#satin in candlelight

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Beneath a Dragon's Gaze

Summary: With Madame Sylvi indisposed on the evening Prince Aemond comes to visit, he requests someone different | Word Count: 1.7k~ | Warnings: sex work, smut, hair pulling, biting, titty sucking, darkish Aemond

A/N: saw ep 3 and felt silly 😁 not proofread an inch

“The Prince has asked for you.”

She could not help the wide-eyed look and the familiar flipping of her stomach, now feeling entirely different with the words that had come from her fellow woman’s lips. The Prince. Well, it could have meant either of them only weeks before, but no longer. They frequented this establishment quite often, as an upper-class brothel, with only the finest whores and service, it was only natural, and they had the coin to pay for it.

Suddenly, she felt quite cold in the sheer dress she had chosen that evening, doing very little to conceal the flesh that hid beneath, her nipples having formed peaks against the satin. What could she possibly say to that? There was no possibility of refusing. 

“Very well,” she responded, knowing it was not her place to question. There was no question as to which now, it was most certainly the very same who frequented for the warm embrace and soothing voice of Madame Sylvi, who spent hours in her company and paid her a hefty price for it. For secrecy. But she knew just as well that the only reason Aemond had requested her instead, was because on this night, his usual appointment was indisposed. 

Her heart raced as she slalomed through the scantily clad crowd, each step bringing her closer to the corner where the prince awaited. The halls were dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows that danced along the walls, alongside those of curved figures, twisted with pleasure. She could hear the muted sounds of such from the other rooms, but they did little to quell the nervousness that gripped her.

When she reached the curtain, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady herself. The Prince. Aemond Targaryen. Known for his fierce demeanour and sharp intellect, he was not a man to be trifled with. Yet, beneath that cold exterior, she had heard whispers of a man burdened by the weight of his family.

Sliding the curtain across, met with the Prince, eyepatch already discarded and down only to his breeches, sat with cup in hand on the plush settee, his lone eye raising to her as she dipped for a curtsy. She felt her throat close at the sight of the sapphire, somewhat mirroring what was happening between her thighs.

"Madame Sylvi sends her apologies, my prince. She is unable to attend to you this evening."

Aemond's gaze lingered on her for a moment, and she felt her cheeks flush under his scrutiny. "I did not call for Sylvi tonight," he said finally, his tone giving nothing away. "I called for you."

Her lips parted to question. But she dare not let the words free. She was not one to ask about his intentions, a mere whore.

“Undress.”

The Prince’s eye never wavered as he watched, flesh revealed as she bared herself to him. He stood as if uncurling himself, finishing what was left in his cup before moving his hands to unlace his breeches, his head gesturing to the settee.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

His commanding tone made those flutters awaken once more. She had been employed at this establishment for so long, of course being naked and bared to an abundance of men was second nature. But there was something about the way he wanted her, the way it seemed not spurred by desire of any kind, but a need, like air, that ignited her nerves that she had not felt since her first few days in this line of work.

Still, bare arsed and exposed to a Prince, was a different matter entirely.

She felt his presence behind her, knowing he was naked as his thighs brushed against hers. He nudged her knees apart and pushed gently on her spine, encouraging her to arch her back. Though she could not see his face, the rippled design of the copper in front of her reflected enough for her to sense the detachment in his actions. So, she remained silent.

Prince Aemond guided himself to her centre, barely wet, and pushed his cockhead inside. He had barely breached her when his hands gripped the flesh of her buttocks, watching intently as his cock slowly slid deeper into her cunt, being swallowed by her body. She closed her eyes, the lack of preparation making the act more uncomfortable than pleasurable, but she hoped that with time, her arousal would ease the discomfort.

As Prince Aemond continued to push himself inside her, she focused on her breathing, trying to relax her body and ease the discomfort. The room was silent except for their breaths, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced on the walls. Each inch he gained felt like a stretch, a challenge to her body's readiness, but she bit her lip, determined to endure.

His hands, firm on her buttocks, began to knead her flesh, his grip alternating between gentle caresses and possessive squeezes. The friction built steadily, her body slowly acclimating to his presence. The initial pain started to fade, replaced by a growing warmth and the stirrings of pleasure.

Aemond moved with a deliberate pace, his thrusts measured and controlled. He seemed intent on watching every inch of his cock as it disappeared inside her, his breathing heavy and laboured. She could feel his intensity, the way he held back his own urges to maintain that slow, torturous rhythm.

Despite the initial discomfort, her arousal began to build. Her body responded to his movements, her inner walls slickening and accommodating his length with increasing ease. Soft moans escaped her lips, unbidden but honest, as pleasure began to mix with the remnants of pain.

Aemond's hands slid from her buttocks to her hips, pulling her back against him with each thrust. The new angle allowed him to go deeper, hitting spots inside her that sent jolts of pleasure through her body. Her fingers clenched the sheets beneath her, seeking some anchor as the sensations intensified.

He leaned forward, his breath hot against her ear. "Do you feel that?" he murmured, his voice husky and edged with restraint. "Do you feel how you take me in?"

"Yes, my prince," she gasped, her voice trembling with the effort to maintain composure. "I feel it."

Aemond's pace quickened slightly, his control slipping as his own desire took precedence. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, a rhythmic, primal music that spoke of need and release. Her moans grew louder, her body arching and pushing to meet his thrusts, seeking the pleasure that now consumed her.

With a sudden, possessive grip, Aemond's hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck. His lips found her skin, teeth grazing lightly before he bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to claim. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine, her body responding with an involuntary clench around his cock.

He groaned against her neck, the sound vibrating through her. "Take me, all of me," he whispered, his voice filled with approval and satisfaction. 

She surrendered to the sensations, her body melting into his as pleasure overwhelmed her. Every thrust, every touch, every whispered word from Aemond drove her closer to the edge. The discomfort was a distant memory now, replaced by a wave of ecstasy that built with each passing second. His movements so erratic, his stones clapped against her womanhood with every harsh push, slapping against her bud in a steady, unyielding rhythm.

The sensation pushed her over the edge, her own climax washing over her in a powerful, all-consuming wave. She cried out, her body convulsing around him, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. Finally, with a deep, guttural moan, Aemond drove himself to the hilt inside her once more, his body shuddering and then withdrawing quickly as he found his release and coated her buttocks and thighs with his pearly spend.

They stayed like that for a moment, both catching their breath, their bodies still joined. Slowly, Aemond released his grip on her hair and hips, his hands soothing over the marks he'd left. He pulled out of her velvety walls gently, leaving her feeling both spent and fulfilled.

She expected him to leave, to gather his clothes and slip away into the night, as most men often do with a flick of their coin into her lap. But instead, Aemond surprised her. He curled into her body, his head resting against her chest. His lips found her breast, mouthing at her skin with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity of their earlier encounter. His hand moved to her other breast, caressing it with a gentle, almost reverent touch.

She looked down at him, her fingers threading through his silver, moonlit hair. He seemed to take more pleasure in this simple intimacy than she did, as if seeking comfort rather than mere satisfaction. His eyes were closed, his breathing steadying as he continued to nuzzle her chest.

"I hate it," he murmured after a long silence, his voice muffled against her skin.

She blinked, unsure of his meaning. "Hate what, my prince?"

Aemond shifted slightly, his hand stilling on her breast. "Sometimes, I think Madame Sylvi just says anything to appease me. She tells me what she thinks I want to hear, not what she truly believes."

There was a bitterness in his tone that caught her off guard. "Why do you think that?" she asked softly, her thumb stroking the back of his neck.

Aemond's grip on her breast tightened slightly, and she felt a shiver of unease. His lips brushed against her nipple, then his teeth grazed it, sending a jolt through her body. "Because it's easier for her," he said, his voice lower, more dangerous. "Because I'm a prince, and she fears offending me."

She gasped softly at the sensation, the mix of pleasure and pain reminding her of the precarious balance between comfort and control. "But you deserve honesty, my prince," she managed to say, her voice trembling.

He bit down a little harder, enough to make her wince. "Do I?" he asked, his tone a warning. "Or do I deserve the truth, no matter how it feels?"

Her heart raced, the threat in his words unmistakable. "The truth, my prince," she whispered, trying to maintain her composure. "Always the truth."

Aemond's teeth released her nipple, his tongue soothing the sting. He looked up at her, his eye fierce and unyielding. The sapphire lodged in the other piercing and dark. 

"Good," he said, his voice a soft growl. "Because I have no patience for lies, no matter how pretty they are."

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch

@castellomargot @emmaisafictionwhore @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @primonizzutto

@qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince

[les4elliewilliams]

❝SAVE YOUR TEARS.❞ ― 𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐄 𝚰𝚰, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

PLAYER!ELLIE ﾒ MEAN!READER ─ ALWAYS PLAY THE PLAYER.

❝YEAH, I BROKE YOUR HEART LIKE SOMEONE DID TO MINE, AND NOW YOU WON’T LOVE ME FOR A SECOND TIME❞

ᝰ.ᐟ⌞SUMMARY⌝ ﹕ A year after that devastating summer, Ellie is stunned to see you again—this time at a summer camp where you’re both working. The girl who once led her on and then disappeared without a trace is back, but Ellie’s no longer the naive girl you once played. Still aching from the way you broke her heart, Ellie is filled with a desire for revenge. She wants to make you feel the same confusion and hurt she felt. She’s ready to pull you into the same emotional game she was trapped in, to finally get her payback. But as she carefully lays her plans, Ellie finds herself in uncharted territory. She’s never been one for revenge, and now that the opportunity is in front of her, she begins to question if it will really give her the closure she craves—or if it will leave her with something far worse. Is revenge really worth it, or will Ellie learn the hard way that some wounds can’t be healed by hurting the person who caused them?

✶.ᐟ⌞THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS⌝﹕4.1k words⨾ 18+ CONTENT⨾ no use of y/n⨾ cunnilingus (𝑒!receiving)⨾ use of alcohol⨾ reader being down bad⨾ angst⨾ sub/loser/delusional!ellie (enjoy it while you can.)

.ᐟ.ᐟ⌞AUTHOR’S NOTE⌝ ﹕oh! it’s been a minute, huh? anyway, my babies are back. finally. just using this author’s note to let you all know that the girl who inspired this (yes, because this shit is basically half true, i was just venting like a total loser this whole time) is now dating a guy! insane. truly wild times… sigh. anywhore, enjoy the chapter──proofread by @sapphichotmess !!

#.ᐟ ⌞CHAPTERS⌝ ↯

˗ˏˋ catch up, will ya? •｡𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖 ⋆ 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ⋆ 𝐭𝐰𝐨 ⋆ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ⋆ 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 ⋆ 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 ⋆ 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞ˎˊ˗

𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒.

The night had been perfect, and so was Natalie. She had gone all out, picking you up in her Porsche, jasmine scent clinging to her glowing skin. The satin black dress hugged every inch of the mature woman perfectly, and you found yourself practically salivating at the way her tits threatened to spill from the shiny fabric. You felt disgusting, but you knew she wore it for a reason—so, was it entirely your fault for behaving like a caged animal that hadn’t seen a woman in ages? Or maybe you were just starting to behave like a man and that thought horrified you.

At dinner, she ordered for you without hesitation, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how to give you the night of your life, and that alone made you want to eat her out from under the table. She poured expensive champagne into your glass, watching you through her lash extensions as you took your first sip. 

The flickering candlelight did little to soften her features, no hint of platonic warmth lay in her eyes, only the kind of focus of someone who had their agenda clear for the rest of the night. It didn’t take a genius, to be fair. You could tell by the placement of her hand, her fingers claiming territory beneath the tablecloth, her thumb tracing languid orbits onto your skin. You knew exactly what awaited you once you were away from all the prying eyes and you didn’t mind it one bit.  

The entire drive back to your apartment, her hand rested high on your inner thigh, squeezing it ever so slightly every time you giggled, flustered like some pathetic schoolgirl crushing on her way too attractive teacher. 

Natalie was nearly twice your age, though she barely looked it—breathtakingly gorgeous, long, sleek black hair always flawless, her eyes so strikingly grey they looked like glaciers in the passing streetlights. She could make anyone weak in the knees, and then walk away gracefully in her Louis Vuitton heels without ever looking back. Even you’d let her step on you and thank her for the honour.

She had confided in you before, late nights spent in relentless complaints that you listened to because you wanted to, and every time she shared her struggles, you couldn’t help but wonder how any man could be so fucking stupid. You already knew from experience that men like him were nothing but brainless little puppies; her husband, though, was some uglier breed. How could he let all that slip through his useless fingers? 

Then again, maybe she was simply too much for him. You weren’t even surprised. Men had a habit of being handed treasures only to let them collect dust, treating women like nothing more than trophies. It was always the ugly ones with nothing to offer but a nonexistent ego and an insatiable need to be worshiped.

You weren’t even sure how things had started between you and Natalie. Maybe it was that one long night after babysitting her son, when, after a few glasses of wine, you’d playfully told her that you’d never considered sleeping with someone nearly your mom’s age before. She had only laughed, feeling a little too flattered. That’s when your nights started looking a little different—fucking her like no man ever had, legs locked tightly around your head, making her writhe like never before.

Once back at your apartment, the door had barely clicked shut before her lips urgently smudged her red lipstick across your neck. Her hands wandered like lost guests, except they weren’t lost at all, and knew exactly where they wanted to go, pushing the strap of your dress down with her nails. The scent of jasmine perfume still clung to her, mixing with the faintest trace of wine on her breath as she pressed against you from behind, hips glued to your ass.

“Missed this,” she whispered into your ear, insistent fingers already working to lift the hem of your dress. “Missed you.”

As if she hadn’t been over just days ago, bent over your kitchen counter like a whore, tits smashed against cold marble, mumbling something about you getting her pregnant while you split her open with the strap-on she had practically forced into your hands. Red claws carved love notes down your back as you fucked her dumb, her nectar making a mess of your floor. And now, she was back at it, all needy and impatient, grinding against you like she couldn’t stand the thin fabric keeping your bodies apart.

The scrape of her nails marked your skin from shoulder to forearm, raising tiny bumps. Simultaneously, her other hand ghosted over your ribs before her palm settled to mold itself against your breast, kneading it gently. Your glossed lips quivered slightly as you sighed, your head tipping to the side, silently urging her further, her fat tits pressing into your back. She was just tall enough to make you feel caged in, but never enough to make you back down.

Her lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, “Gonna treat you so good tonight, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

She tucked your hair over one shoulder, her eyes lingering on the blooming red stains she had painted across your skin, admiring her handiwork under the soft lights of the kitchen. 

“Why don’t you go get the toy I got you, hm?” she suggested, her lips pressing a lingering kiss over the very spot she knew would make you melt into her further. 

Your stomach tightened at her words, heat pooling low in your poor cunt. You let out a breathy chuckle, pushing your ass back into her, grinning when she subtly ground against it.

“Now, that’s a good idea.”

Her wine-flavored breath brushed against your cheek while she laughed against you, urging your ass into her. “I had a feeling you’d go along with it.” Her red nails pinched at the soft fabric clinging to your hips, tugging teasingly. “Will you let me wear it this time?”

You snorted lightly, grinning over your shoulder. “You wish.”

“Bet I can change that real quick.”

You loved that about her—how she always tried to take control, even when the battle was already lost. It was cute watching her push and tease, pretending she had the upper hand when you both knew better. 

But you let her play the game anyway, just to see how long she’d last.

Delicate hands slid back up, groping both your breasts through the thin fabric of your dress so neither felt neglected. Natalie pulled your aching buds between her fingers just enough to make you suck in a breath. 

“Love the way this dress looks on you.” Her lips found the curve of your exposed shoulder, trailing open-mouthed kisses against salty skin. She had you melting right under her fingertips and she hadn’t even come near your cunt yet. Funny how milfs work. “But it’d look even better on the floor, don’t you think?”

“You’re gonna look even better bent over this counter, don’t you think?” You managed to fire back smoothly despite the subtle catch in your throat, almost as if her touch had momentarily constricted your breathing, pressing right on your diaphragm.

She delivered a throaty chuckle straight into your neck. “You never let up, do you?”

“Never.”

You turned in her arms, your hands finding her hips, parting those smooth, sculpted thighs with one of your own, not even pressing in just yet. And God, may he smite you where you stand for being just as disgusting as the countless sleazy men she’s dodged in her life, but you’d gladly give her son Evan a sibling if biology allowed it.

Maybe an exorcism would fix you. Or maybe bending her over and fucking her dumb in doggy position would do the trick. Who knew.

Either way, her turgid nipples beneath the satin dress brushed yours—and you swore you could her them beg to be sucked on, bitten into. Her hand gently threaded through your strands, even though she had long since ruined your once-perfect hairstyle. 

But to her, you still looked perfect. Maybe even better like this. Perhaps it was the thrill of it, of being with someone she shouldn’t be with. Someone younger. Someone reckless, someone who almost had as much vitality as her, who didn’t care about rules or what was right. 

There was something about that she found irresistible. It wasn’t just the way you moved around, but the way you always knew what you were doing, like you were born knowing exactly how to handle a woman like her.

And that did things to her. Things she wasn’t proud of.

Her fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face up so she could let her lips linger on yours, her tongue sweeping against yours in a way that made your hands twitch on her and drag her closer. She pulled away just enough to murmur against your mouth, “That’s what I like about you.”

You didn’t even bother responding, too busy fumbling with the zipper on her back, pulling it down with a hasty jerk. 

She pressed herself against you, her breath erratic in your ear, her breasts spilling over from the loosened fabric. Your pulse pounded, body reacting to every little sound she made, every little shift of her hips against yours—until her eyes fluttered open and locked on something just behind you.

“Has that painting always been there?”

That was all it took for your hands to freeze on her back. 

Of all the fucking moments.

The heat between your thighs vanished like it had never been there, wetness gone in an instant, dried up all at once. But she didn’t notice. Her fingertips continued to skim up and down your arms, still lost in the fire of the moment.

She wondered how she had never noticed it before, despite having been here countless times. Even with her dress barely clinging to her body and your hands poised to rip it off, her attention was drawn to it like an afterthought that refused to be ignored, the only thing worth worrying about. 

You genuinely hoped, with all yourself, she would just let it go. It wasn’t like she could see the meaning behind it. To her, it was probably just an abstract piece of art. 

But it was too big to ignore. A piece of something long dead you’d tried to bury, almost laughable when you thought about it—you still had her things scattered around your apartment. Even as you moved out, you’d brought her stuff with you. 

So, were you truly trying to leave it all behind?

“Yeah,” You croaked out. The hands that had been restlessly pulling at her dress now fell still at your sides. Natalie blinked, tilting her head slightly to the side to glance back at you. 

“I think I’m more tired than I realized.” You made a small sound in your throat, the space between you yawning wide.

Her full lips parted just a hair, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face like a shooting star, dying just as quickly. You knew she had been expecting more after the expensive dinner she had kindly offered you, but Natalie wasn’t like the men she had been with before. She knew how to take a hint and wasn’t going to push. She was a lady, after all.

“Oh,” she forced a gentle smile on, her hands cupping your face as her thumbs tenderly mapped the curve of your cheekbones. “That’s okay, my love.”

“You sure?”

She hummed softly, leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead, leaving behind one last stain of deep red before letting go of you. Her sweet scent enveloped you, smothering whatever ugly feeling had started to resurface. It was sweet, but nothing like Ellie’s. 

Natalie smelled like safety, like she could give you everything you thought you needed—but you didn’t get dizzy from it. There was no pine, no worn flannel, no trace of soft detergent or that faint floral earthiness that floats in the air only after a summer downpour. No, this one was just nice, clean, and forgettable. 

Nothing you’d want to memorize because you didn’t want to learn another scent.

For an unexpected moment, you felt guilty for thinking of her and pulling away from this goddess after such an incredible night. She had treated you so right, and you wanted to repay her somehow, by ending the night on an even higher note—or moan. But the truth was, you just weren’t feeling it, and that was absurd because you not being in the mood? What a rarity.

“I should probably head home anyway. It’s late, and to be honest…” The older woman trailed off as she batted her lashes. “I don’t exactly trust my new babysitter with Evan.” Her smile broadened, twin dimples forming in her cheeks.

That made you snort softly, feeling the tension inside you crumble just a little. “Hey, as soon as I get back from that stupid camp, he’s all mine again,” you promised, grinning.

“Nuh-uh, you need to focus on your studies,” she scolded, voice dipping into something almost motherly, fingers fixing your hair gently, pulling your dress strap back into place.

“I’ll be free on weekends, though.” 

The corners of Natalie’s lips lifted, the bold red of her lipstick blurred around the edges from the way her mouth had pressed against yours. She looked like a silk-clad nympho, dark tendrils of her hair artfully shadowing the curves of her cheekbones—the wet fantasy of many. 

And yet, standing within arm’s reach, you didn’t want her.

Something was missing, you felt it in the sickening hollow carved into your chest.

“I hope you had a good night.” 

Your head bobbed faintly. “I sure did.”

The coal-haired woman swiftly collected her things, donned her coat, and was gone in the blink of an eye. You stayed by the door, observing as her expensive car drove off into the night, her perfume lingering in the air.

A pitiful whine broke through your daze. You sighed, glanced down, and there she was. A golden furball, sitting at your feet with her head tilted, tongue poking out, giving you that silly look. The “I haven’t been walked yet, and I’m not happy about it” look. Her big, pleading, earthy eyes met yours, and guilt twisted in your stomach. How dare you forget to walk your baby? 

“I know, Pumpkin… I haven’t forgotten about your walk,” you reassured, running a hand through your locks. A soft, almost human sigh preceded a sudden burst of energy as you announced, “leash! Go get your leash, baby.” Her tail thumped excitedly before she bolted towards the living room.

The corners of your mouth quirked upwards in a fond smile, but as you turned back toward the painting, the smile turned lopsided, looking more like a pout than anything. Because no matter how much you tried to ignore it, that canvas was still hanging there. 

And no matter how good Natalie had made you feel tonight, no matter how much she tried to fuck the ghost of Ellie out of you, Ellie was still there.

Still haunting you.

It was useless.

The languid drag of a warm tongue against Ellie’s clit should’ve had her sinking into the mattress, fingers gripping tight, panting like a dog and dragging the girl deeper between her thighs. 

But the redhead barely felt it. 

The girl’s deep brown skin gleamed under the shitty yellow light of the bedroom lamp, her swollen lips glossed with Ellie’s slick. But the way she had been looking up at her the entire night wasn’t what Ellie needed. 

The autumn-haired girl could tell she wanted more than just a hookup, which was exactly what Ellie wasn’t looking for. She fisted a hand into thick curls, tugging the girl further between her spread thighs, trying to chase something that could make her body feel again. Yet, the pleasure was dull, forced, like chasing a high that never really hits. Like ordering some overpriced edibles from a shady website, only to realize it was all a scam. 

Strange, really—because the freckled girl remembered sex as something that made her forget her own name, yet her mind was buzzing with overlapping thoughts, refusing to blur. She wasn’t forgetting a thing. If anything, she could have traced her name onto the girl’s scalp just to prove how much of a bad idea this was. How bad it all felt.

Her grip tightened. The girl, short, all curves, and devastatingly pretty, let out a whimper against her, but the sound barely stirred any reaction from Ellie’s gut. She didn’t even like the way the girl sounded. 

Ellie blinked up at the ceiling, the spinning fan above blurring into nothing but a fog of regrets. Her head ached, her palm wiping away some of the sweat clinging to her creased forehead. The music from downstairs throbbed through walls, the bass barely vibrating picture frames, the muffled voices unable to mask the little slurps between her thighs, tentative darts of a tongue working too hard to coax out a sensation.

The brunette inbetween her thighs sucked gently at her clit, her tongue circling, nudging under the hood, waiting for a reaction that Ellie never gave. She wasn’t bad, just—fuck, Ellie didn’t know. 

Something was missing. She had expected to be panting, rolling her hips into a warm mouth, begging for more. But instead, she just stared down at her, watching as she fumbled, looking so fucking proud of herself, and felt nothing.

