New writer, be patient

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter Masterlist (finished)

Summary of the series: Grace Chambers is an old friend of the Delaney family. She grew up with Zilpha and was heartbroken to learn of James' death. But, during Horace's funeral, her whole world starts to crumble as she finds out James is more alive than ever!

Series warnings: smut, incest, mentions of incest, witchcraft, and adultery.

Here is the masterlist for the whole series, so you don't skip over a chapter by accident.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

[emmawrites-stuff]

The Lady in the Rain

Margo arrives at Wragby Hall for the summer already emotionally exhausted. Trapped in a cold, performative marriage and increasingly alienated by the hollow intellectualism of upper-class society, she is tired of the fakeness of her life. Her cousin, Clifford, fills the house with endless discussions about industry and philosophy, while Margo quietly begins unraveling beneath the weight of being perpetually unseen. Enters Oliver Mellors, the gamekeeper: reserved, observant, quietly intense. Unlike the polished men at Wragby, Mellors speaks plainly and treats her not as an ornament or social role, but as a woman.

Warnings: Smut, p in v, oral sex (female receiving), rough sex, forbidden romance, slow burn, cheating, and this amazing GIF, am I right? Also, this is kind of long (6,256 words).

Rain had settled over Wragby before Margo arrived. Not a violent rain, nor even a particularly cold one, but the sort that seemed to belong permanently to the estate, clinging to the stone walls and black branches and soaking the fields into silence. 

By the time the motorcar rolled beneath the great dripping elms of the drive, the entire house appeared half-asleep beneath the weather. Margo watched it through the rain-streaked window without enthusiasm. 

“You’ll stay the full summer, then?” her driver asked politely. 

“If they’ll have me,” she replied.

But the truth was that Wragby had always received her the same way one receives an old portrait returned from storage: fondly enough, though without urgency. 

Inside, the house smelled faintly of coal smoke and polished wood. The servants moved quietly beneath the heavy air of the place. Somewhere deeper within the corridors came the low hum of Clifford’s voice, already speaking before she had properly removed her gloves.

Clifford greeted her warmly in his fashion. “Margo! You look thin.”

“You said the same thing at Christmas.”

“Well, you did then as well.”

He kissed her cheek absently and resumed speaking before the greeting had fully ended, discussing coal production, Parliament, and some article he meant to publish. Margo smiled where required and allowed herself to be folded gently back into the rhythm of the house.

Connie embraced her more sincerely.  “You look tired,” Connie murmured later, once they were alone upstairs. 

“I am tired.”

“Of London?”

Margo hesitated.

“No. Of pretending London suits me.”

Connie studied her for a moment with an expression too perceptive to be comfortable. 

“And your husband?” 

“He preferred the city.”

Which was the cleanest way to explain a marriage that had slowly become two polite people sharing rooms, correspondence, and obligations without ever truly touching one another’s inner lives again. Her husband had not argued when she announced her intention to leave for the summer. If anything, he looked relieved. That was what stung. Not anger. Not jealousy. Only relief.

Over the following days, Margo discovered that Wragby remained easiest to endure outdoors. Inside, everything felt overfurnished. The conversations were endless and bloodless, circling politics and industry and intellectual fashions until she felt herself disappearing inside them. Clifford collected clever men the way others collected books, and each evening the drawing room filled with smoke and opinion.

Outside, at least, the world still breathed. So she wandered. The woods beyond the formal gardens had changed little since childhood. Wet earth. Moss-dark trunks. Ferns bending beneath droplets of rain. Somewhere hidden among the trees came the distant bark of a dog. It was on the fourth evening that she first truly saw him. Not merely the gamekeeper in passing, but the man himself. 

She had walked farther than intended, distracted by the cool scent of rain and leaves, until the path dissolved gradually into unfamiliar brush. Dusk thickened between the trees. The estate lamps were no longer visible.

For the first time, uncertainty touched her. Then came the sound of boots against wet ground. A lantern emerged first, swinging low through the dark. The man carrying it stepped from between the trees with the ease of someone who belonged there entirely. Oliver Mellors. 

He stopped when he saw her. For a moment neither spoke. Rain whispered softly through the branches overhead. “You shouldn’t be out here alone after dark, milady” he said at last. His voice surprised her. Not rough exactly, though quiet and worn at the edges. Educated beneath the Derbyshire cadence, as though two versions of the man existed at once.

“I seem to be lost,” Margo admitted. 

“Aye. Easy enough to do.” 

The lantern light touched one side of his face, leaving the other in shadow. He was broader than she’d expected, though lean rather than imposing. Rain darkened his coat at the shoulders. His eyes rested on her steadily, without rudeness and without the nervous deference most servants affected around people like her. He simply looked at her as though she were another human being standing in the rain. 

“I can find my own way back if you tell me where I’ve strayed,” she said, though she was no longer certain she wanted the moment to end. 

“I know.” The answer came gently. Not mocking. Not proud. Simply true. And somehow that was worse. He lifted the lantern slightly. “I’ll walk you back all the same.” 

So they began together through the trees. Their pace remained slow because of the mud, though Margo suspected neither minded the slowness. The woods seemed quieter beside him. Safer. 

“You were in the army?” she asked after some time, surprising herself. 

He glanced toward her briefly. “What makes you say that?”

“You walk like a soldier.”

A faint expression crossed his face then. Not quite a smile. “Used to be one.”

“I thought perhaps so.” After that, silence returned.

But it no longer felt empty. At one point the path narrowed where rainwater had swallowed the ground into thick black mud. Without speaking, Mellors placed a hand lightly at her elbow to guide her across. The touch lasted perhaps two seconds.Yet Margo felt it afterward like warmth beneath her skin. 

When they finally reached the edge of the estate grounds, the lights of Wragby glowing dimly through the mist, he removed his hand immediately and stepped back into himself again. “There y’are,” he said quietly.

She should have thanked him and gone inside. Instead she lingered beneath the rain.

“You knew who I was.” Oliver looked confused. “His cousin, not your lady,” she clarified. 

“Aye.”

“And yet you came after me anyway.” Something unreadable moved briefly through his expression. 

“I couldn’t leave you wandering out there.” He did not call her Lady this time. Not Lady Margaret. Not madam. Not Lady Canvandish. ‘You.’ For some reason, that small omission unsettled her more than flirtation ever could have. 

Margo looked toward the great house, warm and bright in the distance.  Then back toward the woods behind him. And for the first time since arriving at Wragby, she felt something inside her stir awake. 

The rain had softened into something finer by the time she reached the door, as though even the weather hesitated to let her go. Inside, Wragby swallowed her again—warm light, distant voices, the familiar pressure of rooms that expected her to be someone slightly more composed than she felt. Connie asked if she was wet. A maid was sent for towels. Clifford spoke without looking up from his chair. 

Margo answered none of it properly. Her mind stayed in the woods. In the lantern. In the way he had said ‘you’ without turning it into anything else. That night, she told herself it meant nothing. A chance encounter. A keeper doing his duty. A woman foolish enough to wander too far in fading light. 

And yet she did not sleep easily. She found herself remembering details that felt unnecessary: the way he held the lantern slightly away from her face, as though not wanting to blind her, the carefulness of his steps when the ground grew uncertain, the momentary hesitation before he had offered to walk her back at all. As though the decision had not been automatic. As though he had chosen it. That was the part she could not place.

Two days passed before she saw him again. Wragby resumed its usual rhythm—guests arriving and leaving, Clifford’s conversations swelling and fading like weather systems, Connie drifting through the house with a quiet sadness she rarely named. Margo began to notice something else, too. That she had started listening for footsteps in the grounds. Not consciously. Just… waiting. It irritated her.

To distract her mind, she walked farther the next morning, past the ornamental gardens, past the clipped hedges that felt too controlled to be real, into the looser, older part of the estate where the land stopped pretending to be obedient. 

That was where she found him. He was not expecting her. That much was clear. He stood beside a fence line with sleeves rolled to the forearms, repairing a broken post. A dog lay in the grass nearby, half-asleep, one ear twitching at every sound. Mellors worked in silence, absorbed in the simple resistance of wood and wire. 

He did not look up immediately when she approached. Only when the dog lifted its head did he pause. Then he turned. There was a fraction of stillness in him that had not been there before. 

“You’re wandering again,” he said. 

“I thought it was permitted during daylight hours.” 

“Aye. Safer, at least.” 

She stepped closer, stopping a few paces away. Close enough now to see the details she had not been able to see in the rain: the steadiness in his eyes, the weathered lines of his face, the way he seemed equally at home in exhaustion and alertness, as though neither state particularly owned him. 

“I came to thank you,” she said. 

“You did that already.” 

“I didn't do it properly.” 

A faint pause. Then, carefully: “You don’t need to.” That was the first thing about him that made her chest tighten slightly. He did not collect gratitude. He didn’t seem to want anything that could be easily repaid. Margo glanced down at the broken fence. 

“Does it matter if it’s fixed today or tomorrow?” 

“It’ll matter to the deer.”

“And to you?”

A flicker of something—almost amusement, almost resignation. “Aye. To me.”  She crouched slightly, examining the post as if she understood it. But she didn’t. “Clifford says the estate is improving,” she said after a moment.

“Does he?” 

“He means it as a compliment.” 

“I’m sure he does.” The answer was so neutral it nearly felt polite. But there was something in the way he said it that made her look up again. Not contempt. Something more tired than that. A knowledge of worlds that spoke about people like him without ever speaking to them. She hesitated. Then, quietly: “Do you ever feel as though you’re… outside of it?”  His hands stopped moving. Just for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “I’m outside of most things, milady.” The word milady returned, but it landed differently this time. Less formal. More habit than distance. 

Margo stood slowly. “I don’t think you are,” she said. He gave a short breath that might have been a laugh if it had wanted to be. “You don’t know me.” It was not a rebuke. It was a warning. And that made it worse. Because she realized, suddenly and uncomfortably, that he was right. She did not know him. And yet she had already begun to recognize him. That distinction frightened her more than it should have. For a while, he worked in silence. She remained close to him. She did not help. He did not ask her to leave. The dog shifted position and settled again. 

At one point, she spoke without thinking. “Mr. Mellors, do you always speak to me as if you want me to disappear?” His hands stilled again. When he finally answered, it was slower. “No.” A pause. Then: “You can only disappear, milady, if you choose to.” Something in her chest tightened, not unpleasantly, but sharply, like awareness becoming physical. She did not understand the answer fully. But she understood enough to feel it. 

When she left, it was not abrupt. Nothing between them ever seemed to allow abruptness. “I should go. I will see you around, Mr. Mellors?” 

“Yes, milady,” he replied with a curt nod. She simply stepped back toward the path, and he returned to his work as though the world had not shifted at all. Yet as she walked away, she became painfully aware of something new: the distance between them was not only social. It was intentional. As though he had built it carefully with his own hands. And might, at any moment, decide whether to leave it standing… or let it fall. 

That same evening, rain returned to Wragby in soft, steady sheets against the windows. The drawing room glowed gold with lamplight and conversation. Clifford held court beside the fire, surrounded by men discussing politics with exhausting certainty. Someone laughed too loudly. Glass clinked somewhere near the piano. Margo sat among them feeling strangely absent from her own body. Then she looked out the window and saw Mellors crossing the courtyard alone through the rain. 

Head lowered slightly, his coat darkened by water. One hand resting briefly on the gate before disappearing toward the outer grounds. The sight of him unsettled her immediately. Not because he looked at her. Because he didn’t.

He moved through the estate as though entirely unaware she was watching him, which somehow made her more aware of him, constantly walking outside, constantly watching her wandering, without her realising it. Exactly as it had just been the case for him. 

Mr. Ashby, one of the many visitors of the estate that night, walked towards the window, where Margo found herself staring blankly outside, and approached her, trying to engage in a flirtatious conversation. He asked if her husband was not the jealous type. She curtly said, “he does not need to be.” But, as if noticing the man’s pride wounded, she immediately continued “especially knowing I will only be surrounded by the most refined gentlemen, such as yourself, Mr. Ashby.”

She then walked away from him, as if she had just decided she was unable to bear another hour indoors, and slipped quietly from the house with a coat thrown over her shoulders. The rain continued to pour relentlessly. The estate grounds smelled of wet earth and smoke. Somewhere in the dark, an owl called once before silence settled again. 

She did not intend to seek him. At least that was what she told herself. Yet somehow her feet carried her toward the keeper’s path all the same. A faint light burned through the trees ahead. His cottage. 

She stopped immediately upon seeing it, pulse quickening with sudden embarrassment. This was foolish. Completely foolish. But, before she could turn back, the cottage door opened. 

Mellors stepped out, sleeves rolled loosely, lantern in hand. He saw her at once. And stilled. 

For one suspended moment neither one moved. Rain drifted silver between them. Then his gaze lowered briefly to her bare head, the thin coat, the damp curls near her throat. “You’ll freeze out here,” he said quietly. Margo attempted composure.

“I only came to walk.”

“At midnight?”

“It isn’t midnight yet.”

Something almost like a smile touched one corner of his mouth.  Dangerous, that expression. Not because it was bold, because it made her heart race. He descended the small step from the cottage slowly, as though careful not to startle either of them. 

“You shouldn’t be here, milady,” he said. 

The words sounded wrong against the softness of his voice.

“I know.” 

Yet neither moved away.

The lantern light swayed slightly between them, gold against the rain-dark world. She walked closer to him now and noticed details she had missed before: the dampness at the edge of his collar, the roughness of his hands, the exhaustion he carried like something permanent. But there was warmth in him too. Buried deeply. Carefully guarded. Margo looked toward the cottage behind him.

“You live here alone?” 

“Aye.” 

“Doesn’t it become lonely?” 

For the first time, his expression shifted fully. Not guarded exactly, more like recognition.

“It can.”

The honesty of it startled her.

Most men in her world performed strength endlessly, even in unhappiness. But Mellors spoke plainly when he chose to speak at all. She stepped slightly nearer him before realizing she had done it. Close enough now to hear the rain striking the cottage roof. Close enough that lowering her voice felt instinctive. 

“I think,” she admitted softly, “I came here because I was lonely too.” 

Something changed in his face then. Not triumph. Not surprise. Something far more restrained and therefore far more intimate. Like a man hearing the thing he had tried hardest not to hope for. His eyes remained on her for a long moment before he finally spoke. 

“You ought not say things like that to me.” 

The words landed low and rough. Margo’s breath caught slightly. 

“Why?”

Mellors looked away first. That mattered. Because until now he had never seemed uncertain around her. When he spoke again, it was quieter. 

“Because I’ve been trying very hard to behave myself around you.” 

And there it was at last. Not a declaration. Not seduction. Worse. Control barely holding.

The rain moved softly between them, silver in the lantern light. Mellors still had not stepped closer. That restraint was beginning to undo her. Most men pressed, assumed, filled silence with confidence. But Mellors stood there holding himself still as though every inch nearer to her cost him effort. Margo’s voice came quieter than before. 

“What if you stopped behaving yourself?” A mistake. The instant the words left her, she saw they affected him. Not dramatically. Just a tightening in his jaw. A flicker in his eyes. The careful inhale of someone regaining control before it slips. 

“Margo,” he said. The first time he used her name. No title, no ‘you’. No distance left in it. And somehow that felt more intimate than a touch. Her pulse stumbled. 

“You said my name.” 

“I know.” 

The silence afterward stretched warm and dangerous between them. Then, very gently: “You should go back to the house, to be with yours.” But neither moved. She looked at him steadily. “You keep sending me away.” 

“Aye.”

“Do you want me to go?”

Mellors hesitated. He looked away toward the rain-dark trees before speaking.

“No.”

Honest. And because he’s honest, he adds: “But I think I ought to.” 

“Are you afraid of my cousin? Of the consequences? Is that why you keep sending me away?” Her voice broke. Even he could feel the hurt when she spoke. 

“Of course I am. I am not this kind of man. But, more than that, I don’t want you like this. Out of desperation.” 

That’s what did it for her: she knew then he was pushing her away because he desired her, but refused to reduce her to desire alone. Margo steps beneath the small shelter of the cottage roof then, escaping the rain. The movement brings her close enough that she can smell damp wool, smoke, and cold air. Mellors goes still with her proximity, again. Not frightened. Careful.

She notices his hands flex once at his sides, as though resisting the urge to reach for her. “You make me feel,” she says slowly, “as though I’m standing too near a fire.” 

A faint breath escapes him — not quite laughter. He closes his eyes, trying hard not to give in to desire. “That’s because you are.” And for one suspended second, it seems he might touch her. He opens his eyes and his gaze drops briefly to her mouth before he catches himself. 

That tiny fracture in his control changes everything. But instead of kissing her, Mellors reaches past her carefully and opens the cottage door, next to where she stood. Warm lamplight spills across the threshold. 

“You’re cold,” he says quietly. “Come inside for a moment before you go back.” And that invitation should feel enormous precisely because it remains gentle. It wasn't possession, nor seduction, it was a choice. He passed by her, so close, their arms nearly touched. He walked in. 

Rain hammered the corrugated roof of the cottage, a relentless drumming that drowned out the distant, ghostly echoes of the party at Wragby Hall. Margo stood in the doorway, her brown hair plastered to her cheeks in wet ribbons, her dress clinging to the curves of her hips and breasts like a second, suffocating, skin. Inside, the air smelled of peat smoke, old pine, and the musk of a man who lived by the rhythm of the earth rather than the ticking of a social calendar.

Oliver Mellors stood by the hearth, the orange glow of the fire carving the rugged silhouette of his wide shoulders against the dim room. He didn't move toward her immediately. His blue eyes, sharp and observant, tracked the way a droplet of water slid down the column of her throat and disappeared into the neckline of her bodice. He looked like a part of the woods themselves. His pale skin contrasted with the coarse, ginger thickness of his beard.

“If you decide to come in, I can't promise I will be a gentleman,” he said. His voice was a low grate, steady but strained. 

Margo stepped inside, kicking off her sodden shoes. The warmth of the fire hit her skin, but the coldness she had carried from the manor and the curated laughter of the guests still lingered in her mind. 

“I don't want a gentleman. That house is filled with them. I couldn't even breathe in Wragby,” she replied, her voice trembling. “Everything there is a performance. Every smile, every word. I feel like I'm disappearing.”

Oliver shifted, his boots scuffing the stone floor. He wanted to maintain the distance he had carefully cultivated all those days, a wall built of silence and professional courtesy. He knew the stakes. She was a lady of the estate; he was the man who tended the land. But as she looked at him, her brown eyes wide and searching, the wall cracked.

“You'll catch a chill,” he muttered, though he finally stepped closer.

“I'm already frozen,” Margo whispered. “Please. I just want to feel some warmth. Something real.” 

The honesty of it hit him harder than any physical blow. Oliver reached out, his calloused hand hovering inches from her cheek before he finally closed the gap. His skin was rough, a stark contrast to the manicured softness of the men she knew. When his thumb brushed her jawline, Margo let out a jagged breath, leaning into the touch.

“I've spent every waking hour trying not to touch you,” Oliver admitted, his gaze darkening. “Trying to be the servant you deserve, not the man I am.”

“I don't want a servant," Margo said, reaching up to grip the front of his heavy wool shirt. “I want you.”

The restraint snapped. Oliver groaned, a sound torn from deep in his chest, and hauled her against him. His mouth crashed onto hers, not with the tentative politeness of her marriage, but with a starving hunger. He tasted of salt and woodsmoke. His tongue pushed past her lips, sweeping through her mouth in a deep, demanding exploration. Margo moaned, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, feeling the raw power contained in his compact frame.

He backed her toward the heavy oak table, the lamp casting long, flickering shadows across the room. Oliver’s hands wandered, mapping the shape of her. He didn't treat her like a porcelain doll; he gripped her waist with a firm, possessive strength that made her blood sing and her cunt pulsate with pleasure. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation.

“Tell me again,” he rasped. “Tell me you want this. You want me.”

“I want you, Oliver. All of you. Please.”

He didn't waste another second. He stripped her dress away with a focused urgency, the fabric tearing slightly at the seam. Margo stood before him in the amber light, her breasts heaving, nipples hardened by the chill and the anticipation. Oliver paused, his breath hitching. He didn't just look at her; he saw her. He saw the longing, the loneliness, and the desperate need for validation.

He stripped his own clothes with quick, efficient movements. When he stood naked, Margo marveled at the solidity of him. He was shorter than her husband, but wider, a powerhouse of toned muscles and pale skin. His cock was thick and heavy, already weeping a bead of clear pre-cum that glistened in the lamplight.

Oliver lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried her to the rug before the fire, laying her down gently despite the fire burning in his eyes. He knelt between her thighs, his ginger beard brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner legs.

“I want to make you feel everything,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I want you to know you're here. That you're real.”

He started with her breasts, his mouth engulfing one nipple, sucking it deep. Margo arched her back, a loud, guttural moan escaping her. He used his teeth, nipping lightly, then swirling his tongue around the areola in a slow, agonizing circle. His hands moved down, sliding over the curve of her stomach to the wet heat between her legs.

As his fingers found her clit, Margo gasped, her hips jerking upward. Oliver didn't rush. He watched her face, reading every flicker of pleasure, every twitch of her eyelids. He used two fingers to slide inside her, discovering how drenched she was for him. The sound was a wet, rhythmic squelching as he pumped his fingers in and out, his thumb grinding relentlessly against her clit.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

She opened her eyes, seeing the raw devotion in his gaze. He wasn't thinking about his own release; he was obsessed with hers. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t a tool for someone else’s gratification. She was the center of his universe.

“You're so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “So beautiful.”

He withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his cock. He guided the broad head of his shaft against her opening, teasing her, rubbing the glans against her clit before pushing in slowly. Margo let out a sharp cry as he stretched her, the sheer girth of him filling her completely. He paused, allowing her body to adjust, his muscles trembling with the effort of his restraint.

“Too much?” he asked, his voice strained.

“No,” she sobbed, pulling him closer. “Please, I want more.”

Oliver began to move, his thrusts deep and deliberate. He didn't just hammer into her; he angled his hips to hit her G-spot with every slide. The sound of their bodies meeting became a symphony of friction. The wet shlicking of his cock sliding through her, the slap of his balls against her perineum, the heavy rasp of their synchronized breathing.

Margo felt a pressure building, a coil of tension that had been winding for years. With Oliver, it wasn't a performance; it was the ultimate rendition. He watched her face as he sped up, his thrusts becoming more vigorous, more primal. He was rough, his grip on her hips leaving faint red marks, but his eyes remained tender, anchored in her.

“You belong to me right now,” he groaned, his voice breaking. “You’re just mine.”

She moaned in response. He shifted his weight, lifting her legs higher over his shoulders to drive deeper. He hit her cervix with a blunt force that made her lungs empty and her vision blur. Margo’s internal muscles clamped around him, pulsing in rhythmic waves. The sensation was overwhelming, a flood of white-hot pleasure that radiated from her core to her fingertips.

“Oliver! Oh my God, Oliver. Mellors!” she screamed, her body shaking as she plummeted into a violent orgasm. She wasn’t sure why she was screaming those words. To be honest, she didn’t care. Maybe she just needed the world to know who was finally giving her all the pleasure she never knew possible. 

The sight of her coming, the way her eyes rolled back and her chest heaved, was the final trigger for him. Oliver let out a roar, his body stiffening as he buried himself to the hilt. He thrust one last time, hard and deep, as he erupted inside her. Margo felt the hot, thick jets of his seed hitting her cervix, filling her up, a visceral mark of ownership and affection.

He didn’t pull away immediately. He collapsed onto her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together. The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the dying fire and the heavy, ragged gasps of two people who had finally found a way to speak without words.

As the adrenaline faded, Oliver shifted, kissing her forehead with a gentleness that brought tears to Margo's eyes. He reached down, his fingers tracing the place where they were still joined, feeling the slow leak of his cum and her juices mixing, dripping onto the rug.

“I've wanted to do that since the moment I first saw you in the garden,” he whispered.

Margo wrapped her arms around his wide shoulders, pulling him tight. The artificial world of Wragby Hall felt a thousand miles away. Here, in the dim light of a rain-soaked cottage, she wasn't a cousin, a wife, or a social ornament. She was a woman, seen and wanted, and for the first time in her life, she felt entirely whole.

Oliver pulled away slowly, his expression one of heavy, satisfied calm. He reached for a cloth and a basin of water nearby, the firelight casting dancing shadows on his broad back as he moved. He didn't just walk away; he returned to her, kneeling on the rug, his large, calloused hands gentle as he wiped the evidence of their union from her thighs. She tried to reach for the cloth, to grab it and clean herself. 

“Let me,” he murmured, his voice gravel-rough. 

Margo laid back, her limbs feeling like lead in the best possible way. The tension that had held her spine rigid for weeks at Wragby had now dissolved. “You’re taking care of me,” she whispered, watching the methodical, tender way he cleaned her skin.  

"I’m looking after my own," he replied, meeting her eyes. There was a possessiveness there. He stood, offering a hand to pull her up, and Margo felt the strength in his grip, which was solid and unwavering. “The bed is thin, but it's warm.”

“It's better than anything at the hall,” she admitted, leaning into his chest as he guided her toward the small bedroom in the back of the cottage. The bed was a simple wooden frame with a patchwork quilt, smelling faintly of lavender and the clean, wild scent of the moors. They didn't speak as they settled under the heavy covers. Oliver wrapped his arms around her, a protective wall against the storm outside, and Margo drifted into a dreamless, deep sleep, pressed against the solid heat of him, her head tucked under his chin. 

After a few hours, the morning light broke the darkness, filtering through the small, uncurtained window in thin, dusty beams. Margo stirred, the coolness of the sheets contrasting with the warmth radiating from the man beside her. She felt him long before she saw him. Oliver was already awake, propped up on one elbow, staring down at her with a look of intense, predatory focus. His ginger beard was scruffy with sleep, his blue eyes sharp and hungry in the daylight. 

“You're awake,” she breathed, her voice raspy.

“I’ve been watching you for an hour,” Oliver said, his hand sliding slowly up her leg, tracing the path from her ankle to the junction of her thighs. “Trying to figure out if it was a dream.”

Margo shivered, not from cold, but from the sudden, sharp spike of desire that ignited in her belly. “It wasn't a dream.” “Good,” he growled. He moved with a sudden, purposeful urgency, shifting so he was hovering over her. This time, he didn’t wait for a slow build. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them lightly to the mattress above her head, his grip firm enough to command her attention but careful not to bruise. The roughness was there, an edge of hunger he had kept leashed the night before, but his eyes were entirely on her. 

“I want to hear you,” he said, and he dropped his head, his mouth finding her nipple. He didn't just suck; he bit down, not violently, but hard enough to elicit a sharp gasp, then immediately soothed the sting with his tongue, swirling it over the hardened peak. 

“Ah!” Margo cried out, her back arching off the mattress. 

Oliver moved down, his hands roaming over her body with a possessive, territorial intensity. He liked the feeling of her softness against his calloused palms; he kneaded her flesh as if she were a piece of clay he was shaping. When he reached between her legs, he didn't start with his cock. He started with his tongue.

He pushed her legs wide, creating a space for himself, and Margo felt the wet heat of his breath against her clit. He was relentless. He knew exactly where the nerves clustered, and he attacked with a rhythmic, licking motion that felt like a localized fever. 

“Oliver, please,” she panted, her fingers tangling in his messy hair, pulling him closer. 

“Not yet,” he mumbled against her, his voice muffled. “I need you ready. I need you spilling over before I even touch you.”

He teased her, switching from soft flicks to rough, insistent suction, dragging her right to the precipice and then deliberately pulling back, licking the sensitive skin around the center of her pleasure. Margo felt her mind fraying. She had never been treated with this level of attention; usually, it was a race to the finish line, a frantic, selfish act on the part of her husband. But Oliver was the opposite. He was a craftsman. He was obsessed with her sensation.

“Look at me,” he commanded, pulling away slightly. 

Margo opened her eyes, hazy and unfocused, finding his intense blue gaze. “I'm going to make you come,” he promised, his voice a low, vibrating hum. “And I'm going to be inside you when I do it.”

He didn't wait for an answer. He shifted, rising up, and guided himself to her entrance. He pushed in—slowly at first, letting his thickness stretch her, and then with a sudden, rough lunge that buried him to the hilt. Margo let out a ragged cry, her nails digging into the sheets. 

He began to move, his hips driving into her with a primal, rhythmic power. The sound of his skin hitting hers was loud in the quiet room. Slap, slap, slap. He kept one hand firmly on her hip, holding her in place, while the other tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose the line of her throat.  

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark with the effort of control. “God, you're perfect.”

The roughness of his movements was shocking, a stark contrast to the polite, restrained life she lived, yet it felt exactly right. She wasn't a lady here; she was a woman, raw and exposed. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to take every inch of him. 

The rhythm accelerated. He was watching her face, his thumb rubbing against her clit with every thrust, timing the friction perfectly. Margo felt the coil in her belly tightening, the heat spreading outward, consuming her senses. She could see his chest heaving, his muscles bunching and releasing with every powerful stroke.

“Ready?” he rasped, his voice breaking. She nodded, unable to speak. He then drove deeper, slamming into her, his hand pressing firmly against her mound, forcing the clit against his own shaft. Margo’s world shattered. She erupted, her internal muscles pulsing around him in waves of ecstasy, a high-pitched moan tearing from her throat. “Oh, God! Oh, yes!” 

Her release was the spark he needed. Oliver let out a roar, his eyes rolling back as he lost his own battle for restraint. He thrust one final time, burying himself deeper than before, and she felt the heavy, hot surge of his release flooding into her. He collapsed onto her, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm, his weight crushing her into the mattress in the most comforting way possible. 

They lay there for a long time, the only sound the ragged, synchronized gasps of their breathing. Oliver didn’t pull away. He kept his forehead pressed against hers, his ginger beard scratching her cheek, his heavy arms pinning her down in a gentle cage. “Are you all right, my lady?” he whispered, his voice still thick with the aftermath. 

Margo let out a breathy, shaky laugh, her hands stroking the sweat-slicked skin of his back. “I'm more than all right. I’m awake. I’m alive.” He shifted, kissing her lips, a slow, lingering press that spoke of more than just physical satiation. “Stay,” he murmured. “Don't go back to that place.” He kissed her chest. “Stay with me.” He kissed her belly. 

Margo turned around, under his weight, and looked out the window at the morning sun warming the tops of the trees in the distance. The manor, with its stiff manners and hollow vows, felt like a shadow of a life she had once endured. Here, tangled in the sheets with the man who had seen her, touched her, and broken through her defenses, she finally understood what it meant to be alive. She thought later, if someone noticed her absence, she could just say she went for a walk before sun was up. 

“I'm not going anywhere,” she replied, and for the first time in her life, she knew exactly what she wanted, and she was already exactly where she needed to be.

[millersdjarin]

Make Me Tear My Body (Make Me Yearn for Your Embrace)

[Part III of Take Aim]

Pairing: Leon Kennedy/Reader ♥︎ Rating: E (MDNI!) ♥︎ Words: 15,814

Series Masterlist ♥︎ Read on AO3 ♥︎ My Masterlist

Warnings/tags: ANGST; hurt/comfort; PTSD; Leon Needs a Hug; smut with plot; yearning; angsty ending; post-operation javier; leon accidentally pulls a knife on reader because he doesn't realise it's her (he obviously doesn't hurt her and would never do that on purpose).

Summary: after Operation Javier, Leon shows up at your door late at night, drenched from the rain and tormented by his latest mission.

You're there to pick up the pieces.

Notes: this is part 3 of an ongoing series; it will make about 90% sense if you haven't read the other parts but if you like this, you'll definitely like the first 2 too!

May 2002

from: [email protected]  to: [email protected] Hey stranger Haven’t heard from you for a few weeks, just thought I’d check in. Hope you’re okay. I know you’re probably just busy with training and stuff but I miss you and I worry. Call me when you can?  Xo

from: [email protected]. to: [email protected] Hey Sorry, didn’t mean to go MIA. I’m all right, don’t worry about me. How are you? Almost time for you to graduate, right? Leon > Sent by Agent Leon S Kennedy at 00:58

from: [email protected]  to: [email protected] I do worry, though.  I’m okay. School is a lot. Not graduating anytime soon though. Next June is when it’s all over—or it should be, but then my crazy ass is going BACK to become a teacher. I think I should get assessed for insanity at this point. Summer break is coming up, though, after an art exhibit I’ve got at a local gallery. I wondered if you wanted to come? It’s obviously totally fine if not, I know you’re super busy and stuff, but you could be my date. I need one after me and Jake called it off (yeah, I know, I know, you were right about him, blah, blah blahhh) and I also want you to see my final piece :-) It’s gonna be on June 10th.  I’ll pick up if you call. I’ve got caller ID now! 

one week later

from: [email protected]  to: [email protected] Hey, me again. I’m gonna assume you can’t make it to my exhibit. That’s okay, don’t worry about it, but I just wanted to check in…?

one week later

from: [email protected]. to: [email protected] Hey Sorry, it’s been pretty intense over here lately. Sorry I can’t make it to your exhibit, I bet it’s gonna be amazing. Can’t wait to see pics. L x > Sent by Agent Leon S Kennedy at 01:37

from: [email protected]  to: [email protected] No worries, I understand!! You keep avoiding the question of how you are, though. Don’t think I haven’t noticed >:( 

Ten days later

from: [email protected]  to: [email protected] Hey Just sending some pics from the exhibit! I obviously took wayyyy more but there are too many to send them all via email, boooo. Hope you like it. I got a really good grade. I’m on summer break now :-)  Do you think you’ll get any time off soon? Thought maybe you could come visit, we could go to the lake for a few days? How do you feel about camping? Hope you’re okay, Le. Xx

Five minutes later

When the phone rings, and Leon’s name comes up on the little caller ID screen you have attached to the landline unit, you do a double take. Honestly, you’ve been more and more concerned about him as the months have gone on this year; his email communications are sporadic at best—not to mention that he always seems to be sending them in the middle of the night—and where he used to call every week, now it’s down to at most once a month. Currently, it’s been one month and three days since you last heard his voice, and two weeks since he sent you any email.

So to see his name come up is a shock, but a welcome one.

“Hey!” you say into the phone, settling down in the armchair beside it. The hallway that houses your phone table and chair is dim, the only light shining through from the living room.

“Hey,” Leon’s voice says back, and even with the single syllable you can hear that something’s wrong. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he lies. His voice is low, husky. Hoarse. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Did you like the pictures of the exhibit?”

