapon he maintains for you, every shift he covers without asking.

Example:

You forget your jacket. It’s cold. Zayne doesn’t say a word—just wraps his around your shoulders. Later that night, you find it folded at the end of your bed.

“Next time, wear more than a sleeveless top to a planet with snow.”

It’s not scolding. It’s worry. You smile.

“So you were looking.”

He hesitates, then grunts softly. “Always.”

⸻

3. Eye Contact That Devours

Zayne communicates more in a stare than most men do with paragraphs. He watches you like he’s memorizing your every breath.

Example:

During a mission debrief, you’re distracted. His eyes find yours across the table. Sharp. Still. Controlled. Like a blade sheathed in velvet.

“Focus.”

Just one word. Low. Meant for you alone. You obey instantly—and feel your heart slam against your ribs.

⸻

4. Loyalty Like Steel

Once Zayne chooses you, no one else exists. He doesn’t flirt, doesn’t waver, doesn’t stray. Ever.

Example:

You catch someone flirting with him during a gala. He doesn’t even glance at them—just steps behind you, hand brushing your lower back.

“You get jealous easily.”

“Maybe.”

“Then let me make it easier on you.”

He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder. Right in front of everyone.

⸻

5. Subtle, Devastating Affection

No grand declarations—just quiet moments that punch the air out of your lungs.

Example:

He traces the inside of your wrist with his thumb while you talk. Doesn’t interrupt. Just listens. Just watches. Just… wants.

“Your voice does something to me,” he murmurs one night, forehead pressed to yours. “It makes the world tolerable.”

⸻

NSFW ZAYNE HEADCANONS (with quotes & examples):

⸻

1. Slow, Intense Lover

Zayne doesn’t rush. Every movement is deliberate. He touches you like he’s trying to brand your memory into his skin.

Example:

He doesn’t tear your clothes off. He undresses you piece by piece—lifting your shirt slowly, brushing his knuckles over your ribs.

“I want to see all of you. Don’t hide from me.”

He takes his time until you’re trembling. Until your voice breaks. Until you’re begging.

⸻

2. Dominant but Worshipful

He owns the room and your body—but he treats you like you’re sacred.

Example:

He’s got your hands pinned above your head, his hips grinding slow and deep. You try to look away. His grip tightens.

“No. Look at me when I give you this.”

“You don’t get to run from how much I want you.”

His lips move down your throat, reverent and rough. “So fucking beautiful… You have no idea.”

⸻

3. Size Kink & Control

Zayne loves making you feel small. Helpless. Ruined. But only because he knows you trust him.

Example:

You whimper beneath him, legs trembling as he presses in deep—too deep. He pauses, lets you breathe.

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re too—too big, Zayne—”

“And you’re taking it. Look at you.”

He kisses your temple. “Good girl. Just like that.”

⸻

4. Low, Filthy Praise

He doesn’t speak much—but when he does during sex, it undoes you.

Example:

He’s behind you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist.

“You’re dripping for me. Couldn’t wait, could you?”

“Say my name again. Let me hear how wrecked you sound.”

The moment you whimper it, he groans into your skin:

“Fuck—just like that. You were made for me.”

⸻

5. Overwhelming Aftercare

Zayne melts after sex. He doesn’t say much, but the way he cradles you says everything.

Example:

He runs a warm cloth over your body in silence, tucks you under the covers, and lays beside you. Just holding you.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“No… You were perfect.”

“Good. I can’t…”

He exhales. Pulls you closer.

“I can’t stand the thought of causing you pain.”

He kisses the top of your head and falls asleep with his hand resting protectively over your heart.

[whumpsday]

Next of Kin

@medwhumpmay Day 10

Medwhump May Masterlist

content: pet whump, caretaker new master, neglect, rescue

-

Inheriting an exotic bird from an uncle they barely knew would already be a huge pain if that bird wasn’t also six feet tall with a wingspan twice that.

Caretaker pulled up at their uncle’s house. They knew, most likely, they’d been chosen because they were close enough physically to make the drive comfortable for the bird, but not close enough emotionally to have already said no. They had been given no instructions other than what they could find on the internet, and everyone seemed to have wildly varying opinions on the best way to take care of these things.

At the very least, hybrids were capable of speech. Not mimicking like a regular parrot, but actual understanding. So the bird could probably just tell them what it needed.

They unlocked the door with the key their mom had given them. “Hello?”

“Hello?” a voice called back, a timid mirror of their own.

Caretaker walked toward the sound–it wasn’t hard to spot him.

The man before her couldn’t be described any way but beautiful, but not the way you’d call a human beautiful. He was covered in colorful feathers from head to toe, only his face and hands revealing that he also had skin. Reds, yellows, greens, and blues blended together wondrously, and it looked so incredibly out-of-place in a cage in their uncle’s old house.

He shied back, massive wings folded around him almost like a blanket. “Hello?” he repeated. The cage was large, definitely the largest of any kind Caretaker had seen, even big enough for Whumpee to stand up or lay down. Though they doubted Whumpee could unfurl his wings in there. It was decorated with various toys and enrichment, which he was wholly ignoring at the moment.

“Hi. I’m Caretaker. I’m going to be taking care of you from now on, I guess?” They spoke softly, trying not to spook Whumpee further.

“He’s not coming back?” the bird asked.

“No. He died. I’m sorry,” Caretaker said, awkward and stiff. How were they supposed to break the news of an owner’s death to his pet, who knew him a lot better than they ever did? “He was my uncle.”

Whumpee nodded slowly. He didn’t seem overly sad, at least. They weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not. “I can leave the cage?”

“Yeah. You’re coming to my place. Listen–I’ve never met a hybrid before, let alone taken care of one. So you’re gonna have to help me out here. Can you point out anything we need to take with us?” Caretaker asked.

Whumpee pointed to the opposite wall with an uncomfortably human-looking finger. Hanging there was a key rack, only one key remaining on it.

“Oh. Sure,” they said.

What was the worst that could happen? The bird flies away or something? Honestly, Caretaker half-hoped it would happen. Not their problem and not entirely their fault.

