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Inverted: Chapter Four

As Amelia descended the grand staircase of the Hawthorne estate, the gentle rustle of her gown seemed to command silence from the gathered crowd. With each step, murmurs swelled among the guests, a woven tapestry of speculation and admiration. “She’s the one,” they whispered, eyes alight with a mix of envy and wonder, “the one the Duke may very well choose.”

Her entrance was not just a testament to her grace but also to the beauty that even the most envious could not deny. The air was thick with anticipation, every glance and gesture magnified under the weight of expectation.

As Amelia gracefully navigated the room, greeting her guests with a practiced ease that belied the undercurrent of anticipation in the air, snippets of whispered conversations fluttered to her ears, painting a vivid picture of the assembly's varied reactions to her presence.

From a secluded corner, she caught the hushed tones of two young ladies, their heads bowed close together. "Isn't she just the picture of elegance?" one murmured, her eyes following Amelia with undisguised admiration. "Every detail, from her gown to the way she moves, is most graceful. How could anyone not be captivated?"

A few steps further, another whisper reached her, this one tinged with a note of envy. "She garners all the attention, as always," came the quiet, begrudging admission from a debutante hidden behind a delicate fan. "With her looks and fortune, it's no wonder. But must she always be the center of everything? It leaves little room for the rest of us ladies to shine."

“It’s been almost an hour, and still no sign of the Duke,” one lady noted, her tone laced with a mix of concern and delight. “Could it be that Miss Hawthorne has scared him off? Such a prospect would certainly set tongues wagging.”

Her companion, a lady with a sharp eye for the dramatic, leaned in closer, her voice dropping to an insinuating whisper. “Or maybe,” she posited with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye, “the Hawthornes never sent an invitation at all. Imagine, claiming the Duke’s attendance to garner more attention for Amelia, drawing the spotlight from the rest of us. A clever ruse, if true.”

Near the grand fireplace, a group of gentlemen stood conversing, their voices a low rumble in the lively room. Amelia's approach prompted a sudden hush, but not before she overheard the tail end of their discussion. "I've had my eye on Miss Hawthorne," one man confessed, a note of resignation in his voice as he glanced her way. "But with the Duke coming tonight, what chance do any of us stand? She's out of our league now, more than ever."

Each whispered word, whether cloaked in admiration, jealousy, or resignation, served to remind her of the expectations and personal aspirations of the Ton. Still, Amelia, ever the gracious hostess, offered smiles and kind words in return. yet within, these whispers stoked a fire of determination to navigate the evening on her own terms, Duke or no Duke.

Beatrice Crestbury, who had been mingling with a group of guests, caught the whispers like a siren’s call. Curiosity piqued, she excused herself with a flutter of her fan and navigated through the crowd, her eyes fixed on Amelia. The rumors had reached her, and with them, the irresistible lure of confronting the evening’s most talked-about lady.

Amelia, now near the edge of the crowd, greeted her guests with a warmth that belied the undercurrent of tension in the room. She moved among them with ease, her laughter light and her conversation engaging, yet always with an awareness of the eyes upon her.

It was in this whirl of activity that Beatrice found her, the murmurs of the crowd a backdrop to their imminent exchange. “Miss Hawthorne,” Beatrice called out, her voice carrying a blend of respect and challenge, “how radiant you look tonight. It seems the entire assembly agrees you are the evening’s crowning jewel. Such attention must be flattering.”

Amelia turned to face her, a smile playing on her lips. “Miss Crestbury, your words are as generous as they are unexpected. I’m simply enjoying the company of our guests.”

“What a lavish affair your family has put on,” Beatrice continues, her voice dripping with a sweetness that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Truly, your estate is a testament to the Hawthorne legacy. One might even say it rivals the grandeur of a ducal palace.”

Amelia offered a polite smile, acutely aware of the undercurrent of sarcasm. “Why, thank you, Miss Crestbury. We are but humble stewards of our family’s heritage. I trust you’re finding the evening to your liking?”

“Oh, immensely,” Beatrice replied, scanning the room with a critical eye. “Although, one can’t help but notice the absence of a certain… distinguished guest. The Duke of Clarence, was it? His attendance was highly anticipated, after all.”

Amelia felt the room begin to squeeze her, but was determined to maintain her composure. “Yes, the Duke’s presence would indeed be the jewel in the crown of tonight’s festivities. However, as we all know, the obligations of a duke are many and varied. It would be no small matter that could keep him from attending.”

