#vintage silk painting

[vintagehomecollection]

Over the fireplace hangs a 1645 still life by Paulus van den Bosch, between twelve 18th-century French paintings of Roman emperors.

House & Garden’s Best in Decoration, 1987

[ghw-archive]

[1five1two]

'Spring Dawn over the Holy Mountain of Chichibu'. Taikan Yokoyama. 1928. Silk.

[adelinanebula]

myself in a silk hand painted corset from aeterna.corsets

https://www.instagram.com/aeterna.corsets/

[theaesthetelondon]

A little silky sophistication for the home? Don't worry, we have you covered.

With an extra 5% off every purchase from etsy, on top our of sale savings. Visit The Aesthete London, and buy something special today. Limited stock on all items.

[madamechrissy]

Arranged Husband Sylus - headcanons/taglist

pairings - Sylus x f! reader

MDNI- NSFW- You are arranged married to the powerful Sylus, just how will that go? Arranged marriage trope, a lil bit enemies to lovers, oral (f recieving) light angst, explicit sex, Sylus calling you Kitten, consent asking ofccc, talking you through it, getting fucked on his desk, getting 'tied up', breed kink - heavy breed kink- going to be part of a much larger fic <3 This wc- 3k

Full long oneshot here (11k)

Arranged Husband Sylus can't take just how beautiful you are when you step up in that pretty silk white dress, he had seen a picture of his bride to be, but in person you make his heart race. You meet his gaze, and you can hardly stand how beautiful he was, beautiful and dangerous, the leader of Onychinus, your groom to be. He stands tall and elegant in that blood red suit of his, matching those insane eyes. You eye his shoulder, where a mechanical crow sits, blinking in confusion, clutching your bouquet of flowers in your hands while you step down the altar, marrying a man you've never actually met.

Arranged Husband Sylus glares when you say 'what's a crow doing here?' offended you'd dare to refer to his crow in such a way! He already doesn't like your attitude, even though you're drop dead gorgeous, when you step in front of him, in a room scattered with just a few people, who have made today happen. Sylus, the richest man there is, and one of the most powerful, needed the 'perfect bride' which you suppose you are on paper. But in person? 'don't disrespect Mephisto' his deep, raspy voice makes your tummy clench. 'Now, on with the wedding, you're late' you gasp at his audacity- 'I am not late, I'm on time!' 'hmm' is all you hear in response, as the two of you are soon bound, forever.

Arranged Husband Sylus does not carry you over the threshold of his beautiful mansion, no he simply opens the door, sighing and shaking his head, carrying in your suitcases and handing them to two men there, as you eye the splendid manor before you. 'follow me' he says, so unceremoniously, you do just that, while two men wearing masks observe you quietly, adding to the eerie nature of this red and black interior. You eye the ceilings, watching Mephisto fly, cawing at you as if to let you know Sylus is his, you swear that's what he's thinking, you're so distracted you bump into Sylus's chest, making his jaw clench, catching you by your bare shoulders, while your hands touch his strong chest, feeling his hearbeat increase rapidly. 'pay attention, or you'll get lost' you sigh, now he's gripping a wrist, leading you to past enormous paintings, elaborate seats, a roaring fireplace where the crow perches, pausing only to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Arranged Husband Sylus soon shows you what is to be your room as well, and you gulp nervously, as what you are about to do hits you. Surely, having Sylus in bed would be nothing to complain about, he's absolutely gorgeous, but... it's for a duty. To bring him an heir, and nothing else. He surely wouldn't want this... right? you watch him while he pours two glasses, eyeing the four poster bed with the black canopy, the bearskin rugs under your now bare feet, when you take off your heels, wincing at the relief. He raises a brow at you, handing you a glass then, leaning against another ridiculous fireplace. 'How many fireplaces do you need, hmm?' he smirks at you, taking a sip of the wine, just a bit dripping down the corner of his mouth like a drop of blood, you watch his tongue lap it off, and can barely hold yourself together from it. 'you're just mad you don't have as many' you laugh then, shaking your head, sipping the wine. 'no, and let's... get on with it tonight, yes?'

Arranged Husband Sylus sputters a bit - 'get on with it?' you nod shyly, sipping wine far too quickly, making him glare. 'do you know what vintage that is, you are supposed to savor it' you gulp the rest down to his anger, licking at your own lip, making his thoughts go haywire. He was furious he'd been forced to take a bride, to 'settle down' if you will, to make heirs, but when your glaring little eyes hit him, quite like the angry kitten he describes you as, something heats up in his gut. He gulps down his now as well, eyes trailing down your body, eager to see every pretty inch, when you cross your arms under pretty breasts. 'I know what I'm here for, let's not pretend with each other, right?' you amuse him then, fuck you're... adorable, all feisty and acting as if you know what to do, when he can see your breasts rising and falling with your nerves, tempting him with every breath.

Arranged Husband Sylus arches a thin brow, smirking down at you now, murmuring - 'oh, do you know what to do tonight, Kitten?' you roll your eyes, nodding and undoing the silk ties of your gown, letting it fall and revealing the deep red lingerie underneath, momentarily making Sylus lose his mind at how delectable you look. 'I'm not a kitten, you... crow' he's laughing then, throwing his head back, before he steps closer, closer, pushing you back until your knees hit the back of the enormous bed, looming over you. His huge hands grip your waist, before he unceremoniously hoists you up, letting you bounce on the bed as he lays on top of you in mere seconds, gripping your delicate wrist with a huge hand, teeth glinting with his grin. 'you scared, kitten?' 'no! and stop... calling me that I...' he slams his lips on yours, plump and sweet from wine, shutting you up firmly.

Arranged Husband Sylus leans over you, lips parted in a sigh, watching how you look under him, lips swollen from his kisses, eyes blown out from just that. He leans up on an arm and a knee now, hand trailing across your breast, gripping it and eliciting a slutty little moan, making him ache for you. 'wear this just f'me, hmm?' he's brushing a thumb over your nipple through the thin lace, before leaning down, tongue lapping at it. 'Ah!' your cry of pleasure makes him harder, need gnawing at him for his new bride, shocking him with the intensity, while his hand trails your stomach, making it tense before it hits your lacy panties. 'fuck, you're that soaked already, sweetie?' you're dripping and stick when he peels them down your thighs, slowly, bit by bit, exhaling as he sees your perfect cunt. 'she's pouring out, isn't she?' 'n-no she's... not I ... ah!' he's grinning. 'how cute...'

Arranged Husband Sylus barely fingers your slick cunt, sucking your juices off one of them, defined cheeks hollowing with the action. 'you taste so sweet for such a brat' you want to pop off another remark, but you're too sensitive, gripping his expensive dress shirt, wishing it were off him suddenly. 'we should... consummate this, get it over with, right? my duty...' you murmur, and he pauses, shaking his head then. 'your duty... yet you're this wet, tsk... are you sure that's what this is?' you blink rapidly when he kisses down your stomach, your pussy so wet just his finger flicking up and down it is embarrassingly loud. 'listen to her' his sharp teeth are nipping your inner thigh, you scream out. 'Sylus... you're... we...' your mind can't comprehend the desire filling you. 'Can't speak, can you? from just this? ah... thought you had a little more fight, so pathetic already f'me?' you're scowling as he grins like a smug jerk, and you want to call him that, but you are at loss for words.

Arranged Husband Sylus who practically purrs like a damn cat himself when he spreads your thighs in a fluid motion, chuckling a bit as they tremble, his fingers pressing into the plush of your thighs, breath ghosting over your eager cunt. 'W-what are you...' Sylus looks up at you with those crimson eyes, so dilated they're black, silvery lock falling just so over his brow. 'I like to play with my food, just a bit sweetie' you blink a bit then, 'your food!?' he's smirking as he laps his tongue on your inner thigh, your hips jerk up for more without you even knowing, earning his soft, husky groan. 'yes, I enjoy to toy with my meal'

Arranged Husband Sylus swipes his long tongue up your slit then, and your hands grip his silky locks without thinking, nails pressing against his scalp, making him throb for you. 'Kitten does have claws, huh?' your answer gets stuck in your throat and turns into a throaty moan as he spreads your lips, peering at the little hole drooling arousal, his breaths heavier and heavier. 'w-what are you... d-doing?' he smiles against your pussy now, teeth right against your entrance, shoving your thighs even further apart - 'just as I said, playing with my food before I eat it'

Arranged Husband Sylus devours your pussy then, drinking you up with the lewdest noises, he's pressing his cock against that elegant bed spread under his slacks, precum dripping from his reddened tip while you pour all over his face. Your hands grip even tighter, while he laps at your cunt, fucking his tongue into your soppy entrance, while you scream out, forgetting just who he is and who you are even. This is not what you ever heard of, of being married and baring his heir, when his glowing red eyes shoot up at you, and his tastebuds delve against your gummy walls, you feel it, pressure building, tummy tensing, he sees you holding back, leaning up now. 'don't fight it, kitten, let go.

Arranged Husband Sylus watches as your eyes roll back, slipping two long, elegant fingers deep in your cunt and curling, his other hand pressing down on your tummy, picturing filling you, making him fucking feral. 'That's it, don't fight it- bratty kitten' he's curling those fingers right on your spot, and when he flicks his tongue on your engorged clit, you're gushing all over, pulsing around his digits when you shatter, orgasm rushing through you. You blink, gasping and disoriented when he has your wrists bound by red, swirling energy above your head. 'you're claws hurt just a bit, and I'm not finished yet. Look how much you came for me, you can listen' you're bound under him then, when he shoves your thighs up further. 'Too much! mnh!'

Arranged Husband Sylus can't stop his grin when you cum again with a mere few flicks of his tongue, and you eye him between your thighs, flushing when you realize his chin is glistening from you. 'So easy, aren't you?' you scoff, shaking your head and he parts your lips, just breathing on your clit and watching it twitch, feeling you writhe in pleasure under him, moaning. 'Oh... g-get up here!' he's smirking as he slides up your body, still in his damn slacks, pressing his thick length against you. 'Need something, kitten?' you glare, just making you cuter really, grinding up your hips now 'w-we need to make heirs... we...' Sylus is off you now, making you feel so empty, and stands suddenly, eyeing your naked body longingly, releasing your wrists, still fully fucking clothed damn near, just his jacket gone. 'Sylus, aren't we supposed to-' he shakes his head, walking over to his night stand, picking up that glass of red wine.