Maybe she didn’t even want this. Which was fucking insane because she had been aching for it all day, and now, with a real mouth between her legs instead of her beloved rose toy, she felt like she could roll over and nap.

Maybe it was the alcohol numbing her nerves, perhaps her hangover already creeping in. Maybe it was the fact that she couldn’t remember the girl’s name. Or maybe it was the way her body refused to react. 

Either way, the freckled girl felt blessed for not having a dick, because if she did, she was sure as hell it would’ve gone soft the second this girl laid hands on her. 

On second thought, maybe it wouldn’t have changed much, because her pussy was some numb little thing that stayed unresponsive the moment a girl she didn’t want touched her. 

Someone who wasn’t you. Or maybe it was Ellie’s heart that was the problem, shutting down the rest—but since when were pussy and heart even connected?

“Oh, fuck… yeah, mhm, just like that.” Her voice came out strained, but not from pleasure. Just exhaustion, frustration. 

Maybe that’s why she agreed to this in the first place. 

She had been lingering by the counter, taking shot after shot of vodka, barely listening to Dina ramble about something, when this girl had slid up beside her—all coy smile, dewy brown eyes, tight little blue dress showing off her fat ass. She was cute. A little shy but bold enough to flirt with Ellie like she had already won. 

Maybe that’s what did it. The way her hands kept trailing up Ellie’s tattooed forearm, eyes flicking to her mouth every few seconds, licking at her glossed lips like she couldn’t wait to taste her.

So Ellie let her.

Let her grab her hand and pull her up the stairs. Let her shove her onto some random bedroom mattress and sink to her knees like she was about to confess every sin she was about to commit. Let another girl undress her and her tongue do her thing, and let herself pretend for a second that it wasn’t awful.

But she was fucking bored. She could be in her room, lost in video games or buried in comics. Instead, her head pounded from the cheap alcohol Jesse had shoved into her hand, and her stomach turned from whatever jungle juice Dina had forced down her throat earlier.

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and suddenly, it wasn’t some nameless girl kneeling between her legs anymore. 

It was you.

It was only then that her body finally reacted. Suddenly, she was moaning.

She could almost feel the ghost of you her memory was painting in her mind—could feel the delicious heat licking at her spine, her stomach tightening, your tongue sucking her in hungrily. She could feel you smile against her, feel the way you pressed a little closer, your tongue gliding through her slit like a credit card, wanting nothing more than to drive her insane.

The girl whimpered, her hands smoothing up Ellie’s thighs, squeezing, nails biting into porcelain skin. But still, all she could see was you looking up at her with those wide eyes, hungry for her. Her hand guiding your head, showing you exactly how she wanted to be devoured. 

Ellie’s hips rolled into the girl’s mouth, fingers twisting painfully into disheveled curls, “Mmm, yeah, fuck—just like that, baby.”

The girl whimpered again, encouraged, hands gripping Ellie’s thighs tightly.

Her mind kept dragging her back to the way your lips felt when they latched onto the soft skin of her inner thighs like a leech, sucking deep lavenders into her flesh, marking her. To the way your mean fingernails would bite into her dips, holding her like you’d fucking perish if you let go. To the expert strokes of your wet muscle against her pained nub, torturing her just to make her beg.

Her moans only got louder and it wasn’t thanks to the girl between her legs.

“Shit, yeah—fuuuck, you’re so good, ’m so, so close—”

And then the warmth in her stomach was gone, and so was the ghost of you.

Ellie’s climax was ripped away as the girl suddenly pulled back, gasping for air, her lips glossy with her juices and swollen. Her glassy, green eyes snapped open as she propped herself up on her elbows. “Why did you stop?” 

Still panting, the girl’s uncertain eyes fixed upwards as she brushed a stray curl from her face, “You’ve been saying you’re close for the past thirty minutes, Eleanor.”

Her stomach dropped.

Ellie’s eyes narrowed at the way she butchered her name—as if Cupid himself was fucking with her. Because suddenly, it didn’t just feel like you were in her head; it felt like you were right here in the room, grinning, watching as the moment crumbled around her. Proud of yourself for ruining her so completely that she couldn’t even finish without you invading her thoughts. That even with someone else between her legs, it was still you that had her body and soul tied to.

“Is it me? Am I that bad?”

A soft sigh accompanied the downward sweep of Ellie’s hand across her warm, blush-dusted face. “No, it’s just—” She pushed herself upright, her mind already sifting through shitty excuses to spoon-feed this sweet little thing blinking up at her.

The smell of her perfume was way too sweet—revolting, even—and Ellie hated how it coated her tongue every time she sucked in a breath.

“Guess ’m too drunk for this,” she shoved her reddish bangs back, though it clung there, stubbornly sticking with sweat at her temples.

The girl pouted subtly, studying her for a moment, before nodding softly, looking a little hurt. “It’s okay,” she soothed, climbing onto Ellie’s body and pressing a slow kiss on her mouth. The kiss felt far too lingering for the freckled girl’s taste, and she found herself counting down the seconds until the girl finally pulled away.

Only Ellie knew how much effort it took to swallow the revulsion rising in her throat, to stay still, to keep from wiping the girl’s spit off her lips the moment it ended.

And yet, despite how catastrophic the whole thing had been, the first thing the curly-haired girl asked was if she could have her number, maybe hang out sometime that week.

But Ellie was already scooting away, reciting her digits quickly. Her movements were frantic as she hastily pulled her clothes back on, watching the girl type it in, beaming as if Ellie had just gifted her the very fucking stars. 

She needed air, or maybe she just needed an escape.

It was almost adorable, the way she bounced on her feet before the bedroom door clicked shut behind her, leaving Ellie alone, drowning in thoughts louder than the music still thumping through the walls.

Sweat cooled against her pale skin, her stomach twisting from alcohol and regret. 

She should feel bad for giving that sweet girl the wrong number. Should feel something. 

But she didn’t.

Because when her eyes shut, it was you she was thinking of.

.⊹⋆.˚ TAGLIST ﹕ @rew1nds @satellitespinner @boobdrug @ivying @elliewilliamsbelovedwife @mina-281 @hysteriawillnotsuccumb @chxrryvalxntine @bookpagecandlescent @fionaapplelover2010 @andersonslove @macaroni676 @elliesbabygirl @vampcubus @visupremacysstuff @elssaphica @kaykeryyy @nenas19 @rxreaqia @fatbootymuncher @dying-brb @euphoric-rush @intothespidersweb @d1psht @prettygirlfemme @antobooh @vahnilla @na0koz @sta-rcrossed @evaprincessx @prwttiestbunny @liasxeatt @hitmehardmommy @pearlplui @pray4carsss @bambiaches @piscesthepoet @iadorefineshyt 1800-i-eat-pussy @morticeras @ellesrad @l0veylace @juiceboxfullofslime @luvherguts @moonfloweredprincess prettybabylol eriiwaiii2 [COMMENT TO BE ADDED!]

[undyingdecay]

OKAY!! hear me out. reader x john walker where they’ve talked beforehand about reader getting pregnant and them having a baby. but!! kinda CNC i guess where reader is like “no! you have to pull out!!” and john is like “you feel too fucking good, i’m so sorry” 🫠 but obviously it’s fine. sorry for the brain rot and word vomit

(banging on the bars of my enclosure i WANT HIMM)

you and john, of course, had spoken about starting to settle down. it wasn’t some picture-perfect conversation over candlelight or at the foot of a bed tangled up in satin sheets. no — it was late at night, one too many beers deep, both of you bone-tired from the world and sick of it kicking the shit out of you. some movie was playing low in the background, something old and dumb that john grumbled through the whole way, and you’d said something offhand about being a good wife.

and he went quiet after that.

not in the stiff, pissed-off kind of way he sometimes got when he couldn’t say what he meant, but in that soft, heavy way — the one where he’d let a big, warm hand slide over your thigh and just hold it, thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

after that, it was inevitable.

you were looking at rings.

then finally buying a house — nothing fancy, just good bones and a yard big enough for the dog he swore up and down he didn’t want.

a little german shepherd pup that pissed on the floor and chewed his boots.

“too much goddamn work,” john grumbled. “i’m not taking care of some mutt.”

and yet two weeks later, you came home to find them curled up together on the couch, the pup dozing against his broad chest, john’s hand absently scratching behind her ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. you didn’t even bother teasing him about it. just smiled, pressed a kiss to his temple, and the next morning you quietly tossed your birth control in the trash like it’d never existed.

you’d both wanted this. maybe too much.

ready to live out those stupid little daydreams you used to laugh at, pretending it could never be you. a house. a dog. maybe a baby if life didn’t spit in your face first.

but john was a hardass.

and you were stubborn.

so even after all the talks, even knowing you were both aching for it, there was still this push and pull between you. a give-me-take-it, say-no-make-me game that neither of you ever really meant but both of you loved to play.

and that night, it was thick in the air.

the way he had you on your back, legs trembling against his waist, his cock driving into you hard enough to rock the bed against the wall.

the thick, heady smell of sweat, sex, and that faint ghost of his cologne still clinging to his throat, the way his dog tags slapped against his chest with every rough thrust.

it slipped out before you could think.

“john — no, you have to pull out. you promised.”

and the minute you said it, you knew.

knew from the rough sound that tore out of his throat, from the way his hips stuttered for just a second before grinding deeper, harder, like he was trying to climb inside you.

“too fucking good—you’re so fucking wet, you want this so bad—fuck—don’t you?,” he groaned, voice cracking with it, low and desperate. “can’t. can’t stop now.”

you tried to wriggle, nails digging into his broad, sweat-slicked shoulders, some weak little protest about how you weren’t ready. about how this wasn’t what you agred to.

but your cunt betrayed you — clenching down, wet and eager, the thick slide of him dragging against every oversensitive nerve ending you had. and you hated how much you loved it.

“i’m sorry,” he groaned into your neck, and he wasn’t. not even a little bit.

his grip on your hips tightened, fingers leaving bruises he’d smirk at later.

“told you we’d start trying soon, didn’t i? i meant it.”

you felt his cock twitch inside you, that telltale pulse, and you were done for. the heat, the stretch, the desperate, filthy promise in his voice sending you right to the edge.

and when he finally came, it was a guttural, broken sound — hips jerking, cock spilling hot and thick inside you, enough to spill out around him in slick, messy drips.

he stayed buried to the hilt, grinding those last few lazy thrusts into you, unwilling to let any of it go to waste.

the room was heavy after that.

nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, the faint hum of the ceiling fan above.

his big hand brushed through your hair, cradling the side of your face as he leaned down and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“guess we’ll see what happens now,” he murmured, voice soft and smug, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

and you knew then — there wasn’t any going back.

you didn’t want to, either.

[melodyofmbaku]

Touch of a Woman (Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Annie)

Preview: “Annie, laughing at another man’s touch... And just the thought alone made Smoke sick to his stomach."

Warning ⚠️: sorry in advance

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N Wheeewww. I haven't done something like this in a while. Hope you like it. I really appreciate your comments/reblogs, it's what keeps me writing. Can't wait to hear what ya'll think! 😘 My Masterlist __

The invitation came in a stiff white envelope with gold trim and Smoke’s full name printed on the front like he was somebody important.

Elijah Moore.

An old acquaintance from Chicago — one of those slick-talking men who still called him “Big E” — was throwing a formal dinner and ball just outside town.

Society folk. Wine glasses so thin they looked like they’d shatter from a hard look. Smoke hadn’t planned on going. But the man insisted. Said he wanted both of them there.

That’s when the fight started.

It wasn’t loud at first — just a look from Annie when the name was mentioned. A tightness in her mouth when she asked, “So… this friend of yours. He the same one you used to run with your Chicago crowd?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away. And that silence was all she needed.

“I ain’t never hear you mention this man before.”

“Annie, we was boys,” Smoke said, shrugging off his shirt. “Ain’t seen him in years.”

“But clearly ya’ll close enough for you to get an invitation. Funny.”

Smoke exhaled. “What’s funny?”

“That every time I turn around, there’s some part of your past I ain’t never heard about. And now I’m expected to smile pretty and shake hands with folk who think I don’t belong in the same room?”

He turned to her. “Ain’t nobody said that.”

“They don’t gotta say it. It’s in how they look at me.”

Smoke stepped forward, voice low. “You think I’d bring you somewhere you didn’t belong?”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “ I know I belong. It’s just exhausting havin’ to prove it.”

Smoke’s jaw worked. “Annie—”

“I seen the way you talk when you’re with them. Straighter posture. Less drawl. Like you gotta prove something.”

He swallowed. “That ain’t fair.”

“No, you a man who had a life before me. And that life’s gonna be there in that ballroom. That’s fine. I can handle it. But don’t expect me to smile while I’m bein’ measured.”

He didn’t have an answer. So he didn’t speak. He just watched her gather herself. The tension swelling in the room.

“We don’t have to go.”

“I’ll go,” she said finally, looking at her shoes. “I’ll play nice. I’ll wear the dress and I’ll eat the food and I’ll do the dance.”

Her voice dropped then — more vulnerable than she meant it to be.

“But don’t you dare act like I’m crazy for feelin’ what I feel.”

And Smoke didn’t respond. Just shut down.

They got dressed in silence. Shared a ride in silence. And now here they were — walking into the ballroom, with smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

___

The room sparkled in soft golds and low voices, the kind of place where everything smelled like money. Annie looked like she belonged — radiant in a deep plum dress, hair pinned to perfection, chin lifted with that sharp, self-made grace.

But her stomach was tight. The heat hadn’t left her all evening, and the champagne did little to cool it.

The two had parted a bit earlier after doing their rounds. Annie with a few ladies she met near the restroom and Smoke to the man who called out to him obnoxiously across the room “I know that ain’t who I think that is!”

It had been some time and she was looking for her anchor. 

She turned her head — her eyes searching the room — and stopped cold.

There he was. Smoke. Near the far end of the room, framed by marble pillars and candlelight.

And across from him, smiling like memory never faded, stood Delilah.

Green satin. Long lashes. Too-close posture.

Annie couldn’t hear a word, but she didn’t need to. Delilah’s hand touched his coat sleeve, light and deliberate. Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t push her away. Just stood there.

Just fuckin’ stood there.

Annie’s throat went dry. Her grip tightened around the stem of her glass.

From across the room, it looked like something private. Something kept.

She didn’t watch long enough to see what came next. Didn’t give him the chance.

She turned.

Walked away.

And the rest of the night passed like the taste of something bitter — stuck in the back of her throat no matter how many times she swallowed.

__

As they entered the house, Annie set down her purse and slipped off her shoes.

“Well, she was real pretty. Real refined. Bet it brought back memories.”

“I didn’t know she’d be there.” Smoke said.

They’d reserved their argument for when they got home. Wanted to spare the cab driver's ears.

He had 40 minutes in the car to formulate an explanation as to why he was talking to his ex girlfriend at the party and that's what he came up with? He was cooked.

“We ain’t even made up from earlier. You barely said ten words to me. And then here she comes — all soft smiles and shared history. Ya’ll get a quickie in the broom closet too?”

Smoke shot her a look.

“Don’t start. You had an attitude before we even got there. This ain’t got nothing to do with Delilah and you know it.”

“Bet you were happy to see her. Your favourite city girl.” She scoffed. 

Smoke noticed it under all that anger, there was a thread of insecurity. 

He sighed deep. 

“Annie. I can’t help that I had a life — a woman —before you.”

“I’m sorry that people got to experience a different version of me, I can’t do nothing about that.” 

She spun on her heel quickly. Heat in her eyes. 

“I ain't talking about people. I’m talking about her.”

Smoke still stood his ground and refused to fight fire with fire. 

“Ain’t no her. I ain’t seen the woman in 7 years Annie and the fact that we talking about this in our home right now is insane.” 

He started towards her. Fingers flexing lightly. He wanted to hold her. Tell her she hadn’t a thing to worry about. 

She stopped him before he got close with a hand. “You stay right there.”

Smoke nodded to himself, once but kept his distance.  A shift passed over him — the soft gave way to something sharper. His mouth pressed into a line, and when he spoke again, the edge was back.

“No woman can hold a candle to you. You ain’t weak. You got nothing to be jealous about. I’m yours. I’m right here!” he beat his chest.

She looked at him almost shocked. 

“Wow.”She laughed bitterly. “That’s what you think this is? Cheap jealousy?”

She shook her head softly before responding. 

“Elijah I’m not mad because you ran into her, I’m mad because…”

She paused before she said the words that broke Smoke's heart into pieces. 

“You let her touch you like she still had a right to.” Her hands shook as she gripped the vanity behind her. 

“Like you ain’t belong to another. You ain’t see anything wrong with that?” She asked.

Now this? This — Smoke could understand. 

He reached out to her once more and she snatched her hand away from him.  

“She touched you.”

Her voice broke. 

“And you’re mine.”

The room went still.

He swallowed. The hurt in her voice hit him in his chest. It wasn’t just about Delilah — it was about him.

“I want you to put yourself in my shoes Elijah.” She started. 

“Another man, with his hands on me. You’d sleep well after that?” She pointed a finger at him. 

She was getting heated again. 

“That image won’t flash behind your eyes everytime you close them? It won’t sow a seed of uncertainty in you?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away.

But the truth crept in — heavy and hot. The picture she painted etched itself behind his eyes: Annie, laughing at another man’s touch, her hand on his chest, her eyes soft.

And just the thought alone made Smoke sick to his stomach.

She saw it land.

“So yeah, maybe it's me. Maybe I’m weak, but if being strong like you means I let people mess with what's mine and I gotta be cool with it? Then I don’t wanna be like you at all.”

He took a step closer, real slow.

“You think I belong to anybody but you?” he asked, voice rough, worn.

Annie didn’t answer. She just looked away.

He exhaled hard, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You ain’t gotta fight for me,” he said, softer now. “You already won." He sought out her eyes. "Baby, I'm right here."

“She touched you,” she said, voice cracking and eyes watering. “And you let her. You didn’t move. You didn’t even look uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t even notice,” he said honestly. “I swear to you, baby. I didn’t notice. I’m sorry.”

Annie swallowed, her voice low and cutting.

“Right. Just muscle memory then.”

Smoke stood there, fists clenched at his sides. He had been keeping himself at bay. Swallowing his anger. Trying. Apologizing. And she’d have none of it. 

Smoke exhaled sharply and stepped back.

Then, without a word, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped parcel. Set it gently on the table between them.

“Here,” he said. “This is what she gave me.”

Annie blinked, not moving. She looked up at him accusatory manner.

"Whats this?" she snarked.

“Open it.”

With shaky hands, she untied the twine and peeled back the cloth. Inside, nestled in paper, was a small muslin pouch — familiar, fragrant.

Sweet balm.

The note underneath read:

“For your lady. Knew she’d need it. You’re lucky, E. Don’t mess this up. —Langston”

Annie stared at it, blinking slowly. Her lips parted, the words not quite coming.

“That’s what she handed me,” Smoke said, voice flat. “That’s what you saw.”

She didn’t move.

Smoke spoke low. “Langston was supposed to bring it from Chicago. I asked him to get it. For you. He got shot last week. Couldn't travel. Sent it down with her.”

Her fingers hovered over the pouch.

“I didn’t even ask her directly,” he said. “She just handed it off. Told me to give you her best.”

Annie’s breath stuttered. The guilt landed heavy.

And that’s when Smoke’s voice changed — quieter, rawer.

She started towards him but it was his turn to keep her away. He shook his head no and took a step back. 

He nodded, more to himself than her.

Smoke stepped back once more and pointed at her.  “You think I’d let another woman put her hands on me — for no reason?”

Annie’s throat bobbed, her fingers twitching on the twine.

Her eyes stayed on the note even as something sharp — shame or sorrow — pulled at her ribs.

“You said you liked that balm from Miss Halloway’s shop. The one you used to buy before from upstate. You been rationin’ it. Thought it might make you feel good to have it again.”

Her arms fell to her sides.

And Smoke saw it—that flicker of realization. The regret. The dawning ache in her eyes as her gaze landed on the envelope with her name on it.

He waited, watching her crumble. But he didn’t soften.

“You wanna know what I find funny?” His voice stayed level, but there was heat beneath it. 

“You stay making all this noise about the person I used to be. About how filthy my lifestyle was to you. And I ain’t say nothing. I took it.”

“But the man I was in Chicago? That’s the same Smoke I am now. Maybe a little softer. But the same damn man. That life — that work, those people — it shaped me. It gave me the spine to stand up for you now.”

“And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you don’t want that version of me.”

He shook his head slowly. 

“I love this life we built. The domestic shit. I really do. I ain’t never been this happy.”

He looked down before looking her in the eyes. “But that don’t mean I don’t carry everything I used to be in my back pocket.”

“I ain’t never dragged up your past like this. I ain’t never ask you to explain that broken engagement. I ain’t never made you pick apart the pieces of who you used to be. I took you. Whole. Mine.” He beat his chest once more.

Annie’s stare didn’t break, but something in her posture shifted. She didn’t stand so straight anymore. Her arms slowly dropped to her sides. The righteous indignation went right with it.

He looked at her, eyes tired. “I know I gotta be strong. I’m a man. My back ain’t supposed to bend, or break. I get it...”

His voice dropped, thick now. “But this? What you doing right now?” He gestured between them.

“You tearing us apart.”

“I knew I’d have to protect myself from bullets, cuffs, and the mother fuckin’ KKK but I ain't never think I’d have to protect myself from you too.”

Annie’s lips parted — but nothing came out.

“And for what?” he asked, nearly whispering. “A trophy for who the most holy?”

His laugh came bitter, breathless “I don’t wanna play anymore. You got it.”

The room felt too small for the two of them. Too tight to hold all that pain.

Smoke nodded to himself, like he’d said what he came to say. He turned, ready to put distance between them.

“You stay here,” he said softly. Always softly with his Annie. “I got the couch.”

As he walked past, Annie reached out — just two fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Elijah…”

He pulled away gently. Didn’t look at her. Just kept going.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Annie stood alone, the silence pressing in.

She looked down at the sweet balm on the table. The note with her name on it. The care he’d shown — even when she’d doubted him.

Her chest rose, then fell.

The tears came slow. No sound, just heat.

She sat down, elbows on her knees, and stared at her trembling hands.

And in that quiet, she saw it clear:

Her grip on his past was standing in the way of their future.

Annie dropped her head into her hands.

And sobbed. __

A/N Ya’ll know me for the love stories but I’m actually an angst monster. ✨Surprise ✨ 😂 

With all this focus on the trio I thought I’d bring it back to give some attention to the OG lovers. 

I am still working on the fic with Annie soft-domming Smoke. Alot of ya’ll asked to be on the taglist for it. It’s there, I’ve got about 3 variations I’m working through. Will likely post it next weekend.

Your thoughts and encouragement keep me writing. Can't wait to hear what ya'll think 🥰

____

Interested in my future works? Let me know if you'd like me to add you to my tag list. My other works can be found in My Masterlist. Thanks for reading!

___

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[bills5lut]

under the table

masterlist prompt list

synopsis: you try and survive some corporate dinner Billie drags you to, but her hand under the table has bigger plans. 

warnings: smut, public teasing, semi public touch, dom!Billie, implied consent play, exhibitionism, fluff.

w/c: 5k

The dining room is dim, all candlelit corners and matte black surfaces polished to a soft gleam. The table’s one long slab of dark wood that smells faintly like varnish and eucalyptus oil, lined with high backed chairs that make everyone sit a little too upright. Conversations drift lazily through the air, a low buzz of curated politeness, laughter that sounds practiced, stories that loop into themselves like they’ve been told a hundred times. You don’t recognize most of these people, but you know who they are. Manager. Publicist. Label rep. Two brand people from some beauty company. Industry guys, all of them.

You’re not quite sure why you’re here.

The food is fine. Pretty, even. Every plate comes out looking like a museum piece, sculpted dollops of saffron puree, charred vegetables arranged in arcs like flower petals. Billie’s thrilled about it in that distracted, amused way she gets when something is both genuinely impressive and also completely ridiculous.