Beatrice laughed, a sound that seemed more calculated than genuine. “How diplomatic of you, Miss Hawthorne. One might think you’re already practicing for your role as a duchess.”

The barb was not lost on Amelia, nor was the implication that she was overly invested in the Duke’s attendance. “Miss Crestbury, you have such a keen interest in the comings and goings of our guests. One could almost mistake you for Lady Whistledown herself,” Amelia retorted, her tone light but edged with a subtle challenge.

Amelia excused herself with a gracious nod. "I'm afraid I must continue my duties as hostess. There are still more guests to greet." Turning away from Beatrice, she gracefully navigated through the throngs of attendees, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

Before she could get far, her mother, Lady Hawthorne, deftly took her by the arm, guiding her to a more secluded corner of the room. Despite the concern etched on her face, Lady Hawthorne maintained a practiced smile, ensuring their conversation appeared nothing more than a pleasant exchange to any onlookers.

"Amelia, my dear," she began, her voice low and laced with urgency, "have you seen the Duke yet? Any word of his arrival?" Her eyes darted around the room, as if expecting the Duke to materialize from the crowd at any moment.

Amelia shook her head, feeling a twinge of frustration at the situation. "No, Mother, I have not. And the guests are starting to notice his absence as well." She glanced back at the crowd, noting the curious glances and whispered speculations that seemed to swell in volume with each passing minute.

Lady Hawthorne's smile faltered for a moment, betraying her anxiety. "We must remain composed, Amelia. The Duke's attendance—or lack thereof—should not define the success of our ball. Remember, you are a Hawthorne. You carry yourself with grace and poise, regardless of the circumstances."

Amelia nodded, drawing strength from her mother's words. "Of course, Mother. I'll make sure our guests are enjoying themselves. The Duke's presence would merely be an added delight, not the cornerstone of our evening."

With a final reassuring squeeze of her arm, Lady Hawthorne released Amelia, and they both returned to their roles as impeccable hostesses. Despite the undercurrent of tension, they moved through the room with smiles and laughter, the epitome of grace under pressure.

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Inverted: Chapter Three

In the grand dressing room of the Hawthorne estate, Amelia found herself surrounded by a flurry of activity as her mother, Lady Hawthorne, oversaw the maids' efforts in preparing her for the evening's ball. The room was abuzz with the rustling of silk and the clinking of jewelry, each item chosen with meticulous care to ensure Amelia's presentation was nothing short of spectacular.

As one maid carefully laced up the back of Amelia's gown, a masterpiece of brilliant pink silk that complemented her skin, another brushed her hair into an elegant updo, adorning it with delicate pearls. Lady Hawthorne, ever the orchestrator of her daughter's social appearances, inspected each detail with a critical eye, ensuring not a single ribbon was out of place.

"Amelia, the Duke of Clarence has never seen a jewel quite like you," Lady Hawthorne said, her voice laced with excitement and a hint of command.

Amelia, catching her reflection in the mirror and hardly recognizing the vision of high society elegance staring back, couldn't help but sigh. "I do hope, Mother, that you're referring to my sparkling wit and not suggesting I throw myself at the man like some priceless bauble."

Lady Hawthorne paused, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile at her daughter's jest. "Your wit is indeed one of your most dazzling features, my dear. But remember, it's a delicate balance between being witty and... well, being wise. Especially in front of a duke."

"Oh, so I'm to dazzle him with my brilliance but ensure not to outshine his own? Is that the way to a man's heart these days?" Amelia quipped, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she met her mother's gaze in the mirror.

A maid, unable to stifle her laughter, quickly turned it into a cough, earning a playful glance from Amelia and a disapproving look from Lady Hawthorne.

"Amelia, you know I only want what's best for you," her mother continued, softening. "And if the duke sees the wonderful young woman I see every day, well, who knows what the future might hold?"

"Indeed, Mother," Amelia replied, her tone softening as well. "Perhaps a future where I'm admired for more than my ability to wear a gown and curtsy. But for tonight, I shall play my part and hope for the best."

As the final touches were made Amelia stood, transformed into the belle of the ball. Despite the banter, there was an undeniable bond of love and hope between mother and daughter, each wishing for a future where happiness and freedom were not mutually exclusive.