They unlocked the cage, and Whumpee waited for them to step away before cautiously exiting. He shook himself out in the center of the living room, stretching his wings to their full length, managing to touch each wall with the tips of his wings. His arms reached up, reveling in the increase in space.

“Comfy?” Caretaker asked, and Whumpee startled, head whipping around like he’d forgotten they were there.

“Yes.” His wings drooped, brushing the floor, and he hunched over a little, so he almost appeared shorter than Caretaker. “I can take whatever I want?”

“Only your things,” they clarified. “Whatever my uncle got for you specifically. I’ll let you know if it’s something you can’t take.”

“Do I have to take everything?” he asked, head tilted.

Ah.

The cage. It was clear he hated it, and frankly, keeping a depressed man in a cage in their home sounded like the least appealing thing in the world. Not only that, but it definitely wouldn’t fit in their car.

“We can leave the cage,” Caretaker said. “Take everything else, though. Even if you don’t think you’ll need it, better to have it just in case.”

Whumpee didn’t smile, but his eyes widened and gleamed in excitement. “No more cage? Or you have a different one? Is it bigger or smaller?”

“No cage. Just don’t mess with my things and we’ll be fine?” they suggested. Maybe viewing this as a sort of roommate situation would be better. A roommate who doesn’t pay rent and just sits around looking pretty. Something like that.

“I’ll be good,” Whumpee promised. “I don’t pick at things. I don’t take things that don’t belong to me. I’m a good bird.” The way he said it was slightly unnatural, like he was reciting something from memory.

Caretaker gave him two thumbs up. “Awesome. I’ll open the trunk and start throwing in anything that looks obviously yours.”

Together they gathered up bags of food, the toys and water bottle from inside the cage, a large dog bed. “Good bird, good bird,” Whumpee murmured to himself. Whenever he gathered something, he simply left it by the front door while Caretaker carried it to the car.

Guess I don’t have to worry about him running away.

“That’s all of my things.” Whumpee carried the key to the cage, though Caretaker had left it back on the key rack. They didn’t bother to take it from him.

“Alright. Ready to go?” Caretaker asked.

Whumpee tilted his head, gazing out the door. “I’m not allowed outside.”

Caretaker sighed. “I’m allowing you outside.”

Just then, a car drove past. Not even a particularly fast car. Whumpee bristled, scurrying back into the house, eyes wide.

Oh, he was scared.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Caretaker approached him like a frightened animal, which they supposed he was. “It’s safe. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Just gonna walk to the car, and you can have the whole backseat to yourself, and it’s like twenty minutes to my place. When we get there, you can explore your new home. I’ve got a balcony where you can stretch out as much as you want. I even bought some treats you can have.” Though it sounded a little too patronizing now that they’d met him. They reached out a hand. “How’s that sound?”

He didn’t take it. “What is a balcony?”

“It’s like, a little outside platform connected to an apartment. It’s not super big, but there’s no walls, just a railing, so you don’t have to worry about bumping into anything. And you don’t have to worry about anything outside either, ‘cause it’s a floor up and enclosed,” Caretaker explained patiently. “Wanna come see it?”

Whumpee listened to their explanation like a child learning about Santa Claus for the first time. This time, he did take their hand, small, soft feathers fading down the back of his own. “Yes. I would like that.”

-

Oneshots taglist:

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

@paperprinxe

@what-if-i-just-did

Everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

@whumpy-wyrms

@all-hail-pigeons

@wolfeyedwitch

@starfields08000

@jumpywhumpywriter

@scoundrelwithboba

[somebodys-babyy]

In Their Paradise: A Smoke and Annie Story

Summary: Elijah and Annie have fallen into a comfortable pattern, and are pleasantly surprised by a visitor.

Contains: Mostly fluff, a little smut-cunnilingus, sex, very loving. Short mentions of grief. SOFT FIRST AND FOREMOST. Smoke x Annie.

 The silence pulled Elijah from his sleep like a warm hand, soft and steady. Through it all, the silence of the woods of Mississippi  was what he missed most. Those days in Germany when it felt like the whole world was shaking with the sounds of gunfire and bombs cracking through the air. Those nights in Chicago that felt like the music would never end, like the people would never stop moving, like he couldn’t close his eyes for one second or it all would spin out of his control. Whenever he mentioned it, missing the silence that it seemed like they would never get back to, Stack would wave it away with a joke. “Graveyards is silent, nigga. Life supposed to have some noise to it.” Elijah heard his brother say, and for what felt like the millionth time, he wished that he could explain. The weight of the silence of a Mississippi night, when everyone had gone to bed for the evening, and all that was cutting through the heavy, weighty silence was the chirp of night bugs and the rustle of trees. Where a man could think and breathe and be with no interruptions. 

It was in that silence that Elijah woke up, rolled out of bed and padded on bare feet in search of his Annie. She was in the kitchen, where he knew she would be, her back to him, her hands moving quickly and silently. He couldn’t see her front but he knew she had their baby strapped to her chest, knew that she was making him breakfast, knew that she felt him enter the room when he crossed the threshold toward her. “Morning cher.” Annie said to him, her voice low as she turned, folding into the velvety silence of the morning. Elijah’s eyes landed on hers, brown and deep and knowing, the corners crinkling from the soft smile on her mouth. Then they drifted down to the baby on her chest. Their Naomi, brown and whole and beautiful, her fist up and reaching toward him. His women, safe and sound, happy and whole. Forever. 

“She be walking soon, and who knows what I’ll do with both of ya’ll getting into everything.” Annie spoke softly, her eyes on the baby. “You’ll do what you always done, you’ll look out for both of us.” Elijah replied, stepping closer. Then Annie’s eyes were on him, the familiar feeling passing through them both like a current. Elijah knew that they were both thinking of Stack, thinking of his brother, and missing him terribly. Time didn’t exactly move the same for them in their patch of paradise, and it didn’t exactly move the same for Elias anymore either, so the hurt was still there but it was different. Not as awful and overwhelming as that first and only true sunrise without him. It was more subdued, more manageable but still present, and Elijah knew without speaking that Annie had felt it too. They didn’t try to run from it, didn’t try to cover it up by mentioning their blessings, when they thought of the loss, and they often did, Elijan and Annie let the hurt move through them. They knew better than most that that was the only way to truly get from underneath it. 