You’re a little drunk. Not embarrassingly so, just enough for your skin to hum, for the candlelight to look prettier than it probably is. You swirl your wine, deep red and expensive tasting, watching it catch the light. Your thighs are pressed together under the table, your back resting against the curved support of your chair. Your elbow rests a little too close to hers. It’s the only part of your body you’re allowing to touch her right now. It’s a quiet, kind of closeness.

Billie’s hand rests lightly on your thigh, under the tablecloth. Just resting there. The weight of it is warm and familiar. The pad of her thumb makes a slow, absent minded arc on your leg, like she’s tracing something only she can see. Her fingers are cool, heavy with silver rings that drag ever so slightly against the smooth fabric of your dress when she shifts. The texture sends a tiny jolt up your spine.

You lean slightly into her space. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just enough for her to feel it.

Billie’s suit tonight is black, slouchy in that very intentional, expensive way. Shoulders a little exaggerated, the fabric puddling soft around her wrists where she’s rolled the sleeves up. She looks sharp, a little androgynous, a little fuck you cool. Her hair’s pulled back in a loose low pony, little wisps curled around her cheekbones. Her skin catches the light like satin, a little flushed from the wine, glowing just beneath the surface.

She leans over to whisper something, her lips brushing your cheek more than your ear. “This mushroom steak’s tryna be beef so bad,” she mutters, her voice low and husky from the wine and the weak.

You press your mouth against your glass to stifle a laugh. You feel her smile more than see it.

It’s been like this all evening. She drifts in and out of the group conversation, charming when she needs to be, quiet when she’s bored. Always with that glint in her eye, like she’s one sentence away from derailing the whole thing just to make you laugh. Sometimes she’ll glance at you with a tiny, private look as if to say you still good? and you’ll nod. Or give her the smallest smirk back like barely. She’ll tap your thigh in response, once, twice, then go back to sipping her wine.

It’s boring, but Billie isn’t. 

You try to focus on the conversation when it comes your way. Someone’s talking about streams and digital presence, and you nod politely even though it isn’t directed to you at all, the words already dissolving in your head. Billie chimes in with something thoughtful, articulate. You wonder how many of these dinners she’s been to. How many times she’s had to talk about brand alignment like it means anything.

You glance at her. She catches you, then leans in again, lips brushing your ear. “Guy across from me’s been talking for four minutes and hasn’t blinked once.”

You laugh, shoulders shaking. “Don’t make me look,” you whisper, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Too late. He saw you laugh,” she murmurs, triumphant.

You slap her knee softly under the table, a gentle cut it out. Her fingers tap your thigh again in mock innocence.

Her perfume catches you again when she leans back, that warm, woody scent that clings to her neck and wrists, something smoky and soft underneath it. Like sandalwood and citrus peel and something darker. You want to bury your face in her skin. You want to curl into her side and disappear into that scent, into the warmth of her, but the table is long and the conversation never ends.

You shift slightly in your seat. Her hand on your thigh shifts too, fingers curling a little. Not enough to be anything. Not yet.

She glances over, and her mouth quirks, just a little. You know that look. She’s bored. Restless. Starting to get ideas. You give her a warning look, arching an eyebrow. Her eyes narrow, playful. Innocent.

Her thumb starts to move again. You feel the pad of it press in, trace a slow line along the outer curve of your thigh. Lazy, absentminded. The tablecloth hides everything, but it feels visible. Intimate. You bite your lip and pretend to keep listening to the conversation. Something about a campaign rollout.

Her rings catch again, cold metal kissing your skin as her knuckle drags upward a little. The heat between you flares.

You cross your legs, trying to mask the way your breathing has shifted. You know she feels it. You know she’s enjoying it.

Billie leans in again, voice low. “You okay, baby?” she says, soft enough to melt. Her thumb strokes once, just a little higher now.

You nod without looking at her. Your voice is quiet. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she whispers back, innocent and evil.

Your wineglass is shaking slightly when you bring it to your lips again. You hope no one notices.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to laugh. She’s looking at you like she already knows how this night’s going to end.

And you’re still not sure if you hate her a little for it or if you’re going to let her win.

Your plate’s still half full, your wineglass nearly empty. Billie’s barely touched her food,  some deconstructed vegan thing with roasted fennel and artichoke hearts she poked at with her fork for a few minutes before giving up. She’s never eaten much when she’s distracted. Or scheming. And she’s very clearly doing both now.

Her hand shifts again under the table. It’s subtle, palm flattening first, then fingers sliding further along your thigh, slow and casual like it’s not even on purpose. You don’t move. You’re suddenly hyper aware of the heat between your legs, of the way your dress clings too close to your skin. Your heart does this tiny hiccup thing in your chest when her thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles just above your knee.

She’s still talking. Casually, effortlessly. Something about press timelines, about tour budgeting. She’s answering someone’s question about tour dates like she doesn’t have her hand halfway up your thigh. Like your skin isn’t buzzing under her touch.

You try to chew. You try to breathe. You can feel how fast your pulse is now, thudding against your collarbone, your wrists, deep between your legs where her hand is slowly, slowly migrating.

You reach for your water glass, steadying it with both hands. Sip. Breathe. She hasn’t looked at you in minutes, but you know she’s clocking every breath you take.

The pad of her thumb slides higher, just a half inch, and your legs tense involuntarily.

“Bills…” you murmur, barely audible, not even looking at her.

Still, her eyes flick to you. Just for a second. That glint again, a silent what? behind her lashes.

She leans in, face neutral, eyes on her plate. Like she’s about to say something mundane. But then her lips brush your ear and her voice dips low and warm, sliding beneath your skin.

“You look so good tonight,” Billie murmurs. “That dress, baby… fuck.”

Her breath fans over the shell of your ear. You feel it everywhere. Chest, arms, knees. Deep in your stomach.

You let out a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite. “Stop,” you whisper, mouth twitching with a warning smile. “Seriously.”

She doesn’t stop. Her hand is a little higher now, her fingertips resting right at the edge of the hem of your dress. Just beneath the fabric. Just barely.

You glance around the table like maybe someone noticed, like maybe you’re giving something away, but no one’s looking. Someone’s mid rant about touring logistics, and half the table’s nodding along. The clink of silverware against ceramic masks the quiet stutter of your breath.

“Billie.” You say it softer this time. It’s not a plea. Not quite.

She grins, not openly, not widely. Just enough for the corner of her mouth to lift, for the smallest dimple to show. You hate that she can look this calm.

Her knuckles ghost up the inside of your thigh. Slowly. Carefully. Her fingers spread slightly, resting just under the curve of your ass where your dress is riding up from the way you’re sitting. You shift your legs, clench them slightly, not to stop her, more to feel her more. It’s automatic. Instinctive. Your body’s already begging for something your mouth won’t admit to.

And still, she’s laughing at someone’s joke across the table. Casual. Playful. Like she hasn’t just dragged the back of her ring across the soft skin near your hip bone, sending a visible shiver through you.

You press your hand to your lap, steadying yourself. Your fork trembles when you pick it up again.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, not looking at her.

She tilts her head slightly, pretending to miss it. “Hmm?”

“You heard me.”

Billie leans in again. Another whisper, sweet and smug. “You like it.”

You do. You hate how much you do. You hate how hot your skin feels now, how even the candlelight seems warmer, stickier, like the whole world is bending inward around the pulse between your legs.

You press your thighs together again. She feels it. You feel her feel it, the slightest press of her palm in response. Her fingers flex, her thumb brushing that sensitive space at the inner seam of your underwear. Not enough pressure to be anything. Just enough to set you on fire.

You don’t move. You don’t push her away. You just sit there with your wine in one hand and the other clenched around your napkin in your lap like it might anchor you somehow.

From across the table, someone says something that makes Billie laugh, a sharp, unfiltered burst, and you flinch because her fingers twitch with it, dragging accidentally against you.

You glance at her. She glances back. For a second, neither of you speaks. It’s just breath between you.

“I swear to god,” you mutter.

She smiles sweetly, innocently. “You okay?” she asks, again like it’s nothing.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re evil.”

She lifts her wineglass with her free hand, takes a small sip. Her fingers on your thigh don’t move. “You’re the one who wore that dress.”

You glare at her, but you’re blushing now. You feel the heat crawl up your neck, across your chest. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Her hand drifts a little higher again, one inch, two. You feel the edge of her pinky brush against your underwear now, the gentlest pressure. Just resting. Just there. Like it has every right to be.

And still, she talks. She laughs. She nods along. All while her fingers graze your inner thigh, moving in slow, teasing circles like she’s just trying to drive you insane.

You lean into her a little, keeping your voice low. “If you make me cum at this table, I’m gonna kill you.”

Her mouth presses close to your ear again. “Then die mad, baby,” she whispers.

You exhale hard through your nose. Your eyes close for half a second. Her fingers shift again. One knuckle, just barely, against the damp cotton of your underwear.

You try to steady your breathing, but it’s already shallow, barely there. Billie’s hand is still and warm between your thighs now, and you can feel the heat of it through your dress, through the thin stretch of your underwear. She’s so casual about it too, the way her fingers rest like they’ve always belonged there. Like this dinner’s just background noise, and she’s in no rush to move.

Someone’s laughing across the table, a loud bark of a laugh. The PR guy, maybe. You can’t really focus. Your pulse has moved into your ears, and it’s drumming a rhythm against your skull. You sit straighter, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it brings Billie’s hand higher, your thighs naturally drawing her fingers closer.

She leans in just enough that her breath brushes your ear. Warm. Calm. Cruel.

“These the ones I like?” she murmurs, voice low, almost lazy. “The pink ones with the little bow?”

Her index finger taps once against the center of you. Right where she means. Right where it’s already damp. You feel your face heat, full blush, instant and shameful. You nod once, quickly, and stare hard at the half full glass of wine in front of you like it might rescue you from the sharp throb building in your stomach.

Billie exhales a soft laugh against your cheek. You hear it more than feel it, her lips right there but not touching.

You lift the wine glass, too fast, it clinks against your teeth, and your hand trembles slightly. You try to play it off, take a longer sip than necessary. Swallow. You don’t dare glance at her.

And she doesn’t move her hand at first. Doesn’t press. Just lets it stay there, weighted, the heat of her skin seeping through your dress. Her fingers flex a little, shifting so she fits into the dip of your inner thigh, thumb brushing just under the hem of your underwear. Not even touching anything specific yet. Just close.

You exhale through your nose and cross your legs. Not to stop her, just to manage the ache that’s forming, the slow, molten drag of want low in your belly. Your body reacts before you’re ready to admit it. Before you even register how wet you already are, her fingers slide more deliberately now, two fingers exploring, pressing gently through the cotton.

And it’s unmistakable.

She knows.

You don’t look at her. Can’t. But her mouth is near your shoulder now, lips parted like she might say something else, and then she doesn’t. She just shifts slightly, the same effortless poise she always carries, and lets her fingers start to move.

Tiny, slow circles.

Barely pressure at all. Like she’s still thinking about it. Like she could stop at any second, and you wouldn’t even be allowed to protest.

You grip the edge of the table. The wood is cool under your fingertips. You will yourself not to react, to keep still, but the movement she’s making, it’s so light, so calculated. Each circle grazes over your clit through the cotton, making the damp fabric cling tighter, stickier.

Her rings catch slightly when she curls her hand, and the texture sends a jolt right through you.

You shift in your seat again, pretending to adjust your posture. Trying to breathe through it. You blink too slowly when you look down at your plate, half of it untouched now. A bite of roasted fennel, some polenta, a few beads of olive oil reflecting the low lighting. Everything looks too sharp. Too real.

The man across from you, one of Billie’s team you think, glances up and asks, “You okay over there?”

Your stomach flips.

You manage a smile, voice cracking just a little. “Yeah, just… warm in here, isn’t it?”

You see Billie withdraw her hand just slightly at that. Not fully. Just a respectful pause. Like she’s letting you catch your breath. Letting you answer the question, letting you exist for a second in the version of yourself that isn’t quietly being touched under the table.

You press your thighs together in the brief reprieve. Your clit pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take another sip of wine, slower this time, grateful for the burn in your throat to ground you.

Then she’s back.

Fingers sliding with more confidence now. Two of them circling in slow, tight circles again, her thumb holding just outside the crease of your thigh. You can feel her pinky curl slightly, nudging the soft edge of your underwear aside so that just a sliver of you is bare against her skin. It’s subtle. So subtle.

You glance down, your hands are white knuckled around your napkin in your lap.

Another soft whisper from her, “So fuckin’ soft down there, baby…”

You make a small, involuntary sound, low in your throat. You pray no one hears it over the clatter of cutlery and soft jazz playing from a speaker mounted behind the wine rack.

Your breathing has turned to shallow pulls now. Every inhale a little shaky. Your whole body is humming under your skin. She’s still talking every now and then to the person next to her, casually, like she’s not ruining you in slow motion. Like she’s not pressing just a little harder now, her middle finger finding the precise spot and circling it, deliberate and slow.

You think, dimly, that you’re going to break if she keeps going like this. That your underwear’s soaked and sticking. That you can’t move without showing something, somehow. So you stay still. You grip the edge of the table and take another sip of wine and try to keep your legs from twitching, your hips from lifting into her hand.

Billie shifts closer in her seat. You feel her thigh pressed against yours, firm and grounding. She leans into you a little, not enough to draw attention, but enough that you know she’s here. She’s present.

Her voice in your ear again. “Doing so good, baby. Just stay still. I got you.”

And you do.

Billie’s fingers don’t hurry. She knows exactly how to drive you mad without spilling the secret to anyone else. Every tiny shift of your body, every hitch in your breath, every almost-suppressed sigh, she catalogs like a map, learning the way you respond. It’s like she’s memorizing your body in real time, tracing your edges with her fingertips, reading you with the quiet precision of a painter perfecting her masterpiece.

You try to stay still. Your fingers clutch her thigh beneath the table, nails digging just enough to anchor yourself, to remind yourself that you’re here, in this room, at this godawful dinner, and not somewhere else entirely. The fabric of her black pants is soft but sturdy, the weave catching beneath your nails, and it grounds you, just barely. You want to be still, but your whole body hums with vibration, like a silent electric current running from your core down to your toes.

Her thumb strokes the skin near your clit with gentle, deliberate pressure.

You’re acutely aware of everything. The subtle weight of her hand, warm and confident; the soft press of your dress fabric against your bare skin, soaked in places; the quiet murmur of conversations around you, clinking silverware, low jazz filling the dimly lit room.

The scent of her perfume drifts over you again, warm, woody, and it wraps around you like a cocoon. You can feel her breath, soft and steady, brushing your hairline. It’s intimate and electric all at once.

“You gonna cum for me at this boring ass dinner?” she murmurs, voice low and smug, almost teasing but with a sharp edge that makes your chest tighten.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you clamp your jaw shut and try not to let your body betray you. Your legs tremble under the table, knees knocking lightly against hers in the small space between your chairs. Your fingers press harder into her thigh, nails grazing the fabric and skin beneath, desperate for something solid to hold onto.

Your breath catches, short, stuttering, barely a whisper, like you’re suppressing a cough, but every muscle inside you coils tighter and tighter. Your hips shift involuntarily, pressing just a fraction more against her fingers. Your clit pulses insistently, slickness soaking your underwear completely now.

Billie’s touch is steady but relentless. She moves her fingers in slow, deliberate circles, building the pressure just right, never too much, never too little.

Your vision blurs slightly. You close your eyes for a moment, biting your lip to stop the moan you’re sure you’re about to make. Your pulse hammers in your ears. Your cheeks burn red, hot and flushed.

Your body trembles, a low vibration that starts in your belly and spreads outward, radiating through your thighs, your stomach, your chest. Your hands tighten their grip on Billie’s leg, nails digging in deeper now, as if holding her could somehow hold the moment together.

And then it happens.

A slow, shuddering wave crashes through you, rippling outwards. Your hips jerk subtly, legs trembling so much that your knees brush against the underside of the table. Your jaw clenches tight, teeth grinding as your breath catches and stutters, trying to suppress everything spilling out from inside.

Your toes curl inside your heels. Your body tenses in a way that feels too much and not enough all at once. The warmth floods your core, spreading to your chest and neck, your cheeks hot as fire.

Billie’s hand lingers for a heartbeat after, her touch soothing, steadying. She presses gently against your thigh, grounding you, bringing you back slowly, carefully, with her presence.

“Shhh,” she breathes softly, voice low and warm. “Got you.”

Her lips brush against your hairline again, soft, comforting, a quiet anchor in the madness of your racing body. You rest your head against her shoulder for a moment, chest rising and falling unevenly, feeling the tremors in your muscles slowly ease.

She pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and tenderness.

“You’re glowing,” she says quietly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

You try to smile back, cheeks still flushed, throat still tight from holding everything in.

“It’s the wine,” you whisper, voice rough but genuine.

Billie laughs softly, the sound like silk sliding across skin.

“Yeah, wine,” she agrees, but you both know it’s not the wine at all.

You lean into her a little more, finding warmth in the closeness. The dull dinner fades away, all the talking, the fake smiles, the clinking glasses, replaced by the quiet pulse of her hand resting on your thigh, and the steady rhythm of your breath slowing back down.

You shift, subtly, careful not to jostle your chair too hard. The fabric of your underwear sticks against your skin now, soaked, clinging, and every tiny movement reminds you of what just happened, what Billie just did, what you let her do.

And she’s just sitting there.

Calm as fuck, of course. Her hand has returned to your thigh, casual, fingers spread just enough to anchor you but not enough to start anything again. Her pinky taps gently, rhythmically.

Your breath is still coming in uneven pulls, so you reach for your water, trying to play it off. The glass is a little too cold in your hand. You sip slowly. Carefully. The chill helps.

Across the table, someone’s droning on about audience engagement metrics. You can’t even pretend to follow. Words just pass through you like air. You glance toward Billie without turning your head, and sure enough, she’s smirking.

Not a full smile, not something obvious, but that crooked little pull at the corner of her mouth, the kind of look she gives you when she’s proud of herself for something she shouldn’t be proud of.

You shoot her a glare. Or, at least, you try to. It doesn’t land. Not when your cheeks are still pink and your lips are curved in spite of you. You feel dazed and warm and breathless and, god, you’re smiling.

Billie leans in slightly, her shoulder brushing yours again as she shifts. Her mouth hovers near your ear.

“You’re still shaking.” she murmurs, low and smug.

You nudge her with your elbow. It’s the most you can manage. She lets out a soft snort and leans back like nothing happened. Turns to the girl across from you, the one from PR with the glossy bob and clipboard posture, and asks her a question about the upcoming campaign. Something innocuous. Just enough to draw the attention off you, to fill the space, to let you breathe.

It’s so smooth you could kiss her.

You glance down at your hands resting in your lap, one still curled loosely in the soft black fabric of Billie’s pants. You hadn’t even realized you hadn’t let go yet. Gently, you unfurl your fingers, pat her thigh once, a silent thanks, and bring your hands back to your glass.

You sip your wine next, slower now, letting it linger on your tongue. The warmth of it spreads down your throat and nestles in your chest. Your body is starting to return to you, piece by piece. But your pulse is still a little high, and your skin still buzzes with the echo of her touch.

Her knee nudges yours under the table again. Presses against it. Stays there.

You risk a glance sideways. She’s not even looking at you, not yet. Her eyes are focused on the PR girl, nodding like she’s listening, even though you know she’s not. Not fully. But then her hand slides just an inch on your thigh. Just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to say I’m here.

You exhale slowly through your nose and let your knee press back against hers. A silent I know.

The conversation continues around you, a dull buzz of industry jargon and polite laughter. You tune most of it out.

You glance at Billie again and this time she catches you. Her smirk deepens.

You shake your head, cheeks heating again.

She leans closer just slightly, drops her voice. “Still feeling it?” she asks, soft and teasing.

You bite back a smile, roll your eyes.

“Shut up.”

Billie chuckles, low and quiet. Then her expression shifts, still playful, but gentler. She glances down at your trembling hand resting near your wine glass and then back at your face.

“You okay?” she asks, and it’s not a joke this time.

You pause. The hum inside you hasn’t faded completely. But her voice brings you down, softly. You nod once, a little breathless still. Smile at her, small, real, a little sheepish.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Her smile softens to match yours. Her hand squeezes your thigh once, firm and warm. Her body shifts toward you just enough that your arms brush again. You lean into her without thinking, not a big movement, just a quiet weight against her shoulder for a moment.

And she lets you stay there.

The conversation continues around you. The wine is still half full. The night isn’t even close to over.

But you don’t care. You’re here, flush with warmth and Billie’s perfume and the buzz of pleasure that still lingers low in your stomach. You close your eyes for a beat, just one, and let yourself breathe.

She squeezes your knee again. You squeeze back.

[formulafanfics13]

The Ribbon and the Room - Toto Wolff

masterlist || Part 2

Summary At a private gathering in the Wolff estate, Toto’s daughter descends the staircase in an untied corset dress and steals the room without trying. He laces it for her calmly, calling Lewis over to steady her as she sways. The entire grid watches in stunned silence — not with lust, but with reverence. In a few quiet moments, it becomes obvious: Toto runs Formula 1, but she owns its attention.

Warnings high society setting, ambient power, elite dynamic, father/daughter tenderness, corset lacing, subtle dominance, silent awe, no smut but thick tension.

The Wolff home was regal. Not ostentatious, never that. It was the kind of old European grandeur that came with heritage, not decoration. Clean marble. Carved wood. Velvet walls and gold accents polished by time, not trend.

A roaring fire crackled in the drawing room, casting amber light across crystal glasses, pressed lapels, and the carefully impassive faces of motorsport's elite.

All twenty Formula 1 drivers, all nine other team principals. No cameras. No PR teams. No significant others. Just the sport's inner circle, gathered in civility.

It was the kind of night when real deals were made. And Toto, ever the pillar, stood tall in the center of it, lowball glass in hand, suit sharp but relaxed, exuding control with the ease of someone born to command rooms like this.

And then,  "Papa!" A bright, high voice rang from upstairs.

The room stirred slightly. Smirks, raised brows, polite chuckles. Max arched an eyebrow. Logan leaned toward Lando with a quiet "Did she say Papa?"

Toto didn't even glance up. Just tilted his head slightly, calling back,  "Yes, maus?"

"I can't do my dress! It won't tie properly!"

He smiled softly. "Then come show me."

A pause. Then, half-laughing, half-grumbling,  "Fine!"

The drivers shared glances. Charles blinked. Yuki looked mildly enchanted. Horner shook his head into his drink like he was expecting chaos.

And then she appeared. At the top of the staircase. Everything stilled.

She was radiant. A living portrait in blush silk and soft candlelight.

The gown was a corset-style pageant dream, fitted bodice with boning that hugged her waist, an off-shoulder neckline that fluttered over her arms like petals, and a full skirt that swept behind her like watercolour.

But the back? Unlaced.

Delicate satin ribbons hung loose, trailing along her exposed spine. Her skin glowed faintly from the lotion she'd clearly applied minutes earlier. Her heels clicked gently on the staircase as she descended with grace, holding the skirt to avoid the hem catching.

She reached the arched doorway to the drawing room, placed both hands on either side of the frame, and smiled.

Soft. Composed. A little breathless.

Toto had already placed his drink down. He approached without ceremony, rolling his sleeves once at the wrist. "You should have asked earlier," he murmured, stepping behind her.

"I didn't think it would come this loose," she replied with a sheepish shrug, still facing the room, voice sweet and unapologetic.

He began to thread the silk laces calmly, professionally. This wasn't the first time. His large hands worked through the loops, tightening gently, smoothing out the folds of fabric as he went.

The room watched. Every man, driver or principal, sat in polite, intrigued silence. Nobody said a word. But eyes were fixed. On her dress. On the dynamic. On the way she relaxed slightly with each pull, trusting him completely.

"Tighter, please," she said, voice still light.

He obliged. Pulled another inch.

