#valet gallery

[hrrtshape]

insane, dream-like things that were normal in my better cr . . . in other words, what it was like being part of the 1%

i never carried cash : i didn’t need to. if i ever found myself in a situation where cash was required, idk, a farmer’s market or bribing someone, i’d just apple pay!?

i never waited for anything : reservations were booked months in advance. lines were always skipped. at clubs we just walked right in. theme parks? VIP passes only. i have never stood in a queue longer than 90 seconds in my life...or...in my better cr.

my closet was bigger than a new york apartment : and everything was colour-coded. yep. yep !!!

i never read price tags : not because i was being reckless, because i simply did not need to know. it was always fine.

if i wanted something, i got it : saw a dress in a magazine? had it by the next morning. craved a specific croissant from a bakery in paris? it was flown in. life had no delays.

luxury was so normal i had to actively remind myself it wasn’t : by the 13th day, i would have moments, small ones, where i’d be like, " wait, not everyone has their own perfume custom-blended by a french artisan? " and then i’d move on.

the ‘poor kid’ still had a trust fund. . . they just had less in it.

errands? what errands? dry cleaning, post office, buying toothpaste. these were not my problems.

skincare was medical : not just a ‘good moisturiser’ situation, i mean dermatologist-designed, prescription-only, lab-created serums. my facials involved lasers. my face was someone’s full-time job.

my mom had a florist on retainer : fresh-cut flowers appeared in my room like magic. i never asked for them. they just were.

celebrity run-ins were painfully normal : “oh yeah, we had dinner next to tilda swinton last night.” “who?” WHO?

we never parked our own cars : valet, always. i had a friend who didn’t even know how to use a parking metre.

there was no such thing as ‘saving up’. in those two weeks i never thought, “hmm, should i buy this now or wait till christmas when i get 50 euros from my grandma?” PFTTTTT.

everyone had a ‘family office’ : financial advisers, lawyers, accountants. my money was managed. someone in my school had three.

coffee orders were wildly specific : not ‘latte with oat milk’ specific. i mean custom-roasted beans, flown in from a single farm in costa rica, brewed at a precise temperature, delivered in a monogrammed cup.

doctors made house calls : i have not seen the inside of a waiting room. ever. feeling sick? someone arrived.

vacation homes weren’t a flex, they were a given : there’s the paris apartment (1st arrondissement, obviously), the villa in lake como, the chalet in gstaad. the only real estate question was, “are we summering in capri or st. barths?

your signature scent is impossible to buy : it’s either a discontinued hermès perfume from the ’70s that you miraculously still source, or a custom blend from a perfumer who only takes five clients a year.

flying commercial is a horror story, not an option : tsa? baggage claim? delays? these are foreign concepts. you had a netjets membership at the very least, but most likely, you have a family jet with an interior designed by someone who also did a yacht.

your tastebuds have standards : your daily coffee comes from a faema e61, your eggs are from a private farm, and your idea of a snack is burrata flown in from puglia that morning. did i mention my private school had michelin chefs?? yea.

you own art. like, real art : not prints. not posters. actual, museum-worthy pieces that are either inherited or sourced through galleries that don’t even have websites.

most people don’t know what anything costs : a gallon of milk? no idea. a metro ticket? couldn’t tell you. you swipe, tap, sign, and never check.

you don’t shop in stores like normal people : you go to private showrooms, have pieces sent to your home, or shop off-runway. waiting in line… horrendous.

i’ve had a ‘house account’ somewhere : a boutique, a jeweller, a tailor. places where you don’t pay on the spot, just ‘put it on the account’ and settle later.

i was taught how to eat properly : which fork for what course, how to use a butter knife, the correct way to hold a wine glass. it’s not something i learned. it’s something i absorbed from watching adults at endless dinners, benefits, and polo events.

i don’t remember learning how to ski or ride horses : because i was doing it before i was fully conscious. i have childhood photos in full equestrian gear, little skis strapped to my feet in gstaad or zermatt. it’s just something i always did.

an art education by osmosis : grew up hearing adults talk about rothko, basquiat, and duchamp in casual conversation. dragged to the louvre and the tate before i could even read. instinctively know the difference between an original and a print.

i have a family lawyer on retainer : and not because i ever committed a crime. they exist to handle things. NDAs, reputation management, keeping your name out of the papers. they know where the bodies are buried, metaphorically (or not).

most families’ wealth is so old and so layered in offshore accounts that even they don’t fully understand it : trust funds? sure, but also shell companies in the caymans, art holdings in geneva, real estate portfolios under LLCs. money isn’t in banks. it’s spread across continents.

most parents’ have had affairs with each other for decades, and it’s not even a scandal anymore : it’s just part of the ecosystem. marriages aren’t about love, they’re alliances. the wives turn a blind eye, the husbands keep it discreet, and the real betrayal is talking about it.

i’ve been name-dropped in a deposition : it was a divorce case. i was never involved, but my name was adjacent to power, so it got dragged in. the case was settled out of court, of course.

most families has multiple passports : not for fun, not for aesthetics. because sometimes you need an exit strategy. a villa in capri, a château in france, a penthouse in dubai. doors are always open, should you ever need to disappear.

i’ve seen actual generational feuds play out in real time : my parents have enemies. their parents had enemies. the grudges go back decades, and nobody even remembers what started it.

i grew up around people who have gotten away with actual crimes : white-collar, mostly. insider trading, fraud, tax evasion. but sometimes things darker. people go to rehab, people “retire early,” people take extended trips to monaco until things cool down.

i’ve seen billionaires (and their kids) break down over the pettiest things : a bad seat at a gala, a misplaced monogram on their jet, a slight from someone whose family has less money than theirs. the richer they are, the more fragile they get.

my family has a pr strategy : this is largely because my mom is a ceo of a billion dollar company. and everything is managed. what photos are released, what stories are planted, which journalists are “friendly.” nothing is random.

i know that philanthropy is often just money laundering with better optics : charities set up for tax reasons, “foundations” that quietly funnel wealth back into the family, billionaire donations that conveniently coincide with favourable legislation.

i’ve seen people lose their fortunes overnight : one wrong deal, one lawsuit, one scandal that sticks, and suddenly, the private jets are getting repossessed. the real old money…they watch from a distance. they never risk everything.

i know that some billionaires don’t actually have liquid cash : they’re over-leveraged, playing financial gymnastics with their own net worth. yachts, art, mansions. but the second they need actual money? suddenly, things get complicated. this is why everyone in my school donated possessions instead of actual money.

met people who don’t own their clothes : couture is loaned, jewellery is borrowed, yachts are rented to themselves through shell companies. it’s all about optics. they don’t need to own when they can access.

heard rich kids joke about things that would make normal people physically ill : laughing about tax evasion, casually mentioning private rehabs like summer camp, making bets on stocks that could ruin lives.

met billionaires who are bored of being rich : the thrill is gone. the yachts, the jets, the parties. it’s routine. they start chasing danger. high-stakes gambling, extreme sports, secret societies. anything to feel something.

[amazinglyashy]

Everybody at the bar getting tipsy!

LaDS men dragging you home after an over-indulgent evening out

Rafayel -

It was mostly his own fault.

He left you alone at one of his exhibits, when there was a dessert buffet and an open bar.

In his defense, he was so sure you would be too focused on the dessert buffet to even notice there was alcohol available, much less spend enough time over there to overdo it. But just his luck, turns out one of your old college friends was attending the gala, and you'd gotten swept up in the chatter.

He will leave his own party early just to get you home safely, but he is struggling. He had to pick you up to get you down the front steps of the gallery in order to get to the valet and his car, but you're squirming so badly, he's afraid he's going to drop you at this rate.

He manages to get you seated and buckled, but he is somewhat regretting not locating a bag or something for you before making it this far. He can't exactly leave you, so he just hopes your drinks and sweets won't make a reappearance on his car upholstery.

(He won't be mad or mean to you if it does, though. He knows you can't control it in this state.)

He has to try and guide you once the two of you make it home, so that he can prevent you from stumbling, get you water, and keep his hands hovering near you as you attempt to dance to nothing- all at the same time.

He'll make comments under his breath about your current state, just to keep his sanity. He's actually pretty worried about you, even though you're safe alone with him and this has happened before. It could happen another hundred times, and his reaction would still be the same.

Lord, he hopes you don't have a hangover tomorrow.

Sylus -

You had made the mistake of trying to drink the same thing Sylus was while helping him on a job.

It does not matter how much of a heavyweight you are when it comes to drinking. Regardless, Sylus can handle more. And that is where you screwed up.

The hit hurt going down, but it took a moment to start taking effect. In that time, you had grabbed a glass of wine to carry with you in addition, sipping on it as you spoke to other people around you, trying to gather intel as best as you could.

While it didn't have much alcohol content, it was still enough to help push you closer to the edge, and Sylus notices immediately.

He's making an excuse and ushering you out the door faster than you can say goodbye to whoever you had been conversing with, the fear of you spilling any important information or getting wrapped up with the wrong person noticing your state of inebriation stronger than his need to finish the mission right now.

His evol makes it easy to keep you upright on his bike as he drives you home, and luckily his main residence is close by, so he doesn't risk you blowing chunks on his back while behind him.

He will make sure you're drinking water and eating something small, but it becomes a bit difficult with you in your pajamas, clinging to him and nuzzling him, thanking him for taking you home and out of those ridiculously stuffy clothes.

When you're sober, he will show you a video of you snuggling against his arm, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he watches your eyes widen.

"Not beating the 'couple' allegations anymore, kitten."

Xavier -

There is one problem.

That problem is Xavier is also drunk.

The two of you had gone to the bar together with some coworkers after a long day, and had been foolish enough to stay out long after the rest of the group had decided to go home.

It had made for great conversation, but that same conversation had distracted the two of you from just how much you were both drinking. Now, you were balancing against each other as you tried to walk home.

It had to be quite the sight- two people stumbling home under the street lights, still in Hunter uniforms, but one was barefoot and holding a pair of slight heels, while the other was wearing shoes too big for their feet.

You couldn't help it! Your feet had hurt so bad in your work shoes, apparently now that you were extra sensitive from drinking. And Xavier was always such a gentleman, you couldn't stop yourself from mentioning it to him-

The walk is uneventful, no one would dare try and mess with two seasoned Hunters, even if they weren't currently in their right minds.

Once you're both home, the two of you are slurring through an argument as you try to get the other to drink water, bickering about who's the 'sober' one.

The answer is neither.

You both end up asleep on the couch together, and bonking your heads together upon waking up is not going to do wonders for either of your hangovers.

Thank goodness it's the weekend...

Zayne -

He didn't even mean to find you, walking by the bar you were in on his way back from picking up some pastries he had been craving, before the bakery closed for the evening. The only available parking had been just past the bar, and he had walked by the first time, hearing your cheerful, drunken shouts, not recognizing it the first time.

He recognized your voice on his way back though.

"Who's that idiot singing?"

"Oh, it's my idiot-"

He is slightly perturbed to be standing surrounded by drunken Hunters who had gone out together for some fun that night, singing around him and his little blue box of pastries.

He lets you all finish your song, before calmly taking your arm and dragging you out of the building, thanking the group for taking good care of you as you shout protests of being kidnapped by a mad doctor.

He has to wrestle the seatbelt on you after he gets you to sit in his passenger seat, and you will not be hearing the end of this once you're sober. He's had plenty of practice with unruly patients at the hospital, but this was just too much.

It was really hard trying to get you safely into his car when he was trying extremely hard not to laugh at your babbling and slurring protests at him, broken up by occasional song chorus.

What song? He had no idea.

But he was taking you to his place if this was the state you were going to be in. He didn't want to risk you getting hurt unsupervised.

That, and he wanted to hear more of your wonderful drunken singing voice.

[kendyzzlewp]

i just can’t stop thinking about husband!art and how protective he is over you. jfc, he will kill anyone who even looks at your direction

just imagine

you’re getting ready for a stupid work event, adjusting your dress in front of the mirror. art sits on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, a frown plastered on his face as he watches.

‘i wish you didn’t have to go’ he said, giving you the usual puppy dog eyes.

with a sad sigh you turn, walking over to him and standing in between his legs. ‘I know, but howard will kill me if i miss this one.”

at the mention of your sleazy boss he tenses, his frown turning into a scowl as you ran a hand through his short blonde locks

‘fucking hate that creep,’ he mutters, his hand softly caressing your bare legs. ‘if he tries anything, promise me you’ll call.’

with a soft smile, you nod bending down to plant a kiss on his furrowed brow. ‘I will,’ you promise.

you get to the art gallery that’s hosting the event, leaving your car in the valet and entering the building. it was already filled with newly rich influencers much to your annoyance. still you plaster on a smile.

spotting your boss from across the room, you made it your mission to avoid him at all costs. not in the mood to stand his advancements that teetered on the edge of harassment.

the night went on, your face hurt from smiling too much, the champagne in your hand already warm as you moved around the space

‘Y/N!’

you couldn’t help but physically cringe as the older man made his way over to you. the smell of whiskey and sweat making your stomach churn

‘howard,” you greet him, short and polite, looking around for a chance to escape.

but it’s too late because he’s already all up in your personal space, saying how beautiful you are and how art is a lucky man and how your dress hugs your curves but he takes it too far, pushing the boundary between inappropriate to straight up assault

his hand finds its way to the small of your back, slowly traveling down until it landed on your ass. you froze, heart racing, legs trembling and eyes opening in absolute panic. no one around you seems to notice your predicament.

“donaldson really is a lucky bastard,” he whispered into your eat, making your skin crawl.

with the smallest ounce of courage left in your body, you push him away. angry and shameful tears cascading down your cheeks in big fat globs.

“fuck you,” you hissed, running toward the nearest bathroom.

locking the door behind you, you fetch your phone from your purse, dialing with a trembling hand,

‘hey, baby. you almost home?”

art’s voice seems to bring you back down to reality, the feeling of shame settling in the pit as your stomach as you bite back sob

‘art,’ you manage to choke out, your breath coming in short burst. ‘I can’t, he…tried to…”

‘hey, hey,” he said, his concerned tone driving you over the edge. ‘what happened?’

letting out a big breath, your hands grip your hair in utter frustration. ‘Howard…he tried to, god. he grabbed my ass and he wanted…”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“where are you?” his tone was urgent now, you could hear rustling of movement and keys.

“in the bathroom,” you whispered, your breath hitching between sobs.

“I’m coming to get you,” he said, his voice firm and reassuring.

minutes felt like hours as you waited for your husband to arrive. surprised you didn’t create a hole in the marble floor with the amount of pacing you were doing.

a soft knock caught you by surprise, followed by a muffled. “its me.”

a wave of relief fell upon you like a soothing balm, rushing to the door, you unlocked it, opening it. art’s mouth fell into a frown, you must’ve looked like a mess but you didn’t care. he instantly pulled you against his chest as you fell apart, his presence a anchoring reality to what happened.

“let’s go home,” he whispered, pulling back slightly and cupping your face in his hands. “and you are not working again, do you understand me?”

you nod silently, grateful for his support and you let him lead you out of the bathroom. murmurs and whispers could be heard but it wasn’t anything new. you husband was art donaldson, tennis superstar and olympic gold medalist. he was used to the stares and the commentary.

