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pucksandpower · 1 year ago

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Too Sweet

Toto Wolff x Reader

Max Verstappen x ex!Reader

Summary: Max used to think that you’re too sweet for him … now he has to learn to live with the fact that Toto has quite a sweet tooth (inspired by the song that I’ve had on repeat)

I take my whiskеy neat

The doors to the upscale restaurant swing open and Max strides through, his fingers lightly grazing the small of your back as he guides you inside. The dimly lit interior is bustling with the chatter of well-heeled patrons enjoying their evening repasts. A sharply dressed hostess greets you with a polite smile.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to The Sazerac Room. Do you have a reservation?”

“Verstappen,” Max replies curtly.

The hostess consults her tablet, then nods. “Right this way please.”

She leads the two of you through the elegant dining room, weaving between tables topped with crisp white linens and elaborate floral centerpieces. Max keeps his hand at your back, his thumb idly stroking in a soothing pattern as you take in the opulent surroundings with wide eyes.

“This place is incredible,” you murmur, craning your neck to admire the ornate chandeliers glittering overhead. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He simply grunts in acknowledgment as the hostess stops before an intimate table tucked discreetly in the corner. After pulling out your chair for you with a flourish, she sets two leather-bound menus on the table.

“Your server will be right with you,” she informs them before departing with a polite nod.

You waste no time in opening your menu, hungrily perusing the offerings. “Oh Max, look at all these amazing cocktails! The La Vie en Rose sounds divine — rose liqueur, raspberries, lemon ...” You glance up at him hopefully. “We should get a couple of those to start.”

Max barely glances at his own menu before shaking his head. “I’ll just have a whiskey neat.”

Your face falls slightly at his brusque response. “Are you sure? These all look so good! We should live a little and try something fun for once.”

He fixes you with a stern look from across the table. “You know I don’t like frilly drinks. Now stop pestering me about it.”

Chastened by his harsh tone, you lapse into a wounded silence and continue reading the menu with diminished enthusiasm. A few moments later, a dapper middle-aged gentleman in a crisp suit appears at your table.

“Good evening, and welcome to The Sazerac Room. My name is William and I’ll be your server this evening.” With a polite smile, he produces a notepad from his breast pocket. “May I start you off with something to drink?”

You glance back at Max, giving him one last chance to change his mind. When he simply gazes back at you impassively, you sigh. “I’ll have the La Vie en Rose cocktail, please.”

William jots down your order before turning to Max expectantly.

“Whiskey neat,” Max says flatly. “Redbreast 27 Year, if you have it.”

“An excellent choice, sir.” William makes a note. “And may I bring you both some bread from our bakery while you decide on your meals?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” you reply gratefully.

William departs to place the drink orders, leaving you and Max alone once more. An awkward silence stretches between you, filled only by the tinkle of silverware and murmurs of conversation from surrounding tables.

Finally, you try again. “Max, are you sure I can’t tempt you with one little sip? This La Vie en Rose cocktail sounds absolutely divine. You might lov-”

“For fuck’s sake!” Max suddenly explodes, slamming his menu down on the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want any of your ridiculous fruity bullshit? I’m a fucking race car driver, not some ridiculous Instagram model trying to look pretty with my drink.”

His nostrils flare as he leans across the table, eyes flashing with irritation that you would dare continue to push the issue. “I’ve had a long fucking day and I am going to drink whatever the fuck I want. So order your stupid fucking girly cocktail if you must, but don’t act so goddamn disappointed and keep shoving it in my face when I say no.”

You shrink back in your chair, eyes widening with hurt at his enraged outburst. The crestfallen look on your face is enough to douse Max’s fury like a bucket of ice water. He slumps back, remorse already stirring as he witnesses the light dimming in your eyes, lips trembling ever so slightly as you blink back sudden tears.

“I … I was just excited to try something new together,” you whisper shakily. “But never mind. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

The arrival of William with a basket of assorted breads and your glittering pink cocktail garnished with raspberries provides a merciful distraction from the tension.

You immediately reach for the drink, wrapping your hands around the delicate stemmed glass and taking a large gulp — both to avoid making eye contact with Max and to sample your coveted libation.

A look of bliss softens your features as the tart, sugary concoction bursts across your taste buds. “Mmm, this is incredible!”

For a beat, Max can’t help but drink in your look of pure enjoyment — the way your eyes flutter closed in delight, pink lips quirking into a contented smile as you savor each sip. It simultaneously tugs at his heartstrings and fills him with an irrational stab of resentment.

Here you are, sweet and radiant, able to find joy in the simplest of things … while he is just a miserable bastard who can’t let himself enjoy anything without getting irrationally angry.

You deserve so much better than him.

The thought is sobering and he feels shame burn hot in his gut. Unconsciously, his shoulders slump as he watches you take another euphoric sip of your cocktail.

“I knew it, this is amazing,” you sigh happily, seemingly recovered from his earlier tantrum as you bask in the deliciousness of your drink. “Max, you have to try just one little-”

“No.” The refusal is automatic, the word slicing through your offer before he can think better of it.

Your face shutters once more, the bright light in your eyes dimming as your smile fades into resignation. With a soft exhale, you set your glass down and reach for the bread basket instead.

“Suit yourself, then.”

As you silently butter a roll, Max finds himself at a rare loss, anger dissipating into regret as the knot in his stomach tightens painfully. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration after his impressive win on the track, a chance for the two of you to enjoy each other’s company and make more happy memories together.

Instead, he’s gone and ruined the mood … again … just like he always does.

***

“Another round?” Checo’s voice cuts through the sound of laughter and chatter around the table.

Max glances up distractedly from pushing the remaining bits of food around his plate. He, Checo, and a few other members of the Red Bull team are celebrating a successful Monaco Grand Prix. Despite making the podium, Max’s mind hasn’t really been on the festivities.

“I’m all set, thanks,” he mutters, raising his glass of whiskey with a tight smile before taking a sip. His gaze drifts across the opulent dining room of Cipriani Monte Carlo, idly scanning the crowd of wealthy patrons enjoying their evening meals.

That’s when his eyes catch on a shockingly familiar figure.

You.

Sitting at an intimate corner table, bathed in the soft glow of a candle’s flickering flame. For a moment, Max’s breath catches in his throat as a thousand bittersweet memories assault him all at once.

The hurt look on your face that night at The Sazerac Room … the resignation in your eyes as you accepted, yet again, that he would never be able to appreciate the sweet, simple pleasures that brought you such joy ...

The cold, empty silence that descended over your apartment when he finally left for good, stuffing his belongings into a duffel bag as you watched with trembling lips from across the room ...

Max blinks, and the moment passes — but his gaze remains riveted to your table. Because there, sitting across from you with adoration written across his insufferable face … is Toto Wolff.

Max feels his lips curl into an unconscious sneer as the Mercedes team principal murmurs something to you with a gentle smile, reaching across to delicately brush a lock of hair behind your ear. You catch Toto’s hand as it falls, pressing a tender kiss into his palm that makes the older man’s expression soften even further.

Your waiter arrives then, providing a momentary distraction as he lays out a couple of fresh cocktails on crisp white linen — a bright purple concoction garnished with a sugared rim and a plump cherry for you and an amber-hued old fashioned for Toto.

Your eyes light up as you take in the colorful beverage, immediately wrapping your hands around the delicate stemmed glass and bringing it to your lips to sample. A look of pure delight crosses your features as the no doubt sugary drink bursts across your taste buds.

“Mmm ...” you hum in pleasure, causing Toto to chuckle affectionately as he watches you enjoy the first reveling sips.

Setting your glass down, you gesture enthusiastically toward it as you address Toto. “This is incredible! You have to try it.”

Without hesitation, the Mercedes team boss dutifully leans across the table to take a long pull from your straw. Max watches with a mixture of disgust and morbid fascination as Toto’s expression morphs into one of surprised enjoyment.

“Wow, that is quite good, isn’t it?” Toto remarks with an indulgent grin, licking a telltale dab of purple syrup from the corner of his mouth.

“I told you!” You crow in delight, eyes sparkling with unrestrained glee.

The pure joy radiating from you in that moment is enough to make Max’s heart clench in his chest. He has seen that look before, so many times — whenever he deigned to let go of his surly demeanor for even a moment and actually indulge whatever fleeting whim or simple pleasure you desired to share with him.

But it was always so short-lived with him, stamped out by his own stubborn refusal to truly embrace anything resembling happiness or frivolity. You deserved so much more than his constant scowling and gruff rebuffs.

As if reading his thoughts, Toto then leans across the table to tenderly capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. The gentle intimacy of it makes Max’s gut churn as a feeling too complicated to fully unpack blossoms in his chest.

When you finally part, both of you are smiling at each other with such open, unguarded adoration that it’s almost obscene to witness. Toto reaches out to cradle your face in his palm as your lips find his once more in another chaste, loving caress.

This time, when you pull away, you let your head loll back with a look of pure bliss. Something deep within Max cracks and splinters at the sight. In a haze, he finds himself drifting back through the churning currents of memory ...

… that last, fateful shouting match in your living room, both of you red-faced and furious as the dam holding back all the anger and resentment and accusations that had been building for months finally burst ...

… you weeping silently as you clutched a meager trash bag containing what little remained of his belongings, not even able to look at him for fear of collapsing completely ...

… “I’m too sweet for you, Max. You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

The acid words burn in his mind even now, feeling as fresh and raw as that night they were spat out like venom between you. His chest constricts as his gaze falls guiltily back to the present day scene in front of him.

Toto and you, basking in the warm, rosy glow of new love — careless and unrestrained in your public affection. Delighting in each other’s company and simple pleasures … just as you always desired for Max to do, yet he could never fully surrender to.

The display is like a twisted mirror, taunting him with the vibrant reflection of what he threw away. What he was too foolish, too emotionally stunted and uncaring to fully appreciate at the time.

Stumbling from his chair in a daze, Max barely registers the questioning looks and concerned murmurs from his team as he staggers from the dining room. He hardly makes it to the privacy of the restroom before bending at the waist, hefting the contents of his stomach into the thankfully pristine porcelain basin.

The whiskey burns on the way back up.

Max grips the edges of the counter, face contorted in anguish as a realization washes over him in searing waves.

You were the real prize all along … and now, he’s lost you for good.

My coffee black

The drone of announcements over the PA system and the dull roar of hundreds of people bustling to and fro mingles into an ever-present white noise hum. Max trudges ahead, the brim of his ball cap tugged low as he weaves through the teeming crowds filing through the airports’ terminals.

It’s just after 5 am, the start of another grueling race week. This time the travel will take you from the Middle Eastern leg of the circuit to the other side of the world in Australia. Twenty-plus hours of planes, layovers, and jet lag beckon — a prospect that grows less and less appealing with each passing season.

A warm weight presses against his side as you shuffle along beside him, head lolling adorably as you struggle to keep your eyes open. One slender hand is looped through the crook of his elbow, gripping the strap of your carry-on bag with the other. You let out a jaw-cracking yawn, leaning into Max’s solid bulk.

“I need coffee,” you mumble groggily. “I’m barely conscious.”

He shoots you a sidelong glance, mouth quirking ever-so-slightly at your dramatics. As grating as your tendency for excessive cheerfulness can be at times, he does admire your ability to shake off the fatigue and stress that plagues him more and more these days.

“There’s one of those chains up ahead,” he grunts, nodding toward the familiar logo peeking through from around the corner.

You light up immediately, straightening and quickening your shuffling steps in anticipation of the caffeinated boost soon to come. By the time you reach the counter, there’s a bright spark back in your eyes that makes the exhaustion plaguing Max’s own limbs feel slightly more bearable.

The barista, a pimple-faced youth who can’t be any older than 18, greets you with a too-wide smile. “Welcome to Daily Grind! What can I get started for you?”

You lean in eagerly, surveying the massive display of chalkboard signs advertising the latest sugar bombs and “coffee” concoctions designed to appease the basic palates of everyday people who wouldn’t know a good cup of joe if it slapped them across the face. Max scowls, already anticipating some ridiculously saccharine order.

“I’ll have a large cinnamon honey oat milk latte, please,” you chirp, as expected.

The barista marks down your request with a perky nod. “Excellent! And for you, sir?”

“Black coffee,” Max replies flatly. “Medium.”

Your brow furrows as you shoot him a quizzical look. “Just black coffee? Not even a splash of cream or anything?”

He shakes his head tersely, one hand already rummaging in his pocket for his wallet as the barista rattles off the total. “We’re in a rush as it is, and that sugary nonsense you ordered takes forever to make with all the fussy bullshit they do to it.”

You wince at his blunt assessment, shoulders slumping a bit in a way that makes a pang of guilt flicker through Max’s chest. He doesn’t mean to be so harsh … but sometimes it’s like the more considerate side of his nature has been ground away by years of constant training and calculating every single variable down to the most minute detail.

The poor kid working the register seems to shrink under the intensity of Max’s gruff demeanor. With shaky hands, he quickly processes the payment before stammering out your total. As you shuffle off to the side to wait for your orders, Max can’t help but keep picking.

“Honestly, I don’t know why you insist on ordering those stupid drinks that are 90% milk and trash,” he mutters, shooting you a disapproving look. “Barely any actual coffee at all.”

You frown, immediately hunching into yourself a bit as you cradle a handful of napkins against your chest. “It’s not like that coffee flavor isn’t there at all,” you argue meekly. “And I have to get some kind of caffeine boost to stay awake during all these flights and race weekends. I just … I don’t really like the taste of black coffee.”

Max scoffs loudly at that, shaking his head in open derision. “Sure, because drinking just regular black coffee like an adult would be too difficult. Instead you have to get your ‘caffeine boost’ from some tooth-rottingly sweet concoction that looks like something a child would order.”

The barista shifts uncomfortably behind the counter, clearly flustered by Max’s abrasive tone. Not that he cares — he’s been dealing with people gawking at him in public for years now. What does rub him the wrong way is the wounded look spreading across your delicate features, eyes dropping to stare dejectedly at the floor.

He opens his mouth to continue chiding you, but at that moment the barista appears with your drinks. The sweet, cinnamony aroma of your order hits Max’s nostrils like a slap in the face, making his nose wrinkle on instinct. You accept your oversized paper cup gratefully, hands automatically curling around the comforting warmth.

With visible enthusiasm, you bring the drink to your lips, unable to resist taking a sip despite the scalding temperature. Max tracks the minute changes in your expression — the slight widening of your eyes, the upward quirk of your lips into a smile of unalloyed contentment. Your lashes flutter closed on a quiet hum of blissful appreciation.

“Mmm … heaven,” you practically moan, hunching over your cup as though to better inhale the revitalizing notes of sugar and spice.

It makes Max want to retch, watching you so unashamedly indulging in such vapid, artificial flavors. How can you find such simple-minded pleasure in that, when you could be savoring the bold, robust notes of a proper cup of black coffee? One meant to awaken the senses and caress the taste buds with its smoky aroma and rich, nuanced flavor notes.

“You can’t honestly get any enjoyment from basically drinking hot milk and flavored syrups,” he mutters, sneering at the offensive beverage in your grasp.

In response, you simply shift closer to him until you’re pressed alongside his body. Your free hand snakes around his bicep, squeezing gently as you tilt your head back to gaze up at him imploringly. Exhaustion and hurt war openly with the angelic softness of your delicate features.

“Max … can’t you just let me enjoy this?” You plead in a low murmur. “It’s early, and we’ve got a long flight ahead.”

His jaw clenches stubbornly, unwilling to back down so easily. Caffeine and sleep deprivation have eroded his already thin sense of decorum.

“I’m just saying, drinking a syrupy dessert drink loaded with sugar and god knows what else isn’t doing you any favors. You might as well just stick to black coffee like a normal adult if you want to be awake and energized.”

The wounded look in your eyes deepens into something more somber and resigned. Slowly, you pull away from Max’s side until a noticeable distance stretches between your bodies. Something inside him shrivels at the loss of contact. Your slender fingers work feverishly at the cup’s lid until it pops off with a dull thunk.

Max stares blankly as you march over to the nearest trash can and upend the contents of your cup into the receptacle. You don’t even seem to hesitate — simply turn on your heel and hurl the now-empty cup in after the wasted drink. It clatters hollowly against the canister, mocking and empty.

When you turn back to face Max, the sight makes the now-lukewarm coffee sitting neglected in his own cup feels like a lead weight in his gut. Your arms are wrapped protectively around yourself, hunched against some unseen foe. Head bowed, you refuse to meet his gaze as you slowly make your way back over to where he stands rooted to the spot in stunned silence.

It’s only as you draw up beside him that Max notices the twin tear tracks striping your cheeks. Your chin remains stubbornly trembling, but you make no move to wipe at the tears now falling freely. Max’s chest constricts almost painfully at the sight of your misery, the guilt gnawing at him as the reality sets in.

He is the reason for it. His harsh, uncompromising tongue has wounded you in one of the cruelest ways once again. Too strict, too unyielding, too incapable of allowing even the smallest indulgences that bring you simple joy without sneering dismissal.

For several agonizing moments, the two of you stand in silence amid the milling crowds of travelers streaming past. Max can’t bring himself to meet your gaze, knowing he’ll only find the depths of his own callous thoughtlessness reflected back at him in your swimming eyes.

Finally, you release a shuddering sigh that sounds far too weighted for someone of your sweetness and light. When you speak, your voice is little more than a tremulous murmur laced with dejection.

“Let’s just go to the gate, Max.”

You brush past him without another word, leaving him to trail numbly in your wake as shame burns a hole through his gut. He watches as your form disappears into the throngs, shoulders already beginning to hunch inward as that spark of happiness in you gutters and fades.

Lingering behind, Max’s gaze falls to the empty cup lying crumpled and discarded in the trash. A reminder of yet another instance where his unchecked tongue and inability to empathize has spoiled an innocent attempt at simple pleasure.

His coffee suddenly tastes like ash on his tongue.

As he moves to dump the neglected drink into the nearby basin, Max wonders with a sinking feeling just how many more times he’ll be able to snuff out your light before it dwindles to nothing.

***

The late morning sun bears down with oppressive force, causing a mirage-like haze to shimmer over the sweltering asphalt of the paddock. Despite being early summer, the Spanish air is already thick and heavy enough to bathe Max’s skin in a sheen of perspiration as he trudges toward the Red Bull Energy Station.

Ahead, he spots a cluster of people milling aimlessly near the entrance to the Mercedes motorhome. At the center appears to be you, head tilted back in unrestrained laughter at something George Russell is regaling you with. The British driver is equally animated, pale features scrunched up in exaggerated motions as he relays what is no doubt an amusing tale.