She wobbled slightly, adjusting her grip on the doorframe.

"Again?"

"Little more," she nodded.

He tightened. Her breath hitched.

The corset hugged her waist now, fitted properly, structured and poised.

But she was leaning forward with the tension, heels wobbling, arms shaking faintly.

"You're going to tip," Toto said quietly.

"I'm trying not to."

He glanced behind her.

"Lewis," he called calmly. "Would you mind?"

Lewis looked up from his seat by the fire. "Hm?"

"Just hold her forward while I pull it tighter."

Lewis stood immediately. He didn't question it. Walked over, placed one hand gently on her upper back, steady, careful. "Got her," he said.

Toto nodded, pulled the ribbon hard and tied the final loop.

"There," he said, straightening. "Beautiful."

She let out a soft breath of relief. Looked back and smiled at both of them.

"Thank you," she said.

Lewis smiled back. "You look incredible."

"I know," she teased gently.

The tension broke. Several drivers laughed. The sound rippled through the room like champagne bubbles.

Pierre raised his glass. "Now that was a show."

Toto just smiled and guided her into the room.

She floated, poised and glowing, hair pinned delicately, eyes bright with effortless charm. And as she took her seat beside him, still adjusting slightly to the newly-tied bodice, there wasn't a man in that room who wasn't watching.

Not in lust. Not in fear. But in awe. Because in the space of three minutes, they had all learned the same quiet truth: Toto Wolff ruled the grid. But his daughter? She owned the room.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

What if Sylus was a prince from a neighbouring country and you were forbidden to be with him but you couldn’t help but be drawn to him? Thus a night of unbridled passion hehehe

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 meant to read the letter twice.

The first time was an accident—her fingers trembling as they broke the seal, dark red and unmarked, save for the faint impression of a signet she would not dare name aloud. She had unfolded the black parchment with the caution one might offer a blade. Not out of reverence. Out of recognition. Out of dread.

The second reading was indulgence.

The third—betrayal.

By the fourth, her maid had begun to knock softly at the door, her voice threaded with concern, asking if she felt unwell. She lied. Said it was the heat. A passing fever. Perhaps the tea.

But it wasn’t. It was the letter.

' If you still dream of the garden, meet me where the orchids used to bloom. Midnight. '

Twelve words. No name. No signature.

And yet—him. In every curl of ink, in the silence between syllables.

She pressed her thumb to the writing, half-hoping it would smudge. That it might dissolve beneath her doubt. That if she willed hard enough, the looping script would fade, as if memory could be erased by sheer refusal.

But it never did.

It clung to the page like prophecy—unyielding. Certain of itself. Certain of her.

She set the letter on the edge of the windowsill, where the wind might take it. Where morning might find her brave enough to burn it. But still, it remained. Unmoving. Unshaken. Mocking her with its stillness.

She did not dare sleep. Sleep invited dreams. Dreams summoned memory.

And memory—him.

He had called himself Envoy once, at the treaty banquet. The hall had been crowded with strangers dressed like saints, drunk on duty and imported wine. He wore black that night, obsidian from throat to wrist, the cut austere—too austere.

Until she met his eyes.

Not simple. Not at all.

He had looked at her like a man who had spent his whole life building walls, only to find her waiting on the other side. His first smile was shallow. His second—dangerous. By the third, he offered her a glass of wine with his left hand and his name with his right.

The name had been false. The touch had not.

Three dances. That was all.

Once beneath the chandelier, the world watching. Once at the foot of the grand staircase, her hand grazing his in passing. And once—when no one was looking—behind a marble column, her breath fogging the stone as he leaned in and asked what she was afraid of.

She hadn’t answered. He hadn’t kissed her.

The memory had haunted her ever since.

Now the letter lay beneath her palm. Folded once. Heavy, though it weighed almost nothing. She stared as though it might vanish. As though it might grow teeth. As though the words might open her chest and nest between her ribs, coiled and waiting.

She should not go.

She would not go.

But even as she whispered the vow aloud—I will not go—her fingers were already reaching for her cloak.

It hung from the carved screen beside her bed—soft wool, lined in dusk-blue satin. She had not worn it in months, not since the frost had retreated from the fields. And yet it still carried the faintest trace of lavender and ash. Something clean. Something final.

She draped it around her shoulders with practiced grace. Not rushed. Not panicked. Like a woman dressing for a funeral where her name might already be carved into the stone. Every movement deliberate. Silent. Almost sacred.

The hem whispered against the floor.

The chamber was still, save for the rustle of fabric and the steady tick of the longcase clock in the corner. One hand to midnight. Her shadow bent long across the flagstones, wavered in the candlelight, stretched toward the threshold.

She stood motionless.

Not moving. Not breathing.

Only listening.

To the hush of the corridor beyond. To the stutter of her own heart as it faltered, then found its rhythm again. To the wind at the shutters, tapping like a question she lacked the courage to answer.

And then—

A sound.

Soft. Too soft for a stranger to make.

The door creaked open before she could speak. No knock. No announcement.

She didn’t need one.

"You're not asleep," came the voice—low, weary, but braided through with quiet steel.

Elaine.

Her maid. Her closest friend. Her constant since childhood. She stepped into the room with a candle in one hand and disappointment in the other. Her gaze drifted from the gaping wardrobe to the cloak clasped at her mistress’s collarbone. Then upward. And held.

"I knew you’d try," Elaine said. Not in bitterness. Not even surprise. Only sadness.

"I wasn’t going to," she replied, her voice steady, though her hands curled tighter within the sleeves. "I told myself no. I told myself it would be wiser—safer—to forget he ever wrote."

Elaine moved closer. The candle’s flame shivered, catching in the hollow of her throat as she stopped just shy of touching her.

"And yet you’re dressed to disappear."

A beat of silence.

And then another.

"Please," Elaine said. Her voice cracked like frost beneath a boot. "You don’t have to do this."

She turned away—not from cruelty, but because to look at her might be to stay. Her gaze fell to the floor, to the folds of her cloak pooling like ink at her feet.

"I do," she whispered. "I wish I didn’t. I wish I were stronger. Or colder. But I know myself too well, Elaine. And I know… this may be the last time I ever see him."

Elaine reached out, touched her sleeve, and for a moment—just a moment—held on.

"You’ll ruin yourself," she murmured.

She smiled. Faintly. Not in defiance. Not in pride.

In sorrow.

"Then let it be for something worth remembering."

Elaine did not let go.

Her fingers tightened—just slightly—as if she believed, foolishly, lovingly, that the right grip might anchor her mistress to reason. To safety. To the stillness of staying. Her brows knit together, not in anger, but in something older. Worn. A concern worn thin by years of quiet watching, polished now into something closer to grief.

“He’s the son of the enemy,” she said, softly. Each word landed like a stone dropped into the hush of the chamber. “You’re betrothed to another. And nothing good—nothing lasting—can come of this.”

She said it the way a nurse might warn a child about fire. Not to ruin its warmth, but because she had seen what the embers left behind.

The silence that followed was not defensive. Nor ashamed.

It simply was.

She looked down at Elaine’s hand still resting against her sleeve, and let the truth settle between them like morning fog curling across a field. She didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Every warning had already echoed within her, whispered in every sleepless hour since the letter first arrived.

But sometime between the second reading and the third, she had learned that longing cannot be reasoned with. And loyalty—loyalty is no match for love, once it has taken root.

She turned to face Elaine fully at last. The movement was gentle. Not defiant. Not fleeing. Merely unfolding.

Her smile was quiet. The kind of smile made only by candlelight—fragile, flickering. The kind that asked for no approval, only understanding.

“But I love him,” she said.

The words fell like snow through a cracked window. They didn’t beg. They didn’t justify. They simply were.

Plain. Irrevocable.

“And love,” she added, softer still, “is far too rare in this cold empire.”

Elaine looked at her for a long moment.

Her lips parted. Closed again. Her shoulders rose with a breath, and fell as if the truth had knocked the air from her lungs.

Then—slowly—she let go.

The absence of her touch was immediate. Not painful. But felt. Like the last note of a song that would never be played again.

“I always knew your heart would get you into trouble,” she murmured, quieter than before. “But I never thought I’d be the one helping you run straight into it.”

A shadow crossed her face. Not fear. Not reproach.

Something nameless. Fierce devotion laced with helpless resignation.

“If anyone asks for you before sunrise,” Elaine continued, “I’ll say you took ill and asked not to be disturbed. I’ll keep the lamps low. I’ll turn away the steward.”

Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with the weight of loyalty too deep to name.

“But when dawn comes,” she said, voice thin as thread, “you must be here.”

She nodded. Once.

“I will.”

Elaine stepped back, just far enough to clear the path to the door. Her lips pressed into a line. Not of judgment.

Of promise.

“Go, then,” she whispered. “Before I change my mind.”

The cloak felt heavier now. Not in weight—but in meaning.

She pulled the hood over her head with slow, careful fingers, gathering the fabric around her like armor no one would name aloud. Beneath it, her hair was pinned and plain. No jewels. No embroidery. Only the anonymity of darkness and wool.

“Take the servants’ staircase,” Elaine murmured, as the candle guttered low, nearing the end of its wick. “It will be empty at this hour.”

She gave no reply. Only met her friend’s eyes with a look that said everything.

Thank you. Forgive me. Don’t wait up.

And then, she turned the handle.

The hallway yawned before her—long, hushed, lined in portraits that had never known softness. With each step, the candlelight behind her dimmed, until only silence remained: the soft creak of wood beneath her slippers, the whisper of fabric against ancient stone.

She kept her eyes low as she walked. Not out of fear of being seen—but out of fear she might remember what she was leaving behind.

At the corridor’s far end, moonlight spilled through the high arched windows, painting silver onto worn tapestries. She had passed them every day of her girlhood—battlefields, crowned ancestors, mythic victories stitched in silk. Always men with swords and banners. Always women kneeling, smiling, handing over keys.

It had never occurred to her, not until much later, that all the women in those tapestries were surrendering something.

Her steps slowed.

The hush around her deepened. Grew solemn. The weight of her name—the titles sewn onto her like another gown—pressed heavy against her spine.

Princess. Daughter of the House of Virellan. Betrothed to Lord Commander Halbrecht of the Eastern Reach.

Betrothed.

Not promised. Not chosen.

No—she had been offered. Presented. Like a gemstone too rare to wear, but too valuable not to trade.

The arrangement had been made the month she turned nineteen. Her father had summoned her to his study, gestured for her to sit, and poured her wine in the manner of a man delivering condolences. The suitor was twice her age, and thrice as powerful—a fortress by the sea, an army at his back. The papers had already been drawn.

Her opinion had not been requested.

She was to dine with the man twice—smile where appropriate, laugh only when it was safe—and by spring, she would be sent across the riverlands to marry him beneath a cathedral veiled in violet banners. Her dowry would secure peace. Her womb would secure legacy.

And in return, she would be draped in silk and silence for the rest of her life.

That had been the shape of her future.

Until Sylus. Until the letter.

She reached the turn in the corridor that led toward the servants’ stair, her fingers grazing the edge of a marble column she had once hidden behind as a child. Back then, the palace had felt enormous. A world of stories. A kingdom of possibility. She had believed she would grow into something bright—something grand.

Instead, she had grown into a script someone else had written.

Noble blood, royal title—it meant nothing. Not truly. Not to the men at court. Not to the council. Not to the foreign dignitaries who examined her like silk at auction. Women like her were not daughters. Not in the ways that mattered.

They were treaties. They were leverage.

They were useful.

And tonight—more than ever—she understood the cost of being useful.

This moment—this one—was hers alone. Her only rebellion. Her only truth. Quiet, yes. Fleeting. But hers.

No steward had scheduled it. No father had blessed it. No alliance depended on it. No crown would rise or fall for it.

Only she would carry its weight. Only her.

One night to feel something real. One night to remember the shape of her body beneath someone else’s hands—not in duty, not in ceremony, but in desire. One night to speak a name not chosen for her.

She exhaled—and it felt like breathing for the first time in weeks.

Not for honor. Not for kingdom. Not for crown.

But for herself.

She took the first step down the servants’ stair.

The stone was cold beneath her feet. The dark wrapped around her like ink.

And still—she walked.

The staircase wound narrow, the walls pressed close—as if the castle itself had been built to bury its secrets in stone. Her fingers grazed the surface as she descended. Not for balance.

For something to hold. For something real.

No lanterns lit her path. Only memory guided her now: the turn near the old laundry room, the creak in the third stair from the bottom, the hush of the corridor beyond—always tinged with earth and oil and something older than time itself.

She reached the door to the lower courtyard and paused. Her hand hovered above the latch.

And she listened.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. Only the stillness of a sleeping palace, and the tight, suspended rhythm of her own breath caught beneath her collarbone.

She opened the door.

The air met her like a whisper—cool, damp, edged in loam and turned soil. A world away from the perfumed corridors above. This was the night as it truly was: uncurated, untamed, honest.

She pulled the hood lower over her brow and stepped into it.

The courtyard lay still. Unwatched. The guards were posted at the gates and along the walls—not here. Not in this forgotten quiet where the heir’s daughter might wander to clear her thoughts.

Or, more truthfully, to escape them.

Her footsteps made no sound against the cobbles. Only the soft cadence of her breath gave her away.

Beyond the courtyard, past the arch choked with sleeping ivy, the path sloped toward the lower gardens—neglected, overgrown, the sort of place people spoke of only in past tense. The older maids still claimed the Queen Mother once walked there, heavy with child, and that the roses still bent toward the places she had lingered.

But the garden had long since surrendered its majesty. The hedges grew wild. The fountains had run dry. Moss clung to the statues like secrets whispered and never unlearned.

And still—she knew the way.

The gravel shifted beneath her steps. The trees thickened. And then—faint, unmistakable—the scent reached her.

Orchids.

Familiar. Sweet. Alive.

Not perfumed. Not pressed. These breathed the same night air she did, blooming defiantly in the dark. Vines spilled from stonework ahead, curling through ancient cracks as though they, too, had come searching for something lost and half-remembered.

Her steps slowed.

The garden opened.

It rose from the overgrowth like a ruin sanctified by moonlight. The pillars, cracked and weatherworn, stood stubborn in their elegance. The domed ceiling shimmered faintly where silver light touched it, ivy trailing from the eaves like a hymn long forgotten but not quite lost.

He was there.

Still. Silent. Half-shadowed.

He stood beside one of the columns, motionless—not looking at her, not needing to. His posture was deliberate. A statue carved from shadow and restraint. A sword belted at his hip. Not dressed for war, not dressed for court—but for something in between. His cloak stirred gently in the breeze. One gloved hand rested at his side, as though waiting—for something, or someone.

She stopped just short of the clearing, hidden still beneath the trees.

And watched.

Waited.

There was no doubt in her now. No hesitation. The space between them might as well have been a breath.

And yet she did not move.

Because this—this—was the moment.

Not the kiss. Not the touch. Not the ruin that might follow.

No.

This.

When two souls stood on the threshold of something vast. When the night forgot who they were supposed to be— And remembered only what they were.

She watched him in the stillness.

The distance between them stretched—silent, inviolate—not to be crossed quickly, nor without consequence.

He hadn’t turned. Not yet. But she knew he had felt her.

The way one feels the first drop of rain before the storm. The way a flame senses the breath entering the room.

The air between them pulsed—weightless, expectant.

And then—slowly, as though the motion required surrender—he turned.

There was nothing dramatic in it. No flourish. Only a shift in balance. The fall of his cloak as he moved. The tilt of his head until the sharp lines of his face emerged from shadow. Moonlight caught on the edge of his jaw, on the curve of his cheekbone, on the faint scar just beneath his eye.

His gaze found hers.

And time collapsed inward.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. He only looked.

As though the very sight of her had undone something inside him—something for which no language yet existed. As though he had waited this long precisely for her to arrive… and now could only stand still, holding the moment together by sheer will.

She didn’t lower her hood. Not yet.

She wanted him to see her like this—cloaked, quiet, unannounced. Not a princess. Not a symbol. Just a woman who had chosen to come.

His mouth parted slightly. Not to speak. Only to breathe.

Then—at last—his voice.

Low. Measured.

“You came.”

She nodded. Not for lack of words, but because there was no language vast enough to contain what she felt.

His shoulders dropped, just barely—like the loosening of a tension long held but not yet released. He took one step forward.

And stopped.

“I didn’t think you would,” he said.

Another step. Slow. Controlled.

“I told myself not to expect it. That hope was…”

He trailed off.

She stepped into the clearing, out from the shadow of the trees. Moonlight painted her in silver, cloaking the pavilion floor in a wash of pale blue.

Their eyes met and held.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she said.

The sound of her voice fractured something in the space between them. Not harshly. Not violently. Like glass warmed until it cracked. Like silence… letting go.

He exhaled through his nose. Closed his eyes.

“I’ve thought of this,” he said quietly, “too many times.”

She moved closer. Slowly. Always slowly. Her heartbeat was steady only because she refused to let it betray her.

She stopped just at the edge of the stone.

“If we’re caught,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“If they find out—”

“I know.”

He opened his eyes. In them, something unspoken.

Not pain. Not joy. Something rarer.

“I would still choose this,” he said.

They stood there—on either side of a line drawn by kingdoms, by blood, by ancient oaths.

And yet closer now than they had ever been.

She stepped forward.

Only a breath. The smallest shift.

But it was enough.

Enough for him to move.

His hand rose—not suddenly, not urgently, but with a reverence that felt older than either of them. As though he had imagined this moment so many times that now, faced with its reality, he dared not disturb it.

His gloved fingers brushed the edge of her hood. Paused. Waited.

She let him.

He lowered the fabric gently, folding it back until moonlight kissed her face—her cheeks flushed from wind, her eyes wide and unwavering, her lips unpainted, unsmiling, unafraid.

He did not speak.

Not yet.

Both hands rose, one to either side of her face. Leather met skin. His thumbs resting just at the curve of her jaw.

And then, soft—so soft she might’ve imagined it: “Let me look at you.”

She did not lower her gaze. Did not flinch, did not shy away. She let him hold her there, steady in his palms, as though he could anchor her to this fragile sliver of time by touch alone.

His hands weren’t possessive. They weren’t desperate.

They ached.

The kind of touch that begged time to stop.

He studied her—not with hunger, but with something far more dangerous.

Love.

Unhidden. Unguarded. Unspoken.

But there—in the tension carved into his brow, in the tremble that lived at the edge of his mouth, in the way his fingers curved, reverent and trembling, as though memorizing the shape of her.

“You’re exactly as I remember,” he said at last, voice rough, thick with what he did not name. “Only… more.”

More real. More near. More breakable.

She lifted her hands, slowly, placing them over his.

Bare skin to leather.

“You’re trembling,” she said.

Sylus gave the faintest shake of his head.

“I’m trying not to.”

Her smile was small. Sad. It did not quite reach her eyes.

“Why?”

His breath hitched—once.

“Because if I let myself feel everything I feel for you…” He stopped. Swallowed. “I don’t think I’ll be able to let you go.”

She closed her eyes then.

Not to retreat. Not to hide.

But because it was too much—the tenderness, the truth, the unbearable possibility that this moment was their last.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” she whispered.

His thumbs brushed across her cheeks—a slow, reverent pass. Like a prayer said without words.

“Then don’t,” he murmured.

There was no certainty in his voice. No lie. No comfort.

Only love.

Fractured. Fragile. Real.

She leaned into his hands, tilting her brow to his, their foreheads meeting in a touch so small, so sacred, it broke something open inside her.

A dam held too long.

They stood like that. No kiss. No vows. No promises made to be broken.

Just presence.

And in that stillness, she understood—

This was what it meant to be known. To be seen. To be chosen—

Not for crown. Not for coin. But for nothing. For everything. For her.

His breath trembled against her skin.

And then—so softly, the words nearly lost between them—

“Don’t marry him.”

Her eyes opened. Slowly.

She didn’t pull back. Didn’t answer. Only looked at him.

The rawness in his voice had cut through her. Not sharp. Not sudden.

Deep.

Like something caged too long, slipping through the bars at last.

She smiled.

Not from joy. Not from hope. But from sorrow.

From knowing.

Her eyes shimmered.

“It is my duty.”

Sylus flinched.

His jaw tensed. His hands did not leave her face, but they tightened—just slightly. Just enough for her to feel the battle in him, the words he wanted to say but didn’t. The protest. The plea. The silent unraveling of every thread binding her to that future.

He closed his eyes.

Held still.

And when he opened them again, they glistened. Not with rage. Not with self-pity.

With grief. With love.

“I know,” he whispered.

And she knew he did.

That was what broke her.

Because he understood. He knew the weight of names. The inheritance of chains—not of iron, but of bloodlines and law, of crowns passed down like cages. Of duty whispered into cradles.

And still—

“To hell with duty,” he said.

It came out like breath. Like prayer. Like sin.

He pressed his forehead to hers again, firmer this time. Their noses brushed. Their lips hovered—aching, unsaid.

“I would burn down every hall that ever spoke your name as currency,” he murmured. “I would tear apart every oath that asked you to suffer for its sake. I would raze every altar built for men who never once loved the women they crowned.”

A beat of silence.

Then, quieter:

“I would give up everything I am if it meant you could be yours.”

And then—

He kissed her.

Not gently. Not carefully. But with the reverence of a man who has run out of time.

His hands cradled her face like she might vanish—like the night itself might steal her if he let go for even a moment.

Their tears met between their lips.

And between each kiss, he breathed the litany:

“To hell with duty.”

A kiss. “To hell with titles.”

Another. “To hell with borders.”

A gasp. “To hell with the blood that keeps us apart.”

A sob. “To hell with the morning.”

He broke then—just for a second.

Pressed his forehead to hers once more.

“I love you,” he said, voice cracked open and spilling. “I love you, and I don’t know how to stop.”

She kissed him back.

As if to say—don’t. Don’t ever stop.

And for one breathless, unrepeatable moment— The garden belonged only to them.

He took her hand.

Said nothing.

Only laced their fingers together, as if sealing a vow older than language itself, and led her across the timeworn stones of the pavilion floor. Their steps were silent. Unhurried. Measured not in distance, but in the quiet unraveling of two hearts tethered across fate.

Beneath the open dome, where moonlight filtered through the fractured lattice above, he turned to her once more.

They stood at the center.

No altar. No witness.

And yet—it felt holy.

His hands came to her waist. Not to claim. Not to coax. Simply to anchor. To ground her in this quiet, sacred defiance. His forehead met hers again, and when he breathed her name, it came like liturgy—soft, desperate, devout.

“I have lived lifetimes in the spaces between your glances,” he murmured. “And I would live a thousand more, just to feel your breath against mine again.”

Her eyes fluttered closed.

Not from modesty. Not from doubt.

But because every word settled into her chest like a second heartbeat—rare, relentless, and utterly hers.

His hands moved—upward, slow—to the clasp of her cloak.

Still, he paused.

Not to ask. But to offer a moment. A choice.

To see if she would stop him. To see if she would look away.

She didn’t.

Her gaze held steady as her fingers rose and undid the fastening herself.

The cloak slipped from her shoulders in silence, folding into itself at her feet like the closing of a sacred book. Beneath it, she wore a gown the color of twilight—simple, long-sleeved, unadorned. Chosen not to be seen, but to pass unseen.

And yet to him—she looked like revelation.

He reached for the buttons at her collar.

Fingers slow. Intentional. Unfastening one, then another, then another—each undone like a breath held and finally released.

All the while, he whispered:

“You were never meant to be given away like a coin in a man’s palm.”

Another button.

“You were meant to be chosen. Again. And again.”

Another.

“And if this world will not give you that—I will.”

She made a sound then—small, aching.

He caught it with his mouth.

Not a kiss of urgency. Not of fire.

But of devotion. Of reverence.

As though her lips were psalm and he, a man who had wandered too long in silence.

Her hands found his shoulders. The slope of his neck. The soft resistance of his hair. Not pulling—just holding. Steadying herself in the storm of being seen so fully.

