#Significant Wardrobe Shift

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

It was rather significant that the 11th Inspector dispensed with his taupe-coloured Macintosh following Reggie’s disappearance near the end of Series 8.

When he returned to the screen, the 11th Inspector wore the now-iconic blue longcoat, but didn’t give up his yellow ascot.

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 4) • iamquaintrelle

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

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main

# 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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Sunlight flooded the room in bright, unforgiving streams when you finally opened your eyes. You blinked at the bedside clock, the digital numbers momentarily refusing to make sense. 10:47 a.m. Impossible. You never slept past seven, a lifetime of your father's strict schedules and your mother's quiet insistence on proper appearances having trained you out of such indulgence years ago.

The absence beside your bed registered next—no wrinkled bulldog face greeting you with expectant eyes, no impatient snuffling demanding your attention. For seven consecutive mornings, Roscoe had appeared in your room like clockwork, his canine precision more reliable than any alarm. His absence felt strangely significant, another routine disrupted in a house where control and predictability reigned supreme.

Memories from the previous night flooded back as you pushed yourself upright—the shattering glass that had woken you, Lewis's uncharacteristic rage, blood dripping from his split knuckles into ice water turned pink. The kidnapping attempt. Suarez's operative infiltrating the house to reach your suite. The discovery of betrayal from within Lewis's organization, someone trusted enough to provide access codes and patrol schedules.

The Geneva trip, accelerated to tonight rather than next week.

You moved with practiced ease despite the late hour, selecting clothes appropriate for travel yet versatile enough for whatever situations might arise—dark jeans, a cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, boots with hidden compartments where a ceramic blade could be secured if necessary. Practicality disguised as style, preparation masked as fashion choices. In your world, even wardrobe decisions carried strategic implications.

The house felt different as you descended the main staircase—additional security personnel stationed at intervals, faces you didn't recognize mixed with the usual guards. The controlled chaos of crisis response operated beneath a veneer of normalcy, like watching blood spread beneath skin without breaking the surface.

Jensen stood in the entrance hall, directing a team of men unloading equipment from large metal cases—tactical vests, communication devices, and an array of weapons that would have been impressive even by your father's standards. The conversation halted momentarily as you passed, Jensen acknowledging you with a respectful nod before continuing his instructions in lowered tones.

You caught fragments as you moved past—"perimeter reconfigured," "additional scanners," "rotating protocols"—the language of security being reinforced, of vulnerabilities being eliminated. The intrusion had wounded Lewis's pride as much as it had threatened your safety; the response would be proportionate to both concerns.

Lewis's office door stood partially open, light spilling into the hallway. You hesitated briefly before knocking, the events of last night having shifted something fundamental in your relationship that hadn't yet found its proper balance.

"Come in." His voice sounded rougher than usual, fatigue eroding the edges of his usual control.

The sight that greeted you was so unexpected that it momentarily halted your stride. Lewis sat on the edge of his desk—not behind it in his usual position of authority—dressed in gray sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt that revealed the full extent of tattoos normally hidden beneath bespoke tailoring. The casual attire humanized him in ways that were strangely more intimate than if you'd seen him undressed. This was Lewis with his armor removed, the carefully constructed image of power deliberately set aside.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his normally immaculate braids slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly. The knuckles you'd bandaged last night were now properly wrapped, though spots of blood had seeped through the white gauze like morse code transmitting messages of violence.

"You didn't sleep," you observed, closing the door behind you.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined. "Observant as always."

"Difficult not to be when you look like something Roscoe dragged in from the garden."

The unexpected teasing drew a flicker of genuine surprise across his features, followed by something that almost resembled amusement. "I've had more restful nights," he acknowledged, studying you with that intense focus that somehow felt more penetrating without his usual formal attire creating distance.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, the casual question carrying more weight than it would have in normal circumstances.

"Apparently too well," you replied, gesturing toward the ornate clock on his office wall that confirmed the late hour. "Why didn't anyone wake me? We're leaving tonight, and there must be preparations—"

"I gave explicit instructions not to disturb you," Lewis interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "Someone tried to kidnap you last night. I figured rest might be prudent before we uproot to Geneva."

"Fair point," you conceded, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from your voice. "Though typically when someone tries to kidnap me, sleeping in feels rather low on the priority list."

"Typically?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "These attempts happen with such regularity that you've established protocols?"

"Figure of speech," you clarified, though the Ricci family did, in fact, have specific procedures for various threat levels and kidnapping attempts. Your father had drilled them into all his children from an early age—the macabre equivalent of other families' fire evacuation plans.

Lewis studied you for a moment longer before beckoning you closer with a subtle gesture. You moved toward him without hesitation, curious about this more casual version of your husband and what had prompted the summons.

He reached out when you drew near, his hands settling lightly on your upper arms in a touch that wasn't quite an embrace but far more intimate than any previous contact between you. The unexpected physical connection sent a current of awareness through your body, goosebumps rising beneath the soft fabric of your sweater. This close, you could detect the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker beneath, expensive but not ostentatious, like everything else about Lewis Hamilton.

"Lorenzo Bianchi is dead," he said without preamble, his eyes fixed on yours to gauge your reaction.

The news wasn't surprising—you'd heard him order the execution yesterday in the car—but the confirmation still carried weight. Another piece removed from the chessboard, the game advancing with Lewis's precise strategy.

"Confirmed?" you asked, practical rather than shocked.

Lewis nodded once, appreciation for your directness evident in his expression. "This morning. Clean execution, no witnesses, no traces back to us. Martinelli has received his warning and appears to be reconsidering his alignment with Suarez."

"How did Martinelli take it?" The question was relevant to your safety as much as to business operations���allies frightened into submission often proved more dangerous than open enemies.

"With appropriate recognition of the consequences," Lewis replied, his thumb moving almost unconsciously against your arm in a small circular motion that was oddly comforting despite the subject matter. "His response suggests that he wants neutrality moving forward rather than continued opposition."

"Smart choice," you noted. "Though Suarez is unlikely to be as easily convinced."

"Suarez is a different problem entirely," Lewis agreed, something cold flickering in his eyes. "One that requires more comprehensive measures."

This reminded you of discussions in your father's study, tactical evaluations of threats and necessary responses, except Lewis approached such matters with calculated precision rather than explosive reaction. Different methods, same lethal results.

Without releasing you, Lewis reached across to open a desk drawer with his free hand, extracting a small matte black Glock. The weapon was compact but deadly, a professional's choice rather than a showpiece.

"You know how to use this." Not a question but a statement of fact, his tone reflecting confidence in your capabilities.

You nodded anyway, familiar with firearms since your early teens when your father had insisted all his daughters learn to protect themselves. "Since I was fourteen."

Lewis extended the gun toward you, handle first. "Keep this on you at all times," he instructed, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "It's registered under a clean identity, untraceable. The safety features are minimal—it will fire if you need it to, without complication."

You took the weapon, its weight familiar in your palm. Your father had given you your first gun on your sixteenth birthday—a delicate silver .22 with pearl inlay that looked more decorative than deadly. This was its opposite—purely functional, designed for one purpose without pretense or embellishment.

"The house has been secured, but until we identify the source of the breach, assume nowhere is completely safe," Lewis continued. "Naomi will remain your primary security detail, but this—" he nodded toward the gun, "—provides insurance no bodyguard can offer."

"Thank you," you said simply, appreciating both the practical protection and the respect implied by the gesture. Lewis wasn't attempting to shield you from danger through ignorance, but empowering you to participate in your own defense—another subtle distinction from your father's more paternalistic approach.

Lewis didn't immediately release the gun, his hand still wrapped around yours, creating a connection both literal and symbolic—shared danger, shared responsibility, shared understanding of the world you both inhabited. Your eyes met over this physical bridge, something unspoken passing between you that transcended the practical aspects of the moment.

For the first time, you noticed flecks of amber in his dark irises, visible only at this closeness. The observation felt strangely intimate, like uncovering another secret carefully hidden beneath Lewis's controlled exterior.

The moment stretched, tension building not from awkwardness but from something more complex—recognition, perhaps, of shifting boundaries, of territory being explored beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully anticipated.

A knock at the door broke the spell, Naomi's voice calling through: "Lewis, you need to see this. The surveillance footage from the east entrance shows something interesting."

Lewis didn't immediately respond, his eyes still holding yours, hand still connected through the weapon between you. "One minute," he finally called, not looking away.

Then he did something so unexpected it momentarily stopped your breath. Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his lips to your forehead—a gesture too deliberate to be casual, too restrained to be passionate, yet somehow more meaningful than either extreme would have been.

The contact lasted only seconds before he withdrew, releasing the gun fully into your possession as he straightened. Without another word, he moved past you toward the door, the familiar mask of controlled power sliding back into place despite the incongruity of his casual attire.

You remained motionless for a moment after he'd gone, the ghost of his lips still warm against your skin, the weight of the gun in your hand a tangible reminder of danger and protection inextricably linked. Like everything in your world, intimacy and violence existed side by side, neither fully separate from the other.

Carefully, you secured the weapon in your waistband, adjusting your sweater to conceal its presence. Another layer of protection, another secret carried beneath the surface. In many ways, it felt more natural than the diamond ring on your finger—deadly practicality over decorative symbolism.

The unexpected kiss lingered in your thoughts, not because it represented romantic development, but because it suggested trust developing in a world where trust was the rarest and most valuable currency of all. You slipped the gun from your waistband briefly to check the magazine and chamber with practiced movements—fully loaded, one in the chamber, ready for immediate use. Just like you. No longer merely a Ricci daughter or Hamilton wife, but something evolving into its own dangerous identity.

You slid the gun back into place and moved toward the door, ready to prepare for Geneva and whatever awaited there. The game continued, the stakes escalating, the players adjusting strategies with each new development.

And you, once merely a piece to be moved across the board, were increasingly becoming a player in your own right.

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

Back in your suite, you paced the length of the bedroom, phone pressed to your ear as Sophia's indignant voice filled the space. The conversation with your sisters had started with concern about your safety wrapped in complaints about canceled plans and was rapidly evolving into the particular brand of guilt only younger siblings could perfect.

"This is complete bullshit," Sophia declared, her frustration practically vibrating through the phone. "We've been planning this London trip for a week. Maria already bought new clothes, and Gabriella rescheduled three different appointments."

"I know, and I'm sorry," you replied, keeping your tone measured despite your own frustration. "But circumstances have changed. It's not safe right now."

"Since when has 'not safe' ever stopped a Ricci from doing anything?" Sophia challenged, the eye roll practically audible in her tone. "Papa taught us to move through danger, not hide from it."

You pinched the bridge of your nose, weighing how much to reveal versus how much to conceal. The delicate balance of big sister responsibilities—protect them from unnecessary worry while not treating them like children who couldn't handle truth.

"This isn't standard business danger, Soph. Someone breached Lewis's security last night." The partial truth, enough to convey seriousness without sending your sisters into panic. "We're relocating temporarily while the situation is handled."

"Relocate to where?" Maria's more practical voice cut in, suggesting Sophia had put the call on speaker without warning—typical of your youngest sister's disregard for privacy.

"Can't say over the phone," you replied, caution ingrained by years of your father's paranoia about communications. "But I'll let you know when it's safe to visit. It won't be long."

"So we're just supposed to sit here in New York while you're off playing international crime wife?" Sophia's dramatic flair hadn't diminished with distance. "This wasn't the deal when you got shipped off to London."

"I wasn't 'shipped off,'" you corrected automatically, though the description wasn't entirely inaccurate. "And yes, for now, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Listen to Papa's security team, stay within protected areas, and wait for my call."

Gabriella's calm voice joined the conversation, the voice of reason among your sisters as always. "She's right, Soph. If Lewis's security was breached, that's serious. Better to delay than walk into a situation."

Sophia made a disgusted sound. "Fine. But you owe me for this disappointment."

You recognized the negotiation opening for what it was—Sophia's transition from outright refusal to bargaining phase. "What exactly do I owe you?"

"That Birkin bag I showed you last week. The green one."

"A thirty thousand dollar bag for postponing a trip?" You couldn't help but laugh. "Your extortion skills need work."

"Twenty thousand with the discount Papa's friend could get," Sophia countered. "And I've been wanting it forever."

"Ten thousand maximum, and you follow all security protocols without complaint until this is resolved," you countered, falling into the familiar rhythm of sisterly negotiation.

"Fifteen, and I want it in the special edition leather."

"Twelve, standard leather, and you stop interrogating Papa's guards about my situation. They have actual work to do besides satisfying your curiosity."

A pause, then a reluctant sigh. "Fine. But I want it by my birthday."

"Done," you agreed, knowing the bag was a small price for your sister's cooperation and safety. "Now put Maria back on."

As you shifted into more practical conversation with your middle sister about security arrangements and family matters, movement caught your peripheral vision. The connecting door between your suite and Lewis's—a door that had remained firmly closed since your arrival in London—stood slightly ajar, a sliver of the adjoining room visible through the gap.

Words died in your throat as Lewis came into view, back turned toward the door, clearly in the process of changing clothes. He pulled his t-shirt over his head in a smooth motion, revealing a canvas of muscle and ink that momentarily short-circuited your thoughts. Unlike the decorative softness of mobsters from your father's generation, with their espresso-paunches and gold chain necklaces, Lewis's body was a functional weapon—all lean sinew and defined strength without unnecessary bulk.

Tattoos covered his torso in strategic patterns—a large compass design centered on his chest, its intricate detail suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration. A rose bloomed along his left side, its thorny stem wrapping around his ribs like a warning. A huge cross cascaded down his spine, religion and art intertwined in permanent ink.

"Hello? Are you still there?" Maria's voice suddenly pierced your focus, jarring you back to the phone conversation you'd completely forgotten.

"Sorry, got distracted," you managed, quickly moving to close the connecting door with as little sound as possible. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking when you think we might actually get to visit," Maria repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. "What was so distracting?"

"Just security staff needing confirmation on something," you lied smoothly, turning your back on the now-closed door. "And I'm not sure about visit timing yet. I'll call you from... where I'm going... once we're settled."

The conversation wrapped up with the usual sisterly threats of bodily harm if you didn't call regularly, promises to keep them updated, and Sophia's final reminder about her bag—"Green, special edition, size 30, and I'll send the exact reference number to make sure there's no 'confusion'."

You set the phone down after hanging up, your mind returning unbidden to the glimpse of Lewis through the door. The sight shouldn't have affected you as it did—you'd seen shirtless men before, had even had a few lovers during college, but something about the unexpected vulnerability of Lewis, seeing the man beneath the tailored suits and controlled exterior, stirred something complicated in your chest.

The connecting door's sudden accessibility raised questions as well. Had it been unlocked all along, or was this a recent development? Another boundary shifting in the wake of last night's events, perhaps—security considerations trumping privacy concerns. The thought of Lewis having access to your bedroom at any time should have been unsettling, yet somehow wasn't, which was potentially more disturbing than the access itself.

You returned to packing methodically, selecting clothes appropriate for Geneva's early autumn climate along with a few pieces elegant enough for whatever business functions Lewis might need you to attend. The Glock he'd given you was carefully wrapped in a silk scarf and tucked into a hidden compartment in your luggage—easily accessible but not immediately visible.

A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Yes?" you called, closing your suitcase with a decisive click.

Lewis pushed the door open slightly, his head appearing in the gap. "May I come in?"

"Of course," you replied, straightening as he entered the room fully.

He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that somehow looked both casual and expensive, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The outfit was a middle ground between the formal suits he typically wore and the unexpectedly revealing sweatpants from earlier—comfortable but still controlled, like Lewis himself.

"Almost ready?" he asked, eyes scanning the packed luggage at the foot of your bed.

"Just about. Waiting for my passport from Naomi—she's adding the Swiss visa."

Lewis nodded, moving further into the room with his characteristic measured grace. "The jet's being prepared. We should be wheels up by seven, arrival in Geneva around eleven local time."

"And your meeting is tomorrow?" you asked, recalling fragments of information gathered over the past week.

"Afternoon, with Augustus Mueller. He heads the digital currency department at Banque Privée Genève." Lewis leaned against the bedpost, his posture more relaxed than usual though still carrying that coiled readiness that never fully left him. "I've been trying to secure accounts there for years. They've finally agreed to a formal meeting."

"They've made you wait that long?" you asked, genuine surprise coloring your tone. Most financial institutions fell over themselves to accommodate clients with Lewis's resources, regardless of how those resources were acquired.

A hint of that rare smile touched his lips. "Swiss bankers are the original assholes of the financial world. They make you prove your worth before deigning to take your money." The light profanity and touch of humor felt unexpectedly intimate—another glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade. "Three years of negotiations to get a meeting that should have happened in three weeks."

You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped you. "Impressive patience on your part."

"Strategic necessity," he corrected, though amusement lingered in his expression. "Their security protocols are worth the wait. Once established, the accounts will provide protection beyond what any other institution can offer."

You nodded, understanding the value of such banking relationships in your world. The right financial infrastructure could provide protection more effective than armed guards—money properly secured was power properly preserved.

"I've made additional arrangements for Geneva," Lewis continued, something shifting in his tone that caught your attention. "Given the circumstances, I thought it appropriate to adjust our itinerary."

"In what way?" you asked, curiosity piqued by his suddenly careful phrasing.

"We need a legitimate reason to remain in Switzerland while certain situations develop," he explained. "A proper honeymoon provides perfect cover while allowing us to remain close to banking operations."

Honeymoon.

The word hung in the air between you, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with security protocols or business strategy.

Lewis watched your reaction with careful attention, reading the momentary unease that you couldn't quite mask. "Not like that," he clarified quickly, then with unexpected hesitation added, "...unless?"

"Unless?" you echoed, eyebrow rising in genuine surprise at the uncharacteristic ambiguity from someone typically so precise in his communication.

The question drew a genuine chuckle from Lewis—not the controlled almost-smile you'd grown accustomed to, but actual amusement that transformed his severe features. The sound was rich and unexpectedly warm, like discovering a rare instrument could produce music when you'd only ever heard it used for formal announcements.

You found yourself smiling in response, oddly pleased to have elicited such a reaction. It was then you noticed his dimples—those small indentations that appeared only with genuine smiles, a detail you'd intellectually registered when first meeting him but hadn't truly seen in action until this moment. When had that feature become so attractive? The shift in your perception was subtle but undeniable, like suddenly noticing a painting's details after passing it daily.

Lewis scratched his beard thoughtfully, head tilting slightly as he studied you. "Never mind on that," he said, though the amusement hadn't fully left his eyes. "But I thought you might appreciate some time to relax."

"I wouldn't mind that," you admitted, surprised by your own sincerity. The idea of breathing space, even within the constraints of your complicated situation, held unexpected appeal.

He nodded, gaze sweeping around your room as if mentally cataloging its contents. "I'll let you finish packing, then."

"Okay."

Another moment of charged silence stretched between you, neither entirely comfortable nor precisely uncomfortable—a space of possibility neither of you seemed quite ready to define. Then Lewis turned, crossing to the door in a few measured strides and pulling it closed behind him with a soft click.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, the oxygen leaving your lungs in a rush that left you slightly light-headed. The conversation replayed in your mind, focusing on that single word—"unless"—and the implications that hung unspoken behind it.

Had Lewis Hamilton, your strategic husband of calculated precision, just implied interest in consummating your marriage of convenience? Like everything about Lewis, it had been carefully calibrated—an opening created without pressure applied, a possibility presented without expectation attached.

More surprising than his implied interest was your own reaction to it—not revulsion or even reluctance, but a complex mixture of curiosity and something warmer that you weren't entirely prepared to examine. The memory of his shirtless form seen through the doorway resurfaced.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the manicured grounds of the estate while your thoughts reorganized themselves around this new development. Marriage in your world had always been primarily strategic—emotional connection an added bonus. You'd entered this arrangement fully expecting a business partnership, perhaps eventually a friendship of mutual respect.

The possibility of genuine attraction hadn't factored into your calculations, yet here it was, introducing a variable you hadn't prepared for. Not unwelcome, but certainly interesting.

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

The private jet hummed around you, its engines a steady drone that matched the circular pattern of your thoughts as you stared out the window at darkness punctuated by occasional city lights below. Across the aisle, Lewis worked steadily on his laptop, the blue glow casting shadows across the angles of his face, emphasizing the controlled focus you'd come to recognize as his default state.

Two hours into the flight to Geneva, and the conversation from your bedroom still circled your mind like a persistent melody—that single word "unless" and all it implied hanging in the air between you even now. Not that Lewis showed any sign of it. Since boarding, he'd been courteous but professional; the momentary crack in his composure sealed as if it had never existed.

You took another sip of the excellent red wine the flight attendant had poured before discreetly retreating to the forward cabin, leaving you and Lewis alone in the main cabin's luxurious privacy. The alcohol warmed your throat but did nothing to quiet your thoughts about what Lewis had been suggesting in your bedroom.

Sex. Fucking. Consummating a marriage that existed on paper but had yet to become physical reality.

It wasn't that the idea itself was disturbing. Lewis was objectively hot—that glimpse of his tattooed torso through the doorway had confirmed what his tailored suits had merely suggested. But the implications of crossing that particular line felt more significant than a simple physical act. Sex changed things, complicated arrangements that functioned perfectly well without such entanglements.

Lewis had been nothing if not respectful of boundaries since your arrival in London. Every interaction had maintained careful distance, every conversation balanced between professional and personal without tipping decisively toward the latter. Even his suggestion had been presented as possibility rather than expectation—a door opened but not insisted upon.

Your mother's words from years ago surfaced in your memory: "Men in our world handle danger in predictable ways—with violence, with alcohol, or with sex. Sometimes all three in sequence." She'd been explaining your father's particularly aggressive bedroom demands after narrowly escaping a federal investigation, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his behavior part of the unspoken contract of their marriage.

Perhaps Lewis was simply experiencing the natural male response to threats and violence—physical desire as a release valve for tension. The kidnapping attempt, the betrayal from within his organization, the complications with Suarez—enough pressure to drive any man toward basic outlets for stress. Sex as a biological need rather than an emotional connection.

You'd been aware of your father's numerous mistresses since adolescence, had seen the knowing glances between your mother and his guards when he'd stay out late on certain nights. Not that he'd been disrespectful enough to bring evidence home, but the pattern had been clear enough to recognize even before you understood its mechanics. Men had urges, had needs—Ricci daughters were taught this reality early, prepared for the inevitability of husbands who would seek physical satisfaction beyond marriage beds while expecting absolute fidelity from their wives.

Maybe Lewis, for all his controlled distinction from men like your father, was ultimately driven by the same basic male programming. The timing certainly aligned with your mother's warnings about danger heightening sexual impulses. The breached security, the blood-spotted bandages on his knuckles—violence already engaged, perhaps sex naturally following in the cycle your mother had described.

You glanced at him across the aisle, studying his profile as he focused on whatever complicated financial maneuvers filled his screen. Nothing in his demeanor suggested a man consumed by sex. If it was indeed on his mind, he concealed it with the same precision he applied to all potentially compromising emotions.

The question that kept circling back wasn't whether Lewis wanted sex—his "unless" had made that possibility clear enough—but whether you did. And if so, what it would mean beyond the obvious physical consequences.

You weren't naive about sex. College had provided opportunities for exploration before your father's reputation inevitably scared away potential partners. You understood the basics, had even enjoyed some wildness on occasion, but you had always maintained emotional distance.

Sex with Lewis would be something else entirely—crossing a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed, creating connection where strategic distance might be safer. Yet the prospect wasn't without appeal. That glimpse of his body, the rare genuine smile with those dimples, the focused intensity that characterized everything he did���

"You're thinking very loudly," Lewis observed without looking up from his screen, his voice startling you from your thoughts.

"Excuse me?" you replied, caught off-guard by the sudden break in silence.

Now he did look up, those dark eyes finding yours with practiced precision. "Your expression. It's quite... concentrated. Like you're solving a complex equation."

You couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. "Something like that."

"Care to share the problem? I'm reasonably good with difficult calculations." The hint of dry humor was becoming more frequent in his interactions with you.

"Just processing everything," you replied, deliberately vague. "It's been an eventful twenty-four hours."

Lewis closed his laptop, giving you his full attention. "That's an understatement. How are you handling it? The attempt was directed at you specifically."

"I've had kidnapping threats before," you reminded him. "The Ricci name comes with certain occupational hazards."

"There's a difference between abstract threats and someone physically breaching security to reach your bedroom," Lewis pointed out. "Most people would find that deeply disturbing."

"I'm not most people," you echoed his own words from earlier with deliberate parallelism.

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "No, you certainly aren't. But the question still stands."

You considered how to respond honestly without revealing the actual direction of your thoughts. "I'm more concerned about what it represents than the attempt itself. Suarez has connections inside your organization—that's the disturbing part."

Lewis nodded. "We're making progress identifying the source. The operative who died had communications that point toward specific personnel. It's being handled."

The clinical phrasing couldn't quite disguise what "being handled" likely meant—interrogations considerably more thorough than what had left Lewis's knuckles bloody, followed by disposal methods that would leave no evidence for authorities to find.

"How extensive do you think the breach is?" you asked.

"Limited but strategically placed," Lewis replied, his expression hardening slightly. "Someone with access to security protocols but not operational details. Which narrows the field considerably."

"Then there's hope your Geneva banking connections haven't been compromised?"

"The compartmentalization should have protected that information, yes." Lewis leaned back in his seat, an uncharacteristically casual posture that suggested growing comfort in your presence. "Mueller doesn't know about Suarez or Bianchi. To him, we're simply a wealthy couple looking to establish private accounts for legitimate business interests."

"With a honeymoon cover story," you added, deliberately addressing the elephant that had followed you onto the plane.

Something flickered in Lewis's expression—surprise at your directness, perhaps, or appreciation for not dancing around the subject. "Yes. It provides legitimate reason for an extended stay if needed."

"Practical," you acknowledged, holding his gaze. "Though complicated."

"Most effective strategies involve some level of complexity," Lewis replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of unspoken meaning beneath his words. "The question is whether the advantages outweigh potential complications."

"And what's your thoughts on that particular equation?" you asked.

Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I think it depends entirely on mutual agreement about desired outcomes and acceptable risks."

"Very diplomatic," you observed with a hint of genuine amusement.

Something like self-awareness crossed his features. "Occupational hazard. Precision in communication prevents misunderstandings with potentially significant consequences."

"Then let me be precise," you said, setting your wine glass down decisively. "Earlier, in my bedroom, you had an implied question. I'd like clarity on what exactly you were suggesting."

The directness clearly caught him off-guard, that rare unguarded expression briefly crossing his features before control reasserted itself.

"I was saying that our marriage could potentially incorporate additional aspects if mutually desired," Lewis replied after a moment, his phrasing still careful but considerably more direct than before. "Not as requirement or expectation, simply as... an option available should preferences align."

"Sex," you translated bluntly. "You were asking if I might be interested in having sex with you."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly at your candor, but he didn't flinch from it. "Yes. Though with more emphasis on choice and timing being entirely on your terms."

"I appreciate the honesty," you said. "And the emphasis on choice."

"Your father made clear from the beginning that certain traditional expectations wouldn't be part of our initial arrangement," Lewis explained, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "I've respected those parameters and will continue to do so unless you indicate otherwise."

The information was new—your father negotiating sexual boundaries on your behalf without your knowledge, Lewis accepting limitations that men of your father's generation would have considered insulting to their masculinity. Another unexpected dimension to an arrangement that continued revealing new facets with each passing day.

"And yet you made the suggestion," you observed, not accusatory but curious about the shift.

Something almost like vulnerability suddenly crossed Lewis's features. "Circumstances change. Relationships evolve. What begins as purely strategic can develop into something else when people work closely together."

"My mother always said men in our world have predictable responses to danger," you said, deciding honesty deserved equal honesty in return. "Violence, alcohol, or sex—usually in that order."

Understanding registered in Lewis's expression. "You think my suggestion was just a response to a threat."

"The timing fits with her theory," you added. "Less about me specifically and more about male needs after danger triggers certain responses."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "There's likely some truth to that observation as general pattern. Stress and danger do trigger certain biological responses." He met your eyes directly. "But I'd like to think I'm capable of distinguishing between chemical reactions and genuine interest."

"And which category did your suggestion fall into?" The question was bold, but the conversation had already crossed into territory where traditional caution seemed unnecessarily limiting.

"Both, if I'm being entirely honest," Lewis replied after a moment, the admission clearly costing something in terms of his usual controlled presentation. "The danger certainly heightened awareness of mortality and corresponding impulses. But those impulses were directed specifically toward you for reasons beyond mere proximity or convenience."

It was perhaps the most revealing statement he'd made since your marriage—acknowledgment of genuine attraction rather than strategic consideration alone, of personal desire beyond contractual arrangement.

"I see," you said simply, processing this new information and its implications for your evolving relationship.

"My suggestion wasn't made with an expectation of immediate response," Lewis added, apparently sensing your need for space to consider. "Geneva provides the opportunity, but creates no obligation whatsoever. We have more immediate concerns to address regardless."

The statement offered graceful retreat from territory that had perhaps been explored further than either of you had initially intended.

"Mueller's banking connections being primary among them," you agreed, accepting the shift back to business.

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop again though not immediately opening it. "Get some rest if you can. We land in just over an hour, and tomorrow will likely be demanding."

You recognized the gentle conclusion to a conversation that had revealed more than perhaps either of you had planned. "Good advice. I think I will."

As you reclined your seat and closed your eyes, not actually expecting sleep but welcoming the opportunity to process without observation, you found your thoughts considerably clearer than before the conversation. Whatever developed between you and Lewis, at least it would be based on direct communication rather than assumption or manipulation.

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

Geneva greeted you with crisp autumn air. Lewis's security team had traveled ahead, establishing protocols before your arrival, so when you emerged from customs, the transition was seamless—black Mercedes waiting, driver holding a discreet sign, no names required.

The city gleamed under moonlight as you were driven from the airport—old money and new power coexisting in architectural harmony, the lake reflecting lights like scattered diamonds across its surface. Everything pristine, everything controlled, everything operating according to precise rules that were never overtly stated but universally understood.

Lewis spent the drive exchanging texts with his advance team, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his profile in brief flashes as you gazed out at the passing scenery. Despite the eleven p.m. arrival, he looked unfazed by travel—the same controlled composure he maintained regardless of circumstances. You wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to truly disrupt that legendary control. The bloodied knuckles had been one glimpse. Perhaps there were others to discover.

The hotel—a discreet five-star establishment that catered to wealth that preferred anonymity—welcomed you with the particular deference reserved for guests who paid in cash and required no credit check. The lobby was a study in understated luxury, nothing so gauche as gold fixtures or other displays, just perfect proportions and materials that whispered rather than shouted their quality.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the concierge greeted you, his English impeccable, his eyes professionally warm without being presumptuous. "Welcome to La Réserve. We've been expecting you."

Lewis placed a protective hand at the small of your back as you were escorted to a private elevator—a gesture that could have been performative for watching eyes but felt oddly genuine in its subtle pressure. The flight had shifted something between you, the direct conversation about potential consummation of your arrangement clearing air that had grown increasingly charged with unspoken possibilities.

The penthouse suite occupied the building's entire top floor, its windows offering panoramic views of the lake and mountains beyond. A security sweep had already been completed, Jensen nodding confirmation to Lewis as you entered, before discreetly retreating with the remaining hotel staff. Within moments, you were alone in the expansive space, the door closing with a soft click that emphasized the sudden privacy.

You moved further into the suite, noting the elegant furnishings, the fresh flowers arranged with Swiss precision, the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket—all the expected luxuries for guests of your presumed status. What caught your attention, however, was the bedroom visible through open double doors—specifically, the single king-sized bed that dominated the space.

One bed. Not the two you'd anticipated based on your careful maintenance of separate sleeping arrangements in London.

Lewis followed your gaze, a momentary frown crossing his features as he registered the same detail. Without comment, he moved to the house phone, dialing with controlled precision.

"This is Hamilton in the penthouse," he said when someone answered, his tone polite but carrying that edge of authority that expected immediate resolution. "There seems to be a misunderstanding regarding our accommodation requirements."

You couldn't hear the response, but Lewis's expression tightened incrementally as he listened.

"I specifically requested a two-bedroom suite or connecting rooms," he continued. "This arrangement wasn't part of our agreement."

Another pause, longer this time, his fingers tapping a controlled rhythm against the polished desk surface—the only visible indication of his displeasure.

"Until Monday?" he repeated, glancing in your direction with a question in his eyes. "That's four nights."

You moved closer, the telephone exchange now audible as you approached—a professionally apologetic voice explaining that the hotel was fully booked due to an international banking conference, that no other suites were available until early next week, that they deeply regretted the inconvenience but could offer no immediate solution beyond a substantial rate reduction for the trouble.

"It's fine," you said, the decision made with practical ease. After all, it was hardly the most complicated situation you'd navigated in recent weeks. "We can manage."