As they prepared to descend the stairs, Lady Hawthorne offered her arm to Amelia, and together they stepped out of the dressing room, ready to face whatever the evening might bring.

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Inverted: Chapter Two

A fictional story based on bridgerton

Under the warm embrace of the afternoon sun, Amelia Hawthorne found solace in the lush gardens of her family's estate, with Grace, her maid and confidante, by her side. They wandered the winding paths, surrounded by the vibrant hues of blooming flowers and the serene sound of rustling leaves, engaging in light-hearted conversation about the impending ball.

"It's going to be quite the spectacle, isn't it?" Grace remarked, a smile playing on her lips as she glanced at Amelia. She chuckled, her spirits lifted by the thought. "Indeed, Grace. If only the evening could be about the dance and the music, without the looming specter of matrimonial machinations."

Their laughter echoed softly through the garden, a brief respite from the weight of expectations.

Grace, with a twinkle in her eye, ventured, "Miss Amelia, have you thought about the dances? I've heard the orchestra has been practicing a new piece, something quite lively and enchanting."

Amelia smiled, distracted from her deeper concerns. "Oh? That does sound delightful. Music has a way of making even the most daunting evenings bearable, doesn't it? Perhaps I'll find a moment of joy on the dance floor, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues."

"And what of the gown?" Grace pressed on, eager to keep the mood light for as long as possible. "Your mother mentioned it's been finished. The color is supposed to complement your eyes wonderfully."

A laugh escaped Amelia, her spirits lifted by the thought of her attire. "Yes, the gown. A vision in pink, Grace. Mama insists it will be the talk of the ton. Though I'd much rather it be my wit or my accomplishments that drew attention, if any, not the fabric of my dress."

Grace nodded, her expression understanding. "Indeed, Miss Amelia. But perhaps, for tonight, let the gown be a canvas, a backdrop to the brilliant and capable woman wearing it. Who knows? It might even act as a shield, allowing you to navigate the evening on your own terms."

Amelia considered this, the corners of her mouth curling upwards. "A shield, you say? Now that's a thought. Perhaps I shall wield it as skillfully as a knight in armor."

Their laughter mingled with the soft sounds of the garden, a brief interlude of lightness amidst the shadows of expectation.

"But Grace," Amelia's tone sobered as they continued their walk, the laughter fading like mist under the morning sun. "Even with the most exquisite gown and the liveliest of dances, the evening's end goal remains unchanged. The Duke, the marriage prospects... It all feels like a performance in a play I never auditioned for."

Grace, sensing the shift in mood, glanced over at Amelia with a thoughtful expression. "Miss Amelia, if you don't mind my asking... You've always approached the subject of marriage with such... trepidation. Is it the loss of independence that worries you, or perhaps something more?"

Amelia paused, her gaze lingering on a particularly beautiful rose, its petals unfurling towards the sun. She drew in a deep breath, the fragrance of the garden bolstering her courage to speak her truth. "Grace, it is not the loss of the little independence I have, though the thought of it does chill me. It is more the idea of spending my life with someone I cannot love as I should, as society dictates. My heart... it yearns for something different, something... someone society would never approve of."

As Amelia turned her gaze towards Grace, there was an emotion in her eyes that Grace found difficult to decipher—a complex tapestry woven from strands of sadness, grief, hope, and, perhaps most puzzling of all, longing. Grace's question came softly, yet it pierced the heart of their conversation with precision. "Society, ma'am?"

"Indeed," she affirmed, the word laden with a mix of resignation and defiance. "Society dictates so much of our lives, doesn't it? Whom we can be seen with, whom we can love, how we must act. It's as if we're all playing parts in a grand production, with the script written long before we took our first breaths."

Grace nodded, her expression solemn. "It seems a heavy burden, to live a life penned by another's hand. But Miss Amelia, remember, even in the most rigid of plays, there's room for interpretation. The way you deliver your lines, the emotions you imbue them with... that is where your power lies."

Amelia's eyes shimmered with a mixture of hope and sorrow. "A lovely thought, Grace. But they are just that. Thoughts."

"It's a challenge, Miss, one that many face in silence," Grace replied, her voice tinged with empathy. "Perhaps the answer lies not in confronting society head-on, but... in seeking the spaces between its dictates, places where love, in all its forms, can find a way to bloom."

