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noirscript · 2 months ago

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Where the Ivy Grows

Pairing: Yandere!Tutor x Childhood Friend!Reader Description: You built a quiet life in his absence—but Seraphim D’Aronn has returned, and he’s come to collect what was always his. Warning/s: Yandere | Emotional Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Gaslighting | Possessive Behavior | Contractual Relationship Note/s: Enjoy this Clerivan Pellet-inspired character. This man... god... um, hehe. Oh, Dark Roast v2 is up on my ko-fi and you can get it half the price by clicking the link below. ^^ Commissions are also open to those interested.

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast v2

You never heard the carriage wheels.

The town was too quiet for that, muffled under the thick blanket of summer heat and your own routine of pretending you weren’t waiting for something to go wrong.

You’re out back, hanging washed linens on the line, sleeves rolled past your elbows, neck damp with sweat, when the first shadow falls across the hem of a sheet fluttering in the breeze. You freeze, peg suspended in your fingers. You don’t need to look. You know who it is.

You feel it in the silence.

“…You’re early.”

Your voice is calm, but there’s a tremor. You hate it. You’ve had three years to learn how to hide that—ever since you signed what you thought was a generous marriage contract, eyes tired and stomach hollow from grief and debt. Three years to convince yourself it wasn’t entrapment, just kindness delivered with a bit too much pressure.

But Seraphim D’Aronn is never early.

He’s exactly on time. Always.

You turn slowly, shielding your eyes against the sun, and there he is—taller than memory allows, a quiet monument in cream linen, silver-trimmed coat hanging over one arm. His hair is longer than before, nearly brushing his waist, gathered at the nape with a deep blue ribbon. Not a strand out of place. His sapphire eyes are unreadable behind the glint of thin-rimmed spectacles.

He smiles.

“I missed you.”

It’s not a lie. But it’s not love either.

At least, not the kind you want.

You swallow. “You said you wouldn’t be back until winter.”

“I had a change of heart.”

Of course he did.

The children of the Eldermont Duchy must be fully grown now. Old enough not to need their calm, intelligent tutor with the kind smile and frighteningly precise memory. And Seraphim… Seraphim keeps his promises, but only the ones he chooses to keep.

You step aside instinctively as he moves closer, hands clasped behind his back like he’s afraid to touch you too soon. He’s always done that—delayed gratification in its most polite, invasive form. Never force, never cruelty. Just control.

The only thing he ever wanted more than your love was your obedience.

“I brought something.” He nods toward the house. “Where should I set the luggage?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you retreat into the house. You tell yourself it’s for the tea.

• • — ✦ — • •

The kitchen feels smaller with him in it. He moves like a ghost—quiet, careful, but always there. Always watching. His eyes linger on your back a bit too long as you fill the kettle. You pretend not to notice. Pretend you don’t feel like a bird locking itself back into a gilded cage.

“Did you get the letters I sent?” His voice is mild.

“I did.”

“You didn’t reply.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

A beat of silence.

“I missed you.”

“You already said that.”

“I’ll keep saying it,” he murmurs. “Until you believe me.”

You set the cups down harder than intended.

Seraphim doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he steps closer, his gaze lowered, expression soft. “You’ve done well here. The garden looks lovely. And the ivy—you’ve been trimming it back yourself, haven’t you?”

You nod, unsure whether to feel proud or wary. He’s praising your efforts, the life you’ve built in his absence. But you don’t trust praise from a man who once convinced you that a signature was just a formality.

He leans against the counter beside you, close enough for his shoulder to almost brush yours. His scent is familiar—books, bergamot, and the faint metallic note of ink. It clings to him like memory.

“You look tired,” he murmurs. “Have you been sleeping poorly?”

“No more than usual.”

“I could help,” he offers. “The tincture I gave you last spring—”

“I stopped taking it.”

That finally earns a visible reaction.

His lips press together, thin with disappointment, but he doesn’t argue. He never argues. Not when it matters.

“I see,” he says quietly, adjusting his glasses.

You serve the tea in silence.

• • — ✦ — • •

That night, he didn’t ask to share your bed. He merely occupies it.

You find him already seated on the edge when you return from brushing your hair, unbuttoning his shirt with slow, practiced fingers. The golden strands fall like liquid light down his back as he sets his glasses on the nightstand.

He speaks without looking up.

“I’ve requested that the Eldermont Duchy forward the remainder of my holdings to this estate. I will no longer be returning to the Capital.”

Your heart stutters.

“Seraphim—”

“I’m not asking for permission.”

Of course he isn’t.

You feel the words rising in your throat, the old ones—I never wanted this, you tricked me, you said I could leave—but you’ve said them before. Quietly, uselessly. They always slip past him like smoke. He never denies them. He just… reminds you.

“You signed a lifetime clause,” he says softly, as if reading your thoughts. “Nullification only occurs in death.”

You sit down heavily at the foot of the bed.

“You always leave that part out.”

His voice warms, almost gentle. “Because I don’t plan to die.”

You shiver.

He moves closer, lifting the blanket with a reverent touch. The mattress dips as he settles beside you. For a long moment, neither of you speak. His hand hovers inches from yorus, close enough for the heat to leach into your skin. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

“I remember the day you smiled at me for the first time,” he says softly. “We were children. I’d fallen in the river trying to catch that stupid dragonfly. You pulled me out. I cried.”

You stare at your knees.

“You were just a boy.”

“I’m still that boy,” he whispers. “But now I can protect you.”

You close your eyes.

“From what, Seraphim?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because the answer is everything. Including yourself.

• • — ✦ — • •

The days stretch slowly.

He doesn’t try to cage you physically. You still go to the market. Still tend the garden. Still breathe air that feels free. But his presence coils through the house like ivy—unassuming, patient, inescapable. He renovates the library, expands the study, commissions furniture with your initials carved into the wood.

A matching desk.

Matching chairs.

Matching tea cups.

“I thought we could use more symmetry,” he explains, setting the pair of porcelain cups onto the shelf. His expression is serene. “Married life should reflect harmony.”

You say nothing.

He never forces you to speak.

But you wonder if that’s worse.

Because silence lets your mind slip into dangerous things. It lets you notice the quiet click of the study’s lock when he’s inside. Lets you realize the ledger drawer is always locked. Lets you catch the glint of obsidian wax on sealed envelopes addressed to names you don’t recognize.

One morning, you reach for his coat by the doorway—and find a letter tucked into the break pocket.

The seal is broken.

The handwriting isn’t his.

You only have seconds. You skin. Seraphim, your return is noted. The children ask after you still. Have you truly no interest in the family’s daughter? You could’ve had her, you know. The Duchess was prepared to endorse you.

You feel ill.

A rustle behind you.

You turn too fast, nearly dropping the letter.

He’s there, quiet as snow, holding two steaming cups of tea.

“I thought we might read together today,” he says calmly.

You place the letter back without meeting his gaze.

• • — ✦ — • •

But summer’s end, he’s teaching again.

Not children. Just you.

He fills the shelves with books—history, finance, alchemy, etiquette. At first, you resist. Then relent. Then find yourself waking to find him already preparing ink and parchment before you’ve even yawned.

“Your mind is sharp,” he says one day, during a break. “Wasted on manual labor and petty errands. I’ll never forgive them for stifling you.”

“Who?”

“Everyone who didn’t see your worth.”

You look away.

He reaches over, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Including yourself.”

You don’t recoil.

That’s the worst part.

Because something—sometimes—when he smiles like that, when his voice dips into something painfully tender, you feel something like safety.

And you hate yourself for it.

• • — ✦ — • •

That winter, snow blankets the fields. Seraphim starts reading aloud by the fire. His voice is smooth, musical. You wonder how the heirs of the Eldermont Duchy ever let him go. You wonder what kind of man turns his back on nobility for a locked house in a backwater town.

You ask him once—only once—why he left.

He closes the book slowly, looks at you over his glasses.

“I had everything there. Position. Wealth. Power.” He sets the book down, fingers lingering on the leather spine. “But not you.”

You want to scream.

But you don’t.

Because there is something terrifying in the way he says your name afterward. Not loud. Not desperate. Just… final.

• • — ✦ — • •

He touches you more often now. Brief, polite gestures—hand on your lower back, fingers brushing yours while you shell peas, palm cupping your cheek when you nod off in the study. It feels natural. Like a husband should. Like love should.

But it isn’t.

It’s possession wrapped in silk.

And still, you endure.

You wonder what’s worse—his touch or the absence of it.

You wonder how many others he’s ensnared with words like sugar.

You wonder if he would ever let you go.

You know the answer.

• • — ✦ — • •

One night, unable to sleep, you find him in the study again.

He’s writing letters, glasses low on his nose, ink pooling in the curve of his wrist as he writes line after elegant line. His expression is soft. Focused. He doesn’t hear you at first.

Then he does.

And he smiles.

“My darling,” he says, standing. “Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head.

He opens his arms, and like the fool you’ve become, you walk into them.

He holds you, careful and still.

Then he whispers against your temple:

“You were always going to be mine. Even if it took a lifetime.”

You feel the contract in your bones then—not paper, not ink. But steel.

You wonder if, in another life, you would’ve loved him freely.

You wonder if he would’ve waited.

But you know this isn’t that life.

And Seraphim D’Aronn doesn’t wait.

He decides.

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zaynessbeloved · 3 months ago

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A Duke's Promise

Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s—until the man promised to her began to look at you instead.

The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly—delicately—his eyes began to wander. To you.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender Romance, From Courtship to Marriage, First Time Feelings, Mutual Pining, Letters as Love Language, First Kiss in a Garden, Longing Across Ballrooms, Dancing as a Love Language, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Flash Forward Epilogue, Loving Marriage, Reader is Pregnant in the Epilogue, First Time, Consummation After Marriage, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Breeding Kink (soft & emotional), Table Sex, Library Sex, Bath Intimacy, Hand Kisses through Gloves, Stolen Glances.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 6.5k

A/n: This story began with one idea: what if Rafayel existed in a Regency world of whispered courtships, candlelit ballrooms, and dangerously improper strolls through the gardens? And then… well, then it became everything. The fan fluttered. The heart raced. The gloves came off. Literally.

If you love yearning, poetry, burning touches behind closed doors, and the kind of romance that leaves you sighing into your teacup—then I hope you enjoy every soft, scandalous step of this journey. Prepare for aching glances, stolen kisses, and perhaps a few gasps behind a fan. Because this is the Season, after all.

With all my heart, —Lex

Chapter 1

The manor had not known this much noise in years.

Maids fluttered between corridors like startled birds, arms burdened with ivory silk, pearl-dotted gloves, and lace-trimmed slippers. Somewhere in the east wing, a heated debate arose about whether the new French ribbon complemented or ruined the eldest daughter’s gown. In the drawing room, their mother fanned herself with a fluttering hand and sighed dramatically into the air, as if managing two debutantes had taken five years from her life already—and it was only the first day of the Season.

And you? You sat near the window, watching the grey spring clouds roll across the sky, utterly untouched by the chaos. Or at least pretending to be. Your reflection in the glass looked pale, thoughtful, expectant. As if even you weren’t quite sure what you were waiting for.

“Would it kill you to act excited?” came a voice behind you.

Your sister. Eleanora glided into view like a well-practiced scene in a stage play—tall, elegant, every curl in place. Her dress had already been fitted days ago. Pale rose, delicate embroidery, soft gold accents. The kind of debutante gown that said: look at me, then look again. Her confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was simply… inherited.

“I am excited,” you replied without looking at her, chin resting in your palm. “I’m vibrating with anticipation. Can’t you tell?”

She rolled her eyes and sank gracefully into the seat beside you. “Mother’s convinced I’ll receive a proposal by the second ball.”

You blinked slowly. “That’s optimistic.”

“She’s not wrong,” Eleanora said, half-smiling. “There’s already talk. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball. And he—well, you know how long the arrangement has been in place.”

Ah. Him. You’d heard the name whispered since you were old enough to understand what betrothal meant. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt. Promised to your sister since they were both children, in one of those quiet family agreements made with wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and fortunes. You’d never seen him. Never met him. But you’d heard of him.

They said he rarely came to town. That he’d been abroad for years. That he was... peculiar. Brilliant, but peculiar. That he collected ancient art and turned down nearly every social invitation. That he had no interest in courtship, except the one already chosen for him.

Your sister’s.

“I wonder if he’s dreadfully boring,” you mused aloud.

Eleanora snorted. “He’s a duke, darling. I’d hardly be expected to love him. Only not embarrass myself at dinner.”

You turned to face her then. “Do you mind it?” you asked quietly. “That you’ve never met him. That it’s all been arranged.”

Her expression softened, then faltered. Just for a second.

“I mind being married off like a trinket. But… I also mind not having a choice,” she said. “And choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well.”

A pause. “You’ll have more freedom, you know,” she added lightly. “You’re not promised to anyone.”

No. You weren’t. Not the eldest. Not the heir-maker. You were the afterthought in pearls. But freedom felt like such a fragile thing when it was wrapped in expectation and painted in powder and rouge.

There was a knock, then the door creaked open.

“The carriage is ready, Misses,” said a maid, curtseying low. “Your mother says the ball waits for no lady.”

Your sister rose in one graceful sweep. You followed, smoothing your skirts and forcing a smile.You did not know it then. Not as you stepped into the carriage, nor as the first ballroom doors opened before you. Not as your name was announced or champagne touched your lips.

But somewhere in the city, a man named Rafayel Vale had also dressed for the evening.And the Season had already begun.

The ballroom glittered like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloomed overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors. Laughter curled around the violins. Perfumed fans fluttered like butterfly wings. It was the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London had come to play their part.

Your mother had insisted on white for your debut—soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves just off the shoulder. You felt like a porcelain doll being paraded across a chessboard. But Eleanora? She was art. A single glance at her, and suitors flocked like moths to a flame. Her rose-colored gown shimmered with every turn. Her laughter fell in just the right places. She danced as if she’d been born to do it.

She probably had. You didn’t mind. Not really. You sipped at your champagne near the edge of the floor, nodding politely to a young gentleman who’d just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz began.

“She’s rather enchanting, your sister,” came a voice beside you.

You turned. A tall, freckled young man smiled at you, slightly flushed with wine. “But I find myself curious about the other debutante at her side.”

Your brows lifted. “Curious, or drunk, My Lord?”

He laughed, unoffended. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?”

You hesitated—then took his hand. The music rose, and so did you. You danced. Twice. Once with the freckled gentleman—Lord Daniel something—and again with a kind-eyed viscount who fumbled through small talk but smiled at your wit. You laughed. You curtseyed. You did everything you were meant to.

But it was impossible to ignore how the room revolved around Eleanora. She hadn’t left the floor. A new partner every song. An admiring audience wherever she paused. You caught glimpses of her between turns—her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, posture perfect. And then… a whisper.

“Did you see? Lord Ravencourt is here.”

The name slipped between fans like a secret.

“I thought he wouldn’t come.”

“He never does. But this Season—well, everyone knows why.”