“You say that now, until she gets a hold of your knife again. You were up all night last time, sticking everything out of her reach.Annie joked, turning back to the kitchen counter and the breakfast she was making. As Elijah came to stand beside her he saw what she was making, her homemade biscuits and ham steaks left over from dinner the other night, thick ones that could brown perfectly in the pan the way that only Annie could do. He had dreamed of Annie’s cooking when they were apart, and no matter how many times she served him a meal it felt like something that he should cherish, and he did. “Go on and sit down.” Annie said, tilting her head toward the kitchen table. It always felt like she could read his mind, Elijah thought as he reached for the plate that Annie made for him. “Go on and sit” Annie urged, trying to pull the plate away. She liked to lay his plate on the table for him. She said that knowing he was always there to eat her cooking moved something in her, soothed some way back ache, and usually he indulged her, sat patiently while she set his plate and cup down, her eyes gleaming while he complimented everything in front of him; but sometimes he liked to push her buttons just to get some of that old, fiery Annie. 

         “You too stubborn for your own good.”  Annie pouted as she sat on the other side of the small table, nursing Naomi. “And you too sweet to me.” Elijah smiled, leaning over the short distance between them. Annie, anticipating his affection,  tilted her head up, her eyes on him and a smile playing at her lips. She wasn’t expecting the passion of when their lips met. Elijah felt her gasp, and took the opportunity of her slightly parted lips to slip his tongue into her mouth. She tasted like coffee too sweet for his liking, like cinnamon candy; the secret Annie that only he got to see who had a mean sweet tooth since they were young. Back when she would eat raw sugar out of a square of paper to soothe her craving.Annie pulled her mouth away, slightly gasping, and Elijah, chasing that connection between them, wanting to hear her those slight sounds she made get louder and louder until her voice broke into a wail, put his lips onto  her collarbone, pressing kisses up and down. From her shoulder and toward the hollow of her throat where her heartbeat thudded. “Let me put the baby down.” Annie said firmly, pushing back in her chair, breaking their contact. Her brow was firm set, her lips pressed together, her eyes a blaze on him. Elijah struggled not to smile, he loved his woman fiery. 

Annie stood wordlessly, walking toward the bedroom to lay Naomi down, and Elijah followed right behind. When Annie removed Naomi from her chest and placed the baby into the nest of pillows that she made for her, Elijah laid his hands onto her waist, his palms resting on the soft curve of her to pull her toward him. “Elijah.” Annie breathed, tilting her head back, giving him access to the tender column of her throat which he took advantage of, pressing kisses to her neck that made her soften in his hands, her shoulders sinking and giving him more room to explore with his lips. Elijah knew just what Annie liked for him to do to her. At one point, he had committed it to memory. When he was away from her, Elijah spent his nights practically feeling the weight of her in his hands, the rise and fall of her chest against his. He replayed their wedding night over and over in his head, how in the moment he felt like he needed to commit her in her dress, in their bed, to memory- and how he had no idea how right he was. But not anymore. There was nothing pulling them apart, nothing higher to commit to than themselves.

Elijah led Annie to their bed, soft and sunlight, and laid her pliant body down. Annie’s eyes were soft on him as she watched his movement.There was only a moment of stillness before Elijah was on Annie, taking her barefoot in his hand and kissing at her firm,solid calf. As he expected, Annie broke out in soft giggles, trying to pull away which only opened her legs to him further, giving him space to kiss up her leg to the back of her knee, nibbling slightly at the warm skin there. Annie opened her legs wider to accommodate Elijah, allowing him to sink further between her legs and allowing him access to her thighs. Inhaling, Elijah took her in, placing a firm kiss on the softness of her right thigh before switching to the left. Annie was so soft in places only he could see; her eyes when she was smiling just at him. Her thighs, her tummy, her chest,her laugh- his Annie only for him. Forever. “Elijah” Annie commanded, a firmness in her Louisiana lilt that made him chuckle slightly, the puff of air from his laugh making Annie jolt. “I got you, pretty baby.” Elijah assured her, still kissing up her thighs, taking his time. He felt her sink her hips into the bed as he neared the apex of her thighs, and wrapped his arms around her thighs to anchor her to him where she belonged.Annie shifted in his arms, testing the tightness of Elijah’s hold, but it was firm, and he wasn’t letting her get out of his grasp.

Elijah never tired of tasting Annie. When he parted her lips with the point of his tongue,her hips bucked up in the span of his arms, making him tighten his hold on her thighs and press deeper into her, his lips parted as they travelled up and enclosed around her pearl. When he pulled slightly, Annie gasped, her voice quivering. His Annie, always under control, always pulled back, open beneath him and coming apart- Elijah never got tired of taking her there. Of tipping her over the brink of pleasure and reducing her to her softest. When he lifted his head from between Annie’s lush thighs, Elijah took her in, her chest rising and falling, her arms stretched across the bed decadently, like she was trying to ground herself. He didn’t speak- other times he may have teased her to watch that daze in her eyes dissolve as that fire that he loved returned. But he loved her like this too, well loved and taken care of in his arms and underneath him and with him where she belonged. Instead of words Elijah placed kisses up Annie’s body, placing his lips across her thighs, and over her hips, and up to her waist, each kiss rippling into a quiver that radiated through his woman’s body. Then he was at her chest, soft and warm and heaving with the effort of his love. Elijah kissed between the valley of her breasts, reverent. There was no scar there from his act of love when she laid beneath him, their world ending. If they wanted to, they could pretend that it had never happened at all. But neither of them wanted to. Elijah lathed kisses there, his lips and his tongue travelling back and forth over the smooth, cool skin over Annie’s heart, over and over as he felt her begin to squirm beneath him. 

