#lord this was not supposed to be this long

[strangerexee]

(1) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴀᴊʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

You weren’t even supposed to be out that night.

Whole week had been trash — your boss on your ass, car acting stupid, apartment loud as hell with neighbors fighting through the walls.

You needed a break.

So when your girls hit you up — “Bitch, we outside tonight, put some heels on” — you said yes.

You didn’t even think twice.

Short dress. Glossy lips. The kind of heels that said you might make a bad decision if the right man breathed on your neck.

The club was packed — lights flashing, bass thumping deep in your chest — and you felt yourself finally breathe when you got a drink in your hand and a song you loved came on.

You were dancing, laughing, living your little free life — when you felt it.

Eyes.

Heavy.

Watching.

You turned your head — slow — and caught them across the room.

Two of them.

Tall. Built like trouble. Dark eyes gleaming under the lights like wolves in the woods.

And fine?

God help you.

One leaned back against the wall — arms folded, chewing on a toothpick — looking at you like he already knew what you tasted like.

The other was talking to some girl, but his eyes? Still on you.

You swallowed — heart hammering.

Your friends screamed when the song switched — dragging you further onto the dancefloor — but you kept glancing back.

Who the hell was that? You couldn't really tell.

Fast-forward twenty minutes — you outside cooling off, drink in your hand, scrolling on your phone.

And he stepped to you.

The one from inside.

Black jeans. Black hoodie. Gold chain swinging. Those heavy-lidded eyes eating you alive.

“What’s your name, lil’ mama?” he said, voice low and slow.

You squinted up at him — heart pounding — but your mouth moved faster than your brain.

He was tall in that way that made you straighten your spine, hoodie hanging loose on that broad-ass frame like it was clinging for dear life. Gold glinted at his neck, catching the low streetlights, and the way his eyes moved—

Slow. Unhurried. Heavy-lidded like sin itself.

He wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t smiling either. He was watching.

And it was doing something to you that your little glossed-up, club-ready self hadn’t prepared for.

You scoffed lightly, not letting your eyes linger too long on his mouth, or his hands—veined, tatted, big enough to make your thighs press a little closer.

“Who, me?” You sipped your drink. “I don’t know you like that, sir.”

That “sir” was sweet. Smart. Maybe a little sharp.

And it made his jaw tick.

He dragged his tongue across his teeth, slowly, like he liked the way you tasted already.

“You gon’ know me,” he said. “Sooner or later.”

Lord.

He didn’t say it loud. Didn’t say it with a smile.

Just…stated it. Like gravity. Like fact.

You swallowed hard and tried not to show how hot your neck was getting.

He took a step closer.

Not enough to scare you. Just enough for the space between you to feel smaller. Warmer.

You leaned back against the wall casually, trying to play it cute—but your pulse was thudding. Your friends were still inside, probably throwing ass to the beat, and you were out here flirting with a man who could’ve been the devil’s body double.

“What’s your name?” you asked, voice smooth.

He smirked—but barely.

“Smoke.”

“That your real name?”

“Nah. But it’s the one you need to remember.”

You hummed, glancing down at your phone. Trying not to melt.

You had heard the name before. People whispered about him.

And his brother, Stack.

The Moore twins.

Trouble in two different fonts.

But Smoke? Smoke was the one they said moved different. Quieter. Crueler.

The one you didn’t want mad.

He didn’t act out.

He handled shit.

And here he was. In your face. Asking your name like it wasn’t probably already in his notes app under “sweet lil’ thing in that pretty dress.”

“You dangerous?” you asked him, tilting your head.

“What you think?” he said, voice low. “I look dangerous to you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Because the way your lashes dipped told him plenty. The way you bit the inside of your cheek, looked away real quick like you weren’t all hot in the chest…

Yeah. He knew what time it was.

But still—you had the final move. And you weren’t about to let him play you into giving it all up like a dumb little groupie.

So instead—you smiled.

Real pretty.

You put your hand out slow, took his phone when he offered it, and dropped your number in.

Just your first name. Nothing more.

He looked down at it like it was gold.

And when you handed it back—you leaned in. Light. Soft.

Kissed his cheek.

“That’s all you getting tonight, smoke.”

And then you turned—heels clicking, dress swaying—walking right back into the club like you hadn’t just left the king of the damn city standing there with your number in his hand and a smirk blooming slow on his face.

He didn’t even chase you.

Just watched.

You woke up in your bed with one heel still on and glitter in your eyelashes.

Head pounding.

Mouth dry.

Phone buzzing.

“Ughhh…”

You rolled over and squinted at the screen.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:07 AM.

Hell no.

You tossed the phone face down and curled back under the blanket. Mind still foggy with club lights and too many tequila shots, feet sore from dancing in heels you should’ve thrown out two summers ago.

The night felt like a dream.

A blur.

Except him.

You remembered him crystal clear.

That voice. That smirk. That goddamn cheek kiss you gave him like some sweet lil’ Southern belle.

You groaned into your pillow.

Why did you do that?

Phone buzzed again.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:12 AM.

Back-to-back?

You side-eyed the screen, biting your lip.

And then—

Third call.

Smoke (Mobile) Incoming Call…

You stared.

Then finally hit ignore.

“Sir, it’s not even 10am,” you muttered, dragging yourself upright.

You made it to the kitchen, sipping orange juice straight from the bottle like a menace, still in last night’s dress with one strap slipping off your shoulder.

You rubbed your temples, then your phone dinged.

Unknown Address shared a location with you.

Your stomach flipped.

No name. No message.

Just a red pin hovering over your damn building.

You froze.

Then another message dropped.

“Come open the door”

No punctuation.

No emojis.

Just that.

Your eyes snapped to the door.

Was he joking?

You tiptoed over, heartbeat in your damn mouth. Peeked through the peephole.

And there he was.

Black hoodie. Hood up. Leaning against the wall like he owned the entire floor. One hand in his pocket. Other hand holding his phone. Head down.

Smoke at your damn front door like he’d lived there his whole life.

You didn’t even think.

Just unlocked it.

He looked up when it clicked open — and that slow, heavy gaze rolled over you like smoke under a door.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes dipping down your body. “You always look like this in the morning?”

You pulled the door open wider and stepped aside, blinking up at him.

“How the hell you know where I stay?”

He stepped in without answering, brushing your shoulder — his presence thick — that quiet heat pouring off him again.

He looked around slow. Clocked your messy counter, the couch, the half-dead plant in the corner.

“You live alone?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, arms crossed. “You still ain’t answer—”

“I will get to that,” he said, low. “I asked a question.”

You stared at him, mouth open.

He just smirked.

“Relax,” he said. “Ain’t like I kicked the door in. You let me in.”

Damn.

You did let him in.

Something about the way he stood — tall, calm, like a storm in a hoodie — made your mouth dry.

You cleared your throat.

“I need a shower.”

“Go ahead,” he said, tossing himself onto your couch like it belonged to him. “I’ll be here.”

You blinked.

He pulled his hood down, leaned back, spread his legs — just making space. His gold chain caught the light. His eyes flicked to you.

“Go on, baby. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You stood there like a deer in headlights, every nerve buzzing.

You turned and headed to the bathroom — lowkey speed-walking — and locked the door behind you.

Your back hit the wood. Chest rising and falling.

Why was this man in your house?

More importantly—

Why did it feel good?

You stripped, hot all over, and stepped into the shower.

Let the water run over you while your mind raced.

He was sitting on your couch.

Comfortable.

Knowing damn well you were naked in the next room.

And your heart was pounding like you liked it.

You stepped out, dripping, towel wrapped around you, and cracked the door open to peek.

He was still there. Phone in hand. One knee bouncing slow.

“You good?” he called out, not even turning around.

“Yeah…”

You closed the door fast and leaned against the sink.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t ask to come in.

Just showed up.

Showed up and sat there like he belonged.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because some twisted, hungover, half-dressed part of you?

Kinda wanted him to.

Anyway —

You weren’t about to be that girl. Walking out in a towel like you ain’t have an ounce of sense. He was fine, yeah. Dangerous, yes. Built like everything you knew you should run from…

But still.

You had dignity.

Even if you did keep looking at yourself in the mirror—checking your face, adjusting your curls, heart thudding like you had something to prove.

You took your time. Went out the bathroom and into your bedroom.

Lotioned slow. Fresh pair of panties. Cotton shorts. Cropped tank top, soft and snug, your favorite one that always sat just right.

Simple. Cute. Still had a little “you can leave if you want, I ain’t pressed” to it.

Even though you were very much pressed.

You stared at the door for a second.

Took a breath.

Then turned the knob and stepped out.

The scent of your vanilla body cream followed you like a cloud as you moved through the hallway—each barefoot step slow, hesitant, but steady.

And there he was.

Smoke.

Exactly where you left him.

Leaning back into your couch like it was a throne. Legs spread. One arm tossed over the backrest. Phone gone now—he was looking at you.

Eyes dragging from your face, to your neck, to your waist, to your thighs.

Slow.

Like he was learning you.

“You clean?” he said, voice low, warm.

You nodded once.

“You still here?”

He smirked.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“You mad about that?”

“I ain’t say that.”

He nodded, eyes never leaving yours.

“But you thought about it.”

You shrugged, stepping into the kitchen to pour a glass of water—partly to distract yourself, partly to avoid looking back at him.

He watched you move, the way your shorts hugged your curves, the way your fingers curled around the glass.

“You let all strangers up in your spot like this?”

“You a stranger?” you asked, turning to lean against the counter.

His lips curved.

“Not after last night.”

You swallowed and sipped slow, heart tight in your chest.

"I kissed your cheek — you're acting like we fucked."

He wasn’t loud.

He wasn’t boastful.

But something about the way he said it — like you were already his — made your skin hum.

“So,” you said, setting the glass down. “You just…decided to pull up? No warning?”

“You ain’t answer the phone,” he said simply. “You gave me your number, yeah? Thought that meant something.”

You squinted.

“So you tracked me down?”

“Didn’t have to,” he said. “You know how many people know you? Or watch you? You too pretty to be out here thinking nobody’s paying attention.”

That made your breath catch.

And he saw it.

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, voice dropping deeper.

“Don’t matter how late you leave. Don’t matter what you post or what you don’t. Eyes on you. Always. I’m just the first one to say something about it.”

You didn’t know if you were flattered or terrified.

Maybe both.

But you crossed your arms, trying to act cool.

“You always this intense?”

“Only when I want something.”

That shut you up.

Because that gaze? That posture?

He didn’t look like he wanted your number anymore.

He wanted you.

And not in some quick, messy way.

No.

He wanted to pull you. Keep you. Figure out how your day started and ended. Learn what made you tick. Put his name in your phone and in your mouth, just to hear how it sounded.

He wanted to sit on your couch with his hood off and his legs wide and look at you like you were already home.

And it was scaring you.

Just a little.

“You hungry?” you asked finally, voice smaller than you meant.

He leaned back, eyes raking over you again.

“I’m good. Unless you cooking.”

“You ain’t getting all that today, sir,” you said, smiled a little. “I’m still hungover.”

“I could fix that.”

You gave him a look.

He just chuckled — low and short — like he already knew he’d wear you down eventually.

And maybe he was right.

Because when you sat down across from him, arms still crossed, biting the inside of your cheek —

You didn’t tell him to leave.

But the quiet stretched out thick between you.

Not awkward — but heavy. Heavy like smoke after a fire. The kind of silence that made your skin itch ‘cause you felt like you were supposed to be doing something, saying something — but he was doing just fine saying nothing.

His eyes moved slow when he looked at you.

Not greedy, but precise.

Like he was trying to clock your tells. Your tics. The way you blinked when you got nervous. The little tongue poke when you were being smart.

Made you wanna fidget.

But you didn’t.

You sat on that couch, one leg crossed over the other, arms still tucked under your chest like a shield, trying not to let your eyes drop to the gold chain hanging loose around his neck.

That chain was disrespectful.

“So what you do?” you asked finally. “For work. For money. Or is that a rude question?”

Smoke snorted low — amused.

“What I do,” he said, dragging the word out, “ain’t always something you ask in daylight. Especially not when you still smell like vanilla body oil and got your knees showin’.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Sir—”

“But since you asked,” he cut in, “I got a few things. People call. I handle it.”

“So vague.”

“You want details, or you want the truth?”

“Both.”

He smiled—slow, lazy, like it tasted good in his mouth.

“Truth is, I move weight. Truth is, I don’t clock in nowhere. Truth is…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, head tilting just slightly. “I don’t let nobody tell me what to do. Been that way since I was fourteen.”

You blinked.

He didn’t sound like he was bragging. No hype, no theatrics. Just matter of fact. Like he knew what he was and wasn’t about to apologize for it.

“So you are perilous.”

“I’m useful.”

“That what they call it now?”

“Only when I’m being nice,” he said, eyes dipping low as he glanced over your body again, “which I usually ain’t.”

You felt your breath catch. Again.

God, this man was good.

“I feel like I should tell you I don’t get down with all that,” you said, voice light, deflecting. “I like peace. Quiet. I like my little paycheck and my little business and my little sanity.”

“And yet,” he said, “you still gave me your number.”

Damn.

He had you there.

You leaned back, lips pursed.

“You’re real sure of yourself.”

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just sure about you.”

You looked away.

Because what the hell do you say to that?

No man ever told you that before—not like that. Not like he meant it.

Not like he already decided that the two of you were something, and your mouth just hadn’t caught up yet.

“You ever get tired?” you asked. “Of acting like nothing scares you?”

“You ever get tired of pretending you don’t like when I act like that?”

You snorted, surprised.

“You good at reading people?”

“I’m good at reading you.”

That stopped you. Again.

You felt your arms uncross before you even realized you were doing it.

Like some part of you was already surrendering.

Your voice was softer when you said, “Why me?”

Smoke let that question sit.

Then —

“’Cause you smart. Real smart. But messy with it. Like you trying to keep it together and falling apart at the same time.”

You blinked.

Hard.

“And you pretty,” he added. “But you don’t lead with it. You act like it ain’t your weapon. That’s cute. Dangerous too.”

Your throat got tight.

“And I like the way you talk. Mouth slick. You got fight in you. But your eyes? They stay looking for something. You tired, but not done yet.”

His voice dropped.

“I like that.”

You weren’t sure what emotion was creeping up your chest, but it was hot. Heavy. A little scared, a little intrigued. A lot turned on.

You leaned your head back on the couch.

“You always do this?” you asked. “Pull girls in with that therapy voice and street prophet energy?”

“Nah,” he said. “You special. I don’t do repeat games.”

You swallowed again.

"Right, right..."

Felt your stomach knot.

“You staying long?” you asked.

“Long as you let me.”

You looked at him.

He was still sitting back like he owned the room. But now his hand was resting on his thigh, slow-tapping, like he was thinking about moving.

Like he wanted to.

“Don't you got a brother?” you asked randomly, needing to ground yourself.

He nodded.

“Twin.”

You tilted your head.

“Fraternal or Identical?”

“Identical.”

“So there's two of you running around town?”

Smoke smirked.

“Yeah. But he ain’t me.”

You smiled — real slow.

“Noted.”

He tilted his head.

“Why? You planning to test it?”

“I don’t repeat games either.”

That made him grin — wide this time.

“Told you,” he said. “You real slick. Keep playing like that and you gon’ have a hard time getting rid of me.”

“Who said I wanted to?”

You didn’t even mean to say that out loud.

But the way his eyes lit up? Whew.

“Aight then,” he said, voice silk. “Now we getting somewhere.”

You rolled your eyes, checking the time without meaning to.

He’d been on your couch longer than some of your exes lasted in your bed. Legs spread like he paid rent here. Voice low and lazy like he had nowhere else to be.

So you said it.

“You don’t got shit else to do today?”

Smoke turned to you with that half-smirk, half-squint thing he kept doing. Like every word out your mouth amused him more than the last.

“I mean, I’m flattered,” you added, kicking your bare heel against the floor. “But I know y’all street boys don’t just sit still like this. Ain’t you got corners to stand on or money to count or something?”

He snorted.

“You think that’s all I do?”

“Ain’t say that,” you shrugged. “But I know you didn’t wake up and decide to play house on my couch. I’m not that fine.”

“You are that fine,” he said easily. “I just got better taste than time.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Boy, whatever.”

But he didn’t respond.

His phone buzzed.

Once. Then again.

You clocked the quick glance he gave it. The screen lit up bright across his thigh. He tapped it, turned it face-down, didn’t move.

“What’s that?” you asked, leaning a little.

“Nothing.”

“Your girl?”

That made him grin. Head tipping back a little as he stared at the ceiling like he couldn’t believe you asked that.

“You think I’d sit this long in your house if I had somebody else blowing up my shit?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen men do worse for less.”

“Ain’t my girl,” he said, straight-faced now. “If I had one, I’d have said it.”

You gave him a long look.

Didn’t say anything else.

But then the phone rang.

Loud. Sudden. The name flashed up — too quick for you to catch it — but his mood shifted the moment he saw it.

Just a flick of something. That calm-mask tightening.

“Yo,” he answered, standing up.

His tone dropped. Business.

He turned away, walked toward your door.

You stayed on the couch.

Didn’t ask.

You weren’t stupid. You didn’t need the details. Man like him? Phone call like that? It wasn’t brunch plans.

“Aight,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up.

Turned around.

And there it was — the shift back.

That calm he wore like armor.

You didn’t bother asking what it was. You already knew better.

Instead, you pulled your phone into your hand and scrolled. Just enough to let him know you weren’t pressed.

He watched you for a second. Then:

“Lemme get a kiss.”

You scoffed — head jerking up.

“You for real?”

“Deadass.”

“You wasn’t even here ten minutes and now you tryna act like this our place. Boy, please—”

“C’mon, baby,” he said, slow and syrupy. “You not gon’ do me like that.”

And the worst part?

You folded.

Not fast. Not right away.

But slow, like butter melting on hot bread.

You rolled your eyes — hard enough to give attitude — and stood.

“You so needy,” you muttered.

“You like that.”

You walked over.

He was already smirking.

And when you got close enough for him to reach — you knew.

You knew what he was gon’ do.

Still leaned in.

Still let him pull you in soft. One hand to your lower back, the other brushing your jaw.

His lips found yours like he’d kissed you before.

Like he’d been thinking about it since the second he saw you.

The kiss was slow — firm. Not sloppy, not rushed.

Just pressure. Warmth. Intention.

And right when you started to lean in deeper—

Boom.

Not one, but both his hands slid down to your ass.

Gripped.

Full palms, full squeeze.

You pulled back just enough to give him a look.

“Really?”

“You surprised?”

You tried to step back.

He didn’t let you.

Just stood there with that fucking smirk, hands still in place like they had a right to be there.

“You gon’ let go?”

“You gon’ ask me nice?”

“Smoke.”

“Aight, aight.” He finally eased up. “Go on then. I’ll call you.”

“Please don't.”

He leaned in one more time — kissed the corner of your mouth.

Then he was gone.

Door clicked shut behind him.

And your heart?

Still tapping a wild rhythm in your chest.

What the hell was that?

And why the hell did it feel like the beginning of something you wasn’t ready for?

[mieldreams]

Pure Imagination

Summary: Come with me and you'll be in a world of pure imagination

or where Vader delivers sweet torture in cruel dreams

pairing: Darth Vader x reader

word count: 4,912

warnings: smut smut smut, minors DNI (as the title suggests, dream stuff and I'm not too sure abt how comprehensible this is ngl), inappropriate use of the force etc.

a/n: 5k of pure filth, wasn't actually planning on releasing this cuz I wrote it so long ago but...oh well. it's the first time I'm posting a full fledged smut fic, hope y'all like

masterlist

You're in a rare deep slumber when you hear it, the unmistakable mechanical inhales and exhales coming from a dark silhouette in your mind. “You again.” That almost droid-like voice is hard to misidentify and all your senses freeze at once. Panic builds inside you but on the outside, you somehow remain asleep. “Vader? What the fuck?” You weren't exactly unfamiliar with the infamous Sith lord, having run into him on more occasions than you'd like, which established you on at least a ‘he can recognise me by face’ basis – much to your displeasure. But why in the kriffing hell were you hearing his voice in your mind right now? Hadn't you just gone to sleep? Fuck, had Vader found your secret base and infiltrated it? Had he taken you hostage and was he planning on torturing you through his weird mind fuckery? “Your inability to comprehend the ways of the Force does not make it absurd or a deception.” His hoarse voice echoes in your mind once again and you scoff. “Do not patronize me in my own mind. What the fuck do you want? Why are you here?” “You tell me, Rebel.” He spits out the word like it's venomous and putrid. You're losing patience, you're not sure what is happening – last time you checked you were supposed to be asleep in your room, so how was Vader manipulating your mind? “Your mind could be penetrated in my sleep, though I doubt I'd find anything of use.” His voice booms, emotionless as always, “However, it seems you have something rather interesting to show me.” You're starting to get pissed off by this giant fucking leather-wrapped tin can. “Hmmm, your tongue is sharp. If only the same could be said about your intellect.” He spits out, “After all, which perfect little rebel would want something like this.” Suddenly, an image flashes in your mind and your face immediately pales, appalled by what appears before you. In a quick flash you see yourself, lying on your back, goosebumps spreading across your skin as your bare breasts stiffen in the air. You hear your laboured breathing; see the way your chest heaves up and down. And then, you see him. The Darth Vader – in between your legs. His head over your most intimate area. You don't see his face, and the image cuts off right below his shoulders, but the way you're clutching him, pulling him in, and the way his head moves, the way your legs quiver and the way your mouth remains dropped open in pleasure very well lets you know what is going on. You gasp, your own horrified voice echoing in your mind, “What the fuck is this? What the fuck are you doing to me?” His tone would be teasing if he were speaking with his natural voice, “Would you like me to give a descriptive narration?” You growl, “What are you trying to do? Some new perverted mind trick your kind have come up with?” Despite the angry words thrown at him, on the inside you feel terrified. Because where even is this ‘him’? You're shouting at him in your mind but he isn't appearing to you. Just his hollow voice echoing endlessly in your brain with seemingly no origin. “Do not forget your place, Rebel.” It seems you have pissed him off now, or whatever weird body-less voice version of him at least, great. “These fantasies are a creation of your mind. Not so much a perfect rebel now, are we?” You're not going to just let him bullshit his way into your mind no matter what. “Your lies won't work on me.” “You think this is a lie?” He flashes the same image in your head again. This time you appear even more desperate in the filthy act he shows you, hips moving wildly as you moan and pull his head closer to your cunt. “A pity you fight against the want. Your subconscious betrays you.” “You're a kriffing liar!”

“Silence!” His voice booms in your head and you flinch. “A lie? You think I am lying? What about this?” Quickly the image changes, this time showing a close-up of your most intimate parts. Heat pours into your cheeks while anger burns through your veins. A black gloved hand comes into the frame, teasingly snaking up your thigh to caress your folds. You watch, frozen in horror, as it catches your clit, rubbing circles on the nub before dipping lower to tease at the slit. It does this a bunch of times till your empty hole is pulsating in demand, all the while your desperate little pants and whines colour the background. “Vader– want you inside me, please...” Your voice echoes through the dream. The hand, his hand, gently smacks your cunt to silence you before two of his long, gloved fingers enter you. Even through the image you can tell that they are thick, and to your surprise they move slowly at first, yet expertly, delivering deep thrusts that send shivers up your spine. “Stop this! Stop it! Why are you doing this?” You scream at him and his angry voice answers, “Why? Isn't this what you want? Isn't this what your body craves? Or do you still think this is a lie?” The image before you quickly shifts again, this time showing his fingers moving fast and hard inside you. He removes them to rub and pinch at your clit, before pressing on your slit again, this time with three fingers. “What do you want from me? Stop this! You're lying!” “Is that so?” The three fingers swiftly plunge into you, this time your loud moan sounds and your own hand comes into the picture, grabbing his wrist, holding him there. Vader's voice taunts you in your mind, “So this isn't what you want?” You watch as his hand quickly shakes yours off and the same hand that was inside you delivers a loud slap to your cunt, your hips jerking up in reaction but Vader's other hand pins them down. He delivers another wet slap to your cunt, then another and another, each one getting messier and messier as you get wetter and wetter. His fingers finally enter you again and it doesn't take long before you're gushing your release all over his hand. He prolongs your high by rubbing on your already sensitive clit and it has the dream-you begging, “Vader, please...” You shout in your head once again, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Stop this! Get out of my head!” “Do not assume that I am here by pleasure,” he clearly means to taunt you more, alluding to the embarrassing state you just saw yourself in, “it is your mind projecting this.” If you could, you would stab him. “So tell me, Rebel, am I to believe this is not something you want?” “I don't care what the fuck you believe. Get. out. of my fucking head.” He continues, “So you wouldn't want me to do this?” Out of nowhere, you feel a small pressure on your neck, one that steadily grows, as if someone were holding you by the throat. You panic – you had heard about the Sith Lord's preferred method of quickly disposing of his enemies – choking the life out of them as their flailing bodies struggled to get enough oxygen, limbs convulsing and face paling till they eventually died. He was going to kill you in your sleep. Your mind is on high alert, yet your body remains unconscious in bed. “Tell me, Princess, what does your body tell you.” “—If you think that is not enough, what about this?”

The next image he projects in your mind absolutely destroys you. You see your bare back facing you in the fantasy, though your torso is not enough to hide Vader's wide built silhouette in front of you. You are straddling him, but this time too the image is cut off just below your waist. However it doesn't take a genius to figure out what is going on when you can so clearly see the way your body moves on top of his, swivelling your hips sensually as you move up and down. The way your back arches, the way you cling to him, nails digging into the leather over his chest, the breathy moans that escape you. The you in the image grabs Vader's gloved hand and places it on your throat and the real you – or at least your consciousness in your mind gasps in mortification. “How scandalous. The proper princess of the rebellion wants me.” He mocks, “worse, she wants me to want her.” This whole time you had been angry, mad at the evil Sith Lord for showing you these lies – these perverted images that you don't understand the purpose of. What is he trying to achieve? Does he hope to shame you? Provoke you? Therefore weaken your mind's resolve and obtain some information from you? But then you watch yourself in the fantasy – your hips quickening their pace as your breathy moans become raspier and louder, Vader's huge hand roams your naked back, running the middle finger of his gloved palm down your spine before moving to your front again. He caresses your breasts, toying with them and it makes the dream-you mewl. Suddenly the Vader in the projection grabs your hips, stopping your movements entirely, making you whine. He lands a stern slap on your ass in warning before pulling you in by your waist, guiding your arms from his chest to lay over his shoulders.