“He’s to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”

“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”

“And is it true he—”

You turned too fast, looking for the voice, the source. But all you saw were swirling gowns and smiling mouths. No sign of him. Your heartbeat kicked just a little faster, for reasons you couldn't name. You’d heard the name all your life, but now… he was here. In this room. Breathing the same air. And yet—You couldn’t find him.

Eleanora laughed again, a musical sound that carried across the dance floor as she twirled in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you didn’t recognize. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps not. You watched. And listened. But Rafayel Vale, Duke of Ravencourt, remained as elusive as his reputation. Just a name. Just a whisper. For now.

Another glass of champagne was placed in your hand—your third of the evening, perhaps fourth. The effervescence prickled pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness refreshing but not enough to cool the flush that had crept across your cheeks after so many turns about the ballroom.

You’d danced with no less than six gentlemen—each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.

“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh,” said one. “Your sister is lucky to have you by her side,” said another. “Might I call on you this week?” asked a third.

You smiled, curtsied, responded with the appropriate level of civility. But your mind had long since drifted elsewhere—pulled by curiosity, by the weight of a name that kept brushing past your ear like a breeze you couldn’t quite catch.

Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one pointed him out. No introductions. No dramatic arrival. You were beginning to suspect he hadn’t come at all—despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room like a pebble dropped into still water.

You were about to take your leave from the floor when you caught the flicker. A subtle shift. The orchestra hadn’t stopped. The conversations hadn’t paused. And yet— It was as if the air had gone still. You turned. There, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stood a man dressed in midnight black.

No one announced him. He didn’t need it. He stood with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveyed the ballroom below with the kind of expression that didn’t demand attention—but commanded it nonetheless.

He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful—elegant, distant, dangerous. His hair was tied loosely at his nape, the soft wave of it brushing against the collar of his coat. His eyes, from what you could see across the distance, were sharp. Watchful. His jaw cut clean beneath the candlelight.

You didn’t need to ask who he was. You knew. The Duke of Ravencourt has arrived.

“Ah, there he is,” someone murmured near you, confirming it.

Your heart fluttered unexpectedly. He descended the stairs unhurriedly, greeted no one, and walked with the ease of someone completely uninterested in impressing. And yet, every head turned.

Even Eleanora’s. You watched her gaze snap upward, watched the moment his eyes met hers—just for a breath. Then, with unflinching grace, he crossed the ballroom and offered your sister a bow.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice was low, velvet-draped steel. Refined. Controlled.

Your sister curtsied perfectly. “My Lord.”

And for the first time in your life, you stood mere feet away from the man who had, without even knowing it, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. Rafayel Vale.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t look at you. But something inside you stirred—a thread pulled taut, a chord struck too suddenly. So this is the man my sister is to marry. So that was him. The man whose name had been sewn into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread. The Duke your mother spoke of in hushed tones. The one your sister had been destined for before she’d learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.

And yet, you didn’t linger on the sight. You watched long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand. Watched him take it with a bow too shallow to be entirely respectful, too intimate to be entirely proper. Interesting. But not your concern. So you turned away.

“Miss Everleigh.” You faced the gentleman with a smile just sharp enough to cut through the fog of champagne.

“Lord Renswick,” you greeted, dipping into a curtsey. “You’ve finally decided to brave the dance floor?”

He grinned sheepishly. “It’s hardly bravery when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”

You tilted your head. “Flattery, my Lord? We haven’t even danced yet.”

“I’m hoping to improve your opinion before I embarrass myself,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

You allowed him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble floor. You danced. And laughed. And when he stumbled, you teased. Another gentleman approached you before the music faded. Then another. The evening passed in a haze of pleasantries and compliments, silk gloves and careful steps, and smiles that never quite reached your eyes.

You were being seen. Not just as Eleanora’s sister—but as yourself. And still, somewhere behind the swirling figures and murmured invitations, you caught the occasional sound of his name.

“The Duke hasn’t danced with anyone else.” “He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with her.” “They’re to be married before summer, I hear.”

You didn’t seek him out. But you noticed. He didn’t hover near the punch. He didn’t court attention. He simply existed, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room.

Eleanora had his company almost exclusively. They spoke often, heads bent slightly toward one another. She laughed in that polished way she’d perfected since finishing school. He only smiled once—or maybe you imagined it. He offered his hand to two other ladies for a dance. Out of courtesy, not interest. Both looked dazed when returned to their chaperones.

By the time the final waltz played, you found yourself near the windows again. A gentle breeze filtered through the open panes. The sky outside was deep and velvet blue, dotted with the promise of rain.

You pressed your fingertips to the glass, cooling your skin. Behind you, the ballroom glittered on. Your sister was still dancing. With him. So that is the man who will be her husband. You didn’t envy her. Not truly. He was distant, unreadable. A mystery, yes, but not yours to solve. You were only curious. Just a little.

The ride home was quiet at first. Outside the window, London twinkled beneath the night sky, gas lamps glowing like stars trapped in glass. The carriage wheels clattered softly over the cobblestones, a rhythmic lull that always came after a long night of dancing.

Inside, you sat across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand—more habit than necessity now.

Your mother sighed for the fifth time in ten minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage was hardly warm.

“Well, I’d say that was a successful beginning to the Season,” she declared. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” she turned to you, “were charming. I heard Lord Pelham compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love, not just your appearance. A rare thing.”

You offered a faint smile. “How generous of him.”

Eleanora chuckled softly, her face half-lit by the carriage lantern. She looked pleased—no, content. A strange softness in her expression, one you didn’t often see outside the confines of private moments like these.

“Six dances,” your mother continued. “Four requests for calling hours, and—oh! Did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”

“I did,” Eleanora murmured. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”

Your mother’s fan stopped mid-wave. Her expression turned reverent. “Ravencourt. Good heavens. I still can’t believe he came. I truly thought we’d have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”

“He was...unexpected,” Eleanora admitted, her gaze turning briefly to the window. “Not at all what I imagined.”

You looked at her then. Not sharply, not with envy. Just with interest.

“What did you imagine?” you asked softly.

Eleanora tilted her head, thinking. “I suppose someone older. Colder. Not so… sharp. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s never empty.”

You hummed. “And?”

She smiled—small, knowing. “He watches everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even you?”

A shrug. “Especially me.”

Your mother gave a delicate gasp of delight and resumed fanning herself with renewed vigor. “Well, it’s settled then. We’ll expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps earlier, given how much time he spent at your side.”

“I don’t think he’s the sort to follow expected schedules,” Eleanora said, almost absently.

You didn’t say it aloud, but you agreed with her. You leaned your head against the side of the carriage, watching the lantern light flicker over your gloves.

The Season had begun. Your sister’s future—the one stitched in gold and promise—was unfolding. And in the shadows of it… a man made of silence and storm had finally stepped into the light.

——

The garden smelled of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spilled over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the edges of your teacup as you sat beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hummed lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirred the hem of your skirts, carrying with it the faintest echo of music from last night’s ball.

You swirled the honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and mother seated nearby. They were reading from The Society Pages, lips twitching with every name mentioned.

“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta—that will certainly be remarked upon,” your mother sniffed.

“And here—‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’”

“They flatter,” Eleanora murmured, though her eyes gleamed over the rim of her teacup.

You didn’t comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze. The first caller arrived before noon.

“Miss Everleigh,” the butler intoned with perfect composure. “Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.”

You rose, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offered a pleasant smile as the young Lord was shown into the garden.

He bowed. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”

You didn’t roll your eyes—though it was a near thing. “Good morning, my Lord. How kind of you to visit.”

He spoke of the ball. Of your dancing. Of how he hoped to see you again. You responded with grace, with interest even—but something inside you remained still. Unmoved. He wasn’t unpleasant. None of them were.

A second gentleman came not long after. Then a third in the late afternoon, with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller was welcomed, each given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet…

With every charming smile and gloved hand pressed to yours, you found your thoughts drifting. To silence. To shadows. To eyes that hadn’t yet sought yours. By the time the sun began to lower, streaking the garden in amber light, the butler reappeared once more.

You glanced up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat gently and bowed. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”

You nodded, not disappointed, not expectant—only thoughtful. “Thank you.”

You returned to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora had set aside her book and was absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers.

“He hasn’t called,” she murmured.

You looked up. “The Duke?”

She nodded once. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem, but... he did say he’d be in town this week.”

You sipped your tea. “He doesn't seem the type to rush.”

“No,” she agreed. “He isn’t.” Her voice held no bitterness. Just observation. Eleanora didn’t chase affection—she expected it to arrive, eventually, on its own terms.

You glanced toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustled the hedges, but no footsteps came. Still. It was early. Much too early to assume anything. By evening, the callers were gone. Your mother was content. Your sister, thoughtful. And you?

You were content to watch. To listen. To wait—not for him, but for the Season to unfold as it always did: slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke was to be part of your sister’s story, he would arrive in time. And if he didn’t? Well, that too, would be telling.

——

The gown was periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You had said nothing when your maid fastened it, only watched your reflection in the mirror with mild detachment while she smoothed the folds. Your sister had gone through three dresses before settling on one.

“Do you think he’ll be there tonight?” she asked, not looking up as your mother arranged curls at the crown of her head.

You knew who she meant. “I imagine so,” you replied simply. “It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”

That was the third time she’d asked this week. He hadn’t called. Not once. Not even a letter. After all the glances, the evening spent in her company, the conversations in corners and near the card tables, the dance others noted… and still, nothing. The Ton had started to notice. Even the papers had commented on it, their tone careful, but curious.

Your mother tried to stay composed, but the tension in her voice betrayed her. “He’s a duke, darling. He’s dreadfully busy, I’m sure. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business—men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlors.”

But it wasn’t poetry Eleanora wanted. It was certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, had offered none.

Lady Warwick’s ballroom was suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd was lively, the musicians sharp and practiced. By the time you arrived, the dancing had already begun.

You made your greetings. Smiled when expected. Allowed a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laughed once—genuinely, this time. Eleanora remained composed beside you. Her gown was elegant, her posture perfect. But you knew her well enough to see the flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he?

You saw it the moment he stepped into the room. He was dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He didn’t linger at the entrance. He didn’t pause for greetings. He moved straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence. And then, there he was. Standing in front of your sister.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said with a bow deeper than the one he’d offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”

Your sister turned. Blinked. “My Lord.”

He reached into his coat. From his gloved hand, he drew a small, velvet-wrapped box and placed it delicately in her palm.

“For my absence,” he said simply. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”

You didn’t look away—but you didn’t move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opened the box slowly. Inside was a brooch—silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its center. Not extravagant. Not loud. But tasteful. Rare. Beautiful.

“You needn’t have,” she said, voice softer now.

“I did,” he replied. Then, “May I claim a dance, if you haven’t promised it?”

She hesitated—but only for a moment. “Of course.”

You stepped back as he offered his arm. She took it. They moved to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch. And you? You remained at the edge, untouched by the drama, your fingers gently clasped, your thoughts still clear.

He had returned. He had apologized. He had done what was expected. Nothing more. And yet, somewhere—deep in the space between music and silence—you felt the first ripple.Not interest. Just…a shift.

You didn’t watch them dance. Not because it hurt—it didn’t. Not because you were jealous—you weren’t. But because watching felt unnecessary. Predictable. Rafayel Vale had returned, and he’d returned to your sister’s side. As he was meant to. As he had been for years, in name if not affection. So you turned away. And smiled when another gentleman bowed before you.

“My lady,” came a smooth voice, warm like polished amber. “You’ve been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”

You lifted your eyes. He was striking. Not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke was. No, this man wore charm like a perfectly tailored coat. Light brown hair, elegantly curled. A golden signet ring on his right hand. A smile that curled ever-so-slightly at the edge—like he knew something you didn’t. And his title?

“Lord Wessex,” he said with an elegant bow. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I’m told I’m the more tolerable of the two.”

Your brows lifted, amused. “You’ve quite the opinion of yourself.”

He grinned. “Only when justified. May I?”

You placed your gloved hand in his.

Lord Wessex was a skilled dancer. Not just in form, but in conversation. Where others had asked the same tired questions—What are your hobbies? Do you enjoy embroidery?—he inquired about the books you read. The places you wished to see. The way your eyes lit up when speaking of the sea, despite never having seen it.

He kept you laughing. Thinking. On your toes. And when he led you to the refreshments table, he didn’t hover or smother. He offered you a glass, nodded at your thanks, and kept the conversation moving like a current pulling you along.

“They speak of your sister and Ravencourt as though the match is already sealed,” he said at one point, gaze drifting toward the couple in question.

“It was arranged,” you replied lightly. “A long time ago.”

“Arranged,” he repeated. “That word always leaves such little room for choice, doesn’t it?”

You glanced at him. “You don’t believe in arrangement?”

“I believe in lightning strikes, not family bargains.”

You tilted your head, a little smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”

He laughed. “You’ve no idea, Miss Everleigh.”

By the end of the evening, you’d danced with him twice more. Once by request. Once by invitation. Both times left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled.

And while your sister ended the night with the Duke beside her—the talk of the room once more—it wasn’t his presence that lingered on your skin as you stepped into the carriage. It was Lord Wessex’s voice in your ear, still echoing,

“Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I’m standing close when it happens.”

——

The sun had barely settled above the rooftops when the butler arrived in the parlor, his expression neutral, but his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.

“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.”

Your mother nearly dropped her embroidery. Your sister froze, her teacup held midair.

You simply blinked. “Both?”

The butler inclined his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then your mother clapped her hands together as if summoned by divine will.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely. That gown is ideal. And you, dear—yes, you’ll stay. It would be rude not to.”

You almost laughed. Rude, of course.

The drawing room had been polished to near-blinding shine. Fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids had barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men were escorted in.

Rafayel Vale entered with the same quiet command as he had at the ball. Dark coat, silver cufflinks, gloved hands behind his back. He bowed with effortless grace, and his gaze settled on Eleanora with a soft nod.

“Miss Everleigh,” he greeted. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”

Eleanora curtsied, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, my Lord.”

And beside him—light, where Rafayel was shadow—stood Lord Wessex. Smiling, charming, a pale waistcoat and a sunlit presence. His gaze found you immediately.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said warmly. “I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”

You raised a brow. “That would’ve been quite the feat, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper, my Lord.”

He grinned. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often to defend my honor.”

Tea was served. The Duke sat beside Eleanora. Their conversation was soft, low, and polite. Words about estates, travel, the architecture of Bath.

You and Lord Wessex? Laughter. Playful remarks. A small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies. And a question about your favorite poet, which—unlike others—he actually listened to. He watched you speak with a kind of gentle interest that was easy to receive, easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looked your way.

——

The party was held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-colored canopies and strings of flowers that fluttered like silk ribbons in the breeze. There were games set up on the lawn. Plates of sugared strawberries. Lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walked beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels. She wore a lilac gown. You wore blue. And they were there. As they always seemed to be, now.

Rafayel Vale, tall and composed in a dark grey coat, standing close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree. Listening as she spoke. Offering a quiet smile when she made some soft remark. And across the lawn—your suitor. Lord Wessex, lounging like he belonged in every summer painting ever created. When he caught sight of you, his expression lit up immediately.