Arranged Husband Sylus takes a sip, as you try to compose yourself, and he's got the smuggest smirk on his face. 'We'll do that when you want to, not because you have to' his words make you blink rapidly, heart still racing. You want to. But he's already bending down, tilting your chin up just a bit, sipping that glass with his plump lips. 'Open, sweetie, let's see if you can listen' you do as he commands, and he sips the wine, pouring it down into your mouth as he kisses you, you drink the sweet red wine down your throat, mixing with your own taste, your thighs clench when the tall man straightens, brushing your hair back. 'I have to be gone for a week, I expect you to have my answer when I come back' you frown now, asking- 'answer?' - when he heads to the door, heels clicking on the polished marble, turning his head to look back at you. 'mmhmm'

Arranged Husband Sylus has Kieran and Luke, the two giant masked men, constantly watching you the week he's gone, if you have to leave the house, they follow you, if you have to do anything, they're there. At first annoying the shit out of you, eventually you tolerate them, asking sly questions about just who Sylus was. You angrily call him - hearing his sigh as he picks up - 'What is it?' you scoff at him. 'So friendly' Sylus rolls his red eyes. 'I'm in a bit of a bind, can this be brief?' You roll your own eyes now. 'Why are these two bozos following me everywhere!?' You hear their indignation and Sylus' chuckle 'Hey!' they both cross their arms at you, you just stick out your tongue. 'because, you're my wife, and you need protection' 'I can protect myself-' Sylus hangs up, leaving you to glare... but you find yourself touching your clit that night, remembering his mouth.

Arranged Husband Sylus comes back and is in his pristine, ostenaceous office, aglow with soft lights as he sits at his enormous desk, bent over elaborate screens he's touching. His gaze meets yours, and you see his soft gray shirt shows a body you're dying to see more of, making your throat dry. 'did you decide, kitten?' he asks softly, for once just a little less smug, standing and leaning over the desk, you shut the office door with a click, heart racing as you step up to him. 'yes, I have'

Arranged Husband Sylus has everything shoved off his desk moments later, his shirt slid half up his body, your dress shoved over your hips, kissing you eagerly over and over. 'are you sure?' he asks again, when you're stroking his long, veiny cock, pussy drooling down the polished magogony beneath you. 'I want it' at your words he presses his tip inside you, so deep, you're gasping as you feel it, stretching and filling you, when his hand entwines with yours over your head, he fucks you against that desk, you're spasming around his girthy length. 'f-fuck... feel her, she's taking me so well, huh?' he's whispering, crying out in your ear when he's buried his face against your neck, your nails dig into his back, so fucked out already you can't function, whining out, head slamming the desk screaming - 'Sylus!'

Arranged Husband Sylus fucks into you harder and harder, until he finally busts so deep in you, that it coats every inch of your walls, breathing heavy as he lays over you, so much unspoken between the two of you. That night he's in your room, fucking you again, this time with you on your tummy, wrapping his long arms around you, fucking one load of cum out, just to pour another, and you're seeing stars, all you can keep whispering is his name, over and over. The next morning you're riding him on top, his hands on your waist, tits bouncing against his face, even at breakfast in the immaculate banquet hall, he's lapping your pussy up, murmuring 'kitten' ignoring the servants who walk in and out, merely making him more apt to feast on your perfct cunt, while he drinks his own cum out of you.

Arranged Husband Sylus makes you both question... is this more? Is it convenience, amazing sex... but when his ruby eyes glow while he's got you folded in a mating press, and he's insane and feral, the two of you falter. What is this feeling? Sylus can't take it, how sexy you are bent in half 'so small compared to me, huh? could break you, sweetie' you're past trying to care, to glare or make remarks, Sylus is huge and his heavy weight just makes you feel so small, helpless, while his cock splits you apart. 'ready for me to breed you, huh? fill you up-make you so full of me?' you're clinging to him, cunt drooling down the sheets, wet sounds and skin smacking filling Sylus' bed chamber. 'I asked a question, sweetie' you're biting your lip now, making him pause, chuckling 'you just don't listen, do you?' gripping your throat and letting your thighs fall. But the words that threaten to spill - that you think you're in love- are cut off by his brutal kiss, while he muffles his own declarations.

Could there be more between you both, or are you bound by your duty?

THIS WAS LONG AF for a damn preview - oneshot is linked above!

PERM tag crew - @alt--er--love @indiewritesxoxo @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji  @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @naomi-main @fairygardenprincesss @estrellaexists @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff

[tojisteddy]

Where the Flowers Bloom | cw: fluff, shy!reader, age gap (reader mid 20s, John late 30s).

I just cannot stop thinking about Shy!reader who has an array of hair accessories. From clips to pins to silk scrunchies, barrettes, and bows— you’ve got it all and in different shapes too.

There are fruit shaped clips, flower shaped clips, butterflies, stars, music notes, vintage hair combs, sea shells or pearls. And you put them in very meticulously so they all stay in place. People can’t help but notice them as you walk by, they’re super cute, and they make you look even prettier than you already do.

John can’t help but notice how they fit you so well, how nice they look as if real flowers are pinning back your curls to show your pretty eyes, or holding your your hair in a mid pony with a large star claw clip— fucking adorable. John doesn’t know for certain that you like him not just yet but he can’t help but love the idea of you being his. Not just you steeling glances across the rooms, having small talk in the break room. Buying each other lunch when the other is busy.

But he can’t help the leering eyes that surround you, they wander too much, and for too long. John passes a quaint little shop while he buys dinner that reminds him of you.

Something to show them that your Johns, and only his.

No you’re not. You’re not a possession…

He debates about it, turning away and to the cute clip that caught his pretty blue eyes from the gallery window. Well, it’s just be a little sign to show them to back off. Something only he’d know about. Just this.

“For you.” He sets down the yellow gift bag on your desk, right beside the stack of files, you had piled up.

You blink once. Slow. Eyes wandering from the bag, then back at him. This wasn’t lunch.

“Really? For me?” You unconsciously look at him with those big brown eyes, your heart pumping faster- cur-thunk, cur-thunk, cur-thunk.

You remove the glittery gift paper, reaching in the bag without looking in, “Just saw it in the window and I thought, ‘this has [+]’s name on it.’” He clears his throat, shifting on his feet, watching as you blankly look at the item. “What do you think?”

“It’s very nice John thank you.” You nodded, fingers tracing over the stunning lilac orchid hairpin. It was gorgeous. Something you knew for a fact, you didn’t have before. Your brain was swooning, butterflies almost flying out of your stomach. John Price, had given you a gift, a gift that you really liked!

Be normal, be normal, be normal. be cool, calm and collected- collectedcoolcalm!—

“Yeah I’ll wear it later.” You breath out your excitement out of your mouth but it didn’t do anything to your heart. Your eyes were still on it as you gently wrapped it back up and carefully put it in the bag. Then back at John.

There’s a small frown on his lips as he gives you a quick goodbye. Scratching his neck while you look at his back confused.

He didn’t think you liked it, at first.

But there you were, wearing the lilac orchid pin in the break room. And then the next day, along with the peal hair comb in a meeting, and then the next day, and the next— till two weeks passed.

And you were there, infront of his office, adjusting the pin ever to perfectly with one hand, another stack of files in the other. Fingers grazing over it with the widest smile he’d seen on your beautiful face. You can’t help but look at it again through the glare of the painting.

So fucking cute.

“You like your pin don’t you?” John interrupts your thoughts, scaring the living shit out you, you almost drop the files in your hands.

Like you took his old heart, and squeezed it.

“But you like it, yeah? Was a bit worried you wouldn’t like it sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You. A sweetheart. John called you— your heart leaped out.

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s so nice I haven’t been able to put it down! I mean- not that I’ve been wearin it the whole time, haha, I wouldnt— not that yours is better than the others I have… Not that it’s bad or anything! It’s pretty, it makes me feel- like- I’m very greatful, thanks again John.“ you ramble, bashing your head into a wall internally. Why the hell did you say all that?

Your cheeks flush, immediately looking elsewhere, you plop the stack of files in Johns hands. “H-have a good one John!” And you scurry off just as darling as you usually do.

A smirk grows on John’s lips, rubbing at his beard as you walked down the hall.

A damn cute bumble bee you were, even if you didn’t realize it. You were making the old guy fall on his knees for you.

John would just have to have you.

a/n: shy!reader, my cutesy rambling baby.

most recent masterlist more shy!reader

[maevedoodle]

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹જ⁀➴ 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤

You and Bob are left alone in the tower when the others go out to stock up on supplies before the storm.

𝐚/𝐧: everyone’s loving him right now, me included.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

The rain had started sometime before noon.

The rain pattered against the tower windows without rhythm, you watched the droplets race, you even decided to bet on one. It dissolved in a quick second.

You shift your weight from one bare foot to the other on the cool floor. The oversized navy hoodie you’re wearing is soft from too many washes, sleeves pushed up to your elbows.

Underneath, white silk shorts cling gently to your thighs, barely brushing mid leg. A matching lace tank peeks out under the hoodie, thin straps, And delicate fabric.

The team had left about an hour ago to stock up before the storm came. Yelena had tossed on her rain coat on the way out, told you not to bother coming. Something about Bob needing company, about how “he won’t say it, but he hates being alone.”

Those exact words.

So they left him with you. You with him. You didn’t argue instead, stayed.

The kettle on the stove rattles gently as it warms. You pull two mugs from the cabinet, both heavy, both chipped. One’s covered in faded cartoon frogs wearing tiny sunglasses. The other’s a messy space theme, definitely hand painted with lopsided planets and weird little stars.