“Oh, yeah, they were amazing. You did a really great job, it was so beautiful. I’m proud of you.”

You smile to yourself, feeling your cheeks heat at the praise. “Thanks, Leon. That means a lot.” It’s not enough to make you forget your concern, though. He sounds so distant, almost distracted, like he’s not all there right now. “Leon, are you sure you’re okay…?”

“I’m being deployed on a mission,” he says quickly. “I—uh. It’s out of country.”

“Okay…and you feel nervous about it, or…?”

“No, it’s…I mean, yeah. But it’ll be okay. I’ll be fine.” 

“You sound different.”

“Different how?”

“Just. I don’t know. Distracted.”

“I’m just preparing for the mission. Getting my head in the game and all.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t want to hold you up…”

“No, I—I wanted to hear your voice before I went.”

“…Oh.” A long silence settles across the line. The sound of his breathing is the only indication that he’s even still there. “Leon?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you scared?”

A pause. Hesitation. “No.”

“Okay.” You don’t believe him, and he probably knows it. “Will you let me know when you’re back safely? You don’t have to call or anything, just…text, maybe?”

“I will.”

“How long are you gonna be away for?”

“They said around a week, but it could be less or more, depends what happens. Hard to predict these things.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can imagine.” 

Another beat of quiet, and you can almost picture him at the other end of the phone, chewing on his bottom lip, running his hands through his hair over and over. 

You’re on the edge of your seat, curling the phone cable around your finger so tightly it hurts, gripping the handset until your knuckles go white. A phonecall has never felt so fraught with nerves, and you’re not entirely sure how it’s possible, but the anxiety is palpable. Tension across thousands of miles that you could cut with a knife.

“Look, I…” Leon starts, but quickly cuts himself off.

“…What?”

“Nothing. I—it’s nothing.”

“No, it’s okay, what did you want to say?”

“Really, it’s nothing. Just—take care of yourself. Maybe I could come visit sometime when I’m back? If they give me some time off, at least.” The hopeful edge to his voice tugs at your heartstrings.

“Yeah, of course. You know I always want to see you. I don’t even need to know that far in advance, you can just let me know you’re coming to stay for a bit. As long as you don’t mind hanging around my apartment while I’m at class.”

“Think I’ll appreciate the time to relax,” he replies, a smirk lilting his voice just a little. The sound eases your nerves, lets you release an inch of tension. “Hey—thanks. I’ll look forward to coming to see you. It’ll keep me going.”

“Good. I’m counting on it.”

“I’ve survived worse, right?” he jokes weakly, his laugh thin and reedy.

“Yeah. You have. You’ve got this, Leon.”

“Yeah. I—yeah. I…should probably go. Gotta be up at 5a.m. tomorrow.”

You look at the clock: 9p.m. “Get some sleep, and be safe, okay?”

“I will. I l—I’ll see you soon.”

“See you.” 

He waits for a drawn-out second before hanging up the line.

Slowly, you put the phone down on its holder, and it’s only as you let go that you realise your hand is shaking. You can’t explain why, but something about Leon’s mission feels off. He’s been on plenty of missions since you reconnected with him two years ago, and none of those times has he called you before he deploys just to hear your voice. Nor has he ever been as quiet over emails as he has been recently. You can tell he’s scared, that this mission in particular must be a big and dangerous one. 

Of course, you worry about him constantly, an undercurrent of anxiety there every minute that he’s not with you. You don’t normally know when he’s going on missions; only when he returns from them. Though, you even worry about him when he’s just training; some stuff you’ve heard about all of it makes it no more comforting to know that he’s training rather than actually out in the field. Major Krauser is a name that comes up a lot. 

“He’s an honourable man, and I respect him, but y’know, he’s kind of an asshole,” Leon had said to you last time he came to visit. He’d never say something like that over the phone or email. The risk of it being recorded or read by someone is too high, or so Leon says. But in person, when it’s just the two of you and you’re out on a hike or watching a movie on your couch—and he’s checked your house for bugs, as he always does—he’s more honest about the people he works with.

So it’s not like you’re normally totally chill about his job. It’s not like you don’t worry all the time anyway. But something about this time is different. Even Leon seems to know it. 

Still perched on the edge of the armchair, you run your shaking hands over your head, and sigh. If he’s going to be gone for around a week, you’ve got to find ways to distract yourself from your anxieties. It’s just gonna drive you crazy to sit in this feeling. 

Thankfully, even though things are pretty frosty between you and your parents, they’re still helping you out with rent in your apartment while you’re studying. Which means that all you need is a summer job to supplement the rest of the rent and save up for the semester ahead. Your school is offering a summer school for kids and you’ve landed a job teaching art there three days a week, which also counts towards teaching experience for your future career goals, and it’ll leave you enough time to actually do art and try your hand at selling some. 

So, really, you have a lot to take your mind off things in the week ahead. Summer school starts in two days; you’re about halfway through finishing your lesson plans for the six weeks you’ll be teaching, so, with your nerves about Leon too high right now to even think about getting sleep, you head into the living room and grab your work folder. 

You don’t feel sleepy until 2a.m., and even then, your sleep is restless and plagued with dreams that are a twisted combination of you lying in Leon’s arms and Leon getting hurt. Like your mind is saying You know you love him, right? and You know you could lose him at any moment? all at once.

♥︎♥︎♥︎

Eight Days Later

It’s 11p.m., and there’s someone knocking at your door.

Obviously, your first instinct is to panic. The way you see it, there are two options here. Either it’s someone that you know and something is wrong, or it’s a stranger coming to murder you. So, either is not great, although you’d maybe prefer the former. At least there might be something you can actually do about that one.

Creeping up to your door, you peer through the peephole, and everything in you simultaneously lights up and freaks out at the face you see standing on your doorstep.

Wet clothes, equally soaked hair, pieces of it drooping and clinging to the harsh lines of his face. Dark circles under his eyes, maybe darker than you’ve ever seen. Features so tense and anguished that you almost don’t recognise him. 

Leon.

It’s Leon.

“Oh my god,” you mutter to yourself, turning the key to unlock the door so fast that your fingers slip. The door swings open eventually, and Leon just stands there, looking up at you from underneath wet eyelashes. Now that you see him properly, he looks even worse. Bruises on his face, a cut beneath his eye, swelling and bruising over his knuckles. “Leon, oh my God—” You reach out towards him, but the second your hands are in the air, he stumbles backwards like you’ve tried to hit him, his eyes going wide, nostrils flaring. 

You drop your hands, your mouth opening a closing a little in shock. “Leon…?”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, “Sorry, I just—I just got back and I—I can’t—” He’s staring so hard, so intensely. His hands ball into fists at his sides over and over again. “Can I—come in?”

“Of course,” you say immediately, feeling stupid that you hadn’t invited him in already. Once you’ve stepped aside, he gingerly walks through the door, and you don’t miss the way he gives you a wide berth, his eyes on your hands as if he’s scared you’ll reach them towards him again. Honestly, he looks like a wild animal, and you feel like the human that the animal is scared of.

He takes off his boots, his hands trembling. He’s dripping rain water onto your carpet. You don’t care. All you care about is the tension in his shoulders, the injuries on his skin, the haunted look in his eye. 

Without thinking, you reach up to help him out of his dripping leather jacket. But the second your hands make contact with his shoulders, he darts out of the way, inhaling sharply as he whips around to face you with that same panicked, wide-eyed look. He relaxes just an inch after a few seconds, as if processing that it’s only you. But he still stays feet away from you, still just stares.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry. Just—I’m still a little wired. I can’t. I can’t deal with. I can’t deal with…”

“Me touching you?” you finish for him, keeping your voice measuredly calm.

Near-frantic, he nods. Then, voice laced with as much tension as his body, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“I—no. I mean—yeah, I’m fine, I just…”

“Leon.” Tentative, you take a tiny step closer. He watches your movements carefully. “You said you just got back…?”

“…Oh. Yeah. From the mission I told you about, remember I said I was—?”

“I remember,” you’re quick to say, because of course you do, you’ve literally been worried about said mission all fucking week. And it looks like you were right to be. Looking over his face, you assess his wounds, noticing no dressings or bandages, but they also don’t look fresh fresh. They’re clean, well looked after. “When you say you just got back, do you mean you literally got off the plane and came here?”

“I landed back at base, got checked out and cleaned up, debriefed, then drove here.”

“…From DC.”

“From DC,” he confirms.

“Jesus, Leon, you must be exhausted.” You fight the urge to reach out for him again, instinct taking over. It’s probably for the best that you don’t, because your urge is telling you to take off his clothes and inspect every single inch of him for damage, then kiss all the scars and wounds until all of them know the protection of your lips, until everything that could hurt him knows they contend with you. But things aren’t like that between you—haven’t been for a long time—and it would only make things worse.

Still, you do wish that frightened look in his eyes would go away just a little. Wish he wouldn’t look at you like you’ll hurt him.

“What do you need?” you ask, trying to sound less worried than you feel. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Shrugs with his hand. Shakes his head. “I…I don’t…”

You’ve never seen him look so bewildered. So…so beaten. Everything about him screams exhaustion, pain. You could swear you can smell the battle on him. He says he’s cleaned up, but there’s still the faint smell of copper in the air around him, and you’d bet that if his hair was dry, you would see specks of blood in it. His knuckles look even darker now you see them up close, covered in angry purple bruises and small cuts. 

The physical wounds aren’t what worry you the most, though. 

It’s the look on his face. 

“When was the last time you ate something?” you find yourself asking, deciding that it’s a good start.

He shakes his head again, like he’s trying to search for an answer. “I…I don’t…” With every second, he’s shutting down more and more. You can see him coming down from all the adrenaline. As if stepping inside your door was the last step he needed to take before the lingering survival mode and hyper-awareness started to fade, and now, his brain is reeling and exhausted and scrambled.

“Come on,” you say, nodding your head in the direction of the kitchen. You resist the urge to take his hand, instead holding his eyes to encourage him to follow. 

In the kitchen, you stop by the small, round dining table that’s tucked into the left corner beside the entrance, and pull out one of the mismatched dining chairs. 

“Sit,” you instruct, and wait until he does it, his feet absolutely silent against the linoleum floor. The chair is facing the kitchen—you chose this seat so that you’d be able to keep an eye on him, look out for any signs of shock, or any other indication that he needs medical attention. “They gave you the all clear at the base infirmary, right?” you check, raising an eyebrow. In response you get a single nod, which is good enough for now.

Turning to the fridge, you open it, and assess the situation. There’s some leftover Chinese from movie night with your friends two nights ago. You’d been meaning to eat it for dinner last night, actually, but ended up painting until 10p.m. and then you just opted to have a bowl of cereal, not wanting to eat a full meal before you went to sleep.

Just as well, really, because Leon looks like he could do with a full meal right now, the fact that it’s late at night be damned.

“How do you feel about sweet and sour with egg fried rice?” you say into the quiet, pulling out the boxes and heading over to the microwave. When you look across at Leon, he’s watching you, his head and eyes following you around the kitchen. But he doesn’t reply. You narrow your eyes at him for a second, trying to tell if his eyes look glazed-over. They don’t; he still looks painfully present. “I don’t know why I asked,” you say, offering a small smirk, “I know you like this. I know it’s not your favourite, or so you say, but you always steal some of mine anyway.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him flinch when the buttons on the microwave beep. 

You pretend not to notice.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” you say, the hum of the microwave filling in the quiet around you. “I think I have some of your sweatpants here from last time you came to visit. And, uh. God, okay, I need you to know that the only reason I’m admitting this is because you’re cold and wet and I care about you so much that I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” You take a theatrically deep breath. “I did steal your Spider-man T-shirt last spring.”

At your confession, his eyes widen just a little bit. If he was himself right now, you know he would grin, maybe even laugh, and yell I knew it! You’re such a liar!. But now, all you get is the slightest lift of one corner of his lips, and a tiny, barely-there shake of his head. 

“I know, I know, I’m a thief and a liar. Very bad, shame on me, how can you ever forgive me.” Despite his demeanour, you give him a grin, hoping that it’ll at least lift his spirits somewhat. Glancing over your shoulder, you look at the microwave timer, seeing there are 2 minutes left. Then you look back to Leon and point to the door. “Sweatpants are in the top drawer in my room, Spider-man T-shirt is currently in the clean laundry basket I haven’t unloaded yet. You’ve got two minutes.” 

Without a word, he slips out of the kitchen, leaving you alone with the microwave, a puddle that he left on the kitchen floor, and your thoughts. 

Even though he’s here, and you know he’s technically safe, you can’t shake the image of his haunted eyes from your mind. You can’t stop worrying. Can’t stop imagining the worse case scenario. It’s all rushing through your head as you stare at the microwave as if it holds all the answers. Really, your head is just somewhere else, lost in the look shadowing Leon’s face. 

You don’t realise how hard you’re biting your lip until it starts to taste a little too coppery.

Leon comes back in almost exactly as the microwave beeps to tell you it’s finished. Without a word he sits back down. Deciding to dish out his food onto a plate, in the hopes it makes him feel more at home than eating from the takeout containers, you grab a knife and fork, some chopsticks, and carefully place the plate down in front of him. Then pour him a glass of water, complete with ice from the little shell-shaped ice cube trays you keep filled in your freezer. 

“Eat,” you prompt softly, sliding into the chair opposite him. 

He stares down at the food with profound disinterest, but obediently picks up the fork anyway. 

For a long time, you just sit in silence. His face remains neutral while he eats, as though he can hardly even taste the food. The sweet and sour sauce from your local Chinese takeout is his favourite, and usually has his eyes rolling to the ceiling in pleasure as he steals one of your chicken balls and absolutely covers it in the sauce. Today, though, he eats it like it’s a piece of cardboard. 

You’re still worrying your bottom lip. Your hands wring nervously in your lap. You hope he doesn’t notice, but knowing Leon, he probably does. Still, he doesn’t say anything, which is actually more alarming than the alternative.

Despite his lack of enthusiasm, he still polishes off every last morsel. He was probably hungrier than he realised. Then he gulps down the entire glass of water without coming up for air. 

Afterwards, he finally looks at you. Meets your eyes, and holds them, the blue so intense and familiar that it makes your chest ache, as if your heart is trying to tug you towards him. 

“Thanks,” he says, voice thick. 

“Of course.” You take his plate and empty glass, walking across to put the dishes and cutlery in the sink, then refill has glass. “Are you staying the night?”

“Oh, I—I…guess I didn’t really think that far.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to think. I’ll set up the couch for you, okay?” Ordinarily, you’d maybe take the risk of offering to share your bed with him. It wouldn’t be entirely a selfless offer, and you’d be lying if you said that you wouldn’t hope it would turn into something, even if just for the night. But Leon has made it clear that he doesn’t want to be touched right now, and besides, if anything happened between you, you’d feel as though you were taking advantage of his vulnerable state.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his eyebrows drawn together as if he’s scared you’ll say No, actually, I want you to leave.

“Yeah, you know you’re always welcome.”

As you pass him on your way to the doorway, you have to clench your hand into a fist to resist the urge to reach out and squeeze his shoulder. Although it feels unnatural to not touch him, it would be worse to see him flinch away from you again. 

Grabbing spare sheets and pillows from the closet in the hallway, you can’t help but wonder if Leon is always like this after missions, always so detached and terrified of someone coming near him. Is it just the way he is after being deployed? Does he normally fall into this strange and unsettling stupor and then come out of it after a while? Or is this specific to this mission, is this the first time he’s reacted like this?

You don’t hear him step into the living room. One second, you’re alone, and the next, he’s standing right beside you, watching while you fluff out his pillow and toss it at the top of the couch.

Somehow, you don’t jump at his sudden presence. “Hey. It’s all ready for you. I’ve still got that toothbrush you used last time you were here and forgot your own, if you wanted to brush your teeth…?”

“Thanks. You can go first.” 

“I’m already brushed and ready for bed.”

He looks at you then, and it’s like he’s really looking at you for the first time since he arrived. His eyes track your entire body from top to bottom and back again. Clearly, he hadn’t even noticed you’re wearing pyjamas. “Oh,” he says, surprise lacing his voice. Then guilt when he says: “Shit, sorry, it’s…I know it’s late. Maybe I shouldn’t have…”

“Leon, it’s fine,” you say softly. “I wasn’t asleep or anything. It’s okay.”

“Still, just barging in like this…”

“You didn’t barge anywhere. I let you in. And I always will. Understand?”

For a second, he just holds your eyes. His jaw clenches, the muscles in his hollowed cheeks jumping. “Yeah. Thank you.” 

“Go brush your teeth, then get some sleep, okay? You know where I am if you need me. Don’t hesitate.”

“Okay. Hey—thanks.”

“You just said that.”

“I know, I just…I really appreciate this.” He gestures to the couch. Then nods once towards you. “I appreciate you.”

Softly, you smile, feeling your heart melt and ache at the same time. “I know you do,” you reply, because it’s true; you’ve never doubted how much he appreciates your friendship. “Goodnight, Leon.”

“Night, sweetheart.” His gaze isn’t on you anymore when he says the pet name, and maybe that’s for the best, because you can’t hide the way your breath catches and you swallow heavily. It’s been a long time since he called you that. The last time was probably back when you first reunited with him at the Silver Dove Bar. 

The hundredth time you’ve tossed and turned, you crack open one eye to look at the clock.

2:37a.m.

Groaning, you throw your hands to your face, press the heels of your palms into your eyes. It’s not like sleep troubles are rare for you, but tonight feels different. Hell, tonight is different. Leon is out there in your living room and you haven’t heard him snoring, so he’s probably still awake too, and God, it all just feels—off. 

You know that the two of you can’t be a thing. You know that his job means he can’t have  a relationship. Or, at least, you know that he’s so entrenched in his work that it would be nearly impossible to try and disentangle him from it. But, God, you want. You’ve wanted him since that very first night you met, and honestly? You can’t believe that you didn’t immediately claim him as yours the second you saw him again two years later. Sure, things were just as complicated then as they are now, and sure, neither of you were in the place for a relationship. But maybe you should have just wrapped him in your arms and refused to let go until he said he was yours. 

Until he said he would stay.

You know that’s just a fantasy. That he can never stay. That there will always be another crisis he has to go and fix, another mission to riddle him with more and more trauma. 

You’re just in the middle of wondering how much of all of this he can even take when a sliver of light creeps its way along the floor. Your bedroom door opens slowly, tentatively, and Leon’s silhouette is there a moment later, wrapped in the blankets you’d draped across the sofa for him.

“Hey,” you say. “You all right?”

“Did I wake you up?” he asks. You can’t see his face, the only source of light streaming in from the table lamp in the hall behind him. But his voice sounds…off. Tense, thick, strained.

“No.”

He closes the door behind him with a soft click. For a second, he just stands there, a dark shadow in the corner of your room, illuminated now by the faint streetlights streaming in through your curtains. He hangs his head low so that you still can’t see his face. You recognise that move. He doesn’t want you to see him. He feels vulnerable, stripped bare, and he fucking hates it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t sleep. I don’t—want to be alone. Can I…?”

Without another word, you shuffle across to one side of the bed, roll onto your side, and pull back the covers on the now-empty spot. Like a moth to a flame he strides across the room, careening towards the bed with nothing short of relief and desperation. You hear the blankets fall to the ground as he shrugs them off, and then he’s climbing into bed beside you, his hair all ruffled and sticking up messily.

Not wanting to startle him or scare him away, you lie very still, facing him in the near-darkness. He’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. You can just about make out the outlines of his features, the hollows of his face shadowed in black and the high points lit in dark grey. The urge to run your hand through his hair is unbearable. It’s not even a selfish urge—you know that the sensation helps him calm down. Helps him sleep. He’s always loved your hands in his hair, from the first time he had his head between your legs, to that night at the motel when he fell asleep in your lap. (He confessed to you, once, after one too many glasses of wine, that that was the first time he’d slept without a nightmare since RC. You’ve never stopped thinking about it.)

But the image of him flinching away from you like a terrified animal flashes in your mind, and you know that the touch would make things worse right now. So instead, you try to relax, hoping that your presence alone is enough to bring him some kind of comfort.

“Thanks,” he says into the quiet, low and hushed. 

Knowing he’s feeling vulnerable, and that acknowledging what’s going on here would probably not be helpful, you just stay quiet. 

For a long time, the two of you lie just like that. You watch his eyelashes as he blinks up at the ceiling. He breathes deeply, like he’s counting out each breath. 

After a while, you feel sleepiness come over you, but you refuse to sleep until he’s drifted off. Gradually, his blinks get slower, his eyes taking longer to open after each one. His breathing shallows out, and every few breaths catch in the back of his throat, the soft beginnings of his snoring. He always snores when he sleeps on his back, and though normally it would keep you awake, tonight, it’s your cue to finally fall asleep.

It’s still dark when you’re startled from your sleep by a loud scream tearing from Leon’s throat.

Beside you, he bolts upright in bed, his shoulders heaving from heavy, panting breaths. 

Your heart pounding from the sudden wake up call, you put your hand to your chest, and say a careful, “Leon…?”

The sound of your voice only makes it worse. Everything that comes next happens within the space of a few seconds, but it feels like so much longer: he jumps out of his skin, gets tangled in the sheets as he stumbles out of bed. His arms flail a little as he catches his balance, but the second he does, he’s whirling back around to face you—and there’s a fucking combat knife pointed at you.

He’s at least five feet away, almost pressed completely against the wall, and you know you’re not in immediate danger. Even if he was closer, you know he won’t hurt you, but still, your brain sees a knife and can’t help but think Run!. 

Miraculously, you’re able to ignore the instinct. Frantic, you scramble for the light switch on your bedside lamp, and say, “It’s me! Hey, Leon, it’s just me!” Then, finally finding the switch, the room is plunged into a warm orange glow. You flinch in the sudden light, but Leon doesn’t even blink. He’s panting, his knuckles pale white around the hilt of his knife, and he’s holding it horizontally, as if ready to parry an attack from someone. (From you.) At his side, his other hand is raised in a fist. His nostrils are flared, eyes wide and frantic, sweat dripping down his entire face. 

He looks terrified. Hostile and dangerous and scary, yes, but mostly, he just looks scared. 

“Leon, it’s just me. It’s me, look at me, see?” Holding your hands up in surrender, you settle back onto your heels, holding his eyes. Silently, you beg the universe for him to see you. For the glaze in his eyes to fade.

After a minute, recognition settles across his tense features. He blinks for the first time in minutes. All fear, all hostility, melt away.

The knife clatters to the floor.

“Oh fuck—” He’s cut off by his own sharp inhale, a gasp far too deep pulling into his lungs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—” He stumbles back into the wall with a low thud, then leans down with his hands on his knees, wheezing in between his words. His head hangs low. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—!”

“Leon…”

“Stay away!” He holds up a trembling hand when you start to climb off the bed on his side. “S—stay away! P—please you h—have to stay away I—”

You stop moving closer, but you don’t move away. “Leon, look at me…”

“Shitshitshitshitshit!” His hands are in his hair, pulling so hard you can see his knuckles paling. Your heart aches, desperate to move closer and grab his hands, gently separate them from his scalp, protect him from harm. 

“Leon,” you say instead, keeping your voice as calm as you can through the slight shake, “Leon, it’s okay. Hey. Hey. Look at me, Leon.”

He shakes his head. Too fast. Too many times. 

“Listen to me, baby. Listen. Can you listen to me? Take breaths with me, okay? I’m gonna count, breathe with me.” You start to count him through his breaths, and it takes him a second, but he eventually complies. At first, each inhale is shuddery and broken. Wracking through him like his fear. But gradually it gets calmer, easier, the wheezing coming from deep in his throat finally fading.

“There we go,” you murmur once he’s breathing normally again. “There. It’s okay. Just breathe. Breathe, baby, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he blurts out, his voice thick and strained. When he glances up at you, you realise his cheeks are soaking wet, and it’s not just with sweat. Those beautiful baby blues are bright red and leaking tears down his face. “It’s not okay. I—fuck. It’s not okay.”

“It is, Leon. It’s okay. I promise.”

“I pulled a knife on you!”

“You didn’t know it was me,” you point out, gentle. 

“That doesn’t matter! That doesn’t make it better!” He’s still leaning his palms on his knees, but he’s looking up at you now, hair wet and flopping over his forehead. Through the tears, his eyes are…Jesus Christ, you’ve never seen him look so distraught. “You—I could’ve hurt you, I could’ve—holyfuckingshit I could’ve really hurt you!”

“You didn’t. You wouldn’t.” Your throat aches. Everything in you is screaming to go to him, to wrap him in your arms. 

He laughs, and the mirthless sound makes your stomach hurt. “You don’t know that. How can you—how can you not be scared right now?”

“I’m not scared of you, Leon.”

“But I—the knife! I didn’t even tell you I had a knife on me. Shit, I got into bed with you with a fucking knife!”

“Okay, maybe that wasn’t great, but you weren’t gonna use it on me. You’re just coming down from a mission, Leon, it’s okay. You’re trying to feel safe. I understand—” You’re cut off when he stands up abruptly. So fast you’re surprised he doesn’t get dizzy. 

Then, without looking at you, he’s striding towards your bedroom door. “I have to go,” he mutters before you can ask what he’s doing. 

“What—what?”

His footsteps retreat down the hall. Heart pounding in your ears—more than it was when there was a literal knife held up in front of you—you rush to follow him. It’s hard to catch up with him, his determined steps so long and focused that your bare-footed running can hardly compete.

But you know your apartment better than him and you just about manage to squeeze past various bits of furniture to make a shortcut, making it just in time to find your way in front of his relentless path through the living room towards the door.

“Leon!” you cry, holding your hands out to say Stop. “Leon, wait!”

“I have to go,” he says again, but you’re blocking his path to the door now, so he stops walking. Just stares at you, all tense jaw and hair hanging over his face. It’s nearly dark in here, but you can still see the intensity on his face, can almost hear the clench of his jaw.

“You—why?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding!?” Your voice takes on a hysterical note, further proving your point. “Why are you leaving? I thought you were staying the night—”

“That was before I held you at knifepoint.”

“That’s not exactly what happened, Leon…”

“Get out of my way.” He’s going for demanding and intimidating, but honestly, all you hear is begging.

You fold your arms over your chest and plant your feet firmly into the carpet. “No.” 

A pause. Then, “Please.” So soft. So…shaky. “You have to let me go.”

“I’m not letting you walk out after that. That’s not fair.”

“I’m trying to keep you safe—!”

“I am safe. I’m safer than I ever am here by myself, because I’m always safer with you, Leon.”

He shakes his head, his faint features crumpling as if he thinks you can’t see him. As if the near-darkness is all that’s allowing him to show his true emotion. “I don’t think that’s true anymore,” he whispers. 

You can’t help it. You step closer, despite the fact you know he wants you to keep your distance. “Leon,” you whisper back, wishing you could really see the blue of his eyes, “It is true. It’s always been true. You won’t hurt me.” 

“But I…”

“You won’t hurt me. You’re not dangerous, Leon. You’re just scared.”

“I…I’m not…” But his words die on his tongue. Fade out into the trembling breath he exhales. 

“It’s okay. I promise, it’s okay. I want you to stay. I don’t want you to go out there when you’re like this, okay? I don’t want you to be alone.”

“…When I’m like what?” he asks gingerly, like maybe he doesn’t want to know the answer.

Swallowing down a lump of emotion, you take a deep breath, then say, “When you’re dealing with whatever it is that’s haunting you from that mission.”

His breath catches in his throat. You hear it, and it breaks your heart. A part of you wants to turn on the light so that you can really look at him and see his expression. But another part of you knows that the cover of the shadow is what’s allowing him to be more vulnerable, that it makes him feel protected against all the shame he feels. 

“Stay,” you say softly. “Please. For me. We can just stay up and watch a movie or something, okay?”

“But I…you were asleep…”

“It’s okay. C’mon, I’ll make us some tea, all right?”

He says your name right before you move to walk past him. The sound of it in his broken voice makes you freeze. In the dimness, you see the silhouette of his arm lift in the space between you. His hand trembles, but it’s heading for your face, a tentative, fear-ridden touch on his fingertips like a promise. You just stay very still, letting him take his time. 

It feels like minutes have passed when his fingers finally make contact with your cheek. The faintest brush of a touch, and then a gasp pulling into his throat when he recoils like you’re made of lava.

You’re about to tell him that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to, but he’s moving back in. This time, though the touch is still anxious, it’s more certain. More intentional. He brushes his fingers from your cheekbone to the corner of your lips. A shudder runs down your spine and you try to conceal it, but your face is leaning right into his touch like his hand is water and you’re desperate for a drink. You can’t help it—Leon’s touching your face, so long since he’s done this, and even after being so afraid of touch since he showed up at your door.

He pulls away after a second, and you manage to contain yourself enough to not chase his touch. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“For what…?”

“Everything. Just…everything.”

You want to ask, want him to explain just what, exactly, he means. The knife? The touch itself, or earlier, being afraid of even a mere hug? Showing up here in the first place? Or something else, something deeper? Something long held beneath the surface that he still feels he has to make up for?

You can’t explain why, but you have a gut feeling that it’s the latter. So you don’t ask. Instead, you walk back into the living room, and switch on the floor lamp in the corner by the bookshelf. The room now sent into a warm light, you turn to look at Leon just in time to see him steeling his expression into his usual stoicism. 

Honestly, you could spend hours looking at him, trying to see beyond his carefully-crafted veneer of I’m fine. Or, well, it’s not that you have to try very hard to see beyond it; it’s more that you want to see more than just beyond it. You want to understand everything that he tries to hide from the world, want to find his knots and untangle them, gently coax the dark spots back into the light.

Instead, you ask, “Have you seen Shrek?” 

He looks at you like you just asked if he’s met the Queen of England. “What?”

“That’s not a weird question. Why are you acting like it’s weird?”

“What’s Shrek?” 

“Oh, my God, Leon.” Shaking your head, you walk over to your DVD case and open the little magnetic glass door. “Do you live under a rock?”

“Sometimes.”

Huffing out a laugh, you grab your Shrek DVD, still in its plastic wrapping. Your friend got you it after you went to see it together in the theatre and had the best fucking time ever. You’d kind of gone as a joke, thinking it would just be a dumb kid’s movie and that you’d be the oldest people in the theatre. But then it ended up being a fucking masterpiece, so naturally, you have to have it on DVD. 

When you show the DVD case to Leon, he just looks confused. His brow furrows as he sits down on the couch, holding the case in his hand and staring down at it like it’s a complicated math problem. Then he looks up at you without moving his head, and raises an eyebrow. (God, he looks good.) “What is this?”

“Only the best movie of the century.”

“We’re only in the second year of the century.”

“And yet, it will stay the best,” you say wistfully, taking it back off him. You leave the plastic wrap on the coffee table, then put the DVD into the player, grabbing the TV remote before you sit down beside Leon. The couch is still made up for him to sleep on, a sheet draped across the cushions and a couple of pillows propped up at one end. Of course, the blankets you gave him are now on your bedroom floor, which you belatedly realise is kind of a bummer. It’s chilly and you want to get comfortable. 

“Do you want the blankets?” Leon asks as if reading your mind. 

“Yeah. Please.”

He’s gone and back in less than thirty seconds. Briefly you expect him to also come back carrying the knife he left on the floor in your room, but he doesn’t, and you don’t really know why you thought he would. 

“Here,” he says, handing you your favourite of the three blankets. 

You take it with a grin, then hold it up, offering him to share it with you. It’s why it’s your favourite blanket; big enough to fit Leon in, too. He sits beside you and accepts it across his lap, and you resist the urge to lean into him, to fit yourself against his side and throw an arm across his stomach. You remind yourself that this is enough. That this is a privilege, to have him here under a blanket with you, cuddling or not cuddling. 

“I don’t have high hopes for this movie, by the way,” Leon says wryly.

“Oh, how wrong you are, Leon.”

“I’m not a betting man, but…”

“Good, because if you were, you would lose the shit out of this bet.”

“It’s a movie about a green man?”

“He’s an ogre. And yes. God, Leon, since when have you been so close-minded?”

“I’m not!”

“You totally are. But it’s fine, you’re gonna eat your words anyway, and I’m gonna say I told you so.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You grin at him. “You know I would.”

His smile is small, but it’s there. Soft, a little melancholy. He’s leaning his elbow on the arm of the sofa, twirling a strand of his hair around his finger. He does that when he’s really tired. It’s more of an indicator to you now than the dark circles under his eyes.

It’s just as you hear the commercial-metal intro of the You wouldn’t steal a handbag anti-piracy ad that Leon decides to finally open up. Because of course he chooses the time on the DVD where you can’t pause or skip it to say something like this, meaning that the infomercial is still playing in the background when he says:

“They’re all dead.” 

His voice is…flat, but somehow still filled with held-back emotion, like he’s trying really hard to keep a cap on it but it’s bursting at the seams. 

You look at him. The TV flashes across his face. Bad music plays from the ad. You don’t say anything, your mouth suddenly dry. Instead you just hold your breath, as if the sound of you breathing might make him decide to stop.

“All the men we took on that mission,” he says at last, staring ahead at the TV. His eyes are far away. “Every single one of them died. Only me and Major Krauser made it out.”

Oh, shit. 

On the TV, a trailer for some animated movie coming out later this year starts to play. You should definitely turn it off. It’s completely distracting and inappropriate and really breaks up the somber mood. But…well, maybe that’s why Leon has chosen now to say this out loud. Because the TV is a way off the ship he’s just decided to jump onto. He can bail out if he wants to; he doesn’t have to fill the silence or finish a sentence if he changes his mind. 

So, you just stay very still, and let the moment unfold. Even if it is kind of annoying to have a trailer for Ice Age running in the background. 

“I don’t know what happened,” he confesses, his brow furrowing just a little. He’s still wrapping a lock of hair around his finger over and over. “I tried to save them but I…there was just no time. It all happened so fast. I…I’ve never seen anything like it, I…fuck. All of them.” He swallows hard. “All of them.”

You don’t know what to say. It feels like any words will just be completely useless and come across as arbitrary, obligatory lip service, even though they are far from it. I’m sorry. I’m sure you did the best you could. I’m so fucking sorry, Leon.

In the end, you opt for reaching out and taking his hand, the one sitting atop his thigh. You expect him to flinch away. He doesn’t. He laces your fingers together, squeezes, and doesn’t let up. Holds on so tight his knuckles go white. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. Ever so slightly, he shakes his head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stop seeing it.” 