“Miss Everleigh,” he called, rising with one graceful movement. “You’ve saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?”

You glanced at your sister. She gave you the faintest nod. And so you did.

You walked the gardens with him, spoke of travel and philosophy and music you weren’t supposed to enjoy. He offered you a wildflower he plucked from the hedgerow. You laughed and told him it clashed terribly with your gloves.

And when you paused to rest beneath the roses, you found yourself glancing across the lawn. Rafayel was still there, standing just a few steps behind your sister now as she spoke to another couple. But his posture had shifted slightly.

His gaze was no longer on Eleanora. It was on you. Not direct. Not rude. But unmistakable. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath between pages. And then, as if realizing it himself, he looked away. Just as Lord Wessex turned to say something clever that made you laugh again.

The grand hall was glowing. Every window draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmered with perfume and warm anticipation. Music poured from the raised platform where a quartet played their first waltz of the evening.

You had barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appeared.

“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex. Handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox. His smile was brighter than the chandeliers. “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”

You lifted your chin. “You assume I’d say yes, my Lord.”

He bowed low. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.”

You let out a soft laugh—and extended your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”

He looked triumphant. The dance was effortless. You moved together as if you’d done it a hundred times before. You knew he’d make a joke right before the turn. That he’d lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm. But never improper. Never forward. He was a gentleman with a wild spark.

Afterwards, he offered his arm and guided you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish Lordling cut in. You spent the next hour beside him—talking, sipping chilled wine, laughing so hard once you had to hide your face behind your fan. He made it easy. He made you feel seen.

Across the ballroom, the Duke stood by Eleanora once more. They spoke in quiet tones. He escorted her to a dance. Then another—not hers, but another lady’s, whom he partnered with as expected. His face remained unreadable. His words careful.

But every time your laughter rang out or your gown brushed past the edge of the room, his eyes found you. Just for a second. A flick. A pause. A look. Not interest. Not longing. Not yet. But curiosity. Not because you demanded it. Not because you tried to steal it. Only because you were there—and something about you lingered, even when you were no longer in the room.

Lord Wessex offered you another dance before the night ended. And you accepted, with no hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asked none of you. But watched—just once more—as you danced away, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.

——

The bell above the door gave a soft chime as you stepped inside. It was cooler here. Dimmer. The thick scent of paper and aged wood pressed gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves towered around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings. A world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.

You pulled your gloves off delicately, tucking them beneath your arm as you wandered. Most ladies preferred the modiste. The milliner. Or the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here? Here, you could breathe.

You found yourself in the poetry section—of course. One gloved finger brushing the titles, searching for something half-remembered. Brow slightly furrowed. Alone with your thoughts. Until a soft shift of leather soles caught your ear. You turned, expecting a clerk. And froze.

He stood not three paces from you. Dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves. Simpler than usual, though no less composed. The Duke. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The absurdity of it made your lips twitch—of all places. He regarded you with that same unreadable expression. As if trying to make sense of something.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said at last. Voice low. Measured. “This is… unexpected.”

You curtsied ever so slightly, regaining your composure. “My Lord. I might say the same.”

A pause. His gaze flicked briefly to the book in your hand—Keats, you realized. Then back to your face. “You favor poetry?”

“On quiet days,” you replied. “And rainy ones.”

Another pause. He nodded, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”

You waited, wondering if he would say more. He didn’t.

“And you, my Lord?” you asked, a touch of amusement laced through your words. “Are you here for poetry, or politics?”

His lips curved just slightly. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or… anything with weight.”

You arched a brow. “Is that so, my Lord?”

He looked at you for a long moment—still distant, but not unkind.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said finally. “But I’m not displeased.”

Your heartbeat ticked once. Then twice.

“Nor am I, my Lord.” you said simply. “But I should let you return to your… weighty thoughts.”

He inclined his head. “And you to your verse.”

You curtsied, slight but proper. He bowed in return. No lingering glances. No breathless goodbyes. Just two names exchanged, two minds acknowledged. And a silence that somehow said more than the words themselves.

——

It was one of those warm spring afternoons where everything felt too golden. The garden terrace was filled with soft laughter and the rustle of silk skirts. Ladies fanned themselves under shade trees. Gentlemen clustered near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrived beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes—one of the wheels had needed adjusting.

“Smile, darling,” your mother said as she adjusted your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of color in your cheeks wouldn’t hurt either.”

You smiled. You nodded. You adjusted. Eleanora had woken feeling unwell—no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never allow a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair.

“You’ll attend in her place,” she had said. “Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.”

So now you stood in her shadow—only without her beside you to cast it. You moved through conversation with practiced ease. Three ladies asked after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly called you by her name. You corrected him gently, no sting in your voice.

And then you excused yourself, moving toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offered a moment of quiet. You were just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifted behind you.

“Miss Everleigh.” You turned. There he was. Rafayel Vale. Alone.

Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another lady to dance with. He stood a respectful distance away, one hand loosely behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.

“Your Grace,” you greeted calmly, offering a curtsy. “I’m surprised to see you without company.”

His lips twitched. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”

A pause. His eyes studied your face—not in a way that lingered, but in a way that noticed. “Your sister is not attending?”

You shook your head. “She’s unwell, my Lord. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” His voice was quiet. Smooth as ever. But beneath it—something unreadable. Again.

“I hope you don’t feel... obligated to entertain me in her absence, my Lord” you added, careful. Light.

“I don’t.” The reply came quicker than expected. Not curt. Just honest.

Your brows lifted, amused. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, my Lord?”

A pause.

“Curiosity, perhaps,” he said. Then added, almost like a confession, “...You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”

You blinked. And then—smiled. Just a little. “I assure you, my Lord. I don’t do it on purpose.”

“Pity,” he murmured. “It’s becoming a habit I rather look forward to.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because someone was calling your name—Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the edge of the terrace with that signature grin.

You turned back to the Duke. “If you’ll excuse me, my Lord”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

You curtsied again. He bowed. And you walked away—toward the man who wanted you, and away from the one who had only just started to wonder if he should.

“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex asked, offering his arm as you returned to the center of the terrace.

“It was, my Lord.” you replied, fingers brushing the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accepted.

“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”

You smiled. “Polite. Curious, perhaps. But no frowning.”

He clicked his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”

You laughed, soft and warm, as he guided you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hung low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walked in companionable silence for a moment. Then—

“You always find me,” you said lightly.

“I always look,” he said without hesitation. That stilled you—just a fraction. Not because it was dramatic. But because it was true.

The conversation drifted easily, like it always did. He asked about your favorite lines from the bookshop. You asked about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He made you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint.

It was easy, this thing between you. Not dull. Not predictable. But certain. And when he asked you for a dance under the stars, you said yes without thinking twice. You danced in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above. His hand was steady. His eyes never left yours.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured as you turned.

“Apologies, my Lord. I hadn’t realized.”

“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”

“No,” you said truthfully. “Just… present.”

He smiled at that. “Then I’ll consider myself fortunate.”

Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke danced with another lady. He did not fumble. He did not charm. He did not smile too wide or step too close. He was composed, as always. Fulfilling his role. Bowing when required. Saying the right words. But when your laughter drifted once more across the lawn, his eyes—just for a second—turned toward the sound. And lingered.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

side note: credits for two pictures used for the banner go to their original creators.

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

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#love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x you #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #rafayel x mc #love and deep space #lnds #loveanddeepspace #qi yu #rafayel regency era #rafayel duke #regency era au

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kashverse · 4 months ago

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who the hell are mr. pickles and baby of the sukuna household? → read here!

pet visits at the sukuna household were nothing short of an event. they were a grand production of hissing, bribery, and more fur flying than what should be physically possible for two cats. but, alas, this was the price of responsible pet ownership, and babykuna took her role as a loving yet strict caretaker with great pride.

mr. pickles, the dignified maine coon who had long accepted his fate as a regular at the vet, took his check-ups with the quiet resignation of a war veteran. his ears flicked at the cold of the stethoscope, his tail swished when his belly was poked, but otherwise, he was a picture of patience. remarkably, for a cat of his advanced years, his medical results were pristine. the vet, in sheer awe, even called him "a marvel of feline genetics"—though sukuna grumbled under his breath that it just meant the furball was too stubborn to kick the bucket.

baby, on the other hand, was a walking health hazard. where mr. pickles was a refined housecat who requested fresh meals and pristine litter conditions, baby was a feral gremlin in the body of a domestic tabby. this was a cat that had, at least once, been caught trying to gnaw on a discarded tire. his lifestyle—if it could be called that—was "youthful" at best, "grossly unhygienic" at worst. the vet, exhausted after trying to inspect him, simply wrote "?????" under his potential ailments because there was simply no telling what eldritch horrors lurked in his fur. at this point, baby had probably singlehandedly discovered a new species of lice.

but medical concerns aside, the true highlight of vet day wasn’t the check-ups. no, it was the spa day afterward.

the moment they returned home, babykuna whisked her beloved boys straight into the bathroom, where a full-blown feline luxury treatment awaited. they were shampooed, conditioned, and towel-dried like royalty—though baby did his best to convince everyone he was being waterboarded the entire time. when they emerged from the bathroom, both cats were fluffed up like expensive rugs, their fur cleaner than it had ever been. baby, despite his protests, smelled like fresh lavender instead of whatever unholy mix of motor oil and dirt he’d been previously marinating in.

but the real cherry on top was the styling session.

mr. pickles, being the noble creature he was, tolerated this part with a dignified air. his fur was gently trimmed in a way that framed his face, and even his whiskers got the lightest touch-up—just enough to appease his tiny owner. a small bow was delicately placed on his collar, a mark of his undeniable seniority in the household. he looked like a wise old professor, the type to lecture other cats about the "good old days" when food didn’t come from cans but was hunted with claws and cunning.

baby, on the other hand, was made to suffer.

his fur, already a wild mess, was combed into submission before babykuna decided that he too deserved a bow. however, unlike mr. pickles’ refined little accessory, baby’s was a full-blown, oversized pink ribbon, positioned right at the top of his head like he was some kind of tragic beauty pageant contestant. the sheer offense on his face was unmatched. if looks could kill, babykuna would have been vaporized on the spot.

when sukuna entered post-session, arms crossed and already expecting some level of nonsense, he was greeted with the sight of two completely different levels of feline acceptance.

mr. pickles sat tall, his mane glossy, his whiskers subtly shaped—if anything, he looked rather pleased with himself. he was exuding "distinguished gentlecat" energy, someone who would sit on a velvet throne and demand tribute.

baby, meanwhile, sat stiff as a board, the pink ribbon slipping slightly to the side, his eyes holding the thousand-yard stare of someone who had seen too much.

sukuna snorted. "why the hell does baby look like he just lost a bet?"

babykuna, utterly delighted with her work, beamed up at him. "doesn't he look sooo cute?!"

baby, tail flicking in pure rage, silently disagreed.

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antoncore · 5 months ago

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enchantress | l.at

word count: 2.3k

contains: themes of insecurity and self-love, softdom!anton x sub!reader, petnames (darling, love), body worship, titsucking, oral (f. receiving), breeding

synopsis: surprising anton with a new lingerie set and showing a new, confident side of yourself definitely turned him on. when you implied something negative about yourself, he knew he had to show you just how much he loves you.

you’d decided to treat yourself by buying some lingerie while anton, your boyfriend, was busy at work. recently, you’d found a new sense of confidence blossoming within you, and you wanted to embrace it by trying something new. when you saw the soft pink babydoll displayed on the hanger, you couldn’t resist. the lace was delicate, the fabric light and it had you enthusiastic in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. you hesitated at first, questioning if it was really “you” but when you looked at yourself in the bedroom mirror, you knew you’d made the right choice.

the soft pink complemented you perfectly, and the delicate lace and flowing fabric highlighted your figure in a way that was so flattering, unlike any lingerie you’d ever tried on. the lace trim along the neckline added just the right amount of elegance, and the tiny ribbon bow at the centre gave it a playful, romantic touch. as you turned to look at the dress from different angles, you noticed how the hemline, with its matching lace trim, danced lightly around your thighs. the matching panties that came with it brought everything together in your eyes; they complemented the dress perfectly. but it wasn’t just about how it looked, it was about how it made you feel. there was something freeing about wearing something so soft and pretty. you felt so beautiful, and that sense of newfound confidence settled over you like a blanket; warm and comforting.

you took a deep breath, appreciating the way the fabric moved with you, the way it felt so soft against your skin. to you, this felt like more than just a piece of lingerie, it was a small step towards loving yourself, a reminder that you’re beautiful the way you are. you desperately wanted to take pictures to show anton but you ultimately decided to surprise him when he got home instead. the thought of him seeing you like this, in a way he didn’t usually, sent a thrill through you. of course, he loved you just as you were but there was something so precious and intimate about presenting this side of yourself to him. it was about embracing the confidence you were beginning to feel, and sharing that with the man you love.

you spent the rest of the afternoon getting ready for anton to come home. you put on the perfume he always complimented you on and applied minimal makeup, just enough to enhance your natural features. you wanted everything to be perfect, down to every detail. as the hours went by, the anticipation kept building inside you. you sat on the edge of the bed, crossing one leg over the other with the lingerie flowing around you. the wait for him felt like an eternity but the idea of seeing anton’s reaction made the anticipation worthwhile. your phone suddenly buzzed and you glanced down to see a message from anton:

toni ♡: on my way home darling. i can’t wait to see you <3

you smiled to yourself as you read his message, knowing that he had no idea what he was walking into. you quickly typed out a reply, keeping it simple not to reveal anything to him.

you: i can’t wait either, i missed you so much :(

a slight feeling of giddiness flowed through you, as if it were the start of your relationship all over again. the butterflies in your stomach fluttered as you stood up to glance around the softly lit room one more time. everything was perfect, just the way you’d imagined it. the soft pink babydoll, the lamps, the smell of his favourite perfume all came together in your own intimate bubble you had curated. you smoothed your hands over the fabric, taking one last look in the mirror before sitting down in the same position as earlier.

you heard the familiar sound of anton’s key turning in the lock and your heart skipped a beat. it was finally time for him to see a new side of you; a girl who feels confident, beautiful, and comfortable in her own skin. the door clicked open and you could hear his footsteps, heavier than usual from a long day of work. you heard him place his keys on the windowsill, followed by the sound of him hanging up his jacket. your pulse quickened as his footsteps grew closer, and the bedroom door slowly creaked open. anton stepped into the room, his tired eyes quickly finding you in the dim, ambient light. he froze for a second, as though the sight of you had taken his breath away. his eyes widened slightly, and the exhaustion that was behind them before seemed to vanish.

