[M] peering through the cracks of armor

He was unaccustomed to sharing his home with another, but now his residence was no longer solely his. Drusilla had taken up residence with him, and he often wondered how she felt about the sudden shift in her lifestyle. His manor, perched precariously near the mountains of Sussez, seemed a world apart from the bustling city that bordered the ocean below. Amoux had never brought anyone home before; Drusilla was the first. The manor, long untouched and in need of careful upkeep, bore the signs of his neglect. He had neither hired a maid nor allowed anyone else into his sanctuary, driven by the fear that one day, someone might show up unannounced and unwelcomed.

Drusilla had introduced him to a different life, a new level of intimacy, and an entirely new form of comfort.

"So, what do you think?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of curiosity despite his stoic expression. She could see through the cracks in his armor, but he was aware that she would probe further eventually. New to this vulnerability, he still felt himself shielded in some ways, though he found solace in the fact that, despite her considerable leverage, she kept her weapon sheathed. But what if this fragile peace did not endure? What if he did something that provoked her, turning her against him?

What if he had to silence her forever?

He would, if necessary, though he hoped it would never come to that. With this grim possibility lurking in the recesses of his mind, Amoux did his best to bury it deep within and focus on the moment they shared. Yet, if it came to that inevitable choice, he was prepared to do what must be done.

not a goddess anymore
but she still looks like religion

she kisses you
godless

Drusilla can feel his eyes on her, prickling the fine hairs on the back of her neck, but it doesn't deter her from her assessment of his home—hers now too, it would seem. She hasn't quite wrapped her mind around that fact yet, so she focuses on what's right in front of her: a sprawling manor that crawls up the mountainside, long dark hallways, dust on nearly ever surface. The mansion is in somewhat of a state of disrepair, but it has good bones, and she can picture it in its opulent youth. It's fitting, she thinks, that Amoux's home is as untouched by a gentle hand as the man himself. And admittedly, there's a small, insidious part of her that's glad for the obvious lack of a woman's touch; she likes the idea that he's shared this place with no one but her, that he sees Drusilla as a part of his sanctuary.

Her paw brushes idly over the dusty surface of a table, leaving a film of dirt across her fingertips and a glistening streak along the soft wooden surface in their wake as she finally turns back to Amoux, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. "I think housekeeping isn't your strong suit," Drusilla says wryly, making her way across the room towards him. "But you know how I feel about old, neglected things," she muses, her simper widening further and her eyes shining with a subtle mirth. He knows intimately her affection for the things that seem to go forgotten by the world, existing in their own moment of time whilst the future barrels onward; she has a unique sense of appreciation for the timeless beauty that live in things like Amoux's manor, or an abandoned watchtower, or a cryptic book.

When she reaches Amoux, Drusilla presses the crown of her head against his chest, her breath tickling the downy plush of his undercoat. "I missed you, you know," she murmurs, laying her confession over his heart, "whenever you were here and I was there." From that very first moment they'd met on a cliff overlooking the beach, Amoux has occupied a space in her mind, expanding as the months passed until he became a near constant presence in her thoughts—not always at the forefront, but always there, lingering on the outskirts. Always a part of her.

code // art

As Drusilla roamed through his home, the air was thick with an oppressive calm. He felt no trace of anxiety, only an intense focus on ensuring that she felt at ease in the space she was to share with him. The house was cloaked in shadows, the dim light struggling to penetrate the darkness that seemed to seep from every corner. Despite the grim ambiance, his sole concern was her comfort.

When Drusilla finally spoke, a fleeting smirk played on her lips, half-hidden by the gloom. Her smile, though subtle, sent a shiver down his spine. He remained silent as she approached him, her steps measured and deliberate. She pressed the base of her crown against the dark expanse of his chest, the gesture both intimate and unsettling. He lowered his chin to rest on the top of her head, a sign of affection that contrasted sharply with the grim undertone of the moment.

"I thought about you often as well," he murmured, his voice low and deep. The confession was immediate and sincere. No matter how hard he tried to bury her memory in the recesses of his mind, she always managed to claw her way back to the surface. Over the past four summers, he had engaged in various relationships—both with men and women—but none had ever stirred the depths of his soul as she did. She was different, and he knew exactly why.

"Are you sure you are willing to give it all up? It is not too late, you know." He drew in a deep breath, his voice tinged with a desperate edge. He wanted her to say yes with a fervor that bordered on selfishness. Drusilla had proven herself to be a rare gem in his chaotic existence—fierce, loyal, and unafraid. She faced him with an unflinching resolve, fully aware of his dark capabilities, and never once wavered. This strength was among the many traits he admired.

"Your father will come looking for you, and your fiancé." He reminded her of her still-pending engagement, the looming threat of unresolved problems. "Something needs to be done about that. If they find us here, I will be forced to handle the matter myself." His sanctuary was a place of solace and secrecy, a refuge he could not afford to lose. Drusilla understood the perilous nature of their situation and the reasons behind it, so he saw no need to shield her from the harsh realities.

not a goddess anymore
but she still looks like religion

she kisses you
godless

It's strange, to see him here—to be here with him, in a situation that could be considered domestic. She knows outside of these halls, Amoux is anything but; outside of these halls, he runs this city with an iron fist. Drusilla isn't here because she wants domestic, though. It's the darkness in Amoux that drew her in with the magnetic force of a black hole; it called to something in her, and now her heart sings whenever he is near. How could it not? He has seen her in a way she thought no one ever would, from that very first moment they'd met. He'd seen that piece of Drusilla she kept buried so far down she couldn't even see it herself, and he'd coaxed it out of her, step by meticulous step.