You had a thing for funky mugs. You’re the reason the tower’s stocked up with a bunch of them. Bucky complains about how it makes his coffee taste funny, but he uses the one you specifically bought for him every morning.

You’re about to pour the hot water into the two mugs, but then you hear the sound of soft footsteps.

Bob’s quiet when he walks, You picked up on that some time ago. He leans against the doorway without saying anything at first. His hair is damp, sticking a little to his forehead. He must’ve just took a shower.

He’s wearing loose black and gray plaid pajama pants and no shirt which is giving you the clear view of his abs. Your eyes glance over the large gash across his chest.

You blink once and look away, You weren’t subtle.

“What are you making?” He asks, his voice soft. Not tired, but gentle. Like it’s second nature to speak to you like this.

“Tea,” you say, lifting the kettle and carefully pouring it into the mugs. You grab a spoon and stir slow, grounding yourself in the motion.

Then, trying not to sound obvious, “You should put on a shirt or something. You’ll get sick.”

Bob doesn’t answer right away. You look up just in time to see him walk past the kitchen table, grab the old quilt tossed on the back of the couch, and wrap it around his shoulders like a makeshift robe.

“Close enough,” he says with an awkward grin on his face. You try not to smile, but you let it break. You hold up the frog mug and wait for him to take it.

He takes it with both hands, holding the funky mug like it’s a sacred vintage piece, then his footsteps patter towards the large table.

You wrap your hands around your own mug that’s warm, a little sticky from the honey and walk over to join him at the table.

He’s hunched over with the quilt still draped around his frame like a shield. His hair’s starting to curl slightly at the ends as it dries. He doesn’t say anything when you sit down across from him, just glances up once before looking back at his tea.

For a minute, there’s only the sound of the rain tapping against the windows and the quiet clink of your spoon against ceramic.

Then, without warning, he speaks and it’s meaningful. “When I was a kid,” he says slowly, like he didn’t mean to say it at all, “my mom used to say rain was good luck.”

You look up immediately joined in his talk.

“She’d let me sit out on the porch barefoot, even if it was cold. Just to listen to it. Said the world sounded softer in the rain.”

You don’t say anything, just smile a little. Bob almost never talks about his past. Not the good parts, anyway.

He takes a small sip from his mug, his eyes somewhere just beyond the window now.

“I liked that porch. Wood was all warped and creaky, but it smelled like cedar and motor oil.”

You watch the way his mouth curls at the edges. Not quite a smile, more like something trying to remember how.

The way his eyes lit up, and his hand movements when he’d talk.

He must feel your gaze on him because he stops mid sentence and grips his mug, “What?” He asks gently, “Nothing,” You cover your face in your hands embarrassed, him catching you admiring his childhood story.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

The mugs are empty by the time you stand to wash them.

The water runs warm over your hands as you rinse out the last bits of honey and mint. Behind you, the tower’s quiet again just the low murmur of the fireplace crackling in the living room and the rain, still steady against the glass.

You don’t hear him get up, but you feel it when he shifts.

When you turn, Bob’s on the couch now, the quilt still wrapped around him. He doesn’t say anything just opens one side of it, arm held out in a silent offer.

You dry your hands on your hoodie, heart thudding in a way you pretend not to notice, and walk over.

He doesn’t move when you sit beside him. Just closes the blanket around both of you, careful not to crowd.

“You know,” he says suddenly, voice careful like he’s still deciding if he should say anything at all, “I like your funky mugs.”

You glance over, a little smile forming. He’s looking straight ahead.

“And the way chipped nail polish looks on you,” he adds, quieter now. “Like you were in the middle of something important and never stopped long enough to fix it, but truth is you wear the nail polish for weeks on end.”

You shift a little toward him, caught somewhere between surprised and seen. He doesn’t stop. “And how you forget the lyrics so you just hum the rest.”

You laugh softly under your breath. “That obvious, huh?” His mouth twitches like he might smile. He scoffs his voice going low out of being nervous, “I notice.”

“I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“I did, I notice you, all the time and it’s kind of—” He places his finger on the bridge of his nose, he’s nervous. “It’s kind of hard not to.”

[felixandresims]

Hey Everyone 👋,

I created quite a few parts for the Chateau Set, we are now at part 7 😁 : The Bedroom.

For this set, I created a cane bed and an ottoman that ties in with last month's items. The Bed can be decorated with a hanging Canopy. A bedroom also needs storage so you'll get a dresser and a drawer and two different side tables. Your end tables can be decorated with a vintage telephone, alarm clock, peony bouquet, or table lamp.

I sat down this month and hand-painted a chinoiserie Wallpaper inspired by 'De Gournay' and created a Persian 'Silk' Rug. All the items have between 15 and 20 swatches.

I think this bedroom turned out rather cozy and I hope you and your Sims will enjoy it.

This set is on Early Access and you find it here

Thank you so so so much for all your support it means so much to me 😭

Lots of love and happy Simming,

Felix xxx

[mjolnirswriststrap]

Not My Type

Bucky Barnes x Plus Size!Reader x Steve Rogers

Word Count: 2,329 Masterlist Part 2

Summary: Bucky is dumb.

Warnings: Fatphobia.

A/N: something short, sweet and simple because I’m starting to feel guilty about not posting 😭

Steve watched, as his friend searched around the club with his eyes. He could assume Bucky was just waiting on the rest of their coworkers to get there, but he knew better. “She’ll get here soon enough, relax.”. Steve leans his back against the booth and takes a long drink of his beer. “Who?” Bucky asks, unconvincingly.

“Y/N.” He says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Bucky scrunches up his face “As if, man.” He ignores the look of disbelief Steve gives him. “Why deny it? I’ve caught you staring her down more times than I can count.”. Steve stands up and waves to signal Natasha to where they sat. “There’s nothing to deny, she’s not my type, leave it there so no one’s feelings get hurt, okay?” Bucky puts the bottle to his lips to shush himself when he sees you approach the booth.

“You guys look.” Steve’s speechless as he takes in the silk nighties the girls adorned. They all wore semi matching babydoll dresses. Color coded fishnets and heeled slippers adorned their long legs. Their hair was high and teased, makeup adding to the sultry bedtime look they were going for.

“You’re gonna catch flies.” Wanda remarks, leaving to find Vision having the time of his life with the DJ. Steve’s reaction to their costumes did nothing to calm your nerves. You went with the housewife costume too. Just a different approach entirely. Your hair sat in victory rolls atop your head, a thick stack of curls laying on your shoulders, a knee length dress with three quartered sleeves covered you. You’re painted your eyebrows on thinly, just to over line your lips, filling them in with your favorite red Mac lipstick. You were the most modest in your costume, but the most accurate.

You couldn’t wear a see through nightgown to the club. You would die of embarrassment, your rolls would be everywhere. At least in this thick cotton dress, no one could see the layers of shape wear you wore. You slid into the booth and sat beside Steve, getting sandwiched in when Sam finally arrives, late with no costume. “What took you so long, huh khakis?” You tease him, feeling nothing but comfort in his presence.

“You ever had to tell a 10 year old his idea isn’t good enough.” He laughs, “, You should go as yourself Unc!” He recalls the boys words over the phone. “Oh, of course, looks like a superhero to me!” You giggle, loving the thought of his nephews building up his self esteem. He was new to the team, no super strength or speed. Just courage, you admired Sam.

You finally take the chance to look around the booth. Steve wore his vintage Captain America suit, claiming it still fits like a glove. Bucky didn’t wear a costume, just his regular black t-shirt and leather jacket, no effort, even for Halloween. It helped Sam not look so out of place, so you just rolled your eyes at him. He tried way to hard to act like he didn’t care about anything, or anyone. You hate people like that, too self absorbed to carry on a conversation with someone who doesn’t benefit them.

You had been on the wrong side of his attitude before. Bumbling up to him after your first meeting. Stretching out your hand for a shake, he barely touched your hand as he shook your fingers, nodding at you with a curt “Welcome.” You didn’t think much of it till he sat beside Yelena, who got recruited the same day as you, and sparked up a lively conversation with her, telling her if she needs anything at the compound to come ask him. That was the first time Bucky hurt your feelings, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Y/N!” Someone yells at you from the dance floor. It’s Yelena dancing alone, “You promised me a dance.” She says, holding her arms out for you. You nudge Sam on the shoulder and do the most embarrassing scoot out of the booth you could imagine. Your dress rode up in the time you’d been sitting there, causing your thighs to stick to the old leather. Your face grimaces and you peel your skin away, hoping no one noticed.

“I’m on the dance floor, as promised.” You say, holding her hands while she dances on you. “You’re gonna need to do more than stand there if you want him to notice you.” She remarks, not skipping a beat. Yelena knew you too well, she knew you picked the 40s for a reason, not going with their free spirit 60s slumber get up.

Giving her a wide eyed look, as if he heard over the thumping music. “We both know I have no rhythm, stop that.” You giggle when she presses her back against you and slides down into a squat. She goes behind you and grabs your hips, forcing you against her chest. She grinds you into her pelvis, using her hands to guide your hips in sync with hers. You never moved that way before, and the sensuality of it had your heart racing. Yelena could be anyone, tightly holding on to you, you closed your eyes and threw your head back on her shoulder, just to imagine it was him for a moment.

You feel Yelena’s lips tickle your ear and she’s whispering “Look who can’t take their eyes off of you.” You tilt your head down and open your eyes to lock them with Bucky’s. He looks angry, like you pissed in his cheerios. You turn your body around to face Yelena, “I think he’s upset I’m blocking his view from you.”. That causes her to laugh out loud, grabbing your shoulders to shake you. “You’re mad woman! Look at what’s right in front of you.”. You laugh and look behind you to see Bucky staring down his beer now, instead of you.

“Yelena, I don’t know how to put this, he probably doesn’t even go for girls like me, skinny blonde seems more his type. You, you seem more his type.” You plead with her. She just shakes her head, “He doesn’t like me, I promise, Y/N.” You nod your head, trusting the closest friend you had.