Elijah didn’t know how long he lingered there, lost in the softness of Annie, before she pulled her arms around him, cocooning him around her, and bought her right hand to the back of his head, guiding his head to the dark sweetness of her nipple, where she wanted him. And he obliged her, he never could deny her. He knew just how to pull her into him, how to give her the heat and the pressure of him that made her breathe loud and hot and made her arms and legs pull around him like she never wanted to be away from him. “Si-S’il vous plait.” His love stuttered, her words smoothe and halted at the same time. “Please what, baby?” Elijah teased around the peak of her nipple. He loved to take her here, to this pleading place before he gave her what she needed how only he could. “S’il vous plait, mon amour. Mwen bezwen.Mwen bezwen.Mwen bezwen.” Annie chanted beneath him. “What you need, baby? What you need from me?” he asked her, already rising up between her legs, his body aligning with hers. “Toi. Mwen bezwen.” Annie pleaded, her voice low, her eyes locked on his. And because he never could tell her no, and because she looked so pretty beneath him, lips parted, eyes wide, and because he needed her just as badly, Elijah gave Annie what they both needed, sliding home into her body where he belonged.

Annie was warm and soft around him, pulling him into the love of her  so intensely that Elijah dropped his head into the crook of her shoulder, hissing as she moaned aloud, the sounds of them mingling in the silence around them. Elijah rocked into her slowly and precisely, travelling the path of her body as he had so many times before, with the same reverence of coming home to her, body and soul. Elija didn’t have to look at his Annie’s face to know that her eyes were soft, that her lips were parted, that her pulse was thumping in the hollow of her throat like it did before she came apart around him, but he did anyway, taking her in indulgently. “”This what you needed, love?” he asked her, knowing that the question would send her over the edge again, hard. “Ahh” Annie gasped, like she was surprised they were here again, at this place where he took her, where she belonged, his beautiful girl.

Elijah valiantly kept his pace as Annie came apart around him, her arms around him, pulling him deeper into her as she mumbled Creole and English and I love you and you’re perfect, baby, don’t stop, please, mon amour, I’ll die. Right there, baby,like that.” It was too much, his Annie at her softest and most perfect for him. Just for him. Nobody else saw her like this, pleading and satisfied and his. Nobody else could take her here, pin her to pleasure and let her ride it out around him until she was satisfied. It was too much, and it drove Elijah right behind her as he sunk deep, deep, into Annie’s depths, their hips pressed together, his arms braced around her head, her arms around him in a shaking embrace, his breaths matching her moaning words. Perfectly in tune. Elijah finished with a low groan just as Annie’s arms and legs relaxed, making her jerk around him again, twitching with overwhelm and overstimulation beneath him. “Bondie, ti cheri. My Lord, my love, cheri.” Annie muttered as he moved to pull from the space between her legs. “Don’t go.” Annie said simply, her lips pouting as she weakly lifted her arm to pull him back to her. And Elijah knew that he needed to get Annie water, and to run some water for a bath for her, but they did not have to rush. They had all the time in the world to luxuriate amongst each other. It was a luxury that had eluded them for so long, and it was one of their biggest blessings. So of course he laid back down, laying in her arms, their breaths slowing, their bodies cooling, and their mutual pleasure tapering out to a warm and comfortable blanket over them. 

Annie fell asleep in his arms, her face pressed up against his chest, her thigh thrown over his, glowing and radiant  in her softness. She was so well loved and at peace that she didn’t hear their baby crying from her bed in the other room. And Elijah had no desire to disrupt his beautiful girl from her peace, and got up to see about Naomi. Elijah knew that her cry was one of curiosity. When he entered the room, her cries soften to coos, and when Elijah walked up to her, her wide eyes followed him, her dark lashes spiky with tears. She looked like Annie, her high cheekbones and her knowing dark eyes. She looked like him, his nose. She looked like Stack, that set to her mouth like she was always just about to laugh. “Papa’s here, baby.” he said softly, and she cooed in response. Elijah walked over to her, and Naomi reached up, her hands seeking him. And when he gave her his hand, her fingers gripped his tightly, holding him as she babbled and cooed. “Yeah?” Elijah questioned, smiling down at her. “And then what?” he urged her. His girls loved to be the center of his attention, and he loved to give them all of the attention they wanted. “She need changing?” Annie questioned from behind him in the doorway, suddenly awake and with him. “Naw, she just want to talk to her daddy.” Elijah said, picking his daughter up in her arms, prompting a gummy smile that lit up her face and his. “She do love her daddy.” Annie agreed.

****

Time passed in its own way for them, natural and mysterious.There were seasons- the leaves changed, cold came and went, birds migrated and returned, but they didn’t know where and from where. Naomi cut small teeth, and grew stronger pulling herself up on furniture wobbly and determined. Annie’s belly swelled with another baby which they both hoped was a boy. They lived a content life in their corner of the universe. Annie continued her work, serving the people that she loved, coming to them when they called for guidance and help. Elijah watched over their people. He watched Clarksville grow and change, he watched his brother with the same curiosity that he always did as he moved in the world that he was no longer a part of. Mostly he loved his women, lived with them through the long days, telling stories and singing songs and teaching Naomi about their home and their people. Talked with Annie just to hear her voice.

It was like that for some time, and neither he nor Annie wanted to change it. But of course life, in all of its forms, moved in accordance to its own rules. They were sitting on the front porch. Annie was sewing something, her hands moving quickly and efficiently, and Elijah was whittling, a hobby that he found himself doing even though it reminded him of his father. Naomi was playing some sort of game where she climbed up the four short steps from the ground to their porch and sliding back down on her knees. Both parents had their eyes on her, the sun was setting lazily, the evening bugs were perking up and calling to each other from the trees and the tall grass and Elijah was just about to ask Annie what they were having for dinner when Annie stood up, wordlessly, her eyes on the distant horizon. Elijah stood, coming up beside her, and saw someone approaching, moving through the swaying grass. They waited patiently, accepting what was coming in the way that they had adopted in their time together in the afterlife. When the figure approached, it was a welcome surprise. It was Sammie, little Sammie, looking the same as the morning that Elijah had picked him up from in front his daddy’s church all those years ago, and simultaneously a grown man who had lived the full and storied life that both Elijah and Annie had watched. In one hand he had a guitar, his daddy’s guitar, gleaming in the evening light, and in the other he held his hat, pressed over his heart. 