"wow," he finally managed, his voice soft but filled with awe. he took a few more steps toward you, his gaze never leaving yours, drinking in the sight of you. the room was quiet apart from the soft sound of his footsteps and the distant hum of the city outside, but all you could focus on was how he was looking at you. as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered. you uncrossed your legs and stood up, feeling the fabric of the lingerie brush lightly against your skin as you walked toward him. "like it?" you asked, your voice a little breathless.

anton swallowed, his eyes slowly trailing over every inch of you. “like it?” he repeated softly. “i love it, darling.” you smiled at him, feeling your heart race at his reaction. you could clearly see the effect you had on him, the way his eyes glinted with a sense of yearning as he stepped closer. the urge to tease him was strong, laying your soft fingers on his chest, letting them trace slowly down the material of his t-shirt, feeling his muscles tense under your touch. “you know, i actually feel… pretty,” you said with a playful tone, eyes glimmering as you watched his reaction closely. you could tell he was frustrated by your words by his furrowed brow as he placed his large hands on either side of your face, tilting your chin up so you were looking into his eyes.

“you say that as if you haven’t always been,” he said firmly yet tenderly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “you’ve always been perfect to me, don’t you realise that?” he continued, punctuating each word with soft kisses, placing them wherever he could on your face. “but i haven-” you began, unable to even finish your last word before anton pushed you as gently as he could onto the bed, hovering over you as his eyes refused to leave you. he silenced your protest with another deep, passionate kiss, his tongue sliding in your mouth. his hands slid down your sides to grip your hips possessively. “shhh,” he whispered playfully against your lips. “please, let me show you how much i adore you.”

and with your nod of approval, he started leaving open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down your neck, lightly sucking to leave pretty marks across your skin, each little one deliberate, a way of reminding you of your beauty. “you’re my pretty girl, y/n,” he breathed against your skin as he continued, “and i’m gonna make sure you never doubt how perfect you are again.” you moaned softly at his words, hands threading through his hair as he went further down, eventually reaching your tits. he groaned at the sensation, arching into your touch as he fully focused on your tits. his warm breath fanned across the delicate material covering your nipples as he spoke in a low yet soft tone, “so responsive for me,” he nibbled gently on the swell of your breast through the fabric before using his thumbs to rub circles on your hardened nipples, making whimpers fall from your lips.

“wanna taste you,” he whispered, his voice thick with need. “need those perfect tits in my mouth.” without waiting for an answer, he hooked his fingers into the sides of the babydoll, pulling the flimsy material down, exposing your bare tits to his hungry gaze. you could tell by his eyes how much he adored you as he drank in the sight of you, eyes darkening with lust. he dipped his head, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud with his free hand reached down to cup and knead your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. “so good,” he purred, nuzzling your flesh as he continued. he released your nipple with a pop, gazing up at you with a sweet yet heated expression. “could spend hours worshipping these beautiful tits…”

your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as his lips returned to your tits, switching over. “toni… feels so good,” you moaned softly, making direct eye contact with him. his adoring eyes met yours, filled with lust as he heard your praise. he alternated between gentle sucks and teasing flicks of his tongue over your sensitive nipples with his hands roaming your curves. “that’s it, darling. let me hear you,” he coaxed, voice a deep hum against your skin. he captured your nipple between his teeth, tugging lightly before soothing the sting with his tongue.

you felt his hands move lower down your body while he trailed kisses down your stomach, pausing to whisper praises under his breath before continuing. his hands skimmed your hips, squeezing them as he settled between your thighs. “smell so perfect, as always,” he inhaled deeply, savouring your sweet scent before dipping his head to press tender kisses to your inner thighs. “need to taste you, please,” he murmured, his breath hot against your wet pussy.

he placed a series of open-mouthed kisses along your slick folds. he circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, applying just enough pressure to make you quiver. he delved deeper, sliding his tongue inside you and lapping at your walls. he groaned at your taste, his desperation to be inside you growing. “you’re so perfect, taste so perfect too,” he praised softly as he pumped 2 fingers into you, curling them deep to hit that sensitive spot as he continued to lick and suck at your clit.

“need to be inside you, god i can’t wait any longer,” anton groaned needily. “do it toni, please,” you replied, your desperation clear. with a final swipe of his tongue over your clit, e got up and quickly shed his clothes, revealing his perfect physique and impressive cock. he climbed back onto the bed eagerly, positioning himself between your spread thighs. “i can’t resist when you look so beautiful like this, sweetheart,” he whispered, rubbing the tip against your entrance before he buried himself inside you with a swift thrust. a guttural moan escaped his lips at the feeling of your heat enveloping him.

“fuck yes, you feel so good,” he groaned as he began to move, setting a steady pace as he watched himself go in and out of your pussy. “an-anton… mmm,” you whimpered as you maintained eye contact, your tits bouncing at his thrusts. anton gazed into your eyes, drinking in the sight of your tits and the way your face contorted with pleasure. he reached up to cup your breasts, thumbing your nipples as he picked up speed, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

“look at you, taking my cock so well,” anton praised, voice dripping in admiration. “you’re so good to me, so perfect…” he continued, as he leaned down to capture your lips in a passionate kiss, tongue dancing with yours as he continued to thrust into your welcoming heat. he felt you moaning softly in his mouth, using the reaction to fuel his own desire, pounding into you with increasing need. he broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jawline, nipping and sucking at your earlobe as he murmured, “you’re perfect for me aren’t you? all of you was made for me, hm?” his words were punctuated with his deep, powerful thrusts that had you crying out his name in ecstasy.

“say it, love… tell me how flawless you are,” he uttered softly as he angled his hips to hit that special spot inside you, determined to push you over the edge and hear you say the words he wanted to hear. “i-i-i’m-” you stuttered, barely able to speak due to the pleasure. anton, knowing this, slammed into you harder as he urged you to the edge. “come on darling, tell me… i know you can,” he uttered again, his voice laced with desire and adoration. “say it, that you’re perfect,” he gripped your hips tighter now, grinding against you as he neared his own peak. “god, i love you so much… you’re everything to me…” his heartfelt words poured out in a rush as he chased his orgasm.

“i’m perfect toni, just for you,” you whimpered, your orgasm fast approaching. the moment you let out those precious words, he knew he couldn’t hold back any longer. his thrusts made his tip kiss your cervix as your orgasm crashed over you, his cock twitching. “yes love, you’re perfect… absolutely perfect… never forget it…” he groaned, feeling your pussy milk his cock as he thrusted a few more times. “gonna fill you up, make your tummy nice and round, even more perfect for me,” he gasped, vision blurring as he spilled himself deep inside your quivering pussy. “god, y/n…” he panted, collapsing on top of you as you both floated down from your high.

after a few moments to catch his breath, anton lifted his head to gaze lovingly at you, still held in his arms. a contented smile played on his lips as he stroked your hair gently. “you know you’re always so good for me, right?” he praised, his voice warm and adoring, “you’re perfect and i love you more than life itself.” he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his heart swelling with emotion. “i love you more, toni,” you replied, the brightest smile on your face.

“my perfect girl, never forget how perfect you are.”

cee’s taglist ☾⋆⁺ : @sshwaa @seokiebin @gacktsa @nlovesbjh @akaashikgsimp @atzhrts @yuzuksi (comment to be added!)

a/n: i haven’t posted a fic since july bc i was procrastinating… i hope you enjoy <3 PLS PLS PLS give feedback + also let me know if you like the layout n all ehehe

#riize smut #anton smut #riize hard hours #anton hard hours #riize hard thoughts #anton hard thoughts #riize x reader #anton x reader #cee l.at #cee writes ✎ᝰ #divider creds: cafekitsune

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inkyquillstories · 26 days ago

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Interstate Interchange (A Body Swap Story)

Note: This story has an nsfw version found on my discord server. If you’d like to see my other stories in its raw (NSFW) form with more photos/videos, you can join here: https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS

Interstate Interchange

The sun had long dipped behind the treeline when the interstate stretched out into a ribbon of pure twilight. The highway shimmered under the weight of a thousand forgotten stories, and two cars miles apart, yet destined, kept pace in the same lane, bound for the same nameless destination.

One was a black Chevy, polished clean, with smooth tires and leather seats that clung to the driver’s trim waist like a second skin. Inside sat Joey, a handsome college senior with an athletic frame, weekend stubble lining his sharp jaw, and a look of effortless superiority. He drove one-handed, his fingers tapping the wheel to an EDM playlist, confident in every motion.

The other, an aging silver Corolla, sagged under the weight of its driver. Eric, large and soft in all the wrong ways, hunched over the wheel, his belly brushing the dashboard, his fingers leaving grease on the touch screen. A neckbeard crept like ivy around his jawline, and his glasses constantly slid down his sweaty nose.

They saw each other on the road. Not right away. That came later.

At first, it was nothing. Just two drivers passing on the highway, glimpses caught in side mirrors and reflected in gas station glass. But hours passed. Towns vanished in the rearview. Rest stops came and went. And somehow, neither car left the other's orbit.

Joey noticed first. He glanced to his left while cruising at 73 and saw that overweight guy again. Same university parking tag on the dash. Same direction. Same tired stare. Joey scoffed to himself but couldn’t look away. The guy looked soggy, like melted clay crammed into clothes two sizes too small.

But something about the man stuck with him.

He wondered, uncomfortably at first, what does it feel like to carry that much weight? How does it feel to live with a body that sags, sweats, presses against itself constantly? What does he see when he looks at someone like me?

Joey adjusted his seat, suddenly aware of his toned thighs in basketball shorts, the cool air drying sweat along his firm chest. His armpit hair tickled lightly with the breeze of the AC. He caught his own reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked strong, clean, and desirable. He exhaled, and a strange guilt bloomed in his chest. Or was it curiosity?

Eric felt it too. Even through his blurry vision, he’d clocked the black Chevy early on. The guy was like a Greek statue in motion. He had angular arms draped across the wheel, tight shirt clinging to his chest, that stubble framing a face that belonged on a billboard.

Eric should’ve ignored him. Should’ve looked away. But something about that smoothness, that effortlessness. How would it feel to walk into a room and not disappear? To smell like cologne and sun-warmed skin instead of sweat and shame?

He looked down at his stained t-shirt, clinging damply to his chest. His belly peeked out when he shifted in his seat. He could smell himself and it was sour and earthy. What would it be like… to be that fit driver?

As the evening thickened into night, something unspoken passed between the two cars. Like a magnetic pull. They both signaled at the same exit, pulled into the same gravel pit rest area, and parked just one spot apart. The air outside was heavy with humidity, and for a moment, neither man moved.

Joey stepped out of his car first, his muscles tight from the long drive. He arched his back, stretching until his shirt lifted enough to expose the pale ridge of his obliques, a faint line of sweat clinging to his skin. The light of the rest stop flickered above him, buzzing like an insect on its last legs.

Eric watched from the pump, barely breathing.

Joey turned and for the first time, they locked eyes. Really locked eyes. The world seemed to shift, as if the axis of the Earth had realigned to run through this gas station outside of nowhere.

Joey gave a crooked half-smile. “Hey. You go to Minton U too?”

Eric swallowed. “Yeah. I, uh… recognized the tag on your bumper. Been behind you for a while.”

Joey tilted his head, frowning like he was working through a dream. “Yeah… I noticed that. Thought it was weird, y’know? But not bad weird. More like… meant-to-be weird.”

Eric’s pulse beat against his throat. “What do you mean?”

Joey scratched the back of his neck, eyes narrowing slightly. “I don’t know, man. It’s like… I kept catching glimpses of you in the rearview, and I couldn’t look away. Like I was supposed to see you. Like… I was supposed to be you.”

Eric’s breath caught in his throat. He stepped closer, every nerve raw. “I kept thinking the same thing.”

Joey blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

Eric’s voice cracked. “All day. I kept imagining myself in your skin. Your face. Your body. Your life.”

Joey’s lips parted, but he didn’t laugh. Neither of them did. The night thickened, the hum of cicadas rising like static in a dream.

“I was ashamed to admit it, even to myself,” Eric confessed. “But there was this… itch. In my brain. In my body. Like the only way to make it stop was to know what it’s like to live inside you.”

Joey looked away, chest rising and falling. “I was ashamed too. But it also… turned me on. Like, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wearing your shirt. Smelling your sweat. Saying your name and making it mine.”

Eric whispered, “Me too.”

They stood in silence, everything unspoken stretching between them like a rubber band pulled to its limit.

Then Eric spoke again, low and deliberate. “I have a proposal. But it’s a little crazy”

Joey didn’t hesitate. “Say it.”

Eric gestured toward the restroom. “Let’s swap. Clothes. Cars. Everything. Just for tonight. Let’s see how it goes.”

Joey’s eyes gleamed with something hungry. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind them, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Eric shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his oversized shirt swallowing him whole. He could feel the seams of the fabric straining against his body, the heat of the small space making his skin prickle. Joey leaned casually against the sink, his fitted shirt stretching across the firm contours of his chest.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, the silence thick with something unspoken.

“So…” Joey started, his voice low and smooth. He tilted his head, his eyes scanning Eric’s frame with an intensity that made Eric’s stomach flip.

“So,” Eric echoed, his voice shaky. He pulled at his shirt, trying to ease the tightness around his midsection. “You really want to do this?”

Joey didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pushed off the sink and took a step closer, his presence filling the room. His eyes lingered on Eric’s face, then dropped to his body, taking in every curve, every fold. There was something in his gaze, a curiosity, maybe, or something deeper. Something Eric couldn’t quite place.

“Yeah,” Joey said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to do this. Don’t you?”

Eric swallowed hard. Did he? He’d fantasized about it all day. What it would be like to step into Joey’s body, to feel the confidence that radiated from him, to know what it was like to be wanted. But now that the moment was here, his heart was racing, his palms slick with sweat.

“I… yeah,” Eric stammered. “I do.”

Joey’s lips curved into a small smile, and he reached for the hem of his shirt. Eric’s breath hitched as Joey slowly pulled it up, revealing the taut muscles of his abdomen, the sharp lines of his chest. The fabric slipped over his head, and Joey tossed it aside, his bare skin gleaming under the harsh light.

Eric couldn’t look away. His eyes traced every inch of Joey’s body, from the broad shoulders to the defined arms, the firm chest, the narrow waist. It was everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever dreamed of. And it was right there, just within reach.

Joey gave a nervous laugh, breaking the charge in the air. “This is fucking insane.”

Eric nodded, eyes glued to the curve of Joey’s torso. “Insane, yeah. But…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

They reached for each other’s shirts. Eric gripped Joey’s shirt, still warm from his skin, and pulled it over his head, shuddering as the musk hit his nose. It smelled of salt and sun and something distinctly male. Joey slid into Eric’s huge tee, the fabric foreign and thrilling against his skin.

Then came the pants.

Joey dropped his gym shorts to the tile floor, revealing strong thighs, sinewy and tan, with a bulge that made Eric momentarily forget to breathe. He wasn’t trying to show off. It just was.

Eric fumbled with his belt, then pushed his jeans down slowly, revealing boxer briefs stretched over a soft, pale belly, his legs thicker. The air buzzed between them, and for a long, silent beat, they stood like that, half-dressed, gazing openly.

Joey’s lips curled into a sly smile, and without another word, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, sliding them down slowly, deliberately.

The fabric caught on his hips for a moment before finally giving way, revealing the hard length of his cock, already half-hard and twitching against his thigh. Eric’s eyes widened, his breath hitching as he took in the sight. It was huge, thicker than he’d imagined, the vein running along the underside making it look even more imposing.

