stalkerleb! who already has a list of baby names he came up with sitting in his notes app. he’s already planned out every single second of your future together. it’s not fair that you’re so ungrateful, so unco-operative when he tries to woo you into putting his ring onto your finger and move into the home he built for you, just you, for the rest of your life and just let him be your husband and have his baby.
stalkerleb! who’s clinging onto you for dear life as you try to shut the door to your apartment. he didn’t mean to punch the living daylights out of your date. it’s not your fault you can’t recognise a bad man, caleb’s just trying to help! ‘that man was going to hurt you’, he explains, fingers desperately digging into your thighs as you semi-drag him across the carpet of the corridor, like dragging a tearful puppy on a leash, ‘that man doesn’t know you like I do! and I know everything.’
stalkerleb! who’s seething in jealousy, watching you welcome some cardiologist ‘just-a-friend’ into your home. he knows what’s going to happen. the cameras he installed (in the housewarming gift he got you) and the peephole he drilled (into the empty walls of your bathroom) also help. you’re having dinner with that guy now. and…now you’re in bed with him. caleb punches the screen of his monitor, sending shards of glass everywhere.
stalkerleb! who’s curled up outside your door when you wake up the next morning. he’s been there all night. when zayne tries to leave, the door hit something hard. zayne looks down and sees caleb hunched right outside by the threshold, his eyes bloodshot as he almost immediately starts a brawl with him right then and there. if you hadn’t intervened, there would surely be a few broken parts.
stalkerleb! who begs you for your forgiveness on his knees when you found out about the camera and the peephole and god knows what else. he really didn’t mean to invade your privacy like that (he definitely did) but you’re so hard to pin down! if you just moved out of your cheap little apartment and into his house that he specifically made and decorated just for you, you wouldn’t be having these problems.
stalkerleb! who laughs when you block him on all of your socials. who chuckles when you change your number. he’s delusional enough to believe that any little bit of attention from you is positive for him.
stalkerleb! who replaced the staff at your local police station with his men. when you go running to them to report caleb, they seem rather unbothered. they promise to send the file through though, so don’t worry! except the report only reaches caleb at the top. he promptly tears your fearful report of your ’stalker’ into pieces and keeps watching you through the feed.
stalkerleb! who has a big fat grin on his face as two real, uncorrupted policemen haul him away, the metal shackles of his handcuffs jingling with every step. his nose is bleeding (obviously he hadn’t gone down without a fight). finally, after months of unease, your stalker has been arrested. but something tells you this isn’t the last time you’ll be seeing him…
EXTRA! stalker!perses who, as a politician, influences the election results to ensure that it turns out the opposite for what you wanted. you worry it’s not safe for you to live here anymore. perses’ au is set in a dystopia, after all. and when you’re distraught, he comes over, offering his dearest condolences. ‘daww…don’t be sad, pipsqueak. you’ll be safe, as long as you’re with me.’
your boyfriend has spent weeks trying to convince you to be rough with him. as a birthday gift, you finally slap him ♡
cr: @/rxdchill on X
CW: NSFW. Face slapping, power bottom, shy reader, switch Caleb, birthday sex, rough sex?
-
Caleb had been begging you for weeks to be rough with him. He was practically pleading you to be mean to him, something you had been too shy to do. But his birthday was only minutes away, and tonight you had decided to be brave. You were going to gift him exactly what he had been asking for so fervently.
You were riding him slowly at first, savoring the stretch of his cock deep inside you, already teetering on the edge of your own orgasm. Caleb’s hands gripped your hips, his breath ragged as he looked up at you with dark, needy eyes.
You leaned down and kissed him fiercely, biting his lower lip until he hissed. Then you sat back up, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you began to ride him faster. The wet sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, accompanied by his moans. His eyes were half-lidded, his cheeks flushed, and his usual charming smile had been replaced by raw desperation. “Fuck yes, just like—”
You glanced at the clock: 00:00. Your hand moved before you could second-guess yourself. The slap cracked across his face, sharp and stinging, snapping his head to the side. A red mark bloomed on his cheek instantly.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. You panicked. “Was it too much? Caleb, I’m s—”
Then, his cock twitched violently inside you. A broken, guttural sound tore from his throat as his entire body seized. His hips jerked up as he buried himself deeper, coming hard, pulsing thick and hot deep inside you. The orgasm seemed to drag on forever; his abs clenched, his hands strained against your hips and waist, and his mouth fell open in shocked pleasure.
You watched, stunned and aroused, as he trembled through the aftershocks, his eyes glassy.
“Shit…” he finally gasped, a dazed, blissful laugh escaping him. “Did you just—?”
“Happy birthday,” you whispered, your voice soft but laced with a newfound confidence. You traced the bright red mark on his cheek with your thumb, your skin still buzzing from the contact. Seeing your own handprint on his skin sent a fresh, sharp jolt of electricity straight to your core. You looked down at him, your heart hammering against your ribs, still feeling shy but emboldened by his reaction. “Did you… did you like it?”
Caleb didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze darkened, shifting to a predatory intensity that made your breath catch. Before you could process the look in his eyes, he flipped you beneath him in one smooth motion and hovered over you.
He captured your lips in a bruising, possessive kiss. When he finally pulled back, his breathing was uneven.
“Like it? I’ve never come faster in my life” he rasped, his voice vibrating through your own chest.
He didn't give you time to recover. He shifted his weight, thrusting into you with a force that made you cry out.
“Do it again,” he whispered against your lips, his voice dropping into a low, commanding growl. “Harder.”
₊꒷︶︶꒷︶︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶꒷꒷︶︶꒷︶︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶₊
happy birthday caleb, I love you. I wish I could slap you ♡
You’re not even really sure what happened. You’re having a good time, you are. It feels good, and you normally like this position.
So why do you feel so…dirty?
He notices your change in demeanour, the way your moans cease and you go quiet. He stops, pulling out slowly and reaching for you. You resist for a moment, not wanting him to see you crying.
“What’s wrong?” He sounds so worried about you. It’s his nature, to worry.
“Nothing I-I’m fine. We can keep going.” You sniffle, and his decision becomes firm. His arms come around you, pulling you into his lap and hugging you.
“We’re done, okay? Does anything hurt?” The tears are rushing out now, and you have to swallow your sobs to answer.
“N-no. I-I’m fine really I don’t-I don’t know what happened.” You don’t need to go into detail. Zayne hums in understanding, cool hand stroking your heated skin as he holds you closer.
“It’s okay. Let it out.” He presses a kiss to your head as you sink into his embrace, sobbing.
When you begin to calm down, he helps you sip some water, wrapping the blanket around you. Zayne doesn’t let you apologize, not for this, but you don’t let him say it either. It’s no one’s fault, the two of you agree.
You had been a brat all day. You couldn't help yourself, really. Zayne was always so composed and you wanted nothing more than to see him snap. You'd started off small, just a couple pictures of your naked body that "accidentally" got sent to him. He'd left you on read. Next was a voice note, detailing just how bad you needed him.
Again, left on read.
By lunch, you were getting frustrated. Surely it couldn't be that hard to make him snap. Even a single, tiny crack would be better than nothing. You'd picked up your phone one last time, typing a filthy paragraph about how you wanted him so deep in your throat that you couldn't talk properly for days after.
He'd sent you a thumbs up.
By the time he was home, you hadn't given up. You'd watched him go right into his office without so much as a glance in your direction, so of course, you'd followed a minute later.
As you walk in, he's sat behind his mahogany desk, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, seemingly absorbed in a surgical report. You, however, are absorbed in him. Dressed in nothing but his crisp, white button-down shirt, you stop right in front of his desk. The fabric was far too big for you, the hem easily hitting your mid-thigh. You'd rolled the sleeves up to your elbows, but that didn't stop the fabric from falling off your shoulder slightly.
"Those files are boring." You whine as you lean across his desk, purposely invading his personal space as your fingers slowly undo the top three buttons of the shirt. You feel pretty damn smug with yourself, assuming Zayne would drop everything just to see you naked before him.
"They are necessary." He replies, not even bothering to look up from his reports, though he can see you. He can see how badly you're trying to get his attention, but he's not in a playing mood today. Your texts had only made it worse.
"Your shirt is unbuttoned. Fix it and go find a book. I'm busy."
You let out a sharp gasp then, mildly irritated that he'd dismissed you so easily. Mildly turned on at his composure. You don't leave. You step right around his desk until you stand right next to him, leaning down to press light, open-mouthed kisses just under his jaw. You're determined to shatter that calm, cool persona of his.
"You're no fun. All work and no play makes Doctor Zayne a very dull man, indeed."
You barely have time to get the words out.
Zayne's hand shoots up, his fingers firm as they grip your chin, tilting your head so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. You try to muffle the small, excited whimper that leaves you, but Zayne catches it. He always does.
"I told you to behave." He warns, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to remind you of the strength he could easily use on you.
"Make me."
The shift is instantaneous. You hear the screech of the chair against the floor as he shifts, and before you can blink, your world is tilting. He pulls you across his lap, one hand tangled in your hair while the other hikes the hem of his shirt higher up your body to fully expose your ass to him.
The first strike is heavy, a solid crack that echoes against the quiet of the office. You gasp, your hands grasping onto the fabric of his trousers. Instantly, your skin stings, heat blooming across your ass. But you like it. You like knowing you've pushed him to this point.
"That is for the photo you sent during my morning consultations." He says, his voice low. "I had a patient's chart in one hand and your indiscretion in the other."
Crack.
"Two. For the voice note. I don't recall giving you permission to speak to me that way while I'm at the hospital."
Crack.
The third one is firmer than the last two, making you cry out. You try and squirm to get away, to beg for his forgiveness and his touch all in the same breath. His hand simply tightens in your hair, a silent warning. You're so wet it hurts. If you could just get his hand between your thighs...
"Three. For that obscene paragraph at lunch. A thumbs up was all you deserved for such a blatant attempt to disrupt my focus."
He pauses then, and for a second, you think it might be over, but his hand doesn't move away. Instead, he rubs at the angry pink skin of your ass, his touch deceptively soft all while you twitch underneath his hand. Every slap has only turned you on further, and you almost can't help yourself as you try and arch into his hand.
Zayne raises an eyebrow as he watches you, noting the way you tremble across his lap. Slowly, his fingers dip between your legs, a quick, amused huff leaving him as he finds your dripping pussy. He should have known.
"This wet over a punishment? You really are a brat." He mocks softly, his long fingers finding your aching clit with a surgical precision. He circles once, twice, just enough to make you whimper and rock back against his hand, before he's pulling away again, leaving you cold and wanting.