You shuffle closer, pressing your thighs together. Your throat aches with tears, but you refuse to let them fall, determined to be the strong one for him right now. Looking at him from the side, you watch his jaw clench, watch the fluttering of his eyelids, watch the blues and whites of the TV screen flash on his features. 

“You will,” you say eventually, your voice coming out on a whisper. “It’ll stop. It will.”

“It hasn’t before,” he says. “With…with Raccoon City. I see it all the time. Every night. Every day.”

Fuck. 

“I don’t…I don’t know if I can carry all of this shit.” His voice breaks at last, and a tear drops down from his eye onto his cheeks. He wipes it away in an instant, ashamed. 

“You can,” you insist, meaning it more than you’ve ever meant anything. “You can. I know you can. You shouldn’t have to, but you can. You’re the strongest person I know, Leon, and you don’t have to carry it alone.”

He turns his head away ever so slightly, and you wish he wouldn’t. Wish he would just let himself cry, let himself be seen. But again, you remind yourself that this, right here, is a miracle in itself. The fact he’s even opening up to you at all is such a privilege and you can’t ever take it for granted.

“I should’ve done more,” he says quietly. “I should have…I could have…”

“Don’t go there. Don’t, Leon. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“But I…”

Reaching out, you take a gentle hold of his face, turning it back to face you. He resists at first, but then gives in, although he doesn’t lift his eyes up and meet yours. The wrinkles in his forehead run deep, another tear falling from his eye.

“I wasn’t enough. Just like I wasn’t back in Raccoon City. I’m never enough when it matters.”

“It matters now. It matters to me.”

He shakes his head. You expect him to keep protesting, but he doesn’t. He heaves a long, heavy sigh, and you can almost feel the wave of emotion that comes with it. “This is why I have to keep fighting,” he says. “Until finally it’s different. Until it feels like…like it’s enough.” 

You nod, understanding, even though you wish he felt like he was enough already. Briefly, he lets his forehead bump against yours. You’re so determined to make him feel better that you don’t even think about kissing him. Not really, anyway. When he pulls back, he finally meets your eyes, and a small, sad smile curves his lovely lips. Which—okay, that’s when you think about kissing him, but it’s just a passing thought. Not an impulse you plan to act on.

“Thank you,” he says, blue eyes so earnest it makes your heart ache. “For being here.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” you reply, giving him a warm smile. You stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, then realise that you’ve been caressing his face for just a little too long, and you should probably stop. Just because you know your feelings for him, doesn’t mean he knows his for you, and even if he did, it wouldn’t change anything. 

“I always will,” he replies.

With a glance to the TV, you see that the main menu is finally up on the screen. You grin a little, then say, “You should definitely thank me after we watch this movie.”

He groans a little, tipping his head back against the back of the couch, making you giggle. And then, he laughs too, a soft, tired little chuckle that means everything. His hand still in yours on his lap, he squeezes, and you squeeze back. 

♥︎

At some point during the movie, you somehow ended up leaning against Leon’s side, your head resting on his shoulder. His arm is over the back of the couch, not technically wrapped around you, and you’ve been resisting the urge to put yours over his stomach for an hour now.

You were right, of course. He loved Shrek. Because why wouldn’t he love Shrek.

“I told you so,” you say, just like you promised, grinning as the credits roll.

Dramatically, he sighs. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

“To be fair, I underestimated it too. Me and my friend went to see it as a joke.”

“I can’t believe how much I enjoyed it.”

“I can.”

“That goddamn donkey…”

“They’re making a sequel. You wanna go see it together when it comes out?”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says: “I’d love that.”

Quiet falls between you, the music from the credits the only thing you can hear. It’s comfortable. Relaxing. Leon seems…happier. Or, at least, less tense. You hadn’t expected him to want to be near you at all tonight, especially with how he reacted after his nightmare, and that’s partially why you’ve been resisting wrapping your arm around him; worried that maybe it would make him realise what he was doing and suddenly want to push you away.

But then, you feel the brush of his hand curving around your shoulder, his arm slipping off the back of the couch and onto your skin. He tilts his head to look at you, chin brushing against your forehead. You desperately try to pretend you don’t notice the change in position, or the way the feeling in the room has started to shift.

“Hey,” he murmurs, trying to get your attention. Tentative, you lift your head from his shoulder so you can meet his eyes, and—okay, he’s a lot closer than you realised he would be. So close you can only look into one of his eyes at a time. So close you can feel his warm breath on your face. “Thanks. For tonight.”

You swallow hard. “You already said that,” you point out, wishing your voice came out a little more confident. “Like, several times.”

“I know. I just…I really mean it. I was ready to run away earlier, after I…after that nightmare. I really was just gonna walk out…disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“Not forever,” he’s quick to say, tightening his hold on your shoulder, “But I was gonna run. Told myself it was to keep you safe. Maybe that was part of it, I mean…it still scares the hell out of me, the idea of…of hurting you.” 

“Leon…”

“But it wasn’t just that. I was also just…running away from my shit. Hoping that if I left that—that knife on the floor and ran away that I could just forget any of it ever happened.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s holding back tears, although you see no sign of them on his face. 

“I’m glad you didn’t run,” you say softly. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

He nods. “Me, too.” His eyes flit down to your lips so briefly that you could have imagined it. But when yours look to his, too, it’s like it gives him permission to look for longer, because he really looks at them, then. Stares at your mouth, his own hanging open just a tiny bit. His breath puffs warm against your face. You glance between his lips and his eyes, heart pounding now as you start to recognise that look in his baby blues, start to feel each of his breaths getting faster. 

He’s looking at you like he did that first time. Just before you kissed. Like how badly he wants to kiss you has him frozen to the spot and he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

Should you let him? Is this a terrible fucking idea?

God, you’re so close to each other. A piece of his hair is brushing against your forehead. Breaths mingle in the tiny space between you and you can see it on his face that he wants to close that gap; you can tell because you’ve seen that look before. 

Fuck, you’ve missed that fucking look.

“You can kiss me,” you find yourself whispering, all consequences be damned.

He tilts his head to one side like a half shake of his head. “I want to…”

“…But?”

“It’s what comes after the kiss that I—I can’t give you.”

For a second, you close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Steel yourself. “I know,” you say, opening your eyes again.  

His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. Unfair. “Do you? Really?” 

“Yes. I know, Leon. But I…it’s been so long. So long since you…since we…” 

“I know,” he says on an exhale. “It feels like a goddamn lifetime since I last had you, sweetheart, but…you deserve someone who can give you more than what I can. I can’t—my life is so fucked, baby. This? What I’ve been like since I showed up? It happens every fucking time. Sometimes even just after training, it doesn’t have to be a mission that went to shit. And I…I have no time. I can’t—I can’t give you commitment, stability…” 

“Maybe I’m not asking for it.” 

“But you deserve it.” 

“Leon.” You slide your hand to the nape of his neck. The shaky breath he exhales onto your lips is intoxicating. “Just…what about just for right now?” you whisper, realising with absolute certainty that that would be enough. This is already enough—having him here like this, knowing he wants you like you want him—but you’re aching for him, for the one man who has always treated you well, who is so committed to treating you well that he is hesitating when you’re literally throwing yourself at him. Any of the other guys you’ve dated recently would have jumped at the chance to touch you, to get you into bed, whether or not they actually cared about you or being with you afterwards.

But Leon? He wants you so much that he’s forcing himself to hold back. 

Jesus Christ, you want him so fucking badly it’s not even funny. 

He hesitates, searching your eyes for doubt. “Are you sure?” 

He won’t find any. “I’m sure.” 

“I…” he shakes his head as if searching for words. “You know that I…that I’d give you it, I’d give you me, if I could. Right?” 

“You would?” 

“Jesus, of course I would.” He takes hold of your hand, threads your fingers together. “But I… here’s so much shit happening out there, and I can’t just ignore it, I have to try and stop it. I have to…I have to try and make every time different. I have to try and fix it.” 

Softly, you push back some hairs from his face. “Is that your responsibility?” 

He swallows hard. A shadow falls over his face. “It’s the only thing I can do,” he says, quiet and low. “I’m always gonna go into the next fight. I can’t change that. It’s—I have to. Otherwise, it’s like I survived for nothing.” 

God. Your chest aches. He really thinks he has no other purpose? That he would be here for nothing if he didn’t keep putting himself in danger?

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs.

“Then kiss me, and I’ll stop,” you say. Because yes, you want him. You want him for more than just tonight. You want him to be yours. But you know that you can’t be, that you aren’t going to change his mind with a single conversation alone; and, hell, you don’t want to have to beg him, anyway. If he ever chooses you, it has to really be his choice. And you know that his choice is to go back into the fight.

But maybe just for tonight, he can choose you. Just for now. When the next mission calls him away, he can choose to follow that call. But tonight—tonight can be different.

“I would give it to you, too,” you say. “Just say the word, and I would.”

“Sweetheart…”

“Leon.” You inch closer, so near now that you can’t look into his eyes. His hand on your shoulder tightens, his breath hitching in his throat.

“I—it’s been a while since I…since I kissed anyone, or…” he fades off.

“How long?” You slide your fingers through his hair, revelling in the shudder that runs down his spine. 

“You were the last,” he confesses.

That takes you by surprise. You pull back a little, meet his gaze with a raise of your eyebrows. “Wait, really?”

He’s blushing when he nods. “Yeah.”

He looks nervous, so you swallow back your comments about how shocking that is—because holy shit look at him; how has no one taken their chance to get their hands on him?—and instead smile softly, taking his hand again and squeezing. “We can take it slow. I promise. It’s just me, you don’t have to be nervous.”

“You’re not just anything, sweetheart.” 

“Neither are you.” 

His lips are on yours, then. Already slightly parted, capturing your top lip between both of his. It’s a soft kiss. A gentle, tender thing that feels—fuck, it feels like coming home. He tastes the same as he ever did, his breath going into your mouth and swirling down into your lungs as your lips start to move together, and though his lips are chapped, they still feel so lovely and warm against yours. 

His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb pressing into the spot just below your earlobe, and with each kiss, each reconnection of your lips, you can feel the emotion he’s pouring into it. His reverence, his adoration, everything he feels for you and you for him. His other hand moves along the back cushion of the couch, sliding in past your waist and pressing into the small of your back. Yours stays in his hair, taking a light fistful of it, while your left palm grasps at the collar of his T-shirt to anchor him right where he is.

A small moan escapes your throat when he tilts his head the other way, then teases his tongue along your bottom lip. You accept it eagerly, sliding your own along his in response, feeling him shudder beneath your hands. He’s so careful, so slow, really taking his time, like he doesn’t want to let a single moment go by without savouring it fully. You try to be as patient as him, try to enjoy each second as it passes, but it’s hard, given the fact his tongue in your mouth has sent a fresh wave of arousal right through your core.

Still, when you try to speed things up, try to deepen the kiss, he doesn’t yield. He just keeps that same slow, deliciously agonising pace, forcing you to slow down, to let him savour you. 

So, you do. You melt into him, falling forward until your chests are pressed flush together, until he has to turn a little in his seat and you do too. The hand on your back bunches into a fist, tugging at your pyjama top. You can feel the warmth of his arm and hand through the fabric. It’s so tempting. Such a tease of what’s to come. 

His palm moves from the nape of your neck, sliding across your jaw, then lifting so he can stroke the backs of his fingers down your face. He’s always loved doing that, loved caressing your cheeks like you’re the most precious thing he could ever hold. It takes you back to every other time you’ve kissed, how he’s never made you feel anything less than beautiful, how he’s always wanted you just as much as you’ve wanted him. 

It’s never been like that with anyone else. Sometimes, you wonder if it ever will be.

You break the kiss, only to say, “Leon…?”

He pulls back and meets your eyes, all earnest baby blues staring back at you as he continues to stroke your face, all the way from your cheekbone to your jaw and back. “Yeah?”

“Will you take me to bed?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart. I’d love nothin’ more.”

In your room, you watch as Leon sheepishly picks up the knife from the floor and places it on top of the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. Then he turns to look at you, eyes darkening when he sees you standing there at the foot of your bed, hands fiddling over your pelvis while you wait for him. 

Slowly, he steps closer. It’s much more dimly lit in here, and the warm glow casts such beautiful shadows across his face. He looks so fucking good, and you can’t quite believe you’ve got him here like this. After all these years. After everything…

When his hands take hold of each side of your face, cradling it between his palms, something in you breaks. Just a hairline crack somewhere deep down. You exhale, letting your eyelids flutter shut. It feels like a weight you didn’t even know you were carrying has been lifted. 

You expect to feel his lips on yours next, but instead they land on your forehead, a firm, lingering kiss pressed there. There’s something strangely emotional about it. You’re not sure why this, specifically, has your throat aching with threatening tears, but it does nonetheless. You grab onto his shirt with both hands, anchoring him to you, letting his lips stay on your forehead as long as he wants. 

Then, they ghost down across the bridge of your nose, feather-light as his hot breath puffs against your skin. His mouth closes around the tip of your nose, an open-mouthed kiss, then he’s moving across to your cheekbones, kissing each of them in turn. Then your jaw, one side at a time. Your chin. Underneath your chin. Under your jaw. Down onto your neck. Long, reverent kisses that go between open-mouthed and closed, some leaving wetness in their wake, others a lovely, reassuring warmth. 

His breath hitches when he lifts his head back to yours, your lips just millimetres apart now. He’s waiting, and you’re waiting, but he’s not hesitating. It’s more of that savouring. That taking his time. 

It’s all you can do to let him. 

Your heart is pounding against your ribcage, your fingers tingling with desperation. Not to mention the pulsing between your legs, the need building in your core, sending your thighs into a state of perpetually squeezing together.

Still not kissing you—just hovering, just a breath away—his hands find the hem of your pyjama top. You’re nodding before he even asks, and for this, he doesn’t wait around. He pulls it off in one smooth motion, as if he’s thought about doing it enough that he’s got it down to a fine art, and then—then. His hands are on you, on your bare skin. Pressing into your waist, gripping hard. You can feel the callouses on his hands, more than there have ever been, and a few scars to boot.

You tug at his shirt too, but he ignores you, opting instead to finally lean in and kiss you. He’s picked up speed a little now, his kisses hotter, a little more urgent. But he’s still holding back, still not completely letting go, and you’re burning all over with how much you fucking need him and how much you love him—

His hands find your tits then, squeezing and rubbing and pinching. It’s all you can do to moan into his mouth, soft, breathy noises that escape you like little pieces of adoration. He breathes them all in like they’re oxygen, his hands sliding down your back and dipping below the hem of your pyjama pants. 

Before you let him take them off, though, you break away enough to say: “Leon, please, take your clothes off too.”

He chuckles a little, pulling back to meet your eyes. He’s smiling, but there’s something else on his face too, something anxious and flickering. “I just got back from a mission,” he says hoarsely, “I’m pretty beat up. I don’t…want you to worry.”

“Too late. But I’m also really desperate for you to be naked, so…”

“Are you sure?”

“That I want you naked?”

“That you really want to see me…like this. It’s—not pretty.”

You soften a little, feeling your heart ache at the sight of the insecurity in his eyes. He’s worrying his bottom lip, his hands fiddling nervously with the elastic of your pants. You reach up your hands and take a hold of his face, stroking your thumbs over his cheekbones. “You could never not be pretty,” you say softly.

His lips tilt into a little smile, and his cheeks go just a little pink beneath your thumbs. He stares into your eyes for a moment, as if searching for any traces of doubt or apprehension in you. Clearly finding none, he eventually relaxes a little, and pulls away just enough so that he can take his shirt off.

You can’t stop the gasp that pulls into your mouth. 

He’s covered in bruises. His ribs on each side are mottled shades of dark purples and blues, coming together in the centre and fading off a little. Right in his abdomen there’s what looks like the shape of someone’s boot. Heavy, big, leaving a nasty bruise and some burst blood vessels in its wake. On his arms there are lacerations and cuts, all minor, only skin deep, but fuck, there’s so many. 

And—the scars. Old wounds that had worked so hard to heal until he got hurt again. A long, thick stripe of raised, white scar tissue traces down from his ribs to his hips on one side, and suddenly you’re taken back to that night in the motel. The second one, after you reunited. That massive gash on his torso. It’s completely healed now, of course, but the scar remains. Alongside about half a dozen other ones that you can see—and that’s just on his front.

“Told you,” he murmurs, averting his eyes. His body language shifts, insecurity washing over him in a wave. “Not pretty.”

“Leon,” you say, bringing your hands back up to his face. “It’s okay. I mean—it’s not okay. I hate that you’re hurt, but…I still want you.” 

“…You do?”

“Of course I do.” You almost laugh, because ha. “Leon, you’re still so fucking sexy.”

The flush in his cheeks gets deeper. “Baby…” he looks away again, bashful.

You take a tiny step closer, your toes now brushing together. Sliding your hands down from his face, you move across his neck, over his shoulders. Then, softly, “No one’s ever seen you like this, have they?”

Slowly he shakes his head. Looks up at you from under his eyelashes, biting his lip. “Aside from a few field medics stitching me up, no,” he confesses.

Your heart clenches. It’s not lost on you, the weight of that. The sheer magnitude of his trust in you, of his willingness to be vulnerable in front of you. You can’t imagine he would do that with just anyone; in fact, he’s pretty much just confirmed that, right here and now.

“Sweetheart,” you whisper, leaning in close. “You’re beautiful.”

He smiles again. Just one corner of his lips lifting up. His hands slide beneath your pyjama pants and take a hold of your butt, a cheek in each hand. He squeezes, eliciting a soft gasp from you. Then he says: “Says you, gorgeous.”

You shiver, your eyelids fluttering. “Leon…”

From inside your pants, he takes a hold of the fabric, and tugs questioningly. “Can I…?”

“Please.” And they’re off in half a second, pooled around your feet along with your underwear. 

For the first time in four years, Leon is seeing you naked. You’ve changed a lot in that time; put on some weight here and there, gained some stretch marks, your body shape shifting as you go through your twenties. Your boobs hang a little lower now, because there’s more weight to them. And your pussy—well, you stopped shaving that a while ago. (After the boyfriend who basically forced you to do it for three months, you’ve now made a vow to yourself to never shave for a man again.) 

Leon’s eyes run over you from head to toe. His mouth hangs open a little, pupils blowing wide at the sight of you. On instinct, your arms move to cover yourself, your back hunching just a little beneath his heated, detailed gaze. 

But before insecurity can kick in, Leon takes hold of your arms to unwrap them from your torso, then wraps his own around you, pulling you flush against his bare chest. “Don’t hide from me,” he requests, his voice low and rough. 

You shake your head. His hips shift against yours, and you feel it, the hardness growing beneath his sweatpants. Your mind flashes back to that night four years ago, to seeing his dick for the first time back then, to the memory of just how badly you wanted it in you as soon as you laid eyes upon it.

Turns out, nothing has changed now. By the time he’s got his sweatpants off, you’re lying back on the bed, and your mouth is fucking watering at the sight of him. Hard, swollen, already leaking precum. Holy fucking shit, you never thought you’d have this again. You’ve grieved for this. You’ve yearned for this.

And the way Leon is looking down at you now that he’s hovering over you again would have you believe that he has, too.

Laying your hand on the pillow by your head, he presses his palm into yours, threads your fingers together. His other hand strokes down your face as he gazes into your eyes, all dark black pupils and sparkling adoration aimed right at you.

It’s one thing to be actually physically naked with him. But the way he’s looking at you makes you feel more exposed than any lack of clothes ever could.

“Leon,” you whisper, “please…”

He smirks a little, then leans down to kiss you, soft and open-mouthed. He pulls away only for a second before he’s pressing his lips to your jaw, nudging your chin up with his nose so he can have better access to your neck. And, God, does he make use of that access. He really does. 

Spends a good ten minutes mouthing at the entirety of your neck, all the way from under your chin to your collar bones. Wet, hot, delicious kisses, some of them lingering so long that his teeth get involved. You know that he’s leaving marks on you, and honestly, you kind of love that. 

He’d given you a hickey four years ago and watching it fade as the hope of his survival did too was agony. 

Not that watching these ones fade will be a great time either, but still. For right now, he’s leaving his mark on you, and you just know that that’s his intention. It’s not just that he’s kissing you and it accidentally happens. These bites and sucks are purposeful, intentional. 

Finally satisfied, he lifts his head, meets your eyes again. His lips are shiny with his own spit. “Can I taste you?” he asks. So polite. Always so fucking polite.

“Yes—please, baby. But—”

He raises an eyebrow. “But…?”

You buck your hips up into his to make your point. “I really, really want your cock,” your voice comes out whinier than you’d hoped, but you can’t find it in you to care much. “Just—really badly.”

He chuckles gently. “Okay, baby. But I can’t promise I won’t get caught up and end up taking my time. Been too long since I tasted you, sweetheart.”

“Agreed.” You nod enthusiastically, to which he laughs again, such a beautiful, quiet sound that feels like heaven to bear witness to.

Predictably, he’s just as good at eating you out as he ever was. Even with his apparent four year dry spell, his skills have not waned. In fact, his tongue is stronger now, and so is his jaw, so he’s able to really go for it for longer.

Thrusts his tongue in and out until you’re clenching and pushing out just a little, and it feels so fucking good, so fucking good—no one has ever gone down on you like Leon Kennedy has, and honestly, you don’t think anyone ever will.

He’s quieter now, though. Before, he was so vocal, always humming and moaning and whimpering into your pussy. He’d grab onto your legs with wild abandon, push his face into you like he didn’t care about breathing ever again. When you’d squirted into his mouth, the sound he made was goddamn otherworldly.

But now, he doesn’t make any noise at all, save for the wet sounds of his tongue lapping at you. It doesn’t make it less enjoyable, or anything, but…you notice it. And try not to think about just what, exactly, has that earnest, eager Leon Kennedy so squashed down that he no longer automatically lets himself give completely in to his pleasure.

Still, when you squirt on his tongue here and now, a choked moan does tear its way through his throat like he can’t help it. You can hear him trying to hold it back, but he’s helpless to it; the man loves when you squirt. He always has.

“Fuck!” you cry out as your orgasm hits, your hands clenching in his hair, legs held up and flailing about in wave after wave of pleasure. He licks you through it, drinks up all your juices, mouth so warm and lovely and delicious against you. “Fuck—Leon. Holy shit. Holy shit.”

Once he knows your high has subsided, he carefully pulls away, presses a long kiss to the inside of your thigh before looking up and meeting your eyes. And—god. His face is soaked. Literally dripping. And he’s grinning, all boyish and cute and very, very pleased with himself (entirely justified after what he just did, to be fair). “Good?” he asks. 

You laugh. “Uh, yeah. Now get up here.” You make grabby hands towards him, and his smile softens as he obliges, moving up the bed towards you again. 

“You want me to wipe my mouth…?”

For a second you think about saying yes, but God, his lips are all puffy and bright red and you can’t fucking resist. You pull him in without answering, attaching your lips to his in an instant. He doesn’t miss a beat, of course. Melts right into you, brings up a hand to cup your face. His eagerness is still just as palpable as it ever was, despite how much more reserved he seems. He licks into your mouth like’s been thinking about doing it for years and finally has the chance, he grinds his hard cock into your hip like he just can’t help but seek that friction, he strokes your face with all the care and reverence he did four years ago.

It’s all so tender and lovely and beautiful and holy fuck you need him inside you right fucking now.

“Leon—”

“I know,” he whispers against your lips. With one last peck, he props himself up on his left arm, then reaches down between your bodies with his right hand. You expect him to take hold of his cock and position it right at your entrance, because he said I know, he knows what it is you want. But instead, he presses his finger to your clit, ever so soft and gentle. A shot of pleasure bolts through your core and a whimper escapes your throat.

Leon’s mouth falls open. He’s watching your face intently, revelling in how you melt into his touch. You’re reminded of the first time you did this, when Leon had looked at your pussy like he’d never seen one before, like it was the most enchanting thing he’d ever seen. The look on his face now is similar, though he can’t seem to make his mind up about whether to look at your pussy or your face.

Before you can prompt him to fuck you, he’s diving back down to capture your lips in yet another kiss. His finger works soft circles over your clit and you can’t stop moaning into his mouth, your hand coming up to cup the back of his head. His finger dips down, gathers wetness from your entrance before going back to your clit again. And really, truly, you’ve never had a man be so goddamn focused on your pleasure. His cock is so close to you, so close to getting its own attention, and you’re practically begging him for it—and yet, he can’t stop touching your pussy, watching your head tilt back and mouth fall open.

“Leon…” you whine, bucking your hips up into his. The head of his cock bumps one side of your mound and he cuts off a groan before it can come out. “Please, baby, need you…”

“Mm…” he grunts, the sound vibrating in his chest. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, then lifts his hand from your clit, instead using it to take hold of his cock. You feel his head poke at your entrance, and the way he holds your eyes before pushing inside is so intimate it makes your throat ache. “You ready?”

I’m gonna put it in, okay? he’d asked, that first time.

Are you ready? he’d asked, the second time he fucked you on that same night. 

Some things, you suppose, never change. 

“I’ve literally never been more ready for anything,” you manage to quip, albeit breathlessly. 

He chuckles. Then, finally, he pushes inside you, and holy fucking shit. The stretch of him is delicious, goddamn otherworldly, sliding in so slowly and easily. Suddenly, a feeling you have tried to find since that night is overtaking you, a feeling you’ve never been able to get with anyone else. Because how could you? That feeling is Leon’s cock splitting you open and the way he looks at you while he does it.

It’s better than you remember. You didn’t think that was possible.

“Oh, fuck, baby…” You grasp his shoulders, your nails digging in for a second before you force your fingers flat, not wanting to hurt him any more than he already is. “Leon, you feel so fucking good.” 

“You feel even better,” he retorts, his voice strained and breathy. “God, sweetheart, you got any idea how much I missed this…how much I missed you…”

“I missed you.” You wrap your legs around his waist when he bottoms out inside you. “I missed you so much, oh my god…”

“It’s been so fuckin’ long, huh? Too fuckin’ long—” Agonisingly slowly, he pulls all the way out. Then, at the same pace, pushes back inside. Your pussy stretches out all over again and you can feel everything, the veins on his shaft, the bumps and curves of him, the sheer, hard weight of him resting inside you. His face finds your neck, burrows into it like he’s shy, like he doesn’t want you to look at him. You feel his breath hot against the marks he made earlier and you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders as far as they’ll go, rubbing soothing circles into his skin. 

He keeps going just like that: all the way out and then in again, so fucking slowly, enjoying every centimetre as he sinks in.

It’s amazing, you could do this forever, but also—

“Please, Leon—need you f-faster—”

“I know,” he murmurs into your pulse point. “I know, and I will, just—just let me feel you. Please. Just for a minute. It’s—it’s been so long.” His voice breaks just a little. He pushes his face further into your neck, hides beneath your hair. 

For a long time, he goes slow like that. Occasionally he’ll go still inside you, buried all the way to the hilt. He slides his arms underneath you and uses them to press your bodies as close together as possible, cradling you in his arms like you’re something precious. It’s the quietest he’s ever been, and yet, it’s the most loved you’ve ever felt while having sex with someone. Despite how few words he’s said and how little noise he’s made, he’s saying everything without even needing to talk.

Not that you don’t miss his delicious whimpers and the desperate way he apologised for coming “too soon”, but…

When you squirt around his cock, he starts to pick up the pace. He can’t stop himself, you suppose, and you don’t blame him, really. It feels so fucking good, his dick pressing right against your G-spot just right, your pussy squirting and squirting over and over.

“Fuuuuck…” you breathe, then sigh out in relief as he starts to get faster, harder.

“Goddamn,” he curses under his breath, moving his arms out from underneath you so he can better brace himself on his hands. He fucks you with all the intensity and precision you’d expect from him. Watches your face, listens to the sounds you make, lingers in the positions that make you moan the loudest, kisses you with a wet, open mouth every minute. 

“Fuck, Leon, holy shit, that feels so good—you fuck me so good—”

His chest rumbles with a deep growl. He presses your foreheads together, both of you sweaty and damp. You can feel his frown of concentration. He slams his hips into you and you lift your legs up just right so that he’s hitting that spot inside you, getting deeper with each thrust, the tip of his cock hitting the highest place it can reach. No one’s ever gone that deep except Leon, and honestly? You don’t fucking want them to.

All you want is this—him. Every time, for all the times.

You try not to linger on that thought and how it’s not possible; now’s not the time. Instead, you take a tight hold of his biceps and squeeze, squirting around his cock again when it hits just fucking right.

“Oh, God…sweetheart, I think I’m gonna…” He pulls out just in time, works himself in his hand for just a second before he’s exploding all over your stomach. Hot, ropy cum coats you, some of it even splashing up to your chin. God, it feels good.

It doesn’t help you to shut out the thought of how you want this always. You’d let him come on you, in you, wherever he wanted, for the rest of your goddamn life if only he could—

“Fuck,” he moans, putting his face in your neck again. He’s panting, chest heaving under your hands. “Fuck, baby…wanted to go for longer but you started squirting and I just…” He heaves a big sigh. 

You laugh a little, fond. One of your hands finds his hair. “S’okay. Felt good.”

He kisses your skin, right where your neck meets your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your lips, and finally, he kisses you properly. Soft, warm, open-mouthed. “Baby, I…” He shakes his head a little, rests his forehead on yours. 

“What?” 

“I just…I…nothing. Nothing, I—you wanna clean up a little?”

Gently, you push him back so that you can look into his eyes. “Leon…”

“It’s nothing. I just—” His forehead wrinkles, and he has to swallow hard before he continues, his voice coming out quiet and timid, “I wish it could always be like this.”

There’s that ache in your throat again, accompanied by a sharp pain in your chest. You nod, pulling him close again so you can kiss him. When you pull away, you anchor your faces together with both hands on the back of his neck, and wrap your legs around his. “Yeah. Me, too.” 

***

The sun rises as you lay in Leon’s arms. 

Neither of you has gone back to sleep, and you’re not really saying anything into the quiet, either. He’s wrapped around you from behind, cradling you with one arm under your neck and the other over your waist, his hand tucked into your chest where you hold it tight. His breath brushes warm on the back of your neck, nose pressed right into your skin.

Somehow, your mind is calm and chaotic all at once. Being in Leon’s arms like this makes everything seem so peaceful and warm, and yet, you can’t shake off the racing thoughts, the desperate wish for it to be different. If you opened your mouth to speak, you’re afraid that all would come out would be I love you, Leon, and I don’t want you to leave. 

So you stay quiet. 

And so does he.

Hours later, after you’ve cooked breakfast together and it’s way past noon, Leon is hovering by your front door, reluctant to leave. 

“You can stay, you know,” you offer, already knowing he’ll turn it down.

“I know, baby, and I appreciate that. But I can’t. I have to get back to base…”

You nod, not surprised but still disappointed. Feeling self conscious, you pull at the hem of his Spider-man t-shirt that you are now wearing again—Leon’s just wearing his leather jacket, zipped up over his bare chest; he handed you his t-shirt this morning without a word and you took it, knowing it’s the only piece of him you’ll likely have for a while—and stand there, itching to lean closer and hold him. 

He stares at you, his hands twitching at his sides. He looks like he wants to say something. His jaw clenches over and over, his blue eyes all wide and emotional, belying the stoic expression on his face.

“So…” you say into the quiet, trying not to make it awkward.

He swallows hard. “So.”

“I, uh…I’ll email you?”

“Yeah. And I’ll call you when I can.”

For a second, the room falls into silence again. Then you both take quick breaths, and you start to speak at the same time, your words overlapping.

“You know I don’t—”

“I hope it was okay—”

You chuckle breathily and he smiles, shaking his head. “You go,” he says. 

“No, you go first.”

“I just…I was gonna say that I don’t…I’m not asking you to wait for me.”

A frown creases your brow. “What?”

“I don’t wanna be a selfish asshole. I know you’ve had a bad string of boyfriends lately, and I know I’ve been an asshole about most of ’em, but it’s—just ’cause I care about you and I…I want you to be happy.”

You make me happy, Leon. The words sit on the tip of your tongue. Thankfully, Leon keeps talking before you can blurt it out.

“I just want you to know that I—even if it can’t be with me, I…you deserve to be with someone good. So I just. I wanted to say that I…I’ll be happy for you. If you meet someone else. Someone who’s actually good; you deserve the best, sweetheart. Even if that’s not me.”

You swear that you can feel a crack tear right through your heart. Fractures take hold in its chambers, your blood not pumping quite right for a moment. The idea of finding someone else, after last night…though you knew it was an inevitability that Leon would leave now and you wouldn’t be a thing—god, someone else is such an awful thing to think about right now.

Managing to swallow back your tears, you force a smile onto your face, but it just comes out sad. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet,” you say hoarsely. “But…thanks. I guess.”

He nods. Holds your eyes. Just stands there like that, gazing at you, like the last thing he wants to do is leave. Then he suddenly takes a step closer, and before you know it his hand is on the back of your neck and his lips press into your forehead, firm and warm and so fucking sad. He lingers there for such a long time; you let your eyes fall closed, your forehead wrinkling beneath his lips, bottom lip starting to tremble.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. “I’ll miss you,” he whispers against the bridge of your nose. 

“I’ll miss you, too.”

After a gentle nuzzle of your noses, your eyes meet. He lifts his hand to your face, brushes away a stray tear with his thumb. There’s so much unspoken in the air between you, so many words rushing around in your mind, fighting to be the ones you choose to speak. But you refuse to say any of them. Now isn’t the time, and it won’t change his mind. 

You know that, and so does he. 

Which is why he just smiles, sad and far from reaching his eyes, and turns to leave without another word.

notes: eee i hope you enjoyed this part!!! thank you so much for reading as always! if you enjoyed, please do reblog and leave a comment to let me know! ♥︎ i've already started writing part 4 :) i debated splitting this part up into two chapters but ran a poll on here and posting it all at once won! hope you don't mind the length :D (lol)

taglist: @gaelle1603 @beltzboys2015-blog @rubixgsworld @khasaproblem @sharkalina666 @emmawrites-stuff @mrskennedyy1 @honeyhazelll

[emmawrites-stuff]

Guys, if you're into Leon Kennedy, you should check this writer out! She's amazing!!!

