lenamoore

[lenamoore]

📢 Hey OC bot creators!

Your worlds already shine. But what if fans had a bonus stage to extend the life of your universe with side-stories, playful interactions, even a few spicy what-ifs 👀?

I’m testing a tiny experiment on interactive fiction: a fan space that builds on your OCs, where things can get fun… or deliciously chaotic🔥. Ownership always stays 100% with you.

Curious? DM me or reply here (zero pressure).

[lenamoore]

🔥

A bond everlasting

[lenamoore]

Rafayel’s got that full-grown man energy now🔥

[lenamoore]

"One wrong move, and he’s yours—completely." ——Sylus

He opens his eyes, his gaze locked on yours. “You could’ve died,” he says, his voice a whisper. “I can’t—I can’t command without you.”

The words are a fissure, cracking open something he’s held too tight for too long. You step closer, your body brushing his, and he doesn’t move away. “Then don’t,” you say, your voice soft but urgent. “Just for a moment. Just for tonight.”

His breath catches, his eyes searching yours. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“I do,” you say, your fingers threading through his. “I’ve wanted this for too long. Wanted you.”

He trembles, just once, before his control shatters. His hands are on you, sudden and desperate, pulling you against him. His lips find yours, hungry and demanding, like a man starving for something he’s denied himself for too long.

The kiss is a storm, fierce and unrelenting. His hands grip your hips, his touch bruising, and you press into him, your body aching with the need to be closer. The room spins, the holoscreen’s glow casting flickering shadows on the walls.

He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with want. “Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice a rough whisper. “Before I can’t.”

You shake your head, your fingers tangling in his hair. “I won’t,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor in your body. “I need you. Need this.”

He groans, his lips brushing yours. “You’re going to ruin me,” he says, his voice thick with desire.

“Let me,” you whisper, your hands sliding down his back, pulling him closer.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue tangling with yours. His hands move, urgent and possessive, sliding up your shirt, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist. You shiver, your body arching into his touch, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Sylus—” you murmur, his name a plea.

“Quiet,” he says, his voice sharp, but his lips curve against yours in a ghost of a smile. He pulls back, his eyes scanning yours, his hands moving to the clasp of your fatigues. “Let me see you.”

You nod, your fingers trembling as you help him undress you. The room is cold, but his touch is fire, his hands moving slowly, reverently, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

When you’re bare, he steps back, his eyes raking over you, his breath hitching. “You’re—” He stops, his throat working as he swallows the rest. “You’re beautiful.”

You reach for him, your fingers brushing the collar of his fatigues. “Take them off,” you say, your voice soft but commanding.

He hesitates, his eyes searching yours, before obeying. The fatigues fall to the floor, leaving him bare, his body lean and scarred, a map of battles fought and won.

You step closer, your hands sliding over his chest, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. He shudders, his head falling back as he closes his eyes.

“Soldier,” he murmurs, his voice a plea.

You smile, pressing a kiss to his chest, your lips brushing the faint scar above his heart. “I’m right here,” you say, your voice steady. “Right where I want to be.”

[lenamoore]

He and Zayne are walking you back from the holographic cinema, the synthetic glow of the night flickering across the rain-dampened streets of N109. You’re nearly home, laughter still clinging to your lips when your boot catches the edge of the hover-stair.

Sylus catches your elbow before you can stumble. “Watch your step, little rookie,” he drawls, the low smirk audible in his voice.

You roll your eyes, groaning dramatically. “Ugh, not another nickname.”

And Zayne, always sharper than he lets on, gives a humorless chuckle. “Not another one,” he echoes, but his voice is tight. Controlled. The way he grips your discarded soda and synth-popcorn says he’d rather shove them into Sylus’s chestplate.

Once Sylus is sure you're steady, he draws you into a hug—cool leather against your cheek, his scent all ozone and smoke. He shifts slightly, turning you so your back’s to Sylus, shielding you as if the man behind him were some kind of threat. Over your head, his eyes meet Sylus’s with a precision cold enough to cut.

But his voice when he speaks? It’s absurdly soft. “Goodnight, little rookie,” he murmurs, fingers threading tenderly through your hair in a way that makes your pulse skip.

You hum contentedly against his chest. “Goodnight,” you whisper, unaware of the brutal, unspoken conversation unraveling above you.

The door hisses shut behind you with a hydraulic sigh.

Outside, before Zayne can utter a word, Sylus raises both hands in surrender. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sorry, man.”

[lenamoore]

Trapped in a bunker, he's finally losing control — and it's all for you.——Sylus

The air tastes like metal and ash, sharp enough to sting the back of your throat. Outside, the world is dying—sirens scream, alarms blare, and the distant crackle of chaos seeps through the reinforced walls of the bunker. You’re pressed against the cold steel door, your fingers trembling as you try to process what’s happening. The cyberattack. The collapse. The way Sylus dragged you here, his grip unyielding, his face a mask of controlled fury.