Lewis studied you for a moment, clearly gauging the sincerity of your acceptance before returning to the call. "Thank you for checking. We'll make the current arrangement work." He paused, listening to further apologies. "Yes, that rate adjustment would be appropriate. Thank you."

He replaced the receiver with the same careful control he applied to all movements, turning to face you fully. "I apologize for the mixup. I was very specific about our requirements when making the arrangements."

"It's not a problem," you assured him, moving toward your luggage to unpack essentials. "We're adults, not teenagers at prom. I think we can handle sharing a bed for a few nights."

"I'll take the couch," Lewis said immediately, nodding toward the living area with its admittedly luxurious sofa. "You take the bedroom."

The offer was entirely expected—the gentlemanly solution to an awkward situation, precisely what etiquette demanded from a man of his position. But something about the automatic distancing struck you as unnecessary after the directness you'd established on the plane. If anything, the separate spaces in London now seemed like artifice maintained out of habit rather than necessity.

"Don't be ridiculous," you replied, moving to the bed and grabbing one of the many pillows from its elaborate arrangement. You placed it lengthwise down the center of the mattress, creating an improvised boundary. "There. Now we have space."

Lewis stared at your solution for several beats, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Interesting," he finally said, the single word carrying layers of potential meaning.

"Practical," you corrected, though you couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. "And considerably more comfortable than that couch."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across his features—there, then gone, controlled as always but not completely extinguished. "Practicality does appear to be a shared value."

You grabbed necessities from your suitcase—silk pajamas, toiletries, the small handgun Lewis had given you earlier that day—and moved toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower and change. It's been a long day."

Lewis nodded, already turning his attention to his own luggage. "Take your time. I have calls to make regarding tomorrow's meeting anyway."

The bathroom was a marble-clad sanctuary larger than some New York apartments, with a rainfall shower and a soaking tub positioned to capture views of the mountains through privacy glass. You turned the water as hot as you could stand it, letting steam fill the space as you stripped away clothes that carried the staleness of travel and the weight of the day's tensions.

As water sluiced over your skin, you found your thoughts drifting to the man in the next room and the strangeness of your evolving situation. Not just the marriage itself—though that remained surreal enough, but the unexpected developments within it. From strategic arrangement to potential partnership to whatever liminal state you now occupied, with shared beds and direct acknowledgment of possibilities.

The pillow barrier was childish, perhaps, a symbolic division that would do nothing to address the actual complexities between you. But symbols mattered in your world. They established boundaries and expectations, created frameworks within which negotiations could occur. The barrier wasn't about physical separation so much as psychological space—acknowledgment that whatever might eventually develop between you would happen by choice rather than circumstance.

You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, hair damp and curling around your shoulders, to find Lewis speaking quietly into his phone near the windows.

He ended the call as you approached, tucking the phone away with practiced ease. "Everything alright?" he asked, his eyes making a quick assessment that felt professional rather than invasive.

"Fine," you assured him, gesturing toward the bathroom. "All yours. There's enough hot water for a small army."

Lewis nodded, gathering his own necessities before disappearing into the steamy bathroom. The door closed with a decisive click, leaving you alone in the suite with thoughts that refused to settle into orderly patterns.

You changed quickly into silk pajamas after blow drying and wrapping your hair. The gun went under your pillow, old habits from the Ricci household transferring seamlessly to this new context. In your world, weapons during sleep were as essential as teeth brushing before bed—just another routine of self-preservation.

You'd just settled on your side of the pillowed barrier, checking emails on your phone, when Lewis emerged from the bathroom. Unlike your robe-wrapped transition, he was already dressed for sleep—dark pants that might have been either expensive loungewear or athletic gear, and a simple white t-shirt that did nothing to disguise the muscular definition beneath. More tattoos were visible now—the intricate linework extending down both arms in patterns too complex to decipher from a distance.

He paused briefly, taking in your position on the bed, before moving to his own suitcase to secure something inside, likely a weapon similar to the one beneath your pillow.

"Jensen reports no unusual activity around the hotel," he said, the security update offered as neutral conversational territory. "Additional personnel are stationed on the floor below and in the lobby. Naomi will join us for breakfast to review tomorrow's schedule."

Lewis settled on his side of the barrier, his movements economical as he arranged himself against the headboard, close enough for conversation but carefully observing the boundary you'd established. The king-sized bed was large enough that you weren't truly crowded, yet the awareness of his presence carried a charge that made the space feel more intimate.

"May I ask you something?" you said, curiosity overriding caution.

"Of course." His tone suggested openness, though his posture remained carefully controlled.

"The tattoos," you gestured toward his arms and what was visible of his chest beneath the white shirt. "They're more extensive than I realized. Do they have significance?"

Lewis glanced down at his forearms, as if briefly seeing them through your eyes rather than his own accustomed perspective. "Most have specific meaning, yes. Milestones, reminders, certain principles I choose to keep literally close."

"The compass?" you asked, recalling the design you'd glimpsed through the connecting door.

"Direction," he replied after a brief hesitation, one hand unconsciously moving to his chest where the tattoo lay beneath fabric. "A reminder to maintain course regardless of external pressures or distractions."

"And the rose?" The question pushed further into personal territory, acknowledgment that you'd seen more of him than perhaps he'd intended through that partially open door.

Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to understanding. "The connecting door," he said, neither accusatory nor embarrassed. "I didn't realize it had opened."

"Just a glimpse," you clarified, not wanting him to think you'd been deliberately watching. "While talking to my sisters."

Lewis nodded, accepting this without apparent concern. "The rose represents beauty with defense—thorns necessary for survival in hostile environments." His hand moved to his side where you'd seen the flower design wrapping around his ribs. "Beauty alone is vulnerability; defense alone is isolation. The combination creates sustainable strength."

The philosophy revealed more about Lewis Hamilton than perhaps he intended, values encoded permanently in skin, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration. Not the crude symbology of traditional mobsters with their misspelled Latin phrases and religious iconography.

"Do you have any?" he asked, turning the question back to you with genuine curiosity. "Tattoos?"

You shook your head. "My father considers them common—beneath a Ricci's dignity. My sisters and I were forbidden from getting any."

"And now?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Your father's prohibitions no longer apply to your choices."

The simple observation carried more weight than its surface suggestion about body art—acknowledgment of your shifting status from daughter under paternal authority to wife with autonomy within new parameters. The transition was still ongoing, boundaries still being established between old identity and new reality.

"I haven't given it much thought," you admitted. "There's been rather a lot happening lately."

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "Fair point."

Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable but charged with awareness of the unusual intimacy of your position. Two people legally married yet practically strangers, sharing a bed divided by pillows rather than walls, navigating territory neither had fully anticipated when signatures formalized your union.

"We should get some rest," Lewis said finally, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. "Tomorrow's meeting with Mueller will require focus."

"Of course," you agreed, settling further beneath the covers on your side of the barrier.

Lewis turned off his light, the room plunging into near-darkness broken only by city glow through partially drawn curtains. You followed suit, switching off your own lamp and adjusting to new shadows in unfamiliar space.

For several minutes, silence reigned, broken only by the distant sounds of occasional traffic below and the subtle rhythm of two people breathing in careful awareness of each other's presence. Despite exhaustion from travel and the day's tensions, sleep remained elusive—too many unprocessed thoughts circling your mind.

"Lewis?" you said quietly, uncertain if he was still awake.

"Yes?" His response came immediately, suggesting he'd been equally unable to find sleep.

"Thank you for being direct on the plane. About everything."

The darkness concealed his expression, but his voice carried a warmth rarely present in daylight conversations. "Directness seems to work well between us. Better than alternatives."

"It does," you agreed, finding unexpected comfort in this simple shared understanding.

Another silence, this one softer somehow, settled between you. Just as sleep began to pull at the edges of your consciousness, Lewis spoke again, his voice low in the darkness.

"For what it's worth, I respect the barrier. Both what it represents and what it potentially allows."

The statement carried layers of meaning—acknowledgment of boundaries established and possibilities left open, respect for choice without presumption of outcome. It was perhaps the most perfectly calibrated communication yet from a man who specialized in precise calculation.

"I know," you replied simply, the words carrying more certainty than you'd anticipated. Whatever else remained uncertain between you, Lewis's respect for your autonomy had been consistently demonstrated through actions rather than merely words.

Sleep claimed you shortly after, the strange intimacy of shared space somehow less disruptive than expected. Your last conscious thought was recognition that danger and desire continued their parallel trajectories in your new life—both requiring careful navigation, both carrying potential for either destruction or something unexpectedly valuable.

Tomorrow would bring Mueller and banking arrangements and the continued strategic dance of your unconventional marriage. But tonight, for the first time since arriving in London as Lewis's wife, you slept without Roscoe's watchful presence or security personnel patrolling outside your door—just the measured breathing of the dangerous, controlled man beside you, separated by pillows but increasingly connected by something neither of you had fully anticipated when signatures sealed your arrangement.

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

Consciousness returned in layers, warm and hazy around the edges as morning light pressed against your closed eyelids. Something felt different—the weight of covers, the texture beneath your cheek, the subtle rhythm against your ear that wasn't quite the sound of your own heartbeat.

You opened your eyes to find yourself not on your designated side of the bed, the carefully arranged pillow barrier long abandoned during the night. Instead, you were curled against Lewis's side, head resting on his chest, one arm draped across his torso in unconscious intimacy that sent a jolt of surprise through you.

You jerked upright, disoriented by the unexpected closeness, only to hear Lewis's voice—deeper, slightly rough with sleep, yet still carrying that fundamental control that never quite left him.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured, making no move to shift away despite your sudden movement.

Your eyes found his, one arm casually positioned behind his head as he regarded you with surprising nonchalance given the circumstances. No sign of discomfort or awkwardness, just calm acceptance of waking to find his strategic wife cuddled against him like a lover.

"I'm sorry—" you began, embarrassment heating your cheeks.

"Don't," he interrupted gently. "It's fine. You talk in your sleep sometimes... did you know that?"

Embarrassment deepened, your mind racing through potential revelations you might have unknowingly shared while unconscious. Growing up in a household where information was currency and vulnerability was weakness had made you pathologically private, even in sleep.

Lewis's expression softened, a hint of amusement warming his usually reserved features. "It wasn't anything serious. You didn't reveal anything vital to destroy an empire, if you're worried about that."

You couldn't help but return his half-smile, surprised by the light-hearted reference to your shared world of secrets and power. "Good to know my subconscious isn't committing treason."

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, the sound still touched with sleep. "Sounded like you had a nightmare... so I pulled you closer to me."

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, the statement so at odds with the controlled, calculated man you'd come to know. Lewis, deliberately drawing someone closer during vulnerability rather than maintaining careful distance? The revelation felt more intimate than the physical closeness itself—a glimpse behind carefully constructed walls that few were likely permitted.

"Come 'ere," he said, the words carrying the unmistakable weight of command despite their quiet delivery, brooking no argument or hesitation.

You found yourself complying without conscious decision, moving closer until you were near but not quite touching as you had been moments before.

"More," Lewis prompted, a teasing lilt warming his voice that you'd never heard before—playfulness from the man who approached even casual conversation with strategic precision.

Drawn by something that felt like gravity, you shifted until your head rested in the crook of his arm, the position deliberate rather than accidental this time. His arm wrapped around you with surprising naturalness, hand settling against your upper arm with gentle pressure as his other arm completed the embrace.

You inhaled deeply, his scent filling your senses—that expensive cologne now mingled with the warmth of sleep, creating something more intimate than the carefully curated presentation he maintained in public. The combination was unexpectedly appealing, triggering responses you hadn't anticipated when placing that now-forgotten pillow barrier between you.

Lewis sighed, the sound carrying contentment rather than resignation. "I enjoy cuddling," he revealed, the simple admission somehow more surprising than if he'd confessed to complex criminal operations.

The idea of Lewis Hamilton—the dangerous, controlled crime lord who ordered executions between wine selections—being someone who "enjoyed cuddling" created cognitive dissonance so profound it almost made you laugh. Yet here was evidence in the form of strong arms holding you with gentle but definite intention, his body relaxed against yours in a way that suggested genuine comfort rather than strategic performance.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower timbre that sent an involuntary shiver through you. His hands skimmed delicately over your arms, the touch light but deliberate, somewhere between affection and assessment.

The observation immediately transported you back to your conversation on the plane. His tone carried the same quality now, appreciative without demanding, noting without claiming.

"Thank you," you replied, the response automatic though hardly adequate for the complex moment unfolding between you.

"You're welcome," Lewis said simply, seemingly content with both your response and the continued physical contact that neither of you appeared inclined to end.

Silence settled comfortably around you, allowing space to absorb the strangeness of this new intimacy—strategic partners becoming something less defined yet more connected, the carefully maintained distance of previous days giving way to whatever this tentative embrace represented.

You listened to birds calling outside the windows, watched as early sunlight strengthened across the room. Lewis's heartbeat maintained its steady rhythm beneath your ear, his breathing even and calm as if this level of physical closeness were commonplace between you rather than unprecedented.

"I've been attracted to you since our first meeting," Lewis said finally, his voice quiet but clear in the morning stillness. "Not just for strategic advantage or family connection, though those factors were certainly relevant to the arrangement."

The revelation caught you by surprise, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have. Lewis approached most matters with calculated precision—once a decision was made to address a topic, he did so without unnecessary pretense.

"Your father showed me the notes," he continued, his hand still moving in gentle patterns against your arm. "The ones Suarez sent with his flowers. The presumption, the crude possessiveness disguised as courtship. It was... illuminating."

You stiffened slightly at the mention, unaware that Lewis had seen the messages the Cuban had sent—increasingly threatening "romantic" overtures your father had apparently shared during negotiations without your knowledge.

"I didn't realize," you said, uncertain how to feel about this exchange of information about you without your participation.

"Your father wanted me to understand what I was potentially standing against," Lewis explained, sensing your discomfort. "Though I suspect his intent was more to gauge my reaction than out of concern for your feelings about Suarez's attention."

The assessment aligned with your understanding of your father's methods—using information as both test and manipulation, revealing vulnerabilities to assess responses rather than from genuine concern.

"What was your reaction?" you asked, curious despite yourself about how Lewis had responded to seeing another man's presumptuous advances.

His arms tightened fractionally around you, the only indication that the memory triggered something less controlled than his usual presentation. "Professional outwardly. Your father needed to see reasoned strategic assessment, not emotional response."

"And inwardly?" you pressed, somehow knowing there had been more beneath the surface.

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing small circles against your shoulder as he considered his answer. "Inwardly, I found myself... unexpectedly territorial about someone I hadn't yet met. It wasn't strategic. It was visceral."

The admission carried weight beyond its simple words—Lewis acknowledging emotional response that transcended calculated advantage, revealing layers beneath controlled exterior that few likely witnessed.

"Seeing you bandage my hand that night after the intruder," he continued, his voice taking on a quality you hadn't heard before, "watching you think through strategic countermeasures when most would have been focused solely on the danger... it did something to me."

His hand moved from your arm to your shoulder, then traced a path down your back with deliberate slowness, the touch firm enough to be intentional but gentle enough to allow withdrawal if unwanted. "Your intelligence, your composure under pressure, the way you see through performances to underlying motivations—those qualities are intriguing beyond any physical attraction, though that certainly exists as well."

His hand continued its careful exploration of your back, not straying beyond appropriate boundaries but making its awareness of your body unmistakably clear.

"I'm not going to push," Lewis said, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "That isn't how this works between us. But I find myself... anticipating possibilities. Savoring moments like this in the interim."

His hand stilled against your lower back, pressure firm but not restrictive. "Imagining what it might be like to hear you, to feel you... to watch you come apart before pulling you back together." The statement was delivered with the same measured control as business assessments, yet carried heat beneath its precision. "But patience has always been among my stronger qualities."

As if to emphasize this point, his hand lifted from where it had been creating distracting patterns against your body, the withdrawal of contact almost as potent as its application had been.

You glanced up, needing to see his expression, to read whatever might be visible in features that typically revealed only what he deliberately allowed. You found his eyes already watching you, intense focus softened by something that might have been genuine affection. His lower lip was caught briefly between his teeth—a rare display of even minor loss of control that drew your attention with unexpected force.

"Yes, babygirl?" he asked, the unexpected nickname sending a jolt of something electric through your nervous system.

The term of endearment—possessive yet affectionate, dominant yet caring—highlighted how rapidly territory was shifting between you. From Mrs. Hamilton to given name to this new designation in the span of weeks, each step changing the landscape of your arrangement in ways neither of you had fully anticipated.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his lip, still caught between teeth in uncharacteristic display of actual human impulse, before returning to meet his gaze directly. "You said you liked control," you reminded him, referencing the conversation in your father's garden where he'd first alluded to preferences that transcended business interactions.

"I do," Lewis confirmed, something darkening in his expression that wasn't quite dangerousness but carried similar intensity. "In certain contexts, control is... essential to my satisfaction."

The deliberate phrasing didn't disguise the fundamental meaning—Lewis preferred dominance in sexual encounters, requiring surrender from partners in ways that aligned with his carefully controlled approach to all other aspects of his existence.

"It's not about degradation or inequality," he clarified, reading potential concern in your expression. "It's about trust. About someone choosing to surrender control rather than having it taken. About creating space where submission becomes strength rather than weakness."

The philosophy revealed more than perhaps he intended—values that extended beyond bedroom preferences into fundamental worldview, approach to power that differed from men like your father who equated dominance with negation of others' agency.

"I would never do anything you wouldn't like," Lewis continued, his tone carrying absolute certainty. "That's not the point of control. It's about maximizing pleasure through structure and boundaries, not imposing unwanted experience."

The detailed explanation was both reassuring and intriguing, the implications of what such dynamic might entail in practice rather than theory.

"How would I know if I like it?" you asked, the question emerging from genuine curiosity rather than challenge or evasion.

Instead of answering directly, Lewis's expression shifted into something that could only be described as smugly confident—a smile that contained certainty born of experience rather than mere theory. The expression was so unlike his usual controlled presentation that it caught you off-guard, revealing yet another facet of the increasingly complex man whose ring you wore.

Before he could respond verbally, a sharp electronic tone cut through the moment—his phone signaling priority communication that couldn't be ignored regardless of personal preference. The sound broke the intimate bubble that had formed around you, reality reasserting itself with typical inconvenient timing.

Lewis sighed—a rare display of actual frustration—before reaching for the device on his nightstand. "Hamilton," he answered, professional mask sliding seamlessly back into place despite the lingering effects of your conversation.

You shifted away, using the interruption as opportunity to collect thoughts scattered by the unexpected intimacy. Whatever had been developing between you would need to wait—business calling as it always did in your world, possibilities deferred but not forgotten as you both returned to the roles that had brought you together initially.

Strategic partners first and foremost, regardless of what else might be evolving beneath that fundamental arrangement.

Lewis's expression hardened as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call, the intimate warmth from moments ago replaced by the calculated focus of a man handling business complications. "Send me the details. I want the complete file before the meeting," he instructed, rising from the bed in a single fluid movement. "And double the surveillance on Mueller's associates. If he's meeting with Castellano's people, I want to know why."

You slipped from the bed as well, giving him privacy for the call while gathering clothes for the day. The transition felt abrupt but familiar—moments of personal connection inevitably interrupted by business demands, the constant rhythm of life in your world. That fundamental reality hadn't changed with marriage, just the specific players and territories involved.

"Bloody hell." Lewis ended the call with terse efficiency, setting the phone down with controlled precision that didn't quite mask the tension radiating from him. He turned to find you watching him, his expression softening fractionally when your eyes met.

"Problem?" you asked, practical rather than disappointed about the interrupted moment.

"Potential complication," he clarified. "Mueller's been meeting with representatives from a rival banking group with connections to certain Italian interests in Milan."

The careful phrasing didn't disguise the actual concern—potential compromise of your banking arrangements through competing criminal organizations. The Swiss financial world operated within careful parameters, maintaining neutrality while still facilitating transactions other institutions wouldn't touch. Loyalty wasn't guaranteed to the highest bidder, but alliances shifted based on calculated advantage.

"Castellano?" you asked, the name triggering recognition. "As in Giovanni Castellano?"

Lewis raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your familiarity with what should have been an obscure connection. "You know the family?"

"My father considered an alliance with them three years ago," you explained, memories surfacing of overheard conversations and files you weren't supposed to access. "The negotiation broke down over territorial disputes in Newark."

Lewis's expression shifted from surprise to something closer to genuine appreciation. "That information wasn't in your father's briefing materials about your family connections."

"It wouldn't be," you acknowledged. "The discussion never reached formal negotiation stage. But I remember my father mentioning their Swiss banking arrangements were particularly sophisticated, especially regarding digital assets."

Lewis studied you with renewed intensity, that focused assessment that made you feel simultaneously examined and valued. "The Castellanos have been strengthening their European operations, particularly in fintech. If they're meeting with Mueller before our appointment—"

"They could be positioning to block our access," you finished, mind already analyzing potential countermeasures. "Or at minimum, raising Mueller's expectations regarding compensation for his services."

Lewis nodded, something like genuine partnership passing between you—shared understanding of the complex chess game your world operated within, mutual recognition of threats and opportunities without need for simplified explanation.

"I need to make some calls," he said, reaching for his phone again. "The meeting's been moved up to eleven rather than afternoon—Mueller's office 'apologizes for any inconvenience' but claims scheduling conflicts."

"Convenient timing," you observed dryly. "Almost as if someone wanted to limit our preparation."

"Exactly." Lewis was already scrolling through contacts. "This changes our approach. Instead of separate meetings, I want you with me for the Mueller discussion."

The statement caught you by surprise—not because of inclusion itself, which aligned with your emerging role in his operations, but because of its implications for strategy. "You want to present unified front rather than using me as unexpected asset later?"

Lewis paused, giving you his full attention despite pressing concerns. "I want Mueller to understand exactly what he's dealing with—not just another criminal with money to hide, but a partnership with complementary capabilities. Your understanding of the Castellano connections creates leverage we didn't know we had."

The assessment was both practical and oddly gratifying—recognition of value beyond decorative accessory or symbolic alliance. "What's our angle, then? Good cop, bad cop? Sophisticated couple? Business partners?"

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful despite the time pressure. "Executive team, I think. Professional, knowledgeable, with clear division of expertise but unified direction." His eyes held yours with unwavering focus. "No pretense of traditional marriage roles—Mueller needs to see you as equal strategic partner, not wife along for decorative purposes."

The approach differed markedly from how your father would have positioned you in similar circumstances—as silent ornament whose occasional intelligent comment would surprise by contrast with assumed decorative function. Lewis was suggesting something fundamentally different.

"I'll need information on what we know about Mueller's digital banking operations," you said, mind already shifting to practical preparation. "And the specific services we're seeking from his institution."

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop. "I'll have Claire send the complete file immediately. We have just over two hours before we need to leave for the meeting."

The next ninety minutes passed in focused preparation—files reviewed, strategies discussed, contingency plans established for various potential complications. The intimate moment from earlier remained unacknowledged but not forgotten, its implications temporarily set aside rather than dismissed as you both channeled energy into the immediate challenge.

You emerged from the bathroom dressed for battle in your own way—charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy silk blouse that managed to be simultaneously professional and striking, heels adding height without sacrificing mobility should circumstances require quick exit. Not dramatically different from your usual business attire, but selected with particular attention to the impression it would create on Swiss bankers with traditional expectations constantly at war with reality of their clientele.

Lewis looked up from his laptop as you entered, his eyes making a quick but thorough assessment. "Perfect," he said simply, the single word carrying more weight than elaborate compliment.

He had transformed as well—the relaxed, cuddling man from earlier morning completely replaced by the dangerous, controlled crime lord his reputation described. His suit was flawlessly tailored black with subtle gray pinstripe, white shirt providing stark contrast to the deep blue tie secured with mathematical precision. The tattoos were once again hidden beneath formal armor, the only hint of their existence the edges visible at his wrists when his cuffs shifted and the markings on his hands.

"Mueller has particular views about appropriate business attire," Lewis explained, making a final adjustment to his tie. "Traditional to the point of anachronism. It's one battle not worth fighting if we want his cooperation."

You nodded, understanding the strategic concession. In your world, adapting to certain expectations created space to challenge others more central to your objectives. Conformity in surface matters often facilitated deviation in more substantial ones.

"The car will be ready in twenty minutes," Lewis continued, closing his laptop with decisive click. "Naomi and Jensen are already downstairs coordinating security for the route."

"What about the gun?" you asked, pointing to the Glock still sitting on the nightstand. "I'm guessing Swiss bankers aren't big fans of armed clients, no matter how nicely we dress."

Lewis's mouth quirked up slightly. "Jensen took care of it. Apparently 'clients of Mueller's particular specialization' get diplomatic courtesy for their security measures."

You couldn't help but smile at the delicate phrasing—"clients of particular specialization" instead of just saying "criminals with enough money." The Swiss had turned discretion into an art form long before modern organized crime even existed.

Lewis moved closer, near enough that you caught his cologne but not so close it felt like he was crowding you. "There's something else you should know before we meet Mueller," he said, his tone more serious now.

"What is it?" you asked, immediately on alert.

"Mueller's got this thing about marriages in our world," Lewis explained. "He sees them as proof of stability and succession planning. His best deals go to clients whose family setup looks like it'll last."

That made immediate sense. "So our honeymoon cover actually serves a real business purpose."

Lewis nodded. "Exactly. Mueller likes dynasty-building—banking relationships that'll continue through generations instead of ending when one person dies or goes to prison."

"So he'll be sizing up our marriage as much as our business," you translated. "Looking for signs we're actually partners and not just a convenient alliance."

"Yes," Lewis confirmed. "Which means we need to... perform a bit differently than your standard business meeting."

The meaning was clear—to convince Mueller, we'd need to show a connection beyond just strategic arrangement, suggesting something with a future. Not fake romance exactly, but definitely showing a united front beyond just business.

"So we need to act like a real couple, not just business partners," you clarified. "What, should I call you 'darling' while we talk about blockchain?"

That drew another brief smile from him. "Nothing that over-the-top. Just... being comfortable around each other. Familiar with each other's movements. The little tells of people who actually share a life, not just a business card."

The irony wasn't lost on you, given how this morning you'd woken up cuddled against him after crossing the pillow barrier in your sleep.

"I think we can handle that," you said, feeling oddly confident about this particular act. The pillow barrier had been abandoned in more ways than one, making space for whatever was developing between you.

Lewis studied you a moment longer, as if checking that you were really okay with this. "Good. But if anything crosses a line you're not comfortable with, just say 'Geneva protocol' and I'll back off immediately."

That consideration—setting up a safety word for something as simple as physical closeness—told you volumes about Lewis's approach to your partnership. Consent mattered to him in ways that stood out among powerful men, creating a foundation of respect regardless of strategic needs.

"I appreciate that," you said sincerely. "But I don't think it'll be necessary."

Lewis nodded, accepting your word without pushing. "We should head downstairs. Naomi will want to brief us on security before we leave."

As you gathered your things, you caught Lewis watching you with an expression that wasn't entirely professional. The look disappeared quickly as his usual control took over, but that brief glimpse confirmed what your morning conversation had established—Lewis was interested in you beyond just strategic advantage, creating possibilities neither of you had expected when you signed those marriage papers.

Those possibilities would have to wait, though. Mueller and his banking empire came first—another move in the complex game that defined your shared existence, another piece on the international chessboard of power and influence.

You followed Lewis toward the door, mentally reviewing key points from the files while thinking about how to show the right level of marital connection that Mueller would expect. The double performance felt strangely fitting—operating on multiple levels at once had always been a survival skill in your world.

At least with Lewis, you weren't carrying the strategic burden alone. For the first time in your experience with powerful men, you had a partner who saw your mind as an asset rather than an inconvenience, who treated you as an equal player instead of just decoration.

Whatever else might develop between you—whatever that heated look and your morning conversation might lead to—that fundamental respect created a foundation unlike anything you'd experienced in your father's world of traditional power structures.

The thought brought an unexpected warmth as you stepped into the elevator beside Lewis, his hand resting briefly at the small of your back in a gesture that could have been just for show but somehow felt more genuine than calculation alone would explain.

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

Banque Privée Genève occupied a discreet limestone building that managed to project both historical gravitas and understated wealth without resorting to the ostentatious displays that characterized newer financial institutions. No gleaming steel and glass here, no modern architectural statements—just three centuries of accumulated power disguised as conservative respectability.

The car dropped you at a side entrance where private clients could avoid the public lobby, a concierge in impeccable formal attire greeting you by name without consulting any visible record. Such flawless execution spoke to thorough preparation—Mueller's operation had been studying you both well before your arrival.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the man said with perfect Swiss precision—not too warm, not too distant. "Herr Mueller is expecting you. If you would follow me, please."

The corridors you traversed could have belonged to an exclusive museum rather than financial institution—antique furnishings that were clearly original rather than reproduction, oil paintings by masters whose works rarely appeared at public auction, display cases housing historical documents that traced the bank's lineage through European wars and financial crises it had weathered with characteristic neutrality.

Lewis walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed—establishing the comfortable physical proximity your strategy required without overplaying the connection. His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as you entered an elevator requiring key card access, the touch feeling less calculated than previous similar gestures. Whatever was developing between you had begun bleeding through the performance, creating something that felt increasingly genuine despite its strategic foundations.

Mueller's office occupied the building's top floor, a space that managed to be both grand and understated—old money that had no need to announce its presence with flashy displays. The man himself embodied similar contradiction—mid-sixties with silver hair and patrician features, his suit so perfectly tailored it appeared molded to his frame.

"Mr. Hamilton," Mueller greeted, extending his hand with precisely calibrated pressure in the handshake. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after our extensive correspondence."

"The pleasure's mine," Lewis replied smoothly. "Thanks for accommodating our schedule change."

Mueller turned his attention to you, his assessment quick but comprehensive—taking in every detail from your carefully selected attire to the wedding band on your finger. "And Mrs. Hamilton. A delightful addition to our meeting. I was unaware you would be joining us today."

"My wife has a unique perspective on digital currency integration that's particularly relevant," Lewis explained, the word 'wife' somehow sounding natural in his British accent. "Her financial tech background has given our operations an edge I've come to rely on."

Mueller's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly reassessing initial assumptions about your presence. "How fascinating. The younger generation's embrace of technology provides critical advantage in evolving markets. Please, both of you, be seated."

The chairs positioned before Mueller's massive oak desk were deliberately placed, close enough to suggest unity between occupants while maintaining clear sightlines for all participants. You took your seat with practiced grace, crossing your legs at the ankle in the conservative posture your mother had drilled into you for such situations.

"I understand congratulations are in order," Mueller continued, gesturing toward your wedding rings. "A recent union, yes? You're in Geneva for your honeymoon, I'm told."

"Thank you," Lewis replied, his tone warming slightly. "Yes, we're combining business with pleasure while in Switzerland. Geneva has special significance for both our families."

The careful phrasing established both personal connection to the location and hint of generational ties, exactly the type of dynastic implication Mueller reportedly valued in clients. Your briefing materials had emphasized the banker's preference for family operations over individual entrepreneurs, his belief in bloodlines and succession as indicators of reliable long-term partnerships.

"The most successful unions in our world balance both practical alliance and personal compatibility," Mueller observed, his gaze moving between you with evaluative precision. "Particularly across traditional territorial boundaries. Quite progressive, bringing American and British operations together through marriage."

"The old geographical divisions don't really matter in digital markets anymore," you replied, joining the conversation naturally. "Strategic positioning across financial systems matters more than physical location now."

Mueller's attention sharpened at your contribution, his assessment visibly adjusting. "Indeed. A perspective many of my more traditional clients struggle to embrace." He leaned forward slightly. "Your father's operation maintains more conventional territorial focus, if I recall correctly."

The direct reference to your family connection confirmed what you'd suspected, Mueller had thoroughly researched both your backgrounds, understanding exactly what alliance your marriage represented. No point in pretense with someone so well-informed.

"My father's good at what he does within established boundaries," you acknowledged diplomatically. "Lewis and I see opportunities in pushing beyond them."

Lewis's hand moved to rest lightly on your forearm—a subtle gesture of approval that felt warmer than mere performance would justify. "Her insights on regulatory adaptations have already given us an edge in our European expansion. Especially with integrating blockchain and traditional banking systems."

The discussion shifted into technical territory—Mueller probing your combined knowledge of financial systems, testing both expertise and unity of vision through increasingly pointed questions. You and Lewis responded with natural coordination, each covering areas of strength while supporting the other's perspectives.

The banker's skepticism gradually transformed into genuine interest as the conversation progressed, particularly when you outlined how digital currency conversion could address traditional banking vulnerabilities.

"Your approach is more sophisticated than I anticipated," Mueller acknowledged, making notes in an actual leather-bound ledger rather than electronic device—old-school methods for old-school power. "Most clients in your... particular industry... focus exclusively on concealment rather than legitimate integration opportunities."