Amelia looked away, her gaze lost in the distance, contemplating Grace's words. "The.. spaces between? I don’t-"

Just as Amelia voiced her intrigue, the moment between them was abruptly shattered by the brisk approach of a maid from the house. “Miss Amelia, you are needed inside at once,” she called out, her voice cutting through the tranquil atmosphere of the garden like a sharp blade. “Your mother insists you come immediately. The ball is upon us, and there’s not a moment to waste.”

“Yes.. Yes, of course,” Amelia responded, her voice carrying a weight of resignation. “Thank you for reminding us. We shall come at once.”

As they followed the maid back towards the Hawthorne estate, the vibrant hues and scents of the garden began to fade, replaced by the looming reality of societal expectations and the imminent spectacle of the ball. Amelia’s thoughts lingered on Grace’s words, “the spaces between,” wondering what exactly she had meant. Did such places truly exist? Where one could be free to love without constraint?

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Inverted: Chapter One

A fictional story based on bridgerton

Dearest gentle reader,

As the season unfurls its petals with the promise of new alliances and courtships, it is with a flourish of my quill that I, Lady Whistledown, bring to light the latest commotion stirring the hearts and ambitions of our illustrious ton. The arrival of the Duke of Clarence, with the avowed intent of seeking a bride, has set the wheels of rumor and matchmaking into a frenetic whirlwind.

The Duke, a gentleman of considerable charm and position, has not only captured the imaginations of our city's young ladies but has also sent their matriarchs into a flurry of strategizing and scheming. The air is thick with anticipation, and the salons and ballrooms of London buzz with whispers of potential matches. Yet, it is not solely the Duke's eligible status that has the ton in a tizzy, but also whispers of a most magnificent gemstone necklace in his possession—a bauble so exquisite, it is rumored to rival even the resplendence of the royal jewels themselves.

This tantalizing tidbit has added fuel to the matrimonial fire, with every mama of marriageable daughters dreaming of seeing such a necklace grace the décolletage of her offspring. The fervor has reached such heights that the modistes of our city find themselves besieged by a veritable army of matriarchs, each more desperate than the last to commission gowns that will render their daughters irresistible to the Duke's discerning eye. It is a scene of such comic desperation that one cannot help but be amused at the lengths to which these ambitious matriarchs will go to secure a match.

In this grand game of matrimonial chess, where mothers maneuver and daughters dazzle, the Duke of Clarence remains the most coveted prize. Yet, as every seasoned player knows, the outcome of the game is as unpredictable as the English weather. Will the Duke find his bride among the bevy of beauties vying for his attention, or will the allure of the gemstone necklace prove to be the most decisive matchmaker of all?

As the season unfolds, rest assured, dear readers, that I shall keep a vigilant eye on developments, ready to share the latest gossip and intrigue. For in the world of high society, where fortunes can be made or lost with a single dance, the next twist in the tale is but a heartbeat away.

Lady Whistledown

In the quiet hours of the morning, when the world outside the Hawthorne estate was still cloaked in the soft embrace of dawn, the young Miss Amelia Hawthorne found herself ensconced in the comforting confines of her bedchamber, a frown marring her usually serene features. Her faithful lady in waiting, Grace, moved about the room with the silence and efficiency that had always characterized her service, but even her gentle presence could not soothe the tempest brewing within Amelia.

"Mama insists I must look 'just so' for the Duke of Clarence," Amelia lamented, her voice a blend of frustration and resignation as she sat upright in her bed, the luxurious quilts pooling around her waist. “As if the right gown or the perfect hairstyle could sway the heart of a duke!"

Grace, placing a carefully selected array of dresses upon the chaise for Amelia’s inspection, offered a sympathetic smile. "It's not just the gown or the hair, Miss Amelia. It's the grace with which you wear them, and nobody can rival your grace when you set your mind to it."

Amelia sighed, her gaze drifting to the window where the first light of day began to erase the shadows of the night. "And now, with Lady Whistledown's latest issue, the entire ton will descend upon our home, each lady dressed in her very best, all vying for the Duke's attention. It is absurd! I must compete in my own house for the affections of a man I do not even want."

Grace continued her tasks, her movements graceful and measured. "Miss Amelia, if I may be so bold, it's not a competition if your heart is not in it to win it. Perhaps this is an opportunity to show not just the Duke, but everyone, that you are more than just a beautiful face to be admired. You have wit, intelligence, and kindness—qualities that far outshine any jewel or gown."