“Smoke” Sammie breathed, his brown eyes wide and focused on him with reverence. Elijah hadn’t heard that name of his in so long. It felt like it didn’t belong to him, but did in a deep and natural way. “Sammie” Elijah said with a smile, picking up Naomi in his arms as he walked down the short steps from the porch to greet his younger cousin. “The baby” Sammie said, his eyes bouncing from Elijah’s face to his child’s, “Annie.” Sammie continued, meeting her eyes. “How you doing, Sammie?” Annie said softly, her smile in her voice. Elijah and Annie knew that he had to be overwhelmed. Annie, who came first had the benefit of her knowledge and her faith, and Elijah had the benefit of his faith in Annie, and they were never alone because their daughter was waiting for them to love her like they always wanted. “I’m fine, I think. I-” Sammie started, his voice low and smoothe like they both remembered, but aged with the many years that had passed. “I know.” Annie said, her voice soothing. “I know.” 

Sammie stayed for a while, asking more questions of them than they asked him. Reminiscing. Annie cooked, making Sammie any dish that he asked for in abundance, serving him heaping plates of catfish and chicken and biscuits and hush puppies. Happy to give him as much of a time and place that she could. Sammie, newly in the body that Elijah and Annie remembered like it was yesterday, ran around the house with Naomi, and strummed his guitar all well into the evening, playing any song that either of them requested. It was one afternoon, after a lunch of smothered pork chops that Sammie had asked for first thing that morning, that he looked at Elijah and Annie with eyes so tender that they knew that he was moving on. “I thank ya’ll, I really do.” Sammie started, his gaze going from Elijah to Annie. “We know, Sammie.” Annie spoke first, her voice soothing. “And we know you a blues man, and they don’t stay in a place too long.” Elijah finished. They didn’t need him to explain. The peace that they found in each other, in their small house on their piece of land, with their baby child,  Elijah and Annie wished for every single person in their life. “I want to try and find her.” Sammie said simply. And they knew who he was talking about- his Pearline. There was so much that they knew, and so much that was still a mystery, and that was life, even the life that they lived. Annie and Elijah had talked at length about it. They had hope that somewhere, everybody who left the Juke that night made their way to a home like theirs, and that one day their families came to meet them. That the music that sometimes travelled over to them on very quiet nights was coming from Slim playing an encore to a loving crowd. They had hope that one day they would wake to a knock at the door and Elijah would see his own face, see that wide, wiley smile again. That he would hold his brother again, and they would catch up in person. But there were still mysteries that they couldn’t control, and that was the nature of life and the blessing that they were given.

Sammie looked at Annie, silently asking for direction. Annie placed her hand on the table in front of him, her hands strong and capable. “I don’t have that answer for you, baby.” Annie said, her voice low and just for him. “There’s so many miracles, so many blessings, and I got mine. You have to let love guide you to yours, and believe that it’s out there.” Sammie nodded, saying no more. With what they had seen, with what he had lived through, there was an understanding of surrendering to the mystery of it all. He was gone by that evening, full of Annie’s cooking, and with some to go in a sack to tide him over wherever he was about to journey. He had sang all day, almost nonstop, and as he departed he hugged Elijah last, long and lingering, their embrace weighty with so much that they didn’t have to say. “Love you, cousin.” Elijah said. “And you know I love you.” Sammie replied. “Here, if you want them.” Sammie said, handing Elijah a bundle of rolled cigarettes. He hadn’t held one since his brother had last handed one to him. And at one point the gesture may have caused pain, have made him think of last moments and of regrets, of things that he missed and may never have back. But Elijah had seen enough life unfold in all of the messy, beautiful, complicated ways that it did, to take his cousin’s offering as a connection to a time that he had loved and lost in place of something different and lovely in its own way. 

“I thank you.” he said with a nod, knowing that Sammie knew what he meant. And then his cousin was gone, walking away with the same purpose that he had walked up to their house with, his guitar strapped to his back where it belonged. Elijah watched him walk away until Sammie was a small dot in the horizon, then he was gone, off into the mystery. When he turned back to his house, Annie was feeding Naomi, mashed carrots he assumed by the way the baby reached eagerly for the spoon, and they locked eyes across the distance. “Matches are by the stove.” Annie said, smiling at him as the sun set. “Make sure to smoke ‘em slow, who knows if you gone get any more.” “You never know” Elijah shrugged, walking the short distance to stand beside his women “You never do know.”

[captainpriceslilwife]

pt. 2 of the well-loved gaz x insecure!reader post!! (This is kind of a bridge to pt. 3, so bear with me PLEASE! I have more ideas for the next part, but I needed to get there first lol...hopefully this is good idk im nervous abt my newfound audience)

The rest of his night passed in a daze. He couldn’t stop stealing glances at the tiny little picture on your license while Johnny and Simon argued with each other about what he should do to try to win you back - but he could barely hear a word they were saying as he wiped away the sticky-sweet drink that was still dripping down his face.

“Ah’d give her a second ta calm down, ya ken? Go in the mornin’ and give her a chance to find her head.” 

“Showin' up at her place unannounced after hanging onto her shit all nigh'? Yeah, that’d leave a good impression, wouldn’ it? No wonder you can’t get a bird, Johnny. Scarin’ ‘em all off.” 

“Ach, ye’d know what tha’s like, wouldn’ ye? Spooky fuckin’ bastard. Ah bet women run the second they see tha' stupid fuckin' mask-” 

"Whatever. Gaz, just give it to the bartender, yeah? Clearly she doesn't like ya'. She'll come back for it."