His mouth moved to her cheek. To the curve of her jaw.

“I will memorize every part of you,” he breathed. “So that no matter what this night costs me—I will never forget what it meant to live.”

She trembled.

But not from fear.

From the ache of being known.

His fingers returned to her buttons, undoing them slowly, one by one—as though each slip of fabric were a page turned, not undressing her, but reading her.

The gown loosened beneath his touch. It did not fall. Not yet.

It clung—to her shoulders, to gravity, to hesitation.

He eased it from her with care.

First one side. Then the other. His knuckles brushed her arms, her collarbone. Her breath caught—not from the touch itself, but from how he touched her.

As though she were something delicate. Something sacred. As though he would never forgive himself if he let her forget—this, too, was hers.

The bodice softened in his hands, slipping lower until cool night air kissed newly bared skin. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide.

Still—he paused.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered. “And I will give it.”

Her voice trembled in her throat, caught between ribs and breath.

“Just… you.”

Something in him broke open.

He bent, brushing his lips beneath her jaw—slow as moonrise, steady as devotion.

“You have me,” he said. “Every breath. Every scar. Every word I was never supposed to say.”

Her gown slipped past her hips.

It made no sound as it pooled at her feet.

She stood in her slip—bare from shoulder to wrist—the fabric thin, clinging, moving with each breath she dared to take. Her skin, so long hidden beneath velvet and ceremony, shimmered beneath the fractured light of moon and lattice.

Not painted. Not adorned. Just hers.

And Sylus looked at her—not as a man entranced, but as one transformed.

Not because she was beautiful—though she was. Not because she was powerful—though she had always been.

But because, in that moment, she was free.

“May I?” he asked again, his hands hovering near the hem.

She nodded.

And he dropped to his knees.

Not to beg.

But to worship.

His hands moved upward—slow, reverent—from her calves to the gentle flare of her hips. He eased the final barrier down with care. Kissed the bone at her side. Once. Then the other.

Not from hunger.

But from gratitude.

She reached for him then, fingers threading through his hair, her chest rising in uneven rhythm—not from shame, but from the unfamiliar weight of being touched without claim. Revealed without being taken.

When he stood, she was bare.

Entirely.

And not once did she feel small.

He looked at her—not like a man overcome, but like a man undone.

His breath hitched. His eyes softened.

“You are not something to be possessed,” he said, voice raw with truth. “You are something to be remembered.”

Her throat tightened.

She reached for the clasp at his shoulder. Her hands were unsure—but he stilled. Let her.

Watched her undress him as he had undressed her. Layer by layer. Piece by piece.

First the cloak. Then the tunic beneath.

Each garment he wore fell heavier than hers—not in weight, but in history. In consequence.

And still, she undressed him.

Until nothing remained between them but breath.

He pulled her into him—skin to skin, chest to chest—their warmth mingling, hearts echoing each other like two halves of a song neither of them had ever been allowed to hear.

“I want to show you what love looks like,” he said, “when no one else is watching.”

And then—

He lowered her to the stone.

Carefully. Slowly.

Not because she was fragile.

But because this was.

The pavilion floor—worn smooth by years, by seasons, by the hush of vanished footsteps—cradled her spine as if it, too, had been waiting. For her. For them.

The air was cool.

But beneath his gaze, her skin burned.

He knelt beside her first. Not to rush. Not to claim.

Just to look.

Not at her body alone, but at her. The flush blooming across her cheeks. The way her lips parted, breath trembling in her throat. The soft rise and fall of her chest—as though the night itself forgot to breathe without her.

His hand traced from her sternum down the line of her ribs, reverent, his fingertips barely grazing. Her body rose instinctively to meet his palm—not from hunger, but from welcome.

He bent over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding down past her hip, along the soft curve of her thigh. He kissed her as he touched her—slow, deep—like he was tasting the very center of her soul.

“You feel like something I was never meant to find,” he whispered between kisses. “And yet… here you are.”

She gasped as his fingers found her—low, knowing, unhurried.

He didn’t fumble. He didn’t force.

He knew.

Somehow—impossibly—he knew.

The first touch was soft. Exploratory. Then again. And again.

Her hips rose to meet him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer, grounding herself in the quiet intensity of being wanted this wholly.

Though he was still half-dressed, she felt the heat beneath his clothes—the strain, the tremble that betrayed how undone he already was.

Sylus pressed kisses along her jaw, her throat, the hollow where her collarbone met skin. His mouth moved like it offered absolution.

And beneath him, she bloomed.

Inch by inch. Like something thawing after a long, silent winter.

When his fingers circled. Coaxed. Opened—

She sighed his name.

Not as plea. But as prayer.

“I want you,” she breathed—not from desire alone, but from truth. From certainty.

He lifted his head. His eyes—lit from within—burned.

“I’m yours,” he said.

And she believed him.

He shed the last of his clothing in silence.

No performance. No pretense.

Just skin.

And the man beneath it—aching, bare, ready to give her everything.

When he came over her, he didn’t collapse into her. He hovered—every muscle braced, every breath measured—his weight held back with aching care. His forehead pressed to hers. Their noses brushed. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck.

He reached between them. Aligned their bodies with reverent precision.

But still—he paused.

Eyes locked. Hearts thundering in tandem.

“I want to remember how you looked,” he said, “the moment I became part of you.”

Her throat tightened.

“Then take me.”

And he did.

Slowly. Steadily.

Until she gasped, her back arching from the stone as he filled her—not with pain, not with pressure—

But with presence.

She felt all of him.

And all of herself.

And something more.

He groaned, the sound buried in her hair—raw, broken, holy. He held still. Just breathed.

“You feel like a promise I never dared to make,” he murmured.

She kissed him. Soft. Desperate.

And together, they moved.

Not frantic. Not rushed.

But slow. Measured.

A language of breath and skin, of bone and vow. Each thrust a confession. Each press of their bodies a sacred truth.

He whispered between the rhythm, between the gasps—

“You are mine in this hour.” “In this breath.” “In this life—or the next.” “I will carry you… in every silence I endure.”

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes.

Not from sorrow. But from the truth of it all.

Her body rose to meet his—again and again—each motion a sacred cadence, as though she had never been made for anything but this: to be opened gently. To be loved completely.

His lips found hers. And again. And again.

She held his face when he began to tremble—when the moment cracked open inside him and he began to unravel, shaking above her like a man who had found divinity.

“Let go,” she whispered.

And he did.

With a cry that tore through him like wind through trees, he buried himself in her—releasing everything: the fear, the longing, the restraint.

And with it, a love too vast for any vow.

She followed.

Breathless. Trembling.

Her body arching toward his, her heart splitting open in the most exquisite way.

And when it was over— When the storm had passed— They lay together in the quiet.

Bodies entwined. Skin damp. The stone beneath them warm with borrowed heat.

He brushed her hair back. Kissed her temple.

“You were never meant for cages,” he said.

And for the first time in her life—

She believed it.

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛���� 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 : @ikesimpleton

[cameronsbabydoll]

babe i need D E T A I L S of jewish!rafe and jewish!reader's wedding!!! my god im soooo obsessed with them

THE VIBE

Venue: Not just any NYC wedding. Think The Pierre ballroom, or a lush estate in the Hamptons. Full white florals, crystals, candlelight, and a live string quartet playing music.

Guests: 400+, everyone they’ve ever known, including family friends from the country club, a rabbi who knows your mom personally, and cousins from Boca.

Dress Code: Formal black tie. No one’s showing up without a designer label. Your aunt whispers “I think she’s wearing Carolina Herrera” like it’s gossip.

THE BRIDE

Custom Galia Lahav gown, fitted with delicate lace sleeves, a dramatic train, and hand-sewn pearls.

Veil longer than your ketubah.

White satin Manolos you insisted on getting even though you can’t walk in them.

Hair half up, soft glam, diamonds everywhere (including your mother's heirloom tennis bracelet “just for the ceremony”).

A bouquet of perfect white peonies that match the floral canopy above the chuppah.

You have a second dress for the party, obviously—a sparkly minidress with feathers or crystals, and a third dress you “weren’t planning on wearing but had in case.”

THE GROOM

Rafe in a custom Tom Ford tux, freshly shaved, smelling like Santal 33 and pure devotion.

Cufflinks with your initials.

Kippah matches his tie.

Looks like he could walk a runway, but his eyes never leave you.

When he sees you walk down the aisle?

Fully tears up. The best man has to hand him a tissue. Your mother swoons. Your grandma dies and comes back to life.

THE CEREMONY

Under a giant white-flower chuppah. Elegant. Regal. Zero budget cuts.

You circle him seven times. He’s trembling. Hands you the ring like it’s a prayer.

The rabbi’s speech lowkey makes everyone cry.

When he breaks the glass, the entire room erupts in “Mazel tov!” like it’s the Super Bowl.

THE PARTY

Hora: Insane. Your heels are off in two seconds. You’re screaming, arms in the air, diamonds bouncing.

Rafe is spun in the chair like a king. The best man almost drops him.

He grabs your hand across the circle and grins at you like he’s never been happier in his entire life.

Dancing: Live band and DJ. You’re switching between Frank Sinatra, and Brittney Spears.

Dessert bar: At least three tables. Macarons, babka bites, mini sufganiyot.

Signature cocktails: Named after your dog and Rafe’s childhood nickname.

Photo booth: Gold backdrop, boas, and everyone’s mom gets in.

THE SPEECHES

Your dad: Trying not to cry, talks about how he always knew Rafe was “solid.”

Rafe’s dad: “Didn’t think he could land someone this perfect, but here we are.”

Your maid of honor: Mentions summer camp, your bat mitzvah, and says you were always a little dramatic.

Rafe’s best man: Lightly roasts him. Mentions how whipped he is. Rafe doesn’t even deny it.

THE AFTERMATH

You leave in a vintage white Rolls-Royce.

Rafe carries you into the penthouse, both still tipsy.

He peels off your second dress like it’s a gift.

You whisper “we’re really married” and he whispers “finally.”

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

postwar!Levi absolutely chafes under enforced bedrest, unfamiliar and uncomfortable with doing nothing

his useless legs feel like cinderblocks holding the waterlogged sack of his body to a riverbed, drowning slow

his nervous system hasn’t caught up to the uneasy peace, flooding his veins with adrenaline that has nowhere to go, leaving him gasping for air and sick over the side of his bed

he can’t clean the mess, and that might be the worst thing of all, the helpless wait for someone to witness his weakness

postwar!Levi can’t tell his fevered dreams from reality, follows the green smudge of Erwin’s cloak across an endless battlefield, calls to his commander till he’s lost his voice and wakes up tasting copper

the people who come to check on him are not who he wants to see- why hasn’t Hange visited, changing his bandages with their steady hands?

he leads Isabel and Furlan up a set of stairs that never seem to end, crunching over the hollow bones of birds that died searching for the sky

postwar!Levi finds his clarity has returned one featureless morning and he weeps for the first time since the battle of heaven and earth, mourns the loss of the delirium that had left the door open for his loved ones to creep through

he begins to recognize the recurring figures at his bedside, the gentle touch on his forehead that signals your arrival with water or blankets or bread

the light of anything more than a candle burns his blind eye, so he learns your face only by the flicker of firelight, the absence of shadow

postwar!Levi is desperate for something to occupy his fractured mind, painfully empty without the urgency of strategizing survival

you hide your surprise when he asks you to read to him in a voice rasped with disuse, saying he doesn’t care what it is, just something to focus on outside of himself, and you understand

you begin to visit him every evening, reading softly from your favorite books as he lies taut and silent in bed, brow furrowed in concentration, breathing through the pain that wracks his battered body

postwar!Levi finds unlikely comfort in your voice, your consistent presence, the slow walks along the winding paths of the stories you tell him

you take a quiet pride in the way he seems to soften each night, just barely, the deep black shadows under his haunted eyes fading into the color of an old bruise, his furrowed brow smoothing into satin as you read

postwar!Levi is sitting up when you arrive one evening, gives you the barest incline of his head in self-conscious greeting

he frowns and shrugs off your praise for his progress, doesn’t want to hear of how miraculous it is that he can heave his once-superhuman body up against the headboard, doesn’t confess how long it took or how much it hurt

he does, however, ask you for tea, not telling you that it would be the first time he’s accepted a cup he hadn’t prepared himself, swallowing a sick resignation with the request

postwar!Levi makes eye contact with you for the first time when he offers gruff thanks, shivering as your fingertips brush around the warm ceramic

something clenches in your chest and you turn away to hide it, occupying yourself with invisible specks of dust on his bedspread

you’re busy swiping the corner of your apron over the nightstand and miss the way his eyes go wide, then soften as he watches you bustle around him

“it’s alright. you don’t have to-” “-I know.”

the two of you speak at the same time, fall into the same embarrassed silence, watching each other warily in the low candlelight

your shadows overlap where they are thrown onto the wall as if they don’t realize the distance between the bodies that grew them, or refuse to recognize it at all

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

I love your writing so much is it okay for me to request yandere emperor like in 1800 or 1900 with ballerina reader?

Yandere Emperor x Reader

The gas lamps lining the cobbled streets cast pale halos in the mist, a golden haze spilling over the frostbitten city. Somewhere beyond the ivory walls of the Imperial Palace, violin strings hummed through the winter air like ghosts—sweet, aching, and low. And you? You were center stage, wrapped in satin ribbons and dreams stitched tight into your bodice. The audience held its breath as you moved, every step on pointe a story of heartbreak and hope, every pirouette a prayer in motion. But one pair of eyes—dark, hungry, unblinking—watched with more than admiration.

He was there every night. Emperor Adrien IV, sovereign of half the continent, draped in velvet and military medals, never missed a single performance. You had never spoken to him. Not directly. But his gaze followed you like a tether, unseen and warm against the nape of your neck even when the curtains fell.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Until the letters came.

Elegant parchment, edges gilded, sealed with crimson wax and stamped with the imperial crest. The first one was simple—compliments on your performance, praise for your artistry. Polite. Harmless. But then came another. And another. They grew longer. More personal. He wrote of how your movement stilled the ache of war in his bones. How he dreamed of your silhouette long after sleep had left him. He quoted poems that no one else remembered and ended his letters with a single plea:

‘Dance for me alone.’

You tried not to tremble as you read them by candlelight, the flicker catching the edge of each obsessive flourish in his calligraphy. You never responded. What could you say to a man like him? A man who could summon armies, raze cities, extinguish lives with a nod?

Still, he persisted.

Then came the night the theater went dark.

You arrived at the company only to find your dressing room gone. Your director vanished. Dancers scattered like birds, whispering of patronage too powerful to defy. That evening, a carriage awaited you—sleek, black, and silent. The driver held no invitation. He simply opened the door and gestured.

You stepped in.

The palace was colder than you imagined—opulent but hollow. Marble floors so polished you could see your reflection tremble. Servants avoided your eyes. No one spoke. They led you to a grand chamber gilded in gold leaf and shadow, where a single man sat at the throne’s edge, his crown resting on a side table like an afterthought. Adrien.

Up close, he was even more terrible. Beautiful, yes. Impossibly so. Black curls like ink. Eyes the color of polished obsidian, glittering with something not quite sane. But it wasn’t his beauty that held you still. It was the intensity—the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he had ever truly wanted.

He stood, closing the distance between you in slow, deliberate steps.

“You’re here,” he murmured, as if the thought alone was enough to keep the stars turning. “At last.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

He circled you like a man inspecting the edge of a dream, hand brushing the folds of your coat, the exposed line of your collarbone. “You should never have danced for them. They didn’t deserve it. They watched with filthy eyes, unworthy of even your shadow.”

He took your hand. It was ice against fire.

“You’re mine now.”

And just like that, you realized what he had done.

The letters. The shuttered theater. The silenced staff. He hadn’t courted you—he’d hunted you. Slowly. Patiently. Piece by piece, he had torn the world away until only he remained.

You pulled back. “I want to go home.”

A shadow flickered across his face. It passed quickly, but not fast enough. When he smiled again, it was softer—almost sorrowful.

“There is no ‘home’ outside these walls. That world forgot you the moment I decided to make you mine.”

You stumbled away, skirts brushing the edge of the throne room’s vast emptiness. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I can,” he said, voice like silk and steel. “And I will.”

A hand clapped. The doors swung open. And before you could scream or run, music began. Live, echoing, played by a hidden quartet. Your song. The one you danced to on your final night.

His voice dipped to a whisper behind you. “Dance for me.”

You stood frozen.

And then—because you feared what he might do if you didn’t—you danced.

Each step felt like surrender. Each turn like a chain pulled tighter. Adrien didn’t speak again. He simply watched, silent and rapt, the firelight dancing in his eyes.

And when the music ended, when you dropped into your final bow, he rose.

“You’ll dance every night,” he promised, reaching out to cradle your cheek. “For me. Only me. Forever.”

You could see now the depths of it—his madness, his devotion. This wasn’t love. It was worship. And you were no longer a ballerina.

You were an idol.

A prisoner.

A queen.

Forever.

Masterlist

[astrcmoni]

༄sucia༄

MASTERLIST

▹sucia ~ kehlani

synopsis: after the final curtain falls on your set, you find a new rhythm in the hush between jazz notes and gasps—wrapped in silk, skin, and your fiancée billie’s hands. in the quiet, she teaches you worship, and you teach her how to crave slow.

pairing: burlesque!fem!reader x billie eilish

genre: smut

wc: 9.4k

warnings: alcohol, teasing, oral sex (b! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), mentions of cigarettes, let me know if i’m forgetting anything!

author’s note: can’t believe it took me a month to write this. i highly suggest for you to listen to the song to understand the tone of the story.

the speakeasy shimmered like a secret too good to keep.

hidden beneath the bones of an old hotel, it breathed in velvet and candlelight, steeped in sweat and anticipation. the room was all smoke and satin, heavy with perfume, jazz, and unspoken things. it wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled into—it was the kind of place you earned your way inside.

there she was, sat in the far corner of a booth.

the velvet cushions clung to her like memory, her frame tucked low into the shadows, legs crossed beneath the table like she had all the time in the world. one hand toyed with the stem of a half-melted glass, the amber liquor inside catching glints of the stage lights like it, too, was waiting. the low hum of jazz vibrated through the walls like a second heartbeat, but she wasn’t listening. not really.

her eyes were locked on the stage.

on the hush before something holy.

the music dipped.

a shift so smooth it felt like sin—something slower now, more dangerous, thick with bass and suggestion. the lights melted into a haze of deep red and smoldering gold, a dusk painted across velvet. smoke began to unfurl from the floorboards, heavy and deliberate, curling slow around ankles and heels, crawling toward the ceiling like it had secrets of its own.

billie leaned forward, slow and deliberate, as if pulled by a string only she could feel.

her glass hovered near her lips, but she didn’t drink.

couldn’t.

the velvet curtain peeled back with the hush of breath held too long.

and you emerged—

barely a sound, barely a step. like a secret whispered into skin.

your presence flooded the stage like warm liquor down the throat, like dusk falling too fast.

your skin gleamed under the lazy lights, slick and golden, as though you’d been dipped in sunlight and slow fever. even the air around you seemed to bend.

you didn’t walk.

you arrived.

and billie? she forgot how to breathe.

your outfit was western temptation made flesh: a red velvet corset sculpted tight, boned and curved like a prayer answered too late. gold rope laced the seams with the promise of undoing. red stones glittered across your chest, catching the light with every slow roll of your hips, like fire had decided to wear diamonds. the neckline dipped, sinful and sweet, inviting the eye and daring the heart.

your shoulders—sharp, exaggerated—spoke of theater and danger, of power hidden behind lace. long ruby gloves traced the line of your arms, and your boots, thigh-high and slow-striding, echoed against the stage like gunshots wrapped in silk. a wide-brimmed western hat dipped low, casting your eyes in shadow, but your smirk sliced through the dark like a blade.

this wasn’t for them.

it never was.

your gaze yearned for her instantly—threaded through the dark like a compass needle to its north.

you tilted your head, just so, letting the lights catch the high curve of your cheekbone, the gold dust clinging to your collarbone. your lips parted, not to speak, but to taste the moment.

and billie—

billie was a prayer on the verge of being answered and undone.

her breath caught in her throat.

“fuck,” she whispered, barely audible over the music.

you smirked wider.

as if you heard it.

as if you knew.

you placed one hand on your hip, the other dragging the tip of your glove down the curve of your thigh, letting the anticipation stretch, elastic and aching. every movement was molasses—slow, deliberate, aching with control.

“she’s gonna ruin me,” billie murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

and maybe she already had.

you took another step.

and another.

the stage wasn’t a stage anymore. it was a battlefield. it was a bedroom. it was a confession booth.

and every eye was on you.

but your eyes—your eyes were only for her.

the one who wore your name like a wound beneath her ribs.

the one who sat there now, undone and worshiping, not sure whether to pray or misbehave.

maybe both.

because the thing about devotion is—it never comes clean.

and tonight, neither would you. your eyes scanned the room, not looking for strangers—no. you were searching for your mark. your muse. your prospect.

and once you found her, once your gaze collided with billie’s across the smoke-drenched distance—you didn’t look away.

you lingered.

you stared straight through the haze and into her soul, like you knew every secret she tried to bury in the dark. like you could see the trembling heartbeat hidden behind her ribcage. it made her shift in her seat, jaw tightening, her spine pressing deeper into the velvet cushion like she could escape the weight of you.

she couldn’t.

your eyes pinned her in place. your attention alone touched her—more intimate than hands, more invasive than breath. one ringed finger twitched against the fogged edge of her glass.

you moved with the music, letting it pour into your bones, letting it pull you like silk across skin.

your hands slid from the tops of your shoulders, trailing slowly, deliberately down your arms—like you were memorizing yourself for her. soft caresses curved over your body, fingertips grazing the outline of temptation wrapped in velvet and gold.

each step was a tease.

measured. smooth. deliberate.

your hips swayed with a rhythm all your own, fringe swishing around your thighs like it had its own pulse—like even the fabric was desperate to touch you.

you slid one gloved hand down the slope of your waist, trailing slow over the curve of your hip. languid, sensual, almost cruel in how little it gave. someone gasped—but you didn’t flinch.

because your eyes never left hers.

blue met fire.

and something ancient stirred.

desire bloomed in the space between you, thick and smoky, unspoken but undeniable—simmering low like embers waiting for breath.

you reached the edge of the stage and descended slowly, deliberately dropping to your knees in a fluid motion that made the room forget how to breathe.

your thighs parted, unapologetic, claiming space.

your body leaned back with the poise of something divine, the gloss on your lips catching the lights above—molten, mirror-like, wicked. they parted, just barely.

not into a smile.

but a promise.

the crowd was still.

not in reverence.

but in need.

someone’s drink clinked faintly—but billie didn’t blink.

didn’t dare.

you lifted your arm, slow and sinuous, fingers curling into the edge of your glove like it was a vow you were about to betray.

the fabric clung to you.

and you let it.

dragging it free with painstaking patience, revealing skin inch by inch—warm, glistening, kissed by the spotlight and sweat.

the glove sighed against you, slipping like silk over the curve of your wrist, the slope of your forearm, until it fluttered to the stage like something sacred that had outlived its purpose.

your other hand rose to help, slower still, tugging past each knuckle like it hurt to part with the fabric. the lights caught on your nails—long, sharp, lacquered obsidian tipped in blood-red stones, sparkling like they had stories to tell.

they looked like claws meant to carve out sin.

like they’d been made to leave marks in someone’s back.

when the thread of the glove snagged on the tip of your acrylics, you didn’t flinch.

you twirled it once—delicate, decadent—before letting it fall.

and then came the second.

dragged between your teeth with a growl so quiet it felt like thunder.

your eyes stayed locked on hers the whole time, unblinking, daring her.

daring her to want more.

and more she did.

god, she did.

your fingers flexed—slow, deliberate—letting the light play along each wicked edge, letting every glint, every movement tell its own story.

you unfurled your legs like silk spilling from a torn ribbon, rising smooth from the floor and stepping off the stage mid-song. the lights followed you like they knew better.

your boots clicked against the polished wood, each step a countdown.

the crowd parted without being asked—held back by reverence, or fear, or lust. maybe all three.

but you never looked at them.

you didn’t need to.

your eyes were still tethered to hers, like gravity bent for you.

billie couldn’t move. couldn’t think.

the music swelled around her, but it all sounded distant now—muted by the blood rushing through her ears.

she sank further into the booth as you approached, her heart slamming against her ribs like it wanted out.

you didn’t speak.

your hands settled on the curve of your hips, head tilted just so, that smirk teasing the edge of your mouth like you were already laughing at the mess she was becoming.

your gaze roved over her, slow and assessing—like you were deciding what part of her to touch first.

and god, did she want to be touched.

her voice barely made it past her throat.