Crack.
"Four is for not listening when I told you to go find a book."
Crack.
"Five is because we both know you're going to act out again tomorrow just to see if I'll put you back over my knee."
You're shaking now, a few stray tears slipping out and trailing down your cheeks. Your ass is a vibrant, angry red, and the heat radiating from you is intense. You want more. You need more. If all you'll get tonight is a firm punishment, then you'll eagerly accept it.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
"That voice note is still ringing in my ears and I'm still quite irritated by it." He says, though you can feel the way his body is saying otherwise. As your stomach presses against his thighs, you can feel how hard he is just against your side. You shudder against him, a pathetic little moan of pure want leaving your lips.
His hand kneads the supple flesh of your ass, massaging the sting deeper into your skin until all you can focus on is how badly you need his fingers on your clit again. The hand in your hair slowly lets you go, moving to cup your cheek as he wipes your tears.
You think it's over.
Crack.
This last blow is far lighter than the ones before, almost a warning slap. A reminder of how easily he'd flung you over his knee. You need him so badly it hurts.
"What was that for?" You whimper as you tilt your head to lean further into his hand. Your breathing is shaky and ragged, your breath hitching quietly each time he brushes his fingers against the angry, burning skin of your ass.
"I felt like it. Now stand up."
You instantly move to do as he says, shifting off his lap to stand just beside him. You watch as his hands move to his belt, the metal clinking together for a moment before he's undoing his trousers, shoving the fabric down to free his cock. You want nothing more than to drop to your knees, crawl under his desk, and keep him in your mouth until his reports are done.
Instead, he gestures for you to sit on his lap. Your breath hitches. A reward so soon after your punishment? You could cry.
You're quick to climb right into his lap, your arms draped across his shoulders as you hover just over the tip of his cock. His hand sneaks between the both of you, fingers wrapping around himself as he slides the tip right through your slick folds. You clench around nothing, so close and yet so far away, but you don't rush it.
You let him grind up into you, a quiet whimper leaving you every time he rubs against your clit. The anticipation is killing you, but you force yourself to stay still even as you tremble on top of him. Then he slides home. A shattered moan falls from your lips, your hips instinctively rocking into him. He's so deep, you swear you feel him in your belly.
But he doesn't continue. He doesn't fuck you like the world's ending. He doesn't even offer you his thumb against your clit. Instead, he clamps his hands on your hips, waiting until you look up at him with your needy little whine. The corners of his mouth twitch, smug and deeply entertained by your eagerness.
"You sit there, and you feel every inch of me, but you do not move. If I feel you so much as shift to try and get more comfortable, I'll put you back on my knee for another ten. Am I clear?" He commands. You want to argue, to test if he's serious, but the cold edge of his tone has you agreeing.
"Crystal clear."
"Be a good girl and let me finish this page." He says, giving your hips one last squeeze before his attention is back on his reports, his pen scratching at the paper every so often as he leaves small notes for himself to read later. You let out a soft sigh as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.
You feel so full, so deliciously stretched, but it's not enough.
"You're so mean." You whine, hands tilting to find his hair. You don't pull, you simply twirl the strands around your fingers, trying to focus on anything other than how good his cock feels when it's buried deep in your cunt.
Zayne hums in acknowledgment, back to ignoring you.
This treatment feels like it goes on for hours, but in reality, it's nothing more than a few minutes. Finally, he's pushing his papers aside, the clatter of his pen against the wood instantly drawing your attention. You tilt your head to look up at him, a silent question in your gaze.
He answers by finding your hips with his hands, standing up, and pressing your back against the wood of his desk. Your legs instantly wrap around his waist, keeping him deep inside you as you look up at him. He moves to take his glasses off, setting them aside near the edge of the mahogany, before both palms are pressed against the wood on either side of your head.
"You've had a lot to say today. Now that you have my undivided attention, why don't you be very specific?" His hazel eyes drift down to your lips, jaw clenching as he rocks into you, slow and steady. Your nails find his shoulders as you arch up into him, the friction earning a quiet moan from you.
"Tell me exactly how you want it."
You swallow hard, your breath coming in shallow hitches. The sting on your ass is still humming, reigniting every time Zayne pushes deeper into you. For a moment, you can't think of how you want him to fuck you. All you know is that you want him. You need him.
"I want to feel... I want to feel how much I irritated you today." You manage to stutter out.
A smirk finally does appear on his lips and in that moment, you know you're going to be sore for days.
"Understood."
He doesn't give you a second to rethink your answer before he's moving. His cock slams deep into you, so deep you can feel it knock against your cervix, the dull ache mixing with the pleasure of his relentless pace. You cry out, your back arching off his desk as you claw at his shoulders, your thighs clamping around his waist.
His hips snap into yours, his balls slapping against your ass, the loud sound of skin on skin mirroring your punishment. The desk rattles underneath you, his abandoned pen rolling around before finally tumbling onto the ground. Zayne doesn't even blink. He simply brings his hand up to your shirt, easily undoing the buttons one by one until it falls open.
Bare underneath. You really had been waiting for him to fuck you.
He groans at the sight, long fingers instantly squeezing your breast while his head dips towards the other one. His teeth grazes your nipple before he draws you into his mouth, nipping and sucking at that hardened peak. You tremble underneath him, your moans tipping into loud sobs of pleasure as your hands finally find his hair.
You tug on the dark strands, a sharp cry echoing in his office as his fingers pinch at your other nipple, rolling it between his long fingers until you're squirming underneath him. He doesn't relent, just shifts his focus as his mouth moves to the swell of your breast, sucking a deep, dark bruise right into your skin.
His hand trails up your body again, long fingers wrapping around your throat and squeezing with just enough pressure to make your head swim. His other hand finds your hip, thumb digging a bruise into your skin as he pulls you onto his cock in time with his thrusts.
You clench around him, a shattered, broken moan leaving your lips as you fall apart around him. Your hips jerk against him as you writhe on top of his desk, but Zayne doesn't let up. He pins you down, his thrusts getting faster, harder, the snap of his hips against you making your ass sting all over again.
His breath hitches, his jaw clenched so hard he feels his teeth grind together as his movements falter. His thrusts grow sloppy, frantic, desperate to reach his own release. He's so close, so agonizingly close, and the moment your cunt clenches around him, he spills in you with a guttural groan.
His forehead presses against your shoulder, hand releasing your throat to cradle your cheek as his eyes squeeze shut. His entire body shudders, his breathing ragged and ruined. You let out a quiet whine before tilting your head into his hand, your own body sore and spent as you cling to him.
You're both quiet for a moment, too focused on breathing, too focused on the way his hips roll into yours like he's trying to force his cum deeper.
"Are you going to behave tomorrow?" He finally asks, his voice a broken rasp against your skin.
"No." You breathe in response.
He lets out an amused huff.
"Right. Then I suspect you are going to be extremely sore tomorrow."
It was a lazy Sunday in which your days off had finally aligned. Zayne wasn’t going to be called in and Jenna had practically begged you to take a break for your own health, so now you had the day all to yourselves. You stayed curled into zaynes side on the couch as you caught up about the little things you had experienced over the past few weeks. While you would text about it and talk a little at home, it was a bit hard with how busy you both were.
Somehow the conversation shifted to TMI things you knew about your coworkers bedroom lives. Things you had heard eavesdropping, or from Tara, who was even more of a gossip than you. Zayne would tsk and tell you it’s not any of your business and to respect their privacy. Despite this, he was still intently listening and asking about details. You knew deep down, he’s just as nosy as you are.
“Fucking 3 strangers in one night is actually crazy though, don’t you think? I mean, more power to him I guess, but that’s so much sweat and…fluids of people you barely know. I couldn’t understand, honestly.”
Zayne let out a quiet huff. “I wish the general populous were more worried about getting tests done before they engage in any sort of intimacy. It’s troubling that STD’s aren’t more of a concern.” You chuckled a little before speaking, “If I remember correctly, you didn’t have me take any sort of tests before the first time we made love…” You bit your lip, nudging him teasingly.
Zayne was unfazed. “I was willing to catch whatever disease you had.”
You gawked at him. “Zayne Li, that’s terrible!”
A small smirk then graced his lips. “I also have access to your medical records and would often request the labs to test you for a multitude of things, just to ensure you were healthy.” You blinked at him. “…is that…ethical?” Zayne only shrugged. “I don’t particularly care what’s ethical when it comes to your health.”
“…”
You only let out an amused hm before continuing your chat.
The sterile quiet of Zayne's office is broken by the soft vibration of his phone in his pocket.
He glances at the screen, the tension in his shoulders fading just a fraction when he sees your name. His lunch break had just started, nearly an hour before his next surgery. He'd planned to spend it reviewing paperwork and preparing for the next operation, but you were always a welcome distraction. He taps the screen before bringing his phone to his ear.
"I didn't expect a call this early." He says, his voice dropping into something softer and deeper. Something he reserved only for you. "Is everything alright?"
"I just wanted to say I love you... and ask about your day." You murmur, though you can't help the way your voice cracks. You were at home, tangled with your sheets, absolutely soaked for no reason. It wasn't fair. You needed him and he just wasn't there.
Zayne freezes, his pen hovering over a patient's chart. He's spent years training his ears to catch the slightest irregularity in a heartbeat or a breath, and right now, yours is a chaotic rhythm. You sound fragile, your lungs working too hard for someone sitting at home.
"My day is manageable." He replies slowly, narrowing his eyes as he leans back in his chair. "But you sound breathy. Have you been busy?"
"No. I've just... been around the house." You whisper.
"You sound like you've run a marathon." He counters, his tone shifting from casual to clinical, though a sliver of concern cuts through. "Your heart rate sounds elevated just from the way you're speaking. Do you have a fever?"
"I'm fine, Zayne. Really." But you aren't. Your tone is desperate, needy, pitched higher than usual. Through the phone, he can hear the rustle of sheets as you squirm around restlessly, the ache between your thighs far too much for you to handle.
Zayne hums in response, completely unconvinced. He glances at the little calendar on his desk, noting the little red star he'd written in. He knows your cycle better than you do. He always tracks the data, the symptoms, the biological shifts. He's so in tune with your body that he can tell where you are in your cycle purely off of how you smell.
"Your period is ten days away. You're ovulating."
That's the breaking point. A frustrated, jagged sob escapes your throat, sounding so raw it makes his hand tighten around his phone. You're so stupidly horny that all you can focus on is him. You need him. You need his fingers, his mouth... his cock stretching you open.