You can only stare in horror and regretfully–arousal, as Vader takes full control, thrusting up into you with such precision it has you screaming. You still cannot see anything below your waists and yet the lewd sounds that now echo in your mind, mixed with your own traitorous mouth chanting his name in pleasure, asking him, begging him to make you cum, has a certain humiliating warmth pooling in your centre. You want to look away, you want him to stop showing you these cursed dreams – but you have no idea how. The images are directly showing in your head and Vader doesn't seem to actually be in your room. So how do you stop this? Before you get to shout at him again, the previous pressure on your neck, one that you had nearly forgotten about, grows stronger again, pressing more on your throat till you can hear your own heartbeat echoing in your head. You realise then that the pressure on your throat is definitely not something imagined and that somehow, Vader was actually choking you physically in your sleep. Were you wrong about your assumptions? Had Vader really somehow broken into your quarters? But the others would know. They'd wake you – they'd try to stop him. Wouldn't they? Or had they all already tried – and failed to stop him. Is that why you could physically feel his hands on your throat? “You think too much.” His voice echoes after a long time, “Tell me, Princess – after everything I've shown you – do you still dare to think of this as a deception?” You don't know what to say, you have always wished for Darth Vader's defeat in every battle you have been a part of, always hoped that the tyrannical rule he was a part of would end. And yet you also knew that there was something weird– something wrong here. Every time you had encountered the Sith Lord you had felt an odd sort of feeling in your mind, as if something was amiss. You had always been wary of the force-users and weren't entirely convinced of its powers– or better yet, its presence in the universe. Yet every time you ran into Vader, you had always felt a certain presence in your being – like a pull, a connection that wasn't quite complete. Like two wires of a running circuit that occasionally rubbed together and created sparks. But what does it mean? What does any of this mean? You still cannot believe that whatever Vader showed you was some sort of prediction of the future. However, he told you that it was your mind that projected this.

But can you believe him? You would scream and fight and argue that he's a cruel perverted liar and that none of this is true. But then why is there a part of you that suddenly feels heavy with need? You almost want to strangle yourself when you realise the wetness in your pants. And you suppose you really should just jump off a cliff when you realise that Vader can and probably is reading your mind right now. “I do not need to read your mind to know your desperation, Rebel.” Or maybe you could throw him off one instead. “While it would surely be amusing to see you attempt, right now, Princess, tell me – are you still convinced that all I've shown you is a deception?” With his words he slowly moves the pressure down your neck, tracing your collarbones to your breasts, cupping them as if they were naked. He fondles them, pinching and pulling and you whimper. “—that you don't want this?” His hands ghost down your torso, caressing your hips before moving further south. You freeze when you feel him slip below the waistband of your pants, going lower and lower before stopping right at your slit – the same way he had in the vision he showed you. He mimics the same actions from the fantasy on your body – running his fingers up and down teasingly before pausing on your clit to rub slow circles. “Tell me to stop, Princess.” He slips his fingers lower again to put pressure on your slit without actually slipping inside and you're not sure how to answer him. You want him to stop because this cannot be right – you already don't know how he's even doing this, and surely you don't want to fuck Vader? But then you don't want him to stop because the expertise with which he's teasing your tits and rubbing your clit is making it hard to think. Vader can tell that you're at the edge of your limits. He flashes all the images he's shown you once again, repeating them in your head as he lures you, “Look,” he can tell that you're trying to fight him, trying to break off his connection and stop him from showing you these visions. Too bad he's a Sith Lord and much better at controlling. Brats like you really need to be tamed. “I said look.” The images flash much quicker now, all of them with you naked and begging for Vader to take you. He uses the force to toy with your body once again – phantom lips kiss their way from the corner of your mouth and up your jaw to nibble at the sensitive spot right under your ear. He shows you your own face in the visions where you climax in his mouth, on his fingers, on his cock – your mouth dropped, brows scrunched and naked chest heaving as you whine and moan. He makes you listen to your own screams of pleasure, of begging – begging to give you his cock, to let you cum, to do it all over again.

The real Vader puts a steady thrumming pressure on your clit, one that would've had you immediately buckling at the knees if you weren't still asleep in your bed. You can't help the whimper that escapes you. “Vader, please...” You feel ashamed when you find yourself repeating the words from the dream, though you're not sure if you're pleading him to stop or asking for more. “What's the matter, Princess? Surely a proud rebel like yourself wouldn't want a Sith Lord?” His voice continues mocking you as the humming pressure turns into full vibrations over your clit and that combined with the way he pinches your nipples has you melting against your own wishes. Or is it? Is this really against your own wishes? You can lie to him, but can you really lie to yourself? And it seems Vader's presence in your mind is as attentive as ever as he soon questions. “Tell me to stop. You said I was lying – so why aren't you stopping me?” Vader can feel the steady build of a climax in you, you are right at the brink and he can tell that all it would take is one push to send you over the edge. Suddenly, he stops all his actions. Every way he was touching you–it all disappears in a second. It happens so quickly it's like your body gets whiplash. You feel naked despite the fact that your body is still fully clothed and tucked in bed. You sob, “Vader—” “What is it, Princess?” When your own inner turmoil keeps you silent he continues his provocation, “Surely, you do not want me–a Sith Lord, to fuck you?” He mocks with a surprised tone. “Surely you do not want something like this,” he once again flashes another image in your head. This time you're on your back again, fully naked, but the sight doesn't shock you after all that you have seen in the past few minutes. Your hair is strewn over the surface, nipples hard as your half-lidded eyes twinkle up at him, a teasing smile pulls on your lips as your nails dig into Vader's stomach, dragging them up before spreading your palms over his chest. You tug him to you, and Vader's wide frame covers your body.

He is still clothed and his cloak falls over his shoulders to drape over the two of you. You watch as he squeezes your throat, but unlike the panic that grows in you every time you feel Vader's hands over your neck, the you in the dream smiles. She smiles and puts her hand over his as if encouraging him and fuck that shouldn't make you drip even more but it does. Vader shuffles back a little and for the first time in all of the visions he's shown you do you get to see any part of him. The real parts. And it's his cock – thick and long, slightly curved–and heavy. Heavy as you watch yourself take him in your palms, heavy as Vader slips his hand under yours to pin your wrists above you before thumping his cock on your button, making you whimper. Heavy as he runs it up and down your slit before he hooks the fat head in your hole. The dream you hums in pleasure as Vader's thick cock parts your walls, except suddenly he stops. He stops halfway in, running his possessive hands up and down your hips and legs. The pause makes you whine, instinctually clenching around him to pull him deeper and it almost knocks the breath out of Vader. He leaves a stinging hand print on your ass as a reminder to behave before one of his hands comes down to where the two of you are joined. Watching his hands–it makes you think. Even during such an intimate act Vader never takes off his gloves, in fact he doesn't even take off his clothes. In every dream you have seen tonight he is always fully clothed and it almost makes you yearn to see what he actually looks like. The dream you was always busy being fucked senseless by Vader but you couldn't stop wondering about how he was underneath all that leather. How would it feel if he were to touch you, really touch you. Would his hands be warm to touch? Or would they be as cold as his voice? Your contemplation doesn't last long as that same vibrating pressure grows stronger on your clit, just as the pleasure blooms in your core. Every time Vader touches you, really touches you–with whatever weird sexual Force abilities he possesses, your mind goes entirely blank. It's like he quickly takes over every string controlling your body and all you can do is give in. You give in as Vader cups your sex and palms your throat–it's as if he's right there behind you, broad chest to your back, slow and deep breaths exhaled right next to your ear, tickling you and somehow arousing you further. When you start getting fussy he tightens his grip on your throat, “Watch.” He commands before directing your attention to what he's projecting in your mind. You stare in embarrassment and arousal as the dream Vader first makes you come on his tip, using his fingers to pinch and pull and rub on your clit, pushing you to your high till you're pulsing around the head of his cock. It makes him dig his nails into your plush thighs, slick fingers moving up to grip your ass and lift your hips up to use for his pleasure. Vader pulls out of you to tease you again. You had been whining the entire time he was playing with your body and it entirely distracted you from the way Vader was actually toying with you in reality. Or was this all a dream too?

Your thoughts are cut off as Vader lines his thick fingers to your slit, circling and circling till you're dripping and surely staining your pants. Your hips move on their own to get him to finally push inside. You're embarrassed but also glad that you have separate quarters and that you sleep alone. “You want it that bad, Princess?” His deep voice rumbles in your mind. Wasn't the bastard supposed to be able to read your mind? You don't answer, instead, you try to reach out to whatever it was Vader was using to toy with you, focusing in your mind on that odd sensation that seems to be the source of all this. Maybe it's Vader's own distracted nature that allows you to sense his presence so quickly in the Force, especially when he doesn't do anything to stop you as you reach out to him, to the feeling of him. You connect to his presence, as if gently caressing the very fabric of his being. It feels somewhat weird; you've never done anything like it before. It feels like you're weaving yourself into him as you concentrate on the feeling of him in your mind. Even his presence feels intimidating–strong and dark, imposing and fearful. Yet, you reach out, gently, a little unsure but determined to get him to do something, anything.

You wonder why Vader isn't doing anything to stop you, especially when you know he can, being all-powerful and all that. Did he want this just as much as you? Your contemplation is cut short as you feel a steady pressure on your entrance and you throw your head back, thinking fucking finally. You think you hear something like a deep chuckle echoing in your mind before the same dream from before flashes at the forefront again. This time, dream Vader lines his cock up with your hole just as you feel the force touch grow stronger on your cunt, and simultaneously you watch as Vader's cock swiftly enters you and you feel a thick length bury deep inside. A loud moan echoes in your mind and you can't tell if it was the dream you or you. This time Vader doesn't waste a second before he starts thrusting, both in the dream and inside you. You watch as Vader fucks you fast and hard and feel as the heavy girth parts your walls, before pulling back to deliver sharp and precise thrusts, making you feel so full that it steals your breath and renders you speechless. “Hmm, nothing to say now, Princess? No accusations of lies or deception?” When you say nothing Vader slows down his pace, again both in the dream and in you, and this time even if the dream you says anything it goes completely unheard as you whine out. After watching yourself come apart so many times, hearing your whines and begs, the lewd sounds of fucking, you were downright aching, desperate to have your want fulfilled and your cunt stuffed. “Tsk, tsk tsk, such filthy wants you have, Princess.” His mocking voice booms, “and here I thought you wanted me defeated and dead.” You did, you swear you did, just....after you were done with whatever this was. Because fuck Vader feels so good inside you, so big and so deep, especially as he grinds into you without pulling out. In the haze of your pleasure you barely notice Vader picking up pace again and in retaliation he delivers a slap to your ass and it's so much worse. It's so much worse because it feels so so good, your hole pulsating around nothing desperately. “Watch.” He echoes the same word again as he forces you to concentrate on the dream he's showing you. It's a struggle to focus as Vader expertly fucks you into the mattress, pleasure coursing through your veins as he hits that deep spot inside you again and again. It becomes so much more difficult when he makes you watch the way he fucks you, the way his broad frame covers you entirely, practically dwarfing you, the way you greedily swallow him, stretched to your limits as his thick cock thrusts into you – hard and fast, not showing any mercy. Holy shit, you realise, Vader was showing you how he would fuck you, and he's making you feel how he would fuck you. All without fucking you at all.

He's ruining you, absolutely ruining you as the lewd sounds of him thrusting hard and deep into your wet pussy echo in your mind. As sweat runs down your forehead, as your chest heaves, and as your cunt leaks and leaks, surely ruining your sleepwear. As you sob in pleasure and you can’t even tell if it’s from the dream or you.

You feel the pressure on your neck return and it makes you heady, your eyes roll to the back of your head as Vader toys with your clit again, not faltering in his pace of fucking you.

You’re barrelling towards the edge at record speed, but you would never admit to Vader that no one’s ever fucked you this good, not even the best sex of your real life came close to whatever Vader was doing to you now.

Did you feel guilty about it? Immeasurably so. But it wasn’t at the front of your mind when you could also feel the way you were so close. So so close – just one more deep thrust, just one more flick of your button, just one squeeze of your throat and you’d be—

Suddenly every bit of touch disappears from your body.

The long length inside you is no longer there, the wide palm on your bare throat has vanished and the thrumming pressure on your clit has faded into nothing.

You can’t help the cry that escapes you, calling out his name in desperation.

There is no reply. You writhe on the bed, your desperation showing in the way your knuckles protrude as you fist the bedsheet, your hips squirming and cunt pulsing in need for what was so cruelly stolen from you.

You quickly sit up as your mind awakes and your eyes shoot open. Your quick pants are the only sound you can hear in the pin drop silence of your separate quarters.

Your voice is shaky as you call out, “V-Vader?”

Still no reply. You let your head fall into your hands, a silent sob escaping you as you come down from the high. Your cheeks feel warm, in fact, your whole body feels on fire and you just can’t seem to get enough air into your lungs.

The tears that slip down your face, dry and cool your heated skin but it’s not enough.

Every encounter with Vader always made you feel like something was missing, and tonight that feeling’s stronger than ever, carving out a chunk of your being and wringing your stomach into knots.

You feel hollow. Unsure. Unsafe. And yet you want to forget all of this. There is no physical evidence of anything other than your ruined underwear that you’re more than willing to ignore. Maybe this was all just a dream. A very very bad dream. Nothing more.

Just as you’re about to chalk this all up to some weird way of the universe fucking with you, a deep inhale echoes in your mind.

“The temple is where our business will be finished.”

And just like that you’re once again left alone in the silent darkness of the room.

a/n: welp folks, here we have it. weird way to say it ig but happy star wars day! may the force be with you

(ignore that this is a day late and also absolutely not proofread, both becuz tumblr was being a bitch and I lost this fic like 6 times and I almost don't care anymore lol)

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 8) • iamquaintrelle

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

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

# 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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Morning light spilled through the curtains, catching dust motes dancing in the golden beam. You stirred, registering the warmth of Lewis's arm draped around your waist, the unfamiliar comfort of waking up completely entangled with someone else. Three days since that first kiss, and your body still tingled at the memory of how thoroughly Lewis Hamilton approached everything he decided was worth his attention.

You shifted slightly, surprised at how quickly things had changed between you. The movement made Lewis pull you closer against his chest.

"Stop thinking so loudly," Lewis murmured against your hair, his sleep-roughened voice sending warmth through you. "Too early for whatever's going on in your head."

You laughed softly, surprised at how easily he read you now. "I didn't know thinking had a volume."

"Yours does." His hand slid along your arm in a gentle caress. "It's practically deafening."

The casual touch caught you off-guard—this playful version of Lewis so different from the controlled crime lord whose reputation had preceded your arranged marriage. In three days, he'd become increasingly affectionate, his restraint giving way to a tenderness that manifested in constant touches and soft kisses that left you wanting more.

"Just... processing," you admitted, finding it strange how easily honesty came now.

Lewis's eyes opened, focusing on your face with an intensity that still made your breath catch. "Regrets?" he asked directly.

"No," you replied immediately, surprising yourself with your certainty. "Just adjusting to the new normal."

His expression softened, though his eyes remained watchful. "You mean how I can't seem to stop myself from kissing you, or how your uncle keeps giving me those looks over breakfast?"

Heat rushed to your cheeks, remembering Paolo's barely concealed amusement. Yesterday, your uncle had taken one look at you—hair still messy from a make-out session in the library—and said something in Italian that made Carmen snort coffee through her nose while Lewis pretended not to understand.

"God, he's so embarrassing," you groaned, burying your face against Lewis's chest. "Like some teenage boy making jokes."

Lewis's laugh vibrated through you, the sound still rare enough to feel like a victory. "To be fair, he did find us in the library yesterday."

"We were just kissing!" you protested, though the memory of Lewis standing too close, his hand on your waist and his voice dropping to that tone that never failed to make your stomach flip, undermined your point.

"Sure we were," Lewis agreed, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. "Just like we're just talking now."

The shift happened quickly—from sleepy conversation to charged awareness. Lewis's eyes darkened as his fingers traced your cheekbone, each touch expertly calculated to get a response.

"We have the security briefing in thirty minutes," you reminded him, though your body was already leaning into his touch.

"Plenty of time," Lewis replied, his eyes dropping to your lips.

Something sparked inside you—that competitive instinct now channeled into something far more pleasurable than business negotiations.

"For what?" you asked, your voice teasing though your heart was already racing.

Lewis's response was to lean forward, capturing your lips with his in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened. His hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his mouth moved against yours with growing intensity. You melted into him, your fingers sliding into his braids, pulling him closer.

There was something about the way Lewis kissed you—confident but never pushy, passionate but still somehow restrained, like he was holding part of himself back even as he pressed you closer. It drove you crazy in the best possible way, made you want to break through that last bit of control he maintained.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathing harder, Lewis rested his forehead against yours. "Good morning," he whispered, a rare smile spreading across his face.

"Morning," you replied, feeling almost shy despite the intimacy you'd just shared. This was still new territory—allowing yourself to be vulnerable, to want someone this way.

Lewis brushed his lips against yours once more, softer this time. "We should get up," he said, though he made no move to pull away. "Before Jensen comes looking for us."

"Five more minutes," you murmured, leaning in to steal another kiss. You felt his smile against your lips as he pulled you closer, his hand sliding to your waist.

Five minutes turned into fifteen, both of you lost in each other as morning kisses grew more heated. Lewis's hand stayed respectfully at your waist or tangled in your hair, never pushing for more than you were sharing, but the intensity between you built with each passing moment.

"God, you're addictive," Lewis breathed against your neck, pressing gentle kisses along your throat that made you shiver. "I could do this all day."

The genuine wonder in his voice made your heart flutter. This was Lewis Hamilton—powerful, dangerous, controlled—admitting that kissing you made him lose track of time.

Carmen's voice calling up the stairs that Jensen and Paolo were waiting in the communications room finally broke the spell. You both reluctantly pulled apart, reality intruding once more.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, slightly swollen lips, hair a mess from Lewis's fingers—and felt a moment of disbelief that this was your life now.

"You look thoroughly kissed," Lewis observed with satisfaction, brushing his thumb across your lower lip. "It suits you."

You rolled your eyes, even as warmth bloomed in your chest at the possessive edge in his voice. "And you look smug. Not exactly professional for a security briefing."

Lewis's gaze met yours in the mirror, something unexpectedly serious replacing his playfulness. "I don't give a damn how it looks. Not anymore."

The simple declaration caught you off-guard—Lewis Hamilton, master of control, deliberately discarding the professional distance that had marked your early interactions.

"Well, I do," you countered, turning to straighten his collar with unsteady hands. "My uncle already thinks you've corrupted me. No need to give him more ammunition."

Lewis caught your hands, pressing a kiss to your palms that carried both tenderness and promise. "If he only knew how much I want to," he murmured, eyes darkening with desire that he continued to keep carefully in check.

Five minutes later, you were in the communications room with Lewis, Paolo, Jensen, and Naomi, reviewing yesterday's trap operation. The contrast between your heated bedroom moments and tactical planning should have been jarring, but somehow felt like complementary parts of your new reality.

"Package one was accessed at three this morning," Jensen reported, showing data on the main screen. "Corsaro's channel. Initial patterns looked normal, but there was a second access at 4:17 with data being sent through encrypted servers."

"Where did it go?" Lewis asked, his posture now carrying that coiled readiness that marked his professional focus, though his hand rested lightly at the small of your back.

"Bounced through multiple servers," Naomi said, pulling up a map with routing indicators. "But final locations cluster around southern Florida. Miami, specifically."

"Suarez," Paolo confirmed grimly, the playful uncle from breakfast now replaced by your father's most effective enforcer. "Fucking Corsaro. Thirty years with the family, and he sells us out for what? Gambling debts?"

"Maybe," Lewis replied, studying the data patterns with narrowed eyes. "Or maybe it's misdirection."

You moved closer to the screen, examining the transmission patterns, Lewis's hand shifting to your shoulder in a subtle gesture of support. "What do you mean?"

"The patterns are too clean," Lewis explained, pointing to the timing indicators. "Too methodical. Corsaro's impulsive, erratic in how he communicates. These transmissions are precisely timed, consistently structured. Almost like—"

"Like someone wants us to think it's Corsaro," you finished, the possibility becoming clear as you studied the evidence. "You think he's being set up?"

Lewis glanced at you with brief approval warming his expression, his thumb stroking a small circle against your shoulder. "It's worth considering. Especially with what's at stake."

Paolo rubbed his jaw, reconsidering with new skepticism. "Could be. Mike's always been a hothead, acts on impulse. These transmissions look like someone who plans every move."

"Could Corsaro have cleaned up his act?" Naomi suggested. "If Suarez is paying him enough, maybe he's being more careful."

"Possible but unlikely," Lewis countered. "People don't change their patterns overnight, especially someone with decades of habits."

You nodded in agreement. "And if someone was setting him up as the mole, that would explain the discrepancies Uncle Paolo mentioned earlier—how shipping routes were compromised without Corsaro having access to all that information."

Jensen pulled up additional data, showing transmission patterns from past months. "The historical data supports that. Previous leaks happened when Corsaro was in Atlantic City, physically away from our secure servers."

"So if not Corsaro," Paolo said slowly, "then who?"

A heavy silence fell as you all considered the implications. If Corsaro was being framed, the actual mole wasn't just betraying your father's organization but strategically misdirecting suspicion—a more sophisticated approach than simple betrayal for money.

"What about the other packages?" you asked, returning focus to the immediate investigation. "Did Venucci or De Garza access their versions?"

"Both checked their information, but no transmissions went out from either channel," Naomi reported. "Normal access patterns consistent with routine security reviews."

"Which tells us nothing if Corsaro's being framed," Paolo pointed out. "The real mole could have used Corsaro's channels rather than their own."

Lewis was already moving to another computer, typing quickly. "Our team has been monitoring all digital access points since we identified the leak. Let's see if anyone else accessed Corsaro's systems during or before the transmission."

The screen filled with scrolling data, access logs that meant little to untrained eyes but clearly told Lewis and his team a story. You moved closer, watching over his shoulder as his fingers continued typing commands.

"There," he said suddenly, highlighting a sequence of codes. "Secondary login credentials accessing Corsaro's account at 3:52, fifteen minutes before the outbound transmission. Routed through internal systems to hide where it came from."

"Can you track it?" Paolo asked, leaning forward with renewed attention.

Lewis's expression shifted toward something darker, more predatory, as his fingers danced across the keyboard. "Already working on it. The masking is good, but our systems are better."

The tension in the room ratcheted up as Lewis worked to unravel the digital disguise hiding the betrayer in your father's organization. Minutes stretched in silence, broken only by the sound of keys clicking and occasional muttered curses from Paolo as new data appeared.

Finally, Lewis sat back, his expression grimly satisfied. "Got it. Terminal access in your father's New York office. User credentials belonging to Antonio De Garza, using Corsaro's login to access the data and send it out."

"De Garza?" Paolo looked genuinely shocked. "He's been like a son to your father. Practically raised him in the business."

"Which would give him access to information beyond his official clearance," you noted, the betrayal landing with so much personal impact. Antonio was a close family friend, your driver, a man who covered for you so many times. "And the trust needed to operate without suspicion."

Lewis was already reaching for his phone, forwarding the evidence to the rest of the team. "We need absolute confirmation before taking this to your father. De Garza's position means any accusation will have major consequences if not completely supported."

"My people can start watching him immediately," Paolo offered, reaching for his own phone. "Track his movements, monitor his contacts, build physical evidence to back up the digital trail."

"I should call my father," you said, the obligation clear despite the complications. "He needs to know we've identified the potential source, even if we're still gathering evidence."

Lewis glanced up from his phone, that subtle protective shift in his posture now so familiar. His hand reached for yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We'll set up a secure line in my office," he agreed. "But let's wait until the team confirms the digital evidence. We need absolute certainty before taking this to Salvatore."

The use of your father's first name rather than "your father" registered as another small but significant shift—Lewis positioning himself as equal rather than subordinate in the family hierarchy.

The discussion continued, plans forming for surveillance and evidence gathering, with Jensen coordinating security protocols while Naomi prepared briefing materials. Throughout, you found yourself increasingly aware of Lewis's physical presence—the subtle ways he positioned himself near you when possible, the brief touches when passing documents, the way his eyes sought yours during key decision moments.

Paolo noticed too, his expression shifting between knowing amusement and something more complicated when he thought no one was watching. Your uncle had watched you grow from headstrong child to calculated adult. The changes in you since marrying Lewis—not just the obvious physical affection, but the evolution toward genuine partnership—clearly registered with someone who knew you so well.

"We're getting alerts from the perimeter sensors," Jensen reported suddenly, attention shifting to a secondary monitor showing the estate's security grid. "Eastern approach, just beyond the tree line. Multiple signatures moving in formation."

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly from planning to immediate threat response, Lewis moving toward the security station with predatory focus. "How many?"

"Six signatures, moving in pairs." Jensen zoomed in on the display, highlighting heat signatures moving through the forested area. "Movement pattern looks like a professional team, not local trespassers."

"Local police?" Paolo suggested, though his tone indicated he already knew the answer.

"No," Naomi confirmed, examining the movement patterns. "No registered law enforcement operations in this area, and they're avoiding standard patrol routes. Definitely not official."

Lewis's expression had hardened into something cold and focused, the playful lover from your bedroom completely replaced by the dangerous strategist who had built an empire from nothing. "Interception team alpha, deploy to coordinates 44-27. Beta team, establish containment at secondary boundary markers. No one gets through, no one gets out without direct authorization."