“mr. donaldson,” the familiar voice sent your heart into a panicked frenzy. “what a nice surprise.”

ugh, that disgusting piece of shit.

art froze, his expression darkening as he looked over his shoulder. he spotted your boss, sporting a smug smile on his face as he lifted his glass. the bastard.

without a word, art dropped your hand and made his way over to him. it was all a blur, but you could recall his fist connecting with howard’s jaw, you remember barely hearing the gasps of the attendees over the sound of your beating heart.

howard effectively fell to the floor, his hand cradling his jaw in surprise. art stood over to him, his fit frame casting a shadow over the now small and cowardly man.

“if you ever come near my wife again, i will fucking kill you,” he growled. “you even breath near her and you are done.”

not waiting for a response, he turned and dragged you out of there.

[dpspcehntr]

Night and Day

Part One

Pairing: Rafayel x Reader, Xavier x Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

You attend a gallery opening with Rafayel and spend the day with Xavier before a mission.

Warnings: polyamorous relationship (reader is solo poly), each party knows and is enthusiastic about it, sensitive reader, humiliation, exhibition kink (if you squint), nipple clamps, fingering (f receiving), masturbation (m receiving), ruining clothes, humiliation kink (if you squint), edging, p in v, cream pie, squirting, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), not beta read

A/N: Merry Christmas to all who celebrate! Once again I got carried away like big time 😭. I wrote this all this today so I could get this out, but also inspiration finally hit me. Yes they know about each other, just like part one there has to be something that connects them. I did have quite a bit of fun writing them meeting in the morning. This is so long and long overdue but I hope you enjoy! As always reblogs are deeply appreciated!

Rafayel asked you to attend a gallery opening with him this evening, not as his body guard but as his plus one. You take this as the perfect opportunity to wear a new accessory you’ve been working on for a while.

“There’s a piece in the gallery I think you’ll really like.”

He explains on the ride to the gallery from your apartment. He insisted on picking you up since it was closer to you. Once inside your eyes zero in on the piece in question. He walks you over to it. Rafayel leans down to capture your lips in his for a soft kiss. His kiss light but hungry and leaving you breathless when he pulls away. You whine softly before quickly pulling yourself together and putting your attention back to the room. He smirks as he moves away toward another group of people. Your cheeks are flushed with warmth when you realize how close you came to embarrassing yourself in front of a room of his peers. The humiliation should scare you but you feel your clit throbbing for attention. You secretly praise the powers at be for not getting carried away, the clamps on your nipples are doing just enough to keep you on the edge. You couldn’t wait for the moment he unwraps you and gives you the much needed relief you desired. You sit on the bench by one of your favorite pieces in this collection and nurse your drink. It feels like ages before he spots you again. You wondered how you looked to him but then quickly dismiss it , feeling overwhelmed. He strides over to you with his familiar smirk planted on his lips.

“Careful Ms. Bodyguard, you’re almost too obvious.”

Another throb pulses through you as he looks you up and down. You carefully stand up and look him in the eyes.

“Tell me the inspiration for this piece. I like this one quite the most.”

He immediately blushes a deep shade of red before clearing his throat. You knew exactly what this painting was inspired by but you loved teasing him.

“Well, this piece is inspired b-by someone very special. I uh like the forms and colors they remind me of. I took those and put them in this piece.”

His eyes nervously avoid yours as he continues to talk about this piece. He keeps going to save face for the other people in the room. You reminisce on the night he fucked you on the art studio floor while working on this piece. He cream pied you and finished the painting watching his cum leak out your aching hole. You were surprised he kept the piece in the show, then you remembered he loves being a tease. It was your favorite piece because of how excited he was to show you the finished piece the next time you visited him. When he finishes his explanation of the piece and makes eye contact with you and instantly you both know you’re not gonna stay much longer. After an introduction to the gallery and a short speech from the owner you feel his hand slip into yours and give it a squeeze. With no hesitation you lock fingers with him and quietly slip you both out to lobby of the gallery. The car was already pulled up by the valet and you waste no time getting in and heading to your apartment. Once inside your apartment his hands are all over you, pinning you to the door. His hand slides down your body, flipping your skirt up and feeling your underwear. He sighs in satisfaction as he pressed into your soaked core. You grip him for dear life as he rubs your clit lightly through your underwear.

“You’re so wet, we should’ve left sooner. Fuck.”

You hump into his hand desperate for any friction. He slides a finger underneath your underwear and presses into your dripping core. You arch into his touch as he slips two fingers in with ease. He holds them there for just a second, feeling your core fluttering against his digits. You and him both know you won’t last much longer like this but he presses on anyway fingering you at a brutally slow pace. Teetering right on the edge you whine and squirm trying to get him to move faster. Your body in torturous bliss as your release is just out of reach. He pulls both fingers out of you much to your displeasure.

“Please Raf. Please.”

He shushes you with a heated kiss and wraps both of his arms around you. You hook your arms behind his neck and pull him closer. Nothing will ever be close enough for the both of you, for now you settle with skin to skin contact. You press your chest into his and hiss into the kiss when you remember the clamps still on your nipples. He pulls away from the kiss and leads you to your living room. Your bedroom is simply too far away now, he needs you right now. He sits down on the couch and makes quick work of his belt and zipper. Before you straddle his thighs you take off your top to show off the clamps on your aching nipples. The clamps themselves were a work of art, with chains and jewels drape from them. The jewels were a deep red that reminded you of his fire evol, it took you months to complete them and you were so excited to see his reaction to them. You quickly discard your skirt and ruined underwear as he watches your naked form. He was still fully clothed, pumping himself in his hands waiting for you. The fun part was ruining his expensive clothes, he relished in the embarrassment of having to get them professionally cleaned.

“I’ll have to keep this image in my mind, I have a painting already in mind.”

You stride over to him and finally straddle his thighs. He lines himself up with your entrance and you slowly slide down till you bottom out. You throw your head back as a loud wail escapes your lips. He grips your hips and you begin to ride him. Slowly at first but you just couldn’t wait anymore. Your release was so close, your whole brain was fuzzy with need. His grip tightened as he thrusted back into you, leaving you a quivering mess teetering on the edge. The main connecting chain on the clamps very briefly got caught on a button on his shirt. The light tug it gave to your nipples was enough to have you seeing stars. You clench down on him in a vice grip as your orgasm crashes over you. Whines and groans leave your lips as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm. His pace is brutal as one orgasm rolls into the next. A familiar pressure builds up in your body as another orgasm washes over you. You try to give him a warning but it’s too late, you gush and squirt on him leaving a huge wet spot on his pants and shirt. That doesn’t stop him though as he continues to thrust into you. His thrusts feel more erratic and you know he’s close.

“Cum inside me.”

Your voice is hoarse as you beg to feel him deeper inside you. He thrust as deep as he could and let out a groan. He painted your insides with his cum as you clenched down on him for another orgasm, milking him dry. You stay like this for a while, catching your breath as he goes soft inside you. After a while he pulls out of you with a pop, his cum leaking out of you onto his ruined pants. Another moment passes before you finally slide off of him onto the spot next to him. The mix of the both of you sits sticky on your inner thighs as he gets up to clean you both up. The chain of your clamps sits delicately between your breasts as you toy with it. Thankfully the piece is not damaged so you can put it away for another time. When he returns you’re lost in the inspection of the clamps to notice. He hooks a finger onto the main chain and gives it a tug. You cry out and look up at him. He reaches for the clamps and removes them carefully before setting the chain on the table next to the couch.

“It’s such a pretty piece of jewelry, I’d hate to damage it.”

He kneels down to clean you up as you slowly drift off to sleep, completely spent.

*the next morning*

Your alarm blares in your ears as you slowly come to. 7:00 in the morning, that means it’s time to get ready for work. You let a silent curse out your mouth for forgetting to take the day off. You groggily rub your eyes and pull the covers off of you. Rafayel is laying next to you deep in sleep, he must’ve carried you to bed last night. Before getting up you place a soft kiss on his cheek and ruffle his hair. Once out of bed you head to the bathroom to start getting ready. In the mirror you take inventory of last night’s damage. Your hips have bruises right where he gripped you, your nipples still sensitive to touch. Your makeup is smeared and your hair is a mess. Overall it could be worse. Once you removed your day old makeup and wash your face it’s time for a shower. After a quick wash up, you towel dry and come back into your bedroom. Rafayel is still in bed but looking over your naked frame. You brush him off and head to your dressing area.

“Can’t you just blow off work and stay with me?”

He muses from your bed. Oh how lovely it would be to stay in bed and fuck all day but alas you have rent and bills to pay. Once dressed for the day like clockwork you hear a key turning the lock on your front door. You enter the living room to see Xavier ready to walk to the Hunter’s Association with you.

“Good morning. You look like you need more sleep.”

Xavier nods to your tired demeanor and looks into your bedroom.

“Well I think I get it now. Did you enjoy yourself?”

Xavier makes a point to sit on the chair next to the couch, it clicks in your mind. He heard you last night. Heat radiates from your cheeks, the familiar slick forming in your underwear. It’s much too early to think about how much that turns you on. You quickly gather your composer and turn back to your bedroom.

“I’m almost ready. I won’t be long.”

Once inside Rafayel waves to Xavier and they exchange a look. You dismiss it before grabbing your bag, giving Rafayel a kiss goodbye, and turning back to the living room.

“Let’s go or we’ll be late.”

Xavier and Rafayel exchange goodbyes before you both leave for work. He seemed uncharacteristically alert today. Every shift and turn of your body was of interest to him. His hands lingered just a bit longer on your body, his eyes continuously watching your lips, all of which he denies when you ask him about it. Once you arrive, you and Xavier are assigned to stake out mission in the next city over to investigate a lead on illegal protocols trading. You’ll be there for the rest of the weekend, so in Jenna’s words, rest up today before your big day tomorrow. You both however will be doing no such thing. You exchange charged glances as Jenna explains the details of your mission and your undercover identities. Once in the parking garage you’re given clothes, IDs, and other things you might need for this trip.

“Looks like we’re married for this one. Look at the last names.”

You both take a glance at your IDs, clearly seeing you both didn’t pay attention nearly enough to Jenna’s instructions. You both pile into the car and make your way to the destination. His hand never left your thigh for the entire time there. Sometimes slipping it dangerously close to exactly where you wanted him. Once checked into your accommodation it was clear he had something on his mind. He seemed determined to get to your room. You didn’t complain, the way his hands felt on you had you wanting more. Once inside the room you bags were discarded and once again you were pushed into a door with someone’s hands all over you. You throw your head against the door and he kissed your jaw and neck. You feel overwhelmed as you cling to him for support. Raf must’ve given him the okay to ravish you and Xavier wasn’t gonna miss this opportunity. He lifts your leg up and presses more of himself into you. You feel his hard on as you try your best not to grind onto it.

“My turn.”

He whispers in his ear as he kisses down to your exposed chest. He ruts into your aching core, feeling how needy he is for you. Your underwear was already ruined as he presses harder into you. You try your best to meet his thrusts but you’re so overcome with want you can hardly stand up.

“Xavier, the bed. Let’s use the bed.”

With great effort he pulls away from you and you have to catch yourself. You both begin to quickly strip out of your clothes. The tension in the room has become palpable. You can’t help but feel a gush when you think about how wound up he is since last night. Hearing you whimper and moan as you were taken by someone else. You should be embarrassed but all you can do is melt into his arms in hopes he’ll fuck you just a little harder. You quickly make your way to the bed with him not far behind. You sit on the edge of the bed as he kneels down in front of you and spreads your legs. He wastes no time licking a stripe from your dripping core to your sore clit. The night before leaving you sensitive and full of want you shiver into his touch. His arms are hooked around your legs holding you in place as he licks and sucks you. You can barely move as he continues to devour you like a starved man You make a mental note to rile hm up more often. Your clit begins to throb as your orgasm approaches. You try to move away from his face but his grip on you tightened. He hums into you savoring your taste as you clench down onto his tongue. You collapse onto the bed as your release washes over you. The death grip he has on your thighs prevents you from squirming away as he continues to lick into you. Moans fall from your lips as your orgasm is extended. The pain of overstimulation only furthers your desire to cum again You stay like this for what feels like hours, orgasm after orgasm rolls over you. Your hips ache and your voice has gone hoarse. You feel the familiar pressure building up in your lower half. Your brain doesn’t have time to process a warning before it releases onto his face as another orgasm washes over you. He drinks every drop up before he finally lets up. He leans back and observes the mess he’s made of you and hums proudly. You take a moment to catch your breath and stretch out your legs. You sit up to take in the sight of him. HIs lips were swollen, a beautiful shade of bright pink. His face is glistening with your juices and his eyes are glazed over with desire. Your brain goes fuzzy with desire as you watch him take himself in his hands. Instinctively you scoot up onto the bed as he climbs in, settling himself on top of you.

“Are you okay? Do you want to continue?”

For a moment you’re lost in his eyes, mesmerized by the softness you see in them. It takes a moment for you to register he’s asked you a question, your mind once again fuzzy with desire. All you wanted right now was to feel in inside you as deep as he can go.

“Yes. Please fuck me, I need you.”

Without any delay he thrusts into you and bottoms out with ease. He buries his head into the nook of your shoulder, each grunt and moan he lets out right into your ear. You run your hands into his hair and tug lightly. He moans louder into your ear and you flutter around him. Your nipples still sensitive from last night rub lightly against his chest leaving you gasping and begging. He isn’t going to last much longer and neither are you. His thrusts become more desperate as you clench harder around him. Soon his hips still as he paints the inside of your walls white. You milk him for every drop as your release crashes down on you. You both stay like this for a while, letting him go soft inside you. When he finally pulls out you’re dangerously close to falling asleep. He rolls over into the empty spot next to you and pulls you close to his chest where you both fall asleep in each other’s arms.

[charmed-quill]

The Art of Desire// B.B x Reader Ch 8

authors note at the end of the chapter

Warning - There is Smut in this Chapter. it's not very explicit but it's there. Minors DNI

summary: Benedict Bridgerton longs for more than society’s expectations, drawn instead to art and freedom. Y/N, a fiercely talented but struggling artist, fights for recognition in a world that dismisses women of her class. When their paths cross, fascination sparks—a shared passion for art bridging the divide between privilege and survival. But their growing connection threatens them both in a world where reputation is everything. As scandal looms and duty calls, they must choose: conform to society’s rules or risk everything for love, ambition, and the art that brought them together.

word count: 3.7k

Prev.

Next.

Chapter 8 - Let Her Choose

The ballroom was alight with elegance. Glittering gowns swept across polished floors, and champagne glasses clinked with polite laughter and sharper glances.

But beneath the practised civility of the ton, something sharper lingered.

Lady Whistledown had struck again.

The day’s pamphlet had rippled through drawing rooms like a match to dry parchment. And this time, her words had not aimed at a duchess’s daughter or a gentleman’s sudden change of fortune.

No, she had cast her sharp pen toward Benedict Bridgerton this time.

"An artist," someone whispered behind a silk fan.

"Of no consequence," someone else added with a sniff.

"A common woman with uncommonly clever timing, if you ask me."

"A mistress, surely. What else could she be?"

Benedict heard every word.

They were not directed at him—not openly. But they didn’t need to be. The looks, the hushed tones, the forced smiles and tilted heads that followed him through the ballroom said more than words ever could.

He was used to being noticed.

But never like this.

He felt exposed. Observed. Not as a Bridgerton or an artist—but as a man whose intentions were now fair game for idle tongues.

And all because of her.

He should have been furious.

But all he felt was that same searing ache low in his chest. That need to see her, to touch her, to understand what had unravelled between them in the quiet darkness of that carriage.

The music swelled again, and he excused himself from the throng of ladies and their carefully poised mothers, slipping through a quieter corridor that opened into the portrait gallery.