Max feels his steps gradually slow of their own accord as he takes you in from a distance. You seem utterly at ease and in your element — cheeky grin splitting your face, one hand toying idly with the ends of your hair as your eyes crinkle with unbridled mirth.

A pure vision of effortless contentment.

His gut clenches unexpectedly, unbidden memories of how he methodically chipped away at that very lightness in you until it was all but extinguished washing over him in a nauseating wave. How quickly he took such simple joys for granted ...

So transfixed is he by the sight of your open, honest amusement that Max barely notices the figure slipping up behind you. Not until Toto Wolff raises a conspiratorial finger to his lips, eyes twinkling impishly as he pantomimes for silence at a sputtering George.

You remain oblivious even as the Mercedes team principal slides flush against your back, looping one arm around your waist to tug you snug against his chest. With his free hand, Toto cups it teasingly over your eyes — to which you release a tinkling peal of laughter.

“Guess who?” The playful lilt of the older man’s Austrian lilt is unmistakable, dripping with honeyed warmth.

“Hmm … I wonder,” you murmur coyly, making a show of tapping your chin in feigned confusion. “Is it a dashing gentleman caller here to sweep me off my feet?”

Toto chuckles deeply in your ear, the sound positively dripping with unguarded affection. “Only if you’ll have me, liebling.”

Craning your head back with a cheeky grin, your arms instinctively wind around his neck as you stretch up on your tiptoes to greet him properly. Toto meets your lips in a lingering, languid kiss that has George hastily clearing his throat and looking resolutely anywhere but at the affectionate display before him.

When you finally part, all radiant smiles and flushed cheeks, it’s like the rest of the world has completely fallen away. Toto gazes down at you with such pure adoration that Max feels his throat constrict as though a belt is suddenly cinched tight around it.

“I have a surprise for you, schnucki,” Toto murmurs huskily, lips brushing your temple as he speaks.

You light up like a kid on Christmas morning, practically vibrating with excitement at his words. “Oh? Do tell!”

With a wink and roguish smile, Toto brandishes his other hand from behind his back — in it, clutched protectively, is a large cup topped with whipped cream and what looks like edible flower petals sprinkled over the top. The light purple hue of the iced contents catches in the bright sun, refracting a prism of soft, delicate colors.

“I had the barista in our hospitality whip this up for you,” Toto explains fondly. “After I mentioned how much you enjoy trying unique coffee flavors. It’s a lavender vanilla iced latte.”

Your mouth drops open in a perfect ‘o’ of delight as you instinctively make grabby motions toward the tantalizing beverage. Max recognizes that earnest enthusiasm all too well. It’s the same look you used to get whenever presented with any unique taste or experience to appreciate.

A look he always met with disdain and scorn.

Toto doesn’t hesitate for a second before depositing the cup into your greedy hands. You immediately cradle it reverently, as though it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever held. Ducking your head, you take a long pull through the striped paper straw.

The expression that blossoms across your features as that first taste bursts over your tongue is one of pure, unadulterated bliss. Your eyes flutter closed on a muffled moan of sinful enjoyment, lips pursing as though savoring each individual note of flavor. Max hasn’t seen you look that unguardedly delighted by anything in … well, he can’t actually recall the last time.

“Oh Toto, this is heavenly!” You gush, swiping your tongue across your lower lip to catch a stray drop of condensation. “The lavender is subtle, but gives it such a uniquely fresh and floral twist. And the vanilla adds this creamy sweetness that keeps it from being overwhelming.”

You open your eyes to beam radiantly up at the older man, who returns your luminous smile with equal warmth. “It’s perfect, thank you! You have to try it.”

Without prompting, you eagerly offer the cup up to Toto. He accepts it with an indulgent chuckle, locking eyes with you as he takes a contemplative sip — no doubt eager to share in whatever fleeting moment of bliss the simple drink has brought you.

Unlike Max, who would have turned up his nose and likely received it with derision, Toto seems to savor the complex blend of flavors. Humming thoughtfully, he swipes his tongue across his upper lip as though committing each separate note to memory.

“You’re quite right, liebling,” he agrees readily, “this is delightful. So refreshing for this heat. I may have to acquire a taste for these iced coffees myself.”

You positively glow at his assessment, lighting up from within like a joyful little sun. Max is helpless before the storm of emotions suddenly ripping through him at the sight.

“Oh! That reminds me,” you chirp giddily, bouncing on the balls of your feet, “I was talking to the barista about maybe incorporating some other floral syrups for iced coffees too. Like rose or hibiscus! And maybe we could get her to try making those fun layered drinks with the espresso on the bottom-”

Toto’s deep belly laugh cuts off your stream of eager rambling. Without warning, he snakes an arm around your waist and tugs you flush against him once more. You let out a startled giggle as he buries his nose in the crook of your neck, lips brushing the feverish pulse point just beneath your jaw.

“You adorable thing,” he rumbles warmly, words slightly muffled against your skin as he presses a languid line of kisses along the sharp line of your jaw. “So enthusiastic about the simplest pleasures in life ...”

Pulling back, Toto lifts one hand to tenderly cradle the side of your face. You automatically nuzzle into his palm with a look of such smitten devotion that it makes Max’s heart stutter behind his ribcage. When Toto leans in to seal his lips over yours once more, the kiss is deep and thoroughly unhurried — as though the two of you have all the time in the world to savor this intimate little moment.

Max’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists, blunt nails biting crescent moons into his clammy palms. He should turn away, leave you to your blissful display with someone who so clearly appreciates you. Yet he remains rooted in place, unable to tear his eyes from the scene unfolding before him.

It’s like witnessing an alternate universe version of your shared lives play out in vivid, scorching detail.

In this reality, Toto is the one tenderly stroking the pad of his thumb over the elegant arch of your cheekbone as the two of you part, drinking in the sight of your passion-addled features hungrily. He is the one basking in the radiance of your bright and unrestrained joy. Celebrating each of your simple thrills, from the most frivolous of flavored coffees to the sensual graze of skin on skin.

And where does that leave Max? An outsider peering in at paradise with his face smeared against the glass, watching the warmth and affection he could never fully embrace slowly slip through his calloused fingers.

And my bed at three

The mattress shifts, the subtle movement rousing Max from his slumber. He cracks one eye open to find the space next to him empty, the sheets disheveled where you had lain.

A glance at the digital clock on the nightstand tells him it’s not yet 5 am. Where are you going at this hour?

He hears faint rustling from the living area of the hotel suite, followed by the soft click of the door. Groaning, he kicks off the covers and pads out of the bedroom, the plush carpet warm beneath his bare feet.

You’re sitting on the couch, slipping into a pair of flats. “What are you doing up so early?” He asks, his voice still husky from sleep.

You look up, startled. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” A soft smile plays on your lips. “I was going to watch the sunrise.”

Max rakes a hand through his tousled hair. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because it’s beautiful.” Your eyes sparkle with an excitement he can’t comprehend this early in the morning. “The colors, the way the light slowly creeps over the horizon — it’s just magical.”

He snorts. “It happens every day. Nothing magical about it.”

Your face falls ever so slightly, and it tugs at something in his chest. But the feeling is fleeting, replaced by annoyance at having his sleep disturbed for something so trivial. “So you didn’t want to join me, then?” You ask, almost timidly.

“And wake up before the ass-crack of dawn? No thanks.” He flops onto the couch beside you with a huff. “I was up until 3 am sim racing. Not all of us find staring at the sky such riveting entertainment.”

You say nothing, simply nodding as you avert your gaze. The light in your eyes has dimmed, and he feels a pang of guilt. But he shakes it off — it’s far too early for this kind of whimsical nonsense.

“Suit yourself,” he mutters. “I’m going back to bed.”

He doesn’t see the way your shoulders droop as he turns and trudges back towards the bedroom. Doesn’t see the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes before you blink them away and readjust the set of your jaw with determination.

Max burrows under the covers, fully intent on drifting back into oblivion. But sleep evades him, his mind buzzing with a peculiar restlessness. He punches his pillow into a more suitable shape, flips it over to the cool side, but still he lies awake, listening to the silence that fills the suite.

After what feels like an eternity, curiosity gets the better of him. He kicks off the covers once more and pads over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city street below. Sure enough, there you are, a tiny figure perched on a bench across the way, your face tipped up towards the slowly lightening sky.

Max leans his forehead against the cool glass, watching as the inky blackness of night gives way to soft shades of periwinkle and lilac. Slowly, the colors deepen into blazing pinks and vibrant oranges that streak across the heavens. The sky ignites in a brilliant blaze of crimson and gold, the clouds set afire by the rising sun.

And there you sit, bathed in the dawn’s ethereal glow, utterly transfixed. In this light, your features seem softer, more at peace than he’s seen you in a long while. A smile plays on your lips, genuine and unguarded, as you take in the spectacle unfolding before you.

Max finds himself holding his breath, as if the slightest movement might shatter the magic of this moment. He’s never seen you look more beautiful, more alive than in these fleeting minutes as day breaks over the city.

A rare pang of tenderness blooms in his chest, quickly overshadowed by a creeping sense of unease. He isn’t certain how much time has passed before the brilliant hues fade into the pale blue of morning, but eventually you rise from the bench, taking one last, lingering look at the sky before turning and disappearing from view.

Max exhales slowly, his breath fogging up the glass. He isn’t proud of how he dismissed your simple joy, that spark of wonderment at the little things that he so often takes for granted.

An emptiness settles in the pit of his stomach, the guilt heavier than before. How many other moments has he trampled on in his relentless pursuit of success?

He thinks of your radiant smile, how it lit up the pre-dawn gloom more vibrantly than the sunrise itself. With a sigh, Max turns away from the window, already dreading the apology he knows he owes you.

Because in that single, breathtaking moment, he realizes just how lucky he is to have someone like you in his life. Someone who can find magic in the mundane, beauty in the simple things he’s become blind to along the way.

Someone, Max fears, who may be too sweet for him.

***

Max gives up on sleep around 4:30 am, as he has for the past several weeks. Insomnia has become his constant, unwanted companion, leaving him tossing and turning until the first hints of dawn creep through the curtains. On nights like this, slumber remains persistently out of reach no matter how exhausted he feels.

He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling as the brightening sky slowly illuminates the room. It wasn’t always this way — he used to be able to sleep like the dead after a race weekend, knocked out by the physical and mental exertion. But lately, his mind refuses to shut off, thoughts swirling endlessly until his head pounds.

With a groan, Max kicks off the tangled sheets and drags himself out of bed. Maybe going for a run will quiet the racket in his brain, at least for a little while. He dresses quickly, lacing up his trainers and grabbing his earbuds before heading out into the semi-darkness.

The pre-dawn streets are blissfully empty as he starts off at an easy jog. He despises becoming one of those obnoxious morning people, but exhaustion has a way of stripping away one’s self-respect. If pounding the pavement before the rest of the world awakes is what it takes to catch a few hours of sleep, so be it.

His route takes him along the harbor, the gentle lapping of the waves against the seawall providing a soothing soundtrack. The first rays of sunlight glint off the glassy surface, and he finds himself averting his gaze, oddly resentful of the impending sunrise.

It wasn’t so long ago that he scoffed at your eagerness to greet each new day. But ever since you’ve been gone from his life, those brilliant, fleeting moments of beauty have begun to mock him at every turn.

He picks up his pace, as if he can outrun the rising sun and the flood of memories it brings. But there’s no escaping the vivid flashes of you, smiling radiantly as the world awakes in a blaze of fiery hues. Or the hollow ache that twinges somewhere beneath his rib cage whenever he’s reminded of just how little he appreciated you.

So lost is he in his circling thoughts that he nearly runs right into you, appearing abruptly on the path ahead. His trainers skid against the pavement as he grinds to a halt, his heart stammering in his chest.

“Max?” You blink up at him, clearly startled by his sudden presence.

He opens his mouth, an automatic apology rising to his lips — until his eyes zero in on the camera clutched in your hands. Of course. Still chasing sunrises after all these years.

A wry grin tugs at the corner of your mouth as you take in his rumpled running attire. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Max says nothing, his gaze flickering briefly towards the brightening horizon before fixing on you once more. You look … well, radiant as ever, lit by the soft morning glow. A small pang of something — longing, maybe — twists in his gut.

“Out enjoying another sunrise, I see,” he says at last, nodding towards the camera.

You glance down at it fondly. “Well, you know how it is. I have to capture them while I can.” A teasing lilt edges into your voice. “Not all of us are night owls.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I’ll never understand what’s so fascinating about watching the same thing happen day after day.”

“But that’s just it — each one is different. Unique and fleeting and … breathtaking.” Your eyes spark with that gentle wonderment he remembers so well, the sight sending a tremor through his chest. “Like getting a front row seat to the greatest show on Earth, but it’s one you’ll never see again.”

You trail off with a small shake of your head, seemingly at a loss to put the feeling into words. Max doesn’t need the explanation — he’s seen that look of childlike awe on your face more times than he can count.

An awkward silence stretches between you, laden with the weight of history and unspoken apologies. You shift your stance, mouth opening as if to say something more.

But Max cuts you off before you can get the words out, unable to bear whatever sentiments might cross those sweet lips of yours. “Toto not joining you this time?” He asks gruffly.

Your expression softens into a fond smile, and it’s like a physical blow to Max’s sternum. He knows that look, has been on the receiving end of it more times than he cares to remember. The way your entire being seems to brighten when you so much as think about someone you love.

“Ah, you know Toto — he’s more of a sunset person,” you say with a light laugh. “I’ve never been able to drag his grumpy butt out of bed for a sunrise.”

Even as his insides curdle with jealousy, Max can’t help the quirk of his lips at the mental image. He could all too easily picture Toto swatting irritably at you, burrowing deeper under the covers to escape the blasted sun.

“But we make it work,” you continue, that loving glow refusing to dim from your eyes. “I take photos of the sunrise to share with him later. And he does the same with the sunsets for me. That way, we both get to experience it in a way.”

The gentle sound of your voice washes over Max like a salve, momentarily easing the tangled knot of regret and longing that’s taken up permanent residence inside him. He watches, transfixed, as the early morning light bathes you in ethereal radiance.

In that moment, he sees it so clearly — the depth of give and take in your relationship with Toto. The effort, large and small, that you both put into nurturing one another’s happiness.

Even when your desires don’t perfectly align. Even when compromise is required.

It’s such a simple gesture, capturing those magical moments to share with your loved one. But it’s one Max was never willing to make when you were with him.

A lump forms in his throat as realization washes over him with unforgiving clarity. You weren’t too sweet for him, as he had so arrogantly assumed time and again. No — the truth, much harder to swallow, is that he was simply too sour for you.

Too selfish, too wrapped up in his own ambitions to make even the smallest concession. Too blind to recognize the magic in the simple things that brought you unbridled joy. Too bitter and jaded to embrace and nurture the beautiful nature that made you … well, you.

And now, after all his careless cruelties and wasted chances, he can only stand idly by and watch as someone else basks in the sweetness of your affection. As someone else goes out of their way, day after day, to put that blinding smile on your face and those stars in your eyes.

Something in Max’s chest cracks and crumbles at the injustice of it all. At the agonizing truth that he let the best thing in his life slip through his fingers, all because he couldn’t be bothered to change his sullen ways.

Because you were never too sweet for him … he was too sour for you.

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raspberrylemoncookie · 27 days ago

Note

"A basket of Jellies! They were originally for Black Sapphire cookie, and then he had this whole projection "I'm in another realm ooo spooky" thing and said I should drop em off here! So you can have them!"

Delivery for Prune Juice cookie! I'm just kidding, but I do have something for ya! And anyone else who wants it

- @raspberrylemoncookie

“And that delivery is..?”

#Raspberry Lemon's notes #Friends!/Cookie asks #beastly children au #crk au #rp blog #cookie run kingdom #cr kingdom #prune juice cookie

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rafesorchid · 24 days ago

Text

THE SWEETEST BREAKDOWN

how mechanic!rafe and baker!reader met <3

plot: when rafes motorcycle breaks down in front of a cozy little bakery, he doesn't expect the morning to be saved by a blueberry muffin and a baker with a soft smile and sass to match. one warm pastry and a folded-heart napkin later, he's wondering if fate stalled his bike for a reason

CONTENT: mild swearing, romantic tension, mild violence & emotional themes

have fun!

It was the smell of vanilla that hit him first.

Rafe wasn’t expecting to break down outside of a bakery. His bike had been running a little rough, but he figured he had at least another day before it completely gave out. Of course, it chose eight in the morning—right as the sun started pouring across the sleepy street—for its dramatic final act. With a sputter and hiss, it choked out and died at the curb. Rafe cursed under his breath, kicking the kickstand down and running a hand through his already messy hair. Great.

Across the street, you were adjusting the window display of your little bakery, rearranging croissants and raspberry thumbprints with practiced care. You’d opened only ten minutes ago, and already the air smelled like sugar and cinnamon and comfort. When you glanced up, you noticed the guy crouched next to a motorcycle, frowning like the world had wronged him. His white t-shirt was smudged in black, and his knuckles were stained like he’d been fighting engines—or demons.

You pushed open the door, the bell above it chiming softly as you leaned out. “Rough morning?” you called, eyebrows raised.

Rafe looked up, clearly surprised by the sound of your voice. His eyes flicked over you—soft sweater, apron with a little flour on the hem, gentle hands wrapped around a coffee mug like you belonged to a different kind of world. He blinked. “Rough year,” he answered, with a dry laugh. “But yeah. Bike’s being a piece of—”

“Language,” you teased, a smile tugging at your lips. “This is a wholesome establishment.”

He cracked a grin despite himself. “Wholesome, huh? You hand out cookies to strangers or just sass?”

You shrugged. “Depends. You want a cookie?”

Rafe hesitated. He wasn’t the kind of guy people usually offered things to. Not without an attitude or an agenda. “I mean, I’m not gonna say no.”

You disappeared inside, only to return a moment later with a warm paper bag and a napkin folded neatly into a heart. “Blueberry muffin. Fresh. And a little napkin art. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He took it like it was breakable, the warmth from the bag bleeding into his callused palms. “You always this nice to guys stranded on your sidewalk?”

“Only the ones with sad eyes and oil on their jeans,” you said, leaning on the doorframe.

Rafe sat on the curb, unwrapped the muffin, and took a bite. It was stupid good. Soft, buttery, with a hint of lemon zest. His jaw worked for a second as he chewed, and then, “Damn.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He looked up at you again—really looked. “You got a name, or am I just gonna call you muffin girl forever?”