"Hiding money only works for so long in today's world," Lewis responded. "We're more interested in building systems that work across different regulatory environments, not just hiding assets."

"A longer-term perspective," Mueller noted with approval. "Generational thinking rather than quarterly objectives."

"Exactly," you confirmed, seeing the perfect opening to appeal to Mueller's known preferences. "We're building foundations that will last well beyond our lives."

Mueller's eyes moved meaningfully between you, the implication clear without being stated directly—foundations that included potential heirs, succession planning, dynasty-building that appealed to his traditional values despite your modern methodologies.

"I believe we can establish arrangements that would serve your particular requirements," he said finally, closing his ledger with deliberate precision. "Though certain additional verifications will be necessary before accounts can be fully activated."

"Of course," Lewis agreed easily. "We expected thorough due diligence. My team has prepared all the documentation you'll need."

Mueller nodded, apparently satisfied with both your professional presentation and the subtle but consistent indicators of genuine partnership. "Excellent. My assistant will coordinate the next steps with your team. I anticipate we can have preliminary accounts established within forty-eight hours, with full functionality following verification protocols."

The timeline was significantly accelerated from typical banking procedures—clear indicator that your combined approach had successfully convinced Mueller of your value as clients. Lewis's hand found yours briefly, a gentle squeeze communicating shared victory without need for words.

"We appreciate your efficiency," Lewis said, rising as Mueller did to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "And your flexibility regarding our accelerated timeline."

"Honeymooners should focus on pleasure rather than extended business negotiations," Mueller replied with surprising hint of warmth. "Geneva offers much to appreciate beyond banking facilities."

You stood as well, smoothing your skirt with practiced grace. "We're looking forward to exploring the city more once the business matters are settled."

Mueller extended his hand to you, the gesture conferring equal professional respect rather than merely ceremonial acknowledgment. "A pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. Your contributions to today's discussion were most illuminating."

"Thank you," you replied, accepting the handshake with precisely the right balance of firmness and feminine grace your mother had taught you for dealing with the traditional European businessmen. "We look forward to a productive relationship with your institution."

The practiced phrases carried weight beyond their surface courtesy—establishing expectations for ongoing connection rather than merely transactional interaction. Mueller's approving nod suggested the message had been received exactly as intended.

Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you prepared to leave. Something was shifting between you with each such contact—boundaries slowly dissolving.

"One moment," Mueller said as you reached the door, his tone suddenly more cautious. "I should mention that an associate of yours is currently in the building. Giovanni Castellano arrived for his appointment earlier than scheduled. I believe you may know each other?"

The name hit you like an unexpected punch despite your earlier discussion of potential Castellano connections. Giovanni's presence immediately following your meeting couldn't be coincidence—the timing was too perfect to be anything but a deliberate power play.

Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the obvious provocation, only the slightest tightening around his eyes betraying his recognition of the competitive challenge. "We know each other," he acknowledged neutrally. "Though it's been a while since we've crossed paths directly."

Mueller's careful neutrality couldn't quite disguise his awareness of the underlying tension. Swiss banking thrived on maintaining relationships with competing interests, providing services to rivals without becoming entangled in their conflicts. "I mention it only as professional courtesy," he explained. "To avoid any... awkward encounters in the lobby."

"Appreciated," Lewis replied smoothly. "Though I don't have any problem greeting a colleague if needed."

The diplomatic phrasing barely disguised the underlying reality—neither man could afford to appear intimidated by potential confrontation, not with Mueller observing their respective responses. Backing down or avoiding contact would signal weakness neither could strategically afford.

"Your wife is welcome to make her own assessment," Mueller said, turning to you with a carefully neutral expression. "Given certain historical connections, I understand."

The reference to your father's previous negotiations with the Castellanos further confirmed your earlier suspicion—Mueller knew exactly who you were and what complex alliances your marriage represented. His seemingly casual mention of Giovanni's presence was actually calculated test of both your individual reactions and your unity as a couple.

"Family connections often go beyond business complications," you replied with the diplomatic smile your mother had perfected through decades of navigating your father's complex allegiances. "I'd be happy to say hello to Signore Castellano if we run into each other."

The response struck a perfect balance—acknowledging the relationship without overstating its significance, maintaining professional courtesy without suggesting actual alliance.

As if on cue, a knock at the office door preceded the entrance of Mueller's assistant. "Herr Mueller, Signore Castellano has arrived for his appointment," he announced.

"Thank you, Klaus," Mueller replied. "Please show him in. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were just leaving."

The timing couldn't have been more perfectly orchestrated if planned in advance—which, you suspected, it very well might have been. Mueller's seemingly coincidental scheduling created an opportunity to observe direct interaction between competing interests.

The door opened fully to reveal Giovanni Castellano in all his traditional Italian glory—Brioni suit in charcoal gray, Ferragamo shoes polished to mirror shine, gold Rolex peeking from beneath French cuffs secured with diamond links. At sixty-five, he remained handsome in that distinctly Mediterranean way that aged like fine wine—silver threading through still-thick black hair, lines around his eyes speaking of laughter rather than hardship, the overall impression one of vitality rather than diminishment.

His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you—genuine surprise not quite masked by practiced social grace. Then a smile spread across his features, transforming serious business demeanor into something warmer and distinctly more Italian in its expressiveness.

"Madonna mia," Giovanni exclaimed, spreading his arms in theatrical gesture of delighted surprise. "Piccolo fiore! Is it really you?"

The childhood nickname—bestowed during a summer gathering at your father's Hampton estate when you were barely ten—carried uncomfortable weight given your current position as another man's wife. Lewis remained perfectly still beside you, his physical presence somehow intensifying without any visible movement.

"Uncle Gio," you replied, using the familial designation despite lack of actual blood relation—the traditional form of respect in your world for older family associates. "What a surprise to see you in Geneva."

Giovanni moved further into the room, his attention focused entirely on you as if Lewis and Mueller had temporarily ceased to exist. "Look how you've grown, piccolo fiore. A woman now, and such a beautiful one." His eyes moved deliberately to your wedding ring, expression shifting toward something less warm. "Though I must say, I was disappointed to learn of your marriage. Especially to..." his gaze finally acknowledged Lewis's presence, "...someone outside our traditional circles."

The implied criticism—Lewis lacking proper Italian heritage—carried deliberate provocation beneath its surface courtesy. Giovanni had always been among the most traditional family leaders, placing enormous value on bloodlines and ethnic connections despite his organization's international operations.

"Lewis and I just click," you replied simply, stepping closer to your husband in a subtle but visible show of unity. "Some traditions are worth moving beyond."

Giovanni's expression registered both surprise and something closer to grudging respect at your direct response—clearly having expected the silent deference traditional wives displayed in your world. Lewis's hand settled at your waist in quiet show of support, the touch feeling protective without being possessive.

"Stefano was quite upset to hear the news," Giovanni continued, referencing his eldest son with deliberate emphasis. "He always had special fondness for you, piccolo fiore. Such a shame timing didn't align differently."

The implication was clear—your father's failed negotiations with the Castellanos might have resulted in very different marriage arrangement had circumstances developed differently. Stefano Castellano's "special fondness" had always left sour taste in your mouth—his attention during family gatherings carrying entitled presumption that had made your skin crawl even as a teenager.

"Please give Stefano my regards," you replied carefully, avoiding the implied romantic connection. "It's been a few years since we saw each other at my father's Christmas party."

"Too many years between our families," Giovanni agreed, his attention finally shifting more directly to Lewis. "Business complications create unnecessary divisions where alliances would be more productive. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Hamilton?"

Lewis's expression remained controlled, his response measured. "Partnerships work when they're built on shared values. The right foundation matters for anything that's going to last."

The professional phrasing couldn't quite disguise the underlying message—some divisions existed for substantive reasons beyond mere territorial competition. Giovanni's smile tightened slightly, recognition flashing beneath practiced cordiality.

"Of course, of course," the Italian agreed with theatrical wave of his hand. "Values, traditions, foundations of family operations. Speaking of which," his attention returned to you, "we've been watching your family's recent developments with great interest. Particularly the expansion into new territories through... unconventional alignments."

The indirect threat was thinly veiled—surveillance of your family's operations wrapped in seemingly casual observation. Lewis remained outwardly relaxed beside you, though you could sense the heightened alertness.

"How nice of you to keep such close tabs on us," you replied, deliberately emphasizing the word 'close' to acknowledge awareness of the surveillance without showing concern. "Of course, Uncle Gio. Our families have always kept an eye on each other's activities."

Giovanni's eyes narrowed slightly at the subtle countermove—your acknowledgment transforming his implied threat into mutual observation rather than one-sided vulnerability.

"Indeed," he agreed after brief pause. "Family connections transcend temporary business complications. Speaking of family," his tone shifted toward seemingly casual inquiry, "how is your lovely sister Gabriella? She must be, what, twenty now?"

The question carried weight beyond surface curiosity—Giovanni's well-known preference for strengthening alliances through marriage making his interest in your unmarried sister's status unmistakably strategic rather than merely conversational.

"Nineteen," you corrected. "And doing great. She's actually mentioned wanting to spend some time in Milan. I think she's been texting with Marco fairly regularly."

The reference to Giovanni's younger son—dropped casually as if it wasn't calculated—landed exactly as intended. Giovanni's expression shifted toward genuine interest, business maneuvering temporarily superseded by parental curiosity.

"Marco? My Marco has been speaking with Gabriella?" The surprise seemed genuine rather than performative. "He didn't mention this development."

"Young people and their private communications," you replied with a conspiratorial smile.

The implication was masterfully structured—suggesting potential romantic interest between Giovanni's son and your sister without making claims that could be directly verified. The "connection" was technically true—Gabriella and Marco had exchanged a few text messages following a charity event both had attended—but substantially exaggerated in its significance.

Giovanni processed this information with visible calculation, his strategic mind already incorporating potential new alliance pathway into existing plans. Despite past differences with your father, the Castellano patriarch had always been among those who placed highest value on uniting powerful families through marriage especially those with strong Italian bloodlines on at least one side.

"How interesting," he said finally, his tone warming considerably. "Young people finding their own paths while still honoring traditional connections. Perhaps we should arrange a family gathering when you return from your... honeymoon." The slight pause before the last word carried clear acknowledgment that your current marriage represented obstacle to a potential Castellano alliance with your sister.

"That would be lovely," you replied with practiced social grace that committed to nothing concrete. "Once our current business matters are settled and we've returned to London, of course."

Lewis chose this moment to re-enter the conversation, his tone balancing professional courtesy with subtle assertion of position. "We shouldn't keep Signore Castellano from his appointment with Herr Mueller any longer. Banking matters wait for no one, as we've just discovered ourselves."

The gentle redirection was masterfully executed—acknowledging Giovanni's status while establishing clear conclusion to the unexpected encounter. Mueller, who had been observing the entire exchange with careful neutrality characteristic of Swiss bankers witnessing potential conflicts between valued clients, nodded in agreement.

"Indeed, schedules remain tight today," the banker confirmed. "Though this unexpected reunion has been most... illuminating."

The final word carried knowing weight, Mueller clearly cataloging the complex dynamics he'd just witnessed for future reference regarding all parties involved. In the Swiss banking world, such intelligence often proved as valuable as financial assets themselves.

"Of course, of course," Giovanni agreed, though his attention remained primarily on you rather than the men. "We mustn't delay important financial matters. But piccolo fiore," he stepped closer, taking your hand with old-world formality, "it truly warms my heart to see you again. You've grown into a magnificent woman, just as your mother once predicted."

The reference to your mother—subtle reminder of Giovanni's longstanding connections to your family that predated current business complications—created another layer of complexity.

"Thank you, Uncle Gio," you replied, accepting the hand clasp with appropriate respect for his age and status despite your marriage to someone he clearly viewed as competitor. "Please give my regards to Aunt Nina and the family."

"I shall, I shall," he promised, finally releasing your hand with reluctant formality. "And we will be watching your progress with great interest. Both of you," he added, finally acknowledging Lewis directly again. "The banking world presents unique challenges for newcomers to its particular traditions."

The subtle warning—Castellano connections potentially influencing your banking arrangements—hung in the air between you as Giovanni stepped back to allow your departure. Lewis's hand returned to its now-familiar position at the small of your back, the touch carrying more definite pressure than in previous similar gestures.

"Until next time, Signore Castellano," Lewis said with perfect professional courtesy that didn't quite mask the underlying steel. "I'm sure our paths will cross again soon enough."

"In our world, they always do," Giovanni agreed, the seemingly casual observation carrying weight of both promise and potential threat. "Safe travels, Signore e Signora Hamilton. Geneva can be treacherous for unwary visitors."

You maintained perfect composure as Lewis guided you from the office, the practiced social mask never slipping despite the multiple layers of threatening subtext beneath seemingly cordial exchange. Only once the elevator doors closed, leaving you momentarily alone in the confined space, did you allow yourself to exhale fully.

"Well," you said quietly, aware of potential surveillance even in private banking elevators, "that was unexpected."

"Was it?" Lewis asked, his voice equally low though his expression remained neutral for any watching cameras. "Mueller strikes me as someone who creates opportunities to observe client interactions rather than leaving such intelligence to chance."

"True," you acknowledged. "Though Giovanni's presence itself might have been a coincidence. The Castellanos have maintained Swiss banking relationships for generations."

Lewis's hand found yours, fingers interlacing with deliberate intent that felt more protective than performative now that you were beyond Mueller's direct observation. "There are remarkably few coincidences in our world, particularly involving banking arrangements and family rivalries."

The elevator reached the ground floor, doors opening to reveal the discreet private lobby where Mueller's special clients could exit without being seen. Lewis's security team waited with their usual vigilance, Jensen stepping forward immediately.

"Car's ready, sir," he reported crisply. "Route's secure, no unusual activity."

Lewis nodded, his hand still holding yours as you moved toward the exit. The touch felt different now—a connection born from navigating those tricky waters together rather than just putting on a show for watching eyes.

"Meeting with Mueller went well," Lewis told Jensen as you approached the waiting vehicle. "But we've got a complication with Castellano showing interest. Keep surveillance up until we're clear of the banking district."

Jensen took this with professional calm, already activating his comms to alert the others. "Understood. Adjusting now."

As the car door closed behind you, creating a bubble of privacy, Lewis finally let his controlled expression relax slightly. "You were amazing in there," he said quietly, genuine admiration in his voice. "Mueller was impressed by your technical knowledge, but how you handled Giovanni was something else."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on looks or charm—he actually recognized your strategic skills, and that hit differently.

"The 'Uncle Gio' thing definitely caught him off guard," you acknowledged, remembering the surprise on Giovanni's face. "He's used to throwing around family connections to intimidate people, not having it turned back on him."

"It divided his attention perfectly," Lewis added, clearly appreciating your tactical thinking. "He couldn't focus solely on competing with us anymore."

This felt like real partnership, not just an arranged alliance—recognizing how your different skills created something better than either of you could manage alone.

"Mueller will approve the accounts," Lewis said, shifting to practical matters. "Our unified front was exactly what he wanted to see."

"Funny how our honeymoon cover story actually served a real purpose," you noted with a touch of irony.

Something changed in Lewis's expression, shifting from purely professional assessment to something more personal. "Sometimes strategies work out better than we plan," he said quietly. "Creating value we didn't expect."

As the car moved through Geneva's elegant streets, Lewis's hand found yours again. The contact wasn't necessary for show anymore, but he maintained it anyway. Something was shifting between you with each moment like this—boundaries fading not through violation but through mutual recognition of a connection developing beyond what was in the contract.

The famous lake gleamed outside your window, mountains rising majestically in the distance, beauty that had witnessed centuries of alliances made and broken, while Swiss neutrality provided a safe harbor regardless of who won or lost. Your own situation seemed both significant and tiny against this backdrop—personal changes playing out where generations had navigated similar waters before you.

"I believe that calls for celebration," Lewis said once you'd returned to the hotel suite, loosening his tie with uncharacteristic casualness. "Mueller's approval typically takes weeks, not hours. And I still can’t get over the way you handled Giovanni. Brilliant."

The suite felt different somehow upon your return—the morning's unexpected intimacy having shifted your perception of the space. Lewis moved to the bar, selecting a bottle of champagne with the efficient precision you'd come to expect from him.

"Mueller definitely didn't expect us to tag-team him like that," you acknowledged, slipping off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Though I bet Giovanni showing up was Mueller's idea all along."

"No doubt," Lewis agreed, opening the champagne with a controlled pop. "Swiss bankers love to watch how their clients handle pressure. Two birds, one stone kind of thing."

He poured two flutes and handed one to you, his eyes warmer than usual. "To kicking ass in banking negotiations."

"And surprising the hell out of Italians," you added with a smile, clinking your glass against his.

The champagne was excellent—crisp and not too sweet. You moved toward the window, enjoying the view of Geneva while allowing yourself a rare moment to actually feel satisfied about something.

"That Castellano move was smart," Lewis said, joining you at the window. "Bringing up Gabriella and Marco was a nice touch too."

"Giovanni's always thought of himself as everyone's Italian patriarch," you explained, remembering summers where he'd dispensed unwanted advice to all the younger generation. "He can't resist the chance to play matchmaker, even when he's supposed to be threatening us."

Lewis watched you with that intense focus that still sent an unexpected warmth through you. "You know, most people would've gotten defensive when he brought up your marriage. But you turned it around on him completely."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on appearance. He actually respected your mind, and that hit differently than you expected.

"My mother would say I just applied her lessons on handling difficult men," you replied with a half-smile.

"She taught you well," Lewis said, that rare smile briefly appearing. "But I think you've got natural talent."

You settled onto the window seat cushion, relaxing in a way that would have been impossible in public. Lewis remained standing, still carrying that readiness that never fully left him.

"Do you ever actually relax?" you asked. "Even now, you look ready to take down a threat at any second."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Hard habit to break," he admitted. "Survival mode becomes your default setting after a while."

"Even with champagne and a win this big?" you pressed, sensing a rare opportunity to see behind his carefully maintained facade.

Something shifted in his expression—a decision to let you see a bit more than usual. "Especially after a win," he said quietly. "That's when you're most vulnerable. When you think you're safe... that's usually when everything goes sideways."

The insight felt personal rather than theoretical. You found yourself genuinely curious about the experiences that had shaped him, what had created both his controlled precision and those glimpses of warmth you'd been seeing more frequently.

"Sounds like you learned that the hard way," you observed.

Lewis moved to join you on the window seat, reducing the physical distance between you. "Yeah," he acknowledged, setting his champagne aside. "Experience is a hell of a teacher. Especially when the lessons involve blood rather than just bruised pride."

His simple statement carried the weight of history you'd only glimpsed in fragments. The scars on his knuckles and forearms told stories his carefully measured words typically concealed.

"I got too comfortable after some early successes," he continued, surprising you by elaborating without further prompting. "Let my guard down. Started celebrating before I should have. And it cost me... more than I was prepared to lose."

The clinical way he said it couldn't quite hide the emotion underneath—personal pain transformed into hard principles through self-discipline. For the first time, you wondered about Lewis's life before he became the powerful, controlled man you knew—what relationships he might have had, what connections might have been severed.

"I'm sorry," you said simply.

Lewis looked momentarily surprised by your response, as if he'd expected something more strategic. "It was a long time ago," he replied, though his expression suggested the impact hadn't faded with time. "Made me better at what I do now, anyway."

Even personal loss became strategic advantage with Lewis—pain recalibrated into useful principles. Yet this glimpse of vulnerability felt like trust extended rather than weakness revealed.

"To lessons learned," you said quietly, raising your glass.

Lewis's expression softened as he picked up his champagne to meet your toast. "And doing better with them going forward."

The conversation drifted to more practical matters—next steps with Mueller, security plans, how to handle the Castellanos. Yet that underlying current remained, your connection subtly transformed by this shared moment into something more substantial than professional alignment alone.

When Lewis's phone eventually interrupted with a call that couldn't be ignored, you felt an unexpected disappointment. The realization itself was surprising—that you'd started to value these quieter moments with him.

"I should take this," Lewis said, genuine regret in his tone as he checked the caller ID. "Claire wouldn't call unless it was important."

"Of course," you said, professional understanding replacing personal disappointment with practiced ease. "Business never waits. Mueller taught us that much today."

Lewis stood with his usual grace, but paused before moving away to take the call. In a gesture that felt both calculated and spontaneous, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss against your forehead—brief contact that felt warmer now that no one was watching to make it necessary.

"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything today."

Then he was moving toward the office space, already shifting into business mode as he answered Claire's call, transforming from briefly relaxed to fully operational despite the champagne and momentary lowering of guards between you.

You remained at the window, watching Geneva spread out before you while your thoughts circled this latest evolution in your relationship with Lewis. Not quite a traditional marriage, not merely a business arrangement, but something developing its own unique shape, a connection building itself rather than following any predetermined pattern.

The celebration had been brief but genuine, the victory truly shared. Whatever developed next would build on the foundation being established through moments like this—trust extended through both professional respect and personal confidence, understanding built through actually seeing each other rather than just the roles you played.

Your wedding ring caught the afternoon light as you finished your champagne, the diamond's sparkle a reminder of a binding that had begun as strategic necessity but was evolving into something neither of you had anticipated. Not quite love in the traditional sense, but a connection increasingly substantial beyond mere convenience.

Lewis's voice carried from the office, handling whatever complication Claire had identified with his usual efficiency. The sound reminded you of the reality underlying your shared existence—danger and strategy never truly gone.

.............tbd

[miabbh]

Princess Skin 💈

husband!Baekhyun x reader

Synopsis: that your husband is a starved man when the matter is you, nothing new; sometimes, though, you need to remind him that you have a princess skin and it's sensitive & he needs to shave. it's okay to dely his morning banquet, you try to tell him; it actually is, he conforms, you're there to help.

Genre: playfull banter, slice of life, quite ⚠⚠ explicit smut ⚠⚠ (oral sex–fem!receiving) | ~2,5k words

A low, hoarse sigh escapes Baekhyun's lips, resonating from deep within his chest, filling the quiet intimacy of the bathroom. The sound lingers, blending into the golden warmth of the wall lights as you gently tilt his head to the side. 

He obeys without hesitation, his eyes fluttering shut, his hands resting firmly on your thighs. His grip is steady, grounding, hungry, fingers curling slightly over the hem of your oversized T-shirt—the one he used to wear but now lives permanently on your side of the wardrobe and makes a familiar sense of pride burn on his chest.

With careful precision, you trace the line of his jaw with the razor, your movement slow and deliberate as the white layer disappears to give way to his beautiful skin tone. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and the faint scratch of stubble yields easily to the blade in a dry sound.

You focus, the rhythm of the task drawing you in so you don't cut him. Or at least, you try. Maybe, you do focus—on the closeness of his body, his breath soft against your wrist, the way the tips of his fingers play with your skin, that threatens to distract you.

You take the blade to the basin full of water on your left, leaving the foam and the so short dark hairs floating in it. You can feel his eyes on you, following each movement with his gaze as your breasts gently sway beneath the fabric. The height difference is not significant, even with you sitting on the counter, but your gaze is slightly above his as you side eye him, arched eyebrow. 

Those dark brown chocolate eyes melt slowly as a smirk grows on his lips, the fire beneath them burning slow, low and that oh so well pretended good behavior of his...

It had all started that morning, not long before this moment, when you were stirred awake by the faint, bristling sensation of his stubble against your neck. The warmth of him pressed against your back was the first thing you registered—the solid weight of his chest rising and falling in the slightly accelerated rhythm you've learned to know too well the meaning. Half-asleep, you instinctively raised a hand to his face, your fingers brushing over the rough texture of his unshaven jaw hidden in the tangle of your hair.

A warm kiss pressed against your neck, right where the steady pulse of blood thrummed beneath your skin. His lips lingered, soft yet deliberate, coaxing your breath to hitch as the warmth of his mouth sent a gentle shiver cascading down your spine.

The sheets rustled as he shifted beside you before the soft moan leave your lips fully, the faint weight of them pulling away leaving you more exposed to the cool morning air.

You stirred, your body half-claimed by sleep, yet acutely aware of him. His hand slid along your thigh, the touch slow and unhurried, a silent request you couldn't deny. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he repositioned himself between your thighs, his movements purposeful but tender. Fingers brushed against the fabric of your shirt, the hem riding higher with every inch he claimed until his right hand cupped your breast, squeezing it with the whole palm.

Your back arched against the touch as you looked for a more comfortable position, already feeling a pleasant tingling in your stomach, your breathing quickening in anticipation, too drowned to him, to his touch, to all the things you knew he was caplable of doing and still surprised you every single time.

Your mind, intoxicated by expectation and not fully awakened sleep, took a while to register the muffled words coming from under the sheets. Before you could think to ask, the pressure from your panties on your hip bone as he pulled them to the side made you close your eyes again.

The tips of his fingers moved ever so slightly over your already wet clit, a gasp getting stuck in your throat. You could already imagine it—his face focused, his eyes wide and bright as he licked his soft pink lips, preparing to devour a feast. And oh my- you loved seeing him so hopelessly starved of you first thing in the morning.

You fought the instinct to close your legs when his index and middle finger slid between yours wet folds, caught by his teasing. Although, the soft satisfied sound that left your lips quickly turned into one of frustration, his fingers no longer touching you, the stubborn elastic of your panties covering your clit again.

The soft light from the room illuminated his face as you lifted the sheets, peeking at him. A wave of heat burned your cheeks as you caught him with both fingers on his mouth, lingering just against the tip of his tongue as he looked up at you.

Any complaint has left your being. You left him be, laying back down, his image stuck in the back of your mind.

But then you felt it—the rough scrape of his stubble, this time against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The contrast was exquisite, a deliberate tease that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Baby…" you murmured, blindly grabbing his hair as a shiver runned down your spine on a not-so-satisfying feeling.

He didn't seem to listen, his touch unrelenting yet gentle, his hands steady as they coaxed your legs further apart as his lips met your warmth, sucking it gently. A soft, low hum came from him, a sound that vibrated against your skin, reverberating through you.

You held back a melodic ah as the kisses and hickeys spread your leaking wetness, his teeth too teasing you, parted only enough to let the warm breaths of air chill you a little more.

You knew he had lost the patience to wait when both hands grabbed you, one by your thigh and the other by the curve of your butt, holding your panties with the thumb right before his tongue sinfuly make its way from your entrance up to the clit.

The sensation had you shivering, the brown strands intertwined tightly around your fingers. But then, a burning sensation took over.

"Baek..." a slight frown wrinkle your forehead as you spoke. "You're scratching me."

He paused for a moment, just long enough to let the anticipation build, his warm breath fanning over your exposed skin. 

"You’re really making me stop to go shave?" he murmured from beneath the sheets, the rough edge of his stubble grazing your inner thigh again as be leaned on the elbows.

You tilted your head back against the pillow, your voice barely steady as you tried to pull your leg away.

"You already know my opinion on that."

You could feel him smirking against your skin, pressing another lingering kiss just above your knee. 

"If I even grow a beard someday, will you keep me away from you sweet pussy for at least three weeks 'til it's longer enough not to sting?" he teased, his hands sliding further up your leg, his touch igniting sparks which were all concentrated between your legs.

You tried to form a witty reply, the warmth of his breath and the deliberate hoarse words against your bare skin making it impossible to think clearly for a few seconds.

"Most likely." you managed to say, the mental image of a Baekhyun with a beard being difficult to conceive.

Baekhyun let go of your thighs, the warm sigh—more like a laugh—that left his mouth got you weak, and for a moment you almost pulled him back to you.

Reappearing from under the sheets scratching his chin, he looked at you. His lips found their way to yours, his whole body weighing you down against the mattress.

You could feel your taste on him, the growing hardness in his pyjama's pants pressing against you.

"Wanna help me?" he whispered, his voice low, thick with that sweet, convincing manipulation he wielded so well. His gaze moved down from your eyes to your lips, down to your neck—his thumb running through your clavicles. "Can't have my breakfast getting cold while waiting for me…"

And that is how you ended up here—perched on the counter, your legs parted to frame him as he stands between them. His gaze follows your every movement, dark and unwavering, as you dip the razor into the basin and wipe it clean on the towel. 

The room is quiet save for the faint sound of water droplets and the soft scrape of metal as you carefully slid the blade down the line of his throat. His pulse steady, though the faint rise and fall of his chest betrays a quiet anticipation.

His adam's apple shifts, slow and deliberate, as he swallows under your careful touch.

You pause for a moment, your thumb brushing over the smooth skin you’d left in the razor's wake. His eyes flick up to meet yours, holding you there with a look that is equal parts trust and something deeper—something raw, burning hot and leaving you nervous.

The corner of his mouth tug upward in a slow, lazy smile. 

"You like this, don’t you?" he teases, his voice soft, playful.

"You seem to be enjoying it more than me." you murmur, and his hands tighten ever so slightly on your thighs, moving further.

You roll your eyes, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrays your pretended annoyance. Carefully, you tilt his chin higher, exposing more of his neck, your fingers brushing against the sharp edge of his jaw. The moment is intoxicating, the intimacy—his surrender, your sense of control, the quiet tension crackling between you like static electricity.

You can feel the tiny, slippery puddle forming in the marble under you, your panties—left somewhere you'll probably only find out after you get back from work— no longer being a protective barrier.

"You know…." he says, his voice low and gravelly. "...we could make of this a routine; I let my beard grow a little more than usual, you get all upset and bossy because I scratch your princess skin, and you get to see my face up this close while I-" he slides his thumb over your wetness, making you pull the blade away. A smirk grows on his face. "-til her royal highness authorize the presence of my mouth between her legs again. Huh? What do you say? Good deal?"

You sigh, spreading your legs slightly more. You try to disguise it, wiping the razor clean again, but the gaze is mischief enough for you to know you got caught.

It's not like he's in a place to speak: you could literally see the entire outline of his dick against the pants, his shoulders tense in an anticipation that you know too well. He's as needy as you, but his patience begins to inhibit itself—something you grow used to for good and for bad since he returned from the military.

"Stay still. I'm not done yet." Your eyes flicked back up to his, locking onto the dark intensity there.

A single line of shaving cream remained, stretching from his chin to the base of his neck, and you couldn't help but let your lips curl into a faint, teasing smile.

"My only intention is not to get all scratched up." you add, your voice light with a hint of mischief. 

His smirk was slow, deliberate, and maddeningly confident. His falsely shy fingers slide into your folds with a mix of restraint and indulgence that, he knows, leaves you aching for more. Looking into your eyes, he slowly curls them up against your sensitive walls.

"I think we both know you don't mind a little scratch." he says, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver up your spine.

You shift on the counter, your buttock slipping on the cold marble due to that messy puddle you forgot about. Baekhyun grabs your hip with the free hand, steadying you in place.

"Eager, baby?" he teases.

You narrow your eyes at him, looking down at his left hand under your shirt. With a silently warning—to which he responds with a firmer grip the stillness of his fingers and hiding the lower lip, stretching the chin skin—you take the razor's next glide, slow and steady along the smooth curve of it.

"Keep talking and I might 'accidentally' nick you." you warn him, though the way your thumb lightly brushes him betrays the care you are taking, trying not to squeeze his fingers, sinking them deeper.

His Adam's apple bobbed again as he swallowed, the movement deliberate.

"I'm not worried." he replies as the blade leaves his skin as you make him tilt the head back again to light, checking your work. His tone a mix of trust and something more playful. "You'd never risk ruining your masterpiece."

You snort softly, dipping the razor back into the water and wiping it clean on the towel. 

"Such confidence in me." you mutter, shaking your head, trying to deny the warmth curling low in your stomach at the way his gaze hadn't left you for a second. Only the grip of his on you is keeping you from moving by now.

He leans in slightly, just enough for the edge of his stubble to graze your wrist as you adjust his chin again. 

"Confidence, or just faith in you?" his voice a low rumble seems to vibrate through the small space between you. He digs his fingers into you, his thumb finding the pressure point just above your clit and moving in small circles. "You're my beloved wife, aren't you? So committed to keeping me in line... or at least keeping me smooth."

You pause, the razor held just above his skin, your breath catching as you close your eyes. For a moment, neither of you move, the air between you thick and warm.

"Baek..." His nickname falls from your lips in a barely audible whisper, the sound trembling in the quiet space. Your eyes flicker upward, struggling to meet his intense gaze as you steel yourself. "Lemme finish this and I'm all yours."

Baekhyun smirks, the curve of his lips both wicked and knowing. He shifts slightly, the smallest movement sending his thumb grazing over your clit—just enough to steal your breath and make you falter. Then, just as quickly, he pulls away, leaving a warmth that lingers long after his touch is gone.

"Go ahead." he murmurs, his tone laced with amusement.

And then, with deliberate care, you resume your work, the corner of your lips lifting ever so slightly.