"I tried everything. I took a cold shower, I tried to do chores. I used... I used my own damn fingers, Zayne. Nothing is working. It's not enough. It's not you." You cry out, squeezing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to try and alleviate that deep, needy ache.
Zayne's breath hitches, which only earns a quiet whimper from you. The thought of you at home, flushed and desperate, driven to tears by a biological ache only he is allowed to soothe, drives every professional thought from his mind. He imagines how wet you must be, how your cunt is likely clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
His cock throbs in his trousers. He stands abruptly, crossing his office to the heavy wooden door. The click of the lock is loud in the silence, loud enough for you to hear on your end.
"Zayne?" You whisper, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and curiosity. You hear the rustle of his white doctor's coat, the way he lets out a slow, controlled breath.
"If it's me you want, then you're going to listen very closely to what I tell you to do next."
That immediately grabs your attention. You pull your phone away from your ear with a confused whimper, as if double checking that you did indeed call Zayne. It's unlike him to indulge in your needs while he's at work, but you are in no place to argue.
"Are you sure?" You ask him softly, your breath hitching quietly.
"I am entirely sure." Zayne mumurs, the sheer weight of his devotion heavy in his voice. There's no judgement. No annoyance. Only a deep, vibrating promise to give you exactly what you've been crying for. He sits back in his chair, his free hand coming up to remove his glasses. You hear the soft clatter as they hit the edge of his desk, then the soft rustle of fabric as he undoes the buttons of his jacket.
"Put me on speaker, sweetheart. I want your hands free."
You obey instantly, your hands trembling as you set your phone down on your pillow right next to your head. The distance between his Asko Hospital office and your bedroom feels like it's shrinking, and for a split second, you're so delirious with need that you can almost feel his gaze on you.
"Good girl." He praises, the words a warm caress that has you squirming against your sheets. "Now, lie back. Spread your legs for me, just as if I were there kneeling before you." Through the phone, he can hear you shifting around. The mental image of you spread and wanting has a low groan leaving him.
"Close your eyes. Visualize my hands." He continues, his own breath hitching quietly as his free hand moves to his trousers. You can hear the metal click of his belt as he undoes it, the quiet hiss of his zipper. "Two fingers. Touch yourself for me. Slowly. Your clit is aching so much, isn't it?"
You slide a hand down your body, dipping right between your thighs, a ragged gasp tearing from your throat as your fingers find your swollen clit. rubbing slow, light circles into that sensitive peak. Your hips buck against your hand, quiet, needy moans leaving you. It's so good, so much better than when you had been touching yourself without the sound of his voice.
Zayne's focus is fully directed towards you, long fingers of his free hand wrapping around his fat cock. Outside his office, he can hear the rustle of carts, nurses speaking to each other, but he doesn't care. You're his biggest distraction, one that he wouldn't change for the world. He strokes himself in time with your heavy breathing, his eyes momentarily closing as he imagines you obeying his commands.
"S'not enough, Zayne... More... Need more." You beg him, your voice a desperate, breathy whine that has his own breath leaving him in a rush.
"Push your fingers inside. Tell me how wet you are. Tell me how easily you stretch yourself open for me." He commands, his knuckles white as he grips his phone. His thumb brushes along the tip of his cock, smearing precum down the length of him as he strokes himself.
You're quick to do as he commands, sliding your fingers through your slick folds until they're soaked before slowly, you push into your cunt. It's not nearly the same as when he fingers you, not the same initial stretch, but it works just fine for you now that you can hear him on the other end of the phone.
"Fuck, Zayne... M'soaked." You tell him. Your velvety walls clench around your own fingers as you push deeper, grinding against the heel of your hand. It's almost too much for you to handle. Your free hand grasps the sheets, your head tilted towards your phone to ensure he can hear just how good you feel.
In his office, Zayne tilts his head back against his chair, his breath coming in short, heavy pants. He can hear the wet slide of your fingers as you pump them into your needy little cunt, the pathetic, desperate edge your moans have taken on. He knows the signs. You're close.
He wonders if you got yourself close before you decided to dial his number. A shudder runs through his body at the thought.
"When I get home, I'm going to stay so deep inside you that you won't even remember your own name." He says, his voice low, ruined, his own release sneaking up quickly. "I'll fuck you all night if that's what you need, sweetheart. Until you're so full of me that I drip out of you for days. Is that what you want?"
"Zayneee... M'gonnacumsohard, fuck-" His filthy tone has your body tensing, a loud, shattered cry leaving your mouth as you fall apart around your fingers. You squirm, your head thrashing against your pillows. Through your phone, you can hear Zayne let out a muffled groan, his breathing frantic before a ragged gasp leaves him.
You're both quiet for a long moment, breathing heavy, slowly trying to come down from the high your body had demanded. You slowly withdraw your fingers with a quiet, shaky sigh, your entire body limp against the sheets. You can picture him in your mind, the calm Doctor Zayne so undone and messy simply because you'd called.
The thought has a satisfied hum coming from you.
Zayne is the first to move. You hear the rustle of paper towels as he cleans himself up, the soft hitch of his breath as he tucks his cock back into his trousers, then the jingle of his belt being fixed.
"I expect you to be waiting for me just like that when I walk through the door. Don't move too much." He says, his voice impossibly soft and affectionate.
"I will." You whisper in response, rolling over onto your side as if being closer to the phone might help you to feel closer to him.
"I have a consult in ten minutes." He murmurs. "I love you. See you soon, sweetheart."
Then the line clicks dead, leaving you flushed and counting down the seconds until his shift ends.
your caleb is clingy and loving... or at least he used to! still newly married, you can’t stand not having his attention when the demands of his colonel work is keeping him busy. but of course he knows... and he has plans to appease you!
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—fluff, crack, explicit smut (hand job, fingering, slightly rough sex), bratty!reader and caleb dynamics, comfort, very self-indulgent, based on caleb's card vinesurge instinct
notes:
i can't get this song out of my mind and the new card is heavenly... and my personal headcanon is that he likes it rough most times so... dear god pls forgive my sins </3
Your Caleb is clingy, loving, always initiates, always touching too— a man in love, a man who yearns... he is everything.
“I’m kinda busy this week… sorry, have to reschedule our trip, ’kay?”
But your husband is also the Colonel of the Farspace Fleet—a busy man bound to duty, and even when he is home, his mind sometimes lingers somewhere among distant stars and unending reports.
You tried a bunch of things. Dimly lit ambience, sensual massage, even slutty lingerie— but none of it seemed working. Caleb always tuned in to his tablet more than you for the past two weeks.
And the final blow? Postponing the trip you’d both been looking forward to for so long.
You could have sworn it feels like only yesterday he couldn’t keep his hands off you. So what in the fucked up romantic dark comedy is this nightmare lately?
This could not stand, you decided the moment you stepped through the door this afternoon. And you would show him that you weren’t happy at the slightest.
That night, Caleb went home slightly earlier than usual.
He was exhausted—his shoulders heavy, mind still buzzing—but there was a quiet sort of relief in knowing you would be waiting for him like always. At the table, perhaps half-pouting, half-smiling, insisting he eat before anything else.
But when he stepped inside, the house was… quiet.
The dining table was set, just as it always was—but you weren’t there. At least there was a neatly prepared meal left for him, covered and still warm. He was starving, so he sat down first, loosening his collar as he ate what you had prepared.
It was good, as always. Your home-cooked meals were comforting and tasted like happier days in your childhood.
When he finished, he washed his hands and made his way toward your shared bedroom, pushing the door open quietly.
There you are. Curled up on the bed, back propped against the headboard, eyes glued to your tablet. The dramatic soundtrack of some soap opera filled the room, exaggerated voices rising and falling—but you didn’t so much as glance his way.
Caleb leaned against the doorframe, watching you for a moment.
“Hey,” he called out with a broad smile. “I’m home.”
Strange, usually you would come up to him and smother him with kisses. But now you merely swiped your tablet’s screen to move to the next episode.
“Huh... You’re not even going to look at me?”
Caleb blinked, and wracked his mind as to guess why. Then he remembered his own words and many nights he had turned you away. He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath.
“Wow. That bad, huh?”
Still, you remained stubbornly silent, eyes fixed on the screen as if he was nonexistent at all.
Caleb tilted his head, studying you—and then, as if he had decided on the best course of action, he jumped onto the bed without ceremony, still fully dressed in his uniform.
When the mattress dipped, you finally turned to him, glaring daggers. “Get off!”
He blinked, still with a smile, feigning innocence. “What?”
“You’re dirty and stinky! Go take a bath first before you go near me.”
At last, you responded him. His smile only widened, hands lifting in surrender as he tilted his head, slipping off the bed without protest.
“Yes, ma’am.”
. . .
When he returned, his hair was damp— and he didn’t bother to put a shirt before walking back in.
Clad only in his boxer, he climbed back onto the bed and reached for you, pulling you into a warm, easy embrace. You stiffened at once, all too aware of the warmth of his toned body and the lingering scent of the bath soap you both used.
Caleb rested his chin against your shoulder, nuzzling you. “Still mad?”
Still silence. You squirmed in his hold though.
He nudged you slightly. “Come on, hm? Can’t I get my welcome home kiss, at least? Please?”
You finally spoke, voice flat and unimpressed. “I don’t recognize you, stranger.”
“What stranger? I’m your brother-husband.”
You sniffed in mock disgust, still refusing to look at him, eyes glued to your tablet as you muttered dramatically, half-reciting, half-accusing:
“He is busy, he is working— he doesn’t have time for me—”
Somehow the words sounded familiar in his head.
“He used to be literally obsessed with me… and now I’m suddenly the least sought after girl in the land—”
Caleb stilled for a second, and then burst out laughing.
“Seriously?” he said, incredulous, pulling back just enough to look at you. “Stop reciting that song. I’ve heard it in the radio far too often already.”
You only pouted harder, crossing your arms. “That’s because it fits,” you shot back.
He grinned, entertained despite himself, eyes softening as he watched you sulk.
“Does it now?” he pressed a kiss on your neck, tightening his hold on you. “I’m home now, you can have me all to yourself… and I want you all to myself too, so in what way it fits?”
“Everything,” you retorted, trying to keep your calm, despite how his hands were starting to wander at your body.
Caleb hummed against your neck as his treacherous hands slipped inside your nightwear. His cool fingers then cupped your left breast, and started playing with it, brushing and turning it— he could feel the tip gradually hardening.
“Oh!” you held back a gasp when he pinched your sensitive nipple, bothered and slightly hot, twisting from him with a glare. “You!”