[emmawrites-stuff]

Some things don’t stay buried

After an intense mission, one adrenaline-fueled mistake turns into two months of silence for Leon Kennedy and his new D.S.O. partner, Kim Walsh. That's, until Ada Wong shows up and exposes everything they’ve been trying to ignore. A very jealous reader confronts Leon. Some things don’t stay buried. Especially not this.

Warnings: OK, now I'm on my Leon Kennedy phase, again! Anyway... workplace relationship, unresolved tension, jealousy, smut (p in v), fingering, mild violence (resident evil typical), emotional confrontation, making out. As always, English is not my first language.

Also, I got carried away, so there are 5,172 words on this one!

Leon's heart was pounding in his chest as he and his new D.S.O. partner, Kim, made their way through the dark, ominous halls of the Raccoon City Police Department. It was a tense and stressful mission, with danger lurking around every corner. This was not their first mission together, but it was their first high-risk mission. And all of that only to retrieve some virus evidence from the confines of his old precinct. To be honest, Leon was tired of reliving the past. They had already fought five B.O.W.s along the way, not to mention the infected, and adrenaline was surging through his body. 

Suddenly, the hallway lights died one by one until only the emergency lights were left, pulsing red across the wet concrete and broken glass. That’s when they saw it; something had moved in the dark ahead. Leon raised a hand instantly. “Stop!” But Kim already had her weapon up. The shape stepped into the light, too tall, joints bending a fraction too far, skin patterned like it had been stitched together. A B.O.W., freshly released. “Yeah,” Kim muttered, voice tight. “That one’s new.” It lunged. Leon fired first, a clean burst to the chest. It didn’t stop. Kim shifted right, trying to flank. 

“Kim, left!” Leon shouted. Too late. The creature swung fast, a bit too fast. Leon grabbed her and yanked her back just as the creature’s arm tore through the space where her head had been a second earlier. They hit the wall hard together. “Move!” he snapped. Kim recovered instantly, firing point-blank into its leg causing it to buckle just long enough for Leon to step in, finishing it with a powerful shot to the head. “Good thing I brought my shotgun,” Leon said. But silence didn’t come because more footsteps echoed behind them.

“Of course,” Kim breathed, “I was beginning to think that had been a little too easy!”. Leon exhaled sharply. “Back-to-back.” There was no argument. They pivoted instantly shoulder to shoulder, weapons up, covering opposite directions as shapes began emerging from both ends of the hall. B.O.W.s. Two, then three. “On three,” Leon said. “Don’t miss, I think we are running out of ammo,” Kim shot back. They moved on instinct, not thinking, just reacting. 

Leon dropped one mid-charge. Kim pivoted and took another off its feet before it reached Leon. One got through anyway. It slammed into Leon hard enough to drive him into the wall. “Leon!” Kim didn’t hesitate, shooting it off him before it could bite her partner down. Leon shoved it back and finished it with a brutal close-range shot. He turned, breathing hard. “You good?” Kim nodded once. “You?” “Yeah,” he said. But neither of them moved immediately.

Because they were still too close, still in sync, still alive in a way that felt louder than the gunfire had been. And when they finally pushed forward again, neither of them noticed how naturally they stayed within reach of each other like it had always been that way. And that’s when, as they navigated their way through the treacherous building, Leon started noticing that he wasn’t all that worried about any monsters they might have to face next. 

To tell the truth, he couldn't help but sneak glances at Kim. Despite the intense circumstances, he was drawn to her determination and quick reflexes. She had done well that day, as she always did whenever they had paired up in the past. That’s probably why he didn’t complain about being assigned to her as a senior agent, right after coming back from Spain, after saving Ashley. In any case, the adrenaline pumping through his veins at that moment only seemed to heighten his senses, making him acutely aware of every curve of her body and every flash of her eyes as she scanned the area for threats.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they retrieved the evidence and accomplished their mission. But, just as they emerged from the police station, Leon let out a deep breath, the tension of the situation melting away. He turned to Kim, ready to exchange a quick word of relief before heading their separate ways. They were standing by his car, but something about the look in her eyes stopped him short. A flicker of heat, a spark of unspoken desire. Then, without a word, he reached out and crashed his lips against hers in a searing kiss. 

Kim responded instantly, her hands fisting in his shirt as she pressed herself against him. Leon gently turns her around, swapping their positions and caging her body against the passenger door. They made out hotly on the side of the car, hands roaming and exploring, breathing ragged and filled with lust. In a haze of desperation, Leon opened the door and ushered Kim inside, going around and getting in on the driver’s side. When he sat down and closed the door, before he could turn, Kim straddled him in the driver's seat, grinding down on the hard bulge in his pants.

"Fuck," Leon groaned, tilting his head back as she kissed and sucked at his neck. "I want you so bad," he whispered against her ear. "Then take me," Kim panted, her hand reaching between them to palm his straining erection through his pants. "Right here, right now." With quick, fumbling hands, Leon shoved his pants and boxers down just enough to free his throbbing cock. Kim shimmied out of her own bottoms before reaching down and positioning him at her entrance. She sank down in one swift motion, already wet from all Leon’s ogling back at the precinct. 

The thing is, she could feel his stare on her a mile away, even if he would throw one of his classic funny lines her way whenever she met his gaze. Kim wasn’t blind, she knew Leon Kennedy was easily the most attractive agent she had ever worked with, and if he was into her, she felt she’d better enjoy it while they were still alive, especially after almost dying at least three times since that same evening. So, she started to push herself down on his cock, taking him to the hilt inside her tight heat. They both cried out at the sensation, bodies trembling with the force of their joined pleasure.  

"Oh God," Leon grunted, gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises as he began to move. "You feel so fucking good." Kim could only moan in response, bouncing on his lap with wild abandon. She kept her forehead pressed to his. If they were doing this, she would keep looking into his beautiful eyes and commit every second of this experience to memory. They might never have another chance. God knew how many women threw themselves at Leon, and he might be just a player, afterall. 

So she kept looking at him, both of them making faces and moaning at the moment of intimacy. His hands on her hips guided her to move sensually and fuck him hard, just like she needed it. Damn, just like she never knew she needed, if she was being honest. The car windows fogged up as the sound of their flesh slapping together filled the small space, their mutual pleasure building higher and higher. "Leon," Kim gasped, her walls starting to flutter around him. "Oh my God!" Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her pussy clamping down on Leon's cock as she came hard. The sensation pushed Leon over the edge as well, his hips jerking as he spilled himself deep inside her. 

They stayed like that for a long moment, chests heaving and bodies still joined as they rode out the aftershocks. Finally, with shaking arms, Kim lifted herself off him, both of them groaning softly at the loss. Silently, they righted their clothes and exited the car. Without a word about what had just happened, she said, “so I will call it in. Are you taking the sample to HQ or should I?” Leon looked at the briefcase on the back seat and let out a breath, “I’ve got it. I assume you’re staying so they can isolate the area then.” “Yep… plus, I drove my own car, so I don’t really need a ride.” And just like that, they went their separate ways, not acknowledging the intense, electric connection they had just shared minutes prior. It was as if the whole thing had never happened. 

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Two months later, Leon and Kim moved through missions with the same efficiency as always, except for the one thing neither of them ever mentioned since that night. The incident: one night, too much adrenaline, too little restraint, and a line crossed so fast they barely understood it until it was over. They never talked about it, not once. Both of them knew exactly why: acknowledging it meant acknowledging they’d broken rules, and that alone could bury both of their careers. So silence became the only safe option.

Still, sometimes the memory slipped into the air between them, in the brush of shoulders, in the way their eyes lingered a second too long, but they always shoved it away before it could breathe. And tonight was no different. The facility was dark and quiet except for the hum of failing lights and the distant groan of metal shifting. Leon walked ahead, flashlight steady, his breath forming thin puffs in the cold air. Kim followed just behind, her senses sharp, her heartbeat annoyingly aware of him in the space. 

“Hallway splits up ahead,” Leon murmured. Kim nodded, sweeping her weapon to the left. “Clear so far.” Her voice sounded normal and professional, exactly how she practiced it. Then Leon stiffened, which made Kim’s stomach drop. “What is it?” But he didn’t answer. Instead, he stared down the corridor as if he was seeing a ghost materialize. And then she saw it. 

A figure emerged from the fog of flickering lights, steps smooth, deliberate, unfazed by the tension of the place. “Ada?” Leon’s voice softened in a way Kim had never heard. 

Ada Fucking Wong walked into view, dressed in sleek tactical gear, every inch of her brimming with a composed danger that made the whole hallway tilt around her. She smiled with a small, knowing gaze that made Kim’s nerves prickle. “Hello, Leon,” Ada said, tone warm enough to fog glass. Leon exhaled slowly. “What are you doing here?” 

Ada’s gaze traveled over him, lingering just long enough to be inappropriate for a biohazard zone. “Working. Same as you.” Finally, her eyes flicked toward Kim, the assessment sharp and silent. “And this is…?” “Agent Kim Walsh,” Leon said, too quickly. “My partner.” Ada’s brows lifted slightly in surprise, the same way someone reacts to an unexpected twist in a story they already know the ending to. “Your partner,” she repeated, voice like silk sliding over something razor-edged. “Cute.” 

Kim kept her grip firm on her weapon and stood tall. She looked every inch the trained agent she was. But Ada looked at her like she could see right through the façade. Ada stepped closer, toward Leon (always toward him, Kim thought). And Kim felt a heat coil low in her stomach, uncomfortable and unwelcome. Ada stopped within an arm’s length of him, tilting her head ever so slightly. “You always find yourself in the middle of trouble, don’t you?” Leon’s breath shifted, subtle, but still there. “Ada…” 

She brushed past him, light and intentional. A touch that meant history. And Kim felt it in her teeth. Ada didn’t look back right away. When she finally did, her gaze landed on Kim in a slow, observant way, too damn perceptive. That spark of tension in Kim’s chest tightened another notch. Not jealousy yet. Not anger. Just a sharp awareness that Ada brought out something in Leon that Kim had no right to name. Ada’s lips curved. “Relax. I’m not here to interfere.” 

Kim didn’t move. She didn’t trust herself to. Then Ada added, with a voice that deliberately grazed the line between threat and flirtation: “Not unless he asks me to.” 

Leon blinked trying to melt down the provocations. “Ada, stop it.” Kim swallowed hard. And Ada watched the reaction travel across her face, piece by piece, as she smiled, softer now, almost kind, but laced with meaning.  “Oh,” Ada murmured, recognition blossoming. “I see.” 

Leon frowned. “See what?” Ada didn’t answer him, really she didn’t have to. Instead, she gave Kim one last, devastatingly perceptive look—the kind that told Kim ‘your face gave you away —before melting back into the shadows like she’d never been there. 

Leon turned to Kim. “Are you okay?”  Kim’s voice came out too quickly. “I’m fine, we should move.” She strode ahead, hoping distance would smother the burn in her chest. Behind her, Leon hesitated, watching her with new, unsettled confusion. Kim had spent two months pretending that night didn’t change anything between them. But Ada had seen the truth in thirty seconds. Deep down, Kim was afraid Leon would too, and she hated that feeling. 

They kept moving deeper into the facility, but the air between them had changed. Not drastically or loudly, just a noticeable shift. Leon kept glancing sideways at Kim, not enough to be obvious, but enough that he almost walked into a rusted gurney at one point. She was clearly tense with her shoulders tight, jaw ticking, the toe of her boot tapping more loudly than usual when she stopped to check a corner. Kim never tapped her boot. “Hey,” he finally muttered, “you sure you’re alright?” She looked at him annoyed, “I said I’m fine,” her voice clipped. 

He frowned. “You surely don’t sound fine.” She gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Maybe I’m just not used to missions getting interrupted by femme fatales who know your first name like it’s their favorite love song.” Leon blinked hard. “That’s… oddly specific.” “Is it?” She kept walking, sweeping her flashlight across the hallway. “Because it felt pretty straightforward to me.” Leon stayed close behind her. “So, you’re upset.” She continues walking, “I didn’t say that.” He starts following her,  “you didn’t need to.” Kim scoffed, an edge creeping into it. “Okay, fine. Is she your angry ex or something?! Should I put her on the list of biohazards to avoid?”  

Leon opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “She’s not… it’s complicated.” Kim shot him a look over her shoulder. “Everything about her seems complicated.” He couldn’t deny that. And Kim, she didn’t usually talk like this. She was sharp, sure. Sarcastic, always. But this was different. This was her trying—and obviously failing—not to bleed jealousy into her tone. Leon finally spoke softly, “Why do you care, anyway?” Kim froze mid-step. He hadn’t meant it like a challenge. It came out quiet, almost confused. Kim’s throat tightened, she didn’t turn around. “I don’t. I was just asking.” “Yeah,” he said slowly, “but you only get that tone when something’s bothering you.” She hated that he noticed that, but most of all, she hated that she did, really, care. She hated that Ada had seen right through her walls so fast it made her look like an amateur.  

Kim swallowed, steadied her voice. “Drop it, Leon. We have a job to finish.” They kept walking until they reached a large lab chamber with broken glass and ripped papers scattered all across the floor. Leon checked the perimeter. Kim took the opposite side, they tried to fall back into routine—same old sweep, clear, report—but their rhythm kept stuttering. Kim muttered, “She looked at me like I was some sort of… side mission.” Leon turned to her slowly. “Kim.” Before he could finish the thought, a soft click echoed from above. Kim’s instincts fired. “Get down!” 

They dove behind an overturned metal bench as a bullet cracked into the wall where Leon’s head had been. A figure dropped from a walkway overhead with the grace of a cat. Ada. Of course it was Ada. She landed lightly, gun trained on the floor but not firing again. “Relax… If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have missed.” Kim stood first, furious before she even spoke. “You shot at us!” Ada tilted her head. “I was aiming away. Consider it… a test, and you passed.”  Kim’s blood boiled. “What do you want now?”

Ada’s eyes flicked to her, then to Leon, reading every tiny twitch of tension like she was analyzing a puzzle she already knew the ending to. “I came to see if Leon needed any help.” Her gaze slid deliberately to Kim. “He seems a bit… distracted.” Kim’s jaw clenched so hard Leon thought she might crack a tooth. “Don’t worry, I've got his back,” came Kim’s reply. 

Leon stepped forward, stern. “Ada, Kim, stop.” Ada raised a brow. “Why? Struck a nerve?” Kim stepped in front of Leon before she realized she was doing it. “If you’re here to mess with us, save it. We don’t have time for your bullsh…” Ada cut her off. “You’re jealous,” she said casually, like commenting on the weather. Kim’s heartbeat skidded just as Leon’s breath hitched. Kim spat, “No, I’m not.” Ada smiled. “You hesitated before you answered. That’s how I know.” 

Leon looked at Kim, really looked. Not with confusion now but with dawning realization. A piece of puzzle falling into place. Kim felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Leon, she’s messing with you because she can. We should really go.” Ada gave a soft, amused sigh. “This would be easier if you two just talked.” Leon exhaled sharply, shaken by how close to the truth that was. Kim’s voice trembled, not with fear, but frustration. “We’re leaving.” Ada stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture toward the exit like she was hosting a gala. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Leon followed Kim, but he looked back once. Ada was already watching him with that unreadable face, like a half warning, half farewell, and half challenge. “Leon,” Kim snapped, not looking back. He turned and hurried after her. The silence between them wasn’t comfortable anymore. It wasn’t professional, but it wasn’t avoidant, either. It was just charged and raw. 

And Leon finally understood something he should have seen a long time ago. Kim cared, maybe more than she meant to or more than she wanted to. And Ada’s return had ripped the lid clean off that truth. 

Kim walked fast enough that her footsteps echoed, sharp and uneven. Leon kept up easily, but he didn’t speak until they reached a corner where the hallway narrowed. “Kim.”

Nothing. “Kim, stop walking.” She didn’t. So he caught her arm, gently, but firmly enough to make her turn. Her eyes flashed. “What?” Leon studied her face, frustrated, breathing a little unsteady. “You can’t just walk away from this.” “From what?!” she snapped. He hesitated a second then plunged in. “From what happened between us in the car that night.” 

Kim froze, completely, like he’d hit a live wire. Leon continued, voice low but steady. “I don’t go around sleeping with my partners. That’s not something I just… do and forget.” Her throat tightened, but she crossed her arms to hide how much his words hit her. “We agreed not to talk about it.” “No,” Leon said, stepping closer, “we just mutually avoided talking about it because we were both scared of what it meant. At least I know I was.”

She looked away, jaw clenched. “Leon, we could get fired for that.” “I know.” His voice dropped, softer. “So you really think I’d risk that for nothing?” Kim swallowed, anger flickered in her eyes, an anger born from fear, not rage. “Leon, I don’t know what it meant to you. How am I supposed to? You never said anything! You acted like nothing happened!” He stared at her, chest rising and falling with something rough. “Maybe because every time I tried talking about it, you shut me down. And then Ada shows up and suddenly you’re…” but she interrupts him, “what?” she bit out. “Jealous?” She repeated the same words Ada used. 

Leon steps close to her, “yeah,” he said, no hesitation now. “Exactly that.” Her breath hitched. The confession landed too fast and too real. Leon stepped even closer, voice quiet but edged. “So tell me, Kim. Did that night mean something to you?” She blinked hard, angry with him, angry with herself. “You don’t get to ask me that!” “Why not?” “Because it’s not fair!” Her voice cracked with raw emotion. “You dig this up and then expect me to just….” she is clearly frustrated, “I don’t even know what you want from me!”  

Leon exhaled, equally frustrated. “I just want the truth.” She shook her head, backing up a step. “You know what? Screw you.” At that, he automatically let an unfortunate comment out, “but you already did.” She lifted her hand, going to shove him, or maybe slap him—she wasn’t even sure anymore—but Leon caught her wrist mid-swing. The moment their skin met, everything snapped tight between them. “Don’t,” he murmured. Kim’s breath stuttered. “Don’t what?” He pulled her closer. “Don’t push me away.” Her pulse hammered against his fingers. She tried to pull back, but it was weak, half-hearted. “Leon,” she whimpered. 

That did it for him. He stepped in, closing the distance between them. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. About that night. Not even once. So if you’re going to hit me, fine. But not because you think it didn’t matter to me.” Her eyes softened for half a second, too vulnerable, too honest. And that was all it took. Leon tugged her forward, just enough to tilt her off balance, but his other hand caught her waist before she could stumble. Kim barely managed a breath before his mouth was on hers. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful, it was everything they’d been choking down for two months, released all at once. 

Kim grabbed the front of his bullet-proof vest, pulling him in harder, heat rushing through her like a burned fuse. Leon then backed her against a close-by wall, lips still crashing into hers, breathing hard between each kiss. His hand slid up her side, anchoring her, grounding her. She gasped against his mouth, fingers curling in his shirt like she’d been waiting for this since the minute they’d tried to forget that night. “Leon…” she whispered, breath unsteady. He pressed his forehead to hers, still holding her wrist gently pinned between their bodies. “Yeah?” Her voice shook. “Don’t stop.” He didn’t. 

Kim's breath hitched as Leon's lips brushed against hers, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek. She knew she should push him away, tell him that they couldn't afford any distractions. But the feel of his firm body against hers, the heat of his skin, the scent of his cologne...it was too much for her. She moaned as Leon's tongue slid into her mouth. He was pinning her there with his body, his hands roaming all over her curves, slipping under her shirt to caress the smooth skin of her back. 

Kim's own hands weren't idle, her fingers tangling in Leon's hair as she arched into him, desperate for more. She could feel the hard length of him pressing against her body and could feel the heat building between her legs. With a growl of impatience, Leon reached down and unbuttoned her pants, shoving them down her hips along with her underwear. Kim gasped as his fingers found her already wet folds, stroking and teasing until she was writhing against the wall. 

"Leon," she panted, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Please." He stopped kissing her neck for a brief second, “please what?” She looked into his eyes, “touch me, fuck me. I need you.” He kept fingering her, guided by her moans and sighs. And when it got completely overwhelming for her, and for him, in one swift motion, he undid his own pants and freed his aching cock. Kim immediately wrapped her legs around his waist as he positioned himself at her entrance, his breath hot against her neck. "Are you sure about this?" he murmured, his voice strained with desire. She looked at him, puzzled. Leon clarified, "we're in the middle of a mission..." 

Kim then silenced him with a kiss, biting at his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "I don't care anymore," she panted against his mouth. "I need you. Right now." With that, Leon thrust into her hard and fast, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke. They both cried out at the sensation, their bodies fitting together like they were made for each other. Leon was gentle at first, sensual as the first time. But she said, “Leon, we don’t have time to be gentle. Fuck me, I need you.” He then set a brutal pace, pounding into Kim with a ferocity that stole her breath. She met him thrust for thrust, her hips rising to meet his as she clung to him for dear life.  

It didn't take long for them to reach their peak, their bodies straining towards that final release. Leon came, his cock pulsing inside her as he filled her with his hot seed. Kim, as a consequence of his cock twitching inside her, followed seconds later, her walls clamping down around him as she rode out the waves of her own intense orgasm. 

They stayed against the wall for a long moment, forehead to forehead, panting and trembling in each other's arms as they came down from their high. Finally, with shaking legs, they separated and righted their clothes. Leon reached out and cupped Kim's cheek, his thumb brushing over her kiss-swollen lips. "We'll talk about this later," he promised softly. "For now, let's finish this mission and get out of here." Kim nodded, straightening her vest and pulling herself together. She knew they had a job to do, and she wouldn't let anything stand in their way, not even her growing feelings for Leon Kennedy. Together, they turned and made their way back down the hallway, ready to face whatever laid ahead. 

Kim exhaled, steadying herself as the last echoes of the mission faded into silence. The facility was dead now, literally. No movement, no threat, just the dull hum of failing power systems and the weight of what they’d both survived. “We should call this in,” she said finally, pushing off the broken counter. Leon didn’t move right away. That alone made her glance at him. 

He was watching her, not like a partner, not like a teammate, like something more focused and unguarded. Like he was still trying to solve a problem that had nothing to do with the mission. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We should… so, does that mean we just go back to ignoring what just happened again for two months?” A beat passed. 

Kim froze slightly, not defensive, just aware. “You mean how we just took down an entire facility?” She wasn’t even sure why she said that. She wanted to discuss this, but she freaked out, or at least she thought so. Leon then stepped closer, slow and deliberate. No pressure, no aggression. Just certainty. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Her jaw tightened. “Leon..” “No,” he cut in, not harsh, but firm. “Don’t do that thing where we pretend this is just… noise in the system.” That landed. 

Kim looked away for half a second, collecting herself. “We finished the mission. That’s all that matters right now.”  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” he said, voice lower now. “You know it isn’t.” Kim finally looked back at him, eyes sharp again. “So what do you want me to say?” She asked, but Leon didn’t answer immediately. His expression shifted slightly, frustrated, but not at her. At the situation. At the truth that neither of them had touched properly until now. 

“I want to know,” he said carefully, “if I’m the only one who feels like there’s something between us that we’ve been actively trying to ignore.” That made her still. Not because it surprised her, because it didn’t. Kim let out a slow breath. “You think I’ve been ignoring it?” 

Leon’s gaze didn’t waver. “I think both of us have.” A few moments of silence, they knew they needed to think this through. Then Kim let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s funny. Because it felt a lot like survival.” “Yeah,” he agreed immediately. “It was.” Another step closer. They now stood very close to each other. 

“And by the way, I don’t do this,” Leon said quietly. “I don’t get involved with partners. I don’t cross that line.” Kim’s expression tightened slightly. “Neither do I.” That same pause again, but this time, neither of them moved away from it. Leon studied her face. “But we already did.” No denial this time. Just truth sitting between them. Kim’s voice dropped. “That wasn’t supposed to mean anything.” Leon’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in disagreement, but in recognition of how unconvincing that sounded, even to her. “Did it actually feel like it didn’t mean anything to you?” 

That question hit differently. Kim didn’t answer right away. Because that was the problem. It didn’t feel like nothing. It never had. It felt like everything. The silence stretched longer this time, heavier. Finally, Leon spoke again, softer but direct. “I’m not asking for chaos. I’m just saying that if we’re going to keep pretending we can just… go back to normal after tonight.” Kim looked at him surprised for a second. Then, more honestly than she’d been all night, she said, hurriedly: “There is no normal anymore.” That was it. The truth, out loud, finally. Leon exhaled slowly, like something in him had been holding that same conclusion. 

Neither of them looked away. And for the first time since this started—since that night, since the silence, since Ada—there wasn’t confusion between them. Just recognition. Leon spoke carefully. “If we do this…” he pointed at them, “it doesn’t stay hidden forever. Someone will notice.” “I know,” Kim said immediately. “And if it goes wrong…” “It will,” she cut in bluntly. A faint flicker of something like a smile crossed his face at that honesty. “We go to HR.” Kim blinked slightly. “That easy, huh?” “No,” Leon said. “Just… responsible.” A pause. Then, more quietly: “But we don’t report anything until we know exactly what this is. If we’re just reacting to adrenaline, we stop. If it’s real…” 

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Kim held his gaze. No hesitation this time, just clarity cutting through everything else. “Then we can find out,” she said. Leon nodded once. A beat passed. Then, almost like an afterthought but not really, she added: “And for the record… I’m not being cold right now, I’ve just never felt this for anyone else before.” Leon’s expression softened just slightly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.” And that was the real turning point.

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter- Final Part

Hey guys, before anything, I just wanted to apologize for the delay in posting. I have been navigating the sale of our place, finding a new place, and moving in. At the same time, I wanted to tie all the loose ends to this story. Hope you enjoy this final chapter!

Warnings for this chapter: intrigue, fight, war, death, and smut (in this order).

The paper in John's hand was soft and stained with her perfume. A note. Nothing remarkable. Nothing damning. Just her handwriting. Just his name written once, without formality. No ‘Mr. Delaney.’ No decorum. Only ‘James,’ and a curve at the end that could have been part of a word, or just the tremble of her hand. He had found it behind a book of sermons in her escritoire. She had not meant to hide it there, not carefully. And to him, that was the cruelty of it. The carelessness. A woman no longer afraid to be discovered. He folded it once, twice. Then tucked it into his coat pocket like a man tucking a blade against his ribs. Outside, the house creaked against the wind. The fire in the fireplace hissed as if it were trying to speak. He didn’t follow her that night. He sent someone else. A man he employed for tasks that required discretion and no conscience. A man named Kirk, who understood that loyalty had a price, and that the price must never be measured in coin alone.

She went to the church. Alone, cloaked, walking fast through the fog. The man followed at a distance. Watched from the shadows of the nave. Listened from his alcove. Then he saw them. Delaney arriving through the vestry, all in black, as if mourning the world. Grace stepped toward him without hesitation. They spoke in low voices, inaudible to the watcher. But then Delaney reached up and touched her face — just once. Fingers along her cheek, thumb at the edge of her jaw. Not possessive. Not lustful. Something worse. Tender. Grace closed her eyes under his hand. The man waited until they parted. Then he left. And by morning, the story was delivered in full to John Chambers.

John listened without interruption. He poured his brandy in silence and drank it without grimacing. When Kirk was finished, he said nothing. “Sir?” the man asked. John stood and walked towards the window. His reflection stared back at him — small and ghostlike in the glass, the color of old bruises. His voice was calm when he spoke. “Thank you. That will be all.” 

♘♞

The East India Company’s headquarters was a cathedral to control — high ceilings, hard floors, the smell of old wood and older money. Stuart Strange kept his office warm as a womb, a gesture of luxury in a city that liked to punish. When John arrived, he was expected. Strange looked up from a stack of ledgers and narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Chambers. You look like a man who’s swallowed something sharp.”  “I bring you information,” John said. Strange gestured to the chair opposite him without smiling. “Do sit.” John sat. Removed his gloves slowly. Chose his words as a surgeon chooses instruments. “My wife is in contact with James Delaney,” he said. Strange raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. “She has access to my shipping records. My company’s trade routes. She’s been feeding him information. And he’s using it to smuggle poisoned opium and to divert suspicion onto the East India Company.” “Do go on,” Strange said, folding his hands. “They’re planning to flee. To Nootka Sound.” Now Strange smiled. “Ah. There it is.” John leaned forward. “I want them stopped. Quietly. I want to be protected. I want my name preserved.” “You want the whore punished and the husband made a hero,” Strange said, matter-of-factly. John’s lips barely moved. “I want to testify. I want to help the Crown bring them down.”  Strange poured two glasses of wine and slid one across the desk. “Do you know what I like about you, Mr. Chambers?” he said. “You always know when to cut your losses.”

♘♞

Stone and silence. The world had narrowed to cold air and iron bars. Grace sat on her cot, pale and still. Her hands, once smooth, were bruised along the wrists. Her eyes, once quick, stared at the walls. Then — several footsteps. Most heavy. One familiar. The cell next to hers open, she heard someone being shoved inside, then the door closing and footsteps leaving. She rose slowly and crossed to the opposite wall, climbing a bucket and reaching small bars, above a painting of the king. “James? You returned? What did they do to you?” He moved into view. Thinner. Blood still at the edge of his collar. But alive. “I’m here,” he said. “They’ll hang us,” she whispered. “No, they’ll make a show of it,” James replied. “John did this,” she said. James didn’t react. “I know.” “He turned us in. Went to Strange. Offered to testify. To be the victim.” “He is a victim,” James said. “Of cowardice.” Grace gripped the bars. “They told me I’d be spared. If I behaved like I was ashamed. If I said you manipulated me.” James stepped closer. His voice was a thread of darkness in the cold. “You should.” She stared at him. “Would it matter?” He tilted his head. “Only if you wanted it to.” There was a pause. “I let him find us,” Grace said. James blinked once. “What?” “I knew he’d send someone. I wanted him to panic. I thought… it would buy us time. But I was wrong.” James gave the barest smile. “No. You weren’t wrong. You were just early.” Their eyes met across the distance. A plan unspoken. A promise. 

It was near midnight when they came for him. Two guards, silent, no lanterns. They unlocked his cell with a clink that echoed like a pistol in the dark and marched him through corridors that smelled of ash, lime, and secrets. James said nothing. He had begun to recognize each hallway by the way his boots landed on the stone — some echoed, some did not. This one was soft. Hidden. They stopped before an iron-banded door. One guard knocked once. A voice from within, flat and sharp: “Enter.” They shoved James through and closed the door behind him. Inside, a single candle flickered on a metal table. And seated before it, back straight, powdered wig pristine despite the hour, was Solomon Coop, personal advisor to the Crown. He didn’t stand. He didn’t smile. His fingers drummed softly on the tabletop. “Mr. Delaney,” he said. James sat across from him without invitation. Coop looked him over with mild distaste. “You smell like smoke.” James said nothing. “You’ve been given every opportunity,” Coop went on. “And yet you persist in this delusion that you can negotiate from your knees.” James tilted his head slightly. “You presume I’m on my knees.” 

Coop gave a cold, almost fatherly smile. “You’re in the Tower of London. You’ll die here. If not at our order, then from time. Or rot.” James leaned forward. “I’ll give you what you want,” he said. Coop’s fingers paused. “And what do I want?” “You want names. Ships. Dates. Trade records. Ports where opium was poisoned. You want to bring the Company to its knees without putting the Crown on trial beside it.” Coop raised a brow, surprised. James continued. “I’ll give you every ledger. Every route. I’ll name the magistrates who turned their heads. The lords who accepted East India coin. You can clean the filth from your doorstep and tell your king you saved his name.” A pause. Coop's voice cooled. “And the price?” “I want to speak with Stuart Strange.” The pause stretched. Coop blinked once. Slowly. “You’ve asked me for that before.” James didn’t move. “And I ask again.” Coop stared at him. “Why?” James’s lips curled faintly. “Because he’s the one who set the fire, and now you’re standing in the ashes asking who lit the match.” 

Strange came late, cloaked in sable, with the expression of a man arriving to find himself named in a will. The guards left the room, and the door shut behind them with the soft finality of a coffin lid. James sat, wrists still chained, writing on a piece of paper. By its side, several pages had already been written on, James’ expression unreadable. Stuart Strange remained standing, as if to suggest superiority through height alone. “You’ve caused quite a mess,” Strange said. James said nothing. “They say you have demands.”  “I do.” Strange laughed softly, almost condescending. “You’re not in a position—” “Sit down, Mr. Strange.” The words were quiet. But Strange stopped speaking. James’s eyes were wild now, dark and sunken, but sharp with the clarity of a man long past pain. “You’ve used Company boys. Press-ganged orphans. Thieves. Runaways. And shipped them to the Americas. Not for King or trade or even profit. For your brother’s land. His plantations. Human property, fed into the soil to grow sugar and cotton.”  Strange’s lips parted. The color drained slightly from his face. 

James leaned forward. “I have names. Manifests. Letters. If I speak to Coop again, I’ll be dead by morning—but not before I say the words that make you a stain on your family crest.” “You can’t prove…” “I can. And you know I can. You think I survived Africa without learning how to listen. You think my silence was ever bought? You were never paying me off, Strange. You were fattening a wolf.” Strange's voice dropped. “What do you want?” “I want you to hand over John Chambers.” Strange blinked. “Your lover’s husband?” “I want him alive. Delivered to my men, wherever I name it. In exchange, I won’t need to tell Coop anything. Everyone goes home clean.” Strange exhaled slowly. “And the woman?” “Grace walks with me. Or I’ll tell them everything.” Silence. Then, slowly, Strange turned and knocked on the door, angrily. 

♘♞

Solomon Coop read the envelope twice before breaking the seal. It was marked with Stuart Strange’s wax insignia — clean, precise. Inside, a single note. Brief. 

To the attention of Mr. Solomon Coop,

It is with some regret that I must inform you that John Chambers has disappeared. The safe house was found emptied of all his personal belongings. A clerk reports he booked a passage to the colonies three nights ago. His current whereabouts are unknown.

Yours in loyalty, S. Strange

Coop folded the letter in half and set it on the table. He did not sigh. He did not swear. But the candle beside him flickered as if someone had breathed on it.

♘♞

The sky over London bled grey as if mourning something not yet dead. Atticus waited in the alley behind the crumbling warehouse near the Thames, a dog chewing something unholy at his feet. He was smoking a pipe, thick-lipped and motionless, when the carriage rumbled up — black-lacquered, the kind used for funerals and cowards. The door opened. John Chambers fell from it like a drunk or a sack of flour. His hands were bound. His face had been hit — just once, cleanly. The man who’d delivered him tipped his hat to Atticus without a word and climbed back into the carriage. Atticus looked down at the silk dealer sprawled in the mud. “You look worse than your linens,” he said. John spat blood and soil. “James won’t kill me,” he muttered. Atticus shrugged. “Not his job anymore.” 