It was a relief to be away from the noise.

The murmurs still followed him, no doubt bouncing between silk fans and champagne flutes, but here in the hush of gilded frames and waxed floors, the air felt almost bearable.

He moved through the room slowly, the candlelight catching on heavy oils and ornate gold trim.

And then, he stopped.

His eyes caught on a portrait at the far end of the room.

A woman posed regally in her sitting room, her expression soft but sharp around the eyes, her hands resting just so against the back of a chaise.

The brushwork was unlike the others. Less refined in a classical sense. No powdered softness, no romantic haze of the old masters.

But it was alive.

The strokes were deliberate. The lighting, striking.

Not flattery, but truth.

Benedict stepped closer, his heart suddenly pounding.

He knew this technique.

Knew the way the shadows cut through the softness, how the light kissed one side of the cheek while leaving the other half in mystery.

His eyes dropped to the corner of the canvas.

There, nearly hidden in the texture of the paint, was a signature.

Y/N L/N

His lips parted.

Of course.

"Ah!" came a voice from behind him, startling him slightly.

Benedict turned to see Lord Claridge, the master of the house, approaching with a glass of brandy in hand and a ruddy-cheeked smile.

"You’ve got a good eye, Bridgerton," the man said, nodding toward the portrait. "Striking, isn’t it?"

"Quite," Benedict murmured.

Claridge huffed a laugh. "Odd girl, the one who painted it. Found her through a friend of a friend’s valet’s sister, if you can believe it." He took a sip of brandy. "Didn’t cost me half of what the others did."

Benedict’s jaw tensed.

"She was fast, too. Came in, barely said two words. Had the whole thing done in under a week."

He paused, then added with a dismissive wave of his glass, "Bit rough around the edges, of course. Not formally trained. And a woman, no less. Surprised she could lift a brush at all, the poor thing."

Benedict’s hands clenched behind his back.

"Still," Claridge went on, utterly unaware of the fire simmering beside him, "there’s something about it, isn’t there? I’ve had guests comment on it, more than a few times."

"Yes," Benedict said, voice low. "There’s something."

He couldn’t look away.

The painting was brilliant.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just the kiss or the carriage or the whispers that burned beneath his skin—

It was the need to see her again.

Benedict stood alone at the edge of the gallery, the din of the ballroom far behind him, drowned out by the thundering of his heart and the frenzied ache building in his chest.

He shouldn’t have come tonight.

He had thought it would distract him—noble ladies in gauzy gowns, polite dances, the gleaming splendour of the ton on full display.

But all it had done was worsen the ache.

Because every smile was too polished. Every conversation was too rehearsed. Every girl—though lovely—was not her.

Not Y/N.

Not the woman who kissed like fire and bit back with words sharper than any blade. Not the woman who painted the world as she saw it—raw, unforgiving, glorious.

She had wrecked him.

And now that he had seen her signature on that canvas—now that he knew her hands had shaped that portrait, had touched it with the same passion she’d once given him in a darkened carriage—he couldn’t breathe.

She had left her mark on the very walls of Mayfair, and still, no one saw her for what she was.

But he did.

God, he did.

And now he couldn’t stop thinking, what if he just went?

What if he slipped out into the night and took the path through London’s quiet streets to that cramped little flat in Whitechapel? What if he stood at her door and said—what, exactly?

That he missed her?

That he wanted her?

That the taste of her still lingered on his tongue and he couldn’t sleep for wanting her?

But what came after?

The truth clawed at him.

He was a Bridgerton. She was… not.

He lived in a world of ballrooms and titles. She lived in the space between gallery walls and cracked pavement.

He could not bring her into his world without consequence. And he could not step into hers without risking everything.

One wrong move, one whispered word in the wrong ear, and they’d both be ruined.

And yet…

The thought of not going, of spending one more night with that space between them, was suffocating.

He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, his chest tight with yearning and frustration and fear.

And that’s when he heard it.

“Hiding, are we?”

Benedict turned to find Anthony leaning against the doorway, cravat slightly loosened, one brow arched in that way that made him look older than he was—and very much the older brother.

Benedict sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Hardly.”

Anthony stepped into the room, casting a brief glance at the portrait. “You’ve only danced with three eligible young women this evening. Mother’s beginning to look like she’s going to combust.”

Benedict didn’t answer.

Anthony studied him, folding his arms. “You’ve gone quiet. Which, for you, usually means you’re about to do something reckless.”

“I’m not,” Benedict said flatly.

Anthony was silent for a moment. Then, in a lower tone: “It’s a woman.”

Benedict’s jaw tensed. “When is it not?”

That earned him a faint smile. “It’s not just any woman, though. Is it?”

Benedict didn’t answer.

Anthony walked closer, his voice softening. “You know, there’s a particular kind of madness when you find a woman who makes you forget the world. Makes you forget your duty, your name, your place.”

Benedict finally looked at him. “And what did you do when it happened to you?”

Anthony’s mouth curved, bittersweet. “I married her.”

Benedict looked away, throat tight.

“She’s not like the others,” he murmured. “She’s… sharp. Honest. Brilliant. She sees things I don’t. And she makes me see them.”

Anthony nodded. “And what’s the problem?”

“She has nothing. No title. No family. No protection.”

Anthony tilted his head. “And you think wanting her makes you the villain?”

“I think taking her would.”

His brother was quiet for a long moment.

“Then don’t take,” Anthony said softly. “Offer. Let her choose.”

Benedict blinked, surprised.

Anthony shrugged. “You cannot shield her from the whispers. But if she’s half as strong as you say, she doesn’t want a shield. She wants truth.”

Benedict had never been a man prone to hesitation.

Impulsive, yes. Unconventional, certainly. But never paralyzed by indecision.

Yet as he stood alone in the corner of the Claridge portrait gallery, the music of the ballroom now a faint echo in the distance, he felt utterly torn between the life expected of him… and the life he wanted.

Anthony’s words hung heavy in his ears.

"Then don’t take. Offer. Let her choose."

It had sounded simple when his brother said it, grounded and rational, like love could be a matter of mutual consent and courage like it could survive under the weight of society’s scrutiny.

But Benedict knew the truth.

Giving her the choice meant giving her the power to walk away.

And after the way she had looked at him in the carriage—kissed him like her life depended on it and fled as though it had—he wasn’t sure which she would choose.

But not knowing was killing him.

And worse—he wasn’t even sure she knew she had a choice.

He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky breath.

He had to see her.

Not tomorrow. Not after writing some carefully penned letter and waiting days for a reply.

Tonight.

Now.

He turned, striding through the corridors of Claridge House with a purpose that had nothing to do with polite social obligations and everything to do with the woman who had set his world on fire.

The moment he reached the ballroom threshold again, the noise returned in full: the swirl of gowns, the clink of glasses, the steady murmur of gossip that still bristled with Whistledown’s words.

He didn’t care.

He scanned the room, eyes landing on the one person he knew he could trust.

Eloise.

She stood at the edge of the dance floor, engaged in animated conversation with Penelope Featherington, one hand waving expressively in the air, a sharp frown on her brow.

He crossed the room in quick strides.

“Eloise,” he said under his breath, leaning close.

She turned with a start, clearly not expecting him. “Benedict?”

“I need your help.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Does this have anything to do with a certain Miss L/N?”

He gave her a look. “You already know the answer to that.”

Eloise crossed her arms, smirking. “Mother’s been watching you like a hawk. You disappeared for nearly half an hour, and I’m fairly certain she thinks you’ve eloped with someone entirely unsuitable by now.”

He fought the urge to laugh. “I need you to keep her distracted.”

“By doing what? Swooning in the middle of the ballroom?”

He raised a brow. “Could you?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll manage something less theatrical. But you owe me.”

“Endlessly,” he said, already stepping back.

Eloise caught his sleeve before he turned to go. “Benedict—”

He met her gaze.

“Do you love her?”

The question hit him harder than he expected.

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t know, but because the truth of it was suddenly so real—as though saying it aloud would change everything.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I think I do.”

Eloise gave him a rare, serious nod. “Then go.”

He didn’t wait.

Slipping out the side door, away from the candlelight and corseted laughter of the ball, he stepped into the cool night.

He had made his choice.

Now it was time to give her the chance to make hers.

The room was quiet, save for the steady hiss of the oil lamp burning low on the rickety table. The walls, aged and cracked, pressed in around her like a familiar, if unwelcome, companion.

Y/N sat on the edge of her narrow cot, her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes fixed on the canvas across the room.

The painting leaned against the wall, unfinished yet devastatingly clear.

It was him.

Benedict.

Rendered not in the grand, romantic style of the ton, not in powdered grace or stately posture—but raw, unfiltered.

His shirt was slightly rumpled, and the soft brushstrokes of his collar turned askew like he’d just run a hand through his hair. His gaze was tilted downward, thoughtful, intense as if he were mid-conversation—or perhaps just at the edge of saying something too difficult.

The shadows of the room she’d imagined him in had clung to the planes of his face, the brushwork just shy of harsh. His lips parted slightly. His eyes were dark.

There was no golden glow to soften him, no grandeur to elevate him.

He looked like a man.

Her man.

But he wasn’t.

She tore her eyes away.

It was madness, this thing inside her chest.

The way he made her feel—exposed, seen, wanted. The way her body remembered him: his hands on her waist, the heat of his mouth on her skin, the helpless groan in his throat when she gasped his name.

She clenched her fists in her skirts.

She didn’t belong in his world.

Benedict Bridgerton lived in gilded ballrooms and sun-drenched parlours, where laughter drifted across manicured gardens and a scandal was only ever temporary.

She lived above a tavern that never slept, in a one-room flat with drafty windows and paint-stained linens, where the scent of turpentine clung to her hair and hunger was never too far away.

She would never walk among the glittering halls of the ton without being whispered about.

She would never be enough.

Not for them.

And not, she feared, for him.

Her eyes returned to the painting, helplessly.

She had painted him because she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

And yet, she knew—if he walked through her door again, she would only want more.

More of his hands. More of his eyes. More of the illusion that he could be hers.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, frantic knock at the door.

She startled.

It was late. Too late for anything good.

She stood slowly, grabbing her shawl, assuming it was one of the women from the lower floor. Perhaps Lizzie, who sometimes came up in the middle of the night asking for bread or a blanket when the cold crept in too deep.

Y/N crossed the room and pulled the bolt free, preparing her voice for kindness.

The door creaked open—

And she froze.

He stood there.

Benedict.

His hair tousled from the wind, his coat unbuttoned, chest rising and falling like he’d run the whole way. His cheeks flushed, his eyes wide and dark and burning with something she didn’t dare name.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The world held its breath.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the edge of the door.

She had dreamed of this.

Feared this.

Wanted this.

And now—he was here.

Benedict stood at her door, soaked in the moonlight and the last of the London rain, his heart thundering like hooves against the cobblestone.

He looked at her like a man standing on the edge of a precipice.

And then he spoke—not as a gentleman of Mayfair, not as a Bridgerton, but as a man in the full ache of wanting.

"Y/N," he breathed, voice soft and trembling with the weight of it all. “You’ve undone me.”

She stilled, every breath she took shallow, caught between retreat and longing.

“I’ve tried,” he continued, stepping just inside the threshold, “I’ve tried to forget the feel of your hands, the sound of your voice, the way you look at me like I’m not a Bridgerton. Like I’m simply Benedict.”

His gaze dropped, his jaw clenched. When he looked at her again, his eyes were alight with something fierce and unguarded.

“You have haunted every canvas I’ve touched since the moment I met you. You live beneath my fingertips, in the shadows of every brushstroke. And it’s madness. You’re madness. But I would go mad a thousand times just to see you look at me the way you did that night.”

He took another step forward, careful not to touch her, careful to leave the air between them charged but unbroken.

“I know what the world will say. About you. About me. About this. I know the cost. And I would pay it—gladly, without question—if you asked it of me.”

Her hand trembled slightly at her side.

“I came here tonight not to demand anything, not to persuade or beg. I came only to offer you the truth. My truth.”

He drew a long breath, voice lowering to something sacred.

“If you choose me… I will be yours. In whispers or in ruin. In daylight or in shadow. If the world calls it scandal, let them. If they call it foolish, let them scream it from rooftops. I will still be here. I will still be yours.”

Silence fell between them like snowfall. Soft. Crushing.

Y/N’s throat tightened, her heart thudding like a war drum in her chest.

She had spent her life bracing for the worst. Holding the world at arm’s length. But here he was, not reaching to take, only offering to be held.

And in that moment, something inside her shattered.

She closed the space between them in one breathless step, took his coat in her fists, and kissed him like it was the only language she knew.

It was not the kiss of a man newly in love, it was the kiss of a man who had long been drowning in it. It was weeks of unsaid things, of stolen glances and imagined touches, all poured into one desperate, searing moment.

Y/N responded in kind, her fingers knotting in the wool of his coat as if she might disappear without the anchoring of his body against hers. Their lips moved in harmony, frantic and tender all at once, her breath mingling with his, laced with the faint taste of tea and honey.

His hands slid down her waist, tracing the curve of her hips through her stays. The lace edge of her corset brushed his fingers, a delicate barrier between them—a symbol of the world she had built around herself, and the one he was so desperate to step into.

“Take me to bed,” she whispered against his lips, voice hoarse and wanting, her eyes shining with certainty.

Benedict’s breath caught, his heart lurching. Words failed him. Instead, he gathered her into his arms, lifting her with ease, holding her against him as though she were made to fit there.

The room was modest—bare floorboards, a hearth glowing softly in the corner, a bed just wide enough for two, covered in a hand-stitched quilt that smelled faintly of lavender. It was a humble space, and yet Benedict thought he had never stepped into a room more sacred.

He laid her gently on the bed, the firelight casting flickering shadows across her skin. His hands trembled as he shrugged off his coat, then his waistcoat, fingers fumbling at the buttons in his haste. Y/N sat up slightly, reaching behind her to begin unlacing her corset, but he stopped her with a gentle hand.

“Let me,” he said, his voice low, reverent.

With careful fingers, he undid the laces, easing the garment from her form. It fell away, revealing the delicate linen of her chemise, already slipping from one shoulder. Her breath quickened as he pulled it down, exposing the swell of her breasts, her skin flushed and glowing in the firelight.

He stilled, just for a moment.

Then, in a voice almost broken, he said, “You are... divine.”

His mouth found the slope of her neck, trailing kisses down to the hollow of her throat. Her hands tangled in his hair as she arched into him, a soft moan escaping her lips as he explored her slowly, reverently.

“I want you,” she murmured, her voice raw with emotion. “All of you.”

He answered her with touch, not words, his hands gliding over her sides, his lips worshipping every inch of exposed skin. He kissed down her belly, trailing warmth and longing in his wake until she was trembling beneath him.

The last of their clothing fell away between breathless kisses and gentle laughter, both of them fumbling, half-lost in one another. When she reached for him—curious, reverent—his breath hitched.

“You don’t need to—” he began, but she silenced him with a look. A look that said she wanted all of it, all of him.

He guided her back down onto the bed, their bodies now bare, warm, tangled in heat and shadow. When he settled above her, she stilled, her fingers clutching his arms.

“I’ve never…” she whispered. “I don’t know what comes next.”

Benedict’s hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

“I do,” he murmured. “And I’ll go slowly. I’ll take care of you. Just… feel. That’s all you need to do.”

She nodded, trusting, her eyes wide as he pressed his forehead to hers.

And then, he entered her. Carefully. Tenderly.