"Not an easy job, to keep you smooth." you put down the blade, holding up the towel to clean his skin of any remaining cream and opening the moisturizing cream bottle. You apply a gentle layer of it on his skin, proud of your job, but it's quickly forgotten. "And it's probably over now…"

He grins.

"Of course it is." he leans against you again, his lips moving against yours as your hips are grabbed against his with a fast movement, taking you away from the counter. Your legs instinctively intertwine around his hips, you hands finding home on the back of his neck and hair.

The sensation is maddening, his lips finding their way downward, planting feather-light kisses along the curve of your neck, each one slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of warmth and want in their wake.

"Let me have my sweet treat now." he murmurs before making his way to the bed, sinking you into the pillows and crumpled sheets.

His body towers over yours, his broad shoulders pressing on your thighs open. His lips meet your stomach in a slow pace, his tongue pressing against your skin before sinking into your pussy again.

You glance down, your breath hitching as your eyes meet his—hungry, desperate, and unwavering. His starved gaze locks onto yours, the raw intensity in his expression sending a wave of heat coursing through your body.

The sounds of his tongue and lips working against you fill the room, unrestrained and unapologetic, echoing through the space with an intimacy that makes you see stars for a moment.

A moan escapes your lips, drawn out by the relentless rhythm of his movements. The sound seems to affect him too, and he answers with a low groan of his own, muffled against you as his hips press into the mattress beneath him. The sheets rustle under his weight, his movements restless, insatiable.

Your hand finds its way to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as his name falls from your lips in a breathless cry. He doesn't stop, doesn't falter; if anything, your touch spurs him further, his focus entirely on you, on this, on the unspoken connection binding you together, and on the way he seems go never get enough of you.

His hands roam over your skin, your thighs, your hips, your waist. His touch is almost frantic, fingers digging in as though he's anchoring himself, or perhaps losing control altogether.

You catch the faint glimmer of tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, his pupils blown wide with lust, his face flushed and utterly consumed by the moment. And oh... you're thankful you're also a pillow princess.

[mocharyc]

𝙰𝚣𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚜 Pt.2!!

♡ 7 Invincible variants x reader (Lake Trip!!) ♡

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ The Lake's Secret‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 13k+ [2 Part] ☆ TW: fluff(LOTS of kisses/funny moments) Omni-Mark Mohawk-mark Sinister Mark

☆ Author's Note: Went a little crazy on the heavy fluff in this chapter, I just wanted to give each variant some love <3 smut up next!! PS. I did a lot of description in this chapter for each variant appearance in swimwear :P bare with me pls!! AHH

⊹ ࣪ ﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

The morning sunlight transformed the fortress corridors into ribbons of gold and amber as Y/N changed into the swimming attire she'd discovered in her wardrobe. The fabric was unlike anything from Earth—lightweight yet substantial, with a subtle iridescence that shifted between teal and lavender depending on how the light caught it. The two-piece suit fit as if tailored specifically for her body, comfortable in a way that suggested whoever—or whatever—had prepared this place had considered even the smallest details of their comfort.

She ran her fingers along the material, marveling at how it seemed to respond to her touch—warming slightly, conforming more perfectly to her curves. Catching her reflection in the polished metal surface that served as a mirror.

The reflection showed someone different than the woman who'd been a GDA experiment only months ago—stronger now, not just physically but emotionally. Something else had changed too—a certain softness in her expression that hadn't been there during the war, a hint of contentment despite everything they'd endured.

She wrapped a flowing coverup around her shoulders—a gauzy material that felt like silk but possessed surprising durability—and slipped her feet into sandals that adjusted to her exact foot shape the moment she stepped into them.

"Ready for some fun?" Lensless called, practically materializing outside her door.

He wore what appeared to be swimming shorts in a vibrant blue, his lean but powerful frame practically vibrating with excitement. His face was alight with anticipation, dimples appearing as his smile stretched wide. The sunlight filtering through nearby windows highlighted the defined muscles of his shoulders and chest, not as bulky as some of the other variants. "No-Mask found a shortcut to the lake through the eastern terraces!" 

Y/N smiled at his enthusiasm. "Lead the way."

They found the others gathering in the grand entrance hall.

Mohawk stood with his arms crossed, pretending disinterest despite the anticipation evident in his restless shifting. He'd chosen black swim shorts with electric blue accents that matched his mohawk—which was styled as meticulously as ever despite the casual occasion. His jaw was set in its usual stubborn line, but his eyes kept darting toward the entrance with poorly concealed eagerness.

His physique was more rugged than the others, with broader shoulders and thicker arms covered in a tapestry of battle scars that told stories of countless fights. A particularly jagged mark curved around his right bicep—newer than the others, perhaps a souvenir from their recent dimensional war. His chest was broader and covered in a mat of dark hair that tapered into a prominent trail leading down his stomach toward the waistband of his shorts. Unlike the other variants, he wore a thick silver chain around his neck—something he'd salvaged from his destroyed world, though he'd never explained its significance.

"About time," he grumbled when he saw Y/N, though his eyes softened as they tracked over her figure, pupils dilating slightly. The harsh lines of his face gentled, "Thought maybe you'd changed your mind."

"And miss seeing you actually relax for once?" Y/N teased. "Not a chance."

His lips twitched, fighting a smile. "Who says I'm relaxing? Maybe I just want to show off my superior diving skills."

"Superior to what?" Y/N countered, stepping closer to him with playful confidence. "Last I checked, you sink like a stone."

Mohawk's eyebrows shot up, surprised and delighted by her challenge. He leaned down, his considerable height advantage allowing him to tower over her despite her enhanced physiology. "Oh, you're asking for it now, princess," he growled, "First one in the water gets to decide dinner tonight."

"Deal," she agreed, eyes sparkling. "Hope you like cooking."

Phantom stood slightly apart from the group, his swimming attire a stark contrast to his usual masked appearance. Though still covered from neck to ankle in what resembled a sleek wetsuit, the absence of his mask revealed a face startlingly similar to the other's, yet marked by a scar that bisected his right eyebrow. His eyes, when they met Y/N's, held a vulnerability that his mask always concealed—deep brown with tiny flecks of amber near the pupils, framed by surprisingly long lashes with soft brown locks pooling over his forehead. The wetsuit clung to his frame like a second skin, revealing lean muscle that spoke more of agility than raw power. 

"You look... nice," he offered quietly, the words slightly awkward as if compliments were foreign territory. A hint of color touched his cheekbones as he spoke.

"So do you," Y/N replied with equal softness, letting her gaze linger on his exposed face with deliberate appreciation. "It's good to finally see you."

"Thank you for giving me a reason to take it off," he murmured, so quietly she almost missed it. His fingers brushed against hers briefly—a fleeting touch that sent unexpected warmth up her arm.

The double meaning wasn't lost on her; a faint flush colored her cheeks as she inclined her head in acknowledgment.

No-Mask approached with a large woven basket tucked under one arm. "I've packed provisions," he announced. His usually perfectly combed hair was slightly more relaxed today, a few strands falling across his forehead in a way that made him appear younger, less severe. His swim trunks were a practical navy blue, conservative compared to the others but still revealing a physique that balanced strength with academic precision—the body of someone who trained methodically rather than brutally. An intricate tattoo peeked just above his hip, mathematical symbols interwoven with what might have been dimensional coordinates.

"Local fruits, those bread-adjacent items Mohawk didn't completely destroy at breakfast, and some of the luminescent beverages."

"I added those fizzy purple ones you liked yesterday," he added specifically to Y/N, a hint of pride in his voice. "They're at the bottom to maintain optimal temperature." The small, thoughtful gesture revealed a side of No-Mask rarely displayed—someone who quietly observed preferences and adjusted accordingly.

"Always such a boy scout," Sinister drawled, materializing from the shadows with predatory grace. His swimming attire—black with strategic yellow accents—managed to appear both casual and dangerous, clinging to his muscular frame in a way that drew the eye despite one's better judgment. His body was a perfect balance of aesthetics and lethality—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, every muscle defined as if sculpted. Unlike the others whose scars seemed random, several of Sinister's formed intentional patterns—ritualistic markings from ceremonies Y/N dared not ask about. His dark hair fell in loose waves around his face today instead of its usual severe styling, softening his sharp features in a way that reminded her of their time alone together in that other dimension.

His trademark smirk played at the corners of his mouth, but there was something almost playful in his black eyes today. "Some things transcend dimensions, it seems."

"At least I contribute," No-Mask retorted, though without real heat.

"I've contributed plenty," Sinister countered, arching one perfect eyebrow. "Who do you think convinced the provisioning system to include those bottles of fermented nectar you're so fond of pretending not to enjoy?"

He caught Y/N's eye and winked, she couldn't help but smile in return. "Our resident academic enjoys his intoxicants when he thinks no one is watching, dove," he stage-whispered, draping an arm casually around her bare shoulders and leaning close enough that his breath tickled her ear. "Quite the dancer after his third glass, too."

No-Mask's ears reddened slightly as he looked away. "I have no idea what you're referring to."

"Liar," Sinister chuckled, his arm lingering on Y/N's shoulders a moment longer than necessary before he gracefully pulled away. His fingertips trailed along her arm as he did, a subtle reminder of their shared intimacy that sent goosebumps across her skin.

Viltrumite Mark emerged from a side corridor. Unlike the others who had opted for Earth-style swimwear, he wore what appeared to be traditional Viltrumite bathing attire—a form-fitting white garment with intricate silver detailing along the sides that highlighted his impressive physique without being ostentatious. His body carried the unmistakable perfection of pure Viltrumite genetics—taller than the others by several inches, his musculature denser, shoulders broader, with a chest covered in dark, thick hair. Where the others wore their scars openly, his skin was largely unmarked—a testament not to a peaceful past but to higher Viltrumite regenerative abilities. 

The traditional attire left his powerfully built legs exposed as well, revealing calves as hard as marble and thighs that spoke of incalculable strength. His dark hair was slightly longer than the others now that it was loose, and slicked back it looked softer than a baby's butt (is that the right fraze? 😭)

His expression remained composed, but there was a softness around his eyes when they landed on Y/N.

"The weather is ideal for aquatic recreation," he observed, voice deep and measured. "The atmospheric conditions suggest minimal precipitation probability." Despite his formal speech, there was an undercurrent of anticipation in his tone.

"In other words," Y/N translated with a warm smile, "perfect day for a swim?" When he nodded, she boldly reached out to touch his arm—a gesture that once would have seemed impossible given his intimidating presence. "Will you actually get in the water with me? Or just observe from the shore like a stalker?"

A hint of color touched his high cheekbones, as he held back a soft chuckle, "I will participate," he confirmed, his large hand briefly covering hers where it rested on his arm. "Your enthusiasm is... infectious."

"Thank you for the weather report, old man," Mohawk snorted, Interrupting their little moment. "Some of us just call it 'a nice day'."

Viltrumite Mark's lips quirked, "Efficiency of language is not always the highest virtue."

"Neither is excessive verbosity," Mohawk countered, but there was a grudging respect in his tone that hadn't been there weeks ago.

Omni Mark was the last to join them, emerging from a side corridor quietly. He'd chosen swimming attire in deep burgundy that contrasted with his usual red and gray suit, the color highlighting the powerful lines of his physique without ostentation. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, revealing features that appeared somehow younger without his usual severe expression—still bearing the weight of leadership but touched now by something almost like anticipation.

His body combined the best aspects of the others—the power of Viltrumite Mark, the precision of Phantom, and a quiet confidence that needed no demonstration. A single scar ran along his left side, just below his ribs—the mark of what must have been a nearly fatal wound in another life. Unlike Mohawk's rugged hairiness, Omni's chest featured a more refined dusting of dark hair across his large pectorals that traveled into a neat line down his abdomen. His shoulders were impossibly broad, tapering to a narrow waist that spoke of both incredible strength and agility. When he turned to adjust something in the small bag he carried, Y/N caught sight of the defined muscles of his back, rippling beneath golden skin with even the smallest movement. The tiny lines that usually appeared between his brows when he was deep in thought were smoothed away, giving him an almost carefree appearance.

"Everyone ready?" he asked, gaze sweeping the group before settling on Y/N with quiet warmth. His eyes lingered for just a moment longer than necessary, taking in the way the light played across her newly exposed skin.

"Born ready!" Lensless declared, bouncing on his toes, "Last one there has to help Mohawk with dishes for a week!"

Before anyone could respond, he vanished in a blur of motion, leaving behind only a gust of displaced air and the fading echo of laughter.

"Cheating little shit," Mohawk growled, though a reluctant grin tugged at his lips as he started to float up. In a heartbeat, he too disappeared, the blue streak of his mohawk visible for a split second before he was gone.

"Children," Sinister sighed dramatically, but his eyes gleamed with competitive fire. "Shall we show them how it's done, dove?" Without waiting for an answer, he scooped Y/N into his arms with effortless strength, cradling her against his chest.

"Sinister—" she began, but her protest dissolved into surprised laughter as he launched them both skyward, bursting through an open skylight with reckless precision.

The world became a blur of color and sensation—the cool rush of air against her skin, the solid warmth of Sinister's body against hers, the dizzying beauty of the alien landscape unfurling beneath them. His arms held her securely, one beneath her knees and the other supporting her back, his grip confident without being restrictive.

"I've carried you through dimensional rifts and chaos," he murmured against her hair, his voice barely audible over the rushing wind, "but this is infinitely more enjoyable, wouldn't you agree?" There was something almost tender in the way he held her now—possessive still, but without the desperate edge that had characterized their first encounters.

"Now are you enjoying the view?" he murmured, voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the wind rushing past them. This close, she could see flecks of gold in his irises, a fascinating contrast to the black that dominated.

"It's beautiful," she admitted, allowing herself to relax into his hold for the first time since–

"Yes," he agreed softly, eyes never leaving her face. "It is."

The moment of connection was interrupted by a streak of motion to their left—Phantom soaring past, his unmasked face transformed by an unexpected grin that erased years from his appearance.

"Getting slow in your old age, Sinister?" he called back, voice carrying despite the distance rapidly growing between them.

Sinister's eyes narrowed, and competitive instinct immediately engaged. "Hold tight, dove," he warned, just seconds before accelerating to a speed that forced Y/N to bury her face against his chest, eyes watering despite her enhanced physiology.

The journey that should have taken minutes on foot compressed into seconds as they rocketed over the fortress walls, across the rippling expanse of blue-green fields, and toward a shimmering line of aquamarine that marked the lake's position on the horizon.

Below, Y/N caught glimpses of blurred motions—the others racing across the landscape, each in their own style. No-Mask moved with methodical efficiency, his pace steady and sustainable. Omni Mark soared with dignified power, his trajectory a straight line toward their destination. Viltrumite Mark flew with precision, his white attire a stark contrast against the colorful landscape below.

"Look down," Sinister instructed softly, adjusting his flight to allow her a better view. "They're following different paths, but all heading to the same destination." Something philosophical colored his tone—unusual for the typically sardonic variant. "Much like us, I suppose."

Y/N glanced up at his face, struck by the rare moment of reflection. "Some paths were darker than others," she offered carefully.

His arms tightened fractionally around her. "Indeed. But perhaps the destination matters more than the journey, in the end." His eyes, when they met hers, held a complexity she was still learning to navigate—regret and hope intertwined in equal measure.

The air carried a sweet, almost intoxicating fragrance—like jasmine and something more exotic, something that seemed to clear Y/N's mind while simultaneously enhancing her awareness of physical sensations: the strength of Sinister's arms around her, the heat radiating from his body, the silken quality of the air against her skin.

The air above the lake shimmered slightly, creating an almost mirage-like effect that made the colors more vibrant, the light more dazzling. Y/N felt a strange tingling sensation across her skin as they descended—pleasant, like the warming effect of gentle sunshine after a cool swim.

Lensless had already arrived, of course, and was performing elaborate acrobatics from a rock outcropping that jutted over the deepest part of the lake. Each dive was more complex than the last, his body twisting and spinning with superhuman precision before slicing into the water with barely a splash. His face was alight with pure joy, eyes crinkling at the corners as he waved enthusiastically upon spotting them.

Sinister descended in a controlled arc, setting Y/N gently onto the pink sand several yards from where Mohawk was emerging from the water, his mohawk impossibly still perfectly styled despite being soaking wet. Water cascaded down his muscled torso, highlighting a collection of scars. The sun caught the water droplets clinging to his skin, making them shimmer like tiny diamonds against his tanned flesh.

"Sweet touchdown," Mohawk announced, striding toward them with the confident swagger that seemed coded into his DNA. He shook his head deliberately, sending a spray of glittering droplets in all directions. The water traced rivulets through the dense hair covering his chest, droplets clinging to the dark trails before continuing their journey downward. "Beat you fair and square, princess."

"You had a head start," Y/N protested, though she couldn't help smiling at his infectious enthusiasm.

"Excuses, excuses." He stepped closer, towering over while Sinister groaned from behind. "I believe the wager was dinner of my choice?" His grin turned mischievous as he leaned down, bringing his face level with hers. "Hope you're ready to cook those spicy things we found in the field yesterday."

"I never agreed to cook," Y/N countered, holding her ground even as water dripped from his mohawk onto her shoulder. "Just that you got to choose."

Something playful flashed in his eyes. "Ahh cheating now are we?" he murmured, before darting forward to press a quick, teasing kiss to the corner of her mouth. The brief contact left a cool, damp impression on her skin, gone almost as quickly as it arrived. "But I'm feeling generous. I'll help...supervise."

"Now, I suppose you took so long because grandpa here was giving you the scenic tour?" He smirks, guestering lazily to Sinister who crossed his arms behind Y/n.

Sinister's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I was simply being considerate of precious cargo," he replied, voice silky with threat despite the casual setting. "Unlike some barbarians who know only brute force and crude language."

"Boys," Y/N intervened before the verbal sparring could escalate, placing a restraining hand on Sinister's arm. "Let's not waste perfect weather on bickering."

Both men subsided, though the competitive tension remained—a dynamic Y/N was beginning to recognize as their particular way of establishing boundaries and connection simultaneously. Despite their differences, there was something almost brotherly in their antagonism now, lacking the deadly intent that had characterized their early interactions.

The others arrived in quick succession—Phantom landing with silent grace at the water's edge, No-Mask jogging in at a steady pace despite having carried the provisions the entire way, Viltrumite Mark descending with precision, touching down without disturbing a single grain of sand. Omni Mark was the last to arrive, descending from the sky, the sunlight catching in his dark hair and revealing subtle auburn highlights that Y/N had never noticed before.

"Everyone accounted for?" Omni asked, his eyes immediately seeking Y/N as if confirming her safety was his first priority. When she nodded, his posture relaxed, "Good. This place seems secure, but we should still establish a perimeter."

"What is this, boot camp?!" Mohawk groaned, flopping dramatically onto the sand. "We're literally in a pocket dimension created specifically for us. The only danger is Lensless doing a cannonball too close to shore."

As if on cue, Lensless zoomed past them, creating a miniature sandstorm in his wake, covering them all in a snowfall of sand, "I heard that!" he called, already halfway back to his diving rock.

Within moments, the once-pristine shore became a hub of activity as they staked out their territory on the pink sands. Y/N noticed that the sand seemed to adjust beneath her feet, conforming to her footprints before smoothing out again, leaving no trace of her passage. The air carried a sweet scent—like honeysuckle but with an undercurrent of something spiced and exotic that she couldn't quite place.

No-Mask spread a large blanket he'd somehow managed to bring along, arranging their provisions in neat sections, the satisfied smile on his face was unmistakable. His movements were precise yet relaxed, a pleasant change from his usual tense efficiency. 

"The fruits should be consumed first," he advised, gesturing to a pile of color-shifting delicacies. "They appear to lose optimal flavor when exposed to direct sunlight for extended periods."

"Okay DAD," Mohawk snorted, though he immediately grabbed several pieces and sprawled on the blanket, apparently unconcerned about getting it wet. He bit into one of the fruits, juice running down his chin as he closed his eyes in appreciation with a low groan. "Even at the beach, you can't turn it off."

"Someone needs to maintain some semblance of order," No-Mask replied primly, though a small smile played at the corners of his mouth as he arranged the remaining items with precise care. Without his usual formal attire, the sunlight revealed a dusting of freckles across his nose and cheekbones—a humanizing detail that softened his often austere appearance.

"Here," No-Mask said, suddenly appearing at Y/N's side with a fruit that shifted between deep purple and electric blue. "This one has the highest nutrient density according to my analysis." He offered it with an almost shy gesture, "As I concluded earlier...I noticed you seemed to enjoy similar varieties at breakfast yesterday."

Y/N accepted the gift with a grateful smile. "Thank you for noticing."

A pleased pink flush colored his cheeks as he nodded and returned to organizing the provisions, but not before Y/N caught the hint of a genuine smile—small but real.

Y/N settled on the blanket beside him, accepting a luminescent drink with grateful thirst after their rapid journey. The liquid tasted like nothing from Earth—reminiscent of berries and citrus but with complex undertones of spice and sweetness that defied description. As she swallowed, she felt a pleasant warmth spreading through her chest, different from the usual sensation of the beverage. She dismissed it as the effect of the sunlight and the excitement of the day.

"This is amazing," she sighed after a long swallow, watching as Lensless continued his acrobatic display for Phantom, who was offering surprisingly constructive criticism on his form.

"Better than building catastrophe countermeasures and fighting for our lives?" Omni Mark asked dryly, lowering himself onto the blanket beside her with unexpected grace for someone of his size. A relaxed smile played at the corners of his mouth, the tiny lines at the corners of his blue eyes crinkling with genuine amusement.

"Is that a joke, Omni?" Y/N teased, nudging his shoulder with her own. "I didn't think you knew how."

The unexpected touch of humor in her voice drew a low, rich chuckle from him—a sound so rare and genuine that it momentarily attracted the attention of the others before they tactfully returned to their activities. "I contain multitudes," he replied, his voice warm with affection. "Some of which might surprise you."

"Infinitely," Y/N confirmed, smiling up at him.

"We should have brought instruments," Sinister mused, stretching out on Y/N's other side with casual elegance. The sun gleamed on his perfectly muscled torso, "I once hosted the most extraordinary beach soirees. Live music, exquisite refreshments, the occasional execution for entertainment..." He caught Y/N's raised eyebrow and amended smoothly, "Which is obviously off the menu now, dove. Perhaps just the music, then."

"You play?" Y/N asked, genuinely curious about this unexpected glimpse into his past.

A shadow of something melancholy crossed his features before his usual sardonic mask slipped back into place. "Several instruments, actually. My Y/-... I was particularly fond of the violin." His fingers twitched slightly as if muscle memory was recalling the movements required. "I was told my playing was the first thing about me that wasn't completely terrifying."

"I'd play for her," he continued after a moment, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "Hours sometimes. (fav band 😭) was her favorite for stormy nights." His long fingers moved through the air in phantom motions, recreating music only he could hear. For just a moment, vulnerability replaced his usual sardonic expression, giving Y/N a glimpse of the man he might have been in another life.

The way he tried to hide reference to his lost love, the woman Y/N resembled but wasn't—created a momentary quietness. These acknowledgments were becoming more frequent as they settled into their new reality, less painful as they learned to differentiate between past and present, between memory and possibility.

"I'd like to hear you play someday," Y/N said softly, reaching out to touch his hand in gentle understanding. His skin was surprisingly warm beneath her fingertips, and she found herself lingering, tracing the lines of his palm.

Sinister's sharp features softened as he watched her fingers move across his palm. His free hand came up to cover hers, trapping her touch against his skin. "I'd like that too," he admitted, his voice unusually raw with emotion. "Perhaps there are instruments to be found in this realm."

The moment hung between them, intimate and weighted with possibilities neither was quite ready to name. Then something shifted in Sinister's expression—a flash of vulnerability quickly masked by his more familiar mischievous grin. "You're flushed, dove," he noted, reaching out to brush his knuckles against her cheek with unexpected tenderness. "The alien sun agrees with you."

Before Y/N could respond, they were drenched by a massive splash as Lensless cannonballed into the water barely feet from the shoreline, sending a wave over the entire group. The cool water was momentarily refreshing against Y/N's inexplicably warming skin.

"LENSLESS!" Mohawk roared, jumping to his feet in outrage, water streaming from his mohawk. His face contorted in exaggerated fury, "I'm going to drown you, you hyperactive little—"

"Have to catch me first!" Lensless laughed, already zipping across the water's surface in a blur of motion, barely touching down on the massive lily pads as he went. His eyes danced with mischief, face alight with the pure joy of the challenge.

"Oh, it's on," Mohawk growled, launching himself into the air after the speedster.

What followed was possibly the most extraordinary game of tag ever played—two superhuman beings darting across the surface of an alien lake, one leaving sonic booms in his wake, the other creating massive splashes with each powerful leap. Lensless had speed, but Mohawk had raw power and determination, making the contest far more even than it might have appeared at first glance.

"Look at them go," Y/N marveled, watching Mohawk's surprisingly graceful movements as he anticipated Lensless's patterns. "I've never seen Mohawk so... playful."

"War leaves little room for joy," Viltrumite Mark observed, his deep voice surprisingly close as he settled on the blanket nearby. His formal posture remained, but there was a relaxed quality to his shoulders that hadn't been there before. "The absence of constant threat allows forgotten aspects of personality to resurface."

"Even yours?" Y/N asked boldly, turning to face him.

The hint of a smile touched his lips. "Even mine," he acknowledged with a small inclination of his head. "Though perhaps less dramatically than others."

"Ten on Mohawk," Sinister drawled, watching the spectacle with amused interest.

"Lensless is too fast," Phantom countered, having wandered back to join them. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes, making his usually intense gaze seem softer, more approachable. "Twenty says Mohawk doesn't lay a finger on him."

"You're on," Sinister agreed with predatory anticipation. "Though what possible use we have for wagers in a post-scarcity utopia is beyond me."

"Bragging rights," No-Mask supplied, meticulously drying his hair which had been soaked in Lensless's initial splash. "A social currency that transcends economic systems."

"The satisfaction of victory is universal," Viltrumite Mark added unexpectedly, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement. He had positioned himself slightly apart from the group, but close enough to participate in the conversation—a subtle shift from his usual complete isolation. "Even among the Viltrumite elite, competition remains essential."

"Speaking from experience?" Phantom inquired, a rare teasing note in his usually reserved voice.

"Perhaps," Viltrumite Mark replied, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Though such admissions would be considered... undignified in my former capacity."

"Good thing dignity isn't a requirement here," Mohawk shouted from halfway across the lake, proving his superhuman hearing was as sharp as ever. "Otherwise we'd have thrown you out weeks ago!"

Remarkably, Viltrumite Mark's response was a low, rumbling chuckle that seemed to surprise even himself.

Y/N laughed, delighted by their banter, by the normalcy of it all. Watching these men—these variants who had wreaked such havoc across dimensions—engage in something as simple as friendly competition and petty wagers felt like witnessing a minor miracle.

"Care for a swim?" Omni Mark asked quietly, offering his hand as the others continued debating the likely outcome of the high-speed chase still ongoing across the lake. His perceptive gaze lingered on her flushed cheeks. "The water might be refreshing."

Y/N nodded, slipping her hand into his as she rose to her feet. She discarded her coverup, aware of the subtle shift in Omni's breathing as his gaze traced the lines of her figure with appreciative restraint. His pupils dilated slightly, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, the words clearly not meant to be spoken aloud based on the surprise that flickered across his face afterward. Rather than backtrack, however, he simply squeezed her hand gently. "I don't say that enough."

"You don't have to," Y/N assured him, though the compliment warmed her more than the alien sun ever could.

"I want to," he insisted, his usual commanding tone softened by genuine emotion. "Some things should be said, not just understood."

"Mmm Omni, you flatter me. Now lead the way," she invited, enjoying the rare flash of uncertainty that crossed his usually composed features. The brief loss of control was oddly satisfying.

They walked together toward the water's edge, a comfortable silence between them despite the chaos erupting across the lake as Mohawk nearly succeeded in tackling Lensless, only to find himself clutching empty air as the speedster darted away at the last possible second.

The water was the perfect temperature as they waded in—cool enough to refresh but warm enough to welcome. It had a strange buoyancy unlike Earth's lakes, supporting their weight with unusual gentleness. Y/N found herself floating effortlessly, the water cradling her body as if designed specifically for comfort.

"This is incredible," she sighed, gazing up at the alien sky where wisps of purple-tinged clouds drifted across the blue expanse. "Sometimes I still can't believe we're really here."

Omni Mark floated beside her, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed, creating small ripples across the crystal surface.

"Do you regret it?" he asked quietly. "Coming with us? You could have stayed with your Earth, tried to rebuild."

Y/N considered the question seriously, appreciating that he'd asked rather than assumed. "No," she finally said, turning her head to meet his gaze. "Even before all this, I never truly belonged there. The GDA's experiments made sure of that."

A shadow crossed his face at the mention of her past—the cruel transformation that had given her Viltrumite abilities but robbed her of normal human connection. His hand found hers beneath the water, fingers intertwining with gentle strength. The contrast between his massive hand and hers was striking—his palms calloused from years of battle, yet his touch remained infinitely tender against her skin.

"For what it's worth," he said softly, his deep voice rumbling through his chest in a way she could feel rather than just hear, "I'm glad you're here. Not because you remind me of her—my Y/N—but because you're you. Different. Your own person."

The simple honesty in his words touched something deep within her chest. She studied his face—the lines of stress that had begun to soften in recent weeks, the way the alien sunlight caught the hints of auburn in his otherwise dark hair. There was an openness to his expression now that had been absent when they first met, as if he'd finally stopped fighting against hope.

Before she could respond, however, a colossal splash erupted nearby as Mohawk finally managed to capture Lensless, tackling him mid-flight and sending them both crashing into the lake with enough force to create a momentary tidal wave.

They surfaced seconds later, Mohawk maintaining a headlock on the struggling speedster despite the water surrounding them. Rivulets cascaded down Mohawk's broad shoulders, highlighting every ridge of muscle beneath. "Got you, you little shit!" he crowed triumphantly. "Who's slow now?"

"Still you," Lensless gasped, though there was laughter in his voice despite the precarious position. His leaner frame was completely dwarfed by Mohawk's massive arms, yet there wasn't a hint of real fear in his expression—just the joy of play that seemed to come so naturally to him despite everything he'd witnessed. "I let you catch me. Got bored of running."

"Bullshit," Mohawk retorted, though he loosened his hold slightly. He flicked water from his mohawk with a practiced head twist, somehow managing to make the ridiculous hairstyle look intimidating even while soaking wet. "Admit it—I'm the superior Mark."

"In your dreams, spike-head," Lensless shot back, suddenly vibrating his molecules at such speed that he slipped from Mohawk's grasp like mercury, reappearing several feet away with a victorious grin. "But good effort! A-plus for determination!"

Mohawk lunged for him again, but Lensless was already gone, his laughter echoing across the water as he zigzagged toward the shore where Phantom and Sinister were exchanging what appeared to be currency salvaged from their now-destroyed dimensions.

"Pay up," Phantom demanded, wearing a smirk. "He didn't maintain the capture for the required five seconds."

Sinister rolled his eyes dramatically but complied, handing over what looked like gleaming coins of an unknown metal. His movements were deceptively casual, but Y/N noticed how he continuously scanned their surroundings, old habits refusing to die even in this sanctuary. "Semantics," he complained. "The mohawked barbarian clearly won the engagement."

Their bickering faded into the background as Y/N found herself drawn deeper into the lake, away from the shoreline chaos and toward a particularly massive lily pad floating near the center. Omni Mark kept pace beside her, his powerful strokes cutting through the water with effortless grace.

"Race you to the big one," she challenged impulsively, feeling suddenly playful in a way that would have been unimaginable during the war.

A rare, full smile transformed Omni's serious features, "You're on," he agreed, immediately surging forward with a powerful kick.

Y/N matched his pace, her Viltrumite physiology allowing her to cut through the water with superhuman speed. They reached the massive lily pad simultaneously, both breaking the surface with triumphant gasps.

"Tie," she declared, reaching for the edge of the floating plant. The lily pad was even more remarkable up close—at least fifteen feet in diameter, its surface a deep emerald veined with luminescent blue that pulsed gently, as if the plant itself was breathing. The edge was slightly raised, creating a natural barrier that prevented water from spilling onto its surface.

With a graceful heave, Y/N pulled herself up, discovering that the lily pad's surface had an unexpected springiness—firm enough to support weight but with a gentle give that made it surprisingly comfortable. She scooted toward the center, making room for Omni Mark as he joined her.

Water cascaded down his powerful frame as he hauled himself onto the lily pad, the burgundy swim trunks clinging to his thighs in a way that outlined every defined muscle. The dark trail of hair that started at his navel and disappeared beneath his waistband caught her attention briefly before she forced her gaze back to his face.