“you’re gonna fucking kill me,” she breathed.

you leaned in, low enough that only she could hear.

your lips brushed the shell of her ear.

“then die slow,” you whispered, your breath hot, honeyed, dangerous. “and beg for it.”

her knees nearly buckled—and she wasn’t even standing.

because in that moment, she didn’t care if this was performance or possession.

all she knew was this:

you had her.

and you weren’t letting go.

reaching one hand forward, you flicked your wrist with elegant precision, pointing wordlessly toward her lap. it wasn’t a question, not really—it was an ask stitched in velvet and authority. your eyes never wavered. and hers, after trailing the line of your arm, flicked back up to your face.

she nodded. once. slow.

and with the same agonizing grace that made the stage tremble beneath your heels, you lifted one thigh and slid it over hers.

you straddled her.

and the crowd dissolved into smoke and shadow.

the music murmured around you, low and sticky, lyrics swirling through the room like perfume, like heat, like prophecy.

you lowered yourself into her lap with purpose. slow. your weight settling onto her thighs in a way that made her breath stutter. skin meeting denim—heat blooming between you like fire licking at gasoline.

billie inhaled sharp and shallow, her hands twitching against her sides. she didn’t touch.

couldn’t.

you hadn’t given her permission.

you had her leashed with a glance, and she wore it like worship.

your fingertips skimmed the side of her neck, featherlight, and her lashes fluttered in response. a hitch in her breath, a flush across her cheeks.

you traced her collarbone, the hollow dip of it, the slope that led to her throat. and there, just below her jaw, you rested your thumb.

you could feel her pulse thrum against it—quick, frantic, betraying her restraint.

her jaw clenched.

you leaned in again, lips close enough to be mistaken for contact, but not quite. your breath skimmed over her skin like silk drawn across a blade.

her chest rose faster now, tighter beneath the fabric of her shirt, caught between want and control.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, the words dripping into her ear like honey laced with something sharper. your lips ghosted the shell, not quite touching—just letting her ache for it.

her fists balled tight against her thighs, knuckles straining white. she was trembling with effort, trying not to pull you close, not to ruin the delicious pace you’d crafted with every movement.

you smiled against her skin. a smile that knew the chaos it caused. soft. sharp. both.

and then your lips began to echo the lyrics—your voice low and liquid, smoky with desire but smooth as cream.

“you ain’t gotta tell me what you like,” you murmured, dragging each word like velvet over bare skin. “she say it for you…”

your fingers slid lower, slow and playful, picking at the hem of her shirt. you slipped beneath it with ease, skin meeting skin, heat meeting heat. her stomach was feverish to the touch—every inch of her radiating a kind of tension that vibrated beneath your palms.

you squeezed the flesh at her sides, just enough to ground her. just enough to let her know she was still real, still in her body—barely.

your hands climbed higher, returning to rest just under her chest, fingers splayed and waiting.

“i just wanna fuck you ’til you cry,” you purred, watching her reaction, “vintage dior you…”

your hand drifted back to her throat, fingers dancing, teasing. your thumb found her bottom lip and brushed over it gently.

you smiled again. wicked and warm.

her mouth parted under your touch—instinct. surrender.

your eyes flicked toward her drink, untouched and sweating on the table, and before she could process it, you leaned back.

she caught you instantly, arms looping behind your back, anchoring you. her reflexes spoke for her body, not her brain.

you let her hold you, only for a beat.

then you reached for the glass—cold and glistening with condensation. ruby-red liquid sloshing gently within.

you brought it to your lips first, letting the chilled rim kiss them. then the fruit—some bright citrus wedge sugar-rimmed and ruby-pink—met your mouth.

you let it linger.

you dragged it between your teeth slowly, biting into the flesh until juice welled up. it spilled, slick and sweet, onto the seam of your lips.

billie’s eyes never left your mouth.

she was focused, transfixed, locked into the movement, the sheen, the drip.

you set the glass down next to her thigh and leaned in again, lifting the bitten fruit.

your free hand rose to her throat, thumb and forefinger tilting her head gently, reverently.

then you squeezed—just enough.

juice dripped.

a single bead of it slid from the fruit’s flesh and landed right on her bottom lip.

billie gasped—soft, breathy.

your thumb caught the juice and smeared it across her lips. slow.

not to clean.

to paint.

you glazed her mouth in citrus and suggestion, pressing it in like a ritual.

you reached for the glass again, letting the ice clink against the side, a soft crystalline sound that paired perfectly with the fog of lust that clung to her like perfume.

“i need you to hold it ’til you can’t,” you sang, voice soft, dragging the lyric out as your bare hand cupped her chin.

you traced the shape of her mouth with your thumb until her lips parted again.

then, slow as sin, you tilted the glass and poured just enough to wet her mouth.

you watched her throat, the curve of it, as she swallowed. your thumb pressed gently at its base, and her lashes fluttered from the contact, her mouth forming the barest whimper.

she was unraveling.

and she wanted you to know it.

“i’ll reward you…”

a drop of liquor escaped the corner of her lips, slid down her jaw, and caught the dip of her collarbone.

you leaned in and licked it away.

a flick of your tongue.

a blessing.

a claim.

her breath shuddered out. her head fell back for just a moment, her composure slipping like silk off a shoulder.

but when her eyes drifted away—overwhelmed, seeking escape—you brought her back.

your fingers on her jaw turned her gently, insistently, until her eyes met yours again.

they were heavy-lidded now, drunk on you. hands trembling against your back, her fingers itching to rip through every layer of clothing between you.

“come with me,” you whispered, echoing the music as your hand rose to hook a single finger around the front of her chains.

the metal was cold against her flushed skin.

you tugged.

not enough to hurt—just enough to make her move.

she inhaled sharply, your scent invading her senses as you hovered close.

“come with me,” you repeated, voice lower now. your thumb swept once more over her jaw, and she nodded like she couldn’t have done anything else in that moment if she tried.

and that smile—

that wicked, indulgent smile—

returned to your lips.

because you knew she would follow.

anywhere.

everywhere.

and that power tasted sweeter than any drink.

as the song began to near its end, you slid yourself off billie’s lap with the kind of slow finality that made her body flinch. a soft, helpless whine spilled from her throat at the loss of your warmth, your weight. she blinked up at you, dazed, lips parted like she might beg without realizing.

before she could even register what was happening next, you reached out with two fingers, gently tilting her chin up. her breath hitched. you leaned in and pressed a kiss to her mouth—short, warm, electric. the kind of kiss that leaves something behind. her eyes fluttered closed again, like maybe she could will you to stay, chase your lips and steal another. but she was too slow. by the time she leaned in, you were already gone.

you gave her one last look over your shoulder, something smoldering and sweet behind your eyes, and turned away. every step you took was molten. hypnotic. drawn out like a performance within a performance. a slow burn no one else could touch.

your hands roamed your own body as you moved, nails skimming along your hips, tracing the soft curve of your waist. a private ritual made public. a map only billie could read. and god, how well she knew it.

you licked your lips and tasted her there. the sweetness of the citrus you’d fed her, the faint tang of her skin. your tongue lingered on that taste, your breath shaky as your heels struck against the stage.

with a final pivot, one more sultry glance at the crowd, the velvet curtains began to draw closed behind you—swallowing you in shadow.

your hand came to rest on your chest. you exhaled hard. you’d be lying if you said you weren’t starting to feel it, the ache pooling low in your belly. having billie under your control like that—so pliant, so desperate—in front of an audience no less? it was intoxicating. a power so heady it left your mouth dry and your fingertips buzzing.

turning to your right, you stepped off the side stage and into the narrow back hallway. the overhead lights flickered once, then steadied. your heels echoed off the tile like a slow drumbeat. the air here was heavier, tinged with sweat and hairspray and too many overlapping perfumes—thick enough to choke on. it clung to your lungs and stung the back of your throat, making you cough once, then again.

lipstick-smeared mirrors lined the walls like crooked memories, and peeling wallpaper curled away at the corners like it was trying to escape.

the voices grew louder as you approached the green room. laughter, music, chatter that turned sharp with delight when you stepped through the door.

“ooh, here she comes,” someone purred, voice lilting with mischief.

“you were gorgeous, and don’t think we didn’t see that sexy little spell you put on billie.” another chimed in, perched on the edge of the vanity, eyes gleaming like a cat in heat. he raised a cigarette to his lips, took a long drag, and exhaled in slow spirals, letting the smoke dance in the golden stage light.

you stretched your arms overhead, slow and feline, letting the arch of your spine show beneath the stage lights.

“well,” you drawled, voice thick with amusement, “someone had to keep the show interesting.”

a ripple of whistles and teasing applause followed. someone clapped. someone else let out a high-pitched mm-mm-mm.

“please,” he said again, flicking ash into a tray and leaning back into his chair, eyes still fixed on you through the haze, “the way she looked at you? honey, i thought we were gonna have to peel her off the damn floor. bless her poor, poor heart.”

a chorus of laughter broke out, but it all felt distant. muffled. like a memory you’d already moved past. your ears buzzed with leftover adrenaline. your skin still hummed with billie’s presence, even in her absence.

you reached for a flute of something sparkling and cold, condensation sliding down the stem onto your fingers. the first sip was sweet and sharp, the bubbles dancing against your tongue.

with the glass in hand, you slipped past the others, weaving through the vanity-lit chaos until you reached the far end of the room. a door waited there, made of dark, polished oak, the only thing in this place untouched by time. a golden plaque gleamed in the low light, your name carved into it in looping script.

you smiled at the sight of it. not vanity—recognition. this was your world. your temple. and behind that door, you’d wait just long enough to cool down. to think. or maybe just to let yourself ache a little longer.

you turned the knob and slipped inside, the door closing behind you with a quiet click, like the final note of a song no one else could hear.

you pushed open the door to your dressing room, the familiar creak of the hinges met with a wash of warm, low light and the soft hum of old jazz spinning from a rusted radio in the corner. the kind of music that curled like smoke in the corners of the room, slow and unhurried. it sounded like the end of something tender.

the scent shifted the moment you stepped inside. gone was the heavy cloud of perfume from the green room—here, it was all pressed powder and sweat, melted makeup, the faint, earthy echo of blunts long since burned down to ash. and still, it felt sacred. intimate. like stepping into the hushed temple of a woman who only existed behind velvet and spotlight. a woman you knew well. the version of yourself that only billie had seen this undone.

the bulbs framing your mirror buzzed in quiet harmony with the music, casting a golden halo around your reflection. you looked otherworldly—flushed, glowing, alive. glitter clung to your collarbones like stars caught in skin, and a thin sheen of sweat kissed the swell of your chest. your lipstick, once precise, was now slightly smudged—evidence of billie’s mouth, her chin, her hunger.

you peeled off your hat with the kind of practiced grace that only came from repetition and reverence. the rhinestones caught the light as they settled, still dancing from the movement, like your body hadn’t fully stilled. one glove hung from your pocket, its delicate sway mirroring the low tempo of the song, and with a sigh, you reached for your water bottle. your other hand moved behind you, pulling at the zipper of your corset until the tightness finally loosened, releasing your ribs from their velvet prison.

you closed your eyes. just for a moment. just to breathe. your heartbeat thudded in your ears like the fading drums of the show, but softer now. slower. the air touched your skin like a lover’s hand—cool, intimate, curious. the room smelled faintly of roses wilting in water and burnt-out incense—a little too sweet, a little too strong, but still… comforting. still home.

you tossed your gloves onto the vanity, fingers trembling slightly as you touched your jaw. still warm from her gaze. still tingling from the way billie had looked at you—like she wanted to be ruined by you.

“jesus,” you whispered under your breath, the sound barely audible beneath the music.

you let the corset fall the rest of the way, the sound of it hitting the chair behind you muted, fabric and bone softened by the years. stockings followed, slow and deliberate, rolled down your thighs in the same rhythm you’d danced with. garters unhooked like secrets undone. satin slipped off your frame in a sigh.

goosebumps rose across your arms, your stomach, the backs of your knees. you stood there in nothing but lace panties and the quiet ache of adrenaline, a sheen of sweat still clinging to you like dew on moonlit skin.

you padded across the room barefoot, each step sinking into the plush velvet rug beneath your feet. the rack by your wardrobe stood like a shrine to softness—lace, silk, velvet. your fingertips drifted over them with care, pausing when they reached the familiar weight of your favorite: an onyx robe made of clouds and dreams. sheer, feather-trimmed, with sleeves that whispered past your wrists and a hem that kissed the floor behind you like a lover’s plea.

you slid your arms through, let it settle over you like smoke. decadent. ridiculous. perfect. the sash fell into a lazy bow at your waist, loose enough to tempt, tight enough to withhold. the neckline fell open just enough to tease the soft curve of your chest, a glimpse of skin beneath a veil of shadow.

you stepped back toward the mirror, catching sight of your lips. the red had faded into something softer, stained and smudged like a secret still being kept. you leaned in, fingers brushing your mouth, then lowered your hand.

“nah,” you murmured to yourself, smile crooked, soft. “leave it.”

it felt like a love note from her. unfinished. unforgotten. and you weren’t ready to let that go just yet.

behind you, there was a knock—light, hesitant. a breath against the door.

your smile curled slow, knowing. it ghosted across your lips like smoke, already aware of who waited on the other side.

the knock came again—three soft taps, a rhythm that felt like a question whispered through wood. you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to. silence was an invitation she’d already learned to accept.

you crossed the room unhurriedly, each step deliberate, sensual. the sheer hem of your robe swept the floor behind you like mist crawling across a stage. your bare feet made no sound, only the rustle of silk and the low jazz still curling through the speakers filling the air between breaths.

when you reached the door, you paused—hand resting on the knob, pulse fluttering beneath your skin like the wingbeat of a hummingbird. a soft inhale, one last flicker of control. then, with a single fluid motion, you turned the handle and opened it.

and there she was.

billie stood in the doorway like something pulled from a dream—soft and sharp all at once. her shirt was slightly wrinkled now, collar undone just enough to reveal the delicate glint of gold resting against her chest, the chain catching the low light. her hair was tucked behind her ears, but a few strands had fallen loose, curling near her jaw like they’d been toyed with—maybe by her hands, maybe in frustration, maybe in want.

her eyes—those eyes, blue and endless, bottomless—devoured you the second she saw you.

and she didn’t say a word.

she didn’t need to.

you leaned against the frame, one leg bent just so, the robe parting to reveal the soft curve of your thigh, the gleam of skin beneath sheer black. your voice came out low, velvet-lined and lazy. “took you long enough.”

billie’s gaze lifted—slow, reverent—as though looking at something holy. her lips parted, voice scratchy with something raw. “hi,” she murmured, soft and rough, like gravel under silk. like she hadn’t spoken since the lights went down.

you let the word wrap around you. smiled, just barely. “hi.”

she stepped closer. close enough that her perfume began to mix with the warm, heady air of your dressing room. she smelled like heat and spice, like orange peel and cedarwood and something faintly sweet—like honey warmed on skin. she reached for your waist, hands moving on instinct, like gravity had pulled her forward.

but you caught her just before she could touch.

your fingers wrapped around her wrist, gentle but firm, your thumb brushing slow circles over her pulse. you felt it jump beneath your touch—fast, then faster. your eyes held hers, gaze unwavering, pupils blown wide like the room had dimmed again. your brow arched, playful, challenging.

a silent conversation passed between you. a language born from glances and tension, one only the two of you knew how to speak. no translation needed.

her lips parted again as she leaned in, breath mingling with yours—warm, laced with want. her mouth hovered just above yours, close enough to feel but not close enough to taste. you could feel the hum beneath your skin, the hunger, the ache—but you didn’t move.

instead, you pulled back—slow, teasing, wicked.

your fingers lingered at her wrist before slipping away, the absence making her sway ever so slightly forward, chasing you without meaning to. your smile was all mischief and silk. “well,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you turned slightly, letting her see more—more of the robe, more of the skin beneath, more of what she already knew was hers, “are you just going to stand there, or are you coming in?”

she didn’t answer. didn’t have to.

she followed you without a word.

like she always did.

billie shut the door behind her with a soft click, sealing you both inside the haze of warmth and low light. the jazz was still playing—slower now, like it understood the pace of your breath. her hand was soft in yours, fingers laced in a loose grip, your palms brushing in a rhythm all their own as you led her deeper into the sanctuary of your room.

the black velvet loveseat waited in the corner, plush and inviting beneath the amber wash of lamplight. you stopped just short of it and turned, the silk of your robe whispering against your thighs as you faced her fully.

your palm landed on her chest—right over the steady thrum of her heart. “sit,” you murmured, not a command but a suggestion wrapped in sugar.

a gentle shove followed, and her knees gave without resistance. she sank into the cushions with a quiet exhale, head tilted back just slightly, gaze never leaving yours.

your fingers wandered up her chest, brushing over the open collar of her shirt, grazing the hollow of her throat. your touch was light but deliberate, a ghost of a promise. when you reached her jaw, you hooked your finger under her chin and tilted her face up to meet yours. the heat in her eyes made your pulse thrum.

her hands found your waist, warm and certain, grounding you. the fabric of your robe did little to shield you from the heat of her palms—like her touch was seeping into your skin, into your bones. with a soft tug, she pulled you down, and you let yourself fall into her side, laughter bubbling from your lips like champagne, airy and golden.

your legs folded beneath you as you curled into her, a sinuous thing draped in onyx and honeylight. one hand slipped up to toy with the open collar of her shirt, teasing the buttons. the other found the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair there, your nails dragging light, lazy arcs against her skin.

she didn’t speak. not at first.

she just looked at you.

like you were something pulled out of a fevered prayer. like she didn’t know if she should kiss you or confess to you.

“you’re unreal, you know?” she whispered, voice cracking like something sacred had slipped free. “like some dream i wasn’t supposed to wake up from.”

you smiled at that—slow and sure. your fingers kept threading through her hair as your lips ghosted near the shell of her ear. “oh really?” you murmured, breath warm against her skin. “i take it you liked the show?”

her hands flexed at your waist, a quiet reaction, but telling. her breath caught for a second too long.

“loved it,” she admitted, soft and helpless. “you were… fuck. you were everything.”

your nose brushed against hers, tender and teasing. “good.”

and then your mouth found the place just beneath her jaw, where her skin was softest. you kissed her there—slow, open-mouthed, deliberate. you let her feel all of you in that single press of lips: the heat, the reverence, the ache.

your hands moved like you were sculpting something precious—slipping beneath her shirt, fingertips cool against the heat of her stomach. you explored her inch by inch, dragging your hands upward in a slow unraveling. the fabric gave way, soft cotton sliding from her shoulders as you peeled it back with care, like you were opening something fragile.

you weren’t in a rush.

you never were with her.

you wanted her to feel it. to know that she was being touched, not taken. worshipped, not claimed.

her skin flushed beneath your hands, blooming rose-colored under the golden light. her breath stuttered as your fingers danced lower, painting invisible lines down her ribs, her stomach, her sides. every inch of her sang for you.

she looked at you with those heavy-lidded eyes—dark and dazed—like she wasn’t sure whether to breathe or break.

“then show me,” you whispered.

it wasn’t a dare. it was a prayer.

your words hung between you like incense, curling slow and sacred in the space where your bodies met.

billie never said much during moments like this. she didn’t have to.

her eyes always gave her away.

and right now?

she looked like she was starving for you.

and god, you were already halfway gone. aching for her in a way that made your bones feel too soft, your breath too shallow.

so you leaned in. let her feel it.

let her see it.

the want.

the surrender.

the love.

billie’s hands moved slowly, reverently, like you were something rare. something sacred. like she was afraid too much pressure might break you—or wake her up.

your fingers found her jaw again, tracing the delicate curve of it, your thumb stroking over her cheekbone with a tenderness that made her breath catch. you dragged it lower, skimming the column of her throat where her pulse throbbed steady beneath skin, then down—between her collarbones, over the rise of her chest. you kissed each place you touched, letting your mouth linger, letting warmth bloom in her skin like sun through fog.

your legs curled around her hips, pulling her in, guiding her just where you wanted. it wasn’t about control—it never had been. it was gravity. a natural pull. the quiet ache of bodies that knew exactly where they belonged.

you craned your neck to meet her mouth again, lips brushing, then parting, tongues brushing slow. her taste was still there—sweet, faintly sticky, like strawberries and something riper, something you couldn’t name. billie sighed against your lips, the sound soft and aching, and you swallowed it whole.

each movement was silk-wrapped, slow and sinuous. moans feathered against skin like secrets. fingers tangled tight in hair, your back arching as her palms splayed against it. her lips found your collarbone, trailing heat in their wake. there was no performance now. no mask. just skin and hunger and a softness that made your chest feel too full.

her fingers slid along the edges of your robe, skimming lightly, reverently, until they reached the knot that kept you from her. she tugged gently, watching you with wide, dark eyes as the sash unraveled with a whisper. you didn’t stop her. instead, you rose slightly onto your knees, the movement fluid and easy, and let the robe slip from your shoulders like ink spilling into water.

it fell behind you in a black pool, quiet and cloud-like. the air kissed your bare skin, goosebumps rising as your nipples tightened, aching in the cool. billie’s fingers moved to your hips, stroking the band of your underwear with just the edge of her knuckles. her gaze swept over you—hungry, yes, but soft. reverent. like she was staring at a prayer made flesh.

your hands came to her face, cupping her cheeks, thumbs grazing the high points just beneath her eyes. you kissed her again, deeper now, a breathless surrender. it was the kind of kiss that filled your lungs and lit your veins. velvet, heat, and want, passed back and forth like fire.

when your lips parted, she was already reaching for more. her hands found your waist, then the small of your back, pulling you close until your skin met hers—bare in places that made you tremble. your thighs tightened around her. you were flushed and breathless, but still unhurried. the two of you moved like time didn’t matter. like it had paused just for this.

your eyes fluttered shut as billie leaned down, mouth dragging wet kisses along the slope of your neck, her teeth grazing lightly at the shell of your ear before dipping lower—down into the valley between your breasts. her nails dug gently into your waist, a sweet sting that made your breath hitch.

a gasp slipped from your throat. instinctively, your hand found her forehead, gently lifting her face. her eyes met yours—crystalline, pupils blown wide, glassy with need. her lips were slick, the soft pink deepened to rose, and her thumbs rubbed slow circles into your hips as she waited.

waited for you.