As security personnel moved with practiced efficiency, Paolo was already checking his weapon with the calm competence of someone who had faced similar situations countless times.

"Your people or mine?" he asked Lewis, the question carrying no challenge despite its potential for conflict.

"Combined team," Lewis replied without hesitation. "Your men know Suarez's tactics, mine know the terrain. Working together gives us the best coverage."

"We should move you to the secure room," Naomi suggested, addressing you directly. "Underground access, reinforced walls, separate communication systems independent of the main house."

The recommendation made perfect tactical sense—isolating high-value assets during a potential security breach. Yet something in you rebelled against the passive role.

"No," you said firmly, your decision suddenly clear. "I'm staying in the communications hub. I need to see what's happening."

Lewis glanced at you, something complex passing through his expression—assessment and approval and concern somehow simultaneously present. His hand moved to your shoulder, a gentle squeeze conveying his support. "Security team delta stays here regardless," he said after a brief pause, neither contradicting your decision nor fully endorsing it.

The compromise reflected the partnership that had been developing since Geneva, tactical cooperation alongside growing personal connection. Different from your father's approach, which would have simply ordered your removal without discussion.

"Approaching visual range," Jensen reported. "Tactical feed online in three, two, one..."

The main screen filled with body-camera footage from the interception team, images slightly shaky but clear enough to show dense forest giving way to the eastern edge of the estate, where the stone wall provided a barrier between the property and surrounding wilderness.

"Target acquired," came a voice through the communications system. "Six individuals, military-style movement, carrying what appear to be tactical equipment bags and weapons."

Lewis moved closer to the screen, his expression now carrying that deadly focus you'd glimpsed when he ordered Bianchi's execution—calculated lethality rather than emotional reaction. "Maintain position. Let them commit to approach first."

The tension in the room increased as you all watched the infiltration team move closer to the estate boundaries. These weren't random intruders or local troublemakers—they were a tactical team with a specific objective, moving with precision that suggested extensive preparation.

"Breaching equipment," Jensen observed as one figure removed items from their bag. "They're planning to create access through the eastern wall section, likely targeting the security blind spot we discussed in the briefing."

"The honeypot is working," Lewis noted with grim satisfaction.

"Interception teams in position," came another voice through the system. "Awaiting authorization for engagement."

Lewis's eyes never left the screen as the infiltration team began setting up what appeared to be controlled breaching charges along a section of the ancient stone wall. "Hold position," he instructed, voice carrying that quiet intensity that commanded immediate compliance. "We want prisoners, not just deterrence."

"Breaching charges set," Jensen reported, tension in his voice the only indication of his concern. "Detonation sequence appears to be starting."

"Defensive teams, prepare for breach," Lewis instructed, his posture shifting subtly toward greater readiness. "Contain and capture, lethal force only if absolutely necessary."

The next minutes unfolded with tense precision—the breaching charge detonating with controlled force that created access through the ancient stone wall, the infiltration team moving through with tactical discipline suggesting military or specialized security background, interception teams allowing entry before closing the trap with synchronized efficiency that left no route for escape.

The firefight was brief but intense. Within minutes, the estate's combined security forces had neutralized the threat, three infiltrators dead and the remaining three subdued with minimal injury.

"Perimeter secured," came the report through communications channels. "Three prisoners in custody, being transported to secure holding area as instructed."

Lewis turned to Jensen, his expression now carrying that cold focus that reminded you of exactly who you had married. "Prep the workshop for interrogation. I want them separated, no communication between them, full monitoring of all interactions."

"Yes, sir," Jensen replied before leaving.

"Naomi, coordinate with your team to begin identifying the prisoners. I want to know who they are, who sent them, and what exactly they were after before they've even reached the holding area."

"Already on it," Naomi confirmed, her fingers flying across her keyboard.

Throughout this exchange, you found yourself watching Lewis carefully—the seamless shift from tactical leader to interrogation strategist highlighting the dangerous capability that existed alongside the increasingly gentle man he had become in your private interactions.

"I want to be there," you said suddenly, your decision forming with surprising clarity. "For the interrogation."

Lewis's attention shifted fully to you, that penetrating assessment scanning your expression. "Why?" he asked, neither refusing nor agreeing.

The question made you pause, examining your own motivation with the honesty that had been developing between you. "Because I need to see it," you admitted. "To understand exactly what we're facing, without filters or sanitized reports."

Something shifted in Lewis's expression—recognition rather than surprise. His hand came up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face, the tender gesture at odds with the tense situation. "It won't be pleasant," he warned, voice dropping lower. "Interrogation rarely is, especially with professionals who know what's at stake."

"I grew up in Salvatore Ricci's house," you reminded him, meeting his gaze directly. "I've seen interrogations before."

"Not mine," Lewis replied simply.

The implied difference registered immediately—your father's theatrical approaches versus Lewis's likely more calculated methods, different objectives shaping different techniques.

"Even more reason I should be there," you countered. "I need to see all of the operation."

Lewis's eyes narrowed slightly as he registered the challenge. "Alright," he agreed after a moment. "But you stay behind the observation glass. No direct interaction with prisoners, no matter what happens in the interrogation room."

The condition was reasonable. "Okay," you replied, nodding your agreement.

Paolo approached with an uneasy expression on his face. "You sure about this?" he asked, addressing you directly while glancing toward Lewis.

"I'm sure," you confirmed. "I need to see exactly what we're dealing with."

Paolo nodded slowly. "Your father wouldn't like it," he observed.

"My father isn't here," you pointed out. "And I'm not just his daughter anymore."

Lewis's hand found yours briefly, the contact hidden from others but carrying reassurance. "We'll head down in ten minutes," he said. "Jensen will have everything prepared by then."

The "workshop" proved to be a converted wine cellar beneath the main house, its ancient stone walls providing both soundproofing and temperature control. Modern lighting had been installed along stone arches, creating bright light that left no shadows. A one-way glass partition separated the observation area from the central interrogation space, where a single metal chair had been bolted to the floor.

"First prisoner is being brought in now," Jensen informed Lewis as you entered the observation area.

Lewis nodded, surveying the space. "Start with standard disorientation protocols. I want baseline established before direct intervention."

"Package incoming," Naomi announced, indicating the approaching security team with the first prisoner.

The man they brought in didn't match stereotypical expectations—mid-thirties with unremarkable features, build suggesting regular exercise, clothing practical rather than tactical. The kind of person who would blend perfectly into any crowd, attracting no attention.

Jensen's team secured him to the chair, the prisoner offering no resistance beyond initial tension when restraints were applied. No dramatic defiance or theatrical threats, just wary assessment of surroundings and silent calculation as he scanned the space.

"Professional," Lewis observed quietly beside you, his shoulder pressed against yours in silent support. "Not first-line operative but not amateur either. Note the physical control, the absence of emotional display despite stress indicators in his posture and breathing."

Lewis's words directed your attention to details you might otherwise have missed. The interrogation began with surprisingly mundane questions—name, nationality, current residence, employment history—delivered by someone from Jensen's team.

"Baseline establishment," Lewis explained, noting your questioning expression, his voice soft near your ear. "Identifying speech patterns, physical tells, reference frameworks before applying actual pressure."

After establishing the preliminary patterns, Jensen entered the room—his presence immediately shifting the dynamic despite maintaining the same calm professionalism.

"We know you work for Raúl Suarez," Jensen stated plainly. "We know you were sent to breach the Hamilton estate with specific objectives. What we don't know is whether you're worth keeping alive or not."

"I have nothing to say," the prisoner replied.

Jensen nodded as if this were a valuable contribution. "That's your choice. But before you commit to that position, you should understand the alternatives. Mr. Hamilton will be joining us shortly. He has particular interest in your team's objectives regarding his wife. His methods when personally involved tend to be more... direct than our standard protocols."

The mention of Lewis produced the first genuine reaction from the prisoner—subtle but detectable tension in his shoulders, a micro-expression of concern that was quickly masked.

"Interesting," Lewis murmured beside you. "He really knows who I am." He then straightened his shoulders. "Time to continue the conversation," he said, voice carrying that deadly focus that still sometimes caught you off-guard.

"Are you going in there yourself?" you asked, something tightening in your chest that felt like worry.

Lewis's eyes met yours, his hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. "Yes," he replied simply. "Some questions need personal attention to ensure accurate answers. Remember our agreement," he added, his voice softening slightly. "Behind the glass, regardless of what happens in there."

You nodded despite growing unease about what Lewis's direct interrogation might entail. Before he left, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, the tender gesture at odds with the situation.

"It'll be over soon," he promised quietly.

As Lewis moved toward the interrogation room door, Paolo stepped closer to you—his presence offering silent support without commentary or unnecessary reassurance.

"He's different than I expected," Paolo said quietly, his eyes tracking Lewis. "More... controlled than most in his position."

Lewis's entry into the interrogation room shifted the atmosphere immediately—the prisoner's posture tensing despite attempts at composure, Jensen stepping back with subtle deference while remaining present for support.

"You know who I am," Lewis stated rather than asked, voice carrying that deadly quiet that somehow commanded attention more effectively than shouting ever could. "Which means you understand exactly how this conversation ends if I don't get the information I need."

The prisoner remained silent, though his breathing had quickened despite efforts to keep control.

"Let me be perfectly clear," Lewis continued, removing his jacket with methodical precision that somehow made the gesture more threatening than dramatic display would have been. "I don't enjoy this part of operations. I don't have satisfaction from physical persuasion or take pleasure in causing pain."

He rolled up his sleeves with the same careful efficiency, exposing the tattoos that covered his forearms—the patterns you'd traced with your fingers last night now visible in clinical light as he prepared for whatever would follow.

"But I am exceptionally good at it," Lewis added with matter-of-fact certainty. "Because I see it as tactical necessity rather than emotional indulgence. Which means I apply exactly the effort required to achieve objectives—no more, no less."

The distinction was delivered with cold precision—more disturbing than theatrical threats would be.

"Last chance to cooperate," Lewis said, placing his watch on the metal table. "Tell me who sent you, your orders regarding my wife, and your extraction protocols."

The prisoner remained silent, though sweat appeared on his forehead despite the cool cellar.

"Very well." Lewis nodded to Jensen, who placed a metal case on the table and opened it.

Your breath caught seeing the contents. Not crude tools but specialized ones designed for effectiveness with minimal permanent damage, surgical rather than savage, yet more disturbing for their purpose.

"Jesus," Paolo muttered beside you, assessing professionally rather than judging. "Your husband doesn't fuck around."

"No," you agreed quietly, unable to look away. "He doesn't."

Lewis selected forceps-like tool, examining it with familiar ease. He then moved behind the prisoner, placing a hand on his shoulder with gentle precision. "The key of interrogation is understanding vulnerabilities. For some, it's a pain threshold. For others, fear of disability. But for professionals like ourselves, it's often fear of mission failure that provides the greatest leverage."

Suddenly Lewis's movements accelerated—applying precise pressure to the junction between neck and shoulder. The man jerked violently, a cry escaping despite training.

"Brachial plexus," Lewis explained clinically. "Stimulate it correctly, and pain radiates through the entire arm without permanent damage. Useful before moving to more lasting methods."

The forceps twisted slightly, drawing another sound as the prisoner's composure cracked.

"I won't repeat questions," Lewis continued, releasing pressure before reapplying at a different angle. "Instead, I'll increase intensity until speaking becomes more tolerable than silence."

From your position behind the glass, you found yourself watching with complex emotions as the interrogation unfolded. Lewis's methods were precise and calculated, nothing like the theatrical displays your father's men often employed, but equally effective. The prisoner eventually broke, providing the information Lewis sought.

"Suarez," he gasped. "Raúl Suarez. From Miami."

Lewis eased pressure slightly, a reward for cooperation. "We already knew that part," he replied steadily. "Continue with information we don't already possess."

"Primary target extraction," the prisoner continued, words spilling faster as his resistance crumbled. "Female, mid twenties, black hair. Wife of property owner. To be taken alive, unharmed, sedated for transport."

"Destination?" Lewis pressed.

"Private airfield thirty miles south. Jet waiting for immediate departure to secondary location." The man's breathing came in short gasps. "Coordinates programmed into team leader's GPS. I don't know the final destination."

Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the evident anger in his eyes. "The extraction protocol. Specifically."

"Breach perimeter, locate target, administer sedative, secure for transport using specialized restraint system." The words rushed out now. "Non-lethal approaches for all security personnel except primary male occupant. Hamilton. You. Standing kill order for you only."

That part made you gasp audibly; killing Lewis while taking you alive, confirming Suarez's motivations was personal.

"Suarez's personal instructions?" Lewis asked.

"She wasn't to be marked. Not a scratch." The prisoner's eyes darted toward the observation glass. "Said she was meant to be his. That you stole what belonged to him."

Lewis's control slipped momentarily, his pressure increasing beyond calculated application into something carrying genuine anger.

"Details of Suarez's current location," Lewis demanded, voice harder than before. "Where is he coordinating these operations from?"

"I don't know," the prisoner gasped, desperation evident. "Team assignments came through intermediary. Santiago. Florida-based operations manager. We never met Suarez directly."

"Santiago's full name and location," Lewis pressed.

Names, locations, communication protocols, extraction routes, and contingency plans flowed as Lewis continued his work.

When the interrogation was finally over, Lewis stepped back, carefully removing the forceps before wiping his hands on a cloth Jensen provided.

"Have medical examine him, then secure in isolation," Lewis instructed. "Keep monitoring for any additional details he might remember once the shock wears off."

As Jensen complied, Lewis turned toward the observation window—eyes finding yours with unsettling accuracy despite the one-way design.

You felt Paolo shift beside you, his presence momentarily forgotten during the intensity of the interrogation. "I should check on the surveillance teams monitoring those extraction routes," he said. "Make sure they're maintaining position."

His departure left you alone when Lewis entered the observation area moments later, the heavy door closing behind him.

Neither of you spoke immediately, the weight of what you'd witnessed creating momentary uncertainty.

"That was..." you began, searching for words.

"Who I am," Lewis finished simply, neither apologetic nor defensive. "Part of it, at least."

"I know," you replied, matching his honesty. "I've always known. Theoretically, at least."

Lewis moved closer, his proximity creating awareness—the same hands that had applied precisely calibrated pressure now reaching for yours with careful gentleness.

"Theoretical understanding is different from direct observation," he said, his eyes searching yours intently.

"He was going to take me to Suarez," you said. "That's what this was about."

Lewis's expression hardened momentarily. "Yes," he confirmed, no attempt to soften reality. "Alive and 'unmarked,' according to specific instructions."

"And kill you in the process," you added. "Not capture or negotiate. Just kill."

"It's standard approach," Lewis acknowledged with a nod.

Before you could respond, Lewis's arms were around you, pulling you against his chest in a protective embrace that surprised you with its intensity. His hand cradled the back of your head as he held you close, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"I won't let him touch you," he murmured against your hair, the promise carrying absolute certainty.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, holding him just as tightly. This was new for both of you—seeking comfort in each other, acknowledging vulnerability instead of hiding it beneath strategic calculation.

"I know," you replied simply. "Just like I won't let him hurt you either."

Lewis pulled back slightly, looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch—tender and fierce and vulnerable all at once. Without a word, he lowered his head and kissed you, his lips gentle. Your hands slid up to cup his face as you kissed him back, pouring everything you couldn't yet say into the connection.

When you finally broke apart, Lewis rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he took a steadying breath. "This changes our timeline," he said, returning to tactical reality though his arms remained around you. "Suarez moving faster than we thought means we need to move up our counter-measures."

"So what's the play?" you asked, deliberately echoing his phrasing from previous tactical discussions, your fingers absently stroking the nape of his neck. "How do we respond to this without creating more problems?"

"We focus on identifying the mole and apply pressure points against Suarez," he replied.

"Through Santiago," you suggested. "The operations manager."

"Exactly," Lewis nodded, pressing another quick kiss to your lips before reluctantly releasing you. "We should get back to the others," he said, his voice warm despite the seriousness of the situation. "Coordinate the revised timeline with the current intelligence."

You nodded, but as Lewis moved toward the door, something prompted you to speak before the operational urgency took over again.

"Lewis," you said, causing him to pause with his hand already on the door handle. "What I saw in there..." You hesitated.

He turned back, eyes holding yours with that penetrating focus that still sometimes made your breath catch. "Yes?" he prompted.

"Thank you," you said finally. "For protecting what's yours."

Something softened in his expression as he crossed back to you in two quick strides, cupping your face in his hands. "Always," he promised, before kissing you again, this time with a possessive intensity that left you breathless.

As you rejoined the operational planning already happening in the communications hub, Carmen caught your eye from across the room—her sharp gaze taking in both your composed expression and the way Lewis kept you close to his side, his hand resting at the small of your back.

"You saw," she stated rather than asked, moving closer while others focused on tactical coordination.

"Yes," you confirmed, neither elaborating nor hiding the reality of what had happened.

Carmen studied you for a moment longer, something like approval in her eyes. "And you're still here," she stated.

"Where else would I be?" you replied, genuinely confused.

Carmen's expression softened briefly, rare vulnerability replacing her usual directness. "Many women in our world choose not to see certain sides of the men they marry," she said quietly. "Easier to have comfortable illusions than acknowledge the whole reality."

Her words reflected her own experience, understanding the common patterns among women in your shared world, between those who chose willing blindness and those who accepted complete reality despite its occasionally disturbing moments.

"I'm not interested in comfortable lies," you replied honestly. "Never have been."

"No," Carmen agreed. "You're not. Which makes you exactly what he needs, whether he fully realizes it yet or not."

Before you could respond, tactical planning reclaimed immediate priority—Jensen approaching with updated security assessments, Naomi reporting preliminary findings from her team's analysis, Paolo returning from coordination with the perimeter teams.

Throughout the renewed operational focus, you found yourself watching Lewis with growing awareness of exactly what his protection entailed—the calculated violence when necessary, the precise application of force, the cold efficiency with which he eliminated threats to what mattered most.

As tactical planning continued around you, Lewis's eyes met yours across the room—that moment of connection amid operational activity that had become increasingly frequent since Geneva, silent communication requiring no words. He offered you a small, private smile that warmed you from the inside out.

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

Later, when the immediate crisis had been handled and plans set in motion, Lewis found you alone in the library. Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if reassuring himself that you were still there, still safe.

"You okay?" he asked quietly, his hand stroking your back in soothing circles.

"Yes," you replied, resting your head against his chest.

Lewis tilted your chin up gently, searching your eyes. "Still no regrets about us?"

The vulnerability in the question caught you off guard—this dangerous, powerful man asking if you regretted the connection growing between you.

Your answer was to stretch up on your toes and kiss him softly. "Not a single one," you murmured against his lips.

Lewis's arms tightened around you as he deepened the kiss, his mouth moving against yours with growing urgency. You melted against him, your hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders, holding on as the kiss intensified. His restraint was still evident—his hands remained at your waist and back, never straying further though you could feel the tension in his body, the careful control he maintained even as he pulled you closer.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Lewis rested his forehead against yours. "You're making it very difficult to focus on security protocols," he murmured, a rare smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Good," you replied, surprising yourself with your boldness. "You think too much."

He laughed softly, the sound warming something deep inside you. "Says the woman who analyzes everything."

"Maybe we're rubbing off on each other," you suggested, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Lewis's eyes darkened slightly, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "I like the sound of that."

A throat clearing from the doorway broke the moment. Paolo stood there, his expression caught between amusement and embarrassment. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, not sounding particularly sorry, "but Jensen needs Lewis in the communications room. Something about the satellite data from Miami."

Lewis nodded, reluctantly stepping back though his hand lingered on your waist. "Tell him I'll be right there."

Paolo gave you a knowing look before disappearing back down the hallway.

"Duty calls," you said, echoing Lewis's words from earlier that morning.

"Always does," he agreed, brushing his lips against yours one more time. "But this isn't over," he added, his voice dropping to that lower register that never failed to send shivers down your spine.

"Promise?" you asked, smiling up at him.

His answering smile was slow and full of promise. "Count on it."

As Lewis left for the communications room, you found yourself alone in the library, your fingers absently touching your lips where his had been moments ago. This growing connection between you was still new, still evolving, but there was no denying its power. It had transformed into something neither of you had anticipated—something that made your heart race and your mind quiet in a way you'd never experienced before.

You moved to the window, looking out at the Scottish landscape stretching beyond the estate grounds. So much had changed in such a short time. The woman who had arrived in Scotland still wary of her strategic husband was being replaced by someone who looked forward to his touches, who sought his kisses, who found herself thinking about him at odd moments throughout the day.

The realization should have been frightening—vulnerability had always been something to avoid in your world—but instead, you felt strangely calm. Whatever was developing between you and Lewis wasn't a weakness to be exploited but a strength neither of you had counted on.

After dinner had been cleared and plans finalized for the coming days, Lewis found you in the small sitting room adjacent to your bedroom. You were curled up in an armchair, watching the flames in the fireplace dance and flicker against the darkening sky outside.

"Hey," he said softly, leaning against the doorframe. "Mind if I join you?"

You smiled, gesturing to the empty chair beside yours. "It's your house."

"Our house," he corrected, crossing the room to sit next to you. "At least for now."

The casual assertion of shared space shouldn't have affected you as much as it did, but the simple "our" warmed you more than the fire.

"Any updates from Jensen's team?" you asked, though business was the last thing on your mind.

Lewis shook his head, reaching out to take your hand, his thumb tracing patterns against your skin. "Nothing that can't wait until morning." His eyes met yours, something soft in his gaze that made your breath catch. "I thought maybe we could just... be here. Together. Without tactics or strategies or security protocols for a little while."

"I'd like that," you replied, squeezing his hand.

For a while, you sat in comfortable silence, watching the fire and enjoying the simple connection of his hand in yours. The quiet intimacy felt new but somehow familiar, as if you'd been doing this for years instead of days.

"What are you thinking about?" Lewis asked eventually, his voice gentle in the firelit room.

You considered deflecting with something tactical or trivial, but the honesty that had been growing between you pushed for a different answer. "Us," you admitted. "How different this is from what I expected when I agreed to marry you."

Lewis's expression softened, his eyes warm as they held yours. "Different good or different bad?"

"Different good," you replied without hesitation. "Very good."

Something in his posture relaxed at your words, as if he'd been holding tension you hadn't noticed until it eased. "For me too," he said quietly. "I didn't expect... this."

The admission hung between you, neither of you quite ready to name what "this" was, but both acknowledging its growing importance.

Lewis tugged gently on your hand. "Come ‘ere," he said softly, shifting to make space for you.

Without overthinking it, you rose from your chair and moved to his, settling against him as his arm wrapped around you. The position should have felt awkward—the chair wasn't really meant for two—but somehow you fit perfectly, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm secure around your waist.

"Better," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You relaxed into him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear surprisingly comforting. This casual physical affection was still new, still something you were getting used to, but you couldn't deny how right it felt to be held by him.

"Tell me something about you," you said, surprising yourself with the request. "Something I don't already know."

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns against your arm as he considered. "I used to draw," he said finally. "When I was younger. Mostly architectural designs—buildings, bridges, structural elements."

The revelation was unexpected. "Really?"

You felt him nod. "It was my first interest, before I got pulled into all of this. I wanted to be an architect." There was no bitterness in his voice, just simple acknowledgment of a path not taken.

"Do you still draw?" you asked, curious about this newly revealed facet of him.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "Not often. Mostly when I'm planning something particularly complex and need to visualize the components."

"I'd like to see your drawings sometime," you said softly.

His arm tightened around you slightly. "Maybe," he replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Your turn now. Tell me something I don't know about you."

You considered what to share, what small piece of yourself to offer in this quiet moment. "I used to dance," you said finally. "Ballet, from when I was six until I was fifteen. My father thought it would teach me grace and discipline."

"Did it?" Lewis asked, his fingers now gently playing with your hair.

"The discipline part, definitely. The grace..." You laughed softly. "I was better at the technical aspects than the artistic ones. My instructor used to say I approached dance like a military operation."

Lewis chuckled, the sound rumbling pleasantly through his chest. "That I can picture."

"Hey!" you protested, playfully swatting his arm.

He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss that made your heart skip. "I meant it as a compliment," he said, his eyes warm with amusement. "Precision is underrated."

"Smooth recovery," you murmured, settling back against him.

The conversation flowed easily after that, small revelations and quiet laughter as the fire burned low in the grate. You found yourself sharing stories you'd almost forgotten—childhood memories, teenage rebellions, moments that had shaped you—and listening just as eagerly to his. Different backgrounds but surprising parallels, the children of powerful men finding their own paths.

When you finally fell silent, comfortable in the shared quiet, you realized how natural it felt to be here with him like this. How easily you'd slipped from strategic partners to something much more personal.

"It's getting late," Lewis said eventually, though he made no move to let you go. "We should probably get some sleep."

You nodded reluctantly, not wanting to break the bubble of intimacy you'd created, but knowing tomorrow would bring renewed focus on the operational tasks ahead.

Lewis stood, keeping you steady as you both rose from the chair. His hand found yours as you walked to the bedroom, fingers intertwined in a gesture that had quickly become familiar. He smiled, a real smile that transformed his usually serious face and made your heart flip in your chest. Then he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer.

You melted into him, your arms sliding around his neck as the kiss intensified. There was something different about it—less restraint, more hunger, though still tempered with control. His hand splayed across your lower back, pressing you against him as his tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance that you readily granted.

The kiss turned heated, a slow exploration that made your head spin and your body warm. His hand tangled in your hair, angling your head for better access as he deepened the kiss further.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Lewis rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as if savoring the moment. "We should stop," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "Before I forget why we're taking this slow."

The admission that he wanted more, that he was deliberately holding back, sent a thrill through you. "And why is that again?" you asked, your own voice breathless.

Lewis's eyes opened, dark with desire but still warm with something deeper. "Because you deserve better than rushed decisions made in the middle of a security crisis," he said, pressing a softer kiss to your lips. "Because I want you to be absolutely sure about what you want. About who you want."