“Stay,” he said, his voice low and final. Not a request. A command.

You turn to face him now. The bunker is small, suffocating, and yet his presence fills it more than the air ever could. He watches you like a soldier studies the battlefield—intent, precise, desperate to win.

“You’re safe here,” he says, his voice a gravelly whisper. “With me.”

“Why me?” you ask, barely a whisper. “Why drag me down here?”

He takes a step closer, eyes locked on yours. “Because you’re the only thing worth saving.”

The words land like a blow. They settle in your chest, warm and painful all at once. You’re the only thing worth saving.

“You feel it too,” he says, his voice rough. “Don’t lie.”

You want to lie. You want to say it’s the fear, the adrenaline, the sirens. But it’s him. It’s always been him.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice low and urgent. “Say you want me.”

Your lips part. Your heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the sirens.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I want you.”

And something inside him snaps.

He kisses you then, hard and hungry, like a man starved. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s a storm. A release. Your back hits the wall, your hands tangled in his hair as he devours you with his mouth, his breath, his body.

“You’re mine,” he growls, voice feral against your neck. “Do you understand? Mine.”

Your body arches into him instinctively, craving every brutal, beautiful inch of contact. His hands are everywhere—hot, calloused, demanding. The bunker fades. The war fades. There is only Sylus. Only you. Only now.

You moan his name. His real name. Not Commander. Not Warlord. Just Sylus. Just a man coming undone in your arms.

“Sylus,” you gasp, “please—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “Let me.”

And you do.

[lenamoore]

“He’s not asking for strategy—he’s asking for you.”——Sylus

You hear him before you see him—the soft scrape of his boot against the floor, the rustle of fabric as he moves. “Come in, little one,” he says, his voice low and rough, as if the words are dragged from him against his will. You step inside, the door sliding shut behind you with a whisper. The room feels smaller than you remember, the air heavier, charged with unspoken things. He stands by the window, his silhouette stark against the smog-choked skyline of N109. He turns, and you see the tension in the line of his jaw, the way his fingers curl slightly, as if gripping something invisible. “You came,” he says, not a question but a statement, his voice tinged with relief you hadn’t expected. You nod, unable to speak. “Sit,” he says. You obey. “I didn’t call you here for strategy,” he says abruptly, cutting through the tension. You flinch. “I know,” you murmur. “Why did you come, then?” “Because you asked.” “That’s not an answer, little one. Not tonight.” His words strip you bare, and for a moment, you forget the war, the city, the command tower humming beneath your feet. “Because I can’t stay away,” you confess. He reaches across the desk, fingertips brushing yours—a touch so fleeting, yet so heavy with meaning. “You’re killing me,” he breathes, “Do you know that?” You tremble. This is not the Sylus the world sees. This is not a warlord. This is a man unraveling. “Don’t,” he says sharply as you start to speak. “Not yet. Let me have this. Just for tonight.” “What do you want from me?” He leans in close, his voice barely a breath: “Everything. Nothing. Just you.” Your walls are crumbling. You’re too close. Too seen. Too wanted. And then, he says it—voice raw, barely holding: “Tell me you’re afraid.” Your throat tightens. “I’m terrified.” He exhales, shuddering, and pulls you to your feet— —and just as you feel the last of your resolve slipping… the lights flicker. A knock on the steel door breaks the silence. His face changes. Something cold and sharp settles behind his eyes. “They’re early.”

[lenamoore]

Keeping it tactical ✔️

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They're trapped underground. He's done waiting.——Ghost

His lips brush your temple, a fleeting touch that sends shivers down your spine. You want to pull away, to remind him of the mission, of the danger, but your body betrays you. You lean into him, just barely, and he feels it. His hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You’re making this hard,” he says, his voice a low growl. “You know that, right? Every time you look at me like that… every time you move like that…”

His words trail off, but you hear the rest. You feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his breath quickens. The pipe is too small, the air too thin, but you’re hyperaware of every inch of him, every point of contact. His knee presses against yours, his chest against your shoulder. You can feel the steady beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his breath.

“Ghost,” you say again, softer this time, a plea. “We can’t—”

“We can’t what?” he interrupts, his voice sharp. “Breathe? Think? Feel?”

His lips are inches from yours now, his breath mingling with yours. You can taste the salt on his skin, the faint bitterness of sweat. Your hands clutch at his jacket, your fingers digging into the fabric as if it could anchor you to sanity.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “Say it, and I will. But you won’t, will you?”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because he’s right. You won’t.

His mouth finds yours in the dark, a kiss that’s desperate and demanding. His lips are firm, his tongue insistent, and you surrender to it, to him. The world narrows to this moment, to the press of his body against yours, to the sound of your shared breath echoing in the confined space.