They took John to the old cellar beneath the brothel, where the foundation still smelled of oysters and salt. James waited, standing near the stone arch, arms folded. Grace stood at the threshold, cloaked in darkness, silent. When they dragged John in, he straightened his shoulders. Blood at his collar. Defiant still. “You’re no better than me,” he hissed at James. “You stole what was mine.” “She was never yours,” James replied. John turned toward Grace. “He used you.” “I chose him,” she said. “No,” John snarled. “You chose madness. You chose ruin.” He lunged at James then, breaking Atticus’ grip. He had a small dagger hidden in his sleeve that he took out. He caught James across the face with a fist, then, when he was about to stab Delaney— wild, savage, useless—a gunshot echoed like judgment. John froze. Grace lowered the pistol slowly. A bloom of red spread beneath his ribs. He staggered, turned to her — as if still believing this might be a dream — and sank to the stone floor with a sound like prayer broken mid-sentence. Grace was shocked. A tear shedding. “You left us no choice.” John didn’t know if “us” had meant James and Grace or him and Grace. She didn’t look sure either. James looked at her, then knelt beside the body, closing John’s eyes with a thumb. “You could’ve let me do it,” he said. “He was mine to take,” she whispered. 

♘♞

The fire had burned low in the hearth, and the shutters still clattered loosely in the wind. James sat in his parlour, coat damp, his boots leaving marks on the wood where the Thames had soaked into the soles. He hadn’t slept in two days. The house was quiet now. Abandoned of plans. Emptied of future. When he had pushed open the door and entered the house, something was already waiting. A letter. It sat on the edge of the desk, unopened but clearly handled. The seal had been cracked. The paper smelled faintly of lilies and rain. He didn’t need to check the signature. He knew the hand. He knew the weight of it. Zilpha. He unfolded it slowly, like unwrapping a wound. The ink was smeared in places, as if her hand had trembled or the rain had touched it. 

James,

I dreamed again of the house. Of us in the water. But the water wasn’t dark this time. It was clean. It forgave us. You were always waiting for the punishment, and I was always waiting for the absolution. But neither came.

I want to say I love you. I want to say I understand now that it wasn’t just madness. That something in us was broken long before we ever touched.

But I can’t carry it anymore. I can’t carry us.

Forgive me. And always keep a piece of me inside of you. 

Yours eternally, 

Z.

He sat with it in his lap, staring at the fire as if the flames might spell something he could believe. The front door opened. Soft steps. No panic. Just the familiar rhythm of someone who had lived with grief long enough to know not to disturb it too quickly. Lorna Bow. Dressed in her long red coat, her gloves still on. She held a folded letter in one hand. “Musgrove gave us safe passage. We can sail now, but we have to leave immediately. The blockade will lift long enough to slip through.” Still, he said nothing. Lorna’s voice softened. “I told Grace. Atticus is making the arrangements. Everyone is ready.” James moved slightly in the chair, just enough to reach for a bottle, half-empty. He didn’t pour it. Just held it like a man might hold a relic from a time when he still believed in God. “I think she’s dead,” he said. Lorna tilted her head and looked at the letter. “Zilpha,” she half-asked. A long pause stretched silence between them. “She left a letter,” James said. “I think she wanted me to stop looking for her. Or stop waiting.” 

Lorna approached, placed the Musgrove letter on the desk beside Zilpha’s. “You don’t need to stop mourning her to leave.” James looked at her, eyes rimmed red, not from weeping, but from exhaustion of the soul. Lorna leaned in. “She gave you permission to go, James. Don’t turn that into another prison.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t know who I am without her shadow.” Lorna’s voice sharpened. “Then stop being a shadow. Be something else. For Grace. For the others. For yourself.” He opened his eyes. The fire crackled. For a moment, the silence returned — a silence shaped like Zilpha’s absence. And then slowly, quietly, James stood. He looked once more at the letter in his lap. Then folded it, tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. And nodded. “Then we should leave now, Mrs. Delaney.”  

♘♞

An order arrived at noon— not by the East India, but by the king. The man who delivered it was dressed like a mourner, black coat buttoned to the throat, gloves worn thin from too many unspoken errands. He did not speak. He did not bow. Coop remembered still the harsh, illogical orders he had received earlier. “Nootka be damned. Kill the bastard. No questions.” It was the same hand the king had used during the Highland rebellion, when mercy had been abandoned in favor of message. The Crown had made its decision: James Delaney, thief of treaties and poisoner of empire, was now an error to be erased. Not tried. Not questioned. Not allowed to speak. Dead. Disappeared. Dust. Coop set the letter down and lit a fresh candle. The flame took with a crackle. “Fetch them,” he whispered to the darkness. “Tell the dogs to run.” 

The docks were quieter than usual. No one on the streets, except for Delaney’s men. No bells rang. No gulls cried. Even the fog felt different — heavy, still, as though London itself was holding its breath. Then came the boots. Twelve men. Then fifteen. 50, maybe 70. It was hard to tell — they moved in pairs, armed like ghosts, faces covered in determination, uniforms informing their purpose. They were not coming to arrest. They were coming to clean. And yet—James Delaney had expected worse. He stood at the docks, coat torn at the collar. His face was blooded — not fresh — a scab along the jaw where John had struck him earlier. A relic now. But his eyes were sharp. The men he had gathered were harder than the fog, dressed in the kind of black that doesn’t shine, with muskets strapped to their backs and ropes hanging from their belts like relics of older wars. Atticus, his shoulder freshly bandaged, paced with a pistol in each hand. Helga stood to the side, silent, her mouth pulled taut like string across a bow. And at the center of it all: Grace.

She was not dressed like a woman ready to flee. She was dressed like a general. A long navy coat stolen from a naval officer wrapped around her, cinched tight at the waist. Her hair was pinned. Her boots — black, leather, and blood-worn — crunched the gravel as she walked the length of the dock. Her hand rested on the hilt of her own weapon. A map had been nailed to the crates, flapping slightly in the wind. James had plotted this escape with ink and cunning, threading the ship’s path through slivers of river traffic, blind spots in patrol routes, and the breathing rhythms of the tide. “We move in six minutes,” he said to the crew. “Not sooner. Not later.” The men nodded. And then—Gunfire. The first shot cracked the air like a curse. It shattered a lantern, sprayed flame across a crate. The second shot came faster. The third missed. James did not flinch. He smiled. “Time to go,” he said. And then the battle began.

It was not a war of armies. It was a war of intentions. The King’s men surged forward with knives drawn and pistols out. But Delaney’s crew did not break. They had planned for this. They had starved for it. Bullets struck wood, crates exploded in showers of silk and opium dust, Cholmondeley’s explosives effective as always. All men fought, while the women were directed to the ship. All except for Grace. The ship loomed ahead — waiting, breathing, alive. Atticus took a shot to the shoulder. Again. Same place. He swore and kept firing. A Company man fell into the water, gurgling. And then—from the smoke and ruin—a dozen more of men.

One of them, a commander, had a mad expression. Blood crusted his temple. His coat was torn, his shirt burned at the collar. But the fire in his eyes was not dimmed. He looked less like a man and more like something cursed — a revenant dragged from the pit of his own betrayal. He screamed James’s name — in rage. Grace turned, pistol already rising. She shot, but he was faster. The blade in his hand was rusted, probably cursed. He lunged toward her. And James — behind her — moved to protect her. The blade sank into James’s side, deep, ragged, bone-scraping. He screamed— not from pain, but anger. And then—Bang. Grace fired James’ gun. This time she didn’t miss. The bullet struck the soldier in the chest, slightly left of center. He stumbled, dropped the knife, then dropped himself — to his knees first, as if praying for some last moment of clarity. But none came. His mouth moved once. Nothing came out. And then he fell. Face-first into the mud. And stayed.

Grace didn’t look away. Not even when James collapsed beside a crate, one hand on his side, blood blooming beneath his fingers. She ran to him, caught him before he could fall fully. “We have to go,” she whispered, breathless, trembling. James grimaced. “You’re... bleeding.” “I’m not the one stabbed,” she hissed. He laughed, almost — a breath, nothing more. She looked to the ship, already half-prepared to sail.  “The tide’s turning,” she said. “If we miss it, we’ll die here.” James looked at her — really looked. Her face was dirt-smeared, eyes wild, hair loose, coat torn. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He nodded. And together — smoke behind them, fire at their backs — they ran for the ship. 

♘♞

The sails groaned under the weight of the wind as the ship cut westward, away from London’s flame-lit shores. The sea was a tapestry of ink and moonlight — endless, ancient, indifferent. Below deck, the wounded rested. Atticus grunted curses in his sleep, arm tied up in blood-soaked cloth. Anita and Edward Gonçalves shared nostalgic stories. Helga sang low to herself, something in German, half lullaby, half prayer. Winter by her side. The crew moved like shadows — quiet, efficient. No one asked questions. Not anymore. Above, at the prow, Grace stood alone. Her hair was damp with sea spray, lashes crusted with salt. She wore James’s coat — too large, the shoulders falling just slightly — and beneath it, her fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the sudden lack of it. Behind her, the door to the captain’s quarters opened. 

James stepped out. He was still pale, the wound bound tightly beneath his shirt, the pain stitched into every movement. But his eyes—sea-colored—were clear now. Focused. He joined her wordlessly. For a long moment, neither spoke. Just the sound of the sea. The creaking of the wood. The echo of all they’d left behind. Then: “She’s gone,” Grace said, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Zilpha,” she turned to face him. James nodded slowly. “I know.” “She came to me. Before we left.” That surprised him — a flicker of tension in his shoulders. “In the flesh?” he asked. Grace turned toward him with a shocked expression,  thinking to herself why he would ask HER that. But that was James, “Yes. Dressed in black. I think she knew.” James didn’t ask what she said. He didn’t have to. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his coat — slowly, carefully — and pulled out the letter. Zilpha’s final words. He handed it to Grace. She took it, turned the folded paper over in her hands, but didn’t open it. “You’ve read it?” she asked. He nodded. “Twice. Then I stopped.” “Why?” He looked out across the water. “Because it wasn’t meant for whom I was becoming. It was meant for whom I had been.” Grace nodded, then quietly moved. Her fingers closed over the letter once, then she let it go. She released it into the wind. The parchment danced through the air, like a falling bird, then touched the sea — and vanished. James didn’t flinch. “Do you think she’s at peace?” he asked. “I think she finally gave you permission to be,” Grace replied. Silence again. But not a heavy one. The kind that fills space, not wounds. 

Footsteps approached. Lorna Bow. Her coat was still speckled with ash from the dock fires, but she wore it like a medal. Her eyes moved from Grace to James, then out across the black sea.  “I hope you two know,” she said, “this isn’t happily ever after. It’s just... ever after.” Grace smiled faintly. “That’s all I ever wanted.” James looked at Lorna with something like gratitude. Or perhaps it was apology. “I never thanked you,” he said. Lorna shook her head. “No need. You gave me purpose once. I repaid it. We’re even now.” They stood there, the three of them, like war survivors, watching the waves break below. Eventually, Lorna excused herself. “I’ll check the supplies,” she said. “Some fool packed gin instead of water.” She disappeared below deck. 

Alone again, Grace turned to James. “You still doubt,” she said softly. “I doubt everything,” he answered. “It’s how I survive.” She moved closer. Their shoulders brushed. “Then learn something else.” He studied her. And for the first time in days, in weeks — perhaps longer — he smiled. A real one. Tired. Crooked. But his. “I love you,” he said. Grace didn’t answer right away. She reached up, touched his face — gently, like testing to see if he was real. Then she leaned in and kissed him with quiet certainty. When they parted, she whispered, “I know. And I’m still here because I love you too.” Far in the distance, Nootka Sound waited — wild, unspoiled, untouched by kings or crowns. The wind carried them onward. The ghosts stayed behind. And somewhere below deck, Atticus cursed at a barrel of spoiled gin and asked who packed the damn thing anyway. James laughed. Grace laughed. And the ship sailed on. Grace Chambers stood on the deck of the ship, the cool sea breeze whipping her long, chestnut hair around her face. She had left everything behind for this man - her life, her husband, her very identity. But as she watched James Delaney bark orders to his crew, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his dark jacket, she knew she had made the right choice.

♘♞

The voyage had been long and arduous, but now, as they approached their destination, Grace felt a sense of anticipation building in her gut. James must have sensed it too, because he turned to her suddenly, his blue eyes blazing with intensity. "Come with me," he growled, his voice low and commanding. He took her by the hand and led her towards the captain's quarters, his long strides forcing her to quicken her pace to keep up. As soon as they were inside, James pushed her up against the door, his body pinning her there as he captured her mouth in a searing kiss. Grace moaned into his mouth, her hands tangling in his short, dark hair as she returned the kiss with equal fervor. James' hands roamed over her body, sliding under the fabric of her dress to caress the smooth skin of her thighs. "I want to take you one last time aboard this ship," he murmured against her lips, his voice rough with desire. "To have you here, in my quarters, with no one to interrupt us." Grace gasped as his fingers found the hem of her skirt, sliding it up to reveal the creamy expanse of her legs. She could feel the heat of his arousal pressing against her belly, and it made her own desire surge through her veins like liquid fire. "Then take me," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm yours, James. Now and always."

That was all the encouragement James needed. With a low growl, he pushed her skirts up around her waist, exposing her most intimate parts to his hungry gaze. "Beautiful as always," he rasped, his fingers sliding between her thighs to caress her already slick folds. Grace let out a sharp cry of pleasure as he touched her, her hips bucking against his hand. Her body aching for his touch. James' fingers dipped inside her, stroking her inner walls with a firm, steady pressure that made her see stars. He groaned, his breath hot against her ear. "I can't wait to feel you wrapped around my cock." Grace's mind was spinning with lust, her entire body trembling with need. She fumbled with the buttons of his pants, desperate to free his hard, throbbing length. 

When she finally succeeded, she wrapped her fingers around him, stroking him slowly from base to tip. James shuddered against her, his hips jerking into her touch. "God, Grace," he panted, his voice strained with pleasure. "You're going to be the death of me." And then he was lifting her up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he pinned her against the wall. Grace could feel the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, hot and hard and demanding. "Please," she whimpered, her nails digging into his shoulders. "I need you inside me." James obliged with a swift, powerful thrust, burying himself deep inside her with a guttural groan. Grace cried out at the sensation, her walls stretching to accommodate his thick girth. It was almost too much, the pleasure bordering on pain. But then James began to move, sliding in and out of her in long, deep strokes that had her seeing stars. He set a brutal pace, pounding into her with a force that shook the very foundations of the ship. "Fuck," he panted, his hips slapping against hers with each thrust. "You feel so good wrapped around my cock. I don't know how long I can last." 

Grace could only moan in response, her head falling back against the door as she lost herself in the sensations coursing through her body. She could feel her climax building, winding tighter and tighter in her core until it was almost unbearable. "Don't stop," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. "Please don't stop." James didn't need to be told twice. He redoubled his efforts, pounding into her with a force that shook the very foundations of the ship. Grace could feel herself teetering on the edge of oblivion, her body trembling and taut with impending release. 

And then it hit her, crashing over her like a tidal wave of pure ecstasy. She cried out, her body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed through her. James followed seconds later, spilling himself deep inside her with a low, guttural moan. They collapsed together in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs, both panting heavily as they came down from their highs. Grace could feel James' heart pounding against her chest, his breath hot and fast against her neck. "I love you," she murmured, pressing soft kisses to his jawline. "I love you so much, James," she repeated. He smiled against her skin, his arms tightening around her waist. "I love you too, Grace," he replied, his voice rough with emotion. "More than anything in this world." And as they lay there in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Grace knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead once they got to Nootka, they would face them all together. James Delaney was only hers, just as she was finally only his, and nothing would ever change that.

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter- part 10

This is a shorter chapter, cause I wanted to focus on the smut!

Warnings for this chapter: SMUT and also this picture of Tom, cause he's just so dangerously sexy!

James hadn't slept that well in ages. The following morning, he woke up holding Grace in his arms. He kissed her neck, waking her up. “Good morning,” she said before straddling him. She leaned down and began to kiss his neck, trailing down his muscular abs. “Is that all you think about, now? I'm an old man, you will kill me.” She smiled and looked at him through hooded eyes, “then you should have thought about coming back to England sooner. Afterall, ‘I only associate myself with people who deserve what they get’.” He laughed and flipped her, grinding his cock down against her cunt. She moaned very loudly. He immediately clamped over Grace's mouth, muffling the sound of her pleasure. He looked at her with a warning glint in his eye, his voice a low growl in her ear. "Shh, my love. You must be quiet or we risk being heard by the servants. Wouldn't want them reporting back to your dear husband about your little adventure now, would we?"

Grace's eyes widened at his words, realizing the risk they were taking. She nodded quickly, biting her lip to stifle any further sounds as James continued his relentless assault on her body. He rolled them over so that she was straddling him, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Ride me," he commanded, his voice rough with lust. "But keep your voice down. I want to feel you cum on my cock, but I don't want anyone else knowing the pleasure I'm giving you." Grace obeyed eagerly, lowering herself onto his thick length with a low whimper. She began to move, undulating her hips in a slow, sensual grind that had them both groaning. But she heeded his warning, biting back any cries of ecstasy as she lost herself in the feeling of his hard cock stretching her open.

James' hands roamed her body, caressing her curves and pinching her nipples as she rode him. He thrust up into her, meeting her movements with the powerful snaps of his hips that made her clench around him. Sweat slicked their skin, their bodies moving together in a dance as old as time. "Oh, God, James!" Grace gasped out, her breath coming in short pants. "I can't keep quiet much longer.” James' grip on her hips tightened, pulling her down harder onto his cock. "Then cum for me," he urged, his voice a dark purr in her ear. "Let me feel you shatter on my cock, love. I want to feel you milking me with your greedy little cunt." At his words, a muffled cry escaped Grace as she came apart above him, her inner muscles fluttering wildly as her orgasm crashed over her. James followed seconds later, spilling himself deep inside her with a guttural groan of her name.

They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs, both panting harshly as they came down from their intense highs. James pulled Grace into his arms, holding her close as he pressed soft kisses to her sweat-dampened brow. "That was magnificent," he murmured, his voice still rough from exertion. "But we must be more careful in the future. Can't have the servants gossiping about you having an affair with the devil now, can we?" Grace chuckled breathlessly, nuzzling into his chest. "Indeed not. We'll just have to be more discreet from now on." She tilted her head up to meet his gaze, a wicked smile playing at her lips. "Perhaps we should christen some of the other rooms in this house as well. Make sure they're all thoroughly broken in by the time my husband returns home." James grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I like the way you think, sweet Grace. Let's start with his office, shall we? I've always wanted to fuck you bent over a desk." And with that, he captured her lips in a searing kiss, ready to embark on another round of heated lovemaking that would leave them both spent and satiated.

♘♞

The flowers arrived first, as they always did—heavy-headed, bruised with scent, arranged in a way that made the altar look less holy and more like the dressing table of a courtesan. John had returned from his trip and asked his wife to do another delivery. Grace stood beside the rail, watching as Mrs. Smith arranged the roses, carnations, and lilies with calloused hands and downturned eyes. Silk followed shortly after, draped in bolts of color. Lilac and white. Imported goods meant for vestments or veils, or so the vicar believed, according to Mrs. Smith. But Grace knew better. She had seen James Delaney lay his hand on one of those silk rolls like a man checking a wound. She had felt, somewhere in her gut, that these were not offerings, but war paint. Today, he came in late. His men had already left, her husband’s men as well after seeing that Grace was only being accompanied by Mrs. Smith, who left shortly after John’s henchmen did. The vicar never showed up, as per usual. She waited in the shadow of the chapel, hands gloved, heart pacing, while she wondered if he would show up at all. He always did. Why wasn’t he there? The evening light had begun to give way to darkness, which she could observe through the stained glass.

When he entered the church, it was without ceremony. He moved like a man walking into his own house — not reverent, not even cautious. Just certain. The heavy doors groaned behind him and closed. Her heart beat faster. “Grace,” he said. The sound of her name in his mouth did something she couldn’t explain. It always did. He stopped beside the altar, glanced at the flowers, “they think it’s a gift. Beauty always is, when you don’t know where it came from.” “I thought your men told me you were too busy to come this time around,” she commented, though she already knew. “And still, you waited for me until I came.” He turned to her, and the look in his eyes was not the one she’d prepared herself for. No hunger, no threat. Just exhaustion. And something softer, underneath. “Zilpha came to see me today, at my office,” he said. “Oh.” Her breath caught, even as her mind rebelled. 

She had told herself she didn’t want that part of him. Didn’t want what he gave his sister — the half-love, the damage, the impossible bond. “I see…” He stepped closer. “She wants peace. I only know how to fight. I hope she understands it’s all over now.” He lifted her chin. “So you will take me over her?” She yelped. “No,” he said. “I want you to take yourself.” A silence folded over them like snowfall. “I’m leaving,” he said. “Everything is in motion. The Company is already weakening — they just don’t know it yet. When it breaks, when they fall, I’ll be gone. And I won’t be coming back.” She swallowed and looked away, a tear threatening to shed. Her voice came quieter than she meant: “To Nootka, then?” He nodded and grunted. Silence followed. “So, after all, you decided to leave again? To leave all of London behind. All of me, again?” “No, I’m asking you to come with me.”

Something moved through her — joy and something dark. Not fear. Something darker. Something hungry. She could not name it, but it had lived in her since girlhood, since the first time she saw James and understood he could take her anywhere — or nowhere at all. “What would I be to you?” she asked. “Your mistress? A replacement for Zilpha? A trinket from a ruined city?” He looked at her, truly looked. “No,” he said. “You’d be the only one who ever chose me. Not out of blood. Not out of need. But because you want to burn the world, too.” Her eyes filled without warning. She turned from him. “I need to think.” He took a step back. “I’ll be at the docks in three days. The tide waits for no one.” He was gone before she could ask how many would die for his vision.

♘♞

She told her mother. The older woman sat by the window, stitching a sleeve by lamplight, the needle flashing like a whisper of steel. “There is something in you,” her mother said after a long pause, “that I have never understood. And I think that’s what makes you worth saving.” Grace looked up sharply. “You think this will ruin me?” “I think not going might.” “Do you think I should go, then?” “You’re asking not to be disowned?” “I wouldn’t blame you,” Grace said. Her mother’s mouth twisted, something between amusement and grief. “If we disowned every woman who left a good husband for a madman, the family tree would be quite bare.” 

Grace let out a laugh that was half cry. Tears of happiness came down her chicks. At the door, Grace’s brother appeared. He had always been a silent thing, watchful and lean. Grace looked at him, “how about you, Edward? You are far too quiet.” Her brother stepped inside the parlour. “You are an adult, and I believe that is nothing to be said, you are the master of your own destiny.” She hugged him, still crying. “You’re going,” he said. It wasn’t a question. 

Her mother rose from her armchair. “Just be careful, you’ll be followed. Watched. John is not as blind as you believe,” Anita warned. “I know,” came Grace’s reply. Edward’s arms crossed. “You’ll need help,” her brother interjected. Her mother said nothing, just kept stitching. Grace narrowed her eyes. “You mean to have me followed?” “Of course not. I mean to protect you and be by your side. I'm coming with you to Nootka,” he said. Grace looked at her mother. “But then you would also be in danger, Edward,” she returned her gaze to her brother. “Then you won’t be the only one in danger, wouldn't you agree?” Anita then said, “and what kind of a mother would I be if I saw my children in danger and did not go with them to protect them both?” “Mother!” Grace interjected, but Anita and Edward had already made up their minds, and nothing could stop them now. 

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter- part 9

Warnings for this chapter: Incest, angst, and smut.

Grace returned home with the taste of iron in her mouth. James had finally given her answers—but also truths she did not wish to know. Her husband, John Chambers, wasn’t just profiting from the opium trade. He was entwined in treason. And in his own way, he too had used her—for access, for respectability, for cover—even as she delivered “roses” to Mrs. Smith at the church. The drawing room felt smaller now, more artificial. A stage set for a play she hadn’t written. John was there, sipping wine by the fire. He didn’t look up. “You were out longer than expected,” he said casually. “I visited the apothecary. Had a headache.” John chuckled. “Cholmondeley doesn’t cure headaches, darling. He gives you stranger ones.” Grace kept her face still. “Then I suppose I’ll need something stronger next time.” A pause. He finally turned to her. “I’ve been hearing things.” “I imagine you have. Perhaps Cholmondeley has a medicine for that too.” He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “About James,” he said. “And about the Company. They’re tightening their grip. A few of Thorne’s insured shipments were delayed. Something about mislabeling.” Grace’s brow twitched. “And why is that my concern?” He smiled. “Not yours. But perhaps Zilpha’s. She’s always been quiet, but lately she’s taken on a certain… weight in Thorne’s motivations for business. I want you to visit her. See if you notice anything.” “Spy on your business partner's wife?” she asked, her voice like glass. John didn’t blink. “I’m asking you to keep the family strong.” Grace gave a tight nod, then left before he could see her disgust.

♘♞

The Geary's residence  was colder than she remembered. The maid led Grace through the narrow hallway to the sitting room. Afternoon light spilled through tall windows, illuminating polished floors and heavy curtains. And then she saw her. Zilpha sat by the hearth, hands folded in her lap, a cup of untouched tea on the table. Her dress was modest, as always, but her face… Grace stopped cold. A violet bloom stretched under Zilpha’s left eye, fading into yellow near the temple. The bruise was unmistakable. Unhidden. Her bottom lip, bruised, cut deeply. “Zilpha,” she breathed. Zilpha looked up slowly. “Grace.”

They stared at one another for a long moment. Then Zilpha offered the ghost of a smile. “You look well.” Grace walked over, kneeling beside her. “What happened?” “A fall,” Zilpha said too quickly. “I slipped. The stairs—” “Don’t insult me,” Grace whispered. Zilpha’s lips trembled. But she said nothing. Footsteps echoed from the hall. Thorne entered, eyes cold, a slight flush in his cheeks—wine, or rage. Or both. “Well,” he said, pausing at the door. “Another visit. We’re quite popular lately.” Grace rose slowly and looked puzzled to Thorne. “Lorna Bow was here earlier,” he said. Thorne’s expression tightened. “You’ve all become very interested in Zilpha, haven’t you? Is this also about James? Or is it about the little display at the Mosgroves’ party? Zilpha always did know how to draw attention.” Zilpha’s breath caught. Her eyes flicked downward. And that’s when Grace knew. It wasn’t the bruise. It was the shame. The silence. The way Zilpha didn’t dare meet Thorne’s eyes. Grace turned to him, her voice deceptively polite. “My husband sent me to ask about the shipments. Delays. Labels. You understand.” Thorne gave a dry laugh. “Don’t concern yourself. Everything is... under control.” “I’m sure of it,” he replied. Grace then said evenly, glancing back at Zilpha. “But I think I’ll stay a while. The lady of the house could use some company.” Zilpha’s eyes met hers. Fragile. Grateful. 

The china clinked softly as Zilpha poured the tea with careful hands. Her sleeves were long, hiding her arms, and her movements slow—either from pain or fear. Grace didn’t press. They sat by the window in the parlor, where the air was stale but the light was gentle. Neither spoke at first. Then Grace said, “Do you remember the spring before James left?” Zilpha looked up. “The night before he was called to the docks,” Grace continued, “when Captain Strange summoned him. You and I waited on the rocks by the Thames. I remember the water was so still... like glass.” Zilpha gave the faintest nod. “He said he would come back.” “Well, he did come back,” Grace said, her voice flat. Zilpha stared into her cup. Grace leaned forward slightly. “Did you love him?” Grace couldn’t help bu task. Zilpha blinked. There was a pause, and then came, “he was mine before he was anyone’s.” Grace didn’t say anything. Just wondered if Zilpha made a general statement or if maybe she had seen Grace dancing with James at the Mosgrove’s masquerade. Or worse: maybe she knew about Grace's affection for James all along. They didn’t speak after that. The silence between them said enough.

♘♞

John was in his study when Grace returned. He glanced up as she entered, quill in hand, ledgers open. “Well?” “I found some open letters while I was waiting for my tea. The ships are two days behind schedule. Poorly documented cargo. But he said to me that everything was under control, not to worry about it. I'd say he's losing control.” John grunted. “I expected as much. He was never good under pressure.” Grace didn’t mention Zilpha. Not her bruises. Not her silence. Not her haunted stare. Some things were sacred. “Now, if you don't mind, I'll retire to the bedroom. Today was a very long day,” she said as she went up the stairs. 

The morning was damp and gray when the messenger arrived. Grace opened the door herself—unusual, but the servants were all busy with deliveries—and found a boy no older than thirteen standing with mud-caked boots and a sealed letter. “From Mrs. Zilpha Geary, ma’am,” he said, eyes lowered. “Mr. Thorne has passed. Died last night. They say it was cholera.” Grace took the letter. Her fingers tingled. The boy ran off. She broke the seal, read the short invitation aloud to herself: “You are cordially invited to attend the burial of Thorne Geary. Service at St. Olave’s. Private.” Behind her, John stepped into the hallway. “What’s that?” “Thorne,” she said. “He’s dead.” John’s face twisted in disbelief. “How?” She handed him the letter. “Cholera, apparently.” He stared at the page, then at her. “He wasn’t ill yesterday, was he?” Grace paused, knowing what this moment meant. Then she nodded. “He looked... pale. Tired. Not himself. But I assumed it was the pressure.” John narrowed his eyes. “He never mentioned illness. No fever. No bleeding.” “Cholera works fast,” she said smoothly. “Sometimes it doesn’t even warn you.” He looked at her a moment longer, as if trying to read beneath her skin. She held his gaze, steady, serene. He turned away, muttering, “Still. Damned odd timing.” Grace said nothing. But in her heart, she knew the truth:

Zilpha hadn’t slipped.

Zilpha had snapped.

And Grace... had just protected her.

♘♞

The bells of St. Olave’s tolled in low, deliberate rhythm, cutting through the damp morning fog that clung to the city like mourning lace. The funeral procession emerged from the old stone church in a quiet, solemn tide—black coats, black veils, black gloves, black hearts. The mourners walked the short distance to the burial ground behind the chapel, where an open grave waited, yawning like a secret about to be swallowed. Grace walked beside her husband, her arm looped through John’s. He held his posture stiffly, dignified, as always. She, by contrast, allowed her eyes to drift across the crowd. She wasn’t mourning Thorne Geary. She never believed cholera was responsible for his bane. She was here because appearances mattered—and because Zilpha was, despite everything, her friend. 

And then she saw him. James Delaney. Not among the mourners, but already at the grave—his hands dirtied, having just finished digging the earth himself. Two gravediggers were in sight, still he was the one doing all the work. As if he’d clawed the grave open with his bare hands, as if Thorne’s death had been personal. He stepped back as the procession arrived, melting into the treeline like a specter. Grace’s breath caught in her throat, when she saw the way James looked at Zilpha. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even desire. It was something deeper. Possession. Mixed with a brutal kind of knowing. Zilpha didn’t return the gaze directly, but Grace could see the tension in her spine, the way her shoulders strained beneath the thin black wool of her mourning dress. Grace felt her stomach twist. Not with sadness. With something crueler: Jealousy.

She dared a glance toward James. His eyes flicked to hers. She held his gaze a second too long, shaking with anger. “Are you cold?” John asked beside her, his voice a whisper of silk. “No,” she said, then added, “Let’s leave soon. There’s no reason to linger.” Ahead, the priest’s voice was droning through the burial rites. “...ashes to ashes, dust to dust...” The coffin lowered slowly, rope by rope. Zilpha stood expressionless, her hands tightly clasped. As the final shovelful of dirt struck the wood, a wet thud echoing like a final heartbeat, Grace leaned in toward John. “Let’s go.” He nodded, offering his arm again. But before she turned, she looked back one last time—toward the trees. James hadn’t moved. He was still watching. Their eyes met again. And this time, she smiled. Subtle. Deliberate. Then she reached up and kissed John—not just a peck, but a slow, poised kiss on the lips that lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary. It was a performance, and she knew James understood that. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. But his eyes darkened, just slightly. And that was enough.

♘♞

James rode to Zilpha's house after the funeral. The evening was heavy, like it preceded a storm, not only the weather but also an internal storm, inside James. He had learned that morning through Brace that his mother had attempted to drawn him in the Thames as a baby. He had always felt an attraction to the river. But never really knew why. As he approached the front of the beautiful, Victorian manor, he climbed down his white horse. He didn't knock, just walked in, and when James didn't find Zilpha at the drawing room, he strode up the stairs. He opened the bedroom door with the force of a thousand winds and stared at her for a good moment. As soon as she heard the bedroom door, Zilpha turned around, staring uncertain at James. The tension grew. “Take off that dress.” He commanded after a full minute of silence. No movement. A pause. “The off that fucking dress.”  

James’ hips were hammering down, his shaft in his sister's cunt. She clinged onto his shoulders. He kissed her lips, her neck. She moaned his name repeatedly. But all that was on his mind was Grace, the look of hurt on her face when she saw him looking at Zilpha at the funeral. He thought back to his father's funeral and how she also looked at him: hurt, disappointed that he had chosen to look at Zilpha before actually glancing at her in the crowd.  He thought back to the kiss she shared with her husband John at Thorne’s funeral. Who was to say that right now she wasn't under John’s body, moaning his name at her own house, just like he was here fucking another woman. James tried shaking that image off his mind. He tried to shake her out of his mind. And then, as if sensing his distance, Zilpha touched his neck, brushing his necklace in the process. At the contact, visions of James’ own mother flooded his mind. Her at the Thames, trying to take his life. Her kissing him. And at that moment, he knew it. Even though society at large—even in Africa—condemned incest, he knew, only at that moment, that what he and Zilpha had was unnatural and could not—would not—survive. He stopped his movements. As if awakening from a trance, he realized he was choking the life out of her. He stumbled and stood from bed, putting on his clothes, and leaving this madness at once. 