Amelia’s frown deepened, the corners of her mouth turning down in thought. "But what of my parents' expectations? They so dearly want this match, or any advantageous match, really. It feels as though I'm trapped in a play where I know not my lines nor the plot."

Grace approached Amelia, her expression earnest. "Your parents want your happiness above all, Miss Amelia. Perhaps it's time to have a frank conversation with them about what truly makes you happy. Besides, who's to say the Duke won't see and appreciate the real you, beyond the silk and satin?"

Amelia chuckled, a brief respite from her worries. "Imagine that, Grace. A Duke who looks beyond the surface. Lady Whistledown would have a field day writing about such a novelty."

The moment of levity between Amelia and Grace was abruptly interrupted as the door to the bedchamber flew open with a burst of youthful energy. In tumbled Amelia’s younger sisters, Lily and Rose, their faces alight with excitement and curiosity, a stark contrast to the contemplative mood that had enveloped the room moments before.

“Mama was trying to stop us, but we simply had to know!” Lily exclaimed, her eyes wide with the thrill of the forbidden interruption.

Rose, barely catching her breath from the excitement, chimed in, “Is it true, Amelia? Will you really be marrying the Duke of Clarence? Will we truly be sisters to a duchess?”

Their bombardment of questions was closely followed by the appearance of their mother at the doorway, her expression a mix of exasperation and apology. “Girls, I told you to wait. Amelia needs her rest before tonight’s ball,” she scolded gently, yet her eyes held a softness that spoke of her understanding of their excitement.

Turning to Amelia, she offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. They’ve been quite beside themselves since hearing the news of the Duke’s attendance tonight. You know how children can be, always dreaming of fairy tales and grandeur.”

Amelia, despite the earlier tension and her own reservations, couldn’t help but laugh at the infectious enthusiasm of her sisters. Their innocence and excitement momentarily lifted the weight from her shoulders, reminding her of the joy and wonder she herself had felt at their age.

“Lily, Rose,” Amelia began, her voice laced with affection and a hint of playful reprimand, “there’s no talk of marriage yet. Tonight is simply a ball, a chance for us all to enjoy the company of friends and perhaps make some new ones. And as for becoming sisters to a duchess, well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

The young girls giggled, their imaginations already running wild with the possibilities that the evening could bring. Their mother, taking advantage of their brief distraction, ushered them towards the door, promising more details later if they behaved and allowed Delilah to prepare in peace.

As the room quieted once more, Amelia turned to Grace, a small smile playing on her lips. “Thank you, Grace. For everything. No matter what tonight brings, I’m glad to have you and my family by my side.”

Grace returned the smile, her eyes warm with affection. “Always, Miss Amelia. Now, let’s make sure you’re ready to dazzle them all, not for the Duke or for Lady Whistledown, but for yourself.”

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surprised that r&m made me animate and not atsv

[sephicircle]

NSFW Rick Oneshot, 1.8k Words

#64- "I don't want anyone else. No one else can make me feel like you do."

This is a rewrite, i don’t even know where i was going with it. i’m just feral

Afab Reader, Jealous Rick, Praise, Choking, OOC Rick

Rick is aware he can be aloof at times. He's always exhausted, frequently irritable, and his interest in anything other than drinking and stealing precious materials for particularly ambitious projects is often nonexistent.

He's never attempted to correct these faults. In his eyes, nothing is more important than wild parties and the pursuit of knowledge, and he's willing to make sacrifices, whatever they may be, to achieve his most daring, or as you call them, crazy, goals. Truth be told, he's never viewed his standoffish demeanor as a fault at all, instead choosing to see it as an advantage, one that keeps him guarded while guaranteeing he remains undisturbed while tinkering with the various gadgets cluttering the garage.

However...

His stiff, detached disposition seemed to falter around you— A phenomenon that he still wasn't able to fully comprehend. You excited and captivated him, he'd assessed that much, but he'd never been able to fully describe his blind devotion to you that often bordered on obsequious, nor had he found a way to properly validate the envy he felt when he found you socializing with someone other than himself. Speaking of;

His jealous tendencies weren't something you'd ever paid too much attention to. Any bitter feelings were often fleeting and very easily dismissed with a few chaste kisses or prudent words of affirmation, and it wasn't odd for him to feel slightly envious of someone receiving a tad more attention than him; he was in love with you, and you knew that.