Joey let out a low chuckle, his voice teasing. “What? Not what you expected?”

Eric couldn’t find the words. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Instead, his hands moved on their own, trembling as he reached out, his fingers brushing against the warm, smooth skin. Joey groaned softly at the touch, his hips bucking forward slightly, seeking more contact. Eric’s fingers wrapped around the base, his grip tentative, unsure. He couldn’t believe he was touching Joey like this, that he was allowed to touch him like this. His heart raced, and he felt a rush of heat spread through his body.

Joey’s hands were already moving, sliding Eric’s boxers down his hips, his touch firm but gentle. Eric froze, his cheeks flushing as the cool air hit his exposed skin. Joey’s eyes roamed over his body, his gaze hungry, taking in every detail. Eric’s cock was small, almost shy, nestled in a thatch of dark hair. Joey’s lips parted, a soft exhale escaping him as he reached out, his fingers brushing against the soft skin.

Eric’s breath caught as he took in the sight of Joey’s body, his eyes tracing every line, every muscle. Joey’s skin was smooth, his body toned and firm. It was everything Eric had ever wanted, and it was right there, just within reach.

Joey’s eyes roamed over Eric’s body, his expression filled with something Eric couldn’t quite place. “You’re beautiful,” Joey said again, his voice filled with awe.

They swapped boxers. Eric brought Joey’s to his face and inhaled, eyes fluttering shut. The scent was intoxicating with sweat, soap, and something raw. Joey did the same with Eric’s, lips parting slightly.

Then pants. Then socks. Then shoes. Every item peeled off or slipped on with attention, with longing. They watched how the fabrics clung differently, how they sat on unfamiliar hips.

Joey slid Eric’s glasses over his face, blinking. “Shit,” he whispered. “I feel like I’m becoming you.”

Eric was holding Joey’s ID, thumbing over the name. “This is so hot,” he murmured, slipping it into his wallet. “I want to be you. Not just wear you.”

They passed phones, wallets, keys. With every exchange, they whispered their new names aloud, again and again. Joey, now calling himself Eric, stared down at the cracked phone he’d inherited. Eric, now calling himself Joey, held Joey’s sleek one like a holy relic.

“This is real,” Joey as Eric said, voice trembling with awe. “We’re actually doing this.”

Eric as Joey grinned, boyish and unashamed. “And it feels amazing.”

Joey as Eric ran his hand slowly down the front of his new shirt, Eric’s shirt, feeling the tightness across a softer body. “Guess I should start answering to ‘Eric.’”

Eric as Joey adjusted the waistband of Joey’s shorts on his rounder hips and looked in the mirror, breath catching. “And I should start answering to Joey now. Holy shit. God, this feels right.”

Outside, the air was cooler. Fresher. The night wind carried their new scents, their new identities.

Joey raised a hand. “Later, Joey.”

Eric grinned. “See you around, Eric.”

They got into each other’s cars and drove back to the highway, their old selves left behind under the hum of that flickering light.

As the highway swallowed them again, the lines on the road seemed to bend. Joey drove the wheezing Corolla, sweat pooling in new places like beneath his gut, between his thighs. He breathed heavier. Felt every jolt in his spine. The air smelled different. He caught himself muttering, “I’m Eric,” over and over, his fingers sticky on the wheel. Meanwhile, Eric drove the Chevy like it was a chariot. His fingers flexed over the leather. He took off his shirt imagining he has abs and muscles even though in reality he was overtly obese.

After another two hours of night driving, the highway began to blur. Street signs smeared like watercolor in their headlights, and exhaustion hummed behind their eyes. The Blue Swallow Motel buzzed under a dying neon sign, flickering like a broken pulse against the night sky. Gravel crunched under tires as both cars rolled in at the same time, headlights dimming, engines silencing. The silence between the two men was charged, thick, and electric. They exited simultaneously, each carrying a duffel bag that didn’t belong to them.

The motel lobby was stale and yellow-lit, walls lined with faded pamphlets and a dusty ficus. Behind the desk, a clerk in a tan vest nursed lukewarm coffee, eyes narrowing as the two men stepped in.

Joey, presenting as Eric, approached first and slid an ID and credit card onto the counter. “One room. Name’s Eric Lard.”

The clerk picked up the ID: an overweight man with thick glasses. He looked at Joey. What he saw was a lean, sharp-jawed, handsome man. The resemblance was... off. He glanced at the man waiting behind him, who looked more like the guy on the card.

“This you?” the clerk asked.

Joey nodded. “Yep.”

“You’re... Eric Lard? You drop 200 pounds overnight?”

Joey smiled thinly. “Something like that.”

The second man stepped up. “I’ll take a room too. Joey Stoll.”

The clerk looked at the next ID. He saw a young, fit, confident man. He stared at the man before him: rounder face, tight shirt, greasy hair.

“You’re this guy?” the clerk asked.

Eric nodded. “Stress eating. Finals.”

The clerk looked between them, frowning. “You sure you didn’t just swap IDs?”

Joey leaned on the counter. “Nope. I’m Eric. He’s Joey.”

“Right,” the clerk muttered. “And pigs fly.”

Eric gave a low chuckle. “Why would I want to be a fatass like Eric Lard?” He lifted his shirt slightly, belly peeking out, pretending it was flat and tight.

Joey smirked. “What do you think this is? Freaky Friday?”

“Body swapping isn’t real,” Eric added.

The clerk narrowed his eyes, but finally relented. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“Alright then. Mr. Lard, Room 12. Mr. Stoll, Room 14,” he said, eyeing them both one more time. “Whatever game this is, you win. Enjoy your stay.”

And as they walked the hallway in opposite directions, bags in hand, bags that didn’t match their bodies, but matched their names, neither could stop thinking about the exchange. About being called Eric Lard. About being called Joey Stoll. About being seen and spoken to as the other man. It was intoxicating.

In their separate motel rooms, they stripped naked, slowly, deliberately like shedding old skin. The clothes they’d worn didn’t quite fit the bodies they had literally… but somehow, they fit them figuratively. Clothes that whispered of who they wanted to be.

They stepped into their showers. Two rooms apart, but moving like mirrors. Steam billowed. Water ran hot, cascading over skin that felt like it wasn't their own.

Joey stood under the stream, hands gliding over his chest, his abs. He let his eyes close. He imagined thicker arms. A rounder chest. Softer belly. A fuller face. Hair slicked down on a broader scalp. He imagined his body becoming Eric’s. And in that moment, he didn’t just picture it, he almost felt it.

Meanwhile, Eric dragged soap along his huge belly, jaw clenching as he stared at the fogged mirror. He imagined a flat stomach. Cut hips. Narrow waist. Hair that stayed in place without effort. A cock that matched a tighter, fitter frame. He imagined being Joey. And he could almost feel it. The difference. The shift. The desire. It made him stroke himself slowly, reverently, like he was Joey already.

After the water cooled and their skin prickled with heat, they pulled on each other’s clothes. Joey buttoned Eric’s shirt over his own chest with something like reverence. Eric tugged on Joey’s tighter jeans, savoring how they hugged differently now.

After the shower, they slept. And in their dreams, they found each other.

Joey appeared as a glowing blue figure. He still looked muscular.

Eric shimmered in soft purplish pink, round and heavy. They stood in a hazy, neon-lit void with no floor, no walls. Just them, suspended in color and longing.

Joey’s voice trembled. “I wish I could really be you.” Eric reached out, fingertips brushing Joey’s glowing jaw. “I want your life. Your face. Your body.”

The space between them rippled. Light twisted.

Joey’s blue form warped, softened, and swelled until he stood wide and round like Eric, but still tinted blue.

Across from him, Eric’s pink shape pulled tighter, straighter, and more muscular. Then his hands pressed against a firmer chest and stomach, eyes gleaming with awe.

They looked at each other. They were transformed yet glowing in their original colors and smiled.

And then, everything went dark.

They woke in the same bed and the same motel room they slept in that night.

Joey was heavy now. Belly rising and falling with his breath. The waistband of Eric’s old sweatpants fit perfectly. And Eric, he sat up fast, heart pounding, chest tight. He looked down at the flat plane of his stomach, the firm tension in his thighs beneath Joey’s jeans. He pressed his palm against his own abs, wide-eyed.

They ran outside their rooms and looked at each other.

And they knew. They had swapped. Really. Fully. Irrevocably.

Joey, now Eric, let out a stunned laugh. “Holy shit.”

Eric, now Joey, grinned, running a hand through his hair. “It worked.”

They dressed quickly. Every article of clothing fit perfectly. Shoes, socks, even the tension of a belt against the waist. It was seamless. Fated.

By midmorning, they were already on the road, driving to each other’s homes.

Joey, in Eric’s heavier body, gripped the steering wheel with confident hands, windows down, wind blowing through borrowed hair.

Eric, in Joey’s fit body, couldn’t stop smiling in the rearview mirror, his reflection showing him a future he’d only dared dream about.

Two men. Two cars. Two swapped souls. One interstate interchange.

The End.

#inkyquill #male body swap

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forgingtheblade · 5 months ago

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CLOAK PART TWO: BET YOU DIDNT EXPECT THERE TO BE MORE TO IT

this! is what the roses i’ve been working on since june were for. and i finally finished it last week. while i was originally planning for 12 roses, when i finished the 8th rose in the interest of not making things harder than they needed to be, i laid everything out to check the spacing, and realized that anything more than 8 would be overkill. from then on, it was a matter of figuring out how exactly i wanted them to go on.

in general, i knew i wanted more gold in the cloak. i added trim to the bottom of the banner, the top of the fur at the hem, and around the roses & as their stems.

i was pretty nervous at this point, everything still felt so disjointed and laying out the stem without anything between the roses was so awkward. i was kind of terrified at this point that all of the over a hundred hours i’d invested in the roses was for naught. but sketching in how i wanted the leaves to fill out the space relieved a lot of that anxiety.

this thin braided trim i used for the roses and stems and leaves was in weirdly short supply, and i ended up needing somewhere in the realm of 5 or 6 spools of it. the store had 3 in stock at a time. they did also have a variation with a white middle instead of gold, and I thought it would be close enough. but the difference was still super apparent from a distance, so i pulled out the center of it and threaded a gold cord onto a needle and wove it into place instead. it was labor intensive, but SO worth it to me.

for the leaves, i originally wanted them to be fully beaded. after some experimentation i decided otherwise, and settled on this layered effect using some black lace and a brocade i had on hand, leftover from the last time i built a technoblade cosplay. i trimmed them with that same gold ribbon and added beads for veins, and they did exactly what I wanted them to do with color and space on the cloak. i made 26 leaves to go along with my 8 roses, spaced along the stem on the hem of the cloak.

ultimately, i put probably in the realm of 200-250 hours into the cloak alone, and i am so proud of every detail as it’s fallen into place. i feel like ive made a cloak truly worthy of technoblade and his legacy.

#technoblade #cosplay #dsmp #ctechno #ctechnoblade #sewing #embroidery #beadwork #beaded embroidery #weaving

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tojirights · 1 year ago

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maki zenin x fem!reader x yuta okkotsu

tags: 1.6k words, 18+ SMUT MDNI, ffm threesome, established relationship(s), fem!receiving oral, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, light bondage and blindfolding, praise

a/n: this is the first time I've wrote smut for either of these characters so don't hate me for my botched characterization 😭 also my first time writing an ffm threesome plz be nice 🩷

maki blindfolding you while her and yuta take turns eating you out, your mind completely consumed with the pleasure being given to you. she's got your hands tied loosly above your head. you don't know who is who, who has their fingers in your cunt and who has the mouth on your clit and you can't seem to care until it all stops.

you start to whine, hips bucking in annoyance but you're stopped quickly when a hand closes around your throat and you feel lips at your ear. "y'wanna play a game, princess?" maki whispers, her lips brushing you skin and she snirks when it earns an embarrassing whimper from you. "what kinda game?" you ask tentatively, your heart thrumming in your ears. yuta's just languidly fingering your pussy as maki sets the rules for the game, which is making it increasingly hard to concentrate.

"i wanna see just how well you know us, baby." maki hums, running a finger from your chin down to your nipple before gently rubbing the bud. you mouth opens to ask more questions but all you muster is a pathetic whine as maki toys with your tits, yuta pumping two slim fingers in your leaky cunt. "one of us is going to keep eating your pretty little pussy...." she starts, and you feel both of them shifting on the bed. "but you can only cum if you can guess who it is."

you gasp at the sudden lack of contact as yuta pulls away. "now i know thats not fair, baby." he coos, voice soft and understanding. he reaches forward and releases your bindings, kissing each wrist even though it was just a ribbon tying you and your skin is completely fine. "so, we'll let you use your hands. take your time deciding, love. you know maki isn't as forgiving as me." you hear a soft laugh next to you, which sends a shiver up your spine. "no punishments today. well, i guess not getting to cum would count... but you got this baby." maki huffs, watching your lip pout at the idea of being denied.

"are you ready darling?" yuta places a kiss to your clit before moving from you entirely. you take slow, deep breaths to settle your mind, letting both yuta and maki decide what they want to do to you. you start to really think about how differently the two give you pleasure, and you know your lovers definitely have different approaches but you're sure this won't be easy. your body shakes with anticipation as you feel the slow, easy push of a finger inside of you. your first instinct is yuta, based on the gentle nature of the penetration, but you also know maki is incredibly smart and would know not to go hard on you immediately.

instead of working your mind into a frenzy, you take another breath before settling into the pleasure. you finally feel something warm and wet on your clit as someone's mouth envelopes your sensitive bud. your now free hands dive straight into the hair of whoever happens to be going down on you. your guess now is pretty confidently maki, running your fingers through the thick strands you tend to hold onto for dear life when she eats your pussy. "o-oh ma-" you find yourself about to moan out for her, to make your decision so that you can cum, but the hand that comes around to cup your cheek slides their fingers in your mouth before you can finish.

and now you're turned on and confused, because as you run your tongue along the digits in your mouth, you are positive that those are maki's trimmed fingernails. which means that the delicate tongue and two fingers pumping out of your cunt has to be yuta. you groan as a pair of lips attach themselves to your nipple, tentatively licking and sucking the oversensitive bud.

your hips buck when those fingers curl at just the right angle, causing stars to form even behind closed eyes. your orgasm starts to quickly approach, heat surging all the way down to your toes. you gasp, mouth opening just enough to spit out the intrusion and save yourself the embarrassment of cumming all over yuta's face and actually getting a punishment. "y-yuta stop-" you cry out, cementing your decision in who's mouth is where.

there's a brief pause that hangs in the air as yuta pulls his mouth and fingers from your puffy cunt, and you swear you hear him whine when he sees your pussy clench around nothing. maki slowly kisses from your chest to your jaw, up until her lips find yours. you moan into the kiss, your body still pulsing after being so on the edge. you can feel maki smile against your lips, like she knows something...

and you finally figure it out when you feel the head of yuta's cock prodding your wet hole. you feel maki move, surely stepping off the bed to undress herself, and your thoughts are confirmed when she returns and straddles your chest. your hands fly around her ass, you can feel the heat from her pussy against your bare chest and you can't help yourself but to slide a finger down her slit. maki shudders, letting you toy with her pussy all while yuta's pushing his cock slowly between your walls.