You chuckled, told him your name, and asked for his.

“Rafe,” he said simply, and that was it. Just a quiet name hanging in warm air between you.

You stayed at the door for a few more seconds, watching him eat like he hadn’t had anything decent in days. Maybe he hadn’t. You didn’t ask. But you did reach into your apron pocket, pull out a sugar cookie wrapped in wax paper, and toss it his way. “In case the day keeps getting worse.”

He caught it midair with a smirk. “Only if I get to come back tomorrow.”

You tapped your fingers against the doorframe, a playful light in your eyes. “We’ll see if you earn it, Rafe.”

And you swore, from the way he looked at you then, like he’d never been offered something that simple and kind before—that maybe, just maybe, he’d be back whether his bike broke down or not.

authors note!

tehe i hope you, my sweet beautiful people, had fun reading the first blurbish drabble for mechanic!rafe x baker!reader <3

#baker!reader x mechanic!rafe #mechanic!rafe #baker!reader #rafe fluff #rafe x you #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe fanfiction #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx #rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #fyp #fypシ

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dreamingofaizawa · 2 months ago

Text

Pretty Young Thing

Retired!Older! Kakashi Hatake x AFAB!Kunoichi! Reader

***This piece is rated M for MATURE. 18+ entry only***

Warnings: Age gap (like 20+ years dude fr it's a GAP), longing, Kakashi being smitten, Kakashi being awkward and emotionally constipated, penetrative sex (p in v), fingering, cum eating, pussy slapping, creampies (wrap it before you tap it, people), squirting, overstimulation, VERY BRIEF dd/lg dynamic (I COULDN'T RESIST I'M SORRY)

Word Count: 4.5k

Author's Note: So. This was SUPPOSED to be a short drabble about Kakashi getting older and retiring and being interested in a cute, young, you. However, I couldn't stop my brain from braining and my hands from typing. It was gonna be less than 500 words. I don't know WHAT possessed me, but here I am.

ENJOY~

He's been forced into retirement. At least, that's what he tells everyone for the first few years, unable to fight the urge to get out in the field at every opportunity and being shot down. He sticks around the academy, and they allow him to still teach and help the next generation of ninja grow into well-rounded shinobi, for two reasons: he's an incredibly skilled and talented ninja that can pass on all of his skills, and he goes absolutely stir crazy trying to find something to do with his life after finishing Icha Icha.

Truthfully, he'd finished the series within the first 48 hours of his retirement, then re-read the damn series twice over before he finally got sick of it all. He couldn't take the lack of, well, anything.

Throughout his life he's fought countless battles, lost loved ones, and even the war took its toll on his body and his mind. But he misses it. Misses the action, misses the rush and the thrill. He's restless. His fingers twitch when he's sitting for too long, his legs bouncing and tapping on the floor when he's stood still in the kitchen waiting for a meal to finish on the stove. Even cooking can't seem to keep him occupied enough.

But he manages, eventually. Runs and works out in almost all of his free time, waking up at the crack of dawn to train himself for nothing every morning. Cooks every single meal and even bakes more desserts than he could possibly eat in his lifetime, brings all of his extra cupcakes and pies to his students when he finally has a new class. Not a team, no, he's been relegated to indoor classroom settings only. Nothing that could get him out in the field. And he tries to read new books. Nothing really catches his eye though, not enough to gerner his attention like he needs it to.

But then you show up.

You, a pretty young thing that's moved from the Hidden Mist village to come teach the young about your own village's history. It's part of the new initiative Naruto put in, once he'd finally reached his dream of becoming Hokage and got the village back in order. You're part of a group of eight shinobi, two from each major village, who were assigned to Konoha to begin a sort of fusion between the villages. Eight of the leaf's shinobi were sent out to the other villages as well.

He'd only managed to notice you while he was dropping off some of those extra desserts he'd made to occupy his time. You caught his eye like sunlight through stained glass, displaying to the students a few water-style jutsu that the Mist had perfected long ago and passed down through generations. He was mesmerized. You moved like the tides, body fluid like water, graceful and powerful. Clearly you'd mastered these techniques on an entirely different level, the motions so fluent you could probably do them in your sleep.

That's all it took for him to latch onto you. He's infatuated, really. After watching the demonstration, he actually offers you and your students the lemon-raspberry cookies he'd made last night. He talked with you for what must have been hours after that, all your classes having finished for the day and you strolled through Konoha. It was your first day, you'd said, and you were still trying to figure out the layout of the village.

"It's a lot bigger than the Mist. I didn't know what to expect if I'm being honest. I got here yesterday afternoon, and got lost on the way to school this morning." You laugh then, and he finds himself laughing with you. He offers to give you an escort whenever you find yourself needing one, offers to show you all the good food and the prettiest spots to laze in the sun.

It's about three months in that he finds himself actively looking for you during his morning run through the village. Not around the village, not anymore, ever since you'd moved here. He changed his entire running route to be able to spot you if you'd gotten lost, and then detoured to get you back on the path to school. Hell, he even walks you all the way to the front door of your classroom.

It takes him far too long to admit to himself that he's developing romantic feelings for you.

And he's a little ashamed about the whole thing.

He knows he's getting older, mid-late forties, dangerously close to fifty but he won't admit that to anyone if they ask. If his hair weren't already white, it'd be noticeably graying. His body's gotten just a little softer with age, but he stays as active as he can. He won't deny he's no spring chicken.

But you're young, maybe a little over half his age, can't be older than thirty. It's...strange. You're younger than any of Team 7, who he considers his children, but somehow you've circumvented that entirely. Maybe it's because he hadn't watched you grow up, maybe it's because you seem so accomplished and put-together, maybe it's because he still feels like he's a younger man than he is. But it's strange.

It's strange, and he feels a little guilty, especially when he's all alone late at night and his mind wanders a little too far back to Icha Icha. Especially when he's tenting his boxers and rubbing one out to ease the tension and suddenly all he can see in his mind is you. Especially when the post-nut clarity hits him like a truck, because he knows what people say and think about an age gap that large.

"When have you ever cared about what other people think, Kakashi?" Yamato tilts his head, pulling the emptying bottle of sake from his white-haired friend's hands.

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

"Besides, if it helps at all, here's what I think. I think you're both fully grown adults, and as long as she actually wants to be in a relationship and you don't force her hand, there's absolutely nothing wrong with it." Kakashi's head hits the back of the cracked leather seat of the booth, a short sigh escaping him. Yamato is right.

And then he's yearning for you. Looking for your face everywhere, seeking you out whenever he finds another class to teach, visiting you after you finish your classes to drop off another tray of sweets. He's walked you home more times than he can count now, and he's watched your eyes light up as the sun sets behind the treeline and paints the sky in brilliant orange and pink hues. You'd never seen such beautiful sunsets. You say the Hidden Mist is always cloudy or shrouded in a thick fog, so the sky is always gray unless the sun is at its peak and can shine down enough to break through the mist.

He loves watching you watch the sun set. He loves watching you teach the kids. He loves watching you perform jutsu he's never seen before. He loves walking you to class every morning even though you already know your way around the village by now. He loves being in your presence, and hearing your voice, and seeing you smile and hearing you laugh at all his stupid jokes.

He's so far gone. The worst part is that he won't do anything about it. Because there's no way a pretty, young thing like you could be any kind of interested in someone like him. Aged, retired, his lease on life far from new. Not a chance you'd even consider him a suitor in any fashion.

Right?

"Hey, Kakashi?" He hums in response, walking alongside you as you two take a stroll after school. It's a route you two take often, after he'd shown you the best spots to watch the sky at sunset.

"You go running every morning, don't you? To keep in shape?" Another hum, but this time he's looking at you and your strangely mischievous expression. To your credit, you're trying your absolute hardest to keep your face neutral as you plan out your next moves.

"Why do you ask?" You shrug, but it's far from nonchalant. It's forced, as if you needed to pretend to be indifferent. You're scheming.

"Oh, no reason."

"Right." He doesn't believe you. Even as you lapse into silence for a few minutes, he can see the way your entire body is coiled, ready to take off like a spooked rabbit. But you're not afraid, no, you're excited about something. Then, you stop in your tracks, and face him head-on. His head tilts, and you reach out with one hand, your entire palm laying flat on his chest where his heart beats entirely too fast for the pace you'd been walking at. And your smile. It's so sweet, so innocent, and the little giggle that slips out makes his head light.

"Tag, you're it!" Then you're gone. He blinks, and you've vanished, having initiated a game he hasn't played in years. He can see you, still, where you're watching from a tree branch nearby. You wait to see if he'll chase, see if he's actually feeling up to this little game. His head snaps over to you and you wave over at him, wiggling your fingers. His heart races in his chest, his fingers trembling, his feet stepping toward the treeline.

He's excited. His body moves before his mind can really make the executive decision, and he's standing beside you on your branch. But only briefly, and you're gone again before he can reach out and tag you. His vision narrows, watching you as you slip away from him once he gives chase. It's exhilarating, stimulating his years of trained reflexes and triggering his muscle memory like nothing in the classroom or proctoring chunin exams could ever do. He doesn't even realize where the two of you end up when you finally stop and let his hand come down on your shoulder.

You giggle again, and it makes him freeze, his chest heaving and nerves buzzing. But he doesn't move to run after tagging you.

"You've still got it, old man." It's...are you...teasing him? Yes, he realizes, you are. Because you turn around and face him and lay your palm over his heart again with the sweetest little grin.

"Care to come inside?" He swallows around the lump in his throat, blinking down at you as you chew at your bottom lip. Cute. He can't speak, so he nods, and then his heart leaps into his throat when you laugh and slip your hand into his, lacing your fingers together to pull him into your apartment which he's only just now realized you'd stopped in front of.

"Don't be so nervous, Kakashi. I promise I'll be good and give your poor heart a break." That is an extremely dangerous thing for you to say at the moment, his restraint suddenly wearing thinner than rice paper. It makes him stop once you've dragged him inside, his head spinning suddenly with all the depraved thoughts running through his mind. And you, sweet thing you are, look confused and almost concerned as you look back at him, look up at him, where he's stuck in your entryway.

"Are you alright?" You reach up to place the back of your hand on his forehead, but he flinches away and grabs your wrist in his own large hand.

"Kakashi?" His breathing is shallow, his heart still going a mile a minute, his fingers tightening around your wrist. He can feel your own pulse, and he swears it's nearly as fast as his.

"Just give me a second, sweetheart. I'm trying to be a gentleman." The worry drops off your face like a dead weight. He can just barely see the corner of your mouth tug into a wicked smile.

"Maybe I don't want you to be a gentleman." Those eyes snap to yours in an instant, and...is that lust decorating your features? There's no way...

You're stepping toward him, and he steps back, releasing your wrist as you back him against the door.

"Maybe I want you to get naked in my bed." The words have him sweating. He chuckles, a nervous sound really.

"I thought you were going to give my heart a break." You hum, lean into his space and rest both palms on his chest, fingers spreading just to feel him. You sigh dramatically, turning back into your home and striding away with an extra sway to your hips. Pure temptation is what you are.

"I guess, being as old as you are you need a break huh? That poor ticker of yours is gonna give out if you're not careful." The way you eye him as you walk away has a tent forming in his pants. Fuck. You're right, his heart's gonna explode but it's not going to be from old age. He steps toward you, following you like a damn puppy, all the way to your bedroom where you turn and face him once again, a devious smile on your pretty lips.

"If I haven't made myself clear enough, Kakashi, here's another hint." He can't shut his eyes when you begin to undress in front of him. He wants so badly to give you privacy, to be a damn gentleman like he said. You're making that impossible. You're naked, completely bared to him and his gaze, dressed in nothing but pure sin. He doesn't back away when you approach him this time.

"You're a smart man, Kakashi. You've got all the information you need in that handsome head of yours. The question is: will you use that information to your advantage tonight?" He swallows, heat crawling over his skin the closer you get. Your naked breasts are pressing into his shirt and his fingers are itching to touch you.

"I don't want to take advantage of anything. Especially you." The admission makes you smile as you reach over and grasp his hands, tugging them and laying them on your very naked hips.

"Honestly, it feels like I'm the one taking advantage of you, with how little you're reacting to all of this." Thick fingers twitch, digging into your skin, and you loop your arms around his neck. He's going to die, and he won't even be mad about it.

Then he feels it, the slight tremor in your fingertips where they graze the hairs at his nape. There's the tiniest shake to your legs, the slightest pinch in your brows. Your bottom lip is being chewed once again, your jaw trembling. You're nervous. You're nervous like he is, waiting for him to reciprocate any of what you're giving him. Fuck. He's done for.

The little gasp you let out when he grasps your hips and twists, pinning you to the wall, fuels all of his movements. He's gained a new confidence.

"You're so pretty. Fuck, I can't believe this is real." You gasp again as he yanks his mask down and buries his face in your neck, licking up your pulsepoint and sucking a bruise into your skin.

"Fucking finally. You don't even know how long I've been dying to get you in here, Kakashi." He groans into you as you claw at his clothes, disrobing him as much as you can from where you're stuck beneath his palms.

"Oh yeah? You been thinking about me, pretty girl?" You nod, whine, unbutton his shirt and tug it down his shoulders. When he pulls back to look at you, you practically drool. He's still fit, sure, but there's a softness to him that you find irresistable. The layer of fat makes his gut pudge just a bit, and his arms are still bulging muscle but they're softened by time. He's bigger than you'd expected, wider and stronger and beefier.

"I want you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name." He almost cums in his pants, like a goddamn teenage virgin. All reservations are thrown promptly out the nearest window, his lips on yours in an instant. His hands are all over you, toying with your nipples and squeezing the flesh of your ass. Yours are in his hair, and he lifts you with ease only to drop you onto the bed. You whine when your bodies part, but then you watch him yank his belt off in record time and drop both his trousers and boxers to the floor.

He watches as your pupils dilate and black swallows up your irises.

What a fucking ego boost, huh?

You're about to crawl toward him, you desperately want to feel him in your throat, want to claw at his thighs and feel his fingers tug roughly at your hair as you suck him dry. Instead he crawls over you and pins you to the bed with one hand at your throat.

"Oh no, not tonight baby. I won't last." He kisses your pout away, then sucks more marks into your throat as he reaches down between your legs with thick fingers. The moan you let out has his hips jerking forward, one finger slipping effortlessly into your slick heat. You're absolutely drenched. You whine again, rocking your hips into his hand.

"Don't tease, 'Kashi. Please." Well when you beg so nicely, how could he refuse? A second finger is added, then a third, and when he curls them up and uses his thumb to rub circles into your swollen clit, your whole body arches off the sheets as your breath is nearly punched from your lungs. It doesn't take long at all before you're cumming all over his fingers, soaking his hand and your bed.

"Fuck, do that again, pretty thing." Legs shaking, chest heaving as you gasp for air, skin dewy with sweat from the quickest orgasm of your life. He's already moving, yanking you to the edge of the bed, ignoring your yelp completely as he kneels before you. You whine when you realize the position he's in.

"No fair." He chuckles, and you jolt, his breath hot over your still sensitive pussy.

"Sorry, sweetness. I can't help myself. Be a good girl and cum on my tongue." Then he's eating you out like you're his last meal. His nose nudges your clit with every movement, his deep moans vibrate through your body, and when his fingers find your clit again to give it some much-needed attention, you're falling apart again. Just like he asked. He can see everything from this angle, the way your thighs twitch as they clamp around his head, the way your stomach clenches so tight as you cum, the way your neck is completely exposed as your back arches beautifully off the bed. Sweat glistens over your skin, your hands clawing at his hair and the sheets beside your head.

He's too close to cumming.

Satisfied that you're wiped out, he crawls back over you and swipes a few stray strands of hair from your sweaty forehead. You're still trembling, two quick orgasms in a row making you feel like an exposed nerve ending.

"You okay, baby?" It takes you a second to refocus, but when you do you're beaming.

"Yeah, I'm great. Still want you to fuck me, though." He groans.

"You can't say things like that, love. I'll burst before I get near you." You chuckle, lay your head to the side.

"That's hot. Let me guess, you'll have to use a little blue pill to recover after that?" You damn minx. There's a little shriek that escapes you when he flips you over and yanks your hips up, pinning your face to the bed with one hand in your hair as he hunches over you.

"Careful, little girl, teasing me is dangerous. Wouldn't want to break you so soon." Desperate is how he'd describe your responding moan. With his dick pressed up against your cunt, he feels the way it clenches.

"Break me." Fuck. Fuck. In one hard thrust he's buried deep in your heat, your cunt gripping tight around him for dear life as you moan. He's not small, and the stretch has your eyes rolling back in your head, has your toes curling and your spine coiling tight.

He refuses to cum before you do. He's got an iron will, he refuses to cum early.

You're gasping as his hips slam into the fat of your ass, all the strength he possesses powering every thrust, hands bruising your hips as they claw into your skin like anything less would rip you away from him. He can see your face reddening. You've been fucked so dumb you forgot to breathe, and somehow that makes his cock throb inside you. He stills, curling over your back and burying himself so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. Your eyes roll back into your skull almost painfully as he brushes your hair from your face, leaves a sweet little kiss on your cheek.

"Breathe, sweetheart. Can't have you passing out on me yet." Your gasp is shuddering, lungs barely inflating with the hiccupping breaths you take.

"There you go. Such a good girl for me, aren't you?" Then you're gone. He can feel you clench around his cock, feel your entire body go stiff and tremble as you cum. It's not a full orgasm, but it's intense, and you've been tipped right over the edge by the praise he'd whispered into your ear.

You're gone, and then he's gone.

He thrusts twice before letting go, filling you up with so much cum it leaks from between your legs and trails down the insides of your thighs in thick rivulets. You're still shaking as he pulls out of you and flips you over, petting your body as you come back down. Tears had fallen at some point, streaking your skin.

"How are you feeling, baby?" Your legs are trembling as you let them fall apart, exposing yourself to him again. The sight of you, absolutely ruined, his cum leaking from your cunt, has his cock painfully jumping to life again, just barely.

"Feel good. So good." Then, being the little temptress you are, you reach down between your legs and finger his cum back into you, moaning and jolting at the sensitivity. Then you bring your fingers to your lips and suck both your juices off the digits, not breaking eye contact with him.

"It's incredible how you can still want more after that." You whine, but smile.

"Of course I want more. I always want more of you. But you don't have to give me any more if you're not feeling up to it." He hums, low and throaty. It sends a very visible shiver up your spine.