“you’re being so good,” you whispered, thumb stroking her cheek again. “you always are.”

her eyes fluttered shut when you leaned down and kissed her again, slow and honey-warm. her lips molded to yours, open and eager, your breath tangling in the space between. your hand slid up, fingers curling lightly around her throat, pressure tender but firm. she melted beneath it, exhaling through her nose like she was falling into you.

your other hand traveled downward, gliding over the dip of her sternum, the flat plane of her stomach, tracing the faint outlines of muscle. when you reached the button of her jeans, you fumbled just slightly—blind, desperate—but managed to undo it with ease. the denim loosened, revealing the black band of her panties, the flush of her skin beneath.

your fingers slipped under the waistband, teasing at the heat you found there, dragging light over the softness of her hip. billie’s breath stuttered into your mouth and you smiled into the kiss—lazy, smug, fond.

you pushed her jeans down just far enough, your hands smoothing over the generous curves of her thighs. she helped, kicking them off with a soft rustle. neither of you broke the rhythm. your mouths stayed close, brushing and breathing and tasting each sigh as it came. your hands roamed slow—reverent like worship. like prayer.

billie leaned into every touch, her body pliant, her edges softened by you. like your hands were the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

you kissed her jaw, then her throat, your tongue tasting the salt that clung to her skin. your mouth moved lower, lips brushing over her pulse—steady but quickening.

her head tipped back, neck exposed, lips parted.

and then she said your name—low, breathless, sacred.

like it was the only thing she remembered.

like it was the only thing she wanted.

you pulled back just enough to see her—really see her.

her face flushed a shade deeper than rose, skin dewy with sweat, lips parted and kiss-swollen. her chest rose and fell in slow stutters, and her thighs twitched beneath you like they were holding back something feral.

she looked completely undone.

and you hadn’t even touched her properly yet.

your palm rested flat and warm over her lower belly, just above the waistband of her panties, the heat of her skin pulsing against your hand. you leaned in, close enough for your noses to brush, for your breath to mingle.

“tell me what you need, baby,” you whispered, voice low, liquid, coaxing.

the kind of tone that made blood rush downward.

her lashes fluttered, her hips arching faintly into your touch. “i just…” she swallowed, voice soft and helpless. “i need you.”

you kissed her—slow and plush, pressing your lips to hers like sealing a vow.

a promise you intended to keep with your whole body.

your hands moved again, this time with clear purpose, reverent and unhurried.

you hooked your thumbs beneath the band of her panties, easing the fabric down her hips as she lifted for you without a word. her thighs trembled slightly under your palms, her breath catching when your nails grazed her skin.

you kissed every new inch of exposed flesh—her hipbones, the tops of her thighs, the delicate dip where her pelvis met her lower belly. your tongue flicked against the faint ink etched into her skin, tracing tattoos with a reverent curiosity.

worshipping.

savoring.

billie melted beneath you, pliant and open, her legs parting with a gentle tug of your hands. you settled between them, knees pressing into the cushions, your robe still pooled behind you like a fallen shadow. her heat called to you, thick and tangible in the space between your mouths.

you looked up, eyes locking with hers.

“imma need you to keep your eyes on me, okay baby?”

your voice came out like velvet laced with smoke, each word deliberate and slow, breath warm where it fanned out over her soaked slit.

her hole clenched around nothing, her body reacting to your voice before your mouth even touched her. she moaned at the sensation, her hips bucking lightly as a laugh escaped your lips—low and amused.

“so needy,” you teased, not unkindly, as her eyes fluttered in frustration.

“then shut up and eat me,” she breathed out, almost begging.

you dropped your gaze, watching slick glisten along her folds like honey pooled in a blossom. her want was glossy, fragrant, heady in the air.

you reached with one hand, untangling it from her thigh, and propped her legs onto your shoulders. the position opened her further, offered her to you like something precious. you dipped a finger into her slit, slow and exploratory.

the sudden contrast of your cool touch on her heat made her gasp, her fingers curling into the upholstery.

diamonds winked on your finger, catching the low light as you stroked her—teasing her slit, gliding upward, occasionally bumping her clit just to watch her flinch. her breath stuttered again.

your eyes flicked up to meet hers as you drew finger back.

then, slowly, deliberately, you lifted it to your mouth and sucked it clean.

your tongue curled around the digit, savoring her taste, your lashes fluttering shut for just a beat.

a moan slipped from your throat, low and satisfied.

she watched you like you were something unreal.

something divine.

her throat bobbed with a hard swallow, her breath now coming in ragged little pulls.

you released your finger with a quiet pop, then brought both index and middle fingers down to her again—pressing them gently to her folds, spreading her open like a secret.

“look at you,” you murmured, gaze fixed between her legs. “so pretty like this.”

you leaned in, letting your breath ghost over her clit. her whole body tensed, her hands flying to your hair, gripping tight.

you planted a single, slow kiss to her clit—soft and almost chaste.

“please,” she whimpered, voice breaking.

and you answered.

your mouth covered her, tongue licking a long stripe from entrance to peak.

her hips jerked beneath you, but your hands came down to her thighs, holding her steady, guiding her to stay right where you wanted her.

you devoured her like you’d been starving.

like she was the only thing in the world that could fill you.

and maybe she was.

you watched how her face twisted into something otherworldly, every muscle softening and then tightening again as your mouth lowered, kisses dragging downward, tongue slipping further between her folds.

you stuck your tongue out when you reached her entrance—slow, unhurried—and licked a slow, lazy circle, eyes flicking upward just in time to see her lashes flutter and her head tip back.

she looked divine like that. undone and completely yours.

her skin glowed beneath the low light, flushed and slick with heat. she tasted like salt and honey, like longing turned liquid. her thighs trembled around your head, tightening and twitching, but never pushing you away. her hips stuttered into your mouth, desperate and searching.

you didn’t rush her.

you let her come apart in your hands like soft fruit, ripe and splitting at the seam.

your fingers gripped her hips with a tender steadiness, thumbs rubbing absent little circles into the soft skin there, grounding her even as she writhed and gasped.

her breath came in broken pieces, sharp and airy. her voice, when it returned, was raw silk.

“baby…”

just that.

a whisper.

barely audible.

you hummed against her in response, lips vibrating just enough to make her whimper.

your tongue dragged slow and sure through her folds, gliding over swollen flesh, circling and dipping just right. your mouth moved with devotion—no tricks, no rush—just steady worship that made her shake.

her hands threaded through your hair, not pulling, not guiding—just holding.

like she needed the anchor of you, the press of your body between her legs to keep her from drifting into something too big to name.

your name slipped from her lips in fragments, scattered prayers with no rhythm, just need.

and then you pulled back just a little, a shining string of spit and slick stretching from your lips to her core. your face was wet with her, mouth shiny, flushed with heat, but you didn’t care. you licked your lips slow, savoring her taste, the corners of your mouth curling in quiet satisfaction.

“so fucking good,” you murmured to yourself, almost reverent.

then, without breaking the moment, you dipped your thumb into her pussy, gathering the wetness there—so much of it, all for you—and brought it to her clit, circling soft, tight motions.

she sighed at the contact, a sound soaked in gratitude and desperation.

“mhmm, just like that, billie,” you coaxed, nodding along with the rhythm of your hand. “need you to cum for me, okay? wanna feel you let go.”

billie’s mouth parted, but no words came—just a small, strangled “mhm.”

it was all she could manage. her body was trembling under you, barely held together, eyes glassy and unfocused.

you smiled, soft and almost proud, watching her fall apart beneath you.

you leaned down again, mouth returning to her pussy with purpose.

your tongue prodded back inside her, slow and intentional, while your thumb kept steady on her clit—two points of contact pulling her tighter, winding her up like thread between your fingers.

“fuck—oh my god,” she breathed out, voice cracking, hands scrambling across the cushions, across your shoulders, your scalp—searching for something to tether her.

you could feel her nearing the edge—body tightening, breath catching. her legs clamped around your head and you didn’t fight it. didn’t flinch.

you just kept going.

and when the tremors overtook her, when she finally gave in and came with a strangled cry, her thighs clenching around your ears and her body arching off the couch—

you stayed with her.

you kissed her through it, soft and warm, tongue flicking lightly between contractions. one hand slid up her stomach, calming her, tracing lazy patterns into her skin. your other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her steady as her body shook with aftershocks.

“that’s it, baby. i got you,” you murmured, voice feather-light. “still with me?”

she nodded against the couch, breathless, eyes still closed.

you stayed nestled between her thighs, cheek resting gently on her hipbone.

her skin was slick and warm, your lips pressing tiny kisses to the soft curve of her belly, mouth open and reverent. you nuzzled into her skin, letting the closeness settle between you like steam.

you didn’t speak again.

you didn’t need to.

your bodies already said everything in silence.

and right now, everything felt still.

whole.

and hers.

after a few beats of silence—just the soft hum of her breath, the quiet afterglow trembling in the space between you—billie’s hand lifted, fingertips grazing your jaw, a tender nudge drawing your gaze back to hers.

“c’mere,” she breathed, voice rough like velvet worn soft. sugar and smoke. “i need you…”

you crawled up her slowly, deliberately, skin skimming hers in a drag of warmth. she welcomed you immediately, arms curling around your back, mouth finding yours like a reflex. the kiss was languid and low, all breath and tongue and ache, like she needed to taste what you’d just taken from her. like she needed to reclaim it.

her sigh spilled into your mouth, sweet and trembling. her hands roamed, cupping your hips, then sliding down with reverence—squeezing the curve of your ass with a quiet groan that thudded low in your chest.

“i wanna feel you now,” she whispered, lips brushing your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “i need to.”

your eyes fluttered closed as her hands slid beneath the elastic of your underwear, her touch reverent and slow, like peeling away silk. the fabric rolled down your thighs, her fingers grazing your skin with such delicacy it almost tickled—setting you alight in waves.

when she pulled the last of it down, there was nothing between you. just bare skin and the open hum of want.

billie kissed her way up from your hipbones, her mouth soft and unhurried as she flipped you gently onto your back. her body hovered over yours, a whisper of heat and weight.

“you looked so fucking good up there tonight,” she murmured against your collarbone, her lips brushing your skin like a secret. her hands mapped you like a song she already knew by heart. “i don’t think you know how bad i wanted you right then and there. how close i was to pulling you off that damn stage and taking you right in my lap.”

you exhaled, a shaky breath catching on your lips, fingers threading into her hair. “i think i’ve got a pretty clear idea,” you whispered, breathless, voice thick with the heat curling low in your belly. “imma need you to touch me like you mean it.”

“oh baby,” she murmured, teeth grazing your skin. “i always mean it.”

her palm cupped your breast with gentle weight, thumb grazing your nipple until it peaked under her touch. her mouth followed a moment later, lips wrapping around you, tongue slow and wet, dragging over sensitive skin as your back arched into her.

her other hand moved like a whisper over your stomach, tracing the lines of you like you were something sacred. her fingers slid down, past your navel, skating along your inner thigh—pausing just shy of where you burned for her.

“so fucking soft,” she whispered, voice low in awe. “you smell so sweet, baby. like you were made for me.”

and then, finally, her fingers found your slit, parting you with delicate pressure. the first touch was barely there—just the tip of her finger ghosting over your clit, slow and reverent. it sent a tremor through you, breath catching, thighs falling wider in invitation.

your hands clutched the sheets, hips rising in search of more.

“please,” you whispered, not even sure what you were begging for. more? slower? forever?

billie looked up from your chest, lips still slick, eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown. “i got you,” she promised. “just relax for me.”

her fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing slick from your body with every tender motion. your breath hitched with every pass, pleasure rising like a tide. and all the while, she kissed your skin—pressing her lips to the swell of your breasts, the space beneath them, your ribs, your stomach. each kiss a small prayer, each touch a vow.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” she whispered against your navel. “all soft and open. all mine.”

you moaned softly, body beginning to tremble beneath her, hips rocking in slow rhythm to her hand. her fingers slipped lower, gathering your wetness and circling back to your clit, coaxing you higher with every pass.

it was too much and not enough.

you needed her everywhere.

you needed her to never stop.

and when her mouth dipped lower again, following the trail of her fingers, the breath left your lungs entirely.

you were weightless.

lost in her.

and she was still just getting started.

“please,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the firm curve of her forearm, clinging to her like a lifeline, like gravity itself had softened and only she could keep you from floating away. “billie…”

her gaze softened, her whole face folding into something impossibly tender. she leaned in, brushing damp curls away from your forehead, her thumb gently swiping the slick sheen from your temple. her touch was cool, grounding. reverent.

“i’ve got you,” she whispered, her voice thick with heat and honey, eyes locked to yours like she couldn’t bear to look anywhere else.

and then—

she slid two fingers inside you, slow and deep, her palm flush against your mound as her hand sank into your warmth with aching intention.

your breath caught mid-throat, mouth falling open in a wordless moan, your back arching like her name had been written into your spine. your thighs tensed around her wrist, slick and trembling, wrapping around her like you needed to hold her there forever.

billie leaned in, her forehead pressing to yours again, breath mingling with yours, hot and shaky. her free hand gripped your waist like she couldn’t trust herself not to fall into you entirely. her fingers curled inside you, firm but gentle, finding the rhythm of your body and mirroring it with care. patient. precise.

the roll of her wrist was measured, almost reverent. each thrust deliberate, like she was learning you by feel, committing the way your body bloomed around her to memory.

“oh my god,” you choked out, your voice fragile and frayed.

her thumb circled your clit—soft and slow and devastating.

“that’s it,” she murmured, lips brushing yours, voice almost too quiet to hear. “you’re so perfect like this. so fuckin’ good for me.”

her eyes never left yours. even as your head tipped back, even as you tried to hide the way your body twitched and jerked under her touch, she was there—watching, drinking in every broken sound you gave her. her gaze made it intimate. her hands made it holy.

you rocked into her hand, chasing every wave she stirred inside you, your hips stuttering as the coil inside you pulled tighter and tighter. every time she kissed you, it felt like a tether. like she was holding you together even as she undid you piece by piece.

“cum for me,” she whispered, voice hoarse, lips brushing your cheek now, your jaw, your temple. “let go, mama. i wanna feel you fall apart.”

and you did.

your whole body clenched, a cry catching in your throat and spilling into her mouth as the orgasm ripped through you like flame through paper. your legs trembled around her, your stomach spasming with each pulse of release. it stole your breath. bent your spine. left you wide open.

but she never let go.

billie held you through every wave, kissing your face with shaking lips, whispering things so soft they blurred into the thundering echo of your heartbeat. “that’s it, baby,” and “i got you,” and “so good for me.” she kissed your chest, your shoulder, the corner of your mouth—pressing love into every inch of you like a balm.

when it was over, when your body had softened into something boneless and dazed, she eased her fingers from you with care, wiping them across your inner thigh in a lazy motion that made your whole body twitch.

she reached for the robe still puddled on the floor, shaking it out and draping it over your back like a blanket, tucking it around your sides. her arms wrapped around you next, pulling you into her chest as your cheek found the steady beat of her heart.

her fingers traced slow, thoughtless patterns into your spine. spirals. circles. love letters in motion.

you exhaled against her skin, your lips brushing the hollow of her throat. her pulse thudded against your mouth like an answer.

“you okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, muffled by the quiet hum of jazz still curling through the room like smoke.

you nodded, too blissed out to speak. “i’m better than okay.”

billie kissed the top of your head, her nose buried in your hair. her voice trembled when she spoke again.

“good. ‘cause i’m not done loving on you yet.”

and just like that, the show was over—

but the night had only just begun.

astrc’s tag list: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand @watercolorskyy @bilssturns @47lake @vijaxx @natbelovasblog @hopingforgoodblogs @thefeverburningalive @stOnerlesbO @blohshlover11 @dragoneyelashart @billiessillywife @bilswifee ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content

[musaa34]

“𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮..“

Draco Malfoy x reader

The infamous Slytherin boys walk in perfect stride—Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Regulus Black, and Lorenzo Berkshire. The town practically shifts as they pass, girls whispering behind mittens, eyes drawn to their sharp uniforms and easy swagger. They’re laughing about something—Theo’s latest stupid dare, probably—when Draco suddenly slows down in front of a boutique.

A Dior boutique.

Gold-lettered and decadent, with frosted windows and delicate displays. Blushes in satin cases, velvet lip oils, and perfumes glitter like magic under the lights.

Draco steps inside.

And that’s when they all lose it.

“Are you serious, Malfoy?” Blaise chokes, stopping dead outside the door. “You’re buying her blush now?”

“Oh, he’s gone,” Theo adds with a grin. “Fully domesticated. He’s practically a duckling.”

“Love-sick duckling,” Regulus says smugly, hands in his pockets, watching Draco disappear through the glass like he just joined another realm.

Lorenzo just whistles. “Better get her a ring while you’re in there, mate.”

Draco doesn’t even look back. He just raises one hand, middle finger up, gracefully, of course, and walks deeper inside.

⸻

The boutique is warm, smelling of rosewater and soft powder, a hush of luxury and candlelight. He moves with calm confidence between the displays, every detail of the place reflected in his platinum cufflinks and tailored coat.

A woman in burgundy heels approaches, clearly the shopkeeper, instantly recognizing the Malfoy surname from his tailored coat and, well, his entire aura.

“Can I help you, Mr. Malfoy?”

He nods once, polite but cool. “Yes. I’m looking for… the best.”

She blinks. “Of what category, exactly?”

His grey eyes don’t waver. “Everything.”

A pause.

“For someone.”

The woman smiles knowingly.

He trails his fingers over the shelves, brushing velvet compacts and blush-pink brushes. “I want something that’s… subtle. Elegant. Not tacky. No glitter. She hates that.” His voice is soft now, almost thoughtful. “She’s particular, and she should be. She’s—”

He stops himself, jaw tightening slightly. He waves his hand as if dismissing the swell of emotion.

“Just show me the best. New trends. High-end formulas. No rubbish.”

The shopkeeper brings out limited editions. Parisian brands. A Japanese skin balm that’s been sold out for months. A creamy gloss in a nude-rose that “melts with body heat.” She even suggests a custom-engraved compact, and Draco—of course—orders it on the spot.

Then the perfumes.

He tries them all. Lifts each glass bottle delicately, spritzing once, letting it settle. His expression unreadable. Until—

“This one,” he says, after a moment.

It’s warm. Feminine. A whisper of cherry, musk, and the faintest trace of something red.

He doesn’t smile, but something flickers in his eyes.

“Wrap it.”

⸻

By the time he steps out, the bag is glossy and tied with a black satin bow. The boys are still waiting, because they would never not wait for Draco. He raises a brow at them like nothing happened.

“Did you get her a tiara too?” Regulus asks smugly, shoving his hands deeper into his coat.

Blaise eyes the sleek black bag. “You’re so far gone it’s actually scary.”

Draco just hums, lips curling lazily. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

They all laugh again, bumping shoulders and throwing snow at each other as they head back up to the castle. Draco walks quietly, hands deep in his pockets, thumb brushing the edge of the ribbon inside.

⸻

That night, she finds it waiting for her.

She’s just come back from dinner, her dorm softly lit, when she sees it on her bed. The glossy black bag. The satin bow.

Her name—engraved in cursive gold on a perfume bottle inside.

There’s no note.

But later, there’s a soft knock at the door, and then a very nonchalant, very expensive Slytherin prince leaning against her frame, hands in his pockets like he didn’t spend an hour testing luxury skincare for her.

He glances at the bag on her bed. “Just a little thing.”

She arches a brow. “A little thing?”

He shrugs, not quite looking at her. “Was in Hogsmeade. Thought of you.”

Of course he did.

And when she steps forward—eyes gleaming, perfume already on her skin, soft and magnetic—he just smirks, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear, voice low and casual.

“Don’t get used to it.”

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: duke!anakin x lady!reader

XIX CENTURY ❦

The ballroom was literally suffocating you from taking any bigger breath. It was all too much—too bright, too loud, the candlelights glinting off gilded chandeliers, silk gowns swirling across the marble floor in shades of pastel and, shining in the sharp lighting, lewel tones. Laughter and endless flirtation between dukes, bachelors, ladies and even duchesses burned in your brain over and over again. To be clear, you refused to come here. But, the fact was, you were 22..and still not married..still not beared any children. As your lovely grandma put it into words, you were getting ancient, with-no-further-chance lady who will eventually die alone with only loud dogs by her side

Well, it wasn't such a bad fantasy after all..

You draw in a breath, fingers curling around the crystal glass in your hand you just accepted from a maid, before barely managing to bite back a sigh.

What a waste of a night.

“Goodness, if you sigh any harder, you might blow out the candles,” your mother hissed, nails digging sharp into your elbow. If someone was watching you from the distance right now, for sure they could see your mother's perfectly-acting sweet smile. Yet what you saw was the murderous eyes biting into you beneath the delicate lace of her mask. “Must you look so bored, dear?”

You forced your lips to curve—tight and stiff, hardly more than a grimace. “My apologies, Mother,” you murmured. “I’ll try not to look so unmarried.”

“You could, at the very least, try to act like a lady,” she snapped, harshly letting go of your elbow. “Or I suppose you have no shame at all, standing here like some wallflower while your friends are—”

Alright, this was the perfect time to tune her out. Biting down on your lip, your eyes slide over the massive crowd before you regret it instantly. Your friends were there, of course, giggling all breathlessly and suddenly shy, yet their eyes told more than any of that. They held seduction, something so depriving and dirty for ladies like you..

Your face softened in realization; you really have to stop taking seriously every word your mother says. You're starting to sound like her..

Coming back to your lovely friends, they were all surrounded by the attentions of future dukes and barons, practically clinging to the arms of eligible men, batting lashes and murmuring sweet nothings while you stood here, suffocating in lace and satin like a dove waiting for her prince charming on his white horse (aka, possibility to slip away and read some book in the nearest library you'd find; this place really isn't for you)

You gritted your teeth.

Well, good for them.

You already started searching for the nearest escape—just a moment, just a breath away from the grasping hands and cloying perfume. When the buffet caught your eyes, long, beautiful tables spread with every pastry and confection imaginable, glistening with sugar and cream and candied fruits, you smiled.

Ah. Perfect.

You barely wait for your mother to turn her head before slipping into the crowd, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to weave between couples and not step on the material, ending up as the biggest clown of this year. A soft breath slipped from your lips the moment you were free of the lacking-of-air room and your mother's endless criticism

The buffet was blessedly quiet, and thanks to God, tucked into the far end of the ballroom. It was filled with towers of éclairs and cream puffs, pastries dusted with powdered sugar and slices of lemon cake spread with thick buttercream.

You didn't think really; just reached for one instantly, a smile softly, so easily curling at your lips for the first time this awful day. If you were doomed to suffer through a ball, you may as well do it with sugar on your tongue.

The cream puff was so soft and oh, so, so sweet, melting on your tongue, giving you the biggest pleasure any book could. You easily took another bite, before even swallowing the first, the cream being perfectly rich and thick and—

“Lady Y/N.”

The voice was smooth—low, like a damn velvet blade sliding just between your ribs—and you startled, almost choking on the delicate food, eyes snapping up just as a shadow fell over the table...

Duke Anakin Skywalker stood before you in all of his glory. This duke Anakin Skywalker..from this ridiculously rich family, from this ridiculously influencing family..

His head was tilted to the side just slightly, lips curved into something that could almost pass for a smile—were it not for the cool glint in his eyes, blue and sharp as shattered glass.

Oh. Oh no.

You swallowed, throat tight around the mouthful of cream and pastry

“M-My lord,” you managed, cheeks already warm, your free hand gripping your dress to bow before him in the shortest, graceful way imaginable; yet enough to suite a lady

His eyes slid over your face, down your body, being so slow and so unhurried in their observation. You really had to resist the urge to squirm, suddenly being too aware of the cream lingering on your lips; you are going to die..

“I see you’ve found something to your taste,” he remarked smoothly, gaze flicking to the half-eaten pastry in your hand. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Your cheeks flamed.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

His brow arched “Although I was under the impression that ladies of your station preferred to… restrain themselves.”

Your fingers tightened on the pastry, irritation flaring before your eyes. The audacity. You definitely won't let that slide. Nuh uh. Not today.

“I suppose not all of us can be quite so—” you swallowed, words a little muffled between the food—“restrained, my lord,” you managed stiffly.

His lips actually twitched, just slightly. “Indeed,” he murmured, voice smooth as honey. “I can see that.”

You grit your teeth, swallowing the last of the cream with as much dignity as you could muster. “Was there something you needed, my lord?”