•••••••

You make your way to the bar, grabbing a drink to cool yourself off. You’re walking back to the booth to get off your feet when you overhear Steve and Bucky’s conversation.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You look like a helpless puppy, just make your move.”

“As if I’d need to, she’s probably never had male attention, that’s too easy.”

“Just admit that you’re afraid of rejection.”

“From her? Never in a million years would fatty have a chance. Like I said she’s obviously not my type.”. Bucky instantly regretted the words as they came out of his mouth, he didn’t mean it. But Steve wouldn’t stop accusing him of having a crush on you.

Tears threaten to spill from your eyes, but you push them down. You knew better, Yelena didn’t, you shouldn’t have let her give you false hope. You choke down your pride and turn the corner, sliding into the booth as if nothing happened. “I think this is my last drink guys, I’m getting tired, and winter training starts tomorrow.”.

An echo of ‘boos’ and a “noooo why.” Almost tempt you to stay. But you know you’re not wanted here, by the one person that mattered. Steve catches your attention, “Are you sure? The nights still young.” He wiggles his brows. You give him a tight lipped smile, knowing he tried to get Bucky to make a move.

“Yeah, there’s really not much for me here. I came for Natasha.” He nods, giving Bucky a death glare. You finish your drink and when you stand up the previous shots you had with Wanda hit you. You quickly sit back down, grabbing the table for stability. “Are you alright?” Steve rests his hand on your lower back, scooting closer to you.

You shake your head, not being able to form words. You think you’d faint if you didn’t focus on breathing. “Let me help you home.” He can see the unsure expression on your face. “Wouldn’t be respecting the suit if I didn’t make sure you got home safe.”. With that he convinced you.

When the cold October air hits your face, it sobers you a little bit, taking away the dizzy feeling, leaving you with a thumping head. Steve takes a few minutes to join you outside, you left him in a heated whisper match with Bucky.

You’re leaned against the side of the building when he finds you. “Ready to go?” He offers you his arm but you shake your head. “No need to be such a gentleman, it’s just me.” You say, knowing he’s doing it just to be nice.

Steve cocks his head to the side. “Why shouldn’t I be a gentleman towards you?” He asks. You press your pounding head against the brick wall, closing your eyes to think of the right words. “The only reason a guy needs to be a gentleman is for good impressions. I highly doubt you feel a need to impress me.”.

He scoffs at you, “What gives you the impression that you’re not worth impressing?”. Even though you were tipsy, Bucky’s words seared your frontal lobe. You suddenly are at a loss for words. How do you tell him you were eavesdropping on their conversation.

“I just don’t get much male attention I guess.” You let him in, his eyes widen in realization that you heard Bucky’s harsh words. “I’m sorry about him, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” He says, stepping closer to you. You roll your eyes at him.

“No, he knew exactly what he was talking about. Fatty is no one’s type. No one looks at me and thinks “woah, the most beautiful woman in the world just walked in the room”.” You push yourself off the wall. “I understand that you wouldn’t get that, since you’re so perfect Steve. Women lay down at your feet, your options are endless. But not for someone like me.”.

Steve’s face had turned into a stone. His jaw clenched tightly. He let you vent out your frustrations. “The way you looked at the girls, the way half the club looked at the girls, I’ll never have that.”. You look at your feet and notice him take a step closer to you. You look up to see your faces not too far apart.

“I was looking at you too.” He reaches out, letting his hands hover over your waist. He rests them on your hips when your don’t push him away. “I don’t care what he said, he’s just insecure, he can’t admit that he thinks you’re hot.” You scoff at him this time.

“Steve whatever you’re doing, I get the whole nice guy thing. But just stop.” You say, pressing your hand against his chest. The thin polyester did nothing to conceal his smooth muscles. You feel him squeeze your sides tighter, his thumbs pressing into your belly. “He doesn’t speak for me.”.

You look into his dark eyes. “What are you saying?”. You’d never even humored yourself by considering Steve. You now had to rethink every encounter you ever had with him. “Forget him, let me show you how a real man appreciates a woman.”

He slides his hands down, letting them grasp as much of your ass that could fit in them. You gasp, he wasn’t afraid of your body, he knows what it has to offer. Judging by the way he gripped on to your ass like his life depended on it, he liked it.

“What if someone sees?” You say, pushing his hands off of you. He replaces them “I’m not afraid, why are you?” He leans down, connecting your lips, you’re frozen for a moment. How do you kiss him back? Before you could find out you feel a hand on your shoulder, ripping you away from Steve.

“What are you doing?” Bucky is talking to his friend, ignoring your existence. “Excuse me, we were in the middle of something.” Steve steps between you and Bucky. “You shouldn’t be out here hooking up with a random coworker.” Bucky says, trying to convince himself.

“Y/N isn’t a random coworker, Jesus Bucky, what’s your problem?” Steve asks, letting his anger show. He knew what he was doing, if Bucky wouldn’t admit it on his own, jealousy would work just fine. Bucky balls up his fists at his side “You know what my problem is.”.

You’re staring at Steve’s back, you don’t know what Bucky’s talking about. Is he so repulsed by a plus size woman, he doesn’t even want his friend with one? You were done, you’d never done anything to Bucky besides exist. He had an imaginary problem with you.

You stepped around Steve, crossing your arms in front of your chest. You don’t know where the boost of confidence came from, probably Steve’s lips and hand placement. You look Bucky up and down, truly taking him in.

He was perfect, and he knew it. It was starting to disgust you. “Just because ‘fattys’ like me have no chance with you, doesn’t mean that I’m not worthy of another man being attracted to me.” You take a step back, pressing yourself against Steve. Just to show Bucky, you meant business.

Basing it off of the hard indentation on the front of Steve’s spandex, he liked watching you tell Bucky off. You turn your body around to face him, throwing a look over your shoulder at Bucky, “Take me home Stevie.” You sing song in his ear.

A smirk falls on his lips, “Let’s do that princess.” He says while leading you out of the alley. Bucky is stuck in place, having an internal war with himself, that you weren’t gonna stick around for.

[p0orbaby]

Oh so exciting about the currently working on!! Is there any chance you could do another like seperate universe where ale is a provider of some sort like that I love the way you write that dynamic - like she’s sort of mean but also whipped af

context: so they’re together romantically but ale gives reader like a monthly allowance

also @wosospacegirl wrote a similar trope here so go check it out!

-

You don’t ask for the money this time.

That’s what makes it worse, apparently.

“You’re getting clever,” she says, not looking up. She’s reapplying lip balm with the precision of a sniper. Her eyes are flat and reflective, like polished stone, like there’s something buried behind them—something untraceable, long dead and vacuum-sealed. “Which is dangerous. For you.”

She transfers it anyway.

You hear the low, satisfied thrum of the Monzo notification against the marble kitchen counter. Your phone doesn’t unlock—Face ID can’t identify you under the sulphur clay mask you put on half an hour ago, the one that smells faintly of wet pennies and promises a brighter complexion in twelve uses. You got it free in a PR package you never posted. The other items still sealed under your bed, probably expired. You liked the name of the brand—RUIN, all caps—and their slogan: deconstruct your skin. Thought it was funny.

You pick up the phone with a slow sort of reverence, like you’re checking exam results you already know are excellent. “Three days early,” you say, not bothering to keep the smile out of your voice. “You feeling generous, or just reckless?”

Alexia doesn’t reply. She lifts her glass of Verdejo—chilled exactly to ten degrees, the way she insists, the way you now recognise by tongue alone—and takes a measured sip, like it owes her rent. Her expression is dry and remote. Old-money disdain tempered by post-sex warmth. She’s wearing a floor-length robe in ivory silk, Valentino, vintage. The hem nearly touches the floor but never quite does—like even the fabric’s been trained not to presume.

The neckline is low enough that you catch the edge of a missed tan line, a delicate crescent just under her collarbone. A soft curve of pale skin that makes her look human, briefly. Unfinished.

You wonder, not for the first time, who left the mark. Herself, or someone else.

She sits. She always sits like it’s a statement. Like the air parts for her. The robe falls open just slightly at the thigh, enough to derail your thoughts mid-sentence. It’s not a mistake. Alexia doesn’t do those.

“You think this is a game,” she says, calmly. “It’s not Monopoly, guapa. You don’t get to collect two hundred euros for passing go.”

You tilt your head. “No, but I do get to stay in the hotel suite and wear the jewellery and get absolutely railed against floor-to-ceiling windows. That’s kind of the same thing.”

She sighs. It’s not exasperated. It’s theatrical. Composed. Like an aria just before someone is stabbed. Her toenails are painted a lurid, almost hostile shade of coral. New. You stare at them. You know her taste well enough to know she’s trying something different. A softness she hasn’t earned, or maybe a protest in disguise.

She once told you—after two negronis and a very slow orgasm—that she didn’t wear warm tones because they made her look “Mediterranean in a vulgar way.”

You’d blinked at that. “You are Mediterranean.”

“I’m Catalan,” she’d corrected. “There’s a difference.”

You’d let it slide. You’re used to her taxonomy of the self.

“You’re intolerable,” she murmurs now, almost affectionately. She’s swirling the wine with idle menace, not drinking it. “A charming parasite. Like toxoplasmosis. Very bad for pregnant women.”

You grin at her, wide and deliberate. She hates when you do that. It makes her want to ruin you. “Still keeping me around, though.”

“I don’t keep you,” she says, sharper now. Like a shard of glass wedged under skin. “You’re not a pet.”

You stand. Take the wine glass from her hand like it’s legally yours. She doesn’t stop you. Never does. She watches as you drink, watches the lipstick smear on the rim—Hermès, shade Rose Boisé, which she bought you last month in a silence that felt like penance.

“I’m not a pet,” you say, easing yourself onto her lap like you’re made of something softer than you are. She’s all tension and cheekbones and proprietary rage, but she smells like cedarwood and powdered sugar and some French brand that doesn’t even have a website. “But you do pay me. And feed me. And fuck me. So, if it quacks…”

She kisses you before you can finish. It’s brutal. Less affection, more obedience training. It makes your teeth knock a little. You like that. She doesn’t.