This envy rarely ever made it into the bedroom. Soft kisses and words sugared with sickly sweet adoration were standard during your time together, as he was usually keener on talking through his feelings (albeit reluctantly) than taking out his frustration on the love of his life, and much more focused on pleasing you than fulfilling any of his own licentious fantasies.

Still, even when it comes to you, he isn't entirely benevolent. Rick can, when he chooses to do so, redirect his unwavering focus to something else, something a little more... devious.

You're well aware that your lover can occasionally be rather sadistic with a proclivity for domination, and usually you take great pleasure in indulging his every perverted whim. Tonight, however–

He's just being cruel.

So it wasn't just the feeling of him inside you that had rendered you a writhing mess. It wasn't the little bite marks littering your tender, mottled neck, or even the feeling of his soft hands exploring your every curve;

It was the obscene cacophony of skin slapping skin and your pitiful voice, now barely audible moans lost beneath his own, the creaking of the chair beneath his stuttering hips— and his hips, the way he slammed into you, snapping them to the offbeat of yours, how he angled them expertly and sent your head reeling, drawing out the unwavering buzz of overstimulation that pulsed through your body in waves.

He prolonged your pleasure until it felt like a perpetual stupor, and he didn't stop. Not when he saw the crystalline wet of tears on your eyelashes, not when the only words you could speak were mumbled distortions of his name, over and over like a debauched, irreverent prayer. He wanted to break you, and he had done just that. He had done more than that, your limp body slumped against his chest was more than adequate proof of his victory–

But Rick's need for domination goes well beyond the physical.

He grabbed a fistful of hair above the nape of your neck, lifting your head from its place on his shoulder, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You tired sweetie?" he groaned. His merciless thrusts had melted into slow rolls of his hips, somewhat easing the subtle sting of overstimulation but still sending light bursts of pleasure throughout your abdomen. "M-mhm," is all you could stutter out, eliciting a slightly patronizing chuckle.

Still clinging to his wiry arms, you squared your gaze with his, drinking in the smug, victorious look on his face. "Rick, please," you panted, "I'm sorry."

You knew what this was about. Another night, another party, a few too many drinks; you had once again gotten a little too… friendly with a few people at some dingy bar. It was nothing serious of course, it never was, and deep down he knew that. But there was something about the bitter jealously that bubbled up within him when he saw you downing shots, giggling and blushing, and throughly enjoying being the center of attention in the middle of the club that was almost overwhelming.

"Bullshit," he whispered, his grip on your hips tightening. You whined as he removed a hand from your hips in favor of your jaw, forcing you to once again meet his gaze. "I-I love you, sweetie. You know I love you, don't you?" He asked, his voice low. You nodded, looking up at him through wet eyelashes. "Then why d-do you want other people to touch you? To make you feel good?" His eyes were darker now, more dilated and hazy than usual, and the desperate, pleading undertone in his voice had a soft whimper leaving your lips.

“I don’t want anyone else to touch me,” you breathe. He looks at you expectantly, the dark, half mast gaze you loved so much making you squirm. You run your hands through his wild hair, fidgeting before planting them on the back of his neck. “I love you too, Rick," you choke out. "Only you, I swear. Only you can touch me." His hand slides from your chin, slowly tracing over your jawline, gently rubbing your cheeks before cupping them softly. “Smart choice, princess. You- you see how good I make you feel.” His voice was deceivingly soft; but you knew him well enough to detect his teasing, condescending undertone. His soft lips were pressed against your neck now, sucking yet another bruise onto your delicate skin. "Who else can fuck you like this, hm?"

You felt your stomach swoop at his vulgarity, but it was his hand finding it's way to your neck that jolted you out of your prurient daze.

"No one." you exhaled. He hummed in satisfaction, biting your neck before releasing the skin from between his teeth. He moved his lips to your ear, lightly nibbling on the flesh.

"I wanna hear you say it." He whispered, tightening his grip around your throat. You felt his other hand find it's way back to your waist, inhaling sharply at the sudden, indignant buck of his hips that sent a new wave of pleasure through your body.

"No one else can fuck me like this," you cried, your hands flying to grip his lean arms in a desperate attempt to steady yourself as he once again began grinding into you. The desperate cadence of your voice sparked something within him, prompting him to push even further.

"Again," he growled, tightening his grip on your neck further, the oncoming dizziness amplifying the pleasure tenfold.