The tenderness in the statement made your heart ache in the best possible way. This was so far from the cold, strategic marriage you'd expected—this man who looked at you like you were precious, who prioritized your certainty above his own desires.

"I'm getting more sure every day," you admitted, your hand coming up to trace the line of his jaw.

His smile was slow and full of promise. "Good," he murmured, kissing you once more, softly this time. "So am I."

As you prepared for bed, moving through the now-familiar routine of sharing space, you found yourself contemplating how much had changed. You lay with your head tucked against Lewis's chest, his arm wrapped securely around you, and you listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. This growing comfort in physical closeness still surprised you—how easily you'd adapted to seeking his touch, to finding peace in his embrace.

tbd......

[bonbonly]

lol imagine demon!carlos sainz, my guy would never leave you alone

bon's dark thoughts (18+)

someone sent an ask a while ago about incubus!carlos sainz and listen, this reminds me of @doomedmoth's greek era au with the drivers, but imagine being a priestess that's devoted to her deity Charles, worshipping him and praying every day for his blessings.

to be picked by him and cherished, i mean in hindu mythology i remember goddess andal had spent years singing and pining for lord vishnu before he himself came down from the heavens and married her so it'd be a similar situation.

except demon/incubus!carlos sainz who had been shunned from Olympia long ago has his eyes set on you and he thinks you're foolish, you're so naive and innocent, but that passion/devotion you have? the way it burns within you, igniting his own hunger. you're the type of person to sleep within the walls of the temple right at the foot of the deity for god!charles and incubus!carlos thinks this is absolutely perfect.

to be desecrated right in front of the man you "love", and he'd advance on your sleeping form. the way you're curled up, head resting at the foot of the statue and incubus!carlos has a wicked grin on his face. he'll blow some air onto your face, watching you stir slightly. the way your hair cascades down your face so beautifully, it's a shame you're blinded by your love for charles. he'll press a kiss to your forehead, and his form disappears right into your dreams.

usually, in your dreams, you would be envisioning god!charles caressing you and whispering praises at how you're his favorite devotee, how you'd be rewarded for all the weeks of penance. however, this time in the midst of your slumber, the clouds around this peaceful scene darkened and you found large hands wrap around your waist and toss you onto the shoulder of a being you did not know.

you screamed and cried for your god to save you but he had faded away and as you were tossed onto the very place you lay curled up to sleep, you could not understand which was reality and which was a dream. incubus!carlos takes the form of a man, his hands running through his dark locks of hair as his big lips curl upwards. he cups your face, mockingly cooing at your crying form,

"oh my sweet girl, no tears, shh... shh... it's alright, hermosa." he whispers, peppering your face with kisses. his clawed hands which are now just hairy hands grasp onto your hips, squeezing your flesh in a way that seemed to burn. you cried out, the chants of god!charles falling from your lips and incubus!carlos scowled at your screams. you were supposed to be more docile and willing to him! not to that pathetic excuse of a god who kicked him out of olympia as soon as the opportunity came forth.

he'd snap his fingers and whip you back to reality and as you wake up, your eyes adjusting to the light, you lay before his true form and he snarls at you, tearing your gown to shreds before spreading your legs. his lips wrap around your clit, tongue lapping at your folds as you scream and writhe beneath his assault. his wings flare outwards in an attempt to intimidate you and it works for the moment. he drags a claw down between the valley of your breasts, circling around your nipple as his tongue drags up to rest just below your navel.

"see this lamb succumb to me, charles," he growls with a dark chuckle, "see how she won't resist me any longer. your precious putita ruined right before your very eyes."

his cock drags along your folds, teasing you as you whine and beg for mercy but it's of no use, and he shoves his thick length into you in one thrust, knocking out the air in your lungs. you gasp, your back arching as his thrusts are brutal. his grip on your waist is bruising and he won't let you go until he's had his fill of you. again and again, he shoots ropes of his cum into your pussy, ignoring your wails and pleas for god!charles to come save you.

little do you know, god!charles had sent incubus!carlos in the first place. what god wouldn't want to have a little fun with their devotees, especially one as sweet as you?

[st4ytiny]

Fucking pervert

Warnings: subby Yunho. Pervert Yunho😛😛, fem bodily description, no specified agreement on kinky? Like rough sex, heavy sub/dom dynamics, lots of bad words/insults. Slapping, jerking off, cock slapping, idk anymore

An: this was supposed to be longer, but I gave up as I ran out of both motivation and thoughts🙏 writing this on my phone.. Pervert Yunho!!!!😛

Yunho who’s your sweet boy. Your lovely boyfriend of soon a year. The man who raised your standards through the roof and to the fucking sky. Okay sure he’s a bit nerdy, a bit of a weirdo but by Lord it adds to his charm. You watch him ramble about stuff he’s grossly interested in. Nodding along, pouting your bottom lip just right and tracing the edge of your acrylics across his bottom lip.

Yunho who got so awkward the first night you shared together. Empty bottles of alcohol littering the coffee table and clothes scattered around your apartment like your closet had just exploded. Hasty kisses, heavy touches and a.. whimpering Yunho? You looked up on the taller man. Poor guy that had sexted you the nastiest shit ever, is crumbling under your gaze. You stifle a laugh as you shake your head, kissing his pretty thoughts away while dragging him to your bedroom.

Yunho who adoresssss being jerked or sucked off. By lordddd he loves it. Oh my god don’t get me started on under desk support? Or pulling him to some random bathroom while in public because you wanted to. Fuck and he returns the favour. HIS LONG FINGERSSSS!!!! Fuck they’re so pretty, coated in your slick as he pulls them out, making scissoring motions as he admires the way the slick strings between his fingers.

But tonight?

You had gotten home from an emergency meeting. It’s 11pm and he’s up, oblivious to when you’d even return.

You snuck inside in case he was asleep, other than that he’d be wearing headphones and gaming. Sighing as you slipped your shoes off and your ear perked up.

..

A moan? Whimper?

You’re intrigued as you made your way down the hall that seemed far longer than it should be. The whimpers got increasingly louder as you peaked through the half closed door. Yunho scrolling though your instagram? While jerking off? Into your panties? Your USED panties?

You run a hand through your hair as you knock on the door, leaning against the doorframe. He freezes as the whimpers dies down quicker than you could even blink. He doesn’t turn around or remove the hand around his cock. You clear your throat.

“Want a moment alone.. or…?”

He shudders at your tone and he shakes his head. Still refusing to look at you. Too ashamed.

“(Name)… help.. me, please—“

your head falls back as you let out a laugh, walking towards him as you grab a handful of his beautiful hair, tilting his head back against his gaming chair. You hold back from spitting on his face right then and there.

“Jerking off to my instagram? What are you? A fucking pervert or something? Do it yourself. You’ve already got my panties wrapped around your cock”

Scoffing as you let go off his hair harshly. A whimper bubbles up Yunho’s throat. You pause mid-step. Nothing. You keep walking.

Then it hits again, harder this time, voice trembling.

“Please— fuck, I can’t— need you, please, I’ll do anything—”

You turn your head slightly.

“Anything?”

The word hangs heavy in the air.

You glance back, his face is flushed deep, tears brimming, lips parted as he pants like he’s about to fall apart. His hips jerk up helplessly, chasing friction that isn’t enough.

That’s when something in you snaps.

Your smile turns sharp as you stalk back, grabbing a fistful of his hair again and yanking his head back so hard he gasps again.

“Anything, huh?” you hiss against his ear. “Then fucking get on with it.”

Your free hand slaps his thigh, hard enough to make him whimper.

“You wanna come? Beg louder. Beg like the filthy little pervert you are.”

His eyes glaze over as he nods frantically, completely broken, completely yours.

His eyes glaze over as he nods frantically, completely broken, completely yours.

You grin, sharp and wicked, and tighten your grip in his hair until he winces.

“That’s it. Louder. Let the neighbors hear what a needy little slut you are for me.”

His voice cracks as he whimpers your name, louder this time, hips stuttering up like he’s lost control of his own body.

Your free hand snakes down, grabbing his wrist and yanking it away from his cock. Earning a desperate sob from him as he bucks into the air, chasing friction.

“Aw. Poor baby,” you mock, leaning in until your lips brush his ear. “Did I fucking say you could touch yourself?”

He shakes his head wildly, tears finally spilling over.

“No— no, please, please, I need you, I need it so bad, I’ll be good, I swear—”

You cut him off by slapping the head of his cock, sharp and fast, making him choke on a scream.

“Beg harder.”

He sobs now, shameless, hips jerking like he can’t help it.

“Please, please, please— wanna cum, wanna cum so fucking bad, need you, need your hands, your mouth, anything— please— I’ll do anything, just touch me, please—”

You spit on his face before finally letting go of his hair and shoving him back against the chair.

“Pathetic fucking pervert,” you growl. “Jerking off to my pictures like a loser and now you can’t even form a full sentence without crying.”

Your hand wraps around his cock, tight and rough from the start, making him scream your name like a prayer.

“There. That what you wanted? Huh? My hand?”

He nods so hard his head nearly bangs against the chair, face twisted in pleasure and pain.

“Good,” you spit, jerking him fast, ruthless.

“Because you’ll have to fucking do it yourself next time”

He sobs out a yes, already shaking apart in your grip as cum dribbled down his cock. Not even catching a breath before he gets hard again.

How could he not? You had never been this ruthless before. He loved it, maybe even too much.

[just-floetcoeur]

My designs of the Divine Warriors.

Past version + a ver. with evil Shad. Man Shad has changed lol.

I got lazy with Kul’zak’s design. Was sick of drawing armour.

I tried to think up of headcanon lore for them but I don’t have much.

Irene the Matron

Goddess of light, health/healing, life, fertility, abundance, peace and motherhood

Region: Ru’aun, Phoenix Drop

Symbols: The purple spring leaf and unicorns

Song inspiration: “Thought I would be satisfied seeing you content at the other side. But somehow I thought these crazy thoughts that I deserve to be loved, I deserve to know love, we deserve to live in love. I wish there's no end to our time together.”

- Bulbel, Mili

“I’ll take your hand and guide you through all the steps one takes to move on to a place, a world unseen to us all. But it’s okay, we’ll be together, my friend.”

- What Will You Leave Behind (End Titles), Maude Plante-Husaruk & Max LL

“Though I’m about to wreck, you still have your life ahead. All things that lose their way can find it again. There is no inertia in the ocean.”

- Adrift, Stray Gods

Shad the destroyer

God of the Nether, shadows, destruction, death and vengeance

Region: Nether, Falcon Claw

Symbols: Red spears and the wolf

Song inspiration: “There was a boy who shared your bones, your eager blood, your affinity for love. He had it all in his hands and he watched it all turn to sand.”

-Holy the Sea, Forgive Durden

”Could this be the day I have waited for when all my hard work doesn't go ignored? Maybe she was right, they will realize I can change the world, open up their eyes. They know I am more than some eager blood. Not some average bones, I believe in love. I just want to prove I deserve this gift. I will change this world, maybe this is it.”

-Life Is Looking Up, Forgive Durden

“The mind plays tricks, you are confused. The man you seek is long gone, dead and cold, a story told by those he trusted, those he loved, and those who then moved on.”

- I Know Those Eyes / This Man Is Dead, Brandi Burkhardt & Thomas Borchert

“Watch out for the wicked ones who call themselves beloved ones.”

-Holy the Sea, Forgive Durden

”You're a fool to think this princess could ever really love a couple of poor boys like us.”

-The End and the Beginning, Forgive Durden

He and Irene were created as opposites, representing the two sides of the moon. Where there is light, there is darkness. They both need each other to exist but they can never truly love each other.

They basically have Celestia and Luna’s story. Shad hated how Irene was so much more loved. He hated how she bloomed with her divine powers while he thought they were a curse. Because of them, the villagers saw him as a monster. He was tied to the darkness against his will. But just like a moth to the light, he could not look away from her.

“The moon will sing a song for me. I loved you like the sun.”

He thought that by joining the Divine Warriors he’d finally be seen as a hero, that he’d be recognized for his actions. But Irene was always number one. With that resentment already growing, the Divine Warriors betraying him was the thing that unleashed all his rage. He became the Shadow Lord and created the Shadow Knights to kill Irene.

Falconclaw was probably the only village that didn’t see him as an evil divinity (aka worshiping Shad the destroyer and not the Shadow Lord).

On that note, Shad probably hated to be called “the Destroyer”, reinforcing his image as “the bad one”. But he accepted the relic for Irene. “I will make this curse my blessing.”

Esmund the Protector

The only one who doesn’t have an FFXIV equivalent.

God of mountains, ice, guards, law, order and miners

Region: O’khasis

Symbols: The Violet sword and the bear

Song inspiration: “I’m sure that she would care to hear your argument as to how your presence is the reason she is sick. But I suppose it’s in vain, since her life is ending when I thrust this blade into her heart a-thumping.”

-The End and the Beginning, Forgive Durden

(Except Esmund would stab Shad, not Irene)

“Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you.”

-Fix You, Cody Fry

He fucking hates Shad. He copes by saying it’s because he’s evil but he just wants Irene to love him.

Enki the Keeper

God of time, nature, wisdom, knowledge, moon and arcana (magic)

Region: Gal’ruk

Symbols: The blue hourglass and the owl

Song inspiration: “The mountains seceded, the light and dark depleted. We lost Adakias, but regained our science. Our world was finally reunited. So this is my cue, of where to leave you. Now it's your story to retell and pass on because an idea is only relevant if it's being thought upon. So remember, never surrender ‘cause the unrelenting constancy of love and hope will rescue and restore you from any scope.”

-The End and the Beginning, Forgive Durden

“The rest is up to you to do with what you’ll do, to learn and love and laugh ‘til the cycle circles back. I’ll just separate, weigh anchor, disengage, divide and disappear, and see you in the mirror.”

- Genesis, Forgive Durden & Casey Crescenzo

“You really are the chosen one, the calculated sacrifice. Please listen to my last words before I fade away. This is my gift to you: Live for your love every day. Please don't let your tired heart stop beating.”

- The End and the Beginning, Forgive Durden

Enki was also jealous of Irene’s love for Shad but he didn’t feel good betraying Shad. His death was his repayment for what he did.

Kul’zak the Wanderer

God of the stars, wind, wanderers -wandering merchants, bards, rogues, travellers, drifters, …-, freedom and prosperity/money

Symbols: the green walking stick and the elk

Region: Tech’ens

I’m basing off his whole personality of the one and only thing he’s ever said in the whole series: “Imortality? Hm, that doesn’t seem so bad.” So I made him a greedy bastard. Where Irene is the healer and leader, Shad the lancer and dps, Esmund the tank and Enki the support mage, Kul’zak is the rogue. He’s not completely selfish but he’s definitely the most selfish of the Divine Warriors. He helped Enki and Esmund cuz he thought it’d be fun.

[thbbie]

༄ husband! hiromi x gn! smut writer!reader (,sfw/suggestive)

hiromi doesn't watch pornography. he finds it tacky and tasteless. the artificial lighting, scripted dialogue, exaggerated moans, none of that appealed to him in the slightest. (his dislike for it was only cemented by what he's learned about the industry through his line of work)

instead, when he his needs become too much to ignore and you're away from one another, higuruma reads. he reads erotic stories written online by self proclaimed amateur writers that write some of the best things he's had the absolute pleasure to read.

hes followed countless accounts over the years, showing his support in their comments while he remains hidden safely away behind his keyboard smash username, something hardly coherent he made while horribly pent up on day long ago.

one account though, stands out as his favourite; the writing raw and alive. it turned him on like nothing else imaginable when he reads the words imagining it was you he was holding instead of his phone.

some of the things mentioned stories could feel so familiar, too familiar. it's all just coincidence of course. the way the dialogue sounds so much like you when imagines you saying it, the words spilling softly from your parted lips.

but lately, things feel.. different. you've gone out with some of your friends and hiromi knows he shouldn't but the urge that overcomes him is not to get comfortable in bed to read but instead to snoop around your computer. you spend so much time on it as of late, typing away so intently.

you wouldn't cheat, it would be dishonest and unfair, you are neither of those things. there's nothing to worry about but to quell his own mind, he still finds himself opening it up and typing in your password.

for a moment, he's scared you might've changed it. shit that would be a sign right? would that mean somethings going on? more images of the worst fill his head and just as quickly they're pushed aside when the device unlocks. good!

hiromi lets out a shaky breath, before getting to work, finding what's been keeping you so preoccupied and away from him — and then he does; the webpage of his favourite author. do you read them too? it looks different from your screen though.

he feels his heart pounding in his throat. pounding because he knows snooping is wrong, pounding because of his new found discovery. hiromi scrolls more on the open page, filled with short sentence long ideas and longer half finished pieces — the drafts.

he keeps going until he finds a piece with named characters, one with your name and one with his own.

it's too much to be a coincidence.

there's a feeling of relief as he rolls through, the worst of his thoughts not having been realized and for that he is infinitely happy, but also there's something that follows. something teasing, maybe even a little mean.

oh, how much fun he's going to have with you.

hiromi scrolls back to where you left it and closes the computer, humming to himself gleefully, doing the best to contain his grin while he ventures into the kitchen to get some chores done while your gone; the original plan (what he was supposed to be doing)

you come home a few hours later, "hiro? i'm home!" as you're taking your shoes off at the door to make your way inside. you find him drying and putting away dishes, "welcome back darling, how was it?" "mmm, it was good. you smell nice" wrapping your hands around his waist with your face buried in his strong back. "yea?"

"mhm. so so good" your voice is heavy laced with sleep. as much as he would like begin putting his evil plans in motion, your wellbeing takes precedence always. the man coos at you soft, lording the hold you have on him so he could turn to face you.

both of hiromis hands come to cup your face, their cooler then you would have expected when you first got together, but the touch is always welcome. you find immense comfort in the feeling of them, soft strong fingers holding your warmed cheeks.

"you tired love? yea? poor thing. come on let's get you ready for bed hm?" he gathers you in his arms, carefully carrying you up the stairs to your shared room. hiromi carries you into the attached bathroom, setting you down on the sink. he begins undoing your hair, and wiping away the remains of your makeup, washing your face, and applying the steps of your skincare to your face meticulously, gently massaging the skin of your face. the comforting cool of his hands lulling you further, your drooping eyes no longer fighting yo stay open.

he asks if you're alright with him changing you as if he hadn't done it countless times before, hiromi still asks, he always does.

when he gets your confirmation, he hums as he begins undressing you, sliding the adorned fabrics off your body and replacing it with the more comfortable material of his worn cottan shirts. it fits you like a dress, the hem brushing over the upper part of your thighs.

hiromi tucks you into bed, planting a kiss against the side of your head (not in your face you he just did your skincare, he doesn't wanna ruin it) he stays there, just watching for a moment with so much adoration in his eyes while you drowsily drifting off somewhere he cannot be with you. he twirls a piece of you hair in his hand,

"goodnight my love" dream sweet. dream of me.

hiromis plans will have to be rescheduled it seems.

[writingdevil]

Oh lord you're activating my STP hyperfix again oughhh how dare you,,,

I come to you, you blacksmith of words, and offer you Stubborn and Paranoid,,, and then I scuttle away :3€

(A BLACKSMITH OF WORDS?? THAT'S SO NICE AND SUCH A COOL THING TO BE CALLED!! CAN I USE THAT??/j. I'm glad that I can infect other people with my hyperfixation, so that we can all be in these woods together. I wasn't sure whether you wanted this to be a ship or not so I left it up to interpretation. Anyway, enjoy!)

"Hello?"

Go away.

"Is anyone out here?"

Please leave. Please leave.

"Para? Are you here?"

They were following him. They were hurting him.

"Para?"

They were getting closer and closer and closer-

"Oi! There you are!"

Paranoid let a frightened yell out, scrambling out of the bush that he had been hiding behind.

The world spun, a dark and imposing blur in front of him, and Paranoid knew they were here to kill him, that's why they had been following him all day.

"Paranoid! It's me, Stubborn!"

Paranoid choked on a gasp, pressing himself against a tree as he struggled to control his fear and anxiety, having to blink many times before his vision focused again.

His eyes and throat stung, but he managed to focus enough on the voice before him to realise that yes, it was Stubborn in front of him. But that didn't make him feel better one bit.

"Para? What's going on?" Stubborn asked, annoyance on his face and in his voice. "You just freaked out and ran out into the woods. What's wrong?"

"Go- away," Paranoid gritted out, but Stubborn just crossed his arms and said, "Can't do that, especially when you've got everyone else worried about you."

A pang of guilt did come through Paranoid in that moment, before it was immediately overtaken by his fear.

What else was he supposed to do? Let those eyes follow him and lead him to danger? No. No, no, no, no- he was not going to die this way, not after everything he's been through.

Stubborn tried beckoning him forward. "Look, let's just go back inside where you can't hurt yourself even more."

Paranoid shook his head, curling up into a ball. "No. I can't."

Stubborn sighed in exasperation. "Why not?"

"Because they're in the house!"

Stubborn gave him a look that made a spark of fury ignite within him, looking at him as if Paranoid was the problem.

"There is nothing in the house-"

"Yes there is!" Paranoid exclaimed in protest, wrapping his arms around himself. "The eyes keep staring at me in there! I can't go back! I can't take them watching me!"

He needed a moment to try and get his breathing under control, all the while Stubborn was just standing there, giving him a frustrated and conflicted look.

Eventually, when Paranoid was sure that he could talk again, he lowered his gaze to look at his trembling hands, to try and ignore Stubborn's judgemental glare.

The silence would've been comforting, would've helped Paranoid clear his head, but with Stubborn here, that couldn't happen.

Stubborn let a heavy sigh out. "Look, I'm not leaving without you, so you need to listen to me. There are no fucking eyes in the house."

Paranoid whimpered, and he almost missed the wince that Stubborn made at that sound. Paranoid was on the verge of tears at this point. He hated this. He hated his feelings. He hated his mind.

He especially hated the way Stubborn was staring at him-with nothing but pity.

Stubborn continued, his gravelly voice as soft as he could make it, "You're just seeing things-"

But that broke the moment immediately.

"I am not seeing things!" he screamed in Stubborn's face, claws digging into his skin so hard that they were probably cutting him, but he didn't care. "I am not crazy! No matter how much you think I am!"

Stubborn genuinely looked taken aback at his outburst, face frozen in shock, but all Paranoid could focus on was trying not to cry in this moment, mumbling, "I'm not crazy," over and over again to himself.

That went on for so long that Paranoid was starting to believe that he had made Stubborn up as well, until he heard him sigh.

"...Sorry," Stubborn muttered, crouching down in front of Paranoid, and if Paranoid wasn't in the middle of a breakdown, he would've commented on the rare look of guilt on Stubborn's face.

"I'm still not planning on ditching you here. I still need to bring you home."

Paranoid whimpered,squeezing his eyes shut in the hopes of blocking out all the horror that constantly surrounds him. "But the eyes are in there."

"Then I'll protect you."

Paranoid froze, then opened his eyes.

Stubborn was holding his arms out to him, a hopeful glint in his eyes. "I'll make sure that nothing comes near you or hurts you. Everyone will be there to protect you as well in the house."

"Are you sure?" Paranoid asked, his body already leaning forward towards Stubborn's warm and inviting arms.

"Yeah," Stubborn assured with a nod of his head. "What? You think people like Hero and Hunted are gonna let anything bad happen to you?"

That was true. Despite the fear still consuming Paranoid's mind, he knew that that was real. His flock's love was real.

He cautiously looked into Stubborn's eyes- warm, and solid, a determined glint in them that slowly pierced through the fear within him, letting him know for a single moment-Stubborn was safe.

Paranoid took a deep breath, and then reached out towards Stubborn. Stubborn allowed Paranoid to move closer to him, right up until Paranoid's fingers grazed his wrist, and suddenly he let a shuddering gasp out and desperately crawled into Stubborn's arms, who had no problem with immediately scooping Paranoid up, holding him close to his chest.

"I've got you, I'm here," Stubborn whispered, hugging Paranoid protectively, putting a hand over the back of his head, and Paranoid shoved his face into Stubborn's chest, breathing in his comforting scent, feeling his trembling already lessen.

Stubborn stood there for a few minutes, just shushing and rocking Paranoid back and forth, until Paranoid felt all the tension leave his body, safe in Stubborn's arms.

"That's it, you're safe with me," Stubborn whispered, and then began the walk back home, and Paranoid sighed in relief, not feeling any eyes on him at all in that moment, not with Stubborn there to protect him.

[zrvllya]

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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the great war, taylor swift

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regulus black x reader ! one shot ⏾

and maybe it's the past that's talking, screamin' from the crypt

ᵎ!ᵎ graphic depictions of violence, self-harm, suicidal-ideation, self-destructive behavior, emotional trauma, toxic and abusive family dynamics, war themes, wartime violence, dark magic, dubious consent, blood, injury depictions, mental health struggles, forced allegiance, coercion

word count [ 10,000+ ]

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your knuckles were bruised like violets against the stark white of hospital sheets.

regulus sat beside your bed in a rickety wooden chair, his robes rumpled from sleep, or rather the lack of it. his eyes followed the movement of a mediwitch as she flitted about the small room before eventually departing, allowing the heavy silence between you two to settle once more.

"you shouldn't have done that," he finally said, voice low and ragged.

you didn't look at him, keeping your gaze fixed on the ceiling. "what else was i supposed to do?"

"literally anything else, y/n."

the clock on the wall ticked loudly, counting down seconds that felt like hours. forty-eight hours since you both received the mark. and here you were, hands bandaged from punching walls until they cracked and bled, sedated by potions after being found screaming in the bathroom of your place.

"i couldn't breathe," you whispered, still not looking at him. "it was burning and i couldn't—i just needed it to stop."

regulus's fingers curled into fists on his lap. "breaking your hands won't remove the mark."

"i know that," you snapped, finally turning to face him. his eyes were bloodshot, dark circles prominent against his pale skin. he looked as haunted as you felt. "don't you think i fucking know that?"

he reached for your hand, careful to avoid the bandages. it was a familiar gesture—how many times had his fingers entwined with yours beneath dining tables, in dark corridors, behind curtains? but now it felt different. heavier.