"This is amazing," she marveled, running her fingers across the surface. The plant felt warm beneath her touch, almost responsive, the luminescent veins pulsing slightly faster where her fingertips made contact. "It's like it's alive. Not just living, but... aware."

Omni Mark nodded, observing with scientific curiosity as the veins beneath his palm glowed brighter in response to his touch. "Remarkable. I wonder if there's a form of botanical sentience at work here."

"You are such an analyst," Y/N teased gently, though she found his intellectual curiosity endearing rather than cold. It was a side of him the others rarely showed—this genuine wonder at the universe and its mysteries.

He glanced up from his examination, catching her fond expression. A slight pink flush colored his cheekbones as he realized she'd been watching him, the blush making him look younger, more vulnerable, "Force of habit," he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "Some things transcend dimensions, as Sinister so eloquently put it."

"I like it," Y/N assured him, shifting closer until their shoulders touched. The contact sent a pleasant warmth through her that had nothing to do with the alien sun overhead. "It's nice seeing you excited about something that isn't strategic advantage or tactical positioning."

The lily pad dipped slightly with their movement, causing Y/N to instinctively grab Omni's arm for balance. His hand immediately covered hers, steadying her with gentle strength. His forearm was solid beneath her fingers, dusted with dark hair and crisscrossed with almost invisible scars—badges of battles she'd never witnessed.

"Sorry," she laughed, though she made no move to pull away.

"Don't be," he murmured, gaze dropping briefly to where her hand rested against his warm skin before returning to her face with newfound intensity. His pupils dilated slightly, the blue of his irises darkening to midnight as his breathing changed subtly.

The moment stretched between them, weighted with possibility. Around them, the alien world continued its strange, beautiful existence—delicate winged creatures skimming the water's surface, the distant shouts and laughter of the others playing on the shore, the gentle pulse of the living platform beneath them. Yet for Y/N, everything narrowed to the minute space between them, to the quiet anticipation in Omni's eyes.

When he leaned forward, it was with deliberate slowness, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she chose. She didn't. Instead, she met him halfway, her fingers tangling in the damp curls at the nape of his neck as her other hand came to rest against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart quickening beneath her touch.

Unable to resist, she curled her fingers slightly, catching the coarse hair that dusted his pectorals. The unexpected touch drew a soft gasp from him, his eyes widening briefly before narrowing with a new intensity. Taking advantage of his surprise, Y/N leaned forward and pressed her lips firmly against his, abandoning the earlier gentleness for something more demanding.

The kiss deepened as Omni's hand moved to cradle her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone with reverent care. His other arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer until she was nestled against the solid wall of his chest, dwarfed by his sheer size yet feeling completely secure in his embrace.

When they finally parted, both slightly breathless, Y/N found herself cradled in his lap, though she couldn't recall exactly how she'd gotten there. The lily pad beneath them glowed with increased brilliance, as if responding to their elevated heart rates or shared body heat.

"That was..." Omni began, then paused, apparently struggling to find words adequate to the moment. His usual eloquence seemed to have abandoned him, leaving him staring at her with an expression of wonder that made something flutter in her chest.

"Nice," Y/N supplied with a soft smile, enjoying the rare sight of his usual eloquence deserting him.

A laugh rumbled through his chest, the sound vibrated through her where their bodies connected, rich and warm. "Vast understatement," he corrected, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear with tender precision. "But yes. Nice."

Instead of pulling away, he leaned forward again, this time pressing his warm lips to her forehead with gentle reverence. His kisses traced a path—her temple, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth—each touch feather-light yet sending warmth cascading through her. His fingers cradled the back of her head with extraordinary tenderness as his mouth found the sensitive spot just below her ear.

Y/N couldn't help the soft giggle that escaped her as his lips tickled the delicate skin of her neck. The unexpected sound surprised even her—how long had it been since she'd actually giggled? The sound seemed to delight him—Omni Mark smiled against her skin and deliberately repeated the motion to coax another laugh from her.

"I've never heard you laugh like that before," he murmured, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. His large hand came up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing gently across her lower lip with reverent attention. The wonder in his gaze made her heart skip. "It's beautiful."

Y/N felt a blush creep up her neck at the simple sincerity in his words. "It's been a long time since I had reason to," she admitted.

His expression softened, something fiercely protective flashing in his eyes. "Then I'll have to give you more reasons," he promised, his voice dropping to a register that seemed to vibrate through her very bones as he pressed another gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth.

The lily pad beneath them pulsed in sync with their heartbeats now, the blue veins creating patterns like constellations across its surface. Y/N watched, fascinated, as the luminescence seemed to follow the path of Omni's fingertips as they traced lazy patterns along her shoulder.

"You know," she said, running her fingers through the coarse hair on his chest with newfound boldness, "for someone who gives orders all day, you're surprisingly gentle."

A soft chuckle rumbled through him. "Only with you," he admitted, catching her exploring hand and bringing it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to each fingertip with deliberate care, his eyes never leaving hers. "I don't have to be the commander here. Just... yours."

The unexpected vulnerability in those two syllables—yours—made her breath catch. Before she could respond, he continued, "If you want me to be, that is."

"I do," she whispered, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. "Though I'm not sure how the others would feel about that arrangement."

His lips quirked in a small smile. "We're in uncharted territory here. Seven versions of the same man, one extraordinary woman. I think we're beyond conventional relationship dynamics, don't you?"

A distant whistle from the shore reminded them they weren't truly alone, despite the illusion of privacy their floating sanctuary provided. Glancing toward the source, Y/N saw Mohawk standing waist-deep in the water, hands cupped around his mouth as he shouted something indecipherable at this distance. Behind him, Sinister appeared to be preparing for a swim, removing various concealed weapons from his person despite the supposed recreational nature of their outing.

"We should probably head back," Y/N sighed, though she made no immediate move to disentangle herself from Omni's embrace. "Before they decide to come investigate."

"Probably," he agreed, looking equally reluctant. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone with gentle wonder, as if memorizing the contours of her face. "Though just for the record, I'd be happy to stay here with you until the stars come out. Or longer."

Y/N smiled, leaning into his touch. "Me too. But I suspect Mohawk will start throwing things if we ignore him much longer."

As if on cue, a splash erupted nearby as something hit the water with surprising force. Glancing over, Y/N was startled to see what appeared to be a piece of fruit floating where the projectile had landed—apparently Mohawk had indeed resorted to throwing things to get their attention.

Omni Mark's eyebrows rose in amusement. "I'm continually amazed by his accuracy," he observed dryly. "That landed precisely ten feet from us—close enough to get our attention without actually hitting us. Though I'm tempted to teach him a lesson about wasting food."

"Later," Y/N promised, reluctantly shifting away from his warmth. "For now, I'm curious to see what No-Mask packed for lunch. He mentioned something about those purple fizzy fruits I liked yesterday."

"Ah, so it's food you're leaving me for," Omni teased, a playful side she rarely glimpsed emerging as he helped her to the edge of the lily pad.

"Well, a girl has priorities," she teased back, delighted when he threw his head back with a genuine laugh.

He pressed one last lingering kiss to her palm, his touch lingering longer than strictly necessary.

They slipped back into the water together, the cooling liquid a stark contrast to the heat that had built between them on the lily pad. As they swam toward shore, Y/N found herself reflecting on the strange, wonderful complexity of their situation—seven versions of the same man, each distinctly different, each finding their own unique connection with her. Not as a replacement for what they'd lost, but as something new, something healing.

The shore scene that greeted them was pure chaos—exactly what one might expect when godlike beings decided to take a day off. Lensless and No-Mask appeared to be constructing an elaborate sand structure that resembled the fortress, complete with working drawbridge made of smaller lily pads and twigs. Phantom was demonstrating some kind of martial arts form that involved impossible aerial maneuvers, his body cutting through the air with dancer-like precision despite his powerful build.

Mohawk stood with arms crossed, attempting to appear casual despite the obvious relief in his expression when he spotted them approaching. Water droplets still clung to the dense mat of hair covering his broad chest, glinting in the sunlight like tiny jewels, "About time," he called gruffly. "Thought maybe the lake monster got you."

"Lake monster?" Y/N repeated, quirking an eyebrow as they reached shallow water. She swayed slightly as she stood, the sudden transition from swimming to standing making her lightheaded.

"Whoa there," Mohawk said, his gruff demeanor instantly giving way to concern as he stepped forward, one large hand coming to rest at her elbow to steady her. "You okay, princess?"

"Fine," she assured him, though she didn't pull away from his steadying touch. "Just stood up too quickly."

His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her face, unconvinced. "You're flushed. Maybe you should sit down for a bit." The genuine worry in his usually gruff voice touched something in her chest.

“No no trust me, im fine,” She smile softly, blowing him off as she gently bushes the bits of sand off her hands, glancing back at Omni before turning back to Mohawk’s concern face. “Wait tell me about this monster.”

"Yeah," Mohawk insisted, gesturing vaguely toward the depths. His face was set in exaggerated seriousness, though humor danced in his eyes. "Sinister swears he saw something huge moving around out there. Probably bullshit, but..." He shrugged, the casual movement not quite disguising his genuine concern.

"Touching as your concern is," Sinister drawled, materializing beside them with predatory silence despite the water that should have announced his approach, "I assure you what I saw was quite real. Approximately twenty feet in length, serpentine body structure, multiple appendages."

"And just when were you planning to share this information with the group?" Phantom called from where he'd paused his practice, arms crossed over his chest in disapproval.

"When it became relevant," Sinister replied with a careless shrug, "Which would have been when it attacked. Until then, why spoil a perfectly lovely outing with unnecessary concerns?"

"And yet you didn't think to mention this before y/n and I went swimming?" Omni Mark asked, voice dry with disbelief, though his gaze remained concerned as it flicked between Y/N and Sinister.

Sinister shrugged elegantly, water streaming from his powerful shoulders and down the defined ridges of his abdomen. The dark hair that ran from his navel downward created a perfect trail disappearing beneath his swim shorts, somehow making him look even more predatory. His black swim shorts clung to his powerful thighs, the yellow accents somehow emphasizing the predatory grace with which he moved even in casual settings.

"It showed no aggressive tendencies. Besides, dove here has proven remarkably capable of handling herself in dangerous situations." His gaze shifted to Y/N, something predatory yet appreciative in its depths. His eyes lingered on the way the iridescent fabric clung to her skin, shifting between teal and lavender as she moved. "Though I notice Omni seems to be handling her quite effectively as well."

The double entendre was deliberate, his smirk widening as a flush crept up Y/N's neck. "Not that I blame him," Sinister continued, his voice dropping to a silky purr as he stepped closer, completely disregarding the concept of personal space. "You look positively edible in that swimwear, dove."

Before she could formulate a response to the blatant flirtation, Mohawk stepped between them, using his body to create space. "Back off, Dracula," he growled, "Give the lady some breathing room."

"Such chivalry from our resident barbarian," Sinister remarked, though he did step back slightly, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm simply appreciating the view. As are we all, I imagine."

Before the verbal sparring could escalate, Lensless's voice cut across the beach.

"FINISHED! Come see! It's AMAZING!"

The sand fortress was indeed impressive—an intricately detailed replica of their actual home, complete with tiny windows that caught the sunlight at the same angles as the real ones. No-Mask stood beside it with quiet pride, his usually pristine appearance transformed by sand clinging to damp skin and swim attire. Unlike the others whose chest hair ranged from subtle to prominent, No-Mask's torso was nearly hairless. His navy blue trunks were somehow still perfectly aligned at the waist despite their aquatic activities, a testament to his meticulous nature that extended even to beachwear. The mathematical tattoo peeking above his hip seemed to shift and rearrange itself in the changing light, as if the equations were solving themselves against his skin.

"The structural integrity is questionable," he admitted as they gathered around to admire the creation. He absently brushed sand from his lean forearms, "But the aesthetic accuracy is satisfactory."

"It's beautiful," Y/N assured him, genuinely impressed by the detail work. "How did you get the spires so perfect?"

"I had an excellent reference point," No-Mask replied, his gaze momentarily flicking to her face before darting away, a subtle rose tint coloring his cheeks. "Photographic memory. Once I've seen something—or someone—I don't forget the details."

The implication that he'd been paying such close attention to both her and their new home made something warm bloom in Y/N's chest.

"Lensless," No-Mask explained, gesturing to where the speedster vibrated with barely contained excitement. The vibrant blue of Lensless's swim shorts seemed to blur with his movements, creating an almost hypnotic effect against his lean, wiry frame. A light dusting of light brown hair across his chest caught the sunlight, glinting like metallic threads with each excited movement. Droplets of water still clung to his eyelashes, as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

"His fine motor control at accelerated speeds is quite remarkable. He was able to shape the sand with sufficient velocity to temporarily vitrify the surface."

"I made glass!" Lensless translated proudly, his dimples deepening with delight. "With my fingers! Super-fast! Wanna see?" Without waiting for an answer, he plunged his hand into loose sand below, vibrating it at such speed that the grains began to glow. The veins in his forearms became visible with the effort. When he withdrew his hand seconds later, he held a crude but recognizable sculpture of a bird, its surface gleaming with fused sand particles.

"For you," he declared, presenting it to Y/N with a flourish. His eyes searched her face eagerly, seeking approval with an openness none of the others allowed themselves. "A souvenir! Our first beach day!"

The simple gift, offered with such genuine enthusiasm, touched Y/N deeply. "Thank you," she said, accepting the still-warm sculpture with careful hands. "I'll treasure it."

"Really?" Lensless asked, his eyes lighting up. "Because I could make more! Different animals, or maybe buildings, or—"

"Perhaps let Y/N enjoy this one first," No-Mask interjected gently, placing a restraining hand on the speedster's shoulder. "Before you fill her quarters with an entire menagerie."

"Right, right," Lensless agreed, nodding so rapidly his features blurred slightly. He stopped abruptly, looking at Y/N with surprising solemnity. "It's just... I haven't made things in a long time. Only destroyed them. It feels... good. To create instead."

The unexpected depth behind his simple statement created a moment of poignant silence among the group.

Before Lensless beamed again, his whole face lighting up as a thought came to mind. He impulsively took her free hand and pressed a swift, innocent kiss to her knuckles before zipping away, leaving behind only a lingering warmth and the faint scent of ozone from his speed.

Behind him, Phantom approached with unusual hesitancy, something clutched in his hand. Without his mask, the scar bisecting his right eyebrow was thrown into sharp relief by the setting sun. His wetsuit clung to his body like a second skin, though it had been partially unzipped at the neck, revealing a hint of dark chest hair that contrasted with the paleness of skin that rarely saw sunlight. The exposure seemed almost intimate for him, a small but significant concession to the day's informality.

"I also... found something," he said quietly, offering his closed fist to Y/N. For once, his eyes didn't dart away from hers but held steady, a rare moment of direct connection that felt as intimate as a touch. There was a vulnerability in his direct gaze that made him seem younger, less hardened by the battles he'd fought. "While I was practicing forms near the water's edge."

When he opened his fingers, a small object caught the sunlight with prism-like brilliance—a stone about the size of a marble, perfectly smooth and shifting between colors as it moved. Unlike the color-changing fruits, which transitioned between recognizable hues, this stone seemed to capture colors Y/N had never seen before, shades that shouldn't exist in any spectrum she was familiar with.

"It's incredible," she breathed, accepting it reverently. The stone felt warm against her palm, pulsing gently as if responding to her touch—or perhaps her heartbeat. "Thank you, Phantom."

"It reminded me of you," he said softly, the words clearly difficult for him to voice. "Brilliant. Unusual. Beautiful in ways that defy explanation."

The unexpected poetry from the usually taciturn variant left Y/N momentarily speechless. Before she could formulate a response, Phantom continued in a rush, as if afraid he'd lose his nerve:

"My mother used to collect unusual stones. She said they were like people—ordinary at first glance, but extraordinary when you take the time to really look." He glanced down at the stone in her palm. "I think she would have liked you."

He inclined his head slightly, but not before Y/N caught the pleased expression that flashed across his exposed features. Without his mask, Phantom's emotions were surprisingly easy to read—as if the barrier had been holding back not just his face but his ability to connect. In a gesture so swift it might have been imagined, his finger brushed against her wrist as he withdrew his hand, a fleeting touch that nonetheless sent a shiver across her skin.

"Getting competitive with the gift-giving, are we?" Sinister observed, his tone light though his eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the interactions. "How charmingly primitive."

"You're just jealous you didn't think of it first," Mohawk retorted, though there was less bite to his words than usual.

He flung himself down on the blanket beside Y/N, his powerful frame radiating heat as water continued to evaporate from his skin in the alien sunlight. The mat of dark hair that covered chest glowed in the sunlight, attracting all eyes to the prominent trail leading down his stomach. The black swim shorts with electric blue accents rode low on his hips, revealing a carved V-line that disappeared beneath the waistband.

Y/N's eyes inadvertently traveled lower, noticing for the first time the considerable bulge beneath the clinging wet fabric. She quickly averted her gaze, a flush warming her cheeks as she realized Mohawk had caught her looking. A knowing smirk spread across his face, but surprisingly, he made no crude remark. Outloud at least.

"Like what you see, princess?" he asked instead, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. Before she could stammer a denial, he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "It's okay. I certainly like what I'm seeing."

The blatant admiration in his eyes made her flush deepen to a dark red, but there was something oddly comforting about his straightforward attraction. No games, no hidden agendas—just honest desire tempered with surprising respect.

"So what's the plan now? More swimming? Food? Nap in the sun like overgrown lizards?" he asked drawing the variants attention to him instead of Y/n’s flushed face, slowly stretching out luxuriously like a satisfied predator.

"All acceptable options," No-Mask mused, settling onto the blanket with casualness, his usual rigid posture relaxing into something more natural. He carefully arranged himself to maintain a respectful distance from Y/N while still being close enough for conversation. "Though I would recommend applying solar protection if extended sun exposure is the consensus."

"Nerd," Mohawk scoffed affectionately, reaching over to muss No-Mask's carefully arranged hair. "We're virtually indestructible. Pretty sure sunburn isn't a concern."

No-Mask ducked away from the rough touch with practiced ease, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "Virtually indestructible does not equate to completely impervious," he pointed out primly. "Particularly in an alien environment with unknown radiation patterns."

"Speaking from experience?" Y/N asked, noticing the faint freckling across No-Mask's shoulders that hadn't been there when they arrived.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise that she'd noticed such a detail. "Perhaps," he admitted gently rubbing his shoulder. "My skin has always been... susceptible to solar radiation. More so than the others." He gestured to a small container nestled among their provisions. "I formulated a protective solution if you'd like to try it."

"I'd appreciate that," she said, genuinely touched by his thoughtfulness. "Would you mind?" She held out her arm in invitation.

No-Mask hesitated for just a moment before nodding, a pink flush coloring his ears as he retrieved the container. His fingers were cool against her skin as he carefully applied the lotion—meticulous, thorough, yet remarkably gentle.

"You have very steady hands," she observed as he worked.

"Years of laboratory precision," he explained, though his voice had grown slightly husky. "Though I confess, they rarely have such pleasant subjects to work with."

"If I may suggest an alternative," Omni Mark interjected before No-mask and Y/n’s conversion could escalate. Settling beside Y/N with casual grace that nevertheless positioned him as a subtle buffer between her and Mohawk's sprawled form. His deep burgundy swim trunks contrasted perfectly with his sun-kissed skin. Droplets of water still clung to his dark hair, making it appear almost black where it swept back from his forehead.

"The sun will set in approximately two hours. Perhaps we could enjoy the water until then, share a meal as the twin moons rise, and return to the fortress before full dark."

"You are such a planner," Sinister observed, though without real criticism. He lowered himself onto the blanket with fluid elegance, deliberately positioning himself on Y/N's other side. "Though I must admit, the prospect of experiencing our first alien sunset has a certain poetic appeal."

From several feet away, Viltrumite Mark observed their interactions with composed interest. The sunlight caught in the droplets clinging to his broad shoulders, creating a momentary crown of light around his regal bearing. He moved toward them with deliberate steps.

As he approached, Y/N noticed tiny silver flecks in his otherwise human-appearing eyes—a subtle reminder of his pure Viltrumite heritage.

"The light quality will be optimal for observing celestial phenomena during the sunset," he offered, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the beach. "The atmospheric composition creates refraction patterns unlike anything on Earth." His gaze met Y/N's with unexpected warmth beneath his formal demeanor. "It would be... pleasant... to experience it together."

"Together," she agreed with a smile. "All of us." She patted the space beside her on the blanket, inviting him to join their circle.

For a moment, Viltrumite Mark seemed surprised by the casual invitation, as if unused to being included so naturally. Then, with careful precision, he lowered his imposing frame to sit beside her, his posture still formal but noticeably less rigid than usual.

"Thank you," he said quietly, for her ears alone. The simple words carried unexpected weight.

Y/N looked around at the seven variants—men who had once brought terror to countless worlds now building sand castles, sharing food, and bickering over friendly wagers. She smiled, a warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the alien sun overhead.

"No," she replied, reaching out to briefly touch his hand. "Thank you. All of you."

The simple gesture sent warmth spreading through Viltrumite Mark's usually stoic features, a fleeting softness that reminded Y/N that beneath all their differences, these men shared the same core—the same heart.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

And so the afternoon unfolded with unexpected harmony—swimming in the crystal waters, exploring the strange beauty of the alien shore, sharing food and conversation as the sun began its descent toward the horizon.

When Mohawk challenged Omni to a diving contest, it evolved from competitive showing off into genuine appreciation of each other's athletic abilities. What started as Mohawk's bellowing "Watch this, commander!" before executing a perfect cannonball that sent water twenty feet in all directions transformed into an intricate display of aerial acrobatics that left Y/N breathless with admiration. The way Omni's powerful form cut through the air with \ precision that contrasted beautifully with Mohawk's wild, almost feral grace—different expressions of the same magnificent strength.

When Lensless convinced No-Mask to help him build an even more elaborate sand structure, Phantom quietly joined them, his precise movements adding architectural details the others hadn't considered. "It needs flying buttresses," Phantom murmured, almost to himself, as he shaped perfect arches with gentle fingertips that seemed impossibly delicate for hands that had destroyed worlds. No-Mask observed silently before nodding once, a glimmer of respect lighting his analytical eyes as he added, "And here—a complementary spire for balance." Lensless vibrated with excitement, creating perfect geometric patterns in seconds that would have taken master craftsmen days, his childlike joy infectious as he called, "Y/N! Look! We're rebuilding Atlantis! Or what we think Atlantis might have looked like if it existed in this universe and also had really cool laser turrets!"

During a moment of relative solitude as Y/N floated near the shore, she found herself surprised by Sinister's approach. Unlike his usual confident swagger, he moved through the water with uncharacteristic hesitation, keeping a respectful distance for perhaps the first time since she'd known him. More surprising still was his difficulty making eye contact—the man who typically fixed others with predatory intensity now seemed unable to meet her gaze.

"Something on your mind?" Y/N asked gently, treading water as she studied his unusual demeanor.

Sinister's jaw worked for a moment before he spoke, his voice lacking its typical sardonic edge. "I wanted to... apologize," he said, the words clearly uncomfortable on his tongue. "For what happened after... the cave. When the others found us."

Y/N immediately understood. After their intimate encounter in the alien cave, before they'd joined the others, Sinister had been insufferably smug, making thinly veiled comments about their liaison that had embarrassed her deeply.

"The way I spoke about what happened between us," he continued, fingers tracing patterns in the water's surface rather than looking at her. "As if it was merely a conquest. As if what we shared meant nothing."

The unguarded vulnerability in his voice caught Y/N off guard. "Sinister..."

"It wasn't nothing," he said firmly, finally meeting her eyes with an intensity that took her breath away. "Not to me. I just... I've spent lifetimes using arrogance as armor. Old habits."

Y/N moved closer, touched by this rare glimpse of the man beneath the villain. "Come here," she said softly, reaching for him.

Sinister hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain, before closing the distance between them. Y/N cupped his face in her hands, surprised to feel a slight tremor in his typically unshakable composure. She pressed her lips to his in a kiss that contained none of their previous desperate passion—this was something gentler, more honest.

"Thank you," she whispered against his lips when they parted. "For telling me."

Something profound shifted in Sinister's eyes—a softening that transformed his entire face. For a fleeting moment, the hard lines of cruelty eased from his features, revealing glimpses of who he might have been before tragedy had carved him into something so sharp and dangerous. His hands, usually weapons themselves, cradled her face with a reverence that seemed foreign to them, fingertips exploring the curve of her cheek as if memorizing something precious and fleeting.

"You make me want to be better," he admitted in a whisper so quiet it barely disturbed the water between them. "And that terrifies me more than anything else in this or any universe."

The moment was broken by a splash and Lensless's delighted laughter from across the lake. Sinister's familiar smirk returned, though somehow less sharp-edged than before.

"We should rejoin the others before they send a search party," he murmured, though he made no immediate move to pull away. "Or worse, Mohawk decides to practice his synchronized swimming routine. I'm still recovering from the last performance."

Y/N laughed, the sound echoing across the water.

As they swam back toward shore, Y/N couldn't help but notice how Sinister positioned himself between her and the deeper parts of the lake—a protective gesture so subtle she almost missed it. When she caught his eye, he merely shrugged, the movement rippling through the water. "Call it an abundance of caution, dove. After all," he added with a mischievous glint returning to his eyes, "I've developed quite the interest in your continued existence."

Throughout the afternoon, Y/N found herself the recipient of small, thoughtful gestures from each variant—Omni Mark's hand resting at the small of her back as they walked along the shoreline, his thumb tracing gentle circles against her skin; the contrast between his commanding presence around the others and the way his eyes softened uniquely for her, silently seeking her approval with each decision as if her opinion was the only one that truly mattered to him; No-Mask carefully arranging a makeshift headrest from his discarded coverup when she decided to lie in the sun; Mohawk bringing her a luminescent drink when he noticed her looking thirsty, his gruff "Here" belied by the tenderness in his eyes; the way his fingers lingered against hers during the exchange, his gaze darting away when she caught him staring at her lips, a rare flush coloring his cheeks beneath his swagger; Phantom silently offering shade when the sun became too intense, his body positioned to block the harshest rays without crowding her space.

Lensless's attentions were the most obvious—zipping back and forth to bring her interesting shells and stones, creating elaborate sand sculptures around her whenever she stayed still for more than a minute, his energy channeled into making her smile. "Watch this!" became his constant refrain, each display of speed or skill performed with hopeful eyes seeking her approval. "I found something amazing!" he exclaimed, carefully opening his palm to reveal a tiny spiral shell that pulsed with bioluminescent light. "It changes color when you hold it—look!" As she took it, the shell shifted from azure to violet, responding to her touch. Lensless's eyes widened with delight that matched her own. "See? It likes you! Just like—" he stopped himself, suddenly self-conscious, before finishing in a rush, "Just like all of us do."

Most unexpected were Viltrumite Mark's quiet attentions—a cooling breeze created by a subtle movement of his hand when the heat grew oppressive, the careful placement of a perfectly ripe fruit beside her when she hadn't even realized she was hungry, the silent offering of his powerful arm when the pink sand became too shifty underfoot. His reserved demeanor never fully vanished, but there was something profoundly touching about the way this proud warrior—who had commanded armies and conquered worlds—now devoted himself to ensuring her comfort through gestures so subtle they might go unnoticed by anyone else.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

The alien sun dragged closer to the horizon, and Y/N started to notice little unique traits about each of the variants that somehow made them more endearing—Omni's habit of absently tracing the line of his jaw when deep in thought, the way his eyebrows would draw together in the same configuration whether he was contemplating battle strategy or deciding which fruit looked ripest; the way Sinister's fingers constantly moved as if playing invisible piano keys when relaxed, a remnant of some long-forgotten skill from his past that surfaced only in these rare moments of peace; Mohawk's unexpected gentleness when handling the strange small creatures they discovered in tide pools, his hands becoming impossibly delicate when cradling a tiny starfish-like creature with translucent appendages, his usual brashness giving way to whispered fascination; to the barely audible hum that accompanied Lensless at rest, like an engine perpetually idling.

No-Mask continually documented their findings in a small waterproof notebook he'd somehow brought along, his curiosity transforming his usually serious face into something approaching childlike wonder. "The cellular structure is unlike anything I've documented in my previous universe," he explained to Y/N when she peered over his shoulder at his meticulous sketches. "These organisms appear to share both plant and animal characteristics, with symbiotic relationships that—" He broke off, suddenly self-conscious. "I'm boring you, aren't I?"

"Not at all," she assured him, genuinely fascinated by both his observations and the rare animation in his usually stoic features. "Tell me more."

The smile that bloomed across his face was like sunrise—slow, radiant, and transformative. His hand found hers as he continued his explanation, thumb absently stroking her knuckles in perfect rhythm with his excited words, as if physical contact completed a circuit between them.

Phantom, once comfortable enough to remove the upper half of his wetsuit in the heat, revealed not just scars but an intricate tattoo across his shoulder blade—glyphs in a language Y/N didn't recognize that he quietly explained were remembrances of those he'd lost. "Each symbol represents someone," he explained, voice hushed as if in a cathedral. His fingertips traced one particular glyph, elegant and flowing unlike the others. "This one... this was for my Y/N. I designed it myself to capture her spirit—always in motion, always beautiful." The raw vulnerability in his admission hung between them, precious and fragile, before he added softly, "She would have liked you, I think. You have the same courage."

Viltrumite Mark, despite his formal bearing, displayed unexpected dry humor in his rare comments, often delivered with such perfect deadpan that it took the others a moment to realize he was joking. When Mohawk sent a massive splash directly at his face and Viltrumite Mark remained perfectly still, water streaming down his impassive features before he remarked, "I believe I'm now adequately hydrated, thank you," even Sinister had dissolved into reluctant laughter.

"I never thought I'd live to see it," Sinister drawled, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "The mighty Viltrumite telling jokes. Truly, this universe continues to surprise."

"Not a joke," Viltrumite Mark replied with perfect composure, though the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. "Merely an observation." His gaze slid to Y/N, something warm flickering behind his regal demeanor when she laughed. "Though I admit, certain... reactions... make the indignity worthwhile."

As the alien sun touched the horizon, casting long golden fingers across the landscape in strikingly similar fashion to their first evening in this world, they gathered on the pink sands to witness the spectacle. The sky transformed into a canvas of impossible colors—vibrant purples and deep crimsons bleeding into oranges so bright they seemed almost tangible.

Y/N found herself seated in their midst, in a position that had evolved naturally yet felt deliberately orchestrated. Omni Mark sat behind her, his strong legs creating a V-shape that cradled her body, his chest a warm support against her back. The thick muscles of his pectorals provided a comfortable cushion, the light dusting of chest hair tickling pleasantly against her shoulders when he shifted. His fingers threaded through her hair with gentle reverence, occasionally tracing the shell of her ear or the line of her jaw with tender precision. "You're tense here," he murmured, thumbs finding knots at the base of her neck that she hadn't even realized were there. His touch was commanding yet infinitely gentle as he worked the tension from her muscles with expert precision. When she sighed with pleasure, his arms tightened fractionally around her waist, his breath catching audibly before he mastered himself again.

Mohawk had claimed the space to her lower right, his head resting against her thigh with surprising vulnerability. His usual restless energy had settled into something quieter, more content. Occasionally his lips would brush against her skin—not demanding, barely there touches that felt like questions rather than statements, each one sending tiny shivers through her body. His hand rested on her calf, thumb drawing lazy circles against her ankle. The mohawk that gave him his name now lay slightly flattened from the day's swimming, making him look younger, almost boyish despite his massive frame. When she absently ran her fingers through the still-damp strands, he made a sound suspiciously close to a purr, pressing into her touch like an oversized cat seeking affection.

"Enjoying yourself, princess?" he murmured, voice rough with contentment, as he nuzzled against her thigh. The stubble on his jaw created delicious friction against her sensitive skin, raising goosebumps along her leg.

"Very much," she admitted, tugging playfully at his mohawk. "Who knew the big bad Mohawk was secretly a cuddler?"

"Tell anyone and I'll deny it," he growled without heat, pressing a deliberately scratchy kiss against her inner thigh that made her gasp. His eyes gleamed with mischievous satisfaction at her reaction, though he gentled his touch immediately afterward, soothing the spot with a tender brush of his lips.

Sinister sprawled to her left with feline grace, his head propped on one hand while the other traced elaborate patterns across her bare stomach. His touch was deliberately hypnotic, fingertips barely making contact yet leaving trails of warmth in their wake. His eyes, when they met hers, held knowing amusement at the effect he was having. "I never mentioned it before, but your skin fascinates me, dove," he mused, voice pitched low for her ears alone. "The way it responds to the slightest touch—like this." His finger traced a delicate spiral just below her navel, smiling as the muscles underneath jumped in response. "So honest. So beautifully reactive."

"You're playing with fire," she warned, biting her lower lip softly.