“Okay, okay!” he burst into snickers again and patted your head. “Alright, I get it. You’re not happy… but at least look at this first.”
Caleb pulled out his phone and you begrudgingly looked at it. He tapped the icon of a travel agency app and a reservation page opened, complete with a scannable barcode.
It was for a newly opened hot spring resort—one that had been all over your social media feed lately. You turned to him, eyes bright with hope.
Caleb leaned in. “We’re going this weekend, sounds good?”
“Yay!” you immediately tackled him that he fell into the sheets, peppering his face with kisses, to his satisfaction, finally.
“Now, now… who is the least sought after girl in the land?” he pressed both hands to your waist, his purple eyes twinkling. “Not you, correct?”
Your eyes narrowed in slits. “I was for two weeks.”
“Uh-oh, you just have the patience of a sinner, that’s why.”
You grabbed his cheeks and squeezed them, and Caleb cackled again.
Weekend came at last, and both of you embarked on your romantic getaway.
The hot spring was just as enticing as you’d imagined—soft steam curling into the air, the quiet murmur of water, the kind of warmth that melted tension straight from your bones. After checking into your room, you both changed into your hot spring attire.
You slipped into the water first, waiting for Caleb. The warm water felt heavenly against your calves, and you craned your neck and stretched out your legs lazily beneath the surface, toes tracing gentle ripples as you let yourself relax.
“Hm, looks like my girl’s gotten nice and comfortable already.”
A moment later, you heard the faint splash behind you. Caleb stepped in, lowering himself into the spring until the water lapped just below his chest.
Your gaze flickered, drawn to him. The broad line of his shoulders, his toned arms, the defined abs of his torso...
Your man is delectable. And of course, he noticed your ravenous gaze.
A quiet, amused hum left him as he shifted closer, before leaning in and resting his head against your knees as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Comfy?” you asked, your hand had already found its way into his damp hair, fingers threading through it gently.
“Mhm.” Caleb pressed a kiss on your knee. “Get down with me, will you?”
He wasn’t really asking— with the way he tugged you down into the simmering water with him. A soft gasp slipped from you as you were pulled closer to be in his embrace, the warmth of the spring enveloping you.
“Now, this is comfy.”
He drew in a slow breath, his hands wandering along the familiar curves of your body—reverent, like he’d been deprived for far too long.
“Missed you,” he murmured softly in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
You barely had time to respond before he tilted your chin up, and devoured your lips.
The kiss came warm and lingering— neither rushed or teasing. Just him, pouring everything he hadn’t said into the way his lips and tongue moved against yours. His hands steadied at your waist, pressing you against him, the heat of the water only served to make you clung to one another.
You exhaled softly against him, fingers curling into his damp hair as you kissed him back, deeply, like you’d been waiting just as long.
Caleb let out a low, contented hum, the sound vibrating between you. This was exactly where he wanted to be. His thumb brushed circles against your side, grounding, affectionate, while he savored in the kiss just a little longer.
A quiet, breathy sound slipped from him as he crashed you against him. Before you could fully gather your thoughts, he moved—smooth and effortless—lifting you so your legs settled on either side of him as the two of you sank together onto the hammock.
“Haah...” he let out a strained breath when he finally pulled away, his amethyst eyes completely darkening with lust. His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward him, his gaze drinking you in.
A faint blush had already crept across his features—whether from the heat of the spring, the kiss, or both. The way his thumb lingered near your jaw, the way his eyes softened just slightly despite the intensity… it made your breath catch all the same.
It wasn’t fair that you were the only one being flustered... so in a split second, you decided to turn the tables— by grabbing the visible bulge of his manhood.
“Ngh—” he sucked in a sharp breath, almost cursing, bracing himself on the railings so he wouldn’t slip. But you only smiled so sweetly at him, stroking his member through the thin barrier of damp fabric.
He was thick, long, hard... and gradually harder under your touch. The way your fingers brushing adeptly and sneakily squeezing him made Caleb lose all his wits.
“Y-You…” he groaned, his voice rough, pulled from depths of his chest. He was no beginner, but your touch was overwhelming in the best way—and you were mean for not giving him what he wanted so easily.
Just when your touch had him tensing and almost losing it, you slowed.
“Fuck.” He exhaled harshly, frustrated and feeling the loss. “I never taught you that. You’re... doing this on purpose—” he gritted out, voice tight with disbelief, his forehead briefly resting against yours.
You only hummed in response, feigning innocence, even as your pace remained agonizingly slow, knowing it was getting painful for him.
“Say the magic word first,” you countered, tone bewitching, “and maybe I’ll be nice and help.”
Caleb let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a snort, his eyes flickering with lust of no return.
“Don’t test me,” he warned, though the way his increasingly labored breaths said he was already losing that battle.
“Uh-oh, that’s not it.”
“Please—”
“Not that either~”
The way he grimaced to hold back the growl coming up in his throat gave you total satisfaction. To know and see that Caleb, usually so high and mighty in everything, turned into an utter mess just because you edged him was gratifying—
“You are so cruel.” He suddenly took a hold of your wrist that was stroking him. His expression twitched, tension evident as his cock throbbed, and he gave in to the frustration of being denied what he so clearly wanted.
“Ehh, that’s not—”
“I love you.”
The words came so suddenly it caught you off guard. You stilled, blinking at him, and for a brief, fragile second, his expression softened into something so earnestly disarming that it made your chest tighten.
In that one brief second, he was not the playful man he made himself to be—but the kind gege who had been with you since childhood, the one who stood between you and anything that dared to hurt you.
But then—
Caleb’s lips curved. The softness of his smile twisted into a cunning smirk.
“Got you.”
You realized too late that you had fallen into his trap. He took over the control as he yanked your panties, and you gasped when he suddenly breached you with two fingers at once. He steered with renewed confidence, no longer at your mercy.
“Ahh!”
Caleb only chuckled, clearly pleased with himself at the way you writhed beneath him, water splashing uselessly around you.
“I’m not spilling anywhere but inside you,” he taunted, watching you barely holding back your moans as he set the harsh pace. “So be good for me and just take it, hm?”
It didn’t take long to reach your climax, the pain and pleasure crashing over you so intensely it left you trembling. By the time he finally pulled his fingers away, your vision was blurred with tears, your breath uneven.
Caleb observed your the slickness between his fingers, satisfied, as he sucked it off.
“Now, time to tend to me.”
He had always had a penchant for being rough, but you could have sworn he was never this impatient before. Had you pushed him too far?
Your husband moved you to the slightly drier spot. He settled himself before you, and you could only watch as he parted your legs with practiced ease—
“Here we go.”
The stretch made your breath hitch, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes once more as you clung to him instinctively. “C-Caleb...!”
He growled, feeling how tight you were around him. He pushed himself deeper and made himself fit, savoring your strained screams.
You thought you were already on the brink of losing yourself when he found that sensitive spot—but the moment he began to move, you realized, helplessly, that there was something far more overwhelming waiting for you.
“Ah— Caleb!” you squealed, arching your back shamelessly, as his hips rolled and hit you in that one spot over and over. A shaky breath left you, your fingers clawing at the marbled floor, only able to receive him.
A wicked glint flickered in his eyes. “Shh… we’re in public, remember?”
Like hell you care. At this point, all you could do was hope the walls of this resort were soundproof.
His lips burned, sucking off your skin so harshly that you were certain your breasts and chest would be littered with hickeys when he was done. A tight, coiling tension deep within you wound tighter with every passing second, pulling you closer and closer to oblivion.
Caleb was the very picture of a man drunk on his woman, relishing in the total pleasure he brought both you and himself, as he kept pounding you like there was no tomorrow—
Your lewd moans. How deliciously tight you are. The very erotic sight of how his little wife aches, torn between wanting him and seemingly unable to take him because he is just that good— he was caught hook, line, and sinker.
The last thing you remembered was how he buried himself to the hilt as ropes after ropes of his cum filling your womb.
When you opened your eyes again, the first thing you saw was Caleb hovering over you, worry etched clearly across his face.
“You awake?” he asked, his cool palm resting against your forehead. His brows furrowed then. “You’re still warm…”
What happened? You only felt like you had fallen into a deep slumber.
Before you could fully respond, he reached for a water bottle on the nightstand. “Here, drink.”
He lifted the bottle to your lips as you slowly rose, tilting it just enough, patient as he made sure you had a few steady sips. When you were done, he patted you in the head and smiled. “Good girl.”
You blinked up at him, still a little dazed. “...Why?”
“You passed out. You kinda scared me, you know? I thought I have broken you.”
That got a small giggle out of you. Caleb had an apologetic smile on his face as he settled beside you on the bed. That was when you noticed that you were already changed into your pajamas—he must have cleaned and dressed you.
“Was I too rough with you?” he asked, searching your face. His fingers played with your hair in slow, soothing strokes. You shifted and sure enough, you winced from feeling a bit sore.
His brows knit tighter, noticing your expression. “Next time, tell me if you can’t take it anymore. I’ll stop, ’kay?”
“That’s just how you are. When have you ever been not rough?” you joked, but unexpectedly, his smile fell.
It was subtle but of course you knew. His hand stilled for a moment before resuming its slow strokes. He didn’t reply right away, a conflicted fog settling over his expression.
And you didn’t like that, because you knew him.
Nine times out of ten, when Caleb went quiet and started sinking into his own thoughts, it meant he was deciding something on his own again, convinced he was acting in your best interest.
“…Caleb,” you called, poking his chest.
“Hm?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pinching your brows like that. You’ll get early wrinkles.” You poked his chest again, frowning. “I’m fine, you see? If you’re pulling a sex ban on me next, I swear—”
“Pftt,” he burst into a chuckle despite himself. “Relax. I’m nowhere saintly enough to deny myself life’s greatest pleasures.”
Caleb engulfed you in bear hug next, breathing in your scent and patted you in the back. Meanwhile you clung into him, burying your face in his steady, warm chest.
In that moment, you felt so incredibly safe, completely sheltered in his hold.
“…Seriously,” his voice was muffled, “I just don’t want to hurt you.”
You felt a smile on your face. “You could never.”
There was one inherent instinct both of you shared—an unspoken pull to protect each other, no matter what. You knew he lived by it, because you had felt it yourself. Ever since he was a boy, he had always been your constant, someone who would willingly stand as your shield against rain and storms.
Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s. Until the man promised to her began to look at you instead. The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly, his eyes began to wander... to you.
Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Bridgerton-Inspired, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage (not between rafmc), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender romance, Mutual Pining, Stolen Glances, Eventual Smut (cw will be updated with each ch)
Word count: 7.8k
Author's note: This story began with one idea: what if Rafayel existed in a Regency world of whispered courtships, candlelit ballrooms, and dangerously improper strolls through the gardens? And then… well, then it became everything. The fan fluttered. The heart raced. The gloves came off. Literally.
If you love yearning, poetry, burning touches behind closed doors, and the kind of romance that leaves you sighing into your teacup—then I hope you enjoy every soft, scandalous step of this journey. Prepare for aching glances, stolen kisses, and perhaps a few gasps behind a fan. Because this is the Season, after all.
With all our hearts,
—Lex and Elle (co author: @astarry-moon)
Maids hurry between the corridors, their arms full of ivory silk and pearl-dotted gloves and lace-trimmed slippers. Somewhere in the east wing a debate rises in pitch, something to do with whether the new French ribbon flatters Eleanora’s gown or ruins it entirely. From the drawing room your mother’s voice carries up the stairs in slow, theatrical fragments, a sigh and a name and another sigh, as though managing two debutantes has already cost her five years of her life and the Season has only this morning begun.
You sit by the window with your knees tucked sideways on the cushion, watching the grey spring sky and pretending the chaos behind you isn’t there. Your reflection looks back at you, faint against the glass. Pale, thoughtful, expectant in a way you cannot quite explain to yourself.
“Would it kill you to look excited?”
You do not turn at the voice. Eleanora drifts into the edge of the window’s reflection, every curl in place, every line of her pale rose gown already settled and smoothed days ago. Her confidence has never been the loud kind. It is something inherited, worn the way other women wear a coat in cold weather: simply, and without thought.
“I am excited.” Your chin stays in your palm; you do not turn from the window. “I am vibrating with anticipation, in fact. Can’t you tell?”
Her laugh is soft and quick, and the cushion sinks gently as she lowers herself beside you. “Mother is convinced I shall have a proper proposal by the second ball.”
“That is rather optimistic of her.” You hadn’t meant to say it quite so flatly, but the words leave you that way all the same.
“She is not wrong.” Eleanora’s fingers tug at a thread on her sleeve, more for something to do than because the thread is loose. “There is already talk of it. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball, and he, well...” She give you a sidelong glance, a small tilt of her brow. “You know how long the arrangement has been in place.”
Ah, him.
The name goes through you like a draft from a door you hadn’t realized was open. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt, promised to your sister since the two of them were small enough to need help into their chairs at the dinner table, in one of those quiet family agreements made over wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and signatures and fortunes you have never been shown. You have never met him. You have never even seen him. You have only ever heard of him, year after year, the way one hears of distant places one will likely never visit.
He rarely comes to town, they say. He has been abroad for years. He is peculiar, brilliant but peculiar, and collects old paintings and refuses invitations and has shown no interest in courtship at all, except for the one chosen for him before he was old enough to object: your sister’s.
The thought slips out of you before you can soften it. “I wonder if he is dreadfully boring.”
Eleanora’s laugh is half a snort, half a sigh, and her shoulders give a small, amused shake. “He is a Duke, darling. I am hardly expected to love him. Only to keep myself from embarrassment over the soup.”
You turn toward her then, resting the side of your face against the window frame, and look at her the way you sometimes do when you forget to arrange your own expression.
“Do you mind it?” You hear how soft your voice has gone, and you do not try to correct it. “That you have never met him. That it has all been arranged.”
For a moment her composure holds. Then it slips, very quietly, only at the corners of her mouth and the edges of her eyes.
“I mind being married off like a trinket.” Her gaze drifts down to the gloves still folded in her lap. “And I mind not having a choice. But choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well.”
After a delicate pause she straightens in her seat, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, the smile she finds for you almost bright, and reserved only for you. “You shall have more freedom, you know. You are not promised to anyone.”
No, you are not. Not the eldest and not the heir-maker, only the afterthought in pearls. And yet freedom feels a fragile thing inside this house, wrapped as it is in expectation and powdered into rouge and fastened at the back by hands that are not your own.
A knock at the door interrupts the quiet between you, and the door creaks open on a maid mid-curtsy.
“The carriage is ready, Misses. Madam says the ball waits for no Lady.”
Eleanora rises in one practiced sweep, all silk and perfect posture. You follow more slowly, smoothing your skirt against your palms because your palms need something to do. In the mirror by the door, your rouge sits too pink against your cheeks, and the smile you offer the girl in the glass arrives a half-beat late, as though she had to be reminded of it.
Somewhere in the city, a man you have never met is also dressing for the evening. You step out into the corridor, and the carriage is waiting in the drive, and your gloves are too tight at the wrists.
And with that, the Season has begun.
—
The ballroom glitters like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloom overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors; laughter curls around the violins, and perfumed fans flutter like butterfly wings in time with the slow rise of the orchestra. It is the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London has come to play its part.
Your mother insisted on white for your debut: soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves cut just off the shoulder. You feel like a porcelain doll being moved across a chessboard, and you keep your shoulders very still so the feeling does not show on your face.
Eleanora is art. One glance at her, and the suitors flock like moths to a flame; her rose-colored gown shimmers with every turn she takes, her laughter falls into all the right places, and she dances as though she had been born to do it, which she likely was. You do not particularly mind. You sip your champagne near the edge of the floor, offering a polite nod to a young gentleman who has only just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz.
“She is rather enchanting, your sister.”
You turn. A tall, freckled young man stands beside you, his cheeks faintly flushed with wine, his smile a little crooked at the corners. “Though I confess I find myself rather more curious about the other debutante at her side.”
Your brows lift. “Curious, My Lord? Or drunk?”
His laugh comes easy, with no offence taken at all. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?”
You hesitate only a moment before placing your hand in his. The music rises, and so do you. You dance twice, once with the freckled gentleman (Lord Daniel something, you think), and again with a kind-eyed Viscount who fumbles through his small talk but smiles handsomely when you turn one of his fumbles into wit. You laugh. You curtsy. You do everything you are meant to do.
It is impossible, however, to ignore how the room revolves around your sister. She has not left the floor since the first chord struck. A new partner with every song, an admiring audience wherever she pauses. You catch glimpses of her between the turns of your own, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks faintly flushed, her posture as perfect now as it was on the carriage cushion hours ago.
And then, somewhere just behind your shoulder, an intrigued whisper.
“Did you see? The Duke of Ravencourt is here.”
The name slips between fans like a small kept secret.
“I thought he would not attend.”
“He never does. But this Season, well, everyone knows why.”
“He is to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”
“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”
“And is it true he…”
You turn too quickly, a little louder in your own bones than you would like, looking for the voice and the source of it. But all you find are swirling gowns and smiling mouths and the soft, indifferent glitter of the chandeliers. No sign of him. Your heart gives an unexpected flutter beneath the silk of your bodice, a small, uneven kick you cannot quite explain to yourself. You have heard the name all your life, and yet he is here, somewhere, breathing the same air as you, and somehow that is a stranger thought than you would have guessed.
Eleanora laughs again, that musical sound carrying across the dance floor as she turns in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you do not recognise. Perhaps it is him. Perhaps not. You watch, you listen, but Rafayel Vale, the Duke of Ravencourt, remains as elusive as his reputation, still nothing more than a name and a whisper.
Another glass of champagne is pressed gently into your hand, your third of the evening, perhaps your fourth. The effervescence prickles pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness fresh but not quite cool enough to settle the flush that has climbed into your cheeks after so many turns about the floor. You have danced with no fewer than six gentlemen by now, each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.
“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh.”
“Your sister is fortunate to have you at her side.”
“Might I call on you this upcoming week?”
You smile. You curtsy. You return civility for civility. But your mind has long since drifted elsewhere, pulled by curiosity, by the soft, persistent weight of a name that keeps brushing past your ear like a breeze you cannot quite catch. Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one points him out. No introductions, no dramatic arrival, no parting of the crowd. You are beginning to suspect he has not come at all, despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room earlier like a pebble dropped into still water.
You are about to take your leave from the floor when you catch the flicker of it. A subtle change in the air. The orchestra has not stopped, nor have the conversations, and yet for a single breath the room itself seems to hush, the way a forest goes still when a hawk passes overhead. You turn, and there, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stands a man dressed in midnight black.
No one announces him. He does not need announcement. He stands with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveys the ballroom below with an expression that does not demand attention so much as quietly require it. He is beautiful in the way storms are beautiful: elegant, distant. Dangerous. His hair is of a beautiful, striking purple and long enough that the soft waves brush the collar of his coat. And his eyes, even from across the distance, are sharp and watchful, mesmerizing as two pools of blue and pink, his jaw cutting cleanly beneath the candlelight.
You do not need to ask who he is. You already know, deep below your ribs, where things that you just know settle.
Just behind your shoulder, someone leans toward someone else. “Ah, there he is. The Duke.” Only confirming what your pulse has already done.
He descends the stairs unhurriedly, greeting no one, walking with the easy disinterest of a man who is not in the habit of trying to impress, and yet every head in the room turns toward him as he moves. Even Eleanora’s. You watch her gaze snap upward, watch the moment his eyes find hers, only for a breath, only long enough to acknowledge what is already understood between two families. Then, with an unflinching grace, he crosses the ballroom and offers your sister a bow.
“Miss Everleigh.” His voice is low and refined and controlled, like water flowing over stones.
Your sister curtsies, perfect as ever. “Your Grace.”
And for the first time in your life, you are standing only a few feet away from the man who has, without ever having known your face, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. So that is him, at last. The man whose name has been stitched into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread, the Duke your mother speaks of in hushed and reverent tones, the one your sister was destined for before she had even learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.
You do not linger on the sight of them. You watch only long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand, and to watch him take it with a bow that is too shallow to be entirely respectful, and yet too quietly attentive to be entirely proper, which is interesting, you think, but it is not your concern. You turn away.
“Miss Everleigh.”
You face the gentleman waiting beside you with a smile sharpened just enough to cut through the soft fog of champagne. “Lord Renswick.” A small dip into a curtsy. “Have you finally decided to brave the dance floor?”
His grin is sheepish at the corners. “It is hardly bravery, when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”
You tilt your head, amused. “Flattery, My Lord? We have not even danced yet.”
“I am hoping to improve your opinion of me before I embarrass myself entirely.” He offers his arm, his brow lifting in hopeful invitation. “Shall we?”
You allow him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble. You dance, and you laugh, and when he stumbles, you tease him gently for it. Another gentleman approaches you before the music fades, and then another, and the evening passes in a soft haze of pleasantries and compliments, of silk gloves and careful steps and smiles that never quite reach your eyes.