"Are you sure you're willing to give it all up?" There's something frenetic in the way he questions her, saying it's not too late whilst he's still wrapped up in her embrace. Her loyalty, just as it never has, doesn't waver. "You're mistaken," she says steadily, pulling back only far enough that she can tip her head back to meet his gaze. "All isn't in Rionna for me, Amoux. It's you." She matches his urgency with such sincerity in her admission that there's no questioning she means every word. "You have my heart. To walk away now would be...la douleur exquise." ( the exquisite pain ) It's the closest she's come to admitting love out loud, that he isn't just an obsession, and she means every damning word of it.

Still, her feelings don't change the fact that Amoux has other, very valid concerns. Drusilla smiles grimly, her nose wrinkling a bit. "I know," she affirms, her eyes glinting with steely resolve. "There is...a great deal I haven't told you about my family. Alaron will be out for blood, but I imagine you've delayed him for at least a few days." A few weeks, she hopes—not because she's particularly worried about him finding her, but because she simply hopes that Amoux laid into him enough to keep the sorry bastard off his feet for a while. "As for my father—it would be in our best interest to be pre-emptive. Whatever his fate, though, I will be part of it," she declares emphatically, a burning blue fire in her eyes daring Amoux to deny her this.

She has suffered Valéry's iron thumb of control her entire life, and being used as a bargaining chip with no regard to her well-being was the nail in the coffin for Drusilla. She'd once spared her father from Amoux's blade, but now? Now she would gladly lick his blood from its surface.

code // art

**[m] tag for sexual themes**

He did not need much reminding of why he had chosen her for himself in the first place. Not only was she fierce and loyal, but she was also the certainty he needed. He didn’t fear that she would run off with anyone else or spill his closest-kept secrets to his most hated enemy. She was the parts of him he lacked, and he was the same for her. She assured him that there was nothing in Rionna for her, that he was the only thing she needed. While he didn’t discredit her words, facts were facts: she was still engaged, and her family would not let her simply run away for long. Her fiancé would seek blood and vengeance for Amoux leaving him in the state he did. Amoux did not fear the retaliation, however; he only worried about how it would affect Drusilla.

She made it very clear that when it came to her father, she would have full control over what happened to him. He would not deny her this, nor would he disrespect her wishes. “As you wish,” he nodded to her as he pulled himself closer, resting his chin atop her crown, though he had to dip his head to do so. Her being smaller than him by a lot was another thing he had grown fond of.

“You let me know when, and I will be by your side,” he promised her, and he would not disappoint her. He decided to bring her back to Sussex to live with him, and now it was his responsibility to tend to her needs. He inhaled her perfume, closing his eyes as he took her in while a soft growl formed in his throat. There was something else he had not done in his home with anyone else, and he desired to share that with her. He lifted his chin from her crown and moved along her back, pressing his thigh in between the back of hers to help spread them apart. Another low growl vibrated from his throat, his teeth nipped the skin of her nape and trailed between her shoulders and down her spine. "Let me show you the ways I've missed you," he spoke in a low tone.

not a goddess anymore
but she still looks like religion

she kisses you
godless

rated M for sexual content

His promises soothe the fire in her heart, banking it steadily until that raw determination is just hot coals in the back of her mind instead of a raging flame. She nods against Amoux's chest, placated by his steady presence and calm reassurances. The gravity of the situation is not lost on her, she just needs a minute to breathe before she pulls the trigger—and enough foresight to not get caught with the smoking gun in the aftermath.

Drusilla can sense the shift in Amoux the moment he drags in a slow inhale of her scent, like he's an addict starved of his favorite drug. She responds to his low growl with a shiver beneath her skin, and suddenly, all her other worries are forgotten. She can't help but recall the last time she'd been at his mercy—how desperately she'd begged until he rutted her into the forest floor like she was his own personal harlot. She flushes hot at the memory, and hotter still when his breath ghosts down the length of her spine.

Amoux trails a blazing path across her skin, lighting up every nerve ending, coaxing soft noises of encouragement from her throat. "Right here?" she breathes as though she might refuse him, even as she arches into his hungry teeth and leans indecently back into the burning heat of his leg planted between hers. "In the middle of the floor?" Drusilla teases, unable to keep the almost husky purr out of her voice. She isn't trying to deter him—she's goading him.

code // art

in the middle of the floor?

He knows, deep down, that she is not meant to deny him. Drusilla is a warrior in more ways than one, she is his, and his alone, never straying from the loyalty she showed him a long time ago. Though she was not a part of his original life plans she was able to find the cracks of his armor and insert herself snugly between them. She filled the gaps in his life that he didn't know existence, becoming a part of him that he could not see himself without.

"You deserve finer dining," Amoux responds as he slowly walks around her and dips his crown between the back of her legs, hoisting her easily over his head and onto his shoulders to carry her off into the room. She is featherlight against his back and even lighter as he throws her gently onto the silk sheets, kissing gently down the side of her neck and chest as he makes way to her side. "I love you, Drusilla Lovell," he speaks gently into her ear, though his heart does a weird pound in his chest as he says it out loud. He won't deny himself the feelings she brings out of him, while intimated by them, he wants to give her the parts of himself he never allowed anyone else.

He is becoming as familiar with her as he is their dance, and Amoux is sure he will never grow bored.

fade out