In the end, he ends up taking Johnny’s advice and decides to return your wallet in the morning – which maybe wasn't his smartest move. Especially since now he doesn’t have a lick of alcohol flowing through his system to calm him down as he walks along the sidewalk towards your place. He’s sure he looks crazy to everyone he passes – muttering to himself to try to coach himself through what he’ll say to you. 

“Hey! Nah, uh…hello, how are you? No, I- fuck…” He shakes his head as he looks down at your wallet, twiddling the zipper between his fingers as he mumbles under his breath. “Hi, I’m Kyle…I’m the one who, um…who made you...cry last night. Ah, shit.” 

He's never felt this way about a girl before - like a nervous, stuttering schoolboy. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, and he can feel the sweat beading on the back of his neck when he suddenly finds himself standing in front of your door.

You've got a sweet little welcome mat - covered in sunflowers and loopy letters - and he notices all the pots filled with plants and flowers that scatter around near your door. God, he's already thinking that you're the most precious thing in the world.

He doesn't know what it is about you that's affecting him so much. Is it because you rejected him? Is it a challenge to him? Does he just feel guilty? Or maybe it's because, for the first time ever, he's gone after a girl that he actually has to figure out. Women have always thrown themselves at him the moment he flashed a smile their way. But you...all you did was throw a drink in his face.

It takes him nearly a full minute before he finally knocks on your door, and he can't seem to figure out what to do with his hands as he waits for the sound of your soft, thudding footsteps to reach the door.

You're still puffy from crying yourself to sleep last night, but you open the door with a polite smile anyway - donned in your oversized cat pajamas without an ounce of makeup on - but your smile quickly falls when you recognize the man standing on your doorstep.

The unfortunately beautiful man who had woken up every insecurity you had in less than a minute of talking to you.

Your expression seems to cycle through a million emotions as you try to comprehend how he could possibly be here, but once you notice the teal wallet clutched in his hand, realization settles on your features as the embarrassment hits you.

He stands silent for a moment as he takes in how gorgeous you are despite your slightly disheveled appearance, and he can barely form a sentence as he lifts up your wallet with a sheepish smile. "You, uh…you left this at the bar, um…last night. Got your address from your, uh...your I.D.” Christ, he's lost all sense of charisma hasn't he? He holds onto the wallet for a horrifyingly awkward amount of time as he stares blankly at you, but he finally comes to his senses when you mumble out a quiet 'oh, thanks' and reach out to take it.

“I’m Kyle, by the way.” 

He's never seen a girl look at him with such guardedness before - with your arms crossed protectively over your chest as you give him a tense smile. He can't tell if it's because of the whole incident from the night before, or if you're just freaked out that a total stranger went through all the effort to bring your wallet directly to where you live.

Probably both.

You clearly return his greeting just to be polite, murmuring your name quietly as you place your wallet off to the side.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He lets out an awkward laugh, but quickly backtracks when you shoot him a funny look. “I mean, from your license! I-It’s got your name on it. I only know it because it's...it's on the license.” He stutters out quickly as he shoves his hands into his pockets. God, he's losing it. His heart feels like it's going to explode. “I, um…it’s a gorgeous name, by the way. Suits you, you know?” 

The compliment slips out naturally, but it only makes you tense up even more, and you suck in a tight breath as you begin to shift on your feet. Your fingers are itching to reach for the door to slam it in his face - arrogant prick thinking he can keep up his act from last night even though he practically sent you into a fit - but he interrupts your spiraling thoughts with a heavy sigh as he drops his charming smile.

“Hey, I...I just really wanted to say that I'm sorry, love. I didn’t mean to upset you like that last night.” His demeanor changes so drastically that you can't help but soften a bit, melting underneath his warm, pleading eyes enough to listen to him. "I think we had a bit of a misunderstanding...I wasn't making fun of you, love. Honest."

He seems so genuine about it that you can't help but feel a bit guilty. You had tossed and turned all night thinking about how shocked he had looked after your little outburst. You tried to stave of your regret by telling yourself that he had come over to you only to make fun of you like everyone else does, so technically he deserved it - but now you weren't so sure.

“Oh, well…I’m sorry for, you know…throwing my drink in your face.” You murmur sheepishly as you look down at your welcome mat - tracing one of the flowers with your fuzzy slipper before tilting your head back up to look at him with burning cheeks. “Wasn’t very mature of me."

“No, no, no...it's fine, really! If anything, I'm sorry you had to waste your drink on me. I mean, I know how pricey that place can get.” He lets out another laugh, but it's a bit less tense this time, especially when he sees the way your lips almost quirk up into a smile. It makes him feel bold enough to try to bring back the charm, and he can't stop himself from asking you, “You know…maybe I could, um…make it up to you sometime? Could buy you another drink?” 

But once again, you pause. His persistence only makes you more suspicious of his motives, and it shows in how you tighten your arms across your chest. He can see your eyes flash with a pang of hurt, and he feels his heart clench as he fumbles over himself, growing less sure by the second. “O-Or just a coffee, maybe?” 

“...Look, Kyle…” His heart leaps in his chest at the sound of his name on your lips, but your guarded tone is enough to smother the warm, fluttery feeling that had been building in his stomach. “Thanks for bringing me my wallet, but you’re wasting your time. I don’t know what kind of bet you have going with your friends, but I’m not going to fall for it, okay? I'm not...I'm not stupid.” 

Stupid? His expression falls once more, and he gives you the most genuine look he can muster as he speaks up quietly. “I...I don't think you're stupid. There’s no bet, love. Honest.”

“A dare, then.” 

“No dare, either.” 

You let out a frustrated sigh and roll your eyes a bit before resting your hand on your hip, but your irritated demeanor doesn't hide the way your eyes are beginning to grow a bit watery and bloodshot as you murmur quietly. “Well, why are you doing this, then?” 

His eyebrows furrow as he looks down on you, and he can't help but shake his head in disbelief as he takes a small step towards you. God, you were absolutely breaking his heart. Did you really think it was that unbelievable that he could like you? “I already told you, love. I think you’re absolutely gorgeous…and I know you don’t seem to like hearing that, but it’s true. And I know you're not just a pretty face, I just...I don't know anything else about you. But I'd like to...I'd like to get to know you.” 