You are being seen, properly seen, not merely as Eleanora’s sister but as yourself. And yet somewhere beneath the swirl of figures and the murmured invitations, you keep catching the soft, persistent sound of his name.
“The Duke has not danced with anyone else as much as he did with her.”
“He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with Miss Everleigh.”
“They are to be married before summer, I hear.”
You do not seek him out, not deliberately. But you notice all the same, how he does not hover near the punch and does not court attention, how he simply exists, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room. Eleanora has his company almost exclusively; they speak often, their heads bent slightly toward one another, and she laughs in that polished way she perfected during her finishing school years. You catch him smile only once, perhaps twice, or perhaps you imagine it. He offers his hand to two other ladies for a dance, both times out of a clear and impersonal courtsy, and both ladies look slightly dazed when he returns them to their chaperones.
By the time the final waltz begins, you have found your way back near the windows again. A gentle breeze drifts through the open panes; the sky outside is deep and velvet blue, dotted with the soft promise of rain. You press your fingertips to the glass for the cool of it, and behind you the ballroom glitters on. Your sister is still dancing with him.
So that is the man who will be her husband, you think again, and you do not envy her, not truly. He is distant, unreadable, a mystery, but not a mystery that is yours to solve. You are only a little curious, after so many years of hearing his name in whispers, and curiosity is a small enough thing that you can put it down again whenever you like.
The ride home is quiet at first. Outside the carriage window, London twinkles beneath the night sky, the gas lamps glowing like stars caught in glass, and the wheels clatter softly over the cobblestones in the rhythmic lull that always comes after a long evening of dancing. Inside, you sit across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand more from habit than from any continuing need of it.
Your mother sighs for the fifth time in as many minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage is hardly warm.
“Well, I should say that was a most successful beginning to the Season.” Her voice carries all the breathless theatre it always does after an evening she considers a triumph. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” her gaze moves to you, soft with the kind of approval she reserves for unexpected moments, “you were charming. I heard Lord Pelham himself compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love. Not merely your appearance. A rare thing, that.”
You offer a faint smile. “How generous of him.”
Eleanora’s quiet chuckle is half-lit by the carriage lantern, and there is a strange softness in her expression, a contentment you do not often see outside the privacy of moments like these.
Your mother lifts her fan again. “Six dances. Four requests for calling hours. And, oh, did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”
“I did.” Eleanora’s voice is low and amused. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”
Your mother’s fan stops mid-wave, her expression shifting into something very nearly reverent. “The Duke. Good heavens. I still cannot quite believe he came. I had truly thought we should have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”
“He was…” Eleanora pauses, her gaze drifting briefly to the window, the lamplight catching faintly in her eyes. “Unexpected. Not at all what I had imagined.”
You look at her then, with quiet intrigue. “What did you imagine?”
She tilts her head, the consideration moving slowly across her face. “Someone older, perhaps. Someone colder. Less sharp than he is. He does not speak much, but when he does, it is never empty.”
You hum. “And?”
Her smile is small and knowing. “He pays attention to everything around him.”
You raise a brow. “Even you?”
A shrug, the smallest lift of her shoulder beneath the silk. “Especially me.”
Your mother gives a delicate gasp of delight and resumes her fanning with renewed vigour. “Well, then it is settled. We shall expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps even sooner, given how much time he spent at your side this evening.”
“I do not think he is the sort of man to follow expected schedules.” Eleanora’s gaze does not leave the window.
You do not say it aloud, but you find yourself agreeing with her. You lean your head against the inside of the carriage wall, watching the lantern light flicker softly over your gloves.
The Season has begun. Your sister’s future, the one stitched in gold and promise, is unfolding in front of all of you. And somewhere in the shadows of it, a man made of whispers has finally stepped into the light.
—
The garden smells of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spills over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the rim of your teacup as you sit beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hum lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirs the hem of your skirt and carries with it the faintest, fading echo of music from last night’s ball, as though the violins have not quite let you go.
You swirl honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and your mother seated nearby. They are reading from The Society Pages, their lips twitching with every name mentioned.
“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta. That will certainly be remarked upon." Your mother’s nose lifts in delicate disapproval.
“And here, oh, listen. ‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’”
“They flatter.” Eleanora’s eyes gleam over the rim of her teacup, despite the lightness in her voice.
You do not comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze.
The first caller arrives before noon. The butler appears at the edge of the garden with the perfect composure his post demands. “Miss Everleigh. Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.”
You rise, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offer a pleasant smile as the young Lord is shown through the open doors and into the dappled green of the garden.
He bows. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”
You do not roll your eyes, though it is a near thing. “Good morning, My Lord. How kind of you to visit.”
He speaks of the ball, of your dancing, of how he had hoped to see you again. You answer with grace, with interest even, but something inside you stays carefully unmoved. He is not unpleasant. None of them are. They simply lack a thing you cannot quite name and have not yet decided whether to name at all.
A second gentleman comes not long after. A third arrives in the late afternoon with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller is welcomed; each is given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet, with every charming smile and gloved hand pressed briefly to yours, you find your thoughts drifting elsewhere, slipping out of your own garden and toward a pair of eyes that have not yet sought you out, and that you have not quite admitted to yourself you are waiting for.
By the time the sun begins to lower, streaking the garden in amber, the butler reappears once more at the edge of the lawn. You glance up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”
He clears his throat gently and bows. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”
You nod, not disappointed, not expectant, only thoughtful. “Thank you.”
You return to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora has set aside her book and is absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers, slow as a clock that has forgotten the hour.
“He has not called.” Her voice is soft and unbitter.
You look up. “The Duke?”
A small nod. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem. But he did say he would be in town this week.”
You sip your tea. “He does not seem the type to rush.”
“No. He is not.” Her tone holds no bitterness, only plain observation. Eleanora has never been a girl who chased affection. She has always expected it to arrive on its own terms, in its own time, and she has rarely been wrong.
You glance toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustles the hedges, but no footsteps come. Still, it is early. Much too early to assume anything.
By evening the callers are gone, your mother is content, and your sister is thoughtful in that quiet way of hers. You are content to watch and to listen and to wait for the Season to unfold as it always does, slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke is to be part of your sister’s story, he will arrive in time. And if he does not, well, that, too, would be telling.
—
The gown is periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You say nothing as your maid fastens it, only watching your reflection in the mirror with a mild detachment while she smooths the folds. Eleanora has gone through three dresses before settling on one.
“Do you think he will be there tonight?” Eleanora’s voice is carefully even, her gaze fixed on the curls your mother is arranging at the crown of her head.
You know who she means. “I imagine so. It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”
It is the third time she has asked this week. He has not called once. Not even a letter. After all the glances and the evening spent in her company, the conversations near the card tables, the dance the rest of the room could not stop noticing, there has been nothing. Even the Ton has begun to murmur about it. The papers have commented, their tone careful but curious.
Your mother is trying to stay composed, and almost succeeding. “He is a Duke, darling. He is dreadfully busy, I am sure of it. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business. Men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlours.”
But it is not poetry Eleanora wants. It is certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, has offered her none.
Lady Warwick’s ballroom is suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd is lively, the musicians sharp and practised, and by the time you arrive, the dancing has already begun.
You make your greetings, you smile when expected, you allow a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laugh once, genuinely this time. Eleanora remains composed beside you, her gown elegant, her posture perfect. But you know her well enough to read the small flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he?
You see him the moment he steps into the room. He is dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He does not linger at the entrance and does not pause for greetings. He moves straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence, and then there he is, standing in front of your sister.
“Miss Everleigh.” His bow goes deeper than the one he offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”
Your sister blinks once, the surprise quickly tucked away. “Your Grace.”
He reaches into his coat. From his gloved hand, he draws a small, velvet-wrapped box and places it delicately in her palm.
“For my absence.” His voice is quiet and measured. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”
You do not look away from them, but you do not move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opens the box slowly. Inside is a brooch, silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its centre. It is not extravagant, nor loud. It is tasteful, and rare, and very beautiful.
“You needn’t have.” Her voice has gone softer.
“I did.” A small, deliberate pause. “May I claim a dance, if you have not promised it to another?”
She hesitates only a moment. “Of course, Your Grace.”
You step back as he offers his arm. She takes it. They move to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch, and you remain at the edge of the dance floor, untouched by the small drama of it, your fingers gently clasped in front of you, your thoughts still clear.
You do not watch them dance. Not because it hurts, because it does not. Not because you are jealous, because you are not. But because watching feels unnecessary. It is predictable. Rafayel Vale has returned, and he has returned to your sister’s side as he was meant to, as he has been for years, in name if not yet in affection. So you turn away, and you smile when another gentleman bows before you.
“My Lady.” His voice is smooth and warm, like polished amber. “You have been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”
You lift your eyes to the gentleman before you. He is striking, but not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke is. No, this man wears charm like a perfectly tailored coat: light brown hair elegantly curled, a golden signet ring on his right hand, a smile that curls ever so slightly at the edge as though he knows something you do not. And his title?
“Lord Wessex.” His bow is elegant. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I am told I am the more tolerable of the two.”
Your brows lift, amused. “You have quite the opinion of yourself, My Lord.”
His grin is unrepentant. “Only when it is justified. May I?”
You place your gloved hand in his.
Lord Wessex is a skilled dancer. Not just in form but in conversation. Where the others have asked the same tired questions (what are your hobbies, do you enjoy embroidery), he asks instead about the books you read, the places you wish to see, the way your eyes light up when speaking of the sea, despite the fact that you have never once seen it in person.
He keeps you laughing, and thinking, and on your toes. And when he leads you to the refreshments table, he does not hover or smother. He offers you a glass, nods warmly at your appreciation, and keeps the conversation moving like a current pulling you along beside him.
“They speak of your sister and His Grace as though the match is already sealed.” His gaze drifts toward the couple in question, his smile still in place but quieter now.
“It was arranged.” You keep your voice light. “A long time ago.”
“Arranged." He turns the word in his mouth like a pebble, considering. “Such a word leaves so little room for choice, doesn’t it?”
You glance at him. “Do you not believe in arrangements, My Lord?”
“I believe in lightning strikes.” His eyes find yours. “Not family bargains.”
You tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”
His laugh is warm and unforced. “You have no idea, Miss Everleigh.”
By the end of the evening you have danced with him twice more, once by his request and once by your own quiet invitation, and both times have left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled. And while your sister ends the night with the Duke at her side, the talk of the room once more, it is not his presence that lingers on your skin as you step into the carriage. It is Lord Wessex’s voice still echoing in your ear, unhurried and certain.
Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I am standing close when it happens.
—
The sun has barely settled above the rooftops when the butler appears in the parlour, his expression neutral, his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.
“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.”
Your mother nearly drops her embroidery. Your sister freezes with her teacup held in midair.
You simply blink. “Both?”
The butler inclines his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”
For a moment, no one moves. Then your mother claps her hands together as though summoned by divine will.
“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely, that gown is ideal. And you, dear, yes, you will stay. It would be rude not to.”
You almost laugh. Rude, of course.
The drawing room has been polished to near-blinding shine. There are fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids have barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men are escorted in.
The Duke enters with the same quiet command he carried at the ball, dressed in a dark coat with silver cufflinks, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. His bow is effortless, and his gaze settles on Eleanora with a soft nod.
“Miss Everleigh.” His voice is low and even. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”
Eleanora curtsies, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, Your Grace.”
And beside him, light where Rafayel is shadow, stands Lord Wessex, smiling, charming, all pale waistcoat and sunlit presence. His gaze finds you almost immediately.
“Miss Everleigh.” His warmth is unmissable. “I confess I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”
You raise a brow. “That would have been quite the feat, My Lord, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper.”
His grin only widens. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often, in defence of my honour.”
Tea is served. The Duke sits beside Eleanora; their conversation is soft and low and careful, words about estates, about travel, about the architecture of Bath. You and Lord Wessex, on the other hand, drown in laughter and playful remarks: a small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies, a question about your favourite poet that, unlike the others, he actually listens to the answer of. He watches you speak with a kind of gentle interest that is easy to receive, and easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looks your way.
The next party is held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-coloured canopies and strings of flowers that flutter like silk ribbons in the breeze. There are games set up on the lawn, and plates of sugared strawberries, and lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walk beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels: a lilac gown for her, a pale blue for you. And they are there, of course, as they always seem to be now.
The Duke stands tall and composed in a dark grey coat, close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree, listening as she speaks, offering a quiet smile when she makes some soft remark. And across the lawn stands your suitor, Lord Wessex, lounging like he belongs in every summer painting ever made. When he catches sight of you, his expression lights up at once.
“Miss Everleigh.” He rises with one graceful movement, his voice warm and unfeigned. “You have saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?”
You glance at your sister. She gives you the faintest nod. And so you do. You walk the gardens with him, speaking of travel and philosophy and music you are not strictly supposed to enjoy. He plucks a wildflower from the hedgerow and offers it to you. You laugh and tell him it clashes terribly with your gloves.
And when you pause to rest beneath the roses, you find yourself glancing across the lawn. The Duke is still there, though he has shifted, standing now a few steps behind your sister as she speaks to another couple, and his posture is not what it was. His gaze is no longer on Eleanora. It is on you. Not direct, not rude, but unmistakable in its direction. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath held between pages of a book. And then, as though realising it himself, he looks away, just as Lord Wessex turns to say something clever that pulls another laugh out of you.
The grand hall is glowing. Every window has been draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmers with perfume and warm anticipation, and music pours from the raised platform where a quartet plays its first waltz of the evening.
You have barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appears.
“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex stands handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox, his smile brighter than the chandeliers themselves. “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”
You lift your chin. “You assume I would say yes, My Lord.”
His bow goes low and theatrical. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.”
You let out a soft laugh and extend your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”
His expression turns triumphant. The dance is effortless. You move together as though you have done it a hundred times before; you know he will make a joke right before the turn, and that he will lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm but never improper, never forward. He is a gentleman with a wild spark.
Afterward, he offers his arm and guides you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish lordling cut in. You spend the next hour beside him, talking and sipping chilled wine and laughing once so hard that you have to hide your face behind your fan. He makes it easy. He makes you feel seen.
Across the ballroom, the Duke is at your sister's side once more. They speak in quiet tones. He escorts her to a dance, then to another, though that one is not hers but another lady's, partnered with him out of expected courtesy. His face remains unreadable, his words careful. But every time your laughter rings out, or your gown brushes past the edge of the room, his eyes find your silhouette, just for a second.
Lord Wessex offers you another dance before the night ends, and you accept without hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asks for none of you. But he does watch, just once more, as you dance away with another man, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.
—
The bell above the door gives a soft chime as you step inside. It is cooler here, and dimmer, the thick scent of paper and aged wood pressing gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves tower around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings, a world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.
You pull off one glove and tuck it beneath your arm as you wander. Most ladies prefer the modiste, the milliner, the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here, in the dust-warm hush of a bookshop, you can breathe.
You find yourself in the poetry section, of course, your bare fingertips brushing the titles, your brow slightly furrowed as you search for something half-remembered, alone with your own thoughts.
Until a soft shift of leather soles catches your ear. You turn, expecting a clerk, and freeze.
He stands not three paces from you, dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves, simpler than you have ever seen him and no less composed for it. The Duke of Ravencourt. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The absurdity of it makes your lips twitch faintly, of all the places, of all the afternoons. He regards you with that same unreadable expression of his, as though he were trying to make sense of something.
“Miss Everleigh.” His voice, when it comes, is low and measured. “This is unexpected.”
You curtsy, very slightly, regaining your composure. “Your Grace. I might say the same.”
His gaze flicks briefly to the book in your hand: Keats, you realise, only now. Then back to your face. “Do you favour poetry?”
“On quiet days. And on rainy ones.”
He nods, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”
You wait, wondering whether he will say more. He does not.
“And you, Your Grace?” There is a touch of amusement laced through your words, in spite of yourself. “Are you here for poetry, or for politics?”
His lips curve, only just. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or anything with weight to it.”
Your brow arches. “Is that so, Your Grace?”
He looks at you for a long moment, still distant, but not unkind.
“I did not expect to find you here.” His admission comes after the silence has stretched long enough to mean something. “But I am not displeased.”
Your heartbeat ticks once, then twice, soft and uneven beneath your bodice.
“Nor am I, Your Grace.” You keep your voice quiet. “But I shall let you return to your… weighty thoughts."
He inclines his head. “And you to your verse.”
You curtsy, slight but proper. He bows in return. There are no lingering glances, no breathless goodbyes, only a few pleasantries exchanged, two minds acknowledged, and a silence between them that somehow says more than the words have.
—
It is one of those warm spring afternoons when everything feels too golden to be entirely real. The garden terrace is full of soft laughter and the rustle of silk gowns; ladies fan themselves under the shade trees, while gentlemen cluster near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrive beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes for a wheel that needed adjusting.
“Smile, darling.” Your mother adjusts your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of colour in your cheeks would not hurt either.”
You smile. You nod. You adjust. Eleanora woke this morning feeling unwell, no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never permit a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair. Her instructions earlier had been gentle but firm. You will attend in her place. Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.
So now you stand in your sister’s shadow, only without her beside you to cast it. You move through conversation with practised ease. Three ladies ask after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly calls you by her name, and you correct him gently, no sting in your voice. And then you excuse yourself, drifting toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offers a moment of quiet. You are just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifts behind you.
"Miss Everleigh."
You turn. There he is, the Duke, alone. Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another Lady to dance with. He stands a respectful distance away, one hand loosely clasped behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.
“Your Grace.” You offer a curtsy, calm as you can manage. “I am surprised to see you without company.”
His lips twitch at the corner. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”
His eyes study your face, not in a way that lingers, but in a way that makes you feel slightly restless beneath the skin. “Is your sister not attending?”
You shake your head. “She is unwell, Your Grace. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”
“I am sorry to hear it.” His voice is quiet, and smooth as ever, though beneath it there is something unreadable once again, something that does not quite settle.
“I hope you do not feel… obligated to entertain me in her absence, Your Grace.” You add it carefully, watching his face.
“I do not.” The reply comes quicker than you expected, not curt, only honest.
Your brows lift, amused despite yourself. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, Your Grace?”
“Curiosity, perhaps.” A small pause, and then, almost like a confession, “You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”
You blink, and a small smile finds you. “I assure you, Your Grace, I do not do it on purpose.”
“A pity.” His voice has gone quieter. “It is becoming a habit I rather look forward to.”
You do not have time to answer, because somewhere across the terrace someone is calling your name, Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the far end with that signature grin of his. You turn back to the Duke.
“If you will excuse me, Your Grace.”
He inclines his head. “Of course.”
You curtsy again. He bows. And you walk away, toward the man who wants you, and away from the one who has only just begun to wonder whether he should.
“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex offers his arm as you return to the centre of the terrace.
“It was, My Lord.” Your fingers brush the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accept.
“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”
You smile. “He was polite. Curious, perhaps. But there was no frowning.”
He clicks his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”
You laugh, soft and warm, as he guides you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hang low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walk together in companionable silence for a moment.
“You always find me easily, My Lord.” You keep your tone light.
“That is because I always look.” There is no hesitation in him at all when he says it, and that is what stills you, just a fraction, the unguarded sincerity of it.
The conversation drifts easily after that, as it always does between you. He asks about your favourite lines from the bookshop. You ask about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He makes you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint.
It is easy, this thing between you. Not dull, not predictable, but certain, somehow. And when he asks you for a dance under the stars, you say yes without thinking twice. You dance in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above, his hand steady at your waist, his eyes never leaving yours.
“You are quiet tonight.” His voice is low at your ear as you turn.
“My apologies, My Lord. I had not realised.”
“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”
“No.” The answer is honest, and easily given. “Just enjoying this moment.”
His smile is small and pleased. “Then I shall consider myself fortunate.”
Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke is dancing with another Lady. He does not fumble, does not charm, does not smile too wide or step too close. He is composed, as always, fulfilling his role and bowing when required and saying the right words at the right times.
But when your laughter drifts once more across the lawn, his eyes, just for a second, turn toward the sound and linger there again.
Thinking about Rafayel in heat and fucking u in his Lemurian form ouhhhh 🤤🤤🤤
Content: Smut. Filthy, nasty, disgusting smut. Lemurian!Raf, heat cycles, sex in da ocean, outdoor sex, public sex ish, needy Raf, breeding heheh, blood kink? Kinda. Raf likes your blood, double penetration, Raf has two cocks, overstimulationish, reader says they don't want it but they really do, masturbation, cunnilingus, porn no plot.
Rafayel is sure Ebb Day is a curse directly from the heavens. Especially when his cutie isn't around to soothe him.
He's essentially banished you from his home during his ebb cycle—he's not sure if you'd be able to handle him during this time, no matter how filthy you two can get outside of his heat. You've been stubbornly trying to get close to him for the last few days, only to be locked out of his room and chased away.