"we made a choice, y/n," he said softly.

"did we?" your laugh was hollow. "was it really a choice when the alternative was watching us— each other be slaughtered by our own families?"

regulus didn't answer. he didn't need to. you both knew the truth—you'd been bred for this, raised to serve, and now you were trapped. two purebloods fulfilling their destiny, following the path laid out since birth.

you thought about that morning, kneeling before the dark lord, sleeves pushed up to reveal unmarked forearms that would soon bear his brand. regulus beside you, shoulders squared with determination or resignation—you couldn't tell the difference anymore. his brother was long gone, escaped to a better life with better people. you sometimes wondered if regulus hated sirius for leaving him behind or admired him for having the courage to leave at all.

"do you remember," you began, voice barely audible, "when we were seven, and your mother caught us playing with muggle coins we'd found?"

his thumb traced circles on your wrist. "you took the blame."

"and you kissed me afterward, behind the curtains in the drawing room," you continued. "you said i was brave."

"you were." a ghost of a smile crossed his face. "you still are."

"i don't feel brave. i feel like i'm drowning." you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion press down on you. "what are we doing, reg?"

he didn't answer immediately, instead bringing your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingertips. "surviving," he finally said. "that's all we can do now."

memories swam through your consciousness like fish in murky water—fragmentary, distorted, but unmistakably real.

your bodies tangled in his bed at hogwarts, silencing charms cast so thickly the air felt heavy with them. his lips on your neck, your shoulder, lower. whispered promises neither of you had any business making.

your hand in his at your father's funeral, a subtle pressure of fingers against fingers while walburga black wailed with more theatricality than genuine grief.

studying in the library, knees touching beneath the table, pretending the contact was accidental when you both knew better.

and now, months after receiving the mark, you found yourself in your shared place once more, the one you immediately got together when finishing hogwarts, but everything had changed. the playfulness was gone from your encounters, replaced by a desperate need to feel something—anything—other than the constant dread that had become your companion.

"they're sending us on a raid tomorrow," regulus murmured against your bare shoulder, his arm draped heavily across your waist. "some mudblood family in sussex."

you stared at the ceiling, tracing the constellation patterns he'd charmed there years ago. "together?"

"yes. the dark lord thinks we work well as a pair." his laugh was bitter. "at least we'll have each other while we commit atrocities."

turning to face him, you studied his features in the dim light. he'd lost weight in recent months, his cheekbones more pronounced, giving him an almost gaunt appearance that reminded you too much of the portraits of dead blacks that lined the hallways.

"we don't have to do it," you whispered, though you both knew it was a lie.

he traced the outline of your face with his finger. "and what, die instead? watch you being tortured in front of me?"

"maybe." your voice cracked. "maybe that would be better than becoming this."

regulus pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "i'd die before i let anything happen to you."

"that's what i'm afraid of," you replied, fingers threading through his hair.

silence stretched between you, comfortable despite the weight of everything unsaid. you'd always communicated best in silence—a shared glance across a crowded room, fingers brushing as you passed in hallways, a subtle nod that contained entire conversations.

"do you remember the promise we made?" he asked suddenly. "before all this?"

you did. fifteen years old, hiding in the astronomy tower long after curfew, stars scattered above you like spilled diamonds. regulus had taken your hand, eyes serious in a way that seemed too old for his young face.

"no matter what happens, no matter what they make us do or become, i'll always find my way back to you."

you'd sealed it with a kiss, naively believing that your love would be enough to withstand whatever the world threw at you.

"we were children," you said now, voice hollow. "we didn't know what was coming."

his hand found yours in the darkness, fingers interlacing. "i meant it, though. i still do."

outside, rain began to fall, pattering against the windows like impatient fingers. somewhere in the house, a clock chimed three. in a few hours, you would both don masks and cloaks and become the monsters you were raised to be.

the raid went wrong.

it was supposed to be simple—a show of force, a message to the "impure" that nowhere was safe. but the order had been waiting, as if tipped off. the moment you and the other death eaters apparated onto the quiet suburban street, spells began flying.

in the chaos, you lost sight of regulus. curses illuminated the night in violent bursts of color—red, purple, the sickly green of killing curses cutting through fog like searchlights. screams echoed between houses as muggles fled in terror, not understanding the war that had suddenly erupted on their doorsteps.

you ducked behind a garden wall, blood trickling from a cut above your eye where a severing charm had nearly found its target. your mask felt suffocating, the silver filigree pressing into your skin as you gasped for breath.

"retreat!" someone shouted—bellatrix, you thought, though it was hard to tell with everyone masked. "now!"

death eaters began disappearing with sharp cracks of apparition. you stayed hidden, frantically scanning for regulus among the figures still dueling.

that's when you saw him, locked in combat with a tall wizard you recognized as one of the prewett brothers. regulus was holding his own, but barely. his movements were slowing, and even from a distance, you could see the dark stain spreading across his robes.

without thinking, you broke cover, racing toward him as another death eater fell to a stunning spell nearby. regulus turned at your approach, distracted for just a fraction of a second—but it was enough.

the spell hit him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward several meters. he crumpled to the ground, motionless.

your scream was muffled by your mask as you reached him, dropping to your knees beside his still form. blood was seeping through his robes, but his chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths.

prewett was advancing, wand raised for a finishing blow. you stood, positioning yourself between him and regulus, wand trembling in your grip.

"step aside," prewett commanded, his voice hard but not cruel.

"no." your voice broke on the single syllable.

something in your stance must have given him pause. he studied you for a moment, then glanced at regulus's prone form.

"he'll bleed out if he doesn't get help," he said finally. "is he worth dying for?"

you didn't hesitate. "yes."

prewett lowered his wand slightly. "take him and go. next time we meet, i won't be merciful."

you didn't need to be told twice. grabbing regulus, you concentrated through your panic and apparated, the crushing darkness a welcome escape from the battlefield.

the safe house was small, hidden deep in unplottable woods that had belonged to the yaxley family for generations. you'd brought regulus here instead of returning to his old home—walburga would have summoned the dark lord immediately, and neither of you could face him in this condition.

for three days, regulus drifted between consciousness and delirium as you worked tirelessly to heal him, applying every healing charm and potion you knew. your hands shook so badly you spilled more than you used, but gradually, his color improved, and his breathing steadied.

on the fourth day, he finally woke properly, eyes focusing on you as you changed the bandages on his chest.

"y/n," he rasped, throat dry from disuse. "where—?"

"safe house," you answered, helping him sip water from a cup. "no one knows we're here."

his eyes widened. "the dark lord—"

"thinks we're dead, or captured. i don't know. i haven't contacted anyone."

regulus struggled to sit up, wincing as the movement pulled at his healing wounds. "are you insane? he'll kill us both when we return."

"then we don't return," you said simply.

he stared at you as if seeing you for the first time. "what are you saying?"

you sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. for days, you'd been running on fear and determination, sleep coming only in brief snatches between tending to his wounds and jumping at every sound, convinced that death eaters would burst through the door at any moment.

"i'm saying i watched you nearly die, reg. i stood over your body, ready to die protecting you." your voice cracked. "and i realized something—i don't want to do this anymore. any of it."

"we don't have a choice," he said, but the words lacked conviction.

"there's always a choice." you took his hand, turning it over to expose the dark mark, stark against his pale skin. "this doesn't define us unless we let it."

he was quiet for a long moment, eyes fixed on the mark. "i've been... researching things. about him. about what he's done to ensure he can't die."

you went still. "what do you mean?"

"horcruxes," he whispered, the word itself seeming to darken the room. "he's made horcruxes, y/n. i don't know how many, but at least one."

the term was vaguely familiar from obscure texts in your family's library—the darkest of magic, splitting one's soul through murder to achieve a twisted form of immortality.

"how do you know this?"

"kreacher," he replied. "the dark lord borrowed him for something. when he returned, he was... different. traumatized. it took weeks to get the full story out of him."

regulus's eyes met yours, burning with an intensity you hadn't seen in months. "he's hidden one in a cave, protected by inferi and poison. i think i can get to it, destroy it."

"and then what? he has others, you said so yourself."

"then at least i've done something right." his hand gripped yours tightly. "something to balance the scales, even a little."

you recognized the look on his face—the same determination he'd shown when declaring he would become the person sirius had refused to be, when mastering particularly difficult spells, when promising to always find his way back to you.

"you're planning to die," you realized, voice barely audible.

he didn't deny it. "someone has to start dismantling him, piece by piece. why not us?"

"us?" your heart hammered against your ribs. "no, reg. just you, right? that's what you're planning."

his silence was answer enough.

"you fucking coward," you hissed, tears springing to your eyes. "you were going to leave me behind."

"to protect you!" he argued, reaching for you as you pulled away. "y/n, please—"

"no." you stood, putting distance between you. "every time i think we're in this together, you make decisions without me. you plotted this while lying beside me at night, didn't you? planned your noble sacrifice while watching me sleep?"

regulus struggled to his feet, swaying slightly from weakness. "it's not like that."

"then what is it like? explain it to me, reg. explain how abandoning me is somehow an act of love."

"because i can't watch you die!" he shouted, the outburst clearly costing him as he grimaced in pain. "i can't let you walk into that cave knowing you won't come out."

you stared at each other across the small room, both breathing heavily.

"but you expect me to keep living after you're gone?" you asked finally, voice small. "how is that fair?"

he had no answer for that.

three weeks passed in tense coexistence. regulus grew stronger daily, and with each improvement in his condition, the inevitable confrontation loomed larger between you.

you took turns sleeping in the single bed, the other keeping watch from a worn armchair by the window. you hunted in the woods for food, set protective enchantments, and lived like fugitives—which, in truth, you were.

on the twenty-third day, regulus found you sitting by the small stream that ran near the cabin, skipping stones across the surface with aggressive flicks of your wand.

"i've been thinking," he said, lowering himself carefully beside you.

"dangerous pastime for you," you replied, not looking at him.

he ignored the jab. "what if there's another way? not just destroying one horcrux, but finding information about all of them. something we could pass to someone who could actually defeat him."

you finally turned to him. "like who? dumbledore?"

regulus grimaced. "perhaps. or someone in the order."

"your brother," you guessed.

he nodded reluctantly. "sirius would know who to trust."

the idea of seeking help from the people you'd been raised to despise—blood traitors, muggle-lovers—should have been repulsive. instead, it felt like the first breath of fresh air after being underwater too long.

"so what's your plan now?" you asked.

"we still need to get the horcrux. but instead of... what i planned before, we find a way to substitute a fake, leave a message." his eyes met yours, hesitant but hopeful. "together."

you studied him—the boy you'd grown up with, the young man you'd fallen in love with, the death eater you'd followed into darkness. his features were so familiar you could trace them in your sleep, yet something had shifted in him, something fundamental.

"when did you start planning this rebellion?" you asked softly.

regulus looked away, watching the stream's gentle current. "i think it started the day sirius left. i was so angry with him—for abandoning the family, for choosing potter over us, for leaving me behind." he paused. "but part of me envied him. his certainty. his courage."

you reached for his hand, tracing the lines of his palm. "and now?"

"now i understand why he had to go." he turned his hand to capture yours. "i just wish i hadn't waited so long to follow his example."

the evening air was cool against your skin, the setting sun painting the trees in gold and amber. in that moment, despite everything, a fragile hope bloomed in your chest.

"if we do this," you said slowly, "there's no going back. we'll have to disappear afterward—change our names, leave the country maybe."

regulus nodded. "i know."

"your mother will disown you."

"probably."

"we might die anyway."

his smile was sad but genuine. "at least it would be on our terms."

you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. "no more solo heroics, reg. we fight together or not at all. promise me."

"i promise," he whispered, sealing the vow with a kiss that tasted of new beginnings.

memories swam through your consciousness like shards of broken glass—jagged, cutting, but unmistakably real. your bodies tangled desperately in his bed at hogwarts, silencing charms cast so thickly the very air seemed to suffocate around you. his mouth hot against your skin, leaving marks that would linger for days. whispered promises exchanged in the darkness, reckless and dangerous and impossibly sweet. your fingers intertwined with his at his father's funeral, that subtle pressure the only thing keeping you both anchored while walburga black's theatrical grief echoed through the mausoleum. stolen moments in forgotten corners of the library, knees pressed together beneath ancient tables, the pretense of accidental contact abandoned long ago.

and now this—your first real breaking point. bitter winter had seized hogwarts in an unforgiving grip, the castle corridors as frigid and unforgiving as the growing chasm between you and regulus over the past weeks.

you tracked him to an abandoned classroom on the fifth floor after he'd deliberately avoided you for nine agonizing days. you slammed the heavy oak door with such violence that dust rained from the ceiling, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap in the empty room.

"what the actual fuck is wrong with you?" you demanded, voice raw with barely contained rage, each word scraping your throat like sandpaper.

regulus didn't even look up from his book, his shoulders tensing imperceptibly beneath his immaculate robes. "nothing that concerns you anymore. get out."

"bullshit," you snarled, storming toward him, blood roaring in your ears. "you've been avoiding me for over a week. you switched patrol schedules without telling me. you're sitting with rosier and his death eater groupies at every fucking meal. what happened to 'nothing will change between us, y/n'? was that just another convenient lie?"

he stood abruptly, the chair screeching against stone, his movement so violent the book tumbled forgotten to the floor. "maybe i'm finally tired of pretending."

"pretending what, exactly?" your voice dropped dangerously.

"that whatever this is—" he gestured sharply between you, disgust evident in every line of his body, "—isn't a fucking liability. avery saw us in hogsmeade last weekend. he's asking questions. making comments."

"so fucking what?" you challenged, closing the distance between you until you were close enough to see the flecks of silver in his grey eyes. "afraid daddy's little spy will tell the family their precious heir is banging me?"

something dark and dangerous flashed across his face. "you know that's not what this is about."

"do i?" your laugh was caustic enough to burn. "because from where i'm standing, it looks exactly like you're ashamed of me. the second anyone whispers, you bolt like a fucking coward."

"i'm trying to protect you, you idiot!" he shouted, composure finally shattering.

"protect me? fucking protect me?" you screamed back, shoving him hard enough that he stumbled back against the desk. "don't insult my intelligence with that bullshit! you're protecting yourself. your reputation. your precious fucking legacy."

regulus straightened, fury transforming his aristocratic features into something almost unrecognizable. "you think i give a single solitary fuck about any of that?"

"yes! i absolutely fucking do!" you shoved him again, harder this time, both hands connecting with his chest with enough force to make him wince. "ever since sirius walked out, you've been desperate to be the perfect black son. the perfect slytherin prince. the perfect little death eater in training. it's fucking pathetic to watch."

his hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake, fingers curling brutally around your wrist. "don't you dare talk about things you don't understand," he hissed, voice dropping to something lethal and quiet.

"i understand perfectly," you spat, wrenching your arm free with enough force to leave marks. "your mother's got her claws so deep in you that you can't even think for yourself anymore. you're nothing but her puppet."

"and you're living in a fucking fantasy world," he snarled, backing you against the wall, his face inches from yours. "you think we have actual choices? that we can just walk away from our families? from who we are? from what's expected of us? look what happened to sirius—disowned, cut off, living off potter's charity like a stray dog."

"at least he's free!" you screamed, throat burning with the force of it. "at least he's not regurgitating vile pureblood supremacy bullshit to impress his fucking death eater friends!"

regulus's eyes widened momentarily before narrowing to dangerous slits, his pupils blown wide with rage. "is that what you think this is? that i'm playing some kind of game? that i don't believe any of it?"

"the regulus i knew wouldn't," you said, voice dropping to something hollow and cold.

"then you never knew me at all," he replied, each word precise and cutting. "i believe in preserving our world. our traditions. our bloodlines. our magic. from people who would destroy everything that makes us who we are."

you stared at him, genuine revulsion twisting your features. "listen to yourself. you sound exactly like your fucking mother."

"don't talk about my mother," he growled, the muscle in his jaw working furiously as he crowded you further against the wall.

"why the hell not?" you challenged, refusing to back down even as your heart hammered painfully against your ribs. "afraid i'll tell you the truth? that she's a hateful, cruel, manipulative bitch who—"

his fist slammed into the wall beside your head with enough force to crack the ancient stone, making you flinch despite your determination not to show fear. "shut your fucking mouth."

"or what?" you taunted, adrenaline making you reckless. "going to hex me, black? show me what you've been learning from your new friends? what dark curses has bellatrix been teaching you?"

"you have no idea what i'm capable of," he threatened, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, somehow more terrifying than his shouting.

"i know exactly what you're capable of," you countered, trembling with fury. "cowardice. conformity. following orders like a good little soldier while pretending you have no choice."

something dangerous shifted behind his eyes. "i'm not my fucking brother."

"no," you agreed, delivering the final blow with deliberate cruelty. "you're not half the man he is. and you never will be."

the words hung suspended between you, a line crossed that could never be uncrossed. for a heartbeat, pure hatred flashed across his perfect features—then his mouth crashed against yours with bruising force.

the kiss wasn't passion—it was warfare. all teeth and anger and punishment, his hands roughly tangling in your hair as he backed you brutally against the wall. you bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, viciously satisfied when he hissed in pain against your mouth. his response was to grab both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head with enough force to leave marks.

"is this what you wanted?" he growled against your mouth, his other hand gripping your jaw with bruising intensity. "to push me until i lost control?"

you laughed against his lips, the sound hollow and mocking. "fuck you, regulus."

"that seems to be the idea," he shot back, his free hand moving to your tie, yanking it loose with such violence that buttons scattered across the stone floor.

you wrenched your hands free from his grip, shoving him back only to grab his expensive robes and drag him closer again. your nails dug into his scalp as you kissed him, pouring every ounce of rage and frustration and heartbreak of the past weeks into it until you tasted blood and weren't sure whose it was.

he lifted you against the wall with a strength that surprised you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as his teeth found the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder, biting hard enough to mark you as his. you retaliated by dragging your nails down his back, feeling the fabric tear under your fingers.

"i fucking hate you," you gasped as his mouth moved lower, not meaning it but needing to say it anyway.

his hand slid roughly under your skirt, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh hard enough to leave perfect crescent-shaped bruises. "no, you don't," he countered, voice raw with something that wasn't quite anger anymore. "you hate that you still want me anyway."

you pulled back just enough to look him directly in the eyes, your breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. "you're destroying everything we could have been."

"and you're asking for things i can never give," he countered, eyes dark with desire and fury and something that might have been despair. "things that would get us both killed."

"then give me this," you demanded, pulling him back to you with desperate hands. "make me forget for one fucking minute why i'm so goddamn angry with you."

he didn't need to be told twice. his mouth reclaimed yours with renewed desperation, one hand braced against the wall beside your head while the other explored with possessive intent. you worked frantically at his belt buckle, movements clumsy and urgent with anger-fueled desire.

a silencing charm went up with a sharp flick of his wand—wordless magic that reminded you how powerful he truly was beneath the carefully controlled exterior. your school robes hit the floor moments later, his following quickly after.

there was nothing gentle about what followed—nails leaving scarlet trails across sweat-slicked skin, teeth marking territory neither of you could openly claim, anger transforming into something else entirely without losing its jagged edge. every touch was a challenge, every kiss a battle neither of you was willing to concede, every movement a declaration of ownership that would leave marks for days after.

when it was over, you both slid to the cold stone floor, backs against the wall, breathing ragged and uneven in the sudden silence. your uniform was ruined beyond magical repair, his perfect hair a wild mess from your punishing fingers. purple bruises were already blooming across your collarbone, matched by deep scratches down his pale back.

"this doesn't fix a goddamn thing," you said finally, voice raw and unfamiliar to your own ears.

he glanced sideways at you, something unreadable flickering in the stormy depths of his eyes. "i know."

but you both knew you'd end up here again—fighting, breaking, fucking and coming together in the most destructive way possible. it was easier than facing the truth neither of you could escape: that you were standing on the side of a war that was coming whether you were ready or not, and neither of you knew how to build a bridge across that impossible divide to the side you were meant to be on.

the cave was exactly as kreacher had described—dark, foreboding, reeking of old magic that clung to your skin like oil. the sea crashed violently against jagged rock faces, spray hitting your cheeks like tears as you stood at the entrance, breath caught in your throat.

regulus stood beside you, his face marble-pale in the moonlight. without speaking, he drew a silver knife from his robes and sliced his palm open, barely flinching as blood welled up black in the darkness.

"blood sacrifice," he murmured, pressing his wounded hand against the rock. "he always did have a flair for the theatrical."

the stone dissolved beneath his touch, revealing a passage that led deeper into the cliff. you caught regulus as he swayed slightly, the blood loss and the magnitude of what you were attempting finally hitting him.

"we could still turn back," you whispered, though you knew neither of you would. there was something final about stepping into that darkness, like crossing a threshold you could never return from.

regulus's eyes found yours, that familiar constellation of gray and silver that you'd mapped a thousand times. "no," he said softly. "we finish this."

he reached for your hand, fingers interlacing with yours. his palm was slick with blood that now stained your skin too—a fitting metaphor for everything you'd shared.

the passageway opened to reveal an underground lake so vast the opposite shore was lost in shadow. the water was unnaturally still, a black mirror reflecting nothing. suspended in the center was a small island, a faint greenish glow emanating from its surface.

"don't touch the water," regulus warned, repeating kreacher's instructions as he searched along the edge until he found an invisible chain.

the boat that emerged from the depths was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. you squeezed in together, your body pressed against his in a way that would once have made your heart race for entirely different reasons. now, all you felt was dread, thick and choking.

"i'm scared," you admitted as the boat moved silently toward the island. below the surface, pale shapes drifted like ghosts—faces frozen in silent screams, hands reaching upward.

regulus's arm tightened around you. "i know. me too."

"what if we fail?"

"then at least we tried." his voice was steady, but you felt the rapid flutter of his pulse where your head rested against his neck. "at least we chose something different than what was chosen for us."

the boat bumped gently against the island. at its center stood a basin atop a pedestal, filled with a luminous green potion. within its depths, you could just make out the golden gleam of the locket.

regulus approached first, circling the basin with cautious steps. you followed, drawing from your pocket the duplicate you'd spent weeks creating—an exact replica, indistinguishable from the original except for the soul fragment it didn't contain. inside was the note regulus had written, his final act of defiance.

"i'll drink it," he said, conjuring a crystal cup.

you grabbed his wrist. "no. we agreed—i'll make you drink it, no matter what happens."

his eyes met yours, a silent argument passing between you. "y/n—"

"you know what kreacher said. someone has to force the drinker to continue. if you start, you'll never finish." your fingers tightened around his wrist. "i need to be the one who stays clear-headed."

"and if i try to fight you?" he challenged. "if i hurt you?"

you smiled grimly. "i've been dueling you since we were children, reg. i know all your weaknesses."

he didn't smile back. instead, he pulled you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that tasted of salt and fear and fierce devotion. "i love you," he whispered against your mouth. "remember that, no matter what i say when the poison takes hold."

your throat constricted painfully. "i know."

the first cup went down easily. regulus grimaced at the taste but nodded for you to continue. by the third cup, his hands were trembling. by the fifth, he was on his knees.

"stop," he gasped, pushing weakly at your hand as you brought the sixth cup to his lips. "please, i can't—"

"you have to," you said, your voice breaking as you forced the liquid down his throat. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, but you have to keep drinking."

by the eighth cup, he was screaming, begging you to stop, his body convulsing with pain. tears streamed down your face as you continued, cup after cup of poison pouring between his lips.

"it burns," he sobbed after the tenth cup, curling into himself on the cold stone. "make it stop, please make it stop."

"just a little more," you whispered, your hands shaking so badly you nearly spilled the eleventh cup. "please, reg, just a little more."

the twelfth cup brought hallucinations. regulus stared in horror at something you couldn't see, scrambling backward until he nearly fell off the edge of the island.

"no, not her, please not her," he begged, reaching out toward nothing. "take me instead!"

"who?" you asked, though you weren't sure you wanted to know what horrific visions the poison was conjuring.

his eyes found yours, but you weren't sure he recognized you anymore. "y/n," he whimpered. "they're torturing her. please, stop hurting her!"

your heart shattered as you realized he was watching you being tortured, some vision of what might happen if you were caught. with trembling hands, you forced the thirteenth cup between his lips.

the fourteenth cup brought silence—a terrible, unnatural stillness as regulus collapsed onto his back, eyes open but unseeing, chest barely moving with shallow breaths. for one terrible moment, you thought he was dead.

"reg?" you dropped to your knees beside him, hands hovering over his body, afraid to touch him. "regulus?"

no response.

the last cup glittered mockingly in the basin. with shaking hands, you collected it and turned back to regulus. his lips were blue now, his skin ashen. when you lifted his head onto your lap, it lolled lifelessly.

"last one," you whispered, tilting the cup against his unresponsive mouth. the potion dribbled down his chin, and you frantically wiped it back up, making sure every drop passed his lips. "please stay with me. please."

as the basin emptied, you reached inside and grabbed the locket, quickly replacing it with the fake. the horcrux felt unnaturally heavy, throbbing with malevolent energy against your palm. you shoved it deep into your pocket, your attention immediately returning to regulus.

his breathing had grown so shallow it was almost imperceptible. his pulse, when you pressed trembling fingers to his neck, was erratic and weak.

"water," he rasped suddenly, the word barely audible. "so thirsty."

you remembered kreacher's warning about the lake—how touching the water would wake the inferi. but regulus looked seconds from death, his lips cracked and bleeding.

"aguamenti," you whispered, pointing your wand at the cup. nothing happened. you tried again, more desperately. still nothing. some magic in the cave was preventing the spell from working.

regulus's hand weakly clutched at your robes. "water," he pleaded again, his voice a dry rattle.

panic rose in your throat as you looked from his dying face to the still black lake surrounding you. there was water everywhere, just out of reach, just beyond safety.