♘♞

James Delaney had always known how to break into a house. Doors. Locks. Men’s laws. They were all the same: barriers designed to slow him down, never stop him. But this time, he didn’t smash or force or shatter. He waited. Waited until the last of the Chambers shipment caravans rolled down the cobbled streets toward the docks, John shouting to his men something about James having sent him away for three days and needing them to keep close surveillance of his wife. John was right, James thought, he shouldn't trust James alone in London with Grace. James waited until John’s boots were no longer echoing down the marble sidewalk. Waited until the servants were cloistered in the kitchen, counting spoons and gossiping about other people’s tragedies. Then he walked the alley behind the Chambers estate.

The back door creaked open under his hand. Quiet. Knowing. He moved through the house like a shadow, up the stairs that had probably once carried Grace’s laughter. Past the paintings and tapestries. This reminded him of his residence in past decades, of when he first took her. In the attic of his father’s house. Then Grace Gonçalves. Now Grace Chambers. Only temporarily, though. He entered her bedroom. It smelled of lavender water and rose oil. He didn’t light a lamp. Just sat on the chair by the window, letting the afternoon bleed slowly into dusk. He waited. And finally, she came. Grace stepped into the room and froze, her hand still on the doorframe. She didn’t scream. Of course she didn’t. “I told you not to break in, hence I must not be dreaming. How did you get inside my bedroom?” she said coldly. “You left the back door unlocked,” James replied, his voice quiet, rough. “Or maybe I knew where the key was.”

She closed the door behind her. “My husband left two hours ago.” “I know,” came his low reply. “You always seem to know everything,” she said, her voice brittle. “How long have you been waiting?” “A lifetime,” he said simply. Grace didn’t move closer. She didn’t soften. But she didn’t leave either. “I saw you at the cemetery,” she said, voice low. “You looked at her like she was your shadow.” “I buried her,” James replied. Grace’s eyes narrowed. “The part of me that belonged to her. I buried it with her husband.” Grace stared at him, searching for the lie. She found none. Only exhaustion. Regret. A kind of emotional nakedness she hadn’t expected from a man who was capable of biting through a man’s throat without blinking. 

He stood slowly. “I was wrong,” he said. “About everything. Zilpha, the dreams, the ghosts. I kept trying to live in two worlds at once. But this one—” he looked at her now, and there was fire in his gaze, but not rage—something deeper, “—this world only matters if you’re in it.” She said nothing. Her jaw was set. “I don’t expect forgiveness,” he continued. “I just wanted you to know… I’ve made my choice.” He stepped forward once. “You. I am sorry it took me so long.”

But all she heard was ‘you.’ The word was a stone dropped in still water. Grace whimpered. She hated how much she wanted to believe him. How much she wanted to fold into him like nothing had happened. But she couldn’t—not yet. Not like that. “You use people, James. You lie. For plans, leverage, and manipulation.” “I’ve used everyone,” he said. “But not you. I never lied to you. I didn't understand it then. You were never in the plans. But despite all the times I tried to shake you off of my mind, you kept crawling back. Like a magnet. I thought I was using you. But not anymore.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out: a small silver pendant—worn, bent. “You gave me this,” he said. “The day I left for Africa. Said it would keep me sane.” Her heart skipped a beat. He placed it gently on her vanity. “It didn’t.”

She looked at the pendant, her throat tight. She couldn't believe he still had it after this whole time. She couldn’t believe it had survived the shipwreck. She couldn’t believe what he had gone through to preserve that memory of her. “I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said. “I’m asking you to help me survive. You are the only reason I want to be here, the one good thing in a world of shit.” Grace looked at him now, truly looked. And for the first time since that night at the Mosgrove party, she didn’t see Zilpha’s ghost hanging off his shoulders. She saw only him. Alive. Waiting. For her. Grace stared at the pendant for a long moment. Her fingertips itched to touch it, to remember the girl she’d been when she gave it to him — before the ships, before secrets, before the opium, the graves, and the cold breath of the Company on her neck.

When she finally looked up, James was still standing there. Watching her. Waiting. Always waiting. But never patient. Her voice was low. “You kept it even after all those years?” 

“I had no right to forget it.” A beat passed between them. Quiet. Loaded. Then Grace crossed the space between them in three steps, and slapped him across the face. The sound cracked like a pistol. James didn’t flinch. His head turned slightly, but when he looked back at her, his eyes were burning. Not with rage. But with something older. Something hungrier. “You deserve that,” she said. “I deserve worse.” “Good,” she whispered. Then she kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was war. Her hands tangled in the lapels of his coat, dragging him closer like she could tear him apart just to feel what he was made of. He kissed her back like a man starved—hands at her waist, pulling her flush against him. She tasted smoke and whiskey and something feral in him, something that hadn’t belonged to England in centuries. His breath was ragged when he pulled back, just barely. “You shouldn’t have let me in.” “What choice had I? You always break in, anyway,” she whispered, her forehead against his.

He chuckled, dark and low in his throat. “Then you should’ve locked all doors.” “I did,” she said. “You just know how to break things.” “I’m trying not to anymore. Maybe I’ll build something for a change.” She laughed, then kissed him again, slower this time. And this kiss — this second one—wasn’t war. It was an armistice. She bit his plump, bottom lip. He became hungrier. He opened the top part of her dress, ripping it out of her. Then he grunted, turning her around and kissing her neck while he fidgeted with her corset. She moaned, his patience ran out. He grabbed his knife out of his pocket and cut through the damned fabric. She whimpered. He removed her skirts next. “It has been far too long since I've seen you so bare.” She turned around facing him, “it has been far too long since I've been absent your touch. It's my turn, then, huh?” She grabbed the knife from his hand and ripped his shirt.  

He looked at her, completely naked before him. His gaze roamed over her curves hungrily, taking in every inch of her skin. She was a goddess, standing there with her ample breasts heaving, nipples hardened in the cool air, and her womanhood glistening with arousal. James growled low in his throat, his cock straining against his trousers. He quickly shed the rest of his clothes, not caring where they landed on the floor. When he was as bare as her, he took a step forward, backing her up until she hit the wall. Grace gasped, her eyes wide as she took in his muscular form. His chest was sculpted, abs ridged, and a light trail of dark hair led down to his thick, throbbing erection. She bit her lips, hunger stirring in her belly.  "God, you are perfect. I've missed this," she breathed, reaching out to wrap her fingers around his shaft. He was hot and hard in her grip, pulsing with need. James groaned, his hips bucking into her touch. "Not half as much as I've missed you."

He captured her mouth in a searing kiss as he hoisted her up, pinning her against the wall with his hips. She whimpered and wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling the tip of his cock nudging at her entrance. "Please," she whispered against his lips, aching to be filled by him. "I need you inside me." James didn't hesitate. With one powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside her tight heat. They both cried out at the sensation, reveling in the feeling of finally being joined again. He set a furious pace, pounding into her with deep, hard strokes. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, their grunts and moans of pleasure echoing off the walls.

Grace clung to him, her nails digging into his back as he fucked her relentlessly. Each thrust hit a spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyes. She could feel herself rapidly approaching the edge, her inner walls fluttering around his cock. "Oh my God, James Delaney” she panted, tossing her head back against the wall. "Don't stop, please don't stop!" James snarled, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he drove into her harder, faster. "That's it, love. Cum for me. Squeeze my cock like a good girl." With a keening cry, Grace came undone, her pussy clamping down on him like a vice as ecstasy crashed over her in waves. James followed seconds later, spurting hot jets of cum deep inside her spasming cunt.

They collapsed together on the bed, a tangle of sweaty limbs and racing hearts. James gathered Grace into his arms, pressing soft kisses to her face as they both came down from their intense high. "I love you," he murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I always have, even when I was too stubborn to admit it." Grace smiled up at him, cupping his cheek in her palm. "I love you too, Devil Delaney. Never forget that." He smiled at the nickname. Then captured her lips in a slow, deep kiss, pouring all his love into the slide of his mouth against hers. In that moment, nothing else mattered. No secrets, no power plays, no unfinished business. Just the two of them, together at last.

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter- part 8

Warnings for this chapter: none.

The following morning, Grace felt anger. She felt used by James and she wasn't sure if he was only using her for sex, since he was also visiting Zilpha’s dreams. Plus, she heard gossip from people who said he constantly frequented the German whorehouse. So there had to be something else that enticed him to seduce and use her, and her mind was set on finding out why else he needed her. 

She went downstairs. Her servants were preparing the breakfast table with eggs, toasts, jam, and coffee. She sat down. As she was reaching for the jam, something caught her eye. A headline that read, “East India Company Robbed. Authorities on High Alert.” She grabbed the newspaper, quickly trying to find out more about what had happened. But the newspapers didn't know much more about the robbery than she did, except for a passage explaining that the robbers looked like Frenchmen, probably from organized crime, and that only one of the company's warehouse had been attacked. The only possible clue in the article was saltpeter, a chemical element used to make gunpowder. Grace hardly pretended to have any interest in chemistry. But she knew well who she could talk to in order to find out more about the robbery, and whether James was or not involved in it.

              ♘♞

Grace had never been to the apothecary alone before. The scent of sulfur and rot clung to the air like an invisible veil as she stepped inside Cholmondeley’s cramped workspace. Bottles lined the shelves—dark liquids, powders, and herbs—each one potentially poison, remedy, or both. He didn’t notice her at first. He was hunched over a bowl, stirring something viscous and black with a look of mad devotion. His hair was as wild as ever, tangled and greasy, and he muttered softly to himself until the floorboard creaked under her weight. Then his eyes snapped up. “Oh,” he said, not startled in the slightest. “Mrs. Chambers.” “Mr. Cholmondeley,” she kept her voice cool. “I’d like to speak with you.” “Does your husband know you’re consorting with madmen today?”

Grace gave a thin smile. “I left my permission slip at home.” Cholmondeley chuckled, licking a bit of whatever foul mixture he was stirring off his thumb. "So, you don't seem to have an interest in my presentations, yet you come to inquire about chemistry, I assume? Tell me, Mrs. Chambers,” he raised his left eyebrow suggestively, “what can I do you for?” There was no point in delaying the inevitable. “I read on the news that the East India's saltpeter was stolen two days ago. They say it's used to make gunpowder. I was just wondering how one would do such a thing.”

He stopped stirring the liquid and walked towards her. “Don't tell me you're planning on starting your own gunpowder production?” “Not at all, but since you brought it up, is this something one could easily do? Maybe… perhaps someone who has dealings with shady people like Atticus, hates the East India Company more than the Pope hates the devil, and was seen by none other than eight ladies of high society in one of your most recent presentations not three days before the robbery?” He looked at her surprised. “Yes, I have my sources, too.” “I see. So this is all about Delaney then?” He answered. She stepped closer to the pot with the black liquid and took a look inside, saying casually, “I only wish to know what he's planning. What this all is. Saltpeter. Robberies… Oh, and also why are there mysterious men watching my house.”

He tilted his head and blinked at her slowly, as if trying to decide whether she was a threat—she wouldn't be the first improbable spy he'd seen that day—or merely amusing. “I know what you're doing,” she added. “You’re helping him make... something.” Cholmondeley closed their distance, fingers twitching with excitement or madness—it was never clear which. “Ah, but knowing some is not knowing all, my dear. And trust me, you don’t want to know all.” “Why not?” “Because once you do,” he said with a crooked grin, “you stop being innocent.” She stepped back, but let her voice harden. “I stopped being innocent the moment James Delaney walked back into my life.” The smile vanished. “I’m not part of this,” she said. “But I need to know whether he ever saw me as anything more than another pawn on his board.” A flicker of something passed over Cholmondeley’s face; pity, maybe. Or fear. But he turned away, muttering as he went back to his work.

“Whatever Delaney’s planning,” he said, voice suddenly dull, “it’s beyond people like you and me. I'm afraid I couldn't help you more than you can understand his motivations.” She sighed. “I see. In any case, it's always… interesting seeing you, Mr. Cholmondeley. Good day to you.” There came a reply, “and to you. And if you're ever interested in more than just science, don't hesitate to come by,” he winked. She left. What she did next was reckless. 

♘♞

Grace had told herself she’d return home after that strange and fruitless meeting. But her feet had other ideas. Her instincts had already taken over. She was standing just outside James’ company office. It didn't take too long. He stepped out the door, closing it behind him, looked over his shoulder, and started walking. She followed him from a distance. James Delaney strode through the city like a man on a mission, unaware—or perhaps entirely aware—that someone trailed him. He moved quickly, weaving between markets and alleyways, past fishmongers, cart-wheelers, and barking dogs. He didn’t look back. Until he did. Just once. Over his right shoulder. A flicker of suspicion in his eyes.

Grace ducked behind a carriage, heart pounding. When he turned the next corner, she followed, more carefully now, keeping her distance. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for—some secret rendezvous? An illicit meeting? Proof that he was more monster than man? But the moment she stepped into the alley, she realized her mistake. There was no one there. Just silence. And fog. Then hands. Strong, unyielding, grabbing her from behind and pulling her into the shadows. Her back hit the cold bricks, and before she could scream, a gloved hand was over her mouth. His hand. James Delaney’s face emerged from the darkness, his eyes blazing like storm-lit skies. “You should know better than to follow ghosts, Grace,” he whispered. She shoved at him, but he didn’t move. “Get off me.” He did—slowly—removing his hand from her mouth, but not stepping away. “What are you doing?” he asked. Not angry. Curious. Cold. “I could ask you the same,” she replied nonchallantly. 

“You already did. You asked Cholmondeley. And now you’re here.” He leaned in, voice a low growl. “Are you trying to get yourself hanged?” Grace didn’t flinch. “Maybe I just want to know what I’m risking my life for.” “You already do.” “No,” she snapped. “I don’t. I know what the papers say. I know what the Company thinks. But I don’t know you, James. Not anymore.” His expression shifted—tightened. “You think I’m using you.” “You are using me.” “I used Zilpha,” he said. “And that destroyed us both.” His breath hitched. He hadn’t meant to say that.

“And me?” Grace whispered. “What do you plan to do with me?” Silence. A pause heavy with things neither of them dared say. Then, softly, “I didn’t plan you.” He stepped back, finally giving her space. “Go home, Grace,” he said. “Before you find out something that will truly break you.” She stared at him, trembling—but it wasn’t fear. Not entirely. “Then tell me the truth,” she said. Grace didn’t lower her gaze. She stood there, pressed against the bricks, the cold seeping into her spine, refusing to flinch under James’s stare. “Tell me the truth,” she repeated, firmer this time. “Because I’ve seen the men watching my house. I’ve seen what’s in those crates my husband smuggles. And I know you’re working with him. I could bet you remember what happened in the church that day.” He flinched. His jaw tensed. “I know exactly what kind of things John deals with there. So if you want to keep pretending I’m an innocent bystander, you’re too late.” James studied her in silence.

Then he sighed, slow and ragged, as if surrendering something heavy. “I never meant for you to be part of this.” “You never meant for me to love you again, either. But here we both are.” His jaw tightened. “Your husband deals opium. You know that. But what you don’t know is that it’s being poisoned.” Her breath hitched. “Not by him, at least not officially,” James said. “Officially, it's being poisoned by the honorable East India Company. Quietly. Systematically. They're spreading tainted shipments across China, the colonies—creating a dependency they can control. And when the bodies pile up, they will have to deal with way more than just a few unfortunate company boys losing their souls.” Grace felt the world tip beneath her. “That’s madness.” “That is empire,” he said. “Dressed in silk and profit.” She stared at him, something dawning in her eyes. “I wonder what is your involvement is in all that.. could you be, by any chance, getting your revenge from the things they did to you over a decade ago?"

He gave the faintest smile. “Something like that.” “And the saltpeter? The gunpowder?” She pushed. “Leverage,” he answered, “for those who won’t listen to whispers.” She took a shaky breath, her voice quieter. “You think they’ll come for me?” “They already have,” James said. “Those men watching you are probably Company spies.” “They won’t stop on spies,” she whispered. “No,” he agreed. “They’ll stop when there’s nothing left to use as leverage for me. Or when there's nothing left to fear.” She looked away, then back, eyes burning. “So tell me again why you simply won’t involve me.”

James stepped closer, but this time without threat. There was something softer in his face, haunted but tender. “Because I only associate myself with those who deserve what's coming for them.” Grace's lips trembled, but her voice didn’t. “You don’t have that choice, James. My husband’s part of this now. He is trafficking treason. Associating with traitors. And the moment the Crown finds out, they’ll hang him. And me. And his parents, too. So don’t talk to me about protection. I'm already damned.” She stepped into him now, her anger tempered into resolve.

 “So either you let me stand beside you... or you leave me in the line of fire without a weapon.” James stared at her for a long time. Then, almost reluctantly, he grunted and gave in, “Your husband’s shipments are being used. But I’ve arranged for a series of substitutions. Half the shipments leaving the port are mine now—not his. Laced with spiked opium. And the Company doesn’t know it yet.” “What about the powder? What are you really using that for?” she asked. “A bargaining chip,” he said. “For someone higher than the Company, when the time comes.” Grace narrowed her eyes. “You’re planning a war.”

“I’m preventing one,” he replied. “But it may come to the same thing.” There was silence between them again. Then he added, voice low: “This isn't a rebellion, Grace. It's a reckoning. And everyone in it—Cholmondeley, Atticus, John, me—we are a league of the damned. And once you join, you don't come back.” She didn’t hesitate. “Then give me a seat at the table.”

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter- part 7

OK, It has been a minute! I am SO sorry I was unable (emotionally and psychologically) to post anything last week. I had a tough week! But let me make it up to you girls out there. I will be posting this SUPER LONG chapter that includes: mentions of incest, Taboo talk, and yes, smut. But also angst.

Disclaimer: as always, English is not my first language, but enjoy!

The next morning was a blur. Grace slept in. She didn't feel like getting out of bed or doing anything. John walked into the bedroom, “are you unwell?” “No, I'm just still feeling disagreeable because of the news from yesterday.” “Oh, my dear, I know how that can come as a shock, especially for you who have known them for years. You take your time.” Grace started crying then. She was not used to John being nice to her, and now she felt truly sorry for having been unfaithful. John sat down on the side of the bed and hugged her. She allowed herself to cry on his shoulder for a bit. “How could I not see it?” She pondered more to herself. “Oh dear, sometimes it's hard for us to expect something so unnatural and sick from humanity, especially from those we once loved.” She just kept sobbing. “I do have to go now.” “Where to?” She held on to him. “If you must know, I'm going to Delaney's office to cut ties with him presently.” She let him go. “Dear,” she called, “be careful. You don't know what he's capable of.” “I will be.” 

It was definitely weird that John was being so nice to her. Grace figured she could continue in bed, feeling sorry for herself, or that she could shake her self-pity off, get up, go out and see her mom. Her mother always made her feel better about everything. She called one of the servant girls to help her change and asked if there was still any breakfast left. “Yes, Mrs. Chambers. Do you wish me to bring you some or should I have the table set?” “You can have the table set. Thank you, Emma.” She had breakfast and left the house at around 1pm. She knocked at her mother's door and when she was announced, her mom was having tea with Mrs. Clara Sparrow, who Grace believed she had seen at the masquerade the night before. Her heart sank just thinking of it, but she couldn’t leave now, she had already been spotted.

“Gracie!” Her mother stood up and walked towards her, hugging her tight. “You came at a wonderful time. Sit down with us. Mary, get her a cup of tea, a plate and some cutlery.” “It's quite alright, Mary. I just had breakfast. I'll have some tea though.” “Nonsense! You need to try this wonderful cake Mary prepared just for us. She's an amazing cook!” “I know, mom!” She turned to Clara, “Hello, Clara. It's so nice to see you again.” “Yes, so very nice… I did see you last night at Musgrove’s, right?” 

Grace was about to reply when her mother interrupted. “The Musgroves’? You were there as well Grace?” “Yes, mother. As a matter of fact I was.” Grace took a sip of her tea. “Is that why you came here then, to tell me the absurd news?,” her mother asked. Grace nearly choked on the tea. She coughed, “I'm sorry. What news?” She looked from her mother to Clara. “That’s true! I don't actually recall seeing you then,” said Clara. “Yes,” Grace cleared her voice. “John and I left early. He had a meeting at six with a partner this morning.” “So you are not yet aware of what happened after you left?” Grace shook her head to her mother’s question. “Oh Clara, do go on and tell her, then!” “Well, after you left, Mr. Geary had a rather interesting public conversation with Mr. Delaney in the garden.” “Mr. Delaney?” Grace asked flushed. “What about?” She tried to sound not overly interested. “Mr. Geary claimed that the savage had sinful relations with Zilpha!” “Dear God!” Grace was surprised. Not because of the incest allegations, but because Thorne would choose to confront James so openly. “Yes, and he did so in front of everyone present. Isn't that outrageous?!,” her mother interjected. “Indeed,” came Grace's reply.

Grace and her mother shared a look. Anita Gonçalves had always sensed that her daughter felt something for James. Ever since Grace was a teenager, her mother noticed the infatuation Grace had for him. Anita never objected to a possible relationship or even marriage between the two of them. He was a prominent, young officer, after all. Furthermore, Anita and her husband knew the family very well. However, despite not having anything against James, when Horace became mentally unwell, Anita did not care too much for Grace's and Zilpha’s friendship anymore. And when she first heard the rumors about James in Africa, she even told her daughter to stay away from the Delaneys altogether as they had been publicly disgraced. “But the most outrageous part came after,” Clara added, distractedly. “What happened after?” Asked Anita. 

“Geary challenged Delaney to a duel.” “What?! When?!” Grace practically got up from her chair. “Oh, I'm afraid you won't be able to see this duel as it has already happened. We all wished to have seen it, but they chose to have it in a secluded area with but a dozen witnesses. Thank God my own husband was there too.” “So, who won?!” Grace's heart nearly stopped for a moment. She couldn’t even breathe. “Delaney?!” “I'm afraid not.” Grace attempted to stand up, but she staggered and fell to the floor. She was about to cry. “Gracie!” Her mother yelped, as she got up from her chair to help her daughter. “Sorry, I just tripped on my dress I suppose. How silly of me!” Anita helped her up, turned to Clara and asked, “how did it happen?” Clara's concern for Grace soon gave way to a desperate need for gossip. “What? No! Delaney was definitely going to kill Geary, but Thorne cowardly shot him before they finished pacing.” “Oh God,” Grace whimpered, turning toward the window to cry. “But that's just it. The boy who handed Geary's gun filled it with blanks. And Delaney said something about his life being more important than Geary’s. He then threatened his brother-in-law, saying that if Geary ever challenged Delaney again, James would see things through. They both walked out of there, unharmed. Or at least that’s what I heard!” Grace couldn't help but smile so wide she did not dare turn to face her mother who surely would read her daughter's relieved expression and uncover Grace’s true feelings for James.

“If you must know, most everyone thinks Geary was far too drunk and altered that night. Can you believe that? I don't think any person who was at the masquerade actually believes James and Zilpha could have done anything like that. Even with all the savagery he's seen and done, we can all see that they hardly stand even being at the same places together.” Clara added. “I agree,” said Anita. Grace still faced the window. “However, I would advise that neither of you try to talk to Zilpha. We don't know what she or Thorne are capable of, especially at a time like this. Horace did not leave her a thing and now the new, secret wife shows up?” Grace finally turns, “a new wife? Whose wife?” “Haven’t you heard? It was in the newspapers and all, dear.” Anita proceeded, “it looks like in one of Horace's trips, he married a much younger woman who is now claiming half the inheritance Horace left James. An actress, I believe.” Grace felt bad. She did not know James was going through all that. Still, he had no right to mislead and hurt her.

“I have to go, mother. I just dropped by to see how you were. But seeing as you have the most wonderful company, I will visit you at a later time,” Grace said, kissing her mother's cheek and proceeding to say goodbye to Clara. “I do hope to see you around,” Clara said. “Of course, how else am I going to find out the latest news from the London society if not from you,” Grace said, wishing she could just go already. “Be safe dear. Do you want me to call you a carriage?” “No, I had Nathaniel wait for me outside. Bye, mother.” Grace left. She really wanted to go see James, but of course even if she could, she was still positively angry at him. So she went home. 

   ♘♞

The fire in James Delaney’s office burned low, casting restless shadows across the walls. A dull amber glow settled over the worn wood of the desk, where James sat carving a small piece of bone with the tip of a blade, the slow scrape echoing faintly in the silence. He was conflicted about the night before. Especially as it came to Grace. He wished he could have been strong enough to resist temptation and not have dragged her into his corrupted world. He did truly care about her. Always had.

A knock cut through the silence. He didn’t look up. “Come in,” he said simply. The door creaked open and John Chambers stepped inside. He was a man accustomed to control, but not today. His movements were too tight, his face too pale, his jaw clenched as though he were holding in bile. He closed the door behind him and stood still for a long moment, saying nothing. James didn’t rise. His eyes remained on the carving, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Mr. Chambers,” he said. “Have you come for coin, or for clarity?”

John’s voice came out rough, low with rage. “I’ve come to sever this godless arrangement.” At that, James looked up. His face, half-shadowed by firelight, was unreadable. He set the blade he was playing with down slowly and rose, turning to face the hearth. “Which god?” he asked softly. “Yours, or mine?” John ignored the provocation, fists curling at his sides. 

“I heard you,” he spat. “The other night. Speaking to that woman. Your sister.” There was a flicker in James’s eye, a glint—not of shame—but something more dangerous—amusement. 

“I know what you are,” John went on, voice shaking now with something deeper than anger. “What you’ve done. And there’s no place for it in no man’s world, no matter how black.”

James turned slowly, his eyes sharp as cut obsidian. “And yet you stood beside me while we brewed poison. Smiled while we plotted to lace the East India’s shipments and bury their men in their own filth. So tell me, John… What truly offends you? The incest, or the reflection that you agreed to be my partner?” John took a step forward, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. “I followed you,” he said, teeth gritted. “Because I thought you would burn the bastards who sent my brother to die. But you… you're just another devil. One who dresses vengeance in perversion and blood.” James stepped toward him now, slow and deliberate, until they stood only a pace apart. The tension was electric. “I never promised to be clean,” James said. “I promised only results. And your brother will be avenged. In fire and in ash. But if you want to walk away now…” He gestured toward the door. “Go. Let the Company grow fatter, and let your brother rot without voice or reckoning.” “You used me!” John growled.

“No,” James said, more softly. “I chose you. Because you understood what was taken from you. Because you wanted to hurt them. Because you knew you couldn’t do it alone.” He paused. Then, almost gently, added, “And because your wife lies better than you do.” The effect was instant. John flinched as though struck. His face twisted in fury, but James raised a hand. 

“We all carry sins in different colors, John. Yours just wears a mask of morality.” But John didn’t back down. He took another step forward, his voice rising with heat. “You touched my wife, last night, at the Musgroves’ masquerade. You danced with her like she was yours. Whispering things in her ear… things that made her blush and tremble.” James tilted his head slightly, an unreadable flicker passing through his eyes. “She clutched your shoulder like a lover. And when we came home,” John’s voice cracked, “she wouldn’t even meet my gaze.” 

For a moment, the fire snapped in the hearth, the only sound between them. “Grace is your wife,” James said finally, voice calm. “Not your prisoner. If she trembles, John… perhaps it’s not from what I say, but from what you never have.” John’s hand twitched, almost reaching for the blade at his belt. His breath was shallow. “I should slit your throat for speaking her name,” he said, nearly trembling. James leaned in close. Voice dropping to a whisper. “But you won’t. Because you need me… and more importantly…” His gaze sharpened; narrowed. “Because I know what you’re planning.”  

John froze. “You’ll stay in this arrangement,” James said. “You’ll distribute the poisoned opium. You’ll play your part. You’ll smile, and wait. And when the moment comes—when you believe the knife will find its mark—” He smiled, cold and certain. “—you’ll learn that I already knew.” Silence stretched between them. The fire popped softly. Then James stepped back, collected two glasses, and poured brandy. “Let’s not pretend to be friends,” he said, offering John a glass. “We are instruments of mutual destruction. Drink?” John stared at the glass, unmoving. Then, without a word, he turned and left, the door slamming behind him. James took a sip of his own brandy and stared into the fire, smiling faintly. He hadn’t won. Not yet. But the game was still his.

♘♞

The night was sharp and silent. Grace laid awake in her bed, the sheets twisted around her like restraints. Her eyes, red-rimmed with exhaustion, remained fixed on the ceiling, as if answers might begin to bloom there in the plaster cracks. But none came. Only silence. And the moon. She rose without thinking, drawn to the window like a moth to a wound. The sky beyond was pale and heavy with stars. The moon hung low, silver and unspeaking — full enough to feel like an eye watching over her. She pressed her fingers to the glass. She had told him to stay away. Not to break in. Not to poison her sleep with the taste of him. But now… Now she whispered anyway. “Come,” she said. Just one word. Soft. Barely air. 

And he heard her. When she turned from the window, she went to bed. Finally falling asleep after 30 minutes of turning and twisting. When her mind gave way to dream, James Delaney was there. This time, they were not in the woods. He stood at the edge of her bedchamber, shadow wrapped around him like a second skin. The fire had not been lit, and yet his figure was etched with light, like moonlight had followed him inside the room. He said nothing. Neither did she. Her voice trembled with fury when it finally came. “You don’t get to be in my dreams. Not anymore.” 

James’ eyes met hers. They were darker than the room itself, but something flickered in them — not defiance. Not cruelty. Something else. Something more human. “And yet here I am,” he said quietly. “You are still seeing her, James... Zilpha.” It was not a question. James didn’t blink. “Yes.” The silence that followed was brutal. Grace’s throat tightened. A tear threatened to shed. She took a breath and tried to wound him with it. “You said I was the only thing that felt real.” “And you were,” he answered. “You still are.” She looked away. “Then what am I now? A ghost between two lovers?” “No,” he said, voice rougher now. “You are the only part of me that wants to survive.” 

Grace sat up, jaw tight. “Then why do you still go to her?” “Because I cannot burn one part of myself to save the other,” he said. “Zilpha and I... were forged in the same fire. That kind of heat doesn’t go out. It doesn’t fade. It brands. We are the same.” “And what am I, then?” she snapped. “A passing kindness? A prettier wound?” His silence hurt more than a lie might have. But then, quietly, he said, “I don’t know how to unlove you, Grace.”

She stared at him, her chest rising and falling. Her hands were trembling. And despite everything, she got up and crawled to him over her white, silky sheets. She crossed the space between them. When he pulled her into his arms, it was not soft. It was desperate. A collision of grief and hunger and memory. Her fingers curled into his shirt, angry, aching. He kissed her, and she let him. James broke the kiss and growled,  "I can't lose you, Grace. You're everything to me." Grace's heart clenched at the raw emotion in his voice, even as the rational part of her brain screamed at her to push him away, she couldn't. She was just as trapped in this twisted web of lust and longing as he was. So, instead of pushing him away, she pulled him closer, her lips finding his in a searing kiss. James responded eagerly, his hands roaming over her body with a hunger that bordered on violence.

Grace moaned into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair as she arched against him. She could feel the evidence of his desire pressing against her stomach, hard and insistent. "You're mine," James snarled against her lips, his hands moving to the hem of her nightgown. "Mine and no one else's." Grace shivered at the possessiveness in his voice, a thrill running down her spine. She knew she should protest, should remind him that she was a married woman, that this was wrong on so many levels. But in that moment, nothing else mattered except the feel of his hands on her skin. 

James practically ripped the nightgown off her, tossing it aside with barely concealed impatience. Then his mouth was on her, hot and demanding as he worshipped every inch of her body with his tongue. Grace cried out, her back arching off the bed as he was paying attention to her most sensitive spots. She could feel herself growing wetter by the second, her body aching for his touch. "Please," she gasped, writhing beneath him. "I need you inside me, James. Now." James complied eagerly, freeing himself from the confines of his trousers before settling between her thighs. He teased her entrance with the tip of his cock, coating himself in her slick arousal. Then with one smooth thrust, he was buried inside her to the hilt. They both groaned at the sensation, their bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces. 

James began to move, his hips snapping against hers with a force that bordered on punishing. Grace met him thrust for thrust, digging her nails into his back as she urged him on. "I love you," she panted, the words falling from her lips before she could stop them. "I love you so much it hurts. Always have." James froze his movements above her, his eyes wide with shock and wonder. Then he was kissing her again, fiercely, passionately, like he was trying to pour every ounce of his love into that single moment. "I love you too," he murmured against her lips. "More than anything in this world or the next." They moved together then, their bodies rocking in perfect synchronization as they raced towards their release. When it finally came, it was with a blinding intensity that left them both breathless and spent. 

But even as they laid there in each other's arms, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Grace knew that this couldn't last forever. Someday, they would have to face the consequences of their actions. But for now, they had this - this moment, this connection that transcended all reason and morality. And for now, it would have to be enough. For a moment, there was only breath and skin and the illusion that nothing had broken. But then she looked at him — really looked at him. “You heard my call, you came to me,” she whispered. “I always will,” he said. And it was that promise — that unbearable promise — that made her recoil. Not the kisses. Not the sex. Not the mention of Zilpha. But the truth that she would always be waiting, and he would always come, and they would never be whole. Grace sat up. Her expression shuttered like a door closing. “Go,” she said coldly. James didn’t argue. He got up and began to fade, the dream unraveling around him like smoke. When she woke, her pillow was damp. The moon had shifted. She lay there, alone, more hollow than before. And for the first time, she truly feared she’d never be free of him. Not in sleep. Not in waking. Not ever.

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter- part 6

Warnings for this chapter: So, for this chapter, there won't be any smut. There will be mentions of incest and suggestive language. Also, sorry, but there will be angst.

Disclaimer: English is not my first language.

The night of the ball arrived, and Grace found herself dressed in an exquisite gown of deep emerald silk, with some elaborate black designs. Her hair piled high on her head, some strands curling and falling over her shoulders in an elaborate style. She wore a mask of shimmering gold, her eyes glowing behind it like twin flames. John looked dashing in his black tailcoat and white gloves, his eyes hungry as they raked over her body. "You look good enough to eat," he growled, pulling her close. "Let's hope no one tries to steal you away from me tonight." Grace shivered, not only at the implied threat, but also because his touch now felt nauseating. Still, she kept her smile in place. "Don't worry, darling," she purred. "No one could ever compare to you." They arrived at the Musgrove estate, a grand manor of Neoclassic architecture. The ballroom was a whirlwind of color and sound, the guests a dizzying array of elaborate costumes and glittering masks. Grace felt like a deer in the headlights, her senses overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of it all. The masquerade was unlike anything Grace was accustomed to. It looked like something straight from a Hieronymus Bosch painting. People used their masks as a shield for their wicked behavior. Some engaging in flirting, some dancing shirtless – inebriated by a gas of some sort that was being distributed by a famous chemist from London, who a lot of women in high society were attracted to. Grace and her husband just stood there. Until she saw Zilpha and Thorne arrive. Both women went to a corner to gossip and left their husbands in the other room, talking about politics. But minutes after an animated conversation about the Duchess of Edinburgh, Zilpha suddenly became stiff after seeing something Grace remained unaware of. Zilpha excused herself and left. 