She gasped, her body tensing around him. He stilled at once, his breath shallow, his voice ragged.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “You’re all right. Just breathe with me.”

She did.

She breathed.

And slowly, inch by inch, her body began to open for him, the sting fading into something warmer, something deeper. When she finally relaxed around him, he began to move, gently rocking into her with the kind of patience that made her feel. Every part of her.

Their bodies fit together as though they had been carved for this moment alone.

And as the rhythm deepened, so too did her pleasure, slow and blooming, unfurling through her limbs like heat through a winter frost. Her hips lifted to meet his, her gasps growing breathless, unguarded.

“Benedict,” she whispered, again and again, the sound of it like a psalm in the dark.

When her release came, it did so with a breathless cry, her body arching against him, every inch of her alight. He followed seconds later, collapsing against her with a shudder, his arms tight around her, his heart pounding against her chest.

“I love you,” he murmured into her hair, lips brushing her temple.

Y/N blinked, dazed and undone, her fingers curling into his back as she breathed in the scent of him, sweat and smoke and something entirely his.

Outside, London slept.

Inside, in the smallest room she had ever known, something vast and unspeakably beautiful had taken root between them.

a/n: finally they fucked lol. I fear there is going to be some angst coming tho so sorry abt that

[cloakedsparrow]

Stately Wayne Manor -as it appears in my Bat Family AU -Redo

So it turns out that long galleries don't quite work the way I thought they did. it turns out, they usually only cover one side of the house rather than wrapping all the way around. In my defense, I have never been in a manor or mansion in my life. With this new knowledge, I have redesigned the Manor so more rooms get windows. I also had to shuffle some rooms around and even add a few because just making rooms bigger to fill in the extra space was going to make them ridiculously huge (as if half weren't already). The gym, library, theater, arcade, and kitchen are bigger as well though. Overall, I like this design better than the first.

The stairs in the kitchen go down to the cellar (not shown), which has a root cellar, wine cellar, vault, and survival bunker. I didn't redo the attic since it's just the one chimney that would be moved, so just pretend it's to the right a little more.

I thought Jason should have the office with windows due to his time on the streets and being beaten and blown up while trapped in a warehouse before waking up in a coffin buried underground. I figure he'd like to have an extra exit available. Plus, it's not like Bruce and Tim are used getting sunlight and it made sense for Alfred to be closer to both Bruce's office (since he's his valet) and the classroom (in case the kids needs schooling).

[theamityelf]

The painting is of Celeste's face, composed of many colors, in such short strokes that it almost resembles a mosaic, and yet still immediately recognizable as Celeste. Its dimensions are eight feet by five feet, and the sunlight pouring in from each window irradiates it with vibrancy. It instantly brought tears to Celeste's eyes the first time she saw it. And yet now, she has trouble keeping her eyes on it.

The painting is being hung high in her foyer– the first thing guests will see. The men hanging it are her valets. They're lean, strong. Their uniforms are tailored perfectly to accentuate their best features, and their handsome faces are slightly furrowed with concentration as they coordinate their efforts. No one who visits Celeste's mansion can ever help but to stare at her gorgeous house staff, and yet now, Celeste doesn't much care to look at them, either.

Her gaze keeps being drawn to the short, casually-dressed artist beside her. Angie is watching them hang the painting, holding her hands out in front of her with her fingers forming a pretend frame. She is barefoot, in shorts and a very paint-splattered t-shirt, and her hair is tied back in a ponytail that resembles the wool of a white sheep. Her head is slightly tilted, and her eyes are unfocused in that inscrutable way–

And suddenly she turns to look at her patron with serene smile. "Celeste must really like Angie's painting a lot," she says.

Celeste maintains a coy expression, despite feeling startled that she has been caught staring. "I beg your pardon?"

Angie giggles. "You've never hung me in the foyer before. You've kept the rest of Angie's paintings in the gallery, behind glass, with only the electric lights for company."

"Of course. The better to show off my collection to guests."

"I see, I see," she muses. "At least one of Angie's paintings gets to see the sun." The painter bats her eyes pitifully, accosting Celeste with the easeful prettiness of her probing smile.

Celeste affects a supercilious laugh and replies, "Paint another portrait of me, and we shall see where it goes." Hearing the double entendre in her own words, she adds, "There is space above the mantle, if your work merits it."

"So silly," Angie says, taking one of Celeste's hands between her own. (Celeste wishes she weren't wearing her lace gloves today.) "Painting a portrait of Celeste is no work at all! Will you come pose for Angie?"

"I, uh-" She loses her accent for a second, then quickly recovers it. "I am having friends over for spades, this evening. If you have need of a reference, I can be available tomorrow after teatime."

"Okie-dokie! I'll be sure to pray God closes Her eyes while you're gambling." A teasing smile, crinkling her nose and the corners of her eyes–

They're interrupted by the valets, asking Celeste if she's satisfied with how they've hung the painting.

"For now," Celeste answers them. "Though, if she paints many more, we may soon have to shift it a few feet to the left, to make room."

Angie's smile glows in the sunlight.

[millenialfanfictionaddiction]

Gifting your Husband Boudoir Photos

Featuring Schweiden Adlers

Schweiden Adlers x female(wife) reader (she/her pronouns)

Warnings: swearing, VERY suggestive

AN: of course I needed to give my Adler bbys some love 🫶🏻

Heiwajima

Biggest simp? Biggest simp 😌

Definitely beats about his GORGEOUS wife to his team all the time

“Hey look at this picture my wife just posted?” “She has a name you know-” “SHES MY WIFE!”

Literally Liberos would make the best partners, hype beast extraordinaries

Anyways, you and Toshiro have been married for almost a year now

You wanted to surprise your husband with the something you’d knew he’d love

🙌🏻 pictures of you 🙌🏻

See you casually replaced photos around your home with new sexy ones 🤪

You weren’t entirely sure your husband would notice

But like a dog smells good, your husband sniffed them out immediately

He walked in, stopped and looked at you

“Something’s different,” he said 🤨

You 👉🏻😙 🎶

Then he spots the first one, the one you replaced your wedding photo with

He walks over to it, picks it up and his eyes widen 😳

“YN what is this?” He asks

You just shrug and smirk 😏

He continues to walk around, finding all the photos and you start to hear groans emerging from your husband

“You good babe?” You ask as he turns to you

“You know we are never changing these photos back right?” He says as you giggle

“What about when the guys come over?” You question

“Ok maybe then but he do you maybe think you could recreate some of these for me? Perhaps for my digital gallery?” He questions

You giggle and shake your head, “well it’s a good thing I order digital prints too.”

Toshiro throws his head back, groaning and thanking whatever god gifted him such a beautiful wife!

Kageyama

The only two things Kags thinks about is volleyball and his gorgeous wife

Literally the fact that you can put up with him being the way he is

He is so blessed to have you as his spouse!

Now Kags is a workaholic and he’s constantly at the gym

So you often have to find creative and new ways to entice your husband to come home

Sometimes food works

But what really does the trick you ask 👀

Nudes 🙌🏻

You send this man a nude and it’s so long volleyball gym, hello bed for the next 8 hours 🥵

Man’s has stamina ok 👌

Kags has been at the gym for a solid week

Literally he’s home to eat and sleep

And honestly, you miss your husband

So what must we do? Send him something that makes him want to leave his volleyball forever

You: I miss you Tobio 🥺

Tobio: awe I miss you too baby, I’ll be home around 10

You: could you maybe make it a little sooner? *sends pic*

You: I’m waiting 😏

Tobio: 😳 are- are those new?

You: just got them back today

Tobio: is-is there more 👀

You: maybe 🙃

Tobio: I think I can probably be home by 7…

You: I’ll be waiting *sends pic*

Tobio: fuck this gym in omw baby!

You: good good excellent 😏

Prepare to be sore for the next few days Yn 🤪

Ushijima

Our stoic angel 😍

Oh how this giant bby adores you Yn!

Literally there’s nothing better than spending time with your husband

But oh do you LOVE to tease this man something fierce

Please he gets so flustered and blushes whenever you send him a risky picture

So you decide you haven’t tortured your husband enough for an entire lifetime so why not do the absolute most 💅

It was your 1 year wedding anniversary and you decided that you should gift your husband the first the keeps on giving

Pictures of you 😌

You wrap the photo album up and set it with his other gifts

This man always outdoes you in every way but this year, this time you will dominate!

So after opening all of your lavished gifts you finally gift Toshi the one thing nobody else can give him

When he opens it, he looks at the beautiful black valet cover inscribed with his name

He looks at you confused as you continue to urge him on

He opens the first page and immediately slams the book shut

His face turns best red as he avoids all eye contact with you

Toshi 👉🏻👀😳

You 👉🏻😏😏

He opens it again, gulping as he carefully thumbs through every single page, careful to not bend any pictures

It’s not until he gets to the picture of you in his Olympic jersey that he groans, adjusting himself as you continue to look smug

He closes the book, placing both hands on top of it and then looks at you

You 👉🏻 : D

“YN you know how much I love you right?” He says as you nodd

You 👉🏻 : D

“YN I’m going to say this and I mean it in the absolute most respectful way,” he continues

You 👉🏻: D

“I’m about about 2 seconds from breaking your back,” he finally says

You 👉🏻 : D 😐😳

And that, YN, was the story of how you spent an entire week recovering 😌

Hoshiumi

This man BEGS for nudes constantly

Literally he adores you and he keeps a running tab of your pictures

He even keeps a ✨tasteful✨ shot of you as his phones Lock Screen

But nobody can see it… he guards it with his life!!

When Korai’s away, he is always asking to see his pretty baby 🥹

Honestly he’ll take any photos of you

So you decide it’s time to ramp it up 👏🏻

Korai is at a few away games when you decide to make your move

You had some sexy photos done for your adoring husband and lucky you are just as cheeky as he is 😏

You send the first text, baiting him

You: Morning babe *sends picture*

Korai responds in .02 seconds

Korai: 👁️👄👁️

You: how are you? *sends pic*

Korai: 🥵 extremely frazzled right now…

You: oh really? *sends pic*

Korai: BABE IM IN A TEAM MEETING AND I JUST GOT IN TROUBLE FOR CHECKING MY PHONE

You: sounds like a you problem *sends pic*

Only Korai doesn’t respond after that one, instead you start a timer

Because you know your husband too well

10 minutes later, a new record 💅, your FaceTime is ringing as you casually answer it while cooking

“Hey babe! I thought you had a meeting?” You ask casually

Korai 👉🏻 >: ( you did this on purpose

“Did what?” You respond cluelessly

“Did you get those professionally done for me?” He asks

“Well your always asking for pics so I figured I should have a couple hundred built up,” you shrug

Korai 👉🏻👁️👄👁️ 100?!?!

Please Yn that man has never been happier to get home to you

Romero

This man ugh THIS MAN 🥵

Literally idk who’s the luckiest one in this relationship babe I’m sorry

It’s Romero, like look at the man!

But no matter what, you managed to get a good one

He’s an amazing husband and he absolutely worships you!

Literally he will open every door, present you to everyone like you are royalty

He talks about you like you are only woman in the entire word

He wears his wedding ring proudly!

And boy does he adore your body

Literally you could be wearing seat pants and he’s panting 😮‍💨

It’s your two year anniversary and your friend suggest you add some new “artwork” to your bedroom 😌

Mainly in the form of a giant photo of you over your bed

So you prepare, using your husbands favorite color lingerie in the photo in the sexiest pose allowed to be viewed

You manage to get it hung and boy are you excited, so excited that you ambush your husband the moment he walks in the door

You cover his eyes and say, “I have the biggest surprise babe!”

He smiles, “oh do you now?”

You giggle as you lead your 6’3” husband to your room and situate him just perfectly

You tear your hands away and shout “surprise!”

Romero 👉🏻😐😳

“What do you think?!?” You say, presenting your body

Please YN give your husband a second

His mouth has now fallen open and you are gonna need a mop in the bedroom ok 🤚🏻

“Holy shit baby!! You look fucking incredible!” He says getting on the bed and studying the photo up close

“You love it??” You gush

“Oh course! But I wish you would have put one in every room so I can just stare at you all damn day!” He chuckles

“Well lucky for you I got more!” You say, pulling out the other canvases

Please YN, you might need to inform the Adlers of your husbands sudden death 😅

Sokolov

6’7” simp? 6’7” simp 😌

Man’s literally worships the ground you walk on Yn

He adores you more than anything!

Another member of the “I wear my wedding ring and I’m proud club!”

He would wear a shirt that said “my wife is hotter than your wife”

Needless to say, this man will do anything for you YN

And since he travels so much, you have to keep things spicy right 😏

Which is why you decide that it’s important for you to show him exactly how much you miss him

So you decide to be a little butthole and send him cryptic messages all day to prepare him

Like first you send him an email that says, “I’m in your room at 9pm for a surprise ;)”

Of course the man’s is super curious like “👀 what does this chick have planned now?!?”

Then you continue the torment and send him little texts all day like “5 hours until your surprise!”

By 9pm the man is RUNNING 🏃‍♂️ to his hotel room

The team wanted to go out for drinks and suddenly your man’s has a migraine

Back in his hotel room, he texts you and says “ok babe I’m here!”

That’s when you drop that man an entire years work of spank bank material!

Like 200 pictures and that’s not even all of them!

At first he just stares like “holy crap! I shouldn’t be looking at these, I have a wife… WAIT THIS IS MY WIFE!!”

So instead he decides to pull out his computer and FaceTime you

You answer, casually sitting on your bed like “oh hello my love ✌🏻”

“Babe!! Holy crap!! You- you did this for me?!?” He shouts

You giggle and nod saying “I missed you Tatsu” 🥺

Damn Yn calm down, man’s is about .02 seconds away from getting on a plan back to you

“Baby I love them!! But umm now I’ve kind of got a little problem!” He blushes as you giggle

He knows he’s one lucky guy!

Hirugami

Ughhhhhh 😩😩😩 this man!! THIS MAN 👏🏻

He’s so hot it’s unreal!!!

And you get to be his wife?!? Dammnnn

Seriously he is such an attentive and sexy husband

Literally he walks around without his shirt on around the house and man 😮‍💨

Please YN clean your puddle of drool up!

Oh wait that’s me NE WAYS

he absolutely adores you and always talks about you

He knows how lucky he is to have the most supportive and fantastic wife

But that doesn’t mean you don’t get to tease him every once and a while 🤭

Specifically during practice

Because as the captain of the Adlers, he must remain stoic and attentive

So when he’s in the middle of a team meeting and his phone starts buzzing, he quickly checks it

And BAM NUDE

Fukuro rn 👉🏻😐😳

“Hey captain you good?” The guys ask as he snaps from his haze and shoves his phone back in his pocket

Unfortunately his phone keeps buzzing 😌

He’s already seen a few pictures and damn he wants to see more but he knows he won’t be able to contain his arousal

After the meeting, which he clumsily finishes he runs to the locker room and face times you

You answer, casually doing dishes like 😚 🎶

“Baby what was that??” He yells

You 👉🏻👀🤷🏻‍♀️ what-

“Baby those pictures! Those pictures!!! Are they new? Holy shit!” He whisper shouts as you smirk

“They might be new, maybe part of a photo shoot I did,” you answer coyly

Fukuro 👉🏻😳 so there’s more?

“A few hundred more,” you 😏

“Baby prepare yourself because when I get home, you’re all mine!” He growls before hanging up

You just giggle because wait until he sees the giant canvas of you naked hanging in your master bathroom 🙃

[thevoicefromanotherworld]

"AND WHAT DO THEY SAY, ANGEL?"