"good girl, you did so good." maki coos, leaning her chest against yours as she goes to capture your lips. "even though you did almost get it wrong." yuta grunts as his hips slam into you, a bit more venom in his tone than usual. your brain is already starting to shut down, every thrust of yuta's thick cock making you spiral into pleasure as maki's lips work on your neck.

as soon as maki's teeth make contact with the sensitive skin of your throat, your whole body clenches as sparks of pain mix deliciously with pleasure. your moans are almost pathetic at this point, and as you're panting and shaking, all you can think of is the sweet taste of maki's cunt on your tongue.

"m-maki please." you mewl, barely even able to squeak out the simple beg. but maki knows you well, and even though she laughs at your feeble request, you feel her moving off your chest. you can all but taste her on your tongue but she stays and hovers instead. "should i really let you, baby girl? i had to interrupt you before you made the wrong choice earlier."

you whine, the feeling of tears forming in your eyes as desperation really sets in. "i-i need your pussy maki, pleaasee let me lick your pussy. i'll cum so hard on yuta's cock." you hear yuta curse under his breath, his thrusts stuttering as he tries not to empty his balls on your words alone. "maki." yuta moans, his breath shaky as he thrusts shallowly into your pussy.

"sit."

you're so taken aback by the authority in his voice that you almost cum, clenching impossibly tight around his length. yuta groans deep in his throat, consumed not only by how wet and tight you are around his cock, but now by the sight of maki slowly lowering herself onto your awaiting tongue. he never hides how much he enjoys watching the two of you, and fuck, he knows it'll make him cum that much harder.

your core burns as you slide your tongue down maki's cunt, lapping at her juices like it's your last meal. she sighs above you, wiggling her hips as she gets comfortable. you whimper into her pussy, your hands grasping desperately at the fat of her ass. "shit..." you hear yuta panting out, bucking into you with a new fervor.

maki runs her fingers through your hair before tugging the strands, using your hair as an anchor to grind on your tongue. it's too much, the brutal pace of yuta fucking you open while maki uses your tongue like she would a cock has your orgasm slamming into you. waves of pleasure surge your whole body and all you can think to do is work your tongue into maki's dripping cunt at an even more frenzied manner.

yuta and maki both groan in unison, causing aftershocks to soar through you. maki's thighs are shaking, her breath hitches when your mouth latches onto her clit and you can tell by the way she's unable to stop those pretty moans from escaping that she's right on the edge as well. "god- fuck you're doing so good baby." maki whines, swiveling her hips in an attempt to feel more friction.

yuta reaches forward, his fingers tangling in maki's hair before he pulls her back and meets her eyes. she gasps, back arching to accomidate the way her head is pulled back. "cum, maki please." he pants, gritting his teeth to try and keep his orgasm at bay. you both shudder, knowing it'll be any second before yuta's covering your insides with his seed. "fuck, y-yuta." maki groans, his spasming as she cums on your tongue, tugging even harder on your hair and earning a sad and muffled whimper.

and you can't even be mad at the fact that maki moaned for yuta as she came because the way she's riding your tongue as her orgasm settles makes you want to cream all over yuta's cock again. "aahh that's too good." yuta's voice hitches, and he releases his grip on maki in favor of grabbing your hips and fucking you into the mattress. as maki removes herself from your face, your moans suddenly echo through the room. your body jolts when maki's finger toys with your puffy clit, slow agonizing circles that have electricity surging through you.

"m-ma-maki i'm gonna-" you cry out, tears flowing from behind the blindfold and making it stick to your skin. it would normally feel pretty uncomfortable, but you can't seem to care much as your second orgasm of the night causes your brain to short-circuit. yuta is right behind you, cursing maki for toying you into cumming again. his hips pause, burying his cock so deep as he shoots thick ropes of cum into your abused cunt.

your body pulses for what feel like, well, forever, as you come down from your high once more. yuta slowly pulls his softening cock out, a quiet whimper following. maki is quick to swipe a finger down your slit, admiring the way your juices mix with yuta's. she reaches up for your blindfold before licking her finger clean, moaning as the taste of both of you melts on her tongue. your head is so thoroughly fucked, all you can do is sigh out a moan as you watch her. yuta places a kiss to your inner thigh before he reaches for a rag to clean you.

"shower now baby?" he asks, watching your eyes flutter close. maki chuckles, brushing the hair from your forehead. "mmh, let her rest yu." she coos, grabbing you a blanket. "i'll come wake you soon, m'kay?" maki watches as your eyes fly open and your head shakes quickly. "nnooo. need you both." your lip quivers as emotions flood you. yuta sighs, crawling back onto the bed with both you and maki.

"of course princess."

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22ayla21 · 3 months ago

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A Little Muse in a Big Workshop

He was accustomed to order and discipline, but when his daughter inherited his design talent, he had to reconsider his views on creativity and chaos.

Divus Crewel always valued order. His workshop was a temple of discipline, a place where every ribbon, every button, every fabric had its strictly defined place. Symmetry and refined style reigned here, where everything was under the control of his aesthetic eye. But his daughter, a little darling with bottomless eyes and a restless spirit, turned this perfectly organized corner into her personal kingdom of chaos.

From the very morning, Divus realized that he wouldn't be able to work in silence today. As soon as he entered his workshop, he was met with something resembling a battlefield between a couturier and a natural disaster. Scraps of expensive fabrics lay scattered on the floor, colorful ribbons were strewn everywhere, and his best collection of buttons was scattered all over the room, like a mosaic of chaos.

And in the center of this madness, proudly perched on one of his work tables, was she – his daughter. She held a piece of golden fabric in her hands, wrapped around herself like a dress, and with a serious expression on her face, she examined her creation in the mirror.

"Daddy, do you like it?" she asked, genuinely admiring her own work.

Divus took a deep breath, fighting the inner desire to immediately start cleaning up, but then he looked at her shining face, her eyes burning with enthusiasm – and his strict heart trembled. He knew this fire. He himself burned with it once, starting his journey as a designer.

"It's... unusual," he replied cautiously, coming closer to examine her "creation."

She nodded enthusiastically.

"I wanted to make something amazing! Look, you can add feathers here, and buttons here!" she grabbed another skein of threads and deftly wrapped it around her waist.

Divus Crewel, the legendary fashion designer, a man who valued order and style, realized that he had lost. His workshop no longer belonged to him alone. Now it was a place where his little daughter was exploring the world of fashion, where her boundless imagination was tearing his perfectionism to shreds. And he couldn't be angry.

Instead, he sat down next to her, took the scissors, and carefully trimmed the fabric on her outfit.

"If you've decided to go into design, you need to do it right," he said with a sigh. "Let me show you a few tricks."

Her delighted squeal was the best reward.

That day, Crewel's workshop didn't drown in chaos – it simply found a new life.

#twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland divus #twst divus #divus crewel x reader #divus crewel #divus x reader

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ducksido · 3 months ago

Note

Hai! I’m evily here to request another rook because French solitaire (once again, I’m betraying Idia😖😖), imagine this😈, rook with a partner who has problems with scratching their hand (basically they’ll scratch their hand bloody and raw if given the chance), so they’re always wearing gloves but never tell anyone why, so the fic would basically be rook finding out via stalking them until he witnesses them scratching his hands one day and tries to stop them

Inspired off of my hand scratchy scratchy problems😝😝😝

(tsk tsk betraying Idia once again)

Rook prided himself on his keen eye. Nothing escaped his notice, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem to others. It was his passion, his obsession, to observe beauty in all its forms. And you—ah, you were an exquisite mystery.

You always wore gloves. Soft leather, lace-trimmed, sometimes even silk, depending on the day. It was a charming quirk, one that only added to the enigma of your presence. Others dismissed it as a simple fashion statement, but Rook knew better.

He had watched you for weeks, observing from the shadows, unseen yet ever present. He noted how you flexed your fingers anxiously when you thought no one was looking, how you tugged at the gloves' edges as though seeking reassurance from their presence. But the true revelation came one evening when he trailed you after class, ensuring you reached Ramshackle safely—only to see you pause under the dim glow of a streetlamp.

Your fingers, bared for the first time, dragged harshly across your palm, nails digging into the tender skin. The scratching was relentless, desperate. He watched, frozen, as crimson welled beneath your fingertips, staining the creases of your hands.

The sight was like an arrow through his heart.

Before you could do further damage, Rook moved. Silent as the wind, he grasped your wrists, stopping you mid-scratch. His grip was firm yet gentle, his fingers cool against your fevered skin.

"Ah, ma chère colombe, why do you wound yourself so?" His voice was soft, aching with unspoken worry.

You jolted, eyes wide with shock and a touch of embarrassment. You tried to pull away, but he did not let go. Instead, his grip softened, thumbs tracing delicate circles over your wrists, soothing yet unwavering.

"Rook—"

"Non, do not retreat from me, mon amour." His gaze, usually brimming with mirth and mischief, was filled with something heavier now. "This is not a mere habit, n'est-ce pas? You hide your hands away, not for fashion, but to conceal the pain you inflict upon yourself."

You swallowed hard, shame burning in your throat. "It’s nothing. Just a bad habit."

Rook exhaled, the sound almost mournful. "A habit born from what, mon ange? Suffering? Worry? A mind that does not still even when the body rests?" He lifted your hands to his lips, pressing the gentlest of kisses against your marred skin, his touch reverent despite the wounds. "Non, I will not allow this."

"You can’t just stop me," you murmured, voice small. "I don't even realize I'm doing it half the time."

"Then I shall remind you," he declared, unwavering. "I will hold your hands when you falter. I will kiss them when they ache. If I must tie ribbons around your wrists or lace your gloves with golden thread to make them too beautiful to mar, I will do so. But I shall not stand idly by while you harm the very hands that craft such wonder."

Your breath hitched. It was too much, too tender, too overwhelming—but Rook was relentless in his affections, his devotion unwavering. He guided your hands back into your gloves, his fingers lingering as he buttoned them carefully, sealing away the evidence of your struggle but not its existence.

"Come, ma lumière," he murmured, offering his arm. "The night is too beautiful to be spent in sorrow. Walk with me, and let me remind you of the poetry of existence."

And though you knew the battle was far from over, for the first time, the weight of your gloves did not feel so suffocating.

#twst x reader #twst #twst wonderland #twst yuu #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt #twst rook #rook x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #rook x you

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biibini · 4 months ago

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you got me so soaked ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

can mizu handle all that?

tags: modern!mizu x f!reader, reader tries on lingerie, mdni pls, 18+, no plot just suggestive p0rn, reader got that body tea (bc ur body tea! i’m not kidding ik yall r baddies), foreplay, lacy lingerie, begging, pathetic, reader lowk dom, down bad mizu, smut smut and more smut, mizu nation rise up!

a/n: happy valentines day <3 some of the narration is influenced by gossip girl… i’ve been binging it and i’m now on s4 :P

Welcome to… Can Mizu Handle That? With your host, me aka bini!

Today, let’s test Mizu’s abilities in handling all of that, aka you in lingerie!

-ˏˋ⋆ Let the games begin! ⋆ˊˎ-

Behind curtain #1 is the first set: a sheer maroon red babydoll top with a big, black bow holding up the dress in the middle. the fabric flows out from the bow, revealing the lower parts of your stomach, teasing the rest behind the thin fabric. a simple lacy black pantie with a small, matching maroon red bow in the middle is paired with the top. your sheer thigh highs match the set, with black lace trim barely touching your panties, as if the whole set flowed down.

Let’s open curtain #1–

Oh dear.

It appears the sweet girl melted at the sight of you.

Mizu eyes slowly make their way down, her body stepping closer to yours. Her lightly calloused hands outline your figure. You feel the warmth of her palms burning past the thin fabric. Her grasp tightens right above your hips. Her lips find themselves against yours, slowly making their way down to your collarbones, leaving a pathway of deep, maroon marks to match your top.

Taken aback by her grasp, you try to pull away, attempting to gain control of the her hypnotization. But instead, she pulls you closer, leaving minimal space for you to escape her grasp.

The black ribbon in front of her teased her, letting her know that behind the black satin was your skin, soft and malleable.

Mizu gently tugs on the black ribbon, letting the ribbon loosen. She watched like a hawk as the babydoll top loosened against your figure. She was one step away from ripping the fabric apart.

It’s not like its made of steel.

“May I? Please?”, she quietly asked, holding back every bit of her that wished to ravish you all night.

Oh Mizu, little did you know there’s more to come…

We now have curtain #2 showcasing our second set: A purple lace set, mimicking a butterfly’s wings, matching with a luxurious sheer robe with a purple feather trim. The lace pattern reminds you of a rose garden, a repeated pattern of flower. The cut of your panties may start high waisted. But, a few holes provide easy access. Technically, you’re covered up, but one bend over reveals everything.

Be careful of the sweet honey you drop, reader. Mizu’s coming for the nectar.

Mizu spins you around, her jaw in awe of the beauty in front of her. She can’t help but pull the delicate robe off of you. Disrobing you at such an egregiously slow yet satisfying pace was a service she could barely handle.

Her hands reach out to feel the lacy bra barrier between her and your bare skin. In front of her laid a small hook, carefully hidden away from plain sight.

Did I not mention earlier that the hook is placed at the front?

Oops…

Your breath hitches as Mizu unhooks the bra. The warmth of her breath drives you crazy, feeling the heat from a few inches away. You hear your heart beat of your drum thumping loudly in your ear, anticipating what Mizu’s next move was.

You hear her curse under her breath.

“Fuck…”

All you could do was smile at her reaction, knowing more to what meets the eye.

“You like this one?”, you tease, guiding her hands down your figure, cupping her hand to the shape of your chest.

Mizu hummed in delight, taking in every curve and dip of your body. She can never resist you.

You sit her down at the edge of the bed (surprise! we always come prepared at this show) and positioned yourself in front of her. Typically, the roles would be reversed as she would be the one to cater to your every wish. But this set brought out a bolder, confident side of you.

Maybe it was the robe that did it…

As her hands continued to follow your guidance, you pulled her left hand closer to your unguarded entrance, circling around the lace edge. You feel Mizu’s fingers tremble beneath you, coated from your dripping liquid. Before she can go any further, you pull her hand away to take a step back.

Her flushed face spoke many words that could be later whispered into the night. It isn’t long before she falls on her knees, working her way up, kisses planted up your inner thighs. You widen your legs, allowing her to get closer to your aching entrance.

Does she wish to eat you out? Yes.

Do we have time for that today? Unfortunately, no.

Off to the next one!

Behind curtain #3 is an angelic two-piece: a lacy white bra held by two pink ribbons paired with short white bloomers to match. The kicker was a lacy garter belt by your left thigh with a small pink bow at the front. Alongside the garter were white sheer knee high lace socks with a simple ruffled trim. Altogether, the set made you look soft, romantic, almost fragile.