"i'm going to get you out of here," you promised, attempting to lift him. his body was deadweight in your arms, and you staggered under it. "just stay with me, reg."

you half-dragged, half-carried him toward the boat, his feet trailing limply behind. each labored breath he took sounded like it might be his last, his chest barely rising.

"stay with me," you begged, lowering him into the boat with trembling arms. "don't you dare leave me here alone."

his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and clouded with pain. "so thirsty," he whispered again.

the boat began its silent journey back across the lake. regulus's breathing grew more labored with each passing second, his skin taking on a bluish tinge. terror clawed at your throat as you realized he wouldn't make it to shore without water.

in desperation, you conjured a small cup from thin air and, with trembling hands, reached over the edge of the boat toward the dark water.

regulus's hand shot out with surprising strength, grabbing your wrist. "no," he rasped. "inferi."

"you'll die," you choked out, tears blurring your vision.

his fingers weakened around your wrist. "better me than both of us."

"no," you growled, pulling your hand back. "we live together or die together, remember? that was the promise."

you pointed your wand at the water, preparing to cast aguamenti once more in hopes that away from the island, the spell might work—

the surface of the lake exploded.

pale, bloated hands erupted from the water, grabbing at the sides of the boat. sightless eyes and gaping mouths emerged as the inferi pulled themselves up, waterlogged bodies hauling toward you with unnatural strength.

you raised your wand, remembering kreacher's terrified whispers. "incendio!" you screamed.

flames burst from your wand, but the inferi kept coming, untroubled by ordinary fire. more and more broke the surface, hands reaching for regulus's limp form, for your ankles, for the edges of the boat that was now taking on water.

panic surged through you, clarifying your thoughts. this wasn't ordinary darkness, so ordinary fire wouldn't suffice.

"fiendfyre!" you shouted, your voice echoing off the cavern walls.

cursed flames exploded from your wand—serpents and chimeras and dragons made of fire, roaring as they engulfed the inferi. the heat was tremendous, scorching your face even as it kept the undead at bay. you'd never cast the spell before, had only read about it in the darkest books in your family's library, and you could feel it fighting your control, hungry to consume everything.

the boat lurched as more inferi attacked from below. water sloshed over the sides, soaking your robes, regulus's unmoving body. his eyes were closed now, his breathing imperceptible.

"no, no, no," you sobbed, trying to maintain the fiendfyre while checking his pulse. nothing. "reg, please!"

with a desperate cry, you directed the cursed fire in a circle around the boat, creating a barrier the inferi couldn't penetrate. the flames reflected off the black water, bathing regulus's deathly pale face in orange light.

you pressed your ear to his chest. silence. nothing.

"don't you dare," you whispered fiercely, starting compressions on his chest. "don't you dare leave me."

between compressions, you breathed into his mouth, tasting the poison still on his lips. around you, the fiendfyre roared, consuming inferi that still tried to reach you. the heat was suffocating, but you didn't stop.

one minute passed. two. regulus remained still beneath your desperate ministrations.

"please," you begged, your voice breaking. "i love you. please come back."

you brought your hands down on his chest one final time, a sob tearing from your throat—

and regulus gasped, water and potion spewing from his mouth as he convulsed beneath you. you turned him onto his side, supporting his head as he retched weakly, his body trembling violently.

"that's it," you encouraged through tears, "breathe. just breathe."

the boat bumped against the shore of the cave. with strength you didn't know you possessed, you hauled regulus out, dragging him toward the entrance while maintaining the fire shield behind you. the inferi followed to the edge of the water but could go no further.

the moment you crossed the threshold of the cave, you let the fiendfyre die, collapsing beside regulus on the rocky shore. the horcrux in your pocket pulsed like a malignant heart.

regulus's breathing was shallow but steady, his pulse weak but present. his eyes fluttered open, finding yours in the moonlight.

"you saved me," he whispered, voice wrecked from screaming and nearly dying.

you pressed your forehead to his, tears falling onto his face. "always."

three days later, regulus could finally stand without assistance. the cave had taken something from him—a vitality that had always been present even in his darkest moments. his face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than ever, eyes haunted by whatever visions the poison had shown him.

"we should contact sirius," you said as you changed the bandages on his hand where he'd cut it for the blood sacrifice. the wound refused to heal properly, as if tainted by dark magic. "the horcrux needs to be destroyed."

regulus nodded absently, staring out the window of the safe house. "he won't believe it's really me. i'll need to tell him something only i would know."

you finished wrapping his hand and sat beside him on the narrow bed. "what will you tell him?"

a ghost of a smile crossed his face. "about the time i caught him sneaking out to meet that muggle girl from the village. he thought our parents never knew, but i covered for him. told them the sounds they heard were me practicing dueling in my room."

you raised an eyebrow. "you never told me that story."

"some secrets aren't mine to tell." his good hand found yours, fingers interlacing. "even from you."

the statement hung between you, loaded with unspoken meaning. you knew regulus still kept parts of himself locked away—what he'd seen in those poison-induced visions, the full extent of what he'd done as a death eater, the deepest fears that woke him screaming in the night.

"i've been thinking," he said finally. "about what comes next."

your heart stuttered. "and?"

"we can't run." his eyes met yours, steady and sure despite the exhaustion etched into his features. "not yet. there's more to be done."

you'd expected this, had seen the determination building in him as his strength returned. still, fear coiled in your stomach. "we barely survived stealing one horcrux."

"i know." he squeezed your hand. "but we know things now—about him, about how he operates. information the order could use."

"you want to become spies," you said flatly.

regulus didn't flinch from the accusation. "i want to fix what i helped break."

you stood, pulling your hand from his, and paced the small room. "we've already taken a stand. we stole his horcrux. isn't that enough?"

"would it be enough for you?" he challenged. "if our positions were reversed, would you be content with one act of rebellion before disappearing?"

the answer stuck in your throat because you both knew the truth. neither of you were built to run, not really. you'd been raised as warriors—the wrong side, perhaps, but warriors nonetheless.

"we'd have to go back," you said, the realization washing over you like ice water. "pretend nothing's happened. face him."

regulus nodded grimly. "it would be dangerous. if he suspects, even for a moment..."

"he'd kill us. but not quickly." you wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold despite the summer heat. "we'd beg for death long before he granted it."

"i won't ask this of you," regulus said softly. "this is my choice. you can still leave, find somewhere safe—"

"don't," you cut him off. "don't you dare suggest we separate now."

he stood, wincing at the effort, and crossed to where you stood. his hands, one bandaged and one bare, came to rest on your shoulders. "i'm trying to protect you."

"and i'm trying to make you understand that i don't want protection if it means watching you walk into death alone." your voice broke on the last word.

his forehead came to rest against yours, a gesture that had become as natural as breathing between you. "we might both die."

"everyone dies," you whispered. "but not everyone gets to choose what they die for."

regulus's arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest where his heart beat steadily, a miracle after how close you'd come to losing him. "we contact sirius first," he said. "get the horcrux somewhere safe. then we return—bereaved cousins who got lost after a raid gone wrong."

you nodded against his chest. "they'll be suspicious."

"let them," he said with a hint of the old black arrogance. "they've always underestimated both of us."

that night, regulus wrote the letter to his brother—carefully worded, with just enough personal details to prove his identity but vague enough that if intercepted, it wouldn't immediately condemn you both. you added your own note, explaining who you were, why sirius should trust what his estranged brother was telling him.

"do you think he'll help?" you asked as regulus sealed the envelope.

"sirius has his faults," he replied, "but he's never lacked courage. and he loves a good rebellion."

you sent the letter with a nondescript owl, then began preparing for what would be the performance of your lives. the horcrux remained hidden in a magically sealed box beneath the floorboards, waiting for sirius's response.

regulus came to bed late that night, sliding under the covers beside you. you turned to face him in the darkness, tracing the sharp lines of his face with gentle fingers.

"scared?" you asked.

"terrified," he admitted, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. "but certain."

you moved closer, resting your head on his chest where you could hear the steady rhythm of his heart. "we should practice our story. where we've been, what happened during the raid."

"tomorrow," he murmured, fingers threading through your hair. "tonight, just... be here with me."

you understood what he wasn't saying—that these moments of peace might be your last, that tomorrow began a dangerous game with your lives as the stakes. so you pressed closer, memorizing the feel of him, safe and whole beside you.

"i keep thinking about what you said in the cave," regulus whispered after a long silence. "about living together or dying together."

you tensed slightly. "i meant it."

"i know." his arms tightened around you. "that's what scares me the most. not dying, but the thought of taking you with me."

"it's not your choice to make," you reminded him gently.

he was quiet for so long you thought he might have fallen asleep. then: "in the cave, when the poison... there were visions."

you waited, letting him find the words at his own pace.

"i saw him winning," regulus continued, voice barely audible. "the world under his rule. no resistance left. and you—" his voice broke. "you were still alive, but not... not really. he kept you as an example of what happens to traitors. you begged me to kill you."

your breath caught in your throat. "it wasn't real."

"it felt real." his hand found yours in the darkness, clutching like a lifeline. "i couldn't save you. i tried, but i couldn't reach you."

you propped yourself up on one elbow, finding his eyes in the dim light. "it was the poison talking. using your fears against you."

"my greatest fear," he corrected. "losing you. failing you."

"you won't," you said with more confidence than you felt. "we're smarter than him. than all of them."

his smile was sad in the moonlight. "intelligence isn't always enough in war."

"then we'll be lucky too." you leaned down, pressing your lips to his. "now sleep. we have work to do tomorrow."

as regulus's breathing evened out beside you, sleep eluding you. the weight of what you were about to attempt pressed down like a physical thing. spying on the dark lord himself, walking back into the snake pit you'd so narrowly escaped—it was madness.

but the alternative—running, hiding, leaving others to fight while you sought safety—felt like a different kind of death. so you closed your eyes and planned, mentally preparing for the performance of your life, and hoped that somewhere in england, sirius black was reading his brother's letter and believing.

sirius's response came three days later, delivered by a different owl than the one you'd sent—a precaution you appreciated. the note was brief, unsigned, and written in a code you and regulus had created as children:

number twelve, grimmauld place. midnight. come alone. bring proof.

you stared at the address in disbelief. "he's using your childhood home as a safe house? is he insane?"

regulus's lips quirked into a humorless smile. "it's actually brilliant. the last place anyone would look for order members is a black family residence. and the protective enchantments are ancient—stronger than anything they could cast themselves."

regulus burned the note after reading it, watching the ashes float away on the breeze. "he always was dramatic."

"are you sure you should go alone?" you asked, anxiety churning in your stomach. "what if it's a trap?"

he shook his head. "it's not. only sirius would know to use this particular code."

"still," you insisted, "i should come with you."

"someone needs to stay with this," regulus countered, gesturing to the box containing the horcrux. "if something happens to me, you're the only other person who knows what it is, what it means."

you wanted to argue further, but the logic was sound. reluctantly, you nodded. "be careful. your brother might shoot first and ask questions later."

that night, you helped regulus prepare. he still looked too thin, too haunted to convincingly return to the death eaters, but you had time to build his strength back before facing the dark lord. this meeting was just the first step.

"if i'm not back by dawn," regulus said as he prepared to disapparate, "assume the worst. take the horcrux and run. don't try to find me."

you gripped the front of his robes. "don't say that."

"y/n," he said firmly, "promise me. promise you'll run if i don't return."

the request felt like swallowing glass, but you nodded. "i promise."

he kissed you then, deep and desperate, like a drowning man taking a final breath. "i love you," he whispered against your lips. "whatever happens, remember that."

then he was gone, leaving you alone with a piece of the dark lord's soul and hours to wait, each minute stretching like years.

you paced. you practiced dueling stances, defensive spells, anything to keep your mind occupied. you made tea you didn't drink and reorganized supplies you didn't need. and you watched the sky, counting stars to mark the passage of time.

one hour passed. two. three.

just as despair began to set in, a crack of apparition split the night. you spun, wand raised—

regulus staggered through the door, face pale but eyes bright with something you hadn't seen in years. hope.

"sirius?" you asked.

"he believed me." regulus sank onto the sofa, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. "we talked for hours. he's taking the horcrux to dumbledore."

relief flooded you, making your knees weak. you sat beside him, taking his hand. "and then?"

"then we go back," he said simply. "we play our parts. we gather information. and we wait."

"for what?"

regulus looked at you, determination hardening his features despite his exhaustion. "for the moment we can help end him. once and for all."

you leaned against him, head on his shoulder, the weight of what lay ahead settling over you both like a shroud. there would be no running, no peaceful cottage in france. instead, you would walk willingly back into darkness, clinging to each other and the hope that someday, somehow, light would prevail.

three months passed like a fever dream.

you both returned to your respective homes, spinning tales of capture and narrow escape. the dark lord welcomed you back with suspicion that slowly eased as you proved your continued loyalty through raids and meetings. you became his perfect soldiers again—regulus the quiet, thoughtful strategist; you the unflinching executor of commands.

and all the while, you gathered information, passed it through elaborate channels to sirius, who funneled it to the order. small victories accumulated—intercepted attacks, saved lives, thwarted plans. tiny fractures in the dark lord's seemingly impenetrable armor.

you and regulus barely spoke in public, maintaining the appearance of mere acquaintances with shared history. but in shadows, in brief stolen moments, you held each other with the desperation of people who knew every touch might be the last.

"he suspects bellatrix," regulus whispered one night, lips against your ear in a darkened alcove at malfoy manor, where death eaters had gathered to celebrate a victory you had secretly helped minimize. "he's been testing her loyalty."

"good," you breathed back. "the farther his suspicion stays from us, the better."

regulus's hands tightened on your waist. "something big is coming. he's planning something for samhain. i haven't been able to learn what."

"i'll try to get it from rosier," you promised. "he talks when he drinks."

the clock struck midnight, your signal to separate before anyone noticed your absence. regulus pressed a quick, hard kiss to your lips before melting into the shadows, leaving you alone with the phantom pressure of his touch and the ever-present fear that each parting might be final.

two weeks later, your worst fears began to materialize.

it started with small things—sideways glances from other death eaters, conversations that stopped when you entered rooms, being excluded from certain meetings. then came the subtle tests—requests for information you shouldn't have had, invitations to express opinions on topics designed to reveal sympathy for the other side.

"he knows," you told regulus during a rushed meeting in knockturn alley, both of you disguised with complex glamour charms. "or at least, he suspects."

regulus's face, altered though it was, couldn't hide his concern. "we need to run. now, before it's too late."

"we can't," you argued. "the samhain plan—we still don't know what it is. we can't leave until we warn the order."

"y/n," he grasped your shoulders, "listen to me. i've seen what he does to traitors. we've both seen it. if he catches us—"

"two more days," you pleaded. "rosier invited me to his estate tomorrow night. he'll be drinking, celebrating. i can get the information then."

regulus looked torn, fear warring with determination on his face. finally, he nodded. "two days. then we disappear, whether we have the information or not."

you sealed the agreement with a kiss, ignoring the dread pooling in your stomach. "two days," you echoed.

the next night found you at rosier's manor, dressed in formal robes, a practiced smile fixed on your face as you circulated among death eaters who might or might not suspect you of treachery. rosier, as predicted, was deep in his cups by midnight, holding court in a corner of the ballroom.

you approached him carefully, glass of untouched firewhiskey in hand. "quite the celebration," you remarked. "one might think we've already won the war."

rosier laughed, the sound harsh and grating. "closer than you think, yaxley. after samhain, the tide turns permanently."

"oh?" you raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest while your heart hammered. "another raid?"

"better." he leaned in, breath hot with alcohol. "we're going after the bones."

your blood ran cold. "bones? the family?"

he snickered. "the prophecy bones, you idiot. the ones that tie the ministry's magic together. he's found them—buried beneath the department of mysteries. we destroy those, and their whole network of protective enchantments falls."

horror flooded you. the ministry's defenses, while not impenetrable, were the last major barrier preventing the dark lord from seizing control of wizarding britain entirely. without them, thousands would die.

"brilliant," you managed, forcing admiration into your voice. "when?"

"samhain night," rosier slurred. "the veil between worlds will be thinnest. makes the old magic weaker, easier to—"

a hand clamped onto your shoulder, and you turned to find lucius malfoy, his gray eyes cold and assessing.

"yaxley," he said smoothly. "a word, if you please."

your instincts screamed danger, but refusing would only confirm whatever suspicions he harbored. with a practiced smile, you excused yourself from rosier and followed malfoy into a side room.

he closed the door behind you, and your stomach dropped at the soft click of a locking charm.

"interesting conversation you were having," malfoy remarked, circling you slowly. "curious about our plans, are you?"

you maintained your composure with effort. "just making conversation. rosier enjoys an audience."

"indeed." malfoy stopped directly in front of you. "particularly when he's been instructed to provide misinformation to suspected traitors."

ice formed in your veins. "i don't know what you're—"

the slap came without warning, snapping your head to the side. you tasted blood but didn't reach up to touch your stinging cheek. showing weakness now would be fatal.

"save your lies," malfoy hissed. "the dark lord knows all. he's known for weeks. you and the black boy—passing information, betraying your blood."

"you're mistaken," you said evenly, mind racing for an escape. your wand was in your sleeve, but malfoy's was already in his hand.

his smile was terrifying in its certainty. "am i? then you won't mind waiting here while i fetch regulus black. he arrived a few minutes ago, responding to an urgent summons—from you."

horror washed over you. "what have you done?"

"nothing yet," malfoy replied. "the dark lord wishes to handle you both personally. poetic, don't you think? lovers dying together."

you moved faster than thought, your wand sliding into your palm as you cast a nonverbal bombarda at the floor between you. the explosion threw malfoy backward, giving you precious seconds to blast the door open and run.

the ballroom erupted into chaos as you burst through, death eaters turning in surprise. you didn't stop, racing for the exit, needing to find regulus before—

"looking for someone?"

bellatrix's voice froze you mid-step. you turned slowly to find her standing at the center of the room, wand pressed to regulus's throat. he was on his knees, face bloody, eyes finding yours with a mixture of despair and desperate love.

"i'm sorry," he mouthed silently.

"how touching," bellatrix crooned, noticing the exchange. "my little cousin and his blood-traitor whore, reunited one last time."

death eaters formed a circle around you, wands raised. there was no escape—not for both of you. perhaps not for either of you.

your eyes locked with regulus's, a lifetime of unspoken words passing between you in seconds. you saw the decision form in his eyes a moment before he acted.

"y/n, run!" he shouted, driving his elbow backward into bellatrix's stomach.

she doubled over with a shriek of rage as regulus lunged for her wand. chaos erupted—spells flying, voices shouting. you fought your way toward him, desperate to reach him before—

the green light of the killing curse illuminated the room.

time seemed to slow as you watched regulus fall, his body crumpling to the marble floor like a marionette with cut strings. his eyes, still open, still looking at you, empty of the life and love that had defined them.

someone was screaming. distantly, you realized it was you.

rage unlike anything you'd ever known surged through you, fueling magic that burst from your wand without conscious thought. death eaters fell around you as you fought your way to regulus's body, gathering him in your arms, your tears falling onto his still face.

"i'm sorry," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. "i'm so sorry."

spells impacted around you, but you barely felt them. nothing mattered now—not the war, not surviving, not anything but the hollow absence where your heart had been.

but as your fingers brushed regulus's wrist, you felt something impossible—a pulse. Faint, barely there, but present.

hope flared, desperate and wild. a plan formed in seconds—you needed to get him out, needed to make them believe you were both dead.

reaching into your pocket, you withdrew the vial you always carried—draught of living death, intended as a last resort if you were ever captured. with shaking hands, you pressed it to regulus's lips, tilting it so the potion slid down his throat.

"stay with me," you whispered. "please stay."

curses flew closer as death eaters regrouped. you had seconds, no more. casting the strongest shield charm you could manage, you prepared to disapparate, regulus's limp body clutched to your chest.

bellatrix's face appeared through the smoke, twisted with hatred. "you can't escape him," she snarled. "he'll find you anywhere you go."

the crushing darkness of apparition enveloped you. the last thing you saw was bellatrix's wand raising, a curse on her lips—

impact. pain beyond imagining tore through your body as you landed hard on cold, wet ground. splinched—badly—but you'd made it. you were outside the wards of the safe house sirius had mentioned.

regulus lay motionless beside you, heartbeat now imperceptible under the effects of the potion. blood—your blood—pooled beneath you both, black in the moonlight.

as consciousness slipped away, you thought you heard footsteps approaching, a voice you vaguely recognized shouting for help. but it might have been a dream—one last mercy before the end.

whether either of you would open your eyes again remained to be seen.

[ghostly-bat]

Jondami inspired by the song "Ribs" by Lorde.

Jon and Damian have drifted apart because Jon is just having a hard time managing everything. Damian doesn't know he's burnt out half the time, though; nobody does. He thinks school is going well, and he thinks his relationship is going well, even if he has been canceling dates last minute for a while now. He can't break up with Jay; how could he when Jay has been so patient with him and his flaky behavior, not being able to make time for him like he usually does? Jon wants this relationship to work out because, logically, it should. Jay is patient with him; he has powers of his own, so Jon doesn't have to worry about him being in danger. It makes sense that it should work out. But he's been checked out of the relationship for a while now, and he's been ignoring all the signs telling him that he should end it, but he just can't because to him it doesn't feel right.

Superman? He's doing the best he can; at least he thinks he is. He doesn't allow himself to spiral about it, though, because when he does, he ends up having panic attacks.

It's been what, like almost 2 or 3 years since he's pretty much ghosted Damian? Not that he intentionally wanted to; it's just that with everything else going on in his life, it just kind of happened.

He decides it's been long enough and reaches out to Damian again. Damian himself is a bit skeptical because he noticed when Jon started pulling away; he noticed when he and Jon started drifting apart. And as much as he is happy with Jon coming back into his life, he still has this anxiety in the pit of his stomach of, "Okay, how long is this going to last before he decides to drift away again?"

Jon's not the same Jon Damian knew. The moment Jon went to space, he took Damian's best friend with him. When he came back, that best friend was gone.

Both are yearning for the nostalgia and the childhood they once had.

Jon didn't mourn the childhood he lost like he was supposed to, and he wants nothing more than to have it back—along with Damian.

[strangerexee]

(2) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴀᴊʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

It had been a couple weeks.

Two and a half, to be exact.

Not like you were counting.

Okay. You were.

He said he’d call.

He didn’t.

Didn’t hit your line. Didn’t pop up. Didn’t say not one damn word.

Which was fine. Totally fine. You weren’t pressed.

Not really.

You had a life. A job. Rent. A soft little routine. Did your Target runs. Lit your candles. Even hooked your iPad up to the TV like a suburban housewife and watched your little shows.

But still.

Every time your phone buzzed? Your eyes flicked to the screen too fast.

You tried not to, but your body did it anyway.

It was dumb. You knew that.

A man like that don’t linger. Don’t play house. Don’t kiss you soft and sit on your couch like he belonged there unless he’s got a reason. And if you weren’t the reason — well. You wasn’t gonna beg for it.

So you did what hot, sad bitches do when they need a reset.

You got dressed.

And hit the club.

Your friends were already inside when you walked up. Music spilling out the door. Bass so heavy it shook the sidewalk.

You were cute, too. Thighs out. Gloss poppin’. That short dress that hugged you like a problem.

One of your girls whistled when she saw you.

“Ouuu, not you comin’ out like you got revenge on your mind — who got you feelin’ sexy like that, girl?” “Nobody,” you lied. “I just needed some air.” “Uh huh.”

Whatever.

You grabbed a drink and danced anyway.

Tried to lose yourself in the crowd, in the bass, in the strobe lights and the slippery neon fog.

Tried not to think about him.

But God ain’t like you. He don’t let you lie for long.

Because when you turned around —

There he was.

Smoke.

Not in a hoodie this time.

Nope.

Tonight, he was in a black tee that hugged his arms and hung loose off his belt, jeans low on his hips like a sin, gold chain catching every light in the room.

He looked so good, you damn near moaned on sight.

Lord.

It's been too weeks too long and you forgot how tall he was. How that walk looked — slow, heavy, like he was carrying something dangerous in his back pocket.

His eyes found you like they’d been searching all night.

And when they landed?

Whew.

That stare had you wanting to throw your phone across the damn club.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t give him shit.

You just kept sipping your drink, real slow, like your knees weren’t already warm and turned away, as if that would make everything better.

He came up behind you, didn’t say nothing. Just leaned in a little — voice deep, low, close enough to brush your ear.

“I was gon’ call.”

You turned your head a little, gave him a look.

“Uh huh.” “I had to handle some shit.” “Of course you did.”

His eyes dragged down your body like he was trying to catch up for lost time.

“Missed me?”

You scoffed, rolled your eyes.

“You missed me,” he said, already sure.

You started to say something slick, but he was already reaching — hand sliding around your waist like it was made to be there.

“You look good, baby,” he said. And lord…the way he said baby.

Like a prayer. Like a promise. Like a problem you couldn’t wait to get tangled up in again.

“You ain’t supposed to be out here alone,” he muttered against your ear, voice wrapped in molasses. “I’m not alone.” “You ain’t with me.” “You not my man.” “Yet.”

Girl.

You had to finish your drink just to keep from screaming.

Your friends were watching.

One of them caught your eye and made the oooh he fineee face. You ignored her. Barely.

“Why you here?” you asked. “Don't you got corners to haunt or empires to run?”

“Empire still standing. I wanted to see you.”

“And you just knew I’d be here?”

He smirked.

“Like I said. People talk. Eyes on you.” “That’s not creepy at all.” “I ain’t tryin’ to be cute. I’m tryin’ to keep you safe.”

Safe.

You hated that the word made something in your chest flutter.

“You don’t even know me,” you said. He leaned down just a little, nose brushing your cheek.

“I know enough.”

He didn’t try to dance. Didn’t drag you off. Just stood there. Close. Warm.

Watching you.

Protecting you...?

Claiming you without saying the words.

And you let him.

Because what else were you gonna do?

Act like your thighs weren’t shaking? Pretend that kiss from two weeks ago didn’t haunt your dreams? Lie and say you didn’t want his hands on your skin?