So, I fell in love with Rupert while watching Rivals (as I expected) so here it is the fist fic of many i'm going to write with him

I hope you like it!

Emily didn't like to socialize.

That's why, when her mother told her that they had been invited to a party at Tony Baddingham's house, she wanted to scream in frustration.

Instead, she nodded, faking one of her best smiles, and went to her room to find something to wear.

When she had dressed and minimally groomed herself for the event, she went downstairs. Her mother was already prepared in a very tight blue dress.

Hearing her footsteps, she looked up from her perfectly painted nails to look at her. Her eyes widened.

"What are you wearing?" –he questioned looking at his red two-piece suit and his white shirt- go change right away, you look like a waiter

-Better that than looking like a slut desperate to get it on –he growled looking at her firmly- I'm not going to wear a tight dress like the rest of the girls mom, so you can complain all you want, because I'm not changing –he opened the door and sketched a false smile, while gesturing with his arm outwards- Shall we?

Her mother let out a couple of curses under her breath that Emily ignored. After driving for about ten minutes, they arrived at the party venue.

Lord Baddingham's mansion was impressive, with several gardens, tennis courts, swimming pools and all the tacky stuff that rich people bought to show off to their even richer friends.

Emily got out of the car and after her mother left the keys to the vehicle with the valet, they entered the place.

The decor was exquisite, with fine, delicate colours, contrasting with other stronger tones, such as maroon and fuchsia pink.

The young woman noticed the paintings that adorned the walls: works by Rembrandt, Monet and Velázquez were displayed there as if it were a museum gallery instead of a private residence.

They saw how a man dressed in a dark blue suit and a red tie approached them with a smile on his lips. He held a glass of what looked like champagne in his right hand.

“Lizzie, you've come!” he exclaimed when he reached her. “I'm so glad you accepted my invitation, so I won't have to be constantly looking after my wife, you know what I mean,” he whispered, making his mother laugh.

“Don't be a braggart, Tony. Everyone knows you love her,” she laughed, playing along.

“Until she find someone else that would want to stick their cock in,” Emily thought to herself.

The Lord's gaze then shifted to her, and she forced herself to force another smile. She didn't like to smile, but at these kinds of events it was apparently essential to do so. They had just arrived and her jaw was already aching from doing so.

"I don't think we've met," the Lord said, glancing at Lizzie.

"Tony, this is Emily, my daughter," he introduced them.

He held out his hand and she reluctantly shook it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Emily," his answer seemed sincere. "There's no doubt that you're Lizzie's daughter," he said, smiling kindly as he looked at his mother.

He was silent for a moment, before nodding his head towards the interior of the mansion. "Please follow me, I want to introduce you to some people."

"Great," Emily thought. "More delicious ass-kissers to offer my rehearsed fake smile to."

They entered a room decorated with a stately theme. A large round table occupied the center of the room. Emily looked at each and every one of them there. She felt a gaze on her. A man dressed entirely in white followed her movements as they approached.

She pretended not to see him, and followed the lord until he stopped in front of the table.

"Friends," he said, drawing everyone's attention to him. "I would like to introduce you to Lizzie and her daughter Emily." She smiled, the man in the suit looked at her with interest and something else reflected in his dark eyes. "They have just moved into the castle on the other side of my gardens," he announced. "I hope you will be kind to them and give them the welcome they deserve."

"Of course, Tony," said a man wearing gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. "We are not monsters!"

A wave of fake laughter spread through the room, Tony shook his head before turning to them again.

-That's Alfred - she whispered - don't pay attention to him, he only comes to my parties to drink all the good alcohol - she said, and this time Emily's smile was genuine -

Meanwhile, from the other end of the table. The unknown observer was unable to take his eyes off the young woman in the red suit.

It seemed very strange to him that she was not wearing a dress like all the women. Still, he was not going to complain, since that blood-red suit suited her like a glove.

She took another sip of her drink without looking away, and when her mother walked away with the lord to talk business, leaving her alone, she saw her opportunity. She instantly realized that she had never attended a party, and even less one surrounded by pretentious rich people like that one, so he decided to keep her company.

Under normal circumstances he would have pulled down her pants and fucked her in some corner of the house, like the pantry. But as soon as he saw her, he knew she wasn't one of those, so he decided to keep his cock in his pants, and walked over to where she was.

He grabbed a glass from one of the waiters who passed in front of him, before standing in front of her. The young woman's gaze focused on him immediately, her dark eyes resting on his for a moment, before quickly looking away.

He smiled, noticing the nerves running through her. He gently handed her the glass, she raised her gaze and looked between the drink and him.

-It's champagne - she said - it will help with your nerves

-I'm not nervous - she answered more quickly than she would have liked, he smiled -

-That's just what someone who's nervous would say - he gestured with the glass towards her - take it, trust me

Mistrustfully, Emily reached out to take the glass. Her fingers brushed his for a moment, making his hand tingle momentarily. He felt it too.

The young woman took a generous gulp of the liquid, which made her face twitch due to its acidity.

-My God - he murmured - Do you really like this? -she said coughing slightly-

-Tony doesn't want to take out the alcohol that we all know he hides- he smiled- he doesn't want to feel responsible if someone gets too drunk than they should

-Of course- she answered leaving the glass on one of the trays that the waiters were carrying- thanks for bringing it to me anyway- she said- although between you and me, I don't think I'll ever try champagne again in my life

-I imagined it- he laughed observing the small wrinkles that formed next to her eyes when she did the same- we haven't been introduced- she said extending his hand politely- I'm Rupert Campbell-Black- he announced- I live in the mansion in front of yours

-Really? -she asked- we are very far apart by Lord Baddingham's gardens- he observed- even so we are almost neighbors

-We are

-Emily

-Emily - he repeated, savoring the name on his tongue- it is a beautiful name - he whispered, giving it a thorough review from top to bottom- you have to tell me who your tailor is - he took a sip of his glass- if his suits fit me as well as they do you, then it will be worth the money I will invest in them

A blush appeared on Emily's cheeks due to the flattery. She was not used to words of affection, given that her father had left when he found out that her mother was pregnant, and her mother almost never offered her kind words.

She had never said it out loud, but Emily knew that her mother blamed her because her father had abandoned them. It was not her fault, she was nothing more than an embryo when he left. She shook her head and sketched a shy smile.

-Thank you - she replied - but I don't have a tailor - she said, he frowned - I bought the suit in a shop in the village - she explained - a very kind lady took my measurements and after choosing the colour of the fabric, she made it herself

-I know her - said Rupert - Mrs. Moore, right? - he asked, she nodded

- I haven't seen her for a long time - she smiled - maybe I should go pay her a visit

-You should - Emily murmured -

Their gazes connected again strongly, losing themselves momentarily in each other's eyes, until he saw how his mother gestured for him to come closer. He followed the direction of her gaze, before looking at her again.

-I must go - she apologized - I liked talking to you, Rupert - she confessed - you are not how the rumours say

A half-smile appeared on her lips before whispering:

-And what do they say about me, angel? -he murmured in a low voice-

-Well… you know… -he said, lowering his head timidly, his cheeks turning red again- that you go to bed with a different woman every night- he blurted out- that you are alone, and that, if you continue down that path, you will be alone for the rest of your life

-You shouldn't pay attention to that gossip, Emily- he said as he began to walk away- sometimes the people we least expect to surprise us are the ones who do it the most

[locsandletters]

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 💎💅🏽 ˚˖𓍢ִ 🥂˚. ──── introducing luxurious!reader

private jets. couture fashion. private villas. french riviera. 5-star hotel suites. golden hour sunlight in a parisian balcony.

☘︎ luxurious!reader who knows every staff member at the five-star hotels she stays in. her mom thinks it’s ridiculous how she greets the concierge by name and tips the valet with hundred-dollar bills, but it’s just who she is.

☘︎ luxurious!reader who has a love for museums and galleries, strolling slowly in her chanel flats with her hermès crossbody swinging at her hip.

☘︎ luxurious!reader who only drinks champagne from crystal flutes, her lips painted in a deep, luxurious red. he can never stop himself from leaning close, teasing her about how the colour would look better smeared on him.

☘︎ luxurious!reader who prefers her vacations slow and indulgent—bathing in rose-scented tubs overlooking city skylines, lounging on yachts with her melanin shimmering under SPF 50, and reading toni morrison novels poolside.

☘︎ luxurious!reader who collects rare vinyl records, her taste spanning everything from marvin gaye to lauryn hill. she keeps them displayed in her living room, next to a sleek turntable she’s had imported from milan.

☘︎ luxurious!reader who loves fine dining but always asks the chef to add extra seasoning to her meal because her palate was raised on bold spices and deep flavours—collard greens, jerk chicken. she knows how food should taste.

[viadangelo]

LOCATION: Westside Theatre. TIME: 08:30 OPEN FOR: All. (Syndicate only if on panel.)

In a month, Westside would have its grand re-opening. A timeline that for what it's worth, is pressurising, and exactly Via's brand of chaotic. There's been endless interviews, for new staff ⏤ re-contracting the majority of previous ones, out of the good of her heart.

But new faces, as handpicked by D'Angelo, are a necessity. Westside would operate for an array of things; shows; music; galleries; displays ⏤ laundering, and various tax illegalities. (those empty seats ⏤ if there are any ⏤ are sold, at least on paper.) She needs trustworthy, pretty ⏤ and those with a little razzamatazz.

She's filled slots for weeklies, and the occasional long running show that's a steady income. She's got a lot of ground to cover, even if in comparison to most, it's an awful lot less pressure given her backing, and personal circumstances.

But Via wants it all. And she'll bring a buzz to the place that has people talking ⏤ about her, D'Angelo; the magic that she'll resurrect on the extra special nights. But until then, Westside needs something different. Even if, she likes to think that's her.

So she's sat, a few members of her tailored panel (an odd selection, if anyone looks too deeply) of colleagues that might, or might not have a personal investment in the place. They're seated on the velvet seats of the second row, Via's got her lets kicked up on the seats in front of her, lazy scribbles on paper, as she flicks through applications for showrunners, or the odd valet ⏤ some off-tune singer that she's wondering might sound better if Via sliced her windpipe.

"Darling, do you have anything else ⏤" she's muttering it, to the stage ⏤ the people beside her: "⏤ I want drama, excitement, sugarpop." She glances once to those sat in the seats with her, watching. Assessing; offering opinions. And she chuckles, lipstick smile wide, turning back absently: "I want you to make the crowd wet, and wanting." Tears, or otherwise.

[hookedonapirate]

I’LL WAIT A LIFETIME OR TWO

Summary:

At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.

Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn’t ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?

The Idea of You AU

Rated: M

AO3

Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6

CHAPTER SIX

Colors bleed into one another like a masterfully painted canvas—streaks of pink and orange fading to purple as the sun dips into the horizon. Killian and I are poring over the menus in a cozy booth tucked away in a recessed alcove on the terrace, the ocean waves crashing into the shore. Twinkling lights are strung through the trees, illuminating the lush gardens. Flames flicker in the fire pits dotting the landscape, and soft music drifts through the air, creating an enchanting atmosphere.

His eyes rove over my red dress before his gaze catches mine, and he flashes me one of those heart-stopping grins that has my stomach doing a somersault. “Swan, have I told you how ravishing you look tonight?”

I manage a laugh, the familiar warmth creeping into my cheeks. “About four times already.” Twice during the car ride, once after he handed the keys to the valet and once again when we were shown to our seats. Though, neither time failed to make my cheeks heat.

“Is this place okay?”

I set down the menu and sit back, resting my hands in my lap as my eyes sweep over the alcove, taking in the fairy tale setting—a perfect blend of elegance and intimacy, with dark wood accents, plush seating and candlelit tables, the air filled with the scent of blooming flowers, sea salt and delicious food. “It’s perfect.” My eyes come back to his, lips twitching into a smirk. “But honestly, you could’ve taken me to Mcdonalds and I’d be happy as a clam.”

He chuckles, a deep, hearty sound that sends goosebumps over my skin.

He thinks I’m joking.

“I almost opted for Nobu, but I wasn’t sure if you liked sushi,” he says.

My eyes widen. “Are you kidding? I love sushi.”

His smile is a thing of beauty, lighting up his features in a way that rivals the setting sun. He extends his hand under the table, seeking mine, and when our fingers intertwine, electricity zips through me. His touch is warm, firm yet tender. “Good to know for next time.”

Next time?

There goes my stomach again, doing another somersault.

I love the idea of next time.

“I should’ve known you loved sushi. Henry gets his good taste from his beautiful mum.”

A blushing smile crosses my lips, and I squeeze his hand, my heart pounding as I fight off the urge to pull him closer and kiss him. Even though we’re cocooned in a pocket of privacy within the restaurant’s lush gardens, we’re not entirely invisible. A few of Killian’s acquaintances have already made their way over, each receiving a nod or a handshake from him.

When he introduced me as his art consultant, I played along, grateful for the anonymity the title afforded me. I have no desire to become tabloid fodder, especially not when my heart is tangled in a situation it shouldn’t be. I’m supposed to be on a date with a furniture shop owner, not dining with a rockstar.

As we chat, I’m acutely aware of Killian’s hand in mine, the warmth of his skin, the strength of his grip, and I’m imagining what it would be like to be alone with him—truly alone. The possibilities send a rush of heat through my veins. 

When his thumb traces gentle circles on my skin, tiny shivers shoot up my arm. The contact is tender, intimate, and I can’t help the way my breath catches just a little. Then he frees my hand briefly, making me miss his warmth, but it’s only long enough for the server to approach, jot down our orders and retrieve the menus from us.

“So, where is Henry tonight?” The softness in Killian’s voice matches the touch of his hand as he slips his palm into mine, threading our fingers together once more.

“He’s staying over at Roland’s house.” I take a sip of my pinot noir, savoring the rich bouquet of ripe cherries, a hint of spice and subtle earthy undertones. But the alcohol does nothing to soothe the fluttering in my chest.

He arches an eyebrow. “Is that the lad who was at Coachella with you?”

I nod, smiling. “Yeah, they’ve been best friends since elementary school.”

He leans back, a half-smirk playing on his lips as he watches me with an intensity that feels like it could pierce right through our casual facade. “That’s nice.” His eyes narrow slightly, a playful glint in them. “Did you tell Henry I was at your house for lunch the other day?”

I can’t help but laugh at the thought, picturing Henry’s reaction. His jaw would be on the floor, his expressive green eyes would grow impossibly wide and he’d launch into a barrage of questions, each one more incredulous than the last. “No way. He would lose his mind if he knew you were there. He’d probably also be furious with me for not including him.”

His thumb strokes the back of my hand beneath the table, a clandestine gesture that sends ripples of warmth through me. “Will you tell him you ditched your date to have dinner with me?”

I sigh, shaking my head. “No, probably not.” My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass, the truth settling heavy on my tongue. “I wouldn’t even know what to tell him at this point.” How could I possibly explain to my son that the man whose name alone would send him into a frenzy is the same man who turns my insides into liquid?

“Fair enough.” Killian squeezes my hand gently. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand answers or declarations, and I’m grateful for it. Grateful for this moment of reprieve, where I can simply exist beside him without the weight of explanations hanging over us. “You don’t have to tell him anything right now. We’re just having dinner, right?” There’s a lilt of playfulness in his voice that makes his British accent even more pronounced, a wink accompanying his words.

I smile wryly, the tension easing from my shoulders. “Right. Just dinner.”