After, she touches your cheekbone with her mouth. It’s almost tender. Almost.

“You’re very lucky I like you,” she says, like it hurts her.

You hum into her collarbone. “Like me? Or love me?”

She doesn’t respond. But you feel her reach for her phone. She scrolls with surgical detachment, then taps something. The coat arrives two days later. The one you sent her a screenshot of at 2am, with the caption I want this like I want God to apologise.

You told her you’d forgotten about it.

She didn’t.

You don’t say thank you. You just press your mouth to her jaw, just where it starts to go sharp. You whisper, “You’re such a melt.”

Alexia exhales like she’s surrendering. “I really am.”

[nottsim]

— ᴡʜᴀᴛ’ꜱ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ʀᴏᴏᴍ 𝒽𝑜𝑔𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝒹𝑜𝓇𝓂 ᴇᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ

══════════════

⊹ ࣪ ˖ quick disclaimer: i scripted out the canon ravenclaw dorm for this, um..masterpiece? it’s pinterest approved, chaos infused and definitely not up to standard ravenclaw aesthetic. sorry, i like my personal space with a side of whimsy and highly overpriced.

and yes, i sleep peacefully knowing that there are no dusty tapestries or whispering paintings in my room. my bed? a trap. productivity doesn’t live here. and to the right, you’ll find the three socks lost to the void (no pun intended) ୨୧

ahem, anyway… not to brag but i may have poured my soul into this mood board for you. so, welcome to the full experience—pretend you're here with me.

way up in the ravenclaw tower, where the air is thin and the academic stress is thicker, you’ll find my dorm, with the best view in the castle and where beauty sleep is taken very seriously. my dorm is a love letter written in soft cotton sheets that feel like whispered secrets, with my dove duvet crinkling with every shift. sigh. can you tell i love my bed? my bed is the kind of cozy that turns waking up into a personal betrayal. yes. it’s that deep. once you’re in, there’s no way out. my canopy drapes like a royal decree that shall remain cozy forever. my pillows? massive. comically oversized. one wrong turn in my sleep and i’m lost in the fluff, never to be seen again. a tragic fate some might say. i highly disagree. my beds comfort level makes me consider skipping morning classes in favor of one more minute (hour) of warmth. alas, i carry the burden of the ravenclaw tendencies..so i drag myself out of my personal cloud and into the cruel, cold world of academia.

beside my bed, you’ll find two nightstands. because symmetry is important, and so is convenience. each has a lamp because i refuse to subject myself to the harsh betrayal of the big light. a glass vase of peonies sit on one of them because, yes. i am both romantic and delicate (my dad sends me them). next to it my silk sleep mask waits, ready to shield me from the cruel reality of early mornings. the wall behind my bed is dressed in classic toile print, all delicate scenes in muted a rose. it looks like it belongs in a countryside manor, the kind with sweeping gardens and letters sealed with wax. very fitting for someone who hoards handwritten notes and thinks too much about which shoes match the mood of the day. what can i say? i needed to feel like i stepped into a historical romance novel every time i walked into my room. sigh. at the foot of this luxurious trap is my little couch seat. it’s expiate solely for dramatic lounging, contemplating life’s biggest mysteries (why i own so many shoes) and acting as my clothing rack for when the wardrobe is an inch too far.

then there’s my vanity/desk hybrid also known as my personal command center. this is where business gets done. makeup, hair, staring contests and my dreaded assignments. it holds everything that makes me feel pretty..and random quills because, i am both beauty and brains. you know how some people have motivational posters? i have a hairbrush that speaks to me in rhinestones and whispered affirmations..beside it? ah, my fragrance, my signature scent if you will. vanilla. it’s not just any vanilla, it’s the vanilla. soft, fresh, sweet. it’s just enough to gain a baker title. skip dessert, this tops it. also. if you read my last post (ily), you’ll know i live in constant fear of bad breath, yes. i’m very particular about how i smell. and, if we’re being completely honest, my whole room smells like vanilla at all times. why? because this fragrance is so powerful that it quietly infiltrates every corner. so, if you're wondering what this room smells like, it’s not vanilla :’)

my mirror you ask? what? this mirror? perched on my vanity like a regal heirloom? ornate, vintage and the closest thing to a masterpiece i’ll own…yet somehow, the real highlight? the little note taped to the corner..Theo’s doing, of course. one of many, because my vanity is where i usually end up when i’m avoiding the black hole that is my bed. i like looking at it…like a little reminder, i am indeed adored. i might’ve spared a kiss for it. it’s still there, slightly smudged, like a love note and a signature all in one. then there’s a bear and a bunny, aka me and Theo in stuffed animal form. the bear naturally, wears a slytherin tie. because even in plush form Theo has to be extra. together? they’re like our tiny, fluffy alter egos, silently judging my makeup skills.

what else is crammed into my room, you ask? my box of pictures. because naturally, i must document everything like a historian with a flair for the dramatic. most pictures are taken with my beloved pink digicam which i treat like a priceless artifact..if you zoom in you’ll get a visual representation of how much free time i have. and speaking of prized possessions? allow me to introduce my holy grail of footwear..(that rhymed). anyways. my repetto ballerinas. these shoes are the unsung heroes of my chaotic life. they’re sleek, they’re chic, and they somehow manage to elevate every outfit..at least from the ankles down.

and here we are, the grand finale of the tour, where the chaos meets its inevitable, slightly tragic, conclusion. anyways. that was my dorm, basically the physical embodiment of my brain, trapped within four walls. it’s a curated ecosystem at this point. questionable priorities, comfort and clutter tied together with a deep sense of regret and the sheer unwillingness to leave my bed.

from my bed, 𝐣𝐚𝐬 “𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐨” ୨୧

[perfectsunlight]

I BET YOU THINK ABOUT ME - JISOO

kim jisoo x reader

word count: 3.5k

warnings: implied age-gap, class disparities, isolation, belittling, emotional manipulation, mentioned breakup.

synopsis: despite being broken up, you bet your wealthy ex-girlfriend still thinks about you.

there were many things you enjoyed about dating kim jisoo. the way her laughter could light up a room, soft but knowing, like she was in on a joke no one else understood. how her touch was always delicate—calculated, even—as if everything she laid her hands on was an extension of the control she had over the world around her.

but her wealth and status? no, those were never the reasons you stayed.

even now, walking down the narrow, cobblestone streets where red and gold leaves scattered beneath your feet, you couldn’t help but be swallowed by memories of her. the crisp autumn air bit at your skin, a sharp reminder of the past, tugging at your thoughts like the wind tugged at your coat. it was in this season that jisoo had always seemed to glow brightest. her beauty matched the fall—effortless, rich, like a vintage painting come to life. she was untouchable.

however, she was just as cruel.

you just didn’t realize it at the time. how her perfectly manicured fingers—always cold to the touch, always adorned with rings that shimmered in the dying autumn light—had dug deep, not into your skin, but into your spirit. each time she mentioned your "quaint" lifestyle, your "charming" lack of understanding about the finer things in life, it had been wrapped in a velvet glove of affection, so you hardly noticed the sting at first.

it had felt like walking through the falling leaves, admiring the beauty, unaware that winter was creeping closer, ready to strip everything bare.

she had always made sure you knew she was from another world—one where silk sheets were the norm, where every meal came with a waitstaff and a glass of wine you could hardly pronounce. her apartment had been like a showroom, sterile and pristine, with floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched out over the city like a kingdom she ruled from above. and you, standing in the middle of it all, had felt small.

but now, in the aftermath, you could see how she had looked at you, like a pet project. an amusing distraction.

you remember the last dinner you shared at some restaurant you couldn’t pronounce, where the chandeliers above flickered against the dim light and the leaves outside the window swirled like some gilded snowstorm. she had ordered for you without asking, her voice as smooth and cool as the autumn breeze that crept into the cracks of your jacket.

"it’s adorable," she had said, waving her hand dismissively at your confusion when the plates arrived, "how little you know about this. really. it’s sweet."

at the time, you’d laughed it off, sipping the wine that burned your throat more than it soothed. but now you realize how sharp her words had been, each one a blade wrapped in silk.

the holiday parties were even worse.

you’d always felt out of place, like an actor in the wrong movie, wandering through rooms filled with people who looked like they belonged in some old-world painting. there were always murmurs of stocks and art auctions, people in tailored suits that hung off them like armor. you, in your off-the-rack blazer, had felt like an imposter. but jisoo, with her arm linked loosely through yours, had moved through the crowd effortlessly, her smile cold and practiced, like she knew every secret and every face in the room.

the air inside was thick with perfume and candlelight, but it never warmed you. outside, through the towering windows of the penthouse venues, you could always catch glimpses of the world you belonged to—the same city, but miles away, where people didn’t wear silk scarves that cost more than your rent or talk about vacation homes in hushed, reverent tones. the autumn leaves that still clung to the trees seemed desperate, the last few hanging on in the icy wind. much like you had been, clinging to jisoo’s side, pretending not to notice the subtle, cutting remarks she’d make about your clothes, your taste in music, your background.