Grace remained there, sipping a glass of champagne when she felt a presence behind her. She turned slowly, her heart pounding in her chest. There, standing before her, was James Delaney wearing an elegant outfit. Her heart raced, she hadn't seen him wearing anything like that since they were teenagers. His mask was painted gold, his eyes burning behind it with an intensity that made her knees weak. "James," she breathed. He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his lips. "Dance with me," he said, holding out his hand. Grace hesitated for a moment, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed their interaction. But everyone was too caught up in their own conversations, some enjoying the hilariating gas, and dancing to pay them any mind. She placed her hand in his, letting him lead her to the dance floor. They moved together as if they were the only two people in the room, their bodies pressed close, his hand splayed across the small of her back. "I've been watching you," he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "Waiting for the right moment to approach you." Grace shivered, her body responding to his proximity like a live wire. "We can't do this," she whispered, even as she leaned into him. "Not here, not now." James chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent heat rushing through her veins. He purred, "Your husband is watching us, you know. He thinks you're dancing with a stranger." Grace glanced over to where John was now standing, his eyes narrowed behind his mask as he watched their every move. She felt a thrill of fear mixed with excitement. She was playing a dangerous game, pushing the boundaries of propriety and risking everything for a forbidden taste of passion. The song ended too soon, and James released her reluctantly. "Meet me in the library in five minutes," he said, his voice low and urgent. "I have something I want to show you." And then he was gone, melting into the crowd like a ghost. Grace stood there for a moment, her heart racing, before making her way to the library, praying that no one had noticed that she had been dancing with James Delaney. 

Little did she know that her husband was curious to know who his wife was dancing with. Having watched only the man’s back, he could not recognize him straightaway. So he followed the man, to find out where he was off to, and who he was… The mysterious man headed outside, where John noticed Zilpha Geary was already standing wearing a cloak over her beautiful, black dress and holding her mask in her hand. “Zilpha,” John muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. When Zilpha and the man started walking towards a stone structure, John followed, hiding behind a wall to eavesdrop on their conversation. But before he could die from curiosity, Zilpha said, “James, why are you here?” “Because I was invited. You?,” came the reply, a voice John was all too familiar with. He was now raging, but kept listening. “Because my husband was invited. He has business in Berlin.” “Huh, it’s a bit unexpected. Isn’t it? It’s unusual.” John heard Zilpha walk pass James. “I knew that when you saw me, you would come to me. And I realize that’s how it always is. You always drive me up…” but before she could finish her line of thoughts, James interrupted her, “It’s a bit unexpected that we are both invited. Is it not? We were invited both together.” A moment of silence followed. John couldn’t think why that was relevant. They were siblings. Of course, they did not run in the same circles, but considering that Thorne did have business with the Musgrove and that society at whole was flabbergasted by James Delaney, he could not understand his meaning. 

He kept listening, hoping to be enlightened. Soon came James’ conclusion, “If they invited us both, they probably know.” Know? Know what? John wondered while he kept listening, “who knows?” came Zilpha’s audibly concerned comment. James didn’t immediately respond. “Who knows?,” she insisted. James calmly said, “our American friends”. Americans?! John was now way more intrigued. Did James have dealings with the Americans or with Thorne? Clearly Geary would have commented on something by now if that were the case. Zilpha tried to walk away. John heard James stepping closer to her and holding her back. John walked closer to where they were now, as he tried to be as quiet as he could. “You feel me, don’t you? When I break in?” James whispered, barely audible. “No!” “Yes, you do.” “No, I don’t.” “You do. You feel me. And I could come more often, but I spare you.” “Then spare me.” Their tone was lascivious, almost sinful. ‘Weird. Break in?’ John thought. This did not make any sense. Zilpha said, “I went to a doctor. He took me to a priest who had been to a mission in Africa.” James interrupted, “yes, what did he say?” “He said that you visited his animals. He couldn’t even look at me after I told him.” This was wrong, John thought. He could barely believe what he heard. That could not be! That was a sin against God Himself! “When I left England, I thought I was mad. But they taught me how to use it. Now it’s a gift,” James replied. “It’s the devil,”John heard footsteps approaching. “Amongst other things, I am also a doctor,” came a voice he had never heard before. “And I’d say the lady is in danger of catching more than a chill out here.” John had heard enough. He was outraged, so he ran back to the mansion. 

He looked for his wife, only to find her in the library. She looked positively disappointed, “how did you find me?” “There is no time for that! We have to go, now!” She followed him ,but said, “why?! I want to stay here. You can send a carriage for me later.” “No! Not after what I' ve heard that nasty, deprived African say!” “What happened?” She now looked curious and worried. “That demented man! First he dances with my wife, then he goes after his own sister!” Grace’s face turned hurt. She looked away, “Oh, do you mean James then?,” her voice broke, almost like she was about to cry. “Of course I mean James!” “Quite honestly, I think you are obsessed with the man, my dear,” came her reply. She now looked at him, angry. “Oh, please, I had no idea that was him, when I followed the man outside to see who was dancing so depravedly with MY WIFE, when I heard him confess it all.” “Confess what, exactly?” Curiosity took the best out of her. Instead of saying they were just dancing normally or defending herself, she wanted to find out what had been said between Zilpha and James. Jealousy eating her up. “He said he breaks into her house, probably with the help of that servant of Zilpha, and said they… Oh, I cannot even say it!” “What John? What did he say?” She stepped toward her husband, grabbing his arm, desperate to know if James was also visiting Zilpha in her dreams. Of course, ‘breaking in’ did not mean what her husband thought it did. Herself having heard that term being said by James only once. “It wasn’t him who said it... She was the one who confessed something to a priest when he was in Africa... I think… Oh, God!” “John!” “I think they are having a romantic affair!” Grace’s heart broke. How could she think she was the only one? She was so stupid, such an idiot to think James wanted only her. She staggered, falling on a nearby chair. “I know! That’s terrifying. That savage! Corrupting her like that!” Grace could not say anything. All she knew was that she never wanted to look into James’ eyes ever again! “You are right. We should go. I will wait for you to fetch the carriage by the front hall. I feel sick," Grace said. "Understandably so, my dear”. 

Grace's heart pounded in her chest as she made her way out of the library, her mind racing with hurt and rage. The corridors of the estate blurred around her, her vision clouded by unshed tears. She barely noticed the servants getting out of her path as if sensing the storm radiating from her. Her footsteps echoed in the marble hall until she pushed open the heavy doors to the courtyard. And there he was. James. Standing by a carriage, his dark coat soaked from the light rain, his eyes catching hers instantly—as if he could sense her. “Grace,” he said, stepping forward, his voice low, almost relieved. She stopped in her tracks. “Don’t,” she said, her voice trembling. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t say anything to me anymore. It’s over.” His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face, but she was already moving toward him now, rage overtaking grief. “I can’t believe I trusted you, James,” she spat, fists clenched, punching his chest. She couldn’t... She stopped trying to hit him and started crying, “I thought… I actually thought I mattered to you. That maybe—just maybe—you had finally turned your back on whatever twisted bond you and Zilpha shared. But I was wrong, wasn’t I?” James’s jaw tightened. “Grace, it’s not—” “Don’t lie to me!” she shouted, and the horses in the carriage stamped uneasily. “You said you wanted me. And I believed you. How many more women are there? Who is this woman you came with today? Is she also one to allow you to ‘break in’?” “I did want you. I do.” His voice dropped to something nearly vulnerable. “You have to understand, it’s complicated.” She laughed, bitter and sharp. “Complicated? No, James. Adultery is complicated. Affairs are complicated. Incest is… abhorrent. And you’re still caught in it—still crawling back to her when I’m right here, waiting like a fool. You know what? Not anymore.” James looked away then, just briefly—but it was enough. Grace’s voice cracked. “How many nights did you go to her, after you left my bed? Did you even wait until the candle burned out, or were you already climbing inside her dreams while I was still dreaming about you?” 

“I didn’t want this,” he said tightly. “You think I chose this? There are things in motion you can’t—” “Spare me, James!” she screamed. “Spare me your riddles, your secrets, your damn ‘things in motion.’ I don’t want to understand you anymore. I want you out of my life. I want to forget that I ever…” She stopped, breath caught in her throat, because even now, even now, the thought of not having him anymore hurt her more than anything. He took a step closer. “You don’t mean that.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t tell me what I mean, James Delaney. You broke me. And I will never let you do it again.” She turned, skirts swishing, heart thudding as she walked toward the front steps. “If you ever come near me again, I swear, I will scream all of your secrets into the streets of London.” “Grace—” he started, almost desperate. But she didn’t stop. She didn’t even look back. She finally found her husband in the carriage waiting for her. A servant helped her in. “Thank you.” She was no longer crying, though John could sense her unease. “See?! I keep warning you not to go around talking to him. And you are childish enough to never listen to me. Honestly, it’s like every choice you make is just a silly mistake, my dear.” “Enough, John! You were right. I shouldn’t have talked to him at the tavern, I shouldn't have danced with him tonight. But you are right about something. I will never do it again.” The carriage disappeared in the fog of the night. Heading towards the Chambers’ residence. Both its occupants now in complete silence. As Grace looked through the windows, the images of James taking her clouded her brain. She allowed another tear to drop. 

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter-Part 5

Warnings for this chapter: blasphemous, unholy smut inside a church!

Disclaimer: English is not my first language.

Grace returned to her everyday life, but the memories of her dream encounters with James haunted her every waking moment. He only broke in twice thus far, but for these past two weeks, those two surrealist escapades had been sufficient to entice her even more. She found herself distracted at dinner, her mind wandering to thoughts of his touch, his kiss, his voice murmuring dark promises in her ear. What would he do next? What could he do next? Her husband noticed her distraction, too.

"Something on your mind, my dear?" he asked, his tone sharp. "You seem far away lately." Grace forced a smile, trying to shake off the lingering effects of her dream. "Just tired, I suppose," she said, avoiding his gaze. "It's been a long week." John harrumphed, returning to his meal. But Grace could feel his eyes on her, watchful and suspicious. She knew he didn't trust her, didn't believe that she could be faithful to him, especially not after James’ public display at the tavern. And maybe he was right, she thought with a twinge of guilt. Maybe she was already betraying him in her heart, if not in deed. A few days later, an invitation arrived at their doorstep. It was a gilded card, embossed with an elegant black mask. Grace recognized the crest immediately - it belonged to the Musgroves, one of the most influential families in the country. The invitation was for a masquerade ball, to be held at their estate on the outskirts of London in about four days.

John was thrilled at the prospect of rubbing elbows with the elite. "This could be good for business," he said, rubbing his hands together. "We must go." Grace felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with trepidation. She wondered if James would be there, probably not. But considering the people he was interacting with lately, she couldn’t be sure. Of course she knew James also interacted with the scum of society, but she heard from John that the king himself was interested in negotiating some land with James. She thought back to the masks and how if James attended this event he could probably use the anonymity of the masks to approach her. But she also knew it would be a dangerous game, flirting with disaster in plain sight of society. She had to buy a new dress and shoes, she thought. But now she had far more pressing matters to attend to.

She grabbed another letter from her escritoire and showed it to her husband. “John, dear, Mrs. Smith is still awaiting the flowers that were supposed to be delivered two days ago.” She usually never showed him Mrs. Smith’s letters, but considering he never missed a deadline before, she wanted to emphasize he needed to do something. John got visibly unsettled, of course the shipment wasn’t there. James probably was retaining it or something. What an incompetent, he thought. “I give him exactly the shipment he asks for, with just the extra detail he demanded too, and he does not have the decency to deliver it in time?” “Extra detail?” Grace seemed puzzled.

John noticed he had let it slip. He needed to be way more careful if he was going to play with James Delaney, even if he was only talking to his wife. “Nothing of consequence. You know what? I will visit his office right now!” “What should I tell Mary?” “Tell her to meet you in church today at 3. Her flowers will be there, even if I have to deliver them myself!” “But what of the opium?” John closed the distance between them, slapping her in the face. “Shhh! Nathaniel or Bridget might hear you! Don’t you ever mention my business in this house and don’t you ever ask me about that. I will figure something out. You worry only about the flowers, as always.” Grace brought her left hand to her cheek. “If not in this house, where should we discuss it?!” John was still aggravated, “stop complaining all the time and leave me be. I have important matters to attend to! Be at the church at 3,” he said, leaving.

At 3, Grace found Mrs. Mary Smith lighting a candle and offering a prayer inside the church. She waited for the older woman to finish whatever she was doing and then walked towards her. “Mrs. Smith, what a pleasure to see you.” Mary smiled, “how many more times should I ask you to call me Mary?” “At least once more!” They laughed. “So, where are the flowers?” “Oh, John promised to have them…” but before she could finish her sentence, James Delaney marched into the church with a few men bringing flowers and some large crates with fabric inside. “May the Lord have mercy! I had no idea he could actually walk inside of a church without burning to ashes,” commented Mary.

Grace simply said, “maybe the rumors are not true after all, don’t you think?” “Maybe.” James approached her and Mary. “Are you Mrs. Smith?” “Yes, she is. I see you brought the flowers and the cloths for the ceremony tonight. Great, you should set them by the altar. Mrs. Smith will make sure the priest receives them.” Grace said curtly. “As you wish,” he whistled and gestured to his men, indicating where they should leave the items. “Am I to assume the flowers will be delivered in time next week?” Mrs. Smith inquired. “Absolutely! And we are so very sorry about this whole situation.” Grace said.

The elderly woman then said, “I will come by later, before Father White is in. I have to be home for Carl’s arrival. Thank you Grace, dear.” Grace had the impression the elderly woman just did not want to be in the same place as James Delaney, considering she was almost running out of the church. She couldn’t blame her, the way people gossiped about him had always been despicable, Grace thought. She accompanied Mary to her carriage and after she took off and Grace saw James’ men had left the church, she went back in.

James was sitting in one of the large benches close to the confession rooms, looking at his watch. She walked close to him, “where is John?” “I am not his keeper. He said he needed the shipment and the flowers and I brought them.” “So he is not here? He didn’t come with you?” James’ eyes jumped to hers in a matter of milliseconds as they also got darker, with the understanding of what she was actually asking him. Grace's heart raced as she approached James, the air between them charged with a palpable tension. She could see the way his eyes had darkened as he looked at her; she could feel the heat of his gaze like a physical caress.

She looked away from his intensity and that’s when she saw the confessionary box. "Strange things these church rituals” James followed her line of sight and smirked. “I can only imagine how long it has been since your last confession.” She looked back at him. “I thought perhaps you might need some... assistance with the confession rooms," she said, her voice low and sultry. "You see? They can be rather tricky to navigate, especially for those not familiar with the church." James' lips curved into a slow, wicked smile, his eyes never leaving hers. "Is that so?" he murmured, rising from the bench and taking a step closer. "And I suppose you're offering to guide me through this... labyrinth?"

Grace's breath hitched as he invaded her personal space, the scent of him filling her nostrils and making her head spin. "If you wish," she whispered, turning and leading him toward the confession rooms. "But I must warn you, the path can be treacherous." She pushed open the door to the nearest room, pulling James inside and closing it behind them with a soft click. The space was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and the weight of her own desire. James pressed her against the wall, his body hard and unyielding against hers. "I like treacherous," he growled, his breath hot against her ear. "It makes the journey all the more thrilling."

Grace gasped as his hands slid over her body, cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples through the fabric of her dress. "And what about the destination?" she breathed, arching into his touch. "Is it worth the risk?" James' lips found her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he nipped and sucked at her pulse point. "Oh, it is worth every risk," he promised, his hands sliding down to her hips and pulling her flush against him. "In fact, I think we should take a little detour before we reach our final destination." Grace whimpered as she felt his hardness pressing against her, the heat of his desire searing her through their clothing.

"A detour?" she panted, her hands clutching at his shoulders. "What did you have in mind?" James' hands slid beneath her skirts, his fingers finding the slick heat of her core. "I thought we could take a little trip to paradise, since we are in a sacred place" he murmured, his fingers stroking and teasing her most sensitive places. "Just you and me, lost in a world of our own making." Grace cried out as he pushed a finger inside her, her hips bucking against his hand. "Yes," she hissed, her nails digging into his flesh. "Take me there, James. Make me forget everything but you."James grinned, his eyes gleaming with lust and triumph. "As you wish, my dear," he purred, dropping to his knees and pushing her skirts up around her waist. "Let the journey begin."

He buried his face between her thighs, his tongue delving deep into her folds and lapping at her essence like a man starved. Grace threw her head back against the wall, her moans echoing off the stone as he ate her out with a fervor that bordered on feral. "Oh God" she panted, tangling her fingers in his hair and grinding herself against his face. "God has nothing to do with it,” James replied, resuming his assault. He growled against her flesh, doubling his efforts and sending her spiraling toward the edge of oblivion. She came with a moan, her body shaking and convulsing against his mouth as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over her. But James wasn't finished with her yet.

As she slumped against the wall, boneless and spent, he rose to his feet and began to undress, revealing his hard, muscular body inch by tantalizing inch."Now it's your turn to take me to paradise," he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her deeply, his tongue tangling with hers in a dance of passion and desire. "Show me what you're made of, Grace." She hesitated for only a moment before dropping to her knees before him, her hands trembling as she wrapped them around his thick, pulsing shaft. "Anything for you," she murmured, before showing him just how good she could be.

Grace took James into her mouth, her lips stretching around his thick girth as she enveloped him in her warm, wet heat. She moaned around his length, the vibrations sending shivers down his spine as she began to bob her head, taking him deeper with each pass."Fuck!" James groaned, his hands fisting in her hair as he guided her movements. "Your mouth feels like heaven, indeed." Grace hummed in response, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his cock before dipping into the slit at the tip, lapping up the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there. She could feel him throbbing against her tongue, could taste the saltiness of his essence on her lips. She took him deeper, relaxing her throat and swallowing around his length until her nose was buried in the wiry curls at the base of his shaft.

She held herself there, savoring the feeling of fullness and the knowledge that she had reduced James Delaney to a quivering mass of need. But James had other ideas. With a growl, he pulled her off his cock, his hands gripping her upper arms as he hauled her to her feet. "As much as I love your mouth, I need to be inside you," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. "I need to feel your tight little cunt squeezing around my cock as I fuck you into oblivion." Grace whimpered at his words, her core clenching with anticipation. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he lifted her effortlessly. James wasted no time in slamming her against the wall, his cock probing at her entrance before thrusting deep inside her with one hard stroke.

They both cried out at the sudden intrusion, their bodies straining against each other as they tried to adjust to the exquisite sensation. "You're so tight," James panted, his forehead resting against hers as he fought for control. "So fucking perfect." Grace could only moan in response, her inner walls clenching around him like a velvet vice. She could feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it stretched her wide, could feel the heat of him pulsing deep inside her. Slowly, James began to move, his hips pulling back until just the tip of his cock remained inside her before slamming forward again, burying himself to the hilt. Grace cried out at the sudden fullness, her nails raking down his back as she clung to him for dear life. "Yes, fuck!" she panted, her head thrown back against the wall as he began to pound into her in earnest. "Harder, James. Make me feel it."

James obliged, his hips snapping forward with enough force to make the wall shake. He could feel her nails scoring his flesh, could hear the slick sound of flesh meeting flesh as he drove into her again and again. "Fuck, I love how you take my cock," he growled, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh of her neck. "Like you were made for it." Grace could only whimper in response, her body trembling with each thrust as he drove her closer and closer to the edge. She could feel the tension coiling in her belly, could feel the heat building low in her core as her orgasm approached. “Oh, God! Forgive me.” She whispered as she looked towards the heavens.

James doubled his efforts, his hips moving like a piston as he chased his own release. "Let Him worry about more pressing matters. Come for me," he commanded, his voice a dark growl in her ear. "Let me feel you come on my cock." And with that, Grace shattered, her body convulsing around him as she came with a scream that echoed off the stone walls. James followed seconds later, his cock pulsing inside her as he emptied himself deep within her core. They stayed like that for a long moment, their bodies pressed together as they fought to catch their breath.

James pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips curving into a satisfied smile. "That was... incredible," she murmured, her voice silky with post-coital bliss. Her body was still trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She knew she should feel guilty, should regret what they had just done. But in that moment, all she felt was satisfaction and a deep, abiding sense of rightness. "Again," she whispered, her lips brushing against his jawline. "I want to do this again." James chuckled, his eyes gleaming with wicked promise. "Oh, we will," he assured her, his hands kneading the globes of her ass. "Over and over again. Until you can’t walk straight."

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter- Part 4

Warnings for this chapter: smut, teasing, witchcraft. Let me know if there is anything else I forgot.

Disclaimer: English is not my first language.

After spending the next three hours looking for the deed with no success, James was spent, but as he tried to close his eyes to sleep, nothing came. So he sat hunched by the crackling fireplace in his dimly lit study, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows across his chiseled face. His almond-shaped green eyes, magnified behind smoky spectacles, glinted with a predatory intensity as he meticulously arranged various herbs, roots and vials on the worn wooden floor before him. The musky scent of burning incense and earthy aromas filled the air, suffusing the room with a hypnotic ambiance. With deft fingers, James selected a small pouch from his vest pocket and carefully poured its contents into his palm. Shimmering like moonlit snowflakes, the sacred powder of ayahuasca seemed to pulse with otherworldly energy. He reverently tipped the glittering substance into a clay bowl and added a splash of bitter bark tea, swirling the concoction with his fingers and covering his face with it.

As the pungent vapor wafted upward, James inhaled deeply, feeling his senses expand and heighten. The world around him began to undulate, colors bleeding into one another like wet ink on parchment. His consciousness drifted away, dissolving into the swirling fog, as he blew a white powder in the fire and chanted unknown words. Finally, he started chewing on a piece of flesh, and across town, nestled within the opulent confines of a grand Victorian manor, Grace Chambers slept comfortably in her lavish four-poster bed. The silken sheets felt cool against her porcelain skin, a stark contrast to the rising heat surrounding her body. Her chestnut locks cascaded across the pillow in tousled waves as she breathed in deeply, as if drawing the very essence of the night air into her lungs.

An indescribable sensation crept over Grace, a tingling anticipation that caused goosebumps to erupt along her arms. She felt drawn, almost magnetized, by an irresistible force. James’ name danced upon her lips, barely a whisper in the stillness of the darkened room. "You came." "I said I would," he said, his voice a low growl. "I always keep my promises." In the shadowed depths of a sprawling forest, James and Grace found themselves entwined. The dappled moonlight filtered through the dense canopy above, painting their bodies in ephemeral silver. Their naked flesh seemed to glow, radiant and otherworldly beneath the celestial light.

Grace's eyes fluttered open to behold James towering above her, his chiseled form silhouetted against the night sky, he looked just like he used to, except now he was covered in tribal tattoos and many scars that just made him even more irresistible. Those intense green eyes bore into her very soul, transfixing her with their sheer magnetism. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, a tangible force that ignited the very marrow of her bones. She did not remember how she got there, but she never wanted to leave. 

"James," she breathed, his name falling from her lips like a sacred incantation. "What is this sorcery?" A slow, enigmatic smile played across James’ lips as he lowered himself down onto her waiting body. "This, my dear Grace," he purred, his breath warm against her ear, "is but a taste of the heights of ecstasy that await us." Grace shuddered at his words and husky voice, her body responding with a fervent hunger she had never before experienced. She ached to be touched, to be consumed by this enigmatic man who had so effortlessly infiltrated her dreams. James' hands roamed her body with a reverent worship, his fingers tracing the delicate curves of her face, the graceful arch of her neck. Lower they roamed, teasing and tormenting, until they finally came to rest upon the full swell of her breasts. “These, I missed,” he said as she moaned at his touch. His thumbs circled the hardened peaks, igniting a fierce inferno within her core. 

James' mouth trailed a path of molten fire down her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her collarbone. His tongue laved the delicate buds of her breasts, circling and flicking until she cried out, her fingers tangling in his inky hair. "James," she gasped, her voice hoarse with need. "Please..." He raised his head to meet her gaze, his green eyes gleaming with untold secrets. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face as he reached down between their bodies, his fingers delving into her slick heat. Grace threw her head back, her body convulsing as his skilled digits worked their magic. “This feels just as I remember,” she said, gasping. Wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over her, threatening to tear her apart. She could feel herself spiraling toward the precipice of ecstasy, teetering on the razor's edge of oblivion.

Grace gasped, her back arching off the forest floor as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She felt herself dissolving, her very essence fusing with James', two souls entwined in a primal dance as old as time itself. James' lips descended upon hers in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into the honeyed depths of her mouth. He swallowed her breathless moans as he finally claimed her fully. His hips ground against hers, the rigid length of his arousal pressing insistently against her most intimate place. Grace writhed beneath him, her body undulating like the ocean's tide. She could feel his desire, pulsing and throbbing with an almost feral intensity. She wanted him, craved him with an insatiable hunger that bordered on madness. Grace gazed up at James with wide, luminous eyes, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. "James," she gasped, her voice thick with emotion and sated desire. "I can't imagine life without you, without your touch. This feels so real. How?"

James smiled down at her, a slow, sensual curve of his lips that sent shivers down her spine. "Shh, my sweet Grace," he purred, his fingers tracing the delicate contours of her face. "There are forces in this world that mere mortals cannot begin to comprehend. Powers that bind the very fabric of reality." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "I have learned to harness these energies, to bend them to my will. With the right rituals and offerings, I can pierce the veil between worlds and come to you in your dreams, but this is actually really happening, even if you think you’re only dreaming." Grace shuddered, her body responding to his words even as her mind reeled at the implications. "So this is truly happening?" she whispered. "We are together, truly and fully?" James nodded, his green eyes glinting with mischief and unbridled lust. "Indeed we are, my love. And I intend to make the most of our precious time together."

His hands roamed her body once more, caressing and teasing until she was writhing beneath him with renewed need. "I want to taste every inch of you," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "To explore every secret hollow and crevice until I know you better than you know yourself." Grace arched her back, offering herself up to his hungry gaze. "Yes," she breathed. "Take me, James. Make me yours forever." James chuckled low in his throat, the sound sending delicious tremors through her core. "Oh, I intend to, my dear. I'm going to worship this exquisite body of yours until you forget your own name." He descended upon her then, his mouth trailing hot kisses across her skin. He lavished attention on her breasts again, suckling and nipping at the sensitive peaks until she was crying out with wanton abandon.

His lips continued their downward journey, blazing a trail of fire over her quivering belly. He paused at the apex of her thighs, his breath teasing her most intimate flesh. "I'm going to devour this sweet pussy of yours," he promised, his voice a low, seductive purr. "I'm going to lick and suck until you're dripping with my essence." Grace moaned, her hips bucking involuntarily as she anticipated his touch. James grinned up at her, his eyes glinting with wicked intent. Slowly, torturously, he lowered his mouth to her aching core. His tongue delved into her folds, swirling and flicking against her sensitive bud. Grace cried out, her fingers tangling in her own hair as he feasted upon her like a man starved. He lapped at her honeyed nectar, drinking deeply of her essence as he drove her ever higher toward the pinnacle of ecstasy. "James," she gasped, her voice ragged with pleasure. Her right hand found its way to his hair. "Don't stop,” she whispered. James lifted his head, his chin glistening with her arousal. "Never," he vowed, his eyes burning into hers. "I will never stop worshipping this glorious body of yours."

He surged up her body once more, claiming her mouth in a searing kiss. Grace could taste herself on his lips, a heady aphrodisiac that sent her spiraling ever closer to the edge. With a single, powerful thrust, James entered her once more. “Does it ever feel like this with that man of yours?” “No, never,” she was out of breath. Grace met his every stroke, her hips undulating in perfect harmony with his. She could feel the coil of tension within her belly tightening with each passing moment, the pressure building to a fever pitch. He filled her completely, stretching her deliciously as he moved within her. Their bodies undulated together, lost in a primal dance. "I want to feel you come undone beneath me," James rasped, his hips driving into hers with relentless intensity. "I want to feel your sweet little cunt clenching around my cock as you scream my name." Grace could only moan in response, her world narrowing to the delicious friction of their joining. She could feel the tension building within her, coiling tighter and tighter until she thought she might burst. "Come for me" James commanded, his voice a low, hypnotic growl. "Let me feel your pleasure." With an earth-shattering thrust, Grace shattered around him. Her body convulsed, her inner walls clenching around his throbbing length as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over her. 

James followed suit moments later, with a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt within Grace's shuddering depths. She felt his hot seed spilling into her, filling her with his essence even as she tumbled over the edge into mind-shattering ecstasy. Their cries of completion echoed through the silent forest, a primal declaration of passion and desire. They collapsed together onto the soft moss beneath them, their bodies still joined in the intimate embrace of the afterglow. As they clung to each other, the dream began to fade, Grace reached for James one last time, her fingers tangling in his dark hair. "I don’t want to go. I don’t want this to ever be over.” James captured Grace's hand on his own, bringing her delicate fingers to his lips. He pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles, his eyes locked with hers. "Nor do I, my sweet Grace," he murmured, "I've thought about you every day since I left. About that night we shared,"his voice low and earnest. "But fear not, for this is far from over." He trailed his fingertips along her jawline, tilting her chin up to face him. "I will find a way to make this a reality, to have you by my side, always. You have my word." Grace's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, a mix of longing and hope. "Do you truly mean it?" she whispered. "Is such a thing even possible?"

James smiled, a slow, determined curve of his lips. "I am James Delaney," he said, his voice laced with quiet conviction. "I make the impossible a reality." He pulled her close once more, their bodies pressing together in a final embrace. "Until then, dream of me, my love. Dream of this, and know that it will be ours." With those parting words, the dream faded away as quickly as it had begun, leaving Grace alone once more in the cool confines of her bedchamber, with a heart full of yearning and a soul alight with newfound purpose. She reached out with trembling fingers to caress the warmth of her cheek, still damp from imagined tears of pleasure. James Delaney, it seemed, had kept his promise. He had visited her in her dreams and left her shaken to the very core. She felt his fire and she enjoyed being consumed by it. 

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter- chapter 3

Warnings for this chapter: none, just James Delaney being a tease!

Disclaimer: as always, English is not my first language, and I don't own any of these characters, except for Grace, John, and their household.

That same night, before going to bed, Grace wrote James a letter: 

Dear James, 

I am sorry to have been harsh to you when we talked, but you must understand that now I am a married woman. And, as such, society watches me intently. My every move is monitored by my husband or his men. And, when I am not under his constant surveillance and scrutiny, I am under the, perhaps worse, watching eyes of the high class women whose houses I visit during balls and other festivities. I wish we could meet and talk in person. I do feel a necessity for it, considering all we have left unsaid. However, times have changed and we are not just two teenagers playing hide and seek  in your father’s attic anymore. Please, understand I cannot be seen interacting with you, and please accept there is nothing between us. There never was. 

P.S.: I have never told Zilpha or anyone about us. And I wish you would act as if nothing ever happened, as if, to me, you were but a stranger.   

Cordially, 

Grace Chambers

The following day was indeed busy. Grace went to the market by morning and spent the first hours of the afternoon directing her maids and setting the table for James’ visit. The letter she wrote had been tucked in her dress since she woke up, in case her husband went through her correspondence while she was away. That day, Grace had instructed all house servants to display stronger drinks on the table for after their first cup of tea; walked around the house cleaning; and told her maids to cook dinner for three, in case the meeting took longer than expected. She then went upstairs to take a bath to look presentable for the visitor, as she told her maids. Truth be told, she really wanted to see James again. She wanted more than just to see him, she wanted him to talk to her about everything that happened to him, she wanted him to talk to her about the things he thought when he was in Africa, she wanted him to flirt with her, to cage her against a wall and kiss her passionately, just like he had done in the past, she wanted James to take her away, to fuck her senseless, she wanted James Delaney. 

“Grace!” It was John who had just walked into the bathroom. “Is everything ready for my meeting? Where did you set the tea?” She got up and covered herself with a towel, “I will show it to you. I will just get dressed first.” “Why are you bathing right now? You usually bathe during Tuesdays and Thursdays, always at night.” She cleared her throat, “Yes, usually. But today I felt like I needed to clean and relax. I walked around the whole market, cleaned the house, and had a very busy day.” “Will you be retiring for the evening, then?” “No” John looked angry, “I mean, I have to be the hostess, receive James, we can’t give him the impression that you have been waiting for him all day by the window. I think, personally, that when I send Nathaniel to call you, you should be in your office and take a good five minutes before coming to the sitting room. This way, he will see you are a very busy man and that you are not one to be disrespected. What do you think?” 

             Her husband’s expression changed. He pulled his lapel and said, “Indeed. As a matter of fact, this is what you should start doing with every person that comes in for a conference with me,” he said, before turning and walking away, leaving her standing there, heart pounding and body already yearning for James' visit. She quickly put on a red, velvet dress and moved her letter to her left boot, since this dress had no pockets. She went downstairs to show John where she had set everything and asked him if he approved of the room and her cleaning. After that, she went to the living room to wait for James. 

The doorbell soon rang and she did not wait for Nathaniel, opening the door herself. “James, please come in,” James gazed at her beautiful dress that accentuated her femininity, “you look even more lovely than you did as a teenager.” Grace blushed and offered her hand for him to kiss. His lips felt electric as did his touch. But they were soon interrupted by Nathaniel. “Mrs. Chambers, should I inform Mr. Chambers that his visitor has arrived?” She looked at Nathaniel trying to collect herself, “Yes, Nathaniel. And next time, do stay close by to open the door when you know we have visitors. Mr. Delaney almost waited a good three minutes before someone opened the door.” The servant left. 