But we both know this isn’t just dinner. Just like lunch wasn’t just lunch.

“What about Elsa?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

I can picture her now, her raised eyebrow, the knowing look she’d give me if she were here, witnessing Killian’s thumb caress mine. She would see right through our charade of “just dinner” without missing a beat.

As I’m about to respond, the waiter arrives with a basket of warm bread and a dish of herb-infused olive oil. Killian thanks him and offers the basket to me before taking a piece.

I break mine in half, dipping it into the olive oil.

We take a bite, and I savor the warm, fluffy texture as I continue our conversation. “I told her we went out to lunch but that it was only business. I think she’s on to me.” I’ll have to figure out how to tell her and Henry about Killian later. For now, I let myself be swept away by the moment, the uncertainties of tomorrow fading into the background.

“So, when do I get to meet her?”

My heart flutters, betraying my calm exterior. The idea of him meeting Elsa, facing her scrutiny, her silver-blonde hair likely to bristle like an indignant cat’s fur, is both terrifying and exhilarating. “She won’t be happy when she finds out I ditched Walsh for you. She’ll probably interrogate you to find out what your intentions are. Henry will too, just so you know.”

Killian’s chuckle rumbles through the alcove, warm and rich. “Can’t wait.”

I arch a brow. “You’re really up for that? Elsa can be pretty fierce, and Henry—well, he’s very protective.”

“I can handle it.” He flashes a smile, one that says he’s faced tougher critics than my protective entourage. “Besides, I have nothing to hide. Just ask Google.” The twinkle in his eye tells me he relishes the challenge—a man used to the spotlight, unfazed by scrutiny. Yet beneath the bravado, there’s a sincerity that makes me believe he’s not just playing the part. Killian Jones might be an open book to the world, but he’s still full of stories yet to be told. And I find myself wanting to read every page.

I smirk, my finger tracing the rim of my wine glass. “I could…but what I want to know are the secrets I can’t find on Google.”

A smile, disarming and far too charming, stretches across his lips as he leans back in his seat and rubs his chin, thinking for a moment. “Alright, here’s one—my moniker as a kid was Hook.”

Laughter bubbles up from my chest as I picture a young Killian, a boy full of spirit and spunk, bearing that nickname. “Hook, huh? Like Captain Hook? How did you get that nickname?”

His eyes, those deep pools of blue, hold mine, and in them, there’s a flicker of the boy he once was. “From a fishing trip with my brother Liam. We were out on the lake, and I was determined to show off my fishing skills. When I finally caught a big one, I thought I’d impress him by handling it myself. But as I was trying to remove the hook, the fish gave a sudden flip of its tail, and the hook ended up in the back of my hand. Liam couldn’t stop laughing, and from that day on, I was ‘Hook’.”

“Oh my God, that sounds painful.”

“It wasn’t my finest moment, but it certainly left a mark.” He holds up his free hand, showing the small scar on the back of it. “And a nickname.”

I lean in, my fingers gently tracing the rugged scar. My brows knit together involuntarily as I look up at him with a teasing smile. “That’s your big, juicy secret?”

“Well, maybe not juicy by tabloid standards, but it’s a part of me you wouldn’t find in any magazine. Liam and I made a deal long ago to not share embarrassing stories with the world. Some things we like to have for ourselves.”

I shake my head and laugh. “You know, I was expecting something more...I don’t know, scandalous?”

A playful twinkle lights his eyes as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “If you want scandalous, I could tell you about the time my ex-girlfriend, Milah, a French actress, dumped me for Robert Gold.”

My eyes widen, my wineglass poised in the air before it can make it to my lips. “Wait, Robert Gold? As in the American singer and pianist?”

He nods regrettably, a shadow of some past hurt crossing his face. “Milah and I met before I became famous. She was friends with Mary Margaret, who had just started dating David at the time, and came to one of our gigs. We bonded over our love for music—she studied piano and classical music before going into acting.”

I nod, finally taking a sip of my wine.

“We kept our relationship a secret for a while.”

“But then she left you for Robert?”

“Aye.” His eyes meet mine, a storm brewing in their depths—a tempest that speaks of betrayal and heartache weathered and survived, like that of my own. “Apparently, I wasn’t mature or famous enough for her.” He lets out a soft chuckle, but there’s an edge to it that speaks volumes. “It stung, but then Midnight Moon started gaining popularity, we signed with a big record label and ended up outselling Robert in albums.” A sly grin returns, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not that I was keeping track or anything.”

“Of course.” I smirk, understanding all too well the bittersweet triumph of proving oneself against the doubts of an ex.

Killian shrugs. “And it wasn’t until I became famous that Milah started reaching out to me again. But I haven’t responded to any of her calls or texts. Nor do I plan to.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Ah, becoming famous—the perfect revenge on your exes.”

He chuckles. “It really is.”

Then I think about something for a moment, recalling the last time I saw a picture of Robert Gold on social media. “But isn’t Gold like sixty?” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I wince, hoping I haven’t prodded a tender wound too harshly. “Not that I’m one to judge someone’s age,” I add quickly.

“Aye, he is. But Milah…she’s a bit older than me. Thirty, to be exact. At the time we were dating, I was eighteen and she was twenty-four.”

I laugh, raising an eyebrow teasingly. “So, you have a type?”

“A type?” He shakes his head. “Not really. I actually liked Milah.” His expression softens as he leans in even closer, the distance between us diminishing further, and I’m caught in the gravitational pull. “But now I find myself drawn to blondes with eyes the color of emeralds.” He meets my gaze with a twinkle in his eye. “Okay, that’s a lie, there’s only one blonde—one woman—I’m interested in.”

My heart doesn’t just skip a beat—it falters, flutters, then thunders back to life with a ferocity that leaves me breathless. A wave of warmth cascades through me, pooling in my stomach and spreading to the tips of my fingers intertwined with his. His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand.

“I hope I didn’t offend you that day at Coachella by mistaking you for Henry’s older sister.” He chuckles at himself. “I genuinely thought you were.”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “No, not at all. I took it as a compliment.”

“Good. But don’t worry, I won’t ask how old you are because it’s impolite and also because it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Well, I just turned forty last month,” I admit, my cheeks heating. “Ready to run yet?” I ask, afraid he might think of me as a middle-aged woman clinging to the fringes of her youth.

He doesn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.” He graces me with a reassuring smile, his eyes full of warmth. “I told you, it doesn’t matter to me.”

My eyes lock with his, and I find myself ensnared in his cerulean depths that seem to hold galaxies of unspoken words. The air between us crackles, each second stretched taut with anticipation. I can’t help but wonder where the night will take us, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I just want to enjoy our time together, no matter how it ends.

Our server returns with sautéed lump crab cakes and a watermelon salad with feta and mint. After he leaves, we eat our food, falling back into easy conversation.

“My favorite place as a kid was this old lighthouse near our home,” Killian replies when I ask him about his childhood. “There was something about it—standing tall and resilient against the chaos of the sea. It always made me feel safe when I was inside it, like it could weather any storm. And now, I feel like that lighthouse sometimes. Trying to survive all the crowds and chaos. Trying to survive the storm.”

His words hit me like a tidal wave, crashing against my heart and leaving me speechless. His metaphor is profound, striking a chord deep within me. “That’s so beautiful,” I breathe, my voice almost a whisper. “I mean, it’s beautifully put. And I can definitely see how you would feel like a lighthouse braving the storm in your line of work. I could never do what you do. And you make it look so easy.”

He blushes, his lips quirking up into a smile. “Thank you, love.” He squeezes my hand, the tips of his ears just as red as his cheeks. “The lighthouse actually inspired a song I’m writing.”

My curiosity is piqued. “I’d love to hear it.”

“It’s still a work in progress. And honestly, I don’t know if I’ll share it with the band. It’s something I wrote for myself.”

I nod. “I get that. Some things are just too personal to share. But if you ever feel like letting someone else hear it, I’d be honored.”

His eyes soften. “That means a lot. Maybe one day, I’ll play it for you.”

“Whenever you’re ready.” I find myself even more drawn to him, wanting to pick the creative part of his brain, the artistic side of him. “So, is that where you did most of your writing? When you were at the lighthouse?” 

He chuckles, scratching behind his ear. “Actually, no. I do my best writing when I have the telly on in the background and an electric guitar in my hands. If someone saw me, they would think I was watching the telly while playing the guitar, but what I’m actually doing is coming up with song lyrics. Something about the noise helps me focus.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s so funny. That’s exactly how Henry does his homework. He always has the TV on, his laptop in front of him and his music blaring—your music blaring. But me? I can’t think if there’s a fan humming in the background. I need complete silence to concentrate.”

He nods, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “What about you, Emma? What was your childhood like?”

I take a deep breath, smiling softly as memories flood back. “Well, I grew up in a small town. My childhood was pretty normal, I guess. My parents were always supportive, but they were also pretty strict.” Their expectations were like the masterpieces they so loved—to be protected and preserved. “My father’s an art history professor at Harvard. My mother was a curator. She’s retired now.”

“Art is the family business, then?” he asks, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Sort of, yes.” My answer comes out softer than intended, a hint of nostalgia threading through the words. “Their worlds revolved around art, and I got swept up in it long before I knew how to walk.”

“Did you attend Harvard?”

“I went to Brown. Then Columbia for my master’s.”

“Brown and Columbia,” he muses, lips curling into a smile. “That’s quite impressive, Swan.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Thank you,” I murmur, the words almost lost to the soft music.

“Did that piss off the professor?” His eyebrow arches in playful curiosity, his voice low and smooth. “Not going to Harvard?”

“A little.” A smile finds its way to my lips at the memory of my father’s stunned silence when I told him about Brown. It had been my first step out of his shadow, my own declaration of independence.

Killian’s eyes lock with mine, gleaming with mirth and something more—understanding, perhaps. He gets it, the need to forge one’s path, even if it means disappointing those we love. He knows what it’s like to choose the unexpected road, to chase a dream no one else can see but you. “Probably not as much as blowing off Cambridge to join a rock band.”

I laugh. “No, probably not.”

Once our glasses are empty, he refills them from the bottle chilling in ice. “Did you have a favorite place as a kid? Somewhere you could hide from your parents?”

I nod. “I loved spending time outdoors, exploring the woods and fields near our house. And there was this old oak tree I used to climb up and sit on one of the sturdy branches, sketching the landscape. I was always drawing—anything and everything. ”

His eyes light up. “You draw?”

I nod, my cheeks warming. “I do.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, Swan. Can I see some of your work?”

“Maybe someday. I haven’t drawn much lately, though. Running the gallery keeps me pretty busy.”

He eyes me thoughtfully. “You should make time for it. It’s important to keep doing what you love.”

His words hit me with an unexpected force, and I smile. “I’ll have more time this summer. Henry’s going to camp next month at Jameson Ranch.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he goes there every year. He loves everything there, the horseback riding, the rock climbing, the archery. I waited for the year when he’d say he’s too old, but it never happened. Now, this is his last year.”

“Sounds like an amazing camp.”

I nod. “It really is. I’m glad he gets to enjoy it one last time before he graduates next year.”

“Does he have any plans after graduation?”

I chuckle, lightly teasing, “Hopefully, they don’t include ditching college to start a rock band.” I raise an eyebrow playfully at Killian, who feigns offense, his hand over his heart in mock hurt.

“I’m kidding. Honestly, I’d be proud of him no matter what he does after high school.”

He smiles, taking a sip of his wine.

“But to answer your question, he’s been talking about going to LA Film School.”

Killian raises his brows, his eyes lighting up like the stars that have begun to pepper the evening sky. “Film school? Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah. He’s always had a knack for storytelling.”

“I bet he’ll do amazing. And how do you feel about him moving away for school?”

“I’ll hate it,” I admit with a laugh. “But I want him to pursue his dreams. Besides, he won’t be too far.”

“He can always come back during breaks and summers,” Killian reassures me with a nod.

“Yeah, it’ll be an adjustment, but I’m sure he’ll be ready to get out on his own and not have to live with his mom anymore.”

He chuckles. “I’m sure he’ll miss you like crazy when he’s gone.”

The waiter arrives with our entrées—herb-crusted salmon for Killian and a ribeye steak for me.

As we take our first bites, the flavors burst on my tongue—rich and perfectly seasoned, a hum of contentment escaping my lips.

Killian watches me with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Delicious.”

We eat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, stealing glances between bites.

“So, Henry and film school,” Killian says, returning to our earlier conversation. “Do you think he knows what kind of films he wants to make?”

I take a sip of my wine, loving the fact he’s asking about Henry and not just me. And even though I easily got bored listening to Walsh go on about his furniture shop, I’d be happy if Killian only spoke about himself. I could listen to him talk all day. “He’s still figuring that out, but he loves sci-fi and fantasy.”

Killian nods and smiles. “Ah, my favorite genres.” He takes another bite of his fish. “Oh, and by the way, I Googled that Ghost scene you were telling me about.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“I just have one question.” He holds up a finger, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Do potters always stroke the mold like that when throwing?”

I almost choke on my wine and laugh. “Uh, no. I think they were going for a steamy scene without going all pornographic.”

He chuckles, his cheeks red. “I figured as much.”

Finally, we’re served crème brûlée for dessert. The top is perfectly caramelized, with a thin, crisp layer of sugar that cracks under the spoon to reveal the creamy custard underneath.

I take my first bite and let out a small moan. The combination of the crunchy caramel top and the smooth vanilla custard is heavenly. I feed him a bite, and the way his eyes roll back, the rough groan he makes, sends heat to my core. I have to squeeze my thighs together to curb the temptation to have him for my dessert. At least for now, while we’re in public.

When the bill is paid, there’s a knot of dread in my stomach at the thought our evening might be drawing to a close soon.

Killian moves closer to me, his voice low and husky. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” My stomach flutters with nerves at the prospect of what his question might be.

“Please, feel free to say no if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure here.” Hesitation flickers in his mesmerizing blue eyes, so I place my hand on his leg, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“I promise I’ll say no if I’m not up for it.”

“Would you want to come back to my hotel room? It’s just a little more private there…”

I pause, the final bite of the crème brûlée halfway to my lips as I turn my head to look at him, sincerity in his gaze. The air between us thickens, rich with unspoken possibilities, and something stirs inside me, a longing I’ve kept at bay, one that’s been restrained by caution and past pain. But Killian has a way of crumbling the walls I’ve built around myself.

I finish the bite of dessert, the spoon clinking against the porcelain as I set it down. I lean back, folding my arms. “Trying to get me alone, Jones?”

A rosy pink blush paints his cheeks. “Maybe I am.”

I can’t help but laugh as he gives me the same answer I gave him the other day when he asked me if I was flirting with him.

“And what are your intentions once you get me alone?”

He chuckles and wets his lips with his tongue, leaning closer. He wraps an arm around my shoulders, his voice dark, almost a whisper. “Well, I watched you eat that dessert…the way you licked your lips and made those sexy noises…the way you kissed me the other day…”—His gaze moves to my mouth, his eyes ablaze with desire, his thumb caressing my shoulder—“and I really want that wicked mouth of yours on mine again. But honestly, I’d be happy to simply continue chatting.” The easy grin fades, replaced by something far more telling—a seriousness that belies his usual charm. “So, my intentions are whatever you wish them to be, love.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Really?” I challenge, my teeth catching on my bottom lip in an attempt to stifle the smirk that threatens to break free. “Whatever I wish?” My efforts are futile, it curls the edges of my lips regardless. “Alright then, how about you perform a song and dance number on this table?”