Mizu definitely didn’t wish to ruin this one. She wishes to worship every piece that touched your body.

You watch her eyes linger at your figure, amazed at the spectacle in front of her. She wonders how she got so lucky.

Mizu’s hands reach out. However, they hover right above your waist, hesitating to connect with your body. You look into those deep ocean eyes of hers, now deep in concentration.

Be careful Mizu. Something so alluring and angelic can have a devilish plan up their sleeve.

“Honey, it’s okay”, you pleasantly reassure, pulling her hands to your waist.

Her hands followed suit as you let go. She starts to gently caress you, keeping in mind the soft fabric between her palm and your skin. From your breasts to following down your spine, she pulls you close for a soft longing kiss.

You wrap your arms around her neck, guiding you two towards the bed. Before you can sit down, Mizu whispers in your ear.

“Let me hold you close.”

Before you know it, her arms hook under your legs. To her, carrying you is the easiest thing in the world. Her lips interlock with yours, soft yet so needy at the same time. She holds you upright as she crawls onto the bed, laying you down gently. As she crawls on top of you, you push her off, reclaiming a bit of dominance.

“I need you to…” you breathily say, coming up for air.

Mizu leans back with her mouth slightly agape, listening to whatever came out of your mouth. (a/n: blah blah blah proper name place name backstory stuff).

“To?”

You place your right leg in front of Mizu, hinting at the knee high socks.

“To take these off of me… Please…”

Mizu sat down in front of you, pulling your hips closer to her. Her hands reached to the edge of your right sock, dragging the thin fabric down to reveal the rest of your leg. The heat from the palms of her hands warmed you up. Her hands couldn’t help but grasp a little, especially when tugging it off.

“Be gentle!”, you tease, a light-heartedness found in your voice.

She smiled in response before kissing down your right leg, making you breathily moan.

Mizu then moved onto your left leg, noticing the garter belt by your thigh. Her hands trickle upwards, your breath hitching from the pleasure.

“And this too?”, she questioned in a sweet tone, looking up at you.

You nod in response, meeting her gaze. Before noticing the blush on her cheeks, she looks down at the decoration, carefully loosening the tie of the pink ribbon. With a delicate hand, she unties the garter and places it next to you, leaving a kiss on your thigh. She continues her work below, stripping away the other sock. You feel every kisses on the trail she left behind, from your thigh to your ankle.

You come back close to her, lifting her face to meet yours. You find her eyes gazing back at yours, filled with need.

Dare I say, almost pathetic.

With your thumb, you gently caress her flushed cheek, reassuring her work was done.

“Good job baby.”, you praise, planting a kiss on her lips once again.

You would think she would stay obedient for her gorgeous girlfriend.

It’s bold of you to assume such.

It didn’t take long for Mizu to pounce over you, feeling up every curve of your body. Her lips found their way down your neck, leaving wet kisses by the nape. You moan into her ear every time she nibbled at the sensitive skin.

Her hands reached up and down, pulling on the pink ribbons to loosen the bra, freeing your breasts. You feel her cup them, squeezing the soft mounds with little restraint.

“Is this a good job too, princess?”

Mizu quickly places her mouth on your boob, sucking at the soft skin, making you yelp out a “yes” in response.

“Good.”

Maybe I should’ve warned you first… Oops!

Final consensus:

-ˏˋ⋆ Mizu really can handle all that! ⋆ˊˎ-

#happy valentines #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu bes #mizu x reader #modern au mizu #modern mizu #18+ mdni #modern mizu smut #suggestive #blue eye samurai #mizu smut #mizu x reader smut #mizu pls ill take it so good

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jomiddlemarch · 6 months ago

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A handkerchief of her own sewing

Rings and jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou must bleed for me. Therefore the poet brings his poem; the shepherd, his lamb; the farmer, corn; the miner, a stone; the painter, his picture; the girl, a handkerchief of her own sewing.-- Emerson

Year One

Anne hemmed a dozen handkerchiefs with her monogram and hand-tatted the lace to edge each square. She ruined the first one weeping, burned it instead of letters, as she had none from him.

Lady Russell did not comment on the fact that her dozen was short. She insisted Anne buy a new bonnet, one trimmed with pink ribbon.

Year Two

Anne hemmed a handkerchief while Elizabeth complained about the number of Naval officers at Lady Vincent’s ball. Anne counted stitches instead of Elizabeth’s complaints, knowing her sister would exceed the capacity of her thread.

Year Three

Anne embroidered the handkerchief for Mary to carry to her wedding. Charles had waited six months before proposing, long enough for a respectable courtship. He’d found Anne alone once and said You’re certain, Nan, it isn’t too late, but she’d known she wasn’t ruining anyone life when she said no.

Year Four

Anne kept an extra handkerchief in her reticule when she visited Uppercross. Mary fretted that there were draughts in every room and the fires all smoked, Cook used too much pepper and the yellow paper in the sitting room would make a blind man’s eyes water.

Mrs. Musgrove patted Mary’s hand and smiled at Anne. They had all expected Mary’s first confinement to be a bit difficult.

Year Five

Anne sewed handkerchiefs for the housekeeper Mrs. Cadell to distribute to all the staff. It was a bad year for the grippe. Her father instructed her to economize and then ordered a case of the best Madeira.

Her own handkerchiefs had ceased to be used for tears.

Year Six

Anne gave her nephew Charles his first handkerchief, his name spelled out in bright red silk. He wore it as a hat more often than attending to his nose. Mary lay on a chaise with a handkerchief soaked in cologne laid across her eyes, vowing that she had never felt so ill in her life and insisting Anne hand her another comfit.

Francis Musgrove weighed ten pounds when he was born.

Year Seven

For her birthday, the vicar gave her a silver thimble in appreciation for all the girls she’d taught and all the handkerchiefs and shirts she’d sewn for the poor. When Anne put it on, she saw her hands had begun to look old.

She took the thimble off and touched the base of her finger where Frederick had promised to put a rose-cut diamond as bright as her eyes.

Year Eight

Captain Wentworth offered a handkerchief to Henrietta Musgrove after her sister’s injury. Anne saw the faded monogram in the corner, pale blue after many launderings, remembered how solemn he’d been when he’d asked her to give him a token of her esteem, how he’d grinned when she’d handed it to him, as carefully folded as a flag.

Anne swallowed her tears.

Year Nine

Anne hemmed a dozen handkerchiefs with her monogram and hand-tatted the lace to edge each square. From the bow of the ship, she waved the delicate article, the sails billowing behind her. Frederick’s hand was warm at her waist and he murmured I’ve got you, madam, make no mistake.

The tears in Anne’s eyes she blinked away.

Written and posted (a day late, hopefully not a dollar short!) for Janeuary 2025 @janeuary-month for prompt: handkerchief

#janeuary 2025 #persuasion #anne elliot #frederick wentworth #anne/frederick #mary musgrove #charles musgrove #lady russell #angsty start #handkerchief #jaff #hea

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makeitmingi · 7 months ago

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When Flowers Bloom In The Dark [Chapter 8]

Genre: Romance, Mafia!AU, Violence, Angst, Slow burn

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Florist!Reader, Mafioso!Hongjoong, Mafioso!Seonghwa, Mafioso!Yunho, Mafioso!Yeosang, Mafioso!San, Mafioso!Mingi, Mafioso!Wooyoung, Mafioso!Jongho

Summary: When you appeared and wept at his mother's funeral, Hongjoong found himself wanting to find out more about you. A regular girl, who owns a flower shop in his territory and has a relationship with the mother that he hasn't spoken to in years, why hasn't he ever noticed you before?

[Warning(s): 18+ for violence, use of weapons, smoking, alcohol consumption, slight gore, gang affiliation, tattoos and character deaths. Minors DNI. This is a work of fiction and does not represent the Ateez members in real life.]

Word count: 3.2K

"You can add a layer of natural compost to provide the plant with the nutrients its missing. Then add a layer of this mulch right at the top, it'll help keep the moisture in. Your plant should be fine right after." You smiled, handing the bag of mulch and natural compost to the customer after she paid.

"Okay, I'll go home and repot it properly. Do I stick to my regular watering schedule?" She asked.

"Water it every alternate day instead. Since we're retaining moisture, there's no need to water it every day now. Or it might drown the plant." You informed.

"Ah, I don't want that to happen." She giggled and you nodded with a laugh.

"Come back if you need any other help." You told her, walking her to the door. She bowed her head and left your store.

Once she left, you went back to working on online order pick ups. You recently received a big order for a huge event so you were trying to clear orders and you were not able to take in anymore new orders.

"Excuse me. Are you open?" The door opened.

"Yes, I am. How can I help you?" You wiped your hands and went out to greet the customer.

"I need a bouquet for a friend in the hospital. Do you do that? Maybe a small teddy bear, I don't know..." She smiled in embarrassment. But you knew what she meant and what she wanted so you waved her further into the store.

"Do you know the person's favourite flower? If not, there are sunflower bouquets, those are popular because of how bright they are." You chuckled.

"She doesn't have a favourite flower... Let's just go with the sunflowers. I know she likes blue, can that be added?" She asked.

"Of course. I'll wrap the flowers in baby blue tissue, there'll make it really pretty." You smiled.

"Thanks." She sighed and sat down to wait. You hummed softly to yourself as you picked out the sunflowers and began to trim the stems, remove the excess leaves and arrange them.

"I'll add some extra flowers on the side if that's okay, just to bulk up the bouquet." You checked with the customer.

"Sure." You nodded.

She watched as you laid everything out in a bouquet arrangement and tied the stems together with a rubber band first. Then you wrapped the bottoms with wet tissues and began to wrap the whole thing in decorative tissues. The girl watched you as you worked, securing the bouquet together with a ribbon.

"These are the designs of small animal plushes we have. You can pick one and I'll add it to the bouquet. Also, you can write the card." You placed the box on the counter for her to pick.

"This one. She likes cats." The girl explained. You placed a holder and positioned the flowers while she wrote the card.

"All done. Is there anything else I can do for you?" You asked as you walked her to the counter.

"No, that's all. Thanks for all your help, the bouquet is beautiful. I don't know anything about flowers. I just know you get it for people when they're sick." She shrugged.

"Of course, happy to help." You showed her the bill and processed the payment on her card.

"Thanks again." She bowed and walked out of your store.

"Now, where were we?" You continued to work on your online orders. Suddenly, someone tapped you on the shoulder, making you flinch and jump, letting out a small yelp in surprise.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you, I forgot to ask for a name card." The girl from earlier asked.

"Sure, sorry about that. I overreacted." You tried your best to maintain composure as you went to retrieve a name card for her before she left again. Your heart was racing, you didn't know why you reacted so badly to someone touching your shoulder.

Who were you kidding? Of course you knew. Because it was like the guy that was at the club. You shivered as a flash of what happened passed in your head.

And at the same time, you wondered if the guy would come back and sought revenge against you. Or was he even alive?

"Don't think about that." You scolded yourself with a frown. You didn't know the state Hongjoong left the guy in, he could be dead or alive.

"Focus on work." You let out a long, shaky exhale and proceeded to throw yourself back into your work. Hopefully, that will be the last that you encounter Hongjoong.

You didn't know what he did and what he was but at this point, you'd rather not find out.

"Hi. I'm here to pick up order #2140?" A male came in.

"Yes, sure. Let me help you get that. Can I see the order confirmation? Just to be sure." You wiped your hands against your apron. He nodded and showed you in email.

"That's great. Here it is, order #2140. You can check that everything is to your liking. Then you can pay." You told the customer. He scanned the bouquet and nodded in approval, going to settle the payment. It was a standard bouquet that you had on the website, an anniversary bouquet that was quite popular.

"Have a nice day." You wished as he left. Since there was a little bit of lull time, you stopped working on orders and worked on your botany.

"Tincture." You opened your botany book. Tinctures were made of dried and/or fresh plants and herbs, steeped in either vinegar or alcohol to extract their properties.

"This, this and this." You sought through your collection to find what you needed.

Following the recipe, you picked out the herbs that you needed and placed them into a glass jar then added concentrated alcohol.

"Ready in 4 weeks? Wow." You wrote the date and type of tincture on a piece of tape and taped it to the jar. Then you placed the jar on the shelf to let it mature.

"Hi (y/n). Here for today's pick ups." The delivery man came through the back door like always.

"Hey, Mr Kim. Let me see which orders are for delivery." You went to the area where all the prepared flower orders were.

"Looks like it's all these here." You gestured. He nodded and began to bring the flower boxes out to where his truck was parked in the alley. You helped him carry the bouquets while he picked up more of the wreaths and flower boxes.

"You've got the addresses already right?" You confirmed. He hummed and scanned all the barcodes on the order invoices against his checklist to make sure everything was there.

"There's a bouquet missing it seems. Order #418?" He showed you the screen.

"Hmm. Let me check, it could be mixed up with the pick up orders." You went back into the store and looked for it.

"Roses bouquet with black and grey tissue." You checked the description on your order list. Maybe you had missed out on the order while wrapping the flowers.

"Sorry, Mr Kim. Let me quickly put that bouquet together." You bowed and apologised.

"No worries. It happens." He waved you off.

"Feel free to have some tea while you wait." You gestured to the pot of tea that you always brewed in the shop, it's usually for yourself or familiar visitors like delivery men. You quickly picked out the flowers that you needed and made the bouquet. It was a standard rose bouquet with baby's breath surrounding the red roses.

"There, sorry again for delaying you." You handed him the bouquet once it was done, all wrapped in the layered tissue and secured with a thick, silver ribbon.

"No need to apologise, (y/n). Thanks for the tea. Have a nice day." He patted your shoulder and left to make the deliveries.

"You too!" You waved as the truck drove off. After that, you went back to getting orders sorted.

Finally when you sat down, you winced as you lifted your leg. It was a sprained ankle, nothing too major but you've been hiding the bandage under pants and the pain with a smile.

"Hello~" Jihoon entered through the back door and you quickly put your leg down, making sure your pant leg covered the bandage.

"Jihoon, what are you doing here?" You blinked in surprise.

"Well, hello to you too, neighbour. I'm here to deliver you a warm lunch! You're welcome." He held up the paper bag and the iced drink that he was holding.

"Thanks, Jihoon. Let me know how much everything is and I'll wire it over." You smiled gratefully as you stood up. At your words, Jihoon shot you a flat look. He knew you would insist on paying but he didn't want you too.

"Hush, just eat. Don't worry about paying." He sat you back down and cleared your table so he could put the sandwich and drink down.

"Hmm..." You shot him a look but sighed in defeat and patted the seat beside you. Before sitting down, Jihoon poured himself a cup of tea from your warmed tea pot.

"This is nice. What is this?" He pointed, taking a sip.

"Mixed dried berries with raspberry leaf." You replied, taking a bite of the warm sandwich.

"Isn't that what pregnant women drink?" He raised an eyebrow. You shot him a surprised look but nodded in confirmation.

"Yeah, my mom gave a lot to my cousin when she was pregnant with my nephew. Supposed to make birth easy or something. I swear she even bathed in it once." Jihoon scoffed.

"It'll help with muscle cramps too, it's an anti inflammatory and anti oxidant." You explained.