"I didn't say that, baby." Effortlessly, he scoops you up and sits up against the headboard, tucking you into his lap with your legs spread over his. One of his massive arms bars over yours, pinning you against his chest while the other hand reaches down and begins toying with your clit. You jolt, still sensitive, squirming to try to get away from his deft fingers.

"What happened to always wanting more?" It's a tease to finally get back at you. It's his turn now, to fluster you and pull you apart. When you don't stop squirming and whining, his palm pulls away and comes back down, a swift smack catching your clit and you squeal.

"Stay still, baby girl. I'm only giving you what you wanted. Greedy little thing you are, don't back out on me now." You sob, your breathing hiccupped and quick while he rubs slow, deliberate circles over the sensitive bud, and you shake your head.

"Not backing out. Feels good, daddy." His hips buck, his moan is loud in your ear, guttural and wrecked. He didn't even think he'd like that kind of thing, but you. Damn it all. He smacks your pussy again, just a little harder, and your moans are matching his as your body recoils and arches as far off of his as you can manage beneath his brute strength. Another smack, another moan, you're shaking again. He's hard again. Harder than he's been in a long time, the throb in his dick constant and needy. He lifts your hips and lines up with you, then sinks you down on his length. You're crying, his dick curving up into your g-spot so well and his fingers toying with your clit making you dizzy.

"Come on, babygirl. Come on daddy's cock again, be good for me." He smacks your clit again, and he can feel every clench and flutter of your cunt around him. You're so close. He brings his hand down again, targeting your poor, swollen clit, his other hand dropping to press into the pouch of your stomach where he can feel his own dick through your belly, and that's all it takes for you to fall apart all over again. But this time, you're screaming, your body thrashing so hard he's having a hard time keeping you against his chest, and warm liquid sprays over his thighs and pools down over his balls. It all has him coming undone as well, a single low grunt before he's shoving his dick deep inside you and emptying whatever he's got left.

Then you're both boneless, panting, sweaty messes on your bed. It takes a long time for either of you to move, the sweat cooling over your bodies and making you both sticky. He thinks maybe you've fallen asleep, but is proven wrong when you whimper as you shift, his soft cock slipping from your cunt and making him hiss from the sensitivity. You roll over, off of him, and lay your head on his chest. Your laugh is light, but riddles with exhaustion.

"I think I almost died there, Kakashi." He snorts out a laugh, tugging you close.

"Glad I can make you feel good. You don't regret any of this?" It's adorable, how you tilt your head in confusion, lift yourself to hover above him.

"Why would I?" He shuts his eyes for the admission.

"I'm not exactly young, sweetheart. A lot of people would say I'm too old for you." You scoff, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Like I give a damn what they think. I'm old enough to know what I want, and I'm also old enough to make my own decisions." One eye peeks open, staring up at you with more than a little hesitation. You only roll your eyes.

"If I didn't want this, I wouldn't have stripped naked in front of you in my own bedroom. Come on, I thought you were smarter than this Kakashi. Isn't old age supposed to come with wisdom?" He groans, dragging a hand down his face.

"Enough with the damn old jokes. It makes me feel..."

"Old?" He deadpans, you laugh.

"Okay, okay. I'll stop. For now." His sigh is heavy, but you know he loves the teasing. You lean down once again to give him a peck on the lips, then pry yourself from his grasp and yank him to stand with you.

"Come on, we gotta shower and I gotta change the sheets." His hum is amused as he looks back at the mess you made, then back at you as you drag him toward what he assumes is the bathroom.

#this was supposed to be a SFW DRABBLE #WTF HAPPPENED? I DON'T KNOW #WHERE DID THE SMUT COME FROM? I ALSO DON'T KNOW #hatake kakashi #kakashi smut #kakashi x reader #kakashi hatake #kakashi naruto #naruto smut

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cheol-e-kat · 2 months ago

Note

coffee shop and forbidden relationship with seungcheol from bingo please! 🙏🏻🥺

also congratulations 🎉💐🤍

hiii anon, sorry, i know you didn't pick a nsfw square, but i made up for that - also to all of the other anons who have been looking for more alpha!seungcheol - hereeee he is, hope you like him this time too...also this is part 1

♡ kat

[ master list ] [ part ii ]

bingo squares: coffee shop + forbidden relationship

Pairing: choi seungcheol / f!reader

summary: seungcheol shouldn’t have a crush on another alpha, but he can’t help the way he feels about y/n, but he also wonders if maybe it doesn't matter

word count: 2.7 k

genre: a/b/o au (omegaverse), coffee shop au, college au, alpha!seungcheol

Rating: 18+, MDNI, explicit

warnings and author's note explaining some omegaverse stuff below cut

warnings: explicit language, drinking, mentioned bitching, fingering, exhibitionism

a/n: just some omegaverse (a/b/o) housekeeping

generally in omegaverse, alphas are not written as being able to have children (even if they are female in all ways, their second gender - alpha - determines their ability to have children, i.e., they are sterile), so alpha males generally don’t pursue other alphas, they pursue omegas (omegas are able to have children).

So this is the ‘forbidden’ relationship setup - alpha x alpha

‘Bitching’ refers to making an alpha into an omega, usually through a lot of sex with another alpha - it’s often used as a non-con element in fics (it’s not used that way here - or I would have marked this as non-con - I’m explaining these definitions and tropes upfront, that’s all - this is not non-con or dub-con).

Seungcheol couldn’t help that he liked y/n. He knew he was supposed to find some cute omega to be with, but he had yet to meet a single omega who set off every alpha sense he had the way y/n did.

He knew the moment he met her, when he walked into the coffee shop and the scent of sugared raspberries and apple mint slapped him in the face, that he wanted her as his mate - his full mate - all the fancy ceremonies, everything, no question - he wanted her to be his and for him to be hers.

He’d been meeting Joshua there, and just standing in line had made him antsy because he knew the scent was hers, and the closer they got to the head of the line, the more nervous he was. He wasn’t sure that he had even really placed an order or if Joshua had stepped in and saved him from being an absolute bumbling mess.

He hadn’t been able to think about anything else the rest of the day. Even when he had finished his coffee in class, he practically growled at Joshua for trying to throw away the cup - as long as her scent still lingered, he was keeping it. Lying in bed that first night, Seungcheol felt certain that he knew just how silky her hair would feel against his skin and how delicious she would taste.

The only problem he had was that he had never really had to try when it came to attracting omegas. They always seemed to find him. They all seemed to think it was cute that he smelled just a bit like cherries. He had never been out and been alone for any serious amount of time - there was always someone who wanted to sit in his lap. And he sometimes wondered if some of them didn’t keep a calendar of when his ruts were because they sometimes seemed to know before he did.

But no matter how many times he went to get coffee, y/n didn’t react the way he expected. She didn’t ask him to meet her in the bathroom or the breakroom or give him her number or any of the things he was used to. She knew his order and how to spell his name. She smiled when she said ‘hi,’ and sometimes she asked how his day was. She had called him cute once, when he wanted the mango lemon square thing they had and had tapped on the glass a little too much. But the only thing he could consider flirting were the little smiley faces or hearts she drew next to his name when she wrote it almost every morning. It was the tiniest gesture.

But he literally had a desk drawer overflowing with all of the cup sleeves she had written his name on. He could pull them out and stare at the progression from smiley faces to just a few with hearts to the return of smiley faces, and finally to only hearts. He definitely preferred the hearts. Even if they were purely random - he wanted the little hearts.

Really though, he wanted the girl drawing the hearts - he wanted to pull her over the counter and fuck her while everyone else waited in line until they were finished. Privacy was his last concern some mornings when he was feeling particularly desperate for her attention.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

It wasn’t until he was out with Mingyu and whatever omega he was with that night, that Seugcheol ever considered that y/n didn’t act like an omega because she wasn’t an omega.

Seungcheol had seen y/n standing to the side, sipping a drink and talking to a friend. He watched her, jealous of everything from her friend to her drink straw. He couldn’t help that he loved seeing her out - he loved when she dressed in skirts that were just short enough for him to imagine hiking them up and pushing her panties to the side and eating her the way he wanted.

He heard the omega laugh, “Why is he paying attention to her? She’s an alpha too.”

He had glanced at the omega, “Who’s an alpha?”

She stared at him like he was an idiot before answering, “Y/n - she’s an alpha - you know, as in useless to you, unless she’s down for bitching,” she smiled as she delivered the snide remark.

Seungcheol stared for a moment, slightly shocked that she had even mentioned bitching, but still letting what she said wash over him.

Mingyu, though, laughed nervously, “I think you need a drink,” and was immediately pulling the omega out of Seungcheol’s range.

Seungcheol stayed where he was, reeling from the random fact that had been dropped on him. He had never thought y/n might be an alpha, and even if she were, she was the sweetest smelling alpha he had ever met. He glanced up again, finding her quickly, despite the low light. He tried to see her differently, as in not the person he wanted to mark - he tried to make his mind see her as another alpha.

But even in the crush of alphas and omegas and all the scents that swirled around him, Seungcheol could easily pick hers. He could follow it like a trail if he wanted. He was surprised to see her glance at him then. More surprising was the small smile she gave him and the way she held his gaze for a few moments before glancing back to her friend.

He realized quickly that he didn’t care if she was an alpha - he wanted who he wanted, especially when her gaze returned to him and lingered. He watched her finish her drink and leave her friend to get a new one. He got up too, following her to the bar. As he walked behind her, he tried to see what about her would make anyone think she was an alpha.

He had met female alphas, and they were like female omegas, some were hot, some were fun, some were annoying - females were females to him. Especially beautiful ones with long hair that filled his dreams. He loved the way her hips swayed as she walked. He wished he could walk up behind her and slide his arm around her waist and nuzzle close to her - he wanted to scent her so no one else would even look at her the rest of the night, or tomorrow even if he did it right.

He stood next to her though. She glanced at him, and he watched her smile.

“Hi, Seungcheol,” she spoke just loud enough for him to hear her.

He smiled, “Hi, y/n.”

She smiled again and picked up two drinks, “I only know your coffee order, so I took a guess,” she held a drink out to him.

It crossed his mind that an omega would never buy a drink for an alpha, not unless they were together. And even then. He took the drink, noticing the cherry and orange peel sitting on top of the cup - he wondered how he smelled to her, as he sipped the drink and it hit him, the drink - that was how he smelled to her. Cognac, and bitters, and the slightest sweetness.

“Good?” she asked, watching him.

He nodded, reaching out to let his fingers skim along her hip.

She bit her lip gently, “You aren’t like I thought you would be.”

He watched her and leaned closer, “How should I be?” he asked, letting his arm snake around her waist, pulling her closer.

She smiled - he watched the way her cheeks flushed, “Um, just,” she paused, and he could feel her hand on his shoulder, “you kind of have a reputation,” she offered, her fingertips tracing along his shoulder.

“I do?” he asked, smiling - he knew exactly what she meant.

She nodded, humming positively in response.

“Is it that bad?” he asked, tone more serious.

She shook her head, “I just didn’t think I would be buying you a drink, you know,” she whispered, her voice playful.

He realized how close he was holding her - how warm she was - how incredible she smelled and felt.

He leaned down, “Come home with me?” he asked, not hesitating.

She turned, and she was so close to him then - he tried to take her in. But her eyes had gone a bit wider. He suddenly felt like he had said the wrong thing.

He blushed, “Sorry,” he blurted out before she could answer him.

She bit back a laugh - he felt her fingers trace through his hair, “You’re so cute for me.”

He blushed harder, pursing his lips - he was the loser between them - she was the hot one and he was the loser that everyone looked at with curiosity because ‘him with her?’

“Not the bathroom?” she asked, her smile faded - he felt like she was teasing him, but she sounded game too.

He might have been getting hard, but it didn’t matter - he shook his head. Maybe if she were someone else the bathroom would suffice, but she wasn’t someone else.

Every surface in his apartment - yes, please, he would beg on his knees.

Dirty club bathroom with stalls that locked only through thoughts and prayers - only if she wanted it there.

He barely felt the way her hand had slid between them, but he unquestionably felt the way she palmed him through his pants. It was like there was no one else besides them when she touched him - her perfect, slender fingers tracing along his cock, while she pressed a delicate kiss just beneath his jaw. He sighed, glancing and realizing they were still surrounded. He didn’t want anyone else around.

He reached down, catching her jaw gently before she made him groan like he was the one in heat, “Not here, baby girl.”

She nodded, “Then take me home.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

He kept his arm around her as they left together.

The issue that grew in his mind while they grabbed a cab to his, was the fact that he needed to remember everything about how it felt the first time they fucked. He wouldn’t be satisfied if there was a single moan he couldn’t recall the next day. That sentiment didn’t seem to stop him from playing with the hem of her skirt, pushing it just a little bit higher and higher - he could smell how wet she was for him. He felt her hand catch his just as his fingertips swiped against the crotch of her panties.

“Cute,” she whispered.

He grinned, “Cute when I rail you too, right?”

She kissed his cheek, “You want me too much right now for that,” she whispered.

“Do I?” he pulled her hand closer to him, his fingers shifting to slot between hers.

She nodded, “You would have already done it if that were what you wanted with me,” she smiled, knowingly - she was so certain.

He pressed the tip of his tongue hard against the inside of his cheek. She wasn’t wrong, though.

Even when they were in his apartment, he hesitated. She was in front of him, sitting on the countertop, he was between her legs - he could fuck her there - she was wet and needy. He wanted to fuck but couldn’t seem to get past how good it felt just to kiss her. Or the way she tasted. Or the idea of her in his bed and how good his sheets would smell.

She finally grabbed him, holding his cheeks gently, she stared at him for a moment, “You just want me next to you in bed, don’t you? And not to fuck, at least not tonight.”

He flushed brightly and couldn’t help but nod.

She whined softly, “fuck,” she whispered, sounding distraught, “I should go.”

He grabbed her before she could move, “Why?”

“Because, I kept telling myself you weren’t into me - that you’re just naturally cute,” she trailed off.

He blinked slowly, “Why wouldn’t I be? Because you’re an alpha?”

She looked up at him, a shocked look on her face, “Why do you think I’m an alpha?”

“Someone told me”—

“That I’m an alpha?” She sounded even more confused the second time she asked.

He shrugged, “I mean you’ve never acted like other omegas around me.”

She sighed, “I’m guessing you’ve never met a sigma?”

He’d heard of sigmas - he knew they were rare, or he thought they were. He shook his head all the same.

“We don’t,” she sighed, “I like being chased - I like flirting with you, drawing little hearts and stuff, hoping you notice and like magically talk to me just because I daydream about you.”

He could feel her hand tracing along the center of his chest. “Then why would you leave when I’m saying I noticed?”

“Because I’m not what you think I am,” she sounded uncertain, “I’m way braver when I’ve been drinking,” she whispered, glancing at him shyly.

He watched her, realizing he was maybe wrong - she turned him into a dork, and he made her shy, at least when she was sober. He, on the other hand, was hopeless either way.

He pressed closer, not wanting any distance between them, “So stay the night,” he kissed her cheek, “at least let me scent you so no one else talks to you.”

She seemed more uncertain than he was comfortable with.

“Please don’t make me admit how down bad I am,” he whispered.

“You just admitted you want to scent me,” she said, smiling.

He shrugged, “Because I do.”

She leaned against him, “Can I shower? And borrow clothes?”

He tried to be calm, “Yeah, of course.”

He wondered if she could feel how fast his heart was beating.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

He tried not to think about her naked in his bathroom and checked his phone instead. His gc had exploded - all questions for him - down to “who’s top?”

He rolled his eyes, not in the mood for his friends. Food, though, he could eat.

He was scrolling menus when the door opened. He hated that he was too engrossed in a burger menu to look up, but he was happy when she sat next to him. He had never been around her when her scent wasn’t blended with other things, coffee, other people’s.

He gave her his phone, asking for her to pick while he nuzzled against her throat. She gasped softly when he couldn’t resist pressing his teeth against her skin. He didn’t mark her, but he wanted her to know how he felt.

“Are you dying for a burger?”

“No,” he mumbled.

He knew she had placed an order when he felt both of her hands on him. They made out for a few minutes, but he pulled back - he checked his phone and saw the delivery time.

“I should shower, too.”

But he looked down to see her in his t-shirt and boxers. He bit his lip lightly, glancing up at her.

She just smiled.

“Do sigmas nest?”

She laughed, “It’s not that time for me,” she answered, still smiling.

“Still.” He ran his hands along her sides and down her hips. “I like that you’re in my apartment - in my room - in my bed, and I really like that you’re only dressed in my clothes.”

She gave him a light push, “Go shower - it’s not like you’re going to let me open the door to some stranger.”

He imagined for a moment if she were wearing more clothes and shook his head, “Nope, but seriously, make my bed smell like you, please?” he asked.

“You really are this cute, aren’t you?”

He nodded, “And possessive.”

She grinned, “I did get that impression.”

He smiled, leaning down to kiss her again.

She caught his shirt lightly before he pulled away, “I liked when we were in the cab though, what you were doing to me - before I’m too embarrassed to tell you,” she murmured.

He watched her blush as she said it - he nodded, wondering how the stars had managed to align just right for this moment to even occur. He never wanted her to be embarrassed to tell him what she liked, but that wasn’t something he could address before their food showed up.

a/n: okieeeeee so, fr i hope you liked this ^^ told you i like omegaverse because yes at least part 2 but part 3 is mapped out

♡ kat

[ master list ] [ part ii ]

p.s. sigmas are like omegas because they can have children, but they can be confused for alphas - btw the drink y/n picked for him is real - it's an old fashioned, bitters give it this herbal note - so cheol is yeah lol

bingo reqs master list

bingo v. 1 ⋆.˚ bingo v. 2 ⋆.˚ bingo v. 3 ⋆.˚ bingo v. 4 ⋆.˚ 333 followers bingo ⋆.˚

seungcheol & mingyu threesome: oral |

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realprissygirl · 7 months ago

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prtygrlbeauty scent review 🍨

#deliciousdoll series pt. 1 🍥🌸🍬

body nectars:

1. passionfruit princess

“smells like fresh tropical fruits with deep tart hints of passionfruit, lemon, strawberry, and orange.”

omg so yummy and fruity. reminds me of fruit snacks. getting jolly ranchers and starburst from this and i fckn love it.

2. pink sugar

“smells like sweet delectable candy essence with vanilla and musk.”

fluffy, clean and sweet. so so pretty to smell like. loved to mix this one with eos strawberry dream. the definition of sweet without necessarily being gourmand or fruity. yum.