You finally turned to face him.

Head tilted. Arms folded. Slick as always.

“You done handling whatever that shit was?”

His smile was slow this time. Crooked.

“Not even close,” he said. “But I’ll make time for you.”

You were maybe halfway through your sixth drink when the tipsy started to hit.

Not the sloppy kind.

The cute kind. The I’m smiling a little too hard, my hips feel loose, and I want to make bad decisions with a good-smelling man kind.

And lordddd—he was right there.

Still standing behind you, still close. One big hand ghosting the curve of your waist like he knew you were starting to melt.

“I shouldn’t let you drink like that,” he murmured, deep and gravelly, against the shell of your ear.

“Why?”

“‘Cause then you gon’ start actin’ up.” You leaned back a little, smiling like a brat. “And what if I wanna act up?”

He exhaled — low and slow, like you were getting to him.

You were.

You felt it.

His hand slid lower, not too low, but just enough to let you know he wasn’t playing fair.

“You tryin’ to get in trouble?” “Already in it,” you muttered.

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Next thing you knew, you were in the back of a sleek black car, windows tinted too dark to be legal, the city sliding past like it was watching you make a mistake.

You weren’t even nervous.

You should’ve been.

But you weren’t.

“Where we going?” you asked, a little breathy, a little buzzed, legs crossed and hand pressed to your thigh like you needed to keep your heart from leaping out.

“My place,” he said. “Is it nice?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you out the corner of his eye, smirk curling his lip like ‘you’ll see.’

And baby. You saw.

His house?

Was not a regular ass house.

This was not no “man cave, LED lights, half-eaten wings on the counter” type of bachelor spot. No.

This was grown. This was dangerous man with money and secrets levels of fine.

Soft lights. Dark wood. Cold stone countertops. Art on the walls that looked like it cost more than your whole rent for a good couple months. A massive floor-to-ceiling window facing the city skyline.

And it was quiet.

No TVs blaring. No music. Just the low hum of the fridge and the sound of your heels hitting the floor as you walked in like you hadn’t just made the worst best decision of your week.

“Smoke,” you breathed, doing a slow turn. “What the hell do you do?”

He took your jacket, didn’t answer. Just hung it on a hook and walked past you like he owned everything in the world.

“You want some water?” “Nah, I want you.”

You hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

But you were tipsy. And a little freaky. And he looked so good, standing there all quiet and fine with his jaw clenched and his eyes low like he could already smell what you wanted.

You took a few steps toward him.

And he didn’t move.

Just let you come close, slow, like you were testing something.

Your hands slid up his chest — slow — and lord that man was solid.

He looked down at you like you were a riddle he wanted to solve with his mouth.

You tilted your head, smiled. “Still tryna keep me safe?” He dipped his head a little, whispering — “I’m tryna keep you mine.”

Whewwwww.

He kissed you before you could even react.

Hard.

Like he’d been starving. Like he was mad you were out there in the world and not already pressed against him like this.

And you… Baby. You melted.

Gripped his shirt. Lifted on your toes. Moaned into his mouth like a little problem.

He picked you up so fast your brain lagged a second. Next thing you knew, your legs were around his waist, your back was on some soft-ass couch, and his mouth was on your neck like he was trying to figure out where to bite first.

“Goddamn,” you gasped, grabbing at him. “Why you this fine?” He just chuckled low, a little mean.

“You still drunk?” You nodded. “A little.” “You always act like this when you drink?” “…maybe.”

He pulled back, eyes dark and glinting.

“You gon’ let me find out?”

Let?

LET??

Sir.

You were already undone.

Already laying there squirming with your dress riding up and your pulse thumping like a bassline.

So you sat up. Slid your hands under his shirt. Let your mouth trail down his throat just enough to make him grunt.

“Why don’t you show me what you been handling these last two weeks?”

That was all it took.

He picked you up again like you weighed nothing, carried you through that fancy ass house like a fever dream, and the next thing you knew —

You were in his bedroom.

And girl.

It was worse.

Soft gray sheets. Pillars of shadow and light. More floor-to-ceiling windows with the moon shining right in.

Like something out of a movie.

Or a memory you’d been waiting to fall into.

He laid you down so gentle it made your heart ache. Palmed your thigh. Watched your face. Like he needed permission. Like he needed you to say yes even though your body already had.

You pulled him down by the chain around his neck. “You gone keep playing with me or what?”

And then — he stopped.

Just for a second.

Looked at you.

Really looked.

And he said—

“You sure?”

And girl. That’s when you knew.

You were cooked.

Because even though his voice was deep and mean and velvet-rich, there was care in it.

And that made you want him more than anything.

So you pulled him in and whispered, “Don’t make me ask twice.”

And he didn’t.

One second you were teasing him by that chain, and the next — you were on your stomach, hips lifted, cheek pressed to the plush of that expensive-ass comforter, looking back with your brows furrowed.

He’d pulled your dress up and your panties down like they offended him.

Didn’t even rush. Didn’t talk much. Just stood there behind you for a second, one big hand gripping the meat of your thigh like he was lining up a shot he was not gonna miss.

And then —

Lord.

That first stroke?

Deep. Slow. Painfully good.

You gasped into the sheets, fingers grabbing for anything, back arching nasty off instinct.

“Smoke —”

He exhaled real low. Did it again. Slid back in like he was tryna carve himself into your soul.

And you felt all of him.

Thick. Heavy. Dragging against every soft spot you had with a pace that was filthy in its control.

He fucked you like he had all night. Like he didn’t need to chase it. Like he was making you lose your mind first.

And babyyy — you were.

You were gasping into the sheets, body rocking forward with every stroke, thighs trembling, toes curling hard in the blanket.

“Shitttt — smoke—” He groaned behind you. “You takin’ it so good.”

That voice???

That deep, almost lazy voice like he was in a trance from the way you squeezed around him every time he slid back in??

It had you GONE.

You tried to push back. Tried to meet him stroke for stroke. But he caught your hips—held them down with both hands like 'nah, let me work.'

And he did.

Deep, slow strokes that ached. That made you whimper and slap the mattress with a shaking hand like—'goddamn.'

You were losing it.

Legs starting to give out. Back arched up so sweet your lower spine was humming. Face buried in the blanket, eyes rolling every time he bottomed out with a thick, quiet grunt.

“Fuck, baby, you feel — mm — you feel too good,” he muttered, a little strained now. Like your shit was really getting to him.

And it was.

You felt him twitch. Felt his grip tighten. Felt his rhythm falter just a little as he locked his hips deeper and held it.

Just pressed into your ass, thick and full and pulsing, like he wanted to live there.

But he didn’t come.

That man just pulled out slow, grunted under his breath — “mm-mm. Not yet.” And flipped you over.

Round two came fast.

Didn’t even give you time to breathe.

Your legs were still shaking. Your pussy still clenching at air like it missed him.

But he was back.

Kissing you messy now. Dragging the tip across your folds just to tease before sinking back in.

Faster.

Not too fast. But more urgent. More filthy. More 'I should’ve had you weeks ago and I’m making up for it now.'

You moaned loud, head thrown back, nails dragging down his back like — 'yes please thank you more.'

He buried his face in your neck, groaning now. Little, breathless sounds against your skin. Hands planted firm on either side of your head, his body caging you in.

He fucked you like he wanted to own every damn part of you.

Your moans. Your breath. Your arch. Your fucking soul.

And when he hit that spot?

When that thick dick curved just right and dragged over it a few times like he was taking notes??

You folded.

Tried to close your legs. Tried to twist away.

He didn’t let you.

Just grabbed your thighs and pushed deeper. Mouth at your ear now — “Where you goin’, huh?” “You was talkin’ all that shit — now you running?” “Take it. Take all this dick.”

You screamed.

Not loud. Not theatrical. Just real.

A raw, gutted moan from deep in your chest that came right with that sharp, perfect burst of pleasure that had you seeing stars.

Your orgasm hit hard.

Made your whole body clench around him like a fist. Back arched, hands clutching the sheets like you were scared you might float away.

And still — he didn’t come.

He kept going. Harder. Meaner. Like he was chasing it now, low growls spilling from his chest like thunder.

He buried his face in your neck again. Grunted once.

And finally — finally — he twitched inside you, hips stuttering as he filled you up with a hot, heavy pulse that made you moan again.

Just one long, breathless “fuckkkk.”

The room was quiet after that.

Except your breathing. And his.

Both of you laying there, sticky and tangled up in the mess y’all made, heartbeats racing like you just ran through the apocalypse hand-in-hand.

He kissed your shoulder. Real soft. Almost shy.

You laughed a little — voice hoarse. “You gon ghost me again?”

He looked up from your neck.

And that man smirked.

“After this?” he said, slow, cocky, voice low as hell. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You ain't even realize he pulled out until the bed creaked, real soft-like, and the heat of his body left you.

You blinked. Felt all loose and jelly-limbed, like your bones had melted under that big ass man. Face still buried in his pillow. You were still tryna process what the hell just happened.

Your legs twitched. Still trembling. Your whole pussy was throbbing, empty and wet and so overstimmed you could barely think.

And then —

You felt him.

That soft wipe of a warm towel between your thighs. A gentle little 'shh' when you flinched. Big hands bracing your thighs open like he was apologizing for fucking you so deep.

“Still sore?” he asked, real low. Like he was asking if you needed a minute, or a whole second round.

You hummed something that didn’t sound like English.

“Damn,” he chuckled under his breath. And you could hear the smug in it. But also — something softer.

The towel moved slow. Careful. Wiping you clean like you were something delicate. Like he gave a fuck if he hurt you.

And it hit you.

You never had this before.

Never had a man fuck you dumb and still hold you like he ain’t wanna let go. Never had someone take their time cleaning you up when the high wore off. Never had anybody kiss on your shoulder like you meant something right after they blew your back out.

It felt...nice. Too nice.

You sniffed. Stretched out lazy and boneless when he tossed the towel to the floor and leaned back over you.

“Don’t move,” he said, low. “You good?”

You nodded, still kinda floatin’. “Yeah…m’good…”

He kissed the top of your spine. Then your shoulder. Then your cheek.

One long kiss right between your brows.

You blinked up at him — soft, dazed. He looked…different now.

Still fine as hell. Still tatted and thick and built like a damn linebacker. But — softer.

His eyes weren’t hard like when you first met. His touch wasn’t cold. He looked at you like he saw something in you he wasn’t expecting.

Then he stood up — Still naked, dick still heavy and swinging, and lorddd you were tempted to climb back on that man —

But he just ran a hand over his face, muttered, “Be right back,” and went to grab something.

Came back in a pair of gray sweatshorts — that damn print was PRINTING — and tossed you the same kind but shorts...

“I ain’t got nothing cute, but you can wear these,” he said, dropping a folded-up black tee on the bed next to you. “I’ll get you some socks too if you want.”

And — like — You didn’t know whether to scream or suck his dick.

Cuz why the fuck did that feel so intimate? Why he look so good in the warm light? Why he still got lip gloss on his neck from earlier??

You put on the shorts. They were big, of course. Sat low on your hips. The shirt too. Soft and clean and smelled like laundry and cologne.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Hair a mess. Lips swollen. Whole thighs out. And his shirt hangin’ off your shoulder like a confession.

Yeah. You looked fucked. And claimed.

You padded downstairs barefoot, the floor warm under your toes. His place was quiet. Clean. Minimalist but cozy.

Not the kind of space you expected from a man like him.

And he was already in the kitchen.

You leaned on the doorway, watching. Quiet. Just soaking it in.

He moved like he knew what he was doing—pulling shit from the fridge, turning the stove on, opening cabinets like he’d done this before.

“Not breakfast?” you teased, voice still a little hoarse.

He turned, a lazy smirk on his face. “Nah. You gon’ need real food after that.”

WHYYY he say it like thattttt. You bit your lip. Felt another throb.

He pulled out a container of pasta, some veggies, chopped chicken—like he was ready. He even poured you a glass of water. Sat it next to the barstool and gave you that look.

“Drink this before I bend you over that counter.”

Your legs damn near gave out again. “Yessir.”

He laughed. Walked up behind you while the pan heated. Kissed your temple. Then your jaw.

Then your neck, where he knew he left a mark.

You leaned back into him with a soft little sigh, the weight of his body behind yours like a safehouse.

He liked kissing, you could tell. The kind that didn’t rush. That meant something. Even if y’all hadn’t put a name to this thing yet.

You didn’t know his real name. Didn’t even know what he did for work. Didn’t know what any of this meant.

But right now, you were standing in a warm kitchen, wrapped in his shirt, belly rumbling, lips tingling, neck still sore from the way he kissed you while he stroked through you like he studied your body.

And he was cooking for you. Not because he had to. But because he wanted to.

This man — this quiet, deep-voiced demon of a man — was smiling a little while he stirred sauce in the pan like you didn’t just have your soul knocked into another timeline.

“Damn,” you mumbled. “What?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

You looked him up and down. The shorts. The arms. The softness. The fact that he touched you like you were fragile after doing unspeakable things to your guts.

You sighed. “Nothing. You just…fine as fuck. That’s all.” you breathed out.

He chuckled. Walked over. Took your chin in his hand and kissed you slow, deep, with a hum that had your toes curling again.

Then he said — “Wait ‘til you taste how I cook.” Smirked. Turned back to the stove.

You sat down with your knees pressed together, whole body humming, thighs clenched.

You ain’t expect to get emotional behind some damn food, but here you were.

Sittin’ in this man’s dimly lit kitchen, in his oversized shirt, drinkin’ cold water while your insides still shivered from how he handled you in the bedroom — And the smell hittin’ your nose like somebody’s Southern auntie been hoverin’ over that stove for hours.

Garlic. Butter. Onion. A lil heat in the back of your throat. He threw something in that pan that was doing spiritual things to your spirit. Like it was hugging the parts of you that ain’t been held in a while.

You blinked. Fidgeted. Chewed on your thumbnail like you ain’t want your lip to quiver.

“You good?” he asked, lookin’ at you sideways while he stirred up some pasta in a cast iron skillet.

You nodded. Too quick. Voice a lil too light.

“Mhm…I’m fine…”

Lie. You was not fine.

You was bout two seconds away from cryin’ over sautéed chicken and perfectly seasoned noodles. What the fuck.

“I put a lil cayenne in there,” he said casually. “Not too much though. Just a kick.”

You swallowed hard.

“Yeah, okay, Chef Boyar-dick,” you whispered under your breath.

He heard you. Grinned. Didn’t say nothin’ — just looked at you with that smug ass I know what I did to you smirk.

Then he plated your food.

Real neat. Pasta twisted all pretty. Chicken stacked just right. Grated cheese on top. Sprinkled parsley like it was chopped with intention. He even wiped the side of the plate off with a damn paper towel like he was competing on MasterChef.

OH YOU WANTED TO SOB.

He slid it over to you with a fork and another glass of water. Didn’t even fix his own plate first.

“Eat, baby.”

Lorddd.

Your stomach fluttered. Your coochie fluttered. Your heart fluttered.

You scooped up a bite, let the noodles wrap around the fork, and took it to your mouth.

BAYBEEE.

Flavor exploded like a damn prayer on your tongue. Savory. Warm. Just the right amount of heat. Like the food was made by hands that knew what the fuck pain felt like.

You stared at the plate. Stared at the man.

He watched you. Quiet. Patient. Like he wanted to see your reaction.

You chewed slow, then swallowed. Put your fork down.

And then…

“Why you doin’ this?” you whispered. Voice low.

Barely above the hum of the stove fan.

His brow furrowed. “Huh?”

You licked your lips. Blinkin’ fast. Eyes glossed over.

“Why you bein’ all…sweet like this? Like — you dicked me down, cleaned me up, made me a plate — now you feedin’ me like I’m some kinda…favorite.”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t try to joke it off.

He walked back over, real slow. Took your chin in his hand again — soft. Held your eyes in his.

“Because I wanted to.”

Simple. Honest. Soft.

You stared at him.

“You makin’ it real hard not to fall for you tonight,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek. Then your lip. His eyes dropped to your mouth like he was ready to kiss you all over again.

He didn’t say nothin’. Just leaned in, real gentle, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Then your nose. Then your lips.

And when he pulled back, he smirked.

“Who said not to?”

SCREEEEEEEEEAMMMMMMMM.

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[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Good To Be Home Part 2

Summary: Dean's trip back to Lawrence gets delayed for a while.

Warnings: Smut. Fluffy smut. Unprotected PinV sex. Brief fingering. Oral (f recieving). Nothing too outrageous. Fluff.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,279

A/N: So, I got a few requests to make Good To Be Home a little longer and include some fluffy, sexy times with Dean and his waitress. So, I've done that here. I'm calling this a part 2, but that's just to avoid confusion. It's really more of a continuation of the first part. In fact, I've included the first part (which is less than 400 words) in italics at the beginning of this fic.

I hope you all enjoy! (P.S. I got this out a day early - yay!! ❤️)

“Hey Soldier. Welcome home.”

Dean looked up as the soft voice spoke, and smiled. 

The woman, his waitress he supposed judging by the apron and little plastic name tag, was a sight for sore eyes. After years of war, this beautiful creature seemed like the cherry on the top of returning home.

He was sitting in the Long Haul Diner. It was Saturday. The sun was shining. The sky was blue; there was no smoke, no acrid scent of gunpowder, no frantically shouted orders, or terrified screams of civilians, no sick pit in his stomach at the carnage around him. The diner smelled of pine sol and pancakes, with notes of sticky maple syrup and bacon. 

He was on his way home. 

He’d hitchhiked with various truckers and good samaritans, all the way from New York to Kansas and when he left here, he’d try to grab a ride on to Lawrence. But he was close enough now that he could walk the rest of the way if he needed to. Wouldn’t take more than a day. Lord knew he’d traipsed all over Europe, he could walk a bit more to get home.

His pretty little waitress stood coyly next to his table still waiting for his response to her greeting. She had a notepad and pen in hand to take his order and she began to nibble on the end of the pen. He couldn’t help but notice the way the pen pressed into her soft pink, lush lips. Her skin was a bit flushed and her eyelashes fluttered as she looked at him and then away.

Her innocent flirtation stirred something in his belly that he hadn’t felt in a long time - desire. There was no time or opportunity for love, lust, or anything in between while a war raged. But now, here, as soft, dusty sunlight poured through the window, and the buzz of normal life sounded around him, it occurred to him that he could easily fall in love with the girl with the shy smile.

“Thanks sweetheart.” He answered finally. “It’s good to be home.”

A Few Hours Later

Her apartment was small, but warm, and it smelled like oranges, citrusy and bright. For ever after, the smell of someone peeling an orange reminded him of her and that night. 

She’d been shy when she asked him home after her shift. It meant delaying his trip home to Lawrence, but he was happy to; he had to kick around the little town aimlessly for a few hours till she was off, but it was worth the wait. 

It had been too long - too long since he saw a soft smile full of meaning, too long since he felt that rush of anticipation in his blood, and too long since he held something so precious in his arms. 

She seemed to be looking for something familiar and comforting as well. She told him she was a widow, her high school love gone off to war never to return; it was the same tragic love story being played out all across the globe, and Dean held her close while she wept softly.

She apologized but he brushed her tears and apologies aside and kissed her softly, hesitantly. When she returned the kiss more eagerly, it was Dean who pulled back slightly. 

“Are you sure, honey?” He kissed the tear tracks on her cheeks.

She nodded vehemently. “Yes, I’m very sure. I’ve been lonely for such a long time, and you look like heaven.” She breathed it against his lips and it was all it took. He swept her up in his arms and carried her through to her tiny bedroom at the back of the three room apartment. 

He stripped her bare quickly and wordlessly, but when she laid before him, wearing nothing but goosebumps, he stepped back to admire her.

“God, sweetheart, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a very long time.”

A flush swept her skin and she reached out for him, pushing his uniform jacket off his shoulders, and letting it hit the ground. He undid his tie and took it off while she rushed to unbutton his olive green uniform shirt and yank his white undershirt off over his head. When she had his torso bare, a little moan escaped her lips as she ran her hands up and down his broad chest and flat stomach. 

Dean unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants while she stroked his skin; he pushed off the wool pants and his cotton underwear and he was suddenly free. 

He was free of the uniform he’d worn for more than three years, free from the responsibility of the stripes that decorated his arm, free from the soldier he’d been, free from the things he’d seen and the things he’d done. He was only Dean Winchester once again, just a man standing in front of a beautiful woman, desperate for the comfort of her body and the solace of her welcoming heart.

He kissed her long and hard before pushing her back on the bed and climbing on top. It had been far too long for them both, so their first time was rushed and slightly chaotic, hot mouths and clinging hands, hard bodies slamming together, eager for the little death that came so quickly.

Afterwards, they shook in each other's arms as they tried to catch their breath from the frenzy of shared need. Dean pulled her close and kissed her slow. He relished the hitch in her breathing as he smoothed his hand over her breast and squeezed her gently. Now he could take his time.

And he did.

He let his tongue skim across her skin and savor the saltiness; he pulled her nipples into his mouth and sucked on them like strawberries. He let his fingers slide down and slip into her body, plucking at her and watching the way the ecstasy flitted across her face and caused her to shiver. 

He relished every moment he held her on the brink of release, and felt the heat surge through him again as he pushed her over the edge and felt the way her core muscles squeezed around his fingers, the way her back arched off the bed. He buried his face in her wet heat and feasted as he hadn’t in years, enjoying every tug of her fingers in his hair and every keening moan that left her throat.

Finally, when he was once again hard and aching, he climbed up her body and then flipped her onto her stomach. He sank his fingers into her hips and pulled her up to her knees before notching himself at her entrance and then grabbing hold of her hands. He entwined his fingers with hers and pressed them down into the mattress as he slammed himself home in one hard, swift thrust.

She exploded around him instantly. He bit into her shoulder as he continued to slam himself deep, deep inside her; it felt as though he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough. He wanted to consume her fully, wanted to let her consume him. 

Finally he sank every last inch of himself inside her, and she squeezed him so tight that, at last, he spilled inside her, roaring out his pleasure before falling on top of her, spent and exhausted. They both shifted just enough that he wasn’t crushing her and then fell immediately to sleep.

They woke several more times through the night, reaching for each other and finding heat and light, familiarity, fascination, and comfort in each other’s embrace. 

Dean wasn’t sure what would happen in the future, but he knew he was home again in her arms.

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[razorblade180]

Heartstrings

Jean:Hello Rosaria. Have you seen Barbara. Work is almost over, right?

Rosaria:For most. My job is just getting started at this hour. As for her, Barbara actually left a little early today.

Jean:Really? Was she not feeling well!?

Rosaria:Heh, I guess that would be the main reason you or her would ever take off early. No, your sister looked healthy. Though I suppose you could say she’s a certain kind of sick. *mimics a bard*

Jean:Ah, I see.

Rosaria:Something come up? I can deliver a message.

Jean:It’s nothing urgent. I was going to walk her home is all. To think she’d actually take off work early for once.

Rosaria:Boys are bad influences like that. Hopefully he doesn’t get her into too much trouble.

Jean:Speaking of trouble, why did I get a certain report regarding you, Kaeya, and the confessional box?

Rosaria:I thought I told you. Boys are trouble.

Jean:Please behave in a house of worship.

Rosaria:Yeah yeah. Though I’m a little shocked. You would think some sort of divine judgment would happen after an act like that. Our god must truly be forgiving, or has a sense of humor.

Jean:To be frank, I fear Lord Barbatos has that exact sense of humor at times. Regardless-

Rosaria:I will mind my conduct. Though if that’s your belief of the Anemo Archon, I fear you specifically have to take matters into your own hands for your sister’s sake. Venti has her smitten. It might embolden her.

Jean:*smiles* I’m not too worried. If anyone’s smitten, it’s him. As a matter of fact, I’m sure I know exactly where they are.

[Windrise]

Venti:*laying down*

Barbara:*playing with his hair*

Venti:Ya know…I could probably lay here forever.

Barbara:You’d get hungry.

Venti:I don’t know. This is pretty filling.

He rolls over on her lap, wrapping his arms around her waist as she giggles like a fairy. The way her finger tips scratch his scalp lulls him into shutting his eyes while releasing a deep sigh.

Barbara:You’re extra affectionate today. Is everything okay.

Venti:Yeah. I just love you a lot.

Barbara:*red*…..How could you say that so confidently? I always stutter or second the moment.

Venti:It’s okay. Everyone says it in their own way. I hear if every time you sing. The warmth; the care in the words.

Barbara:Hehe, is this your way of asking for a song request?

Venti:Pick whatever you want. As long as I’m right here, it’s perfect.

The deaconess smiles softly, her eyes looking towards the setting sun and the shimmering stars of the fast approaching night fall.

Days seem sometimes as if they'll never end

Sun digs its heels to taunt you

But after sunlit days, one thing stays the same

Rises the moon

Days fade into a watercolour blur

Memories swim and haunt you

But look into the lake, shimmering like smoke

Rises the moon

Oh-oh, close your weary eyes

I promise you that soon the autumn comes

To darken fading summer skies

Breathe, breathe, breathe~

Venti:*eyes shut*….

Barbara:*smiles*

Days pull you down just like a sinking ship

Floating is getting harder

But tread the water, child, and know that meanwhile

Rises the moon

Days pull you up just like a daffodil

Uprooted from its garden

They'll tell you what you owe, but know even so

Rises the moon

You'll be visited by sleep

I promise you that soon the autumn comes

To steal away each dream you keep

Breathe, breathe, breathe~

Venti:Zzzzz

Barbara:Hehe. Have the most beautiful dreams, my lovely bard. *kisses forehead*

[ninthcircleofprythian]

You Must Know I Miss You

Characters - Eris Vanserra & Tamlin

Word Count - 3.4k

Summary - Eris and his brother Lucien haven't spoken in many years. After becoming the new High Lord of Autumn and a sobering conversation with Tamlin, Eris takes stock of where they stand.

Warnings - Eris is bad with feelings and most definitely needs a hug, mentions of Jesminda's death, emotional turmoil, angst, panic attack symptoms.