"Hopefully it'll get rid of my calf muscle pain then." Jihoon chuckled and took another sip. You laughed and continued to eat your sandwich, enjoying your chat with Jihoon. Mrs Kim was always your lunch time companion, Jihoon must know that you would feel the absence of her presence and come.

"Do you miss her?" Jihoon asked. Your hands stopped and you paused your chewing before nodding your head with a hum, knowing he was referring to Mrs Kim.

"You know that she was the closest thing to a mother figure that I have ever had." You replied.

"Mhmm. I also know you didn't even give yourself a break." Jihoon stated.

"I don't need a break, Jihoon. Continuing and distracting myself with work is what helps me, not sitting at home and crying." You shrugged, standing up and going to toss the trash.

"Don't you have a cafe that needs running?" You chuckled, changing the subject so you wouldn't harp on that topic for too long.

"They'll survive without me." Jihoon waved you off. You laughed and shook your head.

You and Jihoon continued to chat until your lunch break was over and you chased him out. No doubt his workers were good but you didn't want to be the reason why their boss slacks. So after giving him a bouquet of flowers to decorate his shop with, he left.

"Welc- Hongjoong sshi." You blinked, stopping in your tracks. Having heard the bell, you thought that there was a new customer. You didn't expect Hongjoong to come in.

"Good afternoon." Hongjoong bowed his head as he entered your shop.

"W-What can I help you with?" You blinked.

"I... wanted to make sure you got your ankle looked at." Hongjoong cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Oh! I'm fine, it's just a sprain. Nothing big. Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable." You forced a small smile and gestured to the seats by your work table.

"I'm glad. Thanks." He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down on the stool. You poured him a cup of tea and offered it to him.

"Please, don't let me stop you from your work." He gestured to the materials that were scattered around.

"So, how have you been Hongjoong sshi?" You asked to try and prevent an awkward silence from falling down on the both of you. You kept your head down, focusing on the bouquets you were preparing to put in the display and fridges for walk in customers. Hongjoong watched you, sipping his tea.

"Same as always. What about you?" He asked back. You had stated clearly the last time you met that you didn't want the incident to be brought up again but Hongjoong couldn't help it.

"Fine. Same as always, too. Just here, running the shop, fixing orders, you know..." You shrugged.

"Hongjoong sshi, I don't mean this in any way at all but what's the real reason you came here?" You finally asked him.

"(y/n) sshi, I feel like I owe you yet another apology." He confessed with an honest look on his face. The way he looked at you, it just reminded you of Mrs Kim.

"If it's about what happened last week-"

"No, I mean, yes. Partly. I... I know we're practically strangers but I've been treating you unfairly." Hongjoong sighed

"Okay, now you've lost me." You chuckled. Hongjoong was relieved that you laughed, making this conversation a whole more lighthearted than he thought it would be.

"Like I said when we first met here... Whatever my relationship with my mother was shouldn't have clouded my view or attitude towards you. It's just... I don't know... It seems like we knew her as a different person entirely." He rubbed his temples.

"I get it..." You nodded your head with a hum.

"But that shouldn't excuse how I've been towards you. I have to deal with my demons myself." He confessed.

"It's okay, Hongjoong sshi. I know it can't be easy with everything that's been happening. And honestly, it's conflicting to me too." You empathised with him.

"So I'm not crazy." He cracked a smile.

"Far from." You giggled, fixing up the bouquet. You momentarily left the conversation to put the bouquets in the fridge.

"But still, I apologise." He insisted.

"There's no need to but if you insist, apology accepted. And I think at this point, we can drop the formalities." You turned your head to say to him as you arranged the bouquets.

"I'd like that." He smiled kindly as you returned to the work bench. You noticed his ears turning a light shade of pink. Dropping formalities didn't immediately mean a friendship but at least you two were no longer just strangers. Whether you liked it or not, the universe keeps making your paths cross.

"(y/n), I have another request, if it's okay with you." Hongjoon gulped as he mentioned. You nodded.

"I'm not ready to talk about my mother. My relationship with her, your relationship with her. I'm not ready... But when I am, I hope you'll help me." He looked at you with desperate eyes.

"Of course, Hongjoong. Any time. Whenever you're ready." You smiled softly.

RINGGGG

"Ah, hang on." Hongjoong clicked his tongue, annoyed that his phone broke that moment you were having. He looked at his phone to see Yunho calling.

"What?" He hissed, turning away slightly. You weren't gonna eavesdrop so you just continued your work.

"Look, Yunho. Just... hire another gardener, you don't need to tell me this! You make decisions too, all 8 of us do. If you need some sort of approval, ask Hwa." Hongjoong threw his head back with a groan.

"Fine, fine... Yeah, sure. I'm not sure why you want to add to my workload with this but I'll look when I get home later... Yeah, whatever. Goodbye." Hongjoong hung up with a grumble, glaring at his phone as he did.

"Everything okay?" You stifled a laugh.

"Oh, yeah. It's nothing. One of my brothers can't seem to hire a gardener himself all of a sudden." Hongjoong clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.

"Well, if it's not too much. If you're too busy to find a gardener now, I could help you in the mean time." You offered.

"What? Really? I don't want to make you busier, I'm sure you have a lot to do with the shop." Hongjoong shook his head.

"I wouldn't have offered if I couldn't. My shop is closed Sundays and Thursdays anyway, I could go once a week on those days to tend to the plants." You shrugged.

"Just until I have the time to find a gardener." Hongjoong said.

"Sure, whatever you're comfortable with. Do you have a picture of your backyard?" You asked.

"Oh, let me see. Although, I don't know what plants we have." Hongjoong took his phone out and scrolled through his pictures, trying to find the last time he took a picture of the backyard garden. When he finally found one, he showed it to you. Your eyes widened at the huge backyard. The fenced garden only took a portion of it.

"Wow... That's a big garden..." You couldn't help but be in awe.

"It is. But you'll just need to tend to the fenced area. The rest of the field behind it is not necessary." Hongjoong informed. That was where they killed or practiced weapons sometimes.

"Sure, I'll be there on Monday." You smiled, excited to be working in such a big garden space.

"Here's the address." Hongjoong took the small piece of paper from the table and scribbled it down for you.

"Thank you." You took the paper and tucked it into your pocket.

"When I came in here, I didn't think I would leave after having offered you a job." Hongjoong admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. You nodded in agreement.

"You never know what the universe has in store for you." You chuckled and cleared your work table.

"Thank you, (y/n). I have to return to work now but I'll see you soon." Hongjoong slid off the stool.

"You're welcome, Hongjoong. Thank you for stopping by. I'll see you Monday." You walked him to the door. He nodded and bowed politely before exiting the shop. You watched as a chauffeur opened the door for him to enter a luxury car before returning to drive off.

"What just happened?" You asked yourself in disbelief as you walked back to your shop counter. You told yourself you should steer clear but here you were, offering to work for him.

But it was too late to regret now, what's done is done. You knew you couldn't go back on your word.

You'll just go, tend to plants and leave. Simple.

"I'm not ready to talk about my mother. My relationship with her, your relationship with her. I'm not ready... But when I am, I hope you'll help me."

Hongjoong's words from earlier replayed in your head. It was so different, he looked and sounded so involuntarily vulnerable.

To be frank, you were not ready too. You were fond of Mrs Kim, she took care of you, cared for you.

But were you ready to hear how sour Hongjoong's relationship with her was? No, you were not ready to hear any of that. Especially since that wound still felt so fresh.

"I hope I don't regret this." You muttered to yourself.

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vanillesuiker · 7 months ago

Text

A mind blowing job (Percy Weasley/fem reader)

Tags: smut, blowjobs, lingerie, overworked Percy Weasley and just general deviousness >:)

A/N: hehe freaky. This was written for my oc, but I edited for an x reader experience. So it might not be the most neutral, but I tried!

Also, some Freaky art drawn by the lovely @bastaardsuiker !! It's not very... risque. So hopefully tumblr won't kill me idk how this works.

This is my first time posting fic on Tumblr (HI!), so if there's something I could do differently in terms of formatting and stuff, please tell me!

Alright now get freaky!

｡ ₊°༺ ☾✶༻°₊ ｡

“I'm almost done, I promise.”

She sighed, staring at the ceiling. Laying in Percy's bed all day while he sat at his desk working on reports for the ministry wasn't exactly what she had planned for today. He was supposed to have a day off, and it was just perfect timing, she just picked up a custom order from a little shop in Diagon Alley. She had planned to change into it quickly when he was clearing his desk up, but at this point it was hard to tell if he would ever get to that.

Instead of showing him what she bought (and hopefully enjoying how much he liked it), she had spent the day helping Molly clean the chicken coop, sitting at a garden table gossiping with Bill and Charlie, and listening in fascination with Arthur to Harry talking about mundane muggle things. And all this time, Percy was just writing away in his room.

The sound of his quill scratching against the parchment was like nails on chalkboard, his quiet muttering while he wrote becoming increasingly frustrating. She felt like a ghost, he seemed to barely notice she was there. Suddenly, an idea popped into her head. A devious little idea.

She'd just have to make him remember she was here.

Without trying to be quiet (he wouldn't look anyway, clearly a report on who the responsibility of owl dropping falls to when owls deliver post was more important), she got off the bed, grabbing the brown paper package. Inside was a bundle of dark purple lace, with black ribbons and trims.

Semi hidden behind a tall, crooked wardrobe, she changed out of her jeans (a new addition that her friends had insisted she looked good in) and Percy's jumper, slipping on the purple dress. It was short, cinching right under her breasts and flowing out from there, and almost completely see through.

She sneaks up behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. He barely reacts, his quill pausing for only a split second before he continues writing. She leans over, head resting on his shoulder as her hands trail down across his chest. Now he freezes, ink dripping from the quill.

“Almost done?” She whispers, kissing right under his jaw.

“... Almost, I promise.”

She groans, moving her hands back to massage his shoulders. He sighs in response, dropping his quill.

“I've promised that a lot today, haven't I?” Percy mumbles, closing his eyes and letting his head tip back. He looked tired, exhausted even, and suddenly she wasn't angry at him.

Well, maybe a little bit angry at him. But mostly at the ministry, for overworking him so much.

The bags under his eyes were noticeable, his shoulders were so tense, his hair was messy and he somehow still looked so good. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, earning a soft smile from him.

“It was supposed to be your day off today, remember?” Her hands drop from his shoulders again, shamelessly feeling his chest through his dress shirt. “I had plans, Percy.”

He opened his eyes at that, his look of confusion quickly turning into disappointment at himself when he caught just a glimpse of the purple fabric.

“Is that new?”

“Yes, I told you I got something new.” She walks around the chair, and he instinctively pushes it back, making space for her.

“Looks good.” He wanted to hit himself for being so plain about it, but his brain was just fried. She sat down in his lap, straddling him with her hands interlocked behind his neck as she pressed kisses along his jawline.

“You should take a break.” She whispered in his ear, popping one of the buttons of his shirt open. It breaks him, and he finally kisses her.

It's so desperate, from the way he kisses her to the way his hands cling onto her. The entire time he was working, he was so focused on that stupid report that he didn't even realise how tired he was, let alone how badly he needed this. But as soon as her hands made contact with his shoulders, he suddenly couldn't think of anything else.

She opens another button, and then another, kissing down from his jaw to his neck, leaving a trail of red marks down to his chest. Manicured nails rake across his back and he just can't stand it anymore.

With the strength that only desperate Percy has, he picked her up, accidentally knocking against the desk. Something falls over, but he doesn't care, too focused on getting them both to his bed, her giggles muffled by his kiss.

On the bed, she quickly climbs back on top of him, unbuttoning the last buttons of his shirt. Sitting up on her knees, her eyes trail across his body, seemingly not satisfied with the buttons she hadn't undone yet. Before he realised what she was doing, the button of his trousers was popped open, completing her collection.

“Wait…” He whispered, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You don't have to do anything, I was kind of a dick today.”

“My love is unconditional, Percy.” She said proudly, tugging at his pants. “And I want to do this, now lift your hips before I Evanesco these.”

Who was he to refuse that?

All he could do was lay there, watching as she kissed up his thigh, and he almost vanished his boxers himself with how long she was taking. She finally pulled them down, and he was quick to lift his hips again.

For a moment, she just stared at him, hands gripping his thighs. He wasn't sure if he wanted to look away, slightly embarrassed at how easily he got excited by her, but the look on her face was one he'd think about for months from now.

She wraps one hand around him, slowly stroking him while the other hand slid underneath his tank top. His eyes screw shut, giving her the perfect opportunity to take him into her mouth.

He jolts up, hands digging into the mattress as she slowly bobbed her head up and down. His breathing is ragged and his face is completely flushed, the hickeys she sucked into his neck already starting to colour purple. A whimper escapes his lips when she swirls her tongue right around his tip.

She looks at him, a sparkle in her eyes that he knew too well at this point, and slaps a hand over his mouth as she speeds up. A warm hand pushes his hips firmly against the mattress, the other wrapped around him tightly.

“Fuck…” Percy hisses, tilting his head back. “...I don't think I'll… I won't last much longer…”

She only seems to take his warning as a sign to do more, hollowing her cheeks out as she sucks harder. He's already a moaning, sweaty mess, propped up on one elbow as every curse word he ever held in fell from his lips.

His hips struggle against her hand and his teeth dig into his lip as he tries to stop himself from alerting the entire house of his orgasm. He half expects her to pull away, but she just takes as much of him in as possible, continuing to suck him off until he collapsed onto the bed, weakly tugging at her hair to get her mouth off him.

“Please don't stop, I'm so- fuck, I love you, just don't stop, just-”

With what little strength he has left, he glances at her. Her hair is messed up, one of the straps of her dress hangs off her shoulder, and her lips are red and puffy, something white dripping down from her bottom lip.

“Merlin, I think you've killed me.” Percy mumbles, summoning a cup of water from his desk to her with a lazy wave of his wand.

He lays on his bed motionless, too overstimulated to notice the people outside of his room until the door swings open.

“Guys, mum says we're gonna have dinner outsi- Oh my God that's disgusting!” George makes a grossed out face, turning away from half naked Percy and the literal cum dripping from her mouth.

“I'm so telling mum!” Fred stands in the doorway for just a second longer before slamming the door shut and running down the stairs.

“I wish you could've actually killed me.” Percy groans.

She swishes some water around in her mouth, making a grossed out face when she swallows.

“Yuck, you need to drink less coffee.” She sticks her tongue out, setting the cup down. “And your mum is absolutely going to kill us when the fucking chastity squad reports us.”

Percy chuckles a little, too fucked out to really process the consequences. She lays down next to him, nuzzling her face into his neck. It's a peaceful moment, almost picture perfect if it wasn't for the messed up bed and Percy’s pants on the floor. The cracked open window lets in the calm sounds of the countryside, like the wind rustling the grass and the yells of his brothers who just heard what the twins walked into.

“They were doing WHAT?”

#percy weasley #Percy weasley x reader #art #harry potter #percy weasley fanart #theyre so freaky oh my god #vanillesuiker

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