3. brown sugar baby

“smells like whipped vanilla buttercream & caramelized brown sugar, with hints of cream and caramel”

smells like a hot brown sugar latte with heavy cream and cinnamon sugar. i love this so much i’m about to wear tf out of it this fall.

4. cotton candy

“smells like spun caramelized sugar, strawberry, blueberry, and yummy vanilla”

the first thing i thought of was easter basket. super sweet candy smell. this may sound silly but it smells blue. like the color sky blue. almost like a blue raspberry. i love this one so much.

5. angel cake

“smells like soft and sweet angel food cake with a hint of vanilla and sugar, it's like you just took a heavenly bite. perfectly "baked" for you to feel angelic all day!”

cake batter and isn’t overly sweet. just rich and gourmand-y. haven’t used it yet but the smell alone tells me i’ll be using it with a lot of my favorite “bakery” scents.

6. birthday cake

“smells like rich and sweet birthday cake. moist, yellow cake with a rich, sweet butter cream frosting. you'll almost want to eat it! (please don't!)”

super similar to angel cake with a thick air of sweetness of the cake batter. this one is a hit for me and imma use this up so soon i can already tell.

7. cinnamon buns

“smells like ooey-gooey warm cinnamon rolls with vanilla buttercream frosting.”

i used to work in a cafe and when i went to smell this i got a strong memory of “cinnamon dulce”. i love love love this one i’ve used this one quite a bit since i got my second haul. a pure cinnamon and syrup scent.

8. strawberry vanilla macaron

“smells like sweet strawberry and rhubarb blended with creamy vanilla and spun sugar. hints of butter frosting, red berries, caramel, vanilla ice cream, and macarons.”

a strawberry glazed donut. strawberry, icing, and vanilla. so yummy.

9. sugar cookie

“smells like the perfect sugar cookie with buttercream frosting! notes of powdered sugar, butter and fresh cream!”

a less overwhelming take on “birthday cake”. slightly warm. everything the “sugar cookie” perfume oil should have been.

10. strawberry shortie

“smells like strawberry shortcake, fresh sliced strawberries, warm vanilla cake, and fluffy whipped cream.”

reminds me of strawberry shortcake by canvas beauty in the sense that it smells like fake sweet strawberry and i love love love it soooo much. smells like an old strawberry shortcake lip balm from childhood.

11. ur berry cute

“smells like yummy black raspberry vanilla! notes of ripe black raspberries, dark plum, and warm vanilla!”

think of the smell of grape soda. definitely similar to black raspberry vanilla by bbw (one of my all time favorites). it has the heaviest candy like smell and it’s even better layered with other fruity scents.

perfume oils:

1. sugar cookie

“smells like the perfect sugar cookie with buttercream frosting! notes of powdered sugar, butter and fresh cream!”

i have to be honest. i didn’t like this at all. i got the creaminess but that was it. it smelled sort of sour. but luckily this is the only thing i’ve tried that i didn’t like from the brand. so on we move.

2. pink sugar

“smells like sweet sugar, vanilla, custard & marshmallow”

the scent smells like the color pink if that makes any sense. very clean and sweet. like sugar and powder blended together. it’s one of my favorites!

3. cozy sugar

“smells like warm vanilla sugar: intoxicating vanilla, white orchid, sparkling sugar, fresh jasmine and creamy sandalwood.”

warm, sweet, and almost synthetic. it almost reminds me of strawberry dream by eos. i can’t wait to layer her with my gourmand perfumes.

4. pumpkin pecan

“smells like belgian waffle, creamy pumpkin, butter pecan, walnut, maple & fall spices.”

sweet with an undertone of spice. so buttery and yummy. i don’t get too much pumpkin but cinnamon is sticking out to me. i literally love it and i’m so glad to have it in my fall collection.

5. whipped berries

“smells like berry, whipped vanilla and peach blossom”

baby powder and mixed berries. pretty clean and not overwhelming at all.

6. flower fields

“smells like fresh flower fields! star notes: freesia, green leaves, tuberose, jasmine sambac, egyptian jasmine, rose de mai, peach, oakmoss & cedar.”

straight florals. no other families of fragrance and honestly i love it. makes it super nice to layer or amplify other florals i have (and help dial back the sweetness of some sweet florals i love). reminds me of chanel chance.

7. whipped spice

“smells like whipped vanilla cream, cinnamon, honey & corriander.”

immediately thought of almond blossom and oat milk by vs. i don’t get too much spice from this. rather a lactonic sweet and creamy smell. i personally love the honey and think it’ll be perfect for fall.

8. fruit snacks

“smells like citrusy, juicy, sweet fruit! star notes: raspberry, citrus, candy & rose.”

my absolute favorite of them all. i wear it nearly daily. such a sweet fruity gourmand. has a candy quality to it. if you like any sweet mists by bbw you’d love this.

9. vanilla bean

“smells like whipped cream, vanilla, caramel, chocolate, musk & benzoin”

a clean but rich vanilla. reminds me of a vanilla deodorant. then there’s a warm kick to the bottom notes. i love it.

10. cake pop

“smells like soft, sweet & fluffy confetti cake”

powdered sugar and sprinkles. cake pop is a fitting name when you think of the icing and sprinkles a cake pop has. i wore this out with sweet like candy and it brought a deeper layer to the ari perfume. but other than for layering, i don’t reach for it too often.

11. strawberry cake

“smells like fresh strawberries & fluffy shortcake and whipped cream.”

imagine if bubble bath by maison margiela and strawberry pound cake were mixed and that’s what this gives to me. candy with a bit of a fresh, clean note.

12. white mocha

“smells like white chocolate, cozy cappuccino, vanilla orchid, and white tonka bean.”

mocha is chocolate but i didn’t get any chocolate from this but what it does smell like is something you’d get a coffee shop around christmas time. just not chocolatey. marshmallow-y. sweet but not overwhelming. VERY long lasting.

13. warm cream

“smells like light & sweet vanilla backed by a rich and heavy amber. an exotic, creamy vanilla scent.”

another one of my favorite oils. sugary with a bit of noticeable amber. lasts super long and is extremely versatile.

14. soft vanilla

“smells like soft, sweet & warm vanilla and musk.”

barely there. a clean vanilla scent. tiny bit of sandalwood. i think it would layer so well year round.

15. vanilla powder

“smells like soft vanilla orchid, warm cashmere, golden amber, and light florals. a clean vanilla scent.”

extremely similar to vanilla bean but stronger and creamier. also reminds of armani my way’s bottom notes.

#gif by 27kb 🎀#certified princess! ❤︎ ྀི #prtygrlbeauty #luvs it #perfume #fragrantica #prty grl beauty #self care #❤︎ ྀི˖𓍢ִ໋#delicious doll

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whereubeenloca · 1 month ago

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Grilled Cheese

Part 8 of the Neighbor! Reader series: Table of contents

Summary: You and Carmy have dinner together.

Pairing: Carmy x Reader

Tags: Slow burn, Awkward

Word Count: 1592

Wanna be added to the tag list? Comment/ MSG me!

Tag List:

@criesinlies @marchsfreakshow @leminjelly @amberpanda99 @johnmurphys-sass @j23r23 @areyoutheregoditsmecelia @nicksolemnlyswears @saik-k

It happened once.

And then, it happened again.

And again, and again.

Before you knew it, Carmy was coming over once a week for dinner. He usually took the lead, bringing fancy ingredients from the farmer’s market and doing preparation methods that involved equipment that looked like it belonged in a lab rather than a kitchen. Tonight, however, was your night. Tonight’s menu: Salmon, rice, and mixed veggies, simple enough.

Carmy arrived early, a bottle of red wine in hand. He goes to help, but you quickly usher him to the table in the center of your small kitchen.

He uncorks the wine while the food cooks. You sit next to Carmy, he presents the label to you before pouring a small amount into your glasses.

“You know how to taste it?” Carmy asks. You try not to be insulted.

“You swallow it…?” You ask back, inspecting the glass. He rolls his eyes.

“Har, har, you’re hilarious. There’s like- a process to it.” He picks up his glass and tilts it forward.

“First, you have to look at it. Make sure there’s nothing in it.” He explains.

You copy the motion and look into your glass. He didn’t pour a lot, a small spot of red swirls at the bottom as you tilt the glass forward. The red liquid pools at the sides, a deep crimson in the center that becomes more translucent as it radiates towards the edges. It looks brighter than other wines you’ve had.

“What, like poison?”

“Like cork, Jesus Christ.” He laughs, lips quirked up into a smile. “Next step, swirl.”

He gently swirls his glass, you do the same.

“What does this do?”

“Aerates it- wakes everything up. Then you smell…” He explains, bringing the glass to his nose.

You copy, making a face at him from across the table. The kitchen is filled with the scent of lemon and garlic from the salmon, you tilt the glass forward and inhale. The wine smells sweeter than you expected, notes of cherry and raspberry sit at the top. You breathe in deeply as the warm undertones of clove shine through.

“Finally, you sip and swish.” Carmy finishes, taking a small sip and swishing the wine in his mouth.

You take a moment before humoring him, taking a small sip and sloshing it around your mouth. You squint your eyes and nod. The wine feels thick between your teeth as you swish. It doesn’t taste as sweet as it smells. Instead, it leads with a pleasant, earthy kick. Not too dry but not too sweet, the perfect wine to pair with a meal.

“Yeah, that’s wine.” You say, finally.

“You just don’t appreciate fine dining.” He smiles.

“I just don’t appreciate bullshit.” You quip back before taking another sip. “What is this anyway?”

“Pinot noir, 2020, from France- none of that California shit.” He rattles off. You hum, nodding along.

“I thought you drank white wine with fish.” You ask, topping off your glass. He shrugs.

“You can. Salmon is a little different, though. It works with red or white.” He flicks the bottle, and the glass dings. “This is a really good one, though.”

You hum in agreement, tracing your finger around the rim of the glass. You dip your finger down the side before settling onto the stem in a loose grasp.

“You just have this sitting around?” You ask tentatively, bringing the glass to your lips.

“Like I’m gonna tell you.” He scoffs, leaning forward and picking up the bottle to refill his glass.

Your cheeks go pink at the idea of him buying wine specifically for tonight, something he thought would go with the food you made.

“You really didn’t have to. It’s my night, you know.” You bite back a smile, tracing your index up and down the stem of the glass.

“I can’t just show up empty-handed.” He smiles back.

The wine warms your cheeks, or maybe it’s him- no, definitely the wine. A smile spreads across your face as your eyes roam up his arms. You look at the tattoos on his knuckles, you know he has more, you’ve seen them on his arms but you can’t help but wonder… nope not going there. Look somewhere else. Your eyes flick to his neck, then his face before you give up and decide to just look at your wine glass.

“Still…” You trail off, pressing your lip into the rim of the glass.

He’s leaning closer now, forearms sprawled across the table. His eyes bore into yours as his fingers fiddle with the edge of the placemats in front of your seats. It’s quiet, you rack your brain for something else to say but draw a blank. His eyes bounce around your face and you feel the panic bubbling into your chest, you gulp down more wine to bide some time. The air suddenly feels thick and you take a deep breath to calm yourself. The smell of burning assaults your senses- shit, wait, burning?

You stand suddenly, spinning around and opening the oven in one move. A plume of smoke billows out and the fire alarm follows behind.

“Fuck-” You wince, fanning away some of the smoke and pulling out the trays.

Carmy is on his feet, hands on your waist as he pulls you away from the oven and quickly shuts the door before turning it off. He moves through your apartment, opening the windows and fanning the alarm while you stay frozen in place. You lean over the food to inspect the damage. The veggies are burnt to a crisp and beyond unsalvageable. The salmon isn’t much better, a thick, black layer coats the top of each fillet and the inside is completely dried out. You attempt a bite, your shoulders slump at the chalky taste. Your rice cooker beeps- at least that’s okay.

“Maybe we can still eat it?” He asks over your shoulder, picking the fork out of your hand.

“No, no you don’t have to.” You shake your head as he pokes at the overcooked fish.

He takes a bite and his face scrunches. You watch as he chews, brows tightly knit together as he forces it down. “It’s… good. Nice.” Carmy clears his throat before looking over to you. You smile at the gesture, shaking your head.

“Carmy, you really don’t have to. I know it tastes bad.” You sigh, slumping your shoulders and opening your fridge.

“I don’t have a lot…” You click your tongue, scanning your fridge. He comes up behind you and peeks into the appliance.

“Yeesh- I thought I was bad.” He sighs.

You make a face at him, and he holds up his hands. You roll your eyes and pull out a packet of Kraft singles.

—

Twenty minutes and half a bottle of wine later, dinner is finally ready. The two of you had retired to the living room, tucked into the couch as you finished your grilled cheese sandwiches.

“I’m so sorry.” You frown, picking at the crust.

Carmy rolls his eyes as he pours you another drink. “Stop apologizing, it happens.”

“It was gonna be so good too.” You sigh, gulping down more wine. “I had this planned for like- a week. I grocery-shopped specifically for this.”

“It smelled good.” He smiles, cheeks full of food. “Maybe we can give it another try next week.”

You smile at that, electing to take another bite of your sandwich instead of talking. His knee presses into yours, and you don’t move away. It’s quiet. Things are usually quiet with Carmy. You usually hate that.

“Maybe I’ll leave the cooking to you.” You say with your mouth full.

You lean forward, set your empty plate onto the coffee table, and scoot closer on your way down. Carmy doesn’t seem to mind.

“Once, when I was uh- staging, I was in charge of making family.” He starts, “The meal before service for all the staff, so the pressure was on, you know?”

You nod along, leaning into the plush of the couch. Heat radiates in the space between you, your body feels slack as the wine buzzes through your head. Carmy’s eyes bounce around as he speaks, only maintaining eye contact for a few moments before looking away.

“And I wanted to impress these people so bad. So, I decided to do this roast thing, totally messed it up. The seasoning was bland, it was dry, texture wasn’t great- horrible first impression.” He laughs softly, shaking his head as he recounts the memory.

Carmy’s body slots next to yours as he slings his arm over the back of the couch, an invitation to move closer. You take it.

“What’d you do?”

“Made an au jus, cut up some bread, and called them sandwiches.”

His palm closes over your shoulder. He’s warm, you feel his heat seep into your arm through his chest. You hum in acknowledgement, head pressing into his shoulder.

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” You whisper.

“Maybe. Do you feel better?” He whispers back.

“Eh.”

He smiles at your flat remark. Your eyes dart to his lips as they quirk up.

“What would make you feel better?”

He’s so close you can feel his words against your skin. You take a beat, pulling back to look at him. Despite your heart pounding in your ears, your body is calm as your hand trails up his chest. You close the gap, lips grazing against his. Maybe it’s the wine, but you swear you feel him kiss you back.

#carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto #the bear #carmy berzatto fanfiction #carmy x reader #carmy the bear #the bear fanfiction #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x you #neighbor! reader au #em's fics

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eliciana · 2 months ago

Text

Reverse SAGAU: The Weird Door At My Café

Masterlist

Blog Navigation

Tw: Reverse!Isekai!Sagau, Normal Au, Café Au.

Reader: Gn!Reader, Adult!Reader, Cafe Owner!Reader

Characters: Reader, NPC's, Venti, Nahida

Note: Restaurant to Another World animanga inspired au. There is a taglist if you want to be tagged.

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Mika, your part-time high school helper, scuttled between tables with three plates of lemon tarts perched precariously along her forearms while the bell above the café door sang its familiar chime. You watched from behind the counter, suppressing a grin behind your coffee-stained apron as she negotiated the crushed floor with all the finesse of a tightrope walker. Over the past two weeks, your once quiet café has changed into something alive, bursting now with the clash of silverware and the hiss of the espresso machine, as well as the warm hum of conversation hanging in the air even after closing time.

Mika had been a godsend. Quiet but sharp-eyed, she'd taken to the rhythm of service like she'd been born for it. Just this morning, she'd caught a customer's spilled latte mid-air without breaking stride.

"Table six needs their check," she murmured as she glided past you, now reaching for the dessert menus. "And the gentleman by the window asked if we could refill the lavender cold brew."

"You'll say yes to him, but only because he said something nice about Lena's macarons," I said as I jotted it down. "And by the way, slip him one of the test batches of her passion fruit ganache-discreetly."

Mika's lips quirked. "Bribery as a business strategy. Noted."

You looked at her smugly and giggled before signalling her to return to her work.

The kitchen doors groaned open and a billow of steam clouded with vanilla came pouring out as Lena carried her tray of perfect éclairs. Hands that moved like a composer-especially every motion being precise, and every garnish placed in intentional elegance-were the magic of this girl, former pâtissier to Le Ciel Blanc. The first time she brought to you a fraisier cake, more perfect than a photoshopped one, you almost kissed her.

"Taste," she demanded again, thrusting a spoonful of silky chocolate toward your face. "The new single-origin blend. Is the acidity too forward?"

You let the ganache melt on your tongue, thinking. "It's bright, but the hazelnut praline balances it. Joon's going to go crazy over this."

And that word summoned Joon to burst through the kitchen doors, his chef's jacket bathed with what seemed to be raspberry coulis. "We need to talk about the sourdough schedule," he announced, waving a clipboard. "The starter's doubling faster since I moved it near the oven. If we adjust proofing times-"

You raised a hand. "Breathe, firecracker."

Joon had reconstructed your entire kitchen within forty-eight hours of being hired. Freshly graduated from culinary school, he had enough raw talent without much common sense. When you had asked him why he chose your café over the Michelin-starred establishments that fought over him, he just grinned and said, "Because you talked to your sourdough starter like it was your emotional support animal. I knew this was where all the real magic happened."

Now, with the three of them settling into their roles, you finally had time to breathe.

Which meant that now you could bring your attention back to that door.

Mika hummed as she mopped the café now quiet without the last customer present. The sound blended well with the jazz record you'd left spinning on the old turntable.

"Are you sure you wouldn't want me to help close up?" she quipped, hanging up her apron with military precision.

You shook your head. "Go study for your chem test. And take these." You shoved a box of leftover madeleines into her backpack.

Mika simply rolled her eyes. "You're worse than my abuela. See you tomorrow, boss."

At that moment she slammed the door behind her, and the air in the café shifted—like the space between heartbeats. You turned slowly.

There, nestled between flour sacks where it had no right to be, was the door.

Ordinary in every way except how it wasn't. The wood grain shimmered if you stared too long, and sometimes—when the café was empty and the moon was high—you swore you heard singing from the other side.