Eris Vanserra scanned his eyes over the crowded room. Dinner had ended nearly two hours ago and everyone had sauntered into the Forest House ballroom for drinks and dancing. He had to admit that it was a refreshing change of pace from gatherings past, ones the previous High Lord, his father had hosted solely for the purpose of throwing his weight around and forcing out favors. Even then those parties were few and far between. And never before had every other High Lord been in attendance, much less invited. 

Although the atmosphere was lighter and more carefree, it hadn’t missed his attention that the others had given him a fairly wide berth. Aside from the perfunctory greetings and banal discussions over trade agreements, none of the other High Lords or their dignitaries had stuck around Eris long enough to make any kind of conversation. He supposed they were still feeling him out, testing the waters a little at a time, unsure of his motives or plans regarding opening up his court to them.

His coronation had been only a few short months ago, yet in that time Eris had worked tirelessly to enact changes that were in clear defiance and opposition to the rule of law he had been left with. In the span of time of being Fae however, a few months was like a blink. If he were on the other end of this situation, he too would have been wary and guarded. 

From the corner of his eye, Eris caught the movement of the High Lord of Spring. Dressed in his formal garb of green velvet and golden embroidery and tailored to perfection. His long flaxen hair flowing loose and unbound around his shoulders. Eris turned his head toward him long enough to give a polite nod before sipping from the wine glass in his hand and scanning the room once more. 

The music was lively and a fair number of couples circled the dancefloor, smiling and laughing as their partners twirled them through the crowd. Tamlin remained standing a few paces to his right, shuffling his feet nervously and fidgeting with the hem of his waistcoat.

“Traveling alone tonight, Tamlin?” Eris said, still eyeing his guests. The other five High Lords had each carried along a veritable entourage. Significant others and dignitaries, emissaries and family. Eris still hadn’t decided if it was a test of his good will or a sign that he was a more trusted leader than his father. 

Tamlin shrugged. “It would seem so.”

“I figured you’d at least drag my dear brother along with you.” Eris sipped from his wine glass casually. He knew his attempt at information on Lucien wasn’t subtle but he couldn’t really find it within himself to care. Even though Eris hadn’t personally extended an invitation, he had half hoped that he would have spotted his brother’s flowing red hair in the crowd at some point, tagging along with some High Lord’s court.

Lucien had always been the easy spirit of the family, melting seamlessly into the folds of other’s social circles. It was something Eris had always envied about him. He had been the forgotten seventh son, the one no one checked up on too critically unless his antics had brought them some sort of notoriety or shame. Lucien had always carried that air of charm and charisma about him. So loveable to everyone that met him, right off the bat. 

Tamlin answered before Eris’ thoughts could boil over into something nauseating. “I’d suspect he would have been more likely to show up with Rhysand’s crowd if anything,” he said as he snagged his own glass of spirits from a passing servant. “Especially considering they are practically related now.”

Lucien had wed his mate the previous year, sweet Elain Archeron. Or so he had heard. Eris didn’t actually know that much about her. It was her older sister that had caught his eye years before, but that had inevitably fallen apart. He had caught sight of her earlier with her brutish bat of a mate. It wasn’t exactly loss that he felt, more annoyance at such a waste of power and beauty being tied to such a hulking mass of brawn with no brain. 

Tamlin shifted anxiously once more. “You know he hasn’t actually been in my court for months now. Not since before your coronation. It was right before him and Elain made the move over to Day.”

Eris had known that was where his brother had ended up, solely through their own mother who now split her time between the two courts. “Is that the last time you spoke?” He inquired. 

Tamlin shrugged, staring down at his feet as he toed at the glaringly bright waxed floor. “There’s been a thank you card or two for some gifts that I’ve sent. Our relationship is – rather strained still.”

Eris eyed him with a sharp stare. He knew that things must have been broken between them ever since Feyre’s little coup of Tamlin’s court and stealing away in the dead of night with his emissary brother, but Eris had never considered it would be irreparable. 

“What about you?,” Tamlin gazed at Eris’ tightly pinched brows. 

Eris stiffened at the question. “What about me?”

“When was the last time you spoke to Lucien? I couldn’t help but notice you weren’t at the mating ceremony.” 

It was Eris’ turn to fidget, turning his wine glass between his fingers repetitively. Leave it to Tamlin to make things awkward. He was either stumbling over his words or blurting out the first thing that popped into his mind. Eris didn’t have to wonder why the others found him difficult to be around at times. He might have been one of the most powerful among them but he had the habit of setting people on edge. 

“How observant you are, Tamlin.” Eris curled his lip with a frown. “No, I wasn’t invited to the mating ceremony.”

He felt Tamlin’s stare against the side of his face as he turned to motion to a nearby servant for a refill. He had left the question unanswered purposely but Tamlin didn’t seem keen on letting it go.

“But surely you’ve reached out since taking over Autumn? Or are you intent on keeping him barred from his birthplace?” 

Eris felt a flicker of flame dance across his fingertips in warning. A searing heat climbed up his torso and dampened his neck under his collar. The power that he had inherited the night he had become High Lord was still new and overwhelming at times, despite his persistence in learning how to manage it. 

“My father’s directives are no longer relevant,” Eris spat out harshly. “I think I have done an acceptable job at making that clear to my court.”

“But does Lucien know that?” Tamlin pried. He could certainly feel the aura of power leaking off of Eris by now and yet he didn’t seem phased in the slightest. 

Eris chose to remain silent as he drained half his glass in one burning gulp. Tamlin remained steadfast, his sparkling emerald eyes fixed upon Eris, gauging.

“He misses you, you know,” he finally spoke, quietly.

Whipping his head toward the Spring Lord, Eris’ eyes went wide before he quickly regained his composure. “I don’t see why he would,” he said slowly and evenly. “I’m too much like our father for his taste.”

Tamlin sighed, his eyes never leaving Eris’ face. “We both know that isn’t true.”

The words hit him like an ash arrow through the chest. He swore he almost felt the power within him peter out like a neglected campfire before sparking back to life again. Eris momentarily lost his breath at the frankness at which Tamlin had said what he did. So casually, so sure. 

“Look at all you’ve changed already. Your court is thriving in a way it hasn’t in centuries and you’ve only just begun to put actions into place. You could have just as easily stepped into the role your father played for centuries and kept it going. But you didn’t. You aren’t Beron, Eris.”

That new found power licked at his gut, angry and twisted in its intensity. Tamlin’s assumptions at what he was or wasn’t sank like weight into his stomach. As much as he craved to believe what Tamlin said to be true, something deep inside him felt rotten at its core. No matter how hard he tried to be different from his father, Eris’ biggest fear was that it was inevitable that the rot inside him would spread. 

“What I’ve done for my Court has very little bearing on how our family operates,” Eris sneered. 

“Maybe,” Tamlin said as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “But the way I see it, you aren’t like your father at all. Beron is the one who chased Lucien out of his home. Who would have let his own sons murder him for the crime of loving someone different than himself. You however,” Tamlin paused, turning to face Eris directly. “You, Eris Vanserra, notified me of Lucien’s impending arrival in my court for no other reason than to provide him sanctuary. You made sure he had a place to go when all hope was lost.”

They both stood motionless, eyeing each other soberly without a word. “Excuse me, my lord,” one of Eris’ aides broke the silence. “But Kallias would like a moment of your time to discuss the trade agreement whenever you are able.”

Eris nodded absentmindedly to the male before turning his attention back to Tamlin. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” Tamlin said as he swirled the wine in his glass and turned to leave. A few short steps away he spun on his heel. “Kallias tends to drive a hard bargain. If you need some leverage, offer him a trade route through Autumn into Spring,” he offered. “Just send it over and I’ll sign off on it.”

Eris reeled slightly at the kind offer so readily presented to him. Somewhere inside he felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of Lucien rebuffing the friendship of such a male. With Tamlin there was nothing but kindness at his center, unlike Eris who carried some darkness deep inside. Maybe Tamlin’s was buried under centuries of pain and betrayal but it was kindness all the same.

“Thank you,” Eris voiced earnestly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Tamlin nodded genuinely before turning and disappearing into the mass of the party.

The guests had departed hours ago. The party had come to an end and the Forest House was quiet once more. The inky blackness of night had settled into the study in which Eris sat alone. The fire was nearly dead, nothing but glowing embers burned in the ash below the grate where firewood had once been placed.

Eris sat behind his desk, forearms braced along either side of a blank sheet of paper sitting squarely on the leather bound blotter. The meager glow of a single faelight burned low, casting shadows over the pristine surface. His fingers twitched toward the pen sitting upright in the holder to his left, but he resisted. 

Dropping his head down tiredly, he caught it in his hands pulling roughly at the roots of his unbound hair with a heaving sigh. The thoughts trampled through his mind like his hounds let loose on a hunt, crashing over the underbrush in pursuit of their prey. Crashing waves of emotion that he had attempted over and over to keep buried deep inside, somewhere dark and isolated, stormed through him. How he expected to put pen to paper and spell out the words of his heart, he didn’t know. 

He misses you, you know.Tamlin’s words reverberated in his ears, vibrating through his brain. Eris tried furiously to blink away the welling in his eyes, but not before a single tear of frustration fell upon the snow white page before him. Tossing his body backwards, he leaned back in his chair and gave up on trying to find the right words. Reluctantly, Eris surrendered and finally let his thoughts envelope him.

Maybe if he finally allowed himself to feel something besides the overwhelming urge to shove everything away, to slip effortlessly into that mask of cruel indifference he had built too well, then maybe he would get somewhere. Or at least maybe feel a little lighter. 

The maelstrom of his mind anchored on his distress and heartache, pulled forth that moment that Eris would have chosen to forget entirely. The fear on Lucien’s face the moment he found out that Beron had discovered his relationship with Jesminda. 

Eris gripped the arms of his chair, clawing at anything real and solid. The memory flashed before him. All he could see was the pain etched across his brother’s face once he had learned what her fate would be. Lucien’s eyes had darted around the room, feral and pleading, silently begging for someone to stand up to their father, to help him save the person he loved. For someone to do something, anything at all. 

Eris had stood up to Beron, just not in a way that made any difference for Lucien. He had refused to take part in the slaughter of that poor girl, murdered for the crime of being too dissimilar to a son of nobility. Her life snuffed out all because of his father’s prejudices and beliefs in how a Court family should be perceived. Eris had paid for it dearly later. He still bore the scars of his insubordination from that night, buried over the centuries with other poorly healed lacerations for much lesser offenses. 

He couldn’t have saved Jesminda, he knew that from the start. But he could save Lucien. And so he did, in whatever way he could. But what did Lucien even know about that night or his involvement? Would him knowing even change where they currently stood? They were barely drifting in and out of each other’s outer periphery, bound only by blood. Curt nods and clipped words if they happened to be in the presence of their mother at the same time. What if Lucien already knew the details of that night? What if Tamlin had already laid bare Eris’ secret and revealed what strings of fate had been pulled?

What if Lucien carried this knowledge even now and it still didn’t make a difference? Eris didn’t want appreciation or thanks. He didn’t desire acknowledgement or praise. What he wanted was the easy silence between brothers on the riverbank, feet bare and shirts shed. He wanted the bright spot of delight at finally teaching his sibling how to command a hound to his own voice. Shared laughter hidden behind hands, late nights padding through the halls in search of the next adventure, sun warmed days of shucking responsibilities and venturing off into the woods together. 

Eris’ chest heaved as he imagined what Lucien and Elain’s mating ceremony had been like. Had his brother gazed upon her with love and adoration as he had once looked upon another? Had the bright promise of Elain healed some long festering wound within his brother’s heart? He genuinely hoped so. He wanted Lucien to be happy, even if he was never privy to bear witness to it. 

Tears flowed freely as Eris fought to maintain some stability. His mind reeled back to centuries long ago, to when Lucien was small. Barely a week old and cradled in their mother’s arms. How his birth had upended their lives in ways that would carry on for years to come. Yet that night, he had snuck to his mother’s chambers, unable to sleep because of Lucien’s wailing, and he had watched in rapt attention at his mother’s soothing of that tiny babe. She had shushed his cries and rocked him gently and as Lucien’s eyes had finally drifted closed into the pull of sleep, she had whispered aloud all of her hopes for him, stroking the soft down of his small head.

Eris had wondered then if his mother had done the same for all of them. Had she prayed over each and every one of her sons and been slowly disillusioned as they were corrupted and maimed by their father? Had she given up even trying to speak such things into existence knowing that they were never meant to be true?

The shock of emotion that Eris had felt in that moment standing solitary and quiet in that darkened hallway, wasn't one of jealousy. Maybe he should have been jealous of the child that shined like daybreak and had brought a spark back into their mother’s eyes. Maybe he should have been jealous at the soft words of adoration and hope that she spoke over him, knowing that as the eldest son, she had long given up on Eris’ molding into what his father had wanted. 

Eris was already war hardened and jaded by the time Lucien had been born. Trying desperately to please a father that only ever showed cruelty when wronged and distance when satisfied. And yet, as he watched his mother clinging to his youngest sibling, he hadn’t felt jealous at all. 

Instead, in the stillness of that moment, he too had whispered softly to himself all the hopes and dreams and wishes that he had for the smallest Vanserra, whether he was truly a Vanserra or not. Eris had held secretly onto the hope that he wasn’t, as if that in itself might have been the key to ridding this child of a fate he wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Sitting in the hall, just outside the partially open door, Eris had prayed to the Mother above that this time would be different. That this brother would be spared the heartache of being born into a family he didn’t choose and couldn’t escape.

As the oldest, it had already been proven to Eris that prayers hardly ever had the blessing of being answered, at least his anyway. So even as he spoke those wishes aloud, he had set it in his heart that if the Mother or the Cauldron or whatever graceless god watched over them refused to spare at least one of them, then Eris would try with all his might to make it Lucien. The last Vanserra. The last chance.

Jolting upright into standing, Eris left his chair frantically and began pacing around the room. The crushing wave of disappointment washing over him was too much. The stillness of his body felt crushing. 

He paced in endless circles, doubling back and weaving. He twisted his hands until his knuckles cracked and combed them fruitlessly through his hair. Dropping into a squat, he pressed his chest into the bend of his knees and heaved a wracking sob and pulled in shuddering breaths.

He had tried. And yet it all seemed so small now that so much time had passed. Every effort he had made to carry forth his long ago promises to that newborn babe seemed insignificant. 

Forcing his legs straight once more, Eris stood, swiping a handkerchief roughly over his damp and reddened face. Steadying his breaths and gathering his thoughts, he slumped back into the chair behind his desk. This time he snatched the pen from its holder, pausing briefly above the paper before him. He didn’t second guess. He didn’t question the words that flowed through him. He just put them into existence and made them real. 

As the night crept ever closer into the waning hours of early morning, Eris pressed his golden ring into the still molten wax he had dripped along the line of folded paper. Peeling it slowly from his ring, he stared tiredly at the newly minted seal, changed from the swirling Autumn leaves of his father into the wispy silhouette of a smoke hound in front of a tree. He held the hefty weight of the letter between his fingers as the seal hardened. 

How easily he could have sent the letter off through the magic sizzling at his fingertips. Eris pulled on that thread of magic that still didn’t quite feel like his own and dampened it. Instead he slid open the drawer of his desk, dropping the correspondence inside before locking it. 

Eris longingly craved the relief of his bed. He felt empty and drained. He had no fortitude to decide anything just now. The letter was written. And there it would remain for now. Maybe it wouldn’t be the first letter sent between them just yet, but at least it was the first one he hadn’t immediately burned.

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@mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @chairofchaos @pit-and-the-pen @prythianpages

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[godsholyhat]

Sketches from an AU where Theresa dresses up as a man and follows Godwin to rescue Henry and Hans.

Hans/Henry, past Henry/Theresa and Henry/Bianca, ambiguous Theresa/Bianca

Warnings for brief mentions of Theresa's near assault at the start of KCD1.

It was near midday when the war party reached the crossroads that led to Trosky Castle, high in the sky above them like some fairy fastness. Theresa, her head aching from the blow of the bombard, ears still ringing, scarcely heard the words being exchanged, but knew only that at any moment her fate might be sealed. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, sluggish in its beating. How ironic, she thought, to have survived the burning of Skalitz only to meet her end here. If she was lucky, they would not see past the armour she wore and would just hang her from the nearest tree. She had always longed for adventure. She could never have known what it would cost.

Beside her, Lord Capon stirred. Lord von Bergow was speaking to him, she realised. She kept her face cast down.

“And what of my serving boy?” asked the young lord, his voice sharp.

“You mean Kobyla’s bastard?” asked von Bergow. “He will go with Sir Istvan. What happens to him after that is none of my concern, nor yours.”

“I mean this boy here,” he said, indicating Theresa. “Young Thomas. He came with Godwin, sent by my uncle. He’s served me since he was a nipper. I’ll need someone to tend to my wounds, and he’s a dab hand at it.”

Bless him, she thought to herself. He owes nothing to me and yet he’s trying to save me. A darker thought came over her — perhaps he was only saving her to use her. She’d heard the stories of Lord Capon, after all: a man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself and who was partially responsible for providing the herbwoman in Ledetchko with a steady business. He’d even taken the last of Karolina’s maidenhead — what she hadn’t already given away to Nicholas, the baker’s son, that is. Theresa’s small dagger lay hidden beneath her mail, tucked into the belt she wore around her gambeson, ready to use should any man get that close. She would use it on Lord Capon if he tried anything with her.

von Bergow snorted, frustrated. “I suppose I can allow it, Sir Hans,” he said briskly. “A nobleman needs his valet after all. But mark my words, he will be your responsibility. My duty of care extends only to you: you will feed and clothe him yourself, and any wages you pay him will come from your pocket.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Capon.

—

She’d fooled around with Matthew, a few years ago, and the experience had been pleasant enough but vaguely disappointing. Henry had been much more fun to sport with, but it was clear the whole time that they were both thinking of someone else, and when he half-heartedly proposed marriage to her at the end, she had known he did not mean it. If her blood had not come at the end of the month, she might have taken him up on the offer, but as it was, her blood came, for they had been careful and he had not spilled inside her. Still, it had been good to know she was desirable, even if she could not shake the feeling that there was a third person standing between them, a woman with dark brown hair and laughing black eyes, and Theresa could still not confidently deny that when Henry kissed her she did not imagine it was Bianca instead.

—

It took her far too long to realise that Lord Capon was in love.

—

“Henry,” she said, recognising him even in the dark. Her lantern cast strange shadows across his face, and she saw for just a moment that he had been weeping. She unslung her shield and set it down against the parapet wall of Suchdol fortress. “Henry, what’s wrong?”

“Tess, will you marry me?” he asked quietly. “If we survive this.”

“Henry, what’s brought this on?” She examined him closely. “Where’s your Lord Capon? I thought he’d be here to see you off.”

“He— I—” The words caught in his throat, and as though illuminated by a flash of lightning, Theresa knew exactly what had come to pass. It was strange, she thought; by any measure she ought to be disappointed to know that the man she loved was in love with someone else. But she had known long ago that what they shared was not the type of love that men and women typically share. Theirs was the love shared by Katherine and Žižka, the love shared between brothers-in-arms, something deeper and more lasting than common affection. She would lay down her life for him, as he would lay down his in return. But she did not love him as a woman ought to love a man.

“You love him,” she said, simply, and he bowed his head, ashamed, shoulders shaking as he wept silently. “Oh, Hal.” She stepped close and touched his cheek. “There’s no shame in it.”

“But there is,” he said. “If I told you the desires of my heart…”

She smiled a little. “What?” she asked quietly. “Do you want him to bugger you? Bend you over the nearest table and take you? Or maybe you want the reverse?”

Henry gave a wet, miserable laugh. “Something like that,” he said. “I love him, Tess.”

“I know,” she said. “He loves you. I worked that out in Maleshov.”

Henry’s eyes, as bright and blue as cornflowers, met hers. “That early?” he asked, confused. “Then why—”

“I don’t think he knew himself. Nor did you.”

“No,” said Henry. “Not until this night.” He sighed and took her hand in his, his bare fingers perfectly fitting between the fingers of her gauntlets. “Have I done wrong by you, Tess? By playing the lover as I did back in Rattay?”

She twined her fingers between his. “No more than I played you false.” She bit her lip, thinking. “That last night in Skalitz, when I didn’t come to the dance… I watched you and Bianca from over by the charcoal wagon. I thought myself jealous of Bianca, that she had won your love so easily. I am not sure now if it was only her I envied.”

“You… her?”

“Is it so strange?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper. “If a man can love another man, is it so strange that a maid can love another maid? I do not think that we are so different, men and women.”

“You sound like Rosa,” Henry said, smiling a little.

“Aye,” said Theresa. “She’s a wise woman.” She looked Henry over. “Well,” she asked, nudging him with her elbow. “How was he?”

To her great delight, Henry flushed red. “Capon?”

“Who else, you ox? Was he gentle when he took your maidenhead? Did he make you scream and curl your toes?”

His flush deepened. “I— we didn’t…”

Theresa gave a sigh of disappointment. “Don’t tell me you just held hands and gazed longingly into each other’s eyes.”

“Ah, no, we didn’t,” he said. “He’s… very considerate.”

“Did you cry? You almost did with me.”

“Oh, piss off,” said Henry, but a smile began to creep across his face. “It was nice. And that’s all you’re getting out of me.”

Theresa smiled back at him. “A shame.”

The smile faded from Henry’s face. “Have I damned myself?” he asked, after a heavy silence. “I know myself to be a sinner: I’ve killed and I’ve stolen. But this — this is far worse.”

“You’ve fornicated outside wedlock before,” pointed out Theresa.

“Aye. With Bianca, and then you…”

She chewed her lip for a minute, thinking. “Why is that less wicked than whatever you did with your Lord Capon?”

“Because what we did — what I want to do — is a sin so grave that even devils shun it?” His tone was lighthearted, but he was rubbing his hands nervously. She caught them in her own and turned him towards her.

“I do not believe that,” she said gently. Her mouth twisted unhappily. “I do not believe that love is a greater sin than theft, or murder, or — or rape.” She shut her eyes against the memory. Henry had saved her, she reminded herself. Henry had saved her, and she had escaped. She breathed in, filling her lungs, and exhaled slowly. “You love him,” she said. “Christ bade us to love one another. I can see no sin in it.”

“He is to wed another,” said Henry.

“That is something you will have to face on your own,” she said. “I am no priest. Besides, we may not live to see that future. Not unless you succeed tonight.”

He nodded dumbly. “Thank you, Tess,” he said quietly, pressing his forehead against hers. They remained that way until the sound of approaching footsteps broke them apart and Theresa stepped back, picking up her shield as she returned to her role as soldier.

[chericherilvr]

I'm supposed to be sleeping right now, but I can't stop thinking about jungsu😞

he's just so cute and I wanna cuddle him so bad. I also keep thinking about when he said that he cannot sleep without hugging something (which I can very much relate to)

i wanted to ask if you could maybe write something fluffy about cuddling him or falling asleep with him? 🫶

Lucky to be loved - Jungsu x reader

summary: Jungsu can't sleep without hugging something—or that one time he found someone to sleep with. w/c: 626 warnings: fluffy, I go on my existential cute rants, reader likes to think (used I and you pronouns for that part to symbolize you and Jungsu, but overall it's in second POV) I don't think I cursed… but there's the usage of death as a metaphor of the love experience (it's cute I promise) overall FLUFF a/n: took me a while to be able to write but hope you enjoy it!!

The night shall come once the sun is down. It's the only way we even have the concept of time. The pattern realisation that, things change, the sky doesn't stay the same way. I wonder who first looked at the sky and saw the sun fade away. I wonder if the first time, the moon was full—or if the emptiness of it left them surrounded by darkness, scared of it. Who first realised that it happened each day? Who choose the word to talk about it with their peers? Who was the first person to have a night routine and, how did it look?

I sometimes get scared of the concept of day and night. Now that I talk with people around the world, it amazes me how they can still see the sun—while the moon looks scared to be seen in my sky.

All the stars that we see are dead. Did you know that? The light reflecting from the beautiful masses of light can be so far away that, by the time we get to see them, they don't exist any more. Time in the universe works so funnily; if seen from far enough, you could still see dinosaurs walking on earth.

So when I stare up at the sky, in search of connection, hoping someone is looking back at it—day or night—wishing for the same: I stare at all the dead stars and bask in their corpse; I bask in their light. I've never felt as comforted by something like by the stars. They still shine even when they are gone. They are still present even though far. Like a good memory from long ago—it might not exist any more, but it still lingers and warps its arms around me.

In all honesty, the comfort the universe gives me could never be matched. We're truly just in a floating dead rock following mass, that is following mass, that is following mass. It's so dead it's alive. It's so meaningless, all of it, that moments like this gain meaning. Without you, there's still life. But I am so lucky to be loved by you, I am so lucky we decided to give meaning to each other.

"You're being all philosophical again," Jungsu groans rolling in your arms to face you.

"How did you even know? I thought you were asleep by now."

He keeps quiet closing his eyes and stretching his arms out behind you with a sigh.

"Never let me be small spoon again," he says shaking his head.

Jungsu's arms fold carefully around your body, tension melting away. His lips curl into a smile—the kind you can't force yourself to do. He rubs your back for a while and, when he is satisfied, he straddles his leg over your waist and hugs you closer.

"So no to small spoon, but yes to choking me to death?" Your voice gets lost in between Jungsu's hair, who moved his face to be buried on your neck.

"You love it," he kisses your skin softly.

"You know, the first time you asked me to sleep with you, I thought you meant something completely different…"

Jungsu let's out some incoherent complaints. And by the time you try to ask him what he said, he was already out.

The day shall come once the moon is down. But lord was it the worst time of the day. Morning meant movement, and the only movement I want is to be here. Oh, to be drowned by your touch, by your comfort. I sometimes wish for death; to lay in your arms forever, like this, may we be so close we melt into one being. Thus, this world might hold no meaning, but here, I am a worthy being.