“God,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice trembling. “I’ve wanted this for so long. Too long.”

You pull back slightly, your forehead resting against his. “Then why now? Why here?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Because if we die here,” he says finally, his voice raw, “I don’t want to go without knowing what it’s like to touch you. To taste you.”

His words send a jolt through you, a mix of fear and desire that leaves you breathless. You want to tell him it’s a mistake, that this will only make things worse, but his hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can’t think straight.

“Quiet,” he says, his voice a command. “Kiss me again. Like you mean it.”

[lenamoore]

His kiss wasn’t soft. It was desperate—like he’d been waiting forever and just broke.

His fingers gripped your waist like he didn’t trust this was real.

And when he pulled back, breathless, he whispered, “I’m not letting go this time.”

(All image rights belong to original creators. Please message me if needed.)

[lenamoore]

"He’s supposed to be in control. So why is he falling apart for you?"——Sylus

The door seals behind you with a thud that makes your chest tighten. The lights flicker, then stabilize to a harsh white glow. You turn to face him, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

His eyes are dark, his jaw clenched. “Stay calm,” he says, but his voice cracks on the last word. He’s not calm. You can see it in the way his hands twitch, in the way he avoids your gaze.

“How long?” you ask, your voice steady despite the way your pulse is racing.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and the honesty in his tone surprises you. Sylus never admits to not knowing. He’s the ruler of this lawless zone, the man who’s built an empire on control. But now, in this sealed room, he looks almost human.

The silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.

“You’re trembling,” he observes, his voice soft.

You look away. “It’s cold in here.”

“It’s not the cold,” he says, taking a step closer. His voice is a whisper now, rough and raw. “You’re scared.”

You meet his eyes, defiant. “Are you?”

He pauses. Breath catches in his throat. Then: “Yes.”

The air shifts. Something unspoken snaps. You feel it in the way your skin prickles, in the way your breath shortens. Your eyes don’t leave his.

“Sylus—” you start.

“Don’t,” he says sharply. “Not here. Not now.”

But it’s too late.

You take a step toward him. “What are you afraid of?”

He flinches. Just barely. But you see it.

“Losing you,” he says, so low it barely exists. But it lands like a bomb in your chest.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “I already have. Every time I look at you, every time I let you out of my sight—”

“Sylus,” you say, your fingers brushing his arm. His skin is warm. His muscles tense.

He looks up, eyes searching yours. “You don’t understand,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’ve been watching you. Planning for your safety. Making sure you’re protected. But I—”

He stops.

You can feel the storm in him, just beneath the surface. Something clawing to get out. Something wild.

“What?” you press. “Say it.”

His chest rises and falls, ragged. His eyes—usually unreadable—are suddenly filled with panic. And longing.

“I want more,” he confesses. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long, and I can’t—I can’t keep pretending I don’t.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. “Then why haven’t you—”

“Because if I touch you,” he says, voice trembling, “I won’t be able to stop.”

[lenamoore]

😍!!!!

Wippie. I’m fighting my life with this one

SYLUS THE MAN YOU ARE

[lenamoore]

😍

Anyway

MAIN

STORY

SYLUS

[lenamoore]

"Say it," you whisper, hands on his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "Say you want me.”

He closes his eyes, like the words are too much, too raw. But then he opens them, and when he speaks, his voice is steady, sure. "I want you."

[lenamoore]

Normal conversations to have on the plane

I'm also doing more cod art on Patreon!

[lenamoore]

A dangerous man’s fleeting kiss ignites forbidden desire and tension.——Simon "Ghost" Riley

“You’re trembling.” His voice is soft, almost tender. “Scared, or cold?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. His gaze drops to your lips, and you feel his breath against them, a ghostly caress. Your pulse quickens, a drumbeat in your ears.

“I could fix you.” His words are a murmur, a promise and a threat. “If you’d let me.”

Before you can respond, his lips brush yours, a fleeting touch, barely there. It’s not a kiss—not yet—but it’s enough to set your skin on fire. You gasp, and he pulls back, just enough to study your reaction.

“See?” His voice is smug, satisfied. “You’re not as broken as you think.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your thoughts a mess. You should push him away, but your hands stay at your sides, trembling.

He leans in again, his lips pressing firmer this time, demanding but not forceful. You close your eyes, the sensation overwhelming—his warmth, his taste, the way he makes you feel small and vast all at once.

“That’s it.” He pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. “Let go, baby girl.”

You want to. You’re terrified to.

[lenamoore]

I can't with this man sometimes

Not only is the loser wearing sunglasses AT NIGHT but he only puts them on when he's about to pull up to MC so he can look cool 😭😭

Bro is so fucking unserious ijbol