You exhaled, rolling up your sleeves.

Okay. It is time for another experiment.

Experiment #1: The Witness Test

Mrs. Khatri, your regular patron most patient, was sipping her masala chai with polite curiosity while pretending you are reorganizing the storage shelves. You had been brewing tea, talking about her granddaughter's ballet recital, and keeping an eye on the door for two hours.

"Are you expecting any delivery?" she asked as you turned to the door for the seventeenth time.

You nearly spilled a jar of cinnamon. "Just... waiting on a specialty tea order."

The door looks like it doesn't want to open; it didn't want to have a single crease somewhere in it.

The moment Mrs. Khatri cleared out with her parting "The cardamom was perfect today, dear," did the brass knob warm up under your fingertips as a sleeping creature that stirs under the absence of its owner.

So. No witnesses. Copy that.

–

Experiment #7: Teyvat's Objects on Earth

The Mora gleamed innocently on your ledger, its golden surface catching the warm lighting of the café. You learned quickly that not all could survive from the other side and continue living in this world, though.

Mist Flowers disintegrated into puddles of sad water. Valberries wilted overnight. But the Mora—the Mora was different.

The jeweler's loupe did tremble in his hand when you brought it to him: "This shouldn't exist," he'd whispered, turning it around. "This metallurgy is impossible—this purity of gold with this level of detail? And the markings..." His eyes snapped to yours. "Where did you really get this from?"

You'd lied smoothly. "A family heirloom." Wow, you really know how to lie between your teeth, huh?

Still, his offer of $2,300 made your palms sweat.

Note: If Paimon ever finds out I'm sitting on a goldmine, I'm dead.

–

You were making some notes when the freaking door opened on its own.

Your pen froze mid-word.

Wind rushed in, not that stale city air you knew, but something wild and green, smelling of dandelions and distant thunderstorms. And then Venti tumbled through, catching himself hard against the counter.

He wasn't drunk, which was shocking.

The second was the blood matting his hair, the way his fingers trembled around his lyre like it was the only thing tethering him to this world.

"You," he hissed, teal eyes flashing with something ancient and dangerous. "What game are you playing?"

You raised your hands slowly. "No game. This is just my café."

His gaze darted around-the industrial espresso machine, the chalkboard menu, and the glass case displaying Lena's pastries. His nose wrinkled. "It smells like... burned sugar and regret."

"Caramel and ambition," you corrected, then winced. "And you're bleeding on my mahogany." You nudged the first-aid kit toward him.

"Who sent you?" Venti didn't move.

"No one." You kept your voice steady. "That door sometimes connects to other worlds. You're the second to come through."

"Second?" His grip on the lyre tightened.

"The Traveler and Paimon."

Something in his posture eased-just a fraction. "Hah. Should've known those two would find the universe's backdoor."

The antiseptic stung your own hands as you dabbed at his temple. Venti flinched but didn't pull away, his breath warm against your wrist.

"Stormterror?" you guessed.

His laugh was brittle. "Among other things." A pause. "You know much for a... what are you, exactly?"

"Café owner." You pressed the bandage gently. "Part-time interdimensional tour guide."

Venti snorted, then winced. You slid a mug of cocoa toward him-no alcohol this time. He sniffed it like a suspicious cat before taking a cautious sip. His eyebrows shot up. "Oh. That's... not terrible."

"It grows on you," you said. "Like moss."

"Or a fungal infection," he shot back, but the edge in his voice had dulled.

Outside, rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers. Venti's hands strayed to his lyre, plucking a melody that made your chest ache-something older than nations, older than gods.

You pretended not to notice when his playing faltered.

By the third cocoa refill, Venti had migrated from "hostile intruder" to "annoying housecat," draped across your best booth with his boots on the upholstery.

"Sooo," he drawled, spinning his empty mug. "This 'café' of yours. You just... feed interdimensional travelers?"

"Mostly locals," you said, scrubbing an already-clean counter. "You're a special case."

"Aw, I'm touched!" He grinned, but his eyes stayed wary. "And what do you get out of it?"

You shrugged. "Good company."

Venti's smile faltered. For a heartbeat, he looked lost-then he strummed a chord sharp enough to make your glassware vibrate. "Liar."

You froze.

"Everyone wants something," he murmured, "the Traveler wants to find their sibling." He looked at the archons through narrowed eyes. "Whatever gods seek." His eyes pinned you. "What do you seek?"

The truth clawed at your throat - I just didn't want to be alone - but you swallowed it down. "A five-star Yelp review?"

Venti blinked. Then he laughed, genuine this time, the sound bright as sunlight through stained glass. "Fair enough. Though, what is a Yelp review?"

Soon enough he left.

You looked at the door blankly and took out a ledger.

"I'll put that on his tab." You scoffed. The first mug of cocoa you slid to him was just a welcome gift and free, not including his constant refilling.

Three days later, you nearly dropped the tray of éclairs when walking into the pre-dawn quiet café to find Nahida perched on a barstool and swinging her legs.

"Oh!" She brightened, hopping down. "You're the door's keeper!"

You choked on air. "How-"

"The door told me," she said now, as if there were nothing extraordinary about it. At your shocked silence, she tilted her head, "Not in words, of course. More like... a feeling." Her tiny hands cupped the Cecilia flower Venti had left behind, its petals glowing faintly under her touch. "This remembers you."

"Remembers?" you echoed weakly.

Nahida hummed, those eyes of hers far too knowing for someone who looked like a child. "Memories stick to objects, places, even people." She leaned forward, whisper-soft. "Some of yours smell like us."

Your blood turned to ice.

But Nahida just smiled, sliding off the stool. "Don't worry. I'm just not going to pry." She pressed a crisp recipe card into your hands, Moon Pie, the words flowing with calligraphy. "For when you're ready."

Then she was gone, the door clicking behind her.

The Cecilia pulsed once, twice,

and burst into full bloom.

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Sorry bout the constant "-" throughout the story. Was kinda having a hard time transitioning but like yes. We ignore that hahahhaha....

Taglist:

@kameyo-kumo @esthelily @haru-tofuu @udretlnea @shining-nebula2000 @ifeellikejumpingoffacliff @resident-cryptid @allblognamesaretakenlikereally @leilakaro @stvrbrighttt @chericia @evaline-ethan @ra404 @mmmhyperfixation @original-person @chaoticfivesworld @lexal-amber-rose @floofeh-purpi @time-shardz @animeobsessed56 @fantasyhopperhea @yuan1819

#genshin impact #genshin impact sagau #sagau #genshin sagau #genshin impct reverse sagau #genshin reverse sagau #genshin reverse isekai #cafe owner! reader au #gender neautral reader #gn! reader #genshin nahida #genshin venti #genshin impact nahida #genshin impact venti #genshin impact x reader #sagau x reader #•works[🍡]•

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raspberrylemoncookie · 20 days ago

Note

"I'malrightbutthankyouforoffering!-"

After a few steps back and a quick adjustment to their composure, they continue

"As I was originally going to say, I was just looking around this area to see if I could find any cookies, to make friends you know! More the merrier!"

"And It appears I have succeeded, my name is Raspberry Lemon Cookie!"

Hello? I was just looking around and-....You seem busy with that dove, I'll come back later actually!

- @raspberrylemoncookie

“…you want some?”

Silent salt cookie offers the headless dove to the cookie

#raspberry lemon cookie #silent salt cookie #Raspberry Lemons's Notes!#Friends!/Cookie asks

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astra-ravana · 2 months ago

Text

The Wonder Of Foraging

Foraging is an ancient and magickal practice, allowing witches to deepen their bond with nature while gathering powerful herbs, plants, fungi and even bones for spells, potions, and rituals. This guide will help you safely and ethically harvest nature’s gifts while honoring the spirits of the land.

𖥞The Ethics of Foraging

Before you set out, follow these principles:

• Harvest Respectfully - Take only what you need, and never overharvest.

• Know Your Land - Learn the local laws and indigenous practices of the area.

• Ask Permission - Some witches seek permission from the plants or land spirits before harvesting.

• Leave No Trace - Avoid damaging the ecosystem and thank nature for its sacrifice.

𖥞Essential Foraging Tools

• A foraging basket or cloth bag

• A sharp knife or scissors for cutting herbs

• Gloves (for thorny or toxic plants)

• A field guide (or app) to identify plants and fungi

• A journal for noting magickal correspondences or general notes

𖥞Sacred Rituals & Offerings

• Thank the Spirits - Leave a small offering (water, crystals, trinkets, a song, or a prayer).

• Moon-Charged Foraging - Gather herbs under a full moon for extra potency.

• Wild Altar - Arrange collected items as an outdoor altar to honor nature.

𖥞Crafting with Your Foraged Finds

• Herbal Magick: Use dried herbs to dress candles or as offerings.

• Herbal Bundles: Dry herbs for smoke cleansing.

• Infused Oils: Steep plants in oil for anointing and spellwork.

• Herbal Incense: Crush dried herbs for loose incense burning on charcoal or craft your own cones/sticks.

• Tinctures & Teas: Brew magickal potions for healing and intention-setting.

• Spell Jars & Mojo Bags: Combine dried herbs with crystals and charms for long-lasting magic.

𖥞Harvesting Herbs for Drying

• Timing Matters - Gather herbs in the morning after the dew has dried but before the sun is too hot.

• Lunar Harvesting - For extra magical potency, harvest under a full or waxing moon.

• Use Sharp Tools - Cut herbs with scissors or a boline to avoid damaging the plant.

𖥞Methods of Drying Herbs

Hanging Method (Best for Sturdy Herbs)

• Gather small bundles of herbs and tie them with twine.

• Hang upside down in a dry, dark, well-ventilated space.

• Avoid direct sunlight, which can weaken magical properties.

Drying time: 1-3 weeks.

Flat Drying (For Delicate Leaves & Flowers)

• Spread herbs in a single layer on a mesh screen, paper towel, or cloth.

• Keep in a dark, dry place with good airflow.

Drying time: 5-10 days.

Oven Drying (For Quick Drying)

• Set the oven to the lowest temperature (around 100-150°F or 38-65°C).

• Place herbs on a baking sheet and leave the oven door slightly open.

• Check every 10-15 minutes to prevent burning.

Drying time: 1-2 hours.

Dehydrator Method (Efficient & Even Drying)

• Place herbs in a dehydrator at a low setting (95-115°F or 35-46°C).

• Dry until leaves crumble easily.

Drying time: 4-12 hours, depending on the herb.

𖥞Storing Dried Herbs

• Glass Jars: Store herbs in airtight glass jars, preferably tinted to block light.

• Labeling: Always label with the herb name and date of drying.

• Cool, Dark Storage: Keep herbs away from sunlight and moisture.

• Energetic Cleansing: Charge dried herbs with moonlight or crystals before use.

𖥞Herb Foraging Schedule (Midwest)

🌷Spring:

• Dandelion

• Stinging nettle

• Hemlock

• Violet

• Chickweed

• Foxglove

• Wild onion/garlic

• Wild lupine

• Milkweed

• Lilac

• Black raspberry

• Tulip

• Wild plum

• Spiderwort

• Basil

• Trillium

• Yarrow

• Knot weed

• Plantain

• Lemon balm

• Mint

• Chervil

• Chives

• Dill

• Burdock

• Oregano

• Locust

🌻Summer:

• Wild raspberry and blackberry

• Elderberry

• Mullien

• Nightshade

• Lavender

• Rosemary

• Sage

• Purple cornflower (echinacea)

• Goldenrod

• Wild bergamot

• Datura (Jimson weed)

• Gooseberry

• Monarda

• Chicory

• Wild carrot

• Lily

• Queen Anne's lace

• Cutleaf toothwort

• Mugwort

• Wormwood

• Rosehips

• Purslane

• Mulberry

• Pokeweed

• Bittersweet

• American mandrake

🍄Autumn:

• Acorns

• Buckeyes

• Burdock root

• Hawthorn berries

• Pine needles

• Poison sumac

• White snake root

• Garlic mustard

• Black walnut

• Pawpaw

• Shagbark hickory

• Persimmon

• Witch hazel

• Juniper berries

• Cat tails

• Mushrooms

❄️Winter:

• Beech nuts

• Pine nuts

• Chestnuts

• Pinecones

𖥞Foraging Bones

Foraging for animal bones is a sacred practice that connects witches to nature, death cycles, and spirit work. Whether for divination, spellwork, or ancestral veneration, ethically collecting bones requires respect and knowledge.

Where to Find Bones:

• Forests & Woodlands - Look near animal trails, under trees, or in dry areas.

• Riverbanks & Lakeshores - Water can wash up bones over time.

• Fields & Deserts - Open areas may have sun-bleached remains.

• Roadsides & Farmland - Unfortunately, roadkill can be a source, but always ensure it is safe and legal to collect.

Ethical & Legal Considerations:

• Respect the Dead - Offer gratitude or a small offering when taking bones.

• Check Local Laws - Some areas prohibit collecting certain animal remains.

• Leave No Trace - Do not disturb entire ecosystems while searching.

Cleaning & Preparing Bones:

• Dry Cleaning - Brush off dirt and debris.

• Water Soaking - Soak in warm water to loosen soft tissue (never use bleach!).

• Hydrogen Peroxide Bath - Use 3% peroxide to whiten and disinfect bones.

• Sun Drying - Leave in the sun for a few days for natural purification.

Magickal Uses for Bones:

• Divination - Use small bones in casting (Osteomancy).

• Altars & Ancestral Work - Honor spirits with bone offerings.

• Talismans & Charms - Carry bones for protection and strength.

• Crafting Tools - Use bones for wands, runes, or ritual tools.

Foraging is an essential skill for a witch, as it deepens their connection with nature and provides access to fresh, potent ingredients for spells, potions, and rituals. Wild herbs, roots, and flowers carry strong natural energies that enhance magickal workings in ways store-bought materials cannot. Understanding the land and its seasonal growth also fosters self-sufficiency and sustainability, aligning a witch’s practice with the cycles of the Earth. Additionally, foraging strengthens intuition and knowledge of plant properties, ensuring safe and ethical use of nature’s offerings.

By embracing foraging as part of your craft, you not only strengthen your magickal practice but also develop a deep, sacred relationship with the land. You will discover that it to be its own spiritual practice, a communion with nature, and a fantastic way to spend your day. Happy foraging, witches!

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literaryvein-reblogs · 5 months ago

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Writing Reference: Fragrance Notes

CITRUS NOTES

In their natural state, are quite volatile and prone to oxidation.

Notes of lemon, bergamot, orange, and mandarin are used in perfumery to impart sharp, sour, and very refreshing top notes to a fragrance.

MINTY NOTES

Follow on from citrus notes as refreshing and clean-smelling top notes used extensively in functional perfumery like household cleaning products.

In addition, notes of peppermint, menthol, and eucalyptus give a cooling effect to many masculine fine fragrances and shower gels.

FRUITY NOTES

With the exception of Osmanthus and blackcurrant bud absolute, the majority of fruity notes used in perfumery are created with synthetic materials.

Gamma undecalactone (C14) - used for a peachy/apricot effect, along with other materials such as Raspberry Ketone, Benzaldehyde (for cherry), and Allyl amyl glycolate (for a sour pineapple note).

The large aromachemical manufacturers produce ready-made compounds, which makes adding fruity notes to a fragrance composition less of a challenge.

Dewfruit, which is a specialty base from the Swiss fragrance manufacturer Givaudan, gives a raspberry and lychee note and is used in a variety of commercial fine fragrances.

GREEN NOTES

Add freshness and naturalness to fragrances, from floral to fruity and chypre.

Cis-3-hexenol - a very powerful material that is reminiscent of freshly cut grass.

Galbanum - a natural material, likened to uncooked green beans.

Should be used sparingly because they can seem harsh if used in large quantities.

HERBAL NOTES

Lavender, rosemary, and clary sage are used in both masculine fragrances and functional products for their cooling and natural effect.

Herbs add naturalness to a fragrance and are usually the steam distillate of the aerial parts of the plant.

Lavender - a key component of the fougére family, with each variety and extraction giving a slightly different effect.

Lavender absolute is said to have a bright green color and warm, hay-like aroma.

ALDEHYDIC NOTES

Aldehydes - a group of materials that are most famous for their use at overdosed levels in Chanel No. 5.

Have a powerful aroma and are perceived as waxy, fatty, soapy, and clean.

On their own, they would be considered too harsh and chemical-ly, but in combination with floral notes of rose, jasmine, and ylang ylang, they impart sparkle and radiance.

C8 Octanol, C10 Decanal, C11 Undecylenic, C12 MNA, and C12 Lauric feature in this group, as do Hydroxycitronellal, Citral, Citronellal, and Benzaldehyde.

FLORAL NOTES

Floral notes make up the heart of most fragrance types.

There are many different types of floral, each with their own characteristics:

Rose Notes. These can include everything from rose absolute and rose otto to geranium and even guaiacwood which, although smoky and woody, has definite rosy undertones. Phenethyl alcohol is used as a blender in fragrances to give a rose note, and the Firmenich base Dorinia is used where a large amount of natural rose would be too costly or restricted. Apart from cost, one of the main issues with using natural rose absolute in a commercial fragrance is that it typically contains 1-1.5% Methyl eugenol, a naturally occurring component that is restricted in the EU and other parts of the world. The maximum amount of rose allowed in a leave-on skincare product is around 0.025%. Low Methyl-eugenol rose is available, but cost and minimal-order quantities are high, meaning it is out of the reach of many fragrance producers. Laboratoire Monique Rémy produce a molecular distillation of rose for this very reason, which enables large quantities to be used in the fragrance Portrait of a Lady (Editions de Parfums Frédéric Malle).

Jasmine Notes. As well as jasmine absolute and jasmine sambac, synthetic bases are created with Benzyl acetate and other jasmine-like chemicals such as Hedione, which is used in a huge range of fragrances to impart radiance and diffusion. Unfortunately, although used for centuries, jasmine has been severely restricted in commercial fragrances, due to sensitization, and it is only allowed currently in the EU at a maximum of 0.7% in a finished fragrance for on-skin usage.

Muguet Notes. The name of the lily-of-the-valley notes. There is no natural muguet extract, so all fragrances of this type will contain some synthetic materials. The muguet ingredient, Hydroxycitronellal, which was relied upon for many years, is now restricted to a maximum 5%, due to its potentially sensitizing effect. Other muguet-type replacements are Lyral, Lilial, and Dupical, which are used in combination with other materials.