He arches a brow. “That’s your wish?”

“That’s my wish.”

He gives a nonchalant shrug, his cerulean eyes dancing with amusement. He launches from his seat, and before I know it, he’s halfway on the table. I reach out and grab his arm to stop him, giggles bubbling up from my throat at the thought of him actually going through with it. “I was kidding.” As he settles back into his seat, I narrow my eyes at him. “I can’t believe you were actually going to do it.”

His head tilts back slightly, and those piercing blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “Swan, you do realize you’re asking a rock star who’s used to outrageous requests and performing in public, right? You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to shock me.”

“Is that so?” I tease with a devilish smirk, placing my hand on his chest, feeling it beat under my palm.

He chuckles. “That is the most mischievous grin I’ve ever seen.”

My cheeks heat.

“What am I going to do with you, Swan?”

“Apparently, whatever I want you to do.” It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to be swept up like this—since I’ve let someone see the side of me that isn’t all business and pragmatism. Despite how flushed I am from all this flirtatious banter, I manage to make it out of the booth. I look over my shoulder. “You coming, Jones?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grabs his jacket and follows behind me.

When he catches up to me, I have to refrain from touching him until we get into his car. I can tell he’s just as tortured by the way he’s running a hand through his hair and looking over at me, a hunger sparking in those deep blue eyes.

Once we’re outside, the cool breeze sweeps around us, and I try to rub the goosebumps from my arms.

"Here, love.” Without missing a beat, Killian shrugs off his jacket and holds it open behind me, allowing me to slip my arms into the sleeves. He adjusts it on my shoulders and rubs my covered arms. The leather is warm from his body heat and smells faintly of his cologne, a comforting mix of spices and something uniquely him. "Can't have you freezing out here."

I pull the jacket closer around me, grateful for the warmth and the gesture. "Thanks, Killian." I smile at him. The jacket is a little big on me, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, but it's perfect. "Won't you be cold, though?"

He shakes his head, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Don't worry about me, Swan.” He wraps his arm around me and pulls me a little closer. “If I get cold, you’ll keep me warm, right?”

I roll my eyes and laugh, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Ever the charmer," I reply, leaning into him as we wait for the valet to retrieve Killian’s car.

As soon as we’re in, his hand quickly finds its way under the skirt of my dress and around my thigh, and my hand finds its way onto his shoulder. But there’s too much distance between us.

He brings me back to my car at Blair’s, and I follow him on the twenty-minute drive to Sunset Tower, which stands tall against the cityscape. We agreed it’s better to arrive separately in case paparazzi are lurking around. I wait a few moments in my Bug after he disappears inside, my heart pounding. I check my hair in the mirror and make sure there's no food in my teeth about four times while I gather the courage. I want this, I know I want this, I’m just hoping he won’t take one look at me without my clothes on and run away. Or worse, give me a pity fuck.

I shake away the doubts clouding my mind. Killian is not like that, and I know this. Unlatching the car door, I step out and head inside the hotel. I may not know him very well, but each time we talk, it’s so easy, so comfortable. We don’t have to force the conversation, it just flows naturally. We’re not two people with sixteen years between us, we’re just two people drawn to each other. And the more I get to know him, the more I see the kindness in his heart. The man behind the rockstar persona.

Once inside, I step into the elevator and press the button for his floor. As I ascend to the top, my heart flutters with excitement and nerves. I check my reflection on the reverse camera setting on my phone and take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. When the doors part, I step out and make my way down the corridor.

Tiny, Killian’s loyal bodyguard, stands watch at the end of the hallway, his hawk-like eyes scanning me briefly before he nods in recognition. Whether he knows what might transpire beyond the door to Killian’s hotel suite, he gives no indication.

Returning his nod, I continue down the hall—my heart pounding like a drum against my chest with every step closer to the suite number Killian had shared earlier. Taking a fortifying breath, I rap lightly on the polished wooden door.

Before I have time to talk myself out of this, it swings open and he’s standing before me, flashing one of his heart-melting grins.

“Hi, Swan.” He steps aside to let me in.

“Hi.” I manage a smile of my own, a thrill shooting up my spine as I enter his room, my stilettos clicking on the shiny hardwood floor.

He closes the door behind me, shutting out the rest of the world.

Finally, we’re alone again.

I’ve been waiting for this moment since he left my house. I couldn’t actually believe our kiss was a one-time thing as I was saying it out loud. I knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore my feelings for this man.

“Would you like something to drink, love?”

I shake my head and slip off his jacket, throwing it over a chair, his eyes roaming over me from head to toe.

All I want is him.

My heart races as we gravitate toward each other, closing the distance between us.

On the way here, I had questioned whether we would just chat or make out once we got here, or whether I’d even make it here at all, but now that he’s standing here in front of me, looking like he wants to devour me, I’m powerless to resist him—and truthfully, I don’t want to.

Our eyes are locked, the air crackling with a raw, electric charge that’s been building all night. I reach up, my hands finding the nape of his neck, pulling him down toward me. Our lips meet, a soft brush at first that quickly ignites into something more urgent, more demanding. The kiss deepens, and I taste the hint of the wine and crème brûlée we shared. I cup his cheeks in my hands, our mouths moving together with a familiarity that belies the short time we’ve known each other.

He wraps his arms around me as I snake mine around the back of his neck. My breath catches in my throat as his palms glide over the fabric of my dress, mapping the contours of my body as if committing it to memory. I’m already moaning softly into his mouth, lost in the sensations of him, the warmth of his body pressing against mine, the stubble on his jaw scratching softly at my skin, and the way his hands roam across my back, tracing the curve of my spine.

We break the kiss briefly, both of us sucking the same air into our lungs before reclaiming each other’s lips. I lean into him, deepening the kiss—his tongue hot and soft on mine, eager but not too much. It’s a dance we’re engaged in, and every move he makes only draws me in deeper.

He turns me around with a gentle insistence, and I gulp in air, my heart pounding against my ribcage, erratic and wild. His hands slip under the hem of my dress, his fingers brushing against my thighs, teasing, promising, until they find the silk barrier of my panties.

A gasp escapes me, unbidden, as he dips his hand beneath the fabric, his touch bold and unapologetic against my bare nub. I reach a hand behind him, cradling the back of his head as he kisses my earlobe, his breaths hot and heavy against my skin. Holding on to him is all I can do to not melt completely under the deft movements of his fingers, each stroke unraveling me even more. I feel like a teenager all over again.

“Swan…” His voice is low and seductive in my ear, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cool air of the hotel room. “Gods, you’re soaked.”

I bite my bottom lip and close my eyes as I arch into him, seeking more of the exquisite touch, my body betraying its eagerness for his skilled caresses. “Killian.” His name is a whispered plea, a prayer, on my lips as his fingers explore with an artist’s finesse.

It’s surreal, being here with him in his hotel room. Out there, in the real world, I’m Emma Swan—pragmatic, collected, an art dealer, a mother. But here, under Killian’s masterful touch, I’m coming undone, my usual poise giving way to raw desire. He’s young, magnetic, a rockstar used to captivating crowds, yet here, it’s just us, and he plays me like the strums of his guitar—each note building to a crescendo only he can command. The world falls away, leaving only the here and now, the heat of his touch, the pounding of my heart and the insatiable hunger that builds with every passing second.

He dips his head, his breath hot against the nape of my neck as he unclasps the strap of my dress with his free hand, letting the top fall away. He reaches under my bra cup, his hand shaping my breast, his thumb toying with my nipple as he kisses my neck. I tremble, caught in a web of sensations spun by his deft movements. My moans fill the room, unrestrained and foreign, like the sounds belong to another woman entirely—one unshackled by past fears or reservations. It’s been so long since I’ve moaned like this. In fact, I don’t think I ever moaned like this with Neal, yet Killian’s able to coax the sounds out with only his fingers.

Both of my hands are reaching behind us, fisting his hair for purchase as I completely give in to this man. He finds a rhythm, a dance of fingertips against the most sensitive parts of me, driving me wild, pushing me toward a precipice I’m all too willing to tumble over. The edge looms closer with each stroke, and I cling to him, lost in the storm he’s conjured inside me.

“Killian!” I scream toward the heavens as I ride his fingers, my walls pulsing around them. And I’m there, crumbling to pieces, coming all over his hand, and I’m gasping for air, my fingers tightening in his hair, clinging to him as he holds me sturdy in his arms.

Holy fuck.

That was…

My brain is too much like mushy oatmeal to put together the words to describe it.

Killian just holds me for a moment as I catch my breath, waiting for my heart to slow.

Once I’m able to move again, I manage to turn around and wrap my arms around the back of his neck, wanting to kiss the smug grin off his face. His arms encircle me, and he lifts me with an ease that sends another jolt of desire through my veins. The world tilts and spins around me, but I’m anchored by his gaze, his eyes holding mine. As he carries me across the room, our lips crash together again, a messy, perfect collision, his heartbeat thundering against mine, a mirror of my own escalating pulse.

My head hits the pillow as he sets me down gently, our bodies and lips still fused. I work at the buttons of his shirt, craving the warmth of his skin against mine. The fabric parts beneath my touch, revealing the taut muscles that ripple on his torso. His hands are on me now, skimming over my sides, each brush of his fingertips like a match struck against my skin, igniting a fire within me I had long forgotten could burn so fiercely. He reaches for my dress, and my breath catches in my throat as the red fabric and black bra falls away, leaving me vulnerable under his heated gaze. With trembling hands, I help him shed the rest of his clothes, each piece discarded like layers of ourselves peeling away.

I lie back on my elbows, allowing him to slide off my panties—the last piece of fabric separating us. There’s a pang of self-awareness as I think about how much my body has changed since I got pregnant with Henry. Stretch marks map across my lower belly like silver rivers, my breasts are fuller now, no longer pert like they once were.

But when I catch Killian’s eyes, darken with desire, and his cock standing at full attention, hard and throbbing, any lingering uncertainty evaporates. His hungry gaze roams over every inch of me—the stretch marks, the fullness of my breasts, every scar and imperfection—as if they’re elements in an exquisite artwork he can’t wait to explore further. He wants me. All of me—the woman who carried a child within her womb—every curve, every scar, every part of me life has shaped.

My nipples are hard peeks under his gaze, begging for the warmth of his touch. His mouth. His tongue.

Standing at the edge of the bed, he lifts my foot and unbuckles the straps of my shoes one by one, his ocean blues not even focused on his task but roving up my naked curves instead, my center spread and bare to him, glistening with a hunger I haven’t felt in years.

Once my shoes are gone, he climbs onto the bed and settles between my thighs with a devilish glint, hiking my legs over his shoulders. He leans in, leaving soft kisses over my thighs and nub leaving me shivering in anticipation, my breath catching. He traces my slick folds with his lips, his breaths warm over my flushed skin, my heart like a jackhammer. Our eyes are locked in a steely gaze, but once he parts my thighs further apart, his grip bruising my skin in the most delicious way, and he slides his tongue through my slit, all bets are off. My elbows collapse underneath me, and my eyes are rolling to the back of my head, his tongue exploring with slow deliberate strokes, eliciting gasps and moans that echo through the quiet room.

For some reason, I’d thought he might be overeager, given his age, and not used to giving pleasure as much as receiving it, and maybe that was just my previous experiences. But, boy, was I wrong. Because, there’s reverence in each stroke and nibble, his mouth worshiping me, coaxing me closer to the brink with each flick of his tongue over my aching clit, delving into my depths as if he could find every secret I’ve ever kept hidden there.

“Killian!” I can’t help but cry out, the words ripped from my throat as electrifying heat consumes me. A shuddering “Yesss!” escapes, my thighs clamping around his head like a vice, involuntary while my hands become entangled in the dark tresses of his hair.

Even as waves of ecstasy begin to ebb, he continues his ministrations, languid licks that draw out the lingering tremors of my orgasm. His tongue moves with an unhurried grace, a contrast to the rapid beating of my heart.

Heat lingers on my skin, a delicious aftershock that trembles through me.

His lips start a blazing hot path from the apex of my thighs to my stomach, his mouth a brand, searing his claim on me. Every kiss imprinted on my skin burns brighter than the last, leaving no part of me untouched or undiscovered. His lips trace delicate patterns across my abdomen, pausing to dip into my navel before continuing their ascent.

The curve of each rib becomes a stepping stone as he climbs closer to my breasts, where he lingers, lavishing each contour and peak with his tongue. His kisses are equally soft and demanding around the areolas before he draws my nipples into his hot mouth, pleasure jolting through me.

By the time he reaches my lips, I’m a panting, trembling mess underneath him, our bare skin meeting, the contact sparking a fire that threatens to consume us both.

“God, everything about you is perfect,” he breathes, his voice completely wrecked. His words are exactly what a forty-year-old woman wants to hear about her naked body, but I know it’s not empty flattery. It’s the truth etched in the lines of his face, in the fire in his eyes, the way he holds my gaze when he says it. 

His erection presses against my thigh, hard and insistent, ready to claim me.

And God, do I want him to claim me. Every inch.

“Should I wear a condom?” 

Right. A condom—something I hadn’t even thought about. God, it’s been too long, I feel like a virgin all over again. 

“Do you have anything I should be aware of?” I counter, my voice surprisingly steady.

He shakes his head, his gaze never leaving mine. “No, and you? Have you been with anyone since Neal?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m on the pill.” I glide my hand between us, wrapping my fingers around his stiff shaft, stroking softly, his smooth, velvety length easily sliding through my fist. “And I want to feel you inside me.”

He groans as he kisses me sweetly on the lips, a grin spreading across his face. “I want to feel you, too.”

With that settled, I place him at my entrance, and the connection sends sparks flying through me. After thirteen years of Neal and three years of nothing, Killian feels incredible inside me. No, incredible is a colossal understatement. And he’s not even fully inside me yet.

Our breaths, heavy and ragged, mingle as he eases into me, claiming territory with slow, tender strokes that belie his strength. My legs are wrapped around his back, my hands resting on his shoulder blades as I arch into him, every nerve-ending alight with fire.

He responds in kind, his hips a perfect counterpoint to mine, as if we’re two parts of a whole finally clicking into place. “Swan,” he whispers against my lips, and I shiver at the sound of my name wrapped in his accent, heavy with lust. “Bloody hell…you feel so damn good.” He captures my lips before I can respond, his tongue moving against mine with the rhythm of his hips, and I can taste myself on his tongue, which I’ve never had the pleasure of doing before. Neal always used mouthwash afterward before kissing me.

I lose myself in the sensations—the heat of his body, the weight of him, the taste of his kiss, the sound of our unified gasps filling the room. His size, the smoothness of his back, the firmness of his ass as I take both perfect globes in my hands, pulling him in deeper. It’s a heady combination, intoxicating, dizzying, and I drink it all in greedily.

“Killian...” His name spills from my lips as he draws me closer to the edge. There’s no holding back, no fear or doubt, only the boundless expanse of sensation he alone can evoke. My body gives in to the overwhelming tide of pleasure that threatens to sweep me under, my fingernails clawing into his back.

Heat coils inside me, raw and all-consuming as Killian’s body drives into mine with a primal rhythm, his voice, rough like gravel, cutting through the haze of pleasure. “Let go, Emma.”

And I do. I let go, surrendering to the waves as they crash over me, and I happily drown in the bliss of it, my walls fluttering around his beautiful dick that has me coming undone.