"you know," she’d say in that breathy, disinterested tone of hers, eyes scanning the room like a queen surveying her subjects, "maybe next time you could wear something… a little more appropriate for the occasion?"

the words had stung, but you’d smiled, nodding like you hadn’t just been dressed down in front of people who already looked at you like you were her charity case. you’d downed your drink, hoping the burn of it would distract from the ache in your chest, while jisoo had already moved on, laughing airily at some joke from a man whose name you couldn’t remember, but whose disdainful eyes stayed with you long after the night was over.

at those parties, she’d always introduce you the same way: “this is y/n.”

nothing more, nothing less. like you were just another accessory—another piece of her perfectly arranged life. your name alone always hung in the air, stiff and formal, with no affection behind it. 

it was a title, not a connection.

but the way she spoke about herself was different. she was kim jisoo, daughter of one of the wealthiest families in seoul, a woman who everyone admired but no one truly knew. she never missed a chance to remind people of her lineage, of her success, of the places she’d been that you could only dream of. you’d stand there, smiling politely, the outsider in your own relationship, as she charmed the room with stories of her luxury trips to europe or some exclusive party she’d attended.

you used to tell yourself that maybe this was just her world—one you didn’t quite understand but could learn to navigate. after all, you thought, love was supposed to be about growing, about adapting to each other. but now, looking back, you see it differently. you hadn’t been adapting. you had been erasing yourself.

you remember the first time you’d seen her living room—everything about it had been a display of understated opulence. the couch, soft and inviting, had been custom-made in italy, a piece of furniture that cost more than you’d make in a year. the kind of thing you wouldn’t even dare to sit on without an invitation.

she’d caught you staring at it once, your fingers brushing lightly over the velvety surface, as if afraid you’d leave some permanent mark on it.

“do you like it?” she’d asked, her tone casual, almost playful, as she kicked off her shoes. organic shoes, she’d said—handcrafted by a designer who only used sustainably sourced materials, each pair worth thousands. she’d tossed them carelessly to the side, as if they were nothing more than an afterthought.

“it’s beautiful,” you’d breathlessly answered, unsure of how to respond. what else could you say? the couch was more than a place to sit. it was a symbol of everything that separated you from her.

the older woman had smiled, that knowing little smile of hers, and settled onto the couch, curling her legs beneath her. “it should be,” she’d replied, her voice laced with a subtle arrogance. “it cost a fortune. but you can’t put a price on comfort, can you?”

at the time, you’d nodded, sitting beside her, careful not to spill the coffee you’d brought from a café that seemed almost comically out of place in her world of curated luxury. but now, looking back, you realize how much weight that moment held.

the couch, the shoes, the apartment—it was all part of the same narrative. jisoo’s life was meticulously designed, every element perfectly placed to reflect her status. even her so-called love of organic, sustainable products wasn’t about caring for the earth; it was about showing the world that she could afford to care. it was another layer of the image she presented, another way to remind you that you didn’t quite belong.

the shoes—those ridiculously expensive shoes—had been one of the first things you’d noticed about her. how she would glide through the city in them, effortlessly chic, while you tried to keep up in your well-worn sneakers. how she never seemed to care about the price tag, because to her, money wasn’t something you worried about. it was something you had. something you displayed.

you remember asking her about them once, marveling at their craftsmanship, at the intricate details stitched into the leather. “they’re nice, right?” she’d said, almost bored with the conversation. “made by a small artisan. i like supporting brands that are more...conscious. but it’s not just about the shoes, you know? it’s about a lifestyle.”

at the time, you’d nodded along, impressed by her philosophy, thinking there was something admirable about her commitment to sustainability. but now, with the clarity that only distance can bring, you see it differently. it wasn’t about responsibility or caring for the environment—it was about exclusivity. 

jisoo didn’t just buy things; she bought status. and as a result, she never let you forget where you came from.

she didn’t need to say it outright; her silences were louder than any words. the way her gaze would graze over your simple gifts, a flash of disappointment quickly masked by a too-sweet smile. the way her laughter, always so soft and melodic to anyone else, would carry a sharp edge when she’d point out how "cute" your attempts to impress her were. every look, every gesture, had been a reminder: you would never be enough.

and the holidays only magnified the divide between you. her family gatherings were a spectacle—elegant, with a quiet kind of opulence, but they were colder than the snow beginning to fall outside. conversations were distant, sterile, filled with politeness and half-meant compliments. you’d watch as jisoo’s mother raised an eyebrow at you, a polite but questioning smile on her lips, while her father barely acknowledged your presence at all, too engrossed in conversations about business acquisitions and real estate.

you remember the first time you had brought her home to meet your family. the warmth in the room had been undeniable, even if the house had been modest. the table was small, the plates mismatched, and the wine was cheap, but there had been laughter. real, full-bodied laughter, the kind that left your cheeks flushed. but jisoo had sat there, stiff and out of place, a polite smile frozen on her lips as she delicately picked at her food. she had said all the right things, but you could tell—she didn’t belong in your world, just as you didn’t belong in hers.

and after that night, she’d never come back. not once.

"it’s not my kind of environment," she’d said, as if your family home was some quaint little corner of a forgotten world. but you hadn’t pushed it. you’d just smiled, hoping that love would eventually smooth out the rough edges between your lives.

but it never did.

your image of her entirely changed once she launched her own dior collaboration.

the transformation was undeniable. jisoo had always been poised, elegant, and out of reach, but when her dior collaboration was announced, it was as if she ascended to another level entirely—a world you never truly belonged to. the moment you saw her in those campaign ads, draped in luxury from head to toe, with that distant, unreadable expression in her eyes, you realized something had shifted. it wasn’t just the clothes or the brand—it was her.

the once subtle differences between you were now glaring. she’d always had a way of making you feel small, of making the simplest moments feel like they were being measured against some invisible standard. but now, with the world’s eyes on her, she no longer had to hide it. she wore her superiority like couture, and her status was no longer just an undercurrent in your relationship—it was the defining feature.

you remember scrolling through your phone that first day the campaign was released, seeing her everywhere—billboards, social media, magazines. her image was iconic, flawless, unattainable. the woman in those pictures wasn’t the same person you once loved, or perhaps she was, and you had simply refused to see it. the jisoo in dior was the one the world adored: polished, elegant, and untouchable. and the jisoo you had known—the one who laughed with you on lazy sundays, who curled up next to you in bed with soft whispers—felt like a figment of your imagination.

that night, you sat in your apartment, surrounded by the faint scent of coffee and fallen leaves, watching her face appear on the tv during yet another interview. the host praised her for her taste, her grace, and asked how it felt to be a global ambassador for such a prestigious brand. jisoo smiled that small, practiced smile, the kind that could melt an audience but had always left you feeling cold.

“it’s an honor, truly,” she said, her voice as smooth as ever. “i’ve always been drawn to the finer things in life, and working with dior is the perfect alignment of that vision.”

drawn to the finer things. those words echoed in your mind long after the interview ended. it wasn’t that she loved the finer things—anyone could—but the way she lived for them, the way they seemed to define her, made you realize just how different you were.

the last time you saw her in person, it was the tail end of last fall, the leaves almost entirely stripped from the trees, the sky a muted shade of gray. you’d met for coffee, though it felt more like a final performance than a reunion. she had walked in, dressed head-to-toe in dior, effortlessly chic in her monochromatic outfit, the click of her heels on the hardwood floor echoing like some distant reminder of all the ways she had outgrown you.

she hadn’t even taken off her sunglasses, those oversized black lenses that concealed any hint of vulnerability. the moment she sat down, you knew—this was the end.

“i’m heading to paris for fashion week,” she had said casually, as if she were talking about a trip to the grocery store. “things have been busy.”

you remember nodding, unsure of what to say, feeling the weight of the unspoken words between you. there was no warmth in her gaze, no familiarity in her voice. the woman sitting across from you was a stranger, more concerned with her schedule, her image, her empire, than with you.

when you finally found your voice, all you could manage was, “i’m happy for you.” it sounded hollow, even to your own ears.

she had smiled—an empty, fleeting gesture. “thanks. it’s good to hear you say that.” her leaving behind the scent of her designer perfume felt more symbolic than it probably should have,

that’s when you knew—there was nothing left of what you once had. 

the girl you had fallen in love with was gone, replaced by someone who only cared for power, prestige, and perception. and as the autumn wind howled outside, rattling the windows of the café, you realized you weren’t mourning the loss of her, but the version of her you had once believed in.

jisoo wasn’t just a woman anymore. she was a brand. a symbol. a masterpiece crafted by the very world she belonged to. and you? you were simply a chapter in her rise to the top, forgotten as soon as the ink dried.

you didn’t date kim jisoo for her wealth. 

you dated her for the way she seemed to know the world in a way you never could—confident, poised, above it all. you thought that maybe, by loving her, you could somehow touch that world too. but love wasn’t what had tied you together. not really.

it had been power.

she loved the way you looked at her, like you were eternally trying to catch up. the way you stumbled over the names of her favorite designers, or blinked in confusion when she mentioned some art exhibit you hadn’t even heard of. she loved the control. and you—god, you had loved her for it. back then, you thought it was awe. now you see it for what it was: submission.

but there, in the middle of the bustling autumn streets, as you watch the leaves scatter across the pavement in a dance as fleeting as your relationship, you find yourself wondering—does she think about you?

does she ever sit in that apartment of hers, surrounded by luxury and untouched by the season, and wonder what it would be like to be less than perfect? does she ever close her eyes and picture the messier parts of love, the parts she could never let herself fall into?

you smile bitterly, pulling your coat tighter around yourself. maybe she does.

maybe, even now, as you wander through the city you had once explored together, her mind drifts to you—the one person who had never fit neatly into the frame of her perfectly curated life. maybe she remembers how, despite everything, you were never quite small enough to be molded. 

and maybe, just maybe, in her moments of silence, with her designer bags and high-rise views, she thinks about how she’ll never find someone quite like you again. someone who saw her for more than just the polished surface she presented to the world. someone who, despite it all, had loved her—flaws, cruelty, and all.

the wind howls, scattering more leaves into the air, and you watch as they swirl and disappear. there’s a certain beauty to the way things fall apart, you realize. a kind of freedom in it.

jisoo might not know that, but you do. however, your mind refused to let you rest.

it was 3 am, and you were still wide awake. the cold light of your phone screen cast shadows on the walls of your tiny apartment, worlds away from the penthouse where jisoo was probably fast asleep. you imagined her there, wrapped in those luxurious silk sheets, her breath steady, undisturbed by thoughts of you. in her city. the one that always felt a little brighter, a little shinier than yours. a place you never quite belonged.

your mind wandered, picturing her with someone new. someone from her world. the kind of girl who knew all the right names to drop at fancy dinners, who could wear those thousand-dollar organic shoes without feeling like an imposter. a girl with a perfect pedigree, someone who her friends probably thought was “better” than you. you could almost hear them whispering it, their voices low but full of certainty.

it wasn’t long ago that you had tried to fit into those circles. you’d been the outsider, awkward and out of place in jisoo’s world of high-society dinners and private parties. but you tried, back when love made you brave, when you thought if you just held her hand tight enough, the rest would fall into place.

they let you sit at the table, once. out of courtesy, or maybe because you were still attached to her arm like an accessory she wasn’t ready to give up. you’d laugh when they laughed, your smile tight as they sat around talking about the meaning of life, throwing around names of philosophers and books you’d never heard of.