"Always have," he replied with a wicked smile that softened into something more genuine as he added, "But this is the first time I've cared about getting burned."

Phantom sat close enough that his shoulder pressed against hers, his usual rigidity softened into something almost relaxed. His hand had found hers at some point, their fingers intertwined in a grip that felt both protective and seeking protection. His thumb stroked her palm in time with the gentle lapping of waves against the shore, a silent rhythm shared between them. Unlike the others who watched the sunset, Phantom's eyes remained fixed on their joined hands, as if the simple connection was more wondrous than any celestial display. When she squeezed his fingers gently in question, he looked up with such naked emotion in his usually guarded expression that it stole her breath.

"I never thought I'd feel this again," he confessed, voice barely audible over the gentle sounds of the lake. "Peace… with you"

No-Mask had positioned himself slightly forward, half-turned toward the group as he explained the astronomical phenomena they were witnessing. His hand rested lightly on Y/N's ankle, seemingly an absent gesture though the precise placement of his fingers—directly over her pulse point—suggested otherwise. As he spoke, his excited gestures occasionally brushed against her shin, each touch followed by a fleeting glance to gauge her reaction. "The refraction patterns are creating colors beyond our standard visual spectrum," he explained, eyes bright with intellectual excitement. "Some species might perceive entirely different sunset displays than what we're seeing—though personally, I can't imagine anything more perfect than this particular view."

His gaze, when it met hers, made it clear he wasn't referring to the sunset at all.

Lensless couldn't maintain any single position for long, this new natural energy of his driving him to constant movement. Yet he always returned to the same spot, sprawled across the sand near Y/N's feet. Sometimes he would rest his cheek against her foot, sometimes grasp her ankle with gentle fingers, or sometimes simply lean against her leg—each return accompanied by a brilliant smile as if he'd discovered something precious anew. "You know what this reminds me of?" he asked, vibrating slightly with contained energy. "That time we went camping by Lake Michigan—well, not you-you, but the Y/N from my world—and we stayed up all night counting stars until you fell asleep and I counted your heartbeats instead." His expression turned wistful before brightening again. "I counted eight thousand, two hundred and forty-three before sunrise. Each one was my favorite sound."

The sweet, painful honesty of the memory shared so openly made her heart ache with a weak smile. She reached out, brushing sand from his unruly hair in a gesture that made him beam with unfiltered joy, so different from merely 2 days ago back in her universe. 

Most surprising was Viltrumite Mark, who had positioned himself directly behind Omni, creating a protective semicircle around Y/N. His hand occasionally reached forward to brush a strand of hair from her shoulder or adjust the blanket beneath them. Though he maintained his dignified composure, there was something tellingly vulnerable in the way his powerful body had gradually relaxed throughout the day, his usual perfect posture softening into something more natural. When their eyes met briefly over Omni's shoulder, the intensity in his gaze made her heart stutter—not with fear, but with the realization that this being who had commanded armies now looked at her as if she were the only authority that mattered.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Omni murmured, his voice pitched just for her despite their close proximity to the others. His breath was warm against her ear, sending pleasant shivers down her spine.

"More than I could have imagined," Y/N agreed, watching as the first of the twin moons began to rise opposite the setting sun—a pale silver disc tinged with azure around its edges. She leaned back further into his embrace, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart against her shoulder blades.

"Worth it?" Mohawk asked unexpectedly, his voice gruff with something that might have been uncertainty. His fingers tightened slightly on her ankle, betraying the importance of her answer. "Leaving everything behind? Coming here with... us?"

The question hung in the air, suddenly important in ways none of them had fully articulated before. Y/N looked around at these men—these variants of the same person who had somehow become something more than their origins, something more than the damage and violence that had shaped them.

"Yes," she said simply. Her free hand moved to cup Mohawk's cheek, feeling the subtle rasp of evening stubble against her palm. "A thousand times yes."

"Even with Mohawk's terrible singing last night when he found that washing place in the castle?" Lensless quipped, breaking the solemn moment with perfect timing.

"Hey!" Mohawk protested, "My singing is majestic."

"If by 'majestic' you mean 'causes wildlife to flee in terror,' then yes, absolutely," Sinister drawled, earning a handful of sand tossed in his direction.

"Coming from the man who talks in his sleep about conquering pastry shops," Mohawk shot back with a victorious grin when Sinister's usually impeccable composure cracked with surprise.

"I do no such thing," Sinister replied with dignity, though a telltale flush crept up his neck.

"Oh, you absolutely do," No-Mask confirmed, smiling softly "'The croissants shall bow before me.' Direct quote."

The unexpected teasing of these deadly beings bantering like brothers—made Y/N's heart swell with affection. Even Viltrumite Mark's shoulders shook with silent laughter, his usual stoicism cracking just enough to reveal the man beneath the warrior.

"For the record," Y/N interjected with mock seriousness, "I find Mohawk's singing rather charming. Like a bear gargling rocks, but in a good way."

"HA!" Mohawk exclaimed triumphantly, while the others dissolved into laughter.

As the light faded and the twin moons cast their silver-blue glow across the landscape, Y/N found herself surrounded by these men who had once brought terror to countless worlds but now looked at her with expressions ranging from open adoration to carefully guarded tenderness. Each touch—Omni's fingers threading through her hair, Mohawk's cheek against her thigh, Sinister's hand resting on her waist, Phantom's thumb stroking her palm, No-Mask's precise fingers at her ankle, Lensless's playful tugs at her toes, Viltrumite Mark's careful adjustments of the blanket beneath them—conveyed something deeper than mere affection.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

As they gathered their belongings and prepared to return to the fortress, Y/N cast one last glance over her shoulder at the now-peaceful lake, illuminated by the ethereal glow of the twin moons. 

The sun slipped finally below the horizon, casting the world in the ethereal glow of the rising moons, Y/N found herself filled with an emotion she hadn't dared name until now—hope. Not just for survival, not just for peace, but for something they were building together, choice by choice, moment by moment.

A new beginning, indeed.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Hope y'all like this chapter :3 I put a lot of thought into this... Smut up next with MOHAWK MARK!! Omni following 😔✊

Pt.3 (SMUT with Mohawk)

Pt.1 (𝙰𝚣𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚜)

[rosebudshifter]

⛧°。 ⋆༺ the quintessential shifting script outline ༻⋆。 °⛧

this is just to help provide guidance to anyone who might need some help organizing their thoughts when scripting a new dr. i use this whenever i start a script and just copy it into a new word doc and go from there.

🅂🄰🄵🄴🅃🅈

safeword/safe action: time ratio: I cannot get super sick in my Desired Reality anytime I’m faced with death, I always narrowly escape it. The only way I can die in my desired reality is by old age I have my DR self’s memories

🄿🄴🅁🅂🄾🄽🄰🄻 🄸🄽🄵🄾🅁🄼🄰🅃🄸🄾🄽

name: nge: birthday: hometown: backstory:

𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 hair: eyes: face: body:

𝐬𝐤𝐢����𝐥𝐬:

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜. 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨:

aesthetic: wardrobe: tattoos/piercings:

🄼🅈 🄻🄸🄵🄴

job: house: wake-up scene: give yourself an idea of where you would like to be when you shift to your dr for the first time.

🅁🄴🄻🄰🅃🄸🄾🄽🅂🄷🄸🄿🅂

family: friends:

🅁🄾🄼🄰🄽🄲🄴

s/o (significant other): aesthetic: tropes: general info:

🅃🄷🄴 🄿🄻🄾🅃

obvi this depends on where you’re shifting to & what you want to do/experience in your dr.

🅂🄲🄴🄽🄰🅁🄸🄾🅂

not mandatory, but some people like to script specific events they want to happen

🄴🅇🅃🅁🄰 🄸🄽🄵🄾🅁🄼🄰🅃🄸🄾🄽 there is no hate or prejudice at all there is no global warming because we actually take care of our planet While I’m in my DR, I have no knowledge of any plot points or scenarios scripted (if you wanna make it fun)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Inciting Incident

Inciting incident of a story - the event that sets the main character/s on the journey that will occupy them throughout the narrative.

Typically, this incident will upset the balance within the main character’s world.

In classic detective films like The Big Sleep, for example, the inciting incident is the detective being asked to take on a new case.

In moments big and small, an inciting incident changes the life of a character, and the ensuing story is the fallout from that change.

Tips for Using Inciting Incidents in Your Writing

A compelling inciting action can be the difference between a gripping story and a forgettable one. Here are 3 techniques to make sure you’re writing the most effective possible beginnings to your stories:

Keep to your timeline. To make your reader or viewing audience emotionally invested in an inciting incident, make sure it takes place during the timeline of the story you’re telling. When an inciting action is a past event that others make reference to, it lacks the visceral truth of an incident that the audience has experienced.

Let your inciting action stimulate something sustainable. Your inciting plot point should drive a character to behave a certain way throughout the narrative. Make sure that the driving force will be sustainable throughout the full course of your story. A detective driven to solve a complicated case will sustain throughout the story. A man bitter about not getting the last slice of pizza could potentially be funny, but it won’t sustain a particularly long story.

Make your inciting action cause a noticeable shift in your character. A compelling inciting action will make your character take actions she would not have otherwise. In The Fugitive TV series, Dr. Richard Kimble loses his wife to murder and, worse still is accused of that murder. These traumatic events change Kimble, and they launch him onto a quest so compelling that it sustained four full seasons of television.

An inciting incident exists to launch a story.

If Shakespeare had begun Romeo and Juliet somewhere in the midst of the young lovers’ courtship, the story might have been entertaining, but it would have lacked the emotional stakes created when the two protagonists first lay eyes on each other in the play’s inciting incident.

It inspires the protagonist’s central motivations throughout the story.

In Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, the protagonist Charles Marlow finds his motivation when he learns about a Mr. Kurtz, in the story’s inciting incident.

The story goes on to detail Marlow’s obsessive quest to find Kurtz, and the horror he encounters when he finally finds him.

Every event that follows within the timeline of the story achieves its significance insofar as it relates to Marlow’s inciting action.

Types of Inciting Actions in Literature

As a general rule, inciting actions fall into one of 3 categories.

Causal inciting actions. Inciting actions involving a deliberate choice made either by the protagonist or about the protagonist. This deliberate choice informs all story elements to come. An example of this is Luke Skywalker’s recruitment in the original Star Wars film from 1977. The inciting action is the first step in Luke taking the archetypal “hero’s journey,” as famously described by Joseph Campbell.

Coincidental inciting actions. Inciting actions stemming from random chance, coincidence, or a protagonist “being in the right place at the right time.” In C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia series, the children inadvertently stumble upon a magical land through a portal in the back of a wardrobe. This chance discovery leads to all subsequent actions in the story.

Ambiguous inciting actions. Inciting actions that occur under circumstances that are not fully explained. The audience is left to guess whether the protagonist is placed in her situation by choice or by chance. Such inciting actions are common in thrillers and mysteries like The Sixth Sense, and the true story is rarely revealed until the very end of the film.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Do You Still Love Me?

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

in which, harrys been acting shifty lately, when your looking for a shirt in his wardrobe, he gets hostile, when you say your going to go and shower, he gets hostile and for some reason doubts start to creep into your mind about what he’s been doing, so when you confront him about it, he tells you of his secret all along.

word count - 3.1k

23rd December, 2023.

The December air in Holmes Chapel holds a crisp chill, and as you sit in the cozy living room of Harry's family home in Manchester, the warmth envelops you. The room is adorned with festive cheer – a beautifully decorated Christmas tree takes center stage, casting a soft glow of twinkling lights.

The two of you had decided to spend Christmas at his family’s like you do every year, you’ve blended into a member of there family, as if you were always there. Anne considered you as another daughter, and sometimes on accident you sometimes referred to Gemma as your sister, so spending Christmas with them was undoubtedly a no brainer.

You were going to be staying for a total of three weeks, arriving two weeks before the big day and then going home January 1st.

You find comfort on the sofa, admiring the personalized stockings that hang from the mantelpiece, proudly displaying everyone’s initials. One for Harry, one for you, one for Gemma, one for Anne as well as one that is put up every year, an R, for everyone’s angel Robin. The stockings serve as a poignant reminder of the shared holiday traditions and the presence of loved ones, including a thoughtful tribute to his late stepfather.

As you await Harry's return from the grocery shop with his mother and sister, you revel in the tranquility of the moment. The crackling fireplace adds a soothing soundtrack to the scene, enhancing the coziness of the room. You can't help but reflect on the significance of spending Christmas in this familiar space, filled with memories of the past four years.

However, amidst the festive atmosphere, a subtle unease lingers. Lately, you've observed a shift in Harry's demeanor. His actions and words have become increasingly shifty, leaving you with a sense of uncertainty.

He dances around conversations, offering vague responses that only intensify your curiosity. It's a stark contrast to the openness and connection you've shared over the years, causing a quiet concern to settle within you.

You gaze at the stockings once more, the embroidered initials a testament to the bonds that tie your lives together. Yet, as you sit in the glow of the Christmas lights, a question lingers in the air – a question you can't quite bring yourself to voice. The flickering flames cast shadows on the wall, mirroring the uncertainty that clouds your thoughts, which happen to consist of the three moments that you’ve caught him acting weird.

15th December, 2023.

The date was December 15th, and the evening held a quiet tension as you sat on the sofa in Harry's family home, the soft glow of lamplight illuminating the room.

Anne, occupied herself with knitting a jumper, a rhythmic pattern of needles clacking together in the stillness. The warmth of the room, usually comforting, now seemed to underscore an unspoken discomfort.

Around eight at night, the front door creaked open, and Harry entered, an unusual weariness etched across his features.

He had gone out around two, and it was now evening, he just explained to you that a few friends from school wanted to meet up before Christmas, but there was a hint of doubt that remained in your brain.

You couldn't help but inquire about his whereabouts, a hint of concern in your voice.

"Where've you been, Harry?" you asked, eyes searching his face for answers. He shrugged nonchalantly, a vague response that only deepened the unease settling in the room.

Attempting to break through the tension, you pressed further, a furrow forming on your brow. "What's wrong?"

The question hung in the air, met with a dismissive reply.

"Just tired, m’love. Think I might hit the hay early tonight," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact. The words lingered, laden with unspoken weight, leaving you with a sense of disquiet.

As Harry made his way toward the stairs, you couldn't let the matter rest. Concern etched across your face, you followed him, determined to understand the source of his unease. His hand halted you mid-step, a silent plea for space. Unbeknownst to you that it pained him, because he was doing it for the right reason.

"I'd like t’be alone for a little bit," he uttered, the distance in his eyes leaving you feeling shut out.

Left standing at the foot of the staircase, a chasm seemed to widen between you and Harry. The uncertainty echoed in the air, and as he ascended the stairs, the door to understanding remained firmly closed. The normally familiar and comforting surroundings felt alien, the clinking of Anne's knitting needles a somber soundtrack to the unspoken rift.

That night, as you lay in bed, questions lingered in the darkness. The echoes of Harry's vague responses resonated, and a sense of foreboding cast a shadow over what was once a haven of warmth and connection.

19th December, 2023.

The chill of December hangs in the air as you step through the front door, returning from the farmers market with Gemma. The aroma of fresh produce lingers on your clothes, and a shiver runs down your spine as the warmth of the cozy living room beckons.

The house is quiet, save for the faint sounds emanating from the kitchen, where Harry is preparing a cup of coffee for himself.

You navigate the familiar space, following the scent of brewing coffee that wafts through the air. The kitchen is dimly lit, and there he is, Harry, standing by the counter, lost in the quiet ritual of making coffee. His silhouette is a comforting sight, a presence that adds to the warmth of the home.

You make your way up the steps, wanting to be comfy when you greet your lover boy.

The December cold clings to your skin, urging you to shed the layers of the outside world. A yearning for warmth and comfort consumes you, and the thought of slipping into one of Harry's oversized shirts becomes a tempting refuge. The familiarity of his presence in the adjacent room promises solace in the face of the winter chill.

As you move toward the bedroom, the creaking floorboards beneath your feet seem to echo in the quietude of the house.

Gemma strolled into the kitchen, the door swinging gently behind her. She found her brother,

Harry, leaning against the counter, sipping on a cup of coffee. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee beans hung in the air as he greeted her with a cheerful " ‘Ey, how was the market?"

Gemma looked up, offering a warm smile. "It was good, got some nice stuff.

Harry hummed before tilting his head to the side. “Where’s (Y/N)?”

Gemma mirrored his smile, her eyes lighting up. "She went upstairs to get changed, though."

Harry nodded, his attention momentarily diverted as he took another sip of his coffee. However, a realisation dawned on him, and he furrowed his brow. "Wait, she's upstairs?"

Gemma, unaware of the subtle shift in Harry's demeanor, nodded. "Yeah, she mentioned wanting to warm up and change. Why?"

Harry's gaze darted toward the staircase, a sudden sense of urgency gripping him.

"No reason, just wanted t’check on ‘er. Be right back," he said, placing his coffee mug on the counter.

With a quick stride, he headed toward the stairs, a mild curiosity turning into a subtle concern. As he ascended, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. When he reached the top of the staircase, he spotted you about to enter the bedroom, ready to change.

"Hold on a sec," he called out, hastily covering the distance to stand before you, his expression a mix of surprise and tension. "Y’not allowed in there."

Because in his head, if you wanted to get changed, you’d go to his section of the wardrobe because he knows that you’d want one of his shirts, and then you’d find the surprise and he wasn’t planning on ruining that any time soon.

You paused, mid-step, your brow furrowing. "What do you mean, not allowed? H, I'm just getting changed."

His features tightened with an unexpected intensity. "I said, y’not allowed in there," he repeated, the words hanging heavily in the air.

Confusion and concern painted your expression as you took a step back. "Harry, what's going on? Why can't I go into our bedroom?"

His gaze remained fixed, a wall building between you two. "Just... not right now. I need Don't go in there."

You sighed, a heavy breath escaping you, and nodded in resignation. "Fine, whatever. Just get me some clothes, please."

Harry's shoulders tensed, and he hesitated before nodding. "Ye’okay. I'll get y’some clothes."

22nd December, 2023.

You can't help but replay the scenes in your mind—the December evenings, the vague responses, the moments when he seemed to withdraw. Each memory adds a layer of doubt, and as you connect the dots, a stray tear rolls down your face. The fear of him cheating on you lingers, casting a shadow over the warmth that once permeated your shared space.

The absence of Harry, his mother, and sister intensifies the solitude, and the room feels emptier than ever. The Christmas tree, adorned with memories, offers little solace in the face of the growing suspicion. You contemplate the significance of the three instances, questioning the foundation of trust that once defined your relationship.

In the quiet of the room, the tear on your cheek becomes a silent witness to the emotional turmoil within. The fear of betrayal, the uncertainty, and the unanswered questions create a palpable tension, leaving you to grapple with the haunting possibility that the person you love may be slipping away.

As the front door creaks open, signaling their return from the grocery shopping trip, Harry, his mother, and sister step into the living room. The warmth of familial greetings fills the air, and they collectively acknowledge your presence with smiles and hellos. The shared laughter and banter among them, however, are met with a strained silence on your part.

As Harry approaches, intending to seal the reunion with a customary kiss, you rise from the sofa. The heaviness in the room seems to amplify as you avoid his attempt at affection. You make a deliberate choice to distance yourself, turning away from the warmth that once brought solace and comfort.

With measured steps, you ascend the staircase, each footfall echoing a growing emotional distance. The decision to retreat upstairs becomes a silent declaration of your need for space, a momentary escape from the complexities that have woven themselves into your relationship. The unanswered questions and the lingering fear make it challenging to engage in the familial camaraderie that unfolds below.

As you walk away and ascend the stairs, the atmosphere in the living room subtly shifts. Anne, Harry's mother, notices the change in dynamics and glances at her son, concerned etching her features.

"Everything alright, love?" she asks, a mother's intuition sensing the unspoken tension.

Harry, removing his jacket and shoes, offers a dismissive smile. "Ye’, just gonna check on (Y/N) . Be right back."

His attempt to brush off the situation adds a layer of ambiguity to the air, leaving Anne with a lingering worry that she can't quite shake.

Upstairs, Harry follows in your footsteps, the silence between you palpable. As he enters the room, he finds you standing near the window, gazing out into the night.

"Ey’," he begins tentatively, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty. "S’going on? Are y’okay?"

Tearfully, you turn around to face him, emotions laid bare in your eyes. The air is thick with a mixture of sorrow and uncertainty as you pose a question that lingers in the silent space,

"Do you still love me?"

The vulnerability in your voice cuts through the room, leaving an atmosphere heavy with the anticipation of his response. Harry, caught off guard by the rawness of the question, searches your eyes for understanding.

Harry, caught off guard, furrows his brow defensively. "F’course, I do. Why would y’even think otherwise?"

His tone carries a mixture of hurt and frustration, an instinctive response to the implication that the love between you might be in question.

The room becomes charged with an anguished tension as you gather the courage to voice the unspoken concerns that have festered. "It's just... you've been acting so differently lately. There are these moments, these instances when you seem so distant. I can't help but feel like there's something you're not telling me."

Harry's defensive stance persists as he denies any wrongdoing.

"M’don't know what y’talking about. S’nothing going on," he insists, avoiding eye contact. The weight of his denial adds another layer to the unease in the room, leaving you to grapple with the growing chasm between you two.

The frustration builds, and you press further, "Harry, you can't just brush this off. It feels like you're hiding something, and I deserve to know what's going on."

The plea in your voice is met with a guarded expression from Harry, his defensive walls standing tall.

The room seems to tighten with each passing moment, the emotional stakes escalating.

"M’not hiding anything," Harry asserts, his voice tinged with exasperation. "Y’reading into things, making a big deal out f’nothing."

As the back-and-forth continues, a sense of despair settles in.

"Harry, I need honesty. We can't move forward if you keep shutting me out," you implore, the depth of your emotions exposed. Yet, his walls remain intact, and the elusive nature of the truth becomes a palpable barrier.

The echoes of their laughter from downstairs seem like distant memories now, drowned out by the intensity of the conversation unfolding.

"Just tell me, Harry. Tell me what's going on,the time you stopped me coming upstairs with you, the time you stopped me coming into the bedroom and had a go at me for wanting to go on your phone " you plead, your voice cracking under the weight of the unresolved tension.

The emotional exchange reaches a breaking point, leaving you on the floor, sobbing, desperate for answers. The weight of the uncertainty, the unspoken tensions, and the fear of losing the connection you once cherished overwhelm you. The room becomes a backdrop for your vulnerability, the walls echoing with the sound of your heartache.

Amidst your tears, you hear Harry sigh, and the rustle of a box catches your attention. He crouches down beside you, the heaviness in the air momentarily shifting.

"Look at m’please," he implores gently, his voice carrying a tone of sincerity that cuts through the emotional fog.

Hesitant, you raise your tear-stained eyes to meet his. His gaze holds a mixture of regret and determination, and he asks you to stand up. Every fiber of your being is hesitant, a cocktail of emotions bubbling beneath the surface. Reluctantly, you rise, uncertainty written all over your face.

As you stand, Harry, now on one knee, pulls out a small box. The room seems to hold its breath as he meets your gaze.

"V’been acting shifty because v’been planning this," he confesses, his voice soft yet earnest. "I wanted it t’be a surprise, but the timing... it just got all messed up."

"From the moment we met, m’life gained a sparkle that I never knew I needed. V’been m’confidante, m’partner in laughter, and the steady warmth that completes every corner of m’world. These past four years ‘ave been a journey f’growth, laughter, and endless love. Y’seen me at m’best and m’worst, yet y’loved m’unwaveringly."

He lets out a soft sigh. “Will y’make m’the happiest person in the world and say yes?"

Overwhelmed by the heartfelt speech and the flood of emotions, you fall into Harry's waiting arms, the warmth of his embrace grounding you in the reality of the moment. His arms wrap securely around you, and you find solace in the familiar comfort of his presence. With tears of joy streaming down your face, you look into his eyes, a silent affirmation of the love that binds you.

In a tender exchange, you press a loving kiss to his lips, the connection deepening as the weight of the proposal lifts from the room.

"Yes," you whisper against his lips, the word echoing with the promise of a shared future.

"Yes, Harry, a thousand times yes," you repeat, each affirmation punctuating the joy that now fills the space between you.

The room seems to shimmer with the shared happiness, and Harry holds you closer, his own eyes reflecting the relief and joy of the moment.

"I love you," he murmurs, the words a gentle reassurance that lingers in the air.

Harry tenderly tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch a gentle reassurance.

"M’sorry f’being so sneaky and, well, a bit harsh," he admits, sincerity coloring his gaze. "I just wanted the proposal t’be a surprise, but I guess v’already messed that up."

A light laugh escapes him, the sound a blend of amusement and relief. "Guess I couldn't keep it under wraps as well as I thought."

You join in the laughter, finding the humor in the unexpected twists of the evening.

"Well, surprise or not, it's the most wonderful thing that could have happened. I can't wait to be Mrs. Styles," you express, your eyes reflecting the genuine excitement that courses through you.

Harry's eyes soften with affection as he hears those words, and he leans in to press a sweet kiss to your forehead.

"M’can't wait either, m’love," he whispers, his voice carrying the promise of a shared future.

The room becomes a haven of shared laughter, love, and the promise of forever. Harry, still on one knee, takes your hand and delicately kisses the engagement ring.

"S’ring represents the love we've shared and the life we're about t’build together," he says, his words a poignant acknowledgment of the significance of the moment.

The room, once filled with questions and uncertainty, is now brimming with the certainty of love and the anticipation of a future together as Mr. and Mrs. Styles.

[zeyris-daydreams]

The Silent Overture; # Lethargy [2/4]

Yandere Sunday x reader

Part 2 of [The Silent Overture]

Same old routine is good for the mind; not yours.

How long has it been since you were placed here? Time flies by when all you do is lay like a glorified pet. You had brief flashes of consciousness, eyes opening before closing. And each time you looked, the surroundings were the same.

A round bed near a window, not enough to crawl up to it, yet enough to watch the snow fall outside. Were you any more conscious, you would’ve long remembered it wasn’t real.

Aside from seeing, you could sense things as well. The texture of the fuzzy blanket that was below you, the cushion that supported your arm like sun upon clouds; the naked piece of mattress that your foot somehow reached. You were laid almost exactly as Sunday had left you, and as your eyes opened, similar darkness surrounded you. Usually the window gave enough light to look around, but this time, it was hard to see.

That didn’t mean you couldn’t remember the outlay of the other items in the room. Vaguely, yes, but you swear that, with the eyes of your imagination, you witnessed the cabinet next to the doors. Or the wardrobe a little away from the bed. Nothing to be accessed personally, it was only there for Sunday to ’play house with.’

—Sunday usually came back before it was this dark.

Then again he was a busy man. And you? It was so tiring to remember— you didn’t even bother anymore. It was soft and warm right here, and your tired, poor, exhausted self had no need to even think of that.

Earlier you defied the tiredness, but now? You didn’t even remember that period of time! How little significance it held.

With a hum your eyes shut again, and you focused on the slightest breeze on your naked legs and arms. Barely noticeable flow of air through the gaps of the door and the window, something no other person paid any mind to.

But it was the only sensation which changed, and change it did; right as the doors opened, and the light from the hallway spilled in lightly, causing you to shut your eyelids tighter.

It was temporary, before the brighteness was shadowed by a figure, and the doors were closed once more.

“— I hadn't realised things would've taken so long. I would have informed you if I did know, but..”

Sunday trailed off, and you heard his steps against the floor, and then the shuffling of the stiff material of his suit. “I doubt you'd remember that, though.”

This repeated quite a bit, sufficient enough for you to know the movement and steps of his routine, and the sound it brought. His shoes sounded out as they laid near the doors soon after.

You managed to open your eyes enough to see shapes of items, Sunday folding the upper part of his suit onto the edge of the bed. As neatly as always, where he placed it each and every time.

With the rest of the clothes he didn't even bother. You didn't move an inch when he finally kneeled on the bed, shifting to slot himself between you and the wall that hosted the window.

Each time he embraced you, that’s the spot he was choosing. There, near the wall, always wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to him soon after, like some sort of an exquisite plush toy.

Your back was turned to Sunday, and he leaned a little to press his face into your shoulder, cheek against your neck. “Regardless.. I did miss you.”

His arms felt somewhat cold on your body, despite the thin pyjama material you wore - which was close to nothing really, with him dressed to this extent. Alas your brain could not bother with questioning. Not even trying to.

His ear feathers tickled your chin as he inhaled slowly, as means of relaxing. You found that he always let out a sigh when like this, always softening up against you the same way.

Sunday's limbs were still comfortably wrapped around you, keeping you snug and slotted against himself, curling his knees up against your legs. It was a very intimate position, skin against skin despite the clothes; so close you could feel the shape of his existence.

A vein against vein.

“Mm.. I would ask what you did the entire day, but..” his lips pressed to your shoulder. “We both know not much. Maybe on the weekend I can let you stretch your limbs a little..”

Sunday wasn't a health professional, but he was aware he had to let you get some movement in. Even if ideally he wanted you utterly reliant on him and his care, it was also desirable for you to be functional when needed.

It was most of the mercy he'd actually spare you - he was already too soft on you anyway.

His hand was curved against the front of your stomach, just resting there, thumb tracing circles upon the material of your loose pyjama. “Today was pretty tough, though. It seems the diplomats never want to pull their filthy claws out of Penacony.”

The halovian wasn't telling you anything you didn't know previously of course; that much was certain. And he wasn't ever revealing crucial information, merely vague hints and clues which were never there to keep you informed. Rather, it was Sunday's own way to vent out his feelings and thoughts to something, or someone, given his tendency to keep it hidden from others.

As the head of the family, Sunday couldn't afford this vulnerability with people. If he did, then he could potentially endanger himself and his position, and so he usually had to keep everything bottled. Quiet.

Maybe you were simply a good opportunity to repent a sinner. He refused to acknowledge that he kept you for his own selfishness — after all, he did it from what he called ‘altruism’.

“What annoys me most is how smart people try to be in conversation. Evasive speech, and even though I do enjoy making people squirm, I find it only infuriating if they don't conduct it with grace..”

Big words. In fact you only heard a third of what he was talking about, eyes closing once more with a pleasant exhale. Tired.

“If one wants to play mind games, why not? But I do feel like people recently do it with no class; merely feigning intelligence.” His tongue clicked, and his hand slid under the material, further up. Near the rib cage, but not any further. Just to feel warmth.

Sleepy.

Sunday grazed your neck with his lips, his breath warm despite the somewhat colder exterior. “It really does feel like, as years go by, people start to be numb to the concept of behaving in an orderly manner.

The words vibrated against your neck, but you didn't wish to focus on them really. In your current state, all that mattered was whatever your body could feel. Right now it was Sunday, his touch, his coldness, his presence.

Harmony as well, but it became so ingrained in your head it was practically a part of you.

A tumor extending its fleshy tendrils over the softness of your brain, digging in deep like the roots of a tree, and the tree may be cut down, but getting rid of the bark was indeed a harder process.

The halovian kissed at your neck softly, tenderly, just enjoying the presence of someone. Anyone.

“I do like my routines though,” he buried his face in your shoulder, his own relaxing. “So that's comforting enough.”

Comforting that you were here, to provide him with whatever he needed. Willingly or not, you were integral to the harmony now. To the order of his life.

You were a cog in the machine that was Sunday's very being. Perhaps he was right to have planned beforehand to.. get himself a comfort human.

Tomorrow the routine would repeat; again and again and again.

[alice-after-dark]

Why Vox's Redesign was Important to Selling His Trustworthy Image

Tumblrites who follow my blog will probably have heard me talk about Vox's image as a trustworthy individual. Despite being an Overlord in literal Hell, Vox has managed to convince the denizens of the inferno that he is someone to be trusted. This makes him a compelling opponent for Charlie because it's made clear that her subjects don't given her much respect, so it will be significantly harder for her to get them to back her and the hotel over someone they trust and support like Vox.

But on a meta level, I want to discuss why the changes made to Vox's pilot appearance were so necessary to sell the idea that he could convince the Sinner populace to put their trust in him. Because if the audience is coming away from Vox's scenes and going "how the fuck do people trust this guy?" that's a problem. It needs to be believable and that was why they had to make changes to Vox's original design.

To get started, these are the two images I will largely be referencing:

The first thing I am going to address is the color changes and the impact they have on his design. The biggest change they made to his design color-wise was replacing the black of his clothes with a soft blue. Blue is a color of trust and serenity. It's a calm color. You will often see it in hospitals, banks, dentist offices, etc. Places where they want you to be calm and feel safe. By making blue the main color of Vox's design, it creates this feeling of safety, especially in a world where everything is bathed in red, a color of alarm and danger. The neon details on his design were also shifted to be more blue and less green/mint and switched his eyebrows from neon to black. This creates less of a contrast, so they don't feel as harsh. They also reduced contrast by making his screen more blue tinted rather than gray and his frame dark gray instead of black. Another significant color change was changing the red from a stark bright red so a gentler more magenta toned red. All of these color changes and the diminished contrast serve to soften his design and make him appear more trustworthy and less threatening.