Violet and Iris Notes. Natural violet absolute is from the leaf, and smells very green, wet, and mulchy. The sweet, powdery violet notes actually come from a group of materials called the ionones—Alpha, Beta, and Methyl ionones—which add a sweet, cosmetic violet note to rosy florals, as well as being a great link to woody notes in the base of a fragrance. Other notes that belong in this category are the orris notes, which are either natural and excruciatingly expensive (orris concrete), or come from a synthetic such Orivone.

Narcotic Floral Notes. Naturals such as ylang ylang, tuberose, and orange blossom are in this category due to their heavy, sweet, almost narcotic effect in a fragrance. With the exception of perhaps ylang ylang, which is available in a variety of grades, these materials offer a low yield and so are quite costly. In commercial fragrances, synthetic materials such as Aurantiol and Methyl anthranilate are used instead. White florals contain traces of the chemical indole, which can be added to a fragrance in trace amounts for effect. Alone, indole has an odor of decay and can be extremely unpleasant, as is the case with many animalic notes.

ANIMALIC NOTES

Indole brings us nicely on to the other animalic and musk notes used in fragrance.

Included here are the leather notes, as there is a fair amount of crossover.

The animalic notes are generally quite strong and often fecal.

The following are main animalic notes used:

Civet. This is the main material used and is extracted from the anal gland of the civet cat. Strange and unpleasant as it may seem, civet, when used in trace amounts, is said to give a sweet, exotic, and sexy edge to a fragrance and is reminiscent of the indoles present in white flowers.

Castoreum. Comes from the glands of the beaver or a synthetic reproduction, which is slightly less alarming. It can have quite urine-like notes, which at low levels give a honey aroma. It is used in chypre and leather fragrances, along with woods, mosses, and labdanum or birch tar and Isobutyl quinoline (leather notes).

Ambergris. Comes from the sperm whale; the most gentle of the animalic notes. Often found washed up on beaches, mainly in New Zealand. It has an aromatic, almost marine-like note that can be soft, musty, and musky. The synthetic versions are most often used. It works well with sandalwood for a soft skin-like accord.

Natural musk. Use of this is now completely outlawed due to the near-extinction of the musk deer from which it was historically collected. The musk notes we experience today are all synthetic and, in fact, are perceived as much cleaner than you would expect considering their origin. This is due to their extensive use in laundry detergent fragrances, hence the term “laundry musk.” Nitro musks such as Galaxolide by IFF are used due to their substantive and long-lasting effects through a wash at high temperatures. They are not very soluble in water, which means that they will stay on the fabric through the wash cycle. Of course, this means that many are not biodegradeable or very environmentally friendly. Musk notes are used in most fragrances for their fixative properties and for the soft, comforting effect they give to a fragrance. Many people, including perfumers, are anosmic to different musks and so they are often used in combination with each other.

BALSAMIC AND VANILLA NOTES

Balsamic refers to the sweet, warm, and resinous notes of Peru balsam, benzoin, and oppoponax, which also have slightly vanilla and caramel undertones.

Vanilla absolute does not smell anything like the vanilla notes used in food or commercial bath products, which are more “ice-cream-like” and foodie.

These are usually created with Ethyl vanillin and vanillin, rather than the more costly vanilla absolute, which is actually less sweet and more woody. Vanilla absolute is difficult to work with in products due to its insolubility in alcohol.

It can also cause extreme discoloration in some products, turning lotions and soaps a dark brown to black.

HAY NOTES

Another sweet, powdery note is coumarin, which is a key component of the fougére family and works well with both vanilla and lavender.

Coumarin - a white, crystalline powder that occurs naturally in tonka beans.

It is created synthetically for perfumery use, but tonka absolute has a similar smell, which is that of powdery, newly mown hay.

WOODY NOTES

A key part of oriental fragrances, the woody notes can be soft and creamy, such as sandalwood, or cool and earthy, such as patchouli and vetiver.

Although patchouli is a distillation of the leaves rather than a wood, it does have some woody aspects.

Vetiver - rooty and has rich caramel undertones, and an earthy woodiness.

Cedarwood Virginian has a sharp, dry, pencil-shavings aroma.

Iso E Super is a lovely, transparent, woody ingredient to add to a fragrance as a blender and is even used alone as a fragrance in its own right.

MOSSY AND MARINE NOTES

Have a slightly yeasty, fungal, and pungent aroma.

Mossy notes - important in both the chypre and fougére fragrance families and, although oakmoss is being restricted, there are synthetic variants that will give similar effects.

Seaweed absolute - can be used for a natural marine note but the most widely used in fine fragrance is Calone, which was prolific in perfumes of the 1990s.

Calone - has a sweet, melon, ozone-like fragrance, which many people find extremely cloying. This is often used with other fruity, melon, and marine notes.

SPICY NOTES

Spice notes play a huge part in perfumery as accessory notes for floral and oriental fragrances.

Spices can be overpowering, and notes such as cumin can take on a slightly sweaty odor that may smell unpleasant on skin.

There are warm spices such as clove (or Eugenol), which can give a carnation effect to florals, and cooler, dry-spice notes like black pepper.

Shinus molle, or pink pepper, has been used extensively over the last few years in floral fragrances.

Cinnamon, nutmeg, and coriander can also be used, as can other foodie spices like cardamom in the form of distilled essential oils.

Source: Perfume: The Art and Craft of Fragrance by Karen Gilbert More: Word Lists ⚜ Notes & References ⚜ Perfumery ⚜ Fragrance Writing Resources PDFs

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zaynessbeloved · 1 month ago

Text

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: 6.3

Chapter 2

You had begun to enjoy the Season. Not in the frantic, wide-eyed way most debutantes clung to it. Not for the gowns or the gossip columns or the secret notes passed behind fans. But because of him. Lord Wessex.

He made every event something to look forward to. He remembered small details—your distaste for overly perfumed rooms, your preference for lemon over raspberry, the way you avoided dancing directly after supper to keep from tripping on your gown. He made you feel seen in a space that often demanded you simply be beautiful. He never once asked for more than your company. And you were beginning to give it freely.

The soirée at Lady Redgrave’s townhouse was a grand affair. Chandeliers hung like upside-down stars from the ceiling, and the air buzzed with the scent of roses, honeyed wine, and conversation layered in silk.

You arrived on your mother’s arm, Eleanora at your side again, at last recovered. She looked radiant, as always, in pale mauve and pearl combs in her hair. The room greeted her warmly. People remembered. So did he. Rafayel Vale appeared as always, dark and composed, offering his bow to Eleanora first, and exchanging the expected pleasantries.

You stood nearby, speaking with Lady Thorne about her dreadful pianist, until Lord Wessex arrived and promptly stole you away with a smile and a whispered, “Save me from another story about her poodle’s cough, I beg you.”

You laughed, let him lead you away, and the evening began. You danced once. Then again. You shared a drink near the window overlooking the gardens. You teased him about his horribly dramatic cravat. He told you you looked like the moon in blue silk. It was warm. Familiar. Effortless.

But across the room, someone else was watching. Not constantly. Not openly. But enough. You hadn’t noticed the Duke’s gaze as you passed. Not the first time. Or the second. Not when you threw your head back in laughter. But Eleanora did. You found her later, seated near the refreshment table, her glass untouched.

“You’re glowing tonight,” she said lightly as you approached.

“Am I?” You sat beside her, smoothing your skirt. “Perhaps it’s just the champagne.” She didn’t laugh.

“He keeps looking at you,” she said softly, almost idly. “The Duke.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Not in a scandalous way,” she added quickly. “Just… often.”

You glanced over your shoulder instinctively, but he wasn’t looking now. Speaking with a Viscount. Expression unreadable.

“You think he does it out of interest?” you asked, voice low. Eleanora was quiet for a long moment.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I do know this: I want more than presence.” You looked at her.

“He is kind,” she said. “Proper. He does what’s expected. But it feels like he’s fulfilling something… not choosing it.” That struck something in you. Not just about him—but about her.

“You deserve to be chosen,” you said softly.

She smiled, just a little, and looked down at her glass. “Don’t we all?”

The ride home was quiet. Your mother had fallen asleep across from you, her head tilted slightly, fan still clutched in one hand. The carriage swayed gently beneath you, candlelight flickering in its brass sconces.

Beside you, Eleanora sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression unreadable. You didn’t press her. She would speak if she wished. The city lights slipped past the window in golden blurs.

Back at the house, you helped her unpin her hair in her room—just as you had as girls. Gowns loosened. Jewels set in velvet. Stockings peeled away from tired feet. The silence remained comfortable until she broke it, voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think something is wrong with me?”

You paused. “What?”

Eleanora sat before the mirror, brushing through her curls slowly. Her reflection didn’t meet your eyes. “With me,” she said again, quietly. “The way he looks at me. Or rather… the way he doesn’t.”

You walked over, gently took the brush from her hand, and began to move it through her hair yourself. A ritual older than either of you could name.

“Eleanora,” you said softly, “there is nothing wrong with you.” She didn’t answer for a while. You saw her eyes flick toward her own reflection.

“I think the Duke is... trying,” she said. “In the way one tries to like something they were told they should enjoy. A book. A song. A person.”

You slowed the brush. Let her speak. “He’s polite. Generous. And yet, when he’s beside me, it’s as though he’s already half a room away. His mind elsewhere. His eyes…” She hesitated. “Drifting.”

You swallowed. She turned slightly to look at you over her shoulder.

“I don’t know where they drift. And I don’t think it matters. But I’ve felt it, and I’ve had enough of pretending not to.”

You met her gaze. Open. Honest. Strong. “So what will you do?”

She stood slowly. Turned toward her dressing gown, folding it neatly. “I want someone who chooses me. Not out of arrangement or expectation, but because they can’t help themselves.”

Then, a small breath of laughter. “And I saw at least three men tonight who looked at me like I’d hung the stars.”

You smiled at that. “You did look stunning.”

“Well,” she said with a soft shrug, “I think I’ll let someone else tell me that next time.”

She hugged you before bed, soft and tired. And as she disappeared into her room, you stood in the hall a moment longer. Not thinking about the Duke. Not really. Only about your sister. And the quiet courage it took to walk away from something most would chase until the end.

——

The Marquess of Windham’s estate was famous for its winter garden—an indoor marvel of lantern-lit paths, glass ceilings, and the scent of citrus and jasmine that lingered no matter the season. The event was smaller than most. More curated. Fewer eyes, fewer expectations. Enough space to breathe between conversations and laughter.

You wore ivory silk that night, stitched with soft green thread and tiny crystal accents that caught the light like dew. You hadn’t worn the dress before. Lord Wessex had told you, weeks ago, that green suited you. You hadn’t forgotten. He found you easily, as he always did.

“There you are,” he said, as if your absence had been a problem he meant to solve.

You smiled. “Here I am, my Lord.”

He offered you his arm, and the evening unfurled with a sense of calm delight. You laughed together. Walked along the stone path beneath the glass roof. He told you a story about a terrible painting his brother once commissioned that ended up resembling a spoiled ham. You wiped a tear from your cheek from laughing so hard.

It wasn’t a whirlwind romance. It was a quiet glow. A lantern between two hands. And that made it all the more real. Later, as the music resumed, you danced once more—spinning gently beneath the low-hung lanterns. You felt his gaze on you, as always. Safe. Attentive.

Until, at the edge of a turn, another gaze caught yours. Just for a second. The Duke stood near the musicians, a glass of champagne in hand. Not speaking. Not smiling. Watching. You hadn’t noticed him arriving. You hadn’t even known he would be attending. But there he was. And his eyes—his eyes—did not drift away this time. They stayed. Not cold. Not guarded. But different. Focused.

You didn’t stumble. You didn’t react. You simply turned, as the dance required. But something in your chest shifted—just enough to notice. And when the dance ended, and Lord Wessex stepped back with a smile and a joke about needing a rescue from Lady Redgrave’s latest tale of gout, you caught it again. A flicker across his face. A glance toward the Duke. And then—

“He’s watching you.”

You blinked. “Who, my Lord?”

Lord Wessex arched a brow. “Come now.”

You didn’t answer right away. Because you didn’t know what to say.

“Should I be concerned?” he asked, voice still light, but something beneath it more serious.

“No my Lord,” you said after a moment. “There’s no reason to be.”

And that was the truth. There was no reason. Except for the look you couldn’t forget. And the one he hadn’t meant to give.

——

The garden was quiet in the early light. The gravel path crunched softly beneath your slippers as you walked beside Eleanora, your shawl wrapped tight around your shoulders. Dew clung to the grass. The sky was still deciding whether it meant to be grey or blue.

You walked often like this in the mornings. Ever since you were girls. But lately, the silence had taken on a different rhythm—less shared imagination, more quiet reflection. Eleanora carried a small sprig of rosemary, plucked absently as you passed the herb garden.

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” she asked lightly.

You nodded. “I did. It was lovely.”

“Wessex certainly seemed to think so.”

You smiled at that. A small thing. “He always finds me.”

She looked over, her expression unreadable for a moment.

“He always sees you,” she said. “There’s a difference.”

You glanced at her, surprised.

“You noticed, didn’t you?” she added quietly, turning her eyes forward again.

You didn’t ask what she meant. You both already knew. You let the silence stretch a few steps longer.

“Yes,” you said softly.

She was quiet. Then, with a dry little exhale: “He does it more now.”

“Do you think it means something?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Eleanora tilted her head toward the hedge wall, running her fingers along its edge.

“I think... It means something. But not something he’s willing to say aloud. Not yet.”

You swallowed. “He shouldn’t.”

“No,” she agreed. “He shouldn’t.”

Another beat of silence. Then, she stopped walking. You followed suit.

“I don’t think I feel much for him anymore,” she said, looking down at the rosemary between her fingers. “Not enough to fight for something that was never truly mine.”

Your heart ached for her—not out of pity, but admiration. For her honesty. Her clarity.

“And you?” she asked, lifting her gaze. “Do you feel anything… for him?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“No,” you said. Then quieter, “I don’t think so.”

But something had changed. Something had cracked open. And though it hadn’t spilled yet, you both knew it might.

“He looked at you like he’d finally seen you,” Eleanora said gently. “Whatever comes of that, I think you ought to be ready.”

You nodded once, the wind tugging at your shawl. You didn’t want to be someone’s second choice. Someone’s accidental affection. But the way he looked at you— It didn’t feel like a beginning. It felt like the moment before one.

The letter arrived late morning. Pressed parchment, a familiar seal in golden wax. Not overly formal. Just neat. Sincere.

My dearest Miss Everleigh,

I wonder if I might persuade you to join me for a walk this Thursday morning. There’s a rather lovely glade near the lake on my family’s estate—unremarkable to some, but I’ve always found it peaceful. I’d be honored to share it with someone who actually sees the world in detail.

There will be a carriage waiting, if you’re inclined.

Warmly, Lord W.

Your heart fluttered—not with surprise, but with quiet delight. He always wrote the way he spoke: clever, but never rehearsed. Warm, but never overreaching. You accepted.

Thursday arrived with soft sunshine and a breeze that danced along the hem of your gown. The glade was everything he promised—quiet, blooming with wildflowers, dappled in shade. You walked for nearly an hour. Sometimes in silence, sometimes in stories.

He told you about his late sister—how she used to press wildflowers into the pages of every book he owned. You told him about the time you and Eleanora tried to escape a dinner party by climbing out the library window and fell into the hedges.

You laughed, breathed, let the afternoon settle into your skin. When he walked you back to the carriage, he didn’t ask for anything more. But he held your hand a little longer than necessary. And for the first time…you found yourself wishing he would.

——

The ballroom at Althridge Hall was vast and gold-draped, lanterns burning low to cast a romantic glow over the polished floors. Eleanora entered on your arm, her head high, her new suitor—a kind-eyed Viscount—already waiting near the stairs. She no longer searched for the Duke. Not with her eyes. Not with her heart.

And when he approached her that night, offering a dance, she accepted with grace. They danced once. Spoke little. And when they stepped apart, something passed between them. A quiet understanding.

This is not the story we were meant to write.

He danced with two other ladies. Politely. Dutifully. But not presently. Not truly. You stood near the terrace doors when it happened—watching the moonlight pour through the glass, speaking with a gentleman you barely knew, Lord Wessex beside you with a glass in hand, whispering something ridiculous that made you bite back a laugh—

And then you felt it. Not on your skin. But somewhere deeper. Your gaze drifted. Found his. Rafayel Vale. Standing still. Eyes on you. Not by accident this time. And he didn’t look away. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. But in that single moment, the air between you changed. And beside you, Lord Wessex’s hand—holding his glass—tensed ever so slightly. He had seen it too.

——

The gallery was nearly empty. It was a private viewing, arranged by Lady Welgrave—an afternoon invitation sent to a small handful of guests who might appreciate art more than gossip.

You went because you do appreciate art. You went because you’d grown tired of sitting still while everyone else waited for something to happen. You went because you didn’t expect to see him there. But he was there. The Duke of Ravencourt. Rafayel.

Standing at the end of the corridor, gazing up at a massive oil painting of a storm at sea. All blue-black fury and golden light breaking through clouds. He didn’t notice you at first. Or perhaps he did and simply chose not to react.

You turned toward a smaller portrait—a woman in green, her hand poised mid-motion. You tilted your head, studied the brushwork.

“She reminds me of you.” You turned. He was beside you now. Not close enough to startle, but nearer than you expected. His hands clasped behind his back. His voice was low. Soft.

“The woman in the painting,” he added, when you didn’t speak.

You looked back at it. Then at him. “She looks nothing like me, my Lord.”

“No,” he said. “But there’s something in her eyes. As if she’s trying not to speak.”

Your heart fluttered. Not from the words. But from the way he said them. Carefully. Like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud.

You turned your gaze forward again. “That’s a rather strange compliment, my Lord.”

“It wasn’t meant as one.” He didn’t apologize. Didn’t smile.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you said.

“I didn’t expect to speak,” he replied.

You glanced sideways. He was already looking at you. There was something new in his eyes—something like focus. Tension. A man standing too near a line he’d drawn for himself. You searched for something safe to say. Something easy.

“Did you enjoy the ball?”

“No.” The answer surprised you. He didn’t elaborate. You waited.

“There is something unpleasant,” he said slowly, “about being expected to play a part you no longer believe suits you.”

Your throat tightened just a little. “Then don’t play it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be.”

He looked at you. Truly looked at you. And something flickered across his face then. Not clarity. Not desire. Just the ache of almost.

“You make things sound easy,” he murmured.