“Only a dance,” he replied, far too easily, far too smugly

You blinked, heart stumbling. “I—”

“I must insist,” he said, voice now velvet smooth, a gloved hand already outstretched. “After all, it would be a shame to allow such idle hands to go to waste.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly, lips parting for a sharp refusal—absolutely not, over your dead body, you’d rather choke on another cream puff—

But his fingers brushed yours being all insistent. Before you could process anything, he pulled you on the dance floor, your loveable pastry long forgotten and not even in your hand...what the hell?! Your cheeks burned the dark shade of red when his large, warm, gloved hand slid down and down and down till your lower waist, gripping it.. surprisingly gently..pulling you closer to his impossibly hard, muscled body

You glared up at him. “I didn’t say yes.”

His lips curved—an amused, a little arrogant smile, eyes glinting beneath the dark lashes.

“Ah, my bad” he murmured, smooth and confident as the waltz danced around you both

You scowled, heart pounding with something dangerously close to indignation. Infuriating man. Infuriating life. Infuriating mom. Infuriating everything

“I suppose force is quite in fashion for men of your age,” you snapped, voice low and saccharine sweet. “Should I expect a cane next?”

His laugh is soft, warm and rich, a dark glint sparking in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he hummed, twirling you to the sound of music. “Shall I get one with your name on it, my lady?”

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl

[oaksgrove]

hello! can i request knight/ simon x princess reader, maybe with angst ? loved the one where the roles where inverted

Oathkeeper

Pairing: Knight!Simon Riley x Queen!Reader

Synopsis: You were crowned Queen in a wedding of duty, bound to a cold king who sees you as nothing more than a vessel for heirs. But Simon—your knight, your shadow, your heart—has never once failed you.

Warnings: Angst, emotional infidelity, mentions of implied non-explicit marital intimacy (cold/obligatory), quiet yearning, unrequited love, tenderness in secrecy, historical power dynamics

The wedding had happened in spring. A grand affair, hollow in its grandeur. Flowers bloomed, birds sang, and the kingdom celebrated—but not her. Not Simon.

He stood at her side, resplendent in silver and dark blue armor, unmoving like a statue as she walked toward the cold, pale prince who barely met her eyes. A man who bowed to duty but knew nothing of warmth. She had looked back once before taking the prince’s hand, eyes searching for Simon in the crowd.

And he had nodded.

That was months ago. Now, she was Queen. A Queen with no power. A wife in name, a consort for heirs. A soul caged in silk and expectation.

The King rarely visited her quarters, and when he did, it was always late, always silent. A touch here. A whisper there. Her fingers curled against satin sheets, her heart elsewhere. His duty ended as quickly as it began, and then he left, not even glancing back.

But Simon always came.

The door creaked softly, hinges long worn by quiet visits. She didn’t turn, only tightened the silk robe around her body, eyes fixed on the flicker of the candle by her bedside.

Simon’s armor was gone—he came to her like a ghost, dressed in quiet linen, the crest of the royal guard pinned discreetly to his chest. He never asked what happened. He never had to.

“You’re late,” she whispered, voice strained.

“I know,” he murmured, moving to kneel beside her. “I had rounds by the west gates.”

She turned to him finally, and Simon’s chest ached.

Her hair was tangled. Her cheeks were hollow. The bruises weren’t cruel, just proof of cold, indifferent obligation. But they were bruises all the same.

“I made you something,” he said, trying to distract her as he always did.

She didn’t ask what.

He helped her to her feet gently, hands firm but kind, and guided her toward the adjoining room where a small wooden tub steamed with rose-scented water. His hands undid the ribbon at her robe’s collar, eyes respectfully lowered, though he had seen her bare more than once.

Not like this.

Never like this.

She stepped into the bath and sank into the warmth with a soft sigh, head tilting back against the rim.

“I wish it was you,” she whispered.

His throat tightened.

“I wish it was you I married.”

He sat beside the tub, his knees bent, fingers slowly stirring the water near her hand. “If I could trade places with him, I would. You know that.”

“I do.” Her eyes opened, lashes wet from tears she hadn’t meant to cry. “But you’re the only one who treats me like I matter.”

“You matter more than anything.” He reached for a cloth, soaked it, and ran it down her back with reverence. “And I’ll stay. However you need me. Guard, knight, shadow.”

She leaned forward suddenly, resting her damp forehead against his. Her skin was warm, fevered from sorrow. “Just be here. Just for tonight.”

“I always am.”

Later, when her body trembled from exhaustion, he wrapped her in towels, dried her hair, and helped her into fresh linens. She clung to him, more girl than queen, more heart than duty.

He brewed her tea—chamomile and lavender—and cradled her against him in bed. The candlelight flickered as she finally drifted to sleep, his hand stroking her back, whispering comfort not even the crown could offer.

And in the silence of her chamber, Knight Simon Riley held the woman he would love for the rest of his life, even if she would never be his.

Because his oath wasn’t just to the crown.

It was to her.

And he’d honor it—no matter the cost.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[emilys-bangs]

So I loved to see you are taking requests for tooth rotting fluff and I’ve been thinking, what an established relationship in which Emily gets super jealous when someone’s flirting w r and instead of being mad or sad, she just responds by getting extra touchy and really wants to make you believe that she loves you better and louder and softer than anyone else could? (You obv already know) this is super random so sorry if it’s not your vibe lol

nuisance | e.p

Tags: established relationship, fluff, jealous / possessive emily, a gross man, brief alcohol mention, no use of yn, use of petnames

Word count: 0.9k

This is absolutely perfect, tysm for requesting <3

A soft laugh tumbles from your lips as Emily whispers in your ear, idly profiling the dining guests from your place at the bar. She’s standing next to you while you sit on the plush stool, two drinks in front of you as you wait to be seated.

She’s chosen the perfect place. The restaurant is lit up with the warm glow of candlelights, soft music playing over the clinks of cutlery and the hushed conversations of couples. Emily is wrapped up in a burgundy dress, the satin kissing her pale skin in a way you’re almost jealous of. Her voice is soft, her fingertips softer still as they skim your arm and leave idle goosebumps in their wake. 

You feel almost sickeningly in love; your heart is just on the cusp of racing, your cheeks heated with a warm glow at the tenderness of her attention. It’s a rare opportunity, to see her like this—dressed up and relaxed and oh so gentle, her eyes shimmering with the love you know is reflected clearly in your own face.

“And that guy,” she murmurs, subtly tilting her head to the suited man sitting in the corner, “oh, he’s a piece of work,”—you giggle and her eyes soften, her lips tilting upward in a smile—“his suit looks like Armani and that’s definitely a Rolex, so you know he’s a lawyer. Pity, their egos are sky—”

“Excuse me?” Someone interrupts. You and Emily both turn in the direction of the voice, expecting to see the hostess.

It’s not her. A man stands in front of you, the determined look on his face informing you of his intentions before he even speaks.

Emily’s arm curls around your waist. “Can we help you?” Her tone is pointed and sharp, edged with irritation you know only you can hear—apparently she sniffed him out, too.

The man ignores her. His eyes slide to you; the unabashed hunger in them makes you stifle a disgusted shiver. “Can I buy you a drink?” He leans against the bar, dragging his gaze over your body.

“I already have one.” You say flatly, “In case you didn’t see.”

“He’s too busy looking at you to notice it,” Emily’s voice turns warm as she hooks her finger under your chin and gently brings your eyes back to hers. Her fingers tighten on your waist, the darkness of her eyes as intense as a black hole as her thumb ghosts over your bottom lip. “I don’t blame him, chérie,” she breathes, her words now for you only, “have you seen yourself tonight? You’re breathtaking.” Her fingers gently rake through your hair, careful not to mess it up.

A shiver dances down your spine. Cheeks hot, you tilt your chin upward. 

Getting the hint, Emily leans in for a kiss, not before you see the smug smile on her lips. Surprisingly she’s soft, caressing your lips gently, reverently, instead of kissing you with possessive intent. Somehow it makes you love her impossibly more, and you sink further into her kiss before an annoyed ahem breaks you out of your daze.

You turn to the man with a scrunch between your brows. “You’re still here?” You ask, fighting to keep a straight face when Emily snorts. She hides the sound in your forehead, her lips gently pressing against your temple. The hand on your bare arm distracts you, and as she draws circles on your skin you barely notice the napkin that the man slides across the bar, his number written messily on it.

“If you ever change your mind from that,” he sneers at Emily, her responding scoff dripping with derision, “call me.” 

He has the audacity to smile.

Anger flares in your stomach. “Watch your fucking—”

“That’s sweet.” Emily interrupts before you throw a punch. “I don’t think you want it though, do you, amor?” She trails her knuckles down your cheek, her eyes still hot with jealousy. The low murmur of her voice almost soothes the fire in your veins.

“No.” You say, twirling your chair to properly face her. Her nimble fingers cup your jaw and you lean into her hand, raising your voice so the man can hear you. “You’ve got a lighter on you, haven’t you?”

Emily grins. The dimples in her cheeks make you smile back, even as the man sputters behind you.

“Emily Prentiss?” The hostess comes by then, giving you an apologetic smile. “Your table is ready.”

“Just in time.” Emily doesn’t spare the man another glance as she holds out her hand for you. You take it, smiling as she carefully helps you down from the stool. Her fingers thread through yours and you turn to grab your phone.

Ever in tune with you, Emily squeezes your fingers. “I’ll get it, my love.” She murmurs, grabbing your phone and hers, as well as her purse. With the barest tips of her fingers, she grabs the napkin and tosses it into your half-full wine glass as the man gawks.

You laugh softly as Emily turns and gently pulls you to your table, both of you steadfastly ignoring the hot set of eyes behind you. She drops your hand when you reach the table, only to pull out the chair for you, a sparkle in her dark eyes.

You grin at her brightly. 

Emily feigns confusion. “What?” She asks, her brow arching.

“I love you.” 

A slow smile spreads across her lips. Emily grabs your hand, gently kisses your knuckles and leaves behind traces of her lipstick. 

“I love you, too.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism

[rafesteddy]

𝐁𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐦 - 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭

+18 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻 𝓓𝓝𝓘

𝙾𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙼𝚘𝚋𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙵𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

📖 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 💍

🪄 warnings: rafe and reader are wine drunk, food play, rough oral, oral (male receiving), oral (female receiving), fingering, praise, softdom!rafe, spanking, swearing, pet names, teasing, overstimulation, unprotected sex, ownership kink, creampie, cum play, cockwarming

3k <- almost all smut

Reader’s POV:

"Oh fuck, baby. We have dessert." Rafe smiles as he picks you up playfully, setting you down on the kitchen counter. He saunters to the fridge, grabbing the cake before turning around, matching your eyes with a smirk. After his proposal, you were both hanging on barely, sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. You cross your legs, your dress pulling up on your thigh, making Rafe chuckle lustfully. He stares back at you, walking with the dessert in hand.

“My fiancé. Fuck, I love that,” he hums as he lays the cake on the counter. His hands rest on both sides of your thighs, big forearms flexing as he tilts in for a kiss, the pair of you wine-drunk and blissfully happy—the perfect moment. Rafe’s tongue slips in your mouth, rolling slowly, letting you taste the red liquor and sweetness of his lips.

“I love it too, daddy,” you giggle breathily. “Don’t wanna wait to be your wife.”

“Morocco? I mean, unless you want somethin’ big.”

“No…” You sigh between soft kisses. “I just need you.”

“Consider it done.”

Rafe pulls back reluctantly, showing you the cake. “Our favorite,” you smile.

“Mhmm,” he hums as he sinks a fork into the decadent chocolate. "For you, pretty girl.” Rafe lifts it to your lips, feeding you, waiting for a reaction.

“Perfect," you moan.

"You're perfect,” Rafe toys as he leans in, his lips meeting your neck. Your head instantly falls back, giving him better access to your skin. He chuckles deeply, nibbling your ear lightly, teasing you before pulling away. “You a little drunk there, babydoll?” You roll your eyes and chuckle before sliding your tongue along your bottom lip, catching some chocolate lingering.

“Are you?” You smile.

He nods ‘yes’; the high points of his already flushed cheeks blush. "So, what do you think, sweetheart?" He digs his fork into the cake; eyes flickering up to yours, making your heart skip.

"About the cake?" You tease. He snorts and chuckles in reply. "I think...It’s amazing, baby. M’so excited about this,” you lift your hand, wiggling your ring finger, watching the carats dance in the candlelight. “I cannot wait to be Mrs. Cameron."

"Yeah?" He asks as he inches closer. You nod in reply, giving your lip a soft bite. "Mrs. Cameron," he echos. “And, is the future Mrs. Cameron wearin’ somethin’ pretty under this gorgeous dress f’me?”

”Of course I am.”

“I’m a lucky man. N’do you always dress this nice for work,” he smiles as he plays with the hem of your satin dress, letting his rough fingers drift underneath, taking hold of your upper thigh, teasing your lace-clad pussy with the pad of his thumb.

“No… I just had a feelin’ that someone was going to come home.”

“You know me too well. I’ve been gone for a week, princess. And that time difference… Fuck. It’s crazy.”

“We make it work. Those pictures you sent me the other day, Daddy…” You bite back a flustered laugh.

“Yeah - Yeah… After you sent me a few pictures during a business deal I had to leave early and take care of myself, doll. You're bad for business. You know?”

“You probably needed to relax,” you coo as you brush his bangs off his pretty face.

“Did you relax, sweetheart? Play with this perfect pussy of yours?” He smiles as he applies a little more pressure with his thumb.

“Of course I did.”

“Yeah?” He asks feeding you a little more cake. “Tell me about that.”

"Three times, baby," you chuckle.

“Three?”

“Mhmm… When I got them, after my bath, and before I went to bed.”

"Naughty thing. Huh? What did you do, sweetheart?"

Your cheeks blush as you let out a soft giggle. "I used that vibrator you got me... and just pretend it's you," you sigh, shutting your eyes softly. Your eyes open, and his mouth is agape, chuckling delightedly as he wraps his arm around your waist, needing you closer. “You're so much better, Rafe. So... much...better," you whisper against his lips, kissing him softly.

"I miss hearing you say my name," he whispers the words against your lips, playing and sucking on the bottom before taking it between his teeth.

"I still do,” you smile.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans, relaxing his forehead on your shoulder in sexual exhaustion.

"Mmm... And what do you do, Ray?"

"I touch myself too..." He returns his eyes to yours; a smirk tugging on his perfect lips. "Just fist my dick and pretend it's your pussy... Mmm... I picture you bouncing on top of me."

"That sounds pretty nice," you whisper, dipping your finger into the cake. You bring it up to your lips, sucking roughly, your eyes locked on his.

"Nothin’ compares to you.” His lips part as he watches you sink your finger into the cake again, returning it to your mouth. "I miss those lips around my dick, sweetheart..." He sighs, watching your fingers glide into your mouth. You smile wide, cheeks warming up. “And I get that feeling forever….”

“Forever.”

“I’m going to make you scream my name tonight, y/n. Is that what you want, baby?" He groans.

"O’course. Fuck... But, I'm going to suck your cock first.”

“Yeah-” He takes you into his arms, lips crashing with yours. Rafe moans into your mouth; his lips sugary sweet, matching yours. Your tongue slips between his lips as you roll your body teasing him with your hips. “Let’s take the cake,” you smile.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you want me to suck it off your cock?” You ask innocently.

"Fuck, baby. That’s exactly what I want. We held out long enough. Huh?" He teases you as he passes you the cake.

“Too long.”

You take it in one hand, the other hooked around his neck, forcing him close. You pant for air between hungry kisses, the both of you finally getting what you want; your sexual tension boiling over. Rafe pushes through the bedroom door, throwing it shut. He groans lowly, gripping your ass a little tighter before setting you down on your feet, taking the cake off your hands. The two of you kiss messily, tearing off articles of clothing until all that's left is skin and lace. Rafe pushes you back on the bed, mounting you fast, rolling his body into yours, making you release a desperate moan for more.

"Goddamn, princess…” He grunts, giving you a few more unsheathed thrusts. He grips your garter belt and panties, drawing them down slowly, peeling off your bra, rolling off your stockings one by one.

You wrap your hands around Rafe’s neck, the blonde quickly taking your cue, rolling you to straddle his lap. Your wet pussy presses against his stiff cock; his large hands clutching your hips, guiding you to grind on top. You reach your hand for the cake, running your manicured finger through the chocolate mousse filling, tracing a line from his neck to his broad, muscular chest. Your tongue follows the sweetness along his warm skin. Rafe watches you, caressing wherever he can reach as you sink lower on his big body.

Your fingers paint his skin dangerously close to his cock. "Mmm... baby. Please, baby. Ugh... I can't fucking wait," he whines. You clean up the mess with your tongue, your eyes focused on his half-lidded stare. You dip your finger into the cake again. Rafe’s smile widens, knowing what would come next. Holding his throbbing tip, you make a mess of his rock-hard skin, working slowly, teasing him with the thought of your lips around him fully.

"Shit..." He whispers as you taunt him, cleaning the sweetness off your fingers, slipping each one in your mouth until all that remains is your ring finger. Rafe grabs your hand fast, drawing it to his lips, sucking your finger up to the diamond. "Mrs. Cameron…"

"Mr. Cameron?" You answer playfully.

"Suck my fuckin’ cock, baby," he demands; his voice, the perfect amount of darkness, sending chills down your spine. You lower yourself, flattening your tongue as you work up his dick. Rafe’s head sinks into the pillow, a loud moan escapes his lips, and you taste his salty precum mixed with the sugary sweetness of the cake. You wrap your fingers around his thick base, taking him into your mouth, sucking his dick.

"Ugh... princess. Shit," he praises. Rafe lifts his head off the pillow, watching as you take him to the back of your throat. His fingers weave into your hair, pulling slightly. You whine on his cock. Rafe’s muscles stiffen underneath you. "So damn good at sucking cock," he pants. "Fuck... That mouth is mine, princess. Gonna cum down that pretty throat of yours.”

You twist your hands as you suck, the man’s eyes shutting softly, his brows knitting tight. "Mmm... I can't wait to fuck you, y/n. Shit... I'm going to fuck you so hard." Rafe mumbles as he spills into you throat, pressing your head against him. "Fuck," he pules, his broad chest rising and falling fast as he reaches for air. Rafe shudders out an overstimulated breath as you continue to suck, not wanting to miss a drop. He twists his fingers in your hair, using his grip to lift you off his cock, leading you to his lips, rolling you over quick enough to make you gasp.

"Mmm..." Rafe hums, his eyes falling down your frame underneath him. Your fingers run over the indentations of his abs to his chest. He wraps his hands around your wrists, grabbing them and pinning them against the plush mattress.

"You look so damn good," you breathe.

"Fuck, you look better, baby. I wish you could see yourself,” he lauds. "My turn." Rafe reaches over, dirtying his finger with the cake before sliding it along your bottom lip, just like you did, kissing you roughly. He sucks your bottom lip, drawing the sweetness to his. His lips work from your cheek to your jaw, lowering to your collarbone, licking a line across it.

Dipping his fingers in the frosting, he returns them to your skin, circling them around your nipples, watching them harden under his touch. Rafe takes your stiff peaks in his mouth, swirling and flicking, cleaning you up with his tongue. You toss your head back into the cloud of pillows below you. "Mmm... I fucking love you," you whimper.

"I love you too," he mumbles against your body as he works lower and lower, hooking his strong arms around your thighs, pulling you right where he wants you. Rafe returns his fingers to the cake, plunging them in, running the mess on the crook of your thighs, making your pussy ache for him.

"Rafe, please. Baby, please," you beg.

"Damn, I've missed that,” he smirks. Rafe licks and sucks your skin as you weave your fingers through his hair.

He lowers his face to your warmth, licking a stripe up your cunt. You buck your hips, Rafe quickly taking control, pressing you down. “Where are you goin’. Huh?” He bullies; his tongue quickly sliding into your entrance. You let out a raspy whine as he darts his tongue in and out, drowning himself in your drenched slick. "Fuck you taste so damn good, princess," he drawls. "The prettiest fucking thing I've ever seen," he hums, the vibrations causing your back to arch off the bed.

His lips meet your clit, sucking suddenly, pushing in one finger, then another as his tongue assaults your clit. Rafe curls his digits slightly, nailing your sweet spot with each brush of his hand. The knot in your stomach, tightens. "Just like that," you pant. Your heart rate increases as you draw your thighs in, squeezing Rafe's shoulder. "Fuck, right there. "O-Oh, Rafe... Shit." You look between your legs, watching your thighs tremble uncontrollably, your fiance devouring your drenched cunt like a man.

"Be a good girl and cum for me, sweetheart.”

Your eyes roll back at the sound of his voice; orgasm claiming you. Rafe doesn't stop, increasing the pressure as you release a fucked-out cry, making a mess of his fingers as you flutter around them. "Holy shit," you pant as you rest your hands on your dewy chest, skin glistening as Rafe looks back at you pussy-drunk.

“Ride me, baby?” He asks starry-eyed, chin wet with your arousal. He rolls to his back, pulling you on top. You grasp Rafe's cock, guiding him to your entrance. Running his head through your climax. He shakes his head at you awe, smiling, taking a rough grip on your hips. You swirl him around your soaked hole, thighs trembling, mouth falling open as his thick dick stretches you out.

Your legs widen on the bed; Rafe pressing your hips further, causing you to sink as low as you can ‘til his biceps flex from strain. He loosens his grip on your hips, allowing you to take control, still maintaining contact. You work in slow rhythmic movements, swiveling and screwing your hips into him. Grabbing his wrists, you draw his hands up your body slowly, stopping at your breasts. He takes them in his hands, squeezing and pressing them together. Rafe pinches and rolls your nipples between his fingers, making you moan in bliss. You lean back slightly, resting your hands on his thighs as you ride.

"Holy shit, baby," he breathes.

"Does this feel good, daddy?" You whimper.

"So fucking good." You start to bounce up and down on his dick, slipping your hands into your hair. Rafe slinks his hands around to your ass, squeezing it, watching your breasts bounce. "So good at riding my dick, baby. Shittt…” His eyes darken, taking in every inch of your body. Rafe follows your fingers as you bring your hand to your clit, working in side-to-side motions, feeling your pleasure about to consume you.

"Rafe, I'm going to cum," you cry. He smiles devilishly, throwing his hips up into you as you hover over him. "Fuck," you wail as your orgasm burns through your body.

“Atta baby. Fuck you’re perfect. Co’mere,” he grunts, not giving you time to recover, manhandling you to your hands and knees. Rafe grips your hip roughly with one hand and uses the other to bend you over; your palms resting on the bed. Your thighs shiver, feeling the aftershocks of your first two orgasms. Physically winded, but never more satisfied as you wait for more. He takes himself in his hand, gliding up and down before stuffing himself inside, filling you to the brim. Rafe takes your hips in his hands, thrusting roughly, kneading your ass between strokes. You arch your back and prop yourself on your elbows, looking back at him. His eyes roll back, seeing you this way.

Rafe tightens his grip on your hips, picking up the pace and throwing his body into you. The sound of your skin slapping fills the room. You look up at the headboard, swaying with each thrust. Your bum claps against his toned body, the fullness of your ass recoiling with each thrust. You take control, throwing it back into him fucking yourself on his cock. He grips and slaps your curves as you move. Your pleasure starts to build again. "Are you going to cum, princess?" Rafe asks breathlessly.

"Mhmm" you moan, barely able to press out the sound. You sink your face deep into the pillow, Rafe's name muffled into the fabric again and again. Your orgasm courses through your body, rocking you to your core as he continues to rut into you, rapid thrusts as you tighten around his cock.

“Fuckkk,” he drags out the words and crashes into you one last time, the warmth of his climax filling you. You feel his muscles tense, the man groaning in pleasure, emptying himself deep. His cock throbs inside you as his large, rough hands circle your ass. You whimper as he pulls out, Rafe pushing you to your back. He spreads your thighs, watching his pearly white cum drip out of you. He grabs his cock in his fist, catching the mess with his fat tip before pressing himself back in. He grinds into you slow and deep, allowing you to feel every inch. You let out a satisfied sigh as he lowers himself to your lips, cockwarming you as his tongue reels with yours, sweetness still hanging on as you both bask in the after-glow.

"I love you, princess," he whispers against your kiss.

"Mmm... and I love you, Rafe Cameron."