You don't seem moved by his words, but he can't see how your heart begins to pound wildly in your chest, grasping onto the small bit of hope that you had desperately tried to push down. You'd spent so long trying to protect yourself from feeling this way about someone, and he's already managing to sneak past those walls you had built up.

But your mind keeps replaying every moment of disappointment you felt when it came to men 'asking you out' - how people would laugh behind your back when you would get excited for a date with a guy they all knew was just messing with you, or how a boy in your class straight-up laughed in your face when you thought he was being serious about being his date to the prom. 'Shit, she actually fell for it! Damn, I didn't think she'd have the nerve to say yes! Ah, right, well...sorry love...just havin' a bit of a laugh, yeah? All in good fun.'

No, no, no...you couldn't fall for something like this again.

He can see the look in your eyes as you stay silent, and his heart pangs with guilt when he realizes how much he's probably torturing you. He decides to put you out of your misery, so before you can open your mouth to reject him again, he raises his hand to stop you. "Yeah, alright...I understand." A pathetic smile graces his features, and you can't help but feel a bit guilty at the look of disappointment on his handsome face. "Can't blame a guy for trying though, aye?"

You can't even tell if you're disappointed or relieved that he's finally given up, but you give him a grateful smile as you nod your head in understanding. Couldn't expect a guy that looks like that to put in too much effort with someone like you, right? "Right...yeah...thank for um, understanding."

"Of course..."

God, this is awkward.

The both of you stand and stare at each other for another moment longer before he turns to leave. But just as he turns to go, he stops in his tracks and thinks to himself for a second before letting out a puff of air before turning back to you. "Don't happen to have a pen, do you, love?"

You blink in surpise at the randomness of his question, but eventually nod your head and disappear for just a second before returning with one in hand.

If only you could see how nervously he tapped his fingers against the side his leg while he waited for you to come back - a habit he only ever indulged in when he couldn't contain his anxiety on missions. Something his captain always ragged on him for.

Yeah, he was absolutely hung up on you.

He tries to ignore how soft your hand is when he takes the pen from you, but he can't ignore the way your touch zaps up through his arm and straight to his heart. And from the way you tuck your arm back against your chest with hot cheeks, he can't help but wonder if you felt it, too.

He pulls a crinkled receipt from the pocket of his jacket as he gives you a nervous smile, almost like he's waiting for you to scold him for trying again. And if it isn't the most charming thing you've ever seen... “Listen…if you change your mind-“ His hand moves quickly to scribble something on the small piece of paper, and when he hands it to you, you see his number written in handwriting that is frustratingly neat for a man in a rush. “-just let me know. No pressure, of course. I’ll fuck off if you want me to, but…just thought I’d give you the option. Don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t at least offer to make it up to you.” 

And you take that stupid, crinkled piece of paper from his hand against your better judgement, and to your chagrin you can feel your cheeks burning brightly enough for him to see. Luckily for you, he can't see the way your heart is dancing around in your chest at the prospect of actually having a chance with him.

"Right...ok." You mumble quietly as you stare down at his number, toying at the edges of the paper with your thumb before his voice catches your attention once more.

“Well, um…I should get going. I hope you have a good day, darling.” A part of you was horrified to realize that you didn't want him to leave just yet, but you just nod your head stiffly as he backs away from your doorstep. And god he gives you that handsome, charming smile one more time before he turns on his heel and calls over his shoulder. "I hope I get to see you again."

And you wave at him so awkwardly as he walks away, like a deer caught in headlights, but it makes his heart flutter all the same. He hopes that even if he doesn't get a chance with you, someone else will realize what a catch you are. Someone who will treat you the way you deserve. Someone like him.

It's not until much later in the day - when he's stuck in a briefing and trying not to fall asleep with Price's voice droning on johnny's already drooling on the table - that his phone vibrates in his pocket. He sneaks it out underneath the table to take a quick glance to see who could be messaging him, and his heart practically leaps out of his chest when he sees an unfamiliar number.

‘ok...maybe just one coffee.’

He can't help but smile to himself as he reads it, and before he can begin to type out a response, another message pops up on his screen. And another. And another.

'i mean, only if you're still interested, of course.'

'no pressure or anything :)'

'oh, this is y/n by the way!'

Yeah, you might be the sweetest girl he's ever met.

A/N: do I like this that much??? eehhhhhhhhhh idk. but i kept going back and forth and rewriting and deleting and i finally decided to put myself out of my misery. again, i'm so so so grateful to everyone who requested a part two for this and left support on the original post so i hope this meets everyone's standards! pls feel free to leave suggestions in my inbox or in the comments if there's anything specific you want to see (or request something else entirely)! i also wouldn't mind writing any alternate parts of the story if ppl request it so pls dont hold back! pls stay with me for pt. 3!!! also sorry if you requested to be tagged and i missed you!

Tag list: @vixyyvix, @little-mini-me-world, @miyo-0oo, @milanriol, @z-wantstowrite, @nexthyperfix

[roisav]

So I smiled at him, broad and without restraint “You’re exquisite,” he breathed.

Bits of stardust glowed on his lips as he pulled away, as I stared up at him, breathless, while he smiled. The smile the world would likely never see, the smile he’d given up for the sake of his people, his lands. He said softly, “I am … very glad I met you, Feyre.”

I snorted. The idea that he found me beautiful at all— “You are,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I thought that from the first moment I saw you on Calanmai.”

But Amren said, “When Rhys came back, after Amarantha, he was a ghost. He pretended he wasn’t, but he was. You made him come alive again.”

-

feysand in acomaf was JUST !!!!! man I miss them so much bro

[xoxorory]

The Son of the Sea vs. the Common Cold !

POV: Fem!Reader

Pairing: Sick!Percy Jackson x fem!reader

Genre: Romance, humor, tension, flirting, +18 (suggestive comments), established relationship, fluff

Taglist🏷️ : @shootingstargirl2001 , @simpingmyassoff (if you want to be added,comment down below!)