He follows close behind, thrusting harder and faster, the crescendo building as he chases his impending release. His hips falter, movements growing erratic, his body shuddering. He dips his head, teeth grazing my skin, breath hot against my neck. His grip tightens around me, hands like steel bands, and I’m certain there will be marks—temporary souvenirs—imprinted on my skin I’ll probably admire in the mirror later.

“Emma…” My name is pure heaven as it tumbles from his lips, wrapped in a thick, broken accent as he pours his warmth inside me.

Pure heaven.

We reposition ourselves so he’s on his back and I’m beside him, boneless, draping an arm around his torso. My breath steadies, our bodies a tangle of limbs, the echo of his touch, his kiss, on every inch of my skin, his chest a relentless drumbeat against my ear. The sheets are twisted around our legs, our fingers are laced together as he presses a tender kiss against my forehead.

“Emma…you’re incredible.” His words vibrate against my skin, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back.

I look up at him, my gaze meeting those deep blue eyes that seem to hold galaxies within them. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He smiles, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “Your beauty,” he whispers huskily, “it’s not just in the way you look, Swan. It’s everything about you. It’s the very essence of you.” His touch is reverent, as though each word he utters is etched into my skin.

A warmth blooms in my chest at his words, at the admiration that laces each syllable. It’s as if every wall I’ve ever built has not only been scaled but completely dismantled by the tenderness of his gaze. He sees me, truly sees me—not just the polished exterior, but the tangled, knotted threads of my soul.

A teasing smile pulls at my lips. “Do you say that to all the women you’re with?”

He chuckles, his body shaking with the deep, hearty sound. “I would only say it if I meant it…so no, I don’t.”

I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips, taking in the jagged edge of his stubble, the warmth of his skin. His eyes lock with mine, a stormy blue that speaks volumes without a single word. My heart swells, full to bursting with an emotion I can neither name nor contain.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispers, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Or forever.”

I laugh. “I’ll stay tonight…but I’ll have to go back early tomorrow. Henry will be back home around noon.”

He nods, despite the disappointment flashing in his eyes. “Of course, love.”

Lying here naked, pressed against him, I allow myself to bask in the afterglow, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling me into a state of serene bliss.

I don’t remember sex being so damn good before.

It’s never been that good.

Then it hits me. He’s the first, the only one who’s ever made me orgasm from sex alone. Sure, I’ve had orgasms but only from stimulation—a tongue, a finger or (mostly) a battery-operated friend. Never from penetration. I didn’t even think it was possible for me. And I’ve certainly never experienced multiple orgasms before tonight.

I always assumed I was the problem. That I was broken somehow.

But here I am, lying in Killian’s arms, fulfilled and sated in a way I never thought possible. It’s like he’s unlocked some secret part of me no one else could access before.

And maybe my history of being unsatisfied in bed is the reason I waited so long to be with someone else after Neal left.

Then again, if I had known it could be this good, I wouldn’t have waited.

But maybe it was Killian I was waiting for all along.

[jack-of-crowns]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

'Le Valet de Couronnes’ by @jack-of-crowns

"Où va-t-il, á votre avis, ce petit bonhomme?"she pondered, but all I noticed was how beautiful Véronique looked in that spectral light with the eclipse coming on, Marcel waves of brunette rustling in the warm Marghazi breeze coming up from the Bay of Bengal. She laughed to see that look in my eyes. "Really, Jack, that mouse I meant."

Sure enough, there was the yellowish flick of a chooha's tail, disappearing just around the white stucco facade of the café on Rue de la Compagnie, where we had perched to enjoy the Pongal festival unfolding on the streets of Pondicherry before us. The strange thing was, I hadn't noticed an alleyway there a moment ago. "Where the devil do you suppose he's off to," I softly answered her.

Setting my napkin to the side of the paneer ratatouille I'd been enjoying and donning my trusty fedora, I stood up to take a quick look. "Un instant, ma chérie." It must have been a trick of the light that I hadn't noticed the narrow lane of cobbles beforehand, but there was the little mouse scurrying on just ahead. It paused at the side of the building adjacent to the café, underneath a casement window shaded by a jali screen that fragmented the kerosene lamplight shining behind it.

The building was some sort of art gallery; hanging in the window was an exquisite work in the Cubist style, entitled 'Le Valet de Couronnes’. The subject was a portrait in bluish-grey tones, wearing an ornate headpiece, and eyes closed meditatively. The background was an intricate jumble of complex geometries and abstract mechanisms. There was a striking familarity to this man, I thought to myself as the eclipses' penumbra deepened overhead.

Distant temple bells began to toll the evening aarti to Ganesha; the clock tower in the French Quarter sounded the hour. The eyes of the painting flickered, dancing in the moonshadow. It was 1925, and a new year was beginning. The uttarayan was beginning, and the northern portal was opened...

It is 2025, and Veronica catches the eye of the gallery's clerk, who is just about to close shop for the night. "How much for this painting," she inquires.

"Ten thousand rupees," he replies. "A classic from the colonial era, amma. I believe that was a self-portrait of a British artist who used to live next door to here. Really takes one on a journey to another place and time, doesn't it?"

She nods and smiles, handing over the banknotes as he parcels up her belated Christmas present to herself. "Comment ça commence," she murmurs; that's how all the best stories begin.

[pers-books]

A familiar face is hanging around in Victorian England in

2.1. The Paternoster Gang: Rogues Gallery

AVAILABLE OCTOBER 2023

Victorian England is home to the Great Detective, Madame Vastra, her resourceful spouse, Jenny Flint, and their loyal valet, Strax. Solving conundrums, fighting injustice and capturing criminals are all in a day’s work for the Gang – but the most dangerous threat is one that takes up residence undetected.

There are trespassers in London, and they are coming to Paternoster Row…

1.1 The Ghost and the Potato Man by Barnaby Kay When a criminal gang pulls off a series of impossible heists, Inspector Cotton calls upon the talents of the Great Detective to crack the case. Tipped off by Ellie Higson, the Paternoster Gang uncover a link to a baffling music hall act.

While Jenny and Vastra chase down leads in London’s dangerous underworld, Strax finds a career on the stage is beckoning…

1.2 Symmetry of Death by Dan Starkey Cases are mounting for the Paternoster Gang. Three mysteries call for immediate attention: a murder, a locked room conundrum, and some acts of random vandalism. But is there a connection?

As Jenny goes undercover and Strax stakes out the suspects, Vastra finds an echo of the distant past which could be the key to the solution.

1.3 Till Death Us Do Part by Lisa McMullin Jenny has decided she wants a wedding – a real wedding with Vastra, before their family and friends. But the viewing of a dress leads to misunderstandings and confusions, becoming ever more serious. The owner of the dress claims to have been jilted years before by a man both familiar and unfamiliar… the Doctor!

As tempers flare, alien forces are at work – and what’s more, there could be a trespasser in Paternoster Row.

-- I'm just gonna go ahead and say 'Ooh!' at this news!

[deepestfestivallight]

Choosing the Right Service: A Comprehensive FAQ on Car Valeting

Introduction

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Choosing the Right Service: A Comprehensive FAQ on Car Valeting

The decision to hire a professional car valeting service is often influenced by various factors. Below, we will explore essential aspects that should guide your decision-making process.

What Is Car Valeting?

Car valeting refers to a thorough cleaning and detailing process for vehicles, both inside and outside. It typically includes washing, waxing, vacuuming, and may even involve specialized services such as upholstery cleaning or paint protection.

Key Components of Car Valeting: Exterior Cleaning: Includes washing, waxing, and polishing. Interior Cleaning: Vacuuming seats and carpets, wiping down surfaces. Specialized Services: Such as headlight restoration or odor removal. Why Should I Opt for Professional Car Valeting?

Professional car valeting offers multiple benefits that DIY cleaning simply cannot match. Here are some reasons why you should consider reaching out for professional car valeting services:

Expertise: Trained professionals know which products are best suited for different materials. Time-Saving: Hiring experts allows you to focus on other tasks while they handle your vehicle. High-Quality Results: Professionals achieve results that are often unmatched by regular cleaning methods. Common Car Valeting Queries

In this section, we’ll address frequently asked questions regarding car Autoluxe Mobile Home Cleaning Service valeting services.

1. How Often Should I Get My Car Valeted?

It depends on your usage and environment. If you use your vehicle daily in urban areas with heavy traffic or adverse weather conditions, consider booking an appointment with Car-Valet.ie every 4-6 weeks.

2. What Are Competitive Car Valet Pricing in Dublin?

Prices vary based on the service type and provider but generally range from €50 to €150 for comprehensive packages. Always compare prices and read customer reviews for better insight into quality versus cost.

3. Can I DIY My Car Cleaning?

While DIY methods can suffice for basic cleaning tasks, professional services offer specialized equipment and techniques that yield superior results—especially when it comes to intricate jobs like interior detailing or exterior polishing.

4. What Should I Look For in a Valeting Service Provider?

Look for:

Client feedback on their services R

[number-1-blind]

Regulus Black - Art Galleries and Champagne

︵‿︵‿୨☆୧‿︵‿︵

Regulus Arcturus Black, heir of the Black family throne and fortune and a huge art enthusiast. Tonight, this art enthusiast was getting ready for a night at an esteemed art gallery. They had paintings from all over the world on showcase, and he couldn't be happier about it. He was dressed in his finest clothing. A nice light green button-up shirt that made his eye color pop in just the right way. On top of his button-up lay a black suit coat that fit him in just the right way – made him look sharper and yet more rounded at the same time. His shoes were nice dress shoes with a bit of a heel, to make him just slightly taller. Accessories were what made the most of his outfit, shiny silver rings on almost every finger, several of them in the shape of snakes.

Currently, he sat in front of the mirror as close as he possibly could be, applying the slightest bit of makeup, so little that his parents couldn't tell, but enough to make a good difference. Just a little black around his eyes, and a few coverups – not that he needed it, he was a handsome man to say the least. He was incredibly sharp, jaw and cheekbones shaped in a way that would make girls squeal just by seeing him. Aside from that, his eyes were a green-gray color that perfectly complimented his dark black hair. His hair was slightly curly, generally more wavy, but it had a light shine that showed off its softness. He wasn't necessarily tall, but he wasn't short, although he definitely looked tall.

He had finished his makeup, and was making his way downstairs and out to the family car – which undoubtedly is one of many. Regulus made himself comfortable in the back seat next to his mother, Walburga, which was definitely a hard thing to do. She was a stern woman, she didn't take any nonsense and would surely have you locked in a room if you disobeyed her. But other than that, she was a nice mother, she at least cared for Regulus. His father, Orion, entered the car next, taking his seat in the front next to the driver. The car ride was silent, as always.

The art gallery was huge, Regulus was sure they’d have paintings that he’d never even seen before. Many other noble families lined up their cars to be taken by valet or to let their drivers park. He hated that. That he’d have to share these paintings with someone else, with people who didn’t even care about the art of the paintings. They only cared about how expensive they were, what historical figures they displayed. They weren’t like Regulus.

Regulus liked paintings like these because it was a window, a window of paint into a time that was otherwise forgotten. He could see the lives and deaths of those who came before him. He could see how they loved, how they cried, it was fascinating in every way. Each painting told a different story, each one could tell him something else. In his mind, no one saw that but him, he was the only one who could appreciate things like this.

As soon as he stepped into the art gallery he felt so alive. It was quiet but bustling with people, waiters walking around with platters of champagne and various small hors d'oeuvres. Everyone was dressed in black and white, glittering dresses and fancy tuxedos. The lights were slightly warm, and they set a mood that couldn't be replicated anywhere else. At least he could thank his parents for being able to see such great wonders as this.

He made his way down the hallways of paintings after paintings, absolutely mesmerized by one after the other. He stopped, just before the end of the hallway, where a woman stood. She was dressed in a white dress that he recognized from the Madame Pierre. She stood, legs crossed staring at a painting. She had a glass of shiny, glittery champagne in her hand that she swirled around over and over again as her eyes never wavered from the painting in front of her.

He stepped closer, standing right next to her. He saw the way she smiled softly at the painting and took a sip of her shining champagne. He looked up at the painting, it was An Offering by Sir Frank. His eyes find his way back to her, watching her expressions and her fingers tracing the top of her glass.

Her eyes finally broke from the painting, meeting Regulus's briefly before wandering over his figure. She took in his sharp features, scanning him over. "He's the real art," She thought, "The Fallen Angel, The Day Dream," Yes the day dream, he was a dream, he couldn't possibly be real.

His eyes stared back at her through his curls. Regulus could imagine countless futures with a woman like her. He could imagine spending his whole life with her, or maybe just a summer. But however much time he has with her, he's sure it will never be enough. His mind was racing, thousands of impulsive thoughts nagging at him, telling him to make some sort of move.

He grabbed her champagne – taking a quick drink, the citrus taste filling his mouth. He swirled the drink around just like she had done, mesmerized by the shine and the bubbles. His eyes fell back on her, she had a huge smile as she snatched back the drink. He chuckled lightly, a tinge of pink brushing his cheeks. She laughed and took a big drink of the champagne and set the empty glass mindlessly on the nearest table.

"You're the Black heir aren't you?" She asked.

"Yep that's me,"

"Regulus Black just stole and drank my champagne, I'm honestly honored."

"Don't be, it was a very impulsive decision."

She laughed again. "God," He thought, "Her smile is so bright," So bright, yes quite unlike him. In his eyes he was exactly the opposite of everything she seemed to be, he was dark and rude and extremely bad at everything. But she – she seemed so bright and kind and like she'd be good at anything she tried. He had found out that love at first sight is real.

"What's your favorite painting here?" She asked him. It took him no time at all to answer, he had studied this gallery thoroughly, and it housed one of his favorite paintings.

"Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky, Gathering Storm,"

"I didn't understand half of the words you said but take me to it,"

He smiled again – he thought maybe this was the most he'd ever smiled before. Regulus walked her over to the painting happily, no one had ever asked what his favorite was, not once.

"It's beautiful," She muttered.

"It never fails to amaze me just how calm a raging storm can look," He mumbles, twisting his rings around his fingers. She looks at him – his eyes glued to the painting.

“It reminds me that no matter how things may seem on the outside, it’s always different on the inside,” He mutters. He shakes his head, and smiles softly, "Sorry,"

Their eyes met again, Regulus taking a step closer. He took her hand, his thumb brushing over her cold rose gold rings. He brought her hand up to his lips, a soft kiss placed on the back of hand.

"I know we've just met and this isn't like me but there's something special about you." He spoke against her hand. She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving his. He let her hand go, his wandering to her face, brushing across her jaw.

"Regulus,"

"I know,"

Time seemed to disappear as a soft piano tune played throughout the gallery, echoes of voices and soft singing bouncing off the tan and gold walls. Just them two at this moment, alone, in front of Regulus’ favorite painting. It was almost like magic, like fate, like something or someone had put them together for a reason. They’d known each other for only hours – maybe minutes and yet each one could imagine entire lifetimes with one another. It felt as if it was destined – yes destiny.

Perhaps if reincarnation was real then maybe they’d known one another in a previous life, maybe they had been lovers in thousands of lifetimes before. Maybe they were brought together by some small string across thousands of miles or maybe they were written in the stars. Whatever it was, it was inescapable, no matter what had or would have happened they would have met at some point in time. Just lifetimes ago they could have been at this same gallery, at this same painting, together, alone.

Regulus moved his hands to her shoulders, taking even another step closer. His fingers traced along the lines of her upper arms, cold silver rings gliding across warm skin. He leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek.

“I think I’m craving a bit more champagne,” He laughs.

“I think I am too,”