“Only because I’m not the one who made them difficult.”

Silence stretched. Someone else entered the gallery then—a pair of older women, deep in conversation, oblivious to the stillness between you and him.

You took a step back. Just one. “Good afternoon, my Lord.”

“Miss Everleigh,” he said, but slower this time. Like he almost wasn’t ready for the moment to end.

You didn’t look back. But you felt it. The crack. The first true one.

——

The night shimmered with candlelight and soft perfume. The Grand Salford Ball had always been the crown jewel of the Season—a ballroom lined with mirrored walls and high arched ceilings, where every lady in London seemed to shine a little brighter beneath the chandeliers.

You were dressed in soft grey silk, silver thread sewn into the bodice like a whisper. You’d already danced twice. Spoke with two earls. Smiled more than you truly felt. You weren’t looking for him. But he was there. Rafayel Vale, standing near the floral arrangements beneath the north arch, half-shadowed, as always.

He’d danced already—twice. You’d seen it. Obligation. Courtesy. Grace with distance. And then— He moved. You caught the motion from the corner of your eye. Thought, at first, he might be heading toward your sister. But he wasn’t. He stopped in front of you.

People noticed. Of course they did. The air shifted. And then, softly: “Miss Everleigh.”

You looked up. “My Lord.”

He bowed. “May I have this dance?”

For a moment, you said nothing. Not out of drama. Not out of awe. But because something inside you paused—pressed its hand to the glass and whispered, be careful.

Still, you extended your hand. “Of course.”

The music began—a gentle waltz, sweeping but quiet. His hand was warm against your waist. His movements precise. Fluid. You had danced this pattern with a dozen men. But never with him. And you felt the difference.

He didn’t speak at first. Neither did you. Then, finally, “You weren’t at the gallery long,” he said.

“No,” you replied evenly. “I didn’t wish to intrude, my Lord.”

“You never intrude.” It came too quickly. Too softly. You didn’t answer. The dance continued.

“This isn’t wise,” he murmured, almost too low to hear.

“Then why ask?” you asked back.

He looked at you. Not a glance. Not a flicker. A look.

“I’m beginning to ask myself the same thing.”

You didn’t fumble. You didn’t blush. But when the dance ended, and he stepped back with a bow deeper than necessary, your heart was not still.

You curtsied. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“Thank you,” he said—soft, real.

Then he was gone. Lord Wessex found you near the refreshments later. He didn’t speak immediately. He handed you a glass.

“That was unexpected,” he said finally, gently.

You looked at him. His expression was warm. Steady. But something behind his eyes had shifted.

You didn’t lie. “It surprised me, too.”

He nodded once, slowly.

“He’ll have to mean it,” he said. “If he’s going to try. Because anything less than everything will not be enough for you.” You swallowed.

“You deserve more than half a heart,” he added, voice quiet now. “And I would never offer you that.” And then— He smiled. Small. Honest. A little sad. “Just… don’t forget how good we were.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. He kissed your knuckles, and stepped away. Not out of anger. But out of care.

——

The Ainsworth soirée was smaller than most. Quieter. Subdued. The parlors had been cleared for music and conversation. Candles flickered in glass bowls on every sill. A string quartet played something gentle and slow, meant for swaying rather than showmanship.

You arrived with Eleanora, both of you dressed in pale silks—your colors soft and unremarkable, by design. There was no need to be seen anymore. You had already been seen. Lord Wessex was already waiting inside. He kissed your hand with a familiar smile and asked if you’d saved a dance. You had.

Eleanora was soon spirited away by the Viscount, now her most consistent caller. And as the night passed, you found yourself at peace. Not ecstatic. Not glowing. Just still. Until he looked at you again.

The Duke. Across the room. Standing near the windows. A glass untouched in his hand. He didn’t approach. Didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. But he looked. As he always had. You told yourself it meant nothing. You told yourself you were past wondering. You almost believed it.

Later, near the end of the evening, you stepped out into the garden. Just for a breath. The air was cooler, the roses just beginning to bloom. You were alone for no more than a minute before footsteps followed. You didn’t turn. Not yet.

“You were always meant for the garden,” came his voice behind you.

Low. Steady. A little tired. You turned slowly. He stood there. Hands clasped behind his back. Moonlight catching on the edge of his coat.

“That’s a strange thing to say, my Lord” you said, not unkindly.

“Not strange,” he replied. “True.”

You looked at him. Waiting.

“I meant to stay away,” he added after a moment. “Truly, I did.”

“But you still came.” He stepped closer—but not too close.

“I see you,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen you for longer than I should’ve allowed.”

Your breath caught, just slightly.

“Then why say nothing?” you asked. “All this time?”

“Because I was promised to someone else. Someone good. Someone who deserved better than a man who couldn’t keep his eyes where they belonged.”

Silence stretched between you. The only sound was the soft flicker of the wind in the roses.

“You never asked again,” you said, finally. “To dance.”

“Because I didn’t trust myself.”

That made your heart beat harder than it should have. You turned your face away—toward the stars. “And now?”

A pause. Then— “Now I don’t know if it’s too late.”

You didn’t answer him. Because you didn’t know either. The silence between you grew heavier. You were the first to break it.

“You know Lord Wessex is courting me.” It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be. His jaw tensed, ever so slightly. But his voice remained level.

“Everyone does.”

You nodded once, slowly. “And yet… here you are.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Here I am.”Another pause. “Should I step back?” he asked then, his voice low, careful. “Let him continue without interruption?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t know how. He took a step closer—just one—and your breath caught before you could help it.

“Or should I ask,” he continued, voice a thread, “if you ever wondered what it would be like... if it were my lips that kissed your hand instead of his?”

Your heart stopped. He saw it in your face. The shift. The flicker of disbelief, of feeling. He stepped back, respectfully. His voice softened further, barely more than a breath.

“Do you wish it was his touch you waited for every evening…or mine?”

You didn’t look away. You couldn’t.

“Tell me what you want, Miss Everleigh,” he said. “And I’ll leave you be… or I’ll stay.”

The wind stirred your gown. Somewhere beyond the hedges, the music drifted faintly from the house. But here—beneath the soft gold of the lantern and the weight of everything unsaid—the world held its breath. You didn’t answer yet. Because your own heart was still catching up.

You didn’t speak as the wind moved through the garden. Not for a long moment. Then, at last, you lifted your chin and met his gaze—steady, unreadable, quiet thunder just beneath the surface.

“I think I should return inside,” you said gently.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask again. Didn’t stop you.

“Of course,” he murmured. “Good evening, Miss Everleigh.”

“Good evening, my Lord.” You curtsied. Turned. And walked away. Not because you’d made a decision. But because he had waited too long to ask you to.

——

The next ball bloomed with music and golden gowns, the scent of roses woven through the warm spring air. You arrived late. By design. You wore blue this time—a deeper shade. Sapphire silk that shimmered beneath the chandeliers.

The music floated around you like smoke—soft, glittering, golden. Another waltz, another string of polite laughter and silk shoes brushing marble floors. Lord Wessex stood before you, as he always did. Familiar. Steady. Smiling just for you.

“You are late,” he said, voice warm with amusement. “I nearly despaired.”

“Then I suppose I should offer my sincerest apology, my Lord.” you replied, matching his tone.

You extended your hand. Gloved. Elegant. Offered without hesitation. He took it with a flourish and bent to kiss your knuckles. His lips brushed the silk lightly—nothing new. Nothing scandalous. But the flutter in your stomach came not from the kiss.

It came the moment your eyes lifted—almost absentmindedly, unintentionally— And met his. Across the ballroom. The Duke. Half-shadowed beside a marble column, his expression unreadable. But his gaze— Unflinching.

He had seen the kiss. Had watched your hand held in someone else’s. Had not looked away. And something tightened inside you. Low in your chest. Breathless. Not shame. Not guilt. Something else. Something dangerous. Something real.

You felt Lord Wessex straighten, release your hand. Still smiling. Still unaware. And yet, for a moment—just one—you weren’t there with him. You were still across the room. Where he was still watching you.

The night unfolded like all others. You danced. Smiled. Tilted your head at the right moments. Let Lord Wessex pull another laugh from your lips with some quip about powdered wigs and naval titles.

Your hand rested lightly on his arm. Your glass never emptied. The music swelled and carried you with it. And yet—Your thoughts strayed. Not to the ballroom. Not to the dress. Not even to the way Lord Wessex’s eyes lingered on your mouth when you sipped your wine. But to a voice.

“Do you ever wonder if it should’ve been my lips instead?”

To a hand not taken. A dance never shared—until it was. A look that never stopped. You caught him watching again. Across the ballroom. Between guests. Through shadows and silk. Your breath caught—so subtly you doubted anyone noticed. But your cheeks warmed. Betrayed you. His gaze didn’t drop. Neither did yours.

“I’ll be just a moment, my Lord.” you said softly to Lord Wessex.

He blinked. “Of course,” he said easily, ever the gentleman. “Shall I send for you if another dreadful dance begins without us?”

You smiled, touched his arm. “If you must.”

And then you turned, skirts brushing the floor, and slipped through the archway into the corridor beyond the ballroom. It was quieter here. Still lit by flickering sconces, still warm with laughter and footsteps echoing behind closed doors—but separate.

The hallway stretched ahead of you, lined with paintings and velvet drapes pulled aside to reveal the windows beyond. You walked without urgency. Without reason. You just needed to breathe. The music behind you dulled, like a memory being slowly folded away.

And as you passed the tall mirror at the end of the hall, your reflection looked a little different than it had at the start of the night. Not flustered. Not lost. But… uncertain. As if something inside you had shifted, and the rest of you had only just begun to feel it.

The hum of the ballroom faded with every step. You hadn’t meant to walk this far. But your feet had carried you, slowly, gently, down a long stretch of corridor where the candlelight softened and the laughter gave way to hush.

The air here was cooler. Still perfumed faintly with roses from the arrangements in the nearby drawing room. But emptier. Yours. Paintings lined the walls—portraits, mostly. Women in silks, men in gold-trimmed coats, their eyes fixed forever in oils and varnish. Some regal. Some sad. Some full of secrets you’d never know.

You let your fingers brush the carved wood of a frame, your eyes catching on a woman in a green gown. Her hand was half-lifted, as if to wave, or perhaps to reach. She reminded you of something. Of someone.

You stepped closer. And for a while, you forgot the room behind you. Forgot Lord Wessex’s smile. Forgot the dance. The wine. The heat beneath your gloves when lips touched silk. You simply breathed. Until—A shift. Not sound. Not footsteps. Just… presence. Your skin prickled, warm. You turned. And there he was. Rafayel.

Standing in the corridor, half in shadow, his expression unreadable—just as before. But his eyes? They weren’t just watching. They were fixed on you. Your breath caught. Not in fear. Not in surprise. In that quiet, fluttering place just beneath your ribs. You hadn’t heard him approach. Hadn’t felt him near. And yet— Somehow, you weren’t surprised to see him there.

“Forgive me, my Lord.” you said softly, though you weren’t sure what you were apologizing for.

He shook his head once. A subtle thing. But his gaze never left yours. You turned slightly, as if to retreat—but your feet didn’t move. Neither did his. The silence between you stretched—not uncomfortable. Just… fragile. You turned slightly back toward the painting, letting your voice fill the space between your heartbeats.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” you murmured.

His gaze shifted to the portrait.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “But her eyes are not on the man who painted her.”

You glanced at him, a soft lift of your brow.

“And who are they on, then?”

“Someone else entirely.”

A quiet smile tugged at your lips. You took a step forward, fingers still lightly brushing the edge of the frame.

“Do you frequent corridors often, my Lord? Or do I simply have a habit of wandering into yours?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

The silence stretched between you like a string pulled taut. You turned your gaze from the portrait and looked at him fully—his shoulders held in perfect stillness, his eyes unreadable but undeniably on you.

And before you could think better of it—before you could remember names or consequences— You lifted your hand. Not high. Not forward. Just enough. A subtle offer. A breathless question made of movement. You didn’t speak. But he did.

“Are you certain?” he asked, voice low—rougher than you’d ever heard it.

You didn’t look away. And you didn’t lower your hand. So he stepped closer. And took it. Not with the easy charm of practiced affection. Not with the flirtatious grace of a ballroom gentleman. But with intention.

His fingers curled around yours. And slowly, without flourish— He brought your hand to his lips. And kissed it. No sound. No heat but his mouth, barely there through the silk.And yet your whole body felt it.

The pressure of his lips sank through the glove like warmth through snow. Down your spine. Through your chest. Into the quiet ache in your stomach that hadn’t stopped since the garden. It was not performative. Not expected. It wasn’t even a kiss, not really. It was him. And when he lowered your hand, his eyes still didn’t leave yours.

“Does he make you feel like that?” he asked softly. “When he kisses your hand?”

The words landed like a breath against your throat. You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t need to. He already knew. Your breath trembled in your chest. His fingers still held yours—lightly now, almost reverently—but he hadn’t let go. And you hadn’t asked him to.You stared at your hand in his, the silk warmed by his kiss, your skin beneath it burning like some secret had been pressed there. And then, softly—

“It wouldn’t be fair,” you whispered, “to Lord Wessex.”

The words barely reached the air between you. A pause followed. Not cold. Not scolding. Just weight. But still, your hand stayed in his. He glanced down at it, at the contradiction between your words and your touch. When his gaze lifted again, it was steadier. Sharper.

“Then tell me,” he said, voice low—calm, but threaded with something breaking open, “should I step back?” His thumb brushed along the edge of your glove—so lightly it could have been imagined. “Do you want me to?”

The question hung there. Not as a demand. But as a man on the edge of something he’d never dared want until now. And the truth? Was sitting in your hand. Still resting in his. His question still hung in the air, suspended between your hand in his and the heat in your chest that refused to fade. You wanted to answer. You tried to.

But you couldn’t. Not yet. Because he—Lord Wessex—offered you calm. A clear path. Kindness, laughter, ease. And this? This was nothing but tension. A thread pulled too tight across your ribs. A glance that lingered too long. A kiss that didn’t even touch skin but still burned through silk like flame.

How could it already feel like this? How could your body ache from a man who had never truly held you? Your breath shook as you looked at him—this man who was promised to someone else, who had waited too long and yet made your heart twist in your chest with only his voice, his eyes, his nearness.

And before you could speak—before you could decide—A voice echoed faintly down the corridor. Laughter. A gentleman’s footsteps. Someone approaching. Not toward you, not fast—but near enough to remind you both of where you were.

His hand released yours gently, slowly—like letting go of a secret he wasn’t ready to give up. Your fingers curled into your palm, holding the ghost of his kiss like something you weren’t sure you wanted to keep—or bury. Neither of you said a word.

You turned back toward the light of the ballroom. He walked beside you in silence. And when you crossed the threshold again, the music picked up as if nothing had happened. As if the hallway hadn’t nearly changed everything.

The rest of the ball passed in a blur of candlelight and conversation. Lord Wessex remained by your side, as he always did—charming, clever, completely unaware of the storm still rolling beneath your skin.

He made you laugh. You danced twice more. He offered you another glass of wine, and you took it—hoping it would cool the heat that hadn’t left your cheeks since that corridor. But it didn’t. And at one point, as he passed you a napkin with a scribbled caricature of Lady Ashford’s towering feathered hat, he leaned in, brow slightly knit.

“You’re flushed,” he said softly. “Is it the wine, or the warmth of the room?”

Your smile came too quickly. “The ballroom’s stifling.”

He didn’t press. But something in his eyes lingered.

The carriage ride home was quiet. Eleanora leaned against the seat opposite you, half-asleep, her earrings already tucked into her glove. Your mother mumbled a list of names she’d overheard in the hallway, entirely unaware of the war playing out behind your calm expression.

Back in your room, you sat at the edge of your bed, gown half-unfastened, corset loosened, your hair beginning to tumble free. Eleanora stepped through the adjoining door in her dressing gown, barefoot, face still faintly powdered from the night.

She sat beside you wordlessly. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then— “It happened again, didn’t it?”

You looked at her. Blinked. She was already watching you. Calm. Knowing. You didn’t nod. You didn’t deny it. You just exhaled.

“In the corridor,” you whispered. “We didn’t do anything. We didn’t even say much.”

“But he kissed your hand.”

You paused. Then— “Yes.”

Eleanora didn’t speak at first. She only reached for your hand, held it loosely in hers.

“And it felt different,” she murmured.

Your eyes prickled. “It wasn’t even skin,” you said. “Just silk. But I felt it. All of it.”

She squeezed your fingers gently. “And Lord Wessex?”

“Is good to me,” you said. “He makes me feel seen. Safe. Steady.”

“But not undone.”

Your throat tightened. “No.”

Eleanora nodded, softly. “Then I think you already know.”

You looked down at your lap. Your gloves still lay there. One of them still warm.

——

He arrived mid-afternoon. Lord Wessex. His coat was a rich navy, his boots dusted from the ride, and a single tulip tucked into the fold of his arm. Not a grand gesture—just enough. Just thoughtful.

“A bold choice, my Lord.” you said, accepting the flower with a soft smile.

“I nearly brought roses,” he replied, stepping into the drawing room as your maid closed the door behind him. “But then I thought… Everyone brings roses. You deserve something else.”

You said nothing. You only turned, placing the tulip in a crystal vase by the window. He watched you quietly as you did. You sat across from each other, tea between you, your mother making polite excuses and vanishing after only a few minutes—delighted, of course, by his consistency.

He spoke of a new play being performed at the theater. A cousin’s engagement. The ridiculous hat Lady Thorne had worn last night “I nearly lost my footing—twice”. You laughed at the right moments. You always did. And then— A shift. He leaned forward slightly, his hand resting on the arm of your chair—not touching you, not yet. But near.

“You were quiet last night,” he said gently. “Not distant. Just… somewhere else.”

You blinked. “Was I?”

“You were.” He smiled. “But I don’t mind. I like the parts of you that don’t always speak.”

And then—Without asking, without hesitating—He reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered only for a breath. Soft. Respectful. Kind. But the moment they touched your skin—Your cheeks flushed. Warm. Immediate. Visceral. He saw it. And he smiled—soft, almost shy. Pleased.

“Have I flustered you?” he asked, voice lower now. “That’s rare.”

You smiled. But only you knew the truth. Because the heat blooming across your skin wasn’t from his touch. It was from the memory of another man’s lips against your glove. And for the briefest, most unforgivable second—You imagined it was his hand brushing that strand away. The Duke’s. And your stomach turned with the ache of it.

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