"Only you can- ah, only you can fuck me this good Rick, only you." Your voice was only a whimper now; tiny, desperate, shattered, and you looked no less pathetic— breathless and shivering— overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. He was thrusting into you again, repeatedly stimulating your sensitive cluster of nerves, sending arcs of electricity through your tired body. "That's my girl," he cooed, grinning before releasing your throat from his grasp.

Your eyes flicker downwards, glassy and and dazed, focusing on the smooth skin of his glistening chest. Your mind was preoccupied with the feeling of his large, warm hands on your hips, the smell of liquor, the way he pushed and pulled you with ease– and how impossible he made it to focus on anything he said. A weak "Fuck," was all you could squeak out before burying your head in the crook of his neck, another desperate attempt to steady yourself as he thrusted into you.

"Shit, Does that feel good baby?” he groaned. His voice was shaky, unsteady and slurred as his thrusts became more uneven and erratic. They became sharper, more rigid, and the pleasure that pulsed through your core only continued to build as his pace quickened. “You’re mine, y-you got that?” Your arms wrapped around his neck, tightening as your body trembled with each powerful thrust. “I'm all yours." you whispered.

Your body tensed as he used a hand to remove your head from its place on his shoulder, pulling you into a soft kiss. You felt your heart flutter as your lips connected, and your breath hitched as the familiar heat that pooled in your abdomen grew, building with every sharp, forceful snap of his hips. His tongue pushed past your lips, deepening the kiss, and you moaned against his mouth.

"I'm so close." You choked out as you pulled back, feeling his warm chest rumble beneath you as he moaned. He dug his nails into your skin, cursing under his breath as you ground your hips against his. He locked eyes with you, holding you in his sight, wanting to see the moment you came undone for him. "You can do it, sweet girl. "His hand fell from your chin again, landing back on your waist, holding you steady as you continued to grind on top of him. He felt your walls begin to tighten around him, and he continued to snap his hips into you.

"R-Rick, I'm-" your words were cut short as his hand raised to your throat, gently squeezing, your eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of his grip tightening. “I know baby. Cum for me.”

You shook as your climax overtook you, your body going weak as you stared into his eyes. You couldn't hear anything but static as he continued to pump into you, the feeling of his hand around your throat making you see stars. Your mind went blank, focusing on the feeling of his skin against yours, his heartbeat beneath your palms, and the way his cock throbbed inside of you. Your walls clenched around him, and you felt him groan at the sensation before feeling him shudder beneath you.

You watched his soft lips part, his brow furrow, and the look of euphoria that spread over his face as he finally found his own release. He never broke your gaze, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he buried himself deep within you, holding you in place as you writhed above him.

You felt him fill you up, felt him pulse within you, and you reveled in the sensation. You closed your eyes as you came down from your high, leaning into his warm chest and once again running your fingers through his messy hair. His arms wrapped around your back as you began to settle, and you inhaled deeply, feeling yourself sink deeper into him.

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Some NSFW RICK HEADCANONS

Ok but Rick being really gentle and taking his time with you when you’re stressed and tense and

• He’d leave little kisses all over your body

• Soft make out sessions

• He’d hold your hand while he went down on you

• Calling you pet names while he talks you through your orgasm

• Going really slow not to be a tease but to make sure every part of your body received attention

• Kissing your hands and thighs and stomach and chest. EVERYWHERE

• Whispering about how beautiful/handsome/perfect you are while he fingers you/jacks you off

• He’d be so focused on your pleasure. Making sure you enjoyed yourself would be his only priority

• So much praise

• “Sweetie” “My good girl/boy”

• Cuddles after you’re done

[sephicircle]

Love when writers do an insane amount of unnecessary research for their fics. I follow an author that did like 8 months of intense research into 14th century Scotland so they could write smut about it, and guess what. It was some fucking incredible porn AND I learned about old Scottish politics

[sephicircle]

My short NSFW Headcanons for Hobie:

• Hobie likes teasing you a lot

• He likes being on top but doesn’t mind letting you take charge

• A switch

• He’s really vocal during sex

• He likes whispering and moaning in your ear because he knows you like to hear him

• He likes to pull you close, looking into your eyes while he fucks you

• His voice gets weak and he whimpers when he’s close

• He’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you finish

• He’s really experimental and is willing to try almost anything with you

• Hobie is obsessed with you, when you’re together he can’t keep his hands off of you

[sephicircle]

i didn’t draw this at 3am..