Camp Half-Blood – Poseidon Cabin – 08:12 a.m.

I love Percy Jackson madly. With the intensity of a storm, the sweetness of summer, and the kind of patience you only reserve for children of the gods.

But this man is the most unbearable patient on the planet.

“I don’t need medicine. I’m the son of the sea god. I can breathe underwater, survive kraken attacks and—”

“And yet you’re sweating like you were run over by a hippogriff,” I cut in, arms crossed as I stand in the doorway.

Percy is tangled in a mess of blankets like some feverish burrito. His hair’s a wreck, his nose is red, and his eyes are way more watery than usual. He looks miserable. He looks adorable. And he looks absolutely useless.

“I’m not that bad,” he croaks, then sneezes so hard it startles a fish in the bowl across the room.

“Of course not, Jackson. You look ready to lead a war. What’s next? Rainbow vomit?”

He gives me a weak but defiant look—and sneezes again.

I sigh. Walk toward him with a cup of tea and a bottle of medicine.

“Drink this. Take two spoonfuls of this. And if you try to sneak off to train, I swear I’ll tell Annabeth to chain you down with grammar rules.”

“That’s torture,” he grumbles.

“Welcome to the mortal world, my sniffling sea slug.”

09:00 a.m. – The Fever Hits

After arguing with me for twenty minutes, Percy finally gives in and takes the medicine. And then… he collapses. Literally. He lies down, pulls the covers over his ears, and starts murmuring things that make zero sense.

“Babe… the… wave… spoke to me.”

“What did it say?”

“That you’re beautiful.”

I smile, sitting at the edge of his bed.

“Are you sure it wasn’t the fever talking?”

“Maybe. But it’s still true.”

I lean over to run my fingers across his forehead, where the heat is pulsing. He’s burning up.

And yet, he manages to open one eye and say:

“Don’t stop touching me. Your hands are cold. And soft. And magical.”

“I’m literally wiping you down with a wet cloth, Jackson. Calm your libido.”

“Impossible. You’re wearing that blue top that fits you just right. I’m defenseless.”

I sigh… and stroke his hair. It’s soft, tangled with sweat, and still smells like ocean. Even sick, Percy Jackson is so unapologetically him that it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

10:00 a.m. – The Nurse (with Zero Patience)

I try to let him sleep. I turn off the lamp. Change the damp cloth. Sit quietly in a chair and start reading. But every five minutes…

“Babe…”

“Yes?”

“I’m cold.”

I fix the blanket.

Two minutes later:

“Princess…”

“What now, Percy?”

“Now I’m hot.”

“You’re worse than a hormonal nightmare.”

“But you love me like this.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

11:00 a.m. – Philosophical Percy

The fever’s messing with his brain. He’s in romantic philosopher mode now.

“Did you know there are creatures deep in the ocean that have never seen the light?”

“I know. You’re one of them right now.”

“Babe.”

“What?”

“If I die, tell my mom I was brave.”

“You have a cold, not a curse from Hades.”

“Still. And tell Annabeth I’m sorry about the dictionary I accidentally destroyed.”

“Percy…”

“And tell Grover he can have my coral collection.”

“I swear, if you don’t stop being dramatic, I’m shoving the medicine down your throat with a funnel.”

He grins, satisfied.

“Sorry ma.”

12:00 p.m. – The Sweet Part

After all the drama, Percy finally falls asleep. For real this time. His forehead’s less hot, and his breathing is steady. I lie down next to him, just for a bit, careful not to wake him.

My hand brushes against his.

And without opening his eyes, he murmurs:

“Thanks for taking care of me.”

“I always will, Jackson.”

“Even if I turn into a fish?”

“Especially if you turn into a fish. I’ll put a tank in my cabin.”

He chuckles softly. And then falls asleep again.

2:00 p.m. – Lunchtime…

When I get up to go grab him some food, I bump into Tyson at the door.

“My little brother okay?” he asks.

“Fever. Snot. Dramatic delirium. The usual.”

Tyson nods solemnly.

“You give him soup?”

“On my way.”

“Put little pieces of octopus in it. He likes that.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

3:00 p.m. – Recovery with a Spoonful of Tenderness

I bring him soup. Percy doesn’t want to eat. Says he’s too weak.

So… I feed him myself.

“This is humiliating,” he whispers as I lift the spoon to his lips.

“This is adorable. Shut up and chew.”

He chews. And smiles.

“You know, I imagined being sick and you taking care of me, but in my fantasy, you were wearing a nurse uniform.”

“Stop talking with your mouth full,it’s disgusting.”

“Yes,ma’am.”

4:00 p.m. – A Bit Better… and Still Hot

He can walk now. Barely, but it counts. He gets in the shower while I tidy up the bed.

And when he walks out, hair dripping, towel slung around his waist, leaning against the doorframe, he gives me that crooked smile.

“So taking care of me turns you into a mama hen?” he asks, voice raspy but teasing.

I give him a once-over. He’s dark-eyed, unkempt, flushed from the fever.

And still…

“Gods. You’re the sexiest sick man I’ve ever seen.”

“Knew it.”

“And yet, you’re not kissing me until you’re virus-free, Jackson.”

He groans. Literally moans like I stabbed his soul.

“That’s cruel. You’re cruel,ma.”

“And you’re contagious. Back off, germ incubator.”

6:00 p.m. – Fevered Confessions

He’s better now. Enough to joke again. But when he settles back in bed and looks at me with that rare kind of seriousness he hides behind humor, he takes my hand and says:

“Thank you.”

“For the soup?”

“For existing.”

I freeze. Stare at him.

“Percy…”

“You have no idea what you do to me. How you make me want to get better faster just so I can keep making you laugh.”

“You do things for me too, you know?”

“Like what?”

“Like looking at me like I’m art. Like loving even the broken parts I try to hide.”

He smiles. Slow. Beautiful.

“You’re my medicine.”

“And you’re my favorite chaos.”