“the book that just saved me,” one of them had said, casually, like it was a known fact that certain books saved people. you’d smiled and nodded, even though the title flew right over your head, another reminder of how little you belonged.

jisoo had glanced at you then, her eyes softening in the way they sometimes did when she noticed you struggling. she squeezed your hand under the table, like she used to when you were still hers, when you thought her world was one you could live in.

but that was before. before the doubts crept in, before the weight of her world pressed down on you. now, it felt like she’d moved on, maybe even found someone who fit in effortlessly where you never could. someone who didn’t have to pretend.

you rolled over, the silence of your room closing in, and you couldn’t help but wonder if she was asleep now, completely at peace. and if the girl in her bed had the right name, the right look, and could keep up with her friends when they talked about art and life and all the things that always seemed just out of your reach.

the thought made your chest ache, that deep, familiar loneliness that always seemed to come with thinking about her. about them. those nights when you sat in the background, silently wishing you could be enough. but no matter how much you tried, you could never quite silence the feeling that jisoo’s friends were always comparing you to someone else, someone better.

and tonight, even though you knew it was pointless, you couldn’t stop wondering if they were telling her that the new girl was everything you never could be. or maybe jisoo was out at one of those cool indie concerts she dragged herself to every week, trying to feel young, trying to prove she was still part of the scene, even though she didn’t belong there any more than you did. it was always about feeling cooler than she actually was, pretending she wasn’t inching further from the age of the crowd around her.

but even with her friends laughing by her side, pretending to be someone else, you knew the truth. 

“i bet you think about me.”

[stardust-swan]

The Kind of Girl I Want To Be

Buys herself pink peonies and roses

Wears scents like Parfums De Marly Delina and Oriana, Miss Dior, YSL Paris, Prada Candy, Mon Guerlain and Chanel Chance Eau Tendre (she sprays it in the morning, after showers, and before going to bed)

Bakes heart shaped sugar cookies and macarons

Spends rainy days sipping rose tea from floral china while reading beautifully bound classic novels

Has a bookshelf filled with first edition poetry books, gilded editions of fairytale books, volumes of the Little Books of Fashion series, leatherbound classics, and Harlequin romance novels

Drinks peppermint tea in the morning and camomile tea at night

Sleeps on pink silk sheets and has a satin kimono robe

Plays Brigitte Bardot, classical music, and soft jazz in the background

Takes ballates or yogalates classes

Plays the violin or cello

Watches Audrey Hepburn and Anna Karina films

Adds sweet almond oil and rose bath tea to her vanilla bubble bath

Has a seasonal pass to the ballet and regularly visits the theatre, old bookshops, botanical gardens, and art galleries

Keeps things like French Girl lip tints/Glossier lip balms/Too Faced lip glosses, a hand mirror, a comb, some bonbons, a book, a rollerball of perfume, hand cream, a piece of rose quartz, a scrunchie, a nail file, spray on SPF and bubblegum in her bag at all times

Is always up to date with Fashion Week

Writes in her diary daily in swirly writing using coloured gel pens, pressing flowers between the pages and spraying perfume samples on it

Lights Yankee Candle Fresh Cut Roses or Rainbow Cookie, keeps soap and lavender in her wardrobe, and has vanilla diffusers around the house

Lives in a cosy home filled with beautiful things, like paintings by local artists, lots of cushions and throws, soft lighting from salt lamps and fairy lights, potted herbs and succulents, vintage vases filled with floral arrangements, DIY macramé and embroidery projects, a bowl of different crystals, signature Barbies on a shelf, rattan furniture, fluffy towels in white, pink, baby blue, and lavender, pink Dove or rose Roger et Gallet soap and Jurlique rose hand cream on the bathroom sink, pictures of her loved ones in antique frames, floral patterns everywhere, antique mirrors, and beautiful porcelain teasets

Goes to French cafés to enjoy a vanilla oat latte with a millefeuille or almond croissant

Always wears diamond or pearl earrings (often paired with a charm bracelet or gold heart locket)

Enjoys rosé wine, champagne, and strawberry daiquiris at lunchtime occasionally

Snacks on strawberries, sugared almonds, dried fruit and nuts, and Turkish Delight

Applies powder, rosy blush, lipgloss, and puts ribbons in her hair at her vanity table, which is decorated with a ballerina music box, vintage perfume bottles, and trinkets shaped like swans, angels and shepherdesses

Has her morning and evening routines down pat: waking up to melodic music, opening the windows, making the bed, doing gentle yoga, simple skincare, getting dressed, applying makeup, and eating a simple but delicious breakfast in the morning, and having a warm shower, doing more decadent skincare, putting on comfy cotton or satin pyjamas, journalling, enjoying a calming cup of herbal tea, reading, looking out the window at the moon, and falling asleep to relaxing sounds like ocean waves, gentle rainfall, and white noise at night. Her life runs like clockwork.

Is gentle, sweet, romantic, and full of love to give

[cameronsbabydoll]

Hii Naomi,

I hope you’re having a wonderful week!. Could you also please do a schedule for the week and outfits for babydoll!reader.

babydoll!reader's weekly schedule & outfits

a/n: i love her sm!!

monday:

morning: makes a checklist on floral stationery, puts her hair in curlers and makes cinnamon toast & tea in her little pastel kitchen

afternoon: goes thrifting or antique shopping, visits her favorite flower stand

evening: watches Breakfast at Tiffany’s while writing in her journal with a fountain pen

tuesday:

morning: bubble bath with a pink silk head wrap, listening to Lana on her vinyl

afternoon: goes to the beauty salon for a soft blowout or sets her hair at home, reads an Audrey Hepburn biography

evening: writes a love letter she’ll never send, paints her nails strawberry pink

wednesday:

morning: bakes lemon cake for her neighbor or Rafe’s friends, watercolors little flowers in a notebook

afternoon: organizes her recipe box and puts on 50s records while dusting her figurine shelf

evening: watches black-and-white TV with Rafe curled around her, asking him which Old Hollywood actor he’d want to be

thursday:

morning: writes poetry about being loved in the rain, drinks coffee from her Marilyn Monroe mug

afternoon: visits the local library just to sit in the dusty movie history section

evening: slow dances in the kitchen with Rafe or alone, barefoot, humming Elvis

friday:

morning: picks out her outfit hours in advance, sprays her perfume on her love letters

afternoon: drags Rafe to her favorite 50s-style diner — orders a milkshake for them to share

evening: they drive around while she plays her “jukebox sweetheart” playlist and sings every word

saturday

morning: goes to a flea market for vintage teacups, hatboxes, and rhinestone brooches

afternoon: picnic in the park in a heart-shaped wicker basket, reads Valley of the Dolls

evening: watches Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, cries a little, calls her grandma to talk about Paul Newman

sunday:

morning: church with her grandparents, sings hymns softly and wears her prettiest gloves

afternoon: makes a scrapbook of old love letters, listens to Blue Velvet

evening: sunset walk with Rafe in her Sunday dress, twirling her skirt and making up old-timey stories

[1920sladydectective]

Best Friend's Mother Ch.2

Hello, you find scroll to find part one earlier on this account as an ask for the lovely @shinyshayminflower or read it on AO3 with the following link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61009999/chapters/155858899

This is Part Two of Three! Enjoy my Loves!

That wasn’t the last time. Not at all. Even if sometimes, as you lay panting and dizzy in her silk sheets, you wished it was. 

Mel didn’t know, there was no way that she could and yet sometimes her gaze felt like a dozen little blades, carving your soul to bits. She still curled into you on the sofa, painted your nails, and drank wine with you. She was still your best friend. 

But you weren’t being hers. 

If you were, you wouldn’t be babbling as a strap on wrecked you, firm hands bruising your hips with each violent tug. It was maddening, face suffocated into plush pillows as Ambessa broke you again and again and again. You were her little plaything, enthralled and leaking with no idea how to stop it. 

You’d sit, inhaling cereal and fruit as Mel rambled about a new research paper whilst her mother’s eyes would trail your every movement like her exhausted, ensnared prey. 

Four weeks passed like that. Every daylight hour was spent traipsing about with Mel and Kino, beach ice creams and forest hikes, upscale bars and drunken Wii Sports matches. Night would fall, Mel would stretch and yawn and place a kiss to your head, dismissing herself. Kino would have another drink, another match, then leave you to your ‘reading’. 

You would end up in her bed within the hour. Each greeting was soft and teasing, as if she didn’t expect you. 

“Good evening,” Her eyes glimmered, naked, always fucking naked “Need something,” 

“I-”

A clicked tongue. She made you say it every single time. “I need you,”

And you did, which was the worst part. You needed her gasps, her harsh touch and special, private laugh. The warmth in you was stoked to a destructive flame, arousal all too similar to affection as she stroked back your sweaty hair. 

It was just sex. It was just sex. It was just sex. 

The candle in her room had changed. You hated the citrus scent, it made you think of days cleaning coffee shop bathrooms and you’d mentioned it one night, head burrowed in her armpit. Now, as you allowed her to devour your lips, the salty seaside hit your nose. It was considerate, it doused the flames, it stopped mattering with her tongue on your clit. 

Ambessa’s kindness increased the more you gave yourself to her, pretty words slipping into your head as she told you about her day, and asked tenderly about yours. You were her Darling, her Sweet Girl. 

The gifts started and you had no idea how to make them stop. 