Now, I mentioned above that red is a color of alarm and danger, so why would Vox include it in his wardrobe if he wants people to trust him? My thought on this is that is it to blend at least slightly with the world around him. Hell is bathed in reds, so being dressed entirely head to toe in blue would create such an abrupt contrast that it would probably scare people off. Adopting a softer, more muted red allows him to still feel cohesive to the environment while also standing out.

The next thing I want to focus on is the design of his mouth in both forms. While not as clear in the pictures I have in this post, Vox's canon mouth is one block of color with a jagged line running through the middle. Pilot Vox highlights every single tooth from top to bottom, which makes him feel more vicious and dangerous. His mouth in the pilot is also that neon greenish-blue against black, rather than the blue on blue of the canon design. There's less contrast so it lessens the perceived threat. The pilot design's mouth is also smooth, one solid arc, while the canon designs has edges and a more firm shape. Now, you might think that this would make canon Vox's smile more threatening because of the sharper edges, and usually you would be right, but there's something bigger at play here. The smooth curve of Pilot Vox's mouth feels unnatural. It slips into uncanny valley territory. It makes him feel less human, which naturally sets off alarm bells. Our brain is telling us that this thing is trying to look human but it's not and that inherently is going to make us more defensive. The differences in the way they separate the teeth also contributes to this. By adding shape to the mouth, it feels more human-like, even when his face is literally a flat-screen.

This is a small change, but originally, the bottom of Vox's jacket was one single hem, similar to Alastor's. It was changed to a tailcoat, with the bottom cutting back and splitting into two distinct tails. Not only does this serve to differentiate his silhouette from Alastor's, but tailcoats signify respect, dignity, and sophistication, adding to his more charming appearance and making him have an air of authority.

The last thing I want to point out is his hypno eye. Pilot Vox's hypno eye is always active. You can see this if you check the Instagram images. This creates a sinister feel because of the harsh contrast between the black and that bright red. It also served to make him appear less human, once again dipping into that uncanny valley feeling. By having it only active sometimes, it serves as a way to control when you want him to feel sinister. In canon, it only activates when Vox is either using it to hypnotize the masses or when he is getting upset. These are moments where you want him to feel more dangerous, so they make sense. Otherwise, in canon, Vox's eyes are standard demon eyes, which lessens the uncanny valley effect.

Overall, these changes create a softer, less threatening image that you can understand why a person would trust. By changing some key colors and design elements that slipped too far into uncanny valley territory, they were able to create a design that felt safer and more charismatic while also maintaining the power and villainous energy of the character.

[skvaderarts]

On the Breath of Yellow Tulips

Chapter 2: Fluster Flitter Falter

Summary: Word Count 3.3K AO3 Link

After being showered in adoration and romantic gifts by too many people to count, Jayce realizes that not a single person has shown any appreciation for Viktor, despite his countless contributions to the prosperity of Piltover. He endeavors to change that by giving him an Amour Day he will never forget. After all, where would the city be without them both? It's high time that Viktor received some of the praise he deserved!

This Valentine's Day fic is over two weeks late, but I think it works just as well as a general romance piece since it's never called Valentine's Day in the actual story.

Chapters: (1) (3) Masterlist 2/3

Chapter Two: Fluster Flitter Falter

Note: Why does the will to write only find me at 5 am…

—

The first place they’d gone after leaving the lab was Viktor’s home. The second, the park.

Piltover was known for its splendor, and its nature was a significant part of that. Meticulously landscaped and immaculate, they were serene and luscious public grounds teaming with wildlife. Ancient established trees shaded the walking paths, fresh air abounded, and water flowed freely through babbling brooks and gently splashing streams into ponds filled with different varieties of birds that shifted with the seasonal migrations. 

The greenspaces were a treasured jewel amongst the city's polished stone and the gleaming gold. As such, they were a popular destination for special occasions. However, due to the nature of the Amour Day, the shaded areas were less desirable than they typically were. Seemingly every couple in the park had come there to enjoy the open lawns, warm spaces filled with lawn games and warm sun. The lush tree paths were all but abandoned, giving them an air of privacy; intimacy despite the public nature of the space.

It was the perfect alcove for what Jayce Talis had in mind.

Strolling along the meandering paths, the pair had both changed into something more comfortable. Typical Piltoveran summer fashion in Jayce’s case, still semi-dressed up in a vest and dress shirt, but without his signature coat and much more comfortable shoes. But still adorned in those signature hues of House Talis red and gold. 

Viktor had forgone the vest entirely and had settled for just wearing a loose button-up shirt, but with a small flourish that had garnered a few glances as they’d made their way down the boulevard towards the park: his choice of colors. Brown as a color choice for pants wasn’t that outrageous, even if it was a few shades lighter than most people would have bothered with. Camel wasn’t a popular choice. Dark blues and greys were currently all the rage. No, what was a fair bit more audacious was the choice to wear orange. A medium shade of it that complimented the honeyed gold of his eyes. He didn’t even bother to roll up the sleeves, opting to simply let them fall loosely against his skin. And they did just that. Though he did tuck the shirt into his pants. On one side, that was. Deliberately. On his bad side.

The order of the day in Piltover was the same as it had always been: perfectly fitted and tailored clothing that spoke of the coin required to upkeep such a wardrobe. Attire, like everything else meant status. But this was a conscious choice. Viktor had decided to be comfortable. To forgo the prim and proper ways of the society that he normally tried so very hard to fit into. To wear colors that signified that he did not come from a house, grand or insignificant. And that he bore no shame for it.

One small yet personal act of rebellion against such a monolithic, collectivist society.

Today he wasn’t at work. There was no one here to object in any manner that he found meaningful; in no position of power over him. It was just the two of them in the graceful embrace of the garden, a thousand miles from judgment.

“You’ve been awfully quiet since we left,” Jayce observed casually as they strolled along at a languid pace. He carried a roll of plush fabric under one arm and a nondescript woven rectangular basket in his hands. The handle had grown uncomfortable in his grip so he’d hoisted it up into his arms instead, insisting that Viktor not carry anything at all. Not because he couldn’t but because he didn’t trust him not to take a sly peak inside. 

It was barely past noon now. They were in no hurry. The evening’s festivities were hours away, even when the expectation of slowing up fashionably early so as not to offend their wealthy benefactors were taken into account. This was about the journey as much as the destination.

Neither of them paid any mind to the pace. Jayce had long since fallen into the rhythm of following Viktor’s gait, and Viktor had likewise shed the temptation to rush for his partner’s sake. They knew how to estimate travel time to accommodate their own shared pace. It was a dance of micro-adjustments that they’d fine-tuned over the last few years, much as they fine-tuned everything else. Another thing they now did in perfect, harmonious synchronization without so much as a thought. Like the passing of a hammer or the fetching of an extra cup of sweetmilk.

Unbothered by the accuracy of that assessment, Viktor shrugged as they continued onward, rolling his shoulder as he spared Jayce a passing glance. 

“Is it a crime to listen to the breeze blowing through the trees, Jayce?” He enquired with a dash of sarcastic flare to his tone. Jayce didn’t answer but he did scoff in amusement at the statement, shaking his head lightly as they approached the base of the cusp of a small hill.

Jayce held his hand out in front of Viktor, silently requesting that he pause. It earned him a curious look but no remarks from his companion, at least until he lightly sprinted ahead, ascending the hill with an ease of effort that Viktor couldn’t help but notice and feel slightly irked by. It was nothing that he would hold against him, but something he couldn’t help but long for in some small, long tired corner of his mind.

Perhaps one day Hextech would bridge that gap. It had granted him the reprieve of weightlessness once before. No one yet knew the limits of its capabilities.

“Alright, this is the spot. Stay here for a second.” Jayce called down to him from above before ducking out of sight.

Unsure as to what else to do, he monitored the spot where Jayce had just stood, leaning a bit more on his cane than he would have liked. He wasn’t tired just yet, but he still needed to pace himself. There was a long night ahead of him, but Jayce had assured him that this outing wouldn’t rob him of his strength for the night to come. He would take his word for it.

Viktor thrummed the fingers of his free hand against his leg, leaning his head against his right shoulder a bit as he pondered what Jayce was up to. But he didn’t budge from the spot where he stood. He didn’t lack self-control, even in the face of mounting curiosity. Most of the time. Or perhaps that was a lie he told himself. He couldn’t be sure at the moment.

Just as he was starting to wonder if he’d been left alone to languish on the cusp of the greenspace, Jayce reappeared and motioned from him to follow. Viktor silently assessed the somewhat steep angle of the slope of the hill before quirking an eyebrow at the request, shrugging. He would try. If he fell then at least there would be plush green grass to catch him instead of the hard, unforgiving pavement. He suppressed a huff at the concept. 

In Jayce’s quest to not underestimate his capabilities and inadvertently insult him, he sometimes managed to walk headlong into another problem entirely: overestimating him and then having to wonder if he should offer his assistance at the risk of coming off as patronizing. It was a delicate line to walk, one that they were both cognizant of and one that Viktor often found himself quietly bemused by. Jayce genuinely tried to put his best foot forward. There was no exact science to it, as strange as that was to contemplate considering their chosen passion.

Viktor wondered to himself if Jayce was aware of how difficult it would be for him to genuinely, truly offend him in that regard. Annoy, yes. But anger? This was Jayce Talis after all. Devoted, kind-hearted Jayce. Viktor could only ever assume that he had the best of intentions as a default. He’d never given him a reason to think otherwise, even if he did occasionally come off as wholly unaware in a way that almost circled back around to being endearing. He was curious and eager to help. And Viktor tried his very best to be mindful of that, even when his instinct was to close himself off to such kindness. Even when he wasn’t sure that was the correct answer. He knew that there had been times when he’d had every right to be flummoxed with Jayce, but he couldn’t hold anger in his heart towards him, let alone muster the energy to feel it for more than a fleeting moment. 

It was strange how that was a rule that only seemed to apply to him.

Why had he decided that Jayce was the exception to that rule?

Taking note of the extent of the incline, Jayce met him halfway, his arms at his sides as he watched him with measured caution. His expression was a blend of barely perceptible concern and caution with an analytical edge. He was thoroughly convinced that Viktor could handle this on his own. He’d been through far worse ordeals than a somewhat steep grassy knoll.

“Do you…” Jayce trailed off as he stood a few feet from the top of the hill, itching to extend his hand to him but not doing so.

Pausing for a moment, Viktor took note of the fact that the incline became treacherously steep from this point forward. It was only a small radius that the steepest part of the slope encompassed, but it was at the very top, well hidden by the grass.

Opting to be overcautious instead of regretful, he nodded and reached out his left hand, receiving the embrace of a much larger hand. Jayce beamed, his eyes gleaming and his smile bright as sunlight as he pulled Viktor towards him with a firm but not forceful pull, his grip showing no hint of faltering. With a slightly stronger yank, he pulled him over the last hurdle, the lithe man stumbling slightly but catching himself with his cane. Jayce leaned into Viktor, allowing him to brace himself against his unyielding weight and effortlessly tucking his right arm under Viktor’s left, holding him upright until he regained his proper footing. It took little more than a moment and even less effort, but an amused sound from Viktor all the same.

Looking up at Jayce as he stepped back a small measure in an attempt to reestablish some semblance of personal space, Viktor couldn’t help but derive vague amusement from the sedate mundanity of it all. But as their eyes met, there was a brief moment of… something. He didn’t know how to interpret it any more than he knew he could be sure he’d actually seen it and not just imagined it, but for the briefest moment, he’d been certain he’d seen fleeting traces of something affectionate in Jayce’s large, expressive eyes. They were so honest, even when he didn’t have the slightest notion as to what they were trying to communicate.

Neither of their gazes wavered for a lingering moment before Viktor quirked his head to the side again, looking at Jayce as though gazing at him from a slightly different angle would make him more comprehensible.

It was Jayce’s turn to try not to blush.

Breaking away from the intensity of Viktor’s gaze as though he would melt like heated wax under it, he gestured toward his intended point of interest.

Splayed out across the ground was a large double-sided red and blue blanket, smoothed over as best as it could be on the mostly even terrain. In its center sat the basket, open at both ends. An assortment of simple but flavorful snacks beckoned from within, tempting a growl from the smaller man’s stomach. He hadn’t realized that he was hungry until then. When had he last eaten? Did it even matter now?

“I remembered how much you hated the food at the last party I dragged you to,” Jayce said, attempting not to chuckle too loudly at the memory as he led Viktor over to their designated picnic spot. “So I figured why not just eat before we go?

Viktor frowned for a moment as the unpleasant memory wafted through his mind like a foul smell on the wind. Ah yes, that party. The party that had made him swear off parties for life. And yet… “What was it that I ate that made me violently ill last time? Those little cracker things… “

“Those hors-d'oeuvres were a nightmare.” Jayce shuddered at the memory as the two made themselves comfortable on the blanket. Subconsciously opting to sit right next to one another instead of across from each other. The view was better from this angle. Or so they both told themselves.

Breathtaking was the wrong word to use to describe the view. To attempt to disseminate its raw appeal. On their left was the sprawl of the harbor, ships from all corners of Runeterra charting a course through Piltover’s glistening waters. Their sails and hulls telling a thousand vibrant stories. And to their right, the manor district. Private and public botanical gardens and stone-clad manors constructed and meticulously maintained by true masters of their craft. The trees that shaded them from above framed the scene in the embrace of their ancient branches, tendrils of light snaking through around them but not directly above. 

There was a romance to it. Like they’d sequestered themselves away from the world in some solitary, untouchable place that only the two of them knew of. No one and nothing would bother them here. Nothing to intrude upon their quietude.

It was serene. It felt more intimate the longer they lingered. Not quite touching but close enough to if one of them dared bridge the gap. The consciously, torturously slow rhythm of air pulling in and then evacuating their bodies as they drew breath and the soft chirp of distant birds were the only sounds that punctuated the silence. The soft swell of the harbor. The scent of flower petals on the breeze.

It was the kind of moment you wanted to bottle and distill into a perfect, unbroken memory to savor for a lifetime. But time marched ever forward.

“They did not mix well with the overly sweet champagne they were serving that night,” Jayce added to his previous comment, retrieving a thermos from inside of the basket and unscrewing it. Inside was a creamy white liquid, the scent of which immediately drew Viktor’s attention. He didn’t need to inquire as to its contents. Sweetmilk. Jayce poured him a portion and then set it aside, grabbing something else entirely.

“No, they didn’t,” Viktor said accompanied by a reaffirming sequence of head nods. He wondered if anyone else had spent the party hunched over something, anything they could find to relieve their insides of the torment of trying to keep it all down. He hadn’t heard anyone else in the venue’s bathroom, but he also hadn’t been listening. “It’s rare that I’m that hungry but feel so little desire to eat.”

Jayce chortled. 

The meal continued in largely unbroken silence, the pair passing items back and forth as they settled in. Viktor made short work of several portions of whatever Jayce had somehow managed to squeeze into that basket, the vessel seemingly more and more like a bottomless pit that defied all laws of the conservation of matter. And as he did, a notion occurred to him: these were all homemade dishes. A small assortment of his personal favorites. The mystery dish that Jayce brought to work that he was always trying to snag a portion of. A chicken pasta dish that none of the shops ever seemed to have the right spices for, especially when he craved it. Ximena Talis’s cake that she only made for special occasions. Sweetmilk. How had he managed such a feat? And on such short notice.

He would ask later. For now, he would continue to indulge. 

Still, it all just felt… strange. Jayce made no effort to conceal the adoration in his eyes at the notion, and Viktor made no effort to pretend that he didn’t notice it. He was comfortable with it. To be close to the man of progress was to embrace being doted upon, he reminded himself. This was simply who Jayce was. His way of showing appreciation and affection towards those he cared for. But why all of this and why today? Why to such an intimate extent? Was it simply the romantic in Jayce that drove him to such lengths? Was this about last year…

“You’re pondering something,” Jayce stated knowingly as Viktor set aside his dishes, placing them back into the basket. Everything had a lid. There would be no spills. The smaller of the two watched as Jayce did the same, having long since stopped eating. He’d been waiting, it seemed. It made sense. The containers nested into one another. A complimentary set. Much as they were.

Leaning back in a half-sitting position before adjusting his neck, Jayce reached over and grasped Viktor’s arm lightly, silently inviting him closer. Into his embrace. The gesture earned him a curious if not somewhat puzzled look, but he reciprocated the gesture regardless only to find a strong arm around the left side of his chest pulling him closer. He was coaxed into resting the back of his head against the left side of Jayce’s broad shoulder as the taller man fully leaned back against the tree behind them and took him with him.

“No.” It was honest. “That implies that my thoughts are coherent.”

“Ah.” Viktor felt the response more than he heard it, sequestered as he now was against his companion’s chest and shoulder. He wasn’t surprised by how small he felt. Jayce only seemed to grow taller and broader with time while he almost wondered if he was shrinking. At the very least he was not keeping pace with him and never would. A product of the stunted development that seemed to plague all who were born in the Undercity.

“Just an inkling of something I find curious. It’s unimportant.” Viktor added nonchalantly as the pair gazed out across the harbor. Jayce wrapped his right arm around him loosely, gently pulling him to rest against him. He relented wordlessly and allowed it, wondering how long they’d been here. It felt like a while. He’d like to stay longer if possible. Despite the unorthodox nature of their current situation, he… enjoyed it. He would never feel comfortable being held like this by anyone else, but at this moment, for this serene, sacred moment in time, he felt utterly content and had no desire to question why. They just were.

Another exclusive privilege extended to Mr. Talis and Mr. Talis alone. Only he could make him feel like this. So unbothered by the troubles that plagued him. His stiff muscles, tired back, and aching leg. The weight of the world he’d placed onto his own shoulders when he’d vowed to help the people of the undercity. They melted away into an almost euphoric, blissful haze, not fully gone but muddled just enough to fade from the forefront of his mind. No amount of affection and adoration could remove the physical burdens of his existence, but they certainly made them more bearable.

He felt fortunate to know Jayce. He knew that Jayce would sing his praises if he allowed him to. To preach the gospel of how his faith in him had moved the hand of fate and saved his life. But in truth, Viktor didn’t believe it was that simple anymore. That one-sided. Jayce had rescued him, as well. From the loneliness that had gnawed at him like a trapped animal in a crushingly insufficient enclosure all his life. A product of his gifted mind, he’d once been told. But he hadn’t realized how truly lonely he’d been until he’d surrendered himself to the concept of being cared for by Jayce Talis.

[genz420]

Beauty of Scars & Flowers - Chapter 7: Gift and Embraces.

Master List

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The morning air was crisp, and the chill nipped at the exposed skin of Lyanna’s neck and chest. When she heard the Southern ladies complain about the cold, she should have understood that her definition of cold and theirs were two completely different things.

Lyanna liked the cold. She preferred it much more than the heat of the sun. She enjoyed the feeling of the wind kissing her skin and the warmth that spread from her chest. Yet as she stood in the courtyard, watching all the ladies being fussed over, she regarded every listening to the unknown ladies. 

Her attendance at the outing was not her idea but her uncle's. It seemed that, with each passing day, Larys was more eager to give her away to any man who gave her the slightest attention. She was unsure who was hosting the event but knew of the people that would be in attendance.

Lyanna was determined to find out if Ser Alan was serious in their courting dance or if she was just another pretty thing for him to play with. She had thought that Ser Alan would have been a good match for her when she had first met him, but with each passing day and the presence of a certain prince, her confidence that he was serious about his attenuation shrunk. 

She watched from beside the horse that was assigned for the day as the ladies of the court gathered together, laughing and whispering with one another. The fact only reminded Lyanna that she was an outsider among the people of the Crownlands. 

Perhaps she should start to assimilate herself more with the customs here. She is sure Helaena would happily have her company during the masses that the Sept holds on the holy day. Or she could change her yellow and blue wardrobe to green. It seemed like she was going to be there for the long run. 

Lyanna continued to run her bare hand over the horse's mane as she watched longingly at the ladies. Not paying attention to the words that her uncle was saying. 

She had not paid attention to the words since he insisted she spend her day outside the Keep, choosing to act childless and pretend that her uncle did not exist. Larys would have been offended, but Lyanna always acted childishly when forced to do something she did not want to do. 

Aemond watched from his post within the threshold of the courtyard as Lyanna petted the horse in front of her. The second he took the step out of the keep, he could not turn back once he was spotted. 

The prince took a deep breath before straightening his back and making his way toward the two Strongs within the courtyard. The sword at his hip felt like it suddenly weighed a ton, and the gloves in his hand became as hot as Vhagar's wither skin. 

Larys noticed him first. The cripple bowed his head to the prince and stepped away from his niece, allowing the two young adults a moment to themselves. Aemond should have known that Larys had heard of the blossoming friendship between him and Lyanna; it always seemed that Larys knew the things happening around the keep before anyone else. 

“My Lady Strong,” Aemond broke the silence between them, his hands gripping the gloves in his hand to the point his knuckles turned as white as them. 

The prince's voice was enough for Lyanna to tear her gaze away from the ladies. As Lyanna turned to face the prince, she quickly curtsied to him before offering a kind smile. Before Lyanna could return the greeting, Aemond held out the pair of gloves in his hand. 

They were cloth, Lyanna noted, as white as fresh winter snow with a few different colour flowers embroidered along the cuff. They were beautiful, yet she made no move to accept them, just looking at them as if they were made of fire. 

Aemond waited for Lyanna to move to accept them, making a slight shift of his weight. He had spent the last few days reading about the culture of the first men, and he knew the significant meaning of a gift of gloves, but maybe this was too soon. Perhaps he should have started with letters and not moved straight to a piece of clothing.

Larys stood to the side, leaning on his cane as he watched the duo with narrow eyes.

“These are for you, My Lady Strong,” Aemond said again. His voice made Lyanna look away from the gloves and toward his face. 

He could see the slightest tint of pink on Lyanna's cheeks. So faint that if he did not have her face committed to memory, he could not notice a difference. Aemond watched as Lyanna swallowed and smacked her lips together before she pulled her eyebrows together.

“You did not have to, my prince,” Lyanna finally spoke up, taking a deep breath after she finished speaking.

Lyanna took a step away from the horse she had been petting and toward the prince. So close that Aemond could smell the floral perfume that she was wearing. It was so intoxicating that Aemond could not help himself from stepping toward her, closing the gap between them even more. 

“I insist,” He told her, his voice slightly softer and quieter than before. 

Lyanna looked back down to the gloves, one hand gently moving toward grasp one of them. Aemond could only watch as her fingers moved along the embroidery, waiting to see the reaction she would have. 

But before Lyanna could speak up, Larys joined the two of them. The clubfoot looked between his niece and the prince and the gloves that he was holding. Larys might have spent most of his life in the crownlands, but he remembered the customs and traditions of his people. 

“Say thank you, Lyanna,” Larys told her, and for the first time, it seemed like his niece did not fight his words. 

“Thank you,” she said as she took the gloves and looked back up at Aemond. She held them against her stomach, tracing her fingers over the embroidery while offering him a smile.

“Will you be joining us today, Ser Larys?” Aemond turned his attention away from Lyanna, not fighting the smile on his face. 

“I am afraid not.  My foot prevents me from riding. I trust you will after my beloved niece?” Larys asked Aemond as he taped his cane against the cobblestone. 

Lyanna could not help but snicker at her uncle's words as she looked down at her shoes and tried to bite away the smile on her face.  Beloved niece was the most humorous statement that her uncle had said so far.

“Of course,” Aemond assured Larys, who quickly gave the two of them a curt nod before leaving them. 

Lyanna watched as her uncle left, feeling like she could breathe again as he left her presence. She felt as if she could act like her true self without the nagging feeling that every move she made was the wrong one in her uncle's eyes. Lyanna looked back to Aemond, gently playing with her new gloves. 

“I did not know you would be joining us,” She told him as she returned to the horse. 

Aemond rested his hand on the pommel of his sword as he mirrored her movements. Standing not even an arm's length away from her, he patted the horse's rump. 

Helaena had been the one to inform him that Lyanna would be spending the day away from the keep with the rest of the young courtiers. Revealing to him, she planned to find out Alan's true intentions.  It just so happens that his training season had been cancelled, and he had the day free to do whatever he pleased. 

“I thought it would be fun to spend the day with my fellow young courtiers,” He answered as he looked around the courtyard. 

Lyanna did not stop the laugh that escaped her. 

She knew that Aemond held an interest in the lives of the courtiers. Only enjoying hearing the gossip about their lives but never socializing with them. 

“You think spending the day with Ser Alan will be fun?” She asked as she looked at Aemond; her words and smile were one of jest. 

That smile made Aemonds stomach feel warm. 

The morning sun made her skin glow, and Aemond wished he could thank whatever handmaid had dressed Lyanna. For the dress she wore hung off her shoulders. The skin of her shoulders and collarbones were free to soak up the sun's rays, and Aemond could feel his mouth drying at the thought of what it might feel like against his skin, against his lips. 

He pulled his eye away from the freckled skin and back toward Lyanna’s face. A tight smile was on his face, and any on-looker would assume that the prince was in a sour mood. 

“I think spending the day with you in the King’s Wood will be fun,” He whispered to her, not wanting the people around them to hear such tender words. 

“You honour me,” She whispered back, not hiding the smile that came on her face at his words. 

– – 

The ride to the Kingswood was filled with jokes shared between the prince and the soon-to-be lady of Harrenhal. The two of them were within their own world, not caring about the glances that were shot toward them by the other courtiers or side glances of Ser Arryk Cargyll. 

The two simply enjoyed the ride toward the wilderness, with Aemond pointing out different features of architecture to Lyanna. She had enjoyed listening to the prince and his knowledge about the city he had lived in his whole life. She didn’t focus her attention anywhere else but on him as they rode through the city and eventually the King’s Road to get to the camp. 

Once the group of courtiers arrived at the camp, Aemond could not help but slightly judge the scale of the camp. It all seemed rather intimate, with men and women all drinking and laughing loudly.

But maybe this is what this kind of event was like. 

Part of Aemond suddenly realizes that he was not invited, that he had invited himself, but he could not care. He wanted to spend the day with Lyanna. 

Aemond, still looking around, dismounted his horse first before handing the reins to Ser Arraky. He moved his neck around until he heard a satisfying crack. He then set his gaze on Lyanna, who was still atop her horse. 

Aemond, being the gentleman that he is, moved toward Lyanna. Instead of taking hold of the reins, he offered her a hand, which she gladly accepted. 

With one hand holding on hers, Aemond moved his other hand to rest against where he assumed her hip bone was. He relished in the moment of helping her dismount the horse and settling onto the ground. 

Even once Lyanna had her bearings, Aemond did waver from her side. He watched as she pulled her hair over one shoulder, exposing the bare skin of the other. His eyes stayed lingering on her chest and how, with each breath she took, her chest would almost spill out of her chest. 

The hand that Aemond had used to help Lyanna off her horse still rested against the dip of her hip. The feeling of her dress against his hand made his head hurt, knowing that only a few barriers separated them. 

He quickly removed his hand and stepped away as the unmistakable sound of the most annoying knight of the seven kingdoms sounded behind him. 

“Lyanna! You look beautiful, and with the flowers I have gifted you in your hair,” Alan broke the silence between Lyanna and Aemond. The knight’s arms were open wide in greeting, and a smile on his face. 

Even Aemond could not deny that the soon-to-be lord of Horn Hill was handsome. His face was free of scars and a typical man of descent of the first man. A common trait he shared with Lyanna was that Alan properly did not have to learn the dance of customers that is shared between two lovers like Aemond had to. 

Lyanna moved away from Aemond and toward the knight as she offered him a small smile. Aemond had not noticed the white flowers in Lyanna's hair, yet his gift cost significantly more than a few flowers. He’s held more meaning and commitment than some stupid flowers. 

Yet Aemond knew she probably cherished the flowers.  

“I thought I should make use of them before they wither away, Ser Alan,” Lyanna greeted back as she allowed the knight to take her hands.  

“No need for the formalities today; it will simply be us,” He spoke sweetly to her, his voice like honey and Lyanna now remembered why she tolerated the man.

“I think that Lord Larys would appreciate it if the formalities stayed,” Aemond said as he moved to stand beside Lyanna. He did not break his gaze away from Alan, instead straightening his posture.

The moment the prince spoke up, the joy on Alan’s face left and was replaced with distaste. It seemed that the two men held the same feeling for one another.  

“Prince Aemond,” Alan greeted with the bow of his head, letting go of Lyanna’s hands and stepping away from her. 

Lyanna looked back at Aemond, a slight pout on her face, before looking back to Alan with a smile.

“The prince is to be my chaperone for the day,” she told him as she tried to uplift the mood and situation. 

“How gracious of him,” He agreed, not looking at Lyanna but keeping eye contact with Aemond. 

The soon-to-be Lord's tone was only joyous, and it became clear to Lyanna and Alan that their plans for the day would not go according to plan. Yet the prince could not be happier. 

Lyanna grasped Alan's hands, pulling his attention back onto her and putting a warm smile on her face. She knew she had to charm a man who had been taught just like the rest of the daughters of nobility.  

“I have read a great deal about the wildlife in this area. Ser Alan, would you like to accompany me while I try to forage for some flowers,” Lyanna proposed, but her smile vanished as Alan ripped away his hands from hers and took another step away from her. 

“After I finish welcoming the rest of the ladies,” he told her curtly. Before Lyanna or Aemond could wish him a farewell, he was already moving toward another smaller group of ladies. 

Lyanna nodded to herself as she took a deep breath. Smoothing out of the front of the dress, she was unaware of the longing gaze of the prince standing behind her. 

“I will accompany you,” Aemond spoke once he was sure that Alan was far enough away from them, offering Lyanna his arm, which she gladly accepted.

“Thank my prince,” she thanked, giving him a small smile as they moved toward the tree line. 

With one wave of his hand, Aemond dismissed Ser Arryk as he and Lyanna left the group and ventured into the woods.

– 

“My prince?” Lyanna spoke up as she took Aemond’s arm once again. 

The only response she got from Aemond was a low hum as he guided the two along the riverbed. 

Lyanna kept glancing between him and the shrubbery around them, weighing the pros and cons of bringing up the topic she wished to talk about. 

The gift that Aemond had given her was the main thing she wished to ask about, but she feared that she might come off as rude and ungrateful for the prince's generosity. But the meaning behind it weighed heavy on her mind. 

If Aemond knew the significance or if it was just a friend gifting something to a friend like she had been doing with Helaena. 

“Why the gift?” Lyanna finally asked as she kept her eyes away from him so as not to see how he reacted. 

Aemond took his gaze off the greenery before them and glanced at Lyanna. He could see the slightest build-up of sweat on the side of her neck and that the bright sun was hurting her eyes. Could tell that she was slightly nervous when she asked her question. 

Aemond looked back before them as they entered a fall clearing of tall grass and wildflowers. The sound of birds and the buzz of insects were slightly overwhelming, but the smell was divine. He understood now why Lyanna yearned for nature and if this was what she was giving up while residing within the Keep. 

“Do I need a reason to give a dear friend of mine a gift?” Aemond simply asked as he tried to avoid answering the question. 

He kept his back straight as Lyanna unlinked their arms and moved to look at the flowers in front of them. She had taken out the small white flowers in her hair when they first entered the tree line, mumbling what he assumed were cruses in a foreign language as she did so. 

“I am your friend?” Lyanna asked as she picked a wildflower and handed it over to Aemond. The prince gladly took the flower from her as he nodded his head.

“I consider you one,” he answered as he followed her through the tall grass. It seemed like Lyanna knew where she was going, but a small part of Aemond worried about the safety of the land they were on.

“It’s just that to me, that kind of gift means something,” she told him, not stopping to look back at him. 

It was easier for her to focus on the nature around her than the heavy gaze of the prince. 

Aemond smiled as he noticed the slightest blush on the back of Lyanna’s neck. He would bet that her face held the same fairness of pink. A gift as simple as gloves had her flustered and confused, and that fact made Aemond proud of himself. 

“I did not know; my apologies,” He apologized as he sped up his pace to keep stride with Lyanna. 

Aemond knew what it meant. Knew that gloves were only given when serious interest was there. He had confirmed it not only with the maesters but also with two knights that were from the north. 

Ser Criston had almost overheard the conversation he had to have. Gods know that the Kingsguard would have run to his mother and told her. The headache from that would not have been worth it.  

“Perhaps you could tell my uncle such,” Lyanna proposes, worried about the future of their relationship if her uncle gets the wrong idea.  “The gift of gloves is often a late courting gift between betrotheds. I fear that my uncle will think it is you showing interest,”

Aemond hummed for her to continue; part of him wanted to keep listening to Lyanna, and the other wanted to ensure he had gotten the right information. 