           “James, come quickly.” “I see you changed your mind. Am I paying you a visit before seeing your husband?” She lifted her dress a bit and picked the letter from her boot. “Don’t be foolish. Here, hide this letter and only read it once you have arrived home. If you are to reply to it, send a child and ask that it be delivered directly to me. Mrs. Smith always has children send me her letters when she wants to gossip.” James picked the letter but held onto her wrist. “You talk to me about propriety, but tell me what did you tell your husband when he asked you why you dressed like this just for my visit?” Grace was shaking, her mouth hung open but she again had no voice. So James leaned next to her face, his beard actually touching her cheek, “Don’t tell me he didn’t notice it. If he didn’t, we won’t have any problem concealing our past from him.”

They heard the sound of boots coming from the corridor and soon James stepped away from Grace and close to the fireplace. “Mr. Delaney, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for long!” “No, your wife has been entertaining me with her wit.” Grace smiled, “I will retire and let you gentlemen tend to your business.” She looked at her husband, “I will be upstairs if you need me.” Grace leaves the room. The fire crackles softly in the fireplace while James glances at it. “Please, do sit down, Mr. Delaney,” John says as he pours himself a cup of tea. James takes a seat at the small table and quietly watches John, who offers him some tea, but the man remains still, his eyes fixed, an unreadable expression on his face. A paper — creased, damp from his coat — slides onto the table between them.

“Not a tea drinker?” John asks amused. “Only when it’s poisoned,” comes James’ reply. John chuckles and says, “Then we drink different kinds of poison, Mr. Delaney.” “I think ours may not be so different.” John takes a slow sip, watching James over the rim of his teacup. “You brought a document. Shall I be flattered?” James' expression remains unaltered “a list of shipping routes. Out of Calcutta. You’ll notice where they intersect with certain… unofficial ports.” John sits up slightly “You’ve been digging. That sort of knowledge isn’t cheap.” “No. But it's cheaper than trusting the East India Company.” John lowers the cup. “If I were you Mr. Delaney, I’d be careful. That kind of talk tends to echo.” James leans a bit towards John, looking him right in the eyes, an ominous look in his face, “I hear echoes about you too, Mr. Chambers. From the docks in Liverpool to a whisper in Canton. You lost a brother in Mysore, didn’t you? Pressed into Company service. Never came back.” 

A flicker in John’s face — not quite grief, not quite anger. John quietly says, “He was sixteen. Also served the East India, just like you and me, Mr. Delaney.” James mumbled, bit a biscuit, then proceeded, “The Company eats boys. Turns them into ledgers. Ashes.” John nodded, “And what do you propose? Vengeance by trade invoice?” James stands up, walking towards the fireplace again, “I propose leverage.” He turns to John, “I propose that your product — hidden behind bales of silk and fabric — begins to flow through a new channel. One I control. You keep the front. I move the cargo. Quietly. Carefully.” John considers “And what does it do, your opium?” James comes close to John, taking a seat on an armchair this time and leans in, “It teaches the Company what it taught the world: addiction. Collapse. Confusion. And rot. Only this time, from within.” John takes some time, mulling about James’ proposal “And if they trace it?” “They won’t. You’re a reputable man, Mr. Chambers. Just a humble fabric trader. I’m just a name with no nation. Ghosts don’t cast shadows.” 

          John stands up, now he is the one to pace towards the fireplace. “You’re using this to strike a war.” “I’m already at war, Mr. Chambers. I’m just letting them pick the poison.” John does not say anything, he walks towards the table and looks at the paper, then back at James. “If we do this… it ends with fire.” James stands up and hands John another document. “No. It ends with them choking on their own smoke.” Amused at this proposal, John offers James his hand. Again, Delaney does not shake it — just nods. John's hand hovered in the empty space a moment too long, his jaw tightening — twice now, the bastard hadn’t taken it.

♘♞

“So, he didn’t want to stay for dinner.” Grace walks inside the sitting room, shortly after James departs. “No, and he didn’t shake my hand yet again.” Grace came close to her husband, touching his cheek, “you can’t take that personally. Besides, if the rumors are true, you wouldn’t want to touch his hand anyway.” John smirks and kisses his wife, “that’s absolutely true, my dear. I guess he was right, you do have your wits.” They went to the dining room. 

After leaving the Chambers’ residence, James went down to the docks, the rain clung to the cobblestones like sweat on a dying man. He had had a very long day, first taking back his father’s warehouse from Helga; then a meeting with Stuart Strange and the other officials of the East India Company; and finally a conference with John. One could say his plan was all coming together. That is until he noticed his horse was missing and saw a note from Atticus. That old fuck. James strode with determination to meet the bastard. The stench of salt, coal, and old ale soaked the air as James Delaney pushed open the warped door of the tavern. Inside, nothing, not a single soul. “Atticus!” James shouted. 

From the back, came Atticus, a pipe smoldering between his cracked teeth, eyes like old rope: frayed, but strong. “Christ,” Atticus muttered, grinning as Delaney approached, “look what the Thames spat out.” Delaney didn’t smile. He sat. Silence fell between them like a blade. “My horse. Give it back to me.” “You see, a man came to me a few months ago, asking me to kill your father. But I couldn’t, not the captain. So I guess, I am entitled to some gratitude. Don’t you think so, James?” James put a diamond on the table, moving it over to Atticus. “Give me my horse back, here is my gratitude, but I will also require your services. I need you to be my eyes and ears in this city.” “You only come crawling when it’s blood or fire,” Atticus said, puffing smoke into the space between them. “So which is it?” “Both,” Delaney said flatly. He reached into his coat, pulled out a folded paper — no seal, no name — and laid it on the table. “You’ll find the routes here. Quiet ports. No flags. No questions.”

Atticus glanced at the page, then leaned back, still watching him. “You want this man gone?” “No. I want him watched. Moved when I say. And when I say gone—” Delaney met his eye, cold and unmoving. “—you’ll know I mean it.” The smuggler scratched his beard, squinting at him through the pipe smoke. “What’s in the cargo?” “Opium. Cut with something... particular.” Atticus gave a low whistle. “You poisoning the world now?” “Just teaching it a lesson,” Delaney said. “Slow. Not stupid. They won’t know they’re sick until they’re drowning in it.” Atticus grunted, amused. “You’re planning a war.” Delaney’s voice dropped, almost too low to hear. “No,” he said. “I’m ending one.” For a moment, neither spoke. Then Atticus nodded once, heavy and final. “Same terms as before?” he asked. “No. This time, you’re paid in silence.” Atticus laughed, loud and sudden, “God help the bastards in your way, James” he said. Delaney stood, the air shifting colder as he moved. “God’s not invited where I’m going.” Then he left, swallowed by fog and firelight.

By the time James got home, Brace had already gone to bed. He then went up to his father’s office in the attic, where his bedroom used to be and finally read Grace’s letter. He smirked and started writing a reply.

Grace, 

If that’s how you want it to be, I guess I will come and visit you in your dreams, where you won’t deny me anymore. 

James

He immediately dispatched a boy on the street to take the letter to the Chambers’, with the instruction that he should insist on having the lady of the house, whose name was Grace, be the only one to touch the letter, under threat of killing the boy and dumping his body in the Thames if he did not do as directed. James then came back to his attic and proceeded to read a couple of other letters that awaited him on the dresser by the entrance door when he had arrived. One of them was from Zilpha. And it read as if her husband had forced her to write exactly those words under gunpoint. He also replied to these letters and started looking for the Nootka Sound Deed. 

On the other side of town, Grace’s dinner was being interrupted by Nathaniel. “I am sorry, madam. There is a boy at the door with a letter he will just hand to you.” Grace looked at her husband, feigning annoyance. “I swear I will quit the flower committee if Mrs. Smith interrupts another one of my house duties once more this week!” John laughed and said, “you do know that you have to attend to your societal obligations.” He leaned in close to his wife, dismissing Nathaniel with a hand gesture, “even if only to keep appearances… you know the moving of the flower arrangements to that decrepit church every week is one of the ways my men move the opium.” Grace stood up and said to her husband, “I know, dear. I just got upset because she interrupted dinner.” She said, placing her napkin next to her plate. “But in this case, let me make sure to see that her inquiry is responded to immediately.” 

            She finally got to the front door. “Are you Mrs. Chambers? Grace Chambers?” The frightened boy asked. “I am. Thanks,” she said, grabbing the letter from his hand. She headed to the sitting room, by the fireplace so she could read the letter. After reading it, she shivered, her breath coming in short gasps. She immediately threw the letter in the fireplace, waiting for it to burn completely before her husband or another servant walked in the room. After seeing no more evidence of the note, she whimpered, “You were always the fire, James. And—God help me—I never learned not to get burned.” 

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter- chapter 2

Warnings for this chapter: smut, references to incestual relationship, James Delaney smut (so you can prepare your hearts).

Disclaimer: English is not my first language.

As James stood amidst the sea of black-clad mourners, his eyes were drawn first to a very familiar face: Zilpha’s, whose expression he knew meant she was both hoping he would and wouldn’t confront her about their past. But just as his sister looked away, James finally glanced at Grace, an old friend of his family’s, and someone with whom he shared a secret history. She had been looking at him with an unreadable expression, and he had been feeling the weight of her stare for, at least, the past ten minutes. He knew it had something to do with what he was doing prior, making sure his father’s spirit would no longer feel trapped and that Horace knew his son was finally back. As Grace blushed, she looked away, and James could see the effect he still had on her, even after all those years. 

______________________________________________

After the kiss they both shared in the woods a few days prior, James and Grace would find any excuse to wander into the same room of the house the other one was in, or would just watch each other from a distance. Grace was completely in love following James around like a lost puppy, but she tried to hide her affections the best she could, especially from Zilpha. James was not so subtle, though. During shared meals, he would now choose the seat right across from Grace, instead of his habitual one next to his father. He would intently watch Grace during the meals too, with that same intense look in his eyes, which always made her blush. Zilpha did not notice anything at first, since she was now too busy with her novel religious duties and had started to refuse James’ advances, saying that they were sinning against God. James did not like to be refused by Zilpha. And, at the same time, he was interested in pursuing whatever this could be with Grace. For one thing, he really enjoyed the power he seemed to have over her.

One night, after dinner, Zilpha, her mother, and Grace’s mother decided to go to the church for a holiday midnight mass. Grace asked her mother if she could stay with her father instead, since she had gone to mass earlier that day and complained she was really tired. To her surprise, her mother actually allowed her to. Grace waited for all the women to leave the house and, without her father noticing, went up to the attic, where James’ room was. She knocked at the door and waited patiently. James opened the door, wearing just his undershirt, which was long enough to cover the top part of his legs. 

“Grace… aren’t you going to church?” James asked. She tried really hard to just focus her gaze on his eyes, very aware of his lack of propriety. “I already went earlier today. So I asked my mother if I could stay here instead.” He just mumbled at her words. “ I needed to see you,” she conjured almost out of breath when she realized her eyes were fixed on his broad shoulders and chest area for the past minute or so. “And why did you need to see me?” James asked, smirking. “I came here to ask you to stop doing what you are doing.” “And what is it exactly that I’m doing?” James smiled. “You are making it obvious that something happened between us.” She managed to respond despite her mind wandering to thoughts of how his body would look without any shirt on and how all his weight would feel on top of her. “Shouldn’t it be obvious?” “No! Especially if what you told me about you and Zilpha is true! What happened between us was a mistake! And the way you look at me…” she blushed, realizing she had said too much. James stepped closer to her, and just like that she was paralyzed again. All she could do was look at him. His marvelous eyes, his amazing lips. How would those lips feel all over her body? James noticed her wandering eyes and said, “the way you look at me right now tells me that what happened between us was no mistake.” 

To both their surprises, they heard a sound coming from the stairs, to which James responded by pulling Grace immediately inside his room and quickly closing the door, pinning her body against it. He covered her lips with his large hand, and instead of fear, she only felt an ever-growing desire at that moment. His face mere inches from hers, his eyes looking intently at her as his other hand that had been previously against the door came up to his lips, signaling her to be quiet. 

Grace never wished time would just stop in her entire life; that was, until that very moment. All she wanted to do was keep feeling his body against hers, his hand covering her mouth and for him to look at her like that forever. But from the other side of the door, Brace said, “James, is the Gonçalves girl in there with you? Her father is asking that I arrange a carriage for them in 30 minutes.” “No, Brace. I haven’t seen her since dinner. But I can assure you that she will be down at the entrance hall waiting for their carriage by then.” James and Grace stared at each other, and he could feel her smile under his right hand. “Alright James, I will keep looking for her and let her father, who is currently drinking scotch with Mr. Delaney outside in the garden, know that his daughter is not in the attic with you.”  

After Brace was gone, James let go of her, but she held onto his arm and said, “no.” He pinned her between his body and the door once again and said, “it looks, after all, that your eyes were the ones telling me the truth this whole time.” James kissed her again, devouring the moans that were coming out of her mouth. His firm grip on her hips started to give way to curious, wandering hands that lifted the skirt of her dress and started roaming over her bottom, her legs, then going up to her breasts, making her break the kiss whimpering. “James, this is wrong. We can’t. If you have any sense, you will stop all of it at once.” James replied by opening the front of her dress with a swift motion “People who don’t know me,” he turned her body around to unlace her corset, “soon come to understand that I don’t have any sense.” The corset was dropped to the floor, as she quickly brought her hands up to cover her nakedness, even though she was still facing the door.

With that, he lifted her skirts all the way and pressed his whole body against hers. As she felt his hard member against her butt cheeks through his undershirt, Grace could not recognize the sound of her voice when she moaned so inhumanly that if there were a full moon outside, anyone walking past the house would surely think they heard a werewolf. “Hmm… your father is drunk, but I think even he would start looking for you if you're sounding like you’re being attacked by a pack of wild dogs.” Grace was very embarrassed by her body’s reaction to James’ advances but also by his comment, which just made her next comment come even more as a surprise to her, “I am indeed being attacked by a wild dog who seems he won’t stop until he eats me alive.” 

James turned her around and kissed her fervently, lifting and carrying her, setting her body on a nearby table, “That’s not a bad idea, I guess I could actually eat you alive.” Grace almost cried out when she felt him lifting her skirt again and kissing her breasts. “James, there is something you should know. I’ve never done anything like this before.” James kept kissing in between her breasts, but quickly replied, “I know, just look at you. Such a proper girl,” he moved his lips to her neck, close to her ears, “goes to church everyday,” his hands started moving down her body, “has tea parties with her friends,” he took her skirt out of the way, “learns how to crochet and how to be a perfect wife in the afternoon,” his fingers found her entrance. “But I bet whenever you are in church, all you can think about is me doing unspeakable things to you, isn’t that right?” 

Grace simply nodded, a mute moan coming out of her mouth. “It is alright too, I can teach you how to be just as wicked as me.” His fingers entered her, she felt a sharp pain and yelped. James knew she wasn’t lying, she had never done anything like that before. So he kept kissing her neck and gently moving his finger inside her; and soon, with his suckling of her neck, breasts, and everywhere between, the pain subsided; and all Grace felt was the pleasure that she was sure only James Delaney would ever give her. He removed his finger from inside of her, licking it while he looked at her with those mesmerizing eyes. He offered her his now clean finger. In response, she opened her mouth, as if accepting his full corruption. Next, James took off his shirt and smirked at her reaction. She had never seen a man fully naked before, but even Grace knew James was something out of the ordinary. “You’re perfect, James Delaney, ” she said.

He smirked and grabbed onto his shaft, guiding it to her entrance. They both moaned when he entered her. “We both need to be more quiet if we don’t want to draw any attention,” James said. But they couldn’t help the incredible feeling of each other’s bodies. James was sure sex had never felt this great before, not even with Zilpha who he loved more than life itself–and with whom the feeling of doing something so wrong, so sinful, so taboo–made it all better; or at least he had thought it did before feeling Grace contorting against his body. He kept thrusting into her at a brutal pace, as she gasped and whimpered until finally she started pulsating around him, letting her whole body go limp on top of the table. James leaned onto her chest, his thrusts more erratic by the second. The feeling of her breasts, her moans, her cunt, everything suddenly became too much. Finally, he pulled out of her, picking up his shirt from the floor and coming onto it.

Grace was beyond herself. She was even more in love with him now, if that was possible, but she didn’t want to say anything, not to ruin the moment. She had no idea how to act, so she just waited for him to say something. James, on the other hand, didn’t know what he was feeling. It felt different, more than desire, more than just a fleeting passion. He simply walked towards her corset on the floor by the door, picking it up and asking her, “do you need help putting this on?” Grace was a bit disappointed that was all he said, but nodded, “yes… wait, do you know how to work corsets?” 

She blushed as she realized that, unlike her, he was very experienced. He said, “As a matter of fact, yes. Here,” he gestured for her to turn around. After she was fully dressed, Grace said, “I guess I should get going, my father must be looking for me.” But before she could leave his room, he grabbed her by the arm and said, “Grace, this here…” he gestured at them “yes?” she asked excitedly. “This here…” it looked like James was struggling with his words and Grace was hopeful he was going to declare himself to her or something, but he just said, “don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about what happened here, especially not Zilpha. And don’t worry, I won’t be too obvious anymore.” She nodded and walked away towards the stairs. 

______________________________________________

Seeing her now at the funeral and remembering the deeds of the past, James could see how Grace had grown into a stunning woman, her brown hair and piercing eyes a stark contrast to the drab colors of mourning. James felt a twinge of regret as he remembered their brief encounter all those years ago. Little did they know then that he would be called to an excursion to Africa in no more than two weeks after their nocturnal encounter in the attic. It had been a moment of passion, a stolen kiss that had left them both breathless, a night that rivalled everything James thought he knew. And here she was now, with an uncaring husband by her side. James wondered if John knew what a loving, unique woman he had. He wondered if John could even give her a portion of the pleasure James had made her feel all those years ago. Grace felt James’ stare and looked at him again. As their eyes met, images of their past transgressions flooded her mind immediately. She sighed causing James to smirk as she looked away, embarrassed. Grace discreetly glanced at her husband to make sure he hadn’t just seen this interaction, but John was distractedly looking at the diggers who were now hard at work in front of them.  

James did not know John Chambers that well, but he had met him briefly when they were both still serving under Stuart Strange. And the night prior, when James arrived in London, he had learned that John Chambers was the man to go to if you were ever in need of opium. James himself never used opium. He never had the need to, but the voices that sang to him at night kept chanting for him to ‘kill the beast.’ So bringing the East India Company to its feet was James’ top priority. He just wasn’t sure how to do it yet. So bringing Chambers into his game while having him produce opium laced with subtle toxins — not enough to kill immediately, but enough to cause erratic behavior, illness, or addiction collapse over time — would definitely get the Company dependent on a supply chain they would not know was poisoning their influence abroad until it was too late. 

After Horace's burial, every person that  had attended the funeral went to the nearby tavern, including Zilpha and Grace who were now sitting at a table with their husbands while they discussed how immoral and improper it was for the whores to be even allowed in a funeral ceremony just to attempt to win over old men’s hearts and pensions. After seeing James walk into the bar, Thorne started cursing him, saying he just showed up to steal away his inheritance. Zilpha got up and said it was time for them to go. But just as she and Thorne were about to walk out the door, Grace saw James stopping Zilpha in her tracks and whispering something in her ear. Her heart ached. Suddenly she knew that all they had lived in the woods and that night in the attic meant nothing to him. She knew that James still loved the woman he could not have. However, Grace’s thinking process was interrupted by Thorne showing up and trying to make a scene but soon leaving the establishment with Zilpha practically pushing him out of there. 

While gazing at James with an unwavering want and a bit of hurt deep inside and remembering the sins of the past, Grace overheard her husband saying, “...he is attempting to set a meeting with me.” “Who?” “James Delaney, naturally.” “With you?”  She asked, very surprised. “Yes, I don’t know what it might be regarding yet, but I invited him over to the house for some tea tomorrow.” “Without talking to me first? How am I expected to arrange biscuits, proper tea, cigars, and whatnot without you letting me know such things in advance?” She said now looking at her husband. “Well, I am telling you now, aren’t I?” 

Typical, she thought. He never communicated with her; instead he’d blame her for not being a prepared wife and host at every opportunity. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I will offer him my condolences, we were, after all, friends in the past.” Her husband grabbed her left arm, stopping her from standing, “No, you won’t. I don’t want people to see you talking to that man while I don’t hear back from my sources on the veracity of these rumors.” “We are in public, John. What do you expect him to do? Kill me and eat my flesh right in front of every person in here? Besides, you already invited him into our house. So if he is a vampire indeed, we are already doomed.” She stood up anyway. In the past, she would have cowarded and done what she was told by her husband. But she had learned the hard way that John never had her best interests in mind, so maybe it was time she should start acting on her own accord. That and the fact that James Delaney would always act as a magnet as far as she was concerned. 

As the crowd began to disperse, James found himself drawn to Grace. She was walking towards him, but her gaze was distant, and he couldn't help but approach her. "Grace," he said softly, his voice a low rumble. "It's been a long time." "James," she breathed, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "It has indeed. I didn't expect to see you here. You see? We all thought you were no longer of this world." James had always liked the fact that she was straight to the point. But instead of smiling at her comment, he simply mumbled, only his gaze never left hers. "I hear you are a married woman now” he said, referring to the man she had married after he left. “Yes,” she replied. “I'm sorry about your husband," she looked taken aback by his comment. "I’ve heard he has not always been kind to you." Grace's eyes flashed with a mix of pain and defiance. How did James hear that? "He is a good husband. He provides for me," she said, as if that was all that mattered. But James could see the hurt in her eyes, and the longing for something more.

"I have business dealings with him," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “I’ve heard. Looking to buy some silk, I suppose?” James’ eyes glinted with a knowing smirk as he leaned in close to Grace, his voice a low, conspiratorial purr. "You underestimate me, my dear. I know far more about your husband's... dealings than you realize." Grace's eyes widened, a flicker of fear mingling with intrigue. "What are you implying, James?" she whispered, glancing around nervously to ensure no one overheard their conversation. James chuckled, a dark and enigmatic sound. "Merely that I am well-versed in the secrets of this world, both in the light and the shadows." His gaze bored into hers, his meaning clear. "And perhaps, in time, I could share some of those secrets with you." Grace swallowed hard, her heart racing at his proximity and the unspoken promises in his words. "I... I don't know what you mean," she stammered, even as her body betrayed her, swaying closer to his. Luckily, James could read her like a book. He knew she was lying. She knew more than she was letting him on about John’s side trades; but additionally, he could also see the desire in her eyes, she wanted something different than the life she had settled for. 

James' smile widened, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. "Of course you do," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. She stepped back "the truth is, Grace, that you crave the unknown, the dangerous and forbidden. And I can give you that." Grace's breath hitched, her pulse pounding in her veins. She knew she should push him away, maintain the façade of propriety and faithfulness. But the pull of his dark charisma was too strong, the promise of excitement and passion too alluring, even in a room full of people. "I... I can't," she whispered, even as her body language contradicted her words. "My husband... my reputation..." James' hand reached out, his fingers trailing along her jawline with a feather-light touch. "Hmm," his voice a hypnotic murmur. "I would never ask you to jeopardize your standing in society. But perhaps, in the quiet moments between daylight and dreams, we could explore the depths of our desires together."

Grace bit her lip, torn between propriety and the pull of the past. “James, what happened in the past was something ephemeral. I could never blame you for not knowing what destiny had in place for you.” Her heart skipped a bit. So he did feel something for her. “I mourned your death when I heard of it. And words cannot describe how happy I was today to see you did not leave this world. But you must understand, I am a married woman, and as such, I cannot be seen having such conversations with another man.” “Very well,” James said finally. “Then tomorrow I shall come and visit you.” “James! I can’t! Don’t you understand? I have obligations, I cannot be visited by another man who isn’t related to me.”

Grace's eyes fluttered closed, her resolve crumbling beneath the weight of his seductive words. "James," she breathed, his name a prayer and a plea upon her lips. "What are you doing to me?" He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "Opening your eyes to a world you never knew existed," he promised. "A world where passion and pleasure reign supreme, and the boundaries of propriety are but a distant memory." Grace shuddered, her body aching for his touch even as her mind recoiled at the forbidden nature of their exchange. "I don't know if I'm strong enough," she confessed, her voice barely audible. James stepped in even closer to her, almost caging her as her back now came in touch with a wall. She could feel the heat of his body, the hard planes of muscle beneath his tailored suit. "Oh, but you are," he assured her, his eyes burning into hers with an intensity that stole her breath. "Stronger than you know. And I will be here to guide you every step of the way." 

With that, he released her, stepping back and offering her a final, enigmatic smile. "Until tomorrow, Grace, I hope to see you when I come over" he promised, his voice heavy with unspoken implications. "Sleep well." But before he could leave, Grace noticed her husband standing up and walking towards them. “When you come to meet him tomorrow, I will have a letter prepared for you. But until then, please do not talk to me in society and do not seek me out.” James smiled, a slow, dangerous smile that sent shivers down Grace's spine. “Your wish has always been my command as you might remember.”  

“So, you must be James Delaney! My man has told me you wish to discuss business.” Grace looked down at the hand John had just extended to James. But James didn’t shake it. “Hmm,” was all he mumbled. She intervened, “I was telling James how very sorry we were to hear about his father. But he was telling me he was just leaving,” she smiled innocently at her husband. John looked at his wife, puzzled, “Well, in this case Mr. Delaney, I supposed I will see you tomorrow.” John thought that James’ behavior had been extremely improper. First James had been whispering secrets into his wife’s ear and invading her personal space in front of dozens of people; and now the savage wouldn’t shake his hand? James soon left, but not before nodding at Grace with a dark look, which John also did not care for. 

“What the hell was that all about?” “Oh, he’s always been like that, even as a kid. Besides, his father just died, not to mention he is probably more used to the customs in Africa now than he is to proper society. He did not shake my hand either. Don’t think too much of it, we should be going in any case. It is getting late and I will have a long day ahead of me tomorrow, shopping for your tea party.” John now looked irritated as he grabbed Grace by the arm and scolded her “Don’t you ever patronize me, and don’t you ever speak to me like I’m a woman! And since I have to reprimand you in society, you should never allow a man to come that close to you. Everyone was watching and probably they will comment!” She was about to say that everyone in there was drunk and they probably didn’t give her interaction with James any mind, but her husband whispered, harshly, “and stop your complaining at once. We all have obligations to abide by.” Grace’s look was distant, “Yes, we all do.”

[emmawrites-stuff]

Dream Drifter

OK, so I am super new to writing smut or anything, for real. But I noticed there was almost no James Keziah Delaney action out there. So I decided to create my own. This fanfiction includes smut in almost all chapters, YEAH, THIS WILL BE A SERIES! It also includes an original female character, cause I figured if we lived in the past, we'd have different names, and also a lot of our favorite dream drifter, James Delaney.

I obviously don't own any of the characters, except for the ones related to the OFC, and I also bring up topics like James' incestual relationship with his sister, as this was part of the show. I truly hope he can visit us all in our dreams. Thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: English is not my first language. Please don't freak out if you see anything that doesn't fit. I'm sure James Delaney will make it fit!

Warnings for this chapter: mentions of incest, light smut (the next chapters will be packed, trust me), teasing. Let me know if there is anything else I forgot.

Horace Delaney was finally dead. As Zilpha walked inside the church with her husband, Thorne Geary, she was relieved this family affair was finally resolved. Before she sat down, Grace, her dear childhood friend, approached her, “I am so sorry for all the things that happened between you and your father before he passed. But I am also happy that he is at peace now.” Zilpha, who knew well the disgrace her father had bestowed upon her, simply smiled at her friend and accepted her hug, “At last, I will also have my own peace.” They both found their seats, Zilpha beside Thorne and Grace beside John Chambers, her husband.  ______________________________________________

Grace and Zilpha had been best friends since their childhood, given their parents were business partners and personal friends and would always gather during any given chance during the weekends and holidays at the Delaneys’ residence. Grace loved Zilpha as if she were her own sister and was always happy to be around her; but, truth be told, what excited her the most about those visits to the Delaneys’ was being able to see the eldest of Horace’s children: James Keziah. He was Horace’s son from his first wife who had sadly passed away. Grace had never met her; and, to be fair, she never really interacted with James very much. He had always been quite mysterious, always observing from the sidelines. But she enjoyed knowing that he was watching over her; or, as she soon found out, watching over Zilpha. 

Grace also soon realized, when they became teenagers, that James and Zilpha had a very uncanny connection, but she couldn’t point out exactly what it was about them that made her feel uncomfortable. What at first had been James observing them playing became him observing them swimming, changing; and soon she noticed both Zilpha and James would disappear together, and Zilpha would come back blushing, her skirt untidy. One time, Grace mentioned something to Zilpha who got extremely angry and said that Grace’s comment was the most foolish thing she’d ever heard. Grace never brought the topic up again with Zilpha and simply pretended like James and her friend’s relationship did not intrigue her in the least. 

But little changed, and Grace figured maybe she should confront James about him and his sister. He was very intimidating, especially since they had never exchanged more than a few words besides some pleasantries. Still, her curiosity got the best of her and she felt like she needed to find out exactly what was happening between the two siblings. One day, when Zilpha and Grace were having tea in the sitting room, Grace glanced at the window behind Zilpha and saw James in the garden, by the river. She decided that this was her chance and followed him, informing her friend she needed to use the outhouse. 

“Hi James,” she said, approaching him. “Grace.” He turned his attention back to the river “Shouldn’t you be having tea with Zilpha or something?” “I was, but I find whatever you are doing here far more interesting.” After hearing his grunt as a reply to her comment, she got closer to him–lips dry–and swallowed hard, “I have seen you observing us before…” he looked at her. “At first, I thought you were just curious; then I thought you might like me; but soon I realized I was never the object of your interest.” James then turned to face her, “And what do you think was that object?” “Zilpha.” They were both silent for a minute. “I have seen you both wandering into the shadows oftentimes…tell me James, what is it that you do, when you two hide from the rest of us?” Grace finally said after a few moments of silence. James stepped closer to her, his eyes penetrating her soul. He closed the distance between the two of them. Her heart was racing and she was completely paralyzed by his gaze. He leaned so close to her, his lips almost touching her right ear, “Would you like me to show you what Zilpha and I do?” She let out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. “Ye…” She cleared her throat, “Yes.”

James took her right hand in his and guided her beyond the treeline. Once they were concealed from the house and any curious eyes, James turned to Grace, closing their distance. “So you have noticed my gaze.” She swallowed hard. “Maybe it was not only Zilpha I was watching. Maybe you are just as interesting.” He kissed her right cheek, “Maybe you are just as enticing.” He kissed her other cheek. She was shaking, but did not dare say anything. She was afraid he might give up on her if she opened her mouth. He looked deep inside her eyes, “People say I am different.” While he spoke, he leaned in closer to her. She stepped back, by instinct, afraid of his much larger frame. “I guess that’s true, but I’m not the only one.” He backed her up against a tree, caging her much smaller frame. She sighed. His lips were now dangerously close to her neck. She could hear her heart beating and she was sure he could hear it too. She looked down at her chest to make sure her heart wouldn’t jump out of her ribcage, and his eyes followed her gaze. She saw that he was looking at her chest and blushed when he caught her eyes. “You see? When Zilpha and I disappear, we do things that society would crucify us for…” he licked his lips, “Would you crucify me if I kissed you right now?” She shook her head, unable to speak. It was like she had been bewitched. She couldn’t find her voice even if she wanted to. “Good.”

James leaned in and kissed her. Hungrily, savagely, devastatingly. And Grace kissed him back. Her hands went to the sides of his face, the back of his neck. His hands went to her hips, her breasts, over her dress. He pressed her against the bark of the tree. She sighed again. He started kissing her neck. A breathy ‘James’ was all she could muster. He smirked against her neck. Suddenly, they both heard Zilpha shouting for her from a distance. Grace pushed James away from her as she tried to recompose herself and said, “I have to go. She is looking for me.” She started leaving without giving him time to reply. But before she could go beyond the trees and towards the river, where Zilpha’s voice was coming from, she turned to James who still just stood by the tree, smirking. “Don’t tell anyone about this, especially not Zilpha.” She walked away.

When Grace got closer to the river, she ran towards the side of the house, where Zilpha now stood looking for her. “Sorry, I was in the outhouse when I thought I saw a dog in the woods through the window and came outside to look for it. I apologize if I worried you.” Zilpha looked behind Grace towards the treeline where she was coming from. “A dog? By the river?” Grace nodded. “Maybe it was Mr. Potter’s dog who got lost again,” Zilpha theorized. “That’s what I thought,” Grace responded and dragged her friend to the house before Zilpha could see James walking from the woods towards the river just where he had been before, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just changed Grace’s life forever. 

_____________________________________________

Before the priest could even start the eulogy, the doors of the church swung open and a dark figure strode right in. Every person’s eyes turned towards the door and, to everyone’s surprise, it was James Delaney, who the entire London society believed to be dead after his shipwreck near the coast of Africa years prior. Grace’s jaw dropped. Zilpha sighed heavily, and Grace looked right at her friend. To her disappointment, she could see how affected Zilpha had become, and she was sure Zilpha was more than just surprised to see James alive. Somehow, Grace knew that the feelings Zilpha tried so hard to repress, deep inside of her, had again resurfaced, and that her friend not only feared her secret affair would be discovered, but also that Zilpha still desired James deeply, something no one should ever feel for a sibling. James did not look at anyone, just marched right past them, deposited a coin in a box by the altar, and sat down. 

                          ♘♞

The funeral had been a somber affair. At one point, James had recited African words and painted his face with some colored powders right by his father's grave for everyone to see. Grace wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She thought maybe if she knew what the words he was saying meant, she would definitely feel better about this entire ordeal. She thought perhaps he was just saying goodbye to his father in his own way, that he was reciting these words as his own ritual. But why do it in public, if that was the case? Then she also thought maybe the reason for him to do something so subversive in front of everyone, including strangers, was because he knew very well just what the rumors circulating about him in the London society were; and for exactly that same reason, he wanted people to truly believe all those rumors.

Grace herself did not know what to believe. She knew about his unnatural inclination for his sister. But then again, when she asked James about Zilpha all those years ago, he had been pretty forthcoming about their relationship. Grace thought that perhaps, if they were ever in a more private setting, she could ask him herself if the rumors she heard about him–eating human flesh, performing demonic incantations, and invading people’s dreams–were all true. But right as she was thinking all this, James finally glanced over her for the first time since he was back and just stared at her, his eyes penetrating as ever. The way he looked at her made Grace’s heart race, but it also looked as though he could hear all her thoughts. She was the first to look away, hoping her husband didn’t notice this interaction.