It started small, almost imperceptibly so. As you rushed out the door for lunch with Mel, your cheap lip gloss snapped, lid soaring onto Ambessa's foot. She promptly chucked it in the bin, snorting at you. That night, as she nibbled at your spent neck, she pressed a lip gloss into your hand. It was simple and sweet and from Dior because of a rich idiot lady. 

“Better than Collection, Dear,” 

“How would you know?” You scoffed, “You haven’t used Collection a day in your damned life,” 

“It was Mel’s first makeup when she was ten,” 

“I hate you,” 

Her silk pillow thwacked you, giggles falling from your tired lips. 

It stepped up after that. And up. And Up. And Fuck. 

Vintage Levi jeans, “Yours looked tired, Darling,” 

A trip to the hair salon with Mel, “Let me treat you girls, nice fresh cut and colour,” 

Your laptop shat the bed and the next morning a new one was handed to you at the table. Mel and Kino didn’t even blink, “Wouldn’t want your studies to suffer, Dear. Don’t mention it,” 

Linen pyjamas in several colours, each set worth more than your nine year old phone, “Sleep is essential, therefore so is comfort,”

Speaking of which, a new fucking phone, though admittedly it did fade away into battery death. 

All of this, you could grapple with despite the pounding in your chest, the gifts worth pennies to their giver and impersonal at best. 

The real clusterfuck was each little thing that saw into your soul. A silly sandcastle making kit, after a drunken ramble about no childhood beach trips. Lobster for dinner, because whilst you loved the rolls, you’d never actually had a full one. Soft massages at the end of a rough session beneath her, firm hands turning you to melted butter in minutes. 

Half way through the seventh week, Kino returned to Uni and Mel received an invitation to a fashion event in Brighton for three days. With your tentative reassurance that you could manage, that her mother wouldn’t eat you (a bold faced lie), you somehow had the house to yourselves. 

The daylight hours became hers. 

Slow, lounging mornings where you could rest easily in her bed. No tiptoeing past Mel’s door, each creak making you nauseous. Breakfast in bed, Below Deck playing as you crunch through bacon and listen to the sounds of her humming in the shower. Ambessa stays in flowing pyjamas, floating through the space doing whatever she pleased. The luxury of staying in her bed until early afternoon is so sweet it rots your teeth. She manages to drag you to the poolside by two and you realise it is the first time you’ve seen her in a swimming costume. She’s majestic about it, of course, all rippling muscles and plush thighs. The water parts for her with ease, her hair in a tight braid as she does seemingly a full exercise in the time you acclimatise to the temperature. Once her laps were done, she slipped out of the water, hips swaying. You watched her, eyes shifting from coy to wide as the tiny fabric was discarded and she jumped back in nude. 

Her face, sin and sunshine, beamed at you with a shockingly sincere grin. That night, as you ate spaghetti straight from the pot with garlic bread for cutlery, you realised you loved her. She seemed oblivious, her mouth unable to escape the red stain of tomato sauce as she crunched through enough bread to kill a horse. Ice cream and sprinkles for dessert, curled on the loveseat in the cinema as she muttered nonsense throughout the whole film, pawing at you and eating ice cream noisily. Two hours later you had no idea what Trading Places was about and you’d cum on her face twice. 

“That was a waste of time,” You muttered, “Didn’t even watch the film,” 

Ambessa laughed, “Well, I had a wonderful time,” 

Your second day together a small, white box was left on your side of the bed, appearing after your shower. She was in her office on a work call, but patience had never been your strong suit. Bright, cascading chiffon rested in the box, your dream dress sitting calmly as if you hadn’t gazed at it every week for four years. 

For Dinner, Sweet Girl x

The note had frogs dancing in your throat. Since your complex revelation the night before, you’d searched frantically for a way to stem the flood of emotion, to cut this tryst short. Each attempt fizzled on an unsure, romantic tongue. It was only a couple of weeks anyway, a handful of time and then you could be free. So dinner, whatever it would be, was manageable. You were pulled from your distractions by a rhythmic rip, rip, rip. Mina had gotten into the wrapping paper and was asserting dominance accordingly, idiot. 

DInner, it turned out, was a Michelin star restaurant that insisted on black out dining. You’d made yourself pretty as a bloody picture and you were shrouded in darkness. It was supposedly to increase the sensation, the food speaking to you with its layered flavour profiles as your senses could focus more heavily on taste. It was nonsense, with an upcharge so astounding they made sure you couldn’t see the bill to question it. That being said, fumbling around wine and plates in the dark was fun. Ambessa’s husky voice spoke to you through the darkness, telling you stories of similar restaurants in far off places, or prompting you to ramble about your latest read. The food was good, but you privately agreed to yourself that the catering for the party had been better. Gentle, sure and slight, a familiar finger stroked against your inner thigh. Wine caught in your throat, a stuttered gurgle as you kicked out hard to get her to stop. A man’s voice cried out instead. 

“Fuck, sorry,” You said, cheeks burning. 

Ambessa’s cheeks strained under her teeth’s pressure, barely keeping a cackle at bay, “Very smooth, Dear,” 

Dinner ended rapidly after that. You were dessert after all. 

Ambessa was at least gentle about removing this dress. It was folded neatly on the side, as she wiped your mind from you. Each surface was to be christened, glistening worship at every altar as the house became yours. Her face, so full of fondness and amusement, hung like a guillotine above your head. Danger lurked, trouble brewed, and yet. 

Your little holiday ending was an odd, smarting ache. Things were the same between you and yet the difference was a physical manifestation. Mel, sweet, perfect Mel.

She had grilled you about everything in her absence, your cover story a bland tale. Books, some thesis work, a swim or two. Truth bled into the lies, your conscience desperate for small drips of relief. Trading Places is a good film, you’d said, ended up watching it with your Mum as if it was movie night. Mel had laughed, calling you a creature of habit. 

Week nine of the ten week holiday began and you were destined to leave in six days time, roadtripping back to Edinburgh. Lines had never seemed blurrier. You were reticent to leave, her words like honey coating every part of you they touched as she spoke amorously of the summer months that had slipped by. It was clear she cared, each word dripping with something you dared not call love

Another party, smaller this time, on your last full day. A barbeque with newfound friends and a few of Ambessa’s actual associates. It made you resent Mel for suggesting it, resent Ambessa for agreeing and resent yourself for placing the blame in all the wrong places.  Ambessa had chattered to you casually that morning, listing off recipes and plans, ignoring your suggestions and reheating your tea twice as you forgot about it. You laughed, picturing what it would be like when you came back here, how many new recipes she’d force you to try. How many of them she’d actually bother to cook herself.

It was nice enough, more homely than the grand party, with buckets of beers and self-serve salads. You finally beat Viktor at Chess, though the success felt stolen as he was so drunk his eyes were shut. Mel and Caitlyn were currently trying to wrestle Jayce and Vi for the music controls. It would have been fun, and yet. Ambessa was far away, another island dancing in view, promising a greatness that was out of reach. The heated glaces were few and far between, the touches brief and the smiles standard as a necessity. You ached to lose her, it would be so long before you saw each other again. That was the sentimentality talking, you begged it to shut up with a wagyu burger. 

Mel, drunk and happy, wanted a girly sleepover for the last night in the house. It crushed your heart twofold. You would miss time with Ambessa, you were the worst person perhaps ever for thinking of that first. Still, with a heavy heart, you giggled in her four poster bed with a bottle of white wine and green, slimy face masks. 

Neon numbers showed it was four am and Mel Medarda was sleeping like a log. Carefully, each cell tensing with strain, you extracted yourself from the room and slipped down the hallway. 

She was there, as you knew she would be even after her distance at the party. Her face was warm, soft and hazy as the weight of the moment settled. You started the dance, practiced and smooth now, but she took a new step. 

“I need you,” It was half choked, your body crushed as she took you into the room, kisses thundering all over your skin. 

It was bliss, a gentle lovemaking she had never permitted before, with trembling hands and docile eyes. Nothing mattered outside this room, outside the rocking and the groaning, her lips kissing your ear with each back and forth movement. It soothed a part of you, so desperate for her care and attention. 

Once full of each other, you allowed yourself the indignity of clinging to her. She traced shapes along your stomach, reminding you that you were her special girl, so perfect and warm, so delicious. You felt almost delirious, trading heavy kisses for romantic words. You loved her and maybe she was showing you that was okay.

Morning came and with it the end of your perfect summer. 

Breakfast was served and eaten slowly, the Land Rover piled high with Mel’s opulence and admittedly now some of your own, courtesy of Ambessa’s constant material kindness. Mel seemed reluctant to leave too, her whispered confessions that this was the calmest time she’d ever had with her mother echoing in your head. Rictus returned, as if like clockwork to service Ambessa as you left, lest she be left to her own devices. 

He walked away to his chambers to unpack and the list of things for the journey back to Uni was consulted. Once. Twice. A short trip up to my room and we’re ready, your friend assured. 

Time slowed as Mel ran to grab the last of her things, leaving the two of you alone in the kitchen. 

“Well,” You chuckled nervously. 

“It was so good to have you, Dear,” Her voice sounded wrong, the warmth fleeting as you tried to chase it. Where had your Ambessa gone?

“Yes, um Thank you,” You said, shoved onto the wrong foot, affection flickering, “I have your number so I’ll ring you when I’m back,” 

As her face dropped, your heart did, “Whyever would you need to do that?” 

Oh Gods. Her pampering, each trinket and trophy you wore and used, each shared dinner and tender laugh pushed you into a foolish forgetting. No amount of love making and promises of devotion had changed her initial terms. 

You were a toy, remember?

“I-I don’t know,” You stammered, “Just in case,” 

“Just in case,” Words lined with pity, her golden gaze condescending. Oh darling, it teased, you didn’t fall in love did you?

Your Ambessa was gone. A figment of imagination, fuelled by summer sun. Part of you hoped she used to be nice, used to be yours and that this was a fearful change of heart. 

A patronising pat to the cheek, words you didn’t hear as you faded into the background. 

Down the Guillotine slammed.