“It symbolizes a man asking for the woman's hand. It is also a type of clothing,” She told him as she turned to look back at him. 

Lyanna stepped back and leaned against what she knew to be an oak tree. She could feel the roughness of the bark against the soft skin of her back, and she was sure her hair would be intertwined with the bark. 

She put her hands behind her back as she watched Aemond move closer to her as if a predator stalking its prey. 

Aemond moved to stand before Lyanna, one of his feet almost next to her as he leaned his weight against one leg. The prince crossed his arms behind his back, looking over Lyanna once. The humidity of the air caused her hair to become slightly frizzy, and a few strands had stuck themselves onto her temples. 

“What does clothing have to do with courting,” He asked as if he didn’t already know. But he wanted to hear her say it, needed to hear her say it. 

Lyanna could feel her chest become hot as Aemond's gaze remained on her. She had nowhere to run, not that she wanted to. 

She swallowed the saliva in her mouth before looking Aemond up and down. She did not know how he could look so flawlessly and perfectly put together. 

Lyanna took a breath before straightening herself. 

“You can not touch each other, so giving a gift that you have both had against your skin becomes the closest thing to it. Gloves, shirts, and garters,” she answered, her voice trailed off at the last word. 

The prince had asked her a question, and who was she to deny him an answer. 

The sides of his mouth perked slightly up at her words. Part of him thought that Lyanna would not tell him the whole truth, but he was glad she did. Aemond took another step toward the trapped Lyanna. They were so close to one another that their chests were almost touching. 

Only one breath separated them from one another. 

And at that, Lyanna could not help but slightly lick her lips as she forced herself to keep his gaze.

“Garters?” he asked, and his voice had a slight tone of jest. 

Both of them knew that they should not be talking about this. 

Should not be so close to one another. 

Should not even be left alone with one another. 

All it took was one onlooker for there to be repercussions of this conversation. 

But that was part of the thrill for both of them.

“It’s scandalous. Erotic even, the intimacy of giving something that will hold up a woman's stockings so close...I’ve heard men even have messages in silk embroidered in them,” Lyanna continued, and she did not waver as she saw Aemonds hand move to touch a loose curl of her hair. 

She did not move as she felt his knuckle gently graze against her ear or when one of his hands gently clasped around her waist. 

She did not move as the prince leaned him to the other side of her face, cheek against cheek, as he whispered in her ear.  

“What kind of messages?” he asked her before he moved his lips to ghost against the skin of her cheek and jawline. 

“I have yet to have such kind of gift, so I can not say,” Lyanna answered as she carefully moved her head to the side, yet she worried that any movement she made would scare away the prince. 

Aemond smiled as he gently planted a kiss against her jaw, moving his free hand to hold the other side of her neck; Lyanna moved to grab his wrist as she shifted on her feet.

Aemond carefully moved his thumb along the side of her jaw as his lips made their way to the underside of her jaw. 

Everywhere he touched, he left a trail of waking fire along her skin. He could tell how his actions affected her by how her breathing deepened, and she leaned into him.  

She could feel the blush that was on her face and chest. Yet she did not want the overwhelming feeling to end. 

She wanted to feel his lips against all the skin of her body. She wanted to feel his hands against her skin. She wanted him. 

She could take in here in the woods if he allowed. Fuck dignity and tradition. She now understood why lust dedicated people's actions. 

“Maybe I could change that,” Aemond whispered against her skin as he planned another kiss against her skin.

Lyanna was about to nod before a lady's scream pulled them out of their haze. The two moved just far enough away to look each other in the eyes.

The sound of laughter of both men and women quickly followed the scream.

She was the first to move as she pulled herself away from Aemond and the tree. Not caring about the pain of her hair being stuck within the tree's bark. Lyanna moved her hand over the skin of her neck where Aemonds lips were. 

She cleared her throat and turned to look at the prince, who was already watching her. For once, Lyanna could not read his face. 

“It seems that the ladies are having fun. “We should rejoin the party, should we not?” Lyanna asked, and Aemond nodded. He started back toward the group, leaving Lyanna to follow after him. 

– – 

Lyanna was knelt before the Heart Tree. She could feel the wet dirt against her knees as it seeped through the fabric of her stocking, probably staining both the fabric and her skin with each second she stayed. The corset of her dress felt tight against her chest with each breath she took, and the pins in her hair felt like they were stabbing her scalp. 

But through her pain, the only movement was those of her lips as she whispered her prayer. 

She had made a beeline for the Godswood when she and Aemond arrived back at the keep, not stopping when she heard the prince call out to her. And once she arrived at the holy place, she had planted herself before the tree and had yet to leave it. 

The sun had long left the sky, but Lyanna remained.

She prayed through the pain of hunger that came from her stomach—prayed through the bite of the chill of night.  Her eyes closed so she did not have to see the red weeping tears of the tree judging her. Yet even with her eyes closed, she could still feel the eyes of the nameless gods judging her as she prayed and repented.  

Whenever she thought she had prayed for enough forgiveness, her skin would burn where Aemond’s lips had once ghosted against her neck and lips, and then she would start the prayers again. 

It seemed like any self-dignity and preservation that Lyanna thought she had would burn to ash the second the prince joined her side. No, whenever the prince was in eyesight, they would become as if the flames of desire burned inside her. Lyanna knew what would happen if anyone were to discover the events today: she would be sent back to Harrenhal, and the title she fought so hard for would be given to her uncle. 

Lyanna could not allow that. Could not let all the sacrifices be for nothing. 

Larys could not help but compare his niece to a child asking for forgiveness from a parent as he watched her pray. The moon's light casted a shadow of her body against the ground, and Larys was reminded of how young Lyanna was. He was sure that if her parents had survived the fire, they would fight to keep her locked away in Harrenhal and away from any man she might be able to marry. 

The language of her prayers was now foreign to him, but he knew that his niece would not spend hours before her gods praying for a simple mistake. She had been raised by devout worshipers of the old ways, and every decision she made was with them in mind. Larys knew that much about his estranged niece.

“Care to say why you missed our dinner,” Larys broke the silence of the night. 

He waited for Lyanna to respond to him, yet as he watched her kneeling figure, she made no movement to get up or answer him. Larys tapped his cane against the ground and cleared his throat, waiting for a response from the girl deep in prayer. 

“No. I’m praying, so go away,” she answered him, her voice coarse, and it was clear that she needed a drink to soothe it. 

Lyanna did not want to face her uncle. Even if he was a cripple, she was sure that he would be able to see through her lies and know precisely what she had done. That he would punish her for her harlot actions and desires. 

So Lyanna remained knelt. She would stay before the tree until she could move past her improper behaviour and thoughts. The gods would tell her when she was done. 

“You have been praying for hours,” His tone was one of authority, yet Lyanna could only choke down a snicker at it. 

He might be her elder, but Larys held little true authority over her when they were in private. He could not physically punish her, nor would the rest of their family be okay with any humiliation that Larys might put her through as a punishment. She was sure her aunts would ride to the Keep themselves if he did so. 

“I have been neglecting the gods since I arrived in the south; I just wish to show devotion once again,” Her voice was louder this time as if with each moment Larys spent in her presence, she was coming out of her trance of prayer. 

“Lying before that tree is a sin, Lyanna. That is much I remember,” Larys told her, hoping to use her faith to gain the truth from her. 

Her words were not lies and, therefore, not sin. She tried to tell herself. 

Lyanna sighed to herself. She knew that Larys would not be leaving her alone. With shaky legs, she stood up. The sound of her knee popping raised slight concern, but the stiffness in her legs and throbbing pain in her head raised more. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have skipped her dinner. 

Lyanna's hands moved to rest on her hips as she took a deep breath and turned to face her uncle. Rolling her shoulders as she moved toward her henched man. 

“Is praying to the old gods forbidden now? Do I need to go to the Stept and light a candle?” Her tone had a bit of bitterness and venom that the sweet girl here a second ago did not usually possess, but it was reminded of a woman he had long since forgotten.  

Or tried to forget. She often plagued his dreams, and sometimes, when he was awake, he could swear that he saw her within the darkness of the corridors.  

“It is time to retire for the day, Lyanna,” He calmly told her. He did not want to alert her of how her voice truly shivered his bones. 

The darkness of the night made her hair look almost black; her soft features were suddenly sharp, and he could see a sparkle of green in the brown of her eyes. As Lyanna stood before Larys, it was as if her face was transforming into hers.

As he spoke, Lyanna could not help but roll her eyes. She knew that it was of no use to fight now. She was tired, and her bed was calling for her. 

She let her arms fall and began to move toward the exit of the Godswood. But as she moved past her uncle, he quickly wrapped a hand around her arm, stopping her from moving further. 

Larys debated whether or not he should press the issue further. He might be able to gain the truth from Lyanna if he continued to annoy her with his questions. 

But as he held her arm in his hand, her eyes only narrowed, and her mouth turned into a scowl. The more he looked, the more he saw of her. 

But she was always present in Lyanna in the way she held herself—the quickness to her jabs of words. 

Larys let go of her arm, resting both hands on the pommel of his cane. He offered her a small fake smile.

“You remind so much of her in this light,” He quietly whispered to her, as if the tree in front of them was listening to the words. 

Lyanna's brows pulled tougher, and she swallowed the spit in her mouth. She moved slightly to face her uncle, unsure of who he was referring to.

“My mother?” She asked, her voice louder than Larys’s. 

He shook his head as he responded. “The wretched witch that raised you,”

Taglist: Reply if you wish to be added to the taglist!

@delaynew @coldmermaidhologram @snh96 @sahvlren

[iris88877]

Hello can we get ideal type for taehyung too thank you

BTS'S Taehyung IDEAL TYPE

Personality: (ten of wands, five of buckets from ZIRKUS MÄGI TAROT ,  3 of swords )Taehyung's ideal type seems to be someone who is incredibly resilient and hardworking, often carrying a lot on their shoulders. This person takes on many responsibilities and perseveres through challenges with determination and strength. They're no stranger to emotional struggles either. The Five of Buckets suggests they might have experienced significant loss or heartbreak in their life, which has given them a deep, introspective understanding of emotions. They know what it’s like to go through tough times and come out stronger on the other side. The Three of Swords adds to this picture, indicating that this person has faced and overcome emotional pain, making them more empathetic and emotionally mature. They have a depth of character shaped by their experiences with sorrow and heartbreak, bringing a compassionate and understanding nature to their relationships. This blend of hard work, emotional resilience, and deep empathy creates a partner who can understand and support Taehyung in a meaningful way.( i don't know but while I'm doing this reading the fist thing that comes to my mine is Saturn in the 6th House i guess because of the 10 of wands that give off hard working and Saturn in the 6th house Indicates a hardworking, responsible individual or maybe people with prominent Saturn aspects in their natal chart or some Capricorn in the chart too)

appearance : (elemental of fire from the book shadows tarot , knight of wands ,nine of swords )Taehyung's ideal type likely has a striking and dynamic presence, radiating a sense of energy and charisma that’s hard to miss. The Elemental of Fire suggests that this person has a warm, glowing complexion with a natural vibrancy. Their hair might be a prominent feature—think rich, fiery tones like auburn, chestnut, or even a bold, unconventional color that reflects their spirited nature. They could have an athletic and well-toned physique, giving off an impression of strength and vitality. Their body language is expressive and confident, often moving with a sense of purpose and enthusiasm.( i heard fire ASC or MC idk but i felt a lot of fire sign energy in here ) The Knight of Wands adds to this image, suggesting someone with a passionate and adventurous aura. This person likely has sharp, well-defined features—a strong jawline, prominent cheekbones, and eyes that sparkle with excitement and curiosity. Their gaze is intense and captivating, often leaving a lasting impression on those they meet. The Nine of Swords brings a softer, more introspective aspect to their appearance. Despite their strong and energetic exterior, there’s a depth to their eyes that hints at emotional complexity. They might have a delicate or refined quality to their features, with expressions that sometimes reveal their contemplative side. Their look can shift from intense and fiery to thoughtful and introspective, reflecting a multifaceted personality.

Style/fashion sense: (4 of cups , 2 of pentecales and the lovers)

Taehyung’s ideal type has a fashion sense that is both effortless and refined. The Four of Cups suggests they lean towards a minimalist and understated style. They prefer clean lines, neutral colors, and classic pieces that exude a sense of calm and simplicity. This person’s wardrobe likely consists of timeless staples—think well-fitted jeans, simple tees, cozy sweaters, and elegant coats. They choose pieces that are comfortable and practical, yet sophisticated, reflecting their thoughtful and contemplative nature.

The Two of Pentacles adds a touch of versatility and balance to their fashion choices. This person enjoys mixing different elements to create a harmonious look. They might blend casual and formal pieces, such as pairing a tailored blazer with relaxed jeans or combining a chic dress with comfortable sneakers. Their style is adaptable, allowing them to effortlessly switch from a day at work to a night out with friends. They have a knack for balancing comfort with style, always looking put-together without trying too hard.

The Lovers card brings an element of romance and elegance to their fashion sense. This person is likely drawn to soft, flowing fabrics and well-coordinated outfits that highlight their natural charm and grace. They might favor outfits that enhance their best features and create a sense of harmony and beauty. Accessories are carefully chosen to complement their overall look, adding a touch of sophistication and allure. Their style radiates warmth and attractiveness, making them stand out in a subtle yet memorable way.

This card has something to add in the reading for sure i don't really know what it is but I'm just gonna put it there ( two of pentacles from the steampunk tarot)

[dethtrap]

( madelyn cline, cis woman, she/her ) 𓉸 did you see HELENA RIDLEY walking around BEAR PAW DINER? i heard that the 28 year old has been particularly IRRITABLE since the loss began, which is a shift from their usual show of PIOUSNESS.

ON AIR.

name. helena joan ridley. nickname(s). her friends call her hel or lena, but her family calls her ‘fig’ ‘cause she used to be obsessed with them as a kid. age. twenty eight. birthday. february 14th. zodiac. aquarius ( western ), ox ( eastern ). birthplace. marrow, maine. gender & pronouns. cis woman & she/her. orientation. queer. spoken languages. english (fluent, native), latin (semi-fluent). education. high school diploma. occupation. helps run the family business.

mother. ??? ridley, american, bed and breakfast owner, alive. father. ??? ridley, american, bed and breakfast owner, alive. siblings. estelle ridley, younger sister, missing. phoebe ridley, younger sibling, alive. pets. there’s always an animal or six that helena takes in at some point, usually until they’re healed enough to leave on their own or for her to find them a forever home. currently, she’s taking care of a duck — his name is pudge.

height. 5'5. hair. naturally a dark brown with the slightest wave pattern at the ends. dyes it blonde consistently. eyes. hazel. piercing(s). both lobes pierced as a child. tattoo(s). this tattoo with this placement. it’s a secret! scar(s). scar on her right side from a nasty cut during a summer camp accident ad a child. voice. if silk could do spoken word, it might sound like helena ridley. she draws out words as if she’s tasting each of them before they leave her mouth, always careful about her enunciation. except for when that thick maine accent comes out whenever she’s irritated or excited or otherwise talking too fast. wardrobe. there’s a bit of a dissonance in helena’s closet. when it comes to her tops and bottoms, she’s feminine-forward: her closet mostly consists of dresses, flowing skirts, pretty blouses. she almost exclusively wears nightgowns to bed, and has a pair of koala slippers she wears every night. her shoes are a different story — helena loves boots, particularly boots that are effective at getting around terrain before they’re fashionable, so you’re always likely to see a pretty dress paired with gaudy rainboots. scent. seems to be a rose personified, with the way everything she lathers on her body is rose-scented.

temperament. choleric. alignment. chaotic good. physical conditions. none. neurological conditions. none. emotional stability. mostly stable. prone to lashing out and getting angry easily, particularly if her missing sibling is brought up. sociability. extrovert. drug use. sober. alcohol use. sober.

character inspirations. ethel cain, noemi taboada ( mexican gothic ), erin ( you're next ), cindy berman ( fear street 1978 ), jackie taylor ( yellowjackets ). literary inspirations. deliver me ( elle nash ), the unworthy ( agustina bazterrica ), slewfoot ( brom ), the year of the witching ( alexis henderson ), white horse ( erika t. wurth ).

describe a significant loss that you faced.

girl becomes snarling creature, all claws and sharp teeth and bad attitude. " fuck you. you want me to talk about my missing sister for some gossip, huh ? maybe a spot on the paper ? well, i won't. you know she's missing. there's no reason to bring it up except to be cruel. " pretty features are twisted with grief, with rage - it makes her something to be feared. in the past few months, she's lost more than just her sister : but it's estelle that haunts her most, her estelle, irish twins that were so opposite in everything from their looks to their personalities. but they were still sisters. they were one another's closest. helena would have never gone anywhere without estelle. whenever someone made a comment about how different they were, how they hardly looked like sisters, helena was at the front lines, a little ball of fury demanding they take that back, that her and estelle were closer than twins. now, the absence of her sister is as critical as the loss of a limb, evident in how ferocious she gets. estelle's name wasn't even mentioned, but what else could someone mean when they say the word loss ? what loss could be greater than that of your other half ?

select a virtue & sin. relate it to your muse.

VIRTUE : diligence.

if there is one thing about helena, it's that she's the perfect eldest daughter. she goes to church often, she helps her parents run the bed and breakfast, she was always popular and got the highest marks back in school. where estelle was a wallflower, helena was the wall itself, always calling attention towards her. from a young age, helena's parents have impressed upon her the responsibilities she has as the eldest, and she's fulfilled them perfectly. her work ethic is like nothing else - and despite holding the ridley name, she's made damn sure she's worked for absolutely everything she's ever had. life has always looked so easy for helena ridley, everything falling into place perfectly. what's not seen is how she dedicates herself to ensuring that perfection behind the scenes day after day.

SIN : wrath.

if you've ever seen helena at the confessional, chances are she probably got in a fight and is begging the lord to forgive her for being so brash. the one thing the perfect ridley can't unshake herself of is the trembling, righteous, biblical fury that roars in her veins. she was named after two saints : helena joan. the second one must have been where she inherited her anger, the kind that burns like a pyre set alight. and it only ever seems like the world is conspiring against her to make her more and more furious, her sin waiting to consume her from the inside out.

BIO.

there’s a certain responsibility that comes with being the eldest. a pressure to be perfect, to etch yourself into someone worthy of that title. an eldest daughter has a burden to bear, a creature made to endure. for as long as you can remember, you’ve been all smiles, all pretty outfits and perfect grades and impeccable extracurriculars. you’ve been lighting up rooms and attending every party and somehow being both the most responsible and the most fun person in the room.

when helena ridley walks into a room, everyone knows. you’ve made yourself unforgettable, a figure in town, one of marrow’s many future myths, your name on the tongue of the town’s residents for years to come. there’s a burden that comes with it all. a pedestal built for you, made for you to place yourself upon, and you’ve always been waiting for it to topple.

no one knows you because you’ve made yourself unknowable, untouchable, something to aspire to instead of a person with flaws. the kind of girl mothers point at, leaning into their daughters in the middle of congregation and going: why aren’t you more like helena ridley?

and yet you’ve always found yourself drawn to the outsiders. the ones they’ll tell you to stay away from. it’s not a lust for danger or a desire to fix, or some morbid fascination. it’s a calling, like reaching out to like, an acknowledgement: if i wasn’t me, i would be you.

the loss of estelle has caused that perfect demeanor to crack. like the final domino needed to topple the whole formation, her missing and the deaths and the returned have all fractured something within you. when you look in the mirror, you don’t see helena ridley: you see a wild beast on a leash ready to snap.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

the ex. it wasn’t love. it was convenience. helena will be the first to admit that. these two were just something easy: together because they felt they had to be, that it only made sense for them. the breakup wasn’t a crash and burn because there were no feelings between them — at least, that’s what helena assumes. bonus points if this is a returned and she broke up with them a few days before they died :p

the soulmate. open to returned. that is, platonic soulmate. helena’s right hand man, the person that’s been with her through thick and thin. friends since diapers, though sometimes helena wonders if their families hadn’t pushed them together, would they be friends at all? and yet, they’re one another’s closest bonds — sometimes even closer than helena had been with estelle. currently, with estelle missing, this relationship is strained. helena feels guilty for prioritizing them instead of her sister.

the rival. helena has to be the best, always. at everything she tries. in her world, failure and second place are not an option. cue this person, who’s always vying for her spot — maybe they were effortlessly getting the grades she struggled for back in school, or they were the top athlete in the same sport as her. regardless, she wants nothing more than to prove herself to be better at them.

the hook up. a bad influence she definitely shouldn’t be getting involved with. this is a recent development, part of her cracking facade. this person is everything she usually avoids and everything she needs right now: something ill advised and doomed.

the bitter. while most people would see helena as nice, others have gotten her cruelty: sharp-tongued comments, her glaring at them across the pews. according to helena, they deserve it. according to them, they’re being unfairly singled out by her.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Mystical Items & Objects

Examples in Mythology and Literature

Pandora's Box

The god Prometheus stole fire from heaven to give to the human race, which originally consisted only of men

To punish humanity, the other gods created the first woman, the beautiful Pandora

As a gift, Zeus gave her a box, which she was told never to open

However, as soon as he was out of sight she took off the lid, and out swarmed all the troubles of the world, never to be recaptured

Only Hope was left in the box, stuck under the lid

Anything that looks ordinary but may produce unpredictable harmful results can thus be called a Pandora's box

Hermes' Winged Sandals

Also called the Talaria of Mercury

Are winged sandals, a symbol of the Greek messenger god Hermes (Mercury)

They were said to be made by the god Hephaestus of imperishable gold and they flew the god as swift as any bird

Cintamani Stone

Also referred to as the Chintamani

A wish-fulfilling stone that features across both Hindu and Buddhist religions

The stone features as one of many Mani Jewel (i.e., several gems that are mentioned prominently in Buddhist literature) images that can be found in the scripture of Buddhism

In Hinduism, the stone is connected to the gods Ganesha and Vishnu

Usually, it is depicted as a jewel in Vishnu’s possession known as the Kaustubha

The Kaustubha acts as a sign of divine authority

Arcane Artifacts & Objects

Offer a gateway between time past and time present, bringing layers of ancient history and new-world intrigue to a narrative

Such items are typically represented in fiction as works of long-lost knowledge, primordial features or landmarks, and curious objects of mysterious origin

Often lying dormant until the pivotal moment of discovery, these items invite characters and readers alike into a dance with the unknown

Examples: Necronomicon, Genie's Bottle

Necronomicon

Also referred to as the Book of the Dead

It appears in stories by H.P. Lovecraft

A dark grimoire (i.e., a magician's manual for invoking demons and the spirits of the dead) of forbidden knowledge

Used to open gateways of unearthly powers and cosmic horrors

Genie's Bottle

The classic magical item from mythology, also featured in Aladdin

A vessel of wish fulfillment that often leads to dramatic and unexpected consequences

Doorways & Portals

Doorways in fiction serve as gateways between worlds, dimensions, or states of reality, providing characters with universe-hopping capabilities and genre-defying journeys

These portals, whether physical structures or fantastical mechanisms, open up limitless storytelling possibilities, allowing for sudden shifts in setting and introducing elements of surprise and surrealism

Examples:

C.S. Lewis' wardrobe in The Chronicles of Narnia serves as a secret portal to a fantasy world, bridging the mundane with the fantastical

The eponymous board game in Jumanji transports its players into a wild and perilous jungle adventure, wrenching them from the safety of their living room

Jewelry, Gems, and Garments

Along with other various accessories, these serve several narrative functions, from symbolizing power and status to bestowing unique abilities upon their wearers

These items can act as plot catalysts (i.e. MacGuffins), embody character traits, or hold deep cultural or magical significance within a story’s world

Example: The Amulet of Mara in Skyrim not only reduces the cost of Restoration spells but also unlocks marriage options for the player, integrating gameplay with the narrative

Legendary Objects of Power

Carry with them stories of grandeur and lore, passed down through generations and intertwined with the fates of those who wield them

These are the objects that make or break worlds, bestow immense strength, and are frequently considered among the most powerful items in fiction

Example: Though it's never actually been seen, the Kusanagi Sword from Japanese folklore is a fabled sword that represents valor, said to be endowed with divine powers

Machinery and Technologies

Stretch the boundaries of physics and logic to offer a glimpse into what could be possible in alternate or future universes

These innovations, whether grounded in current science or verging on the fantastical, propel narratives forward and deepen the complexity of the story’s world

Writers can leverage these technological wonders to enhance their storytelling, using them to explore themes of power, ethics, and the human relationship with technology

Example: The body shields in Dune generate a protective forcefield around the wearer—advanced technology that current militaries can only dream of

Mundane Everyday Items

Possess extraordinary storytelling potential to transform the unassuming into the unforgettable

Seemingly ordinary, these objects can surprise both characters and readers, unveiling hidden depths and abilities when least expected

These seemingly mundane objects could fall into unsuspecting hands and create chaos or catalyze a hero’s journey

Additionally, they might only reveal their true nature to those worthy or capable of wielding their power, which can set the stage for narratives that are centered around discovery and mastery

Example: Oscar Wilde’s Portrait of Dorian Grey presents art as a vessel for dark magic, encapsulating the protagonist’s sins while he remains untouched by time

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[llolianarchives]

RAMSHACKLE DORM HEADCANONS (REVISED)

Our little home is not appreciated enough so I shall take matters onto my own hands and spread self-indulgent ideas 😤😤😤 Behold! PS: I made something like this before so this is like a revised version.

“UNCLE” GHOSTS

The Ramshackle Ghosts were each given personal names by the Prefect, corresponding to the ghost's existing letter.

This was done after Yuu got tired of calling them Ghost [insert letter of the alphabet] all of the time, whilst also adding to their individuality.

Why did the Prefect have to give them names? Don't they have names of their own? Well, they used to when they were still a part of the living. The ghosts still remember who they were and what they excelled at (such as being a chef or a magift player) but they cannot claim namesakes or identities as their own when they're already dead unless you harbored much significance when you were alive, recorded in history to not be forgotten such as Eliza.

"Ghost A" is now "Archie" — very rough and tumble. He is a ball of ferocious, mischievous energy enough to rival Grim's own. Despite his size, Archie is quite the fighter. His first reaction to the Prefect's problems is to suggest that they duke it out headfirst! But in truth, he is plenty caring and easily fusses over Yuu and Grim's physical health (complete with dark humor). He teaches the duo sports whenever the opportunity arises. His extreme head ruffles are the silliest things.

"Ghost B" is now "Bernard or Bernie" — who's full of joy and fun (maybe that's why he's so plump). He's always ready with a joke to brighten Yuu's mood, always eager to please Yuu and Grim by pampering them with already-in-the-house gifts or food. Spooky mischief is his favorite pastime. Yuu believes that he gives the best hugs and cooks the best food.

"Ghost C" is now "Clyde" — who's generally a very laid-back and lax individual. Among the three, he's one of the wiser ghosts, always willing to set aside his tomfoolery for a heart-to-heart conversation with Yuu, giving advice and being an open ear. However, he still is, of course, a lover of mischief and spooks. (Note: Do not accept the “therapeutic” cigarettes he offers.)

The Ghosts are skilled at sewing clothes of their own (hence their tailored hats and capes). They were the ones who made Yuu and Grim's Halloween costumes, but they've also helped Yuu expand their wardrobe by using extra textiles and fabrics. The ghosts sew ribbons for Grim as well (⁠◡⁠ ⁠ω⁠ ⁠◡⁠)

They love oldies music. Stuff like ABBA, Don McLean, Micheal Jackson, Queen, John Lennon, The Smiths, Air Supply, The Carpenters— you name it!

They can also shift their voice into an exponentially low range, similar to Alto, Bass, and Baritone. Every now and then, they comically break into a chorus for fun.

RAMSHACKLE BUILDING

Prior to the building's renovation post-VDC, 70% of its rooms were either barricaded still, or very unclean. Yuu and Grim, themselves, had yet to fully explore their dorm in fear of collapsing wood, nesting bugs, or hidden rats— things that they didn't want to deal with if they could help it.

A garden stands in the dormitory's yard, by the farther side of it. Yuu had taken up gardening sometime after BOOK 1. They discussed with Grim that walking back and forth to the canteen wasn't very efficient. It started small and expanded into bearing vegetables and fruits. Eventually, the prefect built an arch trellis for the vines to grow, bringing the whole look together. (Note: While the produce their garden grows does give them the opportunity to cook/ bake at home, their inventory still wouldn't last the entirety of the winter holidays. It also wouldn't be efficient to eat the same meals over and over.)

Birds like common sparrows, crows, and ravens tend to perch or nest on Ramshackle's barren trees. They're such a regular sight that Grim and Yuu have stopped trying to drive them away, instead welcoming them into the property.

Ramshackle, while seemingly unimpressive at first, does wield an aura of unease once you're indoors. When you're wandering the halls by yourself, it oddly feels as if you're being watched... Something vague might've peeked out from a corner. Or, did that painting just glance at you? It totally did. Are you mad? This feeling is increased tenfold in the evenings. Yuu and Grim were disturbed by this initially, but have come to accept it as the house's second nature. Ace, Deuce, and the VDC boys were also victims of this phenomenon.

THE GREAT GRIM: ARCHMAGE EXTRAORDINAIRE!!!

When Yuu and Grim first began cohabiting in Ramshackle Dorm, the Prefect had given him an intense cat bath to wash away any grime, tangled-up fur, or Seven forbid... fleas.

Grim sleeps with Yuu on the bed but doesn't use the blankets, instead opting to curl up beside his henchman or lie flat on Yuu's stomach (much to their annoyance and Grim's amusement).

He pouts when Yuu is away for too long, concern and loneliness crawling underneath his skin because how dare his henchman leave their boss like this?!

Despite how much he complains about housework, gardening, maintenance, and such, he still tries his best to help out whenever Yuu works. It actually ends up being rather fun though.

MISCELLANEOUS

The Headmage occasionally comes over for tea and chats with a box of whatever snacks he's managed to grab. Usually, however, it's only because Crowley has another heinous assignment for the Ramshackle Duo.

[cityandking]

canvas, road, change, and makeup for kol, daichi, and a secret third xx

thanks dear! I'll do petra // oc asks: character design edition

canvas: Does your OC have any scars, piercings, tattoos, or other markings? Do they display or cover them up at all?

KOL — no tattoos or piercings but many scars! too many to hide; she’s been in a bunch of fights over the years and you can tell. the most obvious is the one on her cheek that skims the top of her ear

DAI — he has significant scaring across most of his body from when he was True Resurrected after sacrificing his soul to the abyss. early on he did his best to cover them up, but he gets less self-conscious about them as he gets older. he also has a scar on his temple from his first death and one from the first time zaref ran him through. his ears are pierced, and he has a tattoo around his left bicep of a mountain range.

PETRA — she’s got some facial scarring from when her helmet broke on habitat seven and cut her pretty badly, another mark around her left ear related to either the SAM implant or some other tech—I always imagined it as some kind of scar or imprint or tattoo from something she used to wear regularly

road: What does your OC wear while traveling? Do they have high-quality equipment, or are they making do? What does their gear look like?

KOL — same thing she wears the rest of the time: the undermost layers of her old uniform or the closest similar cut she can get. her equipment is incredibly simple, kinda bare minimum, but she takes care of it as best she can

DAI — these days traveling tends to be a plane shift through the astral sea and doesn’t really require any special gear or clothing, but his usual adventuring gear is his armor and his shield and a mishmash of clothing he’s picked up from different worlds and his healer's kit. it's pretty easy to hit the road when your go-bag is a bag of holding

PETRA — on the tempest she usually wears standard-issue cargo pants and sneakers with the standard-issue tank top and her favorite jacket from back home. as pathfinder she has access to the best equipment the initiative can provide, but she usually has to go digging for it herself, given how short staffed everyone is (or get nyx involved)

change: Has your OC ever drastically changed their appearance? Significant haircuts, big tattoos, complete wardrobe swap, etc? Why? How do they feel about the change?

KOL & DAI — answered!

PETRA — she started dying her hair around the time she got booted from the alliance. no more strict regulations means finally getting to mess around; she settled on blue and has stuck with the color ever since

makeup: Does your OC wear makeup? How often? What kind? Why do they wear makeup, and do they like it?

KOL — no makeup. genuinely I don’t think she’d know how to put it on

DAI — no makeup except for special occasions when he does a bit of gold eyeliner or maybe eye shadow. what’s the point in being a sun-themed cleric if you can’t play up the gold highlights for super formal events. he’d enjoy getting a little dressed up for that sort of thing

PETRA — she’d wear makeup for formal occasions, but it’s not part of her daily routine. she actually didn’t think to bring any to andromeda; the only thing she packed was a really nice moisturizer she’s hoping they can synthesize more of down the line