He's been struggling himself with your absence. Every time he smells your delicious scent in his home, he struggles to control himself—tempted every time to unlock his door and ravish you. The only reason he's managed to restrain himself is by jerking off feverishly, a pair of your panties pressed to his nose as he spills cum onto his hand over and over.
His time outside of masturbation is spent soaking in his bath, the pool, or the ocean. His predatory instincts are increased practically tenfold in his Lemurian form, but hiding in the water is one of the only thing that gives some relief, so he bears it.
You've arrived at his house for what feels like the hundredth time now since his heat begun, but are surprised to find his house empty. You wander through his house, calling out his name in the silent home and finding no trace of your boyfriend. You figure he's soaking in the pool, but are surprised once more to find it empty of your purple-haired Lemurian.
You're a bit worried now—he wouldn't leave his home in a time like this. Not to anywhere public, that is.
You leave his house to walk down the beach, hoping he's maybe escaped to lay on the sand and complain about being a dried fishie. When you find it just as empty as everywhere else, however, anxiety blooms in your chest. You pinch your lip between your teeth, pacing back and forth on the warm sand.
There's only one other place he would be—the ocean.
You strip out of your clothes, shivering against the cool air, and dive into the familiar waters of Rafayel’s private beach. You swim out into deeper waters, occasionally going down to see if he's underwater, and coming up just as confused as before.
You feel something grasp your ankle, and you have a split second to register it before you're dragged under, bubbles escaping your lips in a silent scream. You thrash blindly, kicking and trying to swim back up to the surface until you're enveloped in a warm pair of arms.
Relief floods you when you open your eyes to meet Rafayel’s glowing blue ones, your chest heaving around breaths that are now growing less panicked. It feels like its been ages since you've seen him, and a shudder runs through his warm body when your hands grasp at his shoulders.
"Rafayel!" You exclaim, your voice seeming to echo in the deep water. Your hand rises to feel his temperature, frowning at the burning heat against your fingers, "Are you alright? Why are you all the way ou– mmph!"
You don't get to finish before you're yanked into a bruising kiss, his sharp fangs biting at your lower lip and drawing blood that he laps up eagerly. Your legs brush against the cool scales of his tail before wrapping around it, clinging to him in the weightlessness of the dark water.
"Rafayel," you gasp, pulling away to get air. You're met with a feral hunger that you rarely see from the playful artist, his own chest heaving against yours—which you're now reminded is mortifyingly bare.
"Don't pull away." He growls, his low voice echoing with an otherworldly hunger. "I need you. Now."
You have no choice but to obey when he drags you deeper, his powerful tail shifting in the water to pull you into the depths—away from the surface and its light—to where there's only you and his power, with nowhere to escape. A delightful thrill runs up your spine.
You gasp when you feel his firm scales against the apex of your thighs, and something noticeably more firm poking out against your thigh. Rafayel’s hands grip your waist when you squirm, feeling the appendage shift and move over your thigh as it slowly creeps its way out of his leaking slit, and you feel his talons dig just deep enough into your skin to draw droplets of blood.
He growls when your blood drifts into the water around you, his arms easily lifting you through the water to bring him eye-level with your tummy and hips. His fire has dimmed just enough for him to murmur a rough apology, his absurdly long tongue reaching to lap up the liquid where he held you just a bit too tight.
Your fingers tangle in soft hair, and he growls against your skin.
"You taste so good, my bride," he murmurs, voice muffled against the soft flesh of your thigh. His lips trail slowly up your skin, slowly teasing towards your pussy, which is now mortifyingly wet. He looks up to meet your eyes, and the raw hunger in his gaze makes you shudder with anticipation. "I want more..."
Your head falls back the moment his lips attach to your cunt, a weak cry escaping you while his hands once again dig into your hips, keeping you firmly in place against his mouth. He nips at your twitching clit when you squirm, his tail shifting beneath you to keep you both afloat while he eats you out like a man starved.
His own cocks are twitching and leaking—desperate for relief—but he'll be damned if he denies himself a taste of his bride's juices. He buries his face into the apex of your thighs, shaking his head back and forth like an animal as obscene slurps echo in the deep water. It doesn't take long for pleasure to coil in your gut, leaving you trembling and whining and teetering on the edge of relief.
"Rafayel, please..." you whisper, and he doesn't hesitate to oblige. One harsh suck on your clit and you're coming undone, crying out into the water as your hips jerk against his waiting mouth. He laps up every drop of your juices as though its the sweetest ambrosia, chuckling against your drooling hole when you whimper from the overstimulation. He finally lets you squirm away, his lips finding your thigh once again while he watches you catch your breath.
He has a persistent problem—or, problems—so unfortunately, your respite doesn't last very long. It's maybe a few minutes before he's begun creeping his way back up your body, his lips trailing up your sensitive skin bit by bit. You whine weakly, trying in your frail state to push him away from your oversensitive body when his tongue finds your peaked ripples.
"A– Ayel, too sensitive!" You whimper, attempting in vain to squirm away. He growls against the soft flesh of your breast, his talons digging into your thighs as he bites down on your nipple—a punishing nip with his sharp fangs. He makes a noise of animalistic satisfaction when you cry out, his tongue laving over the reddened flesh.
"You can take it, my bride," he murmurs, his twin cocks pressing insistently against your thigh, "you were made for this. To take my cocks." You shake your head in protest, feeling him creeping slowly up your trembling body like he himself the rising tide. You feel like prey in his grasp—and in moments like this you're reminded that Lemurians truly are predators by nature, sirens made to devour their captives.
His larger cock slots against your—traitorously damp—cunt when his mouth finally reaches your lips, and you let out a muffled noise of protest when his slightly smaller dick prods against your ass. Its clear he has no intentions of letting you away without thoroughly using you, and—as futile as you know it is—you continue to squirm to try to escape his grasp.
He kisses you, more of a claim than anything, and you can't help but gasp when his tongue finds yours. You lean into his touch—your body embarrassingly eager despite your attempts at resisting—and Rafayel hums with satisfaction at your submission. His touch grows more gentle, his lips pressing genly to your forehead as a reward for being so obedient, and you make a small noise of satisfaction at his silent praise.
"There's my girl," he murmurs against your skin, his hands gently squeezing your waist before they shift lower to push your legs apart. You look away shyly when his fingers drag though the wetness there, and he clearly isn't very pleased with that reaction. You yelp when he grips your face in his large hand, his damp fingers pushing their way into your mouth for you to taste yourself. "Don't look away. This is a blessing from the Sea God. Appreciate it."
Gone now is your sweet Rafayel. In his place is an ancient being, one whose power you have no right to refuse. The control he has over you is utterly thrilling, but even now you breathe out a weak sound of protest around the fingers stuffed in your mouth. You’re not exactly the image of defiance now—drool drips from your swollen lips, your pussy is leaking, juices mixing with the water around you, and your eyes have glazed with submission—and yet, you try your very hardest to resist.
His fingers push deeper into your mouth when his tip notches against your entrance, and you gag pathetically around them while his second cock dips just far enough into your ass to make you whimper.
"Say thank you," he commands, squishing your cheeks in his hand, "Thank your God for this privilege."
"Fank youh..." you manage to slur around his fingers, looking up at him with teary eyes at his merciless mockery. He seems content with your submission—or maybe he's displeased, you can't truly tell anymore—and in response slowly presses his way into your drooling cunt. His gentleness is only a momentary relief, because within moments his thrusts grow brutal.
Wet slaps ring out in the water as he pounds into you, his hand shifting to wrap itself around your throat while he uses his powerful tail to set an animalistic pace. The dual sensations in your ass and cunt have you drooling and gasping, your brain turning to mush as you claw at his shoulders and cry out into the empty ocean.
Nobody is around to save you. You have no choice but to take what he gives.
Your moans turn to broken little noises when you reach another peak, your silky walls clenching around him in a maddening sensation that he's determined to feel again. He doesn’t relent, just continues thrusting—chasing the feeling of your cunt clenching around him. Any pleas for relief you once had have been lost to the ocean—to the mind-numbing pleasure that demolishes any thought in your head.
You can't think, can't move, can't feel anything but the fires of ecstasy shooting through your veins. Your eyes roll back into your skull, mouth hanging open and body trembling when his thrusts lose their consistent pace. They turn uneven and stuttered, and if you were conscious enough to think, you would realize that it means he's dangerously close to his release.
Close he is. Within a few thrusts, he chokes out an animalistic groan, waves upon waves of sticky cum flooding your pussy. You're stuffed full, lost to the lingering shocks of pleasure when his forehead drops to yours, his lips parted around shaky gasps and his eyes screwed shut.
The brutal Sea God has disappeared once more, leaving your lover in his stead. Rafayel’s hands gently brush the tears off of your cheeks, his brows furrowing at the faraway look in your eyes. He scoops you into his arms before pushing off towards the surface, and within a few minutes the two of you have returned to dry land. He sets you down in the sand, his form shifting back to his human one and leaving an emptiness in your cunt that makes you whine weakly.
You're still out of it when he gently dresses you, when he scoops you up and carries you back to the house, and even when he pats you dry with a towel and dresses you in fresh clothes. You've only truly returned to your senses when you're set in his warm bed, the haze of submission making way for aching soreness and bone-deep exhaustion.
"'Yel..." You mumble sleepily, reaching for his warm body when he settles into bed beside you. He doesn't hesitate to cradle you in his arms, holding you close to his chest and pressing kisses to your forehead and hair as though apologizing for how rough he was—even if you didn't particularly dislike it.
The raging storm of Ebb Day has faded for now, but tomorrow will only bring another thorough ravishing, whether you're ready for it or not.
A/n: its been a while since I've written an actually postable story, my bad. My motivation was super low with finals and testing and stuff coming up relatively soon but I tried my best with this one 🥹
i like to think josephine did have some suspicion on caleb having feelings for mc but since mr. liartron3000 got his wits and charms he always got away unscathed 🙄
Rafayel: Passing the phone to my beautiful wonderful girlfriend who one day will be, if I'm lucky, my beautiful wonderful bride someday.
MC: Aww babe! Passing the phone to my wonderful boyfriend who smells the best because he takes a very long bath and it makes us late to every gathering.
Rafayel: That feels like a backhanded compliment- passing the phone to someone who cried when they tripped themself at my art gallery.
MC: Oh we're bringing up our pasts now, okay. Passing the phone to someone who cries at break up songs, knowing full well they're in a healthy relationship.
Camera gets cut off
Rafayel, voice trembling: Why would you say that you know I'm sensitive..
